I finally got myself to check tire pressures, after 2,100mi of procrastination. You need to do it when the tires are cold, so before you start riding. This morning’s start was the second time that a gas station with air was right next to the motel that I was leaving. So, no more excuses:

This compressed air dispenser was dandy, in that it worked via wireless credit card touching. But here is the problem. See that the front wheel has disk brakes on both sides? Now check out where the valve is situated. Many doodads exist for opening car valves like mine for testing, and pressure adjustments. On this front wheel all of these options involve some degree of cutting your hand on the disk edge; either the left one, or the right one. Your choice. Symmetry here. Since mating the measurement attachment tool with the valve is so awkward, you are guaranteed to lose some air in the mating process. So, once you attempt the process, you are committed to making it work. Because if the tire pressure was correct to begin with, it’s not now. All the while you are on your knees, usually on cement.

After I have successfully ascertained that the original pressure was correct in both tires, and have then restored that correct state, I notice two guys looming over me as I kneel by my wheel.

“You leak’n air?”

And that is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

”Na. Just checking.”
”Yeah, that’s important!”
One to the other, pointing at my bike:
”That’s a K, 4-in-line”
Back to me:
”My buddy here put together an older K from scratch. Parts all over the floor. Painted it.
Like new.”

The guys each ride a Honda Goldwing. Both bikes weighing 900lb (a piece). The older of the two is without reverse. The interesting aspect of the two guys is that they are three. And that’s what gets between us.

One of their wives drives along in the couple’s car. She joins us shortly after our conversation has begun. And she is not happy. About something. I’m sure not going to ask. I am just so happy that I am not the husband.

The two walk away some distance, and begin processing. Women ask „why are men incapable of forming deep friendships?“ Well, here you have it.

And thus it is that I receive a thorough tour of the older Wing (2005) by the remainder of the threesome, who also knows to keep his mouth shut to her. On a screen (of the motorcycle) it tells you the tire pressure, average- or near-instantaneous speed, fuel consumption, ambient temperature, altitude. It‘s got a built-in compressor to adjust the tension of the suspension on the fly. It’s got the stereo with speakers.

But: It weighs 900lb.

And the buddy got a wife with him. Guess no trip is perfect.

When the buddy returns from his wife, he wordlessly mounts his bike, and it is clear that for them, leaving is an imperative, given the marital situation.

I am now so happy with my K12, which so far has given me no grief over 2,100mi.

Turn Around, or Not?

As I ride along, usually at 100km/hr, the landscape glides by. It doesn’t rush past me. But it does move. So, when I see something interesting, it is often already past once I decide on significance. To retrace my steps, I need to ascertain that I don’t have a double trailer tanker truck behind me, that the shoulder is navigable, and that opposing traffic will give me the chance to turn the bike in a usually very tight radius.

So, the sight needs to be worth it. This one was:

I’m sitting on my bike, on the shoulder, facing the direction of oncoming traffic. Still, safe. No worries. The bears continue foraging as soon as I turn off the engine. Turning it on has all three of them on alert.

Industrial Parks Are Different

I rode by a sign that announced an upcoming ‘Industrial Park’ on the left. I would have liked a photo of that sign, but here is one example where the retrace maneuver is not worth the risk. You know what Industrial Parks evoke in the Bay Area? Put that image in your mind, and compare:

Sampling of the landscape beyond industrial parks:

Santa Claus and His Sidekick

You might know that in Germany, Santa Claus has a sidekick called Knecht Ruprecht. The word ‘Knecht’ indicates a helper. Knecht Ruprecht helps Santa Claus in that if a child has misbehaved, and the parents rat on their offspring to Santa Claus, then the child will not receive sweets and a Ho-Ho-Ho. Instead, Santa Claus instructs Knecht Ruprecht first to beat the child with a bundle of birch branches, and then to stuff the child into a sack, never to return home.

It’s one of the sweet German traditions. Which I took as real for a considerable span of my early childhood. And which is why the early draft destination of my trip in British Columbia persistently morphed from Prince Rupert into Prince Ruprecht. Indeed, early in my trip I repeatedly searched Google for “Prince Ruprecht,” and for me, the search yields a page for the city of Prince Rupert.

So I suspect that I’m not the only German Google searcher with trauma around this name.

When I mentioned to my daughter the question of whether I should embark a ferry in that city, or head further North, she instantly recommended:

“You should go there. That’s where he took all those children. You‘ll find them all there.”

The name of that city is so ominous to me that I did decide on the Northern route.

Why the Wasps?

I repeatedly noticed during stops that the front of my bike instantly attracted wasps. Again, on today‘s ride, in a Tim Hortons parking lot (where I had my first IceCap of the trip), I noticed the wasp thing (center; you need to zoom in). Investigation revealed the reason:

A rather pretty, but dead butterfly. Don’t know the relevance. Just thought I‘d let you all know.

Frustration With Relative Geolocation

Yesterday‘s ride had me scoot over to the Pacific a bit, with only a moderate northward tilt. So I‘m now just a bit above the 54th parallel. As explained, I grew up on the 49th, which thus for me is the ‚Normal‘. Looking up where the 54th runs through Germany, I get the island of Sylt. I‘m still in Germany! Exotic North for me is Sweden. And after all this riding, I‘m just on Sylt. Emotionally, it makes no difference that I started on the 37th, on the Mediterranean island of Pantelleria, South of Palermo, Sicily.

I‘m still just as far North as Germany‘s Northern tip. Then again, it‘s Sylt, the image of which goes way back into my early puberty. I‘ve never been there. But it featured prominently in the tabloids at the grocery checkout counter. During the summer, it was known for nude sunbathing. Shocking! And I wanted to see so very, very, very urgently what was under the fat black-ink bar that publishers splashed over photos of women‘s breasts at the time. How I hated those censorial bars over Syltian paradise.

Now I‘m sort-of there on Sylt, 56 years later. While women‘s breasts are still wonderful to behold, I am now conscious of them being duplex starter homes for cancer cells. Maybe that change in knowledge is what expulsion from paradise is all about.

There is good news too, though. The image on the right below shows an original 1425 fresco of the expulsion. The version on the left was vandalized on the order of Cosimo de Medici 300 years after the freco‘s creation. Notice the then contemporary version of fat-ink black bars. Those f-ing fig leaves. The pleasure impediments were removed during a restoration in the 1980s.

Eve still insists on that uncomfortable looking arm posture. Drop the arm, girl, drop the arm!

Now, the way mores are developing, I worry the black bars are on their way back. But now I have carnal memories, and Photoshop to fall back on. I can restore anything.

Where was I? Right, Sylt and relative geolocation.

The Trouble With {Expedia | Booking | Hotels}.com

As I enter less densely populated areas, finding accommodations is getting trickier. Your experience.com and friends are always there at Google‘s top, no matter which of the little towns I enter as my destination. They then want my check-in and check-out dates, after which they offer me a hotel 100 miles away. Meanwhile, the small motels that are in fact available in many of the towns, are drowned out, or not savvy enough to create their own Web site.

I discussed this issue with my current motel‘s owner. She explained that contracts with Expedia, hotels.com, booking.com, etc. are just too expensive. Even the yellow pages, she said, are expensive to list on. They raise her nightly price by $20-$30.

Tomorrow, then, will be the longest day yet. I called one outfit in reasonable range, and he offered me a trailer without restroom. When I requested particulars, he explained that he was very busy, and wanted off the phone. So, Dease Lake it will be, on Route 37, and exactly on the Continental Divide. The reservation woman was really nice. But I‘ll need to get up early, and do an iron-butt day.

Also, looks like the ferry idea: Juneau to Bellingham, WA won‘t work. They are booked till September. I did consider that possibility, so am not all that disappointed. I absolutely did not wish to plan the whole trip such that I would have to be in Juneau on a certain day. It would have spoiled everything. 

One alternative is to ride into Anchorage, and ship the bike from there. I have requests for quotes out. We‘ll see. 

Guaranteed Salmon at Witset Canyon

The river below runs through a reservation. By government assurance each family in the community is guaranteed ten sockeye salmons. The fish arrive all at once. As it happened, that delivery day was when I rode through.

I watched one family fillet, right on the bridge, everyone gathered around a makeshift table. The shots of two photos show the identical procedure in the museum up the hill.

The fish are sometimes canned, or they are smoked. It is tradition that the inedible parts are poured back into the river to feed whatever is there. The black pickup holds a woman whom I  just watched pour the contents of this bucket over the bridge railing. 

When I asked whether I could take a photo of her second bucket she laughed. You want to make sure I‘m not disposing of a body?

„No, no, don‘t watch me pour. Look somewhere else!“