12: Just One More Day (Please)

While I am ecstatic about the purchase of the 999, I am also painfully aware of the approaching end to the riding season. I won't have much time to spend with the new motorcycle, so every minute counts. I even find myself jumping on it just to spin around the block, like a little boy with a new bicycle. A bicycle that moves from 0-60 MPH in under 3 seconds.
With the weather slowly deteriorating, I decided to take advantage of a 70 degree day on Wednesday, and burned a personal day at work. The morning turned out to be chilly, about 55 degrees, but the sun was coming and The Weather Channel promised me 71. I dressed for the occasion with a few layers, figuring that I could shed one if I started to sweat. I left a little later in the morning to allow the sun to warm up the world (and me).

This would be the first test of the Ducati since I'd brought it home the week before. The dealer, and the Italians, insist on keeping the RPMs low and the brakes light to break everything in, so I wasn't going out with any delusions of Valentino Rossi - just to see what it would do on the Big Roads. I departed Germantown via Rt. 355 traveling West, giving the tires a chance to scrub a little in the curves and heat up for a higher speed on the highway. This route takes me to Frederick, and Fredericktown Yamaha/Triumph is on this road. Naturally, I stopped in. I stop at almost every motorcycle dealership I pass. It's a great way to spend your spare time. Seeing new models, picking brains, looking for good deals (that's how I found the Ducati for such a relative steal, evidence that my habit pays off). Plus, Fredericktown is just a nice place to be. It's a family-owned shop, and the only Triumph dealer around. I have been there many times, and the staff never questions my tire-kicking and endless questions. They appreciate the British machines that they sell, and any others that show up in the lot.
One of the owners, Kyle, allowed me to interrogate him about the pending arrival of the 2008 Street Triple, the little version of the 1051i Speed Triple that I covet so much.

(Every motorbike I see is going to be my "next" one. But the Triples are very near and dear to me. I must have one, or I might die. Seriously.)

I even got free goodies. Kyle was nice enough to give me a breath-deflector and chin-curtain for my HJC helmet. Good for cold days, and I was lacking. These are the kinds of things that bring me back and assure that when I do get a new Triumph, it will be from these guys. A huge contrast to the big 5-company stealerships staffed by glossy-eyed kids who'd rather yack on the phone than sell bikes, and really have no answers to questions of a technical nature. "Here's a brochure... it might be in there". Tragic.

New nose-thingy installed, I left Frederick via Rt 15 North. This would take me to Pennsylvania, and being a Wednesday, everyone was flipping burgers, shuffling papers, typing, wrenching, and brain-surger-ing. Everyone except me. I was ripping North on a wide-open 4 lane highway, looking at the Autumn-orange foothills of Appalachia en route to one of my favorite places: Gettysburg. I was J.E.B. Stuart riding ahead of Lee, attempting again to circle Meade's Army of the Potomac. But before my glorious arrival into battle, I had to get some lunch.



I stopped at The Shamrock Restaurant in Thurmont. I had seen the little roadside place a hundred times, marked in each direction on Rt. 15 by billboards depicting giant Guinnesses. Thirsty. Inside, the Shamrock was surprisingly crowded with he only people other than me that weren't working today - the Elderly. Lots of them, too. I sat myself in the relatively empty bar to avoid puzzled, bifocaled stares. After my Guinness came (not nearly as big as the one on the billboard, merely a pint), I looked around and noticed that the Irishness of The Shamrock was overshadowed by it's rural Maryland influence. Paneling on the walls instead of traditional dark Irish wood, no brass to be found. The Guinness was a bit too cold and slightly fizzy - not the work of a bartender that knew what she was doing, but drinkable. I ordered a cheeseburger as usual, and planned the rest of my day.



My burger was a 6 out of 10. Greasier than I would expect from a place like this, but cooked right and big enough for the price. ($6.75) I would return here for food, but I will explore other options in the area for later rides. (PS: Green lights do not an Irish bar make...)



Done with lunch (and an extra pint for the road), I continued North to Gettysburg. My ride across the Mason-Dixon line was and absolute thrill. Even holding the Ducati back to under 6000 RPM - with the occasional diversion- was simply amazing. I have owned numerous sportbikes in my life, but none of them were anything like this Italian machine. At 90MPH, the bike was as smooth as it is when it's standing still in my garage, and begging me to open the throttle. The control in the corners and turns is unlike any motorcycle I have ridden. It just "Knows". It almost steers itself. 100MPH comes so quickly and effortlessly that you hardly recognize your own speed. GSXRs and CBRs may have a little more scream and bat-shit top-end in their cammy in-line fours, but I can live without the extra few horsepower in trade for the glassy slickness and stability. It was even comfortable!

(However, I've been riding the DRZ and a Triumph chopper previously. By comparison, the Ducati seat was like a vibrating massage chair. The wrists and back on the other hand - I had forgotten about the aggressive sportbike stance until now. This old boy needs to get back in the gym and build a little stamina).

Route 15 takes one directly through the main body of the Gettysburg battlefield, between the lines of the Union and Confederate armies. Looking left, you see the treeline where the South had lined their divisions.



Looking right, the Copse of Trees and The Angle, where Union lines and batteries stood their ground against Picketts ill-fated charge.



Pass by Little Round Top -Joshua Chamberlains miracle bayonet charge that changed the direction of the battle. Pass through The Peach Orchard, The Wheatfield, Cemetery Hill - all places that demand capitalization due to their individual importance to history and the future of The Nation. I love this place, and find myself keeping very quiet when I'm here. Some places should not be disturbed. I choose not to take or post photos of the Kentucky Fried Chicken built not a quarter-mile from where I was standing, because it pains me to look at.



Leaving the field and riding back South, I wanted to get back into Frederick before rush-hour on Route 15, and stop by my friend Tony's house. He hadn't seen the new machine yet, and I knew he wanted to. Back down the highway (still wide open save an occasional semi-truck), I pushed the Ducati a little harder, finding where the speeds vs. gears feels the best. One could reach 100 in first gear, so one must maintain some degree of discipline. At a faster clip, I found the differences between my cheap HJC globe-shaped helmet and the better-engineered models by Arai and Shoei, et al. The helmet was just dying to lift straight up off of my head, something I hadn't noticed while riding the Supermoto. (Then again the Suzuki hasn't seen, nor will never see 110MPH. Even an attempt at such speeds would surely burst it into flames.). I will have to consider a better helmet after the HJC has lived it's life. Head turbulence aside, the ride back was even better than the ride up.

I arrived at Tony's (after a short Starbucks stop to stretch my lumbar region) as he was arriving home from work. I had to giggle at how much his bright red Honda shirt matched the Ducati. One could easily see the conflict of interest as he sat on it and took it around the block. No matter how loyal one is to their company and it's machines, you just can't deny the wickedness of the 999 - and Tony's Arai helmet went much better with it.



Time to go home, I was able to test out the headlight function on I-270, which was more than adequate and worked great (unlike the mirrors on this bike. They seem to be there only to hold up the turn signals and give you a good view of your elbows. Can't see a damned thing behind you). I even got to play with the very European "passing trigger" on the left control - kind of like a laser gun to shoot slowpokes in the fast lane. I got home from Frederick in 15 minutes, which was nice because I was beginning to get cold now since the sun had disappeared behind the hills. I arrived home tired and very happy. A good 150 miles on the odometer, I felt that the Ducati was pleased, too.

I will be anxiously waiting for another chance to get this bike on the road -watching The Weather Channel, staring out the window, sniffing the air, and wiping bugs off of the beautiful red fairing until it comes.

11: Sound Reasoning.

To a person that has no interest, it's very difficult to come up with an answer to the question, "Why motorcycles?"
Some people never ask. Some inquire only after they find that your interest in these machines borders on an obsession. (I refuse to recognize that term in this context. To me, an obsession implies something unsound or unhealthy. I can't find anything about an interest in motorbikes that would justify this definition). So, I generally don't explain myself in this regards, as I wouldn't require an explanation from an individual who enjoys guitars, vintage cars, war memorabilia, old vinyl LPs, or any other diversion that seems to have any merit -historical or otherwise.

(Note: one may question seemingly bizarre endeavors like Beanie Babies or DVD box-sets of terrible sitcoms. But even these things bring enjoyment to somebody, however mysterious it may seem to those of us who weren't fans of "Saved By The Bell").

But why motorcycles? And why multitudes, when each one is a functional machine in and of itself? To a non-enthusiast, it must seem much like having a garage full of Toyota Corollas. They all do the same thing, right? Maybe. In essence, yes. They all (most) have a key, you put some fuel in it, and you ride down the road. But this is really where the similarities end to a man (woman) who is paying attention. So many of these machines are so vital in the history and evolution of motorcycling and it's technology that it's hard not to covet them:

The early four-cylinder offerings of Mr. Soichiro Honda, which changed the face of the industry forever by putting great machines into the hands of Everyman. High performance, low cost, no maintenance. Mr. Honda did more for motorcycling in his lifetime than any other single individual. Testament to this is the number of his machines that are still on the road and in garages that probably haven't had an oil change in years yet are still running. In a time when British and American twins were spendy and unreliable, these gifts from the Orient made riding possible for everyone.

The venerable British parallel twins... the leaky brilliance of these bikes has drawn the eye of nearly every (true) motorcyclist. Even non-riders will recognize something special when a Triumph TR6C or Norton Commando rolls by. The musical grumble and clattering is like a symphony, and makes one forget about the fact that the British couldn't seem to figure out how to keep the oil inside the motor rather than on the garage floor. That oozing oil and gas is simply evidence of it's soul.

Italian super-engineering: Machines from Bologna and all over the Boot have been the most desirable bikes for many riders. Not always practical, not always attainable, but their mystique and quality is without question. You rarely find a layman on a 900SS or a Mille. The high standards of Italian manufacturers are on par with the art and culture of a country that has perpetually set the bar for creative excellence. Add the Germans to this category, as BMW's offerings are of equally high caliber.

And no less important - The American Big Twin. Willie G's legacy and icon of riding heritage has shaped the history of motorbikes and created the mold by which all other companies build their cruisers. Yeah yeah. The last two decades have seen this element go from real motorcycling to commercial obscenity and consumer nightmare. But Big Corporations have every right to make a buck... that's the system we asked for a couple/few hundred years ago, no? While I scoff at what has become of HD, I can't deny it's contribution to the cause. (But HD dog-collars and dinnerware? Come on, guys. It's tough to love you sometimes).

This doesn't really answer the question, "Why do YOU like motorcycles?"

I suppose my beginnings with bikes are similar to those of many. The girls and the aura. What better way for a young guy to catch the attention of girls, or the admiration of the guys, than to show up on a thundering machine wearing leather, unshaven for a few days and smelling of road-grime? You giggle, but it's true. My first (second, third) bike wasn't purchased with any love for the bike itself. I got them for how they made me feel... Cool. The ever important, adolescent Cool. It wasn't until much later in my personal evolution that I came to understand the real importance of the machine itself. An enlightenment long overdue. (Shedding the need for Cool comes later in a man's life, I think - but once that dead skin weight is lifted from you, the world becomes a much "cooler" place. This I know).

My first bike wasn't cool - 1981 Honda GL500 Silverwing, stripped of it's fairing and touring attire. Brown, slightly beat-up, and purchased for $400 from a guy who knew a guy. Not fast by today's standards, but at the time I thought I was Rollie Free. I would lay on that square-ish tank and open the throttle wide on the straight, flat secondary roads of Northern Illinois, eating every indigenous insect species along the way because helmets weren't Cool. I hadn't learned to turn well, and both sides of my shaft-driven Honda showed it. But it kept going, and even as ugly as it was, it was still more bike than my friends had at the time.

Later on, as my circle of "friends" changed (as they always do, I never really had many or any), I found myself eyeing sportbikes. Enter Tony DeFranze and his older brother Mike. The DeFranzes were friends of a friend, and they changed my riding life drastically. They reeked of Cool. Both brothers had CBR600F2's, in different states of customization and upgrade. (Chicago's sportbike scene was one of drag-racing, and the local bikes were built to suit). Not only were they Cool, but they were a doorway to a whole group of Cool guys. GSXRs, FZRs, CBRs - chromed, polished, stretched, punched. A cast of characters on them. Local hangouts, late night rides at highly illegal speeds. Weekend trips to the local drag-strips to prove one's mettle. I was sold. I bought my first GSXR, and sunk every dime I had into it - even some dimes I didn't have. But I wanted to be that guy. I wanted to be Tony and Mike DeFranze. Girls flocked to them. Guys at the track or on the street feared them. This was the life for me. I lived it from a distance, watching from the outside. Some of the best years of my life (motorcycle life) followed, and if nothing else, I gained a couple of life-long friends from that era.

It wasn't until later that I came to realize that it wasn't the bikes that made one Cool. It was the man. I still know these guys, and consider them the best of friends. But as we all matured and moved on, I found that the motorcycle had nothing to do with one's Coolness. Tony doesn't even have a motorcycle right now, but is still one of my most admired and respected friends.

(Irony: Tony now works for American Honda Motorcycle Corp. yet the demands of his job don't allow for much time to own or ride a motorcycle. It's very rare that we get to find work in a field that we truly love, and strange that when we do it's tough to enjoy it anymore).

Tony is talking about buying the new CBR1000RR next Spring. I wonder, now that we're old(er), if all of the Cool pretenses are finally thrown to the curb and we can finally just get out and ride. I am looking forward to it.

So the answer, then? I still ride because of how it makes me feel. But now that I don't have to worry about being Cool, I can ride what I want, when I want, and where I want. I can ride my little DRZ and get the same thrill that I did on my old Gixxer. It doesn't matter to me who I ride with or what they ride. I can buy a bikes solely based on what it does for me, not the girls at the bar or the guys on the road. No posturing. No image. No worries.

And that, my friends, is truly Cool.

10: The Dream, Part 1

Once in a great while, sometimes a lifetime, one is presented with an opportunity to get his/her hands on a fantasy - a dream. Some dreams are situational, like finding that perfect job. Some are of a more personal dynamic, like meeting one's soul-mate.

And some are just downright material. The vintage car you've always wanted. The cabin in the woods you've wanted to spend your weekends in. Not necessary, but that doesn't make these dreams any less valid or important to the dreamer.

Today, I attained one of these dreams. (I have too many to list, and any victory is a big one).



This Ducati 999 Testastretta.

I have spent many a day staring down a long, curvy road and fantasizing about owning such a machine. A masterpiece of engineering. A motorbike so finely tuned for it's environment, and so unapologetic in it's purpose, that it requires no explanation... it's simply self-evident. There is no need to explain it to anyone, and anyone that would need an explanation simply wouldn't understand.

I will expand upon this event in my life upon the bike being handed over from the dealership. (This photo is obviously a stock pic, and Ducati is prepping the 999 for delivery). But I just had to write this down and get it out. Who knows? Maybe it will be as exciting to another true motorcyclist as it is to me.

Look for a report of my first encounter with this new dream in a few days...

7: A One-Tank Day in DC

The end-of-the-quarter at work has come and gone. It went well. My team performed perfectly, and all of our deadlines and numbers were met with great success. I would love to say that this was attributed to my managing abilities, but I can't. The team that I work with is competent and capable, and I think that the result would have been the same whether I had a hand in it or not. Historically, the week following the end of a quarter is smooth sailing. Everyone is cooling off after the pressures of the past few months, and gearing up for the next three. It's a cycle that I've become accustomed to.
To celebrate and blow off some steam, I went to Frederick on Friday night. Between Bushwallers and Olde Town, and the 10-or-so Guinesses and Newcastles that they produced, I was able to completely forget about the past week. However, the following day, I still felt the need to do a little erasing.
Robin had it in his mind to ride into DC for whatever reason on Saturday. Not my first (or second, third, or fourth) choice of destination for a short day ride, but the weather being as beautiful as it was, anywhere would do.
The ride began at Starbucks, per usual. This has become somewhat customary. This particular morning, Starbucks gave me a bit of much-needed hydration. (The Newcastles from the previous night had rendered me a bit dry). We left there and used the local sideroads to get down to River Road, my usual route to DC. The interstate and the Beltway will put you in faster, but I hate them like poison.

River Road found us stuck behind the weekend travelers and explorers in their SUVs, putting down the road at 30 MPH, putting a damper on zipping through it's curves. (The posted limit IS 30, but I still like to break the law in small ways: speeding through forest turns, riding on the sidewalk to return my movies at Blockbuster, cutting across the common-area in my apartment complex when nobody is looking... I am truly a rebel. Watch out).

We stopped at a roadside bar/restaurant that I had eyeballed on a few occasions. An Irish pub, according to the sign outside. The outdoor seating full on this great Saturday, we took a bar table and a cute, nose-ringed (why?) waitress brought us a pair of perfectly drafted Guinesses. This was the extent of the Irishness, really.



The menu was surprisingly advanced and swanky. I had expected bar-and-grill fare, but found chef-grade entrees, many of which looked very tasty. But, being a creature of habit, I opted for the only cheeseburger on the menu. Angus beef, aged Irish cheddar: $10. A $10 cheeseburger is, to me, an outright challenge. I have to eat one, just to see what about this sandwich justifies the price. I am a cheeseburger connoisseur of sorts. I have no problem with paying $10, but the burger had better leave a lasting impression upon me. The one that I received, however, did not. Average, too small for the price, a little dry. Now I know.



Off to DC. We followed MacArthur Blvd and Reservoir Road into Georgetown, past the German Embassy, the French Embassy, and Georgetown University Hospital. (Kind of a crappy route but from a male POV, Georgetown has a lot of "scenery" to behold on campus. Totally worth a few extra stoplights). Down 35th to Prospect, I wanted to cut across to M Street. Unfortunately, my shortcut took us down a 30 degree hill made of 19th century cobblestone and choppy brick. Virtually undetectable to me on the DRZ, but a real pain in the ass for Robin, who rides a big Harley Davidson Softail. Guiding 700+ pounds of hulking metal down a lumpy hill is probably not much fun.

We crossed the Potomac into Alexandria on one bridge, and returned to DC on another to avoid walking the bikes through the Georgetown shopping district. This also brought us into The Mall on Constitution Avenue. Busy place on Saturdays, there is always something going on here. We slipped the bikes between two nicely spaced cars and walked a bit. Parking is a non-issue on two wheels.

Much to my surprise, an event surrounding the release of the new Ken Burns documentary "The War" was going on in The Mall next to the WWII Memorial. The event was in the early stages of being set up, with giant screens and podiums and oodles of chairs set up on the grass. The schedule of events listed on screen mentioned ceremonies and presentations, and even a screening of the film. If I had planned for it, I would have stayed. I can't think of a nicer evening than sitting on the lawn under the Washington Monument watching an 8-hour documentary on WWII. Seriously. I have been awaiting the release of this film for a long time - after Burns' "The Civil War", I would watch a documentary on The Muppets if he were to direct it. If you're not familiar with Ken Burns films, you are really denying yourself something great.



A little more walking around the WWII memorial. There seemed to be an unusually large amount of senior-citizens on hand, most likely due to the pending WWII events. A more socially capable Me would have taken the opportunity to have a first hand conversation with people involved in that War. Lot's to learn. Too bad that old people tend to run from me (not so much "run", but escape in their own way).





My motocross boots not being suitable for walking long, Robin and I hiked back to the bikes and made our exit from the city via Connecticut Ave. This took us past The White House, through DuPont Circle (the heart of DC's gay community), Chevy Chase and Bethesda with it's 10 zillion restaurants and eateries. Out to the Beltway and ultimately I-270 (sigh) towards home.



Traffic robbed us of total enjoyment, but the day was good anyhow. I prefer to travel West, but at least the DC ride reminded me that the film that I've been looking forward to was close to being available for me to watch. I am going to dedicate an entire weekend day to viewing "The War" in October. If anyone in the area would like to join me, you are most welcome!

6: Panhandling

I took last Friday off in preparation for a long 3-4 weeks at work. It's the end of a quarter in The Company's world - a period of chaos and urgency that appears four times per year and unfailingly brings stress. Added to that is the absence of my boss for 3 weeks, leaving me as stunt-double during this time. Good times. I decided to get a ride in that day. I couldn't really run away while things are so busy, so I tried to get my running-away done in advance and hoped it would keep me going until my time was once again returned to me.

We've lived in Maryland for 2 1/2 years and have yet to see most of it. This is funny because the entire state of Md. is no bigger than the greater metropolitan area of Chicago. This is evidence of my previous statements regarding success and sacrifice - the better you are, the further you progress, the higher the demands on you become. I was combing the interwebs for places to explore, and came across the Green Ridge National Forest website. Just East of Cumberland, in the Maryland "panhandle" is the forest. The site boasted an 18 mile off-road vehicle trail on the mountain. This was hard to resist for me, as I have owned the DRZ -a dirtbike at heart- but have yet to dirty it up. Plus the location is only 90 miles from home, so it seemed convenient for a day or overnight trip.

I prepared better than I had on previous weekends. This time I strapped a sleeping bag to the seat. Cumbersome, but no matter. I didn't wish to repeat the cold night in Shenandoah. I left early on Friday, traveling against rush-hour traffic away from DC. Wide open expressways all the way. I hate interstates, but limited time means direct travel. I flew North on I-270 to I70 West. Nothing to see on an interstate. I left 7o at I-68 West, and was greeted by surprising views in Western Maryland. 68 was deserted, and I was able to enjoy the mountain scenery with little fear of a nutty trucker or behind-schedule commuter running me into a ditch.





After a fuel stop and a quick supply pick-up (a little axe that would come in handy later), I arrived at Green Ridge. The young girl in the ranger station took my $10 and gave me a map to the site I had selected for the night. (I wasn't positive that I would be camping out, rain possible in the forecast, or the place could really suck). She told me the site was a 20 minute drive (ride) West to another highway exit and South on a dirt and gravel road to the off-road trail, then around the trail to my site which was on the opposite side of the mountain. This was good news. It meant that the park wasn't a giant forest with a small, structured campground. Each site was 1/2 mile to a mile apart. No screaming kids, no drunken campers, no anyone! I hopped back on the highway and exited at 15 Mile Creek Road as directed by my map, my route nicely marked with a pink highlighter by the young lady.

The road became the flat dirt/gravel one that I had heard of, and I followed the switchbacks up the hills. Here, the DRZ seemed perfectly at home. The street tires broke loose occasionally, but nothing shocking. It made for a great spin up the mountain for a few miles. I don't go off-road much, so it felt like a new experience. I was able to test the limits of the tires (and my skill) in the dirt.



The hill rose higher until I found signs leading to the off-road trail. I followed said signs, noting that I had yet to see anyone else on the mountain. This was shaping up to be a good day.



I reached the off-road trail and had to stand on the rear brake when I saw what was ahead of me. The road had disintegrated into a rutted, rocky track going further up hill. I glanced at my street tires with worry, not sure if my little Motard was properly outfitted for the task. I did, in fact, need it to get home. If I bent up a rim or ripped a tire, I would be stranded pretty good up there. After a few minutes of concern, the old "Oh-What-The-Hell" instinct that I have relied on my entire life kicked in and up the gnarly trail was I.



I didn't stop for any photos as I was trying to concentrate on navigating ridges and ruts without laying the Suzuki down. It was more of a workout than I had expected. The man-handling and maneuvering of the 300 pound bike plus my pack and gear was much more physical than anticipated. I reached a little stick signifying my campsite after about 2 miles, and pulled off the trail with a sense of great accomplishment. The DRZ made it up, regardless of tire, and quite nicely.

My site was reward enough for the task. A large, heavily treed area on a cliff overlooking the valley in which the Potomac snaked through below. I killed the motor and took off my helmet, and heard nothing. No voices. No traffic. Wind, a bird or two. Cicadas? Someone had been on this site recently. The fire ring was used lately, and there was even some chainsaw-cut wood laying around. Good for me. I set up camp (After deciding that I was staying. The site was too nice to leave) and took a quick look around the area.





I was even able to ride the bike around the site a little. No one around for miles, and enough room in my spot to ride.





After exploring on foot for a bit, and gathering wood from around the forest (it was everywhere, a huge contrast to my last outing in which the public campground had been scoured of fallen wood), I remembered that I hadn't really eaten today. Home base secured, I jumped back on the bike and descended the nasty trail (lots of brakework going down hill - great practice) and returned to the highway. I traveled West to Cumberland, the first real town available, about 25 miles away. I ate a cheeseburger in a small bar-and-grill, and drank about a gallon of iced tea. While doing so, I checked the Blackberry radar for rain. The display showed nothing but green (and even yellow) right over my head. Not so good. I thought of that trail, and how tough it would be to ascend if it was raining and muddy, given my road tires. I shot out of Cumberland and headed back to the mountain, reaching it without as much as a few drops on my face-shield. Back up the gravel road, back around the rutty trail. I was getting good at this.

I reached my site, changed out of my riding gear, and immediately set to work on a fire. If it was going to rain, I wanted something to dry off with. I stacked sticks and kindling, wadded some paper, and as soon as I struck my first match, the sky opened up. Rain undid every effort I put into making flame. I kept at it, but the weather had quite a few steps on me now. After exhausting a book of matches on wet sticks, I looked to the only assistant I had available - the bike. I had stuffed some napkins in my pocket at lunch (Always do. Always.) and they were still nice and dry. I rolled a couple into ropes and dipped them into the fuel tank of the DRZ, soaking them in gasoline. I rung them over my fire pile and stuffed them under my sticks. One match later and poof...instant fire. And too hot for the rain to knock down immediately. I went to work with the firewood -staging and drying, placing and arranging. I worked for over an hour, shielding with my raincoat when the rain was particularly heavy. In the end, I had a fire that defied Mother Nature's will. So big and hot that the rain turned and went another direction. Right about the time that I was through and ready to rest, the rain tapered off and then stopped altogether. (This did nothing to diminish my sense of satisfaction in creating the fire under such crappy circumstances). I strung out some shock cord between trees and hung my wet gear to dry in the heat of the fire. I was a true caveman. Master of my environment (gasoline notwithstanding).





Sitting in the silence after the rain, I was able to look out over the valley and follow the river by the water vapor rising from the tracts between the trees. I walked and dried, gathered more sticks, chopped logs, and enjoyed the fact that for the entire time I was on the mountain, I saw nobody. The sun set in the haze. I watched bats flicker over my fire, snatching up the creatures that were drawn to the only light on the hill.





Exhausted from the day, I turned in at 9. I would get up early and make my way home in time to go to The Company picnic in Fairfax VA the next day. The sleeping bag made the night much more enjoyable. And, the minute I was zippered into the tent, the rain came again, and it came down hard. I fell asleep to the racket of the rain on my tent.

In the morning, I emerged from my tent to find the weather had become beautiful. The sun was rising without clouds obscuring it, the air cool but promising to warm up later. I packed all of my wet gear and "uncamped". Bike reloaded and warmed up, I set off to leave the mountain. Unfortunately, the rain that I thought would keep me from getting up the hill also made getting down a real bitch. The rutted trail was now not only rutty but slick. My tires had no chance in these conditions. This, coupled with the fact that I am an absolute novice off-road, made for a long, spooky trip down. There were a couple of very hairy moments - one being my rear tire slipping into a 12 inch ditch while trying to traverse it, throwing the Motard onto it's side to the point where my bar-end grazed the trail. How I caught it, I don't know. Disaster averted.

Traveling back East on the interstate at that early hour proved to be mighty cold. I had all of the clothes I had available on, but the morning chill still got through. I stopped for fuel at a remote gas station/convenience store/liquor store/diner. I also decided to eat breakfast here. I needed coffee in a bad way anyhow. Breakfast was fantastic, cooked right in front of me by an old lady with a cast-iron skillet. Behind me were all manner of trucker and hunter in all manner of camouflage cap, drinking coffee and making plans to shoot things in the very hills I had just left. Good time to go home.



I will return to Green Ridge, even without the bike. It's a great place to think and unwind, a great way to spend $10. I was able to get a real break before making a plan for the difficult month ahead. Whatever successes I have in the coming weeks will be the direct result of this trip.

5: Failure and Fish.

Everyone copes with disappointment in their own manner. Each one of us suffers being let down, missing the mark, and not getting our way numerous times throughout our lives. Some say that how we handle these setbacks is what defines us. Crawl into a hole and complain about the injustices of life, or stand up, brush the dirt off, and give it another go. It's an individual choice.
Of course, it's easy to say that you would take the latter path until you are faced with personal failure. This is the case for me this week.

I had visited the Seattle area a couple of months ago for work. The Company's corporate headquarters is located there, and I was able to spend just shy of a week in the Pacific Northwest for the first time. It's effect on me was profound. I was so taken by the city, the geography, and the atmosphere that I made a conscious decision to align my career path to lead me there. Upon my return to Maryland, my wife and I had even begun to research living arrangements for the move that, to me, was a foregone conclusion.

I had found two positions within the realm of my skill-set in the internal job postings, and threw my name into the hat for both. Shortly thereafter, I interviewed via the telephone for the more senior of the positions. I am a fairly confident guy (maybe more of a curse than a blessing). I did well on the interview, and guessed that it was just a matter of time before we were bouncing across the country in a U-Haul truck to our new home in Washington. I envisioned the miles of corn and wheat fields of the Midwest giving way to the fantastic scenery of the west - badlands and mountains, deserts and rivers. Veritable pioneers en route to Unknown Territories, with Starbucks of course.

Then Saturday came, and I found that this was not to be. The Company had chosen another candidate (most likely one who already works in the department, and would require no relocation benefits or additional training. A sound business decision, really). The child in me immediately thought of throwing the phone out of the car window, smashing it against the asphalt so that it would never relay bad news again. The more recent, logical Me chose to thank the hiring manager for his time, and assure him that I was still interested in the junior (read: less money) position. The rest of the day was a whirling, seething storm cloud of frustration. Since I've entered the world as a job-holding, contributing participant, I have never been turned down for a job. I interview well, and know my stuff. I felt what one might compare to what an undefeated boxer getting KO'd for the first time might - one loss doesn't signify a washed-up fighter, but the cuts and bruises will sting and bleed for a while.

By the following day (Sunday), the disappointment had time to fester. I found myself half-tempted to loiter around the house, un-showered and irritated, inevitably giving my wife a headache and myself an ulcer. I decided instead to get on the DRZ and buzz out to Georgetown and DC via the river roads along the Potomac. What better way to blow the dust of failure and self-pity from myself, and recount where I had gone wrong and what I could have done better. A mechanical medic.

I left Germantown by Rt. 118, down to Rt. 28, and then East towards Great Falls, Md. This takes you through Potomac - a town of mansions and horses - to the C&O canal routes that (used to) run from The Capitol to Ohio. River Road snakes all the way to Georgetown under different names. It's a great path to the city if you tend to avoid crowded, boring interstates as I do.

The trip took me past Great Falls National Park, a favorite hangout of mine. I am not a big fan of the DC area (hence my attempt to relocate to Seattle), but there are natural elements here that are equal in beauty to any in the country. Every second car on River Road was saddled with kayaks, mountain bikes, or both, all heading for the river and it's offerings. This slowed my progress a little, but I am generally not in a hurry, and this route tends to find squad cars in high numbers on weekends so slower is better. (The rich demand a high police presence, I guess).

My ride took my into Georgetown on M Street. I fueled up at the Exxon station that lies at the foot of the long flight of concrete stairs made famous in the film The Exorcist. I filled my tank while imagining Father Karras bouncing down the stairs to his bloody, broken doom. The only thing bouncing down today was a couple of jogging Georgetown students , and a few tourists taking photos. Rather than turning around immediately, I crossed the Key Bridge into Alexandria, Va, and then back into DC via the Memorial Bridge. This is the first time that I have had the little DRZ400 in an urban environment, and it performed brilliantly. Traffic became almost invisible to me, short corners and tight spaces appeared as wide open lanes, and lumpy curbs and potholes became the tacky obstacles of a mini-golf course - their presence just made the game more fun. Parking, normally a chore, was as simple as adjusting my geometry to take advantage of that little wedge of space between minivans and hot-dog carts. Where was my mistake?



I stopped on Constitution Avenue, directly between the Washington Monument and Pennsylvania Avenue, to stretch for a minute and people watch. Did they not like one of the answers that I gave them? Which one? Was it because I stumbled through the SS7 question?
If you ever want instant perspective of your own failures, stop in front of the White House and consider the man who lives inside. Your own inefficiencies will pale in comparison, guaranteed.





I left The Mall and wormed my way through the city to return the way I had come. System Of A Down was playing in my helmet (I choose music appropriate to my location, and System is always suitable for The Capitol Of The World) as I zipped across on I Street, K Street, and finally back to M, which leads out to MacArthur and to River Road. Back through the mid-paced curves of Potomac, back to Germantown. On the way home, I took a good quick run down Black Rock Road - an unmarked backroad that winds along Seneca Creek and Darnestown. All blind corners, loose gravel, choppy old asphalt, and 25 Mph signs. I took the road at 50, slightly illegal, but the little thumper just begs for roads like these, and I didn't want to deny it - one of us should get what he wants today. Why didn't I study up on SS7? Did my leadership ability not come across on the phone? Is that a car coming around that bend? Did the guy who got the job have an unfair advantage?



Seneca Creek was dead quiet aside from it's own bubbling, which I was hoping for. I sat for almost an hour on the rocks in the creek, thinking of Seattle, thinking of my wife's disappointment (she wants to go as much as I do), of what direction to go now. A small fish slipped over the rocks near my feet. I think he paused to give me a look that said, "Feeling sorry for yourself, superstar?" Smart-assed fish... one day he'll perish at the end of a hook. He always does.



But he was right. That almost-an-hour was good. I was able, at least briefly, to put things in perspective. I am not self-centered. I know that my little problems are virtual Nothings compared to those of others - guys that have skills and smarts but can't find good jobs anywhere. People who live on a fraction of what I have. I am in a good place in the world right now, and any foot-stomping and fist-shaking on my part over a virtually meaningless loss would be nothing less than arrogance. We don't "deserve" as much as we think we do. I didn't "lose" anything. My paychecks will still keep coming in, there's a lot of opportunity in my current role, and I have what I need. Next time around, I will not falter on a question about Signaling System 7.

4: Virginia

The West Virginia ride is done. Where to begin?

To say that the entire riding experience was absolutely perfect wouldn't be an exaggeration at all. I had been scoping the weather forecasts for 48 hours before my departure Saturday morning, and they turned out to be accurate. The weather was fantastic, and remained as such for my entire outing. There was an issue later on, but it was not nature's fault that I was a bit unprepared.

I left home in Maryland at around 0800, and immediately went to my local Starbucks. Those who know me may also know that I am more of a coffee-shop commando than a hardcore distance rider. I frequent this particular place because of A: giant black coffees with a place outside to sit and drink them, and B: there's a Sunoco station adjacent to it. Fuel for the bike, fuel for me in one stop. I am all about economy of motion.



I fueled the DRZ and did a last minute check of it's status. Oil was good, gear secured well. This is the bike ready to go. As mentioned in the last entry, I was traveling very light. I usually do, but for this trip I didn't even bring a change of clothes.



That early(ish) hour on a Saturday afforded me fast and easy expressway travel. I-270 to Rt. 340 from Germantown, Md to Harpers Ferry, WV at a nice clip of 70-75 mph. I don't ask for much more than that from the little DRZ, and it's so light that at that speed, the wind has it's way with you. Wind notwithstanding, I arrived in Harpers Ferry in just over 45 minutes and stopped to get a few photos and stretch. I love this place, and I return frequently. My fondness for all things Civil War related, combined with the natural features near this crux of the Potomac and the Shenandoah make this a favorite location for me.





Leaving Harpers Ferry and back onto 340 South. Moving at an easy pace through West Virginia. I realized that I left home without breakfast, and decided to stop in Charles Town. I had seen a diner there in the past, always bikes there. I jumped in here to eat eggs benedict and drink more coffee (always more coffee). Good food, I would definitely return. (In fact, on the trip home, I did).



Finished with the eggs, I made my way south at a good pace. Something about Virginia and it's little neighbor to the west raises my spirits. This couldn't have come at a better time. The past week has been total hell for me. On Wednesday, I was involved in a fairly bad car accident involving my company vehicle. This is never good. Even worse, my vehicle is a giant Chevy Silverado 2500, and I t-boned an old couple in a Malibu at 40 mph. I was unhurt, fortunately, as I had the advantage of 3 tons of steel over the car. The elderly man needed to be cut from the car, and I am not sure of his disposition now. He is damned lucky to have survived, as his car was almost folded in half due to his mistake (I must interject here that my callousness is due to the fact that I was not at fault in this event. A state trooper was even there to see this old man rocket out in front of my truck, which absolves me in court and at work). Nonetheless, there were phone-calls and meetings at work due to this, and my body is sore everywhere from the impact. No better time to get out of town and forget the entire week.

An hour later, I arrived in Front Royal, Va - the north end of Shenandoah National Forest and Skyline Drive. I was earlier than I had expected, so I chose to take Skyline Drive south for a while before deciding where to set up camp. I paid my $10 at the entrance (worth it), and took off up onto the ridges.





Skyline Drive is long. It's also relatively slow - about 35-40 throughout. It's a National Park, so it's to be expected. Families on sightseeing trips and hikers on this leg of the Appalachian Trail have as much right to it as motorcyclists, so it has to be a little slow. This doesn't make it's twists and turns any less enjoyable, as you kind of want to look around. This is tough to do if you're screaming around turns at 70. This road is great for beginner motorcyclists too. the regulated speeds keep it sane enough to learn how to hold a turn.

Being a holiday weekend with perfect weather, the ridges and hills were inundated with riders. Originally, I had planned to take this trip with a partner, but this was not to be. His company decided to have him work through the entire long weekend - a great example of the stupid contradictions between hard work and success and the rewards that come from them. He is good at what he does and works hard, and because of this his company asks him to do more and work harder. Not great motivation to do ones best. Sorry you missed it, Robin.

However, I had no problems finding others to ride with, even if only to tag along here and there. Riders of every kind were everywhere, the majority being the typical Big Twin "Bro" types. There were enough Screamin' Eagle pipes in those hills to fill an 18 wheeler. (You'd think with all of the revenue that Screamin' Eagle brings in from overpriced exhaust pipes, that they could afford the missing 'G'). I rode with different groups for a couple of hours. Every person I met said almost the same thing: "Can you believe this friggin' weather man?" All were friendly and in great moods, understandably.







For anyone who hasn't been to Shenandoah, go. The views are spectacular, and Virginia is filled with history - more so than nearly anywhere in this country. This is the backyard of Robert E. Lee, the home of Stonewall T.J. Jackson (two of my personal heroes and favorite figures in history). It's not hard to see why Lee chose Virginia over country when given the choice.





This group of guys was European, maybe German. I tagged along from overlook to overlook for a while. Very good riders. They held lines like robots. I am, on the other hand, all over the damned road. (I like to call it "free-form" cruising).



This is Sridhar. He rides the entire Skyline Drive every year - this year on that nice little Buell with the fuel-in-frame and blue Lexan false tank. He's from the DC area as well, and we bump into each other repeatedly throughout the morning.



A couple photo-ops later, and my watch (R.I.P.*) says it's midday. I turned around and headed back to Front Royal to decide where I am going to sleep that night. My plan was to get into West Virginia, so I wanted my spot to be as strategic as possible.



I left the park and went a mile or so north. Time for fuel and some water for me. I had the Camelback on, but I planned to use that throughout the trip when there were less options for drink. At the 7-11 I found fuel - and a couple of local bikers, Chris and Tom, who directed me to a potential available camping spot. I was going to take their picture, bu thought better of it. They very well might have called me a "homo" and kicked my ass for photographing them. But their directions were good, and I found a spot to claim in George Washington National Forest -outside of WV, but close enough to use as home base. It was a public area under Signal Knob on Fork Valley Road. $10 later and I had a place to be. A nice one too. The cliffs behind Signal Knob were visible from my site, and a big stream bubbled close by. I broke out some gear and set up my camp before taking off again.



It was around noon and already it was nice and quiet here. I foraged for rocks to build up the existing fire-ring, and found a few chunks of wood for later that night. This process effectively dissolved almost all of the stress that had built up this past week. By the time I had my camp arranged, I had forgotten all about it, and wouldn't think of it again until my return home.

With home-base ready, I sped off to West Virginia via Route 55. This took me through Strasburg, Va, and other little towns. I stopped in to a small roadside gas station to top off, and at the same time another motorcyclist pulled in from the opposite direction. It turned out to be a girl (baby-blue jacket and lid gave it away to begin with, and a couple of "other things" clued me in as well). The tag on her Ninja 500 said "Blondy". She was, in fact. We discussed good riding routes that she had just come from. She suggested a few roads, and looked a little shocked at hearing of the travel I was putting on the DRZ - not that her Ninja seat looked much more comfortable. I didn't ask her name for fear of it being misconstrued as trying to pick her up. I didn't snap a picture for fear of looking like a pervert. I'll have to work on that if I want this blog to have good detail. (She was nice looking, take my word for it.)


Route 55 seemed like the biggest waste of highway engineering on the planet. Miles and miles of beautiful road, enormous sweepers, rises and falls, with almost no entrances or exits - and not a soul on it! Like a ghost highway. I stopped to stretch and take a few photos once, and there were long periods of time that I felt like the only person on Earth. Dead silence aside from insect noise and a little breeze. I think I saw a car every 5 minutes -hardly enough to justify such a highway. Good for me, because the ride was great, like having my own private freeway. The DRZ performed as well here as it did in the tighter bends on the mountain, but my ass was really killing me by that time. I will have to address the seat issue sometime.



I made it to Moorefield before I decided that I was pretty worn out, and wanted to make sure that I was in camp with enough time to settle in before sunset. So, I spun around at Petersburg and went back the same way I came out. Another fuel stop...

(I am convinced that the DRZ's fuel tank and seat are a symbiotic relationship. If the tank was bigger I would ride further in a stretch, but the seat hurts like hell so I can't. So about the time my monkey butt kicks in is about the same time I run out of fuel.)

...and then dinner. I scoured around for a place to eat in Strasburg and found Cristina's Mexican Restaurant. It was a little crowded, so I guessed it was popular, from which I inferred good food. I was damned wrong. If anyone reading this ever finds themselves in Strasburg, do not ever, under any circumstances short of life-threatening starvation, eat at Cristina's. (Even under that threat I would opt to eat my own foot). Nachos with plain unseasoned ground beef (ground beef!) and movie theatre cheese sauce. A chimichanga that was so bland that I think the chicken was marinated in nothing more than diluted ketchup. Crap. The Coronas were ice cold, which is good. I stole napkins to use as fire-starter later. Hardly worth the $18 check. Back to camp.

I started a fire with the wood I could scrounge. I didn't bring an axe, so I had to make due. broke down my remaining gear and sat for a couple of hours staring at the night sky that I can't see from my house. The Milky Way and it's black gas and dust clouds, Cassiopeia circling the polestar, satellites cutting across the sky, a wayward meteor here and there. I heard 3 different owls, coyotes, some unknown crazy-sounding creature not too far from camp. Time to turn in...





...Fuck! Cold! At 3 AM, I woke up freezing. I didn't bring a sleeping bag, and was using my riding gear as a bed. Sleeping in a t-shirt and pants, I wasn't ready for 45-50 degrees. I had counted on 65-70 at night, and I was dead wrong. I guess the elevation and location played a part. No matter why, I was up. Out of the tent and putting on everything I had available for warmth. I did my best to scrape up whatever wood I could to start another fire, but it was small and burned fast. For 2 hours, I just maintained the fire and waited for the sun to rise.



Once the sun did rise, I brushed my teeth with the Camelback water, wiped down the bike with my one spare shirt, and broke down my camp. It was still chilly, but the sun would soon take care of that. Next time I'll account for the weather possibilities.





A little helmet-hiking and I was on my way home. I would have stayed another night to get some real hiking in, but given my lack of rest the night before and the cold night temps, I decided against it.

The return trip to Md was fast, as I wasn't stopping to sight-see. The ride was brisk at first, but the sun finally did it's job and the day turned out beautiful. I did stop at the same diner on the way home for those eggs and coffee again. Good stuff.



All in all, I put 400 miles under my wheels, and enjoyed every single one. The trip served it's purpose and cleared my skull of the previous week's junk. The DRZ did well. Power where I needed it, agility to spare. I need to re-fit it for more cargo, and that seat thing... but I would and will take this ride again soon, and would suggest that anyone else do the same.

*If you're going to spray DEET all over yourself to keep bugs away, take off your plastic watch. It will turn into goo, especially if you are using the good DEET.