Day 13: All Good Things…

Seaside FL to HOME
Rode 325 miles. Filed by B-B-B-Barca & the Bug

Made it! We left Sun-up at Seaside, or something like that, and, not willing to quit the ride and race across I-10 for home, took the scenic route through Apalachicola, where a sweet Venezuelan lady prepared us a tasty breakfast, which we enjoyed out in the crisp–well, OK, damp–morning air.

Route 98 from Apalachicola to Panacea (what a great name!) provided one of the trip's prettiest rides, spanning a long causeway and miles of a beautiful two-lane strip right along the water's edge. Then we turned south onto the Boot and drove like bandits to get home, arriving to a huge welcome at Pastor Blue's home at 1:15 pm, almost exactly thirteen days and some 4,650 miles (your odometer may vary) after pulling out from California Harley Davidson in Harbor City, California.

So here's thanks to LL, Dennis, Oil Can Al, and Dyna Dave for getting us on our way;
To Gene and Claudette Norton for opening their gorgeous new Bend, Oregon home to us;
To Dr. Ron and Kim Charity for their hospitality in Colorado Springs, Colorado;
To Dr. Terry Law, Scot and Kathy Law, and General Georges Sada for not being ashamed to be seen with us for lunch;
To Wayne Rivers, for giving us an E-ticket tour of Grace Fellowship, in Tulsa, Oklahoma;
To Drs. Jason and Amanda Thackery, for treating us like kings;
To the incredible Mrs. Bug for saving us at least an hour a day and several sleepless nights by finding the perfect accommodations for us every day;
To all our wives for doing double duty with the kids while we were gone.

While I'm at it, here's to:
Apostle Blue, who made the trip possible;
Barcalounger, for making it comprehensible, and for doing Windows HD as well as he does XP;
The Bull, for making it a real vacation, in scruffy, effortless style;
The Bug, for simply making it! I rode a cruiser, after all.

And thanks be to God, Who made the Pacific Coast, Crater Lake, Bend's weather, the high desert, Yellowstone, the Grand Tetons, Pronghorn aplenty, the people of Kansas (both of whom stayed indoors), the Ozarks, wherever they were, the Florida shore, and home.

"Now to him who is able to do far more abundantly than all that we ask or think, according to the power at work within us, to him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus throughout all generations, forever and ever. Amen."

Day 12: The True Men Show

Hattiesburg MS to Seaside FL
Rode 240 miles, Filed by the Bug

What can you say about southern Mississippi's US Route 98 into Alabama? No, really what can you say? Because if you've got something, you're welcome to describe this day without having been there. And…you'll get it right! Let's see. It was straight, hot, with several Wal-Mart Supercenters. And did we mention straight and hot?

We stopped and took a picture of the "welcome to Florida" sign on the highway, and then quickened our pace considerably, due, I'm sure, to the twin facts that we were nearing our finish line and–more important–nearing home. Blue actually said he was glad to feel the Florida humidity! Can you spell "heatstroke"?

Actually the ride was relatively short, and the fun began once we had arrived at our destination, Drs. Jason and Amanda Thackery's "future" beachside condo, just east of the dollhouse town of Seaside. Jason describes it as future beachside, because it's a block from the current shoreline of that hurricane magnet known as the Florida panhandle.

The Thackerys were wonderful hosts for the evening, and they deserve huge thanks for their generosity in allowing three hogs and a schwien to wallow in their holiday spot. We enjoyed a wonderful seafood dinner together, during which Jason and Pastor Blue swapped fishing stories and tales about Pastor Ron, and then retired back to our comfortable digs for the night. Having run out of friends with condominiums, we decided we should motor on home to Gainesville the next morning at daybreak.

Day 11: We’re Not in Kansas Anymore

Rode 521 miles, Posted by the Bug

Today was supposed to have been a 325-mile ride to Vicksburg, Mississippi, but our early start (to beat the heat) got us there by lunchtime, so we stopped for a quick salad, only to discover that the four of us had become three. Turns out Blue got separated in the traffic, and wound up stopping in a different place.

We managed to reunite at a Wal-Mart Supercenter just east and a little south of Jackson, MS. (Hey, don’t laugh! It’s clean, got air-conditioning, food, sunscreen, magazines. A person could live in there!) Since we were now on the road to Hattiesburg, we decided to make it our destination. Once again the lovely Mrs. Bug came through and found us a brand, spanking new hotel (Courtyard), and we are ensconced in luxury. Actually the Bug is ensconced (with pizza); the others are somewhere having supper.

The Harley atlas prescribed today’s “scenic” route, but, to be honest, there ain’t nothin’ scenic about eastern Arkansas, nor the particular corner of Louisiana we cut through, nor—sorry Pastor Ron—U.S. Route 49 through Mississippi. We did pass a couple of sizable lakes (although they might have been mirages), with good ole bayou style to ‘em, right down to those half-sunken trees that hide gators in their shade. That’s when it hit me that we had transitioned from the Midwest to the Southeast: we’re looking for gators instead of deer. Bull hit the, er…Robb’s eye when he noted that day before yesterday we were in Colorado and now we’re in Mississippi.

It’s fitting that we’re spending tomorrow night in Seaside, Florida, where Jim Carrey’s “Truman Show” was filmed. Fitting because the last 3 days seem surreal: We’ve gone more than 1,300 miles on two wheels over three days in temps averaging from 105-109 degrees during the day. Maybe Ed Harris is somewhere overhead, fooling us into thinking we’re in Hattiesburg. Maybe we’re really still in Kansas. Oh, Auntie Em!

Day 10: Ramblings from the Road

Rode 320 miles, Posted by Dennis

I spent a little time this morning scouting south Wichita for a Starbucks and a place to wash the bugs off my hog. The front of my bike had become a virtual morgue for countless insects that met their end colliding with 900 pounds of Harley. I found a carwash and five bucks in quarters later my bike was clean. By the time I got back to the hotel the rest of the crew was ready to hit the road – or at least Starbucks.

We headed out of town around 8:30, hoping to beat the heat as we headed southeast to Tulsa. (You can tell you’re in Oklahoma by the constant tolls.) I-35 in Oklahoma looks amazingly like I-75 in north Florida sans the billboards. Guess they don’t allow them. By 10:00 am the temperature had already risen to near 100 degrees.

We had plans to meet Terry Law, Bug’s spiritual mentor, for lunch at noon. Behind schedule and with 100 miles to go, we sped towards Tulsa, while the mercury kept rising.

When a man is on the open road in 100 plus degree temperatures, his mind tends to wander and his “off” sense of humor goes even further off than usual. If you know me, you also know I find humor in most everything – or at least I try. We rolled into a toll plaza and there was a si gn that read “The Best Toll Collectors in the World Cross Here,” and I visualised a Successories Turnpike Edition catalog, where toll booth supervisors can buy motivational signs for their employees. Then, we rode past a sign that read “Cushing Oklahoma,” and I clucked to myself as I inflated one of the bladders on my seat to make it more comfortable – Barcalounger reigns!

Arriving in Tulsa after 175 miles of grueling heat, we met Terry Law, as well as General Georges Sada, former commander of the Iraqi air force, for lunch. The subsequent conversation was surreal, alternating between questions about our trip and discussions of the fate of Iraq and the Middle East. General Sada just returned from Iraq 3 days ago, having met with the Prime Minster and Cabinet, whom he still serves as Assistant National Security Advisor. (Jim says the guy could be president if he wanted. He’s one of the most trusted men in the country.)

After lunch we decided to take a break before pressing on to Fort Smith. Again, we found refuge in a movie theater where we saw Jackie Chan and Chris Tucker in “Rush Hour 3.” Let me save you $9 by saying it was basically the same movie as Rush Hour 1 and 2. Personally, I didn’t really feel there were any unanswered questions in the first installment that warranted a sequel, let alone two, but I’m no Hollywood producer. But the stunts were great and Jackie Chan and Chris Tucker play well off of each other.

We hit the road around 6 pm as the temperature hovered around 103. By the time we crossed into Arkansas my wristwatch thermometer read “only” 99. It’s amazing how cool a frying pan can feel when you’ve just come out of the fire.

Day 9 – Colorado Springs to Wichita, KS

Rode 489 miles, Posted by Bug

Somewhere in Colorado or Kansas there’s a town called Helenback, because we kept going there all day long today. We left Dr. Charity’s home at 7 am Mountain Time to beat the heat as much as possible, but by 11 am the temp was hitting three digits, and we were guzzling Gatorade, water, and even iced coffee by the gallon. When we finally pulled into Dodge City for lunch at 2 pm, every bank sign we saw said 107.

Any other time of the year, we’d have wanted to walk out behind Applebee’s to the Boot Hill cemetery to see where some famous varmints are buried. But today we felt too much like people shopping for plots, so we skipped that particular treat.

During lunch at Montana Mike’s, Apostle Blue suggested taking the entire afternoon off, and no one quarreled with the wisdom of his words. The only question was: Where could we truly relax in air-conditioned surroundings for four more hours? The movies at a small local mall provided a wonderful solution, so we bought tickets and entered a cool, dark chamber marked #3, prepared for a sweet, cheap snooze. But Jason Bourne, who was having a lot rougher ride than our own, kept us awake and suitably diverted until it was time to saddle up again.

It was still 107 when we headed back out onto Highway 400 towards Wichita at 6:30 pm. Fifty miles east of Dodge City we came to Greensburg, Kansas, which, until this past May, was unknown to the world. That’s when a tornado barreled right through the middle of that isolated little hamlet, killing nine people and destroying virtually the entire town. Our waitress, Sam, had told us what to expect, but the scene was still startling. The swath of destruction was probably half a mile wide, and looked like a battle scene from Iraq. Piles of lumber and debris were everywhere, and all the trees had been beheaded. Those that remained were, like the town, struggling back to life.

When we finally arrived at the Best Western Governor’s Inn tonight at 9, the air was still 93 degrees warm. But we’ve got loud window units and soft pillows, and we are three quarters of the way home.

Day 8 –Boulder to Colorado Springs

Rode 180 miles, Posted by Bug

Today’s initial 84 miles were mostly urban. The other 96 started with a ride through the Garden of the Gods, after dropping off our luggage at Ron and Kim Charity’s home, and ended at the foot of Pike’s Peak. GOTG is a series of golden, rocky outcrops that dot the desert between Colorado Springs and Manitou Springs, laced with a narrow, winding road (slightly wider than a golf cart path) for motorists, cyclists, and hikers. The Garden road ends where the gorgeous little town of Manitou Springs begins. Previously a plain little watering hole at the foot of Pike’s Peak, the town is now an attraction in its own right, at once rustic and frou frou, like a pretty girl in hiking garb.

We started to drive part of the way up Pike’s Peak, but Blue decided to take us on a harrowing tour of an ugly little hillside neighborhood full of gravel and hairpin turns, not a good combination for motorcycles. Navigating it was no problem for Blue, Bull, and Barca, but the Bug aged 15 years before we got back down to the main road.

To top it off, Blue got too far ahead of the other three of us, and wound up alone, whereupon he just headed back to town. Bull and Barca paid $4 to drive part of the way up Pike’s Peak, while the Bug drove back to town to find a drink holder that would fit his handlebars (got it). It’s been 100 degrees here, and the altitude, while they say its 6,000 feet closer to Heaven, feels like the outskirts of H-E-double hockey sticks.

Tomorrow we head into Kansas, breadbasket of America and several other nations. With the current heat wave, I expect toast.

Day 7 - Pinedale, WY to Boulder, CO

Rode 480 miles, Posted by Bug

Yesterday was perfect, but today…well, it wasn’t yesterday. A synopsis: Chill for 90 minutes, slowly warm for one hour, then bake for two hours; rinse thoroughly and blow dry on high for 20 minutes.

The longer version: We left Pinedale in the morning chill at 8 am today and headed south past some grazing pronghorn antelope towards Rock Springs and Interstate 80, doing the initial 95 miles in about 80 minutes.

Next up: Laramie for lunch and Cheyenne for a break at the Harley dealership. The Harley Davidson Company really prides itself on friendly dealers, so we were taken aback at the surly attitude displayed by the Cheyenne salesmen. PG—I mean Blue—started to sit on a 2008 red and white Screamin’ Eagle, only to be told that before he could sit on the bike he had to sign a contract to buy it. Then, if he didn’t want to make the purchase, they could tear up the paperwork. We were “gone in 60 seconds.”

Interstate 80 East surrendered to Interstate 25 South, and before long we were in Colorado, heading straight towards a massive thunderstorm. In reality, it probably wasn’t any bigger than the ones we get in Florida, but in Colorado, an expansive panorama of 20-30 miles in every direction lets you see whole storms when they hit. And to our west, we could see the huge curtains of rain falling from a beautiful, but intimidating thunderhead.

For a few minutes it appeared that we were going to skirt along the dry eastern edge of the storm, but then big raindrops began to pop-pop-pop on our helmets and windscreens. One thing I found out: Raindrops hurt when they hit your fingers at a Category-One 70 mph. Second, the winds that precede the rain are brutal, especially when they suddenly hit you from the side. In fact, one cold gust—I’m guessing it was at least 50 mph—hit us hard enough to blow us into the other lane.

Within moments we exited and parked under a bridge long enough to don our rain gear, then pulled back onto the highway just in time for the sun to come out. Now fully rubberized, we baked for several more minutes until we were sure no more rain was coming, then exited again to take the rain suits back off.

We finally hit Boulder a little before 5 pm and checked into the Hampton Inn Dolly had booked for us. (She’s saving us at least an hour of hotel hunting every day. Go Mrs. Bug!) Then we were off to supper with Pastors Erich and Leigh Hardy, of the Rock of Frontrange. I’m glad they didn’t call it the Rock of Boulder, which would have been as redundant as “Chai Tea” (chai means tea).

So, there you have Day 7, without pictures because there was nothing to photograph, except wind, which frankly refused to hold still and pose for us. Tomorrow we’ll be 2nd Day Adventists, with a one-hour hop down to Colorado Springs, and lots of time to be lazy.

Day 6: The Perfect Ride

Rode 320 miles, Posted by the Bug

First things first: I’ve renamed Robb from Darth to Bull, since his black bike's flared nostrils give it the look of an angry cartoon bull. So now we are the Killer B’s: Blue, Bull, Barca, and the Bug. (Check yesterday’s post if you need to identify who’s who.)

Blue led the way out of Idaho Falls this morning—in the wrong direction at first, but at least he did it with authority. After that little two-mile detour, however, everything went right, resulting in the perfect ride.

The 110-mile hop to West Yellowstone took a mere 90 minutes, and by the time we queued up at the entrance to Yellowstone National Park, the temperature had risen more than twenty degrees. We stripped off our leathers, coated ourselves with sun block, paid the $20 motorcycle entry fee (good for seven days sir!), and headed into Yogi Bear’s living room. Alas, we saw neither Yogi nor Boo Boo, glimpsed very few elk, but did at least come upon a “herd” of five bison, who conveniently chose to graze by the road, giving us great photos. (Remember to click up there to the left to see our gallery, now 600 pics and growing.)

After five days of Pacific coastline, Redwood groves, and Oregon high desert, I thought we were maxed out on magnificence, but Yellowstone and the Grand Tetons sent our gasp meters to new levels. First came the geyser fields, including Old Faithful, which erupted right on time at 1:59 pm. We snapped a dozen pictures and by 2:01 were on our bikes, ahead of the exiting crowd. Then, for the next two hours, we saw everything from raging rapids to emerald green meadows to stark gray gorges. I can see why the pass is good for a week.

As we left Yellowstone and headed south to the Grand Tetons, we crossed the Continental Divide (where bathtub drains start swirling in the opposite direction), and glimpsed thick, billowing clouds on the horizon. Rounding a bend above a river, we saw their source: There was a huge forest fire about ten miles to the east, and overhead there were tanker planes—we had seem them taking off from Idaho Falls yesterday—dumping water on the flames. I don’t know how this fire compares with the others that have received so much attention lately, but it was massive beyond description.

The Tetons weren’t snowcapped like I had expected them to be, but they were stunning nonetheless. Dennis called them “God’s Cathedral,” an apt description, since they’re shaped a bit like natural steeples. One peak in particular caught my eye, because it is so sharp, and leans a little to the left, like the mountain in Jim Carrey’s Grinch movie. Its jagged, pointy spire is the range’s natural logo.

Next stop was Jackson Hole, Wyoming, which several folks had called a must-see. We had supper at the Cadillac Grille, in the middle of a pretty resort town that obviously still has plenty of room to grow. Then we were off for our final 77 miles to Pinedale, Wyoming, and our home for the night, the lovely, rustic Amerihost Inn.

After a slice of pie at the Wrangler Café (where they had run out of nearly everything else) we headed back to the inn and settled down on lounge chairs out by the parking lot to watch the beginning of this year’s Perseids meteorite shower. It’ll actually peak sometime tomorrow night, and we’ll be outside in Boulder for the big show, but at least this evening we saw a few streaks of fire in the heavens. Take a good look tomorrow night and think of us. We’ll be halfway home.

Day 5 - Are we there yet?

Rode: 605 miles
By Jim

Yes, 605 miles, on two wheels, in a single day. It’s a record for PG, Dennis, and me, but not for Robb, who’s done more than 700 in a day. The young Robb cuts a dashing figure on his new Road Glide, which is usually dialed in at about 80 on cruise control. The bike is black, its twin headlamps housed in huge nostrils reminiscent of a bull on some old Popeye cartoon. The look is definitely Lord Vader, so I’ve decided to call him Robb “Darth” from now on.

PG is now George “Electraglide in Blue” Brantley—and if you remember that movie, you’re OLD. Then there’s Dennis “Barcalounger” Suppe, who has inflatable bladders in his seat that are more valuable than the one in my body. And me? I’m definitely Herbie, whose BMW cruiser is a no-cruise-control Love Bug, trying desperately to keep up with the big boys.

Oh, you’re waiting for a description of the ride? Well, we rode, gassed up, rode, gassed up, got lunch, rode, gassed up…you get the picture. Let’s just say that when I saw the sign to “Butte” Montana, I wondered who had added the “e.”

Day 4 - Around to Bend

Rode: 290 miles
By Jim

Leaving Crescent City also meant saying goodbye to the Pacific Ocean and California’s magnificent coastal highway. The PCH is one of the world’s engineering marvels, not only because someone actually succeeded in building it, but also because they built it without marring the Golden State’s legendary beauty. Nonetheless, PG and the rest of us had had our fill—at least temporarily—of twists and turns and the smell of fish. (P.J. O’Rourke says fish is the only thing that, when it goes bad, smells like what it is.) We were off, through the Redwoods (and a few more twisties) to Bend, Oregon, Donald Trump’s 3rd investment choice after New York City and Chicago.

California Highway 99 can’t compete with the PCH, but it’s still a great way to get to Oregon. We took Grant’s advice and passed on Grant’s Pass, heading instead to Crater Lake, a 1938-foot deep puncture in what remains of the summit of Mount Mazama, which blew its lid—according to the information signs—about 1,700 years before God created the earth!

The lake is six miles across and bluer than Wedgwood, and its ashen walls, a thousand feet high, have the look of a colossal display case. Giving “Mother Nature” the credit for such a divine masterpiece would be sacrilege. Only Father could do work this good.

The ride down Mazama’s north slope, and then eastward through the high desert, is utterly phenomenal. The gently winding road ahead is often visible for miles, a long silver ribbon strewn over fields of brown and gold. By the time we reach Highway 97, the straight shot that leads to Bend, our cameras are full and our souls are glutted.

It’s going to be hard coming down to earth, but then, there’s laundry to do.

Day 3 - Gualala to Cresent City, CA

By Jim

Day 3 started with hot scones and lattes in Gualala—a nice warm-up before pointing our bikes into the cold mist of the northern California coast. There were more twisties, of course, hundreds of ‘em, but with more variety than yesterday. First we ran up and down the coast several times—from sea level to maybe a thousand feet up and back—then inland some 30 miles through elevated ranch country, before coasting and braking our way back down to the ocean.

At mid-morning the road spiraled inward and upward, up, up, into the mighty redwood groves. The temps went up, up as well, and soon we were shedding leathers for t-shirts and lighter gloves, as we sped inland towards the site of California’s famous Chandelier Tree, aka the “drive-thru” tree. Nearly 300 feet tall and at least ten feet wide at the base, the old giant was already 400 years old when Jesus walked the earth.

We paused for the requisite pics—PG standing in the tunnel, pretending to hold up the tree; me posing for a photo in the same spot where I stood for one 38 years ago—and then headed up the nearby Highway 101, straight into another grove. No road crew on earth can clear trees this big, so the asphalt simply snakes between the red giants. Riding through it produces a certain Stuart Little effect that renders big old Harleys nothing more than a little boy’s toys.

After lunch in Garberville (look it up) we spent the rest of the day alternating between 70-mph highways and two-lane mountain slaloms, including one through elk country. We saw a couple of bucks on the side of the road that made our Florida deer look like antlered puppies.

The day finally ended back on the ocean shore at Crescent City, where we slept hard at the beautiful Lighthouse Inn. After supper we walked the nearby piers, chatting with local fishermen, and watching the seals at play, while an orange sun sank into the silver Pacific. It was like getting God’s autograph.

Day 2: Monterey to Gualala

Planned: 291 miles; Rode 234 miles
By Jim

The morning started with a “guy” breakfast at Denny's, followed by a quick fix at Starbucks. Actually I skipped the coffee, because I’d found a BMW dealer just 15 miles to the north, where I got my battery replaced in an hour. PG, Dennis, and Robb pulled in right on time, and we finally started up Highway 101 towards San Francisco at around 10:30 am. We spent the next 90 minutes or so riding past crops and cattle, before the aroma of fertilizer gave way to fish smells, as we made Highway 1 and the coast a few miles south of Santa Cruz.

Traffic congested predictably as we neared San Francisco, and suddenly the crimson towers of the Golden Gate Bridge were peeking through the clouds that hung low over the bay ahead. “No toll northbound” flashed large yellow digits as we sped up the entrance ramp and onto the world’s most famous bridge, where pedestrians seemed as numerous as cars. A minute later we were over land again, and after taking a sharp right on a too-short ramp, we pulled into an even more crowded lookout point. The bridge stood tall and red on our right while Alcatraz lay low and gray to the left, and for a moment Tony Bennett and Dirty Harry duked it out in my mind.

A few camera clicks later we were back in traffic, fleeing the scene as fast as we could, past Sausalito and into ten miles of the curviest roads any of us had ever seen. Forty-five minutes later we stopped for lunch at Stinson Beach, which is best described as Northern Exposure by the Sea. We lunched more quickly than either our stomachs or the pretty little town deserved, but the Big Sur episode had taught us to appreciate the sun while we had it.

Bodega Bay, Point Reyes, Sea Ranch—one beachside Northern Exposure rerun after another greeted us, along with Spanish tourists, French teenagers, and the occasional giant rock covered with barking sea lions. Meanwhile, a sporadic cell phone signal gave me one bar just often enough to update Dolly on our progress, so she could stay a step ahead of us in checking out hotel rooms. (It’s high season, and by five o’clock the “no vacancy” signs start lighting up.)
Home for the night turned out to be the Gualala Country Inn, just down the street from Bones Barbecue, in beautiful downtown Gualala. We had missed our target mileage by 57 miles, but knew better than to do more twisties in the dark. Besides, how often do you get to stay in a town that sounds like a message in tongues?

Day 1: LA to Monterey

Rode: 383 miles
By Dennis

If Jim's posts are the main course then mine are cheese whiz on a Ritz cracker. But at least I can beat him in a programming contest. After pulling out of California Harley at 11 am, we slogged our way through 30 miles of LA traffic--think Archer Road rush hour times 10--northward past (actually underneath) the airport, finally joining the Pacific Coast Highway at the Santa Monica pier. The PCH is an interesting road, especially in Southern California. One minute you're in an urban area that could just as easily be Boca Raton, and then over the next hill you're gazing at wide beaches on the left and jagged cliffs on the right.

After about 100 miles we stopped in a place called Paradise Cove to have some lunch. Looking at the map, I realized it was already after 1 pm and we still had nearly 300 miles to go. Lunch bought, we drove north toward Monterey into an array of fantastic curves. Every biker will tell you he loves the curves, but the problem is they slow you down. I know all you sport bike guys are laughing, but these are not your typical curves. Here if you miss the turn, you'll end up either in the side of a cliff or off the side of one. Additionally, motorists (people on four wheels) tend to go slow on these roads. So you end up stuck behind someone who is either too scared or too busy sightseeing to go faster. Either way, it's slow going.

The sun was fading fast at 8 pm when we arrived at a small inn called Ragged Edge, so named because it literally hangs on the edge of the Pacific coastline. It's about 55 miles south of Big Sur and 80 miles from Monterey. Jim said he had just seen a whale spouting before we turned in, but we all blew our tops when the gas turned out to be $4.50 a gallon! The attendant assured us we would be able to get to Big Sur by dark (he was either lying, deluded, or had never left the property). The other option was to backtrack 25 miles to San Simeon, so we decided to press on anyway. If you've been on the road to Hana in Maui, you'll have an idea of what the next two hours were like. The word "winding" doesn't come close. For the next 120 minutes, most of it in darkness, we wound along a narrow shelf carved into America's left hip. Often there were no guard rails and a 500 foot drop straight down into Neptune's bosom. (Thanks Jim for the "hip" and "bosom" line.) Adding to the drama, rocks ranging from the size of marbles to tennis balls often littered the narrow lane.

When we finally made Big Sur, there were no hotel rooms to be had. With little choice we pressed on to Monterey, where Dolly (Jim's miracle-working wife) had called ahead and secured us a couple of rooms at the Comfort Inn. After 383 miles, the place was worthy of its name.

Day 0: In the Beginning

By Jim

If a man's motorcycle is his baby, then shipping one crosscountry is like sending your child away, unaccompanied, on an airplane, to Grandma's house. You don't rest until you know it's landed where you intended, safe and sound. Delays drive you crazy.

Well, until about noon on Sunday, we could have retitled this blog "Four Crazy Men." "The motorcycles may arrive as early as Monday or Tuesday," came the early word. But Tuesday came and went, and we heard nothing more. "Your bikes will be there on Friday evening," said the shipper when we called on Wednesday. But as week faded into weekend, they still hadn't arrived. "They'll be there on Saturday morning at the latest," a voice from Milwaukee reassured Robb. But when I stopped by California Harley (the dealer in Harbor City, California that agreed to receive them for us) after landing in L.A. on Saturday afternoon, they still weren't there.

At least "Grandma" turned out to be nice. Our contacts at the Harley dealer are some of the friendliest folks I've ever met in the business world. First there was "LL," a salesman who turned out to be the nephew of one of my closest friends from--get this--Estonia! He hugged me and bought me a T-shirt before I had even caught my breath. Then LL introduced me to Dyna Dave, his manager, an urban cowboy who could probably sell his-n-hers towels to the Pope if he wanted to.

When the bikes finally arrived on Sunday at about noon, the service garage was closed, so Dave rolled them straight into his showroom, and parked them in his roped off "Sold" section. I stopped by again later that afternoon, on my way back into L.A. from my morning service down in San Diego County, just to thank Dave, and--of course--to check on my Bimmer.

It's strange to see a BMW cruiser sitting in a Harley showroom. The other guys' hogs were hulking next to it. They looked like burly American body guards watching over my little German sissy (a sissy with a small bladder as it turns out, compared to the Harley gas tanks).
California Harley Davidson opened at 10 on Monday morning, and by 10:30, LL, Dyna Dave, and a legend named Oilcan Al had moved our bikes out onto the lot, given us free t-shirts and a multi-tool, and we were ready to roll. We posed for a picture, and then cranked up the engines to begin our 4,500-mile adventure home. Or at least the Harleys cranked up. My little German just sat there with a dead battery. I felt like a stranded tourist from Stuttgart, sitting in a general store full of rednecks.
But Bubba and Co. were kind enough to give little Hans a push start, and once my bike revved. We hit the road. Eleven hours later--frozen to the gills and dizzy from riding Big Sur in the dark--we landed in Monterey. But that's another story.