Polar Bear Motorcycles

Lake Hopatcong, NJ, January 15, 2012, Polar Bear Motorcycles Blog

2012-01-16T17:19:00.000-08:00

Lake Hopatcong, NJ, January 15, 2012
Polar Bear Motorcycle Blog

By: Chris Loynd

We finally got some polar bearish weather for our winter motorcycle rides. Sunday the temperature was 17 when I started out. By the end of our ride temperatures had not climbed even 10 degrees. I finished at a still frigid 24.

As I pulled up to the Dunkin' Donuts launching point, just in time, maybe even too close to just in time (had some trouble finding my really cold weather gear), Captain was holding court to determine who would lead. Since I was so close to the start time, and it was so cold, I left my bike running and my helmet on. So shouting back and forth, Captain and I had very poor communications.

We tried to goad Fonz into taking the lead. "I can get us to New Jersey," he offered. We then suggested he could sweep instead. Actually Fonz is a good sweep. He's responsive, proactive and cars move over for those funky lights of his.

I was trying to suggest that whoever was leading would take the more scenic route that I had suggested earlier in the week in my e-mail setting the time. Captain answered that Pogy and Token2 were picking us up en route. So I shouted back I would take the lead and pulled out to start our line.

Captain pulled up next to me and I wanted to confirm where we were catching Token2. My plan was to stick to I-287, crossing on the Tappan Zee bridge. Captain said yes, that was where Token2 would be waiting. As John J. pulled into the group of bikes, I took off. Only at lunch when communications were again established, and this time without helmets in our way, I found out Captain felt I stole the lead from him. He was gracious in conceding it all the same.

Looking at Google Maps the week before our ride, I had spotted a nice rural route alternative that added only a few minutes more to our ride. Instead of riding I-287 to I-80, expressway all the way, Route 23 took us up through some New Jersey woodlands.

As cold as it was Sunday, I probably should have checked the topographic or satellite view of my proposed "scenic" route. At the very least, the section riding on "Oak Ridge Road" should have tipped me.

As I led my motorcycle buddies off the Interstate, we started climbing into the New Jersey mountains, well, if not mountains, at least foothills. My GPS said we topped out near 800 feet in elevation, not all that much. Then again, we started at sea level.

Oak Ridge Road really does run on a ridge, or up on the western side of a ridge. It was scenic, but as we passed a bank, it informed us we were back down to 17 degrees. Another one warned of minus nine degrees, but that was Celsius; that's15.8 degrees Fahrenheit.

Scenery did not disappoint. We rode past some beautiful lakes and reservoirs, along steep rock falls and even had some twisty roads for one little bit. It was a nice break from the Interstates.

Another reason I should have taken a closer look is that maniac turn from Route 15 onto Route 181. You no sooner exit then cut back, almost like you're getting back onto 15. The GPS shows this curly-que which is technically accurate by mind boggling. More than a few times, we've missed or nearly missed this turn.

Fortunately Captain was on his p's and q's and made the tight right flawlessly. Me, I was trying to signal and wave with one hand, push the bars out with the other, coordinate brake and throttle. I went way wide, but I made her all the same. It musta' looked ugly in the back of our pack, but I received no disparaging comments.

Only after settling into Route 181 did I remember, "Oh yeah. That #$@*& turn gets us every time." I believe on past rides it has engendered a few U-turns.

Slower speeds of scenic secondary roads did little to alleviate my tingling-cold fingers. My Gerbing gloves are fine, up to a point. But for my long, skinny fingers, they just don't make it at these temperatures, even inside hippo hands. I should have known better. So for the ride back I switched to my down mountaineering mittens from NorthFace with a chemical heat pack in the end of each. Those are almost too hot. Almost.

Our Grand Tour hosts received their new shipment of this year's rockers. All of us on this ride have already earned the red rocker. Captain, of course, received red and gold. He is eligible for his 60-point pin too, but our flight leaders did not have them yet.

Wearhouse Grill had a special Polar Bear menu that included onion soup in a crock and chicken noodle. At first John J. ordered the chicken. But when most all the rest of us ordered onion, he caved to the peer pressure. Captain stood fast, however, when his turn to order came and resolutely ordered the chicken noodle. Maybe he knew something we did not.

As it turned out, they brought his chicken noodle right away. For the rest of us our soup came after our entrees. The soup hit the spot on such a cold day.

We missed Grumpy. He is back on night shift at his job keeping all our cables full of television shows. Fonz took over most of the photo duties. Anticipating Grumpy's absence, I packed my tripod and took the group shot. To see a version of this blog with more pictures, follow this link: http://www.influentialcom.com/polar_bear_blog.htm

Pogy surprised me by saying that this Blogspot blog was the only one he knew. He got a new computer and I e-mailed him links to save to favorites on his new browser. Guess he'll have to do some back reading. Several seasons of motorcycle polar bear blogs are posted on this other site.

Generally I post here on Blogspot first because it is easier to access from anywhere. I am also experimenting with SEO for both my blogs. The other blog site is on my former company web site. There I have more control, and room for all the photos I wish to post. I generally also use Photoshop to size and sometimes crop or adjust the photos. And that program is only on my home computer. Blogspot I can use from my small laptop or tablet.

My Blogspot blog also allows comments, but my readers rarely do.

Eventually, I will have to upgrade my company web site. New web management tools will offer much of the same functionality. All I have to do is learn a whole new program. But hey, we all know what that is like. This technology treadmill never ends.

Vineland, NJ, January 8, 2012 Polar Bear Motorcycles Blog

2012-01-10T10:25:00.001-08:00

Vineland, NJ, January 8, 2012

Polar Bear Motorcycles Blog

By: Chris Loynd

Vineland is a pretty long way to go fora ride to nowhere. And after a two week hiatus (the past two Sundaysfalling on Christmas and New Years) my back was not used to doingsuch miles. I was ready to get off the bike when I got home.

Fortunately the riding was easy.Anything not expressway was through some scenic towns, the Pinelandsand farms. By the way, didn't it used to be called the Pine Barrens?I guess the government switched to a nicer sounding name.

We are back to North Carolina winterweather. Temperatures climbed above 50 in South Jersey. They were abit colder for our ride start up in Connecticut, but not at allbearish. We had a long distance to ride, so we started at 8 a.m. Thesun was just up. Still, it was in the high 40s for most of our miles.

A note of caution sounds in my psyche.It is a deep, far-off, disturbingly familiar tolling.

I hinted at it with my fellow Bears onSunday. While I could not clearly recollect the time or even season,I recall a warm Polar Bear winter some time ago. I mocked MotherNature in the blog, suggesting she had forgotten winter. And the verynext week she slapped us hard with snow and subzero temperatures.

There's no making that mistake again.Let me just say we are respectfully grateful for the warm and dryweekends.

One of my Facebook friends who is alsoa rider, Art, took credit for the warmth. He asserts that if he hadnot winterized his Harley, tucking it into the back of the garage,turning on the battery tender and turning off the insurance, we allwould be knee-deep in snow right now.

Connecticut experienced a 55 degree daySaturday. That brought out droves of motorcycles and even a fewconvertible cars. I was out front of my house doing a bit of “fall”gardening when my neighbor came home. Seeing me there with the leafrake he called over, “Aren't you supposed to be shoveling snowabout now?”

Grumpy led us over the interstates andparkways to the turnpike. He graciously allowed for a bathroom break.The others scoffed at me, but I grabbed the opportunity to top off mygas tank despite their scorn. Fonz caved too, once I took the hit,and stopped at the pumps while the other riders waited patiently. I hateriding with that fuel light winking at me. And true to form, later inthe day Grumpy ran the other bikes down so close to empty that Macbroke formation and came up to insist on a gas stop. I just smiledand topped off again.

Fonz repaid the favor of me supportinghis early gas fill when we got to our destination. We arrived justafter 11:30 and the parking lot was already full. Grumpy pulled intoa spot that would maybe fit just one more bike, but where he'd haveto back out on gravel.

His wing man, I decided the gravel lotwas plenty wide for a center row of bikes and so started one. Pogyand Token2 blew right by me and ended up parked helter-skelter at thedriveway's mouth. Mac, well, I'm not sure what he was thinking. Hejust sort of found a spot and nearly blocked in some blockhead whowas parked perpendicular to all the other bikes. (Maybe Mac wasmaking a statement.) I was signaling to my fellow on-coming riderswith a back and forth swish of my arm. Fonz was first to pick up onit and pulled in next to me. Captain came in too on the other side ofme. And behind him was another group of bikes and soon our new rowwas firmly established.

The line held. As we came out of lunchit was stronger and thicker, with a double-up row forming fartherdown where the parking lot widened. Those of us on the line simplypulled out of the gravel lot with no foot paddling.

Fonzie did not endear himself to allour riders this day. On the way down he had what he himself describedas a “momentary lapse in concentration.” It was in an area wherethe DOT workers had placed cautionary cones right on the edge of thehighway travel lane, right on the fog line. Fonz clipped one.

He quickly corrected. But Pogyfollowing behind had fewer options. The cone caught his highway pegand snapped it off like a twig. Highway pegs on a Goldwing stick outpretty far. And they appear to be made of some sort of cast metal; itlooks like aluminum but breaks like porcelain.

Pogy was fine. And as he lamented, youcan't buy just one peg. So I guess he'll replace the broken one andthen have a spare. If he's like me, he'll put that spare in a specialplace. And when he finally, years from now, breaks another highwaypeg, he will have no idea where that replacement peg might reside.But then again, Pogy is likely more organized than I.

The Japanese continued to have troublesthis ride. Captain had replaced his one Goldwing antenna after itbroke off on an earlier run. Over this week's ride the new antennadrooped like it was made of play dough. He's headed back to thedealership too. Maybe Captain and Pogy – both now retired – canmake a day of it!

Token2 even had trouble with his ST.Something not right in the harness for his electrics left him addinglayers and stuffing chemical heat packs into his gloves and boots.Pogy even lent him a sweatshirt.

At sign-in I offered my thanks to Richand Dave. They do so much as our Flight B leaders. Dave even came allthe way up to Connecticut one year to attend our winter dinner.

With more Polar Bear rockers and pinson their vests than you can count, they have decided it would be fairto have someone else pick up the paperwork going forward. Thank youboth for all you do and your perpetual good humor. These are some bigshoes to fill.

Five Points Inn proffered a fine brunchbuffet for a very fair $10. Pogy picked up the tab for us all. Heretired this week and I guess he was feeling generous. Thanks!

Pogy has plenty of life left in him, bythe way. His retirement was one of those take the early package orelse deals. So if any blog readers know of a position open for atechnically adept senior customer service or sales director withinternational experience and a work ethic that will scare the bejesusout of his fellow workers, send me an e-mail and I'll pass it along.

It's true that like Forrest Gump'schocolates, you never do know what you're going to get. As JohnLennon said, “Life is what happens when you're busy making otherplans.”

I don't know where this economy willtake us. It's hard for guys like Mac and Pogy to give a whole life toa company only to be offered an “early retirement package” backedby a layoff threat.

I don't know if the Polar Bear Clubwill survive a change of leadership. Bob is asking for a replacement,now Rich and Dave too.

Ah, but what future is ever certain?This is the year the Mayans say it all ends, 12/26/2012. So be sureto get out and ride as much as you can. Me, I still plan to go on aPolar Bear ride 12/30/2012, if the Grand Tour folks will have me.

Happy New Year!

Snyderville, Penn., December 18, 2011, Motorcycle Polar Bear Blog

2011-12-20T20:29:00.001-08:00

Polar Bear Motorcycle Blog;Snydersville, Penn.; December 18

By: Chris Loynd

Winter finally found us. For themotorcycle polar bears it came a few days early. If it ever got above30 degrees Sunday, such was but brief. My electrics were set on“nuclear” for most of the day. I broke out the snowmobile bootsand doubled up on chemical heat packs under my feet.

Our ride over to Schoch'sHarley-Davidson would likely have been warmer, at least for thestart, if only we had left later. A mistake in the departure alerte-mail by CT Blogger Chris Loynd (yeah, it was all my fault) lit thefuse of confusion that set off a bomb of controversy. Fortunatelywhen the dust settled we are all still pals, committed to good humor.No feelings were permanently damaged. Leave the Captain alone! I meanit now!

When I sent out the departure timealert this week I slavishly followed Captain's meticulous spreadsheetof rides and recommended departure times. Only it turns out he wasnot so meticulous. (I know! That's crazy talk! Can you believe it?)

Captain's sheet recommended leavingStratford at 8:00 a.m. In the subject line of my e-mail I set 8 aslaunch time. But then, in a perhaps Freudian slip, in the text Istated 9.

Mac was the first to catch theconfusion. He e-mailed all the regulars looking for clarity. Thatonly kicked off a flurry of competing e-mails espousing the virtuesof either 8 or 9. As the controversy reached a fever pitch one of ourriders even broadcasted a call for calm. Can't we all just get along?

Unfortunately, I had long since walkedaway from the computer. And I am not one who has e-mail pushed to hiscell phone. I know how. I just don't care.

I only became aware of the tempest inmy teapot as I glanced at the e-mail trail before shutting down mycomputer just before bed.

As I read through various missives themost strident was a dire warning from Captain that if we left after 8a.m., we were doomed to arrive past noon. Now I did not really careone way or the other. Unlike some of my com-padres, I like riding atnight.

Figuring the Captain to be the mostdemandingly precise of us all, well aware of his flag etiquette andother sundown worries, I sent a correction e-mail confirming myoriginal 8 a.m. departure time. I mean the Captain was once thenavigator of a submarine. Certainly he was qualified to calculate thetravel time of 150 motorcycle miles. I did not do the math myself.

We got to Schoch's Harley-Davidsonalmost exactly . . . an hour early.

We gassed the bikes and proudly tookthose hard-to-get, front-row parking spaces. We killed some timetaking the group picture (the early morning light was dramatic) anddiscussing the virtues of MapQuest-suggested travel times.

John J. had a printed copy of Captain'sExcel sheet and pointed out several other rather questionableentries, including one suggesting a 10 a.m. departure. (Mmmm, yes,that does not seem quite right. Guess I should double check.)

In a way it all worked out better thanusual. There was no line for the bathroom. We got the very firstpieces of cornbread. The soup and chili, courtesy of Mrs. Schoch, herfamily and her HOGs, was delicious and piping hot. And we had arelaxed time sitting around the table and catching up on the news ofour various lives as we waited for sign-in to open.

The Connecticut Motorcycle Polar Bearsare a diverse group. Some of us are wealthier than others. Some areworking, some retired, some face uncertain futures. Some, like me forexample, have gone through dramatic change in the time we've riddentogether. I went from having my own business to working at TheMaritime Aquarium at Norwalk, put one-and-a-half kids throughcollege, lost some hair and gained some pounds.

It makes for interesting conversation.And we're all close enough in age to share some of the sameperspectives. Any TV producers out there? We are ripe for a realityshow! I guarantee we'd be better than that Hairy Bikers tripe.

Grumpy promised a ride home moreinteresting than the interstate. (Silly reader, segues are for kids.)

So we mounted up 'pert near noon. As wewere preparing to pull out of our preferred, honestly-earned parkingspaces a bunch of dweebs on metric hardleys started filling in a rowof bikes ahead of us. Could they not see us getting ready to pullout? Certainly they did not respect our early arrival. Theythoughtlessly blocked in several of us.

However there were more of us than ofthem. So those of us blocked in were able to exit – after a bit ofbackpedaling – through the gap left as our fellow riders moved out.

Soon after the Delaware Water Gap,Grumpy led us up New Jersey Route 94, headed north and east.

He found us an old timey tunnel to ridethrough, some quaint towns and scenic farmlands. In the town ofFredon an honest-to-gosh bald eagle lit from a limb and flew rightover our line of bikes, not 30 feet above our heads.

At Franklin we transferred to NJ Route23 for a slightly southerly and more directly easterly ride toconnect with Interstate 287.

As we sipped our coffees at Chez GSP,to a man we approved of the non-Interstate part of our ride.

(We didn't get Token2's vote. Heditched us on the last coffee stop for a family obligation.)

It can be a drag just blasting up anddown the New Jersey Garden State Parkway and Turnpike. For many ofour Polar Bear rides the distances involved require the most directroute. Also, once the “S” word happens – no it's SNOW, not thatother “S” word you were thinking – secondary roads can be lessreliable, especially on motorcycles.

As it turned out, Grumpy's scenic rideadded maybe 10 miles and half an hour to our return – and thatincludes U-turns. It was worth every mile and minute.

Maybe we have identified a new trend,although we will have to wait a while to exploit it.

Our next ride is a long one, Vineland,New Jersey. So there won't be as much time for fooling around.Although some years back Grumpy and his Tom Tom took the boys on aDunkin' Donuts tour on the way down. And we have before cut directlyeast across the countryside to the GSP for our ride home, come tothink of it.

Wearhouse Grill the week after offersan opportunity. It's nestled right in the country we passed thisweek, west of 23, south of 94. Maybe there's a CT Bear with some GPSskills who wants to lead? If so, and if your route requires arecalculation of our departure time, be sure to let me know well inadvance. You are welcome to consult with the Captain in advance ifyou wish. But be forewarned, he gets up early and hates to ride late.

Meanwhile we have two weeks withoutriding, thanks to the foibles of the 2011-12 calendar. Christmas andNew Years days both fall on Sundays. Not many of us have the chonesto ask kitchen permission for rides on those days.

So until we meet again I offer bestholiday wishes – for whatever holiday(s) you choose to celebrate –and a happy and prosperous New Year full of good weather and greatrides. No future is ever certain, but all futures are filled withpossibilities.

Ride safe, and warm,

Chris

Polar Bear Blog, Dec. 11, Howell, NJ

2011-12-17T19:11:00.000-08:00

Polar Bear Blog, December 11, Howell NJ

By: Chris Loynd

Slightly bearish weather kept some ofthe cubs in their dens Sunday. It truly wasn't that cold.

When I woke up it was 20 degreesoutside. Since we had a fairly close destination a 9:00 a.m. allowedtemperatures to rise five degrees before I mounted the Harley. By theride home it was a balmy 40-plus under a pale blue and cloudless sky.

We still had a sizable group of nine.Over the years, our Connecticut Polar Bears hardcore core has grownfrom three to 10 regulars. Bart missed Sunday. He was chaperoning agroup at my workplace: The Maritime Aquarium at Norwalk.

Leaving Dunkin' Donuts we had six. Forthe second week in a row, Fonz missed us by minutes but chased usdown on the Interstate. Turns out he had to pause for a discussion ofmarker light protocol with one of his law enforcement brethren inBridgeport.

Pogy was waiting for us at his usualpick up point nearer his Norwalk home than our Stratford departurepoint. And finally we grabbed Token2 at the entrance to the Hutch.

Captain was leading this ride, whichturned out to be fortuitous.

As we approached the entrance to theGeorge Washington Bridge, New York's finest were just then strikingflares and closing the on ramp.

Using his strong knowledge of the Citythat Never Sleeps, Captain took us on a tour of Harlem for a detour.We rode down 125^th Street and past the Apollo Theater. Theholiday decorations were very nostalgic looking. I am thinking theywere probably purchased back in the 1920s when Harlem was a coolplace to be.

Folks on the street gawked at ourimpromptu parade.

Negotiating the city our group was afluid string of magnetic buckyballs. (I threw in that reference formy sister Gretchen, who doesn't even read my blog.) We came apart andreformed multiple times as we worked our way through the trafficlights and dodged pedestrians and potholes. Captain paused justbefore taking to the West Side Highway to allow our formation torebuild.

Then as we formed up in a lane to turnonto 42^nd Street, a BMW tried to cut us in half. I heldhim back to let the other bikes in ahead of me. We were slippery andbinding.

After his tour of Harlem, I was alittle disappointed Captain did not also take us through TimesSquare. We were, after all, on 42^nd Street, if only for afew blocks.

We came apart again just a few blockslater making the turn for the Lincoln Tunnel.

New Yorkers do not yield. ThoseGrinches respected our line of bikes not at all, not one little bit,cutting in and cutting off, because their hearts are two sizes toosmall. Sing along with me . . . I looooove New York . . . .

Suddenly I found myself lead of threebikes riding through the Lincoln Tunnel. My GPS went dark abouttwo-thirds of the way through. I guess it didn't like losing itsgrasp upon the satellites. As we exited the tunnel, I was trying tonegotiate the cagers, reboot the Garmin, read the traffic signs andguess which choice led to the turnpike.

As we crested a small hill I looked farto the horizon and what to my wandering eyes should appear but thetwinkling running lights of six tiny, scratch that, six big,motorcycles, well except for Token2 who was on his little BMW withthe ice cream cases bolted to the tail.

We stragglers caught the main body justas we approached the New Jersey Turnpike. After that the ride waseasier.

With all the detours we still arrivedpert near 11:30. Even so the lot was full and the restaurant bulging.A few of us tried to cobble together a few tables and booths aroundthe bar. Little did we know our guys found the back-back room. That'sright. Behind the back room the cabin has a back room. And there wefound a table for the nine of us.

Lunch was good. Grumpy could not getpickles on his cheeseburger. But once we got through that crisis,things settled down nicely.

Speaking of pickles, Pogy continued hislargesse, this time producing a jar of giant pickles for theGrumpster. Wild speculation surrounded the possible origin of thevinegar-bathed cukes. There was some mention of kimchee. We'll haveto get a report from Grumpy on how they tasted.

Our ride home was uneventful. Therewere a couple times when our formation had to flow through tollbooths and reform. Here and there a cager threatened. But that ispart of Polar Bearing. See you next week.

Polar Bear Blog Hatfield, Penn., Dec. 4

2011-12-08T19:20:00.001-08:00

Polar Bear Blog Hatfield, Penn., Dec. 4

By: Chris Loynd

Fortunately, I thought to put thisweek's destination address into my GPS just minutes before I headedover to meet the guys at the Dunkin' Donuts in Stratford.

My morning had a monkey thrown into itswrench. If you are a faithful blog reader, you may recall I purchaseda new Gerbing heated jacket liner a few weeks back. The old one wasnot heating the gloves. Well I have not yet gotten around to sendingout the old liner to be repaired. Meanwhile my long-suffering wifegot tired of seeing it thrown over a chair and hung it up for me . .. along with the rest of my motorcycle gear. Sunday morning I couldnot tell which was the new, or the old, jacket liner.

Figuring it out had me pressed fortime, and with no time to spare, I thought of skipping the GPS. Atthe last minute, I figured I might as well put in the address, justin case I got lost or something.

Turned out I was leading this ride.

I guess they took a vote at the Dunkin'before I arrived, just two minutes before departure time, and I waselected in absentia . Since I knew the address was pluggedinto my GPS, I said, “Sure! No problem!” I had only glanced at amap days earlier, and that vaguely.

Grumpy was going to sweep. He pulled upand shouted something about 287, 87 and, dang, what was that lastnumber?

Well I figured I would just follow theGPS.

I knew better to ignore Mr. Garmen whenhe tried to send me across the George Washington Bridge. Once we werefirmly on our way to the Tappan Zee the miniature, satellite-enabledcomputer settled down . . . for a little while.

It started acting up again as wecruised on out I-78. Darn if I could remember that last route numberGrumpy had given me. I kept ignoring the GPS' exhortations and stuckto the Interstate, hoping that at some point the computer would popup a familiar number.

Fortunately for me, Grumpy had anunfortunate equipment problem. He zoomed up from the back of the packto lead all of us into a highway rest stop. There he zip tied hisshifter linkage back together. It had lost a joint or something. I'mno mechanic.

As we were getting ready to go Inonchalantly fished for that missing route number. “Uh, yeah, we'regoing up here to, uh . . .,” I said. “Route 309,” Grumpyfinished my sentence. “Yeah, that's right,” I offered. “Exit uh. . .” “I don't know,” Grumpy said.

No problem! I'm back in control andnobody knows. I'll just keep my eyes peeled for the exit.

After a little while my GPS gave up onall other options and served up “Route 309, Exit 60A.”

We left the rest stop, shifterrepaired, riders relieved (no facilities but an accommodating tree),in a different order of bikes than we had been riding. Grumpy was nowmy wing man, replacing Jim O, a new Polar Cub who joined us for thefirst time Sunday.

By the way, Jim O was a good wing man.He rode so tight to me I could usually feel him more than see him.But he's an experienced rider and a MSF instructor. So I wascomfortable with him at my shoulder.

I guess Fonz, arriving just a fewmoments AFTER the last possible moment, had pulled a u-turn and takenthe sweep away from Grumpy. Freed of his sweep duties, Grumpy movedup with me for the rest of the ride.

So as we approached MontgomeryvilleCycle Center, my GPS was now simpatico with the route I'd forced uponit. Only I remember the last time I led this ride, the destinationappeared on the opposite side of the road from what I expected. Ishot past the dealership, Russ sticking faithfully by my side(another of the great wing men), as the rest of our guys hit thebinders hard and made the dealership. Russ and I eventually found au-turn after what seemed like 15 miles.

Embarrassment being a powerful teacher,I distrusted my GPS as we approached the Cycle Center, still hiddenbehind a ridge, and put on my right blinker. Grumpy immediately puton his LEFT blinker and threw in a hand signal in case I didn't catchhis drift. I quickly changed signals and cut left into the merge lanefor Montgomeryville Cycle Center.

At lunch I 'fessed up to the miscue.Not that a confession was required, though they say it is good forthe soul. Everybody behind me saw the blinker mistake.

After gassing up for the ride home, myGPS was again acting up, wanting to send me down some country road. Iagain consulted Grumpy. He started offering alternate ways to get toRoute 309 to go home the way we came.

I expressed my worries to Grumpy. I wasconcerned about taking some long-about detour with a line of bikesbehind me. I was afraid to plunge into unknown territory with theseguys strung along the highway behind me. It's one thing to make au-turn at a dead end road by yourself. It's quite another with aeight to a dozen bikes on behind.

And what if it took a lot longer to gethome? Some of our guys don't like to ride in the dark. I jokinglyasked the Captain if he was flying the colors. He said now, he heldthem in case we were late and that morning ran a Navy ensign up thepole instead.

Seeing, but not sharing, myconsternation, Grumpy came up with one of his typical responses,“F**k 'em. Follow your GPS. See what happens.”

I took courage in Grumpy's show ofconfidence and off we went, turn-by-turn, with nary a sense of themap in my head.

My Garmin took us on a beautiful ridedown winding country roads. Fields stretched beyond our site. Horsesand cattle dotted the landscape. We rode through quaint small townswith small brick buildings build right to the road and with 1950sstyle Christmas garlands strung between light poles, across the roadover our heads. We even scored a covered bridge.

Cars came toward us with freshly cutevergreens bound to their roofs. Some of our way tightened down tomere country lanes with no lines painted on the road. We crossed theDelaware River from Pennsylvania to New Jersey on a very narrowtwo-lane, steel grid decked bridge, speed limit 15 mph.

Like Token a few weeks before, I evenran into a closed road detour. Recalculating!

And it turned out my Garmin did notlie. We left the gas station after a sizable group of Jersey Bears. On I-78 we saw them again. They passed us. We were ahead of them. Wehad in fact taken the faster route going cross country.

Sometimes you just have to say, “F**k'em. Which is what I did when I stuck in the left lane up the MerrittParkway with our long line of bikes.

It was a great ride, well led, with alittle help from my friends.

Polar Bear Blog Sugar Loaf, N.Y. Nov. 20

2011-11-21T05:21:00.001-08:00

By: Chris Loynd

When I saw Polar Bear Grand Poohbah Bob Hartpence in very nearby Sugar Loaf' N.Y., he joked that maybe this ride wasn't even worth the Connecticut bears getting out of bed. I told him we were experiencing Polar Bearing as our New Jersey brethren do.

This Sunday's destination was so close we only earned a single mileage point. Heck, we usually achieve one point just getting out of state.

A few of our members flirted, albeit briefly, with a point stretch. We even racked up a few extra miles thanks to a closed road around which Token, our ride leader, had to detour.

Grumpy and Mac, start deeper in Connecticut than most of us. Those two did pick up the extra point. But we dissuaded the others with peer pressure. Most of us accurately recorded between 160 and 180 roundtrip miles.

Token lives close to this Sunday's destination and so promised us a scenic ride. He led us over parkways and through state parks. The afore mentioned closed road caused him a bit of consternation, most dramatically represented with not one but two circuits of a traffic roundabout.

Slavish following of his GPS also caused him to head back into town after a Dolly-mandated early gas stop. We dutifully followed Token through every U-turn.

The only time in the ride where we did break formation on Sunday was in the Barn Sider Tavern parking lot. Even though we arrived before 11:30 sign-in, the lot was already full. Token threaded his way back around to the street and found a good spot we could all share. Being his wingman, I was right there with him. But when we went to back our bikes into our spots we discovered only Token and I remained.

The rest of our guys decided to block in some other bikes in the parking lot. The bike-bound riders soon saw the Connecticut plates and coming into the restaurant went straight to the Captain. It's the hat, John. The offenders went back outside to move their bikes, releasing the other riders.

To his credit, Token did find plenty of twisties for us to ride. His was a welcome respite from our typical Interstate expressway dominated Polar Bear motorcycling.

Unfortunately the distances we typically travel, and the Captain's flag, generally mandate faster and more direct routes than the luxury we rode Sunday.

The Captain has a new American flag flying on a pole at his house and was very concerned about striking his colors before sunset. A light fixture is on order and hopefully arrives and is installed before Montgomeryville. There's no way we get back from there before sundown.

Our Connecticut Polar Bear ranks continue to swell. We picked up two new riders on this trip.

Dolly is Fonz's wife. Not exactly new to the Polar Bears, she rode with us as a passenger last year on the back of Fonz's Harley. Sunday she was at the helm of her Honda Shadow.

Fonz had bought Dolly one of this season's spiffy new red Polar Bear Grand Tour shirts. But he said she could not wear it until she actually rode with the Bears.

Fortunately Sunday's ride was not at all bearish. With our shortest distance of the season and temperatures nearing 60, it was a perfect ride for cubs.

I think Dolly found it to be quite enough. At our end of day coffee stop Dolly asked me, "What does it mean when you start seeing things?"

"Seeing what?" I asked.

"You know, like two roads," she replied.

"I think it means you drop out of the group," I said. Geeze, she rode behind me most of the day. I kept a keen eye on my rearview mirrors the rest of the ride.

Bill also joined us Sunday. He has a New Jersey Polar Bear friend but lives in Ridgefield. Perusing the Polar Bear Grand Tour site, www.PolarBearGrandTour.com, Bill found the Connecticut contingent's blog on the Grand Tour's "Members' Homepages" page and contacted me.

We liked Bill almost immediately, well right after lunch for sure. Bill picked up the whole lunch tab, for all of us! I sought him out later and assured him there are no initiation rites, nor secret conclave votes, to be a member of the Connecticut Bears. You pretty much need only to show up on a motorcycle. Buying lunch for everyone is certainly not a requirement.

Oh, if you desire the coveted Connecticut patch, you must firsf earn the Grand Tour patch. But so far we have rejected no one from just tagging along on our rides.

There is also the Connecticut Polar Bear pledge. And I forgot to administer it to Dolly or Bill. It's very simple, raise your right hand and repeat after me, "I am responsible for my own safety."

That's it!

Sort of like parachuting, the real challenge is not in getting someone to join us for the first ride; we won't really know if Dolly or Bill likes us until she or he show up for a second ride.

Meanwhile Dolly and Bill are immortalized in the Polar Bear Motorcycle Blog. And not everyone can say that.

Old Bridge, NJ, Nov. 13, 2011, Motorcycle Polar Bears Blog

2011-11-16T09:19:00.001-08:00

By: Chris Loynd

Ahhh, the joys of group riding. Riding with a big group of fellow motorcycles has its appeal, and its foibles.

Last Sunday we did group riding by the Pirate Code.

The Connecticut Polar Bears have had discussions over the years about how many bikes we should have in a line before we divide the riders into two or more independent groups. Some say the threshold is six bikes, some say eight or even 10. I'm pretty sure 12 is too many.

Nevertheless, Sunday's unseasonably warm weather and reasonably close destination turned out the Polar Cubs who engorged our group.

We started out with a threshold nine bikes. Then as we were riding along the Fonz suddenly appeared, pushing us to an upper limit 10. Somewhere before we hit I-287 Jim materialized, as he is wont to do, and we were 11. Token was waiting for us at his usual pickup point and that made it a dozen.

Twelve can be tough to manage. It is a long line of bikes. Leading a group that big is sort of like managing a train. That many bikes stretches the length of maybe three or four tractor-trailer trucks.

Before we even got to Token our leader inadvertently broke the group by merging in front of a slower car. Our sweep rider came up to add to the confusion. Then one of our more expert riders decided to cut off the cops who were creating the traffic jam in the first place, riding up in the unoccupied lane next to our group to form up again in front of the slower car.

When I saw him come up, he was wearing a different jacket than usual. I did not recognize him. My first thought was, "Who is this jerk?" Boy was I surprised when our group reformed and I got close enough to read his license plate. (I won't mention any names but later Fonz told me he was surprised the cops didn't pull him over.)

And no sooner did we assimilate Token and head for the Hutch than a couple of cars once again cut into our line as we went to merge onto the parkway.

They created a pretty big gap. Once they cleared out of our path our ride leader and just two other bikes were a spec on the horizon and fading fast.

The cars cut me off so I was de facto lead for the moment. So I slowed a bit to get the rest of us to form up, and then tried to catch the leader.

He didn't make it easy.

Once I got the rest of us within striking distance, and I wanted to get us all together before the move onto the next expressway, I zoomed ahead and gestured to the leader to slow down -- even just a little -- so the rest of us could catch him.

Of course with full face helmets at highway speed communications options are limited. I got a puzzled look from our leader, but while he was puzzling he did back off his throttle just enough for the rest of the group to gather -- once again -- behind him.

I fell into line and we soon transitioned to the next mix master, the merge onto the GW Bridge.

Once we reached the order and regularity of the New Jersey Turnpike, things settled down. We grabbed our own lane and owned it.

Now I have assiduously avoided mentioning any names. And later in the day John Jackson asserted that this blog and the ribbing from fellow Bears may be the reason we have a hard time finding ride leaders.

Wait, we have a hard time finding ride leaders? Grumpy will lead any ride any time. Oh, he grouses about always having to lead. But he's just living up to his nickname.

The Captain will volunteer to lead any ride. But do you really want him to?

I've led my share. And reviewing past blog posts I see that I always lead a picture perfect ride.

When we finally got down to Old Bridge and got our helmets off, I understood the morning's problem even better. John J. revealed that his Harley mirrors only reach two bikes behind him. So he really could not see that he had no more that two followers as he blasted down the Hutchinson River Parkway.

And the Pirate Code? Certainly you remember, "Them that falls behind is left behind."

So if you wish to join us on a ride next Sunday, and you have moderately good riding skills and a decent GPS in case we lose you, you are welcome to join the Connecticut Polar Bears. If you have a thick enough skin we may even let you lead.

Lewes, Delaware, November 6, 2011, Motorcycle Polar Bear Blog

2011-11-08T10:26:00.000-08:00

By: Chris Loynd

Lewes, Delaware, is a long way from Stratford, Connecticut, especially on a motorcycle, even in summer, I don't care who you are. What a wacky ride. It's basically a 12-hour day for us, 10 of those in the saddle. It's like 270 miles one-way. It's a good touring day. And in the quest for the coveted Polar Bear patch, this ride takes our Connecticut bears a long way. There are not many 7 pointers in the schedule.

If you ride the first two rides of the season from Connecticut, you are 'pert near halfway to the 30 points needed to qualify.

Or if you are like the Captain, you will have donated blood in New Jersey, traveling there and back on your motorcycle, four times before the season even begins, for extra points,. Plus you will have attended every extra point ride Bob Hartpence offers. So John K. likely crossed the 30-point threshold on this ride.

While I am not as crazy about points as some of my compadres, I cannot deny the prize was nestled in the back of my mind as I contemplated going or not.

Several of us came off a tough week to ride this Sunday.

I was on antibiotics, but feeling much better. A simple cold morphed into a nasty sinus infection the week before our Lewes ride. On Thursday the sinus pain was so bad it made my teeth hurt. But the miracle of fighting fungi had me feeling chipper and barley sniffling and no longer contagious by the weekend.

Our northernmost CT bears, Bart and Token2 were snowed under from the freak Nor'easter mentioned in last week's Cape May blog.

As it turned out, Bart needed only to dig out his driveway. His was a lucky oasis of electricity in an otherwise dark grid. He even rode up to the Dunkin' to start out with us Sunday.

Token2 was not so lucky. He was without power the whole week, sending furtive e-mails to fellow riders when he could from random cafe wifi hot spots. But the juice came back on Saturday night in his house. And I guess John felt he had spent more than enough quality time with his wife Lynn sitting in the dark together and so he took off to ride with us Sunday.

Mac was undeterred even by the lack of a motorcycle. He followed us down and back in his car. His bike's in the shop. All the same, he said he wanted to sign in and get the season started. Unlike us, Mac earned just one point for bringing his car.

Except for a gravel parking lot, and a lot of that gravel fresh and deep, Irish Eyes Pub is a fine destination.

The food was great. All the dining room tables were filled by the time we arrived. So we pushed together the bar tables and high stools and perched together like a flock of birds.

Token2 was sitting next to me on one side of the table. Being more toward the center, he heard more of the conversations at both end of the table than I could. At one point he turned to me and said, "You know you're riding with old guys when they are comparing PSA scores."

Still, there are a few perquisites to being an old guy. They don't always balance out the detriments. But young guys can miss a lot due to lack of seasoning. More on that later.

Pogy entertained us with his long awaited comeback to Token. Apparently they made a bet or something LAST season and Pogy owed Token a dollar. Well Pogy carried that dollar around the world and waited all summer to make a special presentation of it to Token last Sunday. Oh the places that dollar has been! And the things that dollar has seen!

These two guys are our worldly ones, both having jobs that take them far and wide. Token is a British expat and world traveler. Pogy is a first generation AmerHungarian working for a worldwide helicopter company. Me, I've been to Canada . . . several times.

Back in Delaware, I decided that while it certainly is wonderful that Gerbing Co. has a lifetime warranty on their electric motorcycle clothing, it is not much help when you have to send your stuff out for repair during winter riding season. I mean, when else are you going to discover that your jacket liner is no longer getting power to your gloves?

So I bit the bullet and bought yet another liner. This way I can ride warm while my old liner makes its way to Tumwater, Washington, state for chrissakes, for repairs. (At least my liner won't have traveled as far as Token's dollar.)

The replacement liner was an almost $200 investment. But I like to ride in winter and I hate to be cold.

Grumpy started busting my chops about being a "rich" guy. I don't think he's seen my house. And I gave him as much back. I'll bet he makes as much or more than I. And I told him so.

For one thing, Johnny B. has a gigantic diesel, scratch that, TURBO DIESEL truck with dual gas tanks, dual tires, dual other stuff, you get the idea. I'll bet his truck costs more than a gaggle of Hyundais like I drive, the Accent, bottom of the line, 2005. (Hey I got a kid in college and a Harley. We gotta cut corners somewhere.)

Plus, Grumpy is supporting a colony of folks at his house. The way he tells it he has relatives coming from far and wide to reside under his roof.

The coup d'etat came when, as we're getting dressed out in the parking lot, Grumpy reveals that he, too, just bought a new liner. "It was only like two hundred bucks," he grinned.

As I started my bike, it didn't. Boy, oh boy, that is a sinking feeling. Hoping against hope, I turned the switch off and back on again. This time it started.

But I soon discovered I had no reading on the speedometer. And as I rode back toward Connecticut, it soon became clear I had no brake lights or turn signals.

A dark cloud of despair filled my helmet.

But I am an old guy, well at least an older guy. And as I mentioned earlier, we have a few advantages.

One of these is experience.

As I rode along, worried for my bike's failure at any moment and so far from home, my brain polled its database. A faint memory clicked into place. And as I rolled it around and examined it, the memory grew stronger and more appropriate.

Yes, it was years ago. Same thing. No speedometer. Riding by myself up in Massachusettss I think. I recall the bike ran okay, all the way home in fact. Then they replaced my ignition switch.

I felt a little better. Despair faded into mere dread.

When we made our last gas stop on the Garden State Parkway, it was getting pretty dark. I enlisted the help of my fellow riders. Fonz, who was behind me, was warned to watch out for my lack of brake lights. "If you feel a little bump, it's just me," he assured me. Captain said he would follow me all the way home acting as surrogate brake lights and turn signals.

Fortunately the bike started right up. And then I tried turning the ignition switch just a little toward the "off" position. Instantly the speedometer lit up. I checked the turn signals. Yup, they're back, brake lights too.

Dread was shredded by the bright light of knowledge. And I rode comfortably home.

Remembering the previous ignition switch symptoms reminded me of a conversation I had just had that week with my son Trever. He was agonizing over a problem with his Camaro. Just could not get it to run right after he installed a new distributor. It was backfiring through the carb.

Trever works as a mechanic. And apparently he mentioned the trouble to his fellow mechanics. One of the more experienced guys suggested a very simple solution. Trever came home that night, tried it, and the Camaro purred. "How the heck would that old guy know to try that?" Trever asked me. "I just smiled and said there are a few, just a few, advantages to being an old guy."

Cape May, Oct. 30, 2011 Motorcycle Polar Bear Blog

2011-11-08T10:21:00.000-08:00

By: Chris Loynd

You know how sometimes in winter you are driving along in a clean car, surrounded by clean cars and then you see a car so crudded up with salt and junk you know it must be from up north and sure enough the license plate reads, "Maine" or "Vermont"?
We were those guys Sunday.
What is it about the Cape May Polar Bear ride and Nor'Easters?

A doozy came through Saturday. And while along the coast we only got a few inches, our friends in northern Connecticut got up to 18 inches.

New Jersey got a dusting to mostly just rain.

When we got to Cape May we were surrounded by shiny, clean bikes. We held our heads a little higher as we parked our crudbikes.

I felt like a true Polar Bear. In late August, just before Hurricane Irene, I put my bike in for an engine remanufacturing.
It had 137,000 miles and I figured I didn't want any troubles during Polar Bear season.
When I called Marcel, the service manager at Brothers Harley-Davidson he asked, "Are you sure you don't want to keep it a little longer to enjoy the riding weather?"
"No! I got to get it ready for Polar Bear season. So I need it by the end of September to get my break-in miles done," I replied.

"You have this riding season thing upside down," Marcel laughed.

I didn't even need to shovel my driveway Sunday. Fonz did a bit. Grumpy has a ski slope and had to clear it. Then he dropped the bike in an icy Ansonia intersection on his way to meet us at Dunkin' Donuts. He, and his ride, were fine and he made it to Cape May and back.

Grumpy said in his e-mail the week after the ride that he was a bit sore.

Our northern pals Token and Bart were completely snow bound. They may also still be without electricity. Because the snow was wet and heavy and trees still had all their leaves, the damage to power lines here was worse than with hurricane Irene.

Some areas of Connecticut are without power still. The utility is promising 99 percent restoration by end of day Sunday, more than a week after the storm.

Fortunately, even with our early start the temperature was above freezing. Unfortunately, they had been spraying salt on the roads all Saturday and into Sunday morning.

Still, our morning ride was not so great. In fact there was a time there when I was entertaining thoughts of turning around.

I mean, I am out here to have fun. And with the spray and wet roads, with strong and gusty winds, with the slabs of snow blowing off roofs of lazy car drivers, with a few sphincter moments of less than optimal traction, it was becoming a chore.

We figured to keep within the warm embrace of Long Island Sound. So I opted to follow I-95 all the way to the George Washington Bridge.

Only the New York State City Police had other ideas.

The Cross Bronx Expressway was closed, shut down. Fortunately one of NYC's Finest was standing outside his car and gave us easy directions to the bridge.

Traffic remained heavy until we got well south on the Garden State Parkway.

Polar Bear Grand Poohbah Bob Hartpence sent out an e-mail on Saturday to ensure all Bears that Sunday's ride was a go. He said the roads were dry.

We did not find those dry roads until we were about halfway down to Cape May.

Fortunately, roads were dry for the whole ride home. And the sun was shining. It even warmed up a bit.

But the long ride meant a sunrise start and a finish in the dark.

I led the ride because I wanted to vary my speed a bit. I had 'pert near a thousand miles on the new motor. Still, I didn't want to crank it the whole way to Cape May.

It worked out just fine. The ride down was so crappy, I kept speeds below the posted limits.

For the first time I can remember, Cape May sign-in was a breeze. No waiting.

We bought our "this season" shirts, made our acquaintances, I teased Bob about his "dry roads" e-mail and we were off.

Over brunch, some had breakfast, some chose lunch, we caught up with riding buddies. It hardly seems seven months have passed.

With a very demanding workload this year, I will definitely do more riding in winter than I did all summer.

Hopefully the weather will be kind. But it is winter. And we start from New England. There are no guarantees.

Polar Bear Blog New Brunswick, NJ; Jan. 23, 2011

2011-02-06T10:59:00.000-08:00

Polar Bear, New Brunswick, NJ; January 23 2011

By: Chris Loynd

single digit temperatures to start, teens to finish

Wow it was cold. I mean nasty cold. Every extra layer cold. At least, that's what I thought.

I put on two sets of silk long johns, an extra sweatshirt and my windproof balaclava. In my boots I put not one, not two, but three warmer packs per foot.

When I queried my fellow bears about the special preparations they made for the coldest ride of the season they responded, to a man, none! Geeze! Guess I'm a wimp.

I've always said that I don't like to be cold. That may seem counter intuitive to riding a motorcycle in winter. But with my extra layers and heat packs and electric jacket and gloves, I was toasty warm all day. Still, I was glad for the extra layers.

My EMS balaclava is almost too warm. It's made with wind-stopper fleece. Under my helmet, it keeps my noggin well insulated. On anything but the coldest days, it induces sweat.

Now that we are into mid-season Polar Bear riding, it seems road conditions are getting worse. Potholes are appearing everywhere. I clipped a nasty one at the merge onto the New Jersey Turnpike. When we discussed it a lunch, we were thinking this is perhaps the same hole that claimed Token's tire last season. Fortunately my big Dunlops held.

I rode down into another pothole on the local road as we neared our destination. As I watched it swallow my tire, I could see the pavement's gravel underlayment, then an old cobblestone base, next an alluvial layer. I thought, oh schist! Finally my tire rode past some dinosaur bones and into a bit of lava in the very bottom before we started to climb the other side of the pothole.

Reacting in time, I stood up on the floorboards to allow the bike to pivot beneath me as my suspension attempted to compensate for the sudden drop in elevation. Fortunately, the big springer front end compressed and rebounded. I love this bike!

At Sir John's I asked Mr. “No Wet,” Ken Andrejewski about a flagstaff for my bike. His name refers to nothing sexual. It is instead a special process for cleaning motorcycles without water.

I have one of the older Polar Bear pennants that is larger than the small ones that fit on my compatriots' whip antennas. (That's fine 'cause my bike has no whip antennas.) In previous years I flew it from my chrome luggage rack from a “farmerized” Harley flag pole meant for tour pack attachment. (Ask Russ for the definition of "farmerized.")

Lacking a tour pack, I cut the base of the nylon pole down to fit between my luggage rack's rails with a hack saw and very poor technique. Then I zip tied the crap out of it to get it to hold onto the rails at speed.

When I saw Ken's flag poles actually meant for mounting on the round stock rails of any luggage rack via a very clean looking recessed set screw, I was ready for an upgrade. He asked me the diameter of my rails, half or quarter inch or some number of eighth inches. What do I know from diameter or how to measure it? Fortunately my rack is detachable. I told Ken to wait one minute.

I ran outside, popped the rack from its mounts, and brought it into Ken, striking a deal on a new flag pole -- installed. He gladly complied. It looks like it was made for the bike. I won't miss the zip ties.

We teased Jim about not having a date for this ride. Last year he rode with us to Sir John's, but then never showed for the ride home. It turned out a lady friend made him a better offer.

We had a smaller than usual group this ride. As stated in last week's blog, many of our Connecticut bears are driveway challenged. We may not see Bart until spring thaw!

Polar Bear Lake Hoptacong, NJ, Jan. 16, 2011

2011-01-27T19:51:00.000-08:00

Polar Bear, Lake Hopatcong, NJ; January 16, 2011

By: Chris Loynd

28 degrees F. to start, hovered around freezing mark for much of the day in mostly bright sun

This Sunday was about driveways and delays. It had been a long time for me since I had been on my motorcycle. I was having withdrawal symptoms.

In August of 2002, I got a PR opportunity for my client Bridgeport Harley-Davidson. Bridgeport H-D was a top 10 percent Harley dealer back then (not so much now, after a change in management the business declared bankruptcy). Joe Zibbel, a reporter from “The Business Times” asked a seemingly simple question, “What is it about riding a Harley-Davidson that makes it so special?”

Since I had only been riding since May, I turned to General Manager Domenic Maturo, who had been riding Harleys most of his life. His answer was that you just had to ride a Harley to understand the appeal. Joe was baffled, expressed disappointment.

As expressed in his article, Joe's takeaway was this: “The responses were somewhat inconclusive. 'It's difficult to put into words.' 'You'd have to get on a bike, take a ride on the highway and experience it for yourself' (they said).”

Joe was working on a story about the Motor Company's upcoming 100th anniversary. You can read it here: http://www.allbusiness.com/marketing-advertising/925451-1.html

Me, I knew why I wanted to ride. It was “Then Came Bronson.” Just 26 episodes aired on NBC-TV September 1969 through April 1970. There was that premise, that promise, expressed in the theme song, “gonna live life my way.” I was 13 years old. Ah, those formative years.

It took me 33 years to get on a bike. This past summer, I took a four week, 7,500 mile ride out to Arizona and back. It was, is, everything I wanted. But I still can't fully explain the appeal.

I can feel it. I just find it difficult to put into words. I don't apologize for that.

Back when Joe asked his question, I did not understand riding like I do now. If I did, I would have had a better answer for him. I would have asked him to explain what it was about music that made it so special, or sex, or romance, or sports or anything else you love to do.

I think I would have asked Joe if he could explain what it is about writing that makes it so special for him.

From when I started riding in May of 2002 until today, I don't think more than eight contiguous weeks have gone by that I did not get out for a ride of some sort.

Because riding is so special to me, I go into “withdrawal” when I can't ride. I even dream of riding.

That's what attracted me to the Polar Bear Grand Tour in the first place. It offered an excuse and thereby an opportunity, to ride all year round.

I honestly never expected the camaraderie and fun that developed as other riders joined me, and some, like Captain, surpassed me. Some of my best rides of the year now happen on days when most motorcyclists have their bikes in deep storage.

Russ, remember that first Polar Bear year when you had suspended your bike insurance for the winter?

Still, I cannot ride in snow. The holiday calendar and not one, but two, blizzards kept my big girl garaged since December 19. I was going into withdrawal, thumbing through my cycle magazines and accessory catalogs, looking at old photos and maps. But just like porn, these activities only sharpened my desire for the real thing.

A holiday blizzard was followed by another storm bringing yet another foot-and-a-half of snow. Snow was followed by bitter cold. Sunny days allowed for some melting, but generally only when supported by salt or similar chemicals.

Those of the Connecticut Polar Bears that live in deeper country find their motorcycles trapped in their garages. Some made extraordinary efforts to get their bikes out. Others had it easier.
My wife and kids know that my major snow shoveling objective is always getting my bike out for the upcoming Sunday. Fortunately, our narrow driveway means the cars create two tracks down the edges. That leaves the center clear of packed snow or icy spots.

So last Sunday I was very ready to ride. And the roads were clear. There was a mostly clear strip down the center of my driveway.

Some of our regulars were not so fortunate in their driveways. Bart lives in the boonies. His driveway alone is quarter-mile challenge. Then the secondary roads can be tough in his neck of the woods. John J. claimed the same secondary roads issue, but he lives in Milford for heavens sake. Maybe he really just wanted to see the Patriots lose their postseason bid as it actually happened.

Sunday was a gorgeous day for a winter ride. The temperature was cool, but sun made it feel warmer. The distance to our destination was just a bit more than 100 miles. The Interstate highways were dry and clear.

It felt great to be back on the bike. I was so eager I shocked my compatriots by showing up 20 minutes ahead of our departure time. I had to run into the Dunkin' right away to tell them not to choke down their coffees or rush their doughnuts. I was afraid my presence would make them think the time was later than they thought.

Three bikes were in the parking lot when I arrived: Captain, Grumpy and Jim. As we were suiting up, Fonz rode in. On the way down we picked up Pogy at the Darien rest stop.

Fortunately he was able to find his way there. (More on that later.)

Token2 was waiting for us at the Tappan Zee Bridge to make us seven for the ride.

Maybe the other guys were feeling the same cabin fever. They all remarked on what a great day it was for a motorcycle ride.

Fortunately Grumpy was leading, because there is a set of quick, right-angle turns that we have missed in year's past. As I watched it unfold on my GPS, I would not have made sense of it in time to make the turn, were I leading. But Grumpy did it from memory and smoothly. All I had to do was not run into Jim's bike in front of mine.

The Wearhouse Grill (sic) treated us well. A banner out front declared us welcome and a special menu was prepared for the Bears.

Pogy mentioned that we missed a good spread at the Five Points the week before.

We had our usual raucous lunchtime conversation. Captain is looking for a flex-fuel Ford. He's making practical application of his convictions. Ford is the one American car company that did not take government bailout funds. I applaud John for putting his money where his heart is.

I had to rib Pogy a bit about his GPS challenges. He called me the day before, once again expressing dismay at the Grand Tour's directions. Admittedly, I did not get it the first time around. When I entered the destination as being on “Route” 181, my Garmin couldn't find it. But then I remembered the foible of Garmin being picky about whether something is a Route or Highway. When I asked it to find simply “181,” it did just fine and assigned the designation of “Hwy.”

Pogy had called a couple times before with similar issues. And if you read his blog account from last week, you know he ran Captain into a cornfield, following his GPS.

Pogy even sprang for the Garmin upgrade, downloading it before last Sunday's ride. Now, he says the Garmin is displaying instructions in English and Korean. I wonder if the voice prompts are from that Eastern European guy “Peggy” from the Discover Card TV commercial?

When the discussion came up, Token2 was kind enough to remind us all that I am no genius of GPS myself.

I admitted to the group that my secret was to first look at a map, a rendering of the actual land route, and then consult my satellite receiver. In fact, on my misled Montgomeryville ride, I clearly knew where I wanted to go, could see a picture of the map in my mind. I just could not get my GPS to take me there.

Fortunately Grumpy and his GPS and memory got us there and back. And I got my riding “fix.” Here's hoping next Sunday gets us out again.

Polar Bear Snydersville, PA, December 19, 2010

2010-12-30T19:57:00.000-08:00

Snydersville (Stroudsburg), PA, December 19, 2010

By: Chris Loynd

It was just a really nice day for a Polar Bear motorcycle ride. A threatening snow storm stayed out to sea. Attendant clouds kept the temperatures above freezing, mostly above freezing.

Grumpy is back. I knew it was him as I approached the Dunkin' Donuts jump off point in Stratford Sunday morning because he was at the head of a line of bikes ready to pull onto Lordship Boulevard . . . without me! He has left without me before, just left me to ride on my own for the lack of a mere minute or two waiting for a late comrade.

I was not late this time. My GPS, hyper-accurate time was 8:30 a.m. Well, okay, that's a lie. It read 8:31 as I pulled up to the line of bikes poised to leave . . . without me, as I said.

My usual M.O. is to arrive just as our guys are suiting up to leave. Okay, so I cut it a bit tighter than usual last Sunday morning because my wife Cynthia's computer was still predicting snow. Worried, I waited for the Cablevision forecast as I suited up. The TV weatherman said no snow. And I was off.

After eight years, the rest of the guys usually cut me a bit of slack.

It's okay for Grumpy to be punctual. He's ex-military. And he's, well, particular, very, hence the nickname.

As for Pogy and Scott waiting not-so-patiently at the Darien rest stop, I once again attest that our line of bikes departed the Dunkin' at precisely 8:31. So I don't want to hear any more guff about us being late to you guys.

In my last blog post I explored in depth the features and foibles of GPS navigation for motorcycles. I am no tech wiz, but I am well read. As I understand it, timing is everything for synchronizing the two or three satellites in geosynchronous orbit above the earth in order to triangulate my motorcycle's exact position in the world. So the time displayed on my GPS is the most accurate time you can get.

It read 8:31 as I approached our guys ready to go. Grumpy and I exchanged very little. I said, “Welcome back!” He nodded, I think disapprovingly, and dropped his clutch. Captain waved me into place with a nod of his head. There's just no way we departed Dunkin' any later than 8:31:30, no matter what Pogy says about his certified travel time from Stratford to Darien.

Except for a bout of stop-and-go construction traffic on Route 80 headed west, we enjoyed an uneventful ride to the Pocono Mountains. My odometer read just exactly 150 miles, one-way. So I am hoping my Flight Leaders give me the extra point. Captain clocked something like 308 round trip, so maybe my odometer is running a bit shy.

We decided that is maybe too long a run for some of us older guys. Next long ride, we maybe need to build in a bathroom break. One of our guys joked that he couldn't wait and just went in his riding suit. That also helped solve the problem of cold toes, at least for a little while, he said.

My GPS would probably give me uber-accurate exact distance traveled. And I am sure it is in there somewhere imprinted on a memory chip. I just don't know how to find it. Guess I had better spend some Christmas holiday downtime trying to better learn how to use the dang thing.

I also upgraded my cell phone last week. That too comes with its learning curve. It has wonderful, whizzbang features. You just have to memorize the 10,000 key combinations, 3,000 screens and 12,000 so called short cuts in order to tap the phone's potential. And don't even get me started on the million-some apps.

Smart phone my a**! If it's so smart, why doesn't it intuitively know what I want? Oh, there's an app for that?

Fortunately, I did pretty quickly pick up how to make and receive phone calls. And unlike Captain, I can text.

Back on topic, we arrived in good order, early though. Fortunately the split pea soup showed up soon after we did. Walter Kern even made a video of ever-helpful Grumpy carrying the soup for Mrs. Schoch.

Mrs. Schoch was there managing the food, greeting the Polar Bears and spreading good will. Thank you again for hosting us!

Unfortunately, Schoch's was using their spacious upstairs for other things. So we did not get any opportunity to sit down and kibbutz with one another. We stood around downstairs, had a bit of food, drank a half-cup of coffee. Somehow, I managed to still be last out to our bikes for departure. (It wasn't my fault I got caught in the longer bathroom line.)

Fortunately Grumpy was along with his camera. Mine had a dead battery. So we still managed the group picture. I am sure, in a pinch, I could have taken the photo with my fancy new cell phone. It has an 8 megapixel camera built in. I do know how to take a picture with my phone. I just don't know where it goes after I take it, or how to get a picture from my phone to my computer.

Our ride home was smooth and uneventful. Grumpy proudly offered to buy the coffees at Chez GSP. He had a $20 Dunkin' Donuts gift card. But the Dunkin' on the Garden State Parkway is not a “participating vendor.” Grumpy was a good sport and bought all the same.

I am sure there is more that happened on our ride. I fell asleep on the couch when I got home, had two, no three now, consecutive Christmas parties since Sunday. Plus Pogy and I had a very interesting discussion about our jobs and companies that affected me profoundly. And that's all I can seem to remember from last Sunday. Maybe some of my fellow bears can chime in with a few remembrances of their own.

Our next ride is a whole two weeks away. Because Christmas and New Year's both fall on weekends, the Grand Tour has decided to forgo Sunday rides on those holidays.

So in the meanwhile a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to all.

Polar Bear Montgomeryville, Pa.; December 5, 2010

2010-12-10T09:56:00.000-08:00

Montgomeryville, PA; December 5, 2010

Polar Bear weather: 26 degrees to start, 29 to finish, don't think it ever broke 40.

By: Chris Loynd

Longtime Polar Bear Blog readers will know that over the years I have made good fun of GPS enabled ride leaders. Now I am one.

Pulling into the Dunkin' Donuts in Stratford just as my fellow riders were dressing and getting organized, Captain and I discussed the ride and route. He asked “Who's leading?” like he didn't want to be the one. So I figured, “What the heck?” and rode out to the front of the group.

I wasn't really ready to lead.

Yes, I had looked at the MapQuest map when I formulated a departure time. I have a vague concept of where Pennsylvania lies. Fortunately, I had at least entered the destination address into my GPS as a precaution. (Thank you Bob V.)

I embraced one of these satellite receiver contraptions for my trip west. In the 7,500 miles and four weeks of our trip together, GPS and me, we fell in love. I am a convert. GPS is wonderful for a motorcycle.

Being lost in Cambridge, Mass. on the bike a few years back haunts me still. I had to stop the bike, fish the paper map out of my saddlebags, figure out where I was, memorize two or three turns to where I wanted to go. It took me six or eight of these confusing, mind-wrenching, memory-taxing stops to finally get back on the interstate, headed for home with a headache.

GPS puts the map in front of you. Nearly as helpful, it tells you how far to the next turn. Still, it has limitations.

Like most things computer, GPS comes with a learning curve. Sunday's ride clearly evidenced I have not climbed far enough up the curve.

GPS also has it's benefits. For one thing, if you are willing to surrender your destiny to a computer algorithm, GPS will take you through all kinds of interesting country. This facility has been the fodder of blogs past. Led by other CT Polar Bear GPS following leaders, we have explored the very depths of New Jersey farm country, toured some of its nastiest cities and seen paved roads suddenly turn to dirt, all at the behest of someone's GPS.

My turn at GPS roulette came Sunday. I led us all the way out Route 202 from Interstate 287. In the past we have taken the faster Interstate 78 west, then dropped down to Montgomeryville.

The 202 is a pretty ride, actually. Once you clear the stoplights, there for a while the scenery looks nice as you transition from Jersey pharmacy land to horse country to suburban ticky-tacky boxes country.

Across the bridge in New Hope, Pa., we rode past beautiful old Pennsylvania stone houses. Downtown Doylestown was actually quite charming. Apparently my GPS felt it was faster to go right through the center of town than to bypass it on the expressway.

Russ accused me of having my GPS set to “shortest route” (or maybe “most scenic”) instead of “fastest route.” I confirmed my affirmation when I got home. In fact it was set to “fastest,” although you could not have proven it by my ride navigation last Sunday. After our summer adventure together, my GPS and me, perhaps it suffers from a lack of scenery on our urban expressway-dominated Polar Bear rides.

We did, in fact, reach Montgomeryville Cycle Center. And some of our riders commented, “Well we have never gone that way before.”

Thanks to my GPS, we came at the dealership destination from a completely different direction. I'm not sure of the compass heading. I'll have to look at a paper map to figure out how we got there.

The change in approach meant I missed the turnoff. On all our previous rides, the dealership came up on the left, which is where I was looking when it quite suddenly appeared on the right. I felt it would have been unsafe to get on the brakes too hard, being at the head of a line of bikes. So I dove for the shoulder. Everyone else made the turn to the dealership.

Russ, my wing man, could have made the turn too. But Russ is one of the best wing men in motorcycling. And just like Maverick in “Top Gun,” Russ knows: you never leave your wing man. So he rode twenty miles further with me (Russ said it was more like 50 or a hundred) until we could find an exit ramp and turnaround. Russ will follow you up a tree if he is your wing man.

When I finally arrived at the Polar Bear destination, Token quipped, “We've already taken the group photo without you.” But he was only kidding.

Motgomeryville Cycle Center offered warming beef chili with all the fixin's, including corn bread. Yummy! They also served hot dogs, coffee and water. Seating was at a premium, but eventually we found a spot for all of us together at the end of a table.

Bob Hartpence, Polar Bear Grand Pooh-bah, stopped by with some interesting comments about his challenges trying to keep in touch with members via e-mail blasts. All I can say, is that this blog is 100% opt-in. If you don't like it, don't read it. Geeze! Even bikers are going politically correct?

By the way, this blog is open to commentary. The BlogSpot version allows you to post a comment right then and there. The version with photos requires you to send me an e-mail.

It was fun to see Token2 regale in this plastic-dominated store filled with metric motorcycles. He truly was happy in his element. He said to me, “Look at this half of the shop: no chrome!” A token no more, these were HIS people!

Unfortunately, he had to nestle amongst Harleys for the ride home.

Before we departed, Token2 had to purchase a new controller for his heated garments. When we got to our stop at top of the GSP (yes, I did finally lead us home), turns out John J. has had trouble with his as well. John J. sent his controller back to Gerbing and the sent it back with a patched wire. John J. is still not happy.

Considering I am a Polar Bear rider that hates the cold, I think I will purchase a second controller as back-up.

My GPS and I agreed upon a homeward route. I wanted to take the more express Interstate 78 back. Simply by hitting the “home” button, my GPS showed me a reasonable route north to I-78 then east to I-287. We had an accord and off I went, bikes trailing behind me.

Unfortunately, most of our bikes were running on fumes, a gas stop sorely needed. I passed up a WAWA, thinking a few of my guys might not appreciate an off-brand fill-up.

(We did not have Grumpy with us. That's significant because he insists not only on brandname gasoline, but also one made from oil pumped under the proper geopolitical circumstances. Hugo Chavez, you listening?)

But the road past the WAWA started looking pretty rural and I was afraid we might not find another gas station. So I circled the procession with a "U" turn, always a move open to derision, and reversed my line of march back to WAWA.

Apparently my GPS took my indecision to indicate a change in plans. And without my knowing it, the GPS took it upon itself to change my route. Captain later said he believes the GPS calculates your route depending upon which way the bike is pointed at the time.

Between the u-turn and then riding around through the filling station, I guess I performed the equivalent of spinning around the blindfolded player in blind man's bluff. My GPS got confused.
The computer still took us home, but sent me back exactly the way I came, stoplights and all.

Sometimes it's hard to tell what or who is in charge, the computer or the user. Speaking of which, I can't wait to see the new Tron movie. Maybe there is a future version where a driver gets sucked into his GPS.

Now that most all our riders are GPS equipped (I was one of the last holdouts) they at least know what I am up to, floundering around at the head of the line as I was. They can follow my every foible, turn-by-turn.

A full line of bikes behind you definitely limits your experimental navigation options. On my own, I would not have sweated the turnaround. I would have simply taken the next State Route indicating “north,” confident in eventually running into I-78.

One advantage of GPS is that you lose your fear of getting lost. My Garmin motorcycle version even has an “off road” function. I can't wait to try that out with Russ at my side. He loves dirt and gravel roads.

Polar Bear Hopewell, NJ; November 28, 2010

2010-11-29T18:17:00.000-08:00

November 28, 2010; Hopewell, NJ

By: Chris Loynd

It was a glorious day for polar bearing. Temperatures starting in the thirties had me installing my hippo hands that morning. However the sun was bright and the day warmed to near fifty degrees. I hardly used my electrics at all on the ride home.

Our destination kept us on Interstate 287, a commuter relief highway that runs well west of the New Jersey Turnpike and Garden State Parkway madness. I-287 has its scenic spots. But then we exited onto Route 202 south for a bit of that “strip mall” scenery that pervades the Garden State. Eventually we got off 202 after passing through pharmacy land (also a New Jersey staple) and finally had a scenic ride through farm and horse country. It was a nice finish to the ride down. Coming from the north, we avoided any detour issues in Hopewell proper, farther south of Hillbilly Hall.

We were light, just four bikes: Pogy, Captain, Jim and I. Fearing traffic, some of our guys tried a scenic northern ride. Mac was going to join us but got a better offer at the last minute.

At Dunkin' in Stratford, Captain and I decided it was a good opportunity to have someone else lead and sweep to get a feel for it with our group. So we figured to ask whoever we met at the rest stop in Darien to take over. Pulling off we found Pogy and Jim.

Then to my dismay, but not surprise, I was no sooner stopped than Captain was leading the other two down the on-ramp. I had wanted to stop a moment because I had plugged my electrics into the wrong outlet. I was wearing my Gerbing outer jacket, which isn't much good below 50 degrees and underneath my electric jacket liner. My gloves were plugged into the sleeves of the electric liner. Back at Dunkin' I had plugged into the outer jacket which was providing minimal relief for my body and none for my hands.

Not wanting to lose the group, I chased them out of the rest stop. Then I jetted ahead to catch up to the free-running Captain, and tapping the top of my helmet pulled him, and the others onto the shoulder. I shouted my explanation, but with helmets who knows how much is heard?

As I fiddled with my electrical connections, Captain apparently recalled our Dunkin' conversation. He then pulled up next to Pogy and as we left the shoulder, Pogy was now leading and Jim was sweep. I was Pogy's wing man and Captain fell in behind me.

Pogy did a fine job. He kept a nice and steady pace. He avoided excessive lane changes. Except for missing one of those #%^@* New Jersey jug handles, he was fairly flawless.

I kept as steady in my position as I could to help him out. If you are lead bike, but your wing man is not attentive, you lose the ability to make subtle changes in speed to allow for merging cars, passing, etc. Instead, the wing man becomes the de facto lead rider.

Captain vacillated up and back a bit. But the Captain does that. Usually he is fiddling with something on his bike: GPS, Citizens Band Radio, Weather Receiver, Radar, Sonar, whatever. He has his Road King and Gold Wing loaded with gadgets.

(What a s**t show this MetroNorth railroad offers! I generally like to write my blog on my Monday, sometimes Tuesday, commute from Stratford to Norwalk. This morning I am sitting in an unheated car. It's the second such cold trip this month. The best thing you can say about the train is it is slightly better than the disaster known as I-95.)

Hillbilly Hall was warm and inviting. We had a nice lunch next to a beautiful fire. Cream of broccoli soup was especially delightful. The Ruben was tasty and nicely broiled with the cheese crisp around the edges. Pogy asked the waitress if the sandwich was good here before he ordered. She assured him it was. After she left Captain wondered aloud if she would have said differently. Jim said his experience is that now and then he has encountered honest waitresses who suggested he make another choice. Fortunately, our waitress was telling the truth, fully backed by the kitchen, and she delivered three Ruben sandwiches with crisp fries. Captain had chicken, as always.

Lunchtime conversation drifted dangerously into politics. It started with airport screening. Captain stated he did not feel anyone had a right to avoid the pat downs and low dose x-rays. I suggested such rights were in something called The Constitution and Bill of Rights.

Then we got into 9-11 and whether or not Muslim countries should have apologized. Pogy has considerable dealings throughout the world, including Muslim countries, and his take is that most Muslims are mortified at the portrayal of their religion as terrorist.

My thought is that all religions are terrorist, or at least can be bent to those purposes. No other human invention has the ability to pacify the masses while simultaneously spurring them to worldwide domination. In our lunch conversation, I pointed out it was the Christians that started the Crusades, not the Muslims.

(We all agreed how conveniently history is forgotten or ignored.)

Has the Catholic Church ever apologized for the Spanish Inquisition or witch trials? They excommunicated Galileo for having the temerity to suggest Earth was not the center of the Universe held him in house arrest for the rest of his life, then banished him to purgatory, if you believe in such a thing. He was then stuck there 400 years until Pope John Paul II admitted the church made a mistake.

So maybe the Saudis have a bit of time still to formulate their response.

America has yet to apologize to its Indians or the Vietnamese. Yet we allow casinos as recompense to the former and buy shrimp and sneakers from the latter.

One of the fun things about writing this blog is getting in the last word. But you are welcome to offer you insights. You can e-mail them to me for the photo blog, or post them yourself on the Blog Spot version. I ask only that you avoid profanity and any direct slander of your fellow motorcycle riders.

It's amazing, isn't it, how something as simple as riding motorcycles can bring together such disparate views in a common purpose. We come from all different strata of life, with wide ranging opinions on politics and religion, yet we can agree on riding procedures and lunch, and sometimes, on avoiding traffic.

So we figured to move with alacrity from Hillbilly Hall to avoid traffic, deciding to skip the traditional coffee stop on the return trip as well. Turns out the only thing we had to fear was fear itself.

We cruised nicely up 287 north. Pogy went to follow his GPS' instruction to take 78 to the George Washington Bridge. But as the off-ramp approached, he saw me going wide to stay on 287 and he cut back over.

Approaching the intersection of the Garden State Parkway and I-287 we hit some slow traffic. Maybe we did eight miles of slow traffic. Of that, only the smallest part was stop-and-go. For the most part we putted along feet-up. Once past the exit for the Palisades Parkway, things picked up nicely.

Really the worst traffic we hit was in Connecticut. But that is always the case. I have traveled around this country and Canada, by motorcycle and car, and invariably the worst traffic jams are in this over packed state of ours. You can sail past New York City and still get slammed on I-95 approaching Stamford, the Merrit Parkway approaching Greenwich or I-84 approaching Danbury, in the middle of the night, on a weekday. There's no easy way in or out of this frickin' state.

So it was Trumbull Mall traffic that slammed us hardest. We were on the Merritt Parkway. Fortunately, I had Captain who knows every back road in and around Bridgeport. We tolerated the parkway traffic only long enough to catch the Route 59 exit in Fairfield. Captain, who I am sure enjoyed the opportunity to show off his local navigation skills, led us over one road and down the next 'till we popped out in Stratford with but a trifle of stop signs and stop lights impeding our progress.

It was doubly enjoyable for me because I followed Captain all the way to a convenient to both of us gas station and then accepted his invitation to visit his home, currently under extensive renovations.

Captain is taking his abode off the grid. A new roof, turned and reoriented to catch the southern exposure, is covered in solar panels for heat, hot water and electricity. He confidently said that when completed he will be selling electricity back to the power company. He has a battery array that will support his home, refrigerator, microwave, TV, et. al., for three days bereft of sunshine. Sort of like a submarine on land, if you will.

Me, I am perhaps a fatalist instead of a survivalist. When the apocalypse comes, I am more in mind to watch it unfurl with a glass of good port and a fine cigar. But if you want to run and hide for a chance to emerge in the smoldering aftermath, here's Captain's home address: 1313 Mockingbird Lane, what?, you thought I would really do that to one of my riding buddies? Besides, Captain would probably shoot you anyway. He wouldn't want to. But in dire circumstances . . .well, did you read last week's blog?

Meanwhile, if the end of the world holds off until this summer, Captain and I fantasized about a CT Polar Bear party on his newly-built deck, overlooking his newly-built dock on the Housatonic River. Maybe Pogy can bring his boat up and offer some party cruises as well?

If the world still exists this Sunday, and the weather's amenable, I plan on riding to Montgomeryville Cycle Center. It's one of our longer rides, famous for good food and bad weather. Here's hoping we get lucky on both.

Polar Bear Port Jervis, NY; November 21, 2010

2010-11-25T07:55:00.000-08:00

Polar Bear Port Jervis, NY; November 21, 2010

By: Chris Loynd

Well the chill is in the air, but not yet the winter. I still have not installed my hippo hands. Fonz got a new set and I like the way they fit over his master cylinder. He got the actual, branded, Hippo Hands. I have a knockoff pair.

Fonz had his electrics this time, but I didn't get a chance to get his report on how he liked them. More on that later in the blog.

Pogy had navigation problems. Fortunately, he had some good bikes to lead him to and fro. Every week I send out an alert e-mail to our Connecticut and affiliated Polar Bears. In that e-mail I detail our destination and departure time. For years now I have repeated the same line, over and over, that we meet at the Dunkin' Donuts in Stratford, just off I-95, Exit 30, at the corner of Lordship Blvd. and Honeyspot Rd. So last week I finally got tired of repeating myself, figured everyone knew the Dunkin' by now, and merely said we would meet at the Dunkin' on Lordship Blvd. In so doing, we almost lost Pogy before we started.

My first clue to Pogy's navigation issues should have been a couple days earlier when he asked if I meant to say we were going to Port Jervis in New Jersey, not New York. I flippantly replied that we would stop at the first Port Jervis we came to on Interstate 84.

Port Jervis, New York, is right at the confluence of New York, New Jersey and Pennsylvania. So I figured Pogy was looking at a map and was simply mistakenly identifying the state.

Turns out when we got a chance to talk at lunch in Port Jervis, NY, he was thinking of Port Jarvis, NJ. He was headed for the Jersey shore. Glad he didn't set his sights on that one! And by the way, Google has never heard of the place!

I guess he was consulting his naval charts instead of land maps.

At the Cornucopia, he made a disparaging comment such that Port Jervis must not be much of a port because it is inland. In fact it was once a very important port on the Delaware River, doubly so in 1828 when the Hudson and Delaware canal was completed. The canal created a highly profitable conduit for Pennsylvania anthracite coal from the Moosic mountains to New York City. It offered an American answer to problems caused by importation of British bituminous coal. The city was renamed from the Indian settlement inspired Mahackamack to Port Jervis in honor of John Bloomfield Jervis, an engineer on the canal project.

Port Jervis' other claims to fame include being raided and burned before the Batle of Minisink in 1779 and for a famous lynching in 1892. More recently Port Jervis was named #1 coolest small town by Budget Magazine.

Maybe the confusion is because Pogy has the heart of a waterman. He has a boat for pleasure cruising. But he also rides a working boat for leisure. When he's not fishing for helicopter buyers, his idea of a good time is the kind of work most people say is a very tough way to make a living. I forget if it was dredging for oysters or pulling lobster traps. It is hard, wet, often cold work, generally started before dawn and pursued in all weather. Long Island Sound ain't exactly “Deadliest Catch,” still it is tough stuff, double tough. But Pogy does it for fun.

Meanwhile, the one week I don't give the exact Dunkin' meeting location in my pre-ride e-mail, Pogy decides to ride up from Norwalk to meet us in Stratford and is waiting at another Dunkin' in Stratford. (Usually we pick him up en route at the Darien rest stop on I-95.) Pogy said he thought I meant this other, particular Dunkin' on Lordship Blvd. But no matter how you fold the map, he was sitting at the corner of Main St. and Access Rd. He did get the right town, thank heavens.

Fortunately, I live nearby and Pogy saw me blow by his Dunkin' on my way to the Dunkin' where the rest of us CT Bears were waiting. (I thought those Gold Wings had GPS built in?)

He fired up the Gold Wing and caught up to us before we departed.

As did Fonz, see his explanation in the photo version of the blog at: http://www.influentialcom.com/ . He pulled a “Chris” by showing up just as everyone else was kicking up their kickstands.

After the grumbling last week about our group riding technique, and despite your Blogger's perfect ride leadership skills, we decided to break into two groups this week. It certainly is easier to manage. But as one of our guys said, it is not nearly as cool.

I took the first group. We put the biggest grumbler from last week at the head of the second column.

It was gratifying to see that our CT Bears are reading the blog. Last week I spent a bit of space in this blog reviewing proper group riding technique with an emphasis on lane changing. I am happy to report, as evidenced by looking through my rear view mirrors, my words were not wasted.

We enjoyed a smooth and flawless ride. It is also a pretty one, if a biker can use such terms.

Connecticut's Route 34 is scenic and twisty, angling from Derby to Danbury. Then Interstate 84 is far less frenetic than I-95. It is far enough away from New York City to make it somewhat pleasurable to ride, especially when traffic is light.

You go up and down some mountains, the high points opening to vista views. Much of the road also follows rivers and these are lined with willow trees, still holding their thousands of tiny yellow leaflets when the other deciduous trees have relinquished their coverings. This makes the willows' cascading branches look like fireworks fountains scattered amongst the winter-dead landscape.

The Cornucopia in Port Jervis has a nice, big, paved parking lot. My group arrived first and I was able to get off my bike in time to catch some good riding shots of our second group arriving.

Proprietors offered a delicious buffet at a bargain 10 bucks. We were early enough to be first through the line. It appeared we were the only ones eating. Hopefully the crowd picked up later. The restaurant does a nice job of accommodating the Bears and deserves to be rewarded.

CT Bear talk was mostly of motorcycle things. Russ was telling big stories, as only Russ can do. Some of the discussion was about the upcoming Sunday's ride. It is the Sunday after Thanksgiving and last year we spent a bit of time in traffic. Unfortunately, being from Connecticut we have to get around New York City and over the Hudson River to get home after visiting Hillybilly Hall. Ugh!

For some reason, there was a lot of talk of carry permits. (This too came into play later in the day.)

Discussion revolved around which states offered reciprocal permits, apparently anyone from anywhere can carry a concealed weapon in Florida. There was some knowledgeable advice on how to transport a gun across states where you do not have a permit. All I know is if we are ever stopped and searched, I know nothing! I hear nothing! I see nothing! I say nothing!

On the other hand, if the Polar Bear Grand Tour ever adds a Newark destination, I would not want to ride with anybody but these guys.

For the ride home, I asked Captain to switch places with me; he would take lead and I would be sweep. I was unfamiliar with the Danbury Starbucks where we planned to take our coffee break. Another seemingly small decision had hour-long consequences.

Captain quickly capitulated to Bart. I'm not sure why. It really mattered not to me, except that Bart was maybe a little heavy on the horses for my taste.

I figure my old girl with 130,000-plus miles on the original mill will last the Polar Bear season if I baby her. I am no mechanic, but I do have some intrinsic sense that all the moving parts work harder at 80 mph than they do at 70.

Nonetheless, I kept up with the group.

Everybody should ride sweep at some time. You see everything. You see smooth riders, and jerky ones, and suffer most by the rubber band speeds caused by the jerky ones. You see riders who hold their lane position, and others who wander such that you wonder if they suffer vertigo.

Since my mini treatise on group riding last week seemed to bear fruit, here is another installment.

Group riding is not like riding by yourself or with a friend or two. You have a responsibility to the other riders in your group. Group riding requires a far higher attention and awareness than cruising by yourself on a Sunday afternoon.

To be fair to your fellow riders, you need to stay in your space, horizontally and vertically, as tightly as possible. You should make micro adjustments in your speed, not macro ones. Rolling off then speeding up is multiplied by every bike behind you trying to adjust to your inattentiveness. The sweep rider gets the worst of it.

Drifting left and right scares your fellow riders. They don't know if you are not paying attention or unable to ride smoothly in a straight line. Neither is a safe nor comfortable conclusion.

On the ride home we had some confusion at the Beacon Falls bridge tolls. Gates again. Wonder if some of these guys' EZ Passes ever read?

We managed to regroup and rode for a bit then Captain dropped out and onto the shoulder. As sweep, I dropped out to see what was up. Kevin dropped out too. As I rode up to the Captain, his bike was complaining loudly, “clack, clack, clack.” Captain shouted, “I think it's a bearing.”

Have you seen the tee shirts “Ride it Like You Stole it”? Well Captain rode it like he was gonna blow it. It didn't. Blow up, that is. But the motor did stop. Captain coasted along the shoulder until he found a mile marker sign.

I'm following, thinking, “Stop here. This is the sunny spot.” But the mile marker was in deep shade.

Hey, sun can make a big difference in warmth on a cold November day.

“I'm done,” Captain said as I pulled alongside. Kevin dropped to the shoulder too. Per procedure, the rest of the bikes kept going, headed to warm lattes in Danbury.

One of the foibles of Harley Owners' Group towing insurance is that they will tow your bike only to the nearest Harley dealership. That would have meant Danbury H-D. And then Captain would have to travel back and forth an hour one way from his Milford home. So instead he called his insurance company. Only they pretended not to know him.

First they said he would have to pay for the tow because they could not find his policy. “Fine, lady, I'll pay,” Captain said, “just send someone to come get me!”

Next they asked his permission to access the GPS function on his cell phone to verify his position. “Fine lady,” Captain said, “just send someone to come get me!”

Okay, they said they would call back. Then Captain's Blackberry bit the big one.

Next he called the insurance company back on my cell phone and gave them that number as an alternate call back number. I don't know if he let them access my GPS function. But I have noticed the geckos at the Aquarium looking at me in a strange way.

Captain discovered that by keeping his Blackberry stored in his armpit he was able to squeeze a few more moments out of the battery. I told you to stop in the sunshine.

In fact, getting cold, Kevin and I decided to push Captain's bike up the hill to a sunny spot on the shoulder. This was the same time the State Trooper decided to stop by.

I walked back and told him the guy up the hill was the one with trouble. So he pulled his squad car out and around to the Captain. I followed on my bike. Kevin decided he was superfluous and headed for home.

Turns out the insurance company sent the state trooper to verify Captain was in fact broken down on the shoulder of Interstate 84.

The cop took Captain's license and walked back to his car. “They're checking for wants and warrants,” Captain explained. “You're not packing?” I asked, considering the lunchtime conversation. I mean I figure being sweep bike obligates me to spend an hour or two on the shoulder with a broken down bike. But a night in jail seems over and above the call of duty.

Captain immediately responded with a firm “no” delivered with a warm and confident smile. At first I was relieved. But then I thought to myself that his response was the standard one anyone carrying a concealed gun would give. What good is it to carry a CONCEALED weapon if everyone knows you have one? I must say Captain delivered the line well.

Now that we had been properly identified and verified, the trooper cleared a tow truck who was only some 15 minutes away. (Fortunately the officer did not ask to search us.) In fact, the trooper was great and offered to let us warm up in his car. But my heart was still pumping, a trickle of sweat rolling down my back, after pushing Captain's bike up the hill. Plus now we were standing in streaming sunlight.

We told the trooper we were good and he said to just call if we needed anything.

Sure enough some 15 minutes later the tow truck appears.

We spent 45 minutes arranging for a tow truck that was waiting for a call a mere 15 minutes away. Hmmm, seems the logistics workers at the insurance company could have done a better job.

Captain negotiates a ride to his shop, Laurel and Harley in Stratford. We strap his Road King to the roll back truck. I offered to follow Captain and the truck to Stratford. I live there and figured I could get my car to give Captain a ride home from the shop.

Captain said the tow truck driver said he liked to haul ass. And he did. There went that many more RPMs on my old Springer's mill. But we all got home just fine. Next Sunday, Captain will be on his Wing. I hear they never break down.

Thank you Captain for teaching me a valuable lesson. I had always worried, been afraid even, of breaking down. My bike has so far had a legendary ability to break down only on the doorstop of a qualified Harley-Davidson dealership.

But Captain demonstrated for me that it's no big deal.

All told we were delayed a bit more than an hour. The insurance company, state police and tow company came to our aid; they were friendly, competent and capable. Captain later said the insurance company eventually recognized him and will reimburse his expenditure.

I will bring my cell phone charger with me on every ride from now on. And I will pick up one of those battery-operated emergency phone chargers as a back up solution.

Still, I am no longer afraid to “Ride it 'Till it Quits.” See you Sunday. Maybe.

Polar Bear Old Bridge, NJ; November 14, 2010

2010-11-17T17:01:00.000-08:00

Old Bridge, NJ; November 14, 2010

By: Chris Loynd

Indian Summer! Are there any two descriptive words more delicious to the psyche?

Well, thinking upon it, perhaps there are a few others: winning ticket, tax refund, motel sex.

It was a gorgeous Indian Summer weekend. Every convertible owner dropped his top. I saw a beautiful Morgan tooling along with a spry older couple. Joggers reverted to shorts. Folks in their shirtsleeves were out in their yards raking leaves. Motorcycles appeared like mushrooms after a summer rain.

It was a wonderful day to ride, almost too warm for Polar Bear motorcycles. Likely I could have done with one less layer. I plugged in my electric jacket and gloves, but barely employed them. And when we got stuck in stop-and-go traffic on Route 18 north headed home, I cooked. It felt great.

I do not choose to ride my motorcycle in winter because I like being cold. I much prefer riding across Arizona mesas in streaming sun wearing my mesh jacket. I ride in winter because I cannot imagine putting my motorcycle away for three months. I would love it if polar bear season was like this every weekend. Ah, but fate landed me in Stratford, not Savannah.

Warm weather means big turnouts. We drew a crowd that eventually swelled to 12 bikes.

At the Dunkin' Donuts in Stratford, at a very reasonable morning hour of 9:30, owing to the short distance, Captain and your blogger had a discussion about breaking into two groups.

Riding in one large group can have some special challenges. Ten or more motorcycles, riding in staggered formation, gets to be a very long line. Leading such is like managing a train running through multi-lane interstates. Lane changing must be kept to an absolute minimum.

Still the Captain convinced me to keep together in one group with this statement, “These guys are all good riders. They know what to do.”

John J. was offered the lead, cajoled may be more like it. He whiffed. So I stepped up to the challenge. John J. instead fell in as the last bike, the “sweep” position.

Isn't it amazing how small, seemingly innocuous, decisions can have major consequences, unforeseen?

“We don't need enough lifeboats for every passenger; Titanic is unsinkable.” “We can get the Donner wagons over the mountains before the really heavy snows come.” “Read my lips, no new taxes.”

We left Stratford with a manageable eight bikes. Even with that many, it is nearly impossible for the lead bike to see the sweep, the sweep being just too far back. So we rely upon some procedures to manage the ride so it is fun and safe and successful for all.

Each rider knows his place in a safe, staggered, formation. It is important that the group remain tight to prevent the incursion of cars. Each rider holds his lane position.

There are special duties for the lead and sweep riders.

The lead has to find very big holes in traffic before signaling for a lane change. He has to allow for merging on ramps; tolls can be a real challenge.

The sweep watches for what the lead can't see. He picks up stragglers and clears for lane changes.

Changing lanes with a big group of bikes can be done safely and smoothly, if the riders are disciplined. The lead signals a lane change but does not move. All the other bikes pass the signal back to the sweep, but do NOT move. When traffic is clear the sweep moves over. Now the line of bikes controls two lanes, the current and future lanes.

Any cars stuck next to the bikes in the target lane will move up and out of the way. The sweep holds the lane, preventing any other cars from entering. When the lane is clear the lead moves over, all the other bikes following.

When done properly it is a marvel to see.

Unfortunately, some guy in the middle typically just can't wait. He sees the signal to move and jumps over to the next lane, effectively trapping a car in the space the sweep had hoped to clear. Now the sweep, and any bikes ahead of him but behind the trapped car, must make a dash around to get in front of the trapped car and back in line.

I digress, dear blog reader, but only slightly.

Sunday we had a new rider, Bob V., self-admitted Polar Cub, still Bob is an experienced rider and road captain and knows the drill.

Bob does not have EZ Pass and clearly announced that ahead of time.

So the way that works is as we approach a toll, the rider without EZ Pass zooms ahead a bit, headed for the cash lane. Meanwhile the leader slows the rest of the group approaching the EZ Pass lanes. If the leader figures the differential correctly, the rider paying cash is ready to rejoin the line just as the Pass riders exit the tolls.

Sounds good, right?

We reviewed the procedure with Bob\ and headed south.

We exited at the Darien rest stop to pick up three more riders: Jim, Fonz and Scott.

I planned to exit – instead of picking them up as we rode by like we usually do – because Fonz needed some adaptive connectors I had for an electric vest he was going to borrow from Pogy. So far Fonz has been trying to get by with a battery powered vest for warmth, as in running off of a 9-volt in his pocket, instead of wired to his motorcycle's electrical system.

No really. Batteries. It works fine when Fonz is standing still. But at speed it is probably good so long as the ambient temperature is above 70 degrees.

Only Fonz did not borrow the vest, forgot about the connectors, and expected us to just blow by on the Interstate side. He had his other riders hyped to run down the on ramp to join our line of bikes. That explains the quizzical look Fonz gave me when I pulled to a stop next to him.

“Connectors?” I shouted. “I'm good,” Fonz shouted back.

Scott is something of a new Bear. He tried a Polar Bear run a year ago, or was it two? He got as far as the Greenwich rest stop on the Merritt Parkway, declared us all crazy, and rode home.

This year Scott is on a new Harley Softail, equipped with electrics, and ready to ride. Although he still eschews rain riding.

We motored on, now a longish line of eleven.

At the Hutch Parkway we picked up Token, making us dozen bikes long.

That gets to be a lot of motorcycles to keep in line.

After picking up Token, we merged onto the Hutchinson Parkway in bits and pieces, but managed to re-form our line.

We held our own just fine until we hit the toll booths at the top of the West Side Highway in New York City.

That booth has the distinction of having gates, even in the EZ Pass lane. Captain mowed one of them down a few years back.

About half our EZ Passes would not activate the gates. Mine worked just fine.

With no shoulder to regroup, I rode down the right lane of the highway at about 10 miles per hour.

When I guesstimated I had most of our guys, I headed for the GW Bridge exit. There is a stop sign at the end of the exit, and I figured I could stop there and count heads. Which I did. And thank you so much to the New York driver who shouted encouragement and suggested I just keep going. Excuse me, but I have a right to stop at a STOP sign, even in New York City.

Back in a tight group we managed the bridge okay and headed toward the NJ Turnpike.

Now I am hoping Bob V remembered his role.

Sure enough, approaching the NJ Turnpike toll plaza, Bob pulls out next to us, zooms ahead, and runs right through the EZ Pass only speed lanes. Wha?

As I caught up to him, Bob just gave a shrug and dropped back into line.

Well, I figured he could sort it all out at Exit 9.

Meanwhile as we motored down the Jersey Turnpike in relatively light traffic, apparently Token became annoyed with my perfectly precise group leadership. I try to lead a group ride like I have a cruise control throttle, which I don't. I set a smooth and reasonable pace.

I find big gaps and make smooth lane changes and minimize the number of changes. I carefully pick the route sure to give us the least troubles. I judiciously apply my skills, always vigilant to the rear view mirrors, my only thought the comfort and safety of my fellow riders.

Apparently this was all too bucolic for Token. He got bored and came jetting up the passing lane. Abreast of my position he slowed for a moment and began gesturing. Only he used none of the pre-approved road captain hand gestures. It's not that he was giving nasty gestures. I just had absolutely no idea what he wanted to convey. As Russ said, “Even Token's hand gestures have an accent.”

After Token defected, we rode smoothly down to Exit 9 and left the Turnpike.

Past the toll plaza there really is no good spot to pull over what was now 11 bikes. And after the exit we must run a gauntlet of stop lights. This is where the lead bike really has to rely upon his sweep. With a long line it is impossible to see if every bike gets through on green. Little did I know John J. had abdicated.

John J. just sped off with the rest of us, leaving poor Bobby V. at the toll plaza. For all we know Bob could have been in handcuffs for his earlier EZ Pass Only violation. We never saw him again.
John J. should have held back and led the straggler to our destination. He would make a lousy cowboy.

John J. did leave a voice mail for Bob V. But it went unanswered and we never saw Bob again.

Fortunately, Captain heard from Bob V. later that night. After getting lost, Bob decided to turn around and head back home, alone, missing lunch.

Despite his shabby treatment, Bob said he may try to ride with us again. I'll bet he puts the destination into his GPS this time!

And despite his malfeasance, John J. will be welcome to join us again, because, after all, who among us has never made a mistake?

Likely John J. and I will both choose the middle of the pack on this Sunday's ride. We'll let someone else take the heat and see what happens. “How is it you can see the mote in my eye and not the log in your own?”

Polar Bear Lewes, Del., November 7, 2010

2010-11-09T18:27:00.000-08:00

Lewes, Del., November 7, 2010

Part of the fun of Polar Bear riding is riding with friends. It is also one of the challenges. Our different riding habits and personalities make good blog fodder.

Russ, Carl and I rode down together on Saturday, a day early for our Sunday Polar Bear run to the club's self-acclaimed “South Pole” in Lewes, Del. (If you're a local, that's pronounced “lose,” not “Lewis.”)

Russ' brother lives on a farm in southern New Jersey. My folks live in Wilmington, Del. We both exited the turnpike at number two.

I was headed to my folks' home to do some chores for Mom, visit with Dad and play with Heidi their Schnauzerdoodle. Mom rewards me with scrapple breakfast. Russ and Carl I think skipped the chores, but got scrapple breakfast all the same. Carl even texted photo proof to me Sunday morning.

Scrapple is a Pennsylvania Dutch thing. My folks are from Lancaster County. I was actually born in Lancaster and lived in Intercourse for five years before we moved just over the line to Delaware. That State paid school teachers better and therefore my father's prospects (and not inconsequentially my own) improved.

Scrapple is traditionally made with all the parts of a pig that are not good enough to go into sausage. You mix what's left of the hog with oatmeal and spices and press it into blocks. Later you slice the blocks and fry it, hot, on both sides. It may be what some folks would call an “acquired” taste. But I grew up on the stuff.

My Grandfather Loynd was once a butcher and explained it this way, “You butcher the hog and cut out all the fine cuts, pork chops, loin, and such, plus the bacon. Then all the little trimmings and bits that are any good go into sausage. Next you collect up everything else and that makes scrapple. Then you sweep the floor and that makes puddin'.”

Russ and his brothers go in together to raise some pigs on the Jersey farm. They like scrapple so much they grind up the whole hog for it. That makes some mighty fine scrapple; I have had the pleasure of sampling such.

I once went through scrapple withdrawal when I lived in Milwaukee. I got so desperate I made some myself. I used pork tenderloin and it made some of the best scrapple I ever tasted. But it was a lot of work with the food processor.

Standing at the Stratford Dunkin' Saturday, visions of scrapple dancing in our heads, Russ and I began the parlay as to how we should organize our group ride. Even for just three riders it can be delicate negotiations. For my opening play I graciously conceded the lead to Russ.

But Russ countered, saying he wanted to sweep because the metal rods in his hand sometimes caused unexpected throttle surging and he would go shooting up in speed. “Uh, isn't that all the more reason to put you up front?” I asked. “I mean if you're going to suddenly go shooting up through the bikes.”

But what Russ meant is that it is easier for him if someone else sets the pace so he can follow.

I shouted over to Carl, “You okay with the rocking chair?” Carl responded, “Sofa!” Okay. We're off.

We had a nice ride down in reasonably light traffic. We made one comfort stop just after the turnpike un-split itself. Looking at the line at the pumps we decided to stretch our tanks to Exit 2.

At our comfort stop I suggested we could meet up again Sunday morning to resume our ride to Lewes. I had gone on Google Earth and found a Dunkin' Donuts on Route 13 just below I-295. Russ and Carl would be approaching from the east, I from the west. It seemed an easy place to reconvene.

The address was 1001 North DuPont Highway.

Perhaps it is a foible of my profession. I am often guilty of providing too much information. Attempting to ensure absolutely clear communication, I confuse my listeners by explaining something in greater and greater illustrative detail.

In that spirit, I cautioned the guys that our meeting place was on the southbound side of North DuPont Highway. Carl punched 1001 SOUTH DuPont Highway into his GPS Saturday night. And I never saw them again until Lewes.

Now Carl and Russ both passed lie detector tests, administered by the Delaware State Police, swearing that your faithful blogger told them the address was SOUTH DuPont highway. I don't think so even today. I even gave Carl a written note, which he acknowledged receiving. Still, I do have to admit I am reaching an age where I hear one thought in my head and somehow enunciate another, entirely different thought, through my mouth.

I described at length, in pictorial detail, with elaborate hand gestures, how they would come over the Delaware Memorial Bridge, exit onto 295, then turn south onto 13, and finally see the Dunkin' on their right. I described the pink and orange logo they would see, on the sign, at the facility, on Route 13, southbound.

The final result says something about the faith my fellow riders have in me. Russ and Carl blindly let their GPS take them down a dead end dirt road in the middle of the worst part of New Castle, Del., to a small church, on South DuPont Highway before they called me on the phone to express their confusion. Fortunately Russ says he was “saved” right there in the dirt parking lot as Carl and I sorted out the mishap via cell phone.

I took Carl's call standing on the berm in front of the Dunkin' overlooking Route 13, watching the rest of our guys blow by, all the way down from Connecticut, they having departed early Sunday morning.

Carl and I tried to coordinate a second meeting place. I proposed just after the toll booths after they cross the C&D canal. I even babbled on about what the bridge looked like, what a canal was, where we could meet after the tolls.

I stood on the shoulder of the road past the bridge tolls for 20 minutes. Neither Russ nor Carl appeared. Neither phone call nor text was received by me. I finally sent Carl a text to tell him I would see them in Lewes; his voice mail was accepting no inbound messages.

Turns out, Carl and Russ also saw our guys go by and decided to chase after them, and without so much as a “by your leave” to me.

When I finally arrived at Lewes, after waiting for Russ and Carl to never show, twice, I got all the excoriation about being late. Grumpy even took the group photo without me. Talk about insult on injury!

So this is the second time in as many rides my “pals” have left me behind and out. Maybe they're trying to tell me something?

I mean our guys were picking up random riders at rest stops on the way down. And they couldn't grab me on the way? They picked up another foreigner, Jim, from New York, when they pulled in for gas on the turnpike.

New Jersey Matt may have started something here with non-Connecticut, Connecticut Polar Bears. Who knows? Maybe someday in the future there will be a Connecticut location on the Polar Bear calendar.

Riding alone in my thoughts, I drifted back a few years in my mind. It felt good to me to be back on the Delmarva peninsula. (Delmarva stands for Delaware, Maryland and Virginia.)

My first job after graduating from college was here. I was running all over downstate Delaware, the Eastern Shore of Maryland and the Virginia peninsula writing stories for “The Delmarva Farmer” weekly newspaper.

Our copy deadline was Sunday at noon. I used to party Friday and Saturday nights with some girls I knew in high school who rented a house over in Sea Isle City, on the Jersey Shore. (“Jacks” had a soft ice cream machine at every corner of their Tiki bar that dispensed pina coladas.) Then early Sunday morning I would haul my butt onto the first Cape May to Lewes ferry, drive across Delaware, then across the Eastern Shore of Maryland to arrive bleary eyed, copy in hand, at the newspaper offices.

I would stay over in Easton Sunday night because our print deadline was noon Monday. We put the paper together in a mad frenzy Monday morning. These were pre-computer days with waxed galleys and literal cut and paste.

There was this typesetter girl on the night shift. She was kinda quiet and cute. Pretty, not in the hot babe way that young men seek, but attractive and trim. I noticed her. However the whole typesetting department was young girls. This was this one proofreader too. She was a hot babe type. Couldn't spell and was a critic of sentence structure. But who could get mad at her randomly rewriting my copy with a body like that? So I was too distracted to much notice Cynthia Trever.

It took a bit more effort on both our parts for me to discover that behind that quiet front of hers was a sharp wit and smart mind and a hidden feisty nature. She was nervous in some things, sure in others. She was independent. She asked for nothing and offered everything.

I danced with her at the company Christmas party, right about this time of year in 1979. But I didn't remember her. I danced with a lot of girls from work that night. The date I brought to the party didn't dance.

A week later at our more informal, back-shop, holiday party I was sitting on a concrete step to the press room, eating some oysters, chatting with my boss. That typesetter girl came up and said, “So Chris, when are you taking me dancing again?” Not missing a beat I said, "How about next Saturday?" We made the date.

After she left, my boss asked, “This happen to you often?” “Oh, all the time,” I replied.

Cynthia Trever and I ended up getting married after we got to know each other a lot better, sometimes over scrapple sandwiches at the H&G restaurant in Easton, on Route 50, northbound side.

Polar Bear Cape May, Oct. 31, 2010

2010-11-03T18:26:00.000-07:00

Cape May, October 31

40's to start, 60's midday, back to 40's

Eight years ago I read a story in my American Motorcyclist Association magazine about a club that rode together only in winter. New to motorcycling, I deemed to give it a try. I liked it. I did that first ride alone, but then let a few friends in on it. They brought more friends. And I am amazed at how it evolved. (You can read the story of my first ride on my web site blog: http://www.influentialcom.com/polar_bear_story.htm.)

I brought the Polar Bear club to Connecticut. Introduced it here. Brought all these guys along. And last Sunday those same bastards left me behind at a rest stop on the Garden State Parkway because I couldn't get my gloves on fast enough. Ingrates all!

Still, I would not change these pals for the world. And every season we pick up a few new maniacs. You are welcome to join us.

This year 10 of us rode to Cape May from Connecticut on the season opener, 450 miles round trip from Stratford. We started and finished in the dark. We rode, laughed, waited in line, lunched and teased each other.

We have little in common except motorcycles. Some of us are liberals. Others are conservatives. Others (Captain) are chicken little. One even has dual citizenship and talks funny.

We see more of each other in winter than summer.

Winter riding inspires ridiculous behavior.

Grumpy is going to double up on night shift, 24 straight weeks, so he can make more Polar Bear rides. Captain showed up Sunday with four sets of blood donation points plus a corn boil. Pogy made tee shirts for everyone, on his own dime, doling out the largess at our first rest stop. Big Matt rode up to Connecticut from New Jersey, turning right around to then join us on the ride back south. (It's not the first time Matt has done this.) Jim missed our departure time e-mail and so rode down to Cape May on his own, meeting us there for the ride back home.

Russ is on a new bike this season, his third in as many years. His Harley Wide Glide was good for quite a few years. The dresser he didn't like so much but fortunately an inattentive driver took it off his hands. She almost took his hand too, but Russ kept it, with the help of a few metal rods. Now he's on a Heritage Softail, similar to my bike, but without the spiffy springer front end.

Russ saw my bike in the service bay at Brothers Harley-Davidson. Being a superbly nosy guy, he asked Service Manager Marcel what I was having done. Marcel answered “rocker berings” at which point Russ called (I presume) every HOG and Polar Bear club member that may have even remote knowledge of me and my bike and told them I was finally in for an engine rebuild. I have 130,000 miles on the original mill.

I arrived in Cape May to a barrage of questions and genuine (I think) concern for my bike. Rocker bearings? Engine job? What?

At first I figured Russ was just being Russ, starting rumors, telling stories, embellishing. Then it occurred to me. No guys, the bearings replaced on my bike last week were in the rocker arms of my springer front end.

By the way, the mechanics at Brothers tell me my former dealership should have caught them a lot sooner. One was just flopping around in its race. I have to admit the bike rides a lot tighter now. I took the ol' gal on a 7,500 mile ride in August. You can see my photos on Flicker here: http://www.flickr.com/photos/24638972@N03/sets/72157624752838373/.

Pogy joined us officially this year. He caught up with the group mid-season last year and liked it. I had talked to him for years about riding with us. Hey Pogy, try it, you'll like it! Now he is registered as a Flight B bear. A few more rides and he will earn the coveted Polar Bear patch.

By the way, Grumpy, remember Pogy can't get the CT patch until he first earns his rides and New Jersey patch. I forgot to mention that as he was asking about obtaining a Connecticut patch last Sunday. You can give out all the cool tee shirts you want, Pog, but you still gotta do the rides!

Jim showed up too, riding down on his own as described previously. He also signed up for the first time this year. So we've added two new Connecticut bears to the official roster.

Jim also received a typical Connecticut Polar Bear hazing. We ran him out of gas on the ride home. “Oh the first rest stop is just a few miles,” Grumpy said. Fortunately Jim was able to bounce the last ounce out of his tank to make the few hundred yards to the station, sputtering all the way.

We saw official Grand Tour photographer Walter Kern outside the VFW and I proudly showed him my new polar bear rider pinup girl on my rear fender. At which point my guys started yelling about the tattoo. Wearing all long sleeves, I had to strip off my shirts to show it. Walter took a picture for the club site.

We lost a couple riders on this trip due to health. Carl showed up at our Stratford start but dropped out a few exits later because he wasn't feeling up to the ride. Token rode with Bart down to their pickup point at the Hutch and 287, but turned around back to home before we arrived. It says something about both fellows' desire to ride that they tried. After next week's ride to Lewes, Del., the distances are shorter. Hopefully they both feel better in a week or two.

And so we embark with eager anticipation of a good season of winter riding. Hopefully we can avoid any snow or ice storms requiring a long ride in Captain's hairmobile.

Thank you to the New Jersey organizers for allowing us to join their club. It truly is more a New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Delaware endeavor. Yet they welcome us with open arms.

Sturgis and Beyond

2010-08-22T14:00:00.000-07:00

Wednesday, August 18, Monument Valley

Woke to an incredible sunrise. I can't stop taking pictures.

Buffet breakfast at The View restaurant offered good food and more than delivered on the view.

Then I decided to hike the Wildcat Trail. Just 3.2 miles, it goes down to the valley floor and in between the two “mittens.” Like any great adventure it had a touch of fear, a moment of despair and a comforting redemption.

It is a fairly steep decent to the valley floor. Once down, the trail crosses gullies and follows washes around these giant and magnificent rock formations.

I felt relaxed and calm and took my time. But on the backside of the mittens are some Indian homes. Far off, I thought rather far off. Still one of the Indian's dogs did not think it far enough. He suddenly and menacingly popped up out of a gully and ran my ass off the trail. I kept backing away from him, talking calmly, all the while looking around my feet for a stick. I found a short one and grabbed it. The dog kept his distance but kept barking. A ways further I found a bigger stick, one that gave me a fighting chance if it came to that.

Now I walked more confidently, the dog seemed to lose confidence or maybe I was reaching the edge of his protective boundary. In any case after some tense moments he stood on a hill and watched me disappear over the next.

Once my heart stopped thumping, I reacquired the trail and settled back down into my pace. I kept the stick for a while, just in case.

Now my attention turned to the clouds, which were darkening rapidly. Wind was gusting through the gullies. I started looking for places to climb in case of flash floods. Unfortunately, I was now on the valley floor and high spots were sparse.

Still I figured my biggest danger was getting wet, until I saw my first lightning bolt, that is.

I picked up the pace a bit and felt a lot better when I rounded the mitten and could see my tent, way off, and way up, but I knew exactly where I stood.

These big horizons here in the West offer the opportunity of watching a storm descend upon you. (Back east, it just rains. There are too many trees or hills to see it coming.) I looked to the lightning, then to my camp, and figured that both were fairly far away, but the storm looked farther. Unfortunately, the ever bigger wind gusts had me wondering if that storm wasn't traveling a whole lot faster than I was.

Picking up the pace any more was not an option, because I was on the final part of the trail and it is all up.

Rain drops, not many, began falling on me as I hiked the final tenth mile. I ducked under my rain fly content that I had made it. Then the wind really kicked up, coming it seemed from all directions. I hunkered down in my tent to wait out the storm. It was more wind and bang than rain. I weathered it just fine.

California Day Six

2010-08-22T13:55:00.000-07:00

California: Day Six
Monday, February 22, 2010

Today the sun shone again in Los Angeles. While I have not been lucky with temperature, I have been mostly lucky with rain, the bulk of it falling while I slept. With today's sun came that additional 10 degrees I had been missing since Day One. As the guy at Eagle Rider (the motorcycle rental company) said when I complained about the cold, well it is February. This is our winter. I mentioned Venice Beach and he said, “Yeah, the babes all wear sweatshirts and hoodies; that's their winter coat.”

My last vacation day was a soft day. I walked up to the Denny's and posted the February 14 Polar Bear blog. I got a delicious meal at a cost approximately one-tenth of the breakfast options here at the hotel.

I figured to turn the bike in by 4 p.m. This evening my work starts with a 6 pm screening and meeting and another 7 pm meeting. Film distributors will pitch their movies.

I also wanted to change my hotel room. So despite getting raked over the coals to be here at the same hotel as the convention, which included twenty-five bucks for overnight parking for the bike, I still had to pack my bags yet again, if only to ride the elevator down and back up again.

With my leisurely breakfast and then switching rooms, I figured to check out the L.A. Zoo and get a photo of the Hollywood sign.

My route there was 90 percent freeway. So I also figured to leave and return before rush hour. It is Monday.

Traffic was moderately heavy all the same. These freeways twist and merge with dual lane entrances and exits. Each of these big merges leads to a slowdown. They do severe rubber banding here, speeds from 65 mph to 0 with very little warning.

Is lane sharing an awesome concept or what? I finally got my chance. Cars actually move over to let you through. When traffic slowed, or stopped or crawled, I slid the bike from one lane to the next, hopscotching my way along through the much slower lines of cars. Too bad we don't have the tradition back east. Somehow I think our drivers are just too nasty to let it work.

Unfortunately, California is also populated with distracted drivers. It seems the great majority are on cell phones all the time. They drive with their windshields and rear view mirrors. I don't recall seeing a single driver swivel his head to check blind spots.

Even so I had great fun on the freeways.

The L.A. Zoo was fair at best. But they had meerkats and it was fascinating to see the interest people take in these active little animals. The exhibit had one high rock. That generated never ending activity as the meerkats took turns keeping lookout up on the high rock. They stood on their hind legs in that cute way they do. Sometimes three were up, sometimes only one. What was cool was that every few minutes they would switch positions. They were the most active animals I saw in the whole zoo.

Most of the rest of the animals were just laying in a corner somewhere, or in the case of the single hippo and single rhino, just standing stock still.

It was warm enough in the sun as I walked around the zoo that I actually sprang for a snow cone.

Exiting the zoo I worked my way around to the other side of Griffin Park to ride up the hill to the observatory. And there, up on top, facing away from the observatory was the famous Hollywood sign. I took a few photos, but in the camera lens it is much farther away than in person.

More freeway fun and I was at Eagle Rider at 4 pm, right on time. They checked-in the bike and gave me a ride to the hotel.

Left for next year is the southern end of the PCH and maybe the Hollywood walk of fame and Rodeo Drive, although they are not so much my thing. Across from the zoo is the Will Rogers museum of western history. That I would like to see. It is closed on Mondays. San Diego will have to wait.

If I am back at the IMAX convention next February, I may need to give it another try. I would especially like to ride that upper PCH along the cliffs through Big Sur with another 10 degrees of warmth. But it is winter in California. You have to stay out of the mountains. After we got rain last night, they had snow up in Big Bear, just a short ride to the east of here.

California, Day Five

2010-08-22T13:42:00.000-07:00

California Day Five
Sunday, February 21, 2010

Sightseeing eats time and cuts miles. Who cares?

Not obeying my own mantra, “Fear of rain is most always worse than rain itself,” last night I determined to see if I could come in a day early at the Airport Marriott, where my IMAX convention starts in two days.

I called in the morning. The rate was $199, my convention rate of $99 was not yet available. I played my government rate card and they came down to $110. So here I am, sitting in the Marriott restaurant, typing in today's ride remembrances.

My artisan hotel in Santa Barbara served no breakfast. No breakfast places were to be found close by. So I determined to hit the road and find something en route to L.A. I was hoping for a Denny's or something.

Nothing appeared for quite some time. I was really wanting that first cup of morning coffee, for nothing else than to burn out the leftover cigar taste in my mouth from the night before. Since my destination was now L.A., a reasonable two hour ride, I stuck with Route 1 the famous PCH, headed back in the direction I came a couple days earlier.

Suddenly a little sandwich board flashed past along the side of the road. Seaside Cafe, breakfast, lunch and dinner was advertised. I made a “uey” and dropped down a very steep switchback drive to the beach. It was one of the parks common to the California coast. Nothing more than the beach, parking lot, a few painted lines for RV parking, a pod for hookups, picnic table and fire ring. The campsites on the beach here are on the beach.

Opposite the campsites was a small building with restaurant and camp store serving meals and selling firewood and sundries. In front was one, very long, picnic table. A couple of surfers were standing around, tops of their wetsuits turned down exposing their chests and tattoos. I overheard they are here for the winter, down from Alaska to enjoy the warmth and waves. A lady was there too, sipping coffee.

A hand-written menu board offered breakfast burritos with bacon or “tri-tip,” six dollars.

I stood by the window for a very long time. I could hear someone was inside. The grill was sizzling. Glorious smells of grilling onions and meats wafted out of the window and mixed with the fresh, salty, beach air. Someone is in there. I hear grill noises, chopping, clanging metal spatula. Eventually the grill noises stopped. I figured maybe someone would take my order now. I waited, and waited longer and longer still.

Finally a very attractive, middle-aged lady, tall, with long blonde hair pulled back tight and sun weathered face appeared with a big smile and four breakfast burritos wrapped in shiny foil. She wore a bikini top over extra ample breasts with an apron layered on top. A set of turquoise beads started around her neck and disappeared into her cleavage. Hippy or surfer? I couldn't decide.

She seemed surprised to see me. But before I could explain, the lady sipping coffee walked up. “I'm sorry,” the cook lady said to me, “I'll take your order in just a moment.” To the coffee sipping lady she said, “Two breakfast burritos with tri-tip, and two with bacon.”

But the coffee lady had ordered only one with bacon. She asked if anyone wanted the extra with bacon. I hesitated. But the surfers were uninterested, so I said yes, in fact, that was exactly what I meant to order. (I had no idea what “tri-tip” was.)

The coffee lady paid in full for four burritos, then handed me the extra one with bacon. I held out my six dollars. But the coffee lady would not take it. I protested. She refused. “Give it to her instead as a tip,” the coffee lady said nodding her head toward the cook lady. So I did.

The cook lady was baffled too. “Well thank you,” she said to the coffee lady. The coffee lady said to forget it. “Let me give you something extra,” the cook lady offered. “It's okay. I know you,” the coffee lady said, adding that she was a regular and would be back and appreciated the cook lady and her cooking. “Then may I have your name?” the cook lady asked, preparing to write it down, I presume to later render some kindness or bonus to compensate on a future order. “None of that,” the coffee lady admonished, then walked off with her three burritos.

I stood there unsure of proper protocol for such a situation.

“Oh, now I have to make coffee and make breakfast for these boys, they've been very patient. Do you like strong coffee or weak coffee?” the cook lady asked me. “Any coffee,” I answered. “The coffee is 45 minutes old. I have to make new coffee. I will give you the old coffee for free in thanks for the extra money for the burrito. If you don't like the coffee, I will give you fresh coffee as soon as I make it, but first these boys have been so patient.”

She was California spacey and sweet and handed me a cup of steaming coffee. I'm guessing the permanent looking trailer next to the cement block cafe is hers. Guess she was attracted to the beach and found a way to stay.

I assured her I was fine, took the coffee from her with thanks and sat down to eat my very tasty, and large, and filling, breakfast burrito and drink the hot coffee. The coffee was fine. No waiting required. By fortune's smile I had jumped to the head of the line.

Looking to the surfers to see if they were upset, they were blissfully ignorant of the entire exchange.

“We may have missed our window of opportunity,” the one surfer said to the other. For a moment I thought they were thinking of me and my karma-produced, no-wait burrito. But it turned out they were assessing the wave action.

Eventually the surfers got their burritos. The were waiting for tri-trip after all. I will have to Google that. Never heard of the stuff. It sounds like a chemical.

I munched away, watching the waves and people.

My breakfast burrito was an entire Denny's “Grand Slam,” rolled into a tortilla. There were eggs, bacon, home fries, salsa, onions, all in an easy-to-hold form. No forks required. It was hot and delicious.

Another couple appeared and called into the window, rather loudly. I hadn't thought of that tactic. They were told the grill was out of breakfast. They ordered burgers and fries instead. The cook lady disappeared again.

She reappeared mid-preparation to sell a couple bundles of firewood to another camper.

Finally the surfer boys from Alaska got their breakfast. The other couple sat and waited for lunch.

A surfing couple emerged from the waves and walked up to an open public shower in front of me. They were muscular, both of them. Young and beautiful. He stripped off his wet suit first, down to nothing and then pulled on a pair of board shorts with nary a moment of modesty.

Unfortunately she wasn't so bold. He held a beach towel around her as she transitioned from wet suit to bikini. They washed the salt off their bodies and wet suits and surfboards and then threw everything, including themselves, dripping wet into an open Jeep.

Meanwhile I was joined by a local who decided that since I was sitting at the table by myself, I wanted conversation. He had just drawn a cup of the now fresh coffee.

He was the proud renter of the only odd numbered address in town. All the others are even numbered, because they sit on the beach side of the Pacific Coast Highway. His is the only place on the inland side of the PCH. He took obvious pride in his contrary address. Such is a western psyche earned by pioneers who braved hardships to push ever westward.

His place, my uninvited Californian said, is a hacienda in a lemon grove, what is left of an original ranch sold off in parcels to rich outsiders desiring water views. There was a lot more to his story. He told a good bit of it, and well.

He looked like a westerner. Thin and strong and wiry, he had a well worn baseball cap, the name of some equipment company advertised on the front. Between bill and cap was an earned stain of sweat and dirt. The brim was severely curled. Like the cook lady, his was another wind worn face. It bespoke years in the sun. He was a tradesman of some sort, a heavy equipment operator. He had a big and easy smile, crinkles at the corners of his eyes.

I got a decent chunk of his life story. How he found the lemon ranch place by chance after he moved up here to work for a local company, and moved from a trailer into a house, and was working to save up enough to bring his wife up from Southern Cali. It was a good story. And he loved telling it.

I would have asked the lemon rancher what the heck tri-trip is, but couldn't get a word in edgewise. I would have asked the cook lady, but she had disappeared again, sounds of sizzling and chopping in her wake.

Now I've done California, found it by serendipitous collision of a hungry belly and a small roadside sign.

Until this morning, I had seen the scenery of California, but had not experienced her personality. Today along the PCH, in glorious sun, I had California for breakfast alongside the sand and waves and surfers and beach folk.

There was a strong, on-shore wind today. At some points the PCH was obscured by mist rolling of the comers.

Once again the temperature was tolerable, but 10 degrees below desirable. Even so there were lots of bikes out. Oh yeah; it's Sunday.

I tooled along, mostly in sunshine. In fact, I never saw any of the rain predicted for today.

In Malibu I stopped for a soda at the most un-Malibu site in town. There is a grubby, small Phillips 76 station right on PCH where it meets Coral Canyon Road. Enjoying the anti-extravagance statement, I sat on a stone wall next the the Harley and watched the parade of exotic cars, BMWs and Mercedes AMGs are a dime a dozen here, and motorcycles of all kinds.

Malibu is just about the end of the scenic PCH above L.A., that is to say it is the beginning if you're headed north.

From there, headed south, I jumped on the 10 then the 405 zipping into L.A. Note my California speak. They never use the word “Interstate” here. If you give a route number, it is assumed to be an Interstate highway. If it is not, you state “Route” so and so, or “California” so and so.

The freeways are fast, and intense, and many-laned.

California drivers are as bad as they say. It is not the aggressiveness of New York. They're just all out to lunch. Three-quarters are on cell phones. Half of them drive up close to the steering wheel peering ahead of them and seeing nothing to either side or in their mirrors. They make clueless lane changes and speed changes. They change lanes without looking or indication. They don't believe blind spots exist.

Fortunately a bit of aggressiveness goes a long way here. My East Coast attitude, backed up by the powerful Harley V-Twin, allowed me to feel in control. I was sure to, and able to, maintain a big space cushion around the bike at all times.

I still have not split any lanes, legal here, and much discussed among motorcycle riders. Tomorrow is my last chance this trip.

Maybe I was not so clever with the Marriott as I thought. Whether it was my government rate or my biker appearance can perhaps be solved with a discussion with my sister-in-law Kathleen who taught me, vicariously, the government rate trick. I will have to ask her if the government rate equals the crappiest room.

Marriott L.A. Airport sits perpendicular to the runway and boulevard. That means there are only two rooms per floor that directly face the noise. I got one of them on the seventh floor.
My whole purpose staying here tonight was not to have to move my stuff, packing and unpacking from a cheaper hotel to move here for my IMAX convention. I will have to see what noises tonight brings. I am not optimistic. In addition to the jets and the honking taxi drivers, there is a window with a padlock that squeaks in the wind. If I was traveling with my own bike, instead of a rental bike, I would take some duct tape out of my tool kit and try to seal the window or at least dull the metallic click of the padlock.

Last night when I determined to stay in L.A., instead of striking out for San Diego, I justified it in figuring I would do some of the touristy things here. To that end, I dumped my stuff in the room and went back out to the bike for a short trip to Venice Beach.

Unfortunately, this was winter Venice Beach. A stiff wind was off the ocean and blowing a good bit of the beach across the parking lot. (I have sand in my ears still tonight at dinner as I write this.) I parked the Harley to take a picture near a break in the parking lot wall, but then moved it. I was afraid the paint would be sandblasted off if I left it in that spot near an entrance to the beach. Plus I was slipping on sand as I tried to backpedal the bike out of its space. I finally settled on the most sheltered spot I could find, as far away from the beach as possible on the city side of the parking lot.

(Boy am I ever on vacation. I just put cream and sugar in my coffee. I have been drinking coffee black since college. I forgot how good it tastes this way, like an indulgent coffee milkshake.)

It wasn't the Venice Beach you see on the Travel Channel. Oh, a very few girls gamely tried to show some skin. But it was like 50 degrees with gale force winds. A few rollerbladers went by, more skateboarders, more in the skate park. Muscle beach was deserted. The actual beach had less than a handful of strolling people. Nobody was sitting down. The sand was blowing across the beach and sweeping up the dunes and blowing off the tops like a “Lawrence of Arabia” movie. Mostly just folks, probably tourists like me, bundled up in sweatshirts and windbreakers, were walking the famed Venice strip.

Even the crazies were cut down to the hardcore few. One carried a cardboard sign, hand lettered, that said, “Circumcision Kills!” Funny, it hasn't deterred me for the past 54 years. Another decried the L.A. County Commissioners' moves to inhibit free speech on the Venice strip. (I am guessing someone asked them to pay rent for their stall.) Another had pictures of Hillary Clinton and George Bush, but so many confusing signs I could not really discern any pattern his protest.

Mostly it looked to me like a multi-block long walkway lined with Jersey Shore boardwalk type shops on the city side and a parade of losers on the beach side, all trying to eek out a living on cheap wares and marginal talent, respectively. I kept thinking maybe Annie would like something from Venice beach, something that said “California,” something unique. I saw only one potential vendor. But his painted mini surfboard would never have made the plane ride home.

I walked out to the end of the pier to watch the sunset. You can watch the sun fall into the ocean on this side of the country. At the very end of the pier a small group of people was having a ceremony of some sort. It involved flowers and in the end the leader passed a plastic grocery bag around for donations. I stayed away.

Like Santa Barbara, the bums tainted the ambiance. They blend in better in Venice than in the “Rivera of America.”

Rain finally came, at 11:11 p.m. I was very comfortably watching it from my seventh floor window. Dry. Inside. It's supposed to clear out by tomorrow late morning. Maybe I'll sleep in. It is, after all, my last vacation day.

California Day Four

2010-06-17T03:30:00.000-07:00

California Day Four
Saturday, February 20, 2010

Waking early I serenely fell back to sleep until my late alarm at 8 a.m. Amazing that, because the hotel was filled with girls youth soccer teams. They were up early, boisterously so.

Next door there is a diner and the hotel offers, in lieu of free breakfast, a five dollar voucher. It was not nearly enough. This is not a diner, at least not East Coast style. Maybe all diners in California charge $4.75 for a glass of orange juice. And it was a regular size glass, nothing jumbo about it. Five dollars? Really? Don't they grow the freakin' fruit just down the road?

I got a short stack of pancakes, which was more than enough and a cup of coffee. That's it. My voucher still covered just half my breakfast expenditure.

Guess the Greeks haven't found California yet.

Last night I was perusing the hotel information booklet. A listing under “area attractions” caught my eye, a warbirds museum. This morning I arrived at Estrella Warbirds, walked in just behind a classic car club, one of whose members apparently was also a member of the museum. The delightfully sweet, older lady who took my 10 dollars, suggested I join the car club's tour as it was just getting started.

Notice how you always find old people at museums?

The guy leading the tour was a WWII pilot, met Pappy Boyington, in person. He gave a delightful tour. I ended up spending more time here than even Monterey Bay Aquarium. The old fellow had a story for every exhibit. He kept promising to speed up the tour, then drifted off into another story. We won't have these guys around for very much longer. Hopefully they will be replaced by other old guys who flew in Vietnam or Iraq.

It is the same at the New England Air Museum. If you go there on certain days, they have pilots who actually flew, in combat, the same type of plane you are viewing. Each pilot stands next to the kind of plane he flew and tells stories. What it really was like.

How amazing it must be for those who were there and came out alive. I am too old now to serve. But I always wonder how my life would have turned had I accepted a Marine Corps commission straight out of college. I would not have been a pilot. My eyes require correction.

I am not sure where, or how, I would have served. And that is a big factor that kept me out of the military. I was not afraid to go to some troubled land. It was that I was not so ready to surrender my destiny so completely. With my college and writing ability, I could well have ended up behind a desk. What good is joining the Marines if you don't get to blow something up?

“All man's achievements pale in comparison to war.” It was a tank commander who said that, a Californian named George Patton. And when you look at the millions of dollars of airborne death machines, now museum pieces, you glimpse only a sliver of what Patton said.

The museum encompassed most all of aviation. There was a not so good model of the Wright flyer. Some very interesting WWI artifacts, the war to end all wars.

All the WWII planes, except for a Douglass Bomber, were in hangers. They have some scout planes, small stuff and the big bomber.

Parked outside are a collection of fighter planes from various wars, starting with Korea. They have the Saber Jet, a plane I have always admired. It was the jet plane model I played with as a kid. Famous MiG killer. Compact, powerful and those menacing six, 50 caliber machine guns sticking out of the nose.

Also is the similarly built Douglass A6 Intruder. I have been fascinated with the plane since reading “Flight of the Intruder.” Like the Saber, the Intruder is a stubby plane. Pilot and bombardier sit side by side. Unlike the Sabre, Intruder carries no guns or missiles to defend itself. It relied instead upon its speed and radar jamming equipment.

My morning melted into the past.

When I suited up to go the sun was so bright I optimistically donned my fingerless gloves. I was hoping to come back from California with the telltale tanned patches on the back of my hands that only a fellow biker would recognize. After an exit or two on the Interstate, I got off to switch to winter gloves. It was warm enough, at least, that I did not need my heaviest set of insulated winter gloves.

Clouds were all around, hovering over the mountains again. Intrinsically I understand convection and precipitation. It is another thing to see it demonstrated so clearly. You don't get the same effect back East.

Here you are riding down Route 101 South on a pool table flat plain. On either side of you are what appear to be scrub covered hills. Except some of these rise up 1, 2, 3 thousand feet, some up to five, in a very short distance.

Our mountains are much more gradual. There are lots of trees disguising the rise in elevation. You can't get so close to Eastern mountains without first traveling through Piedmont and hills. In California you look across the plains and, zoom, the mountains leap up from the plain. Can you imagine getting here in an ox-drawn wagon? Knowing where the passes are would be critical.
Again today I had to squeeze through the mountains at the end of the valley. When I did, I got rained upon again. Not a lot. On the other side I was back skirting the Pacific Ocean. It's winds drove the clouds inland to the mountains. The air was cool still, too cool for what I had hoped from this trip. But at least today the sun shown most all my ride.

My target today was the Santa Barbara zoo. They have meerkats and I was hoping to get some good pictures, or at least see how they were exhibited. (Such are the sumer attraction at The Maritime Aquarium where I work.) Only when I approached the ticket booth the sign said the exhibit was closed today. I did not go in.

By now it was 3:00 and I was maybe an hour above L.A. I'm thinking I don't want to stay in L.A. I don't want to ride into L.A. anywhere near 5 p.m. And I am not sure I have enough time, or warmth, left in the day to cross the sprawling city for something better on the south side.

I backtracked through Santa Barbara and found a boutique hotel for tonight. It's a little pricey at $124, that was $20 off the regular rate, or so they told me.

Santa Barbara says it is “America's Riviera.” Funny, South Beach, Fla., says the same thing on the right coast.

Santa Barbara has more bums than South Beach. Here the bums are very scruffy looking. The ocean front is littered with them, gathered in clans, sleeping alone surrounded by their piles. The dodge is on and they all have their hands out, some with signs declaring their hunger.

I always wonder what these guys were like in high school. They had access to the same free education as us all. I wonder, did they waste it? Were they too young to see the value?

Well even Jesus said, “The poor will always be with us.” That's some cold hearted reality from Emmanuel, the God among us.

Santa Barbara offers a long jogging, walking, bicycling path sandwiched between the main road and beach.

I had time to go for a run along the beach on the path with the sound of waves and seagulls. Geeze, I gotta get back in shape. My hotel is at the northern end of the path. I never ran far enough to see the southern end.
Tonight I am eating out on a pier, overlooking the harbor, channel buoys blinking red and green outside the window; remember, red right return.

After dinner I now walked the long path back to my hotel, enjoying a good cigar picked up in Monterey yesterday. A chilly wind comes off the ocean. I zip my rain jacket all the way up my neck and fasten the snap to hold it close, push my free hand (one required to tend the cigar) down deep into the pocket. Shouldn't complain. It is February after all.

Just as I am finding my relaxation, I am nearly out of time. Tomorrow, Sunday, is predicted for rain. I haven't yet decided what to do. Riding all day in the rain is not my first choice.

Los Angeles is like a gulf, a dead zone of urbanization, that I must cross to get back to scenery. I have to MapQuest it out to see if I should try. The bike isn't due until Tuesday morning. But I have IMAX meetings at 6 and 7 pm on Monday. So I will turn the bike in Monday before Eagle Rider closes at 5. That means I really have one and a half days left of vacation.

California Day Three

2010-06-16T17:17:00.000-07:00

California Day Three
Friday, February 19, 2010

Monterey Bay Aquarium was, is, awesome.

Everything is done well. Thoughtful touches are everywhere. Cement support columns are painted as pilings. Rocks crop up all in hallways and doorways as you walk through the galleries, always with patches of corals, fans or mussels attached. Sometimes the rocks simply break up open space on the floor. Other times they form great arches, decorated with undersea plants and barnacles, giving you the feeling of being underwater everywhere inside the Aquarium.

They use sounds to good effect. There are video screens, big ones, lots of them.

It is rare to find a tank with a single species. Typically there are shrimp or crabs or multiple fish, even when one animal is clearly the focus. Their schooling tank is an amazing circular dome, fish swirling above your head. Another schooling tank for mackerel is cleverly constructed so that you see only one straightaway on the fish racetrack. The impression is a never ending stream of fish going by you.

They have jellies, a whole gallery of them. Monterey grows moon jellies as big as dinner plates. They have brown nettles, big ones, tentacles tangled together in a mass. They have comb jellies, streaming cilia clearly flashing.

Their penguins share their water with fish. Bromeliads accent their rockwork. Underwater views are natural with rockwork sides and sandy bottoms.

Monterey's “jewel” tanks come in various shapes and sizes. Some are domes you can walk around, others are half circles mounted to the wall with bottoms that appear to fall away to infinity. There is much clever use of perspective and trope d'oeil.

Touch tanks abound. One is a very long, serpentine presentation. There is a wave crash exhibit, not all that big. The aviary also was small, but amazing. And in the aviary waters leopard sharks and rays patrolled with small bait fish accents.

I was unimpressed with their big Outer Bay tank. Much hyped, it seems to fall out of character with the rest of the exhibits. It is big. But all plain blue with a curving back. The bottom had sand and rocks. Yes, I know the open ocean lacks perspective. Somehow the effect is lacking. Instead it looks like a big tank of water, a cement swimming pool painted blue. Fish population in this tank seemed lacking. There were some big fish. Tuna are amazing to see up close. Unfortunately one tuna was very obviously damaged or sick with a scaly growth around its mouth.

Hammerhead sharks are always cool and unique. Perhaps the best entertainment was the ever swirling school of bait fish darting around the tank, flashing and changing direction. There was no ocean sunfish, as promised in their advertising. (I was glad to see I'm not the only one that gets jammed up like that.)

The otter exhibit is big and two stories tall. But there were only two otters which significantly dampened the drama.

Monterey's signature tank is the three story tall kelp forest. That exhibit did not disappoint. They really maximize the tank with views from various related galleries. I was lucky enough to catch an interview with a diver as he fed the fish and spoke via wireless mike with a docent standing outside the tank, relaying questions from the audience.

Outside balconies along the back of the Aquarium open up to water views of Monterey Bay and the Pacific Ocean. Decks offer broad spaces for relaxation and tie Aquarium to bay and sea.
As morning neared noon the experience became less enjoyable. Obstreperous school children grew in number and volume.

I was ready to go anyway. Rain was forecast for the evening. It was cold along the coast. Luckily I was lured inland to Salinas to see John Steinbeck's old stomping grounds and museum. It was a worthwhile trip.

As you come up through the hills from Monterey, quite suddenly you drop down into the tabletop flat Salinas River Valley. I also picked up a few degrees temperature and even, gasp, some breaks of sunshine.

This is perhaps the richest soil on earth, millions of years of rich topsoil drained from the mountains on either side of the valley. The hills are now scrubby, not much grows on the depleted and arid slopes after the good soil ran off to the valley. Hills are deeply cut, like most of the California I have seen so far. But the bottom land, black, deep soils, mounded high and covered with plastic for strawberries or neatly plied into rows of various construction according to their crop, broccoli, cauliflower, lettuce. Amazing vistas stretched on either side as I cut across the valley, east to Salinas.

On the way across, I got a pleasant surprise as I passed by Laguna Seca racetrack. I did not stop. There was too much travel left for today and I already spent half my tourism time on the Aquarium, the second half was promised to John Steinbeck.

The museum was well done and included an agricultural museum and art gallery. There were some Steinbeck artifacts and an interesting history of this amazing farmland, and the immigrant workers who continue to come here and do the very difficult stoop work and hand operations required to grow high value crops.

An interesting adjunct was that Japanese farmers who first came here could not legally own land. So they leased the land until their children, born here and therefore automatic citizens, became of legal age and “purchased” the land on their parents behalf. I am not sure such a multi-generational plan would work with most Americans.

There has been an international parade of farm workers. Interesting that the great Mexican immigration was actually encouraged by the Federal Government to replace Japanese workers locked up by the government in interment camps during WWII. After the Mexicans, workers streamed in from other countries so poor as to make look good such backbreaking, hot, stoop work as is required by large scale vegetable growing. I think the museum said Philippinos are now the latest group.

From Salinas I stayed inland, riding Route 101 south. Lush lands stretched out before me and I tooled along an arrow-straight highway.

I could see the weather moving in from the seaside horizon. Riding south the mountains to my right were dark; angry, flat and heavy clouds boiled up and over them from the sea. The mountains to my right still glowed in soft patches of sun as puffy clouds cruised above them.

For a while there I was thinking I could make it back to Pismo Beach and that cool hotel hanging on the cliffs. But it was getting darker. I finally pulled off and switched my glasses from darks to clears. Well at least things appeared lighter with the clear glasses, but not off to the west. Now I could actually see rain falling on the hills on my right.

What was also clear was that the valley was ending. The two mountain ranges seemed to be converging ahead of me. As I got closer, the road began turning to work its way up, switchbacking through the hills. It also started raining, lightly, but rain brought cold.

I was starting to think that I wasn't needing to push too far today. Certainly it would be wetter and colder on the coast. As Route 101 exits this valley, that's where it heads.

A couple of billboards for Black Oak Best Western in Paso Robles convinced me and quite at the last minute I dove off the exit. I figured it just right. I mean I was no sooner parking the bike at hotel registration than the big rain drops began falling. (The hotel even had dedicated bike parking spots for registration.)

It rained, steady, well into the night.

Just around the corner I enjoyed dinner at Big Bubba's Bad BBQ. Actually, it was pretty good.

From my hotel room's information booklet, I learned Estrella War Bird Museum is nearby. A bit of Googling convinced me it is the way to start my day tomorrow.

Langhorne, PA; March 21, 2010

2010-05-02T11:39:00.000-07:00

Langhorne, Penn., March 21, 2010

What do you call unusually warm days at the first of spring? Were it fall we would say Indian Summer. We were blessed with a first and second day of spring that felt nearly like summer after a long and crappy winter. And as I write this on a cold, rainy, overworked Monday, I still can destress a bit as I bask for a moment or two in Sunday's memory.

Actually I got a double treat from this past ride. Our destination is just an hour north of my folk's home in Wilmington, Del., just south of Philadelphia. So it is one where I sometimes ride down on Saturday, spend some time with the folks, and meet my pals at Brian's Harley-Davidson on Sunday for the ride home.

Typically I do a few chores for Mom and she rewards me with favorite foods. This Saturday I planted a tree, washed windows on the sunroom, small labor in exchange for steak dinner and scrapple breakfast.

As a bonus I got to chat with Mom and Dad and play with their dog Heidi. Double bonus: I get to sleep in Sunday morning.

Amazingly I pulled into Brian's Sunday morning less than two minutes after my guys. They were just making their way away from the bikes after stowing helmets, jackets, gloves and such.

It was already warm. I gladly stripped off the jacket and riding pants and joined my guys at the dealership. You can tell it's no longer Polar Bear weather; sign-up tables were set outside. Brian's H-D offered a tasty lunch on their outdoor, rooftop patio.

As we chatted over lunch, I discovered that I missed a scenic ride down to Brian's. John J., as he remembers it, was pressed into leading the pack on a moment's notice. He hastily punched in directions to his GPS and blindly followed the soulless computer deep into downtown Trenton. Well, that's one way to get out of leading future rides.

John J. was ruminating his GPS settings at lunch, thinking maybe he set it for “shortest distance” rather than “fastest time.” He seemed to withstand the good natured criticism of his fellow riders.

Your blogger was most definitely not criticizing. First of all I don't even own a GPS. So for me to lead a ride I have to prepare directions ahead of time, consult maps and write key turns on my rear view mirrors with a grease pencil.

Lately I have been getting lazy and not even glancing at a map to determine our route. I run MapQuest from my house to the destination to get the distance and estimated travel time. I never even look below the top of the page at the driving directions and maps. I always just assume one of my GPS-enabled compatriots will gladly take me to our destination and back again. And yes I have the nerve to then complain as loudly as the others when his chosen route does not meet with my satisfaction. Geeze! With friends like me . . . .

Ron joined us on his new Goldwing. This is is second ride with the Connecticut Bears. The first ride to Montgomeryville he nearly froze. Sunday's ride was perhaps more to his liking. But it sounds like he is warming to the winter riding idea, pun intended.

The new wing is blinged-out with lots of extra LEDs. Maybe because they don't carry chrome as well as a Harley, the Hondas look better with decorative lighting instead?

Ron was accompanied by a pretty lady, Blanca. She didn't say much, but smiled a lot. It can take some getting used to our crowd before you are ready to jump into the conversation. Ron and Blanca enjoyed the warm riding so much they continued on to the Connecticut Indian casinos. I'm not sure how he was figuring to get back home. Warm March days can turn pretty dang cold as soon as the sun fades.

Russ and Bart shared some of their Daytona adventures. But aside from talking about Michelle Smith, I really did not hear much about what else they did there. On the other hand, we heard a lot about what Pat and Pete did, and did not do. You're in trouble anytime Russ is telling the story and you are not present to damp-down the embellishments.

Long Valley, NJ; March 7, 2010

2010-05-02T11:34:00.000-07:00

March 7, 2010
Long Valley, NJ

Back in the traces again, I returned to a tough work week, including going into the office on Saturday. So I was especially grateful to find a bit of solace in a beautiful motorcycle ride accompanied by the reliable warmth of friends and the unexpected warmth of pre-spring weather.

I do not ride Polar Bear season because I like to be cold. I think most motorcyclists would rather ride in warm than cold or hot. One exception may be Polar Bear Grand Tour Chairman Bob Hartpence who does not feel cold like most human beings. He was joking about wearing shorts on Sunday.

Sunday's weather was a treat. We started in 'pert near 40 degree weather and finished in the low 60s.

To boot, John Howard worked out a route that took us through a bit of scenic New Jersey so we did not have to make that very messy traffic light and attendant quick turn into Long Valley Brewery. I knew not where we were after we jumped off Route 80. Nonetheless, you have to trust your group leader. So we rode some two lane roads through hills and farms and sure enough, John H. signaled one last left turn and we were there.

We had five bikes, less than I expected. Generally, warm weather brings out more Polar Cubs who are on my e-mail alert list but rarely show for January rides. We get them at the beginning and end of the season, depending upon the weather. And that's fine, by the way. Dead of winter riding is not for everybody.

With Token2 in the lead and the Captain in sweep, there was naught for me to do but enjoy the ride. I must admit I am getting rather lazy about these Polar Bear outings. I used to print out directions and maps for every destination. Now I just show up for the ride, content to allow one of my GPS equipped compatriots lead me to and from our destination.

It is one of the luxuries of group riding.

While in California, delayed by snow, I rented a car for a couple days to go sightseeing in the sun while I waited for snow to stop falling back home. I figured I would see the shark, walk the stars, do the tourist thing.

Through Expedia I got a car from Budget, across the street from my hotel, for $16 a day. Figuring that was a good deal, I went ahead and rented the GPS for another $13 a day. I must say it was a positive experience. I am a bit old fashioned (or maybe slow, my Dad has a GPS), but it was the first time I spent any significant time with one of the contraptions.

Now I am contemplating one for the bike.

My bike is very retro. For gauges I have only gas and speed. No tachometer, I use my ears and butt to know when to shift. No radio. No temperature nor oil pressure gauges. A GPS will definitely damage the look. But I can see how it could be useful when touring.

Fortunately, as a Polar Bear I have a built in cadre of product testers. So once they read this blog, now that I have publicly admitted an interest, I will be able to learn from thousands of dollars of mistakes and product upgrades absorbed by my riding buddies. I will also likely get a raft of grief over finally coming around. If you have been a faithful blog reader, you know I have ridiculed my electronic pals.

Long Valley Brewery put out a beautiful brunch buffet. (Sorry, hon. I really will start that post vacation diet, maybe tomorrow.) Token2 had to teach their chef how to make a scrambled egg. And Captain got the last two benedictine eggs. All the same, I scored some goodies with a high brow/low brow breakfast strategy including smoked salmon and biscuits with gravy. John J. and I both took a slice of the cake. It was delicious, cream cheese and sugar with just enough flour cake to hold the frosting together. Coffee service was slow, but by the time we were ready for our second cup the joint was jumpin' and there was a line for sign-in.

Fonz earned his Polar Bear patch and red rocker on this ride. Welcome to the Polar Bear Club! You will have to get a special CTPB patch from our Sargent at Arms, Grumpy.

We walked outside and Token2 used a miniature tripod to take the group photo. Unfortunately we've lost Grumpy to night shift.

Once we were back in line and headed out, Token2 had his left turn signal on, waiting, waiting, waiting for a gap to get down the short bit to that troublesome traffic light. A word with John J. and Token reversed his signals. We took a right and snuck back out the way we came, over hills and dales to Route 80.

At Chez GSP Fonz and I had a side conversation going about the Rider Education Program. We shared some of our best teaching stories. Classes start soon. It was sort of “the blind leading the blind” because neither of us made our site manager's update meeting. Pogy called in from Korea to say we should not look for him at the Darien rest stop this Sunday.

I shared the good news with Fonz that we were switching to an all combination lock system. This will save Fonz a lot of time in doubling back to the site to return the keys he forgot to put in the briefcase when he handed it over to Pogy for the next instructor. Now if we can just figure out who disappeared the DVD!

Pogy is literally circling the world this trip. He started in Japan, was calling me from Korea and is next on to India. Hopefully we will see him again in a week or two when he's done wrangling helicopters.

Fonz and I were interrupted by a more boisterous conversation at the other end of the table. We had to throw some water on the Captain to cool him down. Seems he was watching Fox News again and talking politics.

Yeah, I know, we're never going to retire, all the money will be gone or useless, and health care is going to bankrupt the treasury one way or the other. Hey, I figure that's all the more reason to get in as many good rides as we can before it all comes crashing down.

Man has been predicting the end of the world ever since he first figured out that he, too, was going to die someday. From that wellspring all religion flows.

On I-287 on the way back I hit a serious pothole. I didn't lose any tooth fillings or wheel spokes, but my EZ Pass popped off the windshield. I saw it disappear in a flash, but did not see it skittering along the highway. It was just before we move over to exit to the Merritt Parkway. Come to think about it, right about the same place Grumpy's transponder bounced. I saw his spin off to the shoulder and recovered it for him.

No such luck for me!

I looked around me thinking maybe it was caught on a saddlebag mount or niche around the engine. Nope.

As we merge onto the Merritt Parkway there is a very tight, descending radius, on-ramp. I generally get quite a bit of lean going so I can keep my speed up to launch onto the Parkway.
We rode for home, this one and that one gradually peeling off for his own house. I pulled off in Stratford, rode down to the gas station to fill the tank to the very top to minimize gas tank condensation. As I stood up, my EZ Pass magically reappeared on my seat. I guess somehow when it popped off I unknowingly caught it in my crotch. Even more amazing to me, it stayed right there as I shifted position and leaned the bike for a half hour.

There is something amazing on most every ride. See you next Sunday . . . if the Captain and Glen Beck are wrong and Sunday comes.

California Day Two

2010-02-26T19:39:00.000-08:00

Thursday, February 18, 2010
Pismo Beach to Monterey

Another 10 degrees would have made the ride tolerable. What should have been the gem of my California adventure was tarnished by cold, clouds, fog, mist and cold. After my ride I was warm, fireplaces wherever I went. Tomorrow I head back south, after touring Monterey Bay Aquarium. I am seriously considering the inland route because it may be a critical five or 10 degrees warmer.

I knew it was coming, one of the disadvantages of modern weather forecasting. I did a bit of work in the morning, allowing the outside temperature to climb a bit and the fog to back off the road. I could not yet see out to sea. The hills behind the sea had lines of fog hanging in their heights still at 11 a.m.

Three hours difference between California and Connecticut make work difficult. I returned what calls I could, replied to a few e-mails and forwarded others. Our Aquarium Graphic Designer Deb admonished me to stop sending her more work. She is preparing for vacation. She will be off to Ismaldora, Florida Keys for some serious fishing a day after I return.

In morning's nadir I was out and riding south. At times Route 1 mixes in with Freeway 101. So I ran high speed until just above San Luis Obispo, jumping off point of no return down the twisty, two-lane PCH. This is perhaps the most famous stretch. Known for unparalleled beauty, it hugs cliff side where California falls into the Pacific Ocean.

It wasn't too bad to start. There was no sun. Sun always makes you feel warmer, even when the air isn't.

As I rode I cooled. I kept a weather eye for some place to pull over and add some layers. Then there it was, the elephant seal viewing point. I pulled off and managed to park on a small strip of asphalt near, but not in, the entrance to a gravel lot.

Seals were there all right, huge, noisy, stinky, magnificent, animals. You could get pretty close, looking over the edge of a fenced cliff to the beach below.

After the proper gawking and zoo photos that I will likely never review, I started pulling more body insulation from the bike's saddlebags. I added the winter liner back into my riding pants. I pulled out a Ridehide shirt. I dropped a chemical hot pack into each boot, pulled out my neck gaiter and my heaviest winter gloves. Darn, I should have brought those goose down mittens after all. Wish I had my electrics, on the other hand, the rental bike has no facility for providing power to them.

Who knew? It's California for chrissakes.

As I rode north, the PCH increased its scenery with every turn. Soon it wound itself into tight, 20 mile per hour recommended speed twisties, and switchbacks, miles of 'em.

The road is cut into the sides of these outrageously steep sand and mud cliffs hanging out over the deep Pacific. There are “rock fall” signs every where. Heading north, massive hills and cliffs to your right; to your left a sheer drop, sometimes hundreds of feet, to the sea below.

Now and then the road apparently actually does fall into the sea with the rest of California. I worked my way through half a dozen repair crews. Some of them were drilling pilings into the cliff to shore up the disappeared roadbed.

As you approach one of these sites, a caution sign warns “rock slide ahead.” Then just around the corner you can see where all hell broke loose, along with a chunk of California. The thought flits across my consciousness, “What happened to the guy on the road when the hill let loose, the road plunging into the ocean below?”

One of the signs was more ominous, “pavement ends.” If you look at a map, Route 1 is basically the only option for miles. Fortunately the road continued on gravel, and only a small patch of it.

I skipped the rest of the tourist options. Hearst Castle was totally shrouded in fog. You could not see up the hill a hundred yards. By the time I passed Nemanthe, where everybody told me I just must have lunch, I was too cold and it was too late and I was in no mood to take all that gear off only to dress again for the run to Monterey.

Both options were passed by with only a momentary downshift to acknowledge their presence and passing. Maybe next time.

Despite its unrefuted scenic beauty, the cold and the attention required by me to manage the bike in relentless corners, was dulling my enthusiasm. Can you believe that for the last half hour I was thinking, “Okay, just another vista and amazing canyon. Brake, downshift, look, lean, roll.”

For the last bit the road climbs up, up, up to Big Sur. The rise in elevation of course meant a concurrent drop in temperature. By now it was getting on to three o'clock. The day's warmth was fading fast.

Then, slam! You are in stop-and-go, shopping center lined, Route 1, just like back home. It's called Carmel. I did not see the scenic part. I'm sure it's nice. I had had enough for one day.

Pulling into Monterey on Route 1 it looked like any New Jersey seashore town. Little boutique hotels, once independent, now owned by national chains lined the street, along with all the familiar brand names of fast food and pharmacies, with a few new ones tossed in, Carl Jr.'s, In and Out Burger.

Following my nose I wanted to see where the Monterey Bay Aquarium was located and then try to find a hotel nearby. Suddenly through a tunnel I emerged on the famed Cannery Row. It was lined with shops, quaint, touristy stuff, and very expensive looking hotels. One clue, management includes the word “Spa” with “Inn” and valet parking. Westin is not in my budget. Steinbeck would be shocked at the gentrification.

Riding to the end of Cannery Row I ran right into Monterrey Bay Aquarium. Completing my reconnoiter, I turned back for the strip of cheaper hotels lining Route 1. Fortunately I got lost.

Coming out of the tunnel I turned too soon, banged around the backside of Monterrey for a bit, and finally found Route 1 again. Except that I turned the wrong way, back toward the tunnel.
Fortunately, as it turns out. On the way to the tunnel I see a sign for visitor information

Figuring that I will be floundering through the city tomorrow to go to the Aquarium, I stopped in for a local map. The nice lady asked if I had a place to stay and recommended the Cannery Row Inn. I immediately asked the rate. “Just $69 king bed. Very nice. Right at the head of Cannery Row. Walking distance to the Aquarium.”

Sold!

Turned out to be my second lucky hotel choice of the trip.

When I checked in the clerk said she did not have any more kings at the $69 rate. But for $10 more she could upgrade me to a king bed with a fireplace. Oh yeah! That was an easy up sell.

She also had a referral card to a local seafood restaurant entitling me to a free appetizer. She offered that if I was interested, she would call ahead and get me a good table. And she did. I was escorted to a table next to a fireplace and overlooking the bay. The restaurant is built out on a pier, likely a pier that once was part of a sardine factory. Sardines were not on the menu.

Monterey's history aside, I ordered the dungeness crab instead. They allowed me to split my free appetizer between a half order of calamari and a half artichoke heart. It was a very good combination. The calamari was spicy, the artichoke tart with vinegar.

As I finished a great meal, I glanced a final time into the crystal clear waters I had been watching below. There was a sea otter rolling around and playing with a floating chunk of driftwood.

California Day One

2010-02-25T18:46:00.000-08:00

Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Los Angeles to Pismo Beach, California

Well the netbook booted just fine after riding all day in the saddlebag.

What an amazing first day. Is it better, I wonder, to have your best day of vacation be the first, or the last day?

Yesterday was mostly all airplane. So it counts as a work day. The time difference between East and West Coast caused me not a bit of trouble. Being a world champion sleeper, and having shorted myself with preparations Monday night, I simply slept through the extra three hours last night. Easy.

I woke refreshed and finally surrendered my watch to California time.

After breakfast I caught a cab from my LAX Travelodge Hotel to nearby Eagle Rider motorcycle rentals. Business acquaintance Mark Bastarache of Business Network hooked me into a discounted Harley-Davidson rental. I picked up a beautiful Road Glide, blue, for my trip on the Pacific Coast Highway (PCH), U.S. 1.

Hey, wait a minute. How can we have two U.S. Route Ones? There's one of those on the East Coast too. Our part of the country being settled so much sooner, surely we were first. Shouldn't California's be U.S. Route Two?

Everybody at Eagle Rider was great. I packed the bike, left a bag behind with my Aquarium business wear for the IMAX convention next week and promptly made my first foray onto the famous Los Angeles freeways. Yes, they are as bad as you have heard.

My task was to shoot up the 405 to catch 10 west to Route 1 north. Seems simple, right?

Well thinking myself clever, I opted for the car pool lane. It was the only lane appearing reliable. The others were rubber banding severely at every exit and on-ramp.

Unfortunately once in the lane I felt bound by the double yellow line. There had been broken white lines here and there where cars could merge in and out of the car pool lane. I entered at a set. But when Route 10 appeared, no broken lines did. By the time I determined to sneak across, I had missed my exit. I might have made it on I-84 back home. But in L.A., once out of the car pool lane there were still five lanes to cross to make the exit.

I went on by I-10 and took Santa Monica Boulevard exit. Based upon my glance at the map before I left, I figured how far can it be to the ocean? So I turned left, west, and started down the Boulevard. Hey, just like the popular song, “All I wanna do is have some fun, I gotta feeling I'm not the only one . . . 'till the sun comes up over Santa Monica Boulevard.”

Only the “Boulevard” looked very much like a dirty, gritty, four lane city street with curbside parking and a stop light every block. After a bit of this I figured it was not what I sought for vacation riding. Glancing at my AAA Triptik map, I turned left again, heading back south to pick up I-10.

A bit more stop and go city driving and I was zipping along again, headed as west as you can go in the U.S.A., to the Pacific Coast Highway. I was there in no time.

(Yeah, I know Hawaii is further west than this. And Alaska stretches nearly to Russia, just ask Sarah Palin. Let's not get technical. Okay?)

Weather was gorgeous. An above average 80 degrees. Sunshine. Brilliant Sunshine. It felt great!

Seems to me the only way to survive New England is to get the heck out to someplace warm at least once per winter. But then again, I did not grow up there, so I am not fully acclimatized.

I had started the morning with my light pair of winter gloves. When I hit the PCH I switched to fingerless, also zipped the winter liners out of my leather jacket and riding pants.

At first it was still very urban. Then there it was, the vast Pacific Ocean. Beautiful. Bluer than the Atlantic. Visibility to the horizon.

California gives every appearance of having, just very recently, fallen into the sea. To the west is the ocean. To the east are steep, very steep, hills. Sometimes the hills are maybe a mile away, sometimes they reach right to the water.

There is no transition here. Steep hills, mountains even, then the sea. No Piedmont nor gently rolling hills. Only abrupt, steep, deeply cut, hills.

California's geography looks very young. Features are sharp, angular, extreme. Every where water runs it cuts very deeply into the hills and mountains. I am no geologist, but it does not look like they have a bit of granite in the place. Maybe farther back to the Sierra Nevada. But here on the coast it looks like sand and mud, not even rock. Little scrubby bushes cling to the hills and sparsely so.

Then I got to Malibu and amazingly there were houses everywhere. They were right down on the beach, with the road hard on their backs. Even crazier, houses were clinging to these obviously eroded hillsides.

I'm no architect nor engineer. Even so, it seems to me any fool can see that the soft land is continually falling into the ocean. How do the people who live in these houses sleep at night? I would be pacing the floor, on the uphill side, ready to jump out before the house tumbled down with the rest of the sand into the sea.

It is hard for me to summon much sympathy for mudslide victims. When you moved in, wasn't it obvious the hill was just waiting to let go?

On the other hand, people live in New Orleans several feet below sea level with only an Army Corps of Engineers mud dike holding the water away. In Florida they rebuild after every hurricane. Even I live along the mouth of a river supposedly protected from flooding again like it did in the 30s by several dams upstream. The year my son Trever was born, hurricane Gloria paid a visit. We didn't move inland.

I turned up Malibu Canyon Road and cranked the big Harley up the hill through twists and turns clinging on the edge of a very steep and deep canyon.

As I carved the canyon I wanted to stop and take a picture of this amazing topography. I saw turnouts, advertised by signs a quarter mile in advance. But each turnout was lined with no parking, stopping or standing signs. I didn't get it. Why have a scenic turnout, if no parking is allowed? Not knowing the local custom I rode on.

Then I saw a sign for a “vista” and there the parking signs allowed me to stay for 10 minutes. That's where I grabbed some photos.

It was amazing to me how rural the canyon was. All the sudden you went from packed city to wilderness. Such extremes compose California's charm.

As I popped out of the canyon top I rode a bit more up the mountain. It was noticeably cooler. Not knowing how far it was to the very top, I turned around and headed back down. As I entered the canyon, a sign explained the no parking, stopping, standing turnouts. It said, “slower vehicles use turnouts.”

Since the highway was only two lanes, trucks and Winnebagos and such pull into the turnouts to allow faster vehicles to pass. Glad I wasn't parked in one, defiantly taking photos. They do run trucks and trailers up and down these roads.

Back along the coast, the PCH went from two lanes to four, then back to two. Again, it went from house lined to completely rural in a matter of yards. I guess there are some hills too steep even for these crazy Californians. Or maybe there just aren't enough Californians to build out this far.

They have a unique idea of freeways here. Instead of building over or underpasses, they simply declare that “freeway ends” with “cross traffic ahead.” It's all the same road, the speed limit drops from 65 down to 55. Nothing else changes. Once past the intersections a sign declares “freeway begins” and you can crank on another 10 mph.

I actually started out on Route 101. From Los Angeles to San Luis Obispo Routes 101 and 1 have an on-again, off-again, relationship. They split at Buellton and reconnect at Pismo Beach. It is marked as though you're always switching from one to the other. There are lots of signs offering 101 access once you're on 1.

At Buellton the geography changed dramatically. The ocean was gone and I was twisting and turning through cattle country with rancheros and very few signs of civilization. Another dramatic and abrupt change in scenery.

Vandenberg Air Force Base gets the shore on this part of the PCH. It's a missile test range. So I guess they don't want to be shooting rockets over the highway. Amazingly, you drive right past rifle ranges, I mean right off the highway. You could walk to them. Fortunately they shoot away from the road.

Rather suddenly once again, the country flattend out and changed from cattle to crops. Vegetable farms and packing plants stretched for miles.

Guadalupe was a working town. It looked like a hundred farm towns I have visited. One strong main street. Plants and trucks and tractors and mud dragged onto the highway at either end of town. Dying retail in the center. Old houses built right to the road. Pool halls, bars and VFWs and churches for Sunday cures to Saturday debaucheries.

At the northern edge of town I stopped to add a few layers and switch back again to the winter gloves. The warm sun was drooping in the sky.

A glance at my vintage Triptik and San Luis Obispo seemed a reasonable target for what was left of the day. That's where Routes 1 and 101 part ways for a hundred miles, with a ridge of mountains between them.

For a bit before that, the coast cut back into Route 1 again and I was enjoying the PCH with an ocean view. Just above Pismo Beach 1 rejoins 101. And just before it does, it skirts along a coastline cliff. I saw a couple of cool hotels and then I suddenly was back up to 65 mph on the 101 freeway.

As I rocketed toward San Luis Obispo, I was having a conversation with myself inside my head. The more I talked to myself, the more I became convinced that Pismo Beach scenery back there was pretty sweet. And now I was headed back inland. It took me a few miles to decide. Then I got off an exit, crossed over, and got back on the freeway retracing my tracks back south.

It turned out to be an extraordinarily good decision.

The cliff side hotel gave me a good government rate and a beautiful room overlooking the ocean. The sun was low and warm and casting long shadows and soft colors. Out over the water there was a low line of clouds miles away.

Perched upon the cliffs, an amazing gazebo dotted an impossible point of land. Before I walked out there for a better look, I called the wifey at home. And in our less than half-hour conversation, my beautiful scenery disappeared. That low line of clouds was a fog bank. I watched it roll right over me and the hotel. The sun was still up. The ocean and cliffs were gone.

They did not reappear the next morning either.

Meanwhile the hotel restaurant was under construction. Fortunately the desk clerk steered me to “Steamers” a short walk away. The restaurant's theme is “a mile of clams.”

I also took a walk on the beach. Beach access was via about three stories of steep staircase.

Returning to the hotel, I decided to take a dip in the pool. It was heated and open until 11 p.m. The air was misty, a light drizzle going. I started out in the hot tub then took a dip in the pool and then back to the whirlpool. Had the whole pool area to myself.

Back to my room late, I dressed and finally walked out to that gazebo. The hotel had bright lights shining on the cliffs and the rocks below. Very nice.

Finally I sat out on my room's porch with my net book and tried to capture today's scenes, Pacific waves offering a bucolic symphony.

South Wayne, NJ; February 14, 2010

2010-02-22T10:06:00.000-08:00

South Wayne, NJ; February 14, 2010

Hooters? Really? On Valentines Day?

Yeah, it was not the most romantic thing I've ever done. Sorry hon! The Polar Bear calendar just fell that way.

We left extra early, anticipating glacial service based upon our experience with previous Hooters Polar Bear runs. John J. did not get his order until Monday last year. The waitress totally forgot about him. But you know what they say about if only they were brains.

This year our waitress was Crystal. That may be her real name. But I sorta doubt it. Sometimes such working girls assume aliases, I presume to protect their identity or perhaps to be more perky and memorable than their parents designed.

A year ago on my November ride to the Florida Keys I spent a few days in South Beach. One night feeling like a drink at a bar I visited the local strip club. Strip clubs are one of the few bars where a fellow can drink alone and no one things any worse of it.

So this perky girl comes up trying to wheedle more money out of me than my $10 beer. She says her name is “Diamond” and asks me mine. “Is that your real name?” I ask. “Oh yes,” she gushes, “What's your name?” I tell her, “Penurious, but it doesn't mean what you think it does.” She didn't get the writers joke. I thought I was astoundingly clever. But maybe it was just the beer.
One of our guys asked Crystal how she told her dad she was working at Hooters. Her mom thought it was fun, she says, her dad had a harder time accepting it.

As it turns out, Crystal was attentive and the kitchen not all that slow. We filled in the wait with fried pickles, something new to all of us. Reviews were mixed, but I liked them.

Of course I have not had anything deep fried that I did not like.

I saw this guy on the food channel once. They were running a show all about fried food. So this one chef down south, Texas maybe, decides to deep fat fry bacon., He was talking about how he had to get special, thickly-cut bacon so it would not disintegrate in the fryolator. Then he suspends several slices with toothpicks, breads the whole and drops it into the fryer.

That sounded about as fattening as could be to me. But this chef says something was missing still. Eventually he figured it out and amended his dish. He perfected the flavor by serving his deep fat fried bacon with gravy.

Hooters is the shortest run on the calendar for the Connecticut Bears. With our early departure we arrived at our destination before 11:00. Even so, there were bikes in the parking lot. Guess some guys just can't get enough orange.

It was only moderately cold, in the high twenties. If you think about it, 10 degrees does make a difference. Last week's 18 seemed a whole lot colder than this week's 28. Somehow you expect it to mean less in winter. In summer the difference between 80 and 90 degrees is certainly noticeable.

Grumpy and Nic had the lead. Token2 was sweep. In the cradle we had Captain, Fonz, Pogy and yours truly, CT Blogger.

Fonz and Pogy are quickly becoming regulars. And so every year, little by little, the mania spreads.

Pogy will sign up next year. We will make sure to get him in before Bob Hartpence cuts off admission. Fonz joined us early enough to squeak under the 550 bear quota.

We discussed plans for Daytona. Some of Grumpy's buds are dropping out, mostly because of the economy. One lost a job, another had his vacation time restricted. Times are still very tough out there.

And when the times get tough, the tough go on vacation.

I was discussing my plans to go early to a convention in Los Angeles. When I commented on how long the flight is, poor Pogy almost choked on his fried pickle. He handles international business accounts for Sikorsky, peddling helicopters around the globe. I think he said the Sultan of Brunei was a client.

As Pogy said, when he gets to San Francisco he figures that's the homeward leg, short hop to the East Coast.

In Los Angeles. I have an IMAX movie convention to attend the week after our next Polar Bear run.. So I figured to take a bit of vacation time the week after our Valentines Hooters run. I rented a Harley Road Glide at LAX and toured the Pacific Coast Highway.

I can post on BlogSpot, text only. The photo enhanced blog on my own site requires software not carried in my little netbook. I may post a few stories from the left coast too. So subscribe to this blog if you want the earliest updates, or wait until I get home for the photo enhanced version, or read both.

This is the first Polar Bear blog post I have posted more than a week late. Sorry guys.

I have been happily riding around California and will post those stories too.

Meanwhile, I am sorry I missed you last week. Somebody send me a story, Token2?

I get back in, hopefully, in time to at least post your stuff before the Sunday ride to the Firehouse Eatery. If all goes well, I plan to join you on that ride.

Departure time should be 9:30. MapQuest says just two hours to the destination, 87 miles one way.

Bart and John J.: I know you are following this blog and so will receive an automatic notification when it posts. If you like, share with our other regulars how they can read this entry if they wish. And please send out an e-mail to our core group for departure time, although they can likely figure it out on their own!

Hope to see you Sunday.

Enjoy! I am.

February 7, 2010; Pattenburg, N.J.

2010-02-10T15:15:00.000-08:00

February 7, 2010; Pattenburg, New Jersey

15 to start, ‘pert near 30 to finish

We departed the day after a monster snow storm dubbed “snowmageddon” by President Obama blanketed southern New Jersey, Delaware, Maryland and Washington D.C. They got New England style weather. Connecticut received nary a flake.

Not content to read weather maps and radar sweeps I reached down to our destination with a phone call Saturday night. The girl who answered at Landslide Saloon might be a good date, if there are any single Polar Bears reading this blog. According to her they, “got about a foot of snow.” But she assured me they were still expecting the Bears, the parking lot was plowed out, local roads cleared and we should have no trouble riding motorcycles to them from Interstate 78.

I sent out an e-mail to our Connecticut crew sharing my report from Pattenburg and declaring my intention to ride on the morrow.

Turns out the biggest challenge we had was salt. The Interstates were clear and dry. The state road from the Interstate to the Landslide was clear as well with only a few wet spots, those rendered liquid by copious sodium chloride deposits. Sitting here in my study, I can still hear my chrome screaming out in the garage.

I am thinking the girl reporting from the Landslide might be a good date because when we arrived there it looked like they had, at most, four inches of snow on the ground. Anyone with such an optimistic and forgiving sense of proportion gives hope to many potential suitors.

Since there are only three turns on the route from Stratford, Conn., to Pattenburg, N.J., I offered to take the lead. I had trouble with my navigation system still.

First of all it was so dang cold, the grease pencil kept chipping. It was hard to bear down enough to get a reasonable impression as I wrote my three turns on the Springer’s rear view mirror. When the pencil did chip, I had to deal with that paper wrapping, trying to get it started with a fingernail, shaking in the cold, peeling off too much paper only to break a chunk off the tip and then fumble with it all again.

Eventually I got the proper coordinates entered. But in my fighting with the grease pencil, I neglected to write the exit number off of I-78 and onto N.J. State 173 west. Such a small detail allowed my riding compatriots a bit of amusement at my expense.

I led our group of bikes off of the final interstate highway at the first exit for Route 173 west. I had remembered, even without the mirror, that it was a mere 1.6 miles from the exit to the Landslide Saloon. As the odometer clicked closer to that mark I had a sense of foreboding. We were running exactly parallel to the interstate. And as we rode beyond the distance expected, I saw up on my left, up high on the interstate, a sign declaring yet another exit for Route 173 west.

Okay, so there was a later exit. Can’t wait to hear the teasing I’ll get on this one. I can practically hear my compatriots cackling inside their helmets trailing on behind me.

We ride more than another 1.6 miles, still shadowing the interstate. And there is even another big green sign. There is yet another exit for 173 west. Who knew? Well if I had written the dang exit number on my mirror.

There’s no time for pity. My attentions are needed to negotiate a traffic circle which catches the interstate off ramp and routes it our way. The circle is strongly familiar, whereas the earlier parts of 173 west already traveled were not.

Sure enough, just up the road apiece, the interstate has fallen away now, I’m not even clocking the odometer anymore, Landslide Saloon appears on the left. I see Polar Bear Grand Tour Photographer Walter Kern standing near the first entrance. We are coming in too hot to make that one and I lead us in the second entrance to park at the end of a line of cars and trucks.

As we come clomping into the Landslide, brother Bears from deeper in New Jersey are full of excitement, stories of big snow. Flight B Leader Rich shows pictures on his camera. Indefatigable Bob Hartpence, forced onto four wheels, was holding court nonetheless.

Sign in isn’t ready yet. We take a table and settle in to order lunch. Our attentive waitress asks if we want separate checks and I assure her we mean to make no trouble and she can put us all on just one tab. She needs a name for the tab and I whimsically offer, “John.” How is she to know we are three-fifths John?

Polar Bear Grand Pooh Bah Bob is joking that Jersey has all the snow this winter. “We’ll have to truck some of it up to Canada so they can hold the winter Olympics,” he quips.

At that point Pogy, who works at Sikorsky Aircraft, says that in fact one of his company’s helicopters is transporting snow to the Vancouver slopes. Canadian TV confirms Pogy’s report. The Sikorsky S64 Skycrane, the world’s second largest helicopter, has been carrying snow to the Olympic venue. Not from New Jersey, but from further up on Cypress Mountain in British Columbia. They are also using trucks to transport snow, but Pogy’s bird delivers the freshest snow, topping off the slopes and half pipes to delight competitors.

Oh, and in case you are getting any ideas for your own ski festival, CTV reports the big helicopter rents for $10,000 per hour. Actually, that’s probably Canadian dollars, so you could get it for less here.

As New Jersey is getting pounded, Vancouver has enjoyed the warmest January in history.

Meanwhile, our food arrives. Our attentive waitress gets our orders onto the table with a smile and, unbeknownst to us, an acute ear. As she is placing the plates of food our always cheery eater grumbles something, he thought to himself only, about expecting at least a pickle to accompany his sandwich.

Well it wasn’t a moment later that our waitress brought over condiments, extra napkins and such. Then, without a word, as if by slight-of-hand, a single dill spear appeared on a small plate in front of Grumpy. And my Momma always told me you had to ask nicely!

As we finished our meals, it turns out I was right, John got the check, well at least he tried to. Feeling magnanimous, John Kammerer offered to buy us all lunch. None of the other Johns, nor Pogy or I, objected.

Captain dropped his Discover card on the check and excused himself to, as he always says, “tap a bladder.”

Meanwhile the waitress comes up, picks up the card and the check, but returns soon after. The Landslide Saloon does not accept Discover, only Master Card and Visa. Well before the rest of us can start reaching for cash, Pogy pulls his more acceptable (to the Landslide anyway) credit card and offers to buy lunch for us all.

Captain returns to his bare Discover Card on the table, the restaurant check gone, and I tell him the truth, “Your card was refused.” His eyes narrow, his nostrils flare, but he knows better than to take the bait. “That card is good,” he says, “very good.” “Well, they would not take it,” I retort. “Pogy had to pick up the tab.” John K’s blood is coming up, but John H lets slip that they don’t take Discover here. “I have other cards,” K says indignantly. “Yeah but we didn’t want to hafta wait for you,” I needle.

(That’s especially effective teasing because I, CT Blogger, Chris Loynd, am the very last Connecticut Polar Bear for anything: last to finish eating, last out of the bathroom, last to get dressed, last to square away on the motorcycle, last to show up at Dunkin’ Donuts in the morning, etc.)

Captain regains his dignity by insisting on buying coffee at Chez GSP on the way home.

Out in the Landslide parking lot we take our group photo and start bundling up for the ride home. Pogy had a handful of Connecticut Rider Education reflective safety stickers for John H, requested by Token to adorn his new BMW. Token2 is a graduate of the program. A former Connecticut Polar Bear Jim Ivanko was his instructor. Jim was one of the first to join us from Connecticut in winter riding.

As we are getting ready to go, the Captain needs gas. That’s unusually poor gas mileage for his Harley. I think it might have had something to do with the way he was snapping his throttle on and off on the ride over. I was in the lead and Captain was second bike. I noticed he kept running up on me and then drifting back. A couple of times he got so close I was tempted to kick his bike.

Since as leader I was holding a rock-steady speed, one you could set your cruise control by, I can only figure Captain’s mind was elsewhere.

We had only five bikes. It should not have been hard to maintain group riding discipline. I think our turnout was low for fear of snow. Oh, and apparently there was some football game later that day. But we made it home in plenty of time to watch the commercials.

Token2 was sweep and an admirable one. Anytime I was even thinking of changing lanes he was already there, holding back traffic creating a clear lane of opportunity for me.

I was able to complete this week’s blog during a snow day Wednesday. “Blizzard” conditions are promised. So far it’s been tolerable. Maybe tomorrow I will wake up to a driveway full.

Next week’s ride, through a trick of the calendar, falls on Valentine’s Day. Better than that, by freak luck of our riding calendar, our destination is Hooters. My wife Cynthia does not seem to appreciate the irony. Not only am I going on a Polar Bear motorcycle ride on Valentine’s Day. I have the gall to ride to Hooters. Hey babe, I love you the same each and every day of the year! (Note to self, better get candy AND flowers!)

Hooters is one of our shortest rides of the year. The Hooters in South Wayne, N.J. traditionally also has the slowest service of any Polar Bear destination. So last week we got the brilliant idea that we would arrive early, say 11:00. That way we can eat lunch and then sign in for our Polar Bear Points when the Club Officials arrive, and still be back in Connecticut before Monday.

MapQuest says travel time is 1 hour and 39 minutes. So if we leave Stratford, Conn. at 9:30 a.m., we should be to Hooters by 11:00. Oh, and the distance is 83 miles, leaving us with an unsatisfying one, yes one, mileage point. Maybe Grumpy can squeak out the extra twenty miles. Token2 will be lucky to make 100 roundtrip miles. See you Sunday!

January 24, 2010; Howell, NJ

2010-01-28T19:17:00.000-08:00

1/24/10 Howell, NJ

29 with low clouds to start; 39 and drizzle to end

While Sunday's ride threatened a repeat of the previous week, we were lucky with the rain. It misted and drizzled for our ride home. It never rained drops.

Threat of rain was no deterrent for the Connecticut Polar Bears. We rode with eight. Years ago that would have been a big turnout. Nowadays, we have picked up enough new regular riders eight is de rigueur on any given Sunday.

Coming up from the south, the rain clouds also carried warmer air. Sunday's ride was more temperate. Still, I appreciated the enveloping warmth of my electric jacket.

We picked up Pogy, engine running and ready to join us, at the Darien rest stop. Token2 was back from England. Having left his wife and daughter in the U.K., and by his admission up early and bored, I was surprised to see him waiting for us at the Dunkin' Donuts in Stratford. He rode a half-hour the wrong way just to turn around and join us for the ride back south to New Jersey.

I had no duties on this ride except to rest in the cradle, motoring along. While I enjoy touring alone, there is a certain luxury in letting someone else handle the navigation, determine the route and speed, as you relax and enjoy the ride.

It was misting lightly as we crossed from the New Jersey Turnpike to Garden State Parkway headed south. However roads across New Jersey horse country to the Cabin are not as rural nor tar snake strewn as those to Hillybilly Hall. Except for negotiating a couple of New Jersey's famous roundabouts, the ride was relaxing and uneventful.

Pogy presented me with a Connecticut Rider Education visibility vest. He says I got the last one. Most of them were made for instructors who joined the program earlier than I. It will be worn with pride and just may save me from getting run over by a cager someday.

We, well most all of us, enjoyed our lunch.

Grumpy eventually settled down and enjoyed his lunch. But they had Pepsi, not Coke and the waitress did not divulge such. Then she had unsweetened ice tea. Johnny B. took it gracefully in stride.

It is late enough into winter that talk turned to Daytona. Russ is organizing a ride. He's leaving mid-week after Bike Week has started, so Russ' ride is mostly riding. That's fine for me and fits with a conference I have scheduled the week before in Los Angeles.

Daytona can be a very nice break in winter's tedium.

That second day of riding, as you descend through the Carolinas, you can start shedding layers. After riding all winter bundled in layers and tight-fitting long johns, and too thick socks and scarves tucked into full-face helmets, the warmth is nirvana.

Sometimes Florida treats us especially well and you find yourself riding around in shirt sleeves in February.

Not only is it warm, you get to act like a teenager again, one of legal drinking age, with no curfew.

It is like Leo's trike asserts, “Recycled teenager.”

Leo is my hero. I have said it in this blog before. The day before our ride he celebrated his 94th birthday. He still rides Polar Bear. I believe he earned a perfect attendance pin last season. Up until a couple years ago, Leo was still on two wheels. Now he rides a trike, obviously year round, apparently everywhere, anytime, all the time. You go Leo!

Our Polar Bear route choices are a topic of ongoing discussion. Apparently the Captain pissed off somebody at New Jersey DOT because they put a curse on John K.'s EZ Pass. They made him relinquish his preferred license plate style pass, the only person we know so banished. Then they registered his bike in two states, that we know of.

So as we scoot across the New York City parkways toward the George Washington Bridge most Polar Bear mornings, John K. prefers to jump onto Interstate 87. However that lands you on a GW Bridge on-ramp that is something of a motocross course.

I really nailed a pothole last Sunday. Dead center. Saw it coming. Could not avoid it. It was deep. I thought I saw some dinosaur bones in it, but figured my fellow riders would not tolerate me stopping for an archeological investigation.

Because the road is so rough, Johnny B. does not like the I-87 option. He would prefer to parkway all the way. Unfortunately the last toll on the parkways before the bridge has gates. They pay no mind to John K.'s EZ Pass. One year the Captain plowed through a gate, anticipating it's opening when it didn't. In revenge the gates open no more for John K. No one else has any trouble with them at all.

In Vegas they would call it a “push.” Nobody's fault. Nobody wins.

Our options are limited. I suggested riding on down the West Side Highway and using the Lincoln Tunnel to cross the Hudson River. That was roundly ridiculed.

John J. suggested the Cross Bronx Expressway. That is like a miles long motocross course strewn with hazards and potholes and junk fallen off of passing trucks lined with a concrete canyon inhabited by gangs of thugs and criminals and prone to massive traffic jams anytime day or night.

I have a friend, David Vincent. He's from Memphis, Tenn. David has a gorgeous wife Cindy, a real Southern belle. David and I worked together as writers at a now defunct agricultural PR and advertising agency in Stamford. We hired David away from a big New York City PR agency.

So David tells the story of his first time crossing the delightful Cross Bronx Expressway. It is summer. It is hot. Poor Dave nails a pothole and snaps a tie rod. So Dave does what he would have done in Memphis. He pulls over to the shoulder, puts on the four way flashers, and he and Cindy start walking the shoulder to a nearby off ramp. This was before cell phones, so David figured to find a pay phone.

It was a short walk. David is wearing a Hawaiian shirt and jeans. Cindy is dressed in halter top, short shorts and tall heels. And like this they walk down the off ramp into the Bronx looking for a phone.

Dave notices the neighborhood is not looking too good. But he's a big guy and has been in the bad parts of Memphis before. Cindy is getting very nervous.

They find a service station with a tow truck. But the guy at the station tells them he can't go retrieve their car. Ain't got the permit. Tells Dave he has to call the cops.

So Dave uses the pay phone and gets a police dispatcher on the line. He gives the address of the service station, describes the location of his car and then the dispatcher says something David does not expect, “I want you to walk back to your car.”

In disbelief David replies, “You mean you want me to walk back on the shoulder of the expressway? Against traffic?”

The dispatcher replies, “You'll be safer.”

Our ride this Sunday is to The Exchange in Rockaway, N.J. We can avoid the whole GW Bridge controversy on this one by taking the Tappan Zee Bridge going and coming. Then it is a short hop out Interstate 80.

MapQuest says just under 2 hours travel time. So let's set a . . .

9:30 a.m. Departure time from Stratford, Conn.

Just 95 miles one way, I will come excruciatingly close to missing a point on this sucker.

Was it last year that this ride was so cold, or the year before? I remember pulling out every bit of clothing from my saddlebags and then stuffing polishing rags in my boots that one year.

This Sunday's forecast is for cold, but not punishingly so. Forecast are temperatures in the high twenties.

Hope to see you soon.

Hopewell, NJ (2); January 17, 2010

2010-01-18T09:36:00.000-08:00

Below freezing, 30, to start; 40 and rain/sleet to end.

Forecasted sleet above the Merritt Parkway kept a bunch of bears away Sunday.

Token2 was in England; Bart, the most northern CTPB, was worried about ice, John J. prefers football and Grumpy had to pick his truck up from the garage; it was in for repairs.

We started out dry under low clouds. But thanks to the miracle of Internet weather and Doppler radar, we knew we were in for it. Our plan was to "turn and burn." We would ride down, sign in, and turn right around hoping to beat the rain.

Pogy intended to join us. But he jumped the gun.

I think he is one of those engineering type guys. So he was more obsessed with my descriptions in the weekly departure time e-mail of how many miles it was and how I was not going to get my extra point and MapQuest travel time. He missed the departure time (it is always the "subject line" of the e-mail) and went ahead and calculated his own departure time based upon data provided.

So we traded these mismatched voice mails Sunday morning. He called at 8:23 a.m. and left a voice mail to ask if we were going. By then I was running back and forth from house to garage getting the bike ready and missed his call.

I called him back at 8:48 and got his voice mail. My message to him was that we would be leaving the Dunkin' Donuts in Stratford in about 10 minutes; he should figure on us being at Darien rest stop in 20.

Meanwhile, John K. had stopped by my house and, figuring we might be the only ones going, except now with Pogy, we rode over to the Dunkin' together, just in case someone else showed. The Captain even mentioned riding over ahead of me to see if anyone was waiting there. He decided to wait for me.

So we arrived together at Dunkin' in "Chris time" which means a minute or two to 9:00 a.m. Meanwhile Russ had called me at 8:55 to see if anyone else was going. Of course he got my voice mail because by that time I was riding. Russ is used to the Captain arriving two hours early for breakfast and was confused by the empty parking lot.

Russ had just called his wife Christine to move the car back out of the garage so he could pull his bike in. As we showed he had to take his helmet back off and call Christine back to tell her he was going with us.

We took off a minute or two after nine and pulled into the Darien rest stop. No Pogy.

I checked my voice mail and had one from him at 9:11 a.m., saying he had been there since 8:30 a.m. and went back home.

And off we went, Pogyless.

We didn't beat the rain despite all our scheming.

We rode into it just as we hit the local roads into Hillybilly Hall in Hopewell, N.J. If the dang destination had been closer to the Interstates our plan might have worked. But it took so long to slog over the local roads from I-287 down to Hopewell, that the storm overran us.

Crossing through New Jersey backcountry was slow going. State Route 609 must be named for the number of tar snakes per square foot. So we had to tiptoe over the slickness.

We picked up our adopted New Jersey Bear big Matt on the way across. Discouraged by the rain and roads, he was turning around and heading for home when the CT Bears changed his mind simply by our blatant demonstration of insanity.

Matt actually turned around in a business parking lot and fell into our line.

It's a shame about the rain because Hillybilly Hall is one of the few destinations with a nice, big, warm fireplace in their dining room.

The parking lot sucks. It's too small and mostly all gravel.

But I have fond memories of nice lunches on cold days seated next to that big fireplace.

Unfortunately for Hillybilly management, most bears did the same as us, sign in and get the heck home before the sleet started. There were plenty of open tables in the dining room.

Russ and John K. did not even bother to take their helmets off. They just clomped into the place, dripping, and waited in lines. There were two long lines: sign in and bathroom.

We still insisted on taking our group photo. My camera stood in for Johnny B's.

It was raining harder for the ride home.

Seemed like forever picking our way over the narrow country roads. I kept thinking that if we could just get headed north we could get out from under this thing.

We did not get a break.

Our chosen route had a lot more east-west in it than north-south. In an attempt to avoid frozen precipitation we hugged Long Island Sound like a warm mother.

For us in coastal Connecticut it very often happens that a snow event north of the Merritt Parkway is merely rain along the coast. Long Island Sound often holds just enough heat to save us from the nasty stuff.

That meant the George Washington Bridge coming and going.

So we headed across Route 80 instead of up I-287. Unfortunately that meant we were running parallel to the storm as it swept up from the south.

Finally on the Cross County Parkway we got good news and bad news. The good news was that we started to break into bands of dry and wet. The bad news was at the very front edge of the storm it was sleet, not rain, that was falling.

A brief stop in the rest area on the Hutch gave me time to examine the precipitation at less than speed. It was frozen, white pellets.

I took advantage of the very brief stop to put my Harley rain jacket OVER my Gerbing Union Ridge heated jacket.

It was soaked by now.

Soon after leaving Hopewell I felt wet coming through at the crook of my arm. More on the right. Soon on both sides.

We hit some heavier rain at freeway speed. And the wetness spread. I cranked up the thermostat to compensate.

Nevertheless I was very disappointed. Gerbing touts this jacket as all you need to ride in severe conditions. I intend to send them a strongly worded complaint. And next time I see our Polar Bear Gerbing dealer, Len, from MLDS, I want to see if there is anything to be done about the jacket.

Generally riding in rain on a motorcycle is no big deal with the right gear. But when that gear fails, it can get miserable, fast, really miserable.

Russ' Harley version Gerbing leather gloves were soaked through. My new T2 gloves were dry on the inside. The leather cuffs were wet, but dry and comfy on the inside.

However it was not a fair test. My hands were tucked inside nylon hippo hands which blocked all direct rain.

As we headed up Interstate 95 on our final dash for home, it alternated between rain, sleet and dry, every few miles.

John K. was leading and he must have smelled the barn on Interstate 95. He cranked it and we flipped through the changing bands of weather. Fortunately the road surface was never more slippery than on a rainy summer day.

As I pulled into home in Stratford it was dry. Not a half hour later it was raining. Another half hour later and it was raining hard.

When I took off my Gerbing jacket it must have weighed ten pounds, eight of them water.

All in all we never rode through a heavy rain. It was steady, heavier at times, but nothing I would characterize as a downpour.

Any riding gear worth its salt should have kept us dry.

My new FirstGear pants, which if you read last week's blog I wanted to test, came through with flying colors.

The jacket was a huge let down. Here, pasted directly from Gerbing's web site, is their promise:

Q: Is my heated clothing waterproof?

A: Gerbing's outerwear products and gloves are constructed to conform to the industry standards of waterproofing and will keep you dry. Gerbing's outerwear is constructed with a waterproof outer layer, or face fabric. The main function of the face fabric is to provide a durable outer shell. To make the face fabric waterproof, the inside of the fabric is laminated with a urethane coating that provides a protective moisture membrane. In addition, all seams are tape sealed and our outerwear fabrics have a durable water-repellent coating (DWR) which is a chemical treatment that forces water to bead up and roll off the surface of the fabric. Gerbing's gloves (excluding glove liners) are all constructed with a waterproof/breathable membrane to keep your hands dry however the leather is not waterproof and should be treated.

http://www.gerbing.com/Info/FAQ.php

We had no time for banter this trip with nary a lunch or coffee stop. So my blog posting is short a few stories.

And I apologize for the Gerbing jacket failure rant. Any fellow rider can empathize.

If it was some sort of hellacious downpour I would be more forgiving. As we found out two years ago riding back from Cape May in a nor'easter, all weatherproof equipment fails at some point. But I expected better on a mild rain day. As Russ quipped, "What did you expect for $400?"

I should note for our blog fans and posterity that Russ earned his gold rocker this ride.

Next Ride:

Thanks to the freakin' terrorist with exploding underpants, our Fort Dix ride has been moved to a repeat of The Cabin.

Club Dix is the officers club and has treated bears for years. I remember varying levels of security over the years, ranging from being waived through to having to show photo ID and be on a preapproved list submitted in advance by Bob Hartpence.

This year's security requirements were more than Bob could prepare in time for our ride. And I certainly understand and support the Army's concerns. Hopefully things will settle down for next year.

Meanwhile departure time for next week's ride is: 9:00 a.m.

Weather looks iffy with possible snow in the afternoon. But I never believe the long term forecast, unless it is good.

I will be celebrating my 29th wedding anniversary that day, with a ride to Freehold if the weather permits. I already have permission from my wife to go.

Did I pick a gem or what?!

Comments?

Feel free to post your comments on Gerbing gear or anything else.

For a version of this blog with photos see my web site posting:
http://www.influentialcom.com/polar_bear_blog_0910_3.htm#Hopewell,_NJ_(2)

North Brunswick, NJ; January 10, 2010

2010-01-15T17:19:00.000-08:00

North Brunswick, NJ; January 10, 2010

bright but cold, 11 degrees to start, 26 to end

Maybe it was the challenge. A bitter cold Sunday, coldest of our Polar Bear motorcycle season so far, brought a big turnout among the Connecticut bears. Maybe too, the character of the CTPB is changing, or just broadening.

Core riders who make most every Sunday are still here and grow by a bear or two every year. Warm weather bears remain on my e-mail list, and so are presumably interested still. But the newest bears seem more hardcore this year. Fonz and Pogy are real riders. Bart quickly became one of the core. Jim, of all things, rode up from New Rochelle, N.Y., Sunday only to turn around and head back south with us.

Whatever the reasons, we rode down to Jersey with 10 bikes Sunday.

We even picked up an unexpected rider, Jim from Bridgeport Harley-Davidson, on his first ride with us. His plan was to ride up from his home in New Rochelle to meet us at the Dunkin' in Stratford and then turn around and ride back south with us. But he saw us headed southbound on I-95 as he was still headed northbound. Jim got off the next exit, looped around, gunned his beautiful old Harley (FLH?) and caught up with us in Fairfield.

By the by, the wrong way riding record is still held by our adopted bear big Jersey Matt. On more than one occasion, he has started out uber-early, ridden north from his home in New Jersey to meet us at the Dunkin' in Connecticut and then turned around and done the distance back down to Jersey with us.

I was sweep on this ride. (John Jackson took the lead, albeit with a bit of prodding.) Soon after we started out I saw a single headlight coming up from behind us, did not recognize the rider. His New York license plate threw me off too. But I figured nobody but a Polar Bear would be out here this morning headed south. So I slid over a lane and waved him into line. It wasn't until we got to our destination that I knew it was Jim from Bridgeport H-D.

We fooled Pogy too. He called me Saturday to ask if, where and when we were going. He had just returned from Shanghai, yeah Shanghai, and was anxious to go riding. Pogy works for Sikorsky helicopter and whatever his specific job is, it seems his territory is the world.

Anyway, Sunday morning, as arranged, I called his cell and told him we were feet up in 10 minutes. Typically he slides into formation from the Darien rest stop. We must have left a bit early because just a past Norwalk, where Pogy lives, he was suddenly there in the right lane looking to drop into our line.

As he settled in, it occurred to me that our leader John J. still would be looking for Pogy at the Darien stop just ahead. I switched to the passing lane and rode up to the front. John J. must have been intently focused on leading because it took some time before he noticed me next to him. I was right there, right next to him, matching his speed, and thinking about giving him a little kick, when he finally, finally looked over.

Next we engaged in repeated bouts of hand gestures, head shakes and nods. Bike-to-bike communication at speed is challenging any time of year. In winter shouting is not an option with full face helmets, balaclavas and face masks layered over our mouths and ears.

I gave what I thought was the universal signal for proceeding straight ahead. John J. promptly moved from the middle to the right lane. I held my left lane and again signaled straight ahead. Meanwhile, confused riders behind us started to scramble. Some were half in one lane, others held position, still others merged right. I'm amazed nobody exited the highway.

Finally John J. caught my meaning, tipped back into the middle lane and resumed apace. Successful, I slowed to let the line of bikes pass me so I could resume my sweep position.

Meanwhile, Pogy had figured on gassing up at the Darien rest stop. But we showed up early. So he grit his teeth and was on fumes when we finally got to the turn-in to Sir John's. We darn near ran him out of gas all the way down to Jersey. I'm kinda sorry we didn't. Running a Gold Wing out of gas is no easy task on Harleys. These Honda guys have more fuel capacity and get better gas mileage. It would have been something to run a Wing out. But Pogy did the distance by the hair of his chinny, chin, chin.

When we went to leave for home after lunch we all figured to gas up at Chez GSP, all except Bart, that is. Bart has a longer ride to join up with our group in the morning. So he was low. Too low. So we deferred to Bart and all gassed up at the two stations right outside Sir John's.

I got one of those crappy, plastic guard covered nozzles at the Getty and could not for the life of me get the handle to deliver anything less than full blast; got gas all over me and the tank.

Meanwhile our other guys gassed up at this and the other station. Filled up, we formed up, and blasted up the highway for home . . . without the one guy who needed gas now instead of waiting for Chez GSP. Fortunately for Bart, Token took time to count. He shot up the line and got John J. to hold up the race for home. Meanwhile poor Bart looked around and asked the gas attendant, “Did you see which way all those motorcycles went?”

But I am getting ahead of myself.

Back to morning, we rolled southbound in the incredibly cold air. I was quite comfortable. My legs were cold, but they tolerate it well. My torso was plenty warm. I was dressed at my last level of cold riding protection. That meant my electric liner was under my electric jacket. That combo works so well, I never even called for more than half capacity from the thermostat.

It also meant hippo hands were strapped onto my handlebars. Snuggled inside them, my new Gerbing electric gloves performed admirably, so long as they were protected from the wind.

The new Shark helmet worked fine too. It took me a few miles to figure out the visor stops to get it cracked just enough to clear the condensation, but not so much so as to freeze my face. At one point, I swear I was seeing ice buildup inside the visor.

On my feet my heavy snowmobile boots had not one but two chemical heat packs apiece inside, one under each set of toes, another under each arch. Heat pack warmth lasted the full day.

Our other guys were well prepped too. No one complained about being cold. In fact as we suited up for the ride home, the parking lot in Jersey, under full sun, seemed balmy by comparison. “By comparison to what?” you are probably asking yourself! Well by comparison to that morning of course. Certainly not by comparison to any other season.

The primary difference between winter and summer riding is that you don't just jump on the bike and go for a ride in winter. It takes a good half-hour to get dressed.

Sunday morning I had on extra, extra layers. I was teasing my wife Cynthia, telling her I was like knights of yore suiting up for battle in vestments and armor. I suggested maybe she wanted to be my squire, you know, help pull up the too-tight third layer long johns, lace my big boots, maybe at the very end hand me up my helmet and gauntlets from bended knee. She snapped back, “I do more than enough for you on bended knee. You're on your own with this Polar Bear nonsense.”

Protected in full wind armor, you mount your steed, ready to ride, nearly impervious to the cold, nearly impervious.

Arriving at your destination you then must remove some of the armor. Otherwise you would sweat buckets into your protective undergarments. These would then act as evaporative chillers when you went back outside. Unfortunately you cannot remove all the layers. It would not be polite to eat in your underwear. So lunch is still decidedly less comfortable than sitting in jeans and a sweatshirt on a summer day, chillin' at your favorite biker bar.

Everybody is clomping about in heavy boots, their overstuffed nylon pants thighs voop-vooping as thighs rub together with every step.

Then when you go to get back on the bike, there is a 10 minute ritual of resealing Velcro straps, pulling helmets over balaclavas, tucking in neck gaiters and plugging in electrics. The tucking in neck gaiters is something you just cannot do yourself. So we walk around like chimps grooming each other, helping to get that last flap under the jacket collar of a fellow polar bearer.

Once you're settled on the bike, most of the pleasures of motorcycling are there. Oh, we may miss riding with the wind in our hair and on our faces. And we certainly won't earn any suntans. But you ride with full protective gear in the summer anyway, don't you?

Sir John's treated us well. The romantic aspect promised on their web site was absent, But that was not the restaurant's fault. There are so few lady Polar Bears. And the ones who do participate, it's often very hard to tell if they are women or men because all clothing layers tend to fill out everyone's figure to a homogenized lump. Sometimes you can guess by fringe on the lady's jackets or chaps.

The maitre'd put three tables together for us. We were 11 when Jersey Matt joined us.

As we prepared to order, we were made aware that Bernie was buying lunch. Wo hoo! Steak and lobster! Turns out Bernie won member of the week, a Polar Bear 50/50 type deal. Even though Bernie wasn't there to enjoy with us, we were sure he would have wanted to buy us lunch with his winnings if he had been there with us. Thanks Bernie! What a guy!

Captain and Grumpy stridently protected the newcomers from making any chicken salad mistakes.

If you are not a longtime blog reader, it was maybe three years ago (or four?) that the chicken fiasco occurred. Captain and Grumpy both typically order a chicken sandwich for our brief Polar Bear feasts. (Grumpy orders a hamburger when he can be assured of getting one that meets his high standards.) At Sir John's the chef interprets a chicken sandwich as being made with chicken salad, rather than a slab or slices of chicken flesh.

When the mayonnaise hit the fan at that lunch several years ago, you would have thought the earth stuttered in its rotation.

Grumpy, in particular, is particular about his meal. He won't drink Pepsi when they don't have Coke. He has some very specific instructions in preparing hamburgers for his consumption. And he does not accept that a chicken sandwich can be made with diced chicken and vegetables, thickened with mayonnaise.

On a summer group ride years ago, we were all out to dinner at a rather nice restaurant in Vermont. When it was Johnny's turn to order he gave very detailed instructions as to how his steak was to be prepared: well done, and what, exactly, “well done” meant to Johnny B. He warned the waiter that if it wasn't done right, he wasn't paying for it. He then bragged to us all about how he was not grumpy, just particular.

So after we all gave our food orders I slipped away on the pretense of going to the restroom. I sneaked outside and from the landscaping picked up three of the biggest wood chips I could find. Then I intercepted our waiter, handed him the chips, and told him to serve them on a covered plate to our intolerant riding buddy.

Our steaks all came on covered plates and when Johnny B. removed the cover from his plate, his face went dangerously dark. If his wife Margaret had not been there, he might have killed us all. Instead he sputtered a bit, and very begrudgingly came around to the notion that it was a joke, on him, and that bashing someone's head in was not an appropriate response. As the rest of us all laughed, Grumpy worked very hard and finally managed a smile.

Lest you get the wrong impression, I should add that big, grumpy Johnny Bowlan has a heart of gold. He shared his campsite with me on my first Daytona ride when the campground proprietor wanted to put my tent next to the pump out station over the septic tank. Johnny shared without hardly knowing anything about me, except that I was a fellow HOG. (That's another whole story.) He showed me how to change the oil on my bike. He is as quick as any Bear to offer assistance and buy a round of coffees. Except Grumpy drinks hot chocolate, and not the mix with water, but made with milk . . . .

Pogy brought party favors. Everyone at our table, except Fonz and yours truly, got a side stand coaster and key chain. The items of largess are for promoting safe motorcycle riding and Fonz and I being ConnRep Rider Coaches already have a set.

With 11 at one table, it was hard to keep one conversation going. Generally there were two or three, so I cannot report on what was being discussed at the other end of our table. Down at our end, as sweep, I was campaigning for breaking the group into two sets of five, instead of a long group of 10. It took multiple suggestions, the group finally came over to my way of thinking, but then Jim discovered one of his former girlfriends was also a Polar Bear. (He must have spotted her fringe.)

So Jim decided to ride on south with her. Being nine the group voted my motion moot and we rode home in one big group of nine bikes, thresholds being what they are.

And maybe 10 is the magic number, because going back we had not nearly so many cars cut through or into our line of bikes as we did on the way down.

Leaned over in the 360-plus degree corkscrew on-ramp for the George Washington Bridge, an idiot cut into our line from a stop sign. I mean, I could see if it was a yield. But we clearly had the right of way. He clearly had a S-T-O-P sign. Guess he couldn't wait. Gotta love those New Yorkers. No quarter given, none asked.

A similar, but more predictable, aggression occurred approaching the Turnpike on-ramp. A driver realizing at the last minute that she needed to be over “there” to get onto the turnpike simply pushed into our line without a signal, without so much as a “by your leave.” That was bad enough. It happens. What was worse, however, was her not having the good graces to get out of our line when the opportunity presented itself. Thank heavens she did not have EZ Pass, otherwise she may have stayed in our middle all the way to North Brunswick. Fortunately she suddenly went slicing out of our line and across multiple rows of oncoming traffic to get her turnpike card from a toll attendant as we rolled on through the express pass lanes.

John Jackson was taking no prisoners as lead rider either.

We picked up Token and Bart at the I-287 and Hutchinson Parkway intersection (Token called it a “junction”) with nary a pause. John J. leaned into the on-ramp and cranked it down the Hutch.

As sweep I tried, when traffic cleared, to send John J. a signal to slow down to let the two new riders catch up. I held the right lane open for our guys to move over. But John J. just cranked away.

Bart finally caught up and slipped into line ahead of me. But Token must have found a wormhole or exploited a gap in the space-time continuum.

Actually he probably over-revved his brand spankin' new BMW. Yeah, new BMW.

Can you believe it? Token must have been wanting to protect his nickname. He went out to buy a new motorcycle after an egregious ass whooping from Erik Buell. He suffered a nearly yearlong odyssey of tow truck rides, replacing all sorts of parts, including the wiring harness, and the bike never ran right. John H. finally had to invoke the Connecticut Lemon Law against being saddled with shoddily manufactured vehicles. To their credit, John H. felt well treated by his dealer, Danbury Harley-Davidson. We all disavowed Buell as being anything like Harley-Davidson. And of course Harley has finally dropped that failed experiment.

Despite the fine demonstration of chrome and camaraderie by his fellow Harley-equipped Polar Bears, John H. still went and bought another foreign machine. A BMW for chrissake. I mean really, what do a BMW and a motorcycle have in common? One of our Harley guys described Token's new ride as a, “carapace of a futuristic insect morphed with a Star Wars vehicle.”

I thought the British did not like the Germans. Maybe all is forgiven. After all we had a falling out with the Brits too. Every time I see Mel Gibson in “The Patriot” I get hungry for some payback. (Nothing personal Token.)

That reminds me of a story from my Chesapeake waterman friend Buddy. His father was called “Geesey” on account of he hired out as guide for goose hunters over to the Choptank River and such.

One night Buddy, his dad and some other fellers are having a few beers at a bar out on Tilghman Island. Buddy is a very outgoing type guy and as he goes up to the bar to retrieve another round, he meets two young German guys. Only in their twenties, they had just sailed over to Maryland from Germany.

Buddy figures they must have some good stories and so invites them back to his table. Well they're all having beers and talking up a storm with their heavy German accents, the locals having a good time hearing about the Germans' adventure. All except Geesey. He's not saying a word.

Suddenly Geesey drains his beer and slams the mug on the table. The bar goes dead quiet. Geesey looks over at the German guys and says, “We had a little trouble with you fellas a few years back.” He's not kidding.

There is a very long pause.

Finally one of the German guys says, “Yah, yah, zat vus a long time ago.”

Geesey responds, “We kicked yer ass too!”

The German replies, “Yah . . . let me buy you another beer.”

Geesey says, “Nah, I'll buy you one.”

And all is jovial once again.

Lake Hoptacong, NJ; January 3, 2010

2010-01-09T19:18:00.000-08:00

Lake Hoptacong, NJ; January 3, 2010

Well I was all suited up and ready to ride. A quick check of the radar, and a generally optimistic disposition, had me thinking the snow would all stay north of us. The road outside was clear. A path was cleared down the center of my driveway where I had worked my way down to bare pavement through previous snow storms.

John Howard sent a photo of the motorcycle track he had cleared in his driveway. Looks like he has a much longer driveway than I. And when the snow is too nasty or icy, you worry about only shoveling, gouging, scraping or salting the width of a motorcycle tire.

Seeing the photo reminded me of a funny story a couple of Polar Bear seasons ago. During the week we had one of those nasty New England ice storms. It was followed by a cold snap and the ice was everywhere hard and steadfast. I worked on my driveway for hours Saturday. My wife Cynthia was out most of the day.

When she pulled into our driveway that afternoon, her car immediately listed to one side. As she drove down the driveway, car leaned over, she started to laugh. Right away she knew what I was up to.

Too much work to chisel out the whole driveway, I had cleared only one track.

Sunday the driveway was ready, the roads were clear. The weather was in the teens, well below freezing. So unfortunately, any snow at all could make the road instantly slick and icy.

As I was getting ready to put my helmet on the home phone rang. It was the Captain, John Kammerer. He had tried my cell, but I had missed it, shuffling in and out from the house to the garage getting the bike ready.

His take was that everyone else was already snowed in. His more detailed look at the radar suggested we were about to be snowed in too. “What did I think?,” he wanted to know.

What I thought was that I could not afford to get stranded in New Jersey. I had lots of work that needed doing Monday. Plus I have always had an aversion to dropping my bike.

We decided to not go. Actually, I decided to not go. Captain had another idea.

I hung up the phone with John and went back outside to stand down the Harley and reattach its battery umbilical cord. All the sudden it was snowing pretty hard. By the time I had all my riding crap off, it was slicking up the roads.

It snowed, steady, all day. By noon I was very glad I was not riding that day.

General Napoleon said, “You cannot buy a man's life at any price. But he will gladly risk it for a small bit of ribbon.”

Sorry, I am just not that into it, to drive my car to a Polar Bear motorcycle meet. Some people are more driven by points, pins and patches. Or maybe they just enjoy the heroic accomplishment.

John Kammerer, protecting his perfect attendance, changed from motorcycle clothes back into civies and drove his car to New Jersey. Here is his report.

Captain's Snowy Adventure
After numerous phone conversations, I converted back to standard clothing and headed south at about 9:20 a.m. As I passed the exit for Route 8 the snow stopped and the skies cleared. Sound familiar? (For non-Connecticut readers that's less than five miles south of our Stratford starting point.) I followed the proposed route and found it to be clear all the way except for an occasional flurries.

Upon arrival at the Wearhouse Grill, who was out in the parking lot to greet me but Bob Hartpence? There were about three-dozen bikes in the lot and it was early yet. Bob's eyes followed me as I parked the car. When I approached him he greeted me with, “It was already 18 degrees at my house when I left.”

I quickly went inside and saw Rich at the sign-in desk. He asked, “Where's the hat? Is it too cold for you?” So with the sun shining brightly, I commenced to explain the problem that those of us from the north had with snow.

Signing in at 11:20 a.m., I promptly departed. It was clear all the way back until exit 41 on route 15. I arrived at Sue's house at 1:00 p.m. (For non-Connecticut readers, that's about 10 miles south of our home departure point.)

I have no doubt that I might have made it on the bike, maybe! I am also convinced that, in fact, we all made the right call to stand down on this one, because it only takes one fall to ruin your whole day.

We did good today and get another shot next week. What could be better?

Editor's Note:
Thanks John. We will take that “nother shot” Sunday, January 10, leaving at 9:30 a.m. The distance is about the same. The cold is predicted to be about the same. But the skies will be clear.

Vineland, N.J.; December 27, 2009

2010-01-03T16:14:00.000-08:00

Vineland, N.J.; December 27, 2009

unseasonably warm and sunny

We slipped through a hole in the weather. Saturday it rained. It rained a lot. The rain moved north and east of us just an hour or so before our 8 a.m. departure. Monday morning it rained, and threatened snow. Sunday was luckily dry.

Even so, we started out in a fog.

Stratford, Conn., our starting point was shrouded in an advection ground fog from the snow on the ground and the warm air above it. I know the term because many years ago I was stranded in a podunk airport by one.

I think it was Peoria actually, not Podunk, Peoria, Illinois. I was sitting in the airport bar, which faced a huge picture window behind the bartender offering a second story view out over the runway.

With me at the bar were two very metropolitan ladies from the New York City PR agency where I worked at the time and a Purdue University Meteorologist named Jim Newman. We had just finished a soybean seminar, that is, a seminar for farmers who grow soybeans. If you don't know soybeans, think cooking oil, margarine, tofu or lecithin which is like in everything. Check your food labels.

It had been a long week in farm country and my city compatriots were very much looking forward to the flight home. It was late afternoon, Friday, February.

As we sat down at the airport bar one of our New Yorkers, Gail, asked for a Stolichnaya. This was like 1984. The bartender therefore answered, “Huh?” I said, “Gail, ask for the best vodka he has and expect Gibleys.” I ordered a Budweiser. I was fairly certain the bartender knew that brand.

It was unseasonably warm. Snow was on the ground. The air cooled as the sun weakened, and the dew point lowered along with the sun, and a fog began to appear out of nowhere.

As the minutes ticked toward our departure time, the sun kept falling and the fog kept rising and the runway kept disappearing. As our drinks arrived our meteorologist made a prediction, “Our flight will cancel.” Gail, disbelieving, nearly panicking, her voice trembling with that righteous indignation unique to New Yorkers, mistakenly asked, "Why? How?" And Jim launched into an explanation, as though lecturing a hall full of freshmen back at Purdue.

“What you have here is an advection ground fog. All day the snow has been evaporating into the warm air above it, loading it with moisture. Now as the sun sets, the snow will rapidly cool the air above it and the moisture will start condensing into a fog. If you went up just 10 feet you could see for miles. But the fog will be thick down on the ground,” Jim said. As he spoke, the fog in fact thickened over the runway below us. True to his prognostication, you could see 10 miles or more hence across the top of the flat fog cloud forming before our eyes.

Next a pilot, in uniform, joined us at the bar. This was decades before the controversies of such. Still, it was a bit of a shock. When we looked at him the pilot said, “Not to worry folks. This fog is closing the airport. I won't be flying anywhere tonight.” Sure enough, just then, over the loudspeaker we heard our flight cancel. Heck, maybe he was even our pilot.

“But above the runway you can see for miles,” we protested.

Sensing our frustration, and ignorance, the pilot explained pilots may not take off from an airport if the runway is obscured in case an immediate return landing at the same airport is required for any mechanical failure of the plane.

We ordered up another round.

Interestingly, as we sat watching the gathering fog with the sun setting above it in a clear and darkening sky, a FedEx jet deftly touched down. Again we turned, in unison, to the pilot. He just smiled. “The FAA has a whole different set of rules if you are carrying passengers. Carrying packages, the pilot is allowed to risk his own safety.”

I thought it was all fun. But my New York metropolitan co-workers saw a Friday night in boonville as a dismal disappointing sentence. Marianne made the best of it and we had a few drinks at the Holiday Inn. Gail sulked in her room. Me, I grew up on Holiday Inns in the middle of nowhere. I was happily in my element.

Sunday the Connecticut Polar Bears headed southwest in an advection ground fog. But on our day the sun was rising, not setting. By the time we reached Norwalk, Conn., clouds were breaking apart. Sunlight streaming through warmed the air, increasing its ability to absorb moisture. The fog dissolved. We crossed the Connecticut and New York border in brilliant sunshine that grew ever stronger.

Descending into New Jersey, the air warmed to unseasonable finery. As we progressed toward Vineland, I dialed down the electrics. Polar Bear riding is of course about riding in the cold. Nevertheless, is there anyone who would not rather ride in 50 degrees Fahrenheit than 30?

Traffic was light on the ride down. We were aware that we were riding on the tail of Christmas vacation. And we joked about having to pay for it on the ride home. (As it turned out, we found it not at all a laughing matter.) Meanwhile, I took note of the many Florida and North Carolina license plates traveling south with us. We call them snowbirds.

There are two causes of this which are somewhat unique to Connecticut. First, we have a lot of rich people who live in our state. (Yes, I know Jersey does to.) Second, we have personal property tax. Here you pay a hefty, biannual tax on your car. So if you are rich enough to have a house in another state, you register your car there to avoid the Connecticut tax.

When I first moved to Connecticut, I was amazed at the number of Florida license plates. Such were not so visible in nearby Delaware where I grew up, or even closer New Jersey where I lived before moving to Connecticut. (I lived in Hightstown, near Princeton, you know, Exit 8.)

So with the holidays over, those who did not have to stay and work, the rich retired and the grandparents and the rich grandparents, were headed south to wait out the remainder of New England's harsh winter.

Being early in the day, the George Washington Bridge was more expedient. It is a shorter distance to go that way. But rarely faster. We almost never risk it in the afternoon because ridiculous traffic volume makes for an extra hour or two of stop-and-go misery. Afternoons we detour farther north for the Tappan Zee Bridge over the Hudson River. It is farther to go and far faster.

I had hoped that by averaging the two bridges, I might gain enough distance to squeak out another point from the Grand Tour. As I entered the parking lot at the Five Points Inn my odometer indicated 190 miles. That meant a George Washington Bridge round trip from my home in Stratford to Vineland equaled only 380 miles. Certainly, I thought, the roundabout ride over the Tappan Zee Bridge must add another 20 measly miles?

My unsympathetic, GPS-enabled, compatriots informed me the extra miles up and over the Tappan Zee numbered only five. The Grand Tour operates on the honor system. And my honor is not for sale, most certainly not for 15 miles, nor a gold rocker.

Last year I earned only the red rocker, the first time since I started riding the Grand Tour that I did not make gold. New Jersey riders may be unsympathetic. Our extra distance riding from Connecticut racks up the points. If our guys make a majority of the rides, gold is obtainable. Last year, new job responsibilities and some really lousy weather so limited my ride opportunities, I missed the gold. I hope not to repeat. I wanted that extra point. Unfortunately, Vineland is no Cape May. Fifteen miles short, I earned only five points Sunday.

Even short a point your blogger Chris Loynd gladly earned my red rocker Sunday. Captain John Kammerer picked up his gold pin for 60 points. Grumpy Johnny Bowlan earned his gold rocker. John Jackson picked up a red rocker as well. Although we may say we ride for the fun of it, we do display our patches proudly.

We stretched our Harley gas tanks for nearly all those 190 miles it took to ride down to Vineland, N.J. from Stratford, Conn. What is this fascination with running out of gas? Some of our Polar Bear riders seem to delight in showing off their nerve by playing chicken with their gasoline mileage. So far they have run Joe Velez and John Jackson bone dry.

Me, I have never run out of gas and never intend to. I hate worrying about gas. As soon as my little light comes on, I fill up. Unless, of course, I am riding with our guys. I put 4.7 gallons in my 5 gallon tank when we finally stopped. I may have to buy a Honda ST. Token has not only more capacity in his larger tank, his Honda also sips gasoline at a frugal rate. Plus the rice burner requires only cheaper regular rice. Our American Harleys demand premium gas.

The Five Points treated us well. It offered breakfast and lunch buffets. We all chose lunch. Food was plentiful and tasty with one of my favorite menu choices for winter riding, split pea soup. Maybe they heard of Rose Schoch's success with the bears. Her's is thicker.

Token was kind enough to treat us all for lunch. He had a good year. His company, Combe, is apparently somewhat recession protected. So on behalf of the Connecticut Polar Bears, we encourage you to use more Lectric Shave, Aqua-Velva, Brylcream, Just for Men, Odor-Eaters and Vagisil as your individual predilections allow.

For the record, John H. was as generous last year as well. Others have treated too. I ponied up one year when I hit the Grand Tour 50/50.

Bellies full, tanks topped, points accrued, we suited up for the ride home. It soon turned to a crawl.

New Jersey's turnpike was solid with returning vacationers. Soon after we entered at exit 3, we hit a wall of stop and go traffic. It did not relent until we hit the split between exits 8 and 9. It took us 3 hours to go 101 miles on that part of the return trip. Our clutch hands throbbing, we finally were able to make headway. Fortunately the Garden State Parkway was not at bad. By the time we got in line to cross the Tappan Zee bridge, we were largely inured to traffic jams. Thankfully, the T-Zee approach was no worse than most clogged Sundays.

Grumpy's Tom Tom reports he was moving for 8:35 hours to go 419 miles. (Johnny B. lives farther north still than Stratford. He earned his sixth point Sunday.) It was a day uncharacteristically long even by CT Polar Bear standards, 11 ½ hours.

Here are a couple of BONUS submissions by John Howard, Token.

Mystery of the Missing Miles

The Blogger e-mail call to ride to Vineland, NJ anticipated a 400 miles plus trip travelling via the GWB southbound and the Tappan Zee Bridge on the return home (you have to be crazy to use the GWB north on a Sunday afternoon!) setting an expectation of a 6 pointer ride for those departing the DD at Stratford. A bumper day for points that, as it would turn out, was punctuated by gasps of disbelief on arrival at the aptly named 5 Points Inn.

Grumpy, the first to proclaim, triumphantly noted his ride to be a few miles over 200 one way from his home north of Stratford; 6 points bagged, grumpy no more! Viewing his odometer Blogger announced a disappointing 190 miles one way, even under repeated tapping the odo refused to yield to pressure to display a bigger number; the air was audibly escaping from the points balloon.

Token, who lives closer to the Hudson River than most, piped up “well I have 185 one way, and the journey home via the TZB adds about 5 miles – that is a 5 pointer for me”.

“Nah, 190 that can’t be right can it?” questioned Blogger, “It has to be more”. Parking lot fuzzy math ensued for several minutes, none of it helpful to the visibly troubled Blogger.

Honesty in recording and signing the mileage log is a commitment made by all Bears when enrolling. Let no Bear cast doubt as to the integrity of Blogger Bear who as the photo record illustrates declared his disappointing 380 mile, 5 point day. It was noted that the mileage travails were relieved by a cup of split pea soup, the assured path to sooth the soul of Blogger Bear.

New 150 Points Badge in the Offing?

Confidential sources close to the Polar Bear Grand Tour organizers have hinted that a new 150 points milestone recognition badge is being consider to provide continuing motivation to early season, high point accruing, Polar Bears. Photographed while in secret discussions, Chairman Bob is captured illustrating the general size of the new badge to an attentive high point scoring Bear, known as Capt. K.

Rumors that Capt K. will in future travel to the West Coast to give blood for the benefit of the 50+ mileage points this would result in have yet to be corroborated.

Montgomeryville, Pa.; December 6, 2009

2009-12-21T18:44:00.000-08:00

Montgomeryville, Penn.; December 6, 2009

30 degrees to start “warming” to 40 under, a bright sky

Cold came to Connecticut. Winter rewarded us with a beautiful Polar Bear ride. Looks like we might keep Ralphie after all.

Long Island Sound, by its sheer volume of relatively warm waters, kept any snow from accumulating near my home in Stratford, Conn. Big, wet flakes fell. But they didn't last. Only a few managed to coat cold surfaces like parked cars.

It was not until we headed north that we saw snow on the ground. As we crossed over the Tappan Zee Bridge the far heights were painted in snow. It got more beautiful as we entered the mountains of New Jersey on Interstate 78 west. This was a wet snow and so it clung to every surface. Every tree's branch and twig was highlighted. Seeing it from the back of a motorcycle was a very fine experience, very fine.

We left the Dunkin' in Stratford with six bikes. A new rider, Dave, met us there. Fonz invited him. Dave was on a brand new Harley dresser, just 600-some miles on the odometer.

We picked up another Fonz friend at the Darien rest stop as we headed south. Ron was also on board a Harley.

We picked up two more, Token and Bart, at the Tappan Zee Bridge.

Grumpy was lead. Chris, your blogger, was sweep.

Is there something especially self indulgent about SUV owners? Somehow I suspect so. In addition to taking up more than their fair share of space and natural resources, they also seem the most egregious when it comes to not clearing snow off their roofs. They blithely fly down the highway with mini blizzards in their wake, or slabs of ice and snow flying off their machines, or they dump mini drifts at stoplights. All these are special hazards for us winter motorcycle riders.

There was some discussion in our group as to police discouragement of such boorish behavior, but I suspect the cops pursue snow top infractions with the same vigor as driving while cellphoning.

Just wait boys. When the big snows come the real danger is from tractor-trailer trucks. These morons throw off sheet-of-plywood sized slabs of ice from their roofs and drop rock-hard slushbergs from their mudflaps as they go their merry way. Last year someone in a car was killed in Connecticut by such malfeasance.

Nine bikes in total, we ran steady and true and continually to our destination. Only when encountering a few stoplights on 309 did we put our feet down. Despite a few ugly bouts with entropy, we reformed in the end, reaching Polar Bear sign-in with bone dry tanks and bulging bladders. In retrospect Grumpy and I both thought an interim stop may have been advisable.

For one thing, it was cold in the morning. I was almost comfortably cold on the ride over. Fooled by the forecast, I took a chance on my “geeze it's cold” level of protection.

By way of explanation, I am prepared for four levels of Polar Bear riding. Level one is “too warm.” Level two is “nice.” Level three is “geeze it's cold,” Level four is “damn it's really cold.” There is a level five, “holy crap cold.” Nobody can put on enough layers or run a big enough alternator for that level cold.

I have ridden in level 5 by the way. The only defense is to stop every so many miles and thaw out your frozen parts.

The various levels are difficult for me because of my bike setup. I do not have big fiberglass tubs bolted all over my bike like the guys on dressers. My leather saddlebags hold only so much. And clothing is bulky.

My strategy is to make my best guess and then tough it out because I invariably guess wrong. Plus any given Polar Bear ride can vary by one, sometimes even two, levels of cold during the ride itself.

“Geeze it's cold” meant I had not yet strapped hippo hands over the handlebar grips. I figured it might be iffy, but wanted to give my new Gerbing gloves a good testing. They just about kept up with the cold and wind. I had them cranked so high for so long they gave me a little burn blister on the back of my left hand.

Inside my hippo hands (level four), I can actually wear only the heated glove liners. That's Grumpy's tactic. He usually deploys his hippo hands early. Polar bear riding is all about the wind.
“Geeze it's cold” also meant I trusted my Gerbing jacket. It too, does not hold up to the full onslaught of a “damn it's cold” ride. That level of cold requires me to wear my heated jacket liner underneath my Gerbing jacket. As an interim measure, I tried wearing my rain jacket over my Gerbing jacket to block more wind. Even so I was on the edge of discomfort.

Fortunately for my legs I had, I thought, overcompensated with “damn” level protection. That means an extra pair of polypropylene long johns on top of the silks and Bergelenes. The poly johns are very effective at blocking wind penetration.

My toes did not do as well. My boots were one level too low on the cold scale Sunday. But, like the new gloves, I had to test the limits of the new boots. I was able to score a full kilo of Thinuslate in this pair. Still, it was not enough. My next level cold protection is a pair of snowmobile boots rated to something like 40 below. These, with a one, sometimes even two, chemical heat packs keep my toes toasty even at “holy crap cold” level riding.

There are rewards and liabilities riding in a group. One of the liabilities is not being able to stop whenever you want, instead depending upon the philosophy of the lead rider.

Still we survived. I do not think I was cold as some of the new guys who did not have electrics. We loaned them some chemical heat packs for their ride home.

Meanwhile, Montgomeryville Cycle warmed us well with free with chili and brownies, doughnuts and hot coffee. There was plenty, but then we arrived, and left early. Still, I think the weather probably kept the crowd at a manageable level.

We had a couple more riders earn their Polar Bear props this ride, including Bart receiving his first patch. Now, in addition to earning the Grand Tour patch, there is a unique Connecticut Polar Bear patch. Grumpy had them made and awarded his first to a new CT Polar Bear Sunday. To get one of our patches, you must first earn the Grand Tour patch, and of course ride with the CT Bears.

While we currently count Ron as a Harley rider, he was overheard trading information with a Gold Wing salesman at Montgomeryville Cycle Center. As Fonz tells it, if it were not for Pennsylvania's blue laws, Ron may have ridden a Gold Wing home. I guess he doesn't fool around when it comes to making up his mind. Or maybe he was thinking about the Wing's heated seat and grips and the nifty toe warmers that divert engine heat to your feetsies.

At Montgomeryville we found out that the new riders joining us Sunday were both coworkers of Fonz, which means they are part of Norwalk, Conn.'s finest. Dave perhaps will be Norwalk's first motorcycle patrol officer. That's a very good thing. First because we can never have enough motorcycle cops. Second because of the two new guys, Ron exhibited a penchant for oncoming traffic. (As I told Token last week, you see everything from the sweep position.)

At one point on the way home, a New Jersey state trooper came up in the penultimate passing lane (we were in the farthest passing lane) and paced us for a while. He then drove on. At Chez GSP there was a discussion as to whether we were persons of interest to the trooper.

We made a new CT Polar Bear group riding policy right then and there, passed by a popular vote. If a police officer ever activates his lights to pull our group over, one of the proliferation of Norwalk cops who now ride with us is to pull to the shoulder immediately while the rest of us ride on.

Snydersville, PA; November 29, 2009

2009-12-04T05:25:00.000-08:00

November 29, 2009; Syndersville, PA.

36 degrees F to start but warmed up nicely to mid 50s by return, under a bright, cloudless sky

Can you believe this weather we are having? Last year, Grumpy and the Captain drove to this destination in a car through severely predicted snow in order to preserve their perfect attendance. This year we rode over with nine bikes in balmy sunshine.

Perhaps the only downside to these warm Sundays is that it brings out the Polar Cubs. Fair weather winter riders looking for a place to go on such a beautiful day turned out in huge numbers. The Grand Tour Website estimated 400 bikes, We arrived just a bit after 11:30 and ended up last in a line of bikes stretching all the way around to the other side of the gas station. Usually arriving at such an early hour earns us a space right in front of the dealership.
Rose Schoch and all her staff and all her family did all they could to manage the onslaught. But the chili and split pea soup could not come fast enough to feed the minions. No sooner did a new batch arrive than it was gone. It took me two queues to get a cup of her delicious soup. A big thanks to the staff of Schoch Harley-Davidson.

It's not that I do not enjoy a warm winter ride like every other motorcyclist. It is just that the record number of Polar Cubs is outstripping the resources of our destinations. If it remains this warm for the Hooter's run we may never see our curly fries and buffalo chicken sandwiches.

I am worried about losing Ralphie. After regaling him with stories of winter riding in the Polar Bear Club, all he's seen are these huge crowds and temperatures any rube could weather.

Was it two winters ago when we had that unusually warm winter? I remember writing in the blog, in February, that I wasn't afraid of February winter. My reasoning was that with only a maximum of six weeks left until spring, how much could Mother Nature throw at us? Turned out she showed just how much a mother she could be that February and March. We wuz clobbered with freezing cold, freezing rain, freezing winds, froze our butts off.

So I will not again tempt the fates, wishing for cold weather to thin out the Polar Bear herd. If we lose Ralphie, well we lose Ralphie. And we can always find another place to stop for lunch.

This ride we picked up a new bear because of the weather, but not like you think. Pogy Pogany came along Sunday not because it was warm but because Saturday was windy. In addition to his full time job wrangling helicopters around the world, he spends a lot of his “leisure” time tonging oysters. That's a pretty tough hobby. Saturday the winds whipped up the oyster beds and so Pogy needed another diversion for Sunday.

When he called to ask about departure details, he asked if the other riders, most all on Harley-Davidson motorcycles, would give him a hard time about riding a Gold Wing. I told him that of course they would.

But I also assured him we allowed other Honda riders in our midst, even designating one of our regulars “Token.”

Point of fact, we had three Hondas, out of nine bikes total, on Sunday. Token was there on his ST. Pogy was on his Wing. And then Bernie shows up on a yellow monster named after a mythical Norse goddess. (I just love the smell of napalm in the morning!) Turns out he wore the tread off his Harley's tires and had to settle for the next bike in his garage.

Bernie, by the way, was wearing his Harley high visibility suit. Dayglow orange mounted on a bright yellow bike bouncing around in my rear view mirror, Bernie looked like a bad acid trip going down the road.

Token was delighted. “We're taking over!” he exclaimed.

Hooold on thar Babablouie! The Japanese contingent still has a ways to go to achieve Connecticut Polar Bear domination. And Bernie will probably be back on his Harley soon. Although who knows what other brands may lurk in his garage?

For nostalgia's sake I took the lead. Schoch's Harley-Davidson was my first ever Polar Bear ride in 2002. Earlier in May of that year I passed Pogy's Basic Rider's Course, he actually was one of my instructors, and purchased the big Springer after the first range day. It was my first time ever on a motorcycle and I took Pogy's advice, “There is no substitute for miles.”

So when summer waned I looked around for a reason to keep riding and to my great good fortune found the Polar Bear Club in a article in my AMA magazine.

Here I am riding to Schoch's seven years later with my former motorcycle riding instructor, now an instructor myself. Ralphie, also an instructor, was with us as well. Russ called for a group photo of the three Connecticut Rider Education Program (ConnRep) Rider Coaches, although I will not repeat the words Russ used in describing our contingent.

This was also the destination of Clark Makinson's last ride. He died of liver cancer a few weeks later. I thought about Clark as we rode over Sunday. He was an interesting character. I think I would have liked to have gotten to know him even better. We rode Polar Bears together and a very wet Rolling Thunder and a memorable Roar to the Shore. Is there ever enough time?

we mounted our bikes at the Dunkin' in Stratford, I called Pogy in Norwalk to tell him we were, “feet up in five minutes.” Then I started on my layers. Since I was taking the lead, and it was at least a bit cold, I even tied on my white silk scarf. That always takes a bit of time. If you don't get it right it will come unknotted as you ride, quickly becoming 10 feet of wildly whipping worry. Finally, I went to plug in my electric gloves. But the last time I used them . . . it was without electricity.

The new Gerbing gloves have a great feature. If you wish to use them without electricity, there is a small, zippered pouch inside the glove in which one can store the electric cord. I had done so. Which meant, of course, that now I had to unzip the pouch to retrieve the wires. Meanwhile my fellow Bears are ready to go with engines running. “Off to a great start for ragging fodder,” I said to myself, inside my helmet where no one else could hear.

With Pogy joining us from the Darien rest stop and John H. and Bart at the Tappan Zee Bridge, I had to execute some running pickup maneuvers. If you want to join our ride from anyplace other than the Dunkin' in Stratford, we treat you like the mailbags on the Old West train lines. Remember how they put the bag on a hook at the station and the train snapped up the bag without even slowing?

Well, I slowed a bit, and held the right hand lane, until we snapped up the extra riders. As we came upon Pogy he was seated, engine running, and slipped into formation without missing a beat. At the Tappan Zee I had to hold the slow lane a little longer. As we approached I see Bart working on his helmet strap. I'm with you Bart, a brother procrastinator. (Oooh, I bet that hurt! Nobody wants to be compared to me when it comes to speed of preparation for riding.)

All in all we had an uneventful ride down. John Howard took up the sweep position. You can read his report at the end of mine. From my point of view he did a marvelous job. Lanes were cleared with alacrity. We exited and merged the expressways with precision. (Such was not entirely the case on the ride home, but such was not the sweep's fault.)

Arriving at Schoch's Harley-Davidson, the parking lot was packed already. Not wanting to put my guys on gravel, I rode all the way around the back and we ended up taking the last possible pavement spaces on the far side of the gas station.

Official Polar Bear Photographer Walter Kern caught a funny video of our group following the chili pot into the dealership. He also caught a video of us arriving, but, sigh, did not bring his camera up fast enough to immortalize yours truly, leader of the pack.

We signed in and scrambled like everyone else for a bit of food.

We heard from our first blog fan of the year. John K. was standing in line for the bathroom when a rider came up to him declaring, “You're the Captain!” John was a smidgeon surprised but chatted a bit. Then our reader found his way upstairs where I was sitting with our crew and introduced himself.

Thank you. In past years I mostly heard from my readers when the blog was late. With the new BlogSpot version, you can even post comments online if you wish. Meanwhile, feel free to say hello at the Polar Bear meets!

We gassed up and reassembled for the weekly group photo. I led the group back to New England and was doing pretty well until the Garden State Parkway presented herself.

It is funny how traditions start. Oftentimes there is no real good reason for them. But as habits become ingrained they harden into traditions.

Have you heard the story about the one-legged turkey? As mom prepares her Thanksgiving turkey, she cuts off the right leg before placing it in the roaster pan. Her daughter asks, “Mommy why do you cut off the leg?” Mom answers, “Because that's the way my mother taught me.” So at dinner, the daughter asks her grandmother, “Why do you cut off one leg of the turkey before you roast it?” Of course Grandmother answers, “Because that's the way my mother taught me.” Fortunately, her mother, the daughter's great grandmother is there for dinner. Again the same question by the young daughter. Great grandmother answers, “Because my roasting pan was too small.”

So we most always end our Polar Bear runs with a coffee stop at the last rest stop on the Garden State Parkway at Montvale; I call it “Chez GSP.” We make this stop even when we have to ride out of our way to make it.

Last Sunday we could have just booked across Interstate 287, the way we came, straight to the Tappan Zee. But the group consensus was to stay Interstate 80 all the way east to the Garden State Parkway and then proceed north to our coffee stop. That fateful decision spoiled my otherwise picture perfect motorcycle group leader performance.

This Garden State Parkway entrance off of Interstate 80 eastbound gets me every time. I never seem to do it often enough to remember the exit's eccentricities until it is way too late. Sunday was no exception.

As you follow 80 signs appear for the Garden State Parkway. As you get close, gently moving your line of nine motorcycles into the right hand lane in preparation, you see a small sign for the Parkway S-O-U-T-H. Okay. I want to go north.

Faking toward the south exit I readjusted quickly, hauling my snaking line of bikes through that never-never land between the road's shoulder and lanes. Just over the bridge, this MUST be it! I hold position only to see no exit at all. Still we are traveling the nonexistent lane. I can almost hear the guffaws behind me over the tractor trailers whirling around us.

Signaling to my wing man, Russ Curtis, best in the business, I throw both hands up in frustration and confusion. Russ hesitates not a minute and rockets his big Road King into the lead. I fall in behind because Russ exudes confidence in his direction.

As another mile or so clicks by, the only signs I see are for the George Washington Bridge, Oh my gawd! If I lead my guys into the GW Sunday after Thanksgiving, I will never hear the end of it.

Just as I reach the height of anxiety, a big sign appears for Garden State Parkway north.

Geeze New Jersey! Would it have killed you to put a sign waaay back there at the southbound exit. Something to the effect of “Northbound GSP 5 miles”?

Still behind Russ we merged through a sieve of toll gates. Russ was charging hard for coffee and I had to pull up to him and reassert the lead. In my rear view mirror I saw only three bikes. So I slowed our column down a bit and eventually the others wove their way through traffic and formed on me.

To assuage my embarrassment, I bought the round of coffees and hot chocolates at the traditional rest stop. (Order went fine, by the way, John H. Must be the accent. Maybe you should work on that?)

+ + + + + + + + +
A View From The Rear

As Chris remarked at the Chez Montvale Services, the traditional CTPB stop when returning north, “you get to see everything when riding sweep.” His erudite comment prompted me to share a few notes on the ride to Snydersville, PA, as seen from the rear.

It would be wrong to assume that after last weeks’ blog report I was relegated to the rear as punishment to eat Harley exhaust and enjoy the resonance from the ‘loud pipes save lives’ brigade (yes, the CTPB’s have their share); I volunteered. The group did a great job holding position throughout the day in holiday traffic; clean lane changes and a nice tunnel down the echelon when formed up, at least for the most part. But that would be a dull report wouldn’t it?

So let me tell you about Bernie; he hates, detests and otherwise loathes flat spots on his tires so once in a while when a lane on either side of the formation opens he will perform a ‘crazy Ivan’ (remember ‘The Hunt for Red October’?). Moving to the clear lane he starts a ballet of weaves that is a sight to behold, elegant, sweeping, always controlled within lane, perhaps for a few hundred yards sometimes for longer until satisfied that ridges have been scrubbed and it is time to return to the dull routine of normal group riding. Future sweeps take note.

Oh, and then there was the ‘never a GPS, just notes on my mirror’ leader of the ride who for the first 200+ miles had been faultless. Unfortunately, mirrors can only hold so much information, so what to do when the writing surface on the mirror runs out (acknowledging that getting bigger mirrors en route is not feasible)? Well, follow the signs of course! For 47 of the 48 contiguous states that can work but as the world knows directional signs in NJ are provided to deceive. Foxed not once but twice the non-GPS leader relinquished to the GPS enabled wingman to navigate to the Garden State North; the transition was plain ugly (no other description would be truthful).

The ugliness continued on the GSP north as the wingman, come leader, did not spare the horses out of the entrance toll to the GSP leaving a ragged group of tail enders blighted by cagers and gasping for speed to catch up. The new leader was returned to the wingman role at the behest of the original leader allowing the stragglers to reform but only after a mile or more had passed. I am still trying to catch my breath after running so hard.

The final moment of the day was delivered by a young lady multitasking on her cell phone in her silver Subaru WRX. Pressing on the rear she would not be held up by a bunch of bikers so reverted to racing up the inside line (while no doubt texting her BFF about her annoyance at the bikers) before drawing up behind another vehicle and then started to drift into the formation. Fortunately collecting her thoughts on DRIVING, heaven forbid, she actually recognized the need for lane discipline. Yikes! The young ones are the worst aren’t they……?

+ + + + + + +
One more note from Fonz:

Prior to introducing yourself to the Captain, make sure he is finished with his business in the men's room. The Captain gets a little nervous when a strange/unknown male approaches him, then puts their arm around his shoulder and looks down at him, while they are introducing themselves as a "FAN". So, next time, PLEASE wait unitl the Captain releases his grip.
Ralphie

Polar Cub, A.K.A-Fonz

Hopewell, NJ; November 22, 2009

2009-11-27T14:49:00.000-08:00

Once again your blogger was NOT present for the Polar Bear ride. (May have trouble getting that gold rocker again this year!) This last Sunday my "excuse" was a wonderful weekend-plus getaway with the wife to Gettysburg.

It was the 146th anniversary of the Gettysburg Address, delivered November 19, 1863. The occasion is commemorated with Civil War reenactors and a luminary display in the cemetery. You can see more photos on my Facebook page, but I thought it was okay for me to share just a few here.

I visited the battlefield as a teenager. It was wonderful to see it once again, now from an adult perspective. I was reading Longstreet's memoirs then walking the very same ground. Here and there on the battlefield reenactors drilled, their drums and bands echoing among forlorn hills now traipsed by tourists.

The whole event was something like a bike rally. People were walking around everywhere in funny clothes, united by a common interest. Just like wearing chaps at a bike rally, where else can you wear hoop skirts and braided epaulets on the street all day?

I commented in shock to my wife at the cost of an authentic civil war uniform coat, some three hundred bucks for something you can wear only for special occasions! Cynthia just laughed, "I know someone who has spent far more on specialized clothing with limited uses."

50 degrees and sunny

Of course I know you are more interested in the adventures of Connecticut Polar Bears who actually go on the rides! Fortunately my fellow riders still provide correspondent reports, even when it takes me more than a week to post them. Here John Howard provides a fun account with plenty of inside jokes. We call John "Token," not because he is an American with a British accent, but because he rides a Honda ST amongst our Harley crowd. Such is even fodder for this week's entry.

Here is John Howard's report . . .

Report by John Howard, Headlines:

Kammerer kisses Curtis
Howard and Cole Harley/Honda tiff settled in Hillybilly parking lot
Nick spends 13th birthday with Grandpa and CTPBs; charges of cruel and unusual punishment are pending
CT Blogger flagged over English language comments

The sun greeted the Connecticut Bears for the ride to Hopewell, though the temperature started on the cool side (about 40 degrees F), it quickly rose to above 50 degrees, peaking at 56.
Johns B., K., and J., Nick, Russ, Bernie, Ralph and Bart assembled at the Stratford Dunkin' Donuts as usual and made good speed to pick up John H. at the Tappan Zee Bridge bang on time at 9:45 a.m.

Johnny B. with Nick in pillion was the lead with John J. bringing up the rear as sweep after a bruising series of reports (mostly unjustified) on his lead ride on week four.

The ride south on the Interstate system was uneventful with numerous state troopers spotted along the way. The fun started after the turn on to Route 206 south when the CT bears found themselves being squeezed by a long train of NJ Bears as the road narrowed from two lanes down to one lane.

Mixed into the front of the NJ Bear phalanx things were a little sticky until the CT Bears assembled single file on the left track and the NJ Bears moved off to the right side to stop to reform. Sorted out, the CT Bears continued south and after a stop light found themselves behind another large group of NJ Bears and with the other NJ group behind at one point there must have been 60 bikes in formation heading south, quite a sight.

At an intersection the assemblage came to a rather sudden stop that caught the Captain out just a little which resulted in his bike kissing the back of a bag on Russ' new ride. (I never meant to imply their lips ever touched, that would be disgusting and way too horrible to contemplate.) The Captain wobbled some but thankfully stayed upright. The final 10 miles were a slow paced stop and go intersection riddle tour of the NJ countryside, but otherwise uneventful.

Hillybilly Hall was packed to the gills on our punctual arrival at 11:30 a.m. Seeing John B. lead the group to the way yonder boonies, John H. and John J. thought better of it and found a couple of spots up at the front lot, wandering down the stoned back to find the group. The choice of parking spot by Johnny B. drew some well chosen words from a certain ex-submariner, though the choice for the leader was rather limited.

Bart, who had been YELLING his opinion via e-mail on the attributes of the trusted STeed (get it?) of John H., greeted him with a Polar Bear hug in reconciliation. Riding sporty V-twins is a desire of the author which was again unrequited due to the dismal reliability of the Buell Uly. Oh well, perhaps next week that fine piece of engineering will be road worthy.

Editor's Note: For those who did not see the e-mail traffic, here is what Bart said about John H. comments about John's Buell Ulysses.

As an owner of many Japanese motorcycles and cars in my life, all I can say is . . . BORING!!! As one Harley owning friend of mine once said after riding my 1986 Honda Magna V65 or whatever the (heck) it was, "It's like kissing your grandmother." I couldn't have described it better myself.
My Harleys have given me no problemos at all. The torque and the attitude are second to none. I've yet to find one piece of plastic on mine as well.

Be fair to HD Mr. Howard, they own Buell but do not manufacture them!

Editor's Note: Bart was responding to THIS post from John H.
Another thing that will be absent for possibly 5 to 10 years is my Uly, it is not the intake seals, ECM, O2 sensor, temperature sensor or induction system that is causing my EFI running problem so it remains in the shop…Conn. Statute Chapter 743b, section 42-179 is an emerging possibility as lemons should be confined to use in gin and tonics. All future motorcycle purchases will be from the islands of Japan, sorry fellas no Harley will ever grace my garage though I do believe HD/Buell Danbury are doing their best.

Editor's Note: Back to John H. report of Hopewell ride.
Sign-in was relatively smooth given the crowds and John B. corralled a table for 10, adopted CT Bear Matt included, to participate in lunch.

Bernie left his ordered scribbled on a napkin and departed for the line for the loo (a.k.a. men's room, just trying to broaden the group's vocabulary). Meanwhile John K. just upped and left for the same destination while Russ made other arrangements to relieve himself.

On Russ' return, the order for food was placed except for you know who, no order available and still in line as the server lamented that she could not put the food order in until all the table had identified what they wanted.

Captain K. returned to the table and was roundly heckled for his lack of group awareness and to make matters worse he ordered a chicken Caesar salad. Jeez, there was a time when CT Bears were real men!!

By this time Ralph was wondering if riding with the CT Bears was the wisest choice he could be making for his future, but after being regaled with tales of the mishaps his fellow but absent MSF Instructor has had over the years, he is going to give it more time.

Johnny B. made the group aware that Nick was celebrating his 13th birthday which was cheered by the group however a rendition of "Happy Birthday to You" was not forthcoming. What a shame for the new teenager. It occurred to me that having such a fresh face in this group of gnarly old geezers was a brutal way to introduce Nick into his teenage years, when a growing awareness of one's influence on the world and sensitivity to the needs of others should flourish. CT Bears as lunch companions and role models would qualify as cruel and unusual punishment for a birthday boy. Always great to have you along Nick and enjoy your teenage years!

The conversation meandered to the subject of the CT Blog and the CT Blogger who offered a critique of the submissions from the Week 4 Bears. It is believed that three or more submissions were made and such a difficult task was it to untangle the muddled English that the final report remains a work in progress. CT Blogger was flagged for inappropriate use of certain punctuation marks in his e-mail of November 19th by the wife of a Week 5 Bear who apparently graduated with a degree majoring in the English language.

The matter remains open and is unlikely to be settled until CT Blogger can rejoin the group. It is hoped that a resolution can be found without punches being thrown, however, the number of ride reports for Week 5 presented for consideration is expected to decline from the peak observed in Week 4.

Hillybilly Hall was in the rear view mirror by about 1:15 p.m., the northbound trip commenced with a pleasant tour of the back roads of central New Jersey leading to Interstate 287, 78 and the Garden State Parkway with a customary stop at the Montvale Services.

Bart was the payer on this occasion but refused to serve the group as a consequence of the roasting John H. received a couple of weeks before. He need not have been worried as the beverages were delivered without fault and in perfect order; this led to the conclusion that it was the ordering technique of the newest, but as yet defective, American that had created prior problems. Let it be known that the defective American has sworn off making any future group beverage purchases.

The group did the usual thing at the Tappan Zee Bridge on the way east and so ended this chapter in the CT Bear season of 2009.

(If I don't get at least a B+ for this I am going to go see the Principal.)

Report from Grumpy:
Here are this week's photos. Group shot by J.B. most of the others by Nick B.
(Editor's note: A few portraits were also sent by Bart.)
Report for Sunday's ride: We showed up, we went there for lunch, on the way home we stopped for coffee. It was a nice day to ride.

Next Ride:
Chris here.
Our next ride is to Schoch's Harley-Davidson.

This is the site of my very first Polar Bear ride and you can read that story on my blog:http://www.influentialcom.com/polar_bear_story.htm

It was also the last motorcycle ride of our friend Clark Makinson. You can read about Clark on my blog too:http://www.influentialcom.com/polar_bear_clark_m.htm

Mapquest says the ride is 2 hours, 45 minutes, and 146 miles one way.

Therefore let's figure on a departure time of 9:00 a.m. from the Dunkin' Donuts in Stratford, CT.
That Dunkin' is the one just off Interstate 95, Exit 30, at the corner of Lordship Boulevard and Honeyspot Road.

All are welcome to join us. However I believe the Polar Bear Grand Tour has reached its limit of 550 registered participants. You can still ride, but will have to wait until next year to earn the coveted Polar Bear patch.

Port Jervis, N.Y., November 15, 2009

2009-11-25T15:48:00.000-08:00

60's early, 70's later; morning drizzle, sunny afternoon

Blogger's Note:
Unfortunately your blogger Chris Loynd was busy at The Maritime Aquarium this Sunday. I was working with a troop of Girl Scouts from Monroe to build a wigwam to promote our showing of "Where the Wild Things Are" appearing now in IMAX.
So I put out an invitation to my fellow Connecticut Bears for correspondent reports. Here, with a bit of minor editing, are their reports.

From Captain John Kammerer:
We had a good turnout for Port Jervis, N.Y. Roll call in order of appearance were: Russ, Johns K., J. and B., Bernie, Rollin (Rolly) Dawlin, Steve D., William (Billy) Gargone, John H., Bart, and Matt G. (Full names provided for our new riders.)

We formed up and departed Dunkin' Donuts at 9 a.m. sharp with John J. taking the lead and John K. as sweep. Heading south on Interstate 95, the route turned onto Route 25 north into Newtown, Conn.

(Editor's Note: Newtown retains a bit of its Yankee charm with a flagpole right in the middle of main street. Here the Conn. Bears turned right and a short distance down the road merged onto Interstate 84 west at speed.)

John J. took exit 2B to pick up our more northerly members, the group arriving at 9:45 on the dot with John H. and Bart scrambling to get going.

Once the two final bears finally caught up, John J. settled the group into a steady pace west for the Delaware River.

We encountered fog at mile marker 57 in New York. It lasted for two to three miles. Visibility was a hundred feet or so.

The group navigated the mist without mishap arriving at Cornucopia at 11:10 a.m. Adopted Conn. Bear Matt was there already and after the group photo by John B., we went inside to check-in and have lunch.

As sweep I was trying to keep track of everyone. (Editor's note: The Captain takes his Road Captain duties very seriously.) During lunch I was looking everywhere for Steve D. and finally realized he bailed without saying a word to anyone. (Editor's note: Considered poor Polar Bear manners when riding in a group.)

At 12:15 we left the restaurant and headed to the gas stop on the New Jersey side and yes, John H. was right about the crash site!

After fueling we headed east on Interstate 84 to our pit stop at the Starbucks in Danbury, Conn., exit 2, arriving at 1:30 p.m. This week John J. treated.

John H. split off at Interstate 684 to head for Ridgefield. Billy G. left after coffee.

We were on the road eastbound by 2:10 and Bart split off at Route 7 north. From Interstate 84 the group took the more scenic Route 34 south. I arrived home at about 2:50 p.m.

It was a great day with good company and I managed to piss off everyone by noon.

That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Next report from a first-season Connecticut Bear . . .
From Bart Cole:

Because of the early morning rain and wet roadways, I had decided to leave a little later and hook up with John H. at exit 2. After receiving my text with my change of plans, John H. called John K. to let him know that I would not be coming down to Stratford and not to wait. John K.'s response to the Token (John H.) was basically, "what the hell do I care!" It's just so nice to be loved and embraced by John K.!

Then when the boyz rolled down exit 2 to meet up with John and I, upon being waved into the pack I didn't give my Dyna Low Rider enough throttle and proceeded to stall the engine. John K. took note of this as he saw me rolling back to restart my bike. We rode through some dense fog in spots on I-84.

We had some major issues at the Newburgh Bridge toll. The EZ-Pass wasn't reading our tags and the toll booth attendant proceeded to give some of the guys a hard time for trying to drive through. John J., Russ, Grumpy and myself made it through and had to wait for a good five minutes plus for the others to rejoin the ranks.

Stopped at the Starbucks off exit 2 on the way back. John J. treated everyone to their favorite beverage. Grumpy didn't care for his hot chocolate. He claimed it tasted like a dark or semi-sweet cocoa.

I'm sure the others will fill you in on some of the other events. Some guy, I think named Steve, rode up with us and then disappeared without telling anyone!

The day was so short that I didn't know what to do with myself when I got home so early.

Even Russ busted on you in your absence for you propensity to take forever to get your gear on and be ready to roll after we stop. Russ was being Russ!

You were missed Chris!

From one of our founding Connecticut Bears, everyone's favorite people person, Grumpy . . .
From Johnny Bowlan:

Hi Chris! I hope your project went well. We missed you.

We had 10 bikes and riders today. Weather was great; we needed no heated gear at all.

The ride up was good. We had to stop only once for a red light. John J. did well for his second, maybe third, time leading the group.

Ten bikes may be too much. Next time we might want to break it up into two groups.

We got there after 11:00, stood around shooting the (stuff) and took the group photo.

Lunch was edible. The menu included: French toast, chili and rice, something the server said was mini-sausage meatloaf, a chicken dish and mac and cheese.

About 12:30 we headed out to New Jersey for gas, missing Steve D. He left after taking the group shot.

Then toward home we went. We had some problems at the toll on Interstate 84. It took a little while for everyone to get through. Guess this is another toll road we can't use.

(Editor's note: We have had troubles before on the last parkway toll before the GW Bridge. Captain had a famous gate-busting adventure there a few years back.)

We lost the Brit at exit 2 as we got off for coffee.

No Dunkin' Donuts, so it was Starbucks. It was a small place so we got our drinks and went outside to chat.

We then saddled up for home, losing people along the way.

It was a NICE day, there I go using four letter words again.

Next report from this week's ride leader.All paragraph and sentence breaks are best guess estimates by the blog editor . . .
From John Jackson:

Hello Blog-master,

Sunday morning arrived a little misty and 58 degrees. Side roads were covered with slippery, wet leaves, so the ride to Dunkin' Donuts was slow and steady. That will be an important standard for the day.

When I got to Dunkin' Russ and John K. were enjoying their hot beverage of choice already. John K. informed me that this Dunkin' Donuts was now offering Same Day Service. So I took them up on it, and damned if it wasn't true! I got a muffin and a cappuccino within five minutes!

By the time I got back, Bernie and Rollie had arrived. Later came Steve D., who was greeted appropriately by Russ, Johnny B. and finally Bill.

John K. asked, to no-one in particular, looking at Russ and I, "Who's leading today?" Russ answered in the negative, so, by default, I said I would. I had it in my GPS.

John K. and I briefly discussed the route to the meeting point on Interstate 84 where we were picking up John H. and Bart. Taking Interstate 95 to Route 25 to Newtown to Interstate 84 was the preferred route.

Promptly at 9 a.m. we lined up and off we went. As I was reading my GPS, I noticed the "arrive" time was 11 a.m. So I planned to keep the pace on the moderate side after we picked up our two northern polar bears, which we did at precisely 9:45.

Onto Interstate 84 west, the train of 10 bikes sauntered. Speed limit 65 mph, I set my cruise control at 64.

Weather was gray with some hint of sun breaking through off to the southwest. But up ahead it was just clouds. We rode through a cloud going up one one those mountains. Visibility was next to nil, so I kept the pace down a little.

I didn't want to slow down too much to prevent riders from bunching up unexpectedly. And I stayed in the lane we were in because I sure as heck could not see my sweep John K. in my mirrors. If he was clearing a lane for me, I couldn't tell.

After about a mile of clouds, we broke through. I do NOT like not being able to see ahead!

I cranked the speed back up to a blistering 63 mph and the GPS still says "arrive" at 11:01.
We got stuck behind a creepy crawling Toyota Camry on the Newburg bridge, doing about 45 to 50 mph. I saw this as an opportunity to knock our arrival time back a notch or two, so I stayed behind, later to be ragged-on mercilessly by our Captain when we arrived and unsaddled at 11:10.

John K. is the best sweep that I have ridden with. He just KNOWS when you want to change lanes. I look in my mirror for a lane change and he is already there, waiting for me to turn on my signal. Perhaps this is why he was so fast to comment on why I stayed behind that slow poke on the bridge.

Anyway, we arrived, all 10 of us, early.

Bob Hartpence (Polar Bear Chairman) was out in the parking lot and came over to say hello. We took the group shot, Johnny B. having figured out his new camera's timer mechanism. Then we went to sign-in and have a lunch a litle before 11:30.

The buffet this year was pretty good: chili, biscuits and gravy, mac and cheese, little meatloaf patties in gravy and some sort of chicken thing, all very edible.

During lunch I asked where Steve D. was. Nobody had seen hide nor hair of him. When we finished lunch and went outside, I, being the leader, searched down the line of bikes where we parked and noticed that Steve's custom painted Fat Boy was no longer there. Some metric cruiser of a similar color was parked where Steve's bike used to be. John K. asked where Steve was. Nobody had heard from him. The evidence pointed to him no longer being anywhere near the Cornucopia anymore, so I felt secure in leaving as a group of nine, knowing the tenth had gone on by himself.

The ride back was at a more brisk pace, more like my speed, cruise control set higher and throttled up to pass the occasional slow moving truck.

Back at Port Jervis it had been decided that we would stop for coffee at Starbucks in Danbury, off Exit 2, which we did. John H., having to be home early, rode on. And Bill left before we went to get coffee.

I treated, with the caveat that if you wanted anything special, you would have to pay for it yourself. Of course Johnny B. took this to mean I would not buy him his hot chocolate. But I calmed him down with the explanation that "special" meant lattes, cappuccinos and espresso drinks. Bernie slipped a frappuchino by me anyway!

So after we were all properly juiced up with Starbucks caffeine enriched coffee we continued on our way.

Bart took off up Route 7 and various others slipping out of my slipstream as we wound our way back down Route 34, arriving home at 3:10 on a 70 degree afternoon.

The day was very enjoyable. John K. exaggerates his power to piss off. I think he does an admirable job. But we all look forward to it, the same way we look forward to Russ' crude innuendo.

That's MY story, and I'm sticking to it.

Finally, here is Russ' report . . .
From Russ:

John K. missed me. I don't think I was pissed off all day. I did miss Chris not showing 'till the last second.

Old Bridge, NJ, November 8

2009-11-11T05:48:00.000-08:00

Old Bridge, NJ. November 8

Near 70 degrees. Bright, cloudless blue sky.

We did not have as big a turnout as I would have thought. Despite a beautiful day and temperatures predicted for the high sixties, we had nine bikes; 10 riders with Johnny B.'s grandson Nick. Maybe some of our bears were busy with raking leaves, or chose shorter rides.

Sunday we picked up a new bear. Ralphie Fonseca, a fellow Connecticut Rider Education Program instructor. He signed up for the full deal in Old Bridge. Ralphie is now a Polar Bear Flight B.

We had a great time. The shorter run and warm weather and beautiful day made for high spirits all around. Well not quite everyone was in full revelry. John K. seemed impatient and more snarky than usual.

He had reason to celebrate. Today Bob Hartpence, Polar Bear Grand Pooh-bah, had John's red rocker. Bob's getting hip to the Captain. In past years, Bob had not even thought of ordering the season's patches and rockers when John K. had already earned his first 30 points.

Bob told me a story Sunday about how he was really looking forward to handing John K. his rocker that day, our third ride of the season. Bob called the patch company Saturday morning to see why they had not delivered. I guess he put the order in extra early. Of course the company was closed Saturday. Bob left a message on the answering machine and went back out to his yard to, like many of us I bet, rake leaves. No sooner was he started again at his task than the mailman hailed him, “I have a box for you, Bob.” Bob went back inside and left another message on the patch company's answering machine, “never mind.” And with fanfare and a hearty handshake, he presented John K. the first Polar Bear rocker of the season.

Still John was snippy. He was anxious to get off to lunch. He accused us of lollygagging, of being “tourists” he taunted Grumpy when Johnny B. was having trouble with his new camera for the group shot. Hmmm. What's up?

We all kid each other, and generally John K. takes and gives as good as anyone.

Then it hit me! A vision of Nancy Pelosi flashed in my brain. And I smiled. I whispered to John, “It's the health care bill, isn't it?” John replied, “It ain't law yet.”

It's okay John. It's only money, money that none of us have, including the government.

I don't know if the Captain's attitude improved with a bit of lunch. Denny's did not have a table big enough for all of us. We sat at two.

We reassembled in the parking lot, with the Captain walking around the bikes whipping us into shape, exhorting us to button up faster.

We rode a very short distance to gas up for the ride home. Somehow I was the last one out. My fellow bears would likely say I am always the last one out, dressed, ready to ride, etc.

At the top of the Garden State we stopped for coffees. It was the usual torture to get our order assembled and paid. The servers at the Dunkin' Donuts in the rest stop at the top of the Garden State Parkway are so slow you can actually test Einstein's Theory of Relativity.

Here's an example. John H. treated us all. As such, he was stuck being the last to leave the counter, paying after we all carried our drinks away to a table. We were all sitting and enjoying our hot drinks, but John H. was back in time still trying to figure out the bill with the slow clerks.

He finally caught up to our time, but just as he was about to sit down, it turned out that two of the coffees did not have milk. John H. had to go back, back in time, back to the counter to retrieve creamers. Just as he was about to catch up to our time, there were no stirrers for the recently retrieved cream. Back in time John H. went again. As John H. kept going back in time, we were all progressing forward, drinking our hot drinks. When John H. finally got a chance to sit down, he was now way behind us in time.

Chris, your blogger, came to the rescue. By being slower than most normal coffee drinkers, Chris was able to retard present time enough for John H. to catch up and drink his coffee.

So except for the frustration of multiple forays back in time, oh and the “pleasure” of paying for coffees and hot chocolates for a bunch of whining, ungrateful, riding buddies, John H. finally caught up to drink his coffee in present time.

As we got ready to go in the parking lot, my special time talents were recognized by Russ. He said , I think derisive, about not even turning on his motorcycle until I had my helmet on and my bike off the sidestand.

Even-tu-ally . . . I did. And off we roared home to Connecticut.

See you next week. I will be the one rolling in just moments before the rest of us are ready to leave next Sunday morning.

View this blog with pictures at: http://www.influentialcom.com/polar_bear_blog.htm

Here's a shout-out from Russ . . .

Hi Chris, Len the" Gerbing Guy" replaced a five (5) year old harness that broke this past week for free. Maybe you can give him a shout of thanks in this weeks blog.
Thanks
ILBCNU
Russ

Lewes, Del., Polar Bear Ride, Nov. 1

2009-11-06T10:37:00.000-08:00

November 1, Lewes, Del.

As I often do for this run, I rode down to Wilmington, Del. Saturday to spend the night with my folks. It splits off a bit of distance for me on our longest ride of the Polar Bear season. Plus, taking it in two chunks, I don't have to get up so dang early for Sunday's ride down from Connecticut. Plus, plus, at this time of the year there can be quite a temperature difference between sunrise and a couple hours after.

Saturday I spent too much time puttering around at home, in part completing the blog from the previous Sunday's ride to Cape May. By the time I finally got going it was late afternoon. Saturday started partly sunny, progressed to mostly cloudy and all afternoon I was thinking the rain predicted for late day just might catch me if I waited too long to start. It did.

Freakishly warm, the temperature even after the sun went down was 70 degrees. Most of the ride was dry. Now and then I would hit a few areas where it had rained, recently enough for cars to be throwing spray. But drops from the sky did not actually fall on me until I was crossing the Commodore Barry Bridge from Jersey into Pennsylvania. It was like the Delaware River was a magic rain barrier.

Sometimes you get lucky. Twenty minutes' ride in mild rain and I was at my folks' house. I rode through the same showers that delayed the World Series game that night just a few miles north.
Arriving too late to join them, Mom saved a dinner plate for me even so. As always, she makes my favorites. Saturday night it was fried eggplant (except now it is heart-healthy baked) and stuffed mushrooms.

Friends of my folks were visiting. Mom and Dad have known their friend Judy since junior high school. Her friend Jim has been their friend for years now too.

Judy and Jim own a barbeque place in Gloucester, Mass. I haven't been there yet. But ever since reading “A Perfect Storm” I have wanted to see that famous fishing town.

Dad and the rest of us enjoyed the World Series. The Loynd family roots for the Phillies. Judy and Jim, Red Sox fans, are rooting for the Phillies too. The enemy of my enemy is my friend.
It is a shame they lost, despite Utley's best efforts, I fear the New York machine, the best baseball that money can buy, is overwhelming. But as Stephen Colbert said, the Yankee victory is, "proof the free market system works!"

Next morning when the rest of the Connecticut Bears were saddling up in the cold dawn, I was enjoying scrapple for breakfast. (It's a Lancaster County thing.)

It was raining still Sunday morning. How did they fit a baseball game between bands of rain?

With the weather, cooler now that the front was moving through, I was in the mood to just motor down state. So I took the new Delaware Route 1 from Interstate 95 which nowadays basically makes a run to the beaches expressway all the way. Not like the old days I remember growing up in Wilmington when you had to stop-and-go your way through New Castle and Dover.

Arriving at our new “South Pole” venue, Irish Eyes Pub, I gingerly picked my way across the not-so-packed gravel parking lot to a place where I had enough strength to back the big Harley into a spot along a grey freight container.

No sooner was I off the bike and out of the helmet, here came my guys. I motioned them to where I was parked and offered a bit of reversing assistance, even had to help John H. with his lighter ST. He immediately made some joke about me “touching” a Honda. Hey, I even rode one once. John K. offered me his Gold Wing for a Polar Bear ride last year when my Harley was in the shop.

And if we are getting technical, I have spent hours and hours on Hondas, Suzukis and Kawis, if you include the training bikes in the Connecticut Rider Education Program. I am a Rider Coach.
Isn't that Honda Nighthawk a POS? Honda engineering? Drum brakes front and rear on a modern motorcycle? Really?

Maybe it isn't fair to judge the whole line by all its products. On the other hand, my Dad bought one of the first Civics sold in the U.S. That thing was as bad as the Nighthawk. It spent a lot of time in the shop. I hear the lawnmowers are pretty good.

Even so, the Honda ST seems like a nice bike. But I just don't see me riding with my heels tucked behind me all day.

On my Harley I can stretch out, feet on highway boards (not just pegs) mounted outboard on the engine guards. I can also sit up straight. Once in a while, I will even tuck my heels behind me, European style, toes on the back of the riding boards.

(This first segment I was able to write on my train commute to The Maritime Aquarium at Norwalk Monday morning. This will be the one way I can find the time to get this blog written.

Last Friday I tried the same thing. But Metro North showed up a couple 'o cars short. I got started on my minibook all the same but in Fairfield this giant old lady with a cane suddenly slammed herself into the middle seat next to me. When she shifted her hips to fit, she bruised mine against the wall of the train.

Some people take up more than their fair share of the planet.

Instead of sitting there smashed against the window seat for two more stops, I got up and stood until South Norwalk station stop set me free of the overcrowded car. Even with the minibook, it's kinda hard to type standing up.

Needless to say, this morning's ride was much more civil. I will pick up my narrative on the ride home.)

Back again . . .

So we saunter into the Irish Eyes Pub in Lewes, Del., the Grand Tour's "South Pole" to sign-in for our Polar Bear Points. Captain K. was ready with 31, enough to qualify for his rocker on his second ride.

Polar Bear Grand Poo-bah Bob Hartpence even memorialized John Kammerer's accomplishment on the Polar Bear Grand Tour site; check out last week's photos at the bottom, on the Grand Tour site: http://www.polarbeargrandtour.com/lew09.htm

“Captain” John K. accomplishes this feat by giving blood all summer in the name of the Bears. So it is hard to find fault with such dedication. Coming all the way from Connecticut, we earn about half the points we need to qualify on the first two rides. Add John K.'s blood points on top – oh and he also attended the District II Summer Corn Boil – and well, there you have it.

Even so, John K. almost shorted himself. Not only do you get two points for donating blood, you also get round trip mileage points if you are crazy enough to ride your motorcycle to the blood bank and back. John forgot to take credit for these mileage points, but Flight Leader Rich came and found us at lunch and called John back to his page in the book to tally up the extra credits.

And then we have Russ. Russ earned his Polar Bear patch years ago and a few rockers hence. Some years, when he knows family obligations will diminish his riding opportunities, Russ did not even sign up for the points. He just rode along for the fun of it. Can you imagine?

Well this year I guess Russ is feeling optimistic. In Cape May he signed up to earn his points. But when we arrived in Lewes, Russ' page was not in the book.

Because they are so many in number, the Polar Bears are broken into two “flights” labeled “A” and “B.” Most all the Connecticut Bears are in “B.”

When Russ' page was not in the “B” book he started getting all worked up, as only Russ can. Well, actually, Grumpy can get pretty worked up too. But, trust me on this, it is safer to laugh at Russ.

I even survived laughing at Russ when he was as angry as I have ever seen him.

We just completed the Iron Butt, 1,000 miles in 24 hours or less, ride. We may be on record for the ugliest accomplishment of this task. A disasterous early morning start idea, a lollygagging first half and a pouring rain storm in the last 20 miles had frayed everyone's nerves to the rawest edge of sanity.

Twenty-three-and-a-half hours later as we are gassing up and getting our final receipts, it turns out the odometers on John K. and Russ' bikes are showing just shy of 1,000 miles. Mine was a hair over.

John K. being so much the cross your t's and dot your i's kinda guy, starts on about how he damn well better qualify for the Iron Butt. Russ takes the criticism personally because Russ set up the ride. John was oblivious to Russ' growing blood pressure. Pretty soon they are nose to nose. Russ was dropping one leg back, squaring his hips, getting ready for action. He was quite the boxer on the Navy aircraft carrier during his shipboard days.

It was at this point Russ threw out the nastiest epithet he knew. Sputtering he shouts, “John . . . you were in the Navy! And I hate the Navy!” I roared with laughter. For someone who can curse like a Sailor, this was Russ' worst. The juxtaposition from what I expected and what Russ delivered was the funniest thing I have heard my friend say to this day.

Back in Lewes, Del., I suggested maybe they put Russ in Flight A since he had dropped out for a year or two. Well it turns out the new Flight A leader had taken Russ' application last week, but had not handed it over to our Flight B Leaders. Fortunately Russ' sheet was right there handy on the Flight A desk ready for insertion in the Flight B logbook.

Russ started grousing all the same, but Bob Hartpence cooled him fast by threatening to put Russ in Flight “C.”

Irish Eyes seemed nice enough and the food was good, if a bit slow in arriving. I ordered “bangers and mash” because it sounded so delightfully British. Imagine my surprise when it turns out to be just sausage, mashed potatoes and peas. Geeze! Back home in Stratford, Connecticut we call that sausage with mashed potatoes and peas. Being a marketing guy myself, however, I smiled admiringly, knowing how the right name can boost sales.

Johnny B. ordered fish and chips and it turned out to be fish with french fries. John K. and Russ ordered Irish stew and it turned out to be stew, so I guess they weren't fooled.

Happy with full bellies and bulging Polar Bear points sheets we posed for our weekly group picture then suited up for the long ride home.

If you read last week's blog, one of the things I promised was a review of my new Gerbing T-5 electric gloves, purchased from Len in Cape May. Well it was still too warm to turn them on. I did not even wear them on the ride down.

But for the ride home I pulled them on and plugged them in. Still it remained warm as we rode north. When we stopped for gas, just before the Delaware Memorial Bridge, it was one of those deals where we gassed up but then reassembled in a parking area. John K. had missed the turn for the bridge. So I knew I was going to get off the bike right away. Which meant after I gassed up, I just pulled on my gloves, rode over to the parking area and got off to offer the Captain a bit of local Delaware navigation advice, once a former resident of these parts myself.

We conferred. We mounted up. And off we went.

John ignored my advice, doggedly stuck to I-95 North, despite numerous signs pointing to “New Jersey, New York, Delaware Memorial Bridge.”

Grumpy finally flew up from the sweep position, threw a lariat over Captain's handlebars and led him off the proper exit.

Over the bridge now, onto the NJ Turnpike, we steamed for home.

As we reached north to the Garden State Parkway, and the clouds cleared just enough to show a sundown, it started to, gasp, get cold. Not Polar Bear cold. But chilly.

Here's my chance! I turned up the gloves with my new dual “temptroller” thermostat. My hands were warm enough. But not hot. For miles I fiddled with the switch. Weak.

In the last 30 miles to the top of the Garden State where we always stop for coffee, I was getting aggravated. My hands were getting cold.

Figuring the gloves and controller were new, I started blaming my 120,000 + miles Springer. How long does an alternator last? Maybe this thing just wasn't putting out the current. I am aggravated but forgiving. Next I try flipping the switch to turn off the passing lamps, hoping more current will be available to warm my fingers. No effect. Now I am figuring how, and who, and when, I can get it fixed.

As we pulled into the rest area to gas up I pulled off my glove and it came free immediately.

In my plan for a temporary on-off to talk with John K. at the last gas stop, way down in Delaware, I had not gone through the formal procedure of linking the gloves to the sleeves of my electric jacket. Electric gloves don't work without electricity.

We all had a good chuckle at that one. Of course there is not a rider who at some point hasn't left without plugging something in or has never ridden off with a saddlebag lid flopping because it was left unlatched.

When I did connect the gloves to the power source of my motorcycle, they performed wonderfully. Hey, I guess I learned the gloves are pretty well insulated too. They kept me warm even without electricity.

Unlike my old gloves, these heat instantly. You can feel the warmth all around your fingers. It wasn't really cold enough to give them a really good test. But hey, it's only the second ride of the season.

See this blog entry with photos at: http://www.influentialcom.com/polar_bear_blog.htm

Feel free to comment here!

Cape May October 25, 2009

2009-10-31T12:00:00.000-07:00

We were eight. Most all the usual suspects were there, including our hardest core of John Bears. No, they do not fancy prostitutes, and I am not making any disparaging potty references. It's just that somehow three-quarters of the Connecticut Polar Bears have the same first name and that name happens to be John.

New to our group was Bart. Now there's a great riding name. Actually, it's a better cowboy name. But it does just as well for a rider, especially a Harley rider, which Bart is. I guess Bart had a favorable impression (or he is just a wild optimist) because he signed up to try and earn the coveted Polar Bear Patch.

Captain K. was definitely rusty on his pack leadership skills. Usually a very disciplined rider, you can set your cruise control to John K.'s pace. If you're like me, and do not have cruise control, well you can just spin that throttle lock tight, sit back, and enjoy the ride. (See the previous post disclaimer about reading this blog.)

We did a lot of rubber banding. Riding sweep, as I was, the effect was multiplied. We spent some much time going slow in the fast lane Winnebagos with handicapped stickers were flying by us on the right. "Go around them Mother! Dang motorcycles."

Not yielding the passing lane incensed one cager so much, this nutcase passed a slower car in the right lane by using the shoulder. That was after trying several times to break our line.
We arrived in Cape May at just about the right time. We parked close to the VFW, waited less than half-an-hour, and checked in for our PB points.

I took advantage of the extra time it took Bart to sign up to purchase some new gear from Len from MLDS.

I splurged on the new, microwire, top-o'-the-line, Gerbing T-5 heated gloves. You will have to wait for my review in a future blog. The weather on the ride home never got cold enough to even turn them on.

Seven-year-old Harley-version Gerbing leather electric gloves were my previous hand warmers. They worked only so-so. And when it got really cold, I resorted to a set of down-filled hiking mittens with a chemical heat pack under my fingers. That combo kept my fingers warm in any weather, especially when snuggled deep inside my hippo hands.
All registered and recorded we took the weekly group photo.

Actually, we did not take it. Johnny B.'s camera decided to conk out just at that moment and we had to rely upon the kindness of strangers because my little camera has no tripod mount. Still we got it done and the Connecticut Bears are recorded for whatever time the perhaps transient Internet storage offers.

We stopped in at our favorite sport bar in Cape May for lunch. As was the case last year, we were their first customers of the day. Being eight in number, they seemed happy to have us.
We started up the road to Connecticut riding as before . . . too much as before. So at the first gas stop I offered a word to the wise to our ride leader. You don't gotta ask twice with the Captain. He quickly smoothed out his ride technique.

The crazies still beat around us a bit. Eight motorcycles in staggered formation makes for a pretty long line. Most cars are gracious and stay out of our group.

Things were pretty uneventful on the ride back until Grumpy started fiddling with his EZ Pass. As we were crossing to the exit lane on 287 to catch the Merritt Parkway home, I saw the white cube take one bounce and then slide, spinning for the shoulder, ahead of my bike.

Wasn't quick enough to catch it on the fly. But I checked my mirrors, pulled hard on both brakes and dove for the shoulder. I jogged back south 50 yards and there was Grumpy's EX Pass was intact resting safely on the shoulder.

He will have to wait until this week to see if it survived the fall.

Our next ride is another long one, Lewes, Delaware. I will sneak down the day before to have dinner with the folks in Wilmington, Del. It saves me getting up early. My Mom delights in making my favorite foods. And there is sure to be scrapple for breakfast. (Last year the scrapple was not served in Lewes.)

Hopefully we will get a bit more quality time with our Flight Leaders Rich and Dave in Lewes. We always enjoy visiting with them, but they dismissively waved us off in Cape May. Something to do with a new sign-in system to manage the always crowded first ride process.

Or maybe they just did not want to hear about the Captain's blood points so early in the season.

If you want to see this post with photos, visit my mirror Polar Bear Blog: http://www.influentialcom.com/polar_bear_blog.htm

Polar Bear Blog in new form allows comments

2009-10-31T10:46:00.000-07:00

In Medieval times winter was a fearful time. Families huddled in their huts, ventured outside very little, desperately tried to stay warm.

Now as the days get shorter and crisp mornings herald colder nights, I feel a bit of that winter depression and fear. Maybe it is instinct left over from caveman days. You know it's coming. You know it is only going to get colder and colder and darker and darker. This is freakin' New England. Winter can be rough. There is only one cure for me. Get on my motorcycle and ride!
Nowadays, I spend my winter Sunday mornings motoring through New Jersey, exposed to winter's fiercest chill. Yet I enjoy a unique comfort.

A warm cocoon of silk, teckwick, thinsulate, fleece, wool and codura retain most all my body heat. What leaks away at 70 miles per hour is easily replaced by electric threads sewn into my jacket and gloves and chemical heat packs under my toes.

I am blessed to enjoy these adventures with a group of like-minded riders. They are all as crazy as am I; some are more crazy; others are less so. Some ride without electric clothing, relying entirely upon insulation and their own rugged constitutions. Others ride with electric everything, fingers to toes.
The Polar Bear Grand Tour is not really meant for us. Most of the rides are in New Jersey, with a few in Pennsylvania, one in New York and one in Delaware. Even so, the Bears have graciously embraced us, riding in as we do from Connecticut.
I read about the Polar Bears in a magazine article in 2002. It sounded like great fun and I took my first ride that year. I have not missed a season since. As Connecticut riders learned of it, they decided to join in and today we have a half-dozen stalwarts, plus twenty-some others who ride when they can. You can read about my first Polar Bear ride on my Polar Bear Blog posted at: http://www.influentialcom.com/polar_bear_blog.htm.

If you would like to join us, we meet at The Dunkin' Donuts in Stratford, Conn., just off Interstate 95, Exit 30, corner of Lordship Blvd., and Honeyspot Rd.

Three years ago I started capturing our adventures in this blog. It turned out to be a lot of fun -- and a lot more work -- than I ever expected.

Last year job difficulties and an unfair share of wicked weather, meant I missed a lot of rides. My Polar Bear vest of honor now has a red rocker at the bottom of my short string of gold ones. And the blog just never got off the ground.

So my few but intrepid readers, the blog is back!

If you care to read it, you should know a few ground rules.

First and foremost, I write this because I enjoy writing. It is something I do for myself. It is a wonderful place to exercise the muse without commercial purpose tainting the outcome.
That said, I do not mind sharing. And I appreciate comments, good and bad. To that end, I will explore this year double-posting these musings here on Blogspot where you will have an opportunity to post your comments and participate in my Polar Bear musings.

Second, and this is important, I have no obligations to my readers. I make no warranty, expressed or implied, as to the value of this narrative. Furthermore, I feel no obligation to report accurately, or fairly, or even to tell the truth.

Third, it may take me most or all of each week to get this thing written and posted. I am trying to write this on the train to and from work, during True TV and South Park commercial breaks and in any other free snippet of time. I make no promise as to the timeliness or regularity of my postings.

If you want to sign on as a friend on my Facebook page, http://www.facebook.com/chris.loynd I will make a wall posting each time the blog is posted. Otherwise, just keep checking back, it boosts my Google rating!

I already know I will not make every ride this year.

One ride is already preempted by a weekend getaway with my patient and understanding (or at least silent suffering) wife. By the way, I will NOT be answering my cell phone that Sunday morning! I made that mistake several years ago, taking a call in bed in a Newport bed and breakfast, from Clark no less, and my wife Cynthia did not appreciate the interruption. As women do, she will never let me forget the infraction.

Certainly I do not have the drive of a Captain K. or Grumpy who will drive a car or truck through the most hellacious winter storms, risk life and limb, spend hours in miserable traffic, just to sign-in to earn their perfect attendance pins.

For rides I miss, I will reach out to my fellow Connecticut bears for correspondent reports.
Fourth and finally, please remember the opinions expressed in this blog do not reflect the thoughts of management, nor any authority, nor good taste even. Advice in this blog is taken at your own risk. Metaphor, simile, and flat out prevarication are often used in an attempt at humor.

Your blog may vary. Past blog performance does not guarantee future results. Blog results not typical. No warranties are expressed or implied. These claims have not been evaluated by the Food and Drug Administration. This blog is void where prohibited. Your continued reading constitutes acceptance of these terms. I am Chris Loynd and I approve this message.