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After a three day recovery from a 50cc it was time to venture out again. Afterall, the tires were getting cold. After doing a quick Level 1 to the bike it and I were ready to head out. As with every trip, I can't sleep  the previous night, no matter how hard I try. So, at 2:30 I was out the door.

A quick trip on backroads and slab got me to Atlanta by 11. The front tire was looking iffy. The truth is that I didn't want to endure the cross-eyed looks of Dr. Curve, Jon "I am not Joe Senner" Diaz, Ian GS/PD and others (if the cord isn't showing, it's still got miles in it!). A call to Blue Moon yielded a dealer open on Monday, one willing to do a tire change, and one with a BT54 in stock. This was my day. Off I went. Blue Moon recently moved into a "new" building which was previously a
health spa. The interior walls are covered with wood. This with their collection of metal signs gives a very nice feel to the place. The 15 or so antique bikes doesn't hurt and the camouflagued WWII rig with the sidecar and hitch for a small howitzer was the crowning touch. They got the bike right in and did the change. The RT also was developing an annoying leak around the oil filler cap. Since the inner o-ring is one of the Viton type, it must be the cap ring. No, they didn't have one in stock. Amazing. I
tried auto parts store, pool stores and pump rebuild shops, but couldn't find an o-ring. This meant I had to suffer the embarassment of an oil coated pant leg. Where's the Harley sticker on my bike?

My next stop was Parabellum in Dahlonega, GA. The windshield on the RT had developed a crack. One caveat here: Charlie builds some great windshelds, but could use a little work with directions. I turns out that I had one of the very first windshields he shipped. It didn't come with the correct installation instructions or hardware. Hence the crack. With no questions asked, he gave me a new one which we installed on the spot. The old one was getting dirty anyway.

T.W.O was nearby which is always a neat place to stay. I camped with a fellow from Britain who was here for the National. A rider in my local club had given this guy his bike to use while he was in the states which showed amazing generousity or an insurance scam about to happen :-). The next day we woke up to rain and were like inmates trapped in our nylon cells. At
ten I couldn't stand it anymore so I packed up and took off. Not 5 miles from T.W.O. the sun came out.

MORGANTON

Then it was our turn. All twelve of us would get individual criticism/congratulations after each pass. Those of us with ABS even got to lock up the wheels and experience the feel. The difference between the bikes with ABS I and ABS II was quite evident. ABS II is much less violent. It was good to know that I was doing many of the things the course covered already, but there were other things which need improvement. I've always had trouble with where I'm looking and constantly have to think about this.

I made the mistake of letting Jon Diaz sleep in my motel room. I knew this was a problem when, upon awaking in the middle of the night to the smell of burning incense, I saw Jon performing some voodoo ritual. He was chanting "Rain munjumbo" and tossing water on me while I was sleeping. The results of this experience would soon become evident. You've read about the rain in Quebec. For me, it rain almost everyday after Morganton. THANKS JON!

MORGANTON TO QUEBEC

Once the rain stopped, the show began. Mike has a tent that has to be the hardest piece of camping equipment to assemble so far devised by man. We started calling it the 60 minute tent and I enjoyed this spectacle on several occassions in the upcoming days. I'm sure Mike thought about straping the tent, fully assembled to the back of his bike. The Blue Ridge has a unique
city variety of bird to awaken a camper in the morning. Yes, car alarms have followed us into the National Park. ARGH! We got up and left.

Hammersly is a combination auto/motorcycle store and has the most impressive building I have ever seen for a motorcycle dealer. Just assume an additional 20% for overhead. At Hammersly, Mike was well on his way toward having two tires installed while I continued my o-ring search. Hammersly didn't have one, but were willing to direct me to the next BMW
dealer a mere 200 miles north of here. Can you say totally pissed off. This was getting ridiculous. There was a whole showroom of 259 engines with brand new o-rings. They weren't interested. That is until BMWNA wanted to talk
to them. It's amazing what a phone call can do. They couldn't do enough after that. Unfortunately, they lost a mail order customer over a $0.50 part.

Turning down Don's street is not something I was prepared for. As I passed each house my jaw dropped further onto the fuel tank. Needless to say, Don has a nice little place. It's rumored that he has his butler wash his bikes. This is one guy that has it all and it couldn't happen to a nicer person. He has a wonderful family, house and a job he seems to enjoy. Don't you just hate people like that? :-)

Yes, I will admit to washing my bike first thing and them washing myself and clothes soon after. Well, really, the maid did the clothes. No starch please and could you polish my boots while you're at it? With dinner about to be served Larry 'le cage o' Fears arrived. Larry is the Mary Tyler Moore of motorcycledom. He lights the world up with his smile. :-)

The festivities commenced until some cretin suggested a contest between Mike and myself. I don't know who it was, but ve hav our vays of findink out! Who could hit the most historical sites in one day? Once again, give crack to the addict. Mike had me worried. With his Psion he was busy calculating. I didn't have a prayer. My only hope was a quick getaway. At 6:30 am I was lying awake making sure my watch alarm didn't go off and wake Mike up. At 7 I was rolling out the driveway on my way to Fredericksburg. I would be at their door when they opened at 9am.

Well, it would have been nice to see the sites, but THIS WAS WAR (Civil I think). With a stamp I was off to Prince William Forest Park. "Can we help you sir. Let me tell you about our park."..."Uh, no, just getting a stamp, thank you."..."But, we have a wonderful place."..."I'm sure, but please stamp this."..."You know, you can stay...."...."JUST STAMP THE DAMN BOOK
BEFORE THINGS GET UGLY."

Word, must have gotten around after this because the National Park people would toss the stamp to me as I opened the door. The hands on the pistols was uncalled for though. On the day went:

But, who is that pulling into the parking lot. Oh no, it's my competition. How many does he have? We agree to call it a day. He was on his way to Valley Forge while I was going to Scranton. I'm sure Mike let me win. We headed up to Little Buffalo State Park and called it a night. Mike "glutton for punishment" Cornett went for a jog. That's dedication. I polished my bike.

We planned to take a ferry across the Susquehana River. When we got there we found that service didn't start until noon, only 3 hours from now. The ride along the river was quite pleasant and we headed to Scranton. Scranton, along with having a huge traffic jam has the premier Railroad Museum with historic trains and a train ride. They have just built the new site and have purchased miles of surrounding track. This is a fantastic place to visit and I highly recommend it. Besides, it will give you another stamp for your Passport. We headed up I-81 into New York.

After lunch, we split up and decided to meet at Long Lake in the Adirondacks. I took I-88 to 28 and headed through Cooperstown. Not being a baseball fan, the museum wasn't the draw, but the surrounding area looked interesting. Cooperstown, it turns out, is a neat little city. There is some of the typical tourism stuff, but the city itself has some fine
architecture. It was a pleasant surprise as was the drive on 80 along Otsego Lake. A cross over the Mohawk River put me in Amish country, another surprise. On to 30 into the Adirondacks. Traffic was almost non-existent and the ride was one of the best on the trip.

We got a site right on the lake in Long Lake and camped next to a father and son who rode their BMW. They weren't going to the rally, but were just out exploring. How neat this was. We stuffed the son with dinner and they let me borrow their canoe. The lake at sunset was breathtaking. The ducks played like dolphins in the wake of the canoe and the surrounding wildlife
sounds made me feel truly blessed. As the sun set the sky was on fire with stars.

Highway 70 took us through the Green Mountain National Park and we were on 100. So was every tourist east of the Mississippi. This was not fun. When we got to 4 we headed toward Woodstock and the Billings Farm & Museum. This is a 'soon to be' national park and did not have a stamp yet. Oh well. Woodstock itself has more traffic than New York City. Filling up at a gas station on the way out of town I managed to drop the RT. It was quite dramatic as the tank bag opened up and spilled its contents across the fueling area. The broken bottle of Snapple just added to the scene. Three car loads of folks stared, but not one offered to help. Mike and I wrenched the bike up and collected all the contents of the tank bag. Still, not one person offered a word of condolence or help. Is this typical of Vermont? It sure gave me a bad feeling for the state. I was anxious to get out. Once again, the valve cover protectors and bag protectors prevented any damage to the bike. If you haven't bought these for your RT, do so immediately. :-)

Mike had already arrived at Moose Brook State Park and was talking swimming. Yeah, that sounds like a good idea, sure it does. Off we go, smug with the idea that the so called "warming pool" has heated the water up sufficiently for the swimming area. The first clue that something was wrong was the lack of swimmers. The iceberg floating in the water was the second clue. Clue number three was watching the bacteria jump off my body as I neared the water. As my toe hit the water every hair on my head straightened out. Mike JUMPED IN! Hey, he's from Chicago and I'm from Florida. His shower water probably comes out colder than that. Hey, he just dove in. This is becoming a macho thing. So, I ran in and swam to the bridge. Yes, you could probably hypnotize me very easily since I'm so susceptible to suggestion. If every male in the world did this we wouldn't have a population problem. Vascectomy, no thanks, just had one.

Between mile 2 and 3 the road turned to gravel, but later turned to asphalt again. About mile 4 I could see the cloud bank just over my head and then the road turned to gravel again. Man, there's a big drop to the left and the wind is picking up. By mile 6 the wind was gusting very badly and visibility was no better that 5 feet. Turning a corner could amplify the wind as it funnelled between two ridges. At the top I just pulled into the parking lot, at least I think it was the parking lot. There was no way I could get off the bike. It would blow over in an instant. I very slowly got turned around and headed off the mountain. Folks, I've never been so frightened in my entire life. When I got down to the bottom they said the wind had been gusting to 50. Now here's the good part, they shut the mountain down for motorcycles when the wind gusts to 60 and 80 for cars! They're insane. My hands shook for an hour and to think I paid money for this! Just so you don't think I'm a total wuss, I rode home from Durango through Hurricaine Erin. This really shook me.

What can you say about the RA Rally without watering down the facts. There was a veritible sea of controversy whose waves washed over me. Mother Nature planted a big wet one on us. We had much time to pond-er the lakeluster surroundings. Most tents had bay windows. People said, "Are you a passenger?" "No, I'm the d-river."

It's morning, and IT'S RAINING. Now I know why people seek out high towers with high powered rifles. ARGH! On with the, well, you know. The farther east I travel, the better the weather looks. As I reach Gaspe the rain gear comes off and the sun is coming out. Before I know it, I can see the shoreline of New Brunswick across the Baie des Chaleurs. Traffic becomes more congested as I get closer to N.B. Thank goodness for motorcycles. Passing would be impossible in a car. What do the double-solid yellow lines mean anyway? I crossed into New Brunswick at Pointe-a-la-Croix.

I take the same ferry back (there are two different ferry departure points) and eat lunch on the way. This is very convenient, if not expensive. Down the Trans-Canada Highway and I'm in Nova Scotia. The folks at the information station suggest I make reservations on the ferry to Newfoundland and take the Sunrise Highway on the way. The ferry doesn't leave until 11:30 pm which opens some possibilities. I can spend quite a bit of time riding around central Nova Scotia, make the ferry and sleep on the way over since it's a 6 hour passage. This is great! I take the Sunrise Trail which is 366 and 6 east to Pictou. The ride was ok, but not deserving of it's scenic designation. Amherst at the beginning was a nice town, but I get the feeling that the rest is just a means of revenue generation. "No thanks, I already have a pet lobster. Maybe next time."

The Trans-Canada is about the only choice across the province. In Mulgrave I cross the Strait of Canso over a very unattractive bridge. Nearby is, what looks like, a power plant. They are taking the mountain apart which is right behind the plant, presumably for fuel. Without this one obvious stain on the landscape, the area would be sensational. Across the strait is Cape Breton Island and the best part of Nova Scotia.

Up top people are staking out there sleeping areas. I should have gone up first and then come back to tie down the bike. Pickings are slim, but I find an area. There are constant announcements that sleeping between the chairs or in the aisles in forbidden. Taking up more than one space is forbidden. The crew is forced by law to enforce these rules. Hey, this isn't part of the plan. Most people are ignoring the announcements and the people next to me are already going to sleep on the floor. Who am I to break tradition? The thermarest and bag are perfect and the motion of the boat puts me right to sleep.
An announcement comes on saying that we are 20 minutes from docking. It's time to start heading to the cars. I stand up and find that the boat is rocking fairly heavily. It's hard to stand up. I bump into many people on the way to the bathroom. "Excuse me." "Pardon." "Sorry about your foot lady." "I'm sure that eye will be better if you put some ice on it." We dock at Port au Basque.

The bike is still standing! The unlashing begins as we watch most of the cars unload. Outside of the ferry Newfoundland lives up to being The Rock. I plan on staying along the west coast because that looks to be where the mountains are. The east coast is more populated. Doing the island justice would require a week. I'm going to spend 1 or 2 days, depending on the weather.
The Trans-Canada starts off in spectacular fashion. Off to my right are fog covered mountains which fits right in with my preconceived notion of what Newfoundland is like. I play the passing game and within 15 minutes have passed all the ferry traffic.

Back to the ferry and the ride to Nova Scotia. At the ferry site I talk a local gas station owner into letting me wash down the bike. Hey, it's still green underneath. He tells me that folks have a 2-3 month riding season on the rock. They usually don't buy new bikes since they don't get much use out of them. Cars last about 3 years because of the heavy salt use. It sounds like my kind of place.

At the ferry site the bikes seem to be the focus of attraction for the car drivers. They will wander by and ask all kinds of questions. It's neat to be living the adventure they only dream of. I meet a two folks from Pennsylvania. She's on a R100RT and he's on a small Honda crotch rocket. He wears a half helmet and barely has on any clothes. I'm freezing. He's 81 years old. Yes, that's right! He stopped dirt tracking when he was 60! This is incredible. She is in her early 40's and I'm not sure of the relationship. They aren't related, but seem to be just friends. That's neat. This time, I get on the ferry and know what sleeping spot I want to pick. I park the bike and run upstairs to stake out my area. I've got the perfect spot. Then the bike gets strapped down. I'm getting better at this. Quickly I'm asleep.

Then the nightmare begins. I feel a hand on my shoulder and hear a voice saying, "Get up sir, we're here." Slowly I wake up and see that there is NO one on the whole boat except for workers. OH, DAMN! In record time I pack up and fly down the stairs. The cars are just starting to leave. Whew. The funny part is that there was a sleeping bag next to me with no owner up top. Now, where was this guy? It turns out, he is the guy who has the car at the beginning of the line. Man, are there some pissed people on the ferry. Fortunately, the bikes are off to the side and not a problem. As it happens, one set of ferry doors won't open, so campers and trucks are forced to back out of the ferry and down the ramp. This proves to be very entertaining and I'm in no hurry to leave.

NEXT: THE RIDE BACK TO FLORIDA

Well, Canada has been fun. It really has, but I'm starting to develop mildew on parts of my body from all the rain. I'll be in the states today. It looks like rain again, go figure.

Highway 114 north from Fundy National Park is a decent road. It's early and I see a couple of deer. They are well off the road and outside of vaporization range. After a brief jaunt on the Trans-Canada I'm on Highway 1 headed toward St. Stephen and the border crossing. Every police officer in the country is one the road around Saint John. Traffic is creeping along because of this and the weather. I'm looking forward to seeing a 65 mph speed limit sign and gallons at the fuel pumps. Gas in Canada was expensive. The average was around $0.60 per liter for high test. This is about $1.00 a gallon more than in the states. They can't be using this to improve the roads.

Before long I'm in St. Stephen and at the Canadian Money Exchange. I meet a rider heading in the direction I was coming from. We start talking and before I know it 1/2 hour has passed. The workers at the exchange (which is also a visitors information stop) keep asking us if we need help. Yes, we're talking bikes and can't stop! A couple Goldwings with trailers pull next to me in the parking lot. With my friendliest expression I try to start up a conversation. They have that, "We're better than you attitude" and aren't very friendly. As they go inside I check the odometers. Both are under 8,000 miles. Neophytes. I guess installing chrome really cuts into your riding time. Just down the street I make the border crossing.
"Do you have anything to declare?"
"Just some soveneirs."
"What are they?"
"Well, I have a Killick."
This blows his mind. I go on to explain that a Killick is a handmade wooden anchor that folks in Newfoundland used in lieu of metal anchors. So, seeing that this isn't going to be easy, he asks me if I have any ivory or seal skin. Now, I can see the seal skin question, but I missed the native elephant herds in Canada. Darn, now I want to turn around. What a title for a story that would be. ELEPHANT VAPORIZATION. He lets me through.

The first thing I see is a Citgo station. I'm home! I take Highway 191 which is a nice empty road Highway 1. There are some nice curves, but it's too wet to take advantage of them. On Hwy. 1 the traffic grows exponentially. This would be a great road, but the traffic and weather make it a pain. I plan on stopping at Arcadia National Park and turn onto Highway 3 in Ellsworth. I'm greated my mile after mile of urban blight. It's disgusting seeing how corporate greed has transformed the access road to a national park. Traffic heading north is tied up in a 5 mile traffic jam. In Bar Harbor the traffic lightens slightly and I'm in the park. The entrance to the visitor center is quite attractive. I look like an astronaut with my rain gear and helmet as I climb the stairway. The looks I receive are interesting. "Heh, I'm dry, can you say the same?" My passport is physically assualted by a multi-pierced teenage worker and I almost lose it. Getting the passport stamped has become a religious experience. In fact, most places refuse to do it for you because of the pride everyone takes in a perfect stamp. This cretin has convinced me that no one will ever stamp mine again besides me.

Acadia Park is too jammed and I'm not interested in staying. Besides, I'm really looking forward to the traffic jam heading north. I take a chance on Hwy. 230 which proves to be a good move. This is a residential type road with minimal traffic. It parallels Hwy. 3 and I make great time. Back on Hwy. 1 I plan on stopping at Searsport to get an oil change. Traffic is very heavy again.

The dealer in Searsport does not have an oil filter in stock. Pppppllllleeeease. This isn't possible. He goes into some long ordering saga that will soon be a 'made for TV' movie. It has all the elements, a villian, tragic hero, the little guy battling against Goliath. I laughed, I cried, I got no oil change. Hwy. 1 has lost its appeal and I yearn for a freeway. I take 3 to Augusta and pass by the capital building. Is it just me, or do they all look the same after a while. Time for a motel.

The rumor is that it might not rain today and the clouds are beginning to break up. Holy cow. I've called the BMW dealer in Falmouth and they can do an oil change. The dealer used to be a BMW/Harley/etc. dealer, but has sold off the Harley portion. They still have a few bikes to sell and it seems like the majority of customers are Bad Boy Posers. Next door to the shop is the best bakery I've ever been in. Since it is early in the morning, everything has been just made. Oh, man....The oil is changed and my belly is way too full. Back to the freeway?

I-95 is a combination freeway and turnpike. It bugs me that a major part of the interstate system should be a turnpike. Getting money out for toll booths has to be the most aggravating part of motorcycle riding. Speeds and traffic are high. I head to Boston and a couple of stops. Little do I know what I'm in for.

The roads in Boston are, well let's say, creative. I've never been there and want to ride through the center of town. Foolish boy. I'm looking for the Adams National Historic Site. Once again I get lost. Traffic is at a standstill and I don't know where I'm going. The nice part about being stopped is that you can ask people next to you for directions. Ok, that'll work and soon, in stop and go traffic time, I'm at the exit. Ok, one sign, there's another, and then they are gone. Here's a surprise, I'm lost again. I experience the signal lights of Boston. I still haven't figured out the flashing green business. On green, approaching traffic stops. This is very weird. A gas station attendant, there's a lot of full serve up here, tells me that light colors don't matter. It's all out war at any intersection. That's comforting. With his help I find the site and get the stamp.

Down to Rhode Island the the Roger Williams National Memorial. This doesn't show up on many maps, but is just across the river from the capital building. They have another stamp for the Blackstone River National Park which is a bonus. I still haven't figured these parks out. I get the impression that they didn't have a park, so they were tossed this bone by the federal government. Details about Roger Williams are sketchy. Maybe if someone sang me a few verses it would make more sense.

Into Conn. and it's time to look for a campsite/motel. All the motels are along the freeway to New York are booked. This blows my mind. At the visitors center I have a hard time finding a campsite that isn't filled. Ah, a summer Saturday night in the northeast. In Mystic I find a campground that charges me the RV rate of $25.00. Things get better. In the Texaco station a women drags the fuel line across my bike to fuel her car. I storm out of the store, pull the line out of her car and hang it back up. She insists on filling up because she's in a hurry. I stand guard at the bike and she moves to another pump. As she gets in her car she scrapes my right mirror with her door. Now I'm fuming. I ask her for her driver's license for which she refuses. I tell her that I'll have to call the police and start to walk back into the store. She takes off! Fortunately, I have witnesses and her license number. We call the police and I get the guy who graduated at the bottom of his class. What a twit. The store owner says that they are all "exceptional" in Mystic. After filling out a report for an hour I head back to the campground. On the plus side, I've got a nice site on a pond which, little did I know, has it's own alarm clock.

At 5 am the alarm clock goes off. A flock of Canadian geese lands in formation. They are busy giving eachother high fives and saying, "Yeah, we bad, we're the geese." I'm up and packing. Once again, Sunday morning is the best time to see a city. I'm off to New York City. I've avoided this like the plague and don't know what to expect.

In West Orange, NJ is the Edison National Historic Site and his home, Glenmont. On the way to the museum, I miss a turn and end up at a park on a cliff overlooking New York City. What a surprise to find a view like this. Edison's house fascinates me more than the museum. It's in the first gated community in the US. You have to get a pass from the museum to get in. These folks know how to live. They are close to the city, but up on the hillside you can't hear the traffic. It's quite peaceful and Edison's home is lavish. Orange is not the place to get lost, which I did. I would suggest getting very good directions back to the freeway before leaving.

Just down the freeway is Morristown and the Morristown National Historical Park. This was Washington's headquarters. It is a small site with a nice display and small park. With 30 minutes I've seen the whole thing. Maybe I can make Valley Forge before it closes. The race is on. I take I-78 to Allentown and can hear Billy Joel singing in my head. Then I-9 to I-76. Ah, more tolls. At 4:53 I pull into the Valley Forge parking lot. Usually, these parks close at 5. As I'm running up the hill to the visitors center in full gear on a 90 degree day, I pass a sign that says, "Closes at 6." Duh! This gives some time to tour the park. The Memorial Arch is the most impressive feature in the park. Time to find a motel. I stop outside of Wilmington, DE.

A front is moving in and I wake up to rain. The good new is that things should clear up the further south I go.
Hwy. 113 through Delaware is just ok, but the rain is letting up and that goooooood. I plan to hit Assateague National Seashore in Maryland. The address shows Berlin, Md. Well folks, the wall has come down and the park office is nowhere to be found. It's a good 9 miles away along the seashore. Who woulduv thunk it. Berlin, by the way, is a nice little town.
Assateague is the site of the wild horse herds. There is some speculation as to their origin. Two main theories exist. The first states that they arrived when the boat they were on sunk of the coast. The second, and more plausible, if somewhat less romantic theory suggests that the owners would "hide" them in this area to avoid taxation. Once a year the horses are herded up and driven to auction. The ones that aren't sold are returned to the island. I've missed the roundup by a week.

Heading back to Hwy. 113 I head toward the Chesapeake Bay Bridge & Tunnel. I take Hwy. 12 past a NASA site which means lots of undeveloped surrounding area and then on to Hwy. 13. At the tunnel I'm shocked by the $10 fee. There's no discount for motorcycles, but when they've got you, they've got you. The alternative trip will add several hundred miles, so I grudgingly pay the fee. The sun is coming out and the brige/tunnel crossing is very appealing. In a reverse sort of logic, the road goes under the water and the ships pass over the "bridge. The tankers crossing over the road are quite a sight. I believe I see the Navy salvage vessel that is headed to the TWA site. There is some construction on the crossing, but it doesn't impede the flow of traffic. Three bridges and two tunnels later and I'm in the Norfolk area and heading down Hwy. 168. I pass through such appealling towns as Hickory, Moyock and Sligo. My destination is Kill Devil Hills and the Wright Brothers National Memorial.

I take Hwy. 264 through some very nice marshland. The roads are straight and unoccupied which allows for some high speeds. It's nice to wind the RT out again. In Bellhaven I camp at, what is essentially, so guys backyard. He has about two dozen sites and, amazingly, a shower. There has been a lot of rain and the grassy area is still wet in spots. Finding a place to park the bike is not easy. I settle on an area. It turns out the bike was so evenly balanced that removing the contents of the left saddlebag causes it to fall on its right side. Here we go again! As the bike fall, I grab the opened left saddlebag and the cover pops off one hinge. It just gets better and better. I learn that I can pick the thing up by myself if I have to and the bag will still close with the one hinge. There is no damage from falling in the grass. I'm thinking about just leaving the bike on its side everywhere I go to avoid the inevitable. The mosquitos are fierce in this part of the country and I'm in the tent early.

Come morning I drive to Washington, NC and find a body shop. They should be able to give me a couple of new rivets to reattach the hinge. In typical BMW fashion, these rivets are unique. We go to their supply house and even they don't have them. After checking out a home improvement center, I elect to use stainless steel bolts instead. BMW should have gone this way to begin with. This fix seems to be just fine and 2 1/2 hours later I'm on the road again. I drive down Hwy. 17 to 70 to 41. Hwy. 41 isn't a twisty road, but it gives a real flavor for the area. Then it's down I-40 to Hwy. 210 west and Moores Creek National Battlefield.

At Moores Creek Bridge, the patriots fought a brief, about 3 minute, skirmish with the British troups. The patriots won and this showed them that they could defeat the better trained and equiped Brithish forces. Only one patriot died while some 30 loyalists were killed. The victory netted the patriots a cashe of rifles, shot, swords and money. Next stop Charleston.

I take Hwy. 74 to 710 to 17. The last section of 17 has some nice scenery. As I get closer to Charleston, I notice that there are many roadside stands selling wicker backets. Even though I'm curious, I don't have room for any of these. I'm looking for Fort Sumter. It looks as if you can drive up to it once you cross the bridges over Charleston Harbor. Wrong! Heading back over the bridges I discover that you can only reach the fort via boat. I've missed the boat by 5 minutes and it's the last one of the day. The next one is a 10am. I'm not sure if I want to stay another day, but I grab a motel in town to think about it.

The forecast is for high temps and clear. Not wanting to ride through the hot part of the day, I elect to save Fort Sumnter for another day. Hwy. 17 leads to I-95. I'm in a slab kind of mood. Outside of Brunswick, GA is Fort Fredrica National Monument. The last two miles before the fort is some of the most picturesque road I've every been on. It oozes Old South. This is mostly an archaelogical site which had a town attached to the fort. Many of the foundations are visible and you get a real perspective for the size of the town. They also have the most voracious flies I've run across in a while. I'm outa here.

I follow A1A down the coast to Fort Matanzas an another stamp. The real attraction for me is the sea and salt air though. The inlet in this part of the state provides some nice waves and attracts a lot of surfers. It also attracts its share of sharks. If you're going to get bit in Florida, this is the place. There isn't anyone surfing today. From there I pay a $0.35 fee for the priveledge of riding through the Palm Coast and take I-95 to I-4 and home.

Closing thoughts
The new RT is a beast and now has over 39,000 miles. I took a picture of the odometer when it turned 36,000. Fortunately, I have the unlimited warranty.
So far, I've got 36 national park stamps in a month. Getting 14 more this year should be easy.
Riding with Mike Cornett sure made that part of the trip a real treat.
The list has created a new family for me. Seeing everyone at the rallies was like a homecoming.
Don't listen to the rumors that Dave and Carol Keuch or Ted Verrill are spreading. They are all lies.
Jon Diaz can fall asleep faster than anyone I know.
The far eastern part of Canada is just spectacular and I'll be back.
I had a blast in spite of the rain!