Mr. Smooth

In addition to all the great artwork from this era on record albums and the concert promotion posters and other assorted memorabilia, what I can't believe is the actual ticket prices for these great singers and groups when playing a show. I can't fathom seeing these acts at the top of their game for what was a $3 or $4 dollar admission. While in the Army, I had a roommate in the barracks who had a Led Zeppelin poster in his wall locker from their '77 tour at Market Square Arena in Indianapolis, Indiana. At the bottom of the poster it listed the ticket prices for the show at $6, $7 and $8 dollars. Nowadays, aside from having to take out a loan to afford a ticket if the three remaining members ever reunited with Jason Bonham on drums, the price of just parking your vehicle at the venue would probably be $40-50 dollars at least. Great thread Cal Eden!

Hmm....a long wish list for sure. 1950s......Audrey Hepburn 1960s.....Raquel Welch 1970s.....Olivia Newton-John 1980s....Iman 1990s....Julia Roberts 2000s.....Halle Berry 2010s....Penelope Cruz 2020s....Alicia Keys

I'm looking at doing another road trip next spring, this time into the Southwest, Texas, the Gulf and Southeast. I have an old retired friend from the post office who lives in Knoxville, Tenn. Yeah, have heard all about the Smokies and Blue Ridge Pkwy. I hope to check out the scenery while I'm back there.

Do you remember Vic's Beer Bar, on Beach Rd, maybe about the area between Soi 3 and 4, or 4 and 5? It was a double shop house wide place, had seating at tables just outside so you could enjoy the breeze coming ashore and watch the old dudes walking the beach side holding hands with a girl that could be their granddaughter. Was my intro to Pattaya about '94, '95. Miss many of those beach road beer bars, must have been about 100, including the many multiple clusters of them in one area, from the Soi 1-2 area, down to the WS entrance.

Starting out with a 4 night stay at a beach resort in Diani Beach on the South Coast, below Mombasa. Then up to Mtwapa north of Mombasa, for the final 14 nights. Tons of pubs along the main road and side roads, dirt alleys, etc. Just heard from a pub owner this morning as as of midnight, she was still open and serving for the first time since March 2020, and confirmed the other pubs along her road are open and doing business. It should make for a huge weekend when the Nairobians arrive for a weekend to blow off some steam. After all they have suffered, it is a long time coming. I sincerely hope for the same result for Pattaya when bars are allowed to reopen. The gov't restrictions with this virus have hurt the economic well being of the working class and working poor the most, not the government elites, whatever the country. I'll be more than happy to contribute my share to their economic goodwill once I arrive.

I woke up this morning to wonderful news. My friend who lives on the Kenya coast sent a whatsapp message to me while I was sleeping and when I saw it, it made my day. Kenya had discontinued the curfew that had been in place for months, going back to spring of 2020. A bit later, another American living there sent me a text that the curfew was over and he was sitting at one of my favorite pubs over there having a drink at approximately 10:30 pm. During the last 6 months or so, bars were all mandated to close by 9 pm, and 7 pm in certain counties. They must have known I'm arriving over there late next week and I don't even hit my stride until 10! I'll drink to that!

"Ladies and gentlemen" is an expression of courtesy. Has been that way for customers partaking in the hospitality industry for generations, especially when being welcomed aboard a flight. Nothing whatsoever "sexist" in nature about it. Just a further example of the corporate woke culture hoping to not be a future target of the perpetually offended class. Wonder if Emirates or Qatar will follow suit?

I watched this twice....brilliant movie. Frances McDormand is the equal to Streep in American cinema. Won her 3rd Best Actress Oscar for this role. I rode some of the roads in this movie and I can confirm from my recent travels this summer, that a whole bunch of Americans of all ages, not just retirees, are leaving behind the city and suburban living for a life on the road and staying in various RV parks and campsites. Numerous YT vids about that type of lifestyle. As a single guy, I've even thought about it. That Class C you posted previous is exactly what would suit me just fine. Live in that and travel for 6 months a year and Thailand, the Caribbean or wherever, the other 6.

The ride through Colorado and into the Rocky Mountains took me to Monarch Pass, over 11,000 feet. I enjoyed clear blue skies on the eastern side of the range on the way up but once crossing over the summit and into the western side, the smoke from the still burning fires a thousand miles further west, was still visible as a thin layer of smoke would settle in the lower laying valleys between the peaks and as was the case a few weeks before in Yellowstone, obscure the brilliant blue sky to something more of a light blueish and tan haze. As California has suffered a drought for the past few years, so it looks like Colorado has too. The reservoirs had wide rings of dirt that traced the shorelines and with temperatures rising to the mid- 90's in the high desert scrub west of Gunnison on my way to Grand Junction, I could see that our friends in Colorado were just as in need of heavy snows and rainfall this winter as we are in California. We can both only hope. I spent the night in Grand Junction and then US 50 joined up for a couple hundred miles with I-70 into Central Utah. There was some marvelous canyon country that I passed through in the eastern half of Utah, before it turned into an unforgiving desert with services few and far between in the western half. Better have a full tank before embarking on the barren stretch of 50 once departing from the interstate and heading into the no man's land leading toward Nevada. I stopped briefly at the rest area at the Nevada-Utah border to take a break. It was made up of a general store that included a small diner, bar, gift shop and casino. Outside and to the right were several spots for RVers to park and camp. With nothing resembling civilization in either direction for about 70 miles, this oasis welcomed virtually every traveler who happened by from either direction. Pity the motorist who might have engine trouble and breaks down in such desolate country as it might be quite sometime before help arrives. About 70 miles west was Ely, Nevada, a place so far off the beaten path, I once read that it was the most remote town in America. Geographically, it was just about a 4 hour drive in three separate directions.... Salt Lake City to the northeast, Reno to the west and Las Vegas due south. And to drive the point home, you would be reminded by a road sign stating that Highway 50 is the Loneliest Highway in America. I took a room, or "cell" as it was called, at the Jail House Motel. Ely had a population of between 4-5,000 people, but during the summer, the numbers increased with RVs stopping at a couple of the nearby parks just outside of town for an overnight stay or a month. I walked over to the Hotel Nevada, the largest casino in town, and had dinner along with a few drinks before meandering down the main street to seek out my entertainment elsewhere. The Club Rio was to be it. A fair amount of folks lined the bar and were seated at the tables. Not sure what was going on this night, but a number of butch looking women were there, most quite hefty, tattooed, short hair or buzz cuts, manly in their body language. I was half expecting to see wads of tobacco juice go splat on the floor. Maybe it was Dike Thursday or something. All the men basically stayed among themselves. And I couldn't blame them. Guys from the highway department working on the roads if they were lucky, a few who might have worked at one of the remaining local mines still in operation, and one or two getting off work from some service industry job. They all knew each other, maybe grew up and went to school together. An out of towner in their midst might be the cause for a bit of curiosity, and so it was with me between the bartender and a couple of locals. Who was this guy? What are you doing here? In Ely? When I told them I was retired and on my way back home from taking a month to travel cross country, I saw the look in their eyes, one familiar with those who live in a small town, with dreams and desires that could never be fulfilled where they were. Guys in their late 20's or early 30's, where high school might have been the zenith of their existence before the realities of life eventually would deflate those dreams. Then it was getting hired on with the county or working construction seasonally. Marrying the high school sweetheart or whatever bar skank gave them a decent blowjob after a Friday night of drinking and figured, what the hell, this is too good to let go of and decides to keep her around. Then a couple years later, it's the kid, or kids, the living paycheck to paycheck, and of lack of opportunity to make for a better life. Which would lead to these guys drinking Bud Light at the only game in town at 10 pm on a Thursday, knowing that this would probably be as good as it ever got. The idea of ever traveling to some far off exotic location as I have to a place like Thailand, or a Caribbean island, or walking the beaches of the East African Riviera, as the Kenya coast is known, was so foreign to these guys, I might as well have been telling them about going to the moon. I paid up and made a move. I recall from many years before when I rode my Harley through Ely and stopped for the night, there was a cat house not too far away from the motel I was at. Maybe just a 2-3 block distance west. I decided to retrace my steps from over a decade before. And sure enough, a couple blocks back up the main road, I turned to look up the street to my right, and that vaguely familiar entrance caught my eye. It was dark all around but the beer signs were lit as was the name of the brothel, the Stardust Ranch, as it illuminated the entrance out front in a bath of neon. Just maybe I could enjoy a late night quickie before turning in for the night. I mean, I had nearly 8,000 miles of driving behind me and no opportunity had made itself available to me for any stress relief. I was hopeful as I approached and just as I was about to reach up to push the buzzer to be let in by a bartender or somebody, I saw a sign letting me or any other prospective customer know, the joint was closed. What had once been a 24 hour operation had become victim of the Covid regulations of Nevada, at least at this brothel. I suppose for the hopeful client, a joke can be inserted here about "working from home" and be "self-accommodating" in such circumstances, but upon seeing the sign, I just took that as a sign to call it a night and return to my "cell" and finish the final 445 miles home the next day. And so I would. The loneliest highway provided a final last look of the wide open west, where a body could be buried and forgotten about. I would see a herd of wild horses in the distance off the side of the road, as much of Nevada is BLM land....no, not THAT BLM....rather the true nomenclature those letters have stood for since about 1946, the Bureau of Land Management, and it's where mustangs and other free range horses are able to roam and graze, a faint reminder that in some far off quarters, the west still retains a little bit of "wild" in it's spirit. The fires in California had led to a closure of US 50 in California and I would be prevented from completing the trip all the way back to Sacramento. So, when I came to Fernley, Nevada, I bid adieu to what had been about a 2700 hundred mile jaunt across the middle of the country on the same road and finished it out with a final 150 mile sprint home on the interstate. The trip was over. It was close enough.

There is a highway sign near the exit where I went to work for nearly 30 years. It's on the eastbound side of I-80 just before 80 and Business 80 split in West Sacramento, a couple miles before crossing the bridge into Sacramento. This is also the point where US 50 starts if heading east. A few of my bm's who live in Northern California could be familiar with it if on their way to Lake Tahoe or Reno for a weekend getaway. It shows Ocean City, Maryland 3,088 miles away. Ocean City is on the Atlantic Ocean, and the eastern most point where US 50 ends. And for 30 years I had wondered what it would be like to drive that highway across the country. Well, on my trip coming home, I would wonder no more. Two blocks from my hotel in DC, after checking out I made a right on Constitution Ave, which was US 50, and I stayed on that black top for the next 6 days going to California. The weekend morning traffic was light and as I escaped from the DC suburbs, the Virginia countryside, full of ranches, horse farms and wineries, opened up to me. The colonial architecture was prevalent in the towns as post offices, court houses and other assorted government buildings proudly showed off their refurbished exteriors that harked back a couple of hundred years. The Appalachians appeared and with it, Virginia, with only a small stretch of extreme Western Maryland to intervene, gave way to West Virginia and the twisty turns of the road that guided me through. I passed by several small mountain towns, but all with their own, quaint character. In one town, a Baptist church stood, it's coned steeple a beacon rising higher than any other building in town. And directly across from it, not more than a 50 foot walk away, was a guns and ammo shop. Apparently a guy had his choice....he could enter one building to pray for and love his neighbor or he could enter the other one and purchase a Winchester and shoot the bastard! West Virginia, almost heaven, but maybe not always! I was surprised at the beauty of the gently rolling hills of Eastern Ohio, to include seeing a few Amish folks in their regalia. I spent the night in Ohio, mentally exhausted from the drive, the constant looking ahead on the road for oncoming traffic since there were so many blind turns through the hills. Once west of Appalachia, I knew the sharp curves would straighten out as the land became flatter, and into Southern Indiana and Illinois on the next days drive it did, allowing for me to make some time. Nothing especially memorable happened, nor did I see much to take pictures of. Once in Missouri, a lovely state, I ran into the only rainfall I would have on the ride back. The skies changed in rapid fashion and in what had been a hot, humid and sun drenched afternoon, was quickly swallowed up by a passing front that made it's presence felt and the dark clouds blotted out the sun and blue sky. Kansas was as flat and boring as could be, one of only a couple occasions where I actually felt myself starting to doze while behind the wheel. At a gas stop in Dodge City, Ks I did something I seldom do and bought a couple of those awful tasting 5 hour energy drinks. I figured to make it into Colorado, I might need a little extra horsepower to keep me alert. In this part of the country, there is not much to see and with such little visual stimulation to help you enjoy the ride, it really becomes a test of one's endurance as to how far they want to go. I had my sights set on Lamar, Colorado, roughly 30 miles beyond the Kansas state line. After the previous two days, that had taken me from a small town near the Illinois and Indiana border to Eastern Colorado, I knew the least interesting part of the drive was behind me and with the Rockies, the canyonlands of Utah and the Great Basin of Nevada left to go, the last 1200 miles would at least afford me the chance to see some rugged and unforgiving country. And a last night on the road in what is considered the most remote town in the Continental US on the Loneliest Road in America......Ely, Nevada. I was now headed for the home stretch.

An early start whisked me south on the interstate, one of just two days on the entire trip where the drive consisted of only keeping to the interstate. Back through southern Maine, New Hampshire, Massachusetts, Connecticut, New York, the eastern stretch of Pennsylvania that cut right through the Poconos, a small section of Maryland and finally Virginia, where I headed southeast when the sign pointed out the way to Washington DC. I arrived at the Hotel Harrington, two blocks off Constitution Ave, and recommended by a friend of mine I was meeting there for drinks and being retired with nothing but time on his hands until his return to Kenya in September, he would show me around the next day to some of the glorious monuments and memorials I had only seen in newspapers, magazines, movies or tv shows. Unbeknownst to me, it turns out the Hotel Harrington was the so-called "headquarters" for the rabble rousers that everyone saw at the Capitol on that infamous January 6th afternoon, where our democracy was "under siege", as the media pundits had gravely described it. It left me wondering if my 6th floor room had been occupied 8 months earlier by no less than the furry hat wearing guy with the Viking horns protruding out. Perhaps this room was a small historical footnote and no less than I, would dare to lay my head on the pillows of the queen sized bed for the next two nights, sleeping peacefully with no grandiose plan to become an obstruction to democracy, western civilization or forming a one man protest against light beer. Rather, I had set my sights on involving myself with a much more short term and achievable quest, that of invading the bar next door to my hotel, one that claimed it was the last remaining working class bar in downtown DC. The one and only Harrys Bar. I can only imagine at one time the movers and shakers of the federal government grabbing a stool and doing some serious horse trading, the kind that never takes place on the floors of the Senate or House. Much like my fellow bm's, who sit at a particular bar in Pattaya, order up drinks left and right, and as day turns to night, solve the problems of the world one beer at a time. Harrys looked like such a place. After checking in, showering and slipping into a fresh set of clothes, my friend Frank, a New Yorker born and raised, but a DC resident for the last 40 years, let it be known he was 10 minutes away on the Metro and would meet me at Harrys shortly. What followed was a night of revelry, being introduced to several of the locals...black, white, Asian....a nice ethnic mix. And when the female bartender came on, the party kicked into gear. She was Thai, about mid to late 40s, was a favorite of the locals, the friendly banter past back and forth with ease, and often referring to them by their first names. When she approached me asking if I wanted a refill on my pint, I said sure, then casually tossed out a, "Sawasdee krap? Suay mak mak." She immediately turned around and with a big smile asked, "You've been to Thailand, haven't you?". I said about 26 times since 1994, and without even asking, she blurted out, "Pattaya'. I nodded in the affirmative with a smile and that quickly, I had made a new friend. Closing time came much too early that night. The next day, Frank came by Harrys about noon (it was a fairly late night after all) and we took a walk to the Washington Monument, and the enormity of it's size was just overwhelming seeing it in person. We walked along, a slow pace to not pass up anything as well as it being near 90 degrees and humid, as expected for mid-August. We walked to the WWI monument, saw the statues, read the solemn words in dedication and I wondered now over a century later, how man's inhumanity to man could ever take place with the result being so much death and destruction. A question asked by every generation without any good answer. Not far away, we happened upon the WWII memorial and the even greater monument to those lost in battle on two fronts, read yet more powerful words describing the sacrifices made, the terrible toll it took, the roughly half million American lives lost, and being reminded of the even greater price other countries paid in lives lost in defeating tyranny. We walked along the Mall, the water colored green from the algae, and made our way to one of two memorials I had most wanted to see, the Lincoln Memorial. Climbing those familiar steps I had only known through entertainment or news footage, where Martin Luther King Jr had made perhaps his greatest speech, the "I have a dream" speech from 1963, it was an awe inspiring sight to behold. And once up the steps, walking into the Lincoln Memorial, it gave off the feeling of entering hallowed ground. Off to the sides, engraved on the one wall was his inauguration speech from 1865 and on the other was his Gettysburg Address. I stood still reading the words as Lincoln had written them, on the way to that epic battlefield, a mere 272 words. His speech that day when he delivered it only lasted two minutes and yet, in the view of many historical scholars, it ranks as the finest oratory an American President has ever delivered. The eloquence of Lincoln, the heartfelt meaning of those words wasn't just meant for those people living at the time, but also for those generations of Americans yet to be born. That he was assassinated two years later only elevated him into the pantheon of America's greatest Presidents, arguably it's greatest, we ever had. And a reminder of how truly far we have fallen in the quality of character of those who hold that office in this day and age, regardless of political party. The leaders of today, in the 21st century, at best, are men and women for their time. With Abraham Lincoln, he is a man for the ages. The other monument I most wanted to see, was the Vietnam Memorial. We approached it with reverence, and Frank, a decade older than myself, knew of a few men he served with who's names were engraved into the black granite walls. It took a stronger man than myself to complete that walk along the wall, seeing all those thousands of names of those who never came home, and not get misty eyed at the sacrifice they made and for whom are forever memorialized here for all who come to see. I found myself tilting my sunglasses back on my head to wipe my eyes before continuing on. The day was like a history book come to life. It was a day for showing respect, honor and appreciation for so many who had come before me, who's destiny would lead them to make the ultimate, brave sacrifice for a cause greater than themselves. And in doing so, would never have the chance to grow up and grow old. It is here, on ground that I don't think one would be out of line to describe as sacred, that these engraved names belong to the ages as well. It was a fitting ending to my visit to the east coast of America. The westward push back across the country for home would begin the following morning.

The ride from the Boston suburbs up to the Mid-Maine coastal town where my old tanker buddy called home with his wife was roughly 3 hours more or less. I had to have gone through about 6 toll plazas on I-95 up through Portland, a real nuisance, as it was a toll road and New Hampshire accounted for two of them in the distance between the Massachusetts and Maine border, which couldn't be more than 20 miles. Together, they ate up every bit of a $10 dollar bill I had placed in the cup holder for just such an annoyance. I met Todd, who had spent 30 years working in Boston but had moved up to Maine a couple years ago to continue working, making a decent salary, but instead of fighting the rat race anymore, he was among the quaint populace of the coast where he commuted barely 10 minutes from his house to the office. Only on summer weekends would he have to make eye contact with the Bostonian crowd when coming up for the weekend and filling the small seaside pubs as well as the eateries and shacks where lobster was the chief menu item and cooked in a variety of ways. I had to say that the years since we both were 20 the last time we had seen each other, had treated us both fairly well, including our waistlines. Where we once bounced out of the our company quarters and had our 0600 formation for morning PT, which included a daily 2 mile run, we now lived a slightly more leisurely existence, and neither one of us could be trusted to slowly jog further than the end of his road, about 100 yards down past his front lawn. I'm sure most bm's who read this have seen the Tom Hanks classic movie, "Forrest Gump". Todd took me to see a light house that was in the movie. It was during the part where Gump had grown his hair long and with a shaggy beard, ran back and forth across America. We were told that a film crew had showed up, set up their equipment and filmed the scene, it wasn't very long in the movie, maybe 10 seconds, when Gump runs east to the end where the light house is then turns back to run west the other way. Now here's the kicker that I didn't know, and probably most people didn't either. That wasn't Tom Hanks running in that scene! It was his BROTHER! Seems his brother looks like him enough but is three inches taller. It's his brother that we are watching in that scene under all that long hair and beard. They were filming the Vietnam scenes with Gump in the military and sporting his buzz cut simultaneously with the running scenes. That way Hanks, the star, could keep his hair short while Hanks, the brother, grew his out to fill in. A bit of movie trivia courtesy of a boat captain who told us the story while taking a group of us out on a ride into one of the inlets, regaling us with a history of the area, while also narrating the job of the two deckhands on board when pulling up a few lobster traps that on this day, yielded, alas.....no lobsters! But a good time was had by all. After the boat ride, Todd took me to a small shack that was popular with lobster lovers, both locals and out of towners. I saw license plates from about 8 different states, mostly from the Northeast but one was from.....California. I wasn't alone! I ordered a lobster roll with clam chowder and a blueberry flavored soda produced in Maine. The roll was toasted and was packed with so much lobster meat, you couldn't close the bread. Much like a well stocked Philly cheesesteak. A small plastic cup of melted butter to pour over the lobster came with it. When it arrived at our table, I snapped off the picture here and then proceeded to dive right in. It was nothing short of lobster nirvana! With one bite into this feast, I could see why the line was a consistent 30-35 people deep waiting to place their order. Just sensational and even though the $25 USD price tag was on the high side, no complaints from me. It was worth every cent. On the second night, Todd took me to a local spot and we ordered up a fried mixed grill of fish, clams, oysters and shrimp along with the normal 2-3 pints. Just a couple of long time buds catching up and taking stock of the journey each of our lives had taken after our service days had ended all those years before. The next morning bright and early we said goodbye and promised each other we won't wait another 35 years before getting together again. Then he got in his car and drove off to work and I got in my truck and had one more stop to make on the east coast before heading west. All my life I had yet to see the place. It was from this city where so much of my ire and disgust had come. So much of my confusion and distaste. It was a city where truth was often illusive and lying was a way of life in getting things done. It was where you placed the blame of all that was wrong with the country, pretty much a national pastime. I left the coastal calm in Maine for the eventual traffic madness of the I-95 interstate corridor south and the densely populated metropolis over 500 miles away where I would spend a couple of nights taking it all in for the very first time in my life. Mr. Smooth was going to Washington.

Thanks Lemon, but I still have the drive back. A little more "prose" to come with pics. But thanks for the nice words, appreciate it.

I had another old mate and fellow overseas traveler who lived in Boston, and he had recommended a place to stay in Saugus, Mass, a suburb of Boston, and where he would pick me up and take me to his favorite seaside restaurant, the Anchor Pub and Grille, just off the harbor. It was here where I got my first glance at the Atlantic Ocean. I had finally made it to the other side of America! Dave works for Verizon and plans to retire in 2022 and move to the Philippines with Thailand as a back up plan. He's a die hard New England Patriots fan and I'm a passionate Raiders fan, so we good naturedly poked fun at each other about the "Tuck rule" playoff game from 2001, that pretty much launched the Patriot dynasty in the NFL and made Tom Brady a house hold name in American sports. The food was nothing short of fantastic. I opened up with an appetizer of clam chowder of course, and then the fried haddock with rice and squash. And with that was a few pints of local brew to complete the feast. Dave told me he goes there once a week for dinner and drinks and pretty much all the staff and many of the regulars know him, and he introduced me to everybody that came by while we were there. One of the last working class bar and grills in the area, as he told me that many spots along the harbor and in both north and south along the coast, were tourist traps with the overpriced offerings from their menus. Being up in the northeast, with the seafood available, I was in heaven. And the next day I would be making my way up the coast to Maine and have my fill of locally caught lobster. And I would be meeting up with an old Army buddy, a guy I had served with as an M-1 Abrams tank crewman while stationed in Schweinfurt, West Germany, and who I hadn't seen in 36 years, since he had got orders for Ft. Hood, Texas back in 1985. I was having the time of my life, being able to have the chance to see and reconnect with as many friends as I could, reminisce about the old days, ask how life had treated each other these last many years, talk of both our life's triumphs and disappointments, and our respective hopes for the future. I realized I was doing something that so many never get a chance to do. To see again people who at one time in your life, meant something to you, maybe had shared in some memorable times, and to know that we were still on this side of the dirt, that it wasn't too late to let them know how much they meant to you. I think that understanding, in the end, was the ultimate reward I received for venturing out beyond my own comfort zone. We all have friends who are no longer with us and wish we could see them again. And maybe regrets that we didn't when we had a chance. I wasn't getting any younger and figured now would be an ideal time to make such a journey. One more day further along, going practically as far from California as I could in the Lower 48, on up the rocky mid-coast of Maine to the small town of Thomaston, to spend a couple days hanging out and drinking beer with an old tanker before the inevitable westward return for home. The summertime New England weather could not have been better, the salt air of the Atlantic cleansed the soul, the fresh seafood satisfied the belly and the ride along US 1 was about as scenic as could be. I almost wished the road would have extended out to Nova Scotia and up to Newfoundland. I felt like I could have just kept going east. The unyielding allure of the open road can have that effect on a fellow.

If you need to make compromises due to your health or age, I would certainly do it. Take whatever time you think you might need, a couple weeks, a few.....whatever works, and make a plan to see those places you want. You won't regret it, believe me.

My drive took me along the shores of each Great Lake. When I first laid eyes on Superior, I couldn't help but start humming the melody to that haunting, classic Gordon Lightfoot tune, "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald", which told the story of the sinking of that freighter in Lake Superior in 1975. I once read that Lake Superior is so massive, so deep, that you could actually pour the combined cubic feet of water from all the other Great Lakes into Superior and not fill it up. An inland ocean for sure

I next crossed the Mackinac Bridge that connected Upper and Lower Michigan, and where Lakes Michigan and Huron meet. I made a beeline for the greater Detroit area and a visit with my Aunt and Uncle I hadn't seen in over twenty years. He's 75 now and doesn't get around very well anymore, thanks to disk damage in his lower back from an accident years ago. My aunt basically is his caregiver and not wanting to overstay my welcome, after about a 3 and a half hour visit that included a terrific dinner she made, I said goodbye and spent the night in Pontiac, Mich outside of Detroit. My travels would then bring me south into Toledo, Ohio, then up to Cleveland and along the shores of Lake Erie toward Buffalo, NY. It was a bit disheartening to see so many "Help Wanted" signs in businesses all over the place. Restaurants, hotels, bars, even factories, were all advertising that they were hiring. From small handmade notices up to billboards on the side of the highway, jobs were out there and plentiful and had I been in the market for a job, I'm convinced that after a 5 minute talk with an owner or manager of a business and a handshake, I could have been hired right then and there at any of a hundred different employers. When I asked why there was a staffing shortage, the person would tell me that between what the state and federal government benefits added up to, employers couldn't match it, so a hotel manager might shut down a third of their rooms since they didn't have the staffing to accommodate them all. I had a chance to visit an old friend who I hadn't seen in nearly 10 years when we were going from bar to bar in the Dominican Republic and flirting with the chicas, drinking plenty of Presidente beer, and passing the day on Sosua Beach. These days, Ron was enjoying life in Rochester, NY with a home right where his backyard backed on the the beach of Lake Ontario. It was great visiting again and catching up and he promised he would jump on a plane and head down the next time I'd be in the DR. He surprised me with a 12 pack bottle of Presidente from his garage, as that beer is imported to several eastern states. In Albany, the capital of New York, a Hooters was located a 5 minute walk away from my hotel and knew where my destination was for the night. The bartender, a gorgeous blonde, took very good care of me (no...not THAT way...) never going too long without filling my mug up with a fresh pint. I ordered the wings and an appetizer of buffalo shrimp. But mostly I kept an eye on the bartender as she ran the place with a professional demeanor but also with a nearly constant and engaging smile when talking to a customer. My bill came to about $40 USD and I included a $20 for a tip. Fantastic service and "scenery"! What followed the next day was a drive through some of the most beautiful and scenic country I have ever seen. Upstate New York through the Hudson River Valley going east of Albany and toward the corner where Massachusetts and Vermont meet up was absolutely gorgeous. I saw more motorcyclists enjoying the twisting roads through the wooded and mountainous terrain in this region of the country than anywhere else besides Sturgis. I stopped at a small roadside market just inside Vermont that carried only stock made and manufactured in Vermont. I left with a gift package of maple flavored rum, one bottle light and one dark rum. I also loaded up on gift sized jugs of genuine Vermont maple syrup to give to family and friends when I returned home. I bought a bigger one for my own use and since getting back home, all I can say is that I'll never buy that fake Log Cabin or Mrs Buttersworth crap ever again! The Vermont stuff is the best I've ever had. I always knew I made tasty pancakes at home but now with the real thing to pour over them, they are even better on a Sunday morning.

After three days in Sturgis, the time came to head out and into the vast midwest plains. South Dakota and northeast into North Dakota, a man can really lose himself among the farm fields, ranch lands and endless prairie. When a road sign says "No services next 60 miles", you better hope you don't break down, but with my still very new ride, I wasn't worried. I just cranked my Sirius XM and jammed to some 70's, 80's and classic rock tunes to pass the time behind the wheel. Out here, the traffic is few and far between. I thought to myself that if the FBI had wanted to place someone into their witness protection progrm, then anyone of a hundred of these small towns spread out among the plains would do just fine. Once past North Dakota and into Minnesota, the country turned green with pine trees thick as thieves as the highway looked to be a clear cut through the North Country wilderness. And though I had no place to stop and take a photo along the highway, I drove over the Mississippi River where it was no more wide than the distance from home plate to the pitchers mound. The headwaters were to the south of where I was going but I was determined to reach the Duluth area before sundown and to see where the Mighty Mississippi began would have meant a 60 miles drive out of the way. It turned out to be a wise move as the rain came within 20 miles of Duluth and it wound up being after 9 pm before finding a room at the third place I tried. The following day, I entered the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, and drove through the most intense rain storm I ever witnessed. My wiper blades were on high speed for nearly 100 miles, with only an occasional, and very brief, respite, but talk about a sportsmans paradise for hunting, fishing, skiing, snowmobiling, camping and hiking. I would eventually make my way to Manistique, small town of maybe 2000 people, along the shores of Lake Michigan and found a motel a block away from a bar and grill that the manager had recommended to me. A very tasty fried walleye dinner and several pints of a locally brewed hefeweizen beer later, I was back in my room, worn out from the drive but quite satisfied. The skies opened up again and the rhythm of the rain pounding the rooftop of the motel had me asleep in no time.

LOL....I've worn Crocs for over a decade and they are the most comfortable "Jesus shoes" I've ever owned. As far as the rest, those humid low 90's daytime temps called for comfort over fashion. Besides, no need to get all dressed up to drink beer at a campground! But thanks for the sartorial critique! 🤣

My next stop was in Sturgis, South Dakota for the annual Motorcycle Rally. My best friend and his wife live in SD, and had reserved a campsite at the Glencoe campground just north of Sturgis. When I got there, they were all set up and their toy hauler RV would be my home for the next three nights. It was very livable inside, a large bathroom and shower, a sofa that unfolded into a bed where I slept, and there was a bedroom up front with a queen sized bed. There was a nice kitchen so his wife could whip up some tasty meals but we grilled on the bbq in the evening as the weather was perfect. There were thousands of campers, and bikes trailered in, three large bars, one of which was open 24/7. The actual town of Sturgis has a population of just under 7,000, but for the 13 days of the rally, in talking to several of the people working in the bars and restaurants as servers, they were estimating between 800,000 and 1.1 million people would show up. Covid had tempered the celebration in 2020 but this year, it was no holds barred. Though some people wore masks, the overwhelming majority, like 98-99%, showed their faces, no matter how ugly! Being among this massive crowd I fully realized that I wasn't in California anymore and people were living life and having a great time. That last photo, from up on a bluff at the campsite, was just a perfect moment. Sunset over the Black Hills with the echoes of Harley thunder off in the distance. It was one of those times where you wished to be no place else than where you were at that moment.

Coming out of Yellowstone and heading east toward Cody, Wyoming. Some ruggedly beautiful mountain scenery that the road negotiated with numerous switchbacks and drastic changes of elevation. Once over the Bighorn Range, that would be it for any high elevation travel until the return back home through Colorado. And with the descent into the plains, the engine, finally getting the first couple of thousand miles on the odometer, began to break in and the mileage was actually better than what was advertised on the window sticker when I bought it. It had stated 25 mpg on the highway, but at a 65 mph clip on these 2 lane roads, I was getting upwards of 27. And with gas prices at least a dollar cheaper per gallon than in California, I wasn't complaining a bit.

As a matter of fact I did. I walked out along that bridge to the middle to take a couple of pics and as I was, a saw a couple people with parachutes strapped on and making their way over the railing. And then......whoosh......over the side they went. I saw their majestic fall to earth, chutes open, landing with ease on the shore of the south side of the river. As I leaned against the railing, the tractor trailers passing by not 12 feet behind me at 50-60 mph, caused such a strong vibration that it got me to quickly retreat to solid ground. I would say it must be about a 500 foot drop to the river. Not for the faint of heart.

Driving deeper into the park, I came upon the Yellowstone River, an absolute beauty that had me wishing I had a fishing pole with me to go after some of the lunker trout that were certain to be sitting in the deeper pools. The water was so clear, a gorgeous blue/green color that I couldn't take my eyes off of. If only for those smoky skies, the scenery could not have been better.

After a night in West Yellowstone, Montana, I drove the road through the West entrance and as beautiful as the park is, the smoky skies muted much of it due to the wildfires from Northern California and Oregon. The atmospheric winds blew the smoke eastward across the Rockies and over the Great Plains which left the sky with a bluish brown hue that would not dissipate until I would reach the eastern half of Minnesota toward Duluth, on the shores of Lake Superior. The Madison River accompanied my journey through the first part of the park. As it was summer, bumper to bumper traffic of RV's, camper vans, SUV's and pickups hauling 5th wheelers slowed progress as I got closer to Old Faithful and the many geysers in the surrounding area. I didn't have the patience to wait in the middle of the maddening crowd.