I packed Thursday night and rode my loaded bike to work on Friday. After work on Friday, I hit the road north. It was odd to be on the road at that time of day. I commonly stay at the office until 7pm or so, by which time the rush hour traffic has cooled off. At 6pm, as I headed north, the traffic was terrible. There was also a lot of construction, which made it even worse. I hit my first patch of stop and go freeway traffic before I even got out of Ann Arbor. US 23 north was a mess, with bridge work on the section that loops around the north side of town. Between the US 23 and M14 merge and diverge with its left side ramps and the lack of escape routes when there's a traffic snarl, that area's often hideous even without construction thrown into the mixture. It was very exciting to be out there in rush hour.
There were other construction sites as I made my way north on US 23. Near Fenton they were replacing the pavement wholesale, and it was down to one lane for miles. By the time I got to I-75, my average speed was only 40mph, even though I'd been on freeway every bit of the way. The it got really bad. North of the Zilwaukee bridge, some genius had decided it would be a good idea to take the freeway from three lanes down to one lane, all at once, and make that single lane only about eight feet wide. Traffic slowed even more. By the time I reached to Pinconning exit, where the construction finally ended, my average speed had dropped to 30 mph. I had hoped to reach Gaylord before dark, and stop for dinner there. But it was full dark before I even got to West Branch. Since I was running so very late, I decided to wait and eat in Mackinaw City.
I arrived in Mackinaw City around 11:30pm, and all the restaurants were closed. I bought gas at the one open gas station and had some pop and chips in place of dinner. While eating these snacks, I watched the clerk sell a whole lot of instant lottery tickets, and chatted with a loafing LEO that was hanging out in the store. This LEO asked me where I was headed, and I told him I was going to Duluth to buy a special protective riding suit. He told me how he used to hang out with "the last of the true outlaw bikers" and how they scoffed at protective gear in those days. The women all wore short shorts and none of them wore helmets. He stopped riding the day the helmet law began, except maybe once or twice but he had never worn a helmet and he never would. (A scofflaw LEO, how cute!) Ah yes, those were the days, when bikers were true outlaws, and he used to ride with them all the time. (Strange how a LEO would get misty-eyed talking about outlaws, eh?) I asked how many hours he thought it was to Duluth? He asked me how fast I planned to ride? I said he didn't really expect me to answer that, did he? He said he'd been there many times and that it was 401 miles to Duluth, and that I could tell him my planned speed if I wanted to because I'd be out of his jurisdiction almost instantly when I left, and he certainly wasn't gonna radio ahead to the state guys across the water. I just laughed.
The Mackinac Bridge is a marvelous thing. It's a suspension bridge five miles long, linking Michigan's lower and upper peninsulas. The cables and towers are sparsely lit with understated reddish-orange lights; it doesn't take much to make it visible because the surrounding area is so dark at night. There are four traffic lanes: the two outside lanes are paved, but the two inside lanes are made of a metal grating. It's better to ride a bike on the asphalt lanes; I was taught this long ago, when as a teenager I was on a bicycle tour that rode over the bridge. The other thing we had to be very careful of on the bicycles, and which I was careful of on the motorcycle, is the expansion joint under each of the towers. The concrete expands when it's warm and contracts when it's cold, and the expansion joints provide the elasticity to keep the bridge from cracking. These joints are like big metal teeth, six or eight feet long, which mesh to a greater or lesser degree depending on the temperature. Riding over these on a motorcycle is like riding over trolley tracks embedded in a city street. Better watch out, or they'll steer your bike right out from under you. On a bicycle they're even scarier, because the gaps between the teeth can be wide enough for a bicycle wheel to fall through, so you have to ride across them at a 45 degree angle. You can see the water far below through these expansion joints, and through the metal grating in the middle two lanes. Many people find this disconcerting, and some people are so frightened by the bridge that they won't drive across it.
I rode over the bridge at midnight. I was alone up there, there was no other traffic. The moon was full overhead, and the water reflected its light far below me. The shorelines were dark and far away. There wasn't much wind, for which I was very grateful. The expansion joints were definitely scary in the dark, and I was glad I already knew about them or they might have taken me down. The toll booths were on the far side, and I paid my dollar at the single open booth.
I headed west on US 2 out of St. Ignace. I actually passed a 24 hour restaurant, but since I'd just eaten the snacks the urgency was gone, so I didn't stop, even though I should have. It was dark out there along US 2, and there were a lot of deer, so I slowed way down. Within an hour I was hungry and tired, and the deer were starting to make me very nervous. I decided to stop at the next state park and pitch my camp. There are a lot of state park campgrounds along this stretch of road. Unfortunately, I discovered that they were still closed for the season, and gated shut. I'd be undisturbed back there, but I didn't want to risk dropping the bike going around one of the gates, so I started looking for alternatives, and checking out each roadside park I passed. They were all choked with RVs. I guess I wasn't the only one wishing I could get a campsite.
I didn't really want to put up my tent someplace and then get moved on by the cops. So I pulled into the first privately managed campground I came to. There were a half-dozen RVs camped there, and plenty of open sites. I saw another motorcycle, and I selected into the site next door to it. This motorcycle was a heavily burdened GoldWing, and they were definitely camping in style; they had one of those pop-top motorcycle camper trailers. I thought to myself, "Self, you're going to have to question them in the morning, and find out how their handling is affected by pulling that thing." The office was closed (surprise, surprise) but I figured someone would come around and collect my money in the morning. I pitched my tent, and after a long search for the bathrooms I went to sleep. (I never did find the real bathrooms; in the morning I learned from other campers that they'd been locked at midnight anyways. I finally found an old outhouse on the extreme far end of the campground, BYOTP.) I slept badly; just couldn't get comfortable. I thought I'd never manage to get to sleep.
I awoke in the morning to the sounds of the folks next door folding their pop-top trailer down. I dressed quickly and opened my tent door so I could see, and struck up a conversation with them. They were an older couple from Wolverine, Michigan. They'd been riding together for years, and had owned several different Gold Wings. They got the trailer because they thought it would be easier and more comfortable, and they loved it. It took five minutes to set up, and it had a real bed. I asked if it caused any trouble with the bike's handling, and the guy told me he'd been riding for so many years he felt perfectly comfortable pulling it. (I guess it must affect the handling.) They were soon gone. I looked at the clock on my bike. The buttons don't work so I can't set it, but it's reliably wrong by the same amount. It said 2:45am. Oh no! Five after nine. Better break camp quick, since I needed to be in Duluth by 3pm and I had over 300 miles left to travel.
I quickly started packing up my gear, and taking down my tent. It took me somewhat longer than it had taken the couple on the Gold Wing. While I was breaking camp a young man with a dog walked by. We exchanged pleasantries, and he wished us folks a good ride today. I didn't bother to explain that I was alone. I left the campground, never having had anyone come by for my site fee. Later, as I was riding, it occurred to me that this young man probably was the person I should have paid for my site, and that he had not asked me for the money because he had made a faulty assumption. I bet he thought I was that Gold Wing pilot's better half. All bikes look alike, and women don't go motorcycle camping alone, right? So the biker who rented the campsite must be off taking a shower or something, while his passenger packed up the gear.
I roared off down the road at much too high a rate of speed, trying to make up for some of the time I had overslept. I turned north on M77, and the road stretched before me, completely empty. I nudged my speed up. Outside of Germfask, I came over a hill and there was an RV, with a state police car right behind it coming the other way. Eek! I looked at my speedo. I wasn't _quite_ at the ton. I slowed down, and watched the LEO's taillights in my mirror. His brake lights flashed, but he didn't turn around. Whew!
I turned west on M28. There was a little more traffic here. I passed several semis, and a lot of cars. Soon I reached Munising, and came up to the Lake Superior shoreline. The ice was all out of the lake, at least I didn't see any. Last time I visited this area, several springs ago, the ice was piled in heaps along the shore like snow at the edge of a parking lot. I think maybe the tidal forces push it in and heap it up. Anyways, the ice was already gone this time. Despite the lack of ice, the 70 degree temps and the sunshine, spring had barely sprung this far north. The trees didn't even have the green haze of leaves to come, and I didn't see any flowers anywhere.
About a half-hour outside of Marquette, I came over another hill, and there was yet another LEO! Eek! I slowed down again, and watched in my mirrors as his taillights disappeared over a hill behind me. So there I was, thinking, "Will he turn around? He didn't seem to be turning. There's a road off to the left, maybe I should turn that way, if he comes back he won't know I turned, and I'll evade him. But I'll never get to Duluth on time if I get lost down there. I don't see him coming back; maybe I'll just keep going..." I moderated my pace, brought it down to a sedate 60mph. I was getting into a bit more traffic anyways. A few minutes later, there were the tell-tale flashing lights in my rearview. Damn. I should have taken that side road. I pulled over onto the shoulder. A man picking up trash on the far side of the road stared.
Within a few seconds of talking to this LEO, I knew I'd never get out of this one. He had the "little lady" thing going, but unfortunately he also had the pious attitude that giving me a ticket would protect me from myself. Since I wasn't going to get out of the ticket, I settled for holding my head up and projecting a quietly unrepentant attitude. He wrote the ticket for ten over and lectured me a little bit on safety.
I passed several other LEOs before I got out of the Marquette area, all of them coming the other way in packs with other traffic. And they were hard to see; the bright sunshine made all the cars gleam like LEOs and it was hard to distinguish them at a distance. It seems that's the way of it in the U.P. I decided on a new speed strategy. For the rest of the trip, I never went more than five over if there were any cars visible anywhere. After all, I'd already used my get out jail free card, my spotless driving record was no more. If they got me for speeding twice in one day they'd throw the book at me.
All through the upper peninsula, and in the northern lower peninsula, the land ranges from small hills to gently rolling. I didn't pass any place that was extremely flat, or any place I would call mountainous either. Swampy areas and the occasional farm field alternate with young forests, a mix of pine and birches that range from silvery grey to white. There are occasional groups of heavier deciduous trees; I would guess that many of these are poplars and maples. None of these forests are very old; the trees all range from small to medium. There are swathes where forest fires obviously went through within the last five years or so, and swampy areas where the trees appear to grow to a certain height and then fall over. The ground cover is brush and small trees, with milkweed, cat tails, and wide-leaf marsh grasses in the swamps; I didn't see any short grass areas except those that were obviously cultivated by people. The soil is mostly rocks and sand. Over the course of the weekend, I passed many National Forest ranger stations. On Saturday, they all listed the fire danger as "very high", and on Sunday, they all listed the fire danger as "extreme". I was glad not to see any fires.
As I got farther west, I saw fewer cars, fewer houses, fewer roads, and more rocks, more trees, more sand, more dead deer. Once I passed the US41 turnoff to Houghton, I really got into the empty lands. There weren't even any tourist traps out there. I passed through six or seven so-called towns over the next hour or so, but most of these were the sort of town where two houses are next door to each other, and even though no people live in either one, the local raccoons and squirrels think it's a metropolitan area. One thing that's interesting about this area, is that there are road signs for numbered routes, but if you look at the roads these signs label, they're just sandy two-rut tracks out into the swamp. There were twenty mile stretches where I didn't cross another paved road. I thought about a live Greg Brown album I have, where he talks about the U.P. "The U.P. has its own deal. It's kinda like Alaska. People really need each other up there. In the winter, you damn well better know your neighbors. If you see a car stalled, you better stop." I hoped that I didn't need anyone, because if I did, it might be a long time before anyone came. If I needed to use my cell phone, would there be a tower within transmission range?
I went through a place where the road was cut through a little hill, with thick trees and embankments on either side. There were piles of snow in the shady spots on the south side of the road. I passed by beautiful inland lakes; they were a deep blue that reflected the deep blue of the sky.
All this time I was keeping an eye on my clock, and mentally adding the six hours and twenty minutes to the time on that clock, to see if I was going to get to Duluth on time. It wasn't looking good. I had almost made up my mind to continue to the next gas station, buy gas, give up and turn back towards home, when I passed a sign: Entering Central Time Zone. Oh my god, I forgot about the time zone change. I have an extra hour! Yay! I will get there on time after all! I started adding five hours and twenty minutes to the time on my clock.
Soon I came to Wakefield. Wakefield is huge by U.P. standards, it has enough houses that they aren't all on one street, and there are gas stations there. It's on the shores of Sunday Lake, which is very beautiful. M28 ends at US 2 in Wakefield, and from that point forward I was back in the populated areas. I followed US2 past ski areas, through Bessemer and Ironwood, and then I crossed the border into Wisconsin. It was amazing. As soon as I got into Wisconsin the character of the road changed. There were still the stands of birch and pine trees, but in between were farm fields, and along the roadside there was actual green grass, the kind someone planted, the kind that has to be mowed. Here in Wisconsin, there were people, and the people keep the roadsides covered in grass. I also saw the occasional flowers, early spring daffodils here and there. Don't get me wrong, it was still rural, and not at all densely populated. But there's a huge difference between rural and wilderness. It's easy to forget this, when you spend most of your time in suburbia.
I passed through the Bad River Indian Reservation, where I saw a well-attended casino and several stores advertising discount cigarettes. I think the cigarettes sold on reservations are exempt from the federal taxes on cigarettes. I also passed a lot of places with signs advertising wild rice for sale. Suddenly it got very cold, and a few miles later I came up on the Lake Superior shore again. The wind off the lake was incredibly cold! I passed through Ashland, and away from the lake again it warmed up. Outside of Superior, Wisconsin, it got cold again. I entered Duluth, Minnesota on a bridge that had a great view of what looked like a shipyard. Duluth looked like a massively huge city, after the places I had traveled through to reach it.
I found my way to Riderwearhouse, arriving there just a little after 3pm Central Time. I'd ridden straight through the day, stopping just twice for gas and once to get the ticket. I'd had nothing to eat or drink all day. I was stiff, tired and famished. But I had made it to my destination on time. Yay!
The Riderwearhouse is in an old factory near the riverfront. There's a door at the side next to the loading dock door. Then it's up a half a flight of narrow steps, through the inside of the loading dock, and into the showroom. The showroom is basically a room full of display merchandise off the corner of a big room full of shipping boxes and cubicles. I could hear people at the back somewhere out of sight, but there was no one in the showroom area. There was a bell on the counter and a sign that said "Ring Bell for Service" so I rang the bell. A young woman came out of the back, and she was very nice and helpful. Her name was Anna. She got me a pop to drink from somewhere in the back (I've never tasted a better Dr. Pepper!), and had me try on about ten different suits. We went out the loading dock, leaping off the dock onto the sidewalk, so I could sit on my bike wearing various suits.
Anna told me that Pete would be sorry he missed seeing me. Apparently Pete is a long distance rider who works there, and he rides a V65 Sabre. He wasn't working that day. That's OK, I didn't need to meet Pete, I had Anna helping me, and I liked Anna tremendously well; she was incredibly nice and she patiently worked with me to fit the suit even though we didn't finish until after they were closed. Then she took me on a tour of the facility, and showed me the sewing room, the bolts of fabric, the cutting tables and the taping station. It was interesting to see.
While I was with Anna, another rider came in, someone else who worked there. Not Pete, Glenn. Glenn was riding a Yamaha sportybike. Once I'd placed my order and gotten the items I was taking with me, I went outside so they could close. I had purchased one of their wee willy face shield cleaning kits. These are really neat. They consist of a tiny spray bottle with a sponge attached to one side and a squeegee on the other side. They pack easily in a tank bag, and you can clean your helmet face shield anytime with them. I sat on the bench outside the door and carefully cleaned my face shield. It needed it; it had a whole day's worth of bugs on it. I noticed that oil was dripping out of the clutch cover on Glenn's bike. He came out and I pointed this out to him. He was aware of the problem, just hadn't fixed it yet. Anna and the other young woman who worked there came out, and they teased Glenn about how he never had to change his oil.
They were all going to get dinner together, and Glenn invited me to join them. I was pleased to be invited, since dinner was the very next thing on my agenda anyways, and I was happy to eat with such congenial company. Anna and the other woman (whose name I never did learn) went off to get their car. Glenn and I got on our bikes, and I followed him through the streets of downtown Duluth and into a parking structure. Even though the restaurant we went to was just a Chi-Chis, it was in a nifty old brewery building downtown with a bunch of interesting stores, bars, and restaurants, and a view of the lake. Over dinner Anna told me that if I was interested in a cool job with neat people where I would make absolutely no money, that Aerostitch was hiring. She herself was probably leaving, though; she had an interview with an art school in "the cities" (Minneapolis/St. Paul) and it looked very promising.
The waiter was very strange and sarcastic. He seemed to be flirting with Anna. Anna complained that this kind of thing happens to her all the time because she's blond. I think it was more than the blond hair; she just had one of those effervescent personalities and people respond to that. The other woman pointed out that the waiter was wearing a wedding ring, and Anna started giving him a hard time about flirting with her when he was a married man. It was uproariously funny. Glenn was pretty silent, but we three women were raising a serious ruckus and our table kept exploding into gales of laughter. The waiter came back looking a bit nervous, and it was my turn to send him scurrying away in fear. I told him I was a polyamorist so he should flirt with me instead of Anna (a slightly inaccurate statement, but it was met with the desired explosion of laughter). He retreated in total confusion. I don't think he suffered that much. It was a contest of wits, and we were ganging up on him big time. We left him a good tip, and waiting on these three outrageous women gave him a story to tell when he talked about his work day later.
After dinner, my companions decided they would have a bonfire on the beach. It would have been fun to stay for that, but I decided I'd better make tracks for home. I wanted to get at least a little ways down the road before I stopped for the night. Outside under the low angled sun, it had gotten colder. Glenn put on his Aerostitch jacket and rode across to the line at the exit booth. Minnesota doesn't have a helmet law, and it was weird to see him riding in the stitch jacket and no helmet. A car pulled up behind Glenn in line, and Anna jumped out of the passenger side, and clambered up behind Glenn on the bike. They waved goodbye to me. I took my time putting on my ski bibs, my electrics, etc, so I could go the rest of the evening without stopping to add layers.
I rode out of the parking lot and tried to decide on the best route to the freeway. I turned left. A few blocks up, I was stopped at a light when Glenn and Anna rode through the intersection on the cross street and Anna waved to me again. They looked like something from a movie, Glenn in his hi-vis yellow stitch jacket and his sunglasses, and Anna with her curly blond hair flowing in the wind, no helmets to hide their heads from view. My analytical self thought they were being foolish, cruising around like that without helmets, but my impractical, artistic self noticed what a pretty picture they made.
I found my way back onto the freeway, and went back the way I'd come just a few short hours earlier, over the bridge to Superior, back across the northern corner of Wisconsin. Now that I'd finished my errand, I could take my time getting home. Home is still open, even if you don't get there until two in the morning. I consciously forced myself to ride in a relaxed fashion, as the shadows got longer. I decided I'd get a campsite _before_ dark this time. I started looking for a likely spot, one that wasn't too close to the lake, far enough inland that it wouldn't be so darn cold. Outside of Iron River, Wisconsin, I spotted a sign pointing down a side road to the south, that listed three or four campgrounds and cabin rental places. I turned onto this road. I came to a fork in the road, and both directions had campgrounds. I chose the paved direction. The road curved this way and that, and the pavement was pretty marginal. I was just about to turn back when I came to the campground. One side of this campground was filled with RVs, but when I asked for a tent spot they pointed me towards the empty side. I think I was the only tent camper in the place, and I ended up sharing a lovely pine grove with one pop-up trailer family.
The woman running the place was very friendly and asked me all about my trip. I told her about going to Riderwearhouse, the suit I had ordered, and the sabmags. Then I went off to pitch my tent, and she went off to look at www.sabmag.org on the internet. While I was putting up my tent, she came out to tell me she'd looked at the sabmag site, and that her husband actually had a V65 Magna. Bike sniffing ensued. Their names were Evie and Randy. I showed them my oil mod and told them about replacing my cams. Maybe they'll join the sabmag list.
I slept like a baby.
In the morning, I bid goodbye to Evie, who was out walking the dog, and I set out for home. I stopped for gas in Iron River, Wisconsin, and decided I'd take Phil's advice and try to cover 100 miles before breakfast. I rode along at a leisurely pace and stopped to look at the occasional historical monument.
I saw a sign pointing to the Bong Memorial, and it made me think of a certain sabmag, so I stopped to see what it was. Wow, the man they were memorializing was named Richard, too. According to the sign, Richard Bong was the best ace pilot in World War 2; he was killed flying a test airplane in 1945, and this had been his home town.. I remembered reading Chuck Yeager's book, how so many of the test pilots died and they named streets after them at the base; maybe there's a Bong Street out there. Wow.
In Ashland, US 2 runs right along the Lake Superior shoreline, off and on for several miles. There's some kind of linear park there, with a recreational trail along the lakeshore, and lots of little parking lots where people can leave their cars while they use the park. I was riding along US 2 when I saw that there were a whole lot of bikes in one of these little parking lots. So I stopped there too, just to say hi and see what was up. It turned out to be the local Gold Wing club, getting together to ride. They were going to ride along the shore, and have lunch in Superior. They invited me to go with them, but since I'd just come from that direction and I did have to get home sometime that day, I declined. They were very nice people, and I stayed for ten minutes or so and chatted with them. I watched as more Wings pulled in; some of the women passengers were actually eating and drinking while the bikes were rolling. Very few helmets in this crowd.
In Odanah, I stopped at another marker and learned that the Bad River got its name from early French explorers, because it was so difficult to navigate; Bad River is a direct translation of some French name I won't try to spell here. Odanah means "village" and the town was built on a site where the Chippewa once grew crops. A missionary whose name I've already forgotten founded this town, and became an advocate for the local Chippewa. He traveled out west to see the proposed site of the reservation the government wanted to move this tribe to, and his wife wrote to her father, "it would be more merciful to shoot them, than to send them there." They were successful in fighting the relocation of the tribe, and a reservation was set up surrounding the village of Odanah. Now, there are casinos and discount cigarette stores there. I bet that missionary is turning in his grave, all this vice right in his town.
Near Bessemer, I read a historical marker that told how iron ore was discovered in the area in the 1880s. I imagined the area in the heyday of the mines. I remembered reading about the Calumet Opera House, how all the big names played the U.P., and the area was just booming. Not anymore, that's for sure.
I took the south route back, following US 2 for the most part. I passed that hundred mile mark, and started looking for someplace to eat. There was nothing. I rode for miles, and didn't even see any houses, let alone restaurants. It was even more isolated here, than it had been the day before up north on M28. I finally came to Watersmeet, and saw a restaurant. But it didn't appear to be open, there were no cars in front. I kept going.
A Harley came up to the one intersection of Watersmeet; I waved to him as I passed, and without waving back (because he needed both hands at that moment, right?) he turned in to follow behind me. Just past the intersection there was a bridge. The bridge was being worked on, and was down to one lane, with a traffic light controlling the direction of traffic, eastbound one minute, westbound the next. The light was red, and I pulled up and stopped on one side of the lane, leaving room for him to pull up next to me and say hello. He didn't do this. Instead he stopped behind me, and I studied him in my rear view mirror. Eyeblinding chrome. One of those little brain-bowl helmets they wear to comply with the helmet law while avoiding any semblance of protective gear. He was huge and fat and scowling, with close-set little piggy eyes. Really unfriendly and unpleasant looking. The light changed and I rolled on over the bridge, with the hog behind me. I was in no hurry, so I watched him get small in my mirror, as I took my speed up to just over the speed limit, and held it there. Once I stopped accelerating, the hog started catching up to me again. We came to a passing lane, and the hog suddenly accelerated so hard my teeth were rattling from the noise behind me. I selected the right lane, so he could pass if he liked. And he did. But instead of moving out and passing me in the passing lane, he passed me on the right hand side, in my own lane! Oh my... what a nut case. He kept accelerating. My whole body was being shaken by the noise. I bet he was deaf as a post! I slowed way down and let him go, until he was so far ahead I could hardly see him. I thought, "far away from me is a good place for you, piggy man, and I hope that if there are any LEOs up there you flush them out for me."
Some time later, I spotted a sign that said Motel/Cafe. There were a dozen or so cars out front, a good sign. I pulled in. Seven or eight motel rooms and a combination motel office and cafe that looked like it had been carved out of a house. Inside, I would guess this cafe was maybe 800 square feet, with one corner cut out for what had to be a tiny kitchen, and ten or eleven tables in two rooms. All but two of the tables were occupied. Four or five square tables had been moved to make one long table for a large party of elderly people in their Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes. There were two other tables in this front room, one of which was unoccupied, so I sat there.
There was a couple at the other lone table next to mine, and I ended up chatting with them. Well, with him, mostly; she didn't say much, just smiled, laughed, and nodded. They were pleasant, friendly people. They had a trailer up the road, where they spent their summers. Winters, they spent in Corpus Christi, Texas. They'd just gotten back to Michigan for the summer. I asked where they were from originally? Well, both places, he had lived in this area as a boy, but he'd spent thirty five years in Texas. He told me that the old folks at the next table were always there on Sundays, and that he was entitled to call them old, because he was old himself. He had been living here when this motel was built, forty years ago, and that the old man sitting next to the woman in blue had been his sixth grade teacher. He asked me what I thought of the price of gas up here? He'd put a fifty gallon gas tank on his truck, and he stocked up where gas was cheap; he'd gotten it for 99 cents a gallon at some place on his way north. I said it sounds like he's ready for the year 2000. She laughed. I said that when your gas tank only holds a few gallons, the price difference from place to place is less relevant. She laughed. He told me to watch out for the police on US 2. The area is so large, that having police available close by when you need them, means having a lot of bored police out there looking to give traffic tickets, and not too many people for them to give tickets to. I said don't I know it, and told them about my encounter with the law the day before. She laughed. He told me that there were numerous speed traps between Iron River and Escanaba, and to watch out unless I wanted to get another ticket. He said in Texas a road like this one would have a 70mph speed limit, and that it was just crazy that these were posted at 55, and crazy how they enforced it, considering how empty it was here. Soon, they finished their meal and left.
I had a turkey sandwich for lunch, and watched the old folks linger over coffee. They left about they same time I did, and several of them came up to me as I was getting ready outside, to say hello and to ask me about my trip. They had tales of motorcycle riding grandsons, and of the motorcycles they themselves had ridden when they were young. Very friendly people. That's one of the things I like about small restaurants like that, and why I'll choose that type of lunch over fast food whenever I can.
I stopped for gas in Iron River, Michigan (funny, two gas stops in a row in towns called Iron River!) and while I was filling the tank, about ten motorcycles passed by on the road out front, including two trike outfits. I chatted with a Gold Wing rider who was also filling his tank, and he repeated the warning about the speed traps. While I was pumping my gas, a pickup truck full of whining children pulled up on the other side of my pump, and the driver filled a big gas can with premium; maybe they had a boat somewhere. They were gone by the time I finished cleaning the bugs from my windshield. Inside, I picked out a pop and a small bag of chips, thinking I'd take a rest down the road at some roadside park. At the cash register, I put down my items and said pump eight. The cashier said that would be eight dollars. No way! I pointed to the bike and said pump eight? She said pump nine. I said it was definitely pump eight. Turns out, the truck family had bought my gas, and now she was charging me for theirs. She got out a piece of paper, and calculated that the difference was $1.63. She gave me the correct change, and wrote their names (she knew who they were) on an IOU to put in her cash register.
Crystal Falls, Michigan, is in a valley. Coming in from the west on US 2, there was a spot where I could see the whole valley spread out before me. The hills at the far side were a misty greenish-blue, the color of pine trees. I decided to follow M69 out of Crystal Falls instead of US 2, because it looked more direct and less populated. There were rows of tall pines on either side of the road. There are a lot of piney woods like this all over Michigan, planted during the Great Depression. I thought about the piney woods and the WPA sidewalks I walk on in Ann Arbor, good things that we have today because of that unfortunate era.
The urge to explore got the better of me, and I turned north on a paved road which wasn't on my map, the road sign said Quarry Road. This was an excellent road, very twisty and fun with decent pavement, but unfortunately there was a lot of gravel in the curves, so I slowed way down. I passed the quarry (guess that explains the gravel) and found another reason to be glad that I had chosen to go slowly through these twisties, when a deer leaped up from the ground by the road and jumped right in front of me! Eek! I slowed down even more and looked for the deer's friends (they never travel alone) but I didn't see them. Pretty surprising that a deer would leap in front of me like that in the middle of the day; usually they don't move around much at that time. There were no houses on this road, and the quarry wouldn't be active on Sunday. Maybe that deer had bedded down for the day right next to the road, and I'd been the only vehicle to pass all day long, startling it from its rest spot. A little farther on, I spotted some birds that I think were wild turkeys. Quarry Road wound back around and intersected M69 again; it was a fun little detour but it didn't get me much closer to home.
In Escanaba, I came upon an accident scene. The road was two lanes in each direction, and a pickup was facing the wrong way in the left lane, with its flashers on. As I approached, all I could see that was wrong with this truck, was a flat tire on the passenger side front. I have a tire repair kit with plugs, patches, and pump, so I stopped to see if I could be of assistance. But it turned out to be much more serious than that. The truck has been sideswiped by a car which was stopped a hundred yards or so up on the shoulder, and the whole passenger side was scraped, and both front and rear tires were flat. No one had been hurt, and the police had been called. They didn't need extra people to add to the confusion, so I continued on my way.
I passed through an area where all the trees had been flattened. Literally flattened. They were spread on the ground like so much kindling. I would have suspected logging, except the logs were still there. I wondered what could have happened? Then I saw a forest service sign: Severe Windstorm - October 5, 1997. Wow! Amazing. What an incredible storm that must have been! I hope nobody was killed.
I stopped at a roadside park on the Lake Michigan shore, and had my snack while watching children swim in the lake. That water must have been cold, but the kids were having a blast. I remembered early-season swimming in Lake Michigan when I was a kid. Bright sunshine, gorgeous sandy beaches, cold water, waves like fresh water oceans. I love the lakes. I thought about the Aral Sea, and hoped that we wouldn't have a disaster like that here. Maybe people will take a lesson from the Aral Sea and do something different. Maybe we'll figure out a better way to go on. I hope, I hope, but I'm glad I don't have any children.
I overtook another bike pulling a trailer, and followed them across the Mackinac Bridge. On the other side of the bridge, I was finally back on a normal interstate highway, and I could go fast again. I kicked the speed way up, and covered a lot of miles before it got dark.
Just after dark, I stopped for gas in West Branch, where I dropped my bike in the gas station while I was fighting with my chaps. (The top hem of the chaps likes to roll up between my leg and the bike seat creating an uncomfortable bulge. Chaps are very annoying and I will be very glad when my 'stitch arrives so I can retire this pair.) A man that was getting gas at the next pump helped me pick the bike up. When we were heaving it back up, I just about passed out from the smell of this man. Major alcohol consumption there, whoa! You could get drunk just from standing next to him! I hope he didn't kill himself or anyone else on his drive home, sheesh!
Damage from this bike drop? Broken clutch lever. Darn it, I just replaced that thing two weeks ago, and here I go breaking it again. It had barely enough of a stub for me to be able to ride, and I wouldn't have wanted to do a lot of stop and go riding with it like that.
I thought to myself, "Self, this stop and drop should tell you that you're over tired and over stupid. You ought to get a motel room here in West Branch and do the last couple hours tomorrow. Work will forgive you." But I didn't stop. I did slow it way down, to a speed very close to the speed limit. I found a car with very bright headlights to follow, and I kept myself just far enough behind them that they were at the far range of my headlights, which made it possible to see more than I could have seen with just my own headlights, especially out to the sides. I kept a vigilant eye out for deer, and I did see a few. The construction zones weren't nearly as bad at this late hour on a Sunday, as they had been in the early evening on Friday.
I got home all right. Total trip distance was 1476.3 miles.
I guess speeding is still faster than not speeding, as long as you don't lose time by getting a ticket. But it's not as much faster as it might seem to be. If the gas stops get longer, the effective speeds will converge. I also suspect that the gas mileage would decline further at higher average travel speeds, which would also cause effective speeds to converge. There is definitely a limit to effective speed, and it's considerably lower than the top speed of the bike. Interesting. Something to keep in mind if I ever decide to enter one of those long distance riding events.
All through the trip, every time I stopped I was inspecting my rear tire, because it was pretty close to being worn out. I didn't ride the bike on Monday because of the clutch lever, which I ordered from the local shop, and at the same time I ordered a new rear tire. The bike was filthy; it had been filthy for a while but the cleaning solutions I have all say not to use them on a warm engine. The weather was lovely but the bike was cool, which is a rare combination for me. I decided I'd take advantage of this opportunity to wash it before I wrenched on it, so Monday evening I rolled it out into the driveway to wash it. While I was doing this, I discovered a big honking nail in the rear tire. It still hadn't lost a lot of air, though it was leaking, air was bubbling out when I put the soapy water on it. I must have picked it up towards the end of my trip home, because I had inspected this tire religiously at each gas stop.
I decided that this was a golden opportunity to try out the tire repair kit which I'd bought and carried for roadside emergencies. The nail was only about a half-inch from the side of the tire, embedded in the part that still had the most tread, and it went in at a serious angle. Not exactly what I'd imagined when I thought about plugging a hole in the tire, but if I was on the roadside with this I'd have no choice but to patch it. It would be a real-life test of my skills and equipment. I got out my roadside tool kit.
I yanked the nail out with a pair of pliers, and the inaudible bubbling out of the air became a loud hiss. I stuck the stabbing tool into the hole and worked it in, and the air stopped hissing out. After struggling a bit, I pulled the thing back out and put some oil on it. I wrapped the vinyl bag the kit had been packed in around the handle to give myself a little more leverage, and I twisted the thing in, bit by bit. It must have taken me fifteen minutes of struggle to get that thing all the way into the tire, and by the end I was exhausted. Following the directions, I unscrewed the stabbing tool from the nozzle, and pulled it out, leaving the nozzle in the tire. I carefully oiled the mushroom shaped plug and loaded it into the gun, and screwed the gun onto the nozzle. I pumped the trigger until it stopped, and carefully pulled the gun and nozzle out of the tire. The plug came with it. Damn! I put the nozzle back on the stabbing tool, and worked it in again. This time it went in a little more easily. I loaded the plug gun again, and pumped it again until it stopped. I very carefully pulled the nozzle out, and this time the plug stayed in the tire. I tested it with soapy water, and there were no bubbles, it seemed to be holding air. The kit came with a little knife to cut the plug end flush with the tire, and I did this. Success!
I hadn't pumped it up at all, but the tire was still relatively hard; it hadn't lost much air. Even so, I decided to go ahead and try out the pump, too. The pump I have is a hose that gets compression from the engine, you screw it in the place of one spark plug, and run the engine to pump the tire. I ran into trouble with this. I discovered that I had nothing in my roadside kit that I could use to pull a spark plug. Ruh-roh! Not only that, I had nothing in my garage that would work, either. None of the spark plug sockets in my tool box were the right size. I thought back to the day I put these plugs in. Erik Kauppi had been here, in fact he'd given me his spare plug set, and we'd been using his tools. I guess I know what I need to buy next.
The new tire and the clutch lever arrived Thursday and I had the bike back on the road that very evening. After three days without riding, it was good to have it back.