Niagara and New England: A maiden voyage

[swedstal]

Day 6, Saturday, 10-19-13: Miles 1,606 to 1,947

Woke up shivering. Purposely decided not to check the temperature, fearing a hit to morale. I tried to make packing up an aerobic exercise as I waited for the sun to show itself. I was ready to go just before sunrise.

Where is everyone?

Rode US-11 south and hooked up with the four-lane NY-17 eastbound. As my elevation dropped, I was engulfed by dense fog. 40mph felt plenty fast as I crept along with my flashers on. Despite my best finger squeegeeing, I could not keep my visor clear. Sunglasses fared no better, so my only option was to ride visor raised. The cold air stung and I had difficulty keeping my eyes from watering up. Fingers numb as well, I decided to stop for coffee in Hancock after logging just 60 miles.

The temperature was still just 36 degrees, which justified my discomfort. I lingered for about an hour, updating my log, reluctant to resume my self afflicting journey. Upon finally taking my eyes off of my phone, I noticed that the sun had come out and it looked quite pleasant out. The temperature was up to the mid-40s, which now felt oddly comfortable.

The rest of the ride on 17 was sublime. I think I was in what would be considered the foothills of the Catskill Mountains. The hills were pure orange, covered in turning trees. It was very much a macro-view of the fall foliage. (No pictures?....too busy taking mental ones)

I had earlier decided not to go into New York City. I've been there before and seen most things of interest to me. Approaching the city before turning off, I was surprised how little urban sprawl extended to my direction of approach. Just 40 miles from the city it was still just countryside.

I crossed into Connecticut at Danbury and stopped into the visitor center.

I asked about some scenic routes and said I was excited to get to the coast and see the ocean (a big deal for a Nebraskan!). The young man corrected me and told me it was actually a "sound". I told him I did not know what that meant so I was just going to keep calling it the ocean. He seemed to begrudgingly accept this. I asked about camping areas and he said Rocky Neck state park, which is on the coast, was still open. I made that my destination for the night.

My first stop was Hammonasset state park, a public beach and camping area (until Columbus Day, at least). Here I got my first view of the ocean.

Annie got her first view too

I pulled over to a picnic table and called ahead to Rocky Neck. A recorded message let me know that they were closed for the season. Is it cold or something? I checked the radar and there was a system soon approaching. With daylight waning, I decided to hurry to the closest open campground. Riverdale Farm camp site was just up the road.

The place looked nice...almost too nice. Indeed, even the most basic site cost $40. I gritted my teeth and handed over a couple Jacksons, pledging to myself that I would sleep on the cheap the next two nights. The campground was surprisingly full, mostly occupied by seasonal trailers. I looked around but could find no grassy sites. It was all rocks and dirt. I picked a flat spot near the bath house.

I was still searching for a suitable stone to supplement the ballerina-toe side stand when someone approached from Annie's starboard.

"Now listen, we've got lots of food over here so as soon as you finish up come get a plate, OK?" It was a directive not an invitation. Her name was Debbie and she was part of a group of 15-20 ladies celebrating the birthdays of two of them. I thanked her and told her I would be over as soon as I got set up.

Setting the stakes of my tent was a real struggle here. Under the first rocky layer was, surprise, more rocks. I put in just the 5 vital stakes as I was very well shielded from wind on all sides.

About half an hour later I was still going through my evening routine. I actually had the oil dipstick up to my nose when Debbie, under cloak of darkness, sneaked up with a freshly microwaved plate of food covered in tin foil. She set it on my picnic table and said she hoped I like ribs.

What I was planning on eating (my go-to on this trip):

What I got instead:

It was a great meal, eaten by head-lamp, and really hit the spot. I went over to return my plate and silverware just as they brought out the cake and began to sing. I felt a bit awkward coming over at that time but just sang along wholeheartedly, mumbling through the names lyric.

The ladies interviewed me as a group, eager to hear where I was coming from. They also insisted I have some dessert. I told him I wished there was something I could do for them to show my thankfulness. Perhaps being in the singing mood, I asked them if they had ever had a Nebraska boy sing to them in Swedish. They listen intently as I gave my best rendition of the first stanza of "Tryggare Kan Ingen Vara", a Swedish hymn (translated into "Children of the Heavenly Father" in English). They applauded enthusiastically upon conclusion. I don't particularly make a habit of singing to strangers in strange lands in strange languages, so I'm not sure what got into me

I laid down and did some more updating to my log. The atmosphere in this campground was a stark contrast to the desolation the night before. To the west beer bottles opened and clinked. To the east my ladies were were singing a silly, yet oddly moving, rendition of "Don't Fence Me In."

I was thankful to have been shown kindness once again. To an outsider it may seem like I have some sort of magnetic personality. I can assure you this is not the case. I can be personable enough, when convention dictates, but these acts of kindness had nothing do to with me having some sort of friendly demeanor. In truth my appearance was that of a disheveled loner, clad in black leather. Why would you want to have anything to do with him?

Fell asleep easily, again quizzically pondering human motivation.

 

[swedstal]

Day 7, Sunday, 10-20-13: Miles 1,947 to 2,100

The low of the night was 45°, the warmest of my trip. I had a very restful night and allowed myself to sleep in until around 7:30. I inspected the showers and found that they took quarters in order to turn on. I decided to skip it for a couple of reasons: First, I had already given them $40 for a patch of dirt....come on, now. Second, on a trip like this a shower is not just an exercise in cleansing, it is also an experience. In my estimation, the experience is marred by having the guillotine of impending hot water shutoff hanging over one's head. My travelling life is stressful enough as it is.

I hit the road and resumed my travel up the Connecticut coastline. My American and English football teams (Chiefs and Tottenham Hotspur) were both playing this day. Due to time constraints, I decided I could only budget in watching one of them. I decided on the Chiefs game since I knew it would be easier to find a place to watch and because they are having an awesome season.

The one thing that had been nearly unanimously recommended for me to see in CT was the Mystic Seaport museum. I arrived there around 10am.

View of the harbor:

Looking at where I wanted to get for the night, I decided to budget about 90 minutes to my stay......Five hours later I still did not feel like I saw all that I wanted to!

I have many unique personality traits. Some of them are quite frustrating to me and possibly to others as well. One trait that seems almost exclusively positive is my ability to be fascinated by things, especially things of which I have very little knowledge. Being born and raised in Nebraska, seafaring certainly fits the bill.

The Mystic Seaport is an open air museum with many different types of displays and demonstrations. Many of them seem to try and capture what life was like at the Mystic Seaport in its heyday (late 19th, early 20th century, I think). However, it is much more than just a museum. Their big project right now is getting the old whaling ship, Charles W. Morgan, into sailing condition. When complete, it will be the oldest commercial sailing vessel in the US (launched in the 1840s). They are planning to have her in operable condition next summer (2014). The staff at the museum all speak with the enthusiasm of expecting mothers when asked about the project.

One of the most interesting things about this endeavor is how much of the equipment they are making "from scratch". The blacksmith isn't just hammering out trinkets for the gift shop, he's making items they actually need for the rigging. (I guess you can't just get the stuff at the Home Depot). Likewise with the ropes, sails and all different shapes, sizes and types of wood planking.

Blacksmith at work:

What my shop would look like if I was in his line of business:

I got to see a whaling boat demonstration which was terribly interesting. Each crewperson gave a spiel about what their job on the boat was and demonstrated how agile these types of boats could be.

I was especially fascinated by the rope making building. It is about 100 yards long and allows one to see each step in the process. I mercilessly interrogated the young lady who was working on one of the wrapping steps and she answered my questions patiently.

It was an enjoyable time and I was very happy to have spent a half day there. Back on the road, I hopped off the interstate to go through Newport harbor in Rhode Island. For some reason, I really enjoy driving over bridges. This one did not disappoint. I drank in spectacular views, while obeying posted speeds, as locals whizzed passed me.

I continued north into Massachusets and went as far as I could before finding a place to watch the 4:30 Chiefs game. I ended up in the Boston suburb of Taunton at Homeplate restaurant. The place was packed and on edge when I walked in. The Patriots were in overtime against the Jets. They ended up losing due to a questionable call on a missed field goal attempt that gave the Jets 15 yards. The bar was full of Patriots fans and a single Jets fan who was enjoying himself way too much. One of the managers personally came over to me and made sure that I had a TV with the game I wanted. He also checked in a few times during the game since the Chiefs defense was on his fantasy team.

I perused the menu briefly. A burger: $11. A lobster: $13. Easy choice, right?

As easy as the choice was, the consequences of it became readily apparent. I don't think I have ever eaten a lobster before and this one did not come with any instructions. As my waitress brought out my meal, I asked if she had any suggestions of a plan of attack. She said that she didn't really like lobster, but kind of pointed out the areas that generally contained the meat. I nibbled on some fries while considering how to proceed.

It was at this point that I met Mike. Mike had apparently received a memo that we were going to be best friends for the evening. Not having room to pack along a fax machine, I did not receive said memo. I can only ascertain its existence from the way Mike treated me over the next three hours. He walked over shortly after my waitress left.

"Do you really not know how to eat that thing?"

He spoke in a guttural, non-rhotic growl. I think it is exactly the way someone would talk if they were making fun of the way people from Boston talk. I told him that I was from Nebraska and assured him that this was my first battle with a crustacean of this size.

"Oh, I thought you might have just been hitting on the waitress, I'm going to help you out, you don't mind my hands on your food do you?"

He asked the question after already putting the lobster in the kung-fu grip of his big-knuckled hands. I told him that I would appreciate his help and he proceeded to violently crack the lobster in half, pulling out the tail.

"You see, boom, boom, boom."

Much to my delight, Mike did not stop at the execution of eating a lobster. He also delved into lobster-theory.

"You see that there, right there where I'm pointing, that's called the s*** line, see you want to stay away from that, they say lobsters are like the chickens of the sea, you know what chickens are like, who am I kidding, you're from Nebraska you know all about chickens, you know chickens will eat anything, lobsters are the same way, it don't matter, they'll eat whatever, that's why you want to stay away from the s*** line."

Noted.

He continued to pull one of the claws off. With three lighting quick snaps of his hand, the meat therein was exposed. He went back to the bar and said he would come check on me in a little while. I labored away with my little fork, dunking each piece in butter as instructed. I was so focused on the task that I missed a few plays of the game.

Thinking my race was run, I pushed the lobster (now looking much less like a lobster) aside. Mike came by on patrol and notified me that I had missed the knuckles, "one of the best parts." He again effortlessly cracked out the meat of the lobster's right, leaving me to toil with the left. He also advised, without demonstration, that the meat in the legs could be sucked out.

"You still got a long way to go."

I dug back in. At half time I got up to use the restroom. Not readily seeing a sign, I got up and began to walk. Once Mike noticed me, he pointed and declared at full stadium volume, "Men's room! Through that door!" I thought I was being so subtle.

I worked on my meal well into the third quarter. A final check from Mike earned a passing grade in elementary lobster dissection. I really enjoyed meeting and talking to Mike and also just observing people in general. Though their interactions were different than what I'm used to (more brashness and volume ), there was also something almost rural, like small town church basement feel, about it. There seems to be a sense of community awareness despite Boston's sprawling nature. To me, it struck a contrast to the sort of urban detachment I sense in most metro areas. Mike truly took pride it helping me out. There was no hesitation!

The Chiefs held on to a one point victory over an injury-depleted Texans team. Again, uninspiring but effective. 7-0 is all that matters. I thanked Mike on my way out and met Annie in the parking lot. While the game was going, I had tried to find a campground. Most were closed. The few open ones were too expensive. It was already dark so I decided to just set up shop the first suitable place I found. I rode for a little while and learned that this is easier said than done in an area so densely populated.

I found some ball fields that were city property and began setting up the tent. The backside of a storage shed, close to a porta-potty, looked like a good spot. It was a clear night with near full moon so I left the headlamp off to avoid attention. Knowing that I might be awakened and asked to leave during the night, I opted for a quick 5 stake set up and didn't stake my rainfly.

Trying to go to sleep, my morality centers started buzzing a little bit. I was knowingly trespassing. In Sweden, there is a law called (translated) "Every Man's Right". It basically gives permission to camp on almost any private property, as long as it is respected. I think you are required to notify the land owner if you are there for more than three days (or so), but you do not need expressed permission for one night. State lands (which include church lawns) are fair game too. Though probably not feasible in the US, I wish something similar could exist here. I never leave a trace, even in campgrounds, and am usually gone before the sun is up. Still, I must say my conscience was churning.

 

[ziggie]

Very nice.keep going i am enjoying this as if i am there.be safe.

sent from a keyboard in the frunk

 

[frozenpoet]

Boston is my favorite big city I've every been in.

 

[bamamate]

This is a an outstanding ride report. Please keep going!!!!!

 

[Fuzzy]

Enjoyed the pics and comments on Mystic Seaport. Visited it in '72 when I spent did some training at at naval base near by. I have always wanted to get back there again.

 

[swedstal]

Day 9, Monday, 10-21-13: Miles 2,100 to 2,404

The night was a restless one. I packed myself into my 40° sleeping bag as the temperatures plunged into the low 30s. A church bell rang in each hour and I feel like I heard more of them than I did not. Wanting to be on the road before having to explain to someone what I was doing, I woke up at about 4:30 and was all packed and ready before 6.

I did not have an real plans for the day yet, so I just went a short distance before stopping into a McDonald's for breakfast. I lingered there for quite some time, planning my day and waiting for the sun to start doing its job. I made Acadia National Park my aim for the day. Originally I was not sure if I would be able to see this since the government shutdown was still in effect. The park opened up just four days before I got there. I would love to check out Boston sometime, but I could not budget in the multiple days I would need to see everything I wanted. Next trip.

Surveying the map I noticed that I was really close to Gillette Stadium (home of the Patriots). I decided to try to get a picture there.

I don't necessarily like the Patriots, but any true NFL fan has to have a lot of respect for what they've accomplished over the last decade plus.

My next decision proved to be a costly one time-wise. There are two main ring roads that circle Boston. 95 is the inner, 495 is the outer. It was already almost 8am, so I decided to take the inner ring road. I was given a good reminder of why I will probably never live in a major city. The traffic crawled along, making 26 miles in 1:15. Traffic jams are even less fun on a motorcycle than in a car. The constant feet up-feet down can get tiring and I found myself yelling apologies to Annie's poor clutch. I must say, however, that it was by far the most cordial traffic jam I have ever been a part of. Over the whole hour-plus, I only heard one horn honk. Drivers refrained from constant lane changing and they took turns when the road narrowed. If I had to take part in that every day, I would definitely be a crazy(er) person.

Traffic finally spread out and I headed north through the little corner of New Hampshire. State borders are usually invisible lines, but the transition into Maine was readily apparent. The rolling hills of deciduous forests gave way to tall coniferous trees, interrupted by exposed rocky areas. The visitor's center was on a real "Mainely" plot of land.

I then did something that I did not do often on this trip: Plan ahead. I got a Maine campground guide which only showed two open in the Acadia area. The first one I called had a message that said they had closed early for the season. The second one was still open. Yay!

I continued on I-95 for awhile longer, but shunned it for the more scenic US Hwy-1 at Brunswick. It wound through little towns and quaint countryside. Passing through the town of Wiscasset, I saw the "world famous" food stand, Red's Eats. I had seen this little food stand featured on a program on (I think) the History channel a couple of months earlier. At that point, I was still planning on taking Meiling, the CB350, on this trip. I made a very small mental note, knowing I would probably not get as far as Maine. I knew I had to try their famous lobster roll, even though I did not know what is was. It turns out a lobster roll is just a bunch of lobster meat on some bread, no knuckle cracking required.

$16.75 seemed a steep price, but there was a ton of meat there. I counted at least three tails. I scarfed down the lobster and could hardly finish my fries. A Maine native told me that I had picked a good place and said these were the best lobster rolls "in the world."

Walking back to Annie, I bumped into one of her oil-headed cousins.

I will probably never own a GS-Series bike (solely for financial reasons), but I couldn't help but think that we may not have the NC700X were it not for the GSs. Without them, I might be making this post on a KLR650 forum! It was good to actually see another motorcycle, though I did not bump into the riders.

I rode away and realized that I did not have my helmet strapped. I pulled off on the first side road and ran into this view:

What's that? You want an artsy one? OK, fine.

My campground for the night was Forest Ridge, just outside of Ellsworth, ME. It was by far the best one of the trip. I checked in with the owner (I think his name was Jeff) and he only charged me $10 for the night. He was very helpful in pointing out the things I should see in Acadia and strongly recommended that I check out the Schoodic peninsula as well as the main park area. Along with free wifi, pristine bathrooms and general friendliness, Jeff told me that they had free firewood if I wanted to have a fire for the night. That sounded like a real treat to me, but I had forgotten to bring along a lighter. Jeff was able to track down an aim and flame for me and hand delivered wood fire starters to my site. What service!

I arrived BEFORE SUNSET and had my tent set up BEFORE SUNSET, a feat not oft replicated on this journey. I often grumbled to myself about how little sunlight I had each day, but it is important to note that I was just about 8 weeks from the winter solstice.

I built a blazing inferno of a fire and sat by it for a couple of hours. I had been warm at points of the trip, but I don't know if I'd really been warmed before. It was very pleasant. Having found a nice spot, I tried to see if there was any way I could stay for another night. Looking at the map, I suddenly realized just how far from home I was. I'd logged over 1,000 miles since reaching my original destination of Niagara Falls. I had a long way to go and weather forecasts were foreboding for the great lakes area. I decided I would need to make some westward progress the next day, even if it was just to New Hampshire.

Just before turning in for the night, Jeff came by in a golf cart and advised me that one of his campers was unlocked and I could use it if it was too cold. I thanked him again and complimented him on his great service.

The cold seemed to affect me less this night, maybe because I knew I would have a hot shower in the morning.

 

[Chestnut]

Ha! Well played, sir. You find me a woman crazy enough to accompany me on a trip like this and I will marry her tomorrow.*

*Restrictions may apply

I dunno, trip looks like fun to me. Somebody beat you to the marriage thing, though. Of course, even a woman crazy enough to go on a trip like this would have the good sense to take a warmer sleeping bag.

Good stuff. Keep it coming. Where ya headed next time?

 

[swedstal]

Day 10, Tuesday, 10-22-13: Miles 2,404 to 2,801

I made an early start to the day and enjoyed a warm, well-pressured shower. I had decided that I needed to be heading west by noon, which just gave me the morning to check out Acadia. No one was at the camp office by the time I was ready to leave, so I left the lighter Jeff had loaned me and a thank you note by the office door.

First on the list was to make a swing around the main part of the National Park, Mt. Desert Island. This included going through the neat little town of Bar Harbor (or "Bah Hah-buh" in the local vernacular). There was some neat scenery and some fun little back roads. I did not have a good map of the area and the National Park areas are kind of spread out, so I feel like I may have missed a few things in my loop around the island.

The swing around the island left me a little underwhelmed. I still had time before my self imposed deadline, so I decided to ride over to the Schoodic peninsula area of the park. The scenery here was much less spread out. Nearly every bend in the road caused me to jump off of the bike and take some pictures.

Annie wanted to climb some rocks. I told her not to break her neck.

The best way I can sum up the Acadia scenery is that it is like a three way battle between water, rocks and trees. Each combatant has an area where it is expected to win, but each is also the victor in unexpected places. This unpredictability is what sets this park apart. I don't know if I've ever been anywhere similar to this.

Around 11:45am I reached Schoodic Point, my furthest distance from home on the trip (not as the crow flies but as the man rides).

Time to turn around.

The turn around point of any trip is an interesting one. The moment when each mile takes you closer, rather than further, from home inspires strange emotions. By this point, I was getting a bit weary. I had limited my saddle time each day, but a ride of this magnitude is still quite a departure from desk-job life. Still, each glance at the map sent a wave of excitement mixed with remorse as I considered all the things yet to see and all of those for which I did not have time. I said goodbye to the ocean and wondered when my next glimpse of it would be.


My morning weather check had told me that this was going to be a wet day. Radar confirmed a slow moving southwest to northeast storm covering most of New England. Miraculously, my trip out had been a completely dry one. Just five minutes into my return leg, northeastern weather fired its first warning shot across the bow. I got a little damp, but it was more mist than rain drops and I rode on.

Knowing I wanted to make some homeward progress this day, I opted to hop onto I-95 at Bangor. It was 2:30p by this point, and I realized that in my haste I had neglected to eat or drink anything yet. I fixed that by stopping into Dysart's truck stop west of Bangor.

"Chowduh!"

While stopped to eat I watched the radar closely. I thought about trying to wait the storm out, but it was moving so slowly that I figured blasting straight through it would be a better use of my time. It also appeared that I would have a couple hours of post rain riding during which to dry out. However, the temperature was still just in the mid 40s, so I knew I had a chilly ride ahead.

Back on the interstate, the moisture came quickly. It started out as just a light mist for probably about five minutes. I must admit to mild scoffing, thinking this may be all the storm had in tow. Then I heard the dreaded first *tink* on the helmet and knew I was coming into the worst of it. The next half hour plus was a steady downpour. A 10-15 mph head/cross wind made things a little worse, but not bad enough to consider pulling over. It was miserable, but that good kind of miserable that happens when you know you are doing something awesome.

The rain abated about the same time I exited the interstate. Fingers frozen, I accidentally hit the horn when reaching for my right turn signal.* The semi driver ahead of me took exception to the actions of my numb thumb. After leaving the exit ramp he crept along. The first right turn lane took me into a gas station. As I entered the turn lane and began to pass the still creeping semi, he merged suddenly and signal-lessly into the turn lane. I had to hit the brakes and get onto the shoulder to avoid him. I wasn't angry, but it seemed like a bit of overreaction on his part. If you are too insecure to be honked at, truck driving might not be your ideal profession. I also thought that this whole debacle could have been avoided if there was an accepted, universal honking rhythm that could be used to signal an apology. If something like this existed, I could have simply honked the apology rhythm and we would both have gone on our merry ways. Could the U.N. bring this up at their next summit?

*one other side note: I have not ridden with turn signals for about 4 years, so I am still getting re-used to them (taking them off of Meiling, my CB350, was about my first alteration to that bike). I've found that drivers tend to pay more attention to hand signals than flashers on a motorcycle. They have no idea what they mean, but they know something is about to happen soon so they pay closer attention.

My goal for the night was to make it to a free campground on the north side of the White Mountains in New Hampshire. Having been delayed slightly by the rain (and chowder) I was now doubting I would be able to ride through the mountains in daylight. The temperature was divebombing, but some Maine back roads made the ride more pleasurable. I eventually hooked up with US-302 and headed west into New Hampshire.

A fun fact about New Hampshire is that their state motto is actually taken from the title of a Bruce Willis movie. It makes me wonder what it was before that movie came out.

I reached the base of the White Mountains just as the sun was setting.

It must be a popular ski area as there were many resorts. I cursed myself a little at each hotel I sped passed. It was an overcast night, so the road was pitch dark as I began to wind through the mountains. It had been a couple of hours since the rain had quit so I was mostly dry. Lo and behold, the rain began again. I had been cold and uncomfortable so far on the trip, but this was my first taste of pure misery. I partly hoped the moose crossing signs would prove true, as that would give me an excuse to stop and temporarily delay my discomfort. No moose came to my rescue as I soldiered on.

In difficult times like this, I always find it useful to draw on positive memories of similar circumstances. There's one in particular that came to mind on this night. I don't know if I can really set the stage comprehensively, but basically here it is: My parents, younger sister and I were camped along the fairly steep bank of the Vlatava river outside of Cesky Krumlov in the Czech Republic. We were on a two month European travelling binge in which we visited 13 countries. (Hopefully that helps explain why I travel the way I do.) In the middle of the night a severe thunderstorm blew through. I have ridden out my share of storms in a tent, but this one was unlike any other that I have ever experienced. The wind was so strong that there was a good chance of a tent pole snapping and it felt like we were being blown into the river. My dad and I stood facing each other, bracing the two long cross-poles. As lighting flashed, I could catch glimpses of my dad's face. His stocking cap was pulled down to the top of his fogged over glasses. Most notably - and perhaps surprisingly - he shone the brightest smile. Despite being interrupted by thunder, I could hear him yell, "You having fun yet?" and he broke out laughing.

(It was one heck of a trip. I guess I'll post the link to our blog if anyone's interested in four-wheeled adventures: Link)

So I asked myself, over and over: "Are you having fun yet?" I began to chuckle a little as I reminisced. Around 7:30 I finally pulled into the Haystack Road camping area. It was basically just a few little plots on a densely forested road. No facilities, but having a place to sleep without having to pay anything cheered me a little. Signs warned that all food needed to be in a bear proof container. I hoped the frunk qualified. I set up quickly by headlight.

I hunkered down for a forecasted low of 28°.

 

[swedstal]

Day 11, Tuesday, 10-23-13: Miles 2,801 to 3,178

This was my most miserable night, by some distance. There was nothing I could do to stay warm. I probably never slept for more than a half hour at a time. When I woke up, I would do some vigorous squats, push-ups and sit-ups then immediately hop into my sleeping bag when my heart rate was still elevated. Alas, no bears came by to cuddle with me.

Around 6am I was weary of this drill so I decided to pack up and get on the road. Despite the intermittent nature of my sleep, I felt decently rested. It made me wonder how much of my normal fatigued feelings are due to stress as opposed to sleep deprivation.

Around this time of the journey I realized that my method of moisture management was not sufficient. I have never camped long term at this temperature, so I was unprepared for how long it took everything to dry. I had clothes that were still wet from when I had washed them 6 days prior, despite unrolling and laying them out every night. The only method I had found for drying clothes was wearing them as my base layer at night, letting my body heat dry them. The last few nights, I could not spare any extra body heat. I did recall that I had forgotten to officially waterproof my boots:

Thanks Wal-Mart and Mom

Some morning views of the camp spot:

I pride myself on being a very logical person, always trying to use practicality to find solutions to all problems. I would like to give you a sample of my immense intellect:

Problem: I'm really cold.
Solution: Get on the bike and ride north to Canada!

Hooray for logic!

I did a few minutes of windsprints up and down the gravel road in full riding gear. I bet the bears were getting a good laugh out of that sight. Off I headed towards St. Johnstone, VT. I realized this day that my sustainable riding temperature is about 35 degrees. It was still in the upper 20s in the morning and had to stop every 15 minutes or so to regain control of my fingers. My torso, with double digit layers, never felt too uncomfortable. With heated gloves, I'm sure temperatures much colder than this would be bearable. Fog was an issue in the morning as I crossed the border into Vermont. It was just after 8am and the welcome center was open. I thawed my hands in the bathroom sink. Then, to my pure delight, I found out that they had complimentary Green Mountain coffee. What a treat! The gentleman manning the desk was very helpful and recommended a scenic route along Lake Willoughby on my way to Quebec.

I waited until the fog lifted to the point where I could see the road from the rest area. The route recommendation was excellent and helped take some of the sting out of the cold. VT-5A goes through some neat country.

While I was freezing, Annie was feasting, absolutely devouring the curvy highway. Then, it happened. The moment I had been waiting for:

Annie disappeared.

My favorite part of riding is that moment of complete synthesis between man and machine, when one is no longer consciously riding, rather thoughtlessly flying. This feeling often speaks to the strengths of a particular machine as well as one's experience level on that machine. My CB350 disappears in town. Below 45mph, there may not be a more natural feeling machine. The NC700X seems built for these sort of curvy scenic roads. It has an effortless "transition", or whatever you call changing from banking left to banking right, almost like it knows where the road is going before you can think about leaning. This type of riding also showed off the wide power band of the engine. With all the curves and hills, there was a lot of accelerating and decelerating. I never felt like I had to go hunting for horsepower. I left it in one gear and just enjoyed the ride. I tried it both in 4th and 5th and had tons of fun while still staying below 4500 rpm. When was the last time anyone said that about a motorcycle!

The scenery around Lake Willoughby was immense. Almost Norway-esque. I couldn't a-fjord to miss it......sorry.

Vermont had some nice scenery and they also won the prize for best license plate design of all the states I visited: Clean white letters on a road-sign-green backing. Classic and legible. Maine, you are just trying too hard. Ohio, there are only four letters in your name and I could hardly read it on any of your designs.

Even though I was in a bit of a rush to get home, I did want to make sure to do a quick swing through Canada. Ideally, I had wanted to return by that route, going all the way over to the upper peninsula of Michigan. Weather was going to eliminate that option, but Annie deserved to see another country for all of her hard miles. I still had not had anything to eat and promised myself I would stop at the first Tim Horton's. First, however, I had to make it passed the Canadian border patrol.

I told them the truth: I am on a two week camping trip coming from Nebraska and just want to swing into Canada to eat at a Tim Horton's and see some countryside. Does that sound fishy to you? They had me pull to the side for further inspection. I watched as other vehicles, semis, vans, SUVs and cars, streamed through unimpeded. They must have imagined the headlines: "Al Qaeda now using Nebraskan motorcycles to smuggle nuclear weapons, drugs and milk in plastic containers into the Canadian wilderness."

The two border agents charged with dismantling my bike were less than cordial. They began by gruffly (well, as gruff as one can sound with a french accent) ordering me to stand a few yards in front of the bike. I remained patient as they tore through my pack, yanking on straps rather than releasing them and inspecting each item. I even told them about the frunk and stepped forward to open it for them. They told me to stay put and tell them how to open it, which I did. They were very interested to meticulously inspect my electronics and tools. My patience began to fray when one of the agents removed my kindle from the frunk and unceremoniously chucked it onto the hard cement. I took a couple of quick reactionary steps toward the bike, pointed my finger and said very directly, "Be careful with that!" These actions brought a equally direct response to stay put. I asked them to at least hold it up so I could see if the screen was still intact.

They haphazardly repacked things, even though I told them not to bother. Cords were hanging out of the frunk and my pack would have flown off on the first curve. I went through the process of repacking everything as they processed my passport. They never found the ICBM hidden in the battery box, so I was allowed entrance into the great white North.

My attitude improved as I remembered that the border agents were just doing their jobs. They probably don't see many Nebraskans, nor motorcycles this time of year, and I imagine they are trained to inspect things out of the ordinary. Viewed in that light, I probably look more suspicious than a cube truck with VT plates.

The border held me up for nearly an hour, so I was eager to stop at the first Tim Horton's. I found one at the first rest stop and exchanged for $20 of their polychromatic currency. I was modestly surprised that the cashier at TH's did not speak English. My six-word French vocabulary was not much help (oui, non, merci, a gauche, a droite, .......and crepe). I was under the impression that Quebec was a completely bilingual place. In reality, it almost seems like they try hard to not use English. I don't recall seeing a single road sign that contained both languages. Ontario was a contrast, containing both languages on pretty much every sign.

I headed west on some back roads, just checking out the countryside. There was not too much of note, but it was a peaceful ride.

The stop signs contain little diagrams that show which lanes need to stop at an intersection.

I've actually been curling before in Bemidji, MN. It is a delightful activity.

Heading into Ontario.

Here is the last shot in Canada before heading back to the states, with the bridge in the background.

I crossed back into the US at Cornwall. The US border agent stepped out of his booth as I rolled up. He seemed really interested in what I was doing and said he hadn't seen any other motorcycles for a few days. He asked what my wife and kids thought about this trip. Even before I began to answer that I had neither, a wry smile crossed his face. "That's what I thought." he joked.

There was a little picnic area a few miles after I crossed. I pulled over and spent a significant amount of time weighing my options. It was already about 5pm and the night was shaping up to be a chilly one. More troubling, there was a large storm forecasted to blow in off of Lake Ontario the next day. The term "wintry mix" is a threatening one to a motorcyclist. I thought about many different strategies. I could have headed straight south to Scranton to try to dodge the storm. This would have added way too many miles. I could ride through the night to try to beat the storm, but the temperatures would not allow me to do this. It became clear to me that I had no good options, only less bad ones. My decision ended up being a non decision: Ride until the temperature dips below 35 then find somewhere for the night.

The sunset over the St. Lawrence river was beautiful, but the temperature dropped swiftly. Annie was plugging along, but I was running out of gas. Just as I began feeling miserable a drizzle began to come down. It really caught me off guard since I could not see the clouds roll in in the dark. My only pair of dry pants were now wet. I stopped for gas in Ogdensburg. My shivers were turning into large convulsions. It was during this stop that I made the decision to give up: I would seek a hotel for the night. Even though it was not forecasted to be as cold as the previous night, I had almost no dry clothes and there was a chance for snow during the night. The conditions meant I could not be selective, resigning me to pull into the first option I saw. I balked at the price the desk clerk told me and almost decided to keep riding. But the lobby was warm, and I had used up my perseverance reserves over the last two days.

The cost of my weakness?...$82. It even hurts my fingers to type it.

My room was large and had two beds and a nice TV. The doorway was too narrow to sneak Annie inside, but I could at least park her underneath an overhang. I peeled off my layers one at a time, tossing them onto the bed. I think I had 11 layers on my torso. The following picture shows everything I was wearing at the time I stopped.

I hopped in the tub and took a long soak. It took awhile to stop shivering, even after submerging in the hot water. I watched the second half of The Hobbit movie and fell asleep quickly, dreaming dreams of inaccurate weather prognostications.

The last three days had been spent exclusively in the saddle. I was holding up pretty well physically, except for my right hand. I did not have a throttle lock so it was permanently engaged. The cold caused me to grasp a little tighter than normal, causing further fatigue. Now my hand was locked up, as if grasping an imaginary throttle. I could not use it for much, even having to unscrew my toothpaste cap and write with my left. My back, which I've had some issues with over the last few years, felt unaffected. I was thankful for this. The NC's seating position seems to be the perfect athletic-comfort balance.

 

[swedstal]

Sorry for the long delays in this report. I've been really busy since I got home. I'm committed to finishing it though!

 

[ziggie]

I was wondering if you ever made it.type on,i will read.

 

[TerraNova]

Hi @swedstal - just wanted to say that I've been really enjoying this trip report, and hope you will continue it. Especially during the winter when my rides are mostly short, it's been fun to vicariously experience a really long ride and some adventures - and your writing style is great too. It's inspiring me to do a trip like this sometime soon too...

 

[swedstal]

Day 12, Wednesday, 10-24-13: Miles 3,178 to 3,563

Slept in until about 8am, awoke feeling wonderfully rested. One's morning routine is much more pleasant without the dread of exiting the covers to freezing temperatures. My morning activities went much quicker without having to pack up all of the camping gear. Even after bathing the night before, I took a shower since I did not know when my next chance for one would be. I was all ready to go, but the temperature had not crossed the magic line of 35 F I needed for sustainable riding. I oiled the chain (a pain without a center stand) and watched the weather channel for a bit.

It was clear what my challenges of the day were going to be. Two large systems, deemed "wintry mix" on the radar, were churning off of the great lakes. The first was blowing off of Lake Ontario south of Watertown. The second was coming off of Lake Erie south of Buffalo. I would learn a lesson on the climate in the area this day. It is considerably different than what I am used to. In the central plains, storm systems usually blow in from the west. They can come out of nowhere and be severe, but they generally wreak their havoc then proceed eastward on their merry way. These lake effect systems seem to just churn, dumping their precipitation of choice all day if they feel like it.

The first of these systems was in full swing when I took off southbound. My hope was that I had given it enough time to blow by by the time I arrived. An additional challenge of the day was a WSW wind of 15-20mph all day long. It was tough-ish sledding for the first hour or so, dealing with the cross wind. I did see something, though, that caught my attention and brightened my morning.

Two CB350s sitting outside of a small engine shop! It made me miss Meiling. I didn't have much time to inspect, but I think the gold-tanked one is a 1972. Mine is a '71. It looked like their was plenty between the two to put together one really nice bike. I had to resist the urge to pull out my tool pack and start wrenching. It made me eager to get home to resume my project.

Around Watertown, I was met with wet pavement. This was actually encouraging to me, as I thought I may have dodged the storm. Unfortunately, I caught up to it about 10 miles down the road. I'm not sure what to call it, maybe ice flakes. It wasn't hail and wasn't snow, it was something in between the two. I rode through it for about 20 minutes before deciding to pull under an I-81 overpass. The main problem was the cross wind causing me to ride at a permanent lean. The blacktop was slick and I was getting concerned about ice.

Ice flakes

I sat under the overpass for awhile debating what to do while warming my hands on the clutch cover. While waiting, the weather got worse. The precipitation changed to rain which poured relentlessly. I was bored and needing to make progress, so I decided to just blast through it. My change in strategy was to go straight west on NY-104. First, a head wind meant less lane meandering. Second, the highway would not have as many overpasses where ice is more of a risk. I slogged along to a little town called New Haven and bought a bag of chips at a filling station. I lingered for about 30 minutes and the rain subsided just a bit. By the time I got to Oswego, the roads were nearly dry.

The middle section of the day was not quite as bad. I was still really cold, especially in the hands, but at least the roads were clear. I mostly stuck to the interstates, trying to compensate for the breaks I had taken.

I skirted around Buffalo through light drizzle and paid my toll to get on the I-90 turnpike. I had hardly eaten so I pulled into the Angola Service center. Service Centers are like rest stops on normal interstates, but since they want to keep you trapped on the turnpike there are no true exits. This allows them to charge about $.40 more for gas and about $1 more for a hamburger. I filled up and went inside for a bite to eat. I did some research on campgrounds and found one open in Pennsylvania. When I said "a tent", she asked if I knew snow was forecasted for the evening. I politely said I was aware of the conditions. I told them I would probably be in late and they gave me instructions for what to do.

It was getting colder and I had to drag myself out of the warm lobby to meet Annie. I was just about ready to hop on, but then realized I did not have my gloves. My wonderful, thick, padded, water resistant, leather gloves; along with my second pair that I was using as a liner. Retracing my steps, I remembered leaving them on top of the gas pump. I checked there before running inside to see if someone had turned them in. The disinterested cashier said no, without lifting his eyes from his computer screen.

I felt sick.

Keep in mind this was a turnpike service station. I couldn't just coast into town to the nearest discount store to find some. I was dozens of miles from the nearest turnpike exit. The temperature was about 40 F. Normally I am able to take solace when losing an item that maybe the person who took it needed it more than I did. Considering I had not seen another motorcycle in over two days, this seemed unlikely.

I felt rage.

I am a very level headed person, but I was extremely angry; both at myself for leaving them and at the person who took them. I made a mental list of things I would least like to lose: 1. Helmet. 2. Gloves. 3.Boots. I really needed them, especially with the weather. I stood there frozen for awhile, debating what to do next. The service center had a little store and I checked to see if they had gloves. They did, but they were the thin, garden-type work gloves. A poor, poor replacement. I saddled up, still raged up, and got ready for the pain.

As soon as I thought things could not be any worse the rain started. The gloves soaked through instantly. Then the ice flakes started again. Each one stung my knuckles. I had to focus on not wincing to maintain control.

I started to pray, more an accusatory tone than a reverent one. I started singing, mostly old hymns, wailing over wind noise.

"As thy day, thy strength shall be in measure,
This the pledge to me he made"

At this I lost it. I had reached my breaking point. I started crying. Not the manly way with a stiff chin and sporadic tears, but full on bawling. I kept singing, heaving and screaming while flying down the road. Maybe I was emotionally moved, maybe I just wanted to moisten the one part of me that was not already soaked. I thought about how fortunate I had been throughout the whole trip and how my current plight was just a temporary one. When I ran out of tears, I switched to laughing. Clearly I am a crazy person.

The sun went down and the temperature dropped. I forged ahead into Pennsylvania. Finally my exit came. It had been a long time since I had feeling in my fingers and I quickly realized that I had no control of them. I looped my stiff left hand around the clutch and arm pulled it to get down to first. I did not even try the front brake. The campground was only a short distance from the interstate. I crawled there in first gear. It was really dark and I had a hard time finding a little patch that was not water logged. The squishy ground and exhaustion made the set up a tough task. The last thing I did was check the radar. The system off of Lake Ontario was still churning in the exact same spot. I'm not sure whether I fell asleep or passed out.

The name of the campground could not have been more appropriate: Folly's End.


This was the toughest day of the trip. Any journey will have adversity and it has to peak somewhere. I think one of the reasons for a trip like this is to challenge oneself. Today I was challenged not only mentally and physically, but emotionally and spiritually as well. Most people, myself included, live a life that is fairly adversity free. Advances over the last few centuries have made life in developed countries pretty simple.

It begs the question: Why put yourself through intentional adversity? At any point I could have ended the suffering. I could have pushed Annie over the nearest cliff, rented a hotel room and taken a bus home. (the thought did cross my mind) I believe that adversity, especially the type we choose for ourselves, shows us who we really are. "Know Thyself" is a difficult directive, more like picking a lock than picking a nose. Since we are ever changing beings, one must make the effort to commune with the true self on a regular basis. I find this difficult in the land of air conditioning and cable TV.

Today was an adverse day.

Today I met me.

Today was a good day.

 

[VE258]

awesome read!

 

[gaknc700x]

Some of my best trips were spur of the moment. Check out expeditionportal.com and unlimitedhorizons.com they have tons of info on traveling. You should not have any in US or Can-anything you need or forgot is easily purchased.

 

[silverhound]

Another great installment. BTW we call the "ice flakes"...sleet.

 

[VE258]

I didn't see any 'wind breakers' in your 11 layers of clothing. Simple nylon top(I wear one under my jacket, not on top, in cold weather) and pants will make a huge difference

 

[swedstal]

Day 13, Friday, 10-25-13: Miles 3,563 to 4,221

I suppose most journeys feature a day that is terribly uninteresting. The dullness of this day can be summed up in the mileage total in the heading. I do not derive a large amount of satisfaction from simply logging miles; so while this day served an important function, it was not one to remember with any sense of fondness. (Note: I'm still not quite sure how semicolons work)

I unzipped my tent flap apprehensively, hoping that the snow had not been too severe. Joy of joys, it was just a very light dusting.

More good news came when I checked the weather report. There was no precipitation in the forecast. Hooray! Slightly dampening my mood was the wind speed and direction. Straight out of the west. 25 mph. I guess I prefer a head wind to a straight cross wind, but interstate speeds make it a closer contest.

Packing up the tent by headlamp light I had a strange revelation: I was not uncomfortable. Yes, the wet rain fly made my hands cold, I was short on sleep and I knew a difficult day lay ahead. However, I was used to it. I had successfully adopted the nomadic lifestyle. It is interesting how quickly something can become routine. The first few mornings and evenings the set up and tear down were a chore. Now they were just part of my day. I began thinking about my re-acclimation to normal life and how strange it would be to wake up in a nice warm bed each morning.

By 7am I was on the road. The campground was still dormant, save for a couple of bucket-toting fishermen. First stop was to find some better gloves. Wal-Mart in Ashtabula, OH was the only place open so I perused their hunting gear section. I settled on a $20 option that looked like it would be good in the rain. I had resigned myself to cold hands, but after the pain of the previous day I knew I needed to keep them dry.

Nearing Cleveland on I-90, I was surprised at the amount of snow. The roads were very good. It appeared that they had laid down a de-icer. The only bad thing about this was the amount of road gunk kicked up onto my visor. Every time I passed a semi or truck I had to do my best to finger-squeegee some visibility. There must have been an exit to stay on I-90 which I missed somehow. When I hopped off the freeway I was re-routed by construction and ended up getting a pretty thorough tour of the city.

In western Ohio, the sun came out (yay!) and the wind really started to whip (booooo!). I especially noticed it when passing semis. The air deflection that happens right about next to the semi's front tire was pushing me over really hard. I found passing quickly to be a bit safer than passing slowly.

I had already been to 13 states and 2 provinces on the trip. I-80 runs really close to Michigan so I debated darting over the border quickly to check it off of my list. I decided this would be a disservice to a state that has so much wonderful scenery. A couple of summers ago, I took a trip in a car (boooo!) with my family (yay!) that basically circled lake Michigan. It is one I would love to repeat on two wheels someday. You're safe for now, Michigan.

At a rest stop in Indiana, I could swear the wind was intensifying. Garbage bags were turned inside out from their cans, flailing in the wind. I took my longest stop of the day, about half an hour, to grab a quick bite and give my parents a call.

I hit Chicago at a bad time, 5pm on Friday. The road was packed, but flowed surprisingly well. I think I may have been just ahead of the worst of it.

Though about the same width as Indiana, Illinois seemed to drag on. I had absorbed the wind's body blows all day and was starting to feel weary. The sun went down shortly before crossing the river into Davenport, IA. Traffic was backed up for about 10 miles into Illinois, stopping regularly. I never found out what caused the delay.

I stopped at the Iowa welcome center and tried to research a place to stay for the night. I was exhausted. I found a little campsite near Tipton, IA which was about 40 miles away. I crawled back on and rode slowly to my final destination. There were a good number of deer carcasses which effectively served as my speed limit sign.

Gravel roads led me to the primitive spot. It was still blustery so I took care to make sure the tent was well staked. I gave myself a quick baby wipe shower and crashed.

658 miles on a completely stock NC700X. I do have a few thoughts. A day of this distance is definitely not unreasonable, considering the myriad of obstacles that made the miles a little tougher: Wind, temperature, only about 10.5 hours of sunlight, having logged a lot of saddle time over the last 4 days. The two biggest criticisms of this bike seem to be the seat and the windshield. Though there is room for improvement on both, a day like this one makes me believe that they are at least adequate. I don't know if there is any windshield that would make a 90 mph head wind feel comfortable for 600 miles.

The bikes efficiency was strongly apparent after this day. Despite the high speeds and extra wind resistance, I still averaged a respectable 58mpg. In fact, I paid less then twice as much for fuel, $32, than I did for tolls, $19.

I realize now that I have not mentioned why I am in such a hurry to get home. I have work on Monday, but that is not my primary aim. All will be revealed in the next installment!

(I haven't done a cliffhanger yet )

 

[swedstal]

BTW we call the "ice flakes"...sleet.

It seems you've found the chink in my vocabularic armor.....so I'm going to start using made up words......like vocabularic.