The Keys, if you please

One of the advantages of a motorcycle is that you don't require much road to pass someone. I made pretty good time along the road from Homestead to the first key, Key Largo.  One of the items on my agenda was to do some snorkeling, and about the first thing I saw was a place to sign up for a dive. Thinking it was the place I had used twenty years ago, I did. I had to be there at 8:00 the next morning, which would mean leaving Key West about 5 AM, but I figured I'd finish my errands there in time. Turned out I should have picked a place in Key West to do business with, but that's a story for later.

So I had a pleasant morning ride to Key West. It's pretty hard to get lost on the way, and I passed two state parks, loads of dive shops and marinas, eateries, tourist traps, and a couple airports offering plane rides to the adventurous, not to mention hundreds of places to live, from condos to resorts, to single-family dwellings large and small. I was told that the keys were relatively unaffected by the economy—if you weren't in the tourist trade in some way you were rich and retired. The houses with for sale signs had high prices and the owners were willing to sit on them until someone came along willing to pay the price. I engaged in a little wishful thinking, but didn't check out any of the places. There's not much call for a technical writer in the keys.

Here is a photo the first person I saw when I arrived at Key West. I saw her as I walked across the bridge to get a photo of the highway sign that said "Key West," which you can find here. I figure you motorcycle riders would prefer I post the picture of the young lady rather than another highway sign. As I returned from the photo of the sign, I saw that she had several companions on similar conveyances, sorry, no photos. Click the picture to enlarge it if you need a better look.

I tracked down the youth hostel, piled my gear on a bunk in the men's dorm, and set out on my errands. One was to get my picture taken at the pillar on the southernmost corner. I already posted that on Facebook , and you can see it at the same link as the highway sign. I finally took off my gear—speeds on the island are very slow, and it was blazingly hot. No wind to cool you off. I decided heat stroke was a greater risk than pavement rash. Spent most of my time walking anyway, with the bike parked safely at the hostel.

After using the services of a friendly local to snap my Mile Zero photo, I parked the bike and set out on foot. Someplace along or near Duval street was, I hoped, a banyan tree that I had photographed two decades ago. I wanted to find it. I stopped at the first place that might give me some directions, and waited patiently while the clerk dealt with the customer ahead of me. (See photo on the right.) She was the first tourist I had a conversation with on the island, and she turned out to be pleased to pose for a picture. I didn't quite catch her name, but it was something Russian. I happened to mention that I had ridden a motorcycle here from Delaware. Her eyes immediately narrowed, and she asked me if I belonged to any motorcycle clubs up there, and did I know anyone named Jack. I hastily denied belonging to any group except Mensa, and the only Jacks I knew were associated with beanstalks, and a Chicago mobster (real person: Jack Friel) from my youth in the Midwest. She relaxed, but looked at me a little skeptically as she left. I saw no more outfits anything like hers. I guess the beach was the direction to head if you're a voyeur.

I didn't find the tree. It has probably been cut down, because I didn't find a parking lot anything like the one I found the tree in. Oh well, I still enjoyed walking around Key West.

I had to get up really early the next morning, so I returned to the hostel to check my email and hit the sack. And that's when I had my next conversation with an interesting tourist or two, but that'll have to wait until my next post.

Three encounters

Day three. Since I had come all the way from Delaware, Key West was only a hop, skip, and jump farther (what's another five hours on a motorcycle?), so I arranged with my host to return in a couple days after visiting the keys.

Now the day before, my helmet had rolled off the pile of gear strapped to the bike and broken its hinge. It was getting time to replace it anyway, so I tracked down a motorcycle dealer and picked up a new helmet. Its color matches the bike even—my dear sweet wife will be pleased. The mechanic noticed my back tire and warned me not to continue without replacing it. I ride an old bike, and that tire size has gone out of style, so it took several phone calls, web searching, and visits to dealers, repair shops, and junk yards (just kidding) to find someone with one in stock. The folks at 441 Cycle Shop had one. I scooted down to Plantation, arriving ten minutes after their deadline, but they graciously took care of me anyway, and sold me some needed rear brake pads while they were at it. Small, well-stocked, friendly, and competent; a pleasant encounter—I recommend them.

By the time my bike was shipshape, continuing my ride south would put me into Miami rush-hour traffic, so I killed some time by returning to my haunts of 20 years ago when I had done some writing for IBM. I found the church I had attended, and the pastor happened to be in. He hadn't changed a bit—must be he lives right. We stood around and talked for maybe an hour, and I got to meet two of his now grown kids, one of whom even remembered me. Another pleasant encounter.

By now it was getting late, but I decided to try for at least part way to the keys. I made it to Homestead before tiredness set in. Cheapskate that I am, I did a little hunting for the cheapest place I could find. Homestead is no longer the sleepy little bedroom community it was two decades ago, and I had a lot of choices. The dishwasher at Denny's told me about a place across the tracks, adding there were several cheap motels in the area to check out. I certainly crossed the tracks looking for it, and found a Motel 6 and stopped in to ask the price. It was considerable higher than I wanted, so I mentioned the place I was looking for. A young lady standing nearby, skinny little blonde, poorly dressed, whom I assumed was one of the cleaning staff, chipped in and gave me better directions to where that place was. As I prepared to head out, she asked if I wanted any companionship, and I replied no, I needed to get some sleep. We parted company, and about five seconds later I realized I had just had my first conversation with a, um, highway hostess! (When I told Val about this, she said it was the first one that I knew about.) I might be old, but I'm a babe in the woods, I guess. I have to admit the encounter wasn't unpleasant. Sorry, guys, no photo. (Picture me me circling back, hopping off the bike, and gushing, "Hey—you're a prostitute! Can I take your picture?" I tell you truly, the thought crossed my mind. Anything for the Mac Pac.)

The motel was run by a nice Indian fellow whose credit card machine was broken and who offered to let me check the cleanliness of the room. It was fine, and I spent the night there for $35. The motel looked okay on the outside. (I took the picture the next morning, and noticed that the room numbers went from 12 to 14. No 13. I haven't seen that in a while.)

Here's the view from inside. If the room had bugs, they kept to themselves. At least they didn't wake me up.

Tomorrow: The Keys!

Day two

The day was pretty uneventful, actually. Up early, straight shot south on 95, the police attracted to the guys in speedy sports cars. I suppose it helped that I was going pretty much the same speed as most of the others on the road, but I'm paranoid enough that I always think about getting  singled out.

Riding the slab is a good way to eat miles, but you miss a lot. At one point I stopped to put on my rain suit, and here's what I saw. It's a lot prettier than the photo. Anyway, the rain wasn't too bad until I entered Florida. That photo stop had put in my mind to take a back road or two, and I turned off 95 to enjoy the scenery a bit. Some miles down the road I encountered the worst rain I had ridden in for years. Blowing, poor visibility, big cold drops that stung if the face shield wasn't down. I pulled up under the first overpass I came to. About 30 seconds later the rain stopped. Clear, hot, humid, sunshiny. Then I remembered. This is what weather in Florida is like.

I eventually arrived at my host's house, rather later than I expected. He had said he'd have the light on, but the light was off, and there were two buildings. I didn't want to waken the wrong people. (Ahem. I already had. I had misread the GPS a bit and awakened another neighbor, who was actually rather gracious about it.) So I spent the night next to the bike. It didn't rain again, unless you count mosquitoes falling on you like cats and dogs. Hunting dogs.

Quite a different meet-up the next day, but you'll have to wait for the next post.

The adventure begins!

In principle, this trip should be easy. Get onto 95 and head south until I come to it—the Kennedy Space Center. I had a week (launch is scheduled for Saturday the 11th). So the plan was to do a side trip to Key West and some job hunting while I waited for Saturday to roll around.

I got the oil changed, ordered and installed a new air filter, and had a knowledgeable friend go over the bike with me. Then I spent about half a day getting things organized and packing it all onto the bike. At 2:30 Sunday I was ready. Turned out I had no reason to hang around, so I left. You can see a couple pictures on my dear sweet wife's Facebook page. I think you can find them here. Val and her buddy, who happened to turn uup about then (and took the photos) headed for a nearby fancy restaurant within minutes of my departure. That's on her Facebook page, too. Mourning my absence, I guess.

Sunday night found me at a rest stop somewhere in North Carolina. Most of the ride had been about as pleasant as riding the slab gets, except for miles of stop-and-go traffic between DC and Richmond. (Why is that stretch always bad?) When I pulled into the rest stop, I saw a storage shed several yards down a sand/gravel driveway, so I turned in there and parked next to two huge dumpsters. The crickets were so loud ou had to raise your voice to be heard, and the mosquitoes were as thick as in the north woods. Remind me to tell you my mosquito joke sometime. Here I realized the consequences of poor planning. I'm okay sleeping on a hard surface, and I was looking forward to the interior of my helmet as a pillow, and the ballistic padding in the back of my jacket as a mattress, but I discovered that the mosquitoes had no trouble sucking my blood through my jacket. No bug spray, you see. The ground cloth didn't help, and I ended up choosing the excessive warmth of the rain suit over donating blood to the denizens of North Carolina's woods. Good thing, too, because it rained for a while during the wee hours. Speaking of wee hours, I was awakened at 5:30 by the garbage truck backing down to empty the two dumpsters. Good thing I parked the bike to the side instead of in front of them.

I freshened up and hit the road. More later, with pictures.

Three doofuses and an adventurer

The other day I was in the car (had to haul some things that were too big to carry on the bike), stopped at a light, when a couple helmetless, shirtless (=clueless) guys on crotch rockets pulled up behind me. They started pointing at the back of the car and gave me a big thumbs up, accompanied by brotherly-type grins. Then I remembered that I have a "Biker Friendly" sticker on the back of the car. I gave them a thumbs up back. Then the light changed, they zoomed around me, and were gone.

The other doofus is me. If you haven't read the preceding post, don't bother. Niceness doesn't mean competence, and I have been thoroughly chastized by everyone I know who know anything about motorcycles. These include Jack Riepe, who was surprisingly gentle with me, and Tom Cutter of the Rubber Chicken Racing Garage, who was extremely helpful. I'll never buy a cheap oil filter again, I promise! As penance, I won't even return the filters—I'll take their cost as tuition in a lesson that I almost paid more than ten times as much for. Apparently the folks selling the cheap filters didn't know that having an oil cooler (which my bike has) makes a difference in the choice of filter. I'll blame their Fram database. I'm sure if they had known, they wouldn't have sold me the filters. They're nice guys.

The picture on the right shows the right kit on the left, and the wrong kit on the right. (That sentence is a really good example of bad technical writing. If you want to see some good examples, go to my résumé site.)

Maybe I'll find some kids on crotch rockets to give the wrong filters to. Then their bikes might break down before they coat some road with their skin.

I'm also the adventurer, but I'll talk about that in more detail in another post. Two words: shuttle launch!

Back to Biking

Monday the 15th was Ride your Motorcycle to Work day. Being out of work, I had to conjure up an excuse to get on the road, so I rode up to Hugh Lofting Timber Framing in Unionville, PA to visit the timber frames supposedly destined to become part of the structure of the house. They look nice, all snuggled under a tarp since last fall. Nice ride, too, through back PA wooded curvy roads, and not too many cars, either. Only 75 miles, but it was a nice break from the job hunt.

I have a recommendation. Recently I decided to do an oil change on the bike, and stock up on filters. I found a place that didn't seem to cater to motorcycles, but they had my stuff in their database, and the price was great, so I ordered a couple. Then I realized I needed washers and gaskets, so I wrote to cancel the order. I got a reply from the guy who seems to be the big cheese there, telling me that the washers and gaskets are included, and offeing to cancel the order anyway if I still didn't want it. He even got my name right, unusual for a human. He also remarked that he got a fair amount of business from motorcyclists and wondered how he might make himself better known in the MC community. I didn't cancel my order, and I'm posting this reference to his operation. So far I like them. Seems to be good people. The guy is Tom Morris, and their site is www.OilFiltersOnline.com. Here's part of what he wrote:

We sell a lot of motorcycle filters and have always been surprised as the website was never geared toward bikes - just filter products in general.  We intend on catering more to the motorcycle crowd in the near future.  Perhaps you might have a suggestion or two for us?  Products that might interest motorcycle owners, information,..?

I say take a look. Now to go do that oil change.

Since we're on the topic of mushrooms...

The Silicon Valley Mercury News had an interesting article about a recently discovered mushroom species. Be careful—this one is PG-13.
Read it here.

I have to like the author's name. In case they change the url, Here's some publication info:

By Paul Rogers

Mercury News

Posted: 06/11/2009 05:38:04 PM PDT

Updated: 06/12/2009 10:29:18 AM PDT

Mushroom Time

I've spotted a few in the woods this spring, but haven't photographed any yet. Today I ran into an interesting slide show from Scientific American about poisonous mushrooms, some of which I have photographed.

And while we're on the subject of poisonous chemicals, you archaeologist beer drinkers might like to read this.

Ride, phase two--Preparation

I've been promising to write about doing a 1500-mile-in-a-day motorcycle ride called a Bun Burner Gold, and I got started a couple posts ago. (Poetry is such a distraction to me...). But it's raining, so riding is a bit less attractive at the moment, and I need a break from job hunting, so I think I'll get back down to business. Anybody out there need a good tech writer, though, drop me a line.

I mentioned you need a support group, namely your spouse. That's the Permission phase. Next you need to Prepare. Preparation has three parts—you, your bike, and your logistics. Not necessarily in that order.

Logistics: The IBA BBG is called an extreme ride, so they're pretty careful about the documentation. That means you need to have someone, not you, say that you actually started on the ride, and actually finished. Doesn't have to be the same person on both ends of the ride, and doesn't have to be an IBA member, but they do have to sign the form and be willing to answer a phone call from the IBA about the ride. To get the form, go here (it's at the bottom of the page), and print it out.

Bike: (I'm assuming you're doing this on a BMW.  Do not attempt this ride on a crotch rocket.) Have Tom Cutter of the World Famous Rubber Chicken Racing Garage give your bike a thorough going-over. And have him do the repairs he suggests. Motorcycles, good as they are, are not as dependable as cars. Sorry, but them's the facts. You can pretty well count on most cars nowadays going 100K miles with nothing but an occasional oil change. Not so motorcycles, even BMWs. You're about to put a lot of stress on that bike, and nothing ruins a good ride like an unexpected breakdown. Except an accident, but that's different.

You: Wean yourself from coffee for a couple weeks. Get it thoroughly out of your system. That way, if you need that little caffeine boost, you won't be used to it, and it'll have the desired effect.

Logistics: Plan the ride, and include alternatives to your route. Print out maps. Memorize the route. Program the GPS. Print maps even if you have a GPS. Do not depend on the GPS.  Figure out the timing so you're not going through major metro areas during rush hour. A nice Baltimore to Key West by way of Atlanta is 1503 miles. Straight shot, nice destination, but you have to go through Baltimore, DC, Richmond, Atlanta, Jacksonville, and Miami to get there. Consider doing your BBG as a one-day break in a nice relaxing vacation out west. West edge of Omaha to east of Salt Lake City and back, maybe.

Bike: If you put on new tires, put a couple hundred miles on them before the ride. Gets the manufacturing oil off them. If Tom's checkup involves any new parts, ride a while to be sure everything's okay, and you're comfortable with the changes.Same thing with other farkles. You want to be sure that new tank bag doesn't have a tendency to slid left all the time.

You: Do a Saddlesore ride (only 1000 miles). For one thing, the IBA requires at least one other long ride before you do a BBG, but you really need to know how your bike feels to you (and how you feel) after a bunch of hours in the saddle. Decide if you can stand that slight angle of your handlebars that twists your wrist a little too much.

Bike: Ah, the issue of carrying extra gasoline. An auxiliary tank can reduce the number of stops. I get a almost 250 miles from a tankful of highway driving. If you average 75 mph, that's about three hours. Plenty long for me. I've never used an auxiliary tank. The break every three hours is worth it. 1500 divided by 250 is six stops. Doable.

Logistics: If something happens that prevents completion of the ride, you might still have a saddlesore in there. That's a decent consolation prize. Plan alternative start dates. You do not have to tell the IBA when you're going to do the ride. If you get unexpected bad weather, it's okay to start a day or week later.

You: Stage three.

Another interlude

Ok, ok, I'll get that next post about how to ride 1500 miles in one day Real Soon Now. But I ran into this and want to share. The guy on the right is my hero, I think. Since I'm posting this without permission, I should at least give the guy who's responsible for it a plug. Visit his wonderful blog. The photo was taken at this year’s World Beard & Moustache Championships in Anchorage, Alaska. One of these days I'm going to ride to AK. Anybody want to join me?

A brief interlude on the 1500-mile ride instructions

hee-hee. I have a poem for my good friend Jack Riepe. His blog, Twisted Roads,  is listed on the left edge—go there and tell him how much you liked the poem. It's a double-dactyl form, which I described and threatened promised to write a few posts back. The only compromise is I had to write "motorbike" instead of the more technically correct "motorcycle." Call it poetic license.

Motorbike riding time
     Rumbada rumbada
     Jack of the crippled knee
     Here's what you need to do—
     Something that's neat:

     Telekinetically
     Lift yourself into the
     Air and then put yourself
     Onto the seat!

I just love writing deathless poetry...

How do I count thee, Oh 1500?

Let's do a little math. 1500 miles divided by 24 hours equals 62.5 miles per hour. Now that's not an unreasonable speed, and maybe once you could average that if you got a good night's sleep beforehand, and arranged to end the 24 hours before it got dark. Pretty hard to do, and utterly out of the question if you want to do more than one in a row. So let's give ourselves a little sleep, shall we? 1500 divided by a long day in the saddle, 18 hours, gives 83.3 mph.  Average. Not counting gas and potty breaks. You want to pick your highways pretty carefully, lest you receive any performance awards and their attendant delays. What if we compromise and do a really long day, say 20 hours on the road? The average is a bit more reasonable 75 mph. You should be able to get away with that on a lot of open interstates and some back roads west of the Mississippi. Well, we're in good old Delaware out here; not too many empty roads. That leads me to the Three Principles of the Long Ride.

Permission, Preparation, and Production.

Let's talk about permission. You will not complete this ride without some kind of support group. Unless you're leaving your wife for good, I suggest that you need her support. Moral support, and maybe logistical. Presumably she's your most loyal fan, and more willing to help out than others would be, especially if it calls for weird hours. My motorcycle was a birthday gift from my dear sweet wife, so I have a pretty good start on the permission angle. One has to take into account her needs, too, though. Get yourself some really good insurance for the trip, but don't make too big a deal about it. This is to help her over the hump if you mangle yourself, not a way to persuade her to let you do it. Have a serious talk, and find out her actual worries. Your wife is the best person in the world for knowing your weaknesses, and if she has any worries, those are your most important preparation tasks. Maybe she's worried about you being eaten by rattlesnakes in the Iron Butt Motel. Arrange to crash (metaphorically) with someone in the club. Promise to observe your body's tiredness signals, and describe them to her, so she'll know you're not bluffing. Show her the route. Promise to call. Do some practice trips; get her used to the idea. Whatever she needs. They will turn out to be things you also need. Do them, and you, the ride, and she will all be happier. I'll get into some of these things in more detail later, because they fall into the preparation category. Just know that a ride is more likely to succeed with a cheering squad at home.

It's raining right now, and I have some prep to do for a ride coming up this weekend. More later.

Masochism or Torture—or Fun?

The Iron Butt Association is a club of long-distance motorcyclists. Their motto, justifiably, is "The World's Toughest Riders." They are careful to point out that their rides are not races, but exercises in endurance. In a race, you try to get from point A to point B faster than someone else does. In an endurance contest—well, once a bunch of Harley riders pulled up to a stoplight next to a guy on a BMW, and they challenged him to a race. He said, "Okay, there-and-back, I get to pick the turn-around point." The Harley guys agreed, and money was placed with a neutral third party. Then the BMW rider chose Chicago as the turn-around. He got the money.

Endurance riding is self-inflicted pain for some, bike-inflicted for others, high adventure for still others. The bragging rights are pretty good, too. And actually, the ride isn't too bad, if you prepare. Okay, for some rides it's bad no matter how well you prepare, but that's part of the glory.

To join the IBA, you have to complete at least their shortest named ride, and prove you did it with appropriate documentation. That shortest ride is a Saddlesore 1000: Ride 1000 miles or more in 24 hours or less (mine was 1050 miles in 23.5 hours). This can be done without ever breaking a highway speed limit. Membership is a lifetime thing, by the way, and the Saddlesore 1000 is challenging but doable. You finish kind of tired, but happy, and with a sense of accomplishment. If you have a decent bike, the ride ends just before it really stops being fun. I recommend one for everyone who wants to be a serious motorcyclist. Some define "serious motorcyclist" as spending serious money on a motorcycle (and I agree  that that's painful) and riding around. They are entitled to their opinion, but whenever I see a motorcycle on a trailer, I say, "Nice trailer!"

The IBA has other sizes of torture adventure. You can, for instance, ride farther than 1000 miles in a day, Say 1500 miles. That's a bunburner. (Sorry for the coarse language, but if you do one, you'll decide that it's justified.) Then there's the 50 CC. Cross the country in 50 hours or less. The IBA's longest ride (that I know of) is the Ultimate Coast-to-Coast. Ride between Key West and Prudhoe Bay in 30 days or less. That sounds pretty doable to me, and I have ambitions to do one.

All these rides require a certain amount of planning and preparation, and suffering, but to my mind, about the worst thing you can do to yourself is a trifecta. Three 1500-miles days in a row. More in the next post, if I can bring myself to describe it.