Seasons change and So Do I

Socrates said "An unexamined life is not worth living."

I'm sitting here watching Martin Scorcese's movie "Shine A Light" a film about The Rolling Stones. It reminds me of a lyric from one of their songs:

"Take me down, little Susie, take me down
I know you think you're the queen of the underground
And you can send me dead flowers every morning
Send me dead flowers by the mail
Send me dead flowers to my wedding
And I won't forget to put roses on your grave"

I'm a glass half empty kind-of-guy. Always have been. I know that about myself and I clash on a regular basis with my eternally optimistic better half. She can find the bright side (or tries to, anyway, to my utter irritation) of almost any situation. Thank gooodness for Yin and Yang in the universe. Balance. Harmony. We are complete opposites, so I guess that old cliche is true.

Still, I can't but help but feel a growing dissatisfication with my current situation. Perhaps it's the economy, the increasing pressures at work or the looming mid-century milestone just ahead. I don't know the cause but I spend considerable time thinking about my lot in life and how I might improve it. Not only that, however, but what will I leave behind when I am gone? What sort of legacy will I leave, for my short time here on earth? What is the true measure of a man?

What is Success?

To laugh often and much;

To win the respect of intelligent people
and the affection of children;

To earn the appreciation of honest critics
and endure the betrayal of false friends;

To appreciate beauty;
To find the best in others;

To leave the world a bit better, whether by
a healthy child, a garden patch
or a redeemed social condition;

To know even one life has breathed
easier because you have lived;

This is to have succeeded.

This last quote is often attributed to Ralph Waldo Emerson and is one of my favorites. I keep it posted on my desk as a reminder, a goal.

So, I sit and ponder what I can do to gain personal satisfaction while being a better person, doing more for others. Jerry pounds nails for Habitat for Humanity but doesn't talk much about it. He just does it in his spare time. Selfless and a good example.

The seasons are in the process of changing. Leaves are beginning to turn, fall, the flowers are starting to die off, the tomatoes fewer, greener, smaller. Is that what's happening to me? I feel the changes of age coming over me, see them on the faces of my family and friends. A new wrinkle here, a gray hair there. How much time is left for any of us? What can I do beside ride my motorcycle in the rain? I find that my interests have changed, along with my habits, and I wonder if the cause is mental or chemical.

I used to have more energy, a greater interest in reading and was a continuous scribbler. I recently took note of the fact that I have stopped drawing almost altogether. I couldn't attend a meeting in the past without filling the margins with doodles. Am I more focused now or less creative? I fear the latter, if that's the case.

So, I'm quietly embarking on a quest to find more meaning in my life and my work. It may involve a career change or some added activites. I figure I have only twenty years or so to do something worthwhile and satisfying. And maybe less. You never know. Oh yeah, there's that pessimism again...

If you have any ideas, let me know by leaving a comment (below). Oh Crap! IF THIS IS WHAT A MID-LIFE CRISIS FEELS LIKE, someone talk me off the ledge. Otherwise, I'll talk to you soon.

A low, slow wave,

Joe Rocket

The Handle of a Pump

Hi,

I promised that I would publish Ken Bateman's recollection of Sturgis here with his permission. Ken is our resident poet, shaman and story-teller; a very talented fellow. The days are separated by paragraph. Enjoy!



The Handle of a Pump (AMC Sturgis 2008)

Copyright 2008


A coasting flat,

that's a flat tire you get

when rolling over glass to a coasting stop.

At 7:30 we left Joey's Diner for a slow roll through Vermont to Albany.

During one of the stops for rain and gas, the Hell's Angels were riding

stock Road Glides across the New York turnpike,

neither bobbed nor chopped.

London, ON, the first day's end: the Beer Store,

Malibu portions too large, and the Maple Glen Inn.



Luckily my foot doesn't hurt when I ride

and all I want to do is ride;

otherwise, it hurts all the time.

Overtaking Michigan from the Sarnia side of the Blue Water Bridge,

Port Huron looks like it certainly was.

We winged it: the big truck won't fit at Muskegon -

"Get it out of there and get the motorcycles in."

The wind on the Lake Express blows off all the passengers on the sundeck.

Milwaukee looks small from Lake Michigan,

it reeks on Sunday evening,

and Miller Park looks like the works of a giant protractor as we speed by.

A tavern in Madison is so exciting to memory it causes consternation

to be relived, ill-timed joshing, misunderstood, apology, hard feelings.

Chad, a kid wrench from Bikertown HD in Youngstown,

offers to check all our engine codes

and catches on for the ride to Rapid City.



Transitioning trees to grasslands, Rt. 90 Wisconsin is soft and swoopy -

the accurately carved farms, a Willa Cather little Switzerland.

A middle-aged woman at the La Crosse convenience says

she is blessed to live in a beautiful part of the country. She is.

Immediately across the Mississippi, Rt. 90 does a steep curving climb,

trucks hard-balling up to the plains.

Windmills populate Minnesota corn fields,

slow turning from cheap gas to alternatives, whatever the price.

Chad has some ass left, Sioux Falls eschewed for an hour more;

the lure of an outdoor pool and beer in the hot evening sun

snakes around Mitchell and draws us all in.

A thunder-less storm with whole-sky lightning rains in the evening,

a family couple tells their move for a job from beautiful B.C.

to a town near Toronto (and they are not city folk).



On the descent to Chamberlain, Jeff is stunned forever by

the pooling green Missouri

and all around, nature is Dakota-dry.

The way west is ungoverned, fast and free:

Chad blows past a spirit snagged in a Lakota dream catcher

and the Ultra gets to 95.

Orchids sighted, the Badlands are green bottomed and sunflower dotted.

Wall is a boardwalk frontier town. Wall Drug advertises,

"Give me your money" and free ice water.

Indulge in the latter and slather more sunblock on arms, neck, and nose -

anything uncovered.

Like they forgot winter in Rapid City,

surburban stores are sprawling in the quintessential summer-dry blue-sky sun.

Chad diced in to the behemoth rally dealer; snake eyes and twelve-hour days,

sweet trouble swishing her tail a hundred feet long.

From Sturgis, up the long mountain

past Deadwood and Lead (rhymes with greed)

six thousand feet to the alpine cool and Papa Joe's Rec Springs.

He's Mohawk hair on the short weight of a retired Texas sheriff.

He's a talker and good to his word:

the first beer is free and we camp 1800 miles from origin.

It's Tuesday and the band and Girls come Saturday night

(maybe Friday, he hasn't heard from them yet).

Three turkey patriarchs threaten, females are clucking the grounds.



Oh Spearfish and the relief of Precision Soles and Common Grounds,

good coffee and walking regained: thanks for your patience.

Spearfish Canyon, overcast and slow,

like a two-up honeymoon ride and I imagine her entreaty,

"Go slow so I can see."

From Rt. 14A, Rt. 85 starts narrow and twisty, then higher, wider,

and much faster toward and onto Rt. 16,

a blue-sky Wyoming ride, green and sparsely treed.

Newcastle to Custer, burned trunks like sticks give mountain views;

jumbo clouds in fantastic shapes holding still against the dark blue sky.

Many years from Wilton, most recently from Flagstaff,

the old lady met in Custer had arrived in June,

bought a house with a view on the hill next to the big gray.

She predicted, everyone so welcoming here,

many beautiful naked ladies in Sturgis.

Later we guessed her age and didn't mention

how attractive her mellow, peaceful ways.

We refused to pay Mt. Rushmore's fee, so they hurried us down.

Camp cook, those Tabasco shrimps were to my liking hot,

and more beer in the evening, dark and cool.



The Devil's Tower run.

Rt. 85 again in leather jacket chill.

Why not Rt. 85 every day? The snow-drift fencing answers why.

The Buckhorn Bar and Cafe with gas and pole cat hats:

Jerry now rides on a sheepskin bed

luxury cut generously for a magic carpet ride.

At the Rt. 90 and Rt. 14 Conoco, a couple from 1977 Troy, New York

sells buffalo skulls with horns stuck on,

sells pipes, wrist rests and whatever else.

He said Wyoming is a great place to live if you don't

like people and don't mind the wind.

Though it's grown so much, he's stuck in Casper now: grandkids.

John waved us through the Devil's Tower National Park scam and

we picnic lunched at the volcano's base.

Visitors bored family and friends with comments on the climbers:

"I'd be more scared coming down," and "They must be crazy,"...

humans chattering this and that.

John and Jerry on to Sturgis for a saddlebag solution,

the Harley store there a T-shirt shop,

they found the right brackets, twice, at J&P.



Hill City closed Main Street to all but bikes,

two tourist women commented, "Mark your calendar, not here."

John gets political fun with Geronimo, T-shirt Terrorist.

Iron Mountain free of fresh tar and sand,

15 mph hairpins dare quick looks to mountains beyond.

Jeff marks the tour bus two-lane climb, we give it more distance to the front.

Custer State Park slathered in sunblock, blue sky and open grass,

donkeys and buffalos photographed in the road.

Needles' Mt. Rushmore photograph with four in pose.

Slathered and dizzy hot, we swam a necessary idle at Sylvan Lake.

John remarked underpants would elsewhere be OK, not here.

A mother stretched too thin between her young daughter and

boy floating over his head, wanting to get off -

Jeff reeled him in, life saver telling kid, "Stay on the raft."

Dusk at Sturgis, parking free, attendance down this year,

plenty of bike slots on the street.

Jeff gets his shirt, taunting trailers, we'll see when worn.

One Eyed Jacks three levels filled with Hulk Hogan wannabes in obscene Ts

and go-go girls on platforms well out of reach.

Light jobs on bikes flashing in the street,

and up and down Main, the constant parade peaked around 10.

A wild night-ride back to camp,

cautious and warm up the long mountain, swooping in dark.

Deadwood done by 11 for the night,

we go longer, laughing by lantern till 2.



What logic in a bikini bike wash for $10; whereas,

half a bikini bike wash for twice the amount?

Vanocker Canyon praised uncrowded and beautifully paced

on the run to Rapid City for a bolt.

Spearfish, splendid western town and lunch at the Common

though the bookstore had no poetry:

"Are there any poets or poetry readings around?" "I don't think so."

The party's at the Chip, Bear Butte in background, $127 for two nights' camp

with entertainment. Wide open hot bare grassland -

we didn't think it'd do and cooled the thought at the Broken Spoke Saloon,

pins pushed in for Nashua and Amherst on the U.S. map.

Just two pins this year for all of Maine.

The run to Rochford (rhymes with Crotch) is another delight,

perfectly groomed twists and cattle along green valley fields.

Supper at the Moonshine Gulch Saloon, far away and deep in the groove.

The Party's at Rec Springs: a baldy in slippers retrieving his other from

the runway where she's 60 young with flex and good legs,

old exotic smashed on booze, grinding splits to cheers

while the band pumped out knock-offs and she fell

three feet to the stones under the shed.

Bouncing back up like a cat, she'll hurt like a dog in the morning.

The Girls, mixed fat and thin, young and not, strip for money tips

though the few Viet Nam Vets are all asleep by then.

John sleeps out and awakes in a cloud.



Jeff splits for home and runs out of gas -

an hour and a half by the side of the road, the hot way home.

Belle Fourche (rhymes with Boosh) deserted,

even the Welcome Bikers cafe is closed.

The Methodist Church lonesome sign offers biker breakfast

between 7 and 9 (which may be the headcount they draw).

But the Stone House Saloon, windowless

on the hot prairie with nothing else around,

is glinting with bikes parked on the grass,

the mid-day sun high in blue,

beers, burgers, and suntans like a ski-slope lodge.

Hulett's gas station closed, bad news for commerce and

bikers low on gas, so we dog it slow for 37 miles past

Devil's Tower, the Junction, and on to the Conoco.

It felt like a 10-minute ride 76 miles to camp, timeless

when stopped on Rt. 585 for pictures of clouds in the pure

Wyoming landscape of white, green, and blue.



We decamp for home with Dan.

Rt 14 through Pierre, and the wind, wide, flat, straight, and

hot through South Dakota fields.

An old Sportster pre-vision with an antler-and-chain kickstand.

We blow into Watertown and supper on

the shady porch with fried things and beer.



Minnesota Rt. 212 slows through towns and fields,

and past the Beet Sugar plant mid-day Minneapolis is jammed.

We're free for lunch in St. Croix Falls, waitressed with accents

lampooned in radio's Prairie Home Companion.

Rt. 8 across Wisconsin is like New Hampshire's Great North Woods,

most like Errol, old logging and camps, flatter, more lakes.

Jerry gets the lucky Duck in Crandon and we all get bugged off

the narrow Four Seasons veranda.



We've been agreed to 10 mph over limit and John holds true

when enticed by the red car passing at 80 or 85.

Thumbs up a few miles further when his ticket delivery comes into view.

Across the border: Michigan, people, and junk of suburban sprawl.

A quick lunch on Hot Pasties along Lake Michigan's north shore.

After the scenic slow tedium of Rt. 2 ends with dunes,

Rt. 75 is car-less and fast north to Sault St Marie,

the International Bridge to Ontario's same

gives view to lakes and the Soo Locks, a Great Lakes tour.

Jerry's Iron Bridge to the Red Top Motel, and

across the street, Chinese food Veronica can keep.

Both with dreads, an Amherst, NS and a Germany kid are hitching west

a good distance with an old Quebecois. He originates from Winnipeg.



We're shut out at Sudbury; the neutrino detector's elevator is being used.

My bike gets hit, knocked down, kickstand twisted,

and we're in rain suits languishing in thunderstorm clouds.

On to Ottawa and the rain won't stop so I must,

locking up at the Bel Air and enjoying pizza and beer on Richmond St.



Now the kickstand is a joke:

it won't stay up unless tied but then won't come down 400 miles from home.

Ottawa HD detaches one from a new bike and we're on our way to

Montreal's rain, road construction, and traffic jams.

Long to home and slow in rain, but Vermont is dramatic in cloud and green.

I'm getting rain pants butt and it's raining hard,

Jerry's holding the horse back from its race to the barn,

John's in the lead as we go steady and slow in one rain to the next.

I thought we had an angel truck behind, protecting us

from oncoming cars going too fast, but eventually it passed.

The rainbow end-to-end at Concord signaled a glorious end

then more rain, hard rain arriving home,

the goal of riding each day to its end.

Fading f-f-fast....

Hi all. I just wanted to send a quick note out about a few things. The Sturgis blog is done but that doesn't mean that I will stop writing. What would Jerry do while he smokes his cigars down at Castro's? Talk to Mike?

I'll need a new topic and title and when I think of something worthy of your attention and time, I'll let you know. Few people got the joke at the end of the previous post. A blog is the ultimate in literary onanism and the link at the end of the last post was me pulling your leg. I shall not be writing about my toenails any time soon.

My cool cousin Erin (she's cool 'cause she rides and a whole lot of other reasons too) read my Sturgis post (#55) and was unsure if I had a good time on my trip or not. I did. However, I suppose I could have had more fun had I'd made it more fun. Does that make sense? I went into this adventure with no pre-conceived notions and no expectations. Suffice to say, I get bored easily. Or, after the first two or three sleepless nights, camping lost it's appeal for me. C'est la vie.

I'm glad I did the trip, it was an accomplishment and a bit of an adventure and I saw a lot of cool stuff, beautiful vistas and had some new experiences. That's all anyone can hope for from travel. No, we did not get arrested or in any trouble or require bail services from our former bail bondsman. That's all just rumor.

With the cold snap we're having this week, it feels like summer is fading fast. It took so long for it to arrive and then we suffered almost constant rain. But this morning's sub-50 degree temps dislodged me from my scooter in favor of the warm comfort of heated seats and a cupholder. But I'll ride tomorrow anyway, as my bike is now well overdue for another service visit.

We're at the point in the season where the rides get shorter and the starts get later. We tend to linger longer over our hot coffee, take more breaks, talk more and enjoy longer lunches. None of that is a bad thing. It prepares us for the long, cold winter months when we don't see much of one another and get together (at most) monthly for a night out and long discussions about "next year". We fantasize about the coming ride season like a soldier remembers his best girl at home, counting the days until we are together again. But I'm getting ahead of myself. This weather is going to break and we still have a lot of riding yet to do.

I can remember frigid rides up north when it began to snow or the ride to The Cape when our fingers got so numb that hot coffee barely had an effect. I look forward to the change in temps and scenery as New England goes into peacock mode. The bike loves to gulp down that cold air too! It runs so clean on that cold, pure air. And I love to lay my hand on the jugs, to warm them, and feel her heart beating. Yes, John, pure letchery.

Next time, I will post Ken Bateman's short story/poem The Handle of a Pump. Ken is a real talent that most of you have not been exposed to yet. He is our resident poet and his works encompass all manner of his experiences, not just riding. Still, I love the way he captured the events that unfolded around all of us and feel that his viewpoint is so different than my own, I wondered if my eyes were even open. So, stay tuned for that, published here with his permission.

That's all for now. It's late and I am fading fast. As the overly protective father of a teen, I am awaiting his imminent arrival and the juxtaposition of my head and pillow, that will soon follow.

Good night and a low, slow wave,

Joe Rocket

PS - Phil, thanks for your kind words. If you want to start a Joe Rocket Fan Club, that's fine by me. Or, just pass along the link to anyone else you think will enjoy it. Looking forward to future rides with you.

Un-Lead-ed

Hello everyone and welcome to the beginning of the end. Yep, now that the Sturgis ride is history, I guess I’ll be shutting this puppy down. No need to talk about ride preparation, etc., now that it’s history. That, plus the season is dwindling to a wet and crummy close.

I’m sure that each and every one of us who made this ride over the past two weeks has his own opinion of the ride. I’ll admit that there were parts of it that I enjoyed more than others but, overall, it was a great experience. All in all, I put @ 5,300 miles on my bike. I had good intentions of tracking mileage, taking good notes and a lot more photos but, the reality is that we went there to ride and ride we did.

Our trip began on Saturday, July 26th. We met at about 7AM at Joey’s Diner (AKA the Shiny Diner), on 101A in Amherst. Given that I was the only Amherst resident on this trip, I arrived first, eager to get going, only to wait outside waiting for the diner to open. I guess in sleepy little Amherst, there’s no call for a diner to be open any earlier. We had agreed that we’d make an effort to start the day with a collegial meal. After coffees and juices were put done to, we set off heading West on 101 towards Vermont.



Vermont turned out to be the slowest portion of our whole journey. As we attempted to wend our way westward, by avoiding the superhighways through rural Vermont, we soon found ourselves trapped behind slow motor-homes and deep in traffic. It felt like we were moving at 40 mph for hours. Eventually we broke free of the traffic and hit the interstate. Our destination was London, Ontario, nearly 600 miles up the road.

Not wanting to disappoint our fearless leader, we pressed on to our destination, arriving late in London. We found a rather forlorn looking motel, on the strip (across from the beer store) being run by a nice Indian family. It had a rugged appeal and a cadre of down-on-their luck residents. It was disturbing to see these folks living in these temporary quarters as they made an effort to get their lives back on track. Taxis came and went, one poor soul riding his bicycle back to his room for the night before carefully locking it away. The only other tourists seemed to be the couple in the room sandwiched between our two. After a late dinner, we ended the warm night sitting on the sidewalk in front of the rooms. I realized later that John was leaning against the couple’s door as we carried on a loud, animated, beer-infused conversation. When they later emerged, to smoke their post-coital cigarettes, I looked away, embarrassed, assuming that we forced them to moderate their rambunctious carnal yearnings.

The following day, we compared notes on who snored and who didn’t, made a quick breakfast at a Tim Horton’s, a gas stop and pressed on. Our target at the end of the day was at least as far as Muskegon, MI, to the car ferry. During our earlier planning sessions, it was agreed that the ferry was an excellent alternative (Thanks Joe!) to the 300 additional miles, stress and traffic that we would endure by riding south around the bottom of the lake and through the city of Chicago. We also agreed that we wanted to cast our fate to the winds, not knowing exactly when we would arrive in Muskegon or which ferry we might take. So, we boldly set forth sans reservations, hardened bikers that we are. I guess we thought that it was early enough prior to Sturgis, as if that were the only use for the ferry. To our chagrin, we were informed that the ferry was booked and there were no available slots. But, we could wait 2+ hours and see if we could go standby. We waited.

We used the time to dash off to lunch and then return to wait in the hot sun. By then, Ken’s broken toes had started to vex him and he was off in search of shade and a loosened motorcycle boot. Ken had walked into an invisible chair leg in the unfamiliar motel room the previous night. He smashed two of his middle toes good and they were most likely broken or fractured.

We waited a long time and watched as the 12 other motorcycles passed us losers in the lot. In the final moments, it was down to us, two cars and a large truck. I tried to encourage the purser to load us according to size but, without a reasonable bribe, all decisions were left up to the ship’s captain. We watched as they loaded the two cars and called for the truck. We sat there diminished and hopeless and considered the prospect of a long, hot ride ahead through Chicago-land traffic. But wait! What’s this? The big lug of a truck (who boldly displayed his chrome-plated bumper testicles) was a skosh too large to fit the last spot on the boat. Happier words were never heard than when the captain loudly announced “Remove that truck and load those motorcycles.” Whew! We greedily boarded ship and tackled the task of strapping down our scooters, all the while as the ship got underway. We clambered up the stairs, last on board only to find nary a seat to be had out of the wind or sun.

Two and one-half windblown hours later, we docked in Milwaukee, an hour earlier (thanks to the time zone change) and made fast for Madison, WI. Once again, we pushed ourselves hard to go the extra miles, even when we didn’t quite feel up to it. We found a Motel 6 and met Chad Lovett, our new friend and personal H-D technician. He heard us arrive and bounded out to greet us, with the enthusiasm of a Yellow Lab puppy. We had already spied his gorgeous matte finish Blue Street Glide, a beauty of a bagger. He introduced himself and offered to check the fault codes on the Hogs. He inspected John’s bike so quickly, that John thought I had been joking about Chad’s diagnostics. Chad, at 24 years of age, seemed knowledgeable about Harleys but a little shy and short of social courage. He hinted at joining us ever so slightly that it almost went over all of our heads. I finally said to Jerry “I think he wants to ride with us.” He did. He was riding solo from Ohio to Sturgis to spend two weeks working for the Rapid City H-D dealership during the rally crunch. He professed to be leaving at 6:30 AM and we told him we’d “see him then” and the next morning as we made our preparations to depart, he popped his head out of his room window and said he’d be right down. Well, we took young Chad under our collective wing and he was our Harley good luck charm against mechanical failure.



We rode all that next day, our third day together and our first whole day with Chad. Suffice to say that his bike was fast and he loved to let it run. We made short work of the roads from Madison, WI to Mitchell, SD. After a false start, we all agreed that a motel with a swimming pool sounded grand. Soon, the bikes were unloaded and we were sipping cold beers poolside. We had several each and decided to order pizza from the local emporium. When they arrived, we had just enough time to slam them down, watch a bit of a movie and finish the beer. A thunderstorm lit up the night sky and blew about our bike covers.

Our fourth day dawned lazily and we had a robust breakfast that took longer than expected. We rode hard and fast to deliver young Chad to his new temporary work assignment at Rapid City Harley-Davidson, stopping first to detour through the Badlands via Rte 240. We bade him good-bye and wished him well, knowing that our next week would be a lot more fun than the 12-hour work days ahead of him. Somehow though, I thought, that Chad would find his bliss (did I mention the proffered photos of his fiancé?).



We arrived at Recreational Springs campground late in the day to be greeted by “Poppa Joe”. I wish I had taken a photo of Poppa ‘cause the truth is stranger than fiction. Before us stood a Good Ol’ Boy, Texas drawl and all, with a Mohawk haircut and dressed in surgical scrubs. To say he was a vision is an understatement. He was a character out of a bad ‘80’s Sci-Fi movie. He greeted us enthusiastically and Ken held him to his promise of our first beer free. After a long ride across the barren plains, it sealed the deal.

He advised us as to the best tent site available and he did not lie. We took over a large shady area high on a knoll above the campground. Soon our tents were up and our gear was down and we were off to Lead (rhymes with LEED) for supplies (read beer). Our site was situated high in the Black Hills, at an altitude of over 6,000 feet. The road from the highway, near Sturgis, was a steady climb, sawing back and forth like a corkscrew had carved the road out of that rock. The advantage of the altitude was the temperature difference from Sturgis, a good 10-15 degrees cooler here in Lead.

Come Wednesday, we commenced to riding the local roads. I confess to not knowing what order in which we did these but we rode Spearfish Canyon Road several times, we did the Iron Mountain road and saw Mt. Rushmore. At Rushmore, I was looking the wrong way and missed it, prompting Jerry to make a hasty U-turn that earned us the scorn of a whole slew of park rangers. They ungraciously showed us the exit and when I stopped to remove my jacket, they swooped in on us again squawking about charging us for parking, just because I got off my bike in their parking lot. There’s a word for women like that.



We rode West into Wyoming, my favorite scenery and roads. The swoopy roads were devoid of other traffic and we attacked them on imaginary strafing runs, pulling left, right and left again. I could not get enough of those roads and the peaceful wide-open spaces.



We saw the Devil’s Tower, made famous by Richard Dreyfus and Close Encounters of the Third Kind, a movie of my generation. It stood out in the sky, seen for miles. We couldn’t believe how large it loomed above us as we sat in the shade at its base and munched hastily made homemade sandwiches. Climbers disappeared from view, only to reappear as tiny specks of color on the gray-green monolith.



We rode through a herd of buffalo in Custer National State park and I found myself alone in the midst of the herd, the largest bull I’d ever seen looking over his shoulder at me. Keep movin’ big fella, nothing to see here! We saw evidence of wild fires and their devastation and deforestation. We rode by the Sitting Bull monument and marveled at the vision and fortitude a project like that takes.



We took a side trip to the town of Spearfish, SD to find a solution to Kenny’s aching toes. Not a lot of retail out there if you consider that we had to ride about 30 minutes from Lead to find a shoe store. After he selected a very comfortable and suitably granola-y pair of Keen’s, we wandered to the local coffee shop, Common Grounds. Parked outside was a Suzuki Hayabusa, the world’s fastest production motorcycle. After I got my coffee, I said hello to the young man and inquired if that was his bike. “Yes” came the reply, in an Australian accent. He told me where he was from and when I asked if he was here for the rally he replied that, no, he wasn’t but was simply riding across the United States, for his second time. What? Here was this kid, riding solo, on a high-speed run, coast-to-coast on the hottest, biggest sport-bike you can buy. It made an impression on me that was to stay with me for days.

Our Sturgis experience was probably atypical, due to our choice of location. Had we wanted to be in the mosh pit that is Sturgis during rally week, we should have stayed there in Sturgis. Being in Lead limited our evening activities. After we’d dined or cooked our dinner at the campsite, quaffed a few root beers, no one was of the mind that riding at night, where the deer and antelope play, to be a judicious decision. So, we largely stayed put at night. Plus, after a full day of riding, most of us were tired, dirty, smelly, sweaty, grimy, funky, grouchy, sloppy, sore, sunburned, etc., etc. You get the idea. And it seemed that almost every night we needed to run to the local supermarket to re-stock the larder. So, our evenings were spent mostly looking for a place to sit, drink beer until the sun fell and stumble about in the dark. We weren’t able to have a campfire due to the recent spate of forest fires in the area. All of the campgrounds had been forced to limit any cooking to covered grills. Still, we found some other lighting solutions and managed pretty well.

Come Friday night, we were of a mind to get to Sturgis for “the show”. That is, the bikes, the babes, the funky customs and the girls too fat for their outfits. One of us was well on the way to a hangover and wisely decided to stand guard at the camp. His pay was the balance of our beer, metered at a rate of four per hour. The rest of us rode into town for a two hour “shore leave”. We saw a bevy of attractive waitresses who served us our manly pink lemonades. We returned to camp to find our mate unable to rise from his chair but well within the reach of the cooler. “I had twelve beers” he muttered over and over. Yes, we know. I tried to sleep, but the tent was too warm indoors and I eventually acquiesced to the cooler night air and an offer of a nightcap. Well, the schnapps turned into two and then a beer and before long, it was 2:30 AM and sleep came easily.



I forgot to mention that one morning I was attacked by a giant 30-40 pound turkey. It seems our host was raising these birds and when they weren’t scouring our site for scraps, they were shitting all over the bathrooms. The staff didn’t make too much of an effort to contain these filthy creatures or to clean up after them much. Cleaning and sanitation seemed to be low on the priority list.



After a couple of mornings of waiting for Jerry’s fresh-brewed coffee, I realized it was easier to walk down the hill to get a cup at the restaurant, with all the free cream and sugar I wanted. Well, the Tom was following a campground employee in a golf cart when I crossed its path. Like a magnet, he turned and started to follow me. I was still full of piss and vinegar and I assumed (wrongly) that he would lose interest once I got too far away from his pen. Nope. So, I tried to shoo the old boy away, waving a foot at him in a threatening manner. I even gave him some of my best tough-talk. “Go on, get the fugouddaheah”. Nothing. Actually, he got agitated and threw open his wings and puffed himself up to his full size. Pretty impressive, actually, when your eyes are mere slits and you still need a cup of Joe to get you started. So, what you do you do when your threat fails to elicit the necessary response? You start walking faster, away from this demented Thanksgiving dinner. He gave chase. I sped my walk; he flapped his wings to keep up. Now I am running at a good clip with this squawking, nasty, ugly, beaked bastard in hot pursuit. I get to the front door, only to find it locked. A friendly face quickly unlocked the door and let me in. He had witnessed the bird’s behavior and said, “Yep, we’re gonna have to hit him on the head soon. He’s getting mighty bold. We’re afraid he’s gonna peck some young kid”. Well, so it wasn’t just me, then.

Saturday night’s entertainment was worth what we paid for it, not much. The site brought in a band and they were pretty good. Doc was drinking margarita’s out of a Sprite bottle, I was smuggling Jaeger in a Miller can. Doc is the only person I have ever seen dance and eat a hamburger at the same time. I was impressed by how willing his dance partner seemed despite his masticating and twirling.

The old gal that Kenny referred to in his Poem/Short Story, A Handle of the Pump, was pretty smashed before she joined the paid help on the stage. It seems that alcohol didn’t just lower her inhibitions, it obliterated them. “Manny”, her poor husband, did his best to keep her in hand but alas, the demon was in her and she strutted, kicked and whirled like a dervish, despite her hard landings off-stage. The band played until late, we raided the campsite for one or two last drinks and then made the rounds to say goodnight. A late night and an early morning followed.

Sunday’s weather forecast for the coming day was dismal. Thunderstorms were predicted, hail and all manner of bedlam. The only thing the weather channel left out was fire and brimstone. The thought of sitting through a storm like that in my nylon fortress was too much. That’s it. On the spot, I decided I was leaving. I guess I had been thinking about it since I had gotten to the point of having felt like I had ridden as much as I as I had wanted to, expressing this thought to Jerry a day or two earlier. The other issue was that of traveling back through Canada again, which proved to be more of a pain in the ass on this trip than on any other. I had never felt like Canada was too far apart or too different from the US but on this ride, it just seemed to be too much effort.

Customs isn’t too bad but waiting for Customs is a drag. Sitting in endless traffic and stop/start, stop/start is crap. Bikes should get expedited, don’t you think? The monetary exchange was the biggest bitch. I guess I really hadn’t given it much thought before we left and Jerry was the only one to carry Can-cash on him. He was kind enough to dole out a couple of dollars (loonies and toonies) here and there and we suffered the exchange rate on the dinner and motel. I wasn’t up for that again.

So, I plotted a course, due East, south of Chicago, through Indianapolis and headed out at 11:30 AM. A bad time of day to get going and a bad frame of mind to be riding in, thanks to the Jaeger and lack of sleep. It’s my own fault for running out of gas 134 miles outside of Sturgis. I was not paying attention to the odometer as I should have been. That and someone futzed with my reserve valve. On our trip west, we had done very high speeds (speed limit is 75, so 85 mph is nothing out there) and had run for @ two hours between stops. Well, I’ve always said my bike gets 140 miles to a tank and another 10-20 on reserve. Not this time, bucko! So, there I was, dead on the side of the road without help. Fortunately I had signed up for Mo-Tow in advance of the trip and called in my issue. Once they were able to locate me in that giant state, they had a truck dispatched to me with fuel. After a ninety minute delay, I made it to Oacoma, SD that night and was happy to find dinner and a comfortable room. They even allowed me to park my bike in the lobby, a first and last occurrence, I am sure.






The ride home was largely uneventful, with the exception of the weather. The Deep South was suffering extreme high temperatures and some of that found its way to the Midwest. But, the beauty of that solo ride was that I had no one else to answer to. No other gas stops to make but my own. I was pleased that I could ride 2,000+ miles solo and not have any ill effects or additional issues other than the unplanned gas stop in South Dakota.

From Oacoma, I bore due East, into a heat wave blanketing the Midwest. In Iowa, I suffered through temps of 102 degrees. I rigidly held fast to my commitment to wear gear when riding on highways so my jeans were soaked through with sweat, sticking to me and my shirt was continuously doused with fresh, cool water in an effort to stay comfortable through evaporation. Um, well, almost. I had to stop every hour now to drink, loosen clothing, etc.

From South Dakota I headed to Des Moines then to Terre Haute, IN then Erie, PA, on to Ithaca, NY where I met my family, so we could take our son on a college tour. The morning I left Terre Haute, it felt like I had walked into a steam bath, fully dressed. The humidity was near 100% and the temperatures hovered near 90 early in the AM. In Iowa, the day prior, I had to stop every hour to cool off, drink and rest. It slowed me down considerably.

We stayed in Syracuse that night, Thursday of the second week, with the intention of my touring Syracuse University with them on Friday. On the one hour trip from Ithaca to Syracuse, the skies opened up and I got soaked in yet another thunderstorm. It was only in the last 15-20 minutes of our trip but wet is wet. The forecast for Friday was similar, midday showers with severe thunderstorms in the PM. I was not about to ride home in the dark and wet, so I punched out early, skipping the tour. I met another storm on the way, East of Syracuse, waited a bit and I arrived home Friday afternoon, just about 3PM.

All in all, I put over 5,000 miles on the scooter. I have to say that the best investment in this trip, other than the bike itself, was the Mustang Seat. I never got tired or uncomfortable. At one point on the ride out, we stopped to decide if we should press on. Chad announced that “he still had some ass left” and we all found that highly amusing. Thanks to the Mustang seat, I had all kinds of ass left! Jerry had told me to tell the Mustang folks that I wanted a 1,000 mile-a-day seat and that is indeed what I got. I’m very tempted to try an Iron Butt (1,000 miles in 24 hours) if I can find just one other rider to do it with.

I know I am leaving out details. Like the prairie dogs that surrounded Devil’s Tower. The wild mules or donkeys (only John could be sure) in Custer State Park. The unbearably hot temperatures in Sturgis, when our campsite was so much more comfortable, just a scant 20 miles up the winding canyon road. The god-awful John Deere “motorcycle” that raced up and down Main Street Sturgis. The trike with ground effects and a full-blown funny car wing. The lake that we stopped at, following the harrowing ride through The Needles. The nice folks from Minnesota, Chris and Reno (and Reno’s Dad) the wild young 24-yr old moto superstar on the Yamaha R6. The masseuse, the (dancing) girls for hire, Tinkerbell, the staff of Rec Springs, all seemingly southern in this remote northern outpost. The bad tattoos and a wise decision not to entrust this Tabula Rasa to some open all-night makeshift tattoo parlor, which backed up to the men’s showers. All in all, it was a scene, not always a pretty one.

I regret not seeing any of the concerts but we were all in agreement that we weren’t too interested in re-locating to join the teeming herd at the Buffalo Chip campground. Then again, we were torn between Kid Rock and KISS, even though I’d have skipped KISS, having seen them once before. I’m happy that the trade-off allowed me to spend time with my family, my son who I’d been apart from for almost a full six weeks.

The choice of bike was perfect for this ride, outfitted as it was. The backrest and the sheepskin and crash-bar mounted foot-pegs all worked in concert to provide me with the ultimate in cruiser comfort. I loved how the V-twin just chugged along on those long, hot stretches of highway. It droned on and on, mile after mile, neither hiccupping nor causing any concern. It just worked like it was supposed to. My sedate pace almost had me hypnotized by the sound of the motor. Of all the things I carried and didn’t use, the iPod was the biggest waste. I didn’t need it as I played my own music in my head or listened to my thoughts.

I met some great people on this ride, some whose names I never got. I was approached time and again by friendly people who were curious to know where I was going or where I had been. Some were riders who could appreciate the freedom that a trip like this brings. Others were wishing they could trade places with me, even if only for a few miles.

I guess this trip turned out to be a study in contrasts. Hot/cold, group/solo, fast/slow. When I had one, I wanted the other. Perhaps my solo homeward journey allowed me to miss my family and friends all the more and to look forward to being together with them again. I suspect there will be a lot more solo riding in my future. It’s good to know you can depend on your friends, it’s even better to know you can depend on yourself.



I don’t know if this marks the end of my writing career. I suspect not. While approaching heat stroke on the ride home, I had a lot of funny ideas. Or, they seemed funny at the time, to my parched mind. So I’ll leave you with this. If you enjoy my mindless ramblings and want to continue the saga, go to my new blog at www.watchingmytoenailsgrow.com. It’s a different topic entirely but I think you’ll enjoy it. For now,

A low, slow wave,

Joe Rocket

At long last, it's here!

We had a little celebration last night for the Sturgis riders, AKA The Stumbleweeds. We ate way too much but it was all terrific. Today, I feel like a big blob. I think I'll eat lightly today and tonight so I'm don't carry any unneeded baggage.

In 21 hours, we pull out and point it West. Hard to believe and I still have a lot of last minute preparations to do. I didn't want to wait until the last minute to pack my bike but, guess what? I did. So, as soon as I can comfortably bolt work, I'll get crackin'.

All right then. This is me signing off for a couple of weeks. When I jump back on, I will have tall tales and photographic evidence.

See you when we return.

A low, slow wave,

Joe Rocket

6-5-4-3-2-1 BLAST-OFF!

By this time next week, I'll be pointed West. It feels like the night before Christmas, my birthday and several other things all rolled into one. The excitement builds.

Today I shopped for some last minute toiletry items, all miniature, to save room in my kit. Boy that adds up fast! I guess the convenience fee was more than I expected. Maybe I should leave some of this crap home. Probably the most expensive was my meds. Not that I am "on" anything per se, but at my age, I need allergy pills, zantac, Motrin, etc. to make my days a bit more peaceful. No, NO VIAGRA! It's all good, in the wood department, thank you. [See, you guys always think I GO THERE but now, I need to make these pre-emptive strikes before you comment. Feh!]

Some new Teva's rounded out my purchases today. Our resident gypsy poet swears by cool feet and pony tails. I wonder if he has any magic for our ride?

Last weekend we camped, if you saw last week's post and I got to try my little portable sling stool. Not bad but with no back rest you really can't relax in it. I'll swing by the Rapid City Wal Mart and buy a camping chair and worry about it on the way home.

Jerry stopped by tonight to borry our hatchet and dropped off a couple of ears of kern. Local kern. Can't wait for dinner. Will have that and some fresh mozzarella, tomato and basil. Mmmmm!

He's practically giddy now that his Hog has just been serviced. Whoa! Hold on. I mean he just got his bike back from getting service.



I trust our trip across America will end better than theirs did...

There are last minute preparations that need to take place this week. It's sort of nice that my teen-aged son is away right now otherwise, I would feel like I am ignoring him as I scurry about. My spouse understands and we've had plenty of free time together this month. Trips to the fabric store, etc. Good times, good times.

The Honda saddlebags lost some snaps. I hate these bags when I compare them to what I had. My biggest issue, as I've ranted before, is the they aren't watertight. The fact that these expensive Honda Accessories lost all of the snaps on one side just pisses me off. Of course, I am out of warranty on them. Now, I will try to get them fixed locally, if possible, before Saturday. I may add some Velcro front and back to help keep them closed.

So, I've started to pile shit up, in a sort of staging area. I've really got to think about how I am going to fit all this. Jerry packed enough clothes for a week and I guess I will do the same. I have a very strong feeling that I will endure two weeks of soggy jeans and smelly tee shirts. I have some very large ziploc bags that I will start to load clothing into. All of my camping gear is already in place.

It's the little details that I am worrying about. Duct tape, electrical tape. Kleenex as emergency TP. Batteries, my visor tint strip, if I can find it and my Therma-rest sling to make it into a chair, also MIA.

My new tires are on and the 8,000 mile service done. Fresh plugs and oil and a valve adjustment to boot. I used that as an excuse to ride to Hampton Beach solo on Tuesday night and had a perfect moment. I arrived at the beach by 7PM with the sun just beginning to set. There was a Beach Boys cover band on stage playing beach oldies. I had a bite of pizza and a bottle of water before pointing it home and racing across 101, blinded by the setting sun. Still, it was a very good ride.

Here's a shot from my phone's camera:



Sorry for the scattershot babble. I have lots to do an no time to edit, except on the fly. You can follow me on Twitter.com or just keep an eye on the Twitter link at the top of the blog. You should be able to see 2-3 posts before they drop off.

I'll take copious notes and shoot more pix and post it all in a post-ride blog post. That one will take me some time!

For now, ride safe and wish us well. I wish you were all joining us on this ride but, maybe another year? It only took us about 5 years of planning! Ha-ha!

I'll try to Tweet at least once a day, more if my phone charger can keep up. Until then.........

A low, slow wave (on my way to Sturgis),

Joe Rocket

Time & Space (both in short supply)

Two weeks to go and I am prepping for a short ride and overnight camping trip as a shakedown to see how I can manage to pack two weeks worth of camping gear onto one shrinking motorcycle. Hmm.

An initial assessment of the huge pile of gear required for a night or two has me concerned as to how best lash this all in place, without losing it on the highway.
Stupidly, I keep amassing junk that I think I can use. Tonight, it was a portable table. Not sure I need this or can even use it but, I was at Wal-Mart and it was less than a cup of Starbucks coffee!

Wait until Jerry sees the $1.88 inflatable raft I bought for him to coast his butt down the Pemigewasset! I bet it lasts all of five minutes, or less time than it will take him to blow it up, with lung power.

I successfully tested Twitpic today and will use that to post interesting phone-pix that I can easily and readily upload photos on the fly. I'll Tweet and TwitPic along the way.

That's it for now...my beer's getting warm!

A low, slow wave,

Joe Rocket

The Countdown has begun!

Well folks, we're inside of 30 days until blast off and we're getting amped for the trip. At this point we are doing anything and everything we can to stay healthy, get our bikes and gear in order and make any last minute adjustments. I know the clock is ticking and I don't feel fully prepared yet. Little things like XXL rubber gloves for all rainy day long rides. Some of this stuff I can get locally but others I need to order. Today I bought a pair of AlpineStar 101 boots to have an alternative to my high Sidi's. I should have those within the week.

The bike is going in for a valve job (8,000 miles) next week and a fresh set of donuts. I have just over 7K+ on this original set of Dunlops and I expect I'd need a new set by the time we got to Sturgis, hardly the place to line-up to buy fresh rubber.

I've had three great days of riding this week, if you count my junket down to Rehoboth, MA last Saturday for Potsie's 50th birthday celebration. That ride was ALL highway and I made great time. Yes, I got off to a slow start, having to stop in Nashua at a Dunkins' to pee. I didn't think I could hold it for five more minutes, let alone another 2:15! But, once "the pause that refreshes" was taken care of, I ripped right along.

Traffic on 128 and 95 South suck MOST of the time. Coming home was much quicker. There I was, farting along at 75 mph in the center lane when an H-D bagger passes going 85-90. Well, we all know that there is safety in numbers so I cracked it wide and caught up, hanging back a safe and respectful distance. It certainly made the ride home more interesting!

I was lucky all week in dodging the rain drops. Now that I have this nice rain suit, I hate to take it/them out of their perfectly folded bags. Silly, yes, but I'm not pulling over, pulling them out, putting it on for just a few drops. I can put up with soggy clothes closer to home. Each day we've enjoyed a few summer showers, today while the sun shined. These quickly pass, along with the ominous rumbles of thunder. I saw a NICE bolt of lightning strike in Milford by South River Road as I gassed up at the Penguin Mart (no, no penguins for sale there!).

Tomorrow looks like another great day to wheel the bike out and enjoy the air. As it will be July 3rd, our orifice closes early tomorrow, for the Independence Day holiday. Have you noticed that no one calls it Independence Day anymore? Everyone's running about wishing me a Happy 4th of July. To me, it loses the original meaning of this day. It's as if I wished you a Merry December 25th. It's just not the same. People suck.

Once again, I got crap for not writing. I wrote last week but it was pure dreck and after an hour of re-writing I said "F it" and pushed the Delete key. Sometimes you just have to do that. Start over. The only theme that I did want to salvage was that of goalsetting

The thought had occurred to me that the four of us going to Sturgis this year (Führer, Poet, "Doc" - only for his own anonymity, and Rocket) would not be going if not for Ken's putting a metaphorical tent stake in the ground and stating (in no uncertain terms) that "We are going to Sturgis in 2008." What he did was the first step in good goalsetting. He defined the goal. He gave us a target. He gave us a date. He gave us the time to think about it, to plan for it and in many ways, to take some of the many small steps necessary to make this a reality.

I realize that this is the primary reason that the four of us (AKA "The Stumbleweeds") are going to Sturgis this year. If he had simply said that we were going next year, we never would have gone. So much was accomplished in the intervening years that made this goal achievable. Let me start with the obvious, for which this blog is named.

In 2007, I bought the VTX 1300R with Sturgis in mind. I bought all new camping gear, with Sturgis in mind. Etc., etc., etc. Since the start of last year I have been acquiring, spreading out my purchases, mentally preparing for this trip. A friend asked if my wife had a problem with me taking two weeks to go on a solo journey. The answer is no. She, as I, recognize this as a unique opportunity. I won't repeat it soon or maybe ever. Who knows. For you, the case may be that you need to warm up your honey for a getaway like this.

If you want do anything, set the goal and begin planning. Setting the goal is so much more important than even the planning as you may opt to be flexible in your plan. For us, this means no reservations and letting the miles add up where they may. As Poet says, this is when adventure happens.

Click on the link in the title and go read about goalsetting. Create your own "bucket list" of things you want to do and get on the road to accomplishing those goals. Maybe, for fun, in the future (post-trip) I'll publish my own bucket list here. What's on your list?

Or, click on the comments button and submit your thoughts. If they're clean enough, I'll publish in an upcoming blog. Only a couple more posts to go before we leave. Perhaps I can squeeze in one or two, at most. I'll do my best to take copious notes during my trip and to shoot lots of pictures. I fear that when I return, the first couple of posts will be filled with nothing other than pictures of topless, tattooed biker chicks. Well, so be it.

A low, slow wave,

Joe Rocket

"Go West, Young Man!"

That famous quote has long been incorrectly attributed to former Amherst, NH resident Horace Greeley.

We had a planning meeting this past Tuesday night and took Joe Regan's advice to take the ferry 'cross the lake, thereby skipping The Windy City. For those interested in joining us, here's our route:



View Larger Map

For some unknown reason, the small map you see here does not show our ferry trip across Lake Michigan. If you click on the link that says "view larger map", it does. Hmm, maybe that means it will come down to a coin flip.

Presently, we're torn between making ferry reservations and casting our fate (along with our cell phones) to the wind. We'll see.

The new Mustang seat is a joy to my buns. I had no idea that it would resolve the suspension issues I thought I had. The new seat is made from such thick, dense foam that it soaks up almost all of the road shock on rough surfaces. That, along with the extra-wide seat and back rest, give me a very comfortable ride. I haven't had it on any long rides yet but I suspect that the back rest will be its saving grace.

The new lights work well too. I was a little leery of going with the OEM Honda lights but, they were the only ones that would fit around the Honda 'shield. Or, I would have had to go with caliper lights, with no guarantee of service. The lights throw out just enough additional light to make rural riding that much more safe. No more unseen road hazards (like that dead lump of porcupine we hit one night outside of Manchester, coming home from Hampton Beach).

Anyway, I think I have most of my gear now. I need to get some additional bungees in case my load needs to be restrained. You can't just dump your load all over the highway now! My Joe Rocket Phoenix jacket will keep me cool and looking cool, along with the TechWick gear from EMS.

I'm ready for a test-ride soon and may make a run north soon, loaded for bear, to squeeze in a practice camping trip. I'll need to make sure I have all I want to pack on the Sturgis ride, sans the extra clothes, in an attempt to balance the load.

Come five short weeks from now, I'm outta here. Gotto go now, I have plenty of real work ahead of me and I need to finish a very important work presentation for next week. I'll be thinking of this trip the whole time.

A low, slow wave,

Joe Rocket

Slow Your Roll

I'm tempted to write that headline with an exclamation point but that's the old me. I see this article as less of an admonition and more of a statement. I'll explain, as I've been thinking of this topic, at least peripherally, for a little while.

A couple of weeks ago, I heard about a new beverage being sold in Southern states called Drank. It's a play on words for the hip hop drink of grape soda and alcohol. Seems that the hip hop stars of today need to mellow out a bit, to keep from shooting one another.

Last week, I brought my bike in for service and had my teenager follow me to the dealership, for a ride home. I noticed how cautiously, carefully and S-L-O-W-L-Y he drove, in comparison to my riding style. Several times I had to wait for him to catch up. That's when it dawned on me. What's my hurry? Maybe we all need to slow down or Slow our Roll?

For years, I've tried to do anything and everything as fast as I can. Somehow I saw that as a sign of efficiency/quality. I've always felt superior to slow thinkers, slow drivers, slow service providers. What a dick! I'll admit to a need for speed and there is nothing more exhilarating, to me, than blasting down an open stretch of road. But what I'm referring to is the feeling of the need to get somewhere as fast as possible, especially when you're boxed in on the interstate with thousands of other vehicles. And we've all seen the uber-idiots in their Mercedes, or other high-end sedans, self-importantly speeding down the highway for no apparent reason. I don't want to be that guy.

I spoke to an old friend this week about my pending ride to Sturgis. He's made this journey several times and is a font of good information. He reflected on one ride when they had started the journey with a nearly 700 mile day. On the last day of their ride out, they found that they only had 200 miles to cover. He said that they made a point of stopping frequently to enjoy the view, explore and just relish the beauty of their environs. Sounds like this is a good philosophy for everyday living.

Working in New York City will do this to you. For years, I adopted the fast walk, the rush-rush mentality of "get it down quicker" and rushed through my everyday life. I couldn't wait to get up, get out, get to work, get it done and rush home. Whew! I'm tired just thinking of how I used to live. I've been in NH nearly 10 years and the realization has finally dawned on me that I'm losing my old habits. Sure, some of it is age, maturity, call it what you will.

I can remember actually running through the halls of Newport News (where I was a Production Manager). Back when I was called "The Kid" by the likes of Bill Willett, our CEO. I can't imagine what a tool they must have thought I was, those men, then the age of me now, watching me tearing around the building. It's not like I was getting paid by the job. But I was an eager beaver, the "little bulldog" racing about, working on the Penske file. See what I mean?

I'm glad this dawned on me before the Sturgis trip. I want to soak it all in, document my ride, shoot lots of photos and take a lot of notes. I've decided to not blog during the ride as I don't want to lug a laptop to worry about losing or damaging. I want to travel lighter, physically and mentally. This could be a turning point in my life, a life-changing experience, if I allow it to be or, if I don't speed past it on the highway. I plan to slow down, chew slowly and savor the experience.

Maybe this could become a more than a personal lifestyle choice. I could take a cue from Arlo Guthrie's famous song Alice's Restaurant, and start a movement. It could be called the Slow Down for Progress Movement and all you have to do to participate is to sit still. We'll bring back sit-ins, Transcendental Meditation and Tai Chi. And maybe we can all finally learn to surf, legalize marijuana and rediscover the Grateful Dead. Yeah, I'm gonna do this.

They say that if you knew you only had 24 hours to live, you would live your life differently. We all took note of the death of journalist Tim Russert, who died suddenly at age 58 of a massive heart attack. I wonder how he might have spent that day differently, had he known it was his last.

Take a cue from this. Slow down, smell the roses (or the lilacs and the occasional manure truck). This is your only life. Don't rush through, just to get to the end.

A low, slow wave,

Joe Rocket

I've never done this before!

Hi,

I'm doing a quick post from work to tell you my initial impressions of the Mustang seat and the lightbar I added to my bike yesterday.

Holy cow. What a difference an aftermarket seat makes. I had put a Corbin on my Ninja, stupidly just before I sold it but, this makes my current bike a whole different bike. All of the road bumps that I felt are gone. The new seat soaks up all that shock. The back rest is superb and is fully adjustable. I sit higher and now have a perfect view over my windscreen.

The lights are cool too. I was making my way home last night around 9, coming down a very dark, tree-lined street. The auxiliary lights hit the pavement about 15-18 feet dead-center in the road. You can see everything in front of your front wheel. I don’t know how I did without these.

I'll give a full report later after I've had a chance to put some miles on.

Today is a good day to skip work and ride. What are doing reading this then?

A low, slow wave,

Joe Rocket

Email

I love the headlines from Spammers. I wish I could do that as a career. How much fun would it be to sit in a room all day writing ridiculous headlines for atrocious and dubious products/companies? You know, I'm thinking there are comfy couches and an espresso machine, laptops and WiFi. Oh wait, that's college.

AOL does a good job of blocking SPAM (along with a good amount of legitimate mail) but one got through today that made me chuckle:

"Why some people never let ED spoil their life. Here is there secret." First of all, who's ED? What if your name was Ed and now you have this limp dink affliction named after you? Well, the headline led to a cartoon which reminded me that I need to work on my song.

A few weeks back I traveled to Orlando for biz. I managed to squeeze in a little time for fun and had one day to visit with Hughie and get out on his new boat. The weather in Orlando is always sunny and warm. That is, until you just have ONE day to go boating. Then it rains like a Mother-F'er but only after you gone to all the trouble to get the boat out onto the lake. I'll spare you all of the details but two.

I'm driving(?) the boat at pretty high speed on an empty lake when the rain hit. It started gradually and I gunned the engine trying to get out from under the storm cloud. The harder it rained the faster I went. Soon, the rain was blinding me, stinging my face as we attempted to hide behind the short windshield. The rain came at us sideways and I eventually cut the engine before I ran it aground or killed a kayaker. We stopped and put up the small "bikini" top, about as big as one on a Jeep, for a modicum of shelter from the downpour.

Later in the day, the heavens opened up yet again, more fiercely than before. By now, my god-daughter had joined us to get some skiing in. The three us huddled as best we could, under the dash, when eventually a long stream of water ran off the top and down the back of my shorts. It was at that moment I knew I had to write a Country song entitled "It's Raining Down the Crack of my Ass".

Listen, I have to go to work now (you remember work, don't you?) but I'll return soon to post about motorcycling. My new seat arrived and I need to dodge some rain in the next few days to get my bike serviced, light bar installed, etc. I'll comment on the new Mustang seat as soon as I can. I still need a bike cover and one or two more things.

Have a great day.

A low, slow wave,

Joe Rocket

Dry goods

I sure miss the waterproof Givi bags that I had purchased for my previous bike, the Honda VFR. They were designed to custom match that bike when it was last re-designed for the 2002 model year. The leather bags on the VTX are no comparison. A light rain, a mist, an exhalation and everything inside is now wet.

Of course, these bags were never meant to hold off a deluge. Conventional wisdom is that, when it rains, bikers duck for cover. Usually under a convenient overpass where they can have a smoke and meet new friends. I guess that's old school because I've only had to do that one time in my life. The occasion was my first bike trip to Nova Scotia and we got caught somewhere south of Portland, ME, with nary a bridge in sight. By the time we found one, my brakes were so wet, they failed, causing me to use my feet as outriggers to keep my Ninja upright. Yikes! Scared the crap outta me but earned me points with the "hardcores" for not dropping it.



With a two week trip on the near horizon, I needed a better solution to keep my tightie whities dry. No, not Monkey Butt powder, even though I will bring that along. I'm talking about dry bags. Good old compression sack-type dry bags like one uses when kayaking. I sauntered, strolled, stepped (I did NOT sashay) over to EMS today to see what they offered. It's very convenient having their store adjacent to my office building, which makes them a "preferred" vendor. They had four different types/brands to offer and I almost settled on the wide-top ones that looked like a perfect fit for my side bags. Problem is, they just didn't look waterproof enough.

If you have 100 miles to go before bed and it's raining like a mother, guess what? So, I bought the very heavy-duty vinyl coated bags and will wrestle them in and out, as needed. I haven't decided what's going where yet but, my tour pack (thanks to Klimas' Almost New store) has a good cover and I presume my bed-roll and most of my clothes will be stored there. No idea how much I'll be able to fit on my bike until we do a dry-run.

I may have to utilize the "Jerry" method. This involves packing all of your crappiest, rattiest old underwear and T's and tossing them out along the way, once they begin to stink. You therby arrive home bearing a lighter load than with which you departed, with the exception of the DSB. We're shooting for a camping trip soon so this will give me a chance to load and unload my bike a few times as I try to cram all this junk into the limited space I have available. I know I've said this before but, I'm afraid all this stuff I'm buying for this trip is going to sit it out on the floor of the garage! I don't want to look like this guy:



Anyhow, I'll report back on my predicament once we get a date set for our first camping trip. I'm going to try to bring it all (with the exception of two weeks worth of clothing).

For the faint of heart, I hope you didn't get too offended (or aroused) by that mannikin above (yes, look closer).

Also, I will report back on the "MUST HAVE" list soon. I had some good feedback so far but can always use more. Please click on the comment link at the end of this post and send me a comment or your suggestions for the thing or things you don't ride without. My favorite, so far, was from Pinkie, who recommended bringing your own TP along on a long ride. Or, barring that, I suppose I can always "borrow" a old shirt from Jerry...Peace out everyone and

A low, slow wave,

Joe Rocket

Live Free and Die

Just a quick post tonight on the merits of wearing a helmet.

New Hampshire is one of the few states that allow motorcyclists to ride without a helmet. A few members of our little band of hooligans occasionally ride lidless, when the spirit moves them. No one comments or rags them about this. WTF, we're all adults.

I got word today that Box had an accident on Sunday that totalled his ride. He's okay and he credits this to his choice of wearing a helmet that day.

It seems that he was following a panel or box truck on Rt. 101 Sunday afternoon at around 4 PM. It was a sunny day and he was returning from a ride west of here. As the truck slowed to make a turn, Box throttled back and reduced his speed as well.

From the side-street, presumably the one the truck was turning into, some cager decided that this was his perfect opportunity to run the stop sign and enter onto the main road. As he cut across Box's lane, he panicked and stopped. Box leaned it hard to the right but he didn't make it all the way around him. He hit the car broadside, flew over the bars and smacked his head three times on his way across the top of this car, landing on his back.

His comments verbatim: "A helmet might not save your life at 80 mph, but it just might save your life at 30-40 mph". How insightful.

I was thinking of this as I rode home tonight. Up ahead, I saw a car approaching from a side street on my right and wondered what the driver had in mind. As I approached her, I watched as she breezed past the stop sign and looked to her right. Huh? Shouldn't she have looked left towards me, assuming she was just about ready to pull out? What ever happened to Left-right-left? Look twice, lady, and save a life!

I was past her before she had a chance to gaze left. I relaxed a bit and released the grip I had on the brake lever. Another close call.

Please be careful out there, ride defensively, wear a hat. All that. These people are trying to kill you.

A low, slow wave,

Joe Rocket

PS - Do yourself a favor a click on the blog link above.

Yeah, I know.

Zero. Zip. Nada. That's what you've gotten from me in the past ten days. Zilch.

Yeah, I know. You're busy too. And you expect me to rise above the crap I deal with on a regular basis and tell you something good. Hmmph!

Last Saturday was a great day to ride and a few of us made it over to Naults in Manchestie for their Open House. It was supposed to launch at 10AM with food, prizes and a live band (Mama Kicks). We arrived around 11:30 expecting to see it in full swing, coming to a head, such as it were. Nope. The early morning rains must have put a damper on Mama's scamper cause they were nowhere to be seen. Nor was the food vendor. Ah, what now? We examined all of the new and used product and Bosco tried to get me to upgrade to the VTX 1800 from Honda. Um. Hmm. Nice bike but not this year. Maybe not ever.

Finally the band arrived, the food started to cook, we all grabbed our FREE Naults/Honda t-shirts (Jerry and Jay will use theirs to polish their bikes, no doubt...). When we'd had our fill of laying about on a beautiful day, the band decided to finally play and we made our exit to Blowin' Smoke to enjoy a heater and some good conversation. We parted company soon after and made our way home. A short ride, a free meal and some wind in our hair and sun on our faces. Some more than others.


Sunday I fell out of bed before 5AM and raced to the airport for a dash to Orlando, FL, ostensibly for business but mixed with some pleasure too. Friend Hugh relocated two years ago to sunny Winter Garden for his career and has since enjoyed the sun and fun. Recently he purchased his first boat, a very nice ski boat, to be used on the many lakes in his area. We had a little time on the boat Sun/Mon and then it was time to work.

I donned the suit and tie and crafted my best trade show sincere smile. Unfortunately, the show was lightly attended and my smile fell on deaf eyes. Bleh. At least I got see some cronies from the "good old days" in NY. The guys were in rare form and I laugh when I think of one's comment about how Afghanis "don't respect women like we do". Shortly thereafter, we met the buxom cocktail waitress and the irony of that comment was as apparent as her mighty cleavage.

My last-flight-out on Southwest was delayed in-bound due to heavy weather in the Atlanta region. We boarded for Manchester at 10:30 PM and flew into the teeth of the storm. Folks, it nearly became a Vomit Comet. Urp! People were green. We pitched and rolled and I swear I heard prayin'. Maybe it was me. We made it through, landing at 1:15 AM, checked bags retrieved and in the door at 2:15 AM. More bleh.

Today felt a bit like a hangover. After a healthy start, my energy waned as the day passed slowly. And here we are again.

This weekend is Memorial Day and I will do my best to honor the Veterans and those who have died in their service to this country. The weather is going to be perfect for a ride or three days worth of rides. I'm going to try to squeeze in a couple of short ones, in between my other commitments, familial and otherwise.

Have a safe and happy weekend and get out there and ride. I'll be back soon with more of the misadventures of Joe Rocket. Sturgis is about 9 weeks away and I really need to get a jump on some of the shit I've been putting off. Hope to see you on the road.

A low, slow wave,

Joe Rocket

Happy Mother's Day!

Hello everyone and Happy Mother's Day to all the Moms out there. I saw a few Moms today and a whole lot of bikes out on the road. We had a "pitcher" perfect day for our ride. The temps were a little cool early on but the rising sun warmed us nicely and we sped along enjoying the bright sunshine.

Our destination was Pitcher Mountain in Stafford, NH. I'd hiked this in the past and found it to be a fairly quiet destination. The guys huffed and puffed while the gals strode along at a quicker pace. Once at the top, we enjoyed our packed lunches, along with the 360 degree panorama. The swarming blackflies that we had encountered at the base lot were less bothersome at the peak, thanks to a steady breeze.

Here are a few shots I took from the summit:









Admittedly, not the best shots I've ever taken, or taken from this location, but the color was low and everything still looks brown and lifeless. If you click on these pix you will get a better resolution, making them easier to see.

We split up on the way down. Some, pausing to stop at the door-less outhouse; others taking the more direct route down. Matt, Bill and Richard sped towards home while the rest of us headed north for a bit before following suit.

All in all, a nice day, breezing along the back roads of NH. It sure beat yard work!!!

A low, slow wave (to your mother),

Joe Rocket

What a difference a week makes!

168 little hours....Sorry to paraphrase Phoebe Snow but, what a difference a week makes. The leaves popped, the grass is growing, the rain has stopped (for now) and the temps are climbing. Suddenly I feel some enthusiasm for the potential of this riding season. Or maybe that's just the pollen affecting my brain.

Admittedly, it's been pretty crappy here, weather-wise. This weekend could be the start of something BIG. This weekend is Mother's Day and the weather on Sunday looks to be good. Hopefully the forecast will hold. Did you remember Ma or your children's mother? If you're good to her, maybe she will let you ride on Sunday.

It was another crazy week for me, what with a trip down to New York City and all. Last week it was a two-day run to Rochester, so this week's trip paled in comparison. Still, sitting on yer ass, speeding down the highway to the Nexus of the East Coast Universe is stressful. Thankfully I had my Tom Tom Rider, affectionately known to us as "Chad", along for the ride. Nary a missed step, except for user error, when I programmed my destination as E. 30th Street instead of E. 39th Street. Oops! But I caught my error minutes before I would have reached my erroneous destination and it was a minor delay.

This was a business trip that turned into an opportunity to see some old friends. I won't bore you with all the details but I parlayed one cancelled meeting into an opportunity to see some buddies. If you know me, then you should know that I don't give up easily on friends. I'm as loyal as an old dog (yes, I'll admit to having sniffed a crotch or two!). I'm glad I was able to see people that I like, with whom I've shared good times.

Tonight I saw another, in downtown Milford. She is a sweet, older woman who befriended my wife years ago when they worked together. She has a heart of gold and every time we see her, I light up. She is such a good person, so full of love and compassion. I want to find an appropriate way to show her how much she means to me. People like her are in very short supply and need to be cherished.

Sorry to go off on a tangent but, it's late and I should be sleeping. I could almost go for a nice, hot pot of coffee but it's nearly 3AM.

Anyway, as I was saying, the weather's improved, I have a day of riding planned and I'm getting excited about the season, again. I think I've been on two rides so far this year and, if you read last week's missive, am not commuting to work on the bike, either. But I'm pumped about this weekend and can't wait to get out in the wind and sun. I'm sure that I will want to order that new seat. I also need a bike cover for the trip and am considering one of those mini covers that just cover the top half of the bike. It would roll-up a lot smaller and I am starting to get concerned about how much I can pack on the scooter.

So, come Monday, I'll be on the phone ordering a new seat, a bike cover and maybe a few other necessities. Catalogs are starting to pile up around here. I've decided to "rough it" on my current bike rather than shoot for the new bike, the FJR 1300. There's something to be said for riding all the way to Sturgis and, doing it less than "perfectly equipped" will add to the level of adventure. Just wait until I try to pack all my crap on this bike and I realize I have to leave half of it at home! I figger I can get by for two weeks on two pairs of jeans, five t-shirts, a pair of 'dwares and some socks. And just maybe some body spray to cover the funk.

I'll try to write an update following Sunday's ride. The late hour is taking it's toll on my mental processes and I'm slowing down. I just realized that I wasted 10 minutes looking for a dumb photo to add to this post. Yeah, I thought it was funny and then lost all my momentum. Right now I need to crawl back into some sweet dreams and let my mind unwind.

I've got more trips planned for next week and am looking forward to the first one I can pull off on my bike. With gas prices rising again, even motorcycling is getting expensive. A friend remarked on the cost of her recent fill-up, which shocked her. I'm sure it was an all-time high for her. Biker chicks rock. Girls with tats rule. Biker chicks with tats just make me drool. See? My mind is turning to mush. I gotta go.



A low, sleepy wave,

Joe Rocket