This run is held each year on the weekend before Labor Day, as that holiday weekend was reserved for an annual blowout up at Russ' house in Maine. All the crew from NY blasted out to party with us. It was a 600 mile trip each way. Since I couldn't grab time off from work, we red-eyed the run on Friday night. We snatched a few hours sleep Saturday a.m., hung out, partied for the rest of the day and night, hit the run on Sunday and then came a straight-shot home Sunday night. Those Mondays were always hell, but it was all worth it.

On the way home from the trip in 2000, Russ and I agreed that we'd had enough of this running ragged shit. We decided next year (2001), we'd take a week off, spend it out there, relax and enjoying the local flavor. The plan called for a trip to Maine for Labor Day along with the NY crew. Over the course of the following year, a couple who we're of friends (Ziggy and Jess), said they wanted to go. That made it four. (Originally, Jess was going to ride her own scoot, but it was acting up and wasn't conveying enough confidence to trust on a trip lasting a week+. She resigned herself to riding out on the back of Zig's bike.) This was to be Bike Problem #1.

I'd put Fat Bob tanks on my Low Rider a while ago, and in the process, I fitted rubber gaskets to the frame to remove unnecessary stress. Knowing that I had one-to-two thousand miles coming up, I took the bike to a local shop for a top end inspection. It had been knocking a bit and I wanted some reassurance that my 18-yr old horse could handle the ride. I didn't trust myself to do the work--big mistake. Two days before we were scheduled to leave, I started smelling gas fumes. I found the right tank had split on it's seam and was pouring gas all over my, still-hot, heads. Great. (Naturally, I'd just topped it off, too.) It was painfully obvious I couldn't fix it before the run, so I grabbed the right half of the old, stock tank and slapped it on. In doing so, I found that the shop forgot to put the rubber gaskets back under the fatbobs. They bolted the tanks directly to the frame and the stress was too much for the seam. The tank worked fine for two years, then blew out in a week? What the fuck, Chuck? I threw the right half of the old one on, and yes, it was ugly as all sin. But it worked and I had an unofficial fuel capacity of 4.1 gallons. For those of you counting at home; this is bike problem #2.

My buddy Russ showed up around 3a.m. Friday morning and informed me that his starter had shit-the-bed. We waited until the morning to take a look at it. We checked the solenoid and couldn't jump the bike from there, so we started working backwards and found the cable running from the battery had snapped off at the lead. After purchasing a new cable, we were back in business. Bike problem #3. Three bikes mentioned--three problems so far. We hadn't pulled out of the garage yet.

Jess arrived around 5 p.m. and Ziggy arrived around 6. We loaded up and split. We clocked solid miles and a hand full of gas stops. Roughly around 11, we were running low on fuel again and we saw a sign for 24-hour fuel stop. We traveled an additional 12 miles before we finally found the referenced gas station, out in the middle of nowhere. As we were filling up, Russ noticed that his ignition switch tab had snapped off the frame ('79 FX) . So now it was bouncing around inside his frame (along with all the exposed wires on the back of it). We pulled the bikes off to the side and had at it. We managed to pull off the rubber bung from the tab and bolted the ignition to the rear tab on the oil tank. The tank itself was now able to move slightly, but it had very little space to move around in, so we figured it would work for the remainder of the night. Bike problem #4. We headed back out to the highway and arrived at our motel at 12:30 a.m., checked in, unpacked the bikes, chained them together and settled in for a few ZZZ's.

Saturday morning offered a fresh day and we got to work on Russ' bike. A more-solid solution to the ignition switch problem was developed quickly and we were ready to roll. We started to mount up. I noticed that my ignition key was bent. Not badly but enough that it wouldn't go into the ignition. It was slightly cracked at the bend. Greeeaaat. I had to find a rock and CAREFULLY straighten the key. I did, and worked. I took all other keys off the ring to alleviate as much stress as possible. We headed out to a gas station and rounded the corner. After filling up, I reset my trip-meter. I use it as my gas guage. After we had hopped back on the road, I glanced down and realized my speedometer wasn't working. Therefore, neither was my trip-meter. So it would seem that my speedo cable had snapped. Wonderful. Bike problem #5. The key problem was minor, so it didn't count it. Well, Arkport (NY) H-D was the closest dealership, still some hours ahead of us, so we diverted our course and headed in. Russ needed some plugs, Ziggy and Jess checked out the clothes, and I went for the speedo cable and a copy of my ignition key.

They first told me that they don't make copies of keys. No dealers do. So we figured we could go to a hardware store and have it made. Then they informed us that no hardware store has the blanks needed to make a Harley key. We have to order it. Well that's great, but we're just passing through. Then another guy remembers they have a mess of old keys in the back somewhere. So he goes and digs around and actually finds a couple of keys that have the same number on them as mine does. So I take them out and try them and whammo, they fit! Now we're getting somewhere. Now I just gotta get my speedo cable and things will be dandy again!

Back at the parts counter, they asked what model bike I had and I informed them it was an '83 FXSB. The parts person checked the computer and said the earliest FXSB they showed in the computer, was an '84. She actually asked if I was sure my bike was an '83. I was like "Yes, I'm quite sure. It's been an '83 for all of the years that I've owned it." She said they didn't show that model as being made in 1983. And even if it was an '84 (I believe she still thought I was wrong, and that I in fact had an '84), they didn't have the cable I needed. I assured her it wasn't an '84, so she asked someone else. They went into the back and came back with the only cable they could think of that would fit. Well, the head was totally wrong for what I needed, so I thanked them (my manners are sometimes too ingrained) and left.

Back outside, we decided to take the instrument cluster off and remove the speedo from both the head and the drive and see if it was in fact broken. We spun it at the drive end, and the top of it twisted also. So we screwed it back into the head and spun it some more from the drive end. Sure enough, the speedo was jumping. Huh? That could only mean the drive was messed up. We looked closer to see if that the little tab that rotates with the wheel, to spin the drive, had popped out of it's hole and spun freely. It had REALLY done a number on the bearing race. Grooved it up something fierce.

Along about this time, one of the mechanics came along. When I'd seen him inside, I thought he looked familiar. It turns out that he'd thought the same thing and had strolled outside to take another look and see if it came to him. Well, he took one look at the seat on my bike (I've got a very unique seat. It's a long story) and he knew where he'd seen me! We'd camped at the same sight at the Rendezvous two years earlier! Turns out he's great friends with one of the guys we were headed to meet.

He grabbed some tools, and went to work on my speedo drive. In no time, he straightened the tab, then repositioned it back into the little hole. I shoot up the road to check it out and sure enough, problem solved! I ask what I owed him, and he wouldn't take a dime. Only asked that I say "hi" to King (the guy we know in common). Although, I didn't think that much of Arkport H-D, Bruce, the mechanic, was the balls!

We shot straight for the bar in Olean, NY. We only had another 50 miles to go. We arrived at the Parkwood, the cool local bar, that our friends frequent. We met Joe the bartender and had a couple of beers. We asked if Homer (the owner - real cool guy), was around and found out that he was missing in action. So we polished off our third (fourth?) beer and hit the beer store for supplies. Our friends Jerry and Barb were having their annual Saturday night bash, and we were raring to get into it.

We picked up plenty of brew-ha-has, and only when we got out to the bikes did it hit us that we were still fully packed. There was no room for the beer!! Ahhhh, but there's ALWAYS room for beer! Hell, one half of my gas tank was the old one, faded paint and scratched. So one 12-pack of bottles were strapped to that and held with my right leg. Another 12-pack was bungied on top of my gear. Ziggy bungied a couple to his gear, and Russ did the same. I noticed as we were finishing that several locals rolled into the parking lot. They'd watched in awe from their vehicles. We're we really were attempting this? Would we succeed? Hmph! Oh ye of little faith. Of COURSE we succeeded! We're professionals! (Kids, don't try this at home.) Oh yeah, I found that the T-bolt on my lower straight pipe had rattled off, so we slapped a large hose-clamp around it, to the frame as a temporary fix. Bike problem # 6.

We arrived at the party shortly thereafter and pitched our tents by their cornfield in the back yard. We were greeted by the friends, and other arrivals as the night went on. We had brews and someone showed up with jello shots. King and I sampled through them to make sure we didn't miss any flavors (this is where the night begins to get fuzzy). The night continued with laughs, beer, jello shots and various other mind-altering substances until we all faded into oblivion.

Sunday morning came bright and sunny and our moods were high as we spread out our tent flys to let the dew dry off. Looking up one side of the hill/mountain, I noticed a white house off in the distance, inside a stand of trees. I asked Jerry who lived there and he said no one. It wasn't a house. It's a housing for an oil rig. Seems they've been drilling for oil in the area for the past 100 years. I said I didn't even know there was any oil in the area. Jerry said, "After 100 years, there isn't."

After breakfast, we loaded the bikes up and headed over to King's house to settle in. Lady Luck hadn't fully departed us yet, and King and his wife Pat (the Queen) said we could stay in their mobile camper. Now we love camping as much as the next person, but when someone offers you a mobile home to act as your main base as you putt around for a week, you gladly accept! And this was no mere mobile home. This thing was the Taj Majal of mobile homes! Luxurious and spotless. It was sweet!

It was time for the Dana Run. We weren't sure what the weather was going to do, so we kept our leathers and rain gear on the bikes and headed off to meet up with everyone else at the City Limits pub. Departure time was 1 o'clock and we arrived shortly before. Just enough time to pound a beer and set the mood. We got to see a lot of friendly faces, so we made the rounds and shared more laughs and happy memories. At 1:00 the masses fired up their iron steeds and off we shot, with the King and the Queen in the lead. This wasn't a huge run, but it was a special run. Just about everyone knew Dana, and this is our special way to remember him.

We jammed through the lower eastern corner of NY for a bit and then headed south, and soon we crossed over into Pennsylvania. PA has some of the most incredible roads of any that I've ridden. Cutting through massive rolling valleys, shooting up and over great mountains, we roamed along roads that climbed on one side and dropped dramatically on the other. That's what riding is all about!

At one point, after taking my turn at traffic control. I slid into my new position at the rear of the pack. This is sometimes the best place to ride. You get to see the entire group of bikes as it leads the way for you. You can also look around more leisurely, as there's no one behind you to alert for hazards. There's also no one beside you that you need to watch out for. You can just drop back a bit and enjoy the entire scene. As we're cruising along these FANTASTIC roads, I gazed at the creature in front of me. This procession of bikes was like a serpent, winding its way along the highway. At this point, there were enough bikes that made the serpent long. This, combined with the windiness of the road, resulted in me not being able to see the King's bike. As I came around a turn, the steel serpent appeared in front of me, its head was already around another bend and out of my sight. The head was always eluding the tail. I am the tail of this great creature (at the moment) and I wonder - does that make me the tip that strikes? No, that's a scorpion. I'm the tail that rattles to alert others of our presence and to ward off potential threats. How appropriate, my bike definitely rattles.

We passed a speckled white horse in a pasture on the left and it watched as our iron and chrome beast passed by. He seemed curios, with a tinge of alarm as we passed. He may never witness another mechanical serpent slithering past, at such a fast pace, again. But as I passed, I look back to see that he's still regarded us, but in a more relaxed state. Soon we rounded the next turn or crested and continued over the next hill. Then his life returned to be the safe and serene. A perfect life for such a magnificent animal. I, however, would trade places with no one and no creature.

At the next stop, Ziggy, Jess and I talk about a upcoming sight. There is an old dam that was broken by the force of the water it was intended to hold. Legend has it, the dam was an example of engineering gone horribly wrong. As the story goes; the dam was built backwards. Naturally, a barrier is stronger if it bows towards the pressure leveraged against it. As is demonstrated with any large dam, it should be built in a curved shape, with the curve extending into the body of water that builds up behind it. Thus, as the water presses against it, the force of this pressure is spread outwards through the dam and into the edges, which press into the sides of the valley. Hell, I'm not an engineering major. This dam was constructed backwards, with the curve going with the pressure. When the dam was completed and the water allowed to build up behind it, it was only a matter of time until the barrier gave way. Chunks of this dam remain broken, cloven and in total disarray. The wall of concrete shattered into several major sections. Some of them spun, as if the water didn't exert a steady force. Instead, a massive wall of water just annihilated this mere man-made structure. Even if that story isn't true, it makes for a great tale. And the end result is that the dam is in ruins.

It was agreed that this would be a good Kodak moment and we decided to hang back as the run left from this bar. Then we tagged along, at a safe distance, to allow us to pull over at the dam. We didn't want to alarm the other. This plan went well, we got our pics of the damn, and then we hit the throttles to catch the pack. As we were shooting through the twisties, the sky began to get even darker. Clouds had been visible for the entire day, but now they were ominous. We heard thunder in the distance and we kept an eye on the traffic that was coming the other way. As soon as the cars started coming by with their windshield wipers flapping, that was our key to pull over and don our rain gear. We did and then continued on. As we moved further into the valley, it was quite obvious that we were chasing serious rain. The roads were drenched and streams of water were gushing down either side. We finally caught up to the run and found that they hadn't had the advance warning that we'd had. They were pulled over into a mini-gas station - the only spot to pull 30-odd bikes over safely. They were wringing themselves out. They were soaked to the short hairs! Naturally as we pulled up in our rain gear, we caught our share of ribbing and comments of "Pussies!" rained down on us, but hell, we were dry!

After the group managed to shake off much water (and the sun came out), we continued on again. We made it to the next stop and headed in for a frosty. The sun returned and it was hot! There was a lot of wetness in the air, so the humidity was high. But man, the heat coming out from that big yellow light bulb was fierce! I stripped out of my rain gear and laid it out over the bike to try. At this point, Russ mentioned that his bike was acting up again and not running smoothly at all. It was gimping along for the past couple of stops, but he now had to admit that it wasn't happy, and it would be a good idea to cut straight to the end of the run. So he snagged some directions from King, said he'd meet us at the last stop, and headed off. Bike problem # 7.

Refreshed, we mounted up and set off on the next leg. And of course the clouds moved back in and rain returned to hammer down on us again. Again there was no quick spot to pull over into. This rain was big and hard! (The line from Forrest Gump came back to me, when he was describing the types of rain he encountered over in Viet Nam, "Big 'ol FAT rain.") Man, this stuff was like hail! We finally managed to find a secluded spot that the bikes could squeeze into, and we all headed for the trees. Well, you know the rain is hard when it drills right down through the leaves. Usually, you can hang out under dense tree cover and the rain will accumulate on the leaves and drop down in big drops, but at a much-reduced rate. Not this stuff. It was coming straight through everything, as if there were no trees there at all. Amazing. I don't think I've ever seen that before. But I took the time to wander around the area a bit and found a small man-made arrangement of stones where a stream was trickling down the side of the mountain. An area about 3' wide and 5' long had been cleared out and lined with stones so the water could pool in it, and then on the opposite side of where it came in, the water ran out and down a trough of more rocks. There were also rocks lined on either side of the trough, rising up from the sides and angling in towards each other. This gave the impression of ancient stone arches, with the centers having caved in over time. It was small in scale, but still an awesome, somewhat eerie scene, especially when the lightning blazed and the thunder bellowed at the top of the mountain. The rain was abating somewhat and I clicked a pic as fast as I could, as the bikes were starting up and the procession was about to head off again.

We rode back out on the road, and of course the rain picked up again. It wasn't as hard this time, but it was quite steady and unrelenting. We passed through more gaps in the mountains and along the sides were open fields. Beautiful, vast things, these were. The land appeared to be farmland with few homesteads and wide rolling tracts of land. These were populated with great groups of cows. And I can officially lay to rest the urban legend that cows will lie down when it rained. NONE of these cows were sitting down. It was pouring out! As we passed, I was screaming at them to "LAY DOWN!!! LAY DOWN YOU STUPID FUCKING COWS!!! DON'T YOU KNOW YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO BE LYING DOWN???" But they apparently missed that memo, as they seemed blissfully content to defy my screams.

We survived the run to the next bar. A few of us were running low on gas, so we took off ahead of the group. as there wouldn't be time to stop during the run. After a quick cold one, we rolled out, and sure enough, we were carving pavement for no more than 5 minutes before the rain pounded us again. More fat, heavy, hard rain. I kept watching it hit the road, expecting it to be hail. It was coming down that hard.

We slid into town where the gas station was and lightning drummed closer. MUCH closer, the point where the strike and the boom were indistinguishable. We pulled over under an abandoned gas station overhang and opted to wait out the fireworks. When things had quieted down (we were able to count all the way up to "1" between the strike and the blast), we headed out again. We squinted it to the gas station and gassed up. Since we still had some time (the run had apparently waited at the bar for this latest stage of the storm to pass), we grabbed something to eat. Jess and I each got a steak and cheese sub and Zig bought a buffalo chicken sub and we all chowed down. As we were eating, the run came by in segments. Apparently riders had taken their time suiting up, which split the pack. We saw King and the Queen go by with the Marshal and some others. We waved, and waved again as each segment rolled by. We felt the pressure, gobbled our chow and hit the road with TEP in the lead.

The next stop was the last official one, at Dave's Halfway Cafe. We pulled in and prepared to relax. Each year we all hang out here for a good while, before breaking up and going our separate ways. But that was not to be. Seems no one had seen or heard anything from Russ. So we had a beer and pondered what to do. We called the Parkwood to see if he'd showed up there, but no good. So we had another beer. At this point it was starting to get dark out, and there was no use in spreading out to find him. There are so many roads and they're just so damn long, that it would have taken an army, searching for days, to cover every route. So the decision was made to head back to the Parkwood and ask around. We arrived and still no word from Russ. So we had another beer and another. Finally, one of the guys who hadn't been able to make the run called. Russ called him and we now knew his location. Seems he took a wrong turn and kept on going. He was an hour away and broke down! We located a truck (thanks TEP!) and rounded up some guys to help us load the bike, drive the hour there, get him loaded and drive the hour back. Homer grabbed some pizzas and a case of Bud for us and we split to King's house to unload. We had some laughs and talked about the wild and crazy day while knocking back some more brews. Jess had gone to bed when we returned from getting Russ (around midnight), so Ziggy and I stayed up and talked about the side trip we planned for the rest of the week. We were going to run up through Buffalo and into Canada, check out Niagara Falls, then the Hockey Hall of Fame (Ahh, the best laid plans). It was about 1:30 when I closed my eyes and my head hit the pillow.

About an hour later, I woke up with extreme abdominal pain and the distinct knowledge that comes with such pain. I had to use the head and use it now! I felt my way down the corridor to the bathroom, and it was occupied! Damn! I gotta go NOW, and someone's in there? At this time?? What were the odds?? So I knocked lightly and Jess said she'd be right out. Ok, I guess I can wait a little while, especially since my only other option is to go outside and fertilize King's lawn. I'm not familiar with New York customs, but I don't think shitting all over a buddy's yard is the proper way to thank them for their hospitality. Jess finally came out, and I jumped right in. That's how the rest of the evening went. Jess and I took turns in the can, going outside to scream at the ground, attempting grab some shut-eye (to no avail).

Morning came and Jess and I were both totally useless, so the trip to Canada was pushed off for a. We slept in until about 1:00 and then we struggled to move around. We were convinced it was food poisoning and after comparing notes, we found the only thing we had in common, was the steak and cheese subs. Thankfully Jess, being a teacher and also trained on childcare, knew that we needed to rehydrate. Hell, I knew that, I was parched. But, she knew of this wonderful product called Pedialyte. Sure, many people probably know of this stuff. But I didn't. But I sure do now! We had to go get some of this magical elixir.

Our friend Jerry (The Marshal) showed up to see if we wanted to go riding. Unfortunately, the night's events precluded anything of the sort for Jess. But I was up for a ride, even if only a short one, so Jerry, Zig and myself headed into town to hit the grocery store. It's times like this that I realize just how much I love riding and how I need it so badly. I was totally wiped out, feeling like shit and basically luggage. But out on the road, on the bike, everything was "right" again. I felt so much better and felt like I could ride for hours. But unfortunately (or fortunately?) the store was only 15 minutes away. Me and Zig grabbed a couple of boxes of the potent and headed back. Fixed us right up. The trip to the store wound up being more than my body was ready for and I started winding down fast after that. I crashed at 5:00. Monday was shot.

Tuesday was somewhat the same and there really wasn't much to report from the day. Jess was still under the weather, and it rained for most of the day. We decided to put off the trip to Canada. I felt 1000% better and Zig and I took a run back to Arkport H-D to see if I could grab a couple of things for my bike and for Russ' bike. Zig grabbed some primary fluid and we said Hey to Bruce the cool mechanic again.

Wednesday arrived, everyone felt healthy and we geared up for the run to the Great White North. This was long overdue, and the excitement was heavy. The morning dawned fair, but King warned of fog. Man, was he right! We hadn't even left yet and this thick, heavy white soup crested the edges of the neighboring hills and cascaded down upon us. Individually, we thickened our outer-wear. Some chose chaps, others went with rain gear. That done, we tied down our camping gear and off we tooled. We jumped on Rte 16 and headed north. 16 is technically a highway, but it's not the interstate type. It rolled casually along the countryside and through the centers of numerous small towns. Visibility was no more than a couple hundred feet. At one point (just outside of Ichua city limits), out from the fog loomed a massive structure to our left. It appeared to be an old abandoned farm, and it was huge! It had an enormous rounded roof, unlike the usual peaked type. As it presented itself to us, it gave me the impression of the giant iron machine that the Jawa's lived and moved around in, in the original Star Wars. Yeah, I know, I'm whacked.

Speaking of whacked, we passed some cows that were lying down in a field. There wasn't a cloud in the sky. I think the cows are messing with me, but I'm on to them.

Our first planned stop on today's agenda was at Fort Niagara. Our first encounter with an employee of this establishment was a real treat. The tollbooth attendant/Burger King cashier reject was a prime display of intelligence. We pulled up and asked how much and were informed it was $5 per vehicle. We had two bikes, so all the math I was taught in school told me we owed the young lad $10.

I said "I've got it" and then he watched me pull out my wallet, retrieve a $10 bill and hand it to Jess (who was closer to this fine specimen of humanity). Jess then turned around and handed it to him. He looked at the bill and then asked if this was for both motorcycles. "No you reject. I just announced that I would get it. You watched me pull out my wallet, saw me pull a $10 out of it, saw me hand it to my friend, who then gave it to you. You saw me put my wallet back, the same wallet which I'm now going to turn around and pull out again so I can pay you for my bike." Dumbass. Somewhere there's a burger waiting to be flipped, and it's looking for you.

Fort Niagara, on the US side, and I highly recommend a visit to this thoroughly restored fort. The history of this place is amazing, and it was actually "owned" by different sides at different times. The British and the French exchanged it a few times and lots of men lost their lives here. Too much history to list here, but it's definitely worth checking out.

We headed back down towards The Falls and stopped at the NY power station thingie. They have all kinds of displays about electricity and power generation and such. They also have a huge relief map of The Falls and the surrounding area. We could see how the river comes down and splits into the US side and the Canadian side. Lots of information to be learned there, and too much to go into detail on here. We took some pics of the falls from the lookout area and mosied on our merry little way. On our way out, we happened to ask a simple question of two employees, and this led into a very helpful and insightful conversion about the history of the power plant and area. These two were tremendously helpful, even going into their own computer to pull up directions to the Hockey Hall of Fame in Toronto, which was on our agenda for the following day.

We headed for the border and traffic was light, thankfully. We cruised right up to one of the booths, answered the nice policeman's questions, and we were in! We'd talked about getting pics of our bikes in front of the "Welcome to Ontario" sign, but it was much closer to the customs booths than we were planning on. As we tooled out of the booths and headed for the road we wanted, we were already passed the sign before we realized it was right there. Oh well, we'd have to get the pics on the way out.

We found the KOA campground - rather odd to find a campground in the middle of a bustling metropolis. But we checked in, found our campsite - quite nice it was - and set up. Zig had noticed a beer store next door and informed me that he had a deck of cards. Yes, the evening would most certainly take a sinister turn. But first, we needed some sustenance (No more yanky my wanky! Donga need food!) And after that, it was off to The Falls to check out this amazing natural wonder. We found our way to an eating establishment and made our way to the bar. I wasn't hungry, but was rather thirsty and ordered up a beer. Zig and Jess ordered up some grub and cervesas. We tried having some fun at the expense of the bartender's haircut, but (as Zig pointed out) he had the personality of a stump. But at least we were cheered that the beer up there in Canada is over 5% alcohol. Woo-Hoo!

We headed off to The Falls, ready for a night of amazing sights and vivid memories. (We wound up with only one of these. But I'm getting ahead of myself.) We arrived at The Falls and were riding along the road that parallels them, looking for a place to pull in and park. Zig suddenly hollers over to me that we need to pull over immediately, as Jess is about to be sick. There's nowhere for us to pull over, so we screw along and finally find a side road which leads to a parking area. We head for it and there's booths there, with attendant's collecting the parking fee. I stop long enough to stand up and pull out my wallet and Zig's hollering at me to move over to the next line, as it's shorter. I get pissed off and stamp on my shifter lever, slamming it down into first. I cruise up, and put it in neutral again and the guy tells us we can park wherever we like, and he's only going to charge us for one vehicle, since we won't take up that much space. Cool. I attempt to kick it back down into first, and it won't go down. I'm still in neutral. Fine. I'm in no mood for this right now, so I kick it up into second and off we go. As we're heading for a place to park, I try kicking it down into neutral. It won't go down. So I kick it up again. It goes into third. I try kicking it down again, no luck. I kick it up and it goes into fourth. Try down again, nothing. So I pull over and notice the shifter lever was resting on the foot peg. So that's what happened. When I stamped on the lever, I rounded it over the splines, too far down to allow the linkage to return to the middle position and allow me to shift down. So I needed to loosen it up and reposition it. Fine, I can do that. I pulled out my tools and Zig comes over. He's looking at my linkage and points out that it's not my shifter lever. The linkage itself isn't stopping when it comes forward after shifting up. It comes back to the resting position and just keeps on going. Shit. So we try messing with it for a while, pulling off c-clips and linkage arms, trying to see what we can make happen. Jess had run off to the facilities while all this was going on. We finally come to the grim realization that my bike is stuck in fourth gear, and there isn't anything we can do for it in a parking lot in Canada, next to The Falls. Bike problem # 8.

So we grab Jess and head back to the bikes. (We try one more thing on the linkage while poor Jess is puking her brains out on the edge of the parking lot, but no luck.) We give up on the bike again and I study the map, trying to figure out how I can get back to the campground. There's no way I can go back the way we came. It would be all up hill, and traffic was moving at a crawl. My only chance was to shoot out of the city and try to find a roundabout way back. Zig and Jess shoot off, heading straight back to the campsite, as Jess is exhausted and needs to crash. I studied one of the maps and commit as much of it to memory as I can and then took off. Well, not exactly "took off". I had to do the Fred Flintstone thing. I straddled the bike and pushed with my feet, to get it going as fast as possible, all the while clutching in and out and throttling on and off to get the bike speed up as much as possible. It's safe to say that I got a fair share of disapproving looks as I made my way out of the parking lot and onto the road. Fuck off people. Go stare at The Falls, that's what you're all here for anyway.

I followed the road along the river and then continued heading west. I took my next right and wham, I was aimed at a light that was turning yellow. Great. And the light was right at the bottom of a hill. Great again. So I cut through the red light and banked a sharp right to head up the side street. I crested that hill and turned around. Sitting on the side of the road to gauge when the light would turn green. I watched it for a few cycles, trying to time it and also waited for a lull in the traffic. Ok, I had it down, so let go. I pushed off and started to coast down, using gravity and the throttle to get my speed up, when this a-hole in a car cut around me and put on his brakes. I was forced to slow fucking up the cycle! The fucking light was gonna go red on me! Sure enough, there it goes; yellow. And the guy in front of me stopped! The prick! Hell, I had no choice. I gunned it, cut around him and banged a hard right, right out in front of the traffic coming in from the left. Fuck it, I had to do what I had to do. I just hoped there weren't any cops in that line. But at least I was moving. Either there were no cops, or if there were, they didn't want to bother me as I made it up the hill and continued on my way without incident.

I was running north again. If I remembered the map correctly, the street I wanted would pop up in a few miles. Sure enough, there it was! Cool, ok, it would intersect with the road that the KOA was on. Duh, spoke too soon. I intersected with the road I was looking for, but it was a four-way stop! Fuck. I had to see if I could keep from burning out my clutch and keep rolling. Maybe the campsite had well equipped garage. Maybe I could store it, until I returned. Ya think? Ok, I had to make a move. I survived into traffic. I sped up, slowed down, sped up, changed lanes, split lanes, blew lights, did what I can, where I could, to keep moving. I was only a couple of miles away from the site and a light caught me behind a fuck-lot of traffic. So I coasted over into a parking lot on the side and decide to wait this light out. I let the traffic roll through and hoped it would die down, so I could rejoin this circus. As I waited, two guys on bikes pulled up and look over. I gave them the nod and they return it. Well, the light turned green, and I waited for traffic to flow through, but these guys just sit there looking at me. Fuck off man, don't want any questions right now. Traffic was thinning and they were still there, so to hell with it. Watch this, guys. I did my running feet trick and I was off. They were interested because they're kept up with me, changing lanes behind me and all. What the fuck? Don't have anything better to do? So I blew the next light and that left them behind me. There was the KOA entrance! Cool, it looked like the evening fun was finally over.

I pulled in and naturally, there was somebody's shoulda-died-100-years-ago, grandfather in a white ocean liner in front of me. He was whizzing through camp at a dizzying 3 mph. The road was way narrow, not to mention all the little kids running around all over the place. There was no way I could cut around this old geezer without taking out a couple of these little shit-factories. I was stuck behind him, enjoying the view as we cruised through the campground, with me WINDING out my fucking engine because we're going so damn slow. Of course, everyone was looking at me like I'm some kind of loser that's doing this for attention. course, The geezer goes all the way around the campground taking all the turns that I need to take, then finally rumbling right up the road that to my campsite. I got within 20 feet of our site and roared around him, cutting through our neighbor's site, bellowing a string of obscenities for the whole world to hear. Goddamn I was pissed!

I settled down just as it dawned on me that Jess was probably asleep. I even apologized to the guy in the site next to us, but he's cool about it. So there I was: Jess was out, Zig is chilling at the picnic table, and I was starting to feel like shit, too (power of suggestion). My bike was toast and we never even got any beer. Zig and I talked for a bit, and I had to admit that I was feeling queasy. Perhaps the food poisoning isn't totally out of my system. Maybe if I'd eaten when they did, I'd be right beside Jess. Who knows. Besides, I had my own problems to worry about. How the hell was I going to get my bike back through downtown Niagara Falls, through customs, through toll booths, through downtown Buffalo and back to King's house? Just had to gimp it as best I could, I suppose.

Next morning we packed up. It looked like it was going to be a scorcher, so I slather on the sunscreen. I was going to have enough problems getting the bike home, I didn't need to cook myself. We loaded and headed out. As we rolled towards the exit, we could see the road in both directions, and we couldn't see any traffic. I yelled out to just go for it, no stopping. We rocketed out onto the road and the two cars coming along are cops. Great. One sits behind Zig, one sits behind me. They tail us for a while and naturally, we're approaching a traffic light that was red. So we had to stop. When it turned green I would have to do my little running-dance thing to get moving again. We were getting closer and one of the cops turned off. Any chance of the other one might find his own road? Whaddya know! Just as we started slowing down, the guy turned into a parking lot, pulled a U-ie and headed in the other direction. Cool! We made it past that intersection, wound our way back to the border and made it to the guard booth. We pulled up to the furthest one to the right, next to the vehicle inspections area. At the very least, if they asked to inspect my bike, it'd be a short push over to the area?

I laid a plan out that I hoped would work. I pulled up first and cut my engine. After he was done with me, I'd push myself forward and wait for Zig. That would look plenty normal to anyone. It would just seem that I was being polite and not sitting there making unnecessary noise while waiting for my bud. After Zig got the go-ahead, I'd fire mine up and do the Flintstone thing. It all sounded good on paper. I pulled up, cut the engine, got the normal questions and could move ahead. I did, and Zig took his turn. Zig got the go-ahead. I fired mine up and started doing my thing. Remember how we were right next to the inspection place? Well we JUST start moving, I'm still only going about 5 mph, and two customs guys rounded the corner of the building beside us and stood there looking at us. They're only about 3 feet away from me as I go struggling past, doing the running-feet/rolling-throttle/undulating-clutch thing. I give them my best "There's nothing to see here, officer" smile as I go by, certain they're going to tell me to pull over. Nope, they just watched us and walked across the road. We were back in the US! Awesome! Now we had only a few tollbooths, downtown Buffalo, and about 120 miles to go. Piece of cake!

Luckily for me, Zig and Jess were able to ride enough ahead whenever a tollbooth was approaching to pay for both bikes so that by the time I got to the attendant, we were all set and I could keep going. There was one where I was forced to stop and wait behind a few cars, pushing myself forward when the line moved. Then I started out from a complete stop at the booth, but with some weird looks from the guy. We got past.

It was time for downtown Buffalo. Man, I had another stretch of good luck here, too. All the lights were either green, or went green, by the time I reached them. I had to slow down in some places, sure, but didn't have to stop once. Not once! Try riding through the center of any big city and see how many lights you get stuck at. I wasn't complaining, that's for sure. We made it out of downtown and were heading towards the city limits when we encountered a shitload of construction. No shoulder, "Stay In Your (narrow) Lane", big 18-wheelers on either side. You know the kind of fun we're talking about here. Wouldn't have been a problem, except for the shitload of sunscreen I'd put on back at the campsite. Between the heat from the sun and my sweating from all the fun, it was running down into my eyeballs. For those of you who have never had sunscreen in your eyes, you're really missing out on some fun. There's nothing quite like it. (Well, I guess you could always have someone grind some sand into your eyes. That might be close.) I was working the clutch and throttle as best I could (we're not going that fast, due to all the construction and traffic, so the opportunities to wipe my eyes came few and far between. I did the best I can, when I can. But for the most part, I had to keep clenching my eyes shut to squeeze out as much sunscreen and tears as possible. Before long, I've managed to smear the sunscreen/tear combination onto both lenses of my sunglasses, so vision was a real problem. Me and Zig were still riding side by side. I was trying to keep clear of him. At the same time I maintain speed, and tried not to slide over into the next lane, where I'd surely be creamed by one of the construction vehicles. We were having some fun!

After finally making it out to some open highway, I was able to pull over and clean up. That was the extent of the fun for the return trip. Upon returning to King's, I did find that Russ had taken a ride out to the H-D dealership for some things and had picked me up a T-bolt to replace the hose-clamp. So although my bike was basically un-rideable, at least the pipes were nice and tight.

Luckily for me, our friend Garv was taking his van out to Maine again this year, so I was able to load my rolling piece of shit into that. So at least it would be a few hundred miles closer to home. I figured if I couldn't get it fixed in Maine (at Russ'), I'd have to hitch a ride home in one of the cages, and then shoot back up on the following weekend with my truck and retrieve it. But time would tell about that.

Thursday night a few of us were finally able to make the trip out to St. Bonaventure cemetery for a visit with Dana. It's a pretty amazing place, as many people come and leave mementos and other articles for their loved ones, and no one disturbs them. The grounds are immaculately maintained, even though it's obvious that much of the memorabilia would have to be moved to mow the grass. Much care and respect is obviously bestowed upon these graves, and that was cool to see.

The next morning dawned well enough that Russ decided to take the bike, so I rode bitch on a buddy's bike (all to the delight of my friends, who spared no expense in whistling at me and giving me the expected amounts of shit). After our first stop, Russ's back was killing him, so he hopped into the van and I took his bike.

Russ' bike gave me some wiring troubles which (luckily) weren't too difficult to remedy, but still delayed us at times. At one point, we were crawling through traffic and suddenly Russ' bike started coughing and then died. I managed to get over and off the road and the procession pulled over where they could. Russ came up and said he knew what the problem was. His plugs had been fouling. He pulled the rear wire off and then just laid it over the top of the plug. Said to crank it over and I did. He popped the wire back on and off we went. I asked him later about it and he informed me that with the wire basically off the plug like it was, the spark had to jump a bit to make the connection, and that created a bigger, hotter spark. The intent was for it to blast across the gap and (hopefully) burn off some of the carbon buildup. Well, it must have worked, because the bike ran again. As long as we were at highway speed, the carbon would burn itself off enough to not be a problem. But if we got stuck in traffic, then the bike would start to act up. At one point, we were stuck in small-town traffic again. There was some kind of festival going on. There were parked cars, booths and people lined up along both sides of the road, so there was no where to pull over. The only thing I could do was to yank the wire by hand and then lay it on top of the plug. If anyone has ever tried this, then they know what happened. I kept getting surges of voltage through my arm as the spark jumped at anything it could reach. My arm kept jumping when it got zapped, and since we were moving quite slowly, all the guys behind me could see this going on and knew what was happening. Needless to say, they were greatly amused. But hey, it worked and we made it through the town. Bike problem # 9.

We arrived into NH by around 7:00 and figured 12 hours on the road was enough for one day, so we pulled into a Day's Inn motel. We cleaned up, hit a local restaurant and had some (lots of) beers and hearty grub. We headed back to the rooms and relaxed with more cold frosties and finally turned in around midnight. In the morning, we found that Zig was now feeling quite under the weather. He'd been up most of the night with the runs. Jess and I were wondering if it really was food poisoning we'd had, or just some kind of virus. The fact that Zig had similar symptoms (if even on a lesser scale) seemed to indicate a virus. The fact that Jess and I had gotten SO sick, and literally within 10 minutes of each other, still seemed to indicate food poisoning. Especially since we'd eaten the same thing, at the same time. Who knows?

Next morning we saddled up and I fired up Russ' bike and nothing. Russ came over and said it was temperamental, but that he knew the trick. He did his little thing, but no good. It was dead. Bike problem #10. So we searched again and found the guilty wire (man, how many guilty wires can one bike have???). We were off!!

The rain ahead off us all day yesterday caught up overnight. But it had also passed ahead of us. The roads were still quite wet, but the sky was clearing rapidly. Nothing to complain about when the storm that's been on your tail all day, passes you by during the night when you're dry and in a bed! That day's trip was rather uneventful (aside from Russ telling us he knew a shortcut through Portland which obviously added about 20 minutes to the trip), and we arrived at Russ' house in the afternoon. We said our hellos to the people who had arrived in the days before us and then set up our tents. It was time to PARTY!!!

Sunday came and Russ' buddy Leroy who owns a cycle shop down the road showed up. We chatted for a bit and I filled him in about my tranny problems. He said he'd take a look at it. I got it started and clutch/throttled it down to his shop. We rolled it up on the lift and started tearing it apart. We got the guts pulled out and had the top of the tranny exposed. We pulled off the linkage shifting housing and saw the piece of linkage that sticks up inside the track of the shifter had popped out of it's spot. He disassembled and then reassembled it and shifted it by hand. It popped out again. He dis- and re-assembled it and shifted it again and the same thing happened. He had no idea why it was popping out. He said there was nothing broken, nothing worn, nothing missing, and it ABSOLUTELY should not be popping out like it was. But yet it was. As a last ditch idea, he moved a spacer washer from one spot to another and we found it popped out less often. So it wasn't a perfect fix, but at least there was a chance of getting it home now. So we put the bike together and I took it for a spin and it shifted ok. I asked him how much I owed him and he said only $20. I couldn't believe it! But I gave him $50, because after all, I'd taken up most of his day, on a Sunday no less. So, that was cool.

Tuesday arrived and we loaded up our stuff, and headed out onto the highway. We got almost to Portland when Zig noticed his T-bags were a bit loose. We pulled over and he secured them again and I started up. I shifted into second and nothing. Just rolled the throttle, with no response. I shifted into third and rolled on the throttle and again, the engine revved, but there was nothing moving the bike. I shifted down to second, up to third, up to fourth, all the way down to first, nothing. By this time I'd coasted to a stop. I kept shifting through the gears, but to no avail. I wasn't moving. FUCK!!! At least the first time the tranny went I had one gear. Now I wasn't even going to get that?? Damn this fucking bike to hell!!!! I started pushing the bike backwards to see if I could even get anything to catch, and that's when Zig and Jess saw the problem. My drive belt slowly rolled out from under my bike. So this was a whole new problem! Problem # 11, to be exact. Was there no end to the things that could go wrong with my bike??

I'd actually been talking with Leroy about the belt, when we were working on the bike. He'd commented that he had a chain on his bike, and that he'd kicked the idea around of converting to a belt, but that he was nervous about how strong they were. I went on and on, extolling the virtues of the belt. I'd burned out tires, I'd jumped on the thing plenty of times, I'd had that belt ever since I bought the bike and it was strong as anything! I'd never had any problems with it at all! Well here I was, 66 miles later and the fucking thing had snapped. Damn, but if the fucking thing wasn't trying to spite me!! (I actually looked around to see if there were any cows in the area that might have been fucking with me again.)

All that aside, we were still faced with my dead bike problem. So we got on the cell phone and luckily reached Ed, who shot to my house, grabbed my truck and then drove all the way back up to Maine. It was the same trip he made the day before, going home. We'd left Russ' at 7:00 a.m. and I walked into my living room at 6:00 p.m. with plenty of thoughts of a new Fatboy (I did buy one, but that's another story).

When Ed was leaving my house, he, myself, Zig and Jess were talking about the vacation in it's entirety. Jess commented that it was the worst vacation of her life. I don't know if it was my worst--11 bike problems and 5 were mine. We were attacked with serious food poisoning/sickness that hit three out of the four of us. Ok, yep, it was my worst vacation.

And that concludes our Bike Trip 2001.

-David
david.magraw@cognex.com