TREES AND TURKEY VULTURES

Last night a tremendous electric storm, normal Stu tells me, but quite spectacular nontheless.  The tornadoes, if there were any, missed us.  I blogged earlier in the trip about riding, I think along Natchez Trace Parkway, through a section of forest torn to pieces by tornadoes; the awesome power of nature. 

At one point last weekend I told my daughter that I might well chin the next person to use the word awesome in my presence, but then someone I couldn't possibly offend used it; so I just gave up and resigned myself to another word so abused it no longer has any meaning.  

Two natural phenomena of America take my thoughts today, last day here.  Trees and Turkey Vultures.  

America, or at least much of those parts I have visited, is an extraordinarily verdant land.  I will remember the huge forests I travelled through.  Mile upon mile as the Blue Monster sped along.  Also the extraordinary rivers which even by the standards of Europe's big rivers are phenomenal.  I remember crossing the Tennessee on the Natchez Trace, I suppose 300 or 400 miles away from the sea, and it was half a mile wide at least. 

Forests and rivers.  What a land it must have seemed to the Europeans when they arrived.  What a land it was for its inhabitants, living there in harmony and balance. What a land it still is.  For those with the resources to enjoy it that is.  Like many places, I guess, they can be heaven or hell depending upon your resources.  The beauty of largely untamed nature cascading around you; or a prison of  no work, no transport, and debilitating poverty. Rural poverty hits you just as much as urban here. Whose eyes do we see the world through?

The little history of modern America, by which I mean the past 350 years, I have absorbed in my time here has resonated with a previous story of a pioneer nation somewhere in my past.  Such space, such opportunity, such achievement, such a shame its all going down the tubes.  

The Turkey Vultures were first pointed out to me by Stu soon after my arrival and I soon found them to be ubiquitous.  They became a symbol, a metaphor for the gathering crisis.  Just about everywhere I travelled they were always there in the skies, circling, watching.  

Just as I had one or two close encounters with the detritus of the Empire's decline: people, essentially, surplus to requirements; so I had a couple of close encounters with the Vultures.  One occasion I saw them on a carcass right in the centre of the road, some 200 metres ahead.  Boy did they take their time getting out of the way.  You would have thought the sight of the Blue Monster bearing down on you at 50 mph or so would have spurred them into flight, but none of it.  At the very last moment a flap of, what you realise at close quarters are very large, wings and they just got clear in time.  I would like to swear I could have reached out and touched them.  Maybe I could have, but I would have been in the ditch next moment.

I have tried to teach the Americans I have met that wonderful idiomatic English phrase, 'It'll end in tears'.  And sadly I think it will.  But right now its hard not to allow the optimism that drives us on to force its way to the surface.

The sun has just broken through, if I am lucky enough to get a window seat tomorrow afternoon I might just get a good view of the north-eastern coast as I fly off.  The Wall Street Occupiers have not been evicted.  You have to have hope, you have to keep trying, you have to keep going.

I will leave the last word to the poet:

I sit by the roadside

The driver changes the wheel

I do not like the place I have come from.

I do not like the place I am going to.

Why with impatience do I

Watch him changing the wheel?

REFLECTIONS ON THE EMPIRE

The wedding is over.  The motorcycle trip is over.  Time to take stock of the past month and reflect upon events.

The oddometer on the Blue Monster reads 760 miles, and it is on its 5th revolution since I set off to the Elk River Touring Center on the 15th September.  So 4,760 miles have been covered.  And on Saturday, 15th October its a flight home to Newcastle upon Tyne UK.

Yesterday's final leg took me down Highway 611 beside the Delaware River, another pleasant scenic road, before delivering me into the hands of the Interstate system for the dash back to Rockville, Maryland.  The last hour into Rockville, which is just outside Washington, was pretty unpleasant as the heavens opened and I was glad to make it in one piece. And the Blue Monster is off to pastures new where I hope her next owner has half as much pleasure from her as I have.

Another example of the uncomfortable nature of American society occurred at the end of 611.  I reached an Interstate junction but was unsure whether this was the one I needed.  Usually in these cases I stop, open the pannier, and get out the map to work out where I am and where I want to go, but on this occasion I spotted a police officer booking (I assume) a motorist just by the junction.  So I parked on the cusp of the junction and walked up to him. He was busy talking to the female motorist and did not notice my approach.  As he seemed to have finished his conversation I coughed and politely asked for directions.  He jumped and ordered me to retreat immediately.  'Get back behind the car now sir'.  I obliged, he relaxed, and all was well; but he was clearly rattled.  Its a degree of instinctive fear that simply doesn't exist in Britain.

Talking of fear you may remember that irate man in the Berkshires who objected to my photographing his beautiful trees.  Well I just had a message from 'Lemming', via blogspot, apologising for the irate man's behaviour and telling me that not everyone in the Berkshires would have shot me for that.  Glad to hear it.  The slightly weird and wonderful aspect of this is that he found the blog via the BBC website, where I had commented on an article by their USA correspondent, Mark Mardell.  I'd agreed with Mark that my experiences over the past month reinforced his comments that the average American was finding life more difficult since the so called 'recovery' rather than the reverse; and I'd put the address of my blog for peoples further information.  Within minutes of posting this comment came an email of a censored notice from the BBC:


"We reserve the right to fail comments which...

Contain links to other websites which break our Editorial Guidelines."

OK I thought.  But then I checked online and they hadn't removed it.  Hence 'Lemming'was able to access it.  So what the BBC think they have done is beyond me. Maybe it was a precaution and they subsequently decided it didn't break their guidelines?   Who knows.

At least this solves the mystery of where all my lovely new dear readers came from; the sudden surge in hits coincides with the BBC posting.  Thanks for the free publicity BBC.  Its just such a shame that the Government in Britain, a conservative one who hate them for actually being objective and impartial instead of corporate lackeys like Fox, are currently inflicting massive cutbacks which can only devastate its services.  To call it a decimation would be to understate the situation as it is losing much more than one tenth of its budget.  The BBC is an organisation that used to make you proud you were British, by and large, though a friend recently pointed out how pro-Zionist they were.  Oh come on I said,  then the next day, blow me down, but they reported an incident in the illegally occupied Palestinian territories (Source: 2 UN Security Council Resolutions) and then qualified it by saying that Israel disputed that they were occupied.  Robert Mugabe disputes there are any problems in Zimbabwe but they don't quote that on every report!  

It is always important to understand there is no neutral position on information; every source is biased.  I do find the BBC and Al Jazeera are a good balance for one another; and if you want to triangulate, try Press TV, the Iranian English language outlet.  You could try Fox of course to get another view, but who wants to know what the official news of the Corporates is?  

When the British writer Dennis Potter was dying of cancer he named his tumour 'Rupert'; in honour of Mr Murdoch, whose minions might be tapping a phone or an email service near you, right now.

DRIVING

Lane discipline is a pretty much unknown concept here, drivers just weave in and out of lanes as they choose.  In a few places desoultry signs make an effort to suggest slower drivers occupy right hand lanes but to no great effect.  It appears the default speed, for most drivers, is 10mph above the limit; unless a cop appears.  Much the same as motorways in Britain, although not the same as non-motorways where we Brits tend to stick closer to the limit.  The actual limit can be quite baffling as it can change at arbitrary points to arbitrary levels, sometimes 25 in a town, sometimes 35.  Sometimes 40 out of town, sometimes 50, sometimes 55.  Interstates or motorways as we call them, can vary from 50 to 70 and the logic of the differences can be hard to fathom. 

Most confusing is that the direction signs largely omit where a road goes to.  It just gives the number, but some roads have two numbers, where they coincide and run together.  So 611 South suddenly appears to be 443 West for a mile or two.  Usually just long enough to get worried, stop, then realise you are on the right route after all.

The most unnerving moment: being undertaken by a Chevrolet pick-up truck travelling at approximately 90 mph being driven by a woman apparently more engaged in texting than driving.

Worst moment: a very tight turn onto an Interstate slip-on lane which I missed and went down the slip-off; but not for very long!  Tied with three occasions where the signage was so poor I went the wrong way.

Best moments: (yes,plural) The several winding roads through beautiful country, taken at varying speeds I do confess, all of which made a motorcycle experience special.

FOOD

American food was 'bigged up' but I am afraid I've found it all a touch disappointing.  One meal was positively disgusting and I encountered a problem ordering rare steaks; they were invariably lukewarm.  I will complement the salads mind you.  They were typically a good size and always came before the main meal; just as I like it.  

As promised by my son, Patrick, the highlight by a long chalk was the Wedding Rehearsal Dinner on the eve  of the event itself.  Lobster, Clams, Steak Tips, Barbequed Chicken, and, of course, salad.  The wedding meal was nice enough but it is almost impossible to cook really good food for that many people.  The numbers the night before were just right for quality.  

And my host here in Rockville, Stu, is a pretty handy cook too.  Right now though we are under Tornado watch.  Not something I have ever experienced.  So time to publish; and tomorrow a look at the politics.

After blogging in to you lovely people I spent the morning chasing what turned out to be the Berkshire Gas Company, they who were responsible for the road repairs outside the Marketplace Café, Pittsfield, which unseated the blue monster from her stand.  I thought, damn it, I’m not going to let them get away with it if I can possibly help it.  So after trying the local Council who quickly disowned any responsibility, but, in fairness did help identify who might be responsible, It was a ride to the outskirts of town. 

There the efficient receptionist, Caroline, was both sympathetic and helpful.  We’ll see how Todd Steinman takes it all when we get in touch with him.  Someone Caroline spoke to made the sensible point that my insurance company should pursue the matter with their lawyers.  So another line of attack may be there.

So on with the journey.  Here is that red I described yesterday, perhaps this shows it off better.

Just imagine this hillside in a week or two’s time.

You can see that its just beginning to turn.

A little after this picture was taken I spotted a lovely stand of trees all turning, but of a variety of colours.  I shot past but was so taken that I turned around and went back.  The trees were 400 yards down a driveway so I went about 100 yards down, parked up, dismounted, and walked into an open field to photograph them.  I took three pictures and stared to return to the bike when a man approached.  He was not friendly.  In fact he was very cross.  Back to the American obsession with private property; upon which I was trespassing he informed me.  Servile politeness, fullsome apologies and my best lah di day British accent were deployed but he cheerfully informed me that in the Berkshires I was liable to get shot doing what I had just done.  Terrific!

You can judge for yourselves whether it was worth the effort:

The other photo should have been even better but it seems to be a little out of focus; perhaps the camera noticed the guy coming and got nervous before I did.

May not look it but it was absolutely gorgeous. How can you live somewhere when you get up in the morning to that view, and not be properly chilled and laid back?  Americans!  What are they like.

According to the woman serving me in Spice Cafe, Port Jervis New York State, where I stayed last night; this is a nation committing suicide.  Well I said that, after reading that the Senate had turned down Oh Bummer's rescue package, and she absolutely agreed.  "No taxation without representation" she said, "I don't think so"

I have shared my thoughts with Occupy Worcester about the actions they should take.  I wonder how the media coverage is going.  Al Jazeera has been the only network to give it regular coverage, as that is my default news source I have been aware of the 'Occupy' movement since its early days.  The woman in the cafe here is not sure about it but, when I gave her to opportunity to sound off, she sure knew who was to blame for her economic woes, and the Country's.

Yesterday, after ferreting around Berkshire Gas, I set off in a southerly direction along the Taconic State Parkway.  80 miles or so of fall foliage, much like the stuff I have pictured for you, besides another of those great American scenic roads which loop their way gently through the countryside.  This one had a sensible speed limit, taking the norm of 10 mph faster which everyone does.  Then to Jervis Port.  One of those towns, or a City actually I think, where everything is stretched out over a large area.  No real centre.  I toured around for a good 30 or 40 minutes and did eventually find a reasonable hotel - The Eyrie Hotel - which also had a decent menu.  No breakfast though so  was lucky to find Spice Cafe who have hosted this blogging session; and provided some of its material.

Now its back to Stu and Jan's for the final few days.  Hopefully via Beamers Uber Alles - the wonderfully named independent BMW motorbike repair shop not far from their house - where I can get a handle on the cost of the damage to the Blue Monster.

Swings and Damn Roundabouts Again

So off I set from the wedding, still fond memories lingering there; and we found Patrick's glasses which he left behind in a hotel room from the night before the wedding.

Heading into west Massachusetts hoping to see the fabled 'New England Fall' where the trees all turn their leaf colour in a glorious range of shades.

Not a lot to see at first.  Most of the first hour is spent in a duel with my GPS system which is detirmined to send me a different way from the one I am sure I programmed into it.  Finally I stopped for a coffee in Ware. (later in the day, recounting the incident, a guy said where? and I said Ware, and he looked at me and...)

There I went back to the old fashioned technology of cartography and worked out where I wanted to go by consulting the map.  Highway 9 looked like it went the right way, as indeed it proved to be.  Then I fell into conversation, as I am wont to do, with another man at the cafe bar.  I guess I should have heeded the warning signal as I went to the 'bathroom' and he said something along the lines of  'if you're an atheist you have no value system'.  Didn't pick that one upon my return but as the TV was playing politics and religion I did open a general conversation about religion and politics.  This soon moved into the economic problems and his view that it was people on welfare who caused it, expecting a free lunch.

Aroused by this I defended the poor but should not have wasted my time.  The real problem was immigrants who don't want to work;especially ones with darker skins.  So I asked explicitly whether skin colour made the difference and the answer was yes.  I told him what I thought of him and left.  In such a dudgeon that I left the map behind on the counter.  Fortunately the blond lass who had been serving heard the engine start and brought it out to me.  I apologised for leaving in such a hurry but explained why.  I have to put up with it every day she explained sadly.  Can I come with you?  Classic moment: Blond gets on motorcycle and they drive off into the sunset together.  Didn't happen.

I travelled further into the hills; judging by the number of other motorcycles on the road I had chosen a good 'un.  Its the same range of hills I entered 4 weeks ago in West Virginia, the Appalachians, which stretch over 500 or 600 miles down the east side of the US, a massive range redolent with names from US culture; whether that is folk music or Laurel and Hardy, or literature: the Hampshires, the Catskills, the Blue Ridge mountains, the Great Smoky Mountains.

Then I began to get an idea of what it was that created such a buzz.

Shame about the power lines but you begin to get the picture?  Its the subtle differences, and some not so subtle, in shade and colours that makes it so delightful.

A little further down the road and I had to stop again and give the Blue Monster a touch of insignificance:

As you might imagine I tended to take these roads at a gentle pace.  I was not in any great hurry today, just easing back towards journey's end in Washington.  And as each turn brought views almost as good as this, why hurry?  There is one tree whose leaves turn a quiet glorious red which I don't seem to have captured, but there is still today.  

And finally for this picture section here is a river somewhere in west Massachusetts.  That is the road running horizontally through the centre:

All over the US, wherever I have been, I have seen grey squirrels abound.  The ones we in the UK hate because they were introduced into Britain a couple of hundred years ago and have proceeded to almost drive into extinction out native red squirrel.  Its to do with their ability to digest the food at a less ripe stage than the red can.  Therefore they get it all first and the reds starve.  Well, as the picture above was loading, I looked out of my window and there was a red squirrel.  Do they have the same problem here I wonder?  Probably not I remember as in fact the grey has a natural predator - the Pine Martin - which maybe flourishes here and keeps the greys down.  In Britain we have got rid of the Pine Martin because the other food it loves, apart from grey squirrels, is birds eggs.  The problem there being that it lives in places where the rich and richer like to shoot birds for sport.  The Pine Martin interferes with the business of 'The Shoot'.  Ironic really that there is this great campaign in Britain to 'Save the Red Squirrel' when all that is needed is a campaign to shoot the rich.  (I don't really mean that by the way and I am not inciting violence Mr MI5 surveillance officer)

So on to the town of  Pittsfield where I fancied I might spend the night.  Pulled in at the Marketplace cafe - yep that is a plug its nice - where I soon got chatting to a nice young man in a pork pie hat.  He was a bit of a biker himself and he and his companion soon advised me not to stay in Pittsfield but to travel another 25 miles or so south to Great Barrington.  A much cooler town.  He went outside to examine the Blue Monster and I joined him.  I had left her on the side stand and, following some very good advice from my local BMW dealers at home, if I left her for more than a few minutes I needed to put her on the centre stand or she would suffer an oil loss.  So I put her onto her centre stand as we chatted about bikes.

Fifteen minutes later two women burst through the cafe door.  Is that anyone's motorcycle outside?  And there she was, on her side, in the gutter.  The explanation?  An extraordinary coincidence.  Avner, who sold me the Blue Monster had left her on the side stand in August and the tarmac had melted (it was in the low 100's in Washington in August) and the side stand had driven through the melting asphalt and she'd fallen over.  Here there had been a road repair at the edge of the road and I had inadvertently put one leg of the centre stand on the hard original road surface and one on the newly tarmaced.  Result was that one leg sank and the other didn't.  Oh bollocks.  One wrecked wing mirror and another $200 down the swaney.  Or something of that order.  I am tempted to go back to the town council and demand compensation.  There is a good motorbike repair shop on the way which might just have a spare mirror; so maybe....

Otherwise its my last day but one on the road.  Tomorrow I have to be back in Rockville, just outside Washington, and then in fairly short order its back to the UK.

There has been a sudden surge of 'hits'on this blog so thank you gentle readers wherever you are.  I have yet to work out how you can read it in chronological order; ie from first to last, which is the logical way to consume it.  But if you have just been dipping in here and there I hope you've enjoyed my ramblings.

The Empire is in decline and I will attempt to round up and round off before I finish.

AH BLESS

I don't know why they decided to hold the wedding in the early evening with the result that the photographs were taken in the dark afterwards.  But it certainly disadvantaged amateur photographers like me who have never actually read the instruction leaflet of their new cameras.  Point and click has been my rubric since I was forced into re-equipping by the failure of my first camera in New Orleans.  (Gosh that all seems quite some time ago now).

So you may have all been waiting for images of the big moment but I am afraid they're crap.  But, of course, if you really want to see the pictures plenty will be available in due course; just not from me.

Here they are with Julie's nephew and niece:

Now you see what I mean about the quality.  Sorry.

The wedding was rather lovely and I enjoyed it more than I thought I would; if I am honest.  Of course a front row seat for the father of the groom.  Which meant I could see close up the mutual adoration of the happy couple.  Who could deny them such obvious delight in their lives.  

Its just the paraphernalia that surrounds it.  The protocols and procedures.  We already made it complicated by having the parents of the groom and the stepfather of the groom, so we tended to be marched around as a kind of menage a trois.  My sister and family, who'd partially organised their summer holiday in order to attend, were missed out of the private family party who got a special reception room, with the couple, straight after the ceremony.  Patrick's sister wasn't included in the grand family march past entry to the reception dinner.  The photographs went on for about 30 minutes, with voracious midges gradually getting the message that a big free supper was on offer.  There was more fuss and protocol flying around than I used to get as the Lord Mayor of  Newcastle.

Eventually we settled down to a decent drinking, dancing and nattering party which included all the classic elements of a good do. We had the hotel staff admonishing us for drinking non-hotel supplied booze, actually a rather decent bottle of 21 year old Glenfiddich malt whiskey that Patrick had thoughtfully provided, and I was damned if I was going to be told we couldn't drink it discreetly out on the back terrace; given the amount of money the hotel was getting, so I had to get a tad arsey.  Then getting thrown out, by hotel management, of someone's room, club 501 I seem to recall, where the inevitable after time party materialised.  I finally ended up with a decently sized group of proper partygoers on the terrace outside the front of the hotel.  I confess to being a bit of a lightweight by 2 a.m. or was it 3 a.m.  Whatever, I had to leave the youngsters to it.

Sunday brought a brunch at Julie's parents house and a time to cement bonds a little.  Gentle, relaxed and a necessary contrast to the frenzied activities of Saturday.

Then, mid-Sunday afternoon, time to go and check out 'Occupy Worcester'.  The brunch had, quite appropriately, held us until nearly 3 p.m. so it was getting on for 3.30 before we arrived at an event billed to start at 1.30.   Nevertheless they were still going strong.  I was a little misleading in the last post about Worcester's size.  Just because I had never heard of the place before didn't mean it wasn't quite a substantial city.   Turns out to be the second largest city, after Boston.  Anyhow the good people of Worcester had managed a turnout of a couple of hundred.

The simple theme emerging here, and elsewhere, is the plain injustice of the 1% getting richer whilst almost everybody else gets poorer.  The New England Telegram and Gazette this morning has a front page story headlined, "Incomes fell more after the recession ended" and this is typical now.  Saturday's paper (one thing about this expensive hotel is at least you get a free paper each morning) also had large articles on the economy's failure to pick up and the consequential damage to employment; and one on life story examples of failure to obtain work   Contrary to claims of a media blackout I have to report that the Occupy movement is being reported, at least here.  The event I picture above was the front page lead story in the Telegram and Gazette.

Nice too to see this placard yesterday:

It was an event of open speaking, with anybody able to air their view.  A technique has developed, apparently to deal with loudhailer/megaphone restrictions, which they call the 'Human Microphone'.  A little odd when we first encountered it.  Speakers use short phrases which the crowd then repeat.  It sounded a bit like kindergarten to begin with and, actually, wasn't strictly necessary for most of the speakers.  The crowd was small enough for everyone to hear all but the timidest of voices.  However I can see how it could work well in relaying words over a larger crowd taking up a bigger space. Used well of course it has a powerful effect in reinforcing messages through repetition.  Yep, more I think about it the more like kindergarten it is, but I don't mean that in a belittling way.

As for the content of debate, well that varied.  I am tempted to sound terribly patronising and say, they'll learn a lot by going through this process, but it sure is a painfully slow one.  What comes through is that film quote I remembered; "we're mad as hell and we're not going to take it".  I haven't heard anyone actually say this but its the flavour of what is going down. 

I have to move on now, inland to try and find the fabled New England 'fall' of leaves turning colour.  I will try and get some time to contact occupyworcester.com and share one or two of my pearls of wisdom: Check out 'UK Uncut' and their direct action techniques against the corporates; and understand that the corporates are global and you should think that way too.  They could also do worse than check out www.EconomicUprising.com  a group with some political thinking behind it on how to deal with the problems and react this extraordinary spontaneous expression of discontent.  And it is extraordinary, for America, what seems to be happening.

Of course the whole 'Occupy' movement started after I arrived.  So I take total credit for it all.  Someone has been reading these blogs and put two and two together.  I wish.

BIKED TO THE WEDDING

So here we are, finally, in Worcester, Massachusetts where my son's wedding takes place in about an hour.  Here he is last night looking quite happy at the prospect.

The deed will take place in around an hour's time in this very hotel from which I am writing.  Its very much at the posh end of what I have been used to in the past 3 weeks; mind given what I am paying for it it bloody well should be.  Its nearly three times the amount I have become accustomed to.  Thanks to whoever I'm not having to pay for the nuptials, I dread to think what they are costing.  As is tradition they are being paid largely by Julie's parents Kevin and Barbara.  A lovely couple at whose house the 'Rehearsal Dinner' was held last night; where I photographed Patrick.  

American tradition, it seems is to have a rehearsal the day before the wedding and then a dinner the Groom pays for (Groom's mother actually I'm afraid I'd draw the line at that).  

And here is where that question to which there is only one answer will be asked:

Did you pack your own suitcase sir?

Looking at those flags I realise I should have got them to fly the Union Flag in honour of us Brits.  My sister arrived an hour ago with her husband, son, daughter, and daughter's boyfriend.  The clans are gathering.  Its a ritual; one of those staging posts in life that most people go through.  Personally I've never seen the attraction and have managed to go nearly 60 years without once getting married.  I did, I must confess, on one occasion ask someone to marry me; about seven or eight years ago.  Not very romantically, granted, but it was genuinely meant.  I thought it might help allay her irrational fears that I would run off with someone else.  She turned me down, probably didn't think I was serious; a common failing people have with me. A few years later she finally got her revenge in first and dumped me over someone wasn't having a relationship with, and still didn't afterwards.  Over the phone and while I was in hospital too.

I know what you're thinking; probably best off  without her, but as I said in an earlier post (18/9) I am, from time to time, still full of unproductive blame.

So lets hope for a happier outcome for Patrick.

For reasons I don't fully understand the wedding is not happening until 6 p.m. so Patrick's sister and I wandered around Worcester from mid morning until mid afternoon.  Its a stunningly hot day again, almost as hot as in was way down south in Louisiana.  We saw a lake on the local map the Hotel supplied so set off in that direction.  After walking by it for 200 yards its shores were then fenced off.  Typically American.  On the beach at Cape Cod I had to studiously ignore the Private Beach signs on my morning walks on the beach; or else they would have been about 2 minutes long.

So after an unproductive tramp for a mile or so we finally reached the riverside park, but it only extended for about half a mile of shoreline, if that.  Then more fences.  Sarah, who is prone to these things, got very stroppy and blamed it all on me for some reason; even though it was her who had seen the lake on the map and suggested we went there.  Women! What are they like.

Then we got a taxi to downtown Worcester.  Downtown is usually the code for any interesting bit of an American town.  Some don't even have an interesting downtown.  Worcester's isn't brilliant but guess what we ran into?  Yep its spreading like wildfire over here although the media, I understand, are not reporting it.

Its that 1% finally getting named and targeted all over.  Worcester is not a big city, you've probably never heard of it, I certainly hadn't until Julie came along, but here they are.  The good citizens of Worcester, saying, as I recall from a film called Network, or some such, 20 odd years ago, "We're mad as hell and we're not going to take it"  The corporates are in the people's sights.

This may look thin, it was, only a dozen people, but it was not the main event.  That happens tomorrow.  This was just a few activists having a try out of the venue.  Bit like a wedding rehearsal I suppose.

On which point if I don't get changed and go my son will never speak to me again. 

More from the main event, tomorrow.

LIFE

Ins and outs, ups and downs, swings and roundabouts (called a rotary here), rough with the smooth;  yes there are any number of clichés that can be applied to life.  And the last couple of days, coming to, and staying on, Cape Cod, have been such a cliché.

Stu and Jan assured me their friend’s house had functioning Wi-Fi; it hasn’t.  But even before I discovered that, the greatest tragedy of the trip (so far) was revealed.  I am nearing the realisation of the URL of this blog; that is it is nearly time for the wedding, it’s on Saturday.  So this entailed a completely different pack of my motorcycle’s luggage than on my first excursion.

You may recall the disaster of finding at lunchtime on that first trip’s first day that one of the side panniers had not been secured properly and had rested on the exhaust pipe for 3 hours baking my bag of electrics and toasting the netbook battery to, well, toast.

For this trip I have to take all the posh clothes, suit and a white jacket, so I carefully re-thought how to fit stuff in so that it was not so crowded the suit got badly crumpled.  This left 2 pairs of shoes over and they were carefully placed in the damaged pannier with the leather pair, soles down, over the hole to insulate from the heat.  Then I realised my wash bag was still not packed so I carefully placed it next to the shoes.  When I arrived it had shifted and was toasted too.  My portable electric razor was nothing but a twisted mass of plastic. I have had it for the best part of 40 years.  When my far more expensive Philishave gave up after 15 years I dug it out of the bathroom cupboard, cleaned the rust off the terminals and she fired up and gave me, I realised, an even better shave than I had become accustomed to.  Works (worked) on re-chargeable batteries that lasted a couple of months each time and it’ll never grace my chin again.  Truly distraught.  Being the heaviest object in the wash bag it had gravitated to the hole and, it turned out, not much else was damaged.  Manufactured in the days when they built things to last, I have an electric whisk at home that I remember my mother using, so that must be 50, and it still works perfectly.  I’m sure I’ll never find another as good.  So I had to buy some disposable razors; but it’s so long since I used one of those I am extremely nervous I’ll cut myself and turn up at the wedding with plasters all over my face.

Still Cape Cod is very pretty, if a little chilly today.  Fell asleep rather early after drowning my sorrows and woke at 6.  So I went for a wonderful early morning stroll on the beach where I took this photograph of birds feeding on the littoral; dashing out as the waves retreated and scampering back as they came in.  

Then the camera stopped working properly.  It’s developed the same kind of fault as the old one;  it doesn’t want to work outdoors but seems fine indoors.  What a bizarre puzzle.  So I am afraid no pictures of the rest of my day here.  I think it may be batteries as I brought the underpowered ones as spares, in error.

The main objective today was, as highly recommended by Stu and Jan, to go out whale watching.  I managed to find a café with Wi-Fi and contacted Stu and Jan to ask which of the two boats I’d found leaflets for was the best.  The answer came with the hope that I’d enjoyed the waves crashing on the shore during my early morning walk.  Well since the swell had been about 3 inches I replied thus.  Oh dear, came the response, the wind must have been in the wrong direction.

When I arrived at the boat station it transpired that the wind was in the wrong direction there too.  All trips were cancelled due to 6 - 8 foot waves.  One of Cape Cod’s little mysteries I suppose too weak one minute and too strong the next.  Although in fairness wind can change a lot in 4 hours.

I asked one of the boatmen where the best place I might see them from land was and followed that suggestion.  Nothing to be seen there, but a conversation with a local fisherman produced a classic: “Oh well the boatmen from that town would recommend here.  No, no if you want to see the whales the best place is Race Point, at the other end of the Cape”. So off I went in that direction.  The upshot of all this was a grand tour of most of Cape Cod; and no whales.  Still Cape Cod is very pretty.

What I did get at Race Point was a guided tour of a re-constructed life-saving station.  Ironically it had originally been constructed, in 1898; in the town I had visited first to try and spot whales, Chatham.   About 5 or 6 years ago the station had been bought back from a private owner by the US Coastguard, broken into two sections, and floated up the coast about 30 miles to Race Point.  By the late C19th the seaward coast of the Cape had become a notorious graveyard for ships heading to Boston, some 50 miles north, and a whole series of 20 odd of these stations had been set up to rescue unfortunate shipwrecked sailors.  This one was the only extant one left and is being restored to, as far as they can, its particular condition in 1902.  Why 1902?  I forgot to ask; but the volunteer coastguard/interpreters were very particular that it wasn’t a mish-mash of old artefacts associated with these rescue stations, but was specific to the equipment and condition of 1902.  I think maybe they’d found an inventory for that particular station in that particular year.

Getting into this house was a pantomime.  I was told there was a code for the door so I pushed the code on the keyboard at the bottom of the steps, rushed up the steps to open the door, and it was still locked.  This was repeated half a dozen times until I pushed another button on the keyboard and the whole thing fell off the wall to reveal a key, hidden behind it.  Ahh.

The other irritation, apart from the non-functioning Wi-Fi, which Jan put down to her friend not paying his telephone bill, is the kitchen sink.  I have searched the kitchen high and low and can find neither a plug, nor a plastic bowl.  How are you supposed to do the washing up?

As I wait for repairs to the Blue Monster to be completed; an extra day in Washington. First the monstrous, truly a monstrous pick-up truck, has to be returned.  Virtually brand new it towers over most other vehicles, even most other pick-ups, as it cruises along.  I found the radio tuned to the local Caribbean station so I have been skanking my way around.  It did its job for me.

Then to the Museum of American History, one of the collection of half a dozen, free entry museums, provided by the Smithsonian Institute and distributed along the Mall.  The State is neatly laid out here with Capitol Hill, where both houses of Congress - Senate and Representatives - meets, at one end.  Due west along the Mall all these Museums sit.  Then the Washington Memorial, and at right angles moving north is the lead up to the White House, the line from Capitol Hill continues through the Washington Memorial to the Lincoln Memorial.  You will have seen some pictures if you have been a regular follower of these notes, from 3 weeks ago when I first arrived.

The Museum of American History ended up annoying me.  All museums are, or should be sites of learning and appreciation.  I did learn some more about the American Civil War; in particular the legacy of bitterness it all left.  Understandable when half a million people died.  Britain's (England's) Civil War was, after all 350 years ago and was fought over pre-enlightenment issues.  America's was different.

I had always puzzled why the Confederate symbols still have such a resonance.  They feature in Britain mostly,I guess, through the influence of contemporary American musicians.  Having spent some time in the South these past weeks it was clear that they still have a powerful meaning.  Stickers with the Confederate flag abound, as do flags themselves; outside houses, on cars, and so on.

The museum's display helped me to understand why a resentment had built up over the outcome of the war; essentially because the victors exacted tribute and imposed harsh reparations.  Abraham Lincoln, who had just been re-elected President as the war came to its conclusion, had a clear vision of reconciliation as the route forward to recover from the deep traumas.  Unfortunately, as every skoolboy knoo, he got shot within a few months of re-election.  His Vice-President was not of the same vision or strength of character and allowed 'hawks' to dominate.  Resentment and division have multiplied thereafter.

As far as I can tell, though, this has no resonance in the two party system.  Lincoln was a Republican.  Both parties were divided during the Civil War.

One deeply disconcerting aspect of this outcome was the continued slavery, often by another name, that resulted.  I have seen a three exhibitions now: the Freedom Riders in Nashville, the Race exhibition in New Orleans and exhibits yesterday, which all slightly appal me.  I grew up in a racist enough environment to need to fundamentally address my prejudices in adulthood; but the fact that blacks in America were still legally discriminated against and treated like sub-humans when I was already 12 years old is quite disturbing.

Obviously America is now trying to come to terms with its past.  What is chilling is how recent that past is in respect of race.  There's a mighty long road still to travel.

What annoyed me was the museum's treatment of 'America at War' from the mid-C20th.

I looked here and I looked there but could I find anything about the Russian front in their section on WW2?No I could not.  OK they were not directly involved, although Stu reminded me last night that they were certainly involved in supplying goods from before they were at war themselves.  But this omission makes complete nonsense of the next section: the Cold War.  How can you possibly understand the nature of the post war Soviet Empire without understanding where it came from?  Bonkers; and a really serious scholarly error. Thus is ideological indoctrination created.

Then we had Vietnam; and the slight failure to mention that they lost.  Here I met a sweet interpretation woman on whom I vented my spleen.  She accepted the WW2 point, equivocated on Vietnam and was downright hostile to the suggestion that they were also losing in Iraq and Afghanistan.  Give it 10 years I said and you'll agree.  We then fell into a mutual admiration society for each other's TV.  ANOTHER American whose never seen The Wire!!  (Doc Martin by the way??  Americans, what are they like)

And finally we had the hymn to 9/11.  Girders from the twin towers and bits of glass from Saddam's Palace. Plus an entirely un-commented account of Bin Laden's extra-judicial execution.  Never in my life has the urge to graffiti a museum exhibition been so strong.

Bush is a war criminal, Obama a murderer!  Who says so?  Your own chief prosecutor at the Nuremburg Trials.  That's who.

So the weather has broken back to the mild and sunny, the Blue Monster is back on the road, and its off I go to Cape Cod tomorrow.  Just one whole day there, so Stu tells me whale watching is the best use of it.

He also tells me he has just been listening to public radio, on the school run, where the author, Michael Lewis, was talking about his latest book,'Touring the New Third World'.

A startling vingnette: the average, I'll say that again, the average current salary of a Greek railway worker (of course its a nationalised industry still) is 65,000 Euros a year.  Its a job for life.  OK they may well engage the 'trickle down' theory by spending it in the local economy; but no-one else pays their taxes.  In fact a Greek tax collector Michael quotes says, "If I do my job properly I'll get fired"  No wonder we have a crisis.  Corrupt politicians, irresponsible bankers.  I don't blame the average Greek railway worker here; far from it.  If you can get that whack that easily you're going to take it and 65K, though very pleasant, is not making you super-rich.

But a system that has allowed such mindless indulgence, all to enrich that elite 1%, deserves to be brought crashing to the ground.

I gather the 'Occupy Wall Street' movement is currently gaining some national traction.

CAN DO

I'll say something about the attitude of American business, it is can do. Far from there being 'nothing doing', because it was Sunday, I made real progress. Having spoken to Avner, the guy who sold me the bike, and whose friend, Brian, wants to buy it from me when I am done with it, I called, at Aver's suggestion,  the improbably but delightfully named 'Beamers Uber Alles' (beamers being a slang for BMW) repair shop. George, the proprietor, a BMW trained mechanic who set up on his own 18 months ago, guessed it was an electrical component called a 'hall relay'. First big surprise was that he was at work on a Sunday.

I swopped the rental car for a pick-up - no problem sir, second big surprise - and loaded the blue monster from the yard of the towing company, bill $290, and took the bike out to George who put the computer on it and confirmed his suspicion that it was the 'hall relay'.

I then emailed Brian to offer to half the costs of the repair and he has agreed.  So a delay until Weds but then off to Cape Cod.  All that remains is to see if my insurance covers some, if not all, of the cost of the breakdown towing charge.  It may.  And tomorrow I have to return the pick-up.  It seems my friend Stu will be able to take me out on Tues to the repair shop to collect the repaired monster, so I should be back at his house Tuesday evening with a repaired bike ready to set off for Massachusettes on Weds morning.

The problem was 100% rain related, the bike worked fine today, indeed George said it may well go on working fine so long as it doesn't get soaked again.  But better to fix the problem. Which is what we are going to do.

In the meantime Stu's partner, Jan the journalist, tells me that the Republicans are still in total disarray over a credible candidate to challenge Oh Bummer.  Despite all the horrific attitudes the current leading Republican candidates expound there are, actually, a serious core of Republicans who recognise that those front runners are truly barmy.  But a lack of a credible alternative screws them quite badly.  So Bummer creeps through the middle.  Put your bets on now.  It seems the Republican's best candidate is keeping his powder dry for 2016 when there will be no sitting President to oppose.

Just where the Declining Empire will be in 2016 is another matter.

Stu and I have a conversation about where all the money has gone.  He recently was with an Indian (thats the sub continent not native American) friend who detailed how India's economic surge is confined to the top 1% who re-cycle the money amongst themselves.  The same is true in America; 1% gets the cream and the rest of them can go hang.  The Tory government in Britain is headed the same way.  The bail out of Greece and so on is a bail out of bankers not the people of those countries. 

We concluded that our children face a difficult prospect.

Look at it this way.  My generation, those born, roughly, between 1945 and 1965; we ate all the pies.  We had the luck to profit from a brief real flowering of western capitalism.  Now you have to ask, as Stu and I did, where all the money has gone.  To that 1% of course.  Many of my generation are middling OK but the 1% are the new masters of the universe

The real sting in the tail is that we will just about manage without too much discomfort; although typically we are not part of the 1%.  Not only did we eat all the pies but, as we will live a lot longer than previous generations, and, by and large we are quite politically engaged and active, as opposed to young people today who are disillusioned; we will probably have a big say in running the pie factory for the next 20 years.  Talk about having your cake and eating it.  Don't ya just love democracy!

As I have tried hard to tell those I have met on my travels, this will end in tears.  And the collapse could come like a whirlwind; much quicker than we might imagine.

I am concerned about what faces my children, Stu his.  Less than a week to Patrick's wedding and how can I wish him and Julie anything but the best, but I can only look on all of this with trepidation.

Typically capitalism goes in long but clear cycles.  We are now in the gradual but inevitable phase of a slump.  Typically there is only one way out.  War.  That has always been the pattern. 

But who will fight who?  I have, tentatively, suggested that it may be a new civil war.  Between the 1% and whoever they can buy; and the rest of us. But again, typically, we have always found an external enemy to project onto our grief and hatred; anger which should properly be focused on those amongst us who put us into this terrible mess.  The 1%.

All of this was played out in frighteningly similar ways in the 1930's and 40's.  Result was a series of wars in which around 60 to 70 million of our fellow human beings perished.

That's why I have to repeat the words and the warnings of a poet of those times:

Dark Times

In the dark times                               

Will there also be singing?

Yes there will also be singing

About the dark times.

Now you might just say I am being critical to no avail.  Its all very well pointing out the injustices of the world but its not going to make any difference.  Well I shall leave you tonight, dear reader, with another poem.

The Critical Attitude

The critical attitude

Strikes many people as unfruitful.

That is because they find the State

Impervious to their criticism

But what is being called here an unfruitful attitude

Is merely a feeble attitude.  Give criticism arms

And States can be demolished by it.

Channelling a river

Grafting a fruit tree

Educating a person

Transforming a State

These are instances of fruitful criticism

And at the same time

Instances of art.

Unfortunately the Blue Monster came to a shuddering halt this afternoon 30 miles short of my friends house in Rockville, near Washington. An hour of driving through the rain was too much for it. Fear not dear readers I am in perfectly good shape, rescued by a County Police patrol and a towing company. Though for 15 shivering minutes on the cusp of a turn-off the Interstate I did wonder where and how my day would end.  Guess I was reasonably luck to grind to a halt there, rather than a stretch of desolate motorway where nobody takes a blind bit of notice of a stranded biker.  And lucky again that the cop turned up what in fact was very quickly after the forced stop.  Sometimes, on the motorway/Interstate, you are really glad to see the boys in blue.  As promised I have avoided them in all other respects since the Natchez Trace incident.

Both the cop who stopped for me and the tow truck driver were most helpful and friendly; although, naturally, the latter of the two was being paid.  Ultimately by me. 

Plastic solves everything financial and, though I somewhat dread the bills when I return to Blighty, its only money.  Ha Ha.

I suspect an electrical malfunction, after taking it to the towing company's yard it re-started, though it also failed again a minute later.  Tomorrow is Sunday so we can expect no progress then.  Monday will see attempts to assess the real nature of the problem.

Not too good a day all in all.  First the weather has suddenly changed for the colder and I had to put on all my upper body clothes when I set off from the fairly godforsaken Johnson City.  Discovering as I did so, that a t-shirt is hiding in some hotel/motel back on my path through America.  It was the tattiest of them, but that was scant consolation at 9 a.m. when I needed all the layers I could lay my hands on.  Then my meeting with Amy, Linda and Hall, the Crazy Baker, went pear shaped as they had not received the messages I left about what time I was arriving.  More technically savvy folk than I will know instantly why I made a glorious cock up of the arrangements but from my standpoint I could not understand it.  

I received email notifications of Facebook messages from Amy and Linda about today's arrangements, and replied to those emails with a suggested time for a rendezvous.  But they never got through.  I have, for a long time, loathed Facebook as it always goes wrong and behaves in ways I do not understand.  It seems that email notifications of messages are not something you can reply to, although why I don't understand. Email is simple.  It works.  Its discrete, no-one else can see it.  Why anybody uses Facebook messaging is totally beyond me when emails were set up for just the purpose of passing instant private messages to one another. The thing is I can never get Facebook messages to work simply, the process always seems so cumbersome.  I expect that Mr Luddite had a similar problem a few years back.

So I had taken a 150 mile detour to no avail, having endured cold so bad I had to activate the bike's handgrip warmers, and then it started raining on the approaches to Washington and the ignition failed.  What a day.

At midnight, my hosts here in Washington have still not returned from an evening out with friends that arranged itself at short notice.  Maybe they're staying the night there?  Maybe it will stop raining tomorrow? Maybe I'll give up the romantic dream of biking to the wedding and stick with the lovely smooth hire car I now have?  Maybe maybe maybe.

Lincoln was not there in person at the Brewery Bar last night but had left a whole pile of leaflets with the bar staff in case I came in.  Suggesting all the roads I should travel on.  All of them back the way I had come and I just can't go backwards now.  Got talking with some people at the bar who turned out to be mother, daughter and daughter's boyfriend -Ellen, Ashley and Jake.  To my astonishment they had never heard of 'The Wire' which I have realised played its part in bringing me over here.  Were it not for its skillful and complex portrayal of Americans I might have stayed stuck with a negative stereotype of them.  Mind you some Americans are doing their level best to reinforce those stereotypes.  On the back of a pick-up truck today was a notice stating that the 'Founders of America created a Christian country (Not a Muslim one)'  Not only pig ignorant of the facts, the country was specifically founded on the basis of religious freedom and tolerance, but happily displaying that ignorance to all and sundry.

Sitting next to the mother of the group, we just started talking about politics and I had expressed the opinion that the Republicans were all, by and large, barking mad when she told me that she was one.  I was keen to follow this up and maybe, finally, have that elusive conversation with someone prepared to defend the US.  However I need to go to the 'bathroom' and when I returned they'd left.  They'd left me a note with their names and 'Bye. Nice to meet you! Enjoy!  There went the first opportunity; straight through my fingers.

Took non-Interstate roads eastwards for a hundred and fifty or so miles:

ONLY IN AMERICA (Should have taken this from dead in front; its an upside down house)

EASILY CAPPED BY THE TITANIC 400 yds DOWN THE ROAD

Don't you just love that little fountain playing on the bow

Again I went past houses varying from the palatial to the quite poverty stricken.  At least 3 if not 4 'Yard Sales' spotted as I motored by.  These appear to be people putting their possessions out in front of their house in the hope somebody will buy some of them.

Ellen from last night, the mother who probably scribbled the note, had been 'let go' about 3 or 4 months ago from her real estate job.  In receipt of some kind of benefits, I didn't quite follow the details, she epitomised the contradictory nature of what I have found here.  She was firmly optimistic about the future in the face of all the objective evidence that its grim.  Its a real shame, for me, that I wasn't able to spend more time teasing out those contradictions.  Mind you they were out to enjoy themselves and by the sound of the ingredients of the Tennessee 'tea' they were drinking, at least 4 different spirits in it, I don't suppose in depth political discussion was topmost on their agenda.  Probably why they made a sharp exit.

Tomorrow I meet Amy, Linda and Hall for a lunchtime reunion.  Remember the 'Crazy Baker'?  Then its back to base at Stu and Jan's in Washington DC.  Good news is that their friend with a cottage on Cape Cod has resurfaced and it looks like I'll be able to stay there in the days leading up to the wedding.  Its only about 120 miles from the wedding venue in Worcester Mass.

Some reflection perhaps then, over the weekend.  I am a bit tired of motel/hotel hopping.  Not as weary as my plastic is; but that's another story and my business entirely.

MOTORCYCLE HEAVEN PART II

What a nice day riding through the Smoky Mountains.  Sheer pleasure.  Again those winding roads through communities, and then up into the woods and around Nantahala Lake.

Before leaving Franklin though I came upon this piece of direct consumer action.  One unhappy farmer:

Just in case its not clear that is a junked Mahindra tractor.  On the left hand side s/he has written, 'less than 300 hours'.

I made an error thinking I'd missed a photo of Nantahala lake and stopped at a track where a sign advertised 'Best views of the lake and mountains'.  It was a tad too stony for me to feel safe taking the blue monster down it so I walked.  And walked, and walked until I eventually nearly got there, hot and bothered, and took this view:

 

It turned out the sign I had seen was in fact marketing for real estate. A whole pile of plots are available for sale.  Stake out your escape house in the lakes and mountains.  Because I was still wearing my hi-viz jerkin an estate agent lady stopped her massive pick-up truck to talk as she imagined I was some kind or worker and she wanted to make sure the track was clear ahead.  When she realised I was not a slave she immediately tried to sell me a plot.  They start at $135,000.  Then you've got to build a house. I gather the really rich Americans are buying up nice bits of New Zealand for when the ordure hits the air displacement machinery.

Best part of an hour later, ok I got some exercise but it wasn't a very exciting walk, I returned to the bike and 5 minutes down the road it descended to the lakeside and I could have taken the photo there.

Then on along great riding roads until I hit Highway 19 which travelled alongside a river whose name I cannot find. (Both Bing Maps and Google Earth seem to think no-one's interested in the names of rivers).  Much white water rafting activity and the Great Smoky Mountains Railroad running alongside.  Obviously a big tourist attraction but they didn't have a steam locomotive like we would have back home.  That would have made it real cute.  Notice the americanisms starting to creep in; oh dear.

Road on one side of the river, railroad on the other.

Here's the cheap seats:

Plenty of other riders around, these roads are clearly a Mecca for bikers.  None more so than the 'Tail of the Dragon' an incredibly twisty 318 curves in 11 miles.   Got my feet with the cornering, which means I got my feet scraping the tarmac as I leant left and right.  Not only were there scores of other bikes around, I'd guess I saw the best part of 100 other machines, but at 4 or 5 strategic locations with especially tight turns and a place to park, photographers were camped out photographing everyone going past.  Or at least photographing the ones who were trying a bit, like me.  There is a nominal 30 mph limit but unlike the Natchez Trace no hint of enforcement.  I suspect there'd be a riot if they tried it.  Both main types of bikers in abundance.  Touring types, like me, on touring machines including the ubiquitous Harley Davidsons (pimp bikes I've decided); and the flashy speed machines with names like Fireblade and Phaser with go-faster exhausts right up underneath the back of the seat.  Extremely worrying for any passengers I would have thought, but then none of them had passengers.

Towards the end this view of the lake whose hillsides we had traversed:

That's the dam on the right hand side, forming the lake.  This was at a viewpoint where a dozen or so, almost, but not quite exclusively, males riders had stopped; though all the women there were pillion passengers.  I think, but cannot be certain, that one female rider flashed past me during the day.

I am now in Knoxville where I am headed downtown to see if I can catch up with a bit of a character I met at the Tourist info shop.  Name of Lincoln, he's owned several BMWs and extolled Knoxville's music scene.  We shall see.  He recommended I tried to stay close to Downtown, at this cheap hotel where, somewhat bizzarely, two women knocked on my door 15 minutes after I had checked in to ask if I wanted some company; oh and could I lend the younger prettier one $5 to get some gas. Taxi into town, but its not too far.  Better make my escape quick.

On the way out of Atlanta, Georgia; or Phallusville as I have re-named it, I saw a sign for an art exhibition: 'From Picasso to Warhol'.   I wondered if I had missed something but then I thought; probably not.

The panhandlers were at it again this morning.  Stopped for a quick check of the map en route to breakfast and I was immediately 'befriended' by a highly plausible guy who took me completely out of my way, meaning I missed getting any breakfast, and then he gave me the pitch.  He got short shrift.

Atlanta is a soulless city of high rises which attempt to outdo one another in vertical ornamentation.  Sheraton outdoes Hilton, AT&T's tower competes with Ernst and Young.  Its a massive game of whose got the biggest dick. That Le Courbusier's got a lot to answer for.  And the consequence of all this vertical development is that the ground space is at a premium for, you guessed it, cars.  Parking lots parking lots, nothing but parking lots.  All with their dire warnings of booting (clamping) and tow away charges for any infringement.

Apart from the Biergarten meal last night Atlanta has almost nothing to recommend it.   Though the Martin Luther King Jr heritage site, whilst not an 'attraction' in its own right, did contain the 'Campesino Cafe' which was part of a nice market.  The kind you'd go to 'cause the people were nice and the fruit and vegetables were properly laid out.  So having been diverted earlier I finally got breakfast of a cup of tea and a burrito at about 11.30.

I made my way up to Franklin, North Carolina, in the Smoky Mountains.

Little Tennessee River, Franklin

Welcome to small town America.  I went out for something to eat at 8.10 in the evening, and everything was closed.  After tramping nearly 2 miles I endured a moderately disgusting meal at 'Phats' just off the interstate.  Everything here revolves around cars too.

I wouldn't have minded but I'd already had a walk, alongside the 'Little Tennessee River' that runs through Franklin.  Then I'd had a beer and assumed I'd find some food nearby.  Not so.

In fact several things are oddly disturbing about Franklin.  I arrived in town only to be stopped by a female police officer who I thought was simply directing traffic. No, she had a phoned in report of a possible drunk driver, me.  I laughed, actually, and assured her not a drop had passed my lips.  Were you weaving between lanes? she asked.  No, not especially I replied, just going with the flow of traffic; as I usually do.  Finding your rules on speed confusing but otherwise doing as others do.  She smiled and let me go having made no attempt whatsoever to ascertain whether I had, in fact, been drinking.  She seemed to simply take my word for it.

Having checked in I then wandered along the river pictured.  A very manicured country walk the path ends abruptly but obviously used to continue as beyond the single wire fence there is a flat iron bridge over a stream.  Then undergrowth.  Returning to the blue monster by way of some insubstantial bird watching I am reading the noticeboard of the country walk, just scanning the list of local sex offenders published there, when I hear a helicopter and turn the binoculars on it.  Its a police helicopter I deduce.  They deduce some stranger dude looking at them with binoculars and procede to circle me for the next 5 minutes as I get onto the bike and ride back to my motel.  A bit disturbing, have they really nothing better to do?  The damn thing was out again in the evening.

Recalling debates back home about the Northumbria Police's helicopters and their cost of around £1m each; which has led to the force downgrading to one machine.  I wonder what on earth they need one for here.  This is the middle of nowhere, as it were, I cannot believe the crime rate justifies anything so draconian as ariel surveillance.  Then I remember that much of the modern day psyche of Americans' day to day experience is fear.  If you keep telling people they are under threat, that they live in a dangerous world, that the monster around the corner is going to eat you; then people react by being afraid, suspicious and looking for the unusual, the out of the ordinary, to cast their paranoia upon.  But what it must cost them, money that could be channelled into far more constructive socially useful activities; education for deviant males might, just, be a little more productive than sticking their mugshots up on noticeboards.

Anyway I had some proper motorcycling on the way to Franklin, off the interstates (motorways basically) and onto some proper twisty roads.  Past small hamlets, farms, the ubiquitous wooden shack homes that I have seen now in every part of my trip.  Motorcycle Roads USA, a website, promises some great driving today, as I begin to come to the end of this section of the trip.  Back to DC at the weekend before heading toward the wedding.

I am up early today.  Got caught out on the time zones in Atlanta, thinking it was high time for bed at 12.15 a.m when it was in fact 1.15 a.m.  So after all that walking yesterday I was early to bed.  The mist has been burned off by the sun, my digestive system has just about sloughed off last nights meal.  Time for a spot of breakfast and then the long and winding road.