Mozi and me on Daytona Beach

I did not know there was a vehicle-friendly beach left on the Earth...

Now I know. I must have looked so overdressed for the occassion with my boots, chaps, leather jacket, helmet and gloves.

Mozi on...
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

Lost Password, Wasted Time and Life got in the way...

It was a lame excuse, when I last posted on September 14 of this year with some apology and a promise to be blogging soon. I should have blogged everyday!

The technology that surrounds us is incredible and also challenging when we lose touch with passwords, email accounts and attempts at keeping all of this data close at hand, yet secured.

All of my passwords are stored in my CrackBerry cellphone. The problem: Google has acquired my blog server and took it upon themselves to change which email account I use to access my blog. Seriously? Who do you people think you are? Facebook? Anyway, after a few challenging moments this morning, and answering my security question, I am here, typing a few thoughts.

OK, having stated all that garbage and clearing my mind a bit, I am happy to report Life Is Good!

I live in Florida! It's a great place to call home! I just made myself smile!

I was born here and spent my first 35 years in the warmth and mostly level, sandy soils of the First Coast. The next 5 years were spent in Atlanta, Georgia. The red clay made it's way onto the doormat of our home when the girls were young and we were just a few hours away from our roots. My wife and I made the decision to move our family to Martha's Vineyard Island, Massachusetts in 1995. It seemed grand to live and work in the same place where so many wealthy people spend their vacations. We were not, nor have we ever been wealthy.

OK, today is Tuesday, December 18, 2012 and we are just a few days away from the end of the Earth as the Mayans have predicted.
What to do?
A) Spend these precious last moments with loved ones?
2) Go on a shopping spree and throw caution to the wind?
*) Ride Mozi (my 1970 Moto Guzzi Motorcycle) to Daytona to check out some old Guzzi parts with the possibility that I may find something useful for the remaining states to be visited, explored, dissected and written about on my travels?

I choose the latter!

Therefore, I am logging off this computer and pulling up my chaps, sliding my helmet carefully over my recently combed hair and zipping up a leather jacket.

Mozi has a new look and feel; She has been sporting an English Jumping Saddle for a few months. The look is cool. People comment about it everywhere we go. The fit is great, even with zero cushion and no springs. The stirrup straps secured around the lower frame tubes work well to keep the saddle in place. I have thought of mounting the saddle on springs and freeing up the stirrup straps to regain their token duty of holding a pair of stirrups when I am riding long distances and need just a bit of variety in the footrest department. Hmm...

"Let's Mozi to Daytona..."
 

Wasted time, focusing on the impossible dream...

Please forgive me.

I have been away for a while.
Away from reality.
Away from family.
And away from Mozi!

With the hot summer days drifting slowly away and Mozi running in tip-top style, I feel the need to get back on the road and meet some more incredible people, just like you.

To be continued, soon...
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

A very long, lonely month between Massachusetts and Florida.

I just logged onto my own blog (this one) and noticed the date of my last posting. April 27? That was one month ago!
It's apparent; I've been caught up in the rat race and lost focus on what the mission at hand.
The thought crosses my mind at times to just go away and drift for several months. Meeting total strangers and listening to their stories makes me happy. Punching a timeclock would prove to be suicidal.
I am thankful for the people who get on the proverbial teadmill from 7-3:30 on Monday through Friday to provide for themselves and family members. Building up a retirement fund is exactly what we are trained to do from the moment our parents begin handing us an allowance. But, how many meanings are there for that word? Allowance?

I hope, above all, they do not feel like lab rats.

I punched many timeclocks from time to time and apparently didn't have a problem with the current lifestyle. I found nothing wrong with it, other than the fact that I eventually discovered I did not fit in. More and more, I became an outsider. My focus went blurry and I must have stepped on my rose colored glasses.

Anyway, I am sitting in Boston's Logan Airport. My bus is scheduled to pick me and a number of other passengers up and deliver us to a ferry dock on Cape Cod. There, we will board the vessel and watch kids run around and scream as if they just received a red koolade IV. There are rules against this activity, but the parents don't care. "They're just kids!" Right?
I don't really have a choice. If I want to get to the Storybook Island, I must put up with this or risk jail time for throwing these horrible kids and their worthless parents overboard just as we pass the rocks where the cute baby seals sun themselves.
So, where's my Freedom? Freedom to enjoy life without such violations of my sanity has eluded me.
I'm just kidding.
The understanding of our surroundings and how to cope with all the junk thrown at us is an acquired talent.
I woke up in my childhood bedroom, this morning, in Florida. I miss that address already.
I spent a great deal of the past 4 days just catching up with life in my hometown. Some of it was good, some great and some was filled with drama just like it was 1988 all over again. The rest of my time was spent attacking Mozi with various tools and detailed examination of the insides of her motor and transmission.
She needs serious TLC and I will give it to her.
With about 10,000 more miles to go before completing this trip, book and film, I can't take any more foolish chances. Mozi will soon have a new pair of heads, new exhaust pipes, mufflers, rear shocks, dash board and wiring.
So we can,
Mozi on...
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

Friday in Florida

Goodmorning ladies and gentlemen!

Mozi had a slight oil pressure problem yesterday, several times...

Once because it was low on oil, the rest of the times were a mystery to me.

The 1970 Moto Guzzi Ambassador 750 comes stock with what they call an Idiot Light. Meaning when the oil pressure is low, the light comes on. Mozi's light was flickering off and on a few times and after a little research, I discovered the generator bracket, which has been broken for about 18 months now, was moving in a leftward direction and making contact with the Oil Sending unit electrical terminal.

Ok, enough was enough. I stopped in St. Martin, Mississippi under the shade of a big Live Oak tree and a Mimosa which was in full bloom. It felt like home, the home I once knew and loved as a kid.

I pull the seat, gas tank, generator, generator bracket and found a welder a few miles away, via this wonderful gps map on my Crackberry cell phone. They came, grabbed my bracket, went back to their shop and welded it up perfectly!

The part was returned and I reinstalled everything to proceed to the next state or two.

Late yesterday, the oil light started coming on if my throttle was below about 1/3 of it's potential. I became concerned that I may be losing my oil pump. I sat on the side of the road for a while and then took off again...no problem.

What the heck?

Then it did it again.

Same thing...low throttle, low pressure.
I checked in a Pensacola, Florida hotel in hopes of some desperately needed sleep. Not a chance...Mozi needed help. After extensive research online, I was no more intelligent than I was last week.

I had to get my priorities in order:

Next door is a Sonny's Bar-B-Que. They got ribs and sweet tea. Both of these cause the brain to dislodge most of the stupidity and allow the smartness to shine through.

Thirty minutes later, in my hotel room with the fragrance of the dryrub on my fingertips, I grasped firmly onto my large plastic cup of sweet tea and asked myself, "Ken, put an oil pressure gauge on it."

Perfect!!!

I called a taxi and in just a few minutes, Grant showed up and wisked me away to Advanced Auto Parts, where I proceeded to purchase an oil pressure gauge, a handful of assorted adaptors, fitting, rubber hose and clamps.

I called Grant and he drove me back to the Red Roof Inn. Once in my room, I took a shower and crashed on the bed. I woke at 6AM and began packing for the final Eastward trek.

The parts I purchased would enjoy the ride across Florida in the comfort of a plastic shopping bag, since I didn't have the proper size wrench to remove the existing oil pressure sending unit.

Oh well. I checked the oil level and filled up with gas. Grabbed a couple of bottled waters and Gatorade just in case...

As of 1:39PM, the oil light will only come on prior to cranking her up and when I let her idle really low.

Life is good!

This message coming to you from Sonny's Bar-B-Que, Tallahassee, Florida.
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

Finally

Community Service

As I sit by Mozi and wait for the welder to repair my generator bracket and deliver it back to me, I noticed lots of trash in this vacant lot on the road to the St. Martin School.

In the mix, was a hefty trash bag.

Hmm...

A few facts:
The lot looks great!
No one will notice.
I feel good.

...and Kim just called and said my bracket is ready and is being delivered, as we speak.

Kewl...

Location, location, location.

It's nice to buzz through Mississippi. Half way across and feeling great! (Not).

1 hour sleep since yesterday morning is just a bit under what I would like, but the focus is on family.

See you all real soon.
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

Things that make me say hmm

Like finding a spare rotor in my bag of goodies...while I am broke down between 7:30PM and 12:30AM in the middle of Louisiana with a bad rotor.

Hey Mozi... Let's blow this popcorn stand!

Finally!

Message from Mozi @ 60mph

I am happy to report Mozi and I are cruising along north east of Dallas at a decent clip. Shooting for Louisiana tonight.

Mozi East...
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

Dinner

Winner Winner, I've got dinner!

Tidbits

Wind in my face was good.

Clunking sounds don't excite me.

A shade tree would have been nice.

I prefer not getting tick bites.

6 people stopped to help.

1 wrecker.

An economy motel with a hot bath to degrease and think.

All this was before 2PM.

Then, my mind exploded. Thoughts of a welder to fuse multiple parts back together again.

Phone calls and begging.

The hotel manager drove me to the motorcycle shop.

We used a wrench, two screwdrivers, a hammer, vise, visegrips, 4 assorted sized socket wrenches, a hydraulic press, a lathe...

In the end, it was me wearing a welding shield and fused the almost hopeless, helpless parts back together again.


Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

The end of a very productive day

It's Tuesday morning around 12:35AM. Most of Monday was productive, as I was able to take care of long neglected maintenance issues on Mozi.

The gears arrived around 3:30PM and they looked great!

I spent the remaining hours installing, adjusting, removing and re installing, adjusting, shimming and setting the torque on the rebuilt final drive unit.

I feel so lucky, blessed, honored to have full use of "Tank's" auto shop with all of his assorted tools, grinders, air compressor, hoses, parts cleaning sink and a great sound system to plug my music into for mechanic-at-work blasting of several song mixes.

Mission accomplished...

She runs! She purrs! She flies down the dark roads of West Texas at night. I think I heard her exhaust pipes humming a familiar tune:

"The stars at night,
Are big and bright,
Chug,
Chug,
Chug,
Chug,
Deep in the heart of Texas."

Time for a well needed shower and a good night's sleep just in case Mozi has the desire to ride for close to a dozen hours Tuesday.

Sweet Traveling Dreams...
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

rack and pinion arrival

Yes folks, we have gears!

It is now 3:27PM Central Time and I am beginning the process of putting Mozi back together so I can follow her front wheel for a couple of thousand miles or so.

Life is good....

Stuff I dont need.

Thus, begins this Monday after the Monday I arrived in this town.

UPS is due to arrive any month now with the parts I need to get Mozi back on the road. I could grow to love this little town and the people who have called it home since they were knee-high to a grasshopper.
But, it is time to move on...

Most of this weekend was spent sorting out things. Some material and some mental.

I was able to dig 2 cardboard boxes out of the convenience store rubbish heap and neatly pack them with totally useless items which I one thought would be useful on this trip.

1) A spare motorcycle helmet, complete with a partner communication system.

2)Rear floorboards.

3) 4 extra pairs of jeans (I kept 3 pairs to travel with me)

4) 8 tee shirts

5) 3 flannel tops

6) 6 pairs of socks

7) About 60 pages of reciepts, contracts, invoices, etc of work relates stuff.

8) The huge dufflebag these items were housed in.

The list goes on...

Shedding these material things will allow mental things to go away as well.

I wore my Sunday-go-to-meeting Jeans to the post office. Then, to have breakfast.

Now, I change into an oily pair to become one with Mozi... Still more work to be done before the gearset arrives.

Stay tuned for the neverending West Texas adventure...

Throckmorton, Texas

It's Sunday morning on the streets of Throckmorton, Texas.
This is day #7 for me in West Texas. I kinda like it here. But, I am the one who appears to the locals as a drifter, a man who's broken motorcycle is hidden from most in a garage. Sure, I've become a regular at Fowler's Bar-B-Que and the convinience store. My first name is spoken by a few as I pass through these door. "Hey Ken. How's your motorcyle? ...get your parts yet?"

Today will be occupied with my insatiable desire to take pictures. Fisheye lens, polarized filters and a star point to capture the reflected brilliance of the sun on this cloudless day.

My lunch will be the traditional fried chicken, sliced potatoes in a cream sauce, fried okra and sweet tea. Between The Forks is the restaurant of choice on a Sunday. It's where most church-goers meet-n-eat after most preachings.

Today will be continued...

Rack and Pinion, Wait and See.

After determining my rear drive gears were shot and I'm not able to change my mailing address away from Throckmorton, Texas until these parts are replaced, I spent several hours on the phone calling as many motorcycle salvage yards and used parts places that were to be found over the internet (which I tapped into over at Fowler's Bar-B-Que). In the midst of some 84 phone calls, I had been propositioned by a few people who really know how to kick someone when they are down. My mistake, for telling anyone I broke down in West Texas.

One old boy said he had the entire Final Drive assembly and could overnight it to me. "Cool", I was thinking. Then came the sticker shock:

$1200.00, included shipping.

Now, I can't blame him. We're out to make a profit, right?

My shaky hand produced one steady dialing finger and my search continued...

When it was all said and done and the closing bell had rung on Wall Street, signifying all trading was over for the week, I had purchased and confirmed the shipping address of my New Digs so my mint condition parts would arrive on Monday, due to the lack of Saturday deliveries to rural West Texas communities.

$400.00 sounds like music to my ears.

With $800.00 in play-money, I've decided to head into the metropolis of Graham, TX with Bob today for clothing options and baggage regrouping.

"Attention, Walmart shoppers, don't be alarmed; the oily smell is coming from the men's jeans department. Pay no attention to the man wearing the Freedom, Maine hat. We've heard he's just passing through."

I have a rodeo to attend tomorrow and wanna look my best. Plus, it'll be exciting to purchase the 32 waist jeans again for the first time in 11 years. Losing weight has been an easy task with the help of Dr. Roni's book, 21 Pounds in 21 Days.

Speaking of diets, we had Steak Fajitas last night for dinner. Healthy, Tasty and just right.

If I get back in town early enough, there's a yard sale I must check out. I'm browsing around for a saddle. A cheap one, maybe even missing those things you put your feet in. Mozi might look cool and be a bit more comfortable to ride with a saddle on her back.

What're y'all doin' today?
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

Parts and Giggles

Last night was a lot of fun, grilling out steaks, sipping diet coke with Jack and friends. Watching the dog chase the two cats around and talking about West Texas life. It was a welcomed distraction from the motorcycle part search.

"How many Texas Techs does it take to catch a minnow?"

We'll get to that answer a bit later...

Mesquite wood on the grill is just a wonderful thing! Adding a few thick steaks on the steel grate to absorb the smokieness makes life worth living, again.

As the clouds moved in from the north west and the skies darkened a little, I was reminded of the first night in this county...alone, in a rain storm. I had no idea on Monday night that I would meet so many wonderful people in this small town in West Texas.

Back to the cookout:
A white extended cab truck with a fiberglass topper on the bed pulls up and three guys step out and proceed to carry their bags of clothes, boxes of test equipment and assorted computer gear into the "Bunk Room". The tailgate will soon serve as a kitchen counter, complete with cook stove, a saucepan and a can of Hormels Chili, simmering until they can't stand it any longer. Each of their doubled-up paper plates holds two hotdogs in buns and the chilli with complete the meal. Two cats are trolling the scene in hopes of a handout. The dog knows his place is near the grill and steaks.

A history lesson:
The longest river in Texas was originally called Rio de los Brazos de Dios. Translated to "The River of the Arms of God".

Now for a few facts:
1) There are two endangered species of tiny fish which swim in the Brazos River.
2) The Brazos River is running dry.
3) Smalleye and Sharpnose minnows must be difficult to catch, since Texas Tech sent three burley men on this mission.

In my youth, I've had great success in catching minnows in Florida. Perhaps, Texas minnows are more elusive.

Maybe Bob and I had too much time on our hands last night and I felt the need to examine the upcoming scene on the Brazos River.

Once the team arrives on the receeding banks of the river and take their planned positions with their assigned gear, the hunt will begin as follows:

Team member #1 has the eyesight of a eagle. His Rayban polarized glasses will block the vertically reflected rays of the sun, allowing him to spot the elusive fish in it's natural habitat.

Team member #2 is known far and wide as the steadiest hand in the West. His bucket-handling skills are superior to most, plus his post-grad dedication to saving a minnow or two is inspiring.

The minnow has been spotted and the bucket is placed directly in the path of the Smalleye, who is swimming his fins off, in search of love and reproduction, upstream.

Enter Team member #3...

This man was once the envy of every cowboy in Throckmorton, Texas for his herding skills during the annual roundup. His keen roping and relentless handsfree whistling has proved, over the years, to lure many-a-minnow into the bucket. The defenseless Smalleye Minnow is forced, against his will to live, into a plastic bucket and soon will be wisked away to the Possum Kingdom Hatchery to live out his final years.

Ok, you would have had to been there....

Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

Burning the midnight motor oil

Dateline, Throckmorton, Texas.....
After hours upon hours of taking Mozi apart, I believed I had found the root of all evil in the clutch slipping.

You see, Jay has been following this blog and read about my clutched up mess and wrote an email to let me know of a similar problem he had on his old Guzzi. His experience and wealth of knowledge was a like a breath of fresh air. I took his advice and found I had the same set of ball bearings just floating around in the clutch push rod/plunger chamber.

I was so excited to deal with this and work through the night to finally get my two wheels back on course. Thanks to Jay for the shared info which kept me from buying a new clutch assembly and having to go through the hassle of replacing and realigning these parts on the flywheel.

Ok, picture this:
Midnight, West Texas time, and Mozi is back together enough that I can roll her around Tank's shop and test my clutch...

The clutch is adjusted so perfect, I could just pop-a-wheelie!

However, the clutch was not the sole demon at work.

After a few more minutes of "Checking Things", I found my rear drive box to be making a little grinding sounds. Inside of this box, "Behind where Carol is standing", is a pair of highly machined gears, Rack and Pinion Style. Well, let's just say, they are suppose to be. In this case, I have a nice Rack! But, my pinion is as slick as a presidential candidate. And it might prove to work just as well as one.

Tomorrow, I will hitch a ride to the next large town on the map for some serious WiFi Moto Guzzi Ebay, please overnight the things I need, activities.

Stay tuned for more adventures of a man in a round room, looking for a penny in the corner.

Mozi off.................
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

Freelance traveling mechanically inclined trainwreck.

Let's start off by saying: "Any day above dirt is a good day.".

Especially if that's Texas dirt...

Waking up in strange surroundings was cool, even with an apparently blown clutch.

Being hand-delivered to civilization and introduced to the kind citizens of Throckmorton, Texas was the beginning of an adventure, in itself.

Let's go over the tineline...

Tuesday:
*6AM-wake up to occassional traffic on a West Texas highway.
*9:30AM-greeted by a concerned local from the the approaching town.
*10:30AM-delivered to Throckmorton, TX with Mozi on a 16 foot trailer.
*11:00AM-checked in the Double T lodge.
*11:30AM-eating Bar-B-Que, right next door.
*12:30PM-found out where Tank's Garage is (right behind the lodge).
Walked around town in search of an auto parts store (none).
Went to the library to go online for moral support from fellow Moto Guzzi owners (the 4 computers were currently occupied by 4 teens, who appeared to be chatting with each other on Facebook while sitting at the same table).
6:30PM-met Tank at his garage...he gave me a key to the garage and explained all the details of the air compressor, lights, key hiding place and access to the walk-in beer cooler, complete with a tapped keg and a unlimited supply of plastic cups. (Note to myself: I need to find a Red Solo Cup to use as a prop in this film sequence)
Wednesday:
12:15AM-Mozi has been disassembled to the point of repair and some assembly required.
12:30AM-shower, sleep and dream of the white line.
8AM-wake to the sound of water spraying inside of a wall (so I alerted the managers)
8:30AM-we loaded all of my stuff in the pick'm-up truck and proceed to move me into The Playboy Room. (This room is so named because it is wall and ceiling papered with the covers of Playboy Magazines. (Suitable in some circles)
7PM-dinner at a bar where I can't drink, because I am not a member in this dry county. (Not that I even want to drink; I am focused on giving Mozi CPR and waiting for her first of many breaths, so we can

Mozi on...
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

About last night...

I ended up riding out the storm on the seat of Mozi with my head on my folded arms over the gas tank. I tried to sleep, under the shelter of the motorcycle cover which I had stretched tightly over the bike, as if she were going to weather the elements alone. I had climbed into the cover and took my position until the rain passed, then peeked out when all was clear before attempting to walk around in the middle of nowhere. My own laughter kept me amused and hushed the coyotes yelping nearby. The sky was clearing in the north and I looked at the local weather map with my cell phone's last remaining battery life. It appeared good enough to set up the tent and settle in for some serious sleeping in a horizonal position. I slept as well as could be expected in an L.L.Bean sleeping bag tossed lightly over a bed of gravel. With each passing hour, I woke to the coyote's singing. I never heard a vehicle pass by until around 6AM.

With the morning sun rising and warming the dew on the tent and Mozi cover, inside, I felt one serious challenge ahead of me. It's a slipping/blown clutch on an old Italian motorcycle, stuck between two small towns in the middle of cattle country of West Texas. Hmm, I do like adventure.

Enter, Chip...

The only person to stop and ask if I needed help, a mechanic, lift to the neerest town, snake-bite kit or anything else, was a Paramedic on his way home from working a 24 hour shift. And where does this guy live? In town #2 of the aforementioned towns I was stuck between.

Not only did he stop, after driving by and realizing I may need a snake-bite kit (just kidding, but I do not like snakes and I was camping alone in Texas), he turned around and came back to see if I was ok. After our initial meet-n-greet, he handed me a bottled Vitamin Water, but apologized because it was, as he put it, "Rodeo Cold".

He explained in detail the term and trust me, it's nothing like Celsius of the F-scale.
Chip drove away, after he and I exchanged cell numbers. He was heading home and might just be able to come back with a 16 foot long trailer and deliver us from evil. Amen.

Just as discussed, he arrived with trailer in tow and we gathered up all the bits and pieces of a partially disassembed Mozi, along with all of other useless items I thought I just couldn't live without. Chip dropped me off at room #16 in an economical lodge and I placed all the oil-soaked items and mechanical devices outdoors and the clean packages (all three) inside the room.
I could never thank Chip enough for taking the time out of his busy schedule, his wife and kids, to help a total stranger.

Chip, you are The Man!

Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

Wide Open Spaces

So, after a few days with Mozi on the road, her clutch decided to go out just before 10:00PM out in the middle of nowhere. Off in the distant west, I can see the stars near the horizon are hidden by the storm clouds I raced ahead of earlier today in a pouring rain. I hope they stay to the west. Please?

I must say, there are no visible city lights. The stars are plentiful and there is a cool, gentle breeze coming from the east. I don't know what that means in the world of weather, but perhaps it will be in my favor.

By the way, I have been watching a band of red lights off in the distance to the north flashing off and on. They appear to be several miles in length along the horizon. There is a matching set to the south doing the same thing. My best guess is a large row of wind turbines.

Setting up my tent and planning to sleep in this rancher's huge plot of land. Thankfully, I have one of my harmonicas with me.

WiFi? Not! Haha

Details in the morning...
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

Wide open spaces.

So, after a few days with Mozi on the road, her clutch decided to go out just before 10:00PM out in the middle of nowhere. Off in the distant west, I can see the stars near the horizon are hidden by the storm clouds I raced ahead of earlier today in a pouring rain. I hope they stay to the west. Please?

I must say, there are no visible city lights. The stars are plentiful and there is a cool, gentle breeze coming from the east. I don't know what that means in the world of weather, but perhaps it will be in my favor.

By the way, I have been watching a band of red lights off in the distance to the north flashing off and on. They appear to be several miles in length along the horizon. There is a matching set to the south doing the same thing. My best guess is a large row of wind turbines.

Setting up my tent and planning to sleep in this rancher's huge plot of land. Thankfully, I have one of my harmonicas with me.

WiFi? Not! Haha

Details in the morning...
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

Mozi and I are bound together.

It is obvious.

Mozi on...

Reunited and it feels so good!

Once I finally arrived at the storage unit in Albuqeurque, NM, I realized I did not have me key to the lock. Neither did the manager.

Nothing left to do but pop the lock and she if she is still in there or if she was the star of the TV show, Storage Wars.

Speaking of wars, all heck would have broken loose if that were the case.

As luck would have it, she was there. Covered in dust, inside and out. It seemed, my work was cut for me.

Seriously on my way.

January 12 has come and gone.
April Fool's Day quickly came along.
And passed me by without as much,
of a hint of throttle or that of clutch. Yet, Mozi waits for me. And today, I am happy to report, I am finally on my way.

Van, taxi, ferry boat.
Now a bus ride and soon I hope to be onboard a west-bound jet.
On this blog will be the rest....of the story!

When I can Mozi on.
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

End of the beginning...

Dear Blog,
It's been quite a battle, trying to get everything in order and setting the gears in motion.

I've missed writing about life on the road.
Heck, I've missed being on the road and meeting totally awesome people.

Ten little old days, until...

Mozi on.

Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

Basketball March Madness has nothing over my own Sweet Sixteen

As the Ides of March has passed me by, there are only Sweet Sixteen little old days before I am off and running!

April 1, 2012 should prove to be a magical time for me, as I board a ferry boat with my few worldly belongings and prepare to drive 1160 miles South to my place of birth, childhood memories and the most wonderful family one could ever hope to be a member of.

I'll spend a few days sorting out class reunion details, travel plans, airfare and then play a game.
I'm going on a motorcycle trip and I am bringing with me:
A=
B=
etc...

What will I bring?

Stay tuned...

Change of Plans, due to life!

So, January 12 has come and gone...I am still here and salivating over the fact that I have roughly three weeks of work to perform before I am truly free from the chains of my past life and I will be re-acquainted with America through the watchful headlights of Mozi!

What was I thinking? I mean, it has been seventeen months since her windshield has offered protection to my upper torso and face as debris was tossed up by other vehicles and bugs, birds, snow and rain sought me out as an easy target.

Anyway, April Fool's Day of 2012 may take on a whole new meaning, or better yet, a reinforced meaning, if I am able to break away three weeks from today. Nothing could make me any happier than seeing this escape hatch open, dumping my body and mind into America, once again.

Getting lost helps us to find ourselves.

For the past few days now,  the media has been filling our heads with thoughts of turning our clocks forward and adjusting to the changing of this wonderful season known as Spring. For most of us, this clock tweaking takes place automatically, due to modern technology held in the palms of our hands. Ah, the cell phone, where would we be without it?  Everything seems so well-planned for us. Our lives are orchestrated so precisely and only a fool would veer off of the path set before us.

Enter Ken...

I checked, this morning to verify my blackberry was no going to set me up for a late arrival to an important business meeting next week, or an international flight. Oh wait, I don't do meetings and my passport expired a couple of years ago.

I am now focused on turning my life forward in multiple facets. A book? Two publishers? NYC meetings? Documentary film? A wild imagination?

Stay tuned as I Mozi on, in due time...

Countdown for my departure..

41 and counting...
January 12 is approaching at a fast pace and my bag of loose ends is full. The minimalist deep inside of me is surfacing at an even faster pace:

I currently drive a Ford E150, which houses all of my tools, misc. materials from projects in my past as well as all of my earthly belongings. My clothes are hanging behind my seat on one of those white plastic coated wire racks about 6 inches down from the ceiling. That space above holds smaller items and keeps them mostly within arm's reach. There is a dresser in the back of the van with the bottom drawer level removed so it would fit in the short cargo space. Each morning, I wake, have a bowl of oatmeal, then head to the back of my van with coffee in hand to sort, categorize and throw away whatever will not be needed for the next 6 - 8 months and will also not fit into one of the saddlebags on Mozi. Don't be alarmed, as i may have lost my sanity for a short time, but I am feeling much better now! The past is exactly that.

Different day, same thoughts; I feel a huge burden lifted as I dispose of material things. One way to look at this is to imagine how much time we spend maintaining these "things" that are suppose to make us happy. Ask yourself how happy you would be if you lost everything but your family and friends. I sometimes fantasize about being thrust into a desert with absolutely nothing in my possession.

So much to sort out, in preparation of the return to the adventure.

My friends,
I am honored and humbled, because you are reading my thoughts and a somewhat filtered story of my travels.

Over the past three years, I have been dealing with so many things negative in my life. Nothing can stop me from continuing this journey, to discover, discuss and document what a varied group of Americans think and/or believe about a commonly spoken word, "Freedom".

For me, Freedom has taken on a whole new meaning and is leading my heart in a different direction than I had envisioned less than a dozen years ago. September 12, 2011 is the day a judge granted me a divorce in a crowded court room on Cape Cod, MA. He also explained that Massachusetts law allows 120 days for a couple to possibly change their minds and cancel the divorce, knowing they will, once again, be happily married.

So, my plans are to fly back out to New Mexico on January 12, 2012 and become re-acquainted with Mozi's  seat, foot pegs and handle bar grips. This motorcycle has had it's share of mechanical problems, but it has never let me down. Mozi is faithful and true, sleek and elegant, simple and timeless in style.

Stay tuned for frequent postings as I close out my business here on Martha's Vineyard Island, MA and allow myself to explore Freedom without a deadline. The first 24 states were visited and explored in less than 10 weeks. I'm sure that was not near enough time to really form a lasting bond with every town and people I have had the pleasure of meeting. If I had to estimate how long I will be on the road to complete this journey, my best guess would be somewhere between 6 and 8 months.

What would really make my day would be the opportunity to work for a few weeks in each town I visit to earn a small amount of money, but more importantly, to get to know the people and the community I am in on a more personal level.

Plans to get back on the road.

Boarding the flight in Albuquerque, New Mexico back in November was with mixed emotions. Of course, it was snowing in Colorado and Nebraska. Obviously, I like life. Attempting to ride a two wheel vehicle on snow-covered roads is like keeping a pet rattlesnake in your back pocket. Eventually, somethings gotta give.

I have missed Mozi and the roads we've traveled on. The sunsets have been too incredible to remember and pictures really don't do them justice. Meeting total strangers and becoming instant friends in every single town I have been in was a treat.

Today is the first day of spring and for so many living beings, this is a time of new beginnings. A rejuvenation and sense of high spirits lingers in the New England air and I have to get my ducks in a row for the pending 24 states and some 9000 more miles without a companion on Mozi's rear seat.

There is, in my head, a plan and a new set of rules which I must obey as a group of tools, spare part, minimal clothing items, tons of electronics and a dozen bags of beef jerky are sorted into boxes in my van to be shipped to the storage facility in Albuquerque within a couple of weeks. I will soon follow these provisions and once again, a huge smile will remain on my face for the months to follow.

I look forward to the day when I can finish one of these blogs with:

Mozi on...

California Dreaming

October 20, 2010 was the day I rode Mozi through the trunk one of the giant redwoods in Northern California. It was an event I hadn’t really considered before spotting the sign and realizing the possibilities. Maybe I did see the typical America family driving their station wagon through a huge tree on a Disney movie back in the late 1960’s, but it never entered my mind that I would be doing the same thing, but in a different tree. You see, the famous tree,”As Seen on TV”, is in many locations. Silly me, I thought there was only one.

Rewind one day...As I rode into California from Oregon, it was not with a grand celebration. Crowds were not gathered at the state line to cheer me on and salute the small American Flag which is exposed to my eyes each time I look down at my tank pack for a quick glance at my Blackberry. The governor, Arnold Schwarzenegger, couldn't make it to this historic event in my life, today. I'm sure he has more pressing state affairs to tend to. But, it would have seemed fitting for the "Austrian Oak" to be standing amongst these 350' Redwoods to welcome me, and of course, Mozi, so close to the Pacific Coast. Pacific? Would I really see the Pacific Ocean today? Wow! I mean, I started back in September by riding a ferryboat across Vineyard Sound from Martha's Vineyard Island to Woods Hole, Massachusetts on the first leg of my travels across this beautiful country. That was about as close to the Atlantic Ocean as you can get, right? And here I am, just a few short twisty miles away from the white sandy beaches and jagged rocky cliffs of the Pacific. Like every state line I have crossed so far, I pulled over to take a picture of the welcome sign. Here’s how this scene unfolds:

1. Pull over, or turn around if I missed the pull off because of heavy traffic following close behind me.

2. Get off of Mozi and stretch my legs. Walk up to the sign and actually touch it with my bare hands, both of them. (If someone stops, I just might have to explain that I am not under arrest, nor am I attempting to make the Earth move, under my feet.)

3. Read some of the scribblings and stickers left behind by someone who passed this way long before this moment.

4. Get out my camera and snap a few pictures of the sign, Mozi with the sign, Mozi and the road in our past and a few pictures of totally useless subjects in the area which I will, no doubt, delete as I lay me down to sleep in my tent later in the evening.

5. Assume the position of a rider on a mission and in search of something. Anything seems possible, because I am in California for the first time in my life, not counting the brief layover in LAX en route to Hawaii a few years ago. This is different. I am riding a motorcycle south from the Avenue of the Giants. My immediate destination is the salty beaches and Ventura Highway. US 101 sounds like a college course in National Pride. Soon, I will be on this famed path, leaving a trail of memories with others as I cherish the stories, laughter and conversations with as many I have left behind.

6. Wake Mozi from her nap and test the gears, one at a time, leaning hard around each curve in the pavement with unobstructed views of at least 1000 feet. That’s my buffer zone. Doing the math in my head is a good past time. My speedometer quit a long time ago and I am planning on ordering one as soon as I see one on the web using the WiFi of whatever coffee shop I may stop in for a caffeine fix. For now, I can count the yellow or white dashes in the road; multiply each that I pass in the time it takes my Blackberry to change from 5:21PM to 5:22PM, exactly. Now, if the distance between a set of dashed lines is 30 feet, as it is in most states, and I have passed 176 in one minute, I am doing around 60 MPH. Of course, I get my mind in the dashed-line counting mode and what happens is a no passing zone takes away the dashes and solidifies the separation of lanes with double solid lines. After doing this so many times to keep my mind entertained, I know, by the steady hum of the exhaust pulsating from the right pipe, then the left, at a frequency I can only subliminally calculate, about how fast or slow I am going.

After riding deep into this state by three quarters of a mile or so, a sign caught my eye and announced that there is an agricultural inspection station ahead. I doubt Arnold was going to be there either. Reading the signs on my approach to this government installation, I realized, even though I was not some huge, noisy, diesel fume spewing transporter of potentially hazardous veggies, crates of fruit tainted with the larvae of the dreaded Arctonotus lucidus, known to the locals as the Bear Sphinx Moth, I still had to stop for an inspection. What would they find? Would I be searched? Does Mozi harness anything illegal? "No drugs, alcohol or anything out of the ordinary has been in my possession on any leg of this trip, officer." I was practicing, just incase I am asked.

I put on my right turn signal and also raised my left hand as if I were swearing on a Bible (with the wrong hand), I wanted to dot all each "I" and cross every "T" because I wasn't really sure what I was carrying. Mozi was the only vehicle in sight or in ear shot of this rustic wooden shed with a drive-through feature similar to the DUI starter kits I rode through in Ohio, where you can drive in, order a bottle of Vodka, a carton of Orange Juice and a pack of cigarettes all from the comfort of your own car, or truck, hippie van or vintage Italian Motorcycle with no questions asked.

Obviously, I would not be purchasing any of these items here. I was the intruder, here. Arnold did not invite me and the absence of crowds assured me the San Francisco Tribune didn't run a full page story on "The Solo Freedom Rider, coming to a laid back town or city near you, dude".

Mozi knew the drill. I shut her down as soon as I entered the empty shelter and put her kickstand down. I had made eye contact with the uniformed officer before stopping, so I felt, in just a few seconds; he and I had become buds. He asked for my license and registration and politely asked me to dismount. With my bulky luggage strapped down behind me, this might not impress the French judge as much as I would hope it would, but here-goes....

Actually not that bad! The way I swung my right leg across the gas tank without letting my harness boot come within an inch of the tank pack, was impressive and made me feel like the Marlboro Man.

“1970? Cool!” was the extent of our conversation. Oh, he did finish with, “Have a nice day.” Heck no, I thought. I am the Lone Ranger. The one and only Solo Freedom Rider and this guy, Cal, might be able to relate if he knew the whole story. Calvin, or California, as I have secretly named him, must have an inquiring mind. He might appreciate the troubles I’ve seen. Nobody knows, like me.

I had to re-open negotiations to assure the welcoming committee of one will welcome this party of one with open arms and a map of the local attractions and hidden gems, famous restaurants and waterfalls which can’t be passed by. Mozi and I have been riding all day without human contact until now. We are passing into the longest state in the continental US without fanfare, bells or whistles. The least we could get was a few minutes of adoration from a governmental official, who is stuck in a remote location, which has a stench of boredom. Is this the off-season? Could it be the lack of tourists due to fact that the fall foliage does not include Redwoods, Sequoias and smaller evergreens in this forest primeval?

I put my helmet on, zipped up my jacket and proceeded to crank Mozi after the right sparkplug wire mysteriously falling off, causing the engine to miss every other ignition opportunity and forcing me to shrug my shoulders and shut her down once again. Cal asked me what was wrong. My response included a casual comment, “This hasn’t happened through the last 20 states, why now?”

“Twenty States? Where are you headed?” Cal’s eyes lit up.

I gave him the Reader’s Digest version of the trip. He listened with an enthusiasm I have enjoyed on so many occasions along the back roads of America. Cal asked where I was headed next. This one question runs through my mind on a daily basis, if not hourly. “Where am I headed?” I ask myself so often. “What am I running from?” is what I refuse to answer.

Cal lives on a dirt road in the Redwoods and by the description of his surroundings and lifestyle, he could pass for the Hobbit. He visits the beaches of the Pacific about once a month just to see it.

Riding along the Smith River, on US 199, behind a wrecker with license plates from Crescent City, California gave me the opportunity to ride fast and lean Mozi around every curve as long as I kept about 100 to 200 feet between me and the truck. His familiarity of these roads and curves that I would never attempt at these speeds was like a Get Out of Jail Free card. Or better yet, a Stay out of Jail and Emergency Room card. I was feeling pretty good about my newly acquired mobile buffer zone. The weatherman must have forecast cloudy skies and cool temps for the day and his prediction was true to form. It wasn’t dark yet, but it would be soon. My field of vision was filled from left to right with huge brown tree trunks passing by at a high rate of speed, an occasional glimpse of the Smith River flowing along in my intended direction within 50 feet of the highway, a narrow shoulder that I can’t see, anyway, because it drops off at a steep angle from the edge of the smoothest pavement I have been able to scrape my foot pegs on in weeks. This pavement, no doubt, was laid down by some sophisticated yellow machine, under the watchful eye and hand coordination of a man known for his abilities to wipe away potholes with the same precision of the Bridgeport Milling machine that matched Mozi’s heads and cylinders together, eliminating the possibility for any leakage of combustion. I appreciate, at moments like this, the care he took to give me the opportunity to open the throttle of a vintage Italian motorcycle at the midpoint of each curve and accelerate until I feel deep down inside that braking is in my immediate future and is necessary, now, for my survival. I repeat these steps over and over, once to the left, next to the right, sometimes I have to throw the handlebars over from one side to the other without even thinking about it. Countersteering is the action of pushing forward on the right handlebar if you want to head towards the right, which may sound completely opposite of how you learned how to ride your first bicycle. But, in doing so, the bottom of the motorcycle front wheel is forced to travel left at a higher rate of speed than the top of the wheel is able to, thus, causing the entire motorcycle frame, engine, electrical and various mechanical components, along with the rider to lean to the right and automatically head in that direction with the ease and finesse of those ducks, flying about 5 feet above the Smith River on their journey south. Once again, all is well in towns of Idlewild, Patrick Creek and Adams Station, California on the 20th of October, 2010.

US 199 was my path of least resistance for the first 37 miles of California soil. It was now getting dark and I turned south onto US 101 in a thick fog with no chance of seeing the ocean. I stopped somewhere along the coast to get coffee and gas. It appeared to be a sad little community with nothing to offer but gas, coffee and an assortment of snacks fit for a somewhat disappointed biker who seriously was anticipating a beautiful sunset over the Pacific with red, pink, violet and yellow clouds hovering just above the horizon with my Nikon Digital camera snapping a shot every second with polarized lenses spinning and an 8-point star filter capturing this magical moment in my life, the ride across thousands of miles between the Atlantic and Pacific was complete without too much of a struggle and most of all, I had arrived!

I rode on…

Clam Beach is a small strip of land just off of US 101 about 70 miles south of Crescent Beach. I wasn’t expecting anything magical or wonderful tonight; I just needed to stop and sleep. I was running low on money and would force myself to set up the tent and fill the air mattress up to keep my body off of the cold ground. I could estimate by the sound of the engine that I was doing about 45MPH and didn’t feel like pushing my luck. There were Elk walking across the road and God knows what else I may run into. I could go on to Eureka and pay for a warm hotel room, but I was warned at the convenient store that with my motorcycle left all alone, with or without a cover in such a drug-infested community, chances are, it would be gone before the sunrise with little possibility of ever recovering it. “Those guys are pros and they’ll do anything for a fix!” sometimes the late-night clerks are a wealth of useful information.

I pulled into the Clam Beach entrance and rode around the parking lot, using Mozi’s headlight to get a sense of the whole dynamic of California beach camping. My best bet would be parking near other vehicles on the north end of the lot, which is also adjacent to building that houses the rustic hole in the ground with a raised seat and a few rolls of moist toilet paper, stacked on the wet floor. I only saw this at 10PM with my LED headlamp shining in places they don’t talk about in the country clubs of Carmel, Monterey or Pebble Beach.

Several people were sitting around a bonfire of old wooden crates which they busted apart and added to the pile on an as-need basis. I spent a few minutes reading the rules and regulations of beach camping on a bulletin board near Mozi’s personalized parking spot. I read that I should pick a camping spot, identified by the number painted on the picnic tabletop. I was to write this number on the registration envelope and place $14.00 inside of the envelope for cars, $5.00 for walk-on camping. Dang, which would I be? I am not a car and definitely would walk to this place at night. There must be an in between. So, I walked off into the vast sandy area, past the pallet fire and the folks gathered around it in praise of the heat radiating from it’s flames and the sparks which were flying into the sky, triggering a chorus of “Ah, oohhhh” from my soon-to-be new neighbors. One young man turned to greet me as I walked by, “Heyyyy. You want a burger?”

“No, but thanks, man. I’ve got to set up my tent. It’s freezing!” I was shivering at this point.

“You want to get high?” he was turning into such a friendly soul and neighborly stranger.

He went on to the next step and with somewhat skillful thought, he put it all together, “If you get high, you might want a burger.” I thought at this moment of shivering cold and his comment that I was going to pee in my pants!

“Maybe so.” I was polite in my response and continued to a suitable spot in the sand for my tent, table #4, party of one!

I filled out the envelope and put it in my pants pocket for future completion and payment, once I could determine what this was really going to cost me. I set up “Camp Ken” and put the cover on Mozi, securing the under-belly strap tight to deter others from taking a peek in my absence. I looked around in the garbage pile and found a couple of scraps of charred firewood and carried them over to the fire as an offering. My piece I give you. I give you my peace. I suddenly learned a new hand shake. No, several progressively different handshakes as I met each new hippie around this blazing focal point. Hippie was not written here by me as a derogatory labeling of these people. I found a group of people who have only met each other in the recent past on this same beach. Each one of them, drawn to the beach, the ocean and the Freedom to be found without the constraints of the rigors of modern society as we know it. The rules forced upon the citizens of this country, this state and Humbolt County were not to be discussed or considered on this evening. Perhaps, this body of bodies would govern itself with friendship, sharing, listening to every single person’s views of the stars which could now be seen through the thinning fog and cloudless night sky of the Northern California Coast.

I did not get high on any drugs that were offered to me. I also did not have a burger. The beef jerky and huge bag of M&Ms which I pulled out of my tent brought smiles to everyone’s face and for a while, I was a part of this tiny community or travelers, gypsies and free-spirited individuals. The fire felt good on the backs of my hands as I faced outwards to imagine what the ocean looked like, just a hundred feet or so away. I decided not to attempt an interview or record any conversations, but the talk was great. So many stories of where we have each come from, but not so much on where we were heading.

This had been a long day. I could have gone to sleep around 10:15PM, but I would have missed it all. I finally hit the wall and said my goodnights, did my best to walk from table #2 to table #4 without tracking a ton of sand into my tent… again. After a few moments of reflecting on this day’s events, the $8.00 spent for a ride through a huge tree on private property. There was that fast, peg scraping, grit my teeth, should I really be going this fast for the next 22 miles behind this flatbed wrecker, ride on US 199.

Before I had a chance to open my eyes and greet the morning fog, I heard voices. One of them sounded just like the guy who offered me some pot and a burger the night before. But, the other voice sounded like that of authority. You know the kind, to the point, not in a mean way, but in the way that makes sense in a court room filled with a jury of your peers. I opened my tent door with a steady downward zipper action until I could see, standing about 30 feet away from me, at camp site #2, an official park ranger. He appeared to be in his late 20s and well dressed and greeted me with a simple “Good Morning.”

Of course, I responded, “Good Morning, indeed. Did you bring coffee?” I was hoping he had a sense of humor. And it appeared he did. He answered no, and went right into the conversation containing the questioning my mode of transportation, car or walk in.

“I rode in on my motorcycle. By the way, what is the fee for a motorcycle? I filled out the envelope, but wasn’t sure about the cost and was hoping to run into you today.”

“Motorcycle? Cool. Can I see it?” He was serious, so I pulled to cover off and exposed Mozi to sunny California fog and a curious ranger. “Really cool. Wow. It’s Italian?” I couldn’t tell if he was kidding me or what.

“For a motorcycle, it’s a couple of bucks”

“Couple, as in two?” I wanted to verify the numbers.

“Like five.” He continued, “Say, I’m going for coffee in a few minutes, what do you want in yours?”

OK, this guy has to be pulling my leg, now. I never answered, but went off on a tangent about some Freedom Tour across America, in search for answers to questions I can’t even ask myself, but have no problem quizzing other folks about.

I did have a Diet Mountain Dew on Mozi and proceeded to sip it as we continued this discussion of a non-political mission I was on. This gesture served nicely to bow out of the coffee offer, although I really would have loved a little hazelnut latte with the frothed skim milk topping.

The ranger left and I began the AM process all over again; Dry off the tent in layers, starting with the shell, then moving onto the interior contents, one at a time and packing the individual parts on Mozi in an orderly fashion. There were still a few people sleeping and I did my best to keep quiet and allow them to wake on their own schedule and brush the sand out of their dreadlocks. Imagine this, a couple was sleeping on the open sand, with no tent, sleeping bag, blanket or any sort of barrier between their clothes and the moist sand. Just the vision of this made me itch. Oh yeah, they had a cat with them that wondered around this beach in search of food or someone to rub it’s back. I took a few pictures of Beach Cat just because.

Another couple speaking softly as they lit a camping stove and made a good attempt to boil water and make coffee. They were doing this on a makeshift camping kitchen counter in the trunk of a Cadillac. This Cadillac still had the dealer sticker on the window. When my eye caught the guy’s attention, I said hello. Asked how they were, they both responded with “Great” and as if they had practiced this maneuver time and time again, they moved closer towards each other as they spoke and held hands. I mean, it was so cute. These people were in love! They ended up telling me they were from a families and were just “Out There, finding themselves”.

As I packed the last few items on Mozi and made a few careful trips to the luxurious restroom in hopes of finding it available, this guy was standing near Mozi and began asking the same questions everyone before him on that morning had asked. Where am I headed next? Am I riding alone? Have I been to a plantation to ask about Freedom?

“Plantation, as in Way down yonder in the Land of Cotton?” I asked.

“A Cannabis plantation.” He spoke with confidence, more than I had at this minute.

“No, not in my plans. How would one attempt such a visit?” I was almost kidding.

He asked me if I was serious. If I really wanted to. “Are you cool with this?”

“Sure. Do you know someone that can get me in?” I was curious, now.

But then, I had questions to ask myself. What the hell was I getting myself into? I didn’t know if I could really do this. Was it dangerous? Is this a legal farm or a plantation run by the Mexican Mafia?

“Which way are you heading from here?” He went on to explain that the fastest route to Carmel and Monterey was to get on US 101 and just stay on it into San Rafael; then take the I-580, I-880 through Oakland…. He went on, but he lost me at 580.”

“I don’t do interstates.” I stated rule #2 and explained the other 2 rules of engagement in my battle against the shackles of society.

“Wait, what happened to the plantation visit?” I may have sounded a little eager at this point, but what the heck? I don’t have to go. No one is forcing me, but my mind was racing with the idea of going over the border, pushing the envelope a bit and seeing what 99.99999% of law abiding American citizens will never see, even if Marijuana was legalized.

I listened as he poured out details of the location of a gas station in a town about 45 miles away in the Trinity National Forest. The station is on the right, just past…. He gave me the name of the place and said, “When you get there, park right in front and go inside to ask for Doug.”

“Who’s Doug?”

“There is no Doug. Just ask for him?”

Mozi cranked up after another 15 minutes of discussion on the insanity of Marijuana Laws vs. Drinking and Driving along with the thousands of deaths caused by, as he put it, “Stupidity in Political Offices”.

I only stopped for a cup of decaf coffee to avoid tensions which may be caused my the jitters of a legal drug, hidden in the rich brown beverage I love so dearly.

With breakfast out of the way, I went over my pre-flight check list to verify I had somewhat of an escape plan, with all the provisions needed to end up in a soft, warm bed in Carmel, California later tonight.
Northern California is beautiful! My timing and route could be the reason for this sudden desire to just run away into the rolling hills, the Eucalyptus forests and Redwoods. The endless miles of winding roads, along side of streams which are flowing freely with somewhat warm waters attract me like no place before this moment. The waters are green. Is this algae or just the reflection of the thick forest canopies nestled between spots of blue skies? There is a mysterious place waiting for me right around this next curve in the road. It has been like this in every county of each state I have left my footprints in. Mozi and me, we are pals on a magical tour of life. I must admit there have been times and will be many more when I find boredom in the music playing in my headphones and the volume is extinguished with the slightest flick of my fingertip on the Scala Rider communication device which normally serves as my lifeline to noises other than a twin cylinder engine under my seat and just forward of my legs. Greg Allman’s voice is silenced and the sound in my ears is now purely that of an internal combustion engine running around 2200RPMs. I can’t help it; my mouth opens. My lungs are filled with air. Traces of oceanic foam, fog and salty mist are present. I exhale with my vocal cords adjusted to produce a resonating sound to match Mozi. Perfecting this pitch and we are a duet. I go down an octave and lean into the next curve around the rocky formation on my left. The river is on my right, about 200 feet below. Someone, with a college degree in mountainous transportation safety and guard rail etiquette must have taken the day off when this passage was designed and installed. The only thing between me and the river bed is 200 feet of vertical air, paired with two pieces of spinning rubber about, and I am guessing as we lean left, 1.5 inches wide where it grips the pavement at 50MPH. We are still climbing with each pair of turns between straight sections of road which are never longer that a football field. I ask myself if I have been on the road too long. I am humming at a steady pitch even though I am shifting from 4th gear to 3rd as the road become steeper. It seems like a silly game, but I try to stay on pitch from the time I downshift until I reach the crest of the next hill and can finally shift back up on the decent into the next valley. “What in the hell are you doing, Ken?” I am managing to play both sides of this discussion in silence. No one can hear me or read my mind, where I am. The full face helmet and tinted lens gives me anonymity. I am the man in the bubble. As if someone could read my lips, with each word I sound out loud inside of my brain bucket. Not a chance. I am constantly scanning my surrounding to keep tabs on the number of vehicles which are going to attempt to hit me. I feel it is the safest way to travel, being alert and never letting my defenses down.

I did let my defenses down long ago and if I were to hit a patch of sand or a handful of pine needles on this seemingly clean asphalt, the damage wouldn’t appear to be as severe as my past. A stronger man would not take this trip and a weaker man would not understand why.

The city limit sign just pops out at me at the same time I can see building appear. The roofs are all low, but not only in comparison to the surrounding tree tops. Now, I am looking for a gas station, a convenient store. The question I asked myself on what I would call Main Street is “Do I really need to do this? Should I be scared? Do I honestly care what could happen?” My answers run through me head; Yes. Yes. No…

The man in the bubble, solo freedom rider, ex-electrician, writer-wantabe put his left turn signal on, downshifted to third, then second and finally coasted into the parking space along side of the glass store front. Once again, my landing gear is clicked into it’s fully locked position and I lean Mozi over onto solid ground, verifying the angle of lean leaves a comfortable feeling in my stomach.

It seems like it took me about 5 minutes to stand next to Mozi and do a wardrobe change for the next scene in this play. Riding gear off. Casual meet-n-greet attire on and there is nothing left to do but walk inside and mill around a bit as if I am looking for a special brand of candy bar, beef jerky, Diet Mountain Dew and maybe a pack of gum. When, in fact, what I am really doing is stalling until the other customers have paid and gathered their junk food and exited through the double glass doors. I glance over to watch the door close before I walk up to the clerk to ask for Doug and what catches my eye is the strip of tape on the door frame which allows the clerk to gauge the height of the would-be robber. “Damn, I look like that guy!” I tell myself, since I was casing this joint in a textbook manner.

“Hey”, my eyes met his and as the register began to ring up every item with a simple scan of the bar code, “Where can I find Doug?” He immediately stopped scanning and completely covered my pack of gum with his right hand. “Who wants to know?”

“I’m Ken. I am writing a story about Freedom in the US and….” My words were boring me at this point. Same old same old, like I have told possibly thousands of people. The accurate number of listeners is maybe in the 300-450 range.

“You got some ID?”
“Sure” I already had my wallet out to pay for my junk food. I showed him my official Massachusetts Motorcycle Riders License and also handed him one of the Solo Freedom Rider calling cards.

He asked if I was riding the black motorcycle. I said yes. He rang up the gum and I paid for my nourishment.

“Wait here.” He locked the register and walked outside with his cell phone. I could see him talking but he was turned and I couldn’t read his lips. But, his head nodded a couple of times and I translated that to mean this might happen.
As he walked back towards the door, I glanced around to see not a single security camera, thinking I might have been taped and later viewed as one of my final moments.

“Just hang tight for 20 minutes.” He went right behind the counter and started restocking the cigarette shelf with his back to me.

I put the Mountain Dew in it’s dedicated bungee cord harness behind the windshield. I tucked the beef jerky into the tank bag and opened the pack of gum to freshen my breath.

Right on time, 20 minutes after the phone call, a black Monte Carlo with tinted windows pulled in right next to me. This guy that got out of the driver side looked like a throwback from Bob Marley’s time. Light brown dreadlocks past his shoulders. More than a few tattoo sessions have left their mark on his bare chest and right arm. “You Ken?” walking around Mozi. “You got some ID?”

This all seems so routine for everyone in this parking lot but me. He quickly scanned my motorcycle license and pointed it towards Mozi,” You can’t take anything with you.” The second guy opened the rear passenger door and motioned me to get in. “The bike will be ok here. Randy will take care of it ‘til we get back. You got a cell phone?”

“Yep.” I pulled my Blackberry out of my jeans pocket and showed him the screen go black as I pushed the key lock button, as it does. The phone gave the impression that it was dead, but it was actually still on and the ringer was already set to “Silence”.

Randy? I thought of this mental note to myself.
“Ok.” I stepped into the car and guy #2 also got in the same side as I slid over. We were off and running and the conversation automatically went right into the subject of Freedom. I sat out of the first few lines exchanged from the rear seat to the driver. The dynamics between these two appeared to be life-long. The floor mat was missing on my side and there was a thick coat of rust on the exposed metal. As my feet moved about, there was a scraping sound, so I did my best to not show any sign of nervousness. The questions began and I spoke without the slightest hesitation. “Freedom can’t be explained to me by so many people, so far. I was hoping you guys could change that. So, what does the word, Freedom, mean to you?”

“You’re looking at it. We are the envy of the Socialist Republic of America.” The driver pulled off of the road about 5 miles west on 299 and adjusted the mirror so we were now looking at each other. “I hope you’re Ok with this.”

I had no idea what he was talking about, but my mind was racing through a handful of options, Open the door and run, sit there and see what happens, or open my mouth and gather my senses long enough to act as if nothing were suspicious in these guys actions and, well, this happens to me almost everyday.

“OK, with what?”

“We gotta blindfold you. You OK?”

“Yeah, I kind of expected this."

Guy #2 (and I really wish they had names to share) placed the blindfold around my head and pulled the elastic band down over my ears to insure the front would not ride up like those small tee shirts I had packed on day one of the trip. There is an application available to Blackberry users called Latitude. It is a GPS tracking program which sends out the user’s location, sometimes within 3 meters accuracy. It can be tracked by individuals who log onto google.com/IG and who also have a user name and password to pull up a map and see a square icon with my name inside. The icon also has a short arrow pointing to the Solo Freedom Rider, blindfolded or not!

To take my mind off of the situation, I began explaining what I have been up against since the beginning. I told of the Catskill Mountain Thunder Biker Rally back in September and how the main building burned to the ground under the watchful lens of my camera. I could feel the car turning right, left, back right again, but it was not giving me any indication as to our actual location. All I know is we are going to stop somewhere and I may be able to remove the padded cloth from my face to see daylight again. My mind could not calculate time or distance. All I could feel were the curves and hear the engine slow, then speed up with each hill we went over.
The last time I wrote was about being blindfolded in the back of a Chevy Monte Carlo as we rode through the Trinity National Forest of Northern California. It was understood that I was being taken in through some backroads to a "Plantation". I had no idea what I would see or experience. No clue as to what this place would look like. I was hoping they would allow me to remove the blindfold soon and get out of this car. I mean, it stinks. Wreaking of old motor oil and an ashtray filled with the remains of many cheap cigarette butts and God only knows what else. While we are on the subject of odors, a bar of soap shared between these two guys wouldn't hurt a thing. Are they alergic to deodorant? They may be totally clueless in the fine art of cleanliness and personal hygene.
Dear Mom,


I am having a great time at summer camp. We don't shower because we are swimming all the time. And the counselors don't want to kill any fish in the lake, so we can't bathe there either. We don't mind, as we all smell ok. Please send me more money so I can buy postcards and stamps to send to all my friends back home (this money will be used to buy a pack of cigarettes to share with my new friends here).
Yeah, I am pretty sure this letter made it's way to the home of the guy sitting next to me in this pimped out Chevy from the early 1970's.
I've driven with a passenger next to me, on curvy roads and didn't realize they were car sick until I had to pull over for them to heave their guts out on the side of the road. I never felt like I was driving too fast or that I was taking the curves agressively. I felt that these people we weaklings, absolutely not able to spend time with me on my sailboat due to the seasickness that would surely take over their minds and bodies like a salty demon. I need to appologize the next time I see them, because, back in this car, with my eyes covered so completely and my mental status is questionable and several putrid smells are mixing with the warm sunshine hitting my left arm, I am doing my best to avoid that same illness that once plagued my own passengers. Yes, I am definately getting sick, dizzy and I am beginning to taste beef jerky again. Feeling, as my Dad would say, "Like Death eating a Cracker". I am miserable. Just before I hurl, the car's accelerator is easing up and we are coasting up a hill. It's the feeling you get when you are in a boat on a lake and you are slowing down to greet a dock or beach, everything feels smooth and there comes a calmness all over you. I wonder what it would be like, on that beach; Sticking my toes deep under the warm sand and sitting on a hill of coquina shells and my brother is out past the breakers, waiting for the next set of waves. My sisters are running down into the foamy surf and running right back out as if the waves were attacking them. Our parents are sitting on the tailgate of the old black Chevy truck and they must be talking about something important. Or they are telling a secret. Grandma is standing in the shallow surf with her fishing pole held high and the monofilament line followed the lead sinker and baited hook, somewhere out in the surf. She always went with us to the beach, when that was something we were able to do. The beach bears our family name to this day. The sign at the entrance of it ends up missing from time to time, but the county never fails to make another and replace the broken post of the old one with a new steel post and sink it deep into a freshly poured concrete base. "Mickler's Beach" is once again visible to all who pass by the place which will forever hold a place in my heart.
The car's engine has stopped and a door opens. I feel a hand pull the back of the cloth up and over my head and I can see a clear blue sky, more majestic Redwoods and what appears to be a junkyard. As my eyes struggle to adjust to the light, the visions of various junk pieces are transforming into old refrigerators, lawn mowers, a big rusty panel truck and two mobile homes. The exterior light on the small trailer home is on and the door is open. Without asking, I opened my door and got out. The driver motioned me to follow him across the gravel road and through a gate between two of the Redwoods. There is not a fence to be seen, but we had to walk through the gate as if this were the only route available. He lead; I followed and in about 5 minutes, he stopped in a clearing.
"There it is." he waved his right arm around as if to acknowledge the other performers on this stage and asking them to take a bow.
I was speechless. There, under the canopy of the Redwoods, was a camouflage netting stretching maybe 300 feet long, but setting back under the giant trees some 50 feet from the edge of the clearing. The net was strung up on a large rope between the trees maybe 15 feet above the ground. It extended farther back into the forest than I could see. There were voices coming from under the net. We walked over and picked the edge of the net up just enough to squat down and enter the hidden chamber.
When Dorothy skipped along with the Tinman, Cowardly Lyon and Scarecrow, over the poppy covered hill and saw the Emerald City for the first time, she had this look on her face which I will never forget. It was like the first time Forrest Gump saw Jenny on the bus. Like a 4 years old peeking around the corner of the stairs on Christmas morning. It was at this point, in the forest, that my eyes bugged out and my mouth would only shut in an attempt to swallow and moisten my lips with my tongue. I was not told how many Marijuana plants with there, but I did hear that this was field #1 and there were more in another place. Most of the bushes, shrubs, trees or whatever they are called, were between 6 and 7 feet tall. The voices became louder with every step I took. Suddenly, the outline of men and women became clear and they stopped talking with our approach.
The nameless introductions were as rehearsed. After shaking hands with a few of the Creamers, I walked along through the hidden field of the devil weed with my hands in my pocket. With my right hand, I carefully found the face of my Blackberry cell phone and slid my fingers down and across the screen until I could tell my fingertip was directly over the red power button. I pressed the button down firmly for about 6 seconds, then released it. The phone was now turned off and the Lattitude application would remain locked onto this position until I would power it back up at a later time, I hope...
Lattitude is an application that transmits my GPS location, within 3 meters accuracy, to www.Google.com/IC. Any registered Google user with an authorization from me, earlier on this ride, could log on at this moment and see exactly where I was last logged onto Verizon Wireless. "Can you see me, now?" My wife, my dad and my brother all have the user name and password to view me at this moment and for the next hour or so.
"Can I ask you a question or five?" This was evolving into the perfect moment to engage in a conversation about Freedom.
"Maybe. It depends on..." He stopped talking and turned his head as if he heard something, someone. "Go ahead. Ask."
We began talking about the Marijuana business and why these people were called "Creamers". The most valuable part of the harvest is the buds. Rich in THC and fetching a hefty price on the streets, the cream of the crop is carefully picked first, then the remaining leaves are raped from the tree branches at a faster pace without taking care not to damage them. The main objective is to get the crop out of these woods and out of the plantation owner's possession as quickly as possible.
"There's a potential scheduling problem this year. Napa is ready to harvest in two weeks and most of our pickers are going south for safe work in the valley. We promised to pay them $200.00 for each pound of Cream they pick, if they stay until the Cream is in. They are paid $120.00 per pound at the end of the day and the balance when the entire Cream Crop is harvested. So far, this is working out well for all of us."
"How long will it take to pick the rest, after the Creamers are gone?"
"Some will stay and just keep picking. The Cream should be bagged up in three weeks and the remains can be harvested in another week with a few more travelers stopping by."
"Can I ask you about Freedom?"
"You want to stay and pick for a while? You can stay with us."

Even though I opted not to stay and pick an illegal substance for large, immediate cash profits in Northern California, under the shade and protection of old camo netting and huge Redwoods, I knew there would be more adventures and exciting places to visit. For now, I have no regrets and no second chances to go back.

Mozi on...

Freedom Infuenced by people we meet along the way

Let me share a little story with you.



Missy sings, rides and loves her Freedom!

If you clicked this link, I probably can't tell you anything you don't already know. However, There have been people who have come into my life in various degrees of separations, or intermediaries.

In my case, I have run into people on the backroads of America who know someone else I have run into on the backroads of America. Is this because these people were all on motorcycles and "Bikers" seem to band together? Or could this web of folks be connected by through higher power? Whatever the reason or change encounters with these people, one common attraction is the desire to find Freedom.


Missy, it appears, is on a mission of her own to discover, ride and sing about Freedom. Is this a good thing? Absolutely!

Click on her link.
Check out her site.
Get very familiar with her stories, music and vision of tomorrow.
And more importantly, today!

Martin Luther King Jr. Day and the subject of Freedom

I was raised in the South, around Jacksonville and North East Florida, generally speaking. If we wanted to be exact, let's go from the beginning.

I was born in Jacksonville, Fl. in 1954. In my youth, we lived in Jacksonville Beach and I can remember back as early as 5 years old. My family was always very close, devoted to God and would go out of their way to help any and everybody. "Was" in that last sentence should now be replaced with "still is". I am amazed to meet people who do not have any knowledge of their family history and possibly have no family members to share their lives with. Even though I now live in New England and my first family all still live in Florida, we're still close.

As I look back on growing up in the South and trying my best to remember racial conflicts that may have effected my life, I got nothing. Notta! In fact, I do remember my Dad driving from our house to the fishing village of Mayport to deliver what I remember to be a mattress for a family who did not have one, or maybe only had one and really needed another. This black family had a dirt floor in their house, but it was still their home. Can you imagine walking in your front door of your home at the end of your workday and stepping over a threshold that may have existed. Maybe there was not a threshold at all. I have racked my brain several times in my life to try to recreate that moment. I might have been somewhere between 5 and 8.

What I do remember with detail is the love my parents always instilled in me and my siblings towards everyone. The memories that stick in my mind from that day include the following events.

This mattress was one that we may have had on what seemed like a tall bed, perhaps only tall because of this mattress setting on top of the middle mattress and the box springs. It was carried outside of our house by Daddy and my brother, Sidney. I must have been to young to help, but I went along, because this seemed like a job for "the men folk". The truck we rode in was called "Number Nineteen". It was an old Chevy pick up truck which my Daddy bought from the City of Jax Beach after it was way too old for their use and it was replaced with a newer truck.

#19 was a long wheel base truck with a bed large enough to accommodate the mattress without a problem. There was no need to tie it down as it would lay flat on the bottom of the bed and we would never consider driving fast. Life was slower back then. Daddy never drove fast unless there was an electrical emergency within the utility company where he earned the money that all of our lives depended on.

There is a good chance that Sidney and I rode in the back of the truck on top of the mattress on this Saturday journey. Could you imagine loading your two sons into the back of a pick up truck and driving somewhere between 8 and 18 miles (depending on whether we lived in Jax Beach or Palm Valley, at that time)?

When we arrived at the house and proceeded to carry the mattress into the house, I remember Daddy telling us to brush our shoes off at the door. There was a door mat just outside of the door on a makeshift patio of wood from old pallets. We brushed off our shoes before entering a house with a dirt floor which belonged to this family in need of a mattress.

The cliche of Southerners typically being prejudice makes me feel uncomfortable for a moment, but then I feel more sorrow for the person who thinks this of Southerners. Seriously? Through all of the years and decades of slave trading in the "South", as they call it, more slaves were brought into this country by a man who lived in Bristol, Rhode Island. James De Wolf was a businessman in Bristol who claimed to be in the import/export business a long time ago, according to the documentary film, Traces of the Trade.

Just because he was the leading importer of Africans to America to be sold, traded and used by white families, doesn't make everyone in New England, Rhode Island or even Bristol, prejudice.

Back to my childhood...

I never met Martin Luther King, Jr. In fact, I doubt anyone reading this has had the pleasure to meet this great man. If you have, please write to me, text me, call me or somehow share your story with me. I do remember when he was killed. I remember it very well, partially because of the impact he has made on Americans' lives and the subject of my journey, Freedom.

picture is owned by:

http://www.surveymagnet.com/2010/01/should-mlk-day-be-a-national-holiday/

By the way, clicking on the above link will take you to a great site about MLK Day.

In 1989, I moved, with my immediate family to Atlanta, GA. to work on a large construction project in downtown for about 26 months. In that time, I made several side-trips on my way home from work or during lunch time to The King Center. I know I've not read all that is written on the walls and plaques in this fabulous memorial to the man, the family and the dream that is still being realized by so many people of the world.

I am still in awe at the impact MLK has made in my life. So many aspects of our daily lives are taken for granted.

Singer, Kris Kristofferson coined a wonderful line, "Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose."

My conversations with people of all races, colors, creeds across America have exposed countless experiences of individuals who have, at one time of another, stopped to sort out their priorities in life. Perhaps, they have found a better way to live a more fruitful life or at least they have become aware of a freedom that has been missing in their lives and know these things can be changed. It is all up to them to initiate these changes. Have we become too complacent in our lives to make positive changes? I know...we have to define "positive change".

For me, positive change is defined as, "Anything I can do, or think to act upon, which will enrich the lives of others around me and/or  make my own life more enjoyable."

The secret now is, how to recognize the potential changes and results we can make and how to prioritize everything we do on a daily basis to realize the results of our efforts.

Mozi on...

Ya' can't ride South without stoppin' at the Border...

Before risking life and/or limb on a cross-country trippie type adventure on an ancient foreign motorbike, one may choose to take a few shorter rides to, um, test the waters, or seering hot pavement. On my way to Florida for Father's Day 2010, I stopped, like everyone should, at South of The Border. Running into Warren was no accident. He was looking for ice cream and things to blow his fingers off with. The fireworks store was closed and ice cream was next in his sights. We exchanged stories and laughs as we each snapped rapid shots of each other's rides.

http://coconutcustoms.blogspot.com/2010/08/funny-thing-happened-to-me-at-sotb.html 

Thanks to Warren for this link...

Disassembling a baby stroller to produce a video camera steadying bracket

This model of baby stroller was told to me as being recalled and not able to use to carry kids in due to safety deficiencies.

And it was FREE!



I threw it in my van and transported it to the makeshift office/workshop on Cape Cod.



After I removed all of the fabric parts from the metal frame, I began drilling out all of the rivets which held the many parts together.



With the rivets drilled out and removed, it was time to disassemble this assembly and lay the parts out on the floor for future inventory and easy access to each individual piece of aluminum tubing, plastic bracket, wheel, shim, bolt, etc.

My Collection of Metal Junk!

Add the fabric part, once removed...

Now, I am ready to pick out the usable parts and begin designing the gizmo which may serve me well to produce almost flawlessly smooth video shots.

The plan is to have a bracket that will hang over my shoulders and be strapped around my waist to secure the initial pivoting axle which will mate up with the first swing arm assembly. The padded baby seat has a rigid back with about 1/2" of padding on the front side. This will rest against my chest and abdomen and act as the base for the rigid aluminum or fiberglass framework which will be custom fitted to my awesome body!

(you should be laughing right about now)

Since I am right handed, the pivot mount will be positioned on the right side of this framework at about the same elevation as my elbow. The initial swing arm will be free to hinge from behind me well in front of me in an arc of about 220 degrees. 120 would be plenty, but why restrict any movement at all?

to be continued...