New Year, New Gear

After the shopping is done and plans are set,  trees are trimmed and wrapping is done there is a pause before the storm of Christmas.   Surrounded by family and the whir of wrapping paper being shredded by my four year old and her younger sister on Christmas morning I sat with a gift in my lap.   My wife got me the one thing that I asked for this year:  a Moto-Skiveez technical riding shirt.   

     In my whitewater kayaking years I was notorious for having old gear, crap gear, and sometimes no gear at all.   I showed up to the put in for the Mad river one day to find that I did not have a bathing suit in my gear box.   My girlfriend at the time (Steph,  now my wife) thought it was funny that without a beat,  I just ran the river bare-assed.  My thought was that there was no way I was going to swim and I didn't need to scout or walk any of the rapids.  My rash guards never dried, and developed a mushroom fragrance.   I remember hanging gear on multi day early spring camping trips only to find that they had frozen stiff during the cold temps of the night.    Into the truck the wet gear went on the floor where the spray top and fleece shirts ceased to be stiff, and now just plain stunk in a pile of season long sweat and memories.   My English friend Chambers always had a fire at the camp site.   Chambers was a Royal Commando during his British military service.   He warmed bottles of red wine on the fire grate rotating them to keep the glass from sagging.   You can imagine that warm red wine left quite an impression on chilly coeds.   Let's just say it hit the spot as the heat of the day was replaced with the cold of night.   On my solo white water trip to Colorado, Utah and Wyoming I biffed the put in otter slide to big Gore on the Colorado River,  surrounded by experts and full time unemployed paddlers.   The 40 foot gravel slide was the easiest way to get to the river for the long flat water paddle down stream to the continuous class 4 and some class 5 water.  The mud at the river bank proved too sticky for me, out of shape and side ways my boat hit the mud at full speed and 7 feet short of the river I barrel rolled (not breaking my paddle) cutting my right forearm and my Kokatat dry top.    As I wrapped my right fore arm in duct tape to keep the water out I saw blood running out the wrist gasket.   This once nice piece of paddling gear would be forever referred to as the not so dry top.   Despite a blown skirt on the outlet of the namesake rapid: Gore,  I hit my roll on the 3rd attempt.   I saw 3 guys swim that day when their fiber glass paddles blew up at the joint in the middle.  I ran that piece of leaking gear the rest of the season and shipped it out for factory repair when my 2 month trip was over.  The trip has always come first.    In motorcycling I bought the least expensive Joe Rocket jacket my first year on my BMW.  I wore it and blue Jeans with a 20 year old hand me down snowmobile helmet similar gear to what I ran on my sportster 883.   Even when I upgraded my helmet to my current Simpson Outlaw Bandit,  I still rode to the 2014 MOA national in blue jeans,  not exactly all the gear all the time (ATGATT).   

     I was standing around the picnic table of the Puppy Dog ride dinner nursing a salt and seaweed beer that was a miss from the hop radicals at Lost Nation.  The PDR is my Vermont charter clubs boarder to boarder 2 day ride on dirt roads.  A fellow rider and the club VP's Dad: David Brosnahan came up to me leaning in to say:   "You're a 44L aren't you?"  "Why yes I am" I replied.   I had used the Aerostitch size calculator to come up with my size.   I had been shopping on craigslist for a used riding suit at various cities across the US.  "Are you still looking for a stitch?" David asked.  "Yes,  absolutely" I replied.    "I have one for you" He said.  "Yes great, I'll buy it" I said,  "How much".    "Well" he goes,  I just sent it out for factory zipper replacement.   "Three hundred?" Martha his wife said.   "No" Dave replied turning to look at her,  "that's too much".    Just like that,  my favorite piece of motorcycle gear found me.  Dave called me to see if he could drop my new to me Roadcrafter two piece at my work in Middlebury, VT.   "You want to drive up from outside Keene, NH to deliver me the suit at work?" I asked.  "Well" Dave said: "Lake Carmi weekend is coming up and it is calling for rain,  I want you to have it."   "How about this", I asked: "Why don't you ride up to my house,  spend the night and I will cook you and your son dinner."  

   

In Stitches

The first night of the 2015 Green Mountain Rally my brother Tyler was getting ready for bed.  Ron Dawson and Sandy Marincic filled the remainder of the sparse 4 bunk cabin.  Camp Thorpe is a historic summer camp for children with special needs.   My local charter club the BMW Motorcycle Owners of Vermont rents the property each September for our largest event.  Lucky enough to book a cabin,  I had one unused bed left after my two wheeled friends from Canada committed to attend.   My non motorcycling brother Tyler liked the sound of our "Ride to Eat" motto.   After dinner Ty thought it best to tuck in for the night.  He then realized that there were no sheets or blankets on the cots.   I ended up giving him my sleeping bag thinking that I was going to get much less sleep from all of the late night time visiting with far off friends.   So I come in from the bonfire having had just enough to drink and I decide that I can drape clothes over me to stay warm. Let's just say that Friday night was no good.  Dehydration,  pounding headache and waking up freezing,  barefoot and pulling fleece shirts over different parts of me.  During the morning incident review it was determined by engineering (Ron Dawson) that I had left my best option for a warm nights sleep on the floor: my Aerostitch Roadcrafter!  Well let me tell you,  Saturday night was a horse of a different color.   After similar dedication to fireside festivities three of us headed back to the cabin late night to find Tyler snoring away.   I put on my riding boots and stepped into my stitch.  Then I put my helmet on for effect thinking about John Ryan sleeping bare back on the concrete floor of a car wash for 15 min.  My helmet proved to be too warm.   I woke up refreshed Sunday morning and headed to breakfast.   The LeVangie twins were already seated at one of the round tables in the mess hall.  "Wow",  Bear said: "You are up and ready to go, you are all dressed".  "Not really" I said.   "I slept in it."  And cue the dimple skeptical look. 

New Gear

There are a number of things special about the Moto-Skiveez performance riding shirt.  The mesh fabric seen in the photo above enhances air flow to promote cooling while riding under protective clothing.  It is cut to be in the riding position.   Thumb holes in the sleeves help you pull your suit on over it without the sleeves riding up.   I can't tell you how great the shirt is as I have just received it and although it is 35 degrees and sunny here in VT,  the roads are a bit icy.  I am looking forward to riding on two wheels in the new year,  with this piece of new gear.   See you on the road, or at a rally, except this time I will be in my Skiveez.  

          

Blog author stoked with Christmas Gear

If you go:

simpsonraceproducts.com

www.vtbmwmov.org

www.aerostitch.com

motoskiveez.com

Interview with Mark Adcock and Greg Mackinnon

Press play above to hear my interview from the 2016 Down East Rally at Hermit Island, Maine.

Living Legend Recruits Toddlers for 2 Wheeled Adventure

     Back from a recent trip to Nova Scotia,  seasoned GS rider Muriel Farrington takes time out of her schedule to dine by campfire with the Rossier family.  With her well weeded garden growing leaps and bounds, she turns her attention to two little sprouts:  Shae (3 1/2 yrs), and Sophie (1 1/2 yrs).  They got some seat time on one of the two BMW's Muriel will use to break the 300,000 mile lifetime mark.   Tips on cooking and housekeeping will have to wait as the ever gracious and elegant Farrington shares the joy of gasoline and rubber with these little riders.  

One on One with Muriel Farrington (45 min)

Listen to this:

Northland Restaurant and Dairy Bar

Stephanie and I were hungry.   The kind of high throat hunger you get when it sneaks up on you.   The kind of hunger that you mistake for thirst until you drink and it just gets worse.  White out torrential down pours covered the road.  We were east on rte 2 in NH headed to Gorham to pop up camp for the night at Moose Brook State Park.  We passed the road that lead to the park and T'd into the main drag.   To the right Gorham,   where hikers hike the presidential Whites.    To the left Berlin home of car sales for the Northeast.    A few miles up the road a Walmart.   The girls had been in the car too long so we ushered them across the parking lot and turned them loose in air conditioned comfort.  At checkout we asked the cashier if she knew of a good place to eat.    "The Dairy Bar" she answered.   "No" I said, "I want a sit down dinner".    She went on to tell us that was the only restaurant in town other than a take out joint and pizza.   We passed the brick sided buildings of Main Street.    Factory buildings that boomed from the paper mill.    The town looked like it peaked in the 1950's. As the road flattened out next to the river buildings thinned and an old fashion sign pointed us off the right side of the road.  The Dairy Bar:  a massive glass faced building that looked more like an insurance office than an eatery.  A warm grey haired hostess walked us past the main dining room to the left into a room that could seat 100 on a good night.   Window seats had riverfront views while the opposite wall was lined with gigantic old school tan booths that looked both vintage and fresh.

This place was toddler friendly for 4 weather wary travelers.    I ordered a hot roast beef sandwich with stuffing instead of bread and a cup of seafood chowder.   Hot fresh baked rolls hit the table and quickly melted foil wrapped pats of butter.  Was I that hungry?   The rolls were good enough for dessert.   My plate followed shortly.   A pleasant mound of beef sheets folded on stuffing covered in gravy,  yeah baby.   The beef was well done and not over seasoned.   Some chefs will bury a bad cut under a thick layer of salt and spices.   The beef reminded me more of last night's prime rib then just another cut of rump roast that you might find at an establishment that puts profit before quality.  As I continued to eat from top down I broke the gravy dam letting browned meat sweetness drizzle into the stuffing hidden below.   The one dinner roll we couldn't finish went foil wrapped for the next day. As I walked up to pay the bill I scanned it wondering if they left something off this proved more value than I anticipated. No longer hungry I now became curious and I asked the hostess what was going on with the place.  She told me that the current owners had owned the place for 50 years and that through the years their family of customers had continued to grow.   She went on to share that 12 years ago a fire demolished  the structure allowing them to start over in a way they never dreamed.  They could build the restaurant exactly how they wanted it.  Charming, delicious, current yet old school: Northland Dairy Bar,  Berlin, New Hampshire.

If you go:

Northland Restaurant and Dairy Bar

Route 16,  1826 Riverside Dr, Berlin, NH 03570

$  I Got it.   

Street Skills at the National BMW Rally

When Sandy and I showed up to the Street Skills tent outside the rally we dismounted and walked around the bikes sizing our classmates up like cowboys in the Old west.   Two Iron Butt license plate holders (Pete and myself) and my riding brother:  Sandy triple digits Marincic.   Finishing the foursome was Tracy, a lady rider of 6 months that had focused on training to rapid launch her riding career. Quickly Tracy became one of the crew, whatever butterfly's she had were contained somewhere deep inside her.  Her jaw tightened and her brow revealed her intense commitment to the skills.  Tracy was all in.  

Within the first few minutes of my Street Skills course I felt like something was being taken away from me.  Our instructor: Jon DelVecchio a local New Yorker began to deconstruct riding a motorcycle.  When I ride my 99 R1100RT it feels like I am water skiing.  I sit tall and straight to carve and lean in the same plane as the bike.  It feels good and natural and it has become my habit.  Jon was describing how that was all going to change.  

Back at the campsite when I told my friends I had a course in the morning they asked me what I was teaching and if there was more room for them. “No”  I said, “I am taking a course".   "Why" they asked,  "You know how to ride?".  “I want to be safer and have more fun riding”: I told them.  The MOA foundation sponsored this course lowering it's cost after a rebate to $90.  This is another example of how the MOV’s own Paul B Scholarship has reached out into the masses.   From multi day track based riding schools to now half day clinics,  the foundation continues to drive for safe proficient riders.   Foundation President George Rice was reached by phone adding: “The Foundation’s mission is to make sure people don’t injure themselves on motorcycles and have a good time riding.   We think riders can both have a good time and be safe and we are committed to that goal.”

There are three primary types of kinesthetic learners: watchers, thinkers, and doers.  Although I would like to think I'm a thinker I am much more of a doer.  To this point Jon's first exercise involved all of us standing in front, facing him with our feet less than our shoulders width apart.  We tipped at the waist moving our heads and upper body to one side past our imaginary motorcycle grip hands and we "kissed the mirror".  When we got it right our center of mass moved outside the center of rotation and we tipped over catching ourselves by taking a step.  This separation of upper and lower body in relation to cornering made me smile.  I was headed into new territory. I truly committed to do everything that Jon instructed.  I bought in putting my water ski technique on the shelf in exchange for an expanding flat plate, where the rubber literally meets the asphalt. .

The flow of the course developed as Jon laid out each new increment of each combined task and reviewed it with us until we understood it.  We then immediately put it in the progression on the curvy back roads of New York farmland.  Our stops were busy and information loaded exceeding the value that I had anticipated.   Jon put us to work.  Each stop we leapfrogged having the tail become the head, changing up the order so that each of us could have a look at the skill that Jon was modeling.  Jon fine tuned the group with precision.   He laser engraved Street Skills on to our motorcycle minds.   We picked up speed and built confidence for encountering hazards in corners.  Sometimes performance riding is safer.  For me the wrap up was at a stop sign after our last set of twisties. I pulled alongside Iron Butt Pete with an ear to ear grin. " I can't believe what a difference kissing the mirror makes!"  "I know" he said smiling "I know".

If you go:

Street Skills LLC

(585) 802-9859

http://streetskills.net/

To donate to the MOA Foundation:

http://www.bmwmoa.org/page/foundationhome

Warren Pieces

Builders of custom homes: http://warrenpieces.com/ 

Mad River, Warren VT

When riding with the Hermit it is always important to say yes to adventure.  The heat of the day had subsided.  He rode the manufactured rock crushed sharp and loose refusing to get pressed into the softness of an April back road.  What could only be described as broken marbles found us east of the Lincoln Gap.  We were in search of the German Flats road.  a paved twisty vacant of Escalade driving snow bunnies.  Up a hill over the next and past the unfinished concrete mansion.  The kind a schizophrenic architect would build and not finish so no one would find him.  We found it.  Our downward sweeping twists that hit pay dirt after miles of loose aggregates.  And soon,  we swooned.  Slowly, rhythmically with the evening sun at our backs the oilhead at the front with the airhead following the warm rush of the spring air rising off the sun baked asphalt.  Lefties,  righties... the curves sweetened as we descended.  Off the mountain at a T to route 100.   South to Warren on the road to nowhere.  Driving wrinkles in circles, the round headlight of the Hermits R100 stayed in my mirror.  

      After stretching things out a bit an acute left turn took us down left now leaving 100 for the prize seen above.  Just another covered bridge- just another cool mountain stream breathing hushed tones of moist air resisting the heat of the day.  At the other end of town we rolled past the Warren Pieces home base.  Builders of luxury custom houses and skateboards.   Only in the VT.  Right at the stop sign and we climbed.   Waves of warmth buffeted my chest.  70 degrees.  It melted the ice of my chest, the crushing weight that held me anchored.  Absent of two wheels.  And now, as I surged forward leaning at the waist,  anticipating the next gear shift, ready to roll throttle on, the roadside streams frigid whisper became a frozen chorus.   Mixing in my helmet with the heat of the day as we rolled on and peaked out with a round sweeping left hand turn.  Top of Warren.  Home of the hippie farm.  Home of the glider rides.  Millionaire ally.   Riding now north the back way to Waitsfield with the setting sun to the west,  watching the row of million dollar houses on the east side of the road.  There was so much fence crisscrossing the hill above the road it would take all summer long to paint just one property.  Yes they must have stock in Sherman Williams.  The mansions punched tickets for entry into their own place in the club.  We slowed and I put on my 4 ways,  pointing out to the Hermit: Warren Pieces most recent creation.  A hilltop paradise,  custom in and out.  If you have to ask how much, you couldn't afford it.   Warren ridge dropped out beneath us with sweeping splendor.  Rolling hills glowed with fresh dense green.  And on to the Waitsfield covered bridge- over the Mad river once again.       Now the Hermit was thirsty.  We headed 17 west leaving 100 for the night and bellied up to the polyurethaned planks at the Hideaway.  To say that our server smiled is short of fact.  She glowed.  Radiated.  Her unmanaged curls draped down near her elbows at their longest.  Big curls.  Big loose curls of rich brown hair.  She left quite an impression on the Hermit.  Though we were spared much snow it still was a long winter.  At times in the cabin he just tended the fires.  And now with him in her hands and a second cold switchback on the way he knew tonight he would not sleep.  After the night said good by to our headlights he would be haunted by her smile.  The smile that glowed like the moon in rainbow halo's.  It must be spring making him think this way.  This was just the beginning of our year motorcycling.  Just the first trip out.  When we split in front of Lincoln General he said: "Just think,  there is someone out there that is sick of making sweet love to that woman".   Tonight the Hermit would not sleep.  

warrenpieces.com