On our travels I am resisting the urge to stop at "every" collection of antiquity, but I am headed out on my own whenever we stop for a day or two.  Resistance was futile when I saw out path was crossing my two weaknesses, motorcycling and museums.

I am a member of the American Motorcyclist Association, (AMA) and for years  I've been reading in their magazine articles about the latest exhibit or attraction at their Motorcycle Hall of Fame.  For all my previous travels I'd never been close enough to able to visit this place.

What the AMA has that other vintage collectors don't have is the ability to collect one of a kind pieces that are not merely restorations but often prototypes built by the greatest racers, engineers, and dreamers that have made up the fabric of motorcycling for over a century.

Not your rare tucked in a barn find, but pieces preserved and kept by prior collectors. Such as this early bike.

Or how about the challenge made by Craig Vetter, designer of fairing and body work for motorcycles, to build a high mileage motorcycle. That challenge resulted in a bike capable of running from New York to California on less than 15 gallons of gas. Yep, they have that bike on display.

 Bikers of my generation, as well as generations after, (thanks to VCR and DVD rentals) will recall the movie, "On Any Sunday".  Rider Malcom Smith played a major role in that movie as it documented the motorcycle sport of the 60's.  Well, that same bike that Malcom rode is on exhibit in the halls of this collection. Cool, eh!

If you haven't watched any of the "motorcycle" genre movie, then perhaps this one will seem familiar.  In the movie, Terminator: 2 it looked like a large police bike running around the streets, even crashing though a large showroom window. (The rider of that maneuver was stunt woman, Debbie Evans, another rider honored in the Hall of Fame.)

In truth, it was a smaller Honda bike with a couple of extra exhaust tubes welded to the front, as well as an extra large front wheel mounted.

The stories behind the bikes were often more fascinating that the bike itself, but then, that is the purpose of the this museum, to honor the men and women of the sport that stand out from the ordinary.

From time to time, they change out the display, so I will be looking for future updates from the AMA magazine, and hopefully, someday in the future, I'll be able to make another trek to "Motorcycle Mecca."



That summer I made that trip. I carried the bike title with me in case it broke down with an incurable problem, the back-up plan being I'd sell it and buy a ticket home. That didn't happen, and I returned with a new belt buckle given to riders that successfully completed the tour. I also knew that someday, I'd go back to the Great Lakes for more travel. I didn't expect it to be in a motor home.

Now days, I don't have to plan out my trips a year in advance and hope I can get the time off. Sometimes it's a simple as looking at the national weather picture and saying this is too hot, lets find someplace cooler.  And so it is that I find myself on the North Shore of Lake  Superior seven years later. No plans to make this a circle tour of the lake, but we will be driving along the south shore and re-visiting a few of the spots I rode along on the bike. And I will admit, the motor home is a tad more comfortable to sleep in.

It is true that the longer we stay at a place, the harder it is to pull up the stabilizing jacks and drive off. We'd love to stay and get involved with the community. But we are also fascinated with the people in the next place, and we want to have a chance to get to know them.

We faced a similar seemingly disconnect when we were foster parents. We loved the kids who were brought into our house and saddened when it was time to give them back, but we always looked forward to meeting the next baby.  People would make comments that they could never do that, that giving back a baby they had loved would be too hard, too stressful.  My answer to them was that it would make them wonderful foster parents - they cared for the kids. Is it better for folk that do not care for the children to watch over them?

Back to my thinking on travel. If one does not enjoy the places they visit, if they could not see themselves able to stay for an extended time in any one place, then perhaps they are not meant for the traveling life. I'm just sayin'.

There are two common questions people ask us as we travel.  The first is not so easy to answer, so I'll get to that later. The second is, "How do you like it?" Referring to our full-time RV lifestyle.

All I can think of to that is to para-phrase the lyrics to a Trick Pony song...

What's not to love? (What's not to love?)
What's not to fall head over heel in love with?
If (it) ain't perfect, (it's) close enough.
What's not to love? (What's not to love?)
Who wouldn't be carried away, swept off their feet?
Hey, you tell me: what's not to love?

The other question is getting harder to answer the longer we are on the road. "Where are you from?"  Even Star Trek's Capt. Kirk had trouble with similar queries.

Dr. Gillian Taylor: Don't tell me, you're from outer space. Kirk: No, I'm from Iowa. I only work in outer space.

I usually answer with fact that we started this trip from Colorado Springs, but that does not really answer the inherent question. Where do I call home?

So this has me pondering this question today. What is 'home'?  Some get sick, as in homesick when they are away from it, some need a nursing home, or group home. I've read of retirement homes, and foster homes.  Heck, I made a career of watching over folk that have made prisons their home.

There are cute posters of birds tucked up under cliff ledges while the sky flashes with lightning, with some phrase about home being a shelter from the storm. Or embroidered fabric wall hanging reminding us that home is where the heart it.  I click on a webpage, and it always starts me at the home page.

As a nomad, (as a certain cousin has taken to calling me) the motor home has these qualities, but still, there seems to be the need for some geographic center of life that we can pin our hearts and minds to. If you live there, you don't notice it as much, but when you are away and return, you realize that the home base is the place that triggers self-reflection. You look at the old tree seedling and now see a 50 foot pine tree. You see the rippling waters over the boulders in the river bed and see a 15 year old boy diving into a a favorite swimming hole.

I've really been on the road for over 30 years, and this longer stay in the Rogue Valley has been fun.  I've seen my nephew get married in my old stomping ground, I've spent hours leafing through my mom's old photo albums. Maybe I do have an answer to this one,.."Yes,  I'm from Medford, Oregon, but travel a lot."



When we are on the road moving from place to place each day, the travel expenses mount, the motor home burns through the gas, the nightly camping fees steadily chop away at the back account. The bumps on the road, (ok, the hill sides) tear apart the poor Voyager and the many small repair needs turn into higher priorities.

For these reasons, on top of enjoying my visit with family and long time friends, I am glad I have the chance to make port at my mother's property in Southern Oregon. As we were moving this way during the trek up I-5 we jotting down all the things that needed attention when we made port. And frankly, the list was getting pretty long. Some items I knew I'd need to order, so I did, and had them shipped to her place ahead of us.

I am happy to report that many of these repairs are getting done.  Remember the awning that tore off in Barstow, the new one was here waiting, and was one of the first things I hung up.

Even the coffee pot, broke before we hit Laughlin, was replaced with a new model counter saver I found at the K-mart near Santa Cruz.

Way back while we were outfitting the rig for the trip, I discovered that the gas tank overflowed if filled to the max. I tried to get it fixed before we left Colorado, but the shop told me that until the tank was nearly empty, they could not drop it to take a look. So as I neared this port of call, I was slowly letting the tank ride lower and lower. It was with fingers crossed I rolled into Oregon with the needle on empty .

A few days ago I crawled under the chassis and unbolted the tank and took a look. It appears that there is an "O" ring that seals the the fuel pump to the top of the tank that had gotten crimped during the last replacement job. (The one that they did before we took delivery on the RV).

I wanted to get a new ring, but that part seems to only come with the new fuel pump, (I searched all over town) so I'll add some extra gasket sealer and make sure there is no kink in it as I tighten it back in.

The energy bar across the top of my life screen is looking better, and soon we will be on the road again.  But, I really don't see how one could live this life style if they were not very handy.

It's been a few years since I've visited the valley floor of Yosemite, and Sarah never has been there.  It seemed a reasonable day trip from our current stay north of Merced.

Pam was invited, but something about long winding roads and a past history of getting rather green around the gills on her last trip on that road had here opting for a day to herself in the house. She was right, I had forgotten how twisty  the Hwy 140 route from Merced is.  A great motorcycle road, but, not so much for family car.

I loved the ride up. Sarah and stopped for a break along the Merced River, a popular rafting section, and all the more so now with the waters running fast and crazy.

We stayed long enough at that spot to watch a few crazies, sorry, young adventuresome types launch off into the cold frothing water.

Further up the road we had to stop again, this time with traffic control point to allow for one way traffic across a temporary Bailey type bridge.

The route now detours over the river to the old railbed, (rebuilt enough to handle one-way traffic)  to get around a large landslide that covered the road five years ago.

My  finding after I got back was that they've run into a couple of problems in finding a permanent solution to clearing the landslide. One is that the mountain remains too unstable to clear out the slide, and two, the endangered species act is protecting the Limestone Salamander that moved into the rock fall after it came down. Something about California makes me think it is the latter reason that is proving the bigger obstacle.

The slimey critters are not the only ones getting preferential treatment on this route either. On the section near El Porto I had to slow down to prevent mass slaughter of the local insect population.

Perhaps it was over, or in preparation for the coming traffic, but I didn't find see them careening off the front of my windshield as we drove by.

Once inside the park, the falls were all beautiful, after all, that is part of the parks signature photo op.

But to get up close and personal as in the hike to the Lower Yosemite Falls that Sarah and I took, you get too much misty down draft to hold you camera out for very long.

It was a quick in and out trip, and as with all the National Parks, one could spend a lot of time exploring the trails and sights, but for us, that was not this trip. On the way back, almost back to Merced, I had to turn around for one more roadside oddity.

Just an elaborate  obelisk to one fellow named  George Hicks Fancher. Born 1828, died 1900. Just a simple local farmer that saved up $25,000 to have his body buried on his property. Story goes that one of his sons wanted to use only $2000 of the money to bury him in at the city cemetery and use the rest to build the town a nice library, the other son took him to court to insure his will was followed to the letter.  The courts ruled in favor of honoring the written last wishes, and so the monument stands to this day. alone and weed covered.

Do you remember the scene in one of the Indiana Jones movie where he has to choose the correct cup out of a room of ornate grails to insure he was worthy?  Today would have been the day I would be the guy that shrivels up because I chose unwisely.

I kept choosing the wrong lane when it was time to turn off  the freeway, then when needed to get off and find a place to turn around, the roads were too narrow to do anything about that for miles and miles. If I was supposed to be going North, I ended up on the southbound side. GRRRR.

My erratic course wasn't help Pam in the chase car. She was trying to follow me,  but cars were butting in between us, and she'd then end up missing the exit and would then have to find her own way back on course.

Somehow, the correct path was eventually found, and we have landed at the RV park on the Merced River that we intended to find as we set off this morning.  I suppose that means we have been found worthy, and can live to travel another day.

I had planned for this, in some ways. I brought along as many tools and equipment as I thought I could need, and so far, I think my preparedness has paid off. Well, sorta.

In the first instance I was rolling along, and  jamming to Toby Keith on my speakers when I heard a loud rumble under the belly of the beast, then it shuddered and I could see in the rear view mirror some pieces spreading out over the road behind me. "What just came off?"  I shouted in the 2-way radio to Pam following me.

"Your tire." She calmly replied. She is wonderful under pressure.

I was just coming up on the intersection with Interstate 15 near Barstow after driving the 30 miles across the desert from Ft. Irwin.  The shoulder area there was wide with plenty of room to work.  The damage was on the rear dually tire, the outer tread had separated from the wire radial, but had not blown out. Still, not enough left to drive on for the mere 10 miles to town.

I do travel with a spare tire, but do you think I could get the old tire busted loose off the hub to change it out. Nope, not without ripping open the weakening hernia I am already wary of. Back to my tool box of things I would need, and pulled out the Good Sam Emergency road service card.

The reason the tire came apart was that it was old, they may have tread on them, but after 5 years of service life, it is time to replace them.  I had a plan to do just that while in Oregon, this just moved the timing up some.  In the end, after tracking down a tire shop that had what I needed, the motor home was re-shod with 6 brand spanking new tires, and we were off again.

The next bump in our travels was after a week stay in Seal Beach and along the way to a state park on the beach just above Ventura, CA.  We pulled off highway 101 following signs that pointed to the park, but I had only a small recollection of where I had seen this park on previous journeys.  Sure enough, I drove past the turn-off into the park and was driving along the old section of Pacific Coast Highway.  I radioed Pam that I would head up and find a place to turn around, she could stop and turn there  and wait for my return.

On a stretch of road with good visibility in both directions, I could see there was no traffic to contend with if I turned the behemoth around in the middle of the road. It was too easy, I pulled over to the right as far as I could and turned hard left to make the U-turn. "CRUNCH"... goes something in the back end.  I thought I just grazed the back corner on the hillside as it swung around. 

When I got to the campsite and had a chance to survey the damage, it may have been a mere glancing blow, but it caught it wrong and ripped the entire fiberglass rear cap away from the main body of the motor home. I was not a happy camper around that time.

But what could I do, I'd have to try to slap it back together somehow until further repairs could be made. Out came the bags of tools, and with the help the camp neighbor, we shoved it back into place, and I screwed it back together.  It will hold, and all I really to finish up on soon is to seal it against foul weather driving again.

In spite of that, we finally had our down time and enjoyed the evening parked above the surf.

These areas are more than a stray rifle  round or two. These mountains off the roads are the landing zones of everything the Army can throw out there. From the more conventional morters to high-tech rocket propelled explosives.  Not the best place to head out for a morning stroll.

But there are some places worth exploring by foot.

As I was headed up the small peak, I came across a small squad of soldier out for their morning PT by running up and down this trail with full packs on. I was happy just to get my own fat butt up the darned thing.

At the top I discovered a small white pipe cross with a set of boots at the base. I wish I could remember from the 70's when I used to train here if there had been a larger one overlooking the post. I say that because I saw evidence of a larger wooden post near the same spot. I fear large cross memorials are getting rare on US properties.

From the base of the mountain you can barely see this cross, just as you can barely see our motor home parked in the RV park below it.

Back on the valley floor, I took a hike out the other direction this morning. Up this road was the last of the historical roots of the 11th Cavalry Regiment,  their horses.  They pretty much gave up the horses around 1940, trading them in for armored vehicles. Now there only exists this small detatchment that takes care of the livestock.  The horses for shows, and goats.

No heat induced hallucination, these are goats and donkeys in the middle of the Ft. Irwin desert. They are used for the simulated middle east villages when the troops are training there. So I guess there exists some special trained soldier that takes care of goats.

Other surprises are always popping up when we travel, this picture was taken as we returned to the motor home last night. I didn't feel any rain, but still there was the rainbow above the dry mountain top.

Other times when I've made an early spring visit to Mom's place in Medford, I try to take care of her yard just a bit. I'm not sure there is much hope for getting that done on this short week. Not to worry,  I'll be driving the motor home up here next month and if we can still see the house in the weeds, I'll  hack it down.

I was not totally remiss, there were a couple smaller projects inside I finished up for her, but honestly, this was the reason for the trip this week.

My sister's son was wed in grand fashion at the top of the Siskiyou pass. His special touch was wearing the Scottish kilt much like his great great grandfather. I remember the day he was born, he was the first of the nephews. I felt very honored to see Totten and Heather take the vows of marriage.

Since I left Pam back in the middle of the great Mojave desert having to pull the plunger on the black water tank herself, I better catch the  next plane back to Vegas and rejoin the caravan.