Sunday was hotter.
Monday was hotter than Sunday.
The local phone book listed a Laverda dealer, so I went to find them, to say "hello" and to see if they had an indicator stem to replace the one that had broken on the way dawn to Ithaca.
The heat struck up from the tarmac. Going slowly was uncomfortable. At 70 it was just HOT.
The dealer wasn't there of course. However there was a local BMW/Kawasaki/Cagiva dealer, so I gave them a try. To my amazement as I pulled onto the forecourt there was another Laverda, an RGS.
At this point I should perhaps clarify that the Laverda Owners Club in the USA has about 80 (yes, eighty) members, and here was one of them? Most bikers that I spoke to while I was there had never heard of Laverda, never mind Joe Public.
We chatted for a while, then he went on his way and I went inside. I was greeted by a row of Pasos, a 750 Fl and a 650 Elefant with a price ticket on it, $4795 knocked down to $4295. Work that out and weep into your beer.
Anyway, they were helpful but didn't have the part. I bought some "Epox-steel" adhesive which is still holding the stem together.
Tuesday night a barbecue was held in my honour. At 1.30 am, sitting in the garden in shorts & T-shirt, very pleasantly warm, beer in one hand, "Black Bush" in the other, I said to Norman "I could get used to this".
But all things must pass, and Wednesday was my scheduled
departure day. I had about 1,O0O miles to go, pretty well due West, to
be there Friday.
The heat of the day was well established, but I wore a heavyweight cotton (Dutch army) jacket over my T-shirt, and jeans. I was not prepared to take the risk that very many of the local bikers do of riding in T-shirt and shorts, frequently without gloves. Quite often without the T-shirt, even out on the interstates.
Wilmington is just outside the Pennsylvania border, and I quickly crossed the state line and picked up the turnpike heading west. I decided that I would ride until 8, when I would stop and find a motel, which is what I did. I was still in Pennsylvania.
At the motel I parked the Laverda next to a man putting his Yamaha Venture and trailer to bed for the night. Covers for the furry seat, then for the bike and the trailer. You may laugh, but with his wife on the back he was going to a Yamaha rally. In Arizona. About 2,500 miles. Each way.
They were gone by the time I got up the next day. It was 9.30 by the time I was back on the interstate, with a long day ahead.
The interstates are the main highways that criss cross the States. They are dual carriageways with a wide central division, usually without a barrier. Except around major cities there are only two lanes in each direction, but this is not a problem because, once away from the east coast states, traffic is light by British standards.
Part of my dream of motorcycling has long been the concept of "the trip", where there is a destination, but it exists really as only an excuse for the journey. The purpose of the journey is to travel, and to arrive is almost a disappointment. This is expressed in the phrase "white line fever", and is basis of all "road movies".
Out on the interstate you really came to know this, in a way which I suspect cannot be duplicated in Europe. Part of it comes from the speed: I was generally cruising at an indicated 70 - 75, always following a car setting pace for me. At that speed you are relaxed, not pumping adrenaline, and so the travelling rather than being something stressful is a relaxing, possibly almost meditative experience. This must be enhanced by the solitude imposed by biking. You are left alone with your own thoughts, much longer than is possible in most normal circumstances.
You just get into a routine of buying gas, getting back on the highway, watching the miles clock up, stopping for gas again. At one point I came out from a gas stop, picked up a tow and followed that car at the same speed at the same distance for 120 miles until I pulled in for gas again.
I had bought a Sony Walkman (with autoreverse, so it would keep playing) with headphones that I could wear under the helmet. I used it sometimes, yet I certainly did not need to. I almost resented that I had bought it because I felt placed under an obligation to use it.
I had wondered if having the opportunity to fulfil this dream would satisfy me, but it certainly has not. I am left wanting more.
Strangely this day was also the low point of the holiday. I was travelling away from my friends where I had had a wonderful time, being probably more relaxed than in a very long while. And now, as I travelled, I was not happy about the bike. It seemed to be vibrating badly, in a way that suggested something serious could be going to happen. When I pulled away from a gas stop at one time I thought I heard an ominous knocking. I was thinking that even if I made it to the rally I could not consider my long standing intention of heading all the way down to New Orleans. Instead I would probably head back to Toronto, taking it slowly off the interstates in order to see something of the country that I was very conscious of passing by, and maybe even see if I could get a ticket home a week earlier.
However I made to Peoria, Illinois and beaked into the Motel 6 at just after 8. In the eleven and a half hours since I started, because I had crossed a time zone, I had done just over 60Q miles. It felt like a good day's riding. In my room I looked at the map, where I had started that morning, where I had got to, and realised that I would have had to keep that up for another four days if I was going to the west coast. It is a big country.
Amazingly, which must have been thanks to the air seat I had fitted, I got back on the Mirage and headed into town, where I found Sully's Irish Bar and an excellent plate of ribs.
I only had about 150 miles left to do an
Friday, for which I left the interstate and followed back roads, part way
by the drought depleted Mississipi.