An article on my trip ran in today's Daily Free Press (our BU student paper). As usual, the editor butchered my writing so that it's now riddled with grammatical errors and distorts much of what I was trying to say. (The site also requires registration to view the whole thing.) So the FreeP article link is here, and here is my copy of the article (before it was ruined) - click to expand>>Me, My Motorcycle and America
by Ben Buckman
Having never ridden a motorcycle, or known anyone who had one, the idea of me riding across the United States might have seemed absurd a few years ago. Perhaps it was Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance that got the bug in my head. Or the realization, after racing with the BU Cycling team in my freshman year, that I loved the speed, the road and two wheels but could only go so far by pedaling.
Regardless of how I got there, however, I knew in the summer of 2005 that I was going to get a motorcycle. First I signed up for a riding course. I bought motorcycle books and travel diaries and a helmet. I got my license riding a Honda Nighthawk 250, and a few weeks later, had my own Nighthawk 750, the 250’s big brother, the '92 model on a line long out of production. The first steps in my new biker life now complete, my dream of riding across the country slowly grew into a plan. A non-plan plan, as I called it: the route and schedule would be decided on the fly. It was set for July 2006, but an unexpected motorcycle accident in June broke my arm, and the plan was postponed to September (this time, with a semester’s leave taken to accommodate it).
The details evolved gradually, the trip always imaginary, in the future. Then one day, it was real. The bike was loaded up with riding and camping gear, minimal clothing, cold weather and rain gear, tools and a huge atlas. My digital camera was clamped to the handlebars and my compact laptop with its cellular broadband card (for keeping a trip blog) were in a backpack strapped to the rear. With butterflies in my stomach and a breakfast send-off from my best friend, I was off. The following ten weeks were an amazing adventure, that, looking back, I can’t quite believe I actually did. Just me and my motorcycle, 14,000 miles, 37 states, through baking deserts and snowy mountains, dozens of state and national parks, Motel6’s and diners. America, thick and thin.Starting in Boston on September 8th, I rode south through the District of Columbia, across the Midwest and the Rockies to Seattle, south through California along the Pacific Coastal Highway, east to Las Vegas, through Utah’s National Parks, across the south to New Orleans, down and back up the coast of Florida, through Atlanta, Richmond, and back to Boston on November 16th.
Along the way, there were amazing days and days when I wondered what the hell I was doing. Moments when I couldn't have felt more alive and moments when I was sure I was going to die. Hours when I thought I could ride by myself forever and hours when I just wanted to be home. Nights when I wanted to sit up all night watching the stars and nights when I was sure I would be eaten by a bear. Mornings when the road and sky beckoned and mornings when the rain made me want to curl up all day in bed. Rides when the bike flew like it was built the day before and rides when I expected the wheels and chain to fly off at any moment.
In Iowa, I was almost killed when a bungee cord came loose, and the bag holding my bike cover was sucked under the rear wheel, jamming it to a skidding halt on the interstate. With instinct and luck I skidded to the shoulder, and proceeded to shred the cover inch by inch with my pocketknife until I could pull it out. In the process, my battery died, and I was saved by missionaries who jumped my battery and gave me their literature. The gods of the road often came in the form of people or jumper cables. In a biker bar in Minnesota, I learned not to ask for a local beer. In the little town of Chemult, Oregon, I met a kid waiting tables at his family’s roadside restaurant who didn’t know how to spell his own hometown. I had my picture taken with Penn Gillette (of Penn & Teller). At a café in San Luis Obispo, California, most of the patrons were shirtless and a hobo was playing guitar. I ate the most amazing ribs in Idaho and the world’s best roast pork sandwich in Philadelphia.
I saw the divine artwork of Crater Lake and Bryce Canyon. I rode ATV’s with my cousins and hiked up a mountain with a tireless golden retriever. I flew and sailed and jetskied. I saw the perfect Sunday morning at a plaza in Santa Fe and the Blue Angels in San Francisco with my girlfriend. I reveled in the sharp curves of mountains and rebelled against speed limits. I discovered that cops will give you a break if you pull over before they ask you to, or simply if they’re from your state. I was reassured that despite too many laws, it’s still a mostly free country. I smoked hookahs in New Orleans, had coffee in many Panera Breads, pancakes at many Dennys’ and biscuits with gravy at too few Cracker Barrels. I learned the difference between a huge motorcycle dealership and the passionate mechanic with a garage shop, and the value of a job well done. I became more optimistic about humanity, because despite all the opportunities, nothing of mine was ever stolen.
I saw the most beautiful sunsets and nearly went broke twice. I learned that fear is best when I am aware of it and happy it's there but don't let it overwhelm me. I learned that we really don't need much to live, but that good gear is priceless. I learned to love this country and its history and the pride of its people. I learned to love the road and appreciate the yearning for home. I learned to love my own company. I learned what's at stake.
But most of all, I learned that the journey is never far away. I am the traveler and I am the road. The journey is wherever I go, and there's always more road to ride.
 In one moment many years ago, I was inspired to travel across the United States on a motorcycle. Having never ridden a motorcycle, or known anyone who had one, this idea might have seemed absurd on its face. Perhaps it was Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance that got the bug in my head. Or the realization, after racing with the BU Cycling team in my freshman year, that I loved the speed and the road and two wheels but could only go so far by pedaling. Regardless of how I got there, however, I knew in the summer of 2005 that I was going to get a motorcycle. First I signed up for the MSF's riding course in Beverly, MA. I bought motorcycle books and travel diaries and a helmet. I got my license riding a Honda Nighthawk 250, and a few weeks later, by sheer coincidence, I had my very own Honda Nighthawk 750, the big brother of the 250, the '92 model on a line long out of production. (Or maybe it's the big sister model; whether motorcycles are male or female is something I never did figure out, and one of the reasons I never gave mine a name, but it was my only baby til I met Tristyn.) The first step in my crazy idea to go across the country on a motorcycle thus complete, I set the departure date for the imaginary adventure as the following summer. Then, everything else in life aside, I waited a year. The idea slowly grew into a plan. A non-plan plan, as I called it: the route and schedule would be decided on the fly. It was set for July in the summer of 2006 and expected to be a month long. The plan began to include many details: things I would need, logistics to arrange, concerns to take into account. The riding season of 2006 came around, the bike came out of storage, got a full tuneup and was running in peak condition. It was D minus three weeks, I had almost everything prepared to leave, had the final shopping spree for gear on my calendar... and then I got hit riding home one night and broke my arm. My wrist immobilized, a cast for six to eight weeks, surgery, physical therapy: the trip was cancelled. I told myself it was only postponed, but with family visiting in August and classes in September, there was no way it was going to happen that summer. All the imagining and planning had been ruined, I was crushed and my arm wasn't healing fast enough. Eventually the cast came off, the pins came out and I started to regain strength in my wrist. And then one day it occured to me: why not do it in the fall? I could take a semester off; I was a semester ahead anyway. The weather would be better in September than in July and I would have as much time as I wanted. The new plan floated in my brain for a few days until I realized it was not only feasible, it was a great idea. It was just a matter of working out the logistics, like making sure my scholarship wouldn't disappear when I returned and getting health insurance to replace my school policy. Then one day, D-Day was there, for real this time. The bike was loaded up with all the gear I thought I would need and the tools to improvise everything else. I had a new digital camera and compact laptop to chronicle the journey and work along the way. With butterflies a-flurry in my stomach and a huge road atlas strapped to the bags, I was off. The rest, as they say, is history. Or more correctly, it's the contents of this blog. 14,000 miles through 37 states. Weather ranging from desert heat to mountain snow. Amazing days and days when I wondered what the hell I was doing. Moments when I couldn't have felt more alive and moments when I was sure I was going to die. Hours when I thought I could ride by myself forever and hours when I just wanted to be home. Nights when I wanted to sit up all night watching the stars and nights when I was sure I would be eaten by a bear. Mornings when the road and sky beckoned and mornings when the rain made me want to cuddle up all day in bed. Rides when the bike flew like it was built yesterday and rides when I expected the wheels and chain to fly off at any moment. I saw the most beautiful sunsets and nearly went broke twice. I learned that fear is best when I am aware of it and happy it's there but don't let it overwhelm me. I learned that we really don't need much to live on, but that good toys in their place are wonderful to have. I learned to love this country and its history and the pride of its people. I learned to love the road and appreciate the yearning for home. I learned to love my own company. I learned what's at stake. Many times, I could not have continued without the kind help of strangers, and they were always there. Many times, less kind people could have stolen my gear or the whole bike, when it was uncovered and in the open, yet nothing was ever stolen. I learned the importance of good gear. My gloves that kept my hands warm and dry enough to ride in the worst conditions. My sunglasses that, despite cracking and needing to be superglued back together several times, I could not have lived without. My tent, its rain cover and my sleeping bag. My compass. My gasoline-fueled camping stove. And all the other containers, fibers and doohickeys without which I could not have done the trip. I learned that it's good to have people who worry about you, even if they worry about silly things and call after every rain storm. Like fear, those who fear about me serve a crucial purpose, so thank you to those people. After all that I have seen, there is still a certain longing for the things I missed: the cities I didn't see, the lakes I didn't swim in, the beers I didn't try and the people I didn't meet. But I could spend a thousand lifetimes exploring my world and still have the world to see. That just means there's always more road to ride. The people who tell me this is a "once in a lifetime experience" befuddle me: it will be very sad indeed if I never do something even bigger and better than this. There will be many more journeys to come. Already this weekend, Tristyn and I loaded up the bike again to go camping in Salisbury Beach. The bike is going into hibernation soon for the long New England winter. Maybe I'll buy a car. Or I could get a pilot's license. But I think the most important thing I learned on this trip is that the journey doesn't have to be out there, miles away, navigated on a map. I am the traveller and the road, and the journey is wherever I go.
(I back-posted for New York on 11/16, see below. More coming soon.)
Arrived in Boston. Will write much more later.
(Back-posted) From Philly I tried to take the NJ Turnpike up to Paterson to meet my aunt, who was going into NYC to have dinner with a friend. But as with the last time I tried to take the turnpike - which is also numbered as I-95 - I took the regular I-95 exit instead and missed the turnpike completely. I finally got to the turnpike but was too late to meet her to go to their scheduled dinner, so I rode to Queens myself and met them for a second dinner. In the morning I rode into Manhattan and met UJ for brunch, just like on the first leg. (He took a video of me coming and leaving on both occasions, so hopefully I'll post that soon.) Then I headed north out of the city towards Boston.
 I visited my friend Josh last night in Towson, MD. I knew him freshman year, when he was a junior; then he left BU to tour with his band, and besides one time when he visited Boston, I hadn't seen him in two years. He's studying and living in Towson now with his girlfriend Erin, and we caught up on old times and watched a very trippy movie, Before Night Falls, about gay writers in the Cuban revolution. At 10am this morning I set out, northbound for Philadelphia. The nice weather from yesterday continued. My destination was the Reading Terminal Market, where I was under strict orders from UJ (a former Philadelphian) to eat a particular piece of heaven at one of the stalls: the foot-long roast pork sandwich with greens and provolone at Dinic's Roast Beef & Pork. Suffice it to say, it lived up to the high expectations. Then I bought a treat for later at an Amish bakery stall. Back at my bike, two businessmen walked by, and one (the boss I assume) looks over the bike, looks at me and says "I'll give you some advice, the best advice I've given," and proceeds to tell me how to drive to Massachusetts, "take this road" and "that one sucks," with his subordinate laughing stupidly at random intervals. Asshole. His route goes nowhere near where I need to go, anyway. Departing that semi-illegal spot, I rode a few blocks down to the Historic District, where I parked in another spot of questionable legality, the end of a dead end cobblestone road near Independence Hall. I was walking around the nearby park taking pictures and seeing the sights, when I see a bicycle cop walking towards my bike. So I sprint back as he's looking at the license plate and about to write a parking citation. He's not much older than me. I tell him I didn't realize it was illegal (I mean I figured it was, but there were no signs either way) and would move it right away. "Well you can move it, but I'll have to write you a warning. For my records, you know." "OK." He takes out his radio and reports, "Disregard that, I found the owner." Then to me: "Can I see your license sir?" So I hand him my license. "Oh, you're from Mass?" "Yup. It's a Mass plate too." "Oh wow, I'm from Mass too. I won't give you a warning then. Have a nice day." And he left. So I rode around the block and parked in front of a meter, next to a grassy area covered with leaves where I now sit on a ledge. The squirrels in the tree above me seem to be using me for acorn-throwing target practice. It's starting to drizzle. In a few minutes I'll get back on I-95 and head up to NJ to meet Aunt Shari.              
The ride last night after dinner was long and dark. At one point, a deer crossed the road in front of me, the third or fourth time that's happened so far on this trip. At first I thought it was a car turning onto the road, but it didn't have headlights, so I slowed down, saw it was a deer and slammed on the brakes as it strolled past. I finally got to Staunton River State Park shortly before its posted closing time of 10pm and camped for the night. The leaves made a good cushion for my tent and I had the campground all to myself. The Virginia state parks system is very impressive - there's a sign at the entrance boasting "voted best state parks in America" and I believe it - and they even had laundry machines which I used in the morning. Then I rode 150 miles to Richmond, where I currently sit at the 3rd St Cafe eating french toast and satisfying my caffeine addiction. (Free refills were undoubtedly one of the greatest inventions of the 20th century, but with coffee they have a downside.)     
I had breakfast at Cracker Barrel this morning, one of their big combos with grits, eggs, biscuits, gravy and sausage. Yum yum yum. Then I meant to take I-40 West (actually north) from Newport, towards I-81 North (actually east) towards Richmond, but accidentally went south (east) on I-40 back towards Asheville. But it worked out better that way, because I was able to get on the Blue Ridge Parkway instead. It's a scenic route that goes northeast through North Carolina and Virginia, pretty much the route I wanted to take. It winds through forests and mountains, the Blue Ridge Mountains I assume, not a fast ride (compared to the interstate) but a lot more fun. Shortly after setting out, the cold hazy weather from earlier in the morning disappeared, and it suddenly became sunny and warm. It was lovely thin-glove weather the rest of the day. The Parkway detoured onto other roads several times, and I ended up on route 221, a scenic route parallel to the parkway, which took me into Virginia. One of the last towns I went through in North Carolina was Sparta, a town I read about in Tom Wolfe's great book, I Am Charlotte Simmons. The main character of that book, Charlotte Simmons, is from Sparta, NC, but I didn't realize it was an actual place until I rode through it. It's a farm town, like all the towns in the area, with big country houses far apart on large tracts of farm land. Charlotte went to Allegheny High School (the name of the county), and as I rode through, a school bus from Allegheny Elementary stopped in front of me to let off kids returning from school, and the kids in the back seat all waved to me. Route 221 turned left at that point, into Virginia, past Independence, to Galax, where I stopped at a Pizza Hut for the Monday night $5.99 large pizza special. I'm sitting there now, half the pizza eaten and half in a box for later. As usual with Pizza Hut, the service is terrible but the pizza makes up for it. Southern culture is quite charming. Everyone is proper and polite, it's all yes sir and yes ma'am, good Christian values as they would say, and I haven't encountered any unfriendly people yet. I don't know the first thing about farming but I think I'd like to try living on a farm someday. Maybe not an actual active farm, but a ranch house on several acres of hills with streams and a lake wouldn't be too bad. I didn't get as far as I thought due to the slower going on the scenic roads, but I'll try to ride a few more hours to a state park, camp for the night and ride to Richmond in the morning.           
It's a frigid, hazy morning. I'm heading out soon towards Richmond. Brrrrr
It's kind of funny to hear Native Americans speaking in thick southern accents. I mean, it shouldn't be funny, but it is for some reason. They're supposed to have, well, native accents. Crisp and clear, like in the movies. You don't see Chief Flying Eagle saying "The suh-un is rah-zing too-deh-ay"... Oh, and the guy at Wendy's asked me to repeat my order: "Whut wuz thee-at? Pleez see eet ageen slowwwly..." Since when is my accent hard to understand? I thought I didn't have an accent. Silly me...
The ride into the park was much longer than it seemed on the map, and signs were lacking, so by the time I got in it was almost dark and getting very cold. Surprisingly, there was no entrance station like all the other national parks I've been to, so it would have been free even without my pass. (Maybe the first half of the park is free and then they charge you, I don't know.) I started riding along the park road, up into the mountains, as it got darker. At a good vantage point I got some long-exposure shots just in time. I kept going up but started to encounter snow and ice on the side of the road. With no indication that the elevation would drop or that the temperature would rise if I kept going, and with the road being too dark to see if there was ice on it, I decided to turn back and not risk it. So I backtracked through the mountains, back through Cherokee territory, got a big triple combo and tea at Wendy's, and got on I-40 heading northwest towards Knoxville. However, my next destination being Richmond, VA, I wasn't sure if I wanted to go all the way to Knoxville, so I stopped at a motel in Newport, TN. Depending on how early I wake up, I might go to Knoxville for breakfast, or I might try to see the park again from the northern side. Then I haul ass to Richmond.   
I had breakfast at a cafe on N Main St in downtown Greenville. From there, route 25 headed north, became I-26, to Asheville, NC. Uncle J recommended an itinerary of things to see, including the Biltmore Estate in Asheville. Unfortunately, entry to the estate (on top of any tour) is $47. Instead of that, I'll head west a little, towards Smoky Mountains National Park, where my national parks pass will get me in free. I was going to go to Charleston, WV, but I'll take UJ's recommended route instead through Richmond to see Civil War sites. I am currently sitting on a bench outside the Biltmore information center - the only free area on the estate. My hands are going numb from the mountain cold, and nasty gray clouds are moving in so I expect it to start raining any minute.     
Just checked into a motel in Greenville, SC. It was pouring the whole way, so my stuff is all spread out on the floor to dry.
I brought only one pair of amazing Eddie Bauer jeans on this trip. I've washed them a few times but otherwise they've been on me every day for two months straight, usually over long johns. That's a lot of wear and tear, obviously, especially from occasional road debris (pebbles and such) that hit me as I'm riding, so they've gotten several holes and tears along the way. One such little hole on my right knee gradually expanded into a huge hole, to the point where it wasn't cool anymore, and became a problem in Florida where my grandparents [legitimately] didn't want me wearing them to restaurants. So this morning I finally took out the little sewing kit I've had in my toiletries bag all along, and sewed it up. It looks pretty good, if I may say so myself. (Before and after shots:)   I got breakfast at a Krispy Kreme, three custard donuts and a coffee. Then I rode into downtown Atlanta, to the Centennial Olympic Park. I caught the tail end of the Veterans Day Parade (or maybe the parade was very short and I saw the whole thing, I'm not sure), then went to the CNN Center across from the park. I went on the Studio Tour, seeing the studios of CNN, Headline News and CNN International. (Photography wasn't allowed on the tour.) The tour guide was a bitch and was basically reciting a memorized script in a monotone, but it was interesting stuff anyway. What I really want to do is sit in the studio as AC360 (on CNN) or Hardball (on MSNBC) are broadcast, but I doubt you can do that. I'm having lunch in a sports bar in the CNN Center now. I'm heading out soon. The skies were gray when I came in so I'm hoping it's not pouring outside.       
I got a much later start today than I had wanted, after sleeping through my alarm. Instead of getting to Atlanta for lunch time, I had lunch at a Popeye's in McRae, and got to Atlanta in time for sunset. (It was beautiful but the batteries in my camera were dead.) I sought a Panera Bread to do some work, but the first one I got to was closed for renovations, so after an hour of riding through heavy city traffic, I got to an open one. It'll probably be too late when I leave to find a campsite - most parks close at 10 pm - so I'll look for a motel. I'd like to see some sites in the city tomorrow before moving on. I used secondary highways for most of the way. The trees are covered in autumn leaves, shades of red, yellow and green. I got on I-16 off route 441, and the scenery ended, but was made up with speed. The last few miles on I-75 into Atlanta were fun.      
Press Play. You can mute the sound, it's just wind noise. The camera is mounted as usual on the left side of my handlebars.
Set up camp at Laura Walker State Park, Georgia.
At a rest stop 8 miles north of Titusville, FL.    
Heading back to the road in a little while.
I've been watching the election coverage on MSNBC with Chris Matthews, Keith Olberman and the whole all-star panel. The Dems have swept the House and are on the brink of taking the Senate; it's down to final counts or recounts in Montana and Virginia, both of which the Dems have claimed as victories. I haven't written any columns in a while and haven't put any political thoughts on this blog, but I'll make an exception now. This is a mandate to deal with reality in Iraq; to restore habeas corpus and the rule of law that were eliminated in the name of fighting terror; to force some fiscal sanity; to finally investigate and oversee the Administration as Congress is supposed to do; to end the disgusting use of religious fundamentalism for political mobilization; to get rid of Rumsfeld; to create a visionary energy policy and investigate the alliances that devised the old one; to constructively engage Iran and North Korea; to remove the neocons from the stage of policy debate; to actually have rational policy debates instead of mindless partisan hackery; to reform the lobbying system; to end the reckless hubris of Bush and Cheney's blindly ideological Unitary Executive structure. And so much more, but that would be a nice start... maybe after the Dems have succeeded in their initial legislative agenda (some of which I disagree with, but such is the way it goes), they can finish the job that Mccain-Feingold started by banning 527's and establishing a system of voluntary public financing (via fund-matching) of elections. Then we can have, in 2008, not only results to be proud of, but campaigns to be proud of as well, and maybe, just maybe, amazing things will start happening. It's a lot to hope for, but hope won tonight, so it's no time to start giving up.
I learned a lesson today, to avoid huge dealerships for work on my bike and find little shops like this one (All Makes Cycles in Delray Beach, for the record). The dealership guys looked at it and decided it needed a $400 service before they'd even look at what the specific problem was. Sean, the founder/owner/mechanic at this shop, identified three specific problems - the air filter was saturated with oil, the chain was shot and the spark plugs were bad - and fixed those. I haven't taken it on the highway yet but it seems to be riding really smoothly. The knocking and power problems are gone. I'll only really know in a few days but my bet is he did a great job. We're going out to dinner now, then I'm watching election results live all night.
 I won't be able to vote today, because I'm not home and I didn't register absentee, but being a political junky, I'm following the coverage very closely. I'm going to pick up my bike from the shop in an hour, hoping it's all fixed.  
I took my bike to get fixed this morning. Four mechanics had ten different ideas of what to do to fix it. At the first shop the two mechanics said the problem was the chain and sprockets and general wear and tear; they wanted to do a full service tuneup for hundreds of dollars, and only then figure out what the problem was. But they would have taken several days to order the parts, so I went to another shop down the road, where the mechanic said it was probably a slipped clutch, so he could rebuild the clutch but it would take a week...so he referred me to a friend of his at a third shop, where I ended up leaving it. It was a cool shop - a very small operation, not a huge fancy dealership like the first one - just one guy in a real mechanic's shop, old parts and grease and a loft for the office. After checking a few things out and listening to the problems he said the sprockets were fine, the chain was terrible, it had nothing to do with the clutch, but it was probably related to the plugs and the air filter. At the previous tuneup in Arizona they replaced three of the plugs but couldn't get the fourth out because it was stuck (all these guys frowned when I told them that; I guess if it's really stuck they need to tear the threads and drill new ones which is really complicated). The bottom line is, I don't know much about mechanics (I really should but I'm afraid I'll screw it up if I try learning by myself), so I should have gotten a full service (not just a tuneup) several thousand miles ago. The bike has been burning oil lately, too, which I should have realized was a symptom of bigger problems. This mechanic (Sean at All Makes Motorcycles) replaced all four plugs, and said that the shop in Scottsdale had put the wrong kind of plugs in. He replaced the chain and ordered a new air filter, which should arrive tomorrow. Apparently when the bike fell (as it has several times), oil saturated the air filter which ruined it. Of course there's no guarantee that the problems (knocking, loss of power, burning too much gas and oil, etc) will all go away with these repairs, but my fingers are crossed. I should really take a mechanics course. Maybe I should buy an old crappy 50cc bike just to mess around with it as a learning tool. I'd need more tools and lots of space to work, not easy in Boston. Considering that Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance is one of my favorite books, I'm pretty terrible at maintaining my own bike. (I check the fluid levels and lube the chain regularly, but there's a lot more to good maintenance than that.) Sean said the worst case scenario is that the top end of the engine will have to be rebuilt. That would cost $1000 at least. The bike's only worth $1500 in good condition now, so if that's the case it won't even be worth fixing it. I really hope it's not, though, because this bike has sentimental value now that I can't put a monetary value on. As for my schedule, I'll get the bike back tomorrow afternoon, then stay up most of the night watching election results. Thursday morning looks like the most reasonable departure time. I had wanted to get back to Boston by next weekend but that's not possible. Hopefully the weather will still be good (above freezing) when I get back and Tristyn will forgive me for being away so long. I still have sites to see going up the east coast but I'll try to put in many miles each day between them.  
The bike shops in town are all closed today, so I'll have to wait til tomorrow to get it fixed.
      I last wrote after returning from the hookah bar in New Orleans. The next morning I slept late and rode out to the Lower Ninth Ward, an area hard-hit by Katrina, to see what it looks like now. I was told there are still whole blocks of abandoned homes, but I just saw a lot of demolition and construction. A city being rebuilt. I got some pizza at a place that was under ten feet of water a year ago; you wouldn't know it now. The refinery is back up and running, the train tracks are intact, the roads are either badly potholed or newly paved. There were many mobile homes. Not much to take pictures of, but maybe I was just in the wrong neighborhood. Anyway, I went to New Orleans to see the city as it lives, not the relics of the past that was destroyed, so it's probably good that I spent most of the time in the French Quarter. (Note: The first photo above is the Superdome, where thousands of people were living on the brink for a week as Bush and Brownie did their wonderful heckuva job. It's fitting to see New Orleans a few days before this election.)  From New Orleans I got on I-10 and rode around 400 miles to Tallahassee, Florida, to visit my old friend Yonit. "Old" in that our parents knew each other in their 20's, we knew each other growing up, our families moved to Israel around the same time, we moved back to the states around the same time, and we generally have very similar backgrounds. So there was a lot to catch up on and talk about. We went to Ruby Tuesdays (very good) in the evening and Whataburger (not so good) in the morning. After a late start, I left Tallahassee around 1pm, back to I-10, east then south to the Florida Turnpike, (which was very expensive so I'll avoid it on the way back north), 450 miles to Delray Beach, to visit my grandparents. I arrived around 10pm and in good Jewish-grandma fashion was promptly fed more than I could eat. The bike has been having problems all day. There's been some kind of mechanical issue for a while now (mostly since the tuneup in Arizona, which I suspect was a better job on the outside than the inside) - but it wasn't affecting my riding at all so I was ignoring it. Today it became a big problem, though - the bike would suddenly lose power and refuse to go over 65, getting jumpy and slowing down the more gas I gave it - and the knocking sound which was previously only in low gears at low speeds is now loud at all speeds. Whether those are the same problem or two separate ones I don't know, but I was barely getting 20 MPG today. I initially thought the knocking was in the transmission, but now I suspect it's in the engine; maybe a clogged fuel line, or a bad spark plug, or a clogged air filter, or any of a hundred other things that my non-mechanic's mind can speculate. The bottom line is I can't ride it back north until it's fixed, so I'm taking it into a shop tomorrow. (Unless the shops in the area are closed on Sundays.) I'm hoping it won't be too hard or expensive to fix.
I'm staying at a hotel in the French Quarter, where the New Orleans nightlife is centered. My destination tonight was the Hookah Cafe, a couple of blocks away. My own hookah is currently in storage along with the dried-out remnants of my Israeli tobacco stash, so this was a real treat. I walked in feeling pretty chill, but when the bartender suggested I fi |
