Down the dangerous Mushlin Drive gravel road to the dirt road, on the dirt road to the 45 mph asphalt road to Hartland, onto 91, which on its Vermont section is one of the few freeways, that deserves being marked on the road map as a scenic route. In addition to the beautiful scenery, there are a few places on this stretch, where large patches of blood indicate there was a deer meeting an untimely end. Or a maybe a moose, which a sign warns about.
Moments after I stop to check if yesterday's exhaust fix worked, fellow motorcyclist Alison pulls over to see if I need a tow.
This is perfect, and it goes on being perfect until a state trooper in Massachusetts pulls me over. Ok, so they have a helmet law here. He’s not exactly friendly, cares none about my doctor’s statement, and doesn’t think that a foreign-reg’d bike can legally be ridden here. But the rules allow for a month of this, I say. “What rules?” he barks back. Well, the ones allowing Americans to drive on Canadian roads and vice versa. After saying for the fourth time he could get a tow truck to get me off the road, eventually he trusts that I am right, and sends me off with a warning. Fine, I didn’t get fined this time either, so I'm not upset with the guy at all. But I do feel sorry for the next Canadian he's going to stop.
Soon I’m on Rt. 15 and the Merritt Parkway, a road I drove a lot on when living here in the 1980’s. Built during The Depression in the 1930’s as a public works project, it is devoid of truck traffic, goes like a smooth roller coaster, and has no less than 72 unique bridges. All but one of the traffic jams are on the northbound side, though once across the state line to NYC it becomes less charming, and traffic gets much denser.
And then I enter New York City, smiling from ear to ear. This is MY CITY! I’M BACK!! Within 10 miles and half an hour on horrible road surfaces, I almost get sideswiped twice (and later, in the evening, a cabbie bumps the trailer), so just like way back then, traffic here can politely be described as ‘brutal’. But NYC roads & traffic are familiar territory, so I could care less, as I’m driving down the FDR to The Lower East Side, aiming for the motorcycle shop ‘6th Street Specials’ on – yes – East 6th Street. I went by there when the trip started, and said I’d be back in a few months on an MZ.
The iPhone camera lies. It was bloody dense right there.
This moment marks the official end of my trip from Los Angeles to New York. Sure, I am going uptown to where I used to live on The Upper West Side, and tomorrow I’ll ride to the swap meet in Rhinebeck, but I cannot think of a more proper place to use these words of a former US president: "I did not have sex with that woman" "mission accomplished". Hugh and Fumi, the guys running the shop, greet me and we chat away for some hours while they’re working, and kids on large motocross bikes do 11 o’clock wheelies riding by. A Japanese customer with a Norton Commando sets up a meeting with a Slovakian photographer friend in Queens, to come and takes pics of me and the bike.
500 cc Triumph being loudly prepared for a race in upstate New York.
Fumi at the entrance to the dungeons below the regular workshop.
I eat dinner with my old friend Julie down here, then Peter the Queens photographer shows up on a Royal Enfield, at the same time as does resident kiwi Sean – also an old friend, who also lived in Denmark once. Then I pose on the MZ like I’ve never posed before, we walk around here in Sean’s neighbourhood for a while, and say our goodbyes. Now just a quick ride uptown on busy streets, to 110th and Broadway. I’m home.
Blocking traffic at 8th and 42nd Street.
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