I claim the dubious honor of the first ride report that starts, not ends, with a Uhaul. If it's not the first, it's the first that I know of, and as far as I'm concerned, that's all that counts, and anyone that has an issue with that can, well, go ask Team Vegas what to do. I am also the master of the run-on sentence; when you're short in some areas, you tend to make up for it by stretching out others. At least that's what I tell my wife. So, although this was to eventually become a solo trip with my dog on the back of my CB1100, we first had to take care of some pressing business at the Warped Rally in southern California. So as such, there was a cast of characters that might need some introduction, so pay attention: there will be a quiz later. Thekerncountykid, aka Trevor Ware: Trevor was an unique contributor on this site until being struck down from behind by a drunk driver back in 2012. Left for dead in the middle lane of I-40, struck so hard that his CB550 was carried over a mile away, stuck in the grille of the drunk's Mercedes. He and his mother Pam now suffer mightily from the repercussions, Traumatic Brain Injury, physical issues too numerous to recount here, etc, but the old Trevor is still in there. Occasionally he'll blow everyone's hair back with a glimpse of the sheer poetry that still lurks in his noggin, hence the title of this post. More on this later. Shunka: an inmate from soCal that to many needs no introduction. I became aware of his hulking prescence when we became involved(check that, do NOT like the implications of being "involved" with Shunka), participated in a dog relay that originated in JoMomma. Someone left a puppy tied to my trashcan in the pouring rain, Shunk heard about it and agreed to take said bedraggled little fartbag back to the beach life in Kalifornia, so I drove 800 miles to Raton, NM, which was a one thousand mile trip for Shunk, and we made the exchange. Now Dash Riprock is now Takoda Steele, living in the lap of luxury(check that again; would never want to envision Mike's lap having anything to do with luxury). This should give you an idea is to the size of the heart on this guy; a thousand miles on less than a day's notice to pick up a puppy that he had never met; much more on this heart later... grab your hankies, ladies, it's going to get dusty in here. Charlie Bravo: my 65# half pittie that my son and I found stuffed into a crate and left to starve back in 2015. I was so pissed that the only place that seemed suitable to express this rage was in the Basement under the thread "insert your rant here". The denizens of the underworld, especially one Benduro, took the story and ran with it, raising the funds to save her life. We named her after the bikes that my son and I were riding when we found her, simply the best bikes of all time, the Honda CB. She now rides everywhere on the back of my CB1100 in her Charkstream, obviously, much more on this later. Dogjaw:me. Trevor's story has more or less dominated my life for the last five years, sometimes to the detriment of my own family, but my wife has been beyond longsuffering if sometimes puzzled by my FRAPs, frenetic random activity periods in his cause. So when a few weeks back I was canned at the ripe old age of 56 from a soul-sucking job in trucking sales and the opportunity for this trip arose, she didn't blink an eye, and a plan was hatched. At about the same time as my ritual humiliation at the hands of corporate AmeriKa, Trevor and Pam elected to come to Little Rock to appear at the parole hearing for Trevor's assailant. A letter writing campaign to the Arkansas Parole Board was set up in the Basement(again, the basement) by Cvan and SFCoots, and was instrumental to keeping that waste of perfectly good afterbirth behind bars. Trevor had some bikes in storage locally, including the mangled 1974 CB550 he was riding the night he was struck; Pam has always wanted to get them moved to Washington state, where Trevor now resides due to some special treatment facilities, but circumstances arising from Trev's issues always seemed to throw up a road block. As I was now out of work and had just built a small camper minivan, she suggested renting a uhaul trailer, pulling his bikes to Bellingham, then driving home, camping along the way. Good plan, except for one thing: driving home. That's a negatory, Ghostrider, the pattern is full. Why not rent a truck instead of a trailer, load my own CB amongst her siblings, then ride the 3000 miles home to Arkansas? Then Charlie caught wind of the story and would not be denied such an adventure, and we started getting things prepped to depart. Then that idiot Shunka called. Why don't I "swing through" soCal on my way to Washington and hang out at Warped for a couple of days? Ah, dude, I'm not too swift on geography, but I'm pretty sure that that's not the definition of a "swing through". Then he mentioned that he wanted to donate his BMW sidecar rig to Trevor so that other pilots could come by from time to time and take him for rides(Trevor, not Shunka), and suddenly the 1700 miles from LRK to CA, and then the 1300 miles on to Bellingham before my own trip could begin didnt seem quite that long of a detour. Then in one of those jaw dropping events that came to define this weekend, Pam decided instead to bring Trevor down to Warped so that he could accept the hack from Shunka personally, and even go for the maiden voyage with the Shunkster at the controls. For once, I had no words. Next: why you should NOT sleep in the back of a Uhaul in April in New Mexico.