Joined: Jul 2008
And here's my miserable contribution to Day 1.
Day 1 saw me getting up earlier than normal (does anyone get up earlier than HBN, who's under the age of 65??), meeting Mike on the GW Pkwy, and then riding north-ish. I'm not sure that you can describe the feeling of breaking the gravitational pull of DC & finally being free, unless you live & ride in the District. All the bullshit & traffic falls away and you're out in the beautiful world again.
And that's about it. . I spent the day wrapped in the cocoon of f*#$ work, f$%# drama, and just enjoy the helmet time and the changing scenery.
So cut to dinnertime. We're soaking wet, cold, and happier to be that way than ever. It was a damn good run from Arlington VA, to Arlington VT. It's small talk about the road & where we will camp tonight over dinner as we warm & fill our gullets with fried things & cold beer. Then, as I looked down to dip a fried something-or-other unnecessarily in ranch dressing, I hear Mike loudly exclaim: FU*K!!! Rather shocked, I look up @ him to admonish him for cursing so loudly in a family restaurant that is already wary of the weird dirty bikers, but when I see his face I stop dead: people BS all the time that someone “looked as if they'd seen a ghost”, but I've never seen someone THAT white; completely drained of blood. We spend the next 45min calling consulates, embassies, and looking up any info we can on our phones to find anything about getting into Canada w/o a passport, but it's nearly 7pm on Friday and we're more likely to harvest Unicorn farts before bedtime than talk to anyone who knows anything about it. We exhaust all options involving shipping, people driving up to meet us, skydiving, inventing teleportation, blackmailing superman, and everything else we can think of...
Then Mike gets that sparkle in his eye. “I'll have to go back & get it.” I shake my head. “You're F*$#ing crazy man, we just rode 10hrs/470mi and you want to head back to DC @ 8pm in the rain?”. Mike says “I'll meet you tomorrow in Maine.” I shake my head and watch him ride off into the rainy dusk.
So I head back south to closest town to look for a motel to dry out in. On the way down the gorgeous VT7A I stopped at an ancient cemetery as the last light faded for a couple of pictures. As I walked back to my bike, I looked down at the grave stone I'd parked my bike next to (the only stone I'd looked at in the entire cemetery) and the only word written on it is HBN's last name. I shuttered involuntarily and saddled up, not knowing what was actually in store for my good compadre on his journey south...
1962 R60/2, 1972 R75/5, 1973.5 R75/5 Toaster LWB, 1970-74 CB/CL 350/360's, 1988 R100GS, 1989 Transalp, 2002 DRZ250
Dr. Beard screwed with this post 09-18-2012 at 10:08 PM