Modern Vespa

Day six was to finish in Fort Scott. I had received an email from
their chamber of commerce expressing concern over our race passing
through their little town. I sent a message back emphasizing that it
was not a race, letting them know about what time we would be arriving
and leaving the next day... In the morning riders meeting I let
everyone know the situation, to slow way down as you get close to
town... We had no idea what to expect so don't push it even a little
bit...

Most of the pictures I took on day 6 were of fields. I realized I
couldn't identify the plants growing and that kind of bothered me.
Here was the foundation of our economy and I know next to nothing
about it. So I tried to take a bunch of pictures so I could go back
later and identify the crops, so far I haven't done it.

Came across a small coffee shop in a really small town and the word
ESPRESSO jumped out at me. It had been 7 days since I had a latte and
I had no real competition within my class. I also had a block of
chocolate in my bag so it was clearly a sign to stop. Wayne stopped in
to join me and we sat for a bit and sipped our coffee, ate our
chocolate.

For a good part of the later half of the day I was chasing a moto
guzzi across the rolling hills. Eastern Kansas is really beautiful. As
I rolled into Fort Scott I found the place almost empty. Nice little
down town with brick streets that were about half way through being
restored. I find the hotel and I don't see a single scooter. I go
inside to get my room and I'm greeted with a small bag prepared by the
chamber of commerce containing a really nice letter welcoming us, a
small map... Wow, not what I was expecting but very cool. Everyone
else was parked around back, the reporter had already been around to
interview people.

Day six, as others have noted, was flat. And boring, really.

We left Garden City, where I got the creeps just going to Wal Mart,
and rode all the way to the other side, where I got the creeps just
checking into my hotel room in Fort Scott.

We knew that the good folks at the Fort Scott City Hall (or Chamber of
Commerce, or some such) were aware of our arrival, because they had
called Patrick ahead of time. Apparently, someone in the town has the
job of monitoring Teh Google for any mention of their town, and we had
mentioned it in the route planning on the Scooter Cannonball site.
They were concerned that a road race through their town was, errr...
not exactly what they wanted. Patrick assured them that it wasn't a
road race, and that we would be well behaved. So we were extra, extra
cautious rolling into town, trying to stay well below the speed limit.

Imagine our surprise, then, when the hotel had welcome packets for us,
complete with a letter from the city welcoming us, by name and group,
to their municipality. On top of that, they were throwing us a party.
And then a reporter from the local paper showed up.

Gah!

Okay, for the record: all the people in Fort Scott (who are
undoubtedly reading this now) were very, very nice, and I mean them no
ill will whatsoever when I say that this creeped me the fuck out. We
had been anonymous for the previous five days, rolling across country
and checking into random hotels along the way. Having the hotel and
the city colluding to welcome us and throw us a party was really...
well, it was a bit much.

I ended up skipping the party, as my bike desperately needed a new
belt, rollers, and a fresh rear tire. I wore through the Michelin
Pilot City 140 on my rear in well under 2000 miles, which is a bit
surprising. Joel snapped a belt on Bobo's bike on Day Five, consistent with
past Cannonball reports for Day Five. I figured I was living on
borrowed time. Bagel changed his variator the previous night and found
his Polini rollers were seriously flat, and the variator itself was
damaged. I decided to inspect mine, and sure enough the rollers were
nearly mangled. Fortunately, the variator itself was in good shape.

As it turns out, I would make a mistake tonight that would come back
to haunt me later, and it wasn't missing the party.

It was supposed to end in St Luis but it ended right outside of it.

The day was by and large uneventful for me but it did, as I might
recall, mean highway 42. Which was my favorite run ever on cannonball.
Some of the best roads in the country. Not because it was the most
technical or most scenic - that's all in California. Screw the east
coasters and the "dragon" - that's childs play. Come out to CA and
ride our roads. We can take you on roads that will make you shit
yourself with glee. Meanwhile, 42 is just fun. It was like a
rollercoaster. It was easy to forget how fast you were going. It was
relatively unoccupied (except for the funeral I got caught behind). It
was just... A fun ride. And that's what I needed after all the damned
flat corn.

It was a good way to break up all the flat corn that was about to come
up.

So a lot of people did take advantage of stopping in St. Luis by way
of the Vespa shop. We all worked on our bikes. My favorite pic is
anything that involves Bobo's engine having been removed for Joel's.

I'm including one more pic here that isn't exactly cannonball related.
Doing this meant leaving my little girl for over a week. I hadn't (and
still haven't) been away from her that long before. It made me
terribly sad. My significant other sent me a pic of her just out of
the bath this night and I nearly cried. She's my little bear. I was
missing both my girls dearly by now, but I wouldn't have traded this
experience for anything.

As noted by others, today was the shortest day of the ride. It was
also one of the highlights of the trip. The whole Western United
States had been really dramatic, and Kansas had been a big letdown in
comparison. Missouri made up for the lack of grandeur by giving us
some really wonderful riding roads.

One section in particular -- Hwy 42 -- stands out. It was a narrow
country road winding through the Ozarks, twisting and turning through
the woods with a ridiculously inappropriate speed limit of 55mph.
Awesome! I rode alone through most of it, tearing through the woods
and riding better than I had in months. This was really a much-needed
break from some of the tedium of just sitting on the bike going in a
straight line.

I caught up with Rocket and Roy at one point, and rode with them for
awhile. I really wanted to get some pictures of some other riders
today, but most of my attempts with Rocket and Roy came out blurry.

When we got to St. Louis, Vespa St. Louis graciously hosted us in
their service department so we could get our bikes repaired and tuned
up. The mechanics swapped Joel's engine from his wrecked GTS into
Bobo's GTV, Maroy got a new tire, Bagel did some variator work, Oz
changed his oil, many people helped Rob rebuild the carb on his Buddy,
Rich changed oil and put a new rear tire on, and I went back to the
stock variator and changed my oil.

While I had the transmission open, I got the first hint that something
was wrong. I had put stock weights in my Polini variator the day
before, and that turned out to be a bad combination. It turns out that
the stock variator weights, which are *supposed* to be the same size
as the Polini weights, are really about 0.5mm larger in diameter. It
appears that the extra 0.5mm is enough to push the Polini variator close
enough to the outer half, similar to what happens with a J Costa when
the bushing wears down. And just like on the J Costa, the belt rode up
high and ate into the engine case.

At this point, there was only a dollop of sludge right at the seam
between the engine case and the oilpan, where the belt had taken a
chunk out of the engine case. I had a hunch it would get worse,
though, and I really didn't want to suffer the same fate that Rich had
been going through for the entire trip.

My problems were minor, though, compared to Rob. His Buddy had been
acting up for several days, and at Vespa St. Louis, they couldn't get
it started. I recall (and the details are a bit hazy at this point) that
Rob's bike got put on a truck, and I believe they went looking for a
Buddy dealer the next day.

Another nice find in Fort Scott was that they had an Aveda Day Spa. I
had made an appointment the night before for a pedicure and would
start my day of riding when that was done. This was the shortest day
and the only day I could go the full length with no fuel stops. On
most days I was stopping at the check points to take a picture and
note my time. Today I would do this as I rode. Today I was competing...

I normally go for red polish when I get a pedicure but given that I
had to put boots on right after I decided to spare the people of Fort
Scott of that request. Got the bike filled, and went back to the hotel
for an official start. By the time I got to the first check point I
was wishing I had skipped that cup of tea during the pedicure. Like
hell I was stopping on the only day I didn't have to stop though. I
can hold it for 200 miles!

The roads were mostly great but MO-42 was incredible. Twisty, tree
lined, and the locals set a really good pace.

This was the day that all my energy, enthusiasm, and strength came
crashing to the ground. Eight solid days of being "on", being alert,
and being as competitive as I knew how to be finally took its toll on
me. Trying to get out of St. Louis in the morning didn't help matters
at all.

Me and my Bay Area teammates left St. Louis together, and we rode in a
group for the beginning. We also got lost several times and had to
double back a few times. Actually, I think I was leading, so *I* got
everyone else lost. We finally did make it out of St. Louis,
though, and I remember at one point shortly thereafter Patrick pulling
up next to me and motioning for me to get lost. That is, I was still
riding with the group, when I had a race to compete in. Honestly, I
was so numb by this point that it hadn't occurred to me. Bleh.

The rest of the day wasn't much better. The route took us through a
million little small towns (the Eastern half of the US is packed much
tighter than the Western half) and there was a lot of traffic -- and a
lot of semis -- to contend with. About halfway through the ride, I
slacked off again, and Patrick caught up with me. I rode most of the
rest of the day with Patrick.

One amusing story from earlier in the day, though: Out on a lonely
stretch of road outside of St. Louis, somewhere in Indiana (I think),
I saw a scooter off in the distance. I instinctively tucked my ears
back to catch up to it, thinking it was one of the CBers that I had to
catch. When I finally caught up with it at a stoplight in the middle
of cornfields, I saw that it was *not* a CBer, but it was a guy on a
Genuine Buddy. I pulled up next to him, flipped up my helmet, and said
"Hi". I asked the guy if he knew about the ModernBuddy.com site, and
he said he did. I said "Hi, I'm Jess" and he said "Oh! You're one of
the guys doing Cannonball!" We chatted for another minute or so, and
then I was off.

Another notable point from today: riding along with Patrick, I saw a
white police MC cop going the other way. I checked my speed, and saw
that I was really going just a bit (lot) too fast. I checked my
mirror, and of *course* the cop was flipping a U-turn behind us. He
went straight past Patrick and pulled up behind me (I was saying "fuck
fuck fuck fuck" in my helmet at this point), paused for a few seconds,
and then decided that the SUV ahead of me was a better target. It took
me a good half an hour to get my heart rate back down. It was just
more stress that I was becoming more and more ill-equipped to deal with.

I have family in Ohio, so when I finally got to Cincinnati, we went
out for dinner and I had a giant-sized margarita at a cheesy Mexican
restaurant. It might have been the best margarita, ever.

One night in a city and I was starting to miss the small towns. Truth
is I really hate riding in traffic and cities tend to have traffic.
Even in San Francisco where it is permitted to split lanes the traffic
gets to me. So the morning of day 8 left us with the question of how
do we get out of St Louis without getting caught up in the morning
commute. As much as I really wanted to see the arch I really wanted to
just get over the river as fast as possible. I had convinced Jess that
this was a good idea or at least good enough to follow me. Problem was
that my GPS got confused going over the bridge and we wasted a good 20
min when I missed the turn to the north. Sure the road signs were crap
but 5 min looking at a real map in the morning could have avoided that.

Then came the point where 50 split off from interstate 64. 50 was
shorter but passed through a few towns that would be slow. The GPS was
picking 64 as the fastest so when I turned off the interstate onto 50
Jess and Rich continued on. 50 turned out to be several lanes in each
direction and moved very fast. As a result Jess caught up with me
later and we road within sight of each other for most the rest of the
day.

Heading into Cincinnati the "route" stayed north and went directly
from Indiana into Ohio. However if you were following the GPS and
taking the fastest path, As I was at this point, then you hop on 275
and cut through the northern tip of Kentucky. Shortly after crossing
the river Jess tucked in and started pulling away. I'm in the fast
lane, full tuck, and then I see it. A yellow road sign (those indicate
warning or caution right?) that reads, "CREATION MUSEUM 11." As I
fumble for my camera at 70mph I realize there's no way I'll get a shot
of the sign so I'm just going to have to go there. 11? As in miles?
Then I notice I'm passing exit 11 and it's too late to get over to the
right to make the exit. Well, At least I got to see the sign.

Not sure I remember anymore.

This day was flat and boring as hell. Indiana man. I stopped by and
took a picture at what turns out to have been a coworker of mine's
home town. Crazy. Total accident.

Another thing to note is that Maroy and Wayne's room needed to be
busted into since there was a lock problem.

Day Nine began with an early-morning phone call from Rich Glass,
sometime around 5:30am.

Rich: "Dude. We've got to change your variator. You've got to to keep
up with Joel today".

Me: "What? What the fuck? Where am I going to get another variator?!?"

Rich: We're going to take it off my bike. I've got a fresh Polini".

Me: Oh. Uhhh... okay. I'll meet you outside

So in the wee hours of the morning, Rich and I took apart our
variators for the umpteen millionth time on this trip, wiped out all
the oil from the damage we had both inflicted on our bikes, and
swapped parts. I was still running the stock variator from St Louis a
few days before, and Rich had brought a spare Polini with him that had
maybe one or two days worth of wear on it. Rich was no longer a
contender, he had no hope of winning the overall class. So he gave me
his variator in the hopes that it would help me retain the lead, to
stay in the race for that much longer.

Joel's efforts at catching up were considerable and impressive. He was
gaining something like 30 minutes on me every day. Rich understood
this, better than I did, and really wanted to help a team mate. Man,
that's class. To give me the variator out of his own bike in order
that I might stay in it. My hats off to Rich, then and now.

The rest of the day was spent chasing Joel. I made a point of trying
to follow him from the hotel, leaving at the same time he did, and he
almost immediately gave me the slip. In something like 3 miles from
the start, he was gone. I was feeling dejected.

I'm hazy on what happened next, and my notes from the day are vague. I
*think* I caught up with him again, somewhere in West Virginia, and
continued the chase for a while.

There were some memorable moments from this chase: At one point, on a
construction detour, Joel rode up an empty lane of traffic that would
be forced to turn right, only to cut into the left-turn lane at the
front of a long line of backed-up cars. He made some motion indicating
he was lost or some such, trying to pawn it off on the drivers as an
innocent mistake. I came up behind him and did the same exact thing,
but with no explanation whatsoever, making us both look like the
assholes we really were. It kept me in the race.

At another point in the on-and-off construction, he got away from me
and went barreling around a corner, only to double back and take a
turn in front of me, the result of a blocked road on the path he had
been on. I saw him and followed, like a scene out of "It's a mad mad
mad mad world". I swear, it was some kind of crazy fast-motion
treasure hunt.

We played cat-and-mouse for a while longer, me trying to catch him and
him slipping away. I kept on his tail for a while, but around 50 miles
from the finish line, I finally let him go. This day was about who
could stomach the most number of risks, the most number of laws
broken, and Joel won.

I think I kept Joel down to a ten minute gain on me today, but it was
tough. And I was tired.

The morning of day 9 came with the sudden realization that this trip
was reaching an end. Rich and I rode together till just before the
second checkpoint. The official route went through town but there was
a nice big fast bridge that went around the town. Rich was ahead of me
at the time and I couldn't get his attention when he went straight and
I went off to the right. I heard the toll bridge in town was cool
though. Most of the roads were wide and fast but not too interesting.
The last part of the day, things got fun but I was tired and wasn't
judging the turns too well so I didn't push it.

Starting to feel odd at this point of the ride. The frantic pace
became a part of life. In many ways it was starting to shift how I saw
my life.

By this point in time I started to catch on that I would be returning
to regular life soon. Cannonball was a fleeting thing. Transient.

Today would be the second day I would run out of gas in my main tank
(not my gas can) before I found a station.

Long sweeping hills, long sweeping turns. Towards the end of this day
I remember catching up to Rich and giving him a little idea of how I
had been improving as a rider

It was an ok day but felt bittersweet. At the hotel we caught up to
some Harley riders that decided our little trip was insane. I'd be
inclined to agree.