I’m going to be transitioning this from being about my motorcycle trip to being about me. Some of my life, my writing, my resume, my coding and some of the apps I publish. Don’t worry though, a well edited, family friendly volume is in the works. I’m just going to write it and shop it around to publishers or self publish in a trade paperback format and digital.
I’ll likely transition from a tumblr account to a self hosted system that I can modify as I see fit too.
It’s unfortunate that we can only recall so few days with perfect clarity. These days are generally punctuated by happenstance, for good or naught, that scars us permanently. It could be a day that gives you so much joy that normality seems dim by comparison, or it could be one of those days that breaks your heart so completely that you wonder if you’ll ever be whole again. Sometimes you experience something so indelible, so deeply affecting, that you think you know what a true epiphany must feel like. August 5th, 2010 was one of those days. That day will scar me forever, both mentally and physically.
I woke up in Afton, Wyoming and did my morning routine. This may not come as a surprise to some of my friends and associates, but prior to my embarking on this grand adventure, I wasn’t the cleanest person. I’m still not, I have a stack of unwashed dishes in the kitchen that I’m always meaning to get to, but don’t, for whatever reason. However before the trip, personal grooming wasn’t the biggest priority either, but during the trip, and since, I’m pretty fastidious. I make sure not to leave the house until I’m showered, teeth are brushed and my clothes are clean. That is now my routine. My routine on the trip also included packing up all the chargers, dirty clothes and laptop; then I had to secure everything to the bike. I’d then check out of the motel/hotel and then start riding for the day. Today was the first time I had trouble starting the bike for lack of oxygen, it took a few minutes of choke and throttle adjustment to find the right mix to get the bike rideable, thankfully.
On my trip there ended up being lots of places that I decided that I could see myself quietly retiring to that I’d happily live with my dogs, that elusive lucky lady and some goats - living lawnmowers that you can also eat. As long as I could get reasonable speed broadband, I’d be happy. Swan Valley, Idaho was the first. My first dream property was at the top of a waterfall along US-26, Swan Valley Highway. I envisioned a house that had the 3 season’s porch extended out over the river with thick glass floors, a small waterwheel to capture some of the kinetic energy of the falling water that would power the inductive heated floors.
After the blissful peace of small towns, going through Idaho Falls, Idaho was a little jarring, there was too much traffic, it was warmer than it ought to be. Idaho was also the first state I noticed these small buildings in parking lots of other buildings that appear to be everywhere west of the Rockies, even western Canada. In Idaho these buildings were selling snow cones.
Idaho Falls also sits in the high desert part of Idaho, there is a series of long straight roads, passing through “Idaho National Laboratory.” There are a few cool cities on this stretch of desolation: Atomic City, directly south of the INL; Arco, home of a cool little restaurant called “Pickle’s Place” that has a giant sized Adirondack Chair painted green; and Butte City, which has the “Pirates” as their high school mascot - this led me to a fit of chuckles, until I remembered it’s pronounced “byoot,” oh well, still funny.
Just prior to reaching Arco, and having lunch at the aforementioned “Pickle’s Place,” the weather began turning, the skies darkened and the wind began picking up, I figured stopping for lunch and waiting out the front of the storm wouldn’t be the stupidest thing I could do. Sitting at the table in Pickle’s it was interesting watching the evolution of the storm. It began as a general darkening of the landscape, then sand being put aloft. Then rain with the intention of punishing the land for having the gall to forsake it. Whipping in great lashes, the rain chased down every mote of dust that dared think its place was anywhere but the ground. This lesson in natural domination thankfully only lasted as long as it took me to eat my burger - I’m not sure which one it is, but it had ham and swiss on it - I want to say it was the “Pirate” burger, but they all looked good.
After the rain had quieted down to a small whimper, I headed out again, I wiped off the seat with my trusty Sham-wow and headed for Challis, Idaho, from where I’d head west to Boise. Just south of Challis there’s an awesome piece of road that goes through Grand View Canyon, as you approach it almost feels like you’re going to smack into the side of this large rocky mass, before the road sweeps right, then left, into the canyon. When there are no other cars on the road in front of you to slow your turns, little roads like this that follow the beds of long extinct rivers become your playground on a motorcycle.
After the rush of Grand View Canyon, it was time to fill up for gas in Challis and head west. As I was pulling up to the station I noticed quite a few cars and bikes loitering on the side of the road and near the convenience store. Apparently the showers that had passed through Arco had hit here first and the road west was blocked by a landslide. While I waited roughly an hour or so for the road to open I spoke with some of the other bikers that were in the same boat as me - a couple on BMWs that were headed south and a older gentleman on a Can-Am Spyder (Sport). The beamers had been riding together for quite a while and had just done Yellowstone and Glacier National Parks, the 3-wheeled rider was a retired postal worker and was just riding around the region, no plans, no schedule; after speaking to him, and hearing him profess his love for the Spyder over the Goldwing and Road Glide at home in the garage, I made a mental note that I was going to have to test ride one someday. (Waiting until I can make it an impulse buy if I like it before I ride it.)
Finally the road opened up and it was clear to ride west on Idaho 75. Now, when I say the road opened up, what that means is that the detour was declared “safe.” The detour consisted of an old cattle road across a stream that was unimproved (read dirt/mud). My bike isn’t the biggest one on the road, and I’m not a tiny guy, so when I say the going was rough, I’m putting it lightly. My bike is a road bike, it has no knobs on its tires, she’s not meant for that kind of surface. I couldn’t ride my bike so much as walk it while I rolled on the throttle while trying to keep the bike upright and her end from fishtailing out of control. During one of these great maneuvers the bike did rear went out to the left and the bike started falling to the right, I tensed my left arm and pulled as hard as I could to prevent the bike from falling over and it didn’t, I was rewarded with the sensation of tearing near the bottom of my left shoulder blade. An RV right behind me, witness to all of my trials, decided it was in their best interest to try to creep up on me while I was having my moments, they were even bold enough to honk at me even though I was right behind the vehicle in front of me. I rewarded them with a windshield full of mud when I revved the throttle.
After finally navigating the detour and back on road proper, I found a gas station that had a garden hose out for use so I could was the mud of the radiator, tires, windshield, brakes, engine and finally rider. From there I rode on to Stanley, Idaho, through Challis National Forest, a beautiful ride, where I the only bears I saw all trip, a mother and cub that were off the side of the road a ways walking away. From Stanley I went to Boise, following Idaho 21.
It may sound weird to say this, but I love Idaho 21, in so much as if you can love something that isn’t alive and can’t reciprocate that love. We’re talking sappy teenage poetry, one that got away type love. She wasn’t perfect, what with her 20 miles of loose gravel, but that made her real. nearly 40 miles of the 90 or so that weren’t gravel were continuous 25 mph dangerous curves, you know, the sign that is all squiggles with an arrow at the top. Since she lays on top of the mountain ridges her grades were up and down too. I rode her for nearly two and a half hours, ignoring my muscle aches and my body’s protests of ‘enough.’ Unfortunately I had to stop in Idaho City for gas, then we went at it another hour before hitting Boise for the night. I had an Idaho Pizza Company pie delivered and a glorious night of sleep.
On the fifth day of my trip, I woke up in Vernal, Utah. I was waking up in a city in a state I’d never been in before. If I had any lingering questions about where I was or going, they quickly evaporated. I left the motel relatively early and passed Fort Duchesne for the third time in ten hours, no sign of the dog and her pup. I ended up filling up with gas at the station in Roosevelt that I’d filled up the night before.
Arriving in Heber City from the southeast is an almost religious experience, you round a corner and then you’re facing the south face of Clayton Peak, which is looking over the city like a stone guardian. After a brief lunch at a cool little restaurant I headed for Salt Lake City. Riding through sparsely populated areas with only the occasional population center spoiled me and left me ill prepared to deal with the traffic nightmare that was waiting for me between Heber and Salt Lake City. The lights are a few miles apart and it’s guaranteed that you will always hit the next one while it’s red. Very few of the drivers used their turn signals and nearly hit me a few times.
Salt Lake City’s statehouse is on top of a hill (mountain) and nearly the highest point in the city, I think one of their temples is the only thing higher. After doing the standard capital dance, I was looking forward to hitting the road and getting away from the city. Since Boise, Idaho was next and it’s northwest of Salt Lake City, I was expecting to head north and west. Gypsy told me I was headed east, sometimes I’m glad I listened to her this time, other times, not so much. If I’d followed the directions I’d printed off from Google, I would have missed Cache National Forest, it was a nice respite from the city and I couldn’t believe how close it was to the city. Unlike the sprawling metroplexes of the plains that have suburbs than go on for so long that they become exurbs, a lot of the the cities in the mountains are cities with abrupt ends, it’s refreshing.
After consuming and digesting the curves of Cache National Forest, I was sated for a while. I had the feeling I was adding a few hours to my trip by heading west when I hit Wyoming again. I was worried that I was trusting the gypsy too much and that it would lead me astray, and it would, but not today. When it was beginning to go dark I noticed a few antelope on the side of the road on the other side of a fence, I turned around to get a photo but they bounded away. They were the first indication that I wasn’t going to have a good time getting photos of animals.
I stopped in Afton, Wyoming for the evening, staying at the Hi Country Inn. The woman running the inn informed me that during certain times of the year they have a huge pack of wolves that descend the walls of the valley, that day was apparently not that time of year. They were having a county fair in town, but I was too tired. Looking back on it, had I more time, I would have stopped at every celebration that was going on.
On the 4th day of my trip I woke up to a much nicer view of Winter Park than the dreadfully rainy one I went to bed with. The view from outside the motel was breathtaking. I have to be honest when I say I love the mountains. It may be due to the fact I live on land that is flat, and the mountains just hold a fascination because they’re different than the norm. It could be because I have a motorcycle now and I love the twists and turns. I like to think that my love of the mountains and valleys is something else, something more primal. Let me explain.
I hate straight roads. While I appreciate the marvel of engineering it takes to cut a straight swath through the surrounding area and have a high speed commuting system from point A to B for convenience, I dislike the fact that we take nature and bend it to our will. But not in the mountains. Yes, some disfigurement occurs, but for the most part we give up, we submit to the mountain’s curves and reaches and make switchbacks and tunnels, there are no “straight shots” over or through mountains. They still hold majesty over us when it comes to ground travel. I respect that.
Don’t get me wrong, I love the twisty roads and the constant up and down of the mountains, it tests your attention, stamina and riding abilities. But alas, the twisty roads and steep upgrades also lead to some major consternation as well, specifically when you get behind a caravan of RVs. I understand the desire to take a room with you when you’re traveling, VISA knows I spent the lion’s share of my trip budget on hotel and motel rooms. But trying to maneuver a behemoth travel home through some of the mountain passes is insane; there are no turnouts, there are no passing lanes, there are no off ramps.
A motorcycle, given dry, clean roads, can generally take any road at or slightly above its posted speed. It’s slightly above those posted speeds that motorcycling becomes more than just a means of transportation or personal conveyance, you and the bike become one. It’s less riding than gliding or flying along the roads. You feel everything the bike feels, when it wants to lean you lean, when it wants a little more fuel, you oblige and it growls in response. The air buffeting you as you travel through it reminds you that there isn’t anything between you and the world but a thin layer of clothing.
I gassed up in Fraser, Colorado after leaving Winter Park on my way to Salt Lake City, Utah, I knew I wouldn’t make it there that day, but had to keep moving. I stopped for lunch and a beer in Kremmling, Colorado, a town that was apparently pretty famous during the silver and gold rushes in the area, it still has a pretty cool looking opera house from what I’ve read. I initially wanted to spend the night there instead of Winter Park, but alas, I never got up as early as I wanted to on any day of the trip.
There’s a particular spot in the mountains, between Kremmling and Steamboat Springs that smelled like citrus, it was a perfect moment, I was coming out of the twists and turns of a few mountain passes without any traffic around and pulled into view of a large valley without any sign of population. Just the world, me and the smell of fresh cut oranges. There aren’t many moments of perfect bliss in a persons life that they can recall perfectly, but that is one of mine.
I had to stop at the Carquest in Steamboat Springs to get some fuses for my power supply - turns out the rated amperage of a device I was using wasn’t correctly listed on the packaging so it kept blowing a fuse - I ended up cannibalizing it for parts later, but I’ll get to that when I get to it.
Between Steamboat Springs and Dinosaur, Colorado you come down the mountains and end up in the desert, it’s actually quite depressing. You’d figure a place named “Dinosaur” would be cool, but alas, that isn’t the case. After Dinosaur I was headed into another state I’d never been in, Utah.
Utah has always been defined to me as a series of stereotypes - dry, Mormon, boring. The first city of any size that I encountered in Utah was Vernal, I was looking for a diner type of food for dinner and ended up at a place called “Wingers” it was in a diner looking building, but wasn’t so much, turns out it was a chain, and their wings weren’t that good.
I left Vernal with the intent of stopping in about 30 miles to find a motel and get some sleep, I passed Fort Duchesne on my way to Roosevelt which was the next town with amenities. Unfortunately, all the truckers that cross the Rockies know this too, so I ended up going back the 30 miles I’d just rode from Vernal back to Vernal to find a spot to sleep.
I don’t want to end this day’s recap on a sad note, but here goes. While I was riding by Fort Duchesne, I noticed a feral dog and her pup, which was nearly her size already, but still had the cute clumsiness of a puppy walking carefully on the side of the road. I didn’t have any cell coverage when I stopped, but I whipped out my phone to grab the coordinates of where they were. When I finally got to the hotel, and after meeting a few Kiwi (New Zealanders) riders that were doing a L.A. to Sturgis run, I paid for internet access so I could find the contact information for a local rescue organization, I emailed them what I knew about the dogs and where I saw them. I never heard back from the rescue organization. I wish I could tell you that those were the only dogs I saw on the side of the road, apparently abandoned by their humans. But then I’d be a liar.
Someday I’d like to start a non-profit that equips bikers that are going to be riding through the desert with collapsible bowls, high calorie food and GPS tracking collars, so they can stop, give the dog some food, water, and if it’s friendly enough, put the collar on it and activate it so a centrally located rescue could coordinate with local rescue organizations to save these animals.
It’s odd how something that is majestic and beautiful and capable of bringing such joy to you during the day can scare the shit out of you at night. I’d been to Colorado before, and was looking forward to riding in the mountains, my prior mountain experiences in Arkansas and the Appalachians were some of my favorite motorcycling memories. I wasn’t looking forward to Nebraska, the memories I have from when I’d been there when I was a Boy Scout are of a flat land and a horrible storm that caused us to pack up camp and sleep in the vans, but that’s a story for another time.
I woke up in the truckers’ motel in Kadoka, South Dakota on Monday August 2nd with minimal discomfort from the previous day’s ride, though I put on a few miles, the were mostly flat and straight. I’d successfully avoided riding on any interstates and was looking forward to a long windy ride through the mountains over the next couple of days, but I had to make it through Nebraska first.
As expected, most of Nebraska was flat and I could see to the horizon with no issues, while boring, this is also the safest way to travel on motorcycle - you can ride super defensively when you can see for miles. I was kind of upset I had to go through Nebraska twice - once through the northwest corner to get to Wyoming, and then again go get to the capital. Until I got to Carhenge. Carhenge is one of those places that defies belief - Neil Gaiman would likely call it out as a place of power in the vein of “American Gods.” Carhenge is exactly what the name implies - a Stonehenge replica, but made of cars. I was just riding along a back country road, highway 87/county 59 and then, out of no where, !bam! a sign that said, “Carhenge.” I had to stop. I previously posted pics of the wonderful creation of mankind, but it’s better seen in person. (If you’re interested in seeing it on Google Maps, it’s just a little north of Alliance, Nebraska a little to the north of where it’s labeled on the map.)
After the life changing splendor of Carhenge wore off Nebraska got boring again, until I hit Scottsbluff, then it started to get interesting. There was actual terrain, unfortunately most of it was accompanied by massive amounts of road construction. But, finally, I could tell I was headed up.
I’ve never been keen on Wyoming, I guess I had some latent dislike because it was the home state of Dick Cheney and it was recently exacerbated by me watching Ken Burns’ “National Parks” wherein I learned that the residents of Wyoming fought tooth and nail against the formation of the National Park system. When I pulled into Cheyenne, and my third capital of the trip, I still hadn’t lost the apprehension, the citizens drive entitled.
My routine at capitals for most of the trip would be: pull up, take picture, post to tumblr, check in on foursquare and then text friend(s) - then I ‘d go looking for post cards. During the trip I sent home a bunch of post cards, both to my parents to safe keep and to my best friend Eric and his fiance Jensen, so there would be a physical record of my actual presence in those places. More on the post cards another day.
After the standard capital process I headed to capital number 4, Denver. Back in 2008, my father and I took a trip down to New Orleans and up through the Appalachians, I’m not sure if I mentioned it yet, but there you have it. We didn’t make it more than 200 miles before we started getting hit with rain in Iowa. If you know anything about Iowa, you know it’s already miserable enough as it is, you add rain on top of that and you might as well start popping SSRIs to combat the depression. This is called a segue, whereby I bring up one thing and transition to another relevant or related thing. I only bring up my fondness of Iowa to highlight that I was blissfully free of rain up until now.
As most of you know, or have surmised, I’m a big guy - they don’t make most motorcycle apparel for guys of my stature. The rain set I ordered had pants that fit me but a jacket that was just too tight around my keg. I should also mention I have a bad habit of not trying on certain items because I’m to trusting, when something says “I fit over a size 12 boot” I try to give it the benefit of the doubt, I mean what am I going to do, call a company that has stayed in business by apparently sizing their products satisfactorily enough to maintain customers a liar? Of course not. There in lies a foible.
I was wearing a pair of steel toed Red Wing boots as my motorcycle boots, they weren’t the most water resistant pair, so I decided to get a pair of “overs” to put on my boots when the rain began - they were for size 12-13 - I wear size 12, I was good as gold… -plated shit. The clearly marked “fits over size 12-13” didn’t fit over size 12. So after a fair amount of cursing and fighting the lying “overs” I gave up and put on my pants. If you were driving along the highways south of Cheyenne and saw a big guy fighting with a pair of yellow and black pants while rolling around on the ground, trying to get his legs into size “12-13” holes - I’m sorry, bill me for the therapy. Apparently it’s easier to put on the pants while standing - an agonizing 10 minute process that was learned in the first virginal drops of a rainstorm that would last longer than I want to think about eventually became a 30 second process. What do you know, practice does make perfect - cold wet, annoying practice.
The ride from Cheyenne to Denver isn’t overly dramatic, because of the position of the mountains, most of Denver’s suburbs are a north/south line up interstate 25 and US highway 85. The view of the Rockies as you approach Denver though is amazing. Denver, besides the hellacious traffic, was uneventful. The Capitol is right across the street from a gay bar. I did the capital routine and started heading out of town, every intention was to hit a motel in the next town and call it a night. As it started to downpour and the gypsy beckoned me to follow the interstate I realized the next town that had amenities wasn’t down the road, it was over the mountains, in Winter Park. I have terrible visibility on my bike at night - it’s a single lamp, and face shields tend to fog up when there’s a significant amount of moisture in the air. As I rode on, taking every hair pin turn and switch back as safely as I could, I finally found respite at the Valley High Motel in Winter Park. It was 10 pm on a week night in a ski town during the summer, the only place open was a restaurant down the block and the only thing they were still preparing was pizza, good thing I like pizza, oh and beer, good beer - so if you’re ever in Winter Park, Deno’s Mountain Bistro wouldn’t be a bad bet.
I know it’s been a long time, but figured I should finish these before this motorcycle season.
I woke up in an unfamiliar hotel room in a different state on the first of August, and the fact that I was on a trip that would span more than a month and have me visit every state capital on the continent before i got home hadn’t sunk in yet. I’d been in South Dakota once before, near the beginning of my grandfather’s - dad’s side - long descent into alzheimer’s and eventual dementia. That was a quick trip just across the border, nearly directly west of the Twin Cities, just long enough to pick him and my grandmother up with my dad. This was my first time in the state, as it would be for most states for the explicit purpose of being on vacation, if you’d call it that.
Breakfast and I weren’t as frequent of companions as I’d like on the trip, but we’d manage to hook up enough to have some great memories. August first would turn out to be one of the days we just couldn’t agree on.
The capital I was headed to first was North Dakota, a state that I’d spent the better part of 4 years in while I was an enlistee in the Air Force, but hadn’t been back to since early February of 2002. I talk bad about North Dakota, but the truth is I didn’t mind it too much, working the flight line during an overnight shift in the middle of winter is probably the closest you can come to what I’d envision Hell to be, were I cut from that cloth. My reticence for North Dakota really stems from me and some of the poor decisions I made while there. There was a girl that I never conveyed my true feelings towards, and then never said goodbye to, if you ever read this, I’m sorry Becky. Most of all, there’s a sense of disappointment that I didn’t keep my weight in control and didn’t advance in the Air Force like I wanted - I like to think my phenomenal memory would have helped me test well for each rank. Alas, my weight is still an issue, maybe that will be the next great journey?
I left Webster and headed west, because that’s what Gypsy was telling me to do, it was going to be quite a while before I questioned her logic. Riding motorcycle along backroads and two-lane highways you’ve never been on really is one of the joys of life, even if you don’t ride normally, I’d recommend everyone hop on the back of somebody’s bike or into their sidecar - with the rider’s permission of course - and experience it. A goodly portion of South Dakota and North Dakota is as flat as flat can be, “The Tourist’s Dictionary of the American Midwest” specifically defines flat as eastern to mid North Dakota. From the flight tower on Grand Forks Air Force Base it’s rumored that you can see the first fence posts of Montana.
Once I hit Herreid, South Dakota I headed north towards Bismarck, North Dakota and the first realization what I was doing. It didn’t hit me when I crossed the border to North Dakota, nor when I hit the city limits of Bismarck, it didn’t even it sink in when I pulled up and put the bike on its kickstand. No, it finally sank in when I took my picture with the Capitol building in the background and uploaded it for people to see. At that moment, the die was cast, barring death or a catastrophic accident I’d have to finish it, because I’d officially started it.
I stopped for lunch at a place that was apparently featured on a food show for their Knoephla soup, it was a good soup, but I’d had better, if you’re in town, try it, it’s unique. After hitting the Capitol and lunch I decided to head back south towards Pierre, along surprisingly the exact same route I’d just came north on, I didn’t want that to happen too many times on my trip, I specifically wanted to ride roads I hadn’t been on before. I hadn’t noticed any signs on the way up, but apparently Strasburg, North Dakota is the boyhood home of Lawrence Welk, all I can say about that is the roads had some smooth stylings.
Once I hit Herreid, SD for the second time that day, I headed south to Pierre, South Dakota. Upon reaching the Capitol, I took my picture and realized I didn’t have a signal, I was trying to use Foursquare and check into each Capitol as I posted it on Tumblr. I had the photo and checking into Foursquare wasn’t really that important, so I figured I’d wait till I had signal and then upload the photo, that was the plan until I saw a restaurant with a free wifi sign, I checked into Foursquare and uploaded the photo. It was about dinner time and I was still a little hungry given my missing breakfast, so I decided it was time for food and uploading to the web. After an unremarkable meal I continued towards Cheyenne, Wyoming.
I left town, heading towards Sturgis, South Dakota. Something I should note about the Honda Shadow Sabres, they don’t have gas gauges, they have a gas tank with a small amount dedicated to reserve, figuring out how much gas you actually have is guesswork. Generally in my 5 or so years of riding I’d always try to fill up right around 100 miles since last fill-up (SLF), I knew I had a bit of a cushion, but I was going on familiarity. When I saw a “next gas 65 miles” sign I noticed that I was already 40 miles SLF, which would put me just over my comfortable zone, but I wasn’t sure how far behind me the town was and if it would really make a difference, so I forged on. It’s funny how things you read and hear affect you when you’re on the road and start to experience a little bit of what you read about, my bike has is carbureted, not fuel injected, which in layman’s terms means that at altitude, where there is less oxygen, it runs a little rough as there is more fuel than air to burn it. I’d also heard that this lowers the mileage. Given I was now in some hilly territory, and had been going up hill for a while, I started to worry and asked Gypsy to take me to the closest gas station, this is where I learned that Gypsy only knows “as the bird flies” distances prior to displaying the route, and not “this is how far you’re actually going to drive idiot” distances. I followed her directions and ended up going slightly farther than I would have were I to have just stayed the original course, ah lessons, how fun you are. I ended up spending the night just off interstate 90 where my highway was crossing in Kadoka, South Dakota.
It’s often said that the road to Hell is paved with good intentions.
I had nothing but good intentions to keep these missives going once I started them. I actually wanted to finish them on this short excursion to Hawaii, however, that isn’t how things worked out.
In grand voyage tradition, I gathered with a group friends for a few drinks and some food, just a little send off. I figured I could get home by 10pm, catch a good 6-7 hours of sleep and one last night with the dogs. I had all my clothes, tools and weather/protective gear packed. All that was left to do was strap on the aftermarket gas tank I’d bought, drop the dogs off, gas up and go. I’ll touch on the gas tank in a moment.
For clothing I wanted to go as light as possible but make sure I had enough so I didn’t need to do laundry every other day and given that I’d decided I was going to be riding to Alaska through the Canadian Rockies I decided that I should bring some warm clothing. So for clothing I ended up bringing 3 pairs of denim jeans, 4 T-Shirts, 6 changes of underwear, 6 pairs of socks, and for the warm stuff I brought 1 flannel shirt and 1 pair of sweatpants to put on under my jeans if necessary, in case I had time I also brought a pair of swim trunks, just in case.
For tools I brought basically everything: metric wrenches and sockets, tire patch kit, small air compressor, crescent wrenches, vise grips, leatherman, duct tape, electrical tape, electrical connectors, mallet, allen wrenches of various types/sizes; if I was going to have a problem on the road, I was going to be prepared for it.
For protective gear I was wearing a 3/4 face HJC 3x helmet with a retro clear bubble shield, UV protective/tinting goggles, fingerless gel palm gloves and a Vega textile jacket with removable liner, if it rained I had a rain cover for the Vega jacket, water resistant (yeah right) gloves and a pair of rain pants that I could, after much practical use, get on in less than 30 seconds.
Now, back to the gas tank, oh that gas tank. While reading the message boards online I kept coming across people that had gotten stranded in the middle of nowhere, 30+ miles from the nearest fuel source, this forewarning prompted me to buy a 4 gallon tank to install for the trip, even if I didn’t need it, it would be nice if I didn’t quite feel like stopping when gas presented itself. That gas tank is evil. It came with 2 metal straps that were coiled into circles with the hardware in place when I got it, that should have been the first warning. While undoing the hardware, one of the nuts flew halfway across the garage and it took me a little while to find it, that should have been the second warning. After far too much time, literally hours, of messing around with the tank, I finally got it on the bike and was ready to go.
I dropped the dogs off at the parents, went home, parked the car for the next month and a half and took off for the gas station. I filled the external tank with fuel, the bike tank, took note of the mileage and made to hook it up so the fuel would first come from the rear, external tank. As I hooked up the marine connector, gas started spilling out from the connection point all over the ground and dangerously close to my now hot exhaust pipes. So, I disconnected the fuel line, went home, took of the external tank and said ‘screw it.’
And I was off, this was sometime shortly after noon.
The initial goal was to get almost get to Bismarck, North Dakota on the first day, going up Highway 10 towards Alexandria and cutting over. That’s not what happened. I own what I thought was a pretty good GPS unit, but as you’ll see from the trip, it turns out it’s pretty damn stupid. I made an assumption that most mapping software would map routes with a similar efficiency, for example, if you use Google Maps to route from Mounds View, Minnesota to Bismarck, North Dakota it will go the route I mentioned, the GPS routes it the way I went. Me and the gypsy, my vagabond GPS as I like to refer to it as, we got into some pretty heated arguments, sometimes I let her win, other times I proved she was wrong. I’m glad she didn’t try to take revenge by having me turn right while on a bridge over a 100 foot drop*.
As it turns out, I’m glad the gypsy led me the way she did those first few days. No matter how much I tell myself I’m ready for North Dakota, I never am. I’ve mentioned that I have a pretty good memory, sometimes it’s a blessing and a curse. I can recall the good times, but can’t forget the bad. North Dakota is a lot of bat times, but I’ll get into that with the next post. The reason I’m glad I didn’t end up using Highway 10 as I thought I would is because the last 2 times I’d driven up towards Hoffman and Fergus Falls it was for funerals, my godfather and grandfather respectively. Both had a big impact on my life, they both taught me to hunt and along with my dad gave me an example of service, police and military respectively.
Given my late start, and altered route - I hadn’t figured out how to persuade the gypsy to do my bidding with ‘via points’ yet - my new goal was to get out of Minnesota by nightfall and ensure that the entire month of August was away from my home state.
I ended up crossing the Minnesota/South Dakota border with light to spare.
I “was” keeping track of mileage at this point and had ridden 284 miles. Most of the time I’ll be able to tell you what towns I stopped for gas in, since I used my credit card for all gas purchases except a couple in the sticks, but I should be able to remember what towns those were. A lot of Canada will be a blur. I’m also likely to post multiple days at a time when I get home. I don’t think I can write where I live, if I’m traveling the words pour forth like from a fount.
If I do, you’ll have something to read.
It's about the journey.
