Dysfunction, Parkinson's and Small Town Oregon - Day 13

"Dysfunction Junction is what I call it." Marge (not her real name) said, sounding half angry and half resigned as she slid two mugs of coffee across the bar at us.  We were the only patrons in the "R Watering Hole Cafe & Lounge", and she spent no time at all reciting some of the more telling stories about her life in "Unity".  Unity is a town of about 100 souls.  The name came from the agreement forged in 1861 among ranchers on the issue of where to place a post office, around which a small town grew, but now languishes.

Marge was the owner of the business, having bought it as her "last career" after moving up from California 4 years ago.  The sign tucked in the corner of the front window told much of her story in a lot less words - "For Sale by Owner" it pleaded.  She was tired and seemed to want someone to care.  The Watering Hole seemed to reflect her personality; a menagerie of images.  There were hundreds of $1 bills stapled to the walls and rafters, each one noting in bold black felt pen the name and date someone died.  She said there had been quite a few local old timers who had passed on recently, as well as younger ones by less peaceful means.   As proof, she showed us with mixed pride and regret the bullet hole in the sign restricting minors from being on the premises after dining hours.  References to firearms were plentiful but she said not to worry and pulled out a water pistol she said she used when needed.  These days people died in Unity.  Few are born there.

According to Marge, Unity was an ugly misnomer.  For instance, she had been informed by one group of neighbours that they would not come into her establishment because she allowed some other misbegotten neighbours to be served.  Sounded like the feuding Hatfields and McCoys.  "Unity is a hateful place," she stated, "and the town is dying from it".  The sawmill has shut down.  The school enrollment is declining too, with the successful student exchange program on the ropes due to funding cuts.   Unity will either die in a final gunfight or, more likely, slip into oblivion, remembered only in a few old photographs.  I wondered who would put up the last dollar bill above the bar of the Watering Hole with an unsteady note reading, "Here Lies Unity, Dead of Dysfunction".

As usual, I found myself comparing things I observe to Parkinson's disease.  Like Marge, the disease is often about growing tired, less functional and more insulated/lonely as its grip tightens.  Old friends who do not know how to deal with the obvious, and some less apparent, symptoms of PD.  The disease, as with the town, has a difficult time retaining its relevance and vigour in the face of a rapidly developing world.  It is too slow and lonely for most. 

We probably could have stayed in the Watering Hole all day, and there was part of me that wanted to.  But we had more miles to travel to our next stop, Redmond, Oregon.  The coffee was $1.50.  I left $5 for the stories not the coffee or service.  The day was hot, the roads straight and lonely for the most part, with lots of thinking time.  And there were dozens of small towns like Unity waiting to be encouraged, or at least noted.

There is much that we who are challenged with PD or some other threat of dysfunction can learn from Unity.  We can make continuous effort to live up to the town name and not become lone gunslingers who grow bitter about what the disease has made of our dreams.  The fight is against the disease and we need to reach out to others who can help us.   We don't need to necessarily have harmony in the way we fight,  but we need to be focused on the enemy.  Let no one be tempted to tack a dollar bill to some saloon wall with some scrawled note about dying from dysfunction.

Variety, Beauty and Mishaps - Day 12

The day started well, near missing deer on the road, and managing to stay on the pavement while checking out the scenery.  We covered 375 miles (695 kilometres) of the most varied terrain.  From views of the peaks of the Sawtooth Mountains to the lava fields named Craters of the Moon to huge fields of grain, corn, canola and hay to vast stretches of nothing but sage brush.

The day flew by with limited traffic and generally good roads with the expected variety of hairpin curves through sculpted rock canyons to dead straight runways that the heat shimmered off like a hot griddle.

Over a lunch of tamales and french fries at the "Easy 93", a road side cafe of sorts, we talked about how surprised we were to find such a fantastic restaurant, named the "Sawtooth", serving such creative and tasty menu items in tiny hamlet of Stanley, Idaho, of all places,  It has been our #1 pick so far.

However, mishaps have occurred.  The first was just last night.  We had no Internet, therefore no blog.  Second, the server at our choice for supper suggested we not eat there and referred us to another establishment and asked us to say "Deedee sent you".  Third, birds perching in the trees had decided my bike was a good place to do their business, requiring extra cleaning,  And fFourth, I left my Michelin Atlas that has accompanied me cross Canada and around the whole USA at the "Easy 93" and they did not seem to have the tattered thing when I called later.  And lastly, my "FI" warning light went on outside "Grand View", near Mountain Home, Idaho, necessitating a speedy 60 mile trip to the nearest Honda dealership only to hear the mechanic say, "Don't worry about it." (for which he charged me nothing).  By the way, "FI" stands for fuel injection.  Who knew?  The crowning touch was to discover that I am out of Tootsie Pops to keep me awake tomorrow whenever I get drowsy.

Life is a curious quilt sometimes.  For some reason all day I was obsessing on what could go wrong next, an unusual place for a "glass half full" guy.  Chalk it up to the Parkinson's disease.  Another day dawns tomorrow, and we get to ride again!

Where To Next - Day 11

The extraordinary thing about traveling alone or with one other person is the simple but rather profound reality that no itinerary needs to be adhered to. What roads we pick, what places we stop, how often we stop (other than for gas or the urgent call of nature or even our destination each day) are a matter of whim and circumstance. Take today, for instance.

We started out from Moscow, Idaho, at 7 AM and 50 degrees Fahrenheit (10 C). We thought it was 8 AM, but were later told that the northern panhandle of Idaho is on Pacific Time, not 1 hour ahead on Mountain Time. Traveling south we crossed through Lewiston, Idaho (see Day 3) and began a day of great motorcycle roads with lots of swerves and curves as they followed the rivers by and large. We ended in Stanley (population 100), high in the Sawtooth Mountains of central Idaho and 350 miles (550 kilometres) along to somewhere. The day was a great ride experience, and otherwise uneventful, except for a 5 mile 45 minute line up for no apparent reason except a 25 mph speed limit. Good thing it was not too hot.

Often we travel along roads with limited roadway or guardrails between our motorcycles and…well…let’s just say it could be a long or short scream before you would hear the splash. We stopped to show a 5-600 foot drop from the road surface on one corner, where I dangled my feet over for affect (quite safe actually).

Despite having no definitive plans and limited routine, decisions do need to be made even while on a carefree bike trip, as they do in life. I found myself using my helmet time today thinking again about how this trip is like life after my diagnosis with Parkinson’s disease. We have a general plan; to see scenery and experience roads that are new to us. Having decided that, we take into account our own abilities and equipment; 6-7 hours a day is as much as we can do safely, and since our bikes only fare well on good pavement we stick to secondary roads or freeways. But there are still hundreds of choices to make each day. And how do we make them? We consult, take cues from locals, avoid really bad weather if we can, stop when we are hungry, tired, low on gas, curious, need pictures for the blog or…

Life with PD presents the same types of decisions. Things are different, physically, emotionally, socially and maybe even economically, mentally, spiritually and relationally. Not exactly a vacation, but definitely different. People may stop us and ask why we are shaking or stiff, like people stop us now to ask about our bikes, where we are from and where we are going. That last query almost always causes me to hesitate, as it does with my PD. Where am I going now that my anticipated future has dramatically changed? It is like someone took all but the first and second gear off my Goldwing bike. That would certainly change the trip!

How do I learn to answer the question, “Where to from here?” in light of my PD? Perhaps it is similar to our motorcycle adventure:

1. My life’s mission and vision need to be affirmed, tweaked or realigned.
2. My future is best planned in consultation with others who are ‘along for the ride”. Who needs to be involved?
3. I need to consider what my body and “equipment” can safely so, both now and from time to time.
4. What do I need to do? Earn a living, maintain key relationships, and generally continue to meet my life’s obligations,
5. Then comes the fun part: what do I want to do with the ultimate nonrenewable resource, my time?

So, where to next?

Celebrating the Fourth of July and Freedom - Day 10

It's a BIG DEAL here.  The July 4th celebrations bring out the stars and stripes on everything, and flags too, patriotism and all things American.  George and I were wished a "Happy 4th of July" by servers, service station attendants and strangers.  And that was after they all saw the Canadian flag on my aerial.  And in true Dennis Hopper/Peter Fonda "Born to be Wild" fashion, we celebrated by riding some of the best back roads of Idaho. Okay, so it's not 1969, and we now wear helmets rather than show our gray hair.  But we can pretend can't we?

Besides the significant number of roadkill deer beside the road, nothing was more iconic and impressive than this 4th of July parade that we happened upon in Clark Fork, Idaho (population 530, all within the one square mile area that is the town).  We were going to head through the town at the usual 35 mph, but when we got to the portion of Highway #2 that serves as the Main Street, we were diverted to take backstreets by the local sheriff.  When we asked if we could park to see the parade instead, he was surprised and pleased, and ushered us to a parking spot on Main, half a block from the action.  Truth is, we could have joined the parade if we met the minimum decoration requirement; an American flag on a stick! The parade and parade watchers were obviously all acquainted as names were called out regularly.  "Hey, Grandpa, I'm over here on the fire truck!  look at me!"  Or, "Ashley, what are you doing after the parade?"  Candy was tossed to bystanders from home made floats promoting the church youth group and local businesses, vintage cars were driven by smiling, waving, proud owners, and the town ambulance drove by with its siren wailing.   Kids scurried to pick up any candy they didn't catch, stashing it in a bag provided for the purpose.  Our favourite participant was the old bloodhound, who seemed either bored or grumpy in his costume, as if to say, "Come on, folks, can we please get this nonsense over with?  I have work to do."  We slipped away from the "crowd" with a sweet sense of this American tradition from the small town America perspective.

We then turned south, trying some back road routes in the direction we were headed.  They proved to be good choices as we weaved our way through valleys, summits and farms on exceptional country roads where the speed limit was often 70 mph (120 kph), an amazing testimony to the supremacy of the automobile (and motorcycle).  We settled in at the speed limit (most of the time), while watching every movement beside the road ahead for deer to emerge, which they did several times.

Although it was chilly this morning (50 F, 10 C), it slowly warmed up, and thankfully, did not rain.  The sun, having slept in on the National holiday, began the late shift about 4 PM, just as were pulling into Moscow, Idaho, our unplanned overnight stop.  We had ridden 355 very enjoyable and diverse miles (575 kilometres).

It truly was a remarkable day of freedom.  For me, the spectre of Parkinson's Disease did not prevent one minute of blissful enjoyment.

Finding the Pass - Day 9

It is called "Going To The Sun" road and it represents the engineering domination of nature.  It took 12 years to build and was finished in 1921 for the sole purpose of allowing the newly in vogue automobile vacationers to travel through the centre of the now 100 year old Glacier National Park (which spans the US/Canada border) .  The Road climbs up the mountainside escarpments on a very narrow, twisty and steep road surface, giving spectacular views of sheer mountain face dropping off hundreds of feet just over a tire high stone wall away.  The prize is to arrive at the summit, Logan's Pass, which is the Continental Divide at some 6646 feet (2025 metres) in elevation.  It is literally a dividing point for the flow of water to three oceans;  Pacific, Atlantic and Arctic.

The irony of the road's name was not lost on any of us today.  We suggested alternative names such as, "Road To The Rain" or "Road To No Fun".  The route was so busy it took more than 20 minutes in the line up to pay to get into the Park.  When in, "No Passing" signs were everywhere.  Perhaps my patience needed testing as my interpretation of solid double lines became, "Be doubly cautious when passing".  Just after getting into the park and "speeding" along at 25 miles (or kilometres, both are accurate) per hour for a few miles (or kilometres), it started to rain.  I had learned from my last drenching on the summit of the Big Horn Mountains that such hints are not to be displaced by wishful thinking.  We dutifully donned our bright waterproof gear and began the ascent.  The higher we went the harder it rained and the colder it got.  The arduous effort was rewarded by seeing the work in progress of Guinett Masonry (a company started by Renae's father and mother, and now owned by Renae's sister and her husband), whose craftsmen were rebuilding those stubby short walls that were the only thing between our motorcycles and their first and last flying lessons.  While grinding our way to the top, fog or low clouds were added to the mix of inclement conditions.  At the summit sleet began to sting our faces, forcing a shorter than normal victory photo op before descending.

The other side of the summit brought a short run to the east gate of the Park but there was still no sign of the sun.  It was here, after a sumptious lunch at a rugged, log restaurant run by the Johnson family for the past 70 years, that we said farewell to Steve and Ben, who headed the 20 miles north to the Canadian border and on to Medicine Hat, Alberta.  We had a somewhat rainy ride back to Kalispell, Montana, where we broke one of our rules,  We ate at the same place, Capers, twice (this time totally enjoying scallops over "Forbidden Rice").

After getting over Logan Pass today, I thought of all the other passes we had conquered this trip, each in a few hours, when it had taken brave pioneers weeks or months to make it over them.  And that was after someone found the best pass to use.

Life, and certainly life with Parkinson's Disease, can sometimes seem to be like my Going To The Sun road experience.  I persevere in positive terms to seek the sun only to be met by increasing difficulties, and ultimately no "sun".  However, in other ways I have learned that I can be very thankful for these times, for there are great lessons and hidden jewels in them.

1.  Pathfollowers.  The diffculties are best shared, and there is joy in the sharing.

2.  Pathkeepers.   I know that others are working to make the road better for those who travel it.

3.  Pathfinders.  I need those who go ahead and find the "passes" for me and plan and lead me as I "climb".

4.  I can celebrate and learn to smile, or even laugh, when all does not go as planned.

On the other hand, I could use some sun tomorrow.  I know... we can head south.  San Diego maybe?

Rattlesnake Pizza and the Week in Review - Day 8

We arrived in Kalispell less one rider.  Nothing dire, just that Jim had to head home to deal with business concerns.  It was regrettable for all of us, but we will focus on the time enjoyed rather than the premature ending.  Saturday we will say goodbye to Ben and Steve after we cross Glacier National Park on the famous "Road to the Sun".  They have work obligations in Medicine Hat late Saturday.  That will leave George and I to chart a new course of unexplored challenges for the next 7 days.  After last year's 6 weeks biking around the perimeter of the continental United States together, we are entirely comfortable just the two of us, but we will miss the friendly bantering and good company of Ben, Steve and Jim.

We ran the gamut of weather today, starting with a cold (50 degrees Fahrenheit, 10 Centigrade) climb up the Bitterroot Mountains out of Dillon, Montana.  An hour into the ride we stopped for coffee in the high plains village of Wisdom, Montana (population 114).  It felt like winter with dark clouds arching over us and blowing cold air down our necks and into any other clothing gap left open.  I had optimistically worn shorts and  T-shirt under my motorcycle garb as I had each day but needed to dig out my rumpled motorcycle coat liner to wear the rest of the day.  Despite being cooler, the run north up Highway 93 was fast and fun until we got to Missoula where the locals and tourists all joined a long weekend traffic exodus in unison.  Progress slowed as we kept our eyes on the clouds.

They threatened to unload their heavy liquid burdens on us all afternoon, but only made good on that threat for sporadically a few minutes at a time.  Still, after our escape from the mountain storm 2 days ago, this time we stopped to put on the rain gear that all except Ben had brought along.  Faced with what seemed to be a certain dousing, we stopped where Ben managed to find a rather noticeable set of gear at a local hardware store.  Of course, once we were prepared for the storm to hit us it never did more than moisten our windshields.  We arrived in Kalispell, Montana, in the late afternoon looking like brightly coloured tropical fish, only we were outside any liquid environment and were perfectly dry.

Now it is very difficult for 5 very diverse guys to pick a nice place to eat in towns where we know none of the restaurants.  We often have had no one to ask, except hotel clerks who might well be part of a kickback scheme, or total strangers whose tastes might well run at variance with our own.  So tonight we Googled, "best places to eat in Kalispell".  Up popped "Capers" on Main Street (all American small towns have a Main Street), less than a mile away from our humble motel.   Sounded great, and looked good too when we arrived.  It was not very busy, although we met a fellow Canadian biker from Abbotsford in the entrance (what are the odds of that?).    Teri, the best server we had experienced so far, explained the specials, "Honey-Baked Salmon or Rattlesnake Pizza".  What would you guess I chose?  I hadn't had rattlesnake since killing and cooking one over a campfire when I was a 13 year old Boy Scout.  It was delicious then and again tonight.  Teri told us the chef has a line on snakes that are milked for their venom before becoming pizza topping.

Over supper we summarized the trip so far, given that it was going to be over for 3 out of 5 of us by tomorrow.  We have traveled 4500 kilometres (2800 miles) or 600 kilometres a day (375 miles) over the 7.5 days so far.  We have scaled dozens of mountain passes and peaks, as well as traversed a few plains and prairies.  The temperatures have soared to a very sweaty 95 F (35 C), and fallen to daytime lows of 40 F (5 C).  We have seen snow banked high on the edge of some roads we traveled, as well as blowing sand, hail, pouring rain and gale force winds.  We have waved to hundreds of bikers en route, and met dozens of them in person, including folks from Germany, Tennessee, Toronto and California.  We have remained healthy, except for the expected aches and pains.  The scenery and wildlife have been amazing and ever changing.  And the week's stories are filed away, to be recalled at some opportune moment, are now legion as well as the stuff of legends.  We have experienced more in one week than in a normal year.  And I never seem to be short of blogging material.

We have been blessed in so many ways.

The Journey As a Metaphor - Day 7

Every day of this motorcycle adventure I think about how it constitutes a metaphor for life; specifically, my life. Today, as we traveled 400 miles (650 kms) from Cody, Wyoming, through Yellowstone to Dillon, Montana, was no different.

As with life, every new day, no matter how similar to another day, brings with it unexplored (or maybe unrecognized) experiences that we can learn from. Today, we climbed the steep grade outside town to travel Chief Joseph's Scenic Highway headed towards Yellowstone Park. I was feeling disappointed we were missing Beartooth Pass, having decided to avoid the roadwork we were told about at this morning’s coffee by two Toronto bikers. Roadwork takes away the fun of riding. It is like deciding to take a jog around the neighbourhood only to be confronted by some hardened woman authoritatively holding up her STOP/SLOW sign like Moses’ staff and demanding that you get down on hands and knees and crawl for a few blocks. We have done some “crawling” on this trip, as you might expect (although one traffic delay gave me a chance to nap). Despite the frustration of the route change, the simple, rugged beauty of the arid landscape quickly captured me. I had seen this exact route before, but I had forgotten its silent, almost spiritual, feel. The swooping corners and sparse traffic added to the total pleasure of the morning.

Of course, landscape splendor was not the only interaction with nature, as we saw deer, big horn sheep (wandering across the road as I was approaching at 65 miles per hour – I think that was the speed limit), elk, a fox, prairie dogs, hawks and eagles, moose, buffalo and even this bear, which totally ignored the gawking tourists and “growling” Harleys some 30 feet away). Then there was the temperamental weather; one moment we were sweltering with not a cloud to give relief, while an hour up the road we were racing between two black-bottomed clouds so as to avoid a repeat drenching disaster. These sightings were marvelous reminders of how we are so blessed in our part of the world, where nature in all its finery is so evident and accessible.

Perhaps the most fascinating interactions of each day come in the form of people. Take the scruffy young man, with old torn jeans loosely belted and wrinkled shirt hanging out, who checked us in at the motel tonight in Dillon, Montana (population 4000). Obviously well spoken and capable of being nearly professional, he spoiled the raw ability he evidenced by only exercising it when the phone rang or someone forced him to abandon his computer game for a time. Then there was Shelby, the 18 year old who works summers as a server in the family run Blacktail Station, found in the converted basement of a building on Montana Street near the motel. She was admittedly new on the job, but tried very hard to be professional, and pulled it off for the most part. Formality and pretention were not part of her character. She told us the Bread Pudding on the menu was made by her grandmother “Bootsie” and then brought the shy woman out of the kitchen, bread pudding in hand, to be introduced with obvious pride. Isn’t it odd that most folks seem to have no difficulty talking to 5 “older” men who, though unshaven and a little rumpled, clearly do not present as gang members. Doug, a 75 year old quiet man at the Chevron station in West Yellowstone, seemed only to happy to discuss motorcycles he had owned before his knee gave out. These three were just people who stepped into and then promptly out of our lives. Everyday we have similar serendipitous meetings that can be handled caringly or carelessly.

Finally, there are the dynamics of my own “helmet time”. Riding a motorcycle is different than taking a car trip. Bikers must (1) watch the road for potholes and tire-slicing metal; (2) sweep both sides of it with careful reconnaissance for bounding deer or even a panicked chipmunk determined to become road kill; (3) watch unblinking any and all other vehicles that, through a driver’s split-second of inattention, could make a mess of rider and bike; and (4) listen constantly to what your bike and body are telling you. But despite these serious sensory demands, there are plenty of alone times when the silence is marred only by wind blowing past your helmet. In that secure compartment I find my thinking trying to sort itself out. I forgot, there is a 5th thing that must be diligently performed while driving a motorcycle. You cannot lay a map beside you on the seat, as in a car, therefore you must watch highway signs, remember the directions to your destination and, contrary to what I did getting lost twice in 20 minutes this morning, look ahead instead of down at the GPS.
We can learn much through experiencing travel as a metaphor for life. As St. Augustine said, “The world is a book and those who do not travel read only one page.”