I slink off to the freezer, much like my daughter when she is told no more iCarly. I fill my camelback with some ice for the trip since the scrolls also say regular water intake is critical. If I am going to listen to them regarding my bff Juan Valdez, I may as well take the camelback. It's 45 degrees so I went light on the ice then slid into my gear. LD Comfort scivvys bought specifically for this adventure, followed up by the polarweight fleecy hunting thermal pants. Long sleeve tshirt and thermal top round out the undergarments. Cabelas hunting socks on the dogs, followed by Firstgear mesh pants with the comfy liner in and my trusty hiking boots. Upper half gets a fleece, Speed & Strength jacket with the trash bag liner in and the neck gaiter to cover the gobbler. Final touches include the gerbings gloves and a reflective hi-vis vest so they can find me in the ditch after my lack of coffee dt's force me off the road. Montezuma's a wuss. I am much more afraid of Valdez's Revenge.
Dog is confused as hell due to the hour. Thank god for neighbors to take care of him today. With a wave I am off and awkwardly mount my waltzing Tiger in my Michelin man duds. Back down the driveway and I am at the 24hr Wawa minutes later for my first receipt at 2:36am. For those of you who are new to the saddlesore/Iron Butt rules, it is based off of gas receipts. I now have until 2:36am tomorrow to get a receipt 1000 miles away, or in my case, back from a 524 mile each way jaunt into this realm of silliness.
My guess is if I fail it will be because I forget to get one of my receipts. "Sidestand down, unplug gloves, get a receipt" becomes my mantra for the day. I get about 200 miles easily out of a tank of hi test so there will be at least 5 more opportunities to screw it up.
First 50 miles or so were at 55 which was a drag but expected. For those who have never ridden a tiger, you should. I love this bike but it has 2 weaknesses. Both will be an issue for this trip. First, the headlight sucks, even after the hid upgrade. Stock is equivalent to holding a dinner candle at speed to light your way. Fortunately the high beam is weak as well but not too bad and fine for highway riding without incurring the wrath of my compadres in the giant trucks. Secondly, the trip buttons to reset mileage were designed by a tween girl who never wore a pair of motorcycle gloves. How a bike with this much attention to detail gets through engineering with those buttons is something I cannot begin comprehend.
The beginnings of any longish ride for me follow a fairly predictable pattern. I think its why I like to ride further than most. Phase 1 sees my mental dial set on a spinal tap 11. I mentioned Phaedrus earlier and this mental slicing mentality is a constant presence in my life. It has made me somewhat successful in several different ventures both professional and personal so it isn't necessarily a bad thing. The constant buzz of ideas gets a little old sometimes, but it is like Elwood J Blues said when the train passes his room. It happens "so often you won't even notice it". My friends laugh at it because it makes me me. The din recedes on very few occasions. Those include whenever my princess is around, 3+ hr motorcycle rides, 3hr + bass fishing trips and occasionally while reading a fictional novel by writers like Tom Clancy.
Today is no different. As I roll through Harrisburg PA the flood grows stronger and is also par for the course. Phase 2. Rerunning the route in my mind, playing out scenarios should I have a breakdown how it would be resolved. How will different mechanical gremlins present themselves in the early stages. These are the melodies playing over the harmonies of Penndot/government inefficiencies and funding, commercial vehicle inspection, the intricacies of customer satisfaction and engagement programs, what high school will be like for an adopted kid in 7 years, and god knows what else. The melodies and harmonies run concurrently. My only guess is that in a last ditch effort, my twisted neurons open all valves to full and start dumping in an effort to overload the system. It doesn't work. Tiger trumps neuron.
By the PA-MD border things are quieting down inside the HJC. Welcome to the zone, we are glad to have you back. Phase 3 is why I ride. Here it is simply scanning for hazards ahead and to the sides. That's it, nothing else. The symphony gives way to a one fingered solo of chopsticks. I LOVE IT. I think this is why Buddhists always seem to have a smile. They were smart enough to spend their life training to be in the zone. It's like a titty bar for the mind.
Now that my mind is where I want it, I realize the temperature has dropped and I am getting cold. Hunters knows this thermocline event which occurs just before dawn well. It always surprises me. I guess I am not so bright. I neglected to hook my gloves to the wires turtling out from my jacket. No need to add stress so I hit the rest stop and electrify and I am back on the road in under 2 minutes. No harm no foul.
Gas light on at 150miles. Silly computer doesn't know its ass from a hole in the ground. I know I can go maybe 75 more miles technically but usually concede to the orange light. Now to look for an easy on easy off a 4:45am in West Virginia. Falling Waters fit the bill 175 miles in. I get my receipt, and take care of the biological fluid removal process. Things are going well and I am thrilled. I double check my receipt bag is stowed, the pelican box is locked tight and fumble with the trip reset buttons.
"Sir? SIR!"
What the... Who's yelling sir so loud at 5am that I can hear through earplugs, a helmet and 1050cc's of the UK's finest? I thought to ignore it at first and mind my own business, but put the bike back on sidestand and popped the lid on the helmet to see what the ruckus was about. There was a 20 something girl with a lip ring and fake red hair walking in my general direction.
"Is this wallet yours?"
Epic fail.
You have got to be kidding me. She went to clean the mens room after I left and it had fallen out of my jacket pocket which I thought was zipped. No matter how many times I F up, this trip seems destined for success. What's the chances that a gas station bathroom is cleaned more than once a day, and that a pierced 20 something graveyard shift worker at said gas station would find my wallet and return it to me, inside a 3 minute window, with the $300 in tact? I slipped her 20 for her efforts and kicked myself on down rt 81 south in the dark.
"Sidestand down, unplug gloves, get a receipt, check for your frickin wallet YFF"
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