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| Map of Travels |
| 2005 - Journal 13 |
| The Return to Jersey . . . . We said our goodbye’s once again. Saying farewell is never easy especially when a friendship is strong. I left Joanie Dwyer standing in her daughter’s driveway as I rode off into an early morning sun. The last view of Joanie and her family was in my rear view mirrors . . . and haven’t I done that before. The ride to Portland, 400 plus miles to the west, was warm. No. Actually bloody hot! Sunshine’s thermometer registered 103 degrees, at sixty-five mph. I dared not stop unless I found shade. Oh, lucky me . . . a rest area and a small tree. I braked to a stop under the barest shade and groped in the sidecar trunk for a water bottle. It was cooler under those handful of leaves (I convinced myself), but if I wanted to be in Hillsboro, on the other side of Portland by six, I’d have to gird my loins (does that mean what I think it means?) and go back into the oven. My helmet soaks up heat and even with the face shield up, my eyes tear. Not a good thing at 65 mph. Ahhh, the joys of riding a motorbike. Late afternoon finally arrived and with a westing sun my discomfort reached a tolerable level. I was very happy to reach Lyla’s home and chill. It was a pleasant two weeks. I had the opportunity to met Cynthia Knippers and family at her dad’s birthday celebration. Cynthia and Lyla go back a long way when they both worked for United Airlines. I’ve told this story before but when I first visited Lyla two years ago she said right up front that guests and fish begin to smell after three days. I got her drift. The following year she allowed that a week would work for her. This year after two weeks she all but cried when I left. I can only guess that’s because I always lower the toilet seat; make my own bed; pick up after myself and let her do my laundry. I always have enough dirty clothes to keep her happy. No kidding, she really likes to do laundry. Well so do I, but it’s her washer and soap so I play the gracious guest and allow her to enjoy one of life’s small pleasures. I reconnected with Todd Dwyer, Joanie’s son, for lunch one bright sunny day on Portland’s east side. A great guy whose feelings about life certainly echo mine. It’s always joyful to discuss our expectations, our wants and needs as we finesse our way through the incredible chaos of this world. We’re both, definitely seekers, looking and longing for the confirmation of our passions; those creative moments that expands our experiences and ultimately defines the timeless goal of fulfilling self-love. As our lunch came to a close I asked Todd what part of the world he’d seen he’d like to visit again (a question I ask most people), a place that would draw him back, either short or long term. “Alaska,” he replied. “I spent my college years there and decided that someday I’d go back to live. It’s a profound and exceptional part of the world.” Interesting reply. I’ve met a few folks who felt that Alaska was Shangri-La as well, pulled up stakes and made the long drive to the promise land. I got to thinking about all the places I’ve seen and want to see and I’ve had mixed feelings about touring our 50th state. Almost a bit of guilt for ignoring the pleasures of its scenery and people but I’ve put the guilt aside and decided to save Alaska for another time. It’s worth a visit, especially touring the wilderness areas of British Columbia and the Yukon, but not on Sunshine. She doesn't’t have enough ground clearance to navigate poor roads. I’ve scraped her pretty bottom more times than I’d like to count, entering and leaving driveways and humping over speed bumps. All bets are off of course, if I get lucky, and meet a rich dowager who likes to travel. Yeah, that would work for me. I stopped at Timberline Lodge on the slope of Mt Hood to visit with my cousin Jon Tullis; a wonderful man who has a lot of his father’s qualities. His dad, Bob Tullis was my first hero as a youngster and that never changed as the years flashed by. Timberline is one of my favorite stops I look forward to every summer. Unlike last year, the weather was full of puffy white Cumulus, floating in formation against azure skies with just enough lair movement to keep the flags alive. The weather, even at six thousand feet, was perfect for short sleeves. Another PLI connected me with Donna Dykstra and Jack Richey. They enjoyed looking at Sunshine so much I offered to ride them around the lodge’s parking lot. They were delighted. So with Donna in the sidecar and Jack, behind me, riding shotgun, we made a few slow circles around the car park. We traded email addresses and over the last few weeks Jack has sent a few of his stories of family experiences. Good stuff. While waiting for Jon to finish his work day I had a chance to speak with Ed Paxton from Lexington, Kentucky and Don and Nina Denham from Beaverton, Oregon. During our conversation Ed Paxton looked at me and said “I bet you and I have a mutual friend.” Yeah, right, I thought. He pulled out his phone and punched in a number. A few moments later his party answered and after a brief conversation handed me the phone. Surprise of surprises. I was talking to John Kennedy, president of the United Sidecar Association in Knoxville, Kentucky. The last time we spoke was at the National Sidecar Association gathering in Indiana during the summer of ’04. I was astounded by this bit of serendipity. Actually I still am. I followed Jon to his home in Welches and spent a delightful afternoon and evening with his wife Dee, children and Dee’s mom, before I returned to Hillsboro, 60 odd miles west. Pine trees loomed dark and tall, dwarfing my tiny bike; in a small way reminding me of Rome’s praetorian soldiers, standing shoulder to shoulder stolid and mute, guarding an entrance to Roman (you had to be there).The deep black night consumed the headlights of passing vehicles. Sunshine’s four headlamps and driving lights lit the shoulder, easing concerns of meeting wildlife head-on. I like riding at night but I quit the road almost always before five pm I rarely have the opportunity to embrace the dark. Route 26 led me through Brightwood, Sandy and finally Gresham. A right turn on 122nd Ave. lead me north to I-84, then west onto I-405. I picked up Route 26 that led me to Route 8, through Beaverton and finally to my turnoff in Hillsboro. My visit with Lyla Hunt came to a close. She’s an original, make no mistake, I have to be on my mental toes just to keep up. Near the end of my stay she asked if I wanted more “from scratch” oatmeal cookies. I may have become a vegetarian (vegan most of the time) but still have a sweet tooth, mores the pity. To maintain my healthy lifestyle and narrow(er) waist I said no, no, no. She asked if I was sure; she’d lace the recipe with chocolate chips and nuts. The temptation was severe but I said, no, no, no. By the next afternoon I was in withdrawal and sidled up to her and asked her politely and quietly if she would possibly, maybe, see fit to bake more C.C.O.M.N cookies (that’s choc chip-oatmeal-nut-cookies). Well!! I’d have thought she’d say, “Sure, anything you want. Just name it.” I mean, any reasonable person would see I was biting my nails and would have compassion. Not Lyla. I had to get down on one knee (two knees and I’d of never gotten up) and beg and whine while she laughed and carried on. I was almost sorry I mentioned cookies at all. Finally, finally she put the ingredients together including a half pound of butter. I gazed, almost stricken by the obscene wad of fat on top of the flour and made a polite suggestion that she at cut the butter back at least a quarter pound. I won’t to tell you what she thought of that suggestion, but I’ll tell ya . . . she’s a tough cookie (no pun intended) herself. I also discovered I don’t take ridicule well. Unfortunately she’s told all who would listen about my whining and dropping to my knees to beg(just one knee . . . see she’s embellishing even before the cookies got cold). I planned to take Route 26 east to spend a few dollars at the Honda dealer in Bend to fit a new front tire. Two years ago I stopped for fluid changes and met Scott, a very knowledgeable Gold Wing mechanic. I’ve never dealt with anyone who was as thorough and meticulous (other than my friends JP Badkin and Alan Lake). It was an informative afternoon and I scribbled notes. If money was a not a consideration I would have offered him a full time job as my traveling companion and mechanic. If his wife objected I’d offer to fly him (and his wife) to wherever I was in trouble and needed a “wrench.” As an aside here, let me mention that I’ve yet to have any problems other than fluid and tire changes (I did have a leaky front tire valve that required a fill-up every three miles while I was visiting in Vermont but I’ll explain in the next journal). My destination was San Francisco, more specifically, Walnut Grove on the East Bay to visit, Cynthia Knippers, whom I met in Washington state at her Dad’s birthday party. She invited me to see her digs and since I’d never been to the East Bay decided to go. She has a one bedroom second floor apartment in a lovely complex with lots and lots of trees and flowers. I bunked on a blow-up mattress (quite comfortable actually) in the dining area right off the kitchen. I didn't’t see much of Cynthia, she leaves early for her job as a nanny and doesn't’t return until after six. She’d give me a hug (I was still half asleep) and then I wouldn't’t see her until late afternoon. She’s great gal and fun to talk with. I left the morning after my second night and made my way to Sonoma, also called Valley of the Moon, great wine country, to see my old high school friend, Anne Bostian. My visit was short but we did get in nine holes of golf. I hadn’t played in three or more years and to my surprise I was whacking that pill a good 175 yards or more. I won’t mention which direction. It was a cool sunny day, just the kind to be outside batting the bejabbers out of a little white ball. I was using rented clubs (whose parentage was difficult to determine). They were old, well used sticks and served me well on two holes. The other seven we won’t discuss. Folks often ask if I plan on a destination or just visit people and places without much thought. A bit of both, I admit. I decided to make a dash for New Jersey to see friends and hopefully set up a few author presentations; book talks and sell a few books, as well. I planned to spend time with JP and Marilyn and some friends from my newspaper days (of many decades ago) at the Bergen Record (now known as The Record) in Hackensack and The Daily Record in Parsippany. I left Sonoma for Route 80. It’s hardly a direct route. Nothing in California seems to be a direct road to anything. I mapped out a route, or should I say, routes before leaving, as any good navigator would, but somehow I missed an important turn off (probably while watching the ladies) and ended up on the southern end of Lake Tahoe. A bit of serendipity, I thought later, but at the time I was slightly pissed. I wanted to make time, which is silly on the face of it. “Retired people have oodles of time and then some.” It was a gorgeous day and the scenery so breathtaking it wasn't’t long before I had a smile on my face. I was hoping to make Jersey in a week with a quick stop in Mentor to see Anne and Halle but easygoing traffic forced me sit back and enjoy the moments. A little more than two hours later I reached Truckee and finally turned up the ramp to I-80 East. The interstate is an interesting road, long grades, small hills, lots of bends and twists and straight as an arrow sections that undulate across the prairie for ever, it seems. It was a slog, hour after hour, day after day, stopping for fuel for Sunshine and myself. My Kiwi friends Kevin, Lee and Troy like to ride. I mean they like to ride, not sightsee. They don’t feel it was a good day unless they can rack up 600 or more miles. I’m not as ambitious. Four hundred and change is a good day for me. So with several thousand miles to go I pushed my comfort zone past five hundred on a few days. The hard miles were straight and flat with little to dazzle the eyes, hour after hour. I chewed a lot of gum to maintain consciousness. The end of the day means a meal, a shower, often a nap before I settle down for the evening, adding words to my journal, reading or watching the weather channel. Then up in the morning to do it all over again. How lucky can a guy or gal be to ride free day after day under puffy clouds and blue skies? Better than sex I think, if for no other reason than it lasts much, much longer. I finally reached Illinois and then Indiana where I-80 becomes a toll road. One benefit from all the tolls is a better road surface. Generally. I’ve mentioned this lament many times but many of our interstates, state and local roads are not maintained. In fairness I must report that automobile suspensions are designed for comfort with soft springing that absorbs the “irregularities” of a road surface, but motorbike suspensions are much stiffer for proper handling. Riders can feel the “irregularities” as gullies and gulches: expansion strips on concrete roads are transmitted with great annoyance. Tar snakes are to be feared in wet weather and potholes are to be avoided at all cost while railroad crossings are taken with a very dry mouth. Eternal vigilance is our mantra. My stay with friends in Mentor was so fun but New Jersey beckoned so one mid-morning after packing and stowing Halle’s care package of dehydrated kale tomatoes and a package of Newman cookies (no trans fats and not dehydrated) I rode east. The following day after a cloudy ride through Pennsylvania I crossed the Delaware into western New Jersey, returning to visit my early roots and relive exceptional experiences. It was worth the hard slog and sore butt. Besides I was out of gum. |
| FOLLOW THE YELLOW LINE Motorcycle Touring with Stuart Davis and His Side Car www.followtheyellowline.com |