Paul; Lori; Needles Highway: Mount Rushmore and Losing Sunglasses
After driving to the H-D dealership to pick up Billy who had dropped off his Harley for a new windshield, rider’s back rest, handlebars, GPS, etc., we talked with Paul, the Harley salesman who sold Bob his bike, and he was fascinated about the story of Charles Fenton and wants to include it in his “book” he’s writing. He loves history and this is the best kind for him, when he actually gets to meet the people involved. So he wants to interview us, go to the Museum and see the Commission (he wants a copy too) and he urged us to do more digging about our grandfather. He is a lover of western history and explained that if you were a Captain in the cavalry back in those days, it would be like being a full Colonel today. That was a big deal according to him. He also is fascinated with the history of the area, and recited the story of the two trials of Jack McCall for murdering Wild Bill HIckok, and actually got to handle his guns even though they’re kept in a safe - he can talk anyone into anything. He really can.
We left the dealership and returned to Sturgis to pick up everyone else and go back to the Museum to meet the photographer from the Rapid City newspaper. We also got to meet Lori Potts, the lady who followed up on the initial story and tracked down Billy. She had debated whether or not to call but she decided that she would want to know if it was her grandfather, so she called. And that started this whole chain of events. Actually it goes back farther than that, back to the day I bought the raffle ticket in Thunder Bay. It’s really quite simple: Nat buys raffle ticket; Nat wins Harley in raffle; Lori calls Billy, and Billy calls us to tell us the story of the Commission; Griff buys Harley; Griff invites Nat to go with him to Sturgis to see the commission; Griff invites Bobby to go too; Griff invites Billy to go; Billy buys Harley; we ride to Sturgis.
Lori is middle-aged (meaning much younger than us), short, on crutches (the arm brace type), and has a kind and friendly face. She enjoyed telling the story and the attention she got, due to Billy calling her and asking her to join us for the photographs. Several pictures were taken and we expect an article in the newspaper tomorrow. Good for Lori for her persistence and following up where the newspaper had failed to follow up. We are very thankful, for her efforts have been a great boon to us (and especially Bobby who is ending up with a Harley).
We then hit the road toward the Needles Highway and Mount Rushmore, up to Deadwood, taking Route 385 through the middle of the Black Hills (which climb to more than 6000 feet), past Pactola Lake, a beautiful manmade lake, and into Hill City where we had lunch in a restaurant where each booth had a television set and its own remote. We continued on in the heat of the day and finally turned onto Needles Highway, The roads are curvy and hilly, a dream for a motorcyclist, but many of the turns were 15 mph hairpin turns. Our training was invaluable as we had been taught that in slow speed curves, you should look about 30 yards ahead to where you want to go for if you look right in front of you, bad things will happen. That training got Griff, Bob and I through these routes just fine (Bill was driving Sugar and Sandy in the car). En route you go through these one-way tunnels that are 8 feet high and twelve feet wide, I think. Some frame the Presidents on Mount Rushmore so we would dismount and take a photo before continuing on. Finally we reached Mount Rushmore. We could see men at the top preparing for the July 3 fireworks. We were told that people begin lining up at 6 in the morning for the fireworks and the parking lot is full by 10:30, after which they start parking along the highway. So we decided that is not something we want to get in the middle of, especially because we probably wouldn’t be returning until late-ish on Friday. The monument was made even more impressive by the thunderstorm in the vicinity and the dark clouds mingling with the white, puffy clouds and blue sky. A lot of pictures were taken, Billy especially liking those that added his head to the other four.
However, for me, it was a tough day on sunglasses. After recovering my Maui Jim sunglasses twice before after driving off, this time I drove off with the pair sitting on my saddle bags. Bob saw them fly off onto the highway so that was the end of those. He had bought a new pair at lunch, so he gave me his old pair that he had bought for a dollar, and I promptly lost those in a similar manner, all in the space of two hours. When I refueled at Sturgis upon my return, I bought a new pair for $9.99. They are aviator glasses. The lenses are huge. I look like an insect.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Sunday, June 28, 2009
June 28, 2009 Jamie
Jamie; Spearfish Canyon Scenic Byway; Drill Sargeant: Deadwood
Last night, we ate at The Loud American (appropriate name for this crew) in Sturgis. Our waitress was named Jamie, a 20ish, fine figured girl with dark, red tinged hair, wearing a Jack Daniels T-shirt, and very, very short cut-off shorts. She has a wonderful smile, but she looks a little saucy. After delivering our meals, she returned and asked if we needed anything else, Bill replied, “Only another of your wonderful smiles.” She grinned from ear to ear, saying, “I can do THAT all night long.” We were not sure she was talking about smiling “all night long” but I guess we’ll never know. When we left, she gave us all hugs. Old men are so easy to please.
We left the hotel at 8:30 today to get in a ride before meeting Sandy and Sugar at the airport at 1:15. We traveled west to Spearfish on Interstate 90, turning south on Route 14a to enter Spearfish Canyon, a 10-12 mile long canyon following a stream bed, surrounded by high, steep, coniferous treed hills on both sides. The temperature dropped quickly as we climbed up to an elevation of 6200 feet, and were passing through the shadows of the hills. We stopped at Bridal Veil Falls for a picture, but it was into the sun and didn’t come out well. Next stop was past the Lodge, a beautiful place to stay in this Canyon, to see another waterfall. When we had traveled 1 1/4 mile up a dirt road, we parked in the parking lot. We heard the brook and the “falls” of about 2 feet and were quite disappointed. But a couple came by and told us not to miss the falls down the path - they were “well worth it.” So Griff sat while we went to discover the falls, and they were scenic, maybe forty foot drop as seen by us at the top. After returning to the bikes, we continued up the dirt road to see where a scene from Dances with Wolves had been shot, but we couldn’t say for sure which area it was in. After cleaning the bikes yesterday, they were well on their way to getting dusty and dirty again, with Griff’s bike getting the brunt as he brought up the rear. When we arrived at Cheyenne Crossing, he took out his cleaning cloth and wiped the dust off his bike. The treat there was the plateful of fresh doughnut holes, and a bottle of water. We proceeded more rapidly down Route 14a-Route 85 toward Lead, Deadwood and Sturgis, with 55 mph speed limit and twisting, descending roads, a real treat for motorcycles.
On the way here, I led the way and tried, often in vain, to keep our gas stops short, and to keep up the pace. I would also “suggest” a time to leave each morning, and would choose our stops and would “suggest” when we would stop at the end of the day. So now Bobby and Bill are calling me “Drill Sargeant”, and stand at attention when we meet at the bikes in the morning. They are getting quite a giggle out of it. And the title of this blog, “To Look for America,” they don’t see how we can look for America when I won’t let them stop and take pictures and the scenery is just a blur as we go speeding by. And my response, “It’s not good to piss of the Drill Sargeant.”
Our augmented Gang of Six took the van (courtesy of Holiday Inn) to Deadwood for supper. It is a historically famous town, in part because Wild Bill Hickok was gunned down by an assassin, Jack McCall, while playing poker in Saloon No. 10. His hand? Two pairs, Aces and eights, which ever after up to even today was and is called the “Dead Man’s Hand.” It’s population is about 3,000 but swells considerably during the day and especially on the weekends due to it becoming a gambling center.
Well, the cat is out of the bag. Sugar learned that Bobby has bought a Harley - a 2001 Road King. She had thought that might be so, but her suspicions increased when she asked Billy if Bobby (who was not present at the airport) had purchased a motorcycle. Billy just shrugged his shoulders and walked away - that really helped keep the secret. Then the clincher was when Bobby joined us for lunch at Rosco’z, he took off his coat and underneath was a Harley T-shirt. Anyway, he is very happy and hopes that he can pick it up on Tuesday before we head out for Wyoming. It’s a beautiful bike and will make his ride home a lot more enjoyable.
As you can see from the Comments, Peter Schertenleib got the answer to the quiz. I’ll have to work on another one. Bon soir.
Last night, we ate at The Loud American (appropriate name for this crew) in Sturgis. Our waitress was named Jamie, a 20ish, fine figured girl with dark, red tinged hair, wearing a Jack Daniels T-shirt, and very, very short cut-off shorts. She has a wonderful smile, but she looks a little saucy. After delivering our meals, she returned and asked if we needed anything else, Bill replied, “Only another of your wonderful smiles.” She grinned from ear to ear, saying, “I can do THAT all night long.” We were not sure she was talking about smiling “all night long” but I guess we’ll never know. When we left, she gave us all hugs. Old men are so easy to please.
We left the hotel at 8:30 today to get in a ride before meeting Sandy and Sugar at the airport at 1:15. We traveled west to Spearfish on Interstate 90, turning south on Route 14a to enter Spearfish Canyon, a 10-12 mile long canyon following a stream bed, surrounded by high, steep, coniferous treed hills on both sides. The temperature dropped quickly as we climbed up to an elevation of 6200 feet, and were passing through the shadows of the hills. We stopped at Bridal Veil Falls for a picture, but it was into the sun and didn’t come out well. Next stop was past the Lodge, a beautiful place to stay in this Canyon, to see another waterfall. When we had traveled 1 1/4 mile up a dirt road, we parked in the parking lot. We heard the brook and the “falls” of about 2 feet and were quite disappointed. But a couple came by and told us not to miss the falls down the path - they were “well worth it.” So Griff sat while we went to discover the falls, and they were scenic, maybe forty foot drop as seen by us at the top. After returning to the bikes, we continued up the dirt road to see where a scene from Dances with Wolves had been shot, but we couldn’t say for sure which area it was in. After cleaning the bikes yesterday, they were well on their way to getting dusty and dirty again, with Griff’s bike getting the brunt as he brought up the rear. When we arrived at Cheyenne Crossing, he took out his cleaning cloth and wiped the dust off his bike. The treat there was the plateful of fresh doughnut holes, and a bottle of water. We proceeded more rapidly down Route 14a-Route 85 toward Lead, Deadwood and Sturgis, with 55 mph speed limit and twisting, descending roads, a real treat for motorcycles.
On the way here, I led the way and tried, often in vain, to keep our gas stops short, and to keep up the pace. I would also “suggest” a time to leave each morning, and would choose our stops and would “suggest” when we would stop at the end of the day. So now Bobby and Bill are calling me “Drill Sargeant”, and stand at attention when we meet at the bikes in the morning. They are getting quite a giggle out of it. And the title of this blog, “To Look for America,” they don’t see how we can look for America when I won’t let them stop and take pictures and the scenery is just a blur as we go speeding by. And my response, “It’s not good to piss of the Drill Sargeant.”
Our augmented Gang of Six took the van (courtesy of Holiday Inn) to Deadwood for supper. It is a historically famous town, in part because Wild Bill Hickok was gunned down by an assassin, Jack McCall, while playing poker in Saloon No. 10. His hand? Two pairs, Aces and eights, which ever after up to even today was and is called the “Dead Man’s Hand.” It’s population is about 3,000 but swells considerably during the day and especially on the weekends due to it becoming a gambling center.
Well, the cat is out of the bag. Sugar learned that Bobby has bought a Harley - a 2001 Road King. She had thought that might be so, but her suspicions increased when she asked Billy if Bobby (who was not present at the airport) had purchased a motorcycle. Billy just shrugged his shoulders and walked away - that really helped keep the secret. Then the clincher was when Bobby joined us for lunch at Rosco’z, he took off his coat and underneath was a Harley T-shirt. Anyway, he is very happy and hopes that he can pick it up on Tuesday before we head out for Wyoming. It’s a beautiful bike and will make his ride home a lot more enjoyable.
As you can see from the Comments, Peter Schertenleib got the answer to the quiz. I’ll have to work on another one. Bon soir.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
June 27, 2009 Cavalry Days
Fort Meade Cavalry Days; Bear Butte - Hold the Presses on the Rambow story
Morning was spent at the Harley dealership in Rapid City for an oil changes and while I waited, the floor rep suggested that I try out new 2009 models, no strings attached. All I needed was a MC license and a helmet. Having both, I tried out a Fat Boy on a suggested country road - it was very sporty, and I took the wrong turn and ended up on a road with horse farms, “North Fork” and beautiful scenery. I returned and they asked me to try a “geezer cruiser.” So I took a fully equipped Ultra Glide, and it rode beautifully. And it should for the price of $24,000, more than what I paid for my first house (now that’s a geezer comment).
After lunch at Rosco’z again, we went back to Fort Meade for cavalry days. Most of the festivities had already taken place by the time we got there, but we did see girls dancing a 1880’s type dance in costume, met some gunslingers and then went to see an Indian with his Appaloosa. He was entertaining your cub scouts. His cell phone rang and he answered it, saying that he was in the middle of entertaining some young and not so young children, and then he said he had us all “surrounded” and that they better send the Army. He was dressed in leggings and was bare chested, with long black hair, and a missing tooth or two. He was very good with the kids, and he mounted his Appaloosa bareback so we could take a picture. A lady asked him what type of saddle he used when he went riding. His reply: “A whattle?” She asked again. He replied again, “A whattle?” And then he explained that he didn’t use saddles on his horses; they didn’t like them and it was much better for his physical strength not to use a saddle. He babies his horses. Are you listening, Miss PETA? We walked back down the hill to the 1861 Delafield cannon which Bobby got to load and fire. In fact, he was thrilled with the whole thing.
Bob, Bill and I (Griff having gone there before we got here) then rode several miles to Bear Butte, the sacred mountain. We had quite a chat with Moanee, an Indian woman, about Sweet Medicine and the stories Chuck Rambow had told us. According to her, Mr. Rambow was full of it. When I asked what tribe he was from, she smiled: “German.” This teacher of Native American history who has a pony tail like an Indian, was a ranger at Bear Butte in the summers for years and has written about Bear Butte is a GERMAN? “Maybe Prussian, “ she added. She showed us a picture of the Medicine Circle north of Sheridan, Wyoming, a larger one than the one at Bear Butte. So the moral of the story is don’t assume that a person is something just because he can tell a good story.
We had seen a picture of an Indian named “Young Man Who is Scared of His Horse.” We thought that it would be awful to get a name like that, and to have to live with that for the rest of your life. We asked Moanee how he got that name, and she explained that it meant that their enemies didn’t want to see Young Man’s horse in battle because he was such a good warrior. Quite a different meaning to his name than what we had concluded. We thanked Moanee for her information and departed, feeling more respect for the Indians and their spirituality and courage exemplified by the Cheyenne and Sweet Medicine. Indians still come to Bear Butte seeking visions by fasting for 4 days and nights, the hunger and thirst causing hallucinations or “visions.”
New quiz: What do you call the wooden pieces of a cannon that are located on and hold each side of the barrel of the cannon?
This was Bobby’s day, as you will find out later. Good night.
Morning was spent at the Harley dealership in Rapid City for an oil changes and while I waited, the floor rep suggested that I try out new 2009 models, no strings attached. All I needed was a MC license and a helmet. Having both, I tried out a Fat Boy on a suggested country road - it was very sporty, and I took the wrong turn and ended up on a road with horse farms, “North Fork” and beautiful scenery. I returned and they asked me to try a “geezer cruiser.” So I took a fully equipped Ultra Glide, and it rode beautifully. And it should for the price of $24,000, more than what I paid for my first house (now that’s a geezer comment).
After lunch at Rosco’z again, we went back to Fort Meade for cavalry days. Most of the festivities had already taken place by the time we got there, but we did see girls dancing a 1880’s type dance in costume, met some gunslingers and then went to see an Indian with his Appaloosa. He was entertaining your cub scouts. His cell phone rang and he answered it, saying that he was in the middle of entertaining some young and not so young children, and then he said he had us all “surrounded” and that they better send the Army. He was dressed in leggings and was bare chested, with long black hair, and a missing tooth or two. He was very good with the kids, and he mounted his Appaloosa bareback so we could take a picture. A lady asked him what type of saddle he used when he went riding. His reply: “A whattle?” She asked again. He replied again, “A whattle?” And then he explained that he didn’t use saddles on his horses; they didn’t like them and it was much better for his physical strength not to use a saddle. He babies his horses. Are you listening, Miss PETA? We walked back down the hill to the 1861 Delafield cannon which Bobby got to load and fire. In fact, he was thrilled with the whole thing.
Bob, Bill and I (Griff having gone there before we got here) then rode several miles to Bear Butte, the sacred mountain. We had quite a chat with Moanee, an Indian woman, about Sweet Medicine and the stories Chuck Rambow had told us. According to her, Mr. Rambow was full of it. When I asked what tribe he was from, she smiled: “German.” This teacher of Native American history who has a pony tail like an Indian, was a ranger at Bear Butte in the summers for years and has written about Bear Butte is a GERMAN? “Maybe Prussian, “ she added. She showed us a picture of the Medicine Circle north of Sheridan, Wyoming, a larger one than the one at Bear Butte. So the moral of the story is don’t assume that a person is something just because he can tell a good story.
We had seen a picture of an Indian named “Young Man Who is Scared of His Horse.” We thought that it would be awful to get a name like that, and to have to live with that for the rest of your life. We asked Moanee how he got that name, and she explained that it meant that their enemies didn’t want to see Young Man’s horse in battle because he was such a good warrior. Quite a different meaning to his name than what we had concluded. We thanked Moanee for her information and departed, feeling more respect for the Indians and their spirituality and courage exemplified by the Cheyenne and Sweet Medicine. Indians still come to Bear Butte seeking visions by fasting for 4 days and nights, the hunger and thirst causing hallucinations or “visions.”
New quiz: What do you call the wooden pieces of a cannon that are located on and hold each side of the barrel of the cannon?
This was Bobby’s day, as you will find out later. Good night.
Friday, June 26, 2009
June 26 Comanche
The Imposter Uncovered; Sweet Medicine and Comanche; Farms and Silos; Another hint for the quiz
We were up early with “jet” lag. Really, yesterday seems like when we left La Crosse, I could hear the announcer, “We have ignition. We have liftoff.” And the three rockets arced into the west over the Mississippi, through Minnesota and through most of South Dakota landing finally in Rapid City. So picture a dog race where they have an automated rabbit that leads the greyhounds around the track. That was us, with Griff being the rabbit and Bill, Bob and I being the greyhounds. Anyway, we rode the 26 miles to Sturgis and pulled into the Best Western parking lot, where Griff aka the Imposter, greeted us, looking fit and very tan from his trip. After hugs and fist butts all around, and a bunch of photos and remarks about our filthy bikes, we proceeded to Fort Meade Museum, the real goal of our trip. There we met Chuck Rambow, the curator, who warmly welcomed us and marveled at our trip. He took us to the room where the commission (signed by President McKinley and Secretary of War Elihu Root) of our grandfather, Charles Fenton, as a Captain in the US Army was prominently displayed in a glass frame, with the newspaper article about how it took 107 years to get to Fort Meade positioned below the commission, and three photos of Fort Meade taken around the time of Captain Fenton’s sojourn there. In a glassed-in case, there were additional materials pertaining to the 13th Cavalry with a large photo of Captain Fenton on his horse in front of one of the Fort buildings. And the Fort had no stockade! Really what type of Fort is that?
Now pay attention. I want to tell you two stories Rambow told to us (and a family reunion) upstairs in a common room. First, he told us about Sweet Medicine. Bear Butte is a tepee shaped mountain near Fort Meade, a mountain that has been a most sacred place to the Indians for thousands of years, the place where the canoe landed during the time of the Great Flood. There is a medical circle there, a sacred circle, and there are four others, one due north in Saskatchewan; another due east in Milwaukee; another due south and another due west, both hundreds of miles away. If you draw a line connecting the north and south circles, and if you draw a line connecting the east and west circles, the point of intersection is Bear Butte. How amazing is that! Sweet Medicine was a 14 year old Indian living in Wisconsin who killed a buffalo. After cuttiing the meat for his tribe, he kept the skin for himself. It was a special skin. It was white. An elder asked him for it four times and SM denied his request each time. So the elder finally took the skin. There was an angry encounter and SM took it back from the elder, a serious crime in the tribe. The elder told SM that he better leave before the male members of his tribe returned for they would beat him badly for this infraction of tribe rules. So Sweet Medicine embarked on a journey, a journey that ended at Bear Butte. He married a local Indian and then when he was 18, an elder Lakota (perhaps?) told him that he had had a vision that SM returned to his people to help them. He protested, “But they will beat me.” And the elder told him they would not because he would give them two gifts that would be valuable to his tribe - they were four arrows, two black and two white. Back in Wisconsin, at the Cheyenne tribe, they believed that they would be saved by a man bringing arrows, two black and two white. So SM returned to his tribe with the arrows and he was greeted like a Messiah once they saw the arrows. And they became the best warriors and the best hunters, due to learning about these new arrows. Sweet Medicine also returned with the teachings of his adopted tribe, the four commandments that they still live by: thou shall not kill; thou shall not steal; thou shall not commit adultery; and thou shall not marry within your family.
Comanche was a horse that survived the battle at Little Big Horn, the massacre of General Custer’s men in a mismatch where 600 soldiers fought a losing battle against 3 or 4,000 braves. Today is the 133d anniversary of the battle. Comanche, waiting patiently for his master to return, was found by Captain Reno’s men and recovered. He became the pampered pet of the Seventh Cavalry. On parade dates, he was dressed in mourning, and led the parades, riderless, each year. Even when the Seventh Cavalry moved to Fort Riley in 1887, they took Comanche with them. He died there in 1891 at the age of 29, a beloved symbol of loyalty in the face of withering gunfire and mayhem.
There are several distinctive characteristics of the farms we saw along the way in Minnesota and South Dakota. The farm house is usually white, and is shielded to the north and west by trees, probably to cut the harsh northwest winds of winter. Many outbuildings are red, and they would include a barn and several outbuildings. And there would be silos, silos of different lengths..., I mean, of different heights; and of varying circumferences, but all appear to be circumcised. And how do they get the corn or whatever in the silos?
For those who haven’t gotten the answer to the quiz, here’s another hint: I said, “Be careful. HIs bowtie is really a camera.”
It’s nice to be all together again. And we miss Kit who would have appreciated the care to Charles Fenton’s memorabilia taken by Mr. Rambow. So, Dad, you would be proud of our journey to learn more about your father who died when you were only 5. And I remember you telling us that your only memory of your father was his letting you sit on his horse. Now we have more memories and we want to share them.
Off to get oil changes, etc., in the morning tomorrow, then back to the Fort for Fort Meade Cavalry Days, and finishing up with a ride to Spearfish and back through a beautiful canyon. Good night.
We were up early with “jet” lag. Really, yesterday seems like when we left La Crosse, I could hear the announcer, “We have ignition. We have liftoff.” And the three rockets arced into the west over the Mississippi, through Minnesota and through most of South Dakota landing finally in Rapid City. So picture a dog race where they have an automated rabbit that leads the greyhounds around the track. That was us, with Griff being the rabbit and Bill, Bob and I being the greyhounds. Anyway, we rode the 26 miles to Sturgis and pulled into the Best Western parking lot, where Griff aka the Imposter, greeted us, looking fit and very tan from his trip. After hugs and fist butts all around, and a bunch of photos and remarks about our filthy bikes, we proceeded to Fort Meade Museum, the real goal of our trip. There we met Chuck Rambow, the curator, who warmly welcomed us and marveled at our trip. He took us to the room where the commission (signed by President McKinley and Secretary of War Elihu Root) of our grandfather, Charles Fenton, as a Captain in the US Army was prominently displayed in a glass frame, with the newspaper article about how it took 107 years to get to Fort Meade positioned below the commission, and three photos of Fort Meade taken around the time of Captain Fenton’s sojourn there. In a glassed-in case, there were additional materials pertaining to the 13th Cavalry with a large photo of Captain Fenton on his horse in front of one of the Fort buildings. And the Fort had no stockade! Really what type of Fort is that?
Now pay attention. I want to tell you two stories Rambow told to us (and a family reunion) upstairs in a common room. First, he told us about Sweet Medicine. Bear Butte is a tepee shaped mountain near Fort Meade, a mountain that has been a most sacred place to the Indians for thousands of years, the place where the canoe landed during the time of the Great Flood. There is a medical circle there, a sacred circle, and there are four others, one due north in Saskatchewan; another due east in Milwaukee; another due south and another due west, both hundreds of miles away. If you draw a line connecting the north and south circles, and if you draw a line connecting the east and west circles, the point of intersection is Bear Butte. How amazing is that! Sweet Medicine was a 14 year old Indian living in Wisconsin who killed a buffalo. After cuttiing the meat for his tribe, he kept the skin for himself. It was a special skin. It was white. An elder asked him for it four times and SM denied his request each time. So the elder finally took the skin. There was an angry encounter and SM took it back from the elder, a serious crime in the tribe. The elder told SM that he better leave before the male members of his tribe returned for they would beat him badly for this infraction of tribe rules. So Sweet Medicine embarked on a journey, a journey that ended at Bear Butte. He married a local Indian and then when he was 18, an elder Lakota (perhaps?) told him that he had had a vision that SM returned to his people to help them. He protested, “But they will beat me.” And the elder told him they would not because he would give them two gifts that would be valuable to his tribe - they were four arrows, two black and two white. Back in Wisconsin, at the Cheyenne tribe, they believed that they would be saved by a man bringing arrows, two black and two white. So SM returned to his tribe with the arrows and he was greeted like a Messiah once they saw the arrows. And they became the best warriors and the best hunters, due to learning about these new arrows. Sweet Medicine also returned with the teachings of his adopted tribe, the four commandments that they still live by: thou shall not kill; thou shall not steal; thou shall not commit adultery; and thou shall not marry within your family.
Comanche was a horse that survived the battle at Little Big Horn, the massacre of General Custer’s men in a mismatch where 600 soldiers fought a losing battle against 3 or 4,000 braves. Today is the 133d anniversary of the battle. Comanche, waiting patiently for his master to return, was found by Captain Reno’s men and recovered. He became the pampered pet of the Seventh Cavalry. On parade dates, he was dressed in mourning, and led the parades, riderless, each year. Even when the Seventh Cavalry moved to Fort Riley in 1887, they took Comanche with them. He died there in 1891 at the age of 29, a beloved symbol of loyalty in the face of withering gunfire and mayhem.
There are several distinctive characteristics of the farms we saw along the way in Minnesota and South Dakota. The farm house is usually white, and is shielded to the north and west by trees, probably to cut the harsh northwest winds of winter. Many outbuildings are red, and they would include a barn and several outbuildings. And there would be silos, silos of different lengths..., I mean, of different heights; and of varying circumferences, but all appear to be circumcised. And how do they get the corn or whatever in the silos?
For those who haven’t gotten the answer to the quiz, here’s another hint: I said, “Be careful. HIs bowtie is really a camera.”
It’s nice to be all together again. And we miss Kit who would have appreciated the care to Charles Fenton’s memorabilia taken by Mr. Rambow. So, Dad, you would be proud of our journey to learn more about your father who died when you were only 5. And I remember you telling us that your only memory of your father was his letting you sit on his horse. Now we have more memories and we want to share them.
Off to get oil changes, etc., in the morning tomorrow, then back to the Fort for Fort Meade Cavalry Days, and finishing up with a ride to Spearfish and back through a beautiful canyon. Good night.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
June 25, 2009 Crying in Buenos Aires
5 AM Wake-up call; Hiking the Appalachian Trail; Highway littering; Storm chasing: Quiz
La Crosse Comfort Inn. A knock at the door. The room is dark and we are asleep. I wake up, see it’s 5:08 AM and go to the door to see who’s knocking on our door at this hour. And it’s......Bobby, fully clothed in his leather jacket and his helmet in his left hand. And why? It happens that we had spoken the night before about how Bill and I had to wait 40 minutes on the street in Sault Ste. Marie the prior morning waiting for Bob to get ready to go to breakfast with us. And to avoid that, we had said that we would go to breakfast at 6 AM sharp. Bob told me later that he had woken up, afraid that he had overslept and not having his contacts in, he grabbed his insulin pump that has the time on it and read “5:50.” So he scrambled to dress and rushed to our room. But he had forgotten that we had moved into a different time zone, and he forgot that his pump was still on Eastern time. Tonight we made sure that he understood that we had moved into another time zone, making two hours difference from Eastern time. So hopefully he won’t be knocking on our door at 4 or 5 tomorrow morning.
I know that Robyn is telling people that I have gone hiking on the Appalachian Trail to get away from all the stress of my job. But I’m here to tell you that is not the reason for my unexplained absence. In fact, I’ve spent the last five days crying in Buenos Aires. No, no, I have that wrong. That’s Governor Sanford (of the “family-value Republicans” ). As for me, I have been away on a motorcycle trip, and have made it safe and sound, although a little sunburned and beat up, to Rapid City, SD, our initial destination. But the news does give us great stories to mock the high and mighty. I think on our trip to South America, it was Gov. Spitzer (of the “I’m going to clean up New York” Democrats) who got caught with his pants down. Great stuff.
It was a long day for the last 645 miles from La Crosse, starting in very dense fog at 6:45 AM , breaking out as Billy said we would several miles after we crossed the Mississippi River. We had done about 300 miles by lunchtime, and I had only lost a neckerchief and my magnetized tank bag with my map in it by then. The kerchief came untied from around my neck and I tried to stuff it beneath my butt. It worked out from under me, flew onto my left arm, and then, while I was thinking how I could retrieve it while going 75 mph, it flew away never to be seen again. A half hour or so later, I lifted my right leg off the highway peg and accidentally hit the tank bag, the wind caught it, it struck me in the shoulder and flew off to God knows where. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what had hit me and tried to look my bike over to see if it was missing any important parts, like the front wheel, or the footboard. Only later when we gassed up did Billy tell me that it was the tank bag. Since it only had a map in it, he didn’t think it was worth stopping for. And later still, during a long construction area, I took an exit that I shouldn’t have taken just following a dump truck and a car that I had been following for miles and miles. Just another example of how we’re (or how I’m) getting fatigued.
To cap it off, the last 94 miles started with a race between us and a very black thunderstorm cloud. I was sure we wouldn’t escape being caught in it, but the Interstate turned to the right by 20 degrees and I floored it seeing a glimmer of hope that we could outrun it. We really had no choice. The nearest town was Wall, about 20 miles away, and we were in the wide open plains. We made it, a fact that became clear only after 10 miles of frantic riding at 75-80 mph (the speed limit is 75 mph). Then the winds kicked up and our ride for the last 20 miles into Rapid City was in strong, gusty winds. Passing big trucks became even more difficult and we were really buffeted around, not something we needed after almost 13 hours since we left La Crosse.
And here’s a quiz for you. The blog is called “To Look For America.” What is the origin of this title? Hint: She thought the man in the gabardine suit was a spy.
Sleeping in tomorrow and then to the Fort Meade museum to confront the Imposter who, I understand, is staying in Sturgis.
La Crosse Comfort Inn. A knock at the door. The room is dark and we are asleep. I wake up, see it’s 5:08 AM and go to the door to see who’s knocking on our door at this hour. And it’s......Bobby, fully clothed in his leather jacket and his helmet in his left hand. And why? It happens that we had spoken the night before about how Bill and I had to wait 40 minutes on the street in Sault Ste. Marie the prior morning waiting for Bob to get ready to go to breakfast with us. And to avoid that, we had said that we would go to breakfast at 6 AM sharp. Bob told me later that he had woken up, afraid that he had overslept and not having his contacts in, he grabbed his insulin pump that has the time on it and read “5:50.” So he scrambled to dress and rushed to our room. But he had forgotten that we had moved into a different time zone, and he forgot that his pump was still on Eastern time. Tonight we made sure that he understood that we had moved into another time zone, making two hours difference from Eastern time. So hopefully he won’t be knocking on our door at 4 or 5 tomorrow morning.
I know that Robyn is telling people that I have gone hiking on the Appalachian Trail to get away from all the stress of my job. But I’m here to tell you that is not the reason for my unexplained absence. In fact, I’ve spent the last five days crying in Buenos Aires. No, no, I have that wrong. That’s Governor Sanford (of the “family-value Republicans” ). As for me, I have been away on a motorcycle trip, and have made it safe and sound, although a little sunburned and beat up, to Rapid City, SD, our initial destination. But the news does give us great stories to mock the high and mighty. I think on our trip to South America, it was Gov. Spitzer (of the “I’m going to clean up New York” Democrats) who got caught with his pants down. Great stuff.
It was a long day for the last 645 miles from La Crosse, starting in very dense fog at 6:45 AM , breaking out as Billy said we would several miles after we crossed the Mississippi River. We had done about 300 miles by lunchtime, and I had only lost a neckerchief and my magnetized tank bag with my map in it by then. The kerchief came untied from around my neck and I tried to stuff it beneath my butt. It worked out from under me, flew onto my left arm, and then, while I was thinking how I could retrieve it while going 75 mph, it flew away never to be seen again. A half hour or so later, I lifted my right leg off the highway peg and accidentally hit the tank bag, the wind caught it, it struck me in the shoulder and flew off to God knows where. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what had hit me and tried to look my bike over to see if it was missing any important parts, like the front wheel, or the footboard. Only later when we gassed up did Billy tell me that it was the tank bag. Since it only had a map in it, he didn’t think it was worth stopping for. And later still, during a long construction area, I took an exit that I shouldn’t have taken just following a dump truck and a car that I had been following for miles and miles. Just another example of how we’re (or how I’m) getting fatigued.
To cap it off, the last 94 miles started with a race between us and a very black thunderstorm cloud. I was sure we wouldn’t escape being caught in it, but the Interstate turned to the right by 20 degrees and I floored it seeing a glimmer of hope that we could outrun it. We really had no choice. The nearest town was Wall, about 20 miles away, and we were in the wide open plains. We made it, a fact that became clear only after 10 miles of frantic riding at 75-80 mph (the speed limit is 75 mph). Then the winds kicked up and our ride for the last 20 miles into Rapid City was in strong, gusty winds. Passing big trucks became even more difficult and we were really buffeted around, not something we needed after almost 13 hours since we left La Crosse.
And here’s a quiz for you. The blog is called “To Look For America.” What is the origin of this title? Hint: She thought the man in the gabardine suit was a spy.
Sleeping in tomorrow and then to the Fort Meade museum to confront the Imposter who, I understand, is staying in Sturgis.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
June 24, 2009 Classic Auto Show
The Locks; Down the Upper Peninsula; Classic Auto Show; CR PP
Last night, we watched a ore carrier go through the St. Mary’s Lock in Sault Ste. Marie. It came from Lake Michigan, entered the lock, the gates closed behind it and the pumps pumped 22 feet of water into the lock to even it with the level of Lake Superior. Then the gates at the Lake Superior end opened and the ship exited - one of 11,000 in a year passing through the locks and for FREE. It’s fun to watch and behind the ship was a great sunset in the 80 degree temps.
After leaving SSM, we took Route 35 then down to Route 2 to follow the shoreline of Lake Michigan. When we left, it was sunny and promising to be hot, but we immediately ran into low clouds that, together with the lake, kept the temps cool. After an hour or so, the clouds burned off and it was beautiful looking out across the lake. The U.P. is pretty, forested, with lots of camps, a place to go to get away from the stress of city life. The towns that are there are very small, and there aren’t many gas stations, always a concern especially when the trip meter gets up around 100 miles. And then a pleasant surprise - along came a long line of old 1920’s-1930’s cars in vintage condition. It felt like being in Bonnie and Clyde.
The temps really shot up (100 degrees according to Billy’s temp gauge on his bike) as we left the lake and turned inland, riding past Green Bay on Interstate 41 to Oshkosh, and then thankfully turning onto Route 21, a two-lane country road that became our path for 70 plus miles, passing through Wautoma, Coloma, Negedah to Route PP, an even more country road that led directly to Interstate 90. Pretty slick thanks to Griff’s tip (and also the GPS’s tip). Although there were many farms, there were fewer than I expected, with much of the land being forestland. And the towns would give their population on the sign, 1000 for example, and we would enter what appeared from its Main Street to be a town of much greater size, with lots of stores, restaurants, motels, etc. Apparently that was the entire population on that one street.
And how are we doing? Billy is gaining confidence every mile and has done a really good job getting through congested cities, being aware of stoplights and staying close so that he can get through the light with me, recovering his second position after getting separated by other cars or trucks, and just having a great time. He’s still learning about his bike - for example he just found out he has a trip meter. Bobby is also doing very well, and his bike is holding up. He traveled all day today without a coat and has been using suntan lotion to prevent burning up. He is always in good humor and a fun person to be around. Both are in good health and showing great stamina, but we take fairly frequent breaks (every 100 miles or so - 1 1/2 to 2 hours) to rehydrate and gas up, and we also include a sitdown lunch. Although it’s slower traveling, I think we feel a lot better. And me? I’m doing fine but I have burned knuckles and a dark halfmoon on the backs of each hand - the result of fingerless gloves with holes in the knuckles of the glove and a halfmoon-shaped hole on the back of the gloves. It makes me look like my hands are very dirty in those areas. I wear a coat all the time, although it’s light, it’s also lined. I do so to avoid being burned to a crisp.
So we have about 600 miles to go and hope to make it tomorrow, God willing and the creek don’t rise. Bon soir.
PS And the Imposter? We learned he was held up in Albert Lea, MN by vicious thunderstorms and a hailstorm, taking the break to change his oil to synthetics and having his bike washed. So we’re slowly catching him but I fear he will beat us there. Bill will call the museum tomorrow to warn them of the Imposter and his approach.
Last night, we watched a ore carrier go through the St. Mary’s Lock in Sault Ste. Marie. It came from Lake Michigan, entered the lock, the gates closed behind it and the pumps pumped 22 feet of water into the lock to even it with the level of Lake Superior. Then the gates at the Lake Superior end opened and the ship exited - one of 11,000 in a year passing through the locks and for FREE. It’s fun to watch and behind the ship was a great sunset in the 80 degree temps.
After leaving SSM, we took Route 35 then down to Route 2 to follow the shoreline of Lake Michigan. When we left, it was sunny and promising to be hot, but we immediately ran into low clouds that, together with the lake, kept the temps cool. After an hour or so, the clouds burned off and it was beautiful looking out across the lake. The U.P. is pretty, forested, with lots of camps, a place to go to get away from the stress of city life. The towns that are there are very small, and there aren’t many gas stations, always a concern especially when the trip meter gets up around 100 miles. And then a pleasant surprise - along came a long line of old 1920’s-1930’s cars in vintage condition. It felt like being in Bonnie and Clyde.
The temps really shot up (100 degrees according to Billy’s temp gauge on his bike) as we left the lake and turned inland, riding past Green Bay on Interstate 41 to Oshkosh, and then thankfully turning onto Route 21, a two-lane country road that became our path for 70 plus miles, passing through Wautoma, Coloma, Negedah to Route PP, an even more country road that led directly to Interstate 90. Pretty slick thanks to Griff’s tip (and also the GPS’s tip). Although there were many farms, there were fewer than I expected, with much of the land being forestland. And the towns would give their population on the sign, 1000 for example, and we would enter what appeared from its Main Street to be a town of much greater size, with lots of stores, restaurants, motels, etc. Apparently that was the entire population on that one street.
And how are we doing? Billy is gaining confidence every mile and has done a really good job getting through congested cities, being aware of stoplights and staying close so that he can get through the light with me, recovering his second position after getting separated by other cars or trucks, and just having a great time. He’s still learning about his bike - for example he just found out he has a trip meter. Bobby is also doing very well, and his bike is holding up. He traveled all day today without a coat and has been using suntan lotion to prevent burning up. He is always in good humor and a fun person to be around. Both are in good health and showing great stamina, but we take fairly frequent breaks (every 100 miles or so - 1 1/2 to 2 hours) to rehydrate and gas up, and we also include a sitdown lunch. Although it’s slower traveling, I think we feel a lot better. And me? I’m doing fine but I have burned knuckles and a dark halfmoon on the backs of each hand - the result of fingerless gloves with holes in the knuckles of the glove and a halfmoon-shaped hole on the back of the gloves. It makes me look like my hands are very dirty in those areas. I wear a coat all the time, although it’s light, it’s also lined. I do so to avoid being burned to a crisp.
So we have about 600 miles to go and hope to make it tomorrow, God willing and the creek don’t rise. Bon soir.
PS And the Imposter? We learned he was held up in Albert Lea, MN by vicious thunderstorms and a hailstorm, taking the break to change his oil to synthetics and having his bike washed. So we’re slowly catching him but I fear he will beat us there. Bill will call the museum tomorrow to warn them of the Imposter and his approach.
June 23, 2009 - Rivers
Rivers, Smells, and the Imposter Slowed Down by Mother Nature
We left Kanata at 8 AM, with a quick U-turn to retrieve my dark glasses that I had left on my saddlebag when I gave it to her. Luckily, they were lying on the pavement and not scratched. We followed the Ottawa River for a hundred miles to Chalk River where we stopped for gas and liquids, both intake and discharge if you get my drift. And speaking of Chalk River, I didn’t see anything resembling chalk in the river. And on the way, we passed over the Mississippi River (but not THAT Mississippi River). So what’s up with that? And then there was the Deep River that didn’t look very deep; the Serpent River that did wind around a bit; the Snake River (kind of a theme here); the Blind River (Billy didn’t see it); the Saint Mary’s River. And then in Chalk River, and whereever we stop, we end up talking with other bikers, also stopping for gas or just there looking for a chat.
And what is it like on the bike for 500 miles? First and foremost, your butt gets sore. It tingles, with dull pins and needles after awhile. Your hands cramp up from shifting gears, accelerating and decelerating. Large bugs smack into your knees, and plaster the windshield. You get dehydrated big time. The smells are the greatest - the sweet pungent smell of manure on the farm fields; the faint smell of dead skunk; newly mown grass; diesel fumes or any car fumes. All are welcome and let you know that you’re not in a bubble of a car, but living and breathing your surroundings. Even the manure smell is greeted with recognition and appreciation now. We stop every 100 miles or so and take a good 40 minutes or so for a gas up and lunch. It’s a treat to stop for a bit, but I’m always the one chomping at the bit to keep going.
And we’ve learned more about the Imposter. He is traveling under the assumed name of “Griff” and he is almost within reach. He’s is Lacrosse, Wisconsin, stopped by Mother Nature and her dark clouds and threat of large thunderstorms. So we’ll be looking for him tomorrow.
We’re staying in Sault Ste. Marie, Michigan, having crossed the International Bridge which is quite long and runs from Sault Ste. Marie, Ontario over the locks between Lakes Superior and Huron. After passing through US Customs and not going 100 feet, we come to a toll booth, the first in the first 1000 miles. $2.50 per person as a bridge fee. Can you believe that? Not 100 feet! I wonder how much of that Canada gets as its share.
We left Kanata at 8 AM, with a quick U-turn to retrieve my dark glasses that I had left on my saddlebag when I gave it to her. Luckily, they were lying on the pavement and not scratched. We followed the Ottawa River for a hundred miles to Chalk River where we stopped for gas and liquids, both intake and discharge if you get my drift. And speaking of Chalk River, I didn’t see anything resembling chalk in the river. And on the way, we passed over the Mississippi River (but not THAT Mississippi River). So what’s up with that? And then there was the Deep River that didn’t look very deep; the Serpent River that did wind around a bit; the Snake River (kind of a theme here); the Blind River (Billy didn’t see it); the Saint Mary’s River. And then in Chalk River, and whereever we stop, we end up talking with other bikers, also stopping for gas or just there looking for a chat.
And what is it like on the bike for 500 miles? First and foremost, your butt gets sore. It tingles, with dull pins and needles after awhile. Your hands cramp up from shifting gears, accelerating and decelerating. Large bugs smack into your knees, and plaster the windshield. You get dehydrated big time. The smells are the greatest - the sweet pungent smell of manure on the farm fields; the faint smell of dead skunk; newly mown grass; diesel fumes or any car fumes. All are welcome and let you know that you’re not in a bubble of a car, but living and breathing your surroundings. Even the manure smell is greeted with recognition and appreciation now. We stop every 100 miles or so and take a good 40 minutes or so for a gas up and lunch. It’s a treat to stop for a bit, but I’m always the one chomping at the bit to keep going.
And we’ve learned more about the Imposter. He is traveling under the assumed name of “Griff” and he is almost within reach. He’s is Lacrosse, Wisconsin, stopped by Mother Nature and her dark clouds and threat of large thunderstorms. So we’ll be looking for him tomorrow.
We’re staying in Sault Ste. Marie, Michigan, having crossed the International Bridge which is quite long and runs from Sault Ste. Marie, Ontario over the locks between Lakes Superior and Huron. After passing through US Customs and not going 100 feet, we come to a toll booth, the first in the first 1000 miles. $2.50 per person as a bridge fee. Can you believe that? Not 100 feet! I wonder how much of that Canada gets as its share.
Monday, June 22, 2009
No Passport; Trouble at the border; Sunny Montreal in raingear; 490 miles and three ecosystems later
No Passport
We had chosen the northern route through Canada due to the weather forecasts for Sherbrooke, Montreal, Ottawa, North Bay and Sudbury, all predicting no rainfall. So Bob and I met at Associated Builders at 6:45, gassed up at the Mobil, gave each other a high five at the light and rode off to look for America - on a Harley and a Suzuki; in the wet and dampness of an awful period of weather, slick roads, temps in the 50's, both of us encumbered by our rain suits and thick coats underneath, with a sweatshirt underneath those, gaiters, heavy rainproof gloves, running up Route 1A to Bangor, detour to Hermon and then onto 95 South. Although the pavement was wet, we were able to go at 65-70 mph to Newport where we exited onto Route 2. This is the old route to Sugarloaf so it was familiar, but not really because everything was green, there was no snow, but you still had to worry about the slippery roads. When we got to Skowhegan, we pulled into the first gas station on Route 201, the meeting place for Billy to join us. After we had gassed up, used the facilities and were just waiting for Bill, Bob said that he had forgotten his passport. And of course, you can't enter the US without a passport now so it looked like we would have to make arrangements to go another route or perhaps Sugar could bring the passport with her (she was dropping off Toby and Brie who were flying back to NYC). After getting the neighbor's new girlfriend to go into his house, she reported that the passport was not there, so we started in on Bob's bike, tearing everything out. And we found it in a separate pocket of one of his cases. Then Bill aririved at about 9:30 and thought he would like to take a 30 minute break or so (we were supposed to meet at 9 AM!) so I said, "I'm the one who should have ridden alone." Thinking they were both just trying to piss me off, I took a picture of Billy texting Donna (a phone call would be shorter) and Bobby showing me his passport. And finally we were off for the border.
Trouble at the border
After sliding by Sugarloaf, Eustis and Stratton in very wet, but not really rainy, conditions, we pulled into Coburn Gore and hit the Canadian customs. We gave them our passports, and they took forever getting clearance for us. Billy thinks they were checking all my stamps. I think that it was our appearance as they asked us to take off our helmets and our hair was pretty bad. There goes another 30 minutes. At least they had a men's room - Billy was about to go pee on the building or something, and that wouldn't have been good. We finally got our passports back with no explanation and jumped back on our bikes to continue toward what we hoped would be better weather.
Montreal
After lunch at Subway (apparently I'm treating in Canada because I'm the only one with Canadian money and Billy's debit card won't work in the gas pumps), we hopped on Autoroute 10 Ouest for the last 88 miles into Montreal, still clad as before with our sweatshirt, heavy leather jacket and rain coat and rain pants. By the time we got to Montreal (about 4 PM), it was beautiful out, about 75 degrees with few puffy white clouds in the sky as we rode across the bridge toward city centre. Then wham! What a traffic jam - stop and go traffic for the next 10 miles or so to get to A-15 Nord, then to A-40 Ouest. It was very hot with the heat of the engine rising right through our seats making for very uncomfortable conditions, and no exit to reach to change our clothes. After 10 or 15 miles on A-40 and leaving Montreal and its suburbs, we were able to stop for gas, a drink and a change of clothes, at least our outer layers.
490 miles
We proceeded another 90 miles into the sun to Ottawa, and just punched right through rather than stopping. We had had enough of big cities for one day. We are now in Kanata, in a Holiday Inn, having eaten a ribeye steak dinner, watched the end of the US Open (a replay?) and are ready for bed. So we had a long day, and went from the dampness and fog at the coast, to the 48 degrees and windy conditions at Coburn Gore, and then to the farmlands and temperate conditons fo southern Quebec and Ontario. And we've just started.
The Imposter
Billy thought we should alert the press that we were on our way to view the commission issued to our grandfather Charles Fenton that took 107 years to get to Fort Meade near Rapid City, SD, the supposed purpose of the trip. I agreed and said that we should also warn the press and the curator at the museum of an imposter who might show up before us, riding a red Harley Electra Glide, about 64 years old, balding, a bit of a paunch with a very distinctive gait. So if you pass this on to the press and the curator, tell them that they should not under any circumstances show the commission to this imposter even though he might appear to know a lot about the Fenton family.
We had chosen the northern route through Canada due to the weather forecasts for Sherbrooke, Montreal, Ottawa, North Bay and Sudbury, all predicting no rainfall. So Bob and I met at Associated Builders at 6:45, gassed up at the Mobil, gave each other a high five at the light and rode off to look for America - on a Harley and a Suzuki; in the wet and dampness of an awful period of weather, slick roads, temps in the 50's, both of us encumbered by our rain suits and thick coats underneath, with a sweatshirt underneath those, gaiters, heavy rainproof gloves, running up Route 1A to Bangor, detour to Hermon and then onto 95 South. Although the pavement was wet, we were able to go at 65-70 mph to Newport where we exited onto Route 2. This is the old route to Sugarloaf so it was familiar, but not really because everything was green, there was no snow, but you still had to worry about the slippery roads. When we got to Skowhegan, we pulled into the first gas station on Route 201, the meeting place for Billy to join us. After we had gassed up, used the facilities and were just waiting for Bill, Bob said that he had forgotten his passport. And of course, you can't enter the US without a passport now so it looked like we would have to make arrangements to go another route or perhaps Sugar could bring the passport with her (she was dropping off Toby and Brie who were flying back to NYC). After getting the neighbor's new girlfriend to go into his house, she reported that the passport was not there, so we started in on Bob's bike, tearing everything out. And we found it in a separate pocket of one of his cases. Then Bill aririved at about 9:30 and thought he would like to take a 30 minute break or so (we were supposed to meet at 9 AM!) so I said, "I'm the one who should have ridden alone." Thinking they were both just trying to piss me off, I took a picture of Billy texting Donna (a phone call would be shorter) and Bobby showing me his passport. And finally we were off for the border.
Trouble at the border
After sliding by Sugarloaf, Eustis and Stratton in very wet, but not really rainy, conditions, we pulled into Coburn Gore and hit the Canadian customs. We gave them our passports, and they took forever getting clearance for us. Billy thinks they were checking all my stamps. I think that it was our appearance as they asked us to take off our helmets and our hair was pretty bad. There goes another 30 minutes. At least they had a men's room - Billy was about to go pee on the building or something, and that wouldn't have been good. We finally got our passports back with no explanation and jumped back on our bikes to continue toward what we hoped would be better weather.
Montreal
After lunch at Subway (apparently I'm treating in Canada because I'm the only one with Canadian money and Billy's debit card won't work in the gas pumps), we hopped on Autoroute 10 Ouest for the last 88 miles into Montreal, still clad as before with our sweatshirt, heavy leather jacket and rain coat and rain pants. By the time we got to Montreal (about 4 PM), it was beautiful out, about 75 degrees with few puffy white clouds in the sky as we rode across the bridge toward city centre. Then wham! What a traffic jam - stop and go traffic for the next 10 miles or so to get to A-15 Nord, then to A-40 Ouest. It was very hot with the heat of the engine rising right through our seats making for very uncomfortable conditions, and no exit to reach to change our clothes. After 10 or 15 miles on A-40 and leaving Montreal and its suburbs, we were able to stop for gas, a drink and a change of clothes, at least our outer layers.
490 miles
We proceeded another 90 miles into the sun to Ottawa, and just punched right through rather than stopping. We had had enough of big cities for one day. We are now in Kanata, in a Holiday Inn, having eaten a ribeye steak dinner, watched the end of the US Open (a replay?) and are ready for bed. So we had a long day, and went from the dampness and fog at the coast, to the 48 degrees and windy conditions at Coburn Gore, and then to the farmlands and temperate conditons fo southern Quebec and Ontario. And we've just started.
The Imposter
Billy thought we should alert the press that we were on our way to view the commission issued to our grandfather Charles Fenton that took 107 years to get to Fort Meade near Rapid City, SD, the supposed purpose of the trip. I agreed and said that we should also warn the press and the curator at the museum of an imposter who might show up before us, riding a red Harley Electra Glide, about 64 years old, balding, a bit of a paunch with a very distinctive gait. So if you pass this on to the press and the curator, tell them that they should not under any circumstances show the commission to this imposter even though he might appear to know a lot about the Fenton family.
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