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Q i have a spare couch if you want to do Hawaii. Will even let you ride my beloved LX. No need to rent. I have a Vino that i can use. Won't take you very long to see Oahu.
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Quezzie wrote: tdrake, fledermaus: Thank you for the share on MV! First of all, yes, I went down. I'm fine. I'm recovering steadily from a fractured clavicle - a small bone that's annoyingly vital enough to keep me from riding for a while. FYI I recommend against diving off your bike directly onto your shoulder, especially in remote regions like the Arctic Circle. It's a bit embarrassing to advertise a get off and ask for money in one fell swoop, but I'm deeply appreciative of any and all contributions. The ride report isn't forgotten, but I've been focusing on healing and picking up the pieces. The full story will emerge when I've gathered myself (and maybe worked up a bit more emotional distance). Hopefully this week I'll get a uShip auction up and running, and I'll see old blue again after so many weeks! I, too, went down on May 28th and broke MY clavicle - but here in Seattle while avoiding a pedestrian who popped out from between two cars outside of a crosswalk. Afterwards I somehow pulled my GTS300 upright, pulled it up onto a sidewalk, and put it on the center stand with one hand (?) but I'll be damned if I can remember doing it. How's yours doing? Mine's down to a dull ache and I can finally reach across my body - and above my head - all the way. My orthopedist told me that the clavicle could possibly be considered the human body's only design flaw - that it takes only 25% of your body weight applied suddenly on the shoulder to fracture the clavicle, and that because of that it's the most frequently broken bone. |
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Shoulder
A number of years ago, a former student who was racing bicycles fell and broke his collar bone. He said to never put out your arm to stop a fall. Of course, that is the most natural reaction to stop your fall. Many years later, I was mountain biking near Banff Canada and didn't see a big drop off and down I went. I did not put my arm down and the result was a scuffed upper back. I did that again riding near Sunriver OR and crashed when my front wheel locked in a lava notch. Again, no arm out. Again scrapes but no damage. I still am amazed that I managed not to put my arm down. I had told myself many times to remember not to do so. Might be something to think about.
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I absolutely loved reading this. I'm still on page 4 .... and really looking forwad to read the rest of your journey report. Just brilliant.
I love the practicality, fun and performance package of the GTS. I am still on a manual motorbike but feeling that maybe, just maybe, the GTS is what I have been waiting for. Thanks so much for posting, I hope you'll continue to do so. Ride safe! |
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Re: Shoulder
manoscoot wrote: A number of years ago, a former student who was racing bicycles fell and broke his collar bone. He said to never put out your arm to stop a fall. Of course, that is the most natural reaction to stop your fall. Many years later, I was mountain biking near Banff Canada and didn't see a big drop off and down I went. I did not put my arm down and the result was a scuffed upper back. I did that again riding near Sunriver OR and crashed when my front wheel locked in a lava notch. Again, no arm out. Again scrapes but no damage. I still am amazed that I managed not to put my arm down. I had told myself many times to remember not to do so. Might be something to think about. |
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Re: Shoulder
manoscoot wrote: A number of years ago, a former student who was racing bicycles fell and broke his collar bone. He said to never put out your arm to stop a fall. Of course, that is the most natural reaction to stop your fall. Many years later, I was mountain biking near Banff Canada and didn't see a big drop off and down I went. I did not put my arm down and the result was a scuffed upper back. I did that again riding near Sunriver OR and crashed when my front wheel locked in a lava notch. Again, no arm out. Again scrapes but no damage. I still am amazed that I managed not to put my arm down. I had told myself many times to remember not to do so. Might be something to think about. |
OP
Hooked
2009 Vespa GTS 250, 2005 Vespa PX 200
Joined: UTC
Posts: 116 Location: Roaming (Boston for now) |
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It's been a while, but if you're wondering what happened to those missing dates between the last entry and this, I flew to Boston to see Fred and take care of some life back east. It seems my current style of nomadism is six of vagrancy and a half dozen homes? Anyhow, fast forward to the end of April and we're back on the west coast, on that north-bound agenda. The light at Vive la Tarte is exceptionally flattering. The snacks, exceptionally fattening? Pete had taken time off to ride as far as Oregon with me, but we had a couple days before launch - just enough for one last Founders Ride with Verna. After all, he was also saying farewell to San Francisco, and a jaunt up to wine country with the founding members of this scooter club was on his bucket list. Hurrying to meet them on time, I hopped on Serenity and fired her up. I'd been taking the PX200 around Boston for a couple weeks, and jumping from that to the GTS... Serenity felt tall, heavy, and clumsy by comparison. It was like driving a couch. Before I could question my decisions further, I leaned into the first turn and muscle memory dropped into place like a missing piece of a puzzle. I knew this bike in my body, I was home. Instantly, I could see myself bumping along British Columbia, the Yukon, and Alaska on this thing. I felt overwhelmingly like I'd made the right choice, and I had a whole day with Pete and Verna to look forward to. Curvy vine-lined roads with these two. We wound our way up Lucas Valley Road, and took a break at Marin French Cheese Co for a dairy snack... Or if you're me, the lactard, fantasized about hardware required to attach an overpriced wine and cheese basket set to the rear rack. Vespiti in the vines, posing for the album cover. An impromptu photo shoot later, the afternoon proceeded to Verna's pick, Ridge Vineyards, and a gourmet grocery picnic in Petaluma. It was a penultimate day for the ages. A different kind of farewell drink with Moose at Trad'r Sam. Launch day weather promised to do its best to make me forget how much I was going to miss California. Colder and wetter than I would have liked, but today is the day. Pete pulled up in a cold drizzle, and Moose was tagging along as far as he could. MV forum member Stang aka Jon, had reached out and we'd intended to meet him at his hot dog stand near Larkspur, appropriately named Stang's Hot Dogs and Sausages. Unfortunately, it turned out he would be out of town the day we rolled through, but he extended his hospitality to all riders in the party! Thank you, Jon, they were the perfect road fuel for a damp and chilly day! This was no ordinary hot dog stand, I would learn. These gourmet dog were top quality, with snap, flavor, and quality ingredients. Fancy dogs keeping our bellies full, thanks again, Jon (Stang)! Pete and I said one more farewell to Moose, donned our matching highlighters (dammit, we're those people... it's only because we bought our gear at the same place!), and pointed the bikes north along the coast. Clouds caught up with Pete and I, but there's no denying the beauty of the coastline. Gotta fuel up and warm up. Fancy fridge doors in here. It was one of those rain gear on or off kind of days. You're killing me, CA. That little piece of CA-1 just south of Mendocino might have been the last part of the Pacific Coast Highway I hadn't set tire on yet. After so many miles up and down California, a quiet sense of completion joined the mix of emotions kicking around my chest on such a moody day. There were a lot of "finally's" happening, like finally going on a camping trip with Pete (if you recall, two years ago our trip was indefinitely suspended), finally taking Serenity on a long haul after her rest in Pete's garage, finally breaking new ground. First night at camp, time for a tiny toast! Cheers, mate. In spite of the dampness and chilliness, we pitched tent at Russian Gulch and rode back into Mendocino for dinner. The pickings were slim in the off season, but Pete offered to buy and we hauled our soggy, helmet-haired, fully-geared asses into a cozy candlelight establishment. After a solid day of cruddy weather, the restaurant was so warm, comfortable and infinitely endearing. Filet mignon happened (we shared), as well as red wine and camaraderie. I didn't want to leave, but we found our way back to camp and I fell into a blissful sleep to the peaceful burbling of the nearby creek. So I guess the next morning was as good a time as ever for my bike to not start. Of course, there was no cell service in the gulch either. Pete rode out to troubleshoot with SF tech Matt over the phone, while I starting poking around under the pet carrier... and discovered my spark plug was loose. With that tightened back down, I figured the day was going to be just fine (cue foreshadowing). I wanted to take Pete by Glass Beach, Fort Bragg, CA. The sand is loaded with smooth beach glass. It's pretty cool, until you learn that it's due to years of nearby dumping. It didn't stop me from enjoying the beach and clear skies. Lisa of the Humboldt County Slugrockets Scooter Club had reached out to me a while back, and I was aiming for her and Rob's place near Eureka, CA. In sporadic bursts of cell service, I received a message warning of an epic landslide that had closed off 101 near Leggett the night before. Traffic was being redirected along Bell Springs Rd, a smaller unpaved road, but as we went it the word was that was closed to through traffic as well. I suggested to Pete that we try and charm our way past, much like Morgan Territory Road, but upon arrival it was clear the young officer was having none of it. To get any farther north, we would have to ride far inland, 280-ish miles out of our way, almost closer to SF than we'd gone, to pick up I-5. I was quietly panicking, because this would add an extra day to our route and Pete only had so many days of dog-sitters lined up. He seemed happy to get as far as we could though, so I routed us inland via Branscomb Rd and CA-20. Sun is shining on Branscomb Road. Across from the gas station in Laytonville, CA I'd noticed a sign advertising biscuits. It turned out to be a food truck with honest to goodness southern food, Sho'Nuff Dem Biscuits. I had anxiety, until I saw the sign for biscuits. The guy is from Georgia and does things right. Timing couldn't have been better, because decisions made on empty stomachs are never good decisions. For instance, I'd noticed a small, squiggly line on the map from Laytonville to Dos Rios that would eventually continue through the mountains to meet I-5 at Willows, where there were a cluster of overnight accommodations. While we waited for our order, I peeked ahead on Google Earth at some roads we could have all to ourselves, maybe a little preview of Alaska for me... ...As tempting as it was, we were past the halfway point in the day and I wasn't confident we could take the gravel roads on two GTSes and make it to Willows by sundown. Pete made it clear he trusted me implicitly for either route, but as I mulled it over some fried chicken and biscuits, eventually the decision was to leave the forest roads for another day. We continued down CA-20 towards Williams, and picked up I-5 (yaaawn) to a motel in Willows. It would turn out to be a wise decision, because my spark plug would fall out twice more before the day was done. A refractory period was necessary each time it happened, until the engine was cool enough that I could thread the plug back in. If we had taken the wooded route, I'm sure we'd have found ourselves on a mountaintop in darkness. At least it had the courtesy to fall out a mile from a rest stop, so I could coast in. Thanks for the motel, Pete. We still put the tent up, to keep it real (ahem, dry it off). Murdered some bugs across California. Going to murder some breakfast at Nancy's Airport Cafe. Remember, full stomachs for decision making! A place across the highway called Nancy's Airport Cafe reminded me of Ken/Lostboater's affinity for airport stops. It turned out to be a fantastic breakfast choice, complete with a service attitude that could have been transported from NYC. Overheard from the table next to us upon their inquiry into the corned beef, the waitress did not mince words, "It's from a can." As for the blueberry cupcake? "I can't say I've had the blueberry. I don't like blueberries." For what it's worth, my breakfast was to kill for. Before we left, another diner and rider struck up conversation and affirmed our decision to take the main road to Willows - he regularly took dualies over the Laytonville Dos Rios Road, and the current road conditions were poor/nearly impassable due the recent rain. Whew! Good thing I make decisions after chicken and biscuits. Now to deal with this spark plug. Picked up Loctite at the hardware store. Now stay in there! At least till Seattle. I forget sometimes how remote parts of California can be. Crossed paths with two other riders, headed from Portland to SF for a wedding. Now that's the way to go. We warned them of the road closures. Are we still in California even? Pretty desolate around here. Back over the mountains towards the coast. Damn, I'm going to miss being near this. "Champagne asphalt," Pete dubbed the mountain roads over intercom. California is pretty dreamy, when it's not on fire or sliding off the face of the earth. It's rhyme for a meat break. The sign for Hatfield Meats reminded us it was as good a time as any to break, and make sure we continued to make well fed--I mean, informed decisions. Their burger bar operated out of a trailer, and a scrawny cat and a couple older loggers welcomed us to the picnic table. In the dappled shade of the forest, the loggers chatted with the ease of regulars; they both grew up in the region and attended a single room schoolhouse of 11, and told stories of the time they felled a tree 25ft in diameter. They'd been enjoying burgers at this spot most of their lives before we scooted in ("It's not fast food, but it's worth the wait."). With hyper-connected tech metropolises like San Francisco, it's a trick to remember California shares territory with secluded places, where the pace of change is slow and cell service can't penetrate. As the loggers rolled out, they recommended we stop by Grizzly State Park (we did, it was glorious), and I felt richer in belly and spirit. Mad River Burger Bar cat. Upon reaching the coastline, my latest intel was to find Rob at the neighborhood tiki/dive bar in Eureka - of course, a scooterist's natural habitat outside the garage. As we pulled up to the edge of town I saw several other scooters parked in front of The Shanty on 3rd and C St. Rob and the present Slug Rockets had been waiting for us. One welcome round later, and we followed Rob to their home tucked in the Redwoods. Rob's garage sign, custom made by Lisa. More on Nutty Bolts later. Meeting the chickens. Lisa's happy place. Lisa and Rob's backyard in the Redwoods. Lisa and Rob have a truly magical, handmade home. The town of Eureka was already off the beaten path, then our modest motorcade left the cement and pavement behind to climb into the hills and allow the trees to swallow us. I'm glad we decided to meet in town, Pete and I would never have found their place on our own. We had just enough time to drop off some luggage, have a short tour, and meet the chickens. Rob wanted to take us to a live music event at Fieldbrook Market, a short walk through the neighborhood. Much more than a grocery, it was "Town Hall" for the small community of Fieldbrook. As we walked we talked, about how Lisa and Rob found Arcata as an escape from the big cities like LA, about life as an artisan, about what I could do about this spark plug... String band at Fieldbrook! Rob complained he suffers from Weird Face Syndrome in photos... WFS seems to be contagious. Dammit, Rob! Lisa and Rob's artist, artisan, philosopher, tinkerers and thinker friends all stopped by the table at some point through the evening. The burgers came recommended, so we double-downed on our daily intake (remember, good decisions). The crafts community reminded me of those around Asheville, NC. The music was lively. The vibe was familial. With the warm thrum of alcohol in our bloodstreams, bellies full of burger, and toes still tapping in time with the bass Pete and I followed our hosts into the cool nighttime air. There is no deeper black than trying to find your way through the woods at night. After we said farewell to friends and left the street lights for the dirt path home, it was as if a dark velvet cloth was slowly lowered over my face. Trees blotted out the starlight overhead as we ambled, their arms eventually becoming so thick they became a single shapeless void, extinguishing all spatial awareness. I was completely disoriented, but Rob and Lisa had walked the path home from Fieldbrook at night many times. Rob pointed out a weak pinprick of light, a lamp of indeterminable distance flitting between branches, that he used to guide himself over the invisible obstacle course - uneven ground, mud, potholes, even a plank bridge. I gave up on my night vision entirely, and for several moments merely followed Rob's disembodied voice. Somewhere ahead I could hear Pete and Lisa's footsteps too, and punctuated them with my own loud Splash! every time I missed the path but found a pothole instead. Good thing these boots are waterproof, and I made it over the bridge without a much bigger splash. Of all the fantastic experiences that evening, the walk through the nighttime woods was most unexpected, and humbling. At the house, we poured over Lisa's artwork, and a photo book by an Italian Vespa traveler they hosted a while back. We chatted until I could barely keep my eyes open. It was one of those highly condensed experiences, the sort that happen with kindred spirits because there's just so much to share before giving in to unconsciousness. Rob prepared a gourmet breakfast with eggs from their chickens, local apple butter for toast, and honey from their bees for Chemex-made coffee. What a spread. Some reading material for breakfast in the sun. Rob's been part of the west coast scooter scene for a while, and handed me this fantastic chick tracts style minicomic from a rally years ago. I believe it was put together by the now defunct Hells Belles SC. Any further information or copies of this genius would be appreciated! A Night On The Tiles: The origin of Professor Nutty Bolts, as seen hanging in Rob's garage.Hmm, I can paint some Vespas too... This is the life. You guys have nailed it. We dawdled over breakfast in the backyard, content to sit by the fire pit, bathe ourselves in warm sunlight, and listen to the chickens clucking and cooing behind us. It was heavenly, too heavenly to get going...but Pete had only one day left before he would turn around. Thank you, Lisa, for reaching out. I'm so grateful to know two such genuine individuals as Lisa and Rob. Hey, Bobby from the Slug Rockets! We talked him into joining us for a quick scoot. In Arcata, we stopped by Lisa's old bookstore for Independent Bookstore Day and browsed the farmer's market for road snacks. Bobby met up with us on his GTS, and was persuaded to take us on a short jaunt north along a less-traveled road. Indeed, following a couple sharp turns out of town, in some places it was hardly a road at all. The most exciting route dwindled down to just a bumpy, narrow, dusty path that hugged the cliffside, with only open air and a sheer drop to the turquoise Pacific to our left. Lisa had taken the truck along a more accommodating road, but us four intrepid scooters picked our way over what were probably intended to be bicyclist paths. It was absolutely spectacular. One last farewell in Trinidad, CA. Pete and I pressed northward, and spotted a sizable herd of grazing elk as we rounded the bend to Orick, CA. Later, we'd learn this was a unique elk to the area, the Roosevelt elk. So of course, we stopped at a roadside joint that offered elk burgers. Y'know, to celebrate. Pushing our burger limits. Worth the wait. The Snack Shack had just run out of elk, but the cook's mother was on her way in the car to resupply. "She's 80, it could be a while," she warned us, but the sun was out and I took the opportunity to call around for a quote for a new top end for Serenity. Since Mendocino, every hesitation whether from a gust of wind or bump in the road, I reflexively started looking for a shoulder to coast to a stop. The news wasn't great though, the price of a replacement was high, and labor was costly. I've come a long way as a mechanic and from videos it looked like I could do the work myself, but having never endeavored something as ambitious as this I wasn't confident in my turnaround. A Timesert was another option, but again I would be attempting to take the engine out myself, without a garage, at the whim of a machinist's schedule. It certainly highlighted what I disliked about traveling with a finite schedule: If you're short on time, you need more money. If you have plenty of time, you can get by on far less money. I've always favored the latter approach, but this trip north had a fixed deadline and I chose to have an abbreviated trip rather than no trip at all. The blue Loctite was holding, but for how long? Would I even enjoy another 5k worrying about every hesitation? A writhing ball of anxiety had developed in the pit of my stomach when the elk reinforcements finally arrived. The burger was delicious, juicy, a little wild tasting, perfectly grilled. With the help of wavy fries my anxiety melted away from the inside, replaced with tastiness. If the blue Loctite fails, I'll switch to red, and then high-temp JB Weld if it falls out again. Sacrifice the head, it's going to need a new one either way, I decided to myself. As long as it limped onto the ferry from Haines, I could put off the major work for later. Yup, procrastination was the answer! I felt better about my decision making already, or maybe I was just happy because I was full of elk. Just taking my blue speeder bike through the Forest Moon of Endor. Pew pew! The landslides near Leggett meant we didn't get to ride through the Drive-Thru Tree or take the Avenue of Giants, but we did take a moment to enjoy Newton B. Drury Scenic Parkway. No matter how often I ride through Redwoods, it's always stunning. Giants. Pete's bike is a multi-state GTS now. Topography doesn't care much for the arbitrary borderlines drawn by humans, and much of that gorgeous craggy coastline remained constant upon crossing into Oregon. There were, however, two qualities that made themselves immediately apparent across the state line: gas pumps no longer had that extended foreskin you have to pull back to fill up, and cannabis shops were aplenty. In fact, there was one visible from Californian soil. It was modestly named State Line Cannabis, which was disappointing; not even an attempt at a clever canna-punning name. It used to be fireworks you cross state lines to buy, but I suppose times change. Also across the line I spotted a truck weighing station, and nearly made a GTS sandwich doubling back so I could weigh my scooter. Heya, wide load. 500lbs fully loaded, hello my little wide load! Granted, the scale only went up in 50lbs increments (later, I found another with 20lbs increments, and it still hovered around 480lbs). Gold Beach's lone scooterist and consummate craftsman, Gary. I'd contacted Gary, Gold Beach's lone scooterist who I'd met very briefly my first time through 2.5 years ago, blogging from esteemed Gold Beach Books. We missed the opening hours of the coffee house but he'd set us up nicely at his son's workplace, and we chatted easily about his work projects and the upcoming rally in Oregon. We even met a real miner, a man who moved to California because he dreamed of panning for gold (it turned he'd purchased mineral rights to a plot by the river that was only rich in zirconium). As the shadows grew long, I realized with a pang I was going to be lonely when Pete turned south. Perhaps Pete was feeling similarly, because instead of us parting ways (for me to free-camp farther north) he suggested crashing at the Pacific Reef Hotel next door. Both of us too exhausted to go out for dinner, we feasted on leftovers in our enormous suite of a room, "lightening the load" for Pete's ride back. I killed off the remaining half of my burger from Fieldbrook with some box wine, and shared a kolache from the Eureka farmer's market with Pete for dessert. I didn't so much sleep as pass out.
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Veni, Vidi, Posti
'07 LX150 (Sold), '17 GTS300, '16 BV350, '15 EN650, '09 FXDF (sold). '15 FLSTN
Joined: UTC
Posts: 5664 Location: Home of the Alamo |
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Veni, Vidi, Posti
'07 LX150 (Sold), '17 GTS300, '16 BV350, '15 EN650, '09 FXDF (sold). '15 FLSTN
Joined: UTC
Posts: 5664 Location: Home of the Alamo |
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Yay, thanks for the (postdated) update (backdate?) and I hope you and the scoot are on the mend!
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Ossessionato
2015 GTS 300 Super (Melody: 2015-2021, RIP), 2022 GTS SuperTech (Thelonica; bit the dust 02-22-23)
Joined: UTC
Posts: 3925 Location: Asbury Park, NJ |
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Delayed, but Irrepressible....
...yep, the previous entry was a hell of a cliffhanger, but this one didn't disappoint. Weather and washouts and detours (oh, my), and I'll join in the chorus hoping you and Serenity are healing up well. And, I know I'm repeating myself, but there has to be one hell of a book in here.
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Hooked
2009 Vespa GTS 250, 2005 Vespa PX 200
Joined: UTC
Posts: 116 Location: Roaming (Boston for now) |
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Time had come to part ways again. Pete had pushed his dog-sitters to the limit, and he would have to slab it all the way back to San Francisco in a single day (480 miles, blasting my day record out of the water on his first overland haul. Aw). I had a more moderate 300-ish mile day ahead of me to one of my favorite cities, Portland, OR. In the morning mist, our farewells were brief and without fanfare; we were eager to tackle our independent miles. For my part, maybe I hustled a bit to get my gear on because in your helmet, no one can tell if you're crying. Cue the waterworks? Impressive septic display along the Oregon coastal highway. True, I finally got to fulfill my long ride with Pete, and I knew he would make it home in one piece. I was finally pointing my bike at new adventures, and the coastline was ever majestic. I relish the freedom of solo travel, so I wasn't just choked up from parting ways. The road closures, spark plug issue, and most of all Pete's energy kept me blissfully distracted from a longing that had been clinging to me like San Francisco fog. A part of me just... wished I could be making some of these fantastic memories with Fred. I wanted to say stupid shit on the intercom with him, like, "Ohh, that's beautiful," "Ow, watch that bump," "Those clouds look foreboding," and, "Next stop for a pee break," - inane, daily exchanges, layered between the spectacular. What becomes of a relationship when your most formative memories are made apart? We could Skype at every wifi opportunity, but what if the bulk of your best memories, and eventually your lifestyle, become things you never get to share? Without Pete or Moose, for the first time since San Francisco I was finally left alone with my thoughts, and they gnawed at me from inside my helmet. There was only static on the intercom, under a steely Oregon sky. I made a mental note to add new music to my riding playlist. Having opted for an inland route last time, this would be my first time along the Oregon coast. I figured I'd check out the beach camp where I'd originally planned to stay, a free site near Coos Bay. Whiskey Run? Sounds like my kind of road. The paid portion of camp was pleasant, but full. Pothole minefield. I saw one swallow a Jeep. Clear my mind with a beach walk. A flannel-clad woman and her dog posted up outside her Subaru, playing guitar. Looks slippery at the end of the sidewalk. This was the part of the beach that would be free for camping. If you drove past the Bastendorf Beach Park campground to the end of the Coos Head Road, there's a quiet, open area you can camp free for a night. With a nearby fishing town for sundries, for a moment I considered pitching tent...and then realized I'd just be moping about in addition to having to empty my tent of sand in the morning. Besides, the illustrious Sara Ryan, my roommate from agency retreats past, was expecting me in Portland! And there would be food! Finally, the clouds burned off. After days of remote coastal resort towns, sleepy fishing towns, quiet logging towns, and spotty cell service, Portland felt like a different world. I hadn't seen a City-city since San Francisco. Mussels and frites and fanciness with Sara. Getting a proper welcome back to the city, Sara and I walked to Grain and Gristle, one of her go-to neighborhood spots. Ah, craft beer, cocktails, charcuterie plates, and curled mustaches - the urbanity. Along our walk home, she also pointed out a corner that delivered all the PDX vices in one convenient block: a coffee shop, liquor, beer and wine store, and weed shop in one square. The urbanity, indeed. I slept like a rock on their leather couch. There were a few Vespa things to take care of in Portland, but mostly I was here to see friends and eat food! Fried chicken bowls with Cydney at Basilisk. So hot, so tasty. Cydney's hand, and Rachel's Ginger Beer hot toddy. Blood orange and extra ginger. Fiery belly! Atlanta transplants, Shannon and Justin. Cubo for Cuban. An unexpected experience came out of meeting Shannon and Justin for dinner: Justin worked at a coffee shop that was partnered with Float On, a float tank therapy center. He had unlimited free floats as part of the deal, and he and Shannon both spoke highly of the experience. I'd heard of the benefits of isolation tanks and was curious, but like bungee jumping, I just hadn't sought it out. Justin hooked me up with an appointment on the spot, because he's awesome like that. Quick stop by Vespa Portland for spare spark plugs and misc, and to oggle a Ural. Paul and Maggy are super nice, and didn't bat an eye when I asked for just a dollop of grease in a ziplock. Time for a float in room 4. It's humid and warm in here. My float appointment was up, and a soft-spoken host led me to my room. Float On had a medical-spa-meets-hippie kind of feel to it (they have float books and crayons for your to draw your... hallucinations?), and I was ready to give it a try. The standard float time was 90 minutes, with benefits of perceived weightlessness ranging from being able to slip immediately into a meditative state, to a release in creative energy, to muscle relaxation. The host gave me a short orientation and left me to my private room. I applied the orange putty to my ears to lock out salty water, undressed, stepped into the tank of calf-high water, closed the door, and turned off the light. At first, it was just watery blackness. I still had a memory of the blue-lit room behind my eyes, and it's not that you can't hear anything - splashes are amplified with the earplugs - so you need to stay quite still. Once that was accomplished I had the not unpleasant feeling of slightly spinning, much like going to bed after one too many libations. Breathing was a loud, regular whoosh, and my heartbeat was the only other sound. Thoughts drifted and I let myself become disoriented, until eventually, I started to feel uncomfortable. The buoyancy of the water meant my legs stuck straight out somewhat awkwardly, and if I moved them I'd hit the bottom. My shoulders felt like they floated right up to my neck, but every time I reached to check, they were in the right place. At least my boobs were not cold (something Shannon had warned me about), but anytime I moved I lost that sense of boundary-less-ness - I could feel the surface tension of the water, pulling at the edges of my face and hands. The water is kept at 93.5 degrees F to be skin-neutral, so you can't tell where you end and the water begins, but I could, and I just wished it was hotter. More noticeably, I could feel whatever I had for lunch (it was cupcake, now that I thought about it), bubbling in my gut. It sounded like balloons were rubbing against each other in my abdomen, echoing in the watery chamber with the promise of future farts. In the vacuum of other sensations, what was left manifested itself as pain. Pain in my knees, from holding still sticking straight out. Pain in my shoulders, which felt like they grew directly from beneath my ears. Pain in my abdomen, cooking up gas. I didn't think of myself as someone in regular pain, but with nothing else to focus on the pain became my world. My breathing and heartbeat were the only sounds, and my heart rate was climbing. I tried to breath slowly, assuring myself this was an exercise in relation, but my rapid heartbeat betrayed me. It pounded against the pitch black walls that felt as immediate as my skin, and soon my saltwater slick hands were searching for the light switch in a void of space. The room was plunged back into that eerie blue light. I sat still, semi-submerged, knees under my chin, panting. The warm, sticky air clung to the inside of my mouth. I felt nauseated. Opening the door delivered the cool burst of air I craved, but a glance at my phone told me I had only lasted 40 minutes. I had plenty of time left, and decided to try again. The discomfort and emptiness pressing in came sooner though. The worst part, once I gave up and sat up, was that salty water dribbled down my face and into my eyes. The sting was like an ultimate, "You're doing it wrong! You're a failure at relaxing!" slap to the face, and I had to towel off my head and face between the tears. I tried again, if anything just to hear the underwater speakers. When your float time is up, music is played underwater to wake you from your float, and I wanted to hear it. It's unreal and ethereal, I wish more pools had underwater speakers. When I finally showered and walked out to the front lounge, I was a little shell-shocked. I felt exhausted, disoriented, jittery, and my hands were shaking. Overwhelmingly, I wanted to curl up somewhere warm and comfortable and real, and feel the weight of blankets and the loft of pillows. They gave me plenty of time to sit in the lounge and sip an organic ginger tea. I can't believe people fall asleep in these. I'm extremely grateful for the experience (thank you, Justin!), but I couldn't help thinking I would rather have a massage. Anyway, back in the physical world I had a dinner with Jenn and a bunch of cranky old Lambretta guys at Horse Brass Pub to get to. Save me some meat cupcake. Crashing Lambretta night with Jenn and gravy. Chatting Vespa-sized adventures and tater tots at Rogue Brewery with Shannon. Somehow, it never registered that Rogue Brewery was based in Portland. A matter of blocks from where Shannon and I lunched, the Rogue Distillery and Public House, were at least two more breweries. It's a veritable avenue of fermentation. I'm not usually a beer person, but Cascade Brewing Barrel House drew me in for their dizzying selection of barrel-aged and tasty sours. Sara had a nice flat driveway, so I did some maintenance before Seattle. I'm still finding corroded bits under the case from when I dunked the scoot in a flash flood in Houston. Impromptu BGL meetup at Vita Cafe. Hi, Jenn, and Steve too! Sara had been swamped with work, so it wasn't until my last night in PDX that we found time together with her, Steve, and fellow BGL client, Jen Reese. As we walked down Alberta to Vita Cafe, she told me about how the neighborhood had changed in her 15 years of living here. It was great to see Jenn again, and talk would wander from current fandoms to local gatherings to industry...and for once, I found I didn't mind shop talk in my 'off time'. Normally my hackles are up to keep such a divide between work and the rest of who I am, but here were people who just flowed. It was refreshing and comfortable. A real estate agency was playing independent animated shorts in their window.I believe their motto was, "An agency that gets it." Another brilliant PDX pairing, a weed shop next to a taco stand. Sara made it clear I was welcome to crash on the couch as long as I needed, and the pull to stay longer was strong. It was comfortable and familiar here, and my creative friends and scooter friends were always near. I could just stay in cozy Portland, eventually find a place of my own. Why was I so eager to cast myself out, to far-flung places like Alaska? I suppose I could simply say it's the 49th state, one more tick mark on a checklist to complete. But that would be selling it short. Perhaps, travel changes a person, and I'm not the traveler I used to be. I'm certainly a different person from the first time I came through Portland on a Vespa. I've grown in experience, I'm more tired, and yet I still seek to feel 'out there' again. I crave further borders, to be brought outside myself, find wonder, and to share it with others. After so many solo miles I wish I could share it with immediate company, but seeing as it's just me I'll push for the next plausible thing: the frontier, something Alaska has a long reputation of delivering. Something like that. I crawled into my last night on Sara's couch with a hint of melancholy, but felt ready for the next place. I guess I know I'm rested enough when I pull up Google maps and go Ooh instead of Ugh. Thank you, and until next time, Sara! It's a curious feeling, when your long awaited plans come to fruition. I'm much more used to plans being thought of as far in the future. It should be no surprise when they become immediate, yet when the moment arrives I still find myself caught off guard. Onward, to Seattle. |
UTC
Veni, Vidi, Posti
'07 LX150 (Sold), '17 GTS300, '16 BV350, '15 EN650, '09 FXDF (sold). '15 FLSTN
Joined: UTC
Posts: 5664 Location: Home of the Alamo |
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Veni, Vidi, Posti
'07 LX150 (Sold), '17 GTS300, '16 BV350, '15 EN650, '09 FXDF (sold). '15 FLSTN
Joined: UTC
Posts: 5664 Location: Home of the Alamo |
UTC
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What an adventure. When are you coming to the San Antonio area? Dinner gladly exchanged for road tales!
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Ossessionato
2015 GTS 300 Super (Melody: 2015-2021, RIP), 2022 GTS SuperTech (Thelonica; bit the dust 02-22-23)
Joined: UTC
Posts: 3925 Location: Asbury Park, NJ |
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"...because in your helmet, no one can tell if you're crying."
That's one for me to remember. |
OP
Hooked
2009 Vespa GTS 250, 2005 Vespa PX 200
Joined: UTC
Posts: 116 Location: Roaming (Boston for now) |
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Jet Peddler: Much appreciated, though I'm planning to be the in the northeast to rebuild my bike over winter (I mean, what else do you do during a New England winter?). After that, I'm not sure where to next!
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Ossessionato
2015 GTS 300 Super (Melody: 2015-2021, RIP), 2022 GTS SuperTech (Thelonica; bit the dust 02-22-23)
Joined: UTC
Posts: 3925 Location: Asbury Park, NJ |
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Quezzie wrote: Jet Peddler: Much appreciated, though I'm planning to be the in the northeast to rebuild my bike over winter (I mean, what else do you do during a New England winter?). After that, I'm not sure where to next! |
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Nearby
Wished I had known that you 2 were in the area. I live very near Coos Bay OR and would loved to have hooked and help with anything you may have needed plus lots of good local information regarding 101 and the area
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OP
Hooked
2009 Vespa GTS 250, 2005 Vespa PX 200
Joined: UTC
Posts: 116 Location: Roaming (Boston for now) |
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manoscoot: Aw man, next time. I really liked scooting up the coast.
amateriat: Thanks. I rode through winter in RI every year...it was part of what convinced me I didn't want to stick around. Ironic that Fred (whose garage I'll be rebuilding Serenity in) is based barely an hour from where I started out, so I'll be here another winter after all. 9_9 |
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OP
Hooked
2009 Vespa GTS 250, 2005 Vespa PX 200
Joined: UTC
Posts: 116 Location: Roaming (Boston for now) |
UTC
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Pit Stop Seattle. May 4 - 8, 2017.
It's a straightforward ride along I-5 from Portland to Seattle, but I'd find a way to dress it up. I hustled out the door early to give myself plenty of time to meander and catch the Bremerton ferry. Mt. St. Helens peeked through the trees. Hello, Olympic mountains. The skies were clear and after so much cold and dampness, the day was gloriously warm. At Union, WA the road narrowed and hugged the shore of an inland body of water. Between the trees, the homes facing the bay were all beautiful, unique, lavishly maintained, and festooned with sports cars and boats. All of them had a dazzling view of the Olympics directly across the water. It was a pleasure to ride through, even though my presence was probably bringing down the property value. I arrived with twenty minutes to spare in Bremerton, a town so wholesome and agreeable that I was at a loss for what to do but treat myself to a celebratory soy latte. I mean hey, I'm in Washington. $7.90 gets you and a scoot a scenic ferry ride. It's noisy on the auto level and the wind tears at you like a pack of angry cats, but it's a beautiful approach to Seattle. Around a green bend, the Seattle skyline appeared with Mt. Hood rising behind it. At the front of the ferry, a photographer had set up next to my bike to capture it. A few others stood around simply admiring the view. I was reveling in nostalgia to once again be approaching Seattle by scoot and ferry, when a father struck up conversation. "Going cross country?" he nodded towards the loaded bike. "Yes, I've already been!" "Where did you start?" "Rhode Island." "That's a long way! You camp along the way? When did you leave?" "I left 3 years ago as of tomorrow. This is my second time through Seattle, and I'm headed to Alaska next." About now was when his face turned from friendly awe to Oh shit I've started a conversation with a crazy person. I changed the subject, "Are you from Seattle?" "Oh... No, we're just going into town for the Mariners game," he said, almost weakly. "Well... Safe travels." Then he shuffled his son back towards the safety of their car. Pointed towards the Space Needle. Welcome to Seattle meal with Gwynne and Tom! Seattle has a cha chaan teng?! Gwynne already had a place in mind for our first Seattle meal: a new cha chaan teng in the International District, A+ Hong Kong Kitchen (name sounds authentic!). They had all the classics, like curry fish balls, pork chop rice, and condensed milk on toast that Tom is munching on above. I was impressed, and happy this style of eatery made it to Seattle - maybe locals finally got tired of going to Vancouver for HK food. Also impressive were the portions. I did my best on the bucket of spicy noodle soup before me, but even the leftovers filled a large takeout container. Agate (and other stones) reveal. Landing at a Siak home is like being with family, we grew up in Atlanta together. I suspect we sort of regressed to our childhood states: eating comfort foods, playing videogames, admiring rock collections. Tom and Gwynne had taken their agate collecting to the next level, with a rock tumbler! This rubbery black tube had been going in the basement for weeks with increasingly fine sand. When it was opened it looked like stones floating in a milkshake. Once washed off, the resulting stones were shiny and smooth. I spent the next half hour fantasizing about how to attach a rock tumbler to my rear wheel, to make shiny stones as I rode. Yes, think of the dead weight I could be lugging in rocks... More than happy to test the Nashville fried chicken at Sisters and Brothers with Gwynne. Yay, carnivorous Southerner sisterhood! Meanwhile, Brandon at Big People Scooters made quick work of fitting a new rear tire. My old tire had enough tread to be carried as a spare, but I loathe the job of changing tubeless tires without a machine. Hopefully the new one Brandon put on would get me to the ferry in Haines. A night out at Olaf's in Ballard for Pinball Bride. We actually went bar hopping, like adults?! Back to our usual schedule of videogames. Ooo, new Zelda. We kicked off the weekend by graduating to our teens: watching Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2, coffees and cookies in hand, then perusing Comics Dungeon for Free Comic Book Day. The afternoon passed reading our new comics from the hammock, or at the picnic table in the sun. I dove into Guy Delisle's new graphic novel, Hostage*. With sunlight still clinging to the edges of the sky at 9pm, the day felt infinitely long - this latitude's summer gift, and the gift of happy, easy company. A grocery run later, Tom put on a record, and Gwynne fixed a Korean dish for dinner. We streamed Crazyhead as per Megan's suggestion, but I fell asleep before the end of the second episode. I couldn't remember feeling more at peace, at rest. * It was a haunting and powerful read. I know him for his autobiographical, slice-of-life travelogues, but was eager to check out this departure from his other work. It was a maddening 15 years in the making... consumed in 2 afternoons. Gah, comics. Upright bass at the farmer's market? It must be Ballard. Free pickle shot! Yes! So soft... Visiting Chris at The Palm Room, in search of a tiny air plant for my livingroom. A few polished stones and some wire, and Serenity has a new frond frand! Seattle is easy to love on days like this. Morgan was having a birthday cookout at Golden Gardens Park, I tagged along and we took the chance to explore. We heard there was a beaver at the pond. Played log parkour looking for our dam culprit. Hopping from trunk to trunk, only once did a log turn underfoot and I splashed in some shallow water. Waterproof boots passed the test. Which ones are meat, or not meat? Trick question, they're all plant-based burgers. Beyond Burger is convincingly tasty though. Thanks, Morgan! Morgan's birthday cookout was a slice of another life, one that made our party look like poster kids for arrested development. Emily was at the bursting point of pregnancy, bearing the very real possibility that Morgan and their baby would soon share a birthday. Toddlers ran through the grass while their mothers laughed about how they now dress like their mothers, and how maybe their daughters will someday dress like them. The various flavors of abstinence that thrive in the developed world were well represented (glutards, vegans/vegetarians, teetotalers... as a lactard myself I'm not exempt, I've certainly reached a point in life where I value future comfort over the immediate pleasure of mozzarella). It was enough to make me wish I snuck my flask with me. Back at the house for one last sidewalk oil change, and I'm ready for miles north. Aluminum foil is a great multitasker. There was one last adventure in town: Back at Motorcycles and Misfits in Santa Cruz, I'd caught wind of an all-women motorcycle tour of Pakistan being put together by Liza. Two women in Seattle were interested as well. I was going to meet Dionne (4Art&Adventure) and Ruth (Global Moto Adventures) for a tour of Dionne's Ballard studio, and to exchange thoughts on the trip. I managed to catch Jackie for a quick happy hour at Kickin Boot Whiskey Kitchen beforehand - she was neck deep in Amerivespa organization drama (alas, I would miss it this year), then it was a quick ride over to BallardWorks. Blue scoot joins the proper ADV bike parked at BallardWorks. Thanks for the photo, Ruth! Quick tour of Dionne's studio. Hi Dionne. And bikes and art. Naturally. Those arrows remind me of Dance Dance Revolution. Clearly, I need to find a way to keep a makespace, but still vanish for months at a time to ride... Dionne seemed to manage it. Great to meet you both, thanks for letting me steal your book, ha! More on the Pakistan tour later, this northbound adventure still lay ahead. |
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I think you are back from your trip to Pakistan.. Are you in RI now or still in WA..
I read your posts about your trip to Pakistan, but I am guessing you haven't updated this post with that adventure, I think I read it on your blog... It is always great to read your stories, maybe someday This American Life will do a set of stories of women riding two wheelers around the country etc or you may do a Moth Radio story... |
Ossessionato
2015 GTS 300 Super (Melody: 2015-2021, RIP), 2022 GTS SuperTech (Thelonica; bit the dust 02-22-23)
Joined: UTC
Posts: 3925 Location: Asbury Park, NJ |
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Ah, Seattle...was there in 2011. Wonderful town, wonderful might haunts, as you clearly illustrated (as long as you're early about it...as an East Coaster, I was a little shocked at how early most joints roll up the streets there). Need to hit your blig again to catch up, but I've been on another part of the planet for the better part of the month (Vienna now, London tomorrow). Sounds like Serenity was singing nicely there, tire changes notwithstanding.
(However, my cat may want to discuss your description of those high winds on the ferry.) baba12 wrote: It is always great to read your stories, maybe someday This American Life will do a set of stories of women riding two wheelers around the country etc or you may do a Moth Radio story... |
OP
Hooked
2009 Vespa GTS 250, 2005 Vespa PX 200
Joined: UTC
Posts: 116 Location: Roaming (Boston for now) |
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The Ferry Fancy Life, Port Angeles and Vancouver, BC. May 9
In case you haven't picked up by now, I love taking ferries with my bike. I go out of my way for ferry rides, and found a route to Vancouver that involved very little actual riding. Sure, it would be almost $70 in ferry fees, but did you miss the part about how I love taking ferries? I got an orange tag for proving to the ticketmaster that my bottles were for spare fuel. My heart pounded as I pulled away from Gwynne and Tom's home in Ballard. This was the last piece of familiarity, the final stop within my comfort zone, before I cast myself into new lands. Well, there's still Port Angeles... Waiting for Ferry #1, with... an Amigo. A short ferry to Kingston later, and I was on my way to Port Angeles. First stop? Swain's. You cannot stop in PA without visiting. Swain's. Every piece of camping gear I own, every silk liner, drinking vessel, lamp, or dry bag that I selected and curated for my personal needs at camping stores and Army Navy stores across America... It's all available at Swain's. It should be a national treasure. Also, their website is straight from the 90s (at least as of this writing in Oct 2017) and should be preserved as well. Thanks for dinner, Laura and Maham! Also found in Port Angeles: Laura! Originally from Verona, now living in PA. We met through Gwynne and Tom on my first time through the Port Angeles, during a campout at Tom's parent's home. This time, she brought special guest, Maham, an exchange student staying with them from Karachi. How serendipitous, when I mentioned I had plans to visit Pakistan, she told me excitedly about her home. After dinner, Laura showed us this tiny landing between new developments. Canada is across the water. I wonder how many teenagers make out here. It's beautiful in that PNW way, and quite a drop. I must have been absolutely exhausted my first time through PA, because as Laura and Maham and I cruised around in the car, I barely remembered anything. Before I left in the morning, I noticed this spit of land sticking out... So I took a quick ride up Ediz Hook before catching the Black Ball Ferry. Woa, Ferry #2 is even fancier. It has a gift shop. Good thing Laura found this ribbon for me, so I could be fancy. I'm ready for you, Victoria, BC. Motos are first on, last off. The guy on an old BMW airhead was lashing his bike to the hull when I pulled behind him. Surprised, I asked whether the water got choppy enough to require tie downs. It was a stupid question, since he was tying his down I was clearly not going to risk coming back to the auto level to find my Vespa sideways on the opposite end of the ferry (I lashed down my bike, and the water was choppy enough that I became slightly seasick). The BMW rider shared a fantastic story about outrunning cops in Oregon, and then described San Francisco as "dreadful" in his dry, British accent. Some kids had broken off his spark plug in that city. As for immigration? "Tedious." At the Canadian border, I worried if border patrol would live up to its reputation. Instead, the border officer asked what year my bike was, because it turned out he collected vintage Vespas!" I have two VBBs and a 50SS," he noted cheerfully. "So, what are you plans in Victoria?" "Well, I have a reservation for tea at eleven," - he nodded approvingly, all but saying, Of course, that is correct - "And then I'm staying with friends in Vancouver." And that was it. I was in Canada... again! Looking back at Washington from Canadian soil. Back in Portland, Cydney had recommended having high tea in Victoria (in case ferry fees hadn't completely blown my daily budget out of the water). The Fairmont Empress High Tea was the natural choice, but the rate was jaw dropping...until I realized it was Canadian dollars. It was still more than I would normally spend, but as a Hong Konger, how could I miss experiencing cultural traditions from our mutual colonists, especially when they're in the shape of tea and confections? I made a reservation for the first sitting, and vowed to free camp for days. Dress code was listed as 'sophisticated, smart casual'. Concerned my riding gear wouldn't fit the bill, Gwynne and I crafted a plan before I left Seattle: I could borrow her clothing, and return it to her when she visited Vancouver later that week. In PA, Laura found a ribbon, which I attached to my helmet. The final outfit from our combined wardrobes? It looks like Kiki got a motorcycle. Or Emily the Strange Biker? I'd like to say that upon arrival in the ladies room, dramatic music started playing and I started spinning in a magical girl transformation sequence, pulling off moto gear to reveal a glittering, superheroine vision of myself. The reality was less like the cartoons I watched as a kid. While not the most magical version of myself, I felt refined enough for a road outfit, and can confirm that the ladies room in the Fairmont Empress has a fireplace. A fantastical engraved book of teas. I went with the namesake, the Empress blend. Live baby grand piano covers of Adele and other pop songs played softly. I settled into my table, folding all my gear in the spare seat next to me. An older waitress came to my cozy window corner, and checked if it was a table for two. "Just me." "He dropped you off?" she asked, indicating the gear. "Uh, no. That's mine," unsure what she was getting at. "Oh..." she murmured absently, and then asked again whether I had any food allergies in a way that made me wonder if she'd deliberately slip them onto my plate. She must not have appreciated my helmet-bow, because she started my tea while I was in the restroom and neglected to explain the nifty hourglasses (they're for how dark you want your tea). Too bad, the scooter trash is staying, reading, and enjoying herself right into the next sitting! Medium-dark tea. I can't believe it's only now that it occurred to me that's why those little candles are called tea lights. The food tray has arrived, and it's utterly delightful. I'll be here for the next several hours, leisurely mowing through three tiers of delicacies. Between enjoying my book, I could eavesdrop on the guests around me. A young couple with a toddler kept the waitress too occupied to slip allergens into my scones (yes, feed it more sugar!). Three middle-aged ladies a table over were having the kind of birthday party I'd look forward to, so much so that I didn't have the heart to tell them that white chocolate is not in fact bleached (it's only chocolate by name, containing no chocolate solids whatsoever). While I have closeups of every item, this one was particularly fanciful. Hand peeled local shrimp, with ginger lemon marscapone, in a seaweed cone. I feel like a monster eating such adorable exquisiteness. The scones were perfectly flaky. The strawberry jam had a hint of thyme in it to keep from being overly sweet. The clotted cream would keep me warm on the early spring rides ahead. All these finger sandwiches were like European sushi, and every item was exemplary. Fine tea, tiny foods, fancy China, wifi, and a window view... Why would I ever leave? Oh right, I should go before my parking fee is ends up costing as much as this sitting (the parking attendant ended up waving me through, whew). I make a habit of overlooking my lactose intolerance for Afternoon Tea experiences, and this one nestled in nicely with my memories of The Peninsula and Four Seasons in Hong Kong. I have no regrets. So. Worth. It. Scoot by other Victoria sights. But I have another ferry to catch. Ferry #3 is also scenic. Delicate opals reflect off low clouds in the diffused light, and distant mountains are faded cobalt. Peacefully sailing by many green forested islands. My third ferry in two days was the finest by far (once I found the secret button to open the steel door to the upper levels). With 7 decks, a modern cafeteria, full-fledged restaurant serving beer and wine, gift shops with clothing, game arcade, business cubicles, and toddler play areas, it was clearly used to making regular commutes. Cantonese was popular onboard, but I also caught some Mandarin and other languages among the diverse passenger list. Also, I discovered a new favorite game to play with Canadians: Where is Rhode Island? Thus far, Maine and New York were top contenders. Passengers from many walks of life onboard. One of these bikes is not like the others. So, where do you guys think Rhode Island is? An unfortunate family emergency meant I was out a place to stay in Vancouver. Surely I could find a hostel or Airbnb, but I'd been looking forward to meeting some of the scooter scene in Vancouver. In the gasps of wifi at ferry terminals, news came in that everyone was out of town or busy. A few hours before arrival, Rob, the web designer for the Vespa Club of Canada, offered his spare room in New Westminster. I couldn't have been more grateful. He grilled up some chicken fajitas for dinner with his family, and I didn't even mind when his precocious teenaged son, Sam, immediately steered conversation towards religion and politics (ugh, what an awkward time to be an American). We passed the evening on subjects safer and nerdier than America: watching the pilot of American Gods. Juuuuust fits. Whew. Hi, Rob! Thanks for rescuing a random scooterist, Rob. Next day: that time my Vespa was so heavy the lift couldn't reach the top notch. Chris from Vespa Metro Vancouver reached out to me, making him the first ever Vespa shop to reach out, and friendlier guys you could not meet. They were the northernmost Vespa service shop in the Americas, and offered to look over my bike before its Alaskan haul. At the time, I believe I had ~64k miles on the odometer, which I didn't realize is over 100,000km! It sounds way more impressive in metric, and Chris put a little note on their high mileage wall. The skies were heavy with rain, so I ended up parking my bike at the shop for a few hours while Gwynne, who had just arrived by bus, and I explored the city on foot. Ramen, for a cold damp day. Yah Yah Ya Ramen downtown. Learning about the bizarre and fantastic world of Korean beauty products. "It looks like a mini Star Ferry!" said Gwynne, referring to the tiny Granville Island ferries. Clearly, we had to go for a tiny ferry ride. Ferry #3.5! I want all of these. All the scooter-sized snacks caught my eye at the Granville Island Public Market. It was great to see Gwynne one more time before heading into the northern beyond. I made away from the market light, with just some adorable French sausage sticks the size of birthday candles, and a handful of donut holes for the house back in New Westminster. Speaking of back at the house... If only this rain would let up. |
Veni, Vidi, Posti
2023 Arancia Impulsivo Vespa GTS300 HPE , 2022 BMW R1250GSA 40th Anniversary, 2019 Ural Gear Up
Joined: UTC
Posts: 8508 Location: Toronto |
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Wow, just wow is all I have to say. I will add to the rest to say thank you for sharing this with us. You are doing what many of us would love to do and few us would actually be able to accomplish.
I also think you are adorable, you always seem so happy and have true joie de vivre. I know you have been through some hard times on your journeys and these life experiences will live with you forever. Makes the rally runs I made back in the 90's seem like a walk in the park and hell people called me crazy for some of the runs I made. Oh and by adorable I also mean tough as nails! |
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I have written previously to say that I really enjoy your posts and that I envy you your adventures, however I should have added that I also enjoy the posts themselves. I appreciate not only what you write but also the way in which you write it. Your narrative is clean, crisp and vivid and you paint a word-picture that allows us to enjoy your adventures as if right alongside you. Good writing is becoming rare these days, so I very much admire your contributions to the narrative format.
Looking forward to your next posting. |
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Ferries
I have traveled the island areas extensively on bikes The Port Angles to Vic. is the worst because it can roll side to side and that is what tips bikes. I learned to strap the center stand to the front using the hoop or part of the frame and I also use a strap to clamp on the front brake. I you are using a side stand, I always park on the port (left) side of the ferry and use their lines to tension the bike that way. It is too easy to have the bike or scooter tip when tied to the ridt side. One great thing is that on most ferries run by Washington bike, scooters and first on and first off. Love that.
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I'm totally stoked someone resurrected Quezzie's thread. I started reading it a while ago then lost it and couldn't find again despite regular searches on the forum.
Quezzie - I hope one day you'll write a book or pictorial novel about your trip. I enjoyed reading a great deal and the words combined with wonderful photos really envoke the spirit of travel and adventure. You have a unique and endearing style. THANK YOU QUEZZIE and RIDE SAFE ! |
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PS... feel your pain regarding cake vs lactose intolerance! I'm sure it was great while it lasted.
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OP
Hooked
2009 Vespa GTS 250, 2005 Vespa PX 200
Joined: UTC
Posts: 116 Location: Roaming (Boston for now) |
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Into the British Columbian Wild. May 12 - 15, 2017.
This was it. My last stop for urbanity before I went into the British Columbian wild. I always dubbed this trip as an Alaskan adventure, but in actuality the largest portion of miles would be Canadian. Indeed, British Columbia alone proved to be expansive, rich in history, and absolutely packed with jaw-dropping natural beauty. Even the Canadian Tire parking lot was gorgeous. I took BC-99 out of Vancouver, also known as the Sea to Sky highway. Upon leaving the city, the road immediately dialed up the majestic. Slate blue mountains erupted from the glittering water, frosted at the tips with blinding white snow. Traffic died down to reveal a serpentine stretch of smooth, beautiful tarmac hugging the rocky curves - almost all to myself. The craggy northwestern island formations I'd been sailing past on ferries, I now found myself flying through on my bike. It was utterly sublime. The skies were finally clear, but the cold pushed me into a Canadian Tire to warm up. Actually, it was also to find a specific hat, as a gift. I explained to an employee that I heard they carried a hat that made your head look like the Canadian Tire logo, red knit with a green pom. "Oh, like a toque?" I must admit, I privately delighted at catching a wild 'toque' in its natural habitat. "We changed those out for spring. I might be able to dig up one or two in the back though." He didn't end up finding any, but I felt I already got more than what I was looking for. I'll come back in the fall. The ride was too glorious to stop for photos, so you only get this one. Scooterist Neil had reached out from Whistler, a town where my teenage self attempted to be cool and learn to snowboard (I'm terrible at it, and never went back). As I pulled into the resort town, I had my first close encounter with a Canadian bear, chilling by the train tracks on Alta Lake Road. It looked up as I passed within charging distance, and I swear it asked for a smoke.The daylight was getting noticeably longer, so I had plenty of time to meet Neil, Janet, and the most likable dog in the world, Juliet. This dog. She is adorable. I joined Juliet for her walk. Do you ever get used to views like this, Janet and Neil? Oh, Canada. Neil is killing it with tortilla bowls. At the house, Janet told me, "We have 4 sets of clothes in Whistler: dog walking clothes, work clothes, house clothes, and 'Shit I have to go into the city' clothes." The evening passed in easy camaraderie, eating tortilla bowls and drinking Spanish wine, enveloped in armchairs, chatting about Whistler, Neil's Cannonball Runs, and upcoming scooter events. Among the topics that stood out to me, Neil mentioned that while broken down "in Arkansas or someplace," he'd never encountered such overt racism - words about then president Obama, and the direction of American healthcare (Neil's confusion was understandable, "From the state of their remaining teeth alone, clearly these were people who would benefit from socialized healthcare."). It surprised me as much as him, but upon further reflection I realized as a young-looking, female, person of color (though I'm still unused to seeing myself as a minority, there are literally billions of people who look like me on the other side of the planet), only the least observant Southerner would unleash the kind of language and sentiment Neil encountered. My stories of racism in the US are much more encounters of the "Your people are so polite" variety. Neil, a tall salt-and-pepper white guy with a willingness to discourse, could be welcomed into the fold and see behind the curtain, even as a Canadian (he jokes they probably called him an N-loving commie after he left). I felt badly that this was one of his takeaways from America, but for better or worse, he witnessed a side of the US I probably couldn't stumble upon. The coexistence of hospitality and prejudice is paradoxical, yet exemplified by the region I call a home - though to be fair his story happened deep in hillbilly land. In the past I had the luxury of remaining mostly apolitical, but as an American spending time in another nation, even one as close as Canada, I was already encountering a degree of, "Soooo, what the fuck is going on with your country?" I should probably get used to feeling embarrassed, since the current American president continues to normalize racist, sexist, and backwards thinking. Canada is next door to the US, and already I got the feeling that I'm more American when I'm outside the country. It was a fascinating discussion for one night. Both he and Janet had to be out of the house early for work, but before I left he handed me one of his free lift passes. Thanks again, Neil! Going up a mountain. The last time I was on this lift might have been 15 years ago. Colorful skiiers. In May. Getting pretty up here. Breathtaking. I'm out of breath just stomping around taking photos. As a teenager I never appreciated the luxury of a ski trip here, but now I understand why this is such a winter sport destination. Being out in nature, on a mountaintop surrounded by glaciers... It's breathtaking, even before the physical exertion of sport. The view from the top is phenomenal, avoiding orthopedic injury or certain death as you careen downhill with boards strapped to you feet is just the cherry on top. I bet the hot chocolate is tastier up here as well, which must be why it's so expensive. I'm sure it helps if you're a fearless kid and don't suck at skiing. Were these children just born with skis on their feet? Even Gumby snowboards. The clouds moved in and it got chilly, so back down we go. Gumby is in for another round. Lunch break in the shopping mall that is Whistler Village. Why is it that all ski villages look the same worldwide? There are the same three retail brands, a Starbucks, and an ice bar. I felt like I could be in Queenstown, NZ or Lake Placid, NY. You're killing me. Neil suggested a stop by Joffre Lakes. It was snowing as I pulled in. Hope my moto boots count as sturdy footwear. The most dangerous trail I've ever taken, I was slipping and flailing a spastic dance the whole way. Looks like I got some skiing in after all. The view was absolutely worth it. Lower Joffre Lake. Still half frozen. It was serene to sit at the edge of this half-frozen lake. At least, it was until a gaggle of teenagers showed up. Their behavior was stark contrast to the quiet cold of the woods, and made me wonder if I was ever that annoying in pupa stage. Cue my departure, damn kids! Back on the scoot. The Sea to Sky Highway is up there with riding through Glacier National Park.Absolutely dwarfed by mountains. Well this was a first. Hark, a wild avalanche appears. I stopped to photograph the avalanche, and realized this was the opposite view. You're killing me, BC. It's like a scaled up Pacific Coast. Taller. Craggier. More rugged. It doesn't quit. I didn't realize I was approaching Lillooet until I had already blown by the welcome sign. It read, "Lillooet, Guaranteed Rugged," in all caps, printed in a font a steakhouse may find favorable. The road descended steeply into a valley town, hemmed in on all sides by steep mountain faces. They were violet in shade but the peaks were shallower and rounded, the pale blue snow had all but disappeared from their tops. I'd entered the 'inland desert' that Rob and Pamela had described - the end of the scenic road. Thanks to the Internet, I found a photo of the steakhouse. "Lillooet. Rugged. Chewy. Seared on the outside, bloody on the inside. Eat it with an ax, if you're a wimp," I'm hereby expanding on the name in my memory. A number of other motorcyclists were buzzing around the gas station ("Alaska? Where's your fishing rod?"), or taking photos by the Mile 0 marker for Old Cariboo road, the beginning of the road for miners in gold rush days. It struck me as a pretty sounding name for a town guaranteed to be rugged, but it turned out it was originally named Cayoosh Flats. The locals found it unsavory, so it was renamed for the Lillooet Trail and the nearby Lil'wat native people. The road north of Lillooet would have been as dull as Rob had warned me, but the weather kept me on my toes. Alternating sun and showers, hail coming sideways, and temperatures down to 3 C made me glad I brought my heated gloves. My pack was the smallest it had ever been, because I simply wore everything. Neil had mentioned a partially paved road from Pavilion to Clinton, but this sign was discouraging.Next time. I have plenty of gravel to look forward to farther north. I require all of your gravy on fries. Before I left, Bagel had put me in touch with George at the Rangeland Motel in Lac la Hache, where the Cannonball riders (including Bagel and Neil) stayed in 2014. George himself was a retired scooterist, and just the most chill, laid-back guy. "Stay as long as you want, check out in whenever, just leave the keys in the room. We don't lock anything," George told me. He mentioned motorists coming through here on long overland hauls sometimes stayed for weeks to rest. The rooms were small and smelled faintly like grandma was a smoker, but in a cozy, welcoming way - this grandma probably lets kids eat the chocolates with alcohol in them. Lac la Hache was more of a gas station than a town, but it was peaceful and had all the necessities - the foremost for me at the time being warmth and sustenance. Thankfully, Hungry Bear Two was the kind of diner that feeds truckers: a straightforward menu with good value and massive portions. The TV played softly in the corner, and their tone was so serious I thought surely they must be discussing politics. Upon closer listening, it was followup to a hockey game. Then this happened. The only other establishment open in town was Red Crow Cafe. Behind a sleepy bar, three kids in their early twenties kept themselves entertained by learning to play pool. They turned out to be on workaways from Europe, and we chatted until two Lac la Hache locals blew in. The young bartender from Holland took their instructions to make a round of Vitamin C drop shots (equal parts Red Bull, orange juice, and vodka dropped in a shot glass). The besties showed off their new matching tattoos, invited everyone to their house party, and took some selfies on my bike on the way out. By the time I called it a night, Rick, the owner of the Red Crow, promised to make me a cheeseless pizza when I'm back through town. The Rangeland may look modest, but with flannel sheets and a down comforter it was the perfect place to lay my head. A true motel. Woohoo, making breakfast in real tableware. That's actually my second cup of coffee, the first I sipped from under the warmth of covers. The sun was bright by 5:30am and unbearable by 7, reminding me that nighttime would eventually shrink to a gasp as I pressed north. Great to meet you and your family, George! I wanted to check out this cool thrift shop in a log cabin, but it's closed on Sunday. The land beyond opened up on a scale altogether too big for a scooter, and I felt like a flea roving across a large green animal's back. I could see weather as I approached it, grey smears on a cerulean sky. The road continued to alternate between shade and bright sunlight, but sometimes it was miles after ducking into shadow before tiny raindrops would make my vision sparkle. A crosswind dogged me, occasionally bouncing hail off my visor. I'd reached to the part of the ride that's merely covering distance. Neil had warned me against Vanderhoof (I believe 'shithole' was the precise phrase he used) but the distance was about right and I needed a warm place to rest. The weirdest Airbnb/motel I've stayed in. But they had prime scooter parking. The Vanderhoof Inn was a square, shingled building next to the train tracks, and looked a relic from the 70s. It shared the ground floor with a laundromat that was once a "cold beer and wine store," an Indian restaurant, and a townie bar that locked up at 6 (where my scooter was parked, hopefully securely). Most of the smaller businesses looked like they'd been that way for at least 30 years. This was one of the weirder places I'd stayed, but aside from the occasional passing train I did have quiet privacy. The room itself was spacious: an entire efficiency apartment with a full kitchen, plates, mugs, and silverware albeit mismatched. There was even a little packet of shampoo bearing another hotel's name, which made my head smell like orange creamsicle. Plus, I got to watch a Canadian public TV program about the Oka Crisis. As I drifted to sleep to a 9:30pm sunset it struck me that this would never fly on American television, there seemed to be so little public interest in the stories of First Nations or Native Americans. Warming up in a cafe in Houston, just in time for the hail to start again. Guess I'll take a coffee and wait. Brr. Oh hi, Moricetown. Things are getting pretty again. Looks like a beaver was busy? I had a delicious taste of sunshine for a moment before the skies resumed the rain and hail. Oncoming 18-wheelers were carried forward on plumes of vapor mist. Locals in Smithers warned that the rainfall had flooded Moricetown, and when I arrived it was necessary to navigate several roads turned to rivers and corners turned to pools. The bridge into Hazelton was entirely metal grate. Grate, my favorite. Hello, Peggy and Phil! Back in New Westminster, Pamela had put me in touch with her friends, Peggy and Phil in Hazelton, BC. I couldn't be more grateful for their hospitality, as I think Pamela neglected to mention I was passing though and they generously took me in with no idea how long I'd be around. Over some much appreciated hot tea, Peggy told me about her local charity work (aside from the charity of taking in random scooterists with nothing more than the recommendation of her church outreach friend) and some of the history of the Kispiox and Ksan villages. It was a lot of take in, and a quick time check revealed that the village museum was open for another half hour. Ksan Historical Village and Museum. Learning about First Nations of the region. The designs are so cool. With sun in the sky until 10pm, I went back from a scoot around the tiny town of Hazelton and up to visit Kispiox until Phil arrived for dinner. Mystery paddleboat. Is it a yacht clubhouse now? There's a long history of paddlewheel steamboats on the Skeena river, especially during gold rush days. The names of towns I'd passed - 70 Mile House, 100 Mile House, 150 Mile House - were all acquired for the distances from Lillooet during the Cariboo Gold Rush. There were so many gold rushes, Lillooet was once the "largest city west of Chicago and north of San Francisco" during the Fraser Gold Rush (1958-59). It also may be the oldest continuously inhabited location on the continent, First Nations people having been settled here since time immemorial. Anyway, back to Hazelton. A scoot by the Tri-Town Theatre found they showed one movie at a time, with two screenings on Monday, and Thurs-Sunday. Admission? $6 for 2D, $9 for 3D. I just like all the designs on signs. 'Band Council' suggests music to me, but First Nation Bands are collections of chiefs for government. I still think of music. I poked around Kispiox and saw other lonely roads to reserves, but I didn't follow them. I already felt like an intruder in such a small, old community. Maybe it was all the dogs that barked at me or chased me. Formerly called Shanghai Cafe, this Chinese-Canadian restaurant has been around since 1920?! I was surprised to find a Chinese restaurant in such a small town, but according to a historical map in town the Sunrise Cafe had always been a Chinese-Canadian restaurant. Upon further research, during the Omineca Gold Rush, about 40% of miners were Chinese, already experienced miners from the Cariboo Gold Rush. More poking around town. Perhaps the most remarkable thing about meeting Peggy and Phil was discovering Phil's mother's work: Gladys Muir gave birth to Phil, the kind, bushy-eyebrowed retired physician folded into the recliner before me, while on a Mission in southwest China. She wrote a book about her experiences, Yun-nan, South of the Clouds: My life in Southwest China from 1939-51, which Phil was working on re-publishing. Phil not only spoke some Mandarin, but brought out a box of letters, telegrams, and correspondences from his mother's years in rural China. Among them were photos of Phil as a child, seated on the handlebars of a bicycle. As the sunlight slid into steep angles across their livingroom I sat transfixed, listening to his stories of his mother's life - everything from a traditional welcoming ceremony for her first-born son (Phil), to the harshness and violence of regime change in 1949, to their family fleeing China when religion was no longer welcome. When words ran out, I absorbed Gladys' book, and pored over the artifacts in the box. It was amazing to witness such a collection of first-hand accounts from a remote part of China, a place far beyond even the faintest dream of tourism, and at a volatile and pivotal time in Chinese history. Perhaps Western eyes would never have such a rich picture of it without the efforts of Missionaries, who took the time to learn a language and document what others would consider trivial. All these photos, notes, and reports of local customs, daily life, and traditions possibly would have been lost in time, or to the brutality of Japanese occupation and viciousness of change to Communism. I had a new sense of the drive their family must have had to stay in such a difficult place, trying to affect change, and why it's called a 'mission'. Yet alongside the first-person descriptions were quips for how many Chinese had converted each day, or how many expressed an interest in converting. It was jarring to me, and I couldn't put my finger on what made me uncomfortable about it. While I cannot deny the charitable effects of Missions, I wondered if people at the time felt this was a fair exchange of culture. Faith is generally a positive force, but religion has a much darker history. I could see first hand the positive effects individuals like Peggy and Phil had on their community, including their commitment to learning and sharing the history of their home. I'm just glad not to have to reconcile with a belief system, or y'know, be a Chinese peasant during regime change. Personally, I'm much more in the camp of, "The existence of the Emoji Movie alone is proof there is no god." Thank you for your kindness and generosity, Peggy and Phil. For a single overnight, it was an extremely enriching stay. I never would have explored this town if not for Pamela, Peggy, and Phil. Like many of the other quiet towns and small communities, I would probably have blown though. You can't see them all, but I'm grateful they took the time to share a little slice of their life here.
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Great write up Quezzie. We always enjoy your ride reports. Has the collar bone healed by now? We hope the holidays will be good to you. If you ever get close to Nashville Tn you have an invitation to stay.
Tony in Tn 07 Vespa GTS 250 |
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2009 Vespa GTS 250, 2005 Vespa PX 200
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The collarbone is healing, thanks! I'm back to riding, though winter has descended on the Northeast so by the time I'm dressed for the bike I feel like the Michelin Man.
Serenity was finally delivered last week! She has 67,054 miles on the clock (see for yourself). I've been finishing up other projects to make space in the garage, and then it's time to dive in.
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Touchdown on Alaskan Soil. May 16, 2017.
Putting on all my layers in the morning felt like dressing for battle. Today, I would touch Alaskan soil, albeit in the tiny tourist town of Hyder, AK. I had a low mileage day ahead of me, to give myself time to explore Kispiox again and see how far I got up to Salmon Glacier. Found the totem poles this time! I'm not sure how I missed these the first time through Kispiox, they're massive. Must be the dogs chasing me. Works in progress, totems are still being carved and erected today. The totems were a convenient place to pause and properly tighten down my mirror. It had come loose when a drunk woman used it as an assist to take selfies on my bike a few nights back, and I kept putting it off. Ah well. A unicyclist with maracas? How in-grate-iating. First sign of Alaska, at the Stewart-Cassiar Highway junction! "What're you, moving to Stewart with all that luggage? Getting Hyderized? Have a safe ride, eh!" Motorcyclists heading home after a ride to Stewart. Designs are everywhere, even the diner. Also, yay they let me order the kid's portion. As expected, the dominant vegetable for days had become the noble french fry. Canadians had the best condiment for them as well: GRAVY. It might be my favorite, after malt vinegar. And maybe curry sauce. Okay, top three. It was hard to slow down to eat, because I was excited to get to Alaska! More totems, in Kitwanga. Kitwanga is part of the Gitxsan Nation. Contrasting the ancient totems was a small church and bell tower across the road, which I hadn't paid much attention to at the time. St Paul's Anglican Church was founded as a mission station in 1882. It's slightly puzzling how little information I could find, but it seems the Gitxsan Nation had converted to Christianity, encouraged by British settlers. Like the church and totems, the cultures existed side-by-side, even into present day. I got the impression that First Nations that ended up being in Canada seem to have been treated with more respect than many of the native people in what became the United States. Maybe the grass just seems greener on the side with affordable healthcare. I stand with Wednesday Addams in Addams Family Thankgsiving. Prepare those spare fuel bottles, the Stewart-Cassiar Highway cuts across some of the most remote regions of the province. Accommodations for truckers at Meziadin Junction. Too expensive for me. It looks like they're used to handling quantity. Too early in the season, everything is empty. I enjoyed the signs for GAS BAR up here, instead of gas station. Every refuel makes me feel like I'm rolling up to a cocktail bar, and when an attendant asks, "What'll you have?" I say "Premium, please," as if I were ordering a Manhattan. On the other hand, a place that does sell alcohol is called a Cold Beer And Wine Store. Always in that order. Things are getting pretty. Real pretty. Blue skies. Bear Glacier. I took a million photos that look approximately like this. I'm not supposed to stop here, but no one is around to complain. So cool to see a glacier from the road. I'm in Alaska! No border patrol crossing into the U.S. The Bus was freshly power washed, but not open yet. No fish and chips for me. So quiet. I picked up the slightest whiff of Canadian cell reception here. It starts. Not open either. I'd actually visited Hyder before, years ago on an inner passage cruise with my parents. The southernmost town of Alaska was sustained by tourism, capitalizing on its ghost town roots. This early in the season though, it was truly deserted. Glacier Inn was only open Wed-Sun 2-8. The Bus was freshly power washed but wouldn't open until the last week of May. The only place semi-open was the campground, and they didn't have hot water in their showers yet, or wifi. They actually recommended staying in Stewart, which was a 'real town.' Let's try riding up to a glacier. I'd heard the road to Salmon Glacier viewpoint was still snowed in, but told myself I'd ride up until snow made it impassable. The dirt itself was hard-packed and not difficult for riding, in spite of the many signs warning otherwise. It was a beautiful road, with views, waterfalls, and avalanche zones. I don't think they make chains for Vespas? Sneaking back into British Columbia. So many warnings. They didn't warn me about the amazing view. Eventually, the road began to climb and temperatures dropped. Old snow clung to corners. And that's all for today. I walked up to the mud, and decided I'd rather keep my bike upright. It was beautiful, though a bit bumpy. My pack seemed to be holding well, until my front gas bottle rattled out from under the bungee net and I ran over it. I managed to retrieve it before it rolled off a cliff, with just a small dent in the side. It gets a carabiner now. What is that up there? I can't bear the anticipation. I waited for a pickup truck coming through to scare it off. Sunshine and waterfalls and snow and gravel. So peaceful. Gah. Going back to Canada. On the way back to Stewart to camp, the border officer asked me whether I had bear spray. I'd heard it was illegal to carry it across borders so had held off purchasing any until I was farther along, figuring that playing my ukulele at camp would be enough of a deterrent. This seemed to alarm the officer. She recommended at least getting a 'bear pen' - a small, firecracker that's supposed to scare them away. It's lovely having sunlight so late each day, I never worry about setting up camp in the dark. I saw seven bears that day, including a mother with two cubs. The campground in town assured me that even though their camp was named Bear River RV Park, they didn't come down this far. They had glacier-fed water too, mmm. I did worry a bit for my air plant getting too cold at night. George at the Rangeland, ever resourceful, suggested putting a plastic bag over it. A dime bag would have been perfect, but I made do with what I had: My extreme air plant is pushing the lower limits of temperature tolerance. That was it. Three years and eleven days since departure, scoot and I touched down on 49 U.S. states, Baja Mexico, and 4 Canadian provinces. 65k on the clock. The Yukon lay ahead. |
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Hyder
I've ridden there several times. The ride from the main N/S highway into Hyder has a large number of glaciers more than many other places. First time there, I told border control officer that he must have the most boring job. He said that yes except during the time of the 49 states rides and then it get busy because it is the closest place you can officially be Alaska. They ride in, take pictures and ride out. The river is famous for the videos and pictures of bears catching salmon.
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Re: Hyder
manoscoot wrote: I've ridden there several times. The ride from the main N/S highway into Hyder has a large number of glaciers more than many other places. First time there, I told border control officer that he must have the most boring job. He said that yes except during the time of the 49 states rides and then it get busy because it is the closest place you can officially be Alaska. They ride in, take pictures and ride out. The river is famous for the videos and pictures of bears catching salmon. |
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2023 Arancia Impulsivo Vespa GTS300 HPE , 2022 BMW R1250GSA 40th Anniversary, 2019 Ural Gear Up
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Re: Hyder
cdwise wrote: manoscoot wrote: I've ridden there several times. The ride from the main N/S highway into Hyder has a large number of glaciers more than many other places. First time there, I told border control officer that he must have the most boring job. He said that yes except during the time of the 49 states rides and then it get busy because it is the closest place you can officially be Alaska. They ride in, take pictures and ride out. The river is famous for the videos and pictures of bears catching salmon. |
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just love it. You make living vicariously through your riding fun and pleasurable. I hope these journal entries that you share become part of a book/movie/podcast part fiction part adventure and part reality.
Your ability to express and the time spent to the lesser details make it warm and relatable. Be safe as always and keep writing, if and when you are in and around NYC maybe we shall have high tea just leave the "high" part out... |
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Boya, That's Beautiful. Stewart-Cassiar to Alaska Highway. May 17 - 18, 2017.
I had a few campgrounds (recreation sites, as they're called) along the Stewart-Cassiar in mind for the next stretch. I knew I would be riding through some remote places, and figured I'd just go until I felt ready to stop. It's a supreme luxury, the freedom to go till whenever, with no one expecting you anywhere, anytime. I suppose it depends on the person whether they find that freeing or concerning. This little bugger managed to get mashed between the inside of my pinlock and visor, requiring disassembly to clean. I was happy to wake up unmolested by bears, but mosquitoes were another thing. They were still relatively sparse early in the season and didn't bother me with gear on, but they were huge. The bloody spatters resulting from riding through a cloud of them would give Pollock a run for his money. The ride up Salmon Glacier road had coated the accumulated bug innards with dust, and it was time for a proper cleaning. Hee hee, left a mark by some Kiwis at Temptations Bakery and Deli in Stewart, BC. Hyder was a ghost town, but Stewart was still a sleepy community. They made up for it by being exceptionally welcoming. Temptations Bakery, the only place open for coffee, had so many stickers and handwritten iterations of "So-and-so was here," the scrawls climbed up into the beams. They provided me a Sharpie to add my own. Everyone present seemed local, but a kind trucker struck up conversation over coffee. I did my best to decipher his very strong accent. Thank you for the coffee, accented Canadian man. Road is all mine. This. For hours. Everyone at Bell II (there is a Bell I but it's never on maps) was on their way to Alaska for seasonal work. The last thing resembling a community for miles was the Dease Lake gas station, where my bike decided to have difficulty starting. A couple instances earlier it seemed to hiccup on the road, or was that a gust of wind? Perhaps bad gas? When I checked the spark plug it hadn't budged. My red Loctite was on hand, but that freedom-fear scale made a brief tip in the other direction. More maracas. Always stop for gas. Bell II had a lodge for hunters, but this one at Tatogga Lake Resort was something else. I moose-t ask you... Do you buy off the rack? Stopped for a break and browsed through the Kluochon Centre Store in Iskut.Prices were high and I didn't quite belong, but this was the view outside. Ketchup chips available by the box here?! Still stunning. I passed many lakes that were still frozen or had old snow clinging precariously to the edges. Much like upstate NY, I read that glaciers had carved and fed the long deep lakes in this region. One of the most glorious campgrounds I've ever been fortunate enough to find. The sun was still high around 7:30pm, when I arrived at Boya Lake Provincial Park. A soft twilight began to fall around 8, when my tent was pitched. I couldn't have found myself in a more perfect place. A man was fishing to the left of this shot, but he said nothing bit. Boya Lake. Tour of the sprinter. I took a walk around camp with Gwen and Genevieve from Anchorage. They were driving a sprinter van up from Portland to Fairbanks. We chatted about Hatcher's pass, the ferry to Kodiak, and much more. It reminded me how much was ahead, and that I should pace myself. I'd bump into them again returning from Watson Lake! Walking around the lake with Gwen and Genevieve. Me next on the swing! Yesss. There's a video here. Like a mirror. They said there was a caribou on the other side of the lake. Thanks for the photo, Gwen! In the absence of bear lockers, I attempted to be responsible and hang a bear bag. It was the most ludicrous thing I've ever attempted, and I'm glad no one was there to witness. After many snags and missed throws, I left my snacks and toothpaste hanging over a low ditch and figured the bears could have their minty snack if they wanted it so bad. What time is it? I'm just now realizing that my camp lantern is as useless as me trying to hang a bear bag. Phone says it's 9pm. I loved arranging the tent so the window would face the lake and mountains. Looking out from between the giant mosquitoes settled on the mesh, I reveled in such good fortune that each night I get to set up a new home. But each morning I had to tear it down too. In any other situation, 6am would be ungodly for breakfast. Around 11:40pm I woke briefly, and there was still light in the sky. A loud splash echoed across the water around 3am, when a caribou decided to take a bath in the lake. The sky was already brightening. The extended sunlight was addicting, I was really going to have to work to pace myself. Yukon! Thanks for the photo, RVers on the other side of the road taking photos of the British Columbia sign. Brief detour east for Sign Post Forest. Scoot was here. Hurr. Wandering, looking for a sign... Still looking. The closest thing I could find to Providence, RI. I left a sticker. At the Alaska Highway junction, the attendant suggested the Rancheria Lodge for all day breakfast. They were delicious, and had wifi too! I met two motorcyclists hauling a trailer, and a mod over lunch. He had a Lambretta in the 60s in England, put a ton of mirrors on the front of his bike, and wore a suit and everything. "It was all about looks then." Glacier fed waters take on a greenish hue. Motoring towards Whitehorse. On Highway 37, there were just enough bumps to keep me awake, and the constant company of snow topped mountains punctuated by emerald lakes. I wondered whether their beauty would ever become plain, like air that you simply breath in. When people here go to other places, do they find it terribly dull? A Sri Lankan guide once shared that travel was difficult for him, because foreign food tasted like water to his spice-acclimated palate. A long stretch of gravel construction slowed me, but otherwise the pavement from the Stewart-Cassiar and Alaska Highway to Whitehorse was utterly tame. The highway rode a fine line between zen-like serenity... and boredom. The scenery was expansive but looked the same for hours, then you would come upon a small lodge of a town. A part of me wished I had a big bike up here, to eat up such great distances. Having my fish and chips. Beez Kneez was affiliated with Klondike Rib & Salmon, so I gratefully accepted a coupon for dinner. Whitehorse, with a population of 25,000, was the biggest city I'd seen since Vancouver. Rolling in, I felt giddy with the traffic lights and people and civilization. I needed a rest, and the Beez Kneez Bakpakers had bunks and blackout curtains. This blue midnight sun is weird. |
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