Well, Did He Ever Return?

Ron Soave and the glow-in-the-dark dream coat

Those fluorescent yellow jackets you see the very occasional motorcyclists wearing are designed to save your life. Have to say, it saved my butt a couple of Sundays back when I was leaving my last stop on US 20 before braving Chicago, Interstate 94 and my return home to Chelsea, Michigan. And that’s where the Kingston Trio enter the picture.

Those old enough to remember the Kingston Trio may remember their hit song about “Charlie” who did not have enough change to pay the exit fare from the subway. He spent the rest of his life riding beneath the streets of Boston while his wife threw him sandwiches from the platform. There are people in this same predicament right now, wandering the Illinois Tollway where you often have to pay to get off and the toll gate is unmanned and exact change only.

After a pleasant night with friends Ron and Lynette and their two boys in Roscoe, Illinois, Ron led me the circuitous route to the Tollway for my last leg home. He had given me a handful of change and some singles for the “automatic tolls” between there and Chicago. I used up all of the change at the entrance ramp and then stopped at the first service plaza for gas. My low fuel light had been glowing signaling about 25 miles or less left in the tank. At the pump I realized I had neither my wallet nor my cell phone. No money, no charge card, no communication…no recollection of which exit or which roads to take to get back to Ron’s. I vaguely remembered setting the phone and wallet on the back of the motorcycle while I pulled on my armored riding pants. They must be on the ground in front of his garage door!

I used Ron’s handful of dollar bills, put just under two gallons of gas in the bike, and headed off to find an exit for a U-turn. Unfortunately, there was a toll plaza in the way. No money; no “I-Pass” transponder; a distinct feeling of desperation deep in my gut; I realized I would have to “run” the toll house and try to explain my predicament to the state police later. Then I discovered I could not exit to make a U-turn without paying exact change to get off the Tollway, and exact change again to get back on in the other direction. It was me against the security camera.

Some of life’s challenges demand a bold action. Not knowing which exit would lead me in the direction of Roscoe, I began a lawless pattern of exiting and re-entering the Tollway at every opportunity, trying to recognize the intersection where Ron had bid me farewell. And it seemed every one of them required exact change to get on or off. I was on my way to jail, I just knew it!

Eventually, I found myself in Rockford, Illinois—sounds like Roscoe, must be close by. At a convenience store I was lucky to discover Ron had a land-line phone which meant there was an address in the phone book. Then a fellow with a smartphone mapped it for me and I was able to write down the directions back to Ron and Lynette’s…and my wallet, I hoped. Once I got there, I was dismayed to find no wallet, nor cell phone, and no Ron or Lynette at home. I sat on the front porch. I felt like curling into a small ball but was interrupted by Buddhist thoughts of life being a never-ending series of imperfections in the wooden wheel of the cart. As long as the wheel keeps turning, it keeps bumping. It is the only way life is. Dukkha. A neighbor had Ron’s cell number, we found him 20 minutes away shopping, and he was on his way home to open the garage door. I was now sure my wallet was on the floor safely locked up. Again, I sat on the porch, this time watching my breath and noticing that my anxiety was but a transient feeling. I hoped.

More dukkha. The garage turned out to be empty, save for several of Ron's toys. Soon Ron’s son and I are walking through the weeds along the country roads leading away from the house, shuffling our feet, hoping to step on a wallet or a cell phone. Fat chance! Meanwhile, Ron retraces our route of three hours before in the unlikely probability that he will find my wallet lying in the road waving at him.That didn't happen either, but what did is at least as remarkable.

Now, for the life-saving qualities of glow-in-the-dark motorcycle jackets. Ron’s Facebook posting provides the best summary:

MiG trainer owned by Kaney Aerospace

Rockford Aviators vs. Traverse City Beach Bums

So my buddy and Spridget racer John Deikis calls Friday afternoon saying he'll be passing close by at the tail end of his 3 week cross country trip on his trusty 22 year old BMW RT. Saturday comes, and we meet up at my workplace to look at cool planes and cars. We have a nice time there, and ride the back roads to my house. We take a quick trip to Roscoe's Auto Museum, which also sports the largest collection of Kennedy memorabilia in the world. It's on to a few IPAs, grilled bacon wrapped filets and fresh garden picked veggies. It's then on to a Rockford Aviators baseball game, then back to the house for some pumpkin vodka drinks and stories til 1 am. After breakfast this morning, I lead John out to the highway on the Triumph and bid John farewell. I'm wearing my Kevlar jacket in safety yellow. This later takes on great importance.

3 hours later, I'm out with the lads and I get a call from our neighbor. John is at my house, thinking his wallet and cell phone are in my garage. I rush home, and, in fact, NO they are not. Freak out time. Now, John's phone does not even have texting ability, let alone "Find My iPhone". He only found my house by getting on and off 90 (and not paying the tolls because he had no wallet or iPass) and driving around Roscoe and finding someone else with a phone to look me up. We surmise the stuff was on one of the saddle bags and flew off. We retrace steps, my son, John helping on foot, me on the bike tracing the route back to I-90. On the way back from an unsuccessful ride out to the highway, I pass the boys and John has miraculously found his phone. I go back to drop off the bike and join the walk.

There is a knock at my door, A lady has found John's wallet. She saw us on the road that morning and noticed my bright yellow jacket. She saw something fly off John's bike and her daughter retrieved it (the wallet). They looked up John on the internet and left a message at his home, 400 miles away. Amazingly, they were on the road again later that day and noticed the Triumph motorcycle with the yellow jacketed rider. They followed me home, since they knew I was with John. Absolute miracle.

As I re-read it, the things that had to happen to make this work were astronomically unlikely. So, I've been told that safety gear on bikes does not make you any more visible. I think it's safe to say that isn't true. I'm sure John will tell this more colorfully (no pun intended), but this was a day to remember, and finally some good karma after having returned several lost wallets myself in the past.

Off to buy a lottery ticket....

Ron

Good karma is right! I had explored most of northeastern California, ridden at least three world-famous motorcycle roads through western mountain ranges, and visited more interesting brew pubs than I could keep track of.  I was able to stop at a national MG meet and saw some old friends from my "Rallye to Reno" adventure of several years ago. I met some wonderful people who welcomed me into their homes for the night-- people like BMW-riders Michael and Jana in Bend, OR and Greg and Barb in Corvallis. I followed the Lincoln Highway west in the year of its 100 anniversary and the Oregon Trail back east. I took US 20, the old two-lane route across the Great Plains, from Wyoming to Chicago. I ran out of gas and was helped by a bartender in Nebraska. I lost my wallet and was tracked down  several hours later by an observant stranger in Illinois who followed a flourescent yellow motorcycle jacket hoping it was the same guy she saw that morning.

And now, I'm waiting for that letter from the State of Illinois, complete with security-cam photos of an old BMW named "Frank the Flying Brick." We know who you are and we want our money. You know what? I think I'll pay it.

Original "Field of Dreams," Dyersville, Iowa

From Brown to Green

My detour through Yellowstone took me off of the Oregon Trail for awhile but I rode south and picked-up US 20 which parallels a lot of the trail. I soon learned Route 20 could take me all the way to Chicago with not so much as one mile of interstate "slab." Looks like a way home!

But first, a stop at the world's largest hot mineral springs at Thermopolis, Wyoming..

Mineral hot springs at Thermopolis, Wyoming

The road south from Cody, WY was a very hot 100 miles. I was glad to learn that I could avail myself of the mineral springs at no cost due to a peculiar Indian treaty dating from 1896. Seems the whole area was part of the Shoshone Indian Reservation until the white man began to covet the sacred "smoking waters". Congress decided the area should be a park and "bought" it from the Native Americans, signing yet another treaty with two Shoshone and Arapaho chiefs. It allowed for free access to the springs for anyone of any color and to this day remains a "free entry" Wyoming State Park. Soaking in the public mineral pool is limited to 20 minutes.

Some mining towns in Wyoming have seen their day

Roadside camping can be spectacular

Wyoming up close

Abandoned school house west of Douglas, Wyoming

Ayers Natural Bridge near Glenrock, WY was a stop along the Oregon Trail

As the road led me east from Wyoming to Nebraska, the rivers and passes gave way to "cattle country" and expansive fields of irrigated alfalfa and other hay grasses. Things got greener and a bit cooler.

Three miles east of Chadron, Nebraska, I just had to stop at the Museum of Fur Trade. Well before Oregon Trail wagon trains, trappers and traders wandered about the plains and the great northwest trading guns and trinkets for hides. Located near the site of the original Bordeaux Creek Trading Post, this museum is billed as the largest of its type in the world. And, of course, every summer, they have the annual Fur Trading Days in Chadron. Second weekend in July.

Downtown Cody, Nebraska...all of it

This is the town of Cody, Nebraska. It has four businesses, only one of which is open past 5:00 PM. And it's not the gas station. With my "low gas" lamp on and 40 miles to the next town, I had no choice but to visit the place that was still in business: Husker's Pub. I am indebted to the bar tender who soon came to my aid with a red jug holding enough gas to get me to Valentine, NE where he promised there would be several filling stations open all night.

Pulling into Valentine, Nebraska...and gas!

As I was leaving Nebraska, I came across this fascinating vintage windmill collection on the side of US 20. They are all from the late 19th and early 20th century and have been lovingly collected and restored by a Mr. Gill, who happens to own the local landfill outside of the town of Jackson. You have to dodge garbage trucks as you wander about, but the Sentinels of the Prairie display is worth a stop, especially if you have a soft spot for agrarian popular culture.

The Top of the World

There are a lot of ways to leave Yellowstone National Park. One of the best is along the Beartooth Highway to the northeast. This is a section of U.S. 212 that traces a series of zigzags and switchbacks along the Wyoming-Montana border to the Beartooth Pass at almost 11,000 feet. Because of its altitude, snowstorms can occur even in the middle of the summer. It is also known as one of the best motorcycle roads in North America and passes by a motel, general store and gas station enterprise billing itself as the "Top of the World."

Absaroka-Beartooth Wilderness Area

Enough turns to churn your yogurt

The Beartooth Highway

Dry Goods Store: Bear Creek, Montana

Pig races at the Bear Creek Saloon?

Sunset along the Beartooth Highway

Barefoot on the Moon

 After dining on Ramen soup, a pound of western Oregon cherries, and an adequate supply of Full Sail ale from Hood River, I could have picked a "softer" place to camp than the Craters of the Moon National Monument. Good place for astronauts to practice walking; bad place to search for a privy in bare feet.

Originally known as Root Hog, Idaho, Arco is famous not only for the Sawtooth Club which serves many of the 900-plus residents their daily ration of grog, but also for being the very first town to be electrified by nuclear power-- in 1955. This was a benefit of being just up the road from the Argonne National Laboratory's National Reactor Testing Station. Unfortunately, the NRTS made further history in 1961 when it's reactor suffered a melt down, causing three deaths. It was the world's first fatal reactor accident.











Now known as the Idaho National Laboratory, it somehow seemed unwelcoming to tourists like me. Couldn't even buy a postcard.

The Rigby Bowling Lanes and Snack Bar in Rigby, Idaho, appealed to me as the sort of architectural monument to popular culture one finds when traveling the blue highways of America. I've come to expect it. What I did not expect was that Rigby claims to be "The Birthplace of Television." Seems Rigby High School student Philo Farnsworth drew up some early blueprints for a TV and later went on to develop the TV vacuum tube. But there's more: Rigby is also the home of Wayne Quinton, inventor of the treadmill. All of this on US Route 20!

Wagons Ho!

I watched a lot of Ward Bond and Wagon Train on TV when I was a kid. One of my favorite shows. Bond played a surly but paternal wagon train captain who always made things turn out well by the end of the hour. Not so in real life, I learned. Settlers, referred to as emigrants, sought to escape high unemployment, a stock market crash, and constant infectious epidemics in eastern cities in the first half of the 19^th Century. The dream of free land in a country touted to be sunny, warm and fertile-- Oregon-- drew thousands along the old Indian traces that had been the routes of fur trappers and missionaries in the early 1800’s. So many died along the way that by the 1860’s there was a grave every 80 feet along the trail.

I began to follow its course in reverse, hoping it would be less dangerous. The sign was ominous, however.

When emigrants crossed this high pass in eastern Oregon at Flagstaff Hill, they were met by a broad desert valley with a huge singular tree that had served as a guide for hundreds of years. A sequoia, it was chopped down by an emigrant in 1846. No wonder Native Americans stopped offering a welcome hand to the white-man's wagon trains.

 

 

Mt. Hood near the Columbia River Gorge between Oregon and Washington State. Before the Barlow toll "road" was cut around the mountain, emigrants had to float their wagons over the treacherous Columbia River cascades below this point.

The arrival of trans-continental rail ended the wagon train era

 Baker City, Oregon eventually developed along the Oregon Trail, helped considerably by the discovery of gold in the 1860's.  The renovated Geiser Grand Hotel is the town's jewel and has been called the best historic hotel in the west. I stayed at the Oregon Trail Motel which offered a heated pool, free breakfast at the diner next door, and 47 cable channels...but no PBS...and therefore no Sunday night Masterpiece Theater.

Essential services thrive in rural America

In early 1841 the first emigrant wagon train set out from Independence, Missouri. The settlers walked along side—for 6 months and over 2,000 miles--  from the 1840's until the rail road came through in 1869. Riding a motorcycle through this landscape and seeing its dry, harsh environment, I was left in awe of the early white settlers’ courage and tenacity. 

Early trail conveyances

No one modern highway follows the trail exactly but there are quite a few places where one can still see the ruts left by the wagons. The National Park Service and several states have placed historical markers and interpretive displays along the various roads that now run near the original route. When I stood at some of the sites, the sense of history was palpable.

More recent trail-side relics

There is NO RUST in eastern Oregon