"Where Y'all Headed?"

If you live in your car, you're homeless, but if you live on your bike, you're free. What's more, if you travel in your car, you're insulated from the world, but if you're on your bike, the whole world comes on over and says "Hello!"

It seems like every time we stopped, for gas, for food, to stretch our legs, to take a picture, somebody walked over to chat. Americans in general are much more outgoing and willing to approach strangers to strike up a conversation than Canadians, add in a couple of motorcycles and we can quickly become the center of attention.

"Where ya comin from?" "Where y'all headed?" "Nice Bikes." "What kind of bike is that?"

California. Canada. Thanks! Yamaha.

The looks of confusion and incredulity on peoples faces and the reactions we get when we tell them who we are, where we're headed, where we started, are priceless. The best one was the waitress that begged us to take her with us.

I'm Home. 19 Days, 9,000 kilometers, 5,600 miles, one Epic Road Trip.The tires that were new when we left home are almost worn out, the oil changes we got in Arkansas are due again, and it took hours to scrub a continents worth of crud from my beloved steed. Cassandra and I are already talking about a road trip to New England, or maybe the Appalachians. Or maybeee......?

Speed has never killed anyone....

"Speed has never killed anyone. Suddenly becoming stationary, that's what gets you."
Jeremy Clarkson.

13 Days down, 5 days left, (give or take) to get home on schedule, such as we're on a schedule. So far this road trip has consisted of 2 distinct twisty sections separated by a flat bit in between. First there was the western portion, the California coast and the mountain states. Then a flat out high speed run across the prairies, bobbing and weaving to dodge constantly building and dissipating thunderstorms and tornadoes. And now the last sprint, through the Ozarks and into the Appalachians before turning north through the Carolina's, the Virginia's, Maryland, Pennsylvania, and New York State, before finally crossing the border to home.

The bikes are holding up much better than we are, 13 days of  flat out desert runs interspersed with tight twisty roads and high speed sweepers has taken a lot more out of us than it has from our machines. Our bikes are coated with half a continents worth of road grime, chain lube, and dead bugs, but despite their appearance they still fire up at the push of a button, and I almost feel like I'm holding it back when faced with a winding road.

Late this afternoon, leaning into another curve, the whole reason for this odyssey came into focus.

We were on a long, sweeping right hand corner descending through a thick forest somewhere in central Arkansas. I was about 100 feet behind Ray, taking exactly the same line through the corner, entry point, apex, looking for the exit point. My knees were gripping the tank to let me lean as far off the bike as I could, my right arm was pushing on the bar to let the bike fall into the corner, my left arm relaxed on the opposite end holding it steady. The pavement was in perfect condition, the shadows of overhanging trees flashing by. I hadn't realized how fast we were moving until Ray leaned in just a little more to avoid a small patch of gravel lying on the road. I matched his move and also wound in just a tiny bit more throttle, and suddenly felt a vibration running up my toes as the warning feeler on my foot peg began to scrape the road. It was a perfect moment, the shoulder of the road flashing by seemingly inches below my head while the bike was leaned over as far as it possibly could and still maintain traction. I snuck a quick glance at the speedometer and had a brief moment of confusion as I tried to interpret the number I saw. Had I somehow switched the speedo back to kilometers from miles? There was no way I could possible be going this fast in a corner without the tire losing traction to send me skidding across the road. But it was reading miles, I was going at that impossible speed, and everything became crystal clear, it was one of those perfect moments that some people never experience once in their lifetime. One instant of perfection in the middle of thousands upon thousands of corners over the last 13 days.

At that precise moment, a moth bounced off my partly opened visor, ricocheted off my chin guard, and shot into my partly open mouth. I choked/spat the thing out, it bounced off the chin guard again, and wings beating like crazy, flew back and forth in the eddy of wind behind the visor before coming to rest sitting on my left cheek. It then crawled underneath my sunglasses, across my rapidly blinking left eyeball, and out the top of my sunglasses onto my forehead.

All while I was leaned into that corner moving at what was suddenly a ridiculous speed. So much for my moment of perfection. I slowly backed off the throttle, the bike eased itself upright as we came out of the corner, and I reached up with my left hand to snap the visor wide open at the same time I quickly twisted my head to one side blowing the unwanted passenger off.

And that's why Ray came back down the road a few minutes later to find me standing on the shoulder, helmet off, furiously brushing my teeth and gargling with a bottle of water. he was laughing so hard he was crying even before I told him about the moth.

"Are We Lost?"

On the very first day of our trip when we left the Harley dealership for the hotel I led us there like I had lived in San Jose my whole life. The next morning it took me less than 2 minutes after we left the hotel to get the two of us hopelessly lost. I had carefully researched the route and knew exactly how to get out of town and to the coast, or so I thought. Just to add insult to injury after wandering aimlessly around downtown San Jose for half an hour I faked out Ray and sent him down an off ramp while I carried merrily on down the freeway. It took me several minutes to notice he wasn't lurking in my rear view mirror, then find a place I could call him from, then he got bad directions on how to get to my location, with the final result being that after an hour and a half of riding, we were exactly 6 kilometers from the hotel. In the wrong direction.

This set the tone for the trip so far. While it's not unusual for us to get lost for a time on any given day, I have consistently managed to get us lost every single morning within a few minutes of starting to ride.

A few days ago after we'd spent an hour or so wandering along a series of deteriorating mountain roads we pulled over into a small turnout in the trees. We hadn't seen another vehicle for half an hour, and that one had been a mud covered high lift jeep disappearing up a mountain trail. There had been a couple of mailboxes stationed at the end of what might have been driveways, but those were the only signs of civilization.

As soon as we got off the bikes, Ray looked across at me and asked the inevitable question: "Are we lost?"

Without hesitation, and doing my best to sound as upbeat as I could as I replied "Nope!"

Ray: "Then where are we?"
Me: "Colorado!"
Ray: (rolling his eyes) "Where in Colorado?"
Me: "East of Dolores, west of Denver"
Ray: (heaving a long sigh) "Half the state is east of Dolores and west of Denver. We're lost."
Me: "I think you're overstating the situation. Lost implies more than simply not knowing where we are, we also have to not know how to get to where we want to go."
Ray: "Well, I don't know where we are, or how to get to where we want to go. Do you?"
Me: "How much gas have you got?"
Ray: "About 3/4 of a tank."
Me: "Are you hungry?"
Ray: "I'm starting to understand why you always insist on a big breakfast."
Me: "So we've got gas, we're not hungry, it's a gorgeous day, a fun road, it's still early, what are you worried about?"
Ray: "Yup. We're lost."

He was right. We were lost. So what? It was still a nice day.

Tornadoes!?!? Really?

Four years ago Ray and I did our first Epic Road Trip. We shipped the bikes to my sister in Surrey, flew out, mounted up, and headed down the Pacific Coast Highway. We went south until we ran into wildfires, turned east until we encountered tornadoes, fled north until we hit hit snow, before finally turning back east again for home.

We are currently in our cheesy motel room in Limon Colorado. We hadn't encountered any wildfires, and the weather forecast was severe clear for the next week with only the possibility of some scattered thunderstorms. Until we were coming back from dinner. We had stopped in the corner store across the street from the motel when a bunch of cars and vans pulled in and disgorged a jabbering crowd of excited youngsters.

"Is it always this busy?" I asked the guy behind the counter.

"Storm Chasers." He replied with a shrug. He must have noticed my eyes bug out, so he elaborated with "This is Limon, the western edge of Tornado Alley."

One of the youngsters overheard us and gleefully said "We just saw 2 tornadoes to the south, and there's heavy hail to the west on it's way here in a few minutes."

If we could have fit the bikes through the motel room door........

It took 3 1/2 days of driving as fast as we could to get out of California. In the 2 1/2 days since, we've crossed into Arizona, back to California, Arizona again, Nevada, Utah, and due to having to chuck the plan yet again we find ourselves back in Arizona. Along the way I've fought off rabid donkeys with a magic carrot, eaten Mexican food for dinner 4 nights in a row, and started off every day by getting lost. Seriously, every single day. If we continue at this rate we'll be back in Ottawa in time for labor day. That would cause several problems. I promised Dan I would show up for work at some point and in return he promised I could get skydives at the staff rate. He's held up his side of the bargain, me, not so much. The bikes, which left Ottawa fully serviced are already due for some maintenance, and could be overdue for complete rebuilds by the time we return. As for me, 6 days of driving randomly all over the southwestern US at ridiculous and unsafe speeds is starting to take it's toll upon knees and shoulders that were kinda sketchy before we even left home. Naproxen and extra strength Tylenol for breakfast can only do so much.

We're in Page, home to Antelope Canyon and Horseshoe Bend. We've dodged and fed donkeys, crossed several deserts, crisscrossed a dozen mountain ranges, eaten dinner in the shadow of London Bridge, and this morning we went from shorts and T shirts at breakfast to heavy jackets and sweaters at lunch next to snowbanks, then back to shorts and T shirts again as we descended back into the desert.

Tomorrow morning we head to the Motus dealership in Dolores Colorado so I can throw a leg over a Motus MSTR. It's the boutique bike of boutique bikes, a high end hand assembled machine utilizing all the best components available in the world, built around their own V4 engine that delivers an insane amount of power and torque that rivals the energy produced by an electric motor. Accompanied by a price tag comparable to it's power output. With any luck, I'll try it on for size and it won't fit, any other result does not bear consideration. Quite apart from the ridiculous price tag it is impossible to import it into Canada without first filling out a foot tall pile of paperwork to prove to the Registrar of Imported Vehicles that it complies with all the silly regulations that an entire army of bureaucrats could come up with to interfere with peoples fun.

I'm hoping I hate it. but then, on the other hand......

The Next Time Somebody Want's To Take A Picture Of My Bike....

I'm going to jump on it and disappear as fast as I can.

We had just finished running one of the twistiest paved roads that exists in North America, over an hour and a half of non-stop steep climbing and diving corners, rarely getting out of first gear, and when we did it was to only shift right back down again. The Nacamiento Fergusson Road was the only way out of the dead end that the Pacific Coast Highway south through Big Sur had become after a section had been washed out more than a year ago. It was a lot of fun, nerve wracking as hell with no guardrails and many places where there was no room for oncoming traffic, but fun. We were happy to find a place at the end to get off for a well deserved stretch. The pull out even came with a tank.

A couple minutes after we had stopped a passenger van filled with Japanese tourists pulled in from the opposite direction, and while most of them made a beeline for the tank and started shooting pictures and selfies like crazy, one came over and made hand motions as if asking if she could take a picture of my bike. I decided to go one better, and indicated that she should pose with the bike.

What a moron I am. I should have seen the storm coming. As soon as one had her picture taken, the rest wanted their pictures taken. In ones and twos, then every combination they could think of, they posed with it, on it, beside it, on top of it, in front of it, behind it, and then dragged me in for some more. I'll swear not a single one of  those Japanese tourists had ever seen a Japanese motorcycle.

Ray stood a safe distance back laughing his head off at my predicament as I tried to keep them from clambering all over my beloved machine and playing with everything I had strapped and clamped onto it.

At least he thought it was a safe distance. When I'd finally had enough I pointed to Ray and shouted something about "The Orange Tiger", and the whole process started all over again.

We finally managed to shoo them off the machines and fled. We were still laughing an hour later when we stopped for gas.

Off And Crawlin' Like A Herd Of Turtles

This is going to be EPIC! The motorcycles left Ottawa in a shipping container 3 weeks ago, bound for San Jose California, and now Ray and I have finally caught up with them. Aside from a few minutes of total panic 5 days ago when the service manager at Lanesplitter Harley Davidson phoned to say he was refusing to accept them due to some miscommunication on the part of his boss, the plan has come together as I prayed it would. Except for the batteries. The ignitions had been left turned on at some point on the journey and the batteries were stone dead when we picked up our rides. We were able to bump start mine but Ray's was totally pooched and had to be replaced. Everybody in the dealership had tons of questions about the machines that had come from so far and they were all envious of our cross country ride.

We scored on our hotel reservation, we're next door to a Whole Foods Grocery store that has a Brew Pub on the second floor and a huge selection of gourmet food to go on the ground floor. We've been shopping twice so far. The San Jose Sharks home arena is 2 blocks away and Anthrax and Slayer are playing a concert there tonight. John Mehary is probably going to be ticked at me for passing up on the show but the bikes are in the parking lot and ready to roll, it's been a very long day, and we have a lot of miles to cover tomorrow.

The plan for the first day is to head southwest through Big Basin Redwoods State Park and pick up the Pacific Coast Highway, cruise through Salinas and Monterey, along Big Sur, (where half the car commercials filmed in North America are done) then up over the mountains to our destination in Taft, taking every twisty turny weavy windy road we can along the way. Over the next 2 1/2 weeks we'll wind our way home through southern California, Nevada, Utah, Colorado, Arizona, the Ozarks, the Appalachians, and time permitting, even a bit of New England.

Unless the whole plan blows up in our face like the last time we did this: days of pouring rain and snow, wildfires, tornadoes, road closures, Great Big Cracks In The Earth And God Knows What The Hell Else!!!! In which case we will pull out a different map and pick a different direction and a different adventure, but whatever route we take, this will be EPIC!!!!

"Warning: This Is The Worst Road In Pima County"

The Christmas Boogie is over, a great improvement over last year - nobody died. The weather was mostly cooperative, the people friendly, the beer dirt cheap or free and always cold, and the planes plentiful. At one point they were running 5 Twin Otters to keep us jumping. The biggest problem was finding room to pack but somehow there was always space to squeeze in. Cassandra and I spent a day doing free 4-way training with Thomas Hughes of Arizona Airspeed, and some friends came down from Edmonton for a few days so we had them over for a barbecue. There was even a canopy collision over the landing area at 100 feet that turned out remarkably well when the lady who cut off someone on final had her parachute miraculously re-inflate enough that all she did was break her leg. If you're gonna be dumb, ya better be tough!

And the peasants rejoiced.

We've fled the DZ for a few days of peace and sanity before the Canadian Invasion begins, heading down to Tucson to do some riding. From one of the camping guides I purchased we picked out a little piece of Bureau of Land Management desert on the outskirts of Tucson to park on. There are probably 30 motor homes and trailers parked within a few hundred yards of us, but aside from the occasional sound of a generator we could be in the middle of nowhere. We spent yesterday evening having a campfire and could barely make out the lights in a couple of the other trailers.

This morning we got on the bikes, picked a road, and headed south across the desert. Our goal was Tombstone, or maybe even Bisbee, we got nowhere near either one but we sure did find a lot of fun. The road started out straight, eventually became undulating, and after we had turned off to cut across to Nogales it became downright challenging. Sweeping corners quickly became twisty and technical, and after a brief debate we decided to head down a road that my map said was gravel but started out paved. The scenery was gorgeous, and if it wasn't for all the US Border Patrol pickup trucks we would have had the road all to ourselves. The further along the road we went the worse it got, and the more white pickups we passed on the road or driving slowly cross country. That's when we passed this sign.

The road was already badly deteriorated and strewn with potholes, so we figured it couldn't get much worse and kept going.

It got much worse.

Within a couple of miles we were crawling along at 15-20 MPH, occasionally resorting to the shoulder of the road as it was in better condition than what was left of the paved surface. I stopped to talk to Cassandra and suggest we turn around but she pulled up beside me with a huge grin on her face and declared "This road is Awesome!" Okay then, continue it is. We carried on, weaving back and forth trying to find the best path through the mess until we topped a rise and came to another sign that declared "Primitive Road. Caution. This surface is not regularly maintained. Use at your own risk."

Okay, now if the part that was behind us was was the good part, what the hell was up ahead?

We were debating the wisdom of continuing (Cassandra was all for pressing on, I voted for turning back. In case you haven't figured it out by now I don't rely on The Brunette to be the voice of restraint and reason, this is a new experience for me, nobody has ever accused me of being the voice of reason) when a Border Patrol truck came over the hill ahead and pulled up beside us.

He rolled the window down, surveyed the two sport bikes and asked in a skeptical voice "Are you planning on taking those bikes down this road with them tires?"

"Well, yeah, that was the plan." I replied. "Does it get any worse?"

He looked from us, to the sign reading Primitive Road, and back at us, then said "It gets worse, a lot worse. And watch out for the Mexicans hiding in the hills."

Just then my phone received a text from my service provider reading 'Hey Jet Setter! Welcome to Mexico!"

We turned back.

Maybe we'll go to Tombstone tomorrow.

Sometimes Trailer Trash Can Be Beautiful

8 Weeks, 6,000 km on the motorhome, 2,000 km on the bikes, more State and National Parks and Monuments than I can count, sunrise in Monument Valley, Stars in Death Valley, floods in Perris, a bunch of Americans pleading for sanctuary, some skydiving, massive cities, ghost towns, canyons large and small, and a Valley Of Fire. Hwy 74 to Palm Springs, or the opposite direction to The Pacific Coast Highway, high speed runs, low speed lane splitting (scary as FUCK at first but lots of fun once you get used to it), Canyon Carving, High Speed Runs across the Desert (didn't buy fast motorcycles to hold up traffic), and it's all brought us to Skydive Arizona for the Christmas Boogie. Just in time for a storm with wind so strong it was making the slide on the motorhome move in and out. The DZ is mostly submerged, water and gelatinous quicksand like mud everywhere trapping us in the motorhome, temperatures in the low teens for the next week, and we couldn't be happier. The Charlie Brown Christmas Tree is up and decorated, we have a years worth of movies courtesy of George and Celine, stacks of jump tickets, boxes and bags of cheap booze, party goods from Colorado, and we're spending our second Christmas not shoveling snow. 

Life Is Good.

Wind

Followed By The Rain

Followed By The Sunset

US Election Night 2016

As soon as we crossed the border into the US we stocked up on Beer, food, and US cell phone plans. 

Somewhere around the Mississippi we stocked up on Vodka and Chocolate.

When we got to Colorado we went shopping for "Party Goods" of a type that will still get you thrown in jail in Canada. (I should have stuck to the budget, but I'm a terrible impulse shopper). 

Fortunately we had the foresight to bring all the bags of Salt and Vinegar chips we could carry, I see munchies in our future.

We are currently tucked in (barricaded?) into our motor home in a Lowes parking lot somewhere off I-70 in Colorado watching with morbid fascination as one of the leading democracies in the world implodes in spectacular fashion around us. It could be worse. 

Our elevation is a little below 10,000 ft. We crossed over a 11,400 foot mountain pass to get here. just as we were coming to the peak all the bags of chips had reached their limits and started to explode. It sounded remarkably like gunfire going off inside the RV. 

Nope. it's just election night in the USA. Noisy, crummy, and not enough oxygen. 

 

It's a Beautiful Day In Our Neighborhood....

Yesterday I was riding wearing shorts and a tee shirt under my mesh jacket and pants. Even with the air flowing through I was sweating. Today I was wearing most of the warm clothing I brought with and had the grip heaters set on full, and was still cold.

But it was still a good day.

We started out by slabbing it up Interstate 81 for 3 hours to get some miles behind us before heading north into a series of national parks and forests. The first sign that the day was going to improve was sighting a glider soaring along beside us as he rode the lift generated by the wind going up over a ridge that paralleled the highway. He circled around  a few times, doing steep turns to go back and forth along the ridge, leaving me envious of the way he was effortlessly riding the wind.

We finally left him behind just as we entered the first forest, the houses at the side of the road being replaced by old growth trees rising on either side of the highway to join over our heads as a canopy. The road was perfect, a weaving winding nonstop ribbon stretching out in front of us, hardly ever holding a steady heading, no traffic lights, stop signs, or driveways. We wove back and forth over and around a series of hills and small mountains, little traffic, and no trucks or motor homes holding us up. We After all the tight twisty roads we had spent the last week riding it was a lovely way to wind down from our trip. It was a perfect day, it couldn't have been any better.

That's when we passed a sign warning us about construction for the next 9 miles. The pavement was so perfect it looked like they had finished it that morning, but instead of lasting for 9 miles it went on and on, 50 miles or more of pristine asphalt daring us to go ever quicker. The posted speed limit was 45 MPH but we averaged 60-70, barely slowing down even for the sharper corners. There was no dirt or gravel contaminating the corners, the surface was billiard smooth. It was a perfect day, it couldn't get any better.

That's when we spotted a roadside cafe and pulled in for coffee and a snack. Brenda's Cafe on Pennsylvania Highway 144. It was a hardware store for 132 years before being converted into a general store/cafe. The coffee was hot and fresh, 50 cents for a large cup, and a chicken salad sandwich large enough to choke a horse was 5 bucks. There were huge slabs of extra sharp cheddar on sale dirt cheap and I tried to calculate how many I could fit into my luggage as I tried to remember if was even allowed to bring any across the border. We left with full belly's and full fuel tanks, it was a perfect day, it couldn't get any better.

Highway 144 finally (sadly) ended at highway 6, and we turned to make our final run to tonight's hotel. It always seems that at the end of the day we wind up dealing with a train of slow moving vehicles impeding our progress with no good places to pass, with us blinded by a setting sun.

Not today. We were headed east putting the sun at our backs lighting our way. Every time we needed to pass a group of cars the perfect spot appeared on cue letting us blast by with a quick twist of the throttle. The fact that our bikes have a power to weight ratio similar to a European Supercar helps make short work of anyone in our way. The speed limit went up to 55 and we spent our last hour of the day doing much faster than that as the road took us straight to our hotel.

But tomorrow will be even better. Tomorrow we will be back in Ottawa, our 10 day 5,000 km road trip will be at an end, and I will sleep in my own bed, curled up with Cassandra in my arms. I can't for the life of me think of a better way to end the day than that.

Race Riots and Gas Shortages

One problem about going to the Appalachians is that it takes forever to get anywhere. The nice thing is we don't care, the journey really is the purpose of the trip. A distance on the map that would take an hour to cover on the Interstate can take 3 or 4 on the roads that we came here for. It's not unusual to go for miles shifting between 1st and 2nd gear as we twist and turn up and down the switchbacks climbing and descending one mountain range after another. Over and over again I would try to drop down a gear while negotiating yet another 180 degree turn going uphill at a steep angle only to realize that I was already in 1st gear, there was no lower gear to shift to. There is no such thing as a straight line here. We even had a couple of 360 degree turns on the Smokey Mountain Parkway, the road circling around to cross back under itself.

We have been through parts of New York, Pennsylvania, Delaware, North and South Carolina, Tennessee, West Virginia, and we even made it as far south as Georgia. On the way down and again on the way back we have been in and out of Virginia more times than Virginia's date was in and out of her on prom night. It has all been very confusing, the way some of these states seem to overlap and curl around each each other. They could take some lessons from Saskatchewan and square things up a bit. We've ridden the Tail Of The Dragon, The Back Of The Dragon, The Claw Of The Dragon, The Snake, The Diamondback,  and discovered The Rattler completely by accident. Those are only the roads that for some reason have become famous enough to have earned a name. Some of our favorites have been the ones we took simply because they took us in a direction we chose to go. Highway 28 heading south from Bryson City just outside Smoky Mountains National Park swoops and dives up and over more hills and mountains than we could count, alternating between tight twisting switchbacks and long sweeping turns across gorgeous valleys, every minute bringing a completely different landscape. On the way down we jumped on and off the Blue Ridge Parkway anytime it suited us, now that we're on our way home we spent all day yesterday tearing back along it, riding the spine of the Appalachians. The trees would suddenly part on one side revealing mile after mile of sweeping vista, then close in again only to part on the other side, on rare occasions dropping away on both sides leaving us belting along literally above the clouds with the world spread out around us. On Skyline Drive we climbed up through the rain to find ourselves sandwiched between two layers of cloud, the visibility alternating between tens of miles and ten yards. We've passed stands of bamboo, valleys taken over by Kudzu, taken pictures of banana trees, eaten fantastic meals in roadside dives, and once gotten so lost we wound up running on fumes only to emerge from some cart path finding ourselves at the gas station we'd filled up at hours earlier. The same guys were sitting on a bench out front, they made the same small talk as we shared another cup of coffee with them before gassing up. Again.

I have traveled extensively throughout North America, and have often been asked for travel advice. My advice sucks. I don't know anything about all the things normal people would be interested in, but I have spent weeks at a time researching, marking, then exploring every fun piece of pavement I could find. Don't ask me about cool things to see, but if you want to know a fun way to get there, I'm your guy.

Gas Station On The Snake, US 421

Country Store on US 421

Coffee Shop Somewhere In the Middle Of Nowhere, East of .....?

It's All About Marketing, When The Mill Closes and The Factory Shuts Down, Do What you Can With Whatever You've Got. Name It, and They Will Come.

Blue Ridge Parkway

Highway 28 Entering Georgia, 4 States in 45 Minutes

Departing South Carolina and Entering North Carolina 20 Minutes later

Level With The Clouds, Somewhere On The Blue Ridge

If I was to make a guess on who might win the upcoming US election based on who has the most lawn signs Trump would be the hands down favorite. We've been passing through some of the most impoverished areas of the US, neighborhoods that would seem to have little in common with a billionaire, but his signs can regularly be spotted at the side of the road. As for Hillary, the only sign I have noticed read "Clinton For Prison". I wish her luck.

We had been tearing around Appalachia for several days before we paid any attention to what was going on in the real world. What brought it to our attention was having to go to several gas stations one morning to find one that had fuel, it seemed that somewhere out there a pipeline had burst resulting in fuel shortages throughout the southeast. That night when we were watching the news the lead story was the National Guard being called out in Charlotte North Carolina. It wasn't until we were planning our route for the next day that we realized we were only an hour away from where people were marching in the streets. We decided to go the other way the next morning.

As usual our bikes attract attention everywhere we go. "Where y'all headed?" "Where y'all frum?" "Is that bike as fast as it looks?" Not sure - Canada - and a resounding YES!

NEXXT 2016

NEXXT Stands for "North East XX Tour". Ray's bike is a Honda CBR 1100XX, known as a Blackbird. They are a long discontinued and rare Sport Touring motorcycle that has attracted a very serious hard core group of enthusiasts who meet regularly to exchange ideas and tips on how to best customize and personalize their special machines.

And to party.

This year one of their meetings happens to coincide with our trip, so we have joined the group at The Rodeway Inn in Towanda Pennsylvania. It was like walking onto a Drop Zone. Everybody seemed pretty normal at first, just a group of people sharing a common interest. Then the bar opened, the drinking started, and the T shirts came out. By the time the free dinner of smoked ribs was done jugs of moonshine were being passed around, and shortly after that they started organizing the cooler races. The hotel parking lot is quite steep and empties onto a busy street which raises the entertainment value. There aren't enough coolers to go around so they're having to run several elimination heats to narrow the field. I drew a long straw so I'm going to be in the 4th round. I promised Cassandra I would drive carefully, I made no promises about cooler races. The guy who's organizing things swears the local Cops are on board and are going to be closing the street for us. I did see him talking to the cops the first time they came here tonight so maybe he's telling the truth.

Now I have to figure out what to do with the shirt, I'm not sure I even want to risk taking it through customs.

And I'm going to wear this where?

Not even for gardening.

Dragon Slaying

Dragon Slaying, Lizard Killing, Reptile Stomping, Snake Hunting, pursuits a normal person might associate with a wandering Knight, or someone in need of serious medication. Both possibilities sound about right, especially if you blend them together. By the time you read this Ray and I along with our trusted steeds will be well on our way to Motorcycle heaven, thousands of square miles of mountains and valleys criss-crossed with twisting turning roads, more commonly known as The Southern Appalachians.

Motorcyclists come from all across the planet to ride The Tail of  The Dragon - 318 curves in 11 Miles!, or Ride The Snake, 489 Curves, 33 Miles, 3 Mountains, 1 Valley!, The Back Of The Dragon, The Claw Of The Dragon, the list is as endless as the roads. I have a map from a company called Butler that specializes in seeking out, grading, highlighting, and color coding all of the best motorcycle roads in North America (I WANT THAT JOB!!!!). The one they printed that overlaps portions of Tennessee, Kentucky, Virginia, North and South Carolina, Georgia, , and Alabama, looks like a bunch of children hung a map on the wall then stood back and splashed paint all over it. Which isn't very far from the truth. we could spend the next several months there and still only cover a fraction of them.

We only have 9 days, that includes getting there from Ottawa so we'll have to drive really really fast.

Any of you who are reading this and are aware of how my last road trip ended may be a little concerned by the really fast part, but having given it much thought I have come to the conclusion that the reason my bike wound up barrel rolling down the highway launching me at a stationery vehicle is that I wasn't going fast enough.

It's not that I wasn't going fast, because I was, but going fast along a scenic highway with lovely vistas is quite different from tearing along a piece of pavement that bares more resemblance to a roller coaster than to a public road. When you're constantly going from full throttle to grabbing a handful of brakes as you lean into a corner trying to guess which way the road is going to turn as you crest the next rise doing 110 km/hr only able to see 30 yards down the road, praying there isn't yet another kid driving a hay wagon (it is harvest season) filling most of the road in front of you, it has a way of FOCUSING you, of claiming your Total, Complete, Undivided Attention.

Therefore I would like to steal a handy excuse from several of the participants on "Canada's Worst Driver" and say that "Speed Is Safety". The faster we go, the safer we are.

This is the second road trip I've been on with Ray, and the first one was Epic. We shipped our bikes to my sisters place in Surrey before flying out, mounting up, then heading south down the Pacific Coast Highway. It took us more than 3 weeks to get back to Ottawa, taking the most circuitous route that we could. We dodged Wildfires, Downpours, Tornadoes, Blizzards, Buffaloes, (Really! I have Video of Momma Buffalo giving Ray the evil eye as she walked past us while I sat with my bike in gear holding the clutch with my thumb hovering over the start button ready to abandon him to his fate -I only have to outrun YOU!), great big cracks in the Earth (again, I have video) and God knows what the Hell else.

For that trip we had 20 plus days, this time we only have 9, and at least as far to go.

Really, Really, Fast.

On this Road Trip Ray is bring the same mount he had the last time, a Honda Blackbird, his CBR1100XX. Probably one of the most outstanding Sport/Touring machines ever built. That was before he began modifying it. Now it's just one of the best machines ever built, period.

The bike I rode last time is, sadly, no longer with me. The last time I laid eyes upon it's crumpled remains was at Brotherton Towing on the Gaspe Peninsula. It didn't bother me much then, I was happy merely to have survived. But as the days passed and I searched for a replacement for it I began to feel it's loss more and more keenly. It was the best friend I ever had, we had been through so much together, seen so many beautiful things, been to so many places.

I had a file folder at home crammed with reviews I had saved of every motorcycle I had taken so much as a passing fancy to over the years. Chock full of Ducati's, Aprillia's. MV Agusta's, BMW's, as well as all the usual Japanese rides available. One by one one I tracked them down. One by one I either rode it or at least threw a leg over it, and didn't like a single, solitary one. I had no budget, no limits, but I did have some very specific criteria.

Fast. Comfortable. Reasonable range. Can stay on it all day. Could carry luggage. Anti Lock Brakes. Did I mention Fast?

Nothing met the standard. Nothing........... fit.

I spent a lovely afternoon tearing around Montreal completely lost on an MV Agusta Turismo Veloce, a machine that met all of my specifications on paper, but simply didn't fit me.

I rode a BMW F800R, and knew before we left the parking lot that I would never buy one.

I tried so many bikes, searched everywhere I could think of, and didn't find anything that spoke me me.

Then one day I was perusing ads for used bikes trying me put a value on my wreck to help me in my negotiations with the insurance company, and I saw it. Shining in the sun, Bright red, Gold wheels, a 2010 Yamaha FZ1. My Bike. The twin of the one I last saw at Brotherton Towing. It was for sale in Alberta, low mileage, excellent condition, no modifications. stored properly, treated with the love and care that I had treated my own.

After 2 1/2 weeks of searching I had an epiphany - I WANTED MY BIKE BACK!

It is now 6 weeks after the accident, and my life is once again complete. Out in the garage is my new Baby, my best friend, travelling companion, trusted steed. I didn't buy the bike from Alberta, and I had to compromise on the ABS. A 2014 Yamaha FZ1. Still under warranty, 2200 km on it, registered this year. It's White. Wasn't so sure about that at first, but it's growing on me. I've spent the last 3 days crawling all over it, disassembling it, reassembling it, customizing it, personalizing it, making it MINE.

And it's Fast, Very Very Fast.

But I won't drive it too fast, Cassandra made me promise.

I can see Picacho Peak from here

I'm seated on the couch in the RV, coffee in hand, looking out the window over the dinette at Picacho Peak just peeking over the top of the sunshade at the military packing area. Picacho is a very distinctive mountain rising above the desert floor between Tucson and Phoenix, long used as a landmark by people crossing the desert. After 14 days and 3,900 kilometers of travelling and exploring we have arrived at Skydive Arizona, our home for the next 6 weeks. We'll be attending the Christmas Boogie, The Canadian Invasion, The Sisters In Skydiving Boogie, and Mark Kirkby's 16-way Invitational event before heading to Vegas to party with some friends from Ottawa.

We've visited Mammoth Cave, Carlsbad Cavern, the Gila Cliff Dwellings, driven through a miles long Christmas light display celebration of God, Guns, and all that is right and great with America buried in caverns dug beneath the city of Louisville Kentucky (well worth the outrageous entry fee) , explored the City Of Rocks, toured Graceland, camped in state parks and roadside rest areas, drank Corona beside several campfires, crossed the Continental Divide at least 3 times, and ridden at a dangerous and unsafe speed up the best twisty motorcycle road in New Mexico. The day is partly overcast, we'll have plenty of time to jump later so today we're going to either climb Picacho Peak or take the bike and tear up the fantastic road running up Mount Lemmon in Tucson.

2 Weeks down, 12 more to go!

So did the person who landed in town on Sunday die?

3202 Skydives. Not one cutaway. The odds say I should be averaging one every 500 jumps. Not one. A perfect record.

Then came jump 3203.

It was my 9th tandem in 2 days, and when I tried to do my control check after opening the right toggle wouldn't release. I let go of the left toggle to yank on the right with both arms but it was locked solid. I briefly considered landing on rear risers until I looked down at the 65 year old out of shape woman strapped to my chest before coming to the inevitable conclusion that finally, after 22 years and 3202 jumps, I was finally going to have my first reserve ride.

"Jane! Resume the free fall position!" She quickly crossed her arms on her chest, hauled her legs up between mine, and put her head back on my shoulder. She was ready long before I was.

Every single time I had rehearsed a cutaway on the ground I looked down, found both handles, then smoothly pulled the cutaway handle to release the main, followed by immediately pulling the reserve handle to deploy the reserve.

The plan went to hell when I looked down. The handles weren't where they had been every other time I'd run through the sequence. In fact, after a brief and increasingly panicked search they appeared to have vanished altogether. I had a flashback to the very first tandem I ever did in 2006 with Ross Redman strapped to my chest, same thing, no handles. Anywhere. In desperation I grabbed the main lift webbing and followed it up, and up, and up, and up, finally finding the cutaway pillow perfectly angled to be hidden behind the webbing well above my head, because we were hanging the harness, rather than having it hanging from me like it was all the other times I'd rehearsed.

Finally! I released the left toggle which I'd been holding down to keep us from going into a spiral, pulling firmly on the cutaway, then more firmly, and as we began to spin around in a circle started to jerk it desperately with, of all things, Christine Fouchards voice singing in my head:
"You picked a fine time to fail me reserve....
400 feet and I'm losing my nerve...
I've seen some bad ones,
Lived through some sad ones, 
But this one, I just don't deserve,
You picked a fine time, to fail me reserve.

Just as I came to the conclusion that we were done, this was it, we were about to get a planet stuffed up our ass (which would hurt - twice), Christine's voice shifted to "PEEL PULL!" I peeled, I pulled, the pillow came free, and almost instantly we were under a gorgeous bright orange reserve.

At the time it seemed to have taken forever to work through the problem and get under the reserve, later when I checked my ProTrack I was surprised to see that our second free fall ended at 3200 feet.

I reached forward with the cutaway handle and shouted to Jane "Here! Hold This!" Which she did, and the rest of the flight down to the ground was pretty normal except for all my giggling.

Which is when the real fun started. Mile High is located just across the Trans Canada Highway from the bustling town of Arnprior. Depending on winds it's not at all unusual to use the Prior Sports Bar or Tim Hortons as the spot to leave the aircraft, that's how close the town is. On Sunday the wind was blowing straight into town, which carried my discarded main parachute across the highway to deposit it in someones back yard.

Which is when the phone calls to various emergency services began. Police, fire, ambulance, the airport manager, the drop zone itself. The slowly tumbling main parachute couldn't possibly be anything but some poor bugger crashing to his death, screaming all the way, with "You picked a fine time to fail me reserve" the last thing he'd ever hear.

Which is how it came about that the guy who runs the local paper was asked 4 days later "So did the guy who landed in town on Sunday Die?"

Which led to the newspaper guy calling Trevor, and when Trevor explained what really happened, he said "yeah I get this sort of thing all the time from farmers who are having their annual brush fire and the fire trucks show up after somebody panic cell phone calls only to find a nicely controlled pile of branches"...

For the record, rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated. The only difference is that this time it wasn't me who was doing the exaggerating.

And I owe Amanda a bottle of her favorite party beverage for saving our lives. There goes my perfect record.

"We're Gonna Need A Bigger Boat"

That's one of the best known lines from a movie ever, delivered by Roy Schieder just after the monster great white shark surfaced behind the boat that was hunting it.

You see the same thing over and over again and eventually it ceases to be anything special, whether it be a sunset into the ocean, a view from a mountaintop, or even a very cool paint job. I've been looking at Twin Otters painted in cool and unusual ways for so long that they've become background noise - literally. I pay them no attention other than as a way to get to altitude. Then someone to whom it's still new and fresh sees the view, and suddenly you realize that "Yeah, that is pretty cool!" 

A friend from the Invasion saw the picture of the otter taxiing past my window and commented how much she liked the Shark painted on the side. The next day as I walked out to the plane I viewed it in a whole new light, and this morning I walked out to the end of the runway to see if I could get some good pictures. I don't know if the pilot saw me there or not, but either way, I have a pretty good idea how Roy felt when that shark came bearing down on him. I shoulda' stood further to the side!

 And then the Skyhawks started learning how to do CRW while dust devils a few hundred feet across were going past the landing area. I decided to take a day off and go wash my bike.

The Less Romantic Side Of RV Life

Just finished a 4 day road trip to Big Sur on the California coast, widely considered to be the most picturesque and scenic 100 miles on the Pacific Coast Highway. Not to mention the most dangerous. The road itself is carved into the side of a cliff, a never ending series of twisties and sweepers, in most places there are no guard rails, so I'm trying to watch where the hell I'm going as I'm going like hell, and trying to gawk at the view all at the same time. I'm coming back next year and spending a week just wandering up and down that 100 miles.

It's now evening and I'm back in Perris, which brings me to the part of RV life they don't tell you about in the brochures. The whole vehicle is self contained, it can generate it's own electricity, has a hot water tank, the fridge can run on propane, there's a propane stove and a 50 gallon fresh water tank. All of the systems must be maintained from time to time, especially the black water tank for the toilet and gray water tank for the sink and shower.

Once a week, under cover of darkness, I sneak my 11 foot tall, 32 foot long Ford Triton V10 powered motor home into an empty RV slot - they're for staff only and unavailable to the general public - to drain and flush the black and gray tanks, and refill the fresh water tank. This is the less romantic side of the RV life, playing with poo. I also plug into a post to get some electricity to recharge the house batteries that run and power various onboard systems. In the morning I rise early to sneak it back out again before anybody gets up for work. I don't know what the penalty is for stealing electricity or disposing of poo into a staff only "Poo Disposal Hole" are, but no doubt the consequences are dire.

Normally it goes off without a hitch. I wait until things have quietened down, and leaving the headlights off slowly creep into the ghetto, back into an empty slot, hook up the hoses, and begin the process.

I hadn't counted on the Canadian Army doing night jumps. I don't know who was more surprised, me encountering a crowd of heavily armed soldiers covered in glow sticks wearing night vision goggles, or them having a blacked out motor home looming out of the darkness and blundering around in their staging area. I didn't help matters any when I panicked and turned the headlights on. I'm just glad they weren't carrying live ammunition, they probably would have shot first and asked questions later. I may have to come up with a different poo disposal plan for the future.

My favorite kind of road sugn

My Favorite Place for Coffee, Higher Grounds Coffee House , Idyllwild

Skull Rock, Joshua Tree National Park, near Palm Springs

I have GOT to get me one of THOSE! I'll never get cut off in traffic again!
At least, not by the same guy twice.

Beth, my partner in crime, at a lookout on a great section of twisty mountain road with Borrego Springs in the background

This is the sign just above the piece of road shown below

Highway 74 above Palm Desert, 15 minutes from Beth's apartment

Pacific Ocean from Dana Point

That's 5,000 MILES, since arriving in Arizona, and that pic is a week and many miles old

The view out my front window, I'm camped next to the memorial park for the Twin Otter went in on take-off years ago.

The view from my front yard. Life does not suck.

Gotta go, I'm meeting Beth, Mark, and Lerinda at 9 on the creeper pad to start dirt diving our first 4-way of the day - In Jump Suits, Don't Be Late, Don't Be Last! Has the snow melted yet?