Curses, foiled again!

Alas, the best laid plans...

This morning, we picked up R2, loaded up the bikes, and after lingering a bit at the Santa Fe Hostel, set out toward Flagstaff, just as rain clouds were moving in. We made it a few blocks... and noticed my headlight was out. Shit. A quick check showed it was "just a blown fuse." I had a workable spare, popped it into place, my headlight was back in action, and we were on our way again.

Our route to Albuquerque skirted rain clouds dropping some of the sharpest little pellets (along with some gusty winds), but soon, we got out from under the clouds, and a blue sky, good roads, and climbing desert temps lay spread out before us. We were zipping along at 75 mph, the local speed limit on the Interstates, which we were taking in the hopes of reaching San Diego by Friday. As we passed by Albuquerque, me for the second time without stopping, I looked at the downtown to the south of the Interstate and thought, "I'll have to visit you, someday."

Julie's fuel tank is small for this trek -- one hundred miles per tank is a good day -- so we typically just follow her bike's cycles for when we stop for fuel and a welcome stretch of the legs. When we exited about 30 miles west of Albuquerque, there was no gas in sight, Firefly was running on fumes and the sun was HOT, HOT, HOT. We turned the bikes off to discuss, and asked a passing motorist, who directed us a few miles off the Interstate to a gas station. Hopping back on my bike, I hit the starter and... oh, no, not again!

Nothing. Not enough juice to start the bike, but more than we had on Sunday near Chama. I quickly popped off the side panels to inspect the battery. It seemed fine -- levels were in range, and there were no obvious signs of the acid boiling. Shit, shit, shit. Every second sitting still in full riding gear is hot in normal summer temps; these were far warmer than that to which we're accustomed.

But necessity, as they say, is the mother of invention. The idea hit me to strip out all but the master fuse out of the bike, effectively shutting down all of the electrical systems except those needed to maintain spark. If the battery had enough juice to start the bike this way, without all those other draws, it might get us to some shade and some help so we could troubleshoot the problem.

To my surprise, it worked! With all of its other electrical systems disabled, R2 fired right up, and I led us a couple of miles -- Julie behind to be our collective tail and brake lights for other vehicles -- to a gas station where we could get Firefly refueled and think through our next steps, hopefully in the shade, but as it turned out, in air conditioning.

When we were stranded en route to Chama, we'd located a Honda motorcycle dealer in Rio Rancho, which is quite close to Albuquerque. Since one of the fuses I pulled out was nearly melted, my thoughts began going to a accidentally grounded wire or a break in the wiring harness, which could mean that having a dealer's access to parts would be helpful. I certainly didn't want to risk riding any further than we had to, but we also didn't think a tow was needed, since R2 was running, if dark.

So, we set off, back toward Albuquerque. The riding was a little harrowing, actually: fierce winds, traffic and road construction that made it difficult for Julie and I to stay together. We pulled off at the western edge of town, and I started making calls. Three times in a row, I struck out: even the Honda dealership wouldn't work on a bike -- even their make of own bike -- that was more than 10 years old. Then someone suggested Greg at High Velocity Cycles, on the east side of town. He said the magic words: "Yep, sure, bring 'er in and I'll have a look."

On the way to Greg, we rode through town on Route 66, and past the Route 66 Hostel, our new home away from home, well, from our plan I guess.



We booked a room, dropped off our stuff, and headed east to Greg's. He spent 10 minutes looking over the bike with his multimeter, and gave the verdict: the stator (which generates the charge) and the regulator/rectifier (which clean and manage the charge) were both shot. About $200 in parts, which won't arrive before Thursday morning. Greg is going to do some more diagnostics in the morning, and call me once he's talked to the parts distributor.

Sigh. While I fret a bit about what this recent experience might foretell for our adventures ahead on the Alaskan Highway, I'm trying to just surrender thoughts about what might be, and enjoy the experience that we are having. I'm lucky that my travel companion is as easy going about the unexpected as she is. In the meantime, we're in a cozy place in a fun town, with people who can help. Surely, there are lots of bright sides to be found there. If anyone has some suggestions for spending time in and around Albuquerque (accessible on our one reliable motorcycle), please let us know!

What's your type, baby?

Move over, Myers Briggs!

I'm just catching up on some of my blog reading as we're chilling at the Santa Fe Hostel, and if you haven't checked it out already, I suggest you take the hilarious Pizza Personality Type Indicator created by my incredibly talented sister-in-law. This Thoughtful Sensualist enjoyed taking the test, as much as I was surprised by the restaurant recommendations that it produced!

http://www.minnesotamonthly.com/media/Minnesota-Monthly/July-2009/The-Minnesota-Monthly-Pizza-Personality-Type-Indicator/

You can also read more of the backstory behind the test.

Enjoy!

CHARGE!

As I posted in a comment on Riding Out the Recession, the news from the shop is that the regulator/rectifier, which I replaced in August, is working, but not kicking out as much voltage as you'd expect. It should still be charging the battery, though. The battery, on the other hand, is toast. Out of acid. Dead-ski. Kaput. It could just have been a bad battery.

But how would a 10-month old battery be shot? Did it get boiled by too much charge from the R/R? It could be a bad R/R, and/or possibly a bad stator powering the R/R, and/or, well, who knows? Anyone want to put money on the wiring harness?

Paul, our local mechanic at Santa Fe Motorsports -- a guy who had plenty of legit reasons to pass this job up, but took it anyway -- suggested that with a new battery and a trickle charger that we'll use when in proximity of an outlet, this little dead battery won't be the reason R2 doesn't make it to Alaska. Not saying anything about the other possible reasons, of course.

In particular, I'll be curious whether a deeper root cause of R2's various electrical anomalies is revealed. (The brake-light switch for my front brake, which had mysteriously had stopped working near Vail, also started working again yesterday morning.)

In any case, thanks to Paul's help, we hope to be back on the road to Flagstaff this morning. It might seem strange to be excited to be back on the road without complete confidence that we've gotten to the bottom of things, but since they don't present safety issues while riding (just inconvenience and expense), I'm inclined to just keep an eye on it for a while. Well, that, and have a map of the nearest motorcycle shops to our path! ;)

Our route, day 12, from Santa Fe... to Santa Fe!

Day 12: Black Canyon Campground, Santa Fe National Forest to Abiquiu, New Mexico... and back to Santa Fe! (~115 miles)

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Busted (redux)!

Due to some posting glitch, most of this post didn't appear the first time. Here's how it was supposed to appear.

Busted!

R2 is, that is.

Julie and I packed up from our lovely, scenic campsite today, and set off to the north (!), riding through some incredible landscapes again recommended by John P., as we made our way to the incredible and initially unpronounceable Abiquiu. (Say "ABBY-cue.") Not far past Abiquiu Lake, R2 started lurching, then losing power. I wasn't able to keep up with Julie up hills. My max speed was dropping... 65... 55... 50...

Julie was leading, saw I was having trouble and pulled off into a turn-out. I pulled up next to her, starting filling her in, and R2 died. That by itself, is very unusual: R2 idles hot, especially after the engine is warm.

Worse still, pressing the starter yielded nothing. Nada. Zilch.

Uh-oh. We're miles from the nearest building, with zero cell reception. And looming dark clouds moving toward us, from the opposite angle of this picture.

I start diagnosing: battery leads, check. Master fuse, check. After giving the battery some time to recover, a sure sign of more serious electrical troubles: the battery was able to kick out more juice (yay, an oil light!), but nowhere near enough to start it. That means, best but unlikely case, a bad battery. More likely, some part of the charging system is toasted, and now possibly the battery, too. Worst case, well, who knows?

This is frustrating, in part because I replaced the regulator / rectifier in August, along with the battery. We do expect more than 10 months of life from our equipment, yes?

More importantly, we're 40 miles from the nearest store that would sell a CAR battery, in Chama, NM, but even if they have a motorcycle battery that fits, they won't be open on a Sunday. So, we're either looking at camping along the highway for the night, or getting towed.

AAA to the rescue!

Equipped with the iPhone and my AAA card, Julie set off on her bike for a place with cell service while I wait with the bike.

I began disconnecting the battery, and since I had my toolkit available, checking the plugs. Then it started raining.

A quick cover of the luggage, and I went back to the battery. Then the rancher, on whose land we were temporarily residing, came up. He left his jumper cables in his other truck, but kindly agreed to let us camp if we couldn't procure a tow.

Julie returned with good news. For a nominal fee to upgrade my current membership, AAA would tow R2 up to 100 miles. But I had to be the one to do it.

So, I hopped on Firefly, rode into cell phone service, made the transaction, requested a tow and scoped out available repair shops. Some in Durango, CO. Farther north that we'd intended, and perhaps out of range of our tow. Some in Santa Fe, plently in Albequerque, and, viola! A Honda motorcycle dealer in Rio Rancho! We had our spot.

I zoomed back to Julie (enjoying the time on Firefly, which I'd only ridden once before) to wait for the tow. We passed the time looking at the scenery, watching birds and observing some large black beetles scurry about, doing their business.

An hour or so later, Vic arrived with his (thank goodness!) flat-bed tow truck. He made short work of loading a securing the bike (cranking the handlebars down in the process), we loaded my gear into the cab, and we were off, with Julie on Firefly close behind.

But, bad news, Rio Rancho was farther than it appeared -- it would add about $100 to the tow. So, back to Santa Fe instead!

We dropped off the bike at Santa Fe Motorsports, and Vic was kind enough to drop us off at the Santa Fe Hostel, just as the sun was setting, where we will be passing the night (at least!).

Vic imparted some important New Mexican wisdom on the drive. He said, here a common way to wish someone well is to say, "may it rain on you."

And indeed it has, and thankfully, we're going to be just fine. Or at least, that's what I really, really hope the repair shop tells me tomorrow. More to come!

Busted!

R2 is, that is.

Julie and I packed up from our lovely, scenic campsite today, and set
off to the north (!), riding through some incredible landscapes again
recommended by John P., as we made our way to the incredible and
initially unpronounceable Abiquiu. (Say "ABBY-cue.") Not far past
Abiquiu Lake, R2 started lurching, then losing power. I wasn't able to
keep up with Julie up hills. My max speed was dropping... 65... 55...
50...

Julie was leading, saw I was having trouble and pulled off into a turn-
out. I pulled up next to her, starting filling her in, and R2 died.
That by itself, is very unusual: R2 idles hot, especially after the
engine is warm.

Worse still, pressing the starter yielded nothing. Nada. Zilch.

Uh-oh. We're miles from the nearest building, with zero cell
reception. And looming dark clouds moving toward us, from the opposite
angle of this picture.

Proud in Santa Fe

We are in Santa Fe, camping at the cheap, cozy and very conveniently located Black Canyon Campground in the Santa Fe National Forest. From our "walk-in" campsite, beside a babbling brook that makes for great sleeping, it's 2.2 miles to the Santa Fe city limits, down a gorgeous, twisting mountain road.



When we arrived, our campground host suggested we might as well just ride our bikes right to our site, across a wooden walking bridge and down the paved path. It's been awesome!

We spent most of the day yesterday in town, having lunch at Cafe Pasqual's, one of our favorite restaurants anywhere (thanks for the tip, Jessie!), and waiting out the rain in a Kinko's Fedex to take care of various paperwork (the rebates from my new notebook, etc.). With the help of a really friendly Fedex staffer named Gabe (Jon and Jen, more evidence for your theory!), we created a sticker for my tank that announces our trajectory, and to accompany the Ski Builder sticker from Jon:



In the evening, we tried (unsuccessfully) to locate a big Bar-B-Queer party for Santa Fe's Gay Pride week, so we headed back to camp as the temps started dropping, for a campfire cooked meal of brats (mine meatless, of course) and kettle chips.

Thankfully, we had better luck today, were able to catch the Pride parade (smaller than back home, but no less enthusiastic).



Happy Pride, wherever you might be!

Our route, day 9, from the sand to Santa Fe

Day 9: Great Sand Dunes National Park to Santa Fe, NM with stops in Alamosa and San Luis (218 miles)

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Our route, day 8, along the Front Range and into the sand!

Yesterday, we decided to linger in Buena Vista, and set off late in the afternoon on a short day's ride recommended by John P., down the San Luis Valley, the jagged jaws of the Front Range on our left and lots of 14,000+ foot peaks on our right, dodging rain clouds, as we headed almost due south through a wide plain filled with scrub, signaling the desert ahead. Absolutely stunning. Thanks, John, for the tip!

We ended up at the Great Sand Dunes National Park, recommended by Jon O. and Dan H. Another great recommendation, and fitting transition into the desert. The sand dunes, nearly 700 feet tall, accumulate from sand blown across the plain from the west, and deposited by rivers flowing down from the east. It's as though you suddenly entered the Sahara!



I also led Julie and I on an exhilarating, if extremely ill-advised, ride down a "primitive road" along the dunes, part of which is only traversable by 4WD. The road was aptly named, as we quickly found ourselves scrambling over rough rocks, and then deep, soft sand. I felt that stomach-turning shift in the handbars several times as, while riding along, the sand suddenly grabbed the front wheel, causing it to turn suddenly to the right or left, with the momentum of the bike carrying it toward the ground on the opposite side. There were several times I was sure R2 was going down, and then the thoughts of repair bills and the self-recriminations of "who thought it was a good idea to take motorcycles we need to get us to Alaska down a sandy primitive road?"

Thankfully, and honestly, luckily, we make it to the "Point of No Return" (where only 4WD vehicles can proceed) and back without incident. And, I have to admit, the ride was a hell of a lot of fun!

Day 8: Buena Vista, CO to Great Sand Dunes National Park (109 miles)

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Another place to ride

Howdy, friends! The blog for our trip around the world is up, and you can find it here:

http://RidingOutTheRecession.blogspot.com/

Come pay us a visit!

Day 7, over Independence Pass

Wow, were we given the royal treatment in Vail! Wined, dined and offered a comfy spare bedroom by our new friends Dan and Sheika, it felt like we were arriving dignitaries. Great conversation, and what a great story! Sheika's dad, Pepi Gramshammer, was an Olympic skier and one of the founding members of the Vail business community. He opened a restaurant and hotel, the Hotel Gasthof Gramshammer, just a short saunter from the ski face named after him. It features his photos, massive trophy collection and food and decor from his homeland.



Dan and Sheika, pictured here in front of a photo of Sheika's mom and pop on skis, treated us to a visit to the restaurant, a nice stroll around Vail and lots of great conversation.

They also suggested some jaw-dropping rides, including the Glenwood Canyon (who knew that an Interstate could be such an amazing ride?!) and Independence Pass.

So yesterday, we headed west on I-70, visited Dan's shop, Holthammer Cycles, in Eagle, Colorado, adjusted Julie's windscreen, replaced a couple of bulbs on R2, and got a tour of the joint, which has been getting some press lately. [The online version of this article in the Vail Daily seems to come and go for some reason.]

After saying our farewells to Dan, we headed off through Glenwood Canyon for the Pass.

Ha! Google Maps won't take us over Independence Pass, but Julie and I did, and so I'll have to share our route in two parts:

Day 7: Sheika & Dan's in Vail, CO to Buena Vista over Independence Pass (~175 miles)

Part 1:

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Part 2:

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We arrived in Buena Vista, set our our tent overlooking the Collegiate Peaks (many over 14,000 feet) and headed into town for dinner. All told, a spectacular day of riding, scenery and time with friends. More to come!

Our route, day 6, partly with Dan and Sheika

Day 6: Denver to Vail, with friends and some extra mountain roads for fun (137 miles)

We left our old friends Jon and Jennifer in Denver, and met up with new friends Dan and Sheika in Silverthorne, for a spectacular ride through winding moutain roads, ending up in Vail. More on that to come!


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Jon, the Ski Builder

Jon and I met in a calculus class, and cemented our early friendship
on the ski slopes around the Twin Cities on Friday nights, when the
lift tickets were cheap, the hills often empty and the temperatures
were, at times, extreme.

Jon's love for the sport is evident following him (when I'm lucky
enough to keep up) down a piste or even more so, off the piste,
slaloming through trees, kicking up powder with each turn, and popping
into the air off of rocks or drop-offs. He's an artist with skis.

When he lived in Minneapolis, Jon would make regular trips to the
mountains, including one trip to Alta we took together. But being an
art teacher meant that getting away for an extended ski holiday during
ski (and school) season wasn't possible very often. So it was little
surprise to folks that know him when Jon decided to move to the
mountains, and make sure that he could get in his 30+ ski days each
season.

Jon's latest ski adventure is one of a different sort, however:
building his own skis! He has constructed an elaborate ski press in
the basement, which uses an air compressor, a fire hose and lots of
high-sheering-strength metal cross members and supports to sandwich
epoxy-coated layers of material together -- the base material and
metal edges, fiberglass, carbon fibers, a wooden core, metal screen
and a wooden veneer -- to form a ski. Fifteen hours of high pressure
later, viola, you have a ski.

Last night, we "laid up" (the term of art for the laminating process)
the skis he's planning to use next season. He's already sold a set on
commission, and I suspect his increasing grasp on the dynamics of the
fabrication process, and how it relates to the character of the
resulting skis, mean that more and more people will be riding planks
with Jon's characteristic simple, elegant design on them. I hope to
try them myself during my next visit in the winter.

In the meantime, creating a ski from raw materials was an
unforgettable experience to share with a friend. (Even if it meant the
air compressor was running every fifteen minutes all night long!) I
look forward to seeing the fruits of our labor, and Jon's design, today.

A special birthday party

Yesterday, Ruthie's swimming buddy Tanner turned three, and his family threw him quite a fête, ranch-style.

There were goats...

...and horseback rides...

...and haybale rides...

...and games...

...and some very creative farm-themed cupcakes.

Happy birthday, Tanner!

Our route, day 3

Day 3: Grand Island, Nebraska to Aurora, Colorado (400 miles)

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R2 gets some new kicks in Denver

We're in Denver!

Julie and I decided to hit I-80 and I-76 to bee-line from Grand
Island, NE. At 400 miles, it was our biggest mileage day in a while,
and a perfect one at that: blue skies, ample sun and cooler temps for
more comfortable riding.

We arrived last night to our gracious hosts Jon and Jen, their two
little ones Ruthie and Gabe, and the family dogs Hirschel and Gertie,
with dinner on the garden table for weary travelers. Lucky us!

We plan to spend the weekend camped out in their living room, before
turning further west and south.

Routine checks also revealed that the 90+ degree temps in Nebraska did
a number on my rear tire (which was, let's face it, carrying a bit of
extra weight, and already had 4,000 miles on it at the start of the
trip). It's still got some tread, but is due for replacement.
Thankfully, there's a shop just a few blocks away from Jon and Jen's
that has the tire I need, at a reasonable price, and can install it
today, so R2 is getting some new kicks!

Our route, parts 1 & 2

Day 1: Minneapolis, Minnesota to Alton, Iowa (238 miles)

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Day 2: Alton, Iowa to Mormon Island State Recreation Area, Grand Island, Nebraska (240 miles)

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SOLD!

We've said that the trip would begin the moment we made it outside of
the 494/694 loop of the Twin Cities.

It was incredible timing, therefore, that while in a parking lot on
the edge of 494, making our final stop and just about to throw our
legs over the bikes, that we got the call: an offer had been made on
my condo, the most substantial loose end left dangling with our
departure. It was a decent offer, and by coincidence, I'd had a chance
to meet the person making it -- a grad student relocating to
Minneapolis from LA for a program at the U of M. I accepted, my
rockin' real estate guru and brother, Jesse, met us at a restaurant on
our route, we signed the papers and VIOLA! the condo is SOLD! On the
day of our deparure, exactly a month after listing it, no less.

In addition to Jesse's masterful work, I also owe a huge debt to
Julie, my Mom and Dad, my brother Nathan and friends Eric and Christy
for their help getting it (and me) ready to sell. I've been kicking up
my heels with joy nonstop since the news came.

Julie and I left town, and headed out 169 and 60 toward Worthington,
making a quick stop in Kelly's home town of Mountain Lake. The ride
was sunny, warm and that particular version of picturesque unique to
southern Minnesota: green fields, blue skies, dotted with lakes and
streams.

When we reached the Iowa border, a wall of pregnant clouds loomed to
the west. We made it to the campground in Alton (just $5 per night for
tents!), set up our portable home, beds and kitchenette, enjoyed a
tasty pasta with clam, some vino and baguette, and just managed to
clean up before the storm arrived. And arrived it did. Twice (well,
two different storm fronts, spaced hours apart). In addition to the
ample rain and stunning light show, these babies packed a lot of WIND.
Thankfully, though jostled mightily, and at times leaving us to
wonder, our gear stood up to the task, and kept us and our possessions
dry.

Today, we're making our way to McCook, Nebraska via scenic, rolling
and verdant two-laners, keeping ourselves hydrated in the 90 degree
weather. More to come!

And we're off!

A couple of days more of last minute details than we'd planned, but
the trip has now officially begun! To Alaska!

And the countdown clock reads...

Our slated departure is just seven days away! We are marginally on track, but there are thousands of loose ends to tie up before we can leave town comfortably. I am personally at the stage in preparation where my to-do list seems to be growing faster than it is shrinking, as forgotten details or dependencies between the stuff left to do list impose themselves in the doing.

Happily, we're laughing about all the prep more than we're grinding our teeth (even if we're doing a little of the latter, too). As the apartment empties, as our worldly possessions make their way into the hands of family and friends, and as we say our farewells to friends and family, it feels increasingly real that a few short days from now we will begin this round the world adventure with just our backpacks strapped onto our motorcycles.

Last Friday, Julie and I also said a sadder and more final farewell, as we journeyed to Moline, Illinois to pay our respects to her grandmother, Willadene Gans, who passed away on Tuesday at the age of 87. I am sad that I did not get to meet her, but glad that Julie had an opportunity to visit her in the last week of her life. Willadene lived a long life, independently and in great health right up until the end. She lived the life she wanted to live. May we all be so lucky.