But That's Just Me

Taxi Driver

2012-01-18T14:53:00.000-06:00

I leave mydoctor’s office sad, depressed, and alone. Once outside, I replay ourconversation.

“Did youdrive yourself, or do you have a friend to take you home?” she asks.

“No, I don’thave any friends here, and I don’t own a car; I’ll call a taxi.” I reply.

Fightingback tears, I fake a smile as John’s car pulls up to the curb. Pity party ofone, your ride is here.

I met Johnsix months ago when I first moved to Hermosa Beach and needed a ride to the airport.I called a local cab company and John answered the call. Since then, John has been my taxi driver. As I climbin the back of his cab, John asks, “How have you been?”

“Oh, I don’tthink you really want to know. Things haven’t been that great lately,” I say.

“Yes, Ireally do want to know.” John insists, “Tell me about it.”

My woe is memonologue lasts the duration of the drive home. John stops the car in front of myapartment, turns to me with thoughtful sincerity and says, “You know, Colleen,you can call on me if you ever need anything. I am here for you. I will helpyou because that is what friends do.”

As I exitthe cab, I smile genuinely and thank John. “What you said to me means more thanyou know.”

Now,whenever I need a ride, I call my ~~taxi driver~~ friend, John.

From Guest Blog: Who Writes Your Nonsense?

2011-12-15T16:22:00.010-06:00

My friend, Eileen, asked me to write about my unconventional definition of "bitch." This post is courtesy of her blog: www.whowritesyournonsense.blogspot.com

A bitch and a slut walk into a bar.....

I recently asked my friend Colleen about her affinity for the word "bitch". We had an interesting discussion about how she was inspired to reclaim and redefine the word as positive by Richard Pryor's decision to use the word "nigger" in his act in the 70's. He states in his autobiography, Pryor Convictions,

"This one night I decided to make it my own. Nigger. I decided to take the sting out of it. Nigger. As if saying it over and over again would numb me and everybody else to its wretchedness. Saying it changed me, yes it did. It gave me strength, let me rise above ..."

Colleen said she had a similar epiphany about the word bitch and I invited her to write about it. Here are her thoughts:

“You are a bitch!”

Is this an insult, compliment, or term of endearment? Whether you are offended or empowered by this statement depends on your definition of “bitch.”

The English Dictionary defines bitch as: disparaging, demeaning slang; a malicious, selfish, unpleasant woman. By accepting this definition, you allow others to determine the impact of the word, bitch. In this case, you resign your power to the person making the statement, “You are a bitch.”

In my vocabulary dictionary, “bitch” is a smart, confident person with a strong sense of self-worth. Bitches live life with ambition, courage, and finesse. I own my definition of bitch so, “You are a bitch”—regardless of context or intention—cannot degrade me or make me powerless in any way. Taking ownership of words like, “slut” and “bitch” gives you Super Power to deflect insults like Wonder Woman’s bracelets deflect bullets. Now, take that you bitches!

And now my thoughts on the word slut.

A few years back, I went with friends to a house in my neighborhood for drinking, board games, and socializing. Our host was a friend of my friends, I had only met him briefly through work. We were all having a fine time until the fun came to an abrupt and unexpected end when I was standing in the kitchen in front of the refrigerator as one of the pilot residents of the house came home from work and the man of the house said to me, “Move it, slut, I need to get this guy a beer.”

And with that, it was GAME OVER. I not only moved out of the way of the fridge, I proceeded to walk out the front door and stomp my way home, not saying goodbye to my friends, not willing to discuss how absurdly pissed off I was. And for those of you who don’t really know me, I can assure you I am fairly unflappable, have a good sense of humor, am often self deprecating, and use language saltier than a tapenade and pickle sandwich dipped in soy sauce. So this really shouldn’t have flipped me out, in theory, but it did.

The guy in question didn’t know me at all....he was just trying to be funny and flippantly dismissive in front of another guy to get a laugh. I knew he didn’t really mean anything by it, but I had to really consider why it royally rubbed me the wrong way. If he had said “bitch”, I probably would have thought he was equally moronic, but most likely would have dismissed it and moved on. Why do certain words hold such power over us?

The answer lies in a rewind to me in high school. Picture a girl with a gigantic Fantastic Sam’s permanent and the entire Benjamin Moore paint wheel applied to her face….hang on, I’ll just show her to you.

Zoinks.

Imagine this 80's fashion victim hanging out in the smoking section in a white leather motorcycle jacket with the other misfits, the kids who you knew when you first laid eyes upon them that they were letting their parents down, regardless of their scholastic achievements. My wardrobe and makeup choices were an expression of my teen angst….a pretty typical example of a kid trying to stand out by rebelling against boring suburban ideals. But it was my look presumably that caused a number of popular jock type dudes to refer to me as “slut”. As a girl involved in a committed relationship with an older guy who didn’t go to the school, I felt outraged that these dickheads felt that they could assume something about my sexual proclivities based on my appearance…..why would I get the bad rap when the popular, "nice" girls of my high school, all polo shirted and frosty lipsticked, were sleeping with different guys every time they had one too many wine coolers? I know everyone gets verbally assaulted in their adolescence; I just took particular offense to that word as it seemed inaccurate and unfair. But I’ll stop before my recollections evolve into the plot of a lost John Hughes movie.

Fortunately, age and confidence can bring about discernible change for the better. When I created this blog, there was an option to attach a picture of myself. I chose one of me enjoying a Dum Dum lollipop that was taken about a year and a half ago. My super amazing hairdresser (John Flemal at Urban Lift in Roscoe Village) always gives me a Dum Dum when he’s done doing my hair….no reason, just because it’s fun. I had a picture taken of myself enjoying the sucker with my new hairstyle and put it on Facebook as John and I are FB pals and I thought he’d be amused. I received a note from a guy who was interested in me at the time suggesting I take the picture down as it was suggestive and would give guys (not PEOPLE, mind you, but GUYS) a certain impression about me. Not properly thinking it over, I removed the picture based on his request.…...no surprise, he turned out to be a complete asshole. When I went shopping for a picture for the blog, I knew I wanted one that would visually represent me on a site dedicated to my sass.....that particular photo just says it all. Every time I see it, I am reminded that letting others define our identities or erode our self esteem with hurtful comments is for cowards and, well, suckers.

More Angels Than Assholes

2011-12-10T00:11:00.010-06:00

Ever have one of those days when nothing seems to go as planned? Well, Wednesday was one of those days for me.

It all started at a storage unit where I keep my motorcycle. Four months have passed since I last rode my bike and now the battery is almost completely dead…almost. After several tries, the engine sputters to life, reluctantly. I ride to the nearest gas station just up the street, but all the pumps are closed due to recalibration of the computers; so, I continue down the road for a couple of miles to the Shell station on Torrance Boulevard. I fill the tank, turn the key, and press the start button. Click, click, click. I press it again. Click, click, click. “Come on, Barfy, please start!” (Yes, I talk to my motorcycle. Doesn’t everyone?)

A young man dressed in a navy-blue work uniform is at the pump next to mine. He walks up to me and with a warm smile says, “Having trouble getting your bike started?”

“Yes, I’m afraid the battery is dead.”

“Hi, I’m Dave.”

“Hi, Dave, I’m Colleen,” I say as we shake hands.

Without hesitating, Dave removes a card from his wallet and punches a phone number into his cell phone. “I am calling AAA to come and jump-start the battery for you.”

Dave spends 30 minutes of his lunch break from work waiting with me for AAA. We talk about karma and I am reminded of my blog post on August 16, 2010 about day 28 of my North America motorcycle trip:

"Paul tells me I can go on without him while he gets his bike tended to, but I don’t feel right about taking off and leaving a fellow biker stranded. I tell Paul that I will wait with him until he finds out what is the problem with his bike, and if it is fixable. I hope someone would do the same for me if I had a mechanical breakdown in an unfamiliar city/country."

I believe that good karma is created when we do good things for others and when we recognize with gratitude the goodness that comes to us. So, on this day I am grateful that my bike broke down when and where it did. I am grateful for Dave, his kindness, and generosity. I am grateful for the service team at Irv Seaver BMW in Orange County. Finally, of all the people I meet during my motorcycle travels, I am grateful that there are more angels than assholes.

Amen.

Beautiful People

2011-12-09T08:30:00.005-06:00

Halfway through my morning run, I stop in the restroom at Manhattan Beach pier. On a tile above the sink where a mirror once was, but is no more, I see this graffiti: You Look Beautiful. My laughter reverberates off the walls of cinder blocks, startling a lonely pigeon stalking the premises.

I leave the restroom and continue my run. Thoughts of what is beautiful and what do I want for breakfast compete for real-estate in my head as I weave through a menagerie of dogs, strollers, bicyclists, walkers, and fellow runners on The Strand. Later that day, a phone call to a friend about the self-affirming graffiti prompts an hour-long conversation about concepts of beauty.

I explain to my friend that, years ago—sometime between my insecurity-laden teen years and my esteem-empowered thirties—I came to understand that initial impressions and superficial judgments (positive or negative), are really about the influence of the judge’s filters (personal experience, cultural and societal norms, media, etc.) and have little or nothing to do with the person being judged. Now, when I receive a disapproving comment or a compliment about my hair, teeth, weight, bosom or butt, I don’t internalize it or let it influence my self-worth. If I must be judged, let it be for the content of my character and not the condition of my skin.

I am compassionate, empathic, loyal, humorous, loving, generous, playful, courageous, adventurous, intelligent...and beautiful. I don’t need a mirror or bathroom graffiti to tell me that.

Photography and Philosophy at The Happiest Place on Earth

2011-11-03T10:46:00.003-05:00

The table wobbles badly, as does my chair with its broken leg and back. I center my ass on the sticky, vinyl seat and, now straddling more than sitting, teeter-totter with bacon martini in hand. My eyes strain in the darkness to read the ridiculous, humorous, and sometimes amorous prose, like, I Heart Mormon Pussy, on stickers that blatantly adorn every surface at the Double Down Saloon in Las Vegas, home of Ass Juice, and the original bacon martini.

Appearing through the smoky haze, a young woman walks toward me and extends her hand. “What’s your name?”

“Colleen,” I reply, accepting her handshake. Damn, I forgot to use my bar moniker. (I created the bar moniker, “Kelly,” because “Colleen” is often misheard as something else.)

“Your name is Helene? My name is Helene, too,” the girl exclaims with a somewhat quizzical expression. She looks stoned.

“Yep, Helene,” I say, surrendering, and saving myself a longer-than-necessary explanation with someone who may, or may not, be high. I am sure that ours is not the first dive bar introduction rooted in deceit.

“I saw you sitting here, alone, and wanted to meet you. You have a powerful presence—not in a hostile or aggressive way, but in a powerful, confident, positive way. Some people are repelled by independence, I am not.”

“Um, thank you?”

Helene then says that she is a photographer. “I have my laptop in the car. Want to see my photos?”

“Yes I do,” I reply honestly, and swallow the last of the savory bacon martini.

Maybe it is the 3 ounces of vodka that I just consumed on an empty stomach, or the fact that I am rarely approached in a bar, by anyone, male or female, but I happily follow Helene out to the parking lot. We sit in her car behind dark, tinted windows that make us invisible to passersby. As we wait for her Macbook Pro to awaken, Helene tells me that when she was in high school, all she wanted to do was huff Dust-off and hang-out in the photography class dark room.

“I can relate,” I say. (Not to huffing Dust-off, or hanging out in a photography dark room, but to the part about being in high school.)

Helene took photos of her friends for their MySpace pages and, what started out as a hobby, developed into a passion for photography. Eventually, Helene realized that in order to be a professional photographer, she needed professional camera equipment—cameras, lenses, lighting, etc. In need of money, and lots of it, Helene did what any dissociative young girl with a somewhat obscure high school education in Las Vegas would do—she became a “Dancer.” (Hey, we’ve all done things in our youth that seemed like a good idea at the time. If you ever lip-synched to Pat Benatar, or Air Supply, whilst wearing a leotard, in public, then you know both embarrassment and shame. Don’t judge.)

With her laptop fully awake now, Helene scans hundreds of thumbnail photos and selects two of her favorites. Both photographs are of different women who commissioned Helene to capture the beauty of their pregnant bodies. The first photo is black and white and so incredibly lit—the grey shadows conceal modestly and at the same time reveal the elegant curvature of breasts and belly.

“Absolutely stunning, and beautiful,” I say, and I mean it.

Helene glides her finger over the screen, caressing the image as she explains the intricacies of photography and the intimacy established between subject and photographer. “Photography taught me how to connect with people. I believe that our altruistic connections with people are really why we are here; they are the meaning of life. It isn’t wealth, fame, beauty, or any other societal definition of success that bring us happiness—true, lasting happiness comes from our relating with people.” I’ve come to know this truth only recently, and I’ve got twenty-plus years on this girl! “That is why,” Helene continues, “When I noticed you sitting in the bar, alone, I had to introduce myself…to connect with you. That is what makes me happy.”

As I sit there in Helene’s car and ponder the philosophical wisdom of this very young, and possibly very stoned woman, I look out of the tinted window at five words painted just above the bar entrance: The Happiest Place on Earth. I smile and turn back to Helene. “I am happy to meet you, too,” I say...and I mean it.

Going Back to Cali

2011-08-29T20:55:00.008-05:00

June 30:
Over a bon voyage breakfast of oatmeal and omelettes, I reminisce with my friend, Eileen, about a decade of life and love in the Windy City. Although a move to California is a dream come true, I have mixed feelings about leaving my Sweet Home Chicago: fear, excitement, anxiety, insecurity. I glance at my helmet on the seat next to me and realize that those same feelings accompany me whenever I ride, face a new challenge, or embark on a new adventure.

The conversation shifts from past to present when Eileen asks about the first stop on my proposed route, Chippewa Falls, Wisconsin, where I will attend the 39th BMW Riders Association Rally at the Northern Wisconsin State Fairgrounds. While I am eager to meet some fellow Beemer riders, I am not looking forward to camping on terra firma, in a tiny tent, by myself, yet again. “Sleeping outdoors for three days in close proximity to a few hundred musky strangers is all part of the adventure!” I say with artificial enthusiasm and sincere sarcasm. Another cup of coffee then it is time to bid a fond farewell to my friend and hit the road.

As expected for late June, the ride from Chicago to northern Wisconsin is hot and humid; that means frequent hydration stops and, consequently, frequent potty stops as well. I arrive at the rally site around 7:00 PM, unpack my motorcycle, set up my tent, and then walk to the “big red barn” for a much-needed shower. Although I toweled off, I don’t think I ever really dried off; I lay in my tent sweating all night. At 2:00 AM, I check the weather app on my iPhone: 88 degrees with 96% humidity and a heat advisory for the day in the 100s. No, thanks.

July 1:
In an effort not to wake those around me, I wait until 6:00 AM then pack up my tent and hit the road; another uncomfortably hot and humid day of riding lay ahead of me. Every place I stop for food, drink, or fuel in Wisconsin and Minnesota seems to play the same endless loop of Eagles and Fleetwood Mac songs; they become the soundtrack of the day. I end Day Two in Fargo, North Dakota with a shower…a rain shower. Ah, cool, cool rain.

Note to Minnesota: What’s up with closing all of your Rest Areas? I had to make potty stops at five Dairy Queens along interstate 94 and, as the restrooms are for customers only, I was forced to purchase delicious, frosty-cold ice-cream at every DQ. I literally Dilly Bar’d and Dipped Coned my way across Minnesota!

July 2:
Day three is a milestone for me. Until today, I drove in 49 of 50 states with North Dakota being virgin territory. Well, it is a virgin no more! The ride through North Dakota is unremarkable and, much like the loss of my own virginity; I am not really enjoying it as much as I am enduring it. I leave the state like a virtual one night stand and find a cheap hotel in the aptly named, Glendive, Montana.

Sanford's Grub and Pub in Dickinson, ND

July 3 and 4:
I ride to Great Falls, Montana to visit my cousin, Paula. It’s been nine years since we saw each other last. We spend the entire day catching up and there is still more to talk about, so I extend my visit one more day. On the fourth of July, we take her daughter, Olivia, downtown to watch the local festivities. I forgot how much fun small town parades can be: old red fire trucks; classic cars; marching bands; high school football heroes; pretty horses; and clowns with lots of candy for the kiddies.

July 5 and 6:
This is Big Sky Country indeed. The road stretches across the endless prairie like an infinite, dark-grey ribbon laid over mounds of green velvet. The sun is shining and the smell of fragrant wild flowers fills the air; I am in awe of the beauty that surrounds me.

With or without the posting of deer crossing signs, I am always on the lookout for their presence, even so, I am completely surprised when a large buck suddenly runs up from a deep ravine on the left and into the middle of the narrow, shoulderless, two-lane road. He stops and stands broadside just a few yards in front of my bike, throws his head back and stares at me, his eyes wide with fear. I react instantly to slow the bike while simultaneously trying to decide which way I should swerve if I am unable to stop before impact. Thank you German engineering and anti-lock brakes for taking me from 80 mph to a controlled quick-stop and allowing Bambi and Barfy to cross paths unscathed…and thank you gas station, for having the restroom I needed shortly there after!

I am shaken by the close call and I try to walk it off at the gas station. After some Gatorade and an internal pep talk, there is little else I can do, so I climb back on the bike and continue on toward Kalispell.

Unfortunately for me and hundreds of others on US-2, at various locations the road is reduced to one lane due to construction. Workers allow several eastbound vehicles to proceed then stop the flow like a kink in a garden hose so that westbound vehicles can have a go. It is an excruciatingly slow procession. Two hours later, I finally arrive at my Dad’s house in Kalispell—ready for a nap!

July 7 and 8:
I am ashamed to say that until today I have not visited my aunt and uncle in Spokane, Washington. Pam and Don are wonderful, welcoming hosts and their home is a relaxing refuge. Pam and I stroll through a beautiful botanical park and have wine with lunch on a veranda overlooking the river falls. I am reluctant to get back on the bike and leave Spokane—and it is a rare day that I don’t want to ride!

July 9:
I take a slight but scenic detour to Crater Lake, Oregon. Snow is piled several feet high along the roadside and the sun is brightly shining in a cloudless blue sky. The lake is smooth as glass and, like a mirror, reflects the mountain that holds it. Beautiful, naturally. I continue on to Bend and score the last room at The Riverhouse on the Deschutes River.

Barfy at Crater Lake

July 10:
Feeling the loneliness of being alone this morning; a quiet emptiness full of longing…

I make a big push to cover 500 miles and finally end the day in Lodi, California. I am ready to be home.

July 11:
I get an early start today; eager to finish the remaining 375 miles of my 3,200 mile journey. The last 20 miles are spent maneuvering my bike through infamous Los Angeles traffic, but as soon as I approach Santa Monica I feel a change in the air from stagnant heat vapor to cool ocean breeze. I pull up to my apartment, lift the face shield on my helmet and inhale deeply. All the tension in my body escapes with the exhale and I do something I haven’t done for the last 875 miles—smile. I am home.

Waking Up an Attitude of Gratitude

2011-08-14T20:38:00.004-05:00

This morning I am grateful for a safe, clean home and a comfortable bed.

On my morning run, I watch a homeless man rise and collect his tattered blankets from the filthy, unforgiving cement. After pushing the blankets into a ripped, plastic bag, he pulls weathered fingers through his dirty, disheveled hair then turns toward the public toilets in a stooped shuffle.

This morning I am grateful for the food in my refrigerator.

The man stops at a garbage bin, pilfers through the smelly contents, removes a crushed, Styrofoam container, and hungrily devours a discarded, partially eaten sandwich and a few French fries. He returns the empty Styrofoam container to its place in the garbage bin then places the plastic bag carrying his worldly possessions over his shoulder and continues on his way. I run past the man and he is out of sight…but not out of mind.

This morning I am grateful.

Daddy's Girl

2011-07-30T13:33:00.004-05:00

When I was eleven, my parents divorced and my dad moved out of our home and, for the most part, out of my life. I spent many years lamenting his absence.

Last year, during a long, solo motorcycle ride, I re-evaluated my life; the results proved to be both positive and profound. Today, I make a conscious effort to be present and grateful for all that I do have, rather than looking to the past and grieving what I did not have. I am thankful for those early years with my dad, much of what I learned from him then, made me the courageous and strong woman I am today.

Value of Education: My dad worked hard as a mechanic to put himself through school, eventually earning a masters degree and becoming a college math instructor. As a teacher and a father, he fostered and furthered the education of thousands of other people’s children, and five of his own. While I clearly did not get my dad’s genes for understanding all things mathematical and mechanical, I did inherit his love of learning; I too earned a masters degree and became a teacher.

Work Ethic: My dad was the sole wage earner for our family and he worked very hard to provide for us. From him I learned the value of earning a living.

Creative Communication: My dad honed his public speaking skills at Toastmasters International meetings and he exercised his ever-expanding vocabulary at home. As a child, I found my dad’s wizardly way with words enchanting. I began practicing my own magic, creatively weaving written words into a storytelling tapestry. A writer is born.

Passion for Performing Arts: I sat enthralled in the audience watching my dad perform on stage with Leonard Nimoy in a community theater production of Oliver Twist. I wanted to be an actor, just like my dad. Stay tuned…

Adventurous Spirit: With my dad behind the wheel of our Chevy van, our family set out almost every Sunday after church for what would become know as the “Sunday Drive.” Together we explored the fields and farm roads of eastern Washington. From this was born my wanderlust and my love of a good road trip—any day of the week.

Nature Lover: My dad controlled the only television in our house which meant we had to watch whatever program he wanted to watch: the CBS Evening News with Walter Cronkite, 60 Minutes, and Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom. While I never derived any viewing pleasure from news programs, I loved Wild Kingdom! I enjoyed learning about all the various animals from host Marlin Perkins; and I thought co-host, Jim Fowler, was handsome. My dad shared his love of nature and the outdoors with his children; often taking us camping, pheasant hunting, and on day hikes to search for arrowheads. To this day, a family-sized tent and the smell of hotdogs roasting over a campfire reminds me of my dad.

Karma Macchiato

2011-06-10T21:55:00.004-05:00

While sipping my tall, soy, no whip, two-pump mocha at Starbucks today, I witnessed the following:

Four kids enter noisily, not for coffee, but to use the restrooms. As apparently there is only one toilet per lavatory, they chat boisterously while waiting their turn; interrupting my previously quiet, caffeinated, leather-upholstered sanctuary. One girl pauses her animated story mid-sentence as her attention shifts to the window. She quickly runs outside and retrieves something from an empty table. Returning to her friends inside, she briefly displays her newfound treasure—a wallet. Seemingly without second thought, the girl takes the unopened wallet to the counter and promptly hands it to an employee. She and her friends then exit the coffee shop as hurriedly and noisily as they entered.

Moments later, a man runs up to the table frantically looking on, around, and underneath it and the adjoining chairs; his face revealing the overwhelming panic that accompanies the realization of a wallet lost—a panic with which I am acutely familiar. I go outside and tell him that what he is searching for may be found inside. The man reclaims his wallet, checks its contents, and walks out, without a word of appreciation or inquiry about the unidentified Good Samaritan.

This observation gave me pause about the various natures of human beings, some of whom value cash, others character. I prefer the latter.

But that's just me.

Memorial Day

2011-05-30T06:26:00.013-05:00

A ringing telephone shatters the quiet stillness of my apartment. I am awake, studying for final exams—this is my fifth and final year of college. A sense of foreboding rises from deep within, like acid reflux; a voice from my past, my mother’s voice, gives narration to the feeling, “Nothing good ever happens after midnight.” I look at the clock on the wall—it’s only 11pm. Relieved, yet hesitant, I reach for the phone. It’s Fred, Marty’s father.

I met Marty two years earlier at college—his senior year—when he was my date for the annual spring dance. We danced and talked into the wee hours of the morning, sharing highlights of our pasts and discovering commonalities. Marty and I grew up in the same small town and went to the same high school where we both earned varsity letters; Marty earned his for swimming and diving, while I got mine for bowling.

Our first date.

During the next several inseparable months we fell madly, deeply in love. Marty loved me just as he loved his family and friends; with an open, honest heart, confident and completely unabashed.

Marty decided to forgo formal college graduation ceremonies; instead he invited an intimate gathering of friends and family for his backyard USMC Officer Commissioning. His mother and I pinned his Dress White uniform with gold 2^nd Lieutenant bars.

Marty's USMC Officer Commissioning.

The inevitable military deployments that followed were often challenging and at times, unbearable. As the miles that separated us grew, so did my love and admiration for Marty. Marty’s strength of character, unwavering passion for justice, and formidable sense of honor and duty inspired the men he led to be better Marines. These same qualities inspired me to be a better person.

The tougher the going, the bigger his grin.

We made plans for our future together. When I graduate from college—finally!—I will join him in Hawaii where he is based and we will marry in six months when his obligation to the Marine Corps is complete.

Marty, bigger than life.

Fred’s voice breaks and, with these words, so does my heart,

“Colleen, two Marines came to the house tonight—it’s not good news, it never is. Night maneuvers…ocean…a helicopter crash…few survivors. Marty…is…gone.”

Fred’s sentences seem to fracture in midair; the words fade and then disappear, lost in a heavy haze—the temporary solace of denial.

Marty is gone?

I feel faint. My vision blurs. I look at a calendar near the phone. The cobalt blue ink of today’s date is indistinguishable, like a Rorschach Test. I squint, trying to focus. Slowly the words and numbers take meaningful shape:

May 30. Memorial Day.

Safari 5.0

2011-04-27T10:36:00.012-05:00

I had many close encounters with various creatures during my motorcycle tour of the beautiful coastline and countryside of South Africa, and while on safari at Pilanesberg Game Reserve. Here are a few photos of some of those unforgettable encounters.

Diving with White Sharks.

Walking trunk-in-hand with African Elephants.

Penguins.

Albino Boa Constrictor.

White Rhinos

Zebras

Profile of lioness crouching in the grass. She is hunting Wildebeest.

Wildebeest.

Ostrich.

Blue Velvet Monkey.

Beautiful and graceful giraffes.

Common Waterbuck. Identifiable by the white ring on rump.

Also seen but not photographed: Springbok, Warthogs, Impala, Elephants, Black-backed Jackals, Owls, Hippopotamus, Baboons, Scrub Hares, Mongoose, Helmeted Guineafoul, Kudu, and Red Hartebeest.

I Left my Heart (and Helmet) in South Africa

2011-04-24T08:46:00.011-05:00

I arrive at the guesthouse, Cheviot Place, a lovely retreat in Cape Town, South Africa (ZA) on Wednesday, April 6, 2011.

A room with a view at Cheviot Place Guesthouse

The next day is spent taking in the sights, sounds, smells, and tastes of the lively, scenic Cape Town waterfront.

Cape Town Waterfront with Table Mountain in background.

Local flavor: Jam Jar - copious amounts of rum, with watermelon and litchi flavors.

Khayelitsha United Mambazo entertain passers by.

The promise of a pleasantly windless, sunny day greets us Friday morning. We opt for a quick gondola ride to the top of Table Mountain before picking up the bikes at BMW MotoBerlin in Cape Town.

I am reunited with my nemesis, the 650GS twin, for a seven day, 1,300 mile motorcycle tour of South Africa. Together with nine other riders, we explore the beautiful Cape Province: pristine white sand beaches; steep, winding roads through gorgeous mountain passes; and the lush green vineyard valleys of South African wine country.

Living the dream.

The lonely road to Cape Agulhas, just like the sign says...

The southernmost tip of the continent.

Cape Agulhas.

Winding roads through the clouds.

Wine Country.

What a great ride, and an amazing adventure that I will never forget!

Adventure Riders

2011-03-29T21:02:00.016-05:00

“I am going to be uncomfortable if I am the only woman rider. I am afraid of being judged by a bunch of pseudo-machismo, dirt-riding dudes who think I don’t belong there because I have zero off-road experience. What if they are right? What if I can’t learn all of the riding skills and fail, miserably?” I confide to my friend.

”Colleen, you are going to kick ass and break hearts,” she replied with all of the confidence that I lacked. But then she always comes through with empowering stuff like that, because that is what good friends do.

So, with self-deprecating, negative chatter reverberating in my head, I arrive at RawHyde in Castaic, California, for two days of BMW off-road Intro to Adventure Motorcycle Training. When I meet the other riders, my fears about judgmental, dirt-riding dudes are immediately eliminated; and all thoughts of ass-kicking banished.

These guys prove to be an affable, supportive group, who are generous with praise and playful humor. Everyone wants success for each other. I participated in many corporate team building group exercises, but none of those experiences produced the kind of cohesiveness and team spirit that our group had at RawHyde. Each time I crashed—and there were many—I relied on the Coaches to help lift my bike, and I drew on our team camaraderie to help lift my spirits…and they always came through with encouraging words, because that is what good friends do.

Photo by Greg Hill

I wish I could say that I had the same sort of bonding experience with my rental bike, a 650GS—but I can’t. From day one, ours was an adversarial relationship. We were an ill-fit, the 650GS and me and, like so many men I dated in the past, just not meant for each other. That bike was built for a smaller, skilled rider with a stronger clutch hand; and when it comes to motorcycles, I prefer a more powerful ride with something bigger to squeeze between my knees.

Photo by Chris Zurn

Training begins at 8:30 AM Saturday morning and from the moment I get on that bike, I am doing things that I have never done before, in the dirt, standing up! By the end of the day I am tired, bruised, and sore, yet I can't wait to do it all again the next day.

Sunday morning we are all moving a little slower, a little stiffer, but we get back on the bikes for another full day of skill-building lessons and off-road techniques that include: negotiating sand, hill climbs, and off-camber turns…and more crashes for me and my bike. Dammit.

Sunday evening, the RawHyde Crew holds a graduation ceremony for our group, and each person shares their highs and lows of Training. My highs are: 1) Meeting such a fantastic group of fellow riders, incredible Coaches, Jim and Stephanie Hyde and the entire RawHyde Staff. 2) Discovering the outdoor men’s showers…while the men are showering! (It’s the little things.) My low is simply that as challenging, tough, and difficult as the Training was, it is over and it is time to say “goodbye” to some newfound friends. Not everyone is leaving, though. Some of us, me included, choose to stay on for a two-day 340 mile ride in the Mojave Desert to Base Camp Alpha.

The first 80 or so miles from RawHyde is all asphalt or hard pack dirt; kid’s stuff compared to what is yet to come. There are reasons that the road to Base Camp Alpha is a road less traveled, here are four of those reasons: rocky hill climbs and descents; loose dirt; sand…and more crashes for me and my bike, including a chest plant into the handlebars and snapping the brake fluid reservoir off with my left boob. It’s a skill not taught at RawHyde.

Due to unforeseen events, namely a wicked crash—not mine, this time—we arrive at Camp after dark. I am hungry, wind-chilled, and exhausted to the point of delirium. A hot shower, a hot tub, or a hot body is the only hope for warming my weary bones, but I am too tired to explore any of these options. I fill my belly with beef stew then crawl into my sleeping bag. I listen as the voices of those gathered around the campfire become as mumbled and indiscernible as the thoughts inside my head: I just need to get some sleep; I will feel better in the morning. But sleep is not to be had and neither is body heat, apparently. I shiver sleeplessly. At dawn, I try to revive myself with hot coffee, but it is too little too late.

My bike and I ride back to RawHyde—in a pickup truck—battered and completely used up.

Although I began the Intro to Adventure Motorcycle Training with self-doubt and fear of failure, through the awesome instruction of RawHyde Coaches (Hawk, Sharif, Shawn, Wil and Lance) and encouragement from my fellow riders, I came to realize that it is our participation or willingness to participate in things that involve uncertainty and risk that indeed make us Adventure Riders.

"Do not stop thinking of life as an adventure. You have no security unless you can live bravely, excitingly, imaginatively; unless you can choose a challenge instead of competence." —Eleanor Roosevelt

Not the Normal Hearts and Flowers

2011-02-16T12:01:00.009-06:00

Recently, I discovered some of my high school memorabilia in a box buried in the back of a closet. In the box was a journal from my creative writing class. In the journal, was a poem I wrote when I was 16.

What is Love

What is love
We may never know
Some say love begins as a seed
And with time and care will grow

Love grows into a giant tree
With branches spread afar
Reaching out into the sky
To touch the brightest star

What is love
We may never know
Some say love is like a barren field
Frozen in the winter snow

And like the bitter North wind
Love is merciless and bold
A frosty path where love has been
Leaving the barren field lifeless and cold

My teacher, Mr. McLaughlin, wrote a comment at the bottom of my poem in obligatory red ink: Good—not the normal naive hearts and flowers at all.

A forty-something, male, public high school creative writing teacher in suburbia America is probably inundated with “hearts and flowers” poetry from 16 year old girls; and a poem describing love as “merciless and bold, lifeless and cold” might be a welcome, though morose, detour from the norm. Nevertheless, at 16, I was naïve and I had not yet experienced love—of neither the “giant tree,” nor the “barren field” variety.

Fortunately, my naivety was short-lived. I experienced love many, many times since the writing of that poem. I discovered that love is…good—not the normal naïve hearts and flowers at all.

I Believe

2011-01-13T02:35:00.001-06:00

In times of trouble and tragedy, our words and our actions, be they of support or of segregation, reveal the true strength and character of individuals, of humanity.

6th Annual Barber Vintage Festival

2010-11-30T08:24:00.018-06:00

The 6^th Annual Barber Vintage Festival at Barber Motorsports Park in Birmingham, Alabama is exciting, loads of fun, and can be a bit overwhelming. (I highly recommend hopping on the tram for free transport to the various events around the 740 acre park rather than hoofing it like I did—my dogs are still barking!) The Festival runs for three days (October 8-10, 2010) because—just like a trip to Disneyland—one cannot possibly see, do, taste, touch, buy, and ride everything at this motorsports-themed Park in a single day.

Besides the AHRMA Roadracing and Motocross Races on Saturday and Sunday, other must-see events were: the American Motor Drome Company’s Wall of Death with shows every 30 minutes; a lunch break Air Show by The Aeroshell Aerobatic Team of four North American T-6 “Texans” complete with a pyrotechnics-simulated dogfight and skydivers; a large swap meet with motorcycle and other sundry items; and, of course, a visit to the Festival would not be complete without a tour of the Barber Vintage Motorsports Museum.

Air Show by The Aeroshell Aerobatic Team

The Barber Vintage Motorsports Museum began in 1988 as the private collection of George Barber. The museum moved to its current location when Barber Motorsports Park opened in 2003. Barber Vintage Motorsports Museum is home to 1,200 vintage and modern motorcycles, the largest collection of its kind in the world. Over 600 of the 1,200 motorcycles, ranging from 1902 to current-year productions, are on display at any given time.

Vintage BMWs with sidecars

I interviewed three BMW Sidecar Teams competing at Barber. All the teams said they loved racing sidecars at Barber because the track, with its 17 turns and 80 feet of elevation change, is like a thrilling roller coaster ride.

Brian Carroll and Heather Carroll are a father/daughter team from Massachusetts. They race #707, a 1971 BMW 750/5. This is their 14^th year as a sidecar team and their third year at Barber.

When I asked Brian what he loved about racing sidecars, he said, “It is about as much fun as you can have with your clothes on.“

“With your father!“ Heather exclaimed.

Pilot John Landstrom from Georgia and passenger Andy Adler from Illinois race #x3, a 1955 500cc BMW sponsored by Blue Moon Cycle in Norcross Georgia. This is their 10^th year racing sidecars and their third year at Barber.

Larry and Larry Campbell, from California race #95, a 750/5 BMW with a chromoly frame custom built in England. This is their second year at Barber and are sponsored by Ozzie’s BMW in Chico, California. The father/son team are points leaders this season with six first place wins at Willow Springs, CA; Portland, OR; and Miller, UT. The Campbells are also the first recipients of the Enders Cup.

The Enders Cup is named after German sidecar champion, Klaus Enders. Klaus Enders and passenger Ralf Engelhardt gained four Sidecar Isle of Man TT victories between 1966 and 1974. Both men remained loyal to BMW throughout their racing careers.

BMW dominated the FIM Sidecar World Championship/World Cup from 1954 to 1974 with 19 wins (save 1968, 1971). Klaus Enders won the World Sidecar Championship with BMW six times: 1967, 1969, 1970, 1972, 1973, 1974.

Congratulations to Larry and Larry Campbell!

Losing It

2010-10-27T14:36:00.017-05:00

Wednesday, October 6, I packed up my motorcycle for what I thought would be an enjoyable and uneventful two-day, 668 mile ride from Chicago to Birmingham, Alabama for the 6th annual Barber Vintage Festival at Barber Motorsports Park. Dave, a friend from Seattle, was going to race at Barber that weekend, so I wanted to be there to cheer him on. As it turned out, my journey to the Bible Belt would be anything but uneventful.

The sunshine and cool, crisp autumn air made for a very pleasant ride through Indiana and Kentucky. Kentucky was especially beautiful, with rolling hills blanketed by brightly colored trees and red, yellow, orange leaves. It was great to be on the bike again; I felt relaxed, comfortable, and confident. I rode 425 miles to Franklin, Kentucky—just shy of the Tennessee border. Franklin seemed like a good place to stop for the night, so I found a hotel off the freeway.

The next morning, I checked out of the hotel at 8:30 AM and rode to a gas station across the street to fuel up. I removed my purse from the small, locked, stowage compartment on my motorcycle; removed my wallet from my purse; and put my purse back into the compartment. After I filled the tank with premium grade petrol, I drove onto I-65 southbound and didn’t think about gas—or my wallet—until I reached Alabama 125 miles later.

I stopped at the Alabama Welcome Center and rest area for a combination re-hydration/potty break. Outdoor vending machines dispensed cold, refreshing sodas, so I fetched my small purse from its stowage place. I reached inside the purse for my wallet. My iPhone was in there, as was my coin purse…but no wallet. The first wave of panic washed over me. I tried to calm myself. Don’t worry, I thought, it has to be inside the compartment, somewhere.

Frantically, I started pulling stuff out of the compartment: tire pressure gauge; small Allen wrench tool kit; proof-of-insurance; motorcycle registration; and a couple pieces of warm, gooey gum with sticky, sweet, sugar-free juice oozing out of the wrappers. But no wallet. Dammit.

I replayed my actions at the gas station over and over again in my mind. After I paid for gas at the pump, instead of putting my wallet back inside my purse as I routinely do, I set my black wallet on top of my black motorcycle…and forgot about it. My wallet must have fallen off my bike when I drove away from the gas station. I looked down through the front forks with desperate, unrealistic hope that my wallet would still be there. Nothing.

Now the second wave of panic—an OH-MY-GOD-THIS-CAN‘T-BE-HAPPENING, perspiration-inducing, adrenaline-producing kind of panic—hit me like a tsunami. I was hot and thirsty and needed a drink. I searched my coin purse for change and found one dime and three pennies. Thirteen cents was not going to buy me a soda. I had no cash or credit cards to buy food, gas, or beverages…and I still had 100 miles to go to Birmingham. What I did have was a cell phone, so I immediately started making phone calls.

I called my bank and canceled my credit and debit cards. Janet, the customer service agent at my bank, set up a three-way conference call with the gas station in Kentucky where I lost my wallet. I asked them if anyone found my wallet—they had not. Janet then arranged to have a new debit card sent via FedEx to my hotel in Birmingham. The card would arrive on Saturday, today was Thursday. The reality of my desperate situation started settling in, and I began to cry. I couldn’t help myself, literally or figuratively. I thanked Janet for all of her help, hung up, and got back on the bike. I rode for about 50 miles before I realized that I was so focused on dealing with my lost wallet, I forgot all about taking a potty break—and now I really had to go!

I saw a sign for Love’s Truck Stop and pulled off the freeway. I parked my bike in front of the travel center, grabbed my wallet-less purse and went inside. As soon as I opened the door, the savory smell of McDonald’s French fries wafted into my nostrils and my stomach growled an empty protest. Just ignore it, I told myself, and headed for the restroom. I walked in to the first stall, closed the door, and pulled down the shelf on the wall to set my purse upon. And that’s when I saw it. Tucked inside the crevice where the shelf attaches to the wall, was a folded, single dollar bill.

I could not believe my luck! I looked in all the other stalls for more hidden dollars, but found none. Oh well, one dollar was all I needed. With my newly-found fortune and the change from my coin purse, I ordered a cheeseburger from the McDonald’s Dollar Menu and sat down to enjoy my tasty feast. Bon appetit!

Three guys sat at a table near mine finishing their meal. Noting my riding gear, one of the guys asked if I was on my way to Barber. “Yes, I am,” I replied between bites.

“What are you riding?” he asked.

I hesitate to answer, partly because my mouth was full of cheesy, meaty goodness, and partly because, quite frankly, I am tired of defending myself and my ride-of-choice to nay-saying skeptics. Finally, I quietly but confidently reply, “I ride a BMW 1200RT.”

“We are riding BMWs also!” he said. And with that, he invited me to join their table.

Bill, Dick, and Jim introduced themselves and told me where they were from—Cincinnati. They said they were on their way to Barber for the Vintage Festival, a trip that the three friends also made last year. When I told them that I lost my wallet, Bill and Dick opened their wallets and handed me $40. Jim insisted that I not leave the truck stop without a full tank of gas, and he paid for that. These three amigos turned out to be my three angels.

Me and my BMW angels: Jim, Dick, and Bill.

The race weekend was a complete bust for my friend, Dave, and his Team VooDoo1 mate, Cedric. A health condition kept Dave off the track and Cedric’s engine blew up during his second practice session before the first race on Saturday. They both flew back to Seattle on Monday, and I left the Bible Belt on Barfy, the same way I arrived—sans wallet—but at least now I did have cash and a new debit card.

On the way back to Chicago, I went to Murfreesboro, Tennessee to visit my friend, Judy. We spent an entire day riding our motorcycles on the twisty back roads of Tennessee, with a lunch stop in Lynchburg—and a tour of the Jack Daniels Distillery, of course.

Almost a week-to-the-day that I lost my wallet, I found myself in Kentucky again. I sat in a booth at an Iron Skillet Restaurant eating fish and chips and mulling over all the things I had to do when I got back to Chicago to replace the contents of my wallet: driver’s license, medical insurance cards, etc. It wasn’t until I walked out of the restaurant that I noticed the sky was dark and it was raining. I fetched my rain gear from one of the side bags. I put my purse back into its stowage compartment and as I did that, I happened to look down between the front forks of my motorcycle. There, on a metal plate just above the front tire, was my wallet.

For 1,200 road miles, through rain and shine, it had been there the whole time—right under my nose, literally. I stood there staring at it in utter disbelief. While debating whether I should laugh, or cry, or both, I reached into my purse, grabbed my iPhone, and took this photo.

I learned a valuable lesson—actually, several lessons—as a result of this lost and found experience. I now follow the sage advice of friends and fellow riders to:

Hide some cash in a secure location on the bike (in the tool kit for example) for emergency use only.
Wear an ID holder on a lanyard and keep cash, credit card and driver’s license in it. That way, I can access these things while wearing the holder, and I don’t have to worry about losing it ever again.

By-the-way, I tracked down Jim, Bill and Dick at Barber on Saturday and paid them back the money I “borrowed.”

But that's just me.

Up, Down, and Around

2010-09-14T05:32:00.004-05:00

Bunyan and Barfy

I left Chicago on Monday, September 6 to circumnavigate Lake Michigan counterclockwise. Although I didn’t think to plan it this way, my directional route turned out to be a very wise decision. Southbound traffic was backed up for miles, while I was northbound into Michigan.

That first day, I rode 260 miles to Ludington, Michigan. I found a small, quaint Inn on the beach, Snyder’s Shoreline Inn. I bought a six pack of Michigan Brewing Company India Pale Ale to enjoy while I watched the sun set on the lake. This tranquil scene was interrupted by a Coast Guard helicopter searching the harbor for a man who was, tragically, swept off the Ludington North Breakwater near the Lighthouse.

The second day was fraught with strong winds and rain. Barfy and I battled the wind for 140 miles before surrendering in Charlevoix, Michigan. A savory dinner of Ahi tuna and wasabi mashed potatoes at the historic Weathervane restaurant, and a cozy fireplace in my room at the Edgewater Inn were just what I needed to take the chill out of my weary bones.

I awoke on day three to wind, cloudy skies threatening rain, and a temperature of 50 degrees. Brrrr! I donned my raingear and riding gear, then Barfy and I headed north. At the Mackinac Bridge, I was told that all trucks, campers and motorcycles needed to be escorted across the bridge due to high winds. Terrific.

I experienced several days of severe winds and miserable riding conditions during my North America motorcycle adventure, so I was somewhat confident in my riding ability to tackle the Mackinac Bridge--but I was still scared.

Mine was the only motorcycle in a convoy of trucks and campers escorted across the suspension bridge at 20 mph. Our convoy motored slowly in the right lane, which is paved, while cars passed us on steel-grates in the left lane. I held on, leaned hard into the wind and struggled to keep Barfy upright on the pavement. Blown this way and that, Barfy and I zigzagged our way across the bridge until we reached solid ground on the other side--five miles later. Five seemingly endless and exhausting miles. But we made it--hallelujah!

From Michigan into Wisconsin, past farms and fields, to Green Bay where I stopped for the night. The next day, the sun rose in a blue sky and there was barely a breeze at my back as I rolled on into the Windy City.

End of the Road - Day 43

2010-08-30T16:11:00.000-05:00

Day 43. Saturday, August 28, 2010. Wauseon, Ohio to Chicago, Illinois. Miles: 205. Total Trip Miles: 10,995

Although I lived in Chicago for eight years, I haven’t owned a car during that time so, I am entirely inexperienced when it comes to driving the streets of Chicago, especially the streets on the Southside of Chicago.

To get to my temporary home near Midway Airport, Google Maps directs me to turn left off of I-90 onto 59th Street and drive 5.6 miles. Yeah, 5.6 miles, one…block…at…a…time. Damn you, Google!

So, there I am on 59th getting heckled by people on the street whenever I stop for a traffic light--and there are a lot of traffic lights, because there is a traffic light at every intersection and there is an intersection at every block. And it is when I am stopped at one of these intersections that I hear a band--a marching band. A marching band in a parade.

The parade route is down Halsted Street, completely blocking 59th. I look down a street on my left and see a sign that reads, No Outlet. I look to my right and see an alley and a DEAD END sign. I am a white girl, in a bright yellow jacket, stuck in traffic, on a motorcycle, on the Southside of Chicago. Oh. My. God.

I pull down the tinted visor in my helmet, ease my bike as close as possible to the police barricade that is blocking traffic for the parade, and shut off the engine. An hour later, the parade is over, the barricade is removed, and I am on my way.

Four miles to go. Four miles left of my journey. Four miles is 32 blocks: 32, 31, 30, 29, 28, 27, 26, 25, 24, 23, 22, 21, 20, 19, 18, 17, 16, 15, 14, 13, 12, 11, 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1...the end.

Changed for Good - Day 42

2010-08-30T13:20:00.003-05:00

Day 42. Friday, August 27, 2010. Clearfield, Pennsylvania to Wauseon, Ohio. Miles 322. Total Trip Miles: 10,790.

I haven’t seen as many State Patrol busting speeders on the highways of the 17 States I ride through, as I see in Ohio! They are out in force today, in marked and unmarked cars--I stopped counting at 27. I decide not to push my luck and set the cruise control at 70. I have managed to ride over 10,000 miles without a single speeding ticket or traffic incident, and I’d like to keep it that way for the last 600 miles. Slowing down gives me time to reflect, as each mile brings me closer to Chicago, and closer to the end of the ride.

This has been an incredible journey both physically, in terms of distance traveled, and personally. Although there were many times when I wished there were someone riding along side me with whom I could share the many trials and triumphs, accomplishing this feat and the accompanying experiences have changed me…for good.

You Bitch-slapped an Entire Continent, Just Like That - Day 41

2010-08-27T08:04:00.002-05:00

Day 41. Thursday, August 26, 2010. Westford, Massachusetts to Clearfield, Pennsylvania. Miles: 465 Total Trip Miles: 10,468.

The weather for the ride through Massachusetts, Connecticut, New York, and Pennsylvania was pleasant, sunny--and most importantly--DRY! There were several long road construction delays along I-80, but my motto during this entire trip is, “No Hurries, No Worries,” and it has served me well. For me, this journey isn’t about the miles, it is about the memories. I would like to dedicate this Blog post to several, as yet unmentioned, friends whose support and encouragement have helped make these memories possible.

Erika: I am so grateful to call you friend. You have helped make this ride a reality and, in return, I hope you are inspired to pursue your passions. The Motorcycle Rider’s Course was just the beginning…many riding adventures await!

Judy: Whenever I found myself in a particularly unpleasant camping situation, I thought about the stories you told me of your past riding/camping adventures; and I asked myself, What Would Judy Do? The answer was always, “Judy would get a hotel and eat in a restaurant.” And so I did! Thank you for the pre-trip inspirational photo and my PASSPORT!

Val: You have the courage to follow your heart…and it lead you home. Despite the miles that may soon separate us, we will ride together! Fabulous Bitches, Unite!

Bonnie: My Canadian Sista! Thank you for your friendship, support and encouragement. I look forward to having some drinks and catching up in “the old neighborhood” when I get back to Chicago.

Brian: Even though we became friends when my trip was already underway, your words have helped me to push on and, at times, sit back and laugh--especially these words, “You bitch-slapped an entire continent, just like that.”

Taking it to the MAX - Days 39 & 40

2010-08-26T06:34:00.003-05:00

Days 39 and 40. Tuesday and Wednesday, August 24, 25, 2010. Portland, Maine to North Hampton, New Hampshire to Westford, Massachusetts. Miles: 113. Total Trip Miles: 10,003.

After 10,000 miles and 39 days on the road, it was time for a little motorcycle maintenance. I took Barfy to MAX BMW Motorcycles in North Hampton, New Hampshire. MAX BMW has an outstanding reputation for superior service and, based on my experience today, that reputation is well-deserved.
This is Joe, Parts and Service Director at MAX BMW Motorcycles.

Joe took the time to explain what service would be performed and presented several service options regarding Barfy’s worn front brake pads--I opted to have them replaced. Since the service would take a few hours, Joe suggested a nearby café for breakfast.

Nancy’s Place is a small café, popular with locals, and just a short walk from MAX’s. I had a delicious lobster and asparagus omelet with hollandaise and listened to folks discuss the weather (rain) and life in a small town (kids going back to school, hunting and fishing).

The weather forecast said continual rain for the next two days, and they weren’t kidding. Barfy and I left MAX BMW and were soaked before we even reached the freeway. Traffic was slow and visibility poor. I started to get cold and, even though I only rode about 50 miles, I had had enough. I seek shelter at the Westford Regency Inn.

I changed the end-destination of my trip and, rather than return to Austin, I am going to Chicago, instead. I am under no time constraints and I want to enjoy the remaining 1,000 miles of the ride, so I decide to take a break from the rain and stay in Massachusetts for a couple of days.

I have dinner (salmon, mashed potatoes, and veggies) and a few pints of Monsta beer (a local ale brewed in Westminster) in Clark’s Pub at the hotel and strike up a conversation with the bartender. I have a special fondness for the people of New England; I love their disarming accent, and their warm, welcoming New England nature. But that’s just me.

Welcome Home - Day 38

2010-08-25T15:51:00.005-05:00

Day 38. Monday, August 23, 2010. St. Andrews by-the-Sea, New Brunswick to Portland, Maine. Miles: 255. Total Trip Miles: 9,890.

The border guard and I exchange the following questions and answers at the Canada/USA border in Maine.

“How long have you been in Canada?”
-Twenty-one days.

“Where do you live?”
Hmm, I don’t really have a solid answer for that one. I sold my condo in Chicago a month before this trip and haven’t relocated yet so, at the moment, I am sort of homeless. I decide to go with the address on my drivers license, “Cedar Park, Texas.”

“Are you bringing anything back from Canada with you?”
Yes--a million incredible memories, tons of self-confidence, and a new-found appreciation for the iPhone Google Maps app.
-No, I am not.

“Welcome home.”
-It is good to be home, thank you.

The speed limit for much of the 88 miles that I am on state route ME-9 is a painfully slow 40 miles-per-hour. 40-MILES-PER-HOUR? Come on, people can pedal bicycles faster than that! It takes me all day just to get to Portland, Maine.

I check into a Days Inn and then walk across the parking lot to Chili’s Grill and Bar for dinner. I order herb grilled salmon, spicy garlic and lime grilled shrimp, loaded mashed potatoes, steamed veggies, and a glass of chardonnay. An endless stream of 80s music flows from the sound-system and I reminisce about my younger days.

I wondered what I would have thought then--a free-spirited, fun-loving, grab-life-by-the-balls and live without regrets 20-something year old girl in the 80s--about me now--at 40-something--riding a motorcycle across Canada, solo, and reigniting the fire that had somehow dimmed during the years between.

"Welcome home," indeed. I missed that girl.

Adieu, Canada - Day 37

2010-08-25T05:39:00.005-05:00

Day 37. Sunday, August 22, 2010. Sydney, Nova Scotia to St. Andrews, New Brunswick. Miles: 450. Total Trip Miles: 9,635

Something about going west just feels right, and that is where I am heading, today--west. This is also my last day in Canada. Maybe that is why I got a little verklempt during the ride today. I am happy to be going back home to the USA, but a little sad that the Canada portion of the trip is coming to an end.

The temperature hovers in the pleasant mid-seventies for my farewell ride across Nova Scotia and New Brunswick. I have two goals today: to see the Bay of Fundy at lowest tide; and to stay at the historic Algonquin Hotel in St. Andrews, New Brunswick. I successfully accomplish both of these goals.

The Bay of Fundy has the highest tides in the world with water levels rising and falling 55 feet in some areas. It is truly an incredibly humbling experience to witness this natural phenomenon.

The grand Fairmont Algonquin Hotel.

I save the most indulgent lodging accommodations for my last night in Canada. The Fairmont Algonquin Hotel is not only historic, it is beautiful, elegant, and opulent. Although I couldn’t get a massage appointment in the Spa, I do have dinner--and a few pints of Keith’s--downstairs in the Pub; and the next morning, breakfast on the veranda: poached eggs, local smoked salmon, wild mushrooms, and steamed asparagus. A deliciously grand way to bid a fond adieu to Canada.

Blinded by the Night - Day 36

2010-08-24T12:13:00.001-05:00

Day 36. Saturday, August 21, 2010. Corner Brook, Newfoundland to Sydney, Nova Scotia. Miles: 160. Total Trip Miles: 9,185.

The ride from Corner Brook to the ferry terminal at Port aux Basques was, in a word, windy. The side-wind pushed so hard that I had to lean the bike into the wind and ride at an angle, just to keep going straight! As one would predict, the wind churned up the seas and the ferry crossing was quite rough. Unfortunately, the weather did not improve when I got to Nova Scotia.

Not only was it pitch dark due to our hour-and-a-half delayed arrival, but it was also pouring rain. Although the ride from the ferry terminal to Sydney was a short 32 kilometers, it was a very scary 32 kilometers. There are no street or highway lamps to illuminate road signage, so I had only my headlamps to rely on; and the driving rain made the poor visibility even worse. I missed several turns but managed to hit every pothole, apparently.

I was soaking wet and quite shaken-up by the time I finally made it to Cape Breton University for another dormitory stay. I parked in the driveway of the dormitory underneath an overhang, so Barfy got some reprieve from the rain that night as well. Barfy has been through every kind of weather and road condition on this trip…and has never, ever let me down. I love my Barfy!

Moose on the Loose - Day 35

2010-08-24T10:29:00.004-05:00

Day 35. Friday, August 20, 2010. St. John’s, Newfoundland to Corner Brook, Newfoundland. Miles: 440. Total Trip Miles: 9,025

Moose are plentiful in Newfoundland and, unfortunately, so are vehicle collisions with moose--660 collisions last year. Tire skid-marks on Trans Canada Highway-1 are evidence of this startling statistic; there isn’t one, single-mile stretch of asphalt that doesn’t bear these black, rubber scars. Makeshift memorials of white crosses and plastic flower bouquets are a sobering reminder to slow down and watch for moose, as are numerous signs posted along the highway that stretches across Newfoundland. So, that is what I do, slow down and watch for moose.

Even though I am carefully searching the roadside for these massive creatures, I don’t even see the first moose until I am just a few yards away. He lifts his huge head with long, leafy branches extending from his broad, velvety muzzle. This flash of bright green foliage is what catches my eye, and only then do I see him--and he is GI-NORMOUS! Despite his size, his chocolate-brown body blends unbelievably well with tree-line. About 50 miles down the road, I spot a second moose. This moose is a bit smaller than the first, even so, I was glad that he was beside the road and not in the middle of it! I am relieved when I finally arrive in Corner Brook without any moose mishaps.

Tonight, my bed is in a dormitory at Sir Winfred Grendell College.

New Friends and Newfoundland - Days 33 & 34

2010-08-23T05:50:00.005-05:00

Days 33 and 34. Wednesday, August 18, 2010 and Thursday, August 19. Cheticamp, Nova Scotia to North Sydney, Nova Scotia. Argentia, Newfoundland to Saint John’s, Newfoundland. Miles:235. Total Trip Miles: 8,585.

Continued on the Cabot Trail this morning along the north end of Cape Breton and down the east coast. Pleasant temperatures and no rain made for a perfect day of scenic Maritime riding.

Arrived in North Sydney at 3:00 pm--plenty of time before the 2130 ferry departure to Newfoundland. I staked claim to an umbrella table on the outdoor deck of the Waterside Restaurant, right next to the ferry terminal. I told the server, “I’ll keep ordering and tip accordingly if you let me stay here until my ferry leaves--just keep the Alexander Keith’s coming.” Seafood chowder; the “daily special salad” (assorted melons and spring greens with pamagranate dressing); local mussels with white wine, garlic and lemon broth; fish and chips…and four Keith‘s.

Ferry to Newfoundland.

I boarded the ferry, secured Barfy to the vehicle deck with clamp-and-strap moorings, and went up top to find my “dormitory sleeper.” Dormitory--yes. Sleeper--not so much. There are about 60-80 bunkbeds in the room. The lights remain on, people come and go and engage in conversation at all hours without regard to the “quiet area” sign (in French and English) posted on the door.

Me in the Dormitory Sleeper on the ferry. Of course I got a top bunk. :(

Three hours of sleep and a 16-hour ferry ride do not make me a happy camper; but camping is exactly what I will be doing at Pippy Park in Saint John’s. I set up my tent and take a cab downtown to George Street. I have two pints of a local brew--YellowBelly Pale Ale; a yummy shrimp and melon salad; listen to some live music; and call it a night at 10:00 pm. I’ve got a 440 mile ride tomorrow and I am not exactly a party-all-night kind of gal, anyway. But that’s just me.

YellowBelly Brewery in St. John's. Can you spot the tourist?

Cheers! From O'Reilly's pub in St. John's, Newfoundland.

I met some nice folks and fellow campers at Pippy Park, and I want to give a shout-out to: Otto from Arizona and his brother, Joe, from Nashville; and Kim and Marty from Toronto.

A Maritime State of Mind - Day 32

2010-08-19T10:04:00.006-05:00

Day 32. Tuesday, August 17, 2010. Charlottetown, PEI to Cheticamp, Nova Scotia. Miles: 187. Total Trip Miles: 8,350

If you want to get off Prince Edward Island, it’ll cost you. The Confederation Bridge to New Brunswick costs $17 for motorcycle and rider; and the Wood Islands Ferry to Caribou, Nova Scotia cost $40--but it shaves 96 miles off of the bridge route. I opt for the ferry.

Barfy and me on the ferry from PEI to Nova Scotia.

I arrive in Nova Scotia unsure of my destination for the evening, but I am sure of my route--the Cabot Trail. A stop at a Provincial Information Center identifies a destination--Cheticamp, on the west shore of Cape Breton; and secures accommodations--the Acadian Motel.

Cheticamp Harbour.

It’s just a short walk on the boardwalk from the Acadian Motel to the Harbour Restaurant and bar. I have a celebratory I-made-it-to-Nova-Scotia dinner of seafood chowder; Atlantic Haddock; a small spinach salad; and Alexander Keith’s beer--locally brewed in Nova Scotia, of course.

Back at the Acadian, I open all three of the windows and let the cool, evening sea-breeze gently blow against the curtains as I drift off to sleep, and dream of living in a cottage by the sea.

Charming Charlottetown - Day 31

2010-08-19T05:52:00.003-05:00

Day 31. Monday, August 16, 2010. Edmundston, NB to Charlottetown, Prince Edward Island (PEI). Miles: 380. Total Trip Miles: 8,163.

Although not on my original trip itinerary, I decide to add Prince Edward Island (PEI) and Newfoundland to my tour of Canadian Provinces. PEI is connected to the mainland by the Confederation Bridge; an eight mile long toll bridge across the Northumberland Strait. An hour after crossing the bridge to PEI, I arrive in Charlottetown where I have a bunk reserved for the night at a hostel--Hostelling International Charlottetown Backpackers Inn.

The Backpackers Inn is full of young travelers from Europe, Asia, and Canada--and this 40-something biker chick from the USA. The hostel is located in a university district which adds a funky, hip vibe to an otherwise quaint, quiet town with old maritime charm. I set my bags on my bunk and then walk a few short blocks to a local liquor store where I procure some Molson beer, and then wander next door to a small market for some hummus and Triscuits. This is my dinner for tonight. Bon appetit!

The Ride of Your Life - Day 30.

2010-08-18T06:57:00.007-05:00

Day 30. Sunday, August 15, 2010. Montreal, Quebec to Edmundston, New Brunswick. Mile: 355. Total Trip Miles: 7,783.

Not much to say about the rather unspectacular ride today, except that it gave me time to think about things other than scenery. By the time I reached New Brunswick, I concluded that this epic journey of over 7,000 miles, so far, was more than just a motorcycle tour of North America. A lot more.

Originally, I planned to do this entire trip with a fellow rider and friend, Sandy. Sandy had more years of riding and camping experience (and equipment) than I did, so I planned on following her lead (literally) and learning from her as we rode. As the departure date of the trip grew nearer, these original, well-laid plans changed.

Sandy decided to ride with me for only the first week of the planned eight weeks. YIKES! I knew I could complete the 13,000 mile journey with a riding companion, but alone, I wasn’t so sure. I wasn’t sure about a lot of things: the safety of camping and riding by myself in completely unfamiliar territory, and my riding experience--or lack thereof.

I rode my motorcycle for a combined total of five days before I set out to circumnavigate North America. Yep, that’s right--5 DAYS! I bought Barfy in September 2009; I rode three days in September, one day in November, and one day in March 2010. When I started this trip on July 17, I wasn’t only lacking riding experience, I was lacking self-confidence as well.

My last solo road trip was in a car, and that was 15 years ago. Since then, all of my leisure travel was with friends or guided groups. Although I never lost the desire, I seemed to have lost the self-confidence to travel solo. Well, this North America motorcycle trip has changed all of that--and how!

Each day presents challenges that I must face, alone. As a result, my self-reliance and self-confidence have grown exponentially with each mile. I gained riding skills that I didn’t have when I left Austin 30 days and 7,783 miles ago. Yes, I have made some errors along the way--and Barfy has the scratches to prove it--but those few errors have lead to many, many more successes.

I do not think that what I am doing is something to admire. I do hope that what I am doing is something that inspires; inspires you to create your own journey, face your fears, and have the ride of your life!

But that's just me.

Lady Marmalade - Day 29

2010-08-17T05:40:00.004-05:00

Day 29. Saturday, August 14, 2010. Sturgeon Falls, Ontario to Montreal, Quebec. Miles: 377. Total Trip Miles: 7,428

In Quebec, they like gravy and cheese curds on their french-fries--it is called Poutine. To me it looks like a heart attack on a plate. What do you think?

Congested highways, hurried drivers, city traffic, and road signage in French--welcome to Montreal! I don’t speak (or read) French and I hate city riding, but I managed to navigate the crazy maze of highways, bridges, and back-roads to find the Montreal South KOA--a true oasis, and my home for the night. Bonsoir!

Road Warriors - Day 28

2010-08-16T07:31:00.006-05:00

Day 28. Friday, August 13, 2010. Sault Ste. Marie, Ontario to Sturgeon Falls, Ontario. Miles: 250. Total Trip Miles: 7,051.

This is Paul, from Vancouver, BC. He is riding his 1980 Honda CB 750-F to the east coast of Canada. I first meet Paul at a Husky gas station in Swift Current, Saskatchewan. We meet up again, two days later, at a Shell gas station in Winnipeg, Manitoba; and again at a Husky gas station in Nipigon, Ontario. Paul is camping in Provincial Parks and I tell him about the KOA campgrounds; he decides to try out the KOA in Sault Ste. Marie and gets a campsite next to mine. This proves to be a very wise decision.

In the morning, Paul’s motorcycle won’t start. I explain how we can push-start his bike and, after a couple of attempts--success! (Alright, I know some of you may be wondering, how would I know how to push-start a motorcycle? And the answer is that I learned a thing or two about push-starts, manual transmissions, and “popping the clutch” on an old, rusted-out, battery-won’t-hold-a-charge pickup truck during my misspent youth in Alaska.)

Paul and I ride into downtown Sault Ste. Marie for gas and breakfast; we find both at a Husky station. As luck and circumstance would have it, there is a Honda car dealership, right next door. After breakfast, we take Paul’s bike over to the Service Department at Great Lakes Honda.

Paul tells me I can go on without him while he gets his bike tended to, but I don’t feel right about taking off and leaving a fellow biker stranded. I tell Paul that I will wait with him until he finds out what is the problem with his bike, and if it is fixable. I hope someone would do the same for me if I had a mechanical breakdown in an unfamiliar city/country.

The service was super-fast and everyone we spoke with was so friendly and helpful. Honda Super-Mechanic, Bob, made the necessary repairs and had Paul’s bike ready in about an hour.

Despite our late start, we rode 250 miles to Sturgeon Falls, Ontario; found a private campground behind the Sunshine Motel and then rode into town for a stop at the LCBO (Liquor Control Board Ontario?) to purchase some Alexander Keith’s beer. Nothing beats cold beer at the end of a long (or short), hot, day of riding. Cheers!

Sunset at Sturgeon Falls campground.

Marathon - Day 27

2010-08-15T21:12:00.002-05:00

Day 27. Thursday, August 12, 2010. Thunder Bay, Ontario to Sault Ste. Marie, Ontario. Miles: 430. Total Trip Miles: 6,801.

The scenery from Thunder Bay to Sault Ste. Marie can be described this way:

Forest, forest, hill, hill, forest, forest, hill, hill, BIG lake (Superior), hill, hill, forest, forest, BIG lake (still Lake Superior)…

The forests are thick and lush, and the trees grow straight up out of the craggy-rocks and hilltops like green stalagmites. I am enjoying the ride and the view and, just like much of my trip across Canada, I will have to settle for great memories of the things I see, because I am not able to take many photos.

Canada has very few, if any, viewing areas along its many scenic highways. As it turned out, I would not be able to view anything--photo-worthy, or otherwise--on a 50-mile stretch of Highway-17 today.

Heavy fog hovered around the treetops as I ascended a hill just before Terrace Bay. As I dropped down the other side, so did the fog, blanketing the road and everything on it. The silver Mercedes that was right in front of me completely vanished in the mist, taillights and all. I turned my fog lights on and tapped my foot brake to flash my taillight in an effort to make my motorcycle more visible to other drivers. Just as with the torrential rain showers the day before, I could only see a few feet in front of my bike, so I slowed way down and focused on the center-line. I kept thinking, yesterday it was the never-ending rain storm, and now this--it is like an apocalypse!

Whenever I find myself in a particularly unnerving situation on the bike and I begin to panic, I remember the advice of friends and fellow riders to, “Hang on and ride it through.” So that is what I did, I hung on to that bike and rode it through the fog…for 50 miles…all the way to Marathon, Ontario. What a ride.

Thunder (and rain) Bay - Day 26

2010-08-15T19:23:00.003-05:00

Day 26. Wednesday, August11, 2010. Winnipeg, Manitoba to Thunder Bay, Ontario. Miles: 440. Total Trip Miles: 6,371.

Wow, what a welcome change of scenery! About 100 miles east of Winnipeg, the flat and repetitive plains of Manitoba give way to a more interesting topography. The view on either side of Highway-17 in western Ontario can be summarized this way:

Forest, forest, lake, lake, forest, forest, lake, lake, forest, forest, lake, lake…

The weather changes with the scenery. The sky turns from sunny and clear to gray and cloudy almost as soon as I cross the border. Ah, but the worst is yet to come! My destination is Thunder Bay and I will soon discover how it may have received its name.

It begins to rain. Not a problem, I think to myself, I have rain gear. The sky grows darker and more ominous. Western Ontario is sparsely populated and most of the towns are located some kilometers off of the highway. It rains harder and harder. I see a sign for a town called Sunshine, and I laugh inside my helmet.

Soon the rain is pouring from the sky in sheets of water so dense that I can no longer see the surface of the road in front of my bike. I wipe the face shield of my helmet, but can barely make out the yellow center-line on the road. I slow way down and just concentrate on keeping my bike to the right of the center-line. I can feel the water pooling on my seat and soaking into my pants. This is an absolutely miserable time to be on a motorcycle…but there is no place to pull over.

I continue to ride as slowly as possible, white-knuckle all the way to Thunder Bay. Camping is not even an option I am willing to consider at this point, so I seek refuge at a Days Inn. Sleep, just like the rain, comes fast and hard.

Plains, Trains, and Automobiles

2010-08-13T07:11:00.003-05:00

Days 24 and 25. Monday and Tuesday, August 9, 10, 2010. Indian Head, Saskatchewan to Winnipeg, Manitoba. Miles: 310. Total Trip Miles: 5,931.

Didn’t get much sleep at the KOA in Indian Head. Want to know why? Watch this video.

I am so tired this morning, I am falling asleep on the bike. Singing songs and screaming inside my helmet is a futile fight against the fatigue. I stop every hour of the 300 miles to hydrate with caffeinated beverages and, at some point, a 5-Hour Energy shot; I also wet down my hair and neck cooler, but it doesn’t do much to combat the heat and humidity. By the time I check into the Holiday Inn in Winnipeg, I am completely spent. I admit to myself that I need a break and extend my stay from one night to two.

Taking this photo from my room on the eighth floor as the sun sets on the streets of Winnipeg is the last thing I do before I crawl into bed, at last. Sleep, laundry, and little else is on the agenda for the next 36 hours.

Easy Rider - Day 23

2010-08-11T22:06:00.006-05:00

Day 23. Sunday, August 8, 2010. Waterton, Alberta to Indian Head, Saskatchewan. Miles: 540 Total Trip Miles: 5,621.

This was the view from the campsite in Waterton, Alberta this morning. Not a bad way to wake up, eh?

After breakfast and back on the bike, I leave the mountains of Alberta for the prairies of Saskatchewan. Saskatchewan is harvest country; I ride past fields of corn, potatoes, hay, wheat, sunflowers, and florescent-yellow canola. The name of every small town that I pass along the way is painted on the side of an old, wooden-cribbed grain elevator--a still standing reminder of when life was simpler, slower. Even the highway seems to have been constructed in another time, another time before asphalt and steamrollers.

Trans Canada Highway SK-1E from Moose Jaw to Indian Head appears to have been laid down in slabs. Every 10 feet or so, there is a gap or seam between the slabs that is filled with tar. So, the ride sounds and feels something like this:

thud, thud---smooth---thud, thud---smooth---thud, thud---smooth---thud, thud…

If ever there was a highway that needed adopting, it would be this one. Although the highway may be a blast from the past, the way they issue speeding tickets in this Province is freakishly futuristic.

The cops stand at the side of the road, out of view--in this case, behind a pillar underneath a highway overpass--until they have a speeder in their radar crosshairs. Then, like a Ninja Stormtrooper, the cop practically walks in front of the speeding car--in this case, the car right in front of me--and points powerfully at the driver, commanding them to pull over immediately. Which, in this case, they do. That’s it. No whirling red and blue lights. No sirens. No high-speed helicopter chase. No film at eleven.

Simpler. Slower. Saskatchewan.

Just a Ride in the Park - Day 22

2010-08-10T19:31:00.013-05:00

Day 22. Saturday, August 7, 2010. Kalispell, Montana to Waterton Park, AB. Miles: 175. Total Trip Miles: 5,081.

Glacier National Park is just a short drive from Kalispell, but I wanted to get an early start and try to beat the camper crowd traffic. I was on the road at 8:30 AM, accompanied by my new Montana friend, Kenny, on his 2006 BMW GS. We rode by the motel in “Starving Mule” (actually Hungry Horse) where Ewan McGregor and Charlie Boorman stayed when riding through Montana on their Long Way Round journey.

Kenny on his GS at Hungry Horse.

I haven’t dropped my bike since Day 3 of this trip, but today I will drop it twice, while stopped, for completely stupid, thoughtless reasons. The first time I dropped it, I was stopped at a scenic view point and I thought I had put the kickstand down. I hadn’t. Down we went--Barfy and me. Coincidently, one of the two guys who came over to help me and Kenny upright Barfy said, “This reminds me of when Ewan McGregor kept dropping his bike in Long Way Down.”

Scene of drop #1.

The second time was when we stopped for lunch at a café just outside the park in St. Mary, Montana. The parking lot was gravel and I stopped where the right edge of the lot was just a few inches lower than the left side. A couple of inches was all it took. When I put my right foot down, the bike went off center ever-so-slightly. I tried to right it, but when 700 pounds of fully-loaded motorcycle gets off-center, there isn’t much I can do except let it go and get out of the way. Down we went…again. Totally embarrassing. Poor Barfy has more scratches on him than a blind kitty in a catfight.

Scene of drop #2.

When we arrive at the magnificent Many Glacier Hotel, we--and many roadside jamming tourist--scramble to capture a photo of a scrawny little bear cub foraging for anything edible on a nearby hillside. Do you see the brown spot in the middle of this photo? That would be the scrawny little bear’s behind.

The views along Going-to-the-Sun Road in Glacier National Park are spectacular and Kenny proves to be a most excellent guide. Soon, we are in Canada at Waterton Lakes National Park and stop for tea at the spectacular Prince of Wales Hotel.

The Prince of Wales Hotel, Waterton Lakes Park, Alberta.

The view from Prince of Wales Hotel.

The Prince of Wales Hotel, and every other accommodation in Waterton Village is completely sold out, as are the campsites. We have to travel a few miles outside of the park to Waterton Springs Park to find one of the few remaining tent sites in the area. After setting up camp we head back to the village for dinner at Trappers Mountain Grill. Trappers served great-tasting food (I had the fish and chips and Kenny had the steak sandwich), and when it comes to hospitality, the staff went above and beyond.

Deer are as plentiful in Waterton Park Village as pigeons in Trafalgar Square. Less common are sightings of Big Horn Sheep and bears, but we spot a cinnamon-colored mama Black Bear with her cub, and 8-10 Big Horn Sheep on a hillside just off the road to our campsite. It was a fabulous ending to a fantastic day.

We Will Return to Our Program After These Messages - Day 21

2010-08-10T15:41:00.003-05:00

Day 21. Friday, August 6, 2010. Miles: 0 Total Trip Miles: Unchanged at 4,906.

Today was all about products; the purchasing, programming, placement, and performance of various products.

I found that I don’t always have cellular phone service--especially in the mountains. Although I am not doing any off-road riding or camping in remote regions on this trip, my dad offered to buy me a Spot GPS Messenger. The Spot transmits via satellite, so it gives friends, family, and me peace of mind by completely eliminating what-if-you-have-an-emergency-in-a-no-cellular-service-area concerns. I can send an “I’m okay” or, in my case, an “I’m okay and reached my destination safely” message to whomever I program my Spot to send it. There is also a “Track Progress” feature that allow contacts to track my progress in near real time using Google Maps.

I bought a GoPro HD Motorsports Hero video camera so I could take video from the road, literally. Unfortunately, I could not find a place on the bike to successfully mount the camera. So, once again, Dad to the rescue. Now I have a helmet cam. Stay tuned for upcoming helmet cam video!

Speaking of helmets, mine is a flip-front modular Scorpion helmet with an internal sun visor. I like the modular style helmets because you get the protection of a full-face helmet with the added feature of a flip-up front. This feature comes in handy at border crossings and hydration stops because you don’t have to take off the helmet, or even remove the chinstrap. The internal sun visor is great for those few times when I didn’t think I needed to wear sunglasses, only to find out otherwise when the sun decides to make an appearance from behind the clouds and directly into my eyes.

Other items that I found to be invaluable on this trip are: Benadryl Itch Stopping Cream (I had to stop using DEET mosquito repellent because it made me nauseous. If I can‘t stop the mosquitoes from biting, at least I can stop the bites from itching); TIZO-3 Very Water Resistant SPF 40 Solar Protection (I use this on my face EVERY TIME I ride); Wigwam X-Static Sock Liners (repels moisture, kills germs, odor free, prevents blisters, and they stay up!); REI Micro Duffel Bag (stuffs into its own little pocket-sized cinch sack so it stows easily. I use it for toting stuff to the laundry room, swimming pool…wherever.); Bestem USA saddlebag liners (makes packing and unpacking saddlebags WAY easier, and the shoulder strap is convenient when toting bag to hotel room or campsite); CrampBuster for comfort and throttle control (if I had this at start of my trip, I wouldn’t have developed a blister on my throttle thumb. Thanks, Kenny!)

The Art of Motorcycle Maintenance - Day 20

2010-08-10T11:48:00.003-05:00

Day 20. Thursday, August 5, 2010. Kalispell, Montana. Miles: Not worth recording. Total Trip Miles: Unchanged at 4,906.

Kenny showed up this afternoon, took Barfy for a spin, and returned with this diagnosis: the clutch is fine, but Barfy could probably use a transmission and engine oil change. Then, most unexpectedly, Kenny offered to do the job himself.

I rode Barfy to Kenny’s shop just a few miles up the road and, for the next three hours or so, we talked about riding, motorcycle adventures and websites; and I learned a little bit about the art of motorcycle maintenance. When we finished, Barfy was in top running form again and I had a riding partner for Glacier National Park on Saturday.

Kenny and Barfy

Here are some of the motorcycle adventure websites that Ken shared with me:

http://www.overlandexpo.com/
http://theoasisofmysoul.com/
http://www.ekke-audrey.ca/
http://www.horizonsunlimited.com/johnson/

Banff to Montana - Day 19

2010-08-06T14:00:00.004-05:00

Day 19. Wednesday, August 4, 2010. Banff, Alberta to Kalispell, Montana. Miles: 300. Total Trip Miles: 4,906.

Breakfast in Banff with Susan and Glen, then I am headed south, back to the states, to visit my dad in Kalispell, Montana. I see more wildlife during this 300 miles than I have during the entire trip so far--lots of deer and elk. The weather is perfect--76 degrees, sunny and dry. I stop for lunch at a small diner in Canal Flats, BC and watch as a man riding a purple Harley pulls into the parking lot towing a large, white trailer with an “Alaska or Bust” sign on the back. Very cool.

Barfy needs an oil change and a new headlight bulb. “No can do,” is what I am told when I call the only BMW dealer in Montana, Big Sky Motorsports in Missoula, for a service appointment. They are booked solid for two and a half weeks. I am afraid that I may have burned up the clutch yesterday on Rogers Pass, and I am uncomfortable riding back up to Canada without getting Barfy checked out by someone with more motorcycle mechanical know-how than me--which would be just about anyone. My dad knows a guy in Kalispell, Kenny, who owns a BMW GS. Kenny agrees to come by tomorrow and give Barfy a look-see. I feel better already...relieved.

Better Than a Day at Work - Day 18

2010-08-06T11:10:00.008-05:00

Day 18. Tuesday, August 3, 2010. Kelowna, British Columbia to Banff, Alberta. Miles: 313. Total Trip Miles: 4,606.

Only 300 miles from Kelowna to Banff, with a stop for lunch, should have been about a seven hour trip. If only. Construction on BC-1, Albertans returning from holiday in BC, and summer tourist travel resulted in miles of stop-and-crawl traffic. For the first time in over 4,500 miles, I began to grow concerned about the mechanical condition of my bike. Hours of feathering the clutch in first gear over Rogers Pass to Golden can’t be good for Barfy. I turned off the engine whenever the traffic stopped for more than a few minutes, but there wasn’t much more I could do--except take some photos. Susan got off the Harley and took this photo of Glen and me.

I watched the sun set in the cleavage of the mountains behind me as we rode east, finally arriving in Banff at ten PM. What a long, slow day in the saddle--but, as they say, any day on the bike is better than a day at work!

Green, Clean, Pristine - Day 17

2010-08-06T09:52:00.004-05:00

Day 17. Monday, August 2, 2010. Lake Okanagan, Lake Kalamalka, Lumby, BC. Miles: 130. Total Trip Miles: 4,293.

British Columbia, Canada is green, clean, and pristine. I drove some of the most scenic, mountainous roads in the U.S., but there is just something…better about Canada. Photos--at least my photos--don’t really capture the raw, natural beauty of this area. You just have to come see and experience it for yourself.

Today, I was accompanied by my sister-in-law, Susan, and her friend, Glen, on Glen’s Harley. We rode the climbing, winding roads around Lake Okanagan, and emerald-green Lake Kalamalka, then out to the small town of Lumby, BC for lunch. The entire day was sunny, warm, and idyllic--except for the smoky haze that hung in the air from some of the nearby wildfires.

Glen and his Harley.

We truly enjoyed riding together today, so much so that Susan and Glen decided to ride with me to Banff, Alberta tomorrow. Yea!

Susan and me.

Canada, eh - Day 16

2010-08-05T09:53:00.002-05:00

Day 16. Sunday, August 1, 2010. Snohomish, Washington to Kelowna, British Columbia. Miles: 282. Total Trip Miles: 4,163.

I left my passport in Chicago. Fortunately, I realized that I left my passport in Chicago while I was in Utah, so there was time enough to FedEx it (THANK YOU, JUDY!) to Vancouver, Washington where I picked it up during my visit with Mom. So I have my passport with me, which is a good thing because, today, I am going to Canada.

The air is cool and damp, and the sky is gray and dreary this morning--typical for the Pacific Northwest. My mood matches the weather. I am feeling a bit melancholy as I leave friends, family, and Washington state. That all changes at the border.

The border guard is funny and flirtatious when he asked the usual border-crossing questions:

“Where are you coming from?”
-Snohomish, Washington

“Where are you going?”
-Kelowna, BC

“How long do you plan to stay in Canada?”
-As long as it takes for me to ride to Nova Scotia.

“Are you traveling by yourself?”
-Yes, I am.

“Where were you when I was single?”
-Uh, living in the U.S. somewhere. Where I was depends on when you were single--I moved around a lot. I lived in Alaska, Hawaii, Washington, Georgia, Maryland, Illinois…

I wish I could tell you that I responded to his playful banter with some witty retort, but I can’t. I am a failure at flirting and I suck at small talk. But that’s just me.

Anyway, on to Kelowna.

Thank You For Being A Friend - Day 15

2010-08-05T06:55:00.006-05:00

Day 15. Saturday, July 31, 2010. Renton, Washington to Snohomish, Washington. Miles: 46. Total Trip Miles: 3,881.

After watching the Seattle Seahawks practice this morning in Renton, I hopped on the bike for a short ride north to visit married friends, Dave and Gina.

I have known Dave and Gina for about 16 years. When I first met Dave, he raced sport bikes (still does!), and he was one of the people who influenced and supported my decision to buy my first motorcycle--a Honda CBR 600. I spent many days in the early 1990s watching Dave and others race at tracks in Seattle and Portland.

During our visit, Gina said, “When I read your Blog about your North America trip, I sometimes wonder what you are thinking about when you are out there, alone, riding your motorcycle.” Half-jokingly I replied, “What am I thinking about when I am riding my motorcycle across North America? I am thinking, what the hell am I doing riding a motorcycle across North America?” But seriously, what I am thinking about depends on different variables: traffic, road and weather conditions, how hot/cold/wet/tired I am, or the view as I steal glances at the sometimes beautiful and sometimes banal scenery around me. One thing I haven’t had to worry about--knock on wood--is how the bike is running.

Barfy handles the changes in altitude, weather, and road conditions with ease. I have not had a single worry or concern as far as the bike goes, and that has helped ease my mind about this trip considerably. I definitely picked the right bike for this adventure--and that is a good thing, because Barfy and I still have a long way to go!

Family, Football, and Fairytales

2010-07-31T09:54:00.002-05:00

Day 14. Friday, July 30, 2010. Vancouver, Washington to Renton, Washington. Miles: 163. Total Trip Miles: 3,835

It was so nice to visit with my mom and sister on Wednesday and Thursday--and it was nice to get off the bike for 36 hours too--I’m not gonna lie. Despite wearing gloves, I am getting calluses on my right hand and throttle thumb.

The 163 miles north to my brother’s house was easy and breezy--a cool 62 breezy degrees. I arrived after noon and it soon warmed up to be a very pleasant, sunny summer day. My nephew, Austin, specializes in detailing cars and he worked his magic on Barfy.

Saturday morning is all about family and football around here. We are going to watch the Seahawks practice after breakfast. But first, my niece, Cassie, reads me a story of Rapunzel from her vast book collection.

Biker Chick - Day 12

2010-07-31T08:30:00.003-05:00

Day 12. Wednesday, July 28, 2010. Willows, California to Vancouver, Washington. Miles: 505. Total Trip Miles: 3,672.

“At least it wasn’t raining,” is the only commentary I have about riding five hundred miles of Interstate-5 from California to Washington. Mt. Shasta in California and Grants Pass in Oregon are about as interesting as I-5 gets.

I stopped for lunch in Medford, Oregon and I got the distinct feeling that the locals at Elmer’s Restaurant aren’t accustom to seeing a woman wearing full motorcycle gear. They gave a quick, but noticeable, where-is-the-guy-driving-the-motorcycle-that-she-rode-in-on glance around the room after I slid into a booth. I responded with a big smile and playful wink to some of their curiously disapproving stares. I love thoroughly disrupting some people’s stereotypical notions about “biker chicks.”

But that’s just me.

Welcome to Windsor - Day 11

2010-07-31T07:42:00.004-05:00

Day 11. Tuesday, July 27, 2010. Sacramento, California to Willows, California. Miles: 225 Total Trip Miles: 3,167

Try to follow along, this story--like the driving directions from Windsor, California to Interstate-5--is a little convoluted.

I bought my motorcycle last fall and immediately set out on a quest to find folks to ride with in the Austin, Texas area. I turned my search to facebook and found a group for women BMW Motorcycle riders. The administrator of that group, Suzanna, sold BMW Motorcycles at Santa Rosa BMW in Windsor, California. Suzanna then introduced me, via email, to On The Level (OTL) editor, Will Guyan. When I started charting the course of my North America journey, I included a stop at Santa Rosa BMW in hopes that I would be able to meet Suzanna, and possibly, Will, in person.

Although Suzanna no longer sells BMWs, and Will had a scheduling conflict, my bike needed some minor adjustments so I made the drive to Santa Rosa BMW in Sonoma County. During my visit, I checked out all the shiny, new beemers in the pristine showroom; chatted with sales person, Owen, about my journey; enjoyed an energizing cup of coffee; and met the owner's dog, an adorable pit bull named, Puzzle.

Owen, Barfy, and me at Santa Rosa BMW

After my visit, I rode the short distance to quaint and charming downtown Windsor. I parked my bike on the street in front of an antiques and collectibles shop called, Robert’s Relics, and walked to a café around the corner for lunch. Windsor reminds me of a modern-day Mayberry; with its oak trees, grassy parks and ice cream parlors, set in the rolling hills of Sonoma County.

As I mentioned at the top of this post, the driving directions from Windsor to I-5 seemed very convoluted indeed: turn left on Mark West Springs Rd, continue onto Porter Creek Rd, turn left at Petrified Forest Rd, turn left at CA-128W, turn right at Tubbs LN, turn left at CA-29N, continue onto CA-53N, turn right at CA-20E, turn left onto I-5N. It makes me dizzy just thinking about it; but there is one road that made me dizzy while driving it. CA-29.

There is a 10-15 mile stretch of CA-29 that is nothing but twists and turns--and once in a while, a passing lane.

“Thank God for the passing lane!”

That sentence, or some expletive-laden form of it, is what the drivers behind me must have said whenever there was a passing lane and I was able to move to the right and let them go by. Taking blind corners at faster-than-posted-speed-limits is just not my thing. I’ll leave that to the more experienced riders and those who are more knowledgeable about local roads.

But that’s just me.

The Loneliest, Coldest, Wettest, Windiest, Most Miserable Road in America - Day 10

2010-07-28T09:04:00.006-05:00

Day 10. Monday, July 26, 2010. Ely, Nevada to Sacramento, California. Miles: 454. Total Trip Miles: 2,942

Wind battered my little tent all night at the KOA in Ely. Woke at 12:23 AM and checked the local weather on my iPhone. A Monday morning weather advisory for Ely stated severe wind gusts up to 55 MPH along route 50, and thunderstorms. Not good. I debated whether I should stay another night in Ely and wait it out or leave early and try to get ahead of the storm. Drifting in and out of sleep until 5:00 AM; I looked outside of my tent and saw dark clouds to the east and not-so-dark clouds to the west. Since I was headed west, I decided to break camp and get moving.

Highway 50 is known as “The Loneliest Road in America.” Today it was also the coldest, wettest, windiest, most miserable road in America. Even with my rain gear on and windshield up (the windshield on my BMW R1200RT moves up to help deflect wind and rain), I got hammered by both the wind and rain. The heated handgrips helped to keep me warm, but it was still a pretty miserable ride.

One hundred and fifty miles after I left Ely, I arrived at the blink-and-you’ll-miss-it town of Austin, Nevada. I found a small café and stopped for breakfast. Wet, weary, and windblown, the waitress could see that I was in need of hot coffee, and she kept it coming until I thawed out enough to order some eggs and hash browns (my usual breakfast meal). A woman at a table nearby asked which way I was traveling. I told her, “west to Sacramento.” She said that she just drove from Reno and that the weather clears up and warms up about 25 miles west of Austin. She was right about the weather. I stopped in Fallon for gas and removed my raingear.

Note to travelers on I-80: Miles of I-80 west of Reno and into California are under construction and completely tore up. Some stretches are single lane only. Chunks of missing asphalt, deep fissures and heavy traffic made this interstate unpleasant and dangerous for motorcyclists.

I entered the city limits of Sacramento around 3:30-4:00 in the afternoon--just in time for commuter traffic. It was stop and crawl on hot blacktop until I reached the exit for the KOA. Overheated and exhausted, I shed my riding gear and set up camp. After a quick shower, I walked over to the KOA kitchen and bought a Corona and a can of Hormel Chili for dinner. Bon appetit!

The Climb - Day 9

2010-07-27T09:09:00.003-05:00

Day 9. Sunday, July 25, 2010. Escalante, Utah to Ely, Nevada. Miles: 351. Total Trip Miles: 2,488.

Continuing my epic North America journey solo, I left Foster’s Family Steakhouse just outside of Bryce Canyon with a belly full of breakfast and a Miley Cyrus song, The Climb, in my head. As I climbed the mountain passes of southern Utah, I sang along in my helmet, “…ain’t about how fast I get there/ain’t about what’s waitin’ on the other side/it’s the climb…I may not know it/but these are the moments/that I’m gonna remember most/Just gotta keep goin’/and I gotta be strong/Just keep pushing on.”

In Ely, Nevada, I found a KOA and decided to stop for the night. I liked the KOA facilities in Ely. On the wall of the laundry room, they had a map of all the KOA sites in North America and, in addition to hundreds of KOA Kampgrounds in the U.S., there are numerous KOA Kampgrounds in many of the places I plan to visit in Canada. So, I became a KOA Kamper.

My tent site happened to be next to a gal who rode her bicycle from Florida! She is riding for charity and still has another 320 miles to go--her final destination is Carson City, Nevada. She shared stories from the road about her encounters with alligators, a bear, and “some bikers” in Daytona, but then she said something that really surprised me. She looked at my motorcycle and said, “I am really impressed that you are riding that by yourself. I would be too afraid.” Here is a woman who pedaled a bicycle further than I had yet rode my motorcycle saying that she was impressed with me!

The truth is that I am afraid of riding my motorcycle across North America, by myself. I am afraid of being hit by a motorist who “just didn’t see the motorcycle.” I am afraid of coming around a blind corner at 60 mph to find a deer or an open range cow standing in the middle of the road, or a boulder in my lane that has just fallen from the mountainside. I am afraid of the many things that can happen for me to lose control of the bike; blown tire, road surface damage, severe crosswinds, not being able to stop or swerve in time to avoid hitting something or someone. I am afraid for a lot of reasons that I won’t complete my journey. I face each of these fears every time I ride my motorcycle. Eleanor Roosevelt said, “We gain strength and courage, and confidence by each experience in which we really stop to look fear in the face…we must do that which we think we cannot.”

I am riding my motorcycle across North America not because I am fearless. I fear less because I am riding my motorcycle across North America.

These Boots Were Made For Riding - Day 8

2010-07-27T07:12:00.004-05:00

Day 8. Saturday, July 24, 2010. Lake Powell, Utah to Escalante, Utah. Miles: 180. Total Trip Miles: 2,137.

Note to non-Utah residents: July 24 is a State Holiday and a very big deal in Utah. Good luck finding accommodations of any type, any where.

I got the last bunk in town, and I mean that literally. The Cowboy Country Inn in Escalante, Utah had one room available. The room was called the “Bunkhouse,” and for good reason. See photo #1. (Note the stuffed bears on the top bunk and the lasso rope.)

Bunk beds and friendly hospitality at The Cowboy Country Inn = $55.
Sitting out on the “front porch” in a log chair (See photo #2) watching the fireworks display in a dark, starry sky with a mountainous backdrop = priceless.

And on the Seventh Day She Rested

2010-07-24T06:44:00.009-05:00

Day 7. Friday, July 23, 2010. Lake Powell, Utah. Miles: 0

Sandy decided to ride back to New Mexico to meet up with her boyfriend, so I met up with local resident and my personal Lake Powell Tour Guide, Jeff, this morning for a fabulous day on the lake. Jeff promised I would see dinosaur footprints in the rocks and ancient Anasazi cliff dwellings, and he made good on his promise. Although I did not get good shots of the dinosaur prints, I did get these photos of the ruins called "Defiance House" in Forgotten Canyon.

It was a scorching 95 degrees during our short hike up to the ruins, but it was nice and cool inside the cliff dwellings. Inside several of the structures were evidence of fire pits with black smoke-charred walls and ceilings. I am fascinated by Indian ruins and I felt privileged to be able to touch and experience this ancient architecture.

After our hike back to the boat, Jeff and I went for a quick dip in the lake. Thank you, Jeff, for taking time out of your workday to play host to this weary road warrior.

I returned to my room at the Defiance House Lodge and watched the sun set from my balcony. What an amazingly diverse and beautiful state. Ah, Utah!