I missed the Thursday events at the AMA conference because I couldn't get the time off work. I rode down that evening after work, along the roads that have become familiar over the last two years.

I stopped for gas in Lancaster, an hour or so after dark. I decided to go into the store and see what I could find to eat in the morning. I would be getting up early and I might not have time to visit a restaurant. I was surprised to find the gas station door locked. The cashier waved me around to an outside window and asked me what I wanted?

I said, "What do you have? I need some food to pack away and eat tomorrow morning." He looked at me for a long moment. "Don't worry, I promise I'm not an axe murderer. I promise to behave myself if you let me in."

He came around the counter and unlocked the door. There wasn't much selection, but I chose a few munchies, a bottle of water, and a caffeinated soda. As I was paying, a car pulled up and a woman came towards the door. The clerk groused that he'd never get the place locked again. I apologized and thanked him as sincerely as I could for letting me in, and went on my way.

Out on 33, there wasn't much traffic. Fog swirled in low lying areas. The air was cool and damp, and I was glad to be wearing my 'stich. I watched in my mirrors as a lone headlight appeared far behind me. Was it another bike, or was it a car with one light out? I saw a deer, and slowed down. The single headlight in the mirror came closer and closer, and I knew it was a motorcycle. Was it another woman going to the conference? Soon I could hear the bike. I could see flames come out of the short pipes as it passed me. The rider was a pudgy man in a leather vest and shorts, no helmet or shirt, lashed by the tassels on his handlebars. He had a large cooler strapped to the passenger seat. He probably thought he looked cool, but to me he looked cold! Brr!

I passed a sign pointing the way to Stroud's Run, the state park I'd noted on the map as being closest to the conference. I made a mental note but continued on into town, and found Ohio University. The first bit of the conference area was easy to find. The first parking lot I passed after exiting the highway was full of trucks with motorcycle manufacturers names on them. Honda. Yamaha. Buell. And three police cars. I stopped and asked the officers where conference registration was being held. One of them offered to show me, and I followed the squad car deeper into the campus. I was glad to have a guide, because I might not have spotted the correct building on my own. The nice officers directed me to park in the garage, never even questioning whether I was registered for the conference, or whether I had a room in the dorm. Then they turned and drove away, leaving me alone at the garage entrance.

The garage was all one level, perhaps two blocks long, and ran beneath several buildings. I parked near the other bikes, and went to reconnoiter. Up the stairs and onto the patio surrounding the buildings. I found the signs pointing to registration (now closed, since it was past midnight) and the message board. I scanned the notes on the board hoping I might have one from Janine or Karen. No such luck. I found the dorm the conference participants were staying in, and tried several doors, but all were locked. No one was awake, which surprised me. I guess I'm a veteran of too many science fiction conventions, where people stay up all night long enjoying the company of kindred spirits they just met. It appears that women motorcyclists actually go to bed at a reasonable hour.

OK, time to figure out where I should sleep. The night was quite comfortable, and I hadn't encountered any mosquitoes. I thought about finding a quiet spot and dozing out of doors. It would only be five or six hours. But the campus was very well lighted and didn't have many people around. I'd probably be noticed. I didn't fancy getting in trouble with the powers that be, whoever they were.

I wandered back down to the parking garage and thought about doing the iron butt motel thing, sleeping under my bike cover. I moved my bike to a darker spot, in a corner out of sight of the stairs, and sat on it, thinking and looking around. That was when I spotted the other V65 Sabre. It had a blue stripe, and my first thought was, "Phil must be here!" But this Sabre didn't have a fairing, and it had New Jersey plates. I got off my bike and walked over for a closer look. No oil mod, and I couldn't think of anyone (male or female) from the sabmag list that lived in New Jersey and rode a V65 Sabre. It must be someone who is not on the list. I looked at the adjustable brake and clutch levers, the only difference between my bike (an '84) and the '85 models, apart from the color. That was when I noticed the loose screw. The screw that attaches the clutch lever had backed almost all the way out! This person was going to have their clutch lever fall off, very soon.

I wasn't going to touch the bike, since it wasn't mine and I didn't have permission. I went back to my own bike, tore a page out of my gas log, and scribbled a note to this mysterious Sabre rider. I said I had the same bike, and asked if she/he was on sabmag? I signed my name and my email address, added a postscript about the screw that was about to come out, and put the note on the bike.

Then I got back on my bike and rode out in search of Stroud's Run State Park. This turned out to be a long ride. The park wasn't far away on the map, but there was no direct route to get there, and the fog had thickened considerably. After stopping at least a dozen times for deer in the road, I eventually did find it.

I chose a site quickly and turned off my bike, so as to minimize the disturbance. As soon as I took my helmet off I realized that any disturbance I made would pale to insignificance next to certain of my neighbors. A few sites away, a car was parked with its doors open, and the stereo was playing loudly enough to wake the dead. The Grateful Dead, that is. It was 1:30am, and the campers that belonged to that car were crashing around in the woods collecting sticks for their fire. I chuckled to myself. With that going on, I was sure no one even noticed my late night arrival on the bike. I started pitching my tent. A few minutes later, my noisy neighbors came walking over and asked if I had any spray butter? (Spray butter? Why on earth?) I told them sorry, I did not have any. They thanked me politely, and walked away conversing loudly about whether it would be all right to use cocoa butter instead. They were very, very, very stoned.

As I lay in my tent trying to sleep, the music stopped. I was glad, not because it had bothered me (I can sleep through anything) but because I was afraid that eventually one of my other neighbors would go over there and start a fight, and I hate fights. The silence didn't last long, though. They started playing bongo drums. Loudly. They were still drumming when I went to sleep.

I always wake up when it gets light, but usually I turn over and go back to sleep. This time, though, I had a mission. I wanted to get some of those demo rides, and I knew I would need to get there early. I got up. There was no sound from my dead-head neighbors. I left my campsite in place, and made tracks back to campus.

I got to the registration desk at five after seven, and they were just setting up. I paid my $95. They gave me a program and a t-shirt. After the conference, I would learn from other conference participants that I was supposed to have gotten a whole lot more stuff, like a patch, a pin, a tote bag, a binder with a list of conference attendees, maps, ride route, etc. I hadn't seen any of that at the registration area, but they were pretty chaotic, just setting up.

I scurried over to the demo bike area. They were just getting started. I was disappointed to discover that I would not get to ride any of the bikes I'd been hoping to ride. (My short list had been the VFR, the SV650, and a Triumph sport tourer.) Suzuki wasn't there, so there were no SV650 demos. No Triumph sport tourers in sight, either. Honda had brought a whole fleet of cruisers, an ST1100 and one or two Gold Wings, but no sportbikes, no VFR. Argh! I asked a Honda rep why they didn't have any sportbikes, and was told that they were at mid-Ohio because they have only so many bikes in the demo fleet, there were two competing events, and the cruisers are more popular with women because of their lower seat height; very few women buy sportbikes. Grr.

I glanced over towards the Yamaha area and saw they were operating under the same assumptions as Honda, and had set out a fleet of cruisers. I didn't even bother to talk to them.

Kawasaki had the most elaborate setup and the largest assortment of bikes, although I did hear from other women that the two fastest sportbikes that were labeled as demo bike were not actually available for people to ride; they were strictly for Kawasaki employees to ride when they escorted the demo groups. (Sorry, I can't recall exactly what they had and didn't have. I'd never paid enough attention to Kawis to have their line memorized, so all that was apparent to me was that they had more bikes and far more variety than anyone else there.)

Harley and Buell were there but they only appeared to have a half-dozen bikes between them, and nothing terribly organized. I've ridden a Buell before and didn't like the shaking, and I can't abide cruisers, so I didn't talk to them.

BMW had a dozen or so bikes and a very low awning that even small people had to crouch to enter. (By mid-morning they took that awning down.)

I managed to sign up for two rides, a Kawasaki ZRX1100 and a BMW K1200RS. Neither company would allow me to sign up for more than one demo that early. I could understand this and didn't complain; after all it is entirely reasonable for them to maximize the number of potential customers that have a chance at their demo bikes. The BMW folks said that if I wanted to ride one of the other bikes, that their demo ride was considerably longer than the other manufacturers, and we'd be given an opportunity to switch halfway through; I could ride the second bike then.

The first ride was the ZRX. It was a nice bike, lots of power, good brakes. It wasn't an uncomfortable bike, though the pegs seem very high, and the seat very wide. It was very similar to my Sabre, but the suspension was much better, which isn't surprising, considering that my Sabre is sixteen years older.

After the ZRX ride, I had almost an hour to kill before my BMW ride. I lurked by the scheduling desk in the Kawasaki tent, and managed to pounce on an unfilled spot when the next group of sportbikes went out. This time, I was on the ZR-7. This turned out to be a sweet bike! 750cc, naked standard. The top end was not what I'm used to, but it handled wonderfully, cornered like it was on rails, and was easily the most comfortable bike I rode all day. I heard some people complaining about the brakes, but I thought they were fine; they didn't grab at the slightest touch like the ones on the ZRX, but by pulling harder on the lever the bike stopped in a hurry, and I think that having brakes you can feather on is a feature, not a bug. Also, I live in Michigan, many hours away from any significant twisties. Kawasaki offers Givi luggage as an option package, and the ergos are such that I could comfortably ride it all day to get to the twisties. A sportier bike might be a miserable ride that would force me to trailer. For $5699 brand new, I want one. Can't afford it this year, but next year? Hmmm. I may have just ridden my next bike.

Over at the BMW tent, all was chaos. They were disorganized to begin with, and two people had failed to show up for the demo group I was in. One of them was the other bike I wanted, the R650GS. Darn! I wanted to ride that for the second half, and if it didn't go out with us how could I switch to it? A guy from the crowd stepped up and said he wanted to ride it, and they signed him up. Cool, I thought, I would get my chance at it.

I'd never ridden a BMW before, but I've heard so much about them that I was very curious. I sat on the red K1200RS, feeling it idle. It vibrated like crazy and felt like it might stall. I blipped the throttle and it smoothed right out. Maybe the idle should be adjusted a little higher? The seat was very low but apparently that's a feature; this bike has adjustable seat height and they had the demo set low for the women's conference. The turn signal controls were odd; the left switch was on the left grip, the right on the right grip, and the cancel for both was on the right grip. The left had a switch that mirrored the cancel, but which controlled the horn. The left turn signal pushed the same way my right turn signal does on the Sabre. I don't think I managed to signal correctly once on the whole ride.

The ride leader led us out of the parking lot and off onto the country roads, about 25 miles. The K bike felt as smooth as silk at cruising speed. But the idle continued rough, and it surged on acceleration, I couldn't get a smooth roll-on out of it, the front wheel wanted to come up no matter how carefully I feathered the throttle, and when I tried to feather it off, it dropped like a stone. It was very powerful! The ergos were comfortable, except for the very low seat. The handlebars were the perfect reach, the seat was comfortable despite being so low, and the bike handled very well. I liked it. If I owned this bike I could get it with the higher seat height, and maybe the throttle control would get easier with a combination of tuning and practice, so why should it be an issue for me on this bike? No, the big issue is price - this bike costs more than twice what I paid for my last new car.

The ride leader turned onto a little one-lane road with lots of patches and loose gravel, and stopped us. We parked our bikes along one side of the road, and he demonstrated the ABS braking for us. It was very impressive. Then he said we could switch bikes. A guy came up to me and asked if he could ride the K bike next, and I said sure. I went over and asked the guy on the 650GS if I could ride that next, and he said no! He didn't want to ride any other bikes; he liked that one and wouldn't give it up. Sheesh! Didn't he realize that the idea was to demo the bikes, not just get a joy ride, and that other people might like a turn too? I didn't raise a ruckus, but I thought this guy was a jerk. He wasn't even a conference member, he was just a student at the university who'd been attracted by the parking lot full of bikes. Where does he get off, waltzing into a conference and hogging a demo bike, when he isn't even supposed to be there? At a women's conference even! I suppose I should have been more pushy but I couldn't think of a way to do it without screwing things up for other people.

The guy who had taken the K1200RS after me was a much more decent soul. He offered to give it back to me but I declined, because I'd had my turn and it was only fair to let someone else have a turn too. (He wasn't a conference member either, but he was appropriately polite and I appreciated that.) So I rode the cruiser, I think the name was the R1200C. This was the worst bike I've ever ridden, bar none. The suspension was nonexistent. The pegs were so far forward and so high, that it not only slammed my lower back with every bump in the road, but it felt completely unstable. It was like riding down the road in a lazy boy recliner, without the cushions. The engine configuration caused the bike to pitch to the right every time I accelerated, which was disconcerting. I don't know what kind of tires it had, but stickier ones might have been better; these tires squirmed with every bump in the road and the rear of the bike would step out any time I encountered any gravel. I could not find any point on the tach where the engine smoothed out; it shook so badly that my hands went numb and my back hurt even when I wasn't riding over a bump. The 25 miles back to campus were the longest 25 miles I've ever ridden. I couldn't keep up with the group because I didn't dare push the bike at all in the curves; I was afraid I'd lay it down.

Back at campus, one of the BMW folks asked me what I thought of this bike? His jaw dropped when I said it had the most evil handling of any bike I'd ever ridden. When he recovered from his shock, he told me that this bike is very popular. I told him not with me, but that I didn't like cruisers to begin with, and what I really wanted to try was the bike with the beak. Could I sign up for that one? Unfortunately, no; all the spots for the rest of the day were spoken for. I told him I'd liked the K bike very well apart from the low seat (which I understood could be fixed) and the peculiar surging throttle. He told me that the surging was not normal, that the bike was probably a bit out of tune because being in a demo fleet is hard on bikes. This guy was definitely not a good spokesman for his employer, telling me something like that. I did not find it confidence inspiring. My gut feeling was that he was making that stuff up, but I didn't bother to challenge him on it. It was not significant whether he was prevaricating, because if the surging throttle is normal, that's bad, and if it isn't normal, then BMW has made a bike that can be messed up in just 2500 miles of riding at legal speeds. I just walked away.

The overall impression I got from the BMW demo was similar to the one I had walked in with: BMW makes some nice machinery but it's quirky and very expensive. And BMW devotees are a lot like the folks that can't see that their emperor may be a good head of state, but he's still wandering around in his birthday suit.

Put that K1200RS up against a Kawasaki Concours and a Honda ST1100, and take the price out of the equation, and I'd hop on the BMW in a heartbeat, surging and all. It was a sweet bike. But when you consider the prices, I can't see any reason to choose the BMW unless I win the lotto.

I filled out the little survey, praised the K bike, suggested improving the cruiser with explosives, and wandered off to compare notes with the student who had ridden the K bike after me. He was very apologetic for sticking me with the cruiser, but I told him not to sweat it, it wasn't his fault that BMW chose to make such an evil machine.

The student's name was John, and his bike was a Katana. He walked back with me to see my Sabre, and I let him sit on it. I asked him where people get lunch in this town? He was on his way to lunch, too, so we decided to ride the Sabre two-up to where the restaurants were, and have lunch together. He climbed on the back and shouted directions to the downtown business district, where we ate at Wendy's and talked bikes. He exclaimed about riding on the back, how he couldn't believe his girlfriend did it, now that he'd been on the back himself. He was a fun person, and I enjoyed having lunch with him.

After lunch I examined the conference book, and chose some seminars to attend that afternoon.

The first seminar I attended was called Trauma and Accident Management. I walked in, and there were at least 300 women there! I was amazed, and I felt a bit lonely. I tried to chat with the women on either side of me while we waited for the presentation to begin, hoping I'd make some friends, but they were both there with other folks and didn't have much attention to spare for me. The seminar was very informative and well presented. I've had first aid training and I've thought a lot about what to do in case of an accident, but still I learned a few things: 1. Don't light flares at accident scenes, because the majority of motorcycle accidents involve fuel spills. 2. Not all EMTs are trained to remove helmets, so if you've called an ambulance for a friend, and they want to remove your friend's helmet, ask them if they are trained in removing helmets, and if they aren't, ask them to wait until they get to the hospital.

Next I attended a seminar called If It's Broke, Fix It. This one also had about 300 people in the audience. My mechanical skills are more advanced than average, the material was extremely basic, and the presenters were not as good. My lack of sleep the night before caught up with me and I dozed off. After the seminar, I went upstairs and checked out the Mota display of women's riding gear. They had a lot of tiny riding gear. I asked about tall sizes, and they told me that certain jackets are available in XL and XXL. It didn't occur to these tiny saleswomen, even with my six foot tall body right in front of them, that what I meant was not girth, but height. If you are 5'3" and wear a size 6 right off the rack, how would you ever know that the size 16 hanging on the rack next to your 6 is the same length, that the only dimension that changes is the width? This is a pet peeve of mine, but the Mota folks were busy, and it's not their fault that clothing manufacturers have this gaping hole in their perception when it comes to tall women. I spared them my complaints, and wandered away.

By this point I was feeling grumpy. $95, and the seminars were only fair, they didn't have the demo bikes I wanted, and I was feeling more and more lonely and out of place. I just plain didn't fit in. Too tall, too butch, and insufficiently interested in cruisers. No one to hang out with, at least no one I felt comfortable with.

I finally hooked up with Karen Ferguson and Janine Brannon from the sabmag list and discussed what to do next. There was supposed to be a bike show downtown. We decided to go downtown and eat. Karen had flown in from California, and didn't have her bike at the conference. She and Janine decided to walk downtown. I decided to ride, because I didn't have any footwear with me that I could walk that far in.

I went the same way I'd gone at lunchtime with John. It had started raining. The traffic hadn't been bad at lunchtime, but it was horrible now. I followed the road up the hill and around the curve, and then I had to stop on the wet brick pavement. It took twenty minutes to travel one block, all the way in the rain on the slick brick road going up this steep hill. It was nerve wracking. Once I got up there and made the turn, I figured out why there was such a traffic jam. Two one way roads converged, and a block later the road they converged on was closed, forcing all the traffic to turn right. There was a block long section of the main street barricaded off with sawhorses. I wondered if I should put my bike in there, if it was closed for the conference to use, but I didn't know, there were no signs, and no one was there to tell me. I parked just outside the closed area and walked in to see what was up. No one seemed to know.

I finally met Sasha. I'd seen her posts on LDRider and WIST, and corresponded with her a little bit, but never met her. She has a whirlwind personality and she is very glamorous. I swept along in her wake to a retro looking diner, where I was introduced to some people who were eating, and back down the street to a bar that had a band. I needed food, and wasn't interested in a band. I decided to skip the bar and go back and find Karen and Janine, see if they were ready to eat. I said goodbye to Sasha and wandered back down the street.

Someone had moved one of the sawhorses and a bunch of bikes had come in. There on the curb was the V65 Sabre I'd seen the night before. I stopped and introduced myself to the rider. She was thrilled to meet me. Her name was Alison, and she loved her Sabre. I was the first other Sabre rider she'd met. I moved my Sabre into the closed block and parked it next to hers, and for the next several hours we talked of our mutual obsession. We ate dinner together there on the curb in the intermittent light rain. When the bike show judges came by, we had taken her bike apart, and the contents of my saddlebags were strewn all over the ground around the bikes, as I'd dug out bunches of tools to work on Alison's bike. Alison went into the CVS pharmacy and bought distilled water, and we topped off her battery. I showed her why her tail plastic wouldn't sit right, the bolt that had fallen out of her frame. I thought I had a replacement bolt, but couldn't find it. (I found it in my luggage a couple days later, too late to help Alison.) We used one of the bolts that held her seat on to replace the frame bolt, figuring it was better to be missing a seat bolt than a frame bolt. Sasha came by and took our picture as we worked on the bike; she included that picture in the article she wrote about the conference.

Karen and Janine came by and teased me about finding the only other Sabre rider at the event. A little while later, Phil Ross showed up. The three of us walked up the street so Alison could look at Phil's Sabre, too, then back to Alison's bike. Phil asked if I had been to Jacksonville yet? I said no, and he asked if I had my rally flag. I did. We explained the IBET to Alison, and she thought it sounded great. Phil convinced her that she should sign up, and just then, Eddie James walked by, and Phil called him over to ask if he had any IBET flags available. He did. I stayed with the bikes, while Phil and Alison went to Eddie's truck and got her signed up for IBET.

The three of us rode off to Jacksonville, at 11pm, in a thunderstorm. Phil led us this way and that through the side streets of Athens. I laughed to myself about how Phil can always find the most convoluted route, and then I realized he was lost. Finally he found his way out, and led us over dark, foggy, wet, twisty roads to Jacksonville. I admit it, I'm a chicken; I'm just not willing to go that fast in those conditions. Alison was right on Phil's tail, and their tail lights were far ahead of me. In Jacksonville, Phil led us straight to the post office. I was the only one with a camera, and with the rain and dark I didn't know how the shots might turn out. So I took a bunch of pictures. As we were taking the pictures, a truck came up and the driver asked us what we were doing. It turns out that an old lady across the street was frightened by the three motorcycles and the camera flashes, and she called this guy in a panic. We apologized for scaring people, and left.

We went back to Athens, and sat in the TV lounge in Alison's dorm. We were all hungry so we ordered pizza. Phil and I indoctrinated Alison in the ways of sabmag, and told tales of the various people in the group. Alison was not online, but she decided that night that she had to get online, specifically so she could join Sabmag. She told us about the second Sabre she is planning to purchase, about her first bike, a Nighthawk, and the various project bikes they're restoring at her house. Both Alison and Phil are night people, like me, and we had a grand time staying up half the night chatting.

I don't even know what time it was when I returned to my tent. Very late, and the night before had been short. I decided to sleep until I couldn't sleep any more, even if that meant I didn't get back to the conference until lunchtime on Saturday.

The sun was high in the sky when I crawled out of my tent, and the rain had cleared. I pulled all the stuff out of my tent and put it on the picnic table, and dragged the tent over into the sunlight in the hopes it would dry while I packed the other stuff. No such luck; I ended up putting the tent away wet.

While I was packing, I attracted the attention of two small children, Tyler and Brittany. Tyler was the biggest, perhaps five years old, and Brittany was about half that age. They were riding little bicycles. Brittany had training wheels but Tyler had graduated to riding without. Brittany had nothing to say. She just stared at me and smiled whenever I looked her way. Tyler was very talkative. He refused to believe I had ridden the bike alone. He informed me that girls can't ride motorcycles, because they aren't strong enough; only boys are strong enough to ride motorcycles. He held his arms up and made muscles for emphasis. I thought about challenging him to an arm wrestling match, but I wasn't feeling that patient. I just grinned at Brittany and made a flippant response; I told Tyler that women are smarter than him, which makes them very capable of riding motorcycles. This confused him and he was silent for a moment. (Spare me the flames; I'm not a missionary. I have been known to lose patience. And grown women ARE smarter than five year-olds.) Then he launched into a long tale of how he had a motorcycle of his own, a dirt bike, and he crashed it and broke his leg, back when Brittany was a baby. I suggested that in future he should be more careful, eh? In response to more questioning, I explained that I was 33, that I lived in Michigan, that I had indeed ridden the bike to the campground alone, that it took me six hours to get there, and that I was leaving that morning. Finally he got bored and led Brittany away to the drinking fountain. I finished my packing, and waved as I rode past them on my way out. They waved back, and Brittany jumped up and down smiling.

Back at the campus, there were very few bikes. I stopped in front of the dorm to consult my program book. I learned that the main activity for the afternoon was a ride to the AMA Museum in Pickerington. I'd been there before, and knew how to get there, so when I met two other riders (riding a Bandit 1200 and a Harley, and I feel terrible because I've spaced their names!) who were setting out late as well, and who were unfamiliar with the area, I offered to lead. After a stop to discuss routes (they preferred something more scenic than the route I set out on) and a stop for gas, we made our way into the twisties.

The sun was shining, the roads were empty, and I was feeling really, really good. I was trying to be a good ride leader but I kept getting far enough ahead that I feared they would think they had to ride faster than they liked, or risk getting abandoned. I didn't want them to be nervous, so finally I pulled over into a church parking lot and talked to them. I told them that I might ride faster than they did, but that they should ride their own ride, and that I would wait for them without fail at every fork in the road. They were comfortable with that, and we set out again. I didn't hold back, and they quickly disappeared in my rear view mirrors. Is this what it feels like to be Phil Ross?

I waited at each turn, each stop sign, and each time I found something I thought was particularly hazardous. The Bandit would always appear first, but the Harley wasn't usually far behind. I led them up 374 through the Hocking Hills area. The pavement was new, there was relatively little traffic, and I screamed through those curves. Woo hoo! I pulled up to the stop sign at 676 and waited. After a few minutes, the Bandit appeared behind me, and we both waited for the Harley. Just as I was starting to worry (maybe I should go back and check on her?) she pulled up behind us. I could see the biggest smile on her face. She was absolutely delighted with that road. I wondered if the woman on the Bandit had such a smile, hidden under her full face helmet?

We stopped for a break at the tourist info center in Logan, and got some more maps. I showed my companions where we were, and suggested other roads they should see if they had a chance later.

From Logan, the roads straighten out, and even with a stop in Baltimore for me to take the IBET picture I needed, we got to the AMA pretty quickly. The AMA grounds were packed with people, and bikes were everywhere. We rode up to the top of the hill and parked in the garage.

I saw Carol Yuorski (aka Skert) and we chatted for a bit, but she had to run off and take care of something and I didn't see her again. After a stop to buy a discount renewal for my MCN subscription, I went down the hill, past Sasha, who smiled and said hello, towards the food setup, where I was flagged down by the Sabmag contingent. Alison, Janine, Karen, Phil, and David were all sitting at one of the banquet tables together. I went over to get a plate of food and Eddie James picked on me, because, he said, my friend took a rally flag from him and never paid him, and he's too willing to just give things to women, women twist him around their little fingers… I grabbed a plate of food and started back to the sabmag table. On the way, my riding companions from earlier waved to me and invited me to eat with them, and I did stop to visit for a minute, but eventually I went back to the sabmag table, where I teased Alison for not paying her rally fee. Everyone chattered at and around me, I heard where they'd ridden, what people had said, and they hassled me for not being a morning person and missing so much of the day. I felt very welcomed.

It was a huge contrast to earlier in the conference, when I didn't know anyone and couldn't seem to connect to any other conference participants. That first day, I had started feeling a bit desperate, like being a high school geek again. But now, the very next day, I felt right at home in my own little chattering crowd. I think maybe the rally was just too large. When you arrive alone to a small group event, the other group members notice you, and they open up to include you. They may like you, or they may eventually spit you out, but at least they talk to you. Once a group gets beyond a certain size, it's human nature to subdivide into smaller groups, and the people in those groups focus in on the other members of their group, and no one notices the lone person floating around looking for a group to attach to.

After dinner, Phil went home, and Karen caught a ride to Illinois. I rode back to campus with Janine, David, and Alison. None of them had been to Pickerington before, so once again I was ride leader. There were other small groups of riders sharing the road with us, and at one point I came over a hill to find a half-dozen riders, including a few women in Motor Maid vests, stopped in the middle of the road. I stopped and asked if someone had crashed, and they told me no. I didn't wait any longer, I led my group around them and kept going. If no one had crashed, there was no excuse to be stopping in the road like that, and I wasn't going to contribute to it by staying. If someone had broken down, there were plenty of other riders to help, they didn't need us. And if they were lost, maybe they would choose to follow my group, and that would be fine. If they followed us, they didn't keep up for long; I didn't see them again. The Motor Maids are mostly older, more experienced riders; you'd think they would have more sense than to stop in the middle of the road like that. People do weird stuff when they ride with a group, things they would never do alone.

Since the new pavement on 374 had been so nice, I led my group back down there. Once again I set a fast (for me) pace, but this time the others stayed with me. When we got to 56, David took the lead and turned right instead of left, and led us to Ash Cave. We parked the bikes and walked up to see the cave, which is very impressive. I asked Alison if she would ever have suspected that there was such a sight to see in Ohio?

Since Karen had vacated, Janine was kind enough to let me share her room. I luxuriated in a long shower. Two nights in a campground that had no shower facilities was way too long. After we'd all had a turn in the shower, we sat in the room and visited, and eventually ordered pizza.

The next day I said goodbye to everyone and set out for Nashville. I didn't want to take any interstates, so I picked my way along the twisty backroads to Portsmouth, where I had lunch at a drive in. The waitresses were on roller skates. I thought about trying to eat on the bike, just for a lark, but it was too much work. I opted to eat at one of the picnic tables instead.

I crossed the bridge into Kentucky and tried to choose a good route southwest. It was difficult, though, because I didn't have a Kentucky map. It took me a lot longer than I had expected to reach I-64, and I was a bit worried that I wouldn't get to Nashville until the wee hours. So I broke from my plan, and hopped on I-64 westbound, to gain some ground and to visit a rest area where I could pick up a map.

At the first rest area, I went inside and collected my map. When I came back out, I had company. Two huge Harleys were parked next to my Sabre. One was a full dress tourer, and the other was a trike pulling a trailer. The trailer had a special rack on the back, to carry a wheelchair. Yes, wheelchair. The driver of this trike was a chair user, and he and his pillion made it all look quite casual. They wandered off to the picnic area, but their friend on the dress tourer stayed to chat with me. He was very talkative, and wanted to show me all the cool gadgets his friend had. His favorite was the GPS. We talked about the weather, the roads, the price of gasoline and tires, and discussed our destinations and routes. They were headed out to the west coast, and would be taking the loop north around Lexington. I told him I'd probably take US 68 south from Lexington.

As I was getting ready to leave, the two other riders came back. I watched the trike rider get on the bike, and his passenger put the wheelchair away. They pulled out and I waited for the second bike to follow, but he gestured me to go next. OK, what the heck. I pulled out and followed the trike. It was loud! It didn't accelerate very well, which wasn't surprising; that V-twin was pulling twice the weight my V-four had to pull. Still, he managed to get it up to speed and merge into traffic without trouble. I merged in behind, and once we were all settled in at a stable speed, I moved out to the left lane and passed, expecting I'd be leaving them behind. I passed the trike and the car in front of it, and merged back into the right lane at my slightly higher speed. Next thing I knew, the other Harley flew past me in the left lane, and merged into the right lane ahead of me, as the trike slotted in behind. We overtook a slow car, and I pulled out and passed both the tourer and the car. The trike came out behind me and as soon as I pulled back to the right lane, they passed me again, and the tourer pulled in behind.

It seemed they had concluded that we would all ride together, and that I was to be in the middle. I hadn't expected to join this group, but here I was. If we're going to ride together, how does one follow a trike? Do they ride on one side of the lane like a bike? Should I be following in the other side of the lane, for a staggered formation? The trike seemed to have chosen the left side of the lane, which is what I'd have done as leader, so I looked over my right shoulder in preparation to move into the right side of the lane. Eek! The tourer was on my right, had pulled up almost next to me in my lane! Thanks goodness I've been carefully inculcating the habit of looking over my shoulder even when I'm just changing lane positions.

I decided I really didn't want to ride with these guys. Too scary. Besides, that trike was loud! I thought about speeding up, but I didn't want to go extremely fast, and if I just sped up a little, they'd probably stay with me. Best to just let them go. I let the trike get well ahead of me, then waved the tourer to pass. He did, and I let him get well ahead too. I followed at a comfortable distance, perhaps a half mile. It was much quieter. An hour later they were still just ahead of me, as they took a right fork and I took a left, on the outskirts of Lexington. They waved as they disappeared.

US 68 turned out to be a good road. For miles, I passed one horse farm after another on either side. Then I came around a curve and saw a large bunch of bikes waiting on a side street. Maybe a local bike club out for a group ride? The road curved again and I realized why they'd chosen this area. In the space of a mile, the road changes from straight to twisty, paralleling a river. It was better than any road near my house, but there was a lot of traffic.

I called Andrew at dusk, from Edmonton, KY. He suggested I take the Cumberland Parkway to I-65, which I did. I pulled up to his house a couple hours later. We chatted for a bit and he let me do some laundry at his house. He recently bought a pristine used Concours from a guy I know here in Ann Arbor, Dave Lorman. Dave always kept that Connie spotless, but Andrew had let it get filthy. It's a good thing Andrew lives so far away from Dave. Dave would hate to see it in its sullied condition.

The next morning, Andrew and I had breakfast at the Lovelace Cafe, and rode the only twisty section of the Natchez Trace. I picked up two IBET locations, Santa Fe and Boston. Then we said our goodbyes, since Andrew had to work that afternoon and I wanted to be in the Smokies by nightfall.

Unfortunately it was god awful hot, and I wasn't taking a direct route, or a slab route either. I picked up two more IBET locations, Monterey and Kingston. The heat did me in, and I just didn't feel like camping, so after trying and failing to reach Jack Hunt and beg floor space, I let budget concerns go, and got a motel room in Sweetwater, TN. The motel pool was like a religious experience, after the day's heat. The water was the perfect temperature, and I had it all to myself. I followed the swim with a long shower, then ate food from the Taco Bell next door while watching the weather channel. I felt so decadent!

The next morning I decided I had too much stuff to haul around. I packed up all my short sleeved t-shirts, my swimsuit, my conference stuff, half of my CDs, some dead rechargeable batteries, my bike cover, and most of the duplicates from my assortment of nuts and bolts. I put all this stuff in a box and shipped it home. I also adopted one piece of advice from the bike repair seminar at the conference - I found places in my bike to hide spare parts, instead of putting them in my bags. I taped the spare brake and clutch lever to the inside of one of my side covers, and tucked the sock with the spare light bulbs into some empty space next to the battery.

Between one thing and another, I didn't get out of Sweetwater until almost noon, and when I left, I hadn't eaten. As I came into Tellico Plains I was hungry, and when I saw one vehicle, a Triumph motorcycle, in the parking lot at Hardees, I decided to have lunch with that rider. I mean, if I'm all alone on the road, my choice is between eating alone or putting myself forward to meet strangers, right??? I parked my bike next to the Triumph, walked inside, and introduced myself to the rider. His name was Jeff, he was an English teacher from the DC area. We talked of Triumphs, Hondas, and other bikes. He was on his way home from a longer trip, and didn't know about the Skyway; he had never been there. I told him he was in for a treat. So after lunch we rode the Skyway together, and stopped a couple times for him to take pictures. He had me take a couple of snapshots for him, of him and his bike in front of some of the fabulous views. At the end of the Skyway, we stopped and said our goodbyes; he was anxious to get home to his family and didn't have time to go to the Gap.

It was a quiet day at Deal's Gap. Tuesdays are much different than Saturdays there! I don't think I saw more than twenty or thirty riders all day. There were several tipsy Connie riders loafing about at the CroT, not going anyplace except when they walked back to their campsite to get another beer from the cooler.

The new owners were bustling around, and the place had already changed quite a bit. It was cleaner and less cluttered, and they had more kinds of pop in the coolers. Pete was still there, badgering the new owner because they had run out of smoked fish, and he wanted to make sure they got some more. They kept reassuring him that they had called that morning, and that the fish would be delivered soon. He fussed that it had to be picked up, that it couldn't be delivered, but they reassured him that his source had actually agreed to deliver.

It was way too hot, and I contemplated skipping the CroT in favor of the BRMC simply because it's always cold there. But in the end I decided to stay. A nice Connie rider helped me carry my junk out and stake out a campsite, not too close to the other, drunken Connie riders. As I was putting my tent up, my nearest neighbors were pushing a bike over the grass, and I made some joke about it being easier to ride them than push them. They laughed and shrugged, and my attention was soon entirely focused on setting up the tent. When I looked over there again, they were gone.

I finished setting up my camp, then went riding. I did quite a few passes on the Dragon, trying to improve my smoothness in corners.

There's a motorcycling saying, "Ride your own ride." I've heard this said so often by so many people, it's like a cliche. It's so important, yet it's so easy to get away from. There's always that inner voice telling you to keep up with the fast friend, or pass the guy whose skill level is so close to your own, or watch out for the overtaking squid. And I find it distracting to ride with others; having a rider too close in front of me makes it hard for me to remember to look through the turn, and when the going gets tough I'm always wanting to look in my mirrors and make sure the folks behind me made it through that last turn all right, when I should be judging my own entry speed for the next turn.

It was a joy to ride the Dragon alone. It's challenging, yet familiar, and I had it almost completely to myself. I could focus so much more attention on what I was doing; truly I was riding my own ride. But I did miss having people to hang out with when I stopped.

Eventually I left the Dragon, and rode to Robbinsville to look for dinner and possibly a bookstore. I wanted to eat, get something to read, and get back to camp well before dark.

I spotted a sign at the edge of town. It said "Public Library" and had an arrow pointing to the right. I turned, and found the library. Inside, I asked the woman at the desk if they had an internet terminal I could use to check my email? They did. She asked me to write my name on a clipboard, directed me to use Workstation #2, and instructed me not to reboot without asking.

Workstation #2 was running Windows 95. It had about twenty icons on the desktop, but none of the ones I wanted did anything when I double clicked, and when I clicked Start, nothing happened. There were a lot of instruction sheets tacked to the wall in front of me, but mainly they seemed concerned with printing, and prohibiting the download of naughty pictures. Nothing that applied to me. I went back and asked the woman at the desk why the start menu didn't work? She came over and showed me how to double click Netscape. It worked, but I wasn't trying to run Netscape; I wanted a telnet session. The woman didn't know what telnet was, and said we'd have to ask the expert.

She brought a guy over, and I asked him if I could run telnet? He said they didn't have that program. I told him it was in the basic Windows tool set, and unless it had been removed, they should have it. Had it been removed? He didn't know. I could see he had no idea what I was talking about. I said I didn't want to cause any trouble, and if it was forbidden to run it, I wouldn't run it. He told me if it was forbidden to run it, I couldn't run it, because only the allowable things were enabled in this PC. I was welcome to run anything that was enabled, and if it wasn't enabled it was out of their hands.

They went back to their desks.

Hmm, interesting, I said to myself. These folks don't have any idea what should be enabled and what shouldn't, but they are so confident in their security system that they aren't at all paranoid. They aren't going to watch me, or tell me not to try stuff. It's lucky for them that I'm not hostile. I wouldn't push it if it was going to upset them, but since they're so unconcerned, I'm going to view this as a challenge, and find a way to do what I want.

I won't divulge the details, but I did manage to get my telnet window. I noticed that this PC had been used to access two other sites via telnet. I laughed to see what they were: M-Net (arbornet.org) and Grex (cyberspace.org). These are two free BBS sites in the Ann Arbor area; half my friends have Grex and/or M-net accounts. Another traveler from Michigan?

I spent a half hour skimming my email, but reading everything would take too much time. I got the important things, answered a few notes, sent a note to Joey Thorne that I might ride to Connecticut to see him, and logged off. On my way out, I noticed the library was having a book sale. Cool! I browsed through and picked a few books to buy. The woman at the desk seemed much more pleased to sell me books that she had been to answer computer questions. I liked her; she was an old fashioned librarian that shared my love of the printed word. Some folks just don't get computers, but there are so many other things to find in common, and books are so satisfying. I probably could have chatted with her for hours about what I'd liked, what she'd liked, what we each thought the other HAD to read. But I was hungry, so I didn't linger.

Outside, the sun was sinking low in the sky. Maybe I wouldn't get back to my tent before dark. I rode the main drag in Robbinsville, to determine my choices. I considered taking fast food back to camp, but then I spotted a pizza parlor that had no cars in the parking lot, just a few bikes. I'd had great success earlier that day finding someone to eat lunch with, why not try it again? I parked next to the other bikes. There were three of them, all late model sportbikes, two Yamahas and a Honda, with Ontario plates.

Inside, the riders were at the counter, ordering. I got in line behind them, and by the time we'd all ordered, I was included in their group. These were the guys from the next campsite. I learned that the Honda rider had ridden down while the Yamahas trailered, and that the reason he'd been pushing his bike earlier was because he'd had some sort of charging system problem, which he'd just fixed, and his battery was still a little low. I heard tales of squidly exploits, excessive speed and danger, and fleeing the Canadian police. (I'm not just leaving their names out because I forgot them; I'm also protecting the guilty!)

After dinner we rode back together to the Gap. One of the Yamahas led, I was second, and the other two brought up the rear. The Yamaha in front of me had his right turn signal on for the first few miles coming out of town. I got tired of seeing it blink, so I signaled and passed him, and left my signal on a little while before letting it cancel. His still flashed in my mirror, so I slowed down and signaled him to pass me. He did, and so did the other Yamaha, and that crazy signal was still flashing when they disappeared ahead of me. The Honda rider patiently rode with me, slowpoke that I am.

Back at the campsite, there wasn't any firewood to be had. (Apparently, a few days earlier someone had stolen it all.) But one of the Canadians had fireworks. He had a lot of trouble lighting them, while rest of us teased him mercilessly as one wick after another burned without setting its firecracker off. He did manage to shoot several bottle rockets in the direction of the drunken Connie riders, who laughed and yelled rudely from their end of the campground.

The Connie riders were very drunk, and my Canadian friends said the men's washroom was a disaster. So even though I was the only woman in the campground, I still had to wait my turn, because the Canadians were also using the women's room.

I woke to rain on the tent fly in the middle of the night. It was still raining in the morning. I read my book in the tent for a while, hoping it would stop, but it just kept coming down. My bladder eventually forced me to struggle out of the tent into the rain. I sat in a chair on the motel porch for a while, and read some more while eating snacks for breakfast. The rain just kept coming down. Eventually I got tired of waiting, and packed my tent up even though it meant putting it away wet. I bundled my soggy gear into the luggage and set off down the road.

I picked my way over to the Blue Ridge Parkway and headed north. The BRP is a wonderful road. I didn't have to look at my map. I didn't have to think about routes. I could count on staying at a high enough elevation not to get heat stroke even if the rain stopped. Perfect. I rode the road in front of me, looked at the views, and concentrated on taking the optimum line through curves. I rode out of the rain and into the sunshine, and life was grand.

I decided I should stop for the night in time to pitch my tent before dark. So about an hour before dark, I started looking for a campground. I didn't find one. It got dark. I didn't want to set up a wet tent in the dark. Grumble. I decided to get a motel room in Spruce Pine. I promised myself that this would be the last time, that tomorrow, I would find a place to camp before it got dark, so I could avoid exceeding my trip's budget again.

The first motel I came to looked very nice, and had hardly any cars out front. But the woman at the front desk told me they wanted $75/night for one person! This was not a convention center, it was just a 1950's row motel. No way. I rode on into town and found an older motel of the same type, across from a salvage yard, for half the price. The exterior was a bit shabby, so I asked to see the room. It was fine. I took it.

I brought all my wet camping gear inside and laid it out to dry, then rode off in search of food. It was late enough that my only choice was the Taco Bell drive thru. I took my food back to the room and watched the weather channel. The weather forecast looked good, though hot. All the more reason to stay on the BRP, and out of the heat.

The next morning I continued north on the parkway. It was a perfect day. Near the Virginia border, construction forced a detour for a few miles. The detour took me past a gas station, and a Gold Wing pulled out of the station just ahead of me. At first, I kept thinking I ought to just pass him, but I really didn't want to go any faster. If I passed him, chances were that he'd be right behind me for miles, because I didn't want to change my speed. And after watching him ride for ten or twenty miles, I knew I couldn't match his smoothness. I decided to stay far enough behind that I wasn't crowding him, and watch and learn.

I followed this Wing for about an hour, until I needed to start looking for gas. Just as I decided I would need to take the next promising road down to a town and fill my gas tank, we came to a spot on where there was a gas station on the parkway. I decided to get gas here, and was mentally waving goodbye to the Wing rider, when he signaled to turn in, too. So I followed him. He parked outside the visitor center, and I parked next to him. I complimented him on his smooth riding, and told him I hoped I hadn't made him nervous, sitting behind him for so long. He was friendly and we ended up eating lunch together at the diner there. We talked about bikes and riding.

It's funny. I like to travel alone. I hate being pinned down to any particular route or agenda. It's frustrating to ride with people I know and like, because somehow the stops never quite line up correctly, and I'm always stressing over whether they are comfortable at my speed, or chafing at having to travel at their speed. But I do like to have people to eat with, and people to visit along the way. This trip had been spectacular for that; I was picking up pleasant lunch and dinner companions almost every time I walked into a restaurant. I didn't know any of these people, so if they thought I was a bit of a freak for chatting up complete strangers, what did it matter? They seemed to enjoy it and so did I. I just wish I could remember all their names. I should have written them down, instead of waiting until I got home to start writing this tale down.

After lunch, the Wing rider waited while I filled my gas tank, and we rode together for another hour or so. Finally I decided to take a break at one of the scenic overlooks. I waved him goodbye and pulled off to enjoy the view and rest for a while. I read my book and loafed in the sunshine.

The parkway had been gradually changing. The hills were becoming smaller, the views less panoramic, and the wilderness had gradually changed to a patchwork of small farms and squares of forest. The parkway went on through areas with taller trees, over bridges, next to rivers, hundreds and hundreds of miles of curving road.

I started to see more and more riders along the road. There were riders ahead of me, and a lone rider some distance behind. Riders kept passing me, coming the other way, as well. I realized something odd. The type of motorcyclist I was seeing was changing as I went along, just like the scenery. The day before, in North Carolina, most of the riders I saw were on Harleys, Wings, or sport bikes. But thinking back over what I had seen in the last few hours, I realized that almost all the bikes I had seen had been sport tourers. Tall standards, with dark fairings, hard luggage, and very little chrome. I wondered why the change?

It was getting towards evening, and would probably be dark in an hour or two. I stopped by the side of the road to check my map, see if any campgrounds were marked. While I sat looking at the map, the rider I'd seen in my rearview mirrors pulled up next to me and stopped. He was riding a worn and bug spattered Concours. He asked if I knew the way to Natural Bridge. I told him I did not, and offered to let him look at my map. He said he had a map of his own. He consulted it, then rode on. I wondered if he'd been one of the party animals at Deal's Gap?

I came to a scenic pullout where there was a visitors center. A great many motorcycles were parked outside. I decided to stop there myself and look for a map to campsites. I pulled up near the other bikes. BMW, Concours, Concours, Concours, Concours, ST1100, Concours. Concours, Concours, BMW, Concours, Concours. Wing. Concours, Concours. License plates from all over the country. Half a dozen Iron Butt Association plate frames.

As I was digging in my tank bag for my wallet, getting ready to go inside, a rider came out of the visitors center and started rummaging around in the saddlebags of one of the bikes.

"What's with all the Connies?"
"COG [Concours Owners Group] rally in Natural Bridge. A bunch of us from the rally are inside having dinner."
"I thought the COG rally was in Arkansas?"
"The COG list is actually having three back to back rallies, one out west, one in Arkansas, and this is the third one."
"How many riders are in Natural Bridge?"
"A couple hundred."
"Wow, where are you all staying?"
"Oh, most of us are staying at the conference center."
"What, no camping?"
"I think some folks are camping at a KOA outside of town."
We wished each other a good ride, and he went back inside to finish his dinner.

Hmm... A COG rally. I had to go. Jack Tollett and Gadget Dan would be so jealous. I checked my map. Natural Bridge was about ten miles west of the parkway. I rode off in search of it.

501 was a lovely twisty road, tremendous fun to ride. Unfortunately I was stuck behind a truck that was so large I was amazed to see it get around the curves. Soon I reached Glasgow, and from there to Natural Bridge, the road was less interesting. I pulled up to a three-way intersection. Across the road, up on a hill, was a large building that must have been the conference center, because there were hundreds of Concours parked outside it. They swarmed in and out like bees in a hive. I considered going up into that parking lot and asking where the KOA was, but that didn't seem very adventurous. A flock of sport tourers came up from my left, crossed in front of me, and headed down the road to my right. I turned and followed them. Out on the edge of town, there it was, the KOA. The riders went on past it, but I turned in.

The drive was loose gravel and cut across a field. Up over a little hill, then down into a wooded area. Bikes were scattered here and there amongst the RVs. I parked the bike in front of the office, and went inside. I looked up at the sign. Nineteen dollar for a campsite! Holy cow! Oh well, I'm here now, and a motel would probably cost twice that.

I looked at the woman behind the counter and said, "So, I hear there's a motorcycle rally going on here." She looked back at me and asked if I would like to be in the group camping area? I said "Sure! Where do I sign up?" She slid a card across the counter for me to fill out, and said, "That'll be five dollars. Take the drive to your left, go down to the bottom of the hill, watch out for the sand, and park out there on the grass." Cool!

I followed her directions and rode into the middle of an area full of bikes and small tents. I looked around and found a spot to park next to a BMW. Before I even had my helmet off, people were coming up to see who I was. I smiled and asked if they allowed Honda riders to camp here? They said of course!

There wasn't a lot of level ground in this area, but one of the friendly riders told me where there was a spot that someone else had left. He helped me carry my tent over there and set it up. By the time the tent was up, I had found dinner companions and some folks who were planning to have a fire later that evening.

I ate dinner with two friendly riders at a restaurant called the Pink Cadillac. The food was good, and we shared tales of our riding adventures. One of the riders was slightly inebriated, so I was glad he didn't have far to ride back to camp. The other was a long haired fellow in Christian Motorcycle Association regalia. I initially feared that he might become preachy, but he never did. Instead he was the quiet kind of christian that projects a wonderful sort of quiet inner peace. People like that don't hound you, they don't knock on your door and give you leaflets. They just set a good example. They are unfailingly kind and respectful, and they leave it to God to do the converting. You know you can trust them, that their religion isn't just a way to get something from you. I like these kind of people.

That night I sat around a fire with a group of riders and played the "Do you know so-and-so" game. We managed to name a few acquaintances in common, but it didn't really matter. Everyone was as friendly as can be. They didn't care whether I knew anyone they knew, and they didn't care that I was basically a gate crasher. The CMA fellow had pretty much adopted me; he was ready to walk me to the restroom anytime, just in case I needed someone to hold a flashlight and light my way, and tell me tales of his daughters as we walked. After all, he said, it was at long walk to the restrooms, and it was dark out there.

The next morning I shook the sand off my tent, packed it away, and waved goodbye to my new friends. It was Friday morning, and if I was going to get to Joey Thorne's today I needed to make much better time. I had 500 miles to cover, and I didn't want to be too late getting there. So I hopped on I-81 and made tracks north. It was a real change to ride this stretch of freeway, after my days in the Smokies and on the BRP. I was amazed at the flat terrain, the traffic, and the urban sprawl along I-81, even as I passed sign after sign pointing out ways back to the BRP.

Slab, slab, slab. I had a New York map, but I didn't have Pennsylvania, New Jersey, or Connecticut. I stopped for a map at the Pennsylvania welcome center, and decided to take I-81 to I-84 east, and then across New York to Connecticut. I didn't have any idea where Milford was, except that it was near the water. But Connecticut is a small state. I'd stop at a rest area on the western edge, and get a map there. It shouldn't be too hard to find. I called Joey's house. He wasn't there, but Annie knew who I was and said they were glad to hear from me. I told her I'd call again when I got closer, and they could expect me sometime that evening.

"It was just after dark when the truck started down the hill that leads into Scranton Pennsylvania..." Actually, it was the early part of rush hour, and I was on a motorcycle. But I did ride down a very big hill, which triggered the song in my brain. I was amazed at how clearly that song played in my mind, considering how long it had been since I'd heard it. The sky had been clouding up for some time, and I was glad not to be negotiating that hill in the rain.

The rain started coming down when I was about a half-hour east of Scranton on I-84. It sprinkled off and on as I got closer and closer to Milford. Milford PA, that is. Milford CT was still a ways away. I paid a toll and rode across a long bridge in the rain. About a half hour farther on, the rain intensified to a point where I could barely see, and the lightning seemed awfully close. I pulled off the freeway and sat under gas station overhang with a chance-met Harley rider, waiting for the rain and lightning to let up. It went on and on. The Harley rider eventually got bored and decided to ride on despite the rain. I loafed for a bit, and got something to eat. After a while, the lightning stopped, the rain lessened, and I went on.

By the time I got to the Connecticut border, the rain had stopped and the sun was shining again. The welcome center was packed with cars and people, but they didn't have any maps. Not even a posted map behind glass like other rest areas have. I walked all over looking, just in case I'd missed it. I finally spotted a fellow with a broom and dustpan who was working there, and I asked if they had a map posted anyplace? He told me they didn't have one posted because even if they were behind glass, they were always stolen. I thought this was pretty weird.

I decided to visit the restroom before I left the freeway to buy a map at a gas station. When I came out of the restroom, the guy with the broom said "There you are! I went and found this map for you." He handed me a map. I thanked him profusely and went outside to sit on a bench and look at it. I found Milford and plotted my course. Route 34 looked like a good road to cut across towards Milford. It ran along a river so it might even be pretty.

Route 34 turned out to be a bit nerve wracking, because it didn't have much in the way of signage, and it was getting dark. Eventually I reached Derby, CT, and called Joey again from there. This time, he was home. He gave me directions to a gas station near his house, and told me to call him again when I got there; he would come up and get me so I wouldn't lose myself in his neighborhood.

I reached the gas station without much trouble and parked around the corner from the door, out of the way of the people getting gas. While I was calling Joey, a brand new, brilliant green Triumph pulled up right outside the door, and the driver went inside. After I hung up the phone, I ambled over to take a closer look. I was standing next to the Triumph when Joey pulled up in a loud, shabby looking Porsche. He started exclaiming about the bike, and I realized he thought the Triumph was mine, that I was trying to surprise him by showing up on something like that without warning him. Nope. I pointed to SpringWind, parked over in the darker corner. He managed to look relieved and disappointed at the same time.

I was so glad to see him walking! (The last time I'd seen Joey, was the night before he left Deal's Gap in an ambulance. He had broken his back and fractured his pelvis in several places, and had since been dispensing tidbits of advice like "The force necessary to stop a 200 pound man flying through the air at thirty miles per hour should never be concentrated on the crotch.")

Back at Joey's house, there was a convivial crowd of sabmaggots. I watched the video of Joey's crash with Becky, PartsMatt, and Steve, and admired the piece of tree trunk Joey brought home as a souvenir. I watched Joey siccing his dog, Maggie, on PartsMatt, who ended up getting his face completely and thoroughly licked.

I spent the night in my sleeping bag in Joey's living room. The next day, we worked on Becky's bike, Peeves, and greeted one visitor after another. Joey and I went down and looked at the water; he lives only a few blocks from the beach. In the afternoon, we grilled chicken and had a fantastic picnic dinner.

After an argument with his housemate, Annie, Joey removed the cast from his hand, and fed pieces of it to the dog. ("The doctor said I had to wear it for three weeks! It's been 21 days as of today! Why shouldn't I take it off? I know you've been hiding all the knives and scissors. Give them back to me!") Ever been there when someone had a cast removed? It smells really bad.

Later, after dark, we all piled into Joey's station wagon and went off to K-mart. Joey's station wagon is bright red, loud, and has a much larger motor in it than it would if it were stock. Driving down the road in this car was like being a crazy teenager again. Even with this horde of people in it, it had plenty of power, and it was somehow extremely funny to be in this car with so many people. Joey revved the engine at lights and squealed the tires.

Back at the house, ??michael provided the absinthe, and we all tried it. It was a bit intense for my tastes. I don't know what's in it, in fact I couldn't even decide how alcoholic it might be. It sure did pack a wallop going down. Some of the others drank a lot more of it than I did.

Another night at Joey's house, and it was Sunday. Time to get home, so I could be at work in the morning. I was suited up and about to leave, when ??michael spotted the broken wires dangling from one of my horns. I was aware of this, but didn't think it was that big a deal. ??michael was determined to fix it. Before I knew it, he had taken my bike all apart. When he finished, both my horns worked, there was no dangling wire, and I had a brand new relay spliced in. The horns were much louder than they had been. In fact they were so loud that the neighbor across the street came out on his porch to yell at us. Oops.

Steve rode with me and guided me to the freeway. I took I-95 south to I-287 and eventually got to I-80 west. Now, I've long been aware that the stories about New Jersey's ugliness aren't true for the entire state, that once you get away from the New York City megalopolis, it's actually quite nice. But I hadn't been aware of the splendor of the Delaware Water Gap. What a beautiful bit of real estate that is! I wished I had time to explore.

"When the Pocono Mountains sound kind of exotic... you're hopelessly midwestern... Hopelessly midwestern, corn-fed boys and girls, hopelessly midwestern, square pegs, in a big round world..." I guess Joel Mabus has me pegged. The Pocono Mountains do sound exotic to me. They were quite lovely, and I'm sure I'll visit them again someday.

Stopped for gas in White Haven, Pennsylvania. It reminded me of the New York Welcome Center I visited last year on my way to Vermont. No trash cans, and lots of signs proclaiming that litterers would be prosecuted. All the paper towel holders were empty. Inside there were even more signs threatening prosecution for everything imaginable. I told the cashier the towel dispensers were empty. Her response? She cursed at me and told me they were not legally required to provide paper towels. I decided to buy bottled water someplace else. As I left, she was venting her spleen on another customer, saying that if he's lost he should get a map, no she didn't have any maps, did this look like a travel agency? I just shook my head.

West across Pennsylvania... I stopped for a quick meal of fast food at an exit near the Ohio border. The restaurants were all closed except the McDonalds. I parked next to another motorcycle, a Suzuki Intruder that was incredibly overloaded. A giant garbage bag was bungeed to the passenger seat, soft duffel bags on the side, and a huge T-pack on the sissy bar. The shocks were almost bottomed out, just sitting there.

Inside, the rider of the bike was talking to me before I even had time to order food. I sat down and ate with him. He had been on the road for six weeks but expected to be home the next day. He'd been to Sturgis, where he'd gotten some amazing bargains. He'd also visited Wall Drug, where he got some Sturgis T-shirts for half what they'd cost in Sturgis. He'd been to outlet malls all over the USA. He'd shipped five boxes of souvenirs and bargains home to be distributed amongst his kids and their cousins. He had called home that day and been incensed to learn that they hadn't yet opened the boxes and passed out the presents, and when he got home he'd be giving his son a piece of his mind. He continued describing his bargain shopping activities to me.

"Where'd you get your boots?"
"Aerostich Riderwearhouse. They're the Combat Tourers."
"If you don't mind me askin', how much did you pay for 'em?"
"About $250."
"Whooo-ee! You better be careful not to touch the exhaust with 'em. After what you paid it'd be a shame to have them get damaged."
"I haven't had a problem so far."
"Well you be careful young lady, and next time you should do a bit more shopping before you spend that much on boots. Take a look at my boots. How much would you guess they cost?
I looked at the boots. They looked like plastic imitations of Double H engineer boots. I told him I had no idea what they cost.
"Only $29.95 at Wal-Mart! How do you like that? And y'know what?"
"What?"
"They're guaranteed. My first pair started to come apart a bit, and I took 'em back. They gave me a new pair. And the second pair got burned on the exhaust, and I took 'em back, and they gave me a third pair. This is the fifth pair I've had, and I got 'em all for just $29.95. This one is a little burnt." He showed me a melted spot on his right boot. "When I get home I'll take 'em back and get a sixth pair, for free! Bet you can't do that with your boots. So you better be careful not to burn 'em on the exhaust."
"I don't think they'll melt if they touch the exhaust. They're leather."
"Mine are leather too, and they burned. Yours'll burn too if you're not careful."
"If your boots were leather they wouldn't have melted like that."
"The tag says they're leather."
"I think they're lying to you."
"I tell you, they're leather. And only $29.95 for six pairs!"

I changed the subject to ear plugs, asked him if he wore them? He didn't, so I extolled their virtue to him, and gave him a few pairs (for free!) to try out. I told him he could get ear plugs really cheap, a bargain, if he bought them in boxes of a hundred pairs.

Outside, he wanted to take pictures of his bike and mine together, and of me. I let him. He told me how he'd gotten the most amazing bargain on this bike, just $3500. He asked what I paid for my bike? I said $1500. He paused for a minute, then told me my bike was well enough for now, and that he wished me luck in finding as good a deal as he had when I was ready to move up. I just smiled.

He was headed east, so we didn't have to ride together. I wonder how that Intruder handled at speed, with all that stuff? The bundle on the passenger seat was higher than his head as he rode away. I chuckled to myself. Nice guy, well meaning, friendly and kind, but I was glad not to be traveling with him.

The trip across northern Ohio was uneventful, and I got home around 2am.

Return to Katherine Becker's home page