Tag: Pennsylvania

The Harley-Davidson Tradition Mural – York, Pennsylvania

The Harley-Davidson Tradition Mural – York, Pennsylvania

the harley-davidson tradition mural in york, pa

The Harley-Davidson Tradition

York, Pennsylvania is home to many wonderful murals scattered around the city. One, in particular, caught my eye. The mural is called The Harley-Davidson Tradition and was painted by Michael Svob in 1996.

As you can imagine any public art related to motorcycling tugs at my heartstrings. After discovering it somewhere on the internet, I immediately pinned the location of the mural on to my huge Google map of things to see in hopes that one day I would do just that.

York has been home to a Harley-Davidson plant since 1973. The plant offers tours on which visitors can get a glimpse of the assembly and manufacturing process.

In 1973, Harley-Davidson moved its final assembly plant to the York area, transforming a factory that had made bombs and bowling balls into the birthing room for an American icon. Presidents Ronald Reagan and Bill Clinton visited the plant while they were in office, as do tens of thousands of tourists each year. Many of them also make a pilgrimage to the Harley mural.

History in the Painting: The Murals of York Bring 250 Years of American Stories to Colorful Life

If you’d like to visit The Harley-Davidson Tradition mural, this Google Map link will help you find your way:
https://goo.gl/maps/v2EWPjZpXby

Pennsylvania: Double Mail Pouch Barn Goodness

Pennsylvania: Double Mail Pouch Barn Goodness

Just a hop, skip and a jump up the road from Pennsylvania’s great welcome sign, I serendipitously saw a double Mail Pouch barn. Aside from the two visible sides in the picture, the small barn also had a Mail Pouch ad on the side facing the big barn.

I seem to say that word a lot; serendipitously. But that’s how it feels when one of the uncommon things that I appreciate makes itself known to me. Sometimes it feels like I was meant to see it. Maybe I just have my antenna up and tuned in to my interests all the time.

Location:
https://goo.gl/maps/Pgg2rdmrMeJ2

The View from Bark Road – Sideling Hill Summit

The View from Bark Road – Sideling Hill Summit

When riding along Route 30 in Pennsylvania, there is an easily missed road called Bark Rd. at the Sideling Hill Summit. The reason I know it’s easily missed is because I’ve passed it a dozen time without ever venturing down.

These photos are a throwback to a trip that I took in September 2017.

Sometimes I’ll scan through my picture folders and think, why didn’t I ever post those? And the reason is usually some weird rule that I’ve established for myself. That absurd rule is ~ if the trip wasn’t in the near past, then no one will care. Weird, right? Who would ever know they weren’t recent? AND! What difference does it make?

I’m going to chalk it up to conditioning from the immediacy of social media. And I’m also going to start posting stuff I’ve seen and never shared, regardless of the timing.

It was a gorgeous morning when I ventured down the road. I didn’t know what I’d find. The view of the curve of the Earth was worth it.

As I walked back to my bike, I was greeted by a friendly smile perched on a tree stump.

Good day, sunshine.

Bark Road
Harrisonville, Pa.
Google Maps

Would You Like to See My Sweet Caboose?

Would You Like to See My Sweet Caboose?

Sleeping in a caboose is one of the items that has been on my life’s To Do list for many years. How it ended up there, at this point I can’t say. It’s not like I’m not a railroad fanatic or anything. No doubt I stumbled across the existence of a caboose motel and said fun! and the idea stuck around.

When I woke up on Saturday morning, I hadn’t planned on that being that day that I would sleep in a caboose. But, a few cups of coffee and 200 miles later, I found myself in the belly of the Reading caboose #21. ::shrug::


Sadly, my car isn’t as photogenic as my motorcycle.

Upon check-in at the Red Caboose Motel, the friendly desk clerk addressed me as if there were an “us,” a “you guys” and a “you all.” As you might imagine, this place is popular with families, so I don’t blame her.

“Have you guys stayed with us before?”
“Nope, first time.”
“Well, welcome aboard! Woo woo!”

Yep. She really woo-wooed, pulling the imaginary cord that sounds the horn. It’s nice when people are excited about life.

If I had to guess, a lot of solo 40-something women don’t come wheeling into the caboose motel on a Saturday night. And so I didn’t bother to correct her on my non-us-ness. About an hour later when I saw her again, she said cheerfully said, “is everything okay with you guys in your caboo… you’re alone, aren’t you. Sorry. Habit.” I’m starting to get a complex. You can’t make this stuff up.

As I said, this motel is very family friendly. It has an arcade, a silo observation tower, playground, buggy rides, ice cream and a few barnyard animals for petting.

Though I felt a little out of place with no kidlet of my own, I spent some time at the animal pens with the mini horses. As gaggles of children descended to tug on animal ears and manes – there I was, trying to telepathically communicate with the animals. I felt it was important that they knew that I was only there to love them up gently and that they should stay with me ‘cuz I love them best.

But apparently, they don’t have time for small talk, even if telepathically, when you don’t come with 25¢ worth of yum-yum pellets from the vending machine. I never seem to have any change when I actually want it.

While trying to make nice with a fuzzy gray horse, I watched the families at the other end of the corral. Looking on, I wondered why any parent would just allow their tiny toddler to put their deliciously chubby digits into some strange animals face unobserved.

Maybe I’m overly cautious, but it seems to me that when your two-year-old is touching an animal that is at least four times their size, you might want to put your fucking phone down and pay attention. I watched one dad yap nonstop on his phone while his little girl, face plugged with a pacifier, ran up and down along the fence “petting” the other mini horses. Later on, I heard crying and the words “…is a nipper,” floating above the general conversation. Oh, well.

People move in and out of my office all day tugging at my attention. Maybe if I start biting they’ll leave me alone, too.

The interior of my Queen Couples caboose looked like a tiny log cabin. It was clean and comfortable with cable, WiFi, a table to write at, a microwave, comfortable bed, and no funny smells. As nighttime inked the sky black, the wind outside picked up. The lack of insulation in the train was apparent in both the noise and the occasional draft. Not that it was bothersome, just something I was aware of. It felt like a reminder that I was sleeping in unusual quarters.

I enjoyed the novelty of my stay in the caboose. Seeing them all lined up, end to end with their candy colors brings out a child-like cheerfulness. It was worth the trip.

The Red Caboose Motel
312 Paradise Lane
Ronks, PA 17572

Party of One – Wednesday Night in Breezewood

Party of One – Wednesday Night in Breezewood

In the past couple of years, I’ve cruised through the town of Breezewood, Pennsylvania a handful of times. Not because I was seeking it out, but just… because. If you’re riding along Route 30, it just happens. One minute you’re buzzing through nothing much and then whammo! You’re smack in the middle of a kaleidoscope of chain restaurants, hotels and gas stations.

Breeeeeeeeeezewood. There is something so lovely about the name. I imagine walking through waist-high grass wearing a floppy straw hat, with the wind tumbling the ends of my hair in Breezewood. The sun would gently kiss your golden tanned shoulders in Breezewood. You can twirl and twirl and fall down laughing under a bright blue sky in Breezewood. In truth, you’re more likely to have to scrape off the hot gum you stepped in, on the edge of the curb, in Breezewood.

As a northeastern suburbanite, the presence of so many chain establishments isn’t in and of itself strange. It’s more the juxtaposition of traveling along the bucolic rolling hills of Route 30 into an entire town that is essentially a highway rest area that is a shock to the system. Then there is the matter that Breezewood, as crazy as it sounds, is the onramp between I-70 and the PA Turnpike.


photo source – Wikipedia

On my way home from West Virginia, I found myself at both the proverbial and actual crossroads in Breezewood. I’d already logged 300+ miles in the saddle for the day. And since it was near dinner time, I was faced with a dilemma: do I continue home, knocking out another 300+ miles on the slab -or- just pack it in for the night and continue on the following morning? Something about the Bonneville helps me find my take it easy vibe and so I opted to stay in franchise-heaven.

Every motorcyclist who passes through town must ask if they can park beneath front door canopy of the Holiday Inn Express. While checking in, the girl at the desk made sure to include that I needed to park my motorcycle in an actual parking space in the stream of instructions that she recited by rote. I’m not even sure she took a single breath as the words flowed forth and she pointed to the direction of the elevator.

After getting settled and having a shower, I decided to set off on foot to grab some dinner. The nearest restaurant was a place called Bob Evans. I’d seen the name scrawled in cheerful white letters many times on highway attraction signs so I figured – what the hell.

Not knowing what to expect I was surprised to find that I had to run the gauntlet of impulse purchasing before finding the person who would seat me for dinner. If you told me that their retail maze lost three elderly ladies to starvation each week, I wouldn’t be surprised.

“Dearest Henry,

I am writing this from a makeshift shelter that I fashioned out of tea towels with wine grapes embroidered on them.

Things here at the Bob Evans gift shop aren’t looking good. Somehow I got separated from the group. One minute we were looking at miniature license plates and monogrammed umbrellas and the next thing I know I was wandering alone in a vast sea of Intercourse and Blue Ball shot glasses.

My dear, I fear the worst. Go on without me.

Ever yours,
Margaret”

Needless to say, the front of the restaurant was a store full of useless, folksy junk. The upside, of course, is that if I ever find myself in the market for a t-shirt that says “You are the bacon to my eggs,” or a jelly for any occasion, well, now I know where to go. Though at my age, my eggs just want to be left the hell alone.

What I’ve come to realize is that I really don’t like chain “diner” food. Cracker Barrel, Denny’s, Bob Evans, Waffle House… they all have a loyal following but the appeal is lost on me. Their food is meh, at best. Some towny diner’s omelet will always be better but how much of that better-ness can be attributed to the ambiance, I can’t say. I suppose like my penchant for Holiday Inn Express, people find comfort in knowing what they’re in for each time.

When the host made his way to the podium to seat me, he grabbed a single menu out of the stack and said with pitying flair that arced up to a squeak on the end, “just onnnne?” Indeed, Chip, it’s just me, a party of one at a Bob Evans in Breezewood, Pennsylvania at 8 pm on Wednesday. Maybe I should start saying No, party of two and then motion to an imaginary friend.

As a solo diner, you get to be a fly on the wall. As you sit in your silence the conversations that go on around you find their way to your ears. Because you aren’t focused on anyone across the table from you, your eyes are free to roam around the room and take in things that are overlooked when you have company.

When traveling, I like to bring my notebook to dinner. While unwinding from the day’s constant motion I try to record whatever I can remember. I find it therapeutic.

Have I ever told you that I have a deluded fantasy life? In it, I am far more interesting and important than I am in my real life. I like to pretend that everyone notices me writing and that they’re dying to know what I’m writing about. There are two stock fantasy people who write in my notebook at dinner – the novelist and my go to: the food critic. I don’t even know why that idea appeals to me. It’s ridiculous, really, especially considering the places I find myself dining. The Moons Over My Hammy had a slightly smoky flavor with a smooth finish.

When the waitress sauntered over to take my order, she said, “is it just you tonight, honey?” (what is it with these people?)

As I ate and scribbled, I watched the goings on of the restaurant. At the table closest to me was a couple in their late 60s, maybe early 70s. Throughout their whole meal, I didn’t see them exchange a single word. Not. One. And while it could be that they’ve elevated in their relationship to be able to enjoy a comfortable silence together, I projected my own feelings on what I saw. It was like two people sleepwalking. And at that moment, I realized though I was alone, I was not lonely.

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