Return to Michigan Day 4: Saturday July 3, 2021.
In retrospect, it’s obvious I should have ridden 1100 miles, instead of just 1000, the day before.
Had I done so I might have encountered the Chicago gauntlet in a low-traffic condition, shot through it without stopping since the accursed toll booths are now gone, and landed someplace probably better and almost certainly not worse than the Park Motel in Morris, Illinois.
But that’s not what happened.
*
I laid in bed thinking, “After riding a 1000-mile day, I deserve a bit of lie-in. I’ve trimmed this day’s ride to less than 400 miles. The forecast is mild with no rain. No need to rush. What’s on TV?”
What was on was the end of Return of the Pink Panther, which I watched while nibbling the apple fritter I’d bought at the BP store the night before. It was really quite a good fritter, well shrink-wrapped and not overly sweet.
I flipped to the start of the Le Mans race in Ford v Ferrari.
Truly superb filmmaking, that.
After that it was time to get moving.
I started by inspecting Therese’s front brakes, which had squeaked while riding around Morris the night before. It was about time for new pads, but they were serviceable enough to get me home. The squeak was apparently gone.
The door to the next room was open. Until coming outside I’d been unaware the room was occupied. Two guys inside, cooking something Southeast Asian and rather interesting to my senses, in defiance of the handwritten prohibition of such activity taped to the Plexiglas in the motel office. I waved to the guy sitting on the twin bed nearest the door but he barely acknowledged my existence, after which we both pretended to ignore each other.
I loaded up and departed, riding north toward I-80 but stopping first at Dunkin Donuts. Handing over a twenty for a coffee and a breakfast sandwich, I asked for change that would get me through the tollbooths.
“I don’t think they’re taking cash at all anymore. They’ll just bill your license plate with 14 days to pay. Or you can log in to ipass.com and sign up your credit card.”
“Best news I’ve heard since…the last time I was here”, I replied.
As I ate, a woman’s two granddaughters gave the most delightful little squeals of joy at the idea they were having donuts.
As I prepared to depart, a guy pulled next to my bike and said through his open passenger window, “Looks like a great day for a ride.”
I had to agree.
I launched Therese eastward on I-80.
*
Trouble began almost immediately, as traffic ground to a halt for no reason I ever discerned. Therese expressed her discontent early on. Eventually I just wove my way to the front of the lines and was on my way.
A couple miles after the I-294 junction was another jam, this one four lanes wide. I kept changing across them, trying to keep moving, but eventually they all stopped. Therese refused to idle, finally quit, and wouldn’t restart.
Hazard flashers on I paddled my way down I-80.
This was absolutely mortifying but relatively safe because nobody was moving. I worked my way to the shoulder. After a few minutes she started. I rode down the shoulder with my hazards on, at the lowest speed she’d agree to run smoothly. The next exit was Lincoln Oasis where I pulled in and parked, completely disgusted.
I chilled for a long time, sitting on a concrete bench with a view of the highway crawling east, checking Googlemaps to try and convince myself the red lines were turning orange.
But this jam was built to last.
I decided to go to the next exit, IL-394, then south to US-30, a route I used often to avoid the tollway when I was doing an implementation in Park Forest. Of course, I was almost always driving a car and didn’t really care about all the stoplights. The one time I rode Nada 3 she didn’t care either, though my clutch and brake lever muscles did.
Upon restart Therese remained recalcitrant.
Once again I rode up the shoulder flashing my hazards.
IL-394 was free and easy, but then I turned onto US-30. Theoretically, I might have continued further south and found some eastward route better than the Lincoln Highway, but as mentioned previously I’ve long studied maps of the area with grim determination and there is just no good way.
Lincoln Highway was exactly what I expected.
Lots of traffic on what was usually an undivided four-lane.
Lots of stoplights.
I could generally ride only in the right lane – I had to be able to get off the road if forced to a standstill. Using a left turn lane was out of the question; I’d almost certainly end up inert and stranded in the middle of a giant intersection.
But I rarely stopped; if there was no other choice I’d dive into the adjacent street or driveway. I don’t know how much time I spent riding in circles in parking lots waiting for traffic to start moving again, or heading down a random street where often I did not soon encounter a situation in which I could exercise a choice about what to do next.
I soon began ignoring stop signs, even stop lights when it was safe to do so.
It was a miserable ride.
At least the weather was perfect.
I was within sight of I-65, my escape route back north, when I just couldn’t keep her running well enough to deal with what had become a massive and crowded artery five lanes wide in each direction, and banks of traffic lights every half block. I pulled next to the grease dumpster behind some chicken joint and let the engine die. Said bad words. Extended the side stand and dismounted. Peeled off my helmet and gloves and jacket. Got out my tools. Disconnected the battery negative lead. Waited with bleak hope that some sort of reset would occur.
It didn’t.
With Therese running as badly as she ever has, I plunged back into traffic moving barely faster than walking pace. By some miracle it kept going and I encountered exactly as many – no more and no less – openings and green lights as I needed to get successfully to the I-65 on-ramp.
I-65 was a welcome spell of relief but ended a mere ten miles later at US-20/US-12.
US-12, the Dunes Highway, is a mainly 2-lane road stringing together a sequence of down-at-the-heels resorts and businesses long bypassed by the web of interstate highways just to the south. As such it is, yes, a road from nowhere to nowhere. I’ve taken a liking to it. You can never see the lake and can rarely even see dunes, but you can get off the freeway at I-65 and ride all the way to New Buffalo (or the reverse) on a backroad going in the right direction with relatively few stops and generally light traffic, frequently bypassing gigantic traffic jams on I-94 which runs parallel, often less than a mile away.
But today the Dunes Highway sucked.
I was only on it for a few miles greatly complicated by pervasive construction and Therese’s inability to deal with it. At Burns Harbor, a combination of lane closures, traffic, and red lights forced me onto the ramp back to the freeway.
Fortunately I-94 was running fast at that point.
It didn’t last.
As I came up on the jam I didn’t hesitate long before punching the hazard button and riding up the shoulder. I had every intention of taking the next exit but when I got to the point where two lanes became only one, traffic speed got reasonable, and I pulled into an open space.
It didn’t last.
After another jam formed on I-196 when it necked down to a single lane. I rode up the shoulder for a couple miles, no longer feeling guilty about it. At the next exit I found myself riding east from Saugatuck on 136th Ave. At this point I was ready to abandon freeways and find my way home via backroads. It would be tedious, with countless stop signs and stop lights along the way. But my latest compass installation had proven dead-nuts accurate and it said I was going due east. I could make this road work if it kept doing so.
It didn’t.
Stalled at a T intersection, one leg heading southeast into congestion I wanted nothing to do with, I updated the text I’d sent Laurel some time earlier.
In retrospect, it’s obvious I should have ridden 1100 miles, instead of just 1000, the day before.
Had I done so I might have encountered the Chicago gauntlet in a low-traffic condition, shot through it without stopping since the accursed toll booths are now gone, and landed someplace probably better and almost certainly not worse than the Park Motel in Morris, Illinois.
But that’s not what happened.
*
I laid in bed thinking, “After riding a 1000-mile day, I deserve a bit of lie-in. I’ve trimmed this day’s ride to less than 400 miles. The forecast is mild with no rain. No need to rush. What’s on TV?”
What was on was the end of Return of the Pink Panther, which I watched while nibbling the apple fritter I’d bought at the BP store the night before. It was really quite a good fritter, well shrink-wrapped and not overly sweet.
I flipped to the start of the Le Mans race in Ford v Ferrari.
Truly superb filmmaking, that.
After that it was time to get moving.
I started by inspecting Therese’s front brakes, which had squeaked while riding around Morris the night before. It was about time for new pads, but they were serviceable enough to get me home. The squeak was apparently gone.
The door to the next room was open. Until coming outside I’d been unaware the room was occupied. Two guys inside, cooking something Southeast Asian and rather interesting to my senses, in defiance of the handwritten prohibition of such activity taped to the Plexiglas in the motel office. I waved to the guy sitting on the twin bed nearest the door but he barely acknowledged my existence, after which we both pretended to ignore each other.
I loaded up and departed, riding north toward I-80 but stopping first at Dunkin Donuts. Handing over a twenty for a coffee and a breakfast sandwich, I asked for change that would get me through the tollbooths.
“I don’t think they’re taking cash at all anymore. They’ll just bill your license plate with 14 days to pay. Or you can log in to ipass.com and sign up your credit card.”
“Best news I’ve heard since…the last time I was here”, I replied.
As I ate, a woman’s two granddaughters gave the most delightful little squeals of joy at the idea they were having donuts.
As I prepared to depart, a guy pulled next to my bike and said through his open passenger window, “Looks like a great day for a ride.”
I had to agree.
I launched Therese eastward on I-80.
*
Trouble began almost immediately, as traffic ground to a halt for no reason I ever discerned. Therese expressed her discontent early on. Eventually I just wove my way to the front of the lines and was on my way.
A couple miles after the I-294 junction was another jam, this one four lanes wide. I kept changing across them, trying to keep moving, but eventually they all stopped. Therese refused to idle, finally quit, and wouldn’t restart.
Hazard flashers on I paddled my way down I-80.
This was absolutely mortifying but relatively safe because nobody was moving. I worked my way to the shoulder. After a few minutes she started. I rode down the shoulder with my hazards on, at the lowest speed she’d agree to run smoothly. The next exit was Lincoln Oasis where I pulled in and parked, completely disgusted.
I chilled for a long time, sitting on a concrete bench with a view of the highway crawling east, checking Googlemaps to try and convince myself the red lines were turning orange.
But this jam was built to last.
I decided to go to the next exit, IL-394, then south to US-30, a route I used often to avoid the tollway when I was doing an implementation in Park Forest. Of course, I was almost always driving a car and didn’t really care about all the stoplights. The one time I rode Nada 3 she didn’t care either, though my clutch and brake lever muscles did.
Upon restart Therese remained recalcitrant.
Once again I rode up the shoulder flashing my hazards.
IL-394 was free and easy, but then I turned onto US-30. Theoretically, I might have continued further south and found some eastward route better than the Lincoln Highway, but as mentioned previously I’ve long studied maps of the area with grim determination and there is just no good way.
Lincoln Highway was exactly what I expected.
Lots of traffic on what was usually an undivided four-lane.
Lots of stoplights.
I could generally ride only in the right lane – I had to be able to get off the road if forced to a standstill. Using a left turn lane was out of the question; I’d almost certainly end up inert and stranded in the middle of a giant intersection.
But I rarely stopped; if there was no other choice I’d dive into the adjacent street or driveway. I don’t know how much time I spent riding in circles in parking lots waiting for traffic to start moving again, or heading down a random street where often I did not soon encounter a situation in which I could exercise a choice about what to do next.
I soon began ignoring stop signs, even stop lights when it was safe to do so.
It was a miserable ride.
At least the weather was perfect.
I was within sight of I-65, my escape route back north, when I just couldn’t keep her running well enough to deal with what had become a massive and crowded artery five lanes wide in each direction, and banks of traffic lights every half block. I pulled next to the grease dumpster behind some chicken joint and let the engine die. Said bad words. Extended the side stand and dismounted. Peeled off my helmet and gloves and jacket. Got out my tools. Disconnected the battery negative lead. Waited with bleak hope that some sort of reset would occur.
It didn’t.
With Therese running as badly as she ever has, I plunged back into traffic moving barely faster than walking pace. By some miracle it kept going and I encountered exactly as many – no more and no less – openings and green lights as I needed to get successfully to the I-65 on-ramp.
I-65 was a welcome spell of relief but ended a mere ten miles later at US-20/US-12.
US-12, the Dunes Highway, is a mainly 2-lane road stringing together a sequence of down-at-the-heels resorts and businesses long bypassed by the web of interstate highways just to the south. As such it is, yes, a road from nowhere to nowhere. I’ve taken a liking to it. You can never see the lake and can rarely even see dunes, but you can get off the freeway at I-65 and ride all the way to New Buffalo (or the reverse) on a backroad going in the right direction with relatively few stops and generally light traffic, frequently bypassing gigantic traffic jams on I-94 which runs parallel, often less than a mile away.
But today the Dunes Highway sucked.
I was only on it for a few miles greatly complicated by pervasive construction and Therese’s inability to deal with it. At Burns Harbor, a combination of lane closures, traffic, and red lights forced me onto the ramp back to the freeway.
Fortunately I-94 was running fast at that point.
It didn’t last.
As I came up on the jam I didn’t hesitate long before punching the hazard button and riding up the shoulder. I had every intention of taking the next exit but when I got to the point where two lanes became only one, traffic speed got reasonable, and I pulled into an open space.
It didn’t last.
After another jam formed on I-196 when it necked down to a single lane. I rode up the shoulder for a couple miles, no longer feeling guilty about it. At the next exit I found myself riding east from Saugatuck on 136th Ave. At this point I was ready to abandon freeways and find my way home via backroads. It would be tedious, with countless stop signs and stop lights along the way. But my latest compass installation had proven dead-nuts accurate and it said I was going due east. I could make this road work if it kept doing so.
It didn’t.
Stalled at a T intersection, one leg heading southeast into congestion I wanted nothing to do with, I updated the text I’d sent Laurel some time earlier.
But Googlemaps guided me north back to I-196, with assurance the rest of my ride would be in the green.
It was.
From that point all freeway traffic was light and fast – though it sure wouldn’t be after the holiday weekend, when programmable signs and miles of cones promised an enormous stretch of I-96 would be necked down to a single lane.
At my final gas stop in Grand Blanc, and all the way home from southbound I-75 on a freshly resurfaced Clarkston Road, Therese settled to a smooth idle at every stop.
It was as if she was the best motorcycle in the world.
But I knew better.
John Perry Dancoe
Lake Orion, Michigan, USA
2021-07-12
It was.
From that point all freeway traffic was light and fast – though it sure wouldn’t be after the holiday weekend, when programmable signs and miles of cones promised an enormous stretch of I-96 would be necked down to a single lane.
At my final gas stop in Grand Blanc, and all the way home from southbound I-75 on a freshly resurfaced Clarkston Road, Therese settled to a smooth idle at every stop.
It was as if she was the best motorcycle in the world.
But I knew better.
John Perry Dancoe
Lake Orion, Michigan, USA
2021-07-12
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