Thursday, July 21,  Day 5,   723 Miles across British Columbia Jasper National Park was established in 1907 after the Grand Trunk Pacific Railway line through the Yellowhead Pass was erected. Jasper National Park is the largest of Canada's Rocky Mountain national parks at 4200 square miles and is brimming with natural beauty and human history. The rugged mountain terrain and vast valleys where Indians, fur traders, mountaineers, prospectors, railroad surveyors and geologists once explored leaves a lasting impression on those who visit.

Jasper Provincial Park, Alberta

The Athabasca Glacier, Miette Hotsprings, Sunwapta and Athabasca Falls. Mount Edith Cavell's impressive glaciers and the Maligne Canyon are all accessible by road or ride the tramway to the top of the Whistlers to experience the alpine beauty and varied wildlife ecosystem of Jasper National Park. 10,000-foot tall mountains streak into the sky. They're like toys placed beside the road that contains no other being than I. The morning air is cool at 7 a.m. as I head out. The taste of wind to my lips awakens my hunger for miles and more miles. This ribbon of road that lies before me is an invitation that calls out to me.

Rounding one corner early in the morning, a single mountain looms before me. The road stretches out as far as the eye can see flanked by pine trees. The tree line on the side of the mountain is noticeably much lower than it would be down in the States. The view is so breathtaking, I have to pull to the side, walk out into the middle of the road and snap a picture. Starting out early is a great thing for a motorcyclist as no one else is on the road. Snow in the middle of July. I love it! There are a lot of motorcycles up here, lots of Harleys, even an FJ1200 pulling a trailer. The views of the mountains are beyond any picture I have ever seen. There is such a sense of unencumbered space here.

At one bend in the road later in the morning, mountain goats are licking the salt from the bare ground. They stand there, their little horns erect upon their heads. They lick and lick oblivious to the gawking travelers. They aren't that big and the baby goat looks like something out of a miniature petting zoo. Or maybe out of a Disney movie. People and campers are pulling over all over the place at this bend in the road to get a picture of this. Tourists. I snap my picture along with everybody else and then motor on.

To the west, snowcapped mountaintops line the park. The Columbia Icefields are an intriguing natural phenomenon to me that I see on the map. Sure enough, a glacier comes right out of the mountainside and stops near the road. I stop and gawk at the glacier and read the signs. I still can't get over the idea of snow in July. California will do that to you. It was over 100 when I left.

The glacier in front of me is part of the Columbia Icefields. The ice field is so large, it covers 125 square miles atop the mountains above. The ice field is thought to be up to 1270 feet thick. The ice field is actually made up of several glaciers: the Athabasca, Stutfield and Dome glaciers. What's unique about this particular ice field is it lies over a Continental Divide flowing into four major river systems: the Columbia, Fraser, Mackenzie and Saskatchewan. In addition, the meltwaters coming off the glaciers flow into three different oceans: the Atlantic, Pacific, and Arctic. The icefield is one of only two in the world that is called a hydrological apex. The other one is in Siberia.

There are mounds of dirt the glacier has created as it pushed it's way down the mountain. Then it receded leaving the mound of dirt. Then it advances. Thus there are several different mounds of dirt denoting the glaciers progress.

Jasper is a small town on the north side of the park, say about 5000 people. However, in the touristy season of summer, the population swells to as much as 30,000. The town is built with the Athabasca River on one side and an elevated plane called the Pyramid Bench on the other. Pyramid Mountain rises above the town in the background. It splits Jasper into a long skinny community where housing is very expensive due to the limited space.

Its size defies the senses - Note the size of the pine trees!

I have to wonder what the weather is like up this far north where the days are starting to get longer. Even at 10:30 at night, you can still be outside and read the newspaper or a good book. I read the weather is similar to Sweden or Norway. The temperature can reach minus 40 degrees though and it can snow every month of the year.     I ride through Jasper drinking in the mountain architecture of the houses, some seemingly built around the turn of the century. It is 10 a.m. and this morning I left after only a few bites of a MRE chicken and rice. It tasted horrible. I discover two FJ1200's and a Venture like mine along a curb in front of a restaurant. An inviting place to stop. I slow in my lane, turn the other way, and coast in beside the bikes, carefully easing the heavy bike in backwards besides the others. I flip out the kickstand, lean the bike over, reach up, and turn the key off. I like this, I really like this. Pulling myself off the seat, I retrieve some maps, Jasper brochures, and the trip journal to take in with me.     I am still planning the route as I go and I am leaning toward a southern route up the Cassiar Highway to the Alcan Highway. As I plod to the entrance of the restaurant, a thirty-something guy strolls from the restaurant and stops me. He's sort of scruffy looking, and hasn't shaved in a week (although I haven't either). He has short light brown hair and a small office belly. He smiles a toothy grin and we start talking. I think it must be obvious to us motorcycle folk who's who.     Moments later, a young girl, blonde, pulled back hair and glasses looking about ten years old walks out and joins her father, the man I am talking to. Another guy, same age, demeanor, and accent joins the three of us. A cute freckle faced daughter joins the side of her father and I am intrigued by these four running around Canada on the pair of FJ's. The Yamaha FJ1200, now there is a machine. Over 100 horsepower, 0-60 in 2.3 seconds, and a 167 miles per hour top speed. Wow...     They're from Brooklyn Park in Minneapolis.     "We're in the same baseball league. John's the only one crazy enough to do this with me," Larry says. I'll have to remember that when I get older and need a riding partner. "We've done some small trips, but this is the first time we've taken the girls."     "Where are you from?" The little girl with the freckles asks.     "California," I reply. She breathes an exaggerated sigh of relief. You'd think she was being held captive in the wilds of India. She says she's just glad to see another American. I suppose we are indeed in a foreign country.     I show all the gadgets on the bike like a child showing off baseball cards. I point out the extra gas, non-perishable food, 16-band equalizer amplifier, antenna booster, altimeter, compass, map light, drink holder, even my collection of cassette tapes. John's bike is parked next to mine and I note that it looks as though it was recently wiped out. I raise an eyebrow.     "Yesterday," John says rather sheepishly. He describes what he feels was a minor accident. Ever typical of rounding a corner and hitting some gravel, not braking properly, locking the rear, and off the road he went. Scrapped up the windshield and fairing and took off the mirror. I look at the daughter.     "You too?" I ask. She nods and points to a bruised ankle. Both escaped the accident unscathed except some sore muscles.     "You ought to check out Montana," Larry says, "It's just wide open space. A motorcyclists' dream."     "Safe and Prudent," pipes in John referring to the no speed limits.     "We rode for an hour and didn't see a single car," the little freckled girl adds.     They are very interested in my quest to reach Alaska. They insist I contact them in Minneapolis afterwards and tell them about it. Larry mentions Jasper is as far north he's ever been but someday.     "I usually can't find someone who'll do the miles with me," John says looking at Larry playfully, "but we have our daughters so we keep it to about 500 miles a day." He asks what my longest day was.     "1200 miles in 21 hours," I smile.     Larry seems puzzled and gives me a funny look as he does the math inside his head. The little girl looks up and exclaims, "1200 miles?" She gets it.     "Man, that's a long ways," John says pushing up his ball cap and scratching his head. "I think once we did 600 and that took all day."     "Plus we've done the hotel thing twice, otherwise we camp," Larry adds.     They have to get going and I want to eat so we exchange addresses and I bid them farewell as they don the leathers. Larry even has a bead seat cover on the FJ and swears by it. Ready to ride the Iron Butt Rally, he jokes.     They fired up both the FJ's and I absorbed the sound, mmm... Someday.     Into Mondis Restaurante I go. Tired matted hair, dirt under my nose, wind burnt face, and in black leather from head to toe. I grab a window seat and proceed to have the best breakfast in this entire trip thus far. David, my waiter, with his buzzcut hair and a soothing voice serves the best attentive service. I look at the maps and write in the journal catching up over the last few days. On one of my water refills, David asks if he is going to be in the account of my journey. I ask if he has anything to add, like about Jasper that is a little unusual that I wouldn't find in some tourist brochure.     "How much time ya got? I gotta go on break soon," David replies. I uncap the cork. He returns a short time later after I finish my meal. He's says he's just spending the summer here earning money for the next semester.     "I did some checking up on the town before I moved up here," he says leaning in across the table. Then he gives me an answer I didn't exactly expect from my nonchalant question. I was just thinking of what do people do around here for fun, that sort of thing.     He says one strange historical fact about Jasper is that in 1916 through 1920, about two hundred Austrian-Canadians were 'interned' in a camp near Jasper. During the war while they were detained, they were used as forced-labor to work on park labor projects.     "You like the park you just came through? A lot of it was created with forced-labor, Banff too," he adds.     A total of 8,579 "enemy-aliens" were detained in concentration camps spread across Canada and used as forced-laborers. Over 5000 were Ukrainians. An additional 80,000 Canadians were forced to register as "enemy-aliens" and then required to report to local authorities on a regular basis. Many lands and possessions were seized from these "enemy-aliens".     Those interned during the First World War worked in mines, steel mills, and in the logging industry being paid a fraction of the normal pay of a "citizen". Canadian corporations benefited so much from the forced labor, when the war ended in 1918; the Canadian government allowed the internment to be carried on for an additional two years to 1920. After the war, 1.5 million dollars (1990's money) lay unclaimed and unreturned to those sent to the camps.     In 1942 the War Measures Act was used again without approval of the democratically elected parliament. Outside of Jasper near Yellowhead pass, the two internment camps were used again. Each camp was to hold a total of 200 Canadians, this time of Japanese descent. At the same time, many more camps were created all over Canada. The Japanese-Canadians here in Jasper were used during the war to build the highway from Jasper to Blue River.     While the work was in progress, Jasper residents begin to arm themselves and became increasingly paranoid. They began to treat the Japanese-Canadians will hostile intent. The interment camps above Jasper were moved to protect the Japanese-Canadians from the same people who were once their neighbors.     Ironically, while we look back 40 some years and say that was then, that couldn't possibly happen these days, the Canadian government used the same War Measures Act again in 1970 to detain French-Canadians (or Quebecois) in internment camps. In Canadian history, it is one of the more less known events, he says. Nobody talks about it. He was raised in Canada and no one taught him anything about this is grammar school. It wasn't till college that he learned of this.     To boot, the Canadian government has never publicly acknowledged wrongdoing or paid any reparations to those affected, Frank adds. In addition, it still isn't even understood why these "citizens" were deemed as enemies other than everyone agreeing on wartime xenophobia.     "Put that in your book," David says finishing up his break.     It's a little more than I bargained for, but thanks. And yes, you're in the journal.     I ride up out of Jasper over the 3760-foot Yellowhead pass. It was referred to by early fur traders as 'leather pass' and later took on the name Yellowhead, probably for some guy I suppose. Riding out of the park, I go through a time zone change and gaze off to my right at a huge mountain. The map reads it to be Mount Robson at 12,972 Ft. It's the highest peak in the Canadian Rockies.     10 miles later I gas up at Tete Jaune Cache along with travelers of all sorts. The name Tete Jaune Cache is a bit of an odd name and sounds French. I ask the lady behind the counter. She says it comes from the pass I just came over which was named for an Iroquois trapper in the early 1800's who had light colored hair. The French came through assigning names to everything, and that's what they came up with. Tete Jaune means Yellow Head. Well, there ya go.     Campers, RV's and pop-tops pulled by heavily laden station wagons full of kids and dogs rumble across the wide entrance to this oasis. I stroll through the gift shop briefly reading a booklet about Mount Robson. Trinkets are tugging at my leathers at every turn. Ah, there they are- the postcards. I buy nine. It takes over an hour to fill them out. Oddly, as much writing as I've done about this trip so far, I sit with a blank postcard in front of me and I struggle with what to say.     Several people approach me and strike up a conversation at the picnic table where I've settled in a short distance from the bike. I suppose the matted uncombed hair is the dead give away. One retired couple approaches and I chat with the guy. He is aghast at the thought of riding a motorcycle all that way to Alaska.     "How many miles?" He asks quizzically.     "5 or 6 thousand I think. Just to get there." I sound young, as if people do this sort of thing all the time. I make it sound like it's the same as going to church on Sunday or the corner market for some milk, just like I did in Creston.     The man's wife gets excited. Very excited. I think I'm really starting to like retired people.     "My birthday was a couple months ago and you'll never believe what my Marvin did. He superimposed a picture of me on one of those Harley Davidson motorcycles. It was so good, it looked like I really was riding it," She said. "My picture was printed in the town newspaper with me on that motorcycle. It was the talk of the town for weeks."     Marvin looked pleased with himself and rested his clasped hands on his rounded belly. His thin gray hair wafted in the slight breeze.     "The bridge club put it on the cover of their newsletter even." A bridge club with a newsletter? She gushes in a sweet grandmotherly way. "The talk of the town for weeks," she said once more.     A picture seems to be the next logical step. I ask her already knowing the answer if she would like her picture on my bike for the folk's back home. Esther mounts the bike gingerly, squealing in delight as we pose together. I feel like a celebrity as I smile wide. Marvin kindly takes the picture of us. Marvin and Esther thank me profusely. I wait for chocolate chip cookies or a pinch on the cheek. They wave and take off down the road heading east.     I think to myself that somewhere in Connecticut, there is a photo album of a wonderful trip. One of those photos is a picture of a smiling grandma and myself. Holding the bulging photo album is an excited grandma telling a story to little Jimmy about the day that Grandma met the motorcycle man. I finish another postcard. It's hard to be witty and think of something to say nine times.     "Um, well the trip is good. Seen lots of mountains and stuff. Couple goats. Met some people here and there. Haven't showered in days. Bike runs great." Okay, half filled out. "Ah. um, some good pictures- saw a glacier. Really neato. Oh, and met some guys from Minneapolis. Signed, Tim." That wasn't too hard.     A few moments later, a formerly white skinned individual in a past life, now heavily tanned older gentleman wearing an old folksy tank top pulls in on a Goldwing. As he gets off the bike, I chuckle at his belly. It sticks out and points the way in front of him. It's even better than Marvin's. He is really, really tan. He must have just gotten back from the Bahamas or something. And really hairy too. It's everywhere. He sees me and heads straight for me. My god, he's like a gorilla. His hair is graying with a little round circle on top. The little circle is even tanner than the rest of him. I ask him about his bike.     "88 Goldwing. Bought 'er new back in '89," he says proudly, "then I had $3000 in murals painted on 'er. Showed 'er for quite a few years then that was 'nough for me. But I still take 'er in parades though, she still looks real nice, eh." We sit for awhile at the picnic table and talk. About traveling and motorcycles, I just listen to his stories. We discuss the beauty of Alaska, he's never been there but had a couple in his motorcycle club that did last summer.     He even gives me advice on women. Do I look single or something?     "Make sure ya love 'er." he says. "Love is the answer. It's the only thing that'll get ya through the rough spots. Been married 41 years." I wait for his life story; this is going to be good. "Yep, 41 years. My wife, she's a hottie." He says chuckling to himself and winking at me. He then bids good-bye mentioning something about a date with some ice cream. Another wink.     A camper pulls up near my Venture and a man gets out. He walks slowly over to where the bike is. He circles the bike 2 or 3 times stopping to notice the extra gas cans, gauges, and dust. He pauses at my immense collection of bugs splattered across the front of the bike that would make any bugologist intensely jealous. He puts a hand on the back of his neck and rubs in a bewildered manner. I bet he has no hair on the back of his neck.     "Nice bike," he says as he walks past me into the gift shop. Looking over my shoulder as if I was meaning to pick something up, I get a look at the back of his neck. Yep, no hair on the back of that neck. I fill out another postcard.     The next car contains little Johnny who scrambles out the door as soon as it rolls to a stop. Little Batman sneakers hit the ground, and he proceeds to run in circles shaking his head from side to side. I wonder if they teach that at his day care. The opposite of a time out I suppose. Someday the relatives will explain- it was the shaking, it's why he's a little slower than the rest of the kids. At the same time he's wiggling that little round head left to right, he's spouting endless toddler gibberish. I can barely rub my belly and pat my head at the same time. This kid is good.     His curly blonde spirals of hair bounce in the wind like a Breck TV commercial as daddy gets out of the car to ensure he doesn't run off. I wonder what would happen if I were to wave a red sheet at him.     "Motothycle, motothycle, motothycle..." the kid repeats while pointing a pudgy finger at the bike and looking up at daddy. I really like this kid! His little toddler belly sticks out and a dribble of spittle runs down the corner of his mouth. Future motorcycle nut right there, has it written all over his three year old self.     I come to the last postcard. My dad. I think he believes I'm out running around North America trying to find myself or something like that. A month alone on a motorcycle, is that trying to find yourself? I just like riding, the open road, that sort of thing. I think I just incriminated myself.     I lick a 50-cent Canadian stamp with a snowy tree on it and paste it in the corner. I print United States of America at the end of the address as if there isn't a person who hasn't heard of California. I just like the sound of it.

Thus begins the other side of touring. A place where time has no meaning. When a vast distance separates point A and point B. The only objective is to get to point B and nothing else. It's a simple world, this world of travel. To ride, stop for gas, and then ride on only moments later. I leave the restful scenic alcove near where 16 and 5 meet and head west to Prince George through wonderful mountain valleys. Lands devoid of people, known only to loggers, hikers, and tree planters. So much land out here.

I ride through little towns like McBride and ride on through the Robson Valley. Rivers, creeks, lakes, a quarry, a ski resort; they all come and go. I stop long enough to gas up then ride off along the Fraser River and Purdin Lake on another three-hour jaunt. Same procedure, fill 'er up, on goes the gas cap, flip down the cover, bungee tight the jerry can, fire up the bike, and pull out onto the highway as the rear wheel hits pavement in a clatter of gravel rocks and rockets me off into the forest. Once again, I am greeted with wondrous mountain valleys. I ride on over triumphant bridges that conquer gorges, spanning mountain streams surrounded in layers of green     Descending into a valley where the Nechako and Fraser Rivers collide, 178 miles fly by and Prince George arrives. Pulling into a gas station to fill up once more, I pause for a moment to listen to the day without the sound of the motorcycle in my ear. My hands peel off the helmet as though it was a sticker about to become permanently affixed to my head. The gas jockey standing besides the pump watches this little sequence in bemused silence and hands me the hose.     Two Mazda RX 7's pull up to the stoplight in front of the gas station. Rotary engines rev, and I can see the drivers looking at each other. Brakes strain to hold the cars in place as the opposing light turn's yellow, than red. The stop light blinks green and both cars peel out, tires screeching, motors red lined. Their left hand on the 12 o'clock steering wheel position, right hand on the stick shift. Both cars lunge forward, power shifting to second neck to neck, and go shooting down Main Street. 13 second quarter I bet, not bad.     I ride up and over a ridge and off into the countryside. The town of Vanderhoof is the first major town I troll through. It boasts being home to the second largest air show in British Columbia and Kenney Dam. The earthen dam was the largest man-made dam in all of North America when it was completed in 1951.     Alfalfa is king here. Farmers along side the road are cutting, raking, and bailing it at every turn. Round bales lie stacked in rows, one, two, and three high in places. Other round bales lie like lumps on the rolling hills. Cattle graze upon endless fields of green grass. One just stands there chewing his cud. I pass a group of cows standing near the fence at the roadside and their heads follow me from side to side as I pass by just tooling down the road. Forest Gump, eat your heart out.     Engen, Tin Tagel, Forestdale, Peow- some towns are so small; they can only boast a few buildings and the one guy that's lived there for the last thirty years. Lakes start to appear in more frequency and it reminds me of traveling through Minnesota. This area is definitely a fishing area. I can feel it. The road passes by one lake after the other, the Fraser, Burns, Rose Lake, and countless others. Burns Lake even proclaims itself to have 3000 Miles of Fishing. Whatever that means.     In the town of Houston, there is a 60-foot long aluminum fly rod built by local volunteers and designed by a local fly fisherman. Undoubtedly, a real nut when it comes to fishing. It is supposed to be the world's largest fly rod. The road hits the confluence of the famous 'steelhead streams' Morice and Bulkley Rivers as they join up here also. I pass by two huge sawmills, the Houston Forest Products and Northwood Pulp and Timber. Mountains, fishing, logging, and I bet lots of hunting too.     30 miles later while riding through Telkwa, people are actually standing on the street and fishing in the Buckley River. They do this while standing on Main Street on the sidewalk. The river runs along the street right through the middle of town. Doesn't get any easier than that. Go on your noon break, walk out of your shop, walk across the street and go catch lunch.     The terrain is more of a mountainous one by the time I reach Smithers. The elevation has remained around 2000 feet (I really love this altimeter!) for most of the ride since leaving Prince George but above Smithers green forested hills extend upwards. There is even a ski resort here called Hudson Bay Mountain that is supposed to be the largest in Northern British Columbia. As I ride through Main Street, I notice that the town has sort of a European flavor to it. Actually the more I look at it; it is more of a Swiss style of architecture. I drink it all in and ride on. Further west, a hundred miles, two, three hundred miles have rolled by. I watch the map at times and compare it against landmarks and towns as they come and go.     The sun sits nonmoving in front of me. It would seem as if time has slowed just enough to watch it descend from the sky. Finally the sun joins with the horizon and the temperature drops ten degrees. I pull over at the top of a rise in the road. I relayer my clothing as logging trucks rumble by heading for any number of mills that are set in the valleys beside the road.     The same red station wagon I passed a while back rockets past at 80 miles per hour. Two young guys in baseball caps wave to me. As it crests over the hill, the car is so loaded, it shoots over the rise and the rear bumper bottoms out against the road in a grinding scrape. It shoots a brilliant display of sparks out from beneath the car. They never even slow down. It reminds me of college. Beside the road five horses with shiny mahogany coats nuzzle beneath a shade tree. Five long tails swish from side to side in the evening light.     Nine o' clock in the evening passes, then ten in the evening as the sun still hasn't set. It seems to be in slow motion. I have been on the motorcycle since seven this morning. This day has just flown by. Traveling on the bike is like that sometimes.     Nearing my turnoff to head north at the Hazelton/Kitwanga area. I ride through New Hazelton. The town has been done up to resemble what it looked like in the 1890's. The town was a junction to the Pacific Coast to the west before the railroads. Many people wintered here and it was even a stopping point for the gold seekers headed to the Yukon gold fields. This was a place for stocking up on supplies and rations before their long journeys. I can't imagine doing this on foot.     This area is called the Totem Pole Capital of the World. It has a historic Indian village called 'Ksan which is a replica of a Gitkasan Indian village. There are several dugout canoes, several totem poles and six communal houses. Above the town is 8000-foot Mount Rocher.     It's a thirty-mile stretch of road from New Hazelton to Kitwanga that holds two more Indian towns. Kispiox has a group of totem poles too. Then a few miles later, Kitseguecla Indian village also has totem poles placed throughout the village. The totem poles are still in their original places from when they were first carved.     I flip on the switch for my electric vest, and my second wind arrives. I turn a right corner to begin heading north on Highway 37. Warmth floods across my chest and back. My heart pumps warm blood to my tingly toes in the cool mountain air as I pass by another Indian village called Kitwancool. More totem poles.     They can reach as high as eighty feet and are designed to tell a story using symbols and signs from one generation to the next. A form of history or library of the tribe evolved this way. Other times, totem poles are carved to honor the death of a great leader one-year after his death. The year would enable the leader to prepare the ceremonial feast in the spirit world. Other types are created as a mortuary. The totem poles are carved telling the family history, then hollowed out and the cremated remains placed inside. One commonality in all types of totem poles is the very top figure. It is considered the family crest or symbol and takes the form of an animal or human figure. This figure tells and represents the history of the family- their migrations, wars, lands, and use of the surrounding resources.     Highway 37 is the western most north-south road in this part of North America. Also known as the Cassiar Highway, it winds itself north to the Alcan Highway. I chose this road because I figure it's as close to the Pacific as I can get and still be able to head north. I am only 150 miles from the ocean where the road ends at Prince Rupert. I could have taken a ferry to Alaska but where's the fun in that? This motorcycle thing is really living.     Darkness finally descends and I rocket through the forest hurtling into the night. 650 miles today and still pressing on as the clock ticks past midnight. Any other car is rare on this lonely back highway. I am alone, just the hum of the bike, and the silent enveloping forest swallows me up.     It's like watching a movie in 3-D stereo sound. My body knows what to do, lean, accelerate, shift, concentrate, and focus on every corner. I can feel and sense every bump in the road. My body relaxes, breathing slows, and off into the night I ride. The bike and I ride through a place where time has no meaning. All that exists is the road. Every moment is a new scene, a never ending movie plays out before me. This can only be experienced on a motorcycle.     723 miles nonstop. I arrive at a fork in the road and pull into Meziadin Lake Provincial Park. In the dark of night, white monolithic campers pose silently as I quietly motor past scrunching upon the gravel beneath the wheels looking for an open spot to park the bike. I find one, back the bike in, and pop out the kickstand. The bike leans over to the left as the kickstand contacts the earth below. I reach up and turn the key one notch to the left. The brightness of the headlight fades into the night.     Everything stops. It is one in the morning. 16 hours of riding. I look up and millions of stars shine above. Total silent calm. This is also something I wish I could package. I'd make even more millions.     Too weary and exhausted to unpack, I simply roll out the sleeping bag on the gravel beside the bike and collapse. Full leathers, gloves, boots, chaps, I'm even still wearing the helmet. I awake at 3 o'clock in the morning face down. My head still encased in my full-face helmet is pointing straight into the gravel. In a dreamlike state, I unzip the sleeping bag and wrap it in my camouflage poncho so the dew won't soak into the fabric of the sleeping bag. I struggle to pull my boots off and then try to remove a couple layers. Somehow I find the strength to crawl in and adjust on the bumpy ground. I realize I've forgotten to eat anything since my chat with Frank this morning. I'll have to get around to that tomorrow. Riding is like that sometimes.

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