Back to Reality

Beginning to write this blog entry feels like trying to extract a thimble sized sample of water by dipping a syringe into the Colorado River as it flows through the Grand Canyon.

I just looked back at my last entry and saw that I used a snow globe metaphor. Now I question that wisdom. Before reaching Montreal I had experienced a week of rain in California. A few days after reaching the ashram in Val Moran, Canada, the rain turned to snow. It snowed and it snowed. I lost track after 24 days of snow. The snow would stop for half a day in order to let Jack Frost poke his sharp nose out and smell his handywork. On an exhale he breathed his icy breath throughout the mountains bringing temperatures down to -15 Fahrenheit. Fittingly, my chores at the ashram consisted of shoveling snow and cutting firewood. Calls to my Dad in Las Vegas and Cass in California made me anticipate the sunny warmth upon my return. No dice.

When I flew into Las Vegas the Valley was covered in snow. On my way to Dad’s house I saw the palm tree I wrote about in my last entry; It had three inches of snow sitting on its mop top. I enjoyed my day in Las Vegas. We didn’t make it to the strip but even the lights in outskirts resembled a psychedelic dream. It was culture shock but the carrot at the end of my stick was my girlfriend waiting for me in the peaceful hills of Northern California.

When the wheels touched in San Francisco I made two phone calls. My Dad told me that I was lucky that I got out when I did because the snow was falling and Cass told me that she would attempt to pick me up, but due to snowy roads, she may not be able to make it down the mountain. I jumped on two different busses heading north. The first bus got me to Charles M. Schultz airport in Santa Rosa (yes, there was a huge Snoopy statue out front) and the second bus got me to Willits. Unfortunately, there were no busses heading north from there and it turned out that Cass could not make it down the mountain to pick me up. As the second bus dropped me off I took advantage of the last few minutes of daylight and stuck my thumb out hoping to get a ride. The ride didn’t come that night, but I did get a call from a local woman who had ties to Heartwood, the community where Cass lives. She asked me where I was, and a few minutes later I was sliding open the door of a green mini-van and saying hello to a smiling face. “I know you,” were the first words to come out of Krista’s mouth when I opened the door. It turned out that she lived in Steamboat Springs for a few months back in 2002 and we had a mutual friend. When we got to her house she told me that she would be staying at her boyfriend’s house and I was welcome to stay at her house in a comfortable bed. She also invited me to come to her yoga class which started in an hour. When I told her about my past month of yoga teacher’s training, we decided that it would be fun if I taught her class. An hour later I was teaching my first yoga class in the outside world. It’s amazing how fast things work.

The next morning I tried calling Krista a few times but there was no answer, so I dragged my computer bag and roller board out to the street and walked to the busiest road I could see. Luckily it was indeed HWY 101. It didn’t take long to get my first ride. Within two hours I was in Garberville at the bottom of the snowy hill that prevented Cass from picking me up. On a good day it takes between 45 minutes and an hour to drive it to Heartwood. Who knew how long it may take on this day.

Fortunately, It didn’t take too long. Three different cars picked me up. The roads were indeed hairy, but the trucks were equipped to handle the conditions. I arrived at Heartwood just in time for the lunch bell.

This was two days ago. There is still snow on the ground and it‘s currently raining, but we hope that the snow will melt in time to get us to Taos New Mexico shortly after Christmas. I never thought I would get stuck in the snow less than 20 miles from the California cost.

Montreal

Canada has never felt so foreign to me. I guess I thought the same about New York when I entered its airport in the wee hours this morning. I suppose the East Coast sun had risen, but that was a secret jealously kept by the rain and lovesick clouds who were trying to have their way with the ground. All of this drama kept us on the ground for an extra hour. Our tiny plain was number 30 in line for takeoff. Until today, I have never had a pilot turn off the engine and announce that it was ok to turn your cell phones and ipods back on for at least 20 more minutes. When we landed and deplaned in Montréal, the customs agents were as reluctant to let me in as New York was to let me out. Maybe it was because I had a one way ticket to a yoga ashram, or maybe it was because my appearance was affected by the past eight hours that felt like trying to sleep on a wooden benched rollercoaster. Thinking back at the situation, it could also possible that they were toying with me. The three separate women who sent me into the depth of beaurocratic maze were all about my age, they all sent me forward with a slightly coy smirk and the third one said that it was really slow right now but I should come back later. I bet every day during their lunchtime smoke break they get together and talk about the “victim of the day” Long story short, I’m now in Café Vienne a block from the bus station waiting for a bus to take me to Val Morin.
It’s really fun to be in a foreign country again. Outside the rain is falling and two guys in electric wheel chairs with cigarettes dangling from their lips are on opposite sides of the street racing each other while pedestrians dive out of the way. Across the street is a Libanaise (that’s how it is spelled) restaurant with a neon sign that has a neon knife wielding chef cutting neon lamb slices for neon kababs. When I have worn my welcome out here I’ll probably go across the street and look for some exotic food and tea.

I have heard French people make fun of Canadian French because it offends their ears. I just offend myself when I have to order things in English because all I took in College for a foreign language was American Sign Language. Regardless, people have been very kind to me here.
It has been a strange transition this past few months. I went from full time job to long distance motorcycle riding to a retreat in the woods of Northern California and Oregon to Las Vegas complete with casinos and bars and now I am about to have a month of a strict yogic lifestyle. The whole point was to shake up the snowglobe I call my psyche. When this is all over it will be interesting to see what it looks like when the snowflakes land. I’m just kind of hoping that there will be a palm tree there.

Reconnection

At 5pm on Saturday evening, I unplugged my vacuum, scooped up a handful of cleaning supplies and walked them down my stairs adding them to a random pile of stuff awaiting a new tenant. My pickup truck was already packed. After slipping a note and key through the manager’s mail slot, I chased the setting sun to the Utah border. As I laid my sleeping bag on the red dirt a few shooting stars welcomed me home to my place under the Milky Way, my Steamboat life was but a memory.

The past week has been one of my most trying ones to date. I basically sequestered myself away in my apartment and went through 7-plus years of accumulation and reduced it so it would fit comfortably into my pickup truck. That last week in Steamboat felt strange. I got to say goodbye to a small handful of friends, but for the most part, I just hid out. I didn’t even go out for Halloween. This was partly because I had so much to do, but mainly because I had no desire. The effects of spending the last eight years as a newspaper publisher are starting to become apparent. Paulie, my business partner said it best, “It’s great because people don’t kiss my ass anymore.” I have found that my interactions, though fewer, have been more real.

In the past two days I have driven about 12,000 miles to Heartwood Institute outside of Garberville California. My girlfriend Cassidy is working here for a few months and I figure it will be a perfect chance to leave my old life behind and prepare for the new. The plan is to head to Las Vegas from here and put my stuff in my Dad’s garage and then fly to Montreal Canada for a month of Yoga teacher training in an ashram. I’m not sure if I will teach yoga when I finish, but I at least want to hit “reset” and figure out what’s next.

Judging by the smell, what’s next is dinner. Happy Election Day Eve! Spooky…

Home, well, sorta...

I never made it to San Diego. I was swallowed up by the LA vortex. Sometimes it’s good to dip a toe into an experience. I dove in head first. Some of my highlights were having swim races in a friend’s new pool while smoke from dozens of out of control fires blew overhead, screening a film with a producer friend in Hollywood, going to a yoga class with a few yoga teacher friends of mine, chasing a friend around the windy roads between the coast and the 101 as he tried to lose me on his motorcycle, spending two days surfing with a lifeguard friend in El Segundo and finally, spending the day with Cass watching the wildlife in Venice Beach. Two days before I was going to head back to Las Vegas and Steamboat we were staying with some friends in Santa Barbara. The husband asked me if I knew anyone who would be passing through who may want to drive his pickup back to Steamboat. I told him that if my motorcycle would fit in the back, I would be happy to drive it back. It did. The next day I reluctantly loaded Shadowfax in the bed of the pickup, said goodbye and began the journey to Steamboat via Las Vegas where Shadowfax will be spending time in my Dad’s garage. The end of our journey together took me by surprise, but I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to help someone and avoid having to book a flight back to Steamboat. We logged just over 4,000 miles since 9/11

The drive yesterday was gorgeous. I went between five and 10 mph under the speed limit the whole way. It was great to catch up with friends on the cell phone, something I can’t do on the motorcycle.

When I peeked the front of the truck out of Glennwood canyon, I was pummeled by sideways blowing snow, quite the opposite of the seventy-something weather on the Grand Junction side of things. The snow slowed down and stopped, but when I reached State Bridge, the truck started getting squirrely. The roads looked wet, but when I got out to check on things, it was slicker than an ice skating rink. Thank goodness the truck had four-wheel-drive.

I stopped for an hour in Oak Creek to see my friend and business partner Paulie. It was good to catch up and see how much our lives have changed in the last month and a half. Strangely, I dreaded going home. Sleeping in an apartment that I will need to vacate in the next nine days feels like pressurized limbo. Steamboat fall feels really good. It’s the time that naturally pulls one into nesting mode. This is not my path right now. In the next nine days I plan to give away most of my clothes and furniture and will bring the rest back to my Dad’s house where it will live until my restless spirit is ready to float back to Earth.

In nine days I will have paddled to the mouth of the harbor. The ocean awaits!

Lane Splitting

In The Skeleton Crew by Stephen King, there is a story called Mrs. Todd’s Shortcut. I haven’t read it since just before Clinton got into the White House, but apparently the story left a deep impression. In the story, Mrs. Todd always looked for the shortest route to where she was going. She would constantly watch the clock and the odometer. Each time she would beat her previous record, until one time she managed to escape the time space continuum all together. When my Mom had Alzheimer’s I took frequent trips to Las Vegas to be with her and my Dad. Each trip I would go faster and faster. I remember holding 135 mph for what seemed like an eternity until the world started looking normal at that speed. When I would slow to 85, it felt like I was crawling. This lasted until I got the trip down to just over 10 hours. Eventually, I sold that car for a Subaru wagon which went dramatically slower. With that car, I took a different route every time and made the trip as slow as possible. I found petroglyphs, hot springs and magical canyons. Both ways gave me a great deal of satisfaction, though the latter burned less gas, was safer and reduced the chance of a speeding ticket significantly. On this journey I have also experienced both extremes. Though Shadowfax’s comfort zone doesn’t allow speeds much faster than 90 mph, I can still burn a lot of pavement in a day. I’m currently on my third back tire and my speedometer decided to quit as I was leaving San Francisco at 10,016 miles.

Driving in a car, I can daydream and take time to look around at the scenery both close and far. On the motorcycle, I have to be completely in the game. Subsequently, I have made a game out of the act of riding itself. Last week I found myself on Highway 1 feeling the urge to pass cars, even ones who were doing the speed limit. I put myself in check and asked why I didn’t just relax and enjoy the view. I realized that the view wasn’t changing much and the road was much too twisty. I changed my focus and the ride became much more enjoyable. P A S S became my mantra. I passed one car, I passed two cars, I passed on straight stretches, I passed on curvy sections. I didn’t pass to get there quicker, I just passed cars because they were there. Eventually, I dipped into the fog and couldn’t ride more than a minute without rubbing the steam off my glasses. My visor was already useless from salt and water inside and out. Just the act of riding was difficult enough.

One last phenomena of note is called lane splitting. In California, if you are on a motorcycle, you can ride between lanes of traffic. “Those guys are idiots,” I remember my Dad saying when we would visit California when I was little. It took me a good week of California riding before I became one of those idiots, but when I broke down and tried it, I experienced a rush I had never felt. It feels like skiing or snowboarding in the trees, only the trees are moving. As with any thing this intense, I will practice moderation.

My last week-plus with Cass has caused me to slow down significantly and once again I am taking time to look at the things around me. We have backpacked in the redwoods, fallen asleep to the sound of the waves and enjoyed a bluegrass festival in San Francisco. I’m enjoying both worlds, though sometimes the transitions are surprisingly noticeable to me and those around me.

Now I’m in Ventura with Cass staying at a friend’s house for a few days. Then I’m not sure where. Maybe I’ll head down to San Diego and complete my stretch from the Canadian border to the Mexico border

Rain

So far the weather gods have been kind to me. Besides the first day, I only had to ride in the rain for an hour or so… until yesterday.

The day began after a “snore fest” in a hostel dorm room in an old military barracks in Fort Warden State Park in Port Townsend. I had my ear plugs in, but according to one of my temporary roommates, six guys in one room made quite a racket. I stuck around just long enough that morning to grab my ten dollar key deposit and went down to a local coffee shop where the barista was in the process of starting his own newspaper. He was also still on a high from his first Burning Man experience. Synchronicities never cease to amaze me.

When I left Port Townsend the rain gods took a deep breath which took just long enough for me to get a few miles down the road before they exhaled rain all over Shadowfax and my parade. The day kind of looked like this: Ride to the Half Way House Diner for a cod sandwich, rain. Ride a few hours with temporary construction zone stops, rain. Ride another hour feeling my boots fill up with water, rain. Stop for an Oyster Cocktail, rain. Cross the Astoria Bridge hoping not to run out of gas, rain. Fill up gas and get some smoked salmon, welcome break from rain. That’s right for about a half hour, while I took photos of sea lions and digested my salmon, the weather gods took a moment to inhale. Not to worry, the next burst of showers attacked me with a vengeance. For once I was NOT going to ride in the dark, but the skies were so dark most of the day, I couldn’t tell when day was going to become night. The extent of the rain made me have to raise the visor on my helmet to see. The only way I could handle the pounding rain was to grimace and let my teeth take the brunt of the stinging raindrops to give my weather-beaten lips a break. This added to the olfactory experience as I passed the Tillamook cheese factory and then the miles and miles of cow dung soup fields made by the cows responsible for the famous cheese. Eventually I saw a sign that pointed to an inn two miles off the road. I wanted to push on, but Shadowfax turned of her own accord and we ended up staying in Pacific City. Three wines into my wine and cheese tasting made the day almost a memory. The only reminder came from the drops of water dripping from the only pair of shoes I brought, my boots.

Today I ride down the coast to California. I have two days to get to the Hearst Castle area where I will meet Cass. There is an endless battalion of clouds waiting for me outside. We’ll see if they will spare me or if yesterday’s fate will be repeated.

A Few More Minutes of Bobbing in the Ocean

I’m alive, well and picking the blackberry seeds out of my teeth in Doe Bay on Orcas Island, Washington. I’m hoping to make this quick so I can take on more soak in the hot baths here before getting on the ferry to Anacortes and Port Townsend.

Inspiration and timing have rarely coexisted this trip. My best thoughts and stories happen while riding along on my motorcycle. If I had more time right now, I would tell stories like Cass and Scotty almost freeze in Yosemite, Republican Cows, The Harvest Moon vs. The Halogen Monster, I-5 Cell Phone Impact, A Night of Junkie Counseling, the One Mile Diet, the Ill-advised Night Rider, How to Double Your Money on the Nevada Border and a whole lot more. Of course, I am choosing to go out and soak my travel weary bones one more time before jumping on Shadowfax and blazing off this island paradise. The Pacific Coast awaits…

More soon, or at least a bunch of photos.

The Journey Begins

The world was out to get Shadowfax today, and I just happened to be along for the ride, but I’ll get to that in a minute. This journey begins during the last two weeks as I have been in a mad rush to wrap up eight years of business while simultaneously getting Shadowfax, my motorcycle, ready for a journey. Throw in three major events I had to organize in addition to these tasks and what you get is one hugely frazzled Scotty. No matter. When my eyes popped open in the pre-dawn hours on 9/11, I popped up, threw the remaining items into my luggage and loaded up for a one month journey around the Western United States. Was I ready? Picture a ten-year-old running for the school bus with an unzipped backpack, untied shoes and a jacket and lunch box flailing like an old-fashioned movie projector at the end of a film. When the boxes were attached to the bike and the last strapped tightened, I took a moment to just sit there on Shadowfax’s back and let the Steamboat, home and work world come to a stop before letting the world of freedom unfold. With a push of the button the engine started. I was off…

Having embarked on multi-month journeys before, I was aware that I packed too much of what I didn’t need and probably forgot a few things that I did. Fortunately the road provides. My main task on day one was to begin the process of clearing my mind.

I headed west on 40 through Milner and Craig. The skies above were gray; the skies in the direction I was heading were black! I pulled over just before Maybell to put the cover on my tank bag and liberate that first cup of coffee. When I got back on Shadowfax and pushed the button. Nothing happened. Fortunately, I was on a hill and with a compression start, we were back on the road. Moments later, the sky started crying crocodile tears. Not your typical tropical crocodile, mind you, but the ultra-rare arctic version whose tears are the size of marbles with a temperature of 33 degrees. I stayed dry until the drip began filling up my right boot. Right about the time that boot filled, the other one followed suit. The mirrored reflection of the sky off of the standing water on the road took my mind off of this and I reflected on other things.

By the time I hit Vernal, I had outrun the storm. I could have kept going, but I wanted to fill the battery with battery acid to see if that would help the problem. Just as I finished filling the last cell, the arctic crocodile storm caught me. I was already wet, though; It didn’t matter. Continuing west through Vernal, Shadowfax started handling strangely. At first I thought it was the foam on the road, but then realized that the back tire was flat. I stopped at a garage, and a tire store, neither who could help me. One guy told me of a motorcycle dealership down the street. Fortunately, they took the time to change the tire for me.

I have a spare tube and tire irons, but I have heard horror stories of grown men crying like babies after wrestling with a flat for an hour or two. I figured I would eat the cost and let the pros do it since I was in a town. I hung out in the garage with three Mexican mechanics as they tried to decide who would do the job. Of course they picked the guy least suited for it. He got lots of practice, though, having to do it twice. He overfilled and popped the tube on his first try. Have you ever wondered why people who speak different languages still choose to swear in English? Two hours later, we were back on the road. Crocodile rains got board and headed the other way.

That night I chased the sunset all the way to 15 and slept in a motel in Nephi, Utah, 351 miles from home.

Tomorrow our lives will change forever

“Tomorrow our lives will change forever,” I yelled from my bedroom. Paulie was in his room in front of a movie sleeping or awake, I wasn’t sure. I was sitting at my tiny thrift store desk looking at the touch-tone phone and imagining it ringing non-stop as soon as we passed out the papers the next morning.

That first issue was designed in Andy Jehn’s (now Andy Kennnedy) apartment, and after it came off the printer, photo copies needed to be made and folded. By the end of the next day we had handed out about 250 copies of what we perceived to be the most important thing to come to the Valley since the chair lift. The phone didn’t ring off the hook that day - in fact, the phone didn’t ring at all, at least not after that first issue.

We started The Local in January 2001 because at that time there wasn’t a community forum, and in our opinion, without a place for people to share their ideas, you can’t have a healthy community. It took a while for things to take off. People in the Yampa Valley are pretty weary about new things, especially a couple of loudmouth punks with the audacity to call their paper “The Local.” (But after all, it was born here)

Those first few years were fun. Really fun - in fact, too much fun. Bloody Mary reviews, energy drink reviews, art openings; concerts, more concerts… the list goes on. About the time Paulie sold his second car to pay for his share of the printing, we decided that we should probably start selling ads. I still remember that first ad sale fondly. When Paul and Seth at Café Diva gave us that check we thanked them, shook hands and proceeded to celebrate our newly acquired profits by spending them only a few steps away at their bar.
Paulie and I changed a lot over the years. As our 20s became our 30s, the paper began to gain credibility, mostly because of the amazing people in our community who submitted articles, photos, letters and bought ads. Both of us volunteer time and energy by getting involved in groups outside of The Local. The root of both of our personal missions is building community, and I think that is why The Local has been so successful throughout the years.

Paulie likes to joke about how when people come up to talk to him, how many of their conversations begin with “I really shouldn’t be telling you this but…” I usually add that if we really wanted to make money we’d sell the photos and stories that don’t make the paper back to those involved. (Don’t worry; we don’t own a newspaper anymore.)
Different people and groups have approached us on many occasions these past eight years about buying the paper. Up until now, we have said no for a number of reasons, but mostly because we enjoy the paper and the community that the paper is a part of. For that reason, when Tom approached us a number of months ago, we were wary, but over the past four months we have watched Tom work and had numerous conversations about the direction The Local will take. We have faith that Tom has what it takes to make sure that The Local continues to serve the community. But as always, The Local only works because of community participation. Please keep submitting photos, letters, gripes, props, smidgens, writing and of course, buying ads. We want to see The Local continue to thrive long after we are old and gray.

As for me, I’m going to keep writing and taking photos, which is why I wanted to get into this business in the first place. I’m also going to go off again on more world travels. I have eight years of wander lust to satiate. You can find me on scottglackman.blogspot.com. I’ll send the occasional story in from the road, and if there’s room, maybe Tom will print them. Thank you for the opportunity to assist in putting out The Local for all these years. It has truly been a pleasure.

No News is Good News... For Me.

Imagine an elephant sitting in front of you. He takes up most of your vision, except perhaps a few strips on the periphery. Now imagine not being able to talk about this elephant or even mention him for four months. That’s how these past four months have felt. WE SOLD THE LOCAL. There is lots more to say, but we have decided not to talk about it until the next issue comes out on August 28. For now, I’ll attach the article written in the Steamboat Today. http://steamboatpilot.com/news/2008/aug/22/local_takes_new_owner/

Liberation, at last!

The other morning as I was lying in bed, I felt a strange lightness of being, as if I were iron filings and a magnet was brushing over me. At that point, I let my consciousness go free to research the sensation and surprisingly, it only made it as far as the bathroom cabinet.

Seven years ago I moved out of the apartment that housed Paulie, me, The Local and various in and out-of-town visitors and into a one bedroom apartment of my own. I didn’t have many possessions at the time. It didn’t take long to extract myself from one space and inject myself into the other. The move was incident free… until the crash.

I had never considered myself overly superstitious, or maybe it was just that I hadn’t overly considered superstitions, but when I slid the box of bathroom supplies onto the counter pushing the little two-sided vanity mirror off, it opened up a whole can of superstition worms I didn’t know existed.

OK, maybe I’m a little superstitious. I always knock on wood for me or anyone around me when a phrase is uttered that seems to challenge fate. When salt is spilled, I always throw a dash over my shoulder, and. I always go around a ladder rather than passing underneath. I do these things more for fun than out of fear. I consider little superstitions like this seasoning to a potentially bland life. But suffering the fate of a broken mirror, that was something I had never had to deal with. Not until that day seven years ago.

The memory comes in three phases: The mirror sliding off the counter, the explosion on impact, and then the cleaning up the shards of broken glass. Each of these comes with its own emotion: Annoyance that I didn’t move the mirror first, fear of what would happen when it hit the ground, and finally, bewilderment.

“Don’t cry over spilled milk” didn’t work for me as I brushed the shards into a pile. This was bigger than that. My rational mind came up with reasons for why this superstition started. Perhaps the fragmented reflection seen in the broken mirror sliced at the delicate psyche, taking seven years to heal. Maybe when the superstition was born mirrors were so expensive that they equaled seven years salary of the persons unlucky enough to break them? Whatever the reason, it was up to me to convince myself that it was only a superstition. I thought I was successful. The slices on my fingers healed in a matter of days, and I have felt pretty lucky over these past seven years. So what was it that left me the other morning? Was it something my subconscious was holding on to? Was it truly bad luck leaving? Does it really matter?

I don’t think it matters. They say our lives move in seven year cycles and when I look at mine, I can see this is true. I wouldn’t go back to that day and move the mirror. Whatever has happened, I’m happy for the lessons learned. That seven years of uneasiness will just make the next seven that much sweeter. Oh no, is that a black cat crossing my path.

Bug Bites and Battle Scars

“Boys, it’s OK if you get the clap; at least it means you’re gettin’ some.” This tarnished pearl of wisdom seemed ridiculous when Shawny’s dad imparted it on us back in high school, but, now that I’m older, I can see that perhaps it holds a bit of truth.

The memory of this conversation is recalled as I sit at my desk with throbbing, blistered feet and a body pocked with mosquito bites resembling the waiting room at the Zit’n’Pimple acne clinic. These are a few manifested memories of this past weekend’s 24-mile backpacking adventure. Normally we think of pain and discomfort as negative things, but for those of us who sit at desks week in and week out, they can be pleasant reminders of weekend adventures. How many of you have a favorite scar? I know I do.

The balance between safety and adventure can be tricky. Society sends us mixed messages. We’re perpetually being told that the world is a dangerous place and that we need to seek refuge. Terror alerts, home alarm systems, protective padding for virtually every sport, tazers and mace are all things that we are urged to place between us and the hostile world. Yet at the same time, we are sold products such as pre-washed/pre-torn jeans, aviator jackets, tan-in-a-can, camouflaged gear, and a plethora of other products to give us the appearance that we live rugged outdoor lifestyles.

The whole thing can be darned confusing. Shawny’s dad is no longer with us, though it would be nice to call him for the occasional “should I stay or should I go” council. These days I look to what I call “my deathbed self.” I go into the future and ask the happy, shriveled figure what I should do. Ultimately, he’s the one I have to answer to anyway. On many occasions he says “stay,” but once in a while I hear, “what the hell, go for it, that’s what shots are for.”

This isn’t an article condoning unprotected sex or taking stupid risks. I don’t even know if the Clap still exists. I just know that I’ve heard more than one person this past fortnight lament that summer is almost over and they haven’t taken the time to have any fun. The truth is, we haven’t even reached our half-way point. Padding or not, get out there and enjoy.

1737Miles

When Paulie hit send last deadline and our paper began its journey to the printers, I blasted out of the office like Luke and R2D2 leaving the exploding Death Star. The only casualty from last fortnight's 1737 mile adventure was the untimely demise of thousands of unsuspecting insects. Fortunately, the thrills outnumbered the carnage.


It was a glorious spring in the Yampa Valley this year. The abundance of snow this past winter has kept the hills green and the Yampa and Elk rivers flowing. Something about the ideal spring and early summer has given me the "leave the party while it's still raging" urge. Subsequently, when last issue came out on the 3rd of July, I decided to escape to the woods where traffic and fireworks wouldn't disrupt my flow. The woods I chose were in the Grand Tetons where our friends the Rainbow Family were gathering.


Coming from the south, Rock Springs was the last big town I went through before taking a right at Boulder, Wyoming and heading into the woods. Unlike two years ago, I only passed one officer, two hitchhikers and some cars before parking my motorcycle right at the front gate, trading my riding clothes for hiking attire and leaving the real world behind.


I was on assignment two years ago when the Gathering was on the front page of the local daily paper almost everyday for a month or more. This time I had the luxury to experience it at my own pace without having to take notes and photos. A kundulini yoga class nourished my body and mind while an edible and medicinal plant walk nourished my body. As in any society, I met people I would steer clear of and people from whom I learned a great deal. I can't say my experience at the gathering wasn't entirely uneventful, but due to space restrictions that info is on my blog:. Scottglackman.blogspot.com.


Trading hat and t-shirt for riding jacket and helmet, I pointed my front wheel west toward the setting sun. This time I passed more than 12 police cars, some going to the gathering and some pulled over to the side of the road. According to the Jackson Hole Tribune, once again I had left an exploding death star, this time consisting of "officers pointing weapons at children and firing rubber bullets and pepper spray balls." By dark I was well on my way to Flaming Gorge, and early the next morning made my way to Steamboat for a quick week of work. Judging by reports from friends, Steamboat's 4th of July wasn't without carnage, either.


I made it through three and a half days of work before being overcome by wanderlust again and vacating Steamboat, this time to rally with adventure riders in Silverton, deep in the jagged recesses of the San Juan Mountains. Three days of alternating roller-coaster like riding over passes and valleys broken up by slide shows from people who have ridden around the world on motorcycles similar to mine, made it almost impossible to come home. I fear I'm getting addicted to the solitary life of traveling long distances on two wheels. I can already tell that by the end of the summer my report card won't say "plays well with others." More likely, I'll be reprimanded for playing too much with myself.

Somewhere over the Rainbow

“If she pukes, tip the litter to the side,” I let my wilderness first responder lapse years ago, but it didn’t matter to the woman writhing in pain, she was just happy that she would soon be at the road and on her way to medical attention. I was glad that I opted for sleep the night before and didn’t partake in the 4^th of July festivities.

A few days before when we put the current issue of The Local to bed I knew that I didn’t want to be in Steamboat for the 4^th of July. I wanted to spend the 4^th in the woods far from cars and traffic. My choices were Conundrum Hot Springs outside of Aspen or the Rainbow gathering outside of Jackson, Wyoming. I opted for the Rainbow Gathering. Conundrum will always be there and the Gathering only happens once a year. When the Rainbow Gathering happened outside of Steamboat two years ago, I hitchhiked in, stayed a night and wrote a story about it. That gathering made the front page of the Steamboat Today paper almost everyday for two months that summer. When I got there that year I had a great experience, but I was rushed because of a deadline. This time I was free from Thursday until Monday morning.

This would be my first multi-day motorcycle journey, and when I tightened the strap that lashed my pack to my bike and kicked it into gear, I was overcome with elation. It was as if the rabble of butterflies in my stomach could fly me to anywhere that had anything resembling a road.

Steamboat to Craig, Craig north to bags and I-80 and I-80 to Rock Springs where 191 led north to Boulder, WY, and the dirt roads that led to the gathering. I stopped for some gas along I-80 and was sitting outside eating a banana and listening to the guy in the car next to me spewing random Wyoming facts. “Wyoming is number two in the nation for lack of population density. 2.5 people per mile. This is an energy state. They’re offering truck drivers $1000 sign on bonus and all they do is drive gas to the rigs and back to refill, and they get paid $95,000 a year.” He went on and I watched a deer sprint down the street. When he left a Halliburton Truck took his spot. I followed the deer and sprinted to where pavement became dirt.

I learned a couple things on that stretch. First, the best way to become comfortable traveling 65 miles per hour on my motorcycle is to spend a half hour doing 85. I also found out that I get 100 less miles per tank driving that way. Eventually I took a right and crossed the sage lands following the pines and mirror ponds as they led me to the ever-growing Tetons. I only saw one police car, but only after it turned on its lights and sped around me. Eventually I got to the back gate and parked right along the fence. Leather jacket and helmet were replaced by t-shirt and felt hat, and I covered my motorcycle and walked the 2.5 miles to the first kitchen and campfire. I was cheered (and munched) on by mosquitoes every step of the way.

When I got to the Warrior’s of Light camp I walked into the woods to find a spot for my tent that wouldn’t get the early morning light. My trusty North Face Tadpole was up in minutes and I wandered down to sit around the fire.

Many kinds of people attend Rainbow Gatherings. There are lots of hippies, some punks, some who are there to hide and some who are there for freedom to express themselves spiritually and artistically. It’s amazing how many great musicians are there. That first evening I did more singing than talking, backing up guitars, drums, and various other stringed instruments. Eventually I decided to walk the dark path into the woods. After all, this was only the camp on the perimeter.

“That must be where the party is,” I wondered out loud to a dark figure passing in the woods.

“That’s the Christian camp.” He replied. The drums and chanting echoed through the forest. I kept walking past many camp fires with people singing and playing music. Eventually I started to hear a deep rumble and followed it until it led me to a giant bonfire and three levels of people around it dancing, singing and playing drums. If Dionysus was going to show up at the gathering, it was here that he would be. This is what I was looking for. The drums eventually entranced me and I danced around the fire until the metal pendent around my neck threatened to burn its image into my chest. Then I stood on the upper level until the sweat dried and went on my way back to find my tent.

I was disoriented and took many paths through the forest. I finally found one that felt right and got in step with a woman who began singing a beat. I joined in and we sang harmonizing together about her birthday which had just begun. When the song finished I wished her a happy birthday and she gave me a huge hug and said thank you and goodnight. When she walked off I looked up and a star shot across the sky.

The next morning was the 4^th of July. At the Rainbow Gathering the 4^th is a day of silence where everyone prays and meditates for peace. The silence lasts until noon when everyone gathers around the main meadow, joins hands and begins to chant OM. The OM went on for about ten minutes during which time the cloudy sky directly above us began to part and a ray of sunshine lit up the circle. Traditionally at the gathering the morning’s silence ends with the children’s parade. When the children marched in everyone cheered, hugged and drumming and dancing commenced in the center of the circle. I opted to go to Yoga Camp and spend the afternoon learning from a kundalini yoga master.

By dinner time I was thoroughly high from the yoga and really hungry. I ran into a pizza kitchen on my walk back and had some pizza made in wood fired ovens. I was glad the meat eaters’ line was short. I also stopped by Jerusalem, the kosher Jewish camp where they were celebrating Shabbat by dancing and singing prayers. The devoutness in this camp was moving but I was still in shorts from the morning sans flashlight and I had only a few minutes until it would be too dark to find my tent. I made it just in time.

My cellular phone tucked in the mesh pocket in my tent told me it was 9:45. It was the teetering point. I could either suit up for evening with some warm clothes, some musical instruments and a thirst for nighttime fun or listen to my blistered feet that had already carried me ten-plus miles. I listened to my feet, put some earplugs in and drifted with the smoke through the trees and up to dream with the stars.

Side note:

While I was sleeping, Steamboat Springs was having one of the craziest Independence days ever. There were people getting hit by cars, falling face first and needing major plastic surgery, drinking tiki oil and getting rushed off by ambulances and others getting into major fights. The fireworks show even got cut short when the explosives went off prematurely messing up the computer system and causing the people around them to have to hide behind trees for their safety. These are only a few of the stories I heard. I’m glad I wasn’t in Steamboat.

I woke up after ten hours of sleep and wandered to find some coffee. On my way I passed the medic tent and was recruited to help carry Ashley, a woman who was screaming with kidney pain. Six of us rotated carrying the litter over rocks and through mud for the 2.5 miles to the parking lot. It felt good to be doing work in a place where if I wanted to, I could do nothing but relax and find the next kitchen serving food for three weeks. We finally got her to a car who raced her to the nearest hospital about an hour and a half away. I was glad I got to drink that cup of coffee before the journey.

I still had one day left before I had to be at work. I could spend another day at the gathering or head out and have a day of camping somewhere quiet before landing back in Steamboat. I opted to take a dip in the river, pack up and make that 2.5 mile trek again where my bike was comfortably covered and waiting quietly for me. It started immediately with no choke and only one push of the starter. It wanted to get out of there.

I must have passed 24 cars on my way out. 12 were police waiting on the side of the road and 12 were driving slowly and kicking up dust. I just waved and smiled as I zoomed past them. Thank goodness for an on/off road motorcycle.

That evening I stopped for a shrimp cocktail and a margarita at a Mexican restaurant in Rock Springs and then headed south on 191 until finding a sage prairie to lay my head.

Six Antelope greeted me when I woke up and bade me a safe journey home through Flaming Gorge, Vernal, Dinosaur and back to Steamboat where the hot springs comforted my travel weary body.

The soreness in my arms from carrying the litter is going away. I only hope Ashleigh got to the hospital and is feeling better. Outside the brewery where I’m writing this, my motorcycle is waiting patiently. Tomorrow morning it goes in for new tires and by tomorrow night we will be heading to Silverton for a Horizons Unlimited meeting for adventure riders who have or plan to ride around the world. A full day of work followed by six hours of riding, tomorrow; I’m ready!

Here's a link to a recent story: http://www.jacksonh olestartrib. com/articles/ 2008/07/05/ news/wyoming/ b6f13c1e81260414 8725747d0005a3c0 .txt

...and a few more for good measure

Faces of the fortnight

Here are a few of my encounters in the past two weeks.

Loopy in Wyoming

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Snow had made some of the closer passes impassable. So when it was time to blast off for my first big ride, I decided to go north to Wyoming on a slightly longer ride that still had dirt aspects, but also had some paved roads. The trip got off to a late, but not so uneventful start. Just before reaching Clark, I felt a sharp burning sensation on my inner thigh. The poor bee was bouncing around on my leg like bungee jumper hanging from a ceiling fan. I brushed him away and tried to remember the best method for getting a stinger out. They say if you pinch it and pull it out it shoots more venom into you. I have also heard that the more we get stung, the lower our tolerance is. After a few minutes with no anaphylactic shock, I decided that I still wasn’t allergic to bees. Thank goodness.

About thirty miles north of Steamboat, Hwy 129 splits. I was hoping to take the right fork and check out Big Red Park. I hadn’t been there since the Rainbow Gathering two years ago. Unfortunately, there was a locked gate. When I went to the other fork it said “road closed ahead!” There was no gate, though, so I decided to keep going and try my luck. I figured that I could always pull my “journalist” card and say I was reporting on the road closure. I had to laugh, Paulie, my business partner, had written an article the day before that talked about entitlement. http://www.thesteamboatlocal.com/article.php?id=604 It was a good article, and I felt like its subject. Regardless, five, ten, fifteen miles… still no sign of a closed road. Sometimes they just forget to take signs down. I stopped for a few minutes at Three Forks Ranch to take a photo of an eagle and some antelope when a fishing guide and his client stopped to say hi. I asked if the road was closed ahead and they said no. I wasn’t going to be blocked from my goal! The rest of my dirt miles felt like I had just won the golden ticket. I was getting used to the bike and feeling comfortable with a little speed. Eventually I got to a paved road that said Bags one way and Encampment the other. I opted to take a right. My Colorado Atlas and Gazetteer stopped at the border. I would have to rely on signs. Hopefully I would find one that said “Walden” at which point I would take a right.

The next 20 or so miles climbed up to over 10,000 feet. When I reached the Continental Divide there was still deep snow on both sides of the road. The views were breathtaking and the forest service had the road lined with interpretive signs. One of the signs was the site where Thomas Edison got the idea for the filament in his incandescent light bulb. I didn’t think I’d find anything up there, especially the site of a significant event in history. I was glad there was virtually no traffic on the road. I must have looked drunk weaving from one to the other side of the road reading the signs. One of the few cars that passed was full of pretty girls waving out of a sun roof. The adventure was getting better all the time! At that point I decided that I would have to stop at a bar in one of the little Wyoming towns to have a ceremonial beer and check out some of the local wildlife. Some of their older sisters, perhaps? I just had to remember the cardinal rules: Don’t talk about religion, and don’t talk about politics. It’s amazing how far talking about the weather can get you.

I cruised through Encampment, population 400-something. The bars had little windows that I couldn’t see through. It’s awkward to walk in a bar, decide you don’t want to be there after making eye contact with the very reasons you DON’T want to be there and then turn around to walk out. I kept riding.

At the end of town I saw the sign I was looking for: Walden, and took a right. There were two bars that looked full of life. I stopped at one, parked right in front and walked in. “No more talking about politics,” I heard someone say when I walked in. Another guy ordered a Guinness. I followed suit. This wasn’t such a bad place after all. Still, I decided to take my beer and sit outside where a gentleman convinced me to ride 20 miles out of my way to Saratoga where there was a free hot spring. I’d no sooner pass up a hot spring in Wyoming than I would pass up a Guinness after crossing the Great Divide. The soak felt great to my road-beaten body, but the sun’s position in the sky afterward wasn’t reassuring. Despite being the third longest day of the year, I wasn’t sure my motorcycle and I could beat the sun to the horizon. We were no match for its speed and by Walden, it was almost dark… and getting very cold! I stopped at a gas station to fill my jacket with crumpled newspapers, an old survival trick, and got back on the road. About 20 miles later I was disappointed that I didn’t stuff more newspapers in my jacket. Not nearly as disappointed, however as I was that I didn’t think to get GAS at the station. I had read that the KLR got 300 plus gallons to the tank. I was only at 216 when the engine started puttering. Fortunately, it has a reserve tank that somehow got me to the top of Rabbit Ear’s Pass. At that point, I put it in neutral where it wouldn’t use too much gas (and was quiet enough so that someone upstairs may hear my prayers). At mile 242 I coasted into the Shop ‘n Hop at the far end of town. I was frozen, I was exhausted, but I was home!

The rest of the weekend was full of excitement. Cutting beetle kill down in the National Forest, getting my motorcycle license in Craig America, going to the sheriff’s wedding reception, a few days of gondola laps on the mountain bike, but nothing could compare to the first big journey on the motorcycle.

Tomorrow I go away for four days to Life Skills Camp in Estes Park with a bunch of middle-schoolers. There’s no telling what stories will come from that adventure. I better get to sleep.

Seventh Day Adventurist

Here's my latest editorial for The Local. I'm planning a nice long ride today so I should have some good photos.

Seventh Day Adventurist

“SLAP,” well, that’s the sound it made, at least, as it hit my cheek. I didn’t know what it was at first, but as soon as I felt the furry creature that was stuck in my helmet move, I pulled over and slid my brain-bucket off gingerly. The bee fell to the ground. This isn’t a story that would have happened last fortnight. A lot has changed since then.

Two Fridays ago, after we got the papers distributed, I went to Boulder for a magazine conference. Editors from some of my favorite adventure magazines were there sharing information about what the magazines are interested in and how to best pitch your ideas. It was a really interesting and informative conference, but most importantly for me, was the inspiration with which I was left. It reminded me of how fertile Steamboat Springs is for adventures and great story ideas. This should have been more apparent, just look at writers like Eugene Buchanan, Jill Murphy Long, Joe Carberry and Jennie Lay who have all been published outside of the Valley. But when the editors mentioned how foreign and adventurous our lives seem to the typical Manhattan magazine editor (not to mention all of the readers), I looked at life in the Yampa Valley in a richer, more Technicolor way. I left the conference with some great connections, some new skills and best of all, the realization that if I could up the ante on my Yampa Valley adventures, it would make my stories more interesting and possibly be my ticket to getting paid to have some adventures in far off lands. On the drive home, I decided that the next logical step in this process was to create a blog. That night when I got home, Idle Thoughts and Epic Adventures was born.

I never thought I would have a blog, but only writing one column every other week isn’t doing much for my writing, and Idle Thoughts aren’t lending themselves to enough adventure. If you put “Epic Adventures” in the title, you have to have some, right?

Blog-night-one got me thinking about adventure. By blog-night-two, the adventure had begun! This adventure personified itself in the form of a 2007 Kawasaki KLR 650, a motorcycle known to be great for cross-continent travel both on and off-road. I’ve ridden motorcycles intended for dirt before and I’ve ridden ones made for the street, but the possibilities that present themselves when you have one that can go almost anywhere are like a triple shot of espresso for a dreamers mind. I love my Toyota pickup, but when I wake up in the morning, twist the key on the KLR and push the magic button, its engine hypnotizes me. In the past week I have gotten lost on the way to the grocery store and ended up on both Rabbit Ears and Buffalo Pass, missed my turn to go home and ended up at the hot springs, and taken the long way everywhere else I’ve ridden. I haven’t needed it to get to adventure; the adventure has been in the act of getting there. I’ve also become aware of others riding the same motorcycle. I have probably seen five a day, and most of them carry saddlebags and have license plates from far away. Seeing them sends my motorcycle and me from jeep roads in the tundra to trails through the Amazon with the ease of a fly fisherman whipping his fly from eddy to eddy. It takes all my strength just to reel in the line to little jaunts around the Flattops or through Big Red Park into Wyoming. It seems these Idle Thoughts have been popped into gear and thoroughly revved. It’s time to squeeze the clutch and apply the brakes liberally.

It’s my intention to hone my writing skills as well as my riding skills while not forgetting all of the other fun adventures there are to be had in the Yampa Valley. I can hear the muffled whimpering of the other toys in my toy box, even over the rumble of the KLR’s engine.

Feel free to check out my blog at scottglackman.blogspot.com. If you read it I’ll be compelled to write in it. Let the epic adventures begin!

I just remembered that I started a blog last week and haven’t added to it in five days. Tomorrow I have to write a new editorial for the paper. Here’s the last one from two weeks ago. Washington seems like a distant memory. It’s good to revisit it.

What I did on my summer vacation


The cuts on my hands from shucking oysters are almost gone and so is the sunburn on my neck. Now as I sit here on this 45 degree rainy day I feel like it’s fall and I’m writing a “what I did on my summer vacation” essay.

When I left Steamboat two weeks ago the Yampa River had already found its bed to be too small and was rudely encroaching on people’s back yards and even some roads (see last issue’s cover). At that time Mt. Werner above the Gondola had no bare spots, and to make things worse, the skies were full of snow. If it cleared up and got hot for a few days, Denver news teams would be featuring the Dream Island Yampa River Regatta. Just as soon as the last of the Locals were delivered, I high tailed it to Denver to catch a plane to Seattle. Whatever natural disasters that might have happened would have to happen without me. I had a race to run… or rather, to ski. (see Idle Thoughts issue 8.10)

Besides missing my flight by four minutes and spending an additional half hour assisting a fellow passenger and her two small children, the trip was uneventful. Before I knew it I was at a restaurant in a yuppified version of the town where I grew up. The assortment of wines and cheeses was Kirkland, Washington’s version of fast food. It was delicious but it didn’t take my mind off of the impending race. It did, however kick off my birthday festivities. Birthdays are a great time to go home because people feel obligated to hang out with you. A few hours later my friend Kirsten and I met up with some friends on a sail boat on Lake Union sipping tequila. Something about the combination of the two successfully took my mind off the race.



The next day started like any post birthday should, with a few asprin and an energy drink. Soon I was up in Bellingham meeting the members of my race team, Boogie Universal’s Electric Mayhem. We spent the evening ironing out logistics and sorting gear. Turns out my brand new boots didn’t fit my borrowed skis so I had to borrow boots too. I was glad I tested them out that night. I was the first leg of the race, and no skis would have caused our whole team to have to forfeit. I spent the next four hours sleeping the kind of sleep you would imagine sleeping if you were 35 feet up in a tree house the night before your first race.



The drive to Mt. Baker was awe-inspiring. The mountains around Steamboat look like molars. That region of the Cascades looks more like canines chipped by Gobstoppers. By 6am it was already t-shirt weather. My job when the starting gun went off was to charge the undulating four and a half mile figure eight loop and hand my timing chip to my teammate Tim, a.k.a. Santa Bunny. The race was half Alice in Wonderland, half James Bond ski chase. I managed to finish well ahead of Guy-In-Tutu and just in front of Umbrella-Hat-Wearing-Lady-In-Dress, but Man-In-Cow-Suit managed to finish just ahead of me. By 9am, Santa Bunny was charging up the mountain with snowboard on back and I was catching my breath wondering why I was so freaked out about this race and if someone had put something in my coffee. Our team finished somewhere in the middle, but due to our team spirit, Eric our road biker’s photo ended up on the cover of the Ski to Sea section of the Bellingham Herald the next day.



The rest of the Northwest portion of my summer vacation consisted of wine tasting, oyster feasts and ferry rides, but due to lack of space, I think it is best to get back to Steamboat.



Back in The ‘Boat, things had not gone as planned. The “Epic Floods of ‘08” were cancelled (or postponed) due to cold weather. Apparently, after hearing this, a suicidal raccoon decided to cause a disaster of his own by getting intimate with a piece of equipment with 12,000 volts running through it. I was sorry to have missed that. I heard Lincoln Avenue offered some brilliant star gazing opportunities.



It has only been a week since I got back to Steamboat, but thanks to long warm days, I have managed to fit in two weeks of work on the paper and a trip to the desert to roof a friend’s A-frame. The town’s spirits are high with everyone in kayaks, rafts, on bikes or lazily walking the streets. Now that I have a moment to relax and gaze out the window at this second day of rain I finally have time to look back fondly at my summer vacation. What day is it? June 4? What am I doing looking back at my summer vacation when summer doesn’t even start for two more weeks? I better wrap this up. I still have some spring to enjoy!

I woke up this morning to a collective, “You’ve got to be shittin' me!?!” I know, I didn’t think there was such thing either until I pried apart my blinds and saw bona fide snowflakes falling down to meet their compadres who had already set up shop on the ground. After witnessing this, I retrieved my Palm Trio for the day's inaugural email check . The first thing to come in was Michael David’s “Can you believe IT?!?!?!” email. The sentiment was indeed collective… in so many words.

I usually don’t look at weather reports unless I have a big trip planned. I like to be surprised and I can usually get a pretty good idea by looking up once and a while. Now that I feel compelled to use more two-wheeled transportation, I may be looking a little more closely at the forecast. Looks like today and tomorrow will be hovering in the 50s and the sun will be peaking his head out again on Friday.

You know how if you want it to rain you wash your car? Try buying a motorcycle and see what happens.

Beginning of a New Cycle

Traveling from the Arctic Circle to the southern tip of South America by motorcycle has been a dream of mine for over a decade. It hasn’t been a constant thought, but it has definitely surfaced every year or two. Last month when a Columbian friend told me he wanted to return to Columbia by land I brought up joining him on motorcycles. He thought this would be a good idea. A week later I found out he would be leaving the country before I could go with him, but it didn’t stop me from researching what kind of motorcycle would be the best one for the journey. All of my research led to the same bike: The Kawasaki KLR 650. The KLR is cost effective, dependable, relatively light (compared to the BMW), easy to work on and also the motorcycle used by the US military. This is an on/off road motorcycle that gets between 50 and 60 miles per gallon. I have to admit it has become somewhat of an obsession for the last four weeks, even seeping into my dreams.

After my daily Craigslist and Ebay perusing, I began to get frustrated. The specific KLRs that I had been watching were gone and in there place were only a few older models from Denver, Salt Lake City and Las Vegas. Though I was ready and willing, the thought of hitchhiking for half a day to buy a motorcycle only to find the there was something wrong with it was disheartening. Wouldn’t it be great to find a KLR right here in the Yampa Valley? On my way back to the office I checked out the Wheels and Deals for the Western Slope… nothing. I had finally resigned to the fact that this was not the time or the place to buy a motorcycle when I picked up the daily paper. This paper always had a list of three motorcycles, which never included the Kawasaki KLR 650, never that is, until today.

2007 Kawasaki KLR, 1300 miles. Kept in garage. Was all it said but I couldn’t have asked for a better description. I called immediately. Message machine. I expected a call back promptly but had to wait just long enough to begin to lose hope. Who knew how long this motorcycle had been in the classifieds? He probably sold it. Just as soon as I got immersed in work, my phone spurted out the ring that means “unfamiliar caller.” It was him.

Twenty minutes later I was tooling around on a monster bike. Twenty-two minutes later I had agreed to buy it. “Will you take off $300 so I can buy a jacket and some gloves?” I asked.

“I would if another guy hadn’t called after you offering full price.”

The KLR was in beautiful condition and they are becoming harder and harder to find, especially with gas prices going up as they are.

My afternoon was the beginning of a love affair getting to know something that I knew I would spend lots of time with, for better or worse. I don’t know when I will get to go on the grand adventure from Arctic Circle to Chile, but I did take care of the first step. I now have a motorcycle and it’s the perfect one for the job.