Wednesday off

My student was absent this Wednesday, and I made a lazy bottom decision to take the day off. A reasonable thing to do. Jesse was due home from Afghanistan today and when I got his text, off went my reply of what I was doing, "Riding BMW on forestry road. I will call back when I get home." Sadly, I forgot to include Earl in that text. He hadn't a clue where I was.

And where did I decide to go this beautiful Feb 22? After a ride on Love, first thing in the morning, I strapped the snowshoes on the BMW and headed to Angeles Crest Highway, hoping for a place to use them. My favorite place to ride, but getting there isn't something I want to highlight.

None of the weekend riders were on hwy 2 and snow was just as scarce. The forestry roads were unlocked with gates wide open. They were all closed last summer when I first discovered this ride. Not a lot of snow this year, except in the shade. So, I started off on a dirt road which was only 6 miles to the small village of Lone Pine. It was warm and dry, then the road wrapped around the hill to the north side and a patch of snow was in front of me. 100 yards, shouldn't be a problem. For any one else maybe, within 40 feet the back tire slipped on the icy slush and the bike went down, cracking my ankle on the aluminum panniers. Sliding out from under I switch the key off and stood up. Shaky and weak, I tried to lift the bike, it was not budging. There was a banana in my back pack, a little bit of brain food as I looked at all the possibilities. I lifted the bike once before so I was pretty sure I could get it back up. Wasn't happening. Scooting the scooter to face up hill, since it was decided, there would probably be more patches between here and the final mile, up hill would be better for me to drive, no brake required. Again I tried to upright the bike, with the right footing, it popped up, threw my leg over the seat and started it, released the clutch and the rear tire spun. Off the bike, more situation look over, moving the snow from in front of the back tire and slipping myself on the slushed over ice, since the snow was only on the road, pine needles were gathered and a path made to the end of the dirt...the whole situation was rectified in less then 30 minutes. Nicely done, if it wasn't corrected on my own, it was a mile walk to the highway and wait for a traffic car that might be able to help me. And probably a lecture from a stranger that I shouldn't be on a dirt road in the first place.

It was a great ride. New roads discovered and new lessons learned.

Even at 52.

Some of the In Between

After the initial restructuring of all my "necessary" gear on the Cajon Pass, I veered off the freeway to highway 395 and my first fuel up. Heating up too. 104 degrees @ 10 am. Voting against the larger fueling station, I found a single pump a top the rise, and not disappointingly, the old man sitting out front with a fly swatter across his lap. Drooping, red eyes, thin as a pretzel and legs knotted just as tight, he watched me fuel up, check my bungees, which I later traded for tie downs you crank to get your load secure, and in his all-the-time-in-the world drawl asked me how long I'd been on the road.

Today. I told him. He took a big breathe, (a sign of the beginning to his adventure)

"Wife and I use to ride." He flipped the swatter on his knee and told me the story of when they were riding and got into an accident. He had always told her to wrap her arms around his shoulders and get her feet up into his crotch, if it looked like they were going down. It did. She followed his instructions, got her feet up into his crotch and wrapped her arms around his head, blocking his view. He chuckled, it was a few months before we were able to get up, but we made. Didn't ride after that.

We were about ready to part ways when he motioned with his swatter to an object I had been fixing in the bungee cords earlier.

I pointed to the pair of flat iron pieces under the spare fuel can. "These are the wind breakers my husband made me for the highway bars if it gets too cold." He nodded his head and waved me on. Never asked where I was going, never told him.

I never used the wind breakers. They were just too warm when attached to the highway bars. They were left at Collin's on the way home, in Seattle. Abbey made a sticker for one of them. With her highway prayer on it.

"Lord, keep my mama safe on the roads as she travels her dream. In Jesus Name."

Just the Beginning

Such is life. One day, you realize, you're done being a mom. The 5 kids are self-supportive, meaning they are out of college and pushing 30 something. You've always been well taken care of (spoilt) but not taken advantage of the position of a non-working wife. You've tried the ceramic classes and art classes at the local college, you've coached enough kids sports to write a book of positive coaching and drills, then a blog is googled, an idea is presented; "I can do that and I better do it now."

I am going to Alaska. The state turns 50. I turn 50. I was born in Fairbanks and have never been. It is time to go. Cheapest means of transportation? Since I don't work, abuse of my sponsor is always at the back of my mind, being frugal is in the front. How can I get to Alaska with out punishing my husband's savings account? There's a 2006 Honda Shadow in the garage. But it's a 600cc and 100 miles to it's 2 gallon fuel tank means a lot of stopping and fuel stations to Alaska can be lacking. It wouldn't work.

Scanning craigslist, I found an inexpensive similar bike, with accessories. It's 10 years old, mileage is low, and it runs like a champ. Let the road trip begin!

Everything to do with Alaska motorcycle road trip was googled. I joined a group from Florida going to Alaska. The coordinator was deaf and taught sign language at a Florida university. He sets up a group, every year, to raise money for deaf families.

I did my own mapping, as I was to meet the group in Canada. I'm from SoCal and was aiming for my parents in North Idaho. Campgrounds were selected and some reserved. The Alaskan State Ferry was booked, opting for a tent on deck, I cancelled the stateroom. Fuel stations were calculated for a days ride of approx 350 miles. Hikes, waterfalls, lakes, attractions were marked on my map. Remember, I'm traveling on a budget. I didn't use a GPS, roads to Alaska are few, so you're not going to get lost. My husband made a map dash for me that actually was a 99 cent cookie tray attached to the inside of the windscreen with a clear plastic cover over the top, secured by magnet strips. My maps were folded to the area I was driving in and kept under the plastic cover. A desert dust devil lead me into the first Walmart for a new map book and clamps to keep the cover down, the magnets weren't enough muscle to do the job. Desert heat in July was uninviting. Why am I doing this? I learned to stop at McD's for a sweet iced tea and a wet T shirt; that brought cool for about 30 miles. Even though we have a road trip rule: no chain restaurants. McD's had what I needed.

There was so much stuff on my bike, within the first hundred miles of leaving home things were falling off. The spare fuel I had bungeed to the rear seat, jumped off and was bouncing behind the license plate. I thought the driver next to me was hitting on me, but, in fact, he wanted me to catch the gas can before it blew up! My daughter dubbed me the vagabond, as pictures declare all too colorfully. The neon vest was to be a signature cover of my backpack for all my trips. Not desiring to be a speed bump, the idea was to be seen.

I gave myself 4 weeks, more or less, and my parents the opportunity to go with me. They didn't like the idea of riding with a motorcycle group. "But,Dad, they're your age." Still, he didn't agree, so the journey wasn't mentioned again. Until June. End of July was the date set for the road trip of my life.

"You still planning that trip to Alaska?" a call came from my dad, late in June. I was. "Can we go along?"

The objective for the trip materialized. I had hoped they would join me, to fill me in on the details of the first 2 years of my life and their situations and hardships of being based in Alaska in 1959. Not set in concrete, they actually didn't decide to do the full trip till Banff, Canada. They were to follow me for the first day, to see if they physically could handle driving. Didn't really matter, the sheer adventure of the road compels my parents. My mom secretively had 2 days of clothing packed and of course, a ton of food for sandwiches and snacks. Which was perfect, we stopped at lakes and creeks, bridges and waterfalls for a half a sandwich. End of trip: we lost 10 pounds each.

They followed me from North Idaho to Haines, Alaska, where we parted ferries, they drove home and I ferried for 4 long, foggy, slow moving days. If I could of gotten off and rode inland I would have, but every stop was an island. And part of the adventure. There were many bikes on board and I talked with some. Some were too classy to associate with a vagabond older lady, I noticed their bikes and gear. I spent less on the trip and my gear then they had invested in just the rider pants and jacket. I found a friend in Sheila, my age, with her dog, Trixie. "Come up from Kansas on my '09." She said, as she puffed away on her cigarette. Very comical lady, with the drawl of a mid west accent and the toughness you'd expect from a biker chick. But she talked to me. For that I was thankful. So did Matt, from Minnesota. He rode a laden down Harley, laden with clothing he never changed into. He had the hots for the ranger that kept the ferry passengers entertained with history and fauna of the inside passage. He asked me if he would be out of his league to invite her to dinner one night. She accepted. With a great chance of sitting next to each other, they were seated behind me and I overhead the rough conversation he carried with her. Why he asked her first off if she planned on getting married, did not seem to be the attractive catch phrase I would have started with. "Do you like motorcycle road trips?" would of been my Litmus test. Could be the beginning or ending of a conversation.

We met bikers all along the trip. I noticed the gear they carried and the machine of choice some rode. All this I mentally filed for my next road trip. There would be many, I hoped.

But calls to my pathetic husband cut the drive down the California coast to the inland highway. He missed me and I could always ride the coast when ever for a short trip.