TAT Tale Part Two: Flying Low on the Trans America Trail Across Middle America During the COVID-19 Pan(ic)demic

  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.

 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".

 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
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.



  A night on a mattress can do quite a lot for morale, and I awoke the following morning ready to hit Oklahoma at full speed. A slight drizzle did little to dampen my mood, and I went about the arduous process of reloading the bike. As I fumbled with a knot of nylon straps a lady emerged from her room and upon reaching her car, curiously looked in our direction and asked if she could help. I replied no, that it wasn’t as bad as it looked. She asked where we were going, and I told her the West Coast. She removed a leather bracelet from her wrist and handed it to me proclaiming that she made them. I quickly examined it, and it appeared to be made from a leather belt and flat hammered spoon head which had been engraved with a quote from a Johnny Cash song, "Life is rough so you've gotta be tough". I couldn't have imagined a more appropriate gift. I immediately slathered it in hand sanitizer, put it on, and finished loading. Looking at Dan, now in his pannier, I quipped let's roll, and we crossed into Oklahoma.

                                     
High Plains Drifters

  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.

    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.

 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.

  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.

  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.

Patient Zero COVID-19: Romania to Oregon Overland Between February and April

   
   Here's the quarantine story of a risk taker from Tennessee, and a mutt named Dandy.

   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,
or hanging in limbo just out of reach.


 An Uncertain Path Forward

   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.


 The Trans America Trail

   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.

 A Special Bike and Good Company

   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.

 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.


 No Set Plans

  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.

  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.


A Large Load and Difficult Parking


   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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

Crossing the Mighty Mississippi, and an Unfortunate Encounter


  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.

  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.

To be continued...

 

 

An American Newcomer Racing on the Isle of Man: Hopes, Dreams, and Riding Out COVID-19

 

   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.


 An Uncertain Path Forward

   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.


 The Trans America Trail

   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.

 A Special Bike and Good Company

   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.

 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.


 No Set Plans

  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.

  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.


A Large Load and Difficult Parking


   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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

Crossing the Mighty Mississippi, and an Unfortunate Encounter


  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.

  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.

To be continued...

 

 

An 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.

Racing in the rain on slicks with Blake Davis (I won!)

  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!

                                                                 
A Persistant Man

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.
                                       
European Work, Hungarian Heat, and Viennese Parking

  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.

  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.

  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.
                                 
Manannan's Cloak

  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.

  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.

Fleet airport taxi service

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.
           
Here to Learn

  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.

My Fellow Newcomers

  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.

  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.

Time to Race

  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?

Liam, Michael, Izzy, and Lee

  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.

  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.

  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.

This Mortal (Triumph) Coil

   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.

  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.

  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.
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.

Mark Kirkby's win produced a special ride

2019 is History

  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.....

Michael graciously lent me his road bike for a lap before departing.

       

 



                                             

An American Newcomer Racing on the Isle of Man: A Perilous Dream Within Reach

A Perilous Dream

It's much steeper than it appears.

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...
                                         
 A Long Road To the Paddock 

The Bolivian Death Road is safer than the Mountain Course I figure

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

Getting up to speed at the WERA/AMA finals at BMP

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.

Learning the Course

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

The best way to arrive on the IoM

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.

I took seven laps that counted, and another four that didn't

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.

                                                       
 Fellow Newcomers

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.


                                                 

                                                   
Back to the Real World

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).

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.

                                                     
To be continued....

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.

  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.

  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.

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.

  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.
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
marvelous hound that connected my troubled past with a successful present. On that afternoon she was a peacemaker.

  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

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
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.

   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. 

  The Military History Museum, in Achtmaal, Netherlands, was curated by a friendly fellow

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.

  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.

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

Gudrun, Brigit, and old Daisy enjoying Krausnickstrasse

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.

 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.

  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.

 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.

   To be continued.....