USA Four Corners Tour

Summer Holiday, July 2009.  In 17 days, I rode 11,110 miles from my home near Washington, D.C., to the four corners of the USA.  My official USA Four Corners Tour ("Tour") occupied 15 of these days, and 8,760 of these miles:

A participant has 21 days to complete the Tour, which is enough time for a rider to stop and smell the roses along the way.  But I had to hustle due to lack of time.  This is the story of my Tour.

1. Florida or bust.

I decided to look around a few national parks and national historic sites along my route.  Today's stops were at Manassas (VA), the Appomattox Court House (VA), and Guilford (NC).

Appomattox Court House.  I always believed that "our nation was reunited" in the Appomattox Court House when Robert E. Lee surrendered to Ulysses S. Grant in 1865.  Even the National Park Service website refers to ". . . Lee's surrender at Appomattox Court House . . ."  Not quite.  I learned that Lee surrendered to Grant inside the McLean home:

One guide is pointing out the nearby Court House to other confused visitors.  The other (seated, dressed as a Union soldier) is showing early signs of heat exhaustion.

In the parlor of the McLean home, Gen'l Lee surrendered at the small desk on the right, and General Grant accepted Lee's surrender at the white desk:

The Court House is now the visitor center for the site:

With my Court House misconception cleared up, I paused for an all-you-can-eat Mexican buffet, $6, at a local strip mall.  The effort of digestion made for a sleepy afternoon.  But I managed to get to my last park of the day, Guilford, 10 minutes before closing.  Looking out from the visitor center to a wooded area, I could see dark silhouettes of rifle-toting revolutionaries frozen in mid-stride, charging at the British.  The British won this one.

American Recovery and Reinvestment.  Down the road in Jacksonville, Florida, I got my first look at some of the highway re-construction going on just about everywhere: no less a highway than I-95 south was closed for the night.  Travelers detoured several miles west on I-10, then doubled back to I-95.

Jax, Florida.  I put up for the night at a $60 La Quinta Inn.  They let me park my bike outside the reception area:

2. Key West, my first corner.

Avoiding Miami area traffic on the way to the Keys is a challenge.  I chose the Florida Turnpike over I-95 south, only to be slowed for five $1 toll payments, in addition to the first $5.70 toll.  Finally south of Miami traffic, I paused to enjoy a reasonably priced and delicious fish sandwich at Gusto's in Florida City:

Florida City is a jumping off point for the Florida Keys.  A "jumping off point" means a place where motels are significantly cheaper than in the actual destination.  I checked in at the Travelodge at 3 p.m.  The owner sold me a $89 room adjacent to the pool for as little as $65, indicating this was a special favor, even though the shower only ran "lukewarm" instead of hot in that room:

I should have checked before I stepped in the shower the next morning, because "lukewarm" is a vague term.  In Florida, their cold water apparently can be described as "lukewarm."

Anyway, I dropped my bike's side bags in the Travelodge, and headed down the gorgeous Overseas Highway to my first corner, Key West.  (If you ever head this way, plan ahead to ride the glass-bottomed boat out to the coral reefs at John Pennekamp State Park on a sunny day; check out the beaches at Bahia Honda State Park; and feed fish to wild pelicans and tarpon at Robbie's Pier behind the Hungry Tarpon Restaurant.)

Proceeding west, I turned my head when I could to look for the unique and endangered Key deer.  I finally glimpsed one, about the size of a 50-pound dog, nibbling at shrubs.  (I saw deer of similar size in the Texas desert west of San Antonio, where food may be just as scarce.)

Key West, Florida.  Finally at Key West, I prepared one of the crucial items of evidence for the Tour, a photo of my bike before the post office, showing the name of the location.  My Tour officially begins now, at this corner:

Next, I wanted a picture with me in it, for the album.  There was a student hanging around at this corner for the bus.  You can never count on the picture-taking skills of strangers.  It was clear to me that the kid had my Nikon pointed too high and down the road as he prepared to click, but he would not stop:

Then it was back to the Travelodge in Florida City at 11:15 p.m. for the night.  As I recall, it took three and a half hours to drive from there to Key West in afternoon traffic, and just three hours to get back in the late evening.

3. South Florida to Louisiana.

I had a couple of options.  I could return to Jacksonville, and then "hammer it" west to San Diego in 50 hours or less to bag an IBA 50CC coast-to-coast title.  But I was already a little behind schedule on this Tour, so I skipped the 50CC idea.  As it turns out, I would not have made it to San Diego in 50 hours unless I had better luck in Baton Rouge.

Big Cypress National Preserve.  Route 41 follows the Tamiami Canal across the Florida Everglades from Miami to Naples.  The canal narrows from 100+ feet at the Miami end, to a foot-wide drain near Naples.  Here it is next to Route 41 at the visitor center for the Big Cypress National Preserve, halfway between Miami and Naples:

Florida Highway Sights.  I saw some strange things on Florida highways: the boat that fell off its trailer to block one lane of the highway to the Florida Keys; the man in business attire who parked his pickup next to Route 41 to fish in the Tamiami Canal; and the lone driver who stood by his vehicle as it steamed in the breakdown lane of I-10 in a failed attempt to tow a heavy F-86 Sabrejet fighter with folded wings.

Slidell, Louisiana.  I had no luck getting a room for the night in Mississippi along I-10.  Either the highway sign pointed to lodging that I could not find, or a hotel was full because this was a weekend day, and there were casinos around.  Finally, I got into a Motel 6 in Slidell, a "jumping off point" for New Orleans, at the eastern end of the I-12 bypass around the metro area.  Will they allow a couple of hours beyond the scheduled check out time, because my check in is so late?  "No, our rates are low enough as it is."  The $48 room was barely large enough to accommodate a double bed and some basic furniture:

4. Busted flat in Baton Rouge.

Road Rage.  The bike was humming along as I approached the Mississippi River bridge in Baton Rouge, Louisiana.  I was weaving around in my own lane, but this did not sit well with a woman driver to my right who may have thought I was going to strike her purty sedan with my polycarbonate side bag.  She honked, grimaced, cursed, brought her right hand around to the window, and made a vicious stabbing motion from front to back with her middle finger.  Then she sped away.

It was Louisiana voodoo; no doll needed.  Just 10 miles later, I felt the air go out of the bike's rear tire.  I pulled over to the breakdown lane of I-10.  Because the bike was low as its rear end sat on the wheel rim, I could neither get the side stand down nor would I be able to lift the bike on to its center stand.  But I could reach into my pocket where my cell phone was, to call 911.  I sat on the bike and roasted in the hot afternoon sun wearing my riding suit, waiting for the tow.

Fortunately, there was a BMW motorcycle dealer in Baton Rouge (Hebert Cycles) not yet shut down for the weekend, and they even had a tire in stock that would fit my bike.  The incident cost me about three hours, $150 for the tow, and $283.89 for a new Metzeler Z6 tire and labor to install it.  Hebert had a very personable service technician work on my bike:

Misgivings.  I needed a break to think things over.  Should I should forget the Tour and head for home?  I called home.  "How did you control the bike when the tire blew?"  "It's not rocket science," I replied.  Indeed it was not: the bike with a rear flat just rode along turning higher revs in a lower gear, in the I-10 breakdown lane.  But there was that bothersome smell.  I understand things are different when a front tire goes.

Mulate's.  Then, after consuming some fried alligator tail, gumbo, and rice at this well-known watering hole (pr. Moo-laats) in Breaux Bridge, Louisiana, I decided to continue my Tour:

Hurricane Gustav severely damaged Mulate's in Breaux Bridge.  The tow truck operator back in Baton Rouge lamented that the press ignored the tremendous damage from Gustav.  "They were only interested to see if the levees in New Orleans would hold; when they held, the press just left."  Mulate's roof had to be replaced, and their bar reconstructed:

No more may patrons tack their business cards to Mulate's ceiling.  "The fire department does not allow that with the new roof," explained the waitress.  "We're just lucky we were able to reopen."  Everything else is the same as I remember it from before Gustav, like the center stage for the chanka-chank Acadian band.  And yes, you scoop rice into the gumbo as you eat.

Enter Texas.  Eight hundred and eighty miles across!  I worried about the evening traffic in Houston, Texas, but there was only a 15-minute delay from one accident this weekend.  Then came the long overnight haul through San Antonio and the Texas desert.

Catnapping.  I chose catnap over coffee, which works on this stretch because of dry weather and clean picnic benches in rest areas.  The padding in my riding suit works like a mattress, and my helmet stays on to make a fine pillow.  With all the coverage, there is little skin showing to insects and rattlesnakes.

Van Horn, Texas.  I pulled into the $36.16 Sands Motel in Van Horn, Texas, at 10 a.m., in time to enjoy a Mexican buffet lunch at their restaurant and an afternoon nap.  The generous receptionist handed me new batteries when I said I needed some for my voice memo recorder.  I learned that Tommy Lee Jones filmed several scenes from "The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada" at the Sands.  Nice motel.  Best value for money on the Tour.  Great staff.  Good food.  Blue, sunny sky.  Though a rail track ran just behind the motel, I heard nothing, no sir.  Too bad I couldn't stay a while.

5. Across the desert to my second corner.

With daytime temperatures near 108 degrees in the desert, I needed to ride from Van Horn to San Diego at night to avoid heatstroke.  But the distance takes longer to cover than a short summer night.  So I headed west from the Sands Motel in the late afternoon.  The higher altitudes in New Mexico, such as around 6,000 feet at the Continental Divide, combined with occasional thunderstorms to keep the air cool.  It was another story down the road in Arizona and California, with night temperatures near 100 degrees.

Every twenty-minute catnap returned another couple of hours of alert riding.  Here is a super Arizona rest area, with plenty of clean spots to catch a nap in full riding gear:

The heat intensified on the approach to the mountains east of San Diego.  A road sign here calls on drivers to turn off air conditioners to prevent engine overheating.  It cooled off suddenly at a high point in the hills, and then it stayed cool all the way down the other side.  Even so, I needed to stop and walk around for about 30 minutes a couple of times, before I finally limped into the Budget Inn Motel in El Cajon, $54, at 6:18 a.m.

I got away with a mild headache and equally temporary stomach problems.  This is why some recommend doing the Tour in an X pattern in summer.  The X ride adds only about a thousand miles to the Tour, and it avoids the hot summer ride along the south.

San Ysidro, California.  That afternoon, I got my second corner of the Tour:

Then, I wandered around San Diego's historic Old Town (which I consider a more interesting place to visit than the highly touted Gaslamp Quarter):

There's an old church nearby:

And a marketplace:

A reliable colleague in D.C. who grew up in San Diego had warned me that the Casa Bandini restaurant there closed its doors some years ago.  That was my favorite restaurant.  Fortunately, she could recommend an alternative, a place her parents frequented for more than 30 years:

Workers inside prepare tortillas in plain view of passers-by on the street.  I started with the $12 Chicken Mole (pr. moe-lay).

No regrets here: their mole sauce excels.  But the $4 Chocolate Taco came up short on chocolate.

6. Pacific Coast Highway north to Monterey, California.

The morning traffic around the outskirts of San Diego and Los Angeles just does not impress a rider familiar with D.C. tie ups.  A few slow spots, and I'm set on I-5 north of L.A.  I took Route 166 west across orchards, the California Aqueduct, barren hills, down into the hot Cayuma Valley, more farms, and then up and over another set of hills to the cool coast.

Pacific Coast Highway.  Time to point the bike north, up the Pacific Coast Highway:

Piedras Blancas.  There's a beach near the turn-off for Hearst Castle where people gather to watch elephant seals and birds gather.  In the lower right corner, there are a couple of elephant seals fighting for the same piece of California real estate:

A closer look at the elephant seals:

And the birds off to the right:

I checked into the Knights Inn Motel in Monterey at 5:17 p.m.  The $89 stay was the most expensive of my Tour:

Then I went into town.  Cool, misty Monterey seemed like a magical place to linger.  Here's a view to the wharf:

Monterey was the sardine capital of the world.  They processed, cooked, and canned sardines in the buildings along the water, and sent cans back and forth along overhead conveyer bridges to warehouses on the other side of the street:

Not any more.  Today, Cannery Row is all about restaurants and bars.  I washed down an unremarkable "fish & chips" ($12) and a "calamari fritti" ($9) with a ginger ale ($2.75) at Bullwackers:

There are numerous restaurants around town.  From the number of cars in their large parking lot, I conclude that you'll be lucky to find a seat at this popular Mexican restaurant:

For those who prefer seafood:

7. Half Moon Bay, Skyline Drive, and Sunnyvale.

Without waiting for the Monterey Bay Aquarium to open for the day, I took the scenic route north from Monterey along the Pacific coast to Half Moon Bay (a California State Park):

From Half Moon Bay, I turned back to the south along Skyline Drive to Saratoga, and from there to Sunnyvale.  Skyline Drive runs along a ridge, and offers great views to either side.  Here's a view to the west from a scenic pullout located a couple of miles south of Alice's Restaurant:

On the other side of the road at this pullout, a walking trail leads to even better views east to Silicon Valley, and the Bay:

But after I'd already ordered lunch there, the Alice's Restaurant on Skyline Drive turned out not to be the one mentioned by Arlo Guthrie in his song "Alice's Restaurant":

The waitress disclosed that the “real” Alice’s is in Massachusetts.  I should have known, because the real Skyline Drive is in Virginia.

In Sunnyvale, I met up with Romin and Lakshman, two old friends who made their careers in Silicon Valley:

Lakshman treated me to a fabulous dinner at the Dish Dash in Sunnyvale:

I moved on to Fairfield after dinner, to avoid the morning traffic in Silicon Valley.  Why Fairfield? Because my trip research identified Fairfield as a "jumping off point" for Napa Valley.  I got into this $60 Best Value Inn:

8. Napa Valley, Redwood Park, and north to Portland, Oregon.

Napa Valley.  I turned into the driveway for the Charles Krug Winery, and looked back across rows of vines to the Culinary Institute of America (the other "CIA"):

Talk about a food and wine pairing.  This winery has a rose bush at each line of vines:

After a breakfast of two eggs, sunny side up, I moved on from St. Helena.  Geyserville, at the north end of Napa, seemed utterly without character.

Redwood Park.  I walked among these tall "cousins" of the Giant Sequoia:

The little sunlight that makes it through casts a red glow on this forest trail:

Tsunami Danger.  The coastal road goes up and down along the hillsides next to the ocean.  Every time the road begins to dip close to sea level, there is a sign posted: "Entering tsunami danger zone."  A corresponding exit sign appears when the road starts to climb again.

Salmon Jerky.  I had to stop at this seaside shack with "Salmon Jerky" painted on its side.  None of the jerky or hundred-odd wood carvings in the shack had a price tag on it.  I should have turned away right then.  The lady sold five varieties of salmon: one-day smoked; five-day smoked; five-day smoked with garlic; candied; and jerky.  If you asked about one, she quoted a price around $50 per pound.  As she spoke, she cut off a bite-sized portion, put it on a scale, and announced, "But this piece here is only $2.86."  Overcome with relief, I was out $8 in bite-sized portions in a few seconds.  The young Asian couple who wandered in next were out $10 before they knew it.

Portland, Oregon.  Route 199 from Crescent City to Grant's Pass runs through wooded hills and follows a river.  It has the "sweeping turns" motorcyclists desire, particularly in the stretches closer to Crescent City:

I-5 from Grant's Pass to Portland is scenic for an interstate highway, with great climbs and descents combined with even more sweeping turns.  I did most of I-5 here at night, finally pulling into a Motel 6 in Tigard, south of Portland.

Fort Vancouver, Washington.  Today is a rest day.  After taking care of my laundry, I crossed the Columbia River to Washington state for a look at Fort Vancouver:

The fort's blacksmith was headed off on his break, but he very graciously reentered his den to pose for a photo:

These privies from back in the day are similar to their metal counterparts in some navy ships:

Later, I enjoyed a wonderful evening with three old buddies and their wives:

Ashwani put some terrific Thai food and exotic Oregon wine on the table.  A couple of years ago, the gray-haired gentleman on the right took up mountain climbing in the Cascades.  Tonight, he is just off a flight from India, where he scaled a 20,000-foot peak in the Himalayas.  His teenage son on the same climb was forced to turn back at 18,000 feet due to oxygen deprivation.  And I thought the Tour was something.

9. My third corner, and the North Cascades.

Oil Change.  It's been a few miles, so I dropped in at South Sound BMW in Fife, Washington, for an oil change and a safety check.  A hundred dollars later, I set out with advice from salesman Stephen Swap to prefer Route 20 over Route 2 and I-90 on my way home, and to stop and eat at "The Duck" in the town of Winthrop.  Though Route 2 holds out the promise of Washington's wine country, and Route 20 does not, that's a lesser consideration to a person who cannot drink and then ride a motorcycle.

Blaine, Washington.  But first, the third corner of my Tour, at the Canada border south of Vancouver:

Washington Route 20.  Scenic Route 20 east from I-5 runs along the emerald waters of the Skagit River, a color I associate with glacial runoff.  Road elevations exceed 5,000 feet in North Cascades National Park:

Sure, there is snow in July:

Lake Diablo sits upstream of a hydroelectric facility that juices up Seattle:

It gets drier as I progress eastward.  Dinner is a BBQ Duck Quesadilla that packs a generous amount of duck breast for $11.50, washed down with a $1.50 coffee, at The Duck Brand in the western-themed town of Winthrop:

Okanogan, Washington.  Tonight's $50 stop begins at 9:07 p.m. at the Ponderosa Motor Lodge in Okanogan, a pleasant facility run by a family relocated from Punjab and California.  The owner/receptionist invited me to join his family for supper.

10. Grand Coulee Dam to Sheridan, Wyoming.

Grand Coulee Dam.  This enormous dam across the Columbia River is yet another monumental achievement that dates to the FDR era.  I was too early to catch a guided tour.  But I learned that "Coulee Dam" and "Electric City" are the names of nearby towns.  The dam is called the "Grand Coulee Dam."  It's a mile long and contains some 22 million tons of concrete.  This is the downstream side:

The Columbia River flows away from Grand Coulee Dam:

The ride east on I-90 from Spokane, Washington, went around and across a huge lake in Coeur d'Alene, Idaho.  After an ordinary sandwich in Superior, Montana, served by a local barkeep who wished to become a registered nurse in Georgia, I continued east across Montana.  I-90 continued to follow rivers, such as the Yellowstone and the Clark Fork; I-90 is hidden behind the trees to the left in this picture:

Grant-Kohrs Ranch.  I could not collect my official park stamp because there was something going on at the Grant-Kohrs Ranch, everyone was out back, and the visitor center was closed:

Surviving the Little Bighorn.  Throughout my Tour, I encountered strong winds from all directions when under the edge of a storm cloud.  It's smoother under the cloud and in the rain.  My heavy bike generally tracks a straight line on the highway through gusts and alongside trucks.  But tonight is different.  It's lonely as I pass Crow Agency, Montana, where Sitting Bull took out Custer in 1876.  Suddenly, the most powerful gust I have ever encountered blows the bike clear across two lanes of interstate highway.  The gusts continue for several miles.  But I find that it is possible to confine the bike to one lane with a very high level of alertness, so I continue for a while.

Sheridan, Wyoming.  I finally pull into the Bramble Motel, $55, at 10:48 p.m.  The receptionist got a maintenance man to pull a stuck key out of my door lock, and then to cut into the trim underneath the door to let it close.  The room was nice enough.  Here's the reception area:

I should mention that a gentleman appeared from the vicinity of these bushes as I awaited the maintenance man.  With the odor of alcohol heavy upon his breath, he waved generally down the road and announced, "I'm from thee truck stop."  Then he demanded to know, "Did you pay fifty dollars for the room?  More?  Less?  Tell me."  Concerned for the motel receptionist, I declined to answer.

11. Devils Tower, the Black Hills, and the Badlands.

The handgrip heaters on the bike were handy on the short and chilly morning ride from Sheridan to Gillette, where I joined a group of flies for breakfast at Granny's Kitchen:

As I ate, the waitress stood up on the chair across the table from me to change an overhead light bulb.

Back on the road, I note that out West, it seems one shares the interstate with the occasional pedestrian and cyclist.  This cannot be unlawful because there are detour signs addressed to them.

Devil's Tower.  Devil's Tower looks more impressive approaching from the north.  This is the view from the south, not as good:

Here I am at the foot of the tower (many thanks to the Japanese tourist who pulled off this photo on my film camera):

You will need to obtain a permit to climb above the boulder field.  Also, if you look carefully, there is a blue prayer flag tied to a lower branch of the pine tree that extends into the top right edge of the picture.  None of the many prayer flags in the area is to be disturbed.

Black Hills.  I concluded from a 2002 trip to Mt. Rushmore that South Dakota attractions are better visited at the beginning of a road trip and not at the end.  I recalled paying $8 for an aerial ride to a distant view of Mt. Rushmore that wasn't worth half as much.  This time, I made a left turn at the sign for the unfinished Crazy Horse Memorial, to be met with a "No U-Turn" sign followed by a (surprise!) $10 toll gate.  When I said I had no cash, the collector offered to halve the toll to $5.  When I confirmed the lack of cash, he allowed a u-turn.  Fine.  The Black Hills appear to be a reduced version of the Great Smoky Mountains, but enhanced by towns like Hill City and Custer that evoke the Old West.  The towns of Deadman and Lead do not impress a through-rider as much.  Perhaps one needs to linger and probe.

Badlands National Park.  The park service seems resigned to the eventuality that the Badlands will completely erode into flatlands in the next million years.  There are numerous paths and trails in the park, and visitors may clamber up and down the formations with abandon:

Try that on a hoodoo in Bryce Canyon.  The next picture is of the yellow mounds area in the Badlands:

I ventured out on Sage Creek Rim Road at the west end of Badlands Park, but quickly changed my mind: the road surface is unpaved, and my off-pavement experience limited:

Fairmont, Minnesota.  I pulled into a $38.47 room at the Budget Inn in Fairmont, Minnesota, at 1:08 a.m.  I got what I paid for: a less-than-basic shower stall with no place to put the soap, and a room air conditioner that went on and off through the night, waking me up with each on/off cycle.

12. Across farms, around Chicago, and into Canada.

I decided to take the short cut through Canada to my last corner in Madawaska, Maine.  At 2:17 a.m., I paid the $1.50 toll to cross the lovely Blue Water Bridge from Port Huron, Michigan, to Canada.  Handed my passport, the border guard approved entry into Canada in less than a minute.  Down the highway, I stopped for the night at a CDN65 Travelodge in London, Ontario:

13. Along Canada's Main Street to Riviere Du Loop, Quebec.

Sure, the highways through Canada look like a short cut to Madawaska, Maine.  But the route runs by the metro areas of Toronto, Kingston, Montreal, and Quebec City.  The traffic, construction, accidents, and long lines at service plazas all combined to make it slow and tiresome going.

Ontario is great to visit, but perhaps not to stay.  I saw these license plates on a resident's truck:

French.  It seems all of Canada other than the province of Quebec has bilingual road signs.  The moment one enters that province, it's all French.  Dense French words in lengthy French sentences on electronic and other signboards, without any international symbols.  For example, you should know whether the flagman at the construction (travaux)  is asking traffic to stop (arret), or just slow down (lentement).  You may have better luck than I did with the detour instructions for Route 20 through Montreal.

Magic Gloves.  I took the next exit ramp to attend to some personal business.  I pulled over to the grassy edge of the road, next to an inviting wooded area.  But when I put my right foot down into the grass, it just kept on going.  The heavy bike began to keel over, I jumped off, and it fell.  With the bike down on its side in the grass, I hailed a passing semi truck.  A young blond woman driver, about five nine, and of medium build, got out of the truck.  All she said was, "Let me get my gloves."  Then she grabbed the handlebars, and easily helped me raise the 630-plus pounds.  Here is the bike, raised, with my helmet and gloves visible in the grass:

I returned from the woods to the left of the picture to discover a leech-like creature clinging to one glove, and a cracked front turn indicator on the drop side.

Riviere Du Loop.  Tired, I pulled over into Riviere Du Loop around 3 a.m. looking for a motel.  There were a few signs for major chain motels as I got closer to downtown, but I had no luck locating them in three circuits around town.  There was nobody around to ask.  Then, I took a wrong turn, and suddenly this haven appeared:

The reception was closed at this hour, but there was a very young man embracing a beer at the subtly lit bar, and a forty-ish barwoman dressed elegantly in a French manner.  She had a chain link pattern tattooed across her chest.  Bob Marley crooned "stir it up" over the speakers, and the young man suddenly screamed, "Steer it up!"

The barwoman discounted the CDN90 room rate to CDN70 because I was alone.  She spoke no English, but her patron showed me to the door of a vacant room, apologizing that "my English is not very well."  It turned out to be a suite and the best room I had on the entire trip.  But Riviere Du Loop is not the place to try and get a good long sleep.  The adjacent St. Lawrence River is a major shipping route, and foghorns blared every few seconds in the early morning.

14. Madawaska, Maine, my last corner.

It's about 60 miles from Riviere Du Loop to Edmunston, the town across the Madawaska River from Maine.  But don't expect good road signs there directing you to the USA border.  I was told to look for the bank building with the green roof, and the sign to the border just after that.  "It's a wicked big building; you cannot miss it!"  Well, "big" is another vague term.  An almost-hidden sign directed a left turn to the "United States / E.U." at a low-slung building with a green roof.  The turn took me into what may have been the bank's parking lot.  A right turn out of the other end of the lot put me on a steel deck bridge across the Madawaska River, and to a choice of two Customs & Border Protection (CBP) booths.

Border Inspection.  Perhaps incredulous that I repeatedly answered "No" when asked if I had purchased anything other than gas, food, and motel stays in Canada, two CBP officers went through my saddle bags, top case, tank bag, under-seat storage, and glove compartment.  The BMW tire repair kit drew sustained attention:

I don't know how to use the kit, and I'll guess you don't either.

Done with their inspection, one CBP officer gave me directions to his favorite local lunch spot on the way out of Madawaska (I said I was hungry), and the other wished me a safe journey home and returned my passport.

Hungry, I set out for lunch and home.  Ten miles later, I remembered the Tour.  Time to return to Madawaska for the paperwork.

A woman drove up to the post office.  I asked if she would be so kind to take my photo with my bike in front of the post office.  "Four Corners?  We do this all the time," she said.  After a lengthy delay during which she moved around, checking the Nikon's viewfinder again and again to ensure the best composition, she delivered too much pavement:

I have other evidence of my visit to Madawaska, which includes this brilliant composition by Joe Lachance, President of the Madawaska town park dedicated to the Tour:

President Lachance just happened along in his white van.  Here he is, giving the thumbs-up with my bike:

There are gray and red stone plates in the foreground that also run to the right in the picture above Joe's.  Once SCMA certifies my Tour, I can have a $200 red stone plate with my name engraved on it placed at the park, just like the one for Joe.  The Usatin duo who founded the Tour have a larger $400 stone:

A father placed his son's ashes at the four corners of the park's fountain, after the son died in a tragedy just days before the two were to depart on their Tour:

"Most people speak French here; I understand it, but can't speak it," said the waitress at Rosette's, the restaurant recommended by the CBP officer:

After a decent salmon salad, I moved on.

Moose Alert.  I missed the left turn for Route 11 in Fort Kent, west of Madawaska.  A few miles out, I stopped at a local business to ask for directions to Route 11.  "You cannot go that way at night!  There's lots of moose on that road.  If you hit a moose on a bike, you will die!  It's a big animal."  Apparently, Route 1 has no fewer moose.  But "if you hammer it down Route 11 you can get to I-95 before it gets dark."

Affordable Homes.  The Madawaska River flows with the road out of Madawaska, followed by the Penobscot River and its rapids alongside scenic Route 11.  Small single family homes in the area run in the $30-$60,000 range.  Winter?  "It's just snow," anticipated a gas station attendant who relocated from Florida to Madawaska earlier in the summer.

Bangor Thai.  After dinner at a Thai shack in downtown Bangor, where the co-owner engaged me for an hour in conversation about Obama's policies, the poor local economy, the poor treatment of women generally, relocation to Mississippi, and tourism in Thailand, I necessarily declined her invitation to stay on for tomorrow's Bangor State Fair.

Southington, Connecticut.  The weather is the best tonight.  I-95 runs for just seven miles through New Hampshire, but they collect a disproportionate toll.  Two cups of coffee get me across Massachusetts, through Hartford, and into the Motel 6 in Southington, Connecticut.  This is the only motel on the entire trip where the receptionist takes something off the rate because my check in is so late.  "I felt so bad for you I took six dollars off," she explained.

15. Around New York City and back home.

After breakfast at the adjacent Denny's, I headed for home.  But "it ain't over till it's over."  In Madawaska, President Lachance had pointed out a red stone engraved in memory of a Tour finisher who died in an accident on the way home from his final corner, barely 30 miles from his house.  I chose to avoid the New York City metro area, going wide via the Tappan Zee Bridge, only to run smack into heavy rain and traffic backups along I-78.

After the Tour.  Now that I'm done, I can get on with my life.  And though the USA feels just as great, it seems somehow smaller in size, and manageable.  Here's my official Tour recap, with the phone numbers erased:

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