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I'm back.
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It was just another day like no one other before it.. One of those days where, intentions not withstanding, the gods had me in their thoughts and planned a luau around the event.
I had a simple plan, really. Just meet up with a few riding buds and head for what is locally known as the "Lakes Area". It's sort of strange, I guess, for a "Land of Ten Thousand Lakes" to have a "Lakes Area". The lakes seem to be everywhere, so why note any particular portion of the state? But I digress.
Get used to it.
I suppose if I really liked to motor around the local lakes, I would have bought a big power boat years ago instead of a motorcycle. For a biker, though, it's not the lakes that are particularly interesting, but the fact that roads generally go around them and, as lakes have undulating shorelines, the adjacent roadways oftentimes have undulating geometrics. In the Midwest then, where you can sometimes see dead flat and unbroken fields of beets for miles on end, the state highway can extend for tens of miles with nary a hint of deflection. Lake areas (and swamp areas and river areas) give this biker the chance to turn, and turning is one of the primary pleasures of the sport.
The mission, then, was to find someplace to turn, turn, and turn some more. The mission was also to find some tasty local barbeque. The mission was also to witness the shrine of Saint Urho. The mission was to ride somewhere.
For those painfully unaware, Urho has long been the beloved patron of Finnish vineyard laborers (I'll let you know when I start making things up). In ancient Finland, workers would move cautiously through the fields of wild grapes, ever watchful for the giant bears which (here's where the story gets sketchy) would steal their pic-a-nic baskets. Bears weren't the real problem. No. It was grasshoppers. Monstrous, saber toothed grasshoppers and, to believe the scale of the big fiberglass Urho, they were two feet long and as big as your thigh.
Only three words can describe these incredibly large insects – big freaking bugs. And there was only one saint with the Finnish language skills to rid them from the countryside. So, says the legend, pre-sainted Urho stood between the vineyards and the grasshoppers and exclaimed, "Grasshopper, grasshopper, go away". Miraculously (since that's how you get to become a saint), the grasshoppers went away,... and there was much rejoicing.
And that's about it for Menagha, Minnesota.
And for this, we rode hundreds of miles one way? Yes, absolutely. We met at the Sinclaire in Maple Grove, juiced up and headed northwest into 45 degrees and a steady rain up I-94 and past Saint Cloud to drier roads near Sauk Center, where we turned north on US 71. Made a brief stop to make a few gear adjustments and wound our way through one picturesque little community after another. Gassed up again in Menagha post-Urho and started our eastern leg onto county highways.
Up to Menagha, the roads had been mostly straight, but much of the next hundred or so miles was routed on curvy roads situated between scores of lakes. With temperatures now in the 70's and sunny skies, this would be the highlight of the trip and would take us through to lunch.
But then things got interesting. As instructed by my GPS, I dutifully made a left turn and found myself leading our group onto a gravel road. "Odd", I thought, as I specifically told the device to keep me on the pavement. You see, the Yamaha FJR 1300, while a most capable street bike, tends to underperform when the pavement ends. Craig, Todd, and Ric, however, were all riding GS1200's, BMW's adventure tourer.
Despite not wanting to ride the rocks, I've done my share, so I kept moving forward, confident that the three GS's would be happy to spend a little time less civilized.
A half mile later, I checked my mirrors to see all three trailing bikes fully stopped in the middle of the road and well behind. Assuming the worst, I turned around and rode back to join them, only to find they had taken the opportunity of this deserted country lane to water the flowers, so to speak. Haven't they ever heard of the Stadium Pal? With a sigh, I turned around again and continued.
At the two mile marker, the road was in good shape and I crossed Bunny Hill Road at close to 50 mph. Now, what was the deal with Bunny Hills, I pondered. It took me a second to remember that bunny hills were those mildly sloped portions of mountain resorts, where the uninitiated could try their hand at skiing prior getting creamed on the double diamonds.
And as I made this realization, I realized I was going sideways as the rock disappeared entirely and was replaced by soft and sinking sand. Well, maybe not entirely sideways, but to hear the others tell it, my rear tire was dancing three or four feet from side to side at it lost traction and the front wheel plowed into the earth.
In retrospect, I might have foreseen the changing conditions had I been thinking, but I never would have survived it upright had I been doing so. The key to staying on two wheels was not thinking at all, but staying loose and working with the bike (I'm sure it didn't want to go down, either). The sand was going to slow us down, regardless of our attitude, I just needed to stay vertical.
Again in retrospect, thinking hard prior to the change in "pavement" would have been futile, as two of the three following bikes were also caught off guard, despite seeing my wobbly ballet a couple of seconds earlier. Enjoying the countryside, enjoying the day - that lack of tension is what kept me on two wheels.
Fun! And now that the fun's over, we'll just move forward for a few hundred yards and the gravel will return like it always does,... almost always does. In this case, it was another three miles of soft, saturated, and rutted sand, then four miles of wet and inconsistent aggregate washboards before we found the tarmac again at MN 64. Later on, we found over an inch of sand stuck to the inside rim of one of the GS's rear wheel, testament to how deep we were sinking.
Now it was overcast, the temperature was down below 60, and we had wasted quite a bit of time off road. I was cold and hungry, and needed to boost my sprits just to keep my head in the game. In this regard, Crow Wing County highways fit the bill, winding around Ossawinnamakee, Hay, Whitefish, Pig, Cross, Pine, Greer, Adney and other lakes and down a narrow Mississippi River valley from just north of Jenkins to almost Crosby.
Now enter the Black Dog. Or rather, we entered the Black Dog (at the River and MN 6 at Wolford), which satisfied all barbeque requirements for road warriors - they had barbeque and they were open. It was good food (great ribs in a honeyed sauce with tater tots) and a great place to tell lies about how we almost didn't survive the sand below Bunny Hill Road. More than one had unsuccessfully adopted an Urho-based mantra, "sand, sand, go away".
Bellies full, we made a few gear adjustments and headed southeast towards Mille Lacs. There, we found a fog bank over the highway, caused by the warmer day and the remains of the ice along the western shore of the lake. A cool and special effect, which lowered the surrounding temperature to near 40 again. South of Milaca, US 169 turns to a divided four lane facility and runs dang straight back to the Cities. Sunny again, and almost 80 degrees as we got closer to home.
We bade our sayonaras at a petrol dump in Elk River, were we first heard, and then watched as a boat and trailer became disattached from their tow vehicle. At low speed and witnessed from a safe distance, this sort of thing can be really funny. Fortunately, this incident was at low speed and witnessed from a safe distance. Hence, really funny.
All told, a great day. Hot and cold. Wet and dry. Paved and not. Giant saint. No morons. No enforcement. Lots of horsepower. Freedom of the open road. And just the right amount of adventure for a suburbanite on a Saturday. It's the sort of day, the sort of ride, that sticks with you for a while. My thought is that it will tide me over until I get back from Baghdad.
Read More......
2007-05-05
2005-08-31
Springfield Ride Report, Part 3
Party of the Third Part.
I’ve always been a morning person, so there’s never much wasted daylight when I ride. Besides, morning air is crisp and morning traffic is light, my morning mood is good and there’s nothing in my way for the first tank of the day. Once I-5 is added from Redding north to Green and I bordered on elation. I had left the oppressive heat in the lower altitudes and thoroughly enjoyed the most non-boring stretch of Interstate that I’d ever traversed. It seemed to be nothing but high-speed interconnected reverse curves for a hundred miles as it wound its way up and down through the Cascades. Another IMMHOTPSLCHBR to be sure. Only once was my elation deflated – that during a poor restaurant choice. I try to avoid the chains when I ride, butt that rule of thumb wasn’t enough. This was all error on my part – a faux rock and roll chromium diner, next to the highway, with empty parking lot and C&W on the muzak. I’m embarrassed just thinking about it.
Immediately east of Eugene, Oregon was my next Springfield, and I had to ride all the way through town to find a “Welcome to” sign for the annals. A block away from the city sign was one erected by the Chamber of Commerce, proclaiming the community as one of “People, Pride, Progress” and, for further alliteration, one Picturesque Periwinkle Paintball, left splattered on the Chambers propaganda by a less than satisfied customer.
I turned off of the Interstate at Corvallis, and followed US 20 over the coastal range to Newport. I’ve always enjoyed a ride up the northern Oregon coast, butt anticipate that this will be my last. Not that I’m that close to death today, it’s just that there are so many other places to ride, another ride here means one less ride there, and there’re too many places I have yet to see. Regardless, this ride was as stunning as the last, especially during a little seaward detour to Cape Lookout and through the dunes south of Tillimook. What’s with the ship outside of the cheese factory, anyway? Is it a remnant of some ancient curd trawling fleet?
Approaching Astoria on US 101 I came across a nasty accident involving an inverted convertible and big rocks. By the time I got there, the government was busy getting things under control, so there was only a ten minute delay in working through the site. Shortly thereafter, I came across another accident on the causeway over Youngs Bay. This time, the delay was markedly longer, owing to the larger pool of gaping morons available in town. By the time I was through, my clutch arm was aching and the skies were darkening. My maps showed little civilization on the Washington side of the Columbia and it was starting to rain. I’d have to kick it up a bit if I wanted to find a dry campsite before dark, so I motored over the bridge and continued north along the Pacific.
A very small “Campsites yonder” sign immediately preceded some very hard braking and the left turn to (Willapa) Bay Center, where I had a choice between a mostly primitive, poorly graded, moist, awfully mossy, sort of run down County campground and a pristine, RV filled KOA. I went the County route and was rewarded with a quiet, private site beneath a canopy of monstrous redwoods. I finished supper in the dark and slept well, pleased with the day’s progress and anticipating a shorter ride the next day into Seattle.
When I awoke, I realized that the rain I dreaded yesterday was the same rain as this morning, and it was just the Olympic Peninsula doing its thing. I can deal with moist.
I would have like to have seen Mount Olympus. Unfortunately, during the brief moments that the fog and drizzle would clear, the upper level clouds obscured the peak. Ah well. The ride was great – not too crowded, not too wet for visibility, electrics on half power. The gods of the ride were smiling on me that day as the skies cleared during my approach to Beaver, warming my spirits and drying the pavement so that I could fully utilize a brief detour onto SR 113/112, which runs along the Strait of Juan de Fuca for about 50 miles of intense, scrape the metal bits, laugh like hell, brain working overtime to keep the experience from blowing out the back of your head, laugh like hell some more riding. We just don’t have roads like that in Minnesota. By the time I was back on US 101 and reached Port Angeles, the clouds and spit were back.
The Edmonds-Kingston Ferry carried me over the Sound (I love the first-on-first-off treatment of bikes) and I arrived at my brother’s place in Seattle/Queen Anne in time for a late lunch. I would stay here for a day, rest my arse and see the sights.
Thirty-eight hours later and I was on the road again, over the floating bridge, back on the slab and heading to Sunnyside for a new set of Avons. [Why mounting and balancing took over two hours is well beyond the ability of my tiny brain to comprehend, but it did.] I continued east and found US 12 at Waitsburg, then Lewis’ and Clarks’ towns, then up the Clearwater to Kooskis, and then that beautiful seventy-seven miles of curvy road that follows the Clearwater’s middle fork up to the Lolo Pass. This is a road I’d do again, butt I’d get the electrics on sooner the next time. As it was, I could feel that my core was chilling, so I called it a day/night in Missoula, finding a not-so-cheap Ponderosa Lodge on the east side of town. Rooms would have been cheaper the week before, but school wasn’t starting the week before (Go Grizzlies!).
The next morning I woke up as a home horse. My plan had been to go to Great Falls to check out a project site, then travel US 2 across the Northern Plains, butt as soon as I thought of being home, I had to be home, and nothing was going to delay that fact. Okay, there was some delay, butt I was still headed directly home. I was on the road about 0500, and into the Rockies shortly thereafter, and then into the fog, then thirty foot visibility, and I was still headed uphill into the clouds. There was no way I was going to stop and wait it out, I’d be rear ended for sure, so I switched on the flashers and crept along at 20 miles per hour – into the sleet - into the snow. During this hour, the F-word was my mantra, and I kept on keeping on. By the time I got to Butte I had cleared the precipitation, butt I was also cold and damp, and needed a good thaw, hot coffee, a donut six pack, and another layer before I could move on. By the time this business was done, the rain had caught up to me, as had my mantra and my will to sleep in my own bed. I pressed forward.
Once out of the rain, I entered the heat and shed a few layers. For the rest of the slab through Montana I enjoyed a steady thirty knot north wind, which pressed my helmet so hard against my left ear for so long that I thought I’d be deformed. Fortunately, through all of North Dakota I enjoyed a steady thirty knot south wind, which flattened my right ear uniformly. Night was falling with the temperature by the time I got to Fargo, so I added another layer, scarfed down a couple of Oatmeal Cream Pies and a Red Bull, gassed up for the last time, and made the run to the barn, completing nearly twelve hundred miles on my last day out in just less than seventeen hours, in spite of the time I had lost early in the day.
In total, I made it to four more Springfields during eleven days out. Only twenty-six to go. Read More......
I’ve always been a morning person, so there’s never much wasted daylight when I ride. Besides, morning air is crisp and morning traffic is light, my morning mood is good and there’s nothing in my way for the first tank of the day. Once I-5 is added from Redding north to Green and I bordered on elation. I had left the oppressive heat in the lower altitudes and thoroughly enjoyed the most non-boring stretch of Interstate that I’d ever traversed. It seemed to be nothing but high-speed interconnected reverse curves for a hundred miles as it wound its way up and down through the Cascades. Another IMMHOTPSLCHBR to be sure. Only once was my elation deflated – that during a poor restaurant choice. I try to avoid the chains when I ride, butt that rule of thumb wasn’t enough. This was all error on my part – a faux rock and roll chromium diner, next to the highway, with empty parking lot and C&W on the muzak. I’m embarrassed just thinking about it.
Immediately east of Eugene, Oregon was my next Springfield, and I had to ride all the way through town to find a “Welcome to” sign for the annals. A block away from the city sign was one erected by the Chamber of Commerce, proclaiming the community as one of “People, Pride, Progress” and, for further alliteration, one Picturesque Periwinkle Paintball, left splattered on the Chambers propaganda by a less than satisfied customer.
I turned off of the Interstate at Corvallis, and followed US 20 over the coastal range to Newport. I’ve always enjoyed a ride up the northern Oregon coast, butt anticipate that this will be my last. Not that I’m that close to death today, it’s just that there are so many other places to ride, another ride here means one less ride there, and there’re too many places I have yet to see. Regardless, this ride was as stunning as the last, especially during a little seaward detour to Cape Lookout and through the dunes south of Tillimook. What’s with the ship outside of the cheese factory, anyway? Is it a remnant of some ancient curd trawling fleet?
Approaching Astoria on US 101 I came across a nasty accident involving an inverted convertible and big rocks. By the time I got there, the government was busy getting things under control, so there was only a ten minute delay in working through the site. Shortly thereafter, I came across another accident on the causeway over Youngs Bay. This time, the delay was markedly longer, owing to the larger pool of gaping morons available in town. By the time I was through, my clutch arm was aching and the skies were darkening. My maps showed little civilization on the Washington side of the Columbia and it was starting to rain. I’d have to kick it up a bit if I wanted to find a dry campsite before dark, so I motored over the bridge and continued north along the Pacific.
A very small “Campsites yonder” sign immediately preceded some very hard braking and the left turn to (Willapa) Bay Center, where I had a choice between a mostly primitive, poorly graded, moist, awfully mossy, sort of run down County campground and a pristine, RV filled KOA. I went the County route and was rewarded with a quiet, private site beneath a canopy of monstrous redwoods. I finished supper in the dark and slept well, pleased with the day’s progress and anticipating a shorter ride the next day into Seattle.
When I awoke, I realized that the rain I dreaded yesterday was the same rain as this morning, and it was just the Olympic Peninsula doing its thing. I can deal with moist.
I would have like to have seen Mount Olympus. Unfortunately, during the brief moments that the fog and drizzle would clear, the upper level clouds obscured the peak. Ah well. The ride was great – not too crowded, not too wet for visibility, electrics on half power. The gods of the ride were smiling on me that day as the skies cleared during my approach to Beaver, warming my spirits and drying the pavement so that I could fully utilize a brief detour onto SR 113/112, which runs along the Strait of Juan de Fuca for about 50 miles of intense, scrape the metal bits, laugh like hell, brain working overtime to keep the experience from blowing out the back of your head, laugh like hell some more riding. We just don’t have roads like that in Minnesota. By the time I was back on US 101 and reached Port Angeles, the clouds and spit were back.
The Edmonds-Kingston Ferry carried me over the Sound (I love the first-on-first-off treatment of bikes) and I arrived at my brother’s place in Seattle/Queen Anne in time for a late lunch. I would stay here for a day, rest my arse and see the sights.
Thirty-eight hours later and I was on the road again, over the floating bridge, back on the slab and heading to Sunnyside for a new set of Avons. [Why mounting and balancing took over two hours is well beyond the ability of my tiny brain to comprehend, but it did.] I continued east and found US 12 at Waitsburg, then Lewis’ and Clarks’ towns, then up the Clearwater to Kooskis, and then that beautiful seventy-seven miles of curvy road that follows the Clearwater’s middle fork up to the Lolo Pass. This is a road I’d do again, butt I’d get the electrics on sooner the next time. As it was, I could feel that my core was chilling, so I called it a day/night in Missoula, finding a not-so-cheap Ponderosa Lodge on the east side of town. Rooms would have been cheaper the week before, but school wasn’t starting the week before (Go Grizzlies!).
The next morning I woke up as a home horse. My plan had been to go to Great Falls to check out a project site, then travel US 2 across the Northern Plains, butt as soon as I thought of being home, I had to be home, and nothing was going to delay that fact. Okay, there was some delay, butt I was still headed directly home. I was on the road about 0500, and into the Rockies shortly thereafter, and then into the fog, then thirty foot visibility, and I was still headed uphill into the clouds. There was no way I was going to stop and wait it out, I’d be rear ended for sure, so I switched on the flashers and crept along at 20 miles per hour – into the sleet - into the snow. During this hour, the F-word was my mantra, and I kept on keeping on. By the time I got to Butte I had cleared the precipitation, butt I was also cold and damp, and needed a good thaw, hot coffee, a donut six pack, and another layer before I could move on. By the time this business was done, the rain had caught up to me, as had my mantra and my will to sleep in my own bed. I pressed forward.
Once out of the rain, I entered the heat and shed a few layers. For the rest of the slab through Montana I enjoyed a steady thirty knot north wind, which pressed my helmet so hard against my left ear for so long that I thought I’d be deformed. Fortunately, through all of North Dakota I enjoyed a steady thirty knot south wind, which flattened my right ear uniformly. Night was falling with the temperature by the time I got to Fargo, so I added another layer, scarfed down a couple of Oatmeal Cream Pies and a Red Bull, gassed up for the last time, and made the run to the barn, completing nearly twelve hundred miles on my last day out in just less than seventeen hours, in spite of the time I had lost early in the day.
In total, I made it to four more Springfields during eleven days out. Only twenty-six to go. Read More......
2005-08-30
Springfield Ride Report, Part 2
Party of the Second Part.
I’m not one for too much hype, I also tend to trust people, so when someone tells me that they have the largest ball of twine, my assumption is that they’ve found a way to measure other balls of twine and compare them to their own. Mass, diameter, or length of component twine are all valid ways to measure a twine ball, butt what exactly are units of loneliness? I only ask because I think the US 50 Tourist Bureau owes me an explanation. To compare specific lonely locations, I’d offer that loneliness can be quantified by human contacts per hour (including face to face contacts, waves to/at farmers, and passed cars). If so, the hundred miles of SR 278 from Tyrol to Eureka, Nevada (less than 1 human contact per hour), is markedly lonelier than the 200 miles of US 50 from Eureka to Fernley (greater than 2 human contacts per hour). Who gets the nastigram?
South of Gerlach, the Valentine erupted and I knew, too late, that I was pegged at twenty over by some LEO. I immediately slowed to the limit, looking for a place to pull over and giving him a chance to catch up. I became concerned for him after a few minutes and decided to pull off the road and wait, not wanting to initiate anything resembling a chase. This is where I became pissed because, despite reading the various rants on this list for six years, I don’t recall anyone warning that the “shoulders” of SR 447 leading to Gerlach are nothing butt pea gravel, which makes a heavy bike very unstable, especially when braking. If you’ve ever wondered how a truck escape ramp works to slow a runaway tractor-trailer, ride into a sea of marbles or the aforementioned highway shoulder. The tires sink half way to the rims, and steering inputs are met with nothing butt shoved marbles. Funny thing is (not funny, “ha ha” butt funny, “@!*^$@!”) the cop never showed. In retrospect, I was on that section of the highway that runs into and out of the Pyramid Lake Indian Reservation, so there may have been a jurisdictional issue related to my potential performance award. Hmm.
I was stopped anyway, so I took a picture of the flats and then forced the bike back onto the road and northbound, arriving at Bruno’s in the early afternoon. I had no idea that I’d make such good time across Nevada, so I cancelled my deluxe accommodations, had a very cold soda, lost two dollars in the slots (my gambling budget for the trip) and continued northwest into California. This road would be great, by the way, if only the pavement didn’t suck so hard. South of Cedarville, I waited for forty minutes for the pilot car at a resurfacing (“fog seal”) project. When I finally got moving again, I was the only piloted vehicle (take_that_ too, US 50). On the map, at least, US 395 looked too sterile, so I headed west to SR 139 before heading south again, camping north of Susanville on the west side of Eagle Lake.
The next morning I returned to Nevada, trying to make the least of Reno and Carson City and get back to the lonelier highways. By and large, lonely highways and I weren’t going to interact for a while, as I was headed into the Sacramento Valley. Butt first, Yosemite from east to west. Spectacular. Truly.
Even with multiple stops for picture taking, I traversed the park still hours ahead of schedule, so I canceled my reservations at the Hodgdon Meadow campground and continued west on SR 120 which, despite the traffic, was a great descent – twisty, vista-ed, not so crowded that I couldn’t pass. From here to Lodi was, at times, a real hoot. These seem to be old, old roads, hold outs from the gold rush days and constructed long before the advent of parabolic vertical curves and appropriate stopping sight distances. Great fun to ride as they were mostly unpredictable, keeping me on the edge of my seat (left and right edges, to varying degrees).
Just past Squabbletown (butt a bit before Tuttletown) is Springfield, California. If you trust the instructions from S&T, you’ll only find a monument to Columbia, butt go west another mile, and then north a mile, and you’ll find a monument to Springfield, planted there only as a reminder that Mark Twain used to live near by. Few remnants of the town remain, not much more than the historic trout farm. I read the plaque, captured a couple of images and headed northwest on SR 49 through Calaveras County. In San Andreas I stopped for fuel and liquids, parking in a corner of the lot for some relative privacy and started to remove the layers I had donned that morning in anticipation of the chill at 12,000 feet through Yosemite. Here, it was two miles closer to the earth’s molten core and very much the time to wear less.
Butt damn my modesty (or was it in fact a public service) that I refused to strip down to my shorts before completing my conversation with a couple of temporarily caged Beemerphiles who showed some curiosity and interest in the ride. I suppose I could have shortened this conversation, butt they were bikers and it was the first actual conversation that I’d had in a few days. Ultimately, I got some route information from them, as well as a few lane-splitting pointers. I thanked them for that butt ignored their preferred method for avoiding the congestion through Sacramento (“stop for ice cream somewhere until it lets up”).
I’ve ridden through worse than Sacramento rush hour traffic. Again, it was the heat that was the issue northbound up I-5. Plenty of liquids, as always, was key to my survival. That, and keeping the ‘Stich zipped up tight. I’d rather stew in my own juices than ride into an industrial sized blow dryer. I knew that I’d need air conditioning that night and settled into a nice room at the Redding Travel Lodge. Unloaded and freshly bathed, I emerged from my room cleaner, but no less scruffy, and walked down the street to enjoy a couple of burritos from the panel truck parked at the gas station by the corner. Read More......
I’m not one for too much hype, I also tend to trust people, so when someone tells me that they have the largest ball of twine, my assumption is that they’ve found a way to measure other balls of twine and compare them to their own. Mass, diameter, or length of component twine are all valid ways to measure a twine ball, butt what exactly are units of loneliness? I only ask because I think the US 50 Tourist Bureau owes me an explanation. To compare specific lonely locations, I’d offer that loneliness can be quantified by human contacts per hour (including face to face contacts, waves to/at farmers, and passed cars). If so, the hundred miles of SR 278 from Tyrol to Eureka, Nevada (less than 1 human contact per hour), is markedly lonelier than the 200 miles of US 50 from Eureka to Fernley (greater than 2 human contacts per hour). Who gets the nastigram?
South of Gerlach, the Valentine erupted and I knew, too late, that I was pegged at twenty over by some LEO. I immediately slowed to the limit, looking for a place to pull over and giving him a chance to catch up. I became concerned for him after a few minutes and decided to pull off the road and wait, not wanting to initiate anything resembling a chase. This is where I became pissed because, despite reading the various rants on this list for six years, I don’t recall anyone warning that the “shoulders” of SR 447 leading to Gerlach are nothing butt pea gravel, which makes a heavy bike very unstable, especially when braking. If you’ve ever wondered how a truck escape ramp works to slow a runaway tractor-trailer, ride into a sea of marbles or the aforementioned highway shoulder. The tires sink half way to the rims, and steering inputs are met with nothing butt shoved marbles. Funny thing is (not funny, “ha ha” butt funny, “@!*^$@!”) the cop never showed. In retrospect, I was on that section of the highway that runs into and out of the Pyramid Lake Indian Reservation, so there may have been a jurisdictional issue related to my potential performance award. Hmm.
I was stopped anyway, so I took a picture of the flats and then forced the bike back onto the road and northbound, arriving at Bruno’s in the early afternoon. I had no idea that I’d make such good time across Nevada, so I cancelled my deluxe accommodations, had a very cold soda, lost two dollars in the slots (my gambling budget for the trip) and continued northwest into California. This road would be great, by the way, if only the pavement didn’t suck so hard. South of Cedarville, I waited for forty minutes for the pilot car at a resurfacing (“fog seal”) project. When I finally got moving again, I was the only piloted vehicle (take_that_ too, US 50). On the map, at least, US 395 looked too sterile, so I headed west to SR 139 before heading south again, camping north of Susanville on the west side of Eagle Lake.
The next morning I returned to Nevada, trying to make the least of Reno and Carson City and get back to the lonelier highways. By and large, lonely highways and I weren’t going to interact for a while, as I was headed into the Sacramento Valley. Butt first, Yosemite from east to west. Spectacular. Truly.
Even with multiple stops for picture taking, I traversed the park still hours ahead of schedule, so I canceled my reservations at the Hodgdon Meadow campground and continued west on SR 120 which, despite the traffic, was a great descent – twisty, vista-ed, not so crowded that I couldn’t pass. From here to Lodi was, at times, a real hoot. These seem to be old, old roads, hold outs from the gold rush days and constructed long before the advent of parabolic vertical curves and appropriate stopping sight distances. Great fun to ride as they were mostly unpredictable, keeping me on the edge of my seat (left and right edges, to varying degrees).
Just past Squabbletown (butt a bit before Tuttletown) is Springfield, California. If you trust the instructions from S&T, you’ll only find a monument to Columbia, butt go west another mile, and then north a mile, and you’ll find a monument to Springfield, planted there only as a reminder that Mark Twain used to live near by. Few remnants of the town remain, not much more than the historic trout farm. I read the plaque, captured a couple of images and headed northwest on SR 49 through Calaveras County. In San Andreas I stopped for fuel and liquids, parking in a corner of the lot for some relative privacy and started to remove the layers I had donned that morning in anticipation of the chill at 12,000 feet through Yosemite. Here, it was two miles closer to the earth’s molten core and very much the time to wear less.
Butt damn my modesty (or was it in fact a public service) that I refused to strip down to my shorts before completing my conversation with a couple of temporarily caged Beemerphiles who showed some curiosity and interest in the ride. I suppose I could have shortened this conversation, butt they were bikers and it was the first actual conversation that I’d had in a few days. Ultimately, I got some route information from them, as well as a few lane-splitting pointers. I thanked them for that butt ignored their preferred method for avoiding the congestion through Sacramento (“stop for ice cream somewhere until it lets up”).
I’ve ridden through worse than Sacramento rush hour traffic. Again, it was the heat that was the issue northbound up I-5. Plenty of liquids, as always, was key to my survival. That, and keeping the ‘Stich zipped up tight. I’d rather stew in my own juices than ride into an industrial sized blow dryer. I knew that I’d need air conditioning that night and settled into a nice room at the Redding Travel Lodge. Unloaded and freshly bathed, I emerged from my room cleaner, but no less scruffy, and walked down the street to enjoy a couple of burritos from the panel truck parked at the gas station by the corner. Read More......
2005-08-29
Springfield Ride Report, Part 1
My current excuse to ride is my Springfield quest. This could be a nod to the Simpsons, I suppose, butt more likely it’s just an excuse. To pursue them all, I’ll need to trek from the Midwest to Maine, Florida, California, Oregon, and 29 other states in the process. My most recent extended kitchen pass sent me west last August, through more small towns that I could ever remember, except for the Springfields. This, by the bye, is my first ride report, submitted for your edification in three parts, at a mere 0.52 words per mile.
Party of the First Part.
I suppose I could have left the house before dark on the first day, butt there was a certain appeal to staying in bed for a few more hours before an extended trip away from the wife. Besides, all I need to do was get from the Twin Cities to Des Moines by suppertime. I eventually saddled up before noon, and took a leisurely run south down mostly straight two-laners, taking the available time to check out my old haunts through central and north-central Iowa. In Des Moines, I’d stay with B, a life long friend and occasional riding bud. He and his Buell would join me and my FJR for the first few days of this trip.
For a host of reasons, I haven’t seen that Buell much, and am often surprised at the lack of miles. Unfortunately for it, its owner/rider works too much, parents too much, coaches too much, does other things too much to get out and spank the thing regularly. As a result, B really needed a long ride, on which I was more than pleased to accompany him. The key for his participation was to block out the time a year in advance, and accept no excuses to reschedule or decline. I’m not nearly so hard to accommodate (was that a hat dropping?).
Our first day would be a Saddlesore to Santa Rosa, New Mexico (B’s first). We had a few hours of rain in the morning (or what was left of the night) butt otherwise enjoyed a mild, calm, and overcast day. Rode the slab to Wichita, then veered west on US 400. Dodge City was a shock, having never before seen a slaughterhouse as big as a Chrysler plant (although you can’t usually smell automotive manufacturing from a mile away). US 56 brought us to Copeland, Kansas, where they advertise some old round barn as a tourist destination. I thought the real attraction to Copeland was on the north side of SR 144 on the west side of town, where some obsessed individual has festooned a half mile of fence with caricatures of local and national figures fabricated from steel plate. US 160 brought us to Springfield, Colorado, for fuel and a few captured images near the “Welcome to” sign. We rode south to Amarillo, then west on the slab to Santa Rosa, chasing the last of the sun into town and our motel.
The next morning we were up before the sun, needing to ride to the south rim of the Grand Canyon by early afternoon to complete a Bunburner. Slab, slab, slab. Ho hum. Turned north at Flagstaff to Cameron, then west on SR 64, which has been improved somewhat in the twenty plus years since I was last on it, including better Native American trinket and flat bread sales facilities and miles of brand spanking new asphalt cement concrete pavement. IMMHO, the posted speed limited could have been raised (IMMHOTPSLCHBR). We arrived with hours to spare on our Bunburner, and the Ranger was happy to witness our finish in exchange for buying a couple of annual passes. After a few obligatory pictures of our bikes at the rim, we set up camp, took a long hike, checked out the new interpretive center, pestered another Ranger, talked to multiple tourists from foreign (mostly) and domestic (less so) lands, cooked a simple meal, paid for showers and retired.
With the certified rides out of the way, some of the pressure was off, butt we still had our agendas: I needed a few more Springfields before I went back to Minnesota and B wanted to return to Iowa via our old scout camp on Norway Lake in the Upper Peninsula. We kept up the pace. How could we not? The weather was ideal, the landscapes fantastic and we had established a suitable rhythm. The first one awake would chastise the other for sleeping so long, and then we would break camp. At the first fuel stop, there would be coffee and gas station breakfast burritos (GSBBs). Then we’d ride until almost dark, taking 10-15 minute fuel breaks every 180-200 miles, with the final fill just before the end of the day. Dinners were after we had set up camp, and were either rehydrated food packs or a few more of the MRE’s I brought back from Baghdad (thems good eatin’).
From the Canyon, we backtracked a little until heading north on US 160 through Tuba City and Cow Springs, both of us were tempted to stop every mile or so along US 191 through Monument Valley, butt decided independently that pictures could never do the place justice. I was torn between riding slower to get better views of each edifice and riding faster to see what view the next mile would bring. Too much of this slow/fast stuff would trash my tires, so I decided to continue apace. Out of Moab, we followed that twisty canyon up the Colorado to Cisco, and then ran the slab east into Colorado again.
At Loma we turned north to wind up and down the Douglas Pass, though Dinosaur (I don’t think that was always the name of this place) and Vernal. Much of this day was through steep and open range and I couldn’t reason if the dead cattle I saw had been whacked by traffic, or had fallen to their deaths from far above the highway. I kept an eye on the uphill side of the road, just in case. South of Rangely, we outran a rainstorm by speeding into it, arriving under a gas station canopy just as the deluge began. We set up camp with the last of the sunlight just upstream of the dam at Flaming Gorge, at a National Recreation Area site down five miles of aggregate of which the Buell and its rider failed to enjoy.
The next morning was electric – as in, cold enough to require the Widders. It was my day to take the lead, which turned out to be the Fates smiling back at me, as B leads with a slightly less spirited pace than I do, and the run up US 191 into Wyoming required more sprit. We were met with beautiful pavement, no traffic, stunning views, fantastic sweepers, all climbing for twenty miles or so until we reached a magnificent plateau, seemingly higher than the adjacent mountains. Truly a laugh out loud, top of the world experience (although there was no one to hear my laugh at a buck plus the rest of the way to Rock Springs). Obviously, IMMHOTPSLCHBR.
We continued northwest, becoming only slightly lost in Jackson (distracted by an attractive tourist, I failed to see the route make a left turn in the middle of town), and then into Grand Teton N.P. where we had done some backpacking what seemed a century ago. This was a fitting final stop for the both of us, as we would part ways at Yellowstone, just a few miles north. Here I recalled sharing the same path in our youth, before separating to find our own ways as adults, only to return to the same trail decades later. Sort of weepy, butt who had time for that? We said our goodbyes and ran north into Yellowstone, B exiting out the east side and I the west side into Idaho and my newest least favorite place in America, Idaho Falls. I might have felt differently about Idaho Falls, butt only if this part of the ride had been less miserably hot and less strongly headwinded. Butt it was, and more so than the Oklahoma panhandle in 2004, which had previously held the least favorite place honor.
On the west side of American Falls Reservoir, on SR 39, is a barely corporated yet important little burg. My two immediate goals were to ride out of the heat, and to collect another Springfield. As it turns out, the Springfield was the easy part. The heat only quit once the air conditioner at the El Rancho motel in Twin Falls had been cranked for an hour. I planned an early departure for the next morning, assuming that the heat would continue across Nevada. Read More......
Party of the First Part.
I suppose I could have left the house before dark on the first day, butt there was a certain appeal to staying in bed for a few more hours before an extended trip away from the wife. Besides, all I need to do was get from the Twin Cities to Des Moines by suppertime. I eventually saddled up before noon, and took a leisurely run south down mostly straight two-laners, taking the available time to check out my old haunts through central and north-central Iowa. In Des Moines, I’d stay with B, a life long friend and occasional riding bud. He and his Buell would join me and my FJR for the first few days of this trip.
For a host of reasons, I haven’t seen that Buell much, and am often surprised at the lack of miles. Unfortunately for it, its owner/rider works too much, parents too much, coaches too much, does other things too much to get out and spank the thing regularly. As a result, B really needed a long ride, on which I was more than pleased to accompany him. The key for his participation was to block out the time a year in advance, and accept no excuses to reschedule or decline. I’m not nearly so hard to accommodate (was that a hat dropping?).
Our first day would be a Saddlesore to Santa Rosa, New Mexico (B’s first). We had a few hours of rain in the morning (or what was left of the night) butt otherwise enjoyed a mild, calm, and overcast day. Rode the slab to Wichita, then veered west on US 400. Dodge City was a shock, having never before seen a slaughterhouse as big as a Chrysler plant (although you can’t usually smell automotive manufacturing from a mile away). US 56 brought us to Copeland, Kansas, where they advertise some old round barn as a tourist destination. I thought the real attraction to Copeland was on the north side of SR 144 on the west side of town, where some obsessed individual has festooned a half mile of fence with caricatures of local and national figures fabricated from steel plate. US 160 brought us to Springfield, Colorado, for fuel and a few captured images near the “Welcome to” sign. We rode south to Amarillo, then west on the slab to Santa Rosa, chasing the last of the sun into town and our motel.
The next morning we were up before the sun, needing to ride to the south rim of the Grand Canyon by early afternoon to complete a Bunburner. Slab, slab, slab. Ho hum. Turned north at Flagstaff to Cameron, then west on SR 64, which has been improved somewhat in the twenty plus years since I was last on it, including better Native American trinket and flat bread sales facilities and miles of brand spanking new asphalt cement concrete pavement. IMMHO, the posted speed limited could have been raised (IMMHOTPSLCHBR). We arrived with hours to spare on our Bunburner, and the Ranger was happy to witness our finish in exchange for buying a couple of annual passes. After a few obligatory pictures of our bikes at the rim, we set up camp, took a long hike, checked out the new interpretive center, pestered another Ranger, talked to multiple tourists from foreign (mostly) and domestic (less so) lands, cooked a simple meal, paid for showers and retired.
With the certified rides out of the way, some of the pressure was off, butt we still had our agendas: I needed a few more Springfields before I went back to Minnesota and B wanted to return to Iowa via our old scout camp on Norway Lake in the Upper Peninsula. We kept up the pace. How could we not? The weather was ideal, the landscapes fantastic and we had established a suitable rhythm. The first one awake would chastise the other for sleeping so long, and then we would break camp. At the first fuel stop, there would be coffee and gas station breakfast burritos (GSBBs). Then we’d ride until almost dark, taking 10-15 minute fuel breaks every 180-200 miles, with the final fill just before the end of the day. Dinners were after we had set up camp, and were either rehydrated food packs or a few more of the MRE’s I brought back from Baghdad (thems good eatin’).
From the Canyon, we backtracked a little until heading north on US 160 through Tuba City and Cow Springs, both of us were tempted to stop every mile or so along US 191 through Monument Valley, butt decided independently that pictures could never do the place justice. I was torn between riding slower to get better views of each edifice and riding faster to see what view the next mile would bring. Too much of this slow/fast stuff would trash my tires, so I decided to continue apace. Out of Moab, we followed that twisty canyon up the Colorado to Cisco, and then ran the slab east into Colorado again.
At Loma we turned north to wind up and down the Douglas Pass, though Dinosaur (I don’t think that was always the name of this place) and Vernal. Much of this day was through steep and open range and I couldn’t reason if the dead cattle I saw had been whacked by traffic, or had fallen to their deaths from far above the highway. I kept an eye on the uphill side of the road, just in case. South of Rangely, we outran a rainstorm by speeding into it, arriving under a gas station canopy just as the deluge began. We set up camp with the last of the sunlight just upstream of the dam at Flaming Gorge, at a National Recreation Area site down five miles of aggregate of which the Buell and its rider failed to enjoy.
The next morning was electric – as in, cold enough to require the Widders. It was my day to take the lead, which turned out to be the Fates smiling back at me, as B leads with a slightly less spirited pace than I do, and the run up US 191 into Wyoming required more sprit. We were met with beautiful pavement, no traffic, stunning views, fantastic sweepers, all climbing for twenty miles or so until we reached a magnificent plateau, seemingly higher than the adjacent mountains. Truly a laugh out loud, top of the world experience (although there was no one to hear my laugh at a buck plus the rest of the way to Rock Springs). Obviously, IMMHOTPSLCHBR.
We continued northwest, becoming only slightly lost in Jackson (distracted by an attractive tourist, I failed to see the route make a left turn in the middle of town), and then into Grand Teton N.P. where we had done some backpacking what seemed a century ago. This was a fitting final stop for the both of us, as we would part ways at Yellowstone, just a few miles north. Here I recalled sharing the same path in our youth, before separating to find our own ways as adults, only to return to the same trail decades later. Sort of weepy, butt who had time for that? We said our goodbyes and ran north into Yellowstone, B exiting out the east side and I the west side into Idaho and my newest least favorite place in America, Idaho Falls. I might have felt differently about Idaho Falls, butt only if this part of the ride had been less miserably hot and less strongly headwinded. Butt it was, and more so than the Oklahoma panhandle in 2004, which had previously held the least favorite place honor.
On the west side of American Falls Reservoir, on SR 39, is a barely corporated yet important little burg. My two immediate goals were to ride out of the heat, and to collect another Springfield. As it turns out, the Springfield was the easy part. The heat only quit once the air conditioner at the El Rancho motel in Twin Falls had been cranked for an hour. I planned an early departure for the next morning, assuming that the heat would continue across Nevada. Read More......
2005-04-22
Easy Skankin’
I was headed back to the Third World, regardless, and my choice was either tropical Jamaica or equatorial Liberia.
If it was Liberia, I would be developing a plan to fix the shitholiest © of their roadways. If it was Liberia, I would need to find ready, ruthless and able bodyguards (because no one there under the age of twenty-five knows anything but killing, and this has caused (surprise!) a destabilizing effect across the country). Those “they” people say that good help is hard to find and, as I left the Cavalry in Baghdad, and would hesitate to trust my life to just any mercenary. If it was Liberia, there would be inconsistent electricity, questionable supplies of potable water, and no yacht club. If it was Liberia, it would be an adventure, but it would also be for six months. And at this point, I declined.
Fine, then. If the Company feels that it’s in the best interests of the stockholders (e.g. me) that I eat jerked pork and swill Red Stripe for a couple of weeks,… well, who am I to argue, with me? I did put up a little fuss, though, so they wouldn’t think I was a total pushover.
Corporate: “We need you in Jamaica.”
Corporate Shill: “Uh,… okay.”
You see. I said, “Uh,…” before agreeing to the trip. That well timed delay, or stall, was to make them think that I was thinking real hard about the accepting the assignment.
Pretty clever, huh?
I made sure that I got a right side window seat on the flight down, the better to see the western end of the island during the approach into MoBay. My row mates were a painfully out of tune couple who seemed ill-prepared for a week at Hedonism III. Perhaps they’ll be more comfortable together after they’re naked with the rest of the guests and stupid-sloppy on rum punch.
I don’t need the rum punch as much as I want the dark rum. Very dark, very smooth, very old rum. I suppose I could choke down the “Rude to Mama”, or White, rum, but choke I would, because my poor throat would involuntarily seize shut when the first drops seared my gullet. [Again, if it wasn’t clear before, no overproof for me, thanks, even if it is the official rum of Jamaican football.] Appleton does make a tasty 21-year old product that I can’t find in the States. It’s rare, but if I can find it, I’ll pad the ol’ expense account at the duty free shop and get a few bottles. Maybe some Rum Cream too, as you can’t find that north of the Cayman Trench.
I’ve been drinking my share of Red Stripe, of course, which reminds me that what they call Red Stripe in the States, ain’t. Here it is served by the 12 British ounce serving, which is a little smaller than what we’d call an ounce (by four percent or so) but, at 4.7% goodness, it is just the ticket for washing down slabs of jerk pork, which I have been doing at Scotchy’s, Jerky’s, Mackie’s and the Ultimate Jerk Center (a few of times at the Ultimate).
I also went to my favorite Rasta-rant, found a nice Ital place in Discovery Bay, dined at that great Indian place on the Strip, had a few meals at the Yacht Club, enjoyed a couple of whole wheat patties with veggie-chunks, bought the Companymen and their families a nice meal at Glistening Waters and, by and increasingly large, have been making this a gastronomic reunion, and me belly full.
What do they say? That you can’t eat cheese indoors?
No.
They say you can’t eat chowder again.
No, no. That’s not it. They say you can’t grow gnomes again.
Damn! Still not right. What is it they say? Not grow gnomes,… throw phones,… hoe Nome,… tow domes,… blow combs,…go home? Right! They say you can’t go home again. Again, they’re wrong. I _can_ go home again. Just as soon as I leave this place.
You see, although there are many of the same appealing aspects to this little country as before, all too many of the old frustrations wasted no time in springing out of the bush to whack my phyche like a goat whacks the bumper of a out of control route taxi. First off, the road’s still not done. Well, the piece to Negril is awfully close to finished, but I doubt that anything more will happen to it besides infrequent maintenance. Too bad, because the grasses and brush are advancing towards the shoulders, certain to rob strength from the pavement structure. The next piece, towards Ochi, lurches forward, only five and a half years (better make it six) into its original 30 month schedule. The Argentines building the thing speak English a little better in the office, but their field guys all too often communicate with grunts and whistles, all too similar to the Koreans on Segment One.
Apparently, the government didn’t learn from the last fiasco. Then, the Contractor’s bail out plan included twenty-three additional contracts for me to manage. The backlash from this that still raises a visual welt today is that the Bosung yard outside of Luceatown is still full of their equipment, which should have been sold three years ago to local contractors who would have put it to use. Instead, it sits idle and rusting, unable to move until Bosung’s legal wrangling with their various subcontractors and claimants is resolved.
On Segment Two, the bail out plan relieved the Contractor from his obligations on the twenty-three kilometers of roadway closest to MoBay. Coincidentally, this will be the most difficult section to build, and the work has yet to go out for bids. When it does go out, there will be at least three contracts, and maybe a few more for bad measure (better make it eight years to completion). In the words of an old Philippine engineer who was old when I sat next to him at the IDOT twenty years ago, “What can you do?”
Close to 100 persons were murdered here in the brief time I was on island. This could be a record setting year, as they’re sure to reach 1,500 by Christmas. And worst of all is that the West Indies cricket team has suffered a couple of embarrassing test match losses (the tie was as good as a loss) to South Africa this month.
On the “big up” side is that the popularity of Dancehall seems to have ebbed, replaced by a more classic form of Reggae, and a strong resurgence of Roots. This makes driving more tolerable, and me a little happier.
By the bye Darlene (and speaking of driving), I saw no dead cows during my 18 days driving over the Rock, only seven dead cats, three dead goats, one each of dead cattle egrets, mongeese, hawks, John Crows and rats, and five dead dogs (it would have been just four, but there was nowhere to swerve to, and hard breaking would have deposited a Lada in the trunk of my slow Corolla).
Irie (at worst),
a…..
=====
To finish, more Marley, from long ago.
Them belly full, but we hungry;
A hungry mob is a angry mob.
A rain a-fall, but the dirt it tough;
A pot a-cook, but d' food no 'nough.
You're gonna dance to Jah music, dance;
We're gonna dance to Jah music, dance, oh-ooh!
Forget your troubles and dance!
Forget your sorrows and dance!
Forget your sickness and dance!
Forget your weakness and dance!
Cost of livin' gets so high,
Rich and poor they start to cry:
Now the weak must get strong;
They say, "Oh, what a tribulation!"
Them belly full, but we hungry;
A hungry mob is a angry mob.
A rain a-fall, but the dirt it tough;
A pot a-cook, but d' food no 'nough.
We're gonna chuck to Jah music - chuckin';
We're chuckin' to Jah music - we're chuckin'.
A belly full, but them hungry;
A hungry mob is a angry mob.
A rain a-fall, but the dirt it tough;
A pot a-cook, but d' food no 'nough.
A hungry man is a angry man;
A rain a-fall, but the dirt it tough;
A pot a-cook, but d' food no 'nough.
A rain a-fall, but the dirt it tough.
A pot a-cook, but d' food no 'nough.
A hungry mob is a angry mob;
A hungry mob is a angry mob. Read More......
If it was Liberia, I would be developing a plan to fix the shitholiest © of their roadways. If it was Liberia, I would need to find ready, ruthless and able bodyguards (because no one there under the age of twenty-five knows anything but killing, and this has caused (surprise!) a destabilizing effect across the country). Those “they” people say that good help is hard to find and, as I left the Cavalry in Baghdad, and would hesitate to trust my life to just any mercenary. If it was Liberia, there would be inconsistent electricity, questionable supplies of potable water, and no yacht club. If it was Liberia, it would be an adventure, but it would also be for six months. And at this point, I declined.
Fine, then. If the Company feels that it’s in the best interests of the stockholders (e.g. me) that I eat jerked pork and swill Red Stripe for a couple of weeks,… well, who am I to argue, with me? I did put up a little fuss, though, so they wouldn’t think I was a total pushover.
Corporate: “We need you in Jamaica.”
Corporate Shill: “Uh,… okay.”
You see. I said, “Uh,…” before agreeing to the trip. That well timed delay, or stall, was to make them think that I was thinking real hard about the accepting the assignment.
Pretty clever, huh?
I made sure that I got a right side window seat on the flight down, the better to see the western end of the island during the approach into MoBay. My row mates were a painfully out of tune couple who seemed ill-prepared for a week at Hedonism III. Perhaps they’ll be more comfortable together after they’re naked with the rest of the guests and stupid-sloppy on rum punch.
I don’t need the rum punch as much as I want the dark rum. Very dark, very smooth, very old rum. I suppose I could choke down the “Rude to Mama”, or White, rum, but choke I would, because my poor throat would involuntarily seize shut when the first drops seared my gullet. [Again, if it wasn’t clear before, no overproof for me, thanks, even if it is the official rum of Jamaican football.] Appleton does make a tasty 21-year old product that I can’t find in the States. It’s rare, but if I can find it, I’ll pad the ol’ expense account at the duty free shop and get a few bottles. Maybe some Rum Cream too, as you can’t find that north of the Cayman Trench.
I’ve been drinking my share of Red Stripe, of course, which reminds me that what they call Red Stripe in the States, ain’t. Here it is served by the 12 British ounce serving, which is a little smaller than what we’d call an ounce (by four percent or so) but, at 4.7% goodness, it is just the ticket for washing down slabs of jerk pork, which I have been doing at Scotchy’s, Jerky’s, Mackie’s and the Ultimate Jerk Center (a few of times at the Ultimate).
I also went to my favorite Rasta-rant, found a nice Ital place in Discovery Bay, dined at that great Indian place on the Strip, had a few meals at the Yacht Club, enjoyed a couple of whole wheat patties with veggie-chunks, bought the Companymen and their families a nice meal at Glistening Waters and, by and increasingly large, have been making this a gastronomic reunion, and me belly full.
What do they say? That you can’t eat cheese indoors?
No.
They say you can’t eat chowder again.
No, no. That’s not it. They say you can’t grow gnomes again.
Damn! Still not right. What is it they say? Not grow gnomes,… throw phones,… hoe Nome,… tow domes,… blow combs,…go home? Right! They say you can’t go home again. Again, they’re wrong. I _can_ go home again. Just as soon as I leave this place.
You see, although there are many of the same appealing aspects to this little country as before, all too many of the old frustrations wasted no time in springing out of the bush to whack my phyche like a goat whacks the bumper of a out of control route taxi. First off, the road’s still not done. Well, the piece to Negril is awfully close to finished, but I doubt that anything more will happen to it besides infrequent maintenance. Too bad, because the grasses and brush are advancing towards the shoulders, certain to rob strength from the pavement structure. The next piece, towards Ochi, lurches forward, only five and a half years (better make it six) into its original 30 month schedule. The Argentines building the thing speak English a little better in the office, but their field guys all too often communicate with grunts and whistles, all too similar to the Koreans on Segment One.
Apparently, the government didn’t learn from the last fiasco. Then, the Contractor’s bail out plan included twenty-three additional contracts for me to manage. The backlash from this that still raises a visual welt today is that the Bosung yard outside of Luceatown is still full of their equipment, which should have been sold three years ago to local contractors who would have put it to use. Instead, it sits idle and rusting, unable to move until Bosung’s legal wrangling with their various subcontractors and claimants is resolved.
On Segment Two, the bail out plan relieved the Contractor from his obligations on the twenty-three kilometers of roadway closest to MoBay. Coincidentally, this will be the most difficult section to build, and the work has yet to go out for bids. When it does go out, there will be at least three contracts, and maybe a few more for bad measure (better make it eight years to completion). In the words of an old Philippine engineer who was old when I sat next to him at the IDOT twenty years ago, “What can you do?”
Close to 100 persons were murdered here in the brief time I was on island. This could be a record setting year, as they’re sure to reach 1,500 by Christmas. And worst of all is that the West Indies cricket team has suffered a couple of embarrassing test match losses (the tie was as good as a loss) to South Africa this month.
On the “big up” side is that the popularity of Dancehall seems to have ebbed, replaced by a more classic form of Reggae, and a strong resurgence of Roots. This makes driving more tolerable, and me a little happier.
By the bye Darlene (and speaking of driving), I saw no dead cows during my 18 days driving over the Rock, only seven dead cats, three dead goats, one each of dead cattle egrets, mongeese, hawks, John Crows and rats, and five dead dogs (it would have been just four, but there was nowhere to swerve to, and hard breaking would have deposited a Lada in the trunk of my slow Corolla).
Irie (at worst),
a…..
=====
To finish, more Marley, from long ago.
Them belly full, but we hungry;
A hungry mob is a angry mob.
A rain a-fall, but the dirt it tough;
A pot a-cook, but d' food no 'nough.
You're gonna dance to Jah music, dance;
We're gonna dance to Jah music, dance, oh-ooh!
Forget your troubles and dance!
Forget your sorrows and dance!
Forget your sickness and dance!
Forget your weakness and dance!
Cost of livin' gets so high,
Rich and poor they start to cry:
Now the weak must get strong;
They say, "Oh, what a tribulation!"
Them belly full, but we hungry;
A hungry mob is a angry mob.
A rain a-fall, but the dirt it tough;
A pot a-cook, but d' food no 'nough.
We're gonna chuck to Jah music - chuckin';
We're chuckin' to Jah music - we're chuckin'.
A belly full, but them hungry;
A hungry mob is a angry mob.
A rain a-fall, but the dirt it tough;
A pot a-cook, but d' food no 'nough.
A hungry man is a angry man;
A rain a-fall, but the dirt it tough;
A pot a-cook, but d' food no 'nough.
A rain a-fall, but the dirt it tough.
A pot a-cook, but d' food no 'nough.
A hungry mob is a angry mob;
A hungry mob is a angry mob. Read More......
2004-05-25
Duck, duck, duck
At first, I just barely noticed something soft on the roadway. Something out of the ordinary mix of commuting cars and pickups and occasional heavy vehicles that drone unceasingly across my view of the expressway outside my office.
In the days before elevators, I suppose the ninth floor would be a "high rise" structure, but now it's just another pile of bricks and glass that abut the highway leading downtown. As cube farms go, it could be worse. It's not one of those prairie dog communities, where just the heads of the curious can be seen popping up above the bland fabric walls. It's not a bull pen either, where the unmitigated click and clatter of modern business machines drowns out attempts at sustained critical thought. No, it's a long space, and the cubes are rarely more than three units away from the continuous bank of windows that line the north wall of the building.
The structure and organization is akin to a goat farm, where seniority and privilege gets you the best trash and a spot at the top of the heap, overlooking all the other goats, the kids relegated the safety of the interior. Cube farm livestock references aside, I gets me a window seat. From a transportation engineering perspective, it works out pretty well, as there are plenty of examples just outside that I can use when in search of a supporting illustration. There's the design and relationship of the freeway with adjacent ramps, frontage roads, railroad, local streets and parking lots. There's the use of bridges signage, signaling and lighting. There're utilities, landscaping, safety considerations and maintenance. There's wildlife crossing eight lanes of traffic.
The out of place soft thing is a goose, on the freeway, walking down the westbound HOV lane. A hood ornament in training. And I'm wondering - he can fly, so why bother with city traffic? As he waddled out of the rush of cars and leapt atop the median's concrete barrier, I noticed the top eight inches of so of a second goose, just on the other side of the barrier and just downstream of the first bird. Then a burst of pale yellow, as a gosling ran into the fast lane, had second thoughts, and ran back to the median, cheating death. The existence of non-flying youngsters could explain all the walking.
By this time, much of the department is at the window, watching the drama through binoculars. And at about this time, the first goose decides to hop off of the barrier, and complete his stroll across the freeway, something I'd be very hesitant to do myself without suitable traffic control devices in place. But, after a couple of false starts and heart stopping delays midstream, there was a live goose across the road, working his way up the Xenia Avenue off ramp.
The second goose had abandoned her brood in favor of following the drake and was looking for an opening in traffic when the first Golden Valley patrol car arrived on the scene. Then, with herding skill I only though possible by Australian bush pilots, he drove up real close and laid out a sqwaak on his siren, forcing the bird to flight - over the eastbound lanes to join her mate.
Then, in the company of another Golden Valley squad car and a State Trooper, the three public safety officers stopped all traffic in the westbound lanes while one of the cops waddled after the goslings, caught them both, and sequestered them in the caged rear seat of his car. The cops must have had some assistance from citizens in another of the neighbouring offices because the birds' release was in an open and partially flooded field just across the Interstate, where the parents had flown during the ruckus and where this wayward family had probably started their day.
Another job well done by Golden Valley's finest.
So it goes. What started as just a brief glance at something out of place resulted in about twenty minutes of misdirected effort. I must confess, though - the geese were not my first concern. No, Minneapolis drivers are predominantly idiots, and would more likely swerve into the side of an eighteen wheeler than whack a sky pig. I was just waiting for the pile up. Read More......
In the days before elevators, I suppose the ninth floor would be a "high rise" structure, but now it's just another pile of bricks and glass that abut the highway leading downtown. As cube farms go, it could be worse. It's not one of those prairie dog communities, where just the heads of the curious can be seen popping up above the bland fabric walls. It's not a bull pen either, where the unmitigated click and clatter of modern business machines drowns out attempts at sustained critical thought. No, it's a long space, and the cubes are rarely more than three units away from the continuous bank of windows that line the north wall of the building.
The structure and organization is akin to a goat farm, where seniority and privilege gets you the best trash and a spot at the top of the heap, overlooking all the other goats, the kids relegated the safety of the interior. Cube farm livestock references aside, I gets me a window seat. From a transportation engineering perspective, it works out pretty well, as there are plenty of examples just outside that I can use when in search of a supporting illustration. There's the design and relationship of the freeway with adjacent ramps, frontage roads, railroad, local streets and parking lots. There's the use of bridges signage, signaling and lighting. There're utilities, landscaping, safety considerations and maintenance. There's wildlife crossing eight lanes of traffic.
The out of place soft thing is a goose, on the freeway, walking down the westbound HOV lane. A hood ornament in training. And I'm wondering - he can fly, so why bother with city traffic? As he waddled out of the rush of cars and leapt atop the median's concrete barrier, I noticed the top eight inches of so of a second goose, just on the other side of the barrier and just downstream of the first bird. Then a burst of pale yellow, as a gosling ran into the fast lane, had second thoughts, and ran back to the median, cheating death. The existence of non-flying youngsters could explain all the walking.
By this time, much of the department is at the window, watching the drama through binoculars. And at about this time, the first goose decides to hop off of the barrier, and complete his stroll across the freeway, something I'd be very hesitant to do myself without suitable traffic control devices in place. But, after a couple of false starts and heart stopping delays midstream, there was a live goose across the road, working his way up the Xenia Avenue off ramp.
The second goose had abandoned her brood in favor of following the drake and was looking for an opening in traffic when the first Golden Valley patrol car arrived on the scene. Then, with herding skill I only though possible by Australian bush pilots, he drove up real close and laid out a sqwaak on his siren, forcing the bird to flight - over the eastbound lanes to join her mate.
Then, in the company of another Golden Valley squad car and a State Trooper, the three public safety officers stopped all traffic in the westbound lanes while one of the cops waddled after the goslings, caught them both, and sequestered them in the caged rear seat of his car. The cops must have had some assistance from citizens in another of the neighbouring offices because the birds' release was in an open and partially flooded field just across the Interstate, where the parents had flown during the ruckus and where this wayward family had probably started their day.
Another job well done by Golden Valley's finest.
So it goes. What started as just a brief glance at something out of place resulted in about twenty minutes of misdirected effort. I must confess, though - the geese were not my first concern. No, Minneapolis drivers are predominantly idiots, and would more likely swerve into the side of an eighteen wheeler than whack a sky pig. I was just waiting for the pile up. Read More......
2004-03-03
03 March 2004
Baghdad
The problem with this place is that, no matter how fubar I think it is, they always come up with a way to make it more fu. This nonsense in Baghdad and Kerbala yesterday morning, especially. First off – I am absolutely an ignoramus in the ways of Islam, but…
Millions were gathering for the Ashura holy day, long since banned by Saddam. For one, it’s a Shi’a festival, and Saddam was Sunni. For two, one “colorful” aspect of this ritual is the self flagellation. In some groups, this involves the participant cutting the top of his own head, and then continuously beating himself with stick of sword to ensure continued bleeding.
Very messy.
As was traffic on the way to the Ministry for what will probably turn out to be my final coordination meeting with them. The drive that normally takes fifteen to twenty minutes took over ninety, as the entire city was disrupted by the parades and demonstrations of the devout. During one particularly interminable wait, I observed a group of easily five to ten thousand marchers, each tenth or so led by a bundle of banners and flags, then a group of elderly guys, then a hundred or two self flagellators, then a couple hundred supporters. Then the next tenth, then the next, literally as far as the eye could see.
Each mass of self flagellators strode to the rhythm of a truck full of speakers projecting the (to western ears) strange wailings of a priest, accompanied by a couple of large drums. The wailing ended in a THUMP every three or four seconds, and the devout would advance just one more step – simultaneously whacking themselves on the back with small cats-o-nine-tails. Left side. Right side. Thump. Thump.
This slow procession took up one side (three lanes) of the six lane road, naturally expanding it to four or five lanes on my side, as vehicles tried to cram their way forward (there’s hardly any pavement marking anyway, so who’s to say it wasn’t a five lane slab to start). We weren’t moving at all for way too long, the marchers seemed to have brought their own informally armed security, and Captain Barnhart had her hand on the safety of her pistol the entire time, ready to discharge the chambered cartridge and send some wayward Iraqi elsewhere.
While we were in this traffic jam from Allah, simultaneously in Baghdad and Kerbala, bad guys lobbed mortars into the million Muslim marches, killing at least a hundred and a half.
For three, this festival is the most important on the Shi’a calendar, and is almost always disrupted by violence. Coincidentally, the holiday is to remember the death of the Prophet’s grandson, who was martyred by bad guys hundred and hundreds of years ago.
As a result, three days of mourning was declared and all public offices are closed. By the time it’s done, my necessary contact in the Ministry will be on a money begging mission in Qatar, and my Sector Chief will be in the States, so my intended handover meetings between them will not occur, and (like I care much any more) the continuation of the process will falter.
Well, and on that cheerful note, the bastards are lobbing mortars and/or rockets at the palace again, and the Giant Voice has been activated.
I am so done here. Read More......
The problem with this place is that, no matter how fubar I think it is, they always come up with a way to make it more fu. This nonsense in Baghdad and Kerbala yesterday morning, especially. First off – I am absolutely an ignoramus in the ways of Islam, but…
Millions were gathering for the Ashura holy day, long since banned by Saddam. For one, it’s a Shi’a festival, and Saddam was Sunni. For two, one “colorful” aspect of this ritual is the self flagellation. In some groups, this involves the participant cutting the top of his own head, and then continuously beating himself with stick of sword to ensure continued bleeding.
Very messy.
As was traffic on the way to the Ministry for what will probably turn out to be my final coordination meeting with them. The drive that normally takes fifteen to twenty minutes took over ninety, as the entire city was disrupted by the parades and demonstrations of the devout. During one particularly interminable wait, I observed a group of easily five to ten thousand marchers, each tenth or so led by a bundle of banners and flags, then a group of elderly guys, then a hundred or two self flagellators, then a couple hundred supporters. Then the next tenth, then the next, literally as far as the eye could see.
Each mass of self flagellators strode to the rhythm of a truck full of speakers projecting the (to western ears) strange wailings of a priest, accompanied by a couple of large drums. The wailing ended in a THUMP every three or four seconds, and the devout would advance just one more step – simultaneously whacking themselves on the back with small cats-o-nine-tails. Left side. Right side. Thump. Thump.
This slow procession took up one side (three lanes) of the six lane road, naturally expanding it to four or five lanes on my side, as vehicles tried to cram their way forward (there’s hardly any pavement marking anyway, so who’s to say it wasn’t a five lane slab to start). We weren’t moving at all for way too long, the marchers seemed to have brought their own informally armed security, and Captain Barnhart had her hand on the safety of her pistol the entire time, ready to discharge the chambered cartridge and send some wayward Iraqi elsewhere.
While we were in this traffic jam from Allah, simultaneously in Baghdad and Kerbala, bad guys lobbed mortars into the million Muslim marches, killing at least a hundred and a half.
For three, this festival is the most important on the Shi’a calendar, and is almost always disrupted by violence. Coincidentally, the holiday is to remember the death of the Prophet’s grandson, who was martyred by bad guys hundred and hundreds of years ago.
As a result, three days of mourning was declared and all public offices are closed. By the time it’s done, my necessary contact in the Ministry will be on a money begging mission in Qatar, and my Sector Chief will be in the States, so my intended handover meetings between them will not occur, and (like I care much any more) the continuation of the process will falter.
Well, and on that cheerful note, the bastards are lobbing mortars and/or rockets at the palace again, and the Giant Voice has been activated.
I am so done here. Read More......
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