A Flat Tire to An Interview to The Golden Gate to Rain

California
I don’t recall what hour I finally got up Sunday morning. Just the day before I had ridden back to LA with Brian from the desert and that was the day after riding out there in the first place which was the day after I arrived in California after a 10 hour ride. Does that make sense? One thing about riding a motorcycle is that you don’t feel tired (usually) while riding. This is great for long trips as you aren’t fighting to stay awake. However, the moment that boot slips off the foot peg and the rumble of the engine is silenced and that rump cautiously rises from the molded seat the weariness retraces the hundreds of miles just traveled and abruptly registers.

So I justify sleeping late. My sleeping quarters at Brian’s apartment weren’t super comfortable, but his carpeted floor is vastly superior to the ground of Darfur on which I have passed many somber evenings. So I actually didn’t notice any discomfort. My stomach grumbled, protesting the lack of attention I had doled out the previous evening. I thus resolved to remedy the situation by taking the 2 block trip to In-N-Out burger. I need say no more.

In actuality, the two weeks I spent at Brian’s apartment kind of blend. There are spots of recognition and detail; a weekend with my Grandparents in San Diego, an evening with my Uncle Kirby and Aunt Karol and cousin Chelsea, a drive through my old neighborhood and a walk through my childhood haunts, and so on.

I did make sure to make it to Royal Pastries. The best doughnuts bar none. Pure piece of heaven.

I was able to show my Darfur pictures to several people and relate my experiences in a more personal manner. I am always glad to do such a thing as people need to remember what is going on. Just before Brian and I headed up the coast I gave a video interview for a documentary being created about Darfur for the Sundance Film Festival. The producers know someone in Samaritan’s Purse who put them in touch with me and so I went and was interviewed for an hour.

I mentioned this to Andy Shaver, who I am now with in Vancouver, BC, and I remarked at how as I would describe the situation (and all aspects of it) the look on the interviewer’s face was one of incredulous shock. Even though I know that what Darfur was and is is wrong and terrible I am no longer shocked by it. My description of it is rather matter-of-fact and it intrigued me to see someone being faced with it for the first time. Made me realize again that what I take in-stride is actually quite distressing for the average American.

They are trying to get to Darfur to film and according to them should be finished with the film by September. If it passes muster with the Film Festival then it will be revealed in February of 2007.

One continuing thing of interest is that my brother’s motorcycle has provided us with many adventures:

We were returning from skydiving and were within five miles of his house when his rear tire struck a metal object and subsequently became flat. We were riding in the far left-hand lane and had 5 lanes to our right. Traffic was thicker than fleas and crawling at 10 mph. There was a shoulder on the left, however, and so we pulled into the five feet of protection it offered. Up until that point I had been riding in the lead but as we neared Brian’s abode I became less familiar with the directions and motioned for Brian to surge past me. Moments later I noticed his problem.

He didn’t catch it at first and it took me riding up right next to him and telling him to pull off. Brian used my cell phone and called Triple A. To his chagrin he discovered that the plan he was on didn’t cover his motorcycle. Still they put in the call for a tow truck. We needed a flatbed so that the motorcycle could be safely towed. What showed up 45 minutes later was a regular tow-truck whose driver claimed that he was just ‘scouting’ it out, the flat bed was coming. Fair enough.

By this time multiple thousands of cars had crawled past us and only three people had stopped or slowed to ask if we were alright. Los Angeles county is world-renowned for its hospitality. Twenty minutes after he arrived the regular tow truck driver came upon the brilliant idea of trying to repair the tire. He began to work. Then came the bees.

I suppose God ran out of locusts and had to send bees. At first we thought that it was flakes of ash from a nearby fire. But when one of them hovered in front of Brian’s face we realized their identity. For the next 10 minutes we were enveloped in a swarming cloud of bees. The driver shrieked for fear of his allergies and ran into his truck. Brian and I put our full face helmets on and turned up the collars of our jackets the whole time staring at each other in disbelief. Then they were gone.

Two or three hours after the initial pull-over we were finally sorted out. Brian was missing an arm having paid for the tow and his bike was in the shop for repairs of damage done to the rim.

Then we were riding back from San Diego where we had spent the weekend with our Grandparents and I noticed that the front exhaust pipe on Brian’s bike was flapping in the wind. He noticed a sharp increase in volume and definite loss of power. I again pulled up next to him and pointed at the problem. Stopping at a hardware store we purchased a pipe clamp and put the pipe back in place. Problem temporarily solved.

Moving along. “Brian, how about I continue to take the rear in case your engine falls off?” A short while later I am almost compelled to duck to miss the plastic cover for his battery area. The clasp had cracked at some point in the bike’s history and finally reached the give-up point. Nothing operationally serious but only the aesthetic quality is damaged. A quick stop at the Honda dealership and the discovery that a new one would be over a hundred dollars. For a piece of plastic 12 inches long and 10 inches tall. Wow. As my grandfather says of personal aircraft, if you were to build an airplane from scratch with spare parts it would be vastly more expensive than just going out and buying one. The irony.

The pipe got welded. I changed the oil in both of our bikes and we were finally ready to go.

Due to some work issues and my video interview we decided to postpone the trip for one day. Sunday, May 14th we bade farewell to Los Angeles and began our ‘climb’ north along the coast.

I was born in Orange County in Southern California...I even passed by the hospital where I was born on this trip, but never in my 16 years of living there did I ever venture up past Monterey. I had absolutely no idea about the wealth of beauty that is contained along the coast. Our first day had us both reeling in amazement with every bend in the road. As we’d stop for gas we share our shocked impressions.

Prior to setting off we had determined a system of hand signals which had the total effect of getting the both of us to be aware of one or the other’s intentions of pulling over. We didn’t have two way radios (which we regret) and so the only way to discuss things was to pull over. If our hands got cold one would wave his hand over his head, get noticed by the other and then receive a corresponding signal. We’d pull over.

Without discussion and en-route we agreed that pumping your hand up and down vigorously meant some kind of thrilled declaration of amazement and excitement. Our trip was punctuated hundreds of times in such a manner as we’d round a bend and be confronted with mountains dropping off immediately into the ocean which beat itself relentlessly on the rocky cliffs. We’d swoop around a sharp bend and find a steep canyon had wound its way around the peaks and found the ocean. We’d slow and stare back up the canyon’s mysterious pathway realizing that more beauty lay beyond those bends too. Too bad we could ride over there.

Our first night was in a place called Big Sur. We found a campground that was inundated with huge trees that hugged each campsite and towered above like vigilant sentries. We lay awake discussing and not believing at the incredible things we had encountered. Post-trip now we both agree that that first day was one of the top three experiences of the whole adventure.

I won’t go into too much detail about each day of the trip. We had good campsites and bad ones. Mostly good days, although there were cold moments and being socked in with fog and mist. Those things made it all the more adventurous though. Not being able to see the road more than 50 feet in front of you is exciting. Challenging.

The intensely meandering coastline highway provided great enjoyment for us motorcyclists, but after the third and fourth and fifth day of the stuff it proved to be hard work. Enjoyable still, but we began to long for straight roads where we could consume more blacktop and arrive in our campsites with more daylight to spare.

I can say now that I have been to San Francisco and have personally driven across the famed Golden Gate Bridge. It was a beautiful time of day with a late afternoon sun casting warmth and shadow and making for more character on the bridge. Ships cruised in the bay beneath us and the city sprawled out to our right. We didn’t take the tour but we could see Alcatraz sitting menacingly also to our right.

Then it turned chilly and the next two hours of riding were interesting. Climbing into my small tent and sleeping bag were welcomed luxuries at the end of the day and each morning I was thankful for the waterproof qualities of my tent as we were rained on everyday. We’d just lie there for a few hours until it stopped and then quickly rise and pack up and leave.

San Antonio to El Paso to The Grand Canyon to LA to 12,500 feet to an unfinished progression

It is Monday, the 22nd of May and I am at a campground adjacent to the visitor center for Mt. St. Helens. The visitor center is quite a few miles from the actual mountain and I suspect that I know why. You can figure it out. I am here with my older brother, Brian, and we have just spent the last week cruising up the west coast on our motorcycles. Unlike James Taylor we havenÌt seen fire and rain÷just rain. Almost every night in fact.

IÌve been obsessing about this motorcycle trip for well over a year and my experience in Darfur served only to cause the sparks and fan the flame. In the course of discussing the details of the trip my brother decided that he wanted to join me when I made the trek northwards from his home in LA. He had never ridden a motorcycle before and that remained the case until about a month before we were scheduled to leave.

A friend at his work recommended a motorcycle training course offered as part of a licensing program in California and so Brian opted to take it. Prior to the course he was planning on keeping the bike he would buy only for the trip and then sell it afterwards. However, according to him, after getting into the course and leaning into the turns he decided that this newfound thrill was too good to pass up. Plus the ridiculous price of gas these days really makes a mid-forties per gallon vehicle enticing.

When I rolled into LA he had ridden somewhere around 200 miles on a bike that he had only owned for two weeks. And we were then planning a trip that would require from us 1500 miles up a coastline road that due to twists and turns keeps you down to an average of maybe 30 mph. What fun.

I was with my friends in San Antonio through the weekend and Sunday morning I again hit the road. Soon I encountered the sheer vastness of the state of Texas and it truly seemed as if it would never end. There were several times where I began to sweat it when the miles began to stretch longer than I was comfortable with the size gas tank I have. Mile after mile of nothing but massive rolling planes surrounded by bizarre rock formations and jagged mountain ranges. Then there were hundreds upon hundreds of gigantic wind farms with windmills that have blades 150 feet long. They were stacked thick as fleas and dutifully captured the wind as they spun around in slow motion.

The placement of the wind farms there was a good one and I realized that with each blasting gust that hit me from the south. There were several gusts that truly terrified me and one in particular that actually nearly succeeded in unseating me from my iron horse. My route was along I-10 which snakes along the US border all the way to El Paso. I rolled into said town early evening as dog-tired traveler baked by the sun and bored witless by the truly unexciting scenery.

My grandfather had provided me with 8 stays at a Marriot Courtyard and as I didnÌt have the energy to find a campground in the waning light I pulled into one and gratefully slumped on the comfortable bed in my room. I then discovered a peculiar thing. In the middle of my back I found a large lump that protruded out from my spinal column. I was immediately awake and nervous not knowing what it was.

I was quite sure that it wasnÌt there that morning and I began to rack my mind trying to figure it out. I called my parents to ask them what they thought it was and even called the local hospital. My room had internet and so I started scouring the medical websites trying to find out what this thing on my back was. It didnÌt hurt and was kind of hard but wasnÌt solidly attached under my skin. Thus I could sort of manipulate it. Not much could be done and so I went to bed quite shaken. I awoke the next morning to find that it had gone down considerably and by that time I had figured that it might have been caused by pressure. All the day before I had been leaning up against my backpack and there was a strap that protruded right at that spot. I suppose that 10 hours of constant pressure would cause some sort of swelling.

Well that was scary but IÌm glad it wasnÌt anything serious.

From El Paso I hoofed it all the way to Williams, AZ. I passed through Tuscan and Phoenix and took I-17 north to Flagstaff. Williams is 35 miles west of Flagstaff and is situated right on the road that leads to the Grand Canyon. I got kind of a late start and so it wasnÌt until almost 10pm that I rolled into the campground I had made reservations at. During the day it was quite warm but as the sun began to dip and I began to climb the air suddenly grew quite cold. I pulled over and put on all of my layers and pressed on.

The two hours from when I put on my warm clothes until I pulled into my campsite were probably the coldest two hours of my life. I didnÌt realize it but I was at 7000 feet and it was somewhere in the 30Ìs. My hands were frozen and my body was so cold that my shoulders were involuntarily heaving and shuddering. My legs were doing the same thing. I truly had a hard time feeling my fingers. I-40 shoots west out of Flagstaff and I followed it for the 35 miles it took to get to my campground. It is long and straight. I took advantage of that and was soon flying along at around 100mph. I hunched over behind my windshield and sang real loud in my helmet to keep myself sane or it was an outburst of insanity caused by hypothermia not sure which.

I lay that night in my tent not believing what I had just done. I thanked God that I hadnÌt wiped out and spread myself out on the road but also prayed that I would warm up. My sleeping bag isnÌt that great and I continued to shiver and lay awake most of the night trying to get warm. I donÌt know when sleep finally overtook me but I was at last warm when I awoke÷to warm. The mid morning sun beat down upon my tent creating an oven-like effect. I crawled out to discover the terrain that had escaped me during my midnight dash.

I was situated in a large valley. Scrubby trees were everywhere and in general I wasnÌt all that impressed. The real eye-candy lay 45 minutes to the north.

The crowning event of the three days I spent camping there was the half day ride I took along the rim of the Grand Canyon. I had been there once before but still I was not fully prepared to comprehend the vastness of the geological anomaly that cost me 10 dollars in park fees to come and stare at.

The Grand Canyon is truly massive. It is so big that when you stare at it you really have to pause and consider whether or not what you are looking at is real. I got that sensation when I first saw the cruiseliner the Queen Mary which is docked as a museum in the Long Beach Harbor in California. It is something that is so big that from a distance you could almost be convinced that it is a backdrop painting or something and that by walking forward you might hit the wall that it is set upon.

The time of day that I arrived at the GC was just right as well as the shadows cast made for crisp edges and stark contrasts. In some places the road is only a few feet away from the edge where the ground gives way to the air and there is nothing for 300 feet straight down. There are many places to pull over and observe and I took occasion to eat lunch at one of them.

I sat on a boulder on the edge for half an hour just soaking in the serenity.

The rest of the ride followed an easterly route along the canyon until it eventually peters out in vast plains straight from the set of a John Wayne movie. It was pleasant and sunny and the two lane road wound its way down from the plateau height of around 7000 feet where the grand canyon is to the lower planes a few thousand feet below. Then it snaked around large buttes and small mountains as it climbed back up to Flagstaff.

I was planning on staying a day later in that area but having exhausted the things ëto doí I decided to go ahead and get to my brotherís place in LA a day early. With stops and such it is about 8 hours and so mid morning on Thursday the 27th of April I hit the road, closing another chapter in this trek of mine.

I almost ran out of gas. There was a long stretch where there were no gas stations and I was down to fumes. Iíve been there a few times already with my 3.5 gallon tank and I slowed down and took it real easy trying to squeeze just a few more miles out of the bone dry tank. You can imagine my complete relief when that station sign loomed on the horizon. Relief even in the shocking face of over three dollars for one measly gallon.

As I neared California I began to see small groups of bikers heading the opposite direction. Customarily we waved to each other (a part of biking I really enjoy, the comradery with complete strangers based off the single bond of being a fellow rider. Then small groups grew into huge groups and then for the next 150 miles I was presented with a constant stream of roaring bikers. As far as the eye could see up I-40 the eastbound lanes were choked with Harleyís and everything else all intent on reaching a huge rally in Arizona. I felt out of place heading West.

I finally arrived at my brotherís place. I had to pass through the San Bernardino mountains and was confronted with scenery I didnít remember California possessing. It is really beautiful north of Los Angeles.

Navigating rush hour traffic in and around Los Angeles reminded me why I love living in the seclusion offered by the small mountain town of Boone. Boone is getting crowded but at least it isnít with the cutthroats that swarm the freeways coursing through LA. Several times I was nearly run into by willingly blind motorists. Then you have the motorcycles which zip up in between the lanes. That is quite convenient for motorcyclists but I didnít have the guts at first to partake of that shortcut.

What lay ahead of me was two weeks with my brother and a chance to catch up on sleep that I feel I havenít fully caught up on from being in Sudan. I could probably sleep for the next year and still not regain the energy I lost while being there. Having just ridden almost 5000 miles (granted over a month) didnít help for that and so I was thrilled to be able to completely relax.

I had to wait for a few days though. The day after I arrived (Friday) Brian and I hopped on our bikes and headed for the desert where Brian has, within the last few months, taken up the hobby of skydiving. We had scheduled jumps for both of us and also there were several guys from Brianís workplace that promised to come.

I had gone skydiving once before with Brian back in February but that was jumping tandem or strapped to an instructor. What I was gearing up to do was jump out of an airplane with my own parachute and would thus be responsible for maintaining a stable descent and pulling the rip cord at the appropriate altitude. Then I would pilot the airfoil parachute to the ground and, guided by radio on the ground, make a landing.

I admit that I was nervous. Especially considering that before jumping I had to complete a 5 hour ground school, something I was able to do Friday night, the night before our jumps. I was worried that I would freak out midair and that something would go wrong. I wasnít worried about the equipment failing as I had already experienced what it felt like. My main concern was ëdiver errorí. Fears are usually unfounded though and throughout the freefall you are flanked by two instructors who if need be could deploy my parachute.

The company that runs the drop zone provides for and allows people to sleep on the premises so Brian and I were able to stay right at the airport. The hustle and bustle of moving the twin engine airplane out of the hanger that took place just outside the rooms we were in woke us up. My mind immediately latched upon the concept of what I was soon to be experiencing and resorted to the mental and even physical drills taught in the ground school.

There is a flight option called the ‘early bird’ and it takes off at 6:30am. The sky was perfectly clear and there was a slight crispness to the air made special by the glancing morning sunshine. I munched a ‘Clif’ Bar, sipped my water and patiently waited.

Brian had convinced a contingent of his colleagues from his office to push aside their truly unfounded fears and join us that day for the thrills. The four of them planned to jump tandem and a few others decided to show up with their cameras, each certain that they would be capturing the grisly ends of their friends.

By the time I suited up, checked the gear and climbed into the harness to which my parachute was attached the group was still absent. With the ‘Fanfare of Man’ blaring poignantly in my mind and picturing myself in slow motion I strode over to the plane and stepped aboard with the ten other people on that flight. It was around 8:30am. To reach the jump altitude of 12,500 feet it takes about 25 minutes of steep ascent.

Those minutes are revealing of the crowd that makes up the addicted skydivers. A brochure provided this comment, “25 dollars for the ride up, free inflight entertainment.” Very enjoyable. As altitude markers are ticked off double and triple checks are performed on each other’s equipment and the adrenaline begins to flow. Except for the laughs and small conversation shouted over the roar of the engines the early stages of the flight are pretty unemotional. Once jump time is moments away the excitement begins to permeate the plane until it feels as if the plane itself could make its flight sustained by it.

Then it is scooting down the bench seats along the side as my predecessors vanish. Then it is the door. The gaping mouth of the sky breathing its icy blasts on my face. Step up to the edge. One hand flat against the inside. One hand flat on the outside. Facing forward. Knees slightly bent. My two jump masters securing their grips. “CHECK IN!” I can hardly hear myself. The JM to my right shakes me to affirm his readiness. “CHECK OUT!” My left shakes affirmation. Square shoulders to prop blast. Down. Up. Down. And a simple step of faith to my left into nothingness.

ARCH! Falling. Stomach in throat. Deafening roar of the wind rushing by at 120 mph. Check horizon. I’m stable. Check altimeter. Shout to JM, “ELEVEN THOUSAND FIVE HUNDRED.” Practice touch to my ripcord. Enjoy the ride. Check altimeter. Watch it for a five seconds and watch it eat a thousand feet. Jumpmaster signals to arch more. Good...thumbs up.

Altimeter. Six thousand feet. No more maneuvers. Wave arms over head to signal immediately pending parachute deployment. Jump masters let go. Five thousand five hundred feet. Showtime. Reach, pull.

Rustling and unfurling. Poof. Arrested development. Complete silence. I am a spot in the sky. I look and see that I have a perfect parachute. Reaching up I grab my control toggles which, when individually pulled, warp the shape of the wing causing specific drag and redirecting airflow thus causing purposeful alterations in bearing. Now I can hear crackling in my radio earpiece and an instructor on the ground calls in,

“Jonathan, congratulations. Control check please.” Does the parachute actually work? A hard pull on the right toggle produces sudden downward spiral to the right. Alternating to the left I get the same result. The sudden surge downward and I feel the rush of acceleration. Good. Level flight now and pull smoothly on both toggles causing a ‘flare’. Putting on the breaks. Release. Marvelous. I now know that I can steer and slow the parachute down. Now I relax and look around and relish the serenity and beauty of the desert from 4000 feet.

Ground instructor cackles in directing me into a landing pattern that will have me landing into the wind. I can see my brother standing on the ground at the landing site. He is with his friends. They have just arrived.

It is very difficult to know when exactly to flare. You are essentially putting a severe halt to forward motion and thus legitimate flight. It is thus useful for landing in complete control and for providing a truly soft touchdown but many people make the mistake of flaring too early and suddenly dropping to the ground. Or they flare to late and may end up injuring themselves. The majority of skydiving accidents actually happen during the landing.

However, the instructor guides novice students in every step of the way. In the earpiece, “hold...hold...hold...” The ground is rushing up to me. Faith in the instructor. “Hold...hold...and flare.” The flare is practiced on the ground at the right cadence and to my satisfaction I was able to pull it off perfectly. With the ease of stepping down from a two foot wall I safely connected my feet with the ground and watched my parachute, my life-cradle, gently crumple into the dirt.

There was my brother and his compatriots with cheers and adulations. If I could do this then they certain could. Fears subsided on their part. Inner triumph on mine. Glory be.

Dayton to Thornfield to Tulsa to Dallas to Austin to San Antonio

Tuesday, April 4, 2006
After nearly freezing to death last night I broke down and stopped at a Days Inn. This area experienced a late spring frost and I was caught in the middle of it. I decided to give in to my shuddering and twitching body and call it and night. This morning I awoke and quickly loaded up my things so as to hit the road early.. I had stayed the night in a town called Hardy, as in the Hardy Boys. Hardy is located in the Northeast of Arkansas and is just 20 minutes from the Missouri border.

My destination is the house of my friend Jordan Niednagel. He lives in the middle of nowhere, Missouri style. I shall be seeing him in the next few hours. I won’t go into too much detail about what we are doing at this point in my narrative as later in my trip I’ll be coming back to his house and there will be more to share.

Friday, April 21, 2006
Well, much has transpired since I last sat down and wrote something out. I am currently in Bulverde, Texas which is just north of San Antonio. I arrived yesterday amidst a downpour. Thankfully my things stayed dry but I certainly was not. I am staying with the Goforths, friends of our family who used to live in Boone. I helped them to move 5 years ago, something which constituted my first long distance driving adventure (with me driving).

On my way to their house I had my first real close call…well, second actually, but this one was actually a lot more serious than the first. Close call as in nearly becoming road paint. The first happened just the day before when I was in Austin driving around trying to find a grocery store. A woman started to pull out from a car dealership and made clear eye contact with me. I began to slow thinking that she was going to stop and wait for me to pass but it quickly became evident that I was the only one doing the thinking. She just continued to slowly sneak out into the road and ended up covering one and a half lanes directly in front of me. Had I not immediately swerved around her I would have plowed into her. I laid on my horn and gave her a dirty look. This all happened quite fast actually and I was quite thankful for quick reflexes.

So the second thing that happened really shook me up. I was carefully moving along Texas highway 46 looking for Old Boerne (bur-nee) Rd, the road on which the Goforths live. Earlier it had been raining like there was no tomorrow and I had pulled under large archway that served as a ranchÌs entrance. I was able to wring out my shirt and put on my leathers (hadnÌt been wearing them because it was hotter than the inner sanctums of hell) and once it eased up from being torrential I hit the road again.

Soon I came upon Old Boerne Rd. What happened next was stupid and it is GodÌs grace that I am alive. I didnÌt remember to think that the roads would be slick and so I put on the brakes to slow down for the turn. My wheels locked and all of the sudden I was sliding and slipping down the road. It felt like it was going in slow motion and the whole time was I fully expecting to go down. But I fought it and suddenly found myself righted and safe. I pulled over and caught my breath÷calmed down and then turned around and headed down the right road. Phew.

Prior to being here I have been in Missouri for two weeks, Tulsa, Dallas and Austin. In Missouri I was with my friend Jordan Niednagel working on a film we are making for a small time Christian film festival in San Antonio. He owns two jetskis and so we hit the lake once it got warm enough. One of them wasnÌt working so we hopped on the double seater and took turns trying to throw the other guy off. That was the first time that I had ever ridden on one of those things and I had a complete blast. We took turns riding single and during my time I rode vigorously enough to throw myself twice. It was some of the most fun IÌve had in a long time.

I left from Missouri mid morning on Monday the 17th and arrived in Tulsa late afternoon. I stopped along the way at AmericaÌs largest McDonalds. This has been my only Îfast foodÌ stop other than Subway for this whole trip and until I get to In-N-Out territory I plan on keeping it that way (those of you not from In-N-Out territory wonÌt understand). While I was waiting in line to order my artery concrete (to use the term of Coy Isaacs) I heard a child screaming his head off and I was annoyed. Annoyance turned to intrigue when the childÌs parents kept telling him, ÏhalassÓ, which is Arabic for Îthat is enoughÌ. I turned around and saw that indeed it was a Sudanese man with his family. I struck up a conversation, part Arabic and part English. Elhad has lived in the States for several years and used to live in Khartoum. He was excited to meet someone who had been to Sudan. I was likewise.

Tulsa serves as the home of my Great Uncle Bob and Great Aunt Esther. Uncle Bob is my motherÌs fatherÌs brother. For many years of my life my mother and brothers stayed with my grandparents at their cabin in Minnesota and Uncle Bob and Aunt Esther were usually there as well in their cabin next door. So it was great to see them again as it had been about two years. Aunt Esther made sure that I was well fed and taken care of and I was able to show them some of my pictures from Sudan.

The next morning I hit the road early and was well on my way to Dallas before the scorching heat reached its full force. The day before on the way to Tulsa was miserable and reminded me of some days in Sudan. Having contained explosions continuously exploding between my legs and adding to the heat around me made things all the more sweltering. In Tulsa I had quite a few stop and go traffic stops and those were the worst. Once you begin to fly down the road the wind carries most of the heat away.

While I was enjoying the road I ended up making a wrong turn and found myself about two hours east of where I wanted to be once I reached the same latitude as Dallas. I pulled out the trusty Atlas and found a country highway that ran from Paris (Texas) over to near Dallas. It was longer in actuality that it appears on the map and stretched for miles and miles through the sprawling plains just teeming with evidence for ‘over-population’ (indicated sarcasm). My Great Aunt Miriam lives in Dallas (the older sister of Uncle Bob) and so I stopped in for a short visit. Unfortunately the amount of time we had was quite limited but we had a good time with what we had.

By this time my arms were nice and burned but by now they have transitioned nicely over to a deep tan. I dare not take my watch off though… the white would be blinding.

From Dallas I headed south along I-35 towards Austin, a 5 hour drive. When I was about 2 hours outside of Austin I was able to see the massive thunderhead system that was approaching from the south. I had checked the weather and knew that I would be possibly running into something like that but I just kept praying that I would avoid getting dumped on. As the day ‘waxed old like a garment’ and the sky got darker the atmosphere grew gloomier and scarier. The lighting was ripping through the sky and all in front of me and increasingly around me was the thrilling display of the crackling light.

As I drove around searching for my hotel in Austin the sky appeared to me like it does in the movie ‘Independence Day’ when the alien spacecraft break through earth’s atmosphere. It seemed to be tearing apart. There was an oppressive force to the clouds and an immanency to them that encouraged speed in my search. Just a minute or two before I pulled under the awning of the entrance of the hotel where I was staying the heavens opened up. I was only slightly wet and escaped the next several hours which contained torrential downpours and hail literally almost as wide as a 20 dollar bill. Helmet or no helmet that would put a dent in your plans.

The next morning I rode to downtown Austin and arrived early for a scheduled tour of the campus of the University of Texas at Austin. I am hoping to eventually attend school there with the goal of studying Hebrew and Arabic. I am not sure what that will lead to but that is what I am excited about doing. The campus is very handsome and well laid out. It actually has the largest student population of 50,000. Lots of kids running around.

Anyway, that was all very interesting and exciting. One more night in Austin and then yesterday morning I left around 11:30 and headed down to see my friends here in San Antonio.

Boone to Troy to Dayton

Troy, North Carolina 3-30-2006
At long last I have commenced my journey. I have talked of this trip for over a year and now I cannot believe I am doing it. For months I had visions of the road as it appears over my handlebars and now my mind is filled not with desired scenes from the future but now relished scenes from my first day of travel.

On my way out of town I stopped to see if my concealed carry permit had arrived at the SheriffÌs office. Although, as I found out, it had been issued on the 23rd it still hadn’t arrived and I was forced to leave town packing heat that was hindered by a cable lock and stored not on my hip but in my bag. Pride slightly marred.

I was therefore on my way at last leaving town around 12:15 and beginning my descent off the mountain via 421. Not wanting to attract the blue lights I kept it nice and easy and hovered comfortably at 65-70mph. I stopped in Wilkesboro to pick up my new boots from the HD store and bought some gloves while I was at it. Roughly four hours later I rolled into Troy, the adopted home of Boone Berlin, student of Montgomery Community College and aspiring gunsmith. Boone and I go back as long as I’ve lived in the town of Boone (no relation) and I was pleased to make my first stop at his humble abode.

We enjoyed each other’s company, the local food scene (pretty pathetic) and the free access gun range available within the confines of the Uwharrie National Park. We duly heated the barrels of his .22 pistol and .22 Mag rifle and made the other shooters jealous wielding my recently acquired .40 caliber Walther P99, James Bond’s and Jack Bauer’s handgun of choice. Drake, Jonathan Drake.

As I write I prepare to bed down and will be leaving BooneÌs house in the morning. My destination is Dayton, TN. Justin Lonas, my buddy from Boone and co-highschool graduate is currently enrolled at Bryan College there as a senior. I’ll be staying with him for the weekend. Then, if my permit has arrived on Monday I will drive back to Boone to pick it up. From there it will be off to Missouri and so on.

Dayton, Tennessee 4-1-2006
I arrived in the town of Dayton on Saturday. My trip was without incident and was for the first time faced with an almost all day travel. I must say that I was indeed wiped out and do not know how I survived the buffeting and rush of the wind. However I do enjoy it. The freedom of the road is exhilarating.

My purpose for coming to Dayton, and you must have a purpose as there isn’t anything here to attract your average traveler, is that my good friend Justin Lonas has dwelt here for just under four years as a student of Bryan College. Bryan was founded in honor of William Jennings Bryan, a statesman, multiple timed presidential candidate and the famous lawyer who stood in defense of the law restricting the teaching of evolution in the infamous Scopes Monkey Trial.

During this stay Justin showed to me the courtroom in which the trial took place and drove by the unassuming house that served as the stage for Bryan’s death within a week following the completion of the trial. Very interesting. I personally enjoy being in places of great historical significance.

Saturday night we headed off to some local wilderness and with two of Justin’s school buddies went camping. It was a glorious evening and we enjoyed each other’s company and conversation into the wee hours of the night. Good guys.

I was aroused the next morning by a light tapping sound that I initially took for the crackling of the fire that Justin had promised to create. Of course it wasn’t and dodging the now realized dropping rain we ate a quick breakfast and rolled up our wet things and hurried out of there. It continued to rain for most of the day laughing, as it were, in the face of the previous day’s forecast of light clouds and sunshine.

Justin and I sought out his future mate (previously decided on), a certain Rachel Gentry, and spent the rest of the afternoon talking to her and relaxing. Justin and Rachel became engaged in the early part of this year and have set their wedding date for October 7. Justin is the first of our tight group of friends to forsake singleness but he does so with a smile on his face and a song on his lips.

Our evening was spent in the sweat and cussing that usually accompanies a good game of bowling. My best score for the evening was a measly 133. For shame.

Inaugural Address...

I don't like the word 'blog'. I know it is from 'web log' but it conjurs up images for me of an overstuffed person sitting on an overstuffed couch overstuffing themselves with potato chips and just whimsically clacking the keys on their computer and posting nonsense for the rest of the world to read. I mean...come on.

However I realize the usefulness of such a medium and how it allows one to communicate with untold millions without ever invading the increasingly infringed upon privacy that a personal email account used to offer.

So I have finally broken down and set up my own blog as I expect that as long as I have adventures to live there will probably be some people who will want to know if I have survived them and the manner in which I do so.

The first one is going to be quite long as I have a build up of descriptions of what I have gone through so far on my cross country motorcycle trip. Most of it is just basic relating of what I've done without much flair but I suppose that now that I have means with which to continually update then I might be more faithful to post.

Pass this along to whoever you think might want to find out what I am up to and feel free to post comments or shoot me an email.

Regards,

Jonathan