Day Eleven - Montana

Start - Williston, ND

Stop - Kalispell, MT

Today's miles - 611

Total - 7,612

After negotiating my way down the gravel driveway, to the gravel road, to US 2, it was time to head to Montana.  As excited as I was to see my aunts, uncles, and cousins and to ride across North Dakota, I have been looking forward to Montana.  But first I had to get out of Williston.

The oil boom is exploding that city.  Amazingly, they seem to be figuring it out.  There doesn't seem to be much trouble finding oil, or finding people who want to make bonus bucks working in the oil patch, the problem is everything else.  Homes, streets, electrical power - none of that falls from the sky, or even lies underground as decaying biomatter.  People have to decide to build infrastructure, they need to plan it, pay for it, and build it.  And all of that takes time.

Much of North Dakota feels like a very laid back place.  A whole lot of waiting going on.  Waiting for crops to grow and animals to do their thing.  But Williston looks and feels like an ant hill, everyone scurrying and hurrying, all chasing dreams that have more to do with money than anything else.  Not that there is anything wrong with that - but haste makes waste and Williston is haste-ing up a storm.

Ten miles west of Williston I sat in a traffic line waiting for a road construction crew with my bike turned off, checking my email on my phone.  But once traffic started moving again, it was just ten more miles to reach Montana.

Hands down, I would spend a week riding bikes around Montana before any other state in the union.  In the summer.  I love Montana.

I also prefer crossing Montana from east to west.  You begin with the same expansive grassland and farmland that starts in North Dakota but somehow it just seems to stretch on further in Montana.  There is a reason they call it Big Sky Country and you will think that again and again as you pass through.  Starting in the east leaves the mountains in the west calling your name all day long.

I think of crossing Montana from east to west like going to your Grandma's for Thanksgiving.  You arrive at 6:00 AM but know you can't eat turkey until 4:00 PM.  You love being there all day but the anticipation is the best.

Between 9th grade and my second year in college, I spent most or all of the summers north of Seattle with my Dad and his family.  Each summer began and ended with a road trip between Conway, WA, and Wahpeton, ND.  I've driven or ridden lots of different combinations.  I-94/I-90 is the fastest and the simplest.  Plus you get to spend a few minutes by Coeur d'Alene.   The mountain passes are nice, in both states.  US 2 isn't nearly as fast or as easy.  It is old fashioned two lane highway driving, complete with timing your passing, slowing down for every little town that gets in your way, and actually seeing the way people live beyond the Gas Malls on the interstate.  Personally, because of that, I think that the mountain passes are better on US 2.  They come close enough together that you can make it a combo run.  Which I've done.

On this trip I decided to take US 2 the whole way.  It was an easy choice.  I've already ridden too much interstate for my taste.  I started off in Williston.  I have friends from my old church who have invited me to their home in Kalispell - thank you Dwight and Peggy!  And I have always wanted to ride the Going To The Sun road in Glacier National Park.  Got a plan, now work the plan.

US 2 was a fine choice.  

The first time I rode a motorcycle out to Seattle was the first week of May after my sophomore year in college, 1981.  I rode a 1973 Honda CB 750 Four.  (You gotta add the "four" there as it was so prominently displayed on the tank badge.)  I had nothing.  Very little money.  None of the right clothes or boots.  Nothing.  I had problems with a chain that wouldn't stay tight and broken spokes that I had to replace on the way.  It was bitterly cold and raining when I left Tom and Judy's.  I started out on US 2 but headed toward the interstate through Sidney.

I found out there was a snowstorm on the pass so I cut south through Hardin to Casper, then over the pass to Salt Lake City.  I went up to Oregon and followed the river to Portland before heading north on I-5.  The rain never quit falling from the time I left Portland.  I had no money so I had to ride through the night, sleeping in the Iron Butt Motel on rest area picnic tables, freezing half to death.  I finally got to my Dad's at 8:00 AM.  IT WAS AN AWESOME AND AMAZING TRIP!

So I thought about that as I rode down US 2 in the sunshine.  I haven't had any significant rain on this whole trip.  I have all the equipment I could want and a bike that feels like my big chair in front of the TV.  The miles whipped by.

I think about Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance every once in awhile when I'm moving.  Loved the book.  He and his son rode through North Dakota in that book, they even rode through Wahpeton.  Read it.  I'm right on that.  I was doing the Zen thing today...I would look up and another 60 miles were gone.  The wind was fierce and my gas mileage continued to be atrocious.  AND no one had gas higher than 89 octane.  What's with that?  Eventually I got a tank of 91 in Cut Bank.  (Forgot to bring those little bottles of octane booster I left in the garage.)

You pass through some Native American reservations on US 2.  I stopped at Fort Peck and Fort Belknap.  It is good for the soul to notice reservations.  Not comfortable but good.  Far better than just ignoring their existence.  Life is horrible on most of them.  Alcoholism, drug addiction, rape, suicide, diabetes.  Much of this is rooted in trying to change the pain of poverty, unemployment, despair, and hopelessness.  So I stop, get my coffee and stand in line.  I greet people.  And I ride on, praying for everyone who is working to bring a measure of decency, self respect, sobriety, and hope into the lives of the people who remain at the soul of our nation.  Especially those from the reservation who go back to make a difference.

And I ride on.  I was racing to get to Glacier National Park while there was enough sun to ride to it.

I first heard about the Going to the Sun Road when I was a kid.  My Grandma and Grandpa Fay took their camper on a vacation that included Glacier.  Grandpa Fay loved to laugh and little was funnier to him than getting Grandma's goat.  She was terrified on that road and Grandpa Fay laughed the whole time.  He laughed when she was telling the story.  I knew someday I would have to see for myself.

But I was always too busy.  I always just roared down US 2, right past the park, never taking time to stop.  Today I finally made it.

For those of you who have traveled that road, you understand when I say that it is hard to describe.  It is awe inspiring.  Not only the majesty of the sights - glaciers creeping down rocky faces, snow melt waterfalls misting the road, snow-capped peaks, beautiful mountain lakes - but also the human ingenuity that thought to make such sights available to us.  

I wanted to enter the road from the east because I was heading to Dwight and Peggy's house and it was on the way.  It was one of those things that, if I had time, I would ride it both ways just to see the differences.  Even the ride from Browning to St. Mary was fun - twisty roads, elevation changes, and glimpses of the grandeur ahead.

If you haven't ridden Going to the Sun, add it to your bucket list.  Make a plan.  Work the plan.

And thank you, Dwight and Peggy, for your wonderful hospitality.

Day Ten - Adventures in North Dakota

Start - Wahpeton, ND

Stop - Williston, ND

Today's miles - 420

Total - 7,001

There are three primary "sister cities" on the North Dakota/South Dakota border.  In the north, Grand Forks, ND, sits across the Red River from East Grand Forks, MN.  In the middle, Fargo, ND, sits across from Moorhead, MN.  And 50 miles south of Fargo/Moorhead, Wahpeton, ND, sits across from Breckenridge, MN.  This was the center of the universe of my childhood and I was so excited for this day of riding.

I realize that I am biased so everything that I am about to say about my reflections on, and experience of, a day of riding through my home state is strictly my opinion and subject to change on a moment's notice so please, my ND friends and family, don't be overly offended by the thoughts that I had as I traversed the homeland.

Anyone crossing the border from Minnesota into North Dakota for the first time would immediately notice that, some time in the night, someone came and stole all the hills.  Eastern North Dakota is flatter than the Coke you left on the counter last Thursday.  And trees?  The only trees that you will see were either put there by God right next to a water source or they were planted by some prudent farmer around his home place or between his fields, hoping against hope that the wind wouldn't blow everything away.

There are two interstate highways that cut across the state.  I-29 runs north/south near the eastern border.  It goes right by Grand Forks and Fargo but it lies 13 miles to the west of Wahpeton.  There is a reason for that.  The Wahpeton forefathers, rather than lobbying to make sure that the modern world didn't pass them by, instead fought tooth and nail against the encroachment of the "freeway". That pretty much sums up the vision of my home town.  First they raise under-achievement to an art form, then they apply moral value to it, resulting in a situation that insures that people will be their most important export to other places in the country.

I-94 is the other interstate, running from Fargo in the east through the center of the state, passing through Bismarck (the state capital) and on into Montana.  If you have ever crossed North Dakota, it probably happened on I-94.  Farther to the north, coming through at Grand Forks, is US 2.  US 2 was my target for the day.

Another thing you need to know about North Dakota is that it is almost two states in one.  Everything on and north of I-94 forms the heart of the state.  Everything south of I-94 exists but feels largely irrelevant to the whole.  And everything changes as you move from east to west - I think you feel that immediately when you move from Bismarck to Mandan on I-94 or when you leave Minot on US 2.  The landscape changes.  The mindset changes.  There has long been a simmering discontent and mistrust between the east and the west.  The east has long been seen as the bastion of "rich Republicans" with the incredible growing powers of the loam soil of the Red River Valley, the economy of Fargo, long the biggest city in the state (this is relative, folks, Fargo had about 56,000 residents when I was a kid, today the Fargo metro area might have 120,000), and the University of North Dakota in Grand Forks.

The west was about ranchers and farmers who needed to plant vast acres of crops to make a go of it. It was about the Badlands and Medora and Teddy Roosevelt spending his summer vacation.  And, from time to time, it was about oil.  Never was it more about oil, especially in the northwest around Williston, than it is today.  The west used to be fiercely independent and Democratic.  I suppose that worm is turning too.

Such were the thoughts that were running through me as I headed west from Wahpeton to meet I-29 out by Mooreton.  The farm I worked at as a kid is six miles out of town, a mile to the north on "old 81", the road that used to be the primary way of driving to Fargo.  No one, I'm told, goes that way anymore.  Hiway 75, that runs on the Minnesota side, was closed due to flash flooding from the storm the night before.  So I went west to catch the interstate.

I remember when they built it.  My mom's boyfriend lived in Mooreton so we were out there a lot.  I remember how exciting it was when they dug a huge hole in the ground that provided the dirt to construct what would become an "overpass."  The hole would become Lake Mooreton.  You can't imagine how exciting this was and how awesome to see such a majestic highway just 13 miles west of town.  As silly as all of that seems, I hope I never lose that sense of wonder at the things that people figure out a way to do, or my appreciation for hardworking salt of the earth people for whom such matters matter.

In the 34 years since I left home for college, I have never experienced taking the road out of Wahpeton, then heading north to Fargo on I-29, without having to pass through some kind of road construction.  It must be the fierceness of the seasons that wreaks havoc on the roads.  I wasn't disappointed this time either as they are now re-doing the Lake Mooreton overpass.  Again.

The speed limit on the interstates is now 75 mph.  That is awesome.  When I first got my license the federal government had mandated a nationwide reduction to 55 mph.  That was a killer.  Imagine pulling a band-aid off an owee very very slowly and you get a sense of how painful it was to drive 55 mph when your goal was to get from here to there.  Imagine as well that the state patrol didn't have much going on in a state with only 540,000 residents so they wrote tickets just to break up the monotony of the day.

Then there is the wind.  Show me a place with no hills and few trees, in the middle of a vast continent, subject to wide temperature extremes, and I'll show you a place where the wind blows.  If it isn't blowing it is howling.  Today it was in rare form.  Heading north, it came to me from the west.  And once I got to Grand Forks and headed west on US 2, I was riding straight into its teeth.  It was great.  Just what I expected.  And I was riding hard as I had a 10:30 AM appointment to visit with my Uncle Gordon and Aunt Darlene, and a couple of my cousins and their families, at the farm just outside of Lakota, 60 miles west of Grand Forks.

As I passed the familiar landmarks on the way to Lakota the thought suddenly crossed my mind of how embarrassing it would be for me, now a city boy, to forget how to get to the farm.  And I realized at the same time that I wasn't sure I would be able to remember how to get to the farm.  That might make me late and that wouldn't be a good thing.  Promptness is a high ND virtue.  As is feeling guilty.  If you don't feel guilty about something in ND, don't worry, it won't take us long to help you with that.

So I decided to go with my gut and trust my muscle memory.  I got to the Mapes turn (curves in the highway being rare enough that they can be named) which is where I needed to turn but I almost missed it because the grain elevator that used to be there isn't there anymore.  But it still felt right.  I could see Lakota off in the distance and this WAS the Mapes turn, so I left the comfort and security of US 2 to travel down a country gravel road the day after a hard rain and storm bad enough that it tore the roof off of one of my uncle's farm buildings.  Immediately I realized, "This might not be good."

When I was a kid I flew down gravel roads on my Yamaha Enduro with reckless abandon.  A 1000 lb. Harley Davidson Ultra Classic with highway tires, fully loaded with a fat Lutheran pastor at the helm was not made for such adventure.  But the road seemed dry and packed and it seemed to be going OK as I hunted and pecked for the farm.  I got to the road that felt right and turned left.  I got to the next intersection where I assumed the farm was but it didn't seem right.  There was a shop as big as an aircraft hanger on one road, and when I turned right there was a big beautiful house with a three car garage that I had never seen before.  I was looking for Grandma's house which I came to learn had been replaced years ago.  My muscles found the right place but my Harley flew right past.

Now, I got to the Mapes turn at 10:34 AM.  So I was running a little late and already feeling a little guilty.  I also realized that, while I felt completely comfortable in my own skin, dressed like a biker with a fully wooly head of hair and fresh beard, everywhere else I had been, it all felt strangely inappropriate the second I had crossed the North Dakota border.  Now I felt out of place.  And I, without realizing it, had passed the home place.  Later I would come to learn that Gordon had already received a phone call from a hired hand, "I think your nephew just rode past on his Harley."  And my cousin Nancy, seeing me fly by, said to the others, "I think that was Kerry."  But they all just let me go because they sensed that God needed to punish me for my big city arrogance.

About a mile farther down the road the road suddenly made a 90 degree correction to the north.  And suddenly I saw this (later I asked Gordon to drive me back here so I could record the scene):

Do I need to tell you that hitting that particular patch of muck at 50 mph almost brought a premature end to the odyssey of my ride?  I have never fishtailed a Harley in my life as it did in those next few death defying moments.  I have no idea whatsoever how I kept that bike on two wheels but the pain I felt for the rest of the day in my left wrist, left elbow, and right shoulder reminded me of the force it took to counter balance disaster.  Obviously, having escaped with my bike, my life, and my pride intact, I slowed to a crawl until that useless road met the highway.  I was north of Lakota.  I knew I missed the farm.  But I didn't stop to call until I got back on a firm foundation.

I called Gordon for directions and headed up the highway to the correct turn to get to the farm from that direction.  Once I got on the right road I met another relative who was on his way home.  We stopped in the middle of the road to share "Hi's", then he left with the ominous warning, "Be careful now, the road is pretty bad up there."

It was.  When I got to the worst of it, slowly riding in 1st gear with my feet down for balance, I got that sickening feeling one gets when their million dollar baby sinks into the soft gravel of a battered country road - Sorry Cowboy but this is as far as I go - and over went my Harley.  It just fell out from under me.  The bike laid down and I stayed standing.  "I knew this wasn't a good idea" and "I need to get this back up and going before Gordon sees me" - put those ideas and a fresh surge of adrenalin together and somehow I righted the bike and spun my way through the quick sand to something better approaching a road.  I got to the intersection ahead, Gordon now waiting for me in his pickup, only to discover that the huge new shop was his, the new house belonged to my cousin, Scott, and his family, and I had driven right by.

And so it was that I got to spend time with what is left of my family on the eastern end of ND.  High tech farmers, salt of the earth people, Lutherans who know to their inner core that they have been blessed to be a blessing to others.

We caught up.  We told stories.  We laughed.  And then it was time to go.

Before leaving Lakota I needed to capture a couple of shots of the town hotspots.  Off in the distance is the SunLac motel and cafe - where the older folks gather for coffee and where I have enjoyed several post worship Sunday buffet dinners in the back room when we had enough people there to deserve it - and the Dairy Queen that has long served as Grand Central Station for the younger crowd:

And, of course, I needed to take a picture of Lakota Lutheran Church.  That church has been close to the heart of my Nelson family for a long time.  The last time I was there was for my Grandma's funeral. Back in the day, when I was in seminary, Pastor Ness let me preach at the Easter Sonrise service two years in a row.  (I will also here note both how creative the name of the church is and how the local speed limit says a ton about the speed at which Lutheran churches in small North Dakota towns seem to move):

From Lakota, heading west on US 2, the next "must stop" came at Rugby, ND, the geographical center of North America.  Now you understand why everything in our country revolves around North Dakota:

I got to Minot, a town my friend Blair loves as much as I love Wahpeton, and once again felt it as the world around me changed and I headed into western North Dakota, toward the farm where my Aunt Judy and Uncle Tom have lived since 1969.

Brief aside:  While I was parked in front of Lakota Lutheran Church (see above), I called my Aunt Judy to make DARN SURE that the gravel road to their place was FIRMLY PACKED and FREE OF MUD HOLES.  While we were on the phone, I could hear another phone ringing in the background.  "You did what?" I heard Judy say.  "Oh," I also heard her say, "so that's why the power went out here in the house."  Then Judy tells me, "Kerry, I have to let you go.  Tom just hit a power pole with his disc.  The power lines have dropped on his tractor and he needs help."  With that our conversation was over and I left for the five hours it would take for me to get there, wondering the whole time if there would be an Uncle waiting for me when I arrived.  Again, I can't make this stuff up!  THIS is what you run into on long motorcycle trips.  Look closely and you'll see the broken power pole that was propped up by the power company guy who then freed my Uncle from his tractor.

The closer I got to the farm, the more evidence I saw that the Bakken oil field is dramatically changing both the landscape and lives of people out here in this particular corner of God's creation.  Tom and Judy are involved in all of this as well.  Here is one of the oil pumps on their land.  Liquid gold.  Texas tea.  (I wonder if North Dakota Nectar might make that list.)

Two more of my cousins and their families came out to say hi.  One drove 50 miles from Montana to be here.  On and on we talked into the night until finally it was time to go to bed.

This place is very special to me.  Many times my Mom would pack the four of us kids in the car and we would drive out to Tom and Judy's.  They are wonderful people.  And how cool it is that my remaining relatives embody the life and times of the two sides of this great state of North Dakota.  A state that does, in fact, exist.

And check out the tractor that took out the pole!

Day Nine - Where You're From

Start - Duluth, MN

Stop - Wahpeton, ND

Today's miles - 498

Total - 6,581

I began this morning as the first bike parked outside of the Harley Davidson Sports Center in Duluth, MN.  They opened at 9:00 AM.  I was there about 8:15 AM, hoping against hope that the myth was right and they would bend over backwards to accommodate a guy on a long trip needing his oil changed.  They actually bowed slightly which was better than ignoring me completely and I was out and on the road at 11:00 AM.

Because of the late start, I was eager to get to International Falls.  I have never been there but have heard of it all my life as the usual suspect in the coldest place in America contests every winter.  US 53 takes you there, and on the way, you pass through the heart of the Minnesota Iron Range.  This is a subculture if I've ever heard of one.  Fierce, rugged, independent, hard living, hard working, tough.  And that's just the women.  So I was excited to pass through.

It was hard to pass up a picture at the United States Hockey Hall of Fame in Evelyth..but I did.  But I couldn't pass up the giant blue gill in Orr.

I wasn't expecting to have a spiritual experience this morning but I did.  I'll tell you about it but first I have to set it up.  This is for the sake of those of you who are interested, but especially as a word to the wise among those reading this who are also planning a long motorcycle ride.  Here's goes:

Gas mileage on a motorcycle is a very fickle kind of thing.  The biggest variables are speed, wind, and "Did you actually fill it to the very top the last time you filled or did you give up after the 50th little pump trickle so it doesn't overflow on your pretty paint job?"  

This isn't rocket science (although it is related) but basically, if you ride faster you use more gas.  Double duh!  AND, if you ride with the wind behind you, you will get better gas mileage.  And finally, if you don't fill it to the very top...drum roll here... you don't actually have as much gas in the tank to begin with.

Now all of this is very important.  And I'll add one more thing.  Even though I have a high tech HD gas gauge with dual trip meters and a deal that estimates how many miles you have left before empty, I still  do the old school thing and reset my first trip meter to zero with every gas fill.  (I set the other trip meter to keep track of how many miles it has been since my last oil change.  I keep track of trip mileage on paper.  In a notebook.  With a pen that has a string taped to it that I run through one of the 3 rings of the notebook.  Very high tech.)

As a rule, especially on a long trip, I fill up very patiently and make sure it is to the absolute top.  I usually have to rock it a bit so that I can put my gas cap on without gas overflowing on to my pretty paint job.  On this trip, I have started using the "miles remaining" thing more often.  Usually from a half tank left on down.  So on my last fill yesterday, I rode 237 miles and I put in 5.6 gals.  Amazing mileage.

I am also a firm believer in slow and steady wins the race.  I don't speed.  And I don't stop.  So if the speed limit is 55, I'll be going 62.  (Quit it, that is HARDLY speeding.)  I think you get farther faster if you ride slower and steadier.  And you don't have to worry so much about troopers.

Trust me, you need to know all of that so you understand my spiritual experience.

So I get on my bike in Duluth to head, excitedly, to International Falls.  I don't remember the details exactly but let's say for kicks that my gauge said that I had enough gas to travel 170 miles and that International Falls was going to be 163 miles.  I knew there would be some towns between here and there so I could get gas if I wanted.  Off I went.  It was beautiful.  What is not to like about riding through the paradise of northern Minnesota?  It was four lane most of the way and then two lane and road construction for the last 70 miles.

At first, as the miles were rolling away under me, the estimated number wasn't changing as fast.  The gap was actually growing.  And I began to think that I might be able to get all the way to International Falls on the gas that was in my tank - and therefore I could get the official gas stamp proving I was there without an extra stop in the middle.

I remember the last real gas station I passed.  And I remember the moment I realized that I hadn't accounted for the headwind I was pushing.  Suddenly the ratios shifted.  And eventually I realized that there was a very real possibility that, for the first time in my entire life, I was going to run out of gas in the middle of nowhere and it was going to be my own stupid fault.

So I told God, "OK, you see what is happening here.  I was getting cocky and now I'm very possibly going to end up looking stupid, having to walk for gas in this heat, while leaving my bike behind.  But I'll do it.  I'm OK with this.  I'm going to learn a lesson either way.  If I get there, I'll know to never let it happen again.  And if I don't, I'm going to learn to REALLY never let it happen again.  Either way, I'm OK with it."

And that is the God's honest truth about where I am with God on things in my life today.  I'm OK with whatever happens because I know that God loves me, that things will work out, and that every situation can teach me something because the Holy Spirit is always working on me.

But that is only part of my spiritual experience.

I noticed, out of the corner of my eye, that the Northwoods Bible Church was listed to do road side clean up on a little section of road.  I think that is nice.  We did the same at my old church.  We called it Roadside Aerobics.  (Yet another opportunity that adults eagerly dump on to the backs of youth.)  Not long after seeing the sign, I looked up and I saw, at the next curve in the road, a brown building with a white cross.  I knew that had to be the church.  (This is actually a picture I just now stole from their website, I was far too terrified that I was going to run out of gas today to take the picture live.)

I got excited because I assumed a church like I could see off in the distance clearly HAD to be located in a community with a gas station.

Not.

So I just rolled on by and that is when God talked to me.  Here's what God said:  "Kerry, I use people like you and churches like that to meet the deepest needs that people aren't even aware that they have.  For their trivial, earthly needs, like gas in their tanks, I use gas stations."

That is all I needed to hear and I was completely at peace with whatever would happen.  And I was grateful again for the privilege of serving as a pastor to people.  I never saw that moment coming.

Nor did I expect to see a gas station just six miles from International Falls.  The wind hurt my mileage but I got 255 miles to the tank (and pumped 6 gals. into a tank that holds 6 gals.)  Lesson learned.  Really.  Lesson learned.  Then I headed to the post office for point three on the Six Corners Epic 25th tour.

For many years now I get occasional emails from a woman in Minnesota who is an absolute hoot.  When I planned this ride, I wrote to her and told her that I just had to meet her in person.  So when I left the post office, I put Sue's address into my GPS.  Unfortunately, it turns out that my GPS took me to the wrong Johnson lake road so I needed a phone call there in the middle.  But fortunately, the twisting north country roads were a joy to ride.  Who wouldn't love this?

 

And then I got to have a beer and a conversation with Sue and her husband Bob in their log cabin on a lake in Northern Minnesota.  That, my friends, is the high life.

My next planned stop was going to be, of all things, my mother's grave outside of Fergus Falls, MN.  She died in 2009 and none of us live close.  I tried to visit it when I was up there in February but, as you can see, that would have been a challenge.  I got as far as the entry road.

So this time I was bound and determined to get there.  While it was still light enough to see.  So I set my GPS for Fergus Falls and followed the roads it picked for me.  I was pleased when we went right by Cass Lake.  My children's grandparents (and their extended families) have camped there every summer for over 50 years.  We joined them a few times.  I was amazed to see such a large family (Grandpa Wadman came from a family of ten children) who could get along with each other, drink beer without getting drunk, camp together without drama, let the kids play cards with the adults, AND catch lots of walleyes.  Great memories and they are still going there in July.

The various roads that wind through the Minnesota lake country are all fun.  There are lakes everywhere.  Beautiful views in every direction.  Sue told me that there are 1007 lakes in her county alone!  And lots of little communities too that you pass through.  Including Akely, one of six towns that claim Paul Bunyan as a hometown boy.  (Texas has Davey Crockett...Minnesota has Paul Bunyan.  And Bud Grant.)

At some point I realized that the GPS was not taking me the same way that I would normally have traveled from Walker to Fergus Falls.  I would have gone by Perham and Otter Tail and Battle Lake and the ways I always used to go.  But the GPS took me through Park Rapids and Detroit Lakes and Pelican Rapids.  (I rode past the lake where my Uncle Ron was scattered.  He was a REAL character.  I come from a long line of characters.  I guess that makes me a long character as well.) 

And that was my second spiritual epiphany of the day.  I trusted my GPS and followed.

There are lots of ways that I let God take the lead in my life today that wasn't the case back in the day when I lived in this neck of the woods.  God still isn't through with me yet.  Which is why, although I didn't plan on coming to my hometown at all on this trip, when it crossed my mind a few days ago that I could, and should, that ultimately I did.  As a matter of fact, I'm typing this from a motel in my hometown right now.

This town doesn't change much.  Although it does change.  All things change.  But I change.  And every time I come through here - most of the time without telling anyone - I notice how I never really feel like I am "where I'm from" until I cross the Red River and enter the city limits of this place.  THIS is where I am from and I'm grateful to God that I'm from here...and that I get to ride away from here in the morning.

This is what you see when you look up in the sky to the north, thinking, "After I find Mom's grave I'm going to be riding up into that???"

Yuck!

So I hurried on to the cemetery where we buried Mom.  I know it doesn't mean anything to her.  I get that.  But she was buried and she didn't want to be forgotten.  She was a hard woman.  She could be mean, sarcastic, vulgar, moody, all on her good days.  But she also had a heart of gold, deep empathy, and a lot of people are better off for having known her.  And I joined her in being grateful for God's gift of recovery in her life, that she died sober.

The last time I saw my Mom was at of the nursing home we just had moved her into.  She had had a good week, getting a little better every day, and she wanted to come down and see my motorcycle.  I had worked a visit to her into that year's trip to Sturgis.  She was so proud of me, and of my bike, and of my willingness to come and see her.  Three years before that, after I finished preaching on Sunday morning in Rapid City, I called her up and invited her to dinner.  Mark and I rode 500 miles to pick Mom up and eat large at 10:30 at night in Perkins.  She rode there on my bike.  But there wouldn't be a ride on that last visit.  It was hard for her just to come down as she did.  That was on Friday.  She died on Tuesday.

I know we all have lots of mixed feelings about our parents.  I know I do.  My sisters have deep Mom-caused wounds that they have continued to struggle with and work through and all of that, but I also know that none of us would be here without her.  (Which, by the way, is always the ultimate Mom trump card which none of us can touch.)

So rest in peace, Carol.  We know you did your best and we love you.

From the cemetery I rode the 26 miles west to my hometown, Wahpeton, North Dakota.  Where the men are men and the women are strong.  Tomorrow I get to ride across this great state and see some more long lost loved ones.

PS.  I have to crack open my other jeans a little earlier than planned.  When I kneeled at Mom's grave to pray the Lord's Prayer the tear on my knee got worse.  I'm going to bury them here.  Ironic, isn't it? R.I.P. Jeans....

Day Eight - Truckers

Start - Mentor, OH

Stop - Duluth, MN

Today's miles - 873

Total - 6,081

Before I get into today's report, I want to make a recommendation:  The next time you have spent 24 hours on the road, having had three hours of sleep before leaving, and having taken two naps laying on the parking lot in turnpike service centers (yeah, the next time that you find that happening to you), I highly recommend the Best Western in Mentor, OH.  The place itself is a bit foo-foo for me (modeled after the home of hometown hero, James Garfield, the 20th President of these United States, who was quite unfortunately shot to death after four months in office...but I digress...)

Anyhow, the place is fancy and maybe a little bit spendy but the air conditioning / mattress / pillow / blanket combination was worth every penny.  I haven't had such a nice hotel bed since the synod assembly was at the New Orleans Sheraton.  And the shower!!!  It was the most memorable shower I've had since the time I rented a shower at the truck stop in Belle Fouche, SD, my first shower after nine days of riding and sleeping on the ground during the 2010 Hoka Hey.

I'm glad I trusted my instincts and stopped when I did.  It make for a great break and this morning I left feeling like myself.  I was itching to ride.

In terms of today's ride, there isn't a whole lot to report.  If you begin east of Cleveland and your goal is to get to Duluth, you basically go west on I-90 and turn right in Eau Claire.  That's about it in a nutshell.  Although today I did use my GPS instead of my route card.  I had little fear that I would be routed through Canada.  And I'm glad I did as I learned something - the best way to ride through Chicago is to ride around Chicago.  It was very pleasant.  I just followed the roads that the GPS told me to follow and every few minutes I handed $1.50 to some over-educated person in a bad mood working in the toll booths.  I am SO done with toll roads.  But the ride was perfect.  No rain.  No traffic jams.  Just lots of miles.

Today was a big mind picture day for me.  The first mind picture (pictures I thought about taking but didn't take time to take) was of my bike in front of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland, OH.  I didn't stop but I thought about it.  Then I realized that I really didn't care.  Why is the R&R HOF in Cleveland anyway?  And yes I know that Cleveland had the Wolfman Jack radio DJ of the Midwest but the very fact that he was LIKE Wolfman Jack instead of the other way around tells me he was second fiddle.  Besides, what is Cleveland besides "like Chicago but less interesting?"  Those were my thoughts so I passed it by.

I also passed by the World RV Museum in Elkhart, IN.  And the factory where my little house was made.  Those were tough ones to skip.  Back in the 1960's, my dad - who by then had moved on to wife and family #2 - bought an old bookmobile that didn't run at an auction.  He hauled it home, rebuilt the engine, gutted the inside, built some bunks and a table, cut a hole in the back and installed a ramp so that they could haul my little sister's pony.  Seriously.  My dad was a mechanical genius.  Fast forward many years and he had been at a new job selling RV's for a living when he was invited to participate in a dealer's council (a way for RV manufacturer's to give sales guys a heads up on new models and to get feedback from them.)  My dad told the story of the bookmobile.  The next year that manufacturer came out with a line of what became known as toy haulers.  Dad died believing he had been something of an innovator in the world of toy hauling RV's.  I, by the way, was his final customer. He sold my little house to me from the rehab hospital he was at a month before he died.

(Quick aside to that:  I checked the internet tonight and, according to rv.net, various types of homemade toy haulers were made through the years, the first commercially crafted ones in 1974.  So Dad, rest in peace, and I still think the bookmobile was brilliant and I'm very proud to have been your last customer.)

The next mind picture I took was of my bike in front of the Notre Dame football field with Touchdown Jesus behind it.  I didn't go there either but I did ride by the exit.  I realized that I didn't really care about Notre Dame.  I liked Lou Holtz but that's about it.  And Notre Dame has been irrelevant in basketball since Kelly Tripucka channeled Freddie Mercury back when Digger Phelps was the coach.  "Digger", by the way, is an awesome name for a basketball coach.  Or any coach for that matter.

Back in the summer after 9th grade, my basketball team played a tournament in Aberdeen, SD.  Our coach was a great guy who worked for my town's recreation department named Don Beck.  We, of course, nicknamed him "Digger."  We won the tournament and that name stuck with Digger for the rest of the time he spent in Wahpeton.  You gotta love that.

And these, you see, are the sorts of thoughts you have while riding 873 miles down the road between Mentor, OH, and Duluth, MN.

My last mind picture was of my bike in front of Lambeau Field in Green Bay.  My GPS didn't take me there and I didn't fight it.  I had a long way to go and I don't much care for the Packers anyway.  But my friend Cory does and he might have appreciated the picture.  At least I thought about it.  And it IS the thought that counts, right?

I did have a couple of way cool things happen today.  I'll set this story up by saying that sometime in the past few months, I was talking to someone about this ride that I'm on, and they told me the story of their friend, Sandi, who decided to buy a Harley Davidson and ride around the country.  So she did. She put 10,000 miles on it in two months, rode out to Oregon and back, and then left in April to ride some more.  Anyway, a great story.

So today I was riding somewhere west of Cleveland (still not terribly interesting but their baseball field looks cool next to the freeway), when I come up behind two Harleys that seemed to be riding WAY too close together.  I'm a stickler for not riding side by side.  Only novices do that until someone teaches them that "yes, I know they did that in Easy Rider but that was for the sake of the camera and it isn't safe."  (Hell's Angels also do that but who am I to complain about that?)

So I come up behind these two bikes and I pass them.  I notice that the woman is leading and I think that is both unusual but also very chivalrous of her partner.  And off I go.  Later, I'm getting gas at yet another turnpike service center (they became service plazas in Indiana) and who should pull in but my two new friends.  We all gassed up, I went in to get some coffee, they parked and then walked back over to me.

"So where in Texas are you from?" says the woman.  "Houston." I reply.  "So are we." she says.  "Hi, I'm Sandi and this is Trey."  So I told her the story I had heard from a friend about a woman named Sandi who bought a bike and headed to Oregon.  "THAT'S ME! I'M THAT SANDI!"

I swear, you could make this stuff up but I'm not.  Meet Sandi from Houston:

I have no doubt in my mind that someday soon Sandi is going to meet Gonzo somewhere and they'll start telling stories.  Before long they will both share how they met a tall pastor from Houston on the road and they will both agree, "The dude could use to lose some poundage."

My last surprise was needing gas at the exit for the Wisconsin Dells.  The absolute best vacation I ever took with my kids was there.  THAT required a real picture.

But the title for today's entry was "Truckers" and I haven't even gotten around to that.  I just want to go public with my appreciation and respect for people who drive trucks for a living.  I'm serious.  I'm out on the road having fun and they are out there day after day making a living. If they aren't moving, they aren't making money.  Those turnpikes I hate? They are on them every day, in every kind of weather, dealing with all those drivers who flunked "lines" in kindergarten.  So I consider myself a friend of truckers.

When they put on a turn signal in front of me, I pull over and slow down traffic so they can move over.  When I see them coming up behind me with a full head of steam, I get out of their way. I wave at them.  I'm their best friend on the road.  So that is what I did much of today - I was nice to truckers and it was fun.

I got to Duluth so I can get my bike serviced first thing in the morning.  I have almost 6400 miles on my oil and that isn't nice to my bike.  Then I have a long day of riding tomorrow in beautiful Minnesota before heading into God's country.

By the way, if anyone wants to stretch a Four Corners Ride into a Six Corners Ride like mine, come the way I did up 53 North.  When you are still over 10 miles from Superior, WI, you come to the top of a hill looking out over a valley.  Way off in the distance you can see Lake Superior. That moment makes the ride worth every bit of the time.

P.S.  Those keeping score of such matters, I'm still wearing the same jeans and shirt I was wearing when I left Houston.  I'm saving my clean pair for Sunday with My Sisters.  You just gotta love road trips!

Day Six (and Seven) – Mind Pictures

Start - Madawaska, ME

Stop - Mentor, OH

Today's miles - 1,095

Total - 5,208

Sometimes on long trips, one day sort of blends into the next. That seems to be what is happening today.

I began Day Six in Madawaska, ME.  You can't say that it is in the middle of nowhere because it feels more like it is on the edge rather than the middle.  And Canada is right across the river. I don't know what is. I do know It is 100 miles from the end of I-95. It is a delightful little place, but other than "I grew up there", "I have relatives there," "I'm a boot-legger" - if not for the Four Corners - I have no idea why anyone would go there. Nor did I expect the surprises and good time I would find there.

When I first arrived at the motel, I noticed two other motorcycles in the parking lot. When I got up in the morning, one of them was gone. 

Then the welcome wagon arrived. Joe LaChance is the person behind the establishment of the four corners monument in Madawaska. He likes to be there to greet all the riders as they come through. I was really surprised to see him. I read his story on the Internet but never expected to actually meet the guy.

Then Joe told me that the other bike in the parking lot belonged to a guy who goes by the name "Gonzo". I knew the name immediately. I was reading his ride updates for almost 3 weeks before I left Houston. 

Gonzo was in Madawaska as his final stop on what is called a Four Corners True X ride. That involves going to each of the corners and then, after hitting that corner, riding going to the center of the United States, Lebanon, Kansas. Four corners with three separate trips to Lebanon. This was the first stage in four months on the road for Gonzo. He plans on riding every famous motorcycle road in the country. We just had to get our picture taken together.

I got gas and the required gas receipt and then headed to Dolly's restaurant for a home-cooked breakfast. Soon I was joined by Joe, his wife, and Gonzo. Great people. 

Before I left we exchanged business cards, telephone numbers and email addresses and now we're on the same team forever. I told them I have a trailer and a truck so they both know they have someone they can call in Texas if they ever break down or need help. . Gonzo said if it's the same for him in Southern California. I think that's pretty cool.  It was also cool that Gonzo picked up the check.  I owe you one.

Now here is the weird thing - I had ridden 889 miles the day before, through brutish traffic, foreign roads, and 280 of those miles were in the dark in temperatures that I came to find out dipped below 40.  I didn't get to the motel until 4:15 AM and I was out of bed at 8:00 AM.  And yet I couldn't wait to get back on the bike and go.  I have places to go and a short time to get there.

As it was, with the pictures and the lunch, I didn't leave town until about noon.  I decided to take a different road back to I-95.  First, I followed US 1 a little ways down the road to where it all started in Fort Kent. US 1 is the first highway in the United States highway system and it runs all the way south to Key West. I just had to take a picture.

By the way, US 2 also begins in Maine. These two highways began the tradition of north-south highways being odd-numbered and east-west highways even-numbered. I'll pick up US 2 in North Dakota and take it all the way to Washington state.

From Fort Kent I took Hwy 11 down through Maine until it connected back up with I-95.  It actually reminded me a lot of the Pacific Northwest - trees, hills, logging, a very picturesque kind of place.

Again, they should call this road "Moose Alley" for all the danger and warning signs that were posted. And guess what? I DID in fact see a moose.

I came over a hill and there it was, in the ditch on the right-hand side of the road. Fortunately she was walking slowly into the woods and I slowed down to watch her go. Moose are not to be messed with. They are as heavy as a buffalo, fast a as a horse, and in a contest with a car or a motorcycle, they will win.

There was no time for a picture, but that doesn't matter to me. I'm not much of a picture taker, I'm more of a storyteller. The pictures that I take with my mind are far more valuable to me than the ones taken by cameras. I'll take Garrison Keillor over Ansel Adams any day.  On this trip I have already taken more pictures than I ever have before.  I've promised three a day.  I won't keep that. (Who is Ansel Adams?)

By the way, Jesus was a storyteller too but he did throw a bone to the visual people out there when he drew in the dirt while interceeding on behalf of the woman caught in adultery.  So there is that.

After I gotten back on I-95 and on the down the road a bit  it started to rain so I pulled under a bridge to put on my rain gear.  No sooner did I pull in than another bike ridden by an older guy (OK, older than me) pulled in behind me. We started to talk.

A friend of his had died and the funeral was in Maine. This guy said that only a motorcycle could make such a sad occasion a little more fun. Plus it gave him time to think so he rode up to the funeral from near Boston. 

He and I rode together for the next couple of hundred miles. When we stopped for gas, he invited me over to his house for dinner. But I told him I was in a "I need to get there frame of mind" and I declined. 

Encounters like those help explain why I love to do what I do.

So I headed back into the madness of the turnpike system in New England. It wasn't as bad on a Saturday night so I decided to get as far as I could. Which is why I say, sometimes one day sort of blends into the next. I just kept going.

By the way, there is something about that turnpike system that feels...well...either UnAmerican or HyperAmerican.  I can't tell which.  But here's the deal - if you want to go where I wanted to go, the various turnpikes are the only games in town.  There aren't other options.  Then, once you get on, they charge you whatever it is that they want to.  Sometimes just $1.  $3. $6.30, $12.50 Once it was actually .85 cents.  What is the ryhme or reason to any of those?

Then, when you hit the big time I-90 they have these service centers.  You can't park your bike by the door so you have to leave your stuff out in the open where some ne-er-do-well could snag them.  You can't buy coffee unless you go to the cafe section.  Don't tell Kelley but, since I didn't get to taste lobster in Maine, I bought a lobster sandwich last night.  She asked me, "Small, Medium, or Large."  Whenever people ask me that I just look at them.  Are you kidding me?  YES, large.  I want to tell them, "Look at me.  You don't get this way without trying."  

(Here is the part not to tell Kelley.  The sandwich, one bag of Baked Chips, and one cup of coffee, cost me $29.  I thought that was ludicrous but I'm from North Dakota and we have a tough time taking things back.  And I did want to try lobster.  I took it outside to eat it where I coiuld watch my bike.  It had a hard shell piece in both of the first two bites.  It was crappy. )

About midnight I needed gas before a service center was in sight so I took an exit near Springfield.  There was an Econo Lodge right that at the corner so I made the quick decision to pack it in and get some sleep.  It was booked solid as was the Holiday Inn Express just up the street so I just got some gas and jumped back on the road. 

I don't like to ride tired and I know that sleep is the only thing that wakes you up.  Ironic, that.  So during the night I took two separate naps at the Iron Butt Motel. Here is how that works:

You find a parking spot in the corner of the service center parking lot up against the curb. You turn off your motorcycle. You put the tank bag on the ground for a  pillow. You lay down and you fall asleep. I pretended that Kelley and I were on a nice bed in the Waldorf Astoria and I fell asleep immediately.

Another by the way - I can imagine people thinking, "Isn't that dangerous?  And aren't you embassassed to be seen lying on the pavement like a homeless person or afraid that someone is going to hurt you?"  Quick answers - I don't notice other people while I'm asleep.  Besides, what are the odds that I'll ever see THOSE people again in my lifetime?  What is dangerous is me riding tired.  Sleeping on the ground is just like camping...except without the tent, or the sleeping bag, or the appropriately wildernessy environment.  And finally, if anyone ever has the guts to jump me in a parking lot then I can assure you that they need whatever it is that I have to give them far more than I do.  So I slept as well as you can when you are laying on a public parking lot worried that some gangsta is gonna mug you.

One hour of sleep gave me two more hours to ride. As soon as I sensed myself getting tired again, I headed to another service center for a nap.

That explains why I started writing this blog from the first rest stop in Pennsylvania. And that I am doing the final edit from a motel room in Mentor, OH.  That rest stop didn't leave me feeling rested.  So I decided that 24 hours on the road was enough.  But I got another 1000 mile day in. 

I need to get as far as I can tomorrow so that I can be waiting at a Harley dealer somewhere when they open on Tuesday to get my bike serviced.  Now for nap time so I can rest up enough to go to bed tonight at 7:30.

Day Five - Tiger Shoots Over 80 - Epilogue

So to finish up...the day sort of went downhill from there.

I took a little side trip into Springfield, MS, so I could see the Basketball Hall of Fame.  

And yes, all I did was take the picture.  I was so far behind schedule that I didn't have time for anything else.  Later, if anyone asks me whether or not I made it into the Hall of Fame I'll just say, "No, I wasn't good enough, but I played with a lot of heart."

Back into the nightmare of Massachusetts roads.  Again, if people in New England have a reputation for being grouchy, it is because they are forced to drive on these roads.  I was excited to get to I-495 north, finally headed again in the right direction, but it was horrible.  Think "traffic evacuating Houston before Hurricane Ike" horrible.  Three lanes of traffic, stop/start/stop/start, for miles.

Part of the problem is that far too many people flunked how lines are supposed to work back in kindergarten.  Politeness and patience could go a long way, and maybe at a steady 30 mph.  Alas, original sin refuses to release its death grip on us.

It got a little bit better when I finally got to I-95 and then pretty much great after finally crossing into Maine.  Thought about a little side trip to Kennebuntport (or however you spell it) but no one invited me.  I was bound and determined to get to Madawaska, if for no other reason than Kelley had called ahead and reserved a room for me at the only motel in town.

As night approached I was actually excited.  There was going to be a full moon.  I have all of my cold weather stuff along (a lesson learned painfully more than once, NEVER leave home without everything.) And I will be coming back again the same way tomorrow so it doesn't matter what I miss in the dark.  As long as I miss all of the moose I could hit in the dark.

When it got dark it got cold.  Quickly.  Dropped 30 degrees, from the 80's to the 50's.  Before I got to Madawaska it was in the 40's.  That is Fahrenheit for NORTH DAKOTA JANUARY COLD when you are traveling at 70 mph in the wind.  I ended up riding 280 miles in the dark.

From Houlton, ME, to Madawaska is 102 miles.  Very slow miles.  Never faster than 55.  Slowing to 25 in each of the little villages you pass through.  Just enough turns to keep you utterly confused.  Just enough "Watch for Moose" warning signs that you begin to see a moose behind every shadow in the ditch.  Now, for the record, I almost hit a moose in Canada back in 2010.  Or more correctly, Mama Moose almost hit me.  She jumped across the road in front of me and I literally missed her by a few feet.

So here is what I think of moose:  I'll watch for them but I don't think they watch for me.  I think they get bored so they bet each other on how close to cars and trucks they can get.  I remember the police officers who were members of my first congregation.  The only way they could function in their jobs was to adopt kind of a fatalistic "if it is my time, it is my time" approach.  I do the same thing.  

But I also stayed 10 mph or more below the speed limit.  Partly to be careful.  And partly because I was so cold that I would have needed to warm up to freeze.  I finally pulled into Madawaska around 4:00 AM.  I found Martin's Motel.  Kelley called ahead and told the lady what I would be late so she just left a key on the front desk for room 15.  And here I am.  

The plan for Saturday is to take the required picture, get the required gas receipt, and head back to where it is warm out.  I would love to find a place where I could get my newly fried oil changed.  If I don't get that done today it will have to wait until Tuesday because all Harley shops observe a two day sabbath each week and no one does service on Sunday or Monday.  Take that, Chick-a-Fillet!

Day Five - Tiger Shoots Over 80

Start - Hazelton, PA
Stop - Madawaska, ME
Today's miles - 889
Total - 4113

 Today started off on the wrong foot. I turned off my alarm. And I went back to sleep. Sleep is a good thing, but I slept too long. I didn't leave the hotel until 9 o'clock. I want to get to Maine today!

At some point I passed from Pennsylvania into New York. Unless I missed it, New York didn't have one of those "Welcome to New York" signs. Maybe think they think they're above that.

Knowing that I had a long way to go, I decided to trust my GPS for the fastest route to Maine. All was well at first. Pennsylvania is beautiful. But then the GPS told me to turn north on I-87 to Albany. That made no sense to me but I remembered that I will pass through Albany on the way back so I decided to listen. Big mistake.

I-87 is a toll road. I wonder what they do with the money – they certainly don't spend it on fixing the road. I started out in the right lane but it was so rough that it about knocked my teeth back into the glass on my bedside. So I decided to do whatever it took to stay in the fast lane.

My GPS has a feature that records the fastest speed that I travel. I seldom pay attention to it. Let's just say Tiger shot over 80.

Now I never would have been on that road had I not second-guessed myself.  I was very careful when I put my route together.  I should have trusted myself. I think that's what happens also when Tiger shoots over 80. He second-guesses himself too much.

So there I was, keeping up with the crazies, when I passed an entrance ramp. I saw a red Corvette driven by a bald guy with a white goatee, sunglasses up on his forehead and a blonde sitting next to him. I immediately decided the guy was a poser, since no real Corvette owner wears his glasses on his forehead. And I decided to bet that he was not going to pass me. Period. 

Now a strange thing happens on roads like that. All of a sudden, for no apparent reason, the traffic gets all mushed up. Sometimes it is some doofus sitting in the fast lane with his cruise control on and sometimes it's a truck that was overconfident in his ability to pass. Either way it is a total pain.  It means I can't use my cruise control for 90+ miles. I hate that. 

So I entertained myself by making sure that the red Corvette could never catch me. Eventually I needed gas. He was right behind me at that point and passed me after I got onto the exit lane but I don't think that counts as a pass.  I win.

After getting gas I pulled back onto the freeway only to see a Harley flying by. The chase was on. Maybe I could learn some local tactics to make the best of this toll road.

This time I seriously doubted that I would catch the guy, but I gave it my best shot. At one point I was just three car lengths behind, but then we ran into another traffic mush. The next time I saw him he was 15 car lengths past me and I never saw him again.

Until I got to Albany. There he was. Sitting on the side of the road, talking on his cell phone. I don't get credit for that pass either.

Suddenly the toll road ended and I got utterly flummoxed in Albany. I took the exit to get on I-90 E., but my GPS was telling me I needed to stay on I-87 north. That made no sense but since I had decided to trust my GPS, I took the first exit, made a U-turn, and headed up the road.

Then I realized that I could look on the GPS to see the next turns that it planned for me. So I checked. And I realized the stupid GPS was routing me through Canada! If I wanted to go to Canada I would have brought my passport. Note to self: always bring your passport. So I took an exit and turned into the only strip mall in the United States without a Starbucks. I checked my paper atlas to see how far out of the way that I had gone. It wasn't pretty. So I went back to I-90 east.

Eventually I came to discover that I-90 is also a toll road. I had to pay a toll as I left New York. $6.30. How weird a number is that. And then, just a few miles later, I had to pay another toll in Massachusetts. Once again, I wonder what they do with the money.

Not long after that I saw the dreaded sign "Expect Delays. Blasting Area Ahead. " Here is what a  sign like that is eventually referring to:

I took that picture at the very beginning. What I did not realize is that I would spend the next 46 minutes, my left hand on the clutch, never leaving first gear, just sitting or creeping along. I could smell my oil burn. Lazelle St. in Sturgis was a walk in the park compared to this. 46 minutes is an eternity with a melting motorcycle between your knees. 

So there I am. At the next rest stop. Wasting an hour to let my bike cool down. I am still determined to get to Madawaska tonight but it will be late.

Some days are just like that.