The Long Way Home (AKA Vacation, Part 7)

Editor's note: Yeah, we realize this is almost four months after the fact. It's still a story that deserves telling.

It was our third day driving home. The first day had been spent driving like mad through some of the country's best roads and scenery in order to get to Howe Caverns before the last tour of the day. We din't make it; near the end, we decided to spend the night there, and go on the first tour in the morning. (Too bad we hadn't decided to do that to begin with — it would have taken a lot of stress out of the driving.) The second day, after a tour of the caverns and a boat ride on an underground lake, we made it to our hotel in the middle of Pennsylvania.

Not the sort of weather you look forward to for a long, long ride.

The third day started out wet and gray. After wearing out the kids a bit in the hotel pool, we loaded up and headed out. I wore my rainsuit right out of the hotel — I knew it was wet, and was just going to get wetter.

It rained. Hard. For hours. Aside from the direct rain, there was the great clouds of water kicked up by every other vehicle on the road. I avoided the trucks as much as I could, but that's not easy on an interstate.

Somewhere around the third hour, I stopped to call Deborah and arrange to meet for lunch. For the fun of it, I even updated my Facebook status. My gloves made little squishy noises while I was texting.

Is making the long soggy slog home. 100 miles in the rain and counting.
3:19 PM Jul 29th from txt

The bike stuttered and stumbled the whole time I was stopped. The engine thumped slower and slower, and finally died before I was done. (I'm not a speedy texter.) I fired it back up and kept going, but the exhaust smelled rich with unburned gas. Something wasn't right — the usual snap and acceleration was gone. I could get up to highway speeds, but just barely. As long as I kept moving, I was OK, but by the time I got to the town where we'd arranged to meet, I had to restart the bike every time I came to a stop.

I stood there in the pouring rain, puzzling this over while I waited for the others to catch up. Nothing was visibly wrong...

Lunch was warm and filling, but desultory. I was shivering and soaked despite my rain gear, and everyone else was fairly subdued. I spent a good while in the bathroom abusing their hot-air hand dryer, and that helped me feel a bit better.

The bike wasn't feeling any better for the hour's rest, though. If anything, it was worse. I could barely keep it going. I took the next exit.

Is attempting a roadside repair. I theorize the engine is choking from all the water in the air.
4:59 PM Jul 29th from txt

I found a beautiful spot: an abandoned gas station, one with a roof to keep the rain off, and no one around so that I could spread out my tools and gear. I got off the bike, and started running through my diagnostics in my head — what does an engine need to run? It needs...

• fuel (obviously, from the smell, there was fuel);
• air (questionable; the exhaust smelled rich; which is usually a sign of too much fuel or too little air, and it seemed reasonable that the air filter could have gotten waterlogged);
• spark (the electrics seemed fine)
• momentum (the starter turned the engine over fast enough to start, so that wasn't the problem); and
• compression (I had no way to test it, but I didn't have any reason to doubt that it was fine, either)

...so it must be the air, I figured. Everything else was running fine. Or the spark, said a voice in the back of my head. I discounted that; I had lights, and the engine would turn over — there was plenty of electrical power for spark.

Motorcycles are different from cars. The open architecture makes some things are far easier — I can change my oil filter just by reaching down and twisting it off — but the need to package things compactly makes other bits much more difficult. Accessing the air filter is a good example: Remove the rear seat (to get access to the tools), remove the battery vent panels (to get access to the front seat bolts), remove the front seat (to allow the tank to swing up), raise the tank (to get access to the airbox), and then you can have a look at the air filter, which is bolted firmly to the airbox.

The bonus find of the day was an abandoned gas station, right off the interstate — a nice, big covered place where I could spread out my tools and work out of the rain!

Oddly enough, the filter was dry. I removed it anyway and stuffed it into the saddlebag, figuring the engine could breathe more freely without it, perhaps balancing out the rich mixture. I fired it up. The bike snarled like an angry tiger without the quieting filter, and I revved it a few times just to hear the sporting, wild roar. The exhaust popped and crackled like an overly lean mixture, but it still smelled like gas, like it would with an overly rich mixture — how was that combination even possible? I even peered into the airbox to see if something had gotten lodged in there, but I could see straight into both carburetors as it ran. I could even see a spark arcing through the carb for the front cylinder. Odd.

I shrugged and put the bike back together, sans filter. It was worth a try, and I set out again. The ragged sports-car like rasp was fun for a few miles, but it quickly became apparent that I really hadn't fixed anything. I could barely do the speed limit, and starting the bike required slipping the clutch like I was starting in third or fourth. I pulled in at the next rest stop and conceded defeat. Perhaps a local shop would still be open, and could help me figure this out.

Except that there weren't any local shops. I tried texting Google to find a nearby motorcycle shop; my query returned no results. I asked around if there were towns or shops nearby. Nope, 30 miles from nowhere. The rest area maps confirmed that. What now? Figuring I had friends all over, I texted Twitter and Facebook:

I'm stuck at a rest stop on I80 in PA 29 miles from the Ohio border. Text 260 249 0834 if you can help.
6:12 PM Jul 29th from txt

I sat around, waiting for a response. I put the air filter back in, just for something to do. I called Paul and Deborah and appraised them of my status. I walked among the trucks, trying to think of what I could be missing.

No solutions came. I was stuck. I was going to have to call a tow truck, or something.

My mind railed against that. All my life, I've been served well by the attitude that it will all work out somehow. Call it faith, misplaced optimism, dangerous ingenuity — whatever it is, I've almost always been able to get out of enormous scrapes without hiring expensive outside assistance.

I prowled among the canyons of idling diesels, looking for trailer space. One friendly fellow was hauling a refrigeration unit, and had plenty of space, and said he was heading for Indiana — great! — but it turns out he meant Indiana, PA. I sat there, defeated in the waning light, reflecting on the fact that I knew for a fact that there was a trailer — my own trailer! — heading exactly where I wanted to go, scarcely 50 miles away — but that there was no way I could get the bike on it.

And I prayed.

And I felt like God was telling me to give it another try. That was scary, because I knew I was a long way from anywhere right then. I got back on the bike, started it, and tried to get it to go. Stall. Try. Stall. Try. Stall. I chuckled morosely to myself that it was acting like it had all the power and torque of Strawberry, my old 250cc Honda. And it hit me: I knew how to ride a 250. A 650cc twin with only one cylinder would be a 325; pshaw, that was power to spare! Grimacing at my daring, I revved the engine high, slipped the clutch ever so slowly, and rolled back onto the highway.

Is running on faith. Gulp.
7:11 PM Jul 29th from txt

I can't say exactly why that made all the difference; perhaps it was that I'd made this very trip on a 250 all those years ago, and knew it could be done. Perhaps it was that I knew I could accept revving the engine twice as high as I normally would to get the power I needed. Perhaps it was because I knew not to expect more than the speed limit. Perhaps, like Ezekiel, the little wheel ran by faith, and the big wheel ran by the grace of God. I don't know. I plowed on.

Then the light started blinking.

Back in January of 2008, we'd had a bit of flooding around our house, which resulted in the bike tipping over into some water. The bike was mostly fine, but the tachometer got soaked and the fuel level sensor went out. I eventually got the tachometer dried out enough that I could get it to work with some gentle tapping at startup, but I didn't bother getting the fuel gauge fixed for more than a year. All the fuel level gauge really did was work a light. About 150 miles into a tank, a light would start blinking. That would mean I had a gallon left. A single gallon normally gets me 40-60 miles. If I let that go for too long and let it get down to about a third of a gallon, then the light would turn solid — the "get gas now, dummy" setting. If you reset the tripmeter every time you got gas, you could pretty safely get by without the warning light. I'd finally gotten it fixed just before the trip.

And there it was, blinking. Huh. The tripmeter scarcely had a hundred miles on it. I'd expected the efficiency to be poorer, but not that much. I got gas early, and slipped through the cloverleaves off 80 towards Akron. A text from Deborah said that the rain had finally let up.

In the middle of Akron, the light started blinking again. 80 miles on the tripmeter. I peeled an eye for the next gas station sign. Mere minutes later, the light stopped blinking and went solid. I thought about what would happen if I ran out of gas in the middle of this awful traffic, and took the next exit. It was a city — surely there would be gas stations just off the major exits...

I was wrong. I found myself in what most would consider the Bad Part of Town, without an on-ramp or a gas station anywhere in sight. I squirted up and down side roads, panic starting to set in. Finally, I got directions from a fellow who was taking out the trash, and found a small, run-down gas station a long ways down a residential street. I'm certain I saw at least one drug deal while I was filling up.

Good for gas again, I set out to get back onto the highway. I rode back to where I'd gotten off, but the only on-ramp I found went East, and I wanted West. I followed a sign for the West route, and found another on-ramp for the highway going East. Frustrated, I wound up back at the gas station, where the both owner and the security guard said I had the right idea about my overall route to Indiana, but neither of them could remember how to go West on that highway, even though they remembered that the entrance was in a rather different place than the eastbound on-ramp. Even a local cop directed me towards the wrong entrance. Nearly blind with frustration in the darkening twilight, I roared onto the highway going East. I found another highway, merged onto it, and took the first exit. An underpass later, I was back on the highway, headed back to where I'd come. I grinned with frustrated satisfaction as I came across what I was looking for: an exit to go WEST. Exactly what I'd wanted an hour ago!

Finally away from Akron, and back out onto the open road, I felt free to have my nervous breakdown. Deborah sympathized with me and encouraged me over the phone. I was finally nearing the last major route change — the next one would put me on 30, all the way to home. It was supper time, and I felt I could sure use the break. I found a Denny's just outside of Mansfield and collapsed into a booth to dry out, decompress, and recharge. I even started to see the humor in it all.

Is limping across Ohio on a single cylinder. 80 Miles max between gas stops. It's an adventure, right?
10:46 PM Jul 29th from txt

Still life with coffee. Can you see the condensation built up on the inside of my cell phone?

The only other motorcyclist and I recognized each other instantly upon entering. He was driving his new rig back home; apparently they manufacture these somewhere in Indiana. Maybe when my hair is gray and my balance isn't as good...

The check came, and I gathered my stuff to go pay. The hostess ran my card several times, each time with a darkening look on her face. She disappeared. A moment later, the manager came out. He tried running the card, too, without success. I offered my MK List Visa, which I knew had money on it, but that one was refused, as well. The manager left with my card. I started wondering if the next person I'd see about the matter would be a police officer. A long while later, the manager came back out, and said that everything was fine, but that he'd called, and my bank was having some trouble with their computers. I apologized for my bank, and tipped generously. I saddled up, and went across the street to fill up at the Jetson-esque gas station. My card worked just fine there. Odd.

By this point, my text messages had made it to Facebook, and I was having to stop every mile or so to answer incoming messages of help, support, and suggestions. My parents had friends in Mansfield, and I knew I wasn't too far away from my friend Nathan in Galion, even if none of them knew I was coming. It was getting late, and I bounced the idea of "calling it a night" off of Deborah. She was just about home by that point, and was not happy about the idea of waiting even longer to see me. She wanted me there. I was still at the other end of Ohio. I sighed and promised to try.

Thank God gas stations try to compete with each other. I'm not sure what compels owners to build across the street from each other, but it worked to my advantage. When one gas station would decline my card, there was usually one across the street that would take it. I was stopping as often as I could, every 50 miles or so, not knowing when the next station might be. The towns get to be few and far between once you get west of the middle of Ohio.

My luck ran out in Upper Sandusky, OH. There were two gas stations across from each other, but neither of them would accept either of my cards. I thought ruefully of the one real credit card I had, the one I'd had gotten "for emergencies," safely tucked away in my safe at home. I headed inside to see if there was something that could be done.

Not much, it turned out. One account was frozen, and the other wasn't accepting transactions. No, she couldn't force the transaction. No, she wouldn't take a check. I rifled through my wallet and pants for cash. Not even enough for a single gallon. I turned away in defeat, figuring I had to call the bank, when I heard the cashier call to me. "Where are you going?" I told her. She looked at me a bit sourly, her tired eyes appraising me. "I'm putting ten bucks on pump number four. That should get you far enough that you can call someone to come get you." I thanked her profusely. "Pay it forward, OK?"

I was rolling again.

Western Ohio is a very empty place. Western Ohio at three in the morning is an extremely empty place. I droned on, flattening myself out on the gas tank, trying to get ever last yard out of every drop of gas that I could. Streetlights came and went. I saw signs for towns, but not the towns themselves.

Blink, blink, blink. 20 miles to the next town. I might make it.

20 miles later, I came not to a town, but to a crossroads that led to a town. Blink, blink, blink. How far was the next town? Should I try and find this one, or try to find the next one? Maybe it would just be a crossroads, too. Blink, blink, blink. I turned and fired off into the dark, hoping the town wasn't far.

It was a lot farther than I'd hoped. Blink, blink, blink. I rolled up to a gas station. Closed. Blink, blink, blink. I rolled up to another gas station. Closed. I thought they invented "Pay at the Pump" for situations like this. It should be something you can leave on at night, for weary, desperate travelers. Blink, blink, solid. The fuel light burned into my consciousness like a slow flame spreading across a scrap of parchment.

I'm not sure how I wound up at the police station garage, but the officer there was clearly not used to people walking in on him. His eyes burned into me as he held his paperwork in his surgical-gloved hands. His demeanor made it clear that I was not his problem, but he at least pointed me to an all-night gas station not more than a mile away, but only once I told him that I'd already tried the town's other two stations. I'm not sure who was more creeped-out by whom.

I almost cried with relief to see that it was a Marathon station. I knew I could get gas there. My card had worked at every one I'd tried. Marathon earned my loyalty that morning.

I never thought I'd be so glad to see this sign!

I scarcely recognized Fort Wayne without all the traffic. I was less than hour from home, but my consciousness was fading fast. I waggled my head, sang songs to myself in my helmet (very loud, repetitive ones, I'm afraid), did deep knee bends... but it was no good. I found another Marathon station and invested in one of those awful energy drinks, and, for reasons I cannot now explain, an old army ammo can. Something about it being waterproof.

The Red Bull was already fading when I finally pulled into the carport at home. I grabbed my bags off the bike and stumbled into the house shedding helmet, boots, and clothes. With my last shred of consciousness, I pulled out my cell phone, and texted five characters:

Home!
5:45 AM Jul 30th from txt

* * *

Several days later, I'd woken up and recovered enough to start thinking about the motorcycle again.

After a few hours of dorking around, checking for cracks in wiring insulation and the like, I walked over to a computer, and typed in "rain SV650." Behold. Entire on-line forums, discussing my exact make and model of motorcycle, who had also lost a cylinder in heavy rain, and what to do about it.

Pyramid Plastics out of the UK makes this nifty "Fenda Extenda." This will be one of my winter projects.

It turns out that the SV has a relatively short front fender. In a normal rainy ride, this isn't a problem; in a several-hour downpour, the shortened front fender allows enough water to spray up, force its way through the radiator, past two sets of seals, and fill up the spark plug well on the front cylinder, shorting out the spark. They realize that even this is possible, so they include a small drain hole to make sure it doesn't do this. It was crusted over with road grime. I took a small straw and poked at the drain hole, which emptied a surprising amount of fluid onto the carpet in my shed.

I fired it up. It ran.

I ♥ ME (AKA Vacation, Part 6)

There's a lot to be said for New England, particularly its smallness. Doing something a few states over is quite a drive when you're out west; in New England, it's just a fact of daily living. So I figured that if I was going to be up here where the states were small, I might as well collect one that I'd never been to before: Maine. We left the rest of the family with my in-laws, and headed out for a nice romantic adventure, just Deborah and I, on the motorcycle.

OK, so we were total tourists. We went up coastal Route 1. We saw lighthouses, even if they were just off in the distance. We ate lobster. We understood why people like lobster. We flirted with each other shamelessly. We got lost on the way home, but we found ourselves again.

Bite me.

Up the Mountain... and Down (AKA Vacation, part 5)

One of the many activities Deborah had planned for our stay here in New Hampshire was to go and climb Mt. Monadnock.

Now, I need to back up and tell you another story. Several years ago, before we were married (I guess that'd be 12 or 13 years now), we visited New Hampshire, and one of Deborah's relatives invited us on a hike with her kids. I went, of course, happy to do some real hiking. I was disappointed — the only thing they could have done to make the trail easier would have been to pave it. They had talked it up like it was some great hike. I was unimpressed.

So, fast-forward to the present, and everyone around me is talking up this great hike we were going to go on. I kinda shrugged, and figured it would be fine for our group. The kids could do a few miles on those trails, sure. Might wear 'em out a bit. We had a grandmother, a three-year-old, a five-year-old, two women carrying babies (Deborah, externally, in a wrap; Sara, internally, at 8 months) plus Paul and I. Totally appropriate choice for an afternoon hike.

Fiona and Aiden, while they were still well-rested and clean.

It was once we got there that I started to realize that this was not the same hike. In the restrooms at the trailhead, there were signs all over that, in essence, said, "please arrange for your own rescue." Hmm. Either they were being overly dramatic, or maybe this wasn't the pleasant walk I'd imagined...

Chips for the chipmunk? Chips? Chips? This little beggar was scurrying about under our picnic table while we ate prior to our ascent.

It started out quite pleasant, a nice path through the forest, like I'd imagined. Soon the trail started going from roots and logs, to large rocks, and on into the range of "you've got to be kidding me." I fancy myself a hiker, but even I had to stop at some of these and figure out how I was going to get up. After a while, the question was no longer how I was going to get up, but how Aiden was going to do it.

Deborah wanted me to get a shot of these cool tree roots.

Aiden utterly amazed me. He's three. Three! And he went all the way up the side of that mountain. Teenagers coming down after abandoning the summit attempt gawked at him, gave him wild blueberries, and kept asking how old he was. Aiden was bemused by the attention. Still three, guys, same as the last time you asked.

I can still hear myself saying, for the thousandth time, "Look for the small steps, Aiden, look for the small steps..."

We went on like that for hours. I was a bit of a funny sight, as I was carrying one of the backpacks. Mine had eight bottles of water, some snacks, jackets and sweatshirts for everyone in case it got cold, and, poking out the top, a box of tissues. I forget why we decided to bring the latter, but it was an inspired choice; I got very good at reaching over my shoulder and whipping out a tissue for anyone who needed it. To my sweaty regret, we didn't need the jackets, and we needed a lot more water than we brought.

While searching for handholds, beware of slugs that look exactly like the things you want to hold on to. Deborah missed this one. Well, she didn't exactly miss it, and was grateful for having some tissues handy...

We had a break, snack, and photo op before our attempt at the summit.

Finally, the terrain flattened out for a bit, and we could see the summit. It was encouraging, and it was heartbreaking. We were still having fun, and we wanted to get all the way to the top since we were so close.

How is it that there are ponds and streams on top of a mountain? I'm not sure how that works, but the higher the got, the more streams we found. Where was it all coming from?

Risanna was a pretty happy camper throughout the whole climb, even if she didn't exactly make things easy for Deborah.

Aiden was slowing down, and I stuck with him as my climbing buddy while the others got a good distance ahead of us. I was getting a bit worried about this. My instincts kept telling me to head back down with Aiden, but person after person coming down assured me that we were almost there, and that it would be a shame to miss the summit. I asked Aiden, and to my amazement, he wanted to keep going. So we did.

See how far we've gone? I was so proud of my little guy.

The last hundred vertical feet were more than I thought Aiden could handle, up or down, but fortunately Deborah, Sara, and Grandma Renaud were camped out below it on a nice overlook, and Deborah artfully told Aiden that he'd made it all the way to the side of the top. He plunked down for a well-deserved rest.

Aiden the conqueror.

I scrambled up for a look from the very top. It was amazing to look out and see hawks wheeling below you. This is what makes mountain climbing worthwhile.

It was both serene and surreal at the summit. Watching birds from above, and at the same time, hearing teenagers remark about how good the cell phone reception was up here.

Ya-ta! Paul, the Triumphant.

Fiona made it all the way to the summit... in cowboy boots.

We reveled in making it to the top for a while, but it was getting late, and we still needed to get back to the car before dark. So we heeded the advice of the ranger at the beginning, and took the White Cross trail down. It was about at this point that we all realized something significant: going down was harder than coming up, not only because of the perspective, and the tendency of a body in motion to stay in motion, but also because we were tired.

The steps seemed a lot bigger going down.

The look on Paul's face pretty much says it all.

We plunged downwards as fast and as safely as we could go, but it wasn't enough. My role shifted from getting Aiden where he needed to go (often by carrying him) to helping Deborah, who was steadily losing it. As dusk began to settle, Sara took Fiona on ahead, and I asked Paul to get Aiden off the mountain any way he could. He pulled his hand-crank flashlight out of the pack, and forged on. It was just me, Deborah, Risanna, and my mother-in-law left. At this point, the baby was crying, and Deborah was worn out and at the point of tears herself, but I coaxed her on, trying to squeeze as much mileage as possible out of the quickly dwindling daylight. I felt badly about it, but a break now would all but ensure that we wouldn't get off before dark.

Dark descended anyway.

We walked into the darkness as long as we could, trying to discern the path by the shapes around us, but that strategy failed soon enough, as well. We came to a standstill; we couldn't see where were were going, and we certainly couldn't see what we were stepping on. We already had some tweaked ankles and a sore rear end from missteps. What were we going to do?

Right about then, we heard voices, and called out to them. A few minutes later, small glowing squares started bouncing down to us in the darkness. Three college students were making their way down the trail as well, lighting the way with the screens on their iPods. Someone produced a working cell phone, and the Rangers were called. Remarkably, one of the college students knew the trail very well, and was able to tell them exactly where we were. The rangers sounded relieved — we were only an hour from the gates by now, not all the way at the summit, as they'd previously heard, and confirmed that Fiona and Sara had made it out just as total darkness had fallen. Half an hour later, a new flashlight bobbed up the path towards us, and the Ranger on duty met us with a great deal of relief all around.

Once we were all back at the cars and mostly rehydrated, we started swapping stories about our separate adventures coming down. Sara and Fiona made it down in good time, and Fiona even seemed to have some energy left. Paul, with many pauses to rewind his flashlight, had basically carried Aiden off the mountain. I asked him to kneel, and I took my staff and knighted him for his heroism.

I've made a few notes to myself for next time we go hiking: take more food, more water, flashlight, a working cell phone, and start a lot earlier in the day!

Then again, what's a vacation without a little adventure...?

Zipamos

Just before we left on vacation, one last, sad duty had to be performed: the dismantling of The Cart. It had been breaking down as fast as any of us could fix it; even my father-in-law gave up on it. He kept that thing running for years — decades, even — but time and entropy had caught up with The Cart. And so, the inventor called his creation home, and sent a list of parts he wanted off of it for other projects. Removing the motor and transmission felt like removing the heart from an old, dear friend so that some stranger could live.

It was somehow fitting that I should be disassembling it by Bree, who had one wheel in the junkyard, but now has a buyer. Or, at least, a buyer who's 50% paid up.

Even so, I wasn't terribly upset; the Cart had been good for us, but new and better things would come along. That wasn't so much a statement of faith as it was of fact — weeks earlier, I bought a trailer kit, and had it shipped directly to my father-in-law in New Hampshire.

We specifically took Paul's car for the trip, because it has a towing hitch. (The fact that it also had working air conditioning didn't hurt, either.)

A little bit more back, a bit more, a bit more...

So, what did we put on it? A whole 'nother car!

This is a Bombardier Class-E electric car. It used to be my in-law's main vehicle while they lived in Ecuador, but now that they're back in New Hampshire, it's a good deal less practical. But it's perfect for Winona Lake! So, even though it's technically not "ours," we brought it back on more-or-less permanent loan.

NEVs (Neighborhood Electric Vehicle) have a lot going for them: by Federal law, as long as they are solely electric, don't exceed 25 mph, and weigh less than a certain amount, they don't need to be titled or insured, and don't require a license to drive. They're pretty much ideal for short commutes, too; by most accounts, you have to drive a gasoline-powered car at least 4 miles to sufficiently warm it up so that you don't rust out your exhaust system, among other things. Most of Winona Lake/Warsaw is closer than that! It's certainly generated a lot of interest when I take it places — so much so that I'm probably going to print out a FAQ sheet for people who are really interested.

It took us a little while to decide how to refer to it. "The Bombardier" was too long, as was "the electric car," and "the cart" already meant a different vehicle. Finally, Deborah was inspired by the door closures, and called it the Zipper. It fit.

In the meantime, we've been using a new word around the house: zipar ("to zip"), which I conjugate as a Spanish verb — zipo would be "I zip," zipamos would be "we zip," and... well, here, how about I just give you the chart?

Zipar — Present Tense

	Singular	Plural
1st. person	(yo) zipo	(nosotros) zipamos
2nd person (familiar)	(tú) zipas	(vosotros) zipáis
2nd person (formal)	(usted) zipa	(ustedes) zipan
3rd person	(él) zipa	(ellos) zipan

(If you'd like to take this to its logical extreme, you can get a complete set of conjugations for zipar here.)

So now when you're in Winona Lake, and you see a tiny little white car zip by... you know who it is!

Cute, eh? And the car's not bad, either!

The Horse Knows the Way (AKA Vacation, part 4)

Theoretically, one of our main activities that we had planned was horseback riding lessons. In practice, it only took up an hour or two per day, but it was fun, and we all learned quite a bit.

Each lesson started with about half an hour of learning to take care of the horses, a process that felt a lot like fine woodworking. You start off by rubbing the horse down with a hard rubber sanding block er, curry brush, going over their fur in circles. (It's really quite surprising home much hair and dirt comes off when you do this!) Then, you follow up with a stiff scrub brush, and finally a soft one. Mentally, I was thinking sandpaper grits, and figured a nice coat of lacquer was next...

Aiden, you get the bottom part of the horse. I'll get the top.

Paul and Deborah learn how to clean out a horse's hoof. Most of the hoof is hard, but you have to be gentle with the "frog" in the center.

See? Look at that beautiful grain. Wouldn't that make a pretty coffee table?

With the exception of Risanna, everyone in the family got in some riding time. Aiden was a bit young to really reach the stirrups or control the horse, but we gave him a little ride around the ring a few times before he headed home with Grandma Renaud for a snack and a nap.

How many people does it take to give one boy a ride on a horse? Three, apparently: one to lead the horse, and one on each side to catch him in case he falls off.

Fiona, by contrast, was roughly the same age that our trainers, Lindsay and Julia, started riding, and they taught her accordingly.

What is it with young girls and horses, anyway?

While Fiona was off on Nellie (whoa, Nellie!) I was at the other end with a feisty horse named Bubbles. It took some getting used to, but I apparently caught on very quickly. I was puzzled by their amazement; all I can figure all the motorcycling I've done helped somehow. Mostly, I followed the a few simple principles of driving any vehicle:

1. Trust the vehicle.
2. Look where you want to go.
3. Give subtle, but firm inputs.
4. When in doubt, accelerate.

Apparently, this works on horses as much as it does on their mechanical brethren — and works fairly well in the rest of life, as well.

Lindsay: "Are you sore at all? Do you need a break?"
Me: "Nah, I'm fine"
Lindsay (surprised): "Really?"
Me: "Well, I just rode here from Indiana on a motorcycle. I'm sorta used to it..."

A great deal of credit, of course, goes to our quiet trainer, Lindsay Labrie, who, I learned much later, is a three-time world champion in the very things we were learning. If her assistant's mother hadn't mentioned it, I might not have known.

When Fiona's and my time was up, Paul and Deborah came out to have a turn. Paul in particular made a point of listening to all the instruction I was given, and trying to do those things from the beginning.

Paul looked right at home on a horse.

Deborah, a little less so at first, but improved greatly as the week went on.

Later in the week, we also went on a trail ride, at a different stable, and discovered how much of a difference the horse makes. Previously, trail rides were the only kind of riding I'd done. I got a semi-retired Belgian draft horse ("Sandy") that resolutely knew the way, and walked in it. After scarcely a week, I missed the control that I'd learned with the other horses — a lot of what I'd learned apparently applied to Bubbles, who responded right away to subtle cues... not this horse! One trains the horse as much as the rider, I suppose...

Anyway, we had fun. it wasn't cheap, but we all felt like we accomplished something!

Heading Out for Adventure (AKA Vacation, Part 1)

I did end up taking Route 6, as planned. Mostly. I probably should have taken it more than I did. And for all my high-tech, eye-in-the-sky planning, I've learned a few things:

1. There's no replacement for having a real map; and
2. There's no replacement for actually knowing where you're going.

How did I learn these things? Ah... well, read on.

I'm a stop-and-smell-the-roses kind of guy when I'm on a motorcycle (or, more accurately, photograph the roses...) and a great lover of little side-trips. One I hadn't planned on was the Mid-America Windmill Museum in Kendallville, IN. It's one of those things where you see the sign, and say, "A What Museum? I have to see this." So see it I did, although I limited myself to a 10-minute stroll among a surprising variety of wind-powered machinery.

This is a Robertson post windmill, so named because the whole thing rotates on a post to take advantage of the prevailing winds. If the winds change, go out, raise the stairs, and use the telephone-pole-like arm to turn the entire building, grinding stones and all. This is claimed to be a replica of the first windmill built in America.

Back on 6, I motored on at a lively pace between small towns, and a more prudent one in them. Some people don't like going through small towns on trips — I don't mind. It breaks up the monotony, and makes gas & Gatorade stops pretty easy. And besides, you get to see neat little bits like windmill museums, or the sign for Christs's Church in Butler, IN, where skateboarders are welcome. Hey, that's my kind of church! For all the potential deviations, though, I had planned my ride, and I was sticking to the plan. For every town where Rt. 6 didn't pass straight through, I had a printed detail map, so I knew exactly what to expect.

That didn't help me much when I got to Bowling Green, OH, where I was to meet an old college friend for lunch, and realized that I hadn't written down their house number! My printout had a picture of what Google Street View thought their house looked like, and I was going house-by-house, comparing the picture to the house. Close, but no banana! Fortunately, my friends saw me and hailed me wildly, which I missed because I still had my earplugs in, but the folks having a yard sale across the street noticed and pointed them out to me.

I had to laugh when they got out the fixings for lunch: turkey and salami sandwiches with provolone and mustard on Oatnut bread. In other words, the exact combination that I had in my saddlebags for my supper! It's a good combination, though, so I didn't mind one bit.

Happy and full, I hit the road again, and turned up my tunes. The iPod Deborah gave me for my birthday was just made for trips like this, and I'd found some combination earplugs/headphones that did a nice job of cutting out the wind roar and delivering my hand-picked-for-this-trip playlist. Music is a wonderful thing to make the miles go away. I'd started the day out under brooding, gray skies to Stryper's Abyss, but by Ohio, I was into the U2 and Vigilantes of Love, and riding away from the storm that never dripped on me even once.

Marblehead was my only major side-trip, one that I'd left the option of cutting out if the weather had been bad. I came across the Marblehead lighthouse while I was researching routes, and figured I had to go see it, if only to tease my friend Nathan, who says there's really no scenery in northern Ohio. Nope, no scenery here!

Pennsylvania welcomed me, which was nice. Ohio hadn't bothered. This was the only place where I started regretting my decision to take 6; roads that had been posted for 55 or 60 mph in Indiana and Ohio were marked for 30 in Pennsylvania. Fortunately, that didn't last more than 40 miles, but the reduced pace was enough to drive me crazy. It didn't help that it was getting on towards evening by now, when I'd planned to complete the entire day's leg by daylight.

Someone got very creative with the fence for the highway department in Franklin (?), PA. This mural stretched for about 200 feet, and is made up entirely of reflective road signs of every type.

I wanted to stop and patronize this roadside ice-cream stand, if only for having the best name I've ever seen. But darkness was falling, and I made do with just a picture...

I still had most of a state to go, and I was starting to wish I hadn't taken all those long stops. I pushed, promising myself some of those sandwiches once it got dark.

One of the pieces of equipment I bought specifically with this trip in mind was a new jacket. A good riding jacket can be a lifesaver, but black leather in summer often prompts riders to choose between comfort and safety. This, on the other hand, was a ventilated mesh — tough fibers that would hold together for protection, but enough of an open weave that wind just passes right through. Truly delightful in hot weather. The irony, then, was that I hadn't experienced any hot weather all day. By the time I ran out of daylight high in the Alleghenies, I was shivering uncontrollably.

At that point, the angels showed up.

Now, I don't know what your mysterious helpers look like, but mine come with cigars and piercings, and and totally understand the allure of a good backroad. After outlining a route that would shave more than an hour off the rest of my trip, I received a warning I'd never gotten before: "Well, take it easy, and watch out for deer. And bears." Bears? Hmm. So in addition to everything else, look for black things in the dark...

One of the landmarks on my new route was this "big-ass refinery" which was to show up on my left, couldn't miss it. They weren't kidding. You'd never know it from the surrounding countryside that this was here — but I came around a curve, and there it was, the size of a whole city, with as many lights and people.

I rolled into Coudersport (which I pronounced incorrectly; I pronounce unfamiliar words it as if they were German — i.e., Coo-der-shport; Deborah does this too, but tries it in Spanish. The correct, but terribly plain pronunciation is "Cowder's Port.") around midnight, the last town before my departure onto Rt. 44, and set up a mobile command center in the town's central gas station while I sucked down a large coffee and took care of various bits of business while I thawed.

Mind if I stand around for half an hour? No? How about camp out under the hot-air hand-dryers in the men's room? I was frozen, but finally had the bright idea to don my rain gear over my regular clothes for the rest of the trip. It helped quite a bit.

Paul, Deborah, and the kids were nearly at the hotel; I had more than a hundred miles to go. The map suggested that I could cut off 30 miles by taking this little squiggly road... I took it. That decision launched me into "unintended adventure" mode. 44 may have been more direct, but it was at the expense of having any straight stretches, level road, side markings, lights, and anything beyond minimal signage. A regular roller-coaster of a road, in the dark. With fog. I was forcibly reminded of my 2005 trip to Deal's gap, where my last stretch was the infamous Dragon itself, at 1 a.m., on a fully loaded bike. It was later than that now... why did I always leave the most interesting roads for last?

I was in utter blackness whenever I pulled over to answer or make a call. The little LED flashlight I normally keep in my pocket got plenty of use as I tried to read my maps and give directions...

In the midst of all this, I was getting increasingly desperate calls from Deborah, who could not find the hotel. I talked her through it again and again, but to no avail — turns out those very careful directions were also very wrong; the exit wasn't even off the correct highway.

Come on, guys. I don't do detours at three in the morning.

A good seven or eight hours after I'd planned on arriving at the hotel, I was done with the roller-coaster (I averaged 60 mpg down the mountain...) and was hitting detours, conferring with construction workers for directions. Deborah and Paul had finally found the hotel, and had called in the directions to me in the brief moments when I had cell phone coverage. My room number arrived as a very brief text. By 4:30, as it was starting to get light, I finally stumbled into the hotel, and slept like the dead.

A good vacation involves plenty of adventure, right?