Epitaphs.

I really haven't given a lot of thought to how this ends.

There have been too many moments when it seemed it might not happen, or at least, that I might not complete it. I have tried to downplay the difficulties, but there have been real moments of doubt, and even some of fear. The sheer physical demands of the riding alone were quite taxing, and I thought of packing it in more than once, even though the rewards around each turn were so inspiring. I owe a lot to many, and an overwhelming debt to some. For those following along, I hope it's been fun, or at least, I hope it has been occasionally amusing. There will be many more photos to come, and the video, I think - has finally started to trickle onto the Interwebz, despite the shortcomings of the West ;-)

As for myself, I will be unpacking this for a long time. There have been three events, now, in this stage of my "adult" life (which I measure from the time when my mom passed in 1996 - that seems, to me, at least, to be the real beginning of the current stage of my "adulthood") that have shaped the person I am today.

You've seen this one before - I used to attend the Pennsic War on a motorcycle..

The first is my first Pennsic War*, in 2007. I recaptured, there, a part of myself that got put to sleep somewhere between Mom's first recovery and her passing, when I had become a little too tame and a little too sad. Pennsic, and the circles it reopened for me, reminded me of the wildling within me, (what Jerry Whiddon once called the "vagabond gypsy savage" in me...) and brought a part of me back to life. That it "coincided" with my rediscovery of my love of motorcycles is less, I'm sure, coincidence than Purpose.

The main lodge room at the Land Celebration in Gore, Va.,
where the Inner Journey holds its "intensives."

The second is my discovery (or, at least, actual pursuit) of a spiritual life within the Inner Journey DC* community, which finally gave me an outlet for the communal searching I used to pursue through my now-long-lapsed Catholicism.

The Inner Journey gave me a path to follow that could bend itself to my experience and bend me to its teachings without requiring me to surrender any of the essential parts of me.






And then, there is this. For the last half decade, I have felt a little confined, again, and a little "less." I needed a jump start. To reconnect with people and land (two things that both Pennsic and the Inner Journey have in common - a community bound to a place) on a grander scale than I have allowed myself for a while. I am very, very lucky, in my communities and in my ability to say "screw it" and take off for a few days, but I needed a kick in the existential pants, and this has certainly been it. I don't know what the eventual impact will be on my life, path, and habits, but I am sure that things are changing.

It has been my experience that the best journeys climax, not when we want them to, but when they wish, or are ready. When I arrived at Mel and Josh Corbin's, I felt that the essential journey of the "Pirsig" re-enactment was complete. Bonnie would come out, we would relax a little, see some sights, perhaps, and then, when she was on her way home, I would resume the trek, but with the sole and more compact goal of simply getting home in one piece and on time, and then on to a real relaxation at the beach.

Mel and Josh out at dinner with me and Bonnie. 

Petey is such a good dog. We all went for a walk around the nearest portion of the bay. He suffered so many indignities while we were M&J's guests...

 But books, it turns out, get new pages all the time.

I have read ZATAOMM, I believe, 5 times, now, counting this iteration, when I half read and half listened to the excellent audio narration by Michael Kramer. But I have only, prior to now, read the original edition, both in hardback and paperback. When I decided (Sunday night, I think) that I had to read the last chapter, it was almost perfunctory, but I simply couldn't remember where  Pirsig and his son, Chris, were when the book actually ended...

But it all came rushing back: the (from a literary POV, anyway) somewhat rushed denouement of Chris and the author finding a common ground from which to look ahead, Pirsig's revelation that he had been blocking C's view the whole time, and Pirsig's final assertion that everything was going to be okay:

"Trials never end, of course. unhappiness and misfortune are bound to occur as long as people live, but there is a feeling now. that was not there before... It's going to get better now. You can sort of tell these things."

This is the memory I have of the book, a final taste in my "reader's mouth" of comfort and satisfaction. I realize, reading these words, that this is the first time I have read the book since my brother Jamie passed away in 2010, and I take some solace from Pirsig's quiet comfort. I hope that the feeling I have had at the end of this book is a harbinger of a change in my attitudes and hopes moving forward, and maybe, just maybe, a signof hope for those of us who lament the burning of our world.

And then, with a flourish, I "swipe left" to turn the page, as a gesture of completion....

"Afterword."

There has never been an "afterword" before. But, of course, I should have expected this - I read the whole "foreword," written as an adjunct to the 25th Anniversary publication of the book. And if I had paid attention, I would, of course, have realized that the foreword - and therefore the afterword, were written after... well.

First, there is a discussion of what it has been like to embrace and simultaneously flee from the fame that accompanied the success of the book; then some anecdotes about its unlikely embrace by a generation, the concept of a "culture bearing" book... and then, as I knew it must...

So, for those who don't know the story, haven't read the follow-up "sequel", Lila, or are not aware of the goings-on in the life of one of the more famous recluse authors since Salinger: well, I should let Pirsig tell it:

“The receding Ancient Greek perspective of the past ten years has a very dark side: Chris is dead.
He was murdered. At about 8:00 P.M. on Saturday, November 17, 1979, in San Francisco, he left the Zen Center, where he was a student, to visit a friend’s house a block away on Haight Street.”

Robert M. Pirsig. “Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.” 

And I really haven't thought about this, as I have been coming across the country, in part to carry something of Tricia with me. But the stark similarity hits home, now, because I realize I am about to read what Pirsig said and thought after that tragedy struck his life and that of his ex-wife, and I am immediately reminded of how hesitant I was to accept Hank and Sue McCauley's lovely invitation, and am afraid to read what follows. And the random nature of Christopher's death seems an eerie precursor, in this context. This is, I think, an unwelcome and unlooked for parallel, and I don't want to play any more.

But, if there is hope for those of good heart in the tumult of our times, it is that the resilience of the human spirit, on balance, seems bottomless. In the face of such a random, heartless occurrence, the author finds a way to salvage not just his life, but our experience. After some rumination on the nature of identity, a brief autobiography of grief, and the shocks that bore it, there comes a surprising story about how he came to be a father again, and a reaffirmation of the principles that the original text espoused. And Pirsig, a father agin, this time of a daughter named Nell, reexamines the end of the book as it was first printed:

"“So I guess you could say, in this primitive way of looking at things, that Chris got his airplane ticket after all. This time he’s a little girl named Nell and our life is back in perspective again. The hole in the pattern is being mended. A thousand memories of Chris will always be at hand, of course, but not a destructive clinging to some material entity that can never be here again.

“What is seen now so much more clearly is that although the names keep changing and the bodies keep changing, the larger pattern that holds us all together goes on and on. In terms of this larger pattern the lines at the end of this book still stand. We have won it. Things are better now. You can sort of tell these things.”
Excerpt From: Robert M. Pirsig. “Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.” iBooks. https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/zen-and-the-art-of-motorcycle-maintenance/id360625670?mt=11

"The hole in the pattern is being mended."

These are such important words. There is no part of the universe that is not rent by catastrophe: whether it is the immense fury of a star being born, or a singularity collapsing, the myriad wildfires in Oregon ignited in a night by lighting strikes, or the seemingly irreparable loss of a loved one. Nature makes holes. Nature fills them, Our part is to bend to the job of filling in the holes where we can. I don't pretend to know how we came to where we are as a society, or a people, or a nation, but it is clear that there are numerous holes in the pattern that need filling. All we can do is pick up a shovel, or a trowel, or our hands, and start filling. Hank and Sue McCauley know this. Mel and Josh Corbin know this. Most of the people I have met on this long strange trek know this. And I think all my dear loves at home know this:

"Look Up."
"Love Love Love."
"Plant more Plants."
"Love People, Cook them Tasty Food"

Oh - this has been happening, too:

The reverse contains a picture of Tricia and  QR code that links to the site for the fund established in her name to raise funding for health insurance for performing artists. In each pot where I left one (I usually asked, but sometimes I just left it), I planted a few seeds. I hope something grows. If anybody would like one of the tags, let me know.

The SF Zen Center. Bonnie and I went today, (Tuesday, 7/24.) just to pay some modicum of respect. It's lovely, zen, and is a first class place outside of which to get a parking ticket. (street cleaning signs were completely obscured - I'm fighting this one...)

San Francisco, in general, is a blast, and I have had a great time discovering it, a little, with Bonnie.

Next up - the "all San Francisco, all the time, photo post."

*If anyone is interested in learning more about either of these things, they are both easily Googled, but I will be happy to talk personally about them, as well.

Revised Itinerary...

So, I thought, now that I am safely ensconced with Mel and Josh in San Rafael, we'd see how things have gone according to plan, so far... (actually, this is finally getting published on Monday the 23rd - we said goodbye to them yesterday...)

6/29 Leave for beach (Rehoboth) Check!!!

     Stay in the Sand Castle Motel.

7/1 Leave for West: Arrive Breezewood, PA

     Stay in the Budget Inn by the Turnpike. Check!!!

7/2 Arrive Maumee OH

     Find and stay in the Motel 6 - find Tariq, and pick up the conversation. Check, although the young man named, in my head, Tariq, was no longer workking there. But, I dropped the bike, so i got ot meet EVERYBODY!

7/3 Stop at UND - go to Grotto. Arrive Chicago,

     Spend July 4th with Elspeth and Chris.  Okay - so I missed Notre Dame. I wa sbummed at the time, but , eh.

7/5 Leave for Madison , See Carol and Don, stay night in Madison? 2:20, 143 miles. Call Randy in Red Lodge. Done! (still didn't call Randy!)

7/6 Leave for Minneapolis, 4:15, 273 miles. Did I call Randy in Red Lodge? Done! (but: NO!)

7/7 Spare Day. Call Randy. Saw ALL of Minneapolis! Had a great time with Jo Ann...

7/8 Leave for Ellendale, ND Phone contact Randy Tracey. 325 miles, 5:11 Went to Aberdeen SD, instead, to dodge storm system... Still haven't called Randy.

7/9 Leave for Bowman ND Getting closer, call Randy. 348 miles, 5:48  Actually stayed in Hettinger, because it was the only place I could find lodging.

7/10 Leave for Laurel MT Call Randy in Red Lodge before it's too late. 271 miles, 4:07 Actually, went from 

7/11 Spare Day - Yellowstone

7/12 Leave for Gardiner MT  242 miles 4:56

7/13 Leave for Bozeman 78.4 miles, 1:22

     Spend the night in Bozeman, tour Bozeman on the 14th

7/14 Spare Day in Bozeman

7/15 Leave for Butte/Anaconda 109 miles, 1:43

7/16 Leave for Missoula, Lolo, and Grangeville ID 272 miles, 5:05

7/17 Leave for Baker City, OR 221 miles, 4:00

7/18 Leave for Bend, OR 231 miles, 4:31 Actually, stayed in Redmond, with the McCauleys, but went through bend to see the world's last Blockbuster

7/19 Leave for Crescent City, CA 272 miles, 5:40  YUP!

7/20 Leave for San Rafael, arrive San Rafael, CA 290 miles, 6:34 DONE! YAY!!!

7/21 Bonnie arrives SFO   YAAAAAAAYYYYY!!!!! (we spent the night with Mel and Josh - THANKS, Mel and Josh!!!!!

Return leg:

7/22-23 Spend night in San Francisco, 7/22, we spent at the Beck's Motor Lodge, by The Castro. Spendy, but worth it, and a a good distance from the Mission, and downtwon, etc. Went to the Ramp for brunch on the 22nd with Bonnie's good friend Barbara, who lives out here. Great fun. And I can finally heck "meet the legendary Barbara" off my list.

7/23-24 Go to Tahoe 7/23, spend night in Tahoe. 7/23, we're actually staying in the Europa Hotel downtown in Little Italy. Beck's couldn't let us keep our room, and this is right in the middle of the fun. Bonnie may not forgive me. Tomorrow night, she (and probably I) will stay in a Motel 6 by the airport in Oakland, because she flies out at O-Dark-thirty on Wednesday... which means:

7/26 Leave for Salt Lake City, with a fall back of Wendover UT... This will actually happen on the 25th. Since we didn't go to Tahoe, I will almost certainly stop short in Wendover, UT.

Spend 7/27... in Salt Lake City. This will now be the 26th. And I will decide if I am going to do the IBA challenge (officially the Saddlesore 1000) or not. If not, then a more relaxed ride back across I80 and I 70 is in order.

7/26 Leave for Des Moines IA, ????????? Will he or won't he?!

(THIS WILL BE AN IRON BUTT RUN, IF ALL GOES ACCORDING TO PLAN. MORE ABOUT THAT LATER)

7/28 Leave for Peoria,

7/29 Leave for Indianapolis

7/30 Leave for Cooper’s Lake Campground.

DRINK, SLEEP IT OFF. ARRIVE ST. MARY’S COLLEGE 8/2... or 3. I'm not in a hurry any more.

Google Map of Pirsig's Ride

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?)