Motorhead Coffee

vagabond blog: thoughts from the saddle

Performance Awards

My 690 Duke is in the shop right now getting a “performance enhancement.” I’m very excited to get this little Tasmanian Devil back so I can give it a proper spin. The big challenge, however, is how to keep from turning a performance enhancement into a performance award! IMG_1126

You would think that a 690 thumper, putting out a paltry 67 hp, would be the last bike you’d worry about causing an impromptu meeting with Officer Friendly, but you’d be wrong. Pure adrenaline is pumping through those fuel lines. Combine that with razor sharp handling and a wet weight that is lower than an NFL linebacker and what you’ve got is an invitation to driving school!

I learned long ago that there is a lot more to a motorcycle than horsepower and that certain bikes have an unspoken quality that coaxes the juvenile delinquent right out of your Brooks Brother’s suit. My very first Ducati had that effect…and it wasn’t even a sport bike…or the color red, but that ST2 got my blood running every time I hit the start button. As I ran down the highway it would whisper in my ear, “No one is looking, do a wheelie, now!” “Here comes a curve, lean me over, hard!” So I did.

I spent a year on a Yamaha FJR 1300, a bike with no shortage of brute force. There were about 145 ponies under that tank. It pulled like a runaway locomotive. I distinctly remember heading dow the Interstate on my way to Florida and coming upon a semi who was trucking along at a healthy 80+ mph. I cracked the throttle of the FJR, whipped out left and passed the trucker hard and fast. Next thing I knew I was doing xxx miles per hour and looking for my ripcord. Fast bike. Never got pulled over once.

After about 10 months I got bored with the inline 4 and traded it in on a Ducati Multistrada 1000. About 58 less hp than the FJR, but one of the most enjoyable motors I’ve ever owned. I wrung it to redline every time I rode it. It begged me to…and who was I to deny this lovely redhead? I had my first speeding ticket on this bike within a week of taking ownership.

So, you see, the Duke is a dangerous creature in stock form, let alone the improvements currently being bestowed upon this little firecracker. I was thinking that when I pick it up I should probably just head on down to the courthouse and sign up for driving school. You’d think a 55 year old man would know better, and I do…but I’ve always been a sucker for a pretty face.




I’m looking forward to the time when the two biggest decisions of the day are: which bike am I going to ride and which State will I ride in. I’m getting closer every day and the anticipation is killing me. FullSizeRender (2)

I’ve always been a “free spirit” bridled by just enough of a sense of responsibility and commitment ( or maybe its really just a lack of courage!) to go to work every day and do my job. Well, let’s just say my “commitment meter” is about out of quarters! A few of my co-workers have retired or are getting ready to and I admit to being very jealous.

I’m trying to get myself in decent shape so that when the last day of structured work does come, I will be ready and able to enjoy the freedom. In the mean time, I will slip away and play Walter Mitty every chance I get. Right now I’m tentatively planning an East Coast Seafood Shack run in early September and hopefully some long weekends in between.

An exciting new development has taken place as well. My son bought his first bike! And both my sons-in-law want to ride too. The women in the family aren’t too happy with me right now, but I’m pretty pumped. I’m already planning a “Motorhead in the Mountains” run next spring with all three of them!



She Likes the Beatles…I Like the Stones

Well, truth be told, she doesn’t care much for the Beatles either! My wife is a real trooper. She is one of the most giving people I have ever met. She is always putting everyone else before herself, especially me. She tolerates my garage full of motorcycles, my many coffee ventures, the smell of coffee smoke and bits of chaff in my clothes. She doesn’t mind if I take weeklong bike trips without her, or go off riding alone on the weekends.

When it comes to our taste in music, Lori and I are worlds apart. Actually, I like just about every kind of music…every kind but the kind she likes! She has never really had an interest in going to concerts either. I’ve gone to many. I’m a big Springsteen fan and Lori was kind enough to go with me to a show a couple year ago and I don’t think she hated it.

I told her last year that if the Stones tour the US one more time, she might as well pack her bag and get ready because we are going. Well, her bag is packed. We are heading to Columbus, Ohio tomorrow to the Buckeye Stadium for the 2nd stop of the Rolling Stones Zip Code Tour. And if she wasn’t already sacrificing enough, a week or so ago they announced they would have a special guest at the Ohio show: Kid Rock! Haha! I can only imagine how much she is going to enjoy hearing him sing Bawitdaba! Thanks Lori for being such a good sport and humoring me one more time.

I’ve got a great wife and I just wanted to say so.



Sharp Dressed Man

Everywhere I go, I hear the same thing: “Aren’t you hot?” “Are you a fireman?” “You look like a Power Ranger?” “Aren’t you hot?” Wait, I said that already. That’s because I hear that one over and over. So, here is the answer: “Yes, I know I look silly. Yes, it can be very hot in the summer wearing this suit, especially in the city. No, I’m not a Power Ranger, but my kids liked them when they were young. And, no, I’m not a fireman but if I was, I would be hot as Hell in this suit!”

A new rider asked me recently about how I handled my family’s concerns over the safety of my chosen hobby, motorcycle travel. We talked about several things, including riding smart, which, in my mind includes wearing protective gear. Make no mistake, I’m no evangelist for safety gear, nor do I have any intention in telling you how to ride or what to wear…wear what you want…no skin off my nose (pun intended).

I’ve got a few different sets of gear that I wear. Well, let’s be honest here; I’ve got dozens of sets of gear! In fact, we were recently cleaning out my mother’s barn and I discovered crates full of old riding suits that I have not worn in years. That does not count the 8-10 jackets that hang in my closet, nor the 3 pairs of riding pants, nor the 1 piece Roadcrafter.

Why so many suits? Well, they all have their place. Some are better in warm weather, some in cold. Some do well in an all day rain and others just do it all. Those are the ones I wear on trips. And then there is the Aerostich Roadcrafter. I’m on my second one. I will probably buy a new generation one this year or next. And not in red. For those of you who don’t know, they are basically 1 piece coveralls that slip over your clothing. They have a full zipper up one leg to the neck and half zipper up the other. You can jump into one in about 15 seconds. FullSizeRender (1)

They are highly protective, heavy, a bit bulky, sometimes waterproof and sometimes make you look like you peed your pants. And they are very expensive. I wore mine today in the pouring rain and came home dry as a bone. They make me feel safe; they make me look silly. I don’t care. I have wore my road worn, bug spattered Roadcrafter into many a fine dining establishments. I’d walk in the mall in one if I needed to. I really don’t care how it looks. If you are the kind of person who spends a week or even a long weekend away from home on your bike, being fashionable is generally not a high priority.

Admittedly, some suits make you look better than other. Leather can look pretty sharp, but I find it too impractical most of the time. There are a lot of nice Cordura suits out there that look pretty nice in my opinion…but you still look silly in one when mingling with the public. I remember a friend seeing a photo of me on a bike trip I took a couple years ago. He said, “You look like a movie star in that outfit.” Never thought I’d hear that. Must have meant in a Sci-Fi movie! Sexy, no. Practical, yes.IMG_0923

So, if you see me along the roadside in one of my silly outfits, it’s okay if you think I look dumb, or if your kids think I’m the missing Red Ranger…I’m used to it.



Coming to a Garage Near Me

Just a quick teaser. Tomorrow afternoon I will be taking a short road trip…and this little puppy is going to follow me home. Details to come later, but for now, meet Sir Duke.



Don’t Tell Mom

I used to swear that my mother was a clairvoyant, or a witch or at the least possessed some kind of creepy mind reading skills. It seemed that she always knew what us kids were up to, often before we had even completed the act. Since her recent passing, my sister and I have spent a lot of time reminiscing and digging through “ancient artifacts,” (like our report cards from the 1960’s and 70’s…my sister’s behavior was questionable in 1969!).mom

Our mother had a very rigid sense of right and wrong. And she was extremely good and making you aware of the “wrong.” I suppose most households are the same, but for us there were certain things that you just din’t want your mom to know.

1. Drinking. Mom was always opposed to drinking. As far as I know, with the exception of communion wine, Mom never took a single drink for pleasure. Never knew what it was like to be three sheets to the wind. Now, make no mistake, Dad did. Dad didn’t become a teetotaler until his 50’s. I clearly remember Mom complaining about him having a six pack of Schlitz or Falstaff or Stroh’s in the fridge. She was afraid because Dad drank it would give us kids the green light to drink also. Believe me, the four of us needed no encouragement!

I’m not so sure about my older brother and sister’s antics when they were younger because they were much older than me, but I know for sure my surviving sister was no angel (love you Karen!). Nor was I. The funny thing is, that right up until Mom passed away two weeks ago, both my sister and I would never drink in front of her. It wasn’t like she didn’t know we drank. Heck, I even took a job at a microbrewery. For some reason, we just felt we had to keep that part of life separate from our relationship with her. Karen was actually smarter at this than I was. When I was 17-19 years old, I carried a cooler in the backseat of my car as a permanent fixture. Pretty sure Mom knew what that was all about. The local police sure did. I posses the distinct honor of being the only one of her four children who ever spent the night in the drunk tank. Proud moment.

2. Smoking. Now that I think about this one, I don’t remember if my sister ever smoked or not. Well, cigarettes I mean. Uh…moving on. I can remember my first sample of tobacco was the chewing kind. My brother chewed Beechnut chewing tobacco. I tried it, did not like it. I did, however, steal some of his cigarettes he had stashed away. And his cigars and his pipe. Or maybe they were Dad’s. I don’t remember exactly how old I was but I’m talking maybe 10 or younger.

If I remember correctly my sister got caught “smoking” by Mom once. She and the neighbor girl were sampling a “hand rolled cigarette” and Mom’s creepy radar zeroed in on them. I remember there was some “turmoil” at the house about that little incident.

About the same time in life that I started drinking heavily, I also started smoking. I smoked for several years, and like the drinking, I always tried to hide it from Mom. It didn’t work. Every once in a while, out of the blue she would say, “Are you smoking again?” Then she would proceed to make me feel so guilty that I might even quit for a day or two.

3. Porno. Porno was a big taboo in the 60’s. You see more skin on network television today than you saw in a 60’s Playboy Magazine. And I should know. I got caught looking through my brother’s hidden stash of Playboys. I was barely even old enough to be curious about such things, but there were a couple neighbor boys who were older and they knew my brother had a stash. They asked me to take them to his room when he was gone and show them. So I did. And my older sister caught us. And she told on me. “Really Cooky? You had to tell on me?” Sure enough, she ran to Mom and said, “Jamie is looking at Steve’s Playboys.” Apparently my brother didn’t have the same concerns about what Mom knew that my sister and I did. In fact, I’m sure he didn’t because for my 16th birthday, guess what my older brother bought me? A subscription to Playboy Magazine! Delivered monthly to my mother’s house. Dad loved it…but you can imagine how Mom felt! To this day, I’m shocked that she did not intercept each and every one at the mailbox and burn them in the burn pile out back.

My dad passed away nearly 17 years ago. Two of my siblings died as well. Now that Mom is gone too, it is a very different feeling to have no living parents. Those of you who are parents of older children know that no matter how old your children get, you are always very concerned about what is happening in their lives. My oldest daughter is 32 today. My youngest is 22 and there are two more in between. They can still keep me up late at night with worry. I’m sure they have tried to hide a lot of things from me, and no doubt have succeeded at some of those efforts, but I’m not my mother in that regard. My children don’t have to worry about me freaking out over their behavior. I am very much a realist. My wife on the other hand, much like my mother, has never been drunk, never smoked anything in her life and is very private about the subject of sex. So kids, if you are reading this today, whatever you do, “Don’t tell Mom!”



Laugh or Cry

We used to joke that every time we went to the beaches of Naples on vacation, it was Shark Week on the Discovery Channel. A few few episodes of man-eating sharks and our kids began to think maybe we should have went to Disney instead of the Gulf. But we kept on going, kept on playing in the water and I can happily report that after about 30 plus visits, so far so good!shark

I haven’t seen Shark Week in a while, but I have dubbed this last week of March as “Disaster Week.” After writing my last blog, bragging on how I felt this would be a good riding year, the forces of the Universe decided to knock me down a peg or two by reminding me that there are a lot of things out of my control.

The first two events that happened last week are not funny at all. No humor here. They are, in fact, tragic. My mother was scheduled for a serious surgery the 26th of March. My wife followed me up to Indy so she could return to home after the surgery. About 3 miles from the hospital, in 4 lane, rush hour traffic on I65, dark and raining, a semi-truck merged right onto the road. He kept on merging over into our lane. I saw him come behind me, between my wife and I. At least that’s what I thought happened. But a mile or so up the road, I noticed a large distance between myself and the vehicles behind…and no Lori. A few seconds later I received a panic call from Lori. The semi had came into her lane, sideswiped her, sent her spinning into the other lane and eventually off the road.

Thankfully she was not injured, but very shook up. I had to drive 3 more miles to exit, then back before I could get to her. It was the longest 15 minute drive of my life. We waited 30 minutes for a police officer. He turned out to be one of the rudest people I have ever met. I have a lot of respect for the job a police officer does. I know there is a lot of stress and pressure. I don’t know what this young man had been going through, but he was so rude that he made my wife cry…which made me very angry.

The car was drivable, so Lori followed me to the hospital. Mom went through the various procedures with little complication, however, a pacemaker was added to the list of needs. She spent the better part of  6 hours back in OR. Things went well…until they didn’t. She was recovering in her room when I went to check on her. As I stepped through the swinging doors to the critical care unit, I heard over the loudspeaker, “Code Blue, 3rd Floor…room 3202.” Mom’s room. As I pushed into the CCU, at least 10 people stood at her door and immediately looked at me. A nurse came to me, held me back. I understood I needed to stay out of the way, so I let her lead me back to the waiting room so we could talk to my sister. 30 minutes went by as the team worked hard to save my mother. It was not possible. We lost her.

My mother was quite a woman and one day soon I will write about her life, but not today. We eventually came back to Mom’s house and began all the preparations that one must make. Then more crisis struck home. But that’s enough depressing information for one blog. Disaster Week was in full swing.

Eventually, after the funeral, I came back to Louisville. I decided to ride one of my motorcycles the next day. I rode back to Bloomington, both for some stress relief and to take care of some business there. When I got home, I parked my bike in front of the garage. Later in the day I decided I better put it up. Now, we have been renting a condo here for the past couple years. It only has a 1 car garage and I have it pretty well packed with motorcycles and coffee stuff. I rolled the bike in the garage and, well, I’m not sure what happened. I thought I had the kickstand down. It either got caught and folded a little or something; all I know is as I set the bike on it’s side, it just kept coming. It fell on me, and because of the small space, pinned me against the wall. I jerked my left leg up and out to keep from getting it caught or crushed and that’s when I felt it…a sharp pain tearing up the back of my leg. I knew instantly it was bad.

I tried to walk on it and couldn’t. The pain was excruciating. The kind that brings tears to your eyes if you try to ignore it. The kind that makes you scream and curse. I hopped and crawled to the door into the house and yelled for my daughter. She came, looked at me and asked if she should call 911. I told her I would be fine. I just needed to get the bike back upright. Now, my daughter is about 5’2″ and maybe 95 lbs on a good day. She isn’t going to be picking up any motorcycle. And I couldn’t even stand up, so I knew I wasn’t going to be doing it. Fortunately, one of my friends and coworkers, lives across the street. I called Dan and he came over and picked up the bike for me. By that time I had crawled into the living room and was on the floor. I’m sure Dan got a kick out of that!

As it turned out, and as you can guess, I pulled/tore my hamstring. And if you have done that before then you know it hurts like Hell. I have been on crutches since last Wednesday. My days have consisted of lying on the couch, sitting on the couch or in a recliner, sleeping, watching more TV than I have watched in my entire life and slowly going insane. I tend to fall on the hyperactive side. I don’t sit well. I get very restless quickly. My wife is waiting on me hand and foot. She has learned how to make my oatmeal and coffee. She has had to help me get in and out of the tub (I couldn’t stand in the shower so I had to use the tub…which I also hate!). She has had to help me get dressed. She has brought me drinks and food and phones and laptops and iPads. She has been so kind and patient…and I can’t stand it! I do not like to be waited on. One of the things I hated most about being a manager is telling people to do things I could have done myself.

Yesterday was our wedding anniversary. I spent it on the couch in pain. Lori spent it waiting on me. How romantic! While running an errand, she called me to check in. I said, “I’m going to hobble outside with a big glass of bourbon and a cigar.” She said, “Go for the bourbon, but no cigar!” I told her I thought I had “earned it.” I did neither…it wasn’t worth the trip.

It has been so crazy this past week that Lori and I have just looked at each other and…laughed! Plenty of stuff happened that’s not funny on any level, but sometimes you have to make a choice: laugh or cry. We did our share of crying: might as well laugh. Oh, I almost forgot; my oldest daughter was trying to help a little boy get his dog and she fell and fractured her ankle. She lay on the asphalt calling for help and finally crawled home. Stubborn runs in the family. But wait! That’s not all; the company I work for caught on fire Friday and one of the buildings turned into a 6 alarm fire…welcome to “Disaster Week.”



I Feel a Good One Coming On

(Sometime in the middle of the night last night, my iPad got a mind of it’s own and decided to post a blog that I had started but never finished…all one line of it! I decided if it wanted to be heard that badly, I should go ahead and finish it, so here it is.)

I’ve got the feeling it’s going to be a good riding year. I’m not sure why, call it a hunch…or maybe just wishful thinking. Truth is, the deck is stacked against me right now. My employer has locked out most of the summer as a “no vacation zone.” My mother is facing a serious surgery tomorrow coupled with a long recovery. On top of that, I’m still torn as to if I want to reinvest my outside energies back into coffee roasting. But I’m getting old, dammit, so I can’t be giving up riding years without a fight.

I’ve only logged about 700 miles so far this year, but I’m prepared to make the most of my available time. I’ve got a new helmet (I discovered mine was nearly 8 years old), a new jacket and some luggage for all three bikes. My goal is to take at the very least 1 long weekend trip on each bike and a week long trip on one of them.

To get the kind of riding in that I really want to experience this year will require getting out of bed and on the road early for a lot of weekend rides. My brother-in-law used to joke that I would ride to Chicago for a cup of coffee, so Saturday I got up and rode the Street Triple through the back roads of Kentucky 250 miles for a beer. I took the long, long way to West 6th Brewery in Lexington.IMG_0788

It was a great trip. Aside form the riding, I discovered West 6th to be my kind of place. If it were closer, it would be my regular hangout. Great atmosphere, great beer and good people. I met a Lexington couple who were riders. They saw my helmet and gear and struck up a conversation. We discovered we have a lot in common. They were replaced (I guess I stayed a while) by a young couple from Louisville celebrating the man’s birthday. I brought home a “Crowler” and spent the afternoon polishing it off while roasting up some Guatemala and Costa Rican coffee. Doesn’t get any better than that.IMG_0791Challenges aside, I am optimistic that I’m going to see a lot of saddle time in 2015. I’m  already dreaming of some interesting excuses, er, uh, I mean locations…breweries, roasters, pubs, road food dives…to visit. I will try to document as much as possible this year and, hopefully, you will enjoy the stories as much as I will enjoy experiencing them. Yep, I can feel a good one coming on.



Monkey on My Back

Sometime in January I put a voluntary pause to my commercial coffee roasting endeavors. The reasons driving this decision were significant enough to make it the logical move for the time being. I have not regretted the decision, but I will admit I miss it already. I suppose the preceding language is enough to convey the fact that I don’t want this change to be permanent.

I’ve played around in the coffee industry long enough to know it is not the kind of business you get into because you want to make a lot of money…because most of us don’t. There are exceptions, but generally speaking, there are better places to invest your time and money. There are some people  who get into the coffee business because they think, “Hey, it’s coffee; how hard can it be?” Much harder than they imagined…a truth that will reveal itself to them in time. In fact, it never ceases to amaze me the number of people who get into the coffee business while knowing absolutely nothing about about it. Sort of demeans those of us who take pride in the skills we have acquired over the many years of experience.

The small town I am originally from seems to have a new coffee roaster pop up every few months. Recently, a customer told me about a new shop there and said I should stop in the next time I was in town, as the owner wanted to meet me. In the words of my customer, “You are coffee famous in this town.” Well, there are worse things to be famous for!

Just so happened I had to go back to Bloomington this past week to sign some legal documents and, as luck would have it, the lawyer’s office was right next door to the new coffee shop. I introduced myself to the owner, feeling a little silly that she would actually know who I am. Turns out she did. She was kind enough to show me around the shop and tell me a little bit about her fluid bed roaster. I grabbed a cup of what turned out to be a very good cup of Ethiopian Harrar and she sent me home with a sample of a freshly roasted Rwanda, equally good. My initial impression was that this little shop may very well have the best coffee in Bloomington right now. At least I know where I will be getting my cup from when I come to town.

As I drove back to Louisville from my visit, those familiar feelings came back to greet me. The inclination that every day when I get up and go to work, I’m going to the wrong place. To be clear, I’m thankful for my job and considering I have worked for the same company since 1978, I don’t hesitate to say they have aided me in building a very nice life. However, coffee owns my heart. It speaks to my soul. There is nothing more exciting to me than to take delivery of a pallet of green coffee, all stacked up in burlap bags, the aroma of a hay field in the air, these lifeless beans, full of potential, just waiting to come alive in my hands. Every time I see a drum roaster, I just want to run my hands across it, the same way an auto enthusiast might do when seeing a perfect restoration of a classic ride.

You see, those of us who love this business, breathe it, dream it, desire it and are drawn to it with an illogical passion that cannot be explained nor denied. One of my former brokers said, “Jamie, you never leave the coffee business. You always come back.” My intentions this year are to ride my motorcycles as much as possible. And to think. And plan. I hope to take some interesting adventures. Maybe I will even write about a few of them. But in the end, I’m not sure if I will be able to get this monkey off my back; the incessant inner voice that speaks to me every time I enter a coffee shop or even a conversation about coffee, the voice the says, “This is where you belong.”

Right now I feel good. Physically and mentally. But that doesn’t mean I’m standing still. In my head, I’m already moving forward. Already looking to the future to the right time to make the right move…and get this monkey off my back for good.IMG_0819



On Again, Off Again

When I was about 13, my mother said to my father, “I want a new house.” We lived on a 50 acre farm in an old, two-story farmhouse with no air conditioning, a basement that looked like something straight out of the mind of Alfred Hitchcock and a fuel oil furnace that added to the “ambiance.” Dad, being the kind of guy who wanted to keep the peace, agreed to build a new house on the property. Pop was also the kind of guy who didn’t believe in debt and wasn’t afraid to tackle any job, so he built the house himself. Well, he did have some help…me. Every day. And every night. And every weekend…for nearly 3 years.

I held boards while he sawed them. I spackled drywall, I drove nails, I hauled rock from creeks, I mixed concrete, I climbed on roofs, I dug ditches and anything else he asked of me. I’m sure I complained some, but I don’t really remember putting up much of a fuss. I just did what I was asked to do. After a few weeks it was not even a question; when I got off the school bus or woke up on the weekends, I knew exactly where I was going and what I was doing. While my friends were playing in the dirt mounds in our field, I was busy building more. And you know what? It didn’t hurt me a bit. In fact, it was a great experience.

When we finally finished the house, my dad treated me to several unexpected gifts, including my first street bike. I had been riding dirt bikes for since I was 6 or 7, but that all changed when Dad took me to a neighboring town to pick up my first street legal motorcycle. It was an orange Suzuki TS250. That was the beginning with my love affair with the road.

Over the many years since, I have “dabbled in the dirt” from time to time. I think I’ve owned 3 motocross bikes (all RM 125s for some reason) and 4 dual sport bikes. That doesn’t count bikes like the BMW F650GS, of which I’ve also had a couple. Every so often I get the urge to return to my roots and buy a dual sport. Back in the 90’s I purchased a Suzuki DR350. I went riding with a friend who was strictly an off road rider. His skills eclipsed mine by a long shot. When I was young I was a decent off road rider, maybe even good, but this guy was great…and I was very rusty. He beat me to a pulp. We traded bikes and he showed me that with the right person on board, even an antiquated DR350 could kick my ass!

Eventually I purchased a DR 650. I took it on some gravel and dirt roads, but nothing too gnarly. The bigger DR was an all around nice bike. In fact, I ended up owning two of them. See a pattern here? I have bad habits, what can I say? If I ever had to pick a bike as my “zombie apocalypse,” ride the world, survival bike, it would likely be a DR 650. But, as I often do, I grew tired of it, and sold it.

My last attempt to quiet that inner “dirt” voice was a Yamaha WR250. I bought the X version though, with 17″ wheels and street tires, because I’m really a street guy who just wants to get dirty once in a while. I bought knobby tires for it but never put them on. Instead, I used the WR to strafe the backroads of my neighborhood. DSC_0029

The desire to own a dual sport and ride off road finds its way into my mind every few months or so. Truth is, most of them are so tall that I can’t even get one toe down without sliding far off the seat. The ones I can manage are not the most exciting performers. Eventually the notion wears off and I realize, once again, that what I love is the asphalt plain, sharp curves and steep inclines, crossing state lines and rolling through small towns that I have no reason to visit other than the fact that I was led there by the road. I might as well face it, I’m a wanderer at heart and the byways are my compass.road



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