Underway at last in Super Natural British Columbia! Took long enough to get to this point, didn’t it? Yes. It did. But we’re here now, and that’s all that matters.

The scenery right away is stunning, with soaring mountains surrounding our little party of explorers.

We bob and weave around Lower Middle B.C. for a while, finally reaching the gas station town of Kitwanga, which is the junction with Route 37, better known as the Stewart-Cassiar Highway, best known as our planned ingress path into the Great White North. Our motorcycles pose in front of the first real sign that proves that the Alaskan Adventure is, in fact, going to Alaska.

Another sign, perched at the beginning of Route 37, says differently.

The sign blinks with even worse news.

Oh shit. This is bad. Really bad. The Alaskan Adventure may not, in fact, be going to Alaska at all.

I consult my Map-kin, and it looks bad. Though it isn’t to scale, or even close to geographically correct, my hand drawn cartographic masterpiece shows only two ways to drive to Alaska: The Stewart-Cassiar Highway, which we are now parked at the beginning of, or the Alcan Highway, which lies approximately 500 Killer-Meters to our east. And one of those, as we’ve just learned, is not open.

We sit in the Petro Canada parking lot and start coming up with a Plan B. Most good riders have a Plan B handy. Most good riders would also probably find out about such trip-threatening road conditions ahead of time. We are not that type. So, fueled with fear and a shot of 5 Hour Energy™, we strategize. Do we hammer for the far off Alcan and drastically change our entire plan? Do we risk riding up the Cassiar to the closure point, in hopes that by the time we get there they will have put out the fire? Should we skip Alaska altogether and head for Banff?

Or should we have just done what the sign back in Olympia implored us to do in the first place?

It’s agonizing.

After some debate, our merry band of Alaskan Adventurers decides Plan B be damned, we’ll gladly take our chances and stick with Plan A. We head north for Hyder, which will mean at least we technically made it into Alaska.

Once on the Cassiar highway, we switch into Fuel Hog mode, which means filling up at every gas station whether we need it or not. Gasoline can become a problem on roads such as this, because while there are technically enough stations to keep machines fueled to the next stop, sometimes those stations run out of gas or go out of business. As an added measure of protection, Dark Meat fills the little red Jug-o-Gas kindly donated a few days ago by Barb and Vic, who I’ve since learned are the creators of the world-famous Sheepskin Buttpad and owners of the excellent motorcycling store Alaska Leather.

Decision made, we set sights on Hyder, Alaska. We enjoy the nearly deserted, supposedly closed and at-some-point-far-ahead probably burning road.

Then, on the road to Hyder, we glimpse a wee bit of the white that the Great White North is so famous for.

The Bear Glacier

Up Close

The road winds us to our ultimate goal, the town of Hyder, Alaska. Just before we cross from the well paved streets of British Columbia to the gravelly frontier town of Hyder, Fiona, glimpsing the town for the first time, asks me, “Is this place real?”

Oh yeah, it’s real all right. We find a room at the Sealaska Inn, and walk down to the bar to get properly familiarized with the town, through a frightening process called getting ‘Hyderized.’

Nervously, we line up at the bar, and the bartendress pours three shots from a bottle in a paper bag. “The rule is you have to finish in one swig. Anyone that doesn’t finish or pukes has to buy the whole bar a round.”

And right after:

The bartendress takes one of the empty glasses, pours out what little liquid remains, then proceeds to light it on fire on the bar top. “That’s what is happening to your insides right now. Congratulations, you’ve been Hyderized!”

She hands us official certificates, explaining that now it is official, we’ll never have to do that again.

We strike up a conversation with JD, a biker that witnessed our painful Hyderization. He tells us he rode down Route 37 that morning, and gives us the tremendous news that the road is open, with pilot cars ferrying cars through the fire area.

“How bad is the fire?”

“Oh, it’s bad,” he replies with a smile, “but you’ll get through all right.”

With that we pose for a quick snapshot with our new friend, and head home for the night. In the parking lot, we are stunned to see the weird car from the ferry, the one with the huge fan on it.

The Fan Behind The Dark Meat

The driver explains the fan is part of a para-sailing contraption he learned how to fly and is now taking home. Alaska, even this little part of it is full of characters. I wish we’d gotten a better picture of his contraption, it was pretty funny, but in our Hyderized state it probably wouldn’t have come out too clearly anyway.

Before retiring for the night, we stop off in Dark Meat’s room, and use his license to chop up and snort fat lines of cocaine to celebrate the Best Day ever.

Just kidding.

The next morning we roll from the US back into BC early, secure in the knowledge that the road is open; we’ll get through the fires. We continue in Fuel Hog mode, stopping off at every station along the way to fill our tanks.

And, for those that have them, call and check in with the wife.

The day goes by, and by 4 PM we reach the town of Dease Lake, where we are instantly confused.

The sign says the road is closed, but a very un-photogenic construction sign right next to the evil closure sign said that the road might in fact be open, with pilot cars running between 8 AM and 6 PM.

6PM? It’s 4 PM now, and we are exactly two hours away from the closure. Decision time once again.

We decide to go for it, and turn Route 37 into our very own Stewart-Cassiar International Speedway.

Mother Nature chooses this moment to cue the clouds, and the rains come down for the first time on our trip.

I think to myself that the rain can only help our cause, and imagine the huge parade for Rain Cloud Follows that will be thrown for single-handedly putting out the fires. That pipe dream goes up in smoke, as the rain ends well before the road does.

We pass a gas station with two motorcycles filling up. I notice that I have quite a bit less than a quarter tank of gas, but break the Fuel Hog rule anyway and speed past with a quick wave. No time to stop! We need to get through!

At 5:45 PM, 640 KM from the start of the road, 200 KM from the nearest town with accommodations, we reach the dreaded closure point. Noticing people camping in the rest area, I trepidatiously ride up to the blockade and inquire when we can go through.

With arms firmly crossed, the dude ruins our trip by saying, “Not today. Fire got worse. No visibility. Road’s closed for the night. We’re going to try to go through tomorrow around 7:30 AM. Come back then.”

Umm… shit. This is bad. We confer, and decide that even though it is far away, we’re going to have to ride the 124.27 miles back to Dease Lake. Abi pours the contents of his Jug-o-Gas into his tank, as I plan to fill up at the last station we passed.

Just then the two bikers we saw filling up pull up with more fantastic news. “There’s no gas at that station.”

Without enough gas to get back to the only lodging we’ve seen, without a tent, without anything that can reasonably be called food, and with night quickly approaching, I realize that for once, right now, we are well and truly fucked.

What will happen next? Click here to find out!

It’s dark. It’s cold. We’re groggy, but awake. After yesterday’s blitz ride through the northern bits of Vancouver Rhode Island to Port Hardy, it’s finally time to get this trip started.

Almost.

When I had my pre-ride Map-kin strategizing session, which admittedly lasted about ten minutes, I noticed there were two choices to reach Alaska from Vancouver Rhode Island. One was to take a ferry from the town of Nanaimo to the city of Vancouver and ride north. Not a bad way to go, if you want to be honest when you say you ‘rode to Alaska’ because that would involve the most actual roads. The second, more appealing option was to take a ferry from Port Hardy to Prince Rupert in British Columbia. This would avoid a lot of boring roads, let us cross an ‘Inside Passage’ cruise off the bucket list, and plop us right down at the start of all the really good stuff.

The choice is clear. Pure honesty is out, and we’re still ‘Riding to Alaska’ just some of it is riding on a boat. Whatever.

M.V. Northern Expedition

It’s 6 AM, and faced with a full day to do nothing but float around looking at scenery, read my book, and goof off hanging out with my beautiful girlfriend (and of course Dark Meat Snack) it’s already the Best Day Ever. To sweeten the deal even further, we pool all our Loonies and rent a private cabin, complete with a shower, beds and a TV.

Speaking of Loonies, we’ve only been in Canada for a day, and already I have a pocket full of change that weighs several metric tons.

This is Canadian money, which is similar to real money. However, instead of bills, these crafty Canadians use coins for dollars. The gold coins, worth a dollar, are called Loonies. The two-toned coins, worth, you guessed it… two dollars, are called… wait for it… Twonies!! Ha! I guarantee there are Canadians that have change jars worth several million dollars. On board the M.V. Frenchy Expedition, we spend the rest of our loose Loonies and Twonies on beer and sandwiches.

And the scenery? Well, I have to say it’s probably the best value for the Loonie, and we all agree taking the ship beat riding, at least for that day.

And on and on and on it goes. We relax. We smoke cigars. We watch things jumping out of the ocean.

We cheer for little boats pulling big things behind them.

We nap. We laugh. We eat.

We do a whole lot of nothing, and completely enjoy all there is to enjoy on this restful interlude.

At 10:30 PM the ship shudders, slows, and the announcement crackles throughout the cabin. “Ahoy, maties! Please prepare to disembark. Drivers, report to your vehicles at this time.”

First View of Prince Rupert

The race is on, and I want to win. Rain Cloud Follows deboats the ferry right behind a BMW F800 and before a car with a gigantic, weird looking fan attached to the back of it. Not bad really, since in my book second place isn’t first loser, it’s the vice-winner!

Exhausted from his long day of resting, lounging and relaxing, Dark Meat Snack immediately disappears to his hotel room to call the wife, while Sleeping Beauty and I enjoy the finest nightlife that Prince Rupert has to offer; watching the locals tear up the dance floor while a Canadian power trio band plays all my favorite hits from the Eighties. I consult the rulebook to see if it is permissible to toast the Best Day Ever twice.

Hooray! It is not only permissible, it is encouraged!

Fiona and I hang with the dancing locals as long as we can, blissfully unaware that the very next day the entire ride is about to go up in flames.

Flames?!?! Click here to read on!

And so, the preamble to this adventure came to a close. Sadly, our faithful machines were bagged tagged and chained together in a scary parking lot, awaiting our eventual return.

After removing my shoes in the name of safety at the soulless airport, I climb into the belly of the whale once again; insert the metal buckle into the fastener low and tight across my hips once again, and, what took three excellent days to achieve is undone in less than two hours. Our flight lands at LAX, where a four hour delay due to typically broken airplane equipment has us both on the verge of screaming, if only to be arrested and at least removed from the soulless airport. Air travel couldn’t be worse, more degrading, uncomfortable, ridiculous or horrible. I calculate time passage by the inane repeating announcement that begins, “the transportation security administration has decreed…” There are six announcements to the hour. We hear twenty-four before mercifully placed on a patched together aircraft and are finally transported to work.

Work is the usual blur of hotel, arena, bus, hotel. San Antonio became Corpus Christi became Laredo became San Antonio again. Sleep became a precious commodity. So did patience. TV shows blur by in that fast-slow manner that only television productions can. Four days hence, our pound of flesh is exacted, and we were released to relive the horrors of air travel once again.

It’s Not ALL Bad

Sleeping Beauty arrives safely in Seattle the night before Dark Meat and me. My beautiful girlfriend texts me the hotel I’d booked for her is ‘like heaven.’ I text her back to ‘not get too used to it.’

Happily reunited, and happily finished with air travel for the foreseeable future, our merry band of adventurers is finally mounted up and finally on the Road to Alaska.

Captain Bill – The Best!

After lunch with an old friend in Port Angeles, we board the ferry for Vancouver Island. Ninety pleasant minutes later, we’re transported across the ocean and to another world.

Canadian Customs and Immigration is strange. The agents are polite, yet firm. During ferry deboating, Abi and I get separated. The last time I cleared Customs with Fiona, we were waved out of line and sent into the office,which is the Customs and Immigration version of the penalty box. The reason we were pulled in? Fiona had never been to Canada before. The Customs agent deemed her Canadian-virgin status highly suspicious, and every manner of background check was run on poor Sleeping Beauty. Forty-five boring minutes later, she was de-virginized, and allowed into the beautiful land of Kanuckistan.

The Customs agent that greets us is bored. He asks us a few perfunctory questions, barely glances at our passports, then dismisses us with a half-wave. I’m confused; do we have to go to the penalty box? I decide if that’s what his half-wave meant, he’ll let us know, but until then, I am getting the hell out of Customs! We pull out to the main street of Victoria to wait for Abi.

And we wait.

And wait.

And wait some more.

Forty-five minutes pass. Sleeping Beauty gets curious and walks over to see what the holdup is. She spies Abi, arms folded, standing far away from his motorcycle as two customs agents tear through every single item in his possession. Bags are ripped open, dirty clothes and junk are spread about, both agents intent on finding something suspicious.

This, unfortunately, is the downside to traveling with a terrorist lookalike.

An hour and a half later, he’s released and finally rolls up to us, shaking his head.

“What happened?

“When I gave them my passport, the agent asked for a second form of identification from me. She took it, went into the office, and came back about two minutes later, looking pissed. She told me they ran a customary test on my license and detected traces of cocaine! They made me pull over, and opened everything up. I even had to take the fucking seat off my bike!”

Wait a minute. Cocaine? Jeez, you think you know a person and all the while, right under your nose, they’re a crackhead! Unbelievable the things you learn on a long motorcycle trip!

Actually, I have to say that I’ve known Dark Meat Snack for half my life, and honestly, the kid can barely finish a beer. And besides that, from what I know of it, cocaine is expensive, and Abi is definitely a… spendthrift. There is no way there were traces of cocaine on his license, unless the TSA agent that checked it in San Antonio was also a junkie.

After that rude introduction to Vancouver Island, we drown our sorrows at a great little Irish Pub. Pretty soon, pints of Guinness work their magic; we’re all laughing over the incident, and trying to figure out where Dark Meat hid his drugs. I guess the stash is in his little red gas can. He tells me I don’t want to know where they are hidden.

The next morning we are just about loaded up when a hotel worker approaches. After the usual round of, ‘Gosh! Did you ride those things all the way here?’ ends, he recommends we go see a stand of gigantic trees that are, in his words, “mighty impressive!” Tracing the route to the trees on my map he exclaims, “They’re huge! Twenty people can join hands around them! These trees have been there since Jesus planted them!”

Circling the Jesus trees on the map, I thank the man, and we aim our bikes in that direction.

The ride from Victoria to Port Hardy happens in two parts. The first part is great – that is, if you enjoy row after row of used RV lots, Wal-marts and strip malls. I flip my iPod over to the ‘Angry White Man Music’ playlist and muddle through the suburbs as quickly as possible. The Jesus trees are impressive, and a worthwhile detour.

The second part of the ride sucks, unless you enjoy winding open roads, little to no traffic, zero police supervision, spectacular mountain vistas and occasional curious wildlife. Thanks to the decided lack of Mounties on the northern half of Vancouver Island, we make up plenty of time on the way to Port Hardy.

Finally, I find the well hidden ‘Welcome to…’ sign, and happily claim Vancouver Island for the Kingdom of Rhode Island. Welcome to Vancouver Rhode Island!

As we wind our way to the end of the road, there are huge swaths of mountain that have been clear cut of all trees. I think to myself these mountains look like freshly shorn sheep, and while it might be a shame the trees are gone, there are signs explaining their replanting efforts, and besides all that, someday I want to own a  log cabin.

While I think these inane thoughts, a newly appointed resident of the Kingdom of Vancouver Rhode Island pokes his head up to say hello.

Frenchy the Bear

There are also other wondrous sights to behold in the north parts of Vancouver Rhode Island.

In Port Hardy, we dine in the height of luxury. Subway foot-longs, Baked Lays and medium American Champagnes – Coca-Cola. Awesome.

While choking down this ‘meal’, we’re treated to some authentic Port Hardy dinner theater, as a policeman in the parking lot arrests a town drunk. After dinner, Dark Meat fades away to check in with the wife (that’s going to take me a while to get used to saying) while Fiona and I pop into a pub for a nightcap. The five-thirty port call for the ferry to take us to Prince Rupert is fast-approaching, and while we enjoy the cute bartender’s tales of life in a small town, we soon fade away as well, content with thoughts of better days and better roads – as always – swirling in my tiny little brain.

More? Click HERE!

The morning dawns cold and clear, with nary a rain cloud in the sky. How odd for the rider of Rain Cloud Follows not to have been chased down by my cloud groupies. I’m sure the further north we go, those damn clouds will catch up to our group.

I wake up happy, because not only are there no rain clouds to contend with, but, as far as I know at this point, the worst of the long journey is already behind us. The slog up the I-5 is over, and as a bonus, there is a nearby territory that I am ready to claim for the ever-expanding Kingdom of Rhode Island.

Yes. I know. Whiskeytown is not technically an island, but then again, Rhode Island technically isn’t either. When I am done this Global Not-Technically-An-Island Expansion, I will have difficulty deciding if I should have my palace built in Whiskeytown, or its nearby neighbor:

Dark Meat Snack decides this is the perfect day to try out a new contraption, his twelve dollar Taiwanese Cambelback knockoff.

Umm, I don’t even know what to say, but trust me, it gets even more ridiculous, especially when Dark Meat tries to drink with his helmet on.

Copious amounts of laughter ensue as Goofy McGooferson continues to try and figure out how to interface  his twelve dollar farkle with his much more expensive helmet.

I will say this much for Dark Meat. He’s a stubborn little bastard, and after a few hours, he finally managed to take a quick drink out of his new toy.

I recommend improving the system by filling the bladder with Macallan.

The curves undulate and swerve, twisting, arcing, winding and bending in a dazzling sequence of seemingly endless deviations from yesterday’s straight line boredom. By nine in the morning, this day is already the Best Day Ever, and the scenery and splendor of the Pacific Coast Highway promises to elevate the mood even higher.

Oregon welcomes us in that peculiar way that only Oregon can.

The gas stations in Oregon are staffed by helpful attendants that are all too happy to scurry over to your motorcycle, offering helpful advice such as how to swipe your credit card and where to put the nozzle. Some of these helpful buggers will even pantomime the entire ‘Filling And Paying’ routine, just in case you are a bit slow on the uptake. I have no idea how people in the other forty-nine states manage without such helpful advice.

After marveling at the beautiful Oregon coastline for a few miles, Dark Meat signals me and says, “I’m tired of the fucking ocean.” Peering at the map, I find Oregon Route 33; the smallest gray line from the coast back to the highway. Route 33 turns out to be the most challenging road I’ve ever ridden. The entire route consisted of a tight single lane road, complete with speeding oncoming trucks, deer, gravel, rock slides, more deer, and sheer drop-offs with no guardrail; all requiring 100% concentration and focus. This accidental detour is best characterized as a triple black diamond class A bitch of a road.

This road makes the Tail of the Dragon look like a puny lizard. By the time we reach the highway at the other end I am completely soaked in sweat, sore, tired and supremely happy. I don’t even mind that this detour means more highway time to keep on schedule, the ‘Highway Penalty’ was absolutely worth the trip.

Even the next day, while serving the Highway Penalty sentence, I am happy, although a bit freaked out by a completely random occurrence. The day before, while cruising up the Pacific Coast Highway, we passed a hitch-hiker. I waved and shrugged at my empty back seat. He smiled a knowing smile and offered a half wave. I didn’t think anything more of it until the next day when I see THE EXACT SAME GUY at the highway on ramp trying to hitch a ride . He offers me the same knowing smile and half wave. I’m too stunned to return the gesture.

We stop at a motorcycle shop to get some supplies. Dark Meat replaces his well scratched face shield, and I pick up and install what I consider to be a perfect addition to Rain Cloud Follows.

Finally we can take the highway no more, and duck back onto another excellent road leading to the coast. More twists and turns greet us, along with this embarrassing abomination:

Speechless.

We end our day in Olympia, Washington. I’m lured to a comfy looking place to sleep not only by its colorful sign, but also the offer of ‘Free TV.’

The next morning is spent taking the longest route possible to the airport. Sadly, we park and bag our bikes at the nicer, much more upscale hotel that Fiona will be meeting us at after our tripus-interruptus WWE work hiatus ends four days hence.

The Entire 1537 Mile Preamble Route
The good stuff starts here.

By my standards, the plan is pretty simple.

1) Get on bike.

2) Ride North.

3) Turn around in Alaska.

4) Ride South.

Alaskan Map-kin

My most recent  Map-kin perfectly illustrates the beautiful simplicity of this plan. My eyeballs have grown tired of looking at the same things all the time, so I came up with this little route to put some new things in front of them. Granted this Map-kin required a few extra sheets of two-ply Bounty cartography material, but there is a reason for that. Alaska, as I learned while making the map, is pretty far away. This route will also necessitate a return to Canada, a strange land rumored to be so polite that the natives routinely say Thank You to ATM machines.

My first experience with Canada was around the time I was a nineteen year old tadpole, in my friend Troy’s basement. Troy had somehow acquired a bottle of Canadian Mist whiskey, and, over the course of an extremely long and increasingly fuzzy evening, things went from bad to worse to really really bad. Like your first girlfriend that really breaks your heart, you never forget the name of the first bottle of poison that nearly kills you. Canadian Mist. Still makes me shudder. I remember at the time thinking to myself, “Hmm, the nose on this whiskey is a mixture of stale oranges and rubbing alcohol, with a finish of burnt tire! Wow, this is not a pleasant experience at all! Canada is not to be trusted!” I woke up two days later.

My experiences with both whiskey and Canada have improved markedly since that first initial sting.

Over a few such tasty adult beverages one fine evening, I mentioned the plan to my long time riding partner Dark Meat Snack. To my surprise, he agreed to the entire sixteen day route. Abi usually needs to be gently prodded, poked, then physically threatened before agreeing to one of my lame-brained riding ideas. But this time, he had a legitimate reason to turn me down.He was tired, but for a good reason. During the previous two weeks, Abi had been in his homeland of Trinidad, becoming a married man.

Aladin and Mrs. Aladin

Packing for this trip is the usual game of hide and seek; looking for a missing boot, searching for the spare keys, dragging long-lost musty and dirty riding gear out of storage, and loading thirty pounds of shit in to a five pound bag. When I finish packing, it looks like I’m ready to go on an Arctic Expedition, which, knowing my penchant for getting ‘un-found’, may just happen. I also made sure to pack one of the most important ingredients of all to a successful overland adventure – a liter of beautiful fiery amber Scottish spirits for toasting what surely will be a string of Best Day Evers.

Even the simplest of my plans have a tendency of getting complicated awfully quickly. In order to keep ourselves employed, which will keep these riding trips funded, Dark Meat and I will have to take this trip in two stages. The first stage is more like a preamble, a three day jaunt up to Seattle. Once there, we will park the bikes for a few days and fly to Texas to work three days of World Wrestling Entertainment shows.  Sleeping Beauty, my ever patient and understanding girlfriend, will be joining us in Seattle for the second stage of the trip, a sixteen day blast as far north as we can get before we have to turn around and head home.

The following morning at o’dark o’clock, Dark Meat and I load up and, with no real objective in mind other than to reach Seattle in three days, being sure to arrive in time to catch that all important flight to get us to work. Unburdened by a plan, we head out on the long and boring highway. A few hours later at breakfast in Gorman, we take our first peak at a real map, and make our first real route decision of the trip. In order to have at least one really fun riding days on this preamble, we decide to slog up the interstate for the majority of the first day. The map’s promise of fun looking little gray squiggles further ahead is the only thing that keeps me going. The highway is boring, but at least it is long and hot.

Our first fuel stop turned into a half hour biker bullshit-fest, as three different guys came up to ask where we were heading. There is something decidedly delicious about casually replying, “Alaska.” Every time I said it, I couldn’t help but crack a smile. Alaska, baby!

Rolling up the straight ribbon of asphalt known in my adopted home state as ‘The I-5′ we make an unscheduled stop in Abi’s homeland of Trinidad, where he gives me a tour of his old stomping grounds.

First he showed me where his bride picked him out.

Then we toured Trinidad’s many civil service buildings. First, the fire station.

Next door, the honest-to-God Trinidad, CA police station.

The center for the Arts.

All this walking and tour-giving made Dark Meat Snack tired. He told me to wait for him while he went to relax a bit.

After getting a hot stone massage, cucumber wrap and pedicure, Dark Meat and I took one last stroll down Main Street, noticing a pair of sexy black KTM dual sport motorcycles. An in the What-A-Small-World department, the bikes (and riders) were from none other than Alaska. Noticing the small gas can strapped to one of the bikes, Abi asked the man, a dead ringer for Kenny Loggins, if we’d need one too. He replied, “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe? Sometimes up that way gas stations run out of gas.” Then Mr. Loggins added, “You know what? Take this one. We’re done with it anyway.”

It got so hot on the highway that I felt the waterworks kick in as my auxiliary armpit pumps went into overdrive. Water poured down my sleeve as the thermometer continued to rise.

120 Degrees? Where are we, Death Valley?

At the final gas stop of the day, my turkey thermometer had finally popped. Overwhelmed by the heat, I had to endure one of those questions from an air conditioned queen; a question that usually makes me chuckle. The question? “How do you guys stand wearing all that hot motorcycling gear in this heat?” How do you make someone like this understand the sublime pleasure of peeling all that hot, smelly gear off at the end of the day? I contemplated an answer, while Dark Meat, in a dark, much less diplomatic mood, replied, “Why don’t you just get back in your air conditioned car and drive to Six Flags?”

Six-hundred eleven miles later, thankfully turned off the mind numbingly hot and dull  I-5, heading  towards better, funner roads, my smile grew wider. We holed up for the night in the first of what will probably be many lower-priced hotels, toasted the Best Day Ever, reflected on all that had happened on Day One of this Preamble ride, and, supremely happy and satisfied, fell almost immediately unconscious, with visions of better roads and even better days dancing in my head.

The next part can be found here.