April, 1999
Chapter 11

Ode to Chrome - I have never been much on having a sparkling ride. I carry with me several products to clean and shine ol' Bob, but I honestly spend very little time doing it. Without a garage to keep him in, he is very vulnerable to weather, and it seems that whenever I clean him up, it starts to rain. Been there? I'm sure you have.

I met someone along the road who said; "I spend 9 hours when I clean my bike!" I couldn't help but ask if this was something of which he was proud, or if it was some sort of parole agreement. I pretty much wipe mine down each week, and go over it pretty well each month. I remember picking it up at Scott Smith's Harley-Davidson last May, with a regretful feeling that this bike would never look as good as it did - man, did it shine!

Hunkered down in my brother's garage, I gave Bob some extra attention this week, from the front disks to the trailer hitch. I hit him with chrome polish, wax, degreaser - the works, and he is ready for the second half of this trip.

Polishing chrome is very rewarding. It is such a durable, beautiful finish, that you know that, no matter how dirty it is to start with, you can do wonders with it - just seeing a dirty, cloudy, piece of chrome can give you the shivers. You grab a rag and work it along the surface, pulling off dirt, grease and grime. You can hear the sound of dirty chrome, you can feel the drag in your hand. As you rub and rub harder, the dirt gives way, the rag fills up. You pry into the grooves and around the bolts - you know it will come clean, it's just a matter of elbow grease. You wipe off the heavy dirt, first, then off with the film, and, with a clean rag, you take to the finish, pulling out the shine and the luster. I'll tell you, there is nothing so beautiful as your ugly face reflected in the chrome of a Harley-Davidson.

Coloring the Corps THURSDAY, APRIL 8, 1999, JACKSONVILLE, NORTH CAROLINA When Eric Reust leaves his mark, it will last a lifetime. Check out Mark's new tattoo! Posted April 11, 1999

Well, I asked could she make a phone call, perhaps, and check for me? I even mentioned my ace card; the Family Circle article - I was desperate. She said she'd check, and she shut the door. I heard the dead bolt close between us. I waited as the Sun gave way to Earth and my hopes of finding a safe plot dimmed with its glow. "She's going to just ignore me," I thought. "She'll turn out the lights and hope I leave." I waited, and vowed to wait all night if I had to. Stupid? Yes.

Well, my wait ended a few minutes later, as she returned.

Outer Banks, North Carolina - I had never seen these nifty racks before I visited the Outer Banks of North Carolina. They are extremely functional, holding a half-dozen fishing poles and a cooler right where you need them. They seem to be very popular here, almost to the point of being status symbols. This gentleman has had his rack for some time and, though I forgot his name, he seems like a true Outer Banker. That is, he has been vacationing here for over a decade, and that pretty much gives him a good enough status so that he doesn't need the rack for anything except to carry his fishing poles and cooler.

Island Hopper FRIDAY, APRIL 9, 1999 BETWEEN OKRACOKE & HATTARAS, NORTH CAROLINA Take a ride in the second largest ferry system in the United States. Posted April 23, 1999

My tow-truck driver was a good-natured Virginian; ("everybody calls me Mac.") and he hoisted Bob up and took him to the service yard, where I managed to get him running again, sort of. I removed the cable from it's shield and, for the next 50 miles, I pulled it by hand in an awkward - yes, painful - procedure. The first 20 miles of this trip were fine, with beautiful, clear weather. Then, just south of Williamsburg, in less than one mile, the temperature dropped 15 degrees, the wind picked up and the hail began. I rode for half an hour through some of the worst weather of this trip. When I pulled over for some pliers to hold the darn throttle cable, a nearby tree succombed to the wind with a horrendous crack! A sane man would have taken a hotel room, a sane man would have pulled into a gas station or something. I got on the bike and rode it to West Point, figuring the storm came quickly and it would go quickly. I was right, but the storm knocked out the power in West Point, and I rode through an eerie ghost town that was set off by the spectacular lighting of the huge paper mill, which obviously has it's own power plant - it was surreal to say the least.

The WAY Down SATURDAY, APRIL 10, 1999 14,500 FEET ABOVE WEST POINT, VIRGINIA If a troubled writer falls thousands of feet to the forest below, can anybody hear his screams? Learn to skydive, in Dropping Class

Bulletproof - While at the Skydive The Point clubhouse, in West Point, Virginia, I heard what sounded like a dragstrip on one of the runways. Someone told me that it was a "bodyguard training school" and I just had to check it out. It is a school, called International Training, Incorporated and they do train bodyguards in "Evasive and Defensive Driving," "Terrorist Surveillance Detection," "Protective Services," "Progressive Firearms" and a host of spy-type stuff. I understand that people come here from around the world to learn how to protect their muckety-mucks from getting mucked up.

Counterfeiting Nature THURSDAY, APRIL 15, 1999, CHINCOTEAGUE, VIRGINIA "Cigar" Daisy has been fooling ducks for decades, Posted April 29, 1999

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Speaking of the laptop; it died, too. (Not a good week for me and technology.) On Friday afternoon in Delaware, it became just 2 pounds of dead weight. This thing has never, ever given me trouble, and I about went into shock for three days waiting to have it fixed. The technicians at Info Systems, in Wilmington (John Lucas, John Velletta and Anatoly Gorelik) replaced nearly everything in it, as I hovered over them like an impatient child getting his tricycle fixed, and they did a great job getting me back to work. Thanks to Paul and Diedre Green for hosting me during this mess.

Moving Art TUESDAY, APRIL 27, 1999, ANNAPOLIS, MARYLAND She is a woman of letters, and three letters spell the difference between her and some hack with a computer: A - R - T. Posted May 3, 1999