Month: July 2016

By this time in the ride we had our ‘sea legs’. What would have been at least an overnight trip from Ottawa a few weeks earlier was now our daily regime. So when you’re this “close” to the North Rim of the Grand Canyon you take the detour. 

Only open seasonally, the North Rim is the lesser travelled side of the Grand Canyon but as I’d not seen either side, this was going to be a new adventure.

After the long and eventful day yesterday I realized that I hadn’t really ‘seen’ the Arizona desert.  I was only making the comparison between the lush, cool greens and blues of yesterday morning to the desolate, flat, seemingly endless shades of rust, beige and brown. 

Through fresh morning eyes I noticed so much more. So many shades of green dotted the landscape and as much as the rain had made our ride so challenging the day before, it had brought the desert to life. Most refreshing were the bouquets of purple flowers that had popped up randomly along the roadway. I unfortunately didn’t take the time to stop and take a photo but here is a stock image of Rose Sage which I believe is what I saw. 

About 70 miles into our journey we came to Marble Canyon where the Colorado River cuts through the desert like a huge green vein. 

We took some photos (and a Zandra selfie of course – more about that in another blog post) and continued on to the Grand Canyon. 

As much as every day of this trip had been a new experience one thing that popped into my head often was that we were always moving forward and rarely retracing our route by more than a mile or two. The detour to the North Rim (as we experienced folk like to call it) was an exception to this, taking us 50 miles into the Park and then the same 50 miles out. It was worth it. 

We had a good lunch and well-deserved break in the lodge and then convinced Zandra that notwithstanding her fear of heights, she had come this far and must see it for herself. 

However, seeing this on the horizon we made it a swift viewing with the requisite oohhs and  awwes, threw on our rain gear and started another round of storm racing. 

We were much luckier than the day before, either we rode around the storm or it blew around us, either way we got through it unscathed. 

Onward to Bryce Canyon, Utah for the night. As I’ve mentioned before, my American geography was seriously lacking prior to this trip and as we moved further southwest I had even less knowledge of what to expect. Having now ridden through miles and miles of desert I was startled when we were merely minutes over the state line into Utah when we rode through a small town with huge, shady, green, leafy trees on every street and in front of every home. Not the fake-looking, landscaped kind but the 100 year-old solid trees with deep roots finding every drop of water in spite of the years of drought that has so obviously devastated this region. It was truly a breath of fresh air. 

Whatever you ride – ride safe. 

Helen

Arizona ☑️

After a tough ride through the Colorado mountains the day before I convinced Zandra that we really didn’t need to tackle the “million dollar highway” the next day heading to Page, Arizona. http://www.dangerousroads.org/north-america/usa/635-million-dollar-highway-usa.html

The alternate route started off beautifully and gave us the opportunity to check out the Bridal Veil Falls in Telluride, Colorado. 

As we continued on our journey southwest, the changing landscape and temperature made it hard to believe that we had just left this lush, green, cool view mere hours before. 

Shortly after crossing the state line into Arizona we stopped for lunch at Jack and Janelle’s Country Kitchen where we received a hearty welcome from Janelle herself. Discovering we were Canadians they asked for some Canadian currency to add to their collection. Being Canadian, we obliged of course. 

About 5 miles from the restaurant it was like a wall of heat dropped from the sky. It became abundantly clear that we were now in Arizona. Another 30 miles or so of riding through my first experience of desert we found the infamous Four Corners Monument where four state lines meet. Arizona, Colorado, New Mexico and Utah. 

It may be cheating a little but we stepped into New Mexico so I’m counting it. 😉

After leaving the monument in the  oppressive heat we were thrilled and relieved to see what looked like rain on the horizon. We happily rode through a sprinkling of rain without even considering stopping to put on rain gear. Five minutes after it ended I intercomed Zandra to say “…and I’m dry”. 

That relief turned into dread a few miles further up the road when fast-moving, dark clouds came over the mountains and lighting lit up the sky. The skies opened with a torrent of rain. We were drenched in minutes and stopping to put on rain gear seemed fruitless. We continued to push through, hoping it would move past us as quickly as the last sprinkle. It was not to be so. The rain and wind were relentless. Those of us on smaller, lighter bikes had the very real fear that our bikes would be tossed into the ditch, or worse, into oncoming traffic. We pulled over. 

Standing on the side of the road as 18 wheelers flew by spraying us it was clear that we hadn’t pulled over in the safest location. When there was a brief lull in the storm we moved further down the hill to a little pull out. Still not under cover but better than where we had been. 

As we stood on the side of the road considering our options: rain gear, no rain gear, continuing on to shelter, staying put, going pee in the ditch or holding it until whenever, we were strangely light-hearted. We were all ok, the storm would pass and we would continue on. Mind you, I was happy that it wasn’t until the next day that we found out it was actually a monsoon and not just a run-of-the-mill thunder storm. (Note to my family reading this – I am fine and it was 10 days ago). 

And so we continued. The air, the land and our clothes dried up. We rode through terrain that I had only ever seen in photos or sci-fi movies. In my mind, I revisited the most recent Mad Max movie which I hated at the time but now have a new respect for. 

It was hard to believe that it was still the same day and the same planet as the one we left at Bridal Veil Falls that morning. 

After one of the longest riding days so far we finally ended our day at Lake Powell resort. As we rode into town it was reminiscent of my first visit to Iqaluit, Nunuvut – only a 3 hour flight from Ottawa but might as well have landed on Mars. 

Whatever you ride – ride safe. 

Helen

Colorado ☑️

New Mexico ☑️😉

Here is link to the LA Times article published yesterday about the Sisters’ Ride. We are in the group photo under the Golden Gate Bridge. 

http://www.latimes.com/business/autos/la-fi-hy-sisters-ride-20160721-snap-story.html​

After a few days of excitement and a little recuperation time in Colorado Springs it was time to keep moving west. We had a long days ride to Ouray, Colorado, “the Switzerland of America”. 

Along the way I started to notice some of the most dramatic changes to the landscape. As much as riding into Colorado Springs was a visual feast, heading west was breathtaking. Unfortunately, with hand on throttle and heart in mouth on those curvy, mountainous roads there was no time or safe place to stop for photos. Luckily Tina caught some great moments from the back of the Goldwing. 

On the long descent down the mountains we got our first real glimpse of the more desolate reality we were moving towards. Miles of dry, flat terrain sprinkled with cattle, several RV’s and a few more permanent structures. 

Finally we spotted the tiny town of Hartsel, stopped for a coffee, stretched our legs and tried to digest the previous 50 miles. 

The cafe was surprisingly lively for such a tiny town. Staff and customers alike were chatty and friendly. Obvious regulars and those of us who were obviously not  regulars got the same smiles and great service. 

After a much needed coffee and bagel we went back to our bikes and got chatting with Hazel (above).  She was thrilled to hear our story about commemorating the Van Buren sisters ride. She told us she was 83 and still working and keeping cattle. She took a particular liking to Tina and Johanne’s shiny white Honda Goldwing. She also mentioned that the western side of the mountains where we were headed were “much prettier”. She was born there. 

Prettier for sure but also far more challenging. Even having some experience riding in the Adirondacks didn’t prepare me for the kind of mountainous roads we came upon on our ride to Ouray. Twisty curves and steep descents. Warnings about checking truck brakes and more ‘runaway truck lanes’than I could count. Definitely my most challenging riding day “so far” as my cowboy friend in Haigler would say. 

On a much lighter note, a few miles outside of Ouray and our stop for the night we fueled up and Zandra got a photo with this cast of characters. 

They were self-declared mountain men who had just come into town after being in the bush for 3 weeks. The funniest part of the discussion was Zandra’s concern about having helmet-head hair for the photo. That garnered great laughs all round. 

Whatever you ride – ride safe. 

Helen

After over a week of riding all day and sleeping in a new bed every night I was ready to actually unpack, do some much needed laundry, and relax in Colorado Springs for 3 glorious nights. 

For many in our group I imagine Colorado Springs also brought significant anxiety. There was a pre-planned motorcycle ride up to the summit of Pikes Peak – all 14,110 feet of it. 

Back in 1916 the Van Buren sisters were the first women to reach the summit on motorcycles. An impressive feat back then and an equally impressive feat today. 

Before we left Ottawa, Zandra, Johanne, Tina and I had decided that riding up Pikes Peak wasn’t something on our bucket list and bought tickets to go up on the cog train. Johanne then bravely changed her mind leaving Zandra, Tina and I to the train. 

Turns out it was a good thing Zandra didn’t ride as she succumbed to a pretty serious bout of altitude sickness. She did bounce back a few hours later when we got back down closer to sea level. I didn’t feel great either and was very happy with my decision not to ride the summit.

Johanne and our new-found friend Susan from Toronto (turanna) did an awesome job representing Canadians at the top of the mountain. 

What an amazing accomplishment for all the riders and a special congrats to Johanne and Susan. Bad-assed Canadians🇨🇦

The next day we were treated to a great breakfast and bike tour of the Garden of the Gods by one of our group who is a Colorado Springs local – thanks Chris. 

It was then back to the hotel to do that laundry and pack up for the next day. 

As I started packing my clothes I realized I was missing a sock. Wouldn’t have been unusual or a big deal at home but on the road I only have 3 pairs and they get pretty ripe in hot motorcycle boots. 

The hotel we were staying in was a huge maze so trudging back to the laundry room took some effort. As I walked in, a couple was just loading up the dryer I had been using. I asked if they had noticed a sock in the dryer. They didn’t think so but I took a peek before they shut the door and there was my sock mixed in with their unmentionables. We all laughed as I pulled it out and they agreed it was not one of theirs. 

We then got down to the usual chatting that I imagine happens in hotel laundry rooms.  Where are you from? Where are you going? Telling the story of our ride once again garnered great interest from the couple. They had sold their Harley’s a few years ago before they went to Kenya on a mission – this did not immediately register with me.  We talked some more about bikes and I gave them more details about our trip and how many of us were travelling – mostly women – all the way to San Fransisco on motorcycles. They thought it was a wonderful adventure. 

As I was about to turn and leave the woman asked if she could pray for me – the penny dropped about the “mission” in Kenya. With sock in hand I was backing out the door and saying “sure, if you want to.” She then grabbed my hand (without the sock) and she and her husband bowed their heads, closed their eyes and started praying to Jesus for his blessing and to keep us all of safe in our journey…etc… I was admittedly in a state of shock. Keeping my eyes open I just kind of stood there for what seemed like a very long time. When she finally finished, opened her eyes and dropped my hand I found myself saying thank you and as I turned to leave my last words were “and I found my sock”. 😄

Onward to Ouray, Colorado. 

Whatever you ride, ride safe. 

Helen

The one thing I noticed about the ride from Omaha to McCook, Nebraska was that the corn got shorter and the hills got higher. While it was not an unpleasant ride, it wasn’t the most exciting either. Zandra tried to make it more interesting with a detour through the sand dunes – alas, in July apparently, the sand dunes are covered in grass and don’t look so sand-duney. 

We did stay at a funky motel in McCook. It had once been a regular motel with rooms on 2 floors in a U shape with an outdoor pool in the middle. Not sure when they transformed it by building a roof and siding over the entire area. The now indoor pool was a welcome relief after a long, hot day of riding. 

As I was not enamoured with riding through Nebraska and we were headed to Colorado Springs for 3 – count them – 3  – glorious nights in the same hotel, I asked Zandra to navigate the quickest and easiest route out of Nebraska. 

The first hour of the ride was not unlike the last hour of the day before but there were some daunting looking storm clouds to the west. 

After another half hour of doing our best storm racing – not chasing – we were finally defeated as we rolled into the tiny town of Haigler (pop. 220 – I asked). Not surprisingly, on the main street (ok, the only street) we came upon the Haigler Country Cafe. 

As we had just crossed into Mountain time we gained an hour so it was roughly 8:30 AM Haigler time. 

We walked into the small cafe in our leather and neon yellow rain gear – helmets in hand. 5 women bikers seeking refuge from the storm. We got a hearty welcome from Barb, the owner and waitress Stephanie. The 7 gentleman sitting around the closest table were clearly as surprised to see us as we were to see them. 

Zandra quickly went into action declaring that these were the first official cowboys she had ever met and asked if she could take their picture. They were happy to oblige and commented that this was great for them because they had run out of stories years ago and needed some new ones. 

Turns out these were real Haigler cowboys who came to the cafe for coffee every morning. No one gave away exactly how long this ritual had gone on but I’d guess many, many decades. They even had their own coffee cup rack. 

They asked us questions about our ride and we asked them questions about being cowboys. I asked the oldest looking gentleman (guessing late 80’s) if he had lived in Haigler all his life. His answer – “so far”. 

As they were finishing up their coffee and getting ready to leave one of them asked to take our picture because otherwise “no one would believe them”. 

After hearty “goodbyes” and “ride safes” the gentlemen all left to get on with their day. In the meantime, Barb had been checking the weather radar and told us to sit back down and they’d feed us pie because it was really bad out there. How could we refuse such kindness (and pie)?

This gave us a great opportunity to look around the cafe. It was like a museum. Old photos and newspaper clippings from the late 1800’s. 

And photos of some of the very same cowboys we had just chatted with as young men. 

There were even two very fine drawings of John Wayne. 

Here’s Deputy Z posing with the badge she picked up at John Wayne’s birthplace and museum the day before in Winterset, Iowa. 
As the weather cleared and we needed to continue west we said our goodbyes to Barb and Stephanie and headed towards Kansas. (With a fresh cinnamon bun in tow for me.) 

So much for a quick exit out of Nebraska. Turns out Haigler (pop. 220) really was a silver lining under those storm clouds.
Whatever you ride – ride safe. 

Helen

After the excitement of Route 66 we didn’t think too much about our route from Illinois to Iowa the next day. We ended up having a great day, including a visit to an old-school working windmill in the town of Fulton Illinois on the banks of the Mississippi River. https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/De_Immigrant 

The miller gave us a great tour and wore a t-shirt that said ‘imill’, he admitted that his wife said it looked like ‘I’m ill’. We had many laughs, learned a few things, took some fun pics and had a great lunch at the ‘place to be’, Krumpets. 

Then it was on to Iowa, just over the bridge from Fulton, across the mighty Mississippi River.

What I remember most about Iowa is corn fields, more corn fields, and still more corn fields. It’s amazing to ride through the changing landscapes across this vast country. We mostly stick to secondary roads thanks to Zandra’s amazing navigation skills and a great app (Navigon for the geeks out there) which brings us through small towns and acres and acres of farm land. The roads were pretty flat and straight by this point so it made for some ‘easy’ miles which was a welcome break from the more technical hills and curves that we left behind in the east. 

After spending the night in Cedar Rapids, Iowa we had a relatively short ride of roughly 230 miles to our next destination, Omaha, Nebraska. 

We stopped for lunch at a trendy little cafe in Indianola, Iowa where young people, yoga pants and iPhones were in abundence. I think I saw at least one man bun. As we crossed the street to our bikes I spotted this sign on a decrepit building which seemed incongruous to the atmosphere we had just left but also made me acutely aware that we were moving west. 

Our last stop in Iowa was a visit to the National Motorcycle Museum a few miles before the state line and our stop for the night in Omaha. http://www.nationalmcmuseum.org

While I love riding my motorcycle, I am not much of a motorcycle enthusiast. I can never really tell a Harley from a Honda at a distance which is blasphemy in some parts. However, the museum was really cool. The history of motorcycles in America is incredibly interesting. There was an entire wall dedicated to artists renditions of motorcycles and bikers. There was also a huge collection of bikes from the early 1900’s to the bike Peter Fonda rode in Easy Rider. They had a whole display of Evel Knievel which brought out the silly in Zandra. 

The museum also displayed a great deal of memorabilia celebrating women riders. 

And that brings us to the State line which makes me realize that I haven’t updated our State hopping since Massachusetts so here’s the long list:

Pennsylvania ☑️

West Virginia (for only a few miles but it counts) ☑️

Ohio ☑️

Indiana ☑️

Illinois ☑️

Iowa ☑️

Nebraska ☑️

Kansas ☑️

And in Colorado now.

Whatever you ride – ride safe. 

Helen


Taking a side trip to Route 66 was a great idea. We were able to pick it up in Illinois where the Polk-a-Dot Drive In has been serving burgers and ice cream since 1959. 

The stop was particularly poignant for Zandra. Growing up, her dad regaled her with stories about driving Route 66 in his TR3 convertible with her mom in the 1960’s. He was thrilled to know that we had been planning to ride Route 66 the year Z turned 50. Sadly he passed away in 2014 and for a variety of reasons our plans changed to do this Sisters’ Ride so it was perfect that we could combine the two.

Here’s Tina and Z goofing around under the Gemini Giant on Route 66. Appropo, as both are Geminis born in 1966. 

The last few days have been a whirlwind of riding and sightseeing. Since Saturday in Ohio we have buzzed through 3 more States: Indiana, Illinois and now in Iowa. My American geography is becoming much better but admittedly that is not a high bar. 

Somewhat ironically we found ourselves driving through the quiet, beautiful roads of Indiana on Sunday morning where they have recently enacted a Religious Freedom Law allowing private businesses to refuse service to GLBT people on religious grounds. http://www.theatlantic.com/politics/archive/2015/03/what-makes-indianas-religious-freedom-law-different/388997/

Perhaps more ironic is that at around lunch time when we stopped to fuel up in the tiny town of Burnsville, Zandra asked the gas station owner about places for lunch in the area. He pointed back down the road and told us there is a “white house about 500 yards back, no sign or anything, but good food”. Sounded like the perfect recommendation to us. 

We found ourselves in a little hole-in-the-wall diner that had wonderful homemade food and the friendliest service. We had parked our 5 bikes all in a row in front of the building that only had a small open sign in the window. One of our crew went to check if it really was a restaurant. 

There was just one group in the tiny place when we arrived in our leather and jeans – all women. As with everywhere else they wanted to know where we were riding from and riding to. We laughed and took pictures and shared stories with the next table. About 15 minutes into our meal the place started filling up with the after-church Sunday lunch crowd (ok crowd might be a bit of a stretch). The family next to us started telling everyone who we were and the ride we were on and before we knew it we were the talk of Burnsville. The older ‘church-ladies’ were smiling and laughing and talking about us all being ladies and how exciting this was. I suspect we will continue to be the talk of the town for at least a week or until something else out of the ordinary happens. 

Thank you Indiana – you made us feel very welcome. 

On Saturday, the Sisters’ ride went to the AMA vintage motorcycle day event  http://americanmotorcyclist.com/Events/AMA-Vintage-Motorcycle-Days. 

The ride there was through the beautiful, windy, quiet back roads of Ohio. Even in a group of 25 riders it was relaxed and mellow and included a requisite sighting of an Amish man on a horse and buggy. 

Then we got to our destination. A complete 180. Hard to estimate how many people were there but I would guess 20,000 or more. And it was a sea of white faces. I felt like I had landed in redneck mecca. 

Here we were, a group of 75 mostly women riders, celebrating the 100th year anniversary ride of two strong women who pushed the boundaries of their day. We may as well have stepped back into 1916 except for the ear-piercing noise of high tech motorcycles screaming around the race-track. 

This is not a criticism of the Sisters’ ride organizers in the least. All if us wore blue shirts emblazoned with the Sisters’ Ride logo and we even rode as a group around the race-track (which was pretty cool). Many folks asked us questions about the shirts and one women vendor says she wishes she had known about the ride as she would have joined. 

Again, no one was rude or disrespectful but just as we were finishing lunch, the music blasting from the massive speakers stopped and an announcer came on to ask for a moment of silence while he led us in prayer (not kidding) and to remove all headwear (exception made for helmets-which few seemed to be wearing anyway) while a couple sang “his favorite song” The Star-Spangled Banner. 

Standing there, with my hat in my hand, I felt completely helpless but to go along with the crowd. It is all too easy to see how people get caught up in the waves of anger and hate-mongering that we are seeing all over the world and how groups of people who feel, rightly or wrongly, disenfranchised get together and perpetuate a stew of anger and hate towards anyone who doesn’t look like them. 

I know how I felt standing there in that crowd but for the most part I could blend in. The African-American women riders in our group did not have that luxury. In solidarity with these incredible women I would like to introduce you to Bessie Stringfield. 

Bessie Stringfield (1911 – February 1993), nicknamed “The Motorcycle Queen of Miami”,[2] was the first African-American woman to ride across the United States solo, and during World War II she served as one of the few motorcycle despatch riders for the United States military.

Credited with breaking down barriers for both women and African-American motorcyclists,[3] Stringfield was inducted into the Motorcycle Hall of Fame.[4] the award bestowed by the American Motorcyclist Association (AMA) for “Superior Achievement by a Female Motorcyclist” is named in her honor.