BRAG Day 6
May. 27th, 2002 02:34 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tugrikI woke up stiff and sore. It's not that yesterday had been any harder; heck, it was relaxing in comparison! It's just that I'd been riding from day-start until the afternoon for a full week now, and my body took to grumping at me with stiff wrists and fingers. Surprisingly, my back and posterior were just fine, and they were the parts I thought would get sore first.
Dusty heard the first alarm, and had evidently snooze-whacked it before getting in the shower; he was mostly ready by the time I was prying myself out of bed. Have you ever had one of those mornings before work where you KNOW you'll get in trouble if you don't get in on time, but the majority of your brain says it just doesn't care, and you should roll back over asleep? The truth of it is that if you only get up and get moving, everything will be OK; it's just that initial kick that's so hard. I had a fleeting moment where I was about to go back to sleep, knowing I was to be on my own and Dusty had to take off with the photographers. I knew that was the path to the Dark Side, though, and dragged myself out of bed. It's hard to get dressed when your wrists are locked, but one nice hot shower later and I'd regained some mobility.
I managed to keep up with Dusty to get to breakfast, which he finished quickly so he could gear up to head out with the photo group. Instead of hooking up with other folks, I figured today was the time to try a bit of riding alone and see if I could pick up a solo groove for a change. This is how I normally ride when back at home, actually... while I do happily ride with my ex-roomie![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
reality_fox and Dusty now and then, for the most part I'm on my own. It's just a combination of timing and differences in riding style. I tend to get on the bike to relax and roll through the scenery. When it works, I can get in such a good mood it brings tears to the eyes, which is very weird since I'm one of those people who can't cry about much of anything. When it doesn't, it's still relaxing. If I have to spend mental time either trying to keep up or making sure someone else is keeping up, it turns into a challenge instead of a chill-out. Both are enjoyable, but it's the chill-out that I usually turn to when home. It would be interesting to try it on the trip as well, I figured.
I got packed up at a leisurely pace, and rolled out. My MP3 player died after only 10 minutes; I'd forgotten to recharge it! Drat. Well, with nobody else to schedule by I figured there was no harm in finding a fix. 10 miles away in the town of Oakdale, I found the ubiquitous Radio Shack and purchased a universal DC-to-DC adaptor with the right plug. While this introduced a slight alternator whine, it wasn't very noticable and was preferably to just hearing the drone of the 2-cylinder engine all day. I really like it when the music matches the terrain.
Okay, time for a diversion that I've been thinking about how to write the whole trip. I could possibly make it a journal entry unto itself, but it's a bit fuzzy for that. It's music that I'm talking about here. Much of my life flows with tunes and rhythms, and I've integrated various ways to play music into most every aspect of my life. About the only place I don't listen to my tunes is at work, as I don't like the isolation of earphones while working with others, and I don't want to disrupt others' workdays with my choice of music played aloud.
Music while motorcycling comes in two main flavors: rhythm-fill, and mood-fill. The former is when I just want an audible pacing to my travels; trance, instrumental, lighter techno and even house music can fit this bill. Anything with a constant thrumm and longer playtime will help me fall into pace, and roll on smoothly and safely. The latter can be any type of music at all -- where the mood of the music is reflected in how I feel about my surroundings. This is real hit-or-miss, as it's not safe to change songs while actually riding. Poor selections are just kind of waited through, while ones that fit brings a sweetness that's over all too quick for my liking as the track plays out.
I'd loaded a smattering of tunes on the two microdrives I've got for the e.Digital MP3 player; about 5 hours of tunes each. While this meant that I'd hear the same song quite a few times during this trip, they are spaced out far enough it wasn't a hassle. Some of the images from this trip that will stick so strongly in my mind are those that matched up with the music the most.
2_gryphon, your music inspires. I have a handful of your compositions in the rotation, and I was repeatedly impressed with just how well they worked with some parts of my journey. I'll always remember riding through the mists burning off the road near Mojave, between storms, seemingly gliding through clouds while listening to Dragon. It was if I myself were a creature of flight, drifting between pondering rains and shafts of sunlight. Charging through the golden valley north of King's Canyon like a four-footer running, laughing... boyant through the grasses, with Coyena putting the bounce in my step. These are parts of the memories that will follow me through life. I applaud your skill with a happy heart.
I'll table the rest of these thoughts for now. Most all of the music-meets-the-road moments that worked are definately of the 'you had to be there' variety. Those of you who know how to get in the groove already know what I mean. To the rest, I truely hope you find it in the future.
Music re-powered, I put a bit of twist to my hold on the handlebars, and rocketed off through the easy sweepers of Highway 108. Just before it joined up with 49, I saw two of our riders off in the shoulder. I stopped to ask if all was okay and found out that one of them had shredded a tire. It was beyond the 'patch it' level, by far... he needed to be picked up. They were just out of cel range too, so one of them was about to drive off to get signal for a call to the chase truck. I tossed over the Globalstar phone, and let them call in. The driver was a mere 20 miles up-road in Jamestown, and said he could be there soon. Sweet! They thanked me for the phone-use, and sent me on my way with assurances they'd be just fine. I rolled through Jamestown, and on through Sonora.
Just past Sonora was the first 'optional' roadway of the day: Sheep Ranch Road. One glimpse at the turnoff had me sold. Like the road of my cornering epiphany of two days prior, it was a single lane lacking any markers or paint; just a paved trail. Lean, grin, roll on the throttle... charging up the hill and over the ridge to see where this ribbon of pavement led. It was a bit chunky, to be sure. Areas had been patched and re-patched, but never re-surfaced. A few chuckholes, bends, breaks, lines; it told a story of moderate use, but long times between care. Its weave between the trees let slip that the road was there under the forest's grudging permission: the asphalt gave up right-of-way for the terrain instead of the other way around. It was still man-made intrusion, but it didn't butcher trees and hillside to exist. Slowing to a respectful pace, I tire-walked my way along it, the GS's trail-ready suspention capable of taking this at far greater speed, but the view too good to pass up.
Part of the way down, I found a dirt path named Doe Road, and chose to follow. It went up for a half-dozen miles, and then wound around the hill back down to the same road it'd left, but a mile further. When Sheep Ranch road came to an end near Railroad Flat, I wanted to turn about to give it another go. I didn't know how much road I had ahead of me, though, so I kept the course, on towards the suggested gas stop. The trail had joined Highway 88 now, and while still a minor road, it had two real lanes and those little dots that let you feel if you cross over your lane too far ('driving by braille' is my favorite term for the effect they give). I passed up the gas station, as I need less than half the stops the sportbikers do, with the huge 8 gallon tank on the bike. By the route chart, I was half of the way to South Lake Tahoe by now, and I figured I could ride all the way there on one tank.
88 twirled higher and higher, the snow once again appearing. First it lived in the shadows and little spots below trees. It got a little more brave and begain to line the roadside, flaring out to finally cover most all the landscape as the forested hold on the road became open mountain terrain. The ride was smooth and simple, but punctuated with just enough traffic to keep my pace from staying smooth. It was here that I started to meet others of my kind in passing. It was as if someone had called a GS-rider's holiday in the Sierra, somewhere back downslope. No less than 10 GS bikes (and their various partners) passed me, in little groups of two or three at a time, for the next 60 miles. Each time was a moment of "Hey, another adventure-bike!" and an enthusiastic wave, which was always returned. I felt like a kid looking for the next state plate on a roadtrip, but with dualsport models instead. F650... check. R1150GS.. gotcha. A Tigger (Triumph Tiger)! cool.
On it went, until I rounded the high point of the pass, and found three more bikers of our group stopped roadside. I pulled over to check they were OK, and to use the opportunity to put the jacket liner in. It'd gotten cold in that last 1000ft of ascent, and it was about time. They were A-OK, I'm glad to report. It was simply a good vista spot to take pictures at. We chatted a bit, shot a few frames, and then I hopped back on the bike and left as they were gearing up. My pace was faster than theirs -- they'd just started an hour earlier. I didn't want to be rude and have to pass them on the road, so I figured just starting out ahead was the best bet.
The road finally got tired of going up, and dipped over a ridge down to an alpine lake near the town of Kirkwood. Another quick ridge up and down, the highest point of our trip, and I found myself trotting through an alpine meadow of the Toiyabe National Forest area. I've always been topographically amused with lakes and meadows that appear way up high in the mountains. It's like someone forgot to make that part of the mountain range steep, so there's just this out of place flat-spot or water-spot there, like a manual clipping done on a fractal terrain. They're pretty, but stranded from normal climates by their altitude, giving a weird mixed impression of a desert that gives way to more flowers than it should during certain parts of the year. A half-hour later, I made it out of the meadow's far-side ridge, and down into the starts of South Lake Tahoe. Touristville.
I had 210 miles on the meter, and the tank was finally down to 2 bars. The granny-light wasn't on yet, but it was about time for a stop. A fill up with a candy-bar and a gatorade did me fine, and I walked around a bit to get out the sore-spots. I took a good half-hour just lounging about, without seeing a single sign of any other riders from our group. I'd passed quite a few in various spots, so where were they? Just as I was gearing back up, I got my answer. Most had re-formed into one massive group, and they thundered by -- their last suggested gas stop being back in Kirkwood. In the rush to catch up, I lept over the bike too hard and jammed the right foot-peg up my pantleg... skeeEERAPE. OUCH . Okay, I didn't need that inch-long patch of skin on the back of my calf anyways. Feh.
I caught up handily enough, and followed them through Touristville to the 89's gentle looping around Lake Tahoe. Two things became readily apparent: for one, I was really enjoying being on my own; I wasn't adapting well to group riding and having to worry about those in front and behind of me. For two, these guys were not used to formation riding much at all... at least not the way I'd learned it with my wing-riding buddies who train for it in the GWRRA chapter. The Buell riders kind of jumped back and forth between each other in a semi-ragged fashion... sometimes keeping the inter-bike stagger... other times CHiP'ing it and riding side-by-side instead. Folks charged ahead and passed each other, either in play or in 'dammit that's MY spot' behavior; it was hard to tell. Either way, it meant giving full concentration to fitting safely within the changing mass of riders instead of thinking about the road, or the beauty of the trip. Determined to break off in some socially-acceptable way, I chose to pull off at the first vista point I found.
Well, so did everybody else. We took over the Emerald Bay vista, and did the walk-and-gawk, cameras clicking away. When folks started gearing back up, I ambled off for a restroom break to eat up a little time even though I didn't need it. When I returned, I found that a small group of three had been left behind: Captain America and his two buddies. He was sitting on a rock, looking just plain beat-down. It turns out he'd wrecked his bike earlier. He was OK, just very sore. His bike was a little scratched up as were his leathers, but he was travel-ready. A little more rest was all he was hoping for, and the rest of the mob had left him because he couldn't keep up. I felt that was a distinct lack of inter-rider loyalty, but at least he'd had a few buddies stick there with him. Later in the day I heard from other riders that, and I quote, "Captain America got what he deserved". Supposedly he'd been pushing the envelope harder than it should, and bragging about it, until he finally pushed it right through some unexpected gravel on the road and ended up in the ditch, his bike atop of him. Well, no matter if he 'deserved' it or not, I felt that judgement (and the subsequent ditching of him when he needed rest there in Emerald Bay) was a bit too harsh. Had I a respectful way to apologize to him for the moods of the others, I would have. I held there for a while longer and chatted, until a few more riders showed up. Seeing that he was in good hands with friends, I hopped back on to do the final part of the route solo once more.
It was an uneventful, slow loop around the lake, amidst all the tourist-wagons full of gawking grannies and families with 2.3 kids. I didn't mind too much, as it gave plenty of opportunity to look at the super-blue cast the lake is famous for. While it's not the same as the twilight-blue the sky gets once or twice a year (which is where I get my online character's color from)... it's really darn close, and very satisfying to just look at. In no time at all, I was on the north shore at our destination: the Cal-Nev resort hotel/casino.
This was the first and only night we'd not be in a cheap motel. While a little pricier, it was nice. Real beds, huge rooms. I avoided the Casino and instead indulgently spent $60 on a one-hour massage, beating the rush created by all the free 15 minute ones the BRAG tour had pre-paid for. I got much better treatment, and much sooner, than all those losers in line for two hours to get their quarter-hour rubdowns. *grin* Following that, they fed us... and, oh surprise of surprises... it was beans, nacho chips, and greasy tacos. Again. Aieee! At least it was in a nicer setting.
Continuing on my solo pace, I avoided the room-parties and gabbings about in the casino, and crashed out early for a change. Dusty eventually came back and flopped out as well; I saw him in the morning when I awoke. For the first time this trip, I woke up more awake and alert than he. I was glad of this, as what was going to be an easy day to see friends, then a break at home... turned out to be the longest day of my trip.
Dusty heard the first alarm, and had evidently snooze-whacked it before getting in the shower; he was mostly ready by the time I was prying myself out of bed. Have you ever had one of those mornings before work where you KNOW you'll get in trouble if you don't get in on time, but the majority of your brain says it just doesn't care, and you should roll back over asleep? The truth of it is that if you only get up and get moving, everything will be OK; it's just that initial kick that's so hard. I had a fleeting moment where I was about to go back to sleep, knowing I was to be on my own and Dusty had to take off with the photographers. I knew that was the path to the Dark Side, though, and dragged myself out of bed. It's hard to get dressed when your wrists are locked, but one nice hot shower later and I'd regained some mobility.
I managed to keep up with Dusty to get to breakfast, which he finished quickly so he could gear up to head out with the photo group. Instead of hooking up with other folks, I figured today was the time to try a bit of riding alone and see if I could pick up a solo groove for a change. This is how I normally ride when back at home, actually... while I do happily ride with my ex-roomie
reality_fox and Dusty now and then, for the most part I'm on my own. It's just a combination of timing and differences in riding style. I tend to get on the bike to relax and roll through the scenery. When it works, I can get in such a good mood it brings tears to the eyes, which is very weird since I'm one of those people who can't cry about much of anything. When it doesn't, it's still relaxing. If I have to spend mental time either trying to keep up or making sure someone else is keeping up, it turns into a challenge instead of a chill-out. Both are enjoyable, but it's the chill-out that I usually turn to when home. It would be interesting to try it on the trip as well, I figured.I got packed up at a leisurely pace, and rolled out. My MP3 player died after only 10 minutes; I'd forgotten to recharge it! Drat. Well, with nobody else to schedule by I figured there was no harm in finding a fix. 10 miles away in the town of Oakdale, I found the ubiquitous Radio Shack and purchased a universal DC-to-DC adaptor with the right plug. While this introduced a slight alternator whine, it wasn't very noticable and was preferably to just hearing the drone of the 2-cylinder engine all day. I really like it when the music matches the terrain.
Okay, time for a diversion that I've been thinking about how to write the whole trip. I could possibly make it a journal entry unto itself, but it's a bit fuzzy for that. It's music that I'm talking about here. Much of my life flows with tunes and rhythms, and I've integrated various ways to play music into most every aspect of my life. About the only place I don't listen to my tunes is at work, as I don't like the isolation of earphones while working with others, and I don't want to disrupt others' workdays with my choice of music played aloud.
Music while motorcycling comes in two main flavors: rhythm-fill, and mood-fill. The former is when I just want an audible pacing to my travels; trance, instrumental, lighter techno and even house music can fit this bill. Anything with a constant thrumm and longer playtime will help me fall into pace, and roll on smoothly and safely. The latter can be any type of music at all -- where the mood of the music is reflected in how I feel about my surroundings. This is real hit-or-miss, as it's not safe to change songs while actually riding. Poor selections are just kind of waited through, while ones that fit brings a sweetness that's over all too quick for my liking as the track plays out.
I'd loaded a smattering of tunes on the two microdrives I've got for the e.Digital MP3 player; about 5 hours of tunes each. While this meant that I'd hear the same song quite a few times during this trip, they are spaced out far enough it wasn't a hassle. Some of the images from this trip that will stick so strongly in my mind are those that matched up with the music the most.
2_gryphon, your music inspires. I have a handful of your compositions in the rotation, and I was repeatedly impressed with just how well they worked with some parts of my journey. I'll always remember riding through the mists burning off the road near Mojave, between storms, seemingly gliding through clouds while listening to Dragon. It was if I myself were a creature of flight, drifting between pondering rains and shafts of sunlight. Charging through the golden valley north of King's Canyon like a four-footer running, laughing... boyant through the grasses, with Coyena putting the bounce in my step. These are parts of the memories that will follow me through life. I applaud your skill with a happy heart.I'll table the rest of these thoughts for now. Most all of the music-meets-the-road moments that worked are definately of the 'you had to be there' variety. Those of you who know how to get in the groove already know what I mean. To the rest, I truely hope you find it in the future.
Music re-powered, I put a bit of twist to my hold on the handlebars, and rocketed off through the easy sweepers of Highway 108. Just before it joined up with 49, I saw two of our riders off in the shoulder. I stopped to ask if all was okay and found out that one of them had shredded a tire. It was beyond the 'patch it' level, by far... he needed to be picked up. They were just out of cel range too, so one of them was about to drive off to get signal for a call to the chase truck. I tossed over the Globalstar phone, and let them call in. The driver was a mere 20 miles up-road in Jamestown, and said he could be there soon. Sweet! They thanked me for the phone-use, and sent me on my way with assurances they'd be just fine. I rolled through Jamestown, and on through Sonora.
Just past Sonora was the first 'optional' roadway of the day: Sheep Ranch Road. One glimpse at the turnoff had me sold. Like the road of my cornering epiphany of two days prior, it was a single lane lacking any markers or paint; just a paved trail. Lean, grin, roll on the throttle... charging up the hill and over the ridge to see where this ribbon of pavement led. It was a bit chunky, to be sure. Areas had been patched and re-patched, but never re-surfaced. A few chuckholes, bends, breaks, lines; it told a story of moderate use, but long times between care. Its weave between the trees let slip that the road was there under the forest's grudging permission: the asphalt gave up right-of-way for the terrain instead of the other way around. It was still man-made intrusion, but it didn't butcher trees and hillside to exist. Slowing to a respectful pace, I tire-walked my way along it, the GS's trail-ready suspention capable of taking this at far greater speed, but the view too good to pass up.
Part of the way down, I found a dirt path named Doe Road, and chose to follow. It went up for a half-dozen miles, and then wound around the hill back down to the same road it'd left, but a mile further. When Sheep Ranch road came to an end near Railroad Flat, I wanted to turn about to give it another go. I didn't know how much road I had ahead of me, though, so I kept the course, on towards the suggested gas stop. The trail had joined Highway 88 now, and while still a minor road, it had two real lanes and those little dots that let you feel if you cross over your lane too far ('driving by braille' is my favorite term for the effect they give). I passed up the gas station, as I need less than half the stops the sportbikers do, with the huge 8 gallon tank on the bike. By the route chart, I was half of the way to South Lake Tahoe by now, and I figured I could ride all the way there on one tank.
88 twirled higher and higher, the snow once again appearing. First it lived in the shadows and little spots below trees. It got a little more brave and begain to line the roadside, flaring out to finally cover most all the landscape as the forested hold on the road became open mountain terrain. The ride was smooth and simple, but punctuated with just enough traffic to keep my pace from staying smooth. It was here that I started to meet others of my kind in passing. It was as if someone had called a GS-rider's holiday in the Sierra, somewhere back downslope. No less than 10 GS bikes (and their various partners) passed me, in little groups of two or three at a time, for the next 60 miles. Each time was a moment of "Hey, another adventure-bike!" and an enthusiastic wave, which was always returned. I felt like a kid looking for the next state plate on a roadtrip, but with dualsport models instead. F650... check. R1150GS.. gotcha. A Tigger (Triumph Tiger)! cool.
On it went, until I rounded the high point of the pass, and found three more bikers of our group stopped roadside. I pulled over to check they were OK, and to use the opportunity to put the jacket liner in. It'd gotten cold in that last 1000ft of ascent, and it was about time. They were A-OK, I'm glad to report. It was simply a good vista spot to take pictures at. We chatted a bit, shot a few frames, and then I hopped back on the bike and left as they were gearing up. My pace was faster than theirs -- they'd just started an hour earlier. I didn't want to be rude and have to pass them on the road, so I figured just starting out ahead was the best bet.
The road finally got tired of going up, and dipped over a ridge down to an alpine lake near the town of Kirkwood. Another quick ridge up and down, the highest point of our trip, and I found myself trotting through an alpine meadow of the Toiyabe National Forest area. I've always been topographically amused with lakes and meadows that appear way up high in the mountains. It's like someone forgot to make that part of the mountain range steep, so there's just this out of place flat-spot or water-spot there, like a manual clipping done on a fractal terrain. They're pretty, but stranded from normal climates by their altitude, giving a weird mixed impression of a desert that gives way to more flowers than it should during certain parts of the year. A half-hour later, I made it out of the meadow's far-side ridge, and down into the starts of South Lake Tahoe. Touristville.
I had 210 miles on the meter, and the tank was finally down to 2 bars. The granny-light wasn't on yet, but it was about time for a stop. A fill up with a candy-bar and a gatorade did me fine, and I walked around a bit to get out the sore-spots. I took a good half-hour just lounging about, without seeing a single sign of any other riders from our group. I'd passed quite a few in various spots, so where were they? Just as I was gearing back up, I got my answer. Most had re-formed into one massive group, and they thundered by -- their last suggested gas stop being back in Kirkwood. In the rush to catch up, I lept over the bike too hard and jammed the right foot-peg up my pantleg... skeeEERAPE. OUCH . Okay, I didn't need that inch-long patch of skin on the back of my calf anyways. Feh.
I caught up handily enough, and followed them through Touristville to the 89's gentle looping around Lake Tahoe. Two things became readily apparent: for one, I was really enjoying being on my own; I wasn't adapting well to group riding and having to worry about those in front and behind of me. For two, these guys were not used to formation riding much at all... at least not the way I'd learned it with my wing-riding buddies who train for it in the GWRRA chapter. The Buell riders kind of jumped back and forth between each other in a semi-ragged fashion... sometimes keeping the inter-bike stagger... other times CHiP'ing it and riding side-by-side instead. Folks charged ahead and passed each other, either in play or in 'dammit that's MY spot' behavior; it was hard to tell. Either way, it meant giving full concentration to fitting safely within the changing mass of riders instead of thinking about the road, or the beauty of the trip. Determined to break off in some socially-acceptable way, I chose to pull off at the first vista point I found.
Well, so did everybody else. We took over the Emerald Bay vista, and did the walk-and-gawk, cameras clicking away. When folks started gearing back up, I ambled off for a restroom break to eat up a little time even though I didn't need it. When I returned, I found that a small group of three had been left behind: Captain America and his two buddies. He was sitting on a rock, looking just plain beat-down. It turns out he'd wrecked his bike earlier. He was OK, just very sore. His bike was a little scratched up as were his leathers, but he was travel-ready. A little more rest was all he was hoping for, and the rest of the mob had left him because he couldn't keep up. I felt that was a distinct lack of inter-rider loyalty, but at least he'd had a few buddies stick there with him. Later in the day I heard from other riders that, and I quote, "Captain America got what he deserved". Supposedly he'd been pushing the envelope harder than it should, and bragging about it, until he finally pushed it right through some unexpected gravel on the road and ended up in the ditch, his bike atop of him. Well, no matter if he 'deserved' it or not, I felt that judgement (and the subsequent ditching of him when he needed rest there in Emerald Bay) was a bit too harsh. Had I a respectful way to apologize to him for the moods of the others, I would have. I held there for a while longer and chatted, until a few more riders showed up. Seeing that he was in good hands with friends, I hopped back on to do the final part of the route solo once more.
It was an uneventful, slow loop around the lake, amidst all the tourist-wagons full of gawking grannies and families with 2.3 kids. I didn't mind too much, as it gave plenty of opportunity to look at the super-blue cast the lake is famous for. While it's not the same as the twilight-blue the sky gets once or twice a year (which is where I get my online character's color from)... it's really darn close, and very satisfying to just look at. In no time at all, I was on the north shore at our destination: the Cal-Nev resort hotel/casino.
This was the first and only night we'd not be in a cheap motel. While a little pricier, it was nice. Real beds, huge rooms. I avoided the Casino and instead indulgently spent $60 on a one-hour massage, beating the rush created by all the free 15 minute ones the BRAG tour had pre-paid for. I got much better treatment, and much sooner, than all those losers in line for two hours to get their quarter-hour rubdowns. *grin* Following that, they fed us... and, oh surprise of surprises... it was beans, nacho chips, and greasy tacos. Again. Aieee! At least it was in a nicer setting.
Continuing on my solo pace, I avoided the room-parties and gabbings about in the casino, and crashed out early for a change. Dusty eventually came back and flopped out as well; I saw him in the morning when I awoke. For the first time this trip, I woke up more awake and alert than he. I was glad of this, as what was going to be an easy day to see friends, then a break at home... turned out to be the longest day of my trip.
