We set out the last day of May, having carefully loaded the rig to optimize handling, sticking to the scenic backroads of Vermont with no particular timeline in mind. We stopped for brunch at the general store in tiny Pittsfield VT.
The town had been hit hard years ago by the remnants of Hurricane Irene, so we always spend some coin there. By noon we crossed into New York after taking a water break at the Vermont Welcome Center near Bennington. Angling to the southwest we picked up the Taconic Parkway, turned west on I-84 and followed it to Newburgh NY to find a hotel with air conditioning. There had been no dog-friendly rest stops on the Parkway and the heat was becoming truly oppressive. The setting sun showed no grace that day; worn down by conditions it simply went thud out west somewhere.
With the forecast calling for continued heat, we were on the road by six o’clock the next morning. We took a break in a delightful town park in Palmerton PA, and later at a small roadside park in Felton PA where Glenlivet soaked in a stream to beat the heat. By mid-afternoon the temperature had once again reached the point at which Vermonters start melting, so we took a hotel room in Gettysburg, cranked the air conditioning into the Arctic zone, and called it a day.
Gettysburg, and the sheer scale of loss upon this hallowed ground, never fails to move me. With my infantry background I soak in the surroundings and think how I would have defended or attacked various positions…then I read how the various skirmishes unfolded and understood why the losses were so great. We rode slowly through the battleground pausing where the Vermonters stood fast. And there Glenlivet and I rested a bit in the shadow of heroes.
Before noon the temp had reached 95F. We had signed up for the Square Route Rally at Camp WestMar in Maryland’s Catoctin range, but the prospect of spending a night roasting in our tent held little appeal. I called the hotel and extended our stay for another night. We motored over to the rally in the morning, caressed by a cooling mist, finding ourselves welcomed by a very nice bunch of riders! Good food, good company, good beverages both hard and soft at the Tiki Bar. Best of all, the forecast called for a delightful drop in temperature overnight. Our ride to our next stop in Elkins WV promised comfortable conditions through some very scenic turf!
West Virginia never disappoints. We swept along twisting country roads with light traffic, stopping often at places that offered good pup play. We proceeded with cautious optimism down side roads that screamed of possible greatness. In the town of Thomas we lucked into a parking spot right in front of the Purple Fiddle Cafe where we enjoyed a nice lunch in the company of a small group from New England Riders.
This was followed by more small roads and a swim break at a campground east of Elkins. The campground host was delighted to meet Glenlivet, waiving the day fee and escorting us to a nice swim hole where he bestowed upon us an enthusiastic summary of regional history while under the influence of Bacchus.
We pulled into our hotel in Elkins WV late in the afternoon, offloaded our overnight gear, then still fully suited (ATGATT), headed out to refuel and find dinner. I pulled out of the lot and accelerated gently toward town. Ahead of us a young woman driving a Chevy came to a complete stop at a controlled cross-street, looked our way and laughed, directing her passenger’s attention to the goggle-clad dog in the bright yellow sidecar. Good, I thought. She sees us.
Big mistake!
The driver then looked the other way, saw a gap in traffic, and gunned it directly into us. Having just upshifted my RPMs were low. There was no time to think. In situations like this indecision can be fatal. Instinctively I swerved to put the point of impact behind Glenlivet; we were roughly shoved several feet to the left, spinning clockwise and coming to rest facing the side road. Behind us the road was strewn with pieces of her car. The fender I reinforced the last time I had modified the sidecar had ripped off her grill, license plate, plastic bumper cover, headlight and turn signal.
“Oh my god!” she cried, running toward us with tears streaming down her face. “Is your dog okay? Can I hug him?” Without waiting for an answer she attempted to hug Glenlivet. My service dog, however, trained to remain focused on me, pulled away from her embrace. “Oh god!” wailed the woman. “He hates me!”
I bit off a sarcastic response.
Glenlivet was unhurt and seemed to accept the collision as a normal part of travel. I would stiffen up overnight, but that was the extent of our personal injuries. The sidecar had taken a hit to the trailing edge of the fender with the side of the tub where the fender was attached being a bit spongy – evidence of some damage to the fiberglass. The shock had a slight bend and would have to be replaced, the wheel was scraped, and on hard bumps the camber control would not hold position. But the rig was drivable. I called the police, notified my insurance provider of the crash, texted my wife to assure her we were unhurt, then posted a summary to the MOA forum and Facebook page. The outpouring of offers of help, trailering, storage, etc were touching, but I elected to limp on toward the rally and the fantastic reservoir of expertise it represented.
Abandoning my usual fairly aggressive riding style we drove sedately in a light drizzle to the delightful Swiss town of Helvetia only to find the entire town was closed on Tuesdays. Stopping every hour or so to inspect the rig, we made it as far as Harrisonburg VA before calling it a day. There was no way we’d reach the rally site before sunset, and the thought of running into issues in the dark had little appeal.
My fondness of backroads worked to our advantage the next morning; light traffic allowed me to pilot the rig at lower speeds without holding up faster vehicles. The roads were generally in great shape, save one extremely bumpy two lane stretch aptly named Bumpass Road.
By late Wednesday morning we reached Doswell and the BMW MOA 50th Rally. I set up our tent under a huge shade tree just feet from the stall where Secretariat had been sheltered as a colt, then reported for my first volunteer shift in Receiving. A few hours later our old friend, Muriel Farrington, arrived and set up her tent next to ours.
Surrounded by friends old and new, most with more mechanical ability than me, the damaged sidecar was evaluated. Dave Hannigan of Hannigan Sidecars did a thorough inspection and found mostly cosmetic damage. The camber control unit would need to be replaced, but it could wait. Toe-in was a bit off, but could also wait. One tire’s sidewall was damaged but replaced by a vendor on site. The consensus was that the rig would make it home to Vermont, but twisty mountain roads should be taken at a geriatric pace.
The rally experience was awesome! Great facilities and seminars, knowledgable vendors, good food, incredible music and fantastic friends! The only drawback was a bit of respiratory irritation from distant wildfires. We spent time with our dear friend, Jack Riepe, savoring the mastery of a truly great storyteller, for what would sadly turn out be the last time.
Glenlivet, an incredibly well-behaved dog, accompanied me on the DC bus tour where we visited the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum (some familiar aircraft brought to mind men of valor I’d had the honor of serving with), and the Arlington National Cemetery where we visited the gravesite of an old friend.
The bus ride back to Doswell convinced me that I would never take I-95 on a motorcycle!
Back at the rally we connected with old friends at Camp Glockenspiel. During some of my early rallies I had often found myself alone in a sea of cliques. Over the years the club has taken steps to greatly improve the newcomer experience, but in the end it’s up to all of us to create a welcoming environment. And that’s what I love about Camp Glockenspiel. Total strangers are actively sought out and invited for a meal or a beverage. The ranks of friendship grow every year, with us chatting amiably under shade trees or tarps, keeping an eye out for those who could use some camaraderie. We need more of this!
Glenlivet has many fans and can be counted upon to draw strangers into our circle. Most people we meet at rallies know his name and reputation. Sadly, I seem to have no identity of my own and am known simply as “Glenlivet’s Dad” by his fans. Clearly he is better bred than me. But I’m proud of my dog, delighted to have him at my side, pleased when others see him follow my voice or hand signal commands without hesitation and comment on how well behaved he is. I can put him in a down-stay then walk away for half an hour certain that he will not break from staring at the last place he saw me, waiting patiently for my return while ignoring all distractions, then wagging happily upon spotting me. He is my soul dog; if I had a tail I’d wag right back at him.
After hugs and promises to meet again next year it was time to leave.
Our plan for the return trip had been to wander north along scenic roads, avoiding traffic and tourist traps. Unfortunately a large and powerful storm was working its way between us and home. Heavy rain in narrow valleys has a way of rearranging roads, and even moderate unrelenting rain can dilute one’s resolve. While I can suit up and be relatively comfortable in foul weather, Glenlivet has to be zipped into the sidecar which turns a joyous day into an ordeal where the goal is simply making it to the end.
Wanting to put a few miles between us and the storm we used the US Highway system to skirt major metropolitan areas. Traffic was light that morning, and we took several short breaks at banks. Banks make good rest stops as they are closed on Sundays and generally have nice landscaping or at least a grassy spot for us to stretch. Every day but Sunday churches make good stops for the same reasons.
Four hours later we crossed into Pennsylvania and took a break.
We visited elderly online friends in Lancaster PA, then pressed on to a hotel in Jim Thorpe PA, an interesting town with more loud pipes and speeding bikes sans protective gear than any place I’ve seen so far. At one traffic light we found ourselves behind an extremely loud modified chopper. The rider wore a tattered vest with PAGAN’S embroidered across the back. I toyed with the idea of pointing out the improper use of an apostrophe, but something told me he would not be entirely receptive. We moved on.
A check of the forecast showed no improvement in conditions ahead of us, but offered a narrow window to beat the worst of it. By leaving early we could probably skirt those dark clouds seething with anger, but the heat and humidity would be oppressive. I opted to make a marathon run home with an early start. We got up at 4:00, ate a quick snack, loaded up the rig and were on the road half an hour later.
It was warm and muggy, tough on both of us, and necessitated multiple water stops. Glenlivet was struggling as waves of humuggity lashed out. In less humid conditions I can soak his ruff and get some evaporative relief for him; in muggy conditions that doesn’t work. Worried about him, I filled my Camelback with ice, wrapped it in a towel and tucked it next to Glenlivet’s belly. As we reached Hoosick Falls NY near the Vermont border the heat abated a bit and we were able to extend our riding legs. Four hours later we were home.
It was time to get the ball rolling on repairs to the damaged rig.
GO TO 2024: REDMOND OREGON