Thursday, June 7, 2018
People had all kinds of plans for Therese and I.
One was for me to park Therese at Dad's house and have him drive me to Denver or Albuquerque for a flight home.
Another idea was to put Therese in the back of Dad's pickup and let him drive me back to Phoenix.
Suspicions were that I wouldn't be up for a solo ride of more than 500 miles back to Mom's house.
People had all kinds of plans for Therese and I.
One was for me to park Therese at Dad's house and have him drive me to Denver or Albuquerque for a flight home.
Another idea was to put Therese in the back of Dad's pickup and let him drive me back to Phoenix.
Suspicions were that I wouldn't be up for a solo ride of more than 500 miles back to Mom's house.
The dire suspicions were inflamed when Jana said she was glad she didn't have to ride a motorcycle home from Pagosa Springs on Tuesday, when it appeared she'd finally contracted the bug that Larry and I already had, and with which I'd suffered since my stay at Bryce Canyon.
Confidence in my constitution was further impugned when helping Dad install a trailer hitch on Cathy's Jeep sent me into a debilitating coughing fit. Pulling half a dozen 90 foot-pound torques was not an option for Dad, with his one shoulder recovering from surgery and the other in need of a similar repair. In fact that shoulder condition is the reason I was in Colorado; the original plan for this year's tour had been a drive through the Canadian Maritimes.
But I never doubted I'd be up for my final ride of the tour. Even the previous Sunday and Monday mornings, when Jana had ridden Therese and I was glad both that she had the opportunity to ride and I didn't actually have to, I'm sure I'd have managed it had a spare rider not been available.
This morning Cathy made waffles and then I geared up for departure.
I even remembered to get a picture for a change.
Confidence in my constitution was further impugned when helping Dad install a trailer hitch on Cathy's Jeep sent me into a debilitating coughing fit. Pulling half a dozen 90 foot-pound torques was not an option for Dad, with his one shoulder recovering from surgery and the other in need of a similar repair. In fact that shoulder condition is the reason I was in Colorado; the original plan for this year's tour had been a drive through the Canadian Maritimes.
But I never doubted I'd be up for my final ride of the tour. Even the previous Sunday and Monday mornings, when Jana had ridden Therese and I was glad both that she had the opportunity to ride and I didn't actually have to, I'm sure I'd have managed it had a spare rider not been available.
This morning Cathy made waffles and then I geared up for departure.
I even remembered to get a picture for a change.
Much of today's ride was a reprise of a route I'd first explored the previous October.
The ride over Wolf Creek Pass was fun and uneventful in terms of danger or encounters with the state patrol, who I've learned is always present there.
I'm pretty happy with the video of that ride, which I edited after I'd already returned to Michigan. I'd previously edited several of my GoPro sessions and set them all to background music, and had always made a basic effort to time the cuts to match the phrasing of the song. But this is the first video in which I made a real effort to choreograph segments specifically with the phrasing and even the narrative of the song in mind.
Wolf Creek Pass is set to the song Red Barchetta performed by the venerable Canadian rock power trio Rush. That I chose this particular song is relevant for several reasons. One is that Rush's drummer and lyricist, Neil Peart, is a long-time BMW motorcycle rider of considerable dedication and experience, as even a quick glance at his website will reveal. For years I've been half-hoping, half-expecting to meet him at some remote roadside rest, since when he's not off-pavement he tends to roll on some of the very same roads I do, and for exactly the same reasons.
Should I ever have that encounter I'll be careful not to reveal that I know who he is. But when on tour I keep my hip flask filled with The Macallan, figuring I'll win his friendship by offering him a snort of his favorite Scotch.
Neil's talent as a rock drummer has elevated him to an essentially legendary status in the highest echelons of such musicians; but beyond that the lyrics he's written for virtually all the group's songs are widely regarded as among the most profound and insightful in the history of rock. Many have a science fiction bent to them, not least Red Barchetta which was inspired by A Nice Morning Drive by Richard Foster, a short story of a dystopian future that had been published in a 1973 issue of Road & Track magazine.
I provide the lyrics here, for those (and I think there are many, even among rock fans) who might not have an ear that's tuned to extract the words from Geddy Lee's vocals.
Red Barchetta
Music: Geddy Lee and Alex Lifeson
Lyrics: Neil Peart
My uncle has a country place, that no-one knows about
He says it used to be a farm, before the Motor Law
Now on Sundays I elude the ‘Eyes’, and hop the Turbine Freight
To far outside the Wire, where my white-haired uncle waits
Jump to the ground
As the Turbo slows to cross the borderline
Run like the wind
As excitement shivers up and down my spine
Down in his barn
My uncle preserved for me an old machine –
For fifty-odd years
To keep it as new has been his dearest dream
I strip away the old debris, that hides a shining car
A brilliant red Barchetta, from a better, vanished time
Fire up the willing engine, responding with a roar!
Tires spitting gravel, I commit my weekly crime…
Wind in my hair –
Shifting and drifting –
Mechanical music
Adrenalin surge –
Well-weathered leather
Hot metal and oil
The scented country air
Sunlight on chrome
The blur of the landscape
Every nerve aware
Suddenly ahead of me, across the mountainside
A gleaming alloy air-car shoots towards me, two lanes wide
I spin around with shrieking tires, to run the deadly race
Go screaming through the valley as another joins the chase
Drive like the wind
Straining the limits of machine and man
Laughing out loud
With fear and hope, I’ve got a desperate plan
At the one-lane bridge
I leave the giants stranded
At the riverside
Race back to the farm
To dream with my uncle
At the fireside…
The "Barchetta" in Peart's song is an open-top sports car. That Therese is also a bright red European sports machine having very much the same weather-be-damned raison d'être is a bit more icing on this very tasty cake.
I hope you enjoy watching Wolf Creek Pass as much as I know I always will.
* * *
The ride over Wolf Creek Pass was fun and uneventful in terms of danger or encounters with the state patrol, who I've learned is always present there.
I'm pretty happy with the video of that ride, which I edited after I'd already returned to Michigan. I'd previously edited several of my GoPro sessions and set them all to background music, and had always made a basic effort to time the cuts to match the phrasing of the song. But this is the first video in which I made a real effort to choreograph segments specifically with the phrasing and even the narrative of the song in mind.
Wolf Creek Pass is set to the song Red Barchetta performed by the venerable Canadian rock power trio Rush. That I chose this particular song is relevant for several reasons. One is that Rush's drummer and lyricist, Neil Peart, is a long-time BMW motorcycle rider of considerable dedication and experience, as even a quick glance at his website will reveal. For years I've been half-hoping, half-expecting to meet him at some remote roadside rest, since when he's not off-pavement he tends to roll on some of the very same roads I do, and for exactly the same reasons.
Should I ever have that encounter I'll be careful not to reveal that I know who he is. But when on tour I keep my hip flask filled with The Macallan, figuring I'll win his friendship by offering him a snort of his favorite Scotch.
Neil's talent as a rock drummer has elevated him to an essentially legendary status in the highest echelons of such musicians; but beyond that the lyrics he's written for virtually all the group's songs are widely regarded as among the most profound and insightful in the history of rock. Many have a science fiction bent to them, not least Red Barchetta which was inspired by A Nice Morning Drive by Richard Foster, a short story of a dystopian future that had been published in a 1973 issue of Road & Track magazine.
I provide the lyrics here, for those (and I think there are many, even among rock fans) who might not have an ear that's tuned to extract the words from Geddy Lee's vocals.
Red Barchetta
Music: Geddy Lee and Alex Lifeson
Lyrics: Neil Peart
My uncle has a country place, that no-one knows about
He says it used to be a farm, before the Motor Law
Now on Sundays I elude the ‘Eyes’, and hop the Turbine Freight
To far outside the Wire, where my white-haired uncle waits
Jump to the ground
As the Turbo slows to cross the borderline
Run like the wind
As excitement shivers up and down my spine
Down in his barn
My uncle preserved for me an old machine –
For fifty-odd years
To keep it as new has been his dearest dream
I strip away the old debris, that hides a shining car
A brilliant red Barchetta, from a better, vanished time
Fire up the willing engine, responding with a roar!
Tires spitting gravel, I commit my weekly crime…
Wind in my hair –
Shifting and drifting –
Mechanical music
Adrenalin surge –
Well-weathered leather
Hot metal and oil
The scented country air
Sunlight on chrome
The blur of the landscape
Every nerve aware
Suddenly ahead of me, across the mountainside
A gleaming alloy air-car shoots towards me, two lanes wide
I spin around with shrieking tires, to run the deadly race
Go screaming through the valley as another joins the chase
Drive like the wind
Straining the limits of machine and man
Laughing out loud
With fear and hope, I’ve got a desperate plan
At the one-lane bridge
I leave the giants stranded
At the riverside
Race back to the farm
To dream with my uncle
At the fireside…
The "Barchetta" in Peart's song is an open-top sports car. That Therese is also a bright red European sports machine having very much the same weather-be-damned raison d'être is a bit more icing on this very tasty cake.
I hope you enjoy watching Wolf Creek Pass as much as I know I always will.
* * *
On the eastern outskirts of Pagosa Springs I turned east on US-84. This choice doesn't take me in the direction of Phoenix. But it does avert grinding my way through a number of towns that I almost never visit intentionally. It also eliminates the drive to Durango on US-160, which is a stretch of road that everyone I know who's driven it more than once really dislikes. Nobody, including me, can seem to explain exactly why it's so unaccountably unpleasant; but the constant relatively heavy traffic must certainly be part of the reason.
By contrast, US-84 is a generally empty road to nowhere (my favorite kind) that winds south and east into northern New Mexico. It's fast, relaxed, and enjoyable, the direct opposite of what I'd experience by taking the other fork. At US-64 I hung a right and headed into the Jicarilla Apache Nation. From there to Bloomfield is a very enjoyable, often delectably twisty ride across frequently dramatic desert landscapes, and at this point in the day the temperature, even in June, was still very comfortable.
By contrast, US-84 is a generally empty road to nowhere (my favorite kind) that winds south and east into northern New Mexico. It's fast, relaxed, and enjoyable, the direct opposite of what I'd experience by taking the other fork. At US-64 I hung a right and headed into the Jicarilla Apache Nation. From there to Bloomfield is a very enjoyable, often delectably twisty ride across frequently dramatic desert landscapes, and at this point in the day the temperature, even in June, was still very comfortable.
After taking on fuel and a bit of refreshment in Bloomfield, I headed south and west across Navajo country. The roads and landscape here are certainly less interesting, but both remain mostly empty, and on that basis relatively enjoyable until the intersection with US-491 and the long boring drone south to Gallup.
I rode through a dust devil along the way, which I caught on video. Watch for the tumbleweed and the sudden gusts kicking me sideways as I pass through it.
At Gallup I fueled again and had more interaction than usual with other customers. The first was purely as an observer; at the adjacent island some kind of bitter altercation developed between a rather seedy-looking individual who appeared to be on foot, and the not significantly more dignified driver of a thoroughly sun-scorched Chevy Cavalier. Fortunately actual violence did not erupt. The driver pulled away, snarling epithets over his shoulder. I tried to keep my eye on the pedestrian as I continued fueling, lest I become the next possibly random target of his ire. But I lost sight of him while attending to the nozzle, and so I was a bit alarmed when someone quite close spoke into my other ear.
"Where are you heading?"
I turned and found the speaker wasn't the potentially dangerous individual about whom I was concerned, but rather a deeply-tanned man wielding the rest room key on a length of broom handle.
He seemed sensitive to my surprise. "I'm on a bike too."
I wouldn't have guessed; he wasn't wearing anything like leather or cordura. But at least it was a plausible explanation for his unprovoked interaction.
"I'm headed for Phoenix," I said. "From Colorado."
"Oh? What can you tell me about the fires up north?"
"Only that I heard there were some, by Durango, and somewhere in New Mexico. But I was never near Durango. I never saw anything, just came from Bloomfield."
"Oh. Well, you know there's fires in Arizona, too?"
"Yeah", I said, "377 south of Holbrook, completely closed."
"And about six more, just sparked up today."
"That's good to know. I'll check my route."
"Oh, and there's like a dozen Arizona state troopers on I-40, all lined up from the state line west."
This guy was a high quality news source.
"That's a good place for 'em," I replied, "Since I won't be taking the freeway. Good luck riding north."
After checking Googlemaps for Thai and finding nothing but Panda Express, which I might have gone for if it had been in a less inconvenient location, I rode next door to the Pizza Hut. The young man who served me was very interested in my bike, where I'd come from, and my GoPro.
I was mainly interested in the air conditioning.
I ordered an iced tea and a personal pan pizza, and checked the Waze app that I'd installed on my phone before starting the trip. It reported the fires on AZ-377 and the cops on I-40, but no warnings of any kind on my intended route.
Putting the phone aside, I swapped out the GoPro's battery, and took a look at some of the video I'd shot during the morning's ride. I was particularly interested in a test clip during which I'd cycled through the bike's three Electronic Suspension Adjustment (ESA) modes. While chatting with Larry a couple days earlier, we'd developed a hypothesis that the reason much of my fairing-mounted footage of Utah had been unusable, despite excellent footage from earlier the same day, was because I'd switched from "Comfort" or "Normal" to "Sport" suspension mode.
The GoPro's tiny screen didn't conclusively reveal an answer, but it seemed possible that the hypothesis was correct and also that, because I'd been careful to remain in "Comfort" mode all day, today's footage stood a pretty good chance of being usable.
Saddling up, I crossed the freeway and climbed the hill, peeling off to NM-602 and heading south toward Zuni.
The next hundred miles were, again very much as I'd engineered them, very light on traffic. Scenery was "desert epic".
I passed through Zuni and onto the long, arrow-straight, and utterly uninhabited two-lane heading west.
It was a good place for some extended conversations with Scarlett.
I made you read all that when you could have just watched the movie:
The Ride South - New Mexico
* * *
I rode through a dust devil along the way, which I caught on video. Watch for the tumbleweed and the sudden gusts kicking me sideways as I pass through it.
At Gallup I fueled again and had more interaction than usual with other customers. The first was purely as an observer; at the adjacent island some kind of bitter altercation developed between a rather seedy-looking individual who appeared to be on foot, and the not significantly more dignified driver of a thoroughly sun-scorched Chevy Cavalier. Fortunately actual violence did not erupt. The driver pulled away, snarling epithets over his shoulder. I tried to keep my eye on the pedestrian as I continued fueling, lest I become the next possibly random target of his ire. But I lost sight of him while attending to the nozzle, and so I was a bit alarmed when someone quite close spoke into my other ear.
"Where are you heading?"
I turned and found the speaker wasn't the potentially dangerous individual about whom I was concerned, but rather a deeply-tanned man wielding the rest room key on a length of broom handle.
He seemed sensitive to my surprise. "I'm on a bike too."
I wouldn't have guessed; he wasn't wearing anything like leather or cordura. But at least it was a plausible explanation for his unprovoked interaction.
"I'm headed for Phoenix," I said. "From Colorado."
"Oh? What can you tell me about the fires up north?"
"Only that I heard there were some, by Durango, and somewhere in New Mexico. But I was never near Durango. I never saw anything, just came from Bloomfield."
"Oh. Well, you know there's fires in Arizona, too?"
"Yeah", I said, "377 south of Holbrook, completely closed."
"And about six more, just sparked up today."
"That's good to know. I'll check my route."
"Oh, and there's like a dozen Arizona state troopers on I-40, all lined up from the state line west."
This guy was a high quality news source.
"That's a good place for 'em," I replied, "Since I won't be taking the freeway. Good luck riding north."
After checking Googlemaps for Thai and finding nothing but Panda Express, which I might have gone for if it had been in a less inconvenient location, I rode next door to the Pizza Hut. The young man who served me was very interested in my bike, where I'd come from, and my GoPro.
I was mainly interested in the air conditioning.
I ordered an iced tea and a personal pan pizza, and checked the Waze app that I'd installed on my phone before starting the trip. It reported the fires on AZ-377 and the cops on I-40, but no warnings of any kind on my intended route.
Putting the phone aside, I swapped out the GoPro's battery, and took a look at some of the video I'd shot during the morning's ride. I was particularly interested in a test clip during which I'd cycled through the bike's three Electronic Suspension Adjustment (ESA) modes. While chatting with Larry a couple days earlier, we'd developed a hypothesis that the reason much of my fairing-mounted footage of Utah had been unusable, despite excellent footage from earlier the same day, was because I'd switched from "Comfort" or "Normal" to "Sport" suspension mode.
The GoPro's tiny screen didn't conclusively reveal an answer, but it seemed possible that the hypothesis was correct and also that, because I'd been careful to remain in "Comfort" mode all day, today's footage stood a pretty good chance of being usable.
Saddling up, I crossed the freeway and climbed the hill, peeling off to NM-602 and heading south toward Zuni.
The next hundred miles were, again very much as I'd engineered them, very light on traffic. Scenery was "desert epic".
I passed through Zuni and onto the long, arrow-straight, and utterly uninhabited two-lane heading west.
It was a good place for some extended conversations with Scarlett.
I made you read all that when you could have just watched the movie:
The Ride South - New Mexico
* * *
The ride across northern Arizona was yet more desert epic. The most interesting and least desirable part of it was the unpaved detour around St. Johns.
Stopping in Show Low for gas, the wind was pretty fierce. Made it tough to hold the map to show a Harley rider who was heading north which way to go. He was concerned about the fires but fortunately he was in exactly the right place to avoid them; after checking the map I was able to look up and point at the sign for AZ-77 north, which was free and clear to Holbrook, unlike AZ-377 that had been evacuated and closed for a forty mile stretch.
I headed south toward Salt River Canyon, dreading a memory.
It took me a while to really grok that it was Thursday afternoon, not Sunday afternoon.
Thus the slow, infuriating train of obliviots and Griswolds that have clogged this road virtually every time I'd ever ridden it simply weren't there.
I descended into Salt River Canyon. I hadn't ridden the canyon in years and I was really looking forward to the ride, and also looking forward to getting it all on video.
There was no traffic -- or at least none I wasn't able to easily move into Therese's rear view mirrors. Not for the first time I felt like I was in a BMW commercial as I swooped down that delectable chain of chicanes and hairpins, crossed the bridge, and began the climb out.
At some point I swung around and went back down, pulling into a scenic viewpoint and taking in a nice long shot of the red canyon walls to the east. Turning back uphill again I stopped at the next viewpoint and paused for a shot of the river and the canyon winding away into the distance. I pulled back on to the highway and once again started climbing out.
Stopping in Show Low for gas, the wind was pretty fierce. Made it tough to hold the map to show a Harley rider who was heading north which way to go. He was concerned about the fires but fortunately he was in exactly the right place to avoid them; after checking the map I was able to look up and point at the sign for AZ-77 north, which was free and clear to Holbrook, unlike AZ-377 that had been evacuated and closed for a forty mile stretch.
I headed south toward Salt River Canyon, dreading a memory.
It took me a while to really grok that it was Thursday afternoon, not Sunday afternoon.
Thus the slow, infuriating train of obliviots and Griswolds that have clogged this road virtually every time I'd ever ridden it simply weren't there.
I descended into Salt River Canyon. I hadn't ridden the canyon in years and I was really looking forward to the ride, and also looking forward to getting it all on video.
There was no traffic -- or at least none I wasn't able to easily move into Therese's rear view mirrors. Not for the first time I felt like I was in a BMW commercial as I swooped down that delectable chain of chicanes and hairpins, crossed the bridge, and began the climb out.
At some point I swung around and went back down, pulling into a scenic viewpoint and taking in a nice long shot of the red canyon walls to the east. Turning back uphill again I stopped at the next viewpoint and paused for a shot of the river and the canyon winding away into the distance. I pulled back on to the highway and once again started climbing out.
At some point I switched the camera on.
See, the thing about the GoPro Hero5 is pressing the button.
The typical use mode is to leave the camera off. It will remain inert, using no power, until you press the big button on top. The button has a very good tactile feedback -- a solid mechanical click -- so it's fairly easy to tell if you've toggled it, even when wearing riding gloves. At that point it takes a couple seconds for the camera to turn itself on. The display lights up, a red dot indicates recording has commenced, and after a while the display will shut itself off to save power.
Push the button a second time and the camera will switch back to standby.
Thing is...if you think you've pressed the button, but you actually just fumbled it...from that point on you are missing what you think you're shooting. The next time you press the button, you begin shooting the boring stuff you don't care about, burning battery (perhaps a lot of it) all the while.
That's one reason I've begun to prefer clipping the camera to the fairing rather than the top of my helmet. On the helmet you can't see the display; there's no way to tell if you've fumbled. But when mounted on the fairing in front of me, I can see the display and the red dot that tells me I'm recording.
Thing is...if you're riding a motorcycle xx mph on a twisty canyon road and you're staring into the westering sun after just having ridden 450 miles...well, you still might not see that red dot before the display blanks off.
So I can't provide you with an awesome video of my Salt River Canyon ride.
But I can provide this, which includes a segment that I thought I wasn't recording:
The Ride South - Arizona
* * *
Based on my position report text from Show Low, Larry had predicted my arrival time +/- 15 minutes; that's when I'd either show up on his doorstep -- or not at all, if I decided to head straight for Mom's.
He hadn't expected me to come via Salt River Canyon, based on my known aversion to riding in hot places.
The day's ride, which was well over 600 miles (not that it needed to be) brought me into the Valley on the east side, so stopping at Larry's made the most sense. There was no real advantage to riding another 30 miles staring straight into the sun, only to arrive at Mom's well after she'd gone to bed.
Cue mists of time harp music.
I lived in Arizona from 1978 until 1991, with a couple interruptions during which I'd escaped back to Michigan. It had not been my choice to move to Arizona the first time, and when I did make the choice to return in 1983 it was because I thought I'd be able to get a job in some place like Prescott or Flagstaff -- in other words, up out of the desert.
That didn't pan out, because basically there aren't any jobs in Arizona except in Phoenix and Tucson.
So with Laurel, who had ridden from Michigan with me on my BMW R60/6 Nada One, I ended up spending most of the 80s in the Valley of the Sun.
I don't have a love/hate relationship with Phoenix.
It's more of a conditional tolerance/hate relationship.
I don't miss living in the desert, although I can enjoy the occasional desert epic (during the winter), and I do regret the distance Michigan puts me from the mountain roads I most enjoy riding.
But I don't miss the feeling of always wanting to escape the place I call "home". I leave Michigan a fair amount because I like visiting other places, but not because l can't stand living there.
My choice of sound track for this final video might now make more sense.
Return To The Valley
See, the thing about the GoPro Hero5 is pressing the button.
The typical use mode is to leave the camera off. It will remain inert, using no power, until you press the big button on top. The button has a very good tactile feedback -- a solid mechanical click -- so it's fairly easy to tell if you've toggled it, even when wearing riding gloves. At that point it takes a couple seconds for the camera to turn itself on. The display lights up, a red dot indicates recording has commenced, and after a while the display will shut itself off to save power.
Push the button a second time and the camera will switch back to standby.
Thing is...if you think you've pressed the button, but you actually just fumbled it...from that point on you are missing what you think you're shooting. The next time you press the button, you begin shooting the boring stuff you don't care about, burning battery (perhaps a lot of it) all the while.
That's one reason I've begun to prefer clipping the camera to the fairing rather than the top of my helmet. On the helmet you can't see the display; there's no way to tell if you've fumbled. But when mounted on the fairing in front of me, I can see the display and the red dot that tells me I'm recording.
Thing is...if you're riding a motorcycle xx mph on a twisty canyon road and you're staring into the westering sun after just having ridden 450 miles...well, you still might not see that red dot before the display blanks off.
So I can't provide you with an awesome video of my Salt River Canyon ride.
But I can provide this, which includes a segment that I thought I wasn't recording:
The Ride South - Arizona
* * *
Based on my position report text from Show Low, Larry had predicted my arrival time +/- 15 minutes; that's when I'd either show up on his doorstep -- or not at all, if I decided to head straight for Mom's.
He hadn't expected me to come via Salt River Canyon, based on my known aversion to riding in hot places.
The day's ride, which was well over 600 miles (not that it needed to be) brought me into the Valley on the east side, so stopping at Larry's made the most sense. There was no real advantage to riding another 30 miles staring straight into the sun, only to arrive at Mom's well after she'd gone to bed.
Cue mists of time harp music.
I lived in Arizona from 1978 until 1991, with a couple interruptions during which I'd escaped back to Michigan. It had not been my choice to move to Arizona the first time, and when I did make the choice to return in 1983 it was because I thought I'd be able to get a job in some place like Prescott or Flagstaff -- in other words, up out of the desert.
That didn't pan out, because basically there aren't any jobs in Arizona except in Phoenix and Tucson.
So with Laurel, who had ridden from Michigan with me on my BMW R60/6 Nada One, I ended up spending most of the 80s in the Valley of the Sun.
I don't have a love/hate relationship with Phoenix.
It's more of a conditional tolerance/hate relationship.
I don't miss living in the desert, although I can enjoy the occasional desert epic (during the winter), and I do regret the distance Michigan puts me from the mountain roads I most enjoy riding.
But I don't miss the feeling of always wanting to escape the place I call "home". I leave Michigan a fair amount because I like visiting other places, but not because l can't stand living there.
My choice of sound track for this final video might now make more sense.
Return To The Valley
RSS Feed