At The Lake--Motorcycle Week 2005

At The Lake--Motorcycle Week 2005
Originally uploaded by MontaukRider.

A rest stop at the Elacoya Overlook (Lake Winnipesauke) provides a view of The Lake behind Montauk Rider, the Montauk, and Cousin Den's Harley.

American Bald Eagle....

American bold eagle....
Originally uploaded by belgianchocolate.

Thanks to Belgianchocolate at flickr for this fantastic photo of The Eagle in the Wind.

THE EAGLE IN THE WIND

Sunday I rode the Montauk north into the White Mountains for a breakfast meeting of The Granite State BMW Riders, a wonderful group of New England riders indeed. Though unknown to their members, I was greeted warmly, both by their members and by the fine waitresses and the oversized Western Omelet served up in Campton at The Sunset Grill.

If one ever needs a good excuse to get out of bed early on an otherwise uncommitted Summer Sunday, a breakfast meeting of the GSBMW Riders at The Sunset Grill is a fine justification for sure.

White Mountain journeys can be accomplished via myriad routes. The fastest, at least from Manchester, is a straight shot up the slab of Route 93. But like all interstates, it is too straight and too monotonous for enjoyable riding. Old Route 3, however, is neither straight nor boring.

In my youth, Route 3 was "the highway." It winds generally north from Massachusetts to Colebrook, NH, being the Main Street of most every town in between. North of Laconia, NH, Route 3 is a pleasure to ride. It's old, and its curves lead to farmlands, old homes in need of repair, and fields of hay and corn. At places the road sweeps along a riverbed flooded with the high waters that flow down from headwaters deep in the Pemi Wilderness. The smells are of musty shores and freshly mown hay. Ideal for a Sunday ride.

Overhead I watched Hawks ride air currents high into the cooling sky. Just north of Plymouth I rounded a bend to see an Eagle glide without effort along an invisible air current sweeping up the hills below it. I was awestruck.

I think of the sadness in London, in Iraq, all over the world. Sadness brought about by hatred and killing. I think of the lonely Eagle in the mountain wind. I wish everyone would just stop what they are doing to others and go for a Sunday ride into the mountains.

Montauk Rider (center) and Friends at Madison Boulder

Montauk Rider (center) and Friends at Madison Boulder
Originally uploaded by MontaukRider.

I've always had a thing for geology. I've also always had a thing for eccentrics, you know, those people who's quirks, talents and temperment light up a room just by walking into it.

Gigantic boulders left adrift during the ice age combine the best of geology and eccentrics. They are therefore aptly named "Erratics."

The Madison Boulder is huge, twice the size of most homes, and just sitting in the middle of a wooded glen in the hills of Madison, NH. Geologists believe that it was dumped in Madison by a receding glacier that was between 1 and 2 miles thick. So cool it's cold.

Weirs Boulevard--Laconia Bike Week 2005

Weirs Boulevard--Laconia Bike Week 2005
Originally uploaded by MontaukRider.

June, though wet here in New England, still offered some great rides.

RIDING THE CHINOOK TRAIL

Scenic roads are a canvass upon which riders and their motorcycles meld to become artists in motion. The art of the adventure is simply more beautiful when the canvass is alive in three dimensional color and form.

I recently chanced to cruise such a trail in the foothills of New Hampshire's White Mountains. It's called "The Chinook Trail," and I don't believe that I'd seen it since childhood, when my parents took us to the famous "Sandwich Fair" in my dad's 1955 Nash Rambler. We called the Rambler "The Soup Can" due to its bizarre resemblance in both shape and color to a can of Campbell's Tomato Soup. Yes, long before Andy Warhol was made famous by painting that ubiquitous tin can, my family drove around in it.

I used to think that my mother actually loved canned Tomato soup. Yet as I aged and had children of my own I grew to appreciate that parents oftentimes prepare that which they know will bring the fewest complaints from the pod of pickey palates. This lesson was later reaffirmed by the absolute absence of premade soups from my mother's kitchen once her kids had grown and abandoned the homestead.

The Chinook Trail is a gorgeous two-lane ribbon of tar running through the valleys between the towns of Wonalancet and Tamworth. It's official designation is Rte. 113A. It is best reached by traveling north from Lake Winnipesauke on Rte. 109, just to the east of the town of Moultonborough. You ride north through Sandwich, up to North Sandwich, and then north to Whiteface and on to Wonalancet. Along the way you will see ponds, mountains, fields, and old farmhouses that were once stately and magnificent. Now their glory is faded, but they were once quite prosperous.

Wonalancet was once home to the famous Dog Sled Man, Arthur Walden. Walden, though born and raised in New Hampshire, learned the value of hardy sled dogs while seeking his fortune during the Alaska Gold Rush. He discovered that the right cross-breading of sled dogs produced a great line of hard-working, cooperative, smart, and well natured creatures who would gladly pull thousands of pounds of freight across snow packed stretches with neither injury nor complaint.
He returned to Wonalancet, married the love of his life, and began breeding his dogs. He soon had the right mix, and he named his favorite dog "Chinook."

Chinook and his descendents gained world fame in both racing and freight hauling. Admiral Byrd was more than pleased to enlist Walden and his best friend, Chinook, for his renknowned Antarctic adventure, writing in his book:

"Had it not been for the dogs, our attempts to conquer the Antarctic by air must have ended in failure. On January 17th, Walden's single team of thirteen dogs moves 3,500 pounds of supplies from ship to base, a distance of 16 miles each trip, in two journeys. Walden's team was the backbone of our transport. Seeing him rush his heavy loads along the trail, outstripping the younger men, it was difficult to believe that he was an old man. He was 58 years old, but he had the determination and strength of youth."

Chinook was sadly lost in the Antarctic. News of the tragedy was reported around the world. Walden reported that Chinook, now old and tiring more easily, tried to awake him three times on the night of the dog's 12th birthday. Something was bothering him, and Walden each time patted him and told him everything was fine. When Walden awoke in the morning, however, Chinook was gone, never to be found. Perhaps he heard Buck and the call of the wild.

On Walden's return to New Hampshire he found his wife dying and half his farm sold off. The State had just completed one of its earliest highway projects, a road using the same trail between Wonalancet and Tamworth that had been run so many times by Chinook when just a wooded path. The Governor wanted to name it in honor of Walden. But Walden asked that the road instead be named in honor of his beloved companion, Chinook. It will thus forever be "The Chinook Trail."

SPIRITUAL ARMS -- IMAGINED HANDS

Do you have a Sleep Mantra? A place your mind automatically melts into moments after you lie down for a night's rest?

For me it's "the Perfect Ride." I close my eyes and sense my spiritual arms stretch forward as my imagined hands gently grasp my motorcycle's handlebar grips. In this hazy state between the edge of reality and the fall into dreams, I'm already in the midst of a sensuous sweeping curve.

On my left I sense a verdant, flower -filled jungle at the base of an impressive mountain range. To my right I see an aquamarine ocean, a horseshoe shaped bay. My nostrils fill with the powerful aroma of Bougainvillea vines.

I'm fascinated that I have this same Sleep Mantra, or Sleep Place, each night. The sweeping curve is always the same, a long, slowly bending left hand leaner of a corner. Yet the views to my left and right seem different each time.

When the curve is on steamy-warm and moist mountainous road with the sea beneath me on the right I think of Nice, France -- Puerto Vallarta, Mexico -- the Santa Cruz Mountains, California -- and a score of other memorable places and rides from my past travels. Most of these rides were on motorcycles: one, PV Mexico, was by car. (I have a feeling that I will someday return there on the Montauk, perhaps during what everyone calls "retirement," or perhaps earlier on a sabbatical).

When the curve is in a musty, sun-filled stand of multicolored foliage trees I think of Franconia, New Hampshire -- Stowe, Vermont -- Bethel, Maine -- and any number of other New England towns where Fall Foliage rides make for a lifetime of joyful memory.

Last night my Place was Puerto Vallarta. Tonight, who knows? Perhaps even a newer old locale dredged up from memories I've heretofore forgotten to remember.

Time and Weather Take a Toll

The Montauk and I rode a long-ago memorized loop of historic country roads yesterday. It was sad to see that Winter had been so unkind to these aged friends.

Like faces wrinkled by age, sun and wind, Old Route 13 and Clough Park Road were a sea of undulated cracks, agape with pitted skin pulled tight over their once rounded -- now peaked -- crown. Not even a decade of serial mini-quakes (the kind we get in New Hampshire) would have sundered the tar this badly.

I was heartbroken. What had for years been one of my favorite afternoon cruising routes, winding through the hills and towns of Goffstown, Dunbarton, around Clough Park and Everett Lake, down to Weare, and then back to Goffstown, now resembled more a gravelized motocross track than a road.

Many of the important things in these townships thankfully remain the same. The farms still smell alive. The fields and ponds still surround me with panoramic beauty. The hills still rise and fall beneath the turning wheels of the Montauk. All is well in the world on such days.

I just wish that time and weather could be kinder to our little country roads.

THE SENSATIONS OF SPRING IN NH

Riding in April, at least here in New Hampshire, is an adventure. Two weekends ago, for example, my friend John and I decided to enjoy a sunny afternoon roam up to Lake Winnipesauke. Winnipesauke is NH's largest lake, with over 75 square miles of water.

We meandered along country roads taking in all of the wonderful smells and sights that Spring offers. But springlike weather in one location does not necessarily make for springlike weather 50 miles north.

We found the Lake still a victim of winter's icy grip. Only the first few feet of of the water's edge was moving. Vast stretches of shore to shore ice pack, at times more than 3 miles across, were visible from the scenic vistas along the road.

Yet the same weather existed here as it had further south. The water, of course, was resisting the state change from solid to liquid. It resisted change with a calculated coolness that quickly invaded my riding gear with frigid result.

I pulled alongside John. His face, like mine, was red with the cold. Our smiles were nonetheless from ear to ear. This is the stuff of springtime riding. This is why we would rather ride the motorcycles for an afternoon runabout than do just about anything else.

As our route along the Lake ended, and we pointed our machines South for the return run, the temperature climbed quickly. It was 65 again. It was wonderful. The air was again pungent with the smell of a reawakening forest. A mile later we were enveloped in the smell of fresh farm soil that had just been released from its Winter blanket. Rich, deep, musky -- all of those sensations caressed me at a single moment.

Ten miles from home I turned to John and shouted: "Next ride's to the beach!"

I got no argument. John's broadly grinning face said it all.

THERE'S NO SEX IN THE HOTEL KIRAN

Agra India is the home of the fabled Taj Mahal. It is also the home of a lesser known attraction, The Hotel Kiran. It was there, in '73, that Peter Agrafiotis and I bunked in for a couple of nights during a pilgrimmage to the Taj Mahal.

The Hotel Kiran is not much to look at. It's been beaten up by time and dust. The whole town seemed that way. Only the Taj Mahal stood out in splendor. White marble, with gleaming stones and jewels that caught and then released sunlight.

It was our rickshaw driver that selected our lodging on our first entrance into Agra. "I take you to Hotel, very nice. My brother there. You like it." He was a salesman of few words.

Check-in was unceremonious: the desk man spoke little English, and my proficiency with Hindi bordered on useless. The Hotel Kiran was ready for such circumstances, nonetheless. The desk man handed us a printed sheet of instructions, paid the rickshaw driver a tip for the referral, handed us a rusted key, and pointed at the stairway. Our room awaited.

For your enjoyment, I share with you the written instructions, verbatim. Peter kept them, and sent me a copy recently. They are wonderful:

HOTEL KIRAN

Rules & Regulations

1. Prostitude & wine is structly prohibited in the Hotel.
2. Passengers are requested not to keep cash and ornaments in their rooms or in Locors.
3. Passengers are requested that they should maintain perfect silence and hormony in the Hotel.
4. Passengers should take proper care for cleanliness and should not spread dirt.
5. The minimum lodging charges will be for 24 hrs. The charges for a period less than 24 hrs will also be the same.
6. Passengers will be to allowed to leave only after paying the Hotel bill in full. In case of failure the hotel manager will be entitled to with hold the baggage etc of the passangers.
7. It is a legal offence to keep arms and amunition without license in the Hotel. Defaulters of law shall be liable to a penalty of Rs 500 per day.
8. Cooking of food in any part of the Hotel premises is prohibited. Defaulters of law shall be liabile to a penalty of Rs 500 per day.
9. Passengers should not cause harm to the Hotel.
10. Passengers are requested not to make payment to the waiter for the bill in excess of Rs 5. Bills for sums more than Rs 5 should be paid by the passengers at the Counter.
11. Entry in the rooms or keeping baggage in the Locors without entry in the register is prohibited.
12. Eatables from outside will not be allowed to be brought in or consumed in the Hotel.
13. Any complaint or suggestion may be noted in the book with the Manager. The complaint against any employee of the Hotel may be made to the Manager. Passengers should not take any action against them directly.

So, at the Hotel Kiran, you can bring your licensed guns and ammunition. You can eat the Hotel's food, but not your own food. Don't pay the waitstaff more than 5 rupees and don't bother looking for a one night stand. Cause at the Hotel Kiran you can sleep, you can dine, you can and must create perfect hormony, but remember this: at the Hotel Kiran "prositude & wine is structly prohibited."