...Tired

Tired, an ode to life in Western Carolina.

...tired of not having a decent radio station,
...tired of losing cellular reception,
...tired of shopping at Wal-Mart,
...tired of the four rugrats (who, of course, are gifted and creative say their parents) yelling and screaming outside my window,
...tired of having to drive halfway across the state to get a beer,
...tired of being told how great this place is,
...tired of being told how lucky I am to be here in the first place.

10 Things Any Self-Respecting Northerner Should Be Able To Do

Much is made about Southern culture in the United States, but what about the North?  I think Northerners have a lot to be proud of; grit, resolve, and a certain stoic sense of humor.  But to be a true Northerner requires more than just living North of the Mason Dixon line -- it takes certain skills, honed through years of cold winters, oppressively hot summers, and endless miles of corn and soybean fields.  Here then are the 10 things that any self-proclaimed Northerner should be able to do.

1. Shovel snow.  Not a little bitty patch the size of a postage stamp, but a full sized driveway, the kind of back-breaking job that gives people heart attacks.  Bonus points for doing it without gloves.

2. Sing "The Battlehymn of the Republic".

3. Eat Oatmeal -- not just occassionally, but everyday and not yack.  Looking into the same bowl of oatmeal for the 100th consecutive morning when its cold and dark outside, and not sticking your head in the oven, takes the kind of steel resolve that only the most hearty of Northerners posses.

4. Know the feeling of being piss-drunk in Canada long before reaching the legal drinking age in the US.  Ahhh, the joy of Canada.  From most parts of the Northern US it is only a few hours drive to a magical land of clean streets, low crime, and good beer;  beer that can be yours long before anyone south of the border will let you have it... 

5. Swim in one of the Great Lakes and not drown.  I suggest Erie.  Fewer dead fish than ever before.

6. Repair a flat tire somewhere along I-80, preferably in a blizzard.  Bonus points for getting a face full of road slush from a passing semi.  Even more points for giving the trucker the finger and not getting beaten to a pulp with a tire iron.

7. (Related to 6) Recover from a near fatal skid on a snow covered highway.

8. Finish a sentence without the qualifier, "ya know?"  Yeah, I know -- you just told me!

9. Hear the song, "Free Bird" and not feel a sudden swelling of pride.  Is there a comparable song to this for Northerners?  Maybe something from John Cougar Mellencamp?  I don't know.

10. Look at a weather forecast for snow or (my favorite) the "wintery mix" with highs in the teens and not run off to Florida.

Lying on my back for Science....

My contract at Western Carolina University is 173 days starting in August, which leaves me a lot of free time during the summer.  I can spend this time doing research (this summer it will be a study on digit length and sexual dimorphism), reading, writing, or just hanging around doing nothing (since I'm still being paid the university).  Wouldn't it be great, though, to get compensated for just lying around?  Paid to kick back, read, even having your meals brought to you in bed with a 1-hour massage every other day?  A fantasy, you say...

On the contrary - it's the NASA Bedrest Study! https://bedreststudy.jsc.nasa.gov/

NASA wants to know the effects of weightlessness on all sorts of metabolic systems.  While it is cost prohibitive to send, lets say, a couple of thousand volunteers into space (it still costs about $1000 to send 1 pound of cargo into orbit) you can simulate most of the effects by having someone lay on a bed angled down at 6 degrees.  Most of the studies are a month or longer, with some of the time spent stabilizing your diet before the bed rest begins and rehabilitation afterward.  During the study you're fed much the same diet as the crews on the International Space Station and are free to do just about anything you would normally do, just as long as you can do it lying down.  They even provide special tables/clamps for your laptop, so that you can use it lying down. 

I've already gone through the screening, initial labs (which were done locally) and was treated to a flight physical and psych evaluation at the Johnson Space Center in Houston.  Except for my triglycerides and Vitamin D3, I passed all of the tests with flying colors (and learned a new word during the psych eval -- ambivert; apparently I am neither extrovert or introvert).  The only thing stopping me from joining the proud ranks of NASA's reclinonauts (copyright pending) is my diet.  Its high fiber, low fat, and lots of exercise for the next three weeks.  With any luck I'll be spending July in a facility in Galveston, catching up on all the sedentary activities I haven't had time for in the last year...

...and being paid to do it!

I AM Luke Skywalker

Something really amazing happened last week. I found out that I have a sister.

No, not a half-sister. I had that happen when I was 14. A real, honest to goodness full sister. 40 years after the fact. Her name is Mindy and she lives in Chicago. Coincidentally, she is a big Star Wars fan (that's her in the picture). She is also beautiful, talented, and very open hearted. I couldn't have imagined a better sibling.

I know that some of you have heard me say that my life seemed to follow Star Wars; whisked away to Ohio (Tatooine) to be raised by relatives, my background kept a carefully guarded secret until I came of age, the circumstances surrounding my birth tied up in all sorts of drama. Now it would seem that I have found Leia. As Yoda said in "Return of the Jedi", "No. There is another..." He was right.

Of course, we are not twins -- and there are thousands of other inconsistencies that do not fit neatly into the storyline. But a lot does. So I'm stuck wondering about the other parts -- specifically...

1. Who is Han Solo and Chewbacca and where is the Millenium Falcon?

2. I'm pretty sure that I've met Anakin's mom, Obi-wan and Yoda, but what about some of the lesser characters? Having attended about 100 Sci-Fi conventions, I've had my fill of Stormtroopers. God, I hope we don't find Jar-Jar...

3. I'm moving down to a heavily forested part of North Carolina. Is it Endor? Where are the bloody Ewoks?

4. What is the Force? More specifically, what is the Dark Side? Is it just a metaphor for taking the easy way out?

5. When do I get to blow up the Death Star and face the Emperor?

Really, Lucas -- if anything, you did too good of a job putting together a mythological story. And if mythology is a reflection of our relationship to the universe, then I certainly feel more a part of the story than I ever have in the past.

The Worst Jobs I Ever Had

As my Census Enumerator position comes to a close and I bid the world of crumbling tenements and Section 8 housing goodbye, I've been thinking about some of the worst jobs I've ever worked. In terms of "bad" (ie. low pay, bad conditions, bad bosses, etc...) the Census job really doesn't even register as a blip on the radar, although it comes close. No, really, really bad jobs have to include some essential ingredient that makes them completely intolerable for even a day, and makes being penniless and destitute a credible alternative.

Here then are my top 5 worst jobs of all time (in no particular order).

1. Fry Cook, Arthur Treachers: I was told to always wear a white, long sleeved shirt to work. What I was not told was that the splattering grease from the fryer would turn it a sickening shade of yellow, and that these stains would never come out. I was burned several times an hour by the hot grease, too. At the end of the night I had to scrape out the clam chowder vat (nobody ever ordered any, and by 10 PM it was like fishy-smelling vulcanized rubber) and filter the oil with a machine that looked like something out of a Mad Max movie. One night the hose on the machine ruptured, sending 50 gallons of luke-warm peanut oil all over the floor. When I called my manager to ask for help (he was at home) I was yelled at and told to get it clean or I would be fired. I saved him the trouble and told him the oil would be there for him when he got in and that I was going home.

2. Buy Here Pay Here Lot Repo: Buy here pay here lots work by charging the entire dealership cost of the car as the down payment, so that any money the customer pays is pure profit. Many cars go out five or six times before somebody makes all the payments, so getting them back is not critical. When I was younger and had no credit I bought a VW Jetta from one of these lots. One month they offered to give me credit for my payment if I rode along on a repo. I ended up doing it a few times with a hard-core alcoholic hillbilly named Jim (he drove the tow truck). Jim liked to call me "college boy" (this was actually before I went to college), and spent most of the time lecturing me about the moral failings of minorities. Jim was also packing a 45 caliber automatic he kept tucked into the seat. After he pulled this on a reposessee I decided that my life was worth more than the $55 dollar payment I was saving by riding shotgun.

3. Temp Agency: Tax Return Sorter: I did a lot of crap temp jobs, but his one sticks in my mind because of how mind numbingly boring it was. For whatever reason, the State of Ohio wanted the State Tax Returns put in a certain order. For 8 hours a day I sat in a windowless room stacked to the ceiling with bundles of returns and painstakingly put them in numerical order sorted by zip code. I did this for every return in the state for 1991. I still have nightmares about that room.

4. Temp Agency: American Glass Smith: Heres a great idea - take someone who has never done any sort of industrial manufacturing, give them 5 minutes of instruction, and then set them to work cutting metal frames for replacement windows. By about the third day I had welts all over my hands from the splinters of metal that flew out of the saw. By the second week I started to feel ill. Turns out I was getting metal poisoning from contact with the zinc, aluminum, and lead I was cutting. When I told this to my supervisor he accused me of overreacting (I had already seen a doctor). When I pointed to the OSHA regulations poster, complete with man wearing face mask and gloves (neither of which I had) I was told my services were no longer needed. The place shut down for various labor violations a short time later.

5. Retention Specialist: Card Services: This place made all of its money from a charge that was automatically re-applied to your credit card every year and that almost nobody paid any attention to. The "membership" allowed you to buy cheap crap out of a catalog which, to my knowledge, nobody ever used (I was told by another employee that less than 1% of the companies revenue came from the catalog). When people discovered the charge on their credit card statement and called us they were required to talk to me before we graciously canceled the membership (they had to call yet another number to request a refund, which was almost never given). Eight hours a day I sat reading a script to irate cardholders who called me every name in the book while our overseer dispensed useless advice and applied demerits for the slightest deviation from the script. Five of us had been hired for the job and by the third week we had all decided to quit. On the last day our retention was exactly zero, since we cheerfully canceled the membership of every caller without question. Our supervisor (I think her name was Tina) stopped us at the door on our way out ready to give us a verbal lashing. We walked by her like she wasn't even there. I can still hear her shouting at us from the door of the building as we crossed the parking lot.

Having an Imagination...

It happened in Tupelo, MS on Easter Sunday. I was sitting at a Starbucks and just happened to look out the window at my bike. The final drive casing and the wheel were covered in some kind of fluid that had leaked out of the casing. Not the kind of thing you want to see at the start of a 22-state, 5000 mile trip. After a few hours of troubleshooting, searching the Internet and trying (without success) to find a BMW mechanic on Easter Sunday in the South, I decided to head for home. While I did have the consolation prize of a night of unbridled consumption at the Flying Saucer in Nashville (a really excellent staff, BTW) the bike and my aborted trip weighed heavily on my thoughts. I had been equipped for three weeks on the road and had managed just three days and 1200 miles.

Of course, the reason for turning back wasn't mechanical -- the reason was that I have an imagination. Christopher Moore claims that Alpha Males charge forward into danger while Beta Males sit back and imagine all the bad things that will happen to them. In my case, I could think of endless scenarios that involved me stranded in the middle of nowhere, fluids pouring out of the bike onto the dusty pavement. The bike's final resting place would be some county road in the middle of Texas or New Mexico, abandoned to the coyotes and the tumbleweeds, while I hitchhiked my way back to civilization. As I limped back along the Natchez Trace Parkway I imagined parts grinding against each other below my seat, the engine and transmission fluids sparkling with bits of metal. Every odd noise and hesitation from the bike became it's death rattle, every odor the scent of rubber seals melting away.

Got back to Ohio the next day, the leak never materializing. In fact, the MPGs improved, climbing from 39.6 MPG at the beginning of the trip to 46! Next day I called the dealership in Atlanta where I purchased the bike to ask about the leak and they didn't have a clue what might be wrong. Ended up taking it to the BMW mechanic at Ohio Motorcycle. He explained that if the seals were fine (no leaks around the seals) that the final drive breather will expel fluid if the pressure is too high. How could the pressure get too high? Very hard riding (which I had not done -- I pushed it a bit in the wind, but nothing past 80 MPH) or too much fluid. So I bought a quart of Hypoid Oil for the final drive and proceeded to change it myself. Sure enough -- even with the loss of fluid during the trip the amount that came out of the final drive was about 20% more than recommended. It had been over filled by the last person to do maintenance on the transmission. The extra fluid may have also been hobbling the final drive -- when the extra fluid was expelled (probably on the first day) the engine didn't have to work as hard to overcome the resistance and, presto! My MPGs improved by 16%.

My overreaction was not a total loss. In the process of getting the bike back to Columbus I discovered that the battery had become extremely weak. Chances are good that while the transmission would have soldiered on I might have awoken some morning to a dead battery. Some of the places I was planning on camping out west were really remote, too -- I might have waited a long time for a jump...

Is there a moral or lesson to any of this? Probably not. Only the old adage about best laid plans; the really do sometimes go astray...

Day 12: Grinnell, IA to HOME!

My last day on the road can be summed up by the following; corn, corn, soybeans, corn, trucks, rest stops, home. 600 miles of boredom followed by the exhiliration of pulling into my own driveway, safe and sound. Distance out to Berkeley (to the left) was 2721 miles in 5 days (544.2 miles per day). Distance back (route below) was 2440 miles (488 miles per day). Grand total for the trip was 5161 miles.

Motorcycling cross country is like the space program. You get to wear a cool helmet, getting to anywhere interesting takes longer than a day, and it always ends up costing twice as much as you thought it would. This trip was no exception.

For the next trip I'm not strapping on my luggae with bungees or cargo nets. This is a tremendous pain in the ass and not matter how careful I am about it, everything seems to shift, usually at odd times. I'm also investing in a pair of heated gloves. I have heated grips but they were pretty much useless when it got really cold and the grips drew too much current from the electrical system (which is, I suspect, at the heart of the issues with the bike).

Bike has minor damage to the windscreen, needs an oil change, valve job, spark plugs, a new front tire, and a thorough wash. Altogether not bad for 5000+ miles.

Now its time to get some work done...

Day 11: Riding the storm out; Sydney, NE to Grinnell, IA

The pictures you see are the before and after. Before, at the start of the day, Nebraska was calm, even inviting. After, in Iowa, the sun set against a clear blue sky, the temperature almost perfect.

But that was not how most of the day went.

20 minutes into the ride it started to rain. 30 minutes into the ride the wind picked up. Temps were already in the 40's thanks to the same storm front that dumped snow all over Colorado and Eastern Wyoming. An hour into the ride and the rain was coming down so hard it felt like needles against my skin through my gloves. My supposedly waterproof suit was soaked through in about 2 hours. Nothing to do at that point but ride on.

Ride on I did, hour after cold, wet hour. Probably the most miserable ride of my life, especially when my heated vest shorted out about midway through it. I cursed at drivers who passed me, who followed too close, who dared to slow down. I made up a game -- Cruise Control or No Cruise Control, then played it with myself for, like, an hour (the rules are far too confusing to recount here -- suffice it to say they make the original Dungeons and Dragons look like tiddliwinks).

I take back all the nice things I almost said about Nebraska yesterday. It is a cold, heartless state that wishes only for me to be bored to the point of suicide, or physically miserable. The sun came out literally when I crossed the state line (I kid you not!). Iowa loves me. I have decided that the states with the fewest letters in their name are the best. Nebraska, with eight, ranks below Florida, but slightly higher than Mississippi (and if you've been through Mississippi you'll be in total agreement on this). According to this system Michigan, with twice as many letters as Ohio, sucks twice as much. In fact, it sucks as much as Nebraska, come to think of it. Hmmm...California...ten letters....

Last leg of the journey tomorrow -- a mere 599 miles and I pull into my own driveway.

Bike Update: Okay, so maybe its not the fuel pump. My GPS was only going on the fritz with the heated grips on -- which means the battery was low on volts and had discharged. Could I have over-taxed the electrical capacity? I disconnected my charge cable for the cell phone and the GPS and the bike is running fine, no whine, no stalls. Maybe I'll look into a new battery when I get home (this one has 40,000+ miles on it now).

Day 10: You Cannot Pass....

The morning started cold but otherwise clear and it only got worse. By the time I was an hour into my ride my hands were cold enough that they hurt. I was about 50 miles from Rawlins (at approximately 7000 feet) when I got my first look at what was ahead. No brown hills spotted with green -- pure white.

Stopped in Rawlins. A fellow motorcyclist, Jim Ham, was trying to warm up on his way through to Denver. Cruel weather. I can withstand two of the three apocalyptic horsemen of motorcycling; wind and/or cold, and/or rain/snow -- I cannot, however, take all three. By the time I reached Laramie the bike was iced over and I couldn't keep my helmet clear. My so-called waterproof gloves had soaked through and my heated grips were doing nothing. I tried to get out of Laramie but enocuntered white-out conditions and had to turn around. This is the first time on any motorcycle trip that I've had to turn back.

As I write this things are looking a little better. I would still like to get to Nebraska before nightfall. This is also a first time (pay attention Jane Tunks) I am actually looking forward to being in Nebraska; visions of warm, dry winds blowing across I-80 and the sun beating down on me from high. Not the pleasant green of Ohio, but hey -- any port in a storm. Meanwhile, I'll sip my coffee at Coal Creek Coffee, stare out at the grey skies over Wyoming, and send a silent prayer up to the Rain God Tlaloc that he stop this nonsense immediately.

Bike Update: It is Day 4 of the mystery whine. I have encountered multiple stalls today at idle, even after the engine was warm. Definitely fuel. It's overhaul time, without a doubt, although the work may have to wait until Spring. I can do everything but the valves and fuel injector / pump myself. Needs a new tire, too. The Dee-El from Hey-el will rise again, though.

Day 9: Winnimucca, NV to Rock Springs, WY

Day started fine, except for the whine from my motorcycles engine. It was back with a vengeance this morning. It's coming from the space between the fuel tank and the top of the engine -- which is precisely where the fuel injector / fuel pump assembly lives. I fear that my return to Ohio will be accompanied by a significant cash expense....

Managed to tip over the bike about 250 miles into the day in Wendover, NV. Nice bit of oil at the Chevron -- not sure if I slipped or the kickstand slipped, but the bike went over with me on it. At least 5 people watched it happen and not one of them said a word, they just stood and stared. Even after I had managed to get it upright, an older couple continued to stare at me. Thanks people...

Rest of the day was a high-speed burn through Utah and into Wyoming. Temps continued to drop throughout the day. At my last gas stop I checked the weather -- area around Rawlins was getting an overnight low of 25 with possible snow flurries. Yeah, time to find a motel. Maybe I'll camp in Iowa on the way through.

Funny Stuff: I especially liked driving past "Deeth Starr Valley" (above) -- illiterate Star Wars fan, or an indictment of the Nevada educational system, or both? I also enjoyed "Pyro City" -- just the name you need for a store that sells fireworks. "Yes, I would like 10,000 M-80's and could you point me in the direction of the local orphanage?" Nice...

Last bit of firvolity (pictured to the right) I saw an honest-to-goodness porcupine at a rest stop in Wyoming. He lumbered across
the road and I followed him and got a picture, of sorts. I saw thousands of Prong Horn throughout the day, but never in a million years did I think I'd see a porcupine. Whacky...

About 500 miles today, which puts me still about 1500 miles from home. Hoping to make it back by Tuesday, assuming the weather and my bike holds out...

Day 8: Goodbye SF, hello Winnimucca, NV

Late start - Craig's band, "McPuzzo and Trotsky" didn't go on until 12:30, and I didn't make it back to Craig's house in Berkeley until 2:30 AM. This moved my departure time ahead by about 6 hours and I wasn't on the road until 12:30 pm local time.

This is the point in every trip where I start to miss the Bay Area - I finally get used to it's weirdness and contradictions, the unique "merchants" (pictured above is my bike in front of Pipe Dreams in Haight-Ashbury) and then it's gone. I can't say I've ever really felt like the place speaks to me in the way it does to others, but I like the feel of it sometimes; the rush of cold air crossing the Bay Bridge, that dry, almost spicy smell in the air tinged with sea salt. It still reminds me of the first time I went to SF when I was 14...

Managed about 400 miles and called it a night in Winnimucca, NV. Nothing here but sand, rocks, and coyotes. This is the hardest part of the trip back; you know you won't be home tomorrow or even the next day. For the next two days it's heat, dust, passing an endless line of trucks, singing "Radar Love" inside your helmet.

BIKE UPDATE: No funny sounds, but I did notice a smudge of soot near the point where the exhaust bolts to the engine. Could the whine have been exhaust related, possibly a leak? I did have a couple of odd happenings with the GPS where it seemed to lose power even though it was plugged into the bike. I'll play it by ear, but as of now I'm cautiously optimistic it will get me home.

Day 7: Funny sounds from the Bike and SF

I hadn't started the bike in a few days. Minutes after it roared to life it began emitting a high-pitched whine. Checked everything; nothing loose, nothing obviously faulty. To say that this makes me a little uneasy would be an understatement. Electrical systems on motorcycles tend to be custom-fit for the bike. When problems occur you can't just walk into a Wal-Mart and find replacement parts. A failure out in the middle of the country can have you stuck there until the part arrives.

Oh well -- not exactly like I have a job that I have to get back to. As long as the laptop holds up and I have a place to stay (worst case, I have a full set of camping gear) I'll get along. Throw in some Wifi and I'm set...

I forgot how fun riding into the city was on a bike -- charging across the Bay Bridge, switching lanes mere inches in front of traffic, then shooting down onto Fremont and the Embarcadero. Rode around for a bit, looked at motorcycle jackets at Johnson Leather, then ate lunch in the Haight. Better still, free parking! I checked three times to convince myself I wasn't seeing things -- no meter, just a few slots. "Motorcycle Parking ONLY". What a lovely sign...

I have come upon an essential truth; people fall into just two categories. Those who are imposition-tolerant are your friends. They accept your shortcomings, your foibles and do not hold an occasional lapse of judgement against you. That is, when you impose on them, they accept this as the cost of friendship and you do the same. The other type of person is imposition-intolerant. Strangers are by definition imposition intolerant, since they have no compelling reason to expend time and energy on someone who may or may not return the favor. The problem is that in todays world you can get along quite well without imposing on others. Sooner or later we have amassed a large number of aquaintances, some of which might be there for us when we really need them, others who will not.

And that's no good! You should know where you stand with the people around you. That is where imposition comes in. Impose! Call them up out of nowhere, tell them you're coming over. Go out and get hammered together, see how they handle it. When you get rowdy, when your language becomes woven through with explitives, when you are the center of unwanted attention, how do they handle it? Your friends will and your acquaintances will not. Your friends may tell you that you are making an ass out of yourself, but they will still be there for you in the morning. Acquaintances, with little investment in the relationship, will simply split. You know what? You are still better off for it, regardless of the outcome.

To all my friends -- thank you for your imposition tolerance! I will strive to do the same.

Day 6: In the Bay Area

Hanging around in the Bay Area is like lowering yourself into a hot bath -- best done slowly, with an occasional pause to adjust to the sensation. The Bay Area is like that for those of us from other parts of the country. I have no problem with New York, and felt immediately at home within just a few hours. Not so with Berkeley or San Francisco.

At Lane Splitter pizza I listened to three grown men have an engaging conversation over pints about play dates between their children. Remember when children could socialize themselves? Not in the Bay, at least -- parents spend considerable time and effort establishing friendships for their children.

I took BART into SF to meet Craig and Jane and some of their friends at a gay club for an all-female Adam Ant cover band called, "Madam and The Ants" (picture below). I heard the directions wrong and ended up walking about 3 miles across SF to 12th Ave instead of 12th St, passing through the Tenderloin, Japantown, and eventually ending up in a part of the city populated by Irish Bars (might have been there years ago). I felt considerably less safe in parts of SF than I did in NYC. Likewise, I think I passed a total of two cops during the entire hike.

Feet aching, (and Taxi ride later), I made it to the Eagle Tavern. Clientele was divided into roughly thirds: gay men who were regulars, drag queens, and band-members or fans of Madam and the Ants. They did every recognizable tune from Adam and the Ants . Borrowing the title from a Jane's Addiction album, by this time nothing was shocking. Not the show, not the Drag Queens holding a bake sale at the front of the bar, not the three rough looking young men who might have been in a gang drinking Budweiser -- nope! By 11:00 PM everything seemed perfectly NORMAL...

Well, normal for the Bay at least.

Day 5: Evanston, WY to Berkeley, CA

Long ride -- 807 miles, finishing off in Berkeley, CA by 8:00 PM local time. Spent the morning crossing Utah, then the afternoon slogging along I-80 through Nevada. Conditions were perfect, traffic was light, and had it not been for the construction I would have averaged at least 90. At times I was able to hold a constant 100 MPH through the basins of Nevada, before the Ranges sapped the life out of my heavily overburdened 650. I love the look on the faces of your typical Harley-Davidson rider as this tiny, over-laden bike whizzes past, its oddly attired rider waving...

A 650 cc. motorcycle is every bit as good as a larger displacement bike except when loaded with gear or at higher elevations. By the time I entered California and started my ascent I was barely making 65 up some of the inclines. At least this trip I've remembered to keep up the lubrication on the chain -- that has helped, but I was still wishing for my R1100RT.

Forgot how beautiful the Bay Area was at night. Along I-80 you come through the coastal hills and then suddenly there it is -- all bright lights, bridges, and the bay itself. The sight was almost enough to make me forget about my throbbing knees and posterior.

Went out with Craig and Jane, ate a Burger at Luckas (spelling?) in Oakland. By the time midnight local time rolled around I had been up and running for almost 20 hours. Close to forty and I can still turn out an 800-mile day on the bike, but I'll be paying for it tomorrow. I fear that all the ibuprofen in the world will not sooth my aches and pains.

But I'm here! A few days of rest and then on to Portland...

Day 4: Spearfish, SD to Evanston, WY

I had really hoped to be into Utah at the very least, but looking at the lack of campsites and the 40 miles further I would have to travel to get a decent hotel, I bailed at Evanston. 604 miles is not a bad day on the bike, but I can do a LOT more when the conditions are optimal.

Left Spearfish, SD at 6:30 AM in the same windstorm that had railroaded my plans the previous day. Luckily there was very little traffic to get in the way of my sudden wind-induced lane changes. 50 miles into Wyoming the wind was gone and I was zipping along at close to the legal speed (75 mph).

The problem with the trip so far was that I had gotten it into my head to see the Black Hills again - that meant I-90, but to get into the Bay Area you need I-80. And folks, there's really not an optimal way to get from one to the other. The day was spent criss-crossing Wyoming on I-25, US-87, and eventually WY-220, which looked like something out of a Mad Max movie. Rawlins was finally in view by 3:00 PM and the rest of the day was spent eating up miles on I-80.

Odd weather of the day -- skies grew dark around Rock Springs, then it got really cold (it dropped about 30 degrees), started raining HARD, then by the time I pulled into Little America, it was gone! I must have done something to offend the Aztec Rain God Tlaloc...will have to remedy that.

Tomorrow its Nevada or bust -- I should say Reno or bust, since I would ideally like to have a nice, easy day cruising into California.