Dirty Dutchmen

So, it seems we've put a bunch of miles on our new bikes without even realizing it. I don't think we ever got further than 250 miles from home, and with being pretty busy otherwise, I guess that's why the updates have slid. We did do a couple HOG club rides, two of which we led ourselves. I guess we'll start with the first one way back in April. 

Living as we do in the heart of PA Dutch country, we are blessed with not only natural beauty of all kinds, but also a unique opportunity for a "fun with place names" ride. These aren't really unusual - many a club has taken a ride to a cool road sign just because us folks really don't need much more than a place to head to and a little sunshine for an excuse to ride. Lots of times, we don't even need either.

I've always wanted to do this ride, and honestly I'm surprised that in 24 years of Lehigh Valley HOG, nobody else has thought of it. The hardest part was coming up with the name. That, and a place to eat. My rides tend to draw a big crowd (it's a rare occasion that I toot my own horn, but I'm kinda proud of that) and we've learned from experience that showing up unexpectedly with essentially a busload of people at Flo's Cafe does not always turn out to be the divine experience it was when we scouted out the ride alone. In this case, lunch involved about 15 seconds of careful consideration. All we needed was a scenic route to connect the dots - the stuff I'm good at.

Yes, the dots. What was it that was so damn cool about them? What kind of places would constitute a "Dirty Dutchman" ride? Well, we start with a short ride to Virginville, and take a picture at the post office. From there it's south to Blue Ball, west to Bird-In-Hand (that one takes a little imagination but it was on the way) then right down the road to the climax in Intercourse, PA!  All easily done without leaving Berks and Lancaster counties, in time for a late lunch.

Which, if you recall, took 15 seconds to figure out. A few miles out of town right along our way home, is a legendary PA Dutch eatery that has constituted a club ride on its own merits: the Shady Maple Smorgasbord. As far as I know, it seats about 700. No reservation required. And they serve shoo-fly pie. What else could a Dutchman want?

Sounded like a good day on paper, and it worked out even better on asphalt.

Hey Bud, Where Ya Been?

Well...

On an esoteric level, yes, bud, it's been a while.  Been, well, away.  Not in a way that begs reading between the lines for any life drama, just away, in the sense that we haven't been seen here on LBB, filing regular reports.

On a black-and-white, ledger accounting kind of level, we've been lots of places doing lots of things.  Things that, one, take our time and attention away from blogging, and, two, aren't really very exciting.  But Gretchen has completely worn out a tire already, so we must have been doing something.  And we have only a single blog post to show for it. 

I'll get to work on that. 

I've been riding to work a lot more this year, since Judi is not carpooling.  Donna and I have done a lot of riding locally, too.  And even though there is no "bike trip" on our agenda this year 

(I'll pause while you regain your composure)

we did just get back from a week at the lake house which turned out to be 1,250 miles worth of day trips.  We found 4 different ways to cross into upstate New York (OK, we already knew one of 'em) and spent the lion's share of our time exploring roads just as unfamiliar to us as the ones in Wyoming last year.  In the process, we saved a ton of money, pushed the relax-o-meter completely off the dial, and got to spend our nights in a place we love so much and don't see nearly enough.  And it was 15 degrees cooler than the heatwave everybody was bitching about back home.  Total win.

I'm thinking back on some of the other places that tire has been in those 7,000 miles, and I guess we did do a lot of cool stuff after all. Geez, I hope we're not.to the point where, if it doesn't involve places 1,000 miles from home, we don't get very excited about it.  I guess maybe we just think *you* wouldn't get very excited about it.

So I'll get up some notes about the Finger Lakes, and the Dirty Dutchman day, and Johnstown Bike week (aka Thunder in the Valley) and whatever else I deem noteworthy. 

But first, a couple pix from Friday Night, before we headed for the hills:

Turn The Gas On, Dummy

If you rode any kind of motorcycle in your younger years, you have undoubtedly heard those words. Don't try to lie. Nowadays, carburetors are found in museums, and even in their golden years, the vacuum petcock was there to keep you from looking dumb. But for almost a century, you had to remember to shut off the gas under the tank when you parked your bike, lest gravity and a weak needle valve make a puddle for you when you get back. But turning it off, of course, was only half of the equation.

If you did remember to turn the gas off, sooner or later you came back to your mount, and, forgetting the other half of the equation, threw a leg over and lit 'er off. At that point, either A) it didn't start at all, or B) it ran just until you got your act together and lurched forward, depending on how big your float bowl was and how long it sat.

"Turn the gas on, dummy!"

I am reminded of this, because I was guilty of the next-stupidest automotive infraction last week, leaving me in the car instead on a freak spring-like afternoon.

The twins (see below), being new additions to the family, were treated to a lot of goodies by Santa and his elves this year. Plenty of winter weekends were spent with the heat on in the garage, both bikes getting lots of winter maintenance and shiny new parts. For Gretchen (my two-tone green machine has been dubbed Gretchen the Grasshopper) one of the upgrades was chromed control switches and housings on the handlebars. This involved re-routing wires and re-packaging switch assemblies. When I put the throttle side back together, I had a problem getting everything to fit. After a couple tries, I finally got it right.

Fast forward to Thursday, when we pushed our bikes out into the warm sun. Boots, chaps, heated jacket liner (hey, I said spring-like, not summer-like) gloves, helmet, key, and...

Nothin'.

Gretchen sat there like a stone, the little red key light on in the dash and the clock blinking midnight, while Donna and Apollo patiently idled at the end of the driveway.

I'll save you the pain, but the short story is I spent hours cursing the fact that my $80 service manual is apparently a separate item from the "Electronic Troubleshooting Manual," (also avaialble for purchase at your friendly Harley-Davidson dealer) and trying to figure out why my bike suddenly thought it had a security system. It made sense that one of the brains was at least confused, if not fried, and despite the fact that I had discovered and repaired a minute section of bad insulation on a pinched wire, I had bigger problems.

Upon consulting my third professional, pricing all the suspect modules, and asking how much they would charge me to come with the truck, I was asked a very simple question by the service manager on the other end of the phone:

"You checked all the fuses, right?"

Um, nevermind...

Irish Twins

Below, you read about the latest addition to our family. Donna says from the get-go it was obviously a male. Since he was the color of the golden sun, and he was a little uppity and needed to be conquered, the name Apollo was almost too easy. He has already seen his first road trip, some personalized upgrades, and he's assimilating nicely.

Problem is, we have the same taste, and the FXSTC happens to be my favorite bike, too. I *love* this thing. Donna's been riding it every time we go out, and I have to watch with envy. She's on her big-girl bike, and I'm a big guy draped all over a little Sportster with 70,000 miles on it. A couple weeks ago, we were at the dealership picking up one of the aforementioned upgrades, when what to my wondering eyes should appear but another one in an awesome blue and silver. Not the limited-edition gold leaf thing that Apollo wears, but sweet nonetheless, with some cool chrome upgrades and a nice set of detachable saddlebags.

It was a year older than Donna's, and I could have gotten it for about the same price, but I hate spending money. And we didn't really have room for the last bike, let alone another. But after a week of double-checking prices, and working a deal for winter storage of my current bike, I eventually decided if I could steal it, I'd take the plunge. I called with a lowball offer.

Well, all that did was get me more wound up. Then, that weekend during the dealer's Open House, I was there as a volunteer and ended up watching the bike ridden off by its new owner, who was willing to pay a fair price. Now remember, not only can I certainly not afford a new Harley, they stopped making this model 2 years ago.

I suppose in an effort to console myself by proving that these things are out there, and to prove that this was not the deal of the century and I missed out on it, I began really looking in earnest. I did find a few for about what "mine" was sold for, so it made me feel a little better. If I could get one for a good chunk under market, I'd grab it knowing I could get back out of it without taking a bath. If not, no biggie. Time is money.

And then, just like that, I found it.

It was an auction on eBay, ending the next day, located in South Carolina. As fate would have it (and I have a strong relationship with fate,) I'd already had the day (Friday) scheduled off to use up my PTO days before the holiday rush. I'm certainly not about to spend that much money on something sight unseen, but I was able to book a last-minute flight at a great price, and in a whirlwind of activity, I loaded up my T-Bag with rainsuit, jacket, and chaps, grabbed my helmet, and soon found myself disembarking in Greenville, SC on a sunny Friday afternoon.

Three hours later, I was riding up I-85 on my "new" Envy Green 2007 Harley Softail Custom. (Envy Green: another shadow of fate?) It's the prior year version of the limited-edtion paint thing, color-shifting in the sun and also emblazoned in gold leaf script, and all the chrome accessory goodies that are already on it are also to my taste and didn't cost me a dime. It really was a great deal.

I don't have a name for her yet, and I'm not even sure if she's even going to stay green - I have a line on an awesome tank and fender set. But now Apollo has an Irish twin, and we have as many bikes as we do kids. And despite the fact that it rained half the way home, as you surely assumed, Kevin is smiling ear to ear!

Rain For Rent

The title above probably does not ring a bell to anyone reading this, with the possible exception of my dad.  I'll explain later, but these days nothing could be more appropriate.  I'm stealing it.

Two weeks after Labor Day, for the second year in a row, we headed to Ocean City, MD for Delmarva Bike Week.  (Yes, this post is *very* delayed.)  OC Bike Week is already one of our favorites and is pretty much on the calendar permanently, for a couple reasons:

-There is an awful lot to do, spread out over a pretty large radius.  Plenty of adventure for riders, not just sidewalk bikers and trailer queens.
- There are tons of places to party after hours.  It's a beach town.  Some of these bars can entertain hundreds, even thousands of people.  And, there's the drunk bus!
- Being a beach town, there's a natural main drag to see and be seen, instead of wandering through a town making it up as you go along. 
- There's plenty of places to park a trailer.  (Just kidding!)
- Hey, it's the beach. 

Also, half our friends are there.  Even if we don't travel with anyone (this year, we didn't) we always end up with friends; sometimes by design, often by accident.

So this is the first road trip for Apollo, Donna's new Softail (painted in Golden Glow and Black Glow Pearl.)  We load the bags, cinch 'em up, and guess what happens?

That's right... it RAINS.  We look at the radar, poke around, try to find a window, and ultimately just put the damn rainsuits on and ride our shiny clean bikes down the turnpike.  Un-be-lievable.

It stopped somewhere in Delaware, and actually got nice there for a while, but as we shopped at a venue 40 miles out of town, it was not only pouring in Ocean City, there was a TORNADO that came across the strip of sand that makes up the town.  That's right.  Tornado.  In Ocean City, MD.  Un-be-lievable.

That night, we made good use of the drunk bus.  The next day, we made good use of our hotel room and it was late by the time we ventured out.  It had rained during the day, but stopped before we got back on the drunk bus to go out and see an awesome band. 

Saturday we got out early and met some friends for breakfast, and about 10 of us rode to a site in Salisbury, about 20-30 miles out of town.  The forecast was about 35% chance of scattered showers, but of course we all brought our rainsuits.  It started raining as we got there, and continued ALL FREAKING DAY.  We killed as much time as we could before finally throwing in the towel, suiting up, and heading back.  We ended up taking the bus to a seafood buffet and went back to the room early.  Too much fun...

Sunday we got about 20 miles before stopping to suit up.  It didn't rain for the entire 180-mile ride home, but at that point, who even cared?  Seriously, it rained 4 days out of 4.  Between the weather and the number of accidents that are happening to people we know, this year can go to hell and never come back.  Aside from our 2-week trip out west, which was OK but certainly not ideal, weather has killed all of our long weekends and the majority of our short ones.

Rain For Rent was the name of the Coburn and Miller Top Fuel dragster in the 1960's.  The name came not from the fact that it rained everywhere they were booked into for a show, but from the name of an irrigation company owned by their primary backer.  Still, it seems to Donna and me that if you were one of those Texas farmers living through a record drought this year, you could probably solve all your problems by hosting a bike week and paying us to come.  We could make a fortune.

Wild West By the Numbers

OK, so that's about it for this year's adventure.  We're glad you rode along, and we hope you enjoyed it as much as we did.  We'll leave you with some final statistics:

14,130 - feet above sea level

4,954 - miles

418 - pictures

152 - songs on my iPod

umpteen - bottles of water

15 - US states

11 - new Harley shirts

3 - parts replaced on the road (broken oil filler cap, burned out headlight, worn out tire)

3 - parking lot garbage bucket bike washes

3 - bottles of cherry vodka

2 - soul mates

1 - hell of a great time

Things We Think You Should Know

The Great Plains really are plain. 

The difference between Iowa and Nebraska is that in Iowa, there is corn on *both* sides of the road.

When tar snakes bake in the sun all day, they really get your attention when you're leaned into a turn.  They instantly move the bike out a couple inches, and set you up with a nice bobble through the bars.  I don't think they could crash you even if you were stupid, but they sure wake you up.

The "Barnyard" as served in Byers, CO is 3 beef patties, cheese, lettuce, pickle, ham, bacon, and fried egg.  If you eat it all, they will name it after you (ostensibly until the next person does it.)

There is no "Klinger Barnyard" special in Byers, CO.

In many old towns that still thrive, such as Cheyenne, you can ride down Main Street (which is usually a US higway) and take a trip through time as the town expanded.  In the center of town are the ornate brick Hollywood movie sets, with signs painted right on the brick and maybe even with gold leaf lettering in the store windows.  A little further out is 50's glass-block-and-neon architecture.  Keep going, and you hit Wal-Mart.  Neat.

If you are traveling through wide-open spaces, and range is a concern (say, as when you're riding a Sporster with a 3-gallon tank) you're better off staying along the railroad tracks.  Many US highways follow them, and those that do seem to have a much better chance of having had towns spring up along the line.  Sometimes, that's all you need.

In Wyoming, "subdivision" means 10-acre building lots.

Every road has a gate so that it can be closed in bad weather.  Doesn't matter if it's an Interstate highway; they just make it 3 lanes wide.  There's the arm, a flashing light, and a sign that says "Road Closed - Return to ___ (insert town name here.)  That's it.  You're parked - hotel, convenience mart, or not.  Deal with it.

The craziest one was about 50 miles outside the tiny town of Lusk, WY, where US 18 & 85 split.  The sign said, "Return to Lusk." Damn, dude - that was 50 miles back!  If the road's that bad, what makes you think I'm going to get there?

There is a product called Butt Paste.  That's all I have to say about that.

You are much less likely to need tools if you actually carry them.

A motorcyle can lose as much as 10 mpg into a headwind.

There are places where they can close one lane of an interstate highway with absolutely no consequence whatsoever.

Traffic sucks.

Chicks dig cowboys.