MotoMorphosis (Conclusion)

"My god, look at all of this destruction."

I had not been on 81 long at all after my breakfast stop when I went through the town of Pulaski, NC.  Mother nature had been here, and she had been pissed.  A tornado had been through here last year I later learned and left an indelible mark on these people's lives and their homesteads.  Not a tree was left in tact, though the piles of debris were still abundant.  Treetops co-mingled with bunk beds.  It had crossed the highway where I now sped and continued its' destructive ways up over the next hill.  Amazing and humbling how fickle she can be.  I wish these fine citizens of this town the best of luck.  They didn't have much that harrowing night for sure.

Mile marker 0.

I cross the Tennessee line to little fanfare other than my own nuisance making efforts.  No bands, no ticker tape.  Only Fasmart 471 and its decrepit pumps and a convenience store parking lot stacked with vehicles in even worse shape.  The time was 10:35 and the odometer read 14,747.  529 miles from home and all I could do was smile like a guy who just got laid for the first time.  3.665 gallons in 172 miles.

The only note on my trip log was this ->>  "I WANT MORE!!!"

That pretty much sums it up.  No literary finagling necessary.

Perhaps it was my state of mind, but I took one of only 3 pictures on this trip in the Fasmart parking lot so I could prove I was really in Bristol, TN.  This may be the worst picture I have ever taken.  I had other things on my mind and I was gettin busy livin. The other bonus of this trip was that this ride was no longer the miserable trip I used to take with my ex.  It now belongs to me.  I will own this memory and this road in a positive light from this day forth.

The trash bag liner went into the top box, along with the neck gaiter. The Gerbings gloves were replaced with ventilated leather.  It was march and it was time for some summertime riding.  I may be the luckiest guy on earth at this particular point and time.

New song for the ride home.  It's cheesy and predictable but it's a classic, and it fits my buoyed spirits.  I will have a Coors in Texarcana, likely in 2013 on my trip to Needles, CA if anyone has any suggestions.  For today, I will just sing it to myself a couple dozen times and laugh at Buford T Justice quotes as I count up to 323 from 0.

208.6 miles later and a solid  20 miles past 0 miles left till empty, I pull myself away from the 50th "Boy when I get home.." and slide off of exit 205 into Raphine, VA, under full Triumph power at 13:01, into Smileys Fuel City.  Smileys sign out front informs me it is the home of the "Best BBQ in VA".  There is some question if that is really 13:01 or 14:01 as daylight savings happened the previous weekend, but I didn't care.  The sun was shining, the jiggly weather girls were right, it really was the perfect day to be doing anything other than sitting in a cubicle.

It was perhaps a foolhardy decision at the time, but I was getting cocky.  I remember Jim's advice to "have fun, THAT'S the bottom line".  I sprayed the chain with some dupont teflon, put in 4.18 gallons (DOH!) and stripped off the fleece.

Mr Smiley, your ass is mine.  I'll be the judge of these here claims to the best BBQ.

Well, about 3 minutes after receiving my order of brisket and a dousing with a melange of sauces at the self service bar, this is what remained as I washed the goodness down with some good old fashioned, hot summer's day, caffeinated Coca-Cola.  Had I turned the camera around, my face would have looked similar to that napkin dispenser, only covered in Texas style mesquite sauce.

 

I will do the rest of this trip on my own terms.  I was no longer worried about the clock.  I have now ridden further than any other single day of my two-wheeled career and I yearn for more.  My only regret is that I didn't have a Dr Pepper to stick with the theme.

45 minutes later I have my camelback refilled for the second time this trip and bugs removed from the visor.  East bound and down has been fun for the last couple hours, let's stick with that you maniac as Chiron fires up with as much vigor as its' better half.

225, 250, 275, 300, 323. A honk, wave and and an ADV style salute to West Virginia, and the same goes for you Maryland shortly thereafter.

Maybe I should have held off on the ADV salute to MD.  My credit card at the Hagerstown Shell station was declined since it was the 4th time I used their network today.  Hah, you have to do more than that to stop me. It's all good, I don't care, that girl at Falling Waters WV returned my backup plan to me many miles and smiles ago.  Here's an Andrew Jackson.  You can stick him where you will once I leave, I am riding and my face hurts from smiling.  I have another gas receipt from a new state and the great Commonwealth of Pennsylvania can be seen just over the next rise.  I am east bound and down.

PA gets more of the same minutes later as I return to my homeland.  A statey is in his hidey hole right across the line looking for guys like me. Guys who aren't paying attention and are bitching on their cellphone about their shitty day at the office to their old lady who doesn't give two shits except when he will be home. I'm going the speed limit with a smile that says it all beneath my lifted lid to let this day fill my every pore. Today ain't your day pal.  I swear I see him laugh at my antics across the line behind his Buford T Justice specs.  Perfect.  I may be an idiot, but there is no law against that and he knows it.  Yet another memory to file away, maybe someday I will write about this experience. 

19:37 on the day of my departure and the light is quickly fading across a lightly streaked pink and purple sky.  These are my little girls 2 favorite colors and I have thought of her often today.  I hope some day she can enjoy a passion to the extent her father does.  I can't wait to squeeze the living shit out her tomorrow when I pick her up from school.  

My receipt spits out from the Bethlehem Pennsylvania Exxon 4 minutes later as the tiger drinks her final cocktail of 3.162 gallons of super. My sidestand has gone down each time, my gloves are in tact.  I have all my receipts, and I even have my wallet.  Home is only 0.36 miles away as the crow flies.  I snap a picture of the GPS for posterity. On the 2 minute ride home I begin to ponder if I can do this several days in a row and maybe, just maybe, if the stars align and I can recreate this, if perhaps Grand Teton would be so kind as to bless me with her shadow this summer after I cross the Mackinaw bridge.  If she doesn't, that's fine with me, because as you may have noticed by now, for me it's about the journey, not the destination.

http://spotwalla.com/tripViewer.php?id=42504f5e0c54bb99c

Respectfully submitted,

GrimeTime

MotoMorphosis (Part 9)

"Buuuurp, flitch, schlup, schlup, schlup", says Phase 1 reluctantly.

"Err, that's no help", says I.

The mile markers to Roanoke are ticking down like the shot clock in an NCAA Final 4 cinderella game, and I needed to pick my shot.  I was nursing a lead but my opponent was showing signs of life.  Computers usually help me out of these kind of binds.  Teetering above my tiger  there was no hope of that familiar crutch helping now.  Phone a friend wasn't an option.  Even if phone a friend was an option, I would have gotten a "My suggestion is to have a PBR and find a 24 hr strip club" in response.  I was alone on this fools errand.  I guess that's the whole point.  Can you keep your shit together in good times and bad?  Not a bad lesson to be learned regardless of the final grade.

Phase 1 had been in solid hibernation now for almost 5 hours.  It was as slow to awaken as it was this morning in the confines of my shower.  Irish Spring hadn't made much of a dent. Flashing dotted centerlines and wind-noise wasn't helping the rejuvenation process at the moment.  Come on buddy, you can do it.  I could really use some help here.  What the heck am I supposed to do?

Two diametrically opposed options were on the table. "Plan your ride, ride your plan" or "Improvise, Modify, Adapt and Overcome"? I always found it fascinating that the latter is attributed to the United States Marine Corps.  Military organizations for 3,000 years have been founded on the principles of do what you are told, when you are told, how you are told according to a strict chain of command. Leap without looking. My old man and brother were both US Navy men and knew this chain well.  My father floated above the seas and my brother below. The battlefields of Gettysburg, to which I passed so closely this morning, and countless other stretches of farm land in this great state where my current journey has led me have seen 100's of thousands of my forefathers meet their end in this way both for and against this Union.  The Lee-Jackson Highway which I passed this morning was a good attempt to keep their memories alive, but a paltry reward in comparison to the price paid by the men who served under them. History seems to canonize the Atilla's, Green Mountain Boys, George Washington , Erwin Rommel and his arch nemesis and my own personal hero, Gen. G.S. Patton. All had a knack for improvisation and were attuned to the art of guerrilla tactics.   When the global fan starts spinning out of control due to some poopie buildup on the blades, who gets called?  The Marines who honorably wear the Stars and Bars of their fathers.  Thank you to all who serve, regardless of branch, or flag, so I, and your countrymen and women, can undertake silly journeys of 1000 miles in 24 hours on their motorcycle.

I digress... but I am the author.

I needed to pull off of this ribbon of quandary my tax dollars have subsidized, and Improvise, Modify, Adapt and Overcome.  Good to have you back old friend.  Decision made.

Roanoke traffic was building, but I could dutifully keep to the speed limit or just below as I steamed through.  Not so bad, minor crisis averted.  I need some grub and a plan for the daddy mac.

I leave the city limits of Roanoke without incident and begin to see the signs for my current terror as I look for an exit where I can get a McBurrito.  Blacksburg, VA serves as the gateway to hell, and 81 has become my solid version of Styx.  In the distance I catch a glimpse of the first big 8x6 ft square orange roadside trailer that the DOT uses to let travelers know they are screwed beyond all recognition.  I had 3 miles to my exit and now I am stuck in the left lane with JB Hunt's finest to my right.  I need to see this sign to aid in my planning stop and make this nightmare a reality I can dissect with facts, not fears.  The GPS affixed to my handlebars will set the mark for max speed for the trip at this juncture.  I apologize to the LEO community for what I have done, it only lasted about 10 seconds.  Err, it wasn't me, I'm holding it for a friend? Just between you and I, that Kenworth didn't have a snowball's chance...

As I clear the fender of the Kenworth and make my calculations to get over to the right I see it.  I blink my eyes and shake my head to be sure what I think I saw is actually there and not some mirage of fatigue.  The message remained the same.

NO BLASTING TODAY.  NO BLASTING TODAY it screamed in 900 font every 4 seconds in all of its amber glory. A message conveyed as eloquently as Kate Smith belting out God Bless America.  I was 7 years old and still remember Kate's performance on UHF like it was yesterday.  That started a losing streak for my Flyers which continues to this day.  As I type this today, the message from that Virgina Department of Transportation sign is my most vivid of the trip, by a mile.   I was wound up tighter than a banjo for the last hour or 2, time no longer matters except for 02:36 tomorrow which was just a hair over 18 hours away. The pressure release delivered by that sign was tremendous.

I screamed back at that most beautiful of inanimate objects.  Pretty much...well...EXACTLY like Henry Hill in the Shower in Goodfellas .  I didn't look at myself in my mirrors, but I can guarantee that's what my facial expression looked like as I rounded that Kenworth's  fender.

After all the worrying, I decide to delay the breakfast stop and get through the construction before the sign changed its mind.  I never did cut that Kenworth off and good thing too as my mind was where it should be to mess with that much iron.  I had enough gas to make it to Bristol, now that I wouldn't waste it in neutral.  The construction was really a site to behold.  They were taking a pretty good sized mountain they had cut through to lay the original road and were widening it another 20-30 yards.  Caterpillar had some serious profits on the books from this job.  There were massive yellow vehicles swarming everywhere, but the lanes were clear and it's all I cared about.

At 08:55 I found my McBurrito and a cup of pansy-ass decaf in Dublin VA, mile marker 96.  I felt fantastic as I lubed the chain on the tiger who was running without a hitch, as it has done for the last 8 months and 10,000 miles.  How the PO only put 5K on her in 4 years I don't know, he was pretty busy farkeling though.  His loss and my gain.  At McDonalds, there was a guy riding across country on his bicycle. He covered in religious prison tattoos, and his bike trailer covered in "Jesus Saves" signs.  I was curious about what made this dude tick, but sensed there was no hope it would be a 2 minute conversation.  His iron was tougher than mine I am sure and I wish him luck.

After a 20 minute respite and some bodily fuel only, then it was back at it.  Get busy living, or get busy dieing were some pretty famous words uttered by Red in Shawshank Redemption.  Today I was choosing to live, and live on my own terms.  No one will care if I make it or fail miserably. Today, only I care about the outcome and that was enough.

As I merged back on to southbound 81, I sensed the half-way turnaround was now well within my sites.  Bristol, TN is just over the border  I tried to temper the foolish sense of invincibility that was growing inside me to no avail.  I had no idea what the rest of this adventure had in store for me today, but I relished the opportunity to experience it.

"Southbound" by the Allman Brothers was the song stuck in my head most of the morning, guiding me down the highway in dark and in light.  I missed a lot of classes in college and more than a few days of work seeing them more than 50 times in concert over the years.  I just put an acoustic version of those sweet sounds on now to put me back in the moment of this incredible (for me) journey to allow me to finish this installation of the story, while remembering both periods of my life with great fondness.

Giddy up.

MotoMorphosis (Part 8)

I know I am firmly entrenched in phase 3 because the proverbial ass kicking over the wallet subsided about 5 or 10 miles outside of Falling Waters, WV.  Had this happened at Wawa at 02:30, it would have been a different story.  Live for the moment and take Jim's advice and enjoy every mile.  I was certainly heeding that sage advice thus far.

No shit.  I'm not tired, not even a little.

After the rough start to the day and the nonsense that led up to it, I was sure I would be fighting the sleepy eye about now as I sizzled through the darkness, respectful of the radar gun buffer of the posted speed limit.  I knew I would be ok once I could see the sun. The only way for me to sleep during the day is to have a medium sized hangover and put on my own personal Ambien which is the Masters or NASCAR.  I haven't had a hangover in years, but that's how I remember it. I wasn't thinking about staying awake.  In retrospect, I wasn't thinking about anything at all.  It was as if I was just sitting there and sub-consciously reading and reacting to my surroundings. It was 05:20 and and sunrise was in 1 hour 55 minutes.  I can DO this.

"Virginia Welcomes You" the sign announces. Right back at-cha.  I wave and beep at the greeting, as is my custom, and get on with the business of shagging this big bitch.  Mile marker 323 of a descending pattern lets me know just how much is ahead of me.  646 miles out of the 1048 will occur in this state with so much history for my nation, of which I am so proud. Hopefully I don't make much history of my own and am able to pass through unnoticed in my bidirectional assault. I make a mental note of the 323 since on the way back I will be counting up to do my 'figgerin.

Rt 81 is such an easy ride.  Especially once you hit WV and VA where the posted speed bounces manically between 65 and 70 for no apparent reason.  Just as the sky took on that awesome shade of purple that marks the official start of a new day, I noticed Exit 205 had a large yellow and black billboard boasting the "Best BBQ in VA".  I wondered how many smoker toting pickup drivers took that as a personal offense when driving this interstate.  No mention of awards and their dates, just plain old best 'cause his momma said so I guess.  Too bad it was so early, too early for even BBQ which I usually cannot be denied.  Today was about making tracks, not sightseeing.  The real Iron Butt folks have a saying "Plan your ride, ride your plan".  BBQ was certainly not anywhere in my plan for today so on the Pilot Road 3's spun.

It seemed the next tank drained to the amber warning light pretty quickly.  Traffic picked up a bit with the morning commuters cursing themselves for being in a cage on what all the bubbly and busty weather girls were predicting to be the definition of a perfect day.  How did Al Roker get that job?? I of course was smiling about my predicament, so much so the cheeks on my face were about the only area of unusual discomfort.  The cheeks on my seat made nary a whimper.

"Here comes the sun do-do-do-dah.."

Buchanan, VA 07:40.  VA mile marker 168.  357 miles into this adventure and I successfully made it through night 1 about 20 minutes ago.  Miles to empty said 0 for the last 4 miles. I broke my own rule a couple miles back and exited without actually seeing the Marquee for the gas station and was jolted by the "3 miles thataway" sign at the bottom of the exit ramp.  Screw that, I am on a schedule.  Tached it back up to 5K and kept looking until I saw what the Tiger so desperately thought that it needed. 178.1 miles since Falling Waters.  4.328 gallons of Shell V-Power later I am cursing the ECU of this beautiful beast I occasionally refer to as Chiron.  Technically, we are both Chiron, but I'll let my readers figure that one out if they are so inclined.  There was another gallon in there and I swear to run deeper past 0 since the greedy bitch holds out on me for  80-100 miles in her thirst for more of the good stuff. The thought of pushing my top-heavy partner to the finish line somewhat tempered my enthusiasm for the plan as I chewed it over throughout the day.

I ask the lady inside about the construction that's about 1.5-2 hours ahead of me.  It's my biggest worry of the trip.  For days I have seen google traffic light up with red for extended stretches on the other side of Roanoke, sometimes for quite a ways.  It's a nondescript part of the state with not much in the way of population centers anywhere near.  My old girl at the counter tells me "oh yeah, that's bad, they're blastin' the mountains away on both sides and they start 'bout 8:30 quarter-a-9.  Lady in my church sat there in park for almost 2 hours on monday."  Thanks lady, it's 07:50 now, it's about 80 miles away, and you just mind fucked me.  This whole goddamn adventure may now come crashing down due to some Obama spending.  Whelp, nuttin' I can do about it now other than turn the key and get rockin down the highway.  I thank her politely as I return to my ride with thoughts of getting rock rained on my head from the blasts being more palatable than sitting there for 2 hours.  I was only 31.5 inches wide at the handlebars. Between he handguards and the polycarbonate coconut on my head, that should provide enough protection from the shrapnel right?  Maybe I can lane split and blast past the flagger in hopes the odds are in my favor.

Goddammit.

To add insult to injury, the original plan was to do breakfast at this stop (time, not place).  I was 30 miles from Roanoke however which was a little closer than I had planned.  If I were to hit commuter traffic anywhere along the line, it was likely to be Roanoke and I was now in a pinch.  I decide to push on through Roanoke and hope the work force there is more 9-5 than 8-5.  Hopefully I can catch breakfast on the other side without too much damage to the clock. It is abundantly clear i need some recon for alternate routes around the blasting which won't screw me too badly.

"Breaker-breaker 1-9, this is Joel.  Scuba-Conscious, you got your ears on?"
"This is Scuba-Conscious, go-head"
"Rumor has it we're crawling with care bears up ahead.  I need you to send up phase 1 pronto"
"That's a negative ghostrider, the pattern is full."
"Don't give me that shit, just do it, or I'll make you listen to rap when we get home."
"Uh-uh-uh, yes sir, right away sir, please don't ever mention that again sir"

Buh-bye phase 3.  You were awesome, I hope to have you back soon.  Every man has a job to do, and for the next hour of my life, I'm gonna need a pro.

MotoMorphosis (Part 7)

I stare longingly at Mr Coffee in the soft fluorescent glow of my kitchen.  He is such a swell guy.  I am tired, Friday 8am class after a raging Schaefer multi-keg college party tired.   The mehican standoff lasts a moment or two.  I remember my readings in the scroll of the Iron Butt tribe and decide for once in my life to follow directions.  All those elementary school teachers were SO wrong on my report card when they said I couldn't.  Ha! How do you like me now Mrs Lipski???  Vitamins, OJ and golden grahams will be the entirety of the menu this morning.

I slink off to the freezer, much like my daughter when she is told no more iCarly. I fill my camelback with some ice for the trip since the scrolls also say regular water intake is critical.  If I am going to listen to them regarding my bff Juan Valdez, I may as well take the camelback.  It's 45 degrees so I went light on the ice then slid into my gear.  LD Comfort scivvys bought specifically for this adventure, followed up by the polarweight fleecy hunting thermal pants.  Long sleeve tshirt and thermal top round out the undergarments.  Cabelas hunting socks on the dogs, followed by Firstgear mesh pants with the comfy liner in and my trusty hiking boots.  Upper half gets a fleece, Speed & Strength jacket with the trash bag liner in and the neck gaiter to cover the gobbler.  Final touches include the gerbings gloves and a reflective hi-vis vest so they can find me in the ditch after my lack of coffee dt's force me off the road.  Montezuma's a wuss.  I am much more afraid of Valdez's Revenge.

Dog is confused as hell due to the hour.  Thank god for neighbors to take care of him today.  With a wave I am off and awkwardly mount my  waltzing Tiger in my Michelin man duds.  Back down the driveway and I am at the 24hr Wawa minutes later for my first receipt at 2:36am.  For those of you who are new to the saddlesore/Iron Butt rules, it is based off of gas receipts.  I now have until 2:36am tomorrow to get a receipt 1000 miles away, or in my case, back from a 524 mile each way jaunt into this realm of silliness.
My guess is if I fail it will be because I forget to get one of my receipts. "Sidestand down, unplug gloves, get a receipt"  becomes my mantra for the day. I get about 200 miles easily out of a tank of hi test so there will be at least 5 more opportunities to screw it up.

First 50 miles or so were at 55 which was a drag but expected. For those who have never ridden a tiger, you should. I love this bike but it has 2 weaknesses. Both will be an issue for this trip. First, the headlight sucks, even after the hid upgrade. Stock is equivalent to holding a dinner candle at speed to light your way. Fortunately the high beam is weak as well but not too bad and fine for highway riding without incurring the wrath of my compadres in the giant trucks. Secondly, the trip buttons to reset mileage were designed by a tween  girl who never wore a pair of motorcycle gloves. How a bike with this much attention to detail gets through engineering with those buttons is something I cannot begin comprehend.

The beginnings of any longish ride for me follow a fairly predictable pattern. I think its why I like to ride further than most.  Phase 1 sees mind and body tingling with excitement and anticipation.. I mentioned Phaedrus earlier and this mental slicing mentality is a constant presence in my life. It has made me somewhat successful in several different ventures both professional and personal so it isn't necessarily a bad thing. The constant buzz of ideas gets a little old sometimes, but it is like Elwood J Blues said when the train passes his room. It happens "so often you won't even notice it". My friends laugh at it because it makes me me. The din recedes on very few occasions. Those include whenever my princess is around, 3+ hr motorcycle rides, 3hr + bass fishing trips and occasionally while reading a fictional novel by writers like Tom Clancy.

Today is no different. As I roll through Harrisburg PA the flood grows stronger and is also par for the course. Phase 2 is the corollary to a "Spinal Tap 11". Rerunning the route in my mind, playing out scenarios should I have a breakdown how it would be resolved. How will different mechanical gremlins present themselves in the early stages. These are the melodies playing over the harmonies of Penndot/government inefficiencies and funding, commercial vehicle inspection, the intricacies of customer satisfaction and engagement programs, what high school will be like for an adopted kid in 7 years, and god knows what else.  The melodies and harmonies run concurrently.  My only guess is that in a last ditch effort, my twisted neurons open all valves to full and start dumping in an effort to overload the system.  It doesn't work. Tiger trumps neuron.

By the PA-MD border things are quieting down inside the HJC. Welcome to the zone, we are glad to have you back. Phase 3 is why I ride. Here it is simply scanning for hazards ahead and to the sides.  That's it, nothing else. The symphony gives way to a one fingered solo of chopsticks. I LOVE IT.  I think this is why Buddhists always seem to have a smile.  They were smart enough to spend their life training to be in the zone.  It's like a titty bar for the mind.

Now that my mind is where I want it, I realize the temperature has dropped and I am getting cold. Hunters knows this thermocline event which occurs just before dawn well.  It always surprises me.  I guess I am not so bright.  I neglected to hook my gloves to the wires turtling out from my jacket.  No need to add stress so I hit the rest stop and electrify and I am back on the road in under 2 minutes. No harm no foul. 

Gas light on at 150miles. Silly computer doesn't know its ass from a hole in the ground. I know I can go maybe 75 more miles technically but usually concede to the orange light. Now to look for an easy on easy off a 4:45am in West Virginia. Falling Waters fit the bill 175 miles in.  I get my receipt, and take care of business. Things are going well and I am thrilled. I double check my receipt bag is stowed, the pelican box is locked tight and fumble with the trip reset buttons.

"Sir?  SIR!"

What the... Who's yelling sir so loud at 5am that I can hear through earplugs, a helmet and 1050cc's of the UK's finest?  I thought to ignore it at first and mind my own business, but put the bike back on sidestand and popped the lid on the helmet to see what the ruckus was about.  There was a 20 something girl with a lip ring and fake red hair walking in my general direction.

"Is this wallet yours?"

Epic fail.

You have got to be kidding me.  She went to clean the mens room after I left and it had fallen out of my jacket pocket which I thought was zipped. No matter how many times I F up, this trip seems destined for success. What's the chances that a gas station bathroom is cleaned more than once a day, and that a pierced 20 something graveyard shift worker at said gas station would find my wallet and return it to me,  inside a 3 minute window, with the $300 in tact?  I slipped her 20 for her efforts and kicked myself on down rt 81 south in the dark.

"Sidestand down, unplug gloves, get a receipt, check for your frickin wallet dumbass"

MotoMorphosis (Part 6)

WORK SUCKS.

In all fairness, most, if not all work sucks, that's why we ride on two wheels and supplement our protein intake with bugs, ingested at 70mph like some entomological beer bong.  I happen to like my job for the most part, certainly more than most.  Before I got paid to do what I do, I did it for fun in the comforts of my own home.  To steal a line from "vermin", the "grocery spigot" part of work helps smooth out the rough spots of the day.

The salve of the grocery spigot wasn't working today.

Tonight/tomorrow I leave.  What is 2am anyway? (said in my best Seinfeld voice)  The day was spent tying up loose ends for tomorrows absence, scanning google maps traffic overlays for construction and being generally unproductive.  I rambled more than usual much to my co-workers chagrin, but they are good eggs.  I did get a bonus for my ramblings though when the owner offered to pay for my gas if I did one more thing before I left.  (Note to self: you still haven't filed that expense report dummy).  My indenture clock got punched early on that beautiful day.  What to do?  Riding the tiger seemed semi-foolish as it would add some wear and tear to a posterior I would desperately need to protect in a few hours.

I was tired, it was 3pm.  Allow me to turn back the hands of time 24 hours.  I hate when movies do that without telling me...  So it is now 36 hours before my departure time.  Since I am being honest, I have sleep issues.  I'm not an insomniac per-se, but I fairly regularly stare at the ceiling for no particular reason when the sun no longer allows me to bask in its' glow.  I did not inherit either of my grandfathers genes who were regular working men who woke up at 3am every day of their lives.  Nope, I got that chromosome flipped at birth.  Fortunately, I did inherit their shiny headed hairline.  Wait, that's not good either. Anyway I can't fall asleep once a week or so.  This causes me to enjoy waking up late, every day.

I have a bit of Phaedrus in me.  I haven't finished the book as I type this, but so far at chapter 7, it fits.  I over-analyze.   My knife makes many sand piles then mixes them up to cut them up a different way.  It's a thing..  So, in my utter brilliance, I decide to set the alarm for 4:30am instead of my normal 6:30 snooze-a-thon so I can get my day started.  This will do two things Phaedrus says.  1, I can get the pile of sand on my desk at work cut and filtered for my absence (it's 1 day for god's sake).  2.  More importantly, I will intentionally screw with my circadian rhythm, thus allowing me to sleep long and deep *tomorrow* when it really counts because I will have intentionally made myself tired.  (For those of you who are brain surgeon's, you just picked up on some foreshadowing right? )

So, I had a Sierra Nevada Ruthless Rye while cleaning up the DVR and headed to bed.  Success.  What seemed like 2 minutes later the radio blared "She thinks my tractor's sexy" and it was off to the races.  Refreshed, bright eyed and bushy butt'ed, I scurried around and did my duties.

Fast forward 18 hours.  I'm frickin tired.  My friend Rick came over to verify my odometer for the witness form since start time was 0-dark-thirty.   I had a plan to get to bed early and he wished me luck and bolted early.

Stupid Flyers lose to the stupid devils. No worries, we will take them in the playoffs, we are way better than them. (Ahem, pay attention, more foreshadowing)  The reason seems to be no apparent reason other than they sucked.  Both the post-game show and the post-game-post-game wrapup show seem to share my in depth analysis.  Yup, what I thought was utter brilliance in waking up early appears to have been the infiltration of Wile E. Coyote.  I am a frickin moron.  I can't sleep.  Last time I remember looking at the clock was around midnight.  My tractor is all sexy again 2 hours later.  WTF.  I grab a shower and into my gear I go.  Nothing I can do about it now...

MotoMorphosis (Part 5)

The next few weeks passed rather slowly. My daydreams as well as the ones at night were filled with dashed yellow lines blazing by. The Tiger was checked and rechecked and ridden as the weather permitted. It wasn't enough.

A significant amount of time was spent reading about other people's rides, familiarizing myself with terminology and paying particular attention to others who had failed similar rides and why. The reasons really seemed to run the gamut from mechanical to mental. Mostly mental. Many lost receipts or had other lapses in judgement. Those who made it ranged from completely anal retentive planners, to guys who stayed too long partying with their friends and and had to race back to work the following day 1000 miles away. Other than being properly prepared, there didn't seem to be one sure-fire way to fail or succeed.

Wondering about my mental and physical state as the journey would progress consumed a large percentage of my thoughts. Would my butt hold up longer than my programmer hands, or would it be the other way around? Most imagery had me pulling into town late at night the following day 10 minutes short of 24 hrs. Jim assured me that if I did it right and kept my stops to military precision, I should have no problem making it home by 8pm if I left at 2am, which was my plan.

Jim's a good guy. Funny thing was, as I researched ride reports and read articles ad nauseum, I kept running into a dude sharing the same name as the one with which I was communicating. As stated earlier, I am a fan of the GPS since I got my first GPS 12 from Garmin long, long ago. I read articles on trip planning and learned a bit about rally's. (Note to self: remember to read that Ayers book!) Again, Jim's doppleganger. Turns out, my blind cry in the dark for local wisdom landed on the doorstep of the 2009 Iron Butt Rally champion and routing guru, Jim Owen. I felt a bit like a tool. I am still amazed at the time one of the heroes of this passion took out of their schedule to help a noob grow wings. That's pretty rare in most circles. I wouldn't expect batting practice tips from Ryan Howard or tips on breaking down a play from Brian Dawkins. I could expect Jaworski to talk my ear off about absolutely anything, but that's a different story entirely.

As predicted, my googling started running a bit thin. The weather was still cold. Time to break out Against the Wind.

I am glad that I did.

Against the Wind was quite different than I expected, and I loved it. I had read a little about Ron on various websites. "The executive who also rides a motorcycle". Why is that so shocking to people? I've known a couple fortune 500 execs over the years. Most are pretty normal guys, though some are certainly pompous asses. I think the article writers like the subliminal juxtaposition of smart and dumb. They also tout a neurosurgeon in the same regard. I would learn more about said neurosurgeon in the pages of the book that lay on my lap.

The book didn't lay there for long as I ripped though the contents in a few days. How these guys do/did it amazed me. 1000 mile days for 10 days in a row is just unfathomable for someone who struggled through 700 and paid for it the next day. I thought the account was quite well written and riveting. Enough technical detail for my personal taste, but overlayed quite well with the stories of the participants. I would recommend it highly.

Books done. Research done. Tiger done, and done and done. Damn you March, cut me some slack. You are giving me too much time to think, I just want to do.

Then it happened. The heavens opened. Trumpets sounded. Wednesday March 14, 2012. Sunny, highs near 80, lows in the upper 40's. Probability of precipitation 0%. Winds 5-15. Same forecast for Winchester, Roanoke and Bristol, TN. You have got to be kidding me. It's here. I shot Jim an email letting him know my decision. I scheduled some time with my daughter with my ex and wrote the day off the company vacation calendar.

By god, I am actually going to do this.

MotoMorphosis (Part 4)

Step 1 with the Iron Butt thing is clearly the SaddleSore 1000. There wasn't much mental wrestling with the decision to try it. I would attempt and be successful at the entry level task for this tribe. Power of positive thinking goes a long way, even on long hard roads and unfamiliar adventures. Now for the details. I visited my pal Google maps and started ticking around with 1000 mile routes in all directions. The routes mainly focused on places I had not been rather than New England. I can be hard headed and slightly over-confident in my abilities at times. I am rational however, and realize that for most problems it is best to seek advice from the successfully experienced. How would I go about this?

In researching the requirements of the ride, I ran across a "witness list" (every ride needs at least 2 witnesses for it to be official). Assuming that to make the short list, there had to be some experience there, and the list was no where near 50K people long, I decided to make contact with the tribe for the first time. No, I am no Dr Livingston either.

I found 2 names which were situated quite close to me. This would be ideal because getting out of my area has a number of slab options, most of which are heavily congested being situated equidistant between New York City and Philadelphia. I fired off an email to both names asking for advice. I didn't expect much, but if someone responded, it would certainly be a bonus. If they didn't I would widen the net until some soul took pity on a noob.

1 email bounced immediately for a bad address, but that left the potential for the other one in play. I shut down operations in Dream/Goal HQ and hit the sack with head swirling from all I had been exposed. It was a fine, fine day.

Alarm went off the next morning and I rolled over and checked my phone as is my custom. No disasters at work, all my servers checked in without issue, it was a good day. Then I saw the reply. No kidding, a real live person. I immediately shifted gears right back into adventure mode and read an email from "Jim". It could have said "go away" or "you're crazy", or "saddlesores are for the weak noob, get back to me when you do a real ride".

I didn't.

I received a nice email which began with encouragement that this area was a great place to be located. There were a plethora of roads available to do what I wished. There were several route suggestions, along with talk of circadian rhythms and how that relates to start and finish times. There was a discussion on moving averages and gas stops. I eat that type of information up, and it tickled me right in my nerd spot. Then there was the reminder to have fun because "that's the bottom line". This is further confirmation that this tribe isn't made up solely of mindless machines who obliviously blew by the world at a blistering pace. I was grateful and resolved as the pencil marks were removed from "Goal" and re-written in mental ink.

I reviewed several of the options I had been given. Over the next week there was some great back and forth with Jim as I reviewed my options, being careful to hopefully not overstay my welcome, but gleaning as much as I could in the process. Jim is clearly both knowledgeable and accessible. I learned quite a bit and for that I am very grateful.

I finally decided on a route which would take me from my home to Bristol, TN for a total of 1048 miles. A route I had traveled several times in the past to visit my ex-laws, but one that would gain me MD, WV, VA and TN on my stupid little map. It was February in the mid-Atlantic. My heated gloves are fantastic, but realistically it was a bit chilly to hop on and do the virgin attempt with nighttime temps in the 20's. I am generally a patient man, but I knew it would be a challenge converging mother nature with my life schedule in an acceptable time frame.

Patience grasshopper.

MotoMorphosis (Part 3)

"The 50,000+ members of the Iron Butt Association are dedicated to safe, long-distance motorcycle riding." 50,000. That took a little to get my head around. That's the kind of numbers that gather around the Washington, DC reflection pool for a major event. Nearly the equivalent to the number of fans who pack shoulder to shoulder to see my beloved Eagles on a Sunday afternoon in fall. That's a lot of iron. That's 100,000 cheeks.

So who were these people? Could the numbers be right? I felt a little like Will Smith in I am Legend, pondering the possibility of others like me, but not really sure what to do when you actually run into some. I decided to shelve that 50K number for the time being and move on, otherwise I would have been stuck on the possibility of 1K people per state and how that was possible, especially since I have not seen a single scooter from RI yet. I had seen maybe 10 bikes I can remember that stuck out like something from Mad Max with egg crates strapped to them and enough gizmos to make me jealous. OK, global, that makes sense and drops the averages.

I started to look at the list of "Rides & Rules". I felt a bit limp. The lowest number I could find was 1000 miles in a single day. That's almost 50% more than my best which was a conservative guess of 665 from google maps, not counting the side trips. Not only is 1000 insane, the voice that Moses heard on the mount repeated "50,000". Oh wait, there's one for 1500... Then I saw "The soft glow of electric sex gleaming in the window", to quote Ralphie's Christmas Story.

"48-10"48-10. Here I am sniveling about the Louisiana-purchase, and here's an actual category on the internet in black and white compelling people to do the whole shooten-match in 10 days. Add on to that the anchor of my dreams, the great state of Alaska, and one could then consider themselves "extreme". I am no longer Abby Normal. By god, I am one of the constrained. I've found a league where not only am I not varsity, I got turned away at tryouts for the JV.

I closed the website and got back down to work. Analyzing constraints for pay, not for pleasure. I felt like a kid however who saw their friends father's Playboy at too young an age. I couldn't get it out of my head. It seemed wrong on some level, but on another, it felt oh so right.

"48-10"

How is that possible? Is it a hoax? April Fool's was still months away. From what little I read of the website, it was clear that these guys, and quite a number of women, were not jokers. There had to be something more to it. Not many constraints were analyzed that afternoon. The clock played tricks on me like my namesake's character in Risky Business. It was a relief to get home. I approached my pc with Peanut Butter and Jelly in hand and ticked in IronButt.com like it was going to bite me.

"48-10"

Enough of this shenanigans. There has to be a way. Someone had to do it. Turns out several have. Some dude Kneebone, who appears to be a diety to this tribe. did it. Then he had his record beaten by others, then they quit keeping records. Then I found "the list". 78 people had their names emblazoned on the "48 Plus!" list in 2011 alone. It's not 50K, but I would have found that number absurd had it been cumulative since the first world war.

78. At least I had a new number in my head, though in fairness, 48-10 never really left. As I sit here today and type this some months later, I must admit it remains doggedly affixed to my frontal lobe.

The good thing about programmers, and perhaps why the rest of the world finds us a touch off, is that for us to be able to do our jobs we must salivate over large and complex problems. Frequently these problems are items others have found insurmountable, but we are told to "make it happen". (Then the rest of the office takes a nice long lunch and asks if it's done when they get back.) Take a deep breath Joel. This is just another task, albeit a gargantuan one.

First things first. People with gods typically have words of wisdom, tablets, scrolls or some other holy relic which they hold dear. Words of wisdom give key insights into the operations of a culture, and this culture was as foreign to me as the tribes of Borneo. It didn't take long until I found it, the "Archive of Wisdom".

As is customary for me, I like to guess what's behind door number 3 before I open it, and I always pick door number 3. My guess, 5hr energy is your friend, or maybe vague references to meth like "check your crank regularly". Nah, motorcyclists who live to tell the tale aren't that stupid. Enough of this, click it.

There it was, in blue and white. These guys aren't some sort of Mongol hoard, but quite to the contrary. The Archive of Wisdom is something my evangelical grandmother would have been proud of. Don't drink, don't do drugs, don't speed. These guys don't even do coffee for god's sake. I think I like them, though people who don't drink coffee have to be thoroughly vetted. It's like a skinny chef, but worse. Programmers stay up all night and work through the following day when times get tough. Programmers get a stainless steel Keurig put on their desk instead of bonuses, and yes, we are happy about it.

I re-read the scrolls a couple of times to make sure I didn't miss anything. I perused the forum, and started reading various parts of the site to file off the sharp edges of the shock factor of which I had fallen victim for the last 8 hours. These seemed like fairly normal folks. All different walks life, all different ages and gender. They had a secret though. I don't know what it is, but I have no choice but to move forward in my quest for knowledge of this tribe.

iron butt book Google hadn't failed me the first time, nor did it the second time around. Hit #1 was for Amazon for a fellow named Ron Ayers who wrote a book called "Against the Wind". I saw the same last name on the ironbutt website as well. 1-click buy for a used copy. I didn't realize at the time that it was about an actual structured rally for some reason. I didn't even know those things existed. It was an impulse buy for when I ran out of patience with the goog in a week or so. If it was self promoting fluff, the used copy didn't cost me much so no harm, no foul.

MotoMorphosis (Part 2)

Welcome back. If you made it through part 1, you are either a psychologist looking for fodder for your next paper, or, perhaps, there are others out there like me. I'm betting on the prior, but over the last few months, I have realized that I am not as alone in my thoughts as I once believed.

In fairness, the logo of the Iron Butt Association above is not where my journey started. That would have been easier, but it may have proved a little daunting had it been the case. I guess technically the idea started with watching Long Way Round. I've never ridden off road, though I will. The miles were not huge by super slab standards. But two well-heeled dudes had a dream and a passion and they made it a reality. My little girl is 8 and I can't hardly stand to leave her for the week which I ride in the summer. I do realize that those kind of trips are a mental requirement for my makeup and it doesn't necessarily make me a bad dad to take 7 days away. I can't envision taking the months away required to go around the world, nor can my mortgage company. Making that kind of trip a dreamers dream. Maybe in 10 years and 1 Mega-Millions jackpot it will be a reality, but it's not a goal. Goals are things I achieve. Dreams are things that keep me interested between goals.

Long Way Round led me to Jupiter. Not via space travel, but via Ted Simon's excellent book Jupiters Travels, and the follow-up Dreaming of Jupiter. Now don't go all Lloyd Bentsen on me, but I feel a distant kinship to Mr Simon. He picked up and decided to ride a motorcycle, seemingly out of nowhere, at about the same age as I. He had a desire and passion that 2 wheeled adventure allowed him to satiate. He over-packed. He didn't have lots of friends who rode (now he does, seemingly to his chagrin). He is a man with thoughts and feelings, not a machine who simply hopped on and bore down. He had doubts, failures, successes and "moments" about how he fit in to the collective. Through it all, his tires on his Triumph rolled, but stopping where and when he felt to enjoy his journey.

If I am no Jack Kennedy, Charley Boorman, Ewan McGregor or Ted Simon, then who am I? Well, I'm Joel, and I am damned pleased to meet you. So. Riding around the world was out, but the adventure was in. What next? I had heard the term Iron Butt before, but I do not recall it being associated with motorcycles. On a whim, because I knew not having one would be the Achilles heel to the implementation of a dream, err goal, I used my pal Google to see what made an Iron Butt, simply out of jest. "The Goog" on the innerweb doesn't mess around. No sir. "How do I get an Iron Butt" your protagonist types. Iron Butt Association is hit number 1. He clicks, he scores....

MotoMorphosis (Part 1)

I am not Iron Man. I am not a Hawaiian athlete, a comic book character, nor the subject of a Black Sabbath refrain. I am a programmer and single dad with a mortgage and a land yacht. I have however had an odd tendency since I was young to try and go a little further, a little more extreme, and push what I believe to be my limit more that what some consider "normal". My mom said I had an iron will. My ex-wife probably used different grammar. Neither were intended as compliments. I don't think Gene Wilder's Abby Normal applies, at least in a pathological sort of way. I just believe that others feel comfortable with constraints whether they are self applied, or externally-inflicted by societal pressures. Constraints generally make me chafe.

I have a number of passions in my life. Although fatherhood dominates the list, I love to fish, pursue whitetail deer and turkey with my bow, be a computer nerd, and try and be a good friend. I find this motorcycle thing to be somewhat transformative (to plagiarize the owner of my company's favorite word). This month marks 20,000 miles and the second anniversary since I first straddled my 1982 Suzuki GS750T. Pulling out of that craigslist driveway in Emmaus, PA for my virgin motorcycle voyage was an excellent decision. The intent was to see if I liked motorcycles as much as mountain bikes, 4-wheelers, and automobiles, all while saving some gas money and letting my truck last an extra 5-10 years.

I did. I do. It may not.

Last year's Cabot Trail trip was an eye opener for me on many levels. I learned much about myself. I also added a number of questions to the list, a list which continues to grow as I ruminate on that adventure. I always knew that I liked to plan trip routes and mess with a GPS, but hated reservations that forced a day to progress past what I wanted, or demanded a premature conclusion. I consider Google Maps a close personal friend. I'm different and I get it.

Fall doesn't see much riding except for commuting to work due to being interrupted by hunting season. This was an exceptionally mild winter allowing the wheels to continue to roll. If there is not ice on the street or thunderstorms blazing on my AccuWeather android app, I ride. Cabin fever was bad as always this year, it started right on time in mid January with the Dakar Rally. I started researching rides in the Nevada desert that would get me the hell out of here. I found some, but it seemed silly on some level to fly to ride. I realized I just wanted to ride and for the grips of winter to be loosed.

It started with a map on EPGSoft.com. I have visited all but 6 US states now and have been to 4 Canadian provinces. That took me 42 years. I started messing around with states I have been on my motorcycle on the epgsoft website. It's kind of a pathetic list, but growing. I noted the states around PA where I have not been and everything with color so far has been north. Weak . There is so much west and south. Could I do all of them on a motorcycle? No way. In planning my riding vacation this summer, the intent was to put a foot in each of the great lakes. 7 day trip, 450 miles a day, 3,150 miles. It could be a good trip. What about 2013? I could go south and do Florida and back, but I spent a lot of time on 95 as a kid going back and forth to S Carolina and it doesn't rock my world. 2014? Hmm, states are flipping color rapidly in Vanna White style in my mental map. I appear to be at my limit for a 7 day trip already. 2014 would have to be a repeat of existing travels. That just doesn't seem right. It doesn't seem fair. I don't want to wait until I retire to explore 1/2 of this country. At this rate, I may never retire anyway. My states visited map on my tombstone will look like a map of the colonies, pre-Louisiana purchase. This will not do.

The life of a programmer involves a world of constraints. The world of Joel and his Triumph Tiger 1050 is constrained only by desire and speed limits. Perhaps it is the yang to my nerdy yin. To make improvement, constraints must be re-evaluated then confirmed, improved, or bypassed. I am too hardheaded to confirm most constraints. Bypassing in this case would involve shipping a motorcycle, flying to meet it and riding back home. It's an expensive proposition and I've been accused of being cheap from time to time. I also watched Long Way Round this winter and saw Ewan McGregor's mighty GS come off the plane in Alaska on it's side. It also seems kind of feeble, and I don't have that kind of constitution.

That leaves improved. I got my first ever performance award from the PA State Police on New Year's eve this year (in the truck). I don't want to go through that again. Thus, improvement cannot be made with speed. Lesson learned.

That leaves 2 options: If _Weak = True Exit Dream. If _Weak = False then _DailyMileLimit += x.

Now to solve for X. How much is reasonable? How much is unreasonable? How much is safe? Where does the law of diminishing returns intersect on the enjoyment vs tedium slopes? My friends, and people I meet on the road already think I am crazy for enjoying 450 miles in a day for several days in a row. I don't know any other motorcyclists who ride further than I do (in the interest of full disclosure, I really only know 3 other 2 wheelers in the flesh), but the guys at the shop when I had service done thought I was crazy, both here and in Moncton, NB. They have a fairly large population to sample from I would guess. I look at websites for motorcycle roads and people take what I did last summer and take a month off to do it when they retire. Even most of the hardcore riders I met up on the Cabot Trail ended up trailering to Maine or Moncton to do their epic ride.

I'm not the most social guy with strangers, so that leaves me with the internet, and there, I feel more at home. Perhaps that's why I like being beneath my HJC. I am invincible, invisible and anonymous all at the same time, all while learning and experiencing more than I can possibly retain.