underachieversink

Grounded hog day

2012-02-02T09:52:00.000-08:00

Well, I stepped outside this morning and saw my shadow. It startled me, so I ran back inside to ponder six more weeks of highs in the low 80's. Frightening, but I'll make it. So I've met all the requirements set by the FAA to take the practical exam for private pilot. Including a solo cross-country flight involving landings at three airports. Corbin and I flew the exact route the day before per FAA regs. We bounced a bit on the leg up the coast to Upolu. It's on the northeast tip of the island and subject to the sea breeze from the west and the trade winds which usually blow northeasterly. Some of the trade winds get over the top of a ridge line called the Kohalas. Mixing wind speeds and directions mean the captain just illuminated the fasten seat belt sign in a big plane. In an R-22 it can mean changes in altitude of tens or twenties of feet per second, constant strain on your seat belt, and a heli that generally feels like it's flying you.

What are you supposed to do in that situation? Probably speed up and get the hell out of there, right? Nope. Slow down, hang out, try to keep the ship straight and level. Oh yeah and it's time to change radio frequencies. So take your eyes off the road (so to speak), fix the radio, halfway thru check outside and make sure you're still an agreeable distance from that mountain, back inside finish dialing in WKRP, exhale.

We did a couple of landings at Upolu then it was off to Waimae. The air was a little smoother but not much cuz Waimae lies (or lays, I never remember that rule) between the Kohalas and Mauna Kea, at 13,796', the highest point in the Big Island, so wind naturally flows through that opening before going over the top of either obstacle.

The Upolu leg is much more beautiful with its steep hills, coastline and sparse population. But Waimae has a highway to follow all the way and a couple of golf courses. Which while not as ascetic, offer some sweet crash landing options in the event of an engine failure or other such thing my mom doesn't want to think about.

But Corbin does. He constantly asks me where the wind is, where I'd try to get to, that sort of thing. What would I do if I had an electrical fire? Engine fire? Pants on fire? Sometimes he does fun stuff like say, "Hey, are those whales over there?" I look out that direction and he closes the throttle to simulate an engine failure. And simulate ain't quite the right word cuz bad shit starts to happen quickly if not corrected.

So we landed, filled out logbooks and talked about the next day's solo flight. We had a sobering conversation about my odds of limping away in the event of a real engine failure. I got a bad night's sleep, did a pre-flight, and took off to the northeast all by my lonesome.

It was pretty kick ass.

Shot in the dark

2012-01-12T08:29:00.000-08:00

Just when you start feeling comfortable in air it's time for the night flights. The rules state that to fly at night there must be sufficient ground lights and/or celestial illumination. The timing with the full moon worked in my favor. We discussed illusions specific to night, did a pre-flight and talked about fast-food (all you Arbie's lovers know that the roast beef shows up at the franchises in a forty pound bag of grey gelatinous goo that the minimum-wagers add water to with a special implement, after which it turns brown and hardens enough to be sliceable for your five for six bucks sandwiches, right?) until civil twilight.

We headed north after fueling up and even with a moon, it was black as. There isn't much out there for the first twenty miles north of the airport. Savvy pilots spend flights looking for spots to land in the event of an emergency. I could hit that golf course, there's a turnout next to the highway, that beach is pretty wide, etc. At night, it be different. It all looks the same, mostly. Well actually you can see the road if there are cars on it. So you could shoot for right in front of the traffic which would be sweet except then you'd get smashed.

On the Big Island it's easy enough to tell the ground lights from starlight cuz it's against the rules to have white ground lights. The orange tinted ones are the law of the land. They produce less light pollution which is important for the biggest telescope on the planet which lives on the top of Mauna Kea. But it's easy enough to imagine how hard it would be if the lights were white. Then there are the lights that go up the ridges. You could easily align yourself level with them and trick yourself into thinking you were flying level as you banked a gentle right turn way off course or into the mountain.

Just when I started to think I was getting it down, Corbin had me turn back to the south over the ocean. Black on black is a great combo for a cocktail dress and silk panties but for flying it's creepy shit. You can't really tell if your climbing, diving, or Goldilocks.

Right place at the right time

2012-01-10T08:09:00.000-08:00

So I realized halfway down the hill that I had forgotten my phone but I had an early flight and no time to turn back for it. No big whoop. I got to school, unpacked my things and got the double whammy of bummed and thankful. Bummed that my spaghetti sauce spilled all over my bag, thankful that it's a water-proof duffle. Actually now that I think about it, the sauce coulda wrecked my headset so that's two thankfuls to one bummed.

After the post flight, Cynthia from next door came over and said they had two extra seats. Next door is Paradise Helicopters. They're the reason I decided to wear earplugs while I do my pre-flights. Turbines are supercool (even if they are 407's) but they're also hella loud. Since I'd like to hear the birdies sing when I'm sixty, I dork out with big yellow wads poking out of my ears. So anyway Paradise had an extra seat and since I was the only student on the lanai (huge surf this week, well not North Shore of Oahu huge or climax in Point Break huge, but overhead) I was offered the chance to weigh in and listen to a safety briefing. No seat cushions, you get your very own lifejacket to wear for the entire trip.

The pilot was my instructor's instructor back in the day. I sat up front, a family of Ruskies with velvet suits and gigantic gold-rimmed sunglasses filled the back. Even the five year old girl had a super serious don't fuck with me look. I guess the mob schools don't do much in the way of teaching English cuz after Clay (the pilot) would talk about this or that for say three minutes, the dad translated over the intercom with about four words in Russian.

When we got through the saddle, I saw steam in several spots across the lava field. Clay had his ipod plugged into the system. I heard the horns on the Johnny Cash tune just as we circled the first lava tube that you could see through. Tubes are basically pipes made of cooled lava that the hot lava flows through. Some of them are close enough to the surface in places that you can see the molten lava flowing through them.

Clay also found a spot where the lava broke through to the surface and the red fire fanned out, turning black on top as it cooled while still flowing red underneath. Pretty cool that I got to see that cuz he flies the tour three times a day and hadn't seen it in a month. He shared his find with the other pilots and it was just like a whale tour out of Seward, all the ships headed our way. So we boogied off to the coast.

The lava is either there or it isn't. But the valleys have been there for thousands of years, and they are stunning. Waterfalls galore, the tallest of which is measures in at 1290', number eleven in the world. Spinal Tap, anyone? After all the photos were taken, none by me, (smartphone=camera=spilled spaghetti) we headed to the back of the valley. The walls are super steep and as we got to the top my reptilian brain freaked out cuz the ridge was razor thin and fell away just as steeply on the other side. It gives you the sensation of falling. Clay and I smiled while we listened to the hardened killers in the back sucking in their breath and exhaling big "Wheeeeee's."

The tour was super cool, Clay is an entertaining host and a good pilot. He did some sweet maneuvers that would make anyone appreciate helicopters. But now it's pretty boring to be flying and not doing the flying.

Pilot In Command

2012-01-07T14:32:00.000-08:00

Several years ago, two friends and I made an attempt to climb the highest peak in North America. That particular mountain is quite crowded with box-checkers from all over the world. No matter what language they speak, all the climbers know one word, summit. Everybody asks, "Did you summit?" "You summit?" or "Summit?" depending on the speaker's grasp of the English language. The summit of acquiring one's private pilot license is to fly all by yourself. Everyone asks, "When are you gonna solo?" or "Did you solo, yet?"

The flight school spends lots of time and energy getting you to that goal. First your instructor puts you through the paces to make sure you're ready. It's his or her ass if you wreck while soloing as a student pilot. You are asked to demonstrate maneuvers with no help, talk to air traffic control, and that sort of thing. Once your instructor feels good, he schedules a stage check with the chief instructor.

Noah, the chief instructor, asked me how I felt during the preflight. I told him I was a little nervous. When he asked me why, I told him that it had been a while since I'd taken a test in which I cared about the results. That flight went well and I got the school blessing to go solo.

Corbin and I did a couple of pick-ups and set downs, stressing forward movement on both. Forward motion keeps the tail rotor ground strike scenario out of the realm of possibility. Then we did a few patterns, none of which were my best work. Probably nervous that he'd yank the solo endorsement out of my logbook.

I wasn't nervous about going solo. I felt I'd received adequate instruction, I'd been thinking about and understood the different handling characteristics, and really just wanted to get the hurdle behind me. We set down, he hopped out, and once a safe distance away, gave the thumbs up.

I checked my warning lights, gauges, and cleared my skids. Then I slowly raised the collective. I adjusted the cyclic way left to counter the lack of weight on left seat and a bit forward to protect the tail. It felt weird for sure, mostly because I had way more power and no one telling me all the things I should be doing better.

One for the books

2011-12-26T08:17:00.000-08:00

Remember what you did three Christmas's ago or what you got? I bet not. This one will stick in the hard drive for awhile, I won't claim forever cuz if I live through the heart attacks and cancer that swim in my gene pool, there's a good chance I'll get Alzheimer's. But until then, I'm gonna remember X-mas 2011.

The other Shane and his wife, Laura were already at Two-step beach when I arrived. They organized the gathering for folks that didn't have friends or family outside of the flight school to celebrate with. I got there at the same time that they realized that both sets of keys were locked safely inside the car. A perfect opportunity to bust out my dish to pass, a gallon of Sangria. Pretty good but I went overboard with the ginger. Not as much as Dan's ginger wine, but too much.

The beach runs for a couple of miles with little patches of sand in between large swatches of lava rock. Groups of revelers filled the flat spots. We walked about half a mile to a cluster of houses and explained the situation. The old woman made a lovely sound that was a mixture of concern and merriment when we asked her for a coat hanger.

Jork showed up just in time to see us give up on the coat hanger and decide to break a window with a rock. The pumice kept breaking in our hands so the other Shane went to return the twisted hanger and see if the old lady had a hammer. Meanwhile, Laura took the flat head screwdriver from the tool kit on the back of my bike and pried the window out.

Then, wait for it...the alarm blared. I spent some of my youth hanging out listening to a band called "Vegetable Spit" practice so my hearing isn't full strength and the alarm hurt my ears. I bet folks for miles up and down the beach cursed us. A local came over to help us. He thought he knew how to reset the system and stop the alarm. He didn't.

I unhooked the battery and there was much rejoicing. Jork found the horn and we cut the power to it, so while the headlights still flash off and on, they do so quietly.

By then, the guy with the Weber still hadn't shown up but we found a grill in the weeds and set about burning wood to get a bed of coals while Laura prepped skewers with veggies and dead animal. Delicious. I hope your day was as memorable.

Christmas of color

2011-12-20T08:33:00.000-08:00

I've only been two places for Christmas- Wisconsin and Alaska. While it doesn't snow those places every year, there is or has been snow on the ground/around by the Holidaze. My favorite X-mas weather memories come from one year in Girdwood. It was minus six on Christmas Eve. Then we got five and a half inches of rain on X-mas day. The trooper slid sideways while sitting still, Dan slung us a bunch of drinks at the Puddle Cafe, and Kelly made an impromptu dinner after their plan to head to Cooper Landing was foiled cuz the road was flooded just south of Portage.

It's unlikely that we will have snow here for X-mas but Mauna Kea (the taller of the two active volcanoes on the Big Island at just over 13,000 ft.) has already been blanketed down to about ten thousand feet or so. It only lasted a day and a half, but was an interesting juxtaposition, palm trees and ocean over here, snow-covered mountain over there.

The tarmac in front of flight school adds more private jets full of haves here for the Holidaze every day. There are already so many that they've begun angle parking. Two bummers, I left my binos in Girdwood so no chance to see if it's J-lo or the guy that invented Kotex getting out of the plane, and they park right where we do hovering drills, quick-stops, and the like.

My Christmas plans? Fly a helicopter, ride my bike (Tim showed me a super-challenging "road" the other day pretty close to the airport), join some other misfits for a BBQ (sauce included) on the beach.

Alaskapowder and both of the other folks that read this blog will notice that there are a few pics. None from in the heli, sorry. I've only flown with the doors off and it's against the rules to have loose items in the cockpit. Yeah I follow the rules now. Weird, huh?

We're gonna do what?

2011-12-04T09:34:00.001-08:00

My uncle Jim was one of the naysayers when I told folks that I was going to learn to fly helicopters. He voiced concern over a common misconception regarding whirlybirds; that they fall out of the sky if the engine quits. Airplanes do glide a good ways with the power cut. But they still need a runway to slide across once reaching terra firma. Don't kid yourself, it's gonna really suck if the plane you're in has an engine failure unless you're next to an airport or a deserted freeway. My advice, an extra cocktail. You can catch a cab whenever you get where you're going. If you don't get where you're going, you're gonna be in an ambulance, either way you ain't driving.

Helicopters create lift by pulling air down through the rotor. If the engine quits, air begins to flow up through the rotor as gravity pulls the bird toward Earth. Turning the rotor and the engine would take too much energy and the rate of descent would be uncomfortably high. Squoosh. The rotor is separated from the engine to solve this problem. It works the same way a bike does. Pedal for a while and you can take a break and coast with that stored up energy. If there wasn't a freewheeling unit(called a sprag clutch in a helicopter) in the bike, there'd be no coasting.

So that's all there is to it. You just separate the rotor from the engine, called an autorotation, and coast to the ground (where you don't need a runway, just a space a little wider than the helicopter). Granted, this isn't coasting like a feather fluttering but it's substantially slower than the 9.8 meters per second squared that a dropped rock achieves.

I was introduced to the maneuver a couple of days ago in 951Bravo Lima. Its color scheme is the same as my high school's, so I took that as a good sign. One of the reasons I chose this school (being in a tropical paradise was never considered, honest) is that they let all their instructors teach autorotations. Most schools only let the chief pilot teach the maneuver which means you only get to do it when you're with the chief pilot, which means not very often. I figured that it makes a lot more sense to go to a school where I have the opportunity to get really good at flying without an engine, just in case.

We climbed way up (a Frenchie set the record for highest successful autorotation to a landing in 1972 when his Lama had a flame-out at 40,000 feet and couldn't be restarted) so we would have plenty of time/distance to practice. You check that all the warning lights, instruments, and gauges read in the groovy then you count it down. "Autorotation in 3,2,1 down, right, roll, bump." Down is the collective and pushing that all the way down gives you the same little weeeeee that you feel in your belly as you slide down on the roller coaster. Right is right pedal cuz you start to yaw left when you stop producing torque. Roll is closing the throttle (I know, it does sound crazy) and bump is bring the collective up just a little bit so you don't over-speed the rotor.

I'm slowly getting the entry to the auto down. As long as I calmly countdown, it's easy as pie. The first couple were less than pretty but I'm getting better and will be damn good at it soon enough.

Call it a draw

2011-12-01T19:22:00.001-08:00

So a few days ago, I had a heckuva time getting the helicopter on the ground. As you get close to Earth a little cushion of air from being in ground effect (basically air stacking up underneath you cuz it can't escape due to surface friction, not a good enough answer for the checkride but you get the idea) keeps the helicopter afloat. Helicopters are designed to land (or crash for that matter) facing forward. The skids can slide a good distance and everything will be fine. Go backwards and you risk hitting the tail rotor. Sideways and you might have a dynamic rollover. While dynamic is great in a personality, it sucks in a rollover. What was the name of that not-really-a-memoir memior Oprah (ever notice how she's on the cover of her magazine every goddamn month? Oops, where was I?) endorsed, "A million little pieces." Anyway I'd be sinking down all nice and purty, hit that little cushion and yaw back and forth. Just couldn't seem to get through it.

I hover-taxied back to park and Corbin said, "You just have some kind of block, here you are taxiing in a straight line with a quartering tailwind, which is much harder, and you're doing great. You just need to quit thinking about it." Easier said than done for yours truly. Actually, what if I obsess about it instead? Would that be alright? I bet I'll dream about it tonight, extra credit? "It's ok. Don't worry about it, your approaches were really good today. The set-downs will come."

I shared my experience with Pablo. Former Columbian, fellow Alaskan, ten or so more flight hours than me. He said he had the same problem, he just exhaled through that cushion, pushing the collective down as the air left his lungs. So I gave that a go. It worked. My set-downs and pick-ups were smooth, some forward movement on a few but that ain't no nevermind, it's safe. Guess what? The approaches went to shit. Missed every one. Some short, some long, all bad. I long for the day when at the end of a flight, the instructor says, "So what went well today?" and I have more than one thing to say.

We have gotten to the point, Corbin and I, where he's pulling circuit breakers or pushing in the carb heat to see if I'm paying attention. On paper, I'm halfway to soloing. You need twenty hours and an endorsement from your instructor to legally solo. If you mess up on a solo, it's your instructor's ass cuz he gave you the go ahead. Ask Skorecki to tell you a funny story. A kid from India, name of Puunja, soloed for the first time on Monday. Pretty funny, he did a coupla patterns around the airport while his instructor chain-smoked. Not exactly paternal pride, but something akin to it was on display. Also pretty funny that you have to solo to get your private license. You don't solo before you get your driver's license. Well actually you might, but if you get caught...I don't know, I didn't get caught. To legally fly, not only do you have to solo, some of that time must be at night. It's a mixed up, muddled up, shook up world except for Lola.

Breakthroughs and Meltdowns

2011-11-24T07:08:00.001-08:00

Some of the most creative advertising on the planet can be seen on septic pumping trucks in the Anchorage Bowl. "Isaac's Honey Wagon," "A straight flush beats a full house," and my favorite, "Satisfaction guaranteed or double your load back." The best one I've seen here on the Big Island is from John's Septic Services, "John's my name and shit's my game." I bet he does a great job.

That's the fantastic thing about living or traveling in different places, you see that people are all the same except for the little differences. I rode around for a while wondering where all the cops were. I noticed a bunch of vehicles with little blue lights on the roofs like the weirdo in Whittier (I guess there's no reason to say weirdo if you say Whittier, it's like saying the lonely stamp collector) that used to drive up and down the road looking for a fire. He was the assistant chief. He bought the light and the dinosaur juice out of his own pocket.

Turns out that the lights signify cops. There are only two marked smokies on the whole island. So if you meet a Mustang or a Toyota Sequoia, it's either a tourist in a rental or a cop. The cops are required to turn on their little blue lights after dark. That doesn't make a lot of sense to me but so much doesn't. Marked cop cars or not, people here flash their lights to warn you that you're about to sail past a pig in a speed trap. In Japanese its, "Mokodi" same same but different. In Britian, Johnny Law will pull you over for warning others of his whereabouts. Sundays are all about sport bikes there. If you come zinging around a corner and instead of the jaunty helmet tip, you get an arm pumping down in front of the rider's chest, it's time to stand on that front brake.

Helicopters don't have front brakes or rear brakes for that matter. Back when this addiction began (that first little buzz really is the best, isn't it?) I hovered over Turnagain Arm the first time and in front of a bunch of friends at a bbq/kegger the second time. It was a bit of a lark, all in good fun and minute later you're all done, a pal hands you some Beam and a brat.

The instructor points the nose into the wind, holds the ship still and gives you the controls. It's all gravy at first but eventually you make a gross input and things quickly go to shit. Corbin gets it back under control and hands it back. Repeat. After a bit, or maybe longer, everybody's different (mokodi), you get the whole hovering into the wind thing down and Corbin makes you do it in a crosswind. Then as soon as you start to feel good about yourself, BAM he makes you give a tailwind a go.

Throughout it all, as soon as we start to pendulum too ridiculously, the instructor brings the touchy little fucker back under control. Yesterday I was killing it, following the yellow line with a wicked crosswind a solid three feet off the ground in a textbook hover taxi. Then Zephyrus sneezed, I hit the right pedal when I should have hit the left and all hell broke loose. So we're zigging and zagging and ballooning all over the place and I'm more than ready for Corbin to grab the controls and save the day.

But through the headset instead of "I have the controls" I hear "Fix it man, get it back under control." And I did. Somehow, I don't know how. It's a lot like hitting a baseball. If you really think about it, there's no way to swing a stick a quarter of a second after someone sixty feet away lets go of a bean traveling eighty-plus and make solid contact. But once you have the technique, you can do it on a regular basis.

So I've reached the point where my instructor is giving me enough rope to hang myself. Exciting.

Negative, 209 Kilo Romeo

2011-11-18T08:01:00.001-08:00

Yesterday was my day off. I did the usual fun stuff like laundry, groceries (hit the market for the first time, 5 papayas for a buck and avocados as big as your head) and finally registered my motorcycle. The first time the office was closed as part of a statewide furlough program to save a bit of money. I was in line last week when I saw the proof of insurance requirement. I had insurance but of course didn't have the form with me. But third time's a charm. Guess how much these bastards charge to register a motorcycle? Five dollars, FIVE dollars, highway robbery.

I've flown a few times now. The first flight was a cruiser down the Southern coast. Pretty casual, me getting a feel for the machine and my instructor getting a feel for me, as in my general demeanor and ability to follow instructions. If one gets nervous while at the controls of a helicopter, those feelings travel through the fingertips and erratic movements are sure to follow. Because the controls are so sensitive, a firm grip is too much and one will pull the stick without realizing it. So the first flight was filled with little tips like that.

We also passed the controls back and forth several times. There is a specific three-step process involved in handing off control of the aircraft. If a pilot lets go of the controls of an airplane it will generally straighten itself out due to its inherent dynamic stability, mostly because its wings want to fly straight-and-level and need to be acted on by an outside force to veer from that state. If one lets go of the controls of a helicopter, which way the aircraft goes is anybody's guess but cross straight-and-level off your list of possible answers. So anyway, the instructor drills that into your head from the get-go. Apparently some folks have trouble understanding/remembering that.

Subsequent flights have been practicing patterns, basically flying rectangles just east of the airport. You gain altitude on two legs of the rectangle, descend on the other two to get a more precise feel for things and how moving one control will invariably require moving the other two. And you develop good cockpit management and scanning habits. Example: Making a turn to the downwind leg. "Clear to the right, clear to the front, clear to the left." "What about that 737?" "Well yeah, except for that 737, it's clear to the left."

After some patterns, with a general improving trend, time to ask air traffic control for permission to land. I've been using radios for a long time, so they don't intimidate me and I realize that the only way to get better at anything is to keep after it. So when Corbin asked me if I wanted to make the call, I said yes. We did the exchange between us, he said yep that's it, you got it, and I pushed the big red button. Somehow pushing that button caused a disconnect in my brain and I asked ATC to come to a full stop in a spot where stopping is frowned upon. So that's cool, I established a level to improve upon, I don't want to peak too soon. I screwed up a radio call to air traffic control and didn't have to buy anybody beer. This career path is way different than my last one.

What would the hippies think?

2011-11-15T08:20:00.001-08:00

The first "Adult friends," I made in AK were in Waikaloa for a conference last week. I rode my bike up to hang at the beach with them and their little guy. Tracy goes to this conference every year. The location varies and as luck would have it, she had to leave Alaska in the first weeks of November to work in Hawaii. The conference was held at the Waikaloa Hilton. What a perfect place for a bunch of idealists facing a serious uphill battle to discuss how to fix things. Here's an example of the agenda: Wake up, shower, drop your towel on the floor(don't worry an underpaid, over-worked native will get you a new one), hop on the monorail, listen to a presentation on these cute little frogs from Cost Rica that are taking over, go outside for some fresh air, watch the caged dolphins play (or are they trying to escape?), afternoon presentation on the pigs and what their snouts are doing for erosion and runoff, float your boat home in the canal, mix a rum and coke, and watch the sun set over the golf course. Funny shit.

Here's a little more funny shit. My mom used to pick on her sister for being a leftie. Her sister, my aunt Barb, cursed my mother with a cackle and a "All your children will be left-handed," and we are. Three for three. Barb made up for it by giving my mom a kidney a couple of years ago, so they're even.

Dad made us learn how to use tools right-handed because it's safer. All the other folks are using their right hands and will expect you to as well. Plus all the guards are designed for use as a right-hander. Remember the chainsaw, Weston? So along with learning induced flow and the location of the low rotor RPM sensor, I have been learning to write, 'The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog,' (every letter of the alphabet is in there, go ahead, double-check) over and over with my right hand cuz you can't let go of the collective on the ground, but you gots to write some stuff down. Pretty funny cuz Mrs. Utke always gave me a hard time about my hand-writing, (grow up in a small town and you can hate a teacher two years in a row) she'd shit a bird if she saw how it looks with the other hand.

Freezing Rain Advisory

2011-11-10T07:54:00.001-08:00

I woke up this morning and streamed KSKA, as I have most mornings for the last decade or so. I'm not up on the issues here yet, plus the weather reports are super boring. 83, no 85 today and sunny, again. Meanwhile, AK is on the national news scene with a powerful storm. There's talk of evacuating some Western villages. Think about how shitty it must be for the folks that live there to be concerned.Southcentral has been getting snow/precip and they're blowing snow right along with Ma Nature in Girdwood. Last year, the folks I had signed up to plow my driveway pulled out of Girdwood in mid-December and I just rolled the dice. It was such a low snow year that I got away with having my neighbor plow me out once and that's all I needed. But I have renters now, probably some of the best a person could hope to have. They are friends of mine, which can be dicey. But I think I rolled a seven this time. They've been to my home for dinner parties and I've said leave the dishes I'll get 'em in the morning. Go downstairs to play foosball. Come back upstairs and the dishes are done and there they are cleaning the burner racks on the stove. Yeah, the burner racks. What's up? Am I moving? Is my mother coming to visit? Whoopsie, that was a good tangent. Anyway, I got the guy around the corner to keep the driveway cleared for the season. Some guys charge for each plow, this gentleman charges once for the season. Last year he made bank, this year his kids might not get the G.I. Joe with the kung fu grip in their stockings.Yesterday was the first day of patrol training. I bet a few of them are looking at this right now on their smartphones instead of listening to whatever boring shit management is spewing. Nothing new really from the last post but I thought a little on my living sitch might be more entertaining to them than accident investigations.Before I got here I kept an eye on motorcycles for sale and places for rent(the school has student housing but I'm past that stage of my life) to get an idea of what was out there, a feel for prices and the like. I called about a couple of bikes but got no response. Probably folks didn't want to bother with an out-of-stater.So the school arranged for someone to come and get me when I arrived on the Big Island. They took me to student housing, far and away the cheapest place to crash until I got my feet under me. The next day I went back to the airport to get the bag that missed the connection in Honolulu (no biggie, just keep in mind the words of my friend Phil, "Travel is both expensive and inconvenient,") and to get a rental car so I could check things off my list.THE LIST:1. Get a motorcycle2. Get a place to live3. Learn how to fly helicopters.So day one in the rental car I drove to Hilo to test ride several bikes. One was a crotch-rocket, two were more dirt than road. I wanted a dual-sport so I could take advantage of the trail riding but realized that I would spend most of the helmet time commuting to and from school. I thanked the guys for letting me take the bikes for a spin, got myself a portugese sausage omlette and a coffee for $4.07 and pulled out my new smartphone. Don't worry, you won't see me on any of those creepy, 'i just took a shit and want the whole world to know about it' social network sites any time soon. I'm eating my breakfast, scrolling craigslist and there she is: a lovely honda 650 dual-sport. there are better bikes, but hondas are dependable (my brother and I tried to kill a few growing up. It can't be done.), affordable, and perform above average. So I call the guy. "Wow, I just listed that five minutes ago." So I say I'm in Hilo but can be there in under two hours if he'll hold it for me. He sorta chuckled and said that he would. Directions? I don't need no stinking directions. Just give me your address and this contraption I'm talking to you on will bring me right to your door. Really? Actually, I have no idea, I just got this thing, but that's what my friends tell me. If it doesn't work, I'll call you back when I'm as close as I can get.So it worked. The bike was everything I thought it would be. "So you still want me to hold it for you?" "No, I'll take it." "OK when can you get me the money?" "As soon as I put my hand in my pocket." (My brother called to wish me good luck on the move. "You have everything squared away?" "I won't know for awhile." "You have your passport and a bunch of cash?" "Yep" "You'll be fine.") They, Terry and his wife, Gudrin(spelling?), asked me if I had a place to stay. Nope. "We can put a message on the coconut radio (generational comment) if you like." Hell yeah, that would be great.I go back to student housing and Terry follows me on the bike. Wow you already got a bike? Yeah. And you drove to Hilo first? Yeah, it's not even two hundred miles, a short jaunt in AK, akin to going to the moon here.The response from the professor's contraption(how come he never figured out how to make goo to plug the hole in the boat and how come no one ever got sick of Mary Ann's coconut pies?) was overwhelming. I looked at a ton of places not listed anywhere, including a tree house. Yeah a house twenty feet up in an honest to goodness tree. My inner Thoreau and my inner Kazinski, for that matter, really wanted to live there but logic won out over romantic (as it usually does with me) and I'm living in a one-bedroom house seven or so miles from the airport. The place is great, the owners are cool and on-site. They grow avocados, papayas, bananas, guavas, and coffee(which they roast themselves) plus, their last name is Mink, so there's some sort of cosmic connection.

Good bye muk luks, hello flip flops

2011-11-04T10:32:00.000-07:00

So I took a half-hour introductory helicopter lesson last winter. I told my parents about it and my mom said something along the lines of "Oh boy, do I have to start to worry about this?" I assured her that there was nothing to worry about. Then I spent the next few months obsessing about whirlybirds. Several of my friends and I already had healthy rc helicopter habits and I thought that was as far as it would go.

Spring came and with it the transition to the job that pays well enough so that I could continue ski patrolling. I found myself sitting in an excavator pulling out fence posts between a building and a power transformer with traffic lights overhead. All four limbs had something to do on that particular project and I realized that flying helicopters was something I could do. So the obsessing kicked into high gear.

I grew up on a farm and was put at the controls of a tractor at age four. Dad put it in second gear, low range, let out the clutch and hopped off. I drove in slow circles while Dad and others picked rocks and tossed them on the trailer. The next summer my brother got to drive the tractor and I began my long rock-picking career. But I continued to operate equipment.

That's just part of growing up on a farm. Lots of stuff is mechanized/motorized and you learn how to operate all sorts of equipment way before the manufacture's warning label says you should. I remember when Dad put a thimble on the shut-off switch below the seat on the riding lawnmower to override it cuz Kyle was too light. It didn't occur to my father that my little brother shouldn't be on the lawnmower cuz he was too young. The idea of waiting to do adult duties simply doesn't fly on a farm.

I flipped a skid steer into a pond we were filling in to make more ground for mink sheds when I was nine. But it wasn't because I was too small or didn't have the skills. Dad told me not to get too close to the edge, I didn't listen.

I've tried to retire from landscaping several times in the past but I couldn't seem to find a seasonal outside gig that allowed me to keep patrolling in the winter. I love everything about that job except the politics and low pay. But this summer when the Resort sent out its annual, "This is how we're gonna screw you this season," letter informing us that overtime would be virtually eliminated and we would be required to remain on-call, it became apparent that I could no longer afford to work there.

I decided to take my equipment operating skills to the next level. After all, I've been running various machinery nearly my whole life, but gravity's been keeping me down.

I did the research, read blogs and websites til my eyes bled, talked to people in the industry, and decided on Mauna Loa Helicopters in Hawaii. They simply have the best non-military program(let's face it, I'm not military material) in the world. Yes, world. Plus, believe it or not, it's more affordable to train in Hawaii than Nicaragua. The school is well respected, takes training seriously, the weather is conducive to flying most every day, and there is plenty of terrain to challenge the aspiring pilot.

2011-04-14T14:38:00.001-07:00

Does euphonious remind you of an attachment

Missed me

2010-08-21T09:32:00.000-07:00

We had a great hitch this time around. The blasting team left just as the excavator got to a shelf of bedrock. It looked like the machine would have to sit for the next six days until the mountain got its bed rocked by emulite. We chewed on the problem over dinner that night and decided that we should try to get the machine over the shelf ourselves.

The day started with mucking about with a grip-hoist. I hatched a half-baked plan to tie off to an alder or ten and crab my way up the hill. We didn't feel confident about anchors and the like so we left the contraption in the conex and headed up the hill.

There's plenty of time to think on our commute. Ari thought about breaker bars and I thought about islands.

Ari attacked the bedrock with the breaker bar while Buttons and I gathered hemlock branches and bolts to make cribbing. Once the cribbing was in place, I dug a hole and filled the hemlocks with dirt and made a ramp up and over the shelf. I had to keep robbing Peter to pay Paul as I moved the island of dirt up the ramp and eventually over the bedrock. The most satisfying day of the project.

Then on my days off, someone shot at my truck as I zipped down Minnesota and blew out my back window. So now I've been shot at and I can check that off my list, which is nice.

Lightly inspired

2010-07-10T09:05:00.000-07:00

I had a beer with my friend Heather the other night. She had wine, see there isn't any gluten in wine. Killer bees attacked her last summer and she swelled up like a redneck's pecker at a family reunion. The swelling went down but left a case of hives (bees, hives, weird, right?) for her to remember them by.

Somehow the bee stings shook up her histamine balance and left her with the horrible, horrible condition that makes beer, bourbon, and pizza poison. Humans have been ingesting gluten since before they mastered fire. So what's with the explosion in gluten-irritated bowels?

It ain't just gluten. Some kids aren't allowed to go to ball games cuz the dust on the peanuts that people at the ballpark are eating may be breathed by the kids, resulting in a stressful ride to the hospital while their throats are closing.

So what is it, what changed in the human condition? Antibacterial soap? Genetic engineering? Pesticides? Governmental population control through food-based fear?

I have no idea. What I do know is that I was bouncing round the Blogosphere the other day and came across someone that had my blog listed as one that he/she followed. I have no idea who runs "Collectors Crack," but am stoked that somehow my rants and revelations have been found by a random being riding the google machine.

Starfishing

2009-12-14T08:05:00.000-08:00

We've been under the thumb of an Omega block high pressure system for some time. Omegas typically provide lots of cold and severe clear weather. This one is shifted a bit from "normal" and is grabbing warm air off the ocean. It's been pretty nice, snowmaking temps down low with an inversion that has been providing warmer temps up high. One day last week we had 14 degrees F at the base while the red bulb passed the 50 degree mark at the top of the mountain.

The severe inversion causes a thin layer of ice fog just above the town that covers everything with hoar frost. While the trees look beautiful blanketed in thick feathery frost, it's awfully hard to see the stars at night, which is most of the day this time of year. And you can't see meteor showers if you can't see the stars. So we needed to gain some elevation if we were going to see the Geminids, said to be the best shower of the year, peaking at 140 shooting stars an hour.

The Geminids are caused by a skeleton comet named 3200 Phaethon. Skeleton comets fly too close to the sun and over time all their ice melts. 3200 Phaethon flies closer to the sun than any other comet, that's why it's named after the Greek god Phaeton, son of the god Helios and 3200 represents the number three thousand, two hundred. Maybe there are 3199 more of these guys, maybe the dude that named it huffed Scotch Guard in college.

A group of patroller types drove out to the Pass to get away from the cloud layer and the light pollution of the snowmaking operations. Weather at the Pass didn't fully cooperate. We had broken high clouds so we could only see a relative sliver of the sky.

Pad and Gail were best prepared to go fishing for shooting stars. They brought whiskey, warm clothes, and lawn chairs while the rest of us decided to wake up in the morning with sore necks. This morning I feel like I went ice climbing but without the miserable memories that sport sometimes provides.

We stared up, waiting hopefully for a long yellow tail to blaze across the sky. People pointed and hooted if they saw one, groaned if they missed it. Every once in a while you'd see a little teeny tiny one or maybe your brain just skipped a beat, who knows?

Our sliver of sky provided forty or so shooters, something different to do, and a connection to past civilizations that mapped the heavens without telescopes and with gigantic calendars made of stones. Not bad.

Big Puffy

2009-11-16T08:37:00.000-08:00

It's that time of year again. Fall segued nicely into winter. This year's batch of ski bums have trickled in full of anticipation. Most have bounced from snow town to snow town, starting in the East on the ice in minus temps, then heading west. They soak up the sun in the Rockies while learning to absorb miles of moguls. Often they stop over in the Wasatch for the "Greatest Snow on Earth." Great snow, three or four steep turns, and 3.2 beer. Yuck. Or maybe Wyoming with its couloir and its social scene.

Eventually the ski bums get to AK and its coastal ranges jutting right out of the ocean. Broad peaks with big ramps too steep to hold snow most places abound here. High winds plaster snow against the mountains while snow sliders dig out their gear and curse themselves for not waxing the boards in July when they finally gave up skiing for the year or dealing with the funky construction like ten feet of sewer pipe outside of the house.

The snowguns crank out a base to get us started and get us through the inevitable bouts we'll have with rain. The darkness limits travel time so we all share the few places one can get to and back from without getting slapped by alders we didn't see. We stare longingly from the ridge to all the future lines beyond but remember we need to wrap the pipe with heat tape and insulate it or tomorrow morning's dump will be in the bathtub, too.

Do you have a band-aid?

2009-10-23T08:45:00.000-07:00

a drunk irish blacksmith by the name of jack offered
his soul to the devil for a drink. the devil agreed and
turned himself into a sixpence so jack could pay the
bartender. jack had a moment of clarity as he reached for
the coin and decided that his soul for a pint was a bad
trade.

he threw the coin into his purse next to a silver
cross which rendered the devil powerless. carrying the devil
can weigh a guy down, so jack let the devil go with the
agreement that he'd leave jack alone for ten years.

ten years to the day the devil returned. jack had been
walking through an orchard and asked the devil to climb a
tree and toss him one last apple before he took jack to
hell.

the devil must have been a real dumbass cuz he agreed.
once the devil scampered up the tree, jack carved a cross on
the trunk and the devil was stuck in the tree. fucked,
really because this was long before ladder trucks.

jack made the devil promise to leave jack's soul alone
before he removed the cross, freeing the devil.

years later the drunk died. heaven wouldn't take him.
the devil honored his promise and wouldn't accept jack
either. he tossed jack an ember from the fires of hell and
told him to go back where he came from. jack placed the
ember in a turnip he'd been eating, cursed to walk the earth
for eternity with his lantern.

when all the micks headed to the gold-paved streets of america, they realized that this country had a serious turnip shortage. they turned to another little-used vegetable to keep their tradition alive. and you thought you could only blame your march 18th hangovers on the irish.

Trip's over, Sunshine

2009-09-03T22:55:00.000-07:00

Eight or nine years ago I walked into Max’s with my friend Fritz. We ordered beers. I took a big swallow of the delicious nectar and began to hiccup. I hiccupped through that beer and another. I held my breath, tried to burp, whatever and still the hiccups came one after the other.

Finally, Peddy the bartendress with the bloody mary mix that required three months of aging came over. She said she could make a concoction that would cure them or the beers were on her.

We watched her throw all kinds of stuff-soda, bitters, eye of newt, Tabasco, and who knows what else into a pint glass. She slid it to me and instructed me to drink it all at once. I drained the glass in one swallow, set it down and promptly hiccupped.

With a bellyful of that painful brew, I decided to walk home. When I got to the Glacier Creek Bridge I vomited fiercely, wiped my mouth and hiccupped. That’s the last time I vomited until the Welcome Dinner for the second India tour of 2009.

I didn’t feel ill at all. I just had to excuse myself mid-curry and find the men’s room. I vomited violently, though it’s always violent, isn’t it? I washed my face and went back to finish my meal. No bellyache, no loss of appetite, just had to get all that puke out, I guess.

Then in Kalpa I got up at five to take a pee. I’ve been standing to piss for quite a few years now with no fears but a fart while urinating turned out to be dangerous business. Explosion is a word that comes to mind. As long as I’m up and there’s loose stool running down my leg, I might as well shower.

Hotel rooms in India mount the shower, sink, and toilet all in one small area. There is no shower curtain or anything like that. You always need to consider the placement of the toilet paper before showering. This simplistic design makes clean up a breeze.

I spent the rest of the trip clenching my ass while pissing, just to be on the safe side. I’m happy to report as was well.

Here are couple of notables from the second trip. One of the kids was overwhelmed by the time we got to Chattru. It was the most technical day of riding so far and he felt that he was beyond his ability and no longer having fun.

So he hopped in the chase vehicle and Manoog(pronounced Manoosh) got on his bike in his jean jacket, cotton slacks, and penny loafers or maybe they’re rupee loafers here, I don’t know. He grew up in Dehli and learned to stand on a moped so the boy can ride. He sure looked ridiculous wearing Karl’s American head-sized helmet but he ripped through the water crossings, over the boulder fields, and into the mud like he was born on a bike. I couldn’t confirm it, but I think he was.

It rained hard that night and continued to pour while we rode. It doesn’t take much water to have a big effect in this steep topography. Mudslides oozed over the road in many places. Brown water ran down the tarmac making haystacks over six and ten inch rocks. I saw lots of land in motion and rocks tumbling. Mariska missed kissing a rock the size of a basketball with his front tire by centimeters.

On the last day, we woke up to falling snow and got an early start so the kids could do some last minute trinket buying when we got back to Manali. It had rained hard all night but changed to snow for us in the morning. Dodging moving rocks and going over mudslides around hairpins requires sharp reflexes, a clear mind, and the ability to feel one’s fingers.

I noticed the kids holding onto the cylinder head whenever terrain allowed and realized that their hands were probably much colder than mine, and mine were damn cold so I told Anu we needed a break.

We stopped in Sissu for some chai. Anu made the decision that we were done riding for the day and taking a taxi over Rhotang La (3990 m). None of the kids protested in the slightest. We stuffed nine people into an eight passenger van and were off. I drew one of the jump seats behind the axle and made contact with the roof using my head several times.

We picked up a bottle of beer for the driver, dropped off a cell phone battery at a random house, and picked up three more people which required lap sitting. The snow began to stick as we climbed and was six inches at the top, which is about 5 and a half inches more than you’d want on a bike, good call Anu.

Twice we went around mudslides that Tatas and buses couldn’t slide past. Only two vehicles behind our chase vehicle got through the last spot before the mud oozed all the way across and closed the road. Lucky kids, we were. They didn’t have time to get the trinkets, but that’s what saved us and it’s the thought that counts. I hope their significant others will understand.

I’ve had a wonderful trip, full of great people, mind-blowing scenery, world-class riding, and some much needed helmet time. But I gotta tell ya, I’m ready for a bacon cheeseburger in the land of trusted farts.

Shanti

2009-08-19T05:53:00.000-07:00

We left Kaza and continued up the Spiti Valley. We headed past Losar, our refuge from the storm last year, and climbed Kumzum La, the 4990m pass that we had climbed twice in a blizzard. It was much less arduous with dry roads and warm temps.

At the bottom of the pass we hooked a right turn to Baikal or Moon Lake. The road to the lake was challenging with several deep water crossings, loose rock, and lots of exposure. It would be a several hundred meter tumble to the valley floor if one missed a corner.

I noticed several different camps of men raking the desert with straw brooms. Several small clumps dotted the landscape, some with full gunny sacks leaning against them. When we got to the lake trailhead, I realized that the clumps were piles of sheep and goat shit.

The small balls don’t burn as well as cow or yak dung, so they aren’t used for fuel. The herders gather it up to take back to the gardens or fields for fertilizer. Think of making a living in a place so stark that one rakes up the sheepshit in the desert for the family pea patch. Three dollar lattes sure seem silly here.

The short hike to the lake rewarded quickly. The glacier at the top of the valley fed it, so the lake had that beautiful green hue. I saw several minnow type fish from the shore so, maybe it has big fish too. We hustled back to the bikes after a quick lunch because our water crossings were snow fed and would be deeper the longer we dillydallied.

We followed the Chandar River from its birth at the lake all the way down to Chhattru or Chatru or Chattru depending on which sign one read, where we camped for the evening. The road challenged constantly with its ruts, blind hairpins (horn ablaring), loose rocks, goat herds-some of them moving above us and trundling rocks down, water crossings, and scenery.

Every valley varies from the last. The particular beauty of the Chandar Valley is the river itself. It rolls and boils at quite a clip. Not pool drop to pool drop, but just constant rapids with little or no eddy opportunity. Even when one can see the line, there is always a hole or two that would reach up, grab the raft and shake it like a dog with a rat before spitting it downstream to the next.

Alexander the Great tried to cross the Chandar to expand his territory. His troops had one look at the angry, churning mass of mud and boulders and refused to cross it. Every time I stole a peek at it, only a peek at a time will do if one wants to keep the bike on the road and out of the river, I agreed with them. I’m sure some world-class crazy paddlers would give it a go, they could have it. I was content to camp beside it, admiring the glacially-carved walls reminiscent of the Yosemite Valley in California while eating the best food of the whole trip. They kept bringing dish after wonderful dish that had been made on the kerosene two-burner they squatted beside.

The other notable aside from a gazillion stars, the Milky Way, meteors, blah, blah, blah, was that it was our first dog-free evening. It was great to have the roar of the river to sleep to instead of the usual canine symphony.

Doug’s health had been deteriorating since Kaza, and worsened by the time we got to Keylong. Each time he ate food it was so excited to leave his system that it couldn’t decide which way to go. Couple that with altitude sickness, first heart attack at 39, and implanted defribilator and it’s easy to see why he made the right decision to head back to Manali with Jeff rather than risk the affects of climbing higher the next two days.

The rest of us continued on for a night of camping in Sarchu. It is the halfway point between Manali and Leh, so is a popular stop. There are no permanent structures as life would be too harsh come winter. We had another abfab meal and an icy stream to store our beers in before drinking them.

I woke at about three to pee and was rewarded with quite the sky show. Lightning lit up the ridge two valleys to the south, the half moon lit up the north, and off to the west a meteor shower burned trail after trail across the sky. I wish I knew my astronomy better but I think it was the annual Pliedaes shower.

We rode beautiful roads out of Sarchu that begged for fifth gear, which was a rarity in a land where most of the riding was white-knuckle at 30 kph. But frost heaves soon made us ratchet our speeds back for fear of breaking the frame from catching too much air, actually catching the air was fine, it was the landings that were scary.

We climbed twenty-two delicious switchbacks (they call them loops which makes little sense so is perfect for India) on our way to the high point of our trip of 5063 meters. The land was stark with prayer flags the only thing growing. We took some pictures and a couple of deep breaths that didn’t seem to satisfy and headed down to the evening’s destination of Jispa.
Jispa wasn’t much for a town but we had comfortable accomadations and I met an interesting fellow. He and his son were on their way to Leh to install some pre-fab wood cottages that he dealt in.

Wood construction is a bit of a novelty here because if one is caught cutting a tree down, it’s fifteen years in the slammer. All construction is concrete, stone, brick, or a combination there of. His cottages are made of spruce in Russia. They are constructed, numbered, and disassembled for shipment to Delhi.

While I found the cottage industry interesting, it paled in comparison to the story of how he got to Delhi. His grandfather had a 500 mule train that he used to haul rice, tea, and sugar over the Kiber(spelling?) pass. Instead of selling all that stuff for a big o’pile of money, he traded it for guns which he smuggled to the Indian resistance. In 1919 he was caught at the border with his unusual cargo and refused entry.

It was really the best way to be caught. If he had made it into the country, his sentence would have been death or life imprisionment on one of their island jails which is the same as a death sentence only slower. As it was, he only got deported.

When the Brits were ousted in 1953, the Indian government told his family that they would honor their Indian citizenry because his grandfather had been a freedom fighter. So there he was, an Indian citizen living in Kuwait wondering as he was driving to work one day why all the Kuwaiti tanks were zooming through the traffic with him.

A couple of hours later, tanks of a different color filled the streets. He loaded up his family to flee the Iraqis. They noticed his turban (he and his family were Sikhs) and called him their brother and gave him escorted clear passage over the border.

Incidentally, one of our clients had been on a Navy vessel during Desert Shield and said that their ship had advanced warning that the U.S.S. Stark would be fired upon but did nothing. Another example of a false flag to sell a war to a people. But back to the grandson of the gun runner.

They spent several years bouncing through the tribal lands of Iran and the ‘Stans, staying with family connections. Connections that would happily hand you a rpg, uzi, ak-47, or whatever to try out as long as you paid for the cartridge first. So now he sells pre-fab cabins and maybe dabbles in other things.
Our ride down Rhotang La ended the trip on a high note. The muddy, slimy, rocky, wet roads full of Tatas, taxis, and tour buses challenged our riding ability. Especially because visibility was often less than 10 meters and even driving through a cloud, the majority of Indians leave the lights off.

Once we broke out of the cloud we had pouring rain to entertain us until we got back to the Ambassador in Manali. Oh yeah, all that traffic coming off the pass was local tourists celebrating Indian Independence. I guess I would have felt more festive if I were in a country that sold beer on holidays.

Halfway done w/number 1

2009-08-10T03:33:00.000-07:00

We took the boys on a day ride to get familiar with the bikes and left-side driving. Back up Solang Valley and they all looked solid so we headed halfway up Rhotang La for lunch. The dry road gave them some idea of what they may be in for without the added stress of hundred meter mud puddles and water crossings, plus traffic was light because we timed it so that we would not be competing with the tour buses.

Larry cut a corner too sharp on the way down and was surprised by a Tata coming around the bend. His front tire caught in the sandy duff and over he went. He had a smashed headlight all right but no injuries, so it was a cheap wipeout. Good to get the first one out of the way so everyone could relax.

Day one on the road involved traffic and heat. We had to wait for a bus to unload all the people from the roof and some from inside so that it could climb up and out of our way on the road to Jalori Pass. Shortly after we passed the bus, Anu pulled over and said, “We stop here for night.” There was barely enough room to park the bikes and all I saw was a cornchip Granny stand. He told us to leave our bags cuz the boys would get them and led us down a little cow trail that turned into a sidewalk. “This special place, in no books,” he said.

The hotel was beautiful with spectacular views of the valley. We could hear singing from down in the bottom of the valley and after we pitched our bags, one of the boys took us down to the annual Raksha Bandhan, which is a festival honoring brothers and sisters.

Women lined up from oldest to youngest with linked arms performed a set dance while singing to a similar line of men. Both lines circled seven or eight men with drums, two men with some kind of oboes and two others with six foot long silver horns straight out of Dr. Suess. The festival lasts for three days with people constantly joining and leaving the circle.

It’s been great to reacquaint myself with our route. Things have changed a bunch since we were here last. The road to Solang no longer requires bouncing over round river rocks for three-quarters of a mile. The future ski resort, a project ten years in the making that Carl, Matt, and I toured won’t open, power lines now criss-cross its slopes.

We stopped for lunch in Recong Peo and I led the way up some crumbled and uneven concrete stairs. I remembered thoroughly enjoying our lunch there last year. I topped out on the stairs and found only a pile of broken bricks where our café had been. They hadn’t knocked out all the windows yet so I was able to point out the AkRider sticker to the boys to prove that it was the right place.

We ate next door which was convenient but somewhat below standards, not quite as dark and dirty as the asshole but you could see the hemorrhoids from there. The boys were troopers though; they’ve all traveled quite a bit and rolled with the third-world shake of the dice.

We slept that night in Kalpa, which is an apple orchard community at about 10,000 feet. The neighborhood dogs held quite the symphony for us crescendoing with enthusiasm until the rains started.

We scheduled the tours much earlier than our scouting trip so snowfalls would be rarities that didn’t stick to the roads and avalanche closures would be non-existent. But it’s always something and this time of year is monsoon season.

The dogs quieted all at once up and down the valley as if the maestro’s stick had suddenly stopped. I wondered what had happened. There was no shout from a neighbor followed by a shotgun blast to scare them like I remembered in my youth when dogs were being unruly. I was mid roll over when the rains came.

There was no howling wind or a sprinkle that built in intensity. The sky just opened up. It did whatever was two notches above poured for three hours. Then it didn’t taper off, it simply stopped. The sun poked over the ridge and my favorite blend of heat and humidity cranked while we packed.

Anu voiced his concern at breakfast. That kind of rain often leaves landslides as a reminder of its passing and we would be spending most of the day exposed in that kind of terrain. We had sixty kilometers to cover through a canyon construction zone which is the biggest hydroelectric project in the entire Himalayas, and that’s saying something in a country where the Colorado would be just another river.

We got lucky on the landslides. The rains turned some of the duff into peanut butter which was pretty exciting to spread with our street bikes, but mostly it just kept the dust down.

We drove through shanty towns with rusted corrugated steel roofs dotted with satellite dishes full of naked children and mothers doing laundry in muddy streams and past the various construction zones where men wearing hardhats and flip flops ran jackhammers.

There was a natural stopping point at the end of the construction zone where we watered up and Mariska pointed across the valley and up maybe 600 vertical feet to where the new road would be. Last year we could see the frontline folks blazing the trail with pickaxes while a team behind them trundled rocks down to build up the sides. It looks like it may be ready to pave already, truly an incredible amount of progress to make in one year by hand.

We stayed the night in Sarahan. A work crew mixed concrete for the third story of a building next to our hotel. They had the old rope and shovel team (one man holds the shovel, his partner pulls the shovel through the pile via a rope attached just above the spade, then the handle holder lifts and dumps the rocks into the waiting basket) filling basket after basket with aggregate, an old man (who looked about a hundred and twelve but was likely in his fifties) shoveling sand and a young boy adding water. I watched for a long time trying to figure out what sort of mix they were running. Knowing that an extra quart of water in a yard of concrete weakens the mix by thirty percent, it was easy to imagine why the story below sagged on the far end.

I read a book after dinner until two boys with music blaring out of their cell phone came up and asked me if I had any money for their foreign currency collection, a common scam here. I told them that I had already converted my money to rupees and asked them if they wanted to join me.

School is compulsory here until age eight or nine depending on whom you ask. They looked to be about that age so accounting for poor nutrition, I put their age at ten or so and asked them if they went to school and how old they were. Yes, an hour bus ride each way and thirteen year old twins. Their father owned our hotel which made them some of the wealthiest kids in town and still they showed no signs of puberty at thirteen and were much slighter in build than the average American third-grader. I guess I don’t mean average third-grader but the ones whose parents don’t consider Sunny Delight and Ho-hos as a snack option.

They gave me some Hindi lessons at my urging. I won’t be conversing about the local cricket team or whether India should really be focusing on going to the moon with the locals anytime soon, but my pleases and thank yous are now pretty solid.

We’ve been on the Inner Line for the last few days and are currently layed over in Kaza. The Inner Line was opened to tourists, Indian and foreign alike, in the Nineties. It is a well-maintained, by Indian standards, road with very little traffic save for military vehicles. It was built because China decided to move the border about five miles closer and the Indian government decided that that was shit up with which it should not put.

Our first night in the restricted area was at about 12,000 feet in the village of Nako. I hiked up to an abandoned monastery with Colin. The whole area is terraced with rock walls and aqueducts channel snowmelt to the apple trees and pea patches.

The tops of all the walls and fences have flat rocks with Sanskrit symbols carved in them and I’m talking the top two feet of many miles of walls and fences stacked with flat rocks carved by hand from long before the Iron Age. It’s hard to wrap one’s mind around how long people have been carving on those rocks; it must be in the thousands of years.

Just got back from a day ride to a one thousand year old monastery and the highest road accessible village in India. At the monastery a little boy of four or so grabbed Mariska’s hand and pulled him up two flights of stairs and into a dark room with candlelight shimmering off the walls. The boy waved to a monk in the corner and left. The monk asked us if we wanted tea.

His master relieved him and took us on a tour of the facilities. He had been brought there by his parents when he was six. Twenty-four years later, he is about halfway through his training. He has taken a vow of celibacy and poverty as have all of the 170 monks there.

The village of Kippa gives them food and that along with donations keep the lights on. The fourteenth Dali Lama stayed there in 1971, 2003, and is slated to again in 2010. The monk showed us the bed, it is the same one each incarnation of the Dali Lama has slept on since the monastery opened.

Many of the rooms are filled with ancient scrolls, paintings, and the like. But what most impressed me was the monk sitting cross-legged on the floor in the last room we visited. He held a thick hemp rope in his hands. He kept rhythmically leaning back with his arms straight which pulled the rope.

The rope spun a prayer wheel, which is really a cylinder, that was about eight feet tall and six feet in diameter. The top edge of the wheel had one silver bar maybe a foot long protruding from it. The bar struck a knocker on one of two bells as it went by.

The bells were different sizes and so gave off distinct peals as the cylinder spun. The monk kept up the pulling as a form of meditation until another one came to relieve him. The cylinder has been spinning and the bells ringing twenty-four hours a day for four hundred years.

Field trip

2009-08-02T03:20:00.000-07:00

We started our day at the hot springs in the temple just up from our hotel. You leave your shoes outside the temple with a man who will keep an eagle eye on them for one rupee(3cents.)

Many locals bathe daily in the temple pool. The water is much hotter than you will find at a hot tub in the states. Your skin quits sending the pain signal to the brain instantly and you relax into a puddle.

We had fresh squeezed oj from a roadside stand then headed to a rooftop restaurant for chai and breakfast. We shared a table w/ a Frenchman named Tony. He told us about his ten years here while he rolled mixtee after mixtee. Halfway through smoking his first the owner came to the table and asked him for a hit. Tony handed it to him and he went about his business, merrily puffing while he made breakfasts and teas and clearing tables.

After breakfast we returned to the hotel to find two shiny Royal Enfields parked outside. Mine had 735.3 km on it. Anu pulled up and suggested that we head up Solang Valley.

There is a rope across the road at the ski resort. We asked if we could park on the uphill side of the rope to get our bikes off the road. Bikes secured, we headed down to the clearing for a chai.

A constant stream of paragliders and bubble boy transport systems provided our entertainment. The paraglider pilots have an interesting technique that involves running over their passengers when they land. Most of them look young and inexperienced. I think they are also too small to effectively flair the wings at the crucial moment.

While the pilot gets off the client he just smashed into the ground two boys roll the wing up into a ball that may or may not be a tangled mess by the time it gets hiked back to the top of the hill.

People mill about the landing zone, sometimes eliciting a shout from a pilot that fears he may clip them. The north side of the clearing serves as the runout zone for the bubble ball things that hold two or more passengers. I never saw one catch air but they do roll along at a good clip and probably smell delicious with the residue of lots of vomit baking in the heat.

It became clear when we left why Anu wanted to park uphill of the ropeblock. We headed up the valley in the area restricted to Army and road building vehicles.

The freshly paved road twisted and climbed up the valley. The air cooled as we got closer to the hanging glaciers dribbling down from the peaks.

The pavement ended because they had come to the point where they planned to begin the tunnel. It is to be 9 km long and is necessary as an avalanche mitigation measure. The hope is that Leh will be accessible nearly year round.

Supply trucks must climb steep and dangerous Rhotang La to get to Leh at present. The rough road skirts numerous avalanche paths and usually closes for the season shortly after the first snows fall.

Smells

2009-08-01T01:25:00.000-07:00

Sally (shameless plug for alaska travel source) pulled some strings, worked her magic, threatened, cajoled or whatever and got me on Thursday's oversold flight. Mariska and Anu picked me up in Kulu and only an hour late, which is practically early in India.

The first thing I noticed was the heat. 34 degrees Celcius (double it and add 30 for F, I'll do this one for you, it's 98.) Then the smog which along with smelling, instantly makes throats scratchy and eyes watery. Then it's the arnica, nag chumpa, and human waste(sweat, feet, and feces.) Then the foods hit yer nose. The curries and spices and fennels, oh my.

Speaking of food, one of the meals on my Continental flight was a chickpea burrito. I guess they thought they could have a meal that included one familiar thing from each major culture on the plane. But the two don't really go together so, ah well it's the thought that counts.

I'm in the mountain town of Manali, in the Himalayan foothills, I gots 15 large in my pocket, a great friend to adventure with, a bike that may or not breakdown every day, and all the crappy beer I care to drink. Pretty good alright.

The Second Worst Flight

2009-07-30T08:04:00.000-07:00

I'm getting a divorce. My poor parents are 0 for 3 in the children's successful marriage category. Since Brooke and I have seperated, I've been surrounded by good friends trying to help me heal. Some really good pearls have come out of that time like, "You're either in a relationship or 0 for."-Josh

Some opportunities have presented themselves as well. I decided to jump on Phil's offer to tail-guide for Mariska in India. It seemed like the perfect place to spend the purgatory between married and divorced. So I put in a rush order on a passport and visa renewal, tried not to think about the financial ramifications of this decision but rather the emotional ones, did my best to remain kind and gentle to Brooke through this transition, and chain-smoked.

Anchorage to Houston to Newark to Dehli to Kullu. Everything was going just peachy until we were about two hours out of Houston. I woke from one of my seventeen naps and raised my window shade. The sun blinded me. That seemed odd, either I had been asleep for many hours or we had turned around. Before I could wipe the nap drool off my chin, the captain came over the PA. You can always tell when an annoucement is coming from the collective groan of all the people using the inflight entertainment that just got interrupted.

The captain told us that a heckuva storm was pummelling Newark. Air Traffic Control had closed all of New York's airspace. "Don't worry, we anticipated this before we left Houston so we have plenty of fuel." So we circled and circled, mostly over Tennesee. The inflight map showed that the captain was doing a pretty good job, the circle on the screen got wider in a few spots but mostly he was following the same track until...

"Well folks we've used most of our extra fuel, ATC has routed us to Norfolk Virgina." We landed and got in line for fuel with the rest of the jets that had been hovering while waiting for the storm to blow through Newark.

My departure time out of Newark was 8pm. Since it was 7:30 and ATC still hadn't let us leave Norfolk, I was pretty sure I missed my flight. Ah well, at least we were waiting on nice hot tarmac that heated the cabin somewhere near the triple digits range, with an absolutely sold out plane full of parents on tour. The thing about parents on tour is that they realize no one wants to see the parents so they usually bring the babies.

The babies had a wail-off to pass the time on the runway. I had a contender sitting across the aisle from me but try as she might, she couldn't out scream the future President, astronaut, shortstop or teenage father in 12C. That boy could scream.

We finally got to Newark. Guess what waited for me there? It's true, another line! This one was full of patently pissed-off folks. The line crawled when it moved at all. At 11:05 about thirty people that I recognized from my flight joined the line. They had found a service desk right next to our gate when we had landed. I missed it and am glad I did cuz the agent's shift ended at eleven and no one replaced her.

"Next." I stepped up and a cute Hispanic American with way too much blue eye shadow said, "Where were you headed?" closely followed by, "Shit, why do I always get the hard ones?"
I got booked stand-by on Thursday and confirmed on Friday. Most folks know that the airlines no longer bump honeymooners to first-class for free, charge for lunches and extra bags and that sort of thing. Another awesome cost-cutting measure is that they no longer put people up when connections are missed.

Ms. Guerro told me that all the hotels near the airport were full due to the sheer volume of travellers that had been stranded by the storm. She said that I'd be able to find a motel on the strip, near where she live, miles and miles of motels and a cheap cab fare.

I've only been in the Newark airport once before, in fifth grade. Dad took me to New York and I remember him trying to find a cab to our hotel in Trenton. He asked a few drivers how much it might be, he wanted to make sure that the slick drivers weren't trying to pull one over on a hayseed and his son.

They all told him the same number. One of them explained to us that the lawmakers in Jersey had decided to fix fares by zone. So everybody going from the airport to all those motels on the strip would pay $18.

I finally got to the front of the cab line and said, "Take me to a motel on the 109 strip." Which one? Any one. But I have to have a name. Why, don't you know where I'm talking about? Yeah but I can't just drive around tell you find one. and on and on until I just got in and told the guy that i was done with lines and hassles and I was going to the 109 strip to find a motel and he indeed was taking me there.

Now I'm typing this in the Oak Grand Motel. $34 for two hours or $56 for the night, which is a pretty good deal if you think about it.

Springtime in Alaska

2009-06-05T09:57:00.000-07:00

Fourth time's a charm! This time my retirement from landscaping seems to be sticking. No more rolling over at night and waking Brooke up with my whimpers of pain.

I took a job with Alaska Wildland Adventures for the summer. Brooke works for them year-round, winters in G-wood, summers in Cooper Landing. So far it's been pretty great. I've spent more time with Brooke this summer than all of last summer combined.

I'm working with the fishing department. As a lover of irony I thought that would be the best place for someone with a seafood allergy.

Oh yeah, I pulled a hamstring while playing softball. Another example of becoming those people you laughed at a decade ago. Hopefully I won't be found in a closet with a rope around my neck and my genitals in ten years like former Kungfu star David Carradine was yesterday.

Redoubt Erupts

2009-03-25T20:50:00.000-07:00

Magma on the inside, lava on the outside. She huffed, puffed, shimmied, and shook for months. Chicken littles ran around yelling of impending doom. Suppliers ran out of respirators, Spam, and shrink wrap. The media screamed into microphones while status colors changed from yellow to orange.

The populace looked west, some with fear others, with longing. Longing for a view of a sun fading out, a foot of ash, dogs and cats living together, mass hysteria. Maybe longing because it's the only way to feel connected to the natural world while texting, twittering, changing one's clock for daylight saving, and eating Argentinian asparagus.

It faded to page 3, people forgot. Scientists spoke of "geologic time" and of patience.

On March 22 at approximately 22:38 local time, Mount Redoubt erupted for the first of six (and counting) times. Ash went from 40,000 to 60,000 feet in the air. Wind patterns steered most of the ash toward Skwentna. Residents reported half an inch on the ground.

Planes heading to Anchorage hauled twice as much fuel just in case the wind switched and they had to turn around. Even if the passengers made it to their destinations, their luggage often did not because it had to be left behind to offset the extra fuel.

Brooke took off from Seattle on Monday evening. The plane turned around by Sitka, 590 miles southeast of Anchorage, and landed in Seattle. Her luggage made it to Anchorage on another flight. She and Neil hit the thrift stores on Tuesday.

Take a break from skiing, go skiing!

2009-03-11T08:27:00.000-07:00

Brooke and I spent a week in British Columbia at a backcountry lodge. What a treat to stick your head in different snow. Alaskan skiing big, steep, wide-open ramps can't be beat but pillow-drops, tree-skiing, and 6% snow are pretty nice too.

The players: Heather, Gwen, Kyle, Brooke, Stacy, Ken, Rachel, Rory, Nels, Phil, and me. Most knew each other before arriving. My wife the connector was the common link. Digging into her trusty costume bag every night helped forge and tighten bonds.

Shelly and Martin Glassheen run Valkyr Adventure Lodge. They built it, they love it. Lots of thought went into the place. A pipe from a nearby lake brings water first through the hydro power system then to the shower. Yep, sauna or shower or both, feel free to bring a beer. The rooms are comfy, the sauna perfect after a day of skinning, and the food both tasty and filling.

We took a twelve minute heli ride in. Brooke and the kegs of beer went in the first ship. Weather moved in and the rest of the group was stuck on the heli pad drinking whiskey and throwing snowballs for a couple of hours.

The clouds broke and we got to the lodge just in time to drop our bags, click in, and start skinning. The lodge sits at 7200' at the base of a sweet face. We skinned the 800 vertical feet to the ridge and got one run in before dark. I think the whiskey really helped most of the group enjoy the first skin. We came from sea level and it was for the best that the burning of our lungs had been dulled.

I'd recommend Valkyr to anyone from lower intermediate on up. The terrain is varied, the travel straight forward, the ridge walking, world-class.

The Hedgehog

2009-02-08T08:11:00.000-08:00

Classically trained actor. Masters degree in education. Special education teacher. Extra in "Ghostbusters." Porn star.

We waited forty-four minutes and twenty-seven seconds in line. They routed us through aisle after aisle of videos with titles like, "Totally Virgin 3" and "Fat cumdumpsters 2." We caught an occasional glimpse of him getting his picture taken with an adoring fan.

Ron Jeremy is even hairier and greasier in person. It's easy to see why he can no longer get the job done, but can only kiss the tip. The man credited with kicking off the "Golden Age" of porn has let himself go to hell. He says he traded the gym for the buffet. Don't worry, it'll be awhile before he stars in a film that brags "over two tons of fun" on the front cover but soon his costars may demand more than he just shave his back.

Mr. Hyatt was courteous and efficient as he signed our skis and a helmet. We got a photo with him and he asked Brooke for some skiing advice. Well, she said it was skiing anyway.

Look! There's Another One

2009-02-03T20:07:00.000-08:00

May 28th, 1934 the first quintuplets to survive infancy were born in Canada. The Dionne sisters became a tourist attraction and cash cow for the Canadian government. Ontario decided to take the sisters on as wards of the state to help the struggling family with the burden of quintuplets.

A hospital and nursery, complete with observation area, were built for the girls and their caregivers. Observers watched them play twice a day from 1936 until 1943. Quintland brought in nearly $51million through admissions and merchandise surpassing Niagra Falls as Ontario's largest tourist attraction.

Sextuplets have only survived a couple of times in natural human pregnancies. A Woman recently gave birth to octuplets. Now septuplets will maybe make page seven, if it's a slow news day. The business of fertility has blossomed from women giving birth to litters to eighty-year-old men getting boners and chasing little boys around the rectory.

How is it ok for a doctor to impregnate a woman that already has six children? This planet has 6.75 billion people and counting according to the US Census world population clock. Check it out, the count goes up as you watch. It takes into account kids banging in the back seats of buicks, trying to save the relationship sex, make-up sex, casual sex, and every other time a sperm successfully runs the gauntlet.

It seems to me that we have plenty of folks around. If you can't have one without putting your legs in stirrups, donating a cotton swab full of who knows what, holding your knees to your chest to help some tired swimmers along, and the magic taking place in a centrifuge, perhaps you shouldn't have one.

There are plenty that no one wants. Pick up one of those. You can still mold the child into your own image and force it to do all the things you regretted or failed at, but with no guilt if it turns out to be a piece of shit. I mean, you did the best you could didn't you?

SOS, DD

2009-01-22T08:28:00.000-08:00

Well, we're two days into it and my life hasn't changed. I had a pitcher of beer with a couple of co-workers after work on Tuesday. CNN ran on all seven televisions. Must have been a slow news day because the Obamas dancing at various (I think the real number was a ridiculous 10) balls.

I realize it's a historic day and the nation needs to celebrate. I wore my tuxedo t-shirt, I didn't think that it would be prudent to rent or buy a tux in these economic times. I think it would have really showed that things are changing if the Obamas were to use one of the bibles the Gideons are always giving away.

Instead we spent $160 million, while pushing a man through to run the Treasury that doesn't pay his taxes. Yep, people make mistakes and perhaps he is the best man for the job. But I think someone that makes that kind of money should pay a professional to prepare his taxes. Obama letting that mistake slide isn't much different than the last administration bending or breaking rules. Above the law is dangerous.

Don't get me wrong, the world's attitude toward Americans improved on Tuesday. That will benefit those US citizens that hold passports (less than 30 %) the most. But black, white, or purple, this country keeps on truckin' down the same road as empires of old with a new technological twist. The spread between rich and poor grows, our citizens produce little, and gladiators chase balls around the arena while the zoned out masses stare at handheld mind control devices.

Keep your day job

2009-01-13T06:59:00.000-08:00

"You guys want extra napkins?" "What for?" "For the blood."

Brooke surprised me with ringside tickets to Thursday Night at the Fights last week. Seven amateur bouts followed by the pros in the headliner. Holy haymakers, batman. The first couple of fights featured never evers wearing surf shorts and tennis shoes. They made up for their lack of skill with boundless enthusiasm to pound the living shit out of their fellow human beings.

The first blow to land solidly on a jaw caused the opponent's contact to fly out of his eye. The bright lights reflected off it as it spun out of the ring. Mr. One-good-eye won the fight in spite of the obvious handicap.

The fighters get to pick nicknames like "Carolina Clubber" and "King Sting." One dipshit forgot which sport he participated in and decided that he should be introduced as the "Karate Kid." He won his fight but Mr. Miagi would have been disappointed.

What didn't disappoint was the token cat fight. That's right, Ladies and Gentlemen two chicks duked it out for glory and the $150 that goes to the winner. One of them probably was the first girl picked for teams in gym class. I thought there was a mistake in the program until the second fighter entered the ring, it was much easier to tell that she was a female. Alas, the pretty one got her ass kicked by the driver of the Lesbaru, suffering the second broken nose of the evening.

We shared our side of the ring with "professional" photographers who seemed most concerned about getting as many shots of the skanky ring girls as possible. One of them was take-home-to- Mom pretty but the rest probably couldn't land a job pole dancing in Butte, Montana. They all wore skirts so short that it was easy to tell that they wore thongs. Actually it was hard to see some of the thongs through all the cottage cheese.

Ullr why have you forsaken us?

2009-01-08T05:46:00.000-08:00

I can't remember the last time it snowed. I do remember that it was a ten inch storm that blew away the next day. My bent skis no longer cut it. They worked fine when the snow was soft but became scary as hell once things firmed up. So I sucked it up and bought a new pair of sticks.

They'rrrrrre great! The trick is to wait to buy new gear till yours is more played out than a forty-four year old crackwhore with a bad back. Then whatever you get on will feel fun and lively.

Folks seem ready for the cold snap to end. In fact, we probably should use the word spell instead of snap cuz snap implies quick and this has been going on for weeks. People with crawl spaces in Girdwood that hadn't had their faucets on a controlled drip spent the last week underneath their houses on hands and knees in the spiderwebs and porcupine shit trying to thaw pipes.

Plumbers are as backed up as Grandpa after eating a pound of cheesecurds, "It's gonna be a week, at least."

Speaking of plumbers, I heard that Samuel Joseph Wurzelbacher, aka Joe the Plumber is headed to the Gaza Strip to interview their 'average Joes.' A couple of things come to mind when I think about that. One is what in the wide world of sports is happening to the media? The other is that he seems to be recovering better from those heady campaign days than our governor, what with her daughter's drop-out daddy losing the job she got him when it was pointed out that he didn't meet federal apprenticeship requirements, rumors still swirling about whether Trig is hers, and drop-out daddy's mommy's oxycotin arrest.

Dear Santa

2008-12-23T08:30:00.000-08:00

These are a few of the things I'd like to see this year. I've been pretty good most of the time and kinda bad once in a while.

CEOs that run banks which receive federal bailout money need to go to prison. It wasn't complex derivatives that led to the worldwide financial collapse, it was greed. Lenders gave money to uneducated customers for short-term gains. They gave lines of credit to people that would have been turned down for video rental cards, "Sure, buy the bigger house, you have five years to figure out how you'll make the payments described in the fine print on page seventeen of our agreement. Besides, we're going to sell your mortgage tomorrow so it won't be our problem."

Give money to the auto industry? Maybe but only if the folks in charge resign. It isn't enough for them to agree to work for lowered wages. Capitalism, which they believe in, is about survival of the fittest. A three-legged crippled deer doesn't deserve protection from the wolves because its survival would weaken the whole herd. Clearly these people lack the ability to run these corporations without help.

Raise the standard of behavior expected of professional athletes. Shoot yourself in a club, choke a dog to death, or spout off about the flaws of your exes, and lose the privilege of making millions of dollars to chase a ball or puck around. Make it clear that if you are a less than stellar member of your community in college, you will not be eligible for future consideration at the professional level.

Let anyone marry anybody, once. You can marry a man, a woman, a man that used to be a woman, a woman that used to be a man or a man that wants to be a man but thinks he's a woman. Do what ever you want but it really means till death do us part. Get a divorce if you need, but realize that you will be ineligible to try again. No more practice marriages. Everyone deserves a chance to be as miserable as the straights.

Free the free market

2008-12-08T08:04:00.000-08:00

It's great that the Big Three auto execs drove to Washington instead of flying in corporate jets the second time around. But they still didn't carpool and they still don't get it.

Working for a dollar a year is a nice gesture, but if they really want to take the companies in a new direction(toward profitability, which they've been veering away from for decades) then the folks in charge need to go. Not just the top dogs, I say everybody with an office gets his or her walking papers. Some of those trapped in the cubicles will step forward with fresh thinking.

The bailout package needs to come with severe oversight from the folks writing the check. You don't like the idea of oversight? Tough titty, little kitty, you asked for the money because you can't stay afloat in the free market you've been so fond of.

Put the EPA in charge of the whole thing. Insist that the way to save the US auto industry is not through raising the CAFE standards. The Big Three have said that Obama's mpg goal of 40 by 2020 is impossible. Other companies around the world already reach that "impossible" goal.

Our auto industry has been passed by the rest of the world. Instead of playing catchup on mileage, we need to become the next fuel leaders.

Ethanol, hydrogen fuel cells, solar, whatever. The internal combustion engine powered on gasoline has run its course. Let's use government oversight of the bailout to bring us back to the forefront of the auto industry.

Save the Swordmakers!

2008-11-22T08:09:00.000-08:00

Congrats to Ms. Pelosi and the rest of Congress for sending the Big Three back to Detroit to come up with an actual plan. All three of the companies sent their representatives to Washington in corporate jets to ask for a handout. They weren't even smart enough to jetpool. Poor babies may have to fly first-class someday soon.

Detroit automakers have been falling behind for decades and it has little to do with the unions. They hyped new models so effectively that people used to dress up to go to the showrooms each October. Retooling just to change the angle of a tailfin makes little sense. That's why you can't tell what year a Japanese vehicle was made, they find a design that works and stick with it.

Speaking of the Japanese, Detroit laughed when that little island started cranking out small, efficient cars that last for decades. While "ricegrinders" continued to improve fuel economy, US autos took a step backward.

Lee Iacocca gained the respect of ordinary Americans when he paid the US Government back ahead of schedule. Remember how he did it? He put a mini-van on a truck frame to get around CAFE standards. He used soccer moms while the spirit of the law was to benefit family farmers. The other two companies followed his lead and that brought us the SUV boom.

Should we help them retool? Nope, if retooling makes sense venture capitalists will take up the slack. What about the defense of the nation? Well, this country is fighting two wars right now without the help of the Big Three so that argument needs to go out the window.

The fall of the auto industry will surely affect the rest of the nation, like a wave it will sink some boats in Michigan but lose energy by the time it reaches the coasts. When firearms came about, sword makers went out of business. It's the way of the world, adapt or die.

Even if they agree to give every member of Congress a Hummer, our representatives should tell them, "Too bad, so sad."

Wrapped up

2008-10-28T08:13:00.000-07:00

Our half of the group made our way through the dam construction project on our way to Rampur. Water trucks kept the dust down and the ride was more enjoyable than the first time.

Jason got a flat just as we got through the construction zone. Matt and I stayed behind to help him repair it while the rest of the group (our half, that is) pushed on the last 50 km to secure lodging because it didn't make sense for everyone to ride in the dark, especially when Anthony didn't have a headlight.

Riding in the dark was worse and better than I'd imagined. Worse because of little things like being unable to see holes in the road until you were on top of them, praying that your forks would hold together and marble-sized pebbles raining down occasionally on your helmet, making you wonder what else might be falling. Some traffic didn't use headlights, so you wouldn't see them until they were right on top of you.

Driving at night naturally gives you tunnel vision so you only see a sliver of the madness. Who knows how many cows you drove by or how big that drop was if I'd have missed that corner? Never mind, keep riding.

The rest of the group caught us in Shimla. We made our way to Chandigarh for the final push to Delhi. The drive into Delhi was pretty easy compared to leaving. We were hardened by a month of motoring around. It wasn't scary, it was, 'Oh yeah, I remember this.'

We lost Anthony by the Outer Ring Road, the highway that circumnavigates the city. We waited as long as we could but traffic was so thick that he may have ridden right past us and we'd never have known. We kept our fingers crossed that he had a good back up plan.

A crowd gathered when we pulled up to the C Park Inn. Several Indians asked how our journey was. The rockstars of the neighborhood had returned. We unloaded our bikes, giving our spare petrol cans to two women gathering recyclables(while officials debated banning plastic bags, some suggested making the bags thicker so they would be more attractive to the city's recyclers because they would weigh more and therefore be more valuable. Recyclers pick through the swept up trash piles, grab the plastics and corrugated cardboards before the sweepers burn the piles.)

We'd only been there about forty-five minutes when Anthony showed up. He had hired a tuk-tuk driver to follow into our neighborhood, Karol Baugh. So we all made it safe and sound.

Now I'm back home in Girdwood, where it's in the twenties, there's a bit of snow on the ground, and more trees than people.

Death Ledge Again

2008-10-20T23:19:00.000-07:00

I had my bags on my bike by half past six to be ready for a 7 a.m. breakfast of bread and tea. We planned to be clutch out by 8 so we could get at least as far as Recong Peo, maybe Rampur 200 km away.

People were warming engines and it looked like we might actually make it when we noticed that Kagen's bike had a rear flat tire. The pit crew got after it and quickly found the problem, a nail most likely picked up at the welder's yard the day before.

OK, so it was clutch out at nine. The roads were dry, the air brisk, the traffic non-existent. The only folks on the road were highway maintenence people. Women were shoveling sand onto burlap. Three ladies would grab the ends of the burlap and carry it to a pothole. They would dump the sand into the hole and head back for another load. Without any binder, that sand would only stay in the hole until the second tire hit it and spread it to the four winds.

All the jobs seem to be that way, too many people working harder than they need to, but I guess the government is trying to provide as many jobs as possible. We watched a group of what can be described as the first wave of road builders. We were on a road that was slated to be flooded upon completion of a hydroelectric dam looking up and across the valley as they trundled material down until it reached its angle of repose. Think about that for a career option, rolling rocks down a mountain in the hot sun, all day, every day, for the rest of forever.

We climbed the last of the switchbacks and made it to the beginning of Death Ledge, the steep, narrow, muddy section of road with women rolling rocks in front of you as you pass.

Bill, Phil, and Mariska were a bit behind, but we pushed on hoping to reunite for a tea break in Nako. We had to wait for a dozer to do some work. He had two spotters looking up for falling rock as he worked. It was obvious that he was sending some sort of vibration upslope because a constant shower of pea gravel came down around him with the occasional baseball size piece.

They waved us through as soon as he had the pile flattened. Rocks rained down, workers yelled at us to go as fast as we could, and we struggled to keep the bikes upright on the sand and sharp rock combo.

After that short stretch, it was smooth sailing to the watercrossing. We were in the shade once we crossed the water. I could see ice and frozen mud in the left lane(or the left side of the only lane), but that still seemed safer than the sand on the outside, at least if something goes wrong you can dump your bike into the mountain instead of off a thousand footer.

A truck sat at the top of the icy mudded section. One man told us that they had been working on the truck for two hours to get it running. The truck started up, he put it in gear, let out the cluth, and moved six inches before it died.

The same routine played over and over. Men hurried to put rocks behind the tires each time the truck died. The twelfth time's a charm in Incredible India. The truck stayed running and kept moving. We were off the ledge and drinking tea in no time.

We turned on our radio because we thought that no matter how much lollygagging the other three were doing, we should have seen them already. Sure enough, Mariska answered our query. His bike would only run at full throttle the last time they had it running, which was a while ago. We sent Kagen back over Death Ledge to save the day.

They radioed that they were up and running. We waited and waited. No traffic moved on either side of the ledge. We heard several explosions and assumed that the road was temporarily closed for blasting.

A couple that we met the day before in Kasza pedaled down the last switchback to Nako. Carl went to see what they knew.

Two trucks were stuck at the apex of Death Ledge. One looked like it may roll over the edge. The bikers were able to carry their bikes around the chaos. They said people were getting out of their trucks and making fires, like it may be some time before the situation was resolved.

We decided that the only thing waiting for them would do is give us another night at altitude, so we headed to Pooh. Josh called the place we stayed in Nako to see if they had any idea about the other half of our group. It was a small place, once the goats were in for the evening nothing went on. The whole place would know if four crackers rolled in on Enfields.

The manager handed the phone to Phil and he and Josh made a plan for the next day.

4551 Meters

2008-10-20T23:14:00.000-07:00

We rode across a wide open plateau before we started the switchbacks. The bikes struggled with the steepness and the altitude. I had my throttle goosed the whole way to the Khuzumla Pass.

Josh greeted each of us with snowballs at the top. Someone built a shrine ontop of the pass. We took photos and tried to catch our breath as it started to snow.

Going down the other side was just as steep. The snow intensified a little and began to stick on the pass. We got out of the switchbacks and the road detoured because landslides had covered it.
The detour took us through round rocks the size of volleyballs. You could barely make out the ruts as the road weaved along. The rockfield trail brought us back to the good road and we began to climb again.

I brought up the rear and was on the first switchback when I saw Carl coming toward me. His headlight was covered and his riding jacket was caked with snow. He said the storm continued to intensify and that we needed to turn around before we got stuck between passes for anywhere from overnight to all winter. I agreed and turned my bike around.

Returning to the rock trail was surreal. It started snowing about an inch an hour. I couldn't really see the road, so I concentrated on following the bike tracks in front of me. Each time I looked ahead, bikes weaved to and fro appearing to turn back on each other.

Two inches of snow covered the road by the time we got to the switchbacks. You had to keep the throttle up to keep the bike running, but each time the rear wheel slipped on a rock, it tried to force the back end around. When you had to help a buddy pick up his bike, yours would start sliding backwards because the front brake couldn't hold on the steep pitch. Eight of ten riders went down, some of them several times, before it was all over.

We made our way back to Losar and stopped for the night. We were cold and hungry. The woman that ran the guest house let us gather round the woodstove while she got us tea and quick bread.

The snow gradually slowed and had stopped by the time we went to bed. Carl cleaned two inches off the bikes in the morning. We loaded up and headed to Kasza to see the welder.

He sat on his heels smoking a bidi and banging on a piece of rebar when we showed up. The welder grabbed his sunglasses and layed a piece of metal that ran from the bike he needed to weld to a pile of scrap metal to act as a ground.

We pointed to a broken spot, he zapped it with the stick and we pointed to another until each bike was semi-solid again. The whole affair took less than twenty minutes so we pushed onto Tabo.

Nako to Kasza

2008-10-20T23:11:00.001-07:00

I walked around taking photos just after six. The stone work was incredible, walls, water channels, fences, terraces, and homes. Many, many hours of hard labor. But they make it work, the little bit of water becomes the lifeblood of a village.

The women going onto the roofs early in the morning to carry in some hay for the evening when the goats will be back inside to provide heat and as a defense from the snow lepoard. Hay,dung, and firewood piled high on every rooftop to lay in against the coming winter.

They let the goats out en masse just when the sun hits the plateau. We ate our warm milk and muslix, followed by two fried eggs, sunny side up. The bikes started well and we set out.

Two kliks out of town the road turned scary. One lane talcum powder sand with road crew folks, mostly women, rolling rocks and making sand and carrying gravel that other women were making from bigger rocks using hammers with bamboo handles while you're trying not to hit them, stall your bike, slam into the mountain, or go off the 1700 foot drop on the left.

It ended with a short downhill to a water crossing on a hairpin. After that, bam, incredible India, we were back on sweet tarmac. There was a shrine about three hundred meters onto the tarmac. We gave thanks.

Shrines are everywhere you look. Try to find a peak without prayer flags on it. You can feel the love of the land here, mountain people. Pastural people, connected to the seasons in a way most of us have forgotten.

They make the most of a harsh environment. It must take a hundred acres or more to grow a goat here. Aside from the redirected water, there isn't much for grazing. They raise lots of wheat and maybe a lentil or two. Apple trees fruit if they get enough water.

The air got cooler as we rode, reaching mid-fifties, maybe. Wind cranked through the valley, picking sand from the river banks in mad tempests. We ate a breezy lunch of cashew cookies and marsla madness cheetos. Finally, we had the breakdown.

Marisa's rack fell apart. We rerigged it, strapped it, and hoped for the best. When we got to Kasza, they found a welder. He fixed Mariska and Josh's rack and Jason's foot peg for seventy Rupees. Now we're fueled up for a ride over a pass and down to a plateau full of firewood and good views.

Brokebrake Mountain

2008-10-20T23:09:00.000-07:00

The shortcut to Kullu turned into a longcut. The road turned into a pair of ruts as soon as it began to climb. Josh got a brake pedal caught on the side of one ruts and ripped it off. Kagen ran ahead to catch Anthony so we could turn around.

We chatted about the road with some locals. We pointed ahead and said, "Kullu?" They gave us the sideways head nod so Phil asked again. One of them showed his fingers doing the walking. Phil returned with invisible handlebars and asked, "motorcycle?" The local rolled his hands rapidly over each other. We got it and planned to turn around as soon as Kagen and Anthony returned.

Anthony had his own adventure up ahead. He broke his brake pedal in a rut. He sat stuck in the rut wondering what to do when a local on a Yamaha 100 came over the hill in Anthony's rut. Anthony couldn't move and the local couldn't turn or stop so Anthony braced for the collision.

The smaller bike broke Anthony's headlight but glanced off and jumped out of the rut and over the side of the road. Luckily, some trees caught the local and his bike so he only tumbled a few feet.

Anthony dropped his bike and went to see if the non-helmetted flip-flop wearing rider was alive. The local smiled up at him. Anthony helped him get his bike back on the road. The local helped Anthony get his bike up and turned around then they parted ways.

We had to find two different welders to get the brakes fixed. The repairs took three hours so we spent the afternoon watching a family move a pile of sand down river and festival goers from all over the valley walking to the beat of their drums.

I can't quite figure out the sand moving. The pile was one of many dumped over the edge along a retaining wall. What the piles do as far as reenforcement is a mystery.

India has 82 nationally recognized festivals so it's common to see a group of men decked out in regalia carrying altars of some sort. Even festival walkers are horn crazy here. Two men run ahead and blow these four foot Dr. Seuss tubas at each intersection.

Chillin' in Manali

2008-10-20T23:06:00.000-07:00

Mariska's clutch incident gave Anu another day to get the correct wiring harness, so Bill's bike is ready to roll. We took a rest day while Anu had a look at Mariska's bike. Our tentative plan was to leave the next morning with Mariska on Anu's Enfield. We would do the loop in reverse order. That way we would be able to return to Manali and Mariska's bike would be fixed so we could do the switcheroo.

I spent the morning on correspondence and laundry. Once the emails were sent and the socks and boxers drying I set out on a ride to have lunch somewhere down valley. I ran into Matt and Carl instead. They had scouted a shortcut(which in India means narrow, steep, mud-filled trails) to Recong Peo and were headed to chat with a local that had invited them for tea.

I decided to join them. We drove up valley about 10 km past Manali to meet Himal. He heads up the Himalayan Ski Village project. They hope to be operational by 2010. Office buildings and a patrol/equipment shop dot the base area.

A gondola will rise two thousand meters from the base to the summit. Himal pointed to the beginner terrain and Matt raised his eyebrows at me. They either need to do some serious blasting or they consider advanced intermediates "beginners."

The project began in 1990 as a heli-ski business. Heli operators from all over the world, including Theo Minor of Valdez came to explore the opportunity. The company ran the heli operation until 2003. Himal wouldn't elaborate as to why they no longer heli-ski.

Himal and his staff have been sent all over the world to learn the ski industry. The investors want all the key staff to understand the whole business from instructing to snowmaking to real estate development.

Himal has what he calls "the alpha team" that will serve as the patrol/snow safety crew. He brought AMGA instructors down for an entire season to teach snow science and to augment their rescue skills. The alpha team serves as Manali's rescue squad and deal with landslides and buses full of tourists on a regular basis.

I looked up at the mountain and all its starting zones while I sipped my lemon tea. I asked Himal how they planned to do their control work. They will not use artillery or explosives. They think they can do it all with forecasting and area closures. I think they've been drinking too much bhang lassi.

Rhotang Pass

2008-10-07T22:39:00.000-07:00

We headed to the shop at 9, loaded for a go at Rhotang Pass. Bill rode two-up with Matt and we split his gear. Getting to the shop required a moderate water crossing with traffic that would serve as a prelude to the day. The part for Bill's bike arrived after eleven. Anu tore off the newspaper and said that it was the wrong wiring harness. So we turned to plan B.

Classic British bikes shift on the right with a one up, four down pattern. Phil took one of Anu's Enfields and after switching gear we got at rolling quarter to one. Phil realized by the second corner that if he pushed down on the right pedal going into a corner, he sped up because he was in neutral.

The road ran along the valley floor for a couple of kilometers before climbing. A rock slide closed the road just past the Rhotang Pass Avalance Center. The road was diverted onto the dry river bed. Volleyball size rocks jut out between the sand for a half km. before we got back onto the tarmac.

We drove through the village where one-piece ski suits go to die. The road rose quickly with a series of switchbacks on good pavement. We saw a road crew patching asphalt. Two women carried a couple of buckets of tar suspended from a stick between them down to some men that were chipping rocks and bricks to fill the hole. The women wore scarves over their faces and kerchiefs down low on the forehead so only the slits of their eyes were visible. The asphalt plant, a barrel set on bricks with a wood fire under it, was one switchback up.

The smooth tarmac gave way to the occasional hole over the next twenty km. The views up and down valley were spectacular. We caught glimpes of the climb on every switchback. Traffic was light with easy passing opportunities.

The pavement deteriorated to mud over the course of a couple of km. First you could string together a solid line if you only had two wheels to worry about. The tarmac disappeared when the switchbacks steepened. It had been paved at one time but the broken pieces of asphalt got pushed into the goo and vanished.

Sharp hunks of granite stuck out of deep holes. Hundred foot water crossings with trucks and buses on the right and thousand foot drops on your left became common place. We soon realized that those spots were the safest places for motorcycles to pass. The four-wheeled vehicles needed to stay in a track while we could piece a decent line together on either side of the "road."

Imagine taking a Harley Sportster up a muddy logging road with slick tires through deep water holes filled with helmet-sized rocks around blind corners in heavy traffic and you'll get the idea.
Rain fell and made anywhere but in the packed rut a dicey proposition. The front tire pushed the mud rather than cut through it because our bikes were loaded with all we'd need if we got weathered in. One had to stay on the gas or the peanut butter would get you.

The rain turned to sleet, then hail. Traffic increased because all the day-trip buses started going down. The temperature dropped and the road became gooier. The first wave of us reached the pass at 3:15.

We swung the blood back to our fingers and did jumping jacks while we waited for them. The wind blew a consistent 15 with the occasional gust to 25. The hail began to accumulate. Carl tried to raise them on the radio after a fire-roasted ear of corn. Mariska answered that his bike was down.

He lost the clutch some time ago but was able to speed shift and keep it going. Braking uphill without a clutch meant that he needed to maintain a speed much faster than traffic. Jason ran blocker for him, clearing passing lanes, forcing folks to wait, and the like.

Even with the help, Mariska had to kill the engine a few times. Eventually it refused to start or shift. We decided to go back as a group and get the bike down. Mariska's bike had the good graces to die in a widespot.

Kagen had a look at the gear box. The clutch accuator was sheared off. The problem doesn't have a roadside solution. Phil, Josh, and Anthony headed off to secure shelter in Manali while we set about flagging down a truck.

The second one stopped and said he would do it for 500 rupees. We agreed and pointed for him to pull over. He misunderstood our pointing for a finger shake and left. We couldn't believe it. Mariska said he would coast it down as far as he could.

After watching Mariska negotiate the first corner, Matt ripped off to catch the truck. We set up a tow rope from Kagen's bike. The slipknot kept sliding from under Mariska's boot so progress was slow. We sure were glad to see Matt had the truck pinned by his bike and was throwing ropes and a Ralph Lauren tarp out of the back.

We loaded the bike. Bill wanted to set it on the center stand. The driver signed that they would poke holes in his bed. I believe it because I could feel it flexing under my feet while we tied the bike down.

Mariska bounced off with the same three songs from the driver's mix tape playing all the way down. Every time he turned around he could see his bike shaking and rattling apart. The rack broke off in the first km.

We caught up and passed our tow truck once. He would manage to pass all of us again while smoking cigarettes and making cell phone calls. The holes and mud seemed easier on the way down because the traffic lightened. It didn't get slippery until we got back on the sleet covered pavement.

Several of us had brake issues on the way down. I didn't take it out of first gear for fear I might not be able to downshift. Pumping worked but I decided to save it for something really scary.

I turned on my headlight as dusk fell. The beam pointed at the sky so all it did was blind me. It worked better once it got dark.

Meanwhile Phil and company led the pack. They were able to get around a dead truck jack-knifed on a corner so they had smooth sailing down to the river bed.

Josh came to a stop on orders of a little kid waving a red flag tied to a stick. Ten minutes later an explosion to clear rocks went off and the kid waved them through.

We got to the shop and unloaded the bike, had chai, and learned that Enfield, along with all Indian manufactures, exports their quality goods and keeps the inferior products in country. That makes sense in a country that uses bamboo for both scaffolding and rebar.

The Run to Manali- Stage Two

2008-10-06T04:06:00.000-07:00

We woke up just south of Kullu. The map said 54 km to Manali, so a leisurely start was the name of the game. It started pouring about 9 a.m. The northbound lane had six inches of running water. The brief burst turned into a steady rain, so we loaded up.

Rain and wet roads didn't make the riding any more relaxing. The road isn't as busy but is of lower quality so the going is the same, except with splashing.

I guess except the only noteworthy thing besides the novelty of riding in the rain is that Bill's bike caught on fire. We all made it to Manali but Bill's wire harness is a melted pile of spaghetti goo. And he has another story about loading an Enfield in a truck.

The bike is at a shop right now and may be done this evening. If so, the mad dash to Leh begins tomorrow.

The Run to Manali- Stage One

2008-10-06T04:00:00.000-07:00

We stayed in Shimla two nights so we could get our inner line permits. Each man we asked pointed us to another building down the hill. We finally found the right building and filled out the forms.

While we wrote, the six or seven government agents argued amongst themselves as to which permits we needed and whether the road was even open. They decided that we should get the permits in another town, ripped up our completed forms, and thanked us. Classic. Turns out the extra night being chewed on by Hotel Victory's bedbugs was all for naught.

We woke in the morning to no water which meant no shower and no breakfast. We loaded the bikes with Manali the day's goal. Kagen's bike needed a bump start then we were off and running.

The map showed our road turning from primary to secondary at Kiar, where we decided to get fuel. Traffic was thick and dusty to that point but thinned considerably. The nice boys on motorcycles formed a line to the fuel pump. We were quickly corked by all the locals cutting us off to jockey for position. It took about half an hour to fuel up. I saw an empty petrol station three hundred meters down the road.

As soon as we turned on to the secondary road the riding turned into what I had imagined. Narrow, winding roads climbing up and down valley after valley. Steep hillsides terraced with corn, barley, or rice and sprinkled with homes and two thousand foot drops to the valley floor.

Road conditions were a mixed bag. Asphalt(some of which was being repaved using a wood-fired furnace), gravel, and sand. The sand turns to peanut butter with just a small amount of moisture. The sand and gravel come from landslides which seem to happen every time it rains.

Road crews constantly work to replace what the rains have taken away. They fill gabions with rock they chip by hand from the uphill side of the road. Several corners have rocks piled to guide you to the inside lane because the outer half of the road has undercut and sunk.

People are everywhere, it's almost impossible to look at something and not see a person. The men repairing roads, women in bright attaire cutting hay, hauling ridiculously large loads of said hay, or moving goats and cows to new pasture, or just sitting on a corner watching the day go by.

I saw such a man on a corner and we made eye contact. I let out a toot of my horn for the blind corner and had to hit the brakes because a backhoe loaded some of the sloughed hillside into a waiting dumptruck. At least the shovel leaners in the states will give you some sort of a slow down wave.

Most intersections aren't on our maps so we point and shout out the next town. After six or so decisions using this method I asked a woman standing by a shack at a paved intersection. She seemed confused so I tried a bigger town. She pointed two directions, one of which was the way we had come.

We flagged down a twenty-something on a bike for a second opinion. He agreed with her, we could get there each way but the way we had come would take eight hours, the other only four. Apparently we missed a turn somewhere and took a two hour detour.

We asked the biker to point where we were on the map. He couldn't but was adamant about which way we needed to go. We thanked him and stopped a truck full of park rangers. They couldn't find us on the map either but agreed with the man on the bike. They were also headed to Manali so we figured it would be safe to go the same way they did.

The detour took us over 3233 m high Jalori pass. The road up was steep, I kept wishing I had a lower gear to shift into, and rocky, like driving up a dry riverbed. We met some great folks at a little store/shrine at the top. We snacked on cheeto-like chips and hard-boiled eggs before the downhill.

We made it back to the highway and the madness picked up right where it led off. We could have pushed another hour to Manali but decided that after a hard ride it would be smart to stop at the first town with a decent place to stay.

Into the foothills

2008-10-06T03:51:00.000-07:00

Chandigar to Shimla-elephants, vespas, monkeys and more. We got a leisurely start because we only had to go 150 km. Judging by the day before we thought it would take three hours max so we'd roll into town about 1600, get our bearings, acquire shelter, and find a great place for dinner.

Traffic refused to thin out even though we were driving away from the bigger cities. Roads narrowed to exacerbate the issue. We had a lot more pedestrians to deal with because we went from village to village.

I thought the smog would be better because we were leaving the city and gaining some elevation. The tuk tuks in Delhi run on natural gas, but that isn't the case outside the city. Every tuk tuk I saw needed a tune-up. I've been waking about 3 in night to have a ten minute sneezing fit/pollution cleanse and last evening was no different.

Whitey is becoming more and more rare. Our lot is obviously traveling together and heads turn, people wave with the enthusiasm of a ten-year-old, and practice their English as we ride by. Men come up to shake our hands when we pull over for breaks.

A man approached me at one such break(while we waited for Jason to film the elephants) and said, "These bikes are from Sunny Motors?" I nodded and took his outstretched hand. "I am Soni." Senior that is, he was returning from guiding the last trip of the season on the route we hope to complete.

He gave us some inside information on road conditions, accommodations, petrol and the like. Soni, sr. also told us to find his mechanic at the Radisson so he could give our bikes the once-over before we leave Shimla.

Josh and I were the first to reach Shimla and the rendevous point, Hotel Victory. I guarded the bikes (got hounded by salesmen trying to get us to stay at their hotels) while Josh checked out the rooms and prices.

When he returned I drove to check out another place. Apparently I took a wrong turn because a few guys chased me at a corner. I ignored them, assuming they wanted to sell me something. The road climbed and when I rounded the bend a group of five men ran at me waving their arms. The ones behind caught up and I was surrounded.

They told me I needed a permit to be driving that road. I have no idea if it's a park, religious/holy site, or a gated community. I just apologized and turned around. Then they chased me all the way down the hill offering hotels.

I flipped on my headlights. Maybe I should explain; in the states headlights on bikes can not be turned off for safety reasons. In India people yell or flash lights to let you know that your lights are on. Pedestrians stop and flip your lights off for you as if you'd be driving a motorcycle in Delhi if you didn't know where the light switch was.

I turned on my lights because it was dark, the road was potholed, pedestrians were everywhere, and earlier in the day I thought I was gonna smear bacon all over the highway when a black hog made a poor decision(perhaps he thought he was a cow). But people flashed me all the way back to Hotel Victory. Maybe Shiva lights their path, who knows, but I need lights at night, call me crazy.

The gang was all at Victory when I arrived and taking turns driving bikes up a steep, narrow sidewalk with a hairpin in the middle to park on the patio. Jason explained why he, Anthony, and Mariska were so far behind.

He couldn't get his bike to start after the elephant stop, it turned over but wouldn't catch. He assumed it was the spark plug. Jason rolled the bike down the hill until he found a mechanic only three storefronts down. The man looked up from the headlight he was wiring and Jason pointed to the plug.

The mechanic put down the light and went to work on Jason's bike. He gapped the plug, checked that it was firing, and since it wasn't, replaced it. No go. So he took apart, basically peeled back the wire casing and found a break at the point where the wire attaches to the plug. He didn't have a new wire to sell Jason so he rewired that one by taking a little slack out of the line.
The mechanic mimed that Jason should take it for a test drive. It worked just fine so Jason asked how much he owed. The whole thing took about half an hour and the guy wouldn't put the old spark plug back in. He asked for 70 rupees, about a buck seventy. It would've been a hundred bones and two days in the States, easy.

While we watched the helmet cam footage of a Vespa driver falling into Phil(don't worry Phil's fender cushioned the blow) we heard an Enfield. They are as distintive sounding here as a Harley other places. Carl looked out the window and saw Bill and Kagen. We were ten again.

Their side adventure involved dinner at a religious festival, riding three-up on an Enfield, loading a motorcycle into a tuk tuk, a tuk tuk tow truck pulling the bike which was being piloted by an Indian in flip flops, and a professor that was so excited to meet foreigners that they had to lose him in traffic to be rid of him.

No wonder this hasn't been done before

2008-10-01T20:46:00.000-07:00

Today was hectic and dirty but most of us made it to Chandragargh.
We packed last night and woke early. Mariska and Bill walked over to Soni's at six a.m. Wrenchs and hammers flew, but the bikes weren't ready. As soon as they finished a bike one of us ferryed it to the hotel to be loaded. We loaded three bikes by 8, but didn't get the last one until 10:30.

Traffic was mad by the time we attempted to drive out of the alley. Anthony's bike quit because it was out of gas. Soni offered to send a boy to get a can of fuel, but the heat was already oppresive so I siphoned some fuel out of my tank just so we could get going.

We rode the same route to the gas station as yesterday, which was nice because there was plenty to think about aside from where the hell I was going. Bill pulled up to me at the petrol station asked how it was.

I told him, "My front end is fucked, I think the boys forgot to tighten something."
He said, "Mine too, I think it's the way they are." They aren't so bad once you get moving. It reminds me of driving a jet boat. You can't turn until you get up on step. Then it isn't so bad it's just that you need to fight the instinct to slow down.

Too bad it's almost impossible to stay on step if you ever get up there because traffic is utterly insane. One good thing is that now that the bikes are loaded they are about 18 inches wider. That doesn't seem like alot until you realize that we are splitting lanes, wedging tuk tuks, dodging cows, and rubbing concrete barriers.

Soni agreed to lead us out to Highway One. He was happy to do it because we are the only customers since his dad started the business that have even seen his shop. He supplies the bikes for companys like MotoHimalaya and none of them want their clients to ride in Delhi because leading a tour out of that city would be all but impossible. All Soni's clients start and end their trips in Shimla. If all goes well we will reach Shimla tomorrow.

I was toward the end of the pack, constantly chasing to get to the next intersection so the group didn't get spread too thin. We had a harder time because we were fatter than yesterday, the holes were harder to find, and closed sooner.

After a roundabout Soni took us on a shortcut the wrong way down a one-way. Two blocks felt like two years worth of riding. I saw Kagen turn down a dusty alley. We made eye contact and he took off.

I waited till I was sure Phil saw me and rode away. The alley bent to the right and when I came around the corner, Kagen took off.

Phil should have been twenty seconds behind me but showed up two minutes later. Mariska was MIA. Phil went back to look for him and I checked my watch, 10:53. Phil and Mariska were back in just a couple of minutes. Phil gave the thumbs up and I merged in a hurry.

I hoped to see one of the gang waiting on a corner or the beginning of a roundabout. Even standing on the pegs, I couldn't see over the mass of traffic. It didn't take long to realize that our group was split in two. I made my way to the edge of the road so Phil, Mariska, and I could have a pow wow.

Phil felt confident that if we beared in a westerly direction we would run into Highway One. Mariska and I wanted to go north because that was the shortest way out of Delhi, distance-wise. But Phil was more adament than we were confident, so we agreed to give Phil a chance and stay as close together as possible.

We let Phil follow his nose and he brought us to the Outer Ring Highway. It took what seemed like forever to get out of Delhi, trucks, buses, scooters(with four people on them), cars, bikes(that's pedal bikes loaded with vegetables,plywood, rugs, etc.), and tractors fought the heat and each other to get onto the main road. I might fly down to L.A. when I get back so I can have a leisurely rush hour experience.

After a bit of sand riding, we skirted a concrete embankment and found ourselves on Highway One, northbound. We pulled over to have a drink, a pee, and to make a phone call. We left a message on Bill's phone to let the rest of the group know we were all right.

Traffic thinned substantially the further we got from Delhi. That's not to say that it ever got slow enough for us to relax. When you mix trucks, tuk tuks with up to four people standing on the bumper, scooters, motorcycles, cars, pedal bikes with carts full of rebar, and walkers on a road full of potholes where cows have the right of way, you can't let your guard down.

Phil signaled that he wanted to eat and I gave him the thumbs up, not so much because I was hungry but because I needed a break. We found a roadside stand that serviced truckers and ordered lunch.

They probably don't get too many whiteys. All eyes were on us. But they were nice, the food tasted good, actually damn good, sphinter challenge be damned.

We saw the group go by and ran to the road to wave them down. Carl saw us, turned around, and made sure we were all good. We hustled into our riding gear. It's not to fun to put all that stuff back on when it's well over ninety degrees, let alone hustling into it.

I saw them on the side of the road and waved but carried on. We didn't get out of the city as early as we liked and had to think about darkness. Chandragargh is a million souls strong and I wasn't looking forward to arriving at night.

The group caught and overtook me. We headed to a fuel station. I counted heads and realized that we were still missing two folks. Kagen and Bill were last seen in Delhi. But the agreed upon meeting place was Picadilly's in Chandragargh so we carried on.

Somewhere along the way we lost the Brits but they turned up at Picadilly's. We called Bill on the off chance that he may be on the side of the road. He was and he was standing next to Kagen and Kagen's blown up motorcycle about fifty km north of Delhi.

They are 200 km behind us waiting for Soni's boys to bring a new cylinder head. We will see Bill and Kagen in Shimla.

2008-09-30T06:52:00.000-07:00

Bad News First

We will not be leaving Delhi today. The truck bringing the bikes got delayed by floods, fire, locusts, an old friend coming in from out of town, traffic, landslides, or a flat tire. Whatever the case, they won't have time to give the bikes a once over until mid-afternoon. It doesn't make much sense to start packing bikes at three or four because the sun sets about seven and this isn't a place to ride in the dark if it can be avoided.

But the good news is that we will have an opportunity to take the bikes on a test ride today without loads. If something is amiss, Soni and his minions can fix it and they will meet us tomorrow morning right bright and early.

Speaking of bright and early, the city has quite the alarm clock with an automatic snooze feature built right in. The call for morning prayer goes off at five a.m. sharp. Roll over and slap the nightstand if you like. Twelve minutes later(a perfect length-it gives you enough time to get back to sleep and into the dream about the tuk tuk race) you'll hear bark-a-bark-a-roo. That's the dogs being driven quite mad by cows strolling up and down the streets. Not as pleasant as a rooster but very effective.

Yesterday morning was spent banking or walking from bank to bank and then giving up and using the cash machine rather then changing money because contrary to what the last bank said and the fact that there was a electronic currency exchange rate board on the wall, "I am sorry sir, but we do not change money here.

Phil arranged for five of the finest tuk tuk drivers in all of India(not just Delhi mind you, the patriarch of the group was quite clear) to meet us at 1300 hours outside our hotel. When the conversation began Phil tried to be vague about where we were staying but one of the drivers knew we were at the C Park Inn. I guess we don't blend in very well which really suprises me.
Our goal was Conault Place, a big open air market. Armed with head cams, video cams, and a mess of stickers we peeled out. My driver did a Bollywood Roll at the first stop and we jumped to an early lead. It didn't last long. Triple lane changes, no look turns, and wrong way on one ways were the name of the game.

The drivers really seemed to dig all of it. Not only did they put stickers on their rides, they stickered other vehicles while we were zipping past. They didn't take us to Conault Place however, insisting it was closed. Besides they knew a better place, best place, very fine goods.
Welcome to India and its kickback society. The market was upscale and packed with pressing salespeople. No definitely means, 'please show me three more of each color here.' We walked around looking, feeling, and pricing while being hounded. No matter the excuse you throw at them, they volley back a counter.

We escaped souvenir free and spilled onto the hot sidewalk. Our tuk tuk drivers were waiting. I asked one of them if he knew where to find a good map. He said he did and led me to a store three doors down. The map was a postcard. When I didn't want that one, I was offered a calendar. I was pretty happy when Mariska suggested that if they were going to take us to places just to get their kickback, then they should take us to a place that sells beer.

After a leisurely lunch, we asked them to return us to the hotel. They insisted on taking us to one more market. The patriarch leveled with us and we thought, 'why not, these guys will benefit, we have nothing better to do, and the place will have ac.'

I'm glad we let them cuz it was far and away the best of the emporiums we've visited. If we can't find what we are looking for on the trip, that's the store we will return to. Ideally, we buy our Kasmir in Kasmir from the villagers that made it so they get all the money and therefore the benefit but who knows.

Josh and I got shaves and haircuts with the locals a couple of blocks from the hotel. The shop had enough space for two chairs so they put in six. It was pretty funny to watch them push each other for position until I realized that doing that with scissors is dangerous. But if yer gonna let a man at yer neck with a straight razor you gotsta relax.

In the morning, Matt and I went to acquire a few more maps before the paperwork/test ride. Tuk tuks are pretty mellow.

The paperwork and payments took place over chai teas. The office fan blew things around the room and it was still too hot. We signed our lives away and walked to a nice quiet spot and the bikes.

Four mechanics worked furiously on the side of the road. The mechanics worked on clutch handles, bent pegs, blown exhaust pipes, and cracked tanks. We stood in the sun and sweated while they gave our bikes an Indian once over.

After about 45 minutes all the bikes were running somewhat smoothly. We went up and down a quiet alley once. Two of the bikes needed help but after fifteen minutes we were up and running.

We took a right and the madness began. Soni ripped away and it was all I could do to keep up. The bikes don't have mirrors. You wouldn't want them anyway. There's no reason to know what's right beside you and you don't have time to check.

We bobbed, weaved, and juked our way through the traffic. Soni blew red lights, did u-turns, and passed buses on the shoulder. He pulled over a couple of times and we were always with him. He'd smile, tear out, and step it up a notch.

Halfway through the check out ride Soni pulled over and took off his helmet. We stripped our jackets. Soni said it was time to talk about the bikes. He showed us how to start the bikes, work the lights, hit the kill switch, and lock the steering column. Seems to me it would be better to do that before we made an eight bike wedge to split tuk tuks.

Tomorrow we will get an early start to miss as much of that as possible.

Let's go shopping

2008-09-28T22:33:00.000-07:00

Just returned from a morning stroll with Phil. We went down a side street full of parked of bicycle rickshaws. Each rickshaw held its operator, so doubled as the apartment. Something has struck me each day and this day it's the sheer magnitude of homeless folks. They are everywhere. The sidewalks are full of them until work begins for the day.
These aren't homeless in the sense I am used to. They have jobs, families, and normal daily routines. There just aren't enough roofs to go around.

Now it's a tuk tuk race to the busiest market in the city. Might get a machete and a haircut.

Where motorcycles go to live

2008-09-28T22:27:00.000-07:00

Woke at 4 a.m. got sick of staring at the ceiling by five and hit the pavement with my camera. I only got a few pics before my battery ran out(rookie) and I could concentrate on watching the city wake up.

It didn't take long after the 5 a.m. morning prayer call for the hustle to catch up with the bustle. I took a leisurely stroll across intersections to get to the middle of a roundabout so I could set up a tripod and get some shots of the 108 foot high statue of Lord Hanuman. Ten minutes later I was out of battery and decided to move on with the morning. My easy walk had turned into Frogger Level Five.

I made it splat free and got to watch three dogs chase a cow through the streets of Delhi. As forecasted, vehicles gave the cow a wider berth than they had given me.
Now we're chilling in the room waiting for shops to open so we can buy some pigstickers and get a haircut or the Brits that arrived at 3 am to get up so we can go to a Triumph restoration shop, which ever comes first.

The Brits got up so it was off to the motorcycle rescue farm. The van driver told us that it would take two hours to get to that neighborhood. We drove for at least two hours in the same direction and the city looked the same, packed dirty neighborhoods over and over and over. The drive gave the city a sense of scale.

Finally it was time to take a left but each intersection was barricaded and sandbagged and guarded by army soldiers with the world's most popular firearm, the AK-47,because of yesterday's bomb blast. Our driver asked soldiers at one roadblock how in the wide world of sports we could get into the neighborhood.

It took a couple hundred rupees and some time but they sent us to a side gate and as soon as we were on the other side it became apparent that we were in a nice neighborhood. It was all one lane, twisty, and gated homes.

We found the place and asked our driver to wait while we got the tour and Jason did the interview. Turns out it wasn't really a restoration place but a manufacturing shop for classic bike geeks all over the world.

For example: Johnny Gumchewer has a 1968 Norton that he's rebuilding in his garage so he doesn't have to spend evenings with his wife and he needs a gas tank. He calls Rocky in Delhi. Rocky goes out to his motorcycle graveyard, finds the tank, takes it to the shop, makes a jig, and manufactures 1000 of them. Then he calls Johnny and asks him what color he would like and if he needs the cap or not. If Johnny needs the cap, he'll build a thousand of them too.

Pick a bike, pick a part, and the Mad Bull Motor Works division of Eversure Auto Agency has it or will make exact to spec. We walked past mountains of tanks, piles of sprockets, buckets of bolts, rooms and rooms full of bike geek drool.

Get in the van, man

2008-09-27T06:32:00.000-07:00

I've been on organized tours in Amsterdam, New York, London, and Paris. Compared to today one word comes to mind- mothergrabbinboring. We started our day by checking in with Soni at Soni Motors. They sent a boy to bring us right from our hotel to the shop. Turns out it was roughly 350m from our door. Funny how they have so many people that there truly is a person for every job. Open your room door and you hear, "Good morning, sir. You like breakfast?" One person is assigned to every hallway and is immediately relieved when he gets a mission.

Soni had all his ducks in a row so we hired an air-conditioned van to take us around the city. First stop, temple, check. Off with the shoes, leave your water bottle, iphone(Phil), and camera at the door. No shorts, sir.

I liked the contrast between the temple and all the cathederals I've visited. Bright colors and open, active prayer. The masonry was incredible, tight and beautiful. I missed a turn and spotted a group adding a sidewalk for a rear entrance.

Two young men smashed old bricks into inch or so rounds to form a base. Another man spread sand while a man, clearly the master mason spread grout in already placed stones. When he finished he signaled to a man that yelled to the back and a young man brought another 3 foot square stone(I know from experience that it was about 75 lbs.) perched on top of his head. Two others took it off his head and placed it under the master's direction. Each person did one thing and one thing only. It's understandable when you realize that this hamlet has 17 million people and it was 33 degrees celcius(double it and add 30, kids.)

After the temple we had lunch in a pretty nice place. We decided to have Indian food and these people do it pretty well. Watched a man make a cobra dance after lunch, then it was off to a State-run emporium. It's good to hit these first because there is no haggling, the staff is knowledgeable, and the atmosphere relaxed.

They sat us down and tried to sell us Kashmir rugs. Poor bastards had no idea that all we could think about was what our dogs would do to those beautiful pieces of art. Upstairs to the fabrics and all that visual noise, amazing what skilled people will do for 70 or so dollars a year.

We headed back to the van and our driver said, "Bomb go 3:30, we go now." We spent the next hour and a half or so trying to get out of the Muslim district. Police had roadblocks set up and search a vehicle or two but their main response seemed to be to create the traffic jam from hell so people would be too frustrated to blow things up in the future.

We are chilling in our rooms for the evening and waiting for the Brits and the Canuck to show.

You can only plan a plan

2008-09-27T06:20:00.000-07:00

Ride from New Dehli due north to Leh. Then backtrack a little bit and swing west before heading south to the Taj Mahal and back to New Dehli. Cross through disputed lands and wave to Pakistan(or India depending on one's point of view) while avoiding folks with Karishnakovs. The route takes one over the highest driveable pass on the planet and past one of the seven wonders of the modern world. Sounds simple, right?

We need to complete the first leg of the trip before the fifteenth of October or before snows close the road for the season, which ever comes first. And we have to do it while avoiding altitude sickness and the other dangers(avalanches, mudslides, yetis, etc.) that come with riding a motorcycle through the Himalayas.If we happen to get into Leh and the road closes while we are there, that's where we will spend the winter. Should be easy to find work if we get caught on the wrong side of the pass. I'm sure there's great need for arborists, patrollers, rec department managers, fish guides, and BBC cameramen.

Some reports indicate that a fifty-year flood complete with landslides may have closed parts of the road prematurely and we won't even get the opportunity to be snowed in for the winter. If that turns out to be true, ah well none of us has been to India before so it'll all be new and cool.

The disputed lands will offer their own set of challenges, both social and environmental. Some folks don't look favorably on peoples passing through their territory and fun words like hostage and kidnap come to mind. The most popular rifle ever made keeps an uneasy peace while men in opulent buildings thousands of miles away debate lines on a map. Water and petrol are hard to find.

We landed in New Delhi and after a quick trip through customs, went to find our transport. Oodles and oodles of Indians offered to help us with our bags. By help I mean take the carts from our hands and push them out to the van for us. I declined to let someone who's help I did not solicit push my gear to Shiva knows where when we already had transport arranged.

Once at the van, the crowd of twenty or so demanded gratuitys for work they not only did not perform but were specifically told not to do. We tossed most of our gear up on to the top of the van where it was secured with one piece of frayed cord about twice the diameter of a spaghetti noodle while they tried to figure out why we weren't tipping them.

One piece of cord for twelve bags. "Back up your back up" probably isn't heard much round here. Seven Americans didn't fit so well in the little van so our driver acquired another taxt to follow us to the hotel. A horn honked at us incessantly and I could see the angered driver. After two or so minutes waiting for our driver to return, the "dollar waiting on a dime" driver hopped into our vehicle, fumbled around for the parking brake, engaged the transmission and backed our load the hell out of his way without some much as a word or nod to our presence.

We had the typical scare the shit out of you ride from the airport. Pretty excited to drive a motorcycle round Delhi. The rest of the guys want to get out of town ASAP but I think I may stick around and cruise the strip just for the hell of it. There's plenty to see and wonder about right around town. Why do the commercial vehicles paint "stop" below the left brake light? How does he steer with a child on the handlebars? Is everyone pushing the horn with wild abandon or does it actually mean something?

Our rooms are clean and well-kept and there seem to be three Indians for each of us. Water? Right away sir. You want to eat even though the restaurant is closed? No problem. You would like to enjoy a beer on the lurker deck and watch the street folk cook over the trash fire and wonder if that rat is going to wake up the old dude in the striped shorts sleeping on the sidewalk while you wait for your dinner? I will send a runner to hire a tuk-tuk and return with seven beers immediately.

What happens in Bangkok

2008-09-25T20:18:00.000-07:00

Forty hours and counting and still a plane ride away from New Dehli and our motorcycles. We had to overnight in Bangkok. Our hotel shuttled us and our bags all the way to the fourth floor for the equivalent of five U.S. dollars each. The Thai boys refused our help until they picked up a few of the bags. Once they realized that our bags held heavier items than flower shirts and flip-flops, the eighty-pound men were happy to let us carry some of the bags.

We bought a bag of week-old bread and some beers from the hotel lobby and took a seat on the river. Each hunk of bread made the water roll and churn with catfish of some sort. The smallest fish were thirty inches long and five to six pounds.

A taxi dropped us off in the city center. The ride was a good warm-up for what we face once we try to leave Dehli on bikes. Lane lines and traffic lights are merely suggestions.

Phil led us on a sweet shortcut to a restaurant he knew on the river. It quickly turned into quite the detour down alleys that don't see many tourists. Giant vats full of curry, meat on a stick, and other taste delights fought with human waste and wet dog for entry into our nostrils.

The restaurant was nice though I didn't eat because the heat stole my appetite. After dinner, a river taxi gave us a little tour. The three-twenty-seven small block really made the boat move. I kept my sunglasses on even though it was dark to keep the river water and whatever little creatures live there from getting into my eyes.

Funding the fun

2008-09-04T08:38:00.000-07:00

I leave tomorrow morning for my second ten-day stint in Aialik Bay. Alaska Wildland Adventures plans to open a remote lodge on the site. There is plenty to do before guests show up beginning on the first of June, 2009.

This is the second remote job I've worked. I love the challenges these projects offer. Logistics and supply chains are a big part of it, "Sweet, a boat-load of 2x8's. What can we build with 2x8's?" or "I guess the plane isn't coming. Anybody up for another pancake, no butter or syrup?"

Broken things need to be mended on site or done without. Spare parts and mechanical know-how are what you have around you. If you can't fix it more drastic measures need to be taken. "We're gonna set the tail of the plane in the wheel barrow. It only has to roll a little ways till I get the tail up." "But what if it doesn't work?" "It'll work, it has to." And it did, what a beautiful thing to see the wheel barrow rolling into the fireweed halfway down the runway and the Citabria turning to the south toward Yakatat. I remember wondering how the hell Jim was gonna land and then shrugging my shoulders, out of my control. I had other stuff to do.

The power of the Now grows in the wilderness. Being present is easy because the distractions of modern day are far away. A paper comes with the boat and is devoured by the crew, than largely forgotten or at least put aside. Brittiany and Sara take a back seat to masturbation jokes and whether you have enough bracing in place to stop for lunch.

Meals consist of great-smelling piles of high calorie foods, all you care to eat and then some. The kitchen keeps the groups of boys from slipping all the way back to the cave. From defending the food against cross-contamination issues to keeping the eff-bomb "out of the kitchen," the cook is key to a successful project. Working men need to eat and eat a lot. Tasty and nourishing foods keep boys happy and focused on the task regardless of the weather, the bugs, the distance to the nearest single woman.

Stones or Beatles?

2008-08-01T08:29:00.000-07:00

Brooke and I watched "Across the Universe" last night. Yep, it's a musical and at times it is sickly sweet. But if you're even half a Beatles fan, you'll be happy you spent a couple of hours watching this flick.

A boy by the name of Jude leaves Liverpool to find his father on the other side of the pond. He meets a Princeton student and they become fast friends. The friend has a beautiful sister...But it isn't the plot(which is somewhere between as thin as a porno and thick as a Jim Jarmish film) that makes this movie.

A big part of what makes this movie great is hearing someone else sing John, Paul, and George's words, sorry Ringo. I found myself really listening to the lyrics rather than singing along or letting the music fade to the background the way known, comfortable things do.

The movie begins in the mid-60's and carries through to the mid-70's. The music sets the pace, from burning draft cards to the Kent state shootings. Lyrics come alive without music, too, but may be lost on casual fans, and that's o.k. It's what they do with things like "She's so heavy" that make this musical brilliant.

Yep, there is a psychedelic scene but mostly it's just a fun yet critical look at things that were happening around the world while the boys from Liverpool were letting their bad haircuts grow out. Sadly, it's also a commentary on what is happening today and maybe a dig at what isn't happening today, but should be.

Make that two apples a day

2008-07-27T08:40:00.000-07:00

America is the only industrialized nation without universal health care. America holds 29th place worldwide in life expectancy. This country follows only Latvia in infant mortality rates. We spend 31% of our healthcare funds on administrative costs, Canada pays 3%. What are we clinging to?

"Socialized medicine" was first coined in 1917 by Otto P. Grier, chairman of the Preventive Medicine Section of the American Medical Association. He said that would be a "fundamental contribution to social welfare." By Truman's presidency the AMA was distributing fliers to doctors in an effort to get them to speak out against it.

When I was growing up, adults used to talk about all the "friends of friends" that knew someone from Canada or France coming to the U.S. because we had superior care. Now we hear about people traveling to India to have procedures because they can't afford to have them in the States.

My father lost his left leg 14 centimeters below the patella in the mid-80's. Our family had health insurance, but plenty of stuff wasn't covered and six weeks in a medical facility left Mom and Dad with a pile of bills.

One of the first things my parents did when Dad got home was to change their insurance plan to be better covered the next time disaster struck. This April, Mom went in for a checkup at Dad's urging. He had noticed a change in her demeanor and stamina and was concerned.

Turns out that Mom's kidneys were functioning at six percent. That's a great rate for a savings account these days but a terrible rate for organs that filter all the blood in one's body every eight minutes. The doctors kept her in the hospital and health insurance again became a concern.

Mom signed up for Medicaid because one of the non-rejection drugs for transplant patients costs $5000 a month (that seems pretty high, I bet I could buy it from unsavory types on the street at a substantial savings) and Mom won't know which drug will work for her until after the surgery.

It's bad enough that we don't use the metric system (I feel a rant coming on) but it's disgusting that this country doesn't have universal health care. The state run systems in the rest of the industrialized world prove that it works. The leading cause of bankruptcy in this country is unpaid medical bills.

Wanna stop the bleeding in the housing market? Wanna increase consumer spending? Wanna bolster consumer confidence? Wanna give your newborn a better chance than someone born in

Slovenia? Universal health care would help.

Git yer 'but in the boat

2008-07-25T08:57:00.000-07:00

I went down to Ninilchik with some friends to fish for halibut last Friday. The best fishing on Cook Inlet is tide dependent, so we drew a 3 p.m. departure. The boys picked me up in Cooper Landing. We stopped in Soldotna for some supplies(beer) on the way to Ninilchik.

Captain Dave Gillickan has been chasing 'buts for awhile. I met him my first winter in G-wood. I asked him how he was able to snowboard through the bumps so well. "You bend your knees and grit your teeth."

Dave's 32 foot custom aluminum boat, Big Iron, cruises at 30 knots and comfortably holds six clients and the crew. Dave's crew consists of a 68 year-old Vietnam vet that flew a bomber in the war that he named Big Iron. They met in Ninilchik. The universe is a funny place. Dave gave him the afternoon off because we told him we'd do those duties.

Our drive down through rain gave way to sunshine. The weather on the water couldn't have been better. Dave set up the rods after a hour or so motor to a "hotspot." Every cast yielded a hit. We landed lots of fish and limited out in short order.

Everybody threw five bucks in for biggest fish and that went to Josh for a 24 and a half pounder. The last time I went 'but fishing(a decade ago) the biggest fish was 94 pounds. Dave talked about how the fish have been getting smaller and harder to find over the years.

The discussion turned to where the fault may lie. Is it the commercial long liners and their fathoms of hooks bringing in piles of fish, many of which are tossed back because they are unwanted or non-targeted "by-catch?" Or maybe it's the sport fishermen, cuz they try to get the big ones which are breeding females.

The answer: all of us. The fish and catches have become smaller, harder to find, and further from the ports. Both sides agree on this. Failing fisheries are well-documented the world over since way back when the secret got out about the Moors going to the Grand Banks for cod.

Halibut fisheries will likely follow some of the tuna species by becoming "commercially extinct" within our lifetimes. It's human nature to harvest all the easy things till they're gone and then lament the loss. Shoot the passenger pigeons, there are lots of them.

Happy Birthday America

2008-07-04T10:00:00.000-07:00

This holiday always makes me think of my Grandma Patrick, the way she used blackcats to wake up my uncles or call my grandfather home for dinner, the big bags of fireworks the came one after another out of the house on the 4th, and that crisp day in February when we said goodbye to her by throwing lit firecrackers into her grave instead of roses. She loved explosions of all kinds and passed that love on to me.

The Chinese invented fireworks. Their most respected minds mixed and burned the explosives for festivals. Marco Polo brought that technology back to Europe. The Europeans used the technology to make weapons. Reflect on that for a sec.

Done? All right. Here in AK fireworks are mostly just loud in the summer. The ever-present sun fades the burning of the magnesium and calcium so everything looks yellow. We save most of our fireworks displays to brighten up our winter nights.

Instead on Independence Day, Alaskans honor what may be the coolest bar bet ever. A couple of sourdoughs were having a pint in Seward. One of them said he could run from the tavern to the top of Mount Isabelle and back in under an hour. Word spread, bets were placed, and a tradition was born.

Today is the 81st running of the Mount Marathon Race. Our hero finished the first race in 62 minutes, which is damn impressive. He climbed a 3022' mountain over a distance of 3.1 miles in heavy boots and woolies. He lost the bet though, and had to buy drinks for everyone in the tavern.

Top finishers usually finish in the high forties or low fifties these days. Bill Spencer set the course record in 1981 with a time of 43 minutes, 23 seconds. The record may fall this year because there is lots of snow on the course.

The race is won on the downhill section by the person with the biggest balls. Scree and rocks slide along with the competitors as they try to haul ass and keep control. I got a scouting report from one of the competitors, Kyle Kelly, last night. He said that there is a virtual luge course cut in the snow from people practicing. Whoever can put fear the furthest back in his mind will win this year barring a fall on the bottom third of the race.

People scatter all along the course to watch, root, cheer, and hand out waters. But the best place to get a feel for the race is the first aid tent. Runners hold dressing on cuts that won't stop bleeding while EMTs pick rocks out of gashes with huge forceps. Good luck, Kyle.

Urban Wildlife

2008-07-03T06:41:00.000-07:00

Summertime in Southcentral Alaska can be magical. The sun officially shines for over nineteen hours, which means you can always see well enough to go for a run or even raft a river. Many people take full advantage of it, teeing off at 10 p.m. or participating in 24 hour races.

One such race started in Far North Bicentennial Park and ended in Providence Alaska Medical Center for fifteen year old Petra Davis. Campbell Creek runs through the park and is chock-full of king salmon and that means bears.

Ms. Davis was mauled by one of those brown bears shortly after 1 a.m. Sunday morning. She's damn lucky to be alive. One of her fellow competitors noticed a bike way off the trail and stopped to have a look.

Shotgun-toting officers from APD stood guard while paramedics packaged Ms. Davis for transport to Providence where she underwent emergency surgery to repair her carotid artery. She has punctures and lacerations along the right side of her body but is expected to make a full recovery.

Municipality of Anchorage Wildlife Biologist Rick Sinnot has said that he would not kill the bear even if he could find it. He believes the bear was either suprised(which can mean scared) by Ms. Davis or defending his piece of the creek, rather than looking for a tasty bite of mountain biker.

Many in the community want to have the bears exterminated or thinned out. There are less than 40,000 grizzly bears in the entire state of Alaska. Several are killed in defense of life or property each year. Life is often someone fishing late to avoid the crowds(which is when bears tend to do it too, for the same reasons) that gets charged on a creek bank and shoots the bear. All too often, property is garbage on the back porch or a bag of dog food in the garage with the door open.

Others would like to see the parks or certain trails closed when bear activity is observed. What level of activity would close a trail is difficult to pin down. Unobserved activity isn't mentioned. Don't even think about the liability the Municipality would be open to if someone were mauled on an open trail.

I fall into the other camp. I wouldn't wish a bear mauling on anyone and I mean no disrespect to Ms. Davis or her family, but I don't consider it a tragedy that someone got bit while in bear territory.

The folks that want bears out of the city or trails closed are of the same mind as those that took monkey bars and merry-go-rounds out of the playground. They would have us helmeted, padded, bubble-wrapped, and otherwise hog-tied before we left our homes each day. I encourage all of them to find a place where all the bears are already gone.

Anchorage adopted a new city slogan recently, "Big Wild Life." Bears in the city are part of that life. Mingling with critters bigger than squirrels is just one of the things that make this a great place to live.

God bless NASCAR

2008-06-29T09:55:00.000-07:00

Here we sit in that uncomfortable purgatory between basketball and football seasons. I bet more than a few of you will turn your attention to the New Hampshire Motor Speedway for the Tools 301 today and the Coke Zero(not regular) 400 next week in Daytona.

More than 75 million U.S. adults, or 1 in 3, are NASCAR fans. The sport has had steady growth since Bill France, Sr. held the first meeting of the National Association for Stock Car Auto Racing in December of 1947. The first sanctioned race was held on Daytona's beach on the second of February, 1948. NASCAR incorporated five days later. It's now viewed in more than 100 countries in at least 21 languages each weekend.

R. J. Reynolds changed the face of racing and indeed all of sports by providing corporate sponsorship via the Winston Cup Series in 1971. Cars and uniforms became plastered with logos. Winners made sure that the biggest patch(biggest sponsor) was visible to the camera during post race interviews, paving the way for the likes of World Cup skiers to hold both skis up to the camera right after going across the finish line.

NASCAR fans are considered the most coveted in the marketing world because they have fierce brand loyalty, with 85% saying the NASCAR endorsement adds value to products and 66% saying that they will pay more for a NASCAR endorsed product.

That's why I think NASCAR can save America. There are fifty drivers on the circuit with 40 races a year. They use 450-700 tires each weekend or six-teen to 28 thousand tires a year. That's a lot of burnt rubber.

America burns an estimated 366 million gallons of gasoline everyday. NASCAR racers use average 4.5 miles to the gallon and burn about 200,000 gallons for the races. In the grand scheme of things, a couple hundred thousand gallons isn't even one strawful from the milkshake.

But NASCAR still uses leaded fuels in its races. Indy cars use biofuels exclusively. Wouldn't it be great if NASCAR stepped up to be the force of change in the energy race? Minimum mileage standards would improve technologies that would trickle down(apologies to Adam Smith whose economic theories have been bastardized. The folks always spouting about "trickle down" forget that Mr. Smith also said, "No honest man could make a million dollars.") to consumer models.

Imagine the folks in the doublewide saving up for a Prius instead of roll-bars and straight pipes. Maybe Billy Ray Redneck would encourage his son go to MIT after winning the seventh-grade science fair instead of calling him queer. Perhaps someday infields will be powered by methane burning plants fueled by the Flatulence Forager 5000. Race fans can use the cheese-filled sausages in the fridge to run the generators after they run their course through the large instestine.

City of the Future

2008-06-21T09:15:00.000-07:00

"We don't have any bears, but watch out for the trolleys. They kill tourists every year."First morning in Amsterdam. Two-stroke scooters buzz outside the window along with trucks and all sorts of traffic. This city is more cosmopolitian than I remember. Part of the difference is how different I am. Twenty-year-old males get lost in the tolerance of the city and miss out on what else it has to offer.

The first thing one notices are the bikes. Bikes against fences, trees, lampposts, street signs, bikes against bikes. Stacks and stacks of bikes. And of course bikes moving through the city. Men with raincoats billowing behind pedal with traffic. Old women with paniers and baskets and big brimmed hats mingle with teen scooter drivers. Women with knee high leather boots and vinyl jackets criss cross past pedalers with denim mini skirts. Parents hold small children(never with training wheels or helmets) as they pedal side by side through higher traffic intersections. Mothers have babies or small children sitting on seats mounted to the handlebars, often with a wind screen that can be flipped down when riding solo.Friends converse as they ride side by side until saying in motion goodbyes before their routes diverge.

One million bikes, 750,000 residents, more than a bike for everyone. A constant stream of bikes, a few scooters, the rare automobile, and the trolleys flow constantly through the city.The city is quiet and the air is clear, due to the bikes and an ocean breeze. People are stylishly dressed. Men in Italian suits zip past on scooters. Women tuck crisp jeans into green leather boots and carry oversized bags slung across the shouder if biking.The scooter drivers wear fashionable helmets, usually half-face with the google cut visor up.

The sinks are deep welled and motion activated. Paper towels do not exist and the hand driers blow unheated air. Light is fluerescent or candle. Stairways are lit enough to be safe but still quite dim. Ditto with hotel rooms, restrooms, hallways. Parking is expensive and foot/bike power is encouraged, in fact, bikes have the right of way over autos or peds. It feels like the way all cities should/will have to be. The population appears healthy and in shape. Huge parks provide green space amidst the brick. Asphalt is not common in the city centre and is a reddish tone where it does occur to blend with the clay of the bricks. The most crowded country on the planet (473 people/kilometer squared) doesn't feel crowded at all.

Amsterdam is full of parks and museums. We had a look at most of the parks when we rented bikes. What better way to wind down from motorbikes than to pedal awhile in the city of bikes? Bike traffic was intimidating at first but we figured it out quickly because as the Dutch say, "It's just common sense."

The only museum we hit was the Rijksmuseum. We went on Father's day and were given free passes for being male. Most of the Rijks was closed for rennovations, we were only allowed in about 35 of the more than 500 rooms.

Rembrandt Harmenszoon van Rijn is the most famous artist whose works are housed in the Rijks. His most well-known painting is "The Dutch Masters," you know, from the cigar box. He differs from most artists in that he had success as a young man. Rembrandt became well-known for his portraits and as a result, ended up teaching nearly every Dutch artist of any import that lived in his time.

The works of Rembrandt and his students are considered, "The Dutch Golden Age." Because Rembrandt was a realist, walking through the exhibit one felt like the pieces on the wall were photos not paintings. People with eyes that followed me around the room, flys on the counter I wanted to swat, a man praying over bread and a bowl of soup that I swore I could smell.

It was great to come back to Amsterdam. The city has done a lot of work on its image with great results. The city is much cleaner than it was fourteen years ago. They seem to have toned down the blantantcy of their tolerance image. There are still coffeeshops where one can buy marijuana or hash on every street, but they no longer hang Rasta flags outside the shops for all to see.

The Netherlands has zero tolerance on hard drugs like cocaine and heroin, but taxes and tolerates others. What I find most interesting about their tolerance policies is that they decriminalized cannibids and some hallucigens the same year that Nixon declared a "War on drugs" in the USA, 1971.

It seems to me that honesty is the way we should approach drug use. Aspirin is the gateway drug, "Take this, you'll feel better," and it habituates Americans to a lifetime of drug use, from children's chewables to the blue ones that give the old men boners and everything inbetween. We like drugs so much that we put up with listed side-affects like, "oily discharge." Rather than outlaw all but three(alcohol, caffiene, tobacco), why not educate honestly? Kids try coke because nothing bad happens to them when they smoke pot and they figure people have lied to them about coke, too.

Don't get me started on the way the Dutch teach sex-ed, give away condoms and oral contraceptives, have the highest average virginity age in Europe, and teen pregnancy is virtually non-existent. Honesty.

Winding down

2008-06-10T12:24:00.000-07:00

We're in Marlborough, England. About two more hours of saddle time and we'll be right back where we started twenty-odd days ago in Bournemouth. This is always the hard part of travel for me. I don't want to ride the last little bit even though I could easily do it if it were a thousand miles away. It reminds me of hauling moose hindquarters.

You groan and twist to get the thing up and onto your back. It takes a bit to get the load situated and the thought of lugging that hunk of bear bait two miles over uneven terrain is almost unbearable. But you take the first step and it isn't so bad and pretty soon you're in a zone, whistling or maybe singing, Sugar Magnolia(shutup hippie) and you could go on forever. Then you pop over a little hill and see the plane a coupla hundred yards away.

Your shoulders and hips ache, you're out of breath, and sooo tired. Only five loads to go. Pretty soon you only carry the rifle the first hundred yards or so, if the bear munches you anywhere in the remaining mile and seven-eighths, so be it.

Holy tangent batman. Where was I? Hell if I know. After a coupla thousand miles, several pints, and a near-miss each, I can say the following: This trip was much better than I anticipated. The rolling hills and mile upon mile of tarmac make it a biker's paradise, the people are outstanding and except for Scotland the language barrier is easy to deal with.

Awards: The best riding was in Scotland. The best scenery goes to Wales. Worst food England, everyone else tied for second, we're talking shit-tee everywhere(You chat with folks and they love to put down the other country's food. We were damn proud of ourselves that we never laughed out loud.) Most obnoxious Americans-golfers in Ireland. Best street signs-England("Disabled must pay" was the overall favorite.) Best whiskey-Wales. Best beer-tie. Biggest disappointment-Ireland(some pretty scenery, sure but not the overall biking experience we were looking for. People blame the influx of money from the EU and the fact that an additional 12 million passports have been issued in recent years for the building spur.) Best city-Dublin.

Rob to the rescue

2008-06-06T13:20:00.000-07:00

Phil and I were finally able to touch base via text messaging. He spent the afternoon asking people at gas stations and emergency rooms if they heard, saw, knew anything about a down motorcycle while I spent the afternoon trying to get in touch with Phil, AKRider, or anybody.

All's well that ends well, but holy hell what a stress ball each of us had become. Me, cuz I got knocked down by a semi-tractor and thought I was gonna get run over. And Phil cuz he couldn't find his wing man and went from hospital to E.R. looking and thinking that he might have to call my wife and tell her something that no one wants to tell anyone.

I guess the hotel has a bunk payphone cuz I called Phil a bazillion times and it just rang and rang. I emailed cuz that was to be the back up to the back up. Then I tried to text message from a computer to a cell phone, which you can do if you know the cell provider. Guess what I didn't know. Then perhaps the adrenaline left my bloodstream cuz it occurred to me that I could approach someone about using their phone to send a text to Phil. It took him two shakes of a lamb's tail to get back to me, and there was much rejoicing.

Meanwhile I sent an email to ace motorcycle mechanic Rob and he was able to troubleshoot from AK. And lookee there, the clutch whatchmajigger's messed up. Plug that in, cross your fingers and kapow, we're back in business. Now we're chilling in a hotel and planning tomorrow. Crazy.

Off to Dublin, off the Isle

2008-06-06T08:26:00.000-07:00

With all we'd seen on the northern half of Ireland, we decided to try to make a southern half only itinerary. There were a couple of problems but mostly that the ferries simply don't work well or often enough from the Isle of Man and that there is too much traffic and poor riding inbetween the good stuff. So Phil decided that we would take Ireland out of the equation.

We beelined to Dublin to book a ferry to Holyhead, Wales the next morning. It sure was fun to be driving in an unfamiliar city of 2 million people at quitting time. I can't fathom doing that commute daily.

After booking a ferry, we secured lodging for the night and went off to have a pint. Our guesthouse was in the city center which is one huge pedestrian mall. The streets are still the narrow cobblestone of the city's founding.

It was suprisingly clean, few homeless, no beggars, and no litter. It was also packed. I'm sure it would be easy for a half-way decent pickpocket to make a respectable living cuz you couldn't help but get bumped once in awhile.

We stopped off in the Temple to enjoy a pint while Dublin walked by the window. The pub is just under 200 years old and the dingy sort of place one imagines the likes of Joyce writing in/about. And man, was it hopping.

We spent the rest of the night walking around and ducking in here or there to soak up local color. By local I mean international. People from all over obviously call Dublin home. We heard many different languages and it was easy to tell the locals from the tourists.

An early ferry put us in Holyhead, Wales by 1100 hours. Our plan was to get to the Liverpool ferry dock and start a GPS route from there(because that's where the ferry would arrive from Isle of Man in the new itinerary.)

We ran into lots of road construction on the way. They often had one lane closed for several miles with no visible sign of work occuring. It is legal to split lanes with motorcycles here and that is what we were doing in the stop and go traffic.

Things were going swimmingly until a semi-tractor hit me at slow speed but hard enough to knock my panier off and my bike to the ground. I was unhurt. I picked the bike up and parked it in the closed lane so I could grab the panier. The trucker didn't bother to stop and lots of people yelled really sweet things to me.

Once I had the panier reattached via webbing, I learned that the bike wouldn't start. That's how I came to be in this hotel lobby waiting for Phil to come and rescue me.

Pot of Pyrite

2008-06-05T00:04:00.000-07:00

We took the ferry from Cairnryn, Scotland to Larne, Northern Ireland. Irish ferries are immaculate and spacious. I tried to find a way to the upper deck but every access was locked, blocked or roped. Phil explained to a Latvian crew member that we needed to get to the top to do some filming(kiting on top of a ferry) but that we had lost our paperwork. Would she go check with the captain for us? Of course, I'll be right back. And she did come right back and said no way jose. So we napped.

The northern coast was breath-taking; cliffs, oceans of blues and greens, stone fences, ruins, quaint sea-side towns. We stayed in Portrush with Phil's dad, who happened to be in Ireland for a golf tourney. Golf is huge here as one may imagine. One American that joined us for dinner told me that, "God is a genius, this land is made for golf." I left that one alone, it seemed pointless.

We left Portrush early the next morning and are now in Galway, a little over halfway down the west coast. It suprises me, but this is the most disappointing area of the whole trip.

The landscape is littered with new tract housing, straightened roads, tour buses, and blah scenery. The place has been Californicated.

We haven't given up yet. Today we are going to beeline to Dublin and make a southern loop. I know we will find good stuff on the ring of Kerry cuz I been there. But that is only one day's ride. Keep your fingers crossed.

Sidenote on the health of the Isles. We spoke with folks in England and Scotland about the changing waistlines in their country. They are quite concerned, but just on the cusp from what I saw. Maybe fifteen or so years behind us according to my untrained but fairly observant eyes. But Northern Ireland is a different story. Obesity has more than a foothold there.

Thicker accents, better food

2008-06-01T23:54:00.000-07:00

Had a look at Hadrian's Wall. The Romans built it between 122 and 128 a.d. with a combination of turf and stone and big stretches of it survive today. These Brits really need to get it together, don't they see the potential of Hadrian subdivisions, shopping malls, action figures and dessert toppings? It was three meters high and more than four meters high across the narrowest part of the island(73 miles.) They had a small fort every mile and two observation posts in between forts.

The Scots tell the story that the Romans sent troops up and they were never heard from again so the Romans built the wall. There appears to be a bit of myth in that version. What seems closer to the truth(though more boring) is that because they were able to control the flow of traffic, the Romans were able to collect taxes. Either way it looks like a big waste of public funds to me.

On to Scotland complete with man in a kilt blowing bagpipes at the border. The riding is better. There are less people, more hills, more flowers, more bugs, and more sheep. All the sheep are in need of a haircut. The price of wool is only 30p(60 cents) a sheep so most farmers won't bother to shear this year.

Are those peas on your mashers?

2008-06-01T23:18:00.000-07:00

We had to catch the 8 o'clock ferry so it was an early morning. We had one last run across the mountain road. What a great way to say goodbye to the Isle of Man. The road was all ours. Same story everywhere, the early bird gets to rip around 37 and 3/4 miles of sweet tarmac.

The ferry back had quite a different feel. Instead of a lounge full of leathers and sliders(replaceable kneepads that you see scraping the asphalt as they corner-most were scratch free which suggests they are posers) spouting off about John McGuiness on the gooseneck this, and Guy Martin around the hairpin that, it was families with kids fighting over their etch-a-sketches. Kids still have to shake theirs here which probably helps them from turning into the tubs of shit like American kids. It certainly isn't the food cuz they give you fries on top of your mashed potatoes here.

We had to rein it in once we got off the ferry. The grey circle with the black line through means 60 mph again instead of as fast as you like. The riding continued to be abfab as we headed north.

The countryside has become more varied. Rolling hills gave way to mountains. We crossed over the highest pass in England and the temps were in the high thirties at the top.

We stopped for the night in Haydon Bridge. It lies in a lush valley surrounded by pasture land with a trout stream running through the middle of it. We saw lots of them hitting the mayflies and asked a local why no one was fishing. "Cuz it's Friday night, mate. It's for drinking. Saturday's for fishing."

We figured we had better have a look at the drinking scene for scientific purposes or research and development or what have you. They really go for it. Both pubs were full of folks that have been slurring and spraying spittle with arms around shoulders every Friday night since time out of mind.

Last of the racing

2008-06-01T22:26:00.000-07:00

The weather broke on the 29th. Beautiful sunshine and five more ferries full of bikes have created palpable excitement. The mountain road is just zoom, zoom, zoom. We had a lot of fun watching the public zip around. Locals set up on most of the corners to watch the action all day long. The police hung out on every corner through the town bits to keep people honest.

The course road was too crowded for our liking so we set about trying to line up accomadations for next year. Everywhere we went said, "Thanks, but no thanks." The TT is so popular that they only accept reservations if you're willing to book the whole two weeks. We'll find a place but no luck yet.

After a nap, we bought picnic supplies and headed up to the top part of the course for the night's action. Phil and I hiked up to the highest bit of land on the island and found a spot where we could see about 3 miles worth of road.

The bikes hit over 200 mph on that stretch. There are a few curves but it's mostly straight and ideal for passing. They use the draft and slingshot method. Even though the bikes are started every 10 seconds, they were stacked up nicely for our viewing pleasure.

Watching the sidecars pass was good as well, but we were too far away to see the monkeys so we moved down the hill to one of the corners. They didn't disappoint. Willie was wrong, cowboys are fine, don't let your kids grow up to be sidecar monkeys.

It's just a hobby

2008-05-28T11:05:00.000-07:00

The B+B folks arranged for us to have a look at their neighbor's bikes. We had no idea what a treat we were in for. David came out and said, "All right then, let's have a look."

We walked in and he introduced us to his asisstant, Allen. Allen barely looked up from the piece of metal he was tooling. I have no idea what he was making on the lathe but he was checking his work with a micrometer.

David spoke a little about the bike currently sitting on the motorcycle lift, a 1901 something or other, then he took us into the other room. Old bikes packed and stacked everywhere. This is a 1903, this is a 1911, there are only three of these, one of these, one of these, etc.

After he'd answered all of our questions about the bikes he said, "Would you like to see a few more?" Of course we said yes and he opened a side door on the shed and we walked out into the drizzle. I noticed a turn of the century motorbike next to the riding lawnmower, but that wasn't what he had in mind.

He opened the door and bright light spilled out, angels began to sing and I realized that the other room had just been a setup for these bikes, his pride and joy.

Killer Crest

2008-05-27T15:20:00.000-07:00

Phil and I woke up and talked about the clouds."Do you think these are rain clouds?" "Dunno,
maybe. Probably won't start for a couple of hours if they are." "Oh, I bet you're right. Hey why do you think all the sheep are running away?"

It started to sprinkle about three minutes later. About three minutes and 17 seconds later the sky opened up and the island smelled of wet wool.

Rather than writing about our ride in the rain, how 'bout a little 'bout the Isle of Man? Their flag is three legs connected in a circle. The legs are wearing spurs and armor. Their motto is 'Whithersoever you throw it, it will stand' The legs are on the shield along with a falcon and a crow, two birds of obvious talents.

The Isle is technically a free state, not subject to British or EU rule. It is a bit of a tax haven with a maximum rate of 18% for individuals and none for corporations. They are serious about good business practices and all the pubs have posted signs that say if you think you haven't been poured a full pint, you have the right to have it filled to the top at time of service.

Oh right, no speed limit so this is where people come to "have a go at it."

Everyone rides bikes, races bikes, loves bikes. You know how kids pump their arms to get 18-wheelers to honk the airhorn? Well here kids give you the thumbs up sign and knda pump it a bit to get you to pop a wheelie.

We were watching the races outside a pub in Sulby tonight. You could hear them coming for three or four seconds before they came into sight and a guy said, "This must be a superbike." And this woman somewhere the other side of sixty says, "No, that's a sidecar." So it was. Turns out her sons are both in the sidecar races. One's a driver and the other is a monkey(remember how I thought there must be a better word for them then passenger? They call them monkeys and it fits well cuz they have to swing, hang and crawl all about and I've always thought of monkeys as crazy but in a good way) but, "Not on the same team, you understand. They're brothers."

Our cabbie raced trial bikes. Everyone is bike crazy. They say it's something in the water
but I think they take all the pregnant women round the isle at mach 3 so the baby is already
used to it in utero.

I wanna drive this time

2008-05-27T05:07:00.000-07:00

Sidecars, my goodness. These bikes are low to the ground. The driver lays nearly prone across the tank with his feet on pegs that come off the rear wheel. The passenger's platform is about 3 by 4 feet. On the straights the passenger sits behind the driver. He or she(often she cuz their are lots of husband wife teams-think about the extra stress that would put on a relationship) leans over to the right for righthanders and slides to the far left and hangs out a bit to shift the center of gravity so the bike can turn left.

All this happens while they are hauling ass. You can see the passenger(perhaps there's a better word than passenger cuz it's anything but passive) bouncing around while trying to safely and quickly move across the platform. Sometimes they lay on their bellies with most of their legs hanging off the back. Legs straight cuz if they're curled they produce drag and if they touch the ground for more than a second or two, it's bye-bye little piggies.

We watched the classic sidecar race in the morning. I guess their pretty slow because they only average 80 mph or so. We only got to see six teams practice last night cuz there was a crash further up the course and by the time the course had been cleared of all the bits and pieces, it had to be called on darkness.

I'm not even close to crazy

2008-05-26T14:49:00.000-07:00

Whoa diggity, these folks are nutters. We dumped our bikes back at the farmhouse and caught a cab into Ramsey. The cabbie suggested the same two corners of the course we'd been told about by the man with the unusual fear of gulls that we'd met on the ferry.

We got some beers and set up where we could see a straight that led to a sort of zig zag jog to the right or more like a right turn followed by an ess turn to the right. The riders are spaced out ten seconds apart at the start but bunch up by the time they get to where we were so that there's a rider or two going by every five seconds or so. I guess the leader has the toughest time and the trick is to just catch someone and tail them, you know dip when they dip, turn when they turn, etc.

Those boys come screaming down that short straight doing 100+, slam the back brake so it squirrels a little and goose it as they lean and get rocketed around the hard right. Then they crank on the throttle through the ess turn. You can see the rear tire bouncing and sliding because it is dealing with so much torque.

They get three laps, so we watched the first and hustled up to the second suggested viewing spot. It's called the crookshank, which I think is the curved part of a shepard's staff or a cane. That's exactly what it looked like. They come down that straight, which is just a little more than a quarter mile going 140 or so. Your heart jumps when they take that corner. I mean they hit the brakes a little but they're still going so fast that it doesn't seem possible to make the corner. Then you notice things like some of them are looking over their shoulder to see how close the other guy is while they are turning the corner. Just imagine taking your eyes off the road in that situation, nevermind the g-forces pulling on your neck.

After the superbikes(don't let the name fool you, one can buy these bikes over the counter at a store near you) were done, the sidecars had a go.

130 mph

2008-05-26T08:58:00.000-07:00

Isle of Man

Woke to the sound of sport bikes at about six a.m. this morning. There weren't any beans on our breakfast plates today. Bummer. We headed to Heysham to catch the ferry. The riding was fantastic with loads of bikes. Apparently the area is always packed with cycles on Sundays.
I noticed after breakfast that our tickets said we needed to be on the 2 a.m. ferry while Scott was on the 2 p.m. We alll booked together and were prepared to fight or beg or bribe to get on the boat but they were nice as pie. It took about two seconds and no money to make the change. A reminder that this isn't America.

Eighty or so bikes lined up to load the ferry. First we were all subjected to a search. They took my 3" locking blade. Turns out lockbacks are illegal here. Reminder number two. The guy that found it didn't know how to close it. It's likely the first he ever touched. He seemed scared and then relieved when I closed it for him.

His supervisor came over to question me. "Why do you have that knife?" "For cutting stuff."
That was the end of it. They apologized over and over but kept the knife. Not a big deal cuz it was a five dollar knife and I have two more with me. They stopped searching as soon as they found the first one. Good thing they didn't look in the other saddlebag. It was full of heroin, prostitutes and chainsaws.

All the bikes were directed to the starboard(right yee landlubber) side of the boat and ferry employees strapped them all together. I stopped on the passenger lounge level but it was hot and muggy and full of bikers, so I headed up to the top outside level.

I met a bloke that has been coming to the TT(Tourist Trophy- the longest running motorbike race in the world. It began in 1907) for thiry years. He's a race marshall now.

His accent was super sick but luckily, another guy joined us. The second was born and raised on Isle of Man and comes back every year to work the course as a medic. Phil showed up and they gave us the skinny on the best places to view the race, where to eat, which local beer to drink, and how to keep seagulls from flying off with your triple burger, "I'm noot juking mate, a triple."

It sure was fun to unload enmasse with all those other bikes. We met a group from Argentina because they saw me and my AK Rider sticker standing by the bikes while Phil and Scott got some supplies. Turns out one of them met Phil, Josh, and Mariska in Patagonia.

We rode the course this morning and I can't wait to see the big boys run it. I stepped out of my comfort zone on a couple of corners doing about 38. That makes me wonder how in the hell they can average 130 over a 37 mile course. If you have access to a computer you should open google earth and fly the course. And if you don't, then how in the hell are you reading this?

We're off to watch some practice laps tonight. They usually go faster during practice cuz they need to make sure the bikes can handle it and not blow up.

Oh yeah, today's breakfast kicked ass. We're staying at a farmhouse with a family and they gave us a working man's English breakfast. But I can't understand why they call that stuff pudding.

Making miles

2008-05-25T23:41:00.001-07:00

5/24
We're headed for Gigglewick today. But we may have to settle on Settle. Lots of wind today to go along with the twists and turns. The roads are so turny that the wind is pushing you one moment and gone the next and back and wham and everything's fine and shit it's shoving you across the centerline(which is white here) and...ah you get the idea.

We skirted the Nottingham area where Scott came close to bashing a woman that was washing her car on the road just over the crest of a hill around a blind corner. Then it was on to Sherwood forest.There aren't enough trees to hide Friar Tuck's fat ass these days. The forest is now a two or three acre patch of trees, miles of hog farm, and a dirt track where four-wheelers, bikes, and dunebuggys lap like madmen.

We've entered northern England and lots less people. The riding is out of hand. We wanted to stop and shoot all the time but there simply isn't anywhere to safely get off the road to take video and we haven't yet the time to double back.

We stopped for lunch at a place in the middle of some serious sheep country. After a bowl of bland curry, I decided to put my stunt kite in the air. A rottwieler attacked the fence I climbed over. He was some kind of pissed off but I couldn't be bothered. I had flying on my mind.

The site was a tiny paddock with barely enough area to fly. There were fences and playground equipment to tangle with but I was Jonesing to fly so safety be damned. I let out the lines and the kite promptly flipped over. Scott offered to right the kite, but I declined because I was concerned about cutting him if the kite got up and away from me.

I was able to right it on my own and then holy crow, it was off to the races. The kite was zipping to and fro and it was all I could do to keep it from smacking into something or someone. The someone was a little boy who's father thought it might be a good idea to take him really close to the fence even though I was being pulled around. Think about the wind that would pull a 180 lbs around with a kite that only has a fifty inch wingspan.

I tried to land the kite so I wouldn't break it or slice off that little tyke's nose. Then I tried to crash it. Then I let go of one line to flag it out. It twisted about a gazillion times before it hit the ground. Should be fun to untangle it.

We hit the road again and again I was amazed at something I saw on the road. These people have cameras everywhere. Chainsaws are illegal. But apparently it's just fine for a horse-drawn carriage to go down the motorway( our equivalant would be the interstate.)
Gigglewick was full. So we headed to Settle. Scott and I stretched our legs while Phil went in to see if there were any rooms available. A gust of wind knocked my bike down and gave it a few modifications. Bye-bye security deposit.

Big goddamn rocks

2008-05-22T14:25:00.000-07:00

Phil and I got our bikes and all the paperwork sorted out and hit the tarmac about half past two. Bournemouth is a bit hilly, full of roundabouts, not based on the grid system, and of course you keep the oncoming traffic on your right. Needless to say, Phil and I had quite a bit on our minds by the time we got out of the city.

One of the things on my mind was the price of petrol. It doesn't seem terrible until one realizes that two bucks doesn't quite get you a pound and they sell petrol by the liter. You do the math in your head and think that isn't so bad, then oh shit i need to multiply that by 3.78 which is hard to do when you're driving on a road with more twists than a Wes Craven film, no shoulder and there's a lorry half in your lane fixing to squish you like a bug.

We drove for about an hour in a northerly direction to meet Phil's in-laws. They were having coffee. Phil had a tangerine juice and I had a soda made from burdocks(what that guy was brushing out of his dog's fur when he hit upon the idea for velcro) and dandelions. It tastes like a mild version of fernet but with none of the buzz or aftertaste.

After catching up with them and a promise to get to their place for lunch on our return, we headed to Stonehenge. A yellow-toothed(or is it teethed?) long-haired sod told us we'd just missed it, they were closed for the evening. Perhaps he hadn't noticed that the monument was right by the motorway.

Yep, them's big rocks. The smallest weigh several tons and all of the stones came from at least 200 miles away sometime around 2200 B.C. Opinions vary as to how the stones were placed and for what purpose. I say manna and the staff of ra were used to make a calendar.

Upwards of a quarter-million neo-druids still gather each summer solstice to celebrate, presumably the changing of the seasons.

Two men with a hammer and screwdriver chipped a hunk off one of the monoliths this afternoon. Security personnel were able to stop the damage but the men are still at large. It wasn't us.

finally it's a motorcycle trip

2008-05-21T22:29:00.000-07:00

Today's the day. After a breakfast of bacon, sausage, fried egg, and tomato(I don't know if the tomato will be fried, but I doubt it), we're gonna walk over to Bournemouth Motorcycle Hire and pick up our bikes.

We have one more night here in Bournemouth, so we will put a light load on our bikes and head up to Stonehenge for a look.

May 21

2008-05-21T15:17:00.000-07:00

Two martinis in Anchorage then off to Seattle. Two big beers and a cheeseburger before the flight to London.

We sat in the way back next to the lavatory. Lots of action, lots of big asses bumping into Phil's shoulder. I slept quite well as is my custom on airplanes, until the dude in front of us began to vomit. Over and over he yakked into one airsickness bag after another.

Seven or so hours later, we touched down with death warmed over sitting in front of us. We jumped up and made a dash for it as soon as the fasten seat belt sign went off.

Customs went so smoothly that we both regretted not smuggling in something cool.

A former client of Phil's picked us up. We shoved our shitshow into Simon's sensible and fuel efficient car and headed to Bournemouth on the Southwest coast.

We heard two Brit teams were in the World Cup Finals and went to find a pub where we could watch their fans bash each other's heads in.

From AK to UK in 17 hours

2008-05-20T12:15:00.000-07:00

We still have snow in our yard, but tomorrow I'll be saying "hire" instead of "rent."