468 miles, the Independence Long Run...the last word

    Monday morning emerged with another blue sky and ideal weather for our motorcycle obsession. Ok, it's my obsession and my biker man indulges me often. The bike looked too good with its banner to undecorate  and it was July 5th with plenty of celebration in the air. It was also my boyz ninth birthday and they would be having their party at their dad's place 30 miles away. "Can we take the bike?" my hopeful plea. "...we can stop in, give 'em their books from the Fort, get some lunch in St A. and tooly-dooly around..." My driver never hesitated in his soft spoken reply, "...why not..."
   With the sidebags off the bike, it was much easier for me to mount even with the pole standing strong in its improvised mount. We rolled to the end of my driveway, double checked our lane of travel and commenced our journey. Already day-dreaming, I was brought to attention when he would brake quickly enough to bump my helmet into the back of his lid for a click; if I was fast enough, I could put my left hand on his back and stop my momentum from crushing into him. Sometimes this happened in a quick stop to avoid harm, but in as many times, he would do it to wake me up, get my attention and 'cop a boob-jamb' for his own enjoyment. Men will be men, "...behave!" I'll retort and smile at his lusty reminder; I need to pay attention. This type of play is for fun and giggles, but the crumbling road conditions can really jarr me if I don't see the hole in our path in time to stand up on the pegs; this is his way of saying, "...the road ahead is rough; be ready..."
  A quick fuel-up at the Cupboard Deli and we were ready for the back way to St. A. People were still delighted to see the flag and often stopped to gander and ponder the mechanics of riding with it. The first mile of the first day, my driver noticed the pull on his bike; he adjusted the tension of the flag with zip ties and adapted flawlessly to it's backward yaw on the bike. Everywhere we took it, back roads or city streets, it captured people's attention, if not their imagination. We would encounter more waves, thumbs ups and complements from all walks of folks. The bike purring along the roads, I would notice election signs for many of the gubernatorial primary candidates of all parties. Dems, GOP,  a few  I didn't even know their parties, some townships were clearly aligned in their interests. Some folks  would openly announce or denounce their preferences in coffee shops, ice cream stands and post-parade banter. Sides were being chosen, fingers were being pointed; a polarization of politics and blame gaming was becoming increasingly terse, even in Vermont.

  The flag on our bike, the national symbol of unity hushed these opinions, if only briefly. Gliding by, the brilliance of the banner would elicit stares from all manner of witnesses. Always, we saw common ground in their appreciation for her. The bike was beautiful, the flag was glorious, everyone seemed to enjoy the vision. "...no one complains when they see it; moving or parked, it's so good to see folks deeply affected by it...it's very moving to have that impact on people..." , thoughts I privately spoke into my driver's left ear. At that moment, we rolled up to a traffic signal somewhere outside St. A. Up ahead was the enigmatic scene familiar to its town center. As rte36 rolls down hill to Main Street St. A, there sits an old WWII army tank, in front of an armory. Across the congested black top, stands a massive redstone church. It just seemed to be an oppositional sight:  war or peace. As we waited for our turn to proceed, an SUV idled up on our left, I didn't notice the auto or its driver but my sweetie did: "She saluted! Did you see her? She sat up in attention and saluted...what do I do?" "...smile, and nod...any people who serve will salute THE flag... cops, firefighters, boy scouts...they're supposed to...and I think maybe,  they really want to..." was my understated reply. At the next stop signal, I would say it out loud, "....it matters, at the end of the day, this flag really matters...to everyone...and we are allowed here, to display it, run the roads with it, flaunt it or hate it...we're so lucky..."

    We stopped for lunch at Mimo's and continued on to his riverside fishing camp for a break by the water. The day was hot, traffic was still heavy with holiday travelers so we chilled at the humble lodge for a little while pondering the sameness from corner to corner of Vermont, the first republic, the 14th star. The day was flowing into evening as we finally picked a route home. Cutting across the northern lanes of Franklin county, through this humble corner of Vermont,  we came across a hot air balloonist floating low in the summer sky over High Gate. "...the air is so warm, I'm surprised that he has any lift at all..." I remarked aloud. No sooner said, he dropped from view for several long minutes. "crashed?" my partner wondered; with the sound of his flame blower pushing hot air into the orb, we saw him rise up again, to an even greater height. 'don't give up; never give up...' was my self speak. We spotted a creeme stand in Sheldon and took a break to admire the early evening. We could see the Missisqoui river lazying by from our seat and watched the sun ease below the treeline. It was time to head home, covering back roads ideal for motorcycles, watching the day mellow into night. Drifting through Enosburg Falls we crossed the river south,  into Bakersfield, our riding duet conjoined with the late of the day.
Reaching back, he patted my left knee and spoke over his shoulder, "...this is the best forth ever... the flag was an awesome idea...everywhere we went, people liked it..." "yup, I replied, "...it was important for me to see that, to see people respect it, to see their reverence no matter what else they think..."  In silent agreement, we enjoyed the pensive ensemble of twilight;  the best part of the day to ride...anywhere, everywhere...
luv, peace, ride ~ ell

this one's for them that make it possible for one like me to search for my meaning of the forth of July...

468miles, the Independence Long Run... part 4 coming home

  While the bike was waiting,  we went for a walk down to the cool brook at the foot of  his land. Among the shadowy path along it's banks, was the remains of the olde towne road with a decaying bridge crossing the creek. It was too high over the rocky waters and too slippery for my slick boots for me to risk it. When I told him so, he smiled and mentioned that it "...was the first time he'd ever heard me say anything was too risky..." I laughed; I love my thrills but I love living to tell the story just as much. The cool air by the water was soothing to my hot face; stopping by a pool of the clear tonic, little "brookies" could be seen darting in the depths. We'll go fishing here some afternoon and have a fry for breakfast. It was time to head for the bike and take the flag into the North Country.
   Following back roads at the best speed they would allow, cruising past forgotten cemeteries where once there were hamlets, past restored farmsteads and rustic Appalachian cabins, we popped out on a paved state road. Rte 110 delighting us with straight roads to  a quick break at the "modern" flood water marvel in East Barre. This was my second example of a civil works response to the flash floods of the last century. It was a paternal government's promise to the people during a time when our mountainous state was barren of trees, their crowns and vital under-stories. A time when the hillsides were clean and views were expansive like no other time, before or since, in VT history. The sudden and frequent heavy rains in the early 20th century decimated towns and industries in the canyons of the Green Mtn spines without the green canopy to wick up the waters. These heavily fortified dams and spillways were constructed to ensure lives would not be lost to such flooding ever again. It was encouraging to see the responsible effort of the long-ago government to protect it's constituents, as we stood upon it in a more contemporary molment when we are suspect of our political  leadership.
   As the bike stood idle atop the berm, the great flag billowed gently so. To myself I thought; '...we each have the power to elect and direct such beneficial governing...one person, one vote and we, the non-elite, have 99% of that voting power; we need to use it and re-balance the government to serve all of us...'  With that thought, I mounted behind my biker man and we journeyed onward to rte302 taking the junction north on 232. It was late in the day, and finally getting cooler, I was happy for my second tee shirt, especially when we entered the Groton State Park area. The long, clean lake made the air still cooler despite being a ways from our spiraling road. "If they ever pave this whole road, it will perfect for motorcycles..."was my driver's exclamation. It was great fun to grind the hairpins and blind curves as we were deep in the woods. Not a soul shared the lane and our only vigilance would be for deer or bear popping in front of us. No amount of conspicuity would help us then; only the acute reflexes of my driver would give us any chance, if there was one to have. After driving by the first massive park sign, we elected to try the next one in hopes of finding a scenic road around the lake. Instead we found a long, smooth access road to a small ranger station announcing the eventual State park and beach. We talked our way it, "just to check it out" and ended at the beachfront parking lot. I wanted to walk down to the water, but there was no place to park the bike and time was starting become important. We wanted our own bed tonight, not another motel. He entered the parking lot and was met by a minivan driver's door ajar in the lane, no driver in the car. "No problem..." for him as he navigated off lane barely missing the door to our right and the tree to our left, I pulled in my knees and huffed about etiquette in such a busy place and wondered aloud: "...why is it so hard for people to think of others in such a public place?" Back on our road, we continued in search of more blacktop and another state sign putting us closer to home. 
   All the while our flag elicited smiles and good wishes; a visual treat for the occasional Vermonter in a distant garden or weary farm yard. On these more desolate stretches of road, I would imagine a Vermont of a hundred years ago and ponder the sameness of it all. While each tiny town, each crossroad was unique to itself, they were all as much similar. The commanding mountain ranges, the steep slopes halting in narrow canyon bottoms  with frigid creeks cutting through their valley floors. Ultimately, they would converge in a village or town that long-ago harnessed that power in their mills. Grain, saw wood, looms.  Often, the derricks and foundations remained in historic tribute to a more sustainable time. In some places, the mill buildings remained, either living new lives or as abandoned relics. I imagine the clever people who built such structures and those who did the daily work. But now, as we hurtled past, they were fallow while the water beside them ran quick as always. '...how did we let ourselves get so dependent upon outside power sources? why did we walk away from this resource? surely our new technologies could make it worth using for the smaller scale industrials...' It's a luxury for me to ride this gleaming bike, seated snugly behind my partner and ponder all of everything else while he wrangles the physics of the ride. I thank him often, but still I know, he makes it possible for me to see and feel the all of it. I lean into his back to assure him of this reckoning and he replies with a pat on my left knee until we rolled into our next junction.
   Crossing rte2 onto 215, the lines of our mapped thruways  were getting thinner as we motored over state roads that were sometimes went to dirt when the populous became thin. This piece of pavement brought us into Cabot, the land of Cabot cheese and their champion cheddar.  By the late afternoon, as we trolled down their main street, the parade was long gone and not a trace of the fabulous Cabot sharp that they throw to onlookers could be found. We couldn't find any gas for the bike either. We knew we weren't too far from rte15 which would take us home, but also knew we needed gas...soon. Our winding road took us to Walden Station and there was no fuel in that cross-hair either. We pointed toward Hardwick, located some fuel but the Village Dinner was closed so our bellies would have to wait.
    It was becoming twilight, the prettiest part of the day to ride. The air gets thinner and lighter on our faces, the sky softens as the sun eases behind the mountains, the chaos of the day retreats into homes evidenced by the glow of televisions in so many roadside houses as we pass. "...poor bastards..."says he,"...they're inside watching someone else's life and we're out here creating our own..." All I could say was, "Yup." and agree with a squeeze 'round his chest. We are blessed and  I was hungry; "I know a dinner with awesome fries, going into Morristown, I gotta eat." Fifteen minutes later, we found our place and noted the dozens of patrons lined up for creemes, even at this late hour. From the camp ground across the highway, they came to enjoy any of the 65 flavors, swap stories of the day, flirt with the opposite sex, taunt their siblings as they waited for the frozen wonders. When we came to a stop behind the line, the rumble of the pipes got their attention, but
the flag brought them to a brief hush.

It was the fourth of July and this was a justly end. Kids with big eyes while their dads pulled them away. "...don't touch his bike, it is beautiful but don't touch it..."
   We were 26miles from my home and all it's comforts, but this place was abuzz with Vermont and her collage of life; a fun place to sit and watch people. Seeing some kids, I thought of my sons that same age.  "...hey outlaw, tomorrow is my boys' birthday; can we show up with the bike?", my child like plead...
 "sure..." was my tired, happy, proud biker's reply; he has a soft heart for little kids and he still dreams their dreams for me... "a flag, a really big flag on the back of your bike and let's take it everywhere...
still to come, just one more day... luv, peace, ride ~ ell

468miles, the Independence Long Run... part 3, Vermont

   We wound our way to Vermont over land routes taking us through some premium agricultural land. I was jealous as the the soils seemed well suited for hay crops and the farmers were mowing, tetting or baling as fast as they could flog their tractors. Many tending road side acres would wave heartily at the scene of our vintage bike with flag in full glory. My biker man would perk up and flash a "hi wave" back at them. He was enjoying their appreciation for the display and would often remark about this being "the best way he has ever spent the 4th". Following rte 4 into Fair Haven, we took a shade and water break at the awesome Vermont Information center there. It was mid-day and only two hours on the roads and I was parched. The cool tap water was sweet relief. He filled my quart water bottle twice;  first to drink and next to cool me off. Getting off the bike, he squeezed the clear bottle over my shoulders drenching the back of my shirt. "Whoot! that actually feels really good." as I smiled and unbuckled my chaps. On lookers must have thought I was just another wild biker chic...but with a wet shirt, the evaporation at 50 mph would cool my core body temperature to a comfortable level. I could ride feeling strong and attentive. Though a peculiar sight, I loved it and repeated the survival tactic at every chance.
   Refreshed and regrouped we spied the large map on the wall inside and began to consider our northbound route home. I sat comfortably in a beautiful handmade rocking chair made from carefully woven battens of clear cherry hardwood. It felt divine to sit without moving, if just for a while. This was his 'neck o the woods' so I listened to his narrative of the preferred route home. He always asked me at such times, "...if its ok with you..." "As long as there are not too many stop and wait lights...surprise me." My driver paused, asked in his quiet voice, "...why no stop lights? I'm not worried about traffic; it doesn't bother me; I'm totally confident in city driving..."  I gazed into his confusion and clarified my requirement; "I trust you everywhere, it's sitting still in this hot sun at a traffic light that bothers my brain. It's just too hot, and Rutland is too ugly for today..." With that he smiled and promised there would be stop signs but no lights to get stuck at. He plotted a little more and then showed me his plan. We would begin due north on rte 30 along the shores of lake Bomoseen then up to the junction at 73 east,  through Brandon Gap at 2170' and twisting through the Green Mountain National Forest. We would randomly observe the celebratory spirit of tiny towns like Talcville, Rochester, Bethel and junction northward on rte 12. He hoped our timing would put our arrival there after the big Randolph celebration and give us near-empty, Sunday roads to cruise on. "Sounds good; I guess I'm ready enough, let's ride."  as my ready-to-ride grin stretched my sunburned cheeks. I'd never been on these roads and the novelty inspired my enthusiasm to ride on.
  Better at mounting my pillion seat by now, I slipped my right leg over the bags and past the flag poll with relative grace compared to my earliest attempts only yesterday. My black chaps were sticky with the humid air and would bind my knees when I found the pegs. I took to standing on the pegs to stretch my legs and tweaking the supple leather that protected them from the road grit and scalding exhaust pipes. This always startled my driver as he would grab the bars and plant both feet firmly on the ground. He reminded me to tell him when I would do that so I don't tip us both over with this 660 lb bike. "...just tell me first..." I am so lucky to ride with him as he never says 'don't'; he only reminds me gently, what the 'Rules' are as a passenger. He started her flawlessly, found first gear, turned on the headlight and we pulled away banking hard left into the switchback driveway taking us to the open road. This machine purred this year, after an entire spring of mechanical struggles and doubtful adjustments. It was the third carburetor from a totaled '77 Sportster that made her start with ease and hum that HD melody over the endless roads. He was pleased; I was delighted.
  Rolling past the lake shore, into the small towns, through the village centers, people would stop, stare and wave or give a thumbs up at the brilliant image of our holiday tribute. At stop signs or the rare light, cagers would beep or rev their motors. A few sport bikes would close their clutch and race their engines in approval of our scene. While we never rode in a single parade that day, it was still a patriotic image that left most folks smiling. We hadn't thought of the pleasure it might evoke in others who saw it waving. It was purely my selfish wish to comfort my own desires in affirming my American devotions. It was a humbling experience to stir such appreciation, happiness and even reverence for our striking national symbol. My biker man noted more than once, "it's great to see people so interested in this flag; I never thought much about it before... now I'll probably pay more attention to it..." I smiled over his shoulder and thought how 'it matters so much; I must remember to thank my friends who 'serve', for making it possible to be out here going anywhere we pleased with this beauty, waving so boldly...'

  Past the lake shore, rte 30 showed the graceful curves that make it a perfect motorcycle route. There was little to no traffic for miles; even the center of Castleton stood quiet on this Sunday morning. Likely most folks were sleeping in or perhaps at Sunday services. The road was all ours, so he cranked her up and we were often cruising at 70mph when the road allowed. I like fast but today I wanted to see everything in this piece of our journey. I was never disappointed this weekend. In Vermont, our roads are made for motorcycles. In the tiny place of Sudbury, we junctioned with 73 east and entered the traverse of the Green Mtn National Forest. Only one vehicle passed us on this stunning route. At the top of Brandon Gap, we stopped at a pull-out and gazed at the ancient stone walls abandoned long ago by weary hill farmers seeking a more viable life. In the stillness of the stones, I sought a refuge to relieve bladder careful to be discrete and not disrupt the wilderness. He, on the other hand, demonstrated one of the more un-fair advantages of maleness. It just didn't matter to him, as he turned his back in the very unlikely event, that anyone may drive by. I had to laugh as he did not pay close attention to his locale when answered his call, but he was 'mostly compliant'. I do after all, call him outlaw for good reasons.

 The rest of that road was downhill into Bethel and the twisties were steep enough that I would hold my breath on the tighter curves as he would lean hard into the gravity of it all. Leaning with him, my self-speak recalled the Basic Rider Course manual, the paragraph about "...contact area of the tire patch on a tight curve...be aware of this influence on stopping strategies..." At that thought, I glanced at my chaps, strong and sturdy to my relief, as it was the right hand turns that would cause me to drop the bike 3x in that class, resulting in my life time memento of that long ago lesson. My chauffeur, though, was peaking in his groove. He reveled in testing his bike and had no fear of maxing out her limits. I must say, it was thrilling...the loud pipes, the engine's determined  peel of power as she surged to meet his demand was exceptional. It made me giddy for I knew, even if I could drive my own bike, I would never be so bold. He takes me to limits that I would have never ventured with my own endorsement and brings us back safely with seasoned temperance and deft co-ordination of the brakes. We drifted in to his 'neighborhood', the main street of Randolph VT just in time for the parade to have finished up, leaving the crowds with foodies and spectators on one commercial lane. We parked and dismounted to stretch our legs and meet and greet the townies. He parked his bike in a back alley, beside a rusting Yamaha cruiser of the 70's era. "...why park this beautiful bike and gorgeous flag back here?" I was a bit baffled and disappointed not to show her off. "...well it's not all legal; the inspection is kinda old." he murmured, walking toward food. I took a peek on the front frame and saw it; wrong color, wrong year; a four year old sticker, in fact...yup, a low profile is a good idea.' After a stretch, some mingling and really good hand-scooped lemon ice I-talian style, we backed out our 'outlaw' bike and headed for his house on the back hills of Brookfield. It was a sweet respite before we motored onward. My thoughts rambled over the back roads '...how many miles have we gone since yesterday? ...it seemed like a week had gone by but only hours measured by miles and state signs... we were half way on our adventure and I'm having the best 4th ever...'  We would need a rest before continuing, the sound of silence at his man-world homestead...  this story will continue, just one more last run to make it home... see ya ~ ell

468miles, the Independence Long Run... part 2, the Fort

   I don't know if it was worth $95 when the bed leaned downhill on the off side and the carpet showed a decade of hosting travelers. We got in so late, it was this or the park bench out front. When we stepped out to assess the weather Sunday morning, another hot day, we saw four other motorcycles parked silently in the morning sun. Kewl, it's always good to see like-minded guests sharing the roof over our heads. After fumbling with saddlebags, showers and stretching (for me at least), we found a tourist map and mounted up for the leisurely ride to the Fort.
  The Sunday morning roads were empty and store fronts and homes were decked out for the day of national celebration. We wanted to avoid the parade and it's traffic, so choose the long way around the big town's Main street. It took a few tries to find the access road as we motored around back roads admiring 800 lb round bales of hay. 'Why can't I find any thing that good looking up home?' My driver was tuned into my longing and joked about towing one home... Spotting a small banner on a town light pole, we made a graceful lean right and turned onto the smooth black top that would take us to our point of interest. Immediately I was thinking, '...how come our roads don't look this good?' My biker man said it out loud, "...these roads are awesome..." "Yup, NY may be poor,  but they have great roads!" I was happy for the smooth surface and his eager hand on the throttle. We were flying  between the lane markings, making the flag snap behind my ear as I swelled with patriotic pride, '...it's the fourth of July; let's show her off...' In tune with my thinking, he would roil the throttle faster...until, there it was. A large sign indicating FORT TICONDEROGA; not too far away, sprawled a modest A-frame sign-board naming the 'Log Cabin Restaurant ~ breakfast was now being served'. We needed breakfast and it was right where we wanted to be.

   The long access road was smoothly paved and lined with tall hardwoods, mostly ash, framing the tunnel of green. Every so often a humble plaque or cobble-stone monument would stand to the left or right of the lane. Markers to remember the fallen soldiers, encampment areas, magazines in hiding. All among a youngish forest on good soils in a flattish plain surrounding the Fort. Trees intrigue me; this forest was maybe 70 years old, by my guess. Not so long ago, it was farmed, grazed as a massive pastoral apron to the great em-battlement. They would be able to see for miles with no forest to occlude their viewing. On the bike, with nothing between me and my five senses, I could easily imagine the historic scene. Only the sound of the loud pipes kept my imagination anchored to our present time. '...it's worth the trip just to see the lay of the land...' I thought as the images appeared before us.
 Rolling to a stop beside a picnic area already claimed by a pair of Harley's and their riders. A custom soft tail showing a lifetime of miles and a dresser with small American flags on the trunk. The riders looked old enough to have served in the military as they were covered in ride patches, insignia and club colors of their origins. Our massive flag raised broad grins on all three of them. We chatted about riding, answering their queries about the hassle  of the flag and it's influence on the drive as I attempted an ungraceful dismount, careful not to disturb the gallant banner. I had to remark with some sarcasm; "...who's idea was this anyway..." as I wriggled my right leg off the seat,  around the pole. "I don't see why you are struggling; it was your idea..." my biker man pointed out, in his understated Vermont-speak. He began to chuckle at my comical movements to dismount and the presence of spectators evoked my thoughts on the episode; "f _ _ k you, sweetie; I can drive and you can ride, you know..." The lady rider laughed and shared a quick story about her husband bringing home a puppy on his bike...Where ever we go, riders will have something to say, thoughts to share and stories to swap. We will never see them again but for a brief moment, we were friends in the journey. It's always a pleasure, even my very shy driver lights up at the chance to connect with other Harley enthusiasts. They mounted their bikes, we turned for the Log Cabin thinking about a good breakfast. Before us stood a stockade of sorts, a picket set far back from the west wall of the Fort. In the interior parade field, five empty flag poles stood at attention the late morning sun light.
 The specials sign at the doorway listed ham and eggs with fried potatoes on the side. Yum, that would hit the spot. We placed our order, took our number and found a seat under a fan. No ac here, it was very comfortable on this hot, muggy day. I would struggle in such heat, until we got rolling. When the heat impaired my balance and stamina to ride, I would soak my white shirt with cool water and let evaporation ease my heat stressed brain. My biker would smile and lament that it was not the front of my blouse. "you can't see me anyway, you better be looking at the road..." I would retort as I held on tighter to his waist. I felt blessed to have him in my life. He gets me; and is patient with my odd needs. This day would be one of those days.
  Breakfast devoured, we walked about the ample gift shop and found the entry to see the Fort. To my surprise, the sign said $15 per adult. '...seriously, just to go in and walk around, see some stuff and maybe watch them raise the flags...' Apparently, he was in time with my musings as he whispered, " ... do you really want to see it... I hoped it'd be $15 for both of us..." Knowing he would have paid if I'd wanted it, my answer was "no way, that seems kinda steep to me..." We excused ourselves, and walked outside, along the pickets and down to and old moat...Across the gray stone wall, they began to raise the flags with ceremony. The sound was fifes, drums and commands from a costumed re-enactor. We could only see the tops of their heads as flags rose to their perches. Ours still looked better and no one had to pay to see her.
Back at the ticket desk, a dozen tourists in new sneakers and fresh clothes had paid to see the historic site. My blood chilled as I wondered: " did our founding fathers intend that such national treasures be "private" ventures where only those with 'luxury' dollars would be permitted to see the very spot that the tide of the  Revolution turned in our favor? Lamenting the fees, we snapped some pics of the picket and walked away. My  humble green mountain man, remarked: "how can something that should belong to every American have a price on it to see? So only the rich people can go in, but a hard working tradesman like me has to walk away..." It reminded me of a statement made by a Bhutanise at the Tiger's Nest monastery in Bhutan. At 10,200 feet it was built as a tribute to a Buddhist monk. The views were beyond inspiring to the journalist who made the ascent. The kind citizen gave him these words: "In our most beautiful places, we build temples and monasteries and everybody goes there. In your most beautiful places, you build five star resorts and only the very rich can go there..." (taken from National Geographic Traveler July/Aug 2010, Boyd Matson)
   I am aware this facility is in peril due to lack of funding, that it crumbles by inches back to the earth. But still, $30 would pay for our fuel for the next 250miles. It just seems this is the kind of landmark our tax dollars should be supporting with gratitude. There must be some middle ground here...but then, Great Briton didn't think so 300 years ago either. For fascinating incite to the Fort, check out these links
http://www.fort-ticonderoga.org/ for the tourist story and visiting information; but for the most interesting background and photos, see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fort_Ticonderoga..
   We wandered to our waiting bike, strapped on our helmets, mounted up and headed for the east side of the lake. No more bill boards on smoothly paved roads.  The forth was in full swing on every mile. The smell of bar-b-q and corn roasting in backyards,  teased our noses and affirmed that all was well with this day of remembrance. We followed the land roads to Vermont and counted more acres of perfectly made round bales of hay...even the air felt different, we were heading home with miles to go...

hope you enjoy the journey.    luv, peace, ride ~ ell

this is an engraving of Ethan Allen demanding surrender of the Fort...

468miles, the Independence Long Run . . . part 1, NY

   It began with an innocent wish when my biker man asked, "...where would you like to go for the 4th?" My simple reply: "Everywhere." Two weeks later, on July 2nd, I had a plan. "...it's The 4th this weekend, let's put a flag on the bike and ride the roads..." I proposed with a timid gaze knowing most bikers don't like to 'distress' their chrome with accessories. My face broadened in a child-like grin when he promptly said "ok, why not?" I didn't say it then but, 'I wanted to mount the biggest flag the bike could carry without it hitting the ground.'
   Saturday morning, on an errand to the local hardware store, I discovered  the perfect flag. She was all cotton, Red, White and Blue with grommets for easy hanging. An unbelievably low price for July 3rd, at $5.95, my delight was only slightly dulled when I saw that our national symbol was made in China. At 5 x 4 foot and made of strong-enough construction,  I grabbed it and a wooden flag pole I hoped would be stout enough the handle the job. When I asked the store clerk "if it could tolerate the wind sheer at 70 mph...", he was silent at first. "Whatcha gonna do with it?" was his puzzled remark. "Mount it on the back of my sweetie's Harley for the fourth." I replied proudly.  He didn't just laugh, he chortled that back-country Vermonter way when he sputtered "...not likely..." I took it home anyway.

  My biker man looked it over, fetched the tools and pipe clamps he would need to make it happen. And he did; successfully adapting the pole's base end for a perfect fit and securing it tightly to the gleaming,chrome sissy bar of his vintage Harley. It looked good, seemed plenty strong with the lowest corner of the fabric missing the ground by an inch while at rest. Wow. It looked really good; the ultimate 'bling' on his spotless bike. We fastened the saddlebags and went through the pre-ride check list for our Independence Long Run, a 3-day weekend adventure. I was pumped, though swinging my leg over the back to mount my pillion seat proved to be a most challenging act in agility I no longer possessed. The width of the bags and the immovable flag pole proved to be a clumsy and comical recital for my coordination. An amusing scene repeated often throughout this ride. After two tries, I got the method down pat and with a tap on his shoulder we were good to go. We had only vague plans to ride the length of Lake Champlain, both west and east coasts, observing our nation's annual celebration of our Declaration of Independence along the way. It would be the first time either one of us would skip our home town parades. We were curious how other small towns would show their pride. Somehow, I expected it to look almost foreign by comparison. The adventure would prove otherwise.
   He asked where to begin our adventure and my sincere reply was anywhere. I did want to see Fort Ticonderoga though, since we'd be on that side of the Lake. Wearing my 'Doug for Gov' tee-shirt on the VT side of Champ's lake was a bit hot, but I had promised and so it made the trip in fine contrast to the brilliant flag. The smallest movement of our classic ride would unfurl the flag in all her glory. I would catch glimpses in his rear view mirrors and our traveling shadow in the late day.  A stunning display on a blue sky outing as we headed for the Lake Champlain ferry. I imagined how we must have looked to the world and wished for someone to snap a picture of this handsome turnout. My driver wanted to begin with the NY side in Plattsburg and follow rte 9 down, south to Crown Point and our destination,  the once mighty Fort Ticonderoga.

   On the hour long web of back roads to the boarding ramp, we got waves, honks and silent stares from folks along the way. We stopped at the Sand Bar crossing the Lake and he snapped a picture of me and his ride. His two "favorite girlz." The breeze off the water was enough to wave the light weight banner with elegance. I thought of how significant this Lake was in those historic early days of declaration followed by revolution. So many essential battles pitted and won by principled men with every thing to gain and even more to loose. I had to wonder, "why isn't more attention paid to Vermont's pivotal role in our nations's birthing?" I don't recall anything more than a passing notation in my American history lessons. Yet that war could not have been won without Vermonters and the scrappy battles fought on these waters.

   Picture taken, a beauty at that, we mounted up and rumbled to the ferry docks. The ticket seller was nice (from VT I'll bet), the ticket taker was hasty and curt (from NY I'll bet). By the grace of some angel, we were the last vehicle put on this ferry. Crammed into a dingy back corner, we would see nothing from our placement. We walked along the cars, pinched into the steel railing. Half way from the bow, my balance was shaky at best with soft swells heaving the boat. I'll take my picture from here. The ride was over in 20 min and the bike started easily announcing our landing in NY with a grand Harley entrance under a flowing flag dwarfing our bike. More people waved, beeped and gave us the thumbs up. My driver was glowing, any reservations about this holiday accessory were forgotten and he reveled in the happiness our vision gave total strangers.
  I felt equally pleased with our presentation. "This is way better than riding in a parade, and I've done many of them on horses. This lifts my heart. Thank you for indulging my dream." was my  gentle statement into his ear. He reached back and patted my left knee in his approval. Lifting his visor, he spoke over his left shoulder, "thank you for thinking of the best way to spend the 4th..." I thought of my motivation for this tribute. So much has gone ugly in America, it seems. Blunders in the world scene and deception in the Capital. I was beginning to feel disenchanted and depressed as an American citizen. So much angry talk filled the airwaves. But I wanted to believe that we could over come our national misdeeds, heal the blight of hideous deeds in the world; I needed to rekindle my faith in my homeland. My dream to fly this huge flag on a three day motorcycle ride was an affirmation to myself: 'don't  give up; each individual has the power to set the story right and re-balance this amazing experiment in democracy. One person, one vote; we each held the power to overcome the discord.' This over sized flag was my testament to this. Our vintage chrome pony was my instrument in this concert of color and loud pipes.  My biker man's kind heart made it possible to perform such.
   Pulling away from the ferry in NY, people honked and shouted out " Nice flag!". The bike purred her HD melody as we rolled through Plattsburg stopping briefly at the golf course that harbored our breakdown last summer. Not much action this year, we sported water bottles not beer on this shade break. The 'Doug for Gov' shirt was tucked away while in NY and we saddled up for this side of the Lake and the long run to the Fort. The NY landscape looked all together different up close compared to our long distance views across the Lake. It had better soils and little sign of the granite that Vermont lives with. The trees were tall softwoods, mostly red pines rustling in the sun. As we glided away from the defunct air force base marking the edge of the 'city' it became apparent that this side of the Lake, the Upstate of NY, the eastern fringe of the Adirondack Park, was poor very poor.  Only our most remote towns in Vermont might seem this forgotten, devoid of commerce and even community pride, but these places were like ghost towns. Victims of an Interstate highway that left them behind. It made me glad to live in the Green Mountains.
 Along the way, I wasn't fast enough with my camera to catch some of the extraordinary geological scenes. We spent much of the ride cranking at 60mph or faster once outside the villages. We went through a dozen small hamlets with the rare gas station as the only sign of a township. Probably there were actual towns, just not so much along rte 9. We investigated a couple NY state camp grounds along the Lake and spotted some familiar places found on the map. We took a stretch break at Ausable Chasms which, as an ancient natural phenomenon, was breath taking. The tourist development of it's existence was harsh to me, as it was hosting a tour of Canadians speaking Chinese who were more than willing to pay for the story. Though the building itself was large and uniquely retro in the Ralph Loyd Right kind of way, it was grungy and clammy from hundreds of visitors that day. There were no interpretive displays as to the history or formation of the impressive gorge. People had to pay for a guided tour to get that benefit. I was annoyed that a natural place was so commercialized and made to be like a bit of Disney World in these great mountains. Too often the awe of a place is lost in a packaged tour.  I walked away thinking out loud, "Why does everyone have to be entertained?" As I stood on the bridge over the canyon, I wondered at what the aboriginal peoples must have thought of this place; what reverence did it hold for them? With his hand on shoulder, it was time to pour myself back onto the bike with an ungraceful reach across my seat and continue the south way down the lake side. I would  need a better camera to capture the scenery as I missed many remarkable scapes.

  Three more hours would roll by easing us into the lazy afternoon and the first sounds of backyard fireworks. The flag continued to fly in all its glory. I, on the other hand, was wilting. The Low Ride is a fun Harley. Smooth and nimble on these winding wilderness roads. But the pillion seat, though plush for it's small size, was not very supportive for such long, hot miles. It was not a touring bike.  I was squirming in my skin and my driver knew it. He stopped and we found a dinner as we rolled into the area of Ticonderoga NY. An excellent fish dinner in the tidy campish eatery refueled my resolve to continue. That and the adjoining motel was sold out; all three rooms. We had to go a ways for the next bed.  We at least got directions to the Fort, about 45 minutes away he thought (as the crow flies, maybe). The young, handsome waiter must have meant NY minutes as it took a full hour just to find Crown Point, the actual home of the Fort. With the hazy pink sky behind us, we pulled into a gas station and fueled our empty gas tank. Good timing is better than money when one is a long way from home, we needed to find sleep. We entered the store(?) to pay and get directions to a motel, any motel. The attendant was a young, busty girl seated on a tall stool behind bullet-proof glass. '...don't see that in VT...' I thought. She spoke to us, all of us as it seems several people needed directions for their next stop, through a hole in the glass. She expertly directed all parties to the places they sought with confidence in her accuracy. My partner smiled and remarked quietly to me that "she just saved all our asses and she is only getting $8 an hour..." We found our motel and overpaid for a mediocre room just so I could lay my aching, sunburnt body down. 'I will remember sunblock for the next time...' A few wimpy fireworks filled the night air as we drifted into dreams of our day's long run on the west side of this historic Lake.  Tomorrow we would divine our way to the Fort on the 4th, find breakfast and cipher the way through the maze of small town parades we would find in VT... morning would come too soon and part two of the Independence Long Run would unfold by the mile...
thanks for coming along... luv, peace, ride ~ ell

learning and living dreams....

 Every four weeks or so, when I remember to phone,  our horses need their hooves to be trimmed. One of the most amazing designs of nature is a horse's hoof. It appears to be hard and invincible, until you get stepped on or take a swift kick, but really it is a living, organic piece of nature's finest engineering, when it is properly maintained. We have been shoeing horses with steel, hoof shaped plates and specialized nails since the time of the Romans. I have paid thousands of dollars, to shoe many dozens of horses through the years in this expected norm.
 Horse hooves never stop growing and require skilled attention when the ground they tread upon is too soft to wear down the resilient structures  appropriately. In Vermont, it's often soft going on our green pastures and too many horses spend too much time in softly bedded stalls. This puts us in the precarious position of trying to mimic nature's work in the care and keeping of horse hooves.
  Here at INFINITY FARM, where we have assisted many awesome brown horses, we have provided a practicum for several apprentices in farrierey over the last twenty years. That is, our abundance of horse feet from orthopedically normal to the maladaptively bizarre, has been a fabulous class room for women and men just getting started in their vocation with hoof care. It was and to some very small degree, is a wonderful place for such a person to come and learn their craft in a forgiving and grateful environment. These horses are easy to handle and well mannered for the farrier. They are patient to a fault, despite their racing roots. Mistakes will happen as an apprentice struggles through the physical and cognitive applications of their trade. We don't mind. Hooves grow, and never stop. Most errors will grow out and provide an invaluable opportunity for the green tradesman to learn what not to do. Benefits blossom as the novice skill set is not yet rigid with habits for the aspiring farrier and creative solutions spring forth to every one's happiness.
  Our current farrier came to us, like all the rest, by social accident. I met her at a restaurant where I over heard her conversations with the customer she was serving. She was enthusiastically explaining how she was waitressing only to pay the bills as she learned the art and science of 'natural balance' hoof trimming. She "needed more horses to practice on..." That tweaked my ear and I slowed my walk to listen to this conversation. She was young and fit and presented a convincing case for natural balance trimming to a table of tourists who likely couldn't appreciate her vigor. But I could; we had been without a farrier for several months and so I tapped her shoulder to interrupt. Her long, ebony braid swung around smoothly as she met my query with a broad smile.  I recognized her from other horse works and we struck an immediate bargain to come 'practice' on the rescued race horses at our farm.
 Her first visit was exceptional from minute one. Though her novice tools were less than professional, her strategic workmanship was amazing. Our first horse was a young gelding with a blown out knee. This healed with a malformed joint and made it nearly impossible to properly trim his hoof for the horse's comfort. She took a long look, studied all sides of the too long hoof, evaluated his range of motion to lift it for her work. "Yup. I think I can fix it." I was ecstatic for this wonderful horse. We used a 50# salt block to hold his hoof in his comfort zone so she could ply her 'magic'. Half an hour later, with detailed narratives of the orthopedic science and equine physics of movement,  he had a new, normal looking hoof! Now for the other 3, all done with equal precision and in site. "She will be a great farrier" I thought as I encouraged her through every phase of the reformation to normal hooves. During rest breaks, it would take many of these early on in this physically demanding work, she would share her passion for horses, their minds, their feet. She would exude her joy in the work in her hands after years of searching for that calling of what her life's work would be. Not breeding horses, nor training them. No showing or vetting suited her quest for practical science in the keeping of horses. It was their hooves, those miraculous wonders of equine mobility. The uniquely equine anatomy that makes it possible for them to gallop at breathtaking speeds with nimble course changes and aires above the ground as they defend their being.
  Her dedication is reaffirmed with every hoof she holds. As months went by and her skills became honed, she worked with other veteran farriers and learned what she would or would not do in her practice. Evolving into natural balanced shoeing, she sent herself to an intensive, residential school at a ranch out west. She returned with confidence, skill, and conviction in her craft. She has become an accomplished journeyman with a professional's complement of tools. She will achieve mastery and someday teach others what the hundreds of horses she attends will have taught her. It has become her life's work, a Ministry to her, a blessing to us.
   For my part, I have witnessed one more apprentice, answer their calling, hone their craft, and live their dreams... INFINITY FARM ~ learn, grow, live...come visit some time; bring carrots.
luv, peace, ride ~ ell

this one is for them that learn their dream and live it...

twelve months and the gift of injury

   It's June 22, 2010 twelve months since my dream to drive my own motorcycle ended with a second degree muffler burn and the dismissal from the BRC. I remember vividly the struggles of that weekend, the relentless, almost-but-not-quite, learning curve to attain my endorsement and join the fraternity of motorcycle riding. I remember the overwhelming crush of defeat as I stood exhausted, tearful and lost. Today I have a fabulous scar to remind me of that mis-guided effort, why it's worth it to wear chaps every time out,  and why I really should not attempt to drive a motorcycle on any traveled lane. I also have a short list of gentleman bikers who were generous enough to placate my quest and share the ride. One of them has earned my heart; we ride together on his vintage Harley, often. It's a whole new world on the roads now as I ride in his tender company, immersed in the eclectic scenery of this Green Mountain State.
  With each ride out, my respect for the skill and mastery of the driver is enhanced and my appreciation for my instructor's wizened decision to drop me, deepens. The close calls with cagers, the challenging road conditions on dirt or even paved roads, the mental stamina required of motorcycling; it's all brought into sharp reflection the risk for me as the operator. By God's grace, I am keenly aware that I am right where I should be, behind a capable, seasoned driver. It's the perfect solution as I have gained far more than I lost: the long sought freedom of the chrome pony and a dear friend to enjoy the open road.
   Riding in leathers, we seemingly appear a bit foreboding at every rest break; that and my driver looks to be a tough character to them that don't know his kindness. It enlightens me to the perception of others among the public. The power of stereotypes to jade others in their daily musings. I find it to be good and bad and I use it to my advantage accordingly. It will get us the best seat or sometimes the worst seat in a restaurant. It always gets us the best parking spot by the door. It's almost amusing how a mother will pull her child closer as we rumble down Main street, or roll into a creeme stand. It's an ongoing exercise in sociology of sorts. Hollywood has worked hard to perpetuate the myth of troublesome motorcyclists, rebels and mavericks is the media label. To a subtle extent, that is likely accurate but more to the core in personality of a motorcycle rider. Confident is the standard disposition of them that I ride with. It's engaging to spend time with that kind of certainty within a person.

   Still I fantasize about driving my own bike, though my random dysfunctional balance at the walk is clear warning of that unlikely reality; thus the discovery of the Sidecarist world. The nostalgia of driving a sidecar hack is inspiring my dreams these days. I've studied a few brands and while Harley Davidson makes couplings for side cars I am better intrigued of the URAL rig. Made in the Ural mountains of Russia, it has retained its vintage 1938 profile and can be factory ordered with a drive wheel on the car making it worthy of off-roading over winter muck, wood roads and farm lanes. I am enamored of the possibilities. The annual United SideCar Association rally http://www.sidecar.com/will be held here in Vermont in July. We'll be going with hopes of taking a trial in a URAL hack. If my abilities allow, I'll own one next year to ride my farm and tend the evolving transformation into  a soft fruit plantation.
   It's here and now that I enjoy the enchantment of running the roads with my gentleman biker, the view over his shoulder, the strength of his form where I am less strong and the wind in my face as we follow a winding road lulled by the throaty purr of a vintage Low Ride. Everything happens for a reason. I failed the BRC; I gained a dear friend to share this evolving dream. A dream that just gets better with every detour... luv, peace, ride ~ ell

 

born to ride...

   After eight weeks of pinning to ride on my sweetheart's Harley, eight anxious weeks holding vigil over the vexing failed repairs of his defunct bike,  eight weeks of watching sparkling days and gleaming bikes come and go, we finally made it. Addled by the bike's ailing engine and the mechanic's casual work ethic it was a test in patience I did not enjoy. Three carburetors later, it roared to life in the shop and rolled into my dooryard the next day.
   It's a vintage bike. An HD '84 Low Ride; they don't even make it any more. A classic with shinny black jugs and strategic chrome features,  saddled with a 'pillowed' pillion seat at the upholstered sissy bar, all black leather and just right where it counts. When he starts her up and roils the throttle, she rumbles to life and calls out a sweet sound that tickles my ear when her loud pipes purr. It is Pavlovian for me as a ready-to-ride smile emerges on my face and my heart grows giddy for the outing. He deftly toggles the switches for head light, fuel line, choke and mile counter before he mounts his chrome pony and gives the throttle a light twist, coaxing the engine awake evoking 'the old girl' to clear her throat.
   He shoots me a wink and invites me to join him with a nod of his helmet. First ride out this year and it is a perfect start. Fond memories swirling inside me of this familiar movement with my body. Like mounting a horse for the ten thousandth time, now with my left hand on his shoulder and gracefully swinging my right leg over the sissy bar, settling lightly into the plush seat. It's so much the same as riding a horse yet so much different. My oneness with horse has become oneness with him and his powerful bike.  I have him to hold on to and the warm silence of the horse will be replaced by the rushing wind and throaty pipes as we glide  into the horizon.   Finding the foot pegs, I adjust my balance and snuggle into his jacket as I confirm; "good to go..." We are off to any where he wishes to take me. First ride out this season as we pass the awesome brown horses grazing their paddock. I miss them, riding them. I adore this new passion and the company that comes with it. Moving smoothly away from the farm, he hammers the throttle and the roaring power fills my heart and soul. Leaning into his form, holding on a little tighter, completely happy. . . I affirm in myself: I was born to ride...

enjoy the day ~ live your dreams,
ell

post hibernation 2010

Stretching, yawning and scratching my head as I itemize the recovery plan for shedding winter weary, I have read some old posts revealing the quirky thoughts swirling in my head. Though a pastoral life would be an accurate pigeon hole for me, routine would not find a place on the list of descriptives for me. Last year's pictures stir fond memories of wonder and blunders; it all leads back to gratitude and a reaffirmation of the 5F's. My current time and place in life needs to focus on family, friends, farm and faith. Notice that failing is not among this list. My long winter absence from this journal is largely related to the constraints of time, especially productive time. While the weather this winter was untypically mild, the season itself was a functional challenge that frequently confounded my broken brain. I did spend the season as a winter hiking guide for Smuggs, and managed to complete most treks but my injured brain and resulting mis-abled movement stranded me a few times. It was a sharp reminder that time will march on and my warbling state of unwellness will keep in close pace with that rate of momentum. New meds, new priorities and tempered ambition brings me back to a doable reality. My plans for a soft fruit plantation, where once I rescued horses, become more vivid and the first steps for this conversion will take place in June. My motorcycle pursuits have evolved into a more practical journey with my surrender of the solo two wheeled adventure, transforming to the pursuit of a URAL side car rig with two wheel drive for both on and off road, in all seasons. I can tooly-dooly around my farm and still be road-legal it style, without the perils of dropping the bike. In the rideless months of winter, I have happily grown a kindred relationship with a favorite Harley driver becoming his official pillion riding enthusiast. An unexpected but deeply affectioned relationship nurtured from a mutual passion for loud pipes, Vermont roads and the other-adventures. So begins a new season of green and sleeveless days in the Former Republic of Vermont, my beloved Green Mountain State. In permaculture, the belief and practice that there is no such thing as waste ~ only misplaced energy:  it's all good. Ride on...
peace ~ ell