SME Preview, April 9-11 1999

On Friday afternoon, the weather reports were threatening bad weather in almost every direction. Rain, wind, even a little snow. Kevin Kirkendall and I had been talking about doing a Saddlesore 1000 that weekend, but with the gale force winds and tornados in Cinci, he'd bailed. Wise man. It was a good weekend to stay home and get caught up on some chores. But Saturday morning, it was sunny here, with big fluffy clouds. By 10am I couldn't stand it anymore. I went online to see what the weather was in surrounding areas. I ended up deciding to ride down to Leith Run and scout the SME area in advance. I wolfed down some rice, packed up my gear and by noon I was on the road. This was to be my first long ride with my new windshield. (It's a National Cycle Street Shield.)

As is becoming my habit, I flew down US23 south at rather a high rate of speed. I stopped a couple of times to adjust my windshield, trying to get as much shielding as I could while avoiding the strange bouncing harmonic that comes from having your helmet half in the airstream and half out. It's really hard to see when despite your best efforts to hold steady, your head is bouncing ever so slightly up and down. I also tried to arrange my headset speakers in my helmet in such a way that I might be able to hear the music, but finally gave up; it just didn't work at any speed over 40 mph. Some of the cagers must have thought I was nuts; I was passing the same ones repeatedly and stopping at every second or third exit.

I rode the slab down to Perrysburg Ohio, and from there I dove off onto the back roads. After all, Marietta isn't that far away, and I had all afternoon to get there. I picked my way southeast. Whenever possible, I chose roads that did not run due south or due east, because I figured the most interesting roads would not be the ones laid out on a grid. Instead they would be the ones that followed streambeds or other natural features. This strategy worked pretty well; I found many interesting roads.

Route 97 east of Galion, OH, has lovely sweeping curves and goes through the forest. There are parks and lakes along either side of the road, which was quite smooth. I suspect that later in the summer this road will be choked with boat trailers, but in April it had only a few. I enjoyed it tremendously.

After crossing I-71 on Route 97, I turned south on Route 13. This road had a fair bit of traffic, but was actually pretty twisty, with rolling hills and tight turns. The slow cages were easy enough for the Sabre to pass, and as I went farther south I found fewer and fewer cars.

One of the things that happens to me when I'm riding the motorcycle, is that I don't manage to eat properly. In my non-biking life, I tend to consume more calories every day in snacks than I do in meals; I'm pretty bad about this. On days when I'm going to ride long distances on my motorcycle, I'm usually so excited I can't sit still to eat properly. So my meals tend to be small and bolted down in a hurry. Then I don't stop soon enough for my next meal, and I don't get those snacks while I'm on the bike. I'm becoming increasingly aware that this is a problem.

In Mt. Vernon, I became aware that my blood sugar was crashing. But I didn't want to stop riding, so I was trying to eat candy from my tank bag while waiting at lights. This doesn't work too well; I lost a fair bit of candy, dropped onto the ground. One for the experience bank, could have been much worse. As I rode out of Mt. Vernon I decided to stop at the next opportunity, and get some food.

Route 586 was enjoyable, but it got detoured and took me what seemed like miles and miles west on Route 16, which instantly turned into slab. Finally I came to the turnoff for Route 146, and turned southeast again. This was more like it.

I was still looking for that food. I came around a curve and there was a building next to the road, some kind of restaurant or party store. Sternly reminding myself of the need to stop and eat, I pulled into the parking lot. Then I read the sign, the Silver Dollar Saloon. Some kind of redneck bar? I avoid such places while traveling alone, just on principle, so I didn't go in. Instead I got off the bike, and stood outside eating snacks from my tank bag, and stretching my legs. I flipped the page on my map, and discovered I was actually pretty close to my destination. I decided to press on, and get dinner in New Matamoras.

It was outside of Zanesville that the roads began to get twistier. The closer I got to New Matamoras, the twistier the roads became. Some of the roads I traveled over were in pretty poor condition, too. If I were susceptible to motion sickness, I might have gotten a little queasy from the butterfly hills and the frost heaves. I swear that a few times I actually "got air" as the skiers would say. My speed slowed, and slowed some more. The last 80 miles must have taken me three hours to cover. Had I realized what I was getting into, I would have stopped for real food in Zanesville. All I'd eaten all day, was a small dish of rice and an ounce or so of chocolate. Even so, the twisties were excellent fun, and they took so much of my attention I hardly felt hungry at all.

I rode down (and I mean down; this road is pretty darn steep) Route 260 into New Matamoras, and turned onto Route 7. On my way down Route 7 out of town, I noted two police cars watching me, and I made a mental note to behave myself. I passed the Aldeco Motel, and a gas station. I needed gas, but I wanted to get my tent set up first, while it was still light. I pressed on. I arrived at the Leith Run campground about a half-hour before dark, to find that it was gated shut, with signs that said it was closed for the season. Now what? I didn't know of any other nearby campgrounds, and I didn't want to set up camp in the dark. So I decided to give in, and get a motel room. Back to New Matamoras I went.

I pulled up in front of the Aldeco Motel's office. There was a sign on the door that said "Ring Bell and Come In." So I rang the bell and went in. Inside was a small entryway with a barred window into the motel family's living room. A woman came to the window. She seemed friendly but timid; all through our conversation she mumbled, looked at her hands, bobbed her head, and smiled, and mumbled some more. I told her I'd like to get a room for the night.

"Do you want one bed or two?"
"One."
"How many in your party?"
"Just me." (Rocket science. The bike's right outside the window; anyone else or any other bikes out there?)
"OK. That will be $26.63."
Since I'd been planning to go north this weekend, not south, I had a wallet full of Canadian money, and only about ten dollars in US funds. "Do you take credit cards?"
"No, I'm sorry."
"Hmm. Is there a bank machine in town somewhere?"
"Oh yes, right over at the gas station." She pointed next door.
"OK, I'll be right back. Would you be willing to let me into the room now so I can leave my stuff there?"
"Oh, yes, certainly."
Suddenly she volunteered information. "There's a big group of motorcyclists coming into town next weekend, are you going to be here for that?"
"Yes, that's my plan. I wasn't doing anything else this weekend so I thought I'd ride out early and check this place out."
"We've been getting a lot of reservations from that group." She gave me a key and told me I'd have room eleven.

The room had lovely knotty pine paneling, one bed with an extremely tattered bedspread, and worn, sad looking furniture. The doors showed a lot of what looked like water damage. I was happy to have a place to take off my leathers before visiting a clean bathroom. I also noticed that the room had a small refrigerator and a microwave, very nice touch. I unloaded my sleeping bag, tent, and side bags.

Cordelia needed gas. I put my jacket and helmet back on and rode her next door to the gas station. I filled the tank and went in to pay, and to visit the money shrine. Unfortunately, the money gods were not smiling upon me; the machine couldn't read my card. The girl at the counter told me the machine breaks down all the time, that it's really hard to get it fixed, because the guy who repairs it comes all the way from Columbus and really hates to make the drive. I asked if there were any other bank machines in town, and learned that there were not. The next closest bank machine was in St. Mary's, about ten miles away. Very well then. Thanks goodness they were able to take credit cards at the cash register, that part wasn't broken.

I didn't want the timid woman at the motel to worry, so I went back over to the motel office to let her know. Then I put my earplugs back in, got back into my chaps, and with one last longing look at the lights of the drive-in restaurant down the street, I rode off to St. Mary's. By this point it was almost full dark. I remembered the police cars and took care to obey the posted speed limit.

The air was cool and crisp, and I could smell the river as I rode south on Route 7. I noticed a green light up ahead, just the color of a traffic light. It couldn't be St. Mary's; I'd already been this way once to look for Leith Run, and I knew there weren't any traffic signals here. When I got closer, I discovered that the green light was a navigation beacon for shipping. I passed several of these on my way to St. Mary.

I once spent a week on Neebish Island, which is in the shipping channel between Lake Huron and Lake Superior. Huge freighters would float past, very close to shore. They were almost silent but if you shut up and listened, you could hear a deep rumbling sound, a roar so low pitched it was almost inaudible. At night, the ships with their many lights looked like small cities floating past. I wondered what sort of ships traveled this river? I was to continue wondering, because I never saw anything out there except small pleasure boats.

St. Mary wasn't much of a place. The only open businesses appeared to be a McDonalds (yuck) and a gas station. I spotted the bank and pulled in. This money shrine was able to answer my prayer. I decided I'd rather not eat at McD's, and that I would head back to New Matamoras, pay my hotel bill, and see if that drive-in was open.

When I arrived back at the Aldeco Motel, there were two boys dancing up and down in front of the lights illuminating the sign out front, making their silhouettes look like fighting monsters. I guess it was a slow night. I went into the office and paid for my room, and the timid woman told me it was supposed to rain, and that if I wanted to I could park my bike on the sidewalk, where the roof would shelter it. I thanked her and went in search of dinner.

The drive-in was dark and closed, and according to their posted hours, they'd probably been closed when I left, even though the lights had been on. I rode on towards the center of town.

The downtown business district of New Matamoras was one block long, a short block. It had the sidewalks and storefronts commonly found in a town that predates the arrival of the automobile. The street was narrow, and the buildings pressed up against the sidewalk on either side. It was very dark, except for one brightly lit storefront advertising pizza and subs. There were cars parked everywhere, squeezed into every spot. It reminded me of football Saturday in Ann Arbor. Didn't these people have driveways to put their cars in? Or alleys behind the houses? How many people lived in this neighborhood? Obviously they don't write a lot of parking tickets there; and it would probably take hours to get a tow truck to remove an offending car.

I found one parking place, right in front of the lit storefront, and thankfully pulled the bike into it. It was two tall steps up to the sidewalk, and another two tall steps up into the front door of the shop. I wondered if the business district had been designed to weather floods? The front door was propped open. Inside, there was a strange assortment of fishing gear and dusty, shopworn looking convenience store merchandise at the front, and a big pizza oven in the back. The counter was covered with penny candy. (Not that it cost a penny, no candy does any more. But that's the kind of candy it was.) I ordered an individual pizza with pepperoni and pepper rings, and waited. This place had seen better days. There were four or five tables, and a television blaring a baseball game. One of the tables was covered with junk, like old mail, knitting, romance novels, etc; the kind of random stuff that piles up on the kitchen table in a home where no one puts anything away. A family of four, mother, father, and two teenage daughters, were all working together.

The girls came in and out, delivering the pizzas. They seemed to know every single person who called. They had a framed certificate thanking them for the things they had done to help the handicapped; I wondered what they did? They certainly didn't have an accessible facility, those steps were a challenge even for the healthy. A sign advertised a sale: a two liter of pop was five cents with the purchase of a pizza. I listened to them discussing the orders; they kept forgetting to ask the callers what kind of pop they wanted, but they were able to make a guess as to what each person liked, and take them some anyways. I asked the family desultory questions to pass the time, and learned the reason for all the cars. Once a month there was an Eastern Star meeting, and the town just filled up; normally it was deserted. What the Eastern Stars did, the restaurant family didn't know; it was a secret. One daughter expressed amazement that anyone could keep a secret so well in this town. The other expressed suspicion that they didn't do anything at all except pretend to have a secret. I asked if the Eastern Stars ordered any pizza, and learned that they didn't; they brought pot luck dishes, and Eastern Star night was always slow for this family business, because no one could park near their storefront. I discovered that the locals refer to the town as "New-Mat."

There was a little flurry of business (all deliveries, no one came in) and they were suddenly too busy to chat, so I stood around examining the merchandise for sale and looking out the window at the darkened street. Soon my pizza was ready. One of the daughters went in the back and found a grimy plate to put the pizza on, and fork to eat it with. As I was carrying it to the table I'd staked out, I heard voices drifting in through the open door.

"Cool!"
"I wonder whose it is?"
"What kind is it?"
I looked outside and saw that my bike was surrounded by teenagers. Just a little unnerving. I got up and walked slowly outside. Two boys on bicycles, one on a skateboard, a couple more on foot. Two girls were sitting on the stoop of the darkened store next door, smoking cigarettes. A warm Saturday night and there was absolutely nothing to occupy these kid's time; bored small-town kids, biding their time until they were old enough to drive and get the hell out of New-Mat. I remembered being a kid like this, and I felt that I knew them. They wouldn't cause me any difficulty unless they smelled vulnerability. I planted my feet wide and stood straight and tall, and put on my best friendly-yet-confident voice.
"Hey, how's it goin? Like the bike, eh?"
The girls stared and the boy standing closest to the bike took a step back from it and spoke.
"Yeah, it's wicked cool! What kind is it?"
"It's a Honda Sabre, V65."
"Wow, I thought maybe it was a Ninja."
"No, it's a Sabre."
"Cool! I want to get a Ninja someday."
One of the other boys spoke. "Someday I'm going to get me a bike, too. A Harley."
I said, "Like standing on the side of the road, eh?"
"Harleys look so cool!"
"Well, you have to make your own decisions about what's important to you. Now, Honda Sabres like this one are well known for being butt-ugly."
"No way, I think it's a cool looking bike! Is it new?"
"It's a 1984." (Older than you, probably.) "But it runs just great."
The boy on the skateboard spoke up. "Michigan plates! Did you come from Michigan?"
"Yup."
One of the girls threw her cigarette to the ground. "Why'd ya come to New-Mat?"
"Just riding around, and it seemed as good a place as any."
"Do you know anyone here???"
"No."
"Well, I'm Jessica." The other kids tittered.
I supported Jessica. "Pleased to meet ya, Jessica. I'm Katherine."
The other girl spoke up. "Are you going to ride home tonight?"
"No, I've got a room at the motel, out on the edge of town here."
"Did you come here by yourself?"
"Sure did!" (Yes, Jessica, look at me and realize that people who tell you that girls can't do things on their own are wrong!) I smiled at the girls and said, "Biking's great! I've been having a blast."
The boy who thought my bike was a Ninja spoke up again. "Is it fast?"
"Oh yes, it's very fast. It's an 1100 y'know." (Probably he didn't know an 1100 from a 250, but teenage boys like to be treated like they know things.)

A car with another teenager driving it pulled up and stopped, and the kids swarmed towards it. I excused myself, and went back inside to eat my pizza, keeping an eye on the scene outside as I did. The bicycle riders and the skateboarder circled lazily, jumping up the curb and down, up and down. Another girl had appeared, and all three girls were talking to the boy in the car. The other boys didn't stand a chance with the girls, as long as the boy with the car was there.

I finished my pizza, and put my leathers back on. Carrying my helmet, I went back outside. The kids watched as I put my helmet back on and backed the bike out of the parking spot. Just before I fired it up, I called "G'night Jessica!" and waved. Jessica looked at me, pleased, and waved back as the other kids looked at her. I smiled as I rode away, back to the motel.

At the motel I turned on the weather channel and read my book. They were predicting thunderstorms for northern and eastern Ohio in the early morning. I thought about my route for the next day, and decided I'd head southwest along the river. I dozed off and on but I didn't feel like turning the TV and lights off and going to sleep. I was feeling pretty lonely, and I kept waking from my doze, imagining I heard V65 engines outside. I think motel rooms are far lonelier than tents; I'd rather camp alone than sit alone in a motel.

Sunday morning I awoke around dawn to the sound of thunder and heavy rain. No point in getting up just yet; I turned over and went back to sleep.

About an hour later I woke up again, and actually stayed awake this time. A light rain was still falling, and I took my time getting ready. By the time I started packing the bike, the rain had stopped, and birds were flying around outside. I didn't see any nests in the eaves, but still there was bird crap all over my bike. I cleaned it up and loaded my gear back on.

There were still a lot of puddles, so I wore my rain pants and my waterproof boots. This turned out to be unnecessary; within a half hour of leaving the motel, I rode into sunshine which lasted most of the rest of the day, and the waterproof boots were way too warm and too stiff.

I headed south on Route 7, back towards St. Mary's. In the daylight, I could see that the green shipping beacons were attached to fluorescent green squares that were very visible in the sun. On the other side of the river, the beacons were reddish-orange triangles. Very elegant; the system would work for daytime, nighttime, and for the colorblind. I also noticed a lot of those small oil pumps, but none of them were running. I wondered how much oil those things produced.

I crossed the bridge to St. Mary's and continued south on the other side of the river. The road ran alongside railroad tracks, through shady, forested areas, with steep ravines coming down from the hills towards the river. I noticed shrubs with pink flowers (cherries?) trees with white flowers (dogwoods?) and shrubs with yellow flowers (forsythia?). The trees had that green haze they get when they're just starting to leaf out, and the grass was so green it hurt my eyes. There was a fair bit of industry along the river. I passed a giant nuclear power plant, with two cooling towers. Those things are so huge, they're spooky. I passed several huge factories.

In Vienna, WV, I was looking for someplace to have lunch when I spotted Lynn's Internet Cafe 2000. I'd never been to an internet cafe, so I decided to stop and check it out. I pulled into the parking lot, got off the bike and went up to the door, to discover that it was still closed, and not to open until noon. My clock said 11:25am. I was trying to decide whether to relax in the sunshine and wait, or press on in search of something else for lunch, when the door opened. The two girls that were working told me they were still closed, but I was welcome to c'mon in anyways. So I went in, and sent a message to the sabmag list, talking about the blue sky and generally expressing my joy in this day. Nothing that had to be cooked was available from the kitchen yet, but I had a dish of pasta salad and a corn muffin.

I changed my boots in the parking lot, and continued southwest along the river. I discovered that my map was very inaccurate in the bridges it showed over the river; I found bridges that were not on the map and I found no bridges where there were bridges on the map. I passed the Belleville Dam, but the road wasn't close enough for me to see it very well.

I crossed back into Ohio at Ravenswood, and followed the river back to the northeast, on the other side. The Ohio side was more agricultural and less industrial than the West Virginia side. I passed fields where the farmers were laying down long strips of plastic, and wondered what these were for? Here and there by the fields there were tired old trailers. I've seen that before. They must grow something in those fields which is labor intensive to pick, and the trailers house migrant farm workers at harvest time.

The road on this side of the river was closer to the water, narrower and in worse condition. I came to a section where the road was only one lane; the lane on the side towards the river had washed completely away, and the road crews had put up signs and a traffic signal to allow traffic through in only one direction.

I came to the Belleville Dam again. On this side of the river there was a driveway going down towards it, and a sign that said visitors were welcome. It turned out that not only is there a dam there, there are locks, too. More evidence of shipping, even though I still hadn't seen any big boats. These locks weren't that large, not like the big locks at Sault Ste. Marie. They can't be getting the big vessels I saw at Neebish Island.

I left the river on Route 681, and started picking my way home. Soon I was on roads I'd traveled before, a couple weeks back with Russell and Kevin. I practiced the turning techniques Phil had coached me in. I wondered if I was riding 681 any faster than I had ridden it the last time? It's hard to tell, with no one to measure myself against. But I was having a good time.

I wanted to get home before dark, so I got onto US 33 just a little bit south of Logan, Ohio, and followed it towards Columbus. From the map I would have expected it to be faster; it looked like slab so I thought it might be faster, but in many of the towns it was also the shopping strip, with a light every block, not a good choice. In Lancaster, I was waiting at a light, when all the traffic stopped for a fire truck, which came screaming up and turned into the gas station I was stopped in front of. I looked to see if there was a fire there. No, there couldn't have been, because people were still pumping gas. (The pumps would be stopped if there was a fire. I know this, because I was once the clerk at a gas station that had a fire. The first thing I did was stop the pumps.) The fire truck had about six firemen in it, all crowded in. They leapt out of the truck and started putting on what looked like latex surgical gloves. What on earth were they doing? I never got to find out, because the light changed, and traffic moved, and I drove away.

I was on the loop around Columbus when the problem started. The bike lurched, like it was stalling out for just the briefest instant. Then it did it again. This reminded me of the way the bike behaved last fall when the fuel filter was clogged. The bike came to me with a brand new glass-walled fuel filter. When I did the gas tank treatment I visually inspected it, and it looked fine so I had not replaced it. I thought maybe that had been the wrong decision. Fortunately I have spare fuel filter elements in my kit; I added them when I had the trouble last fall. I took the next exit, to Westerville, and stopped in a convenient bank parking lot to check the fuel filter. I pulled the side cover off and looked. The filter was full of gas, and I didn't see any specks in it. I went to crank it, because I knew that would make any crud in the filter swirl around. I turned the key and nothing happened. The headlight did not come on and it did not make the click-whir sound it usually makes.

Ruh-roh! Electrical gremlins?

OK, think, think, think. Easy things first. Was there some blindingly obvious thing I'd forgotten? FINE-C and all that. No, nothing.

I checked the notorious connector, the one next to the battery that gets all the juice through it and is known to melt. Mine didn't look any more singed than it had the last time I checked it, and it was not hot to the touch. Main fuse? I checked the main fuse, it did not have any cracks in it. Dead battery? The clock and my electric jacket both still worked, so it must have at least some juice, enough to turn the headlight on even if it wouldn't crank, and my headlight was dark. Loose wires? Well, I'd been moving some wires already, so I tried the it again on the off-chance it would work. No dice.

On to the front of the bike, to check the other fuses. How to get that cover off? I could see one of those plastic tabs at the bottom. I got a screwdriver from my tank bag and popped that loose. But it was still attached at the top, with hex head screws on either side of the horn. As I was looking at the screws trying to decide which allen wrench I needed, a bike pulled into the parking lot, circled around, and pulled up next to mine. It was a V65 Magna, maroon, clean, no oil mod. The rider had a 3/4 helmet, leather jacket, jeans, and loafers with blindingly white socks. He stopped the bike, got off, and took off his helmet.

"Are you all right?"
"Oh, I'm fine. But my bike is dead."
"What's wrong with it?"
"Some kind of electrical thing. See, when I turn the key, nothing happens."
He squinted at the bike and tried the key himself. I wondered if he was on the list.
"Nice Magna. I'm Katherine."
"I'm Mike." We shook hands.
"Are you on the Sabre and Magna list on the internet?"
"No, but I fix these bikes up. What are you going to do?"
"I was just trying to get to the fuses," I don't know if they're in that spot on Magnas, so I volunteered this information, "They're under the horns here. I was just working on getting this cover off."
"Let me give you a hand."
"Sure!"

I pulled the other side panel, took the key from the ignition, and opened the little tool cubbyhole. I don't have the original tools, but I've filled the cubbyhole with as much of my on-bike tool collection as will fit, all wrapped in a rag and tied in a bundle. I pulled out the bundle, laid it out on the seat, and found the allen wrench.

Mike commented on how many tools I had.
"I figure if I'm going to travel, I should be prepared. I have a lot of other tool besides these."
"What will you do if you can't get it running?"
"Oh, I'll think of something. I have a cell phone, and I can always call for rescue if I have to. But I'd rather not."
"Who will you call?"
"Well, I know a couple other people who ride this kind of bike, who live right here in Westerville. And I know other people who'd be willing to come out and help me, who live only slightly farther away, Newark, Bucyrus, Cinci. Heck, home is less than four hours from here. I'd find someone if I needed to. And I have Honda Rider's Club road service, too."
"Well, if you're stranded you'd be welcome to stay with me."
"Thanks, but don't worry, it won't be necessary."
"Are you going all the way back to Michigan tonight?"
"Oh yes. I have to work in the morning."
"I see you've got camping gear. Did you camp last night?"
"No, I ended up staying in a motel."
"Where'd you go?"
"Marietta."
"Georgia????" Incredulous tone.
"No, Marietta Ohio. Over by the West Virginia border."
"By yourself?"
"Yes."
"That's a long ways!"
"Not really. Last weekend I went to Tennessee."
"How many miles you got on this thing?"
I looked at the odometer. "68,456.5"
"Wow, you must ride a lot."
"I bought it used."
"Mine only has 8000."
"I've ridden 8000 miles since I got this bike last fall."
"You rode 8000 miles over the winter???"
"Uh-huh."
"By yourself???"
"Mostly."
"Wow, are you married?"
"No."
"Wow, neither am I. Wanna get married?"
Another marriage proposal. I tell you, these proposals could turn a woman's head! I laughed and said no.

I asked him if he'd considered doing an oil mod. He said he'd heard of them, but his cams had looked fine when he adjusted his valves. I said mine had been toast and that over the winter I'd replaced them. I showed him my oil mod. I also told him of the list, and showed him my sabmag patch. He expressed interest, said he had email at work and he might check it out.

I got the allen wrench, and we each pulled out one bolt. The cover still wouldn't come off, and I had to get another wrench and move the headlight so it pointed up a bit more, to get room underneath. After some struggle, the fuse cover finally came loose. Mike immediately started pulling out the fuses, looking at them, and replacing them. None of them were blown.

I tried the key again, and this time it worked! Strange, since we hadn't found anything wrong in there. Maybe crud had been in one of the fuse sockets, and pulling all the fuses and reinserting them had helped?

Mike helped me put it all back together and pack the tools up. He said he had been stopping by the bank machine on his way out to eat, and would I like to join him for dinner? I said no, thank you, it's quite a ways home still, and I really must be going before it gets any later, after all I still have to work in the morning.

A misty rain started falling as I got back on the freeway and kept going, north on I-271 to US36, where I stopped to get gas and put on my rain gear. Cut over to US23 north, where the grooved pavement (construction zone!) was made doubly interesting by the wet conditions. Finally the construction ended.

My headlight was aimed wrong; the adjustment had gotten messed up when I'd struggled with the fuse cover. I stopped at a rest area to adjust it up a bit. I pulled up under an overhead light, and there was a loaded touring bike in the next spot. A Kawasaki imitation of a Gold Wing (Voyager?), with Michigan plates. While I was working on the headlight, the rider came out. No electrics, no rain gear, just a leather jacket and jeans. The temperature had to be below 50 degrees, with a steady drizzle falling. I was amazed that this guy could ride, even with the giant fairing on the bike. We exchanged a few remarks, but both of us had earplugs in and neither was inclined to shout. He was on his way back to Detroit. I suggested we should ride together, since visibility was so poor, and two bikes might be easier for the cages to see. He agreed.

We rode together until a few miles short of the next rest area, when my bike started acting up again. It lurched, and since it was now dark, I could see my headlight turning off as the bike lurched. The good part of this was that I was now certain that the lurching and the electrical problem were related. The bad part was that the Kawi rider probably thought I was nuts. I didn't want this guy dragged into my problems, he was going to have enough troubles just getting home without getting frostbite. I hoped he wouldn't feel that he had to stop when I did. At the rest area, I signaled my exit and waved the Kawi guy to go on, which he did, thank goodness. (I hope he made it home all right.) I pulled into the rest area, and halfway in, the bike cut out completely, no lights, no motor, nothing. I pulled in the clutch and coasted to a stop in a parking place in front of the building. Great, dead again, no conclusive answer to my problem, but now it was a lot darker, colder and wetter, as the struggle began again. I wiggled wires behind the side covers, and wiggled wires behind the headlight, around the fuse box, etc. I wiggled the key in the ignition, took it out, put it in again, wiggled it some more. Nothing. I thought about taking the fuse cover off again, but things in there had seemed fine earlier when I'd had the same problem, and the thing was a big pain to remove. Sigh.

I ended up calling for rescue. Michael drove down in my truck and picked me up. As we were loading the bike on the truck, the electricals started working again. Argh! I decided I wasn't going to tempt fate by trying to ride home before they died again; I let the bike ride home in the back of the truck. At home I left it loaded, and the next day drove to work with the bike in the back, and from work I went to Erik Kauppi's shop, where there are tools and where I can borrow Erik's expertise as needed. It turns out that the problem was a plug in the back of the fuse box, that had not been plugged in properly by a previous owner who took it apart. I could have fixed this on the road and made it home, had I spotted it. Oh well, live and learn.

Total distance for the weekend was about 650 miles.