Leg 9 - Indiana-Colorado, or Back in the U-S-A, July, 2014

RIBBON OF HIGHWAY
LEG 9

Indiana-Colorado

Or

“Back in the U-S-A”

July, 2014

Friday, July 11

Indiana to Illinois

At long last, after several “detours” through Europe, I was resuming my motorcycle odyssey back in the USA, just like the Bruce Springsteen song says. Only you know what? It wasn’t a Bruce Springsteen song. I never liked Springsteen’s music all that much, but this song I did like – until I realized that Linda Ronstadt recorded it way before he did, back in 1978 - and she wasn’t the first, either! Nope, this was a song by the man with dirty guitar, Chuck Berry, in 1959!

Oh well, oh well, I feel so good today,
We touched ground on an international runway
Jet propelled back home, from over the seas to the U. S. A.

New York, Los Angeles, oh, how I yearned for you
Detroit, Chicago, Chattanooga, Baton Rouge
Let alone just to be at my home back in ol' St. Lou.

Did I miss the skyscrapers, did I miss the long freeway?
From the coast of California to the shores of Delaware Bay
You can bet your life I did, till I got back to the U. S. A.

Looking hard for a drive-in, searching for a corner café
Where hamburgers sizzle on an open grill night and day
Yeah, and a juke-box jumping with records like in the U.S.A.

Well, I'm so glad I'm livin' in the U.S.A.
Yes. I'm so glad I'm livin' in the U.S.A.
Anything you want, we got right here in the U.S.A.

Seems right to begin a ride passing by Chicago on the way to ol’ St. Lou. I only had a short ride planned today because I was taking a passenger along who was a little dubious about the whole thing. I had taken her for a few test rides, some in my 1975 BMW in the side car, some on my new Yamaha FJR, and Scoobius McDubious seemed to okay with it. But this would be different, once we started there would be no coming back home in an hour or two. It would be the first of many days in the saddle, or in her case, in the tank bag.  Little Dog aka Scoobs  aka Scoober Doober aka Fat Rat fka  Duchess was about to share a new adventure, and don yet a new name: Moto Scoob. The second reason I didn’t want to go too long this first day was that I was riding a new bike. After having to replace the clutch 3 times in 5 years, twice in Indiana and once in Massachusetts, and once having the engine fade and refuse to move because of some sort of collapsed float inside the gas tank (thankfully near home), and the capper was  when I ran out of gas miles from anywhere in the Adirondacks. I said to hell with BMW’s famous reliability and sold the K bike. When she ran she was a beauty, but she was way too temperamental – and super expensive to repair. I bought a rice burner, a Yamaha 1100 cc  FJR. This would be my first big road trip on the FJR and the first big road trip with Moto Scoob balanced on the fuel tank. I also added an aftermarket trunk, not as large as the stock trunk on the BMW, but still I expected it would change the handling, especially in cross winds. I had also swapped the stock sport windshield with a slightly larger touring windscreen, again not as large as the BMW’s.  I didn’t know exactly what it would be like in long hours at highway speeds, or how it would protect the Scoob.  So, I planned to take my time and get used to all these new handling nuances with my little buddy up front, and see how long she could fare well up there.

The K1200 and the FJR were very comparable in size, but the FJR was slightly lighter, sat a little bit lower and definitely handled better in the twisties.  Both had 4 cylinders and ran extremely smoothly, but the FJR seat was firmer and narrower than the K1200, not as comfortable in the long hours. Despite its smaller engine displacement, the FJR produced more torque and horse power, more get up and go, especially when I switched the engine to sport mode.  There was a distinct difference in performance between touring and sport modes, and it was a great feature to be able to choose either literally at the flip of a switch. When I sent a picture of it to friend and fellow biker – a Harley  guy – he wrote back, “Christ on a cracker, it looks like it’s going 100 when it’s sitting still!” Stylin’. So far, the FJR had been very reliable, which you would expect from a Yamaha platform that they had kept essentially unaltered for almost 10 years now.

So on a July morning before it got real hot, I picked up the Scoob, folded her front legs down and stuffed her head into the tank bag, patted her butt in and zipped it up around her tail, and we headed out. I was going to avoid interstates and Friday afternoon traffic around Chicago, and try to find some interesting route across the  flatlands of Central Illinois. I turned West on US 20 just south of my house, skirted the south side of South Bend, and stayed on 20 until we reached State Road 2 by Rolling Prairie, then took it SW down to Valparaiso. SR2 is an idyllic Indiana farm road, flat but winding through green, bucolic Indiana farmland, peaceful pastures with parked John Deere tractors, interspersed with streams.  At Valparaiso we joined US30W, and from there it was four lane divided highway all the way to the Land of Lincoln. We were headed for the historic Lincoln Highway. The Lincoln Highway was the first paved  coast-to-coast highway, conceived in 1913 when all roads  were still dirt. The Illinois section runs from US30 at the Indiana line, intersects the old North-South Dixie Highway in Chicago Heights (now Illinois Route 1), and continues all the way to Fulton on the Mississippi River. A lot of history on this road. On the part I traveled not much scenic beauty.

As we stopped at a traffic light near Hobart, Indiana I was reminded of one of my first cross country trips, from Ann Arbor to San Francisco in the summer of 1971 on a chopped 450cc twin Honda. I had extended the front forks 6 inches, customized the paint job with some psychedelic purple haze, added some highway pegs, a sissy bar, a custom seat, headlight and other details, but no matter what I did to that bike, it always looked a little squat and chubby. I named it Hobart. I have no idea where the name came from, it just seemed to fit. At 450cc it was a little small for a cross country trip even in those days when it was considered a medium sized machine, but it was what I could afford. In today’s motorcycle world, I’m not sure it would even be considered a starter size.  Well, I made it all the way there and back with no problem, which is a lot more than I can say for my partner Robi’s Triumph which blew up as were crossing the Mohave Desert outside of Kingman. But that’s another story.

As we sat at the traffic light south of Hobart, I discussed with Scoob whether we should stop to take a walk in the footsteps of Jesus at the Passion of Christ Shrine. I mean, they had over 40 full size bronze figures! Scoob was disappointed but we motored on.

Once we reached Merrillville, 30W became commercial. 15 miles of heavy traffic, shopping malls, big  box stores, hotels and fast food restaurants. The closer we got to the Illinois line, the more clogged and the more upscale the road became, as the urban planning hierarchy of  the roadside businesses gradually switched from national brand chain stores to fancy local boutique shops and kitschy ale houses in red brick mini-malls. Just before the state line there was a concentration of border stores advertising cheap cigarettes, gasoline and liquor.

Then bam, we crossed into Illinois and everything abruptly changed. We passed from prosperity to poverty at the railroad tracks. From Lynwood into Chicago Heights it was all unpainted broken board fences, old brick buildings with plywood over the windows, scrap yards, recycling centers, and Soul Food Buffet, $9.95. Billboards advertising lawyers, everywhere: suing people must be the one path to prosperity in Illinois – that and the road to Indiana.

There is no place on US 30 west of Valparaiso all the way to Joliet where I would want to live. Chicago Heights goes on and on, and it’s a shit hole.  A town I had never heard of, Bateson or Batesville, so brand  new that it didn’t appear on my 2015 Road Atlas, , seemed as large or larger than Chicago Heights. Suburban development is  swallowing up farmland by the Caterpillar bucket load, replacing it with condo complexes and new subdivisions. As we searched for a place to have lunch there, I realized that meal time was going to prove a little challenging with the Scoob, as she was persona non grata in restaurants. In the Bateson 30W construction zone it was difficult to find any place to park that offered shade. Finally I passed a Wendy’s which had some bushes screening the highway at one corner of its parking lot. The Wendy’s turned out to be in New Lenox, I only know that because it said so on my bill – all the characterless slurbs run together there. Whichever town we were in, we spread out on the grass in the shade of a crab apple tree.  Scoob greedily lapped ice water from a styro-foam cup and we shared a burger (Scoob doesn’t care for fries). I laid back and dozed for a moment before I realized I had to go find her to keep her from wandering into traffic.  She had wandered a few yards away under some of the arborvitae, and chased her back away from the highway. Back she scooted, tail and ears down.

We traded US 30 for US 6 at Joliet. We rode along the Illinois and Michigan Canal State Trail, the Des Plaines and then the Illinois River. It’s amazing and ugly.  Joliet is the heartland of American industry. The road t the southwest is solid with huge plants and signs proclaiming the names of icons of American industrial strength, Caterpillar, Johns Manville, Crane, then chemical company after chemical company, all hugging the riverfront. What is not developed is for sale, signs reading “Zoned Industrial.” Right after some massive building under construction near Morris, the Illinois River Road drops into a wide valley carved by the ancient river meandering across the prairie. The road stays on a bluff above the flood plain before it finally dips down to pass through quiet little river towns with Indian names like Seneca and Ottawa, or names certainly from the French explorers like Marseilles, towns little changed for a hundred years.  None of them more than one Chicago block wide, mostly modest little frame houses but well taken care of. It’s a different world. The industrial plants a few minutes back could be a million miles away.

At Buffalo Rock State Park, advertised to have scenic overlooks of the Illinois River from its high bluffs. We pull in for a look and a walk. As we park, a mother with a car load of kids stops e right next to us. The all want see what comes of out of my tank bag. Squeals of delight when out pops Moto Scoob. Scoob was delighted too, turning and jumping excitedly and impatiently while I attached her leash, then Scoobing around happily with her ears up and tail curled, sniffing at every bush to see if anybody she knew had been by recently, then leaving a little of her DNA before moving on to the next tree a few yards down the trail. She had been curled up for almost two hours on the tank, so I let her lead me all around Buffalo Rock. The river overlook is impressive, you can see a long ways up the river, but you can’t change the fact that it’s basically a brown, ugly, muddy river. I’ve seen nicer county parks in Wisconsin.

After a while, I packed Scoob back in her bag and we headed further down and across the river to Starved Rock State Park, our real objective for today. It’s famous for “churning rapids” and bald eagles and “a tall shelf of pale sandstone collared by woods that color up gorgeously in the fall…its bluffs cut by 18 canyons reaching to the riverbank. The sky up above is framed by canyon rims like a blue arrowhead, its edges feathered by pine and cedar.” Give the author a medal for marketing. All I can say is go in the early spring or the fall, not in July. The striated rock cliffs were cool, but the river front was a massive parking lot with a small “beach” fronting water I wouldn’t swim in on a bet. Maybe I didn’t give it a fair shot because I didn’t to hike any of the canyons as I had intended to do, but I was so unimpressed I lost my motivation to do so. It seemed run down from overuse, maybe from catering to hordes of urban refugees from Chicago. The Starved Rock Lodge built in the 1930’s by the Civilian Conservation Corps looked very nice, but offered only 22 rooms and did not allow pets. Not for us.  I gave Scoob another break to run around, and then we left, looking for gas. My gauge said we were running on empty.

No problem, the little artsy-craftsy burg of North Utica (I haven’t a clue where Utica is!) was just north of the river and catered to tourists, surely it would have a gas station. Not. After several circuits around the town looking for a friendly pump, I gave up and went into a small corner shop on the main street to ask where I might find some gas. Nowhere in Utica. Really. Closest pace is several miles up the hill, at the I80 interchange. I was a little concerned as I was not at all sure whether or not I would make it that far – but I did. While pumping gas, a young man pulled up in a late model pick-up truck. He started admiring the FJR, and then offered to trade me, straight up. Moto Scoob protested, so I politely declined.

Next to find dinner and our place to stay for the night. Lodging is also something of a challenge when traveling with a four legged friend. I had accumulated plenty of Honors status and points to stay free at the Hilton chain, so we went to the closest Hampton Inn, in Ottawa. Their website d said nothing about pets, one way or the other, and after my experience with the gas station in North Utica and a day on the road I didn’t want to be wandering around the countryside looking for “pet friendly” lodging, so I decided don’t ask, don’t tell was a good policy.  ;-)  They didn’t ask me whether I had a pet with me, so I didn’t tell them.  They probably wouldn’t expect one on a motorcycle. I smuggled Scoob in the side door, and all was well for the night!

Saturday, July 12

Illinois to Missouri

Crapola. Saturday morning  brought rain. I dawdled around until 8:30, hoping it would clear. It didn’t, but it wasn’t pouring.  I could see the end of the front sitting on the horizon like a clouded  grey ridge, and decided to chase it. The weather map showed more moving in from the north, but clearer to the south.

 It worked. After a few miles of mists and showers, I broke t through into banks of low hanging but dry clouds on the other side. I turned south at Spring Valley to make good my escape on Illinois 29, the Illinois Rover Road, “Route of the Voyageurs.” 29 hugs the west bank of the Hennepin and Hopper Lakes, 2,600 acres of revitalized wetlands, to downtown Peoria where they have a Saturday morning farmers market. That sounded cool , that’s where  we headed. 29 was a pleasant route of gentle curves along wooded hillsides, deep green from all the rain, overlooking the lakes and river valley. Very pretty. Big grain elevators standing tall against backdrops of wave after wave of deep green corn. Buffalo ranches. More little river towns. No chain stores. Shops were still all closed. At Henry, the county park was stirring. National Tractor Pull and a rodeo today! I wanted to stay and watch, but knew nothing would really be happening for hours.  I pulled off the main road to explore the town, and fond a lovely municipal pool on the bluff overlooking the river. Locals were just opening up a small farmers market in town park, after the rain let up.  A sign on an ice cream stand read, “Enjoy National Ice Cream Month.”

We crossed Indian Town Road, Hardscrabble Road and Yankee Lane. It was about 9:15. We had the roads to ourselves, hardly any traffic.  The pace of Saturday in the country was obviously more laid back than Saturday in the city. 20 minutes later and closer to Peoria, the world was awake and light traffic zipped everywhere.

Despite its reputation as the prototype of nowhere, Peoria looked like a very nice town. But believe it or not, I got lost looking for the farmer’s market!  Never did find it. I didn’t want to follow 29 an further, as it crossed to the East side of the Illinois river here, and I wanted to continue down the west side to the Dickson Indian Mounds museum. I found the 29 bridge across the river, but I couldn’t find route 24, although I did learn from the road signs that Peoria’s favorite sons were Richard Pryor and Dan Fogelberg. Fancy that, a famous black comedian and a white rocker, both from the capitol of square. Well, I followed my nose, hugged the west side of the river, and eventually at the edge of town found myself on route 29. Pretty soon we were heading through tunnels of corn, and as the sun came out, it became really muggy. Pretty soon we were riding through the Chautauqua National Wildlife Refuge, looking over miles of marshland filled with all kinds of waterfowl. Particularly interesting was the flock of buzzards studying us as they perched in the trees along the side road we traversed along a levee that led across the Spoon River Nature Conservancy to the Indian Mounds. It was beautiful, hard to believe this was the same river system flanked by all the industry upriver at Joliet.

The Mounds museum was wonderful. It was housed in a magnificent three story modern  building made of stone, set into a hill in a park like setting overlooking the Spoon River Valley. The exhibits of the ancient Indian mound builders were fascinating, particularly as I had visited the Indian mounds in North Georgia in 2012. The two ancient cultures, separated by some 700 miles of trackless wilderness, had to have been connected. Before leaving, I asked for direction to Havana, where I hoped grab some lunch and pick up highway 100. Glad I asked. For once, I lucked into somebody, a woman no less, who actually  could give good road directions. She politely informed that 100 did not pass through Havana, although that was the most m likely place to find a place to eat, and gave me easy to follow directions to each.

Havana was reached by a high one lane bridge across the river.  I enjoyed a  chocolate malt and a chili dog at Peaches, a little road side stand a block from the river. They did not know it was National Ice Cream Month, but were pleased to find it out! While Scoob and I were stretching out in the sun on the porch, a couple with a young Lab and a boy parked their pick-up truck next to my bike. We struck up a conversation about dogs and motorcycles, and he kindly took our picture in front of Peaches before we left.

It was getting warm and we had a long way to go. I was planning on taking Illinois 100 the rest of the way to the Mississippi , and crossing by one of the bridges or ferries just north of St. Louis, to stop in historic St. Charles , Missouri for the night.

It didn’t turn out that way. We made really good time until we were south of I-72, several miles past a wide spot named Detroit, when the road was blocked and traffic (what there was of it) was backed up because an underground  gas line had been ruptured by some some bohunk  and his tractor. After some time waiting and sweating in the middle of flat, hot, open farmland, and a little conversation about dogs riding motorcycles, I asked the road guards how long it would be until it would be safe to pass. That led to a discussion about alternate routes to St. Charles. It turned out I was really lucky that the gas line had ruptured, because they informed me all the bridges between here and St. Louis were closed, and all the ferries shut down due to extensive flooding caused by the rains I had skirted that morning. Long story short, I turned back north to Detroit, turned east past a one or two building crossroads called Florence, and took my first right after re-crossing the Illinois River on a named but un-numbered secondary road. The road guards had assured me it was a good paved road, and it was. Smooth, straight, and empty. I had miles of visibility, was way behind schedule, and  the sun was baking. So I kicked it. Let’s just say I broke the speed limit. A lot. Stopped at a little tavern in Eldred and gulped down two giant lemonades and gave Scoob some ice water. Spent the time searching for pet friendly lodging in St. Charles. There was none. Not a one. Town too tony for hairy guests. Found a couple of apps on my smart phone that specialized in pet friendly lodging, and after some more searching and a few phone calls, made a reservation at a Homewood Suites in a place called Chesterfield, maybe 10 miles south of St. Charles. Then because I was still behind schedule, I headed for the Interstate, crossed the Mississippi on I-270 and in the late afternoon skirted a suburb nobody outside of St. Louis had ever heard of, named Ferguson. A few weeks later Ferguson would become world famous for race riots after the shooting of the “Gentle Giant” 280 pound “Hands Up Don’t Shoot” Michael Brown – who it turned out was an 18 year old punk who had robbed and pushed around a shop owner literally one half his size just a few minutes before Brown was killed while assaulting the police officer who was trying to arrest him – while  several eye witnesses said and indisputable forensic evidence proved his hands could not have been up because they were outstretched toward the police officer, trying to take his gun. A police officer who had a battered eye and bruises on the back of his head where the Gentle Giant had been gently pounding him into the pavement.

All that was to happen on a Saturday exactly five weeks after I rode by Ferguson on my way to Chesterfield, where Scoobs was so welcomed by the friendly hotel staff that wanted to pat her that she was scared and ran down the hall in the opposite direction; where I sipped bourbon while I peacefully shared the swimming pool with two cute little black girls and their mother; and where I later walked up the hill without thought of a police escort to Charlie Gitto’s for a fabulous Italian dinner.  That’s the America I know and love. Ferguson is a foreign land.

Sunday July 13

Missouri

We were crossing all of Missouri today, with several places I wanted to stop along the way, so we had to get up and go early if we were to get to Kansas City at a reasonable hour. I had plenty of coffee and a mouthful or two of the Homewood Suite’s free breakfast to hold me over, gassed up and struck out to find Daniel Boone’s home. Boone is a forgotten hero to many Americans in these days of politically correct education. He gained fame as an Indiana fighter who led the flood of American immigration through the Cumberland Gap into the Oho River Valley, where he founded Boonesborough  in 1775 near present day Lexington, Kentucky.  In 1775, the British still governed the colonies and actively discouraged settlements beyond the Appalachians, one of the many disagreements that led to the Revolutionary War. The Shawnee Indians were allied with the British, and laid siege to Boonesborough in 1778. Ironically, in 1776, Daniel Boone’s daughter Jemima and two teenaged girls were kidnapped by the Shawnee and taken to Shawnee towns in the Ohio country. Daniel Boone led a group of men who followed and rescued them, which was the inspiration for James Fenimore Cooper’s fictional tale, The Last of the Mohicans.  Boone’s kneecap was shattered by a Shawnee bullet in 1777. There were no hospitals let alone knee replacement surgeries in 1777: I can’t imagine how he recovered from that wound. Two years later, Boone himself was captured by the same Shawnees, a few months before the siege. During his captivity, he was adopted by Chief Blackfish and made a member of the tribe after he survived running the gauntlet  – the same Chief Blackfish who led the attack on Boonesborough. Boone escaped from the Shawnee shortly before the attack and raced 160 miles in 5 days to warn the settlement, and then led the defense of the fort- so it was father against his adopted son. Irony piled on irony, even incredibly, after the battle Boone was arrested and court martialed for having British sympathies.  Although he was found not guilty, and was later promoted to Lieutenant Colonel of the militia, he was humiliated and shortly thereafter  left for western Kentucky. 

But all that is not what inspires me about this man. After a series of business failures that many ascribed to his unwillingness to profit at someone else’s expense (he was said not to be ruthless enough), having lost virtually all his money and with a warrant out for his arrest for ignoring a summons to testify in court, in 1799 at the age of 65 he took his family and emigrated to what was then Spanish Louisiana, in what would eventually become the State of Missouri. He worked to pay off all of his debts, and then started building his new and final home with his son in 1803 at the age of 69. In 1804, the United States acquired Missouri as part of the Louisiana Purchase, but did not recognize the Spanish Land Grants, so Boone lost all of his property. He didn’t leave, continued to build his homestead and finished it in 1810, seven years later when he was 76. There weren’t any general contractors to hire, he did this with his son and his own hands and a bum leg. To top it off, at the age of 80 he went on a hunting trip all the way to the Yellowstone with two men, one white and one black.

Boone eventually did regain title to his land after a 4 year fight, and died at the home he had but with is son in 1820, 2 1/2 months short of his 86^th birthday. Throughout this whole time he was married to one wife, Rebecca, who had died in the previous spring. I am amazed by the character and grit of this man.  I am inspired by what Daniel Boone did in the last 20 years of his life, after he turned 65, after he had lost everything. I don’t want to hear any complaints from anybody that they are too old to try something new, or any excuses that they didn’t have advantages that somebody else was born with. Boone did it when he was “too old” and with virtually no support from anybody except his own family.

A final irony: this monument to individual independence is maybe 30 miles from Ferguson.

Boone’s house is gorgeous, and even today is up a twisty country road a “fur piece” from anything that even resembles a town. Unfortunately, I arrived too early on a Sunday morning to get inside the house or any of the out building exhibits, but I was able to stroll the grounds and had some interesting conversations with the Park Rangers.  Moto Scoob also had an opportunity to leave her calling card before we ventured down an unmarked back road to the little burg of Dutzow, where we  found the Dutzow Deli. The proprietors allowed Scoob and me to sit on the front porch while they fixed a delicious country breakfast.

While waiting for breakfast, I marveled at how many heroes of history who excelled at war but failed at peace, or were even cast aside once the fighting was done. Certainly Caesar: et tu, Brute? How many signers of the Declaration of Independence traded security and wealth for liberty, won the latter but died impoverished or bankrupt? What of Richard Rogers of Rogers Rangers, precursor to Darby’s Rangers, the Green Berets and Seals ensnared in debt and defrauded in business? Ulysses Grant, a failure as a farmer who freed his slave rather than selling him at a time when he needed money badly and slaves commanded a high, but in victorious war his reputation for ruthlessness was unmatched, indeed he was called “the Butcher.” George Patton, arrogant but perhaps the best general in all of World War II, unceremoniously pushed aside, and perhaps even murdered? You can make a very long list of men of warriors who did not when the path to success became business or politics. Boone, who made his reputation as an Indiana fighter, and Grant weren’t ruthless enough to succeed in business? Do you need to be more ruthless to succeed in business than on the battlefield?  Or is it that some warriors aren’t ruthless unless their enemy is clearly defined and there is no other choice? Enemies in politics and business can be ambiguous, an ally shifting to an enemy without warning, depending on the situation. Maybe that is it, these warriors did not do well with ambiguity. In war, you must rely on your friends, in business and politics, well, not so much. “Keep your enemies close and your friends closer?” According to Sun Tzu, it’s the other way around – but he too speaks of war Perhaps in business and politics it is your friends you must watch more closely. Anyway, Boone undeniably had grit, integrity and intelligence, but that was not enough. It makes you wonder.  Maybe you also need a little larceny in your heart to succeed in business or politics. “Behind every great fortune there is a crime,” popularly attributed to French novelist Honore de Balzac. What Balzac actually wrote was more nuanced: “The secret for a great success for which you are at a loss to account is a crime that has never been found out.” Regardless, the point is similar. Or was Boone just unlucky? Some say there is no such thing as luck, just adequate or inadequate preparation. Or that you make your own luck. I emphatically disagree. Luck starts with the Lucky Sperm Club. Q.E.D.

The Sunday newspaper is on the table. The headliner stories are about our porous southern border, and about Israel going into Gaza after Hamas. Nothing really new about either. The British foreign secretary warned they will lose world's sympathy! Mr. Secretary, have you paid attention to the UN lately? Newsflash, these days the Israelis  ain’t got much sympathy to lose. Our border?  It’s a mess, and our President does less than nothing. Instead, Obummer affirmatively makes the situation worse by a policy of letting in literally millions of “undocumented” children from Central America, whom he is distributing around the country to “centers” where they can be fed and ultimately released into the general population. I cannot believe this is actually happening - but it most certainly is. As certainly, I can do nothing about it today, so I will push it aside and enjoy the ride.

The waitress brought Scoob a porcelain dish full of water and an ice cube along with my ham, biscuits and eggs. Moto Scoob particularly relished the ham, and was very popular with staff and customers alike. I, on the other hand, embarrassed myself  when I tried to use the facilities. After trying the door knob, finding it locked, waiting an inordinate length of time before knocking politely, waiting some more until I wondered if somebody had died inside, I must have been looking distressed. Our waitress informed me that they kept the bathroom locked because so many non –customers wandered in on weekends. I had to get the key at the counter. Oh, well. It was very clean!

After this leisurely morning, we hopped back on the road following Missouri Rout 94 through the Missouri Valley wine country. The whole valley for the next 40 miles to Hermann was full of vineyards and wineries, the heritage of 19^th century German settlers who are more famous for the beers brewed in St. Louis. This valley was the second largest wine producing area in the United States until everything dried up during Prohibition. Vineyards are a wee bit more difficult to conceal than are stills.  Today, the Missouri Valley’s reputation for wines has been eclipsed by California and more recently, Washington  State. Nevertheless, their wines are very, very good.

Few of the vineyards were open yet, but I knew they would be as the day progressed. I targeted Stone Hill Winery, first established in 1847, because it was located at the western end of the wine region and would therefore be open by the time I got there, and advertised that it was perched on a hill with great views of the town and surrounding countryside. It had all that, and what’s better, I discovered when I arrived that  they were having a Cajun Food Festival that day, complete with a zydeco band and dancing. I was tying Scoob to my motorcycle in a shaded corner of the parking area, and asked the parking attendant if they could keep an eye on her for a few minutes while I walked around for a few moments. “No,” he said, “just take her on I there with you. As long as she’s on a leash, it’ll be ok. You just can’t go inside the buildings where we make wine for food, health laws, you know.”

Moto Scoob’s tail immediately curled as soon as she understood she was going with me. We caught one of the golf cart shuttles. I parked her on my lap and put her paws on the seat back in front of us so she could see where we were going. The rows of grape vines fell away on the slopes to either side of us, it was sunny and the views were wonderful.  I stopped to buy some tickets for some food, but couldn’t get get any wine, that was sold inside. One of the vineyard employees volunteered. “You go on inside, I’ll watch her here for you,” he said, adding as an afterthought, “She doesn’t bite, does she?”

“No, the Moto Scoob doesn’t bite.” Her ears and tail did wilt when I walked way to go inside the winery, but by the time I returned a few minutes later armed with a bottle of Riesling and  one of Chambourcin, made for the same grapes I grew in Indiana, she was very content with all the attention she was receiving. I retrieved her and we found a place to sit where we could listen to the band and watch people learn the two step while I washed down some Andouille sausage, red beans and rice with that fresh Missouri Riesling. I took the time to find some Scoob friendly lodging for the night, which meant I was now committed to getting to Kansas City. We hung around Stone Hill not as long as I would have liked, but as long as we could considering how far we had yet to go.   

I left Hermann with some reluctance. The countryside changed west of there. It became more and more like “the West” and less like “the East.” We rode through mile after mile of open, fertile land, in broad river valleys with big, wide muddy rivers, interspersed with limestone hills. As we rode by Jefferson City, I was so entranced by its gleaming Capitol Dome sitting like a shrine high on a bluff above the Missouri River, you could see it from miles away, that I missed my turnoff. Once I realized my mistake, consulted my map to figure out where I was and how to  make my way along some secondary roads to US50 so I could resume my westward trek, I had lost considerable time that I now had to make up . Scoobie didn’t care, she curled up snug in my lap and went to sleep.

In maybe twenty miles or so, 50 became a 4 lane and stayed that way all the way to Kansas City, where it intersected the interstates. Time was easy to make up.

The closer we rode Kansas the more rapidly it was becoming Big Sky country, less corn and more Angus cattle, more vast, more open. Behind us, the billboards were mostly for adult sex stores and fireworks, the most creative of which served both, the Passions and Pyro Store. Now they were more and more about western outfitters and trailers. One was for a church, admonishing rushing travelers “Don’t miss heaven for the world.” Funny, I don’t recall seeing a single billboard in all of  Missouri  advertising lawyers. That’s about all we did see in Illinois. The cross road names were all mid-American, truly road signs that told you where you would go if you took them, to Sheldon’s Grove or Oxtown, or West Phillips Ferry Road. Except for one, what was it, I can’t remember – oh yes, Forgotten Road! I wonder what the story is behind that name.

I stopped to get gasoline near the Kansas border. When I left, something in the back of my brain kept nagging at me. Did I get myself turned around and headed the wrong way back to Missouri? Something just didn’t feel right, so I pulled over to get my bearings. Either my map wasn’t detailed enough or perhaps my brain really was a little grape addled, or maybe some of both, but I could not quite figure out where I was. I must have looked lost, because I was sitting in a parking lot with my helmet off studying t my map, a Corvette pulled up next to me. Inside was a gorgeous 30 something blonde with a young white Labrador sitting beside her. She asked if she could help me out, and I said, “Yes, let’s go to dinner.” No, I didn’t, but the thought did cross my mind. She was very friendly and helpful, and got me pointed in the right direction back where I had come from, and off she went.

An hour or so later, I was lost again in Overland Park, Kansas, trying to find my hotel.  I had to call them for directions and make a big 5 mile circle back to within three blocks of where I started before I called them a second time. This time I found the place. In my defense, it was supposedly a Candlewood Suites. They thought I was on I35 at Quivira Road when I had been at I435 and Quivira Road, so maybe their directions  had been right but from the wrong starting place – or maybe I was tipsier than I thought. Anyway, it was all quite confusing. Most of the streets were 60’s suburban planning curvy without street signs and I kept running back into Quivira Road, which was the main drag. The hotel  was tucked away on a side street with no big Candlewood Suites sign out front.  Anti-sign ordinances are great for people who know where they are going, not so much for strangers. The place looked more like an apartment house than a hotel, and I wasn’t even sure I had the right place when I found it. Inside it had no real lobby, but it had a lot of mailbox slots. It was weird. Young people who looked like students were coming and going, and there was bulletin board with a posting for a party on Saturday night. It felt like a dormitory. Oh well, I was finally there, they accepted the Moto Scoob, and we weren’t going any further that night. It didn’t even matter that the faux-leather lounge chair in our room had a rip in it and the television didn’t work properly. I don’t remember what I did for dinner, but I do remember that I had a very good day!

Monday, July 14

Kansas

But I digress. As I was loading up the FJR early in the morning, I had the pleasure to observe one after another in a seemingly endless stream of stunning young women coming out of the Candlewood Suites. My instincts were apparently right, it was essentially a dormitory for nursing students at the KU Medical Center. If they advertised that, bectha they could charge more per room and never have a vacancy!

Candlewood Suites offered no breakfast so I headed to the local Denny’s, somehow seemed appropriate in Kansas.  Read the newspaper over coffee. England’s Prince Philip  was quoted,  “When a man opens a car door for his wife, it's either a new car or a new wife.” More appropriate for the local medical community, a West Australian newspaper reported that a woman, Mrs. Maynard, sued a Perth Hospital, saying that after her husband had surgery there he lost all interest in sex. A hospital spokesman replied: "Mr. Maynard was admitted for cataract surgery. All we did was eyesight correction." True.

And much more humorous than a speech by Vlad the Impaler Putin, “President” (that’s a farce) of Russia, which managed to take a swipe at the US (no surprise) while announcing his immigrant policy (at least they have one). Here’s the text of his speech, as quoted in the paper:

“Each minority , no matter where it comes from , must , if they want to live in Russia, working there and eat, speak Russian and respect the Russian law. If you prefer Sharia law and want to live the life of Muslims ... we advise you to go where it is state law.Russia does not need Muslim minorities.Minorities need Russia , and we will not grant special privileges or try to change our laws to meet your needs , no matter how loud they scream "discrimination" . We will not tolerate any disrespect our Russian culture. We'd better pull out the suicide of the United States, United Kingdom , Netherlands, Germany and France for a lesson , if we are to survive as a nation. The Muslims are starting to invade these countries. The Russian way of life and tradition is not compatible with the lack of culture or the primitive knowledge of the law of Sharia and Muslims. If this, our honorable Legislature is considering creating new laws, they should only have to all the interests of the Russian nation in mind , in view of the fact that Muslim minorities are not Russians .”

Apparently the members of the Duma gave this speech by Russian President Vladimir Putin a five-minute standing ovation. The paper did not report the severity of the penalty was for not applauding fearless leader – but nonetheless, interesting speech.

After this eruditing breakfast, back on the road to Shawnee Mission, Kansas.  On the trail of family history, I wanted to see it because some of my ancestors lived there following the Civil War. It was the town I chose as the home of my fictitious lawman Rupert Cogswell in my novel, Independence. Problem is, Shawnee Mission no longer is. There is Shawnee this and Shawnee that all around Council Bluffs Kansas today, but no Shawnee Mission – all of which I found odd because the Shawnees were an Eastern woodlands tribe whose homeland was the Ohio River Valley. My mother was born in Shawnee, Oklahoma, a fur piece wester-still from Council Bluffs. A little research confirmed that the Shawnee were “removed” further and further west of the Mississippi piece by piece, group by group several times, until finally the Kansas Shawnee were the last sent to Indian Territory in Oklahoma following the Civil War. Don’t know of their forced exit was the reason some of my forebears moved there. Where the settlement was is now Shawnee Mission Park, a huge park to the west of Kansas City, very pretty with lakes and streams and camping areas,  now being pressured on all side by condominium developments.

I left Shawnee Mission and passed by Manhattan and Fort Riley, home of the ill-fated 7^th Cavalry and Colonel George Armstrong (Long Hair) Custer where I was stationed for a few unhappy weeks while serving in the army. Didn’t need to see it again, rode right by. Likewise Topeka, capitol of Kansas, which proudly displayed a billboard announcing that Topeka gave birth to the landmark Supreme Court ruling Brown vs. Board of Education that ended segregation in the nation’s public schools. I didn’t realize that, I was under the impression that happened somewhere in the Deep South. Nope,  Kansas. Would have made favorite son John Brown and the Jayhawkers proud. You know with all the political correctness about sports team mascots, I mean the Redskins are endangered and you aren’t likely to see the Fighting Shawnee on anybody’s jersey these days, I’m surprised the University of Kansas gets away with being the Jayhawks. I mean, the Jayhawkers were ruthless abolitionist raiders who invaded, burned, pillaged and raped in Missouri during the Civil War, leading to the retaliation by Confederate leader Quantrill burning Lawrence to the ground and thus the name Bloody Kansas. Which makes it even more curious that my ancestors, refugees from the Southern losing side of the War of Northern Aggression, should move to a hot bed of abolitionism. Unsolved mysteries…

Next on my route were the Flint Hills of Kansas. I have always heard they were beautiful, and I wanted to see for myself. They are. On this day they were particularly stunning because of dark rain clouds on the horizon and blowing casting shadows on rippling waves of switch grass covering the hills, interspersed  with spotlight-like rays of bright yellow sunlight. My route was dictated as much by trying to dodge rainclouds as it was by the network of roads. I took whatever road looked least likely to be heading into rain, as long as it headed generally south or west. , Jack Rabbit Road, Poorfarm Road, Switchgrass Road, Spring Hill, Z Bar Ranch, Alma, whatever. I got a little wet, but not too bad. It was worth it. Apparently the rocky hills are terrible for farming but wonderful for grazing, so the cattle drives on the way up from Texas to the railroad depots in Kansas took this route to fatten the herds before selling them in the feedlots.  I did actually have a destination in mind: Cottonwood Falls, home to the Emma Chase café, famous far and wide in biker legend.

I turned south on highway 177, officially the Flint Hills Scenic Highway, past Council Grove  where the Osage Indian Chiefs agreed to open the Santa Fe Trail across their tribal lands in 1825 in exchange for $800, now the site of Council Grove Lake surrounded by brushy trees and RVs and campers of fishermen.  Further along, I passed a herd of buffalo (bison) just before I saw a big imposing old ranch house, sitting on a bluff overlooking a broad grass valley, next to a large gravel parking lot dotted with a few cars and bordered by some spreading trees and picnic tables. What was this?   

 I needed a break and Scoob was getting restless, so we pulled in. Turned out the house was the headquarters of the old Spring Hill/Z Bar Ranch, 11,000 acres started in 1878, now the Tall Grass Prairie National Preserve, originally the traditional land of the Kaw, Osage, Wichita and Pawnee Indians. All the old ranch buildings and a one room school house are all intact, and hiking trails spread out all over the “last stand” of the “once vast tallgrass prairie ecosystem…After John Deere invented the steel moldboard plow – it could cut tough prairie sod e stop turned into an hour of wandering around, Scoob leaving samples of her DNA here and there to confuse the local coyotes. I think we both would have liked to spend more time there!

      

The clouds had blown through, and it was a little warmer when we headed back down 177 to Cottonwood Falls. As we entered town, we rode past a museum-piece Atchison Topeka and Santa Fe caboose, and then around an impressive French-Renaissance style courthouse on some old cobble stone streets before I found Emma’s. I parked the bike in front where I could keep an eye on it, and left MotoScoob squirming in her tank bag.  I set my helmet down on a table by the window and asked if I could bring Scooby in. She would be safe because I could see her from my table, and it wasn’t very hot, but she definitely would not be happy.  There were only three other people in the café, two women and a little girl. The waitress was sympathetic but shook her head. “No, sorry, health laws won’t allow it.” But then she said, “You know, we mostly just get locals in here, and seeing as how you’ve come all the way from Indiana…” Long story short, Emma‘s Café adjoined a country store through an open archway. Emma’s was the prototype Cracker Barrel before there was a Cracker Barrel. The country store was closed and technically operated on a different business license than the café, so if I set Scooby down in her bag just the other side of the archway, that wouldn’t be illegal…so in came the Scoobs. She was happy( for a while), inside and watching me from across the room.

“What’s a famous Emma burger?” I asked.

“Bison burger with grilled onions and cheese.”

“I’ll take one, some fried okra, and a slice of that warm rhubarb pie. And a Coca Cola.” Now that’s American comfort food. Hmmm hmmm good.

All was peaceful and good until the food came. First there was a whimper. A moment later a growl. Then a yip, “Hey, what about me!” A little of that bison burger and the attention of the little girl who sat down next to her bag while she ate made everybody happy.

Stupid health laws. How is it that in France, the most famous foodie nation in the western world, its customary to bring your well behaved furry friends into les restaurants, while in the US, claimed by many to be completely  bereft of any gastronomic culture, they are banned as unhealthy? Let’s campaign of something truly useful: I Go Fido, No Go Bad Food!

Thank you, Emma’s. Good food, friendly people, wonderful place! After lunch, I headed for Wichita. It was an odd day. Weather seemed to change by the hour. First it got hotter, then as I approached Wichita, the rain clouds returned. I had intended to go further than Wichita, but discretion being the better part of valor I found a dog friendly Best Western by airport just in time to avoid getting drenched. As I was taking off my saddle bags (panniers to Europeans), it suddenly struck me how easy it was to remove and attach them on my Yamaha, especially compared to how tricky-difficult it had been on both my BMW and on the Ducati I had rented on my Austria-Croatia trip. German engineers get too hung up on technology for technology’s sake, and Italians do the same on design for art’s sake; the Japanese stuff has a little less of both, but it always seems to work a little better, too.

The Scoob likes to explore hotels, but this one really struck her fancy. As soon as I opened the door, she slipped in and then raced down the long hallway, butt and ail bouncing, right past our room (what did she know?) and around the corner. She dutifully ignored all my calls to stop, come back, she was off and gone. I had to set down my saddle bags and race after her. She went into the indoor pool area and snuffled around some Indian kids who were splashing around in there -  “Hi, Kumar!”  Once I retrieved her and we were headed back to our room, she took her first left into an open door into somebody else’s room into other room July 15 Kansas- “Excuse me, she’s just curious!” Adventures with Scoob –  makes it very easy to meet people!

Most coasters think Wichita is a hick town with a funky Indian name. Indian name, yes, but  it’s actually the largest city in Kansas (that will win you a trivia contest some day!), and the 49^th largest in the US. That doesn’t make it an Atlanta or New York or LA, but hick town it is not. Boeing, Bombardier Aerospace-Lear Jet, Cessna, Coleman, Koch Industries, and over 15 colleges and universities call Wichita home. There’s also a southern touch to Wichita, all of Kansas for that matter, curious given its role in the Civil War. Example: the restaurant at the Best Western featured fried okra and a catfish dinner. Good, too!

Tuesday, July 15

Kansas

The next morning, MotoScoob was raring to go, guarding the door to prevent me exiting without her. She was determined that she was not going to be left in Wichita. Her head went into the tank bag, no problem, but then the little devil planted her feet and I had to shove her butt in. She settled down pretty quickly once we get on the road, though, snuggling down in the back of the bag to get away from the morning chill. I noticed that she tends to list to the right, a 25 pound lump of fur that required me to adjust my balance. We work it out.

It was chilly, but I expected it to warm up big time. July on the Kansas prairie, right? Should be H-O-T.  I thought it would be fun to visit the old western town ay Dodge City, and the OK Corral, maybe even stop at the Dalton Gang’s hideout, places I had visited with my Mom and Dad while passing through this area when I was maybe 11 or 12. By 8:30 we had reached Pratt. I was daydreaming, accidentally glanced at my gas gauge to find I was down to ¼ tank. It can be a long way between stations out here. Stopped for  gas, $3.39/gallon, the cheapest I had seen anywhere in months! While I’m filling up, a young guy starts telling me about his 600 Kawasaki. He’s lusting after my FJR. Funny how often this seems to happen.

I was now following a 2 lane highway that they were building out into a 4 lane limited access complete with concrete overpasses for towns of few hundred people, maybe a few thousand. There was a steady stream of traffic, mostly big rig trucks and pickups trucks, but I couldn’t help wondering  who was paying for this construction, and more importantly, why? Business must be goods or they have budget surpluses in Kansas – or maybe they were trying to stimulate the economy with public works projects, John Maynard Keynes comes to Kansas. One thing for sure, Kansans will be able to go from nowhere to hardly somewhere very fast!

It was still cool, in the 60's. Global warming, right. The road followed the Ninnescah River. All around, the plains were dotted with working oil wells, when not, then natural gas collection stations – and yet there were 3 humongous windmills in Pratt – naturally, none of them going around! Every 5 or 10 miles as far as I could see there were white concrete grain elevators marking the next town. Between the burgs, herds of black angus cattle. Not a lot of people. Then I started to see large billboards, telling me I should stop and see The World’s Largest Hand-Dug Well. I kid you not. Greensburg.This place has a lot going on Saturday night. I had to do it. I pulled off to see The World’s Largest Hand-Dug Well. As I did, I saw a forest of windmills –I counted 22, 8 of them standing still. To be fair, 6 of those not working were the smallest, but really, in a tiny town surrounded by fields of corn, oil wells, and natural gas collection stations, wind mills? The corn did look pretty anemic compared to what I had passed in Illinois, only 4 feet height and not nearly as lustrous as the Illini 6 and 7 foot stalks, so maybe the corn wouldn’t produce gobs of ethanol, but really his struck me as green ideology gone berserk.

Then I realized where I was. Greensburg, Kiowa County, Kansas. I smiled and marveled at the entrepreneurial pluck of the residents. When I ran All American Homes, we had actually seriously considered building a green-and-wired demonstration home in Greensburg (instead we built it at the Museum of Science and Industry in Chicago). Greensburg had been literally wiped out – 95% flattened – by a tornado in 2007, just 7 years before. About the only thing left was the big hole in the ground. To rebuild the town and the economy, the “city’ (?) fathers – local ranchers and farmers - decided to “go green.” They made Greensburg famous nationwide, maybe worldwide, as a demonstration city for green technologies, attracting all kinds of investment to showcase cutting edge green technologies. Solar homes.  Water purification. 22 windmills – well why not, in a town that a tornado literally blew down? And here I was, parked in front of a sparkling new largest hand dug water well museum. Dig a hole and charge admission. I am truly impressed. American entrepreneurism at work.  I couldn’t help but think of all those public television shows about volunteers and groups raising money for remote villages in the Sudan or other places in sub-Saharan Africa where they have no source of clean water. Maybe we should send them shovels and a blueprint of the Greensburg well?

Scoob liked the park, running across the street despite me calling her back, leaving more DNA samples in case those Z Bar Ranch  coyotes were trying to find her.                

Greenburg gained my admiration, but not my money, I wasn’t going to pay admission to see a hole in the ground, marvelous and unique as it might be. I retrieved my errant hound, stuffed her into her tank bag, and turned west for the OK corral. It was now 9 am, still only 57 degrees . We were traveling through a posted highway work zone on the Cannonball Stageline Highway: speed limit in the work zone, 65 mph. Love it! Then we passed an outdoor art gallery, some junk artist exhibiting his wares, rent free. It went on for at least 100 yards. Look carefully and find the lawyer. Fun.

The mind wanders on straight roads across the prairie. To the news. Obama and the border are all over it – what else is new? I wonder, though, whether there is more behind his antipathy to securing the border than trying to gain the Mexican immigrant vote?  Maybe that his own Muslim father was ineligible to immigrate? The whole birther thing comes to mind. I’ve never followed it closely, although it has raised some very interesting questions before it was dampened - but not entirely suppressed - by the belated production of a Hawaiian birth certificate. The biggest question in my mind is what is would be status of all the legislation and regulation passed under the Obummer regime if it turned out he was not qualified under the Constitution to be President? The obvious answer is that all of it would be void, or at least, voidable. I think that is why the courts have consistently repelled from taking the various birther cases seriously, because of the absolute legal chaos that would result if the birthers were proved correct. I mean, with the laundry list of ridiculous cases our courts do entertain, like high school volley ball players suing because they did not get enough playing time, or a woman suing Disney for $250 million because the movie Frozen was based on her life story, yes those are actually lawsuits, what other reason could there be? Just too hot a potato. But some interesting things have recently been revealed about that birth certificate (all documented), such as the reference that he was “African American” on a birth certificate supposedly issued in 1961 when the term used then was “Negro?” Listing his father as born in “Kenya” – except “Kenya, East Africa” didn’t exist in 1961, until 1963 it was the “British East Africa Protectorate.” Born at the “Kapi'olani Maternity & Gynecological Hospital" didn’t exist until 1978, before that it was known as the “KauiKeolani Children's Hospital." That would be enough to make a good forensic investigator suspicious of forgery. But who knows, his predecessor didn’t have sex with that woman and never inhaled, either.

As we ride west, the landscape grows progressively drier and l flatter – cow country. It struck me that I had not seen any adult bookstore billboards since I left Missouri. Illegal in Kansas? Haven’t seen any lawyer billboards in Kansas, either, and they’re certainly not illegal! There was one of note: “Don’t Miss Heaven for the World.” Maybe lawyers and adult bookstores are too worldly for the local Kansans.

As I was ruminating on these important world events, I missed the turnout to Front Street in Dodge City. Actually, I thought we would drive through Dodge City. I didn’t realize the highway would now bypass the town. I did see big signs for the new casino, and saw this grotesque modernistic palace-like structure on the hill above the town across the river that had to be the casino, but nothing about Old Dodge. I guess its value as a tourist attraction faded along with Hopalong Cassidy and Marshal Dillon. Times change. The casino is now more important to tourists that cowboys. Oh, well, I saw the OK Corral when I was a kid, not going to circle back looking for it now. Instead, we motor on under the shadow of the forest of windmills west of Dodge. The whole damn country has gone windmill crazy, from Pennsylvania to Indiana to Kansas to California, products of all the wonderful new “green jobs” of the new economy, all grandly subsidized by the federal government. Our tax dollars at work.

Huge feed yards started to appear, each with its own grain elevator. Thousands of cows fattening up to be slaughtered. Sobering. Makes you think about beef steaks differently. Hmm, all that methane, I’m surprised there is not a tax subsidized natural gas collection center attached to the grain elevators. Instead, there was a PETA billboard. Then we rode by the biggest food factory I have ever seen, brand new chicken processing facility. I mean, it was bigger than a Class A RV plant. All those gaziillions of wings and nuggets and fryers coming down the stainless steel assembly line.

Despite this graphic education as to the preparation of some of my favorite foods, I was getting hungry, although I was now definitely considering vegan…

Having learned that the new highway avoids the town, I took a random exit at Garden City and just struck out on random roads that looked like they would take me downtown. I knew I was on the right track when I passed some banks and a McDonald’s, but it was too soon after the feedlyards for that.  It was cold, 64 and spitting rain. God damn, it’s supposed to be hot in Kansas in July. I found a Mex place with a covered porch in front and asked if they could serve us on porch. The waitress took pity on Scoob and me shivering in the wet weather and told me to bring her inside. She showed us to a booth where I parked Scoob in her bag on the bench beside me. For once she was content to be in the bag, out of the cold. We listened to Mexican music while we watched replays of the Mexico v Netherlands Word Cup game broadcast in Spanish and ate some of the absolutely best freshly made chili rellenos and Tex-Mex food I have ever had anywhere. So if you ever find yourself hungry near Garden City, Kansas, take a deour to Tequilas Mexican Grill. Fabuloso and friendly!

MotoScoob insisted that we take our time and see if the weather would clear, and what was the hurry anyway, we were warm good food, cold beer and soccer on the tube. But all good things come to an end, right? Next stop, somewhere in Colorado. We followed US 50, the route of the historic Santa Fe Trail along the Arkansas River. Although past Garden City the terrain was dust dry, the air was blustery and the rain never did quite clear. Everything around seems dry as the proverbial bone, and most of the raindrops b never hit the ground, but the Arkansas is full.  Looking at the dark clouds on the horizon, I’m a little concerned heading out on open prairie with thunderstorms possible and nowhere to escape. What is it like on ocean in lightning storm? I don't want to find out. Afraid of getting caught in a deluge, I decide to call it quits in Lamar, even though its only early afternoon.  Besides, the wind and rain has made me tired and cold. Not Scoob, she was snug in her bag.

 I had no idea where to stay in Lamar, so I chose a new pet friendly Holiday Inn Express from an app on my smart phone – but it proved not smart enough to direct to it. I kept following the directions to the same hair dresser salon at 1404 South Main on the far south side of town. Finally I called the hotel and they explained that the GPS had them mislocated. They were on the same road on the north side of town. So much for technology. But when we got to the hotel, the pet friendly room on the main floor was experiencing some of plumbing problem, so they kindly upgrade us to a beautiful executive suite on the third floor. Not bad for Lamar!

Wednesday, July 16

Colorado

Colorado. Colored red. Where my mother and father are buried, brother scattered, my home in 1969-70 and again 1972-1976, where my son was born. But I had never spent much time on the eastern plains, never in this area.

This morning the weather was still iffy. On the way to Bent’s Fort, I passed some thought provoking sermon signs on local churches: “Hot today? Consider hell as an alternative”; or if that didn’t turn your engine over, I thought I might like this preacher:  “Prayer, a call that the government can't listen in on.”

At the fort, I park my bike in the visitors lot and hop the shuttle bus, MotoScoob on my lap. She’s a conversation starter. At the entrance gate, the lady asks, “Does she ride with you?”  “No,” I say, “ “actually she runs alongside.” Everybody laughs.  They take my word that I have a National Park pass, and let me take Scoob in – “Just pick her up when you go into the exhibition rooms.”  Bent’s Fort was built in 1833 on the banks of the Arkansas River on what was then the Mexican border, Mexico on the South side and Yankee land on the North. Back then, Spanish was the main language, but the fort was an international trading hub in the “Golden Age of the Old West,” where English, French and several Indian dialects were routinely spoken, and form time to time several other languages – the more things change, the more they stay the same. I guess in a real sense some of today’s Mexican immigrants are truly just returning home. William Bent married a Cheyenne woman there (ultimately 3, all sisters), Kit Carson used to hunt from there, in 1846 General Kearny staged his Army of the West for the invasion of Mexico there. By 1849, Bent’s Fort was done. The Mexican-American War disrupted the trade with Mexico, a cholera outbreak and increasing clashes between settlers and Indians combined to kill it. The Fort has been rebuilt to the exact plans prepared by an army surveyor who was posted there. It is a remarkable place and well worth a visit.      

Now the final push to Denver, west to Rocky Ford and then straight north on Colorado 71. At Rocky Ford the weather finally broke, prototypical Colorado blue sky with high white puffs of clouds over nothing, empty dry plains in every direction. First town Punkin Center, 2 buildings and a postage stamp park at the crossroads with Colorado 94. Not even a grocery store, the nearest one has to be 40 miles or more away. That’s a long trip there and back for a six pack. A green John Deere garden tractor sat in the park with a sign on it, “Garden Tractor Pull Saturday.”  You find a way to make your own fun out here. Rode by a man in a gator with a collie dog in the back, driving to check his mailbox. I can barely see his house, it must be ½ a mile at least off the road. Big signs to ranches, a big metal brand, a circle with a T+ inside,  and arrow pointing west down a dirt road to a ranch you can’t see at all. Incongruously, a road sign reads “No Snow Plowing 7 pm to 5 am”.

We cross Little Horse Creek, Horse Creek, Apache Creek, all dry. Magic Dog Road. Hey, Scoob, that a relative of yours? The next sign I see says “Correctional Facility. Do not pick up hitch hikers.” Correctional facility, spinmeister for prison. We are approaching Limon. The first thing I see as we crest the hill to cruise into town is a forest of windmills, there must have been a hundred of them.

Time for a break and a snack. We pull into an Arby’s and I sit on the curb in the parking lot, munching and feeding MotoScoob little bites. I notice that 9 out of 10 of all the guys coming and going have facial hair, mustaches, goatees, full beards. 50 years ago that would have been maybe 1 in 50. Times change. A family comes out, they want to know where I got MotoScoob’s tank bag, pretty soon a small crowd of 6 are standing around discussing the merits of pooch tank bags while a couple of kids play with Scooby’s ears. Before I leave, I stop too look at these funny looking metal and plastic posts in the Arby’s parking lot. They’re car chargers, put there by Tesla motor company. The first I have ever seen, in an Arby’s parking lot in Limon, Colorado. Go figure. Will these now be at every Arby’s? I feel like somebody in 1905 seeing my first horseless carriage. I just read the other day that Harley Davidson is testing an electric Harley with recorded ka-thunk ka-thunk ka-thunk engine sound - really? Electricity must be a big marketing challenge for Harley. I wonder if it could be the death of an icon? Time passes, things change.

  

CO 86 across the dry plains through Kiowa past my niece’s ranch, then through Elizabeth to Franktown, where my brother used to raise Arabian horses, all the way dodging black thunderclouds only but only getting a little sprinkle.  I head North and escape the clouds, roll into Denver that afternoon, coming up 8 lane I-25 choked with traffic at 3 pm, stop and go at 15 mph. This was exactly why I left Denver 40 some years ago, I could see it coming. Back then I25 was known as the Valley Highway. Call it that today and only the old timers have clue what you are talking about. We spend the weekend with my daughter, her husband and my little granddaughter, a little more than one year Amalia, you know, the one they named the grand hotel after in Opatija, Croatia. J She’s a cute little whip.

Saturday we go shopping in Lakewood, a place my brother once lived in a small ranch house with his horses right on 6^th Avenue. My New England brother used to call Denver an overgrown cowtown. No more. Now we could be in Los Angeles or Phoenix, big malls and big box stores like Costco and Nordstroms and Best Buy, the parking lots clogged with little high mileage Subaru Foresters, a flatlander car my Colorado brother used to bitch at whenever he got behind one in the mountains because they were so underpowered they couldn’t keep any speed going over the passes. When I lived here, we had bumper stickers that read “Don’t Californicate Colorado. Californios didn’t take the hint. Colorado is overrun by California refugees, recreating the same urban modern shit hole they fled from, overwhelming native Coloradans who had a different lifestyle, different values. Back when, Wadsworth and Hampden was the end of town. There were miles of open space between Denver and Boulder. Now its solid slurbs. There was nothing south of County Line Road except the Bumble Bee Ranch. What used to be the ranch now has its own zip code. Denver doesn’t even feel “cowboy” any more. Marijuana is legal. That and a laissez-faire attitude has led to throngs of homeless street people literally living in the parks down by the Platte River.

Time passes, things change. Some bad, some good. Lots of the new stuff is cool. The Pearl Street Sunday morning farmer’s market is a gas, even if it is a yuppie farmers market. You can by all kinds of mustards, and flash fried fresh mini-donuts like no farmer I ever knew made. Reindeer hotdogs, fresh tortillas, free range and organic meats (flank steak, grass fed, $19/pound) and fruits (a handful of Cherries, $6) and veggies, all kinds of vegan and gluten free stuff, all while music plays from several venues and wanna-be hippies stroll by, still smelling of the patchouli that was universally used to cover the smell of smoking weed back in the 60’s and 70’s.

The Tesla electric charging stations were nothing compared to the wonder of the Igo Cars. Smart cars parked at random, get in, swipe your credit card, drive it where you want, park it and leave it, 17 cents a mile. A fusion of electronic technologies applied to personal transportation. Some predict they will make personal cars obsolete. Could well be in urban areas, don’t think so out where pickups are prevalent. Amazing, nonetheless. I begin to feel out of time in my own lifetime. Time passes, everything changes.

Medical advances have led to people living longer. When our joints can no longer function, they cut you open and pop in a plastic and titanium replacement, you are almost as good as new. Still, our bodies can no longer do what they did. Nonetheless, life is still very good as long as brain is good. With age, we see subtleties and richness that goes unnoticed by youth, when everything was new. That used to be called wisdom. Today, youth thinks it knows everything because they can Google it on Wikipedia. We thought so too, and we didn’t have Google or Wikipedia. Youth is arrogant. Youth knows squat about life.

One thing about Denver hasn’t much changed: it’s not far to get out to where not much has changed. A little longer because of traffic, but still only a short drive took us to a beautiful day hike on the Devil’s Head Trail, near Deckers in the Rampart Range. It is still gorgeous, only now the parking lot at the trail head is more stuffed.  The mountains are still magnificent. Monday, I store my bike in the basement of an old friend’s business for a few months, until I can return to ride them during “Aspen season.