Almost There

The next day, my last full day of riding before reaching my destination, would take me through the most incredible scenery I had encountered on the trip to that point. The far western part of Montana began to give itself over to higher terrain, and by the time I passed the "Welcome to Idaho" sign, I was already driving through some of the most beautiful mountain passes I had ever taken my bike.

Double heck yeah!!!

The northern sliver of Idaho doesn't take long to cross, and a true sense of accomplishment swept over me as I crossed the border into Washington state. For as many times as I have visited this part of the country, I have never experienced it in this way, and I felt that I had a much better appreciation, and understanding, for the thousands of miles that separated my home in New Jersey from this place.

My day was by no means over, though, as I knew that I needed to make it as close to the Canadian border as I could before nightfall, meaning I still had several hours of riding ahead of me. Heading north after reaching Spokane, the frenetic pace of the endless rows of fast food restaurants, big chain drug stores,  strip malls and motels gave way to a much more rural environment, and the mountains in the distance, combined with the setting sun, created what looked like a collage of faded, torn layers of paper; the entire landscape lite up with a golden haze that made it both surreal and breathtaking at the same time. The temperature was dropping, though, and I needed to find a place to rest for the night.

I decided on a motel in the town of Chewela, close to an hours drive from the border. The motel, clearly locally owned and operated, was, on the outside, a mish-mosh of machinery, vehicles, gardens and hand made lawn sculptures. The owner, when he finally appeared in the front office, seemed like just another local character, but a photograph on the wall next to the front desk, depicting him as a young man in a military flight suit posed in front of a jet fighter, implied a past that had taken him well beyond his present place in life.

Anyone need a lawn moose?

I don't even know what that is...

I settled myself in, hardly able to believe how far I had come in such a short amount of time. I had ridden over a hundred miles above my usual 450 mile a day quota, ending up exactly where I needed to be in order to achieve my goal. By tomorrow morning, I would be across the border into British Columbia, arriving in Castlegar to begin my week-long workshop on building a house using straw bale construction.

Devil's Tower

I packed up immediately the next morning to get a head start on the day, as I knew that I would be stopping often to admire the scenery and take pictures in the park. I took the road that winds through the majority of the perimeter of the Badlands, fully in the moment of where I was and what I was experiencing.

I headed back out on Route 90 with a sense of urgency, deciding that I would also take the side trip later that day to visit Devil’s Tower in eastern Wyoming, made famous as the site of the alien landing in Steven Spielberg’s Close Encounters of the Third Kind. The ride out and the view of the tower were fabulous, but I made a rookie mistake on the way back to the interstate as I tried to stop by the side of the road to take a picture.

I asked a couple who had pulled over for the same reason to take my picture. Afterwards I realized that I was striking a pose more appropriate for Dancing With the Stars than for a guy that just rode 2000 miles on his bike....oh well...

The line going into the park. Yuck...

Gravel is the motorcyclist’s worst enemy, as even a light dusting of it on a road can spell disaster, especially if you are turning or braking.  Not fully noticing the gravel on the side of the road as I pulled over and braked, the bike began to slide, ultimately forcing me to lay the bike down on it’s left side. Luckily, I did remember to check my rear view mirror before attempting to pull over to make sure that no one was behind me, and the section of the side of the road were I went down was uneven, allowing me the leverage to pick the bike back up, something that would have been impossible had the terrain been level. With nothing more than a scuffed boot and a very mild case of road rash on my left elbow, I set out again, more embarrassed than anything else by a move I have always known better than to make.

These were some of the cloud formations that inspired me to pull over and end up dropping my bike. Yeah, it was worth it...

Heck, yeah!!!

With the sightseeing delays holding me back from my 450 mile a day goal, I made a concerted effort to keep the rest of my stops to a minimum for the rest of the day. Even the crossing into Montana, while still a solid milestone of how far I had come, wasn’t enough to deter me from quitting early. I pushed onward past Billings, finally running out of stream in Carney, Montana, about 50 miles from Bozeman. I fell asleep that night well aware that I still had 575 miles to go, with only one more full day of riding ahead of me before my workshop started on Thursday morning…

Forth of July in the Badlands

Setting out early the next day, I continued along Route 29, better able to get a feel for the toll that the Missouri River had been taking on the region. What first appeared as small areas of flooding along the highway quickly turned into massive areas of water completely covering farm fields, side roads and even properties. Telephone poles, now half covered with water, looked like rows of crosses receding into the distance, and homes that once looked out onto endless acres of land were now held hostage by water that surrounded them like packs of hungry wolves.

Connecting to Route 90 in Sioux Falls, South Dakota, I was beginning to feel the most noticeable change in the landscape since my trip started. As I started across the interstate, the prairie opened up before me, and the honesty of the land made me truly feel as though I had stepped back in time. Even on a motorcycle traveling a modern highway at speeds unimaginable over a hundred years ago, I started to feel like a pioneer myself, blazing my own trail across uncharted territory.

I made excellent time, astounded by the view and basking in my new-found sense of pioneer spirit. The light winds blew the tall grass along the sides of the road in undulating patterns that would make a Pixar animator put in a months worth of overtime to try to replicate, and I could feel the land slowly change. Small patches of earth sporadically appeared weathered and bare, and that, along with the constant billboards along the road, reminded me that the Badlands were getting closer.

I pulled into Badlands National Park as the sun was starting to meet the horizon. The air was thick with nervous energy, the clouds creating yet more patterns that I again couldn’t decipher as friend or foe. I drove in as far as I could before the strong hint of a storm forced me to settle for the closest campground I could find. I was reminded by the proprietor that since it was the Forth of July, fireworks would be starting any moment right down the road, and that I could watch them right from my tent site.

A barrel-chested fellow named James on a Harley Davidson, who was tenting several sites away from me,  sauntered over with a slow-drawled Midwest greeting of “What‘s going on here?“, making small talk with me as the nighttime sky behind us lit up with streams of colored lights. We walked to the edge of my site to watch, swatting what felt like an endless stream of mosquitoes attacking our arms.

The fireworks display went on forever, amplifying the awkwardness of two complete strangers standing in the dark together with nothing more to say to each other. Finally, after the third or forth pause in the fireworks that erroneously led us to believe that the show had ended, James abruptly announced that he had had enough of the mosquitoes and, turning quickly on his heel, headed straight to his tent.

I looked to my left, picking up on an amazing display of lightning that was constantly flaring up behind the clouds that stretched across the horizon. Small, silent blips of light endlessly poked through the holes of the cloud layer in what looked like someone tapping out some sort of visual braille in the nighttime sky; a secret form of communication that, although I couldn't decipher it, somehow made perfect sense to me, and I couldn’t for the life of me understand how no one was interested in this light show; far more beautiful and profound than anything a pyrotechnician could concoct.

I watched the lightning until I could think of nothing other than how tired I was. I crawled into my tent, falling asleep with the promise of more amazing sights to come the next morning.

A quiet day.

The next day was full of welcome uneventfulness. The riding was pleasant, the winds nonexistent, and the only thing I had to contend with were flying beetles on the highway. Unlike the countless bugs that have met their demise on my windshield with a splat, these beetles bounced off with a sharp crack. Their numbers were so high that,  for miles, it sounded like the beginnings of corn popping on a stove top. Even with the occasional one that would find it's way into my helmet and strike my face at 75 mph, it paled in comparison to the events of the day before, and I thought nothing of it.

As I was gassing up near the Illinois/Iowa border, I was warned by a friendly couple in a Jeep that I may not be able to take route 29 off of 80 on the far western side of Iowa due to flooding on the Missouri River. I had been aware of the flooding from numerous stories on radio news (I don’t watch television at home, especially the news), so I have never really seen any images of the destruction the high waters have caused. As I pulled on to 29 north (it turns out that the road was only closed in the southbound direction), I began to get glimpses of the swollen river, and I pulled off on a scenic lookout point to get a better view and take some pictures.

I had to climb four stories of steps to get to the top of this overlook, so I'm chalking up the weird face I'm making to exhaustion... or a sore butt... That's the Missouri River in the background, by the way.

That night I was lucky enough to find a motel that had an indoor pool and hot tub, and after an hour or so of soaking, I went to bed feeling more rested and relaxed than I ever had since the trip started. The next day I would be making my way into South Dakota, and the Badlands were beckoning…

The perfect storm...

Well rested from the night before, I set out Saturday morning eager to keep up the momentum I had begun the day before. Ohio, although not nearly as scenic as its neighbor to the east, didn't seem like it was going to give me any difficulties. Relatively flat compared to what I had experienced in Pennsylvania, I would be able to make good time, and I managed to keep myself entertained by recognizing landmarks along the way. Crossing over the Cuyahoga River, which became famous when it caught on fire in 1969 due to heavy pollution on its surface, made me immediately think of the R.E.M. song of the same name, and I found myself passing the miles by singing the song to myself inside my helmet. Later, I passed the exit for Kent State University, which made me think of the song "Four Dead in Ohio" by Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young about the shooting on that campus of student protestors by the National Guard in 1970. By this time I had hit my full stride, channeling a Neil Young impersonation that even Jimmy Fallon would be envious of. (With almost six thousand miles of riding ahead of me, I'm going to have to find ways of entertaining myself...)

As I rode deeper into the state, the crosswinds on Route 80 started to pick up, and even though I was never afraid of losing control of the bike, it was a constant struggle that would last far longer than I would have liked. It was sort of like the kid in sixth grade that starts pushing you in the lunch line, and you find yourself pushing back in what becomes a prolonged reverse tug of war. Except this was on a motorcycle...at 70 miles an hour...on the highway...for five hours straight...

By the time the Indiana border was in sight, I was spent. The flat, endless highway, uninspiring scenery and relentless winds had taken their toll. I may have been imagining it, but when I passed the "Welcome to Indiana" sign, the sun seemed to break through the clouds, the landscape softened and even the winds felt welcoming; more like the girl in sixth grade that gives you a gentle push in that same lunch line. It's still a push, but it comes from a completely different place, and, in ways that you don't fully understand at the age of twelve, makes you glad it happened...

I made it past South Bend, about the halfway point of the northern part of the state, stopping at a rest area to give my rear end a well deserved break.The clouds were starting to change, and I instinctively took some pictures, marveling at the subtle shifts in color and value of the clouds.

Harmless, right?

Not twenty minutes later, though, after a quick power nap, refueling and a completely unexpected encounter with a man who felt the need to pray for me right on the spot, I looked toward the western horizon, and the sky looked different; not the deep gray color I am used to seeing before an impending storm back east, but more of a muted blue-gray with no indication whatsoever of direction, intention or intensity. It was as if the western sky had been blanketed with nothingness; the mid-west's version of a black hole. I had to make a decision with the fuel pump still in my hand; wait it out when it may turn out to be nothing at all, or put on the rain gear and take my chances.

I had the Gore-Tex suit on in less than five minutes and I was on my way.

At first it seemed like it wasn't going to be that difficult. It had started raining, but certainly nothing stronger than I was used to from previous experiences. But as the rain started getting heavier so did the winds, and it was then that I realized that I had taken on more than I was willing to gamble. I knew that there had been frequent overpasses along the highway, so I pulled under the first that I could find.

I waited for a minute, trying to determine if it was safer to remain where I was or try to press on. The weather was deceptive, changing intensity by the moment, fooling me into believing that I could continue. I gave in to the voices of the sirens, and pulled back out onto the highway. It didn't take long for me to realize that I had been deceived, as the sky immediately grew dark, visibility dropped to less than 100 feet, and the wind and rain picked up again. Soon after I pulled under the next overpass, every car, truck and tractor trailer on the highway had pulled over, and the sky was beginning to unleash hell.

 I dismounted the bike, thinking that I would have to take cover on the highest part of the incline that meets the road above, but this overpass (as well as all the others I had encountered) was only a two lane road above, leaving no real area for protection. Even standing directly under it, I was getting pelted by wind and rain. Instinctively, I held onto the bike, not wanting it, or its cargo, to go toppling onto the highway, as the wind reached a level I have never experienced before in my life. Standing to the right of the bike, I clenched the throttle grip with my right hand, my left hand clinging to whatever I could of my backpack and bags, and I leaned hard  into the storm with my head down, as the rains pelting my helmet and body, lightning flashed in all directions, and the winds felt as though I was going to be swept away at any moment.

Amazingly, what seemed like an eternity only lasted several minutes, and the storm passed as quickly as it had come. The rains were now all but gone, and I had decided that since the storm was moving east the safest bet would be to keep pushing west on the bike, hopefully leaving more of the bad weather behind me. All of the traffic was back on the road, and visibility was back to normal, but from what I had just gone through it was difficult for me to expect anything but the worst. The clouds above me were starting to form undulating webs of crisscrossed patterns, as if cotton candy had been loosely spun into netting and thrown across the sky.  For as remarkable of a sight as it was, though, I had no way of knowing whether this was a prelude to more horrific weather, so I kept pressing on. It probably didn't help when I passed the billboard that said in large, solemn type, "When you die, you will meet God". Not today, at least.

When I finally crossed into Illinois, passing Chicago and settling for a motel in the outskirts of the city, I had nothing more left in me. My hands ached, and I realized that I had been gripping the handlebars like a vice for hours. I didn't rest well that night, but I knew that regardless of how I felt the next morning, I wanted to be well into Iowa by the end of the next day...

The packing...

Part of the challenge of the first leg of this yearlong jouney has been how to fit everything that I will need while I travel for over three months on the motorcycle cross country and back. The process begins with denial, as you simply don't acknowledge the limitations of your situation, and you just make piles of things indiscriminately. This works for a while, unit you actually have to put them in bags and mount them on the bike...

And this is only one of the piles!

Eventually denial gives way to reality. With time growing more scarce and the July 7th date for my workshop in British Columbia looming, I  become more willing to edit what I have, and to give over to the constraints that, if not there, would normally paralyze me into too much deliberation and not enough action. Even so, the bike looks over-packed, and having never carried this much load on it before, I wonder whether the bike will handle well on the road - or simply bottom out on the first bump.

Yikes! Can you say top heavy?

With the house completely cleaned and emptied and the bags piled and lashed to the bike, I make my final goodbyes and set out for the road. At first suspicious of every sound and slight variation in handling, the first hour on the Pennsylvania turnpike is terrifying, and I begin to realize how little thought I had actually put into just how feasible carrying this kind of load will be.

But as I start really eating up the miles along Rt 283 and 322 running through Harrisburg, I start to relax, realizing that the bike is indeed capable of handling everything I am carrying, and I am able to start enjoying the breathtaking views of the Appalachian mountains that fill the space between Harrisburg and State College. Like giant Chia Pets hopped up on fertilizer, the ranges at times follow the path of the highway, forming a green wall that obstructs any other view. When I crest a peak, however, the view opens up and I realize just how vast these mountain ranges are, and it is then that I remember why I am doing this on a bike.

Nothing makes you feel more immediately in the moment - more mindful of your surroundings, than when you travel on a motorcycle. I have crossed the country end to end three times in my life via Greyhound bus, but it is only now that I feel that I am truly "experiencing the experience". Every smell, every subtle shift in temperature, every noise (even if it is only the sound of your own engine), make me realize just how desensitized I was on those bus trips, elevated and air conditioned like some alien spaceship noiselessly hovering just above the land, indifferently surveying the surface of the planet. The bike is my awakening to a truer sense of my surroundings, and I can't even imagine how that will feel as I start to pass through parts of the West - let alone my time in Alaska.

It is nearly ten o'clock on Friday night, and I am exhausted. I find my way to a motel right off route 80 in Youngstown, Ohio and, after nearly 450 miles of riding, I drag my equipment up the stairs to my second floor room and pass out on the bed, not stirring once all night.

HERE WE GO!

The cake that sent me off. Believe it or not, all the flags were made from Airheads candy that was hand rolled and cut! Thank you, Suyin - you rock!!!!!!!

The last several months have been a blur. Between ending the school year, packing up and renting my home, packing up my classroom, finding and working with my replacement for next school year (Hi, Miss Seip!), selling my car, selling every non-essential item I own (thank you, Ebay) and prepping and packing my motorcycle, I feel like I've been in a state of constant adrenalin rush.

Fortunately, my friends Evan and Suzan were committed to the idea of alleviating some of my stress and sending me off in style, and as only the Milmans can, they orchestrated a shindig that became a greatest hits of the people in my life - family and friends that have in so many ways shaped the person that I am now. Interestingly enough, many of these people, having come from completely different locations and stages in my life, have never met, and it was amazing to see everyone interact. Laughter was the common language for the day, and several times I was approached with the comment "Your friends are great!" Indeed, indeed...