The next morning is a Sunday, and the Pats and Red Sox are both playing. I leave Providence in the late morning on my way to Medford to see some college friends. As I drive by Foxboro I can see a blimp in the air covering the Pats game. Taking 93 through Boston I go through the O’Neill Tunnel and then over that really cool bridge. The tunnel is great because, as I have said earlier, it is beautiful to watch the lights reflect and spread off of my motorcycle’s chrome, but also because it is warm down there, and a real nice little respite from the cold air at sixty-five miles per hour above ground. I make it to Medford, but I botch the end part with the fine-tuned directions and end up somewhere near Mike and Matty but not exactly sure how to get there. Funny enough, I recognize where I am though, because I am by the Tufts athletic building, which I remember passing by sometimes when I was visiting my cousin here. When I get some directions, I find the place in a few minutes and see Dave Dillon is there too so it turns out to be a real party, especially when a boatload of food arrives and the Pats and the Red Sox both dominate. I consider staying here tonight and meeting some Utah friends in Boston tomorrow morning and heading back home in the afternoon, but I decide to take off tonight and meet my Utah friends later in the week. I get on as night is falling, and fill up my tank before I jump on the highway. The gas station attendant has an accent, somewhere in Eastern Europe, I guess, and is so impressed and interested in my trip that I can’t get away until another car happens to pull in. I have met a whole bunch of people randomly that are really interested in what I am doing which I think is great, and hopefully even one of them will get so pumped up on it that he’ll go out and do it on his own.
It’s a simple trip up 93, onto 95, and off in Seabrook, taking the more scenic route back to Exeter as opposed to going through the tolls and down 101. It’s chilly for sure, and for a minute it begins to rain lightly so I pull over under a bridge to put my rain suit on. The rain pretty much stops after that, but I keep it on for warmth, and I don’t feel like stopping again either. I take the back roads through Kensington and in into Exeter. I pull over by the skate park and shine my light on it, and see that it is completely redone. I continue up Court Street, past the PEA gym, and past the Rec Office and down South Street where, as I approach my house, I can see my parents sitting out on the porch with blankets wrapped around them, waiting for me in the yellow porch light. I pull in between their two cars and put my kick stand down on the stone patio bricks just past the pavement, and that is it.
Friday, October 19, 2007
New England
I have to weave my way around Manhattan’s one-way streets in right angles and squares before I can get on the FDR and afterwards to 278 to 95. Naturally I run into a very very long traffic jam in which I simply just sit and wish I were legally allowed to split lanes and get out of this mess. Some dude on a big old Harley rolls by doing that, and then two guys on sport bikes zoom by and I watch them disappear in the distance, past all these cars. I just don’t have the balls, plus I haven’t been pulled over in nine thousand miles and I would like to keep it that way. Eventually the traffic clears and I am on my way again. A ways up 95 the same sport bike guys pass me again, I can only assume they got off then back on again, and instead of giving me the standard nonchalant biker wave, the first turns all the way around once he is past me and has seen my Utah plates and gear packed on the rear, and gives me a thumbs up.
It’s an uninteresting ride to Providence where I have a friend I went to school with in Utah. I get off and find my way to downtown to get directions from Nate, and then I immediately get lost because I did not pay enough attention to the intricate directions, and end up back on the freeway, and have to exit, turn around, and find my way back into town once again. I at least know the street he lives on, so I go around asking people. There is some event being set up for tonight, and I pull over to a parking attendant in a pink breast cancer shirt, but he has never heard of Wickenden Street, or he just doesn’t want to bother helping me out. I ride over to a nearby fire station and the firefighters give me directions in the first Boston accents I have yet encountered on my trip, and it really sets in that I am about home. I go up some street they point me to, probably not the right one because it looks like I am going up a hill the wrong way on a one-way street, and then I take a right until the road is closed off for some festivities, and the guy standing there gives me more directions which get me lost even more. I ask one more woman who points me in what finally turn out to be the right way, and I finally get to Nate’s place. I get myself cleaned up and we head over to the local wine and beer store and stare at an entire wall of international microbrews for about twenty minutes before picking some fancy schmancy stuff out that we drink back at his apartment before walking to downtown, past Water Fire, which is what I saw people setting up for on my way in here. Apparently Water Fire is a recurring weekend event in which torches that line the center of a downtown canal are lit up and people gather around the park at the end of the canal and listen to music and take canal boat tours and generally stare at fire like a bunch of curious primitives. Not to say there is anything wrong with staring like a curious primitive, I do it all the time, but it’s an interesting habit of ours.
First we head to RiRa’s which catches me off guard because that is where Ben and I hung out in Charlotte, and it turns out that it is a small chain, which makes sense. Nate’s girlfriend works there and we have a few drinks there before we head over to McCormick and Schmick’s where they have ridiculously cheap bar food that is totally delicious. It’s like two dollars for a full size burger with fries, or mozzarella sticks or potato croquettes, and really cheap beer too. Pretty excellent. After stuffing ourselves for next to nothing we head back to RiRa’s for a bit before getting a taxi back to Nate’s and partying there for a bit before hitting the sack.
It’s an uninteresting ride to Providence where I have a friend I went to school with in Utah. I get off and find my way to downtown to get directions from Nate, and then I immediately get lost because I did not pay enough attention to the intricate directions, and end up back on the freeway, and have to exit, turn around, and find my way back into town once again. I at least know the street he lives on, so I go around asking people. There is some event being set up for tonight, and I pull over to a parking attendant in a pink breast cancer shirt, but he has never heard of Wickenden Street, or he just doesn’t want to bother helping me out. I ride over to a nearby fire station and the firefighters give me directions in the first Boston accents I have yet encountered on my trip, and it really sets in that I am about home. I go up some street they point me to, probably not the right one because it looks like I am going up a hill the wrong way on a one-way street, and then I take a right until the road is closed off for some festivities, and the guy standing there gives me more directions which get me lost even more. I ask one more woman who points me in what finally turn out to be the right way, and I finally get to Nate’s place. I get myself cleaned up and we head over to the local wine and beer store and stare at an entire wall of international microbrews for about twenty minutes before picking some fancy schmancy stuff out that we drink back at his apartment before walking to downtown, past Water Fire, which is what I saw people setting up for on my way in here. Apparently Water Fire is a recurring weekend event in which torches that line the center of a downtown canal are lit up and people gather around the park at the end of the canal and listen to music and take canal boat tours and generally stare at fire like a bunch of curious primitives. Not to say there is anything wrong with staring like a curious primitive, I do it all the time, but it’s an interesting habit of ours.
First we head to RiRa’s which catches me off guard because that is where Ben and I hung out in Charlotte, and it turns out that it is a small chain, which makes sense. Nate’s girlfriend works there and we have a few drinks there before we head over to McCormick and Schmick’s where they have ridiculously cheap bar food that is totally delicious. It’s like two dollars for a full size burger with fries, or mozzarella sticks or potato croquettes, and really cheap beer too. Pretty excellent. After stuffing ourselves for next to nothing we head back to RiRa’s for a bit before getting a taxi back to Nate’s and partying there for a bit before hitting the sack.
Monday, October 15, 2007
NYC
I am not looking forward to the drive from Philly to New York City, but I don't expect it to suck as soon as it does. I get on 276 right from Conshohocken, on my way to 95 right up to NYC. Not long after I am on 276 there are signs that say "To 95 Next Exit" and things seem to be going fine except when I take the exit, there is no 95. I have to take some road through a sea of traffic and lights and bullshit, with no trace of 95 around. I am heading back south towards Philly too, absolutely not where I want to go. After awhile, by pure chance, I notice a sign on an overpass pointing to 95 that is posted for people going perpendicular to the road I am on, so I bang a U-turn at the next opportunity and navigate some random neighborhoods until I finally get on 95 after an hour or so delay, and have to drive on it for fifteen minutes until I get to the place where I would have ended up had I ignored that first sign off 276. I don't know what cracked-out jokers put up these horribly-placed signs around cities, but they infuriate me. Once I am on 95 heading north, the drive is not as bad as I had anticipated. By no means is it fun, but I was thinking traffic would be backed up for no reason at random spots and people were going to be switching across every lane all the time and trucks were going to be boxing me out or in or whatever, but it was bearable. Maybe I had just steeled myself for something so horrible, it couldn't have been actually that bad. Either way, I make it through New Jersey until the Manhattan skyline rises up after a bend in the road, and I follow signs for the Lincoln Tunnel. I guess motorcycles aren't as expensive to get through the tunnel as cars which are nice. There seems to be a couple different tubes that bring you under the water, and I choose one at random which ends up shooting me onto thirty-fifth or forty-second or something a little farther uptown than I wanted to be, but I am familiar with how grid systems work from living in Salt Lake and it's not too hard to get around. In fact, it is almost fun driving through New York traffic because it is as close to lawlessness as I have yet experienced on this trip. There might as well be no lanes and people are zooming all over the place and anything goes I guess. I make my way past the Empire State Building on thirty-fourth and eventually work my way around to a friends apartment where I find some quick parking. Motorcycles are great when it comes to parking. Jenny is still at work, and so is Maggie, over in Brooklyn, so I just hang out on the street and read, then go get a snack which is like six-fifty for a juice and Clif Bar. When Jenny finishes work, I bring my stuff into her place, as I sure don't trust anything left on my bike to remain there, and in fact, I'm a bit concerned about my bike as well. We head out to a Red Sox bar to meet Maggie a little later, and then go over to Brooklyn to get dinner at a pretty slickly designed Thai place, and hang out at the bar Maggie lives above, which used to be a motorcycle shop a few years ago. That seems pretty cool to me. I meet Maggie's roommate Grace, whose brother owns the bar, and we hang out and play a little foosball until Jenny and I hop on the train back to Manhattan.
The next day I am greeted by a parking ticket on my motorcycle. Sixty-five bucks because apparently the street cleaner came that morning, and the days and hours are different on each side of the street, which is what threw me off. Oh well. I finished my bagel for breakfast and started walking around Manhattan. I ended up somewhere around Soho where I was eating lunch on a bench when I saw a woman open a cab door into a passing car. That's why you get out on the curbside. That was entertaining as the cars built up behind them and the door was bent forward and the Volvo was all scratched and dented. Then later on, I am walking down the street past a Hasidic Jew holding what looks like a mango and a giant stalk of asparagus when he grabs my shoulder and asks in a light accent if I am Jewish. When I tell him no, I am not, he doesn't seem to believe me and gets a real disappointed look on his face. I walk away feeling bad because he looked like he was really hoping I was Jewish. It's been awhile since I trimmed my beard, and my chops are getting a little bushy, but I guess I had let myself go longer than I had thought.
I had only anticipated staying in NYC for a couple days but I soon realize that my stay is going to be extended. That night I stay at Maggie's and spend the next day sitting around with Grace, watching movies and waiting for the cable guy to come, and then watching TV and going to New Jersey to Ikea. I spend the next few days in Manhattan or in Brooklyn, driving my bike here and there, leaving it here and there, avoiding parking tickets, walking around Manhattan one day when Jenny stays home from work, checking out the Staten Island Ferry and the Statue of Liberty and Ground Zero and Central Park, where I find some more bouldering, and pretty much just wandering. I get to meet up with my college friend Jacie at a bar which is great because I haven't seen her forever. I almost make it to Saturday night, when Maggie and Grace are throwing a housewarming party, but after five nights, I feel like I have been in one place long enough and on Saturday morning I pack my things and go.
The next day I am greeted by a parking ticket on my motorcycle. Sixty-five bucks because apparently the street cleaner came that morning, and the days and hours are different on each side of the street, which is what threw me off. Oh well. I finished my bagel for breakfast and started walking around Manhattan. I ended up somewhere around Soho where I was eating lunch on a bench when I saw a woman open a cab door into a passing car. That's why you get out on the curbside. That was entertaining as the cars built up behind them and the door was bent forward and the Volvo was all scratched and dented. Then later on, I am walking down the street past a Hasidic Jew holding what looks like a mango and a giant stalk of asparagus when he grabs my shoulder and asks in a light accent if I am Jewish. When I tell him no, I am not, he doesn't seem to believe me and gets a real disappointed look on his face. I walk away feeling bad because he looked like he was really hoping I was Jewish. It's been awhile since I trimmed my beard, and my chops are getting a little bushy, but I guess I had let myself go longer than I had thought.
I had only anticipated staying in NYC for a couple days but I soon realize that my stay is going to be extended. That night I stay at Maggie's and spend the next day sitting around with Grace, watching movies and waiting for the cable guy to come, and then watching TV and going to New Jersey to Ikea. I spend the next few days in Manhattan or in Brooklyn, driving my bike here and there, leaving it here and there, avoiding parking tickets, walking around Manhattan one day when Jenny stays home from work, checking out the Staten Island Ferry and the Statue of Liberty and Ground Zero and Central Park, where I find some more bouldering, and pretty much just wandering. I get to meet up with my college friend Jacie at a bar which is great because I haven't seen her forever. I almost make it to Saturday night, when Maggie and Grace are throwing a housewarming party, but after five nights, I feel like I have been in one place long enough and on Saturday morning I pack my things and go.
City of Brotherly Love
The next day I relax while Adam is at work. I sleep in a little bit and cook some burgers leftover from a party and lounge around and watch TV until I get restless in the early afternoon and feel like I should do something. The Internet tells me that there is some bouldering in a park not too far away and I get my shoes and chalk out and go over the directions until I get them down pretty well. I take the next exit on 76 and go up a hilly neighborhood. I get turned around at one point because I think I missed my next road, but I really didn't so I end up doing a loop on some side street, and skidding out when I hit the brake too hard because a turn came up on me faster than I thought. It's the first time I locked up either of my tires, and it's really not a big deal because its the rear and I wasn't going very fast in the first place. Kinda fun, actually, but not exactly a habit I want to get into. I get lost again when I am looking for Walnut Drive on my left, and I don't realize I pass it because at the intersection, the road on the right is the name I notice, and it is not Walnut. I drive for awhile before I turn around and see Walnut on the return trip, and I make it to Fairmont Park pretty easily from there. It's a short walk down a shady road with all sorts of small dirt paths leading into the park on my left. I'm not sure which one to go down, and so I keep walking until I get to the end of the road and go in there. I find the rocks after a short while and climb around for a half hour or so. It's hard to spend a good amount of time bouldering when you are by yourself without a pad because it's just not that safe to try new climbs or high climbs, especially on rocks you aren't familiar with, so I just mess around for awhile.
When Adam gets back in the early evening we head out to get some dinner in downtown Conshohocken, and the huge beer menu really causes me some problems when I am trying to figure out what to drink. After we order, some guy comes up to Adam and starts talking about Black Rebel Motorcycle Club because Adam's got the shirt on, and they guy says he loves their first album, and when we start talking about specifics in their music, he kinda spaces out. It didn't quite occur to me that he didn't actually know anything about them except that they are a band, and every band has a first album, and he probably thought we were gay. What's the world coming to when two high school buddies can't get some food without getting harassed by gay dudes pretending to be interested in the same music you are? Jeez. I guess some people take Philly's nickname a little too literally. Adam went off to some town meeting later, he's on some municipal board, which seems pretty grown up to me, but then again so does having a job. I end up watching The Day After Tomorrow on TV into the wee hours of the morning cause I have nothing better to do and it's not very good, which is nothing less than I expected but I dig things in post-apocalyptic settings so I watch it anyway. Adam's roommate and his girlfriend get back as the movie is ending and I realized I could have had a fun night out on the town with them and gotten to bed at the same time. Oh well.
In the morning I head into Conshohocken to catch the train into Philly. Adam is going to be doing some bike race in Jersey for the weekend and I am going to be staying with Beth in downtown Philly. I can't find the train station first, then I find it just as a train is leaving and I have to wait another hour for one to bring me into town. When I get to the Market East station I walk seven or eight blocks to Beth's apartment in Old City. The apartment is great, with cathedral ceilings and spiral staircase up to the loft, and it's right downtown too. We go out and walk along Boathouse Row, where all the schools have their boathouses along the river, pretty close to where I was the day before in Fairmont Park. In the evening we go out with her neighbor to a bunch of bars in the area, which are all walking distance. It turns into a mini pubcrawl, and I think we hit up four in about just as many hours.
The next morning we walk around the Old City, and we wait in line for forty-five minutes for a cheese steak. It's Philly, and I have to get one. It's one of the more famous places for cheese steaks, and it's pretty good, but not worth a wait so long when you can get one that tastes the same or better probably at any sub shop in the States. Oh well. We hit some random stores around town, a book shop, and music shop, so on, so forth. That evening Devendra Banhart is playing in town, but we already have plans to meet Beth's friend out for his birthday party at some club called Lucky Strike, which turns out to be a club with bowling lanes marketed toward the hip younger crowd. It's on three floors or something like that and pretty crowded until they open a lower level where it's a lot quieter and we get a pool table. The next morning is Sunday and Adam is back from his bike race, and I miss the train I was planning on getting because the ticket line was so ridiculously long. I guess it's just too hard to put up some machines where people can get their own tickets. For some reason, the train system in Philly wants you to wait in line and miss your train because you have to deal with people ahead of you not being able to complete a thirty second transaction in less than five minutes. I want to go here, I have this money, thank you. Whatever. I finally get on a train, fortunately I had just bought a new book that I could read to pass the time, and get back to Conshohocken and when Adam picks me up we head out of town to his grandparent's place to have dinner with the whole family. It is a delicious beef roast. A home-cooked meal is always welcome.
The weekend is already over and I get my stuff ready for the ride to New York tomorrow. From here it's right up the Jersey Turnpike, tolls and traffic all the way, and that's just how it's going to be for the rest of the ride. The northeast just isn't the place for motorcyclists, but that's life.
When Adam gets back in the early evening we head out to get some dinner in downtown Conshohocken, and the huge beer menu really causes me some problems when I am trying to figure out what to drink. After we order, some guy comes up to Adam and starts talking about Black Rebel Motorcycle Club because Adam's got the shirt on, and they guy says he loves their first album, and when we start talking about specifics in their music, he kinda spaces out. It didn't quite occur to me that he didn't actually know anything about them except that they are a band, and every band has a first album, and he probably thought we were gay. What's the world coming to when two high school buddies can't get some food without getting harassed by gay dudes pretending to be interested in the same music you are? Jeez. I guess some people take Philly's nickname a little too literally. Adam went off to some town meeting later, he's on some municipal board, which seems pretty grown up to me, but then again so does having a job. I end up watching The Day After Tomorrow on TV into the wee hours of the morning cause I have nothing better to do and it's not very good, which is nothing less than I expected but I dig things in post-apocalyptic settings so I watch it anyway. Adam's roommate and his girlfriend get back as the movie is ending and I realized I could have had a fun night out on the town with them and gotten to bed at the same time. Oh well.
In the morning I head into Conshohocken to catch the train into Philly. Adam is going to be doing some bike race in Jersey for the weekend and I am going to be staying with Beth in downtown Philly. I can't find the train station first, then I find it just as a train is leaving and I have to wait another hour for one to bring me into town. When I get to the Market East station I walk seven or eight blocks to Beth's apartment in Old City. The apartment is great, with cathedral ceilings and spiral staircase up to the loft, and it's right downtown too. We go out and walk along Boathouse Row, where all the schools have their boathouses along the river, pretty close to where I was the day before in Fairmont Park. In the evening we go out with her neighbor to a bunch of bars in the area, which are all walking distance. It turns into a mini pubcrawl, and I think we hit up four in about just as many hours.
The next morning we walk around the Old City, and we wait in line for forty-five minutes for a cheese steak. It's Philly, and I have to get one. It's one of the more famous places for cheese steaks, and it's pretty good, but not worth a wait so long when you can get one that tastes the same or better probably at any sub shop in the States. Oh well. We hit some random stores around town, a book shop, and music shop, so on, so forth. That evening Devendra Banhart is playing in town, but we already have plans to meet Beth's friend out for his birthday party at some club called Lucky Strike, which turns out to be a club with bowling lanes marketed toward the hip younger crowd. It's on three floors or something like that and pretty crowded until they open a lower level where it's a lot quieter and we get a pool table. The next morning is Sunday and Adam is back from his bike race, and I miss the train I was planning on getting because the ticket line was so ridiculously long. I guess it's just too hard to put up some machines where people can get their own tickets. For some reason, the train system in Philly wants you to wait in line and miss your train because you have to deal with people ahead of you not being able to complete a thirty second transaction in less than five minutes. I want to go here, I have this money, thank you. Whatever. I finally get on a train, fortunately I had just bought a new book that I could read to pass the time, and get back to Conshohocken and when Adam picks me up we head out of town to his grandparent's place to have dinner with the whole family. It is a delicious beef roast. A home-cooked meal is always welcome.
The weekend is already over and I get my stuff ready for the ride to New York tomorrow. From here it's right up the Jersey Turnpike, tolls and traffic all the way, and that's just how it's going to be for the rest of the ride. The northeast just isn't the place for motorcyclists, but that's life.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
The Beginning of the End
I wake up pretty early considering I didn’t get to bed until three AM the previous night. After breakfast and some reading, Grandma and I go to the local bowling alley because she got a league match. I bowl a couple quick game alone while she is warming up with her team. My first game is miserable, an eighty-four or something like that, one of my worst scores ever. My next game is much better, a one thirty-three, which is one of my highest scores ever. I’m not the world’s best bowler. Grandma is not doing her best either, when I go over to watch, but she picks it up after the first game just like me. I go over to shoot pool after awhile and play my right hand against my left. My right is undefeated. After bowling we head back and relax and read. Later on, my cousin Meghan, who lives with my grandma, shows up. That evening we play cards and I come in a solid last place, but I consider it a warm-up because I haven’t played for awhile. The next day I help Grandma with yard work - trimming a bunch of trees and shrubs and bushes in the backyard with a dilapidated low-power electric hedge trimmer, and cleaning out dirt and leaves from the gutters. I end up getting the electric cord to the trimmer caught in the teeth and accidentally sever it, but it’s not a huge deal because the cord can be replaced by any extension cord. That night we all go out to dinner with my aunt and then play another round of cards which I once again thoroughly lose. Last night was my warm up, so I just don’t have an excuse for this.
The next morning I hang around until Grandma’s a friend picks her up to go play bridge and I am off. I supposedly have directions out of Cleveland but once I get out of Grandma’s neighborhood, and make the first couple steps successfully, I go straight where I should have gone right, and just try and make my way, thinking I couldn’t be too far out of the way. It turns out that I am too far out of the way. I eventually get on the road I want to be on, except it’s way behind where I would have gotten on had I not screwed up the directions. I guess that I wasted a good forty-five minutes or an hour driving through the Cleveland ghetto, trying to get on a road where I can actually move. I finally get on 422 which will bring me about halfway through Pennsylvania towards Philadelphia. At first it is not much better than the crowded ghettos I just wasted a bunch of time driving through, but east of New Castle, it clears out and there are a lot of pretty stretches. At one point, as I am driving down a shady stretch of road, something comes at me from my right and nails my handlebars near my brake fluid reservoir. It was in my periphery so I can’t say for sure it was a bird that just accidentally killed itself with my motorcycle, but after thinking for a second how clumps of leaves, if somehow a bunch of leaves got clumped together in a tree, don’t fall laterally, I realize that it must have been a bird. I figured at some point on this trip, I might have a run-in with a bird. A friend of mine said he had a bird run into his chest on a bike once. At least it didn’t hit me in the head. I imagine a bird of good enough size could really knock my skull around, and who knows if I would veer off into a car or a ditch or tree or what. I guess that’s just a risk one assumes on a motorcycle. I am on 422 until I get to 219 which brings me south to 56, which brings me southeast to US 30. This road will bring me all the way into Philadelphia, and it looks like it would be a nice calm ride, but I don’t know how long it will take, or if I have enough time to get there tonight, which I would like to do, rather than leave a measly two or three hour drive for tomorrow. I am right by I-76, and I cringe as I think it might be a more expeditious choice to jump on the interstate for the rest of the way. Dusk is falling and it is almost six. I ask a couple people in a convenience store how long it would take to get to Philly and they give me an answer of six hours, which I know is completely ridiculous. I call up Adam and have him Google it, and it’s a three and a half hour ride which I can deal with. Then I think, hell with it, I’ll take 30 all the way there, and start to head out on 30 before I reconsider yet again and find my way to the interstate, which is also a turnpike, meaning I will have to pay a hefty toll by the time I get off in Conshohocken, just outside of Philly. I soon realize I am going to have to contend with a lot of tractor trailers on this ride, which has it’s plusses and minuses. On the plus side, a trucker is a professional driver and more likely to notice a motorcyclist than your average schmuck in a car despite the larger size of his ride and larger blind spots. They are just better drivers because that is their job. On the negative side, trucks can blow you around when they pass, and their sheer mass just makes you think of the many many bad interactions one could have with them. Plus, when you’re behind one, it ruins the view. There is actually some pretty land that 76 goes through, but night soon falls and now I am just driving to make time and get off this road, the very antithesis of how I liked to ride out in the west and south, but this is the northeast and I know quiet easy back roads that go for any amount of distance are now few and far between and I submit to the fact that most of my driving from here on up with probably be on roads I do not really want to be on. 76 goes through a couple huge tunnels which is always fun on a motorcycle. On a motorcycle, I like watching the sickly orange-yellow light that you find in all tunnels quickly roll off the chrome of the headlight towards me and split off at the handlebars and then shoot off to both sides while there is some that makes it to the chrome console on my gas tank and follows the curves and contours there. Each bulb I drive under sends its light over my bike and I like to take my eyes off the road for a second and watch it go, even though it is just as much fun to see it in your lower periphery. After I go through a couple tunnels I am back on the dark, loud interstate and have to stop for gas. I check my voicemail for directions to Adam’s and get back on the road. To make the drive even more pleasant, I start to hear and feel a couple raindrops on my helmet that are the harbingers to the further rain that is about to soak me. I manage to get under a bridge before I get soaked and change into my rain suit as eighteen wheelers are flying by me in the night. I continue on the highway, glad that I am headed in just a straight line so there is less chance of me sliding out in a turn and dying a wet, cold death. The rain picks up and lets down and gets pretty heavy at one point, but I continue on, just going slow and steady. By the time I am almost to Adam’s exit, it has stopped and it looks like the sky has cleared up for the night so I repack the suit when I stop for gas and double check the directions. He is three thirty-two off of 76, but the signs on the turnpike say the next exit is three twenty-six, and then something above three thirty-two, so I ask a woman in line at the gas station I am at, and it turns out that she is going right by the Conshohocken exit and says I should follow her. I get off the turnpike behind her and pay my ten dollar toll before I realize that the exits continue off the highway, that the sign that confused me is only for turnpike exits and even though I am off the turnpike, I am still on 76. I see the Conshohocken exit and manage to find Adam’s road pretty easy considering the exit system was giving me a hard time. I drive up it once, keeping an eye out for his bright yellow car, but miss it, and have to call him to find his house. It’s been a long day, and maybe the first of more to come on crappy northeastern interstates.
The next morning I hang around until Grandma’s a friend picks her up to go play bridge and I am off. I supposedly have directions out of Cleveland but once I get out of Grandma’s neighborhood, and make the first couple steps successfully, I go straight where I should have gone right, and just try and make my way, thinking I couldn’t be too far out of the way. It turns out that I am too far out of the way. I eventually get on the road I want to be on, except it’s way behind where I would have gotten on had I not screwed up the directions. I guess that I wasted a good forty-five minutes or an hour driving through the Cleveland ghetto, trying to get on a road where I can actually move. I finally get on 422 which will bring me about halfway through Pennsylvania towards Philadelphia. At first it is not much better than the crowded ghettos I just wasted a bunch of time driving through, but east of New Castle, it clears out and there are a lot of pretty stretches. At one point, as I am driving down a shady stretch of road, something comes at me from my right and nails my handlebars near my brake fluid reservoir. It was in my periphery so I can’t say for sure it was a bird that just accidentally killed itself with my motorcycle, but after thinking for a second how clumps of leaves, if somehow a bunch of leaves got clumped together in a tree, don’t fall laterally, I realize that it must have been a bird. I figured at some point on this trip, I might have a run-in with a bird. A friend of mine said he had a bird run into his chest on a bike once. At least it didn’t hit me in the head. I imagine a bird of good enough size could really knock my skull around, and who knows if I would veer off into a car or a ditch or tree or what. I guess that’s just a risk one assumes on a motorcycle. I am on 422 until I get to 219 which brings me south to 56, which brings me southeast to US 30. This road will bring me all the way into Philadelphia, and it looks like it would be a nice calm ride, but I don’t know how long it will take, or if I have enough time to get there tonight, which I would like to do, rather than leave a measly two or three hour drive for tomorrow. I am right by I-76, and I cringe as I think it might be a more expeditious choice to jump on the interstate for the rest of the way. Dusk is falling and it is almost six. I ask a couple people in a convenience store how long it would take to get to Philly and they give me an answer of six hours, which I know is completely ridiculous. I call up Adam and have him Google it, and it’s a three and a half hour ride which I can deal with. Then I think, hell with it, I’ll take 30 all the way there, and start to head out on 30 before I reconsider yet again and find my way to the interstate, which is also a turnpike, meaning I will have to pay a hefty toll by the time I get off in Conshohocken, just outside of Philly. I soon realize I am going to have to contend with a lot of tractor trailers on this ride, which has it’s plusses and minuses. On the plus side, a trucker is a professional driver and more likely to notice a motorcyclist than your average schmuck in a car despite the larger size of his ride and larger blind spots. They are just better drivers because that is their job. On the negative side, trucks can blow you around when they pass, and their sheer mass just makes you think of the many many bad interactions one could have with them. Plus, when you’re behind one, it ruins the view. There is actually some pretty land that 76 goes through, but night soon falls and now I am just driving to make time and get off this road, the very antithesis of how I liked to ride out in the west and south, but this is the northeast and I know quiet easy back roads that go for any amount of distance are now few and far between and I submit to the fact that most of my driving from here on up with probably be on roads I do not really want to be on. 76 goes through a couple huge tunnels which is always fun on a motorcycle. On a motorcycle, I like watching the sickly orange-yellow light that you find in all tunnels quickly roll off the chrome of the headlight towards me and split off at the handlebars and then shoot off to both sides while there is some that makes it to the chrome console on my gas tank and follows the curves and contours there. Each bulb I drive under sends its light over my bike and I like to take my eyes off the road for a second and watch it go, even though it is just as much fun to see it in your lower periphery. After I go through a couple tunnels I am back on the dark, loud interstate and have to stop for gas. I check my voicemail for directions to Adam’s and get back on the road. To make the drive even more pleasant, I start to hear and feel a couple raindrops on my helmet that are the harbingers to the further rain that is about to soak me. I manage to get under a bridge before I get soaked and change into my rain suit as eighteen wheelers are flying by me in the night. I continue on the highway, glad that I am headed in just a straight line so there is less chance of me sliding out in a turn and dying a wet, cold death. The rain picks up and lets down and gets pretty heavy at one point, but I continue on, just going slow and steady. By the time I am almost to Adam’s exit, it has stopped and it looks like the sky has cleared up for the night so I repack the suit when I stop for gas and double check the directions. He is three thirty-two off of 76, but the signs on the turnpike say the next exit is three twenty-six, and then something above three thirty-two, so I ask a woman in line at the gas station I am at, and it turns out that she is going right by the Conshohocken exit and says I should follow her. I get off the turnpike behind her and pay my ten dollar toll before I realize that the exits continue off the highway, that the sign that confused me is only for turnpike exits and even though I am off the turnpike, I am still on 76. I see the Conshohocken exit and manage to find Adam’s road pretty easy considering the exit system was giving me a hard time. I drive up it once, keeping an eye out for his bright yellow car, but miss it, and have to call him to find his house. It’s been a long day, and maybe the first of more to come on crappy northeastern interstates.
Monday, October 8, 2007
The Brian Jonestown Massacre
From the ferry, I get back on 163 to head out of Marblehead. I get onto a large road which I plan on taking to US 6 which will bring me along the northern edge of Ohio to Rocky River, a suburb of Ohio where my grandmother lives. I get off on 6 and begin following it with no problems until I run into a detour. Fine, I will just follow the detour signs and get back on 6 except it turns out not to be that easy. I follow the signs for awhile and I keep going down smaller and smaller roads to the south and east and west and everywhere else, and the signs keep getting smaller and less frequent until I am convince I missed something. I keep going in the direction I am heading in for awhile then decide to just take a road that seems like it heads east towards Cleveland and see where I can get to from there. I know I am south of 2, a large interstate-sized road that leads to Cleveland and runs parallel to 6 to the south. I figure if I cross 2 and continue north, I will get to 6. Of course it is not that simple and I get turned around all sorts of different ways. I drive down a spiraling downhill road into some park somewhere, and turn around and backtrack a bit until I find a more promising road. Eventually I can see 2, the large road I don’t really want to be on, but I know if I take it for a little bit I can get off and head north and hopefully skip all the construction that was causing the detour on 6. I get off and head north and run into 6 just as I had anticipated. From there it’s a ride through all sorts of suburbs along the shore of Lake Erie until it runs into Rocky River. I stop to fill up my tank and ask for directions, and I am happily right near where I want to be. A couple of turns takes me to Detroit Road, and another brings me onto Wooster, and one more to Parkland Drive, and I am at Grandma’s. I drive halfway down the road and I see my aunt’s van in the driveway, and then see my ten-year old cousin Isaac walking down the street towards the park. I pull up to him on my bike, donning fully my road gear, and say hello. He gets an odd look on his face, the why is this stranger talking to me look, and says a cautious hello, until I take my helmet off so he can recognize me. I pull into my grandma’s house and greet my aunt and grandma and my two other younger cousins. It’s around five and soon dinner is on and we eat a good meal except for Isaac and Makela, who have to be prodded to eat their veggies and meatloaf.
I rest up and clean up and get ready for the Brian Jonestown Massacre show at the Grog Shop, which is on the other side of Cleveland. The band has just finished a small west coast tour and Eric in Seattle told me that when he arrived part way into the show, they were jamming out hard, but also the lead singer got into a yelling match with a fan. Jared in Salt Lake told me that when he got to the club early the lead singer was banging on the door and in a generally pissed off mood. Later when the show started the lead singer started yelling at a fan who was antagonizing him after three songs, and when that guy got kicked out, they played two more songs and the lead singer just quit, and that was the end of the show. This is to be anticipated, based on the reputation of the Brian Jonestown Massacre. I have heard that their shows are either laced with fights and bad starts and early quits and such bullshit as that, or else they are incredible and long and perfect. I can only hope the show goes well tonight at the Grog Shop. I take my grandma’s car for a change of transportation. It’s amazing how less stressful it is to drive a car. You are protected from the wind and cold and elements, you can sit comfortably and move around and readjust yourself and listen to the radio, and not have to worry about other cars not seeing you. You don’t have to balance and lean and use your body as a steering mechanism. I make it to the general neighborhood of the club before getting lost. I am getting turned around in circles among a bunch of different hospitals, and the directions I scrawled down quickly in Cincinnati aren’t helping much. Eventually I find the road I am supposed to be on, but it seems like a quiet residential street that doesn’t have a rock club on it. I follow it for a little bit and see it opens up into a square with businesses and restaurants, and there is the club too. Parking is easy and there are a bunch of people milling around outside of the club. I walk up to get my ticket and show the bouncer my ID and since no one asks me for money and I already have a stamp on my hand I just go in. I thought they were charging fifteen bucks, at least that is what the website said, but maybe they aren’t. I’m not complaining. I enjoy a PBR tallboy while I am waiting for the first band to come on, and they eventually start, and they are pretty mediocre. I think they are called Coffinberry. Not really worth listening to. The second band, The Stereo Workers Union, is much better, with a real sixties psychedelic sound. It’s good, but it sort of sounds like they are trying to hard to be The Brian Jonestown Massacre on Their Satanic Majesties Second Request. They rock pretty hard though. All the while, Anton Newcombe, the lead singer and nucleus of The Brian Jonestown Massacre is hanging out in the back in the DJ booth, standing around with some tight mailman pants and beads. Before they start, I buy a limited edition print with the venue and date and bands on it, and a weird picture of a dude on an old timey bike that one of the band members in The Stereo Workers Union made. It’s a pretty rad design, and I feel fortunate to have a unique piece of artwork from the show. Even after both opening bands are finished, and his band is all set up, he is back there with the DJ putting records on for at least a half hour. Everyone is getting restless and looking back at him, thinking when the hell is this guy getting on stage?
Finally he gets on, and they open the set with Whoever You Are, which has probably the best drum, uh, breakdown?/mini solo?/riff? ever. Anton is shaking and bouncing and yells at his band members constantly through the first few songs. They go into Nailing Honey to the Bee from there. They have to stop When Jokers Attack and restart it because he is pissed off it doesn’t sound right. I have tried to push my way to the front, but at this point I am about fifteen feet out. Some dude next to me starts talking to me and it turns out that he is down from Detroit where he has a band that has a similar psychedelic sound and he is into motorcycles so he is pretty impressed when I tell him about my trip. He’s a cool dude, but really Tony, I just want to watch and listen to the show. During the first part of the show, I can’t tell if Anton is going to explode and ruin the show or not. He yells at his band members a few times, and yells at some fans that are harassing him and gets a few booted out, including one who threw a lit cigarette on stage. Smoking isn’t allowed in the bar anyway, but at one point the whole place smells like pot nonetheless. They keep playing all of their most awesome songs and Anton occasionally yells at a fan, but overall he gets into a good mood and even begins joking around with the crowd. At one point a half-assed mosh pit begins which opens up enough space for me to push into the second row right next to the stage, so I can get up close and see the band and have my ears hurt with how loud it is. It’s well past two AM when the bar has to shut down and they have to finish their set. They go out with Swallowtail, and drag it out for a good twenty minutes, laying down their guitars by the amps for the feedback and leaving the stage. Of the six members, only Anton and one other guy stay and manipulate the amps for the finale. Everyone is booted out as soon as they are done since it’s “way past bar hours” according to one of the bouncers. All in all it was nearly three hours that they played, and for The Brian Jonestown Massacre, one of the most calm, face-meltingly awesome sets one could ask for. Especially after hearing about The Brian Jonestown Massacre botching shows at other places, and seeing Dig! (even though by now it is well dated) I feel like I got all I could have hoped for, and I drive home with my ears ringing, thoroughly rocked.
I rest up and clean up and get ready for the Brian Jonestown Massacre show at the Grog Shop, which is on the other side of Cleveland. The band has just finished a small west coast tour and Eric in Seattle told me that when he arrived part way into the show, they were jamming out hard, but also the lead singer got into a yelling match with a fan. Jared in Salt Lake told me that when he got to the club early the lead singer was banging on the door and in a generally pissed off mood. Later when the show started the lead singer started yelling at a fan who was antagonizing him after three songs, and when that guy got kicked out, they played two more songs and the lead singer just quit, and that was the end of the show. This is to be anticipated, based on the reputation of the Brian Jonestown Massacre. I have heard that their shows are either laced with fights and bad starts and early quits and such bullshit as that, or else they are incredible and long and perfect. I can only hope the show goes well tonight at the Grog Shop. I take my grandma’s car for a change of transportation. It’s amazing how less stressful it is to drive a car. You are protected from the wind and cold and elements, you can sit comfortably and move around and readjust yourself and listen to the radio, and not have to worry about other cars not seeing you. You don’t have to balance and lean and use your body as a steering mechanism. I make it to the general neighborhood of the club before getting lost. I am getting turned around in circles among a bunch of different hospitals, and the directions I scrawled down quickly in Cincinnati aren’t helping much. Eventually I find the road I am supposed to be on, but it seems like a quiet residential street that doesn’t have a rock club on it. I follow it for a little bit and see it opens up into a square with businesses and restaurants, and there is the club too. Parking is easy and there are a bunch of people milling around outside of the club. I walk up to get my ticket and show the bouncer my ID and since no one asks me for money and I already have a stamp on my hand I just go in. I thought they were charging fifteen bucks, at least that is what the website said, but maybe they aren’t. I’m not complaining. I enjoy a PBR tallboy while I am waiting for the first band to come on, and they eventually start, and they are pretty mediocre. I think they are called Coffinberry. Not really worth listening to. The second band, The Stereo Workers Union, is much better, with a real sixties psychedelic sound. It’s good, but it sort of sounds like they are trying to hard to be The Brian Jonestown Massacre on Their Satanic Majesties Second Request. They rock pretty hard though. All the while, Anton Newcombe, the lead singer and nucleus of The Brian Jonestown Massacre is hanging out in the back in the DJ booth, standing around with some tight mailman pants and beads. Before they start, I buy a limited edition print with the venue and date and bands on it, and a weird picture of a dude on an old timey bike that one of the band members in The Stereo Workers Union made. It’s a pretty rad design, and I feel fortunate to have a unique piece of artwork from the show. Even after both opening bands are finished, and his band is all set up, he is back there with the DJ putting records on for at least a half hour. Everyone is getting restless and looking back at him, thinking when the hell is this guy getting on stage?
Finally he gets on, and they open the set with Whoever You Are, which has probably the best drum, uh, breakdown?/mini solo?/riff? ever. Anton is shaking and bouncing and yells at his band members constantly through the first few songs. They go into Nailing Honey to the Bee from there. They have to stop When Jokers Attack and restart it because he is pissed off it doesn’t sound right. I have tried to push my way to the front, but at this point I am about fifteen feet out. Some dude next to me starts talking to me and it turns out that he is down from Detroit where he has a band that has a similar psychedelic sound and he is into motorcycles so he is pretty impressed when I tell him about my trip. He’s a cool dude, but really Tony, I just want to watch and listen to the show. During the first part of the show, I can’t tell if Anton is going to explode and ruin the show or not. He yells at his band members a few times, and yells at some fans that are harassing him and gets a few booted out, including one who threw a lit cigarette on stage. Smoking isn’t allowed in the bar anyway, but at one point the whole place smells like pot nonetheless. They keep playing all of their most awesome songs and Anton occasionally yells at a fan, but overall he gets into a good mood and even begins joking around with the crowd. At one point a half-assed mosh pit begins which opens up enough space for me to push into the second row right next to the stage, so I can get up close and see the band and have my ears hurt with how loud it is. It’s well past two AM when the bar has to shut down and they have to finish their set. They go out with Swallowtail, and drag it out for a good twenty minutes, laying down their guitars by the amps for the feedback and leaving the stage. Of the six members, only Anton and one other guy stay and manipulate the amps for the finale. Everyone is booted out as soon as they are done since it’s “way past bar hours” according to one of the bouncers. All in all it was nearly three hours that they played, and for The Brian Jonestown Massacre, one of the most calm, face-meltingly awesome sets one could ask for. Especially after hearing about The Brian Jonestown Massacre botching shows at other places, and seeing Dig! (even though by now it is well dated) I feel like I got all I could have hoped for, and I drive home with my ears ringing, thoroughly rocked.
Ohiooo!
It's getting late when I arrive at my aunt and uncle's place. We catch up real quick, and I shower and we head out to dinner at Skyline, which kicks off my tour of staple Cincinnati cuisine. Skyline chili is pretty much a delicious chili sauce that is served over spaghetti with onions and cheese. The next day I have to myself since my aunt and uncle are at work. I do laundry and clean up and tune my bike. It's been a long time since I cleaned my bike, and all the chrome is fogged up from thousands of miles of roads, and the paint has water spots from rain and dirt gathering in random spots. The base of my radiator is blasted with dirt from the front wheel. When I am done with it, it's no show piece, but it is a whole lot better, and I have thoroughly cleaned off and re-lubricated my chain. That evening we continue the Cincinnati cuisine tour at the Montgomery Inn. I get pork chops and ribs. Apparently this place is famous for its ribs, which are certainly good, but nothing worth calling famous. Our waiter is pretty snotty, and the place isn't classy enough to have snotty waiters. I don't know what his deal is, but he sure wouldn't cut it at Faustina.
The next day is Friday, and Uncle Mike takes the day off. We go over my bike some more, adding air, adjusting the chain, checking the spark plugs and spokes, and the air filter. The paper in the air filter is half dark red, half black, and I'm not sure how dirty is too dirty. Uncle Mike suggests getting a new one just to be safe, which makes sense. Fortunately there is a Honda shop right near by, and we pick up a new filter. Up near the ceiling, the shop has raised a whole bunch of classic motorcycles for display. Uncle Mike recognizes most of them which is pretty cool, because I really don't know much about motorcycles. I can hardly recognize a Harley from a Honda from a Yamaha on the road, but I think that is more from a conscious design choice the Japanese bike makers have made. The new air filter is a clean, bright orange, and comparing the old one to it shows how badly I needed the new one. After putting it on the bike, we head into town for another stop at a classic Cincinnati restaurant, Camp Washington. This is another chili place, and is pretty similar to Skyline, but I guess it has more of a reputation in the area. The next stop is the Cincinnati Museum Center which is in an old train depot. There are a few museums here, but we just go to the Cincinnati History Museum. The big deal at this museum, as far as I'm concerned, is a sprawling model of Cincinnati circa the thirties and forties. This model is humongous and ridiculously detailed. It takes about forty-five minutes to go over the whole thing, and probably not notice all the little details like the tiny people arguing over a car accident, or a lit up furnace on the street next to a moving pulley for roofers, or smoke coming out of a building with firetrucks pulled up next to it. They have ever neighborhood and the old baseball stadium and probably many more things that I didn't recognize since I am not intimately familiar with Cincinnati. The rest of the museum is pretty standard stuff: and old streetcar, a bunch of World War II displays and info about industries and pre-colonial history, and boating industries and so forth. From the museum we met up with my aunt at Dana's, a bar my aunt and uncle have been going to for decades, since they were in college, where my uncle used to both work and play at in a band. It's a pretty cool bar, small and worn down and dark, they way I like my bars. That night we eat grilled brats instead of going out because maybe we hit all the standard Cincinnati restaurants already.
I am leaving the next day to head up to Kelley's Island on Lake Erie, and have to miss the Oktoberfest celebrations in Cincinnati, which has a large German heritage. I eat a great big breakfast and pack up my bike and go over my route one more time. I have to get on I-275 for a little bit, then take 28 northeast until I get to 68 which runs north through most of the state. 68 is a pretty nice road that runs through farm country and small towns. After a couple hours, I stop for gas and lunch in a town called Arlington. I fill my tank at a BP and see an IGA down the street that I get a pre-made sandwich from. This is clearly a tiny town and I can tell I am getting the stranger look from everyone at the grocery store as I am sitting on my bike in the parking lot eating my sandwich and chips. I check my map before I go to figure out where I am and I notice I am just about where 68 ends. From here I see that I can take 12 to 53 to 163, which brings me to Marblehead, where I can get the ferry to Kelley's Island. I have noticed that when I am studying a map to plot out a route from point A to point B, I often overlook roads even smaller than the ones I am initially planning on taking. It's a matter of focus, because I look for the obvious route, outside of interstates of course, first. When I find that route I am looking for, only then can I look at it with more scrutiny, to see if there are better looking roads around, or roads that will cut off some time or miles. Often, I have to be on the route I initially found to focus on the smaller roads because at that point I have already found a road and begun driving on it, so my focus is available for something else. Case in point, 12 and 53 and 163. This is not the path I had planned on taking, but I am in a good position to take it and it would be better than going on I-75 north to another road going east since it would be more direct and avoid an interstate. A great score.
I soon find myself near Marblehead and the ferry. The farm country has faded into strip malls and traffic lights, but I eventually make it to the ferry, which is easy to spot, but still I drive past the entrance and have to turn around. The sun is bright still, and the ferry soon comes, making this the second time I have been on a ferry on this trip. This time I am on the opposite end of the country, north instead of south, and I am not out of gas. When I get off the ferry, I wait for Terry to come meet me. Terry was my one-time uncle, or ex-uncle, or uncle once-removed (if that is the term - I cannot wrap my head around family/relative jargon) or whatever the term. He is the father of two of my cousins, and looks identical to his son Jesse, the only member of my family that I have not yet, or will not see on my trip. This is the only reason I recognize him, since I have only met Terry when I was three and don't remember at all. I follow him back to the bed and breakfast he owns and runs and we jump in Lake Erie for a swim before dinner. It's pretty chilly in the lake, but I get used to it quickly. We hang around the kitchen before heading out and I tell him about my trip and he tells me about his travels when he was younger. The conversations spills over to dinner where I get an awesome steak with an equally awesome heap of mashed potatoes. Terry seems to know everyone at the restaurant which makes sense because he owns it, but when we go to a bar down the street, he knows everyone there too. I guess that's just what happens when you're a friendly person living in a small place for long enough. That night I relax in my personal jacuzzi tub in my own room with my own deck. In the morning I take a bike around the island. I find my way to a dead end that nearly runs into the lake, and to a nature walk around a marsh, and to a three hundred foot long set of glacially-warped and grooved rock, and to a rock covered in old Indian inscriptions. I make it entirely around the island in under two hours, and back to Terry's around noon. He is getting ready for a week-long bicycle trip in Florida with Jesse, packing up and checking his bike. We go into town for lunch and sit on the water and eat where everyone knows him of course. I feel like I have gotten the VIP tour of Kelley's Island in the short time I was here. I am glad I go to know Terry and I thank him before heading to the ferry. I have a short ride to Cleveland, where I absolutely need to be tonight so I can see The Brian Jonestown Massacre play.
The next day is Friday, and Uncle Mike takes the day off. We go over my bike some more, adding air, adjusting the chain, checking the spark plugs and spokes, and the air filter. The paper in the air filter is half dark red, half black, and I'm not sure how dirty is too dirty. Uncle Mike suggests getting a new one just to be safe, which makes sense. Fortunately there is a Honda shop right near by, and we pick up a new filter. Up near the ceiling, the shop has raised a whole bunch of classic motorcycles for display. Uncle Mike recognizes most of them which is pretty cool, because I really don't know much about motorcycles. I can hardly recognize a Harley from a Honda from a Yamaha on the road, but I think that is more from a conscious design choice the Japanese bike makers have made. The new air filter is a clean, bright orange, and comparing the old one to it shows how badly I needed the new one. After putting it on the bike, we head into town for another stop at a classic Cincinnati restaurant, Camp Washington. This is another chili place, and is pretty similar to Skyline, but I guess it has more of a reputation in the area. The next stop is the Cincinnati Museum Center which is in an old train depot. There are a few museums here, but we just go to the Cincinnati History Museum. The big deal at this museum, as far as I'm concerned, is a sprawling model of Cincinnati circa the thirties and forties. This model is humongous and ridiculously detailed. It takes about forty-five minutes to go over the whole thing, and probably not notice all the little details like the tiny people arguing over a car accident, or a lit up furnace on the street next to a moving pulley for roofers, or smoke coming out of a building with firetrucks pulled up next to it. They have ever neighborhood and the old baseball stadium and probably many more things that I didn't recognize since I am not intimately familiar with Cincinnati. The rest of the museum is pretty standard stuff: and old streetcar, a bunch of World War II displays and info about industries and pre-colonial history, and boating industries and so forth. From the museum we met up with my aunt at Dana's, a bar my aunt and uncle have been going to for decades, since they were in college, where my uncle used to both work and play at in a band. It's a pretty cool bar, small and worn down and dark, they way I like my bars. That night we eat grilled brats instead of going out because maybe we hit all the standard Cincinnati restaurants already.
I am leaving the next day to head up to Kelley's Island on Lake Erie, and have to miss the Oktoberfest celebrations in Cincinnati, which has a large German heritage. I eat a great big breakfast and pack up my bike and go over my route one more time. I have to get on I-275 for a little bit, then take 28 northeast until I get to 68 which runs north through most of the state. 68 is a pretty nice road that runs through farm country and small towns. After a couple hours, I stop for gas and lunch in a town called Arlington. I fill my tank at a BP and see an IGA down the street that I get a pre-made sandwich from. This is clearly a tiny town and I can tell I am getting the stranger look from everyone at the grocery store as I am sitting on my bike in the parking lot eating my sandwich and chips. I check my map before I go to figure out where I am and I notice I am just about where 68 ends. From here I see that I can take 12 to 53 to 163, which brings me to Marblehead, where I can get the ferry to Kelley's Island. I have noticed that when I am studying a map to plot out a route from point A to point B, I often overlook roads even smaller than the ones I am initially planning on taking. It's a matter of focus, because I look for the obvious route, outside of interstates of course, first. When I find that route I am looking for, only then can I look at it with more scrutiny, to see if there are better looking roads around, or roads that will cut off some time or miles. Often, I have to be on the route I initially found to focus on the smaller roads because at that point I have already found a road and begun driving on it, so my focus is available for something else. Case in point, 12 and 53 and 163. This is not the path I had planned on taking, but I am in a good position to take it and it would be better than going on I-75 north to another road going east since it would be more direct and avoid an interstate. A great score.
I soon find myself near Marblehead and the ferry. The farm country has faded into strip malls and traffic lights, but I eventually make it to the ferry, which is easy to spot, but still I drive past the entrance and have to turn around. The sun is bright still, and the ferry soon comes, making this the second time I have been on a ferry on this trip. This time I am on the opposite end of the country, north instead of south, and I am not out of gas. When I get off the ferry, I wait for Terry to come meet me. Terry was my one-time uncle, or ex-uncle, or uncle once-removed (if that is the term - I cannot wrap my head around family/relative jargon) or whatever the term. He is the father of two of my cousins, and looks identical to his son Jesse, the only member of my family that I have not yet, or will not see on my trip. This is the only reason I recognize him, since I have only met Terry when I was three and don't remember at all. I follow him back to the bed and breakfast he owns and runs and we jump in Lake Erie for a swim before dinner. It's pretty chilly in the lake, but I get used to it quickly. We hang around the kitchen before heading out and I tell him about my trip and he tells me about his travels when he was younger. The conversations spills over to dinner where I get an awesome steak with an equally awesome heap of mashed potatoes. Terry seems to know everyone at the restaurant which makes sense because he owns it, but when we go to a bar down the street, he knows everyone there too. I guess that's just what happens when you're a friendly person living in a small place for long enough. That night I relax in my personal jacuzzi tub in my own room with my own deck. In the morning I take a bike around the island. I find my way to a dead end that nearly runs into the lake, and to a nature walk around a marsh, and to a three hundred foot long set of glacially-warped and grooved rock, and to a rock covered in old Indian inscriptions. I make it entirely around the island in under two hours, and back to Terry's around noon. He is getting ready for a week-long bicycle trip in Florida with Jesse, packing up and checking his bike. We go into town for lunch and sit on the water and eat where everyone knows him of course. I feel like I have gotten the VIP tour of Kelley's Island in the short time I was here. I am glad I go to know Terry and I thank him before heading to the ferry. I have a short ride to Cleveland, where I absolutely need to be tonight so I can see The Brian Jonestown Massacre play.
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