Sunday, September 29, 2019
After tossing and turning for a few hours, upon my return from a nature call I plugged the GoPro into my laptop and began transferring MP4 files. The instant the progress bar came up I knew I shouldn’t be in too much of a hurry.
After tossing and turning for a few hours, upon my return from a nature call I plugged the GoPro into my laptop and began transferring MP4 files. The instant the progress bar came up I knew I shouldn’t be in too much of a hurry.
I turned the screen to an angle I hoped wouldn’t disturb Gary’s sleep, but would enable me to monitor it using whichever eye wasn’t mashed into the pillow.
It seemed only minutes later that Gary got up and started preparing for his day. I heard Larry in the room next door doing the same.
I made no such effort. I dozed between glances at the progress bar, which wasn’t going to finish any time soon but did imply the 6.5 hour estimate was wildly pessimistic.
One reason I felt I could get away with lazing in bed while my companions were staging the day’s ride was that I’d already had breakfast; I could use the time they’d spend at breakfast to both monitor the file transfer and recover a bit from my late night.
I let them know I’d already had breakfast, but this didn’t seem to satisfy them. Eventually I realized they weren’t planning to eat anything more time-consuming than a bowl of Cheerios in the motel lobby. So I didn’t actually have an hour or so to catch up with them as I’d been assuming.
I dragged myself out of bed and began to gather my gear. But I was way behind L&J&G, who were ready to go and not inclined to stand there in full kit waiting for me. Meanwhile I was loath to interrupt the file transfer. The last thing I’d do after loading and dressing for the road would be to sit and wait, if necessary, for process completion.
The planned route was to go north on NM-15 through Pinos Altos, then back southeast through Mimbres on NM-35, turning east on NM-152 at San Lorenzo. This detour was in large part a bone thrown to Gary; Larry described the pavement as “one step removed from a dirt road”, which would suit Gary well because his KTM990 is essentially “one step removed from a dirt bike.” Larry expected the rest of us, riding much heavier sport touring bikes, wouldn’t be able to keep him in sight.
“If you want to stay here and dick around with your computer”, Larry suggested, “You could just skip that loop, head east on US-180 direct to San Lorenzo, and meet us at Emory Pass Vista.”
I checked Goolglemaps, fixed the concept in my head, and nodded.
“Meet you there.”
L&J&G departed. I continued watching the progress bar creep across my laptop screen while loading Therese and getting into my riding duds. Just about the time I sat down with a final cup of coffee, the file transfer completed.
I quickly checked that a couple of the largest files would play as movies on my laptop. Whatever glitch had mangled my Phoenix night ride video was apparently not an ongoing or pervasive problem.
I did discover a new problem, though: the files had completely consumed virtually all the free space on my laptop’s hard drive.
Nothing could be done about that now. I shut everything down, stuffed the laptop into the saddlebag, and headed east.
Traffic was light and US-180 was a divided four lane; getting out of town was easy but I did have to mind my speed; I didn’t actually pass any police but this was the kind of place I expected heavy patrols.
Once past the gigantic Chino Mine complex, I was able to relax and ride in a more sporting manner (but always, of course, “safe and prudent”). Past San Lorenzo I was even farther into the rough country – the best place to ride, lots of great curves, and only the rare encounter with a four wheeled vehicle.
Some drivers had enough situational awareness and pragmatism, in places where passing zones were rare, to pull over and let me go by.
Some drivers were obliviots.
I had a great fun ride up to Emory Pass where I found L&J&G waiting…
It seemed only minutes later that Gary got up and started preparing for his day. I heard Larry in the room next door doing the same.
I made no such effort. I dozed between glances at the progress bar, which wasn’t going to finish any time soon but did imply the 6.5 hour estimate was wildly pessimistic.
One reason I felt I could get away with lazing in bed while my companions were staging the day’s ride was that I’d already had breakfast; I could use the time they’d spend at breakfast to both monitor the file transfer and recover a bit from my late night.
I let them know I’d already had breakfast, but this didn’t seem to satisfy them. Eventually I realized they weren’t planning to eat anything more time-consuming than a bowl of Cheerios in the motel lobby. So I didn’t actually have an hour or so to catch up with them as I’d been assuming.
I dragged myself out of bed and began to gather my gear. But I was way behind L&J&G, who were ready to go and not inclined to stand there in full kit waiting for me. Meanwhile I was loath to interrupt the file transfer. The last thing I’d do after loading and dressing for the road would be to sit and wait, if necessary, for process completion.
The planned route was to go north on NM-15 through Pinos Altos, then back southeast through Mimbres on NM-35, turning east on NM-152 at San Lorenzo. This detour was in large part a bone thrown to Gary; Larry described the pavement as “one step removed from a dirt road”, which would suit Gary well because his KTM990 is essentially “one step removed from a dirt bike.” Larry expected the rest of us, riding much heavier sport touring bikes, wouldn’t be able to keep him in sight.
“If you want to stay here and dick around with your computer”, Larry suggested, “You could just skip that loop, head east on US-180 direct to San Lorenzo, and meet us at Emory Pass Vista.”
I checked Goolglemaps, fixed the concept in my head, and nodded.
“Meet you there.”
L&J&G departed. I continued watching the progress bar creep across my laptop screen while loading Therese and getting into my riding duds. Just about the time I sat down with a final cup of coffee, the file transfer completed.
I quickly checked that a couple of the largest files would play as movies on my laptop. Whatever glitch had mangled my Phoenix night ride video was apparently not an ongoing or pervasive problem.
I did discover a new problem, though: the files had completely consumed virtually all the free space on my laptop’s hard drive.
Nothing could be done about that now. I shut everything down, stuffed the laptop into the saddlebag, and headed east.
Traffic was light and US-180 was a divided four lane; getting out of town was easy but I did have to mind my speed; I didn’t actually pass any police but this was the kind of place I expected heavy patrols.
Once past the gigantic Chino Mine complex, I was able to relax and ride in a more sporting manner (but always, of course, “safe and prudent”). Past San Lorenzo I was even farther into the rough country – the best place to ride, lots of great curves, and only the rare encounter with a four wheeled vehicle.
Some drivers had enough situational awareness and pragmatism, in places where passing zones were rare, to pull over and let me go by.
Some drivers were obliviots.
I had a great fun ride up to Emory Pass where I found L&J&G waiting…
Turns out they’d arrived “about 30 seconds” before I did.
I love views like this, and the stiff chilly wind made the experience all the more invigorating.
I love views like this, and the stiff chilly wind made the experience all the more invigorating.
Emory Pass Vista
But that wind did encourage us not to linger. We saddled up and headed down the eastern slopes, shortly to arrive at the historic Hillsboro Café.
Larry & Jana, Hillsboro NM
I remembered the place from when Larry and I had eaten there in 2014, during our reprise journey to New Mexico the year following Return to Malfunction Junction. We’d stayed at Pinos Altos on that trip, which earned the title Riding Between the Raindrops. I’d ridden half a mile past our lodge just to turn Therese’s odometer over to the magic number that meant I’d ridden 300,000 miles on BMW motorcycles.
Give or take a hundred.
After lunch we continued east, a high-speed downhill blast to where the Rio Grande meandered through the bottom of the valley we’d surveyed from Emory Pass Vista. We rode south on I-25, and stopped for fuel on the north side of Las Cruces.
This fuel stop was far more memorable than most. It was a busy station; every island was occupied when we arrived, and more traffic continued to pull in behind us. I pulled up behind a truck that looked like it was about done, which turned out not to be the case. I killed my motor, dropped the side stand, and waited. Then Jana advised me via intercom she was holding an open space for me, standing next to the pump and blocking the pickup that wanted to pull in there. I switched Therese back on, started the motor, clicked into gear, engaged the clutch…and stalled.
Damn! My first demerit of the day.
I restarted the motor, clicked into gear, engaged the clutch…and stalled again.
What the…?
“Sidestand!” Jana called.
Ah. Right.
Therese has a safety feature that kills the motor if you attempt to ride off with the stand still down. I’d forgotten about it, in part because I’d eliminated that feature from Nada 3 decades ago. Not because I think it’s a bad idea (it isn’t), but because the BMW R1100 side stand interlock switch is easily fouled by tiny pebbles, which immobilizes the machine for no apparent reason. Fortunately, when it happened to Nada 3 I was forewarned; after clearing the pebble to get the bike running, I repurposed the circuit to provide a manually controlled immobilizer for use when parking the bike in dodgy environs. Now the wires go to a toggle switch hidden in the electrical junction box under the seat.
I flipped the stand up, started Therese again, and rode around the truck in front of me to pull into the bay Jana was holding for me. I felt we’d been impolite, but I also knew I could fuel up far faster than the guy in the pickup who’d been thwarted. I filled my tank quickly and then immediately rolled Therese backwards out of the bay.
Meanwhile Larry was attempting to fuel both Merlin and Ziggy from the same pump, and the nozzle malfunctioned – it wouldn’t shut off completely and resulted in him spilling gasoline all over Ziggy and leaving a big puddle between the two bikes.
Mentally I reclassified my 2 demerits from “stalled engine” to “clumsiness”; I hadn’t actually stalled the engine due to fumbling the clutch, but I had fumbled the starting sequence.
Finally we escaped the gas station and got back to the freeway, continued south for a bit, then turned east on US-70. After climbing a low pass east of Organ, we descended into the serious desert wherein lies the White Sands Missile Range.
Since we’d descended into the valley from Hillsboro the temperature had climbed, and now it was peaking. For a while Therese reported 92F; Larry said he saw 94. The sun was bearing down, although thankfully we weren’t driving into it. The vents of my riding pants and jacket were still wide open and I was wearing just lightweight next-to-skin riding shorts and shirt underneath, so there was nothing more I could do to cool myself except keep moving. Fortunately, we were doing just that. But still, it was a weary experience droning through the heat of the afternoon along the dead-straight and dead-flat highway toward our destination, which lay somewhere in the grey shadows of the mountains that rose from far horizon. Not fully trusting my attentiveness and reflexes, I loosened my formation up considerably. Gary was doing the same, although it’s not unusual for him to trail L&J&I by a considerable distance.
It’s a strange place, this missile range. I’d skirted the northern perimeter a few years ago, when I was Riding Between the Raindrops, where it’s just an expanse of utter nothingness. Here on the southern end the land is similarly desolate, but it’s peppered with institutions and infrastructure. Off to the right, visible when we were descending from the pass, was the incongruous cluster of construction which I assume is the missile base itself; a whole little city parked out in the middle of a bone dry desert where nothing had any real business belonging.
Here and there we passed by other installations, some clearly military, some unexplained...almost certainly military.
And then we got to the national monument.
I’d been here just once before, when I was in grade school and my family had driven from Michigan to see my grandmother and uncle in Phoenix. I recall the experience vividly, because of how much the dunes looked like snowdrifts… but so clearly weren’t, once you got out and touched them. They didn’t even seem like sand; gypsum crystals really don’t behave the way familiar piles of silicon dioxide do.
I’d been looking forward to the visit mainly to see how well my childhood memory matched current reality. Larry, by contrast, had never been here but had long looked forward to this opportunity to indulge his inner Ansel Adams.
Gary was non-plussed that he didn’t get to use the lifetime National Parks pass he’d spent money on; the ranger at the entrance waved all of us through based on Jana’s card alone. I had the impression the ranger might have been a rider. She warned us to be careful of sand on the pavement, but then said, “I think it’s a really fun road.”
It was certainly nice to be on a road that wasn’t as straight as a laser beam, that’s for sure, even if the speed limit was appropriately low and the curves were utterly devoid of camber. But then the pavement ended, and much of the rest of the road into the monument was harsh hard washboards, often impossible to avoid, and about which I whined over the intercom, “This is putting about a thousand miles on my suspension.”
“You rode that bike to Alaska and you’re complaining about a couple miles off the pavement?” Larry retorted.
“Yes, exactly.” I replied.
Therese is not a dirt bike and doesn’t enjoy being treated like one.
We rolled into a picnic/parking area, which provided evidence that the prevailing winds in this country come exclusively from a single bearing. Picnic tables are protected from sun by overarching corrugated steel shields that are fixed in place to deflect the wind, which when we were there was strong and steady and coming from the exact direction against which the barriers had been installed.
On one of the nearby dunes, kids were sledding down the dunes as if they were snow-covered hills.
Give or take a hundred.
After lunch we continued east, a high-speed downhill blast to where the Rio Grande meandered through the bottom of the valley we’d surveyed from Emory Pass Vista. We rode south on I-25, and stopped for fuel on the north side of Las Cruces.
This fuel stop was far more memorable than most. It was a busy station; every island was occupied when we arrived, and more traffic continued to pull in behind us. I pulled up behind a truck that looked like it was about done, which turned out not to be the case. I killed my motor, dropped the side stand, and waited. Then Jana advised me via intercom she was holding an open space for me, standing next to the pump and blocking the pickup that wanted to pull in there. I switched Therese back on, started the motor, clicked into gear, engaged the clutch…and stalled.
Damn! My first demerit of the day.
I restarted the motor, clicked into gear, engaged the clutch…and stalled again.
What the…?
“Sidestand!” Jana called.
Ah. Right.
Therese has a safety feature that kills the motor if you attempt to ride off with the stand still down. I’d forgotten about it, in part because I’d eliminated that feature from Nada 3 decades ago. Not because I think it’s a bad idea (it isn’t), but because the BMW R1100 side stand interlock switch is easily fouled by tiny pebbles, which immobilizes the machine for no apparent reason. Fortunately, when it happened to Nada 3 I was forewarned; after clearing the pebble to get the bike running, I repurposed the circuit to provide a manually controlled immobilizer for use when parking the bike in dodgy environs. Now the wires go to a toggle switch hidden in the electrical junction box under the seat.
I flipped the stand up, started Therese again, and rode around the truck in front of me to pull into the bay Jana was holding for me. I felt we’d been impolite, but I also knew I could fuel up far faster than the guy in the pickup who’d been thwarted. I filled my tank quickly and then immediately rolled Therese backwards out of the bay.
Meanwhile Larry was attempting to fuel both Merlin and Ziggy from the same pump, and the nozzle malfunctioned – it wouldn’t shut off completely and resulted in him spilling gasoline all over Ziggy and leaving a big puddle between the two bikes.
Mentally I reclassified my 2 demerits from “stalled engine” to “clumsiness”; I hadn’t actually stalled the engine due to fumbling the clutch, but I had fumbled the starting sequence.
Finally we escaped the gas station and got back to the freeway, continued south for a bit, then turned east on US-70. After climbing a low pass east of Organ, we descended into the serious desert wherein lies the White Sands Missile Range.
Since we’d descended into the valley from Hillsboro the temperature had climbed, and now it was peaking. For a while Therese reported 92F; Larry said he saw 94. The sun was bearing down, although thankfully we weren’t driving into it. The vents of my riding pants and jacket were still wide open and I was wearing just lightweight next-to-skin riding shorts and shirt underneath, so there was nothing more I could do to cool myself except keep moving. Fortunately, we were doing just that. But still, it was a weary experience droning through the heat of the afternoon along the dead-straight and dead-flat highway toward our destination, which lay somewhere in the grey shadows of the mountains that rose from far horizon. Not fully trusting my attentiveness and reflexes, I loosened my formation up considerably. Gary was doing the same, although it’s not unusual for him to trail L&J&I by a considerable distance.
It’s a strange place, this missile range. I’d skirted the northern perimeter a few years ago, when I was Riding Between the Raindrops, where it’s just an expanse of utter nothingness. Here on the southern end the land is similarly desolate, but it’s peppered with institutions and infrastructure. Off to the right, visible when we were descending from the pass, was the incongruous cluster of construction which I assume is the missile base itself; a whole little city parked out in the middle of a bone dry desert where nothing had any real business belonging.
Here and there we passed by other installations, some clearly military, some unexplained...almost certainly military.
And then we got to the national monument.
I’d been here just once before, when I was in grade school and my family had driven from Michigan to see my grandmother and uncle in Phoenix. I recall the experience vividly, because of how much the dunes looked like snowdrifts… but so clearly weren’t, once you got out and touched them. They didn’t even seem like sand; gypsum crystals really don’t behave the way familiar piles of silicon dioxide do.
I’d been looking forward to the visit mainly to see how well my childhood memory matched current reality. Larry, by contrast, had never been here but had long looked forward to this opportunity to indulge his inner Ansel Adams.
Gary was non-plussed that he didn’t get to use the lifetime National Parks pass he’d spent money on; the ranger at the entrance waved all of us through based on Jana’s card alone. I had the impression the ranger might have been a rider. She warned us to be careful of sand on the pavement, but then said, “I think it’s a really fun road.”
It was certainly nice to be on a road that wasn’t as straight as a laser beam, that’s for sure, even if the speed limit was appropriately low and the curves were utterly devoid of camber. But then the pavement ended, and much of the rest of the road into the monument was harsh hard washboards, often impossible to avoid, and about which I whined over the intercom, “This is putting about a thousand miles on my suspension.”
“You rode that bike to Alaska and you’re complaining about a couple miles off the pavement?” Larry retorted.
“Yes, exactly.” I replied.
Therese is not a dirt bike and doesn’t enjoy being treated like one.
We rolled into a picnic/parking area, which provided evidence that the prevailing winds in this country come exclusively from a single bearing. Picnic tables are protected from sun by overarching corrugated steel shields that are fixed in place to deflect the wind, which when we were there was strong and steady and coming from the exact direction against which the barriers had been installed.
On one of the nearby dunes, kids were sledding down the dunes as if they were snow-covered hills.
White Sands National Monument. Image courtesy Larry Haruska.
Gary, who has an intercom but listens to music rather than chatter from L&J&I, mentioned Pandora had delivered Maria Muldauer’s Midnight At The Oasis just as we’d entered the dunes. “Let’s slip off to a sand dune…” he sang.
Directly we parked the bikes as well as we could in the lee of the shelter, Larry had stripped off his outerwear and extracted his camera tripod from…I still don’t know where or how the hell he stashes that thing on his bike. Following his lead I began to disrobe and put on my walking shoes.
As I was doing this Jana noted something stuck to the bottom of her boot. She thought it was some random piece of litter but --
“It’s a rally pin”, I said, which was actually just a guess. But once I’d pried it off I was proved correct: it was one of Larry’s pins, that had gone missing from his suspenders and then been recaptured by Jana’s boot. Pure luck that she stepped on it; it would have been invisible laying face down in the blindingly white sand.
Larry was already back at the shelter by the time I made my way out and climbed the nearest dune.
Directly we parked the bikes as well as we could in the lee of the shelter, Larry had stripped off his outerwear and extracted his camera tripod from…I still don’t know where or how the hell he stashes that thing on his bike. Following his lead I began to disrobe and put on my walking shoes.
As I was doing this Jana noted something stuck to the bottom of her boot. She thought it was some random piece of litter but --
“It’s a rally pin”, I said, which was actually just a guess. But once I’d pried it off I was proved correct: it was one of Larry’s pins, that had gone missing from his suspenders and then been recaptured by Jana’s boot. Pure luck that she stepped on it; it would have been invisible laying face down in the blindingly white sand.
Larry was already back at the shelter by the time I made my way out and climbed the nearest dune.
White Sands
From there I could see, as Larry had reported, another picnic area identical to the one we’d settled into, but completely unoccupied. Something about it seemed very Twilight Zone; this desert was just the kind of place where more than one TZ episode had been set, and I was struck by the contrast of the rather ghostly and utterly uninhabited mirror image of the popular site where we’d parked.
When I got back to the bikes it was time to go. I got back into my gear and stowed my walking shoes, and we headed out…
…only to be distracted by the apparition of a camel atop a nearby dune.
“Send your camel to bed…” Maria Muldaur sang in my head.
Larry of course had to stop and take photos of the dromedary.
Gary and I waited in the shade of an outhouse.
Finally. Larry returned to his bike and resumed the ride back out to the highway, J&G&I falling in behind.
Zoom past Holloman AFB. Grind through Alamogordo, Alamorosa, Tularosa. Finally, climbing up into the mountains. Curvy roads and cool air. Trees.
The Inn of the Mountain Gods.
Nice place.
…only to be distracted by the apparition of a camel atop a nearby dune.
“Send your camel to bed…” Maria Muldaur sang in my head.
Larry of course had to stop and take photos of the dromedary.
Gary and I waited in the shade of an outhouse.
Finally. Larry returned to his bike and resumed the ride back out to the highway, J&G&I falling in behind.
Zoom past Holloman AFB. Grind through Alamogordo, Alamorosa, Tularosa. Finally, climbing up into the mountains. Curvy roads and cool air. Trees.
The Inn of the Mountain Gods.
Nice place.
The Mountain Gods.
It took us a while to get settled. A long line at the check in; shades of the grocery store with 17 registers but only one of them open. Nice parking in the underground garage, and clearly Gary and I were on the same level as our room, but “you can’t get there from here”; the way back to our room was elevator to the fifth floor, back across the lobby, elevator back down to three, then all the way down to the end of the wing.
After some discussion and deliberation, we determined that dinner at the Broken Arrow tap room could adequately, if barely, meet our disparate dietary requirements.
L&J had been upgraded to an enormous suite with an extra-large flatscreen (and 3 other TVs including one in the bathroom) – it seemed the perfect time to premier my cine-musical-moto-epic Bisbee Ride.
But damned if we could make it work. I’d expected to simply snap my prepared USB stick into the TV, which indeed I could, and have it appropriately prompt for the “media menu”, which indeed it did. But there was no way to actually select the option.
Nor did plugging in an HDMI work. Larry had been similarly thwarted in viewing his camera images, as he was accustomed.
Evidently the hotel had intentionally locked down the TVs.
We ended up watching it on my laptop monitor.
At least Gary had a nice portable stereo speaker to play the music through.
As gifts for attending the premier I gave them each a USB drive with a collection of my moto-videos they could watch at home.
Everyone else turned in, but I had more work to do. Normally it would have been writing dispatches. But I still had video files to sort out.
In addition to having nearly filled my laptop’s storage, the camera’s 128GB RAM was now also nearly full; I needed to get files off it so I could record new stuff.
When connected to the internet, my company laptop is automatically synched to cloud storage, which is effectively unlimited. The solution to my problem was for me to designate these video files should only be stored online, thus freeing up my laptop drive space. I could tell it was working, because smaller files were synching up and being removed from the laptop, a condition clearly displayed by a change in the icon.
The process was working; on the drive properties graph I could see space opening back up as one by one the icon next to each file changed from a solid to a more phantom graphic.
But the bigger files stubbornly remained. Using my phone as a personal hotspot, which is my preferred mode as I perceive it as most secure, wasn’t providing enough bandwidth. In fact, the attempt was sucking my phone battery dry faster than it could be recharged.
I caved in and logged on to the inn’s wi-fi.
Which still wasn’t enough.
I let it run overnight.
But before I went to bed I also started looking for someplace that we’d ride past tomorrow where I could buy a high-capacity external hard drive. Going forward, I need to be able to dump the camera to a local drive every night.
So once again, a dispatch was not written.
After some discussion and deliberation, we determined that dinner at the Broken Arrow tap room could adequately, if barely, meet our disparate dietary requirements.
L&J had been upgraded to an enormous suite with an extra-large flatscreen (and 3 other TVs including one in the bathroom) – it seemed the perfect time to premier my cine-musical-moto-epic Bisbee Ride.
But damned if we could make it work. I’d expected to simply snap my prepared USB stick into the TV, which indeed I could, and have it appropriately prompt for the “media menu”, which indeed it did. But there was no way to actually select the option.
Nor did plugging in an HDMI work. Larry had been similarly thwarted in viewing his camera images, as he was accustomed.
Evidently the hotel had intentionally locked down the TVs.
We ended up watching it on my laptop monitor.
At least Gary had a nice portable stereo speaker to play the music through.
As gifts for attending the premier I gave them each a USB drive with a collection of my moto-videos they could watch at home.
Everyone else turned in, but I had more work to do. Normally it would have been writing dispatches. But I still had video files to sort out.
In addition to having nearly filled my laptop’s storage, the camera’s 128GB RAM was now also nearly full; I needed to get files off it so I could record new stuff.
When connected to the internet, my company laptop is automatically synched to cloud storage, which is effectively unlimited. The solution to my problem was for me to designate these video files should only be stored online, thus freeing up my laptop drive space. I could tell it was working, because smaller files were synching up and being removed from the laptop, a condition clearly displayed by a change in the icon.
The process was working; on the drive properties graph I could see space opening back up as one by one the icon next to each file changed from a solid to a more phantom graphic.
But the bigger files stubbornly remained. Using my phone as a personal hotspot, which is my preferred mode as I perceive it as most secure, wasn’t providing enough bandwidth. In fact, the attempt was sucking my phone battery dry faster than it could be recharged.
I caved in and logged on to the inn’s wi-fi.
Which still wasn’t enough.
I let it run overnight.
But before I went to bed I also started looking for someplace that we’d ride past tomorrow where I could buy a high-capacity external hard drive. Going forward, I need to be able to dump the camera to a local drive every night.
So once again, a dispatch was not written.
CineMusicalMotoEpics of the day:
- Close To The Edge
- Music: To The Edge by Lacuna Coil
- White Sands
- Music: The Future's So Bright I Gotta Wear Shades by Timbuk3 (pat mAcdonald)
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