In the late 1990's I was starting to get a bit burned out on the sport of motorcycling. I'd been at it since 1967, and I was thinking of calling it quits. I'd started off with a little Honda super 90 in 67 just to get around, got bit by the bug, and after two more bigger Honda's went and got a BMW. I ended up having three beemers before I made the mistake of buying a Harley.
In the fall of 2000 I'd made up my mind that I could'nt quit untill I did a cross country ride. I'd ridden all over this country, but never at one time. I rode in Texas when I was stationed there, as well as Missouri and Massachusetts, and Germany, but never started on one coast and not stop till I hit the other.
I took leave from my job, told Karen to hold down the fort, and off I set for the Pacific out someplace where the sun sets. I'd spent a few weeks planning and thinking what gear I was going to take with me. I had to travel light with only what fit in my pockets, or in the T-bag on the sportsters low sissy bar. The Willie and Max saddlebags were for a small supply of can goods, a pot, and a small collaspable sterno stove. I made a decission to leave my gas Optimus backpacking stove behind as the sheet metal sterno one was flat, and I could get more sterno at any Safeway or food store.
Of course I agonized over what was going in my pockets. I wanted to choose just one pocket knife for the trip. I had a couple of thoughts on my mind; one was I was going to be very far from home, and I may be passing some police personel who may not like wandering Harley riders drifting through their jurisdiction. Also if something did happen, and I had to be searched, I did'nt want to look like a candidate for serial killer with half a dozen knives on me. The non-knife collecting public just does not understand. I did not want to leave anything on the bike that was not replaceable at the next box store, as I would be leaving the bike with all its gear alone while I went in various museums along the way, like Bent's Old Fort, the John Browning museum in Utah, the Mountain Man museums in both Nebraska and Colorado. As it turned out, the American people proved most trustworthy all the way from the Atlantic to the Pacific, not one item disappeared from the bike durring the trip.
I ended up taking my small yellow Case CV sodbuster. It was sturdy, exellent cutting just short of Opinel level, looked innocent with it's yellow handle, and was just big enough to handle slicing soughdough rolls for spam sandwiches, split damp kindling, and other camp chores. Since I had a P-38 on my keyring and a regular tool kit in the front tool bag on the bike I did without my sak. If I needed something for really heavy duty, there was a very sharp Ontario 12 inch machete in my T-bag for camping duty. I took it out just before I left and hacked a bunch of fresh boughs with it so it had sap smears on it and looked well used.
Once I was west of the Missisipi, I camped out on BLM land. Out west I would just pull off the road an hour before sunset and slowly ride the sportster back into the scrub juniper and sage brush and find a level spot well away from the road to put up my little nylon tent. A small fire to heat a can of chille was made easier by the soddie cutting branches from the sage brush. Other times I'd pick up a small steak from a grocery store at a town I was passing by, and with the soddies help cut it into cubes to put on a spit over a low fire. The spit was cut with the soddie.
I think this was the first time since I was a kid, that I was carrying just one single knife. I also think it was this trip that started the bug in me for the downsizing I would do over the next couple of years. Day after day, the Harley ate up the miles, and I was on the road for several hours a day. I avoided all the major interstates, taking the two lane state roads and enjoying the America one does not see from the big roads. Ten days after leaving my home on the east coast, I rolled out on a pier in Bay City Oregon. Looking down through the gaps in the planks at the water underneath, I figured this was as far west as I was likely to get without some really big water wings for the sportster. All in all, I was three and a half weeks on the road. I found out how cold it gets in the Rocky mountains in the fall, how hot it can be on the Kansass plains in early September, and how wet the Oregon coast can be. I was glad I had a good Dry Rider brand rain suit.
But most of all I loved having the experiance of getting by for three and a half weeks with just the one knife I took with me. It made me feel like I understood a little more how our grandads got by with just one knife. I found myself being a little more carefull of how I used it, taking a moment to think about what I was doing. And carefully wiping it off on the leg of the jeans or a bandanna afterward. Sometimes sitting in the evening and watching the stars come out and having a nip from the flask, I'd carefully feel the edge, and if need be, give it a lick on the little diamond home in my wallet.
But most of all the trip made me appreatiate how well one can get by with very little.
In the fall of 2000 I'd made up my mind that I could'nt quit untill I did a cross country ride. I'd ridden all over this country, but never at one time. I rode in Texas when I was stationed there, as well as Missouri and Massachusetts, and Germany, but never started on one coast and not stop till I hit the other.
I took leave from my job, told Karen to hold down the fort, and off I set for the Pacific out someplace where the sun sets. I'd spent a few weeks planning and thinking what gear I was going to take with me. I had to travel light with only what fit in my pockets, or in the T-bag on the sportsters low sissy bar. The Willie and Max saddlebags were for a small supply of can goods, a pot, and a small collaspable sterno stove. I made a decission to leave my gas Optimus backpacking stove behind as the sheet metal sterno one was flat, and I could get more sterno at any Safeway or food store.
Of course I agonized over what was going in my pockets. I wanted to choose just one pocket knife for the trip. I had a couple of thoughts on my mind; one was I was going to be very far from home, and I may be passing some police personel who may not like wandering Harley riders drifting through their jurisdiction. Also if something did happen, and I had to be searched, I did'nt want to look like a candidate for serial killer with half a dozen knives on me. The non-knife collecting public just does not understand. I did not want to leave anything on the bike that was not replaceable at the next box store, as I would be leaving the bike with all its gear alone while I went in various museums along the way, like Bent's Old Fort, the John Browning museum in Utah, the Mountain Man museums in both Nebraska and Colorado. As it turned out, the American people proved most trustworthy all the way from the Atlantic to the Pacific, not one item disappeared from the bike durring the trip.
I ended up taking my small yellow Case CV sodbuster. It was sturdy, exellent cutting just short of Opinel level, looked innocent with it's yellow handle, and was just big enough to handle slicing soughdough rolls for spam sandwiches, split damp kindling, and other camp chores. Since I had a P-38 on my keyring and a regular tool kit in the front tool bag on the bike I did without my sak. If I needed something for really heavy duty, there was a very sharp Ontario 12 inch machete in my T-bag for camping duty. I took it out just before I left and hacked a bunch of fresh boughs with it so it had sap smears on it and looked well used.
Once I was west of the Missisipi, I camped out on BLM land. Out west I would just pull off the road an hour before sunset and slowly ride the sportster back into the scrub juniper and sage brush and find a level spot well away from the road to put up my little nylon tent. A small fire to heat a can of chille was made easier by the soddie cutting branches from the sage brush. Other times I'd pick up a small steak from a grocery store at a town I was passing by, and with the soddies help cut it into cubes to put on a spit over a low fire. The spit was cut with the soddie.
I think this was the first time since I was a kid, that I was carrying just one single knife. I also think it was this trip that started the bug in me for the downsizing I would do over the next couple of years. Day after day, the Harley ate up the miles, and I was on the road for several hours a day. I avoided all the major interstates, taking the two lane state roads and enjoying the America one does not see from the big roads. Ten days after leaving my home on the east coast, I rolled out on a pier in Bay City Oregon. Looking down through the gaps in the planks at the water underneath, I figured this was as far west as I was likely to get without some really big water wings for the sportster. All in all, I was three and a half weeks on the road. I found out how cold it gets in the Rocky mountains in the fall, how hot it can be on the Kansass plains in early September, and how wet the Oregon coast can be. I was glad I had a good Dry Rider brand rain suit.
But most of all I loved having the experiance of getting by for three and a half weeks with just the one knife I took with me. It made me feel like I understood a little more how our grandads got by with just one knife. I found myself being a little more carefull of how I used it, taking a moment to think about what I was doing. And carefully wiping it off on the leg of the jeans or a bandanna afterward. Sometimes sitting in the evening and watching the stars come out and having a nip from the flask, I'd carefully feel the edge, and if need be, give it a lick on the little diamond home in my wallet.
But most of all the trip made me appreatiate how well one can get by with very little.
