Dennis Kuehl and I, from the NW chapter, set out the morning of June 28th on a trip that would eventually last me 35 days and 9500 miles. Dennis had two weeks off and I had the whole summer (I’m a P.E. teacher). We chose New England as our ultimate destination for several reasons: 1) Dennis’ family were due a visit in Batavia, New York and 2) My sister the same in Pittsburgh, PA. We had both been out west last year and this would 3) expose us to new scenery.

I finished packing at 2 am and set my alarm for 3:30 am. After a ten minute nap in Marshall, TX and a couple of No-Doze, Dennis told me where we were and I was off like a shot. The ride to NY was uneventful except for when Dennis’ muffler fell off. As we rode back to get it an eighteen wheeler sent it back to where we turned around. It never fit right after that and a lovely hum filled our sleep. It was an aftermarket item that broke at the weld. We both ride evo-Harleys so of course we experienced ... NO mechanical problems the whole trip and that’s a fact.

After families were serviced we hit the road for the land of the pompous and over-educated. Excuse my cynical view but Hollywood has character cast the entire region as Woody Allen clones where life’s experiences exist only in books and a trip means a walk to the coffee shop or shrink. Where physical education is a dirty word and they would lock their doors to motorcycle types if they had locks on their doors to lock. But I was open minded enough to dispense with this view in light of reality and sure enough, with the exception of one whining New Jersey accented woman in a gas station line, everyone was friendly enough and we experienced only minor prejudice. Dennis noted in Bar Harbor, Maine that passing pedestrians’ eyes would zero in on his braided red beard and Highroller colors and never look up. We got our share of approval gestures and me too comments from most everyone who’s ever pulled a wheelie on a Schwinn stingray with ape hangers.

New England was fun. The weather was hot and cool as little cool fronts crossed from west to east. But our timing was off on the Maine coast at Acadia National Park as it was warm, humid and cloudy for our two days there and pictures suffered. I ate the biggest crawdad you ever lapped a lip over and Dennis ate a side of beef (Texas import no doubt). When you look at a lobster you imagine the first person to ever try to EAT one and how HUNGRY he must have been. Accommodations were first class mom and pop motels and most had the Weather Channel which should be renamed the "Motorcycle Tour Apparel And Route Planning Channel". You can’t argue with a satellite picture! Once off the interstate the roads were curvy and scenic. Small towns were of the postcard variety. Cresting a hill at 55 could mean entering a town at 35, a stop light and out at 45 rounding a curve and back to 55 (spelled 65) and repeat every five minutes. New England! Could this resemble Old England? Saved me a trip.

Waiting on a ferry to cross Lake Champlain at Burlington, VT., we found a bar with a band and a view of the sunset on the lake and as we sit down with a cold one to relax some guy spoils it by informing us that a motorcycle is leaking gas in the parking lot. Dennis told me not to get up and he was right. We had just filled up ...

Time to head west. Dennis and I part ways outside Cleveland over lunch on July 10th after 13 days of riding side by side. He’s a good riding partner, steadfast in the saddle, safe and considerate. We had similar travel styles and expectations and got along well. Sorry he couldn’t continue with me.

Riding alone is a different experience to which I quickly adapted. By giving up the security and sharing of ideas in a partnership, you gain the freedom of independence that allows you to become wonderfully self-serving and erratic. That is, you can vary your speed at will, weave all over your lane, stop suddenly for a photo or just take your time getting in and out of your raingear, if you wear that stuff. Dennis doesn’t. My route took me up through central Michigan to the U.P. or Upper Peninsula. I took a short cut on a scenic thirty mile dirt road I had been on as a kid with the folks. After all those years all I could remember were the good parts. Damn-it how that works. But here on the southern edge of Lake Superior I met with a one time acquaintance from Houston who had just moved back home to Negaunee, Michigan. I was introduced to the fine art of Swedish sauna (pronounced sona) with a real sauna house, wood stove, stones from Lake Superior that won’t break in the heat and absolutely pure ground water to throw on ‘em. The night air was cool enough to sub for snow, by Texas standards, and the company of her and her family were tops. I want to go back. Next day in Minnesota was darn-right cold and wet due to a cool front. Thermals, heavy gloves, leathers and bandanna were barely enough. Next morning was cool and clear as was every morning out west. This is riding weather! The trees gave way to waves of grain as far as the eye could see. Blue and gold were the only colors.

From New York to Michigan I was unsure how far I’d go, money, butt and weather being factors. But in Michigan’s U.P., after fifteen days on the road and feeling no pain there was no doubt - it would be coast to coast! The third best feeling in the world is warming up that Harley motor on a cool morning knowing you have all day to ride and nowhere to be. Five hundred miles a day means you think a lot and between Fargo, ND and Portland OR. was too much of a good thing. I would make up musical melodies in my head and play ‘em over and over adding instruments. But unlike a musician, as soon as I stopped, it was gone forever. Going through four time zones I thought about time. What is time? I deduced that time is motion. Take away all motion, down to the atom and time would cease to exist. That didn’t take long. What is long? ...

In the Washington countryside north of Portland lives a friend and his family. Said he could hear me coming ¼ mile away. Their backyard is framed by Mt. St. Helens on the left and Mt. Hood on the right with a hayfield in-between. Looks like a scene from "The Sound Of Music". While there I rode out to Seaside, OR. and stepped in the Pacific Ocean to complete the coast to coast part. Whew! Toured Portland and bought some records. Had to mail ‘em home of course. We visited his friend who builds land speed record holding cars and was featured on the cover of a Racing/Hot Rod magazine for hitting 200 mph in a six cylinder pickup! I gave the bike a medical checkup and an oil change (2nd on trip) and found no aches or pains.

Headed south through Boise and Salt Lake City to southern Utah which has to be the "greatest earth on show". Stopped for the night in the little town of Parowan, sixty miles north of the Arizona border. I had just cleaned up for dinner when I noticed new neighbors checking in. Could it be? This is when I met da Judge! But this was no ordinary Judge. This was Elke Mussig! A West German gal of the finest sort. She and a lady friend from East Germany were touring the southwest United States on a three week trip. They passed on my invitation to dinner but later we sat outside and talked until 1 am. I’d never guess such a cute, petite young woman to be a bonafide judge. And no picture. Damn.

The morning of the Longhorn Double (Saturday) I was riding up a mountain pass from Cedar City, Utah to Cedar Breaks National Monument. It was cool and clear and so scenic, similar to Bryce Canyon National Park nearby. Crossed the Colorado River at the northeast corner of the Grand Canyon where once was Lee’s Ferry. In 1990 I started a week long raft trip at this point. On to Flagstaff, through scenic Oak Creek Canyon to Sedona and south to Phoenix. The whole day was comfortable until that evening about fifty miles north of Phoenix where the elevation gradually drops and the temperature gradually rises. When I rolled into Phoenix at 9 pm it was well over 100ºF and the pavement must have been 150ºF. At 10 pm it was a 102ºF. Cruising along at 55, put your hand behind the cylinders and feel the heat. I tell ya that’s how it felt on the grips! That air cooled engine wasn’t.

Stayed three days with the alternate sister and her family in 110º Phoenix. Mostly indoors. I was checking my tire pressure every other day with no loss to mention. I happened to park so that a nail head in the rear tire was visible from behind. How long had it been there? Hours? Days? Weeks? Hey it doesn’t matter with tubeless tires! I prepared a plug from a kit I carried and swapped them out with little loss of air. What took a few minutes used to take hours. Did it again in New Mexico when I found a chunk of glass ...

Left Phoenix early to avoid the heat and took highway 60 to Socorro, New Mexico. Excellent scenic choice that’s high enough to keep you cool and maybe a little wet. Stopped for a bite in Show Low, Arizona, who’s name came from the winner of a poker game. Bought a six pack in Socorro and launched it for a friend’s place two hours due east near Corona. Will be there by 10 pm, right? Wrong. I had a new experience here. About 35 miles out of town, halfway across a treeless twelve mile wide valley on a lonesome two lane, I pull over to suit up for a good rainstorm dead ahead. Returning to Socorro entered my mind when I considered that my friend lives down an eight mile dirt road that was surely wet and slick. Also, it was 8:30 pm and getting dark and I’d miss all that scenery and lastly, the storm winds ahead of the rain were now crossing the valley and kicking up a dust storm that would be on me in minutes. In mere seconds I knew what I had to do. RUN!!! Picture this: ten minutes earlier I had passed some people in their yard and we all waved. They know what’s comin’ and ten minutes later see a wall of dirt 500 feet high comin’ fast and just ahead of it that same motorcycle screaming across the horizon in the opposite direction. I was laughing all the way so I know they were. Oddly enough, I passed a small Jap bike with no gear heading right into it! OK. But I still have paint on mine. As I unloaded into my room the flying dust and sand got into my hair and eyes and a family next door lost a notebook full of loose leaf papers which I had to help chase down. The good biker. Made it to Mark’s place the next morning in perfect weather. Similar rains came that night and I was informed that it’s the monsoon season. Oh.

Headin’ home now so the story is almost over. In Roswell, New Mexico I stop for gas at a convenience store. A poorly dressed young Native American male approaches I assume to ask for money. Instead he asks me to go in and buy him beer and hands me the money. I told him I couldn’t do that but I’d give him a couple of hot ones I’d been haulin’ around. He’s happy. I warned him to not open them right away but I knew he was as he walked away and I would liked to have seen that. So then I’m pumpin’ gas and as I top off the tank, the pump won’t shut off so I sling it away from the tank to the ground and pull a plastic bottle cap out of the handle that was hanging it up. Firetrucks come to sand it down. Later realized I could have stuck the nozzle into the tank to shut it off. My habit of watching the gas enter to determine level prevented it. I don’t suppose that Indian guy ... naw.

Heat and humidity rise as I near San Angelo, TX. Visited the Cowboy Artist Museum in Kerrville. Stayed with friends in San Antonio and Austin. Highway 290 is all too familiar and the next day was like I had never left. Boohoo. Maybe next year I’ll ... Then I got my 648 slides out of the lab and STARTED ALL OVER! Next year I gotta find me a bigger continent.

Oh yeah, the drag bars.