The Hardware

Atlanta and back, 2000 miles, mostly at 80mph or better, in 90+ degree heat. Aside from the minor bits that fell off, the bike -- the infamous '90 FLHTCU Hell Bitch — performed flawlessly. Of course, you want to know what bits fell off: a beer box hinge pin (fixed with a cable tie cleverly placed in the tool kit) and the big screw that, along with the dipstick handle, holds the oil tank cover in place. This was replaced with an hardware store hex bolt & lock washer.

The bike's stellar performance leads me to wonder just what improvements I'm expecting to enjoy by trading 'up' to a 1998 model. Right now I can be cruising along at any speed from 55 to 80mph, twist the right grip, and the bike will fairly leap forward for a quick pass. (My original fear that the new pipes had cost some power proved groundless. I must have been reacting to the lower noise level.) Will the stock fuelie have that kind of punch? Who knows? From an aesthetic standpoint, the new bike promises to be a big success. Apparently, taking an FLHTC and performing a beer boxectomy is very popular in the south. I saw several, some close up, and like the look very much. With the detachable hardware it'll truly be a best-of-both-worlds situation.

I learned an interesting lesson about music on the road. In preparation for this trip I fitted my Kiwi K22 full-face helmet with a set of Collett Bass Monsters. With an everyday Sony Walkman as a source, the setup sounded amazingly good -- in the kitchen. On the road, the Walkman didn't have the power to get the volume up to a usable level, so at Mile 40 I pulled over, undid the whole assembly, and popped the tape into the Harley's player. A few weeks ago I had disconnected the back speakers (since they mostly didn't work) so the sound system was essentially that of an FLHTC. Guess what? With the full face helmet serving as a directional filter I was able to hear the front speakers just fine, even at 80mph. With the shorty on my noggin, engine, wind, road, and exhaust noise overpowered the music by the time I hit 55mph.

Jay has already passed on my hard-learned disdain for Travelcade's Road Sofa, but I might as well burden you some first-hand bitching and moaning on that score. My first words upon arriving in Atlanta could easily have been "kill me now, I'm half dead already." It was only the anticipation of the next few days' events that gave me the strength to haul myself off the bike and swallow the Maximum Recommended Dose of several different pain killers. The stock seat goes back on tomorrow morning, and for all I care can be welded in place. I've done plenty of 500 mile days on that platform, and after each of them have felt ready to keep going.

Do I miss the Wing, some might ask? Hah!

The Jacket

This is what I learned about the Aerostich Darien jacket over the course of one week, 2000 miles, and a temperature range of 60 to 96 degrees: it is the single best garment I've ever purchased for any reason.

I wore it sans liner (of course) for the entire trip. At 60 degrees with no direct sun it was useful to close the back and armpit vents, and to cinch the sleeves (with velcro and zippers) to keep the breeze out. Above 80 I opened the vents and freed up the sleeve openings. Enough air got past the bike's fairing to keep me very comfortable up to about 90 degrees. Above 90 I found that a wet bandana around my neck made a very big difference, and I'm not sure that removing the jacket and riding in a t-shirt would have been all that much more pleasant. The combination of good airflow and the material's apparent ability to wick heat away from the skin made for a reasonably comfortable ride.

I recall that someone was bothered by the velcro-mounted shoulder and elbow armor. I noticed it when putting the jacket on, but not at all after that. Just a question of size/shape variance, I guess. The question of the Cordura's stiffness, and need for a break-in period didn't come up at all. Although probably not quite as supple (or, let's face it, stylish) as the BMW jacket's material, the Darien's shell is by no means stiff an unyielding. If it gets "softer," fine; if not, I'm perfectly satisfied. And, I might add, the material is much less industrial-feeling than that used by any of the other alternatives I looked at.

A word about Aerostich's "ice trick" is in order. Because of the jacket's Gore-Tex liner, it's possible to fill the huge cargo pockets with ice for cooling. As the ice melts, the water passes through the outer shell and the zipper, keeping the rider's shirt nice and dry. Of course, this water has to go somewhere, and if you're also wearing waterproof trousers it hardly matters where. But depending on the airflow of the bike in question, someone wearing blue jeans might easily arrive at the next rest stop looking as though that rest stop came a few miles too far down the road. The solution, learned the wet way, is to put the ice in zip-lock bags.

The aforementioned huge cargo pockets are but part of the Darien's storage facilities. I'm not sure I found them all, but it's worth noting that there's a clever pocket in the right sleeve that's just right for keeping toll money at the ready.

I love this jacket!

The Ride

I'm not going to get long-winded about this (or maybe I am, who know?) but enough can't be said about the Skyline Drive/Blue Ridge Parkway combination. An early start allowed me to traverse the 325 miles from home to Front Royal by 1pm, leaving plenty of time for a full-length Skyline Drive detour on Day 1. It was

flat-out spectacular, as you no doubt have heard many times. I won't bore you with an "at mile 32 I saw a tree" travelogue. Instead, I'll state something else that you all know, but which bears repeating.

When riding on a continuously curving road that offers up one breathtaking vista after another, it's easy to become distracted, and to hit a corner a bit too hard. Or, as can happen even on roads of surpassing ugliness, one's gaze can wander to a point on the road that's fairly close to the front tire. In both instances it's worth remembering the point so rightly hammered in during the ERC (and, I suppose, the basic MSF) course: look where you want the bike to go. It's almost magical, how the bike's grasp of the laws of physics is so much better than that of the rider (which is to say, than my own). On several occasions it felt as though I was in over my head, but looking further down the road and trusting the bike worked every time.

Stepping down from the soapbox, let me also say how wonderful it is to be able to blast down the Interstate at a proper rate of speed, and not worry about armed tax collectors. Whee!

Random Observations

1 - I've now examined all three contenders — Mercedes Benz SLK, BMW Z3, and Porsche Boxster — up close, and am prepared to pass judgment. The prize for Best Looking $40,000 Roadster by a Former Slave Labor-Using Nazi-Supporting Car Company goes to.... Porsche. Mercedes gets points for the retractable hardtop, and a nod must go to BMW for the (somewhat belated) homage to Albrecht Goertz, but the Boxster could give up cards & spades and still win the game. But that's just my opinion.

2 - The first Furthur show (the reason for the trip) wasn't until Sunday, so on Saturday night we took in the laser show at Stone Mountain. You know the drill: music played loud, laser beams used to paint images on a large surface. That surface is often a planetarium, but in this case it's the side of the aptly named Stone Mountain, and being out of doors they can throw in some fireworks. All I can say about the show is this: Elvis on velvet. Or, to use even fewer words... yikes!

3 - And then there's the Furthur Festival... I'm not going to get into the music except to say that after seven hours I had shouted myself hoarse. To me, as significant as the music was the nature of the scene. At last year's Festival it seemed as though much of the crowd had expectations that the event would fill the void left by Garcia's death. There seemed to be a vague sense of dissatisfaction, and very little feeling of community. (I should add, too, that this feeling of community was absent — at least to my perception — during the last few years of the Dead's career, when the scene got simply huge.) This year my impression was that the audience was there because it chose to be, rather than by default. Trite as it might sound to those who haven't had the experience, I felt as though I was at a party with 5,000 of my closest friends. Clearly, I didn't interact with everyone at the show, but within the circle that surrounded our immediate area there was a palpable aura of goodwill. (And teenage blondes with tattoos, in bikini tops.) It was magical.