Epilogue - Day 1 - August 23

Still having a big chunk of Pennsylvania to cross, we left out of a motel for the last of 60 nights. Routine has taught us to work as a team in packing out and up. I get the wine and the food, Jules the IPads and chargers. Packing our clothes has a routine too and "sweeping the room" for the missed article is my job. We snap the suitcase on the tour pack, put on Chapstick and take off.

This morning, our faces warmed by the promise of a perfect day, we rode east on route 6. Into Central Pennsylvania, Magic, Jules and I eased out of the Alleghenies and followed our route to the Grand Canyon.

There is one in PA also known as the Pine Creek Gorge in the Tioga State Forest, and it is quite impressive in its own right. Finding the West Rim road with scant signage, we ascended into Colton State Park. A road like we haven't seen since Colorado, treated us to a memorable ride. Breathless views down a deep ravine reminded us that beauty lives here, too.

At our picnic for the day, the sun prompted Jules to get a full body tan.

Through Wellsboro, one of many towns on this route with Victorian architecture that dominates main streets, we passed the World Famous Wellsboro Diner. So sad we weren't ready for a great piece of pie, we moved on.

Our path drew us into city life as Scranton loomed. Sucked in by poor road signs, we found ourselves looking for Dunder Mifflin and seeing the characters from "The Office" on every street corner. Finally extracting ourselves, we headed to the highway to make it home.

Yes, we are home tonight at Mink Pond, my refuge since I was three. Familiar and welcoming, we drove into its arms as dinner was being served. A night on the lake offered up a nice bass for Jules and a sense of peace and stability for me.

Tonight we sleep in beds we know and through our open window owls, bullfrogs and an occasional coyote welcome us. Tomorrow our family arrives to complete the picture.

Fragments fly through my head at random moments, shocking with weather worn switchbacks having no guardrails or soothing with gentle streams cooling my feet at a noonday picnic. Then the sunsets and sunrises bloom and the fragments form into a whole- our odyssey on which we searched for nothing, expected little and were handed the world.

Day 59 August 21

Indiana was an afterthought as we followed the morning sun into Ohio.

After pausing in Fort Wayne to let some weather get ahead of us, we set out. The historic route for the day was the Lincoln Highway. The first transcontinental automobile road, it was conceived in the early 1900's. Today's piece was route 30. Past towns small and large, we rode through the wide girth of fat Ohio. Warm and clear, the weather was our friend.

Mile after mile of corn, soybeans and dairy added patina to this flat landscape. Every fifty miles or so a curve and a rise in the road would wake us. At a rest stop for lunch, Jules tried to light a fire, but everything was too wet. Just days ago where we stopped, fire bans had been in place for months. The variations in weather and climate in the past 60 days have taken us through all the seasons.

The daily storm clouds built up in our path, growing darker by the mile. Sprinkles of rain put us under an overpass suiting up. Wise choice because immediately the rain fell hard. Hunched down behind the windshield we weathered the thankfully short storm and soon were folding our rain gear into the saddle bags. Then for the rest of the day, we rode in sun through rain drenched roads. Our luck with weather on this trip has been classic. No strangers to rainy rides, we expect the worst. But nothing but the best has been handed to us.

In the process of robing and disrobing, Jules' second pair of riding glasses on this trip broke. Finding the nearest Harley dealer to buy another pair, we rode into Mansfield. Situated overlooking the Mansfield Reformatory, we had a lesson in cinematographic history. The setting of the "Shawshank Redemption", the architectural beauty of the building belied the inner truths. A new prison stands nearby. Barbed with wire and utilitarian in design it is honest in its presentation.

Off the Lincoln Highway, we tracked into rural Ohio. Stopping at a small local market, people walked off their jobs to talk to us. They wanted to know about us and were amazed we were from New Jersey. When they heard the whole story, amazement gave way to disbelief. Traveling is a gift that is not given to all, and again I feel so fortunate.

On the border of Pennsylvania, we are almost home. The West has spoiled me. How can the Alleghenies compete with the Rockies? Flat land dominates! Where are the switchbacks and the altitudes with views that deprive you of breath?

Yet, there is a height and a depth of that place we call home that has nothing to do with geography. It is the landscape of our lives, and it surpasses all others.

Day 58 August 20

Homeward bound, we left the Chief City and rode east.

As on the entire trip, we tried to avoid highways, and ended up on the alternate route. Route 24 didn't offer mountain passes or stunning waterfalls, but it did present a memorable snapshot of middle America.

Soybeans to the left, corn to the right, Illinois plowed into Indiana and if you blinked when you drove by the state line sign, you would never know the difference. Modest farmhouses were surrounded by thousands of acres with state of the art farm equipment. An area that has obviously seen rain, crops thrive. To us, farms are the attraction in this part of the US. The life blood of our existence, I finally understood the term "Heartland".

Excited by water towers of small towns and a detour taking us 20 miles off the route, we enjoyed driving slower and talking to each other when our Internet radio lost its signal. Stopping at a train crossing, we once again realized the importance of rail service across the country.

A fishing lake appeared as our picnic spot. Off the road, silent and peaceful, we settled into a bad bottle of wine and thunder rumbling heavily from the west. Quick lunch and quick getaway, we turned once again to the east. Running with the wind, we made tracks toward clear sky.

The path of blue narrowed as Fort Wayne offered up hotels. Rain drove us in. Wide awake, into our home time zone, anticipation for reunion with family and friends is gaining momentum.

Never out of our minds as we travelled to the far Northwest, into the fog and down the rocky coast of California, over Colorado's snowy mountain peaks and into sage brushed dotted Southwestern desert, our daughters, sons and grand daughter have been with us. A full heart has room to spare.

Day 57 August 19

Sixty-six on 66. Not a bad way to celebrate!

Relaxed out of Lichtfield and onto a legendary highway that eases in and out of existence. Not a hard riding day, we spent most of our time on a treasure hunt trying to find pieces of Route 66. And when we found them, it was like finding gold.

An unimproved, decommissioned highway, the ride was rocky. Navigating potholes between cornfields and soybeans five foot tall, it was easy to feel the loneliness of 1930 roadsters and a few daredevil motorcycles adventuring into the west. Before the parallel highway and it's billboards, there was nothing to break the monotony for miles except the occasional series of Burma Shave signs along the way.

On this singularly historic road, Magic had her own milestone as she reached 50,000 miles. We stopped on a crossroad marked by fields of corn and soybeans that went on forever and cheered, cried and celebrated for our amazing friend who has carried us across the continent flawlessly.

Off and on highway 55 and the Mother Road, we spent the majority of our time riding history. Through Springfield we lost the route in city twists and a State Fair larger than any I've seen. Then we rediscovered it in time to experience Lincoln, where an original theater still marquees current movies. All along the way remains of drive-ins, motels and bars fill in the pictorial of the past. Some have been nourished and survive. Others silhouette the landscape with their bones.

Atlanta served us a huge slice of the 66 pie. Finding this part of the road by chance, we met Paul Bunyon (misspelling intentional to avoid lawsuits), a giant man wielding a hot dog instead of an axe. Across the street was the Palm Cafe, legendary as a Greyhound bus stop on 66. If one needed to board the bus, they would turn on a light that still exists on the front of the restaurant, signaling for a pick up. Sitting at the counter, drinking coffee in green rimmed white china cups, I imagined ladies in seamed stockings, felt feathered hats and shoulder padded coats waiting for their ticket to engage or escape. I am such a romantic!

Towanda was a picnic on a preserved part of the road that is only for walking now. To look at the construction of the original 66, it is remarkable that two vehicles could pass each other without falling onto the shoulder, which is grass.

All day, rain clouds surrounded us, but because it was my birthday, not a drop fell. Pontiac, our final stop on our Tour de 66, was the mother lode on the Mother Road. The Route 66 Museum, an easy place to browse history, was an eclectic mélange of the past glory of the highway. A VW bus was the central figure. The story behind it is one of seeking in the sixties. An artist of the road, Bob Waldmire lived in this bus for years. Then he upgraded to a "road yacht" - a bus converted into a home, complete with shower fueled by rain spouts. To tour this bus, complete with his personal collection of kitschy knickknacks, gave my 66 imagination a new chapter.

The perfect birthday present, Jules has orchestrated a day like no other for me to get my kicks at 66. Settling in Pontiac for the night, the song of the ever present cicadas let us know August is at its peak. I am not. Too many roads are left to ride, too many mountains to climb, and too many stories left to tell. Today, at 66 I fell in love with Route 66. Tomorrow there is another road and then another and another. The constant is Jules, my pilot and my life.

Day 56 August 18

The "Show Me" state, showed us a great ride today.

Weary of 70, we mapped another route that ran south of the great highway. Out of Higginsville ( do you believe there's a place named that?) we found 50 to cross Missouri.

Drought has been a constant on our trip. Throughout California and Colorado, we have seen rivers and reservoirs at all time lows. Western Missouri was no exception. Fields sat stunted by heat. Corn was chopped for silage because it couldn't fruit.

The Home Town Cafe was our breakfast stop. Friendly farmers chatted us up about the growing conditions. There hasn't been rain in this region since May. Corn and soybean crops have failed. They are writing this season off as a loss. Mature trees were dropping their leaves. Hard times prevail wherever we travel. Not good political news, we Easterners never hear about the losses here. It's daunting.

Moving into eastern Missouri, it was obvious that rain had visited. Route 50 treated us to curves and hills through lush farmland. Even here where there has been rain this year, the underlying truth is that farmers live and work this land where tornados have left their mark and farming is a crapshoot.

Turning onto route 44, we began a trip back in time as vestiges of Old Route 66 began to appear. We ate lunch at Route 66 State Park along a piece of the Mother Road, ending at an old bridge that never was repaired. Finding Route 66 is like searching for dinosaur bones - pieces here and there that one has to mentally connect to envision the past.

St. Louis arched it's eyebrow at us as we passed it by into Illinois. Route 55 brought us to Litchfield, a real bonanza for seekers of the old Mother Road. We ate at Ariston, a family restaurant that has been on Old Route 66 since the highway was built. Amazing in its history as well as its food, we stepped back into a time when service and quality were given gladly.

Tonight, again, our homeland creates another historic lullaby for us. Trains whistle by lonely, while visions of cross country travelers in coupes and sedans, on this once famous road, move by like ghosts. Honored to be riding here, we join those that came before. We've all come to look for America...

Day 55 August 17

Magic, I've a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore!

After last night's huge steak, hoisting myself onto the bike took some work. But it was worth all 18 ounces because it was the best I have ever eaten. After all the cattle we saw, I knew this was the time to indulge!

Across route 70, we again veered off onto old route 40 and spent the better part of the day cruising through small towns, each identified by their water tower! Grain elevators dominated the skyline and cattle the fields. Ironically, we saw oil rigs working vigorously in a huge farm of windmills that were silent. Apparently, oil is still king.

Eastern Kansas presented a new face as we pulled away from the rain starved eastern shadow of the Rockies. Now the corn was tall, the soil was rich and the streams ran full. Trees shaded the road and homes along it. As we rode into the Flint Hills, grassy prairie mounds formed a new landscape. We actually found a lake for our picnic.

Route 40 ran out again, so we hopped back on 70. We stopped in Topeka at the Harley Davidson store - an amazing two story complex with a museum.

Crossing the Missouri River at Kansas City, we were confronted by rush hour. Heavy traffic and harried drivers weaving in and out of it are far more dangerous than any crumbling road we have climbed. Jules, a serious defensive driver, played his hand well and we broke through to Missouri.

If I had ruby slippers instead of boots, I just might have clicked my heels together and flown. But the two of us have learned, there's a new adventure around each corner and we still have over 1,000 miles to explore.