On the 2010 Epic Deadhorse, Alaska ride, I knew who I was writing for. There were all these new moms who were very very concerned about my untimely demise when I told them that I was riding my street bike, the bike I am on now, up the haul road of Ice Road Truckers fame all the way to Deadhorse and, oh by the way, those 424 miles are mostly unpaved they universally responded with, "You're going to die! You have to send me a text message or email every day to let me know you're ok!" After it got to be about 20 of them, I confided in one of them that there was no way I was going to be able to do this so she suggested, "Why don't you write a blog? That way we can all stalk you and when the updates stop we'll know roughly where you bit it?" 

This made sense to me. The rest is history. 

Since then, however, I've tried to write. I tried on the 2016 Trans-America Trail trip. I've tried again sporadically but the problem now is that I don't know who I am writing for. I have those who have asked me to write, but with no particular concerns. I now have a friends list here that spans so many domains. There are so many professional motorcyclists, world travelers, journalists, real adventurers, and others ... The vast majority of the moms that used to be concerned about my untimely demise have moved on away from social media. The thing about the moms was that I could ask myself the question, "What is it about this experience of traveling by motorcycle across this vast expanse that they would not know?" And that led me to see things from a different perspective and see what I was doing at the time through beginner eyes. And I wrote from that perspective not knowing anything about writing. 

But now I find myself a bit adrift. There are so many thoughts, ideas, and views on these trips, even through the "boring" sections, that I don't know what to capture and what to let slip into oblivion. There's something about being on a motorcycle out in the air alone over so many miles that opens the mind and calms the soul. There is time to think in a way I just seem to be unable to in the limiting walls of that cage I call my house. 

I remember years ago, Yun tried to convince me to try a helmet communicator, a Sena. I was skeptical about having some voice in my helmet. He convinced me by saying,"It'd be great for training." Duncan had similar reservations. Interestingly, the communicators changed everything for the better. There were years where Duncan and I would ride almost every weekend, and while over the decades we had known each other we would have good conversations, /NOTHING/ compared the conversations we would have while on our separate bikes most often riding twisty mountain roads. 

At one point he said, "So much of my being is focused on simple survival right now that the loud cacophony of voices I usually hear are silent and there's just enough focus left to have this conversation."

Megan said, referencing Buddhist thought, "It quiets the monkey voices."

There's a quiet Out Here. 

This trip is different than any of the longer motorcycle trips I've ever taken. Usually, I leave with a general idea of what direction I would like to go and then let circumstances dictate what happens. Adventure begins where the plan ends and I love those moments where things are redirected because of some unexpected event .... like that moment at a dusty automated gas station out in the Big and Flat when I first met Robert and after some conversation and questions he invited me to a saloon in Dodge City .... and suddenly I found myself on the Cannonball Centennial Ride.

However, for this trip I am doing something very different. I have a number of planned stops. Michigan was the first stop where I got resoundingly beaten in a 40+ games of pool. (There will be a rematch!) Now I am moving onto Fort Collins, Colorado to attend a wedding but following Route 34 based on a number of suggestions which is turning out to be a much nicer alternative to the super slab.

From there I have a very carefully curated week of routes to ride and specific places to see on specific dates thanks to Samantha who used to run a motorcycle touring company. She has generously provided me with an itinerary of amazing roads, stops, and experiences along the way I would never have been able to even consider let alone have access to. To say I am grateful for this would be an understatement. After laying out the initial plan (which if you are interested in you can see if you click on the Plan tab above, click Open Interactive Map, and zoom into the blue part on the left side of the map) she suggested she could tweak it based on the kinds of things I like and whatever my preferences are. 

I responded, "I would like to see this land through your eyes, through a perspective that is not my own." 

To a large degree I ride to get away from myself. If I ride fast enough, it takes a while for my demons to catch up and I have a moments peace.

However travelling like this means I am on a schedule and  I have an aversion to schedules because, well, I am sick and I never know how I am going to feel tomorrow and how far I might be able to go although in the last many years that has become somewhat less of a problem. 

So far so good, however. Today I rode 340 miles and while yesterday was a bit painful and involved 30 minute stops every hour, for some reason today suddenly the pain was a fraction of what it has been and for the first time in years I rode 194 miles non-stop and was fine. I was riding slower that I usually do. I have discovered that the pressure from the wind at 75 to 80 mph (all the officers in my friends list .. my speedometer is clearly inaccurate) stressed my neck. If I putt along at 65 mph it's much more tolerable so I am able to go further. 

And, as a result, for the first time in my life, I am spending a lot of time in the right lane getting passed like I'm standing still ... by Harleys. 

How the mighty have fallen. But then again, what makes humans the dominate species on planet? Adaptability. 

So now I am that slow geezer puttin along in the left lane. But today I was /fine/ and could have easily done at least another hundred if not more. So the possibility is raised if I continue to do what I'm doing, maybe I can get back to the long days at higher speed. 

We'll see.

Today was different than yesterday. Getting out of Michigan involved a lot of slab. I had a number of Facebook users suggested I should avoid that section of slab South of Chicago because it's always a parking lot. I initially disregarded this until I was at a gas station when a woman asked a man within ear shot why so many cars were getting off the Interstate. I looked at Google and saw gridlock. I thanked her profusely and proceeded on back country roads around the blockage and promptly decided to head South to avoid further nastiness. 

Looking at the map there was what looked like one good East West road, Route 30, which if I had a working memory I would have remembered as the Lincoln Highway. 

I got off the interstate before yet another backup and was deceived by nice country roads when I turned onto Route 30 and found ...

Route 30 West from 421 should be avoided at all costs. The land has been overtaken by a cancer of consumerism that has metastasized that has engulfed the distinctiveness of the land and turned it into a monotony of strip malls, gas stations, vape shops, etc for longer than one can imagine possible. It feeds on the souls of the unwary who wander in, the husks of which can be seen ambling about under the oppressive sky. I barely managed to escape. At one point, there was a mirage of a Starbucks but I knew it was just trying to lure me in to my demise, like sirens on the rocks. 

Just avoid. Put skull and crossbones markers on it. 

"Just say no." 

In contrast today was so much better. 

A number of people  on Facebook suggested I ride route 34. One user laid out a route from Ottawa Southwest which turned out to be a much nicer alternative to the Interstate.

At one point I came across an Army Corp of Engineers Dam and Lock, "Starved Rock Lock and Dam". 

There was this huge tug boat behind these long barges filled with coal and benzene covered in explosion hazard signs. 

For some reason I have always been drawn to big industrial and architectural sites. 

One of the things I miss about cross country travel in the Before Times was that things were different. Each new area you went into had a different feel, a slightly different culture, and one got to see ever so slightly into the lives of the people that lived there.

However, these days things are so homogeneous that everything looks the same. The old places are dying off and slowly the consumerist cancer is turning us all the same bleaching away the distinctiveness of varied populations.

There are, however, remnants remaining if you wander far enough away from the common routes. 

I have never seen a gas station sign like this before. I would say it was false advertising. 

It was neither a bar, nor a grill, but they did have gas, 87 octane. The credit card slots on the pumps had long since failed. Inside, they had your basic convenience store wares with a shockingly large selection of liquor.  

 

The miles clicked by. Hours felt much less. This i.s a thing that happens to me on the motorcycle. I notice I experience time differently. In a car, a day feels like agony. On a motorcycle, the hours click by as if my relationship with the passing of time has changed. I wonder if this is how early man felt crossing long expanses ever so slowly. I swear motorcycling invokes some primordial genetic memory and long hidden features of the human critter.

There was a dramatic sky.

I had not noticed that the routing algorithm I use had routed me along a section of Interstate when I thought I had routed over Route 34. That's one of the time consuming details of curating a route. One has to really take the time to examine the route in detail which is so time consuming.  

 There was a train. These things are crazy long.

And it has been quite a long while, but I have found myself once again in the land of the Open Sky Above the Flatness. 

And today, I crossed the Mississippi River and entered Iowa. 

As one traverses this land, one encounters huge industrial infrastructure.  

But mostly it looks like this for hours on end. 

The clouds set in and at one point I noticed this dramatic demarcation line in the clouds in the distance. 

It had been quite hot all day. Mid to upper 80's. The sun was oppressive. Then more clouds moved in and it started to rain and the temperature plummeted 25 degrees. The thermometer on the bike always reads high because of the heat off the engine. 

I decided not to put on the electric vest. I wanted to see what my shoulders and back would do. For decades now once it gets under about 55 deg F my back and shoulders would lock up hoorribly. This has been happening since I was a teenager. What has been different over the last few years is that it now happens in the heat as well. 

To my surprise, while the pain increased a bit, I did not lose any range of motion and at no point did the muscles spasm uncontrollably locking up my neck. We'll see if this a durable change but my intention is to continue what I doing. 

At one point the sun tried to break through the clouds, but failed. 

After much flatness I was surprised to see hills.  

I am now near Osceola, Iowa. I do not recommend it. This was the 340 mile mark and when I looked at the beginning of the day there are a number of name brand motels and it looked like a good selection of restaurants.

The restaurants are all closed. and there's no way I'm doing fast food. 

So I found a bar and grill next to a hotel with vacancies not far away only to realize it's a casino. 

This place is weird. 

If I continue this pace I might be in Fort Collins a whole two days early.