My Dance Partner of Choice

Slow Dance has a wonderful settee in her salon (living room) that can seat eight with ease.  It wraps around a beautiful cherry table which, when the hinged side leaves are folded inward on top, serves as a "coffee table" of one and a half by three and a half feet.  When the leaves are lifted and deployed, it becomes a much larger dining table.

There is a small one-inch stain on the underside of one segment which is visible when the table "wings" are folded together in the coffee table configuration.  I noticed this blemish shortly after purchase, and made a note to try to remove it ASAP because I liked the appearance of the table so much.  But soon I faced a dilemma.

I found I was keeping one, even two, laptops on the table.  Soon power cords, cables to the printer, cables to the exterior WiFi antenna, and wires to other "appliances", were strewn across the settee, blocking easy access to the table.  Worse, when I wanted to stretch out on the settee to take a nap or watch a DVD movie on my flat screen TV, the cables were always in the way. What could I do?

One of my personas soon concluded there was only one solution:  run the cables down through the center of the table.  The other howled, "What?! That would mean cutting a HOLE in it –- unthinkable!!"  Well, I knew that necessity could be the mother of invention, but now was forced to consider that it might have to also be the mother of... disfigurement.  Yikes!  I sure didn't want to cut a hole in that table.  But after a few more days of crawling under, or stepping over, those darn wires, which seemed to grow in number almost daily, I did the unthinkable and reluctantly drilled an inch-and-a-half aperture in that beautiful wood.

I had truly opened a Pandora's box as I now had to somehow route the offending cables down through the table base. The base resembles a filing case, with two large drawers which originally contained wooden frames to hold wine glasses.  I had removed the frames and now stored my tool box in one drawer and purse (!) in the other, two items I needed to access frequently.  To execute this alteration, I pulled the drawers out, cut holes in the bottom of the base and deck (floor) below it, and the drawer supports.  I then routed five cables along the inside walls, using wire ties to restrain them from inhibiting the open and closing  of the drawers.

Now I needed to route the cables under the deck, then under the settee, to their appropriate destinations.  Guess what I found weeks before when I lifted the removable segments of the deck on both sides of the table?  Wooden framework to hold three dozen wine bottles, lying on their sides in cushioned splendor!  I had a veritable floating wine celler -- sans the vin!

I initially was so struck with the brilliant use of this eight inch deep "celler", and the fine carpentry, that, as with the salon table itself, I was reluctant to alter it.  But now, emboldened with my defacement of the table, I set out to literally destroy the framework on both sides of the table.  But, as with the rest of this Canadian-built PDQ, it was solidly constructed.  When a regular weight claw hammer didn't serve, I was forced to turn to my tool of last resort, what I fondly term my "friendly persuader" -– a three pound sledge hammer.  And even then, it took many blows and a pry bar to complete the job. Now, with the aid of a hole saw to drill through a couple of partitions, I was able to complete the routing of those pesky cables.

I have no regrets. Up on the table top, where previous owners probably had a fine floral arrangement, I now have a many-limbed cable "octopus" as a centerpiece. But I can move about the settee with ease.  Perhaps if I were  a party person, or overly fond of libations, I would not have destroyed those frames in the table's drawers designed to hold fine crystal, nor the "wine celler".  But I changed things to suit my needs.  With such actions, I am making Slow Dance my partner of choice.

Slow Dance Going "Green"

March 29, 2012

Slow Dance Going "Green"        

What's new with Cap'n Lynn and Slow Dance?  Well....lot's, actually.  I am striving to Go Green; to make it possible to NEVER have to run an engine in order to charge the boat's "house" batteries.

          Former owners Bob and Janet Houle (he's likely related to an energetic and creative resident of my former home island, Islesboro, Maine) installed two large solar panels on the hard top bimini that shelters the cockpit.  Together, they are rated at 200 watts output, which I can't yet intelligently quantify for you, but is quite a lot.  However, even here on the GA/FL line, the sun doesn't shine EVERY day, and of course it plain just goofs off for half of every day, sunny or not!

          So I installed a wind turbine generator on a "tower" on the starboard stern.  The Air Breeze turbine and tower are both manufactured by Southwest Wind Power (SWWP) of Flagstaff, Arizona.  I spent a night in Flagstaff on my motorcycle trek last summer, and was struck by the friendliness of the people I met.  I also jogged & fast-walked on a marvelous miles-long wide exercise path the city maintains.  I wish I had visited the SWWP manufacturing facility there, but last summer I was riding fast on two wheels, enjoying the break from chipping paint on Simba, and still six months away from re-discovering sailing and catamarans.  (My first cat was a Hobie 16.)  Slow Dance wasn't "on my card", yet.

          If there is at least six mph of wind, the wind turbine goes into action.  It's hum is music to my ears, for it tells me it's producing amperes of electricity that flow into the batteries which store it to later dole it out to power the fridge, lights, nav instruments, and other boat equipment. The turbine's tune varies between a mere purr, a strong hum, and a "gentlemenly" howl.

          Of course, once installed, I was eager to measure the turbine's output, but in order to most efficiently connect it to the boat's system, I spurned the amp meter that came with the unit in favor of one with an "external shunt" (thank you, Ken Holland!) .  I therefore had to wait a week or two before a neat outfit, the Meter Center, could provide me with a shunt and meter with the scale I wanted (O-30 amps).  In the meantime, whenever I heard the turbine start to really hum, I would grab a handheld electrician's meter, reach into the hole in the wall I term my "Electric Locker" and clamp the meter's  yellow "claws" around the positive wire from the "Humming Bird" ( – that's what I'll call it!) – and craning my neck would attempt to see the LED readout on the meter.  Of course, my bird would invariably develop a sore throat, or a need to visit the turbine toilet, by the time I was poised to record its output, and I would miss the moment of momentous output (but, as when a boy fishing for perch in Armonk's Wampus Pond, I would jump to jerk the pole each time the dobber bobbed, I kept that meter with its claws close at hand.

          Finally the new meter (and shunt) arrived.  I mounted the meter in a hole I had created in the nav station panel and attached the wires running to the shunt which I had previously installed.  Somehow, I continued to keep my cool and following the electricians' "best practice" procedures, carefully mounted and wired the shunt on the electric locker's ceiling, while lying on my back with pencil flashlight clenched in my teeth.  I wired a fuse holder between the shunt and the positive battery buss, and popped in a "slow blow" fuse, thus closing the circuit and hopefully producing a reading on the meter out at the nav station's electric panel.  I pulled myself out of the electric locker, ready to scramble the dozen or so feet to the electric panel, but was stopped by an absence of any sound.  There was no howl, no hum, not even a darn purr, from that bird on top of that pole outside. Darn!  I picked up my tools and started to think about lunch, when I thought I heard a whisper.  I snapped my head around so my parabolic ears were directed toward the stern...  Yes! I heard a whisper, and then a hum!  I jumped down the steps into the nav station while staring toward the amp meter.  I saw it was alive, its needle quivering around the number 5! The discreet hum rose to a HUM, and the needle shot up to 10.  Ten amps!  Then it climbed to 15!  Wow!, Money in the bank...Hagan-Das Rum Raisin for all!

          I was ecstatic.  I quickly cleared equipment manuals off the nav station chair and sat there for an hour, watching the amp meter needle dance to the music of the Hummer.  The needle soared as high as 22 amps (wind must have gusted to near 30).  This was serious electricity production, auguring a Green Future for Slow Dance.  Great news, great fun, and a fitting reward for the planning and careful execution of the installation of the Humming  Bird and its tower. 

          And it wasn't many days before it occurred to me that, like pets and my Alpacas, a solitary wind turbine would likely be happier, (and hopefully even more productive), if it had the company of another of its ilk.  Humming Bird #2 is due to arrive at the boatyard tomorrow.

Amazing! Slow Dance is now waltzing about her very own HURRICANE MOORING!!

 

April 16, 2012

Amazing!!  -– Slow Dance now on her very own storm mooring! 

A few weeks ago, I and Ken Hix, a St. Marys boatyard acquaintance and good friend from Breckenridge,CO,  were discussing future cruising possibilities and where we might find safe havens from hurricanes.  One safe spot could be right here on the North River in St. Marys, Georgia, Ken said.

It seems that a few years ago the former manager of the St. Marys boatyard had placed two very substantial mooring "anchors" in the river for his own boat and that of a friend.  The anchors, weighing well over 1000 lbs,  were composed of a number of inch-thick steel plates about two feet square held together by a stainless steel eye bolt which was shackled to a number of links of large ship anchor chain (my mushroom anchor mooring in Maine had such chain which Earl and George of Islesboro Marine termed "Coast Guard chain").  A 1 ¼ line ran from the chain to a mooring ball on the surface.

Ken said the current manager of the boatyard wanted to have nothing to do with the moorings and that Ken had taken possession of one mooring which was in deep water (10 ft. at low tide) and that the other was in shallower water, making it unfit for large monohulls like his, but he thought it might be fine for my shallow draft (3 ft.) catamaran.  Ken added that he doubted there was a robust enough line running up from the anchor to which I could attach my boat, but that last year he had participated in the "rescue" of what was once the oldest working tugboat in the country, right here close to the boatyard, and had thereby obtained several very heavy hawsers.  He had installed one on the mooring he was using and that I could have one if I wished.  He suggested I ask the present manager if I could take possession of that mooring.

I immediately told Ken I would love to have a hawser.  The yard manager told me I could have the mooring and Ken brought me the hawser which was over twenty feet long, almost three inches in diameter, and had a huge eye with a thick steel thimble to prevent chafe spliced into one end.  I bought a very large swivel of one inch steel from Searsport (and now Portland) Maine's very successful marine outfitter Wayne Hamilton.  The swivel will allow the boat to swing and turn without kinking the hawser.  I attached the swivel to the hawser's eye with a one inch shackle and will use two 7/8 inch shackles to attach ¾ inch lines forming a bridle fastened to Slow Dance's bows.

Ken Hix said our two strong moorings now give us peace of mind.  I concur, and will add that this comfort extends to whenever Slow Dance is back here in south Georgia.  I say this because recently my boat was hauled so that I could attach a metal grounding plate to the hull for the high frequency radio I shall soon install.  Several days after I re-anchored in the river,  Slow Dance dragged anchor on a calm day.  Turns out the chain had wrapped itself into a large ball around a modest size tree branch (no, we don't have an underwater forest growing in the North River:) and somehow another segment of chain was wrapped around the anchor itself and prevented its flukes from digging into the bottom mud. 

So now scarcely a day passes that I don't go up to the bows to relish the sight of my robust mooring bridle, shackles and swivel and that mighty hawser disappearing into the depths.  And when hurricane season arrives in late August, I'll stand on my cat's bow trampoline and shout into the wind, "Bring it on!"

Riding a Cross-Country Health Roller Coaster

Riding a Cross-Country Health Roller-Coaster (and still smiling)

I was very tired when I arrived at my son's home in Santa Cruz, CA late in the evening of July 14^th.. The next few days I didn't feel quite myself. I noticed I had less than normal confidence when climbing the unstable steps in the backyard. I wondered if my brain's balance mechanism was suffering from oxygen deprivation. I also had a “frog in my throat” at times, and my voice did not have its customary timbre.

These symptoms vanished in a week or so. I felt normal at my grandson’s wedding July 30^th and then fit enough to keep pretty close to my two sons as we rode motorcycles up the coast and over twisty mountain roads in California's Tiffany Alps for four days.

Two weeks later, when up in the Portland, Oregon area, I noticed that at times, when I breathed deeply, I heard a faint rasp in my chest and occasionally coughed. In a few days my throat became sore. I visited a Doctors Express location for an exam. The assistant nurse confirmed right lung congestion with her stethoscope. An X ray alarmed the attendant doctor for she felt it showed a greatly enlarged heart. She referred me to a cardiologist. However, her written report indicated possible pneumonia and she gave me a medium strength antibiotic to take for it.

I saw the cardiologist the next day. She looked at the Doctors Express X ray CD and found the heart was only moderately enlarged. Her EKG proved normal but she got me an appointment the next week for an Echocardiogram.

I have had a heart murmur for 15 years. It and the moderate enlargement, are caused by stenosis (calcification) of my aortic valve. Other than an occasional echocardiagram, I have paid scant attention to it as I have been asymptomatic (no chest pain or shortness of breath). Now the cardiologist seemed to ignore the “pneumonia”. She evidently felt the congestion was caused by heart disease.

The echocardiogram diagnosed acute aortic valve stenosis. The cardiologist said she agreed, and while the AMA guidelines would suggest I now wait for stronger symptoms or an “event” before taking any action, she favored an aggressive posture – replacing the rusty old valve.

So I stored the bike with accommodating friends and flew into Islip, Long Island, on Sept. 5^th, Labor Day. The next day my brother-in-law, Buz Murray, drove me to see Dr. Berke, his cardiologist at St. Francis Hospital in Roslyn. Dr. Berke asked perceptive questions and examined me. He had me take a deep breath and exhale hard, as if I were blowing out a birthday cake. He later told me I failed that test miserably, (at least now, no one can ever call me a blowhard:). He doubted the rusty valve was life-threatening but said there were tests he could run later to assess its true condition. He suspected I had pneumonia and sent me downstairs to the ER for tests.

There, a doctor on the floor asked what they were supposed to do with me. He then glanced at a paper in his hand and said, “Oh, a CT Scan. Okay, go in the bathroom, strip to underwear and socks, and put this on like so”. With that, he unfolded one of those skimpy gowns, spreading his arms wide like a department store clerk. Once “gowned”, I was directed onto a gurney and pushed into one of the alcoves which bordered two sides of the room.

All the alcoves were occupied and more gurneys lined one wall. All bore patients and many had doctors, nurses, or family members sitting or standing alongside, making for crowded aisles. Personnel garbed in a rainbow of colors hurried about. Others sat and stood before work stations which paraded in a double row the width of the room. Gurneys and equipment carts moved slowly through the crowded space like storm debris helplessly caught in the current of a swollen river. Wow!

I was well-attended. I was wheeled out to exterior locations for a CT scan and X ray, had an EKG and a blood draw. Two antibiotics were subsequently intravenously administered for 90 minutes. My coughing ceased and my head began to clear.

At around 6PM, when I had been in the ER four and a half hours, I asked a passing asst. nurse if any further tests or procedures were scheduled. She looked at me quizzically, smiled and said, “You weren't thinking of leaving, were you? I'm sure you'll be here all night.”

I was dumbfounded! The cardiologist had said I was going down for tests, not an overnight. And poor Buz, standing by my gurney or sitting out in the reception area for all this time, waiting to drive me home. And then I needed to sleep!

Sleeping here was impossible. With so many people and so much activity, the large room was plain noisy. Then there was the other patient in my alcove. Like me, he had been wheeled in and out several times, jostling my gurney due to the tight space. His gurney also had a Vital Signs monitor mounted on a pole which frequently emitted loud electronic signals and alarms that would shame a Big Ben. And the ER elevator, a major traffic breeder, was immediately adjacent to my alcove. Down by the foot of my gurney, its tuberous CALL button protruded from the end of the partition separating my alcove from the elevator. Personnel would often bang on the switch to activate it, calling my attention as well as the elevator's. Sleep? – Not a chance!

I slipped into my street clothes. I told another passing asst. nurse to tell my nurse (I had learned each patient was assigned one) that I wished to leave. A half hour passed. Finally my nurse came by. I told her I wanted out because I couldn't sleep, my coughing had ceased, I felt good, and I needed rest but couldn't sleep there. I suggested she take my vitals and bring me any papers I needed to sign. Twenty minutes later she took my vitals, which were good, and quickly departed. After another ten minutes I told a passing attendant I wished to talk to my doctor, who was behind the nearby row of work stations. Time passed. Finally, I walked over to work station row and told my Doctor, standing on the other side, I wished to speak with him at my gurney.

A few minutes later the doctor came over and I told him my situation. He said he would have to talk to my referring doctor, Dr. Berke. A few minutes later I saw him exit the room with cell phone to his ear. A half hour later he returned to tell me Dr. Berke was tied up but might get free in 30 minutes to an hour. He suggested I wait. It was now after 8:00. I said I really wanted to leave. He said, obviously now feeding me morsels of information he had obtained from Dr. Berke, I needed to stay because I should see a pulmonologist in the morning. I told him I would be happy to return in the morning after I had been able to get some sleep at home. He responded by saying that there was something else – a suspicious looking spot had been detected on my X ray. Instead of caving at this piece of news, I told him to please, just get me the release papers. It was 9:00 before I and poor Buz could depart.

Dr. Berke called early the next morning to chastise me for leaving the hospital ER where he said tests and procedures were so convenient. He went on to say the CT scan had shown swollen lymph nodes and the chest X ray revealed a possible lesion (said almost reverently). I assured him I was calling the pulmonologist when her office opened.

Twin Carol and I arrived at the office of Dr. Janus, the pulmonologist, at noon that day. Because of Dr. Berke's “lesion” and “swollen lymph nodes”, we fully expected that, before the day was over, I would be back in the hospital and this time not just in its ER, but also the OR. We were ready!

While in the waiting room, I was summoned by a technician to get X rayed. When stripping off my shirt, I casually said that I had also been X rayed the day before. The tech left the area, returning in a few minutes to say I should stand down and return to reception. (How's that for an example of medical inefficiencies, etc.!)

Dr. Janus saw both of us. She was refreshing! She asked me to relate my recent travels on the West Coast and history of symptoms (I have logged them daily for almost two months). Then she said that she had already studied my hospital test results the evening before, courtesy of electronic wizardry (and no doubt thanks to a heads-up from my Dr. Berke).

She said I had a good case of pneumonia, but doubted there was even a hint of the big “C”. However, to verify that, she asked me to return for another X ray in two weeks when the lungs should be clear of pneumonia. She felt the lymph nodes were enlarged solely due to the pneumonia, but that it would be three months before they returned to normal size and that a CT scan should be taken then to prove this was the case. Dr. Janus gave me prescriptions for two antibiotics and told me to rest at home for two weeks. Earlier, I had told her of my exploits with my Oregon forester grandson, and now she shook her finger at me and said, “And no chopping down trees!”

Once I receive the “all clear” from the “lung lady”, I'll go back to cardiologist Berke to get an accurate reading on that rusty valve. If it ain't totally broke, I 'spect I'll soon be back in Oregon to again mount my steed and get her back to her deep-south barn, 'fore the weather window closes.

Fairhope, AL - Home of a True Renaissance Man

I arrived at the home of Ken and Marilyn Holland in Fairhope, Alabama on June 26, 2011.  I met Ken at the Dog River Marina in Mobile, Alabama in 2004. He lived on a sailboat at the marina and I was there working on Simba. We rode bicycles together a number of mornings, often ending up at a local McDonalds for coffee and an egg mcmuffin.

Ken is extraordinary in a number of ways. To begin with, back then he led what I felt was a unique life. He would work for a couple of years as an electrical engineer and then sail off to wonderful places until his kitty was emptied, returning once again to somewhere in this country where he would restart the cycle.

Later on I learned more about Ken. He was raised in the hill country of northern Alabama. His parents were sharecroppers, meaning they were allowed to till another man's land in return for paying him a portion of their crop proceeds. They were “dirt poor”.

Ken's uncles brewed bootleg whiskey. They built their stills back in the woods on other people's property; when the revenuers periodically came searching for stills, they would not find any on the uncles' property. When scarcely teenagers, Ken and a buddy delivered home-brewed whiskey to metropolitan areas in mason jars concealed under the car seats. They were never caught.

These days we suburbanites may boast that we rode a Beemer GS model off-road. We think we're adventuresome, but GS bikes were designed for off-road riding – not so Harleys! Ever hear of a Harley GS? Ha!

However, starting at a young age, Ken fiddled with Harleys, tearing the motors down to learn how they functioned, then modifying them and the bike suspensions. He rode his Harley's in the woods where the irregular terrain forced him to often jump obstacles. Word of his exploits got around: “He's jumping a Harley?!”, asked the kids in town. “Sure, and my pig can fly!”, they'd shout. But the rumors of Ken's off-road exploits continued. Finally the townies had heard enough and issued a challenge. They set up a jump which few bikes (and certainly no Harley!) could possibly manage, and staked a week's wages on the outcome.

Ken picked up the gauntlet. At the jump site, his challengers had selected a five foot high mound which they figured would be his Waterloo. But the only thing that Ken could see that he would consider a real jump was a 10-15 foot high hillock many yards behind the mound. He couldn't see the other side of the steep-faced hill, so asked what lay behind the “jump”. The townies thought he was trying to belittle the mound, their challenge, and ignored him.

Gunning his motor, Ken flew over the townies' “jump” with ease and then, to their consternation, sped on and up the steep face of the hill behind to soar out of sight. Although the backside of the berm dropped precipitously, Ken landed safely on his rear wheel. There were no more challenges issued.

Ken has been a ham radio operator for many years. The requisite antennae of various shapes tower over a large portion of his expansive back yard. And while from the front the Holland's attractive brick single story house and two car garage seem similar to their neighbors', there is a unique difference. At the rear of the garage is a door which leads to a room as large as the garage itself, and then a door at it's rear opens to an even bigger room. The first room houses motorcycle repair equipment (Ken has ridden the top-of-the- line Honda Gold Wings for decades), and extensive shop equipment including three sizes of drill presses (six foot, three foot, and a one foot tall model he uses to work on printed circuit boards). Upon entering the second room, one walks past several substantial pieces of. exercise equipment, then tables and shelves laden with electronic gear, and finally enters a ham's “radio shack” with the customary impressive black boxes faced with meters and gauges. The “shack” doubles as an office and Ken uses not one, but two, flat screen monitors to more efficiently utilize his computer.

Most impressive were the radio power supplies already built or under construction. I don't know the correct terminology, but let me say that where I might use a 7 volt supply for a computer accessory, Ken's power supplies are on the order of 10-15 THOUSAND volts. Yikes!

I had recently purchased a Garmin nuvi for my car. I was able to mount it on my bike and it served to tell me where I was and how it thought I could get from there to another point. However, Ken and I tried to install routes of my own design on it and failed despite numerous attempts. We finally determined that only a few of the nuvi series could perform this feat and that my 200 series unit was not one of them. I located a nuvi of the proper series in a neighboring town and purchased it. Ken found software that we also needed and downloaded it to my new unit. Through trial and error we learned how to create a route map on the internet Mapquest program that could be downloaded to the nuvi. So thanks to Ken, since leaving Fairhope I have been able to almost faultlessly follow scenic routes I design prior to taking to the road. Many thanks, Ken!

I am humbled and delighted to know this living proof that America is truly a land of opportunity.   Ken, the son of sharecroppers (who clawed their way up the socio/economic ladder to own their own farm(s),  is now in demand as a designer of chemical plant electrical systems.

One never knows where a conversation will lead in the Holland's house. For example, one day over lunch Ken and Marilyn spoke informatively about the Civil War, Martin Luther King's duplicitous actions in Birmingham, Alabama, and Custer's Last Stand. I listened in awe and felt like an ignoramus.

The little boy in me identified with Ken's newest toy: a six foot long blow gun. It arrived while I was there. Ken had seen a picture of one on the web and just had to have one. He wasted not a second to test it out. He dropped a four inch dart down its gullet, inhaled mightily and puffed out his cheeks like a five-year-old determined to blow out all those candles. With a noise like that made by old men aiming for barbershop spittoons, Ken propelled that dart 30 feet where it tore a hole in the target we had hastily drawn on a carton leaning agains the wall. “Bulls eye!”, we cried.

This unique man talks with a southern drawl and charm that puts one at ease immediately. I was gratified to learn that his wife Marilyn has the same fine qualities. In fact she is so generous and emblematic of “Southern Hospitality”, that I fear my waistline grew by two inches during my stay!

Clearly, I had an exceedingly pleasant and fruitful time at the Hollands!

Pensacola,FL to Fairhope,AL

June 26, 2011

I made the hour's hop from Pensacola,FL to Fairhope, Alabama on Monday morning, stopping in little Robertsdale, AL for breakfast at Mac'n Jerry's restaurant.

I am new at this travelin' business, so neglected to carry inside my motorcycle's tank bag which, in addition to maps and camera, contains pens, notepad (I purchased one the next day), etc. I realized my mistake

I had sat down for only a few moments before I felt a strong urge to record what I was seeing and feeling, but I had no writing tools. (The very next day I purchased pens and a notepad which I now carry in my motorcycle tank bag, along with camera, binoculars, etc., and now always remove and tke with me when I stop.) I went up to the cashier, a pleasant lady c.55 (she turned out to be Jerry), and asked if she had scrap paper and pen I could use. She gave me a pad of blank “kitchen checks” and pen. I sat back down and started jotting notes on the back of the checks.

Before entering, I had noted a sign on the door: “No credit or debit cards. Local checks only.” Up at the cashier's desk another read: “Please make BAD checks out to the Baldwin County Sheriff's Dept. Make GOOD checks out to Mac'n Jerry's Diner. Thank you. “ I guess restauranteurs had a little problem collecting in Robertsdale. On the brighter side, there was also a sign prominently displayed stating: “Will trade coffee for gossip”.

The interior was clean and bright, with pine walls on which were mounted several stuffed deer heads cum antlers. The deer sported large bibs fashioned from football jerseys: “Crimson Tide”, “Crimson Tide National Champs”, “Alabama”, and one wore “Auburn”. (I guess there was no doubt where the owner's heart lay.) Two large “Bud Light Playbook” posters displayed the past season's football schedules for the Crimson Tide and Auburn. Game scores had been added by hand with magic marker.

I asked the cashier if she was Jerry and if perhaps husband Mac worked the kitchen. She told me that she surely was Jerry, but that Mac was her mother, who had recently passed. I expressed my condolences and asked if the pretty and personable waitress (c.30) might be her daughter; she confirmed my guess with a warm smile.

Good venue, food, and people: Gee, this trip should be fun!

Tonopah,NV to Santa Cruz,CA

Wednesday, July 13^th

After yesterday's 369 miles at high speeds, I was seriously considering taking it a bit easy today by dividing the remainder of the route in two and attempting only one half today. I exchanged emails with Jeff late in the evening discussing whether to make sausage links of it or go for the gold, and if I chose the former then how best to arrange it. I worked on the route itself as well, and Jeff supplied a valuable short cut. I decided to let the next day's riding conditions, and my body, make the decision for me during the course of the day.

I woke as usual at six. High wind gusts were forecast for the afternoon south of Yosemite. So while I did some cals and stretches, I skipped the customary hour's walk to get an early start and was on the road at 7:45 after an Egg Mc Muffin and container of jo.

At Benton, I took Rt. 120 west and soon met a new type of terrain. A sign warned of “DIPS” but that meant nothing to me. Ahead I could see several “ripples' across the landscape and, although I slowed, I soon found myself launched into space for a few seconds. Each “dip” was a veritable ski jump. Although before encountering each series of dips I could see if there were obstacles ahead and adjust speed accordingly, it was disconcerting to lose all view of the road when dropping into the dip and then find myself defying gravity a moment later. Jeff told me the next day that the kids loved the dips and referred to them as riding a roller coaster – an apt description.

When I reached Yosemite it was 11 AM, far too early to stop. I drove the 31 miles through it, marveling at the scenery. I stopped to take pix but soon learned that the uneven gravel turnoffs were unfriendly to motorcycles. Wheels tended to slide, level spots where I could lower the kickstand were rare and usually soft, capable of quickly swallowing the kickstand and turning my upright FJR into a recliner in short order. Consequently, I was forced to bypass numerous photo ops.

The park ride soon offered another frustration: the single lane road contained numerous drivers who drove slowly to take in the vistas or search for a spot to park. In addition, there were many rented motor homes (CruiseAmerica, etc.) whose drivers drove slowly and cautiously. Places where one could pass were few and far between. The ride to the exit seemed interminable. I found myself yawning and losing concentration, not boding well for a safe navigation of the 150 miles lying ahead.

I finally reached the park “Portal”. Just outside there was a service station and restaurant. I pulled in to use the facilities, but once dismounted was disappointed to see a sign, “No Restrooms Provided”. It was 12:30PM. I called son Jeff to tell him where I was and that I would not stay overnight in Merced, some 40 miles ahead, but instead press on to Santa Cruz. He was happy to learn of my progress but said he believed I had about a four hour trip ahead and that perhaps I should stop at Merced and finish the trip tomorrow. As my finally exiting the park and now speaking with him had given me a psychological boost, I demurred and said I'd be there in time for dinner.

I rode to Merced but the GPS routed me into the center of the city, where several streets were closed for repairs with detours. This completely confused the GPS which insisted on sending me in circles. I was disheartened and very tired. I finally pulled over by construction debris and hollered to a sole pedestrian, asking if there was a park nearby where I might rest. The lady was apparently not intimidated by this “man from mars” figure in a bright yellow helmet and wearing a riding jacket with large shoulder pads. Nodding her head, she gestured to indicate I should come into the shade where we could talk. I pulled a California map that I had purchased before entering Yosemite out of my tank bag and joined her. She gave me directions to a park and, studying the map, showed me a route to Santa Cruz.

I found the park. I spread my jacket out in the shade of a tree and rested/dozed for a half hour. I got back on the bike and attempted to find Rt. 59 south leading to 152 west, but was soon lost again. I finally turned off my planned route on the GPS that had let me into the “maze” of Merced city, and called up its basic map of the area. In moments I saw where I was and found Rt. 59 south. “Hooray for the nuvi”, I exclaimed to no one in particular, and started off with renewed energy and confidence. Rt. 59 led me to Rt. 152 west which I was happy to find was a four-laner with cars zipping along at 65 mph. However, after a few miles traffic slowed and then stopped at a series of traffic lights, apparently timed to reduce speed to an average 25 mph. Then the lights disappeared and traffic accelerated to 65 again. In a few miles this scenario was repeated, and then again. Finally I saw a sign indicating I was entering the City of Los Banos, and soon I found myself in the city's bowels and Rt. 152 had vanished.

I entered a convenience store and asked, “Could somebody please tell me where to find Rt. 152, the road to Santa Cruz.” I was met with blank stares from several customers, but then one man said he could help me once he had paid for his purchases. He joined me shortly, shaking his head and saying that following 152 through the city was virtually impossible. He then gave me directions which proved erroneous (or perhaps the error was in my interpretation). After floundering about some more I finally came to a corner where there was small oval green sign “Rt. 152” on a pole below a city street sign. Like a dog picking up a scent, I continued on.

Eventually the street became a four lane highway. I soon passed a large flashing sign: “High Wind Gust Warning” and it delivered as promised. Unlike the wind gusts I had faced in the vast basins of Nevada which, while quite strong at times, were from one direction, these gusts came from every direction. It was impossible to prepare for them. I was forced to reduce speed from the posted 65, to 50, while cars and trucks maintained the higher speed. I battled these winds for an hour or more until the highway climbed into irregular terrain. I was able to relax a bit and rest as I no longer had to wrestle with the gusts, but shortly saw a sign: “Hecker Pass ahead, reduce speed”. Then another: “Narrow single lane road ahead, drive carefully.” and another: “Headlights required on at all times.” I soon found myself thrust into a true “twister” containing numerous sharp curves and several hair pin turns. The road first climbed for several miles and then dropped precipitously. This was a road I normally would have relished riding on a motorcycle, but not now, when I was so very tired. My riding style must have been ugly for, with reflexes slowed and physical coordination minimal, I rode slowly and cautiously, surely frustrating the homeward-bound commuters in their autos behind me.

Eventually I exited the pass onto Highway One into Santa Cruz, then soon Rt. 17, and finally turned onto Vine Hill Road in the Santa Cruz Mountains, seemingly much narrower and twisty than I recalled. I descended the road cautiously and at last arrived at the gate at Jeff's home. It was close to 7PM, almost twelve hours since I left Tonopah,NV, and two weeks and 3,810 miles since departing St. Marys, GA. I breathed a deep sigh and smiled as I thought of the pilots' expression, “A good landing is one you can walk away from.”