The Quest to Get the ST1100, part 2

I left Pine Hill with every intention of stopping somewhere down the road for a nice breakfast. It just never happened - I was having too much fun riding. I started on Hwy 28 and finished the ride through the middle of Catskill Park. A decent ride on a four-lane road. That took me to Highway 30 and a little town called Margaretville. When I hit a little town like that, I normally don't mind taking an extra ten minutes to ride down Main Street to find some gas. This quaint little town had a nifty main street and a gas station at the end of the line. I gassed up and took off looking for the next road, Highway 30.

This road turned out to be one of the best motorcycle roads I have ever been on. Curves, bridges, nice straights and perhaps most importantly, no traffic. I did cross the double-yellow once (the whole road was double yellow) to pass an old pickup belching blue smoke. The ST was more than up to the task and I was in and out and back in, in what seemed like a wink.

I again realized (perhaps remembered would be more appropriate) that for me, the journey may indeed be even more important than the destination. Destinations are always fun, journey's are usually reflective. Amid the rocks and trees on one side and the winding Delaware River on the other I somehow again got in touch with myself and recognized just how much I valued the life that God has given me.

The Catskills are pretty, but not in the way that the Rockies are pretty. The Rockies sort of jump out at you and scream, "HERE I AM. Deal with me however you choose." The Catskills just sort of demurely arrive, majestic in their own way. I didn't take the time to pull out the camera on day one, but I was determined to take a little more time and shoot some nice ones with my $79 EBay, refurbished, Vivitar 3610.  After taking a few pictures, I remembered how much cameras frustrate me.  I really tried to get a few pictures to capture the seemingly endless, majestic, rolling hills, but the camera, or more likely, my eye for the shot, simply wasn't up to the task. I can never seem to capture with a camera what my eyes are feeling.

In Downsburg, NY, I got to cross a covered bridge. That was sort of a neat, one-lane, five mph experience - a first for me. Most of the locals seemed to cover the distance a whole lot faster than the posted speed, from my perspective, this is perfectly normal. I finished the glorious sixty mile run down route 30 and turned right (go west, middle-aged man) on Highway 17.

For all intents and purposes, 17 is an interstate. In fact over the next couple of years it will get that designation in the form of I-86. 17 took me though Binghamton, Elmira and Corning, NY. I was tempted to stop in Corning at the Glass museum, but decided to ride instead.  I knew that this day was my day to play. The further west I went, the better chance I was going to hit rain. In Corning, I took route 417 to basically save a northern swing on the map and straighten things out a bit. Across, as opposed to up, over and down makes more sense to me.

417 was another great road, not like 30 but just beneath it in the hierarchy of great roads. Babbling brooks, rivers, up hills, down hills and small towns. Even though I was in New York, somehow life seemed slower. Most of the small towns had a really nice section of older houses, many well-kept with wrap-around front porches. In every town, there were children playing in the front yard to wave at and children, mothers and grandmothers sitting on the porch, enjoying the day.

Whenever I drive through scenes like that, I am compelled to contemplate my own life. I see those scenes and almost yearn for a life like it. The relative simplicity of life like that is something worth yearning for. The reality, is that my life isn't that far off. Certainly, we are busy. Soccer games, church, work, the demands of the house (and so on) drive our lives. I am however learning that my life is driven by those things only to the extent that I let them drive it. The world here seemed surreal, the reality is that my life is getting there.

I greatly enjoyed the ride down 417 but eventually it ended at I-86. I got on 86, that took me to 90 and Erie, PA. It was at this point, that I could simply throw away the map. I would be on 90 for the rest of the ride home.  I rode through some rain in Pennsylvania, stopped at a Krispy Kreme in Erie - had their free one, one more and a large coffee, donned more clothes and kept going. Cleveland was next and I had decided to just bite the bullet and take 90 all the way through town. It was a good decision - relatively light traffic, scenic - I got to see Lake Erie and Jacobs Field (it really is right downtown). Right after passing through downtown, the rain hit again, with a vengeance. I stuck with it and got to the Ohio Turnpike (80-90).

There were actually four things I wanted to see on this trip.  There is a song that I think is the most beautiful violin piece I have ever heard.  It is written by Jay Ungar and his performance is wonderfully moving.  The song is called, "Ashokan Farewell."  He wrote it the night before he left a town called Ashokan in the Catskills.  I wanted to ride through Ashokan, and on Friday, I did just that.  I wanted to see Lake Erie, I did that.  I wanted to drive across a covered bridge, I did that.  Finally, I wanted to see Jacobs field (home of the Cleveland Indians) and yes, I did that.  Missions accomplished.

I stopped at the first service plaza on the Ohio Turnpike to get rid of the coffee and put on more clothes. The day was getting wetter and the temperature was dropping fast.  I saw a guy staring up the ST. He asked me if it was a "beemer", I said no, "It's a Honda." He said he was a Harley man, but that the bike was beautiful. I agreed.

When I started the day, I was thinking that perhaps I could get all the way to South Bend, IN.  I knew the rain was going to be an issue because though I don't really mind riding in the rain during the day, the visibility is just too compromised for my comfort when riding in the rain at night.  The rain kept falling (along with the sun) and I changed my goal to Toledo. I reluctantly passed an exit with about 10 hotels, 50 miles from Toledo.  It wasn't raining then and it was just barely dark. As luck would have it, as soon as I passed the exit, the skies opened up and I got soaked again. It stopped. It rained. It stopped. It rained. It stopped.  Toledo was ahead and there was truly nothing at any of the exits anyway, I kept going (like I had a choice).  During this part of the ride, I had a good bit of time to think and I was seriously contemplating what seemed to be a very important question driven by of the amenities on this bike - heated grips.

When I was a kid at summer camp, on occasion a few of the kids would get the idea of placing the hand of one of the sleeping ones in a bowl of warm water. Almost invariably, said sleeping kid would wet the bed and wake up to a rousing chorus of laughter. I really wondered whether the heated grips, in the rain, would have a similar effect. They didn't, but then again, I wasn't sleeping.

I made it to Toledo and found a decent Ramada Inn for $50 with a restaurant and bar within walking distance. I sat at the bar, had a beer, watched a ball game and then the karaoke started. It was a really funny thing. There were all these mean-looking tough guys signing up to sing. They all sang pretty well, and one guy even sang the same song ("For the Good Times") three times. I didn't dare not clap.

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