Three Wheels of Love

Some people say it’s not proper. It’s immoral, even. To take a motorcycle that’s more tractor than street racer, and try and pretty it up — it just doesn’t make sense. It’s supposed to be dirty.

I set out, heading west, around 5 p.m. Friday night. It took me ages to wriggle through Portland’s commuter traffic as working stiffs squeezed out of the city, headed for their weekends in the suburbs. Once I got past Standish, on Route 25, the cars and traffic lights thinned out considerably. Still, I knew I wouldn’t get there before dark. Missing the Route 28 turnoff in Ossippee, N.H. on Route 16 didn’t help either. Nope.

But, at least it wasn’t snowing this time.

I was on my way back to Gilmanton, N.H. to meet some of my Russian sidecar motorcycle clan for a little riding and camping. The last time I did this, in February, we were coldcocked by a blizzard. Almost nobody showed up. So, this get together was a makeup, or do-over, for those who didn’t want to brave the elements a couple months back...

Please head over to MY BLOG to read some more about the trip and see the video.

I hate to direct you elsewhere, but they're nice enough to pay me to make the videos. The more hits I get, the more likely I can continue to ride on the company's dime. Thanks in advance!

Here are some pix to temp you.

I would love that actually !
Love that you can carry a wood stove
on your motorcycle.
awesome.

I hear you can even fit a person in one of those sidecars!

I came to a stop behind Thermos on the dusty trail. He had both of his gloved hands over his head. He was clapping. Just ahead of him, in the middle of a small stream was Keith. His bike was submerged, up to both cylinder heads, in brown water. The rear of the bike was down a bit deeper, nearly past the rear fender. The back tire was spinning, but he was going nowhere. With the rotating tire and frothing exhaust bubbles, the dark water roiled like an uninviting jacuzzi . I leaped from my bike in an instant. I knew what I had to. I knew I had to do it fast, too.

I grabbed my camera and took a picture.

You can read the rest and see a video at my blog. Yes, I know, you don't want to click on over there, but that's how I get paid. Thanks in advance.

http://bennetttheredonethat.bangordailynews.com/2013/05/06/motorcycles-do-not-float/

I spend Sunday morning riding with a lovely, 72-year-old woman named Lenore. She lives here in Portland but she's spent most of her life in the Bronx. Growing up in the city, she'd never even learned to ride a bicycle, let alone a motorcycle. Her daughter, Rachel, loves to ride and really wanted to take her mom for a spin. You see, Lenore's cancer is back and the outlook isn't good. But Lenore wasn't so sure about sitting behind Rachel on her '71 Honda 350.



So, Rachel asked me if I'd consider taking her mom for a spin. I said, "Of course."



Cancer carried my mom off, seven years ago. She rode almost every weekend with my father. So, how could I say no. Anyway, Lenore was a delight. We rode out through Cumberland and made a big loop back to town. We stopped for ice cream along the way. When we got back, she was all smiles and said, "Now I know why a dog sticks its nose out the window."

After dropping her off, I headed for the Northeast Chop Shop open house. Not my style, exactly, but a bunch of my friends were there, there were some good bands on the schedule and the pinup contest didn't hurt, either.





























Had a pulled pork sandwich at Po Boy and Pickles on the way home and beat the torrential rain. Good day, I'd say.

We rolled to a stop on the gravel track. Our dust cloud caught up with us and swept passed. I raised my helmet shield and tasted the grit in my mouth. It savored it. The dust told me I wasn’t on pavement, I was in the woods, right where I wanted to be.

The other six riders in our mini convoy of Russian motorcycles took off their helmets and commenced to shoot the breeze. Some lit up smokes. The day was gray but the colors still sang on the trees. Nobody was in a hurry.

This year, for our annual fall campout and ride, we were in the woods west of Oquossoc, near Big Falls in Upper Cupsuptic. I arrived after dark the night before after narrowly missing a moose on Route 17, south of the Height of Land. I came so close I could have reached out and grabbed a tuft of fur on his rump. Luckily, I was fully loaded for camping and going uphill. My underpowered soviet steed was only making 35 mph in third gear. Still, I left skid marks. I won’t say exactly where, though.

That had been the only drama of the trip, so far...

Click the link for the rest of the story, a video and an original song. Sorry to link offsite, but I make part of my living blogging about my rides.

http://bennetttheredonethat.bangord...torcycle-with-a-beer-can-and-not-hit-a-moose/

On Friday night I wore two pairs of long johns, Red Sox-themed fleece pants with a long-sleeved, insulated undershirt, a flannel shirt, a hoodie and a one-piece, insulated Dickies jumpsuit. A wool hat, two pairs of socks and gloves completed the look. Then I wriggled into a 20 degree down mummy bag and then squeezed into another, 40 degree poly-filled sleeping bag. For good measure, I wrapped an army-colored wool blanket up around my head and shoulders, except for a small breathing passage.

I lay there on the floor of my tent, on the shore of Lovewell Pond in Fryeburg, panting from the exertion. I could see my ragged breaths whistling through the woolen blow hole by the light of a flickering candle. The moisture crystalized on my beard as it left my body and hit the cold air. The thermometer said the temperature was just above zero.

“Yay, camping,” I thought.

More pix, video and the rest of the story at the link below...

http://bennetttheredonethat.bangordailynews.com/2014/01/27/video-motorcycles-on-ice/


Poacher Bob's tend and rig on the shores of the frozen pond.


Thermos cooked us breakfast on Saturday morning in a frying land nearly as big around as his spare tire.


Thermos cooks while Poacher Bob supervises.


Five frozen rigs on Lovewell Pond. I'm sure the "Polar Ride" in Florida was chilly, too.


Poacher Bob, our host, enjoys himself out on the ice.


Rode to see the dam at Hiram Falls. My father manned it alone in the big flood of 87 four over a week. He had orders to shut everything down, then get the hell out of she started to let loose. He and the dam survived. Parts of it are about a hundred years one now, but they just finished a major overhaul last year.


Poacher Bob reminds us: safety first!


Here we all are (from left, Poacher Bob, Thermos, John and Keith) stopped on a smooth patch of an icy, rutted road near the dam. It was so rough, Bob's fender rack let go. I nearly lost a filling or two and I think I bit my cheek.


Canadians know a thing or two about how to stay warm, right?


Keith (from left) John, Poacher Bob and Sideburns, who came to visit on his blue patrol, sit around a well-earned campfire Saturday afternoon.


Thermos got his wood stove cranking Saturday night after it began to snow.




The enormous fire was courtesy of Sputnik who visited for a while with Pieman.


A sad sight. Don't worry. They were not wasted.

I’d made up my mind.

The next person who walked through the door, brushing sleet off their shoulders, motioning to my motorcycle parked outside and asking, “How’s the riding?” was going to get my small paper cup full of coffee in the face.

I’m not normally a hostile person. I’ve waited out the rain in corner stores before. But this was different. This was the most miserable ride I’d ever been on.

I’ve ridden in the rain. I’ve ridden in the cold. But I’d never experienced this particular scenario of darkness, bad roads, mixed precipitation and freezing temperatures before.

I’d taken the more direct route to my destination in New Hampshire. The road was pot-holed, heaved and bumper-to-bumper with Friday night traffic. The puddles on the pavement were starting to set up. The rain and sleet froze to my helmet’s face shield, making oncoming headlights look like a homicidal impressionist painting. I tried to ride with the shield in the up position but he sleet and rain felt like needles driving through my cheeks. I squinted through one eye, then the other, like an oscillating Popeye. I struggled to keep my speed up near the posted limit but I was leading a parade of headlights behind me at least 15 cars long.

Then my boots filled with water.

Clicky, clicky on the link for more of the story and the video.

http://bdn.to/m8i0


Thermos, Keith and Tim at the 2014 NE Winter Camp.


John collects evidence at the 2014 NE Winter Camp.


Chris sits on his flathead Chang at the 2014 NE Winter Camp.


Thermos and five of the eight bikes in attendance at the 2014 NE Winter Camp.

Chris ads fuel to the firs at the 2014 NE Winter Camp.


Ron and John weigh the options by the campfire at the 2014 NE Winter Camp.


Chris at the 2014 NE Winter Camp.


Thermos cooks three pounds of bacon in his big daddy skillet at the 2014 NE Winter Camp.


Keith steals bacon, Thermos cooks home fries and Chris supervises at the 2014 NE Winter Camp.


Tim and Linda's driveway was excellent for sledding at the 2014 NE Winter Camp.


Tim takes a run at the 2014 NE Winter Camp.


Linda prepares at the top of the hill before making her her way down the icy course at the 2014 NE Winter Camp.


Linda slides down the hill at the 2014 NE Winter Camp.


Thermos takes a moment to recover after his downhill run at the 2014 NE Winter Camp.

John, Thermos and Keith at the Chinese lounge lunch stop at the 2014 NE Winter Camp.


Linda at the Chinese lounge lunch stop at the 2014 NE Winter Camp.


Pete's tub gout a hold of a chicken finger after lunch at the 2014 NE Winter Camp. Watch your fingers!


Two Urals and a Chang at the 2014 NE Winter Camp.


Chang taillight at the 2014 NE Winter Camp.


A flathead Change at the 2014 NE Winter Camp.


Best. Outhouse. Ever. At the 2014 NE Winter Camp.


A trail in the snow leads to a tent at the 2014 NE Winter Camp.


What's left of the moose at the 2014 NE Winter Camp.


Two members of the Fur Hat Society at the 2014 NE Winter Camp.


A well-earned snort at the 2014 NE Winter Camp.


John and some rigs at the 2014 NE Winter Camp.


Pate wonders why anyone would miss the 2014 NE Winter Camp.


Smoke and Thermos at the 2014 NE Winter Camp.


Keith and smoke at the 2014 NE Winter Camp.


Keith and John at the 2014 NE Winter Camp.


Bill forgot to bring a rig to the 2014 NE Winter Camp.