invasion of america - the fall woods

Mandan - Michigan

80o miles.

After a long break, I finally rode out of Fargo heading east. I was finally able to leave the Interstate system behind me, which was just what I needed spiritually. You see, in the heart of every motorcyclist there is a truth that speaks of only riding two lane highways and never ever touching the blacktop of the Interstates. It has everything to do with you riding through nature and with nature and not over it or next to it. So it was nice to see Highway 12.

It was the first time in a long time that I was able to take off most of the layers of clothing that had been keeping me warm across most of Montana and North Dakota. It was nice to feel a warm breeze on my body and to not feel that I had to worry about being blown off the bike by it. I almost felt that I could ride without my helmet again. I just wanted to feel a little less constricted by my clothes.

I rode into Minnesota and my heart just soared. I love Minnesota, it's such an amazing state. I used to live here a long time ago and I have nothing but perfect memories about this state (other than a brief prison stay. I didn't like that too much). Minnesota is the land of 10,000 lakes and it really holds up that claim. Most of the state is water with a few birch tree forests making up the difference between each lakeside. Almost every lake seems to be big enough to water ski on, but there are few that just seem like a good place to catch frogs, breed mosquitoes or float around on an intertube for hours, dipping your toes - just a touch - in the water. They're all very picturesque and I would get giddy each time I saw one. The same kind of giddy that a small child gets when they play peek-a-boo with a parent using their own feet to hide behind. If I could have clapped, I would have.

For every lake in Minnesota there is a farm with endless acres fo sugar beets, mustard seed, corn or other yummy ingredients. Each farm has a huge barn a silo, a cozy farm house and a dog. It's the kind of place that you would look at in a picture and say, "I wish I could live there". Or if you were really a jaded soul, you would say, "I bet that place costs a fortune."

The air is filled with the best Fall smell of them all - the rich smell of fireplaces burning their first fires of the season. The image of smoke rising out of the chimneys makes me feel like I had chosen the best time to be riding across America, visually, but probably not the best time emotionally. I think it would have been easier if I just saw bugs and humidity amid all the lakes and farms and at least that way when I saw them I wouldn't want to move back here.

Tucked into neat little corners of my view are pumpkin patches, ripe corn and the occasional tree turning out its best fall color scheme, it's easy to be taken back to a better time in your youth when you see these things. A time that spoke to you about Halloween, warm coats, watching your breathe escape your mouth and trying not to be disgusted by the snot on your scarf, tons of laughter and endless piles of leaves in the yard and the work that accompanies it. It was easy to squeal like a small child every time I saw one of these powerful reminders.

When the farms give up land to the birch forests, it almost feels like you have entered a grand hallway lined with dalmation trees. There is very little....

The winds returned. The cold returned. The coats and multiple layers of clothes returned.

Suddenly the trip down memory lane was a brutal one. The winds were focused in between the narrow tree-lined hallways and it was even more difficult to make my speed. I couldn't stop shivering from the cold and I was stopping every fifteen minutes to get a cocoa or a coffee. Brainerd is 130 miles from Fargo and Duluth is 120 miles from Brainerd. If I could only make it to Duluth, then I would be okay for the night.

Then my bike started to make a really weird noise. The sort of noise that engines make when there isn't enough oil in the me or it's 10,000 miles past due for its oil change. A hard CLANK noise. That just turned my stomach. I am nowhere near a BMW dealership to get this fixed.

I passed a familiar intersection in the middle of rural Minnesota and even though my heart was filled with nostalgic images that would otherwise make me weep, I was too cold to enjoy it. I rode through the intersection without even stopping to take a picture. In fact, I can't remember the last time I touched the camera on this trip. Oh well, sometimes the imagery is just for me. Of course, when you're cold, your filled with insightful wisdom-like sayings like that.

I made it to Duluth by 10 PM. There is a burn ban, so camping is out of the question for the night. Not that I mind, it's soooo cold that I doubt that I could rest even if I did camp. I need heat badly so I checked in to a cheap hotel that doesn't offer a TV, but it does offer female companionship if you want it. I could care less either way at this point. I just want a really hot shower, a warm bed and a couple of cheap hookers to rub my sore ass and... other things (and they say crystal meth is a bad thing... Come on... Look at the bright side).

The next day, September 11th. Monday. I'm still 1000 miles from Montreal and I doubt that I am going to make it by Tuesday afternoon at this rate. Knowing that I won't make it, I have given up trying to. It was important that I address the issues with the bike anyway. I wasn't going anywhere until that was fixed. I checked around for a motorcycle shop that I could change the oil in and that would allow me some space to check out a few other things. I found a small shop in Wisconsin that was open early, nearby and completely unfamiliar with BMW's. He barely knew Harley's, but he did own a shop and he did have oil and he was willing to let me use his shop to get the oil changed. The only thing he wanted in return - an audience.

I never tell anyone I am a stand up comic if I can help it. For some reason, I let it slip this one time. It will never happen again.

The oil came out like water. It came out and dripped down on to every single piece of the bike. There are two oil reservoirs on the bike and you have to find both if you want to change the oil correctly. I don't know how to do it. The shop owner didn't know how to do it. BMW is always closed on Mondays everywhere around the world, so they're no help. So if I fuck up and drain the wrong reservoir, I could empty the transmission fluid and cripple the bike big time. I don't even know where to refill the oil or the transmission fluid. So being cautious and paying attention is important.. Tensions were high. I just drained everything.

Somehow - it worked out. The shop owner sat and watched me as I took the bike apart and he kept making comments about my work ethic, the trip, Jesus, terrorists, Harleys versus BMW, The Packers - who lost badly the day before, Jesus again, comedy, black people, a rare diatribe about sex(him) and finally; if there were more gays in Tacoma than in Wisconsin. Truly a conversation for the ages. Again, this is why I never tell anyone I am a comic. Sometimes you don't want to be funny or hear anything funny, you just want to change the oil and get to Montreal.

I don't know if the bike is right or wrong, but it has new oil in it and I have two days of riding before I can get it looked at properly in Montreal. I will just have to hope that the bike carries me the rest of the way on its own will to get there. I'm sure it's had enough to.

Gas prices had slowly dropped to 2.50 a gallon for the good stuff over the past few days and I was feeling that I was going to be able to recoup my hotel room expenditures in my gas budget, then I got to Wisconsin. I truly believe that every state that voted for Bush has better gas prices than those that voted for Democracy. Sorry, I meant Democrats. Wisconsin - 3 plus a gallon for the crap low-end stuff. North Dakota - 2.50 for the stuff you could bathe in.

There are not as many lakes or as many birch trees in Wisconsin (damn Republicans) but the area of land that rests against Lake Superior doesn't suffer because of it. It's some of the greatest soil that man has ever seen. The land here has never settled down and become tame to any standard that would appeal to a wide spread audience. It rises and falls against the banks of the world's largest lake in quite a drastic fashion. It's jagged silhouette against the barren blue sky above the lake surface is spooky and very uninviting if one was on the lake and looking for a place to come to shore. Wisconsin just screams - FUCK OFF, Go to Minnesota! Imagine, if you will, the hidden fortress of Superman fame. The interlocking beams that made up the ceiling and the walls of Superman's house. That's what it looks like here. Now cover that with trees of every available fall color; Bright reds, lemon yellows, sherbert oranges and pass their prime- browns - and now you know the scene. The waters of the world's largest lake are a blue that I have never seen before and it almost looks fake. If I had to label it, I would say - the color blue they give blueberry when the make candy or gum. That bright-bright blue that leaves the same color in your mouth and makes you look like you've just eaten a handful of smurfs.

The sun was out, the winds were softer but the weather seems like it's going to be permanently chilly for the rest of the way. My golden plan for camping most of the way has been shot. I was forced to wear all my clothes to keep warm, but I was happier about it. Probably because I had figured out a way to get them on and off in a fair amount of time and they didn't seem like such a hassle anymore. Long gone are the beliefs that I should turn around. Long gone was the feeling sorry for myself. For some reason; today I no longer need a break every fifteen minutes or thirty minutes or even every hour. I can ride for hours and not stop and it made me feel better all around. Had the sun disappeared, I would have driven off the cliff and impaled myself on Superman's rooftop

Michigan.

This place is called the Iron range, and it more than lives up to its name. It's very hard here. Cold. Tough. It takes a real, hard nature lover to live here or someone that can take a lot and not break. I could live here if I didn't have such a hang up about seeing attractive people more often than not. Here, every gas station or public outpost has photos of hunters with their kill posted on a wall near the doors. The only color scheme they know here is camo and the only trucks you see are Fords. Nothing gets over 2 miles to the gallon and it's considered very manly to have the crappiest gas mileage around. In fact, a lady would be proud of her husband's 30 gallon tank that only gets them twenty miles at a time. It's a hard place. And it seems to make the people that live here, more genuine and real. If you're an anti-hunter type of person, even you would understand and appreciate these people. This is where REAL hunters live. These people eat more deer than cow, chicken, pig and all other meats combined. These people aren't city dwellers that head out to the country to hunt for a weekend, these people hunt to live - daily. It's a refreshing sight after years of the casual hunter mentality. No one here brags about their dinner the way we do.

I almost killed a black bear driving down the road and that shit-canned any chance of me camping here. And, for the record, what Lolo Pass in Idaho was to curves; Michigan is to the straight-a-way. I rode for miles without using my hands and never had to turn. Looooooooong stretches of nothing but black top cutting through deep, thick forests. The entire time I was on this road I kept thinking of Bob Seger's song, "Roll me away". In it, he speaks of riding a motorcycle for hours and hours and finding peace within himself (and a girl from a bar, that helps) - he wrote that song about his ride across the Iron Range and he nailed the sentiment of riding these roads. However, my crystal meth hooker from Duluth had long since decided to go back to Duluth. Apparently there isn't much meth out in the woods.

Before me was Canada and the end of my first full week....