Last summer, on the ride back from Seattle to Pennsylvania, I saw a whole lot in a very little amount of time. One of the things that stuck in my head was Montana’s means of marking road fatalities.

Here’s what I wrote back then…

One way to tell if you’re on a Montana road is that they mark their highway fatalities with white crosses. Each cross represents one fatality. They’re placed in the “exact” spot where they died (or where they were hit before being taken to the hospital where they died). It’s kind of creepy.

Usually, there were one or two crosses, signifying one or two fatalities. Those were all over. You could hardly go ten miles without seeing some.

This might have something to do with US 2 being a 70mph two-lane winding its way through hills and along cliffs. Maybe?

But I saw one that really made me pause. Actually, it made me turn around to make sure I saw what I thought I saw.

And I was right. 17 fatalities in one spot, probably in one accident.

As macabre as it might seem, I’d really like to know what happened here. I think it was near Kalispell. I could be really wrong about that, and I doubt anyone would really know (anyone who reads this, I mean). But 17 fatalities in one spot can’t be a good thing.

And while 17 fatalities wouldn’t be a good thing, I just learned from a commenter on that old post that it’s not really as bad as you’d think.

“The 2 clusters of 17 crosses on US Highway 2 were placed there after a 10 mile section of highway was reconstructed and dozens of fatality markers were removed from the roadside. They represent the fatalities whose makers were removed from that stretch of highway.”

That’s sort of better, I guess. Apparently there are two clusters of 17 crosses in one ten mile stretch. That would mean that 34 people have died in separate accidents over ten miles of one really windy road.

Ok, so that does seem kind of worse when I think about it.

Putting up crosses to memorialize the dead is a nice thing. But doing something so that 34 more people don’t die in this short bit of road would be even better.

One year ago today, I started my 11,000+ mile trek that I oh so cleverly named “Scoot 66.” This little ride on my Vespa lasted three months took me across 25 states and changed my life all around.

Most of the folks who read this know all about my trip. And I’ve jabbered on and on about the trip, so I’ll spare you.

Just thought it would be fun to mention that one year ago today, I left central Pennsylvania to have the most wonderful time anyone could ever have.

From time to time, when I run out of stuff to say, I’ll give a little mention as to where I was a year ago. Hopefully this won’t be my last trip around the country on two wheels. In face, I’m betting it won’t be.

You can read all about the trip here.

I got an email yesterday from someone asking if I ever figured out what those cliff dwelling looking things were in Utah. I hadn’t. Then he sent me the answers and a bunch of other pics.

Here’s a refresher… On my way through Utah, I went through the town of Goshen. Just after Goshen, I saw something odd cut into the mountain.

They were buildings sort of dug into the cliff. But they were ancient. Maybe they were from 50’s? I’ve been searching online, but have found absolutely nothing on them.

More things to explore… someday.

So what is this wonder? It’s the Tintic Standard Reduction Mill!

According to the Wikipedia site:

The Tintic Standard Reduction Mill—also known as the Tintic Mill or Harold Mill—built in 1920 and only operating from 1921 to 1925, is a vacant refinery located on the west slope of Warm Springs Mountain near Goshen, Utah, in the United States. Metals processed at the mill included copper, gold, silver, and lead; all of which were received from another mill near Eureka, Utah. The reducing process used was an acid-brine chloridizing and leaching process which became outdated, leading to the abandonment of the site in 1925. At the mill’s highest productivity it processed 200 tons of ore yearly.

What remains of the mill are foundations for water tanks, crushers, roasters, iron boxes, leaching tanks, and drain boxes. The site dominates the surrounding landscape with its size and unique colors and shapes.

It has been speculated that this mill may be the contributor of heavy metal pollution in the Goshen Warm Springs which lie below it.

It was added to the National Registry of Historic Places in 1978.

There are more images of the place (from the inside) here. The poor chap who took the pics got a trespassing ticket of $50. Of that ordeal, he wrote:

Can you believe that I got a trespassing ticket there? What a crock. A couple of other (totally random strangers) decided to check it out the same time I was there. A conservation cop must have spotted them from the highway. He was cool, but still “had” to give me a ticket. $50 later… At least I made him climb all the way up there and get me. Sucker. I would have fought it (which the cop actually told me I could), but I was getting married and moving across the country the next week, so I said screw it and just paid.

My wife’s parents live a couple miles down the road (in Elberta if you could imagine). My father-in-law couldn’t believe that I got a ticket there as he said that they used to take their scout troop out there camping and swimming.

That does it. I have to go back.

Now if only I could figure out what the Temple of the Birds is….

You can see more pictures from that day here.
And you can read all about that day right here.

This is the blog that I kept while planning and riding Scoot 66, a three month, 11,000 mile journey on a Vespa motorscooter. There’s quite a lot to read here, but below is a summary.

If you would like to read the posts in the order they were posted, look to your right and select “Sort by date ASC.”

Happy exploring!

May
This was the start of the trip that would change everything. After a couple days tramping around the hills of West Virginia, I departed on May third.

Weather would mar my trip for the first several weeks. The first day was no exception. Rain through Ohio, and then wind and then rain again at night as I searched endlessly for a cheap motel. Eventually I found one.

Route 66 was the main inspiration for this trip. It started in Chicago, and that’s where I headed on the second day. It was my great fortune that it was sunny and springlike. The next day, riding across Illinois, was also sunny and nice.

I crossed the Mississippi. Missouri and I get along very well. Another fairly beautiful day.

Day Eight of my trip was a wash. It rained all day. I have never seen so much rain before or since. It came in sheets and I was nearly swimming through the air. On Day Eight, I had my only accident of the trip. The rain became so intense, so sudden that I could not see and didn’t make a turn, winding up in a ditch. Thankfully a family came along and dragged me out. There was no damage to anything but ego.

I retired for the night, only riding 100 miles, in the small college town of Rolla.

Rain marked the next day and the next as I rode through the rest of Missouri, Kansas and Oklahoma. The weather was still a factor, I was just lucky. I missed a deadly tornado that leveled a town I rode through by a day. By the night of Day Eleven, I was in OKC, ready for a break.

I had originally planned a side trip here, but shortened it, staying in OKC for a few nights.

Finally rested and fully dried out, I hit the road, falling in love with Route 66 through Oklahoma. This is a very underrated section. Sun, rain, dirt roads, getting lost, hippies and fun were all in store for me through western Oklahoma, into Texas. Texas is unforgiving and relentless and I love it. And it rained. Big, Texas rain. And the temperatures dropped into the low 40s.

Each night I was having to dry out everything I owned. Not because I didn’t plan for rain, believe me, I did. But even rain gear gets soaked and needs to dry. All day rains are tiering. And going into New Mexico, snow started to appear on the mountains. Visions of the Donner Party wiggled through my head.

But thankfully I escaped without having to eat my own arm to survive. No snow (yet), but wind was becoming a factor.

I fell deeply in love with Albuquerque and a wonderful family I met and stayed with there. I crashed for a few days, took in the local sites, hung out with some of my new favorite people ever and generally had a blast.

I was sad to leave, but had to (though I’d be back). Here is where the wind became a real issue. Actually no, here is where I figured it would be, but only caused minor issues, like blowing my tent down all throughout the night.

By the time I got to Arizona, the wind was amazing. It’s nearly impossible to ride into 40mph sustained winds and make good time or gas mileage. Both suffered. It’s also exhausting. And then there were the dust storms. Huge, billowing clouds of swirling, pissed off dirt kicked my white ass across Arizona.

Day 23 brought all sort of fun weather: wind, rain, snow, cold. It was a riding nightmare, but the scenery and stops were worth it. I’d do it again in a heartbeat. The day ended in Flagstaff with flurries flying and temperatures dropping to the low 30s as I rode around looking for a place to eat. No camping tonight.

I awoke to several inches of snow, that held me up for a bit. It soon melted, but more storms greeted me throughout the day. Riding in snow is not very possible. I did my best and ended the day short, which was fine by me.

Route 66 was winding down. Only the rest of Arizona and California to get through. Day 25 was cold at first, but as I wound my way up to Oatman and down the other side into the Colorado River valley and then into Needles, the temps rose, though it wasn’t the 119F that I experienced the last time I was through here in 2006.

It would be nice if Route 66 ended in the Mojave. I love that place. It wasn’t hot and was just an enjoyable ride with a little desert rain. The next day was LA. I hate LA. I blew through it, very unceremoniously ending Route 66 and headed north on California One.

My plan was to make it to Big Sur the next day, but decided instead to head to Berkeley to visit Cole and Josh.

Though I don’t really care much for Berkeley, I had a great time thanks to my hosts. We saw the sights and even some big trees and a fault line and met the Great California Sky Whale! It was a delightful way to end the month of May.

June!
The first few days of June were spent in Berkeley with more fun, but finally it was time to say goodbye to California, climbing the Sierra-Nevadas and visiting Donner Pass. I took Route 50 through Nevada. It’s called The Loneliest Road in America, but isn’t. There are “worse.” This was, however, one of my favorite stretches of road on the trip so far.

It took me through the long valleys where you could see twenty miles of road in front of you, to mountains and finally to the salt flats of Utah. I wound up in Salt Lake City after a brief stop over at the Hare Krishna temple way the hell outside of town.

I stayed with friends, Mandy and Earl, dropped my scooter off to be serviced and picked up a rental car (which turned out to be an evil white PT Cruiser). Smartz joined the trip for a few days and we first drove up north a bit to see the Spiral Jetty and some train stuff. We then headed south for some wild west style fun. We spend the next handful of days hanging out in Albuquerque pondering what to do after Scoot 66 ended. We knew we were moving, just weren’t sure where. Albuquerque? Sure seemed nice.

We drove back to SLC and then Smartz flew out the next morning. I stayed for a day and then was off north through northern Utah and bits of Idaho and Wyoming.

Riding through Idaho, I discovered that I loved Idaho. Would never ever want to live there, but couldn’t wait to visit again. Idaho seems to contain bits of almost every state. From rocky mountains to white water rivers to deserts to thick forests and everything in between. I also discovered that I really dug the Oregon Trail, and followed a segment of it for a spell, however, not into Oregon.

By Day 54, I had been on the road twelve days longer than I thought that I would be… and I was only in Portland, a place that I didn’t even plan on visiting. The trip evolved on its own, naturally. The longer I was out, the longer I wanted to be out.

I could only stay for a few days in Portland, visiting Ashley, a traveling companion from 2004. Portland was my favorite town of the trip. We passed a very happy day there, picking strawberries and wandering the streets. Maybe I would move here. It was a plan. Love for a city makes you do wacky things. The next day, I fell in love with it even more. I did every but promise Ashley that I would move there. Hell, maybe I even did that. And I still might, who knows. Life is long.

I did not want to leave Portland to go to Seattle. But I did want to go to Seattle. I just didn’t want to ride there. I planned a fun, elaborate all-day ride. But I was worn out and said “eff it” and took the interstate.

The last day of June was a day off in Seattle. There would be many more of those days off to come.

July!!
At the very latest, I was to be home in early July. Instead, I spent the next two and a half weeks in Seattle. Mostly, it was so that I could get my scooter repaired – there was some drama associated with that. There was a lot of money associated with that as well.

I stayed with Ryan and Jaime and Jeff. We are old friends. Pretty much the oldest I have. I’ve known them since I was 18. We didn’t grow up together, really, but in a way we did and are still.

I can’t say that I fell in love with Seattle. Not yet. But I fell in love with being around such good, old friends. The plans once more had changed. I was moving to Seattle.

Now if only I could get back on the road!

By Day 78 of what was originally a 42 day trip, I was again on the road, heading through eastern Washington. The next day, I picked up the pace a bit. It’s not that I wanted to be back in PA, I was just tired from traveling and had a whole continent to cross as quickly as possible.

Montana and North Dakota were really fun to ride across. I was doing about 500 miles each day, which is quite a lot on a Vespa. South Dakota was as well. It was also fun hitting states that I had never been to before. Minnesota flew by. I hardly remember it.

But Iowa was like the mid-west’s answer to Idaho! I know that doesn’t sound too appealing to most, but trust me, there’s a lot of fun to be had in both!

That evening, I crossed into Wisconsin. I had never been to Wisconsin before, so yes, yet another new state… and my last of the 48. I have now visited every single one of the lower 48 states. Of my many fairly pointless accomplishments, this is one of my favorites.

I zoom through Wisconsin, Illinois and Indiana, wiggling closer and closer to home. Though it would not be home for long.

The next day, I was back at Rati and Dwija’s. Home? Pretty much.

Day 86 was the last day of Scoot 66. It was twice as long as originally planned and probably twice as fun.

There had been no major mechanical problems on the trip. It was smooth sailing (save for the small crash in Missouri). I didn’t even get a flat tire.

That is, until the day after I returned. Thank you, dear universe, for sparing me.

And thank you, dear readers, for getting this far. May through July of 2008 were life-changing for me. I wish I could have summed it up in fewer words so that more than a very small handful could read it, but hey, I’m not into the whole brevity thing.

I’ve found myself in possession of a bunch of tshirts. Most of them are made by Sarah Martz and most are larges.

I don’t want money for them, but shipping and materials would be great. I’ll only ship to the US.

Here’s the breakdown:
$6 for up to 3 shirts
$10 for 4 – 6 shirts
and a buck a shirt after that.

Understand?
If you want one tshirt, it’s $6. If you want two, it’s still $6. Same with three. Four shirts is $10. Eight shirts would be $12.

Most of the shirts are American Apparel.

You can check them out here.

I’ve been trying to think of a way to sum this whole thing up, some way to put it all so quaintly and nicely. Maybe something philosophical – my own Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, or some crap like that.

But the only thing I can think is “it’s over.”

And that can be taken in a few ways. Neither way is so cut and dry. While there’s the “thank god it’s over” mental faction, there’s also the “I’m sorry to see that it’s over” bits. And neither make a whole lot of sense.

By the time I rode through Columbus into Wheeling, I was tired. I was physically and mentally exhausted. Being at the farm certainly rejuvenated me a bit, but the ride back to Pennsylvania and the bad luck on the day after through me back into full exhaustion mode.

I feel bad, since I’ve been back I’ve not seen too many people and have been really crappy at keeping in contact (on the road, I was regulated and very good at it). I don’t know if that’s part of the exhaustion or just part of not being really all that regulated. Maybe a bit of both.

So what are my future plans?

For now, I’m living in Central Pennsylvania for the rest of the summer. While here, I plan on riding a lot, seeing some movies, visiting some friends, visiting New Vrndavana, selling some stuff (car, some books, some shelves) and basically getting ready to move to Seattle.

I had planned on a trip to New England. That is officially uncertain. I just don’t know if I have the money. I’m trying to not let the exhaustion be a factor, but it is. Though money is a bigger issue.

Well, I guess that’s about it. I made it. Thanks to everyone who read along. I’m sorry that I don’t have much more to say. I’ll be resuming my regular blog shortly.

The only thing left is for Harley and Annabelle to sing us on out…

On my first day back, I had a party to go to. Unlike most parties that happen in the evening, this one started at 9am. So, vowing to attend and not wanting to do so in a car, I hopped on the Vespa and attempted to ride the 30 or so miles to Montour Preserve.

After about two blocks, I hear this rumbling coming from my rear tire. Turns out that it’s my rear tire. Go figure.

I rode it back and checked it out. It was mostly out of air.

The soapy water trick worked and even blew a large bubble, just for fun!

A flat, eh? I remembered the night before, only a few hours after arriving home, something felt uneasy in the rear wheel. I assumed it was just in my head. But no. I must of gotten a tack in my tire at the Chinese Restaurant.

I was able to ride over 11,000 miles in 12 weeks without having any real problems. But the moment I get home, I catch a flat.

Luckily, or so I thought, I had a tire plug kit under my seat. I had never even used it. It was purchased for the trip, “just in case.” I was more than a little amused that the day after I get back… or really, the night I got back, I got a flat.

I wheeled it into the garage and plugged it, following the directions.

And in about five minutes, the tire was plugged, reinflated and ready to roll!

Now, what I should have done was tested it for leaks. Why I didn’t, I’m not sure. I just figured that I plugged it the right way. That was dumb of me.

But no matter. I headed out of town on PA 304 and then took County Line Road for about a mile until the balance began to switch. The ride, to pitch. And suddenly the tire started to unhitch. And just then the bitch, to satisfy an itch, left be stranded by the roadside thumbing for a hitch.¹

Yep. The tire went flat and the plug was gone. Since the tire was now off the bead, there was no way to replug it and inflate it with the little bike pump I always carry.

Now, if I could digress into explaining how this wouldn’t happen if I had just stayed with vintage. When I rode the vintage Vespas, I always carried a tire patch kit. But since the tires were tubed and had split rims AND were easy to take off, I could remove the tire, split the rim, throw on a new tube (I always carried extras) and ride away.

This was not the case.

I had to call for a tow. For a flat. This was lame. Even if I could somehow carry a spare, changing it is such an amazingly huge and clumsy ordeal that it would be nearly impossible (or completely impossible in my case – as I’d find out later).

The tow company said that they would be there in a couple of hours. And with time to kill, I checked out the cemetery that was my host on this lovely summer day.

Many of the graves were of children. In fact, there was an entire family buried there. They had three kids, none of them lived past the age of three.

Only one Civil War soldier was buried here. He died in 1861 in Washington DC, but I couldn’t read how or why because the stone was so deteriorated.

Though the cemetery was well carried for, I did a little maintenance myself, putting a vase upright here, weeding a bit there, righting a headstone or two. What else was I going to do to keep busy?

Well, finally the tow truck arrived and we loaded up the scooter. I’ve never seen how they did this before now and I was pretty impressed. He strapped the front wheel to this little cart thing and the cart to a winch and it pulled the scooter up the flat bed.

I was only five miles from home. I could practically see the house from here. This was frustrating.

I was more than a little amused at how the night I finished an 11,000 mile cross-country ride, taking horrible dirt roads, parking in hundreds of parking lots, even being swept off the road into a ditch during a Missouri rain storm. I never needed a tow. I never caught a flat. The ride, more or less, was 11,000 uneventful miles. And then literally 20 miles after returning home, unpacking my gear, I pick up a nail or a tack in the parking lot of the Chinese restaurant. Over night the tire went flat, I tried to fix it the same way I would have tried to fix it on the road and now it was off the rim and on the back of a roll back tow truck.

None of this made a whole lot of sense. It was like I was supposed to break down. I was overdue, but something held it off until the day after my trip, when I was a mere five miles from home. Yes, thank you. I should be thankful. Sort of hard to be, of course. But at least I know I should be.

And the state of affairs now is that a plate that goes over the wheel is somehow stuck on and though I’ve tried, I cannot remove it (and thus cannot remove the wheel). I’ve changed tires a few times before. This has never been the case. They’re tough to remove, but not impossible. I’ll tackle it again today.

Here’s a write up, with pictures on how to change a tire on a modern Vespa. This, like many modern car/motorcycle/scooter things, is far more complicated than need be.

This whole ordeal threw off my day by a good four hours. AND I had to take my car everywhere I went. It reminded me again of how much I really dislike driving. The entire time I longed to be on two wheels.

So if I can remove this plate thing (which I am pretty sure I can), I’ll have to take it to Mechanicsburg and get the tire replaced. Thankfully, they’re open on Mondays.

I’m sure I’ll follow up on this before too long.

1. Sorry about this, but I couldn’t resist. [↩]