Evan’s Lake looked a lot better in the morning, the clouds cleared while I composed and transposed. Alone in the motel coffee was an issue, eventually I made if for myself in the machine by the reception hatch and squelched across the lawn to a bench by the lake. A couple out fishing my only company, I pondered the road, the increasing chance of breakdown and considered staying put, the coffee was good.
Obligate ram ventilators, the majority of sharks, must keep moving or drown.
Not sure how many miles are left before the Guzzi throws in the towel, the fight is going out of me too, I stopped at the first ‘Auto Part’ store and bought oil and a funnel. The dipstick was still touching oil, just. I fed her half a litre.
Ohio, to my knowledge, has no scenic overlooks. Route 20 had stuck in my road-numbed mind and I followed it into Norwalk stopping there to choose a destination. I have to get her back to Newark and into a crate but will she hold out for some extra miles, will I hold out for some extra days?
I settle for ‘Geneva On The Lake’ (presumably unlike the other Geneva) and endure Cleveland. Shiny and shitty the towers gleam but the road through the less well heeled districts deteriorates to the point where sections are actually missing and the poor old girl has to descend and climb steep, rim cracking, 8″ steps. Just as well the speed limit is 35mph for miles and miles, that equates to 40 on the speedo, exactly the rate at which the forks bounce and the bars shake.
I stop and try to tweak the pressure in the forks and eventually vent them to atmosphere to at least have them equal. Another problem to be addressed, I vow to investigate wheel balancers once I’m back in Blighty.
Geneva on the lake or GOTL as the signs prefer, is not what I expected. A party town where they paved paradise and put up a ‘Bar & Grill’. the ‘strip’ has privatised access to the the shore, surely the reason that people come here in the first place. I walked the length of it to find a spot to watch the Sun’s departure.
Retreating towards the motel, a time capsule that few would open, I found ‘Hoss’s Saloon’ which at least had the decency to be frequented by authentic locals engaged in the tourist trade. “It’s a long strange trip, it’s all insane, you ain’t never going to be the same” played on the juke box.
Le Mans man 