Editorial
----
10-06-05
Jack’s
Kamikaze Vacation
Stories
You Won’t Hear
On The Travel Channel
 After weeks of anticipation, the time
had finally arrived for Kimberly and
me to travel to Virginia for the 4th
Annual Blast From The Past at
the ACCA Shriner’s Ballroom in
Richmond. We were particularly pumped
up since
Short Cross, Loose
Gravel, and the
Barracudas were all playing. In addition
to the “Blast”, I would
be extending my vacation on the back
of my Harley. I know enough about myself
to realize that I had planned too many
things to do on this trip, so I was
prepared to be flexible and eliminate
side trips if time became a crucial
factor.
 I hadn’t even left the house
before I had to pull the “be
flexible” card out and throw
it into play. My intention was to leave
the evening of Thursday the 18th and
arrive sometime on the morning of the
19th. I was so tired after the work
week that I decided to forgo the evening
trip
in
exchange for a decent
night’s sleep. So, early on Friday
the 19th I left with my Harley all
packed, intending to take a leisurely
jaunt up the 301 into Richmond. Kimberly
and Kelsey were to do the trip up interstate
95.
As I chugged along Highway 50, I started
doing the calculations in my head as
to time of arrival and realized I was
already running late, so I had better
make up some time and head up 75N for
a while. Once on 75 North, I pulled
into a rest stop and gave Kimberly’s
cell phone a ring. “Where are
you?” she asked. I told her,
and it turned out she was right behind
me, approaching the same rest area.
So we decided to travel up the 75,
across the 10, and up the 95 together.
Somewhere near the 10 East exit there
was a sign saying “Major Road
Construction Ahead. Expect Delays”.
At the next rest stop Kimberly suggested
that we avoid that and slide over onto
the 301 and take it to the 10. This
side trip would take us through the
nationally famous Florida speed trap
town of Waldo. That thought made me
groan. There is nothing like a speed
trap to kill the thought of “making
up time”. I thought on it some
more and figured since it was my vacation,
why not just enjoy the trip. With that
thought in mind we bypassed the Major
Construction Zone and headed up the
301 at a wary pace. As it turns out,
since Waldo had become so prosperous
by handing out fines for speeding,
the other two towns (one before Waldo,
and the other one after) decided to
hop on the bandwagon and “Strictly
Enforce” speed zones, thereby
making the trip a bit more cautious
than I had anticipated. When you ride
on a motorcycle you are alone and there
is no talking going on so I had time
to contemplate the speed trap issue
as I observed the little towns we went
through. In a way, I don’t blame
the town of Waldo or the other two
towns for “Strictly Enforcing” the
speed limits. People these days are
nuts and without these officers enforcing
the law, the aforementioned towns would
be down right dangerous to live in.
So I can’t fault them for wanting
to protect their citizens from harm.
Speed traps aside, serendipity set
in and we did a turn-around and visited
a Native American Cultural Center staffed
by a woman whom happens to be, along
with her husband, a Harley owner. So
we got the first class tour around
the cultural center, art exhibits and
the gift shop. I suppose we spent about
an hour there. Betty, the lady that
runs the place said, they actually
have Cherokee language lessons there.
They also have a blind Medicine Man
who teaches about the meanings and
spirituality of medicine bags and also
blesses them. He was not there that
day as he was having a treatment for
cancer at the hospital. By this time
my back was beginning to show signs
of getting sore so I asked Betty if
she by any chance, might be a Physical
Therapist? She said, “No”.
Oh well, it doesn’t hurt to ask.
So, if anyone would be interested in
visiting the place, they are: Silver
Lining Trading Post and Cultural Center
19859 US Highway 301 N, Starke FL 32091
(904) 964-5448 ask for Betty if calling.
After the extended stop, we decided
to put the hammer down and really make
up for lost time. The trip was uneventful
until we stopped for gas in NC sometime
after nightfall. As we were getting
back on the 95N I looked into the rearview
mirror back in the direction of where
Kimberly’s car was supposed to
be and saw two vehicles collide, sparks
flying. As it was dark by this time
I wasn’t able to tell who was
involved. So I pulled over and so did
the vehicles in question. By this time
I was really starting to freak out
because I figured if it wasn’t
Kimberly they wouldn’t have pulled
over right behind me. Turned out that
Kimberly saw it all taking place and
stopped before she became involved.
It seems, this guy was being towed
by his wife and they were just using
a tow chain without a tow bar. When
she let up and he didn’t…well
they collided. Thanks for the scare,
buddy.
 We got into Richmond around 1:30am
on Saturday morning just in time to
catch some sleep and get ready for
the Blast FromThe
Past. Dan and I designed
some shirts for the “Blast” and
they are available on the site in our
Springerwear
Collection. We have got
some designs going on and we are getting
together a series of “retro” Highland
Springs designs. You know, places and
things that aren’t around anymore
but still have great memories associated
with them. Check
`em out.
Saturday night rolled around and we
eased into the ACCA Ballroom for the
big show. After finding our seats and
making nice with everybody we settled
back to watch Loose
Gravel open the
show. Without a doubt, the boys were
amped and hit the stage with a bang.
Firing off with a great rendition of “Black
is Black” , they never looked
back from there. The crowed started
dancing and from that point on there
was never a clear spot on the dance
floor. Not to be out done by Loose
Gravel, The
Barracudas opened their set
with “Ticket
to Ride.” It
was really cool to see their pictorial
history from Mike Parker’s DVD
playing on the screen in the background.
With the bar being set higher by Loose
Gravel and the 'Cudas,
Short Cross came
on and “lit
it on fire” with “Ramblin’ Gamblin’ Man”,
with their own pictorial history playing
on the large screen behind them. By
this time, I was loving life and grooving
to the great performances by all of
our Springer Bands. Are we lucky or
what to have such talent around?
But
wait, there’s more to the Blast
story. Just when I thought it couldn'’t
get any better, ALL THREE bands got
on stage and begin the finale JAM.
And just
to freak
out the audience even more, Dan Zodun
got up to the mike and belted out a
couple of tunes. I had forgotten the
old boy used to sing back in the day.
He was actually good and he even hit
a couple of notes I thought were probably
out of his range. The crowd stayed
and partied to the end. Even the loss
of the auditorium Air Conditioning
(due to a telephone pole being hit
down the road) wasn’t enough
to dampen the experience or slow down
the dancers. Jay Crouch, Class of ’73,
looked like a drowned rat by nights
end, but he had a ball like the rest
of the crowd.
Sunday was rest-up time. I went to
see my new (8 months old) granddaughter.
She did not like me at all. She’d
pucker up and cry at the terrifying
site of the big bearded fat man trying
to hold her. It got so bad all I had
to do was look at her and she would
burst out crying. People have since
told me that beards frighten babies
who are not used to
them. I just think she is smart beyond
her years and, like most women, just
doesn’t like me.
 After the “baby crying” visit,
we slipped over to Wally Denton’s
and had a nice visit. My back was still
showing signs of the long trip, so
I asked Wally’s wife Vivian if
perhaps she was a Physical Therapist,
to which she replied “No”.
Most of you know that Wally is the
semi-official Springer Connection photographer.
Thanks Wally, for all you do.
Monday morning Kimberly set out for
home and I set out for Alfred, New
York, where my son Ian is attending
college.
I decided that before leaving Richmond
I would check out the rumor
I heard
from
Steve Shiflett as to the location of
the original Sailor
Bob. Off I go in search
of Sailor Bob. In
a short while, I ended up at the driveway
of the rumored “last sighting” of
one Mr. “Sailor Bob” Griggs.
As I stood in the lobby of this business
establishment, I started feeling kind
of weird. What
if it was only a place he had worked
at before and no one knew his whereabouts
now? What if he was reclusive and left
instructions for no one to bother him?
What if they laughed at me for being
a 50-something weirdo looking for a
childhood icon? I mean, come to think
of it, there I was with a full beard,
dressed in my motorcycle clothes and
riding a fully packed Harley, showing
up at this business babbling about
wanting to find Sailor Bob.
I patiently waited for the right moment
to ask someone where I might locate
Mr. Bob Griggs. My chance came soon
enough when I caught the eye of a very
nice lady in business attire coming
down the steps to the upper offices. “Excuse
me”, I said. “I was wondering
if you might know where I can get in
touch with Mr. Bob Griggs? I want to
thank him for teaching us to draw on
TV years ago and being an inspiration
for becoming an artist”.
The lady looked at me and smiled. “Well,” she
said. “You may just be in luck.
He is not usually here as he is retired,
but he pops in on occasion. It just
so happens that he is here today”.
I could not believe my ears. (Frankly,
I had been very nervous asking her
about him because everyone in the band
Short Cross assured Dan that Sailor
Bob had passed away years ago.) So,
she went back upstairs and proceeded
to track down Mr. Bob Griggs. I waited
nervously as several people joined
in on the hunt to locate Sailor Bob
in the building.
My patience was rewarded as non-other
than Sailor Bob (sans sailor suit)
came down the stairs with a big smile
on his face. We shook hands several
times as I told him about our careers
as artists. I told him how we came
to start the Springer Connection and
how people were submitting photos they
had taken with Sailor Bob as kids.
After I was done slobbering over him,
he said that the least he could do
for me was to draw me a picture.
There I stood, feeling like a little
kid
again as Sailor Bob drew me a picture
of himself, Gilley Gull, and Mr.
Blue Bird. He told me I could contact
his
son, who handles all of the Sailor
Bob copyrighted materials, and explore
the possibility of making some Sailor
Bob shirts available on the web site.
With the song “Road Hog, Beep,
Beep” rattling around in my head,
I mounted my faithful steed and took
my drawing downtown and put it safely
into the hands of Mr. Zodun as I feared
it would be damaged on a bike trip.
Dan and I had lunch at Bottoms Up Pizza
in Shockoe Bottom, where we talked
about all of the fun we had over the
last few days. We saw “Springerstock” take
place, Dan sang onstage, I met my new
granddaughter and then, there I was
shaking hands with Sailor Bob. We had
"lived the dream", so to speak, that
weekend.
Dan wished me luck on my trip. He
headed back to work and I headed off
up Broad Street all the way to Charlottesville.
All in all, it seemed like it was going
to be a nice trip as I had planned
my route up through Maryland and then
onto Highway 15 along the Susquehanna
River.
From Florida, and all the way to Virginia,
it had been blistering hot, so I had
no reason to think I had a need to
be bringing full leathers and chaps
for the ride. As I got through Marysville
Pennsylvania, I began to notice it
was starting to get chilly. It would
turn downright cold as the temperature
dropped down to 46 degrees that evening.
It might not seem like all that cold
until you multiply it by the speed
of the bike along the highway and then
the wind chill factor drops the temperature
dramatically. Add to that the cool
moisture coming off of the Susquehanna
River and we are talking some serious
shivering. Teeth chattering, I pulled
off to the side of the road and covered
my bike with a camouflaged tarp, whipped
out the old sleeping bag and spent
a restless night tossing and turning
as the trucks passed loudly by at about
15 feet away.
Underneath my sleeping bag was a lumpy
asphalt road, an unfinished access
down to the river. This made my back
begin to throb anew. Why can’t
you ever run across a Physical Therapist
when you need one? I woke up cold and
damp from the dew around 4 am realizing
I was no better off than the night
before, as far as the cold goes. In
fact, it was probably colder.
I forced myself to get up about 4:30
am, repacked my bike and headed down
the cold dark road toward an anticipated
sunrise. Fortunately, the highway did
not last
too much longer,
dumping me into the main thoroughfare
of a town where I spied a Wal*Mart.
Thinking hooded sweatshirt and full-fingered
gloves, I parked the bike and headed
in for some warmer clothing. It seems
everyone was surprised at how cold
it had turned overnight. Armed with
a new hooded sweatshirt under my vest
and a pair of full-fingered gloves,
I set out once more for Alfred.
Signs touting a Bluegrass Festival
punctuated my next stop. I figured
since it was Monday, either I had missed
it or it wasn’t going on ‘til
the next weekend. With cup of coffee
in hand, I asked the lady at the gas
station how far New York was from there
and she said it was only about 30-45
minutes away. By this time I was going
over a mountain range (one of many
I was to climb over during my trip)
and the temperature dropped again.
I was very glad to get to the other
side and see my exit for rural Highway
417 West, where I figured I would slow
down to a leisurely pace and check
out some of the Amish countryside and
sneak into Alfred the back way. According
to my map, 417 would take me west to
Highway 21 and then North right into
Alfred. Guess what? The map is actually
wrong and somehow I ended up east of
Alfred instead of going into it. So
I ended up going about an hour or so
out of my way.
All this wasn’t that bad except
that, since I used to make maps in
an earlier lifetime, the thought of
being mislead by an improper map tends
to make my blood pressure rise. Most
people don’t know that maps are
copyrighted pieces of work and oftentimes
a mapmaker will deliberately put in
some incorrect information on a map
in some remote location. They do this
so that if anyone copies a portion
of their map or reprints it without
permission they can prove that the
copied portion belongs to them in court
as it will have the incorrect info
they placed on the original. This is
sort of like a watermark to prove ownership.
(A Cliff Claven fact).
As I was riding along Highway 417
I couldn’t help but notice how
wide the bicycle lanes were on either
side of the road. I kept thinking how
accommodating the highway department
was to put such wide bicycle lanes
on the road. Surely, this was because
there were two colleges nearby and
they probably have some kind of bicycling
teams. I mean after all, the Tour De
France was just over and must be wildly
popular among the student athletes.
Being tired and a bonehead, I failed
to notice the unusual amount of horse
droppings in the bicycle lanes. Not
until a while later did I realize that
this was a major clue as to the real
use of the lanes. As it turns out the
lanes were just wide enough to accommodate
an Amish horse and buggy. This fact
became glaringly clear as I got my
first look at an Amish woman commanding
a horse drawn buggy. This was one of
those “smack yourself in the
head for being a dummy” moments.
 Finally, I made it to Alfred University
and to my Son’s apartment. After
I got a long awaited shower, Ian and
I went out to the store and got the
ingredients for pizzas. Ian assured
me he made the best homemade pizzas
in Alfred. He said his friend Ashleigh
was coming over to assist in the pizza
making which was fine by me since I
was too tired to be making any pizzas.
Ashleigh came over and helped make
8 pizzas. I am here to tell you that
they made some seriously strong chopped
garlic and basil pesto sauce. Whew!
Ian’s friend Ashleigh, was a
soon to be departing Grad Student.
She’s from Seattle and one of
the smartest and sweetest young ladies
I have ever met. She mentioned somewhere
in the conversation that she was in
the medical field so I asked, “…if
she was by any chance a Physical Therapist?’ Her
reply was “No. I am a Medical
Bio Materials Scientist”. Okay,
I take it that is nothing like a Physical
Therapist? Hey! One can only keep trying,
right? As it turns out, I had to sleep
on the floor for the two nights I was
there so you can understand my obsession
with the Physical Therapist search.
 The next day we met Ashleigh the Scientist
and another friend, Emma the Political
Prodigy for a vegetarian sushi lunch.
Afterwards, my younger son Aaron came
down from Niagara Falls to hang out
with Ian and me. Ian took us on the
Grand Tour of the campus and really
surprised me with his knowledge of
all the history of each building and
so forth. As he explained, he used
to get paid by the college administration
for taking people on tours of the campus
and lecturing them on the campus history.
Ian is a Philosophy Major and intends
on continuing his education in the
seminary, which is great, as he loves
talking to people. It seems Ashleigh
could not make the tour, as she had
to bombard some bio materials with
aluminum isotopes. Still doesn’t
sound like physical therapy to me.
We ran
into various professors of Ian’s
everywhere we went and I am proud to
say that they all seemed to have a
genuine affection for him that I do
not see them exhibit towards other
students. Ian, Aaron and I went back
to the abode and scarfed down some
leftover pizza and then went for a
hike up the side of a pretty steep
wooded hill that looked over the valley.
I don’t mind telling you, that
hill made me want for oxygen, as it
was 4,600 ft above sea level. It did
open up to a beautiful meadow overlooking
a valley.
We went back to the apartment and
ate still more pizza (we are
guys, after all). It seems there was
a method to Ian’s madness in
the making of 8 pizzas after all. He
even sent Ashleigh home with one the
night before. Aaron had to depart,
as he preferred to get back to Niagara
Falls before dark so we did our hugging
and said our goodbyes. Ian and I settled
down and did some talking and such
around the TV, all the while monitoring
hurricane Katrina’s whereabouts.
As that point it was just coming off
the coast of Florida and no one was
sure what course it was going to take.
After talking with Kimberly and Ian,
I decided it to be in my best interest
to haul butt for Florida and cut my
trip short by a few days in the interest
of safety.
 I stopped in Williamsport. Pennsylvania
to get something to eat at a McDonald’s
and was impressed with the beauty of
the town. As you probably know, Williamsport
is the home of the Little League World
Series. And the World Series was in
full swing, complete with vendors along
the sides of the road and visitors
wearing t-shirts touting their home
team. On the way up and on the way
back I had people in Pennsylvania come
up and start talking to me out of the
blue. People in New York did not do
this. What a difference a state makes.
Pennsylvania people are just plain
friendlier than New Yorkers. I decided
to stop at the scenic overpass and
take a photo of Williamsport from up
on the mountainside. So here it is,
a beautiful little town with a beautiful
view as seen from above.
At McDonald’s I got into a
conversation with a gentleman whom
I could have sworn was younger than
me and turned out to be 63 years old.
He was very laid back and I connect
this to his appearing so young. He
was there with his uncle who had Alzheimer’s.
His uncle’s wife had become ill
and her son (not his) had talked her
into divorcing him and they had come
to his house and took all the furniture.
This guy was keeping his uncle company
so he wouldn’t do anything crazy
in his dispair. What a shame.
The old guy was 80 years old, just
divorced by his wife and couldn’t
understand why.
I headed out from there and made an
80-85 mph beeline straight for Richmond
and holed up at Jerry and Nancy Howard’s
house for the evening. Jerry and Nancy’s
house is usually my “home away
from home” in Highland Springs.
They never seem to mind too much when
I pop in out of the blue from time
to time. Heck, I’ve been doing
that for probably 15-20 years. And
conversely, Jerry used to do the same
to me. That’s what friends are
for.
The next morning I had coffee with
Jerry and Nancy and as they headed
out to work I headed for the shower
and in a bit I was headed down the
295 South. I made a quick stop in Colonial
Heights and had a visit with Ban, the
lady who printed our original Springer
Connection t-shirts. See how the Springer
Connection just keeps on giving? I
would never have made this friend if
not for the website. It’s like
a domino effect. After a cup of coffee
and some nice conversation I once again
headed south.
Somewhere in NC, I met up with a small
group of Army Rangers on motorcycles
and we rode together until I got off
at Shelton’s Harley Davidson
and bought a pair of jeans on sale.
My intention on getting off there was
not to buy jeans but to give my back
a rest as it was really beginning to
cramp up by this time. As I was checking
out at the dealership, I asked the
ladies there if either of them happened
to be either a Masseuse or a Physical
Therapist. One of them chuckled and
the other one leered at me, making
me uneasy. “Better luck next
time”, replied the chuckler.
By this time my back was hurting so
bad that I had to stop and stretch
it about every 100 miles or the pain
would become excruciating. After getting
back on the freeway an older black
BMW motorcycle, passed me at about
85 miles per hour, with a guy driving
and a woman passenger on the back.
No way was I going to attempt to keep
up with that bike, since I had no windshield
and was positive that the constant
buffeting by the wind was a major cause
of my back pain. So I stuck to my 65
miles per hour.
It was beginning to cloud up and get
dark as I crossed the Georgia state
line. I saw an opportunity to rest
when I saw the Georgia Welcome Center
appear ahead. I stopped and leaned
back on the bike with my legs thrown
up over the handlebars when I noticed
that it was extremely noisy. It seemed
as if the trucks were all throttling
down as they entered Georgia until
they ascertained the presence or lack
thereof of the Georgia Highway Patrol.
The GHP just happen to be generous
with their welcoming of southbound
drivers into their state. To alleviate
this noise I put my earplugs back in
and kicked back for a little rest.
About 10 minutes later I saw that
the same black BMW motorcycle had pulled
into the rest stop. The woman got off
and lay down on the picnic bench and
the guy headed to the restroom. I thought
this to be unusual behavior for a traditional
couple. A man does not ordinarily leave
his woman alone so casually at a rest
stop. I figured their relationship
was of another sort, perhaps making
their story more interesting. Having
always been a people watcher, I can
tell generally who has an interesting
story just by observing their dynamics.
With that in mind, I noticed the male
come back out of the restroom, so I
decided to start my bike up and putt
over to them for some polite conversation
amongst the road weary. “Didn’t
you two pass me about an hour ago”,
I asked. “Yes I believe so”,
said the driver. “I thought I
recognized your bike”, he said.
Well, it turns out that the driver
was the son of the woman on the back
and her other son was just coming back
from Iraq. They were on their way down
to meet him in Daytona. The BMW son
told his Mom she could ride along on
the back if she cared to. She thought
it would be a great adventure to go
by bike instead of plane, so there
she was.
As the conversation went on it led
to the discussion of how the BMW son
had left Detroit and drove to Massachusetts
to pick up his Mom and head to Daytona.
I marveled at how the windshield and
his youth must have made a big difference
in him being able to make such a long
trip, because my age and the lack of
a windshield was torture on my back.
His Mom, Kathy, spoke up and said, “I’m
a Physical Therapist and if you lie
there on that picnic table I think
I can take care of that pain for you”. “You
have got to be kidding me!” I
said. “No, seriously, I’m
an RN Physical Therapist”, she
said “and I think I can help”.
JACKPOT! I leaned against the table
and this short little lady with hands
and fingers of steel, made my back
feel so good that I felt like I had
had a two-hour nap. I thanked her profusely
and we all headed back out onto the
highway. They took off at about 80
mph and I, mindful of Georgia’s
Finest, proceeded on at 65 mph.
It began to rain on me shortly thereafter
and didn’t let up until some
time in Florida. I stopped for a rest
in Lake City Florida, sat on my bike
at a gas station, and watched what
looked like a continuous rerun of the
TV show “Cops”. I can tell
you right now that the police in Lake
City have their hands full. I wouldn’t
live in that town for love nor money.
It was a constant parade of dirt-bags
up and down the road both in cars and
on foot.
I stopped once more at a rest stop
and changed into dry clothes. I arrived
at home about daybreak and was never
so happy to see Kimberly and my own
bed in all my life. I think it will
be a while before I take another “Leisurely
Trip” like this one again.
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