I am at the Pacific Ocean.*

Actually, I arrived here yesterday, in Crescent City, after leaving Grant's Pass, OR at a reasonable hour, and getting a pretty good jump on the day. I entered California, amidst the gloom of numerous fires all around, on the Redwood Highway, US101, and headed down toward the redwood forests of Cali. I hit the ocean at Crescent City in the early afternoon, and I knew it was coming, because the temperature started dropping precipitously. Soon, I burst through the last bend in the road and the the surrounding trees, and beheld a vista that we all know on the east coast - that look of a road, or a group of buildings, where there is nothing but horizon beyond, and that means ocean.

I pulled into Crescent City, which resembeles, eerily, Ocean City or Dewey back home - a long, main drag parallel to the shore,a nd little tendril streets shooting off at ninety degrees. nd there, finally at the end of the street, was the seascape I traveled almost 4000 miles for:

I made it.

I stopped by the side of the turnaround to take a selfie, and relax  a little and enjoy the moment.  Immediately, crazy people were drawn to me. First, a man came up and asked if he could buy a cigarette. i told him I'd gladly give him one, if I had it, but I couldn't help him. He said that was okay, introduced himself as "Jimmy", and explained that he was there to check out the rocks (he had a stone the size of a good Idaho potato in his hand, and the "diseases inside them." I shook his proffered hand, and he went back to berated the world for existing. His hands looked like they had seen a lot of hard work, a lot of weather, and soap not too recently.

Then a gentleman who referred to me as "young man" (aw, bless!) came up and asked me what the previous man had wanted to talk to me about. I was then subjected to a half hour long True Crime story of how the first man ("Jimmy") must be responsible for the recent spate of break-ins in town, because otherwise, why would a sane man be carrying a rock around like that? Tamping down any conversational gambits involving pots and kettles, I made a mumbling apology of ignorance, and made to get on with my ride. I should note that man "two" seemed overly preoccupied with a large bottle of Arizona Tea he was carrying. The tea was suspiciously bright red.

I decided to take my leave before I became the latest installment in the weirdness of "Crime in Crescent City," and headed south. Soon 101 curved back in from the shore, and proceeded through even more majestic redwood forests than before. Seriously, no pictures can convey the majesty of these trees, but I took some any way:

Tricia always said "Look up."

Top of tree.

Bottom of tree

After while heading through the forest, the temperature having climbed quite high since our departure from the coast, I pulled into a fabulous souvenir stand / info point:

Add caption

Now, this is where everything fell apart a little: the young lady at the counter said I looked hot Realizing this was na observation, not an invitation, I said I was surprised at how hot it had gotten as we came inland. She said that i could get back to cool air easily; all I had to do was bear right at "One." It would take me back towards the coast and cooler air, and rejoin with 101 farther down.

Now, A) She did not explain that it would also add three-four hours to my journey, 

B) She did not explain that it was a road design specifically to tax the most avid of sport bikers,

C) My GPS had no signal.

Now, once you are on Rte 1, you can't really get off. It ranges from 65mph to 15mph, through a diabolical series of truns twists, hills, defilades, on and off camber banks and probably a few loop de loops, until you are not sure which way is up. It is definteily not designed to "get you there on time."

It is also hella fun. By the time the GPS had found a signal, the fasyetest way for me to get to where I was headed, Mel and Josh's in San Rafael, was to take CA20, which would take me from Fort Bragg straight back over ot he 101, where i would have free way ride straight into hteir waiting arms.

except: 

Everything I just said about Rte. 1 goes DOUBLE for CA20. Now Rte 1 is, I now remember, notorious. But CA20 should be on every motorcyclist's list of roads they have to ride before the day they die. 

Even odds are, it will be the day they ride CA20.

There are no photos, I don't think - there may be some video, but I think the G-forces were affecting the perfromance of the goPro. Suffice it to say that by the time I made it halfway back to  the 101, i had to pull out to let the feeling come back in my brake hand.

This is the Devil's Road.

Seriously: don't make me do it again... there is video, but it is incriminating.

However, I survived it, and made it to 101 again, turning south to rendezvous with my friends, keeping them updated on my progress and my apologies for getting sucked into the rush of the Cali mountain roads. I went whooshing into San Rafael shortly (a couple of hours...) after, and we hugged greetings, and went out to have late meal at a favorite restaurants of my hosts.

Wine country (for that's where, I realized, I was) is really pretty in the late sun.

 At this point, the "Pirsig" portion of the journey ends. Bonnie flew in this morning (Boy, are her arms tired...) and we are going to have a few days together before we both  head for home. Mel and Josh have real wi-fi, for which you can thank today's post, and I will try to make good use of it before eBonnie and I take off again. We are still forming our plan.

* I am going to take a tiny moment here for a feeling of accomplishment. I rode a sport bike across the whole country. Yay me!

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!

Monday, July16th. I think.

Okay, this was a day. Struck out from… Grangeville? Yes, Grangeville. The Gateway Inn was lovely, but also the place I had my first confrontation with someone who insisted on arguing with me. (When I say confrontation, I simply mean I wouldn’t agree with him that the thing destroying his city is "immigration." There was no actual conflict involved.) But he seemed like a nice enough guy - came up to me to ask, as so many have, if I was really from Maryland - and did I really get here on…”that?” We went through the whole panoply of sound bites, even made it to “what about her e-mails.” I am sure he’d have been wearing a MAGA hat, if he had thought of it. He seemed undaunted by my theatre background, but there was a noticeable smirk when I mentioned I was teaching at a college. 

Sigh. 

Still, we parted politely, and I went off to find breakfast, which was pretty much only available at one place. A similarly “red-faced” establishment, but one where the conversation focused mostly on planting patterns and fertilizer deliveries. Grangeville is a really small town, and everyone there was really nice to me, and they all seemed to know who I was by the time I left. 

This is what it looks like around Grangeville...

...and this is what it looks like ten minutes later. I'll never get used to the "landscape whiplash" but, I love it. (except for having to fight the impulse to pull over and take a picture every. single. minute

I came back to pack the bike and head out, hoping for once to beat check out (I did) and hit the road for the west again. The first part of the days journey was pleasant enough - Idaho turned from high prairie to canyons and switch backs surprisingly quickly, and I found my self running parallel with a river, as per usual - this time the Salmon. I stopped for lunch at an adorable little cafe along the route, in Riggins, which is a place I could see settling down, if they had wifi. I swear.

The Back Eddy Grill has deep-fried Bison steak fingers. OMG. 

Here I met Pete, Sarah, and their dog Pepper, who must have been sent to balance out the gentleman from the morning, because they were the sweetest couple, and they gave me some great local travel tips, and suggested a campground (that I ultimately decided against, in the interest of making my distance goal.) we circled around each other somewhat warily, until one of us, I honestly don’t remember who, said the shibboleth, and we realized that we were of like minds. We bemoaned the state of the world today, and they caught me up on recent events, which made me a little sad, but not surprised. They hailed from Boise, and I can honestly say they were as ringing an endorsement as a town could have. They were in the area to visit their grown daughter,  who had gone to undergrad in MD... so they had a nice word for the DelMarVa. I struck out from Riggins, hoping to make Mitchelll where I knew Marcus and John were heading, and made it up and out of the canyons, via some really nice riding, and crossed into Oregon (yay!) until…..

I noticed the sky not looking… quite as welcoming as it had been.

Nothing like being able to track the one hunting you...

The following photos are a record of my attempts (ultimately pretty successful) to dodge the scariest storm I have seen yet, (at least since the one I dodged in the Dakotas) and I got a little damp, but honestly, at the speeds I was traveling, and in the unbelievable winds that came with the storm front, the rain dried as fast as it fell. Everywhere around, however, was getting hammered. I still can’t quite believe I managed to thread the needle on this whole storm system. I actually ducked back into Idaho, having crossed once into Oregon, but ultimately followed my nose through side roads in Oregon, and found my way to US95 again.

I actually ran back into Idaho, briefly, running from the storm...

I don't have any really good pictures of the storm - and it would take video, because there were dust storms all around. It was strongest when I dived into a truck stop in Ontario, but we were all too busy holding down our belongings to worry about photographic evidence.

Blue sky ahead - In Which I Realize I Am Going To Pull This Off.

The weather after the storm was obligingly cooler, but I was running into a new issue - I had no cell signal at all, and had failed to get a paper map of Oregon. Also, it was much later than I had wanted it to be, since I spent  far too much time dodging the storm. Just as suddenly as the terrain had changed before, I found myself in an amazing one forest and realized that I was in the Wallowa - Whitman National Forest  park.

This picture just made me happy - I figured after dodging the storm, I had earned a rainbow of some sort.

I came across this site on my trip through the forest park. Also, my first sunset, really, on the whole trip...

Now if my Yellowstone experience taught me anything, it’s that there will be no gas in the park, and I had no idea how long it would be before I hit a town (a real town) again; I filled up at the truck stop in Ontario, when I was dodging the storm, but the tank was predictably getting lower and lower with no sign of a gas pump in the offing. Also - it was getting darker, and darker. Also: COLD. The temp had dropped from 100 in the shade to below 65 in what seems like no time, with the change in elevation and the vanishing sun. I held out hope when I saw the sign for Prairie City (hey, “city” is in the name, right?) but Prairie City turned out to be a ville that closed down at 6 pm., with one gas station, with one pump. A mechanical one.. (“after hours, call _______”) 

I called. No answer. I am a little frantic. I call again. The gas tank is down to its last bar (although it isn’t flashing yet) and I have one more hope - the town of John Day. WTF?!. Who is John Day? (and why do I care?) But right now, John Day has the potential to be my savior, or my nemesis….

The vista in John Day, as I wait to see if my card goes through on the gas pump.

I pull into John Day, and there is again, one gas station, which is closed, with one pump. BUT IT’S NOT MECHANICAL… I pray for the sign that does, actually, appear: “after hours, credit card only”.

Thank John Day.

Saved. John Day is my hero. I decide that I have had enough road, and enough excitement for one day. (A John Day. Get it?) I find a motel online, and book a room. It’s three blocks up the street. I’m so happy….until I get there, and there is no record of my reservation. I’ve never had this problem with Expedia, so I ask him to check again…. “what’s… your name?" I tell him. “yeah. You booked for tomorrow night.” I check. He’s right.

I am an idiot. 

The good-natured clerk not only back-charges my room from the 17th to the 16th, he gets me a ground floor room that I park my bike right next to. It’s 10 pm - nothing comes off the bike - I throw the cover over the luggage, and go inside the rom to, literally, crash. Even if I had been up to it, the clerk tells me that John Day closes at 10pm. 

Next up - waking in John Day, the breakfast of all breakfast, and John and Marcus’ route. Dinosaurs, canyons, and who is John Day, anyway???

This is unedited. Pics coming soon. Too much time riding, and not enough time editing and uploading. (wait - that can't be right. Can it?)

Between the Rockies and a Hard Place.

July 14, Saturday I think...

I woke up in Bozeman, and sat down to try and get another post up; the other "ZAMMers" as Marcus and John call themselves, left before me to go to the university where so much of the important action of ZTAOMM took place. It took them a while to find Montana hall but I sent them the picture from the ZMM Facebook page just as they had been directed to it by a librarian who apparently is a big fan of the book 

I packed up from the Bozeman Inn, which was a lovely place to stay, and headed for the University myself; even with the picture as reference it took me a little while to find Montana hall, and when I arrived I had a text from John telling me that the building was locked. So I went up and took a couple pictures and managed to take a halfway decent picture of the interior through the front door, and then headed off to look for someplace to have breakfast. 

The Church of Reason.

MSU is a lovely campus, blending the modern with early 20th C. in harmony with the surroundings. 

I found myself at "Joe’s Marketplace", which seemed appropriate, but it was in fact more of a market that a café. However, the proprietor was kind enough to direct me to the coffee shop in back, behind their parking lot. The International Coffee shop is as cool a college town coffeehouse as one could hope, for and I had a great cold brew and a delightful egg sandwich (they call it a Panini but I’m not really sure it was a Panini) and I sat and got some more pictures uploaded. All in all, I was trying not to make it too heavy a day, and decided that I would be satisfied if I made it as far as Butte,

The inside of the International Coffee shop was lovely, and cool even with all the doors open. Good coffee, too.

At the International Coffee shop I had the pleasure of meeting a young man named Pete, a student at MSU, who was working there during the summer to try and establish residency. Pete hails from Massachusetts, and on a whim I asked him what it was like to go to college in a red state when he came from such a blue one. That got us into an earnest conversation about the election of 2016: what went wrong, his part in it (he voted third-party - kids!) and whether he had learned his lesson or not...  Peter is also a motorcyclist and was fascinated by our journey across the states to emulate Robert Pirsig's journey of 50 years ago. He has read the book (!) and says it is already something of a bible to him and he’s very excited to read it again, some years after he read it the first time, and see what has changed for him. 

We exchanged email addresses and I hope to keep the dialogue going with him: this feels like the first really successful conversation I’ve been able to have with anyone since leaving Chicago . 

This was on the wall. It's a fair reminder that we have brought all our current troubles on ourselves.

There are some streets in Butte that I just didn't even dare try on the bike, slightly top-heavy as it is. I didn't realize it was called Butte because it was literally built on one...

Butte is a really neat community: an old copper mining town. They were having the Montana Folk Festival there, and there were no rooms to be had, and since the weather was so nice (hot, but very clear and dry) I decided to strike out for Missoula and got on the interstate right behind another motorcycle, a Beautiful Indian Road Chief or somesuch and we paced each other back-and-forth through he changes in terrain, until I arrived, in the evening, in Missoula, Montana. Now, I should point out that this puts me a full day (or two, depending on how you look at it) ahead of my itinerary. (although exactly on a pace with the itinerary the ZMM Quality folk have laid out in their map...)

This was the lovely rest stop on the way to Missoula; Montana takes their rest stops seriously.

The light began to fade on my way to Missoula - it happens really quickly when you are driving between two mountains.

It's really hard not to stop every 100 yards in Montana - it's that lovely.

I was feeling very accomplished as I pulled into town I pulled into the Sinclair gas station (I love that they have Sinclair gas stations here) only to discover I had received a text from Marcus (&John) telling me that Missoula was almost full; so I struck out to try and find lodging for the evening. I had actually been prepared to camp tonight but, as it turns out, arriving a day early was not the best thing in the world. 

Missoula has a marathon the following day, and every single room was completely booked up: even the KOA had no available spaces. After texting back-and-forth with Marcus (&John) I decided to try a Super 8 on the outskirts of town that had *appeared* as though it might have rooms (to them) as they had arrived a couple hours before me; the Super 8 was also completely booked, but the night clerk was kind enough to point me toward the Tamarack Inn. Now, the Tamarack Inn seems like a nice enough place (although overpriced, this weekend, like everything else) but their address in Google is actually nowhere near the motel. I found myself almost 20 miles to the south on Montana 93, and had to find my way back to Missoula. After a frantic phone call with the night clerk there, (fortunately I made a reservation while I was at the Super 8 because I honestly think I may have gotten the last motel room in town) I arrive at the Inn and settle in. I am glad I called to confirm I was on my way, because I heard the woes of another traveler whose room had been given away, because they said they would be there shortly, and then took over an hour to appear.

The weather across the distance from Bozeman to Missoula was beautiful and the terrain continue to surprise me: leaving Bozeman I found myself in plains again and although the vegetation was limited because of our altitude the terrain itself was relatively monotonous. We left the mountains of Bozeman behind us, and as I followed my "friend" on the Indian, I was surprised once again at how rapidly the terrain can change. Today was also the latest that I have found myself riding; it is in fact the first day that I’ve actually found myself riding at night, and because the bugs are worst at dusk I found myself having to stop and clean my visor just to be able to see. 

The visor is also the first mechanical failure I have had since striking out; the left side hinge mechanism of my visor seems to be failing, and I think I may need to have one set expressed out . Although, while I was lost, looking for the motel, I did happen to see a Honda and Yamaha dealer south on Montana 93 - so perhaps tomorrow I’ll be able to get a new visor. It is almost midnight and I am completely exhausted from the days exertions; so, I’m going to sign off now and finish this post in the morning. I don’t think I’ve said this yet, but I want to express my genuine gratitude to everyone who is bothering to read these little posts. Parts of each day are difficult and it helps to know that there are people thinking about/love me back home, when I have to surmount the difficult parts. So thank you, and I hope everyone is well and rested and enjoying the summer....

Sunday 7/15

Out of Missoula to the Blackfoot at the bridge. 



Then back through Missoula to head for Grangeville. US12 is a great drive; changes personalities completely at the Lolo Pass.

My impressions of riding US12 from Montana into Idaho at the Lolo Pass:

Montana: you’ll never top the Beartooth Highway

Idaho: hold my beer

Longer version:

US12 in Montana:

I know it’s distracting, all this natural beauty - but if you stay safe and concentrate, we’ll keep the roads well marked and provide lots of scenic pullovers.

US12 in Idaho:

F**K YOU.

F**K YOUR SUSPENSION

TRY NOT TO FALL OFF, B**CH!!

Because seriously, what had been a super clean, pretty fast (70mph) scenic country road, switched on an angry bitch-face at the Idaho line and turned into 90 miles of the “corkscrew” from Laguna Seca that hadn’t been maintained since the Truman administration, and whose idea of a "safety pulloff" was "a loose pile of gravel perched on what appeared to be the treetops below" and that didn’t appear to actually be lined  in any way

Until, of course, you get to the bottom of the valley: if you survive the descent, *then* you can have a beautiful, newly paved asphalt with fresh, bright lines. 

Except, she (Idaho) heard that crack about the Truman administration, so f*** you, she thinks, I’ll just maintain it today, shall I!? I’ll maintain thirty ducking miles if it, because you don’t mind riding your sport bike through alternating hot tar  and loose gravel, do you? DO YOU!?

There are no pictures from this portion of the ride, and certainly no video. They would be terrifying. And incriminating. But, it was really fun.

And now, it's check out time in Grangeville, on to ... somewhere else today. Almost certainly, somewhere in Oregon. There are lots more pictures to this section, but I am at checkout time, and things are STILL uploading. BECAUSE WIFI IN THE WEST IS A LIE.

More soon. (I hope.)