Getting Sick

Okay, this could get a little gross. I’ll try to keep it as family-friendly as I can, but the subject is not pleasant and I apologize in advance.

I almost never get sick. Very rarely. I don’t know why - I don’t routinely get colds or the flu like some of my friends. I don’t even get headaches anymore. Thus, I don’t keep a bunch of seldom-needed, "just-in-case" medications in the house. That may change.

Last night I ate some leftover Chinese food as I watched the Presidential debate on PBS. Afterward I watched some commentary, played on Facebook and ended up going to bed around midnight. At approximately 3:30AM I was awakened by a troubling pain in my stomach. You know the type - it makes you go, “Uh-oh, this is not going to be good.” I put up with it for a while, knowing what was coming.

Sure enough, around 6AM the fun began. Plenty of warning. I thought, “Okay, let’s get it over with!” But I didn’t know what I was in for. I threw up so much I literally could not believe it. It seemed like it was everything I’d eaten for the last three days. I mean, the sheer volume of vomit was unreal. It was like that Monty Python movie. I think I saw a someone’s iPhone (a 3GS so it must’ve been in there awhile) and a license plate come out – a big, European one too, like from Germany. Usually, you feel pretty good after such an event – relieved, anyway. Not this time. I knew there was more to come. I started sipping glasses of water with a splash of orange juice, and then went back to bed to wait.

A little while later came Round Two. This time was as bad as the first! I saw a set of car keys (not mine) and I think an actual baby (the other-other white meat!). I was thinking, “What have I got, the belly of a shark?”

The third event was unexpected, and yet just as voluminous as the first! I was standing at the bathroom sink drinking some water and wondering what was going on when the overpowering urge to hurl took over. It was awful. Out of my mouth and into the sink clanked a ratchet wrench (3/8” drive) with a 9/16” socket attached! So that's where that went.  Holy cow, this was getting serious.

I went out to the kitchen and drank a small glass of some old, flat Sprite that was in the fridge. This merely caused a level of bloating and gas that rivaled a Saturn 5 rocket trying to break free of earth’s orbit. …Which precipitated the “other” malady that stomach problems usually generate. I don’t have to tell you what that is. Fortunately, the bout was a brief, one-time event. No problem on that end after that.

Now it is 3:30PM and I’m feeling better even though I’ve eaten nothing and drank only water all day. I was thinking about supper (I am always thinking about food) and it just made me sicker. If I felt up to it, I’d grab a shower and go out and get some Pepto. But that’s going to have to wait.

I don’t know what made me so sick. Rest assured I will not be patronizing the #1 Chinese Restaurant anymore. Just now I was going to say, “I don’t know what it was that caused me to get as sick as a dog.” But given that it was food from a Chinese restaurant, it might not be such a great joke.

Charles Krauthammer Is An Asshole

You’ve undoubtedly heard of Charles Krauthammer; you’ve probably read his columns either in the Washington Post newspaper or perhaps your local paper since he is syndicated. Or maybe you’ve seen him pontificate endlessly on Fox News. He is a very pompous guy who presents himself as a brainiac and an expert on all things politic and economic. He is a loud, vocal critic of President Obama.

Look, there is no doubt that Charles Krauthammer is a really smart guy – I’ll give him that. But he oversteps his bounds (I’ll get to that in a bit). He acts like because of his smartness he’s privy to some inside information that the rest of us dumb hicks are not. Of course, the Fox News audience eats it up.

In his newspaper column on September 16th, Krauthammer rants and rails yet again about President Obama’s policy on Iran’s nuclear ambitions. His opinion is that they are totally wrong. See, Krauthammer knows best!

Now, just stop. My mama didn't raise no fool. Does anybody really believe that President Obama is actually handling this entire Iran issue in public? Seriously? I’m no “genius” like Charles Krauthammer, but I would bet real money that what Obama and Israel’s Prime Minister, Benjamin “Bibi” Netanyahu say in public is different from what’s going on behind the scenes. I would bet real money that their public uneasiness and discord is a ruse merely to put Iran off-guard. I would bet real money that Obama and Netanyahu have a plan which has not been divulged…not to Fox News, not to the general public and certainly not to Charles fucking Krauthammer.

Think about it: If you were President Obama and you were faced with Iran possibly becoming a nuclear power (which everyone agrees is a bad thing), would *you* sit back and do nothing? Of course not. Alternatively, if you had a plan, would *you* announce to the world what you were going to do in advance? Of course not. We may live in an open society here in the U.S., but it’s a safe assumption that our President does not include us average citizens in his strategic planning.

It is clear…at least it should be clear to anyone with half a brain…that unless Iran really ceases its nuclear ambitions, Israel *will* strike. I mean, come on. Sooner or later, it’s going to happen…with or without the acquiescence of the U.S. (Probably with.) It will not happen before the election this November – that much has surely been agreed upon already – and Netanyahu pretty much said so in his recent speech to the U.N. General Assembly when he held up that silly poster with the Rocky and Bullwinkle cartoon bomb. (Netanyahu probably figures that Obama is going to win. But even if he doesn’t, having Mitt Romney in the White House would not necessarily be a bad thing for Bibi.)

I will guarantee that there is plenty going on behind the scenes that we do not know about.  And what gets announced publicly is either a tiny amount of the truth or possibly disinformation to keep the world from knowing what the real plans are. Whatever happens…whenever it does, we can be sure that one Charles Krauthammer will not be called in on the pre-strike briefings.

So instead of yelling, “Fire!” in a crowded theatre, which is the equivalent of what he is doing by harping relentlessly on subject about which he has no accurate inside information, Charles Krauthammer should just keep his big, fat, stupid mouth shut.

Dancing Fools

At what age do we unlearn how to dance? When I go to clubs now and see people my age (mid-50’s) dancing, they look so…so…horrid. So awkward. So uncoordinated. So uncomfortable. It’s almost painful to watch. You’ve seen them; you know what I’m talking about. I mean, they were probably good dancers…once…in their youth. But what happens to our groove? Do we lose it somewhere along the way? I’m sure that if I got out there on the dance floor I would look just as geeky and, you know, wrong as other old people.

Which brings me – sort of naturally - to my friend Hal Johnson. He posted this on his Facebook page tonight:

"Doing the prep work for my wife's fab lasagna, listening to Son Volt, and wishing my rotten kid would quit laughing at the way I dance in the kitchen."

See? Even him!

This post generated the kind of snarky, sarcastic comments you can imagine, which is about all Facebook is good for, let’s be honest. And I envisioned this big, tall moose of a guy writhing around spastically in his kitchen as he’s layering strips of pasta into a glass casserole dish (at least, I hope it was glass). And I’d bet that when he was younger, even Hal was a good dancer. Err…nah, on second thought, strike that – Hal was always tall. Tall people don’t make good dancers no matter how young or old they are. But I’ll bet he at least had rhythm.  When I think about Hal fast-dancing now, the mental image I get is not pretty.

I live alone. I like to listen to music - dance music predominantly, sometimes very loud. And sometimes I catch myself in the mirror (the singular mirror that’s not in my bedroom) dancing to some ‘80s popsong  (Depeche Mode's "Just Can't Get Enough," say). It causes me to immediately stop and make a solemn vow that I will never…no matter how funky the tune and no matter how much alcohol I’ve consumed…do such a thing in public.  Or in private for that matter.

We can only hope that Hal lives in a place where his neighbors cannot see in his windows.

The Long Trip Home - Part 4

THE CHURCH OF HARLEY

Generally, motorcyclists are a friendly bunch among ourselves. We all wave to each other as we pass on the road no matter what brand we happen to be on. It has to do with the unique nature of what we do, I suppose. We feel a special kinship.

From my lifelong experience as a rider, this kinship is even stronger among Harley riders. There is an undeniable sense of brotherhood and passion within this particular manufacturer. It’s hard to explain or quantify. It just is. You ride a Harley? You’re in the club. The brand-loyalty is amazing. You know that other Harley riders would do anything for you simply because you ride the same kind of bike. This is no illusion either. And it’s more than a little comforting on a long trip.

The Harley mystique is unreal. It extends beyond regular owners. Whenever I’m traveling and stop – at a rest area, for instance or even just for gas – people will invariably come up and talk to me out of the blue. It’s kind of amusing. They tell me their Harley stories; oh, and everybody’s got one. Sometimes it seems like everyone on the planet either knows someone who rides a Harley or they themselves “used to ride” one. Either way, they’re enthusiastic about the brand. (This did not happen much on any of the Kawasaki motorcycles I’ve owned.) I always listen politely, even if I really need to get back out on the road.

A lot of times, people will know enough about Harleys to know that a Sportster is, err, not the optimum bike for “touring.” They’ll raise an eyebrow (sometimes both) and say, “You’re coming from WHERE? And you’re going WHERE?! On THAT???” The implication is that you’d have to be crazy to take a long-distance trip on a Sportster. And maybe I am.

On the way home, I pulled into a gas station in Jackson, Wyoming just south of Yellowstone and Grand Teton National parks. Just as I was taking my helmet off another Harley rider roared in and stopped on the other side of the pumps. Young guy, scraggly beard, big “gauges” in his earlobes. He really looked the part.

“GODDAMN that was the worst mistake I’ve ever made!” he bellowed, directing the comment at me as if it was the continuation of a conversation we’d already been having.

I chuckled and said, “What?” even though I was pretty sure I knew what he meant.

“Going through Yellowstone. What a friggin’ mistake!”

He was heading west, to California; I was heading east. For some reason we both ended up going south through Yellowstone, stuck in the same heavy traffic, he a mile or so behind me. As we filled our tanks we compared notes and commiserated on our poor choice of routes, chatting like old friends. And in a way we were. We finished tanking up, got our receipts and went our separate ways.

Further along, down in Mississippi I pulled into a truck stop/gas station. Four younger-than-me Harley riders followed me in: Two guys on Sportsters and two on Big Twins. The Sportsters were both older and highly customized – very nice bikes but not ones that I’d take on a long trip. We fueled the bikes and de-fueled ourselves and then replenished the lost body fluids. (Their beverage of choice was beer; mine was Powerade.) Afterward they came over to look at my Sportster, which by now was looking mighty road-weary. It was way dirty and buggy and leaking oil from a small seal that had failed on the shifter shaft that sticks out from the side case (since repaired).

It is most strange. We stood around chatting for a while, again, like we were all old buddies. We had this instant rapport. They were headed from south Mississippi up to Birmingham, Alabama to meet a friend of theirs who was returning – riding alone – from the big annual Harley get-together in Sturgis, South Dakota. Then they were all going to ride back south together. It was a fairly long ride, but the guys were acting like it was a walk in the park.

I like being a motorcyclist. I especially like being a Harley rider. You can’t beat the camaraderie and fellowship. It’s like being a member of a church. And for some, in a way I guess it is.

The Long Trip Home - Part 3

YELLOWSTONE: THE BIG MISTAKE

My route home to Florida from Washington took me through Yellowstone National Park, which I’d always wanted to see. So I got off Interstate 90 between Missoula and Butte, Montana and headed south on Route 287 for the park. It was Wednesday and I frankly did not know what to expect. Would there be a lot of people? Yellowstone is out in the northwest corner of Wyoming, after all; how crowded could it be?

Route 287 is a nice, scenic, lightly-traveled two-lane road that winds its way down through Montana, following the Madison River for a good stretch. The scenery is awesome, as you might imagine if you’ve heard anything at all about Montana. It makes you want to stop just to drink it all in. And there were times when I did just that: Sat by the side of the road and listened to the nothingness.  Sadly, I didn't have enough time to tarry. But even when you’re in a hurry, seeing the country on a motorcycle is pretty cool; you have unrestricted visibility in most directions. In a place like Montana that comes in handy.

Traffic picks up as you continue down Route 191 to a point where Montana, Idaho and Wyoming all come together.  Then all of a sudden you're in the town of West Yellowstone which sits at the west gate of the park. It’s one of these impossibly crowded tourist trap towns – “impossibly” because it’s out IN THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE! I wondered: How did all these people get here?

At the entrance to the park, the ranger took my $20 and wished me a good trip. I said, “Yeah, I’ll probably get stuck in a conga line of slow-moving RV’s.” He winced and said, “Yeah…probably.” Not exactly what I waned to hear, but that’s exactly what happened.

When you buy a new or used RV, they must make you sign an agreement that you WILL take it to Yellowstone. I’m not quite sure why everyone gravitates there. It’s not “wilderness” per se. Not when you’re on a tiny road traveling bumper-to-bumper with a zillion others just like you…and the odd motorcyclist stuck in between. Most of the campground signs I saw said, “Full.” On a Wednesday.

You pop out of Yellowstone and run smack dab into Grand Teton National Park.

 

The Tetons are an amazing mountain range…well worth seeing. But the number of cars and level of traffic here too was just depressing. Yep, load up the RV and get away from it all!

Between the slow traffic and the road construction, the trip through the two parks was anything but enjoyable. In fact, I didn’t even stop at Old Faithful because the traffic turning into the parking lot was too bad. The number of people in the park was literally astonishing.

In the end, Yellowstone was a big disappointment. Traffic was bad going in, horrible going through, and bad coming out. It was perhaps the worst decision I’d made on the trip…perhaps in my life. I’m sorry I went.  If you're out on the road in your "camper," save yourself the same fate and go somewhere else – anywhere else. You’ll be glad you did.  But if you must go, take your RV and drive through Manhattan at rush-hour.  That ought to prepare you for the "fun" that is Yellowstone National Park.

The Long Trip Home - Part 2

Here’s the thing about traveling by motorcycle: You can’t really stretch out or shift positions. You’re body is locked into a certain posture for as long as the gas holds out. Which in my case is every 110-120 miles. My bike has a 3.3 gallon tank. The fuel valve is setup so that I have 2.8 gallons on “main” with a half-gallon “reserve. I get about 50 mpg. So I could stretch the range out to 150 miles, but it goes on “reserve” before that, and when it does I only have about 25 miles to find a gas station. That’s not a whole lot, really. And then sometimes with a headwind and high temperature I was getting less than 50 mpg. Which means, like, 20 miles on “reserve.”

Oh, you get stiff riding a motorcycle. Fortunately, I have three sets of footpegs I can use. The standard pegs are pretty much right under my butt. But they are mounted too high (or the seat is mounted too low) and it forces my thighs up at an uncomfortable angle. To remedy this I have installed “highway pegs” which allow me to assume that classic Harley “leaned-back/feet-forward” stance. Other riders make fun of us, but it is comfortable.

I also use the passenger pegs, which are behind me. When I do, I lean forward a bit toward the handlebar. This is actually quite comfortable too. It gets the weight off my coccyx and lets me lean into the wind, which take some of the weight of my torso from my arms. Old, high-speed touring bikes like BMW’s were deliberately set up this way before the invention of these huge, wind-blocking fairings. My problem is that I have a small, clear windshield installed on the bars which blocks much of that wind from hitting my torso. So I have to be going quite fast for this riding position to be effective. I can do that.

Whichever position I use (and I alternate among them frequently), I’m usually more than ready to stop by the time 110 miles has rolled under the wheels. Gas stops end up taking a bit longer than if I was in a car because I really need to walk around and uncramp the leg muscles. I cruise along at 70-75 mph (and sometimes higher) but you cannot maintain that for the entire time. There are always things that slow you down (construction zones, clumps of slow-moving traffic, etc.)

Thus 110 miles will usually take me an hour-and-forty-five. Throw in a 15 minute gas stop and we’re talking two hours to go 110 miles. My “block speed” as we pilots call it has just diminished to 55 mph. That’s the best-case scenario. Some gas stops are longer because of meals and restroom breaks.

Sitting in basically one position all day long forces you to do certain things. For one, you get to think a lot. Mostly you get to think about how damn uncomfortable you are! But seriously, there’s a lot of time for introspection and self-evaluation and world problem-solving. Sometimes I listen to music. If I’m wearing my full-face helmet I can sing along with the songs without anyone else knowing. Or hearing.

Riding for long distances is fatiguing because the mere act of conducting the motorcycle down the road takes so much concentration – tons more than is required of a car driver. You can’t stop riding for even a second. You can’t let go of the bars; do so and the bike would quickly head for the ditch or the median. You must always guide it down the road on exactly the path you choose. You have to be constantly vigilant for “stuff” in your lane. Even a piece of truck tire carcass can cause a motorcyclist to crash. Every on-ramp and off-ramp…every corner…must be negotiated with care. The level of concentration rivals that of flying a helicopter. Which is probably why I like riding so much.

There are motorcycles like the Harley Electra Glide and the Honda Goldwing that take the pain out of long-distance trips. But they get mighty close to the line between motorcycles and cars. Too close for me. Both bikes have cruise-control and kick-ass stereos. The Honda even has a reverse gear!

Me, I prefer my “little” Sportster, even if it is not the best bike for covering lots of miles in a short time. Because when I get to where I’m going, there is no better bike for just riding around.

The Long Trip Home - Part 1

It seemed like such a good plan.  But then they always do.  I’d leave Brewster, Washington on the motorcycle on August 1st, making a leisurely ride home on the Sportster. I’d stay off the Interstates as much as possible, and visit friends old and new along the way. I guess the question is why I ever thought it would work out that way?

Brandon showed right as I was supposed to leave. He had been one of our copilots last year, and we had become close. I wanted to spend some time with him, so that put my departure date off a bit.

But I had houseguests as well. I have a big place in Pensacola, Florida and a number of my friends have keys. They know they can always stop by and stay…whether or not I’m there. I like that.  In this case, my friend Gene would be in town from August 8th through the 12th. Jacob and his new bride, Melisa announced they were coming a couple of days after that.  I needed to be home. 

I finally left Brewster on Wednesday, the 8th. My planned route home worked out to be about 2,850 miles. I figured it would take four solid days of riding.

When you embark on such a long motorcycle trip you always wonder how things are going to go.  You plan for the worst weather, and for mechanical breakdowns.  In my case I packed a good rainsuit and some plastic money instead of tools.  I am an optimist.  As it turned out, I needed neither the rainsuit nor tools.  Things went surprisingly well.

Originally, on the way up last year I thought I could do 800 miles per day on the bike. That turned out to be a wild fantasy. Six-hundred was about all I could endure. And even then, when you’re only averaging 50 mph, 600 miles takes 12 hours.  This year, for the return ride I knew I'd have to average more than 700 miles per day.  It was gonna be rough.  And it was.

The trip ended up being 2,950 miles. I did make it home Saturday evening just before dark - four long days after leaving Washington.   Unbelievably, not one drop of rain touched me or the motorcycle. The Sportster performed flawlessly, never missing a beat. My aging, aching body…not so much. Trips like this remind me that I’m not a kid anymore.  I just act like one.

I will take the Sportster back up to Washington next year…only it’ll be on a trailer hooked to the back of the car.