Friday night my science fiction club held their biweekly party at my house. The last of the guests left around 3am, as usual. I got up around noon on Saturday , and puttered around the house for a little while, but I just had to go riding. I'd been threatening to ride to Columbus to return Phil's socks, and it seemed as good an excuse as any, so I fired off an email to Phil saying look for me around 5pm. Then I threw a few things in the saddlebags and left.

On US23 south, I might have gone fast enough to peel my left side cover off. With a windshield, I would not be almost pushed off the bike as the speedo struggled up to well over the ton. If the left side cover had come loose, it would have been from the front mount point, and it would have hit the inside of my left leg. It would have been hard to slow and stop the bike while holding the side cover on with my leg, I wouldn't have been able to downshift normally and still hold onto that side cover. I would have stopped at the top of the ramp, put the cover back onto its mounting snaps, and shaken my head at having discovered another limiter between the speed I traveled and the max speed of the engine. But of course I would never have done this, it would have been silly, right?

A couple miles north of the Ohio border, I overtook a Harley with "ape hanger" handlebars and huge fringed leather saddlebags that were within inches of dragging on the ground. The bags looked like they might fall off any second. As I overtook him, I noticed that the bike had Minnesota plates and that the rider wasn't wearing a helmet! I was amazed, and I slowed down to stare in my rear view mirror. I've never seen a helmetless rider in Michigan before. I don't even know if the helmet law is heavily enforced, because I've never known anyone to break it. I wondered how far into Michigan this guy had gone without a helmet? Had he actually traversed the state? He exited at the Sylvania exit, just south of the Ohio border; maybe he was staying in that area and had just gone a little way into Michigan. I wondered what the cops do if they pull someone over for being helmetless? Do they write you a ticket and let you continue on down the road without a helmet, or do they tow your bike away, the way they do your car when you have improper registration and you call them scumbags? (Yes, there's a story there, but I won't go there.)

I was starting to get very low on gas, and I hadn't yet had any breakfast or lunch. It was getting on towards 2 or 3 in the afternoon, so I decided I'd better stop for refueling. I pulled off at the Maumee exit. This is a newly built-up area, one of those areas where all the chains have expensive, subdued looking brick buildings with miniature signage. I decided to go to Wendy's, since I had a coupon for a free burger. There were no other customers when I walked in. While I was deciding what I wanted with my burger, a big guy with long blond hair and a beard came in behind me. I gestured to him to go first. While they got his food we chatted a little, and he seemed like a good sort, so once I had gotten my food I invited myself to sit with him. I was not mistaken, he was a good sort. He told me his name was John, he lived in a biological research area north of Lansing. I suspected he was doing some sort of small planet thing there, though I didn't ask. He told me about picking up trash along the road, how people think they can just dump old tires and shingles and stuff by the roadside if there aren't any houses, and how poachers kill deer and just take the good parts, and leave the rest of the carcass to rot by the roadside. Also, we discussed the BDCs, and he told me he knew someone who was a spiritualist and could see people's auras. He said many men get into cars and their auras expand to include the whole car, while many women's auras shrink when they drive. I do know what his friend means, although I would not have chosen "auras" as a word to describe it. I told him about how Volvo drivers are statistically more likely to be involved in accidents with motorcycles.

It was neat to have met an interesting person to eat lunch with, but I was anxious to be on the road, so after wolfing my food I said my farewells to John, and after a quick stop at the gas station I was back on my way south. I was already running a bit later than I'd thought, and getting to Phil and Russell's place by 5 was looking a bit unlikely.

Just past Findlay, there's a bridge over the railroad tracks, and there's a nifty old coal tower straddling the tracks. I wondered how they got the coal up in those things, and how many steam engine tenders could be filled before it had to be restocked? The tower isn't that large. In days past were there piles of additional coal nearby?

When I got to Russell and Phil's house no one was home. I wasn't surprised; the day was so beautiful that I would have expected them to have been out riding for four hours by the time I got up and sent them my message. I left the socks in the doorway and went on. I thought briefly about heading to the Hocking Hills area, but in the end I decided I'd rather go somewhere I hadn't been lately. So I rode off to the northwest. I thought I'd go to Pennsylvania.

I realized I was passing very close to Cleveland, so I decided to swing by the Ryder Ranch and say hello. I'd have called to warn them but I didn't have their phone number. I only knew how to get to the house. No one was there either, though I garnered some stares from the children next door, and Boss barked at me from the front window. I hoped that they were out riding too. I did have one problem at the Ryder Ranch. I hadn't stopped to change my gloves early enough, and my hands were so stiff from cold that I couldn't unplug my electric jacket until I'd warmed them in my pockets for a good five minutes. I switched over to my mittens there in the driveway, and went on.

I stopped for dinner and gas in Conneaut, Ohio, not long after dark. It was starting to get very cold. There was a busy little truck stop with a Subway inside, and four tables, each with its own pay phone. I sat at a table and ate a sandwich and read my book for awhile, resting and thawing. Then I went back outside to get some more layers to put on. I came back inside to do this. A trucker had been talking on one of the phones the whole time I'd been eating, and he hung up about this time. We chatted a bit. He was from Boston, he had a load of rubber boots and waders. He told me he'd been talking to his mom. His dog was eighteen years old, and not well. His mom reported that the dog was unable to stand and walk. He'd have to have the dog put down when he was next home, and he didn't know what he'd do. His mom was selling her house, so where would he bury the dog? He'd talked to a pet cemetery, and it was going to cost $700 to get the dog a coffin and its own grave, or $500 if they put it in a grave with another dog. And they wouldn't tell you which dog was on top. He thought he might bury the dog under the power lines, because no one would be building a house there and keeping him from visiting the spot.

Suddenly everyone at the truck stop was friendly and telling me stuff. The woman behind the counter had been working three jobs, until her husband told her she was working herself to death and she had to quit one. She'd worked night shift as a waitress somewhere, and that's the job she quit. She gave two week's notice, and the manager of the restaurant told her she couldn't leave, and put her on the third week's schedule anyways. She told the manager she was quitting, and not to schedule her anymore, but she worked this additional week even though it was past the date of her notice, because she didn't want to screw up the schedule. She told the guy it was the last week and she was leaving, and he told her no, and scheduled her for a fourth week. Her husband told her she just shouldn't go, that this dweeb would keep scheduling her as long as he could get her to come in, so she didn't go, but she felt bad for leaving her former coworkers shorthanded this way.

Another clerk told about riding as passenger on her husband's Harley, the places they'd been.

They asked me where I was headed, and I said east. I said I thought I'd check out Niagara Falls, and maybe go to Toronto. I asked if they had any idea how long it might take. The trucker guesstimated six hours to Toronto and the cashier said three, if I didn't get held up at the border. The trucker asked me how fast I rode the bike, and when I told him he said I was lucky the buckeye cops hadn't pulled me over, that you can't speed at all in Ohio. We chatted about different areas, the road quality, whether you can get away with speeding, etc. He didn't like the 401 in Ontario because of the soft shoulder; he said sometimes the truck weaves a bit and if one wheel goes onto the soft shoulder it's a real adventure getting it back on the road. He spoke of how crazy it is in Michigan that they have one speed limit for trucks and another for cars, that it's really scary, as a trucker, the way the auto traffic is allowed to go 10 mph faster and then they all speed so it's more like 30mph faster; the little cars just fly past him. Also he said that in Michigan the roads are just terrible, and it amazed him that in the auto capital of the world they'd let the roads get so bad. I said that the bad roads are due to the overweight trucks, Michigan sets the maximum weight of trucks higher than other states and then they don't even enforce the lax standard they have, that the weigh stations are almost never open and that it was just terrible. I expected him to argue this, but he agreed readily.

I had put it off long enough, and it was time to either get back on the road or find a motel, because I hadn't brought any camping stuff. I hate motels, so I opted for the road. I put some chemical warmers in my mittens, and I had on the extra layers, so for the first hour or so it wasn't too bad at all. I was feeling very alert and cheerful (as well I should be since I'd slept until noon), and I considered trying to ride for the next four or five hours, and then nursing a coffee in a truck stop somewhere for a couple hours until the sun came up again. Maybe I'd get to Canada by the time I stopped.

In this state of mind, I crossed the corner of Pennsylvania, and pulled up to take a ticket as the road became a toll road at the New York border. At the ticket booth, I realized that the cold was dulling my reflexes, even though I was still mentally alert. I decided I should stop for another break, and I started looking for a New York welcome center rest area, where I could get a map and thaw out. I didn't find any such animal. Not only that, there were hardly any exits. By the time I got to the second exit past the ticket booth, my face shield was fogging in a major way. I still didn't like the idea of a motel, but I decided I'd better get one. I exited the tollway at Dunkirk. I looked at the available motels, and decided the least expensive looking one was the one called The Vineyard. It was an old fashioned one-story motel with the rooms opening onto a parking area, and it had a restaurant, which would be nice in the morning. I went in and asked if they had any rooms, and how much. I almost choked when they said $55! I told the clerk that was very expensive. He said was I a senior citizen? I said the cold was really making my arthritis act up, and he said OK, $47. I thought this was still pretty darned expensive, but y'know, better to pay $47 for a room than to be dead after crashing because the cold made my hands stop working properly. I took it. The clerk also gave me a coupon for a free breakfast the next morning.

It was lonely and sad in the motel room. I hate staying alone in motel rooms. With no other people to distract me, I always notice how shabby the rooms are, I always see the evidence that no one ever spends time there who cares about the space. This is just as true for expensive business hotels as it is for small roadside motels. The rooms are unloved and it's obvious.

The room was very cold. I looked for a thermostat, and found that whoever was last in there had turned the heat down to 55 degrees! Brr! I cranked it up to 70. The room had hot water heat with baseboard radiators; it warmed up very slowly. I took off my leathers and my boots, but kept my ski sweater on. Still I was freezing. I put all the blankets from both beds onto one bed, along with two extra blankets I found in the closet. I huddled under all these blankets and read my book for a couple hours. I finally warmed up enough to go to sleep.

The next morning dawned clear and sunny. The motel restaurant turned out to be pretty fancy, a huge dining room with tablecloths and a bar full of crystal stemware. They gave me a table with a fine view of the waitress station. They seemed to have about ten waiters and waitresses, and one by one each of them looked over at me, and each one tried to put two coffee cups on my table. I don't drink coffee, and I was alone, so I kept saying I didn't need the coffee cups, and that no one was joining me. None of these people offered to take my order; they all just wanted to fly by and leave coffee cups. Finally I let one of them give me a coffee cup, and apparently this was the signal; once I had a coffee cup I could order. Then it took forever for the food to arrive. I waited with increasing impatience; I was looking around and the place had about three servers and busboys per occupied table, and yet I'd been waiting and waiting and waiting. I was about to just leave when the food arrived. It was excellent. If I lived in the area I'd eat there again, as long as I wasn't planning to do anything else that day.

I rode back out and onto the tollway. There were fields full of grapes all around; I could see where the motel got its name. I wished for a New York map, but didn't see anywhere to acquire one. The terrain was flat to rolling, very much like the area of Michigan I'm from. I thought about leaving the tollway and exploring some of the local roads, but I'd taken it into my head to go to Canada so I didn't go exploring here. There were places where the road went through channels cut from the rock, even though the little hills wouldn't have been much to just take the road over. The rock cuts showed something that was geologically different from home; they were striated, in dark browns and blacks, instead of the limestone and sandstone I'm used to seeing.

At the end of the toll section, there were signs above every toll booth saying take exit 50 for Niagara Falls. The toll booth operators must get that question a lot. The pavement at the toll both had an incredibly thick layer of slimy cage drippings; I put my feet down carefully and still I could feel them slipping and sticking to the crud on the pavement. I made a mental note to myself to be careful next time I put my feet down, as well, because with that stuff on my boots they'd still be slick later. I asked the toll booth operator if they ever cleaned the pavement there, and he told me they cleaned it about once a week. Wow!

The highway became very crowded. I followed a ramp off of I-90 onto another highway, following the signs. The traffic wasn't that heavy, but it was erratic. A van in front of me was slowing down, speeding up, and changing lanes for no apparent reason. I decided I'd rather not be behind this twit, so I moved out in the left lane to pass him. The idiot sped up when I was next to him! I hate it when people won't let you pass them. Fortunately the van was blocked by a slow car in front, so I got away. I moved into the middle lane, two cars in front of the BDC van driver. I hoped I hadn't missed any direction signs while dealing with that minor traffic annoyance.

I drove under an overpass, and just beyond the overpass in the median were three police cars. One of them hit his lights and swung out into traffic as I passed; I was obviously the target. Sigh. Well, as long as he's watching me, I'd better be a model of good behavior. Fighting down the urge to become flustered, I maintained a normal speed, and carefully chose my opportunities to move over one lane at a time, over to the right, in traffic gaps that were long enough for the police car to move over with me. (I wasn't about to stop on the left shoulder, even though it was closer.) I looked carefully over my shoulder for each lane change, with exaggerated motions like I was doing a parking lot exercise in an MSF class. I picked a spot on the shoulder that looked relatively free of gravel, pulled in and stopped. With slow, deliberate motions I put the sidestand down, unplugged my electrics, got off the bike, peeled off my gloves, took off my sunglasses and my helmet. I thought about the advice I've heard before, about dealing with traffic stops while on a motorcycle: take a long time getting out your license and registration, because this gives the officer time to learn that you're a regular human, rather than the archetype of evil biker scum.

The officer was alone in the car, I guess they don't get partners when they're doing a massive speed trap. He was a burly black guy, medium height, about my age.

I could see him saying something, but I couldn't quite hear him with the earplugs in. I smiled, and said "Just a second, let me get these earplugs out." I pulled the earplugs, put them in my pocket and said, "OK, now I can hear you."
"Do you know why I stopped you today ma'am?"
I smiled ruefully and said, "I just hope that after you give me a ticket, you can give me directions too; I'm afraid I'm hopelessly lost." (Poor me!!!)
"Can I see your license and registration?"
I opened the top of my tank bag wide, so he could see I didn't have anything scary in there. My registration is in a ziploc bag in the top compartment, along with my proof of insurance. I fished my drivers license out of my wallet. While I was doing this, he looked the bike over.
"V65 Sabre. My brother used to have a V45 Sabre."
(I refrained from speaking on the engine displacement difference.) "I like the bike really well; it's been tremendous fun to ride."
"Where are you headed?" (Spoken in a tone of friendly conversation, not like an inquisition.)
"I thought I'd go see Niagara Falls, then go home by way of Canada. Beautiful day for a ride, isn't it?" He agreed.
I gave him the ziploc bag and my license. He held them at arms length and squinted at them (Maybe he was older than I'd guessed, if he needed bifocals.)
"Ma'am, the speed limit here is 55mph, and you were clocked at 73mph."
"Oh my."
"You were clocked by a grey van, did you happen to see this van?"
"No, I sure didn't. I was looking for road signs." (Hmm, the erratic van? Was it grey? Maybe, I couldn't recall. But best not to be confrontational by complaining that they're creating a traffic hazard out there.)
Long pause, while he squinted at my license and registration some more. I wondered why he wasn't back in his car making me wait while he ran my license.
"So, how much is this gonna cost me?"
"Ma'am, it's not going to cost you anything. But I am going to ask you to be more careful." He handed me back my stuff. "Now where was it you were trying to go?"
"Niagara Falls, and the bridge to Canada, by way of a gas station."
"OK, you take the next exit, there are a bunch of gas stations there, then you..." Blah blah blah, a whole lot of directions I was too distracted to really remember well. "...is that clear?"
"I think so." (I'll find it one way or another.) I smiled. "Thank you very much!"
He got back in his car, and waited while I carefully put my earplugs back in, put on my helmet and gloves, started the bike back up, and merged back into traffic. I waved him farewell and took the next exit.

So, why did I get off with a warning? There's no telling for sure. Possible sources of brownie points: I handled the bike in a steady and reliable fashion instead of making sudden moves in my nervousness when they pulled me over. I'm female. I took my helmet off. I smiled, I was friendly, pleasant and non-confrontational. I was wearing a full set of safety gear. He only asked for license and registration but I gave him my proof of insurance as well, it was in the bag with the registration. (Having that slip of paper made me look more responsible, especially if NY doesn't require insurance.) My good driving record didn't enter into it, because he never ran my license. I don't know how often the NY state police give warnings, and how often they give tickets. Maybe they give out warnings instead of tickets much of the time.

The exit I'd taken was US-62 north. This was a busy shopping strip, and there were plenty of gas stations to choose from. I picked one. They were having some sort of grand opening party, complete with balloons and banners and two young women offering to pump people's gas for them. One of them came over and offered to pump my gas. I smiled at her and said, "Absolutely not!" There were two Harleys filling up there as well. I said hello, and we chatted about the weather. They asked if I was going to the blessing of the bikes? What blessing of the bikes? Apparently a church just up the road was hosting a bike blessing event and the Harley riders were on their way there. I thought, why not? I've heard of these things but never seen one. I got more specific directions: St. Christopher's Church, two miles north on the left, easy to find. I paid for my gas and rode off looking for St. Christopher's.

Sure enough, it was easy to find. The church was huge, and had a huge parking lot, which was full of cages. There were thirty or forty bikes in the corner farthest from the building. I joined them. It appeared that Mass was ending. Within a half hour or so, most of the cages had been replaced by bikes. I tried to guess how many, based on the density of bikes and the size of the parking lot, and came up with an estimate of 300.

I met a friendly Harley rider who gave me a lot of advice on how to clean and polish my bike. He recommended a product called Mean Green. He said Mean Green so many times he started sounding like a commercial; he seemed to really like the feel of those two words rolling out of his mouth. He also told me he'd ridden his Harley to many different events, Sturgis, Daytona Bike Week, Americade, a Harley anniversary celebration in Milwaukee. I told him I'd ridden to Deal's Gap. He'd never heard of it. We discussed distance riding. He started running down the Iron Butt, saying anyone could ride 1000 miles in 24 hours, that he'd ridden 1000 miles in 13 hours when he went to Daytona. I explained that 1000 miles in 24 hours is a Saddlesore, that the Iron Butt is something different. He obviously didn't care; he only wanted to speak of things that would give him bragging rights, and Mean Green.

I left my bike parked and went walking about to see what I could see. There were Harleys cruisers of every size, shape and color. The chrome was eye-blinding in the sunshine. I don't think I counted more than a dozen Hondas in the whole place, and most of the ones I did see were Gold Wings, though I saw two CX500s. I looked and looked but I couldn't find even one other V4. Sport bikes were also conspicuously absent. My bike was the dirtiest bike there, by far. I felt briefly ashamed that I hadn't at least rinsed Cordelia down before bringing her there, but then I reminded myself that I came by all that dirt honestly; how many other people in that parking lot had ridden so many miles over the winter?

Some people came out and started saying something through a PA system, but I couldn't make out the words; the roar of the Harleys drowned them out. After awhile it was my turn, the priest shook holy water onto my bike and blessed it.

Many of the riders were off to a dice run after the blessing. Some of the riders near me were going to a bar instead, and invited me to go with them. I turned them down; it just didn't seem like a good idea even if they hadn't been kind of obnoxious. I decided to skip the dice run, too; I had miles to ride home and I didn't need to ride in a slow circle with a bunch of Harley riders I didn't even know. There were police directing traffic out of the parking lot, as most of the riders turned left. I turned left too, but at the next light most of the riders turned right, while I kept going forward. Soon I was alone with the cages.

The area became more run down and industrial. Then it turned to residential. I went through the center of Niagara Falls, and the Rainbow Bridge was right there. I suspect that it's called the Rainbow Bridge because when the light is right you might see rainbows in the spray from the falls, not because it's queer. (Bridges don't have sexual preferences!)

I got a good view of the falls from the bridge. They were very impressive, though they looked smaller to me now, than they had when I last visited them, as a little kid. The surrounding area looked more built up, too; I had a vague memory of the area being like a big park.

The Canadian side was cleaner and less industrial, but it was hardly the park-like area I remembered. It was filled with tourist traps, and it looked like a cross between Tijuana and Disney World. I thought about parking and walking out on the observation patios to look at the falls, but it was nine dollars to park, and I wouldn't have stayed more than ten minutes. Also, I didn't feel like jockeying with the RVs for position. I looked at the falls from the road, and then I got out of there, more or less following the water upstream towards Lake Erie.

In Fort Erie I stopped at a gas station and bought an Ontario map. Since I hadn't been planning to go to Ontario when I left home, I hadn't brought a map, or my Canadian money for that matter. In Canada, they'll take US dollars with a smile, everywhere you go, so it's no big deal. The gas station gave me a terrible exchange rate, though, only 35%. I forgot to get a receipt or I could have gotten the taxes refunded, assuming I'd wanted to fill out forms at the border when I came home.

I spotted Route 3 on the map, running west out of town. I knew the far end of this route; it runs from St. Thomas to Windsor, and I rode it last August. What fun! I decided to ride this end of it, until it met up with my route from that trip. The gas station clerk said it was a winding curving road. But when I inquired further he immediately backed off from that statement. I don't think he had a clue.

Route 3 is not a twisty. It's an old road, though, which meant I got to ride through the middle of a lot of old towns, and pass a lot of old buildings. I like this kind of thing. Just like the other end of Route 3, which I rode last summer, the name Talbot appeared again and again as a recurring name for roads and buildings along the way. I looked Talbot up when I got home. Colonel Thomas Talbot received a land grant of 5000 acres and settled in the area when he retired from the British army in 1803. He was the principal settler of the area, and from what I read, he pretty much ran things in that area for many years. The road that became Route 3 was his brain child; he made it happen, mainly by bringing home government funding and browbeating surveyors.

While I was searching the web for Talbot, I also learned some other interesting things about the area. Jumbo, Barnum and Bailey's elephant, was killed in St. Thomas, Ontario, in 1885, when he was hit by a Grand Trunk train. The area was once invaded by Fenians. The Fenians were Irishmen who wanted to liberate Canada from the British. The defense against the Fenians appears to have mostly consisted of numerous dinner parties and parades. The War of 1812 was a far more serious; US forces sacked towns, burned crops, and killed settlers.

I also found an account of early speed traps.

On the outskirts of St. Thomas, I came to an intersection I recognized. Late one night last August, I had examined my maps by the light of that flashing traffic signal. From my current viewpoint, Route 3 went to the right, that was the way I had come on that night last August. I knew that I would see nothing but deserted industrial areas down that way. So I continued forward, following the path I took last year, into downtown St. Thomas. It was strange to ride this bike down this road in daylight. It was also strange to ride through the center of town; when I was there before I was on foot, late at night, walking with my friend Marna through a carnival that was being dismantled around us. This time it was daylight, and the Iron Horse Festival was months away.

I was stopped at a light in downtown St. Thomas, when another bike pulled up beside me. The rider and I exchanged compliments. His bike was a CB Special with six cylinders. I was interested in hearing all about it, but the light changed, and a few blocks up he turned off onto a side street.

As I rode out of St. Thomas it was starting to get dark. Time to make tracks for home. I hopped on the 401, and the rest of my trip home was without incident.

Return to Katherine Becker's home page