My father and I arrived at Hopkins International in Cleveland as the sun was rising. My father said, "I suppose you'll be seeing a lot more sunrises in the next week." I told him I hoped not. I hate sunrises. I prefer sunsets...they're the same thing, only backwards.  And you can sleep in. We had packed his car the previous night with my mountain of stuff, and we opened the trunk to find that his CB antenna's cable prevented the weatherstripping from sealing.  One of my boxes (the one containing the tire, windshield, and all the expensive stuff) was soaked from the night's rain. Oh shit. Just what I need...soggy cardboard has about as much chance of surviving the baggage gorilla's handling as Mike Tyson has to ace the SAT's. Well, nothing to be done then, unfortunately, so we unloaded everything on the curb and I said my goodbyes.

Early morning airline ticket agents are usually fairly surly and mine was no exception, but she accepted my assemblage of boxes and bags without comment and issued a boarding pass. Since I already expected trouble with the amount of stuff, I'd opted not to pack my Aerostich riding suit, helmet, and laptop with everything else.  So it was a laptop-carrying Power Ranger that approached the security checkpoint. Again, no problems....I'd taken the precaution of removing all the metal implementia from my Stich pockets the night before, so I breezed through the metal detector. The old codger on the stool laughed and said, "You just made it, sonny. I'm supposed to stop someone if three bars light, and you lit two." Lucky for me...I'll bet Riderwearhouse designed their Stich zippers to just this specification.

I was surprised to see the flight crew getting ready to button up the plane as I arrived at the gate; apparently I'd cut things a bit closer than planned.  I scooted on just as they were closing the door. Fortunately the plane was lightly loaded, which allowed me to shed my Stich and stash it in the overhead bins with my helmet without having to fight for extra space. As the plane lifted off I breathed a sigh of relief. In my mind, there were three critical nodes for this trip: getting on the plane, getting off the plane and finding all my stuff, and getting on the bike. I'd just passed one of those nodes successfully. I was on my way.

The flight entailed two hops: Cleveland to St. Louis, St. Louis to Portland. The first hop was short and sweet. We spent an hour on the ground in St. Louis, then lifted off again for the remainder of the flight with a full complement of passengers. Unfortunately, this included a toddler who sat directly behind me. Now, as all know, I'm a patient man. (*cough*) I didn't say anything when the child started crying....airplanes are strange and new things for kids. I didn't say anything when the kid started whining for everything under the sun, either. But I drew the fucking line when the kid started kicking the crap out of the back of my seat. The look I gave the father would've cut concrete as I said, "Look, could "daddy's li'l darling" practice Stairway to Heaven some other time?!?" and before I could say another word he grabbed the kid from the wife (sitting behind me) and said, "I'm sorry!" Good. Saved me from saying something really unpleasant.

The rest of the flight was fairly pleasant. I had a window seat and shared the row with an older couple who apparently shared a single pair of kidneys. They seemed very interested in looking out my window, and I briefly contemplated offering to switch with them, but after their fortieth trip to the restroom, declined. I didn't need that much exercise.

As we flew it was interesting to note the changes in the appearance of the landscape as we headed west. I was especially curious about the large circles in the farming communities...why would someone choose to plant crops in circles?? The Rockies were amazing, and quite a bit of snow was still in evidence, a fact which had me more than a bit nervous since I'd be crossing them on two wheels in a matter of days.

My arrival in Portland heralded a moment of uneasiness, as Jim wasn't at the gate. I knew we were early, however, so I ambled down towards the baggage claim figuring we'd hook up somewhere along the way, which we did. Pleasantries were exchanged and we passed the time waiting for my mountain of baggage by scoping out the local female population and discussing the upcoming trip. Much to my surprise and pleasure, all boxes (even the soaking wet one) survived and arrived unmolested. We loaded everything into Jim's van, gutted specifically for this purpose, and headed into Portland.

Jim had brought the ST's front wheel, and the plan was to find a dealer to mount the new tire immediately. I had enough to do that evening without worrying about wrestling a tire off/on by hand. Jim took me to Beaverton Honda, a dealership I'd heard good things about from a mailorder point of view. The service department, on the other hand, left a shitload to be desired, as we soon found out.

The service writer told me it'd take about two hours to do the swap. Two hours? To swap a tire off a wheel? Well, I suppose if they're busy.... We left and headed for lunch (Subway, of course). Upon our arrival back at the dealership, we were informed that the task had not even been started. !!! Now I was getting a wee bit torqued. The service writer said, "I'll see if I can't get it done right now." and walked into the back. He came out and indicated it was happening.

Jim and I went to look at the rest of the dealership, scoped out bikes in the parking lot, etc. For about half an hour. Came back...no wheel. Now, for those unfamiliar, it takes about 8 minutes to swap a tire and balance, 10 if you're slow, 15 if you're a congenital idiot. Did I mention that I was being charged $25 for this service? As a service manager in Pittsburgh, half the time I'd just tell the guy to slip my mechanic a fiver and not even bother writing it up; it takes longer to write it up than it does to do the procedure. I expressed my displeasure to the service writer, who appeared to be as understanding as a menstruating Klingon. He made more appeasing noises and Jim and I walked away to bide time. Again.

By now I'm not even listening to Jim as he makes small talk, but I give him a lot of credit for his efforts. About this time another customer walked in and told the service writer the jetski he just had tuned up there that day won't start. He told me in an aside that this place used to be something special, but now it just plain sucks. Surprise surprise. The service writer walked out to take a look, and I'd had enough. I asked another service writer if the service manager's around. "He's off on weekends", he said. Wrong answer, bozo.

I pushed past him and walked into the shop itself. As I cleared the door I put my hands to my mouth and yelled, "IS THERE AN ST1100 WHEEL ANYWHERE IN THIS SHOP???" Every mechanic stopped working and stared, and one slammed down his wrench and walked over to the tire machine near his lift. There sat my wheel, apparently having been done for quite some time. He yelled back about how he got busy and how he's not gonna take any shit from some customer about a tire change. Leaving the tire against his lift he began approaching me with obvious intent to do something about it. Fine...the mood I'm in now, this will be the biggest mistake you've made all day, Cooter.

The original service writer walked in at this moment and put himself between me and the approaching mechanic, then forced me back out the door. He went back in and came out with my wheel, made useless apologies, ad nauseum. I threw $40 on the counter and he set a land speed record making change, after which I exited the building. Jim, being the sensitive new-age guy he is, had already relocated out of the blast zone when he saw me storm in the final time. He reappeared and we departed.

On the way to his home in Corvalis, Jim tells me that the Oregon traffic authorities are extremely intense, and to watch my speed throughout the state. He demonstrates his belief of this as he travels down the road at a stately 65mph, and my mouth drops open as we approach then overtake a pair of sportbikes riding at a slightly slower speed. It's the first of many unusual sights I'll witness on this trip.

We arrived at his house mid-afternoon, and I wasted no time getting dirty and going over the new bike's prep. After all, I'm going to be trusting my life to this thing for the next ~2500 miles. I tried to be polite and carry on a conversation with both Jim and his wife, but I'm sure I seemed very distracted. The front wheel goes back on, the dash is ripped open so I can install my radar detector's power cord, and the side panel comes off so I can install a pigtail for my electrically heated clothing. In addition, I install the windshield I brought from my own bike, along with the dash shelf, so I have someplace for the radar detector to sit. Heh, good thing I didn't ask Beaverton Honda to do all this, I might still be in Oregon.

Once complete I give myself leave to downshift and relax. At this stage I can't foresee any issues, and that's a good feeling. Jim's wife, Carol, handed me a big glass of wine and kept filling it up throughout the night. Jim performed a culinary miracle by microwaving an excellent dinner, and we retired to the rear deck to listen to the frogs (Jim and Carol are the only people I know who have an honest to god MOAT in their yard). At one point the previous summer they decided to build a bridge over said moat, and since both Jim and Carol are very competitive and apparently couldn't come to an agreement on how to do it, they agreed to disagree, in the tradition of long-standing marriages everywhere. So, Jim started on one side and Carol on the other. The results were predictable, and made for fun banter as the sun slid down the horizon and the wine slid down my throat. Later, their two boys came out and joined Jim and I in the telling of tall tales. Man-type fellowship was shared and enjoyed.

I retired in the Hiler Gesthaus(tm), a very nicely appointed RV that's kept on hand for just such occasions. As I fell asleep I contemplated whether Jim would let me drive the RV across the country in trade for the ST.