Atlas Old and New

My helmet camera isn't the only new toy I've been playing with lately.  My 21st century atlas - the Garmin GPS I recently installed - has more perks than Micheal Jackson's nightstand.  Yet, for all its new found functionality, there are plenty of options I doubt I'll ever use. I know I have a somewhat technical occupation, but I tend to see the world more like checkers than chess and there are times when I prefer the simple to the complex.  One GPS feature I will use on the Alaskapade is its audio book player. The Zumo supports the Audible format and I love audio books. I got hooked on them when I was driving a weekly 600-mile commute to and from Houston for eighteen months. Among countless others, I devoured almost everything from Michael Chrichton, John Grisham, David Baldacci, and all of Dan Brown's work.I'll certainly use the mp3 player too and have literally months worth of tunes to keep me occupied.

I’ve decided on this trip to revisit my all-time favorite novel in Audible format. Written in 1957 by Ayn Rand, Atlas Shrugged takes a novel approach - figuratively and literally - to explain where America is heading. As a country, we started meandering down a slippery slope of  political correctness and collectivism back in the 1960's.  In 2009, our winding road became a straight vertical plunge at Autobahn speed. To deny it is like saying Ann Frank was just trying to avoid paying rent.  It takes 63 hours to listen to the unabridged version of Atlas Shrugged.  I can’t imagine Ms. Rand knowingly/willingly submitting any of her work to an abridged format, but it was available from Audible.  63 hours is nothing really, because on this trip I have nothing but time.

As I said, I've enjoyed audio books for years.  And really, who doesn’t like being read to?  I remember being read to by Ms. Franklin in the kindergarten class at St. David’s Episcopal Church I attended as a kid.  My family wasn’t Episcopalian.  In fact, my grandfather was a Methodist Lay Preacher.  We only went to church on Easter and Christmas and I remember I always got a new suit.  No wonder I’m an Agnostic now.  Agnosticism  does have its benefits. I'll likely never be born again because I'm pretty sure I got it right the first time. I went to this Episcopal school because my mom worked at Harper Printing across the street.  For some reason, I often saw my mom at the school talking to the faculty.  I suppose it was convenient working so close. Thinking back, there might have been another reason or two; or twelve.

For story time in Ms. Franklin’s class, we would lie on our pallets (mine was an old bathroom rug) and she would read aloud from various books to us.  The Mouse and the Motorcycle was my favorite, but I always fell asleep during story time so I missed the end of that one.  If that happens with Atlas Shrugged on this trip, I’m in big trouble.

Ms. Franklin was ancient.  Looking back, I suppose she was the Episcopal equivalent of a Nun and she looked like a mummy without its wrapping.  She wore her white hair in a tight bun and she had thick black whiskers sparsely spread over her upper lip.  We kids were all fascinated by her teeth, which she kept in a jar of water on her desk which magnified them to an unreal size.  She only put them in to talk when the pastor came into the classroom. He showed up daily to read us a Bible  story- and to yell at me for something I did.  I remember once asking him if there any Bible stories about Ms. Franklin.

As difficult to believe as this may sound, for some reason Ms. Franklin didn't like me. I’m not sure if it was because I scribbled an entire sixteen color Crayola crayon carton onto the walls of the time out room  (a closet), or if it was because I once locked her and the rest of the faculty out of the classroom, forcing them to break a window to get in at me.  Maybe it was because of the time I knocked over a candelabrum during  a daily compulsory chapel service and accidentally set a tapestry on fire.  Who knows?  It might have had something to do with something I once did with her teeth when she wasn’t looking.  She never would have found out if some other kid hadn't snitched.  Regardless, I remember her being very impatient with me.  But I digress…

I challenge anyone reading this to read Atlas Shrugged and if you don’t see parallels to what is going on in our country today, then you either didn’t really read it or your comprehension level is on par with my crayon scribbles on the wall at St. Mark’s.  In that case, the The Mouse and the Motorcycle might be for you.  If so, do me a solid and tell me how it ends.

Three Weeks in Purgatory

Not much to say with respect to the Alaskapade this week, although the trip is constantly in the back of my mind.  I think about it constantly. I dream about it at night.  I Tivo every DirecTV broadcast that has Alaska in the title.  However,I drew the line at watching Sarah Pailin's daughter on that dancing show.  This week, I'm working in a north central Ohio steel mill where the indoor temperature hovers around 20 degrees.  That isn't terribly cold, really; at least not to the locals.  It's the constant overcast gray skies outside with the absolute lack of shadows that really gets to me.

The world outside the plant can be downright depressing. You can tell any local economy is in the toilet when the largest employers are the public school system and the local hospital.  This mill is located in an economically depressed part of Ohio, which is actually most of the state. I'm told it was once the second largest employer in the city, employing roughly with 1,500 workers.  GM was the largest employer, but they recently closed their plant.  This mill manufactures stainless steel which will ultimately be used in automobile mufflers. Now, there are much fewer employees, most of whom work their asses off in the harshest of environments while constantly looking over their shoulders watching for the human resources ax. It makes me wonder what the state of this mill will be if sales of hybrid or electric vehicles ever gains traction.

This project started way back in April of 2010 with a phone call to ascertain the client requirements and the state of their existing network.  After learning that the existing network at this location was the technological equivalent of a gerbil spinning an exercise wheel connected to an abacus, my recommendation to the sales guy pushing the deal was to send them to Fry’s or Best Buy.  I pretty much blew it off then, figuring the worst that could happen was a few trips to Ohio where the temperatures are pretty mild during the summer.  The client acted in a manner which was as timely as their network was modern and I found myself in Ohio in the not-so-mild winter months of December and January.

My role here is that of an objective third party consultant observing the performance of two wireless LAN equipment manufacturers’ gear in the mill. I get to wear my consultant hat, my architect hat, and my engineer hat. I left my sales hat at home.

Some of the equipment here was manufactured in the 1930's, but its control mechanisms have been updated over the years. There are wireless control options available now that just a few years ago were never dreamed of.  Someone here got the nutty idea that a competitive bake-off between two vendors would yield the most promising wireless solution at the most competitive price.  Even nuttier is the fact that two vendors actually signed up to the challenge.

The implementation phase commenced the first week with one vendor arriving in the morning and selecting the most suitable locations for their radios based on anticipated performance and client requirements. Also considered were radio mounting restrictions due to overhead cranes and areas of intense heat.  When the second vendor arrived that afternoon and saw the first vendor’s placement markings, they miraculously selected the same locations. It was a classic case of “let’s do that they do in case they thought of something we didn’t.”  I must have thought of things neither of them did because I wouldn’t have picked any of the locations they did.  Nevertheless, after a few weeks, the gear was installed by the client with each of the vendors’ radios in very close proximity to the other.  It’s like going to The Home Depot.  Stand in the parking lot and look around and you will most likely see a Lowes within walking distance.

These are the most safety conscious (if not safety obsessed) people I've ever seen.  Granted, this is a potentially hazardous environment, but the company goes way overboard. If there's a hand rail, you must have one hand on it - even if there are no stairs. If there is a crack in the cement, you must stop, look at it, and then point at it for anyone following you before crossing it. Those following you repeat the same exercise.  I suppose with the litigious nature of employees these days and labor union influence, these steps are necessary.

Yum! Kevlar Sleeves!!

I would love to be the sales guy who has the safety equipment account for this place.  They buy everything and then force their employees to wear it while trying to do their jobs. They even have vending machines in the break rooms with reflective vests, safety goggles, ear plugs, and a plethora of other gadgets. To enter the plant, you have to wear a pair of ultra-thick coveralls, safety goggles, a construction helmet complete with a flashing red light, a breathing mask, articulating steel toe and heel boots, ear plugs, and these ridiculous Kevlar-infused cloth sleeves that clip to the coverall shoulders and completely cover the arms and hands. The reason behind the sleeves was to prevent cuts to the fingers and thumbs.  Ironically, the sleeves cover neither the fingers nor the thumbs.  The outfit reminds me of brand new motorcycle riders who buy a Gold Wing and wear the brightest day glow yellow/green coveralls available with reflective stripes sewn into every seam. I was that way with my Honda XL-100 that I rode when I was 15 years old. Despite the nuclear day glow outfit, I still got plowed by a clueless cager one day on my way home from high school - and there were no cell phones or texting to distract the driver. The most high tech equipment in a car back then was a cassette deck.  So much for being ultra visible.  This driver, a woman, was cited for DWA - Driving While Asian.  But I digress.

Monkey Suit Mirror Man

So we dress up in gear that rivals an astronaut's extravehicular activity space suit and attempt to perform work that requires a significant amount of dexterity in an extremely noisy environment with particulate matter so thick that the breathing mask turns black within minutes. If all this wasn't enough, the temperature inside the mill can swing from 20 to 120 degrees in a matter of seconds.  It's freezing cold between steel processing runs and then when the steel flows, you're sweating profusely.  I almost felt sorry for myself for having to be here until I realized some of these workers have been here over 30 years.  It makes my three weeks here seem like a vacation in purgatory by comparison.

This is my third week here wrapping up the competitive performance tests.  Next week, I will chew on the data and score each vendor’s performance using a predetermined set of criteria. Then, I’ll write up a fabulous report complete with RF coverage maps, data throughput readings, and some really cool photos and diagrams that make me look like a genius. I will be careful to be objective and in my best Officer Bill Gannon persona, will report just the facts, ma’am as I present the findings to my client’s executive team. Afterward, said client will likely ignore all of the technical data and the efforts exhausted to collect and report it, fold the report into paper airplanes,  and just select the vendor with the lowest price.

As frustrating as this process has been, the reality is that working among the people here reminds me of just how fortunate I am to have the job I do.  My sentence in Purgatory was only for three weeks.  These people are here for eternity.

Another Video Test

I took advantage of this last Saturday's clear weather to make another run with the new helmet cam.  This time, I set it at 1080p resolution.  The difference between 1080 and 720 is dramatic.  I also tried an external microphone, which makes the sound much clearer.  The stereo is very clear on this one; well, as clear as a live AC/DC concert could be.

Unfortunately, I failed to properly adjust the rotating camera lens for the camera's position on the side of my helmet, so the video is slanted slightly. Lesson learned!

Here's the YouTube link in case blogspot screws it up.
Helmet Video Cam 1080p Test

More Trip Supplies

Zeus - 3 Years Old

Ebay and Amazon.com must love me. For that matter, so must UPS.  I'm pretty sure DHL doesn't though.  I often leave the front door of my house open with the glass storm door closed.  On one occasion a niece was visiting and my boxer Zeus was on patrol. Boxers are great family dogs. They look frightening to the right people.  They instinctively seek out someone in the house who "needs" their protection and then assign themselves as that person's guardian.  In Zeus' case, protection of the youngest in the house at any given time is his life's mission.  He is every bit as fiercely loyal as he is sweet and gentle.

For all his gentile nature and sweetness, Zeus tends to also be very territorial. He used to run around looking up at the sky and barking at birds for having the nerve to fly over our, or I should say his yard.  Recognizing the above description as fact, it should not have been any surprise that when the DHL delivery guy arrived, Zeus was there to greet him. The driver was unknowingly safe in Zeus' watchful eye as he walked up to the porch. That measure of safety ceased to exist when said driver reached out and committed the Cardinal sin of touching the glass door. With Matrix movie-like precision and speed, Zeus was at the door before the driver saw him coming. Knowing Zeus, speed was of the essence and a warning bark was the last thing on his mind.  So before the DHL driver knew what was happening, Zeus was not only at the foyer, but had managed to hit the latch, opening the glass door. Before the driver was aware of the situation and could react by turning to run, Zeus had bit him in the ass. Zeus stopped the chase as soon as the driver was off our porch. This was irrelevant to the driver who tossed everything into the air, fled across our circular front driveway, and leaped over the boxwood shrubs barely touching the ground before landing in his van and slamming the sliding door shut. I waited for DHL's lawyers to call, although they never did. But to this day, DHL drivers will call and have us meet him at the end of the street to accept a delivery.

What has this to do with Amazon and Ebay? Nothing really. But I've ordered lots of goodies I need for the Alaskapade and most of it has been delivered by UPS.

I wrote in a previous entry about finding the Alpine Catalyst tent at REI. I set it up a few days ago and it took me less than ten minutes sight unseen and without instructions. I originally wanted a single person tent, but Zach at REI talked me into a two-man tent explaining that I would probably want to offload gear from my bike when I camp. A single man tent has barely enough room for one guy.  The tent I scored is labeled as a three man tent.  I gotta tell you, after setting it up and crawling inside, if this is a three man tent, let's just say the three men would have to sleep in an arrangement that would make me question their manhood. Since buying the tent, UPS has delivered a Recon 3 lightweight/cold weather sleeping bag, and an insulated inflatable sleeping pad, and pillow from Big Agnes. All of these are ruggedized and suitable for cold weather.  The best feature of all of them is that they are made for backpackers, so they compress really tightly.  This is absolutely necessary for motorcycle transport. I'm trying to avoid looking like the Beverly Hillbillies riding with all my gear on the trip. I figure that with the inside of my King Tour Pak and the luggage rack atop it, the saddle bags, and the back pack and its top roll that will sit on the passenger seat behind me (giving me lumbar support and storage), I'll have plenty of space for the necessities. I might even find room for Granny's rocking chair.

Alaskapade Camping Gear

Zeus - 11 Years Old

 Zeus hasn't bothered any of the recent delivery drivers that have been bringing my Alaskapade supplies. In fact, I think he's barely noticed them. Maybe he likes the brown UPS truck better than the highly-contrasted bright yellow and red DHL vans. Maybe it's because he's eleven years old now and has slowed down considerably.  He's since retired his black leather spiked collar and his new mission in life is shadowing my thirteen month-old granddaughter, Brooke.  Zeus and Brooke are great pals. These days, Zeus can be found sitting patiently underneath Brooke's high chair waiting for the fallout.

Another New Toy

This one wasn't a Christmas present.  I bought it for myself.  I needed a new GPS after my mom's trip. The TomTom Rider2 I had used since 2006 still has a 2006 map in it and as detailed in a previous post, I can't upgrade it because the TomTom corporation is woefully technically inept.  I picked the new model I wanted back in October, but waited for a deal  to present itself during the end of year holiday rush.  Let's face it; consumer electronics only get cheaper and with Christmas approaching, I found a killer deal.

I hear from riders all the time how they don't want a GPS; they don't need a GPS.  The reality is many of them probably can't figure out how to use a GPS.  One such rider wearing a Harley do rag, Harley leather jacket, Harley chaps, Harley boots, and a Harley t-shirt reminded me that he wasn't a poser and that real riders don't need a GPS.  He added that he'd rather get lost and run out of gas than be seen with a "babysitter" on his scooter. His ride was a 2003 100th anniversary edition Harley Heritage Softail; a great looking bike with a whopping 5,000 miles on it. I didn't bother to point out to him that Hester has over 12,000 miles on her and that her 1st birthday was December 30th.  Granted, 6,000 of those miles were earned on a two-week trip last summer.  But I've managed to ride another 6,000 miles having been out of town on business for 45 weeks last year.

Poser or not, I don't use a GPS on the bike around town.  It came with an automobile windshield suction cup mount and a cigarette lighter power adapter, which will come in handy for finding my way in any of the cities in which I find myself during my work travel.  As for the Alaskapade, many of the routes I'm considering are very rural. I've received suggestions from riders who have made this trek or who live along the route in Canada and Alaska.  Their routes are way out there and I plan to try to ride every one of them.; specifically the route through the Canadian Rockies, Banff National park, and the Columbia Ice Fields.

Lake Louise - Banff National Park

Driver View of the GPS

Back to my new toy.  I picked up a Garmin Zumo 660 GPS.  It's purpose built for motorcycles and it has an integrated mp3 player with 16GB of storage for tunes, audio books, images, and special route functions. It sports a large touch screen that works with riding gloves. I installed a new fuel door on Hester that has a special mount for the GPS. With this mount the GPS sits securely, right in front of me with its wiring neatly tucked under the gas tank console. It detaches easily, so I can take it when I'm off the bike. Not only can I clearly see the large screen without taking my eyes too far off the road, I can also play the music through Hester's stereo speakers, into wired headphones, or via bluetooth to my helmet intercom stereo speakers.  The tank mount is especially nice because there will be two less devices with dangling wires on the handlebars when I leave in June, leaving room for important accessories like my 12vdc Margarita Masters machine.

Atop the Fuel Door

Gas & Go

I only have one other techie piece to acquire for the trip.  The Find Me Spot GPS Tracker is a must have for a trip like this.  Details on that when I pick it up.

Gotta Drop Some Weight

Holy $hit!  I stepped on the scale and realized that I weigh 240 pounds.  That's fine for a linebacker, but I'm only 5'-10". People who know me didn't believe it when I told them (or maybe they were just being polite) and quite frankly, I'm having a hard time accepting it myself.  Who knew longer hair weighed so much? Seriously, I have no excuse.  Yes, I travel excessively, but I'm fortunate to work for a company who puts me up in decent hotels with gyms. I also have a LA Fitness membership that's been idle for over a year. The reason is a lack of discipline.  That may be a reason, but it's no excuse.

So along with the Alaskapade preparation goal, I have a concurrent goal of dropping forty pounds by my June 18th departure date.   I'm not the weight loss pill, cream, or juice fad type and this isn't so new year resolution whim. Both of my parents died way to young because they failed to take care of their bodies.  I'll do this the old fashioned way by hitting the gym, cutting the crap out of my diet, and just flat eating less.

The photo here is me at 240 on January 1st, 2011. I'll post pics as I reach significant milestones.  I posted this here as a measure of accountability more than any sense of vanity. Believe me; I'm not proud of how I look.

New Toy!

I got a 1080p HD helmet cam from Drift Innovation for Christmas. It came with several attachment options and mounts. I bought it for the Alaskapade! and took it out yesterday for a test drive. So far, I really like it. It has a rotating lens so it can be mounted on the side or the top of a helmet. The articulating mounts are nice in that they allow you to maintain level framing regardless of where or what angle the camera is mounted. Another great feature is the remote control that can be handlebar or wrist mounted for instant start/stop recording without fumbling for the right button while riding. There are Drift user forums on the Internet that offer techniques that I will be trying to reduce the wind noise and I haven't figured out the remote control zoom yet. I have plenty of time.  I hit 110mph on the bridge, but had to dial it down because the local municipal revenue generation patrols hide out at the end of the bridge as you cross back into Dallas county.

This, along with my handlebar-mounted video camera will provide some great footage for my Alaskapade! documentary.   Look here for occasional interesting videos (or at least what I consider interesting) between now and June. Here's a sample of my first ride.

If Blogspot porks it up, you can see it here.

New Riding Partner

Those of you who know me know that I keep my cards close to my chest when it comes to my personal life. So, it may be news to some readers here that there's been a new girl in my life and she's been in my heart for about a year now.

There are countless ways to demonstrate one's feelings for another, especially when it comes to the gifts you buy them. That said, I considered two facts when I was looking for the perfect Christmas gift.

1. I love riding and consider the hours I am fortunate to enjoy in the saddle to be among the best in my life.
    
2. Few will dispute the fact that girls are cuter on a motorcycle. Many look kinda hot riding bitch, but most all chicks look hotter riding their own bike.

That said, what better way to demonstrate my love for her than buying her a bike of her own. She refuses to wear a helmet and proper riding boots, but I'm not worried about her getting hurt. She's confident, well-balanced, and eager to try new things and take risks. She's my kinda gal.

I managed to get a photo on her first outing. She'll be hell on wheels in no time.  Blogspot is acting screwy again, so scroll down to see the image.

Well that Was a Disaster

My sincere apologies for the disastrous attempt at another ad revenue stream.


Hopefully, the video answer (below) to the age old question will entertain. More quality posts to come.

Boxing Day

Well, Christmas has come and gone.  I have to admit I was dreading it for a number of reasons.  I also have to admit that despite all those reasons, it was the best Christmas I've had in years and I credit my granddaughter for the turnaround.  At just thirteen months, her enthusiasm was infectious.  She had no clue what was going on and therefore, had no expectations whatsoever.  She was simply thrilled at everything she saw, everything she got, and everything everyone else got for that matter.  The boxes, bows, and wrapping paper proved to be the best friend a baby girl could have on Christmas day.

In a few days, I can concentrate on a six-month countdown to my trip.  It seems like an eternity now, but I suspect I'll find myself scrambling to sew up loose ends during the last week or two.

Ads...Again

I'm experimenting with another ad agency in hopes to offset my trip costs.  Google AdSense never bothered to reply to my appeals after they cut me off.  After a little research, I learned that AdSense apparently makes a habit of cutting people off with no regard to their content providers' concern.  Interestingly enough, my site hits increased over 150% since they axed me, proving the hits are content driven.  Google AdSense can get in line behind Ned Ludd and TomTom.

Please be patient and I'll tweak the ad settings to be as minimally invasive as possible.

Merry Christmas

After weeks of unsuccessfully trying to convince her that he isn't scary, my thirteen month old granddaughter finally sat with Santa Claus...at least long enough for a photo  I usually loathe the holidays and wish only for them to pass quickly.  But after seeing this and having her around to brighten things up, this year just might be the turning point.

Bug Off!

I'm told the bugs in an Alaskan summer are fierce.  That seems odd to me; I mean it's Alaska, not Texas. But I accept what the locals and others who have been there tell me and I'm taking steps to prepare accordingly.  Hey, at least I don't have to get shots!

Years ago, I was in the Air Force.  I served seven years and spent the last few working indirectly for an organization some refer to as "No Such Agency". As such, I frequently found myself south of the border in some pretty interesting garden spots, all of which required numerous inoculations before I could operate there. I remember asking one of the medical techs what a particularly ominous-looking gel in a large syringe was supposed to prevent.  He looked at a piece of paper and then back at me, sighed, and said "You don't wanna know".  He was probably right.  I remember the needle was so long and thick that they had to inject me at the top of my butt pointing the needle straight down parallel with my leg.  It looked like a liposuction tool.  I limped for two days after that one.

One aspect that made these trips unique was the secrecy of the missions.  These events took place during the Reagan/Casey/North days, so use your imagination.  There were times when we didn't know where we were going until we got there, and even then we questioned it. We would often depart from known US operating locations in Honduras aboard helicopters and fly south to said garden spots.  The helicopters never landed (for plausible deniability?), so we always hopped out from a few feet above terra firma and sought out our targets.  We referred to ourselves as the "Noun Patrol" because our typical role was to search out people, places, or things.  We were rarely armed with more than a radio to call for extractions, a GPS receiver, and a satellite up-link kit. Even for military applications, this was some pretty weighty gear. Tools like these were smaller than their Vietnam-era predecessors, but were far from the electronic miniaturization marvels we enjoy today. Once we acquired our target, we would paint it with an electronic compass-equipped scope and its coordinates were collected.  Those coordinates were up-linked to a satellite and stored so that the target could be tracked if it moved.

On most missions, my team would receive location details only moments before our deployment.  We would collect the coordinates and the helicopter navigation system would be programmed by a technician operating a special console in the Intel office.  We would then carry the newly-programmed nav box to the waiting aircraft for installation and immediate departure. The aircrew was usually as clueless as we were with respect to the mission details and our destination.  I'm amused by the fact that the Garmin GPS unit I have today is probably more sophisticated than the navigation system on board those helicopters, especially since the government removed the induced error to non official receivers and eliminated Selective Availability.

On one particular mission, we were airborne well before dawn for an hour's flight "south".  It was still dark out, so the aircrew had to rely heavily on the navigation system and terrain following radar. This was always  a hair raising experience for me because we usually flew just above the jungle canopy.  Somehow, the aircrew always knew when we were near a village, despite the darkness and lack of prior knowledge of the flight path and ultimate destination.  On this flight, after hearing one of them mention it, I piped up and asked over the headset intercom "how do you guys always know that?"  The co-pilot shined a flashlight on the lower forward starboard window and replied "because of that."  The outside of the window was almost completely covered with a thick, deep red coating.  Before I could ask WTF, he spoke up again and said "the mosquito swarms we're flying through are full of blood. Gotta be people near by."  That image and explanation gave me more nausea than the roller coaster terrain following flights ever did.

I expect my Alaska trip to be at least somewhat less traumatic.  I've picked up a great tent and sleeping bag with mosquito netting.  I'm hoping a few citronella candles and some DEET will help do the trick.  One thing is for sure; I don't anticipate any liposuction needles.

In a Perfect World...

In a perfect world, cagers would only occupy the right lane.

In a perfect world, holiday rookie air travelers would have their own airport, leaving the rest of us to negotiate our airports without delay.

In a perfect world, our dogs would live as long as we do.

In a perfect world, there would be no cats.

In a perfect world, lost loved ones would still be around and the holidays might actually be bearable.

In a perfect world, Obama would have never become President and Republicans wouldn't have behaved in a manner which facilitated his rise.

In a perfect world, John Galt would be president.

In a perfect world, the hearts we affect would only be affected positively.

In a perfect world, people who didn't share or even understand your dreams would at least accept and respect the fact they they are yours.

In a perfect world, our emotions would be boundless and could be expressed without inhibition.

In a perfect world, the sense of entitlement felt by those for whom we provide would be matched by a sense of appreciation.

In a perfect world, tomorrow would be June 18th, 2011.

The People of REI

Have you seen the web page PeopleofWalMart.com?  After Saturday morning, I believe there ought to be a People of REI web page.  As noted in a previous entry, a local REI store was having their annual garage sale and I stopped by in hopes of scoring some inexpensive camping gear for the Alaskapade.  The sale, which consisted of returns and outdated items at fifty to eighty percent off, started at 10:00am.  I figured I would beat the rush and get there early in case there was a line.  I pulled into the parking lot at 9:00am and realized I was way too late.  The line ran around three sides of the building and was comprised of some pretty colorful characters.  As I hunted for a parking spot, I began to wonder if I was at a garage sale or a Toyota Prius convention. The lot had the usual suspects - tiny cars with anti-everything bumper and window stickers.

Cars with Causes

It was a friendly crowd, and a happy one given the early hour and the temperature. Honestly, with all the dreadlocks, Frisbees, and tie dye, it looked more like a line for Grateful Dead or Phish concert tickets than it did a camping gear sale.  This was definitely a Save the Whales, seals, Darfur, Earth, and [insert your cause here] crowd.  There were people stretched out on cots, sitting in umbrella chairs, and others standing next to portable heaters - all of whom appeared to have been there all night.  It was like an overnight tailgate party for the eco-Nazi crowd.  All night.  For cheap camping gear.  Insane.

Somebody Has Sense!

I parked my gas guzzling full-sized Chevy pickup truck in between a couple of Mini Cooper Matchbox cars and wandered around to the back of the building to get in line with all the other losers who slept in. On the way, I managed to snap a few photos of the vehicles.

"Lady Who?"

I was quickly joined in line by some pretty interesting characters.  One guy apparently wearing his sister's lime green hoodie and birth control glasses kept talking to himself aloud.  This guy probably has never heard of Lady Gaga, but could probably tell you Mr. Spock's mother's name back on the planet Vulcan.  The fact that I happen to know Spock's mother was T'pau is irrelevant. At least I've heard of Lady Gaga; so there.  Anyway, I thought he was talking to me and I responded, but he just kept staring at my leather jacket, which in this crowd was about as welcome as a Tea Party candidate in a union meeting hall.  I looked to see if he was wearing a bluetooth headset or something, but gave up and assumed he was just talking to others of his species from his native dimension.  After looking him over briefly, I pondered the necessity of the birth control glasses and then considered the fact that I still had my appendix and tonsils, neither of which would ever serve any real purpose on my body either.

"Let me think on it..."

Also near me was a woman (I think) with her head wrapped in some sort of multicolored native American ceremonial garb. Upon closer examination of the photo, I think it was actually Meat Loaf attempting to be incognito.

Hey! I like this hat!!

 Once the line started moving, we were all corralled upstairs into the REI attic where the sale items were tagged and laid out on tables. At this point, the compassionate saviors-of-all-things-liberal transformed themselves into the stampeding mob from that Cincinnati Who concert back in 1979.  People were frantically swooping up handfuls of stuff - anything - as much as they could carry - and then dragging it to a corner to inspect it and see what they got.  Some of the items were unidentifiable crap and yet people still scooped them up.  I figured out that some of the shoppers were working in concert ,with one person guarding and evaluating their stash while others from their pack foraged for more.  When one woman placed a sleeping bag back on the table, two other people grabbed it simultaneously.  One looked at the other and said "Rock, paper, scissors?"  I rolled my eyes and wandered away.  We all know that in the real world, a rock would always win.

Damn! Too late.

I managed to score a nice tent that was returned because the zipper was reported to be malformed. I proudly carried the tent around a while - much like a dog does with a toy, challenging anyone to take it from me.  With a death grip on my kill, I looked at the remaining piles of crap, which by this point were scattered from Hell to breakfast throughout the REI attic. Several people asked me "are you going to buy that?" and then "what is it?"  They didn't seem to care what it was as long as it was a good sale price. In my case, it was. I examined the zipper and with a little effort, tugged it past the bent teeth, straightening them out in the process and rendering it completely serviceable. It was a $155 tent for $49. I Googled the make and model and found many excellent reviews, some of which were from motorcycle campers.

Do I look fat in these?

I made my way out of the land of misfit toys and back downstairs to pay for the tent.  Along the way, I observed people changing into pants, trying on socks, erecting tents, and blowing into inflatable mattresses that were clearly labeled as unable to hold air.  Now it was time to stand in line with the others and gloat over what we scored upstairs.  One guy offered to trade the Yakima bike rack he was carrying (that was missing all the nuts and bolts and one mounting leg) for my tent.  Turns out, he was offering the trade to everyone in line for whatever they had.  Tempting as his offer was, I opted to keep my bounty, paid for it and made my way out to my truck.  Finding my truck was easy as it towered above the eco-friendly ultra compact cars in the parking lot.  I headed home and set up my tent to admire the fruit of  my morning's efforts.  I'm still on the hunt for a good, tightly-compacting sleeping bag and an air mattress.  There are other REI stores in the Dallas area with garage sales scheduled before year end.  I think I'll just sleep in and check Amazon and Ebay.

Happy Tent

I Dare You...

I dare you to watch this till the end.  It actually made me cry.  Those who know me know why.

Sound on.

Mind open.

Pass it on.

4000

Obama Administration Ohio Headquarters

I spent this week working in the frozen tundra that is Mansfield, Ohio.  The project was in a steel mill that was built in the 1930's.  I gotta tell ya.. There are times when I think my job is tough because of all of the travel and multitasking.  My hat is off to the guys who work in this mill year in and year out.  The temperature inside was below 20 degrees and at times, it seemed to snow inside the building.  It was in the town of Mansfield that I took the photo of the Obama Administration's Ohio headquarters building shown above.

This blog busted the 4,000 hit count yesterday.  I'm not sure who is reading my drivel, but I'm appreciative nonetheless. I promise the content will improve as the Alaskapade departure gets closer.  I've found a way to upload images and texts directly from my phone to the blog page as long as I have cellular coverage.  Granted, there won't be much coverage once I get into Canada, but I'll do my best to find places where I can get on line and send updates.

Tomorrow is the REI garage sale in Dallas.  I'll eat some sprouts and drop by in search of a sleeping bag, tent, and some other goodies.  Rest assured I'll have my camera!

Under the Bridge

Sometimes we get a sample - a taste, if you will - of something we want, but that we know we can never have.  Whether or not we deserve it is irrelevant. I sometimes wonder quietly to myself if the taste is enough to sustain me when I know in my heart of hearts I can never have it. I wonder also if it s better to know what you're missing and long for it, or to have never known at all...

One Dog Night

We've all heard of the band Three Dog Night.  Well, anyone from my generation probably has.  "Mama Told Me (Not to Come)" and "Out in the Country" from their 1970 LP It Ain't Easy are timeless classics.  The band name "Three Dog Night" was explained in the liner notes inside the CD set Celebrate: The Three Dog Night Story, 1965-1975.  It states that vocalist Danny Hutton's girlfriend suggested the name after reading a magazine article about indigenous Australians, in which it was explained that on cold nights they would customarily sleep in a hole in the ground whilst embracing a dingo, a native species of wild dog. On colder nights they would sleep with two dogs and if a night was especially cold, it was a "three dog night".

^{At this point, you're probably wondering what the hell this has to do with planning and executing a trip to Alaska.  Well, for starters it's cold up there despite all the hysteria created by the global warming crisis.  Although I do plan to camp where possible on my trip, I don't plan on sleeping with any dogs. Of course I never planned such a thing the night before I crossed Death Valley last summer, but that's exactly what happened.}

I think I'm a reasonably bright guy.  I scored a 131 on the Wechsler Adult Intelligence Scale (WAIS) last year.  Despite that, I can't fix a sink or nail two pieces of wood together, I'm planning a, 10,000 mile motorcycle trip from Texas to the top of the world, and I decided to cross Death Valley from California to Nevada on August 1st.  I suppose that's proof that intelligence quotient and common sense aren't always aligned.

                                                             

While planning my itinerary, I figured I could outsmart Mother Nature and zip across the desert really early in the morning before the temperatures hit their 130 degree forecast.  So I studied potential routes, reviewed weather history, and researched the cheap hotels closest to the Death Valley border.  Through these studies, I learned that there is really only one good, scenic route, that it's hot as hell on the desert in August, and that there are no cheap hotels in the area.

I reserved a reasonably priced hotel room in the thriving metropolis of Lone Pine on the California side of the desert.  I planned a scenic ride from San Francisco to the Yosemite National Forest, over Tioga Pass, and down highway 395 before stopping for the night in Lone Pine.  That route was breathtaking and somewhat exhausting.  The weather was perfect, but the cager traffic consisting largely of rental campers and trailers with clueless and  the inconsiderate drivers made for more than a few tense moments.

Lone Pine proved to have all the splendor and excitement that I imagined it would. One thing it did not have was my hotel reservation.  I found the streets to be considerably crowded for a town so small that it probably only had one horse to match the one pine.  It turned out that most if not all these people were out-of-towners like myself, meaning every hotel room in town was booked.  At one of my unsuccessful attempts to secure a room for the night, I learned that there is a great deal of protected land in the nearby desert, the access to which is restricted by the Bureau of Land Management (BLM).  Apparently, the BLM has a lottery and its winners are granted access to these restricted areas. This weekend was apparently one of those events.  As usual, my timing was impeccable. The street (singular by design) was teaming with earthy nature lovers sporting fringe jackets, backpacks, knit hats, and reusable aluminum water bottles. It was an REI crowd for sure.

After trying unsuccessfully at a few more hotels, I figured I had better look for someplace covered and reasonably secure to bed down overnight.  I planned to keep looking, but the former Boy Scout in me instinctively knew it was best to be prepared.  I found an abandoned gas station at the south end of town with an accessible side door wide enough for Hester to ride through. With no luck securing a room in town, I went back to one hotel where the desk clerk told me to check back at 10pm and if he had a no-show, I could have the room.  Suddenly, the requirement for cheap accommodations was no longer a priority.  Out of luck and out in the cold, I headed south of town to my posh digs at the abandoned gas station.

I have to admit that when it comes to travel, I've been spoiled. Traveling for my work at IBM means I'm on the road somewhere nearly every week, but it also affords me decent hotels.  As such, I hold uranium-level or moon rock status on most hotel frequent guest plans.  But when I checked into Hotel Hester, there was no priority check-in line, no mini bar, no complimentary popcorn and sodas in the kitchenette; no kitchenette for that matter. There were none of the little shampoo bottles or mini soaps in the bathroom.  In fact there was no bathroom.  It did have a floor with adequate gravity for me to lie on it for the night though, so I figured I'd make the best of it.  I laid the small bean bag pillow and an airline blanket that I had packed on top of my bike cover and anything else I could find for cushion between me and the concrete floor.  I then gingerly pulled Hester through the side door next to my "bed" and worked her back and forth repeatedly, eventually making a u-turn and parking her straight up on the center stand facing the front wheel towards the door through which I had just passed.

I laid down, stretched out, and actually felt very relaxed despite the circumstances.  Doffing my riding boots after a sixteen hour day in them provided - at that moment - relief equal to any adjustable bed in any hotel on which I've slept in years.  Looking upward from where I stretched out, I had an excellent view of a star-filled sky provided by a window-less hole in the wall directly above my right side. I cued up the "go to sleep" play list on my iPod, but then thought better of it, figuring it wiser to be able to hear whatever might be going on around me in my impromptu accommodations. Megadeth's "Rust in Sleep" would have to wait.

My ADHD brain has a habit of keeping me awake when I go to bed.  When voluntary thought on my part ceases, random involuntary thoughts start parading across my consciousness competing for brain cycles and keeping me awake. I knew that despite my fatigue, this night would be no different and I'd probably lie awake for ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

I awakened to the same view through the window above me looking at an amazing sight of the eastern sky which was awash with a feathery painted mixture of deep black space and fire red clouds.  It was pre-dawn in the desert. There was no wake-up call, no alarm clock, not even a crowing rooster. With the exception of a light snoring sound, Hotel Hester was bathed in pre-dawn silence.  It occurred to me as I lay there that at if I was awake, someone or something else must be snoring. I sat up slowly, partly out of caution, but mostly from old age.  Across the floor from me right next to the side door was what appeared to be a large dog that had wandered in and was now sound asleep. I sure hoped it was a dog.  The cobwebs that had occupied my brain only seconds before were now replaced by random thoughts of the possibility of roving desert wolf packs.

Rational thought took over and I remembered just how much I love dogs and how much they always liked me.  I stood upright keeping a cautious eye on my guest as I donned my boots.  The sound of the first zipper was all it took to rouse the animal from its sleep. I was startled and somewhat envious of how fast he sprang up compared to how long it took me. I was equally startled at how little he appeared to like me compared to most other dogs.  In fact, based on the drawn back ears, the tucked tail, the display of teeth, and the increasingly loud snarling, I felt about as welcome in that station as as a pork chop at the Wailing Wall.  Keeping a close eye on Cujo, I slowly and deliberately gathered and packed my gear (re: wadded it up into a ball shoved it into my saddle roll).  The dog seemed content to keep its distance while keeping both eyes on his target, which was fine by me.

This stare-down standoff went on a minute or two when I remembered  seeing Caesar Milan say that dogs interpret staring as a sign of aggression. I also remembered how Caesar would make a sharp "psst" sound while snapping his fingers and pointing at the target dog. On TV, the dog always looked away and submitted.  Apparently, this dog had never seen The Dog Whisperer because when I psst'd, snapped, and pointed, it just seemed to embolden him.  His stance grew wider and his growl was now mixed with loud barking.

I decided to start Hester, figuring the exhaust note in the enclosed concrete room would surely frighten the dog.  I slowly reached over while taking one step towards the bike, turned the ignition switch and hit the start button.  Hester roared to life with an especially concussive bang from a top dead center start as I twisted the throttle in short bursts (because that's what we do with Harleys).  I'm always impressed with and amused by that sound.  The dog, however was neither impressed nor amused. He just stood there looking first at Hester and then at me with an expression that seemed to say "really? - is that the best you got?" and adding "I like the deep, throaty sound.  Now hold still while I chew off your leg."

The sun and the temperature were both rising and frankly, I was out of ideas.  Mr. 131 IQ was being outwitted by a homeless dog.  Adding insult to injury, the dog fixed the sink and repaired the wood on the window sill while I tried to figure out what to do next.

The last thing I wanted to do was injure the dog, but I had a desert to cross and he was literally standing in my way.  I decided to mount up and ride towards the door directly at him.  If he moved, fine.  If not, so be it.  I was on my way regardless.  I threw my left leg over the seat and reached for my helmet which was laying atop the right mirror.  My helmet on this trip was a Shark Evoline modular model.  Modular helmets have a face piece that can me adjusted over the helmet transforming it from a full-face helmet to a 3/4 style.  This style of helmet isn't for everyone, but for long trips like this, it's for me. It will also save me a bundle if I ever decide to dress as the black Power Ranger for Halloween.

I slid the helmet on, cinched the chin strap, and grabbed a handful of throttle.  The dog just stood there; no more impressed than before. Before dropping Hester into gear, I figured I should close the face shield.  I reached up and slid the face shield over and latched it closed.  Suddenly, in the first hint of apprehension, the dog ceased barking and his head sideways like dogs do when you whistle off-key at them.  I then reached up and lowered the inner visor, covering my eyes completely.  Maybe it was the transformation in appearance, or maybe the dog just didn't like the Power Rangers.  Whatever the case, articulating the helmet apparently intimidated or frightened the dog because he suddenly turned and ran out of the building.  He stopped and turned to peek back in at me and without hesitation, I dropped Hester into first gear and lunged forward.  As I rolled forward, I kept the motor revved and wedged Hester through the doorway, which seemed much narrower at that point than it did the night before.  Walking backwards as Hester and I rolled towards him, the dog eventually fell backward off a small retaining wall, barking all the while.  Nevertheless, Cujo was finally on the move and so was I.  I managed to snap a souvenir photo with my phone before rolling out of the small parking lot and on to the desert.  Purely by coincidence, as part of a favorites play list, the Three Dog Night tune "One" played on my mp3 player about  an hour into my desert crossing.  I suppose in my case, one wasn't the loneliest number after all.

The ride across Death Valley was breathtaking and the heat never felt very oppressing., especially compared to the tension earlier in the morning  This video link is a time lapse shot of the trip.  Sound on!  Hit play and give it a few seconds to start.

The People You Meet Out There

Anyone who knows me knows that I'm a people person; definitely a type A personality.  The cliche phrase "never met a stranger" could have been coined for me.  Besides the ride itself, meeting and talking with strangers is one of the main aspects of the Alaskapade I really look forward to.  I believe most people respond in kind when greeted by a stranger as long as their personal space isn't violated and the greeting genuine.  Still, not everyone is friendly.  Not everyone wants to be friendly.  In fact, some people should just be left alone.  An example of this happened to me on my west coast trip last summer.

I was stopped for gas in Arizona and I observed a kid on a Sportster who appeared to be waiting for customers to drive off and then squeezing the pump handle for whatever extraneous fuel might be left in the hose. (Does that even work on modern pumps?)  It was August in Arizona and it was really really hot, even in the shade of the gas station.  I watched him as I was filling Hester's tank.  He looked at least purposeful, if not hopeful.  I briefly wondered how long he had been there trying.

I’ve been broke a few times in my adult life, so the type A in me piped up and offered to fill his tank saying “hey buddy, you need some gas?” Without looking up at me, he shook his head and declined.  My tank full, I called over to him and said "I'm gonna roll...last offer".  This time, he looked up, seemed to scan the horizon for other options, and then reluctantly agreed. I filled his Sportster's peanut tank and went in to buy a couple of bottles of water for us. When I got out of the store, he was peeling off. I noticed the word “PROSPECT” on the bottom of the back his vest. I couldn't see what club he was prospecting.

I headed out and rode a good 230 miles before stopping to gas up and cool down again. As I was filling, I noticed a large group of bikes parked under the awning of a rest stop adjacent to the gas station. I was sitting on Hester doing the squeeze-drip-squeeze routine with the nozzle to top off the tank when two from the group approached me.  One was the kid for whom I bought gas. The other was a cliche looking biker type with "1%" and “13” patches among other severely faded insignias. I found myself wondering how the kid got that far ahead of me on such a small tank of gas rather than being concerned that they were clearly walking toward me.

As they approached me, the elder asks the kid something that I couldn't hear, but I heard the kid say “yeah, him”. Before I could dismount, they were standing inches from me and the elder shoved a $5 bill into my shirt pocket saying “He ain't your brother!.” For some reason, as they walked away I piped up and said “I said buddy, not brother and I didn't see a patch". Without looking back at me, the elder said “he won’t ever get one if he don’t figure his way out of his own shit.”

For those who don't know, members of hardcore motorcycle clubs ofter call each other "brother".  It's a fraternal right they feel they've earned in the process of earning their club patch and in their eyes, no one outside the club has the right to call them that. I knew the rule, but never associated this kid with a 1% club. Turns out these guys were Mongols. The Mongols have a long, somewhat sordid history, especially in Arizona. Other than PGR missions, that was my first encounter in 32 years or riding with a 1% club. They pretty much ignored me as I rode off.

I related this event to some riding friends who told me that the kid was prospecting (trying to join) the Mongols and that I had probably interfered with a test the club was putting him through.  Reading some of the stories about the Mongols on the Internet, I suppose I should feel fortunate that all I got was a five dollar bill out of the deal.

Security Theater

Happy Thanksgiving, everybody!

Now excuse me while I go way off the Alaskapade topic and bitch a moment.

I know I've already whined about the TSA here, but this week I've been subjected to airport travel twice. Actually, this isn't out of the ordinary for me. What is out of the ordinary for me is dealing with airport hassles four times during Thanksgiving week with the TSA's new "enhanced" screening measures. Apart from watching Ma's Roadhouse on TruTV, air travel during Thanksgiving week is the closest thing to cruel and unusual punishment to which I have voluntarily subjected myself.

Commercial air travel in a post 9-11 world sucks.  I can't think of another industry to which the public not only volunteers, but actually pays to be subjected to government-induced ineptitude and personal violation. It wouldn't bother me so much if I were not convinced it was all just window dressing.  Bruce Schneier's book "Beyond Fear" aptly labels the TSA and its actions as "Security Theater".  I have on many occasions passed contraband items (a jeweler's screwdriver, a fork, etc.),past the eagle eyes of the TSA screeners - purely by accident, of course.  I once accidentally carried four ounces of hair gel on a flight, no doubt subjecting millions of American citizens on the ground under my flight path to unimaginable peril.  The reality is this: If I can unknowingly fool the TSA, then the "terrorists" with intent certainly can also. So just who is the Department of Homeland Security trying to fool here; the uninformed public who aren't going to fly anyway?  Security Theater, indeed.

Now, just in time for the holidays, we have the previously-mentioned Enhanced TSA Screening procedures which include personal full body x-rays that would be R-rated in a movie theater and physical groping to an extent that if done by anyone other than the government, would be considered sexual assault.  The x-rays are very revealing and the TSA has promised that the images would never be made public.  Look at the image below and take that promise to the bank!

Since President Obama and Department of Homeland Security chief Janet Napolitano are so supportive of the new procedures, I think it only fitting that images such as these should make their way on to the Internet also.

Personally, I fly way too much to subject myself to x-rays every time I fly.  I don't care who sees my junk.  I just don't want that much radiation from a device that was seemingly rushed on to the market without any significant testing as to its effects on human tissue and DNA.  So, on my last few trips, I opted for the personal pat down.  Yes, it adds time to the screening experience and holds up other passengers, but honestly my concern for other passengers' schedules can be measured in micro give-a-shits. 

Fortunately, as evidenced by the photos below, the TSA only selects passengers for Enhanced Screening who appear to pose a true threat to the rest of the flying public.  The image of the Muslim woman screening a nun is rich.  But hey, at least they're trying to make it fun for the kiddos!  Janet Napolitano went on record this week saying that Muslim women might be exempt from the process because it is offensive to their faith.  I'm actually offended by their faith.  Nevertheless, how considerate of you, Ms. Napolitano.  Did you ever stop to also consider that the very reason the country is debating this issue is because of Muslims in the first place? 

The first time I was groped, I was actually shocked at how invasive the procedure is.  The guy actually grabbed and squeezed my inner thighs and my crotch. I'm a licensed Massage Therapist and I don't get that personal with clients who are lying naked on my table under a sheet and who are paying me to touch them.  It got me thinking though. If I have to be groped so personally, at least make it worth my while and have the procedure performed by a gay guy who really knows how to touch a man.  I might as well get something out of it.

I imagine the Enhanced pat down procedure is even more time consuming for women when you consider the time it takes to dim the lights, put on some Barry White music, and light some candles.  Call it Security Theater...with foreplay. There may actually be a revenue opportunity here when you consider how many people would pay to watch the girl-on-girl action of female TSA screeners groping female passengers.  I see a new cable TV channel in the works.  Too bad Security Theater is already taken.