Polar Bear Blog 2011/2012

By: Chris Loynd

Fortunately, I thought to put this week's destination address into my GPS just minutes before I headed over to meet the guys at the Dunkin' Donuts in Stratford.
 

My morning had a monkey thrown into its wrench. If you are a faithful blog reader, you may recall I purchased a new Gerbing heated jacket liner a few weeks back. The old one was not heating the gloves. Well I have not yet gotten around to sending out the old liner to be repaired. Meanwhile my long-suffering wife got tired of seeing it thrown over a chair and hung it up for me . . . along with the rest of my motorcycle gear. Sunday morning I could not tell which was the new, or the old, jacket liner.

Turned out I was leading this ride.

I guess they took a vote at the Dunkin' before I arrived, just two minutes before departure time, and I was elected in absentia . Since I knew the address was plugged into my GPS, I said, “Sure! No problem!” I had only glanced at a map days earlier, and that vaguely.

Grumpy was going to sweep. He pulled up and shouted something about 287, 87 and, dang, what was that last number?
 

Well I figured I would just follow the GPS.

I knew better to ignore Mr. Garmen when he tried to send me across the George Washington Bridge. Once we were firmly on our way to the Tappan Zee the miniature, satellite-enabled computer settled down . . . for a little while.

It started acting up again as we cruised on out I-78. Darn if I could remember that last route number Grumpy had given me. I kept ignoring the GPS' exhortations and stuck to the Interstate, hoping that at some point the computer would pop up a familiar number.
 

He zoomed up from the back of the pack to lead all of us into a highway rest stop. There he zip tied his shifter linkage back together. It had lost a joint or something. I'm no mechanic.

As we were getting ready to go I nonchalantly fished for that missing route number. “Uh, yeah, we're going up here to, uh . . .,” I said. “Route 309,” Grumpy finished my sentence. “Yeah, that's right,” I offered. “Exit uh . . .” “I don't know,” Grumpy said.

No problem! I'm back in control and nobody knows. I'll just keep my eyes peeled for the exit.
 

After a little while my GPS gave up on all other options and served up “Route 309, Exit 60A.”

We left the rest stop, shifter repaired, riders relieved (no facilities but an accomodating tree), in a different order of bikes than we had been riding. Grumpy was now my wing man, replacing Jim O', a new Polar Cub who joined us for the first time Sunday.

By the way, Jim O' was a good wing man. He rode so tight to me I could usually feel him more than see him. But he's an experienced rider and a MSF instructor. So I was comfortable with him at my shoulder.
 

I guess Fonz, arriving just a few moments AFTER the last possible moment, had pulled a u-turn and taken the sweep away from Grumpy. Freed of his sweep duties, Grumpy moved up with me for the rest of the ride.

So as we approached Montgomeryville Cycle Center, my GPS was now simpatico with the route I'd forced upon it. Only I remember the last time I led this ride, the destination appeared on the opposite side of the road from what I expected. I shot past the dealership, Russ sticking faithfully by my side (another of the great wing men), as the rest of our guys hit the binders hard and made the dealership. Russ and I eventually found a u-turn after what seemed like 15 miles.

Embarrassment being a powerful teacher, I distrusted my GPS as we approached the Cycle Center, still hidden behind a ridge, and put on my right blinker.

At lunch I 'fessed up to the miscue. Not that a confession was required, though they say it is good for the soul. Everybody behind me saw the blinker mistake.

After gassing up for the ride home, my GPS was again acting up, wanting to send me down some country road. I again consulted Grumpy. He started offering alternate ways to get to Route 309 to go home the way we came.

I expressed my worries to Grumpy. I was concerned about taking some long-about detour with a line of bikes behind me.
 

And what if it took a lot longer to get home? Some of our guys don't like to ride in the dark. I jokingly asked the Captain if he was flying the colors. He said now, he held them in case we were late and that morning ran a Navy ensign up the pole instead.

Seeing, but not sharing, my consternation, Grumpy came up with one of his typical responses, “F**k 'em. Follow your GPS. See what happens.”

My Garmin took us on a beautiful ride down winding country roads. Fields stretched beyond our site. Horses and cattle dotted the landscape. We rode through quaint small towns with small brick buildings build right to the road and with 1950s style Christmas garlands strung between light poles, across the road over our heads. We even scored a covered bridge.

Cars came toward us with freshly cut evergreens bound to their roofs. Some of our way tightened down to mere country lanes with no lines painted on the road.
 

We crossed the Delaware River from Pennsylvania to New Jersey on a very narrow two-lane, steel grid decked bridge, speed limit 15 mph.

Like Token a few weeks before, I even ran into a closed road detour. Recalculating!

And it turned out my Garmin did not lie. We left the gas station after a sizable group of Jersey Bears. On I-78 we saw them again. They passed us. We were ahead of them. We had in fact taken the faster route going cross country.

Sometimes you just have to say, “F**k 'em. Which is what I did when I stuck in the left lane up the Merritt Parkway with our long line of bikes.

It was a great ride, well led, with a little help from my friends.

Motorcycle Polar Bear Blog
The Cabin, Howell, NJ
December 11, 2011

By: Chris Loynd

Slightly bearish weather kept some of the cubs in their dens Sunday. It truly wasn't that cold.

When I woke up it was 20 degrees outside. Since we had a fairly close destination a 9:00 a.m. departure allowed temperatures to rise five degrees before I mounted the Harley. By the ride home it was a balmy 40-plus under a pale blue and cloudless sky.

Bart missed Sunday. He was chaperoning a group at my workplace: The Maritime Aquarium at Norwalk.

 

Leaving Dunkin' Donuts we had six. For the second week in a row, Fonz missed us by minutes but chased us down on the Interstate. Turns out he had to pause for a discussion of marker light protocol with one of his law enforcement brethren in Bridgeport.

Using his strong knowledge of the City that Never Sleeps, Captain took us on a tour of Harlem for a detour. We rode down 125^th Street and past the Apollo Theater. The holiday decorations were very nostalgic looking. I am thinking they were probably purchased back in the 1920s when Harlem was a cool place to be.

 

Folks on the street gawked at our impromptu parade.

 

Negotiating the city, our group was a fluid string of magnetic buckyballs. (I threw in that reference for my sister Gretchen, who doesn't even read my blog.) We came apart and reformed multiple times as we worked our way through the traffic lights and dodged pedestrians and potholes.
 

Then as we formed up in a lane to turn onto 42^nd Street, a BMW tried to cut us in half. I held him back to let the other bikes in ahead of me. We were slippery and binding.

 

After his tour of Harlem, I was a little disappointed Captain did not also take us through Times Square. We were, after all, on 42^ndStreet, if only for a few blocks.
 

We came apart again just a few blocks later making the turn for the Lincoln Tunnel.

New Yorkers do not yield. Those Grinches respected our line of bikes not at all, not one little bit, cutting in and cutting off, because their hearts are two sizes too small. Sing along with me . . . I looooove New York . . . .
 

Suddenly I found myself lead of three bikes riding through the Lincoln Tunnel. My GPS went dark about two-thirds of the way through. I guess it didn't like losing its grasp upon the satellites. As we exited the tunnel, I was trying to negotiate the cagers, reboot the Garmin, read the traffic signs and guess which choice led to the turnpike.
 

As we crested a small hill I looked far to the horizon and what to my wandering eyes should appear but the twinkling running lights of six tiny, scratch that, six big, motorcycles, well except for Token² who was on his little BMW with the ice cream cases bolted to the tail.

We stragglers caught the main body just as we approached the New Jersey Turnpike. After that the ride was easier.
 

With all the detours we still arrived pert near 11:30. Even so the lot was full and the restaurant bulging. A few of us tried to cobble together a few tables and booths around the bar. Little did we know our guys found the back-back room. That's right. Behind the back room the cabin has a back room. And there we found a table for the nine of us.

Lunch was good. Grumpy could not get pickles on his cheeseburger. But once we got through that crisis, things settled down nicely.

Speaking of pickles, Pogy continued his largesse, this time producing a jar of giant pickles for the Grumpster.

Wild speculation surrounded the possible origin of the vinegar-bathed cukes. There was some mention of kimchee. We'll have to get a report from Grumpy on how they tasted.

Our ride home was uneventful. There were a couple times when our formation had to flow through toll booths and reform. Here and there a cager threatened. But that is part of Polar Bearing. See you next week.

By: Chris Loynd

 

Winter finally found us. For the motorcycle polar bears it came a few days early. If it ever got above 30 degrees Sunday, such was but brief. My electrics were set on “nuclear” for most of the day. I broke out the snowmobile boots and doubled up on chemical heat packs under my feet.

 

Our ride over to Schoch's Harley-Davidson would likely have been warmer, at least for the start, if only we had left later. A mistake in the departure alert e-mail by CT Blogger Chris Loynd (yeah, it was all my fault) lit the fuse of confusion that set off a bomb of controversy. Fortunately when the dust settled we are all still pals, committed to good humor. No feelings were permanently damaged. Leave the Captain alone! I mean it now!

When I sent out the departure time alert this week I slavishly followed Captain's meticulous spreadsheet of rides and recommended departure times. Only it turns out he was not so meticulous. (I know! That's crazy talk! Can you believe it?)

 

Captain's sheet recommended leaving Stratford at 8:00 a.m. In the subject line of my e-mail I set 8 as launch time. But then, in a perhaps Freudian slip, in the text I stated 9.

 

Mac was the first to catch the confusion. He e-mailed all the regulars looking for clarity. That only kicked off a flurry of competing e-mails espousing the virtues of either 8 or 9. As the controversy reached a fever pitch one of our riders even broadcasted a call for calm. Can't we all just get along?

Unfortunately, I had long since walked away from the computer. And I am not one who has e-mail pushed to his cell phone. I know how. I just don't care.

 

I only became aware of the tempest in my teapot as I glanced at the e-mail trail before shutting down my computer just before bed.

 

As I read through various missives the most strident was a dire warning from Captain that if we left after 8 a.m., we were doomed to arrive past noon. Now I did not really care one way or the other. Unlike some of my com-padres, I like riding at night.

 

Figuring the Captain to be the most demandingly precise of us all, well aware of his flag etiquette and other sundown worries, I sent a correction e-mail confirming my original 8 a.m. departure time.

 

We got to Schoch's Harley-Davidson almost exactly . . . an hour early.

 

We gassed the bikes and proudly took those hard-to-get, front-row parking spaces. We killed some time taking the group picture (the early morning light was dramatic) and discussing the virtues of MapQuest-suggested travel times.

 

John J. had a printed copy of Captain's Excel sheet and pointed out several other rather questionable entries, including one suggesting a 10 a.m. departure. (Mmmm, yes, that does not seem quite right. Guess I should double check.)
 

In a way it all worked out better than usual. There was no line for the bathroom. We got the very first pieces of cornbread. The soup and chili, courtesy of Mrs. Schoch, her family and her HOGs, was delicious and piping hot. And we had a relaxed time sitting around the table and catching up on the news of our various lives as we waited for sign-in to open.
 

The Connecticut Motorcycle Polar Bears are a diverse group. Some of us are wealthier than others. Some are working, some retired, some face uncertain futures. Some, like me for example, have gone through dramatic change in the time we've ridden together. I went from having my own business to working at The Maritime Aquarium at Norwalk, put one-and-a-half kids through college, lost some hair and gained some pounds.
 

It makes for interesting conversation. And we're all close enough in age to share some of the same perspectives. Any TV producers out there? We are ripe for a reality show! I guarantee we'd be better than that Hairy Bikers tripe.

 

Grumpy promised a ride home more interesting than the interstate. (Silly reader, segues are for kids.)

 

So we mounted up 'pert near noon. As we were preparing to pull out of our preferred, honestly-earned parking spaces a bunch of dweebs on metric hardleys started filling in a row of bikes ahead of us. Could they not see us getting ready to pull out? Certainly they did not respect our early arrival. They thoughtlessly blocked in several of us.

However there were more of us than of them. So those of us blocked in were able to exit – after a bit of backpedaling – through the gap left as our fellow riders moved out.

 

Soon after the Delaware Water Gap, Grumpy led us up New Jersey Route 94, headed north and east.

 

He found us an old timey tunnel to ride through, some quaint towns and scenic farmlands.

 

In the town of Fredon an honest-to-gosh bald eagle lit from a limb and flew right over our line of bikes, not 30 feet above our heads.

 

At Franklin we transferred to NJ Route 23 for a slightly southerly and more directly easterly ride to connect with Interstate 287.

 

As we sipped our coffees at Chez GSP, to a man we approved of the non-Interstate part of our ride.

(We didn't get Token²'s vote. He ditched us on the last coffee stop for a family obligation.)

 

It can be a drag just blasting up and down the New Jersey Garden State Parkway and Turnpike. For many of our Polar Bear rides the distances involved require the most direct route. Also, once the “S” word happens – no it's SNOW, not that other “S” word you were thinking – secondary roads can be less reliable, especially on motorcycles.

 

As it turned out, Grumpy's scenic ride added maybe 10 miles and half an hour to our return – and that includes U-turns. It was worth every mile and minute.

 

Maybe we have identified a new trend, although we will have to wait a while to exploit it.
 

Our next ride is a long one, Vineland, New Jersey. So there won't be as much time for fooling around. Although some years back Grumpy and his Tom Tom took the boys on a Dunkin' Donuts tour on the way down. And we have before cut directly east across the countryside to the GSP for our ride home, come to think of it.

 

Wearhouse Grill the week after offers an opportunity. It's nestled right in the country we passed this week, west of 23, south of 94. Maybe there's a CT Bear with some GPS skills who wants to lead? If so, and if your route requires a recalculation of our departure time, be sure to let me know well in advance. You are welcome to consult with the Captain in advance if you wish. But be forewarned, he gets up early and hates to ride late.
 

Meanwhile we have two weeks without riding, thanks to the foibles of the 2011-12 calendar. Christmas and New Years days both fall on Sundays. Not many of us have the chones to ask kitchen permission for rides on those days.

 

So until we meet again I offer best holiday wishes – for whatever holiday(s) you choose to celebrate – and a happy and prosperous New Year full of good weather and great rides. No future is ever certain, but all futures are filled with possibilities.
 

Ride safe, and warm,

Chris

 

Motorcycle Polar Bear Blog, Schoch's Harley-Davidson, Snyderville, Pennsylvania, December 18, 2011.