Polar Bear Blog 2007/2008

If you've stumbled onto this page out of curiosity, you're welcome to stay and read the saga of riding motorcycles in the winter.

Several of us from Connecticut, participate in the Polar Bear Grand Tour, a winter-long set of destination rides sanctioned by the American Motorcycle Association (AMA): www.PolarBearGrandTour.com.

This blog allows me to preserve some great memories and to share them with my fellow Polar Bear motorcycle riders, you, and anyone else in the world. Enjoy! So despite my first editor's warning about committing to a weekly column, here it us, usually posted by the Wednesday after our Sunday ride.

Join the CT Polar Bear Riders!

It is the way of pioneers to see protégés spring up in their place and outdo the trailblazer's achievements. And so I spawned the nutcases pictured above.

By all accounts they had a great time! I opted to stay home and warm. Johnny Bowlan, "Grumpy," drove 30 miles north through the developing snow storm from his job in Stamford to pick up John Kammerer, "Captain." Then together Grumpy and Captain turned around back to the south, and drove deeper into the teeth of this year's first winter storm. Why? For the points, for the glory, for the food, for the fun!

John K. needs only an invitation to participate in just about any motorcycle-related activity. Plus he was protecting his perfect attendance.

And if Grumpy wants to therefore label me a more affectionate name for cat (and I don't mean "kitty"), well that's his right. I will take the heat.

But enough about me. Even though it is my blog, I am happy to pass along ― with a bit of editing ― Grumpy's report.

Johns B. and K. passed the slow going with lively conversation. Grumpy caught up on the Polar Bear rides he has been missing.

The Captain went on about his plans for retirement. I don't know if John K. is ready to reveal his scheme in so public a forum as this blog. So I will ask him before revealing details in this space.

Meanwhile Grumpy managed to accumulate enough snow and ice on the front of his monster truck to shield his EZ pass from the toll gate radio receiver. Johnny had to cough up half a buck in cold cash to a human toll taker before he was allowed to continue.

Arriving in Montgomeryville around 11:40, their trip actually was not much longer than we originally allowed for on motorcycles.

Anticipating John K's next move, Bob Hartpence gave him a preview peek at the anniversary gold rocker too.

Johnny B's report next immediately launched into, "then to food. They served us roast beef, salad, chips and dessert with soda or water." Not bad eating, he added.

Whatever possible meaning may be found by reading between those lines, you will have to wring from Grumpy next time you see him.

Grumpy reports that roads were drier for the return trip. But at exit 37 on the Merritt Parkway in Connecticut they ran into a roadblock. The road was completely shut down for an accident.

Fortunately, Grumpy works in that part of the world and knows every commuting secret back road. After a bit of detouring they made it home safe and sound.

Next week's destination is Schoch's Harley-Davidson, just past the Delaware Water Gap in Pennsylvania off of Interstate 80. Let's set a departure time of 9:00 a.m. That should get us there a little past sign-in. If we get there too early, the split pea soup won't be ready. This is a spiritual destination for the CT Bears. It is sight of my first ride and Clark Makinson's last ride. Click on the links to see my stories about each. Hope to see you then!

With great confidence, computer models, Doppler radar and scientific certainty the weather pundits predicted ice. Not snow. Ice. With Schoch's Harley-Davidson 150 miles from home (one-way), it seemed just a bit too risky. That's a long way on ice.

Johns B. & K. were daunted but undefeated. This week they piled into John K.'s 4-wheel drive Subaru and drove out Route 80. I opted to do something else with my Sunday.

Our friend Matthew had a similar experience, but with better luck on his motorcycle:

Next week's destination is The Cabin, Freehold, NJ. Be sure to bring an unwrapped toy. A 9:00 a.m. departure should get us there just as sign-in begins. By the way, the weather forecast is . . . CRAPPY !@#^&*

With another winter storm slamming our Polar Bear schedule, our most intrepid (some may insane) Connecticut Bear drove to New Jersey alone in a sleet storm to preserve his perfect attendance.

Here's John K.'s firsthand account:

Well I got up early to clear the slush and snow from my driveway. Once I got to the top and looked down the street I realized that resistance was futile. No bike was going out this day.

I spoke with John B. at about 7:30 a.m. and he was not going to make the ride this week, so I left from Milford at 8:30 a.m. to compensate for the mess on the roads. (see photos).

Next week's destination is a new one: Sweetwater Casino, 'pert near to Atlantic City. Distance is 180 miles, Mapquest says 3 1/2 hours one way. We'll leave at 8:30 a.m. all the same so Johnny B. can catch up with us coming off of his night shift. If you can come, bring a new, unwrapped toy. The collection last week was less than usual due to the storm. Santa Bob Hartpence says he will still deliver them before Christmas. Right now the forecast is warm but rainy. The two Johns are chomping at the bit to ride and I haven't had the Springer out for three weeks (except to ride to my HOG meeting which is two-miles away, one way). So maybe we will see you there. Kenny will probably turn up. That boy loves being under water, started in his submarine days I guess.

WARNING: Time off for Christmas, paltry prose opportunities for the past three weeks' worth of blogs and an unfulfilled muse led me to share more this week than you perhaps wanted to read. If so, skim or skip this entry. I make no apologies. It's my space to write and sometimes you just have to let the words fly! If you wish to continue reading, do so at your own risk, watch out for the diversions and enjoy the ride . . .

Weather has kicked the crap out of the Polar Bear season so far.

Last Sunday offered not much better weather than the previous three. For three weeks our most dedicated bears were relegated to their four-wheeled cages. By the good graces of some quirky jet stream shift, Sunday's precipitation remained liquid with no chance of solidification predicted. Our first ride in official winter, the weather was abnormally warm.

Maybe it was the steady, cold rain Sunday morning. Warm by Polar Bear standards is still considered COLD in any other riding season. Maybe it was the extra time in adding the extra layers of rain gear. Maybe it is just that I am continually over-optimistic about how long it takes to prepare for a PB run.

In any case, my compatriots decided they were tired of waiting for me. So they left, without me, without so much as a "fare thee well." I showed up at our Dunkin' Donuts rendezvous a mere 25 minutes late. They had waited for me 20 minutes then booked, leaving nary a phone message. As John K. said later, "We decided you would figure it out."

Next thing you know they started this punctuality thing. Some of them taking it to extremes! (You know who you are. I won't embarrass you in this public space.)

Riding with friends is a wonderful and fun activity. Yet it is not free. The price it demands is an unwritten agreement to sacrifice certain liberties to assuage the common denominator. It is, and needs must be, about compromise. Group riding demands a certain discipline. Positions and hand signals and motorcycling technique must be universally agreed upon for safety's sake. Leader and sweep take on additional duties. In accepting such yokes, they need to ride in a regimented manner not always of their choosing.

Fortunately, we worked out a better compromise. We spent the next evening in separate hotel rooms so I could catch up on my sleep. Then I got the brilliant idea to sleep with earplugs firmly squished into my ear canals. Russ was responsible for the alarm clock and I slept just fine. (Rumor has it his wife Christine adopted my earplug strategy and thus restored bliss to their marital bed.)

As these thoughts and memories swirled in my mind, standing there in the rain in Stratford, I decided to saddle up and see if I couldn't catch these guys. I knew they could not be more than a half-hour ahead of me, probably less 'cause they must have waited for me a little bit. So if I skipped lunch at the destination, we would be synchronized together for the ride home.

Off into the rain I rode, alone.

As the big Springer and I cranked down Interstate 95 my confidence swelled. I was warm. No water leaked past my defenses. Traffic was moderate. I figured to pull out all the stops, go for broke, throw caution to the wind and so directed my bike straight down to the dreaded Cross Bronx Expressway.

Blog readers from New Jersey may not know the Cross Bronx the way we Connecticut riders do. It is near legendary for its traffic jams that appear instantly and without warning. Its surface is akin to a motocross track. I personally lost a rim to this gauntlet years ago. Three broken spokes and a darned good dent, but the big Harley never went down and the tire held air. In fact I am so oblivious to the mechanical vagaries of motorcycling, I first found out about the damage when I brought the bike into Bridgeport Harley complaining of a low-speed wobble.

I dropped the Springer off with the service guys and then went to see the GM about some advertising business I was doing for the dealership at the time. Next thing I know an announcement comes over the dealership PA, "Chris Loynd report the service area please." There I found Donny the shop foreman and top mechanic with a face full of disbelief and rebuke. "Do you ever check this bike before you ride it, Loynd?" I answered that I actually did check the oil pressure and tire level once and a while . . . or is it the other way 'round?

Donny had my bike up on a lift with the saddlebags off. He had this cool little pointer device mounted to his lift and when he spun the rear tire you could see that it was definitely moving a good bit side-to-side. "There!" I proudly announced, "I told you it had a wobble." At which Donny just shook his head. "Yeah," he agreed, "maybe it has something to do with these three broken spokes and this big dent in your rim." I sheepishly mumbled something about the saddlebags being in the way of my discovering such a minor mechanical anomaly.

Turns out the Cross Bronx monster was sleeping this day. Traffic was heavy but moving. They have actually paved over much of the roadway since I was on it last. I deftly piloted my Harley past the hazards, dodged the maniacal New Yorkers and survived to reach the NJ Turnpike.

No problem there. It even stopped raining there for a little bit on the ride down the GSP. As I dove deeper into the pine barrens scenery improved, traffic lightened and, gee, was that even a hint of sun through the clouds there?

Little back roads, not all with route signs, were bounded by sand and crisscrossed with slick wooden bridges and steel grate bridges. My heart skipped a beat crossing the first wood plank bridge when my brand new Metzler tires lost their purchase.

As you may know from reading my blog, I am not a big fan of GPS. This was the first time I wished I had one.

It was raining steadily now. My inkjet printed paper directions were getting soggy. If they reached illegibility I may never be found again. Who chose this place buried in the backwater bayous of backwoods pine barrens?

Hoping I had it right, I rode on. Eventually I came upon "Back Road" which was in the printed directions. You know you're in the boonies when one of the roads is named "Back Road." A few turns more and I strode into the so-called casino. It looked more like a restaurant to me, but then I am not from Atlantic County.

John K., finally able to earn some motorcycle points instead of the single point for arriving by automobile, earned his gold rocker; but Bob Hartpence forgot to bring them. John will have to wait until next week to pickup his honors.

We enjoyed our lunches, mine arriving only a bit later than everyone else. The burger and fries were delicious. It was a real hamburger with lots of meat cooked just right and juicy.

Johnny B., Grumpy, told me his Tom Tom took him right to the Sweetwater Casino. His riding companions complained about a couple of very quick turns.

Since we rode together last, I have taken a new job. After 18 years of running my own business, I decided to take Influential Communications^® part-time.

A job opening at The Maritime Aquarium at Norwalk seemed too perfect a fit for me to ignore. It fits my writing abilities, lifelong science interest and is a really cool place to work. So I am the new Publicist (I love the old fashioned title), as of December 3rd.

With the distance involved, we did not have time for our usual kibitzing. Instead we suited up for the long ride home in the rain.

Because of the high winds we decided to stick with I-95 all the way home instead of the Merritt Parkway because we were concerned about fallen limbs and standing water.

As we rode through Stamford, Johnny B.'s lights blinked out. He lost his headlights and running lights. Brake lights and turn signals were still serviceable.

So John K. and I tucked Grumpy's now dark bike between us. John K. led on his Goldwing and I followed up on my Harley and we rode Johnny B. all the way home.

My gosh I do give you CT Bears a lot of credit. I was eagerly awaiting your latest story and quite frankly thought that with the weather being so nasty there would not be any stories from Sweetwater. Then low and behold the story came, like opening a present on Xmas day we are all treated to the adventures of the CT Bears. As I sat wrapping Christmas presents last Sunday morning by the warmth of the fireplace and some good old Christmas music, I thought would they actually be riding in this shi-, nah that's a long trip in the wind and rain. As I headed out to a friends house around 2pm rain pounding the glass, I see another faithful rider, suited up in bright yellow heading north on Rt 130, must be coming back from a PB run I said to myself.  As I drove down 195 towards the GSP the beat of the wipers made it even more clear, who would be riding in this crap as the wind tossed about my Super Duty Ford... Then to my surprise the Sweetwater blog hits the page, no, no way did they ride as I read the blog, but then again heck you guy's are the true Riders of the Storm some would say...

Well thanks again for another story well written, and for those who choose to skip the long ones, shame on them.. I wish you well with your new job and hope you and your family have had a nice holiday, and may 2008 be a most safe, healthy and prosperous New Year for all of your crew..., safe riding................

Some decent weather brought more bears out of their winter dens. And if you can believe it, I was late again. And again my buds left without me. Fortunately this time I was just minutes late and managed to catch my crew by Stamford.

I was all set to be there early. As I put on my last layer, my trusty leather jacket, the zipper split.

Except for the zipper on my Harley jacket. This is my second one. Now I need a third. The first time it failed was in Daytona. Lucky for me it failed once I got to Daytona and not on the ride down. I had to pull the jacket off over my head. Marlene, our famous Connecticut seamstress who travels to most of the big rallies, was able to fix the slider for me. Her repair held until summer when I could switch to the mesh jacket. Meanwhile I had the entire leather jacket in for service, including an all new zipper.

Even with the electric liner thermostat set to "full nuclear," it was a cold ride down and damp inside the non-breathable liner. I contemplated adding my rain jacket over top the whole outfit for more wind protection. But after arriving late, I did not want to pull the group over to add the extra layer. By the time we stopped for gas, the day was warming up enough to make it moot.

I grabbed a Union Ridge jacket off the rack and rode it home. Len had the most amazing tiny credit card reader attached to the back of his cell phone and a wireless printer. It was all over in a matter of moments. Until my wife sees the MasterCard statement, this was a very sensible solution. A $325 jacket instantly solves a $10 zipper break.

To Len's credit, his price is the same as if I ordered online, less the shipping and wait. I still need to find an adapter for my old style plug on my thermostat to the new plugs on the jacket. Hopefully my local Harley dealership will have one in stock.

Once I can get the electrical hookup working properly, I can lose the electric liner underneath. That will make the new heated jacket even lighter and more comfortable.

Not that I have fallen out of love with my leather. Seems to me there's still something special about a leather motorcycle jacket. By now my jacket and I have seen a lot of miles in lots of weather. With its venting and removable liner it is truly a three season jacket ― especially if backed up by the electric liner.

Only now maybe I will relegate the leather to two seasons, spring and fall, and use the new Gerbing for winter.

Well that was MY Polar Bear adventure last Sunday.

So now we have even more seafaring bears in our CT crowd. I did not get much time to talk to Ed this week to learn more of his particulars. His business card says "Yacht Brokers."

Boy did that give my wife a start! "Now what?" was all she said, holding Ed's card after finding it on the nightstand. "No, no, honey; it is not what it seems!" I quickly replied, "Ed is one of the new Polar Bears and gave me his card for his e-mail address. I am definitely not buying a boat, and certainly not a yacht . . . at least not in the winter." (While I never even tried to earn a Captain's license, I do have a bare boat sailing certificate.)

Meanwhile you will have to wait another Sunday or two to find out what sort of Captain, Captain Ed is. Hopefully we have finally found a guy who is able to stay on top of the water, instead of preferring to sink (or is that "slink"?) below the surface like our PB submariners Ken and John K.

Sorry to be sketchy on details. I was too preoccupied with securing a warmer ride home.

John K. proudly picked up his gold rocker today. He actually earned enough points last Sunday. But once again he outran Bob Hartpence's supply logistics.

Grumpy had a great story about the Patriots ― Giants game that was played the night before. Our CT Governor M. Jodi Rell pleaded with the networks and twisted some cable franchise arms to have the game shown in our state. Normally it would have been blacked out because we are considered close enough to buy a ticket.

Her wrangling made extra work for Johnny B. who works for a company that distributes satellite signals. Thanks to Gov. Rell, the game went out to more stations than it normally would. This is serious stuff. Grumpy's company faces heavy fines if they drop the signal.

Feeling good I guess with a full night's sleep after coming off day shifts now, Grumpy led us down and back. I think his Tom Tom padded the miles a bit.

It never ceases to amaze me how these GPS guys will follow their six-inch screens over any paper map, sense of direction or common sense.

As a whole big pack of Polar Bear riders with New Jersey plates exited the NJ Turnpike at Exit 7, we adamantly continued south, four exits more, to take the Atlantic City expressway.

It got us there okay. But Grumpy got defensive when I accused him of boxing the outside of the corner, instead of cutting diagonally across to Vineland.

Johnny B. has farther to ride than I do, living farther away from our Stratford rendezvous point. That extra bit, plus the extra bit of miles recommended by Tom Tom, just squeaked him over the 400 mile mark, a whole extra point.

As of Wednesday night, this Sunday looks peachy for riding. If you've ever wanted to try this Polar Bear thing, this Sunday is a pretty good choice.

Weather is forecast to be warm, relatively speaking, 48 degrees for the high, 30 degrees low the night before. That's balmy compared to tonight's (Wednesday) 11 degrees. Looks like it will be a very cold walk to the train station tomorrow morning!

Our destination, Warehouse Grill, is two hours away, according to MapQuest, just over 100 miles one way.

So let's figure on a 9:30 a.m. departure time. Even I should be able to make it on time this Sunday . . . unless my pants or boots fail somehow. Meet us at our usual Dunkin' Donuts, I-95, Exit 30.

Meanwhile, a Happy New Year to all!