Atlanta

[Uncle Hud]

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Note: This report was born during the summer of 2016, but moved into Public Ride Reports in October 2019. That's why there are no comments from other users interspersed in the narrative ... which is probably essential to keeping this thread rated PG.
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This is a long-term ride report, documenting my visits to towns in the US named Atlanta. There are 17 of them, located in the following states:

• Arkansas
• Delaware
• Illinois
• Indiana
• Kentucky
• Kansas
• Louisiana
• Michigan
• Minnesota
• Missouri
• Mississippi
• Nebraska
• New York
• Ohio
• Texas
• Wisconsin
• Idaho
• Georgia (my hometown)

Over the next few years, I will try to visit each of them except Idaho, which leaves 16 on the list.  Idaho is excepted because it lies at least 20 miles down unpaved roads in the Sawtooth National Forest. I’m not man enough to do that on an FJR. But who knows? Maybe Idaho DOT has scheduled a big-time paving project along the South Fork of the Boise River. Maybe I’ll win $150 million in the lottery next month and pave it myself. Stranger things have happened, you know.

<edited several entries in March 2018 to fix Photobucket debacle. Note that Spotwalla no longer displays route tracking without a subscription.>

[Uncle Hud]

CHAPTER 1, April 2016: Texas, Arkansas, Louisiana, but not Mississippi

The first set of Atlantas came on my return from an Iron Butt 50CC ride in April 2016. I hustled back from San Diego; a ride that included an amazing after-dark run along NM 9 from Hachita, New Mexico, to El Paso, Texas. Here’s a pic just before sundown. No power lines, eh?



It’s 808 miles from El Paso, Texas, to Atlanta, Texas; almost 12 hours of Interstate highway riding at speed and not crossing a single state line. Indeed, everything’s bigger in Texas.

This is your only food porn. It’s a prettier meal than my usual SlimJim and coffee.



Atlanta, Texas, is a pretty big town, with an estimated (2015) population of 5,675. It’s in the northeast part of the state, very close to the junction of the Texas, Arkansas, and Louisiana state lines. Snapped a photo of the Post Office (75551) as I rolled into town.



Thanks to an understanding manager, the FJR slept under the porte cochére at the (very nice) Travel Inn and avoided the rain.

Next stop was Atlanta, Arkansas. Wikipedia says its unincorporated (I’d agree with that) and gives no population estimate. If pressed, I’d say there were fewer than 20 people in a 2-mile radius of the town limit sign. This Atlanta is located in Columbia County, along the southern Arkansas state line. Looks like a calm, quiet place.

"SPEED CHECKED BY RADAR." Sure it is, pal.



There were some really nice roads through the Arkansas backwoods, but floodwaters on Pigeon Roost Creek had damaged the roadbed of County Road 85. The DOT decided temporary repairs using a 4-inch layer of big gravel was sufficient. They could have told us bikers about that. Instead, the FJR’s anti-lock brakes got tested, and stopped me just short of disaster. After the first gravel patch, my average speed dropped considerably as I assumed there would be other patches. There were, but I saw them well ahead of time and didn’t need the ABS again.

Next stop? Atlanta, Louisiana. I had swapped emails with some FJR buddies about meeting there, but my mid-week, midday arrival made it impossible for us to rendezvous. This town is surrounded by the Kisatchie National Forest, about halfway between Shreveport and Alexandria. I had planned to get a photo of Atlanta High School, but hadn’t seen it well in Google Street view. As I entered town, the Post Office appeared and begged to have its picture taken. Why not? It leaves no doubt as to my location: Atlanta, Louisiana 71404.



I headed to Winona, Mississippi, for the night, mentally and physically tired. With luck I’d awake the next morning, ride through Atlanta, Mississippi, and push for home.

Well, things went awry during the pre-dawn darkness. My GPS wasn’t working right, and then my phone wasn't connecting with the Sena, and I was trying to fix all these little things while riding down the highway, and so I blew right by Atlanta, Mississippi. Next thing you know, I’m in suburban Birmingham refueling and thinking about my own shower, my own bed, my own pretty girl, and definitely NOT thinking about missing Atlanta, Mississippi.

Three down, thirteen to go.

[Uncle Hud]

CHAPTER 2, August 2016: Kansas, Nebraska, and (this time) Mississippi

The next set of Atlantas was collected in conjunction with NAFO 5 in Montrose, Colorado. Spotwalla for my westbound trip is here. Eastbound return is here. (Took a little side trip to touch Utah and therefore claim that I've been there on my motorcycle. )

Atlanta, Kansas, is about an hour southeast of Wichita. It’s a real town -- post office, fire station, and two dozen houses -- surrounded by miles of rolling hills, corn, cows, and something I’ll call wheat. I found it amusing that farmers or seed companies will post signs along the road indicating which particular corn/wheat/grain hybrid is growing in the adjacent field, but I suppose that’s marketing.

Snapped a couple of photos of the Atlanta Post Office, and realized there was nowhere to empty my full bladder.



The town was too small and too open (no bushes) for a pee on the side of the road, so I rode two blocks to the Volunteer Fire Station where some guys were washing their fire truck and rescue squad vehicle. All this in the shadow of a huge grain elevator.



After I’d taken care of business, we chatted for a half-hour about the 1996 Atlanta Olympics and the corresponding ‘Olympic Games’ held in Atlanta, Kansas. They were amazed that I’d started the day in Georgia, but were happy to share a shortcut to Wichita, where I was planning to bunk down. My hotel was at the foot of the runway for the Beechcraft assembly plant. The Cessna assembly plant (and airport) are located about 7 miles away.

The next morning dawned cold and clear ....... after I’d already been on the road for 90 minutes. August in Kansas and it’s colder than 40F: balaclava, scarf, cold weather gloves, windscreen up fully, and grip heaters on ‘inferno’.

Turned left at Salina, then turned right at Hays, and arrived in Atlanta, Nebraska, about 5 hours after that cold start in Wichita. The sun was out fully, though, and the day was warming nicely. Snapped a schweet photo of the town’s water tower, and one of a metal grain elevator on the side of Main Street.





This day was also supposed to be a Bun Burner IBA cert ride (1,500 miles in 36 hours), but a major Interstate crash, followed by string of navigational errors, missed communications, and cloudy thinking screwed that up. (That’s a story for another time ... and the screwups are all mine.)

NAFO 5 was a blast. Met and rode with a bunch of internet friends, and saw a few I’d met the year before at Hooterville 2015. Rode the Million Dollar Highway, a beautiful ride except you can’t really enjoy the scenery because the road twists like a writhing rattlesnake and THERE’S NO GUARDRAIL between you and a four-thousand-foot drop to the canyon bottom. Oh yeah, and the other side of the highway is an exposed cliff that will smack your helmet if you lean that way a little too far.

A few days later, we saddled up for home, an SS1K, and a second attempt at Atlanta, Mississippi. The SS1K route was from Denver, to Salina, to Oklahoma City, and ended in Memphis at a Super8 that was a lot sketchier than it seemed in the internet photos.

It was a miserably hot ride, but it got done. Many thanks to the nice ladies at the Oklahoma Welcome Center on I-35, for letting me nap in an air conditioned corner for 30 minutes until they closed!

Atlanta, Mississippi is located close to Vardaman, which is located between Houston and Grenada. How did I know I was there? The Volunteer Fire Department building. There were two houses within 100 yards/meters of the VFD, but only one looked inhabited. I assume the other was inhabited, however, because there was a car parked out front and a mean-looking dog wandering about. That house looked like a perfect candidate for a meth lab. If it was, there couldn't be a better location than across the street from a fire station.


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Six down, ten to go.

[Uncle Hud]

CHAPTER 3, March 2017: Georgia

I live here:



That picture was taken in 2017. There will be be a few new skyscrapers in that scene by the time you read this.

Seven down, nine to go. (Still not doing Idaho.)

[Uncle Hud]

CHAPTER 4, summer 2017: no progress

Met a woman, wooed her, married her, honeymooned her. That sentence accounts for every single one of my 2017 vacation days. Not a bad day in that bunch, by the way.

Mom had a few health issues in 2018, which meant I cancelled the 'Atlanta' trip to Michigan and the Mackinac Bridge -- had to use some 2018 vacation days visiting with her. Don’t regret any of that, either; my mother raised four boys and claims she’s still raising me. She’s pretty spry for her age, surprisingly so after raising her four-boy wrecking crew.


Still seven down, nine to go.

[Uncle Hud]

CHAPTER 5, August 2018: Delaware, New York, Ohio, and Kentucky

This set of Atlantas was collected over a three-day ride that was originally supposed to take me to Niagara Falls. When Kelly said she’d rather not go on this trip, the Falls got cut and I saved 3 hours. Hey, those three hours are significant, and Niagara will still be around when my bride and I decide to fly there.

Spotwalla trace can be found here.

This ride had me pondering some philosophical things …

1. No matter where I ride, there are beautiful things every few miles. I encourage you to get outside your neighborhood and see if you can find some. On this trip, I saw National Forests, the Dismal Swamp, downtown Cleveland and Cincinnati, Chesapeake Bay, rode alongside the Susquehanna River at flood stage, and through the Great Smoky Mountains at dusk. Didn’t stop, but stopping isn’t always necessary to appreciate the scenery sliding by.

2. There are inherent challenges in this style of touring that I relish: planning, navigation, endurance, handling city traffic. Meeting these challenges is fun. Yes, I like twisties as much as you do, but it’s very rewarding to look at that Spotwalla trace and wonder where to go next. And if you like twisties at high speed, try negotiating traffic congestion on I-695 around Baltimore at 75 mph!

3. I think of my FJR like a cowboy thinks of his horse. “We” made this trip together, and neither of “us” could have done it without the other.

4. How in the world do you guys find time to do these epic two-week trips? Burns me up with jealousy.

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I set off about 8 o’clock Friday morning, with a weather report that offered 50/50 chances for rain in SC and NC. First stop was the Peachoid, alongside I-85 in Gaffney, SC. This water tower is located in Congressman Frank Underwood’s electoral district in the Netflix series House of Cards. From what I hear, it’s a big thing for tourists.



Stopped in Charlotte to eat lunch with my younger son and his family, then headed to Suffolk, Virginia, and the Super 8 for the evening.

Rained almost the entire way from Charlotte to Suffolk. Five hours of mist, drizzle, and downpour; with variations from fine droplets to big goober drops that stung through the gloves. Bike performed flawlessly, equipment held up fine, and I’ve seen most of this route several times before, so … no big deal.

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An early start got me to the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel before 7:30, but alas, there is no Early Bird Special on the toll.



This structure has been a bucket list location for many years, and the weather was perfect for this crossing: clouds over land and clear over the Bay. I didn’t know there are two sequential tunnels; did you? One tunnel goes under the Thimble Shoal Channel, the other goes under the Chesapeake Channel. Did you know that the bridge sections have two lanes in each direction, but the tunnels have just a single lane in each direction?

I like bridges!



This photo was taken from my phone, in its magnetic cradle, just as a lark to see what would happen.



A toll lady had vacuumed $15 from my wallet in Norfolk, but the Bridge-Tunnel did carry me about 15 miles over and under the water to the eastern shore of Virginia and Maryland. Is $1 per mile a bargain?

We were now on the Delmarva Peninsula, and a few miles farther north got me to Atlanta, Delaware. Cool hat, eh?



Atlanta, Delaware, is a small cluster of houses surrounded by huge fields of corn and soybeans. There must have been a lot of chicken houses – even though I only saw a few – because there was a giant Perdue chicken processing plant on US 13, and just a few miles further north was a giant Tyson chicken processing plant.

The FJR turned left (towards Seaford) and went across the Chesapeake Bay Bridge on US 50 towards Baltimore. This was terrible from a traffic congestion perspective, since it seemed like every family in Pennsylvania was also crossing the bridge, returning from their summer beach vacation. Hot and slow and construction.

However, this was cool from a geeky perspective because there are actually two separate bridges here, one eastbound and one westbound, that do not share the same structural type. Both have suspension main spans, although with significantly different tower shapes. Each bridge also has a minor span near the east end: both minor spans are trusses, although one is an arched through truss while the other is a peaked through truss. No photos; I was too frustrated with traffic conditions.

I like bridges! Major bridges are huge projects. They consume mass quantities of money during construction, and typically a few lives, but they become powerful symbols: the Golden Gate Bridge, the Brooklyn Bridge, the Sunshine Skyway Bridge, and the Tower Bridge in London.

Recently, I was lucky enough to design a very small piece of the New Goethals Bridge between Staten Island, New York, and Elizabeth, New Jersey. Yeah, it’s actually twin bridges like the US 50 bridge(s) I just crossed. They're very pretty, and they are equipped with my cameras, my message signs, my lane control signs, and my fiber optic cables!

So anyway, I’m rolling up the highway, mindlessly thinking about bridges for a couple of hours, mindlessly looking at the beautiful scenery of central Pennsylvania, mindlessly following where Miss Google tells me to go, and, why, lookie here!



My FJR finds interesting stuff every time we go out of town!

Got to keep moving, though; we have a schedule to keep. So we turned right onto US 15/501 and headed north to Atlanta, New York.



Atlanta, New York, is a small town squeezed up against North Cohocton. (Regular Cohocton is a few miles away. To the south.) It has a Post Office, although the sign is a little unsure of itself because the fine print says “Approved Postal Provider”. Wikipedia says Atlanta, NY, is a hamlet in the northeast part of the town of Cohocton. There are five or six neatly-kept stores along the one-block downtown, surrounded by ten or twelve neatly-kept houses with neatly-kept lawns. It's a nice little place. We elected to take Atlanta Back Road, a wickedly fun four miles along a ten-foot-wide asphalt rollercoaster of a road, which got us back to the highway towards Jamestown.

What’s in Jamestown, New York? Lots of things, I’m sure, but this is what I wanted to see:



I loved Lucy, and still pause if I see her, Ricky, Ethel, or Fred while channel surfing.

Spent a long time exceeding the speed limit on I-86, the Southern Tier Expressway, before bedding down for the night in a tidy, clean motel that was – I swear – like time traveling to the 1950’s: the Dav-Ed Motel in Kingsville, Ohio. The desk guy owns an R-1, and ooohed and ahhhed appropriately at my FJR.

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Southbound and hammer down on the final day. My FJR and I are headed for the barn. We have a few stops to make, however.

Shortly after getting underway, I snapped a photo for a buddy who’s a lifelong Cleveland Browns fan. Blind loyalty is the only reason anyone is a Cleveland Browns fan these days. Got to respect that.



Jim Brown was an NFL hero of my pre-teen years. For two seasons, I seriously thought they named the whole team after him. Mr. Brown, of the Cleveland Browns, also has a long list of credits as a movie actor. Do you think he enjoyed acting more than football?

Found this guy, too. He’s neither an NFL running back nor a movie star, but he knows that breakfast is the most important meal of the day.



Thanks for breakfast, ElToroJoe, and for the escort down the highway!

Found an entire field of these, and wondered why BikerGeek99 is only growing one.



It’s an art installation that, I suppose, represents Ohio’s corn farmers. As I rolled through Ohio, I began to see why: miles and miles and even more miles of corn. The corn fields are so long and wide, and completely uninterrupted, that if you squinted your eyes just right, you could imagine the tops of the corn as ground level, and imagine the highway was built in a thin slot five or six feet below the surface.

It is appropriate, then, that Atlanta, Ohio, is two grain elevators. Atlanta, Ohio, isn’t a town, just two grain elevators. We took a photo here, because the other location's sign said it was in New Holland. Yeah, New Holland, like the tractor manufacturer. Turns out the Mennel website says their Atlanta Grain facility is in New Holland also.

So, Atlanta, Ohio is nothing but two grain elevators, and neither claims to be in Atlanta.



I like bridges! John Roebling designed this one in the heart of Cincinnati to cross the Ohio River. It was the longest suspension bridge in the world when it was built in 1867, over 150 years ago. Mr. Roebling could not have foreseen the traffic loads it carries today, because gas-powered automobiles weren’t developed until the 1900s -- over 30 years after the bridge opened.



It was hot. Really hot. I mean really, really hot. We crossed the river into downtown Covington, Kentucky, and parked on the sidewalk under a shade tree. I took off my Aerostich and realized my clothes were completely soaked in sweat. Looking around, I saw an unoccupied “campsite” where homeless folks must have been living. Grabbed my swim trunks and a clean t-shirt, hid behind some bushes, took off my lightweight long pants and underwear and put on the trunks and the clean shirt. What a difference! The wind whipped around my bare legs and my internal temperature dropped immediately.

Lee’s Famous Chicken looked good, mostly because it was air conditioned, but it was two blocks behind me on a one-way street. I idled those two blocks on the sidewalk. Swim trunks, t-shirt, black waterproof moto-boots, and no helmet. Putt-putt-putt, back to Lee’s parking lot and Lee’s air conditioning. The chicken was good, but the coleslaw was GREAT.

After 45 minutes of cooling off, we headed into the heat again. A few hours later, I’m in BFE, also known as Atlanta, Kentucky. I had been unable to find something on Google Street View that said “Atlanta”. Now I understand why: there really isn’t anything here. No crossroads, a few houses spread far apart … nothing to suggest that this is a community. See for yourself:



The sun was going down now, taking the temperature with it. It was still quite warm, but much preferred over the long afternoon of “hot as blazes”. At our next stop, I chugged a big Gatorade and my FJR chugged almost 5 gallons of gas. We rolled quickly along a very familiar but always scenic stretch of I-75 southbound back to the house. Home at 10 pm.

This trip? About 2,100 miles: 550 on Friday, 750 on Saturday, and 800 on Sunday.
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Eleven down, five to go.


At this moment:

[Uncle Hud]

CHAPTER 6a, Memorial Day weekend, May 2019:  Indiana, Michigan, Wisconsin, Minnesota, and Missouri

This set of Atlantas was collected during a four-day ride over the Memorial Day weekend.  If you’ve been reading along, you know I am stingy with my vacation days, so the plan was to leave Friday and return Monday.  That would involve burning only one vacation day.
 
I’ve called it the Yooper Loop because the main sightseeing goal was the Mackinac Bridge to Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, and I’d make a big loop on the U.P. around Lake Michigan.  As an aside, Team Strange had a States of Confusion touring rally (small cities sharing names with more famous big cities) where I could get points for four of my Atlantas, so I signed up!  Adding stops along the route for even more Strange points, I figured on nailing this Team Strange rally!
 
Alas!  Things got a bit convoluted and, at the last minute, I decided to leave on the Thursday before Memorial Day.  That screwed me out of meeting Bustanut Joker, whose vulgar humor (yes, his HUMOR) was one of the original reasons I joined this Forum.  Sorry, Bust; see you at next year’s Owosso Tech Day.
 
(Apparently, the other guys I’d planned to meet have no social life whatsoever, and were available despite the re-arranged schedule.)
 
Spotwalla trace can be found here.
 
This ride was one of my more ambitious ones, but the bike has gradually become my main transport and it’s been farkled enough so I fit very comfortably on the saddle and behind the handlebars.  Tornados in Iowa and northern Missouri a week or so prior to departure caused slight concern, but forecasts during the three days prior to departure showed little chance of storms.  My detailed planning spreadsheet (translation: OCD) had been checked and re-checked:
 

 
During the last few days before departure, I checked stuff again and again.  Bike was good; weather was good; I felt good; work was good.  I could do this guilt free, and would complete the Atlanta Tour and place well in the Team Strange rally!
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CHAPTER 6a.1:  Indiana
 
Thursday started fine.  The FJR and I started at 6:00 am and headed north on I-75.  About two hours later, we were crossing Nickajack Lake just west of Chattanooga.  Done it three dozen times in the past ten years.  This bridge is a fine example of modern Interstate bridge building: simple, economical, and functional.
 
I’ve always thought of it as the “Soulless Bridge” because there’s absolutely nothing special about it.  See what I mean?
 

 
There’s absolutely nothing special about it … except the view.  Since this is such a minimalist bridge, there’s nothing to block the driver’s view of the lake and its mountainous edges.
 

 
See that other soulless bridge in the distance?  Bet the view from there is schweet.  So maybe the bridge isn’t soulless after all.  Maybe it’s just how you look at it, or how you look FROM it.
 
Three hours later and we’re in Buffalo, Kentucky, to collect Team Strange points.
 

 
As we hit the road from Buffalo, my FJR found Abraham Lincoln’s birthplace!  There was a long line of folks waiting for pictures, so I just snapped a quickie ...
 

 
… and ten minutes later, we were in Boston, Kentucky.  This Team Strange rally is gonna be a cakewalk!
 

 
Around a gentle curve on KY 61, and … SURPRISE!  Jim Beam’s Booker Noe plant!  That’s their small-batch, high-octane stuff.  Thanks, FJR, I had no idea this was on our route! My FJR may be a better ride planner than me.  We decided against a tasting and headed north.
 


I got us lost in Louisville, trying to avoid a toll bridge.  Probably spent more money in gas than the $4 toll.  At any rate, here’s a photo of the no-toll bridge I originally wanted to use: the George Rogers Clark Memorial Bridge carrying US 31 across the Ohio River.  (George Rogers Clark is one of the guys in “Lewis and Clark”.)
 
The Clark Memorial Bridge is a truss— a real-life steel Erector set — that you drive through, so it’s called a ‘through truss bridge’.  It’s getting painted a cool yellow/gold color.
 

 
This next pic has three bridges: a peaked through truss bridge (highway), a cable-stayed bridge (highway), and an arched through truss bridge (rail-turned-pedestrian). 
 

 
Truss bridges have been around for 200 years or so.  They first were built with timber, then steel, and now, some pedestrian truss bridges are made with high-strength plastics or fiberglass.  Many truss designs were (and still are) patented.
 
Cable-stayed bridges have at least one tall tower with a fan of cables.  Each cable can be as large as your waist, and the cables support the bridge deck like spider web tendrils.  Cable-stayed bridges became uber-fashionable 40 or 50 years ago.  They’ve become the go-to design for landmark bridges, especially when dramatic lighting illuminates the cables and the towers. 
 
From front to back …
   Peaked through truss:  John F Kennedy Bridge (I-65 southbound, TOLLED)
   Cable-stayed: Abraham Lincoln Bridge (I-65 northbound, TOLLED)
   Arched through truss:  Big Four Bridge (named for the Big Four railroad company that built it, now pedestrians only and presumably free)
 
After I got un-lost and made it to southern Indiana, I saw a big billboard that said, “Welcome Home, Brothers of the Iron Order”.  Perhaps they were having some kind of big meeting in their Jeffersonville, IN, headquarters, because I saw lots of southbound Harley riders for the next several hours.  The Iron Order MC tries be an MC without being an MC.  Look ‘em up; they allow FJR riders to become members.
 
An hour or so later, I rolled into Indianapolis.  Oh, snap!  The big race is in town this weekend!  The security lady was nice, but insisted we move within two minutes.  Had to grab a quick photo from close by, rather than crossing the street and getting the entire Speedway’s name.
 

 
Another hour later and we’re in Atlanta, Indiana, collecting a photo.  WooHoo!  Since this was a Strange bonus, my “cutesy” photo got replaced by an “official building” photo of the Post Office and my rally flag.
 

 
Atlanta, Indiana, is a substantial town; probably eight blocks by four blocks rising in the middle of corn fields.  They have a New Earth festival in late September, featuring the Flying Toasters Band, but the town website has no explanation of the festival or why it’s held.  Maybe an FJR rider should attend this year and report back to us.
 
It was getting chilly now.  The sun was getting very low and the temperature had dropped below 60.  We met Timmy (DesignFlaw06) at the Holland (Michigan) Best Buy and I put on a fleece jacket that I had added as an afterthought just before leaving the house.  Thank goodness for lucky happenstances that involve warm clothes. From now on, no matter the time of year, a fleece gets packed in my bag if I travel north of Tennessee.
 
I didn’t get a photo of Tim, but I'll post one here [right here] if he wants the internet exposure.  (By the way, his bike was sparkling clean!)

Here he is!


 
Just so you know, Timmy is a kid.  A big kid and a very nice kid, but still far younger than I imagined.  Both my sons are older than he is.  It’s semi-depressing to realize an FJR biker bro can be that young, because that makes me realize my own age.
 
He took me by the USS Silversides, the most decorated submarine in World War 2.  Thanks, man!  That was a VERY cool experience for a sub vet!
 

 
 
Tim and his family accepted me warmly, and I slept like a log. 
 
Thursday: about 875 miles and 15 hours.

[Uncle Hud]

CHAPTER 6b, May 2019: Michigan and Wisconsin
 

Friday dawned clear and cold: it couldn't have been much over 50F, and it didn't get above 60F all day long.  I put on two long-sleeve tees (all that I brought), my lightweight long pants (only long pants I brought), my thickest socks, and dug out the cold weather gloves.  (Double-down on the vow to always take something warm when traveling north of Tennessee.) Crossed my fingers and hoped the sun would be out soon and strong. 

Whasssup with Michigan's freezing cold weather at the end of May?  From now on, when I call this part of the country "Americas Tundra", I won't be joking.
 
Tim's son had to be at school, it being Friday, so the three of us grabbed breakfast together.  That boy's a bright one and a mighty fine breakfast companion  Shy?  Not in the least.

We (the FJR and I) headed up US 131 and US 127, then turned right into some of the most enjoyable riding I've done in a long, long time: County Road F-38 and MI 32 through deep woods, rolling hills, and lots of nothingness until we hit Atlanta, Michigan. It was a GREAT RIDE.

Here's the target photo:



and here's the Team Strange "official building" photo.
 

 
Atlanta, Michigan, is a small city, and probably the "big city" this far north. Wikipedia says its not an official, incorporated municipality. That's unusual, because Montmorency County's website says their address is in Atlanta, MI, 49709. They even have a Chamber of Commerce.

So, it's not a real city even though it has a population of almost 800 people (2000 census). Wonder if they have all those 800 people throughout the winter? Seems like it would get awfully bleak and cold way up here.

From Atlanta, we headed north on MI 33, and after two dozen signs telling me to watch for snowmobiles -- which I did diligently, seeing none -- we joined I-75 northbound at Miami Beach. (Not kidding. Miami Beach.) Interesting that this trip started on I-75 northbound the day before, about two miles from my house.

Here's the Mackinac Bridge. Not sure why the photo quality is this poor, especially since I risked my life crossing to the narrow median.  Oh well. I swear its the Mackinac Bridge and I swear I took this photo.



The Mac (as they referred to it in Atlanta) is a suspension bridge.  Long suspension cables drape over the tops of the two towers.  Suspender cables hang vertically from the suspension cables and support the bridge deck.  This was the style for landmark bridges before the cable-stayed style took over: three well-known suspension bridges are the Brooklyn Bridge, Golden Gate, and the infamous Tacoma Narrows Bridge (Galloping Gertie).

We turned left onto the first mile of US 2 (or the last mile, depending on your perspective), and headed west.  A flotilla of 15 or 20 Harley riders appeared, doing the speed limit or 5 under; a trike bringing up the rear.  Without being rude (my opinion) we waited for a chance and passed half of them, sliding into the column just behind a woman rider. 

She had on a helmet -- amazing how many states are helmet-optional -- and a sleeveless tee over jeans and chaps.  I must have made her uneasy or annoyed, because she kept checking her mirror to see where I was.  We were as polite as Southern Gentlemen are expected to be, and stayed in her mirror's field of view.  Four or five minutes later, another chance appeared and we squirted ahead.

After a bit of separation from them, we slowed to 5 over and enjoyed the beach, the sun, and the notion that we were on the UP.  This was a big deal to me, and I wanted to enjoy it!

All of a sudden, I noticed a black cloud off to the right, low above the bushes. "Uh oh; somethings on fire up ahead."

No. It was a cloud of MIDGES! Within 60 seconds, I had slaughtered thousands of them with my helmet visor and become almost blind.  You know how you can move your face around in slow circles to see a little better?  I was doing that for five minutes before finding a gas station to clean them off.

   Gas station guy, walking out to speak to me: "How's it going?"
   Me: "Not bad, except for these bugs."
   Him: "Yeah. Midges are bad today. Had to refill the wash buckets three times already."

This photo is after I cleaned them off the visor. My ride didn't get the wipedown.



As I was finishing up with the midges, what did I hear? The Harley parade rolling by. Had to pass them again. <groan>  Guess what else?  Had to clean off midges again -- twice -- before finally leaving their turf.

US 2 emerged from the Sault St Marie Forest and quickly became urbanized.  This was a disappointment, since the northern Michigan woods had been so much fun.

My next photo was of this sign:



(go ahead, ask the question ... ) Why take a photo of this sign, Uncle Hud?

Because years ago, I watched a Jeff Daniels movie with my teenaged boys called Escanaba in da Moonlight.  It was stupid and silly, but it had us laughing hard and laughing together.  So, I stopped in Escanaba for my kids.  (Even though they probably don't remember the movie or the occasion.)

We kept rolling west.  US 2 turned off and we stayed on US 41.  (Also interesting, my FJR and I ride on US 41 almost every day -- when commuting to work in Atlanta, GA.)  After a few miles, we turned west onto County Road G-18, a nice, straight two-lane, through miles and miles of forest.  US 8 joined us soon after crossing into Wisconsin, but the character of the road remained unchanged, and this ride was spectacular: woods and woods and wetlands and more woods.  Yes, it was mostly straight and mostly flat, but it was a lovely day and we were flying down a lovely road in the middle of Wisconsin's lovely North Woods.

It was a little strange to finally realize that the highway didn't go into each town, but passed within one or two miles.  I figured that out while searching for gas and a bathroom: "Next town, dude. Next town for sure."  But the advertised towns never appeared on the highway, just a sign pointing left or right with the distance painted on it.

And I have never seen so many logging trucks! Down south, they're loaded with pines; the entire length of pine tree after all the branches are cut off.  In Wisconsin and in Michigan they're loaded with hardwoods and cut uniformly into ten-foot logs that are carried cross-wise on huge trailers.

We were flying, passing responsibly, and not on the double yellow.  The town of Ladysmith appeared ... and it was on the highway!  It had gas and a bathroom!  We pulled in to fill up the FJR and empty me. A pickup truck pulled in to the pump behind us, and the driver got out and approached us rather quickly.

   him: You scared the &@%$! out of me when you passed back there!
   me: Sorry, man. Did I do something wrong?
   No, you just appeared out of nowhere and went by so quickly I had no idea you were behind me.
   Sorry, man; I gotta pee really bad.
   I understand, he said, and went inside.

The bike was filled and it was now my turn for service, when who do I see coming out of the bathroom?  Pickup dude.  He repeated, See, I understand.

After a six-inch Subway for dinner, we turned north in Bruce and went looking for Atlanta, Wisconsin.

Google aerials showed a small building there, like a community center.  Street View showed nothing but a green field, but it was taken 5 years ago.  
 
There was only one lonely white building in Atlanta, Wisconsin, up a short gravel driveway. We turned in, hoping it wasn't somebody's barn, and were rewarded with a sign that says Atlanta Town Hall.



Wikipedia says Atlanta, Wisconsin, is an incorporated town in Rusk County, population 627 in the 2000 census, although I saw no evidence of residents anywhere.  It also set me wondering about what makes a town, especially when comparing the real town of Atlanta, Wisconsin, with the not-a-real-town-but-much-larger Atlanta, Michigan. 
 
Back on US 8 west, then south on 4 Town Road to Dallas, WI, and more Strange points.  Here's what I got:



Night fell soon afterward, and we crossed into Minnesota on the St. Croix Crossing bridge.  How could I have missed this bridge in my planning?  (Answer: it doesn't look like a big river crossing, and I looked at the wrong bridge in Street View.)

This bridge is fabulous! We crossed it well after dark, but it was tastefully lit up and absolutely stunning.  It's cable-stayed (of course) with five sets of towers and the corresponding five sets of cable fans. It was dark, after 10 pm local, we were traveling 60-65 mph, and the bridge's appearance caught me by surprise. Couldn't stop for a photo, and no easy U-turn opportunity came up. Since I have no photos, I stole this one from MNDOT:



An hour later we had passed through Minneapolis, and I fell fast asleep in the super-clean Super 8 in St. Cloud.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Friday: about 870 miles and a little over 15 hours

[Uncle Hud]

CHAPTER 6c: Minnesota and Missouri
 
 
Saturday started at the Super 8 St Cloud after a solid, though short, sleep; overcast, but no big deal.  Weather report said no rain.  Saddled up and started northwest.  This was planned to be my longest day, and I was ready for it.
 
Bike is cruising, I feel comfortable, temperature is good, and the podcast is a story about a woman who attended her ex-boyfriend’s wedding so she could stand up during the part where you "speak now or forever hold your peace".  Checked my mirrors to see some powerful blue and red flashing lights behind me.
 
Pulled onto the shoulder and motioned that I wanted to take off my helmet.  The young man in the sharp uniform with his Smokey Bear hat nodded.
 
   Minnesota State Policeman: “How you doing this morning?”
   Me:  “Great, up until a minute ago.”
   “Know how fast you were going?”
   “Not really.  It’s pretty empty out here with four lanes and a big grass median.”
   “I clocked you at 83 …”
   “83?!”
   “ … and you didn’t notice me for a minute.”
   “Sorry, I was listening to a podcast and this lady is going to stand up in the wedding and say how her ex-boyfriend shouldn’t get married.”
   “Uh huh.  Where you headed?”
   “Atlanta, Minnesota.”
   “Really?”  Look of confusion.  “And where is Atlanta, Minnesota?”
   “Ummmm…”, as I walked to the handlebars, “Google says 84 more miles up this road.”
   “Meeting somebody there?”
   “Yeah, an internet buddy from South Dakota that rode with me in Arkansas three years ago.”
   “Well, OK then,” in that accent made famous by the movie “Fargo”.
   “I’m riding to all 16 Atlantas in the US, and I should touch them all by Sunday.”
   “I see.  License please,” and he disappeared into his Ford Interceptor, unimpressed by my quest. 
 
I pulled my spreadsheet from the topbox – hands always visible – and showed it to him. 
“You want this copy?  I’m a little OCD so I still have four spares.”
   “No, you keep it.”
 
He came out a minute later with a nicely printed sheet, WARNING printed large on the top line.
 
   “You slow down, OK?  I don’t want to see you again, and I’m on duty until 4 pm.”
   “Yes, sir, and thanks.”
 
Nice guy.  Hope he gets a good story out of my excuse.
 
Within a few minutes, AbercrombieFJR called: “I’m at Casey’s in Lake Park.  It’s where you’ll turn right to get to Atlanta.”
 
Good thing he called, because we were already at the turn.
 

 
Of course the Senas wouldn’t sync.  After wasting fifteen minutes, I said, “Why don’t you call me on the phone?  Your Sena talks to your phone, which talks to my phone, which talks to my Sena.  That will work as long as we have cell service.”
 
We rode north for a few miles on County Road 7, alone on the prairie with nothing in sight except black soil and a few trees against the far, far horizon.  As we approached the turn to 330 Street – hilarious that it’s called 330 Street because there's nothing around but farmland – we both could see the large white church beautifully illuminated by the morning sun, framed by big green oak trees with a background of black sky.
 
330 Street was a muddy road, with puddles here and there.  AbercrombieFJR said something like, “Glad I brought the Super Tenere.”  I said something like, “No sweat, brother!  I got this,” which is NOT AT ALL what I was thinking.
 
My upset, red-lining, mind was thinking, “To hell with this.  I’ve ridden for 1,750 miles only to risk dropping the bike or crashing, in a place where it will take all ***** day for a wrecker to get here.  And if the bike gets damaged, how ****** much is it going to cost to get us home?  I’m a ******** moron.”
 
Well, we got there.  It was a short, but memorable, adrenaline-raising adventure.
 

 
(The sign says, "Where two or three are gathered in my name, there I am also."  Despite the occasional tirade, Uncle Hud is not a heathen.)
 
Just prior to snapping the pic, we had a nice conversation with a farmer who was bringing flowers to his parents’ graves.  Then I realized the adventure wasn’t over.  I had to get the FJR out of there, too.
 
She’s a good girl, my FJR, and I suppose she prefers to fall on pavement rather than mud.  Her well-worn back tire wiggled a few times, but we reached the asphalt and rejoiced!  Nobody will ever convince me that Dunlop RoadSmart 3 tires don’t grip in the wet.
 
We rode on little bitty county roads between Atlanta, Minnesota, and Fargo, North Dakota.  Almost an hour, past rows upon rows of tiny iridescent green shoots emerging symmetrically from soil as black as my ex-wife’s heart.  Trees appeared every now and then, surrounding a house or barn, protecting it from what must be fierce winds on this flat, flat prairie.
 
We got to the Fargo airport, where I had planned for this pic.  AbercrombieFJR said he’d only seen the gravestone in Google Street View.  We found it immediately.  That’s AbercrombieFJR in the photo.  No southern rider wears black gear in the summertime. 
 

 
Roger Maris hit a lot of home runs in 1961, setting an MLB record that stood until Hank Aaron came along.  I was a very young boy, listening to baseball on the radio, and marveling at what he did, even if sticklers insist the record should carry an asterisk.  By all accounts, Mr Maris was a good guy, too; never complaining that he wasn't inducted into baseball's Hall of Fame.  He still isn't.
 
AbercrombieFJR led me through a serious road construction site to get to the Veterans Memorial Bridge over Fargo’s Red River.  I was surprised at the lack of flags for Memorial Day, but maybe that was because of the road construction.
 

 
This bridge is a conventional ‘soulless bridge’ that has nice brickwork and stately columns to dress it up.  That's appropriate: this bridge is a major river crossing, and marks the connection between Minnesota and North Dakota.  The folks responsible for its aesthetics should be congratulated: Job Well Done.
 
Turns out our buddy AbercrombieFJR is the honest-to-goodness, real-life Mayor of Abercrombie, North Dakota.  Since the only café in Abercrombie is also a bar, this photo of THE MAYOR IN A BAR BEFORE NOON isn’t worth any blackmail money.  Doesn’t he look like a Mayor?
 

 
I saddled up and headed south for a dinner date with CraigRegs in West Des Moines.  This was a long stretch of Interstate miles, but it wasn’t boring since this is not my usual topography.
 
Hills that are steeper than “rolling”, but short – not tall.  Crop rows were curved to match to hillsides, unlike the straight-as-an-arrow rows from this morning.  Not a lot of livestock, but there were fences and feeder bins, so they must’ve been hiding just over the hilltops.
 
We turned left a little north of Omaha and set the cruise for an appropriate speed to get us there on time. 
 
There are a lot of windmills in Iowa.  A lot.  We passed a rest area with one windmill blade mounted vertically, but we were eastbound and the rest area was for westbound vehicles.  Those blades are 116 feet tall, almost the size of a ten-story building.
 
Met CraigRegs at a Kum-and-Go in Walnut, about 90 minutes west of Des Moines.  Tried to sync Senas for 10 minutes.  No go, of course.  Suggested the same “call me” solution, which worked, of course, and off we went.
 

 
Aren’t we the cutest little grey-haired twins in our matching Aerostich one-piece suits?
 
We arrived in West Des Moines a little after 8 pm, and pulled into a Quizno’s.  My host had done some scouting, and realized the Subway where we planned to meet had been demolished.  The Quizno’s was next door, served us a nice dinner, and was far better than the blank slab of concrete where the Subway had been.  This was a case of West Des Moines’ growth: a Subway restaurant was no longer viable on this valuable piece of real estate.
 
We took off together, and I had a traveling companion for another hour or so down IA Highway 5.  He's a great guy for conversation.  Don't miss a chance to ride with him!
 
CraigRegs peeled off and the drizzle started.  (Hope you got home dry, brother!)
 
It had been drizzling with maybe a bit of light rain by the time my FJR and I got gas in Knoxville, IA, just before the 9:30 pm sunset.
 
Now it began raining.  Really hard.  Thunder and lightning.  IA 5 goes through the middle of nowhere, and it was dark as could be.  No street lights, very few other cars on the highway, and it was raining so hard that the FJR’s bright lights just reflected off the raindrops and made it hard to see anything.
 
What do you do?  There wasn’t anywhere to stop that offered protection, so we just kept going.  Dim headlights provided decent illumination for progress at 45 to 50 mph.  When the lightning stroked every few minutes, it would light up everything like a flashbulb, and I could see the highway stretch out ahead.  So, that was good, in a horror-movie kind of way.
 
When cars passed me, I could follow their tail lights at 60 to 65 mph.  But it was after 9 pm on the Saturday night of a three-day weekend, and most folks were holed up for the night with the TV, a bottle, friend(s), family, or some combination – especially in this weather.  So, most of the cars that passed me turned off after I’d followed them for less than 15 minutes, and we slowed to 45 mph again.
 
Things got a little more interesting when Google said to turn off IA 5 at Moravia, and onto teeny-tiny County Road J3T.  Decision time. 
 
Years ago, I realized that there is a point in a Rally Route where the shortest way home also happens to be your original route.  In other words, you’ve gotten yourself so far away from home, that there is no bailout route, no shortcut home.  Wherever you are when want to quit, there is simply is no quicker way home.

This was one of those moments. The shortest route to my next hotel room was to continue straight ahead: along this teeny-tiny highway through the middle of nowhere in southeastern Iowa.
 
So, “decision time” turned into “realization time”, and we kept heading south through Unionville, Moulton, and Coatsville, hoping for more frequent strokes of lightning or a slackening of the rain.  The highway changed names to IA/MO 202, but didn’t change much in terms of anything else.
 
At 11 pm local, we saw a gas station in Lancaster, MO, with a drive-under roof.  We didn’t need gas, but I wanted shelter and didn’t care if that meant blocking the gas pumps. There was nobody on the road anyway.  Who’s going to be stopping in for gas and a chat with the third shift guys tonight?
 
I went inside to pee, and apologized for dripping water everywhere.  Bought a small coffee to ward off the wet and chill (thank goodness it wasn’t cold outside!) and spent 15 minutes trying to relax.  Opened my weather radar app to see what was in store. 
 

 
Note the time: 11:10 pm.  We are at the blue dot.  You can see the orange and yellow and green.  Hannibal, MO, in the middle of the pink Severe Thunderstorm Warning area, is where tonight's hotel room is located ... and it is still 120 miles away. I'm aiming for Atlanta, MO, about halfway there, and there's no shortcut to Hannibal. 

The weather system is moving from left to right … exactly the same direction we were traveling.  The weather was moving at 15-20 mph.  We would be moving faster, and catching up to it.
 
It rained cats and dogs almost constantly.  The lightning was still received gladly.  About 30 minutes prior to Atlanta, MO, the highway (US 63) changed to four-lane divided, with street lights at major intersections.   That made it easier, since I could ride just off the white stripe between lanes and assure myself there was plenty of room to either side if needed.
 
According to Spotwalla, we got to Atlanta, Missouri, at 18 minutes past midnight.  Google Maps was acting up, so I wandered for a few minutes before finding the “official building” Team Strange photo site.  Forget the Uncle Hud target photo.  Not wasting any energy on that silliness. I was wet, chilled, hungry, and exhausted from anxiety.
 

 
The rain stopped as I snapped the photo.
 
Sorry, but I have no real impression about Atlanta, Missouri.  A cop car eased by me two times while I was setting up the photo, and I silently dared him to come ask what I was doing.  A Jeep Cherokee circled the block and drove through the little parking area where my bike was illuminating the “photo shoot”.  He thought better of disturbing the crazy motorcycle guy, in the rain, at midnight, hanging a flag off the broken gutter trim of the downtown Post Office in Atlanta, Missouri.  I would have, too.
 
Wikipedia estimates the 2017 population of Atlanta, Missouri, as 375 people.  I have no idea about the accuracy of that estimate.  Perhaps this town will be a stop during the next Hooterville, and everyone can see what it looks like on a sunny day.
 
We rode south for a few miles, then turned almost due east on US 36.  We got to the grungy Super 8 in Hannibal at 1:43 local.  I didn’t care about anything except a warm shower and a bed.
 
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
 
Saturday: over 970 miles and far too long in the saddle

[Uncle Hud]

CHAPTER 6d: Illinois
 
Sunday morning in Hannibal, Missouri.  The home of Mark Twain, Huckleberry Finn, and Tom Sawyer.  Legendary stop for Mississippi paddlewheel boats.  I was having none of that.

Today, we are going home!
 
After checking the weather radar, our planned 7:00 am departure was delayed for thirty minutes.  It was drizzling outside, but it was the very back end of a system that was moving northeast.  We would be heading east, then south, so I decided the weather should get a healthy head start.  The delay also allowed me to get a healthy head start with a breakfast of four biscuits and sausage gravy.

While slurping up breakfast, I gave myself a small pep talk:  “You’re tired, so pay attention to the GPS and don’t miss any turns.  Be alert to pavement conditions and debris after last night’s storm.  We’re headed through hours of very rural Illinois this morning, so don’t miss a gas station after the range drops to 50 miles.”

This, too: “Don’t waste time on any more bridge photos.  Get Atlanta, Illinois, and the Team Strange bonus photos, and GET YOURSELF HOME BEFORE DARK.”

The emphasis was to underscore that after-sunset riding in metro Atlanta’s legendary traffic would be even more thrilling after a short night of sleep and today's long day of riding.
 
So, we crossed the Mississippi on the Mark Twain Memorial Bridge within five minutes of leaving the hotel (on I-72 eastbound), and I have no photos.  If you’re interested, it’s a soulless interstate bridge with a short arched through truss as the center span.

Welcome to Illinois!  The light drizzle faded quickly as we rolled eastward, with full ditches and partially-flooded fields on either side of the highway.  We arrived in Detroit, where I took this photo for me ...
 

 
(get it?  “Detroit Motors”?  With Illinois highway signs?)
 
... and took this one for Strange points. (City Limit signs are acceptable bonus photos.)
 


I relented from my earlier vow to skip bridge photos, and punched in the coordinates for the IL 106 drawbridge crossing the Illinois River.  OK, whatever.  I’ll get one more bridge photo.

When we left the Interstate, the roadside flooding became more serious.  On two occasions, the water was within a few feet of the asphalt.  At the bridge, I was dumbfounded.  Water was just below the bridge deck, perhaps as close as four feet.  At least one hundred feet of woodland was flooded on each side of the river; trees jutting up from the water.

It was eerily quiet, although the bridge tender’s car was parked in his reserved parking space at the side of the road.

This bridge has multiple spans: several arched through trusses planted on short towers at 50-foot intervals.  It is a drawbridge, though, with a lift span in the center.  The center span has a tall tower at each end, with big cables, big pulleys, and huge blocks of concrete.  The concrete weighs almost as much as the lift span, making it (relatively) easy for motors to turn the pulleys and lift the center span straight up while the concrete blocks provide a counterweight.
 


I knew my photo wouldn’t show the lift span well, but I wasn't going to take another one.  I was too tired, and significantly affected by the silence, the flooding, and the swift current in the river’s center.  This was a somber scene, like a bad car crash on the freeway.  Just by its solemnity, it discouraged rubbernecking.  I muttered a prayer for the people and animals killed or rendered homeless by the floodwaters.
 
Onward, then ... to Buffalo, Illinois, and more Strange points.

The GPS took me straight to the Post Office, and … I couldn’t find my rally flag.  It wasn’t in the topbox where it belonged, and it wasn’t stuffed into either hardcase.  Well, that’s that.  No rally flag, no points.  I must’ve left it in Detroit, and I sure as hell wasn’t backtracking an hour to retrieve it.

I was very tired, still a little stunned by the flooding’s devastation, crushed that I left my rally flag (after how many years of successful touring rallies, Hud?), and generally bummed about everything. 

Yeah, it was a moment of serious introspection.  Reminded me of a post by 101stpathfinder years ago after one of his bruising Iron Butt rides.  “Why am I doing this?  It’s exhausting.  It costs significant money for hotels, gas, and tires.  It separates me from those I love.  It’s sometimes cold and wet, and other times roasting hot.  Why am I doing this?”

Well, I’m damn sure not going to leave one Atlanta unvisited.  That would prickle at me forever.  It’s only 45 minutes from here.  After all the swearing and kicking and shouting at myself, it all came down to this: “Your quest is almost finished.  Let’s git’er’done.”

It was Sunday morning, and a phone call to Kelly righted my attitude.  “You get your last Atlanta, and come on home.”  Same thing I had just said to myself, but with better syntax, no curse words, and a much more pleasant voice.

So here’s my photo of Atlanta, Illinois:




And now we were headed home.  Straight home. I mean, straight and flat. I mean, AMAZINGLY straight and AMAZINGLY flat.

Flower sniffing, literally:



Giant fields of 3-foot-tall flowers as yellow as the sunshine.  They were all over Illinois, at least beside the tiny little county roads (like the one in this photo) that carried me from Atlanta to Farina and I-57.  Jeez, man, that is flat and straight.


 
 Mileage milestone.  I figured it’s a lucky number and a good omen.

No pictures of ... the Ohio River bridge (Paducah); Murray State University; Austin Peay State University; or the Cumberland River bridge (Nashville). We were motivated by the ever-closing distance to the house.

We got home about 9:30, an hour after sunset, but Atlanta traffic didn’t require me to slow below 80 mph until I got off at my exit.
 
I am finished with this ride, having touched 16 of the 17 towns named Atlanta in the US.
.................................................................................................................................

PS:  I am not going to nail this Team Strange rally, because I’m not going to submit any photos at all.  I’m going to think about things for a while.
 
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Sunday:  about 825 miles and 13 hours

Entire trip:  a little more than 3,500 miles (5,600 km) over four days (four metric days)


as of this moment:
 

[Hppants]

Enjoyed it the second time as much as the first.

I hope you finish it. I sincerely do.

[BkerChuck]

Shame about losing your flag like that. You should have submitted what photos you had for Team Strange anyway, only needed 200 points for finisher status and their finisher's pins are really nice.

Cool story and I hope you get the remaining Atlanta's.

[0face]

Nice!

[Bust]

Sucked to miss ya man. But you met a couple who I'm sure told you I was the quiet, retiring type.

Nice report.