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.