Sabbatical 1998 - Day 26

Back to the Hood

Turned over the 10,000 mile mark today.  All of those miles are mine except for the two that were already there when I purchased the bike nine months ago. The machine has performed admirably as a tourer even though it was not specifically designed for that purpose.  There are people on a Nighthawk mailing list to which I subscribe who have 30 and 40 thousand miles on theirs.  Unless I do something rash like trade her for a true touring bike, I will have Cassie for many years to come.

The chain maintenance interval is a little extreme: every 600 miles, although admittedly I have not had to do very much other than clean and lube.  Still, I long for a bike with a shaft drive so that I forego the messy procedure completely.  (I'll have to start placing pennies in my ST1100 fund now.)  The chain has not stretched noticeably and the sprocket teeth look to be in good order so far.

Just south of Roseburg there is a very small community called Azalea.  I lived there as a child between the ages of 6 and 8 years.  While I have been back to visit several times, this time everything looked smaller for some reason.  My family lived in the house next to this little community church where my dad served as pastor.  

The sign out front still lists the programs: Sunday School, Sunday Morning and Evening services and Prayer Meeting on Wednesday night -- Just the way St. Paul did it.  I think he held communion services once a month too.  And he didn't talk too long so that people could get home on time to watch the game.

The nearest school was eight miles to the south in a town called Glendale.    I rode a bus (one of which was driven by a man who attended our church) each day (in the snow, uphill both ways) and sang songs with the other kids to pass the time.   What kinds of songs?  Well, I thought that they were "camp" songs -- you know, the kind you sing around the fire so that you'll get sleepy and not bother the camp staff at night?  Turns out they weren't camp songs.  You see, none of our radios worked for some reason (although radios seemed to work at other people's homes... I wonder why?) so I had no idea that "Jeremiah was a Bullfrog" was a popular song until we moved to Portland several years later.  "Wow!" I thought, "they made a hit recording of that camp song.  Amazing!"

Someday I'm going to write a book about Azalea and the love-hate relationship I had with it.  Probably won't sell or even get published, but it will make me feel better.  All things considered, it is my second-most favorite place to have lived (Portland being my favorite).  I still miss Shorty, our sideways-running, parked-car-barking, shoe-chewing dachshund.

I had been receiving e-mail from friends in the Portland area about how much hotter it was there than it was in Anaheim.  Allegedly the temperatures in Portland soared into the 100's while Los Angeles experienced the more traditional 90's.   With that in mind, I shoved off this morning from Ashland without the thermal lining in my Motoport jacket (I had not used the lining since I left Oregon.)  My expectation was that, as I got closer to Portland, I would get warmer.  That didn't happen.  In fact, when I arrived in Portland, the streets were wet and slippery with rain and oil.   So, in addition to being cold, I was paranoid at making any sudden adjustments to course or speed.  However, the blanket overcast skies and mid-70's temperatures made me feel right at home. 

I just received word that I will be traveling again soon -- this time on business -- out of the country for several weeks.  Wow.  I don't go anywhere at all for 32 years and then suddenly I'm Mr. Jet Set.  My destination?   Hint: They lost 13 colonies to us some years back.

Coming up in Day 27: world-class slacking and an investigation of what cooties I've collected in my GiVi bags over the course of two weeks.  Bring yer shotguns and flame-throwers.