The day is so good, and the first leg, Valparaiso Indiana to Chicago, is a no-brainer.  Why (since what you've read, I can barely make it down the driveway)?  Well, I have commuted 54 miles each way to the Loop, on the bike on the good days, winter and summer, and in a car on all the rest.  But the territory beyond Chicago is rapidly improving.

I90 brings up Wisconsin and I94 real quick, if you're not paying  attention.  Since I am not really in traveling shape, my butt starts to hurt after a while.  I stay on the interstates, so my amateur duffel bag roping effort hangs together.  I walk around at the gas stops, and figure I have to get used to it sometime.  I have the stock seat on the little bike, and envy some of the better outfitted bikers who even have air cushions!

It is great to actually be doing it again.  The last time my body  remembers a trip like this was in 1967/68 when I lived on a Sportster for a year in Europe, but that’s another story.  The weather  has been great all day; hot, clear, and when I get out of the cities, the  traffic is friendly and fast moving.

Now Wisconsin falls into Minnesota.  For some reason they put Minneapolis right in the way, and I have to concentrate on the so-called bypass so as not to get lost. They say first few hundred miles is the worst, but the weather is holding, and for some reason the traffic is just really       moving.  I use the old trick of having some fearless soul pass me every five minutes or so.  They blast ahead and, in my behalf, clear the highway of all speeding tickets even if they have to collect them personally.  Thanks to all of you.

I cruise all the way to Fargo, ND before I start looking for some place to sleep.  That’s just under 700 miles, and my eyes are tired.  Riding west into the sunset looks good in the closing scenes of a cowboy movie, but for the rider, it means looking at the glare.

I find a big rest area and it looks just right.  By just right,  I mean there are lots of lights and people so I won’t get mugged, and sidewalks up to the picnic tables. The best is where they have windbreaks and roofs for the tables where you are out of sight from the general parking.  What I do is park by the curb like a normal person and use the restroom and then pull the bike up by a table.  I can eat and walk and stretch.

It was really hitting hard.  I jumped up, gathered my sleeping bag and started down the hill.  Before I could get back to the bike, everything was soaked.  To make it worse, I had left the duffel bag out too, by the bush just at the drip line from the roof.  It was leaning against the front tire as you see it.  The contents were so wet the water was running out where it had soaked through.  Somebody remind me, did I just screw up mightily TWICE   on the first day?  I must confess, I used some bad words.

It was about two in the morning.  I had tried to sleep in the  wet bag, up on the picnic table, but just kept getting colder and colder.  I was  slowly but surely loosing core temperature. The old biker just gave  up, got up and walked around to try to warm up, and finally just broke camp.       

As I drove next morning, my bones began freezing. I just kept getting colder and colder and was shivering uncontrollably. I only made it a few hundred miles, and had to get into a motel in White River. I warmed up in the hot shower, but still had to put damp clothes on after that. I took my stuff to a laundromat, just to dry it off since I hadn’t even worn most of it. The sleeping bag was still heavy with water, I put it through four cycles of the big industrial dryer at the end, and finally went to sleep. Nice way to spend my birthday .

I continued next day to the Harley dealer in Regina, and on the 24th of June I bought a rain suit. That was an expensive item, but from then on I cared little for rain and even the cold weather was easier to take. Since today is my wedding anniversary , I guess that is my anniversary present. I’m such a romantic. The suit cuts the wind and keeps me dry, but it makes me look just a little bulky. I bet you can't wait for those pictures. I have to figure out how to do digital special effects.

Now starts the really boring part of the trip. Every thing from Winnipeg to Edmonton is just prairie. Flat, farms and folksy is OK for making time, as long as you daydream. I swear it was fun riding, but my daily journal makes for dull and tedious reading, and there are no pictures worth the 69 cents to put on a Kodak CD. The travel guides tell you to do the Yellowhead  Highway across Canada, and I did except the one detour to Regina above. The roads are well marked, the drivers are courteous, and my attitude is just where I want it to be.  Not to disorient you, but we have just traversed from Chicago to Edmonton on this page alone, and that puts us about as far West as Idaho, and way the heck farther North... .  Trust me, your pace in reading this will not be that rapid in the coming dialogue.  I'm just not creative enough to make that part engaging, even to me.

I blew through Edmonton very late, passed right by the Harley dealer and went up "Moose Alley" toward Whitecourt. The only moose I saw were well off the road and too dark to photograph. The road now is not the old Yellowhead. I intend to traverse a series of Canadian Provincial Highways roughly in the series of 43, 34 and 2 into Dawson Creek. Now you have to pay attention here, because it gets interesting. On the way to Whitecourt, just after leaving Edmonton, I'm paying attention to the signs that warn about bears and such. Shortly I pass an intersection called "Grizzly Trail" -- needless to say, I make sure I'm not supposed to go that way, because all the guys at the office have warned me about how the big griz's would like me. I carefully make my way, and properly stay on my highway 43.

Then, put there just to amaze an old engineering student (Notre Dame), I come across this gigantic wooden railroad bridge. I mean this thing is so big it should be in all the movie scenes you have ever seen. I am no expert, but just by my cool Harley electronic digital odometer, this bridge must be almost a half mile long. I have no idea if it is still in use, and I am embarrassed to say I completely screwed up the pictures. You can look it up I guess.

The next problem is the natural scenery. My does it improve! At Whitecourt these two big old rivers come together, and the tourist attractions are plentiful. I'm having so much fun I don't feel the need to spend money. As the miles pass, it only gets better. Rivers, lakes, campgrounds galore compete with good road, warm sun, and the smell of the forest. I press on.

The crux of this little anecdote starts at Valleyview. My complaint is that the signs all claim to lead you to Dawson Creek. Now I know that is where I'm going, and in my distraction, I take the one which stays on Highway 43.  I'm on it, and do not realize I missed my changeover to 34. No, I don't think I'm dyslexic, looking back on it I'm sure it was my own lack of attention.  So:  On I cruise up '43. This means I'm heading North rather than West.

Note, I did come prepared. I chopped a pile of page maps out of my "Milepost Guide to Alaska", I had their big fold out map, and also my trusty Harley Touring Handbook.  All the maps agree, I should have cut West at Valleyview on '34.  In my defense, none of the bold red lines and skinny black lines are similar among the maps, and I did mention the signs didn't I?  You can see I'm getting defensive here. I stop to rest. In my sanguine mood, I slowly hike around and then have a little snack.  I pull out the maps just to check on what's coming up next, and realize that I've gone way North and with no obvious decision whether to turn back or loop around.

The loop around choice looks better now - go further North, then there is a good East/West shot to Dawson Creek using Highway 49.  I figure it's no harm done.  So I take it.  After a while, what do you think?  The weather turns threatening, and be damned!  I see road construction.  I ask a fellow  traveler.  He is in a huge semi, with an empty flatbed behind, and he says he is going down a local road, to a cut-back that gets to '34 with no mud.  Mind you, my bike looks filthy as hell, but I don't really want to keep digging cooked mud out of the cooling fins, especially on my new oil cooler.  So I get detailed instructions and take off.  By the way, even empty, these trucks are slow.  That's why I just didn't follow him.

So here I go, alternately heading for Sturgeon Something, "Road for Logging Trucks Only", Crooked Creek, a sign that says "Absolutely none  other than Employees of Paul Bunyan" and so on...  The weather actually improves, from a good rain down to a light drizzle or heavy fog, I can't tell which. The gravel road keeps my attention too, well-graded enough, but the hills are steep and the curves are starting to tighten.  I slow down. Now all you bikers will get this feeling: Let's take a sweeping curve to your right, going downhill, just at dusk and riding in the wet rocks. You're doing fine. What's that black hulk?           It's a moose!

My nerves scream. I can hear em.  Even if you aren't a biker, you have to realize that I can't do anything drastic or I'll just crash.  I start to brake front and back, and I actually hear the scrunch of the front tire starting to loose it.  His back legs are in the ditch on the right side, head and shoulders up on the road in my lane, just standing there.  Gentle reader, this thing is huge.  He takes up half the road!  I swear there is five feet of air below his belly.  He is just shiny coal black in his wet hair.  I cannot guess how long or high.  I'm slowing down.

Fast but feather touch on the brakes is doing it, and I'm not actually eating rocks!  I look up, now what!  The damned thing is looking at me as I approach, and it actually takes a step towards me!  Although I didn't plan it, I was already taking my second downshift.  With two light fingers on the front brake I blip the throttle with the heel of my hand.  Now my bike is really not loud, it just has stock Harley mufflers with maybe a baffle that got lost.  There is no way it is as loud as a logging truck.  But, just at that time, this big locomotive looking monster took one bound to the left and was crashing through the bushes.  Gone, not a trace left behind.

Now I'm idling in second gear.  I cannot stop, steer, shit or go blind.  I am barely in control of myself, let alone allowing any feeling of relief.  I just putt-putt along and try to take a breath.  I can't stop for a few minutes because I'm sure if I do, I'll just tip over with weakness and would not be able to lift up the bike.  After a while, the rain starts in again, and I just stand there stopped in the middle of the road with my  helmet off, feeling the cold water on my bald old head.

Who knows how much longer, I see a little crossroads, with a tiny white cafe.  I stop and have coffee, strong, black and hot.  I tell the guys, loggers, at the next table and they are immediately asking how many miles back, etc. so they can go hunt it (in June).  I can't be too specific so they  give up.  Then they tell me that they are more afraid of moose than bears.  First, the brutes are really dumb.  They will reliably total a full size pickup.  If you walk up on one unexpectedly, they are quick to kick.  I'm told:  "whatever he kicks just comes OFF" and that means anything. The lady offers me free hot blueberry pie and vanilla ice cream, my favorite, but I couldn't bear the thought of it.

She does confirm my directions back to the intersection.  I take off at a very reduced speed, and make it into Debolt.  From there, it will be just a short scoot to Grande Prairie and on to Dawson Creek, but my nerves are shot and I just camp out.  Again, here I am without any tequila!  I feel  renovated in the morning and the last few miles are cold but thankfully uneventful.   

Now, at Dawson Creek, I cut Northwest on the Alaskan Highway (at last!). You realize that despite the name, this is the route to Alaska, not in it.  I am still East of Seattle, and just crossed from Alberta to British Columbia in Canada.  I don't want to bore you with statistics, but I've driven 2,200 miles, about the distance from Chicago to Los Angeles (Hi Mom), and although technically there is a speck of Alaska south of this latitude (Ketchikan), I still have a long way to go before I enter that great state... .  More about this foolish plan later.  It's June 25th.

I hit the famous "Mile Zero" and had lunch at Smitty’s restaurant, and took off.  There are some museums, enough souvenir shops to load a freighter, and I spent some small time cruising the sights.  Really though, it was too commercial a beginning for my frontier spirit mood, and I couldn’t buy anything anyway, remember the rain suit?  I was disappointed in the 'tourist trap' feel of the place, anxious to get into the next phase of the trip.  I used an old operating principle:  jump on the bike and move out.  Let's go.

Then, at last, I survive the return trip,

and I am sure I will be able to author-up some suspense (ugh) for the story  before I get home.   At least the duffel bag didn’t fall off in the river.