Dunkin Donuts the O connell Kid Flooded the Boys Bathroom Again

Post-obit the small roads, like this one leading to Cottonwood Pass in Colorado's Hawkeye County, is more fun than the Interstate.

I love these long hauls, beloved looking at the beauty, and occasional ugliness, of this great nation, dear stopping at all the historical markers along the way, thinking about how this state came together over the past 240 years. Everyone who thinks that riding from coast to coast would be slow is lacking in imagination.

Here is the background. In 2015, I was asked to head-upwards Rider'due south almanac Americade consignment (the rally has been going on for 33 years), which is to requite away some $vii,500 worth of goodies at the opening celebration and serve as a featured speaker one night. Always fun.

Ad

At the concluding moment I decided to wing in a few days early on and meet some friends in New England, and asked our contact at BMW, with its headquarters in New Jersey, if he could get me a bike on brusk observe, i which I could ride back to California. "Sure," said Roy, "not a trouble. Information technology won't have whatever break-in miles, but we tin arrange for a break-in service while you lot're on the road. You're an old boxer fan; how nearly an RT?"

Washed deal. Flew in, picked upwardly the bike, a brand new R 1200 RT with all the frills. Including the optional keyless ignition. "Exercise not lose that pull a fast one on," I was told. This is the umpteenth generation of the RT, which outset appeared in 1979 every bit the R100RT. For 2014, major changes were made to the chassis and the engine (come across Rider, July 2014), an overall comeback to the previous R 1200 RT that ran from 2005 to 2013.

Unfortunately, after a few months a glitch appeared in the bike's Marzocchi rear shock absorber used in the electronically adaptable suspension, and BMW grounded all RT ESA models for several months until the shock was redesigned and all made well. That problem is in the past.

Provincetown Harbor is pretty crowded, with a mixture of working and pleasance boats; in the groundwork is the 252-human foot Pilgrim Monument.

A trifle daunting are the numerous controls on the handlebars, as well as the sound buttons down on the left side of the fairing. I would hazard to say that it might take a thousand miles or more before the rider is fully at peace with them. The most interesting is the Multi-Controller cycle on the left grip, which will twiddle 1 through the endless options on the two menus viewable on the dash. Everything from tire pressures to temperatures to resetting tripmeters, along with advice on what stocks to buy…Joke!

Play a joke on safely stashed, I headed due east to Cape Cod to see friends, so dawdled west to exist at Lake George, New York, the site of Americade. I got into a mildly vicious rain storm crossing Whitcomb Summit on Massachusetts Route 2 and establish myself well-protected by the fairing and adjustable windshield. Long, long ago I did cross-land rides on bikes without windshields—have not done that in more 35 years. OK, phone call me a wimp, but I am a lot more comfortable when shielded from the wind and rain.

An elderly Earth State of war II Curtiss C-46 Commando cargo plane greets visitors at the Curtiss Museum in Hammondsport, New York.

Three days at Lake George, 700 miles on the odometer, and I headed due south 50 miles to Troy where Max'south BMW would do a slightly belated break-in service. Service done; fourth dimension to put some miles under my butt. I got on Intestate 88, which is marked on the map as a "breathtaking highway" and actually is, rolling through the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains, with red barns and silos dotting the rural countryside, a very pleasant hundred miles. Not what one unremarkably expects from such a freeway.

I arrived in Hammondsport, New York, too late to visit the Glenn H. Curtiss Museum, which I had been to some years before. The little town of Bath, alongside Interstate 86, had iii modern motor hotels, where y'all have to become through a lobby to get to your room. Not to my liking. The rest of my nights on the road I found genuine old-fashioned motels, pulling up correct to the door in front of my room, which is the way it should be.

In the Northeast, ruddy seemed to exist the color of choice for farm buildings, but as I went into the Midwest, that appeared to change to white.

Map out. What next? A long freeway boogie, to get across Chicago, with one enjoyable side trip to Port Clinton in Ohio. After going through Cleveland on Interstate xc, I stayed forth the coast on Ohio Road 2, crossed Sandusky Bay and rode onto the peninsula. The place drowses nearly of the yr, only come up summer, the mainlanders flock there and boats go out to the islands in Lake Erie, all the way to Canada.

I was watching boats come in slowly to Port Clinton harbor—big NO WAKE signs—and a couple of locals advised me to become upwardly to the Jolly Roger Restaurant for a perch sandwich. Very tasty fish, I must say.

Glenn Curtiss was a pioneer in both aviation and motorcycling; in 1907 he rode a Five-viii-powered motorcycle 136.4 mph on Daytona Beach.

Crossed the Portage River and headed southwest toward the Ohio Turnpike, getting in that location a little before iii o'clock with Chicago 250 miles away. Information technology would be 4-5 hours of trucks, cars and numerous drivers texting, phoning or brushing their teeth. Traffic was jammed on the Reagan Memorial Tollway (Interstate 88) in Illinois. Exiting Interstate eighty at Morris, I found  a archetype motel, a '50s place that had not been upgraded in twenty years, run by a delightful old young man named Ben Ho. Peace and tranquility, with a Dunkin' Donuts breakfast a v-infinitesimal walk away.

Here U.S. Road half dozen runs parallel to I-80, simply is a quiet two-laner, going through small towns and the occasional county seat. At times I could see the semis, doubles and triples off on the Interstate in the far distance. Little towns take their own personalities, each one a chip different, each one worthy of a cruise down Main Street. In Princeton, Illinois, I establish folk on this workday setting up for cooking lunch in the central park, disregarded by the canton courthouse. I spoke to the young man who appeared to exist in charge, from the local Chamber of Commerce, and he said this was simply a customs picnic, with gratis eats for everyone and local people getting to know each other. Nice place to raise kids.

A lot of roads cross America's Continental Divide, and Loveland Laissez passer on U.South. Route 6, at 11,990 anxiety, is one of the higher passes.

So it was off to history, taking Illinois Route 78 due north to Fulton, where George Wyman on his California Motorcycle Visitor motor bike crossed the Mississippi in 1903. He was the showtime person to take a motorized vehicle across this continent, as I am doing, admitting in the contrary direction and I'thou traveling a skillful bargain more apace. Lxxx miles due west is Cedar Rapids, Iowa, where Wyman stopped at the Hall Bicycle Visitor to fix his machine. The shop still exists, though the Hall family is long gone and the building has changed, only outside is a plaque commemorating the Wyman trip. That was an adventure!

And then it was w on U.S. Route thirty, the old Lincoln Highway, to spend a night in Denison. In the morning I detoured into the Loess Hills for a chip of curvy riding. But way in the due west was a very big black cloud—crossing the Missouri River into Nebraska I found myself in a downpour that lasted fifty miles. Skilful raingear! And I was thoroughly appreciative of the ABS and Automatic Stability Control as I slipped the cycle into rain mode.

Advertisement

Anyone wandering off into the Loess Hills of western Iowa will detect many quondam buildings existence reincorporated into the woods from where they originally came.

At Yard Island, I left U.S. thirty and went due south, over I-80, well-nigh 20 miles to catch U.Southward. 6 again—call back, these even-numbered U.S. routes are all heading west, where I'g going. The landscape is gently rolling, the Bully Plains, stretching all the way from the Missouri to the Front Range of the Rocky Mountains, one time home to millions of buffalo and many Native American tribes. Then came the white man, some explorers and hunters, later settlers looking for a piece of land to call their own. It was the railroad that really opened up these lands, as farmers and ranchers then had access to major markets. In Holbrook, I stopped to look at a log motel and old plough that had been brought to the town park; farming these plains was a hard fashion to become a hundred years ago.

U.Southward. 6 took me into Colorado, where I spent a night in Fort Morgan, and then got on Interstate 76 to skirt around Denver. After the Mile-Loftier City, the RT and I basically had to follow Interstate 70 over the Rocky Mountains—which is way more scenic than Interstate 88 in New York. I took lots of little detours to entertain me and the RT. Fugitive the Eisenhower Tunnel, I crossed the Continental Divide via Loveland Pass—always amazing.

Keyless ignition is convenient, but if y'all lose the fob, replacing it will toll a heckuva lot more than having a key fabricated.

Seventy miles along is Glenwood Canyon, created past the Colorado River over the past umpteen one thousand thousand years. The canyon is 12.five miles long with walls 3,000 feet high. In 1887, the Union Pacific built a railroad aslope the river, and around 1906 a unmarried-lane track for wagons and the soon-to-be-arriving motorcycles and cars was congenital. This became a paved ii-laner in 1938, and an Interstate in 1992. A week after I went through it was closed for the improve part of a day due to heavy rains and a rockslide.

I-70 eased through Grand Junction, entered Utah, and I took Exit 212 onto State Route 128, which goes past the quasi-ghost town of Cisco and so follows the Colorado River southward toward Moab. That popular little boondocks apparently survives solely on the tourist trade, with lots of motels and eateries. Simply I was headed farther south to Blanding, which is equally bland as the name implies, with a couple of motels and i eating house—no beer with my burger, equally information technology is a dry boondocks. I wanted to sleep there because the adjacent morning time I planned to ride downward the Moki Dugway.

That's a view of function of the Moki Dugway, as it winds downwardly a 1,200-foot cliff for 3 exhilarating gravel miles.

Moki? Dugway? Moki is derived from a word the Castilian explorers used in referring to the local Pueblo Indians, and a dugway is an erstwhile expression to describe a road cut into the side of a sheer cliff, with tight hairpins and all the complications. This dugway is dirt and drops ane,200 feet in iii miles—delightfully gnarly. It is even more impressive if the cliff is approached from the south, with this massive wall in front end and no visible sign of how one is going to get upwardly it.
Leaving the dugway backside, it was a semi-concluding buzz for the barn, picking upwards Interstate 15 in St. George and heading southwest. At 7 p.g. I arrived at Baker, California, where the Worlds Tallest Thermometer is located next to an one-time Bun Boy eating house. At 134 anxiety tall, it has been refurbished and was reading 102 degrees. Time to terminate. Only one cabin remains operational in Baker, the Wills Fargo Motel. Lx bucks for a room, with clean water in the pond pool. And the Mad Greek restaurant is only down the road, with a skilful Greek salad.

Next twenty-four hour period I was home in Atascadero in time for a late lunch, with 4,212 miles on the odometer. Adept trip. The tires held air, I didn't lose the fob and the engine always started. I'm happy.

No telling where these Angus will somewhen finish up; might exist as an expensive steak in a restaurant with white tableclothes, or equally a burger for a buck.	This is the beautiful Coral Pinkish Sand Dunes Country Park in southwest Utah; it is very much off the main roads and little visited.
The plaque on the Hall Bike Co. wall between current owner Karl Moscrip and me commemorates George Wyman'southward stopping here in 1903 on his cross-country motorbike trip.	Cape Cod has many lighthouses, and the 1877 Nauset in Eastham is i of five that are open up to the public in the summer months.
Anyone arriving in Bakery, California, will know the local temperature, as this 134-foot thermometer told me it was 102 degrees.	The transcontinental Lincoln Highway was established 100 years agone, and the Park Motel, built in 1940, still hosts guests in Denison, Iowa.
Fair warning: The Moki Dugway is a very unusual road in these United States, and seems to have been exempted from nearly safety regulations.	I'm getting on Interstate lxx in western Colorado, with the Colorado River running close by; the river has been known to alluvion the Interstate.

robertsondreme1960.blogspot.com

Source: https://ridermagazine.com/2016/02/03/sea-to-shining-sea-coast-to-coast-for-the-heck-of-it/