Well, it's been 10 days re-adjusting to life on the homefront. I think I have the hang of it again. It took the entirety of this post-vacation downtime to finish the last 5 entries of the blog, which gives you an idea of how exhausting the affair really was. With this post, I am sealing the journal off and retaining it as a memorial to the trip. What follows are some final words and perspective.

There are times when I almost see the trip as one long dream, and have trouble reconciling that I actually did it. As I settle back into the thick of things up here, parts of my simple 2 minute commute to and from work on Diana still scare me to where I wonder how I pulled off over 4000 miles of unfamiliar territory in rapid succession. It's part of why any self-planned trip is such a discovery -- you will always end up doing things you wouldn't normally think yourself capable of in a day-to-day existence.

The big question one always asks in that existential hangover one gets after the vacation is, "was it worth it"? I vote yes for a number of reasons, not the least of which is returning with all 4 limbs intact and a bike that is still more or less as road-worthy as when I left. And that is no exaggeration, given the number of nights I had restless sleep wondering if I'd make it home or not. Most of these nights were confined to the initial thrust of the journey. Once I got into the deep South, it became almost routine and my expectations for any given day's survival skills were more or less tempered.

Then there's the financial nags to consider. Gleaning from the table below along with some other estimations based on sheer cash consumed, I would generously guess that the trip totaled $1700. Not bad for spending almost 3 weeks away from home, and honestly few instances of sheer roughing it -- I made a point to eat and drink what I wanted, and stay at reasonably reliable places when I needed a hotel.

The almost $400 worth of in-trip repairs might rank slightly above average for a trip with 13 hard days of riding, but must be factored against the fact I barely paid that much for the bike in the first place and am not still making payments on it. After all the hype I had read (and obviously took to heart given this trip) that "any bike can be a touring bike", I was honestly disappointed to pass far less older bikes on tour than I expected. A good two thirds of the bikes I encountered looked less than 2 years old. I imagine some of this is due to how recent the mass revival of leisure biking in America is.

As to "would I do it again", absolutely. I am generally happy with how much of the trip transpired. Given the time it would take to build and plan a worthwhile sequel to this journey, I'd hope to have a newer more tour-friendly bike the next time I do it (looking nervously over my shoulder as I type that lest Diana oversee it). I definitely champion May as the best month to undertake these sorts of trips, due to the weather being between the April showers and Summer storms, and most waterfront tourist traps still not in full "peak season" just yet (or in the case of Florida, just waning).

I'll close this with some witty statistics and a master Table of Contents. Thanks again for reading, and for all the feedback.

Love,

Todd + Diana

THE TRIP, BY THE NUMBERS

MASTER INDEX TO DAILY POSTS:

The headline and byline tell the end story: it's over. I'm home. All four limbs and two wheels intact. But that still involved a final (and highly pleasant) day of travel, which needs to be journaled for posterity.

It started with getting out of and far away from New York City and the even-scarier-for-a-biker North Jersey. Taking the simplest approach under the morning naivety that nothing could possibly go wrong, I planned to go straight up Avenue A to 14th street in the East Village, cut right across the Big M to the West Side Highway, and take the Hudson parkway right up to the George Washington Bridge and out of the city. As with most things involving motor vehicles and NYC, easier on paper than on wheels. The typical slaloming around idled cabs, delivery trucks, and diagonally lane-shifting cabs was to be expected.

What was not expected was a 15 minute hold up on the last block of 14th street due to some paparazzi-infested celebrity appearance in an unmarked location with the inevitable lines of people and police barricades. I didn't see this from a block away due to the delivery trucks blocking the view, nor did I ever figure out who or what all the fuss was about that day. I did manage to make it out of there without too much oil smoke, to begin the final adventure of moving through brisk morning traffic with around 105 miles on the trip odometer hoping I cuold make it over the Bridge to the cheaper Jersey gas before re-fueling.

Once safely (or not) on the other side of the Hudson River, I made haste for the first gas station on the right as I followed NJ 4 out of the Fort Lee bridge plaza. I discovered that in addition to the routine tank fill up, Diana needed not one but two whole quarts of oil to make the dipstick happy once again. With fresh oil, nice weather, and the worst of the traffic and bridge scares behind us, it should be all downhill from here on.

That meant getting through the rest of Bergen County, of course, which meant braving the lesser of two evils in taking NJ 4 right up to the edge of Paterson before jumping onto the NJ 21 that hugs the Passaic River. Here I got my biggest scare of the entire two days' worth of New Jersey riding where I had been on high alert: a white SUV blindly merged right into my lane headed right for me. I foolishly decided to just gun it and bear left, and was fortunate that there was no oncoming traffic in the opposite direction to contend with before I ditched the token Jersey driver and made haste for US 46. This would take me through Clifton to meet with NJ 23, which would in turn point me right at the northwest corner of the state into Port Jervis, NY, where I could take the fabled Hawks Nest highway along the Delaware River towards Binghamton.

Once I made 23, things got much easier. The traffic was still there, but it slowly tapered off as the road grew more hilly and scenic. I had been searching all morning for an archetypal "Jersey Diner" with which to fill up and erase all memories of the archetypal "Jersey Driver" that almost killed me. However, I was ultimately thwarted when sheer hunger dictated I just hit a bagel spot in a shopping center in Franklin Township. It had the trademark red neon "HOT BAGEL" sign, which gave some remote hope it would resemble the jewish bakery bagels one can only truly get right in NYC. Given the distance from the city (measured at about 68 miles on Diana's trip odometer), it was certainly passable with some lox cream cheese spread. Predictably, I saw a nice shiny metal-plated diner not 2 miles later once I was back on the road.

Further up the NJ 23, just as the scenery finishes its slow metamorphosis from suburbia to small town to rural, I took my final diversion of the day when I happened upon High Point State Park. This interesting hill is exactly what it claims to be as the highest geological point above sea level in New Jersey, and it's rather unique for Northeastern high points in that is literally sorrounded on all 4 sides by mostly flat valley -- the Poconos and Catskills are further away on the horizon. This affords some spectacular and truly panoramic views, which resulted in many photographs on a nearly flawless day weather-wise. As I circled around the monument and made sure I got pictures for all 4 compass directions, I saw other motorcycle tandems making their way up the park drive to the same great discovery. File this one under "who knew there were such sights in New Jersey?"

Almost immediately following the high point vista, I was at the corner of the state and -- despite never seeing a welcome sign that actually confirmed it -- riding through the streets of downtown Port Jervis. All of the state highway signs turned to NY-shaped shields and I was following those for NY 97, finally in New York for good. While the entire course of this notable road as it follows the New York - Pennsylvania divide of the Delaware River up to the "straight line" border those two states share, it is the initial 10 miles or so that has become famous in many car commercials. The combination of twisty curves, a steep cliff to one side, and the river far below on the other, and a scenic stone wall lining the whole thing, makes this a naturally fun stretch to drive in any vehicle. On the bike, it was the most fun I had cornering since I left the mountains of North Carolina almost 2 weeks previously.

As the Hawks Nest portion gave way to a more simple (yet no less beautiful) riverside road, I knew I was more than halfway home on the final day of travel. The weather looked like it would hold up the entire way, confirming that the only rain I have gotten on this whole trip was the brief stretch of Ocracoke Island in North Carolina. NY 97 meets up with the main thruway of NY 17 (the future I-86) at the town of Hancock. This seemed as good a place as any to enjoy my final road meal of the trip, especially when I found a charming little diner right on the main street. It was there that I had the best burger of the journey, and a surprisingly good soup as well. A cup of coffee to wash everything down, and I was ready to make the final 70 miles in full bravado.

Because Binghamton is a generally cruddy city that is a magnet for random bad weather and worse traffic, I peeled off the 17 as soon as possible with the aim of heading due north on NY 41 towards Greene, NY. This charming little town is known for a nifty annual cyclo-cross race that I keep missing, and a pretty cool downtown antique-laden shopping district. While refueling, I met my final group of riders for the day and spent some time exchanging stories. These were two of the coolest riders I met on the whole trip, in fact: a middle aged couple who each rode their own rather than riding 2-up together. And "their own" were some nice mid-80's japanese inline-4's similar to Diana rather than the normal Gold Wing or Harley that comprised 98% of the two wheelers I had passed since leaving Ithaca 20 days ago. They were only out on a day trip from their nearby upstate town, but they looked like they were having fun -- I foolishly forgot to snap a photo of their bikes parked next to Diana before I left ... both had nice custom sparkly paint jobs on the tanks.

12 miles and change later, I'm in the village of Whitney Point. This is my usual launching pad onto I-81 when I'm making one of my frequent car trips from Ithaca to NYC or Philly. From here, it's all elementary, covering a nice 30 mile stretch of NY 79 that would be pretty scenic had I not seen it 1000 times before. I'm officially "almost home" now.

By this time, Diana was once again sounding like she had had enough. The engine noise was a tad louder, the shifting a tad stiffer; I was having trouble finding neutral between 1st and 2nd without the shifter just falling to either side. But there would be no major drama in the final approach home. I made a surreal stop into work to ensure I'd not be walking into a disaster the following day when I resumed my "normal" life. This bought enough time to ensure I'd be getting home the same time as Carrie from work. My ride home from NYC was now simply my commute home from work, albeit with a lot of extra luggage and road fatigue. I pulled into the driveway just as Carrie was walking up the block towards our front door.

We made it. No hotel bookings tonight. No worrying about whether Diana could hold out another day. No worrying about whether tomorrow would be the day a reckless driver finally took me out. No worrying about when I'd next get wireless access. And no having to repack all of this luggage back into the perfectly optimized spots on the bike the following morning. No, it's back to that other daily grind for me. And perhaps a month of detox diet to get rid of all the greasy food and exhaust I inhaled on this marathon journey.

More to come in the wrap-up. Thanks again for reading if you made it this far!

Here's the gallery for the final day:

May 19

-- Todd and Diana, officially off the road.

Crossing over the Brooklyn Bridge into the early evening din of Manhattan was probably the second most iconic milestone of the trip, second perhaps only to crossing the Florida state line. Both brought a sense of "I never thought I'd make it here on this bike" awe to complement the generally appealing scenery. But getting to that moment required first getting through the entire state of New Jersey and the occasionally moto-intimidating New York City boroughs of Staten Island and Brooklyn.

All told, it was a great and largely stress-free journey for a day's work. The morning began with a ride on the Cape May - Lewes ferry that connects the Delaware Beaches to the southernmost tip of New Jersey. I made it there before the 9:30 crossing with plenty of time to spare, which gave me ample opportunity to explore the area before boarding. This was an altogether different operation than the NC ferries I took in the Outer Banks; serving a much denser and more touristy area, the ferry boat here was massive compared to its Carolina cousins. It was also much faster, with the capability of crossing the Delaware Bay in barely over an hour.

The ship boasted 4 layers of decks in additon to the 'ground' deck onto which the cars and smattering of bikes were parked. During evening runs in peak season, the 3rd floor deck lounge has a full service bar and warm appetizers. On this morning, only the 2nd floor cafeteria was open serving an microwave-it-yerself array of sub-continental sludgy offerings. I contented myself with terrible coffee and a surprisingly passable bagel as I explored every level of the ship during the ride.

Around the halfway mark of the ship, I was treated to one of the greatest sights of the trip when the Captain announced there were dolphins swimming around the boat. The next twenty minutes was spent gleefully watching fins and tails briefly emerge 40 yards out from the ship, and failing miserably to catch any of it on my slow digital camera. I had no idea dolphins ever ventured anywhere near New Jersey, making this an educational experience as well.

Upon disembarking the ship and riding off down US 9 for gas, I realized I've never been in "full service only" NJ before with a bike. Fortunately, most gas station attendants have a policy of letting the biker pump their own while they handle the credit card processing. It still means grappling with that annoying accordion-plastic adapter that is on almost every Jersey gas pump and makes aiming in the bike's tank next to impossible, of course.

I quickly got away from US 9 in favor of finding the road that would take me through all the famous beach towns. A few twists and turns later I was headed over the bridge into the Wildwood area. The great thing about these Jersey shore towns, which would hold through most of the day until I got halfway up the state, is that they are all deserted during a weekday morning. Wildwood was almost like a ghost town, which made it a necessity to dismount and take some pictures of the eerily empty boardwalk and silent rollercoaster park.

Of course, this also meant all the enticing little "pancake houses" that dotted every block were also deserted and closed. Hence, I pushed further North in hopes of finding something open in another town. Each of the Sourthern Jersey shore towns are like pockets of developed shore islands connected by a series of rickety toll causeways that go over the marshes. Note that I am sticking to peculiar Jersey convention and never using "beach" to describe the Shore. And since one only goes "down the shore", I had no real acceptable words to describe my journey up it.

After a few causeways, I ended up in Ocean City. This is the one town I do vaguely remember from my youth, as my parents would regularly rent a place here once every Summer. I was way too young to recall any landmarks or worthwhile diners, but the course straight down Central Ave revealed an open cheesesteak counter. I simultaneously realized a cheesesteak would hit the spot right about then. I promptly ordered a "wit", which arrived promptly thereafter. Even with the oddity of serving theirs on a round roll rather than the standard Philly Amaroso sub, it was divine. Just what I needed before hitting the road with renewed strength.

Even though I was making great time and had no reason to get to New York City any earlier than 6 when my friend Cedric would be home from work, I decided to avoid Atlantic City altogether and head inland to rejoin with US 9. This proved to be a wise decision, as it got me around the few bits of gray cloud I saw all day, and provided the best time of day to venture onto the stretch of Garden State Parkway one must use to follow US 9 past Great Bay. By 2:30 pm I was already in Little Egg Harbor.

The plan from here was to follow US 9 to Tom's River, and then peel off on NJ 37 towards the strip of North Jersey shores where I could once again avoid the insanity of Central NJ and hug the oceanfront as much as possible. While there were no weekday ghost towns up here and the traffic was consistently dense, it was never too much to handle or overheat Diana. I inched ever closer to South Amboy, where the heavy-duty portions of this trip would begin in earnest.

I made one last stop in the extremely pleasant downtown of Red Bank for coffee and engine cool-down before heading right into the thick challenges ahead. I had planned to take the Victory Bridge (NJ 35) rather than the much wider and busier Edison Bridge (Garden State Parkway) to get over the channel separating the Amboys. But the signs and lane shifts proved too tricky and did their job of persuading most traffic to use the super slabs. This rewarded me with the extremely amusing sight of going over the almost empty northbound lanes of the Garden State Parkway while watching traffic stopped to a standstill on the 4 southbound lanes of commuters trying to get the early jump on rush hour. Fortunately, the exit for the 440 extension loomed immediately ahead, so I was off the Parkway almost as soon as I was on it and for the second time that day avoided having to actually pay a toll in the chain of booths that dots random points of this odd expressway.

The ancient cantilevers of Outerbridge Crossing were soon directly in front of me, and there was no avoiding THIS toll of $5 even for wee motorcycles. Unlike its northern twin the Goethals Bridge, this thankless entryway into Staten Island has been repaved in the last dozen years and made for surprisingly smooth going. I was now in my home state, though still quite far from home.

The rationale behind using Staten Island was essentially a decision that dealing with the Verrazano Bridge and Brooklyn was overall a better journey than dealing with the New Jersey Turnpike and the Holland Tunnel. Even with some patches of traffic that had me in neutral for minute-long stretches on the I-278, I was soon on the daunting Verrazano Bridge. I used the lower deck where the trucks are not allowed, which also helped somewhat with crosswinds. Much like the Sunshine Skyway and Chesapeake Bay Bridge/Tunnel, I think I had set myself up for much worse.

Alas, much worse came soon enough in the form of Brooklyn's charming 4th Ave, which had been graded down to the bumpy sub-tar street bedding in hopes of a future fresh paving. A classic example of a street that made sense on paper as the double-wide timed-light promenade through western Brooklyn towards its downtown hub, but whose reality was only discernable once I was stuck on it with no escape outlet. I decided to just brave it for 40-odd blocks until a key left turn presented itself onto 9th street where I could make an immediate right onto the relative serenity of 3rd ave for the final dozen-odd blocks of the grid.

I've spent much of the past 7 years making bad turns in Brooklyn whenever I find myself there be it on foot, bike, car, or bicycle. It's just that kind of place. Thus, I've put it in heavy rotation when it comes time to feed my frequent addiction to map reading at home. What most of those maps don't tell you are the utterly random tendencies of one way streets to reverse direction or even change direction since the last mapping by popular vote of the local residents of a given block. So while it is hard to get lost in this relatively sane part of the borough, it took a few zigzags and U turns before I found Adams St, which provides the best approach ramp onto the city's most famous bridge.

There are few feelings in the world quite like traversing the Brooklyn Bridge and riding under its massive towers. This was my first time doing so in a bike, and once again I can only wish I had the automated bike-mount camera so I could have commemerated the experience in the absence of any viable pull-off. Soon the brief elation was tempered with the inevitable grind of Lower Manhattan traffic. There were a few points where I almost decided to just pull over and let Diana cool off, as by this point she was sounding a bit too noisy and hesitant getting into first year. But being so close to my final destination of 5th street, we stuck it out together and arrived on the block right at the stroke of 6 pm.

It is hard enough to find street parking in the East Village on a good day, so it seemed almost prophetic to see a nice gap between two parallel parked cars, half of which was already occupied by a motorcycle of early 80's vintage. A perfect spot to slide Diana right alongside and give her a companion for the night. Due to the nice custom paint job and lack of original decal work, I couldn't make out the exact make and model of the bike. Other than boasting a much high speedometer limit, it looked like a pretty similar pedigree to Diana, possibly of the Suzuki ilk. The lovely little tartan finish on the tank culminated in the pet name "Bright eyes". I never did meet its lucky owners, but I'm sure it's in good hands.

Shortly after dismounting and unloading everything including detaching the saddle bags themselves so as not to take any chances, Cedric arrived back from work and we took the haul inside. After settling in and catching up, we all whisked off to a gallery opening in Brooklyn (oddly close to the an intersection I went right through on my way into the city initially), then a refreshing late night dinner at one of the Village's umpteen asian-mediterranean health food cafes where I got some nice rare wasabi-seared tuna steak. This more or less completed the seafood cycle of the trip, and tomorrow I'd be completing the motorcycle cycle.

Here's the gallery for today:

May 18

No playlist, iTunes vaporized it.

Yup, still catching up on the entries for the 15th, 16th, and 17th as well. They will come together over the weekend once I'm (hopefully) safely back in Ithaca and reflecting on what this trip has accomplished besides (hopefully) getting me and my bike back in one piece.

As I type this, Diana is hanging out on 5th St. in the East Village parked next to an equally ancient Suzuki cruiser of the Intruder ilk with a custom paint job.

The ride up New Jersey brought its expected need for high alert, though for the most part things ran smoothly until I made the decision to go through the backroads of Brooklyn rather than stay on the 278 once over the Verrazano Bridge. By that point, Diana's engine was smoking some oil and ready to hang it up for the day.

We made it to the Village, though, and I suspect she'll be fine with an extra quart of oil on the final ride home tomorrow.

More to come on this day's adventures soon. Wish me luck on the final stage of this long journey.

--T+D

And here we have another placeholder as I struggle to catch up. Fear not, the entries are coming slowly but surely. If you have not checked up on the side recently, note the new posts for May 12, May 13, and May 14.

And, of course, the gallery has been kept up to date even if the captions are lacking.

See you on the other side,

Todd & Diana, 450 miles from home.

In contrast to previous days' adventures, the highlights of today's excursion tended to happen more off the bike than on it. There was still some good scenery, most notably the trip through Maryland's Ocean City and the jaunt across (and over and through) Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel. But today was mostly about great food and drink discoveries at the right times.

The agenda of the morning was to push for Chesapeake, Virginia, in pursuit of BBQ and Ribs Co., which the third and latest location of a widely-regarded institution of Eastern-NC style barbecue. That it would be right on Battlefield Blvd, which is the main N/S arterial into the tri-city area from the tips of North Carolina just made it all the more convenient. After a fairly serene and cloudless morning of finishing off the Outer Banks and crossing over the bridge back onto the mainland, I arrived just before noon to a completely full BBQ and Ribs parking lot.

Clearly this was a place that did brisk business. Once I snatched a spot from a departing car, I jumped right into the bustling fray inside. This is the kind of joint where you line up to order your meal at the counter, pay, get a number, and 10 minutes later someone will be walking around the main dining area bearing a tray with your feast while shouting out your number.

Although I've known Eastern NC BBQ is all about the pork, sheer greed for carnage variety ultimately tempted me into ordering a rib-chicken combo platter instead of a more purist rib-pulled-pork pairing. As with much barbecue chicken at shacks that serve as much and as rapidly as this place, the white meat was the taddest bit too dry. But everything else -- from the ribs to the housemade potato salad to the thin and crispy hushpuppies to the myriad of authentic sauces (and red sludge for those who can't deal with the minimalism of vinegar-based Eastern Carolina heaven) -- was great.

After leaving with a revitalized belly, I set out for what was sure to be the scenic highlight of the day. The only previous experience I had with the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel was riding through it on my way to college, in the pouring muddy rain. Needless to say, this trip was much more rewarding. I pulled off at the public-access pier right before the first tunnel, and almost got Diana stuck in the steeply downgrading parking spots against the stone wall and fence that leads to the water.

Through 20 miles of open water on either side of me, I made it onto the tiny finger of Virginia known as the Eastern Shore. I recalled from my previous trip up this peninsula 10 years back that this isn't the most exciting part of the country by any stretch unless you happen to own a nice beach house on Chincoteague island. But the weather was beautiful, the road not too crowded, and Diana was purring along happily getting excellent gas mileage.

Virginia soon became Maryland, and another 30 miles inland there came the fork in the road where US 113 splits off towards Ocean City. I took this route in order to enjoy some more beachfront vacation towns, and there is a nice highway that connects this with the Delaware Beaches where I planned to stay tonight. Ocean City was very beautiful, and I thought quite seriously about staying here instead had there been any extremely enticing place advertising free internet. I did stop and walk the boardwalk briefly to get some nice pictures.

A few miles after Ocean City faded away behind me, I crossed the Delaware border and soon found myself in Dewey Beach. From the road I spotted a bookstore that proclaimed "internet! books! coffee!" I promptly made a hard left into the parking lot and entered a lovely little independent bookstore run by a charming pair of elderly lesbians. I had arrived just in time for a fresh batch of coffee, and I soon booked a Holiday Inn Express that would put me about a mile from the business district of Rehoboth Beach. Waiting there for me was a place I had really hoped to make a pilgrimage to, but wasn't sure if the timing of my trip home would put me in this area for a night's stay.

I've been an enthusiastic drinker of Dogfish Head beers ever since I discovered their Chicory Stout years and years ago when I first became a beer afficionado, and have since made a point to try every seasonal variety they put out including the legendary World Wide Stout (a whopping 23% abv, it sips like a nice port) and the many extreme IPAs they've done over the years. Whlie planning this trip, I realized that they run a brewpub and restaurant right in Rehoboth Beach in addition to the main bottling and fermenting facility further inland in Delaware.

It took a few haphazard U-turns on the busy Route 1 expanse before I found the Holiday Inn express, but soon I was parked for the night, checked in, and happily walking across the 8 lanes of traffic to the spur street that would take me to the restaraunt. I must say Rehoboth Beach (and the whole greater Dewey Beach / Ocean City area) is a charming little swatch of beach towns, that almost comes off like a less crazy Jersey shore. A nice 15 minute walk past a traffic circle with a cute miniature lighthouse put me right in front of the brewpub.

Once inside, I met Josh the bar manager. As soon as he realized I was a fan from out of town, he began to chat at length about the crazy brewmaster who now ran Dogfish Head's operations. Apparently the guy's career spanned many stints at major distributors which left him the infamy of being behind atrocities like Coors Aspen Edge and Zima before landing with regional breweries that made real beer.

Before long, I was getting free samples of their in-house distillery offerings including very interesting flavor-distilled (not infused) vodkas that sipped well off the shot and a fiery young rum that was drinkable despite its early aging. Over a plate of mussels and a rockfish entree broiled with sundried tomatoes and bacon, I embarked on a long session of the current tap offerings that culiminated in the amazing Forte. This fruit beer is almost the lambic answer to World Wide Stout, pouring at a 20% abv and hitting with a deep golden bite that is never too fruity and has a nice sourness. It took the better part of an hour to finish this final glass, but it marked the perfect end to an evening.

Or was it? As I prepared to get the check and leave, Josh insisted I check out the upstairs distillery and small-batch brewing lab once he was done with a few other customers. A few minutes later, and I got a nice tour of the upstairs operations. It really was a shame the brewmaster wasn't around, but Tuesday is apparently one of his few nights off. After snapping many pictures and saying my goodbyes, it was time to stagger home and collapse with enough sleep to catch tomorrow's ferry ride to New Jersey.

Here's the gallery for today:

May 17

No playlist, iTunes ate it.

And is there any better one-two-three punch of beach town names in America than Nags Head, Kill Devil Hills, and Kitty Hawk? These three districts comprise the veritable "top" of the Outer Banks, where I decided to lay anchor for the night in leiu of straining myself to get to Virginia Beach. All told, it was an inspired idea as I got to stay in my first oceanfront property of the trip, enjoy by far the best seafood meal, and ensure I'd have a warm and cozy place to watch 24 and surf the internet for the next day's adventures.

But the most striking feature of the day was surely the brief swath of pouring rain, my first of the trip. It took 17 days for Mother Nature to get her revenge for this uncanny good luck, but she had it in spades by the time I exited the first ferry to North Carolina's Ocracoke Island around noon in a torrent. Still, her wrath would be quick and over with by the time I left the second and final ferry to the Hatteras "main land" of the Outer Banks.

The morning did not betray this eventual tryst. There had been dawn showers, but by the time of my 10:30 departure the sun was out and the sky was blue. First I had to figure out breakfast. With a tight schedule to adhere to in order to make the first and most important ferry leap onto the Outer Banks (if I missed the noon one, the next would not be until 2:30 pm), I once again opted for the hotel's offerings just to get on the road. Little was I prepared for what may well be the quirkiest breakfast on my trip.

Most hotels are content to put out a smattering of stale bread, sealpack jellies, and a self-serve toaster oven. What the Buccanneer Inn lacked in an actual kitchen and waitstaff (in order to adhere to the "hotel continental breakfast" tradition), it made up for with one of the strangest dining rooms I've seen. Amidst tacky carpeting, bare folding banquet tables, mismatched wallpaper, and those tapering padded chairs in most halls -- none of which matched -- the tables lining the edges of the room featured an odd spread.

On one table was a chafing dish filled with white sausage gravy and a plate of biscuits. On another was the inevitable industrial coffee maker. Still another table sported a self-serve old style belgian waffle iron with plastic cups full of batter rations -- 3 queued up: two 'regular', one blueberry. Another had a french toast server heated by sterno tin. A sign hung up saying "Ask your host about cheese omelets". Doting upon all of this, and any guest who dared venture in for breakfast, was an ancient yet cheerful old lady who was eager to make omelets, waffles, and make sure everyone tried the gravy.

Despite the frozen-food nature of the setup, it was all surprisingly good. I helped myself to an omelet (which was perfectly shape as though made in a microwave omelet shell as seen on TV), two biscuits, gravy, and a waffle amidst a few cups of coffee until I was satisfied I wouldn't go hungry on the multi-ferry run of the trip. Then it was time to finish loading Diana and check out.

It is actually 37 miles from Morehead City to the tip of Cedar Island, where the first ferry station is located. With plenty of time before noon, this gave me a leisurely ride through an intriguing combination of swampland, woods, and the occasional farm. As you get closer to the ferry docks, it almost feels like you're headed towards a dead-end street in an old neighborhood. There are no businesses or commercial districts, and the area immediately adjacent to the docks is full of small residential houses surrounded by deep woodlands.

When I finally got to the gates, the attendant had my reservation and waved me towards "lane 1" which was already occupied by 8 bikes -- mostly gigantic touring behemoths, with a few leaner Harley sportster/fatboys and a Suzuki SV thrown in for good measure. Loading was to commence in 10 minutes, giving us enough time to mingle and stare at each other's vehicles. I soon gathered that the 3 touring bikes -- massive boats sporting matching trailers and each fully color coded in red, white, and (turquoise) blue -- were 3 couples traveling together from Arkansas. The other batch of bikes belonged to a group of guys from Ohio.

As the last biker to show up, I ended up with the parking spot precariously close to the stern of the ferry's deck, with only an orange safety net and a few feet of riveted metal platform between Diana and the churning wake behind us. The going soon proved stable, even with the sky rapidly graying above us. With 2 hours of sea travel ahead, I set off to explore the ferry decks. Not being a full-size job like some of the larger ferry operations up north, the passenger lounge was rather small and sparse with a few vending machines, and an upstairs open deck leading to the restricted-access bridge where the crew did their thing. One of the passengers amused herself by feeding the many gulls who enthusiastically follow the ferry from port to port, giving me my best "bird in motion" shots of the trip.

Near the final half hour of the pleasant trip, the gray skies became even darker and it began to drizzle. This was it, then. The first significant rain of the trip, and the last few blotches of precipitation hinted at by the forecast that we had to get around. A ferry ride with 20 minutes to go is a much better environment for putting the rain gear on than the side of a busy road, and as I began to unload the heretofore-unused suit from the heretofore-unopened bottom compartment I was soon joined by the red, white, and blue couples with their touring monsters. I was disappointed that they didn't have matching rainsuits in those colors as well.

By the time the ferry docked at its destination port on Ocracoke island, it was downright pouring. By this point on the return trip Diana seemed to be having a hard time getting warmed up, and the rain compounded this situation forcing me to apply extra choke just to get her into first gear enough to decamp the ferry. As the last one on, I was the last one out in our queue of motorcycles.

Ocracoke Island is the southernmost portion of the Outer Banks, and pretty much is shaped like a 14 mile twig with this ferry port and a small fishing village at one end, the ferry to Hatteras at the other, and nothing but dunes and beach on either side of the highway in between. As we filed out of the ferry parking lot, I figured it would be merely one sparsely traveled road with no intersections for the length of that highway. I equally figured we'd have a nice moto-caravan to the next ferry and get north of this rain as soon as possible. That was when I saw every single tail light turn signal in front of me start flashing right, and every single bike pull into the first viable restaurant bar. Wusses.

That left me to push ahead solo for the Hatteras Ferry. Instinct would prove to be the best option as, despite enduring a constant barrage of rain the entire way, it was easy to hold 50 mph without feeling too slippery or unsafe. I only passed (or got passed by) about 5 cars the entire way before arriving at the Hatteras ferry queue where I was the only bike. This gave me a priority over the long line of cars, despite the fact I'd be loaded last. After all, they can always fit one bike anywhere. As the ferry began boarding, the rain finally began to subside, and I saw the sportier gang of bikers from the previous boat up at the last second before being held back for the next ferry. Oh well.

The second ferry ride was much shorter at just under an hour, and by the time it docked at Hatteras, the rain had subsided back into wet gray clouds. I topped off at the adjacent gas station, and soon had 60-odd miles of beautiful cloudy open road in front of me with few diversions. Despite being an island unto itself, Hatteras is connected with the "main" portion of the Outer Banks by a 2 mile long bridge, meaning no more ferries for the day. By the time I arrived at the more congested Nags Head / Kill Devil Hills area, the sun was finally poking out and my rain gear had completely dried.

I made directly for a little store called the Good Life Gourmet, which was listed in the wififreespot.com directory. The place billed itself as a combination coffee shop, deli, bakery, and wine bar, and did not disappoint in any of the categories. It very much reminded me of the Collegetown Bakery chain up in Ithaca. Within no time I was happily surfing online to book tonight's hotel room, with the priority of getting a place with wireless access as well. It took a few tries, but the nearby Comfort Inn had what I needed "provided you're not local". Come again? Apparently there is a huge problem with teenage boredom and alcohol/drug use in this portion of the Outer Banks, to where most hotels will not rent to local residents who may turn the place into a 24 hour party.

Before leaving the Good Life, I enjoyed a wonderful pesto and portabello mushroom sandwich, bought a pair of Warsteiner bottles for later in the evening, and ended up meeting the proprieters who turn out to have lived near Ithaca for awhile and used to do distribution via their old company with the Wegman's right there in a previous life. A quick group photo and recommendation on where to go for seafood, and I was off.

The hotel desk clerk equally vouched the recommendation of a place called Awful Arthur's as the premier fresh seafood joint in the area. At about 2 miles distance from the hotel, I decided I'd walk it and get some exercise in on a day where I had been mostly cooped up on ferries and ferry parking lots. This presented a beautiful tour of the many NC style beach shacks with the occasional chain motel or luxury resort plopped in every 20 houses or so. I even got to walk a bit of the beachfront by my actual hotel before making double haste for my dinner spot.

When I reached Awful Arthur's, the massive clog of people in the waiting area on a Monday night provided the third and final voucher of this place. As a solo diner with no problem sitting at the bar, I happily sauntered past the hungry queue and found the last available spot at the far end of the bar, right in front of the Newcastle taps. I had 90 minutes to order and eat, then walk back before 24 came on. Even in a place as slammed as this with the inevitable flaky service, it wasn't a problem. The bartender was an affable fellow who resembled a retired surfer, and he kept the Newcastles coming as I decided on the best-sweeping combo platter I could scarf down without leaving anything behind.

Not only were the oysters, snow crab clusters, and shrimp their expected level of quality, but I was amazed to find the clams near perfect. Even decent restaurants tend to serve funky-smelling clams with bad aftertaste if not smothered in sauces or spices, but these got by on pure freshness and basic steaming. All in all, a perfect meal, my only regret being I couldn't stay for dessert. I ambled back to the hotel a happy man, and made it with 5 minutes to go before 24, the last time I'd have to worry about where to catch it if I stuck to the current schedule of making it back by Thursday or Friday of this week. Being clearly past the halfway mark from Florida, I liked my odds.

Here's the gallery for today:

May 16

No playlist, iTunes erased it.

It goes to show on a trip like this that the most interesting events happen by accident, and often on days when you had planned nothing special in particular. Setting off from my shabby North Charleston Ramada, I decided to abandon decadence for the time being and succomb to the motel's seedy hot breakfast buffet and hit the I-526 directly to US 17 North rather than descend into the city proper and find a memorable breafkast cafe.

The distance between Charleston and Myrtle Beach is deceiving on a map, but the two oases in a South Carolina desert of palmetto bushes, confederate flags, and poverty turn out to be 100 miles and change from one another. Included in that change are Georgetown, an industrial city whose pungent smokestacks I could smell from 5 miles out, and Murrells Inlet, a suburb just south of Myrtle Beach where my real adventures for the day began.

The lack of much motorcycle activity a couple of days back in Daytona should have been one sign. The increasing density of riders as I made my way up US 17 through South Carolina was another. But even as I neared the southernmost reaches of Myrtle Beach, I was still completely oblivious to the fact it was that city's annual Bike Week, second only to Daytona for massive beachfront biker rallies. As I stop for gas, I'm seeing harley "trikes", motorcycles with luggage sidecars, and a few long-forked choppers, the sort of two (and three!) wheeled things I haven't seen this whole trip. I stop for gas just south of the main drag of Murrels inlet when suddenly a caravan of 50 identical Harleys blows by.

At this point, the aftermarket-tweaked sound of loud Harley-Davidson pipes is nearly constant and ubiquitous, echoing off every building in the area in an endless cacaphony. I hop back on the bike with a full tank of gas ready to blow right through Myrtle Beach, and around the next bend I begin to see the pavillions. Parking lot attendants are waving large day-glo flags to lure bikes into the already-stacked neatly-ordered deep rows of gleaming (and mostly domestic) chrome. Beer banners are hung up everywhere, and every inch of green grass in front of every roadside establishment has vintage choppers and T-shirt tents. I blow through this expanse thinking I can be prudent and make good time for North Carolina.\

I get to the next light in the endless sprawl between Murrels Inlet and Myrtle Beach before temptation finally gets the better of me. I throttle into a decisive illegal U turn and head back for the Inlet strip, making a left turn into the first bike parking area I see. Next thing I know, I'm being herded among a long line of Harley touring bikes into a spot right snug next to the barbecue stand. One pulled pork sandwich later, and I'm strutting around the sweltering parking lot, admiring all the Harleys, and scanning every bike to see anything remotely resembling an early 80's Honda inline 4.

A few words on what is known as "biker culture": I neither consider myself a part of it, nor look down upon it. This rally more or less confirmed the ambivalence, as I neither got much friendly conversation nor had anyone pick fights with me for daring to ride in on an old piece of shit Honda with a helmet and full touring garb. In fact, I hardly spoke a word to a soul the entire 30 minutes I spent walking from parking lot to parking lot, through various pavilions, and even along the open outdoor promenade of the legendary S.B.B. ("Suck Bang Blow") biker bar.

I might as well have been invisible, which is utterly preferable in every way to being assaulted. Maybe my opinion and experience would have been different had I arrived at 5 pm instead of 11:30 am to a host of liquored up rallyers (the whole concept of riding a bike to a bar to drink is probably the one thing I do take issue with in this so-called biker culture). No mind, I had an excellent time windowgazing the scenery both two-wheeled and two-legged (with some three-prong versions of each laying about, scarily enough). After 20 minutes snapping photos, I had had my fill. It was time to move on.

Moving on, of course, meant plowing through another 20 miles of traffic going to, from, and within the rally; I was still on the southmost end of the festivities. Thus ensued a slow but fun ride almost all of which was among other bikers for increased solidarity. I passed a "Loud Pipes Illegal" sign or two, and for the life of me have no idea how they decide to selectively enforce that on this week. The monotony of US 17 traffic was broken up somewhat once I was in North Myrtle Beach, which has its own smaller and sparser oceanfront drive. Alas, they have no concept of the yellow "no outlet" diamond, so unalert cruisers who are happily gliding past the Sea Mountain Highway turnoff are met 40 blocks later with this scenic vista:

Backtracking a bit and leaving what was at this point North Myrtle Beach brought me into the neighboring town of Little River. This scenic little fishing village is home to the annual Blue Crab Festival, which no doubt has to have enough loud music to drown out the Harley pipes. It was really too bad I had already filled up at the rally BBQ pit, as it would have been nice to check this little shindig out. Shortly thereafter, the North Carolina border loomed and I was soon swept far away from the ocean heading inland northbound.

Wilmington, NC provided the final stop of the day for coffee and rest. The downtown waterfront of this once grand military/manufacturing center has really made a nice comeback, and I enjoyed a good rest at the Port City Java. This rapidly spreading franchise, which can be found from Atlanta all the way through Asheville, actually got its start right here in Wilmington. Hence the 6 locations in this town alone. With free wireless, fair trade beans, and good sandwich and sweets menu at all its locations, one could do a lot worse.

The final intrigue of the day came in the decision to cut through Camp LeJeune, the main US Marine training base, rather than head up through Jacksonville and then east. No map actually verifies that civilians can use the roads inside the base, but with no "authorized personnel only" sign to deter me on the turnoff to NC 172, I went for it. The ride was actually quite beautiful. When you come off the bridge and enter the gate to the base, a marine sentry briefly checks your vehicle over and lets you ride on if nothing looks overly suspicious. The road that goes through is mostly rural, and the only signs you are in a base are the oddly marked side roads leading to restricted access gates, and large swathes of trees that look as though they were touched up with a big flame thrower from the ground to a height of 6 feet.

After exiting the base, I was almost at my destination. I decided to take NC 58 onto the Emerald Isle, a beautiful 20 mile long tubular island that has a corresponding bridge at the other end to Morehead City where I'd be staying for the night. This was my first exposure to the unique character of North Carolina beaches, with their characteristic large sprawing wooden cottages on stilts with about 23 wooden staircases and balconies poking out of each side. It was a pleasant teaser for what was to come the following day on the Outer Banks proper.

Once in Morehead and safely parked in my hotel for the evening, it was time to procure dinner and a long overdue laundry run. The former came at the nice (if touristy) Channel Marker restaraunt on Atlantic Beach. Due to the hotel's 3-4 mile distance from the waterfront restaurant area, I had to take Diana back out with me to dinner. But it was worth it to get a heaping plate of fresh oysters, shrimp, and lump crabmeat sauted in drawn butter. The laundry came courtesy of a laundromat about 3 interconnected parking lots and shopping centers from my hotel.

I got in just in time for last load, and got a nice rambling stream of consciousness from the pleasant, if a bit loony, night shift manager. After I packed everything back in the saddle bags, slung them over my shoulder, and walked through the umpteen parking lots back to my hotel room in the dead of night, it was time for a much earned rest. Tomorrow's forecast called for morning rain, so I planned to sleep in a bit and catch the noon ferry to Ocracoke rather than the 9:30 one.

Here's the gallery for today:

May 15

And the final playlist I was able to get due to a timely iTunes crash that hosed my 'recently played' tracker:

This whole "keeping things to date" concept is a lot harder than it seems. I have a massive backlog of entries being tweaked, but the only place I could score in Charleston on "graduation weekend" is an old fleabag near the airport with no wifi.

Nonetheless, I am downtown at a wonderful little cafe called The Majestic Grill, and putting the finishing touches on dinner.

The adventures have gotten pretty thick here, and I have a lot to tell when I catch up. Hopefully that will be in Morehead City, NC where I DID score a place with wireless.

Still haven't gotten rained on decisively yet, though the sky flirted with it a tad in the swampy nether regions between Savannah and Charleston.

Diana is still happy for the most part, though she does her part to keep me slightly paranoid at all times about her starter, 5th gear overdrive, and fuel efficiency.

Upcoming entries to read in full:

May 10 -- in which I see my grandparents for perhaps the last time and contemplate where to take Diana for repairs.

May 11 -- in which we finally get a place to look at Diana, and they don't have her tires.

May 12 -- in which I hit the road at long last and meet up with a long lost cousin for a night of pleasant debauchery

May 13 -- in which I hit my hometown and dodge into the bushes of memory lane while catching up with the only guy from high school worth keeping in touch with.

May 14 -- in which I catapault myself out of the evil state of Florida once and for all, and do good riddance to Georgia in the process.

Stay tuned! I need 12 hours of sleep to feel road-ready again.

-- Todd & Diana

North Charleston. Drat. It wasn't supposed to be this way, but getting around bad timing is one of the adventures that comes with the terroritory on trips like this. I knew I was in trouble when I made some cursory calls from a Savannah wireless-enabled coffee shop to all of the viable Bed and Breakfasts listed online in the downtown area and found they were all booked solid. As, too, were all the chain hotels downtown. My only solace c/o the venerable Hotels.com was an old Ramada Inn by the airport a good 15 miles from the nice part of downtown on the waterfront. It would have to do.

But let's start from the beginning, shall we? The Noisette-Lopez axis rose promptly at 8 and we were off to breakfast at the Metro Diner in the San Marco district by 9. With Agnes off to do some photo shoots she booked for the day, I said my goodbyes over a hearty french toast with a side of country ham. Damon was busy extolling the virtues of grits while we all agreed that a good hot breakfast is one of the best secrets of American culture. Too bad this place wasn't around when I was growing up here, though I would hardly know given how seldom I went to San Marco.

Damon and I returned in his car back to the house and he proceeded to get some of the high-res shots I'd need for my Just Ride Magazine article with his digital camera (which has roughly 5x the mexapixelage of my dinky-yet-reliable old Kodak DX). I left downtown Jacksonville by way of the depressed Northside slums around 10:30 am, passing within 2 blocks of where I went to high school. It being a Saturday, I didn't even have to wrestle with the dubious thought of stopping in and looking for the few teachers I liked. It only now occurred to me that if my graduating class of '95 were having a 10 year reunion, it would likely be some weekend night this month. Not having gotten any mailing about it, and not likely to go even if I had, I still was vaguely curious if and when it were being held before the last vestiges of Jacksonville blew by.

Around 11:30 I finally crossed the St. Mary's River and shed the state of Florida once and for all after 6 days, many interesting visits, and nary a drop of rain along the way. This part of Southest Georgia is pretty uneventful bar a spectacular cable-stayed bridge connecting US 17 to Brunswick. This bridge has an identical sister in Savannah that connects US 17 to South Carolina.

The only noteworthy thing that occured en route to Savannah was a curious conga line of cars that developed in my northbound lane, complemented by noticing every car headed southbound I passed was pulled off the road. Because paranoia thrives naturally when on the road, I was already concocting disastrous explanations for this odd condition including some sort of national disaster everyone was pulling off the road to hear the radio details of (which would not explain the indifference of all northbound traffic) before realizing it must have been some sort of extremely wide load at the front of my northbound queue. I never did see the culprit, but it made a good 100 cars pull off the road with us in its wake.

A few bad turns into the worst neighborhoods Savannah has to offer and I was soon headed for the historic downtown. With urban renewal on the rise in most Northern cities and clearly happening even in Southern places like Jacksonville with my friend Damon's area as prime example, it would be nice to see something nice happen to the many blocks of beautiful but decaying homes that comprise Savannah's ghetto.

Any vague notion I had of a pilgrimage to Paula Deen's "The Lady and Sons" Cafe was soon quelched when I saw the unmistakably huge line outside her establishment. The fellow in the far rear of the queue claimed he had been waiting for 2 hours.

On a Saturday at 3 pm no less. No matter, I soon settled into the nearest wi-fi coffee spot, had a sandwich, and began the aforementioned despair of confirming a place to stay tonight "near" Charleston.

I had a nice vantage point at the window seat of the coffee shop from which to keep tabs on Diana, but after burying myself in declined Charleston vacancy queries and beginning to actually worry about my prospects for a warm bath and bed that evening, I looked up -- and discovered Diana had been replaced by a BMW K1200 GT, one of my dream bikes! Wait, was I towed away? Sure the sign said 30 minutes only and it had been an hour, but it was Saturday and the clunky Cadillac behind where I had been parked was still there. A quick panic-stricken run outside the shop soon confirmed that I had fallen victim to the old trick of perspective. The Beamer had cozied up diagonally with Diana to share the spot at such an angle as to completely block my view from where I was sitting.

That was as sure a sign as any that it was time to leave Savannah once and for all, and make for Charleston post-haste. That required maneuvering around a dark cloud that shed a few drizzles on me as I compromised some of my goals for the trip by chartering 15 miles of I-95 (about 7 of which US 17 is forced to share anyway) to save time before exiting onto the stretch of 17 that heads directly to Charleston. By the time I was in the city vicinity, the rain had disappeared and I was a simple roughshod jaunt down I-526 from the airport moorings of the Ramada.

When I arrived, I was treated to an endless line of disgruntled customers who had almost booked the place to capacity already. Hence, I did my best to not aggravate the front desk any more than was necessary to get a room, a room card, and proceed directly to my lodging for the night. It wasn't bad, and could indeed have been a lot worse.

In my ongoing series of helpful hotel tips, here's one to add to the previous hints at opening beer bottles and the like. When your lame hotel room bathroom has no drain plug to speak of and is missing a stopper, you can always use the waterproof "shower cap" covers that came with your tank/saddle bags to jam into the drain hole:

With enough diligence and cramming skills, I was able to procure a much-needed 25 minute bath before pulling out the plastic. Then it was time to grab a cab into downtown Charleston to salvage what I could of the picturesque city. And honestly, even if I had gotten a room right downtown, a good 3 hour tour of the beautiful houses (with many "for sale" signs to boot) along with scoring some dinner and wireless access was probably all I would have done anyway.

Putting on my best Rachael Ray impression, I stopped at a surprisingly nifty record store to inquire about bars or restaurants that had free wi-fi. The friendly owner recommended a place called the Majestic Grill just down the block. It sounded promising enough, but I couldn't have been prepared for what awaited me at the end of said block. Here was a place almost built with idiosynchratic goofs like me in mind: an eclectic made-to-order sandwich menu with each item named after a famous film, overall classic cinema theme including DVD viewing area upstairs with one row of genuine folding theater seats in front of the big screen TV amidst the normal cafe table and chairs, open until 3 am, and free unlimited wi-fi.

I happily ordered the "French Connection" which featured ham, minced chicken, and swiss, and made camp upstairs to catch up on world affairs and make some pretense of catching up on this blog. This place had quirk in spades for me, though. For a joint espousing classic cinema right up through iconic posters of Orson Welles and Marlon Brando in its spacious mezzanine, they decided that night to show the recent quirky kid-friendly cinematic flop "Racing Stripes", which I got to sit through the first half of twice due to a DVD player malfunction. It was honestly cute enough to distract me in spots, and manipulative as all get-out, but it's like having to be sucked into American Idol and Law & Order on this trip. 24 serves this purpose of addictive and indefensible boob-tube freebase in my life, and I do my best not to add to the gluttony.

Nonetheless, I give this place high marks for originality and sincerety. I talked to the owner at length, and it seems they have been open for 18 months. Hopefully they can clear the 3 year hurdle in a competitive Charleston touristy market. For my part, it was time to hail a cab back to my wasteland of a motel and plan the next day's excursions into the other Carolina.

Here's the gallery for today:

May 14

... and the playlist:

I came back to life around 8:30 am on a Friday the 13th that had me wondering if I'd make it out of this state on two wheels. As I sleepwalked through a shower, I did my best to wake up and hold back the sour stomach that comes from indulging in a mixture of Captain Morgan, scotch, and whatever that red stuff was. Within 20 minutes, the bike was loaded up and I said my pleasant goodbyes and thankyous for a damn good night out on the town.

Tim recommended the Country Kitchen up in Riviera Beach for breakfast, which happened to be right on the route I was taking up the Florida Atlantic coast. I pit-stopped in for a nice omelet and hash browns, and left feeling maybe 20% more ready for the day's toil.

It must be said that A1A is a much more pleasant ride than anything the west coast of Florida has to offer. With much of the Georgia and South Carolina shore an empty mass of swampland and islands, this and North Carolina's outer banks highway (which I plan to conquer on the way home) is the closest the east coast of the US comes to a Pacific Coast Highway.

All through the day I kept waiting for the sputtering and straining of Diana's engine to re-emerge, but it never came. With each mile I notched successfully, I was more prepared to accept Tim's theory wholesale that someone dealt me watery gas in the scary empty green and brown mush Florida has between its proverbial ears.

Between Melbourne Beach and Daytona Beach, A1A disappears and forces the would-be coastal traveler without high NASA clearance to make an inland detour around JFK Space Center at Cape Canaveral. Thus I enjoyed a nice speedy diversion down US 1 for 30 miles or so until I could cruise through the motorcycle folklore capital of the country. Or so I thought. This stretch of the highway is home to a few school zones that, in a compromise between the highway conditions and normal stingy 15 mph you see in residential areas, posts a strict 25 mph.

I downshifted to 3rd in hopes of braking enough to not make any abrupt moves, and blew right by a cop car for my efforts. The dome lights went on immediately and pulled me over 100 yards down the road. I humbly apologized for my lack of decisive braking to go with the downshifting, and the officer chided me to "slooooooow daaaaaayown" and walked away without another word. Making me 2 for 2 in cop pullovers on this trip without an actual ticket to commemorate the event.

The scenery made the day worth the weary traveling, and for a Friday the traffic was surprisingly sparse through much of the A1A going. St. Augustine was the final oceanside area I passed before picking up US 1 to head straight for Jacksonville. I highly recommend the place for anyone who has not been to Florida, as it is easily the most picturesque and historic of Florida's touristy seaside towns. But the novelty probably isn't as strong for me having been taken there for vacation every Summer as a kid. I stopped and did the obligatory pictures of the beaches, and haphazard photos from the bike seat of Castillo de San Marco which came out horribly.

The approach to downtown Jacksonville up the Philips Highway (the common name given this stretch of US 1 once near Jax) had no impression on me since I never spent much time in this part of the city. But the minute I landed squarely in Riverside and crossed the Main Street Bridge (the last of the picturesque old school metal drawbridges in downtown now that the Acosta and Fuller Warren were replaced with generic concrete arches, it triggered a torrent of memories. From the downtown waterfront I took the same Park Street ramp that I took many a day to go to Five Points, which at the time of my high school was Jacksonville's quirkiest artsy district of vintage clothing stores, record shops, hippie cafes, and the nightclub where I had my first DJ gig.

Unfortunately, I did not pick the best night to descend upon my hosts. They were shooting a wedding (with cameras, not guns) that evening and would not be available until 10:30. Fortunately, they planned to leave me a housekey in the mailbox and I would have a place to shower off, wind down, and explore a tiny slice of my long lost youth.

Soon I located their house in the pleasant revitalized Riverside area, and was faced with my first fun parking challenge of the trip. With only soft grass on which to park behind the house, I wanted to guarantee more kickstand stability. The engineer in me soon kicked in, and I spotted a nice flat wafer-like slab of concrete a few feet away for a makeshift kickstand support.

None of the stores from my youth, including both record shops where I pretty much began my record collecting from a modest crate of hand-me-downs, are still there. Nonetheless, the district still has an interesting tension of gentrification and fringiness. The nightclub has been gutted and is in the process of being replaced by luxury condos, but the old gigantic five-and-dime that was there circa 1995 is now a gigantic bar and coffee shop with a live stage, many taps, and eclectic crowd of drifters. The closest thing to a record store is a tattoo shop across the street with a scant shelf or two of vinyl and discs amidst its hundreds of T-shirts.

One of the few holdovers from my heyday of rushing out of school to hang out here is the Heartworks Cafe and Gallery, which was also my first introduction to that peculiar ism of vegetarian. I remember having a kickass veggie burger here on my first and only Summer back in the area from College when I was a nominal vegetarian for 2 years, so I decide it's worth it after a day of greasy spooning my way up from Palm Beach.

Then it was off to Fuel for a pint while I struck up some conversations with the other patrons wondering if any would suddenly look familiar as a ghost from High School past. That never transpired, alas, but I had a nice discussion with an older fellow who just bought a property on Cesery Blvd a few blocks from where I grew up in the Arlington district of Jacksonville.

I had just enough time to settle back into the living room when my hosts came home. We made the most of the 3 remaining hours any of us could keep our eyes open after respectively exhausting days by filing into their brand new Prius, which they seem more proud of than the house, and taking a tour of all the development downtown Jacksonville has undergone since I left in 1995. One of the most interesting aspects of the Prius, which may extend to other full hybrids, is that you end up looking forward to braking in order to better charge the battery for more fuel economy. This could be a huge breakthrough in the road-rage culture we live in whereby stop-n-go traffic becomes something to cherish rather than grit teeth at. Not on an old 650cc manual-shift motorcycle, though, and I've got 1600 miles and many stoplights before I'm safely back in town again.

Here's the Gallery for today:

May 13

And the playlist...

With Miami off the agenda, I finally left my parents' house with the singular goal of hitting my cousin's in West Palm Beach. Even with the 3 days off from long riding, the sheer annoyance of heavy Tamiami Trail traffic from Sarasota to Fort Myers was enough to remind me why touring up north is so much better.

There were some interesting lulls in the storm, however. The Sunshine Skyway is one of the longest causeway/bridge systems in America, and connects St. Petersburg to the Sarasota area. It's most famous, though, for its first iteration collapsing and killing dozens in 1980. Ominously enough, I happened to be in the Tampa Bay Area for the 25th anniversary weekend which warranted lots of harrowing archive footage on the local newscasts.

The old bridge's low approaches (a good 5 miles on either side) remain intact and survive to this day as long fishing piers, while the new and improved crossing features a massive cable-stayed suspension bridge with a pretty steep arch in the middle. After rolling in freefall down the opposite side, I pulled off at the rest area to get the best shot I could.

At the end of the skyway, US 19 peels back off and then abruptly ends when it merges into US 41 in Bradenton. I should have gotten a picture of the iconic "END US 19" sign, given how far I had followed its shields all the way from North Carolina, but once again I was foiled by the whole pull-off strategy on a busy major highway. I'm so going to patent the bike-still-cam concept.

From Bradenton, I was able to take the one worthy detour of the day by finding FL 789 which goes along Longboat Key parallel to the busier inland US 41. It passes many nice oceanfront properties and foreshadowed what I'd get on the other side of the state heading back North before ending in the artsy St. Armand's Circle district where I stopped for lunch at the Columbia restaurant.

Then it was time to head over the causway back inland to rejoin the Tamiami Trail. While cruising through downtown Sarasota, I happened across a brand new Harley with Ontario plates. We exchanged brief and shouted pleasantries at a red light, but I wasn't able to discern if he actually rode the damn thing down from Canada. Judging by the lack of luggage or helmet, my guess is no.

Things were pretty uneventful for the next 70 miles into Fort Myers. I stopped in a park for a rest and to oil Diana's new chain, which looked pretty dry. I was on FL 80 ready to cut right across the soft middle of the state to the busy eastern coast. In theory, a nice stress-free 100 miles before hitting some sprawl en route to my cousin Timmy's.

After 60 miles of empty flat orange tree groves and irrigated brown fields I was approaching Clewiston, near where Lake Okechobee comes in. Due to past disasters with flooding and algae, the Lake is blocked from view even 100 yards away by huge upward-curving landfilled bulwarks. It was while admiring that engineering feat when Diana's normal 60 mph "angry hornet's nest" purr begain to sound strained, even though I was only 40 miles into my current tank. Then she began to get downright unhappy and forced me to downshift into 4th, then 3rd. I had trucks passing me in the 2 lane approach and was getting whipped by crosswinds when the meager "city limits" of Clewiston were announced via green sign.

I pulled into the first gas station I could find, already beginning to harbor thoughts of how fun an extended stay in Clewiston would compare to, say, a 24 hour marathon of American Idol outtakes. Even more alarming was that Diana only needed less than a gallon of high-test, from which I chose the highest grade available. This ruled out fuel supply problems. Figuring it was better to soldier on until she literally died than panic and bail for the night, I started her up and managed to get into a sputtering 3rd gear at 30 mph through the empty town.

The sputtering soon morphed into plain old reluctance, which soon phased into mere grumbliness as Diana was able to maintain a nice 45-55 mph cruising between 4th and 5th gears which was good enough to get me into the sprawl of western West Palm Beach within another hour. It was now approaching sunset and for once I could actually look forward to busy traffic so as not to necessitate actually bringing her back into 5th gear and being horrified by her inability to hold it.

Now it was time to look for Timmy's actual apartment. I had an address of building 4180 on a "boulevard" that wasn't even mapped in many systems, pointing to a new development. I knew the main road it was off, and the two cross highways it was between, so after doubling back once I chose the most likely apartment complex and found a building 4180. But no unit 301, despite there being a 303, 304, 305, and 306. Huh? And of course when I call I get thrown over to voicemail.

I wonder if the guy's upstairs in a secret 301 laughing at the picture of me decamped in the parking lot before I get the call back and find out I'm in building 4180 of the wrong apartment complex. Next one over, he says. Soon I'm in the next one over. And its a gated complex. And the electronic gate is closed. And the phone directory for his unit goes to an operator dead-end error "beep-beeeep-BEEEP!". I kill the engine and return to the cellphone. He's surprised it's locked. He says he'll come out but if I see a car go through, try to follow them.

A car pulls up and goes through within 30 seconds, and I have just enough time to restart the engine, shift into first, and gun it behind the car just as the gates are closing on me. 3 feet ... 2 feet ... 1 foot ... I make it just through before returning to a rattly 1st gear tour of almost every building in the winding complex. There's gatecrashing and then there's gate crashing. Soon, 4180 looms at me complete with a smiling cousin I haven't seen in 15 years ushering me to the parking spot just outside his balcony.

It was all worth it in the end, of course. Soon we're catching up on lost times, theorizing about why Diana's engine is grumbly, arguing cheerfully the merits (or lack thereof) of the Bush dynasty, and exchanging shots of Captain Morgan, who is Timmy's personal spirit. Not having ridden on the Captain's ship in a good 5 years, I enjoy the college booze flashback and soon we're introduced to the live-in dog, cat, and roommate's boyfriend who is also in business with Tim on the Casino boat they work for.

Then it's time to do an actual tour of West Palm Beach's teeming bar and restaurant scene, one of the nicer establishments at which his girlfriend tends bar. We pile into the "Shagwagon", an old Taurus station wagon with a bum rear wheel, fire up Queen in the CD player, give the finger to an idiot sport biker who passed by doing a wheely on a CBR-919, and hit the first place where I'm introduced to Shelly who will get off work soon to further barhop with us.

This is the sort of new upscale place that has the gall to serve sushi and pizza, but it does a good job of it. Within minutes, we were noshing on martinis, thin crust pizza, dessert "fried cheesecake sticks", and shots of sambuca that some other customer of the bar bailed on. Total bill: $12.

Soon things begin to degenerate magnificently as we do a righteous tour of duty through this mall of West Palm Beach bars to the Blue Martini, where more shots are imbibed culminating with some scary red stuff that more or less put the punctuation on the evening. It was time to head home, but this time in Shelley's car leaving the Shagwagon to its own devices in the mall garage. Anyone with a bumper sticker that proclaims "A woman's place is in control" cannot be all that bad, but by then I was already convinced they make a great couple. I wish 'em the best of luck.

Two apartments, a few oven-baked frozen corndogs, and final nightcaps later, it was time to crash. The roommate / business partner / dog owner had booked for the evening, which scored me the other bedroom with a far more comfortable bed than I deserved after the evening's many sins. I was left to enjoy an immediate and blissful sleep putting the worries about Diana's engine for another day in this never-ending state.

Here's the Gallery for today:

May 12

And the playlist...

To keep suspense from boiling over, I'm putting this placeholder in as I fill out the chronicles of my downtime here in Palm Harbor.

Diana is sitting in a garage up in Hudson sporting a brand spanking new set of tires. Earlier in the day, she got a brand spanking new chain at an entirely different establishment on an entirely different end of the Pinellas peninsula. Said place was out of tires in her size, hence the venue change.

The paranoia I had about the shifting seems for the moment placated by a fresh oil change and the mechanics' assurance that the broken down oil and strain of back-to-back high mileage no doubt induced the sensation of rattly shifting. As to the mysterious 50 miles to a tank rather than 100, hopefully that was a brief function of high throttling and miscalculating the mileage on my trip odometers. We shall see.

Tomorrow I head for the Palm Beach area on the other coast of this state. Miami is off the agenda for now, in attempt to tighten up the courses a bit and reduce stress on the bike. Besides, I'd rather my first trip to South Beach in years not be weighed down with full touring gear and the stress of parking a cantakerous old bike.

More to come from the road soon...

T&D

This day of light blogging is brought to you by Delia, who was my cat in high school. She's pushing 15 now, and has long forgotten me in favor of a heavenly feline routine of eating well, sleeping on exquisite furniture, chasing lizards by the pool patio, and watching TV with my parents.

To update on the bike, Diana's officially sporting new tires and chain but still sitting in the garage of Action Honda up in Hudson, where I'll go to pick her up when they open at 9 am. From there, it will be a quick stop back at my parents to load up and set out for Part Two of the great adventure. Wish us luck.

Here's the Gallery for today:

May 11

It seems that my parents' house lies an equal distance between two authorized Honda dealers. We decided to hit the one southwards in Clearwater on the optimistic theory it was closer to other errands my parents normally run in the greater Tampa area. In hindsight, it would have been nice for West Coast Powersports to actually tell me they didn't have my tire type in, and wouldn't have it in for 3-5 business days. It would have been doubly nice for them to tell me this before the close of business today. It would have been triply nice for them to tell me this proactively without me calling first.

Not being one to despair, I called the other Honda place and was gleefully informed they had front and rear tires in Diana's size, and could fit me in tomorrow if I brought her down after lunch. Other than the annoying amount of riding in suburban sprawl that would require, it surely beat the hell out of being a sitting duck for a whole business week.

Nevertheless, the day still amounted to the ultimate midpoint of the trip, as I figured in my previous musings. Things almost settled into a routine of eating three meals a day, taking a run around 4 pm (I made it the full 4 miles this time in the blistering heat at a nice 32 minute total), and trying to break the woefully short record for longest conversation with my mother that doesn't turn into an argument somewhere along the way. Probably nobody's fault in particular on that one.

The monotony was broken by a nice dinner out at Landry's Seafood restaurant right on the Causeway that connects Tampa with Clearwater, where I fixed my martini withdrawal and enjoyed some good chilean sea bass cooked Madrid-style. I took home a chocolate cake so rich I had no cake left to buffer the last few bites of pure morsel-laced icing.

With dad back from his business trip, we conspired to set up tomorrow's bike transfer. The plan tomorrow is to pick Diana up from Shop #1, take her to Shop #2 to get her tires replaced, and then prepare for a Thursday departure across the state through Miami to West Palm Beach. As I struggled to come up with material for this blog, I was, er, distracted by my parents' barrage of weekly TV Shows they watch backlogged on TiVo ranging from House (good) to American Idol (bad). There's a rule about not complaining about that which you willingly subject yourself to, so I'll leave it at that.

Here's the Gallery for today:

May 10