Polar Bear Blog 2006/7

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

April 1, Langhorne, PA

So for the three Bridgeport HOGs who joined us last Sunday (first three folks in the back row in the group photo) the April Fool's joke was that they were basically riding to Philadelphia for lunch.

I did insist on making sure they knew what they were getting themselves in for before we left Stratford, CT. Chris Kinsley, "Just call me 'The Hawk'," and Mike and Michele (one "L" is correct) Cervone were warmly welcomed into the CT Polar Bears (at least by most of us CT bears right off, and eventually proving themselves worthy to ALL the CT bears by ride's end). The final April Fool's is that I get to make fun of them in the blog! Don't take it personally guys. Most of the blog is exaggerated, some fabricated. Actually, we owe a debt of gratitude to Mike and Michele.

They never flinched. Mike just said, "If we run into rain, we'll turn back." I was worried. Rain in jeans at even springtime temperatures can be dangerously cold and I said so. Mike and Michele rode stoically. I guess they knew what I did not. So all of last Sunday's Polar Bears can thank Mike and Michele's very good luck for keeping us riding dry. Oh, the sky spit on us a time or two. Just enough to get the bikes dirty, but never a danger of getting wet or cold.

Mike and Michele had some of those chemical hand warmers to tuck into their gloves. However the packets did the first leg of our trip tucked instead into a bag on the back of their bike. They pulled them out for the ride home.

I dug in my saddlebag and came up with a riding scarf from my backup Polar Bear supply for Michele. Her jacket collar stopped well below her full face helmet. She was happy to make the loan of some extra insulation.

One of our most vociferous bears threatened to ride apart, refused any Road Captain duties and openly discussed leaving a fellow biker stranded on the side of the road.

Boy did the April Fools fool him!

Turns out Mike rides this souped-up Harley that does not have the fuel range to which the CT Bears are accustomed. With less than 15 miles remaining to our destination, his fuel light blinking it's last desperate LED, Mike dropped out of our line to seek fuel.

Joe should have been on this ride! He's the only CT Bear to actually run out of fuel. When we pulled to the shoulder several of our bears paid homage by duplicating another of Joe's favorite activities (see pictures at right). (Actually we hear that Joe may not be able to join us next year, but his wife Doreen will, riding Joe's bike. She's just completing the Basic Rider's Course, practicing on Joe's Road King.)

Bears in the woods!
(Photos by Johnny B.)

We got talking to Mike about his bike's fuel economy, after he topped off his tank on the ride home at Chez GSP (last rest stop at the top of the Garden State Parkway), wondering aloud why his big twin Harley was getting Sportster gas mileage.

Brian's HD was 160 miles the way we went. All our Harleys will make 170 to 180 miles with no worries, even Joe's – if he remembers to fill the tank to the top. Some of us can push to 200 miles if Johnny B. isn't leading.

So we all made the destination with no trouble, but gassed up immediately afterward for the ride home.

A former Hightstown resident, I offered my fellow bears a back roads ride to I-95 that I thought they would find more pleasant than MapQuest's recommended Trenton route.

We motored through scenic Hightstown, past the pond and waterfall and Victorian houses, and then out into the "country" over the Princeton-Hightstown Road. We rode along corn fields, even passed an outdoor Palm Sunday service. We then popped out onto Route 1 at the Quaker Bridge Mall and thence down I-95. My suburban-hardened fellow CT Bears were unimpressed.

It was much more scenic. We did indeed glimpse the river, along with three water treatment plants, a few blocks of tenements, some incredibly over-lit underpasses and lots of concrete.

Yup, this was the same route John K.'s GPS led us on last year. I remember taking an ABCs of Touring picture at the Mercer County stadium. But there were too many bikes along this year. I'll have to grab a "M" county elsewhere.

Other than scenic Trenton, we had an uneventful, and largely dry, ride home.

Hopefully we'll be able to entice The Hawk, Michele and Mike to join us on a ride or two next season. (Don't worry Mike, most of them are under 150 miles one way.)

One other small story sticks in my mind from this ride.

Our final ride of the season is to Cape May, not this Sunday but next, April 15th, tax day (except in Connecticut). John K. has set the departure time for 7:00 a.m. John B. is swapping shifts with a coworker. Carl and Patty invited me to ride down with them on Friday evening. They'll enjoy a Saturday visit with friends in Newark, Delaware. (For you New Jersey folks, that's "New-Ark," not "Neurk" like the one in your state. Hmmm, maybe it's the Jersey folks who speak a different language.)

Hey Chris, Glad to hear you're ok, I as well as well as a few other folks, seem to have worried a bit since the blog was late. So glad to hear everything is well. As you know you do reach many of us whom seem to live the Polar Bear rides through the stories you tell here. These stories are an open window to the world of the CT Polar Bears for those of us who wait for the temps to warm the soul.

We did get out last Sunday (March 25), however headed southeast to the New Hope area for some burgers and some interesting people watching. Who knows , living down here by Princeton we might just shoot on down to Langhorne to "check out the orange hat guy" lol.. You must now know that since it was a gift from Annie, you must treasure that hat forever no matter how torn or tattered it may be it will always be a part of her with you.

Anyway, what are we to do now as you all begin to wind down the great riding season? A great season that is, other than the spell you put on everyone with your winter Macho Man tactics, bringing on 3 cold weeks of BRRRRR.... As you all end your rides, we readers of the blog are no longer going to have that story from the CT Bears weekly. Well just a note to say again, thanks for giving us here an open look into your world, and those of every CT Bear. I occasionally look back at your pictures from earlier rides like it was a story of old friends somehow. Well I need to run, hopefully someday we can hook up and chat, but allow me to once again say, great job and well done.

Sure you can, however I do not have a recent pic here at work. I have a brand new Ultra Glide I purchased in Nov., but have not had any pics taken other then the few I took one sunny day in Nov. I'll send one of the bike to use at your discretion.

If you somehow slept through the storm, or perhaps are reading this months or years after the fact, Sunday, April 15, 2007 was a record-breaking nor'easter.

Eight inches of rain fell in a less than 24 hour period. New York City's Central Park recorded the most ever rain from a nor'easter, 7.57 inches and the second highest daily rainfall total ever measured in that city.

Rivers throughout the region ran four to five feet above flood stage. Costal areas from Cape May, NJ to Mantinicus Rock, Maine suffered from pounding waves, recorded as high as 29 feet in Massachusetts Bay. The Connecticut coast of Long Island Sound had the highest recorded storm surge, four to five feet.

Connecticut employed DOT snow plows to clear water and mud from the Merritt Parkway. It was a bear of a day.

As the weekend approached, Carl and Patty decided to take the car instead. So I rode my big Springer down to Wilmington Friday night alone. All was calm.

Saturday was a beautiful day. I arose early to a breakfast of scrapple and eggs. I worked until about 7 p.m. doing more landscaping at my parents' than I've done at my own house.

We got a bonus dinner with my sister Valerie who was visiting from Virginia. Philly Cheesesteaks, onion rings and ice cream sundaes at the Charcoal Pit quickly abrogated any calories I may have burned landscaping that day.

Saturday night we settled in to watch Action News and the news was all scary. TV weathermen have never met a storm they could not hype. We were regaled with colorful radar images, plunging barometers, Texas tornados, Kansas blizzards and pending doom.

Yeah, but, according to the Philadelphia TV weatherman, the storm was on top of me right now. As my daughter Annie might say, like, totally. Even so I wasn't off the hook. Johns K. and B. were coming to Cape May on their bikes. There was no way they were finishing out the Polar Bear season atop four wheels.

I ate another Pennsylvania Dutch breakfast and suited up. I was off at 9:30 a.m. to ride across New Jersey from west to east and down a bit south to the very tip where the Polar Bears would be waiting. Yes, we surely did check that "hotline" to make sure they would be there when we were.

Before I could get to the Route 55 expressway to cross Jersey, I had a few back roads to ride. Rain was light. But signs of the storm's passing were everywhere. I had to ford two footboard-deep puddles before reaching the relatively high ground of the highway.

For most of my ride to Cape May rain was intermittent, never really heavy. Buried in the depths of New Jersey's pinelands I was largely protected from the winds too.

Then about 15 to 20 miles outside Cape May I started to get pushed around by wind gusts that made cornering either too hard or way to easy! Either I could not lean the bike enough or the wind wanted to help me lean it too far.

With a bit of creative and vigilant balancing I made it to Cape May okay.

To further protect from the outside rain I had my hippo hands affixed. They had been sprayed with fabric waterproofing and rain was beading up on them.

My Connecticut compatriots were not so lucky.

John K. suffered almost immediate and total rain gear failure on the ride down. He was soaked through underneath his supposed waterproof jacket and pants. He does not ride with electrics, but his layers of insulating clothing were acting like a wet suit keeping him relatively warm.

Johnny B. was mostly complaining about his wet feet. He had decided to ride with his leather boots instead of his snowmobile boots. And his gaiters did not get the job done. He also had some leaks all around the edges of his jacket. His bottom half was dry. Fortunately he had full electrics and was warm most everywhere. Except even electric socks could not keep up with warmth robbing water sloshing in his boots.

The chili was hot and spicy. Just the right food for a day like today. Some coffee too and we were warming to the task of riding home in a deepening storm. Plus we wanted to get off the Cape before high tide waters covered the roads and blocked our escape.

All Polar Cubs stayed home today, most of the Bears too. Very few riders made it on their bikes. Just three or four other cycles appeared in the time we were in Cape May.

Looks to me like Nancy has a tint of red in that hair of hers. Maybe that explains her adventuresome nature.

I mean if I said to my wife, "Hon, take a ride with me Sunday down to the Jersey Shore into the teeth of the worst rainstorm predicted this decade so we can make sure the few Polar Bears who show get their points (most of them a single point for taking their car)," well, Cynthia would have known I was kidding before I finished the sentence.

But Nancy was there with Rich, joking around with us and asking if she was going to be in the infamous blog. No Nancy, don't worry, I'll not mention you here.

We left Cape May for home in light rain with lots of wind at around 12:30, maybe quarter-to-one. Being lowest on fuel I led. I stretched my tank to the first rest area on the GSP, my fuel light winking at me.

We all topped off and made "Chez GSP" our next goal, the last rest stop at the top of the Garden State Parkway. As we pulled out of the gas station John K. took his ride back and led us north.

The harder we rode the harder it rained. Every mile north took us deeper into the heart of the nor'easter.

Soon after starting the homeward leg I felt a cold dampness invade my right glove. My left was now thoroughly soaked. My Harley/Gerbing electric gloves have a waterproof liner sandwiched between the leather outside and the cloth insulated inside. Unfortunately that only meant that once the water got in, it was not escaping. Guess I should 'a had the gauntlets inside my jacket sleeves. Fortunately the electric heat was still pumping. And the hippo hands, now soaked on the inside, at least kept my fingers out of the wind.

At first it was just a cold and clammy feeling. I thought perhaps it was just that, cold. I don't ride with electric pants. Just lots of insulation layers underneath nylon riding pants.

It did not take long till I knew it was not just a chill. I was wet.

Somehow when the miracle fabric failed just a little it was like pulling the proverbial finger from the dike.

There are a lot of places you can tolerate wetness. Your ass and crotch are not one among these.

My wet bottom half drained away warmth with super efficiency. I cranked my electric jacket up to "full nuclear," hunched my shoulders a bit, grit my teeth and kept going.

We had not yet reached even so far as where the NJ Turnpike and Garden State Parkway cross.

As the GSP widened to six lanes we hugged the left, hoping to avoid the crazy weavers, SUV macho blasters, cell phone cluelesses and others.

Then we saw the yellow flashing lights.

Amazement snapped me out of misery for a moment.

Little did I know it was going to get worse.

About this time my main focus was on Chez GSP. I promised myself a glove change there. I had no options for the boots or pants. I had no viable backup for them. I did have a pair of neoprene liners and my Harley winter, waterproof leather gloves, non-electric, in the saddlebags.

Electric warmth was moot for the gloves now anyway. Both hands were swimming.

Neoprene keeps you warm when it's wet, so they say.

We arrived at the last stop on the GSP, gassed up the bikes and hurried inside. All of us were, quite literally, dripping wet now. We must have left a quart of water on the floor in the food service area. Sorry for that, New Jersey janitor people.

I peeled a few layers. My head was still dry. My chest and arms were feeling only damp. Even so, I left my wet electric jacket on to keep from getting chilled. John K. shed not a bit of clothing. He was afraid if he pulled off any soaked layers he'd not have the resolve to put any of them back on again. He just stood there dripping and sipping coffee. Johnny B. unveiled his now soaked Polar Bear long-sleeved tee shirt and entertained us with a play-by-play of all his wet spots. Harley-Davidson always makes a big deal of their "drum-dyed" leather, something about how the color goes all the way through the leather for a long-lasting effect. Johnny B. discovered this process ensures your hands are also dyed a lugubrious deep black when riding in a prolonged rainstorm.

We all decided we are in the market for new rain gear.

We joked about getting a hotel room. Since we had no alternative clothing with us, the image of the three of us sitting around naked trying to dry out our stuff was too scary. Plus rain was predicted for Monday, and Tuesday and maybe Wednesday. We figured we could not possibly get any wetter than we were right now.

There was nothing left to do but do it. Seventy miles to home.

A more serious discussion ensued about which Connecticut expressway to take. The Merritt Parkway is infamous for ponding in heavy rains. Interstate 95 would be loaded with trucks blasting down the center lane in a nearly unbroken phalanx of heavy metal and huge tires kicking up dense spray. "We're screwed either way," Johnny B. deduced, "Let's take the shortest route."

We made it up to and over the Tappan Zee Bridge in pretty good order, despite a wreck blocking the left lane. Winds were pretty fierce up on the bridge span.

I swear the closer we got to home and safety and dry and warm, the harder it rained.

On the Merritt Parkway we hit our first lake soon after Greenwich.

Before that we were seeing lots of water encroachment on the outside edges of both lanes. We pretty much opted for the "center" lane on this two-lane highway. We clung to the crown in the middle of the road like a lifeline.

Then we saw the brake lights light up all at once. We slowed to see cars narrowed down to single file fording a deep puddle across the whole road. Creeping down into it, water came up over my feet sitting atop my Softail's floor boards; must 'a been something like two feet deep.

Our leader John K. took the first puddle too fast. As he exited I saw him limping to the shoulder. Coming out of the puddle was an uphill grade so he didn't get very far. Johnny B. had pulled around him. I did too, just exiting the water. As I sat on the farthest side of the right lane (the Merritt Parkway mostly has no shoulders), my four way flashers going, waves from car wakes lapping at my tires and feet, I stared at John K. in my rearview mirror.

He stalled.

In my head, or was it out loud?, I said over and over, "Please start! Please start! Please S-T-A-R-T." If he could not we were bound to stay with him in the rain and the cold with no shelter in sight. The misery factor was rising to an intolerable level just as he willed the Road King to life and pulled around us.

We parted at least a half-dozen more parkway Red Seas. I lost count.

We passed three or four spinouts and wrecks. Whatever possesses you to think that wanking big SUV you drive won't lose control when you hit a foot of water at 60 mph? Or you in the expensive "four-maitc" Mercedes. Do you honestly believe the car commercials? Don't you see the disclaimer, "closed course, professional driver"?

Cars running down the other side of the highway shot sheets of water at us, on-coming and hard hitting. John K. got pelted with mud and water by one guy passing us. Once a red pickup truck tried to pass me on the left as I was mid-puddle. He slowed only a little as he saw he was swamping me with his bow wave. As I exited the wash I pried one white knuckled hand from the motorcycle's grips and offered him an unkind gesture to show what I thought of his lack of sense or consideration.

Fortunately the oil filler neck on my Softail is at the top of the horseshoe oil tank, tucked up high, just under my right thigh. I figure I can run through water, slowly, pert near up to the air cleaner with no damage. My two Road King companions have oil fillers down low on the frame, next to their ankles. They were more worried. And I can't vouch for the "sealed" wheel bearings on any of our Harleys.

But at this point, this close to home, what are we to do? Taking local roads the final 30 miles to home would at least triple our duration in the rain and cold and wind, with no guarantee those roads would be any more passable.

Somewhere near Fairfield, fortunately on the opposite southbound side, I saw the most amazing sight. A big, orange, DOT dump truck fitted with an angled snowplow was speeding down the right lane throwing water and mud 50 feet high, arcing it off the roadway, so cars could get through.

Along the parkway on both sides we saw small rivers running down the banks to then drain down the road. As a precaution we slowed at every dip in the highway.

Later that night State officials closed parts of the Merritt Parkway we had ridden through just hours before.

Eventually we made it home. By now it was pouring rain. Hard. We were too wet to care. I was now wet everywhere. Knowing the railroad underpasses in my hometown of Stratford would be flooded I took the long way around to my side of town.

Home!

A garage for the Springer. I stripped naked over the kitchen linoleum floor where my water logged clothes could do no damage, then ran upstairs for a hot shower. It was 5:30 p.m. Two days later, I still have wet motorcycle gear hanging over every chair in the house.

Eventually we all suffered complete rain gear failure. Also, John B's Tom Tom went bye bye. John K's radio offers only static and cannot be turned off. All the same, we enjoyed the kind of thrill ride that makes motorcycling exciting and lived to tell big stories.

I can. My "best ride ever" might be that first warm day at Daytona Bike Week when you go from electrics and insulation layers to riding in mere jeans and a sleeveless tee shirt.

All the same, I do love the Polar Bears. And despite trying to make up for a very mild season all in one punishing ride, I too am looking forward to next season. But I'll maybe enjoy a bit of June, July and August first.

Then too, there's that elusive perfect attendance pin. Well, maybe next year for me.

I have enjoyed writing this blog immensely. I didn't really realize where it would take me and how it would be received. Thank you for reading and your many kind comments. I'll be sure to do it again next year.

His mileage total does NOT include an additional 704 miles ridden to donate blood for bonus PB points.

He earned the perfect attendance pin, but will have to receive it second to Johnny B. if Bob Hartpence hands them out in alphabetical order at the Polar Bear Banquet two weeks hence.

Johnny Bowlan came in second among CT Bears, riding 6,225 miles for 95 points. He achieved perfect attendance despite the challenges of a demanding job with changing shifts and by cutting short his Daytona Bike Week vacation so he could sign-in on the bookend Sundays.

Your CT Blogger Chris Loynd, missed one meet due to illness. It was a really nasty flu bug. Johnny B. even offered to drive me down to Bahr's Landing and back so I could sign in and keep my score. I was so sick I would not have accepted the ride if he was driving an ambulance.

All the same I finished with 6,102 miles and 101 points. My points total is higher than Johnny B. because I made two blood donation runs and he used his truck two times for Daytona down and back.

Patches:

Riders:
(more or less in order of appearance)

If I mistakenly left your name out, or got your achievement wrong, please send me an e-mail right away: chris@influentialcom.com! Next year I'll try to do a better job of keeping track.

Thanks for riding with me guys! It has been wonderful fun.

Special thanks to Johnny B. who had the idea for a group shot on every ride. His photos made the blog much more attractive and fun. Polar Bear Webmaster Walter didn't make Cape May and used Johnny B's photos: click here.

A special thanks once again to all those dedicated Polar Bear Club volunteers. You do so much to make everything run smoothly. Together you have created an wonderful winter opportunity to ride. Just think of it. There's nothing else like it in the world!

Nope, I didn't think to take a picture of my final tally.
(Photo by John K.)

Feeling frisky with temperatures in the fifties and it being a Saturday night, I even risked a straight shot down I-95, across the always tenuous Cross Bronx Expressway and over the George Washington Bridge onto the New Jersey Turnpike. It was smooth and easy riding except for a mile or three of stop-and-go on the Cross Bronx; that highway is NEVER without a traffic jam.

With the mild weather, a lot of bears were standing out in the parking lot chatting. Maybe a dozen or more of us rode.

The annual Polar Bear Banquet is a wonderful celebration of a season's riding. If you qualify for a red rocker, the club even rebates your $35 ticket.

As always the Knights of Columbus put out a generous and tasty buffet with more than enough food to feed a pack of bears.

Then we settled in for some comic relief. Our PB hosts always hire a standup comic or two. I still remember some great jokes from the guy at the first PB Banquet I attended:

"Am I in the right place? They told me I was going to have an audience of bikers, but this looks like the AARP!"

"You guys with the Gold Wings, why don't you just get a hood ornament and doors? You're 90 percent car anyway!"

The first guy, I presume sent out to warm up the audience, cooled it down to the point that folks were getting hostile. I wanted to laugh, I was waiting to laugh, I was willing to laugh, but he just couldn't say anything funny enough.

Next up was an okay comic who was probably saved only by his unicycle and the PB audience volunteer who was nearly funnier than the professional comic he assisted.

Finally the last guy came out, a professional, heavy-hitter. He at least knew something about motorcycles, poor Kawasaki owners!

He saved the evening and got us laughing.

All too soon it was time to head home. I suited up with my most conspicuous gear, including a new reflective belt and suspenders and bicycle led light I found at Eastern Mountain Sports. The more the better, especially when fighting your way down an expressway on your own!