A Rest, A Visit, and a Good Cleaning

Cedar Falls, IA - July 17th

It’s good to be clean. I needed that service appointment. After exactly 5,250 (s)miles since we left home, it was time. What I appreciate most is the thorough cleaning. I am temporarily a bug-free mo-cy. At the moment, I am also a bag-fee mo-cy. Old Danny Boy stripped me down before taking me in for service. With no windshield, back rest, sissy bar, trunk bag, saddle bags, or bar bag, I am down to nothing but motorcycle. Furthermore, I am now parked just outside my namesake’s window. That’s a good feeling, I’ll tell you.

ODB had a lot to tell me on the ride back from Silver Eagle Harley in Waterloo. He’s had an exceptionally fine visit with his mother. At 92, she’s slowed down some, but when it comes to stubborn, dogged determination, she hasn’t let up. In fact, it’s worse (or is that “better”) than ever.

Today, those two went out to buy some “provisions”. The Mighty Mary Ellen Dreier gets around using your basic economy-model walker, the aluminum kind that folds up and has just the two wheels in front. The back legs drag along on skids.

They entered the store and passed by a neat row of courtesy “mobility devices.” (He’s a bus driver. They talk that way.)

 “Mom, let me push you around the store in one of these.”

 “I hate those things. I’ll be fine.”

 “Right – bad idea.”

They then slowly proceed, off into the bowels of Wal-Mart. By mid-store it is clear that whatever it was she was looking for is now an “unchained memory,” if you will. Back they go to near the starting point to get the items that ARE on the list. This was no short walk, mind you, as it began in the parking lot.

After three more stops, including lunch at Applebee’s (her choice), they were home. Instead of resting, she got everything put away, and then proceeds to her computer to type her daily (as in 365 issues per year) e-mail – known to her family and friends as “The Afternoon Update.”

ODB told me of the special time they had last night. In the semi-darkness of an empty dining room, he sat down at the grand piano. She sat nearby while he played a medley of old-time gospel songs. This was the music he first heard as a child. Fanny Crosby, Floyd Cramer, and Jerry Lee Lewis laid down the notes of his musical foundation. Tonight’s concert came from the basement.

Moving on . . . It was July 17, 2007 when Dave Barton took ODB to look at motorcycles. I was parked by the window and saw them come in. They walked around a while, and then ODB looked my way. After a while, he came by for a closer look. He looked at all the other bikes, and then came back. He was smitten. Frankly, I wasn’t all that thrilled. The guy was a novice. In fact, he didn’t even know how to RIDE a motorcycle.

 When he and Dave walked out, I was somewhat relieved. The next day he walked back in and put $1000 down. (Little did he know that there would be many, MANY, MANY $1000s put down in the years to come. And as they say, it ain’t over yet.)

 A few days passed. Dave and ODB came back and negotiated a deal. And that was that. Dave rode me to what would become the man cave. My new owner took the Team Oregon motorcycle course at Lane Community College, got his endorsement, and here we are, exactly five years and 72,882 miles later. By the time we get home, I’ll have close to 80,000 on the dial, all with a man whom I have come to . . . um, tolerate. Just kidding. I’ve become quite fond of him. I mean the guy paid dearly to making me something special. I appreciate that.

 In the morning we’re off on Leg 2 of this Major Motorcycle Pilgrimage Across America – a short, three-day hop to Norway, Maine followed a few days later by a one-day ride to Ashland, Massachusetts. I’ll do my part. He’ll do his. And with the prayers and best wishes of his family and friends, we’ll be just fine, thank you.

Mary Ellen Dreier

Memories From the Third Floor

We made it! This comes to you from the place where Old Danny Boy was once Young Danny Boy, Cedar Falls. 2604 College Street was our first stop. Back when it was YDB’s job to mow the grass, the front lawns were about an acre each. Today, ODB thought they looked rather small. Anyway, we turned the corner from College onto 26^th, pulled into the driveway, then down the sidewalk, and then across the yard to the front door steps of what appeared to now be a vacant house. This, I’m told, was the “posing place” for countless family photos over the years. Today, I had the honor of joining those who have done the front-step pose.

 If you look, you can see the 3^rd floor windows. That was YDB’s bedroom. Though his memory cells are shot from “two much of a good thing," he remembered this: Waking up in the middle of the night to the sound of a street sweeper passing. He gets out of bed and goes to the windows. They are low to the floor, so he kneels down, puts his elbows on the ledge, and looks down. The summer’s night air is warm and humid. The song of the Katydids ebbs and flows in waves. Lighting bugs flash, suspended over vast campus lawn across the streets. It is summer in Cedar Falls.

 When we arrived at Windhaven assisted living apartments, my namesake, THE Mighty Mary Ellen Dreier, 92, was at her computer. She sends a daily e-mail to her family and friends with the news of her day.

 She got up from her computer to give her son a hug and welcome him “home.” It does seem like home to ODB, in some ways. When she moved here, she brought along furniture she purchased before Dad came home from Europe in 1942. These pieces have been part of the home scene for the Bill and Mary Ellen Dreier family ever since.

 Getting here today was a long drive, for sure. All of it was freeway or divided highway, so we made good time. We left the Topper at 3:55 AM and arrived Cedar Falls about the same time in the PM. With sunny warm weather all the way, it was a fine day for a ride across the Dakotas, Minnesota, and Iowa. We did run into a traffic jam in Minneapolis – a sure sign that we’re out of the wide open west.

 I’m parked now and plan to stay this way until Monday when I have a service appointment – it’s been 5000 miles, you know. I could use a rest and an oil change.

 We’ll be back on the road Wednesday, July 18. However, I plan to resume this communiqué on Tuesday, July 17, a very special day.

(Google Map Update)

"The Road To Nowhere" Ends ... Somewhere

Devils Lake, ND

The Topper, at $32 per night, is another fine choice, Old Danny, my Boy. Way to pick ‘em. When it comes to motorcycle parts, money is no object. When it comes to spending a couple of bucks on a motel room, one would think you were destitute. Hmm, that rhymes with prostitute. And THAT might explain what happened again early this morning in Pierre, South Dakota.

Selden, Kansas Thursday. The highway
 to the sun was ours alone.

Mr. Miserly Motel Mogul was dressing me for the morning’s ride. It was still dark and I was parked near the motel office door but in the shadows. A small bus pulled up – I’m guessing a casino shuttle. The sole rider got off and walked toward the motel office. She spotted You Know Who and sauntered over. “Aren’t you George Clooney?” She asked. No, no, no! That’s a joke. She sauntered over and informed my rider that she was in room 215 if he needed anything.

This time Old Danny Boy did NOT ask if she was looking for her vacuum. He’s learned a thing or two along the way. He just said “No thanks” and went on about his business. I’m thinking that what is nice and early for a motorcycle and rider is getting along toward the end of the shift for ladies of the evening.

The Topper here in Devils Lake, ND features a dusty gravel parking lot. The room is old, dingy and small but hey, it’s free of random dog food.

The day’s ride was incredibly beautiful. The weather was perfect, the roads were great, just a few construction delays, and just one short stretch of missing pavement where we had to ride on gravel. Other than that, it was a superb ride on a gorgeous day.

ODB owes the state of South Dakota an apology for saying it doesn’t take care of its roads. The highway north of Pierre was first rate.

The big event of the day was making a U-turn . . . at the Canadian border. What a grand celebration. Not! ODB gets off, snaps one picture, waves to the guard, and off we went . . . southbound, for a change. US 83 is called “The Road to Nowhere.” I’m sure a hundred small towns and cities along the way would beg to differ. We traveled all of US 83’s1885 miles and have now accomplished one of his stated goals.

From here, we’re on to Cedar Falls, Iowa on Saturday. Due to that extra day in McAllen, TX the plan to ride across Minnesota then down along the Mississippi River on the Wisconsin side and then to Iowa has been scuttled. We’re going straight to CF from here but it’s still a long, 615-mile ride. After three days with my namesake, THE Mighty Mary Ellen Dreier (ODB’s mother), we’ll go back up north as we head for Maine to visit a friend for two days. The plan from there is to visit friends one day in Framingham, Massachusetts, then pick up US Hwy 50 in Ocean City, Maryland. We’ll ride the 50 all the way to Sacramento before heading home to Salem and She Who Rides the Lime Sherbet Vespa. Doing US 50 from one end to the other was the ride we failed to make last year.

George Clooney

There, all you (n)ever wanted to know about what’s on tap for ODB and me.

(Google Map Update)

Notes From The Center of the Universe

Nebraska Hwy 20

Old Danny is one tired Boy. It’s a good thing we only had a 400-mile day. I might have had to carry him that last 100 had we done a 500 miler . . . oh that’s right. I carry him anyway.

This Major Motorcycle Pilgrimage Across America looked like a big trip on paper. I told him to wait till he sees it on the ground. He told me not to worry about it. He said if I did my job, he’d do his.

Well, I’m not one bit tired. It’s ODB who’s DOA tonight.

Here’s a list of all the really interesting things we saw traversing Kansas, Nebraska, and South Dakota today on US 83.

            1. Um, let’s see. I’m sure there was something . . .

2. Let me think a minute here. I have it!

3. Lots and lots of empty space, a steady wind in your face, prairie land to beat the band, and road kill on every hill.

(Okay. YOU try writing a report every night and see what YOU come up with.)

Comanche National Grasslands

There was an area in northern Kansas and southern Nebraska that reminded my rider very much of his boyhood hometown, Cedar Falls, Iowa. Of course that sent him off on a wistful tangent. He decided that in his heart of hearts, the answer to the question, “Where are you from?” would be Cedar Falls, Iowa. Never mind that he’s not lived there since 1966. He lived there from age 3 to age 20.

Then he decided he could refine the location further by adding the address, “2604 College Street” to the answer. This, the home he lived in with his parents, two brothers, and two sisters all 17 of those years.

Anyway, seeing towns that looked very much like CF sparked a strong feeling of being near the center of the universe. All that passed as we moved north into the plains and then rolling hills – nothing about Cedar Falls in those areas.

Here’s a motorcycle’s dilemma illustrated well today. Nebraska takes good care of its roads and those roads are a joy to travel. However, in Nebraska we experienced repeated delays waiting for a pilot car to take us through miles-long maintenance projects. Enter South Dakota and the road quality drops way, way down – think washboard driving. However, there were zero delays for road maintenance in South Dakota. What’s the preference: long delays, or bad roads?

Observation for the day: A huge feedlot (think thousands of cattle crowded together in small pens standing knee deep in manure) is situated close to the highway. Managers of this factory farm operation have planted a row of trees between the feedlot and the road. Do you suppose they think no one will now notice there is a feedlot on the other side of those trees? The ungodly stench from the place about plugged up my induction system.

Let me give this dead horse one more beating and I’ll stop . . . (maybe)

We arrive in Pierre, SD. As I said at the top, ODB is DOA. He always fills my tank before we stop for the night as to have a full one to go on in the morning. Anyway, Mr. “I’ll Do My Part, You Do Yours” fills me up with – choke – regular!

“What the hell are you doing, Buddy?”

 “Oh, sorry M.E. I just wasn’t paying attention. I made a mistake. Okay?”

 “Right. Like this isn’t payback for me writing that if you looked like George Clooney I’d burn a tank of this crap.”

 “No way. But just for the record, I DO look like George Clooney.”

 “You DO look like George, alright. George Burns!”

Song for the day: Glen Campbell’s “Wichita Lineman”.

(Google Map Update)

A Liberal Awakening

Oakley, KS

We rounded a corner in Oakley, Kansas at the end of a 500-mile ride. It was hot and Old Danny Boy was tired. Thankfully, there was no missing the sign at our motel for the evening. Who knew Annie Oakley had a side gig working at Hooters?

Our day began at The Frontier, the bottom rung of the Abilene, TX motel ladder. ODB told about his room as he loaded me for the day's ride. It made me glad I spent the night in the parking lot by the freeway. A couple of cockroaches running around were bad. But who hasn’t seen a cockroach? The absence of a wastebasket was a bit perplexing, but he made do with the ice bucket.

It was what he found on a high closet shelf, one evidently high enough to be out of the view for the housekeepers, that was peculiar. It startled him when he first noticed it. He thought it might be some sort of insect larva. He got a chair and cautiously peered over the edge of the shelf. It was a pound of dry dog food scattered about!

 Now there’s a room upgrade you don’t see every day.

I don’t know if it was the roaches, the dog food, or just plain carelessness, but ODB forgot to strap down one of his bags before we took off from the motel. He didn’t notice it until our first fuel stop, 150 miles away. My rider was a might disgusted with himself, to say the least. He called the motel and asked them to please look for it. They said they were busy but would when they got a chance. We took off and he called again at the next fuel stop.

The bag contained mostly cold weather gear. Nothing was irreplaceable, but the H-D leather pants in that bag cost him big bucks. Our luck (he says blessings) held out. They found the bag in the parking lot and will mail it back to Oregon. The old man’s frown turned upside down.

Riding in Texas – for the fifth day – was not bad at all. The further north we got, the better he liked it. We went through lots of small towns along the way. That’s what he loves about traveling the old state highway system. They usually double as Main Street. Check out the old jail in Wheeler, TX. (left)

The weather today was terrific. It was 78 out of Abilene and in the low 80s most of the day. It only got hot the last few hours. The ride across Oklahoma didn’t take long. It’s 36 miles across the panhandle.

If this guy looks like George Clooney, I’ll voluntarily burn a tank of regular gas!

The first city we came to in Kansas was Liberal (in name only, we guessed.) Still, he couldn’t resist a photo op. Whatever a "liberal" is, he's a flaming one.

The best wildlife sighting of the day: A herd of wild boar running not far from the road. 
                 

The big scare of the day: Following a pilot car through road construction, the roadway turned to gravel. The dust got so bad ODB couldn’t see and drifted off the packed track into a ridge of loose gravel. My wheels got way out of plumb and I thought we were going down for sure. He kept the throttle open steady and we powered out of it, but barely. We are so luck . . . never mind.

The little scare of the day: A yearling Black Angus standing on the road.

The song of the day: Ernest Tubb’s “Waltz Across Texas.”  (I’m sorry, he begged me to include this. Ernest Tubb? For cryin’ out loud Boy, have you no shame?)

(Google Map Update)

Riding the "Plan B" Lane on U.S. 83

It was right about here, in Rio Grande City, that Old Danny Boy took on a couple of hitchhikers. For the next hundred miles or so Ray, Willie and ODB were on a “Seven Spanish Angels” marathon. Finally, Ray got off but it wasn’t long before Merle got on for another hundred miles of “Pancho and Lefty”. Click on the links to those two songs if you want a sound track for today’s report. Me, I’ve heard them enough to last a while.

Our route hugged the Mexican border for 150 miles before heading north through central Texas. In the border town of Nuevo Laredo the GPS took us on a “short cut” through neighborhoods that had definitely seen better decades. I tried to get him to stay on US 83 but no, ODB almost always goes the way his GPS screen indicates. In fact, this route most likely was the highway years ago. I must admit that the GPS has taken us to places we would have never seen otherwise. The streets were narrow and trashed, the homes crumbling but inhabited, and the poverty overwhelming. I feel so lucky to have my nice clean garage, even if I do share it with a lime sherbet Vespa scooter. By the way, I kind of miss that lime sherbet Vespa scooter and we’re just one week into a four-week trip.

 A couple of observations on Texas driving.

 Here in Texas there is a driving behavior that’s new to me. US 83 is mostly two lanes. It has a center line and fog lines. The shoulder of the road, the area on the other side of the fog line, is quite generous, maybe eight feet wide. Here’s what happens. Slower vehicles, upon being overtaken, pull over onto the shoulder lane to allow faster drivers to pass. Even in no passing areas, passing still occurs as cars and even big trucks pull completely onto the shoulder lane while maintaining highway speed. Some cars split that fog line full-time. Here’s the rub.

 Traffic coming at you EXPECTS that YOU will pull over into the shoulder lane so they can pass cars that remain in the regular lane. ODB was quite surprised the first time this happened. Had he not moved onto the shoulder, the oncoming car that was making a pass would have hit us. At first, we thought it was an anomaly. Then it happened again several times. It’s weird. In these parts the shoulder of the road is a “Plan B” lane.

 Furthermore, there are no cars in Texas. Only trucks – semis or pickups. That’s it. If it’s a pickup, it’s most likely white and usually has a brush guard mounted on the front bumper. It’s a Ford, a Chevy, or a Ram. No imports. The smallest pickups are full size models and they go up from there.

 There are more Border Patrol cars than police cars by far. However, roads are heavily patrolled by state, county, and local law enforcement. The speed limit on two-lane US 83 is 70 MPH.

 Cheapest gas price yet on the trip? $2.49 in south Texas.

 Okay, back to today’s ride . . .

 We’re headed north now, on US 83. The Border Patrol has a check point set up ahead and all traffic must go through. On our way in, we pass through an array of electronic video and camera equipment set up on portable black tripods – very intimidating stuff. These devices scan license plates and automatically search a data base for tags reported missing or stolen.

 They now have facial recognition software, so as you drive in, they take your picture and scan a national DMV database for your identity. It takes only a few seconds for powerful computers to match your face with your drivers’ license.

 When we pull up the checkpoint the agent looks at ODB’s license, at his computer screen, back at ODB, and then summons the Officer in Charge.

 “Mr. Clooney, please get off your motorcycle.”

 “Mr. Clooney?”

 “We know you are George Clooney, Sir, and you are in BIG trouble for using this fake ID.”

 It takes a while for ODB to convince the Border Patrol that while he does indeed look very much like George Clooney, he is, in fact, Old Danny Boy Dreier.

 I am NOT making this up.

 HE made this up while we were riding today. He told me if I didn’t print it he’d fill my tank with regular gas instead of premium. I HATE regular gas!  I told him my journalist integrity was on the line but I’d go ahead and print it.

An hour before we arrived in Abilene a bolt of cloud-to-ground lightning flashed followed by a clap of thunder loud enough to hear over even my racket.

 “That’s God,” I said. “You are now going to pay the fiddler for threatening me with a tank of regular.”

 We stopped while my unrepentant rider donned his raingear. Before long we were riding under a row of storm cells. Nothing serious, but enough rain to give me a measure of satisfaction that Old Danny Boy was reaping his grim rewards.

(Google Map Update)

A Blessed Breakdown

Mission, TX - July 9th

 We made a right turn out of the parking lot, happy to be leaving Brownsville’s Flamingo Motel behind. He was happy with the $42 price but expected to find hangers in the closet. No in-room coffee meant ODB was a bit grumpy this morning (In my book, that’s better than chipper).

Because they already have all the firearms
 and ammo they need

That right turn took us south. From Brownsville? Yup. He’s a stickler (compulsive obsessive, if you want to know the truth) on following roads from end to end. He “had” to drive two miles to the southernmost tip of Texas to THEN get on US 83, a highway we’ll follow from Mexico to Canada.

 Our 4 AM departure meant empty roads. The sun wouldn’t be up for hours. But this part of the world is 100% developed with mostly commercial/industrial along the highway. Plenty of light from all that.

 As the road narrowed from freeway to two-lane highway in La Joya, I started feeling it. My battery wasn’t being charged and was losing power fast. ODB looked down at the volt meter and saw it getting low. About then a warning light came on. We just had time to make a U-turn and go back one block to a McDonalds before everything shut down. ODB went in and called Harley Owners Group Roadside Assistance. (Best deal ever. For $29 in dues per year they will tow you from anywhere to the closest Harley dealership for free.)

 Dawn was breaking. ODB had his coffee now and came out to see me. I felt bad for the old guy. He sat down on me sidesaddle and leaned back against his pack. It was warm already. La Joya was coming to life. He sipped his coffee and started to tell me how grateful he was.

 Grateful?

 He said there was a state-of-the-art Harley dealership 15 miles back in McAllen. A tow truck was on the way. And that we would be okay. Then we started talking about the possibilities. How about this happens on the 550 where there IS no side of the road? How about in the bowels of the San Antonio vortex? Or the middle of New Mexico on 285 with no cell phone service, traffic or civilization, for that matter. Worse yet, how about next to that huge Hereford bull standing on the road up on Hwy 139? I said we were lucky. He said we were blessed. We split the difference and agreed that we were lucky to be so blessed.

 The tow truck guy called to say they were on the way and arrived in due time with two trucks. They, like most people here, were Mexican. The papa drove the big tow truck, his son drove a pickup. The papa didn’t speak English. The son did.

 As they worked at loading me on the big truck, ODB and I noticed how the son, a full-grown man, always differed to the papa and how graciously respectful he was. The son would tie a strap on one way and Papa would tell him to take it around the other way. No big deal, but we did notice. It happened several times.

 The Papa drove me. ODB got in the pickup with the son. My 15-mile ride was uneventful. Later, ODB told me about his ride. He said that he told the driver that the driver was a good son. That he had noticed how respectful the son was of his father and how that impressed him. ODB went on to say that being a good son was one of the most important things a man could be.

 She Who Keeps the Home Fires Burning knows this. And I know this. You do NOT want to get ODB started talking about his father. His dad died six years ago and . . . well, he’s still dealing with it. All he has to say is, “I miss my Dad” and off he goes. So, I’m not one bit surprised about what happened next.

 ODB and his driver started talking about families and about what’s important and what’s not. The driver said he felt lucky (there’s that word again) to be able to work with his father and how he usually goes along to interpret when the client is “a white guy.” ODB said he prefers to be called Euro-American. They both laughed. Then they went back to talking about family. Of course ODB thinks he can successfully relate that his father has died.

 Right.

 ODB no more than gets to the word “Dad” before a huge bubble of emotion comes gushing to the surface. He does his best to keep it down – like that’s gonna happen. What with being physically exhausted from short nights in motel beds, long days on the road, and the huge relief of his motorcycle breaking down in a near perfect location, ODB is ripe for something like this.

Conversation in the pickup truck comes to a standstill as tears stream down ODB’s face. Both he and the driver keep their eyes forward like two guys standing next to each other at a urinal.

 Then the driver tells ODB that his grandfather who lives in Mexico has died. Things are so bad in that part of Mexico that the family is too afraid to go there for the funeral. He starts saying that his father is heartbroken about this and . . . then HE loses it.

Wonderful. Now we have two guys, who don’t know each other from Adam, driving along in a pickup, crying. That’s just great.

 By the time all we meet up at Desperado Harley-Davidson, ODB and his driver have regained their composure and are acting like they’re soul brothers. Six hours later, I’m good to go with a new stator. That’s the part of a motorcycle that generates current to run the electrical systems and charge the battery. It was part of my original equipment.

 By now it was mid-afternoon. ODB decided to bag it for the day, got himself a room one mile down the road, and called it all "good.”

(Google Map Update)

Gulf of Mexico

Brownsville, TX - July 8th

There was plenty of action last night at the Executive (ha ha ha) Motel back in Fort Stockton. ODB is supposedly asleep in 114. I’m right out front. Long-haul truckers have come in during the night as well as tradesmen driving company pickups – oil workers and such. Along about 3 AM, when things are getting quiet, door 114 opens and here comes ODB. He’s been awake since 1:00. Okay, he went to bed at 8, so that’s five hours. Anyway, he’s his usual chipper morning self (Let me tell you, that “chipper morning self” stuff gets old fast). Before I know it, he’s getting his gear loaded. It looks like we’re getting an E-A-R-L-Y start on the day.

 With everything packed and ready to go, ODB has a half cup of coffee to finish before he throws a leg over and hits “start.” A van pulls up and the window comes down. Before I go any further, let me remind you that ODB is A TAD BIT HARD OF HEARING. When we ride these days, he’s taken to carrying his hearing aids in an Altoids box tucked into his vest pocket. For ODB, the world is a very quiet place. Okay, back to the parking lot.

 The van pulls up, the window comes down. The young woman behind the wheel leans across the passenger seat.

 “Do you need anything?” she inquires.

 ODB looks at her a moment, then cups a hand behind his ear and leans in.

 “Did I see anything?”

“No, do you NEED anything? You know, Baby. In your room!”

 “Vacuum?”

 “IS THERE ANYTHING I CAN DO FOR YOU IN YOUR ROOM?” she repeats, excessively mouthing each word.

 Finally, the lights come on in the old chipper boy’s brain.

 “Oh! No. No thanks. I’m good. Thanks for asking.”

 Great! Now the old guy thinks he’s sexy because a hooker hit on him. As if he wasn’t in a good enough mood already.

 He throws a leg over, hits start, and we’re on the road at the 3 friggin 20 in the morning. The freeway is just down the street. There’s a nice piece of moon hanging straight up above us. We make the turn onto the ramp, my 120R is raring to rumble, and there it is, a beautiful Texas speed limit sign. “80 ”. Hot damn!

 I-10 is not a busy place at 3:20 Sunday morning. Not too many folks on their way to church just yet. He was a bit concerned by the signs that warn of deer. He watched hard for eyes reflecting back my (five, count ‘em) headlights. It’s too dark to see very far off the road, but the road beyond my lights is visible under the moonlight. Long rows of red lights flash in unison on distant ridges. Those would be wind farms. He’s riding with no jacket or gloves. At 78 degrees, who needs ‘em?

 Last night he promised She Who Worries That He Drives Too Fast that he would be careful today. He’s thinking of her this morning and keeps it under 85. Okay, he keeps it AT 85. Under 90 for sure. It’s amazing how quickly my rider and I acclimate to that speed. Just another day at the office. Except this morning, the office was kind of dark. We never saw any deer.

 Needless to say, we made good time. We had 200 miles behind us before the sun showed up. We were riding east, so we had a good view of that event.

 Before long we came to San Antonio . . . for the second time in two days. We just went through San Antonio, New Mexico yesterday morning (and a thrill ride we won’t soon forget). Now it’s San Antonio, Texas looming large ahead. Still, it’s early Sunday morning and while the freeway is far from empty, it’s not even close to crowded. We didn’t know it, but we were about to enter a vortex from hell, where a half dozen Interstates and highways converge. ODB has become an adept GPS navigator (Remember Rangely?), but this morning he got us through the vortex with nary a wobble. Above you’ll find a vortex photo from the ground, and on the right, one looking down. I’m glad all I had to do was supply the horsepower.

 We made such good time that ODB decided to take a detour to Corpus Christi. As the morning wore on, he’d been thinking about going there, finding a grassy spot on the Gulf of Mexico shoreline, and taking a nap. By now his “chipper morning self” had morphed into his “cranky-ass afternoon self.” The side trip added 60 miles to an already long day, but we had time. Believe it or not, we’d come 450 miles and it wasn’t noon yet. Brownsville was just two hours away.

 Turns out I-37 terminates at a marina with nice lawns right on The Gulf. How handy! ODB found some shade under a palm tree, laid his tired old body down on the grass, breathed in a few deep breaths and thought about where that sweet warm air might be coming from. He thought maybe Brazil, and went to sleep.

ODB, you need a nap!

(Google Map Update)

Speeds Over 35 MPH

Fort Stockton, TX - July 7th

Room 114

 If nothing else, ODB is an obsessive planner. Long ago he started plotting the MMPAA 12 course. Then he divided the route into one-day segments to fit his allotted four weeks of vacation. Then he looked at motels that might be reasonable at the stopping point for each day. Then he logged the address of all these motels into his GPS. Then he wondered why She Who Directs Transit Operations opined that he spent an inordinate amount of time fussing with his trip instead of tending to say, his domestic partner.

 So today we pull into Fort Stockton, Texas. ODB is feeling smug that he doesn’t have to hunt for a motel as it's hotter’en hell this afternoon in Fort Stockton, Texas. The GPS says it’s just ahead on the right. We arrive to find a recently plowed vacant lot on the right. GPS assures us that this is the correct address.

 Plan B.

 Pull under a gas station awning to get in the shade. Use phone and GSP to find a list of local motels. For reasons known only to him, ODB thinks the Comanche Motel might be a likely prospect. It’s not.

However, in the same (seedy) neighborhood is the Executive (ha ha ha) Inn. It wasn’t the painted fuchsia doors that caught his eye. No, it was the proximity of the parking just a few feet from the painted fuchsia doors. And at $42 plus tax, perfect! After checking for train tracks, he booked room 114.

The trip here from Bernalillo was unbelievably . . . um, efficient. Before getting into that, did you know Bernalillo was pronounced Burn-ah-leo? I didn’t think so.

 Okay. Back to the fast, I mean efficient, the efficient trip across New Mexico and about 100 miles of Texas. We left Burn-ah-leo at 04:55. Clear skies meant we had some moonlight. Also, the lights of pre-dawn Albuquerque made it easy to navigate the three, four, and five lanes of mostly empty freeway.

 By the way, the ramp from southbound I-25 to eastbound I-40 is a ride for which they could charge admission. Especially with a rider who apparently missed the sign that said, “CAUTION! SPEEDS OVER 35 MPH MAY RESULT IN POOPED IN PANTS”

 ODB took us into that thing at a brisk 70 MPH (5 over the previously posted 65). The ramp is a huge flyover affair that has both elevation change and tight radius issues to contend with. It was all ODB could do to keep me off the outside wall. If he wasn’t wide awake on I-25 South, he darn sure was by the time we arrived on I-40 East.

 We spent most of our day on the US Hwy 285.The posted speed limit in New Mexico is 75. There, it’s a divided four-lane. In Texas, they keep the same speed limit, but the road shrinks to a regular two-lane highway. Traffic was sparse in both states.

 We saw a series of ancient billboards for White City (Really!), including the one pictured above. We passed through one ghost town, one near-ghost town, and one may-soon-be-ghost town. Those would be Encino (photo), Vaughn, and Loving, NM.

 You can be proud that ODB resisted the temptation to set a World Land Speed Record on the longest, straightest, and emptiest straightaway he has ever seen. (See below) Instead, he kept my spedo pegged between five and ten over – all day long. I know, I know. That’s still speeding. For some reason, he’s not happy unless he’s coloring outside the lines. But hey, staying at five to ten over is an improvement, so let’s hand it to the old boy.

(Google Map Update)

Highway 139

Bernalillo, NM - July 6th

Highway 139

 I had to laugh at Mr. Hot Shot Navigator this morning. I mean this is the guy who spends countless hours poring over maps, studying his Rand McNally Atlas until its pages are so dog-eared he had to buy a new one, and who spends so much time in Google Maps that his Main Squeeze had to have a “serious talk” with him about his priorities and about ignoring a certain someone who lives with him. (Hint: Not Rio or me.)

 Off we went out of Rangely, Colorado with enough light to see but not enough light to see colors yet. This is his favorite time of day. The two lanes of blacktop were empty, but for a couple of rabbits out looking for breakfast (on the road?). ODB was in fine spirits this morning, singing away in his helmet, something about turning twenty-one in prison doing life without parole. What fun.

 About ten miles down the road we pulled over. Not so much singing now, a lot more cussing. Something was wrong with his GPS device. For some reason the GPS was telling him to make a U-turn. He turned it off, then back on. He tried pressing the reset button and resending the destination, but nothing worked. After a bit more swearing and head scratching, Mr. Hot Shot Navigator made a U-turn, went back ten miles and made the turn he’d missed to Hwy 139. He asked me not to tell, so don’t say anything if you see him.

 This was one splendid day of motoring. That 139 route was a doozy. It went along peacefully enough on the floor of a beautiful canyon. With little traffic to contend with, paradise was ours alone. Then we crossed a cattle guard and things changed, big time. A sign warned “OPEN RANGELAND. WATCH FOR CATTLE ON ROAD.” We did. They were. Who knew cattle could read road signs. Up we went, hairpin after hairpin, switching back as we worked our way up the side of the canyon to the 8000-ft pass. Coming down the other side was equally exhilarating. This proved to be the perfect warm-up for US 550, The Million Dollar Highway.

 We picked up the 550 in Montrose. Just a nice road for many miles as we headed south, but ODB had boned up on his 550 facts and knew the action started south of Ouray. We fueled up there. With a fresh tank of premium for me and a bottle of OJ for him, we were ready for the ride.

 He called Al the Fisherman before we got underway. You see, AtF planted the seed for this trip when he gave ODB a video tape of a TV show he’d recorded called “The World’s Most Dangerous Drives.” ODB watched the tape and became obsessed with someday riding the 550. That was over two years ago. After all that time, today was finally the day.

 About two blocks out of Ouray the road switches back in a hairpin. By the time you’ve gone half a mile, you’ve gained several hundred feet of elevation. And so it goes. Really tight turns with sharp grades made interesting by a sheer precipice on one side of the road and a wall of rock on the other. There were places where the fog line was missing as it had fallen into the abyss. And so it went until we crossed the pass at 11,111 feet. Same thing on the way down. Guard rails? What guard rails. Who needs guard rails? With zero tolerance for error, and dire consequences unless you packed a parachute, the adrenalin was flowing for him, the octane was flowing for me.

 On this perfectly beautiful summer Colorado morning, ODB finally got his dream ride. Me? I must say, I kicked ass. With 120 inches of combustion, 120 horses of power, 130 lb-ft of torque, seven gears of Baker transmission, and mechanical upgrades too numerous to mention, my performance today was simply awesome, if I do say so myself. This is what I was made for. Him too.

 As we motored across New Mexico’s interior, his happy disposition persisted. He’s hitting his stride now. Not so much wiggling around in the seat. More relaxed riding.

 Once again, ODB was singing . . .

 And I turned twenty-one in prison doing life without parole.

No one could steer me right but Mama tried, Mama tried.

Mama tried to raise me better, but her pleading, I denied.

That leaves only me to blame ‘cause Mama tried.

Major Motorcycle Pilgrimage Across America, you’re on.

(Google Map Update)

Rangely

Rangely, CO

The old man is an early riser, for sure. He was out loading me up for the day’s ride long before dawn. I was parked just the way we like it, right outside his motel room door. The fluorescent lights overhead lit the place up good. Turns out a major rail line is just on the other side of Sunset Strip. Trains kept us company all night long. Maybe that’s why he was up so early. At any rate, he threw a leg over, fired me up, and we slowly putted through downtown Mountain Home. Not a lot going on there at 4:45 AM. Still, it was nice to be back on the road. We made the right turn onto I-84 and the reality of the situation set it. It was dark. Really dark. There was supposed to be a moon out and it probably was. But thick cloud cover blocked any light. In this part of Idaho, there weren’t any other lights to be seen. None. Like I said, pitch dark.

It’s spooky driving down the road with nothing in view but the section of pavement where my awesome array of lights shine. The air was warm and damp and added to a sense of foreboding. What little traffic there was gave us clues to where the road might be going. That first half hour was pretty tense, all right. The Rider was really happy to see the first signs of daylight, delayed by those cloudy skies.

Next up on the MMPAA 12 menu, bugs. All you can eat bugs. By our first fuel stop, I was covered with ‘em. Old Danny Boy’s new helmet was fully splattered; my windshield was pretty well covered solid, as were my front fender, forks, and lights. Yuck!

But not to worry, the rain washed a lot of that off by the time we landed here in Rangely, CO. Yes, rain. It started midmorning and kept coming most of the day. Not Oregon rain, thank God. It was Utah rain . . . lots of space between drops. At 80 degrees, the road barely got wet. Still, it was enough to wash off some bug guts and keep ODB’s face shield nicely speckled. He stopped under an overpass and put on his raingear. Though he really didn’t need it to stay dry, he was glad he had it on to keep him warm as we topped an 8,000-ft pass. Up there it was barely 60 degrees.

 Utah, land of extremes. We went past homes near Park City that were way off the “excessive” charts. Not too far down the road were Indian reservations so destitute they looked to be . . . well, fourth world.

We did travel some fine roads through wide open spaces. Like I said before, we were up as high as 8,000 feet. We passed though many basins and valleys with lakes or rivers running through. Hundreds of vacant farms and ranches along the way, some ancient, some looked to still be inhabitable.

It was good to get off the freeway and onto state highways. That didn’t happen until late in the day. ODB had to adjust his driving style to two-lane mode. Those roads take more patience. ODB has never been long on that stuff. I keep telling him to just relax and enjoy the slower pace. He said he would relax and enjoy the slower pace as soon as he got around the camper pulling a fishing boat in front of him doing 51 in a 65. Life with ODB is not easy.

Tomorrow we ride “one of the most dangerous roads in America,” Hwy 550, aka The Million Dollar Highway.

This from Wikipedia on the subject:

Though the entire stretch has been called the Million Dollar Highway, it is really the twelve miles south of Ouray through the Uncompahgre Gorge to the summit of Red Mountain Pass which gains the highway its name. This stretch through the gorge is challenging and potentially hazardous to drive; it is characterized by steep cliffs, narrow lanes, and a lack of guardrails; the ascent of Red Mountain Pass is marked with a number of hairpin curves used to gain elevation, and again, narrow lanes for traffic—many cut directly into the sides of mountains. During this ascent, the remains of the Idarado Mine are visible. Travel south from Ouray to Silverton allows drivers to hug the inside of curves; travel north from Silverton to Ouray perches drivers on the vertiginous outside edge of the highway. (Actually, it's the other way around. We're southbound and will be in the outside lane.) Large RVs travel in both directions, which add a degree of excitement (or danger) to people in cars. (Not to mention motorcycles.)

The origin of the name Million Dollar Highway is disputed. There are several legends, though, including that it cost a million dollars a mile to build in the 1920s, and that its fill dirt contains a million dollars in gold ore.

I told ODB to get some rest tonight. He’s going to need it.

(Google Map Update)