Strangers with Candy

Kenneth was clearly not a young man, but likely appeared much older than his actual age. Among other things, the wear of fifty years of hard work and equally hard motorcycle riding had worked over his visage. His face was a cartoon -- all exaggerated gray squiggles and krinkles, framed by even more erratic gray hair. To me he appeared an angel, coming as he was to rescue my motorcycle.

The bike had not been running happy since the previous day's snowstorm, and when I checked the oil, it appeared to be gone. My new friend Niles was there to help. He didn't know much more than me about motorcycles, but he did have a book. Together, we concluded that my spark plugs were fouled, indicating that the motorcycle was burning oil. Bad news. Deciding it would be damaging for the bike, in its current condition, to move on, I wished Niles safe travels and settled down to figure out how I might get my bike moving again on Easter Sunday. The thought of spending another day stuck in the small town of Moriarty was more than a little depressing.

I called BAM, a motorcycle network of bikers helping bikers. Thank you, Dad, for discovering this in your diligent research! HIGHLY recommended. The kind woman who answered the phone called around to network members, and within minutes I received a call from Kenneth, who said he was 15 miles away and he'd be there as soon as he could. He ignored my pleas to stay and enjoy his Easter breakfast, and showed up in no time.

"I had to see who this girl was, riding her Honda across the country," he said when he arrived. Kenneth was not a mechanic, but he was a Harley rider of 50 years. We hit it off, and I had learned about his drag racing daughter, his numerous motorcycle accidents, and much more by the time he finished looking things over.

Kenneth was very much a Quixotic figure -- gallant, kind and wonderful, but in the end not terribly helpful. I think that the many motorcycle accidents he'd had (one in which he said his head swelled like a balloon) might have mixed and tumbled some facts together in his mind. Some of the information he gave me was accurate and good; other tidbits were based in fact but jumbled around in very unhelpful ways.

I didn't know that at the time.

He poured two and a half quarts of oil in the tank (way too much, as it turns out), as well as some other stuff I later learned doesn't much belong in bikes. He looked it over and ascertained that Niles and I were wrong -- the spark plugs were not fouled after all. In fact, the bike looked pretty good. When we said farewell, the disappearing oil was still a mystery.

Unwilling to ride the bike far with the unsolved oil problem, I drove it just another forty miles down Route 66 and spent the night in Albuquerque, where I took the bike to a dealer in the morning.

At the dealer's I learned that it was fairly natural for the bike to burn through as much oil as it had, given the weather and terrain. The bike needed an oil change, mostly because of Kenneth's overzealousness in filling the tank with any number of lubricants and performance enhancers. Other than that, it appeared ready to take on the coming mountains.

And finally, on a beautiful Monday, at around 11 am, the bike and I were ready to ride again!

The point of this story, though, is not my trip's delay, or the rather boring day that I spent in Albuquerque. It is the kindness of Kenneth, who took a chunk out of his Easter Sunday to help a stranger, and who called me later on just to make sure everything had turned out okay. I am almost glad that I had the trouble I did with the motorcycle, so that I could have the interaction I did with Kenneth. This sounds sappy perhaps, but it makes a person feel better about all of humanity when a stranger shows you that much kindness.

And the most overwhelming thing is, it has happened several more times in the last two days.

Stranded in Albuquerque, and a little depressed at yet another hangup, I hit up the Owl Cafe for some comfort food. The atmosphere in this Route 66 institution was comforting in itself. There was a six-tiered pie display, two old men and a chihuaha who seemed to be a permanent installation in the place, and the kindest waitress I've met. If it were me, I would have been in a surly frame of mind, having to work Easter. But she was wearing bunny ears and a giant smile, and she showed me so much friendliness that we hugged at the end of my meal.

So often, the chance for strangers to be kind arises when something goes wrong, or at least not according to plan. An opportunity arises there for an interaction that would likely never have happened when things were going right. Something went wrong, or rather, I goofed royally, yesterday evening. I am hesitant to even tell this part of the story, as you will undoubtedly question my intelligence, let alone my ability to function independently, after reading it. But without recounting my stupidity, there is no way I can describe the kindness of Craig. So here goes:

After leaving the Honda dealer in Albuquerque, I knew I had to make big tracks in order to utilize the one beautiful day that existed in the near future. It was sunny and windless, so I decided to ride about 400 miles to Cameron, a trading post located halfway through the Navajo reservation in Arizona. This would put me about 250 miles from my penultimate destination of Cedar City. There, if I could beat out the encroaching thunderstorms and snow, I'd be able to rest up for a week with John.

So make tracks we did! The bike was feeling good, and we cruised down the interstate past landscape so beautiful it was almost painful not to stop and better drink it in.
Vast prairie, crimson mesas, unreal boulders, gaping canyons. The drama and sheer variety of the landscape was breathtaking.

In no time, we arrived in Flagstaff, only 50 miles from Cameron. Happily, I pulled in to a gas station to fill up, thinking I might try to go an extra 70 miles or so. Humming, I put the nozzle in the tank and started filling up....with DIESEL. Horrified, I yanked the green pump out of the tank. I was first seized by a strong desire to ram my head against something repeatedly. This was quickly replaced with a feeling of extreme consternation. It was past five o'clock, and I had no idea what I needed to do, aside from somehow draining the deisel from the tank. Would I need to take peices apart and clean them? Was the bike already ruined? What exactly does diesel do to a motor, I wondered? In my mind, any number of unhappy possibilities swirled. It would not have been too surprising if the tank had started disintegrating before my eyes.

I tried BAM again, but this time they coudn't find anyone to help. "Ok," I though. "Phone book." I got a phone book from the gas station attendant, and started calling through the motorcycle shops. Honda shop: closed. Flagstaff Speed Sports: closed. And so on. Until I found Northern Motorsports, and Craig answered.

I explained my dilemma, undoubtedly sounding like an unstable idiot. He listened patiently and said he'd be over in a few minutes. We sat together for about an hour as he drained all the diesel from my tank and assured me that the motorcycle would be okay. Craig was a young Navajo man, about my age. He'd been working on motorcycles for about three years, and had a maturity that seemed beyond his years. When his boss called, likely wondering why he wasn't in the shop, Craig brushed him off with humor and shook his head over the folly of everyone he worked with.

"They're all much older than me, but none of them have grown up," he said."Sometimes I think I'm the most mature one there."

Finally, we'd drained the diesel, flushed the tank, and cranked the engine to hear a normal, happy noise. It must have been past time for him to go home. Craig refused to take any money. I wanted to cry. It was too much kindess to bear, and I definitely didn't deserve it after my great act of stupidity.

"Can't I give you something - maybe dinner?"I asked. Craig smiled and offered me his fist, for a friendly fist bump. I gave it to him, along with the sincerest thank you I could muster. It felt sadly inadequate.

The rest of the ride into Cameron was eventless and beautiful. I was thinking of Craig, and how I might pass on the kindness he'd shown me.

The last stranger appeared today, near Cedar City, with candy. I got up at 4 am this morning in order to beat the forecast wind, rain and thunder. It worked. A beautiful, winding road took the bike and me around the solitary northern edge of the Grand Canyon, through the brilliant colors of the Vermillion Cliffs.
Then, in a rush, over the historic Navajo Bridge crossing the Colorado River, then up, up to the majestic views of Jacob's Lake. And down again, into the vast, wild Arizona strip, and through the multi-colored, mesa-filled land of southwestern Utah. Before I knew it, I was at a gas station only forty miles from Cedar City.

I was humming again as I gassed up, this time after obsessively checking to confirm the pump was not deisel. A jeep pulled up, happy red writing covering its sides. "Kris Kringle," it said. "North Pole toys and cheer." (or something to this effect.) Out came a man with long, white hair, a great big belly, and red overalls.

We headed into the gas station at the same time.

"Hi Santa," I said. "Beautiful day, isn't it?"

"Sure is," he replied with a Santa-esque smile. "If it were any more beautiful, I'd want to just go home and sleep."

When I returned to my bike, a candy cane and purple coin were resting on the gas tank. The coin read, "You were caught being good."


It seems almost silly now to relate how happy this made me. I felt a ridiculous desire to yell that line from Miracle on 34th Street: "He IS Santa, he is!"
Or something like that.

How wonderful is a person who travels around with candy canes and lucky coins, just to lift up other peoples' days? When its just as easy to be surly and charge extra for a smile, as did the gas station attendant a few stops back? I flew into Cedar City on that good vibe, and am now sitting in a coffee shop while the weather I outrode comes down outside.

Big red mountains rise through the mist, John will be off work soon, and I have reached a major destination. But better than all of that - what makes this trip worthwhile - are the people I've met, and the overwhelming accumulation of their kindness.

Learning Curve

"To a crazy ship all winds are contrary." - George Herbert

Once again, I am behind on the blog, due to a variety of circumstances. There is much to catch up on, and most of it is pretty interesting, so hang in there. I will try to be entertaining!

Admittedly I do not know its original context, but the quote above perfectly sums up what I have learned in these past days. But I'll get back to that later. Let's start where we last were, in San Angelo Texas, anticipating big wind.

My trusty steed and I fought that wind, and the wind won. Expecting gusts of about 35 miles an hour, I broke camp in the dark to avoid the highest winds. The morning started out beautiful, but just over an hour into the trip the weather began to worsen. The landscape evolved into long, flat expanses of scrub, framed by low-slung plateaus. Perfect for winds to howl across.

The multitude of white, swirling turbines indicated just how blustery this area is inclined to be, and eventually I slowed to 40 miles an hour to avoid being blown off the road. Those bright turbines framed against the stark landscape might have appeared beautiful from a car, perhaps like oversized daisies spinning in the wind. But to me, on my bike, they appeared as windmills of doom, and I'm afraid that's how they'll always remain.

Finally, I arrived in Big Spring, tired from steering my bike against what had become 55 mph winds. By that time, the gusts had picked up seemingly every particle of red dust in Big Spring and suspended it in the air, so that, descending into town, it appeared the valley was thick with wildfire.

It was when I was accelerating through a dust-filled intersection that a big, bad gust wooshed down, picked up my bike and me, and carried us over a concrete median. I was in the process of steering the bike into a parking lot on the other side of the road when another gust knocked us over. Worrisome people and parents, do not freak out! A friendly scooter rider helped me pick up the bike, which has been doing fine. (Yes, I just knocked on wood.) Me, save for a small bruise, I'm no worse for the tumble. I did lose a treasured leather glove in the spill, and so I am now feeling somewhat like Cinderella minus a slipper.

After the spill, and with winds increasing, I did not consider continuing. I found a functional Motel 6 that smelled like stale armpits and prepared to make the best of the day I was about to spend in Big Spring.

" So, what is there to do in Big Spring?" I optimistically asked the girl behind the counter.

"Well," she replied, "There's really not anything to do in Big Spring."

"We're just getting around to fixing it up now,"said her boyfriend, who was working on a broken TV.

Just the kind of thing I might have said to a guest who visited my kitchen after I hadn't done the dishes in a couple days, and wasn't really planning on getting around to them any time soon, either. I asked if there had been a devastating fire, or perhaps a storm.

"No, its just gotten kind of run down over the years."

Big Spring, on which I could now write an extensive entry for any travel book interested, is an old hub town for the Texas and Pacific Railway. The train still runs through, but obviously not with the lustre it once had. It now feels like an oversized ghost town, with a massive, old hotel standing empty, amid dozens of other empty storefronts. Apparently some people are trying to restore what could be a picturesque downtown, but it seems the corrupt powers-that-be do not have their eye more on casinos and resorts:









I spent the afternoon visiting the Big Spring Heritage Museum, which was home to massive collections of old dolls and phonographs, as well as the world's longest set of Texas Longhorns.
I also found a new hero: Patricia McCormick. In the 1950's, while in college for art, she crossed over the border to Mexico and became the first female bullfighter. And she was GOOD. She fought for about ten years, survived several gorings, and now lives quietly as an artist Del Rio, Texas.

The day also included a stop to Big John's barbeque joint, for which I had high hopes, given my positive history with anything of that name. The food was just decent, but the atmosphere was good:


The day ended with a long hike to the edge of town, where I visited the Big Spring for which the town was named. Apparently an old Comanche warpath watering hole, it is now lined with big homes and a state highway, and had not retained much of its original charm. From there, I hiked up the mountain, or plateau, at the edge of town, where Big Springs State Park was located. Roadrunners crossed my path, looking even crazier than they do in the cartoons. From the top of the mountain, I looked at everywhere I'd been that day, and the long road I'd been blown down. In the distance, windmills of doom were spinning, spinning.

By this point, I'd been subject to enough wind, sun and cold that I was beginning to look a little like Clint Eastwood, or at least I'd like to think so. Here is my best steely-eyed glare:










The next day dawned beautiful; perfect. The wind was at my back all through a chilly ride into Roswell, New Mexico. I diner-hopped all morning to stay warm, and was full of caffeine by the time I arrived in the alien capitol of the world. I spent the afternoon planning the next few days of my trip and visiting the UFO Museum and Research Center.



It was a very serious museum, full of documents like newspaper clippings, first person accounts of the UFO crashes, and any government documents the Center could obtain. There was a conspicuous lack of physical evidence, yet by the end of the tour I found myself with a slithgly uneasy feeling, buying into some of the "Trust no one" vibe that was almost palpable in the place.



Camped that night outside of town at Bottomless Lakes State Park. It consists of a chain of large, deep springs on the edge of the Chihuahan desert. Mesas lined the horizon, and neat critters roamed the scrub. Apparently, there is a rare Pecos Sunflower growing there, but it was not blooming. Unfortunately, my camera gave out in Roswell (finally giving in to the soaking it received on the first day of the trip), so I have no pictures of this beautiful park or the next day's travels. I pitched my tent near the edge of the lake in a cluster of trees, where it weathered a windy, rainy night. The campground had a festive atmosphere, full of mostly latino families camping there for Easter Weekend. Everyone is friendly and curious when they see I am riding a motorcycle across the country, and so I met lots of interesting people before drawing some pictures of the lake and going to bed.



Now we are up to yesterday, Saturday, which proved eventful. As most eventful days do, it started out inconspicuously enough. Weather was warm and sunny heading back into Roswell, but forecasts called for things to turn colder and rainier as I headed north, toward Albuquerque. The idea was to go about as far as Bluewater Lake State Park, lining me up nicely to cross the Navajo Reservation the next day. I started out on 280 North from Roswell, which was the loneliest stretch of highway I've ridden yet. 95 miles without a gas station, a solitary town, a house, or hardly even a cow. 95 miles of grass, and fences, some strange shrub, and clouds. The clouds fell in long, dark lines across the highway, and in between them lay stretches of golden sunshine where I could anticipate warmth. Such a vast, empty place lends itself to meditation; my mind rolled over the landscape with the bike.


280 finally reached Vaughan, a town where even the little kids were wearing cowboy chaps. I gassed up, and looked with some trepidation at the sunless stretch of dark sky ahead. A glance at the map revealed that the town of Clines Corner was about 50 miles ahead, at the intersection of I-40, and would surely provide shelter if needed.

About 15 miles out of Vaughan, the rain started. Ten miles after that, it got harder to see, and I realized the rain had turned to snow. Snow that fell heavier the farther I drove, until the desert all around me was white with it. At this point, wiping the snow from my visor, I began to laugh.

Over the past few days, I'd felt a growing sense of frustration with the weather. I felt I'd been wasting several hours a day, planning my routes to correspond with the elements, which ended up noncompliant anyway. 'Shouldn't I be sightseeing, relaxing, drinking in the countryside and not freaking out about logistics?' I found myself thinking bitterly. And this is where we return to the Herbert quote: "To a crazy ship all winds are contrary."

Riding through the snowstorm, I realized that I was a crazy ship. I had embarked on a trip to cover this great, wide country on a little, two wheeled vehicle, and somehow I'd been expecting it to be a pleasure trip. Sight seeing, friendly encounters, golden highways and open skies were all that I could envision awaiting me. I was indeed a crazy ship to forget that weather existed, or to think that it would somehow not affect me as I traveled at sixty miles an hour in the open air.

In truth, one is much more subject to the weather on a motorcycle than on foot, where the wind and the cold and even motion are at a human, graspable level. Once one is elevated on a bike, things change.

So I came to realize, as I drove carefully and with great determination for Clines Corner, that this was not a joy ride I was on, but more an expedition. And with this thought everything fell into perspective. It was okay to be uncomfortable, and sometimes a little scared. That is what one feels on an expedition, because one is pushing one's limits in the hope of achieving something greater. Suddenly, it made sense to spend hours planning for routes and weather: that is what one does on an expedition. Suddenly, the weather became ab essential element; the pivot on which the whole voyage turned.

Winds are no more contrary than a canyon or a mountain or a wall, it is just when we run into them, expecting them to change or bend to accomodate our plans, that they seem so.

And in this frame of mind, I arrived in Clines Corner. The snow was slushing on the road, and boy was I ready to be off the highway. Clines Corner was just that - a four way intersection with a Travel Center gas station in the corner. No hotel in sight. I walked in, unconsciously slewing accumulated slush onto the floor, and learned that the nearest motel was 22 miles down the interstate.

Crap.

The weather did not look like it was remotely near improving. In fact, it might continue through the night. The thought of riding through that snow down the interstate was the least appealing thing imaginable. I must have looked a little concerned, because two kind waitresses sat me down and gave me a cup of coffee while they helped me think over my situation. Possibilities ran through my mind... get a tow into town?It looked like they were going to close down the station if the weather kept up, but maybe they'd let me sleep on a booth inside? I had an unhappy vision of my tent, pitched behind the gas station, several inches deep in snow. I came very close to getting a hitch from two grizzled truckers headed opposite the way I was going. Ultimately, though, they came off as a little too grizzled to feel safe, and going sixty miles out of my way seemed like a bad idea.

So finally, the snow let up. I took the window of opportunity, had a harrowing ride down the interstate, and wound up safe and warm in a Motel 8 in the town of Moriarty, about 40 miles east of Albuquerque.

I steeped for a long, long time in a bath, feeling a like a turkey defrosting, down to the bone.

I made a friend, a guy named Niles who was relocating from Virginia to Utah on his 500 cc motorcycle. We played a little harmonica and cigar box guitar (which he made himself), shared the philosophy we'd both been working over on our long bike rides, and hit up the local honky tonk, where people were two-stepping to a live band. I won my first game of poker. One of the best parts of traveling is meeting kindred spirits, and I certainly feel like I did that with Niles.

Now it is Sunday morning -- Easter! The weather looks like it will be better than yesterday but not perfect, so I'm going to let things warm up and then see how far I can get. In the spirit of my new expedition, I have closely watched the weather and analyzed every possible route. I am open to whatever the weather has in store, and I am ready for the open road!

Wind and West Texas

This blog will be short, as I have about twenty minutes before Starbucks (there was no other internet option) closes. Also, I'm going to make it an early morning because a weather check revealed that the wind could be blowing as hard as 35 miles an hour tomorrow afternoon. Today it was blowing around twenty, and I didn't like it.
It becomes exhausting after a while, correcting for gusts trying to push the motorcycle off the road. Plus, it turns out, wind can dehydrate a person pretty fast.
I arrived at San Angelo State Park today hot, and thirsty. I felt a little delirious trying to set up my tent while the wind tried to turn it into a kite.
But enough complaining - it was a gorgeous ride out of Austin, through Texas hill country.
Weeee! It really felt like the road trip was in full swing as me and the bike zoomed and curved around the hillsides, covered in purple flowers and scrub. The towns were all funky and quaint, and most of them had rivers flowing low over big boulders.
Things got hotter, drier, flatter and emptier the farther west I rode. And did I mention, windier?
The state park I'm camped at for the night is not beautiful, but stark and vast. My campsite seems to be no smaller than three acres, and comes with its own pavilion. Everything is bigger in Texas, right?

Austin with John was great. The city has an edgy, outdoorsy feel and I enjoyed strolling around the University of Texas and other quirky streets for most of the day.


I hit up the Texas History Museum. It felt like I'd just walked in on a giant party that Texas was throwing for itself. Everything was larger than life, and sometimes neon. The section on Texan/Indian relations mostly centered on missionary work. Here is one Comanche pictogram of a missionary. It reminds me of doodles I would have done of a dictatorial grade school teacher:

A highlight was watching the documentary, "Barbeque: A Texas Love Story." This was followed up, eventually, by a visit to Ruby's, an Austin barbeque institution. I had brisket, and it was delicous. Maybe the highlight of the night was watching around a million bats fly out from under a downtown. Apparently this is one of the major tourist attractions in Austin, and I think that is pretty cool in itself. The bats came out right at dusk and swooshed in formation, like flying monkeys, up and around Austin's sky scrapers. They kept coming, for at least twenty minutes, until we moved on in search of food. What would a trip to Austin be without hearing some music? The tunes at the Hole in the Wall first came from a soulful cowboy with a guitar, which came close to satisfying my honky tonk jones. Another band followed, whose bizarre sound I cannot begin to justify with any adjectives currently floating around in my head. But there was a one-eyed woman dressed like a pirate playing accordian, and a man who looked like an auto mechanic on stand up bass, and a meniacal banjo player who sang zombie love songs. Maybe not a traditional Texas music experience, but memorable all the same! My time is out here. It is on to Roswell tomorrow, if the wind does not blow the bike back towards Austin. If you are worried about potential encounters with Aliens, never fear: I have already been warned. Plus, I have been honing my alien self-defense skills in the evenings. And thanks to Billy, I have a tazer. All this combined should keep all but the most persistent extraterrestrials at bay.

Westward!

So, blogging an account of a road trip is proving to be more difficult than I had expected. It seems like the kind of thing a person should be able to produce in no time, just slap up some photos and comments on the day and be on your way. But then you remember that people will (hopefully) be reading the thing, and you want to make it sound at least a little profound. 

Then, of course, there is the fact that on a road trip, one is most inclined to be 

actively roadtripping - that is, soaking in the peculiarities of whatever place one finds oneself - as opposed to holing up inside an internet cafe, getting jittery on coffee, and saturated with  accoustic guitar music while trying to think of a way to sum up one's travels. 

This is all an attempt to excuse the fact that I am an entire week behind on my blog, when really I should be writing. So here goes: 

I am in Austin, staying with my college friend

 John. It

 is great to see him in this very cool town, and I excited to get some quality barbeque, watch bats fly out from under a bridge, and maybe hit up some honkey tonks later tonight.  It is satisfying to think that fourteen hundred miles are behind me, along with four states. So far, the motorcycle is cruising trustily along, and just got a clean bill of health fro

m a bike shop in Austin. I can't help but be a little smug when I think of the Harley guys I met in Jensen Beach, Florida. 

"You'll burn that thing up," they said when they learned of my plans. 

Then there was the motorcycle guy my Dad consulted, who said there was absolutely "no way" a Honda of its size and age could make it across the country. 

I know you are probably thinking I'm jinxing myself by typing these things, but I having been knocking on a LOT of wood throughout this trip, I am fully aware and appreciative of my luck, and I've got a keen eye out for trouble. 

'But Jamie, cut to the chase!' You are saying. 'What have you actually been DOING on this trip?' you are wondering. 

There is a lot to relate from the past several days, so in attempt to cover the highlights without boring you away from the computer, I am going to write under 100 words ab

out each of the states I've been in so far. 

Florida: 

Too busy with bad weather, catching up with friends, and making parents feel safe about my roadtrip to process leaving my friends, job and home. 

MAJOR learning curve: lost tent poles, forgot rain jacket, saddle bags burnt by exhaust. 

Scary IHOP. 

Falling Waters: last state park. COOl waterfall

On the road: parents make great pit crew at stops -- fresh water, pep talks, 

bike security guards.

Alabama: 

Spent night with parents other side of Mobile. 

Dinner: ate crawfish at restaurant located in marshes in the middle of the causeway leading to Mobile.

Mobile: first tunnel experience (see picture: Time Warp!!)

Flowering azaleas, canopied streets, great old south feel. 

Left early Saturday, bound for Mississippi!

Befriended Harley rider with Chihuaha (named Harley) tucked

into jacket. 

Mississippi

Town of Beaumont: gas station is hub of town. Store owners, Candice and her husband, had lots of questions about the trip and great suggestions for nearby towns. "God bless you and we hope you enjoy your stay here in Beaumont," they said as we headed out. Gas station was also advertising a crawfish pie meal for $3.50. Asked for it and got a blank stare - they'd been out of crawfish pie for a month, apparently. Settled for the chicken, for which a long line formed at noon, when the fresh fried stuff came out. 

Well on my way to gaining 5o pounds, which my Dad thinks is a good thing for my safety. He would also like to see me spike my hair, wear a nose ring, and start going by the name of Butch. 

Natchez: on the Mississippi! Great town! Beautiful trees. Blues a

nd Biscuits restaurant for dinner: just what the name suggests. 

A sad 'so long' to the best parents in the world in the morning. 

Louisiana

Crossed Mississippi on old iron bridge out of Natchez -- felt epic crossing that waterway. 

Lost my map while attempting to read and drive (another lesson learned.) Did the whole state without one, in just a few hours. 

Scary, windy overpasses, with refuge at Big John's gas station. (Back story: A samaritan named Big John rescued my back pack in Florida. Anything called Big John will hencecorth be associated with good will and luck)

Texas

I'm a fan! First hour in Texas was most scenic part of trip yet. Ochre, crimson, violet and translucent pink wildflowers dance along the roadsides. Wrought iron bridges span cypress filled lakes. Everything is BIG.

Camped at Livingston State Park, with solitary site on edge of lake. 

Cold, windy day of riding on Monday the 6th. Another lesson learned: wind is exhausting. 

Drove through College Station, home of George Bush Library. So tempting to stop, but somehow I resisted the urge. 

Stopped in Dime Box, TX, the site of a running joke between me and my Dad. "Won't find it in Dime Box," he'd say anytime I tried to decline something he was trying to convince me to pack. Rearranged travel plans to go there; WORTH IT! 3o minute conversation with hardware store owner, almost convinced to buy store for $120,000. Left without knowing why town is named Dime Box, or getting story about oversized dime in box.

In Austin for another night. 

Upcoming attractions. West Texas! Camping outside of Roswell! Aliens! 

As John told me last night, "You are about to leave a place where people are." 

Stay tuned...

Jamie

Leaving Florida

The journey begins, but not at rocket speed. It took four days to get out of Florida.


I left Port Saint Lucie on Tuesday March 30, after shipping the four boxes containing all belongings that didn't fit on the motorcycle. My surrogate Grandpa, Henry, and my good friend Tessa, sent me on my way. Just as we were all on the verge of getting sad, standing there in the driveway, we broke into a motorcycle-ized rendition of "I'm leaving, on a jet plane." I eased my leg around the luggage strapped to the bike, turned the ignition, and was bound for California, first stop Tallahassee.

I left Port Saint Lucie, my home for over two years, with a little sadness, much excitement, and almost no sleep. I soon discovered that, thanks to this sleepless state combined with natural flakiness, I left more than a piece of my heart in Port Saint Lucie - such as my tent poles, and my rain jacket.

With a new haircut, styling leather pants, and a geared up, if scrappy, bike, I felt ready to roll when I hit the road at 10:30. There was a long way to go - about 400 miles down back roads - but it was an adventure, and a new start, and I was feeling invincible.

There's not much to relate of the first 9 hours of the trip - except that those back roads took longer than expected. The trip was full of familiar sites, things to wave goodbye to - road signs I'd laughed at on previous trips, places visited with friends, favorite state parks, the sprawling Kissimmee river, the little town where my mom grew up. So often, I was was tempted to stop, but time was increasingly not on my side. I reached what was supposed to be my halfway point at 4 pm, and already the sky was growing ominously grey with rain clouds.

Apparently, Tallahassee was in the center of an encroaching weather system. Rain, thunder, wind and floods were imminent. The weather was only predicted to steadily worsen over the next couple days. It felt important to make it to Tallahassee before being stranded. So I pushed it, as I suppose I had been for the past week, partying and packing and trying to wrap up all the work and relationships accumulated over two years.

That I had pushed myself a little too far became evident when I reached for my rain jacket and instead found two pairs of pants. So with precipitation increasing and thunder rumbling, I fashioned myself a rain jacket out of a kitchen trash bag and continued.

I finally arrived in Tallahassee, feeling stupid, very wet, and a little more mortal than I have before. The trash bag hadn't protected my phone and camera too well, and they went on strike for a couple days, but seem to be back in good working order now.

I've learned some valuable lessons, such as:

riding in torrential rain is really never a good idea, but especially not when you lack rain gear

no matter how busy or tired you are, double and triple check for important things like tent poles

400 miles is maybe too far to travel on a little motorcycle in one day

Having good friends at the end of such a journey makes everything worth it!

The Weinsteins have been as dear as family during my time in Florida, and being able to spend that night and the next morning with them was wonderful.


My parents had planned to drive down and ride along beside me in their car for a couple days, and so we met up the next day. It was rainy as predicted. We spent Wednesday and Thursday around Tallahassee, pulling together loose ends for my trip and dining with the Weinsteins.

The weather was almost laughably bad. Adding to this effect was the fact that our motel room was the only one whose overhang lacked a gutter, so a steady shower of water fell right in front of our door.

Happily, Friday dawned sunny and beautiful, and we were able to hit the road. Falling Waters State Park was the last stop in Florida, a nice way to say goodbye to the state and the park system that had been my life for two years. Falling Waters is a great place -- in the middle of karst country, this sinkhole-filled area gives way to a flow of water that plummets into a sinkhole, down, seemingly, into the bowels of the earth.



After Falling Waters, it was 'so long, Florida', and 'hello, Alabama.' The odometer turned over miles as easy as a hotdog rotisserie (first image that came to mind). In no time, a big green sign welcomed me to Alabama. Crossing the state line felt like a victory.