But I took a wrong turn. By the time I got re-oriented my fuel light appeared. I was down to one gallon of gas, which would carry me about 60 miles.
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At first I thought, Oh no, is this a meth lab motel? Then I quieted my mind and tuned in.
Motorcycling is pretty straightforward: Oh, here's water, so I'll take it slow an easy; uh oh, here's a patch of gravel, so I'll get it and go. But life doesn't always present itself in such an easy-to-figure-out way.
Carter dug Denbeigh's grave in the back yard with a little moral support from a neighbor. The old Corgi was the only dog either of my boys had ever known as a family member.
Yellowstone black bears and bison show us how to live the good life.
The 11-mile stretch is said to have 318 curves. I could believe somewhere in excess of 100 if you count the tiny wobbles off a straight line, but not 318. Oh well, why quibble? It's fun!
It’s one of the legendary roads that riders talk about with a mix of pride and wistful sighs; pride for having braved it, and a sighs at witnessing nature unadulterated.
Unlike any parades I’d ever seen back east, almost everyone in this one was either on mule or horseback.
My "sea to shining sea" aspiration at Port Orford, Oregon: is this a case of no guts, no glory? or "pride goeth before a fall"?
George Carlin had it right when he riffed on our relationships with our stuff. "A house is just a pile of stuff with a cover on it..." Motorcycle travel helps put this into perspective.