November 26 to
December 13, 2009
When it was announced in early 2009 that the
next Hall of Fame Induction Ceremony would be held in Las Vegas in December, it
raised the bar considerably for those of us who would never think of going to a
motorcycle event any other way but riding. I wasn’t sure my 84-year-old body
was up to the task, especially at that time of year with a bike that would be uncomfortable
on a 6,000-mile trip. It also interfered with the holidays. This time my grand-daughter
Asia and her husband were coming from Alaska to spend Christmas in NY with
Grandpa and I would certainly need to be home in time to prepare for that. I
would also need to get a better handle on a few of my physical issues before
committing to the tickets and hotel reservations in Las Vegas. Eventually
everything fell into place and I began to prepare for the trip.
I changed the brake pads, tires, chain, oil
and filters on the bike, all of which I could still do at home. In spite of already
having 64,000 miles on the little Suzuki, I wasn’t concerned about it as I was
about myself. It wasn’t until a week before I left that I realized my plan called
for traveling on Thanksgiving Day, which would certainly affect motel and food availability
on the road. After trying to reserve a room along my originally planned non-interstate
route for the first night, and learning there were no vacancies, I decided to
use interstate highways for the first day, and I reserved a room at a Knight's
Inn on I-81 in Verona, VA.
It was cloudy and 47° when I left Buchanan at
first light. The sun began to break through in New Jersey, but it got overcast
again as I descended into the Delaware River Valley. The heavy cloud cover returned
and stayed with me until I reached Virginia several hours later. The
temperature was in the low 50s most of the day. I began to look for lunch
around Harrisburg, and tried pulling off the highway several times during the
next few hours whenever I saw a sign for food; but nothing was open - not even
a convenience store. Many of the gas stations were also closed. I tried to
enter a rest area for something from a machine, but it too was closed. I rode
431 miles before checking into the Knights Inn in Verona at 2:45 as planned. By
using interstate highways I was already ahead of the original plan. The first
thing I asked the desk clerk was about restaurants. He said the Chinese place
next door might be open, but it wasn’t. Later I rode around town for 10 or 15
minutes looking for a place to eat or anyone to ask when I found a guy stuffing
clothes into a Salvation Army bin. He said he saw a small family place serving Thanksgiving
dinner for $7.99 not far from there. I found it and ordered the dinner, which came
complete with a big piece of pumpkin pie for dessert. it wasn't like
Thanksgiving at home, but it was a friendly setting.
When I looked out early the next morning, I
noticed only a single car in the entire motel parking lot. I asked the desk
clerk the night before about breakfast or at least coffee. He said a complimentary
breakfast would be served in the lobby at 6:30. When I got there at 6:45, the
office was locked and I had to pound on the door to get in. Breakfast consisted
of concentrated orange juice, a small Danish pastry and weak coffee, but it
lasted until I could find a McDonald’s a few hours later for my usual breakfast
sandwich. The temperature was in the low 30s and it was windy when I left the
motel. Black Friday traffic was light along I-81, with only a few cars and almost
no trucks. The highway patrol was out in force but they seemed to be allowing a
fair tolerance. I saw cars pulled over but I kept the needle a little under 80 with
no problem.
The sky cleared and it got mostly sunny by
the time I entered Tennessee. Most of the clouds dissipated and the temperature
rose into the high 40s. I called it a day 40 miles west of Knoxville. I learned
after checking in that the only restaurant was once a Huddle House next-door
that the health department had closed. I unloaded my bags, lubed the chain,
took my meds and took a brief rest before going back out on the highway in
search of food. I found a KFC about nine miles and two exits west. On my way
back, I got onto the wrong ramp, which took me 12 miles farther west. I ended
up traveling more than 40 miles for the KFC dinner. I usually stopped for the day
around 2:00 or 2:30 to take my meds, which gave them six hours to run their
course before bedtime.
It was
29° when I left in the morning. The sky was clear with practically no wind. I
got off I-40 a short while later and headed northwest into Kentucky along two-lane
country roads. I intended to ride at least a day or two without maps or route
sheet. I thought at first of taking the back roads to the same motel in
Mayfield, KY where I stayed the previous year, but I soon dropped that idea and
decided to see how the ride goes first. It was a beautiful day, and I had the
urge to explore new areas. After traveling northwest for several hours on two-lane
country roads with and without numbers, I reached US Rte 60 near Paducah, which
I followed west across the same two long cantilever bridges I used on my trip
home from a nice ride in the Ozarks the previous year. There was no traffic on
either bridge, so I rode slowly and enjoyed the view of the swirling muddy
waters below. I spotted a Motel 6 in Sikeston, MO around 1:45 after an enjoyable
370-mile day. I was still a half-day ahead of schedule. It was almost 70° in
Sikeston, which felt great. I had dinner at a Ruby Tuesday where I ordered the New
Orleans seafood dish with a tall glass of amber ale.
It was raining when I woke a little after 6:00.
Rain was forecast for most of the day. I was on the road by 8:00 after eating a
little from my bag and coffee from the office. I dropped the idea of a more
scenic route into West Plains because of the weather. I chose instead a fairly
direct country road west on the northern outskirts of Joplin, and later I followed
a few other country roads in southeastern Kansas. Eventually I came across US
160, which I was quite familiar with, so I stayed with that for a while. I called
it a day in Independence, KS at 3:00 after 420 miles on what turned out to be a
long day that put me farther ahead. Besides the light rain, I encountered some
heavy fog around Springfield. The temperature dropped to the mid 40s by the
time I checked in. I unloaded the bike, lubed the chain, took a brief rest and
realized it was already getting dark. So I rushed out and had one of the only
evening meals of the trip at a nearby fast food place.
It was only 28° when I left in the morning. My
heated jacket liner and gloves felt good. It sure beats the old days. I decided
to drop the idea of going into Oklahoma, and I stayed with US 160 across most
of Kansas. I wasn’t thinking about gas and I didn’t realize until I was several
miles out of Medicine Lodge that I was about to go on reserve. I turned back
rather than take the chance of making the 40 miles to Coldwater. West of
Medicine Lodge, Rte 160 goes across some of the most desolate areas east of the
Rockies. It's where I rode through the sand storm a few years ago. I decided to
call it a day in Liberal where there are plenty of motels. It was 57°, the
warmest I would see until Las Vegas.
I left at barely first light with the
temperature in the high 20s. About 5 miles out, and before full daylight, I
came very close to hitting a coyote. I was traveling about 70 when I spotted him
on a dead run for the other side of the road. I only had time to yank my foot
up to get it out of the way of where it looked like he would hit the bike. I
hung on and braced for the collision that never came. He skidded to a stop only
a few inches short of my front wheel. I got onto I-40 near Tucumcari, NM. A
snowstorm had gone through the area two days earlier and there was about six
inches of it on the ground, and getting gradually deeper as I gained altitude.
I was totally beat from the combination of the cold and the altitude by the
time I reached Albuquerque around 2:00. My congestive heart wasn’t taking well
to the altitude. My lungs were starving for oxygen. There were times that I
stopped for food or gas when my hands would be trembling and I'd be gasping for
breath from the slightest exertion. By the time I checked in and got my tank
bag, tank panniers, saddlebags and hippo-hands into the room and lubed the
chain, I was exhausted. I made a cup of tea and lay on the bed for a half-hour
before going back out to look for a place to eat. I located a nearby family
cafeteria in the same mall for dinner.
The temperature was 15° when I left the
motel at 7 AM. It was the coldest morning so far. The temperature was 7° when I
crossed the Divide. I exited at Gallup for breakfast after 150 miles of the extreme
cold. Even getting off the bike was exhausting. My knees were very cold for the
first time on the trip, in spite of two pairs of long johns under high-tech
Damart sweat pants, the heavy woolen knee warmers with the riding suit bottoms
overtop all of the rest. The tank panniers also served as a windbreak for my
knees and legs. I was well protected, short of using heated bottoms. With the wind-chill
at 70 mph, it figures out to -43°. I could barely walk into McDonald’s for
breakfast because of being so short of breath.
By the time I reached Flagstaff, 320 miles
into my day, I was wiped out from the lack of oxygen. I stopped for lunch where
the girl who filled my lunch order offered to carry the tray to the table for
me. I must have looked pretty bad. I was short of breath while I was eating. I
stopped for the day at 2:00 on the west end of Seligman along Historic Rte 66
where I got off I-40 and found a nice family-owned motel not long after a steep
six-mile descent from the higher elevation. The room next to mine had a small
plaque that read, “Will Rogers slept here.” My room had a similar plaque with a
name I only vaguely recognized. I think he was an author. I covered 410 miles
that day, almost all of which was on I-40. After getting settled and taking my meds,
I sat outside the room to rest in the bright sunshine and clear air. I felt
better than I did all day. It was still only 40°, but it felt comfortable, and it
was peaceful sitting there quietly after a long cold day. I saw two restaurants
within walking distance. One was next door and the other was across the
two-lane historic highway. I walked to the one next door that was named Road
Kill Café, and I ordered a huge buffalo burger with coleslaw and a large glass
of ale. The place was decorated for Christmas with carols on the sound system.
I chose the diner across the street for
breakfast, which had several pickup trucks parked in front. I had a huge
breakfast that begon with biscuits and gravy, followed by eggs over easy with huge
sausage patties, home fries and coffee. It’s rare that I take the time for a
full breakfast. There was so much, I couldn’t finish it all. It was 10° when I
left Seligman. I used Historic Rte 66 rather than the interstate for the first 75
miles to Kingman. I passed several sets of Burma Shave signs, which were once
plentiful along Rte 66. I turned onto US Rte 93 in Kingman for the final 105
miles to Las Vegas. In spite of the cold, it was an exciting day, especially
seeing the unfinished Mike O'Callaghan / Pat Tillman Memorial Bridge that spans
the Colorado River directly in front of the Hoover Dam. The bridge had been under
construction for five years, and was completed soon afterward. Final
construction on the new section of US 93, which will use the bridge, was also
nearing completion. The bridge is an awesome sight from the top of the dam.
It’s much higher and longer than the dam. Due to the current terror-threat
level, all vehicles approaching the dam were stopped and checked. Trucks are
not allowed on it at all. Many people were visiting the area. I rode less than
200 miles that day, my 8th of the trip, and the last of my outbound
leg. I reached Las Vegas in late morning on Thursday, December 3rd,
a day earlier than my reservations at the Hard Rock.
The
temperature was 50°. After an early lunch in town, I spotted a new Motel 6 a
block off the Vegas Strip, and directly behind the huge Tropicana and MGM
Grand. I decided to stay there for one night rather than check into the Hard
Rock a day early, especially since the rate at the new and improved Motel 6 was
less than $30 with my AARP discount. It was the nicest and most modern Motel 6
I ever saw. I rode around town during the first afternoon to see the 4-mile Strip, and to rest. I checked out Friday
morning and went directly to the Hard Rock to check in. I parked the bike away
from the main entrance while I registered, but I parked at the entrance to
unload. When I got off and started to remove my tank panniers, tank bag, saddlebags
and other gear to put them on the sidewalk. A uniformed hotel employee came
rushing over with a loud voice saying, "Hey, you can’t park there",
which I took as an insult. I answered at least as loud, maybe even an octave
higher, “If you’re a bellhop, I’d like for you to get a cart and put these
things on it and keep them in a safe place until my room is assigned. I am a
guest here.” His face changed and he answered in a much different tone, “Yes
sir.” Seconds later he was back with a cart. Unfortunately it’s typical. Because
of the motorcycle I’m treated like a second-class citizen at the fancy casino.
I asked at the desk about safe parking for
the bike and was told where in the garage “bikers usually park.” I went where
she said, but I didn’t see anything but cars. I chose a spot in a dark corner
of the garage and locked it before walking a long distance to my room where I
found my tank bag, panniers and other things already there. During the next few
days I went back into the garage a few times to check on the bike. I still saw
no other motorcycles. I could hardly believe that it was both the amateur
championship awards and the Hall of Fame induction ceremonies with thousands of
motorcyclists there, and practically no one rode to the event. I saw about four
bikes later in a small parking area on the second level. I learned that the
Gold Wing belonged to Stan Simpson, CEO of the AMA, who rode in from Texas with
a few friends. The Hard Rock parking garage was almost a quarter-mile from the
registration desk. Walking from one area to the other inside the hotel was a
bummer, especially for someone with a congestive heart, chronic atrial fib, spinal
stenosis and peripheral neuropathy in the feet and legs. It was the first time
I had ever been inside a casino. Most of the slot machines and other games that
I saw were located in a huge circular pit about three or four steps below the
level of the restaurants, coffee shops, conference rooms, hallways and other businesses
on the main floor. I’d see a person at a slot machine in the pit, and I’d come
by hours later and see the same person at the same slot.
I hadn't purchased a ticket for the amateur
championship award presentations, just in case I had difficulty on the road and
couldn’t make it in time for both nights. I asked at the ticket desk if there
were tickets available. There were none. As soon as the conference center
opened, I asked the girl at the AMA desk to please put my name on a “standby
list” for a ticket. She recognized my name and said she thought she could certainly
get me in, but I would have to wait. Soon afterward, a gentleman approached me and
said I looked like I needed a ticket. His son was scheduled to get a speedway
championship award. The extra ticket was for his daughter who was unable to attend.
I asked if he would consider taking 20 dollars for it, and he graciously
accepted. It was a very kind and generous gesture. I suspect he paid a great
deal more through Ticketmaster.
I met many old friends at the event
including Bill Baird who I had planned to sit with at the induction ceremonies
the following night. I also met Gloria Struck and her daughter Lori DeSilva.
Gloria is my age and is one of the few people who still rides her motorcycle
almost every year from her home in New Jersey to Daytona Beach Bike Week for
something like the past 60 years. She also rides regularly to Sturgis and other
events. The first thing I said was, “You rode! Right?” She said no, she had come
by plane, but said she knew as soon as she saw me that I had ridden from New
York. Lori took our picture together as she sometimes does at Daytona Beach.
Several other people approached, both at happy hour and later, saying they
heard that I rode in from New York.
For whoever thinks it’s warm in Las Vegas, I
have news for them: All three nights that I was there, the nighttime temperature
dipped below freezing. One night it was 28°. I had originally thought of riding
around the area during the day, but even the days were cool with temperatures
in the low to mid 50s. I rested up instead. The bike never moved from the time
I first parked it until the morning I left. I had been through that area at
least a few times on other trips, and there isn't a great deal that interested
me. There wasn’t much to do in the daytime unless one wanted to try their hand
at the slots, and I didn’t. There was no other place to sit unless it was at
Starbucks, Mr. Lucky’s or one of the other restaurants. As a result, I spent a
lot of time in my room, mostly resting, studying maps, and watching the weather
on TV. It was painful to walk around and to stand. There was a display of
several bikes set up in the hallway outside the conference center. One was the
Denis Manning "BUB Seven Streamliner" that seven-time AMA Grand
National Champion
Chris Carr rode when he set the all-time world and national land-speed record
of 367.382 mph in the measured mile at Bonneville Salt Flats. The
record-breaking machine had much of the cowling removed from one side so the
engine and rider compartment could be seen. The cockpit of the streamliner is
barely large enough for Chris Carr's small body. He lies on his back inside,
like in a Lazy Boy recliner when it's about halfway down. I would certainly
never fit; and from the looks of it, getting out would be a lot more difficult.
I had an interesting experience getting into
the Hall of Fame Induction Ceremony the following night. There were five or six
girls checking tickets and assigning seats. I presented the Ticketmaster ticket
that I bought a month earlier to one of the girls. After checking her list, she
said I could sit at any table that didn’t have a number on it. I thought at the
time it meant there was “open seating”, but I was confused because Bill Baird mentioned
earlier that he was assigned to Table 42 and he was sure there would be room
for me there. The only tables without numbers were in the extreme rear of the
huge theater, and those were all vacant. I sat alone at one of those vacant
tables for a while, but after more than half the crowd entered from Happy Hour,
the unnumbered tables were still vacant except for me sitting alone. I thought
I’d better ask the girl that I met the previous night about the criteria for
assigning tables. I felt that I was being relegated to the very bottom of the
food chain, like on the front curb the previous day.
I found the girl that I spoke with earlier
and explained how I was told to sit at any unnumbered table. She replied, “Oh
no, Mr. Boonstra. You can sit at any table in this place. Who would you like to
sit with?” I said I had planned to sit with my friend Bill Baird, but with him being
a member of the Board of Directors and the Hall of Fame, he might be at a
specially-assigned table. She looked through her list and said, “You are now at
Table 42.”
Knowing it was Bill’s table. I said, “Are you
sure?” She nodded and answered with a smile, “Yes, I’m sure.” Also at Table 42
was long-time board member Andy Goldfine, President and CEO of Aerostich, and
Craig Vetter, a member of the AMA Hall of Fame, both of whom I had met before.
I thought the induction ceremony was
somewhat of a letdown from the previous night. The attendance was also down
sharply with only about half of the seats filled. The food was excellent both
nights and I enjoyed the evening in spite of it. Legendary actor Perry King, who
is a motorcyclist, was the Master of Ceremonies, while Rob Dingman, President
and CEO of the AMA, handed out the awards. I was exhausted from all of the
standing and walking when I finally went to my room that night.
Rather than call the bell captain in the
morning to take my bags from the room to the front curb and load the bike
there, I made three trips from my room to the garage instead, which was a long hike
for me, in spite of bringing the bike as close as I could to the rear entrance
inside the garage and not far from the elevator. I took my time carrying everything
out. I noticed that Andy Goldfine was doing the same from his room to his car. He
mentioned that he rode his motorcycle from Duluth, but he had some business to
attend to, for which he was using a car. It was 8:00 by the time I reached the
highway. I had a quick breakfast on my way out of town. The day started with
huge dark clouds closing in from the west. I was anxious to get on the road as
quickly as possible because a huge storm was predicted to sweep in from the
Pacific, which appeared to be picking up speed. I chose a more southerly and
mostly interstate route home to avoid as much of the snow and ice from the storm
as possible.
About 40 miles short of Wickenburg, AZ, I
was shocked to see that my gas was on reserve and it was way too far back to
the last town with gas. I had a few close calls with gas on the way out, but
this time it looked serious. I spotted a bike and a motor home parked in a rest
area, facing like they had come from the other direction. I stopped to ask if
either had seen a gas station in that direction or if they could possibly spare
some gas. Neither had gas to spare, but both thought they had seen a small sign
for gas about 10 miles back. I made the 10 miles and spotted the sign a few
hundred feet off the road in what looked like a squatter’s dooryard. I went
through an open gate and rode in for about 120 feet to a single, beat-up-looking
rusty pump. A guy came out of one of the old camping trailers and said he had
gas but it cost $10 a gallon, and I had to buy at least two gallons. I had
heard of gas scalpers but this was the first I had ever seen. I paid it.
I located a Motel 6 later in Eloy, an hour south
of Phoenix where I checked in at 4:00 after a 365-mile day. The sky behind me
was dark all day, which was a constant reminder that the storm was closing in.
After unloading and resting for a while, I walked to the restaurant next door for
beef stroganoff. Even that short walk was a strain. I was constantly aware of
pain in my back, legs and feet, and I was already using more than the maximum
recommended dosage of Aleve. My doctor had said I shouldn’t use any Aleve at
all because I’m on blood-thinning medication for my heart, but I also have bleeding
ulcers.
I got up early and loaded the bike as
quickly as I could and I raced up the I-10 ramp at barely first light. When I
got to the highway I set the speed at a steady 80 mph. The forecast called for
blizzard conditions at the higher elevations within hours. The sky behind me
was getting darker by the minute as I streaked toward the Continental Divide.
The only brightness in the sky was a narrow band of light along the eastern
horizon, which I tried for hours to widen. I stopped for a quick breakfast in
Willcox, AZ, about 140 miles out, and I thought I had outrun it because the sun
was about to break through. I stopped to slip on my rain jacket for an extra windbreaker.
My hands were also cold. I didn’t realize until that evening that the heat
controller for the gloves and jacket liner had stopped working altogether. I
worked on the controller that night but without a meter, I couldn’t do much. I
decided to bypass the controller and plug the heated gear directly into the
battery source, uncontrolled. It worked fine for the liner, because I could
adjust the amount of heat to my skin by wearing an extra layer of long johns,
but the heat to the gloves was enough to burn my knuckles.
I covered 395 miles in less than 6½ hours
and reached El Paso by early afternoon. The wind was strong all day. I noticed
several potential dust storms starting up just before El Paso. The weather
prediction was for most of the snow and sleet to pass just north of there, but
the winds were predicted to be strong along I-20, which I chose over I-10 after
hearing that another storm coming in from the Gulf of Mexico would bring heavy
rain and winds to Houston. I’ve been through Houston a few times in heavy rain
and wind, and it’s no fun, especially during rush hour on the beltway. I opted
for the colder I-20, which put me between the two storms.
I got very little sleep that night - maybe
five hours at most. The strong wind continued and the sun at the horizon was brutal
when I rode southeast toward I-20. It was the first time on the trip I was
bothered by the glare of the sun. I had so much black electrical tape over the
face shield that it left very little range of vision. A gust of wind almost yanked
the handlebars out of my hands at one point. It was around the same time
traffic was being directed off the highway and under a huge shelter, where there
was a dozen or more border-patrol agents and state police checking all vehicles.
I supposed it was for aliens or contraband because it was close to the Mexican
border. I wasn’t able to read any of the signs with my face shield taped the
way it was. The wind was fierce. One of the border patrol agents asked where I
lived and where I was going. He quickly waved me through. I spotted a
McDonald’s near Van Horn, TX where I stopped for a quick breakfast. The
temperature dropped 10° soon after I turned onto I-20. The roads were wet
around Pecos from a recent shower, and the crosswinds were very strong. I was
concerned that the bike could break traction from it. Huge tumbleweeds were
blowing across the highway, most of which missed me, but a few hit the side of
the bike. They’re not heavy but I wondered what might happen if I hit a four or
five-foot diameter tumbleweed head-on at 80 mph. Would it disintegrate or would
it get tangled up in the wheels?
I stopped at a Motel 6 in Sweetwater around
mid afternoon after 424 cold, windy miles. It was a rough day. The temperature
was in the low 30s most of the day. I was totally exhausted from fighting the cold
wind on very little sleep. I passed an area with many wind generators turning.
I learned the next morning there are more than 4,000 in the area, and that most
of the power generated is going all the way to Florida. A few minutes after
checking in, I looked out and saw a gust of wind pick the bike up from the side
stand and almost blow it over. I rushed out and turned it 180 degrees so it
wouldn’t be lying on its side in the morning. I heard on the news that night
that an 89-mph gust was measured in an area I had just come through.
I left Sweetwater in the morning with the
temperature at 19° with a wind chill factor that probably brought it down to
well below zero while standing still. Someone asked me jokingly at breakfast,
after seeing me ride in, what the wind chill factor was at 70. I told him I
didn’t want to know. In spite of it, I rode 430 miles that day from Sweetwater,
TX to Shreveport, LA, with the temperature mostly in the 20s. I checked in a
little before 4:00. My body was feeling the strain and I was getting weaker
every day, and my pains were getting worse. At one of the gas stops it took
four tries to get my leg up and over the seat. After checking in and unloading
the bike at Shreveport, I spotted a Shoney’s that was still serving lunch
buffet. That's where I ate.
I was pretty much of a mess in the morning.
My back hurt more every morning, but this was the worst day of the trip. After
I woke, I couldn’t stand straight from the pain and I was already taking far
too much Aleve. I managed to get around the room and pack my bags by putting
much of my weight on my arms and hands. I would move around the room by supporting
my torso on the furniture with my hands. I ate a can of sardines from my bag.
There was no coffee maker in the room so I made myself a cup of tea, which I
used for taking my meds and vitamins. When the pain eased up enough, and I was
finally able to get everything loaded on the bike, I had difficulty getting my
leg over it, which took four or five tries. I left at first light and rode 3
hours before stopping for breakfast. I was afraid if I stopped sooner, I
wouldn’t be able to get back on.
The weather cooperated across Texas, Louisiana,
Mississippi and Alabama as the two storms raged on both sides of me. The
darkness in the sky seemed to part like the Red Sea for Moses. I had sunny
skies in a narrow area while the black skies from the two storms kept opening
before me. It was cold and windy, but I felt I could handle that part. Even the
cold eased, and it got up to 40° for the first time in almost three days. I
would have liked to stop at the Barber Museum in Birmingham when I was less
than a mile from it, but I probably wouldn’t be able to walk around the
exhibits with my back the way it was, nor could I walk very far in snowmobile
boots with the pain in my feet and legs. I stopped for the night in Annison, AL
after 526 miles on the longest day of my trip. The traffic was light, and I
rode only on I-20, so I was able to maintain highway speeds for most of the
eight hours that I rode, giving me an average of more than 65 mph for the day.
The next day I rode 456 miles to Burlington,
NC in 7½ hours. I started that day without breakfast with the temperature at
27°. It didn’t get above 30° all day again. I was exhausted by the time I reached
the motel. I hadn’t taken my diuretic pill the previous afternoon, so I was
beginning to build up fluid around my heart, and getting short of breath from
it. I had gotten in too late the previous afternoon and I thought rest was more
important than the meds. Since I got in early enough this time, I took a double
dose as soon as I got into the room. I noticed that several of my knuckles had
small blisters from the unregulated heat in the gloves. My gas mileage was
worse than any day of the trip, dropping to around 33 mpg. I had problems
getting my leg over the bike every time I stopped. I also had problems getting
off without falling over backwards. My most serious problem of the day was when
the early-morning sun blinded me so much I couldn’t read any of the signs coming
into Atlanta during rush hour. It was a challenge when all four lanes of
traffic were running bumper-to-bumper at a steady 80, and I had to switch from
I-20 to I-85 without having a clue where the split was. I was unable to read
any of the signs. I relied solely on my faith to be in the right lane when the
time came to dive out of the stream of insanity into the relatively sedate cloverleaf
at the right split-second. I thought it’s tough to get old, but it's even
tougher when you can’t see. Fortunately, I made some good guesses on which lane
to be in and at what split-second to dive for the exit or entry ramps, and then
slow down enough to manage the cloverleaf. I learned a week later that
well-known Iron Butt competitor Eddie James was killed on the same highway, in
the same area, only a few days before I came through. Some of the speeds they
were traveling were insane, especially when you realize that many are teenagers,
still in high school and others are older people bordering on senility. And they're
all running bumper-to-bumper, four-abreast at 80 mph between the busses, the semis
and other 12- and 14-wheel trucks.
The next day I traveled 176 miles in 3½
hours to Prince George, VA where I spent the afternoon with my daughter Donna and
her family. It was 19° when I left Burlington, and about 40° when I stopped for
a sausage muffin with egg and cheese at Petersburg, VA, in the dirtiest
McDonald’s of the trip. But it was the first thing I had to eat all day. I
needed the afternoon to rest before my final day, which I knew would be one of my
longest, and by far the toughest of the trip. I would finally have to turn
directly into the path of the storm that I had been skirting all the way across
the country, and it might be considerably colder than it had been, with snow. Getting
on and off every time I stopped was becoming more of a problem every day
because I was getting so much weaker, and the pain in my back, legs and feet
was getting more severe each day. Donna was getting ready to put a turkey in
the oven for our evening meal when I arrived. We had a great family dinner
together that evening.
I had a fair night sleep and it was raining
lightly when I looked out at first light. With Donna’s help I was able to get
loaded and leave by 8 o’clock. Having checked the forecast, I could see it was
time to pay my dues. A cold rain was predicted for the east coast, with
temperatures in the low 40s most of the way, changing to 30s and below by the
time I reached home. I could have waited a day for the skies to clear, but I
was anxious to get back where I had much to do to prepare for Asia’s arrival
from Alaska a week later. I put on rain-gear bottoms before leaving Prince
George, but not the top because of my lack of heat control for the jacket
liner. I thought it could get too hot inside both the riding jacket and rain
jacket. Getting overheated might sap my strength even more. I was only 20 miles
out when it began to rain very hard and a heavy fog rolled in, dropping the visibility
to a few hundred feet. I had at least 475 miles to go, and I was already
exhausted. I thought of taking an easier 525-mile end-run using I-81 and I-78
to avoid the I-95 traffic, especially around DC, but with the rain, it would
have taken far too long, and I’d either have to leave before first light or
ride the last hour in darkness when the roads might be covered with ice. Besides,
it was probably snowing 50 miles farther
inland.
Even with the more direct coastal route, I
would have to average 60 mph all day, included stops, in order to get home in twilight,
which meant running 65 and 70 most of the day in the pouring rain and fog
without stopping to eat. So my best option was still the coastal route, but due
to my vision problems I figured on bypassing the tunnel in Baltimore because my
eyes don’t adjust fast enough for the abrupt change from daylight to the dim tunnel
lighting, even though the detour adds extra miles. When I got close, the rain
and overcast made it so dark outside that I figured the difference wouldn’t be
that much in the tunnel – so I took the chance and went straight through
without incident.
Fortunately it was Sunday and the truck
traffic was lighter than usual, but I was continually hampered by the heavy
rain and poor visibility. I rode without glasses all day, relying on the face
shield, which also became a mess after a while. I’d sometimes have to flip it
up and take the brunt of the rain in my eye (singular, because the left eye is
useless). A few times I found myself on the bumpy right or left shoulder after
the lane I was on ran out. The trick then would be to get back into the active
lane quickly, but an aggressive driver would often be there who would not give
an inch. I'd have to ride it out on the shoulder. I fought it like that around
Washington, Baltimore and Wilmington, and then all the way up the New Jersey
Turnpike. I thought I was home free when I reached the relatively sedate
Palisades Parkway in New York, but the temperature had dropped from the low 40s
to the low 30s, and there was deep snow along both sides of the road, reminding
me that the ground underneath was frozen, and it was already beginning to get
twilight. I knew the road surface would ice up before I could possibly reach
the Bear Mountain Bridge.
As I suspected, I rounded one of the final
bends on the Palisades Parkway, less than a mile from the bridge, and there was
a car off the road. It was already getting dark when the car slid off. The EMTs
and Rescue Squad were there, and I heard a flagman yell something about ice,
and what was I doing out there. I glided carefully by, trying not to slide out,
and I got through okay. I knew I was home free when I reached the bridge where
it was a few degrees above freezing, and I had only eight miles to go. I got
home at 4:30, just as the last glimmer of twilight faded to black. The roundtrip
to Las Vegas totaled a little over 6,200 miles. I had an almost empty gas tank
and a very empty stomach when I got in. I stopped twice for gas, but i didn’t
stop at all to eat. Fortunately Donna served a hearty breakfast before I left.
Not long after returning from Las Vegas, my stool turned black.
I was sitting in my living room, feeling weak and lightheaded, so I took my
blood pressure, which was exceptionally low. I reached for the phone and called
my primary doctor to tell him what was going on. He said I should go directly to the emergency room. “Have
someone drive you! I’ll meet you there!” My gastroenterologist was also waiting when
I arrived. Soon afterward, I learned that the lining of my stomach was bleeding badly
and that I had become low on blood. Taking too much Aleve with the condition of my stomach was the primary cause,
especially while I was on blood-thinners. I was fortunate that it didn’t happen
while I was still on the road. I was in the hospital for a week getting blood transfusions, while
the gastroenterologist worked on stopping the bleeding. I was hospitalized for
five days before they had enough blood in me and enough confidence that the
bleeding had stopped.
The next chapter is: 19 Daytona 2010 - My Last Hurrah
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