Tuesday- Wednesday, July 17-18

Everything runs together - it's getting harder to separate out the events of one day from another; certainly some events stick out, and help separate the days, but the nights and early mornings have just become a blur.

One of the rare nights I actually unloaded the whole bike into the room.

I have established a routine into which I fall, pretty easily, each evening: I arrive at the destination, I check in, I fall on the bed and pass out for an hour or two, and then I wake again, unpack the bike, organize all the materials in the room, write a little bit (if I have the energy) and fall back asleep until 6 AM, past which my brain refuses to let me sleep.






Once awake, I start planning my itinerary for the day and look for someplace to have breakfast. Breakfast has become the major meal of the day - I can pack carbs, I can order from a menu, and I don't have to worry about where the motorcycle is while I eat. Also: COFFEE. ALL the coffee.

Breakfast at my very first Black bear Diner. Not bad. This is Wednesday morning in Eureka...

After breakfast, I return to wherever I am staying, and write as long as I can, upload photographs (depending on the connection: night before last, there was none - today, it has taken 25 minutes to upload 3 of the 83 possible photos I chose for this post). Trying to organize video, fight against what ever absurdity Wi-Fi in the area happens to be... and then I always try to start packing the bike again at least an hour before checkout. While I am out getting breakfast, I have gassed up the motorcycle, checked the the tires, and inspected the bike for any damage or maintenance required. Because it is much easier when it is not fully laden. It would, I realized, be embarrassing to fall prey to a motorcycle maintenance failure while blogging about a trip based on this book.

In case anyone has forgotten what it looks like on the bike....

The bike packed, I do a last-minute check of my gear, and my room, check out from wherever I am, and I am on my way for today's events. I'm usually on the road by 10 or 10:30 AM, and usually off the road by 7 PM. Although, as you know by now, there have been some exceptions. ;-)

Tuesday, and Tuesday night, were welcome exceptions to the whole routine. I was sluggish getting off the ball from Grangeville, Tuesday morning, and woke to a text from Marcus and John telling me of a route they suggested I take.They suggested that once I got outside Grangeville, I take 19 N. As Marcus put it "If you feel up to it."

Well, that sounded like a challenge, and I'm not one to back down from a challenge, especially, to my loved ones consternation, when it comes to motorcycling; so when I reach 19 N. I dutifully switched on my turn signal - I'm headed into the "John Day Fossil site or somesuch...."

I should mention here that everything I have ever thought about Oregon was wrong. Like many, I suppose (I hope) I had an image of Oregon as part of the Pacific Northwest: pine forests, slopes, coastal regions, cool, lots of rain... This is true, perhaps, of the Western Oregon coast - but Central and southeast Oregon are, for all practical purposes, prairie desert. And I've been learning this as I came across the state. But I still didn't expect what confronted me on Route 19 N. In my mind, I relegate painted deserts to the American southwest: Arizona, New Mexico, the Grand Canyon etc. But what greeted me on 19 N. coming out of Greensville was as spectacular a geological show as I've ever seen - and also as challenging a motorcycling road as I've confronted this trip.

Suffice it to say that what was supposed to be a short hop from Grangeville to Redmond, Oregon, turned into a six-hours-long road race, full of thrills, all beautiful vistas, and terrifying switchbacks. In short,  everything I ever could've hoped for. Marcus and John did me well. After finding my way out of the canyons, and back onto the prairie, I made my way to Redmond  and arrived of Hank and Sue McCauley, who had graciously invited me to spend the night with them.

I'm not going to say much about my time there, except to say that Hank and Sue are living a life of acceptance, grace, and gratitude that should be more prevalent in our world. It was a genuine privilege to get to spend the evening (and the night) with them. I enjoyed our conversation immensely, and was genuinely sad when it came time to part in the morning. I got to say a heartfelt goodbye with Sue; Hank gets up even earlier than I do and was already gone for golf. For those who know of their lives, Sue did ask me to mention that they are doing... fine. They have found a place of acceptance and are living a life we could all do well to emulate.

All that said, I was genuinely sad to leave the morning, but  also excited to set out for Crater Lake - the second National Park I would be passing through on my trip. The route from Redmond to Crater Lake was interesting,  as the terrain continued to change with a whiplash fury, from prairie desert to rolling, cultivated fields, to deep pine forests and back again. I made a quick stop in Bend, because it is part of the "Pirsig itinerary" (and because several people said I had to get a picture of the last Blockbuster video store in existence...)

Apparently, while I have been traveling, two Blockbusters in AK closed, leaving this the last Blockbuster in existence.

Remember - be kind, and rewind.

When I arrived at the park, I think I was unaware of how high I had risen in elevation already, and was genuinely surprised when I broke the tree line and found myself on the rim of the crater, to see ourselves level with, or above, most of the surrounding peaks. Can I just say here, that there are few things more beautiful than a great mountain rising against the crystal blue sky, still with snow on its flanks. Its a mystery to me how the Universe has conspired to create juxtapositions of image that immediately flood our brains with endorphins, but ,in my case, that is certainly one of them.

I was also pleased, and a little surprised, to discover that the road encircling the crater was more than a little challenging: in some ways, the most terrifying road I have been on to date. It is narrow, it's twisty, it's often unmarked (although it is unmarked because it's new, very nicely surfaced, asphalt...) Where I might have been a little more aggressive in tracking through the John Day canyons, I was suitably restrained circling the Crater Lake.

Once again of course I found myself without signal, but I had  the foresight to procure a map of the park at the entrance, and had, for once, thought ahead, and actually purchased a paper map of Oregon. So, I found my way out of the park without a great deal of todo.

One of the things I noticed shortly after entering the park, was that there appeared to be a fire up the on one of the peaks alongside the road - nothing big, but a plume of smoke that was clearly out of place, and too large to be accounted for by a campfire. The night before, Hank, Sue and I have talked about the threat of wildfire this time of year, and the measures that members of their community are required take to prevent fire from spreading.



Having seen this one plume of smoke upon entering the park, nonetheless I was surprised upon ascending to the top of the rim to see how hazy you was not just across the craterBut to the mountains in the distance.





So, BTWs: Oregon's on fire.

As I left the park the effect became more pronounced: even the trees in the distance down the unusually straight highway seems you were by a foggy haze. And at one point I know I must've been passing relatively close to a fire because the smoke in the air was so prevalent that it 4:30 in the afternoon, it looked as though it was sunset. (for lighting design students: hey, haze or smoke changes the color temperature of your illumination: golden hour can happen at anytime. File that away).

On my way out of Crater Lake, I realized that I was lower on gas than I would've expected; one of the things that really burns fuel is spirited riding, at higher elevations,  especially going up steep hills. And so I inquired at a roadside bistro where I stopped to get an Arnold Palmer, where I might find the next gas station. I was directed to Prospect,  a town just down the road - when I got into Prosect, however, the proprietor of the store (outside of which, once again, was one single mechanical gas pump) came ruefully out of his garage "I'm so sorry - I'm completely out of fuel." Wait, I said: "Everything?" He nodded, while smiling ruefully, "Yes, I'm  gas station owner who has run out of gas." I inquired as to the next place I would be able to fill up, and he directed me to the next small town, down the road.

When I got there, a sweet, older, lady with a German accent who came out of her similarly lowball Gen. store/bait shop/convenience store/gas pump directed me to a shortcut to Grants Pass. She looked at my cycle and said "So,You don't have any problem with going up-and-down or left and right do you?"I Smile. "I didn't think so... So you must go to the river, turn right, don't go over the river, if you go over the river, you've turned too far, you must turn before you get to the river, follow that road... And when you come to the highway again, she will turn left that will take you right to Grants Pass, you will see all the signs"( I am, at this point alongside the Rogue River –The River Recreation industry seems to have built up around the Rogue in much the same way that it has built up around the Shenandoah back home).

I followed the road as the nice lady suggested... and was, once again, treated to a beautiful, late afternoon, spirited motorcycling jaunt, quite unexpected and that cut an hour off my expected journey too. (I should note here that i went to try and find the route on which she sent me on Google maps later, and the road, acording to Google, doesn't exist.)

I arrived in Grant's Pass after a short stint on I5 - which I have to admit it was a little bit of a let-down after all the wonderful roads and backroads I'd been riding. But I had already booked a very affordable room at the Motel 6, and actually made it into the room in time to call Bonnie, before she had gone to bed. I'm also getting used to the fact, that, as far north and as far west as I was sunset was sometimes not happening until 9:30 or 10 o'clock.

I'm feeling a little bit odd at this stage of the journey. In theory, god willin' and the crick don't rise, I am two days out, less than two days out, really, from arriving in San Rafael, just north of San Francisco, (UPDATE: I am still trying to get this published on Friday, as I approach San Rafael...) where I will get to spend some time with my dear friend Mel Corbin and her husband Josh, meet Bonnie when she flies into Oakland, and actually spend a couple days relaxing together, before the trip home commences. It's strange to think that the "Pirsig" portion of the ride is nearing an end; by late Friday or early Saturday, we'll have completed 'the ride' that Pirsig and his son did 50 years ago. We will have nearly finished rereading the book, and as it has every time I have read itI, it has shown me new and different things, and also, as always, they're not the things I expect. I was pleasantly surprised to discover that the theory and philosophy contained within the book are still relatively fresh in my mind, and are, in many ways, still guiding principles I use in my daily life. The section of the book that really stood out to me, though, was the early section where Pirsig  talks about Phaedrus' dissatisfaction with teaching and  the whole profession of education, and the steps he took to try to amend that. It has reinvigorated my enthusiasm for facing my students in the fall, and given me some ideas as to how I can reconnect them with the material I am charged with conferring.

Speaking of the book, as an aside, while visiting with Hank and Sue, it came out that, in all likelihood,  the copy that Tricia gave to me, almost two years ago, now, is likely Hank's. I made the decision not to bring even the paperback copy with me, which may seem strange, since the whole reason that she gave it to me was so I would not have to bring my hardbound copy with me; but for obvious reasons that dog-eared paperback now holds the Quality of "talisman" in my mind. And so I traveled west with two copies of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance: one an e-reader copy that I have on both my iPhone and my iPad, and other the audiobook: narrated by Michael Kramer, of all people. The connections keep surfacing - I don't know how close Michael and Trisha were but I know for certain they knew each other. And I'm sure that she will be tickled by the idea of my listening to the audiobook of Zen read by a Washington actor.

And there's more: another connection of which I've never been aware, or for which I have simply never made before: in the section of the book where Pirsig and Christopher are staying with the Deweeses in Bozeman, there is mention of a painting hanging in room of Montana Hall, that DeWeese had berated him for having, because it was a "print" rather than an original. The book clearly states that  it is a print of " 'The Church of the Minorities' by Feininger" Well as it happens, another Washington actor who is a frequent fixture with the Stage Guild where Trisha often performed, is Conrad Feininger; sI did a search of Google but it took almost no time to ascertain that yes:  in fact,  the Feininger mentioned in ZATAOMM is Conrad's grandfather.

We really are all Stardust. And connected.

At this point I should confessBut I've been seriously considering Plan B (Well, actually, it was Plan A before I took the job at St. Mary's and was considering this trip) Plan B involves finding someone to ship the motorcycle home and flying back with Bonnie when she flies back in the middle of next week As amazing as the trip has been, it has been very, VERY, taxing on my body; I visited a motorcycle dealership today (Friday) and they were aghast that i had gotten this far on a sportbike, at all, let alone "at my AHEM... cough, cough Age". And this is the longest I have been away from the people I love, for a very, very, long time. I'm also considering the fact that in my exuberance while I gave myself three weeks to get to the West Coast, I have really only left myself one week to get all the way back home. Part of this, of course, involves attempting at Iron Butt run from Salt Lake City to Ames Iowa, essentially doing four days riding in 24 hours.

If you're interested: Iron Butt Association

I haven't given up yet on Plan A. And the few quotes I've gotten on shipping the motorcycle back seem to dictate that I deal with Plan A whether I like it or not ;-) but I am considering whether I need to give up the idea of doing an Iron Butt run., and just add a of couple days to my trip back. Most of my way back will be on interstates: smooth, fast, riding, if boring. With the exception of crossing the Rockies again, through much easier terain. Nonetheless, my butt and my back are telling me I need to at least consider the possibility of taking the easy way. It's Thursday morning now (NO - it's Friday mid-day, now...) At the Motel 6, Grants Pass Oregon, And I need to get his posted and sent off. And plan my trip to Eureka, California (which was awesome, thanks - tomorrow, my loves) At some point today I should be in sight of the Pacific Ocean, and will have completed the coast-to-coast trip on the Honda Interceptor. I'm honestly not sure if anyone's ever done that before, and I may spend a little effort trying to find out. But either way, I have learned more, experienced more, and seen more in the last three weeks than I have, certainly, for a very long time, in my still "young" life.

Okay: time to start packing the bike.

PS: Yep: - I made it. Details in the next post. Teaser PSA - if you ever wonder what possesses someone to engage the admittedly higher risk of riding a motorcycle, the Redwood Highway is one of the reasons.

Yes, that's the Pacific Ocean behind me. For the very first tome this trip, I am letting myself feel something like accomplishment. Rubber side down, and Strap It Up!