ARC Posse

ARC Posse Cross Country Road Trip

June 1, 2008

Can you have nerve damage in your butt? Three weeks ago I wouldn’t have thought so, but today I’m not so sure. It’s been over 24 hours since I sat on that thing and I’m still sore in places no man should be sore.
Yesterday I spent hours removing bugs, dirt and grime. The oil was changed, the chain was cleaned and adjusted and a fresh layer of wax was applied. The poor thing looks hurt and neglected. Sitting still is not in its nature. Or mine, I think I’ll go for a ride.
The Short Story

There are 5878 miles between Portland, Oregon and Elkton, Maryland, but there could be a whole lot less (or a whole lot more) depending on how straight of a line you can draw. Some of us did ride more; Chris was still on the road after my machine was cleaned and ready for the next ride.
Some of us rode less. Brian and Bob were sleeping in their own beds after 2200 miles on the Interstate. The rest of us woke up in Kentucky after a like amount of back roads.
In those 6,000 miles, we ran through 15 states (Oregon, Washington, California, Nevada, Arizona, Utah, Colorado, New Mexico, Texas, Oklahoma, Missouri, Illinois, Kentucky, West Virginia, and Maryland) in 16 days.

Less than ten percent of that was spent on the Interstate, most of that cruelty happened on the last day. The rest was all back roads, local highways and the occasional goat trail.
There were no accidents or tickets though we were stopped as a group once. Well, most of us were stopped. There were two tip-overs and no shortage of wrong turns. There were no lost friendships even though there were a few squabbles.
We rode in heat near 100 degrees and cold near 30. Like the US Mail, neither rain nor snow stopped us from reaching the Grand Canyon, or home. There were crazy crooked roads that seemed to last forever and crazier straight ones that seemed to last longer.
There was one breakdown and one stop for new tires. We met hundreds of people. Most cheered us on in our journey, but some gave us the number one sign as we passed.
We stayed in comfortable places and others where I slept in my clothes. There was not a single fistfight, no one messed with our machines or tried to steal anything from us. We made it home intact with quite a few less dollars, but far richer than I expected.
The Even Shorter Story

Too many words? Click here for the video

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The Rest of the Story - Days 1 to 5

May 16, 2008 - Departure

Out of everything that had been said this trip wasn’t real to me until I saw my bike in the parking lot of the Holiday Inn Express in Portland, Oregon. This point was two years in the making, longer if you count the dreaming I did as a kid. But however you slice it this once in a lifetime adventure was about to start.

Clicking on any of the pictures in this document will open a higher resolution photo. Clicking on any of the riders (or the bike) in the picture above will bring up more info on each one of us.

Now we all paid a price to be here, shipping, airfare, time and effort planning and much more, but there was still one more fee to square up before we could get underway. Unfortunately it wasn’t as simple as throwing down a few bucks. Someone had to return the rental car. That meant someone had to be followed to the airport and return to the hotel on the back of a bike. In the interest of time I stepped up and took one for the team.
A week earlier I got myself into a similar situation and had to ride about three quarters of a mile on the back of Chris’ Harley. This was the first time I rode as a passenger and I screamed like a little girl. For the most part I had my eyes squeezed shut almost as tight as my grip on the handholds. The ordeal lasted all of a minute, maybe a minute and a half and contained two rights and one left turn. All I had to say when it was over is that my wife and both my kids have more guts then I’ll ever have.

Turns out Adrian was very considerate, but I still peed a little on the first entrance ramp. The experience wasn’t much unlike riding a small roller coaster. Only on this ride you noticed a few missing wheels and loose bolts before the car starts its decent down the first drop.
When I had my eyes open I caught a few glimpses of Mount Hood. It dominated the landscape like a second moon in an alien sky. Even when hidden from view I could still feel its pull.
About a week before, the ARC P gathered at my house so we could watch Wild Hogs. Everyone that had heard about our trip had asked if we had seen the movie. We figured this would be a good excuse to shoot some pool and throw back a few before we left.
With the movie in mind, as we're getting ready to leave the parking lot Bob gets a phone call. When he hangs up I pull out a cell phone and say, “Know what? Fuck this, I’m on vacation.”
I toss the phone across the parking lot where it broke into a few pieces. A few seconds later Chris pipes up and says, “You’re right. Vacation!” and smashes his against the wall of an adjacent building.
These were old phones Chris had laying around and no one else took the bait, but no one tried to pass me or made comments about the route the first day.

Mount Hood from Portland

Day One – Mount Hood, Barlow Pass and Gilchrist, OR

Finally on the road, we crossed into Washington and ran scenic Route 14 along the Columbia River towards Hood River Bridge and Barlow Pass. Barlow would be our first mountain pass and I don’t think anyone really knew what to expect. As we got closer the temperature dropped, the road got twisted and our pace increased. Soon there were patches of snow on the sides of the road and pull offs where you could stop and attach your tire chains.
The temperature then dropped a good twenty degrees and the white stuff lining our path was now much deeper. I considered stopping for warmer gear, but hoped the cold would leave as quick as it arrived. Mount Hood poked its peak through the trees every so often stealing my breath, but if we stopped for all the good photos we’d still be in Oregon.
A little further south and another pass or two later we ran into a ski resort. The road was supposed to continue on, but the guy I spoke with at the resort told me it would be another month before they could plow it. It was a good picture spot so we stopped for a few, and then backtracked towards another route.

Nearing 300 miles for the day we weren't going to make Crater Lake tonight. At the next gas stop the woman at the station recommended the Gilchrist Inn, which turned out to be a great score. We got suites for about $70, each of which had two or three bedrooms. I split a suite with Chris. The seperate bedrooms kept me from hearing any snoring so had no reservations doubling up with him later. That was a decision I’d come to regret.

What exactly may fall from the roof? It had to be near 70 degrees.

Mr Keith as Mr Chill outside of the ski resort in Oregon.

May 17, 2008 - Day Two – Crater Lake, Crescent City, CA

On the way to Crater Lake

Not this embankment, but the deer scaled one just like it.

The next stop would be Crater Lake. The ride was a mixed bag of in-town traffic, lonely straight roads, high-speed sweepers and one damn good section of tight, technical stuff. There were only a few incidents.
The northern entrance to Crater Lake was closed. But I’m a little skeptical of exactly what a closed sign means (more on that later), so I took the right onto Route 138 towards the north entrance anyway. Route 138 is laser straight for about four million miles and this choice made me very popular.
There was a left turn after Route 138 hits Route 230 which you could easily take at 120 MPH, but by then we all had forgotten how to turn and it took us off guard. Not long after that, Route 230 became somewhat interesting to ride and very scenic. At one point Adrian was out front and warned us of deer in the road. Of course I ignored him. We stopped to burn some film and soon after getting back on the road two deer attack from the right.
The first deer ran back to the right then straight up a 30-foot embankment. The embankment looked too vertical for anything to climb, it was incredible to see.
Not to be out done, deer number two paces us about 30 feet in front of me at a tick under 40 MPH. After about a quarter of a mile at the first blind right turn, the deer cuts in front of me and into the oncoming lane earning a nickname. Bob the deer then jumped over the guardrail and off to parts unknown.

Just Beautiful

More

Crater Lake Continued

It's hard to imagine so much water so still. Those aren't ripples on the surface but reflections of the clouds.

Keith's sister would have melted this snow.

The second incident happened after we paid the entrance fee to the park on the road up to the lake. This road was tight, relatively smooth and more or else free from debris. After following a crawling minivan through the first few turns I had enough and blasted by him and the car in front of them for good measure. Of course the next vehicle on the way down is a park ranger and I see brake lights in my mirror.
Adrian is near the back and I ask him over the radio to let me know if he is coming. I’m almost at the lake when I hear him say, “Here he comes.”
Arriving in the parking lot about 45 seconds before the ranger, I circled around a huge snow bank in an attempt to hide. After a lap and a half I see him continue on towards another part of the parking lot. I park the bike in the first available spot and jump off just as Chris pulls up beside me. “Hey man, sit on this thing for a second, will ya?”
Chris looks at me like I’m one of God’s special creatures just as the ranger comes back around the snow bank. It must have been a different ranger, as he didn’t even give us a second look. It’s a good thing too, because my attempt to get Chris to take the fall works about as well as our cell phone prank.

Crater Lake to Crescent City, California

The lake was incredible. It’s near 2000 feet at its deepest point and the water is as smooth as glass. It looked like a perfect place for water borne speed record attempts, but somehow I don’t think the locals would appreciate that.
Even without the ultra high horsepower watercraft the place was inspiring. One can only imagine what the first people that saw it thought. But everything in this state was damn near equal in its beauty. Those that live in Oregon are truly lucky people. That said, the whole experience was very bittersweet for me. To see this without my wife at my side left me as empty as the crater was full. I took a picture with my phone and sent it to her and the kids.
After a quick lunch we headed towards the coast and California. Some of the roads were great, Route 62 comes to mind, and some were unbearable like those that ran though Grants Pass. Then there was Route 199.
Not only did 199 bring us into Nirvana (California to those of you that just don’t understand), but this 70-mile stretch of asphalt had rapid sweepers, cockeyed switchbacks, elevation changes, giant Redwoods, other fantastic scenery, one tunnel and one dead Harley at its southern end.
Bob and I had gotten ahead of the pack and were blasting pretty good. After passing a few cars I didn’t think the rest of the group would be catching us anytime soon so we kept the coals burning and stopped where we were going to pick up 101 and head down the coast. We waited there for a good ten minutes before I started to get worried.

Although I had a signal, I got no response from anyone’s cell. After another 10 minutes my nerves started jumping. Finally I got through to Keith.
The Harley’s dead. The Harley’s dead 35 miles ago. Bob and I suit back up, and poor us, we have to run the best part of 199 again.

Adrian inspects the chrome thing-a-ma-bob while Chris positions himself for the tow truck driver.

Now I’m not trying to say I saved the day, but those slackers had a tow truck on its way and had given up. Knowing that Chris had let the dealer work on the bike recently, I was very confident that the problem was related to something the less than enthusiastic dealer employee did or didn't do. That seemed more plausable than some piece of electronics that had given up the ghost in the middle of the tunnel. Letting yet another apathetic lackey further dig into made no sense to me.
In a very short time we figured out it stopped running due to a lack of fuel, not ignition and not a dead computer. About 15 minutes later the problem, an incorrectly installed fuel line inside the tank, was fixed and Bob and I were running 199 for the third time.

Crescent City and Rapture

I took this one with the cell phone and sent it to my son Dean. We both have a thing for Cali.

By the time we hit Crescent City we were all beat, so instead of pushing on towards Fortuna where we were supposed to meet Roger of FZ1OA fame, we got dinner and a place to crash for the night. When I smelled the sea air I thought about the first dive trip Christine took me on and how much the kids like the beach. I was happy to be alone in my helmet for a while.
Later we had an unplanned meeting in one of the rooms where Adrian played bartender. We had Internet access and I showed the crew the funniest thing on the Internet and laughed uncontrollably. I'm not sure if everyone was laughing at me or the video, but by then it didn't matter to me either way.

At some point I said something to Brian that set him off, but for some odd reason I couldn’t stop laughing which seemed to make matters worse. Everything was OK between us the next day so I’m hoping he didn’t lose any sleep over it either.

Bob's bike was safe for the night. Not as funny as a cheese stick, but pretty damn close.

Day Three – Crescent City, Fortuna, Brown Bear Diner and Red Bluff

Growing up on Long Island where there are less scenic, twisty roads than in southern Florida I was experiencing sensory overload within the first five miles of 101 and the Redwood Park. I could go on and I likely will later, but if you can go there, do it, if you can move there even better. The earthquakes, mudslides, wildfires, insane real estate prices are all propaganda filmed in Hollywood to keep it from getting too crowded. But even if all that stuff was true the place is still paradise and worth these minor inconveniences.
On 101 we ran into some serious fog. It was thick and it was cold, but it didn’t last all that long. Some of the towns we passed though were boring and crowded, but they didn’t last long either. But before we found Route 36 towards Red Bluff, we found the Black Bear Diner.
It seemed like a good place to eat lunch and it was. The food was good, portions large and prices reasonable, but that isn’t what made this stop stand out. Everyone had parked and we were being seated when Chris walked in. He looked pissed. Not wanting anyone to be unhappy while riding in heaven I asked him if he was OK. “Yeah” he says shaking his head back and forth.
Then, “No!” pointing across the table at Bob.
“If you pass me in my lane one more time I’m going to kick your handlebars!” still pointing at Bob.

The place got quiet, but like everyone else I was watching the show at our table and didn’t notice what the other patrons were up to. It didn’t last long, Bob came back a few times without apologizing, but nevertheless Chris calmed down and we ate our meal. I don’t think Chris and Bob will be moving in together any time soon, but that was the worst of it for the rest of the trip.
After eating our fill and filling our machines we found Route 36 and made our way to Red Bluff. Thirty-six turned out to be another 199, which is to say it was a wonderful ride with a wide variety of challenges, changes, vistas and people.

And I thought my dog, a purebred chupracabra, was rare! We found this guy at a gas station on route 36.

While we made friends with the dog, Bob made friends with the owner and I learned a little bit about Bob.

May 18, 2008 - Day Three – onward to Red Bluff

At one of the gas stops we met the most interesting looking dog I have ever seen. He jumped out of the cab of a pickup ahead of its owner who happened to have only one leg. Almost everyone pet the dog and paid little attention to the owner’s missing limb, everyone except Bob. “Hey, what happened to you leg?” Bob drops like a burning bag of dog poop at someone’s front door.
The guy starts talking to Bob about being a logger and the accident that took his leg. They talk like old friends for a few minutes before the logger (yeah, he was still at it) goes into the store to finish his business. I told Bob he has quite the set, but he said, “No man, people like that want to talk about it. They want someone to ask them and not just stare like they are some kind of freak. You heard him.”

I did and Bob was right. It gave me a different perspective on that kind of thing and a different perspective on Bob. Amazing when people don’t fit into your preconceived notions, huh?
After the gas stop Adrian led us all on a brief dirt road journey, which I enjoyed more than I thought I would. I should have taken that as an omen, but just like “Road Closed” signs, I often miss these things.
As the day progressed the temperature increased and by the time we hit Red Bluff it had to be near 100 if not higher. Everyone was getting sloppy; some of us riding too fast for our own good. Route 36 was one of the most memorable 150 miles we rode to date, but even though it was hardly past lunchtime we called it a day.

Food and gas in the middle of nowhere on Route 36.

May 19, 2008 - Day Four – Creatures, Off Road and San Francisco

Creatures

Before we go any farther I need to explain something. I grew up on Long Island in one of the many suburbs of New York City. Wildlife to me was those little brown birds, squirrels and the ultra-rare rabbit. That’s it unless you want to count feral cats and stray dogs.
As a child I thought the world was covered in asphalt, and things like trees, hills and grass were all installed on top just like buildings and bridges. In my twenties I got into an argument with a guy at work who said his wife hit a deer. “There are no deer in the wild”, I told him, “Something else is going on with your wife.”
Any animal that couldn’t be taken out by a reverse punch or a roundhouse kick was to be feared, the bigger the creature the bigger the fear. Of course I went to zoos, but there all the dangerous animals like lions and llamas were kept in cages or behind sturdy fences.
The night before, Chris and I decided that we would break off from the group and try to find our way back to the coast by taking NF-4 (what kind of road is that?), which looked terribly twisted on the computer. The rest of the crew would find their way to Route 20, the PCH and we would all meet up in San Fran. Chris and I were also leaving an hour or more earlier.

The ride started off OK and after hitting a few dead ends we found a beautiful road through some farmland. Weird farmland if you ask me. There were no crops and the ground seemed way too uneven to try to plant and harvest any, but what do I know?

All too soon the pavement ended and road turned to gravel. We backed off a notch, but as I became more confident with my limited off road skills I picked it up some. The bike would slide and weave, but it was controllable and since I was out front and not eating dust like poor Chris I was having a ball.
I’m thinking about the Ulysses I almost bought last year and was wondering how those Diablo Corsas would work on my FZ1 in this stuff when I come around a right turn and there are two cows blocking the road.
Instincts kick in and all too soon both brakes are locked. Somehow I manage to stop the bike without dropping it, but it is listing heavily to the left. I'm on the wrong side of the road, but getting hit by a car is the least of my worries.

They are staring at me. I feel like I just took a wrong turn off the highway into a rough neighborhood where the locals are conducting business.
There are more of them on the hills to either side, but these two are close, maybe 30 feet separate us. The brown one on the left reminds me of the tanker in the movie "Duel" and I'm feeling a lot like Dennis Weaver's Valiant. They are almost end-to-end leaving me no room to slip behind them. If I were crazy enough I might fit between them, but I don’t see that happening in my crystal ball.
My hand starts to cramp from holding the clutch, my heart is pounding in my ears. The bike is still in third so I can’t just dump the clutch, spin it around and retreat. I consider letting the clutch go then jumping and running. Hopefully the bike would stay upright for a while providing a diversion and giving me a chance to get away. But I know I’d get caught up on the bags, fall on my ass and be at their mercy. Besides, can a human outrun a cow? I'm no Jesse Owens.
The one on the right tilts its head; it’s jaws grind side to side in a menacing manner. The one on the left shifts a bit and swings its tails in an arc almost hitting the other one in the face. Neither of them reacts, but I know they are sizing me up.
With my clutch hand going numb I manage to get my thumb off the grip and on the push-to-talk button on the radio. I try to speak and nothing comes out. I try to swallow and it hurts, my left leg on which the bike is leaning starts to shake.

When I was kid of maybe ten or eleven, a friend and I walked to the bowling alley. It was near the school which was not in the best part of town. Robert and I made our way there by cutting through the woods and like most kids, were too busy to pay attention to what was going on around us. We ran into three kids from the high school looking for trouble. Lucky for us we were too small for them and after a little hassle they let us pass. I didn’t think I’d be so lucky this time.
I thumb the button again, “Chris”, comes out as a croak.
Those dead, black eyes of the land sharks continue to drill. “Chris, where are you man? I need some help here.”
There is no response. It’s been long enough that he should have been here by now. I wonder if others have worked their way around the back side of these hills and have gotten him while I was distracted. The vision of his Hawg lying on its side while a cow crushes his bones fills my mind. The one on the left takes a step towards me and I feel like crying.
A white blur goes by on my right. Chris stops within 15 feet of them and their attention is no longer on me. I pounce on the opportunity and kick the bike into first. Chris turns and looks at me, on the radio I hear, “What’s the matter man?”
“C-c-cows”

I hear him laugh, then he spins that V-twin up to three or four grand and the cows bolt to the left and up a hill. I’m not sure if they will continue over the crest and try to flank me or if they are heading for reinforcements, but I waste no time spooling up the motor and with the rear tire spewing gravel I shoot through the spot they vacated to escape. Over the radio Chris says, “I guess loud pipes do save lives.”

My Hero, The Fearless Cow Killer

Off Road

At some point the gravel gives way to that chip and seal stuff and we pass a small sign that reads the road to Covelo is closed. "Road Closed", right. I don’t believe it and besides, we’re going to San Fran, not Covelo.

One of the many turns on NF-4 going up the mountain. I'm pretty sure you can see Philly from here.

The chip and seal feels like a race-prepped track compared to the gravel. But as the elevation goes up, the turns get tighter and apparently California doesn’t think guardrails are of much use on such a road.
After about a half hour we stop and discuss turning back, but neither of us thinks that is a good idea. We repeat that conversation at least three other times, but each time we decide to push on. I can’t tell you how nice it is to travel with a like-minded individual.
After a bit the road conditions worsen and before long we’re traveling in dirt. There are a few obstacles that make me miss my Jeep, but we press on. The FZ1 made it over two trees, but I had to dismount and hold the second one back while Chris rode his Off Road King through.

What is a better chain lube, dirt or WD-40? I used both here.

Dead Kenny Mule Camp?

Eventually we came to an AWD Subaru that had gotten stuck. We got by that car only to be thwarted by a wall of snow not a 1/8 mile later. We tried an alternate route, but a huge tree blocked that path and again I missed the Jeep.

At this point we were about three hours and 48 miles into our journey on gravel and dirt and had no other choice but to backtrack and start over. It’s been hard going, some of it like getting by that Subaru, serious work. But three hours later we’re having lunch in a diner about 20 minutes south of Red Bluff.
Six grueling hours and a hundred miles off the pavement to get 20 minutes down the road. It was one of the best rides I’ve ever taken.

All wheel drive? Not without some kind of locker buddy.

You need the right vehicle to get through this stuff.

A few hours later, we find this display on a fence.

ARC-P boyee!

San Francisco

After lunch we enjoyed the malice and spite that is I-5. Flat, devoid of turns, full of wind, trucks, buffeting and heat we blasted our way south in an effort to catch up with the rest of the crew on the streets of San Francisco.

At Route 20 we ditched I-5 and headed for the coast. It was interesting until we hit Clear Lake where the traffic tripled and the speed dropped in half. At a gas stop Chris plugged some guy’s tire so he didn’t have to run his donut on his already overloaded minivan. He really is a nice guy when he’s not snoring.
While he did that, I soaked up some A/C, Gatorade and the voices of my wife and kids on my cell. I was beat enough to stop there, but Chris was down to get to San Fran tonight so we pushed on.
Due to the now late hour we took Highway 101 instead of the Pacific Coast Highway and is one of the few things that I regret about this trip. Nevertheless we cut the 120 miles down to about an hour and change as the speed limit was way up and the people of motorcycle friendly San Fran are happy to get out of your way.
We crossed the Golden Gate Bridge in fog so thick you couldn’t see more than 15 feet up the towers and none of the water. I guess we'll have to come back another day.
The cars in San Fran actually move so you can split lanes. It’s a good thing too, as Chris' Street Glide is about as wide as a Prius, which is almost as wide as the FZ1 with the Givi cases. We continue to slice up traffic arriving in Palo Alto where we finally meet Roger and Erik from the FZ1OA. I am a long way from Long Island.

May 20, 2008 - Day Five – Alice’s, Dale Walker and the Big Blowout

Big tree? Nah, say hello to my little friend.

Alice, Dale and Places in Between

Roger showed up at our hotel and led us on a great ride. We had breakfast at the world famous Alice’s Restaurant taking some very technical roads to get there. I heard a little grumbling about the road surfaces and for about the millionth time I thanked Lee at Traxxion Dynamics for the work he did on my forks and the shock out back. There wasn’t any harshness or slipping going on during my ride making the suspension upgrade the best coin I’ve spent to date.
After a damn good breakfast Roger gave us another tour. We saw the coast, we saw mountains, we saw giant trees and we even saw some highway. I can’t imagine what it would be like to live out here. Everyday the weather is prefect, the roads rock and people in cars aren’t out to get you. I would never go to work.
Keith arranged a tour of Dale Walker’s shop for us and while we were there Adrian decided to get a set of slip-ons for his FJR. We left Adrian and his new BFF, Dale, to install his pipes and headed out with Roger to find some more roads.

You can get anything you want? I would have loved to have seen my wife and kids, but that wasn't on the menu.

Get back in there and bake some cookies.

This goes on forever

Imagine riding along here

Just another day...

The Big Blowout

When we got back to the hotel everyone was going to a Mexican joint for dinner, but since that food isn’t part of my diet I was going to meet everyone over there after I found some gas station hot dogs or some other fine eating.
Once I arrived I got a beer and started talking to Roger about the route to Death Valley, how long it takes to cross and when we need to be out of there so we don’t melt. I notice that Brian is looking upset and ask him what is wrong. “I’m trying to hold my tongue”, he says.
“Don’t do that man, let it out.” I tell him.
“Well, if that is the way you want to live your life, that’s fine, but don’t force it on everyone else!” he snaps at me.
I feel like I just walked into a movie that has been running for a half hour. I had no idea that the rest of the crew had decided to either skip Death Valley or at least crossing it at night as we originally planned. But I think the real issue was that as we neared 3,000 miles we were still in California and had made no eastward progress since pulling out of Portland five days earlier. Brian was a little on edge.
We talked and after a bit he realized I had no way of knowing what they had discussed before I got there and we were still on the loose schedule we set before starting the trip.

Back at the hotel we had another meeting about the next day’s route. Instead of laughing like in Crescent City, the mood was grim. Bob and Brian wanted to make some eastward progress. Instead of crossing Mount Hamilton and taking Mines road we were going to slab it south, then east. This was so we could get to Panamint Springs before the end of day six.
Then before I knew it Adrian and I are screaming at each other. He was pissed that Chris and I broke off the day before. What he didn't know was that Chris and I were considering spending another day in the San Francisco area.
Adrian winds up leaving the room stating that he and Bob are breaking off tomorrow and will find their own way back home. After a few I asked Keith to talk Adrian into coming back, which he did. We worked things out and stuck together. Then everyone went to their rooms and crashed.
About an hour later Chris woke me up. While Adrian’s snoring is all about making inhuman noises (About a year ago I split a room with Adrian only to be woken in the middle of the night by an attack from a Sleestak.), Chris is about sheer volume. For some reason Chris didn’t snore the last three nights, but tonight he made up for it big time.
After a basically sleepless night I told Bob the next day I was bunking with him going forward.

Click here for part 2