Showers
Saturday May 22, 2010
Copyright(c) 2010, Jim Beachy
Tomorrow Kitty and I plan to start our two-week two-up tour, our Gulf Coast Getaway, and today is Packing Day. We plan to wander southward to the Florida Panhandle and the Gulf Coast, and then spend 5 days with our Mississippi family before heading home. Our original plans had to be modified a bit because Kitty has a seminar she needs to attend on Saturday June 5, so we’ll be getting home two days earlier than we might, and I had to reverse all my GPS routes to accommodate the changes.
But instead of packing, we’re heading to a baby shower for my niece who lives about 100 miles away in Harrisonburg, Virginia. We’d more or less planned to take the Gold Wing to the baby shower but there are rain showers all over the area, so we opt for the comfort of our SUV. I’m not the most frequent attendee of baby showers but I hated to send Kitty up there by herself to find her way in what to her is an unfamiliar area. In spite of the fact that I feel a certain urgency to be packing, I relax and enjoy the time with various family members and meeting some new people. Among all those women at the shower, there are four guys. My creative and clever sister has strategically placed tiny baby clothes on a makeshift clothesline draped in front of their large high-definition television screen, apparently to make sure the party doesn’t get co-opted by Guys Watching Sports.
When we get home at around 5:00 PM I slowly start packing and fitting things into the trailer and saddlebags while Kitty does the last laundry for the trip. It’s a bit of a different packing technique than usual because we will be spending five days in Gulf Coast shorts-and-flip-flops weather at Kevin’s house. Don’t you just hate those long walks on the beach in long jeans and motorcycle riding boots?
I’d detailed the bike and trailer last weekend, so there’s little to do in terms of cleaning or polishing. Using my digital air pressure gauge, I carefully make sure the air pressure in the trailer and bike tires is perfect for the estimated load we’ll be carrying: 21 psi for the trailer tires, 20 psi for the trailer suspension, 33 psi for the front bike tire, 41 psi for the rear. For all those years when I ran Dunlop Elite series tires on my Gold Wing, I always inflated to the maximum recommended pressure of 41 psi, but with this Michelin StreetPilot GT set I’m running manufacturer’s inflation specifications. We’ll see how that works out – after about 8,000 miles there’s no sign of wear front or rear so the early results of my experiment seem positive.
I have a moment of panic when I can’t find the locking pin for the trailer hitch. Then I remember I bought a new key-lock system last year and had put it into one of the interior side pockets of the trailer when I last parked it. I treat all the locks and fittings on both the bike and trailer with WD-40 oil and my preparations are complete. Extra tools are packed; GPS routes and waypoints are loaded and the GPS is mounted on the bike: we are taking along an extra bag filled with memorabilia from Kevin’s childhood that Kitty figures rightfully belong with him; the laundry is done and our bags are packed.
Tomorrow I imagine we will need to do the Dance of Rainsuit before heading southward for a lazy day’s ride. I fall asleep dreaming of leaky rainsuits that strangely enough, pool water on the inside of my waterproof Cruiserworks riding boots and soak my socks.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Crawfish Caper, Day 6
Together
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Copyright(c) 2010, Jim Beachy
I check the Weather Channel and see that there will be no escaping the rain for me on this day. Here in Kingsport, Tennessee, it’s 62F now, and I reflect on how to dress for the day’s ride. I’m wearing just a T-shirt
(well, not just a T-shirt!), and with the rain gear, I often add only one layer: An old sweatshirt that always travels with me in the right-hand saddlebag. Kitty always laughs when I wear this thing and won’t let me wear it in public because we got it probably 20 years ago in Ocean City, Maryland during a cold snap in August; it has something like a big square target on the back. In addition to the sweatshirt, if the weather is chilly, I also take out the jacket liner from my leather jacket and put it on under the sweatshirt, thus adding another layer of effective insulation. I imagine the weather will get cooler as I ride into the rain, so I add the insulated jacket liner and the sweatshirt even though I’m instantly too warm.
I chat with Blair and Blair and learn that they are heading for Memphis today and have likewise decided to dress in their rain gear even though it’s not raining at the moment here.
I have not cleaned the bike so it is adorned with filthy water spots from yesterday’s ride. I fight my instinct to clean them off. It’s like a Pavlovian response to me: See water spots, clean. See fingerprints, clean. See dust on finish, brush with lambs-wool duster. At end of day, wax and polish.
As I back out of my parking space, I notice that the front wheel leaves a tire track and I realize it’s because last evening in the darkness, I parked right in the middle of a giant grease slick — the accumulated engine
droppings of countless cars parked in that same parking space! So now my front wheel is covered with oil! Even as I gently apply the front brake to stop my backwards progress, it slides! And as soon as I move forward, my
rear wheel will also covered with oil, having picked up the oil track the front wheel has graciously laid down. The pavement is dry, but even so, I am more than extraordinarily careful as I ease out of the parking lot, onto
the street, and navigate to the on-ramp of northbound I-81. I imagine that in a few miles the oil is off the tires, but I’m very cautious for quite a few miles before leaning into any corners or lane changes.
I stop for fuel within the first 40 miles. Solo Guy doesn’t always fuel up when he starts the day unless it’s with a group or an Ironbutt timed run. It’s still 62F and I’ve been riding with my rain suit open at the top to
keep cool. After fueling I run to the men’s rest room. There’s a sign that says “No key required. If the door is locked, someone is inside.” I knock on the door and get no response, so I push the door open and walk inside,
and am startled to find someone already there. Then I realize that he is more startled than I, because I’m wearing my full rain gear and haven’t removed my helmet. To an unsuspecting men’s bathroom user, I must look like someone from outer space!
The rain starts in earnest 120 miles into Virginia on I-81. It’s heavy, sustained, and unabated. I’d forgotten to treat my Tulsa windshield at the first fuel stop; the accumulated pounding of falling rain and road spray from 300 miles of Interstate travel has taken its tolland the windshield isn’t clearing as well as I’d like. Nevertheless, I’m able to ride at speed and decide to wait until the next fuel stop to re-apply the “210” windshield polish I routinely use on my windshield.
Now I’m glad I added the extra layer of my jacket liner, as the temperature drops to 45F and stays there for the duration of the trip. I’m warm and dry as I ride out the miles toward home. My hands are a little chilly, though. I use SealSkinz gloves (http://www.sealskinz.com), from a company that manufactures diving suits. These gloves are extremely competent wet-weather riding gloves, completely dry, with gripper dots on the palms and fingers to provide a great feel for the control surfaces on the handlebars. However, they do not offer much insulation and they have an outer layer that is, ironically enough, water-absorbent, which leads to additional heat loss by evaporation. It’s the only negative I’ve found in these otherwise spectacular gloves: They don’t provide much heat retention at 50F or below in rain.
I run north on I-81 in moderate to heavy rain to Mile Marker 300, where I-66 splits off for what is usually my last 50-mile leg on a homeward journey. One benefit of the rain is that the Shenandoah Valley, which only 5 days ago
reeked with the stench of manure spread onto the fields, now has only faint vestiges of that odor. At one point on I-66, always the coldest spot in the area, the temperature drops to 39F. I would not be dressed for sustained riding in this temperature! The rain finally stops about 18 miles from home and I finish the ride on wet pavement but without rain.
I’ve ridden 370 miles today, most of it in rain. About 600 miles of rain in the last two days, in fact. I don’t mind riding in rain but it’s never as relaxing as a sunny day: You have only one chance to get it right on a motorcycle, and a moment’s lapse or a moment’s misjudgment can have disastrous consequences. The vinyl rain cover for the passenger backrest has blown off somewhere on I-66 so I’ll have to see about ordering a new one. I had checked the antifreeze level at Kevin’s house in Mississippi, and while it was down a little, the level was ok. I’ll top it off before the next trip.
And who knew, when fighting 95-degree temperatures on I-20 down there in Mississippi, that I’d be riding in 40-degree temperatures several days later! If there’s a lesson to be learned here, it’s that I had no lessons learned. I was prepared with multiple layers of clothing and rain gear. If I came close to the edge of comfort for riding in the weather I encountered, it was the gloves. For sustained riding in temperatures below 50F, I would take a heavier pair of gloves and my old Aerostich “lobster-claw” gauntlets, which are three-fingered waterproof gauntlets that will fit over a heavier
glove and do an admirable job in keeping the hands warm and dry. SealSkinz gloves are unsurpassed in dexterity and operation of control surfaces, but the lobster-claws can offer comfortable wet-weather riding in a much wider range of temperatures.
I pull into the driveway and Kitty runs out to greet me. “I’ve been a little troubled, leaving you alone on Mother’s Day,” I say.
“It’s ok,” she says. “I’m just glad you could see your friends and spend a little time with our family.” She has a hot cup of Gevalia coffee waiting.
I pull the bike into the garage without cleaning it.
In Nova Scotia a couple years ago, in a delightful rustic out-of-the-way inn called the Shipwright Inn, Kitty and I saw a sign that eventually became the title of that trip: “Together is the Best Place to Be.” It resonates with
us. Solo Guy enjoys his time and space, and revels in the opportunity to do a ride where he can do just as he pleases. But at the end of the trip, at the end of the day, at the end of anything, I always want to come home to
Kitty.
“Together” works better for me than anything!
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Copyright(c) 2010, Jim Beachy
I check the Weather Channel and see that there will be no escaping the rain for me on this day. Here in Kingsport, Tennessee, it’s 62F now, and I reflect on how to dress for the day’s ride. I’m wearing just a T-shirt
(well, not just a T-shirt!), and with the rain gear, I often add only one layer: An old sweatshirt that always travels with me in the right-hand saddlebag. Kitty always laughs when I wear this thing and won’t let me wear it in public because we got it probably 20 years ago in Ocean City, Maryland during a cold snap in August; it has something like a big square target on the back. In addition to the sweatshirt, if the weather is chilly, I also take out the jacket liner from my leather jacket and put it on under the sweatshirt, thus adding another layer of effective insulation. I imagine the weather will get cooler as I ride into the rain, so I add the insulated jacket liner and the sweatshirt even though I’m instantly too warm.
I chat with Blair and Blair and learn that they are heading for Memphis today and have likewise decided to dress in their rain gear even though it’s not raining at the moment here.
I have not cleaned the bike so it is adorned with filthy water spots from yesterday’s ride. I fight my instinct to clean them off. It’s like a Pavlovian response to me: See water spots, clean. See fingerprints, clean. See dust on finish, brush with lambs-wool duster. At end of day, wax and polish.
As I back out of my parking space, I notice that the front wheel leaves a tire track and I realize it’s because last evening in the darkness, I parked right in the middle of a giant grease slick — the accumulated engine
droppings of countless cars parked in that same parking space! So now my front wheel is covered with oil! Even as I gently apply the front brake to stop my backwards progress, it slides! And as soon as I move forward, my
rear wheel will also covered with oil, having picked up the oil track the front wheel has graciously laid down. The pavement is dry, but even so, I am more than extraordinarily careful as I ease out of the parking lot, onto
the street, and navigate to the on-ramp of northbound I-81. I imagine that in a few miles the oil is off the tires, but I’m very cautious for quite a few miles before leaning into any corners or lane changes.
I stop for fuel within the first 40 miles. Solo Guy doesn’t always fuel up when he starts the day unless it’s with a group or an Ironbutt timed run. It’s still 62F and I’ve been riding with my rain suit open at the top to
keep cool. After fueling I run to the men’s rest room. There’s a sign that says “No key required. If the door is locked, someone is inside.” I knock on the door and get no response, so I push the door open and walk inside,
and am startled to find someone already there. Then I realize that he is more startled than I, because I’m wearing my full rain gear and haven’t removed my helmet. To an unsuspecting men’s bathroom user, I must look like someone from outer space!
The rain starts in earnest 120 miles into Virginia on I-81. It’s heavy, sustained, and unabated. I’d forgotten to treat my Tulsa windshield at the first fuel stop; the accumulated pounding of falling rain and road spray from 300 miles of Interstate travel has taken its tolland the windshield isn’t clearing as well as I’d like. Nevertheless, I’m able to ride at speed and decide to wait until the next fuel stop to re-apply the “210” windshield polish I routinely use on my windshield.
Now I’m glad I added the extra layer of my jacket liner, as the temperature drops to 45F and stays there for the duration of the trip. I’m warm and dry as I ride out the miles toward home. My hands are a little chilly, though. I use SealSkinz gloves (http://www.sealskinz.com), from a company that manufactures diving suits. These gloves are extremely competent wet-weather riding gloves, completely dry, with gripper dots on the palms and fingers to provide a great feel for the control surfaces on the handlebars. However, they do not offer much insulation and they have an outer layer that is, ironically enough, water-absorbent, which leads to additional heat loss by evaporation. It’s the only negative I’ve found in these otherwise spectacular gloves: They don’t provide much heat retention at 50F or below in rain.
I run north on I-81 in moderate to heavy rain to Mile Marker 300, where I-66 splits off for what is usually my last 50-mile leg on a homeward journey. One benefit of the rain is that the Shenandoah Valley, which only 5 days ago
reeked with the stench of manure spread onto the fields, now has only faint vestiges of that odor. At one point on I-66, always the coldest spot in the area, the temperature drops to 39F. I would not be dressed for sustained riding in this temperature! The rain finally stops about 18 miles from home and I finish the ride on wet pavement but without rain.
I’ve ridden 370 miles today, most of it in rain. About 600 miles of rain in the last two days, in fact. I don’t mind riding in rain but it’s never as relaxing as a sunny day: You have only one chance to get it right on a motorcycle, and a moment’s lapse or a moment’s misjudgment can have disastrous consequences. The vinyl rain cover for the passenger backrest has blown off somewhere on I-66 so I’ll have to see about ordering a new one. I had checked the antifreeze level at Kevin’s house in Mississippi, and while it was down a little, the level was ok. I’ll top it off before the next trip.
And who knew, when fighting 95-degree temperatures on I-20 down there in Mississippi, that I’d be riding in 40-degree temperatures several days later! If there’s a lesson to be learned here, it’s that I had no lessons learned. I was prepared with multiple layers of clothing and rain gear. If I came close to the edge of comfort for riding in the weather I encountered, it was the gloves. For sustained riding in temperatures below 50F, I would take a heavier pair of gloves and my old Aerostich “lobster-claw” gauntlets, which are three-fingered waterproof gauntlets that will fit over a heavier
glove and do an admirable job in keeping the hands warm and dry. SealSkinz gloves are unsurpassed in dexterity and operation of control surfaces, but the lobster-claws can offer comfortable wet-weather riding in a much wider range of temperatures.
I pull into the driveway and Kitty runs out to greet me. “I’ve been a little troubled, leaving you alone on Mother’s Day,” I say.
“It’s ok,” she says. “I’m just glad you could see your friends and spend a little time with our family.” She has a hot cup of Gevalia coffee waiting.
I pull the bike into the garage without cleaning it.
In Nova Scotia a couple years ago, in a delightful rustic out-of-the-way inn called the Shipwright Inn, Kitty and I saw a sign that eventually became the title of that trip: “Together is the Best Place to Be.” It resonates with
us. Solo Guy enjoys his time and space, and revels in the opportunity to do a ride where he can do just as he pleases. But at the end of the trip, at the end of the day, at the end of anything, I always want to come home to
Kitty.
“Together” works better for me than anything!
Crawfish Caper, Day 5
Rainy Days and Mondays
Monday, May 10, 2010
Copyright(c) 2010, Jim Beachy
Goodbyes are the hardest. But shortly before 9:00 AM, I am saying goodbye to my Mississippi family and with a wave and a little toot on the horn, ride slowly away. Away from the hugs of my grandbabies (they’re not really babies anymore, it just seems good for a grandpa to call them that) and the family. Off toward home, which is one of my other most favorite places to be, and toward Kitty, who’s my most favorite person to be with.
I’d taken a quick look at the Weather Channel and it doesn’t look like I can outrun the large weather pattern that has spawned giant red splotches on the Oklahoma map and extends eastward across the country. The severe weather won’t reach me today, but rain appears inevitable.
But for now, it’s a beautiful and sunny cool morning as I head up Rt. 49, fuel within the first 60 miles, and pick up I-55 at Meridian. By that time I’m under a light cloud cover. At the Alabama line, rain spits onto my windshield and there’s evidence of recent rain, but I at 250 miles an my second fuel stop at 12:30, I haven’t hit any rain although I’m under heavy overcast skies. I check the GPS: 67.5 mph trip average. This is Ironbutt territory, where 62.5 mph is required to ride 1,500 miles in 24 hours. I am feeling great, and Solo Guy is thinking he might want to ride the thousand-plus miles home in one stretch.
It’s gotten steadily cooler as I ride deeper into the large weather pattern and I’ve been closing vents and opening heat vents. Now, at about 60F, I switch to a slightly heavier summer pair of gloves and add the jacket liner.
I hit real rain at 2:00 PM, 330 miles into the trip, between Birmingham and Gadsden, Alabama. So I do the Dance of the One-Piece Motoport Rainsuit. I have waterproof Cruiserworks riding boots, so no change-out necessary there, and I don my SealSkinz rain gloves. In a rare moment of lucidity, I remember to keep my key out of my jeans pocket before zipping up.
For the next 85 miles the rain is steady and sometimes heavy. During the heavy stretches, I switch off cruise control as I always do when there may be standing water on the road. Motorcycle tires by nature are not prone to hydroplaning as a car tire might in heavy water but there have still been reports of cruise control sensors gone wild if the front wheel (which generates the sensor pulses) breaks free of pavement contact, making the cruise control brain think it needs to speed up. So just when you want to be slowing down, your cruise control is speeding you up!
The rain continues unabated through Georgia, Chattanooga, and Knoxville as I pick up the routes eventually leading to I-81 north. Even with the rain, Solo Guy is feeling the Long Road and wants to ride the rest of the way home. I’ve lost an hour and would arrive at about 2:00 AM. This has been one of my best riding days ever. I am startled when I check the elapsed time on the GPS and find I’ve been riding for over eight hours. I feel like I just started. I haven’t listened to the radio or any music. I’ve thinking about my family and the ties that keep us together when we’re apart.
By dusk, I switch on a radio station to check the weather reports. I haven’t checked WeatherBug on my BlackBerry. It’s still raining, although I seem to riding out of the worst of it. But unless it’s necessary, I prefer not to ride in rain at night. Tonight it isn’t necessary, so eventually I make a reluctant stop in Kingsport, Tennessee after 655 miles. It has been a spectacular riding day and I’m finding it really hard to stop. This whole day was just a unique Solo Guy groove! I never felt tired, never felt the need to take a break. Fuel stops were made only because they are necessary. Rainy days and Mondays have no effect on Solo Guy!
At the hotel I meet two bikers whose names turn out to be Blair and Blair, doing something like a 32-day memorial ride tour. They write a blog about their adventures at http://www.goodrides.webs.com/.
I check the Weather Channel in the hotel and decide tomorrow will be more of the same. In a rare concession to reality, I cover the bike but don’t bother cleaning it.
Tomorrow’s ride home awaits!
Monday, May 10, 2010
Copyright(c) 2010, Jim Beachy
Goodbyes are the hardest. But shortly before 9:00 AM, I am saying goodbye to my Mississippi family and with a wave and a little toot on the horn, ride slowly away. Away from the hugs of my grandbabies (they’re not really babies anymore, it just seems good for a grandpa to call them that) and the family. Off toward home, which is one of my other most favorite places to be, and toward Kitty, who’s my most favorite person to be with.
I’d taken a quick look at the Weather Channel and it doesn’t look like I can outrun the large weather pattern that has spawned giant red splotches on the Oklahoma map and extends eastward across the country. The severe weather won’t reach me today, but rain appears inevitable.
But for now, it’s a beautiful and sunny cool morning as I head up Rt. 49, fuel within the first 60 miles, and pick up I-55 at Meridian. By that time I’m under a light cloud cover. At the Alabama line, rain spits onto my windshield and there’s evidence of recent rain, but I at 250 miles an my second fuel stop at 12:30, I haven’t hit any rain although I’m under heavy overcast skies. I check the GPS: 67.5 mph trip average. This is Ironbutt territory, where 62.5 mph is required to ride 1,500 miles in 24 hours. I am feeling great, and Solo Guy is thinking he might want to ride the thousand-plus miles home in one stretch.
It’s gotten steadily cooler as I ride deeper into the large weather pattern and I’ve been closing vents and opening heat vents. Now, at about 60F, I switch to a slightly heavier summer pair of gloves and add the jacket liner.
I hit real rain at 2:00 PM, 330 miles into the trip, between Birmingham and Gadsden, Alabama. So I do the Dance of the One-Piece Motoport Rainsuit. I have waterproof Cruiserworks riding boots, so no change-out necessary there, and I don my SealSkinz rain gloves. In a rare moment of lucidity, I remember to keep my key out of my jeans pocket before zipping up.
For the next 85 miles the rain is steady and sometimes heavy. During the heavy stretches, I switch off cruise control as I always do when there may be standing water on the road. Motorcycle tires by nature are not prone to hydroplaning as a car tire might in heavy water but there have still been reports of cruise control sensors gone wild if the front wheel (which generates the sensor pulses) breaks free of pavement contact, making the cruise control brain think it needs to speed up. So just when you want to be slowing down, your cruise control is speeding you up!
The rain continues unabated through Georgia, Chattanooga, and Knoxville as I pick up the routes eventually leading to I-81 north. Even with the rain, Solo Guy is feeling the Long Road and wants to ride the rest of the way home. I’ve lost an hour and would arrive at about 2:00 AM. This has been one of my best riding days ever. I am startled when I check the elapsed time on the GPS and find I’ve been riding for over eight hours. I feel like I just started. I haven’t listened to the radio or any music. I’ve thinking about my family and the ties that keep us together when we’re apart.
By dusk, I switch on a radio station to check the weather reports. I haven’t checked WeatherBug on my BlackBerry. It’s still raining, although I seem to riding out of the worst of it. But unless it’s necessary, I prefer not to ride in rain at night. Tonight it isn’t necessary, so eventually I make a reluctant stop in Kingsport, Tennessee after 655 miles. It has been a spectacular riding day and I’m finding it really hard to stop. This whole day was just a unique Solo Guy groove! I never felt tired, never felt the need to take a break. Fuel stops were made only because they are necessary. Rainy days and Mondays have no effect on Solo Guy!
At the hotel I meet two bikers whose names turn out to be Blair and Blair, doing something like a 32-day memorial ride tour. They write a blog about their adventures at http://www.goodrides.webs.com/.
I check the Weather Channel in the hotel and decide tomorrow will be more of the same. In a rare concession to reality, I cover the bike but don’t bother cleaning it.
Tomorrow’s ride home awaits!
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Crawfish Caper, Day 4
Twenty-Nine Point Five
Sunday, May 09, 2010
Copyright(c) 2010, Jim Beachy
After getting out of bed this morning, I carefully replace the large fuzzy yellow stuffed animal I’d found sleeping there last night. I’m not sure what he did in the hours he was deposed from the bed, but I imagine my creative granddaughter will have plans for him later.
I’m still trying to find normalcy in being a thousand miles from Kitty on Mother’s Day, but she had really encouraged me to do this ride, and we exchange several text messages during the morning.
Since Kevin is the pastor of their church, he usually goes to work early on Sunday morning. Kristal and the kids go later. I could ride in the van with them, but decide that since I came on the bike, to church I’ll go on the bike. I’m dressed in riding boots and jeans but that seems to be a normal look at this church. I enjoy the chance to once again meet my Harley-Davidson-riding friend James and the team at church.
Afterwards, all the mothers get to choose a long-stemmed rose from a giant vase in the front of the sanctuary. Kristal holds out one of the red roses while I take a picture and send it to Kitty. Is it really the thought that counts?
After a Mother’s Day lunch at the Back Bay Seafood Restaurant in Gulfport, we head back to the house in our three different vehicles. The remainder of the day passes in a lazy nap, talking to Kitty, calling my own mother, chasing kids around the yard, and bedtime stories.
My GPS says I’ve traveled 29.5 miles on my Gold Wing today, but the memories of this day are a priceless treasure. It reminds me that while Solo Guy may often rack up well over 1,000 miles in a day, when you’re a grandpa, 29.5 can be exactly the right number.
Sunday, May 09, 2010
Copyright(c) 2010, Jim Beachy
After getting out of bed this morning, I carefully replace the large fuzzy yellow stuffed animal I’d found sleeping there last night. I’m not sure what he did in the hours he was deposed from the bed, but I imagine my creative granddaughter will have plans for him later.
I’m still trying to find normalcy in being a thousand miles from Kitty on Mother’s Day, but she had really encouraged me to do this ride, and we exchange several text messages during the morning.
Since Kevin is the pastor of their church, he usually goes to work early on Sunday morning. Kristal and the kids go later. I could ride in the van with them, but decide that since I came on the bike, to church I’ll go on the bike. I’m dressed in riding boots and jeans but that seems to be a normal look at this church. I enjoy the chance to once again meet my Harley-Davidson-riding friend James and the team at church.
Afterwards, all the mothers get to choose a long-stemmed rose from a giant vase in the front of the sanctuary. Kristal holds out one of the red roses while I take a picture and send it to Kitty. Is it really the thought that counts?
After a Mother’s Day lunch at the Back Bay Seafood Restaurant in Gulfport, we head back to the house in our three different vehicles. The remainder of the day passes in a lazy nap, talking to Kitty, calling my own mother, chasing kids around the yard, and bedtime stories.
My GPS says I’ve traveled 29.5 miles on my Gold Wing today, but the memories of this day are a priceless treasure. It reminds me that while Solo Guy may often rack up well over 1,000 miles in a day, when you’re a grandpa, 29.5 can be exactly the right number.
Crawfish Caper, Day 3
Metamorphosis
Saturday, May 08, 2010
Copyright(c) 2010, Jim Beachy
Overnight a strong weather front with torrential but short-lived downpours moved through the Vicksburg area, leaving behind a beautiful crisp day with temperatures in the 70’s, perfect for a ride. Most of the riders are out drying off their rain covers, some draped across the second-story balcony railings, flapping in the breeze like giant flags of questionable origin.
We are to form up at 9:00 AM for the group ride today. After a leisurely breakfast, my bike cover has dried but several towels are soaked, so I stow them as best I can. The cover generally protects the entire bike but it is not waterproof, so in a heavy rain some water always soaks in the cloth covered seat. I climb onto the seat to move the bike to a place in line, and immediately my entire rear end and inside of my thighs are soaked.
I move my Wing into line and dismount. Jack Sides, apparently seeing my soaking wet behind, walks over and says, “Beachy! How many years have you had that cloth seat? And how many times have you had to dry it after an overnight rain? Can’t take you anywhere without Kitty!”
As the bikes are starting up, I suddenly notice a couple teaspoons of antifreeze on the pavement under my bike! I quickly look at where it was parked overnight and that area is dry. If there were a problem I’d expect to see some drips there, too. I poke my head under the bike and there’s nothing dripping, no evidence of a leak. I conclude it’s a “Gold Wing hiccup”, which has plagued my Wing for a long time in spite of being checked over by several bike shops. Sometimes when the engine is started and runs only for a short time, like this morning, it spews out some antifreeze through the overflow hose. No-one has been able to describe what causes this. I’m pretty confident this is what I’m looking at, so I mount up and ride off with the group. I will check the antifreeze level when I can, but there’s no evidence of a problem.
There are several dozen motorcycles, most of them Gold Wings. I’veobserved that my bike and Woodie’s trike are the only 1500’s in the group. J.R. has a bike of, well, various vintages since it seems to be composite of many bikes, but it’s a 1000cc Wing. Otherwise, all the Gold Wings are 1800’s. How times have changed since the Alamo Run when the first 1800 showed up!
There’s always a bit of apprehension riding in a large group of unfamiliar riders. But this group seems well-mannered and steady. Ricky, whose last name I didn’t catch, is from the local Gold Wing Road Riders Association chapter and is a great leader, holding a brisk but manageable pace. I never do find out who the tail gunner is, but he’s likewise excellent: Every CB transmission is clear, measured, authoritative, and concise. Tail gunner, if you’re out there reading this, congratulations on a great job!
We ride roughly southward from Vicksburg but the track captured by my GPS is a winding back-country route that crosses the Natchez Trace three times. Mostly we pass through heavily wooded areas where canopies of live oak trees are draped with Spanish moss. The occasional vine loops down from the trees as though to snare the unsuspecting biker, but fortunately these are all on the left side of the road and don’t interfere with our leisurely journey.
I am the 12th bike in line, roughly in the middle of the pack. On these roads, with this many riders, counting bikes in the mirrors is not a wise idea and so I wait until the first stop to count. There are 23. We lost one who, to a bit of concern, suddenly went AWOL without any CB announcement and didn’t make one of the turnoffs. He couldn’t have missed it, as all the bikes were bunched together. At last check, no-one knows why he bailed out.Our first stop is Grand Gulf Military Park, on the hilly banks of the Mississippi River, where there were fought some notable battles between Union and Confederate troops. There’s no cell phone service but I check my messages and there’s one from Kitty. She’s gotten my Mother’s Day card! On the first day, I stopped in town in Virginia to find a card shop and a post office. I was not able to mention this fact prior to this because with Kitty’s newfound Internet awareness, she’s reading my daily blog too so I couldn’t tip her off! Glad it got there on time.
After poking around for an hour or more, including a brief stop for some to climb the lookout tower, we retrace our track back out to Rt. 61 and head south through the town of Lorman for lunch.
The “Old Country Restaurant” is a place you would need to know about to stop there. It’s a very unassuming place. But folks around here apparently do know about it, as there are several groups of bikers and quite a few cars in the parking lot. This is a unique throw-back to an earlier time where one establish
ment served all the functions of a small town. On the walls are thousands upon thousands of business cards, some so old and brown that I wonder if they would crumble if I touch them. There are decades-old advertising billboards for products that I haven’t the slightest knowledge of. The restaurant is a buffet featuring chicken and beef ribs. The owner is Arthur Fine, and at one point he comes out and explains the history of the building and his purchase of it. He’s a graceful African-American man who then proceeds to entertain us with several heartfelt a cappella songs in the American Negro style. He gets a large round of applause when he’s finished. This is a place that deserves a waypoint in my GPS, and I mark it when we walk outside. I’ll be back!
My intention for this trip from the beginning has been to split off from the group sometime today and ride the 200-plus miles to Gulfport, Mississippi to spend a bit of time with our family there. I just couldn’t be this close without seeing them! So after lunch, this feels like the time and place. “I’m metamorphosing from a biker into a grandpa!” I tell several people. And suddenly, as if from nowhere, tears come to my eyes and Marlene gives me a sustained hug. She says something like “That’s a good thing, you go and be a grandpa!”
And so while dozens of bikes head north toward more country roads and the hotel, one black Wing heads south. I follow the GPS-generated route and end up running Rt. 98 to Mccomb, Mississippi, and then on to I-55 south, where I pick up I-12 east. 209 miles pass and I arrive at Kevin’s house to be greeted by grandkids screaming with joy.
And so the metamorphosis is complete. It is a little disconcerting to be here without Kitty.
But tonight, I’m just a
grandpa.
Saturday, May 08, 2010
Copyright(c) 2010, Jim Beachy
Overnight a strong weather front with torrential but short-lived downpours moved through the Vicksburg area, leaving behind a beautiful crisp day with temperatures in the 70’s, perfect for a ride. Most of the riders are out drying off their rain covers, some draped across the second-story balcony railings, flapping in the breeze like giant flags of questionable origin.
We are to form up at 9:00 AM for the group ride today. After a leisurely breakfast, my bike cover has dried but several towels are soaked, so I stow them as best I can. The cover generally protects the entire bike but it is not waterproof, so in a heavy rain some water always soaks in the cloth covered seat. I climb onto the seat to move the bike to a place in line, and immediately my entire rear end and inside of my thighs are soaked.
I move my Wing into line and dismount. Jack Sides, apparently seeing my soaking wet behind, walks over and says, “Beachy! How many years have you had that cloth seat? And how many times have you had to dry it after an overnight rain? Can’t take you anywhere without Kitty!”
As the bikes are starting up, I suddenly notice a couple teaspoons of antifreeze on the pavement under my bike! I quickly look at where it was parked overnight and that area is dry. If there were a problem I’d expect to see some drips there, too. I poke my head under the bike and there’s nothing dripping, no evidence of a leak. I conclude it’s a “Gold Wing hiccup”, which has plagued my Wing for a long time in spite of being checked over by several bike shops. Sometimes when the engine is started and runs only for a short time, like this morning, it spews out some antifreeze through the overflow hose. No-one has been able to describe what causes this. I’m pretty confident this is what I’m looking at, so I mount up and ride off with the group. I will check the antifreeze level when I can, but there’s no evidence of a problem.
There are several dozen motorcycles, most of them Gold Wings. I’veobserved that my bike and Woodie’s trike are the only 1500’s in the group. J.R. has a bike of, well, various vintages since it seems to be composite of many bikes, but it’s a 1000cc Wing. Otherwise, all the Gold Wings are 1800’s. How times have changed since the Alamo Run when the first 1800 showed up! There’s always a bit of apprehension riding in a large group of unfamiliar riders. But this group seems well-mannered and steady. Ricky, whose last name I didn’t catch, is from the local Gold Wing Road Riders Association chapter and is a great leader, holding a brisk but manageable pace. I never do find out who the tail gunner is, but he’s likewise excellent: Every CB transmission is clear, measured, authoritative, and concise. Tail gunner, if you’re out there reading this, congratulations on a great job!
We ride roughly southward from Vicksburg but the track captured by my GPS is a winding back-country route that crosses the Natchez Trace three times. Mostly we pass through heavily wooded areas where canopies of live oak trees are draped with Spanish moss. The occasional vine loops down from the trees as though to snare the unsuspecting biker, but fortunately these are all on the left side of the road and don’t interfere with our leisurely journey.
I am the 12th bike in line, roughly in the middle of the pack. On these roads, with this many riders, counting bikes in the mirrors is not a wise idea and so I wait until the first stop to count. There are 23. We lost one who, to a bit of concern, suddenly went AWOL without any CB announcement and didn’t make one of the turnoffs. He couldn’t have missed it, as all the bikes were bunched together. At last check, no-one knows why he bailed out.Our first stop is Grand Gulf Military Park, on the hilly banks of the Mississippi River, where there were fought some notable battles between Union and Confederate troops. There’s no cell phone service but I check my messages and there’s one from Kitty. She’s gotten my Mother’s Day card! On the first day, I stopped in town in Virginia to find a card shop and a post office. I was not able to mention this fact prior to this because with Kitty’s newfound Internet awareness, she’s reading my daily blog too so I couldn’t tip her off! Glad it got there on time.
After poking around for an hour or more, including a brief stop for some to climb the lookout tower, we retrace our track back out to Rt. 61 and head south through the town of Lorman for lunch.
The “Old Country Restaurant” is a place you would need to know about to stop there. It’s a very unassuming place. But folks around here apparently do know about it, as there are several groups of bikers and quite a few cars in the parking lot. This is a unique throw-back to an earlier time where one establish
ment served all the functions of a small town. On the walls are thousands upon thousands of business cards, some so old and brown that I wonder if they would crumble if I touch them. There are decades-old advertising billboards for products that I haven’t the slightest knowledge of. The restaurant is a buffet featuring chicken and beef ribs. The owner is Arthur Fine, and at one point he comes out and explains the history of the building and his purchase of it. He’s a graceful African-American man who then proceeds to entertain us with several heartfelt a cappella songs in the American Negro style. He gets a large round of applause when he’s finished. This is a place that deserves a waypoint in my GPS, and I mark it when we walk outside. I’ll be back!
My intention for this trip from the beginning has been to split off from the group sometime today and ride the 200-plus miles to Gulfport, Mississippi to spend a bit of time with our family there. I just couldn’t be this close without seeing them! So after lunch, this feels like the time and place. “I’m metamorphosing from a biker into a grandpa!” I tell several people. And suddenly, as if from nowhere, tears come to my eyes and Marlene gives me a sustained hug. She says something like “That’s a good thing, you go and be a grandpa!”And so while dozens of bikes head north toward more country roads and the hotel, one black Wing heads south. I follow the GPS-generated route and end up running Rt. 98 to Mccomb, Mississippi, and then on to I-55 south, where I pick up I-12 east. 209 miles pass and I arrive at Kevin’s house to be greeted by grandkids screaming with joy.
And so the metamorphosis is complete. It is a little disconcerting to be here without Kitty.
But tonight, I’m just a
grandpa.Friday, May 7, 2010
Crawfish Caper, Day 2
Transitions and Mud Bugs
Friday, May 07, 2010
Copyright(c) 2010, Jim Beachy
No alarm clock is set for this morning. It’s just 260 miles to Vicksburg, about a four-hour ride, so I plan to sleep in. That plan fails when I wake up at 6:30 local time because I suppose my body clock thinks it’s already 7:30 and refuses to let me go back to sleep. I putter around and finally roll out at about 9:00 AM, another beautiful southern spring day in my windscreen.
Yesterday I listened to music almost the whole day, interspersed with the big-truck CB chatter. I don’t usually talk a lot on CB when riding alone but occasionally a trucker will strike up a conversation that lasts for many miles. This drives Kitty crazy: When playing music, the incoming CB transmission will mute the music passage, and then the music resumes as soon as the CB reception is over. Then when I respond, the same thing happens, and sometimes Kitty can’t tell if I’m talking to her or talking on CB. So her headset is filled with a confusing barrage of music, incoming CB transmissions, and my outgoing CB transmissions. I’ve learned not to mix music and CB when riding two-up! But Solo Guy has none of these constraints, and yesterday I happily listened all day to music and CB chatter.
But this morning, for no particular reason, I just want silence, so I turn off the CB and the radio and listen to the wind whispering around my big Tulsa windshield and my aerodynamic Shoei helmet. The morning is suffused by a pleasant, heavy, sweet smell that seems to emanate from a white-flowered shrub that grows along the Interstate banks. This pleasant aroma accompanies me all the way to Vicksburg while the medial strip and roadsides are sometimes covered in carpets of purple or white flowers.
I reflect on the crawfish feast planned for tonight. The last time I had crawfish I ordered them very hot then got back to the hotel and realized I had to remove my contacts. After repeated hand washings I finally dared to touch my eye and it was instant fire, unrelenting, that lasted about three minutes before subsiding. I then had to repeat this for the other eye! I wonder how that will work this evening. I always pack my eyeglasses but it’s very hard to get them on under the helmet, so I virtually always wear contacts while riding.
And thinking of crawfish reminds me that they are often called “mud bugs” in the South, and this in turn reminds me of one of our two-up motorcycle trips, coming home from the Alamo Run in San Antonio, where we explored the southern coast and bayous of Louisiana. We took a little bayou cruise with Cajun Man, whose real name is Ron Guidry, having retired from a career in Special Ops Armed Forces and the Louisiana State Highway Patrol. He gave us a tape and a CD of his music, and it has had a lasting impact on my understanding of the Cajun culture. His songs speak of trapping muskrats, paddling a pirogue on the bayou late at night, eating jambalaya and crawfish pie, working hard and playing hard, and methods of hunting rabbits that are, as he explains, “illegal in all parts of the world with the exception of extreme southern Louisiana, where, if you are hungry, anything is legal.” One of his captivating songs describes a plain down-home restaurant where all they have on the menu is “crawfish – crawdads – mud bugs and other things.” He describes high-class people wearing suits and diamond rings sitting in this joint eating “crawfish – crawdads – mud bugs and other things.” I wonder how Toney’s, tonight’s restaurant, might compare to this dive!
Solo Guy has no preconceived notion of whether his world should be silent or raucous. Both work at different times. So I break my cone of wind-whispered silence and cycle twice through the rough-cut Cajun music of Cajun Man. In a strange way I now feel more prepared to eat crawfish tonight. I doubt that Vicksburg is much like extreme southern Louisiana in many regards but I hope the mud bugs are the same!In the 261 miles to the hotel in Vicksburg, I make one 7-minute fuel stop and average 70.4 miles per hour according to the GPS. I arrive at about 1:00 PM and see several Gold Wings in the parking lot. I presume most of the group is out for a ride somewhere.
I’m greeted by my old friend Rick “Skippy” Melling, and suddenly Solo Guy is in an awkward state of transition. Solo Guy practices few social graces and actually needs even fewer, and suddenly I’m struggling to switch environments and become Normal Guy, who actually talks and listens to people! Soon enough dozens of Gold Wings show up from their day trip and I’m talking to friends, some of whom I haven’t seen in years, and meeting new people as well. Gordo and Gibby and Roger and Marlene and Woodie and Gloria and Charlie and Bobbye and many others – it’s good to see all of them again. Almost everyone asks about Kitty, and in a text message exchange she mentions that maybe next year we can do a longer ride and she could come too.
Of course someone quickly points out that it was Gordo who sucked the diesel fuel out of my Gold Wing’s tank on that hillside a mile out of Leakey, Texas. Yes, I will forever be known as Diesel Boi to this crowd after that misadventure! And in my garage, on my Wall of Shame, I still have the gas can they made me ignominiously carry home with me from Texas!All the bikes and one car, maybe 40 or more, form up at 6:00 PM for the short ride to Toney’s Restaurant. It’s not a dive – the dining room looks nice. But the back room, where we are taken, now this is a no-frills crawfish-eating place! They do have a menu but most of us opt for all-you-can-eat mud bugs. The loud crowd numbers, to my count, about 55 people. It’s been a while since I’ve eaten crawfish and I find I’ve lost the knack.
Gordo shows me how to twist the tail away from the body, and then lacerate the back end of the tail with a thumbnail to easily extract the meat. “So you can do more than suck diesel fuel out of a tank!” I tell him.
“I’ll have to update my resume when I get home.”
I eat four heaping plates plus one non-heaping plate of these steaming succulent mud bugs, and then I’m done. I can eat no more. Wow, I wish we had these things in Virginia! I decide it is worth riding a thousand miles to eat them!
Back at the hotel, everyone chats and mingles in the parking lot. Roger Riley distributes necklaces with little crawfish attached. My transition to Normal Guy seems to have gone well. It’s good to see my old friends, some of whom have shared thousands of miles of riding with me.
I haven’t removed my contact lenses, so when I get to my room I carefully wash my hands several times and try to clean under the fingernails to remove all traces of the cooking spices. When I remove the lenses, there’s only a minor burning for a second. I must be getting better at this!Tomorrow there’s a planned ride activity, from which I will peel off sometime, or maybe wait until we arrive back at the hotel, and slide on over Gulfport to spend a bit of time with our son and family, who now live there. Being within 200 miles of Gulfport, I just can’t let the opportunity pass.
They tell me the ride leaves at 9:00 AM sharp, although nobody seems to know where we’re going. That pretty much works for me. I plan to be ready.
Friday, May 07, 2010
Copyright(c) 2010, Jim Beachy
No alarm clock is set for this morning. It’s just 260 miles to Vicksburg, about a four-hour ride, so I plan to sleep in. That plan fails when I wake up at 6:30 local time because I suppose my body clock thinks it’s already 7:30 and refuses to let me go back to sleep. I putter around and finally roll out at about 9:00 AM, another beautiful southern spring day in my windscreen.
Yesterday I listened to music almost the whole day, interspersed with the big-truck CB chatter. I don’t usually talk a lot on CB when riding alone but occasionally a trucker will strike up a conversation that lasts for many miles. This drives Kitty crazy: When playing music, the incoming CB transmission will mute the music passage, and then the music resumes as soon as the CB reception is over. Then when I respond, the same thing happens, and sometimes Kitty can’t tell if I’m talking to her or talking on CB. So her headset is filled with a confusing barrage of music, incoming CB transmissions, and my outgoing CB transmissions. I’ve learned not to mix music and CB when riding two-up! But Solo Guy has none of these constraints, and yesterday I happily listened all day to music and CB chatter.
But this morning, for no particular reason, I just want silence, so I turn off the CB and the radio and listen to the wind whispering around my big Tulsa windshield and my aerodynamic Shoei helmet. The morning is suffused by a pleasant, heavy, sweet smell that seems to emanate from a white-flowered shrub that grows along the Interstate banks. This pleasant aroma accompanies me all the way to Vicksburg while the medial strip and roadsides are sometimes covered in carpets of purple or white flowers.
I reflect on the crawfish feast planned for tonight. The last time I had crawfish I ordered them very hot then got back to the hotel and realized I had to remove my contacts. After repeated hand washings I finally dared to touch my eye and it was instant fire, unrelenting, that lasted about three minutes before subsiding. I then had to repeat this for the other eye! I wonder how that will work this evening. I always pack my eyeglasses but it’s very hard to get them on under the helmet, so I virtually always wear contacts while riding.
And thinking of crawfish reminds me that they are often called “mud bugs” in the South, and this in turn reminds me of one of our two-up motorcycle trips, coming home from the Alamo Run in San Antonio, where we explored the southern coast and bayous of Louisiana. We took a little bayou cruise with Cajun Man, whose real name is Ron Guidry, having retired from a career in Special Ops Armed Forces and the Louisiana State Highway Patrol. He gave us a tape and a CD of his music, and it has had a lasting impact on my understanding of the Cajun culture. His songs speak of trapping muskrats, paddling a pirogue on the bayou late at night, eating jambalaya and crawfish pie, working hard and playing hard, and methods of hunting rabbits that are, as he explains, “illegal in all parts of the world with the exception of extreme southern Louisiana, where, if you are hungry, anything is legal.” One of his captivating songs describes a plain down-home restaurant where all they have on the menu is “crawfish – crawdads – mud bugs and other things.” He describes high-class people wearing suits and diamond rings sitting in this joint eating “crawfish – crawdads – mud bugs and other things.” I wonder how Toney’s, tonight’s restaurant, might compare to this dive!
Solo Guy has no preconceived notion of whether his world should be silent or raucous. Both work at different times. So I break my cone of wind-whispered silence and cycle twice through the rough-cut Cajun music of Cajun Man. In a strange way I now feel more prepared to eat crawfish tonight. I doubt that Vicksburg is much like extreme southern Louisiana in many regards but I hope the mud bugs are the same!In the 261 miles to the hotel in Vicksburg, I make one 7-minute fuel stop and average 70.4 miles per hour according to the GPS. I arrive at about 1:00 PM and see several Gold Wings in the parking lot. I presume most of the group is out for a ride somewhere.
I’m greeted by my old friend Rick “Skippy” Melling, and suddenly Solo Guy is in an awkward state of transition. Solo Guy practices few social graces and actually needs even fewer, and suddenly I’m struggling to switch environments and become Normal Guy, who actually talks and listens to people! Soon enough dozens of Gold Wings show up from their day trip and I’m talking to friends, some of whom I haven’t seen in years, and meeting new people as well. Gordo and Gibby and Roger and Marlene and Woodie and Gloria and Charlie and Bobbye and many others – it’s good to see all of them again. Almost everyone asks about Kitty, and in a text message exchange she mentions that maybe next year we can do a longer ride and she could come too.
Of course someone quickly points out that it was Gordo who sucked the diesel fuel out of my Gold Wing’s tank on that hillside a mile out of Leakey, Texas. Yes, I will forever be known as Diesel Boi to this crowd after that misadventure! And in my garage, on my Wall of Shame, I still have the gas can they made me ignominiously carry home with me from Texas!All the bikes and one car, maybe 40 or more, form up at 6:00 PM for the short ride to Toney’s Restaurant. It’s not a dive – the dining room looks nice. But the back room, where we are taken, now this is a no-frills crawfish-eating place! They do have a menu but most of us opt for all-you-can-eat mud bugs. The loud crowd numbers, to my count, about 55 people. It’s been a while since I’ve eaten crawfish and I find I’ve lost the knack.
Gordo shows me how to twist the tail away from the body, and then lacerate the back end of the tail with a thumbnail to easily extract the meat. “So you can do more than suck diesel fuel out of a tank!” I tell him.“I’ll have to update my resume when I get home.”
I eat four heaping plates plus one non-heaping plate of these steaming succulent mud bugs, and then I’m done. I can eat no more. Wow, I wish we had these things in Virginia! I decide it is worth riding a thousand miles to eat them!
Back at the hotel, everyone chats and mingles in the parking lot. Roger Riley distributes necklaces with little crawfish attached. My transition to Normal Guy seems to have gone well. It’s good to see my old friends, some of whom have shared thousands of miles of riding with me.
I haven’t removed my contact lenses, so when I get to my room I carefully wash my hands several times and try to clean under the fingernails to remove all traces of the cooking spices. When I remove the lenses, there’s only a minor burning for a second. I must be getting better at this!Tomorrow there’s a planned ride activity, from which I will peel off sometime, or maybe wait until we arrive back at the hotel, and slide on over Gulfport to spend a bit of time with our son and family, who now live there. Being within 200 miles of Gulfport, I just can’t let the opportunity pass.
They tell me the ride leaves at 9:00 AM sharp, although nobody seems to know where we’re going. That pretty much works for me. I plan to be ready.
Crawfish Caper, Day 1
Magic Ribbon
Thursday, May 06, 2010
Copyright(c) 2010, Jim Beachy
BRAWCKK!!! BRAWCKK!!! BRAWCKK!!! BRAWCKK!!!
I cower in confused terror as the huge screeching bird of prey swoops down to carry me away into certain oblivion. But at the last instant… I reach out and turn off the alarm. It’s 5:00 AM, time to hit the Long Road! I haven’t attended a WOTI (Wings Over the Internet) function for quite some time, and I’ve been musing about this year’s iteration of the Mississippi Area Crawfish Hunt (MACH 2010), held in Vicksburg, Mississippi. Kitty has been gently encouraging me to take a long ride. I guess she knows when it’s time! Even on Mother’s Day weekend.
By 6:15 I’m heading west on I-66 in the 55-degree morning chill. The moon is a half-slice of California white pizza in an early-morning pale blue sky. I haven’t fueled before starting out so I find myself fueling less than 15 miles from home.
After that brief stop, the Long Road lies before me! It’s been a while since Solo Guy has manifested himself on my rides. He seems to emerge mostly on the Long Road, and he is here today. Solo Guy rides his own ride, eats when he is hungry, stops when he is tired, sleeps when he needs to, talks when he wants to, or not, and isn’t much into counting miles or milestones. Unlike TV’s Cheers jingle that says “Sometimes you wanna go where everybody knows your name,” Solo Guy revels in the fact that he can go where nobody knows his name! It’s just the Long Road and Solo Guy. I’ve described in other stories how Solo Guy is often mistaken for Lonely Guy, but even in this, he cares nothing for those perceptions.
As I head south on I-81, the early green of a Virginia springtime rolls into a blue haze in the distance. This seems to have been the week to clean out the chicken and livestock barns; the Shenandoah Valley reeks with the perfume of rotting manure spread liberally on many of the fields. It reminds me in a small way of the stench that Kitty and I encountered on last year’s ride to the Gaspe Peninsula. But that’s in a different story. Herds of black cows dot the fields, many accompanied by a frisky black calf, or “baby cow” as Kitty and I usually call them when traveling together. Kitty has a soft spot for all babies, and I presume she believes they are cuter if she calls them “baby cows.” For a moment I’m a little nostalgic to be traveling without Kitty, taking a quick inventory of the wonderful trips and the miles we ridden together, but Solo Guy re-asserts himself and I roll southward with a smile.
The morning warms slowly under a pristine sky, and over a period of hours I close the heat vents, open my jacket vents, open the fairing vents, and finally, the windshield vent, one by one. Still, it’s a pleasant 82 degrees.
I have found the sweet spot on the seat, hitting the groove, and I feel I could ride the entire day without stopping. I’m on a magic machine following a magic ribbon that appears just in time for me to ride over it, and slowly disappears behind me. Solo Guy is reluctant to stop, but each 200 miles I’m forced to stop for fuel.
Somewhere in Alabama later in the afternoon, between fuel stops, Solo Guy decides to take a break at a rest stop to drink some water. Solo Guy cares nothing for the concept of riding “tank-to-tank” without stopping though he often does that, about 200 miles each time. It’s very simple for Solo Guy: When he is thirsty, he stops to drink. Under a shaded area at the rest stop, I prepare to sit down on the grass with my back against a tree, and then notice that my walking has disturbed thousands of ants in dozens of tiny anthills. Resting against this tree suddenly seems a lot less inviting and I beat a hasty retreat.
The temperature has hovered in the low to mid nineties all afternoon, and I finally to have stow my jacket. I don’t like riding without my leather jacket, but I’m just getting too uncomfortable.
Having run through the northwest corner of Georgia, I’ve “gained” an hour in Alabama as I approach a potential stopping point 20 miles south of Birmingham. It’s relatively early local time, just before 6:00 PM. I’ve traveled almost exactly 750 miles, and Solo Guy considers riding out the nearly 300 or so miles to Vicksburg. But what to do with the second day of a two-day destination ride if you finish it on the first day? In the end, I decide to knock it off here, get a nice dinner at a restaurant within walking distance, and get a good’s night's rest.
It has been a great day. Tomorrow’s adventures await.
Thursday, May 06, 2010
Copyright(c) 2010, Jim Beachy
BRAWCKK!!! BRAWCKK!!! BRAWCKK!!! BRAWCKK!!!
I cower in confused terror as the huge screeching bird of prey swoops down to carry me away into certain oblivion. But at the last instant… I reach out and turn off the alarm. It’s 5:00 AM, time to hit the Long Road! I haven’t attended a WOTI (Wings Over the Internet) function for quite some time, and I’ve been musing about this year’s iteration of the Mississippi Area Crawfish Hunt (MACH 2010), held in Vicksburg, Mississippi. Kitty has been gently encouraging me to take a long ride. I guess she knows when it’s time! Even on Mother’s Day weekend.
By 6:15 I’m heading west on I-66 in the 55-degree morning chill. The moon is a half-slice of California white pizza in an early-morning pale blue sky. I haven’t fueled before starting out so I find myself fueling less than 15 miles from home.
After that brief stop, the Long Road lies before me! It’s been a while since Solo Guy has manifested himself on my rides. He seems to emerge mostly on the Long Road, and he is here today. Solo Guy rides his own ride, eats when he is hungry, stops when he is tired, sleeps when he needs to, talks when he wants to, or not, and isn’t much into counting miles or milestones. Unlike TV’s Cheers jingle that says “Sometimes you wanna go where everybody knows your name,” Solo Guy revels in the fact that he can go where nobody knows his name! It’s just the Long Road and Solo Guy. I’ve described in other stories how Solo Guy is often mistaken for Lonely Guy, but even in this, he cares nothing for those perceptions.
As I head south on I-81, the early green of a Virginia springtime rolls into a blue haze in the distance. This seems to have been the week to clean out the chicken and livestock barns; the Shenandoah Valley reeks with the perfume of rotting manure spread liberally on many of the fields. It reminds me in a small way of the stench that Kitty and I encountered on last year’s ride to the Gaspe Peninsula. But that’s in a different story. Herds of black cows dot the fields, many accompanied by a frisky black calf, or “baby cow” as Kitty and I usually call them when traveling together. Kitty has a soft spot for all babies, and I presume she believes they are cuter if she calls them “baby cows.” For a moment I’m a little nostalgic to be traveling without Kitty, taking a quick inventory of the wonderful trips and the miles we ridden together, but Solo Guy re-asserts himself and I roll southward with a smile.
The morning warms slowly under a pristine sky, and over a period of hours I close the heat vents, open my jacket vents, open the fairing vents, and finally, the windshield vent, one by one. Still, it’s a pleasant 82 degrees.
I have found the sweet spot on the seat, hitting the groove, and I feel I could ride the entire day without stopping. I’m on a magic machine following a magic ribbon that appears just in time for me to ride over it, and slowly disappears behind me. Solo Guy is reluctant to stop, but each 200 miles I’m forced to stop for fuel.
Somewhere in Alabama later in the afternoon, between fuel stops, Solo Guy decides to take a break at a rest stop to drink some water. Solo Guy cares nothing for the concept of riding “tank-to-tank” without stopping though he often does that, about 200 miles each time. It’s very simple for Solo Guy: When he is thirsty, he stops to drink. Under a shaded area at the rest stop, I prepare to sit down on the grass with my back against a tree, and then notice that my walking has disturbed thousands of ants in dozens of tiny anthills. Resting against this tree suddenly seems a lot less inviting and I beat a hasty retreat.
The temperature has hovered in the low to mid nineties all afternoon, and I finally to have stow my jacket. I don’t like riding without my leather jacket, but I’m just getting too uncomfortable.
Having run through the northwest corner of Georgia, I’ve “gained” an hour in Alabama as I approach a potential stopping point 20 miles south of Birmingham. It’s relatively early local time, just before 6:00 PM. I’ve traveled almost exactly 750 miles, and Solo Guy considers riding out the nearly 300 or so miles to Vicksburg. But what to do with the second day of a two-day destination ride if you finish it on the first day? In the end, I decide to knock it off here, get a nice dinner at a restaurant within walking distance, and get a good’s night's rest.
It has been a great day. Tomorrow’s adventures await.
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