Taking the Flag for a Ride... Memorial Day Weekend 1

Day 1...
This spring has been spotty when it comes to riding the motorcycle. A exceptionally warm March, muddy April and a rainy May made getting out an act of magic. Bikerman committed to putting a new carburetor on the 84 Low Ride in hopes of upgrading performance in low gears around town and maxed out speed on highways. The delays always seemed to overlap the best riding weather. Finally, after some shorties here and there to test run the bike and to build up some ride-ready tone, we hit a perfect weekend for Memorial Day 2012. I was peaked for this one and bikerman neglected his full schedule of work to indulge me.

     We made our plans a couple weeks ahead, but then all the other pieces and players had to be juggled and re-juggled to allow for three days away. My mind was cyphering like the classic TV sit-com of the good and responsible angel clad in white LL Bean slacks and tee on one shoulder, reminding me of my parental responsibilities while a rebellious, leathered-up angel taunted me on the other. In the end the Daughter helped to move the horses to the summer pasture on Friday night, spent the weekend with Dad and marched in parades on Monday in my absence.

    At 7pm,  bikerman showed up to get the bike fitted for a longrun, and he meant a Long Run, at least by our standards. Being the Memorial Day weekend, being that his son is in the Army now, we took the flag for a ride. A brand  new 3x5 foot, silk striped with embroidered stars, made-in-America beautiful flag.

   Next morning was brisk and bright, so we loaded the throw-over saddle bags making the lean looking Low Ride give its best impression of a touring bike. Between the unyielding flag pole and the fully stuffed bags stradling the bike, my pillion seat was a hard reach for my gimpy leg and wobbly balance. Several failed attempts later, he opted to let me mount first. Comical it was for me to slip onto his lower saddle and skinny up to my petite pillion seat. The saddle bags shaped my leg in only one precise angle to the pegs, where each foot would be tightly anchored by the heel of my moto boots. It was a snug fit, but comfortable. With a tap on his shoulder and my 'good to go' nod, he craned his head back so I could kiss his cheek. "Watch out for them cagers...", my good luck blessing as we rolled out the drive onto the traveled lane.

     Up south we were headed, over the Notch and the quickest way to I 89 south. the mission one was to head for Baboosic Lake NH and help my folks put their long dock and boats in for the summer season. Making good time on the highway, the bike was running tight with his legs stretched to the hiway pegs as the pipes purred that trade mark Harley rhythm. I don't always have my camera ready for the notable scenes and so I missed the shots for our flag's admirers. The SUV filled with family and fun gleefully waving as they passed us on the lane was amusing as the Mom was hanging out the window. We would exit in Bethel VT and cruise down rte14 into N. Hartford observing the recovery of last year's storm Irene in various stages of progress. Some homes were installing new foundations, others finishing with new siding and windows, while still others were wrapped in no trespassing tape. This badly damaged, river side community was making an  impressive come back, but still, the evidence lingered in the massive piles of flood ravaged trees and silt. Firewood for some, I suppose but the caked muck was daunting.

    Spotting an Irving gas station with a good price for fuel, he pulled in and tanked up with the 87 grade octane. I strolled into the tiny store trying to re-load my gum supply. Our Vermont roads are in poor repair and chewing gum keeps my jaws from grinding. Finding the gum rack was laborious enough and then to discover no stick gum, was the minor disappointment at this stop. Only chick-let type gums were displayed and they don't fit into the tidy little pocket on my chaps. Declining the inferior chew-ables, I meandered back to the bike now parked under a glade of the bluest spruce trees and listened as my biker chauffeur spoke to his son taking Basic Training in Ft Benning. He bragged about the flag and how perfect the day was to ride. And then we mounted up and resumed our journey back on I 89. The lane took us past a pick-up truck filled with very young spectators, waving their small hands frantically as they bounced on their seat to catch a better view. It's good to see our flag inspire such happiness.

brite white smoke from a tank of bad fuel

     Not ten minutes into the ride, the gleaming bike began to cough and sputter a tinney sounding rattle at high revs. He'd back off the throttle and it would purr a ways. With each passing mile marker, the sound would come back, persist longer and get louder. I could hear it all too well with my open-face lid, not so easily for him in his full face helmet. Some 30 minutes later he pulled off of I 89 in NH staggering the steel horse onto a secondary road. The noise would become so piercing, I'd cover my ears as it drowned out the melodic loud pipes of his vintage Harley. When even he could not ignore it, we pulled into a remote general store parking lot. It was hot out, I was hotter. When he tried to shut down the bike, it dieseled, coughed and bellowed thick white smoke. His best guess was that the recent tank of fuel was fouling his bike. Ethanol in our fuels is the norm today; usually there is no real performance issue. But this time it was a very annoying problem, indeed. Ethanol attracts water and if there was any water in the station's underground fuel tank, it would cling to the evil-E; put this diluted petrol in an engine and it would weaken the combustion.We'd have to run it till the tank was ready for a re-fuel. That would take the rest of the day and spoil the beautiful ride through south western NH. While he was nonplussed by the bike's complaining, I was silently frustrated. He had spent a pile of money on his beloved Low Ride this spring; a new larger carburetor, refitting all the seals in the crank case and transmission, all flawlessly engineered by a talented mechanic who restricted his wrenching to vintage Harleys. Until this tank of gas, the bike was running better than ever. Now this lame stretch of miles was cramping our style and giving me a headache. As we finally rolled into my parent's home on Baboosic Lake, he explained why the bike was ailing and he reassured me, new gas at the higher octane would cure the gagging machine and my gloomy spirit. Besides, it was time to park it, visit with family, put in the docs and feast on lobster as we overnighted at this cool and green and shady retreat. All's well that ends well on day one... more to come next post.    luv, peace, love ~ ell

"When I can't handle events, I let them handle themselves."

Henry Ford

two lakes, one story

On a mission for excellent ice cream, we commenced our adventure. What started as a strategic journey over the thin blue lines of our VT map, became a beautiful unfolding of excellent motorcycle roads, spectacular scenes and places known only by their names on the map. In our travel through the kingdom, a sharp contrast in philosophies was brought to light. It festers in my mind, even now.
 To begin, as we always do, he asked me 'where I'd like to go?' I had come across a gourmet ice cream shoppe in Groton on the Internet, I'd like very much to find it and taste the flavored cream and decide its ranking myself. We often sample the creemee stands of VT, grading the size, texture and service at each window across the green mountains. But this is more serious; after all, since Unalever bought out Ben & Jerry's, the 'home made' best of ice creams had declined in it's wondrous satisfaction of palate. It was time to find a new decadence in ice cream. So off we went beginning with a left out of my door yard, headed for a long run via the North East Kingdom.
   We wound our way over the distance of rte 109, standing up on the pegs when the pavement would jar the bike's frame at each pothole not yet cold patched. The junction with 118 would yield little better road surface, finally ending at rte 100 north. Heading into Eden where pavement would improve as we glided by Lake Eden and the obtrusive mountain behind. I smile at the memory of our woodland ride to Craftsbury only a week ago.

rte 58 N entering the NEK

  Through the burg of Lowell, we hooked right onto 58 north; a road with perfect complexion and vistas that left us speechless. After some miles, easing into Irasburg, we both commented how much better this end of the route was compared to the Hazen's Notch dirt lane we traversed a few weeks back. The expansive views revealed, the infamous quality known only in this corner of Vermont. We had entered the NorthEast Kingdom, 2000 square miles of God's country. Every mile tingled the senses with sights and scents unspoiled in these lightly-tread counties of Vermont.

rte 5 Barton and the lake

Crystal Lake Barton VT

 Divining our way east before south, we glided into Orleans and found the Rte 5 jct. Old city, with relics of Ethan Allen Furniture, Collette Stove Works and a once substantial RR junction. Hollow monuments to a lucrative past. Now so much of our brand-name furniture and wood stoves bare the made in China stamp. A once thriving local economy is fairing little better than the 'third world' manufacturing center that churns out the brands that Vermont made famous. We left this old place and marveled at the velvety black top of rte 5. Flawless, not a crack or hole in the rural road. Down thru Barton and then beyond. Few cars, no trucks and peaceful greenery all around. 'This is the Kingdom' as I smiled then wondered, 'how long will it stay so pensive?' Rolling onward, we spied a body of water through the trees, emerging to our east. Shortly we came to a state boat launch naming the lake. Turning onto the paved landing and to a pedestrian pull off, we could read that it was Crystal Lake. Enormous in scope, a steep ridge line on the east shore, just beyond our perch, a few power boats playing in the cool, clear waters; some fishermen casting lines from the grassy beach. We stopped and marveled at the shared beauty and versatile enjoyment of this lake. We said it together, "what a beauteous place, and anyone can access it. It's not the Lake Mansfield Trout Club. No "members only" in this place..." A pristine lake, held in public trust with access to any interested party. We could appreciate that.

lake Mansfield in Nebraska Ntc

  Only the week before, in our exploration of vintage roads, we stumbled upon a private lake high in the Nebraska Notch of the Mt. Mansfield  range. This was set aside a hundred plus years ago for members only. The heirloom Edwardian lodge was not open for a wayward traveler like us. It was nostalgic in its presence, celebrated by the member privileged guests enjoying the shade, the pure waters, the privacy that their restricted club afforded on that hot day.
 We weren't out to find this marvelous relic of the past; we were hoping to find the old road through the Nebraska Notch from the Stowe side giving way to Underhill. The very public town road of Stowe ended in the trout club parking lot.

Lake Mansfield Trout Club, members only

Rolling up on a vintage Harley with 'too loud' pipes and leathered-up riders; we got their attention. People looked on as we parked in the south end of the car lot. My driver remarked how there was not a vehicle there that was pre 2010 or under 30K in cost. Dismounting, we walked up the lane toward the lodge and opted to cross the spillway dam and rest on a shaded bench across from the swimming dock.
  Young swimmers were leaping and splashing, tossing beach balls and floaties in unrestrained summer glee. One ball drifted toward the booms set to stop hapless boaters from dropping over the jagged spillway. Kids were trying to chase it but abandon the task as it trapped itself on the gangway below the short suspension bridge. My big hearted biker man, leaped to its rescue. Navigating the steep weathered stairs to the catwalk, he reached over and grabbed the bright ball and handed it to the grateful children. They said thank you dashing back to the grassy beach and he ambled back to me. We studied the architecture and noted the meticulous upkeep of the sizable building. "There is a lot of care to this place; someone is paid, full time, to keep it perfect...this has to be a private place..."'indeed I thought, the kind of retreat where you must be nominated and approved to join as well as ample funds'; still, it was magnificent.

posted woodlands on a town road

  Rested and restored, we began to walk out of the shade, across the bridge and into the parking lot. This was an exclusive place, no public indulgences here. Still it was beautiful, a step back in well preserved time. Our attention was caught by a small framed man wearing pressed shorts, fitted sports cap and tiny round-rimmed glasses. He approached us as we tried to read the banner atop the flag pole. "this is a private club for members only. You are trespassing..." 'Funny how we've set here for an hour and he is telling us now. Bet he doesn't like my leathers or the well defined muscles on my bikerman's crossed arms...' I thought to myself. "ya, we finally figured that out... when I zoomed the Doppler trying to find the old notch road to Underhill, it didn't show the buildings here; only the green spaces. Guess I didn't zoom in enough..." I countered with a soft smile. "Can you tell me the name and age of this place?" I queried. "its' from the 1890's and its private, like a tennis club or golf course;  you need to leave and not come again..." his peevish answer. "We're sorry, the road is a town highway, we thought it would go all the way to Underhill. We've been riding the 'ancient' roads..." "It doesn't." he interrupted, "only, ski trails now. It's private property so stay on the trails. You need to leave now," he asserted "yup we were on our way out when you stopped us..." I defended.
 We turned and continued to the bike, smiling at his discomfort with us. "I didn't mean to barge in on this place, but the road is public - only the woods are 'posted'..." my driver confided to me. We mounted up and roiled the throttle for good measure before taking up the public road snapping a few more pictures on the ride out. 'Peculiar' I thought, 'how a small lake, albeit man-made, in the heart of the Mt. Mansfield State Forest, could be off limits to the public. Somebody had a vision way back in their time, but it didn't include the notion of Public Asset.' It was a legacy for the privileged only. Thank God our Presidents and Governors shared vision beyond that. I'm not bitter about a private lake and trout club; just confused as to it's location, on a town road, in a state forest; and sad that it would never consider people like us, despite our competent appreciation of the whole of it. Insiders and outsiders, exclusion just tastes bad in my mouth and sets wrongly in my mind.

success! Artesemo in Groton

exceptional icecream

  Oh yes, we found our gourmet ice cream, 191 miles later, in the classic Vermont town of Groton. Hand churned and scooped by the owner of the tiny ice cream shoppe. It was worth the journey and we'll be back. Artesano Ice Creame on rte 302 in Groton VT, and anybody can walk up and buy it.

This one's for them that ensured our public assets and the enjoyment of a greater good; a legacy for all Vermonters. peace ~ ell

ancient roads on a vintage Harley

   I have a collection of motorcycle photos showing the early days of motorcycling. Vintage machines with adventurous riders garbed in leather flight jackets and wide lens goggles. Occasionally, a passenger is riding pillion with a broad smile and flowing silk scarf. I love these images of the big-boned bikes, off-road tires and everyone so happy to be out enjoying the day. As it happens, I often don a long white scarf and wear a retro Harley Davidson cruizer jacket as my riding 'outfit'.

me in Retro pillion apparel

  I strive to re-live the nostalgia of the simpler times when we weren't 'bikers' but rather, motorcycle enthusiasts out enjoying an exciting jaunt in the elements of a tamed or wild world. This day would be such a day. As he often does, my driver will ask me; "...where would you like to go?" We knew our time was limited by a sunset curfew; that would keep us in our county for this venture out. I pulled out the map of record; a Vermont tourist map with many of the state and popular secondary roads already highlited by last year's  rides. On it was Hazen's Notch via VT rte 58, closed in the winter but open in summer. It's on the southwest fringe of 'the Kingdom', connecting two small towns. Let's start with that.

rte 125(?) along east of Lake Carmi

lake Carmi with locals on the dock

Richford today, once a booming RR town

  Stuffing the small tail bag with our coats, water bottle and map, we struck out first for my camera case, forgotten at my friends house along the way. It was muggy hot and my leather chaps were binding my legs when I would try to dismount in her door yard. She walked my tiny camera bag over to me and queried our travel plans. "Hazen's is a good run...have you ever tried Bakersfield Mtn road? it's a class 4; your bike can do it..." her appealing suggestion just the inspiration we needed for today's short run. I knew how to pick it up from Bakersfield, but not from Montgomery where we would terminate rte 58 and roll south to Waterville, after completing Hazen's Notch. So then, north to Richford then west to Franklin before drifting south to Bakersfield to trek the old mountain road remains open to the loggers and hunters in this modern era.

climbing to Hazen's Notch

  I smiled when I imagined our chrome pony, the 84 Low Ride, hiking along the dirt road past old farm fences and county markers long forgotten as the road was 'left fallow' when better lanes became preferred. I reminisced the old photos of bygone motorcycles on dirt lanes away from the crowded paved-ways. These 'ancient' roads would reveal evidence of past villages, lost farms, and hunting camps with stone walls, 'shoulder gaits' and faded signs. Cemeteries among the tall trees would mark the towns or villages no longer on the map. The thin grave stones would be broken or pushed over by rubbing deer or a bear gleaning the blackberries entwined between them.

a class 4 road over Bakersfield Mtn

  Finding the graded dirt road to the Bakersfield Mountain Road, we began the ascent gliding past old farmsteads until the trees were the only residents. The bike was running perfectly and the driver up front lived on such a road since he could walk. He had no worries navigating the patches of soft sand or clumps of loose gravel. The small boulders were just something to work around. He wriggled his heavy cruizer easily over the first several miles. Crossroads aren't marked on these wayback roads. Somehow, we zigged and zagged until our class 4 town road became a snowmachine trail and the shady lane followed a steady downhill grade. We were sort of lost. We knew approximately where we were, just not sure of our road to our target destination. The canopy was so dense, the sun could not cast a shadow to give us our direction. In the peaks and gulfs of the Cold Hollow spine, we had more choices than we wanted to find our way back to pavement. The goal was to go from Rte 108 Bakersfield over that mountain, by the old road emerging on Lappland Road in Waterville on the east side of that ridge. The old road was clearly indicated on the map. In the forest however, there were many old roads, and few old signs. At each junction, we would follow the better lane and hope for the best. The engine coughing for fuel, he switched her to reserve and we both prayed that would be enough to get us out and to a gas pump. I didn't snap a lot of pictures while divining our way through the woodlands as I was careful not to be in the wrong place while he coaxed his beloved bike through the wilderness. My weight in the second seat could be enough to throw his balance and drop the bike. I would focus instead on my random thoughts as I bet these trees had never seen so much chrome. We found some evidence of progress toward domestication and took a short break to stretch and steel ourselves for the possibilities. His bike weighs 668lbs. If we run out of gas or road, he would have to push it. Fingers crossed and a silent prayer, we remounted for the last leg. I grabbed a hurried picture of what I thought was a sign post, but it showed a a brilliant flash in the mirror over his throttle. Could it be our 'ride angel' keeping us on the right road? Probably, it was just a confused light meter with a reflection in the shiny square, but still it was fun to imagine we had a higher power along for the ride.

this is a county road?!

our Ride Angel? lead us out

 Finally, crossing a narrow, plank bridge the lane would normalize and open into a class 4 road. This would empty onto a paved road;  revealing  the shadow cast by the afternoon sun. We could turn right and head south on VT Rte 118, we had found Montgomery, an interesting buro in these timeless mountains. Some miles back, we lost the Bakersfield Mtn Road and picked up the much longer, less traveled Enosburg Mtn Road leading us 21 miles off course. It seemed like forty. Fuel and shade was spotted at TJ's where rest and recovery was taken.

fuel and creemes and startled tourists

a good place to rest

   Cooling off with creemes, we marveled at how determined our early homesteaders were. The terrain was demanding, ill-suited to farming, rough going for logging. The fortitude of the early Vermonters is newly appreciated as we recount the woodland miles over ancient roads traveled on his vintage Harley on a beautiful summer day. No tough bikers here, just motorcycling enthusiasts out for a ride. Enjoy the day and live your dreams ~ ell
this one is for the biker man that takes me places I would never venture, expanding my dreams