The Rumors of the Death of British Pubs…

…has been greatly exaggerated.

Before leaving California, I noticed a few newspaper articles announcing that 1 in 4 pubs had closed last year. I also read a couple articles that inferred it was the death of the pub. And just before I left Michaeleen said I should do an article about pubs before they die out completely. (ie spend my time wandering from pub to pub, trying to remember what I’d done the night before).
Is it true? Is this famous institution, -the backbone of English Society- about to disappear.
We all know that if the British pub was to disappear, the world would tilt on its axis and the whole of civilization would come to an end.
(Hey, who can argue with a culture that brought you the gin and tonic.)
But I am here to tell you, civilization is not coming to an end, the pubs are just doing a little morphing.

Twenty years ago, when I lived in Canterbury, pubs were meant for drinking. The most food available was a packet of salt and vinegar crisps. And if you were really unlucky, a pickled egg. Yes, there were a few pubs that served an afternoon meal. But that consisted of flat sandwiches, ploughmans, or some soggy fish and chips.
I guess I must admit that there were a few pubs that did serve good food, but they were very few and far between, and were horribly uptight and stuffy.
Over the last 20 years it seems to have become economically unfeasible to run a pubs on the proceeds of a bunch of drunks.
So they are morphing into pub/restaurants.
This piece of insight popped into my brain a few days ago while in a pub in Calstock.
The pub is called the Tamar Inn (pronounced tay-mar), and is set by the Tamar river, in a tiny village in what can only be described as the middle of nowhere.

It is a typical British Pub, classic, solid and timeless. It looks to have been there for a thousand years, but it’s probably only 300 years old.
I know what it will look like before stepping inside; wooden bar, beer taps for modern beer, and pumps for the classic bitter. Bottles of gin and other hard liquor hanging upside down against the back bar. A pool table in the corner, lumpy wooden tables and hard wooden chairs that would normally be found in a breakfast nook.

But before entering, there is a clue on the outside of the pub as to the changes that are happening.
On the black chalkboard sign, it says Cream Teas.
Now a Cream Tea is an afternoon snack for ladies and those living in houses with more than 20 rooms.
It is not part of the pub scene, or at least it wasn’t.
Stepping in the pub, there is the wooden bar, the beer taps and pumps, the pool table, the stout wooden furniture, and a little personal touch, a shelf of used books for sale.
Everything a pub should be, it has the dark warm homely feel that makes a pub wonderful.
But beyond the scuffed wooden floor and the thick stone walls is a modern room grafted on the side.
It is sleek with smooth walls, a cappuccino machine in the corner, perfectly square tables with table cloths, and soft upholstered chairs.
There is a full menu on the wall, including salads, sandwiches, beefburgers, and even a t-bone steak.
Two steps back, and now in the 18th century pub, two steps forward and into the 21st century restaurant.

There are four pubs in the village (Lympstone) where I am living. Three of them have extensive menus while the fourth is undergoing an expensive restoration, including opening the upstairs as a restaurant.
Now, while I am here, the stories of pub closings seem like most of the other things that happen in the news. War, Death, Famine, Disease.. and when you look out your window, it is all peaceful and calm.
There are four pubs in Lympstone, and there have always been four pubs in Lympstone.
I don’t doubt that there are pubs closing, and closing fast at that, but the ones that are staying open have morphed into something that England wants and needs.
Twenty years ago there were two options when eating out. The greasy fish and chip take away down the street, or the expensive restaurant.
While fish and chips are wonderful, sometimes more is needed than a plastic bench seat.
And while it is a good thing to go out to an expensive meal, sometimes somewhere more relaxed is wanted.
The pub has filled in this niche.
The dining is casual, as is the atmosphere.
Find a table, read the menu on the table, note the number on the table, and walk up to the counter to order the food, to be brought by the server after a short time.

So as society changes, the pubs change, but don’t worry too much, when arriving at the pub for an evening meal, there is still a collection of old men huddled at one corner of the bar, with one dog quietly, expectantly waiting for a spare crisp.

And oh yes, it’s still a great place to get pissed with your friends.

Posted in Writing: Travel: England | Tagged , , , | 1 Comment

Beautiful British Cuisine: Now Better

Fish and Chips, the most fabulous thing the British ever gave the world.
(remember: gin originated in Holland)
And my local chip shop just made it a whole lot better.
Impossible, you say,
no it isn’t,
just read on…

But first I must say something about the fish.
I don’t eat it.
I really don’t like it,
(although for some strange reason, I do like it raw)
So instead of fish, I get the sausage.
And there is the choice of battered or non-battered variety.
Battered is what it sounds like, they dip the sausage in batter before deep frying so there is a crispy golden coating around the sausage.
I order the battered version, just for my heart.
And then there’s the chips, which are well; um chips.
You would say; they have been around forever, impossible to improve upon.
You would be wrong.
All you need to do is batter that chip,
then deep fry it.
Yes, you heard it,
dip that chip in batter before deep frying.
With a deep orange color, and it’s crispy crunchy outside,
there is really nothing better.
And I know it’s good for me,
because every time I eat one,
I smile.

Stepping into the chippie,
“Battered sausage and chips please”
“Would you like traditional or battered chips?”
“A bit of both please.”
And this is what you receive,
to be eaten on a sunny afternoon in the park.

Posted in Writing: Travel: England | Tagged , , , , | 2 Comments

10 Photographs: Typically England

Typical bench, in a typical park: London.

The incredibly thin doors, which are the spectator entrances to the Fulham Football Grounds: London.

Walking toward Exmouth along the estuary of the River Exe. Devon.

The walking path from Lympstone to Exmouth: Devon.

The continuing path from Lympstone to Exmouth, next to the once-every-half-hour train tracks: Devon.

Flying kites in the park at Exmouth: Devon.

Barbie stranded in the low tide in Exmouth: Devon.

The sun finds a way through the British clouds, looking out from Lympstone Harbour on to the estuary of the River Exe: Devon.

A tree holding the edge of the cliff together overlooking the estuary of the River Exe: Devon.

The same tree as photographed above, but a view looking south from the beach: Devon.

Posted in Photography: Travel: England | Tagged , , , , , , , , | Comments Off on 10 Photographs: Typically England

Adventure Teddy Bear

The church here in Lympstone is celebrating its 600th anniversary.
One of the celebratory goings on,
is to absail Teddy Bears.
Don’t ask me why,
I don’t know either,
But it looked like a lot of fun for the bear.

Wrap the collar around the waist of the bear,
pull on one side of the rope to haul him up,
then let ‘um goooo!

Don’t forget to brush the stray grass off the bear once it bounces on the ground.

Posted in Photography: Travel: England | Tagged , , , , | Comments Off on Adventure Teddy Bear

Lympstone Flower and Vegetable Show

My mother wins first place in the Lympstone Garden Club’s Flower and Vegetable Show!
Here is a picture of her holding her prize winning embroidery:

But here are also pictures of the fruit and veg shaped like people and vehicles!
(I personally like the rocket ship)

And a pizza with a face.


And my Uncle John’s prize winning homemade wine, which we took home and drank: Thanks Uncle John!


And a table with assorted prize winning edibles.


And the best unsieved garden compost.

Thank you for visiting the Lympstone Garden Club Flower and Vegetable show and don’t forget your entries for next year.

Posted in Photography: Travel: England | Tagged , , , , | Comments Off on Lympstone Flower and Vegetable Show

A Pleasant Day in Exeter

It all begins with a view of my parents town of Lympstone.
Running up the center is the main throughfare of town, known as ‘The Strand’, with The Swan Pub on the right and the only store in town in the bottom left corner.

The train drops us day trippers off at Exeter Central station after a twenty minute ride from Lympstone, and I walk through the center of town. There has been some work since the last time I was here. Now the 2000 year old Roman walls stand next to a modern glass and steel shopping center.

Or in front of apartment balconies.

Also in the center of town is Exeter Cathedral, in which sits a statue of someone who was really good -and had a fabulous beard-  sometime in the 16th century.

And a few other good people carved into the side of the church.

And a door, cuz, well, I like doors.

Don’t let the innocent look of this seagull fool you. While I was sitting on the stonewall surrounding the cathedral, this little monster dove over my shoulder and took a large chunk from my sandwich. It was even cannibalism, because I was eating –what was previously a wonderful- chicken and bacon sandwich. The seagull didn’t even look guilty about eating chicken, but just stuck his head back and swallowed it whole.

Then the little monster had the gall to pace back and forth in front of me, waiting for another tidbit. Until forsaking me for the new sandwich eaters to my right.

Away from the center off town, down towards the River Exe. On the left is the remains of the ancient bridge and church. An offshoot of the Exe once ran under this bridge, heading towards the mills.

Another view of the chapel and the bridge.

Gotta love a King who hides under a bridge, and still gets churches named after him. Or maybe it was the beautiful British sarcastic wit that told them to name churches on bridges after him. A permanent memory of his cowardess.

Kind Edmund gained the throne in 855, eventually he fought the Danes and someone called Ivar the Boneless.  Which is just a beautiful name.

Modern bridge over the River Exe, with reflections from the bright blue sky.

A swan on the Exe.

Where the water channel that once ran under the abandoned bridge and through the mills, exits back into the Exe.

Once upon a time, Exeter was a walled city on the bluff over-looking the river. Down beside the river was marshland. The first mill on this marshland was built around 1220 by a Nicholas Gervase, who also built Exeter’s first stone bridge, which is the same one that is pictured above.

Channels were dug in the soft land to run bypasses of the river to run through the mills that dotted this area. The height of these mills was in the 1700’s when Exeter was the center of the woolen trade of the southwest. But the rise of steam power in the 1800’s put the water wheel mills in decline.

Up until the 1960’s and 70’s the mill was still being used for grinding, but now with diesel engines.

Finally it was sold and ended up being used by squatters before being partially burned in 1990.

The Devon Wildlife Trust bought the building and finished restoration in 2007.

One of the waterwheels built in 1895.

My tour guide telling me about this single room, which was in fact the only room in the tour.   The large  water wheel (pictured above) spun off to the left, turning the upright wheel on the left, thus turning the large horizontal wheel in the center.

finally turning the Stone Nut. All the power went through the stone nut to turn the grinding wheels. And it could be moved up and down to engage and disengage the grinding stone. Thus I know where the technology came from to build the gearbox of my MG.

In front of the Mill –which is known as the Cricklepit Mill- is the garden, and in this garden is a recently built labyrinth from a traditional design. My favorite part are the stones that are used to keep the cars from driving on the labyrinth, are the old mill grinding stones.

But before I continue my wanderings about Exeter, I would like to quote the guide book for the mill:

Spooky goings-on

During the 1990’s Cricklepit Mill was used as a furniture shop and its wheel machinery was left derelict. One day, with no warning, it suddenly began to turn, driving all of the gearing in the building, and causing the owner’s hair to stand on end!

I think it’s the explanation point that makes my love the story so much.

As I took a different route back to the center of town, there was a beautiful leaning Victorian building. The shop on the bottom floor sold wedding dresses.

Across the street is a Free Book Store.

There is really nothing better than a free book store,

Except, of course, a free book store in a building like this.

(I apologize for the ugly American car in front.)

It is called Book Cycle, where the customer decides the prices for the books, and the proceeds, and books, are send to far away countries to help with literacy. I found myself Terry Pratchett’s Guards Guards and Malcolm Lowry’s Under the Volcano. And of course made a donation to the cause that was larger than two used books would have cost. But how do you say no to idealistic girls like this:

Back up toward town, there was a small church with a beautiful carving on the outside. I stopped to take a picture, and quickly realized that the photograph, -gotta love my wide angle lens- of the man pausing for a moment for me to click the shutter was a much better picture than the stone carvings.

The floor of the church, between the pews, with a grave marker for 1671.

And the altar, with more grave markers as flagstones.

And finally, at Exeter Central train station, there is an advertisement, with one of those pioneering rock stars, who you would never have thought they would sell out.

And just because it’s England, a CCTV camera.

Posted in Photography: Travel: England, Writing: Travel: England | Tagged , , , , , | Comments Off on A Pleasant Day in Exeter

Kew Gardens, London

The infamous Kew Gardens is about to celebrate it’s 250th year.

Kew has always been on my list of places to visit, not because of the vegetation, but because of the history.  Everywhere in the world I have traveled, it seems there were pioneers there, 200 years before me, that were sent by Kew, or were collecting specimens for Kew.

It must be one of the largest storehouses of plants in the world.

And I realized that most of my pictures are of the buildings that house the plants in Kew, so I felt a little guilty, and put some pictures of a couple plants.  And a picture of the poisonous yellow snakes scattered about the gardens.

The Palm House

The Waterlily House

Looking out the Palm House, into the rain.

Looking inside the Palm House, from the elevated walkway.

Looking outside the Palm House, from the elevated walkway.

Underneath the Palm House

Outside the Palm House

Outside the Palm House

Just pretty.

Naked little boy statue, inside the Temperate House.

Spiral staircase, inside the Temperate House.

The elevated walkway of the Temperate House.

View south, from the elevated walkway to the side house of the Temperate House.

Um, it’s a flower.

And this one’s a leaf.

The mechanism to open and close the windows.

Side view of the Temperate House.

It’s a tree, they seem to have lots here.

Very dangerous and poisonous yellow snake.  These were scattered all about the grounds, luckily for us they were all asleep.

Looking down the Cedar Vista, toward the Japanese Pagoda.

Posted in Photography: Travel: England | Tagged , , , , | Comments Off on Kew Gardens, London

London: A Different Camden Locks

     I remember Camden Locks being dirty and dangerous. Not dangerous to me, because I had the look, and walked the walk. But dangerous to those uptight Thatcherites in their public school clothing.
     This was almost 20 years ago now, but I remember the leather jackets, (which I wore), the alternative band t-shirts (I had Jesus and Mary Chain and Sisters of Mercy) Doc Martin’s boots, (which I had) and piercings on the face and body (which I didn’t have) before it became somewhat socially acceptable to have piercings in those places.
     I remember the people lounging about smoking cigarettes, and giving off that attitude of nowhere to go and nowhere to see, something akin to “Waiting for my Man” by Lou Reed.
     It had been a long time since I had been in London, and even longer since I had been to Camden Locks. This Saturday afternoon I was headed to see a friend’s band play on Caledonian Rd. So after perusing the map, realized that I could come up from the tube at Camden, take a short stroll through my University years, and then follow the canals to the afternoon gig at the pub.
      When I stepped from the tube, it felt as I remembered, a mass of people standing in front of the exit of the tube, blocking the way as they looked up and down the road. By the curb where a couple Jesus sellers, who announced that my sins would only send me to hell. ‘At least it’s more exciting than heaven’ I –being more mature- only thought to myself, rather than announcing it to the preachers as I used to.
      Walking up the street, the sidewalks were full of Saturday morning shoppers. Ahead of me was a man with “Made in England” tattooed on the back of his neck.

      There were tattoo parlours, piercing places, and the usual collection of black t-shirts of alternative bands. But then I noticed someone selling tourist British flag t-shirts. That was a little off, there were never people selling those sorts of things. The only t-shirts like that, that made it up here, were ones that were found, or stolen, and ripped to be like the Sex Pistols.
      Then I noticed the people. They were middle aged, looked middle class, seemed polite and held cameras. Some of them also had their children with them. Respectable families never allowed their children near Camden back them.
      Then there was a second group of people, they looked early 20’s –wore colors other than black- and spoke random European languages. This was definitely not the Camden I remembered.
      Once over the canal, there was a collection of permanent booths selling food. It was not the greasy fish and chips, or kebab takeaway that I remembered. Now it was international cuisine. Clean and nice and well presented, and I accepted that the Camden I remembered was long gone.

     Across from the cuisine, were the plastic scooters. There was a counter overlooking the canal to eat your pleasant lunch. Rather than stools, there were permanently mounted, plastic replicas of scooters to sit on. There must have been 100 of them, all sticking out their little fake taillights in a perfect row.

      Written on the side of each of the scooters, in modern repeated perfection, are the British Flag, the British Lion and ‘Camden World Famous Market.’

     The world changes, places become hip and then fade away. I can accept that. But it’s the plastic tacky attempt to be like it was 20 years ago that bothers me. It will never be like it was, but please don’t try to make a Disneyland version of that time and place, because the essential thing that made it what it was, the thing that made it alternative; is an attitude not a look.
     Later while talking to my friend’s band, none of them could remember the last time they had been to Camden.
      I guess I’ve been away from London too long, I need to find my way in this city again.

Posted in Writing: Travel: England | Tagged , , , , | Comments Off on London: A Different Camden Locks

Photography: Fulham Palace Road Cemetery

The Fulham Palace Road Cemetery, London.

Posted in Photography: Travel: England | Tagged , , , , , | Comments Off on Photography: Fulham Palace Road Cemetery

Road to Alaska: Section VIII

Epilogue: Northern Lights

      It was Monday night, Kieara’s birthday. A group of us went out, listened to a poetry reading, drank heavily at a few bars and spent some time dancing. I arrived home in the darkness of two thirty in the morning, and still being wide awake, drank some red wine and played on the computer.
      The phone rang. I answered with; “Why the hell are you calling so late?”
      “The Northern Lights are out” came the answer from Matt. Grabbing my camera and attaching it to the tripod, I skipped out the door and down one block to the park where I had first arrived in Anchorage. There it was, sliding across the sky, green and ethereal.
      Putting the tripod unsteadily down on the grassy verge, I stared up at the sky.
      “I’m going to need a wider lens,” I thought to myself.
      The phrase ‘bigger boat’ floated softly through the back of my skull.
      The spectacle began below the horizon, beyond the mountains and it flowed over the sky, until it disappeared in the light pollution of the city.
      I watched a single green glow swirl up over the horizon and up and up in the sky. I lent back, with my head tilted all the way back, as it slowly moved overhead, until finally I lost my balance, wheeled my arms trying to stay upright, and somehow managed to keep my feet.
      I guess I hadn’t had enough to drink.
      My camera could never show was the display was really like. The flowing green went beyond my vision in every direction, and the film could never display the feeling of majesty, or the awe of how much bigger than you this is, of how much bigger the world is than you.
      I tried to capture it all, I moved the camera about, tried to see if it was possible, but finally I gave up.
      I sat on the grass, and stared up at the beauty of ion’s impacting into the earth, and smiled.

Read about the Fur Rondy Festival in Anchorage here:
Anchorage, Alaska: Fur Rondy: True Fur Hats

Posted in Writing: Travel: USA | Tagged , , , , | Comments Off on Road to Alaska: Section VIII

Road to Alaska: Section VII

Down to Size

      It didn’t take very long to settle down in Alaska, through my bartending job at the Captain Cook Hotel, I instantly made some wonderful friends. There was Matt, who had worked as a bartender, but who now ran a used bookstore down the street. There was Paula, who also became a drinking partner, and who was also my boss at the hotel. And there was Daniel, who I worked with at the little coffee shop/bar downstairs, who showed me, and is still showing me, what a bad pun really is.
      There were many bars that we frequented in Anchorage, but there was one that stole my heart the second day I wandered through Anchorage.
      It had a square sign dangling from a pole, and looked like the sign from an old English pub.
      On the sign was a monkey holding a skull, and it read Darwin’s Theory.
      Inside it was as a bar should be. There was almost more bar than room to sit or stand, there was dark wood paneling, the bartenders became part of your family, and the owner would ring the bell and give everyone a shot of cinammon red hot liquor late at night.
      On the alleyway side of the bar, there was a mural. It was the classic painting of the rise of man from the swamp. The first depiction was a something crawling out of the ocean, and finally a man standing upright. But there was an added twist, after the upright man, there was another figure, and this one was starting to slump over again. Obviously he had been in Darwin’s Theory for too long.

      I had been in Anchorage for a month or two, I was making some money, my bike was running well, and I could look back and suddenly realize that I was cool. I had rode my motorcycle to Alaska. Ok, it was not across the Saraha, or into the outer reaches of Russia. But it was cool none the less.
      Oh, I didn’t go and blurt to out to everyone I met, but if they asked how I got here, I would tell them, with pride in my voice.
      One night after work I went to a bar called The Pioneer with a coworker. I wish I could remember his name, but sadly it has escaped me. But we sat at the bar and talked. He was about my age, -late 20’s early 30’s- and he told me stories about living in Fairbanks. My favorite, was when the temperature dropped to a brain scarring 50 or 60 below zero. “The problem with that weather,” he said, “was that the beer you bought at the liquor store would freeze and burst on the walk home.” So he had to buy whiskey. Later I would assume it was Crown Royal.
      I told him of my motorcycle trip, feeling cool that I could tell someone about the journey. So he told me about his airplane. He told me about his little single engined airplane, and how he was out in the bush, and just when he was leaving the ground for take off, a big gust of wind came along and flipped over the airplane. It rolled a few times, broke off the wings, but he was fine. He had it trucked back to Anchorage, and it was sitting in a garage, until he got time to put it back together.
      Suddenly my intrepid trip on the motorcycle seemed puny in comparison. All my cockyness faded out of me, as I listened to his story.
      And I began to enjoy Alaska, where people do even stupider things than I.

Click here to read:
Road to Alaska: Section VIII

Posted in Writing: Travel: USA | Tagged , , , , | Comments Off on Road to Alaska: Section VII

Road to Alaska: Section VI

The Motorcycle

      When my motorcycle coughed, sputtered, coughed again, juddered, coughed a few more times, and finally rolled to a stop by the side of the road –half way up the AlCan- I thought it was because my motorcycle was jealous. Jealous of the cute little Yamaha 100 I had rented in Nepal the month before, and she was just now paying me back.
      Once on the side of the road, I looked for anything obviously wrong. Everyting seemed in it’s correct place, so I tried to start her. She started and ran perfectly.
      I continued down the road, thinking that it was just a little glitch, and wouldn’t happen again.
      My ’77 Yamaha XS750 was the top of the line sport bike of its day. Now it is just old, underpowered and overweight, but she fit me perfectly.
      The styling was moddled on the British bikes of the sixties. Long straight seat, upright handlebars, and an upright sitting position. The old time, simple way to ride a motorcycle, rather than te new style of leaning all the way over with your weight on your hands.
      This Yamaha is also a very tall bike, which suited my six foot three frame. With most other bikes I felt like my knees were around my ears.
      She had one other wonderful trait; she was simple. Engine, carbs, tires, brakes. No computers or modern do-dads, just the basics, which should make her easy to fix if there were any problems.

      As I rode down the road again, all my senses were working overtime waiting for the bike to stall again. I listened for a change in exhaust note, felt for a misfire, smelt for leaking gas, looked for problems.
      Well, almost all my senses, because I didn’t taste anything. That would just be wrong.
      She ran beautifully. Eventually I realized that it was just an odd hiccup that happens with machinery ever once in a while, and relaxed into the ride and the scenery again.
      She stalled later in the afternoon.
      I had spent a few years working as an auto mechanic, so I knew the problem must be in the fuel system. If there is an electrical fault, the vehicle will just die, there will be no warning, no cough, no sputter, just dead silence on the road. But because the bike sputtered its way to the side of the road it must be a fuel problem.
      But the fuel system was wonderfully simple. It was just a fuel tank, with two rubber hoses feeding the fuel by gravity to the carberators.
      It must be dirt in the carberators, I thought.
      By the side of the road, I checked the obvious things, and the bike started right up.
      It was an hour or two before she stalled again.

      The next day she stalled a few more times. So by the side of the road, in the middle of nowhere, I took the bottom off the carbs to search for dirt, I didn’t see any, put them back together, and she ran perfectly again.
      I thought she was fixed as she went the rest of the day without a hiccup.
      But the next morning it happened again.
      As I continued my journey, the bike stalled with no rhyme or reason. One hour it would stall three times, and then run perfectly for four hours.
      If only she would completely die and not restart. If this happened, I could find the culprit. But this intermittent problem made it impossible to diagniose.
      After a few days of checking the bike each time it stalled, I finally gave up. There was nothing I could do until it completely failed, so I just kept riding.
      I used the stalling bike as an excuse to take a break. Telling myself that it was good to get off the bike more often. It gave me time to listen to the land, smell the trees, drink a Mountain Dew, smoke a cigarette, and release the used Mountain Dew on a nearby tree.
      As I slowly got closer and closer to Anchorage, the stalling became worse and worse. By the time I was thirty miles from the city, I had to get off at every exit and wait a minute for it to restart. There is nothing like seeing the final destination after an 11 day journey, and not being able to get there.
      On those last few exits before Anchorage, I swore at my bike, I told her she was a piece of shit, not worthy of the scrap yard. I told her that I never wanted to ride her again. I even stupidly considered the idea to just leave her there and walk the rest of the way.
      But finally I was riding along Fifth Avenue, through Downtown Anchorage. The road went down a little hill and terminated at the water, just a few blocks from downtown. There was a little park, so I parked my bike and looked out over the water.
      I had made it, and suddenly all that tension that had been with me for the last few days, the tension of not knowing if the bike was ever going to start again melted away.
      I had arrived. And my bike had arrived.
      Now I could relax, because all I needed to do was find a place to live, a job, and hopefully some new friends.
      That night I stayed in a hostel, then a few weeks in a weekly motel, and then finally I found my little studio apartment, on Sixth Avenue, just one block from the little park where I spent my first few moments in Anchorage.

      Over the next few weeks I rode the bike around Anchorage searching for a job and a place to live. On almost every trip, the damn thing would stall. Each time, as I stood by the side of the speeding traffic, at those people with their wonderfully reliable vehicles, I would curse the day I bought her. When I was done cursing, she was start up again until the whole process would start again.
      During this time I had had the tank off the bike, cleaned out the petcocks, cleaned out the carberators (three times) and still had no idea of what was happening. I was at the point of throwing parts at the bike. Which never is a good idea. Throwing parts at a vehicle is a technical term mechanics use when they are stumped at what is wrong, and just start replacing parts until the problem goes away.
      This is never a good idea, because of Murphy’s Law states that you will spend an infinite amount of money on parts you don’t need to replace, only to find in the end that it was a simple two dollar do-dad.

      One afternoon, while stuck on the side of the road, I undid the bolt holding the gas tank down, pulled it up an inch, looked again for anything that could be wrong, and because I had been taking the tank on and off to try to fix the problem, left the bolt out.
      The bike ran fine. It stopped stalling and ran perfectly. What the hell was this? How could removing this bolt make the bike run better?
      Then, suddenly I knew what the problem was, and just as suddenly felt like a complete and utter idiot.
      In the motel parking lot, I inspected the little rubber hoses that I had changed just before leaving for Alaska. Each one was kinked ever so slightly and I knew what was happening.
      When I had replaced the hoses, I had made them a little bit longer so it was easier to lift up the fuel tank to get to the hose clamps, and that extra length made them kink and slowly cut off the fuel supply to the carberators.
      Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. This whole thing was my fault, and all that time I had been mentally yelling and screaming at the bike. I mentally apologized to her for my unfounded anger, patted the tank kindly with my hand, cut a quarter inch off each hose, and from them on, the bike ran wonderfully.

Click here to read:
Road to Alaska: Section VII

Posted in Writing: Travel: USA | Tagged , , , , | Comments Off on Road to Alaska: Section VI