Fear and Greed in Upstate NY - WDGAH Ride Report - Long

Fear and Greed in Upstate NY...

A WDGAH 10 Ride Report

The names of the participants and the numeric values of their expenditures
of energy, both human and hydrocarbonic, have been omitted to protect the
guilty (you know who you are). (Steve, you better delete this as soon as
you see it in your in box)

....and in Mass, Maine, New Hampshire and Vermont.

Yes, gentle rider, WDGAH X has come and gone. But the thrill of the chase
will surely live on in our synapses for some time to come. After all, one
does not ride 1000 miles to the wilds of the Maine Mountains not to come
away with a sharpened sense of self, not to mention a sharpened sense of
what the tires are doing as they approach the limits of the rating stamped
on their sidewalls.

Our contingent, with the notable exception of "he who keeps bikes in two
states", started out from the general vicinity of the seat of power of the
western world intent on leaving behind the banalities of that artificial
construct. The plan was to meet up in PA at exit 32 off I-81, aka
the Ravine exit. At this point we'd get clear of the
DC-Balt-York-Harrisburg mess and could look forward to coursing
through the bucolic environs of northeastern PA. Yours truly, having
to put in an unplanned hour and half at the office Thursday morning,
was running late (as usual?!) but a cell phone rendezvous put the others
on their way while I played catch-up (very entertaining in its own right).

Ravine is the stepping off point for PA 125 whose mostly new asphalt snakes
its way brilliantly through farm fields and over three ridges to Shamokin.
After miles on the slab squaring off newish tires, this lightly traveled
jewel gives me a chance to even out the wear. At Shamokin
I have to make my way through a certain amount of concentrated humanity
before getting clear again north of Bloomsbury. From there its smooth and
easy (and fast) riding through a country side of farms, old churches with
their graveyards of weathered headstones and small towns not yet given over
to Starbucks and antique shops. Passing under the Tunkhannock
Viaduct bathed in the day's waning sunlight, I marvel at
this hulking monument of decaying concrete standing as a reminder of the
industrialization of the early twentieth century.

Moving now into the northeast corner of the Commonwealth between I-81
and the Delaware River, I'm amazed by the lack of traffic on the mostly well
paved roads. The only thing preventing a more extreme twist of the wrist is
the knowledge that the abundant woods lining the verge are full of little
bambis and their larger parents preparing to go out to dinner on the other
side of the road. Soon enough I roll over the old iron cantilever
spanning the Delaware and into Hancock with the day's last light. A fine
dinner of smoked duck at the Bluestone Grill and some last minute route
planning among the now united riders and its time for a well deserved rest
at the Colonial Motel.

Next morning there's a chill in the air as a fog hangs over the mountains
and river. Tanks full of gas and bellies full of the local diner's
"Sportsman Special", we're ready to brave the foggy ribbon of NY 17 toward
the southern approach to Catskill Park. Our plan is to pick up NY 55, then
up to CR 47 straight through the middle of the Park to Big Indian and NY 28.
As we enter the Park our progress is slowed momentarily by two large flat
bed semi trucks obviously headed toward some type of heavy work in the park.
We slip by only to miss our turn and find ourselves once again hindered in
our progress as the big rigs made no such error in navigation. Traffic was
light and we were past them again bounding along the small road from frost
heave to frost heave (I was glad of the new Penske beneath my butt).
It wouldn't be the last time our suspension would be tested on this trip.
We were now surely in the land of cold winters and well salted roads.

A short sprint along NY 28 took us to NY 28A around the southern shore of
the Ashokan Reservoir. Very little frost heave here. Just excellent bend
swinging with good lines of sight and light traffic allowing for additional
evening out of tire wear. The party was over soon enough as we approached
the Hudson and the Kingston-Rhinecliff Bridge.

Once over the span, we headed east to the Taconic Parkway for the short run
up to NY 23 and the dash into Mass. Now, the Taconic Parkway is a beautiful
piece of slab as it rises and falls and swings through the country side with
no trucks or roadside development to distract. If only the fear of a
government issue Crown Vic hiding behind the bushes could be eliminated
nothing would hold us back form exercising a most blissful greed with the
throttle. As will be seen later in the weekend, the greed often overcame the
fear as bikes and riders were tested as God and Honda-san (one and the
same?), not the state, intended.

As it was, we were soon heading along Mass 23 into the yuppified
quagmire of Great Barrington (sorry natives) where, among the characatured
history, our little cohort became unhinged and the impatient among us surged
ahead not to be seen again until sundown at Bryan's Barbecue. Clear of GB,
the traffic thinned as we headed up the Berkshires along MA 8 and 8A toward
the Vermont line.

We were now obviously in VFR country as small sorties of
the red (and yellow and silver) machines began to materialize from all
quarters headed in a general northerly direction. We were trying to find the
renowned Zoar Road when HawkChris fell in with us also on his way to the
(un)hoot. A number of viffers were exiting out of the south end of Zoar as
we entered. Could we have made a wrong turn? A short distance in
and we found the probable cause for their retreat. A goodly layer of
gravel had recently been spread on an substantial amount of tar which was
now sloughing off its excess creating a ribbon of ball bearings upon which
to ride. A little persistence, however, proved that this was but a brief
public work and soon we were back on solid footing flying up Zoar to Vermont
and the legendary VT 100.

This road of such moto renown began by disappointing us with excessive
traffic and congestion. But soon we were through the worst and
scurrying up the spine of the state, viffers appearing
now from all sides. VT 100 to 100A to US 4 and we were almost there. But
US 4 had been a mistake. This proved to be a rolling parking lot between
touristy cafes and antique shops as we slipped our clutches almost all the
way to the Connecticut River. Oh well, no matter. A chance to spool down
after a day's spirited riding was probably just as well. We crossed the
bridge and lazily rolled into the Fireside's parking lot. A quick dash up to
the barbecue, a hasty retreat back to town, dinner and a couple of malt
beverages at the Seven Barrels and we were ready for the restorative sleep
that would prepare us for riding nirvana the next day.

Early fog seems to be the order of the day in these parts and so it was as
the vifferisti stumbled down to breakfast at the Fireside on Saturday
morning. But experience tells us that this barrier to speed burns off by 9
so everyone was straining at the leash as we gathered for group photos in
the parking lot. The master photographers among us allowed as how a
panoramic melding of a number of shots would be necessary as there was no
lens available wide enough to gather in one shot the line up of fifty or so
viffers and their graciously accepted cousins.

Photos out of the way, the pilots broke into their chosen sub groups and
began to head out in all directions. We had decided a couple of days
earlier to try the Routemaster's famous "Maine Mountain" route. His
description of this route assured us that it was guaranteed to lower our
blood pressure. I can only speak for myself but after coming down off
Highway 16 back into New Hampshire mine was elevated at least fifty points!

But, just as we did on that remote trac, I get ahead of myself. We
proceeded from West Lebanon east over US 4 to a mostly freshly paved NH 118.
The fun began here as the radii and the lines of sight were just right to
increase blood flow enough to drive off the morning chill. Folks
who left their electric vests at home were glad of this and the day
continued to warm as we bounded along the frost heaves of the otherwise
delicious sinew of NH 113. 113 led us to a series of lovely back roads
from Madison through Eaton Center until a change in the pavement and an
abundance of sandy soil and scrubby trees told us we were in Maine at last.

Now a study of the map and inputs from the more technically advanced among
us (read GPS users) put us in the substantial town of Norway by lunchtime.
And being in Maine, nothing else would do for lunch but a lobster roll.
Finding a local diner that could fulfill this requirement, we stopped and
prepared to devour. There, we were fortunate to meet three regulars holding
court at the counter so we got the inside scoop on directions, weather, road
conditions and the all important LEO forecast.

Soon we were heading away again, bellies full of succulent arachnid, up ME
26 and 233 searching for Mexico and the legendary Rt. 17. We soon located
this allegedly therapeutic band of asphalt and began the gradual climb into
the mountains. We had been warned to expect changeable weather up here
and no sooner were we past Roxbury than the drizzle began to dampen our
speed but not our spirits. It didn't last. No rainsuits were needed as
we got further into the hinterland of fast open sweepers and virtually
nonexistent traffic.

It was somewhere along this fairly tale byway that I'm sure each one of us
experienced the motorcyclist's epiphany and fear of arrest gave way to greed
for speed. The likelihood of troopers at this elevation seemed somehow
remote so instead we scanned the verge for moose. None being seen, right
hands twisted down as velocities went up. Seventy-five or so miles later we
pulled off and, after a round of high fives, drifted back down to reality
checking tire wear, oil levels and the condition of our underwear. No moose,
no LEOs, no traffic. Just speed and the occasional frost heave to keep us on
our toes. We were all left shaking our heads in wonder that such places
still do indeed exist if you get far enough away from the seat of power.

Now the storm clouds were gathering in a more concentrated display of
soaking potential. We were still hoping to dodge the raindrops but it was
not to be. By the time we reached NH 100, rainsuits were being broken out
and we were thankful that we had had a good thrash before wet surfaces
limited our silliness. We were soon looking for the shortest way back to
West Leb. Reliable grip was no longer available in the twistys and the
temperature was beginning to fall. US 2 to I-91 south appeared to be the
way to go and though we all hate the slab, there's something to be said for
covering ground at a rate of three miles and a bit more every two minutes.
Sharp eyes out front and rear told us there was no need to moderate progress
as we ran the distance between St. Johnsbury to West Leb in what seemed like
the blink of an eye. 410 or so miles that day and we were spent,
exhilarated, converted, reborn and ready for a hot shower before heading to
Lui Lui's for the Saturday evening festivities. Can any of us say that
that run up route 17 and back down 16 did not leave us better riders and
more enlightened human beings?

Bellies full of pasta, pizza and beer, we learned the history of WDGAH from
the elders and came to respect the brave riders who had the courage to thumb
their noses at the Honda establishment and embark on a new tradition of
serious fun without the scam of hype and self importance. We went to bed
knowing that as long as we had the strength to "throw a leg over" we'd
be back for more.

It was only fitting that during the night a high pressure system moved
through and Sunday morning came in bright and clear, but chilly.
We were 44 degrees north of the equator in September after all!

He who keeps bikes in two states having broken from the fold the night
before, the rest of the converted prepared to make their own getaway. One
of our number had family obligations to the south in Connecticut so bore off
in that direction. The remaining two of us, feeling really greedy, decided
to get in a little extra unhooting. We headed off to find the App Gap and
Tracy Road on our way to the great arc of NY 25N that would take us across
the Adirondacks to Old Forge, then south to our appointed stop for the
evening in Lawrenceville on the NY-PA border.

This decision proved to be our slight undoing in a couple of ways. We
decided to delay fueling as we headed up I-89 to the Middlesex exit. As we
rode blithely passed the Montpelier exit, roaring ahead in anticipation of a
return to back road bliss, my old red mistress began to sputter and lurch as
she took her last gasp of petrol charged air. Yes, fully thirty miles ahead
of schedule, the very last drop of 87 octane was history. I guess that's
what sustained speeds of over a mile and half a minute while sucking through
36mm bores will do to fuel efficiency. As I coasted to a stop at the
bottom of the off ramp at Middlesex, I was thankful that I wasn't riding
alone but also wondering how we would transport the necessary nectar back to
the dehydrocarbonated beast. Just then one of those
faith-in-mankind-restoring-events took shape as a
high-zoot one ton duelly pick up towing an unmarked but equally well turned
out fifth wheel transporter hove to a stop on the shoulder behind us.
Turns out they were hauling an NHRA National top fuel rail back from the big
event in New Hampshire and were there to drop off one of their team to his
waiting connection. Well, if a fully equipped racing team doesn't have an
extra gallon of fuel laying around I don't know who does. They very
graciously broke out the funnel and jug and the old girl soon came back to
life with sufficient juice to make it to the next oasis. They wouldn't hear
of any compensation and wished us luck as we did them. A reliable fuel
source was soon found and we were back on our way having lost no more than
fifteen minutes to the experience. From then on I kept a paranoid eye on
the fuel light but we didn't again experience such a voracious mechanical
thirst. Makes me wonder just how high the speedo needle crept the afternoon
before as we concentrated heavily on sighting fore and aft for trouble
rather than looking at our gauges.

We yawned through the Gap having been warned of tar snakes, blind decreasing
radii and squids aplenty, then across the flats to the bridge over Champlain
and up to Port Henry in search of the mystical Tracy Road. One wrong turn
later and we found the thrashing serpent, soon traversing its meager length
over to I-87. We intended to take a short piece of that slab down to the
next exit and Essex County Road 2 which would then thrust us west over to NY
25N.

As we rolled down 1-87 we suddenly became aware of a general slowdown.
What's this? Soon all traffic was being called to a halt by large men in
green uniforms carefully surveying each vehicle, directing some to pull off
and allowing others to proceed. A Border Patrol checkpoint! We figured
this for homeland security at work but it struck us as strange since we were
a least sixty miles south of the border.

Apparently we passed muster and were quickly waived through. Soon we found
ourselves barreling westward over the absolutely beautiful high speed roller
coaster of CR 2. Now the second consequence of our greedy choice of the
morning was readily apparent. We had a heluva long way to go reach our
appointed destination for the evening! The sun was now a couple hours west
of noon and we still had to traverse the considerable distance over 25N and
25 to just above Utica, then catch NY 365 over to NY 13, through Cortland
and Ithica to Elmira, jump on 17 to US 15 at Corning, then south to
Lawrenceville on the PA border. Where dinner stopped being served at 8 PM!

We weren't going to go hungry so we put our heads down and throttle hands
around and began leap-frogging the rolling impediments in our path. Yes,
some solid yellow was abused, but these days that brush is being used to
paint an awfully long line. So discretion was applied liberally, vehicles
large and small, two wheeled and four and eighteen, were left in our wake
as we sought to beat the clock.

A word of caution to those who may find themselves heading south out of
Chittenago down NY 13. The tar snakes'll bite ya there if you're not
careful! Both riders experienced substantial sideways as well as forward
progress in this otherwise lovely set of bends.

Now out in the rolling farm land above Cortland, light traffic made swift
mile munching easy. Then on to Ithaca, where the enlightened traffic
engineers had us rolling through green at every light and where we
came upon a lovely late 80s VFR resplendent in its red, white and blue
livery.

After much exhilaration, a certain amount of numbness and a
determination not to be late for dinner, we rolled into the Lakeview
Lodge just outside of Lawrenceville at 7:55. With 460 miles under our
wheels for the day, an empty gas tank, the App Gap, Tracy Road and
Adirondack Park in our wake, we pried ourselves off our steeds, peeled
off riding gear, splashed a bit of water on our faces and stumbled into
the restaurant lounge for dinner. Serving time was just over but our hosts
graciously made the full menu available to us (we were obviously ravaged).
We in turn made it easy on them by each ordering up a slab of the evening's
prime rib special. Thus nourished and libated it didn't take us long to
enter the land of nod.

Monday morning was bathed in fog over Cowenesque Lake. As we made ready
to depart, it quickly became apparent that this was a localized blanket.
With family obligations to meet later in the day, my riding compadre set off
down the most direct route for home (US 15) while I chose to lazily explore
some PA back roads in an attempt to relax after four days of eagle eyed
vigilance carried out in the interest of avoiding arrest.

PA 287 lead to 414 west at Morris (yes, its nicely paved all the way along
Pine Creek) to 44 to Jersey Shore (no, not that one). Various connectors,
including a bit of State Forest hard pack, brought me to the lovely PA 74
and the equally superb PA 233 through Michaux State Forest.

With skies misting now, the old girl sensed the nearness of home. We
rejoined the "real" world at Emmitsburg, headed southeast around Baltimore
on the slab, then moseyed the last thirty miles down my local "twisty",
rolling up the ridge to home just at dark.

2,075 miles all told, with nary a trooper in sight.

With the bike safely ensconced in the shop, I sat down in the
thinking chair, cracked a beer and gazed at the grimy beast, marveling at
her abilities even at this late stage of her life. And grinned from ear to
ear.



Ya'll be safe and (mostly) law abidin' out there.

Richard Ronay
Southern Maryland
'90 VFR panting and thirsty, but happy


Editor's Note: A small amount of literary license was employed in the
composition of this report. All references to spiritual revelations,
twisting throttles, rising velocities, distances covered in a given period
of time and potential arrest should be understood by the reader/rider as
examples of the use of this license.


Next Stop: Beckley, WV!




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