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Discussion in 'Ride Reports - Epic Rides' started by calimusjohn, Sep 14, 2012.
Captain Morgan, Coherent???
Carry on Sir.
You have my respect and attention.
Carry on and am subscribed....fire away....You too have my respect...Captn' Morgan, eh...good thoughts. Myself am 68 years young and just sold my 1200GS/DMC sidecar to a 69'er...now am missing it . Looking for another different 1200GS rig/sidecar for more offroading if and only IF my Missus will let me buy another one:eek1.
Can't wait on your RR and see what Captn' Morgan has brought....
I also have a scooter. Click on the picture for a short video.
Well don't toot your horn and not show nothin.:huh
Miles traveled is not the goal. It's the moving and accomplishing something that is important to me. The Doctors basically told me to sit down, shut up, and die. I am not quite ready. You clearly have medical issues that far surpass mine. I lift a glass to you - you have found a way around the stops. Designing and building a side hack is no small accomplishment. Like you, I try to push my limits. The other option - is NOT an option. Remember Apollo 13? Failure was not an option.
Hmmmn. . . straightjacket, a set of handcuffs, a whip . . . oh, sorry. That is a different forum.
Face it... Life is dangerous. You can live it two ways.
By actually living it, or watching it pass you by.
I'll take the former. Good on ya mate.
Hi. I stated earlier that I rode a SaddleSore 1,000 with two broken ribs. Stuff happens. I babied myself for the six weeks the Doc told me it would take to heal. Six weeks go by. I purchase a 2011 BMW R1200RT. I ride it over to one of my nearest neighbors - 4.5 miles - (I live off grid). I park the bike in an area with clump grass. I visit and upon trying to tip toe turn it around, yep - dropped the bike and I landed on those two same ribs. I didn't need a Doctor to tell me they were re-broken. The ride home was not a barrel of laughs. Eleven days later is where this report starts: Last year, I tried to ride to Alaska after compleating the Four Corner's Tour sponsored by SCMC. I headed across Canada from Madawaska, Maine. For hundreds of miles I saw fields and roads under water. Canada was just about washed away from incredible amounts of rain. I "forded" many streams where the Government had bull- dozed breaks in the Highways trying to get the water level down by creating man made rivers. I was lucky in that most of the breaks in the roadway were marked by a traffic cone - and sometimes two. Ultimately, I reached Dawson Creek. The temperature was in the thirties. It was raining one minute and snowing the next. Timber trucks coming out of the forests brought copious amounts of dirt with them onto the Highway. A layer of 2 to 3 inches deep of muddy slush was my roadway. I was on a Honda Goldwing Trike. Three wheeling was bad. I can not imagine what it would have been like on two. The trucks threw mud 20 to 30 feet into the air as they passed. I would duck below windshield level as a truck roared by. The windshield was solid mud. My visor was a smeared mess. My eyeglasses were useless. I pulled off the road at a wide spot. I was exhausted, I was freezing with electric gloves and vest on "High". It was getting dark. I was scared spitless. In a slight break, I motored into Dawson Creek and stopped at the first Motel I came to.
I registered while standing on the porch - they didn't want me dumping mud in the office. At the room, I walked into the shower helmet on - wearing ATGATT. (All the gear, all the Time) Even after dry clean clothes and a hot meal, I was still shaking. I hurt. I could not go on. I hated everything about motorcycle touring. I was defeated. Captain Morgan tried to raise my morale. He finally gave up. Instead he started calling me every vile name in the book . . . went on at some length . . . how ya' gonna face that Old Geezer in the Mirror if a little bad weather does ya' in? . . . He finally convinced me that I needed to attack in a different direction. Anyone remember the Korean Police action? Our guys weren't defeated - they turned and attacked in a different direction. Turned out to be good advice.
This is what I was riding as I rode south to better weather the next day. No more blue ink!
I have to say that i have the same energy you do at age 73. I am sorry about your loss and I can't even begin to imagine that you went through. Keep the rubber down man and ride on.
Subscribed,,, but please lose then blue type color. It's hard on my 57 year old eyes.
After eleven days of healing, I was ready to tackle the world this morning. I arose at an early 0700. I was standing in the shower trying to remember why I was up so early - then it dawned on me - the loaded 650 Vstrom waiting in the Daylight basement. I later crept down the stairs and was bitterly dissapointed in that the mountain of "Essentials" that were stacked beside the bike were still there. I sorted through the entire pile and was only able to discard last year's seed catalogues and an invitation to a free symposium on, "Get in on the ground floor with a Business in your Basement - Raise worms". . . . maybe it was raising Gerbils. Hmmmmn. 0900. The overhead door was open - the bike was loaded - it even sat up like normal after inflating the tires to the maximum limits listed on the sidewalls. I was wedged into the "cockpit" - a narrow space left between a humongous tank bag in front and a tent, sleeping bag, air mattress, a large bag containing toiletries, medications, several "Good Luck" charms, the camera, a tripod, several aluminum drink bottles, some plastic bottles of spring water AND CAPTAIN MORGAN! I turned the key. The Vstrom computer whirred and flashed. The starter spun. The bike and I, as one began to vibrate. I eased the bike outside and began looking for the "Flat Spot" I was going to create sometime in the past two years. I found a relatively level spot on the side of my Butte. I got a promise from the bike that she wouldn't roll away downslope or take a dirt nap while I moved the Smart car into the basement. That went well. Back on the bike, drifting down the driveway, dust kicked up in passing obliterated any views in the mirrors. I made it off Indian Circle, turned on Mule Deer, eased onto Mountain Trout and began praying out loud, "Lord, if you can see any way clear for me to traverse the next few hundred yards of criss crossing deep ruts and bottomless pits all hidden under the 6 inces of a Patina of dust, why I'll see if I can do something worthwhile today." Well, she must have been listening or the devil was distracted. while I zigged and zagged and skidded throught the maze that forms the four miles of dirt road to the pavement. On asphalt at last - we turned west from Sprague River, Oregon and zipped the 22.5 miles to Chiloquin. Highway 97 carried us north to Chemault for fuel and food. Drinking the gas would have been cheapr than the breakfast. My side order of two eggs = $4.00. They were tasty. Back on the road - through Bend , then Madrid, past the 45 degree marker and the Wind Farms with their THOUSANDS of wind generators, as the temperature slowly climbed from a balmy 71 degrees to a very healthy 101 as we crossed the Columbia River Gorge. It was a nice day, blue sky, no road construction and a minimal number of tourists failing to watch where they are going. (I sometimes fall into that catagory.) I intended to stop at Toppenich - the City of Murals - Google it - Super Murals! - But, it was early. I continued north through Yakima, Washington and landed in Ellensburg, WA. The Super 8 Hostess reduced the nomal rate from $110.00 to $81.00 because I have cards starting with Triple A, through Banks, Credit, Library, Medicare, Social Security and ending with the Neptune Society. It pays to be prepared.
Today's bike, but on a different day.
This 45 degree Marker.
I wanted to make my entries easy to find - I almost hid that one. John
Much respect also. The best never give it up. When you stop living, you start dying. Please give up the colored type, however! It's hard on my middle-aged eyes!
funny how ways lead to ways,,,,the roads less traveled etc etc
how of all the times one happens to be cruising through life,,and suddenly of all the places i could be,,i end up for the first time in months perusing the 'new posts' section in ADVrider when this thread catches my eye....
i too KNOW the territory of which you speak...
so here's where the co-incidences turn spooky,,,a minute earlier,, i had just watched this lil video clip,,,
for YOU and all the kindred spirits in similar shoes...
dream on,,ride on!!!
need i say more???
ok ,,my casa es su casa !! anytime you are near the grid points below
PS,,i too second the notion of WTF i can't read your posts..HINT hint,,you as the writer of post can go back to those hard to read posts ,,hit 'edit' and then highlite your post and go up to the A color button and change the color..Voila !! we can read what ya wrote
Ride on! Can't wait to hear the rest of the story.
Head out on the highway,
Looking for adventure.....
Can't wait to see what happens!
Ellensburg to Grande Cache B.C. ?Today was kind of a weird day. I started in Ellensburg, Washington. I intended to ride to the Canadian Border, locate a nice campground and kick back. So much for intentions. It was a pleasant 72 degrees as I climbed aboard. It got a bit warmer as the day progressed. Then I reached the Border. A line of parked cars pointed at the Customs Agents. The sun was beating down from a cloudless sky. I stopped, put my feet down and felt the hot black asphalt give and slip. We were surrrounded by cement walls that prevented any breeze from cooling the area . In seconds the digital thermometer on my handlebars was indicating 119.2 degrees. It was impossibly hot. I was fully dressed in protective motorcycle garb. I took it upon myself to get out of the sun. I pulled out of line, passed a couple of cars and stopped under the roof, in the shade adjacent to the Custom's kiosk. That maneuver turned out to be a BIG NO NO! Agents materialized out of thin air. I was surrounded by screaming Agents displaying varios kinds of armament. I heard, "What do you think you're doing? Get back in line! Let that car through! Don't move! Put your hands up! Put your hands on top of your head!" etc. etc. etc. This was not my first rodeo, so didn't panic. I sat quietly with my hands on the hand grips until they stopped screaming. After an explanation, I was told to go to the end of the line. I refused to go back out into the sun baked oven. I said I was old enough to know that 119.2 degrees is life threatening to me. Demanding me to do that endangered my life. At last, I was told to stay put. I even got my own Custom's Agent to stay with me until a break in the line allowed me access to Canada. The temperature on the kiosk wall thermometer read 106 degrees in the shade.
Welcome to Canada.. . . . you are just in time for a Holiday Weekend. Within minutes of entering Canada, I was stuck in a traffic jam. This was not your ordinary "Rush Hour" traffic jam. Oh no, this one had cars stagger parked on and off the pavement. I couldn't split lanes or ride on the shoulder - it was wall to wall vehicles AND people in steaming cars screaming at other people in their steaming cars. This went on for the next three hours and covered fifty miles! Motel signs read - No Vacancy. Campgrounds had chains strung across the entrances. Tent sites designed for one - held three and four. Drainage ditches along the road that held water were full of people splashing, stomping and lying in whatever water they could find. The actual beaches at lakes and rivers looked like Panama City during Spring Break. Temperatures on Banks and Malls ran from 106 to 109 degrees. Every air conditioned building was swamped with people. The Best/Worst sight of the day was a terrifically sunburned man and woman wearing string bikinis, half helmets, shower shoes and riding a Harley. But they were laid back folks - his feet leading the way - her boobs pointed skyward. Impressive. I tried Motels, Hotels, B&B's, Country Inns - No vacancies. Gas stations were out of gas. I rode 265 miles before finding a Country Store with a single gas pump AND gas! The bike's tank holds 5.7. gallons. I put 5.5 gallons into it. I stopped at a roadside Diner. . . two pieces of chicken that I think were actually seagull, a glob of lumpy potato(e)s drowned in greasy gravy, seven (7) green beans came to $16.00. I only had to ask twice for eating utinsels. It was a perfect repast at the almost end of the day.
Eventually, with daylight barely lingering long after the sun settled in the west, I located a Mom & Pop Motel in Grande Cache, British Columbia. Mom and Pop spoke Cantonese or Manderin - I can never keep them straight. I sucked down gallons of liquids today and only had to PEE RIGHT NOW!! once - in the middle of yet another traffic jam. I apologise to those who may have been offended. . . but just wait . . . you too may get to be old and have a minor crises . . . let's see what you would do. I did not return my Chrystal Springs water bottle to the tank bag. That could lead to a whole new meaning to the term "re-cycling. Whew.
At 10:30 P.M. I still didn't have the energy to stand in the shower. The heat had really sucked the get out of my going. Tomorrow's schedule is going to be MINIMAL! This ride is supposed to be relaxing and refreshing. HA! to that.
Sign going into Toppenish
North from Grande Cache?This morning I discovered what eleven hours of exposure to high heat does to shrivel the brain. I awoke in Cache Creek - not Grande Cache. There is only about a hundred miles difference. Actually, I'm glad to be anywhere. A blue sky is shining overhead. All but one of my drink bottles are full and the north road beckons.
After sleeping in this morning, I counted eleven Motels in a town with a population of approximately 1,000 people. Tourism during a short summer season is big business. I stopped at a large restaurant that had lots of cars surrounding it. Figured it must be the in thing to do. I ordered breakfast with eggs "over easy". I think the cook must be a hockey player. The eggs could have been used as hockey pucks or door stops. What can you expect for a paltry $15.00 plus tip.
O.K. onto the road North. No. I want to go back to yesterday morning. When I left Ellensburg, the road meandered up a very wide flat valley with sidewalls that looked like moraine. . . eskers in Alaska . . .stuff dumped from a moving glacier way back when. As I continued up the valley, it began to narrow. The earthen walls began to be peppered with small, and then bigger and bigger rocks until I was bounded by vertical rock walls with scrape marks similar to the ones seen in Yosemite. The road swooped up from the bottom of the valley, curved around hugh rock walls, leaped off the tops of ridges and swirled back down to the next valley. Each valley had its own clear water pond that varied in size from a double skip - flat rock throw to about forty acres. This road is worth remembering. Still Highway 97.
Back to today. I was a bit discombobulated, felt dehydrated even after downing copious amounts of fluids throughout the night and this morning. Temperature was a very comfortable 72. Again the route was like yesterday morning - as good as it gets for a cyclist. It had beautiful sweeping curves that went up, over and down ridgeline after ridgeline with vertical mountain walls on each side and NO traffic. The temperature slowly climbed into the nineties.
A fresh fruit stand lured me off the asphalt. A Peach picked from the tree this morning, Bing cherries bursting with flavor, red raspberries, a black Plum and a cap of Blueberries became lunch. The young Lady said she picked most of the fruit herself. Her husband was a butcher and ran the store next door. Prices displayed along the counter: Peaches $1.00 each and the rest of the fruits were similarly priced. When I asked the young Lady for my bill after eating my fill, she said, "Uh . . . oh. . . uh $2.50." I said that was ridiculous. I ate much more than that and I still had a "Care" package to take with me. She came back with, "Yes. But, I had a tremendous conversation with a Statesman." Whew. . . Statesman. I left $5.00 on the counter as a tip.
A gas stop took $25.00 from me. Prices are starting to creep higher. In the rest room was a locked door with "Showers $5.00. Key at Register." Next stop was a Dairy Queen for a chocolate shake. Temperature was 96. I climbed back on the bike with a cool to the touch belly. But it doesn't feel quite right - sorta queasy. Oh well. There are increasing numbers of RV and Tent campsites along the rivers and lakes that abound. Dry campsites are advertised as starting at $21.00.
A traffic jam in Quesnel. An Airshow had just completed thirty minutes earlier. Drat. I am a pilot and still like airshows.
Out of town a few miles and I "Bonk!" This is a situation where the body just quits doing what you want it to do. Some athletes call it "Hitting the Wall." Not good. Fortunately, a mile later is a "Rest" area. I pull in and park. I get the kickstand down and just collapse onto the tank bag. I am beat. Shaking. In a few minutes I am able to get off the bike and move to a cement picnic table in a shady spot next to the lake shore. I drink a can labeled "Monster Energy". My back decides that it is the perfect time to go into full spasm mode. I wash down some Anti-spasm pills, a few Ibuprofen and a Vicodin. Morale is somewhat low. I need to lie down. The kink in my back won't allow me to lie flat on my back. I stand at the end of the table, bend at the waist and slowly slither my way onto the top. I am now atop the table on my hands and knees. . . can't straighten out. I go into my self healing and help mode. I talk to my legs - relax - hips - relax. I can touch the next group of muscles. I press, rub, and massage each of their on/off switches. The drugs start to kick in and help. In about twenty minutes, I am lying flat on my stomach. That is when I notice the "Sweat" bees removing salt from my arms and neck. I don't mind them doing that. I resent their biting me to say, "Thanks."
My focus changes from: Woe is me - to - I can do this. I can get off this table. In about ten minutes I prove that I can. I am standing upright. O.K. standing with a list to starboard. I set the next goal: Return to the bike and get on. Ha! Another five minute episode and I am there. Squeeze my head into the helmet, pull on my glove. . . SPIT!. . . dropped a glove. A Lady in the Park sees me and comes to rescue my glove. There are Angels around. I wiggle the kickstand up, push the starter button and I am ready to continue. I breathe as deeply as my injured ribs will allow, release the clutch and we are moving.
A side note: I have been on these medications for over two years. I know how my body reacts to them and how much they affect my operating machinery. I am well within legal limits. No conferences with Captain Morgan unless stopped for the day. It's break time. Back soon.
The Butcher Shop
O.K. Guys, Took your advice and redid the colored Fonts.