tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-71741367964324751252024-03-05T00:23:27.408-08:00Two Wheels Future UncertainIsrael Eugene Gillette 423 930 7890http://www.blogger.com/profile/06052477254350622028noreply@blogger.comBlogger77125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7174136796432475125.post-66703843720525822402020-07-21T01:06:00.001-07:002020-10-18T01:50:42.465-07:00TAT Tale Part Two: Flying Low on the Trans America Trail Across Middle America During the COVID-19 Pan(ic)demic<br>
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Following our unfortunate encounter with the grizzled blue-eyed stranger we rejoined the dirt and gravel westward. Though a clear beautiful day, heavy rains over the previous week had swollen creeks into boot topping lagoons along the trail. The first of these offered a test for Dan. Though a fine dog, he is apprehensive of water. It proved another successful trial in Dandy's growth as an adventure dog and companion. He's developing into a true badass.<br>
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A couple more water-crossings brought us to the Robert Heidelberger and Co. stop in Trenton, Arkansas. The unofficial midway point along the TAT (it's unofficial because it misses the middle by around a thousand miles). The father and son farmers that own the place keep it open to cater to trail riders passing through. They maintain a rider log, and offer travelers refreshments free of charge. I suspect it is the most cultured place in Arkansas, and likely the most photographed. When Dan and I pulled up the establishment's elder statesman, who's name eludes me at the moment, was waiting. I introduced Dan, and pulled my waterlogged boots off, drained them, placed them in the sunlight, and took a seat on the porch. Over the next couple of hours at least a dozen locals stopped by for curious chats. We were apparently the only riders on the 5000+ mile long TAT. To be fair the folks here weren't all that concerned with COVID-19, and when they asked if I was worried about it, I told them that I believed it to be real, but uttered a line from one of my favorite movies, "Get busy living, or get busy dying".<br>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilRP1Uvg7SBLeNudDrAIe4taDlpeQHEs95I8jITmapplkkrk65NxctXI8T0awJ8fRrqpbkWgvmcMSJshOLZ2w90mAnB52a-2zpjIkWPpirdXynYppTWEYbnqEAoJ3RXGYo5TU6qMdlrS2L/s1600/DSC_6105.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1067" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilRP1Uvg7SBLeNudDrAIe4taDlpeQHEs95I8jITmapplkkrk65NxctXI8T0awJ8fRrqpbkWgvmcMSJshOLZ2w90mAnB52a-2zpjIkWPpirdXynYppTWEYbnqEAoJ3RXGYo5TU6qMdlrS2L/s320/DSC_6105.JPG" width="213"></a> After fitting a fresh pair of socks and pulling my sun-baked, and mostly dry, boots back on, pictures were snapped, we said our goodbyes, and headed northwest. The gravel roads woven throughout the Ozarks were of top order, and, coupled with good weather, we made short work of them. Just as we<br>
reached the Oklahoma border, however, the clouds darkened and rain began to fall. We took cover in a state park, sheltering under the entrance of a bathroom closed due to COVID. The following morning park rangers visited us and asked us to move along. We ventured out into cold precipitation and made our way to a hotel 50 miles north in Fayetteville. I was struck by the number of homeless folks roaming the streets of this middle America college town. We're in for a difficult future I mused to myself as Dan and I reached our room for the night.<br>
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High Plains Drifters<br>
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The first couple of hundred miles through Oklahoma were wet, muddy and undulating. Fortunately the mud wasn't too pervasive, and once we reached the plains, with their long straights, the paths were dusty dry. Though we hardly encountered any pavement in Oklahoma, it saw the fastest speeds of the trip. We sat around 75 miles per hour, and 90 was a common occurrence. The hard packed gravel, and dry dirt offered confidence and a corresponding squiggle that brought a smile to my face. We may as well have been doing 150.<br>
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My rear tire was showing some wear, and with the Rockies fast approaching, I felt the need to procure new shoes for Big Bird (our Suzuki cycle for those missing the previous installment). So, with some help from the online community I found a place catering to motorcyclists in the Oklahoma panhandle called the Great Plains Bunkhouse that provided a motorcycle jack and tools for repairs. I copied and pasted the address into Google and resumed leading a fast moving plume of dust westward. With the sun setting I approached the destination Google Maps provided. It was in the middle of a dirt road without a structure for two miles. In the distance there were several trees accompanying a couple of buildings; and with light dwindling I decided it was worth investigating. The abandoned clapboard house was equal parts dust bowl, Great Depression, and cantankerous American storyteller. Its glassless windows whispered a grief stricken plight equally at home within the covers of a Steinbeck or McCarthy tale. Dingy twilight embraced the sad abode and half a dozen gleaming sets of eyes peered in our direction from its dark interior. I pulled to a stop, set the kickstand, dismounted, and told Dan we're home.<br>
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After setting a moonlit camp, lighting the grill, and cracking a not so cold one, a bright piercing light appeared on the Eastern horizon. At first I couldn't distinguish whether it was terrestrial, or gleaming from the heavens. I contemplated its placement for a stretch of time, as Dan admired feral felines, and a large polecat that called the abandoned clapboard shack home. Upon two minute's examination, I concluded it to be land based, and after covering another five miles or so the turbo diesel work truck, with lighting straight out of a Stephen Spielberg alien flick, blew by somewhere in the vicinity of 70 miles per hour, applying the brakes as it passed. The turbo's whistle dwindled and the big Ford made an about-face, again shining its penetrating lights in our direction.<br>
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A 6'4", 270 pound, figure emerged from the fleet dually, and lumbered towards us. As the full moon backlighting ceded deference to my grill/campfire I could make out the baby faced young man. I said hello, and he responded;"Sorry to bother you. We work the field's here, and we don't see many campers. Once I saw the bike, I realized you weren't a rustler" He smiled, glancing down at Dan, and thrust an open hand in my direction, "My name's Canyon". I'd had almost a thousand miles worth of of gravel to think bout my encounter with Willie Nelson's twin brother near the banks of the Mississippi, and I didn't hesitate. I grabbed Canyon's hand, and smiled. My name's Israel, and that's Dan, I responded. Though a seemingly small gesture, my humanity benefitted greatly. Never again will I defer from a greeting. It's a sign of acceptance, an indication of understanding, and a general commitment of respect. If these things are risks, they are chances worth taking. Nothing wrenches joy from life quite like fear.<br>
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Canyon chatted with me about bikes, travel, and the news while standing over the little fire for an hour or so, as Dan surveyed the herd of cats. I'd not talked to anyone closely since central Mississippi, and it felt good. My new friend said his goodbye, and I quickly fell into a deep sleep. The next morning brought with it a fresh perspective, and we found the abandoned Great Plains Bunkhouse without too much trouble. Though closed for COVID, Dan and I were allowed to stay till my tire arrived, which gave us time to decompress in an agreeable setting. We were halfway to trail's end and the Rockies were only a day away.<br>
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Israel Eugene Gillette 423 930 7890http://www.blogger.com/profile/06052477254350622028noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7174136796432475125.post-46657243625063691712020-05-06T10:57:00.002-07:002020-05-06T10:57:37.233-07:00Patient Zero COVID-19: Romania to Oregon Overland Between February and April<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Here's the quarantine story of a risk taker from Tennessee, and a mutt named Dandy.<br />
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I shouldn't be at the cross-roads of the Americas. I should be making my way back to the Isle of Man to prepare for the Manx Grand Prix. After returning stateside for racing and business I find myself in an unusual predicament; Stuck! Having secured good results last season, including an overall race win, it was all but assured that I'd be racing on the world's fastest, and most complicated, road course come August, needing only two decent results in 2020 to make the cut. Sadly, taking part in those qualifying races, along with packing a European bound shipping container, has yet to happen. Three days prior to departing for Roebling Road Raceway, and a long race weekend, the event was cancelled. My return flight to Munich, and my awaiting Yamaha, had been cancelled as well, therefore indefinitely delaying my shipping container's departure for Rotterdam. Everything I've worked for and invested in over the past few years is either hung up in dry-dock,<br />
or hanging in limbo just out of reach.<br />
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An Uncertain Path Forward<br />
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Any depression I was feeling over difficulties presented by race and flight cancellations were compounded by my financial situation. I had some money set aside for my races, but my income potential was limited. I could sell some of my bikes tagged for export, but now is a terrible time to do so, and I'd undoubtedly take a sizable loss. One friend of mine was in the process of buying a house in the mountains of East Tennessee, and had offered me a job helping with renovations, but the apparent severity of the pandemic had put a hold on the project. There was only one other option. My friend, Arie, had informed me that his sister had purchases a piece of property in rural Washington State. The main house is in need of work, including building two decks, and I'd been offered a job. Unfortunately SeaTac airport has been one of the main hubs for COVID-19 in the US, and I needed to make other arrangements if I were to reach the worksite.<br />
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The Trans America Trail<br />
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Though my main goal in life at the moment is to race on the Isle of Man, I've had more experience as an adventurer than a racer, thus far setting foot in 49 States, and 56 countries along roughly two million miles of overland travels. I never ask myself, can I do this? Rather, I simply figure out how to get where I want to be, oftentimes using questionable means. I'm of the opinion that going where we want is our right as humans. Had God wanted us to stay in one place, we'd have not been born with legs, and most certainly would never have thrown legs over motorcycles. COVID-19, though serious, is nowhere near as serious as my belief in our Inalienable Rights. I decided that I was going to get to the Pacific Northwest by whatever means necessary. The best option, in my mind, was to utilize the Trans America Trail. The TAT is a series of rural paths connnecting east and west coast, spanning in excess of 5,000 miles of what is about 90% dirt and gravel. What better way is there for someone like me to ride out this crisis? I hit the road and not looked back.<br />
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A Special Bike and Good Company<br />
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A couple of years back I came across a bright yellow Suzuki DR650 for sale in Midland, Texas with all the bells and whistles. It had a 790cc big bore kit, an eight gallon fuel tank, upside forks, a custom fairing and a host of other mods to transform the DR from capable mid sized dual sport all-rounder to long range adventure bike. Whilst I had no need for it, I bought it anyway, and took to calling it Big Bird. It sat in my childhood home's basement since, with only the occasional start and quick ride to keep it ready.<br />
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Though I've briefly mentioned my furry border collie companion Dandy in the current series of blogs, this particular chapter finds him playing a much more significant role, and therefore in need of a more formal introduction. Dan had the misfortune of following in the paw-prints of Daisy, the best friend I have ever had. A fearlessly faithful companion for 49 states, 34 countries, and a million miles, she'd treated me better than I deserved. Her sudden passing in rural Romania left a hole in my life. After several months I was contacted by Tammy Davis, an administrator at the Washington County, Johnson City, Animal Shelter, the same place Daisy had come from, to invite me to visit a stray. I obliged, and came across a smart, skittish, attention starved border collie that I worried was too fearful to be my side-kick. Nonetheless, I gave him a shot, tossing him into the pannier of another DR650 the first day I had him. He showed real skill on the bike. We've been working on his other aversions including, water, fire, and drones since then, and we've made headway, especially the drone portion. However, as an admittedly biased observer, Dan is now developing into a great hound, and, in my opinion, the finest motorcycle dog on the planet. He's just FAST. I'm fortunate to have found him.<br />
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No Set Plans<br />
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Admittedly, I've always been more capricious than calculative, and struggle with structure. This has ensured winding paths to my desired destinations. Though often sited as a detriment, given the current state of the world, I figure it's a feather in my cap. I've learned to be supremely durable. Besides, at this point what do I have to lose? So, on a day with a forgotten date in late March, Dan and I set off from Northeast Tennessee, on a God awful yellow Dr 790, in driving rain, bound for the West Coast, come what may.<br />
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There are several set routes for the TAT but the one I was primarily following runs from Cape Hatteras, North Carolina to Port Orford, Oregon. I'd decided to skip backtracking to the Outer Banks, a decision made easier since local authorities had access blocked to non-residents. Starting in the Appalachian Mountains seemed appropriate enough. I began my life, in and around, those old green hills, and always seem to be leaving them behind. As I snaked between the gravel access roads heading southwest along the Tennessee North Carolina border I thought frequently of my first cross-country trip at 18 years old. Believe it or not, it was taken under far more trying circumstances. I got through that trip, and this one is going to be a piece of cake.<br />
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A Large Load and Difficult Parking<br />
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Though only a single cylinder machine, the Suzuki DR650 isn't particularly lithe in stock form. And though the many modifications help improve the suspension and handling characteristics, they also bolster weight, and quite a lot of it. Add panniers, a handsome border collie, an offsetting load of tools, camping gear, a couple of sets of underwear, and an extra 170 pounds has been gained over the stock curb weight of the already portly Bush Pig. The side stand had been cut down to accommodate additional load, however, attention was still required when parking. It stands erect when fully loaded and parked on completely flat surfaces. Just a few hundred miles into our journey this issue complicated the trip.<br />
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Somewhere in northern Alabama we abruptly lost power and pulled to the side of the road. A quick appraisal of the situation found the engine still running, and the gearbox engaging. I took a deep sigh of relief after looking down to find no chain. I parked up and Dan hopped out to help locate the wayward chain. As our search got underway a nice guy on a four wheeler nearby pulled up alongside the bike, dismounted, and approached us asking if he could help. Just as I began explaining our predicament a forceful gust of wind blew Big Bird from its perch to the ground. I ran to my fallen steed, and looked on in horror to find that the bike's custom windscreen had tangled with the parked four wheeler and lost badly. It wasn't the sort of thing that could be easily replaced. I let out a yawp and a few curses as I hoisted the stricken Suzuki upright. The windscreen was now in several pieces of varying shapes and sizes. So there we stood with a broken chain and busted windscreen in rural Alabama, around 3,500 miles from our destination.<br />
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Though less distressing than the windscreen, I focused my attention on the chain. Surprisingly, it was a nice Japanese made X-ring chain, and these rarely snap. Happily, in my scrutiny I found the chain had failed at the master link, and oddly there had been two of them on the chain. I could only surmise that when installing the chain the former owner had broken it too short, and added an additional, inferior, master link to lengthen it. The Good Samaritan asked if he could be of any help. I asked for a cordless drill and bits. He set off to procure said items, and I took to adjusting my axle as far forward as possible.<br />
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Following an extended, greezy, struggle, I managed to reinstall the chain. It was far too tight, but it was on there. Having been provided with a drill, I dug Krazy Glue and zip-ties from my luggage, and set about drilling 60 holes in the various pieces of my broken windscreen. The resulting Monster of Frankenstein meets Big Bird front fairing seemed plenty sturdy, and its character seemed appropriate to the trip. Following the two hour fix, I repacked, thanked the Good Samaritan, and we gingerly set off in search of a replacement chain. Riding into the sunset I felt rather satisfied for the first time in months.<br />
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Crossing the Mighty Mississippi, and an Unfortunate Encounter<br />
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Following two days' respite at our friend, Jon's farm in Northern Mississippi, we picked up the TAT once more, and rode the levee road dodging a variety of livestock for fifty miles to reach the Helena Bridge. There had been some question as to whether states would close their borders due to the pandemic. I had seen some signs along the Tennessee / North Carolina border asserting such a thing, but was generally confident that the Interstate Commerce Clause prevented states from doing so without federal help. However, these are strange times, and it was difficult to know what to expect. If you wanted to prevent ingress to Arkansas a narrow bridge over a wide river would be a great place to do so. As it turned out our thoroughfare was bureaucrat-free, and open for business. I took a sigh of relief, and we rolled through Helena and set camp along the banks of the Mississippi River.<br />
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The following morning brought with it a red sky followed by a drizzle which had me packing camp quickly. By the time we were mobile the rainfall had grown in strength, and I searched out the nearest refuge. In this case it happened to be a well used gas station in downtown Helena that catered to the minority community. I bought an energy drink and stood in the parking lot alongside my over-loaded motorcycle and wet dog watching the doppler radar on my phone. An hour or so passed and the rain was subsiding as I finished my second energy drink, and a faded blue e100 ford ice-cream van arrived. Out slid a grizzled hippy of roughly, and I mean roughly, 60 years of age. He took an interest in our presence, and came over to pet Dan and talk about motorcycles. He continued on into the shop, and I set about arranging for our westward departure. After strapping on my helmet, but before pulling on my gloves, the leathery tramp again approached, and explained that he had some property in town with a small house and trailer. He continued on to say that he lived alone and was tired of not having anyone to drink a beer with, and invited me to come and stay for as long as I liked. I thanked him, but declined, citing my Manifest Destiny. The grizzled man said he understood, wished us a good trip, and stretched his hand out in my direction. I stared at it like Howard Hughes in an OCD fit, and lifted my gaze to the friendly stranger's faded blue eyes. They expressed a flicker of pain and he balled up a fist which I quickly bumped. I looked on as the old man crawled into his retired ice-cream truck. Its rough exterior echoing vestiges of happier times. I left feeling empty and ashamed.<br />
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<br />Israel Eugene Gillette 423 930 7890http://www.blogger.com/profile/06052477254350622028noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7174136796432475125.post-79598686206439910572020-05-05T09:35:00.000-07:002020-05-06T17:33:34.113-07:00An American Newcomer Racing on the Isle of Man: Hopes, Dreams, and Riding Out COVID-19 <br />
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I shouldn't be at the cross-roads of the Americas. I should be making my way back to the Isle of Man to prepare for the Manx Grand Prix. After returning stateside for racing and business I find myself in an unusual predicament; Stuck! Having secured good results last season, including an overall race win, it was all but assured that I'd be racing on the world's fastest, and most complicated, road course come August, needing only two decent results in 2020 to make the cut. Sadly, taking part in those qualifying races, along with packing a European bound shipping container, has yet to happen. Three days prior to departing for Roebling Road Raceway, and a long race weekend, the event was cancelled. My return flight to Munich had been cancelled as well, therefore indefinitely delaying my shipping container's departure for Rotterdam. Everything I've worked for and invested in over the past few years is either hung up in dry-dock, or hanging in limbo just out of reach.<br />
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An Uncertain Path Forward<br />
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Any depression I was feeling over difficulties presented by race and flight cancellations were compounded by my financial situation. I had some money set aside for my races, but my income potential was limited. I could sell some of my bikes tagged for export, but now is a terrible time to do so, and I'd undoubtedly take a sizable loss. One friend of mine was in the process of buying a house in the mountains of East Tennessee, and had offered me a job helping with renovations, but the apparent severity of the pandemic had put a hold on the project. There was only one other option. My friend, Arie, had informed me that his sister had purchases a piece of property in rural Washington State. The main house is in need of work, including building two decks, and I'd been offered a job. Unfortunately SeaTac airport has been one of the main hubs for COVID-19 in the US, and I needed to make other arrangements if I were to reach the worksite.<br />
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The Trans America Trail<br />
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Though my main goal in life at the moment is to race on the Isle of Man, I've had more experience as an adventurer than a racer, thus far setting foot in 49 States, and 56 countries along roughly two million miles of overland travels. I never ask myself, can I do this? Rather, I simply figure out how to get where I want to be, oftentimes using questionable means. I'm of the opinion that going where we want is our right as humans. Had God wanted us to stay in one place, we'd have not been born with legs, and most certainly would never have thrown legs over motorcycles. COVID-19, though serious, is nowhere near as serious as my belief in our Inalienable Rights. I decided that I was going to get to the Pacific Northwest by whatever means necessary. The best option, in my mind, was to utilize the Trans America Trail. The TAT is a series of rural paths connnecting east and west coast, spanning in excess of 5,000 miles of what is about 90% dirt and gravel. What better way is there for someone like me to ride out this crisis? I hit the road and not looked back.<br />
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A Special Bike and Good Company<br />
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A couple of years back I came across a bright yellow Suzuki DR650 for sale in Midland, Texas with all the bells and whistles. It had a 790cc big bore kit, an eight gallon fuel tank, upside forks, a custom fairing and a host of other mods to transform the DR from capable mid sized dual sport all-rounder to long range adventure bike. Whilst I had no need for it, I bought it anyway, and took to calling it Big Bird. It sat in my childhood home's basement since, with only the occasional start and quick ride to keep it ready.<br />
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Though I've briefly mentioned my furry border collie companion Dandy in the current series of blogs, this particular chapter finds him playing a much more significant role, and therefore in need of a more formal introduction. Dan had the misfortune of following in the paw-prints of Daisy, the best friend I have ever had. A fearlessly faithful companion for 49 states, 34 countries, and a million miles, she'd treated me better than I deserved. Her sudden passing in rural Romania left a hole in my life. After several months I was contacted by Tammy Davis, an administrator at the Washington County, Johnson City, Animal Shelter, the same place Daisy had come from, to invite me to visit a stray. I obliged, and came across a smart, skittish, attention starved border collie that I worried was too fearful to be my side-kick. Nonetheless, I gave him a shot, tossing him into the pannier of another DR650 the first day I had him. He showed real skill on the bike. We've been working on his other aversions including, water, fire, and drones since then, and we've made headway, especially the drone portion. However, as an admittedly biased observer, Dan is now developing into a great hound, and, in my opinion, the finest motorcycle dog on the planet. He's just FAST. I'm fortunate to have found him.<br />
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No Set Plans<br />
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Admittedly, I've always been more capricious than calculative, and struggle with structure. This has ensured winding paths to my desired destinations. Though often sited as a detriment, given the current state of the world, I figure it's a feather in my cap. I've learned to be supremely durable. Besides, at this point what do I have to lose? So, on a day with a forgotten date in late March, Dan and I set off from Northeast Tennessee, on a God awful yellow Dr 790, in driving rain, bound for the West Coast, come what may.<br />
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There are several set routes for the TAT but the one I was primarily following runs from Cape Hatteras, North Carolina to Port Orford, Oregon. I'd decided to skip backtracking to the Outer Banks, a decision made easier since local authorities had access blocked to non-residents. Starting in the Appalachian Mountains seemed appropriate enough. I began my life, in and around, those old green hills, and always seem to be leaving them behind. As I snaked between the gravel access roads heading southwest along the Tennessee North Carolina border I thought frequently of my first cross-country trip at 18 years old. Believe it or not, it was taken under far more trying circumstances. I got through that trip, and this one is going to be a piece of cake.<br />
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A Large Load and Difficult Parking<br />
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Though only a single cylinder machine, the Suzuki DR650 isn't particularly lithe in stock form. And though the many modifications help improve the suspension and handling characteristics, they also bolster weight, and quite a lot of it. Add panniers, a handsome border collie, an offsetting load of tools, camping gear, a couple of sets of underwear, and an extra 170 pounds has been gained over the stock curb weight of the already portly Bush Pig. The side stand had been cut down to accommodate additional load, however, attention was still required when parking. It stands erect when fully loaded and parked on completely flat surfaces. Just a few hundred miles into our journey this issue complicated the trip.<br />
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Somewhere in northern Alabama we abruptly lost power and pulled to the side of the road. A quick appraisal of the situation found the engine still running, and the gearbox engaging. I took a deep sigh of relief after looking down to find no chain. I parked up and Dan hopped out to help locate the wayward chain. As our search got underway a nice guy on a four wheeler nearby pulled up alongside the bike, dismounted, and approached us asking if he could help. Just as I began explaining our predicament a forceful gust of wind blew Big Bird from its perch to the ground. I ran to my fallen steed, and looked on in horror to find that the bike's custom windscreen had tangled with the parked four wheeler and lost badly. It wasn't the sort of thing that could be easily replaced. I let out a yawp and a few curses as I hoisted the stricken Suzuki upright. The windscreen was now in several pieces of varying shapes and sizes. So there we stood with a broken chain and busted windscreen in rural Alabama, around 3,500 miles from our destination.<br />
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Though less distressing than the windscreen, I focused my attention on the chain. Surprisingly, it was a nice Japanese made X-ring chain, and these rarely snap. Happily, in my scrutiny I found the chain had failed at the master link, and oddly there had been two of them on the chain. I could only surmise that when installing the chain the former owner had broken it too short, and added an additional, inferior, master link to lengthen it. The Good Samaritan asked if he could be of any help. I asked for a cordless drill and bits. He set off to procure said items, and I took to adjusting my axle as far forward as possible.<br />
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Following an extended, greezy, struggle, I managed to reinstall the chain. It was far too tight, but it was on there. Having been provided with a drill, I dug Krazy Glue and zip-ties from my luggage, and set about drilling 60 holes in the various pieces of my broken windscreen. The resulting Monster of Frankenstein meets Big Bird front fairing seemed plenty sturdy, and its character seemed appropriate to the trip. Following the two hour fix, I repacked, thanked the Good Samaritan, and we gingerly set off in search of a replacement chain. Riding into the sunset I felt rather satisfied for the first time in months.<br />
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Crossing the Mighty Mississippi, and an Unfortunate Encounter<br />
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Following two days' respite at our friend, Jon's farm in Northern Mississippi, we picked up the TAT once more, and rode the levee road dodging a variety of livestock for fifty miles to reach the Helena Bridge. There had been some question as to whether states would close their borders due to the pandemic. I had seen some signs along the Tennessee / North Carolina border asserting such a thing, but was generally confident that the Interstate Commerce Clause prevented states from doing so without federal help. However, these are strange times, and it was difficult to know what to expect. If you wanted to prevent ingress to Arkansas a narrow bridge over a wide river would be a great place to do so. As it turned out our thoroughfare was bureaucrat-free, and open for business. I took a sigh of relief, and we rolled through Helena and set camp along the banks of the Mississippi River.<br />
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The following morning brought with it a red sky followed by a drizzle which had me packing camp quickly. By the time we were mobile the rainfall had grown in strength, and I searched out the nearest refuge. In this case it happened to be a well used gas station in downtown Helena that catered to the minority community. I bought an energy drink and stood in the parking lot alongside my over-loaded motorcycle and wet dog watching the doppler radar on my phone. An hour or so passed and the rain was subsiding as I finished my second energy drink, and a faded blue e100 ford ice-cream van arrived. Out slid a grizzled hippy of roughly, and I mean roughly, 60 years of age. He took an interest in our presence, and came over to pet Dan and talk about motorcycles. He continued on into the shop, and I set about arranging for our westward departure. After strapping on my helmet, but before pulling on my gloves, the leathery tramp again approached, and explained that he had some property in town with a small house and trailer. He continued on to say that he lived alone and was tired of not having anyone to drink a beer with, and invited me to come and stay for as long as I liked. I thanked him, but declined, citing my Manifest Destiny. The grizzled man said he understood, wished us a good trip, and stretched his hand out in my direction. I stared at it like Howard Hughes in an OCD fit, and lifted my gaze to the friendly stranger's faded blue eyes. They expressed a flicker of pain and he balled up a fist which I quickly bumped. I looked on as the old man crawled into his retired ice-cream truck. Its rough exterior echoing vestiges of happier times. I left feeling empty and ashamed.<br />
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<br />Israel Eugene Gillette 423 930 7890http://www.blogger.com/profile/06052477254350622028noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7174136796432475125.post-14335486951538276932019-12-31T03:32:00.000-08:002023-11-15T07:24:39.971-08:00An American Newcomer Racing on the Isle of Man: A Bump in the Road After crossing the finish line I peered over my right shoulder towards Barber Motorsports Park's massive scoring tower. At the very top there was a large 22! Had I won? I must have. My first overall expert class race win was aided by mid-race rain, but I won it easily, and a win is a win. It was the best race weekend I've ever had. My three races netted a first, third, and sixth. It was a much needed morale boost following a week of bad news for my racing dreams on the Isle of Man, and some strife back in Tennessee. I'd been so despondent that I almost hadn't attended. Fortunately, that was not the case.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Racing in the rain on slicks with Blake Davis (I won!)</td></tr>
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I thought my dream of racing on the Isle of Man was pretty well secured. I mean, I'd submitted my race results, been invited to, and attended, the Newcomers Weekend. However, somewhat inexplicably, from my view, I was excluded from being offered a start number for the Manx Grand Prix. All of my race results prior to October 2018, which had been used to qualify me to race the Manx in 2019, were discounted due to my classification as a novice. It's worth pointing out that all my races, national events included, were run with expert class riders, and my results relative to the race winners met the criteria of a qualifying race result. I'd been fast enough, but what was done was done. I set my sights on 2020, and promptly won my next race. Onward and Upward!<br />
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A Persistant Man<br />
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If I've learned anything from my travels through life, it's this; No matter how little or big you dream, how much you plan, or how hard you work, forces, both seen and unseen, conspire against even the noblest endeavors, best laid plans, and most diligent laborers. Flexibility and ingenuity help overcome such opposition, but nothing works like willpower and perseverance.<br />
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After contemplating the circumstances surrounding my exclusion from racing at the Manx GP this year, I came to the conclusion that even though I wasn't to be competing I should attend anyway. I offered my assistance to fellow Newcomers and friends, Michael Mace (English, Triumph Daytona 675), and Kenneth Karnov (Danish, Moto 3 Honda). Both offered me pit passes, and I set about planning my trip to the Isle.<br />
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As I mentioned before, things rarely go to plan, and this trip was no different. Due to inescapable circumstances I'd been forced to leave my four legged, furry, buddy, Dandy, in Romania following the newcomers weekend I'd attended in March, in order to take part in races back in the States which I thought would cement my inclusion in this year's Manx Grand Prix. Upon returning to Europe I purchased a Yamaha XT660z Tenere in England and rode to a Romanian farm in a nostalgic nod to my first transcontinental motorcycle trip back in 2010. The trip east went down easily enough, and the reunification with my buddy Dan offered a breath of relief along my twisted path to the Isle of Man. I'd missed his company.<br />
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This is where things get complicated. I had the good fortune of obtaining a fancy carpentry job in Vienna which necessitated loading my Yamaha into my Sprinter van along with my tools and a healthy portion of North American Red Oak for the trip West. Though the drive back to the border went down without a hitch, when I went to retrieve the van's documents while lined up at the Hungarian border, they were nowhere to be found. They insisted I pay a fine, which I did, and still they refused me entry. As the sun rose above the distant trees I parked my van in the shade alongside the checkpoint, extracted an inflatable mattress from the back, and went to sleep. It had been a long night.<br />
<br />
Mercifully, sometime in the early afternoon I was awakened by a very clean smelling middle-aged Hungarian official. He handed me a paper to sign, and invited me into the Schengen Zone. I said thank you, to which he replied, with a smile, "You are welcome". The entire ordeal took about 12 hours. Whether I prevailed out of sympathy from the proper person, concern over the image generated by my little American refugee camp, or the realization that I was going to be far more trouble than I was worth I cannot say. However, regardless the impetus Dan and I were allowed continued on our way.<br />
<br />
European Work, Hungarian Heat, and Viennese Parking<br />
<br />
The particulars of how an East Tennesseean that studied economics and trades in motorcycles managed to get a carpentry job in Vienna is worthy of its own story. However, in an effort to expedite this tale, I'll just say it involves beer, a coffeeshop, a kindergarten, the world's largest brick manufacturer, and a friend named Bruno. The project got underway well enough, but in the midst of work I needed to reach the Isle of Man for the Manx Grand Prix. The plan was for Dan and I to ride to Calais, France, hit the Chunnel, continue on to Liverpool, England, and catch the ferry to Douglas, on the Isle. First, however, I needed to link up with my friend Susan in Budapest to retrieve my Nomex racing suit which was a compulsory item for working in the pits during the races. It was kind of her to have carried it from Tennessee to Eastern Europe to help benefit me in an endeavor that most folks just didn't understand. Though backtracking into Hungary through mid-August heat was unappealing, it was nice to see my friend prior to her departure to her own adventure in Antartica.<br />
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Upon returning to Vienna I set about packing for the long ride west. It was to be Dan's longest trip to date, and we were running short on time. I made one last run to my van to collect a few items before departing. Things were, once again, about to get difficult. Though I'd parked around Vienna's periphery, in "free parking", an oxymoron if ever there has been, I reached my van's spot to collect my Thermarest mattress and sleeping bag only to find a Five series BMW and the feeling that my trip's funds were about to disappear.<br />
<br />
1000 Euros and two days is about what it took to retrieve my van from impound. As frustrating a loss as it had been, I had no time to be bothered. I ditched the motorcycle trip, and opted to fly to the Isle. Unfortunately, last minute direct flights to the UK were expensive, and the only sub-500 Euro option involved flying to Warsaw and enduring an eight hour layover. Fortunately I have motorcycle friends in Poland, and the layover was spent in a garage drinking beers, talking motorcycles and the Isle of Man.<br />
<br />
Manannan's Cloak<br />
<br />
Later that day, after the transfer in London, as we began our decent towards the Isle, I mused to myself that the low level cloud cover could be problematic. I was correct. Just as I gained visibility from my window to see fog turn to rapidly passing saltwater, in extraordinarily close proximity, the pilot immediately throttled to the max and swiftly pulled us up. It was close, far too close. We circled for half an hour and made another less committed attempt to land to no avail. We returned to London, and long cab rides to Liverpool.<br />
<br />
The early morning flight from Liverpool to the Isle was no more fruitful, and after an hour and a half sat on the runway the captain announced that the flight was cancelled. I'd had enough flying and was ready to vacate planes in favor of boats. In my haste to escape the airport I made my way back to security, leaving the rest of the passengers waiting at the gate. There was only one other guy taking my proactive approach. After security returned us from whence we came, John Ingram, a fellow carpenter, racer, and a mighty fast man round the TT course, graciously offered to give me a ride to the ferry terminal. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fleet airport taxi service</td></tr>
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Though it took a motorcycle, a car, a bus, two vans, four planes, a ferry, lots of effort and help, I made it to the pits on the Isle of Man.<br />
<br />
Here to Learn<br />
<br />
To be quite honest, as a guy that mostly flies solo at the track (regards to my furry buddy Dan), I always find myself struggling to keep on top of things at race meetings. Some competitors manage without help in the pits while making it look easy, but I find it overwhelming running round to my tire guy, buying fuel, swapping wheels, passing through technical inspection, and getting suited up in time for my practice sessions, which oftentimes follow long nights driving to the track. So, although I was disheartened over my exclusion from the racing this year, I was eager to learn the Ins and outs of the ManxGP paddock. It was a very busy place, and there was plenty to absorb. If I'm to race in 2020, preparation will be key to my success.<br />
<br />
My Fellow Newcomers<br />
<br />
The two Newcomer buddies offering me pit passes were experiencing drastically different luck during what had been a mostly rained out practice week. When they finally hit the course for their first timed practice Kenneth Kørnov's fancy Moto 3 bike blew itself to bits, and Michael Mace had been second quickest amongst all Newcomers aboard his aging Triumph. The Newcomers race, held the day following my arrival on the Isle, found Kenneth spectating as Michael was preparing to take his secondary starting position between Professional French Racer, Pierre Bian, aboard his new R6, and the extremely rapid, Yamaha mounted, University of Wales senior, Sam Mousley. Throughout practice week Pierre had a couple of miles per hour in hand over Michael, and as practice sessions came and went each seemed to grow faster by like amounts. This had not been the case for the always smiling Mousley. His early practice sessions had been plagued with technical issues. Fortunately for Sam he'd managed to impressively overcome this cavernous deficit in no small part due to his superior track knowledge. In the months between our Newcomers weekend and the race meeting he had toured the course approximately 120 laps. In the final couple of practice sessions he found lots of speed, and by race time he was right on Michael's heels.<br />
<br />
There are three separate classes of machines simultaneously competing in the Newcomers race. Group A is the fastest, and consists of primarily four cylinder, four stroke, bikes with a maximum displacement of 750cc. Pierre, Michael, and Sam were contesting this class. Group C is made up of the smallest machines. Moto 3 bikes, older 125cc two strokes, and early 90s 400cc fours are popular in this class. Poor Kenneth would have been racing in this group had his Honda's engine held together. Instead he cheered on two other nice guys from our Newcomers class back in March, Adrian Skaife, and the enthusiastic William Piquet. Group B slots into the middle power wise, and is the class in which I would have competed in had my plans not run awry. It's composed of twin cylinder motorcycles capped at 650cc, with the occasional 250cc two stroke bike tossed into the mix. Though I was primarily focused on assisting Michael in the pits and paddock, I had a keen eye on the guys at the front of this class, both of which had been in my Newcomers class. Andrea Majola is a jovial Italian fellow with good reason to be happy, the Ducati test rider, and IRRC racer, was not only blisteringly fast in practice (and in general), he was also on an ex-factory Paton, the fanciest machine in the class. As such, he started the Newcomers race fourth overall with a qualifying time in excess of 110 miles per hour. The second fastest man in Newcomers B qualifying was a big fellow by the name of Mark Kirkby. Mark was the first fellow Newcomer I'd met upon reaching the Island back in March for orientation. He'd been waiting in his aging race van for the Manx Motorcycle Club's offices to open. We had introduced ourselves and exchanged pleasantries as we waited. Mark is a construction worker that loves motorcycles and racing. Like Michael, he was taking on the Mountain Course with a slim budget and lots of determination. I'd identified with him immediately, and was glad to see him solidly in second following qualifying for Newcomers B.<br />
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Time to Race<br />
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The unique starting procedure for the Manx GP races is a long, climactic, affair. Unlike short course races where your bike only passes through technical inspection once at the beginning of the meeting, with quick practices and races thereafter, at the Manx your bike is sent through scrutineering prior to every time on track. On race day the bikes are then taken directly from inspection to Parc Ferme to await the call for teams to que the motorcycles in start order up on Glencruchery Road. As a team member I felt a few nerves as I wrapped Michael's tires in warmers for 20 minuets of waiting, I could only imagine what the competitors were experiencing. All the time, money, and effort spent on preparing for this. Where does the mind race in the moments prior to finally throwing leg over machine, inching forward to the start line to take the wave of a flag and a tap on the shoulder?<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Liam, Michael, Izzy, and Lee</td></tr>
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The ten-seconds that transpired between watching Pierre's slick R6 rocket off the line, and starting his own race must have felt like an eternity for Michael. Though I imagine once underway the business at hand quickly quelled any nervousness, that first drop from the precipice of Brey Hill under race conditions, taken in excess of 145 mph aboard Michael's 675 Triumph, must have still made his stomach spin.<br />
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After hustling the gear from the grid for the start, our motley crew, Lee, Liam, and myself, took to watching the timing and preparing for Michael's pitstop at the end of the second lap. An eventful first lap saw Pierre Bian create a comfortable cushion, Sam Mousley catch and overtake Michael, and Andrea Majola's lovely Paton sputter to a halt rounding the Gooseneck. Leaving Mark Kirkby in the lead of class B.<br />
<br />
Though Sam had passed Michael for second on the road he could create no gap, and the two passed down the pit straight line astern to end the first 37.7 mile lap. The second lap found the pace of the top three equalize, with Bian maintaining his cushion while Mousley and Michael remained tethered to one another right up until entering pit lane. Pierre's crew was just finishing up his stop as Sam and Michael reached the pits. My job was to clean Michael's helmet and give him a push out once refueled. Though we managed to spill fuel in the process we had the second fastest stop in the entire field. It was just over three-seconds faster than Mousley's and put Michael back into second on the road. With two laps to go, the gap between the top three was about thirty-seconds, not a huge amount over the course of 75 miles. There was still everything to play for.<br />
<br />
This Mortal (Triumph) Coil<br />
<br />
Michael held second on the road up to the famous, ultra fast, righthand corner of Ballagarey. He'd turned in a touch early and been forced to roll off, ruining his drive from the corner down the long straight, allowing Mousley to whistle by with plenty of speed in hand. By the time they'd reached Greeba Bridge Michael had caught back up though, and the two continued to put daylight between themselves and fourth place.<br />
<br />
Towards the end of the third lap something had clearly happened to Michael, and he'd dropped off the Yamaha's tail. When Sam made his appearance along the pit straight to start the final lap Michael was nowhere to be seen. Ten or 15 seconds later his Orange Triumph came by with a clear miss. He had a failing coil, which incidentally had also brought an early end to the fleet Italian, Andrea Majola's race. It was hard to watch the scoring along with Lee and Liam as the Gap to fourth place runner Brooks dwindled. Upon seeing the Sulby Straight trap speed of only 120 mph, we knew the podium was lost, and began hoping that Michael would make it home.<br />
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The 110 mph flying lap put in by Michael aboard a bike so hampered by lack of top end power is a testament to his skill and perseverance. Though he missed what had appeared to be a sure podium finish, he'd placed fourth of a field of 24 finishers. It was impressive, and I was a touch jealous.<br />
Speaking of jealousy, big Mark Kirkby ended up winning Newcomers B by over six minutes, having turned a high 105 mph best lap. I was happy to see him take the win, if a bit frustrated that I'd not been able to compete. Though I'm uncertain that I would have been able to run with him, I feel as though I would have made things closer in the Twins class.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mark Kirkby's win produced a special ride</td></tr>
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2019 is History<br />
<br />
That's the tale of the 2019 Manx GP Newcomers Race, and my place in it. It wasn't what I'd hoped for, but I took what I could get. I'm certainly in a better position for next year because of it. Let the preparation commence. Kenneth and I are ready, and patiently awaiting our crack at the Manx Grand Prix Newcomers Race 2020. Stay tuned.....<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Michael graciously lent me his road bike for a lap before departing.</td></tr>
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Israel Eugene Gillette 423 930 7890http://www.blogger.com/profile/06052477254350622028noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7174136796432475125.post-9812969709482011752019-04-08T06:03:00.000-07:002020-01-21T13:33:50.273-08:00An American Newcomer Racing on the Isle of Man: A Perilous Dream Within Reach<b>A Perilous Dream</b><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's much steeper than it appears.</td></tr>
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Peering up Bray Hill from the point where my little SV650 should be turning hard right in excess of 130 miles per hour (if I'm to be competitive), I was somewhat awestruck by the precipitous grade before me. Even the old turn 12 at Road Atlanta, mercifully no longer used by motorcycles, paled in comparison to this corner and its precipitous drop in terms of sheer ominousness. Harvey, a former Isle of Man sidecar racer, generally nice guy, and president of the Manx Motorcycle Club, who had collected me from the airport to bring me to Douglas for my Manx GP Newcomers training, having perhaps seen a glint of uncertainty in my eye, made mention of a pair of young Frenchman that upon viewing the sight as they arrived for their newcomers training, misplaced their smiles, and their jovial attitudes turned dead serious. Having been here four times previously as a motorcycle equipped spectator, and sporting the demeanor of a crusty adventurer, my countenance remained more or less even. I simply mused to my new friend that it didn't look so severe from the saddle traveling in the proper direction. Inwardly though, I was murmuring, Wow...<br />
<br />
<b>A Long Road To the Paddock </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Bolivian Death Road is safer than the Mountain Course I figure</td></tr>
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My infatuation with the Isle of Man stretches back over twenty years when we in the States began getting race recaps from the TT on cable tv. My healthy craving for speed grew exponentially as I watched the likes of Joey Dunlop, Dave Jefferies, and a young John McGuinness tame the 37.73 miles of public road known as the Mountain Course. Having been smitten, I took to American tracks shortly thereafter aboard my ZX6R Ninja, but I was relatively new to riding, and my skill at that point placed me mid-pack in the novice class. I was far faster on four wheels, and turned my attention, insofar as racing was concerned, to karting and Formula Fords. However, I always kept a motorcycle, or twenty, around and an eye on racing <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Getting up to speed at the WERA/AMA finals at BMP</td></tr>
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the Mountain Course. Since I got my first bike at sixteen, I've ridden at least half a million miles, covering 54 countries and 49 of the United States. Having never lost the desire to compete on the Isle of Man, a couple of years ago I decided that it was time to get busy preparing to do so, or spend the rest of my life in regret. I pulled my leathers out of the closet, and headed to Roebling Road Raceway to see if I had the speed I needed to be competitive. I was pleasantly surprised to find that I was faster in my late thirties than I had been in my early twenties. It was nice to be racing at the front of the novice class, and fighting my way to mid-pack among the experts as I returned to motorcycle racing in order to qualify to race on the Isle of Man. Fortunately, my recent race results were good enough to score me an invite to the Manx GP.<br />
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<b>Learning the Course</b><br />
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Though there is some debate, according to Wikipedia the Mountain Course is comprised of 219 turns; The vast majority of which are taken in excess of 100 miles per hour. Even for riders endowed with outstanding skill and motorcycle control, obtaining course knowledge is of paramount importance. That's what the newcomers weekend is mostly about, taking part in as many guided laps as you can fit <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The best way to arrive on the IoM</td></tr>
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into two and a half days to begin wrapping your mind round such a long, and unforgiving ribbon of asphalt. I arrived bright eyed and bushy tailed Friday morning at the Manx Motorcycle Club offices to find, Heather Fox, the kind Club administrator I'd been corresponding with over the previous months, and one other newcomer, a big fellow from the northeast of England by the name of Mark Kirkby, waiting for the first instructor to appear. Mark had been there for hours, having hit the island early morning in his van via the ferry. He had a motorcycle and a crude bunk in the back. My kind of lifestyle! Fortuitously for Mark and I, a lanky, steely eyed Brit by the name of Dave Madsen-Mygdal arrived to guide our first laps. Having compiled roughly 30,000 competitive miles on the Snaefell Mountain Course, Dave is the most experienced racer in its history. Though a 120 mph man in the TT that's won round here in the Manx GP, riding legendary machinery such as RC30s and RC45s, he was affably approachable and shared his encyclopedia-like knowledge with pleasant ease. What a badass! As it turned out, all the instructors to guide my laps were pretty awesome.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I took seven laps that counted, and another four that didn't</td></tr>
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Colin Croft has been racing the Isle going on seven years. He is, and forgive the expression, a cheeky bugger, and I mean that in the most complementary way possible. We are of similar age I figure, and I could identify with his blunt and often irreverent way of putting things. In addition to offering terrific insight, he has a 114 mile per hour lap to his credit, which proves without a doubt that he knows what he's doing. Carolynn Sells is a young mother that, if I'm not mistaken, walked away from racing after becoming the only woman to win an event on the Mountain Course back in 2009. Her interaction was very hands on, and we stopped to get out of the car several times to closely examine particularly dangerous points along the 37.7 miles of tarmac. Her instruction was clear, and her evident concern embodied that of a caring, super fast, mother. Jim Barnett's concise instruction was fluid and engineer-like. His familiar voice inspired confidence. After about four miles I knew why. I'd already ridden round the Isle for a 112 mph instructional lap of his on YouTube around forty times. Preparation has been the key for Jim, and he's a smart man. His first ever practice lap of the Isle demonstrated the effectiveness of his methodic approach. It was a most impressive 101 mph. Rhys Hardisty is young and fast. He is currently running in the 120 mph range at the TT, and his instruction was more on the practical side of things. "Bring a bike to race that you are accustomed to; Don't worry about suspension setup too much; When you return to the Isle to practice on your own, you'll likely find a car more useful than a bike." Occasionally he'd throw in a "no brakes here....maybe a downshift". I'm anxious to see what he does at this year's TT. He certainly put in the laps over the weekend, day and night. I suspect if weather cooperates in a couple months time he'll be a few miles per hour quicker this year than last.<br />
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<b>Fellow Newcomers</b><br />
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In my extensive travels I've found unique places attract unique people. This is very much true of the Isle of Man. It's been called a Siren, however, I think it's more a magnet. A siren seduces the unwitting, while a magnet attracts particular qualities and compositions. Racers on the Isle are hardly naive, but simultaneously unsure of exactly what it is we hope to achieve, we simply know that we are on our way to compete. Our newcomers class was comprised of no fewer than eight nationalities; And though we hail from different points around the globe, and embrace our individuality, there is something common among us, though I cannot quite articulate what it is. Is it fear of mediocrity? A need for speed? A quest to obtain the elusive? Whatever it is, each and every one of us has made peace with the fact that we will engage in an extraordinarily risky endeavor in order to achieve it. We're a band of brothers fighting battles I'm unsure any of us fully understand.<br />
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<b>Back to the Real World</b><br />
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Our Newcomers Weekend officially concluded for lunch at the Sulby Glen Hotel along one of the three fastest parts of the course (I need my little SV to hit 145 mph through here come August). <br />
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Following hastily finishing my meal I ventured alongside the road to collect my thoughts in solitude. Aptly enough, about six years ago I got my very first taste of racing on the Isle at this very spot, with riders blasting by approaching warp speed. Quite a lot has transpired in my life since that day, but every trial, every encounter, and every long winding road followed has led me here. As I parted ways with the Isle once more I was already preparing for my return.<br />
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<b>To be continued....</b><br />
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Israel Eugene Gillette 423 930 7890http://www.blogger.com/profile/06052477254350622028noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7174136796432475125.post-46250218314369842342018-11-30T17:50:00.001-08:002018-12-25T01:27:14.602-08:00 Twilight, a Second Chance, and The Road East My father and I have shared a tumultuous relationship. We've never quite seen eye to eye. Though I can't quite pinpoint the impetus of our conflict, I can say that our strife has been somewhat ironic. We are two peas in a pod. To offer an illustration, my father was fired from his job as a history teacher at Washington College Academy 16 years before I was expelled there as a student. We have never followed easy paths. After restarting my grandfather's cabinet shop in Jonesborough, dad grew it into a flooring factory. I spent much of my youth following dad as he drove forklifts around the lumber yard, or tailing a variety of machines used in the production of hardwood flooring and custom moldings. I must confess to having resented the hard work, but it made me strong. By the time I reached my teens I could have run the business if I'd needed to. However, with that assertiveness came a willingness to contravene my fathers directives. By the time he left the family business to start a farm in Romania we were constantly at odds with one another. People always thought it was strange that dad left. When they regularly asked why he was there, I'd simply reply "He's growing potatoes for Jesus", but I always knew, deep down, that he was there because of me.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdhfatjCupHcxvVAxjccmWTml-heZqY-DtEbCFSo1Hyp8wRi6I8y_esMrrw-HIt_-dOIpD_QItfkhI35WqjHFkAXCTTFdmgUZittvBRbGUT5ULELSXXArmZMOGctM6JPPKOTBRgH1jEy3_/s1600/Daisy+Imposter+two.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="329" data-original-width="276" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdhfatjCupHcxvVAxjccmWTml-heZqY-DtEbCFSo1Hyp8wRi6I8y_esMrrw-HIt_-dOIpD_QItfkhI35WqjHFkAXCTTFdmgUZittvBRbGUT5ULELSXXArmZMOGctM6JPPKOTBRgH1jEy3_/s320/Daisy+Imposter+two.jpg" width="268" /></a> Though my father was gone most of the time by my mid-teens my struggle against authority continued on. It seemingly made the American Dream practically unobtainable. I was a failure as a student, and assembled a criminal record. As a consequence, relationships were somewhat difficult to maintain. I'd become a loner, but even Han Solo had Chewbacca. So, during the summer of 2002, as I visited a former girlfriend of mine to collect my walking papers, I played with twin border collie/lab pups she'd brought home from the animal shelter. Though they were both great dogs, one was particularly bright, happy, and wild. I scooped her into my arms and named her on the spot. I didn't so much as ask Annaka as I did inform her that Daisy was going with me.<br />
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Daisy traveled with me almost everywhere, and saw me eventually graduate from the University of Tennessee Chattanooga. Following University I founded a business that required lots of travel. Though I had a 20 country head start on my old girl, she still accompanied this convicted felon to 49 states and 34 countries on four continents. She never required much, just the occasional beer, a bit of brie, and a few bbq ribs. <br />
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Whether we were motorcycling across the Atlas Mountains of Morocco, camped in a German forest, or surviving the late December chill of Yukon Territory along the ALCAN highway, Daisy was always happy to be along for the ride. She was my best, and most loyal, friend.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH3hzvnE5P6PdhnVMxrVxQOQIQE2Swkffda_a70ybAD-v1T3HDFGCU7TqcHn3yLNvCCkVGSMb2OmGwZyEaw23NGPAas7tqcvChOk2c_HvoJL3c_f6MQc8oPHfBSZLyhphKqfUaA3fFyKQu/s1600/DSC_0862.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH3hzvnE5P6PdhnVMxrVxQOQIQE2Swkffda_a70ybAD-v1T3HDFGCU7TqcHn3yLNvCCkVGSMb2OmGwZyEaw23NGPAas7tqcvChOk2c_HvoJL3c_f6MQc8oPHfBSZLyhphKqfUaA3fFyKQu/s320/DSC_0862.JPG" width="320" /></a> My motorcycle transport business, through equal parts hard work and social deprivation, was somewhat successful, and upon the Brexit vote pulverizing the Pound I was well positioned to import collectors bike from England to the U.S.. The first container load sold fairly well, and as I bought more this past Spring for the second, my father expressed interest in joining Daisy and I in England for my trip to Northern Romania. So, we met my father in London and we drove down towards Southampton to load the container with 27 motorcycles. It was just like the old days; dad operating the forklift while I did everything else. You couldn't have fit a pack of rolling papers in that 40 foot container by the time we had finished, much less another bike. We celebrated by visiting a patch of nearby Redwoods in New Forest National Park for a walk.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxYmZa6KWckRDdJA64nb1bdVk2z7FTuBYmnjpYNa8SJ4mGLNLXZss93OnVdKXhONqVxypz8y7IqoByySf4T7tHEZfwdnSvYiM_RRLDgi1hi4mdac_JDYQyh51SACBpwe8q24eNNEHzoFoo/s1600/DSC_0839.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxYmZa6KWckRDdJA64nb1bdVk2z7FTuBYmnjpYNa8SJ4mGLNLXZss93OnVdKXhONqVxypz8y7IqoByySf4T7tHEZfwdnSvYiM_RRLDgi1hi4mdac_JDYQyh51SACBpwe8q24eNNEHzoFoo/s400/DSC_0839.JPG" width="400" /></a>Old Daisy had a great afternoon among the giant trees. She investigated the multitudes of wandering horses, and even snatched a couple of Frisbee's to show off for a marginally terrified group of well heeled Arab teenagers. She didn't appear to be 15 years old. On that afternoon she was bright and youthful. A<br />
marvelous hound that connected my troubled past with a successful present. On that afternoon she was a peacemaker.<br />
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We continued on to catch a ferry bound for Normandy. My father is a history buff, and I enjoyed hearing his telling the story of the parlous raid of the cliffs of Pointe du Hoc as he, Daisy and I walked the crater riddled grounds there <br />
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in solitude. That night between Poine du Hoc and Omaha Beach we stopped for the evening and grilled out in typical Israel and Daisy fashion. Sausage, ribs, toast and brie. No beer for dad, but <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS2ljmXW21TVu38wpQM_NP1B6kTOQzPPL9S1dXMoW4lSIzR_DVGKPRThnS37koYUn0aTEG6vsbRlO8qrFO5hIw6YeVqATFaqyjHYnjtLcRmIG1sl_A9JU7LKa6zo6gKGy3L0WzFqnrXXRF/s1600/DSC_0845.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1067" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS2ljmXW21TVu38wpQM_NP1B6kTOQzPPL9S1dXMoW4lSIzR_DVGKPRThnS37koYUn0aTEG6vsbRlO8qrFO5hIw6YeVqATFaqyjHYnjtLcRmIG1sl_A9JU7LKa6zo6gKGy3L0WzFqnrXXRF/s320/DSC_0845.JPG" width="213" /></a>Daisy and I managed drinking them without his help. Though we took hotels and stayed with friends of mine a few times, we camped out of the van at least five nights along the road east. It was nice to share my lifestyle with dad.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtkUjomVdWUJpjHdUKJ7HfCKxIfOBd7dlHM6HfSFeL1Xriuk6CG9PzVruIZfXE610zjd7-NjNob5Tlyc7i12IvTkX_neonO4IbFgI2px53-NabuGt0J0GmgHhDewGCf8rIQoCbZTMMoNGP/s1600/DSC_1092.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtkUjomVdWUJpjHdUKJ7HfCKxIfOBd7dlHM6HfSFeL1Xriuk6CG9PzVruIZfXE610zjd7-NjNob5Tlyc7i12IvTkX_neonO4IbFgI2px53-NabuGt0J0GmgHhDewGCf8rIQoCbZTMMoNGP/s400/DSC_1092.JPG" width="400" /></a> After departing France we visited Henri Chapelle American cemetery in northern Belgium where my father visited his uncle's burial plot fulfilling a wish of his mother's that he pay his respects. We continued on to Zundert, Holland, birthplace of Vincent Van Gogh, to see where his Uncle John, working as a messenger for the 104th Timberwolves, met his end courtesy of a German sniper. After a bit of research I located a nearby museum dedicated to the Fighting Timberwolves and our trio of misfits went off in search of WWII relics and a better understanding of how John R Garland spent his final days. <br />
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The Military History Museum, in Achtmaal, Netherlands, was curated by a friendly fellow<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzbqTxf6H19pPp8UK0-Nx8LayIyWZZPND-cny7CmhZ91EZXbFp3QMb5L1ksvv8KT4fMMPm7Dkffklms9NgvOLEWgCYkcc0mXt9R_6F55dTmtEKoaEQ9rnGmWxOKM-FgJdySFjSqUY4nje8/s1600/DSC_1159.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzbqTxf6H19pPp8UK0-Nx8LayIyWZZPND-cny7CmhZ91EZXbFp3QMb5L1ksvv8KT4fMMPm7Dkffklms9NgvOLEWgCYkcc0mXt9R_6F55dTmtEKoaEQ9rnGmWxOKM-FgJdySFjSqUY4nje8/s320/DSC_1159.JPG" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></a>named Charles. In addition to keeping a stunningly complete collection of European theater WWII hardware, of which made my father practically giddy, he also had a little guest shed, complete with grill, shower, and German Luftwaffe training aircraft, in which he invited us to stay. We managed to bridge the language barrier with a certain ease, and as a warm afternoon culminated in a crimson sunset we shared a crude, smile filled, dinner of brie, bread, chops, and kababs with our generous Dutch host and the ghosts of Uncle John, and other young men from the 104th Infantry Division Fighting Timberwolves. It was the happiest I'd seen my father in a long time, maybe ever. The red sky of mid-evening gave way to a still, but cool, night. I finished my last beer and pulled my bedding out to the grass, Daisy in tow, and slept beneath the stars. It was the happiest I'd been in a long time too.<br />
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The sun awoke me early and Charles greeted me with a strong cup of coffee. After the old man showered, we said our goodbyes, loaded the van, and set our course for Berlin. The early start allowed us to arrive in Die Hauptstadt that same evening. It was Dad's first, Daisy's fourth, and my sixth trip to Berlin.<br />
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Krausnickstrasse is round the corner from the Jewish synagogue, about half a mile from the Brandenburg Gates as the Hooded Crow flies. It was one of the better preserved parts of East Germany during the GDR's tenure of control, and these days it takes a keen eye to spot evidence that this had ever been an oppressed area. However, there is something profoundly unique about those that call Knausnickstrasse home. Back in late winter of 2014, on my second visit to Berlin, I pulled my laden Yamaha through Berlin's high streets onto Oranienburgerstrasse in search of reasonably priced food and beer following a depressing trip to Kiev. I eventually found my way to Krausnickstrasse, and the Anne Koschke gastropub. After devouring a bowl of soup and a sandwich I visited the corner shop and bought a couple of beers to drink as I tried to find a place to stay. I was in the midst of <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gudrun, Brigit, and old Daisy enjoying Krausnickstrasse</td></tr>
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guzzling my first .5 liter Erdinger while scanning my Romanian smart phone to find the night's accommodations when I heard, "Hey, motorcycle man, where do you go?" Brigit and her friend Gudrun were perched upon the steps leading up to their building across the street drinking beers of their own. I joined them and we quickly became friends. On every subsequent trip to Berlin I have made my way back to Krausnickstrasse. It is a special place in a special town. So, in addition to having dragged my old girl Daisy and my buddy, Arie, to Brigit's place to clean clothes, regroup, and have a central hub of German operation, on this trip I had my father. We were treated like family.<br />
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After resting, eating, and cleaning we said our goodbyes, and pushed out of Berlin headed on to Poland. On our way out of town we attempted to visit Checkpoint Charlie, only to find a police blockade. A parade of fascist assholes had just passed through the heart of Berlin, and ended at the Checkpoint. Every policeman in town must have been on duty to prevent altercations. I'm all for free speech, but I cannot deny having felt the desire to see Nazis on the ground bleeding. My father said, "let's go son, there's nothing good to see here", and we turned from the spot of history that he and I had shared in the Fall of 1989, watching on from East Tennessee, as freedom came to Eastern Europe. I found it perverse that we were there in person to see a portion of its departure. God help us.<br />
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Poland came and went with a night in an Orthodox Church's parking lot, and we then attempted to choose the least used Ukrainian border crossing. No such thing really exists these days, and both we visited were backed up for miles, so we joined in the waiting.<br />
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Eastern European border crossings, particularly those on the very periphery of the EU, are not unlike backroom Asian Fight Clubs. They are rude, crude, and comprised almost entirely of shady characters with dastardly motives. If one hopes to make it through, it's best to leave any sense of decency behind. The meek will be pushed, pulled, shuffled, leaped over, and generally disregarded. It's an environment that incubates the worst human impulses and actions. I've had my share of difficult border experiences, from being beaten by Israeli military, to shaken down by crooked Hondurans, and shot at by extraordinarily difficult Argentines. However, this attempt to cross from Poland into Ukraine proved to be the most frustrating of the lot.<br />
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To be continued.....<br />
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<br />Israel Eugene Gillette 423 930 7890http://www.blogger.com/profile/06052477254350622028noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7174136796432475125.post-48551120863796900152018-05-13T12:39:00.002-07:002021-12-08T07:55:27.334-08:00Fascists, Communists, and the Road to Hell<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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In the winter of 2014, as I traversed the United States entangled in work, I was religiously tethered to National Public Radio listening for updates from Independence Square in Kiev. After Ukrainian president, Viktor Yanukovych, rejected a European Union association agreement in November of 2013, in favor of closer Russian ties and money, shit had quickly hit the fan. Clearly, Vladimir Putin, who, it is believed, had a former Ukrainian presidential candidate poisoned, and rigged what would be a recall election in 2004, had been hard at work attempting to do with Rubles what poison could not; return Ukraine to the Motherland. Young Ukrainians that wished for future inclusion to the European community were not fooled, and completely opposed this corrupt direction of governance. They took to the streets in protest, and I was with them in spirit as I rushed to finish my work in the States so I could return to my motorcycle stored at a farm in Northern Romania, five miles from the Ukrainian border.<br />
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Though protests had taken place throughout winter, between the 18th and 21st of February Independence Square was a fiery, smoke<br />
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filled, Hell. The reports I was listening to were incomplete at best. Information was often <br />
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inconsistent, and there seemed to be no hard proof of what was transpiring. At the inception it had been clear that the protesters were poorly equipped, brandishing clubs, and hurling Molotov cocktails in the clashes with riot police. However, what they lacked in equipment, they made up for in numbers. Reportedly, somewhere between 10 and 20 thousand demonstrators were at battle with the government forces. It didn't take the rag-tag army long to overpower the police, and government anti-terrorist snipers were positioned at strategic positions overlooking the Square. The opposition's body-count quickly rose. In an effort to thwart the snipers thousands of tires were set fire to black out the sky. A frigid snow storm blew snow into the mix as the fighting continued. I hung on <br />
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on the words of every new report as if my freedom depended upon this skirmish's outcome. I wanted to be there. The Clashes came to an end on the 21st, and Viktor Yanukovych fled Ukraine for Russia, claiming that terrorists had overtaken the government. </div>
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By the end of February I'd finished my work and scurried to depart the US for Romania. I would collect my motorcycle and head directly for Kiev. However, just before boarding my flight East there was a disturbing development in the Ukrainian saga. Vladimir Putin had taken Crimea. What were his intentions? How far would he go? After my plane touched down in Bucharest I was met by a good friend, and Romanian diplomat, Vlad. We had plenty to talk about over lunch and the trip to the train station. He was of the opinion that closer ties to Europe would be an uphill battle for Ukraine due to broad corruption, but that the revolution as a whole was a good thing for Europe, given that it presented resistance to Russia. He wasn't quite sure about the Russian annexation of Eastern Ukraine, nor did he possess insight confirming or denying reports of fascist groups involved in the revolution. Following an insufferably long ride on an old communist era train I reached Suceava, Romania, were I was met by Maurin, the farm's mechanic, and given a ride to Dersca, a village near the Ukrainian frontier. I arranged the supplies for my trip North and gave my Yamaha some basic maintenance. After packing my steed I took the remainder of the day to rest. My father called that evening to inquire about the trip to the farm. As it was big news back in the States, conversation drifted to the conflict in Ukraine. I address both the issue in Crimea and the Russia Today reports of Nazi involvement in the ousting of the Ukrainian president. National Public Radio had't given any reports about fascist elements within the revolution, but their coverage, though pervasive, seemed to be missing lots of details. I was apprehensive about accepting Russia Today news at face value. It had once been a good source of news, but at this point it was entirely State sponsored. My father was unsure about the situation in Eastern Ukraine, but as to the question of whether or not unsavory elements were involved with the opposition in Kiev, there was no hesitation. "I guarantee it", he said. "It's the communists vs. the fascists. It's been that way up there for a long time. There ain't a nickel's worth of difference between them. You aren't going to Ukraine are you? Tell me you won't go to Ukraine." I lied and said I wouldn't.</div>
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"This ain't no Upwardly Mobile Freeway.... This is the Road to Hell" -Chris Rea</div>
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I've never spoken much about my trip to Kiev in March of 2014. It's not that it wasn't a story worthy of telling, rather it was an experience that stole my words along with a portion of my humanity. I didn't want to think about what I saw, much less struggle finding the means of expressing my understanding of what had transpired. It would still be trapped within my mind were it not for a recent event in the United States that sadistically rousted my dormant memories of that night exploring a disorganized, burned out, practically post-apocalyptic Independence Square, and those suspicious stares of apprehension and mistrust. I'd have never imagined that any social problem in the United States would unravel to the extent that the madness in Kiev would look like a possibility. However, Stateside, desperation has supplanted sanity in the years succeeding the Sub-Prime Mortgage Crisis. After several banks plunged into insolvency, casting global markets into peril, the richest were the first to receive help generating easy wealth with generous loans from the FED. They flourished, and though the economy improved those at the bottom never really benefited. As unemployment rates descended to levels that would have raised incomes of the poorest Americans, monetary accommodations were lifted. The economy slowed and income inequality continued to widen. People awoke each day to find their plight had become more desperate. Regardless of political affiliation, or belief systems, desperate people do desperate things. They haphazardly trust when they no longer believe in themselves. The American Dream is a distant memory for some, and nothing but an apparition for others. I wasn't all that surprised seeing political divisions deepen, however, I can't say I was prepared to see Fascists fighting Communists on the streets of Virginia.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wondering if I should apply both</td></tr>
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I departed the friendly confines of the farm in Dersca, Romania for the 350 mile trip to Kiev a <br />
couple of weeks after the fighting had ended. I figured the journey would be safe enough as long as I avoided the contested Eastern portion of the country. Engaging folks frequently along my path North, a few things became clear; The people that could be bothered to talk politics seemed very critical of the "kids" in Kiev, they had a soft spot for Putin, and Ukrainian girls quite liked me (must have been the beard). The roads in Ukraine are of the bone jarring variety. Rarely is anything smooth. Bikes deal with rough surfaces better than cars, but the going was still relatively slow. I rode well into the evening, but the late night winter temperatures had me searching for a good place to climb into my sleeping bag. A John Deere dealership with a gap in its fence provided just the sort of accommodations I was looking for. I slept soundly and didn't emerge from my tent till the mercury had risen well into my morning time comfort zone. I slugged down some sort of diabolical Ukrainian energy drink, packed up, and parted the company of my guardian tractors. It was a beautiful, bright, and cool Sunday for the remainder of the ride to Kiev. I grinned every time I passed old communist war memorials, and sighed in relief each occasion I was waved through a police checkpoint. This day the sparsely occupied roads weren't quite as rutted, and I covered the final 130 miles in about two hours, leaving plenty of daylight to make my way to the heart of town. <br />
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The Dnieper river led me north into the city. On the outskirts there was a large group of police profiling passers by, but apparently they were doing nothing aside from observing. The multi-lane highways leading into the city were almost entirely devoid of traffic, and I didn't see another cop the entire time in was in Kiev. As I drew closer to the downtown, I was overtaken by two Porsche suvs leading and tailing a Maybach Mercedes in very close formation. They were traveling somewhere in the vicinity of 110 miles per hour, and the convoy's mighty jet wash blew my well loaded bike to the shoulder. Those were clearly not the guys anyone wanted to mess with. They were no doubt as well armed as they were corrupt. I crept into downtown and was troubled to see a litany of well dressed, youthful Ukrainians wrapped around the block serving the passport office. Weren't these the protesters? Hadn't they prevailed? I assumed their flight was due to Russia's invasion of Crimea. I couldn't say that I blamed them, but, but in hindsight, perhaps they knew more than I.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_6GpDHD_U_2TfexAXh6LIdTvMlKiKMPzEDkiXpy0n2zm-PRBV4CXyJhpoE9HePbYGHtr_5pNh1a9-lwsozXHAwSuvn_c5V-ip5yE6AIbCqdfE8yuwgvAdjSZOW0razxXFAW3L529yMve6/s1600/DSC07524.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1064" data-original-width="1600" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_6GpDHD_U_2TfexAXh6LIdTvMlKiKMPzEDkiXpy0n2zm-PRBV4CXyJhpoE9HePbYGHtr_5pNh1a9-lwsozXHAwSuvn_c5V-ip5yE6AIbCqdfE8yuwgvAdjSZOW0razxXFAW3L529yMve6/s400/DSC07524.JPG" width="400" /></a> After a minimal amount of wandering I found my way to Independence Square. Though other parts of town had seemed abandoned and quiet, the Square was anything but. A vibrant crowd filed around the encampments, barriers, burned out buildings, and disabled government vehicles. I pulled my motorcycle next to a broken police riot truck for a photo op and was intercepted by a fellow biker named Oleg. He tied a Ukrainian flag ribbon around my handlebar, and then asked the usual battery of questions. I had a list of questions my own. Oleg gave me a daylight tour of the Square, and had answers to all my queries. "The police snipers were up there, and there". "The tire tires were for fires which helped to stifle the snipers". "Here is the memorial to the 120 protesters killed". "These guys are singing a song belittling Communists". "Yes, there are Neo Nazis among the opposition". Not that I really had needed confirmation of that last bit. They stuck out, even in the crowd. In the daylight stern confirmation of Nazi presence within the ranks of the government opposition, though disheartening, somehow seemed justified. I mean, most of the people here weren't fascists, they were fighting against a corrupt government that was dragging them back to the USSR. I tried to overlook the skin-heads as a case of the enemy of my enemy being my friend. However, these goons never have been, and never will be, my friends. I decided to leave Kiev without digging further into the Maidan Revolution. After finishing up my tour of the Square, I left town in a state of ambivalence.<br />
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I turned my thoughts towards reaching the exclusion zone of Chernobyl. Oleg advised me to ride North and cross the Dnieper river into Belarus and then return to Ukraine near Chernobyl. I should have done some homework before leaving town. In my haste to depart from Kiev, I neglected to check if it was even possible for me to enter Belarus. It was not. Fortunately, after wandering around the sandy banks of the Dnieper river (and a troubling encounter with a drunk, ex-con, boxer, also named Oleg, that wanted to trade shoes), I abandoned my plan to utilized a railroad trestle to enter Belarus after getting my bike stuck on the tracks. I was lucky a passerby saw my plight and came to help unhinge my Yamaha's skid-plate from the rail's lip (I saw a train crossing the bridge within 30 minutes after being freed). Eventually I came to a legitimate border crossing and was informed by the Ukrainian authorities that if I attempted to enter Belarus without a visa I would be arrested. Even I occasionally listen to reason. So, I road through the cold night back to Kiev. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A barrel fire at the International Center for Culture and the Arts</td></tr>
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Somewhat impulsively, as I reached the outskirts of the city, I decided I would return to Independence Square. All of the the turns I made on my way to the center of town seemed to be the correct ones, and I quickly found myself at the barriers surrounding the outskirts of the square. The mishmash of used tires, bricks, and Czech hedgehogs (armored vehicle impediments) blocking the entrance to the encampments was under the guard of walkie talkie equipped university students. At first they were very skeptical of my appearance. My yellow riding gear had the likeness of a HAZMAT suit, and I'd not shaven in six months. Nothing about me looked ordinary. Upon realizing that I was an American, they lowered their guard and the one that was apparently in charge briefly spoke into his radio and told me that I could enter on foot.<br />
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The high pressure sodium lights' gloomy orange glow did little to overcome the darkness shrouding the square. The bright light of the day before had been kind to the makeshift camp. Even the Nazis <br />
seemed somewhat innocuous, if not comical. The murkiness of a new moon had very much the opposite effect. The piles of tires, bottles, and general rubble complemented random barrel fires in an ominous, pit of Hell, fashion. Still, I was an imposing looking American, and I felt, perhaps foolishly, impervious to harm. I strode up the hill where so many of the opposition had been struck down by police sniper fire only a couple of weeks earlier. As I climbed the hill toward the arched trellis bridge connecting the International Center for Culture and Arts to the Music Conservatory I peered towards the buildings overlooking the street where the final strongholds' of the ousted government had been. Following comprehensive defeat in street clashes the police had requested assistance from the military. They were denied. "Anti Terrorist" snipers were then placed in strategic positions around the high ground of the northeast portion of the square. At first they made quick work work of the protesters. It had been like shooting fish in a barrel. The opposition fire bombed the building housing snipers closest to their encampment, and lit tire fires around the square to obscure the sight from less accessible positions. That was the status quo for the <br />
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days leading up to president Viktor Yanukovych's flight to Russia. So, there I trod, snapping pictures, attempting to assess my shifting opinion of what had transpired and what the outcome would be.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuB5yJAOxSv4dh0-PMYr4PDmENCWHHyOmilhnASzKnuI5EAA9WqKz7MOXozgnl3md6Ksk6WDhWJOD5yUkPqVPg92jUVzhW1g9P-fHFuM6T3YOBIT_DUfhf58e-TbUr2Q0JYoLrgcnI5Abh/s1600/DSC07562.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1064" data-original-width="1600" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuB5yJAOxSv4dh0-PMYr4PDmENCWHHyOmilhnASzKnuI5EAA9WqKz7MOXozgnl3md6Ksk6WDhWJOD5yUkPqVPg92jUVzhW1g9P-fHFuM6T3YOBIT_DUfhf58e-TbUr2Q0JYoLrgcnI5Abh/s400/DSC07562.JPG" width="400" /></a> Upon taking to the bridge, with a commanding view of the soot covered, and blood stained, street below, I was alerted to large group of camouflage clad pseudo military types chanting in unison as they passed the encampment and made their way up the hill in my direction. Their chants were brief. I suspect they were intended to announce their undertakings to those in camp. What were they doing? As the group drew closer, I could see that they were being led by someone wearing a nicer, more form fitting, uniform and a beret. There were also two guys in non-military dress. The one towards the front was just a kid. He was clearly in distress, he could barely walk and was gripped by the two soldiers marching at his sides. The other civilian looking fellow, I've determined after examining the photos, was equipped with a camera and looks to be free. The cavalcade made their way to the top of the hill, past the Hotel Ukraine, and out of sight. Approximately one minute passed before a gunshot pierced the night. It's a memory that I will take to my grave. If I'd felt secure in myself on my way to the bridge, that courage was shaken and I found myself looking over my shoulder regularly on my way back down to the encampment. At <br />
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one point I nearly leaped from my boots when a couple of curious, camouflaged, commandos approached me behind as I was taking a photo. They spoke no English but the they understood the word American, and the inquisitively critical looks faded from their continence. After calming myself I snapped the duo's picture and continued on my way to the main camp. A memorial had been erected on the outer wall of a large prominent tent on the corner of the largest encampment. Just as I was about to photograph the many pictures of the deceased my attention was diverted to the growing sound of an <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4wcThihpjNNNgFUOiUOqMpfOh-ANKWQ319M9uF_oNBcHWw3cFWS2AMsbU4iAuQvXsoRL22RuGv6NkiWVamceHNl1p_OOl0fbt6Rb6BZZkSJbjr95oj5Y3Owcnp9tGmqaYBhsxB_NwNzNo/s1600/DSC07659.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1064" data-original-width="1600" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4wcThihpjNNNgFUOiUOqMpfOh-ANKWQ319M9uF_oNBcHWw3cFWS2AMsbU4iAuQvXsoRL22RuGv6NkiWVamceHNl1p_OOl0fbt6Rb6BZZkSJbjr95oj5Y3Owcnp9tGmqaYBhsxB_NwNzNo/s400/DSC07659.JPG" width="400" /></a>office chair rolling on asphalt. Two under-aged smokers came rushing by engaged in cheap thrill seeking. I snapped my favorite photo of the night. Kids will be kids, I thought to myself, even when the skinheads in the camp next door are executing people. Still, their youthful exuberance was infectious. After returning to survey my picture the duo invited me into camp to make a copy for them. As I came to find out, there was clear division among the various sects of the opposition, from their attire to their encampments. My two new friends were part of the plebeian camp. The contengent here had no uniforms and, from what I could tell, consisted primarily of poor kids and the working class. As I was led into the camp I was offered a rather warm reception. Though I was on the receiving end of an awkward glance or two, I didn't feel as though the people here were all that bad, certainly they weren't evil. These folks simply wanted more from life than what their corrupt government would allow them to have. They could see the prosperity growing in Poland and Romania, and wanted nothing to do with Putin and Russia. If the revolution had consisted entirely of these guys I'd have been more at peace. They simply wanted the freedom to work without having to compete with corruption.<br />
Unfortunately, as my young friends gave me a nocturnal tour of the square we came across the skinhead camp. There were several different sects of ultra-nationalist, skin-head, Nazi, motherfuckers encamped adjacent to the square. All fell under the directives of Svoboda (loosely translated "freedom" (freedom, my ass. they hijacked that term)), the largest, best known, opposition to the government, though they already held a voice in parliament. Svoboda was formed in the mid 90's as an anti communist organization. Given the failure of communism in Ukraine, one could understand <br />
the desire to oppose it. However, rather than expanding freedom for the Ukrainian people by safeguarding against corruption, this organization simply wanted all the powers of oppression for themselves. They were feared by their own supporters, and when I critically spoke of the Nazis in our midst, my English speaking tour guide quickly quieted me and whispered that this encampment acted as the police for the movement. Clearly these turds were not to be crossed. I was struck by ambivalent feelings of both pity for my young friends and hatred for their leaders. These assholes were the ones that had marched the poor doomed kid under the bridge earlier. They wore ruthless countenances, and embraced terror. The vestige of their misdeeds enveloped the square with a malevolent stench. These were evil men. As I directed our group away from the monsters, a trio of well groomed officers passed us in conversation. One of them, a physically attractive, and no doubt wealthy, young lady in a well tailored uniform stared at me as they passed. She smiled broadly, and giggled a little. I gazed blankly in return, and thought of the gunshot earlier. What a dirty fucking bitch.<br />
I had seen enough. My stomach was churning, and I was ready to hastily depart Kiev. I led my new friends to my motorcycle for a photo op and said my goodbyes. Though their names are now lost to me, I will always remember their faces. Unlucky kids without an escape. I sped out of Kiev and didn't look back. I was nearly to Poland as the sun rose, and I bedded down in a forest looking for sleep that refused to come. Though I'd left the demons of Independence Square behind, their evil pervaded my thoughts, and stained my memories. How duped I'd been. The Ukrainian revolution of 2014 was a farce. It hadn't brought peace or prosperity, or freedom. It wasn't a path forward. It was simply a marker along the road to Hell.<br />
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Israel Eugene Gillette 423 930 7890http://www.blogger.com/profile/06052477254350622028noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7174136796432475125.post-76269659596862987912017-01-25T21:13:00.000-08:002017-01-25T21:16:30.121-08:00Another Brick in the Wall DIE MAUER<br />
Government constructed barriers are silly. This sentiment is clearly shared by Berlin's distinctly youthful population. While on a cruise around the city teenagers and twentyish year old plebeians were seen littering the river banks regardless of high grass, fences, or even perilous drops. They all had beer or wine and<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDIUjWgkAiHATgoUmRM0lo7l5dvT9izlzSLLdyw9nPFtGAKrlGEsDu5QCQQu3m4n6u_atPMhtU0RrqTUvc8NpOOp14i-1uwD3Rd7QsXVYh-zckMVA-_q7PcUwiYU1i501wHi5P0wx-70i0/s1600/DSC07225.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDIUjWgkAiHATgoUmRM0lo7l5dvT9izlzSLLdyw9nPFtGAKrlGEsDu5QCQQu3m4n6u_atPMhtU0RrqTUvc8NpOOp14i-1uwD3Rd7QsXVYh-zckMVA-_q7PcUwiYU1i501wHi5P0wx-70i0/s320/DSC07225.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px; text-align: center;">I'm unsure of what this means but I think I like it. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh35wCkdIKTpR9ONHFwvqZfyKWs4ennsA8pW8l2Q8CyQz58hPI7jJdZOQL9TPFctFEUQ__MSS7XCPbOtPmltxsJHdGHK4qml1FoXwhxzb59_dWpt4rdOVMiqrPYZsezSv6OITApO7agXe1K/s1600/DSC07244.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh35wCkdIKTpR9ONHFwvqZfyKWs4ennsA8pW8l2Q8CyQz58hPI7jJdZOQL9TPFctFEUQ__MSS7XCPbOtPmltxsJHdGHK4qml1FoXwhxzb59_dWpt4rdOVMiqrPYZsezSv6OITApO7agXe1K/s400/DSC07244.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px; text-align: center;">Reminders of the past decorate a diverse Berlin.</td></tr>
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smiles on their faces. Waves and happy exclamations came freely and often. I couldn't help but think that back in Johnson City, Tennessee cops would be cracking down on this sort of behavior and business at juvenile hall would be at a record high. They wouldn't be smiling then would they?! Fortunately, the police in Berlin have priorities that are more in line with legitimate security than generating buisness and I thoroughly enjoyed the kids' simple, if inebriated, celebrations. The city's rough edges weren't at all threatening. In fact, I found them refreshing. There weren't any serious attempts to circumvent reality and the glittering often shared scenery with the demure. Though purely conjecture, I'd like to think that this is due, in part, to a mutual understanding between classes. Ultimately, their goals aren't all that different. Although freedom hasn't brought a Mercedes to every driveway, destruction of the wall made everyone's lives more fruitful.<br />
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Interesting Timing<br />
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Just before our arrival in Berlin, The Guardian, a UK newspaper, after receiving classified material from a intelligence whistle-blower (Snowden), revealed to the world that the U.S. government has been illegally collecting the private information of its citizens (in addition to others, inclucding the German government). Oh, the irony! The state funded Stasi museum was housed next door to our hotel. The collection of once classified GDR documents and archaic spy tools it housed made me laugh. What the Stasi wouldn't have given to have the U.S. government's current spy<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9kg9IMI5wLOPuWlCtlnOvHV27cGcoXvVIU2PU0zbLMu-kzq4AAgWW-1sedpSaCeSR3PfDqRDOK0vAfj5Wzmkb5fa7Ow3ssmsMIyHaOVYCIgbohcnQmA5TDFXEQr12LV8TPhDH1-3VmvfC/s1600/Berlin+stasi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9kg9IMI5wLOPuWlCtlnOvHV27cGcoXvVIU2PU0zbLMu-kzq4AAgWW-1sedpSaCeSR3PfDqRDOK0vAfj5Wzmkb5fa7Ow3ssmsMIyHaOVYCIgbohcnQmA5TDFXEQr12LV8TPhDH1-3VmvfC/s320/Berlin+stasi.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px; text-align: center;">Cheeky Berlin artists project their views onto the American Embassy</td></tr>
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technology? They'd have been in authoritarian heaven. It seems that our nation is suffering from acute amnesia. I remember well the celebrations of freedom at 10 years old. Watching walls crumble as oppressive governments passed into history. These moments shaped my life and world view. Free thought, free speech, free assembly, free trade, and most importantly, free movement. The U.S. was helping to lead the way to a new level of international civil independence. Alas, my understanding has proven dated, if not outright misguided, and as I write this a wall is under construction along the southern border of the U.S. and the Government there continues tightening its grip on citizens' lives.<br />
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Scattered Reminders of Oppressed Lives<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0HF8AxRlJ4dOshVGVFp6sbTcJLuLX3TQIpObHmHxvV1xbz3ha1xSiOQlDwvS5yEcTDRSe4L3md6o6J7EqJK2HQJ6qdL4cydaq6VwQo_CxJ4FgNsxo12MNU9qB9l9eSBXO15MdaVhDnnt5/s1600/corner+from+checkpoint+charlie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0HF8AxRlJ4dOshVGVFp6sbTcJLuLX3TQIpObHmHxvV1xbz3ha1xSiOQlDwvS5yEcTDRSe4L3md6o6J7EqJK2HQJ6qdL4cydaq6VwQo_CxJ4FgNsxo12MNU9qB9l9eSBXO15MdaVhDnnt5/s320/corner+from+checkpoint+charlie.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px; text-align: center;">There is much to see in Berlin, however, this is its best time machine.</td></tr>
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In addition to portions of the wall left along the river, and the admission-free Stasi Museum, there was also a terrific, semi permanent, exhibition close to the hotel which helps document past oppession. From the exterior, Die Mauer appears as a 40 foot tall cylinder in the heart of town. However, the interior uses a collection of old photographs and artistic renderings to recreate a full scale point perspective panorama of what it would have looked like at the location 25 years ago.<br />
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It has been said that "Those who forget the past are doomed to repeat it". Fortunately, if somewhat perversely, wounds from the past are still fresh in Berlin and distrust of the powers that be are pervasive. It is no small coincidence that I felt more freedom here than anywhere in the United States. My, how the tables have turned. We've grown so complacent, we've lost touch with our freedom. I reiterate the words of JFK spoken in support of those trapped on the wrong side of The Wall, almost exactly fifty years ago, "All free men, wherever they may live, are citizens of Berlin, and therefore, as a free man, I take pride in the words, 'Ich bin ein Berliner".<br />
Ich bin ein Berliner !<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Who's Watching You?</td></tr>
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Israel Eugene Gillette 423 930 7890http://www.blogger.com/profile/06052477254350622028noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7174136796432475125.post-64354877756697100412016-07-04T01:20:00.000-07:002022-01-16T11:16:13.598-08:00Uship, A Drug Dealer, and The American Dream: The Destruction of Happiness I awoke Sunday morning, June 12th, to an inescapable heat which had invaded my tree shrouded van around 7am. The previous day had been a sweltering affair. I'd driven 750 miles from my childhood home of Jonesborough, Tennessee to the northern edge of Orlando, Florida before finding a nicely wooded Episcopal church parking lot to rest at the witching hour of 4am. The mercury reached 95 degrees during the previous afternoon in some Godforsaken portion of South Carolina where humidity's omnipresence stifled even shady corners. I lamented bypassing Savannah and, that den of banking secrecy, Jekyll Island, both of which hold places of prominence in my heart. There was no time for enjoyment, my customers, one of which caused this extra trip to Florida at great expense, were more insufferable than the difficult climate. My perseverance began to pay off around 9pm and I dispensed with the less difficult patron as twilight draped Jacksonville in merciful darkness.<br>
<br>
Having lightened my load by one abusive customer named Lanair, who's motorcycle was delivered three days late following delays due to other customers in Maine over Memorial Day Weekend, I opted to leave the interstate in favor of the A1A coastal highway as far as Daytona where I would catch interstate 4 to lead me through Orlando to Lakeland for pickup of a Ducati bound for Miami. Driving along the coast offered some respite from the stress which has been mounting upon my shoulders over the past 10 months. More than 120,000 miles have passed my mirrors in that span, but the source of my anxiety isn't the long hours, frequent solitude, or non-running Harley Davidsons. Rather, my grief is rooted in the selfishness, greed, dissatisfaction, and lunacy of others. From loathsome hood rats to the most powerful companies, innocuous circumstances all too frequently make me public enemy number ONE. It's a tiresome affair, often being accused of laziness, or stealing motorcycles and their parts. Dealing with stupidity is difficult, however, dealing with insanity is impossible. I encounter both situations all too regularly. It's a constant battle which robs me of my happiness.<br>
<br>
I took to abandoned beach access somewhere south of St. Augustine around midnight. No Nighttime Parking signs are littered all about the public land still remaining in Florida and this National Park beach was no different. I pulled my Sprinter cargo van directly in front of one, gave a brief thought to <br>
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Teddy Roosevelt, and scampered off to the Atlantic to peer into the distance. The halfish moon provided adequate illumination to navigate the sandy banks without the aid of a flashlight but the lack of companionship left me wandering in the dark. My most reliable friend, Daisy, had been left in climate controlled comfort for the redundant trip to Florida. A week-long heatwave was engulfing the Southeastern US just I departed for a delivery I'd already attempted to make. <br>
<br>
Miami, I've found, is a good place to avoid. Its climate is rarely to my liking and it is filled with assholes. My trips there have generally been hot, frustrating, affairs, and I'd taken to avoiding Florida altogether. However, the purchase of a van off Ebay necessitated a return to the southern reaches of the Citrus State. Though I wished to make the stop quick I decided to book some work around the trip. There were two Suzuki enduros bound for Miami from Denver. These bikes can be packed tightly and don't take up much space. Given that I was passing through Denver anyway I made a competitive bid and won the job. My portion of the bid was to be $500. <a href="http://www.uship.com/shipment/suzuki-dr/261240779/">http://www.uship.com/shipment/suzuki-dr/261240779/</a><br>
When I called to arrange pickup in Denver my customer, Mike, informed me that the bikes were to be crated. Since the listing didn't mention the crates and I was low on space this presented quite the conundrum. Uship, the company I booked the shipment through has a cancellation policy which punishes me for excessive cancellations. It doesn't matter which party requests the cancellation, 95% of the time it is my customers that capriciously book then quickly cancel, I am hit with an additional 5% fee, bringing the total to 25%. In the case of this shipment the difference is $25. Over the last 10 months I have perpetually been charged this higher rate. About 200 jobs. 200x$25=$5,000. This incentivizes continuing on with jobs that I would, and should, otherwise cancel. So, rather than telling Mike, who was very indignant that I even express concern about the 500 pound apiece steel crates which would require triple the cargo space of the bikes alone, to take his misrepresented job and shove it, I instead attempted to reduce the harm it would do to my business. I offered to take the additional items for $300. Mike insisted on $200. This easy job was shaping up to be a lot of work. What would have been a 10 minute pickup in Denver required two hours of drudgery. I arrived at the delivery address in Southwest Miami on Monday May 9th having informed Mike over the weekend of the impending delivery and the need for the shipment's payment code to be made available to me at that time. Florida was working me over well and the trip began as a failure. The van had been completely misrepresented on Ebay and, though I had already paid for it, I walked away without it.<br>
My friend that met me in Miami to take the van had made the trip for nothing. I took<br>
a hotel and awaited Monday so I could make my delivery and get the hell out of town. I had deliveries as far north as Maine and I was behind schedule. As Murphy's Law would have it, Monday was a comedy of errors. The address I had been provided was incorrect and when I did locate what I<br>
thought to be the proper address they were unaware of any motorcycle deliveries and nobody knew anything of Mike. I called, texted, and emailed Mike to no avail. After two hours of waiting I called Uship to explain my difficulties and have them attempt to contact him. An hour later, I called and told them I had to leave. Not only was there no payment code for me to be compensated for my very difficult work, there was no one ready to accept the delivery. The extra load made all of the subsequent stops exponentially more difficult. Compounding the pain of added complications and no pay I would, in all likelihood, be forced to abandon my planned trip to the Isle of Man, for which I'd already invested $6500, in favor of a return to Miami, Florida. What a pain in the ass.<br>
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I finished my lonely late night walk along the beach with a quick dip to wash away the day's accumulation of sweaty grime. It was about one am and I realized I how hungry I was. I'd not eaten all day. It had been far too miserable to consume anything aside from liquids. The Denny's in Northern Daytona wasn't as busy as I anticipated for around two am Sunday morning. Upon exiting the van I noticed that my driver's side rear tire was very low. I'd deal with it after dinner, I thought, and went inside to order a large plate of greasy delicacies and a bottomless cup of coffee. I decimated my meal along with three cups of coffee. I wanted to make it through Orlando before sunrise and I still had a tire to fix and around 100 miles to cover.<br>
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I'm not sure if it was the fact that I had been consuming eggs and bacon like a recently found castaway, or that I looked as if I'd bathed in the ocean; perhaps it was my dirty van and its deflated tire, but mostly I believe it was a very sad look upon my face that was the impetus for an anonymous patron to pay for my meal. Whatever the reasons, when I asked for the check my waitress informed me that it had been taken care of and my benefactor had already left. I looked out the window and a SUV's lights illuminated and quickly backed from alongside my van. I waved and attempted to muster a smile before peeling myself from my seat and pumping a can of Fix-a-flat into my screw penetrated left rear.<br>
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The big local news from the previous day was that some reality show competitor had been followed home and shot in a murder-suicide. Fortunately my newest van has a cd player and I grabbed an old<br>
cd case my mother had unearthed from somewhere within the bowels of my house back in the hills of Tennessee before I left for Florida. I'm becoming a firm believer that, on the aggregate, no news is good news and I dug out an old favorite album to keep me company on the road between Daytona and Orlando. Live at Pompeii is possibly Pink Floyd's most inventive work. It encapsulates human emotions leading up to, facing, and following the chaotic horror that crops up in life. At about 2:30am I pushed the cd into the dash and made my way towards Orlando.<br>
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I've driven and ridden all over the world, and I have a particular skill at finding places to sleep when my determination is overcome by weariness. The key is finding green spots on the GPS, which generally denote parks and public spaces, and then investigating. In Florida this is no longer so simple. The State has sold off nearly all of its public land since the sub-prime mortgage crisis, at what I'm sure were rock bottom prices. So, when I left interstate 4 at 3:45am, I wasn't terribly surprised to find that the parks on my GPS were now gated communities or in the process of becoming gated communities. I quickly gave up my search and pulled into an Episcopal Church parking lot just on the northern outskirts of Orlando. There were two large twin oak trees in the upper portion of the lot that blocked the security lights' glare. I backed as far under them as I could, popped open the rear doors and quickly passed out around 4am.<br>
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Advertising is a devilish thing. It is devised to mislead and manipulate. No matter how resistant we think were are to its sway, in truth we can do little to subvert its inertia. I am no exception to this principle and after the morning's humidity rousted me from my slumber, but before any curious Episcopalians came calling, I returned to the interstate to see a sign for 80's music and cut off Pink Floyd. 107.7 may indeed have the best mix of 80's music in Orlando most of the time, however, last Sunday morning there wasn't a tune to be heard on it or any other station. "We have 50 dead and 53 injured" was the eventual explanation for the lack of music. As I followed I-4 through Orlando I peered to my left to see a sky cluttered with helicopters circling the dead like vultures. I felt nothing but revulsion and an absolute desire to be somewhere else as soon as possible. Florida, what a shit hole. I shouldn't have even been there. I made Lakeland, swiftly collected the Ducati bound for Miami, and delivered it to its new owner within four hours. Immediately afterward I checked into a vastly overpriced hotel to escape the stifling weather and prepare for an early morning delivery of the motorcycles and their damn crates.<br>
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A couple of days after the last attempted delivery of the bikes and their crates I received a call from Mike apologizing that the folks at the delivery location knew nothing of the delivery and he had not been available to provide me with the payment code. He explained that the company I'd tried to deliver to had been hired by his Costa Rican lawyer friend and now things were fixed. I was less than happy with his explanation due to the fact that I'd given him two days notice to be ready. I was already in the heart of Georgia on my way to Maine then the Isle of Man. It would be quite a while before I would return to Florida. He passed along my phone number to his buddy in Costa Rica, Andres, that held interest in the motorcycles. He called to discuss the situation and asked if the bikes could be delivered sooner. I told him I would be forced to hire a driver or miss my trip to do it myself and that I would talk to my driver, Oleg, to see how much he would require to get him to make the trip. There was no huge rush for a resolution I had lots of business in the Northeast and they couldn't be brought to Florida till June at the earliest regardless how the extra trip was handled. Andres seemed content with this. Mike, who ironically owns a Marijuana dispensary in Colorado, was far less pacified. He sent me a steady stream of crappy texts threatening lawsuits. What a shit head! His inept attention to detail for the delivery was costing a great deal of stress while I was busy attempting to leave the country. I told him that the motorcycles and their colossal crates were at my home in Tennessee when ever he wanted, all I wanted was the payment code for the delivery I'd attempted to<br>
make. I wasn't even inclined to ask for anything to cover the substantial work required to load and unload around his undeliverable items. Sadly, Mike still wanted me to make the delivery and he continually sent me threatening texts. Maine, Iowa, and finally another in Tennessee. I was getting fed up with this dickhead. He began accusing me of stealing the bikes and their parts. His patience was non-existent. He wanted to know why I hadn't got in touch with Andres to offer a dollar amount to make the return delivery. I had in fact already done this and informed Andres that I would require $800 for the unscheduled trip from Northeast Tennessee to Miami. I forwarded the correspondence between Andres and I to Mike and he quickly asked for a PayPal address. I didn't have one but gave him the address of a friend of mine traveling the U.S. with her therapy dog. He sent $774 to my friend and I explained that I would be heading to Miami the coming weekend to deliver the bikes and he needed to be on point for the delivery. He thanked me but I had the feeling it was less than sincere.<br>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipV-gAmAJWsM1uLWw1gD6sNvjpVbMo8SSQvvBSmm4_jHn9di9Z0xOM5M9ntfvz-Ps1otOaFJ04hAaKJYhGId0V_pBZmGX6q6lUVGzhOHV4wj7p5ZSNdcSD4crWm4j_xIgIA71O0Ep-cHVr/s1600/DSC06551.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipV-gAmAJWsM1uLWw1gD6sNvjpVbMo8SSQvvBSmm4_jHn9di9Z0xOM5M9ntfvz-Ps1otOaFJ04hAaKJYhGId0V_pBZmGX6q6lUVGzhOHV4wj7p5ZSNdcSD4crWm4j_xIgIA71O0Ep-cHVr/s400/DSC06551.JPG" width="400"></a> I departed from the Diplomat hotel Monday morning. 100 yards from the front doors I began to sweat. I climbed into the van and drove to the shipping agency to undertake the backbreaking task at hand. Thankfully, this time Mike was available. It took about three hours to remove the bikes and their crates from the van and get them into the building. My clothes were saturated by perspiration and my eyes burned from the unceasing flow of sweat when Mike was informed of the successful delivery. He told me to have the contact from the shipping agency call him to confirm the delivery and he would then forward me the shipping code. Thank God! I'm glad to have that one behind me, I thought.<br>
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I drove west through the everglades in a state of despair. The stifling conditions only reinforced my <br>
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despondence. Not even thoughts of harassing alligators with my drone were enough to pull me from the doldrums. I passed multitudes of the soulless creatures and my quad copter remained within its case. I'd sacrificed the past year of my life to work and save. What a sham! When other people's incompetence complicated my life I indulged them at my own expense. Save for a winter trip up the ALCAN highway to Alaska, 37 has been the most miserable year of my life. Never have I felt so overwhelmed and underapriciated. The Unites States, Uship, and its shitty customers were unwilling to loosen their grasp on me long enough to take a fresh breath of air. Hell, I shouldn't even be in this shit hole I continued telling myself. I should be watching the last of the TT races on the Isle of Man. Has the money I've made over the last year been worth the loss of my happiness, optimism, and humanity? Fuck no, it has not!<br>
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Nearing the western reaches of Southern Florida I realized that Mike never contacted me with my <br>
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payment code. I stopped at a pull-off where a dead gator laid covered by a dozen or so vultures. It reminded me of the previous day's scene in Orlando. I grimaced as I typed out a text to Mike asking for the payment code. I waited, watching the apex predator get picked apart by the scavengers. No response was forthcoming. Mike was attempting to screw me. I turned my van around and booked a hotel back in Miami. I don't think so you son of a bitch. <br>
<br>
Mike Kollarits was trying to fuck me from the very beginning. Those crates were purposely omitted from the uship listing to save him a chunk of money. He was underhanded and aggressive throughout my dealings with him. From what I can tell it's his typical behavior. This is made all the more infuriating by the fact that he is a wealthy guy. Here is a copy/paste from a post regarding unionization in the medical marijuana industry in which he opposed worker's rights. <i>Mike Kollarits, the Medical-Marijuana Industry spokesperson said, They didn't see the need for unionization in an industry still in its
infancy. Colorado voters approved Amendment 20, on November 7, 2000.
After 12 years, how can the Medical-Marijuana Industry still be in
its infancy.??? Public records indicate in the last 6 years, Mike
Kollarits bought a half-million-dollar home in Oswego, Illinois for his
wife Jill Kollarits, and he bought the same for his girlfriend, Betty
Schroeder, in a gated community in Genesee, Colorado. For himself, he
bought a Beach-Front Home in Costa Rica, where he Swings and Conducts
his International Business Operations away from the US Government, see:
http://www.myspace.com/kollarvision. Mike Kollarits owns a $1M, 1987
Dassault Falcon 100 Jet to travel between his three homes, and a $80K,
2010 Mercedes-Benz SL500 Roadster for when he stays in Denver. Mike
Kollarits owns four dispensaries including: CMMO Meds &amp; Dacono
Meds in Dacono and in Patients Plus &amp; Simply Pure Dispensaries
in Denver.</i> I'd like to point out that this was well before recreational pot became legal further bolstering his profits. He set up his most recent shop just over the Nebraska line <a href="http://sedgwickalternativerelief.com/?age-verified=0272cc09b0">http://sedgwickalternativerelief.com/?age-verified=0272cc09b0</a> . What a turd.<br>
<br>
During my trip back to Miami Uship forwarded me an email from Mike in which he accused me of extorting him. It was chocked full of B.S. and he made threats of litigation over the shipment of his clearly misrepresented, and then, due to his own incompetence, undeliverable, load. I pulled out my guns the following morning at the hotel and asked friends on social media to pass on their concerns over Mike's unscrupulous actions to his dispensary's facebook page https://www.facebook.com/itsallaboutrelief/ . Bad business is difficult to hide in the age of social media. <br>
<br>
Later that morning I arrived at the shipping company as they opened at 9am with the bill
of lading in my possession. It documented the shipment that I'd made the
previous day and detailed that the payment code be provided to me upon
delivery (which it had not been). I explained the situation to them and told them that if Mike did not produce the payment code by noon I would be forced to take the motorcycles and their damn crates with me to Tennessee. They had no choice but to let them go. I had the bill of lading. Mike threatened lots of law suits that morning and representatives from Uship decided to support him rather than me. They claim that they are an unbiased third party, but that is crap. When it comes to me getting paid, they certainly do nothing to help, claiming that it is solely my responsibility to get the payment code. However, when irrational, or even overtly nefarious customers make bogus claims, even as serious as theft, when it is clearly not the case, they tighten the screws and suspend my account if I'm unwilling to accommodate them. I'd been left with a bad taste in my mouth from previous deliveries where I'd not been compensated and it wasn't going to happen again. I was getting paid or the bikes were going with me.<br>
<br>
I don't have much use for most hipsters. They produce very little other than scorn, and yet tend to have inflated sense of self-worth. Unfortunately, I suspect most of the cogs in Uship's Austin, Texas based machine are these pop-culture brats possessing the omniscience that only those with life experience relegated to swiveling chairs in climate-controlled surroundings can have. When they called to admonish me for doing what had to be done to get paid for this job, I stood firm. Unbelievable, I thought. This asshole is doing his best to fuck me and Uship is intent on assisting him. I told them that he had 15 more minutes to provide me with the code or I would recover the motorcycles and head to Tennessee. At 11:55 Mike provided the code and payment was received. I thanked the folks at the shipping company, apologized for the trouble, loaded into my van and headed north. I prevailed, but a reprisal was on its way.<br>
<br>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE6YHLRxHLdjELpWNhvjwe9qPBsBgBgySrVUOD53L879jA7HRyAC3WXy_-oFpzZX32DjCVZkxV1tUaB0_90aJzAe38oc3zN9kOA2213r0cOXt_VilK3mJM6CtYm1DdfrP-ui6XNjg4ZTOl/s1600/12819225_10154347671451165_1763941756311776771_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE6YHLRxHLdjELpWNhvjwe9qPBsBgBgySrVUOD53L879jA7HRyAC3WXy_-oFpzZX32DjCVZkxV1tUaB0_90aJzAe38oc3zN9kOA2213r0cOXt_VilK3mJM6CtYm1DdfrP-ui6XNjg4ZTOl/s640/12819225_10154347671451165_1763941756311776771_o.jpg" width="360"></a> When the dipshits at Uship tell you to bend over and grin, you will do so or they will extract revenge. They expect that you will capitulate. Myself, I'm too tired of getting fucked to give a damn. They may all go straight to hell! I am very upset that I cancelled my trip to the U.K. to cover for Mike's mistake. In hindsight, I realize that I should have left those bikes and their fucking crates in Tennessee till I returned in August. I doubt that it would have made a sliver's difference in the outcome in Miami, but at least I'd have had my vacation and Mike would have been left waiting. It's what we both deserved. I was driven to try and protect the business that I've worked so tirelessly to build. But it was wasted effort. Uship cancelled my bids and all of the shipments I'd booked but had yet to collect. They emailed all of the customers telling them that I was being investigated. Fortunately, I was able to deliver the motorcycles I had on board headed north, but there is one bound for Denver that has yet to be delivered. By cancelling other westbound deliveries they ensured that <br>
this delivery has been greatly delayed while I have arranged other business. Before it was even late, Uship suggested to this customer that the motorcycle be reported stolen. Those assholes will get what is coming to them. But in a way I'm happy for the push out the door. I'd made them about $35,000 over the past year, and they treated me like shit. I was the #1 motorcycle transporter in the world on their site. I had booked shipments for them all over the United States and throughout Europe despite the struggling economy there. Nonetheless, I was still someone that they were willing to fuck. I'm better off without them. They should have treated me better. <br>
<br>
After my account was suspended, before I even made it out of Florida, I made my way to Jekyll Island, a fine place to formulate ideas, to decompress and think about what's next. I have a plan. <br>
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<b>Michelle T.</b> <span class="x_directional_text_wrapper">(<span class="highlight" id="0.3712654485961152" name="searchHitInReadingPane">uShip</span>)</span> </div>
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Jun 21, 10:31 AM CDT </div>
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Heather,</div>
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There is no reason his suspension should keep him from completing loads
he already has, and if he cannot figure out a way, then you would have
no choice but to report the motorcycle as stolen. Israel, surely you can
find a way that does not involve the police?</div>
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Best,</div>
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<b>Michelle T.</b><br>
Trust and Safety Team Lead</div>
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<b>Israel Gillette</b> </div>
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Jun 21, 11:06 AM CDT </div>
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Michelle,<br>
Yes, it involves other shipments. I am amassing them at the moment. The
shipment is simply delayed. I'd like to point out that you cancelled
several westward shipments that I had booked. Had you not done this I
would have been in CO by now. Your urging Heather to report the
motorcycle stolen, when clearly it has not been, has been noted and this
correspondence will be forwarded to my attorney. You are deepening your
liability.<br>
Israel Eugene Gillette</div>
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Sent from my iPhone</div>
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<br>Israel Eugene Gillette 423 930 7890http://www.blogger.com/profile/06052477254350622028noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7174136796432475125.post-81433403456843728462016-06-04T17:41:00.000-07:002019-04-11T03:07:09.930-07:00Leaving Costa Rica with Dignity Intact: Quakers, Ladies, and Ben Matlock<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I was smiling because it was my first view of the Pacific. I was crying on the inside though. My clutch was cooked!</td></tr>
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I awoke this morning to the sound of rain, the presence of which has plagued my time in Costa Rica from the moment I arrived with my slipping clutch. Upon emerging from my room, within the not quite dingy hostel, I was informed that I needed to move my bike from the secure confines of the commons room for a non-programmed (silent) Quaker meeting which would be taking place shortly. I quickly moved the lame BMW into an adjacent room as the Quakers began to file in. A bit curious, <br />
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and in need of some inspiration for my next story, I decided that silence was in order and joined this meeting of nothingness. Following 45 minutes of reflecting on equal parts broken motorcycle in Central America and dysfunctional life in Tennessee, the quiet time ended and a broad and informal discussion of general topics ensued. I must admit, I enjoyed it far more than having some overbearing know-it-all shout at me for half an hour. At the conclusion of the gathering the fellow directing the service and conversation, Q.D. (Quaker Dan), invited me to lunch.<br />
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We departed the expat side of town in favor of one of the old high rise hotels in the center of San Jose. As we walked up to the entrance QD explained that it was "sort of a sports bar". I entered the establishment to find a collection of well dressed 50ish year old men sat beneath an expanse of flatscreen televisions adorned with football matches and horse racing. We took a table and ordered drinks. Dan possessed a commanding demeanor. He stood about 6'3", and, though in his mid 50's, of solid build. He was well spoken, his words few and carefully chosen. He would have surely been a man of some importance in the Quaker community back in rural Pennsylvania. Before I again attempted to make sense of his place in Costa Rica our drinks arrived along with another American. This fellow, dressed in a cream suit more Matlock than Panama Jack, was acquainted with QD. As he was introduced to me, and told of my motorcycle trip, we were joined by two scantly clad ladies sporting broad smiles. I was unsurprised to find that he was a lawyer. If my presence held any of the stranger's attention it was very quickly diverted. He turned, engaging the young women in a torrent of fluent Spanish, and took each under an arm. The girls then questioned Dan and I, one offering me up a wink. QD's Spanish seemed good, but his response appeared dismissive. I simply shook my head and uttered poco Espanol. With that, Atlanta's greatest attorney wished me luck on my journey, said good bye to Dan, and disappeared into the bowels of the hotel bar with his new clients.<br />
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I finished my first drink quickly and ordered another. There was a lull in the conversation following the interaction with Mr. Confidence and I'd not quite figured out how to renew the inquisition of Quaker Dan. My benefactor looked to be contemplating something serious and he jostled remnants of his gin tonic. Just as my fresh beer arrived QD swallowed the rest of his drink and asked if I could find my way back to the hostel. I smiled and told him that I don't get lost. "I didn't think so" he replied. He had some business to attent to and needed to be going he explained. As he parted he told me how much he admired my trip, and just before walking away his final words<br />
to me were, "The girls here will ask for one hundred but they'll take fifty".<br />
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I took my time finishing the beer and strolled past a trio of smiling ladies in mini skirts sitting at the bar. I avoided their gaze and wandered onto the street. The rains, so persistent over the previous days, had subsided and the following couple of hours were the best I'd spent in San Jose. Roaming the streets in solitude I was happy to be alive; and for whatever it's worth, my dignity is intact.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Follow the Yellow Brick Road</td></tr>
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Israel Eugene Gillette 423 930 7890http://www.blogger.com/profile/06052477254350622028noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7174136796432475125.post-70361069263464744802015-02-10T08:08:00.002-08:002015-02-10T08:54:41.956-08:00Optimisim, Determination, and a Five Year Bridge: Israel, Austria, Coppers, and Palestinians... Some Things Change and Some Things Don't: Part II<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">If you look very closely, it says, "you're screwed"</td></tr>
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My time in Vienna stretched on and on while my van's tags remained within the 13th district <br />
Police Station. Each of my many trips to retrieve the tags possessed a new task delegated by the authorities which needed to be done in order to retrieve my number plates and get back on the road. After completing each of these my tag's captors would contrive new, and increasingly difficult, chores for me to complete. Though my dismay was great, I was very fortunate to have the support of good friends in Vienna to house Daisy and I as I formulated a plan to make my escape from Austria. Making plans isn't something that has come easy for me. I'm more capricious than calculative. However, as I've grown older I have learned a lesson or two of how to avoid being bloodied.<br />
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Back to Taba<br />
Scotch, how smoothly it goes down. One swig after another, I felt no physical opposition to what might be considered outright swilling. On a night as warm as the whisky infused lining of my stomach, I was playing the part of infidel in the midst of a sea of Palestinians. Though I was breaking rules of Ramadan, none of the plebeians stuck behind the fence of the Israeli border crossing at Taba particularly cared. They were focused on spending Eads with their loved ones in some other God forsaken land of rock and sand. Perhaps I was somewhat aloof to Muslim tradition, however, I am always acutely aware of humanistic desire. I am, after all, very human.<br />
My new friend, Chris, was busy photographing the scene as I engaged some of the Arab contingent in conversation. "They are always doing this to us!" exclaimed one particularly vocal woman, abrogating a somewhat innocuous dialog in which I was engaged. It was a honest and concise statement. One which I felt at my core. These guys weren't a part of Hamas, and I certainly wasn't. And even if they were, this contingent of tramps and lowlifes were on their way out of the country. The only reason that I could see to keep them behind the fence was to make their lives difficult. Though I take issue with many oppressive Arab states, and feel that life in Israel is better for the average person than within any of the surrounding countries, it was clear to me that in this case the Israeli government was bullying those without recourse. The circumstances made for an odd pairing, for on this warm, humid, evening along the Red Sea Israel was aligned with the Palestinians.<br />
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Bureaucracy, the Answer for Nonexistent Problems<br />
It's been my observation that people like looking down on others. It's a hollow sort of pride, reinforcing some demented value in one's existence. Generally these ideas are rooted in fear and ignorance. When it comes to government, economic difficulties magnify this irrational hatred in a marketable way. Jews are ruining Germany, they must be stopped! Better dead than RED! If you're not with us, you are against us! The illegals are bringing ebola, nukes, and Islam while simultaneously taking your job as they ride the welfare train. The talking points may differ, but the message is the same. You are not safe, we can save you, TRUST US. <br />
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Should you trust them? NO... FUCKING... WAY!<br />
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Sure, some places are better than others when it comes to freedom, but ultimately bureaucracy is diametrically opposed to liberty. The fundamental need to feed government growth is the undoing of free will. In an almost cyclical fashion civilizations, societies, nations, or even municipalities become overrun by onerous rules and strict enforcement. The worse the laws, the more brutal the control. Eventually, too many of the plebeians are alienated and it all comes down around the leaders' heads (which are occasionally already rolling around on the ground;). Regardless where you find yourself at the moment, there is a government official nearby working to satisfy interests which contravene your own. <br />
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The Austrian Police, Better than Those in the U.S., but still Pains in the Ass<br />
I undertook the tenuous task of replacing the tire which supposedly caused my van's plates to be taken, then turned up at the police station for an inspection and to pay a fine. The guys at the station reprimanded me for moving my tagless van and informed me that the Daisycam was not allowed in the police station. Somehow they ignored the camera I was wearing. <br />
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Though the video seems to cast a favorable light upon my plight, reality was not so kind. After disabling the cameras and reentering the police station. I was informed that I must go to the Polish embassy and retrieve a decree from the ambassador that I was allowed to drive with the plates. Who dreams this shit up? If my imagination were this active, I'd be rich.<br />
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David's Knee or my Head, Which was Harder?<br />
Following a bit more scotch, and chatter, I approached the fence, which had been closed following my initial inquiry of the Israeli border guards (see part 1), whilst simultaneously pulling my passport from my hind pocket. I raised my ID to the sky with my right hand and forcefully shook the gate with my left. "I'm an American citizen!, "This is a 24 hour border crossing!", I exclaimed, "Let me go!!". One of the contingent of Israeli military looked directly at me and gave me a toothy grin. It was not a devious one. Perhaps he just enjoyed the reprieve from, what may have otherwise been, a night of monotony. Regardless of the reason, it was a gaze which I will never forget. I turned and retreated from the fencing into the sea of Gentiles.<br />
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I was now of more interest to the massive contingent of Arab plebeians and there was a constant stream of inquires and advice making its way in my direction. A distinct parity existed between the words from the women and those of the men. The fairer sex advised me to be patient. "These things happen frequently, just wait", one of them told me. The men were of a diverging opinion. One of them asked me to approach and talk to the border guards once again. My retort was simply, "I already talked to them, they didn't care what I had to say". The cheeky Palestinian replied, rather loud and forcefully, as he pumped his pointing finger in my direction. "This time you tell them, you tell them Obama is your cousin!". This brought my eyebrows up, and a smile to my face. Laughing heartily I parleyed the notion that I didn't think this would help. Though I was beginning to have ideas.<br />
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Another hour or so passed, and I was becoming aquatinted with my captive brethren. "Hello, Muhammad. Nice to meet you. My name is Israel" was repeated more than once. My BAC maintained a steady ascent and I was feeling rather good. I moved from conversation to conversation with a certain ease. I may have looked out of place, however, I felt right at home. Chris was drifting in and out of my periphery, snapping photos and occasionally stopping by to listen in on the chatter. We had entered the third hour of waiting when I approached Chris and said "take plenty of photos". I'm not quite sure how he responded, or if he did, I was focused on the two and a half meter tall gate that separated Us from Them. I took to the chain links with a determined gusto and the Israeli border guards rushed over to try and repel me verbally. Though my hiking pack was fully laden, I quickly crested the barrier, and the military contingent assisted in an even quicker decent on the west side. It was the last time I ever saw Chris. <br />
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Israel Eugene Gillette 423 930 7890http://www.blogger.com/profile/06052477254350622028noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7174136796432475125.post-67273047509521492072014-07-27T17:56:00.001-07:002015-02-09T12:16:04.201-08:00 Optimism, Determination, and a Five Year Bridge : Israel, Austria, Coppers, and Palestinians...Some Things Change, Some Things Don't : Part I<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/3kWtxnC21fw?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe> The sun's uninhibited glare shines through a 4th floor flat's window overlooking Vienna. I sit in bureaucratically imposed traction wondering if the number plates, which now rest in the 13th district Polizei headquarters, will make a miraculous return to their rightful place upon my van's bumpers. I, of course, know better. It was Thursday afternoon when an Austrian copper spied the Polish tags on my legally parked van and decided it needed closer scrutiny. It turns out that I, a supposed Pole, was endangering the Austrian public with a shoddy tire. My tags were removed and I've remained here since. During the past ten days I have watched the world stew within a cauldron fired by greed, fear, and hatred. The land of opportunity is chucking immigrants into cells at an alarming rate as its police continue to pillage the innocent. My hope for the future in Europe is crumbling under the weight of crushing austerity. As to whether fools in Ukraine intentionally blasted a MalaysianAir jet out of the sky is immaterial, roughly 300 innocent people are now dead. Finally, my namesake has been proving very efficient at exacting revenge for the deaths of their boys. Here, then, I sit, in the midst of it all. I have relevant stories regarding each of them. However, the most personal, I now present as honestly as I know how.<br />
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I spent the summer of 2009 having a marvelous time baking away in the Middle East. The trip began under auspicious circumstances as former President Jimmy Carter was on board my friend Arie and I's flight from Atlanta to Tel Aviv. The last good man to the lead the United States snubbed, taxpayer funded, private charter to travel with the plebeians. He went to each and every passenger personally greeting them. The first words written in my beloved hand bound journal were, To Israel J Carter. My life has never been typical, but from that moment forward it's not been the same. The journey, in its entirety, was a thing of beauty and I was on the cusp of international incidents twice. The first of these has already been captured by my pencil <a href="http://www.israelgillette.blogspot.co.at/2011/07/time-and-rain-in-san-jose-dusting-off.html">http://www.israelgillette.blogspot.co.at/2011/07/time-and-rain-in-san-jose-dusting-off.html</a> but the latter has been stewing within my head for five years now. <br />
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It would have been amiss of me to spend two months in the Middle East and not make my way to Egypt to gaze upon Giza. Though by this juncture I'd already done quite a lot of traveling, as well as drinking, and my pockets were virtually empty with two weeks remaining till Arie and I returned to the States. Fortunately, my buddy offered to loan to me some money to make such a thing happen. Thanks again, Arie. His last words upon my departure were, "Be Careful".<br />
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I caught a bus out of Jerusalem headed for Eilat and, as it so happened, there were other English speaking folks on board. As is typical of me, I left them alone. There were some wealthy Arab kids seated between myself and them. They proved to be a bit aggressive. They muscled their way around and over others on the bus to congregate in front of me, smoking cigarettes and talking shit. They did so at the expense of those a bit less willing to accept their abrogative behavior and quickly ganged up on their neighbor from the UK who dared to speak up against them. I was less than impressed and interceded on behalf of the girl whom was losing her seat to the smokers. The three Nike clad thugs were quick to direct, in unison, their attention in my direction. They felt that 3 on 1 were pretty good odds. So did I. I maintained my stance and after the lead punk pointed at me and uttered, "You're crazy man!" and the bus was stopped, the girl got her seat back. I abandoned my place to take up a spot on the floor, away from the kids (late teens/early twenties) I'd just schooled. Briefly I became the center of the passengers' attention and I exchanged glances with the group of folks I'd help to defend. One of them, Chris, approached me and thanked me for the help. He sat with me on the floor for the remainder of the trip, telling me of his time assisting in the development of schools for Bedouin children. I took an immediate liking to Chris and upon our arrival in Eilat we hovered around the fringes of the group he was with, musing of travels and sipping scotch. During the evening Chris concluded that he would join me on my trip to Egypt. <br />
The distance from Eilat to the 24 hour border crossing into Sinai is roughly 10 kilometers. Being that we were in good shape, and of thrifty minds, we opted to walk. The night's warm temps were aided by the Red Sea in producing a tacky atmosphere that clung to our clothes as we passed through on our way to the doorway out of the Promised Land. We arrived at the Taba border just before midnight on Eid to find it a cluttered mess. Empty buses and taxis were engulfed by a sea of Palestinians waiting to get through the border, presumably to feast with their families following Ramadan. I was quick to assess the situation and saw that the queue wasn't diminishing. After half an hour of watching I walked through one of the open border gates, used for passing vehicles, and inquired of one of the Israeli guards, "what's going on, why isn't anyone passing?". The young soldier replied "go stand back in the line, please". "Oh come on", I prodded. Reiterating my earlier question, I received the exact same answer. I walked away, catching the eye of another soldier that shot me a grin, and they closed the fence behind me. Chris and I chatted briefly about possible causes for this, but we arrived at similar conclusions. There was no reason to prevent this this Arab exodus from Southern Israel. It was a power play. Chris went about documenting the scene with his camera. Myself? Well, at this point I should have thought of my friend's parting advice back in Jerusalem, but instead I dug Glenlivet out of my backpack and thought about how much I dislike fences. The night was still young. <br />
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<br />Israel Eugene Gillette 423 930 7890http://www.blogger.com/profile/06052477254350622028noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7174136796432475125.post-91755057504173514412014-04-29T10:00:00.000-07:002018-11-05T10:14:13.472-08:00125 MPH in the Custody of the Queen: A Scottish Holiday It was a terrific Saturday. The first in over a month that I'd not found myself in a rush. Between rumbling across the U.S. in my van from Seattle to Atlanta, via Dallas, to catch my flight back to Romania, in the span of 5 days, and a not quite direct motorcycle trip to the U.K. via Kiev, Ukraine to collect a van for European rambling, I'd worn myself thin. Transferring the money from my account to the van's seller proved to be an arduous affair and I was ready to split from Newcastle to a more rural setting once paperwork for the Sprinter's transfer was finalized late Friday afternoon. After driving into the evening, along the coast, I spotted a nice flat spot and stopped. I awoke the following morning to find a Pay and Display parking meter in the lot which I had passed out. These have spread like the plague in the UK since my first trip here, and you now find them in cow pastures. I checked my pockets for change to find 90 pence, a far cry from the 2 pounds (Thanks to the stodgy Canadian setting monetary policy in the UK now, about $3.50) needed for the first two hours. After digging through a variety of Pesos, Shekels, Bolivianos, and Quetzal (amongst others), I found another 30 P. I rolled my eyes and thought about the $9 per (US) gallon diesel I'd filled up with on my way to North Sunderland. Surely to God there was enough tax there to fund some bloody parking lot out in the sticks. I put it out of my mind and hiked through the field down to the shore.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKsNSKU5-n77rPcN2C7LSm65YLayMMZt0-zZfPB1_c6IukxIbJwaKI9v1KhABlBXSXJEI8XmHZm9-MrCb3nszPCrpsKa3QPFWqySfCjuxQzYmmex194QCBgrPdW8b0rxqH2mbIKmwkK7oC/s1600/DSC07873.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKsNSKU5-n77rPcN2C7LSm65YLayMMZt0-zZfPB1_c6IukxIbJwaKI9v1KhABlBXSXJEI8XmHZm9-MrCb3nszPCrpsKa3QPFWqySfCjuxQzYmmex194QCBgrPdW8b0rxqH2mbIKmwkK7oC/s1600/DSC07873.JPG" width="400" /></a> It felt good to hear the North Sea waves crashing on the beach and sense the slap of cool, rushing, wind as I sauntered along. I had nowhere to be and there were castle ruins on the horizon. My goals for the day were to be flexible and simplistic, a good fit for me I figured. One foot in front of the other, look around, repeat. <br />
Though the sandy patch of earth was far from crowded, I saw dogs, horses, golfers, surfers, both machine gun, and sand, bunkers before reaching the castle which loomed over the entire journey.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This fellow looks to have a pretty good arm. He must play cricket.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A walk spoiled? </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Perhaps Pine Oaks should consider adding one of these to the back 9.<br />
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I returned to the car-park/cow pasture in an ambivalent mood. Between the 15, or so, miles I'd covered and the restless wind, I felt a bit shagged, but oddly rejuvenated. The semi-euphoric second wind inspired a look at the map. Shit, I was at the doorstep of Scotland, one of my favorite places, and home to a friend from a former life.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ-EcPiJt3hgLiETyDwWn-9FEYOt3mQff8sEmDzSr887pavDDXwLOfQfsMr67mJQ0zMYDCXBIu0fy6KgMnfGElxuje1pewWuAHgcDfRvPyKjFwOTyXcDRMaTnz18JZMz0U13d7xJYUI7km/s1600/alma-matre.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ-EcPiJt3hgLiETyDwWn-9FEYOt3mQff8sEmDzSr887pavDDXwLOfQfsMr67mJQ0zMYDCXBIu0fy6KgMnfGElxuje1pewWuAHgcDfRvPyKjFwOTyXcDRMaTnz18JZMz0U13d7xJYUI7km/s1600/alma-matre.jpg" width="239" /></a> My days at Washington College Academy are held in high regard, and many of the kids I met there are still friends, and likely will be for life. The virtues of private school are topics for another day, but it was during my time roaming the grounds of WCA that I met Kate. We aren't overtly similar, unlike me, she wasn't expelled, and she has gone on to reach some lofty heights. I suppose the mountains of East Tennessee must feel a universe away for her now as she attends to the needs of Old St. Paul's Episcopal Cathedral in the heart of Edinburgh. Though perhaps odd that I have some sort of connection to a priest in Scotland, I suspect that there is something vaguely appropriate about it. I'd always thought of Kate as having an obstinate streak, one she's likely had to suppress, more than to her liking, to reach her goals in life. Conversely, my recalcitrant composition is something that cannot be subdued and a caprice, roller-coaster, life has made aspirations difficult to chase, but still, I have a nagging desire for success and the trappings therein. Perhaps we aren't altogether different. So, I sat there looking at Google maps. Old St. Paul's it is, I concluded, and pulled my ticket laden van from the parking lot on a northerly course to catch the following morning's service. In hindsight, I should have stayed put.</div>
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By the time I reached the Scottish border darkness had fully enveloped the sky, but Edinburgh was </div>
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just another hour up the A1 so I stopped briefly to recall a memory and snap a photo for posterity. When last I was at this mortar and stone ode to the freest part of the UK, I was out of jail on $25,000 bond. In an attempt to help some poor sod back in my home town of Jonesborough, Tennessee I'd summoned a shit-storm of anti-1st amendment sentiment amongst the most steroid addled coppers in all the land. They exercised a great deal of imagination, but very little concern or restraint, in concocting a story and levying charges intended to destroy me. Though victory was mine in the end (if it could be called that), when I first reached Scotland, little over a week after defending myself at a preliminary hearing, the toll taken on my life seemed large indeed. So-called friends would no longer be seen with me, and murmurs of my stupidity were hard to bear. I wondered how trying to help someone could transform me into such an outcast. <br />
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None the less, before the judge I stood tall and I fought hard. I recall leaving the court-room after the preliminary hearing in the newly-finished, multi, multi million dollar Washington County Justice Center feeling less than happy. There is little justice to be found here. How can they build a case from nothing? Fuck them, and Fuck this place, I thought, this isn't living, and this is not my home. Rather than putting off my planned motorcycle trip across Europe, I pushed forward. I sold everything easily liquidated that I owned, including my beloved Ducati, scratched the head of the only girl that didn't mind to be seen with me at the time (Daisy is the best friend a trouble-maker like me could ever have) and headed for a new environment.<br />
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Shortly after departing the border monument I passed a Volvo wagon (or estate for the right-hand drive crowd) adorned with the distinguished markings of the Scottish police. I noticed that the Swedish cruiser balked as I passed, but thought little of it, though similar behavior from police in the States would have left me looking for a place to pull off and hide. It took a while, however, blue lights illuminated the sky and I quietly cursed the Polish tag that hung from my bumper. The two officers hastily approached after I pulled over, they went to the front of the van then the more wiry of the pair came to open drivers window, while the other surveyed the interior through the sealed passenger's window, and asked me to switch beams. He then returned to the front of the van and called for me to join him. He pointed to the extinguished low beam. It then became obvious that he'd expected a Polski. When I removed my passport, while explaining the lack of warning lights for blown bulbs in Sprinter vans, he said "You're an American?". The dark haired copper began an inquisition into how I came about having a Polish registered van. The other guy just looked on in silence. I produced paperwork for the van and he somewhat dismissively said, "This means nothing <br />
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van the previous evening in Newcastle and I'd not had a chance to acquire any. There was unmistakable glee in his eyes and voice when he informed me that they would be seizing the van and it was going to cost about 200 Pounds, at the least, to retrieve it. Damn my honesty, this guy wasn't going to be cool in the least. The lanky chatterbox escorted me to the back of the Volvo so they could collect some information. After directing me to the back seat and closing the door, he took to the phone and returned to my van. The bulkier, and until this point mum, officer was seated in the front passenger seat and inquired, as we waited for his partner's return, "do you have a bike in there?". "Yes" ,I responded, "how did you know?" He said, "I saw the Isle of Man TT patch on your jacket in the van". He went on to tell me about his Fireblade (that is the 900-1000cc CBR Stateside) and asked about camping on the Isle for the TT. Why couldn't this guy be in charge, I thought. We continued with our motorcycle centered conversation till the other officer returned and directed the discourse in a more stressful direction. The call to the tow driver ("I need a job created", he said. Great, I thought, a Keynesian copper) went unanswered, so the friendlier bloke took to the wheel of my new van and followed Glasgow Slim and I to the impound yard. I was told I could take my things from the van. I explained that I had insurance on my motorcycle and I wanted to use it to go on to Edinburgh since Monday was the earliest I could retrieve the van. My young driver had started to soften as he heard of my journeys and relented, after all, it had insurance. The biker helped me unload, and pack, my Yamaha. Once finished, I was instructed to follow them to the station in the town of <br />
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Dunbar. Ironically, this birthplace of the father the modern conservation movement, and proponent of the formation of U.S. national parks, John Muir, is also home to a massive coal-fired power plant. Once past the monstrosity of a plant, made more dingy by the high pressure sodium bulbs illuminating its austere exterior, we reached a large roundabout and the Volvo pulled away for the 270 degree right-hand turn. Not so fast I thought and put my on bike its side motoring up to the exhaust pipes of the cruiser as we exited the roundabout. It was a taste of things to come. With the power plant out of site, the, quaint, sleepy burg showed little movement for <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5h25gDoKNo0s94bkoJDhpD6dMvVaWmxqRH-wAPVykBPUXqnvfwLnvO2ZldWpfJxxwY_W5Bk2_J53YYMfwXh4DV4G3CuM8enZtTxEKX5gA3JG7mqkD2vzJahOH3e1haLt85q_MCm_HAfZK/s1600/John+Muir.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5h25gDoKNo0s94bkoJDhpD6dMvVaWmxqRH-wAPVykBPUXqnvfwLnvO2ZldWpfJxxwY_W5Bk2_J53YYMfwXh4DV4G3CuM8enZtTxEKX5gA3JG7mqkD2vzJahOH3e1haLt85q_MCm_HAfZK/s1600/John+Muir.jpg" /></a>a Saturday night. We passed John Muir's monument in the middle of town and I thought about the U.S. National Parks pass in my hip pocket. It had been useless, a few month prior, during the government shutdown. Oh, how apt bureaucrats are at taking something good and turning it to complete shit. We pulled into the abandoned bread-box of a police station and I settled into the employee of the month parking spot. <br />
I have a knack for finding myself in interrogation rooms following relatively innocuous infractions, you might even call it a gift, having now done so on four continents in seven countries. So again, I found myself sitting at a table intended to separate the investigator from the suspect. Alone, sipping on coffee procured by the biker, I came to the conclusion that this was taking far too long. The duo of sweater clad bobbies finally entered the room and Slim spoke up. "Well", he said, "You are having a bad night, and it's about to get worse. We ran the tag on your bike and the MOT expired last month (MOT is an acronym for Ministry Of Transportation, these are the government screws that get to say that your car or motorcycle is in good enough shape to be used on the roads. Once a year your vehicle is scrutinized and, if passed, given a certificate. When I bought my Yamaha here a year ago, I never dreamed it would return to the UK, as it was intended to carry me to Siberia) and you cannot provide us a U.K. address. Given that we have no way to contact you and your motorcycle is not road-legal here, we have to take you into custody". I grinned broadly and gazed at the two and said, softly with my best Scottish accent, "Fookin' great". This prompted a little chuckle from the Jr. partner. "Right then", said skinny, "you'll be going to court on Monday in Selkirk, but till then you'll be kept in custody in Harwick at the detention facilities. That's 60 miles from here, but before we take you we'll need to document all your belongings not packed away and locked in the motorcycle". That's a lot of documentation, I thought. And the two cops went about accounting for about 100 separate items in my two bags. They got a big kick out of my Breaking Bad tee shirt. "In legal trouble? Better Call Saul!"<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaj7TJNxAjRHoCM4I0LrhR3NSM_tJ-Uho3L7Dp0M68HiENO0bzCi2z7cNxG1JkHsQKCzGw1jBXSHrzTo5dxjxP54U5cHBL5c1yUnqbR7A9iLN5ivlthQ-9n9yQLc3qPRl90pdQckXprGT3/s1600/130mph.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaj7TJNxAjRHoCM4I0LrhR3NSM_tJ-Uho3L7Dp0M68HiENO0bzCi2z7cNxG1JkHsQKCzGw1jBXSHrzTo5dxjxP54U5cHBL5c1yUnqbR7A9iLN5ivlthQ-9n9yQLc3qPRl90pdQckXprGT3/s1600/130mph.jpg" width="275" /></a> After all my baggage had been itemized, I was placed in cuffs and taken to the Volvo. They managed to have some difficulty fitting my bags, coats, and helmet into the Wagon. "I fit that on a 660cc motorcycle, surely to Christ you can fit it into an estate" , I quipped. The biker laughed, and I was belted in place with cuffed hands between my torso and tightly woven nylon. Friendly took a seat alongside me in the back, and Glasgow Joe grabbed the wheel. By now, it was after midnight and their shifts should have been over, but this gave them opportunity to show the American a good time. We reached the roundabout and Slim put the peddle on the floor. The hash-marks of the A1 melded into a solid line as the turbo whirred. It was foggy, and misting rain, as the Swedish grocery getter's speedo needle eclipsed 120 Miles Per Hour. I looked over at my neighbor and inquired as to whether or not my rapid taxi was equipped with All Wheel Drive. I was mildly relieved to find that it was. It must be said, I have a very high tolerance for speed and 125MPH in a straight line isn't the sort of thing that accelerates my heart rate but I certainly found the restraints disconcerting. Upon turning onto the A6112, my assessment of the situation changed. The rural routes which snake through the Scottish countryside are not to be taken lightly under the best of conditions. They are narrow, hilly, and crooked. My first girlfriend lost her life here in a motoring accident, and I thought of her as we barreled over a blind rise which bent to the left. Displacing rain and mist, the Scandinavian brick briefly battled with gravity and pressed heavily back into wet asphalt as it sprinted off toward the next terror. Only another 50 miles of surprises, I pondered, what a pity. I spoke up in my flattest, deadpan, tone, "I take it you drive these roads a lot". There was only a laugh in response, and it may of well been emitted from a wicked clown. Even knowing these roads well, as Slim clearly did, it was still the folly of a young man showing off, and I was not amused. At <br />
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least they are well insured, I mused as we set off the flash of a speed camera taking an apex ascending yet another hill. You could tell the driver's familiarity with the roads began to dwindle the further into our trip we reached, and he was forced to make corrections mid-corner on a couple of occasions. The worst of these came when his radio clicked on, taking his attention precisely as the transition between breaking, acceleration, and steering input needed to be fluid. Following this mishap the wheelman reduced our speed by about 15% and I was much happier. The remaining 20 miles transpired in relative bliss.<br />
Upon arriving at the detention facilities, run by the friendly folks of Q4S, the jailers were more than a bit surprised to be looking after an insurance offender. I was taken to my windowless, 10'x10', cell and promptly passed out. The jailer came by and woke me on the hour, to ensure I hadn't offed myself. I suppose there really isn't much to report. It was 40 hours of solitude, save for the 40 check ups and 2 showers. I suppose it is worth mentioning the DNA sample though. "You can tell the Queen that she can fuck off" I implored "If you want my DNA, you are going to have to forcibly take it" The officer was caught a bit off balance, he'd not expected resistance. I had, until this point, been a model detainee. A senior officer came in to assist. "Come now" he said, "it's just like brushing your teeth, we know you brush your teeth". I thought quickly of my showers and the odd device provided for oral hygiene. It was a cylinder about 2 inches long with a diameter of half an inch. You unscrewed the cap , jettisoning the outer tube, to reveal an attached, brush-like, rubber instrument to place on the <br />
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index finger. Why not simply brush with your finger? I inserted the little rubber brush into its vile after I'd finished, placed it with my wet towel and called for an escort back to my slice of Scottish oppression. I realized the sneaky fucks already had my DNA. They were threatening to keep me longer if I didn't relent, and I decided that they had it either way, what did it matter? In hindsight, I wish I'd made more of a stink, but alas, I am getting too old for that.<br />
Shortly after making a fuss over forking over my DNA, I was taken to a G4S prisoner escort truck. Each passenger had their own portable cell. How nifty! As we got going the radio was notched up to ear bleed setting for the 10 mile trip to Selkirk. My little window possessed a red tinting that had not been noticeable from the outside. There was an impossible classic rock trivia game taking up an inordinate portion of the air-time on this particular BBC station and, even coming from the red-neck rock capitol of the world, I was oblivious to the answers to most all of the queries. I was focused on little red sheep prancing about red pastures divided by red fences when the pointlessly obscure trivia was interrupted by Kansas. "Carry on my wayward son. There'll be peace when you are done. Lay your weary head to rest. Don't you cry no more". Fitting, the red landscape continued to pass my gaze as I listened to this song I'd heard at least a thousand times before, I concluded, in silence, you can't make this shit up. "Carry on, you will always remember. Carry on, nothing equals the splendor. Now your life's no longer empty. <br />
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Surely heaven waits for you." On que, this was about the time the paddy wagon pulled into the Sheriff's court of Selkirk, to a building was more akin to a castle than a court. <br />
The wait to speak with my solicitor (lawyer) proved to be a lengthy one so I took to people watching. My cell-mates were of the typical faire, young, poor, and uneducated. The major differences between inmates here and back home was that none of these were here for drugs or DUI. I wonder what Q4S would give for a good, old fashioned, drug war in the UK? <br />
The two lawyers representing those in custody were both young. One was a sharply dressed man with far too much gel in his hair to be trusted. The other, a lady, looked to have spent too many nights awake without a break. Fortunately, I was given the latter to represent me in court. She went about collecting copious amounts of personal information to present to the Sheriff (that's the judge). She couldn't believe that I'd been arrested for an insurance violation, I wished I felt the same, but these sorts of things no longer surprise me. She informed me I needed an address to give the court. I told her that if she could arrange to get my phone from the bags containing my property, I could get an address. There was no signal to be found in bowels of the courthouse, but there was one address that I had at my disposal. I looked at the google maps history. <span class="b_address">39 Jeffrey Street, Edinburgh, Scotland. The address, of course, was to Old St. Paul's Cathedral. Sorry Kate, desperate times call for desperate measures. Perhaps there is something fitting about it. After all, shouldn't St. Paul have some sympathy for the traveling prisoner?</span><br />
<span class="b_address"> At about 5pm I was cuffed to one of Q4S' finest and marched up out of the depths of the holding cells to the arena that is a Sheriff's courtroom. As the accused, I was stood, along with my tethered escort, at the lowest level of the room with all other seats surrounding me at higher levels. I felt like an examined specimen. The prosecutor began the proceedings expressing some confusion in the multiple tags and registrations attached to the charges. I spoke up to clarify that there was a motorcycle involved as well as the van. This was clearly not the time to help, and the entire court took a collective gasp at my audacity. I pled ignorance, apologized, and the prosecutor finished her brief, misguided, citation of the charges. </span><br />
<span class="b_address"> I must say, Sarah, my solicitor made me sound pretty impressive. "Israel Gillette is an honors graduate from the University of Tennessee Chattanooga where he studied business and economics. He is in the midst of extensive travels which have seen him in 40 countries over the past 5 years. He is in the UK to acquire a van needed to expand his motorcycle transport business to include Europe." She continued on to explain the technicalities of the van's acquisition as well as its seizure and mounting tow bill. I was really amazed with Sarah's performance, she hadn't paused or stumbled during an extensive narrative. Now, it was the Sheriff's turn. Speaking up in a most dignified and aristocratic voice, he delineated the particulars of the insurance motoring law of 1988. He went on to recognize that though I'd only just acquired the van, insurance was compulsory prior to my operating the van on UK roads. "It is something we take very seriously here", he said, adding, "however, I have never see anyone taken into custody for it, In light of your extended stay at her majesties' pleasure and the mounting tolls for the release of the vehicle, I will modify the penalty from 120 pounds to 80, and assess 6 points to you license (what license?)" I was taken back down the stairs and released. </span><br />
<span class="b_address"> It was time to get to work, I had 3 jackets, 2 bags (packed to the gills), and a helmet. The impound yard was 50 miles away, I was on foot, and I had 1 pound 20. I emerged from the courthouse looking like a motorcycling hobo, missing a motorcycle. A lady standing outside approached me and asked if she could be of help. She'd heard about my court appearance. More infamous than famous I thought, and pulled my, nearly dead, phone from one of 20 available pockets and asked that she snap a photo. Things were going my way!</span><br />
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Israel Eugene Gillette 423 930 7890http://www.blogger.com/profile/06052477254350622028noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7174136796432475125.post-16921333603770212182014-04-10T13:47:00.004-07:002014-04-10T15:29:29.328-07:00April Fools Rush In<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The joke is on me, I thought, as I contemplated the events of the day. The paths from the center of Newcastle down to the Tyne are all crooked, and I'd managed to find the darkest of all for my stroll to Millennium Bridge. Upon reaching the U.K., via Dutch ferry from Amsterdam on the 1st of April, I was detained by the port officials. This took a couple of hours to rectify, but the copper, Scott, dealing directly with me, was a nice bloke. I was privileged enough to be able to eavesdrop on his, and his cohort's, separate conversations with their superior officer. Interestingly enough, the interrogation room, in which I was sitting, was adjacent to the head honcho's office. Shortly after questioning me and leaving, I could hear Scott say "He's a nice guy, traveling the world, it's not right". The commandant's voice was too low to distinguish, but I felt assured by Scott's vocal support. Scott departed the office and made for parts unknown. Several minutes of solitude were then interrupted by a hasty entrance to the next door. What, to my ear, sounded to be the voice of a young lady spoke up quickly, "It's the right thing to do! He's greedy, and he is putting everyone at risk. It's the right thing!". In this instance, apparently, "The right thing" was seizing my motorcycle and having it crushed for lack of insurance. Sacre bleu! My Tenere has its faults, but it deserves a better end than that. I never made the acquaintance of the young British lady trumpeting the notion of my Yamaha's demise, perhaps due to the fact that destroying the dreams of a stranger is easier than those of someone you've met.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie1Y1Vhf4_drPuCtxzg_1SZkHTgYVoQfzI_TFz7t4Yy2YPP2B1bXNVVoEVJvTsLqOAK8E66FWIEzXlGG3-4KIloIfiSfuimvboBw4HF3A4UxJyoLJuD1Kg5KjYWosaveSUuw3Dn614qUqb/s1600/port+police.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie1Y1Vhf4_drPuCtxzg_1SZkHTgYVoQfzI_TFz7t4Yy2YPP2B1bXNVVoEVJvTsLqOAK8E66FWIEzXlGG3-4KIloIfiSfuimvboBw4HF3A4UxJyoLJuD1Kg5KjYWosaveSUuw3Dn614qUqb/s1600/port+police.jpg" height="179" width="320" /></a></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_4yt14USf6Z-BxJzqrl7ClkXmA16Wz2RLkx5FX1OQeWxc6kKg0qRmqy6XvcqKpRpm3Z2dqKQFNqD2X_8C2Gpk5g_wj6-bhLN3d2im05Ni0OEPuDceSM-tZ2yW_cCl86IGi6HHk5MTObTF/s1600/CAM00067.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_4yt14USf6Z-BxJzqrl7ClkXmA16Wz2RLkx5FX1OQeWxc6kKg0qRmqy6XvcqKpRpm3Z2dqKQFNqD2X_8C2Gpk5g_wj6-bhLN3d2im05Ni0OEPuDceSM-tZ2yW_cCl86IGi6HHk5MTObTF/s1600/CAM00067.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a> Scott eventually reappeared and asked if I had paperwork for the Russian insurance purchased for my, until this point, failed attempt to reach Siberia. Unfortunately, as I packed in Romania, while contemplating bringing the packet of visa related documents, I thought it folly and put Russia out of my mind. Scott left and came back with printouts advertising companies offering short term motorcycle insurance, took me to a café, and gave me his number to call if I needed something. There was, of course, no internet. This meant a Kilometer long trod in full motorcycle rain gear to find wifi. I managed to buy insurance without too much hassle but my bank, and the local banks, took an improving situation and injected some adversity. The machine at the pub I'd walked to counted the money following my bank's approval of the ATM transaction but refused to dispense it. I walked back to the port wondering how difficult it was going to be to get the funds from my account to pay for the van I'd purchased on EbayUK (turns out to be a nightmare). After Scott reviewed my CPU to confirm my newly acquired insurance. He wished me good luck and said something to the effect of, "Crushing a world traveler's motorcycle isn't how I work. Cheers to that brother, Cheers to that!<br />
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The fog, which accompanied the cold, produced a properly Dickens-esque setting for my walk <br />
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down to the water. The sporadic street lights offered hazy illumination of back ally buildings, corridors, and the occasional brick ruin. Turning corner stairs, I abruptly came upon a warmly clad street fellow ascending hurriedly in an overtly breathless manner. I acknowledged him and he said, matter of factly, "got any good schnapps on ya?". Oxymoron's aside, my first thoughts were concerning his seriousness. I was, in fact, looking a bit grizzled, having run at a dizzying pace since giving up on Russia back in September and returning to the states for 50,000 miles of, what was primarily, drudgery. Hygiene had become an afterthought, and I guess I am bit of a hobo, but geez. Perhaps it was time for a shave. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUnb7HSpO73FsIPMtFPUOii3bcPfDtu9TYiMogcTCbptN306gplzruds08_cy9Q0yih8pCzPAlyfHDymVdDL1VoiBKV_cElwx_zBUIVno6kQ-sXEq5gakC9XZM2_XEaDxSs6xUcctS-xdN/s1600/CAM00076.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUnb7HSpO73FsIPMtFPUOii3bcPfDtu9TYiMogcTCbptN306gplzruds08_cy9Q0yih8pCzPAlyfHDymVdDL1VoiBKV_cElwx_zBUIVno6kQ-sXEq5gakC9XZM2_XEaDxSs6xUcctS-xdN/s1600/CAM00076.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiBO3qZMegtWEiBiC_WQ6WVJB_pqOUKDWWG1WYGUUM10iBY-MyIIpkx3Wq1CrW2-KKlk5Jo5CxUlPeU4IY4SnQ-xSM_3s2MgQdtGXhh-zPDu20pcCThWybXvx_Kh23ihjv8jpPrgDiUUdU/s1600/newcastle+2010.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiBO3qZMegtWEiBiC_WQ6WVJB_pqOUKDWWG1WYGUUM10iBY-MyIIpkx3Wq1CrW2-KKlk5Jo5CxUlPeU4IY4SnQ-xSM_3s2MgQdtGXhh-zPDu20pcCThWybXvx_Kh23ihjv8jpPrgDiUUdU/s1600/newcastle+2010.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a> Things began to look familiar as the ground leveled. I had, after all, been here before, and that fine night in 2010 came rushing back. Vividly, I recalled the freedom I'd felt while freshly embarking upon my first international motorcycle adventure. I'd stayed up all night (my second with a new 1985 r80s BMW) on a clear and warm evening in late June, having made the acquaintance of a long-haired, leather draped, hard rocker who's name has slipped into oblivion. He was a brother that shared the, at least partial, impetus of my trip. If ever you see a man with a cross hanging from his neck that seems out of place, a woman is involved. Mine was snapped free from my neck on the first day of my final semester at UTC by a Chattanooga copper (which possessed not the caring nor intelligence of Scott). It was there because of dimwitted police, I suppose it was appropriate for a dense badge pinned bureaucrat to remove it. I wonder if my unnamed friend still sports his? A litany of countries, continents, courtrooms, and classes, have passed beneath my wheels since then, but I will always remember that night that ended a with morning photo on Millennium Bridge. I didn't want it to end.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTzXtRn2UzC1rU-iGU3M9j93ZGoYfipi23IQzg8nfPHlDEfiQykXtrPYqPcKAxoDduA8b_eq-HjiT0ZUijbxn1MzE9CCQobnGPL2aQHRVFn7by0kw6ro2C8dVr5b6vgnCaHkT0gQ0u-1o9/s1600/CAM00073.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTzXtRn2UzC1rU-iGU3M9j93ZGoYfipi23IQzg8nfPHlDEfiQykXtrPYqPcKAxoDduA8b_eq-HjiT0ZUijbxn1MzE9CCQobnGPL2aQHRVFn7by0kw6ro2C8dVr5b6vgnCaHkT0gQ0u-1o9/s1600/CAM00073.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a> Newcastle is a city of bridges, ports, and banks. Though the money here flows well (if you don't have an American based bank account), as do shipping containers, the bridges are the star attraction (all you need to do is look at the label of your favorite English ale to confirm this). Like a zapper to a fly, these lords of infrastructure drew me back to Tyne. I approached the suspended, multiply arched, pedestrian bridge, while contemplating circumstances past and present, to find that all traffic (save for one American) was headed in one direction. I squeezed passed the first clot of happy Brits as I stepped onto the water's broach to see an open gap followed by a group of about 9 ambling toward me. They were singing loudly, in unison, and the words were familiar. "<i>As the river flows, Gently to the sea". </i>My thoughts raced in a vein attempt to drag the song's name from the recesses of my mind. "D<i>arling so it goes", </i>I was now crossing paths with the troop of melodic merry men and joined in for the crescendo. <em>"Some things are meant to beeee! </em>The UB40 concert had recently concluded at the cleverly designed Sage opera house. I tarried, in the middle of the bridge, as stragglers from the show filed by. A pair of them stopped to have a chat. Their accents were thick but distinguishable. By the time grainy photos were snapped, I was feeling more at ease. Embrace the moment, I told myself. Standing above a river flowing into the North Sea, I was precisely where I was meant to be. I mused, breaking into a chuckle, when it comes to being a Fool, I'm a bloody genius.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Newcastle is a great town for walking at night</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNLfupdt1rNGhqMN6oHo5tfzVuIPWc0MWbgsKmPiJnb25LI3OHWlEl1ifv8KJHijXiBGML8bVvG6zugrGFMcjYIYZyMVTBC2aMIiqXcYD5661UBsrP-W1DFog3ocsMTWpHVde5_3oJTOO-/s1600/IMG_1162.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNLfupdt1rNGhqMN6oHo5tfzVuIPWc0MWbgsKmPiJnb25LI3OHWlEl1ifv8KJHijXiBGML8bVvG6zugrGFMcjYIYZyMVTBC2aMIiqXcYD5661UBsrP-W1DFog3ocsMTWpHVde5_3oJTOO-/s1600/IMG_1162.JPG" height="298" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What were the French Foreign Legion doing in Newcastle, and why had I been to Kiev while they had not?<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeNGpCockPME6ES7kx27hjZv2qql73mQqR3DHbPlurNZWrF3ePyUzd1GxFQ8HOrn2-LY_HIViAYBtfyuWqtdG-VMot_CTAMJLAUUJRCr-5ZWsdiO77nNJJkPTd8td5WGnMfUMp5bNLWweg/s1600/DSC07588.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeNGpCockPME6ES7kx27hjZv2qql73mQqR3DHbPlurNZWrF3ePyUzd1GxFQ8HOrn2-LY_HIViAYBtfyuWqtdG-VMot_CTAMJLAUUJRCr-5ZWsdiO77nNJJkPTd8td5WGnMfUMp5bNLWweg/s1600/DSC07588.JPG" height="424" width="640" /></a>My consistent state of rush has dictated that I neglect much of my travel's narrative. The time spent in Kiev, along the trail to the UK, challenged my perception of the world and I have something to say about it. However, at the moment, I cannot quite articulate my feelings. </div>
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In the meantime, there is more to tell of my recent experiences in the UK. The trip into Scotland was eventful to say the least.</div>
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It's somewhat unrelated, but here is a video from Hungry that I've been itching to post. For those of you in a rush, skip to 1:50.</div>
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Israel Eugene Gillette 423 930 7890http://www.blogger.com/profile/06052477254350622028noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7174136796432475125.post-16555397714562187722013-08-18T04:24:00.000-07:002015-02-06T00:58:34.763-08:00A Capricious Son and a Difficult Mother:The Story of Israel and Russia <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizeq44-cF-Pq9qZzKqOaLpLKN_1Ryka_qnk-52qRdeiBcuWE0cNtSh0YVFNmXCVEIB83mpioGpEgl55dBgk9d-mPjkMPAlWaRoa77GMKWkmKohNSPalombTy-AHS29zpjPtGEUyQ8fZtrl/s1600/transfagarasan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizeq44-cF-Pq9qZzKqOaLpLKN_1Ryka_qnk-52qRdeiBcuWE0cNtSh0YVFNmXCVEIB83mpioGpEgl55dBgk9d-mPjkMPAlWaRoa77GMKWkmKohNSPalombTy-AHS29zpjPtGEUyQ8fZtrl/s640/transfagarasan.jpg" height="424" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ah, Romania!</td></tr>
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I have spent the last weeks zigging and zagging through the countryside of Eastern Europe. I've seen plenty of interesting things but all the while I continue falling further behind in pursuit of my ultimate goal. After about a week in northern Romania I decided to head for Bucharest to take a more hands on approach at obtaining a Russian Visa. This two week long endeavor proved both costly and fruitless. Each of my three trips to the Russian Consulate seemed to achieve progress, however, in the end, they wanted just a bit too much and the agency I'd hired to assist me decided that they could no longer be of service.<br />
Poor U.S. foreign policy over the last couple of decades has ensured that an American attempting an overland Round the World trip be greeted by the impossible and the near impossible. Basically, there are two routes for an honest RTW. One passes through Russia (as well as Kazakhstan and Mongolia if you are so inclined) and one splits Iran, Afghanistan, and/or Pakistan into South Asia. Though I would love to have the option of the latter path, even those of only marginal sanity must cede to the fact that it is almost surely suicide. Therefore, as a cogent individual, I am relegated to using Russia in order to complete my trip around the world.<br />
A Friendly Diversion<br />
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I emerged from the doors of J'INFO TOURS in downtown Bucharest feeling deflated. The folks at the agency had several recommendations as to other options for my trip but anything other than a circumnavigation of our planet seemed a pithy consolation. Though I have fallen short of personal achievement as it relates to scholastic and monetary gain, when it comes to mobility I have proven a bit of a superman and this trip helps cement my purpose in life. Many of the traits that have been stumbling blocks to my integration, and success, within "civilized" American society have helped me overcome geographic barriers with a certain ease. Unfortunately, bureaucrats exist throughout the world (they are like bloody Kryptonite) and I must deal with the Russian variant in order to find my way back to the U.S.. Fortunately, as I helplessly watched my dreams slip from my fingers, friends offered perspective.<br />
Now there aren't too many East Tennesseans that can claim to have several close friends throughout Europe, much less one that a certain Washington County sessions court judge once proclaimed the worst criminal in his courtroom, but I do. It seems that my brand of assertiveness is more accepted in recently communist countries than in the land of the free. Lucky Me! And so it was that two of my very good friends from years gone by were attending a jazz festival in western Romania. The sheer statistical improbability of these two drastically diverse and unacquainted Romanians, which I knew from Tennessee, being among the roughly 2000 attendees at the same obscure festival high in the Carpathians was enough to bring me out of the doldrums and head west.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbV9dO3gjnHr1vnVCa8zFrVD6zdzMNx3TacQVX3B-vp_Ix1Gwsr8TIxNaoo0smXfAh7vhG9S9rHTrRiKQbPy18o1W9OSaWi_41bX9e-Kaoth3OL79XWOt6n-CJWWuwNykwOb1OwC47dvnu/s1600/save.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbV9dO3gjnHr1vnVCa8zFrVD6zdzMNx3TacQVX3B-vp_Ix1Gwsr8TIxNaoo0smXfAh7vhG9S9rHTrRiKQbPy18o1W9OSaWi_41bX9e-Kaoth3OL79XWOt6n-CJWWuwNykwOb1OwC47dvnu/s320/save.jpg" height="240" width="320" /> </a> <br />
Riding with Russians on the Transfagarasan<br />
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About 125 miles from Bucharest I encountered the Fagaras mountains. Reaching about 8400 feet, this is the highest range within the southern Carpathians. It is also home to one of the coolest roads on the planet, the Transfagarasan. Romania has proven to be a bit of a motorcycling Mecca and, as such, the Transfagarasan was my rug. A fine July morning witnessed no fewer than three cycles of plummets and ascents of the serpentine ribbon of asphalt and I was considering more when I encountered a group of Russians that invited me to join their party. Quickly, I clamped myself to the tail of the swiftest of the group. Our speeds charging down the mountain were more in line with the capabilities of the Honda sport bike I was chasing and it didn't take long to cook my brakes. Inevitably, I found myself alongside the road awaiting my dot4's return to a liquid state. Eventually my brake leaver regained resistance and our oddly diverse crew was once again mobile. After a brief, tentative, period the road flattened and our pace hastened. A great ride concluded with beers and a late lunch under the looming presence of Cetatea Poenari, one of the dozen or so "claimed" residences of Dracula . I was given contact information for the Black Bears motorcycle club in Moscow and I continued on to Garana, Romania. <br />
Vlad and Cristian, Oddly Similar Yet Distinctly Different<br />
Allow me to preface this portion of my story by expressing my love and admiration for these guys. They are genuine to a fault and I am fortunate to be able to call them friends. With perfunctory explanations dispensed, let's roll back the years to 1995.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">During lunch one of the Black Bears exclaimed, Snowden is in Russia and yet you are not.</td></tr>
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Shortly following my expulsion from Washington College Academy, and a 2 month stay at a juvenile correctional facility, I was set to reenter that cauldron of grief known as public school. David Crockett High to be specific. Opened in 1974 this poor excuse for a center of education has, as I imagine is common in many U.S. schools, continued in a precipitous plummet to, as of yet, unknown depths of despair. Fortunately, when Vlad joined my family for 6 months as a foreign exchange student, resource officers (cops) had yet to join the faculty of bureaucratic screws and my unique set of skills were somewhat insulated from authoritative reprisal. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cristian to my right , Vlad to my left, and communist era project to the rear. </td></tr>
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The classes at Crockett seemed to focus on things I did poorly, so I tuned out. Unlike myself, Vlad proved an outstanding student and our lone common teacher was always singing his praises. She was somewhat less impressed with my litany of run-on sentences and overt obstinance. I managed to piss her off thoroughly on a couple of occasions. I am fairly certain that she regarded me as a complete idiot till my overachieving sister came through and validated my genes. I suppose that it is to her credit that I can recall her class at all, however. Most of my memories within the windowless walls of David Crockett High School were immediately relegated to trash bins in the far reaches of my mind. They were emptied long ago. I remember well my time with Vlad though. There was no getting around the fact that we both had an appreciation for all things fast. There were two folks at Crockett that knew what a McLaren F1 was and, as it just so happens, we were both staying under the same roof (Thanks for the subscription to Road and Track, Mom). At first we were free to blast around the back roads of East Tennessee, or wherever else we wanted to go, without tether. We always had fun. He had, and still has, a knack for making me laugh. Eventually though my parents decided that I was a liability and Vlad was off-limits. I was relegated to sneaking him the occasional beers to smuggle into my old room. Perhaps their intuition was correct. He became a high ranking Romanian diplomat and I became a convict in search of freedom, a vagabond. <br />
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Ten years on, I again found myself expelled, this time from East Tennessee State University. For <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A little finish sanding to break up the beer swilling.</td></tr>
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whatever it's worth, my grades were quite good and I was coming off a semester of straight A's. However, a verbal bout with school officials over an inability to register for classes led to the police being called and a foot chase around campus. It turns out that I was a bit (or a hell of a lot) faster than the ETSU public safety officers on that day. They were less than impressed and criminal charges were levied. During my extended break from university I took up carpentry, a field which I possess natural talent, and drank a lot. It was during one of many nights at the Acoustic Coffeehouse that I first met Cristian. Brought to Johnson City to help implement SAP accounting software for General Shale, a local brick company, Cristian didn't require much sleep and we drank together almost every night. I was well known in town but not necessarily well liked and it was nice to have someone to shoot the shit with. Even loners need a friend or two. We laughed hard, and I didn't give a damn about anything other than hiking, motorcycles, and my dog Daisy. To be honest, it wasn't such a bad existence. <br />
The seven years that bring me current have seen change, both in regards to perspective and development. In addition to finally graduating from university (University of Tennessee Chattanooga., economics, w honors), I have also been examining the world, first hand, at a furious pace. With every new inch of space I see, my universe shrinks and my priorities shift. The mountain route I took to Garana was along a less developed trail but my Tenere was up to the task. Cool temperatures and light traffic more than compensated for the inconsistent road surface. It was an environment ripe for contemplation. Law School, or no Law School? <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsmep9FBtZnr6E0oWuAQ633p1UI0RX4KPdm48WjT_mmOBT8hJcl2dhn8ATY3CTgCeVX6YtAIY040ir8fJlqOv1wg0vWfCjdCZF-afVM8HJI9XbHKrxEvsBorM0uhjYCPRkmfl2YJByxj0j/s1600/jazz+fest+dark.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsmep9FBtZnr6E0oWuAQ633p1UI0RX4KPdm48WjT_mmOBT8hJcl2dhn8ATY3CTgCeVX6YtAIY040ir8fJlqOv1wg0vWfCjdCZF-afVM8HJI9XbHKrxEvsBorM0uhjYCPRkmfl2YJByxj0j/s320/jazz+fest+dark.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a><br />
I reached Garana midevening just after darkness had shrouded the Valley where the festival was in full swing. Cristian found me with 2 bottles of beer in his possession. Extending one in my direction he said. "It is German beer. Drink it. It is good". Seven years didn't seem like so long a time. I was led to a campsite and erected my tent. There was no Russian Stamp in my Passport but there was a smile on my face. The fact that I ever made it here defied great odds. Just give me some time. I'll get where I need to be.<br />
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Israel Eugene Gillette 423 930 7890http://www.blogger.com/profile/06052477254350622028noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7174136796432475125.post-9146570878334173462013-07-16T14:15:00.000-07:002013-07-16T14:15:32.739-07:00A Carutza, a Cat, and No Turning Back:The Road to a Romanian Farm<br />
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An extended stay in Berlin meant that we needed make a swift trip to Bacau, Romania in order to reach Hilary's flight back to London. We spent a night in Prague, where the locals were as unfriendly as they were aggressive, and continued on to Budapest, one of my favorite cities. Hungary, it is worth noting, has undergone sweeping changes within its government recently which have reduced diversity both politically and judicially, and I noticed something that may be of some relevance. Three years ago when motorcycling across Europe, I reached the communist era border complex, between Austria and Hungary, to find it completely abandoned and simply drove right through. This trip, however, I was a bit dismayed to find that it was once again operational, albeit at a reduced capacity from its Cold War peak. Though the police were not stopping every vehicle, each was carefully profiled prior to being waved through or pulled aside for further scrutiny. We were among the lucky ones.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Quite possibly my favorite piece of architecture, the Hungarian Parliament Building </td></tr>
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It was my third trip to Budapest. My first encounter found me running around the streets and subway stations, unsupervised, with my buddy Jason in the summer of 93'. It was a watershed. Though at the age of 14 I already possessed a healthy obstinance, 3 days wandering the maze of Budapest helped to cement my independence. Some may say that it's been downhill since then, and indeed, the days following that golden summer have seen me expelled, arrested, beaten, and condemned more times than my mind can calculate, however, looking back, I must say, "it's pretty good being me". After all, I've been to Budapest!<br />
Although not my first trip to Budapest, there was a first. As I slept off a mild hangover from a late night on the town, Hilary was doing some wandering of her own. She returned to inform me that had gotten me a gift. And so it was, at 2PM,on the 19th of May, in a 5 star hotel, I had my first facial. It was quite nice!<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">6000 miles and she's still smiling. That's a riding partner I can deal with.</td></tr>
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The sprint from Budapest to Bacau revealed devolving infrastructure as well as odd and inefficient forms of transport. Not that I'm complaining. Romania is, in and of itself, moving along quite nicely (To be quite honest, I like the frontier atmosphere that still exists in many areas, though I doubt it will be around for much longer), however, there is no mistaking it for Western Europe. But even with pot hole riddled roads, carutzas, and errant cattle we made it to the tiny international airport with a couple of hours to spare. This gave us opportunity to watch the Romanian Air Force scramble their ancient MiGs which, aside from proving their pilots very brave men, may one day be of great asset if there is a resurgence of the Ottoman Empire. <br />
So, with Hilary's departure I was once again alone, heading north to a farm along the Ukrainian border.<br />
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<span id="goog_1995538797"></span><span id="goog_1995538798"></span><br />Israel Eugene Gillette 423 930 7890http://www.blogger.com/profile/06052477254350622028noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7174136796432475125.post-25973350059635218992013-07-10T10:03:00.000-07:002015-11-19T07:37:55.352-08:00Open Spaces and Fallen Walls: The Difference Between the Stasi and NSA<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Edinburgh Castle circa 2010. The cheapest motorcycle trip across Europe ever. </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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After a wonderful week on the Isle of Man, Hilary and I set off for Scotland. Though I am very fond of Edinburgh, and would like to have stayed longer, an extremely tight schedule ensured that we simply pass through. As such, we settled for a Kurdish lunch just outside of the castle walls and continued on to the highlands. The primary order of business was to reach the Isle of Skye for some primitive camping.<br />
From the lush green meadows dotted with sheep to the rocky escapements towering over the shore, Skye is a visual treasure. It's a beautiful escape from civilization to serenity. Over the years it has been a favorite sanctuary of writers and wanted men alike, which makes it a perfect fit for me. Access to the Isle was once a ferry only affair, however, nowadays there is a bridge connecting the mainland which, all things considered, is a bit unfortunate. Though I find man made barriers appalling (I have a history of disregarding them) natural ones are simply good fun. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A very late sunset from the Isle of Skye</td></tr>
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/7LHWYfMxMtw?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe>So, we opted for a ferry ride to the southern tip of the Isle and set off in search of castle ruins. The twisty single track roads that connected the villages were terrific fun, with grades which reached as much as 20 degrees. Eventually we located both ruins and a suitable campsite. That evening's sunset was spectacular with a vestige of light which lingered behind the opposing cliffs till well past midnight. <br />
The following morning brought with it the urge for a hike and we set off in search of a trail which might take us to higher elevation. Eventually we located such a path and began a quick assent. Ultimately, the beaten trail dwindled into meadow and, as often is the case, my hiking partner was left in the dust. As I contemplated a route to the top, I spied a lady in her mid to late 60's sporting two dogs and a walkie- talkie. I approached her and her dogs sprinted in my direction. Their initial protests quickly calmed following a brief introduction. The pooches now following me, I inquired of the lady the best route to the peak which loomed behind us, concerned about the fences we might encounter. "Oh, you need not worry", she responded, "hop over them, those are just for the livestock, you can go anywhere in Scotland that isn't obviously someone's back garden (yard)". Incidentally, hopping fences is a specialty of mine. I found</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd12vj_35-fxiA3Hs7tkWSyjN-SHONzRKkXjet0hRu6PqJ0thkSw68oKdc0RQBCMC2-9L3KssYvdbYQ7GMxafCtLykJLqGwYwglByMgJLfWDOicWSo33d654lUoKX0nQY5OOXwhnKdPkJ9/s1600/DSC03496.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd12vj_35-fxiA3Hs7tkWSyjN-SHONzRKkXjet0hRu6PqJ0thkSw68oKdc0RQBCMC2-9L3KssYvdbYQ7GMxafCtLykJLqGwYwglByMgJLfWDOicWSo33d654lUoKX0nQY5OOXwhnKdPkJ9/s400/DSC03496.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Perhaps I should publish a rider's guide, "Wheelies made easy"</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">4000 miles in the U.K., top to bottom and east to west. I'm just gettin' started!</td></tr>
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it most appealing that there would be no one waiting to beat me when I did so. Ah, I could definitely live here.<br />
Once back to camp, our tent and supplies were packed securely within the panniers and we followed our noses north to John O'Groats. It seemed the logical direction, if only for posterity, and a 4,000 mile tour of the U.K., which began near Land's End, was capped in the company of fishing vessels. After a sprint south to Harwich <br />
our 5th, and final, ferry ride took us to Holland and cars traveling in the correct direction.<br />
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GREAT DISPARITY WITHIN<br />
EUROPEAN CITIES<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf6ejlVGi_L5rDhj_VT-xJLFenST21JOnxk4S1aFv2j8PE3Z8SV-9ForGP67wzBSjbVxDR-WMYr7xz5oFnXneiq2j7EZH1fti1qOGTghNZ1P1V-X0pfcXls63rb89EdD8RwjsFSJbBWgpf/s1600/St_barbara.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf6ejlVGi_L5rDhj_VT-xJLFenST21JOnxk4S1aFv2j8PE3Z8SV-9ForGP67wzBSjbVxDR-WMYr7xz5oFnXneiq2j7EZH1fti1qOGTghNZ1P1V-X0pfcXls63rb89EdD8RwjsFSJbBWgpf/s400/St_barbara.jpg" width="228" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A private viewing of JVE's Saint Barbara was the highlight of Amsterdam</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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Aside from a good day at the Rijksmuseum, and hanging with the cool cats at Scooter Zuid, I left Amsterdam feeling rather fleeced. The agglomeration of restaurants in the tourist area are pricey and, more troubling, serve food of very low quality. The tapas bar we first selected sparked my discontent. None of the food was good and when my halved, grilled, and mozzarella topped Jalapenos arrived whole, fried, and cream cheese injected, I asked the waiter where the mozzarella cheese was? He told me, straight faced, that the white substance dripping from the oily batter was mozzarella. We left in search of another place and found that the next locale was just as bad. Combined, almost 100 euro for perhaps 5 euro worth of lousy food and 4 beers. What a rip-off! We decided to shorten our stay in Amsterdam and made tracks for Berlin.<br />
Economically, Berlin, and former East Germany as a whole, still bear the scars left by the GDR. This isn't all bad though. Relatively high levels of unemployment, supported by typical German austerity, help to ensure that prices remain quite reasonable. We lucked into a fabulous room at the newly opened Winters Hotel, adjacent to "Checkpoint Charlie", just inside the East Side, which once overlooked the Kill Zone buffer for the Wall. The fabulous modern hotel room was quite easily the nicest I'd ever stayed in. Price? 90 Euro per night. Not too bad!<br />
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DIE MAUER<br />
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As I stated earlier, I find man made barriers silly and this sentiment was clearly shared by Berlin's distinctly youthful population. While on a river cruise around the city teenagers and twentyish year olds were seen littering the banks regardless of high grass, fences, or even perilous drops. They all had beer or wine and <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDIUjWgkAiHATgoUmRM0lo7l5dvT9izlzSLLdyw9nPFtGAKrlGEsDu5QCQQu3m4n6u_atPMhtU0RrqTUvc8NpOOp14i-1uwD3Rd7QsXVYh-zckMVA-_q7PcUwiYU1i501wHi5P0wx-70i0/s1600/DSC07225.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDIUjWgkAiHATgoUmRM0lo7l5dvT9izlzSLLdyw9nPFtGAKrlGEsDu5QCQQu3m4n6u_atPMhtU0RrqTUvc8NpOOp14i-1uwD3Rd7QsXVYh-zckMVA-_q7PcUwiYU1i501wHi5P0wx-70i0/s320/DSC07225.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm unsure of what this means but I think I like it.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Reminders of the past decorate a diverse Berlin. </td></tr>
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smiles on their faces. Waves and happy exclamations came freely and often. I couldn't help but think that back in America cops would be cracking down on this sort of behavior and business at juvenile hall would be at a record high. They wouldn't be smiling then! Fortunately, the police in Berlin have priorities that are more in line with rationality and I must confess to thoroughly enjoying the kid's simple, if inebriated, celebrations. The city's rough edges weren't at all threatening, in fact, I found them refreshing. There weren't any serious attempts to circumvent reality and the glittering often shared scenery with the demure. Though purely conjecture, I'd like to think that this is due, in part, to a mutual understanding between classes. Ultimately, their goals aren't all that different. And though freedom hasn't brought a Mercedes to every driveway, destruction of the wall made everyone's lives more fruitful.<br />
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Interesting Timing<br />
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Just before our arrival in Berlin The Guardian, a Liberal UK newspaper, after receiving classified material from a intelligence whistle-blower, revealed to the world that the U.S. government has been illegally collecting the private information of its citizens (in addition to others). I found this somewhat ironic, as the state funded Stasi museum was housed next door to our hotel. The collection of once classified GDR documents and archaic spy tools made me laugh. What the Stasi wouldn't have given to have the U.S. government's current spy <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9kg9IMI5wLOPuWlCtlnOvHV27cGcoXvVIU2PU0zbLMu-kzq4AAgWW-1sedpSaCeSR3PfDqRDOK0vAfj5Wzmkb5fa7Ow3ssmsMIyHaOVYCIgbohcnQmA5TDFXEQr12LV8TPhDH1-3VmvfC/s1600/Berlin+stasi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9kg9IMI5wLOPuWlCtlnOvHV27cGcoXvVIU2PU0zbLMu-kzq4AAgWW-1sedpSaCeSR3PfDqRDOK0vAfj5Wzmkb5fa7Ow3ssmsMIyHaOVYCIgbohcnQmA5TDFXEQr12LV8TPhDH1-3VmvfC/s320/Berlin+stasi.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cheeky Berlin artists project their views onto the American Embassy</td></tr>
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technology. They'd have been in authoritarian heaven. It seems that our nation is suffering from acute amnesia, in addition to a manipulative media. I remember well the celebrations of freedom at 10 years old, watching walls crumble as oppressive governments passed into history. These moments shaped my life and world view. Free thought, free speech, free assembly, free trade, and most importantly, free movement. The U.S. was helping to lead the way to a new level of international, civil, independence. Alas, my understanding has proven dated, if not outright misguided, and as I write this a wall is under construction along the southern border of the U.S. and the Government continues tightening its grip on citizens' lives.<br />
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Scattered Reminders of Oppressed Lives<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0HF8AxRlJ4dOshVGVFp6sbTcJLuLX3TQIpObHmHxvV1xbz3ha1xSiOQlDwvS5yEcTDRSe4L3md6o6J7EqJK2HQJ6qdL4cydaq6VwQo_CxJ4FgNsxo12MNU9qB9l9eSBXO15MdaVhDnnt5/s1600/corner+from+checkpoint+charlie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0HF8AxRlJ4dOshVGVFp6sbTcJLuLX3TQIpObHmHxvV1xbz3ha1xSiOQlDwvS5yEcTDRSe4L3md6o6J7EqJK2HQJ6qdL4cydaq6VwQo_CxJ4FgNsxo12MNU9qB9l9eSBXO15MdaVhDnnt5/s320/corner+from+checkpoint+charlie.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">There is much to see in Berlin, however, this is its best time machine.</td></tr>
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In addition to portions of the wall left along the river, and the addmission-free Stasi Museum, there was also a terrific, semi permanent, exhibition close to the hotel which helps document the past. From the exterior, Die Mauer appears as a 40 foot tall cylinder in the heart of town, however, the interior uses a collection of old photographs and artistic fillings to recreate a full scale point perspective panorama of what it would have looked like at the location 25 years ago.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJSUpjeThiOOSrgjmEmZP4QcHy5NcPU6SnKVKdXpGUnIbe7ZDDTj7bqMv-oOKi7kBaL-F-UJkd3l2rSdOVcwHag4qu3mSYyvEqc87EEQRMRnY6JdiAzAufPzEEo1qxJVdGCnlKsC2kh3A3/s1600/DSC07277.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="144" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJSUpjeThiOOSrgjmEmZP4QcHy5NcPU6SnKVKdXpGUnIbe7ZDDTj7bqMv-oOKi7kBaL-F-UJkd3l2rSdOVcwHag4qu3mSYyvEqc87EEQRMRnY6JdiAzAufPzEEo1qxJVdGCnlKsC2kh3A3/s640/DSC07277.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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It has been said that "Those who forget the past are doomed to repeat it". Fortunately, if somewhat perversely, wounds from the past are still fresh in Berlin and distrust of the powers that be are pervasive. It is no small coincidence that I felt more freedom here than anywhere in the United States. My, how the tables have turned. I reiterate the words of JFK, spoken in support of those trapped on the wrong side of The Wall, almost exactly fifty years ago, "All free men, wherever they may live, are citizens of Berlin, and therefore, as a free man, I take pride in the words, 'Ich bin ein Berliner".<br />
Ich bin ein Berliner !<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Who's watching you?</td></tr>
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Israel Eugene Gillette 423 930 7890http://www.blogger.com/profile/06052477254350622028noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7174136796432475125.post-11340391336284209522013-06-25T08:11:00.000-07:002015-12-11T09:30:22.037-08:00Mixed Fortune and No Speed Limit. Joy and Stress on the Isle of Man<span style="color: #444444;"><br /></span>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ballaugh Bridge in the early morning at about 55MPH</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Birthplace of the Titanic</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Following a picturesque trip up the west coast of Ireland we turned toward Belfast to catch a ferry to the Isle of Man. Interestingly, our port of birth was adjacent to the point of assembly for the Titanic. The area was memorialized with a museum, the architecture of which mimicked the doomed vessel's bow. It gave a slightly ominous feel to the voyage, as the massive high speed sea-cat sped away from the Irish harbor. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEietIm_WHGREk3MbNi9NwuRvMdq1G1i0f5pnlMgBqAV9RjuiLsFOcSCv4GQMaaOwoJtQfrVYGPg9jsuBs1_RhsjEEzwbMgVcZQVS7Rj9-ngjlN-mc5cUX1Qj4mz14Q4enMWHcrvVLrcDQx-/s1600/agos+leap+4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEietIm_WHGREk3MbNi9NwuRvMdq1G1i0f5pnlMgBqAV9RjuiLsFOcSCv4GQMaaOwoJtQfrVYGPg9jsuBs1_RhsjEEzwbMgVcZQVS7Rj9-ngjlN-mc5cUX1Qj4mz14Q4enMWHcrvVLrcDQx-/s320/agos+leap+4.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> The TT </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Since 1911 riders have taken to the famed 37.66 mile mountain circuit on the Isle of Man to test their bikes, as well as themselves, each participant pursuing the limit. In a world increasingly beset by rules and restrictions, the Isle of Man offers up its infrastructure for two weeks of loosely controlled chaos. This intoxicating taste of freedom isn't relegated to those with number plates adorning their machines. Members of the public with a burning desire to open throttles and eviscerate stretches of tarmac have areas of the TT course which are unrestricted havens of speed.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> I've wanted to take to the TT course since I'd first learned of the race when I was a teenager running from my hometown authorities. In those days I'd hoped to broach the course astride a racing machine but alas fate had other ideas. My Yamaha 660z Tenerer has about 47 horsepower and is better suited to hauling butt on dirt roads than paved. However, I was prepared to ride anything wheels and a spark if it came down to it. The most pressing issue facing us was our lack of local knowledge. The sum of which had been acquired from Speedvision broadcasts of the TT in the days prior to Fox's reign of NASCAR. I knew some of the corners, and what they looked like, otherwise we were flying in the dark. While perusing the fleet ferry I spied a group of likely looking lads and inquired about camping. The rest, as they say, is history. </span><br />
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dx4UlC2QLNa9mCdeUHDJ_XGMSTg7eTki3hAVGfsDVcJUrTP4T1FImKERfzBnrvLESGSRkA9Q__QFIqM823ZXg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> We were led to free camping via the Sulby Straight Pub, just in time for Super Bike practice. It was difficult to believe that this quiet little guesthouse and bar would soon be assaulted by 200HP rocket-sleds. As the course marshals cleared traffic and set up a small barrier I found a tap and ordered a pint. The fist gaggle of bikes to pass sort of took me by surprise. I've seen plenty of fast in my life, however, this is as intimate as you can get without being the pilot. The second rider passed so closely I knew what he was thinking. He wasn't, he was reacting. The first taste of the TT came with a Guinness. I was hooked. Is this heaven? I pondered. Nope, it's the Isle of Man! </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: black;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEp0tK8FOp9Ab-HrA7y0OZbF5EK53bjZUW14w3wlsrksfK1deCn4ACxP4T8RjdhVqUj4h4mqTgs2c8sTPdrkbmcATTGf_BsQodFEeG2XdX5HGX0CqMvOmXNqjleJ8s3hfXSDQ7MVFmR737/s1600/DSC02933.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEp0tK8FOp9Ab-HrA7y0OZbF5EK53bjZUW14w3wlsrksfK1deCn4ACxP4T8RjdhVqUj4h4mqTgs2c8sTPdrkbmcATTGf_BsQodFEeG2XdX5HGX0CqMvOmXNqjleJ8s3hfXSDQ7MVFmR737/s400/DSC02933.JPG" width="400" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Left to right. Top: Pete C, Malcom, Izzy, Hilary, Les, Diff, Lorrie Bottom: Pete A, Colin(that's his happy face), Ian, Dave. Not pictured: Lee, Mike, Dave, Rafael</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">After practice concluded we found the IoM common-ground campsite to await sunrise, and my first try at the unrestricted Mountain Section of the course.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> The morning that followed was moist so we waited a good bit before taking to the mountain. We were to follow Dave across the mountain to Douglas, reconvening with the others at the diciest venue on the Island, the Bushy's Tent. However, just <br />as we were pulling from the campsite my Tenere simply quit. Hilary continued on with Dave, and I pushed my bike half a mile to the nearest mechanic. Unfortunately, this didn't look to be a simple fix and I was told to go to the Yamaha dealer in Douglas. On the upside, I finally got to go over the mountain. On the downside, it happened whilst a passenger in a Citron recovery-van. So close yet so far away. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">The news wasn't good. The folks at the Yamaha Shop were slammed and it would be two days before anyone could have a look at it. I walked from the Shop to the paddock to peruse the bikes and riders scurrying about while attempting to devise a plan. I concluded, after a lot of walking, that plans would have to wait. Did I mention I didn't have a phone? I needed to make it about 18 miles or so back to camp. Fortunately someone at a cafe overheard my plight and offered me a ride. Nice folks here on the Isle.<br />I walked from camp to the Ginger to drown my sorrows in a Guinness as I did some investigating as to the source of my bike's problems.<br />I found that there were several instances of shorts occurring due to faulty connections and cramped wiring . I told the guys back at camp and Ian, or Diff as he is better known on the Isle, offered to give a ride back over the mountain in the morning to have a look. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: black;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD_uRbvQxY1vQ1U-3qwmLI_FIyyg6WCr6ICFMszLCzg7wMasN_XKSgoyMJGTyztkL6j6o_h8HqXkmVVNLDVWa_AUjnmswvYkvjYsPkn6SpMgHy_o9rpZ9mdGyV98LgrGxmb3u0LAcLG0e6/s1600/DSC07146.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD_uRbvQxY1vQ1U-3qwmLI_FIyyg6WCr6ICFMszLCzg7wMasN_XKSgoyMJGTyztkL6j6o_h8HqXkmVVNLDVWa_AUjnmswvYkvjYsPkn6SpMgHy_o9rpZ9mdGyV98LgrGxmb3u0LAcLG0e6/s320/DSC07146.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">After separating the wires but before stripping them</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Upon arriving at the Yamaha shop we pulled the fuel tank to find a melted mess of wires. Crap, my trip was slipping into peril.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Diff's view was more up-beat than mine and he put his electrical engineering expertise to work as we made the necessary repairs. After stripping the wires and re-wrapping we reconnected the tank, cranked the starter for a "measured period", and finally, ignition. It sounded alright!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">On the ride back to camp Diff stopped me and said he thought my rear wheel was bent. I couldn't feel it, ah, I thought, a problem for another day.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">By this time the roads were about to close for racing and they wouldn't reopen till about 10pm so my ride would have to wait till the morrow.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> Since rain had stymied practice earlier in the week the first Superbike race was delayed until Sunday. This meant that the roads would be closing earlier than originally scheduled so I took to the mountain as soon as the dew settled. Having learned a shortcut off the mountain during my tow, I was able to ride it twice prior to the race. The Tenere performed admirably but 50 more horsepower would have been nice, 100 would have been even better. It was a somewhat humbling experience getting vaporized by all the sportbikes, however, it was still a great deal of fun. I hope you like the song that accompanies the video. It has been the anthem of the trip thus far.</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE-zS1W7vFZiYrYZ1KyxViW7YHBBAQIHNq808WBJs68LShb7f0afJj8F5XHMdb_WNDSN4RQATYURaI2_1ccz_Nu9uD0HDMcv5CqvKiTOIqDi4vF_LPPsE5cq1AcYfZq_9MPPktKi70KDbW/s1600/DSC02624.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE-zS1W7vFZiYrYZ1KyxViW7YHBBAQIHNq808WBJs68LShb7f0afJj8F5XHMdb_WNDSN4RQATYURaI2_1ccz_Nu9uD0HDMcv5CqvKiTOIqDi4vF_LPPsE5cq1AcYfZq_9MPPktKi70KDbW/s400/DSC02624.JPG" width="400" /></a><span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> Of course racing is the star attraction and there is no shortage of top-notch viewing locations around the Island. From the tightest section at the Ramsey Hairpin where the bikes squirm and wheelie in their quest for traction to one of the most lurid straits in all of racing. The run down to </span>Creg-ny-baa pits speed against gravity as a rise along the course is met by bikes traveling in excess of 170MPH. The riders do their best to avoid wheelies to little avail, and often their attempts to circumvent physics result in high speed wobbles.</span></span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgpY4lok0OmykC4_KHKDXpEbeJRx8rZBdV2elrUbJHQl0Isv7IxCDkuWnPhcNaLVPpBPEhlHnGk8vJcKUDlunWtViYO99S-cPOfRGV_g48m9WFVUL7CFKtfxwnzJdWlRGX-7wpegbdpzqc/s1600/DSC02890.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgpY4lok0OmykC4_KHKDXpEbeJRx8rZBdV2elrUbJHQl0Isv7IxCDkuWnPhcNaLVPpBPEhlHnGk8vJcKUDlunWtViYO99S-cPOfRGV_g48m9WFVUL7CFKtfxwnzJdWlRGX-7wpegbdpzqc/s400/DSC02890.JPG" width="400" /></a><span style="color: #444444;"><br /></span>
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The Superbike race was won by Michael Donlop, the first of four victories during the 2013 TT. Though a terrific week, he still has a long way to go in order equal his late uncle Joey's total of 26 TT victories. I hope to be on hand next year to see if he can add to his tally. It would make for a proper end to a Round The World motorcycle trip. <span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Besides, the 6 days we spent on the IoM wasn't near enough and there were five days of racing left when we went to Ballaugh Bridge for an early morning photo op on the way to the ferry bound for the real world. I did my wheel no favors but ultimately the shot for this post's heading was taken on the fourth attempt.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of many misses</td></tr>
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Israel Eugene Gillette 423 930 7890http://www.blogger.com/profile/06052477254350622028noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7174136796432475125.post-72760402869054091292013-05-28T14:44:00.000-07:002013-05-28T14:44:02.610-07:00Kiss the Stone<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Here is a quick video to begin the trip with.Israel Eugene Gillette 423 930 7890http://www.blogger.com/profile/06052477254350622028noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7174136796432475125.post-85411436148590765802013-05-20T03:45:00.000-07:002024-02-07T17:15:42.108-08:00 The Long Road to Siberia <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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As I sit in my hotel room on a dark, frigid, New Years Day in central Idaho, to begin drafting this post, it has been exactly one year since my struggle with thieving delinquents on a warm New Years evening in Chile. My recollection of those events remains strong, however, they also seem distant. After seeing the Dakar Rally slice through the Atacama to meet the Pacific, I returned to Chattanooga having missed the first week of spring classes. The ensuing eleven months were consumed with school, and there was little time for doing anything worth writing about. Fortunately, I graduated with my economics degree on December 15th, bringing a merciful end my undergraduate education.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSU_hv1ZrdmjgCLe2utrPCBQAWtpJNffNvBfzw9i0kw-rjgVutrgeWRVsq3pRAia-0Aukjfru-Pae39SeFSVzZkxDwZ41ikeEyV57VRoIy0g21OpMzk7LcHuTF_iX-4HeRz-yAOkSiI8Cw/s1600/DSCN0040.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSU_hv1ZrdmjgCLe2utrPCBQAWtpJNffNvBfzw9i0kw-rjgVutrgeWRVsq3pRAia-0Aukjfru-Pae39SeFSVzZkxDwZ41ikeEyV57VRoIy0g21OpMzk7LcHuTF_iX-4HeRz-yAOkSiI8Cw/s400/DSCN0040.JPG" width="400" /></a> As many of you may already know, a sedentary life is not to my liking, and the complete monopolization of my time by studies has resulted in an accumulation of nervous angst. The moment I finished my last final I returned to the road, but not in the typical fashion.<br />
My R1150gs BMW had lots of storage space, getting me through Central and South America with more crap than I really needed, but it didn't come near to the capacity of my newest set of wheels. The long-wheelbase Sprinter van will pack 5 (perhaps 6) motorcycles, and in conjunction with a 16' trailer it is possible to move more than a dozen bikes. This, in addition to its commendable fuel economy, allows for a serious competitive advantage in the area of cross-country motorcycle shipping. The plan has been to crisscross the county delivering bikes in order to save money for a round the world motorcycle trip this spring. On a somewhat more tedious note, I also thought it a good opportunity to peruse law-schools and (feebly) attempt undertaking the litany of tasks related to law school applications. Blaaaaaaa!!!!! <br />
SCHOOL'S OUT<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Some deliveries are nicer than others</td></tr>
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My Money and Banking final was on the 6th of December, and graduation the 15th, so I booked shipments which took me to Phoenix and back to Chattanooga to fill the gap. Though I didn't have much trailer capacity the little utility trailer that could provided an extra 2 spots. Not quite "utility maximization", but this trip was primarily exploratory. 5,000 miles over eight days is a bit of a sprint, however, everything was coming together with time to spare until a hub failure on my aging trailer, as I passed through Shreveport, made things more interesting. Fortunately for my parents, who had made a 6000 mile trip from the land of gypsies and vampires to see me graduate, I was able to perform the necessary repairs in a Tractor Supply parking lot and got back to Chattanooga with enough time for a shower prior to donning my cap and gown. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib3Lj6kYlhqE2tpNgmuhw-I8PTeH6RLS0HUlXuBF4UoSw3mNbjWTt9pvDpw-xntetu-m9MCiqhr6MoHprwgKm0rdtgttxdNLe5f68f7iBwk5s8X3STWKuWIk02ibwtiUdPAxWmNV_Bsyf-/s1600/DSC06257.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib3Lj6kYlhqE2tpNgmuhw-I8PTeH6RLS0HUlXuBF4UoSw3mNbjWTt9pvDpw-xntetu-m9MCiqhr6MoHprwgKm0rdtgttxdNLe5f68f7iBwk5s8X3STWKuWIk02ibwtiUdPAxWmNV_Bsyf-/s400/DSC06257.JPG" width="400" /></a> Following graduation, and lunch with the family, I was collecting bikes for another trip west. A Ducati Streetfighter in Chattanooga, A Triumph Tiger and Honda Blackbird in Atlanta, A KLR in Knoxville, and an RC-30 in Charlotte, were all picked-up within 36 hours of my graduation. By the time I dipped into Florida and made it to Dallas my van and its new 16' trailer were packed to, and perhaps even slightly beyond, capacity. <br />
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SURPRISES?, THERE HAVE BEEN A FEW<br />
Mid-evening on Christmas Eve, in southern Arizona, one of the tires on my new trailer blew, destroying the wheel in the process. Fortunately, the physical damage was relegated to the wheel and tire, but my schedule was shot. Daisy and I spent Christmas in a Chevron parking lot watching old movies on my laptop and feasting upon Lance crackers and gummy bears. After getting back underway I hit the coast and headed north. Upon arriving in northern California it was one snow storm after another.<br />
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Though my van has no shortage of commendable attributes, in the area of adverse weather traction, it is found wanting. Between its lack of positive traction (only one of the rear wheels is pulling) and the burden of a laden trailer, many mountain passes were broached in an abysmally slow fashion. It took three days to cross Montana (Three days!!. Shit, I've crossed continents in that amount of time). The perverse bit is the fact that I love driving in the snow. I've always thought it a privilege, being left alone on an unspoiled road, headlights shining through a barrage of falling flakes. However, following snow, often coupled with Blizzard conditions , in California, Oregon, Idaho, Montana, Wyoming, and South Dakota, I was no longer finding it so novel. <br />
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A FULL CIRCLE<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is what -3F looks like</td></tr>
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I eventually emerged from the icy northwest and quickly made my way to Florida, and a more abideable climate. Upon stopping in southern Florida, along Alligator Alley, for a break from the wheel, I found Daisy wading in the water having a drink. I cautioned her against the prehistoric predators, of which she was oblivious, and commanded her out of the marsh. As it turns out, I was correct in doing so. About 200' from where Daisy was taking a dip there were two gators hanging out at the edge of the water. It was the first time in my life I'd ever met any of these fellows.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG5WGPgPtUUpBfMC4vCobo6FeJeXjyaLpf9bZutfykILg6EWeuzVscWKiafxljky5RoNEFeli0D4PUOp7USdu7xRcjgCiLa788j6FvshaZPkiGWhuT7imq9K-wu-EVRoetc3ewCQVCLtIj/s1600/DSCN0224.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG5WGPgPtUUpBfMC4vCobo6FeJeXjyaLpf9bZutfykILg6EWeuzVscWKiafxljky5RoNEFeli0D4PUOp7USdu7xRcjgCiLa788j6FvshaZPkiGWhuT7imq9K-wu-EVRoetc3ewCQVCLtIj/s320/DSCN0224.JPG" width="320" /></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMpTe3E6I2R21JEfuST8-JKzT-qQQfSrrewGU4dCJWzjexqYuA-vuolhNsa3xJ9MCyabYJN_16tBc0oDfX2nWY66AtS47UWJQLpEDMcmZpfPOI_NDEjdVwkeBL-GYYbK5-LguPn5AC-T6b/s1600/DSCN0228.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMpTe3E6I2R21JEfuST8-JKzT-qQQfSrrewGU4dCJWzjexqYuA-vuolhNsa3xJ9MCyabYJN_16tBc0oDfX2nWY66AtS47UWJQLpEDMcmZpfPOI_NDEjdVwkeBL-GYYbK5-LguPn5AC-T6b/s320/DSCN0228.JPG" width="240" /></a> After a month on the road, I'd covered about 15,000 miles, using over 1,000 gallons of Diesel to deliver 28 bikes. I was weary and in need of a break. I booked a hotel on a beach in Sarasota, but was somewhat perturbed to
find that I'd done so during what they call RED TIDE. This is generated
by a proliferation of allege which gives the water a red hue. In and of
itself, this isn't so bad, however, the allege also depletes oxygen
from the water, suffocating most everything in its wake. The thousands
of decaying fish which greeted my arrival to the island's powdery shores
offered up an increasingly offensive odor, but given the stress of the
previous couple of days I didn't really care. However annoying the
clutter of putrid fish was it was relatively innocuous in comparison to
my recent interaction with that most nettlesome of citrus scourges, the
Florida Yankee. <br />
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MY NEED OF GREATER UNDERSTANDING : CHOPPER JOHN<br />
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"Whea da fuck's my choppa? I'm loosin' my fuckin' mind ova hea'. Whea da fuck you at?!!!"
This little tirade came close on the heels of a pickup which had pushed
my patience, as well as my matrix reasoning, to their limits. Finding a
place for a disabled 800 pound cruiser with flat tires, and the widest
crash-bars I've ever seen, meant either removing the bars or
rearranging my trailer. The owner was convinced that taking the bars off
would cause the bike to fall apart. So, after moving five bikes over
the span of two hours, I was back on the road, tired, grimy, and ill prepared for a bludgeoning. I had spoken with John, who I'd begun to refer to as Chopper, just prior to the aforementioned stop.
At that point I was still four hours from Key Largo, Chopper John's
surrogate home. Even without the arduously long stop I'd have still been
about two hours away when I received the call which had prompted me to
hang up and excrete a mildly-cathartic yawp. Until this point I'd
dealt with CJ's barrage of calls in a commendable fashion, and his
Fuckity, Fuck, Fuck statements had been responded to as affably as
possible. Now, though, I was seeing red. My buddy Arie had the misfortune
of calling me as I melted down in the Florida twilight. I had become
animated and irrational, but as I delineated plans of dumping the
phallic scooter, of crimson and chrome, over the marshy bank of the
Okeechobee, a call chimed interrupting my rantings. I left my conversation with Arie mid-sentence, uttering only "ahhh, let me talk to this son of a bitch". I answered firmly and there was a brief silence followed by stammering which shifted into a statement, "ehhhh, sorry fa bustin' ya, balls. My girlfriend told me I was bein' a jerk". I immediately calmed, however, I still wanted this delivery behind me. So as CJ urged me to stop and get sleep, I conveyed my desire to persevere, a notion supported by the hope to avoid abysmal daytime traffic in and around Miami. Upon arriving in Key Largo, at the witching hour of midnight, I was taken aback by the ramshackle nature of Copper J's abode. It was a cockroach infested cracker-box at best, standing in stark contrast to the houses of my average customer, CJ couldn't afford my $650 fee much less a $30,000 Penis augmentation. Perhaps it is unfair, but I find impoverished assholes more agreeable than wealthy ones and I genuinely felt, and still feel, bad for John, his hopes and dreams riding on an absurdly styled hunk of metal. Is this the American dream?; I wondered to myself as I approached CJ's Venezuelan styled rat trap to knock on the door.<br />
John emerged from the front door shaking his head as he smiled with a weary face. He was short and wiry. A quick observation of his features revealed a distinctly blue collar flavor. Extremely calloused hands supported leathery skin in its assertion that this was a working man. Though CJ's hard life made it difficult to calculate, I guessed that we were of similar age. His smile remained present as he shook my hand and light-heartedly said, " I could fuckin' kill you". I lowered the trailer's ramp and John's face brightened, immediately shedding five years worth of deterioration, and somewhere within his rough exterior The Halleluiah Choirs hit full crescendo. I'd opened a portal to a whole new world and we immediately began freeing the beast from its tethers. Any way you cut it, transporting a chopper is an arduous affair. But the mild winter evening over-watched a beautifully brief jettisoning, and John cranked the engine in celebration. Biased and jaded as I may be, the notes which emerged from the chopper's pipes were nice indeed. John said "dis makes it all wethwhile" as he fed his toy a wrist full of petrol. Key Largo's late night silence was overcome by a supercharged roar that brought a grin to my face. I helped CJ push his 12' long bike to back of the house, carefully avoiding the arrant Budweiser cans. He paid me, said thank you, and I was off. The first of five trips, out, up, and around the U.S. was complete.<br />
Time to Get Serious<br />
That Night in icy Idaho where I began drafting this post seems a distant memory from where I sit finishing it up. The weather in the U.K. is still on the chilly side and the threat of rain seems ever-present, but my round the world trip is well, and truly, underway. I think that it's worth pointing out that the mileage covered over the months spanning my graduation and departing flight to London could have seen me around the world twice. However, I've reverted to Two Wheels, and my Future, remains, as ever, Uncertain.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">When someone offers you the last of their Micky's, You take it!</td></tr>
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<br />Israel Eugene Gillette 423 930 7890http://www.blogger.com/profile/06052477254350622028noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7174136796432475125.post-3677905616636869072013-05-12T20:49:00.000-07:002013-05-12T20:49:29.282-07:00Latin American Videos<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<object width="320" height="266" class="BLOGGER-youtube-video" classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" codebase="http://download.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=6,0,40,0" data-thumbnail-src="http://img.youtube.com/vi/_y7Ko9U8TEg/0.jpg"><param name="movie" value="http://youtube.googleapis.com/v/_y7Ko9U8TEg&source=uds" /><param name="bgcolor" value="#FFFFFF" /><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true" /><embed width="320" height="266" src="http://youtube.googleapis.com/v/_y7Ko9U8TEg&source=uds" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true"></embed></object></div>
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I am finishing up a brand new post to explain what's on tap for the coming months, however, it isn't quite finished. So, for those of you just beginning to follow I decided to post a couple of my favorite videos from my last trip as some of them are difficult to find. I think that the one above, shot on the salt flats of Bolivia, is likely my favorite.<br />
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A taste of old Mexico<br />
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No cab money, no problem<br />
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The closest death came (it's at the end).<br />
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Saving $300/a rookie mistake.Israel Eugene Gillette 423 930 7890http://www.blogger.com/profile/06052477254350622028noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7174136796432475125.post-41244146275613464332012-01-09T21:51:00.000-08:002014-12-31T04:15:04.186-08:00A New Year's Surprise<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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These were my accommodations for the first night of the New Year. You are perhaps asking yourself, why? Well, hold your questions till the end. I'm about to tell you.<br />
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New Year's eve was spent watching festivities from a distance. The city of Antofagasta was was in full celebration mode as I crept north through town. The streets were flooded with happy Chileans, clad in their decorative apparel, toting obligatory Champagne bottles. This was going to be quite a party, but one which my laden motorcycle forbade that I attend. I made my way to the abandoned cliffs overlooking the Pacific as well as a bright and bubbling city. In solitude, I enjoyed a Chilean Merlot whilst watching fireworks light the sky as one hundred feet below sounds of crashing waves accompanied distant explosions.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitzDjK1C_NShS53HfDNxRVaCgOAP_QnC7XAHzQOPmDTaqCsUlY-aznbCGjcJhl0CE8wJd9YrODUxdEIdZDBmAgM6nI3cq6t9SZgnu56ypyO6f-dDqDDqOraH7jRuTzgKQtgjyZU_nqXz0M/s1600/PICT0640.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitzDjK1C_NShS53HfDNxRVaCgOAP_QnC7XAHzQOPmDTaqCsUlY-aznbCGjcJhl0CE8wJd9YrODUxdEIdZDBmAgM6nI3cq6t9SZgnu56ypyO6f-dDqDDqOraH7jRuTzgKQtgjyZU_nqXz0M/s320/PICT0640.JPG" height="265" width="400" /></a> I awoke on the first day of 2012 to find my campsite under the watchful eye of a vile vulture. Though not the superstitious sort, I must admit that I found this to be a blight on an otherwise fabulous New Years morning scene.<br />
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The uninhibited glare of desert sunlight quickly overpowered the cool Pacific breeze and I rushed to pack up camp and take to the road.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfZ8XQ7Eqg78J8pJDMKwVMNLLHMTuEX6co9notnuaa2JKHqTy3H7gUqKp2WKO6SNN8YOnZ9BiekZP42KehtuNYLTg5assw_lwCa0_DzC0BMajybZ175N1wbRaYjLYFvFCkwZqupWGoCfl6/s1600/PICT0656.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfZ8XQ7Eqg78J8pJDMKwVMNLLHMTuEX6co9notnuaa2JKHqTy3H7gUqKp2WKO6SNN8YOnZ9BiekZP42KehtuNYLTg5assw_lwCa0_DzC0BMajybZ175N1wbRaYjLYFvFCkwZqupWGoCfl6/s400/PICT0656.JPG" height="265" width="400" /></a> My New Years day trip north along the coast between Antofagasta and Iquique was a bittersweet affair. The fabulous scenery witnessed here will be the last seen aboard my trusty BMW. The free trade zone of Iquique was to be where my transformation from, cycle equipped, nation hopping, Superman, to mere tourist, will occur, and the prospect of life without wheels left me a bit depressed. <br />
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(can you see what doesn't belong?)^ <br />
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I completed my 300 mile journey to Iquique at about five o'clock, running on fumes with about 20,000 pesos ($40) in my pocket. (The fuel in Chile is the most expensive in the Americas, at almost $7 per gallon, and had taken a sizable toll on my reserves) I wasn't exactly sure of my next move but I spied a cafe with WiFi and pulled in to evaluate the possibilities.<br />
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<span class="def_header"> </span><span class="def">Restaurante La Cerreta was a rather nice place, the beach was within view and the clientele, friendly. A sidewalk split the outdoor patio from the restaurant and a steady stream of pedestrians passed as I juggled chatting with my friends and family online with frequent engagements by curious onlookers unconcerned with my lack of skill in the Spanish language. While attempting to extract useful information (of a place to sell my bike) from a difficult conversation, of which there was no avoiding, there was a smashing of glass followed by harsh screams. I looked towards the restaurant to see patrons quickly retreating from the sidewalk into its dark belly. A group of five twentyish year old knot-heads strolled into sight, continuing in their bottle smashing and ramblings. They were being led by a guy wielding two 3 foot long pipes. These were, thank God, of the stamped steel, and not lead, variety, however, their snarled ends were sharp and rusty. The ring leader swung his pipes somewhat indiscriminately while spewing senseless jabber. He turned his gaze to the poor fellow I was having such difficulty conversing with, and approached the very limp, and non-confrontational man. He began smacking my companion in the head while his sidekicks covered the front of the restaurant, tossing bottles into glass windows. I stood from my seat, throwing my arms out, I shouted "what the fuck are you doing?," while stepping toward the diminutive jackass who quickly raised his pipes. Deductive reasoning was clearly not this dipstick's forte. It would stand to reason that once a grisly 6'2" 210 pound (and potentially very dangerous) lone motorcyclists from parts unknown, stood in defense of the man you are so casually assaulting, it would be time to move on. This was not the case, however. He briefly jolted for me with pipes flailing as his troops tossed bottles. I backed quickly from my table in search of uncluttered ground. The Chilean ninja kept his distance while one of his pathetic friends stopped hurling debris long enough to snatch my laptop from the table. Shit!, you asshole, I thought, as the bandit made for the corner and a poorly lit road alongside the restaurant. The pictures and video on the laptop were of the irreplaceable variety and my contemplation of what to do spanned only a split second. I was taking back what was mine. Sticky fingers ran into the distance, his delinquent buddies moving into the street acting as a blockade. My mind raced and my rage built, I was bigger, stronger, and, likely, faster than a one of these pricks. Running at full bore I bounced off the edge of the barrier of punks, bypassing all four in doing so. Unfortunately, I lost sight of my prey and charged into a park. Scouring the scenery I saw my laptop being toted off into the distance. The entire group of weaklings were once more united. The thief ran ahead, but this time I was closer, and I smelled blood. The other four rapscallions again attempted to stop me as I tried to replicate my previous success in outrunning them. Bolting towards my adversaries, I kept an eye on my property and entered the sea of riffraff. The numbskulls were working in more unison this time and three of them had their hands on me at once, the thick steer hide of my vintage jacket made an excellent tether and I was very nearly slowed to a halt. </span><span class="def">My attire was well suited for motorcycling (and looking cool) but hardly ideal for chasing banditos. The unzipped jacket nearly proved to be my undoing. It was difficult to break free from the gang of bozos. Luckily, rather than piling on with his buddies the pipe wielding rouge took the opportunity to smack me with one of his flimsy broom handles. The minimal inertia generated through the cheap Chinese steel was little match for my thick American skull and his assault did little more than increase my drive to break free. Though never the gymnast, my balance and strong legs are my greatest physical attributes. I have used them to great effect throughout my days kicking balls and crossing mountains, never though have they better served me than here. Thrashing, I shed the stowaways, the last of which found his way to ground, hard. The three "Free Riders" had seen enough, and as I continued after my computer they disappeared leaving only the thief and the ninja. </span><br />
There were a couple of guys watching my near falter and escape from the safety of their van. I implored them for assistance but they just looked at me, one shrugging his shoulders, and drove into the night. Strangely enough, the fool with the laptop came back to assist his cylinder twirling friend. Perhaps there is honor amongst thieves.<br />
I was liking these odds, and there were people exiting their houses to watch the New Year's festivities. The thief precariously hurled whatever was close at hand and inevitably dropped my laptop, much to my dismay. In a quick, fruitless, approach to snatch up my pilfered goods I left myself open to a jabbing strike from a pipe to the cheek. It was the best, and last blow I would absorb in this conflict. Then, as I stood looking at the two, I was joined by Chilean reinforcements. A Tennessee Volunteer at heart, Elvis, yes, that is his real name, was a formidable sized fellow dressed in professional garb. His arrival prompted a new plan from the hooligans, flee. Elvis trailed Mr. Pipes and I pursued my equipment.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5Q_gu9qNI6eeHNOEk5EK1prQUhRmQnueTftj80wBCJuViCYivZKL6LZnPUVCnw348pRmVJV_TP4hcLMY0WsVEH1BG-d9BPzE5vtWA6yjspHY0eLNhDdVRLGJrkHmeGkx6Xb6xVW3epIKl/s1600/P1020212.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5Q_gu9qNI6eeHNOEk5EK1prQUhRmQnueTftj80wBCJuViCYivZKL6LZnPUVCnw348pRmVJV_TP4hcLMY0WsVEH1BG-d9BPzE5vtWA6yjspHY0eLNhDdVRLGJrkHmeGkx6Xb6xVW3epIKl/s320/P1020212.JPG" height="239" width="320" /></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzrJV6hLUCgjLhTcs1GIiHFxvYuPilit_Uz4JqfzteyE8P-qjHMEdWiyGpwPwnyplb6dJrx_tMBkUR8XG7FlMEfuRkJZaS4IQ3sPqzlwxDN8cERHo9gBzsvMEr3_Ly_P6BlObSIZ8xWhXH/s1600/210898_10150486652346165_551276164_8753890_376806047_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzrJV6hLUCgjLhTcs1GIiHFxvYuPilit_Uz4JqfzteyE8P-qjHMEdWiyGpwPwnyplb6dJrx_tMBkUR8XG7FlMEfuRkJZaS4IQ3sPqzlwxDN8cERHo9gBzsvMEr3_Ly_P6BlObSIZ8xWhXH/s320/210898_10150486652346165_551276164_8753890_376806047_o.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a>The foot chase was a brief one. My laptop, now broken, but with info intact, was once again in my possession. Plenty of helpers came out to restrain the bandit and they whisked me away, worried that I might do something retaliatory. A gentleman named Pierre told me that he would go to the restaurant to watch my things while I awaited the police. The attention generated from the event created quite a buzz. A local construction company owner, Carlos, asked about my accommodations for the night. I had none, the bandits had struck before I could find a cheap place to stay. He told me that he had a safe place for me to set camp, a fenced construction site a few blocks south. This was as good as a Hilton. Between the long day of riding and the intense moments following my property's abduction, I was exhausted. When I finally got back to my motorcycle Pierre was still watching my things after more than an hour. He asked me to survey my belongings to ensure they were all there, which they were, and then inquired as to where I would go and what I would do. I said, "I don't know, camping tonight, I'll figure it out tomorrow". He handed me 70,000 pesos (about $140) and told me to be careful. I replied that it was too much and I could get by without it, however, he was insistent that I take it. In hindsight it would have been almost impossible to have gotten though the next few days without it. It's strange the way things work at times. I knew upon arriving in town that, finding a buyer for the bike, buying a plane ticket, seeing the Dakar Rally, and registering for class this semester was going to be a tall order, especially with only $40 in my pocket. I never could have predicted that the key to my success would be carried to me by a gang of thieves. As of tonight I have done everything I set out to do in Iquique, with exception of seeing the Dakar Rally, which comes through town tomorrow. I have been helped throughout my stay here by complete strangers, from those on sight for the aftermath of the mugging, to the members of the Pasten/Carrasco family. They have sheltered, fed, and assisted me more than I could have ever hoped for. I will leave Chile on Friday the 13th with the beginnings of a scar on my cheek and a story in my mind. The driest desert in the world provided challenges but The Hand of the Atacama has proven to be a helping one.<br />
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P.S. New Year's Eve 2014,<br />
The microcosm of my time in Chile offers a rather concise illustration of my broader existence, from the entirety of my Latin American motorcycle trip to the trip of life. Adversity exists whether or not you play by the rules. Perhaps in my obstinacy I find larger scale opposition than the average Joe, but even so, I have always found my way. Often the help I've needed comes from friends, family, or complete strangers. I rarely have to ask. It happens so frequently that I have come to accept it as a probability. There must be something to it, somewhat incomprehensible. With this being said, the biggest component of my success is a strong belief in myself. The cops, teachers, probation officers, DAs, and judges in my home town that spared no condemnation in their dealings with me have done little to shake my resolve. In fact, they only strengthened it. When I came to the realization that I didn't fit into Jonesborough, Tennessee, and never would, I decided it was time to ride South. I didn't spend too much time planning, and some people laughed at what they perceived as folly. I didn't care. It seemed to me that the most important thing was simply to leave. I followed my nose and had the greatest adventure of my life. It was the best decision I have ever made. When I look back Stateside, I see lots of people struggling to be happy, living in desperation. This arouses in me feeling of both anger and thankfulness. Do you fit in? I'll conclude my little New Year's post-scrip with a quote from America's greatest hero. "Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it." -FB<br />
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Israel Eugene Gillette 423 930 7890http://www.blogger.com/profile/06052477254350622028noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7174136796432475125.post-27255473468587116142011-12-31T15:38:00.000-08:002011-12-31T15:38:29.729-08:00New Years greetings from the Atacama Desert<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/9DMyWoeA-5M?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>Here is a small New Years Resolution video from the driest place on earth.Israel Eugene Gillette 423 930 7890http://www.blogger.com/profile/06052477254350622028noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7174136796432475125.post-39406175958458338142011-12-30T12:11:00.000-08:002015-01-20T10:06:29.828-08:00Enjoying the Coast<div class="separator" style="border: currentColor; clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguLCB0VT7NwS8ngLGtQYBWnoR5qVzsfLKuQQGkS0FNZN3oyyU6SJexl0pCnULbQ-BPKaUauojqLCddtjtYOonXryH7W3MHjEv65WcfHgDB9ggNuNpvlNCg5jqa2GpXVO54dU6ZB0ofXvTJ/s1600/PICT0513.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguLCB0VT7NwS8ngLGtQYBWnoR5qVzsfLKuQQGkS0FNZN3oyyU6SJexl0pCnULbQ-BPKaUauojqLCddtjtYOonXryH7W3MHjEv65WcfHgDB9ggNuNpvlNCg5jqa2GpXVO54dU6ZB0ofXvTJ/s320/PICT0513.JPG" height="212" rea="true" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9g699I61plVb3QOdW8fxi90l6c9hWLsH4GaRG56z_X-o2QpcvyD0JMLznNxW1Qdd263bCbUdr7BmbrGXvgll_W3hzx-v7TK_TGaD8VxqdQ-HVwfFmiSrxeuvNIZfB1obox2hq9emu67Gr/s1600/PICT0474.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9g699I61plVb3QOdW8fxi90l6c9hWLsH4GaRG56z_X-o2QpcvyD0JMLznNxW1Qdd263bCbUdr7BmbrGXvgll_W3hzx-v7TK_TGaD8VxqdQ-HVwfFmiSrxeuvNIZfB1obox2hq9emu67Gr/s320/PICT0474.JPG" height="212" rea="true" width="320" /></a>It´s an overcast day on the Chilean coast, and the waves crash with authority deligated by God. </div>
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Another Christmas has come and gone and I celebrated by making a trip to a small island just off shore. The sights provided were of the unforgetable nature. Penguins, Sea lions, Dolphins, and innumerable species of Fowl. </div>
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My day on the water brought with it further appreciation for the absurdity humanity places on ¨being somebody¨, an endevor which is often intangled with nefarious calculation and great strife</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuYNPtxMsT3sPmnuM-q96bbKh2_KhTvSFQZQHtvEl84nL7eIvJyHOiG1U-4UfiGyIKKrs3CzhXuq4p_ryl_s3YoyCAKfTuLSq-pZ3TxI6923q_VEo2RULpEv25TKMz3O3sOYxxy03abaeV/s1600/PICT0406.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuYNPtxMsT3sPmnuM-q96bbKh2_KhTvSFQZQHtvEl84nL7eIvJyHOiG1U-4UfiGyIKKrs3CzhXuq4p_ryl_s3YoyCAKfTuLSq-pZ3TxI6923q_VEo2RULpEv25TKMz3O3sOYxxy03abaeV/s320/PICT0406.JPG" height="265" rea="true" width="400" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9nh4YK7qBqkEZNFYXcuh6EKltCbrTgwcyH_PG9FZCV-3X6oJ59XdFHdSMy-FGGWJgK4MCdMRYWtRZZjCdEtx5RyR04S-LN8MHlUe9e1RrWx5npPq7vJ634TUTqN8a6nlZgxFoxfFO0LIi/s1600/PICT0453.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9nh4YK7qBqkEZNFYXcuh6EKltCbrTgwcyH_PG9FZCV-3X6oJ59XdFHdSMy-FGGWJgK4MCdMRYWtRZZjCdEtx5RyR04S-LN8MHlUe9e1RrWx5npPq7vJ634TUTqN8a6nlZgxFoxfFO0LIi/s320/PICT0453.JPG" height="212" rea="true" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNnWsvl5awAJuk4wPdMhkGu6betZRA01MpEH7tpLo2PryK-dCzffIYu_F_LxThG1jJ1grxEHhaFHh85L1P701SYTliR5X4-gkO3VblQIuhUhyphenhyphenD8SN4hy8LSJwEGXvlrduuHWLbJIr05btH/s1600/PICT0516.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNnWsvl5awAJuk4wPdMhkGu6betZRA01MpEH7tpLo2PryK-dCzffIYu_F_LxThG1jJ1grxEHhaFHh85L1P701SYTliR5X4-gkO3VblQIuhUhyphenhyphenD8SN4hy8LSJwEGXvlrduuHWLbJIr05btH/s320/PICT0516.JPG" height="212" rea="true" width="320" /></a>From here, I will be heading Norte, into the driest desert on earth, the Atacama. I´ll miss my new buddy (Big Yeller). He has kept me company at the campground which has been home for the past 4 days, rarely leaving my side. </div>
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Israel Eugene Gillette 423 930 7890http://www.blogger.com/profile/06052477254350622028noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7174136796432475125.post-51723794126403070242011-12-26T08:22:00.000-08:002018-05-22T15:53:02.620-07:00The Escape from Argentina and a Chile Christmas<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRD4H6xK9vIKpo3ujFExHzh8CXdEiqG0qZrUhAc3r9Fil2TEUMwgfVeaOqa7Voq1jfbRBz1GiN2Ik6tX0JruklJ8pX9V7eeqGowF5TO9pSZzXDob88MlasyoGU-WL2qqj8IlvzHfuidI9C/s1600/PICT0336.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRD4H6xK9vIKpo3ujFExHzh8CXdEiqG0qZrUhAc3r9Fil2TEUMwgfVeaOqa7Voq1jfbRBz1GiN2Ik6tX0JruklJ8pX9V7eeqGowF5TO9pSZzXDob88MlasyoGU-WL2qqj8IlvzHfuidI9C/s320/PICT0336.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPzb1otv3JFzgta4jhj-5skU1XNWLuYU5NtWQBm9ROHwLdxkKZUj-5GTdxlc-7_fMPmqMutcFa58JfiVywHu-VE7NGWpC-HQMcqa8TCsoA3DeIz5YraH5oq8Mbf1V27tF_1_lqdhZKDRQN/s1600/PICT0312.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPzb1otv3JFzgta4jhj-5skU1XNWLuYU5NtWQBm9ROHwLdxkKZUj-5GTdxlc-7_fMPmqMutcFa58JfiVywHu-VE7NGWpC-HQMcqa8TCsoA3DeIz5YraH5oq8Mbf1V27tF_1_lqdhZKDRQN/s320/PICT0312.JPG" width="320" /></a>My arrival to the Pacific coast of Chile last evening was slightly late for watching the sun set, however, its vestige still cast a warm hue over the city of La Serena. The Afternoon passed had seen the crest of the Pasa Agua de Negra, one of the world's highest passable roads (15,681 ft. according to my GPS), and the surreality of the environment there left me feeling as if I were traveling within a vacuum. The solitude of the Andes is a majestic thing and, following yet another seizure and release of my motorcycle by the Argentinian Government, I relished the serenity which they offered. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv3UYXGuiWmeDvUKnN8NOpVvXEaK492nlvspwhg9vFH_rpqj1u_FdjEN5B5YiU02VZOE3vQuw6lvmj_C-hDMOAHau2ygHwzEMc4KbT_2ZjEXdUyjIgLftyPtfpRUWQr9noaiVPXOK5XUCZ/s1600/P8260231.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv3UYXGuiWmeDvUKnN8NOpVvXEaK492nlvspwhg9vFH_rpqj1u_FdjEN5B5YiU02VZOE3vQuw6lvmj_C-hDMOAHau2ygHwzEMc4KbT_2ZjEXdUyjIgLftyPtfpRUWQr9noaiVPXOK5XUCZ/s320/P8260231.JPG" width="320" /></a> The town of Las Flores, Argentina is more of a watering hole than a break in transportation, with internet, banks, and ATM machines, all being a little further down the road. Yet here, in this nothing, last chance for gas, town the officials leveraged their authority over me and sent me into the desert, short on cash and without a ride, seeking higher authority to appeal for my BMW's release. The whole ordeal was a case study in the impotence of bureaucracy. What purpose could they possibly have been serving? I don't think that even the customs officials knew what they were achieving, but eventually after sitting at the Aduana office in San Juan long enough (2 solid days), someone, somewhere, granted the release of my motorcycle. Thank God! Four days of uncertainty had left me a bit strained but, fortunately, unlike the last run in with the Argentinians, back in August, this time I'd not been shot at.<br />
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I got my exit visa stamped on the 21st. The first day of winter back in Tennessee had little bearing on the temperature here, but 40 (104f) degrees C was made more bearable by my happiness to be back on the road. It was a long straight shot to the Andes and once I reached the twisty bits, the asphalt, much like civilization, disappeared into the upper regions of my mirrors. The ascent into a maze of rock saw the temperature and my anxiety both recede. I was once again dealing with obstacles which were more within my realm of patience and expertise.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSilQHS-VRwlUhcUaFO8Jx3IlQ1wN7HKKIRZhXH3zgh65E-Uno4AAueazRiWio84_36mXUp4N7RV8xgFgNhI_5enp3qqQfWcJSBXYB_WGMeBbP0u6rcg8n8Qu7SL0RRaV6UZ9SQ_-khE5Z/s1600/PICT0254.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSilQHS-VRwlUhcUaFO8Jx3IlQ1wN7HKKIRZhXH3zgh65E-Uno4AAueazRiWio84_36mXUp4N7RV8xgFgNhI_5enp3qqQfWcJSBXYB_WGMeBbP0u6rcg8n8Qu7SL0RRaV6UZ9SQ_-khE5Z/s320/PICT0254.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
After about an hour in the mountains, as shadows began to grow long, there appeared a terrific sign across the road announcing the construction of a great tunnel connecting Argentina and Chile. Much to my amusement, I though about the improbability of this project ever really getting off the ground (Cristina Kirchner (presidenta, phh, whatever) will never be seen as someone the Chileans can trust to jointly invest with). Aside from this product of wishful thinking, just to the to the left, there was another sign. This one made a more realistic promise. Campamento 30k. Knowing that the customs office in Chile was already closed for the night, this seemed the perfect place to set camp, so I took a rather long and rough detour deep into the mountains. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZU_IBmYPE-hDkOy-95BsGM_I5q_MWMweqUjNwNx9w-VU45aZwcI7Ia0Ms4PDkDJN5bzeJk7GEyRnQK70RSAoN-zeVjDwhM2WZBlIfQQIn8VEpwYCSuxGtWNItweaIwnXJthvYYFpw7Or6/s1600/PICT0266.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZU_IBmYPE-hDkOy-95BsGM_I5q_MWMweqUjNwNx9w-VU45aZwcI7Ia0Ms4PDkDJN5bzeJk7GEyRnQK70RSAoN-zeVjDwhM2WZBlIfQQIn8VEpwYCSuxGtWNItweaIwnXJthvYYFpw7Or6/s320/PICT0266.JPG" width="320" /></a> With the light fading my motorcycle was met with an impassible barrier. My strong sense of curiosity led me to dismount and hike my camping supplies a little further in. The Mercury was dropping precipitously as I lugged my baggage to a suitable campsite just over 16,000' of elevation and hurriedly assembled my tent. The wind here was insufferable, and my habitation was thrashed about mightily. I worried that in this onslaught my tent wouldn't hold up, but it proved my fears unfounded. Though noisy, the Kelty Zenith 2 remained structurally sound ($60 at Target).<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN3y4JqWlMEdXdCyMFEgFTq_Hfvy_NqkGzPOeV7pHr4tcXZoln2gIRM7niCy0Hdydv7XK4tu-3tuMl0Zqd-_LJ3U5gm5tANFweXJUNCwi8pq5FwAkxlxy_Shw0Ya0hep0a5nXwdN9RK6pc/s1600/PICT0304.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN3y4JqWlMEdXdCyMFEgFTq_Hfvy_NqkGzPOeV7pHr4tcXZoln2gIRM7niCy0Hdydv7XK4tu-3tuMl0Zqd-_LJ3U5gm5tANFweXJUNCwi8pq5FwAkxlxy_Shw0Ya0hep0a5nXwdN9RK6pc/s400/PICT0304.JPG" width="400" /></a> The following morning wasn't an enjoyable one, I was suffering from a combination of food poisoning and altitude sickness. The blister pack of tuna I'd eaten the previous night had stayed with my motorcycle in Buenos Aries through the Fall semester but it was well within its expiration date. It was a mistake I'll not soon forget. It hurt to remain still, it hurt to move. I continually needed to vomit, however, there wasn't much to purge myself of. My eyes felt as if they were going to explode as I wrenched myself from the sleeping bag to trek for water. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC8nawhlFo8bBu-6rYcXyIxo1GXEhCh9MqN9D14dv7DYHLlkH1dkUC8C0_Hnw65bvocZFXQxMmI3AXmU-GQDEGljUUN3VZw4RX0ogZdOeNg0mXbxHniqnwexk992knYP5N-38eNZCfsz6m/s1600/PICT0285.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC8nawhlFo8bBu-6rYcXyIxo1GXEhCh9MqN9D14dv7DYHLlkH1dkUC8C0_Hnw65bvocZFXQxMmI3AXmU-GQDEGljUUN3VZw4RX0ogZdOeNg0mXbxHniqnwexk992knYP5N-38eNZCfsz6m/s320/PICT0285.JPG" width="320" /></a> <br />
My strides, though forced at first, grew lighter as I went, and upon cresting the rise overlooking my camp I was greeted by the sight of a glacier covered cirque which acted as a saddle, connecting the lines of mountains to each side of me. Though still feeling ill, I came to the conclusion that my long awaited, and seemingly elusive, hiking trip was to be made today. I filled my water bottle from the stream at the base of the glacier and began my ascent. <br />
At first, my idea was to skirt the left side of the ice formation, climbing my way up to the low point of the ridge and then hike up to one of the surrounding peaks. However, the glacier proved difficult to deal with and my plan was changed. Rather than first reaching the top of the saddle and moving on to the peak I would just just climb directly to the top. This approach wound up taking most of the <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrVJb1bebZsVsO7Zsu-c8oaMN118XTxW3FAWLB6s7esAcbYKzgnFDOuXLxlWXJpT-ZVugO0uDnGkFcqA_g0yvQIwL42_abL_HgeimFXZYjQUWSPUbOAhgvuwrRu69PKVCqzZ6uV_PXY1H3/s1600/PICT0300.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrVJb1bebZsVsO7Zsu-c8oaMN118XTxW3FAWLB6s7esAcbYKzgnFDOuXLxlWXJpT-ZVugO0uDnGkFcqA_g0yvQIwL42_abL_HgeimFXZYjQUWSPUbOAhgvuwrRu69PKVCqzZ6uV_PXY1H3/s320/PICT0300.JPG" width="320" /></a>day. Careful consideration for routes and holds were required, and points of rest were frequent. Eventually, I did make it to the top, which didn't quite reach 19,000 ft, but the view was still very nice. The adjacent peaks were much higher, and didn't require the sort of climbing endured to get to this point, but with the sun beginning to set, and only water and cameras in my pack, I went off in search of a reasonably safe slide back down the mountain in order beat the sub freezing temperatures to my tent.<br />
Following another rough night camping, I once again rose with a splitting head ache. Slowly I packed away my camp and hiked back to the bike.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxmQXRgCHqJxmpXnXcgn6nfJSI_K9u0jNWlEZkYG5CDlbKCdJT10W0Vd_b5qmx_i0vVROKsUdv_zGger9nyFDU48L15AJ8OFgaK-CqJGrsXLIImNpsgbKORHn2XNZnhox6D0un-_gY0aOq/s1600/PICT0325.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxmQXRgCHqJxmpXnXcgn6nfJSI_K9u0jNWlEZkYG5CDlbKCdJT10W0Vd_b5qmx_i0vVROKsUdv_zGger9nyFDU48L15AJ8OFgaK-CqJGrsXLIImNpsgbKORHn2XNZnhox6D0un-_gY0aOq/s400/PICT0325.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
The trip up to and across the border brought sights previously unseen. The vibrant multicolored mountains were my companions as I covered the 80 or so miles back to civilization and I was left thinking about my two nights of isolation. It wasn't likely that there had been another human being within 50 miles of me. Certainly the harsh environment wasn't conducive to sustaining life, however, there was beauty in the freedom offered by this permissive, if unforgiving, land lord. Memories of my time in these mountains will persist long after my recollections of Buenos Aries have slipped into oblivion. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQeEqiFodKy8UG5Nt8RiLQY2jrlyuol3_2OtQkT4lO7HXaIJjM0ASq0c-ofB8DaupyfC4hgu4NtaRdTWFcpU7nYT-nYhV0xuLKqbd-7vCgtYtFswirszZhJwx0E2hsug89roo6TnYhssSd/s1600/PICT0329.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQeEqiFodKy8UG5Nt8RiLQY2jrlyuol3_2OtQkT4lO7HXaIJjM0ASq0c-ofB8DaupyfC4hgu4NtaRdTWFcpU7nYT-nYhV0xuLKqbd-7vCgtYtFswirszZhJwx0E2hsug89roo6TnYhssSd/s400/PICT0329.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
On a side note, just before reaching the customs/ aduana office for Chile I was stopped by a truck load of national police in their four wheel drive. After examining my passport, they told me that the Argentinians had reported me to interpol as missing. "Tres dios", one of the officers said while holding up three fingers. I mused merrily to myself, as the cops examined my bike. Only 3 days? Shit, man, I've been gone a hell of a lot longer than that. <br />
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Israel Eugene Gillette 423 930 7890http://www.blogger.com/profile/06052477254350622028noreply@blogger.com3