So here’s a guy that decided that panhandling on a street corner isn’t profitable enough, and is trying a new tack of driving around town in his car asking people for money.

After politely declining, I got to thinking about how this guy expected to accomplish the transfer of funds – whether those wishing to “donate” would pull over and give him money, or whether they would simply launch quarters through the passenger side window and into his car.

While you have to give the guy points for imagination, he probably needs to work on the finer points of the transaction.

In a roadside ditch a rotted log
holds squirming worm and toad
as wood breaks down to peat and bog
in the damp of Sixes Road

A rusting car and abandoned shack
both steel and stone erode
the lasts of a life from long years back
as I ride on Sixes Road

Miles beyond the road rose to meet me
an old farm and a rooster’s crow
the only voice out here to greet me
as I roll on Sixes Road

The twisted wreck of a flatbed truck
the marks on pavement show
how a too-tired driver ran out of luck
on the twisting Sixes Road

Returning home I now give voice
to the source of inspiration owed
to an afternoon’s ride and the random choice
of a turn on Sixes Road

© Philip Buonpastore, 1998

On a clear day in the Pacific Northwest, you can see forever.

May 5th was just such a day.  A very fine day.  Clear, blue, and sunny, with temperatures in the mid-70s.  Not one to miss when it comes likes a surprise gift.

A bald eagle pair return yearly to their nest north of Alder Dam.

The motorcycle and I found our way to SR7, riding south.  On the left, Mt. Rainier stands alone, a pure white giant in the eastern sky, still without the consistent warmth of July to melt the snow.  The road alternates between easy twists and turns and long straightaways – just enough variation to keep it interesting and fun.  North of Alder Lake and the dam of the same name, a seasonal bald eagle’s nest brings birdwatchers to a roadside pullout.

At the intersection of SR7 and Hwy 12 at the town of Morton, I decide that there is enough time left in the day for a ride up to Mt. St. Helens, and turn west on Highway

12 to ride to the national park’s western entrance.  On the way, I pass the DeGoede Bulb Farm and Gardens, whose fields of tulips are in full bloom, and passing cars stop and the families get out to simply walk through the fields and be surrounded by the beauty.  Of course I stop for photographs.

Continuing on, I stop to ask a man in a gas station about a backroad on the map that I have not ridden before, and he directs me to a southwestern turn at Fuller Road, which, via a short stretch on Jackson Highway, leads into the town of Toledo.  In town, I stop at a local sandwich shop for a hoagie and a bottle of water, and take a few photos of the well-known painted street scene, complete with traffic cop, that announces the town as the “Gateway to Mt. St. Helens.”

As I am leaving Toledo on SR505 west, my trip odometer reads 100 miles, and I use the odometer to keep approximate track of the range left in my tank.  The tank should have enough fuel for 40 to 50 miles before I hit the reserve, so I opt to ride up to the mountain without filling the bike.

As I proceed up the mountain and the miles roll up, I decide that it would be a good idea to  fill the tank after all, but the last gas station I pass riding up the mountain is closed.  Oh well, I am on my own.  I figure that the bike will use more gas ascending the mountain, and less on the way down, so I keep riding, and make a few stops for some good photos of the mountain on the way up.

The Honda Aero at Mt. St. Helens, May 5th 2012.

At the entrance of Mt. St. Helens park, I ride into the parking lot to get a pic of the bike by the park’s sign, just for the “official record.”  I realize that I have been riding almost 30 miles, and I know I am getting low on fuel, but debate with myself about riding further into the park.  Good sense wins out, and I start the ride down the mountain, and within a mile, the fuel runs out in the main tank and I go on reserve.  The ride up the mountain had used more fuel than I had anticipated.  Good thing for good sense.

Mt. St. Helens covered with snow.

I make it back to the town of Toledo, refuel the bike and ride home via the interstate.  Back by 7PM, it is the conclusion the first of what I hope to be many stellar rides in the Pacific Northwest, summer, 2012.

As I rode along Landsburg Road SE several miles east of SR18, I rode by something that you would not expect to see in a heavily forested residential area – a “Yellow Submarine” that was “dry docked” on the side of the road.  It appeared to be constructed from metal barrels of different diameters that were welded together, capped by a cone-shaped nose, and was complete with conning tower, a periscope, and even an “aft propellor.”  It was finished in yellow paint (of course), and complete with a period Beatles logo painted on the side.  The folk art submarine put a smile on my face, and I promised myself that I would bring back my camera for a few photographs on my next ride in the area.

Several weeks later, on an early Spring day’s ride, I stopped by again, this time with my camera, and parked my bike on the side of the road near the yellow submarine.  As I was taking some photographs, an older local resident who called himself “Al” stopped by in his pickup truck to see if I was having mechanical problems of any sort (nice folks in the Issaquah area!).  When I told him I was photographing the yellow submarine, he proceeded to tell me something of the history of the whimsical local landmark.

Al told me that the all-metal structure had been built by a resident that lived in a house back off of the road behind the landmark, and that as a high school student, he had built the submarine as a project for art class sometime in the late 70s.  Since then it has had its home in several locations on this road, and in the last few years was permanently “moored” here near the builder-artist’s current residence.  It has remained, from what I was told, a landmark in the area for 35 years.

Al also told me that he had been a motorcycle rider, and had owned many Harley Davidsons in his time, but did not ride anymore.  When he asked about my bike, I told him it was a Honda, and as I stepped towards it to show him the bike, he put his hands up, palms out, and said, “No, I ride Harleys, I can’t get near that thing” (…uh, okay).  Well, I appreciated his stopping by to offer assistance, and the wealth of knowledge he had about the yellow submarine landmark, but I just don’t get the (sometimes weird) Harley thing.  Go figure.

On the way to Cherokee, the mood is tense.  At night, mountain roads and deer are a common combination, and one that does not mix well with motorcycles.  Trying to put the danger behind me, I realized I was hurrying to get out of the mountains as fast as I could, and that the quick pace was only adding more variables to an already worrysome situation.  Once realized, the next thought was that there was simply no point in hurrying.  I was going to be late – very late.  Nothing I could do was going to make it go faster, or get me home earlier.  So I take some deep breaths, and decide to relax and simply let the ride take the time it was going to take.  I stop to put on my riding jacket, and once back on the bike,  I turned on the brights, keep a sharp lookout, and as much as it is possible to do, enjoy the ride.

Once at the town of Cherokee, it’s a stop at a country buffet for dinner, and I am glad to be off of the dark mountain road.  It’s not the best country cuisine I have ever had, but it is a welcome break, knowing the the remainder of the ride home will be a more relaxed four-lane divided highway.  Even here it is still three and a half hours from home.

My “portable music storage device” becomes the source of the late-night soundtrack as I ride 441 south towards Atlanta.  Every song seems to fit the mood or have some connection to the events, seeming to “dovetail” with the experience.  A song comes on that seems to capture the spirit of the night’s ride: it is Mr. Mister’s “Kyrie,” and the lyrics seem to be perfect now -

The wind blows hard against this mountainside
Across the sea, into my soul
It reaches in to where I cannot hide
Setting my feet upon the road

Kyrie Eleison down the road that I must travel
Kyrie Eleison through the darkness of the night
Kyrie Eleison where I’m going will you follow
Kyrie Eleison on a highway in the night

The road is good, and the center line reflectors lock me in like an airport landing strip. I am just “in the zone” – not hurrying, not worrying, not scurrying, just singing lyrics and riding.  The BMW is in its element now, moving as smoothly as a machine can: quiet, reliable, confident.  The bright lights are on, and I can see a quarter mile ahead.  I just smile.

I am home at midnight.  It has been a long day.  My wife has been worrying about me all evening, but she would not have worried if only she would have been there, experiencing the things that I have experienced.  How do you make someone else understand?  Maybe you never can.