My 8,080 mile motorcycle trip

Subject: My 8,080 mile motorcycle trip
From: Sourdough
Date: 12 Jun 01 - 05:35 AM

My guess of 7500 miles for my transcontinental trip was a bit off but on the other hand I had a better time than I had even hoped for.

Some might say that the weather was rotten just because I was riding under overcast, sporadic rain, some snow and even fog for much of the trip.. In fact, the sun disappeared to me as I headed eastward through mid-Oklahoma and the temperature did not reach solidly into the seventies again until I was on the way back through Nevada, a period of two weeks. However, I had good rubber on the tires, was well dressed and have a terrific fairing, I was actually more comfortable than if I had been riding in the 100 degree heat that is also a possibility at this time of year. In fact, when I crossed a particularly remote part of the Great Salt Desert in Utah on roads that make "the loneliest road in America" seem like a busy thruway, I was quite pleased with the light rain. The bike just loved the temperatures too. However, enough about bikes, let's get to the music.

Catspaw, I am extremely grateful to you for your suggestion that I stop in at the Appalachian Museum in Norris, Tennessee. It turned out to be the highlight of my trip.

Sitting on the smokehouse porch playing guitar was a fellow named George Brewer and with him on banjo was Linda Gustafson. They encouraged me to join in with them and I did. A local schoolteacher who dropped by with her Autoharp was kind enough to lend it to me and that is what I played most of the time.

At one point, Linda and George got excited. They had seen two friends, Bitt and Junior, coming across the field. They were quick to tell me that those two were a fine pair of musicians, Junior on mandolin and Bitt on fiddle.

As Bitt and Junior approached, I thought the light was playing tricks on me because I could not see an arm coming out of Bitt's right sleeve. When they got closer, I saw that Junior, despite his full head of silver hair was probably in his early fifties but Bitt was considerably older. In fact, he was eighty or so. Another fact was that the light had not been playing tricks, Bitt really did not have a right hand!

It was getting late so we moved out to the parking lot to play for a while. When Bitt got out his instrument, he also strapped a cup to the stump of his wrist. The cup had a slot for the bow. Linda and George were right, he was a good fiddler and Junior, Linda George and I had a fine time playing along with him. There is something so extraordinary about meeting strangers and being able, within minutes, to be creating something jointly. As simple as these moments were, they were jewels that I will hoard and take out when I need to remind myself of the riches I have found in my own life.

Thirty years ago or so, I got a record of Johnny Cash singing with the Carter Family, or at least what was then called the Carter Family. Although the record has long since disappeared (it was never one of my favorites because it didnt even sound like the "real" Carter Family) I had always remembered that Johnny Cash had described in the liner notes the grave of AP Carter and I decided that on this trip I was going to visit it.

The site was much as I imagined it, a "grave on a green hillside". He is buried near his former wife and they each have identical stones, different than any others in the graveyard. Each stone has embedded in it, the replica of a gold record with the caption, "Keep On The Sunny Side". As I stood there in the rain (did I mention that it was raining?) I wanted to do something that would help me participate more fully in the moment, to somehow be more there. I went back to the motorcycle and took out a harmonica. I felt strangley contented to be playing "Keep on the Sunnyside" in a Virginia graveyard in the rain.

In New Haven, I had a chance, despite the rain (did I mention that it was raining?) to attend a reunion of the Yale Hoots. Al Schwartz who is a Mudcatter and whom I remember from 1960 and 1961 playing at the Hoots has kept them alive. They are now nearing fifty years of providing an outlet for traditional music. Back in the late fifties when I used to go on a regular basis, people came from all over the Northeast to participate in the Hoots and there was wonderful music, the sharing of lyrics and technique and the beginnings of many friendships. I was delighted to learn, through Mudcat, that the Hoots were still in existence even though they were reduced to twice a year instead of the every-other-week of their heyday. Through a newsletter and perserverence, Al is keeping the hoots going and helping to reunite frineds who have been separated by the years.

I met another Mudcatter there, "Uncle Frank, the SInging Insurance Guy". Although I did not remember him from my own Hoot days, I enjoyed talking with him and it remeinded me of how many friendships had begun among the fifty or a hundred people that would crowd into the basement of Street Hall every other Saturday night to play, sing or just listen.

John Cohen of the New Lost City Ramblers was also there and I took the opportunity to tell him during one of the breaks how much pleasure I had gotten from the NLCR's music over the years and how when I learned some of the songs that they had resurrected, I took pleasure in sharing that joy with others so that the NLCR's "feel-goodedness" was spread, perhaps a bit more palely, by the people who loved their music - going out in rings like the waves when a stone drps into the water. Ultimately, the ripples reach everywhere in the pond. That evening was another very warm and personal time.

Back to motorcycles:

My friends call me a minimalist biker. I have chosen a bike that does admirably exactly what I want it to do. It is an 800cc BMW. Today, some would call it a small bike but it has cruised easily across death VCalley in 110 degree heat at 75mph, it starts under any conditions I would ever choose to ride in, is dependable and is also very pretty. It is eighteen years old and has nearly a 100,000 miles on it although most of them have been trip miles, not the little hundred mile or less jaunts where the engine barely hearts up so the engine is in terrific condition. In fact, event though it has the original rings, I burned almost no oil during the trip. I suppose though that if the weather had averaged fifteen degrees warmer, that would not have been the case.

I have removed the radio and everything else that does not directly pertain to traveling so that when I get on the bike I am alone. This gives me a wonderful opportunity to delve into myself on a long trip and I get to lose myself in the voyage that is what every one of my long drives seems to become, complete with adventures in strange lands.

Roadsigns flashing by bring up memories of half forgotten songs suggested by the place names. It is amazing how many place names in America have been included in at least one song. I found myself singing constanly as a result of being bombarded by the memories produced by the road markings.

Well, enough for now. I made it home safely for which I am grateful and I have a whole new batch of memories. It was a good trip.

Sourdough

their influence and ability to bring joy to people was

Subject: RE: My 8,080 mile motorcycle trip
From: GUEST,Bill in Alabama
Date: 12 Jun 01 - 06:46 AM

Sourdough--

I'm excited to learn that you have visited Norris and the Museum of Appalachia and have met my friends Bitt Rouse and Linda Gustafson. Anne and I spent some time there back in February and will be back performing for 5 days in October at the Homecoming. To me, the Museum of Appalachia is uniquely special, since my roots in those mountains are deep and strong, but I truly believe that most of the mudcatters would find it a special place.

Bill Foster

Subject: RE: My 8,080 mile motorcycle trip
From: katlaughing
Date: 12 Jun 01 - 06:53 AM

WOW, Sourdough, wonderful to hear about, as always. Just beautiful...hope we get to hear some more!

Thanks,

kat

Subject: RE: My 8,080 mile motorcycle trip
From: catspaw49
Date: 12 Jun 01 - 07:12 AM

Sorry we missed communications earlier my friend, but I am overjoyed that you liked the Museum of Appalachia. I see Bill Foster has already posted and I have him to thank for going somewhere I had skipped for many years. So any thanks for my suggestion goes straight back to Bill. It really is a remarkable place. Beautiful country, wonderful folks.

Anxious to hear more of your travels as I always am to hear your stories.

Spaw

Subject: RE: My 8,080 mile motorcycle trip
From: Liz the Squeak
Date: 12 Jun 01 - 03:54 PM

Great music, now get back to the bike please!!!!

LTS - a born again biker!!

Subject: RE: My 8,080 mile motorcycle trip
From: Sourdough
Date: 13 Jun 01 - 10:05 AM

Bill in Alabama - Are you in touch with Bitt Rouse or Linda Gustason? I would like very much to thank them for a wonderful day as well as let them know that I arrived back in California safely? I also hope to get back to see them for something special such as the Christmas celebration at the museum.

kat - Thanks for your enthusiasm.

LTS - Congrtulations again on your passing the theory test. You'll be back on he road (shiny side up, of course!) soon.

Lonsesome EJ I had hoped to stop by to see you on my way through Colorado but on the way back when I got to the fork in the road that led to either Wyoming or Colorado I chose Wyoming because the weather was consistently bad and I was afraid to add more miles to the trip by swinging south. It turned out to be an important decision since it led to my getting caught in a rather exciting wind, then rain, then snow storm in the Laramie Mountains. The wind was so bad that a trucker I spoke to in the rest area I went for refuge from the storm told me that his onboard computer monitoring fuel consumption showed tha the wind was so bad that his fuel rate had become so high that it was not worth it for him to continue driving. He'd pulled over as a matter of economy until the wind moderated. I was amazed that these huge trucks are so affected by wind. He told me that wind is a more important factor in fuel consumption than is speed.

Catspaw = Thanks again!

An odd coincidence: Within 12 hours after my safe return from an 8000 mile trip, my 25 year old nephew broke both of his legs while taking a corner too fast on his bike. He had gotten his bike just before I left on my trip.

Sourdough

Subject: RE: My 8,080 mile motorcycle trip
From: SINSULL
Date: 13 Jun 01 - 09:32 PM

8080 miles? There must be enough there to keep this thread going for a year. Share some more Sourdough, please.

Subject: RE: My 8,080 mile motorcycle trip
From: Susan from California
Date: 14 Jun 01 - 01:03 AM

Your description really made the road come alive. Thanks for sharing, please continue.

Subject: RE: My 8,080 mile motorcycle trip
From: Amergin
Date: 14 Jun 01 - 02:03 AM

one of these days i'll have to make it up there....and see that museum...my family also came down from those hills....

Subject: RE: My 8,080 mile motorcycle trip
From: Sourdough
Date: 14 Jun 01 - 12:33 PM

Amergin -

I hope you do get a chance to visit the museum. With the knowledge that your family spent time in those hillss, it will have even more meaning for you.

Susan in California and Sinsull -

You are right, there are a lot of stories in 8080 miles. In fact, the reason that I make these trips by motorcycle is because stories are inevitable. I once drove a rental truck across the US. Nothing happened. I met no one. On a motorcycle, I feel accessible. People come up and start conversations ingas stations, museums, restaurants, everywhere I stop. Since I have a tendency to be reserved, I need that slight effort on the part of others to meet them. However, once the conversation gets underway, I do just fine.

I can pick a lot of themes out of this trip but I have pretty much covered music related things in the earlier post. I'll write here about some coincidences that happened on the trip.

One story begins more than twenty five years ago on a train running between Boston and New York. I think I have actually written this story on Mudcat a couple of years ago but soemthing happened on this motorcycle trip that fills out the "rest of the story".

Back then, I had been in the club car sitting in on of those big revolving chairs and found myself in a conversation with an old man in a battered hat in the next chair. He had noticed that I was carrying a tripod and had asked if I was a photographer. I explained that I was not but that my wife was and I was carrying the tripod to New York for her. One thing led to another and as the train traveled down the New England coast, we talked about the diffrence in light on the east and west coasts. He was from the west coast and I had spent some time there so we both had opinions on the topic. In fact, we talked a lot about light. After about a half hour of this, a very attractive, well-dressed lady appeared in front of us. I remember that she was very business like and professional as well as polite. She excused herself for having to interrupt my conversation and I assured her that I didn't mind. Hen she turned to the old man and said, and now I am quoting exactly because even after all of these years, her words remain burned into my memory. She said, "Ansel, do you want your schedule now or would you rather wait until we reach New Haven?"

The enormity of the discovery that my traveling companion was one of the greatest photographers of all time and that I had actually been discussing light with someone who understood it as well as anyone who ever lived swept over me. I went back over our converstion and was grateful that I hadn't tried to explain the "Zone Theory" to him. Once I realized who I was talking to, I did manage to take advantage of the situation and ask him about two people, Loren Eisley and Rubinson Jeffers, who I knew from their writings and biographies to have been his friends. I had remembered that he had done the book jacket photos of some of their publications and it was fascinating for me to get a glimpse into the lives of one of my favorite poets and of my favorite naturalist/essayist.

As you might expect, I have told this story a number of times over the past several decades and on this trip I told it again. It came up at my college reunion. One of my classmates, a guy I had not seen since Graduation Day. In talking about what we had done since then, I mentioned some PBS series I had produced and he said that his wife was working now on a PBS documentary with Kevin Burns about the life and work of Ansel Adams. Of course, that was all I needed to tell him about the train ride so many years ago.

"When did this happen?", he asked me when I'd finished. I told him and he looked houghtful.

"I think that woman you described with Ansel was my wife." He called her over and I told the story again. Sure enough, it hasd been her! After all of these years, I had run into the same woman again. (I was pleased to notice that she was still very attractive.)

While driving across Nebraska (did I mention that it was raining?), I remembered an acquintance from years back, an MIT professor I had gotten to know through some mutual friends and muual interests. His own interests were varied and his accomplishments were extraordinary. I had first met him when I was nine years old and went to an MIT Family Day with my uncle who was on the faculty. There, this very pleasant man had demonstrated a special light that he had invented that had the ability to slow down or stop action, even reverse it making it look as though water droplets were gsathering themselves from the bottom of the basin and rising up to the spigot. Of course, although I sisn't know it, this was stroboscopic light and this was the man who had invented it.

He was also an oceanographer with a research vessel named after him (no, his name was not Calypso). He invented sidescan sonar which is of great military importance but also has been used in underwater exploration. On the faculty list, he was Professsor Harold Edgerton but everyone called him Doc.

I met him again during the search for the Confederate submarine, the Hunley and in the search for the Loch Ness Monster. Come to think of it, the Loch Ness Monster search was one of the things that impressed me about Doc. He had looked at the evidence for the existence of an unexplained phenomonon in the loch and had felt that there were enough anomalies to make this a worthwhile subject for serious scientific investigation. While other scientists were saying, "There's no proof that there is a Loch Ness Monster" he was saying there seems to be somethng strange here and whatever is going on seems interesting. Let's go see what we can find out." That I think is the sign of a true, well-disciplined inquiring mind.

I was thinking of Doc as I crossed Nebraska because the broad horizons reminded me of his reminiscence of how he came ot invent the strobe light. Growing up in Nebraska, he had a summer job as a lineman for the power company and often had to work at night. He nopticed that when there was a lightning flash, it lit up the area and that it seemed to freeze the action. He realized that it was a result of a biological feature of sight, "persistence of vision", the same things that makes movies possible. However, in this case, what looked like freezing was due to the extreem short duration of the lightning flash. He figured that if he could come up with a light that could flash at that speed, he could create the same effect at will. Unfortunately, technology was a long way from there THe problem was that any filament that flashed did so by heating up and it took too long for it to cool and for the light to decay. However, years later he figured out how to do this and the result was not just the familiar photographs of a bullet going through an apple and a milk drop splashing, he developed aerial reconnaiscance photography that helped to overcome what had been effective German armor tactics in Italy. In that case, during the night, the Germans would mass armor at a particular point along the front and, come dawn, would puch through the Allied line. The Allies had no alternative but to stretch themselves across the Italian boot so of course they were outnumbered wherever the Germans chose to attack and the casualties were high. It was also seriously slowing the Allied advance up the boot.

The "boffins" realized that the strobe light night help with nightime aerial photography of troop movements but they needed to test out altitude, exposure, etc and in a meeting in England Doc listened to them trying to figure out where would be a good place to run the tests. Everyone agreed that the ideal place would be a large flat place with a few large vertical features. The boffins were puzzled. Doc smiled as he remembered what happened next. He had been sitting quietly listening to the discussion but now he spoke up. "I don't mean to interfere but I thnk you have a place called Stonehenge that should work out pretty welll."

After the testing, the device went to war and each night the US Air Force flew along the front lines. The films were rushed to the darkroom and there were the images of the movement of armor. US tanks were quickly moved into position facing them and in the morning the panzers were met with a surprising amount of force. After a few days of this, the bewildered German general staff changed tactics and the US tank losses fell rapidly.

I was surprised to find out what he was most proud of in his work with strobe light. I had thought hit might be something to do with his military contributions but he said that his favorite discovery was a little drop visible in his milk drop pictures. Until he pointed it out, I didn't realize the significance. Above the crown-like splash is a drop looking suspended in air. It isn't falling, it is rising! It has bounced off the surface and is going back into the air and will fall a a few milliseconds later. What Doc said though was that until he had developed and interpreted these films no one in the world had ever suspected that a liquid bounced like that in a non-chaotic manner. It just didn't spatter or act randomly. This drop could be recreated by anyone who wished to set up the simple experiment.

As I said, I was thinking about Doc as I drove across the Nebrasha highways and was very surprised to see a sign that said "Visit the Edgerton Science Center". My first thought was that there was a town n Nebraska called Edgerton - not so surprising if Doc was from the state. Perhaps his family had been old, original settlers. However, other signs later made me realize that it was a museum named after Doc. Of course I went to visit it.

I struck up a conversation with the curator who told me tha tthe museum had been gven to the town where Doc was born by the late inventor's friends and was primarily for children. It was a hands-on place designed to intrigue children and Doc's friends knew he would have liked that.

I told the curator some of my "Doc stories" that either he had told me or that I had learned from others who had studied or worked with him. Some, such as his observations about lightning and the Stonehenge story are already well known but htere were smaller anecdotes that he liked and made notes as I talked. It was a very pleasant way to remember a man I was lucky enough to have met and who was one of he most inventive minds of the century.

I guess this is enough. It certainly isn't much about music except that i might add that Doc loved to play music and invited me and me then wife to come over to join him and friends in a weekly get-together but somehow we never did. SAnd there is a lesson in that, too.

Sourdough

Subject: RE: My 8,080 mile motorcycle trip
From: Peter T.
Date: 14 Jun 01 - 12:53 PM

Oh, hell, Sourdough, when are you going to do something with these stories? For pity's sake. Ansel Adams. Jeez.
yours, Peter T.

Subject: RE: My 8,080 mile motorcycle trip
From: catspaw49
Date: 14 Jun 01 - 12:59 PM

Well you beat me to the same question Peter...........

If we just collected the stories you'e told here at the 'Cat, you got a book!

Just LOVE your stuff man......................

And 'Ginboy.....See the Museum sometime. It is very special. Sourdough, did you enjoy the roadside crosses and the tale of the man behind them?

Spaw

Subject: RE: My 8,080 mile motorcycle trip
From: SINSULL
Date: 14 Jun 01 - 01:04 PM

When are all you guys going to do something with these stories???? Another thread to print out and treasure. Thanks, Sourdough. Keep going.

Subject: RE: My 8,080 mile motorcycle trip
From: Sourdough
Date: 16 Jun 01 - 03:59 AM

I really appreciate the enthusiasm for my stories here. Encouraged by that, here is another.

When I left New Haven (did I mention that it was raining?), I took the old highway running up from Hartford towards the Massachusetts Turnpike. I was on my way to Newburyport to visit two of my old motorcycling friends. I was familair with this particular road because it was the highway I would take the infrequent times I would head north to visit my parents in New Hampshire. Since I had gone away to school, I had grown apart from them and my buying a motorcycle had further strained relations. A visit home was not an unalloyed pleasure.

Ten days ago, as I drove across the Connecticut Valley where there had once been mile after mile of shade-grown tobacco fields, I remembered an adventure that had started there. I had seen a biker standing next to his Triumph. He had a small pack and a sleeping bag on the luggage rack. I slowed down to see if he needed any help. I pulled up in front of him and turned in the bike's saddle to call back, "Everything OK?"

"No problem". He waved a half finished cigarette in the air and said, "I was just taking a break." He looked at my New Hampshire license plate and added a question, "Are you going to New Hampshire?"

I answered yes and was about to add that I lived in Nashua when he interrupted with another question. "Do you mind if I ride with you? I'm going to the Gypsy Tour but I don't know the way."

I tried to explain that Nashua was in Southern New Hampshire and the Gypsy Tour was taking place about seventy or eighty miles further north, near Lake Winnipesauki.

I had never been to the Gypsy Tour even though I remembered when I was a kid walking down to the State Highway and watching the bikes go by on their way to this annual event that had started back in the 1920s. Even then, the Tour had drawn people from all over the Northeast. Thousands of bikes showed up every year for this

I told my new riding partner that I would be happy to lead him up to New Hampshire but I wouldn't be going all the way to Gilford. "That's cool with me", he said, and we were off.

He was on a Bonneville and I was riding a 250cc BMW. THe Bonneville was one of the premier bikes of the time. Triumphs proudly wore a decal placed on it at the factory, "Triumph: WOrld's Fastest Motocycle". It was not an empty boast. On the other hand, my little motorcycle had s small motor on a full-size frame. The bike had a certain dignity about it that other bikes did not. My sister said when she saw the shiny black bike with the white pin stripes, "It looks like a metal tuxedo." And she was right. It did sort of have a formal, classy look. On theother hand, as a friend of mine said, "It doesn't go fast enough to give you a good cold.

In those days, BMWs were unusual bikes and few people were familiar with them. Harleys, Triumpshs and BSAs ruled the road. The Hondsa were still ugly, underpowered machines that pleaded for understanding. "You meet the nicest people on a Honda." The implication was that the rest of us were some sort of scum. Anyway, because this was a full sized bike, most people assumed it was a full-powered bike. As we headed up the highway, I was running wide open and the Bonneville, in order to stay with me, throttled back a little. We rode along at 60-65 mph up the Connecticut road and into Massachusetts.

Somewhere along the way, other bikes started catching up to us. For a while, when the bikes overtook us, they would ride up alongside the Bonneville and he would tell them that we were en route to the Gypsy Tour. Since they were too, the bikes would drop back into the growing pack behind me and we all continued north and east. When we passed a rest area, the group of riders in the parking area waved and a moment later they'd started up their bikes and were joining up with us.

When I looked into my rear view mirror, I saw a column of motorcycle strung out behind me for perhaps a quarter of a mile. With the exception of a large motor scooter that had the same size engine as my own, all of the bikes in this group were considerably larger and faster than mine.

To really understand the situation, you have to realize that I was a 19 or 20 year old college student leading what was growing into a forty-bike pack. With passengers there were probably about sixty or seventy people in our group. Not only that, I was getting off on situation and certainly didn't want to give up my pride of place. To stay in front, I was running wide-open. When I came to a hill, I would run down as fast as possible building up enough momentum to overcome the next hill. That little motor scooter scooter couldn't keep up and when we went through the toll booth at the beginning of the Mass Pike, he dropped out. Even so, the numbers continued to grow.

Each time I looked in my rear view mirror, there was a surprise. Once it was just someone passing a beer from one bike to another. Then they started passing around a six pack. At one point, I looked back and discovered two people each trying to outdo the other doing tricks standing on the seats of a bikes traveling 65 miles an hour. How did I feel? Proud. After all, this was MY group.

The tension of trying to stay in front of this traveling circus and just the effort that goes into a hundred miles of motorcycle traveling had tired me a bit and I started thinking of a coffee break. By the time we got to Route 128 around Boston, I was ready but I just didn't know how to communicate that I was going to be stopping for a cup of coffee to the sixty or seventy, and now perhaps even more, people behind me. Not having any real alternative, I put on my turn signal and headed into the parking lot of a Howard Johnson on the highway.

Do you know what happens when forty or so bikes pull into the parking lot of a highway restaurant? First, a lot of white faces appear at the window. Customers attracted by the noise look out and when they see all the bikes, their faces pale.

I was the first into the restaurant and took a seat at the counter. Before I could even sit down, a series of noises that told a story started up.

First there was the sound of forks and spoons on crockery. That was everyone trying to finish up the food in their bowls and plates. That was followed by people slurping down the last of their coffees as fast as possible and the scraping of chairs as people headed for the cashier. Then the cash register started its "click", "click", "click", "ker-ching!", "click", "click", "click", "ker- ching!" , "click", "click", "click", "ker-ching!".... . As soon as the bill was paid, each headed as fast as possible for the exit to get away from the Howard Johnson Invaders.

If you have ever been kept waiting for service at a lunch counter you'll appreciate what happened next.

As far as anyone in the Howard Johnson's could tell, since I had been the first into the parking lot, first into the restaurant they figured I was the leader of this group. Not only that, they could see that I was so cool that no one in my own group even dared sit next to me. Of course, that was because no one knew me. I don't even know whether that biker on the Bonneville was still with the group. I don't think I could have recognized him anyway. The waitress could not get to my order fast enough and since it was just coffee and a piece of apple pie, my order was sitting in front of me while the rest of the bikers were still walking in. As a result, I was done before anyone else.

I lit a cigarette and smoked it slowly and luxuriously. Then I made a quick trip to the Men's Room, had another cup of coffee and another cigarette. When these were finished I started to get antsy. I wanted to get going. After waiting a bit longer, I left a tip, got up and paid my bill.

That started the earlier sequence all over again.

The motorcyclists scraped the last bit of food from their plates, drank their last drops of coffee, pushed back from their tables and as I walked out the door into the parking lot I heard the familiar "click", "click", "click", "ker-ching!", "click", "click", "click", "ker-ching!" behind me. However, I still had an organizational problem. It would take a while for the last of the riders to get through the cashier's line and the ones outside were getting ready to leave. If I wanted to lead, I would have to get going.

As soon as I kicked over my little BMW, the others started their bikes too. Soon twenty or thirty bikes were idling in the parking lot with more starting up all the time. The ground was shaking and I couldn't even tell if my bike was running until I twisted the throttle way up and got the motor screaming. Once I was sure that it was running, though, I mounted and started towards the highway. As I pulled onto 128, I could hear the other bikes pulling up behind me. It sounded like a World War Two when fighter planes peel off for the attack.

The next hour riding towards Nashua was uneventful if you can call such things as someone standing in the saddle and holding hands with the passenger on the bike running alongside uneventful. I still managed to stay in front but this was actually creating up another problem. Soon it would be time to turn off towards home and unless I found some way to prevent it, I would pull into the driveway of my parents' house on a quiet street in Nashua with 50 or perhaps by now 60 motorcycles in line behind me. Seeing no other alternative, I signaled that I was pulling over to the shoulder of the highway. In a column that went as far back as I could see, all the bikes pulled over to the side of the road. I waved for the bike behind me, a BSA, to come up alongside.

"I'm not going all the way to the Gypsy Tour, I live here in Nashua. What you do is stay on this road until you get to the toll booth at Thornton's Ferry. There are directional signs there for the Belknap Recreation Area. Follow those signs. You'll be there is an hour and a half."

The motorcyclist thanked me and then reached out and shook my hand. Surprised, I took it and wished him good luck. Then his passenger reached forward and offered her hand. I twisted in the saddle a bit and took it and we wished each other a happy weekend. Then they were off. The next bike pulled up in their place. I pointed to the BSA disappearing up the road and said, "Follow him." The driver thanked me and he, too, reached for my hand. Again, I shook it and then shook the hand of his passenger. This went on, one by one until every bike had come up, been told to follow the bikes ahead and each rider had shaken my hand. Slowly the noise of idling motors lessened as the bikers having finished the handshaking ritual had continued northward.

Finally I was alone. The last bikes were already specks against the concrete highway and were getting smaller. I took a deep breath, shook out my bruised hand and stretched my back which had become tired from having been twisted as I'd said goodby to everyone.

I took the exit and drove the familiar streets until I was in front of my parents' home. As I rolled up the driveway, I smiled thinking what their reaction would have been if fifty or sixty motorcycles had been behind me. Then I saw my father's face at the window. By the time I reached the steps he was at the door.

"Did you come all the way from New Haven on that damned thing?", he asked not really expecting an answer. "How was the trip?"

With his attitude, I knew that telling him about the last few hours would not give him any amusement so I just said non-committaly, "It was fine", and headed upstairs to my room.

To this day, when I talk to my own boys, I always try to keep an open mind about their activities so that they will never feel as though they can't tell me a story about something that happened to them. In a way, that is a legacy, an inheritance from my father and I'm grateful for it.

Sourdough

Subject: RE: My 8,080 mile motorcycle trip
From: Peter T.
Date: 16 Jun 01 - 09:26 AM

Boy I wish it had been the Howard Johnson's in North Syracuse New York. The slowest service in the world!!!!!(great story, Sourdough).

yours, Peter T.

Subject: RE: My 8,080 mile motorcycle trip
From: Liz the Squeak
Date: 17 Jun 01 - 02:21 AM

Sourdough - now I remember why I want to get back on a bike! You just don't get that pack mentality in a car, even when you're supposed to be travelling in convoy! Slowing down to the weakest bike just doesn't happen in a car, and you certainly don't clear restaurants with a score of Volvo drivers (although if they all dress the same, slacks, tweed jackets, racing gloves and those blue flat caps with the netting sides then maybe I'd think twice about staying around....)

It's the same feeling I get when I sing a song with a chorus... you are there on your own until you reach a certain point, and then suddenly, there are loads of others, all following your lead, all waiting for your intstructions!! Total wipeout man!! Thanks for sharing. You've made a tired, miserable old woman very happy for an hour.

LTS

Subject: RE: My 8,080 mile motorcycle trip
From: Sourdough
Date: 20 Jun 01 - 04:12 AM

There is nothing like a little praise to keep me writing. **************

It was the last day, the last hour, of my motorcycle trip. I had left I-80 and was driving on a series of secondary roads that would take me across the big marsh near Vallejo, past the international speedway at Sears Point and then along the Petaluma River, home. It had been three and a half weeks since I had left Petaluma for a meandering cross-country tour of more than 8,000 miles. It was a sunny day, a welcome change since the last six thousand miles had been an unbroken string of rain and overcast days pucuated by windstorms, thunderstorms, and even a snowstorm. It was a nice enough day that I was even wearing the sunglasses I'd bought in a truck stop in Ohio. There hadn't been enough sun to bother digging them out of my pack since I'd bought them. All in all, it was a fine day for traveling on a motorcycle. I was lost in such thoughts as well as thinking of the comforts of home that were now less than forty miles away.

"Are you going to the Redwood Run?"

I was so lost in my own reverie that I hadn't noticed the two big brand new Harleys pull up next to me at the stop light. "You going to the Redwood Run?", one of them asked again. He asked with a kind of pride because he knew that he and his friends were heading for what is an annual motorcycle gathering about a hundred and fifty miles north of San Francisco. Thousands of bikes from Northern and Central California come together here for a weekend. He and his friend on a matching Harleys, each with a passenger wearing matching leathers, had strapped their tents and sleeping bags to the racks on their bikes. Clearly they were looking forward to a good time. Their bikes were new and they looked as though they only had a few thousand miles on them.

"No, I'm on my way to Petaluma?"

"Why Petaluma?"

Our conversation continued in fits and starts as we moved one-by-one through the Vallejo traffic lights.

I explained that I lived in Petaluma and had been traveling.

"How long you been on the road?"

"Three and a half weeks."

"Whew", one of the girls said, "Where've you been?"

I was proud of my accomplishment and now here were some motorcyclists asking me about my trip. They would appreciate what a really long trip meant. In a way it would be a fitting end for my trip. I told them, "8,000 miles - Tennessee, Pennsylvania, New York, Connecticut, New Hampshire Vermont, Massachusetts". That list seemed long enough and so I stopped. I was happy to be sharing this abbreviated version of my last twenty-five days with some fellow bikers but their reaction was a lot different than I had expected.

The two men driving the bikes looked as though someone had suddenly deflated them. They each mumbled something and, as soon as the light changed, they left me, traveling fifteen or twenty miles an hour faster than the fifty-five mile an hour speed limit. By the time I reached Mare Island, they were already out of sight.

For a little while, I felt badly. The two couples were starting out on a three hour trip to the Redwood Run and were feeling the excitement of hitting The Road. Then they came across me and my trip so overshadowed theirs that they felt they had to get away from me as soon as possible to recapture their own excitement.

I was sorry I hadn't been a little more sensitive to their feelings but soon that was forgotten as I drove into Petlauma, turned into my street, waved to some neighbors and pulled into the garage. Bess, my Rottweiler threw herself through the dog door when she heard the bikes's quiet exhaust and Elfi, my Bavarian wife, made it across the driveway and into the garage before I could shut off the BMW. My trip was over, I was home.

Sourdough

Subject: RE: My 8,080 mile motorcycle trip
From: Biskit
Date: 20 Jun 01 - 11:08 PM

Well told Sourdough! Well told indeed!! I've been workin' up to a road trip myself, it's been to long not having had one. If ya come through Tucson on your nextun ya may well have a shadow. Peace -Biskit-

Subject: RE: My 8,080 mile motorcycle trip
From: Sourdough
Date: 21 Jun 01 - 05:05 PM

I do occasionally get down that way. I had a real nice trip down to Bisbee. Other times I have out to Coconino, Cottonwood, Globe, Douglas - lots of good places to travel on a bike out in your country.

Keep in touch about your trips

Sourdough

Subject: RE: My 8,080 mile motorcycle trip
From: Peter T.
Date: 21 Jun 01 - 06:00 PM

I think it is interesting how often that can happen if you are at all sensitive -- you catch out of the corner of your eye something that reminds you how you think your own story fills up the known space, and people should be thrilled, but in fact it makes someone else feel smaller. As a teacher it took me years and years and years to stop rushing ahead, when some student came in with some piece of new knowledge they had acquired -- "Oh, yes, and wait till you've read this, blah, blah". How to deflate someone in one easy lesson. I can remember very well how carefully and slowly the wisest man I ever knew -- Northrop Frye, who was unspeakably brilliant -- would sneak his erudition at the right level into students. I remember once a student came in to a seminar he was giving with a really bright idea, and went on about it, and Frye said what an important insight it was, and asked the student to say more about it, and about a week later the student (a friend) stopped me in the hall and said, you know that thing I said about X, and I said yes, of course, and he said, later in the week I was reading an article of Dr. Frye's, and he said the exact same thing, in far more detail, 10 years ago. The exact same thing. We both stood there in the hall shaking our heads. The other guy is now a Full Professor somewhere else, and I know he remembers that moment, and for him Frye is a god, just for that. Nothing really to do with your story, Sourdough, but it reminded me of this story.

yours, Peter T.

Subject: RE: My 8,080 mile motorcycle trip
From: Sourdough
Date: 21 Jun 01 - 07:14 PM

Oh, I don't know, Peter, I think it does have something to do with my experience. If I hd been a little faster, a little less self-involved, I wold have noticed what was going on a bit sooner.

And your story not only humanizes Dr. Frye, it shows what a real education, somehting that is quite rare, can do.

Sourdough

Subject: RE: My 8,080 mile motorcycle trip
From: Lonesome EJ
Date: 21 Jun 01 - 07:29 PM

Leaving on my bike for New Mexico, Arizona and Utah at sunrise. Thanks for the stories, Dough. I'll have some new ones of my own next week.

Subject: RE: My 8,080 mile motorcycle trip
From: JenEllen
Date: 21 Jun 01 - 07:43 PM

Wonderful stories. Ride easy Leej, can't wait to hear yours.

~J

Subject: RE: My 8,080 mile motorcycle trip
From: Sourdough
Date: 21 Jun 01 - 08:36 PM

Have a wonderful trip and we'll be waiting for those stories!

Sourdough

Subject: RE: My 8,080 mile motorcycle trip
From: katlaughing
Date: 21 Jun 01 - 09:39 PM

Books, you guys!! Ya gotta publish!! And, come ride the wide open prairie in Wyoming, sometime!! No rain, plenty of sunshine, hot springs, powwow, old-timey diners where you just might rub elbows with Harrison Ford, like my friend did one time, NOT that celebrities are a main reason to travel, lots of old historical sides-of-the-road spots, music at my house and Sorcha's...Ride and Write! And you do it beautifully, SD! Tahnsk for sharing.

I know I've probably asked you before...when were you growing up in Nashua? Anywhere near Linton Street? Know any Biron's, LaFrance's, Denis, the usual French Canadian lot? Rog graduated in 1966.

kat

Subject: RE: My 8,080 mile motorcycle trip
From: Jim Cheydi
Date: 22 Jun 01 - 09:43 AM

I was riding along on my motorcycle when suddenly I came to an abrupt halt. Imagine my surprise when I discovered I'd run into the back of a truck!

I wonder if any other Mudcatters have had a similar experience.

Subject: RE: My 8,080 mile motorcycle trip
From: Sourdough
Date: 22 Jun 01 - 08:03 PM

Kat:

I grew up near Greeley Park. I don't remember any LaFrance's but no one could live in Nashua without knowing a lot of the French people there and it is certanly possible I did no some. I think there was a LaFrance store on Maine St.

Although my parents remained there much of their lives, I didn't go to high school in Nashua but I have alwas considered it "home".

Sourdough