ROCKY MOUNTAIN WAY (or piking out at Pike's)

Well I've been busy again. Not busy blogging, admittedly. I'm way behind in that department, but busy nevertheless. You know, riding and stuff. I dragged myself away from Santa Fe somewhat reluctantly and headed northwards to Taos. A trendy mountain town of more artists and craftspersons, and now a lot of rubberneckers. Dennis Hopper once had a house here I believe. I stopped for lunch, then decided it was too busy, and headed up the road to Colorado Springs. Time to rendezvous with Kaz and share the road for the next three weeks. I dodged another bullet, weatherwise. I no sooner checked in to a budget motel in the meth district when the heavens opened and the city was lashed with a furious hailstorm.

Fortunately the motel had something rare in a place so otherwise crappy......undercover parking. The stormwater drains backed up and flooded the car park but the bike and its owner stayed as dry as a pommy's towel. Interesting suburb though. Lots of dilapidated motels, (and much uglier than those in Tucumcari) but the real highlight was the walk to the bottle shop down the street. Just outside this particular establishment was derro's corner. I was a little edgy and expected trouble (eg abuse, robbery, knifing, etc) everytime I walked past. I had to visit the local laundromat to do a giant load of washing. I mean even riding clothes lose their lemony freshness after a few months. Even some of the hobos were in there doing their washing. At first I recoiled from the concept of sharing laundry facilities with life's malodorous unfortunates and neer-do-wells, but they fled in panic when I opened my laundry bag. After that, I had real street cred and nobody bothered me at all.

First item on the agenda now that we were going 2up was repacking. It took us a couple of attempts to get it right and set the bike up for it, but once we got to that stage it was all good. And having ESA helps a lot. Second item was attacking Pike's Peak. We could see it from the motel, alternately covered by cloud then clearing enticingly. Rumour around the manor was that it had been snowing up there. There was a narrow window of opportunity with all the flukey weather, so time was of the essence. Off we went, then took a wrong turn due to some confusion between the GPS and some roadworks detour signs and got thoroughly lost. Valuable time was wasted in locating the correct road, and when we finally got to the gate, we were told that the top of the ascent was closed due to snow. Bugger it. But we headed up anyway, expecting to find a barrier or gate at some point. The ascent was a bit tricky, and quite technical. Not to mention unnerving, with steep hairpins, no armco, and oncoming traffic. There were no signs saying closed, so we just kept climbing. The road became wet and slippery, and near the peak, heavy clouds were rolling in and we could feel the temperature dropping. Finally, within sight of our goal, and confronted by a very steep 180 deg right handed hairpin, I blinked. Very good chance of dropping the bike on that one! Kaz got off, I made a careful 3 point turn, and we decided to head back down. Oh well, too bad. People have turned back within metres of the summit of Everest. But it was a great ride, and one hell of a view from up there. As for racing up there, well, they're just nuts!!

THERE'S A NEW MEXICO ??

Yes, there is, and we'll get there shortly. But first, I must admit to being quite concerned about riding across the plains, mainly because of the potential for being hammered to pieces yet again by the weather. I went through Oklahoma City on the Interstates, then made it as far as Hinton, about 40 miles west of Oklahoma City, before I got sick of  being beaten up by the trucks, and being buffeted by the strengthening late afternoon winds. The overnight weather report indicated thunderstorm activity coming in from the west, right through the area I was aiming at. So I decided an early start was the way to go. I was on the road at 7 am, (hey, that's early for me these days) with the intention of getting as far west as I possibly could before the weather turned nasty. That meant the I-40 and cruise control set on 120kph indefinitely. At one stage, all I could see in any direction were wind turbines, and you know where they put those! Push on with all haste. This took me into that narrow rectangular bit at the top of Texas, through Amarillo and on to Tucumcari, New Mexico, where blue sky suggested the tactic had paid off. Here is some of the vibe from one of the small towns.

Getting a little distance, man. Getting a little distance. Thanks for the memories guys.

Close enough.

Tucumcari is Route 66 Central. Big crowds of Harley riders, lots of dilapidated motels and gas stations and other buildings. In most places this would be a sad by-product of progress. Here, its the whole point, or so it seems to me. Decay has become a mantra, and Route 66 is now famous for just being famous. Like Paris Hilton! There is no inherent value here as far as I can see. But whatever floats your boat.

Enchantment. And Chillies. And Bullet Holes. Welcome to New Mexico. Although the locals will tell you it ain't new and it ain't Mexico.

It's like Havana along Main St. Lots of the motels have old clunkers like this parked out the front.

Yeah, right! When he was a baby.

Got the idea? Right then. Route 66. Tick.

Now that I had blue sky, I decided to head south on some very minor roads. I had noticed a small note on the map pertaining to the grave of Billy the Kid, at Fort Sumner. Righto, why not. More wind turbines, and hardly any other traffic, and quite good roads too. On the way, I was actually rewarded with the sight of a road runner, as it ran across in front of me. Meep meep. And speaking of dilapidated, this really is a ghost town. Not much is left in Taiban, NM.

Meanwhile, just outside Fort Sumner, in a small cemetery lies one William Bonney, aka Billy the Kid.

 Apparently, the headstone kept getting pinched, so now the whole lot has been caged up.

Again, not much of a reason for being famous, is it? Like Ned Kelly. Just another crim. And who knows if he's really down there anyway? But it got me there, didn't it? Not much to see, but least it was free. So onwards to the State Capital of La Villa Real de la Santa Fe de San Francisco de Asis. That's Santa Fe to most people. Fortunately.

Santa Fe is really different. In fact its called the City Different. For a start its 406 years old. I enjoy the fact that while the British and French were squabbling over the East coast, (well before it became a seabord) the Spanish had already conquered most of South and Central America and Mexico, and were already well established in this part of the country. And it shows.

Particularly in relation to the buildings. There are strict controls on development here, including height limits. Buildings have to conform to strict standards, with little scope for variation. As a result, there is no discernible downtown area because there is no high rise construction to divulge its whereabouts. Most dwellings look the same and are of uniform colour. This in itself has social implications, as there is no possibility for wealthy people to outdo their neighbours by building McMansions. And there is no forest of advertising signage that blights the landscape of just about every other city or town in the entire country either. Some could argue that its bland and boring as a result. A lifeless, beige town run by dictatorial bureaucrats. Possibly. But being a bit of a contrarian, I like the place because its different. And if you don't go for that, then go somewhere else. You have plenty of choices.

There is also quite a different vibe here, a laid back and relaxed feel. Lots of galleries, restaurants, nature trails, all drawing on the Spanish, Indian  and the old West heritage. Very refreshing, I thought. There is more to life than rows of fast food joints, motels and gas stations stretching to infinity.

MOVING RIGHT ALONG.

It was good to finally reach Steve and Vicci's place in Hendersonville. I had been looking forward to a return visit since 2012, although the recent circumstances have taken the shine off just about everything. At least I got a chance to reflect, and catch my breath a bit, and to just chill out with friends and enjoy this beautiful part of the country and some of what it has to offer.  As well as kicking around some ideas for seeing other good bits of the US. Oh, and drinking all Steve's Bushmills. (He helped). We noticed at this point that the front tyre had developed an unusual wear pattern, so I took the bike in to a BMW dealership in Asheville. The diagnosis was that the tyre had been underinflated, although I ran the pressure recommended. With a bit more air in the tyre, I decided to monitor what happened during the long run across the plains to New Mexico, and deal with it then. So reluctantly, I saddled up again, bid farewell to my wonderful hosts, and headed for Georgia, where I had planned to catch up with Bobby and Kim, the couple I met in Big Fork, Montana earlier in this voyage.

The ride started out nicely, and I followed US64 most of the way. A good bike road, with nice scenery. I noticed a lot of people doing some white water rafting along a particularly attractive river valley on the way through. I have since learned this was an Olympic venue during the Atlanta games of 96. However, the weather finally turned on me. I thought it might have been a passing shower, so didn't bother to suit up, because it was still oppressively hot and humid. So I got wet, then it really started to bucket down. I stopped and put the wet gear on, but it was too late. By the time I hit my destination of Tunnel Hill, I felt like a drowned rat, but it was still hot! I was probably just as wet inside the suit due to the humidity as I might have been without it! And I had a bit of trouble locating their house. The GPS just would not cooperate. I think this area must be like the Bermuda Triangle. But I eventually stumbled into their driveway, thanks to a phone call and not my GPS. I recovered immediately when I saw where Bobby keeps his beer. He has a fridge, which contains a full size 18 gallon keg. What a setup! Pity I couldn't have stayed a bit longer.

I reluctantly headed for Harrison, Arkansas, where the plan was to check out the Ozarks and the reputedly good bike riding in the region. Bobby directed me southwards via Huntsville, Alabama, and scenic it was. Until I noticed a very dark sky in the direction I was heading. I thought about chickening out and finding a motel, but didn't think I'd covered enough distance at that point. Anyway, no guts, no glory! It would have been a wise move, as it happened. Just as I entered a causeway and bridge across a large lake on the approach to Decatur, Alabama, mother nature unleashed a furious assault. Day turned to night, literally, as my GPS went into night mode, and I was blasted by sheets of torrential rain propelled horizontally at me with hurricane like force. Visibility was down to about 15 metres, and I actually thought I was going to get blown into the railings or into oncoming traffic. The sound of thunder and the flash of lightning when its literally right on top of you is something I would not care to repeat. I felt genuine fear, but had no option but to push on, and I managed to make a right turn at the end of the bridge and looked for somewhere, anywhere to stop. Meanwhile, there was so much water on the road, I had my feet knocked off the pegs by the bow wave I was creating. I felt sure I would drop the bike, or get shunted from behind. I cannot recall seeing such a downpour, possibly only a torrential monsoon dump in Malacca (which I witnessed from the comfort of a bar). I found a gas station and hid under the canopy until the worst of it was over. Here is what the back end of the storm looked like, some 20 minutes after I emerged.

Having been scared witless, and gotten a good soaking, I had by then had quite enough, but as it had now cleared, I pushed on in an attempt to perhaps dry out to some degree. I got as far as Corinth (AL, not Greece), found a motel and started to dry my gear properly. Even my maps were soaked.

The following morning, it was raining steadily again, with dark sky in all directions. Great, here we go again, three days in a row! I decided to go straight through Memphis, keeping to the Interstates. Even then it was demanding, its a big, spread out city, with a lot of merging traffic. Watch out for black guys driving dilapidated wrecks with bits hanging off. They just don't care! I had several near misses, and was bloody glad to finally get across the Mississippi into the relative safety of Arkansas.

The countryside changed almost immediately, I think it is safe to say. From forested hills to flat but productive looking cropping country. Legumes in this area, and I even saw rice crops in flooded, low lying paddocks. Hope its sustainable and that the farmers aren't just after a quick buck. Judging by the amount of rain dumped on me, I'll give it a cautious nod of approval, for now. I also got a reminder about some of the other weather related hazards around here.

Welcome to Tornado Alley, the vast swathe of country between the Appalachians and the Rockies. Where anything can happen weatherwise and frequently does. I continue to be amazed at the complexity and the ferocity of the weather in this country.

Here's a couple of places that rival Concrete, Washington for the most unflattering town name in the country.

Welcome to Oil Trough, Arkansas.

Or maybe Flippin, Arkansas. The possibilities with this name are endless! And best of all, there really is a town called Dogpatch, for those who can remember the Lil Abner cartoon strip. Its on the AR7, just south of Harrison. To use an expression that gets right up my nose, OMG.

I noticed this sign on the way into Harrison.

Get the picture? Well, how about this next one. Hmmmm.

It didn't take me too long to realise I stood out like you know whats in the Ozarks. I wasn't driving a pickup truck with a Confederate flag on it, I wasn't riding a Harley without a helmet and any protective clothing, I wasn't a member of the NRA, and I still had all my teeth. But I did kinda talk funny.

And it doesn't take too much imagination to see where the design for State flag came from.

Today I actually went through some towns that didn't have a McDonalds. Yes, amazing but true. Those poor deprived people. Mind you, often that created some space for the second tier junk food providers like Sonic to get a toehold. But nevertheless, the riding was indeed pleasant, the countryside scenic, and the weather was kind to me. Interesting motel I stayed in too. When I checked in, I noted that the manager was Indian. As in Ghandi, not Geronimo. No surprises there, people from the subcontinent are well represented in the motel and gas station industries. After completing the formalities, he asked me where I was from. Then he added unnecessarily "I am from India" with a slight head wobble. I thought "No kidding, Gunga Din". It was all I could do to keep a straight face. Over the next day or two, we had several wide ranging conversations about cricket, the Commonwealth, Indian food, doing business in the US, good ole boys, Islamic nut jobs, etc. He was an intelligent and articulate man, and I really enjoyed our conversations. I think he did too. But I felt that life might be difficult for him in this neck of the woods.

And as for some of the other guests, hoo boy. I was checking my tyre pressures when a guy wandered up and started chatting. I have no problem with that, I enjoy it and it happens a lot. But this guy was one of those people that asks a question only as a prelude to telling you his entire life story,  in excruciating detail, of course. He was a long term resident of this particular establishment. And of course he knew all about tyres, and motorcycles, and travelling, and everything else. A regular encyclopedia. Turns out this guy was a direct descendant of somebody who came to America on the Mayflower. So he said. Right about then, I decided I had to make an urgent phone call. Later that afternoon, I overheard the same bloke telling another hapless guest that he was related to Custer. Maybe he was all those things, but I made damn sure the door was locked that night. All part of the experience of being a fly on the wall of life, readers.

The following morning, I headed west yet again, bidding farewell to the rolling green hills of the Ozarks, and into Oklahoma for the first time. My goal was somewhere near Oklahoma City, and my route followed the backroads as much as possible, after I got through Tulsa on US412 that is. While humming the old Gene Pitney song, followed by Eric Clapton's Tulsa Time, then back to Gene again. There's a song for every occasion! This route put me on part of the old Route 66 between Tulsa and Oklahoma City. Let me assure you it was quite unintentional. I was just trying to avoid the I-40, but there it was in all its glory.

What's the big attraction with dilapidated motels and gas stations? Can somebody tell me? Please??

THEN WHAT HAPPENED ?

There has obviously been a lengthy delay in posting since I was in Minnesota. As many of you will be aware, I had to return home for family reasons. Thanks to the many friends who offered their assistance and support through this difficult period. A very tough week for all concerned. Right now, I scarcely know where to start. I don't feel too much like continuing on this trip at all really, but the bike is here and the clock is ticking, so I will make the best of it.

From Minnesota, I crossed into Canada at Grand Portage and followed the very scenic road around the edge of Lake Superior, stopping overnight at Nipigon and Sault St. Marie. The latter being where I experienced one of the crappiest looking motels I've ever seen. Amazingly enough, the room wasn't bad, and the desk guy was very helpful. Then followed a long, relatively boring run through Sudbury and North Bay, and on to Ottawa. I was feeling a bit under the pump at this stage, doing a lot of miles and not much else. While I had a few days in Ottawa, I revised my plans and decided to cut out going to Nova Scotia, and heading for Maine instead.

Just before I hit Montreal, I stopped for fuel, taking almost a whole tankful. Immediately after this, the bike started coughing and spluttering, and worse still, cutting out at low speed. I was convinced I had ingested a load of dirty fuel. My run through Montreal was truly memorable, for all the wrong reasons. I thought I would be stuck on the freeway system of a city where people spoke only French, or worse, drop the bike in bumper to bumper traffic. Anyway, I made it through to Sherbrooke, where I was able to find a small motorcycle dealership who got me sorted. A piece of rubber tube covering an attachment point for a vacuum gauge used during servicing had come off, and the engine was sucking in extra air. I thought this may have not been reattached properly after the service I had in Sturgis, but what can you do? I know I didn't take the bloody thing off. Anyway, these multilingual lads made up a workable gizmo which solved the immediate problem, and off I went.

After an unusual interaction with the US border guards at a remote border post, I re-entered the US. I don't know what these guys were thinking, but I got the third degree. Maybe they were usually bored out of their skulls, maybe they thought I was scoping for Al Qaeda, whatever! I was there a good half hour while they pressed buttons on their computer. Lesson learned. Shut up and just answer the questions. Five minutes later as I headed south, I came up over a slight rise, to be presented with the rear end of a deer standing in the middle of the road. It certainly didn't see me, not from that position, and I had visions of plunging my helmet straight where the sun don't shine, before I jammed on the brakes and stopped. Explain that to the insurance company. Even then, it just stood there till I beeped several times, before finally ambling off the road. Its probably on the front of a truck by now.

I headed to Bangor, where I stayed a few days while arrangements were made to go home. Thanks to the indefatigable Steve Linden and the BMWOA handbook, I was able to leave the bike with Dave and Janice Warner in Yarmouth, just outside Portland, Maine, until my return. They are an awesome couple, and I am indebted to them for their unconditional hospitality and support. After recuperating from a tortuous 51 hour epic return journey, I decided to take a week to mosey down to the Linden residence in Hendersonville, North Carolina. I decided to avoid the congested east coast, or eastern seaboard as they are fond of saying over here. And I notice we are now copy-catting that expression in Australia. Why doesn't anyone have a western seaboard? Or a southern seaboard? What happened to the word "coast", is it past its use by date??  But I digress.

So I headed straight across Maine to New Hampshire, and rode the Kancamagus Highway through the White Mountains, (thanks for the tip, Dave) then went across to Vermont, overnighting in Burlington. Up and across Lake Champlain by ferry, and into New York the next day, followed by a great ride down through the scenic Adirondack Mountains, on into Pennsylvania to Harrisburg. I spent two days here, visiting the National Civil War Museum. I found this to be both interesting and very moving, as was the battlefield at nearby Gettysburg. Will we ever learn to resolve our differences without blowing each other to bits? No? OK, just asking.

By this stage, the traffic was building up to levels where it was demanding to both ride and to navigate, so I searched for the roads less travelled. They are few and far between in this part of the country. So I made my way down through Maryland, into Virginia, and then into West Virginia. The latter being a new experience for me. I was advised that West Virginia has the lowest level of income per capita in the whole country. I don't know if that's true or not, but by the time I left I was prepared to believe it. Despite the beautiful scenery I saw, I also noted a lot of busted ass towns, run down houses, untidy overgrown farms, derelict factories and rednecks. A prominent Senate election poster I kept seeing said "Tired of Being 50th?" Kind of a self fulfilling prophecy, I thought. Strangely, I saw no black people the whole time I was there. Being part of an impoverished, downtrodden, disheartened underclass is a white man's job around them thar parts.

Even the gas stations look neat and tidy in Maine. Possibly because they don't look like gas stations! Well, this one doesn't anyhow.

Lake Champlain. That's some lake.

Exquisite architecture of rural Pennsylvania.

Yee Har.

Well that bit looks OK. Most of it looks OK.

I didn't say a thing. Anyway, different State.

                                   Lake Lure, NC

                                 Mural in Hendersonville, NC

                                Main Street, Hendersonville

Checking out craft beer establishments with Steve and Vicci Linden. They're all good !

HIGHWAY 61 REVISITED

Unfortunately the rain limited my opportunity to do much sightseeing in Duluth. I was restricted mainly to housekeeping duties. But a weird thing happened anyway. The previously mentioned restaurant offering coronary occlusions on the dessert menu had a young Aussie guy working there as a waiter. He was an extroverted fellow with a loud voice, who clearly enjoyed his work. At the first available opportunity I buttonholed the guy and had a chat. It just struck me as an odd place to find an Aussie, its kind of an off the beaten track place. Anyway, I asked him how come people could understand him, when I had to say everything three times before anyone could understand me. He did say he has a lot of trouble when he uses the words "water" and "butter", but he looked like he was managing ok to me. More on that later.

So I left Duluth and headed north on my journey up around the top half - no, make that two thirds - of Lake Superior. The Minnesota and Ontario coastlines. On the US side, the Lake is bordered by Wisconsin and Michigan as well, that's how big it is. On the way out, I followed Minnesota Route 61 which runs right on the edge of the lake all the way up to the Canadian border. It soon became apparent that the hoi polloi of Duluth reside on the edge of the lake. The gated waterfront mansions with huge blocks and huge but perfectly manicured gardens were something pretty spectacular. So too was the fact that out on the lake, I could see full size ships. The lakes are simply freshwater oceans, such is their size.

Then I began to think. "Highway 61 Revisited" is the title of an album by one Robert Allen Zimmerman, better known to the world as Bob Dylan. In fact the album opens with the classic "Like a Rolling Stone", which was yours truly's first encounter with the great man. All six minutes of it, and voted greatest song of all time by Rolling Stone magazine in 2004. Cool. Even though I didn't think it was that good. The album cover features a very young Bob wearing a white t-shirt with the Triumph logo on it. Doubly cool! Then I remembered, he was born in Minnesota. Not only that, but in Duluth! I wondered whether Bob had ever ridden his Trumpy along the same lakeshore, along the very same Highway 61? Undoubtedly, was my conclusion. I can't prove it, but just the thought of it gave me a huge buzz which kept me going for the rest of the day. If he did, he would surely have enjoyed it, just as I was doing. I believe he had a Tiger 100, which  he stacked up badly while paying his motorcycling dues. He's no orphan there.

Two full days of riding to cover about 66% of the shoreline of just one of the five Great Lakes. The scenery was quite spectacular and one never knows when to stop and grab a picture, but the vistas just kept on coming, and photos don't really do it justice. So I didn't take many photos. What did surprise me was that as soon as I crossed back into Canada, the speed limit dropped to 90kph. I could see no reason for this as the road itself was good for 120 if not more in most places. However, there is a lot of truck traffic on it, and in fact its one of only two routes the trucks can take in these parts if they are driving across country. However, I did see one accident where a car ran off the road and was "saved" by the cheese cutters, those tensioned steel cables that form a guardrail. Made a big mess of the side of the car too. It happened about a minute in front of me. Sometime before that incident, I had seen the police heading in the opposite direction, followed by an ambulance and a lunchtime chat with some fellow bikers revealed that a pickup truck had rolled, in fact the same pickup that I had spent the morning alternately passing and then being repassed by. One of those guys that just can't make up his mind. And it particularly annoyed me because I had cruise control set most of the day. Hard to imagine either accident happening if the drivers had their mind on the job. That doesn't mean it should have been a 90kph limit though, but that's the way lawmakers think, sadly.

An overnight stop in Sault Saint Marie, which looked a bit of a dump to me, had me heading further east on Canada 17 towards Sudbury and North Bay. The traffic volume increased considerably, but still only one lane in either direction, although there were a lot of passing lanes included in the mix, and that frustrating 90 kph limit.  However, the inescapable conclusion is that Canada needs to invest in better roads, at least in this part of the country. On the way into Ottawa, finally, some decent roads. A freeway with dual carriageway and a 100 kph speed limit. I'll take it!

Along one stretch of Canada 17, something really weirded me out. On the shoulder of the road, I noticed thin parallel lines in the gravel surface. Further along, I noticed three horse drawn carriages in single file, again without paying it much attention. Then I copped a look into the rear carriage. There was a lady in a black dress, wearing an old fashioned black bonnet on her head, a guy with a broad brimmed hat, and lots of kids. Sure enough, it was a bunch of Amish people, probably on their way to or from church I figured, seeing it was a Sunday. I say Amish in the generic sense, because I think there are a few such sects. It just looked so very strange, especially with all the traffic on the road, that here are some very different people. That really got me thinking.

I have often thought that life used to be simpler, even in my own lifetime, and pined for it to some extent occasionally. Usually when I am bamboozled with technology, which is to say, almost all the time. But to pretend its still 1860 takes real commitment! And where do you draw the line? Do you use electricity? Do you use a telephone? Do you do every single thing the hard way? What do you do when you are sick? What do you teach your kids? And how do you stop kids from wanting all the stuff everybody else has? Beats me! But then I thought, if you live in a first world country, you are in fact free to choose whatever you want. Even if it is weird in my view. Or in anybody else's. To paraphrase Voltaire, "I disapprove of what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it". That's what freedom is all about, isn't it? Tell that to ISIS. I still think they're a bunch of whackos though. The Amish I mean. No, make that both. But at least the Amish mind their own business. However, the same moral principle should also apply to ISIS, I guess. Hmmm. I seem to have painted myself into a bit of a corner, philosophically speaking. Looks like there is still a place for bigotry after all. That is a relief.

 So Highway 61 revisited, and 1861 revisited. All in the space of a day or two. Weird or what??

MINNESOTA

This is a first. I've never been to Minnesota before. The land of ten thousand lakes is what it says on the numberplates. I have heard this descriptor before though. I recalled that up in Alaska, they dismiss the whole notion as fanciful. You see, up there they reckon you'd see 10,000 lakes in the first couple of hours after crossing the border. And they may be right. I'd certainly hate to count them all. Meanwhile, the countryside changed from rolling hills and grasssland about halfway across South Dakota. Gradually I noticed much more cultivation, and by the time I got to Watertown near the eastern border, it was all highly productive wheatfields and cornfields and other crops. Certainly not much space goes to waste around these parts. So onwards into Minnesota.

I decided to take roads less travelled, as is my inclination, as there was really no direct route to Duluth, where I was headed, on the western tip of Lake Superior, making it the westernmost point of all the Great Lakes. There are roads going in all directions around here to provide farm access and connect numerous small towns, but it was very blustery, and having to stop and unfold the map every 15-20 minutes was becoming a pain. So I just punched Duluth into the GPS from a long way out and let it do the work. Of course, it wanted to go on the Interstates, which I noticed were becoming increasingly heavily trafficked compared to those out on the the Plains. Then I remembered why I don't like riding on them, as I was constantly beaten up by the trucks. Its also fairly easy to pick up on the fact that the State is heavily populated by people with Scandinavian links. And their pro Football team is not called the Minnesota Vikings for nothing.

When I stopped at St Cloud for a bite to eat, something occurred to me. At the servo where I stopped, I noticed a person of African-American heritage, and shorty afterwards, a whole lot more. The last time I had seen a similar hued person was in Seattle. Two weeks ago and half the country away! This is purely an observation, but I would like to know if that's just a coincidence? Anyway, about an hour from Duluth the skies really darkened ominously, so I stopped and put the wet weather gear on. Not a moment too soon either. The heavens opened and bombarded me all the way into Duluth. Did that slow any of the traffic down? Not on your life. Another good reason to stay off the Interstates. A lot of this State seemed pretty flat to me, and the thought occurred that if this keeps up, those ten thousand lakes will all just merge into one great big lake and make Lake Superior a bit bigger. I found out later that parts of the State had been hit severely over the last 24 hours, to the point where the Interstates were flooded in at least two places. A look at the Weather Channel in the motel really freaked me out. All kinds of meteorological mayhem had been wrought on various parts of the country and it wasn't over yet. Parts where I intended to go, and in some cases, very soon. Like tomorrow. Out came the maps again, and I began putting together a Plan B, and resigning myself to my fate.

Ok, I cannot let this go unrecorded! I just had tea in an establishment right next to my motel. On the dessert menu was- wait for it--Bacon Sundae!! Three strips of cherrywood smoked bacon on top of two scoops of ice cream, according to the description. I didn't order it. I couldn't bring myself up to the required level  of desperation, but when I polish off my remaining Jack Daniels, I might just go back there. This is of course no more than I have come to expect over here. All kinds of weird and wonderful combinations of stuff concocted in the never ending search for the next taste sensation, that elusive, world beating flavour. The side effect being to pack the absolute maximum amount of saturated fat, salt and sugar and of course, calories, into every mouthful. Like a burger made with a croissant instead of a bun, which Burger King make. Like bacon and cheese stuffed pizza crust. Like crushed Oreo cookies turning up in fudge and ice cream and maybe even beer, for all I know. Even at Subway you can supersize your choice by doubling up on the meat component for a small premium. Even for a regular sandwich they can pack twice as much stuff into a bread roll than is usual in Australia without having to resort to using a hydraulic press to close it and wrap it. Are we being ripped off at home? The smallest drink container available anywhere is about the size of a 44 gallon drum and if you like popcorn, be prepared to deal with an industrial skip full of the stuff. Then, if you are really hungry.........this is the place for you. If they ever introduce eating as an Olympic sport, nobody else would stand a chance. But the Turkey Jerky isn't bad though. While I'm on the subject, in Spearfish I introduced my hosts Brad & Lynn to Australia's black gold, you know, Vegemite. Brad didn't think it was too bad, kind of meaty he said. Lynn couldn't handle it at all, and the look on her face was priceless! In retaliation, she made me some grits. Of course I'd heard of this southern staple, but never had the opportunity to try it. Its grey and has a texture like lumpy glue, I thought, and actually pretty bland. Just the kind of thing you'd go for if half your teeth were missing. It was not unlike polenta, but the flavour comes from all the stuff you stir in, like salt, cheese, pepper and whatever else. I mean it might actually be healthy before it's doctored to make it palatable. Personally, I though it could have done with some Vegemite in it. And as for polenta, I used to use the stuff to make burley. Dampen it then add a dash of curry powder to it, squeeze a handful of it onto a spring sinker and the Easter mullet at Brown's Beach would commit mass suicide on your hooks. True story.

THE BLACK HILLS OF SOUTH DAKOTA

On my previous visit to this part of the country, I checked out Custer State Park and had my first encounter with the very large and cantankerous bison, aka buffalo. These animals look twice as big when one is sitting on a motorcycle as opposed to sitting in a car. So I felt no need to risk a second visit. Instead I decided to stay in Spearfish, a small town 17 miles west of Sturgis. The latter needs no introduction to most motorcyclists. The annual Black Hills Rally has been happening here in August for 75 years and they normally get an attendance of about 4-500,000 people. I imagine the place is a zoo, so I had planned to avoid it. However, preparations are gearing up, and people are starting to trickle in. I took the bike into Sturgis this am for a service, basically a $200 oil change, at the BMW dealership. Yes, there is a BM dealer in Harley Town! Already there are humungous tents going up, like the one at the Ulysses AGM, but a lot more of them, and I even saw a replica wild west town under construction. The Sheriff is going to have his work cut out in this town.

There are numerous destinations convenient to Spearfish, such as Spearfish Canyon, the towns of Deadwood and Lead, Mt Rushmore, and the so called Badlands a little further east. All with pretty good bike roads connecting them, so a good base for a few interesting days.

                               Two shots taken in Spearfish Canyon.

I also made a day trip to the Badlands. I understand the area got its name not from being the hideout of outlaws and bandits, but because of its unsuitability for farming and /or traversing by wagon trains. The kind of geological formation throughout this very large region looks to me like eroded soft sedimentary rock such as mudstone or sandstone. It reminded me very much of the formations visible right on the coast of Adelaide, specifically at Hallett Cove Conservation Park and from Moana through to Maslin Beach. These would be familiar to any student who ever took Geology at the University of Adelaide. Old Dr. Alf. Kleeman has been taking students on field trips to these sites ever since the Mesozoic Era. Old Alf must be getting on a bit these days.

Quite a remarkable place. Another remarkable place very near here is the National Historic Site housing a display relating to the Cold War. How so? This region of the US was dotted with underground Minuteman missile silos, all aimed at the Soviet Union, and one silo and its control room has been preserved, (minus the nuclear warhead). A chilling prospect to contemplate really. Don't worry, they still have quite a few left. Just in case. I did mention to some people that this potential nuclear armageddon and the ruination of planet Earth was in some small way facilitated by a kow-towing Australian Government, (and I think in this case, a little kow -towing is probably a good idea) courtesy of several US bases on Australian soil, such as Pine Gap, Narrungar and North West Cape. They looked at me as if I was bonkers, and parents started gathering up their children. There's no telling some people, especially if all they want are hats, t-shirts and coffee mugs emblazoned with slogans like "making the world safe" or "preserving peace", and to know where the nearest ice cream shop is.

While in Spearfish I visited a most interesting gallery, operated by Dick Termes. This guy is a freaking genius, and I don't use the term lightly. His speciality is perspective. Remember those brain twisters by M.C.Escher, with staircases going up and down at the same time, and all that stuff?  Well, this guy does similar stuff, but on the surface of spheres. They are called Termespheres and they are mind blowing, both in terms of the concept itself, and in its execution. The complexity of some pieces only becomes apparent when the spheres rotate. He has been doing it since the sixties, and while its tempting to say you could do it on a computer (a 4 year old could probably do it on his mobile phone), his work is all done the hard way. Using psychotropic drugs (no, I'm joking). His gallery is awesome. I actually purchased a piece, and will have it mailed home before I leave. The guy could probably understand the Theory of Relativity. Really.

And to wrap up, on my way out of the Black Hills, heading across South Dakota towards Minnesota, I went through a fly speck on the map called Faith. So what? Well check this out.

You would not have wanted to be around this place 65 million years ago. The most complete skeleton of T-Rex ever found, in fact all of it, was unearthed right here. It's now on display in Chicago. All poor old Faith got out of it was this lame sign. Oh well, them's the breaks. Dr Kleeman could probably tell you first hand what T-Rex smelled like.

On my way across the vast rolling prairies of The Great Plains, probably the heart and soul of America, I observed some of the extremes that nature can dish out. I nearly got blown off the road by vicious side winds, I saw endless grassy plains and tried to imagine immense herds of buffalo grazing on them, prosperous looking farms, large lakes, hunting lodges, grotty looking Indian Reservations and habitats, small towns like Faith where I stopped for coffee and a chat with friendly people, and vacant property such as the farmhouse below where it had all gone wrong.

Oh, and I crossed the Missouri River, and bloody nearly got blown right into it.

An interesting week all round sofar. Shortly I head into Minnesota, then back into Canada for a look at the northern shore of Lake Superior in Ontario. Catch you then.