Arriving home in Dutchtown, Louisiana late Friday evening, I had previously packed up my bike ready to go with a few exceptions such as toiletries and a camera. Gary had worked hard on Dot for the past few days hoping it would be in perfect running order. He too had packed up anticipating an early start Saturday morning. Here's pretty much how it went.
Let me set this up. Gary is my brother-in-law (wife's brother) and rides a 1986 Harley-Davidson Sportser named Dot. She has over 43,000 miles on her. Me, I ride Boudreaux, a 2005 Harley-Davidson Softail. Trust me, it's not that soft and Boudreaux had 35,849 miles on the odometer when we left. Both bikes had fresh oil changes.
Day 1, Saturday, August 7: Gary chose to spend the night at my house but neither he nor I could sleep, so we made a pot of coffee, drank a few cups and woke Darlene to tell her we were gone.
We hit Baton Rouge in the dark and as we crossed over the I-10/12 split, I noticed gary was not behind me. Going down to the next exit, I called him on his cell phone. He explained he was on the overpass broken down. Circling back, I found Gary working on Dot's carburetor. A screw had backed off the swing pin that held the float in Dot's carburetor. I being a very good flashlight holder, held the light while Gary dismantled and made the repairs as trucks whizzed by. He got his bike started but would prove to die in traffic two more times (once on top of the Mississippi bridge) before we got it working right.
Taking I-10 to Lafayette, we turned north on I-49. About 10 miles out of Shreveport, he signaled that he was on his reserve port of his tank. Figuring he had another 20 miles, we figured it was a piece of cake because of the closeness to Shreveport. Wrong. Within 5 miles, Dot came to rest at the Southern Loop exit on I-49 so I rode down to the next exit where I bought a small gas container and a gallon of gas to get Gary off the highway.
By noon, we had gassed back up, eaten lunch and was on I-20 headed into Texas. When we turned north at Tyler on the way to Sherman, the temperature had gotten well into the triple digits and we both swore we had not been that miserable in recent history. That night, we stayed in a hotel in Ardmore where we fought cramps caused from minor dehydration. That was around 600 miles the first day.
Day 2, Sunday, August 8: On the road north toward Wichita, the float pin came lose out of Dot's carb again right in the middle of Oklahoma City. After a quick repair, we were back on the road to Salina, KS. Temperatures began to climb again and by the time we had turned west on I-70 we were back into the triple digits again. As we gassed up in Hays, the hotel and bank signs all boasted of 109 to 110°F. Although we stopped often, it was even more miserable temperature wise than Texas and Oklahoma.
Headed west on I-80, Gary pulled over at a rest area from heat exhaustion. We were 5 miles out of Cozad, Nebraska but he didn't think he could ride on so I hid Dot in the bushes, called a cab and got him to a hotel room. Then I led the cabby to the hotel where I deposited Gary, got in the cab and went back to retrieve Gary's bike. Getting Gary and myself re-hydrated, we rested but during the night, the cramps were even worse for both of us and we were both up hurting and walking to keep our leg and stomach muscles from knotting up. We kept waking each other up with the moans as new cramps hit us. Today was another 600 mile day.
Day 3, Monday, August 9: With another 450 miles or so, we're supposed to arrive in Sturgis today. We caught a little rain just south of Rapid City. Where was that rain in Texas, Oklahoma, Kansas and Nebraska? Just as we arrived at the Katmandu Campground, Gary discovered a leak in his gas tank, caused from the tank touching part of the frame and rubbing a hole in it. After establishing our campsite, we removed the tank and located the leak. I rode back to Rapid City and bought some sandpaper and JB Weld for a repair in the morning. From the picture, you'll notice the railroad about 50 feet away. When the first train came through, it woke me and made me think there was something gosh awful happening around me. The second and third ones didn't produce that much fear and realized God's wrath on mankind and me in particular had not yet been poured out.
Day 4, Tuesday, August 10: Gary sanded the tank down and applied the quick drying JB Weld so by noon, we found that the leak was fixed. Ahhh....success! We took the campground bus into town for a brief visit to Sturgis. Even though we only stayed in town a couple of hours, it was more than enough. The place was full of characters and we didn't want to add to the population.
Day 5, Wednesday August 11: Gary discovered that several teeth were missing from his sprocket, so we rode into Sturgis and bought a new one.
From there, we rode through the scenic route down to Mt Rushmore. We both thought we had never seen so many motorcycles on the road at the same time. Often, we found ourselves in highway traffic creeping along at 5 to 10 mph.
Mt Rushmore was very interesting and enjoyable experience, When we left, we took the less than scenic route through Rapid City but within 5 miles of the campground found that the interstate traffic had completely stopped for an hour while the fire department got the fire on an 18 wheeler under control. That night, we rode the campground bus back into Sturgis for dinner. Like the night before, we were only there a couple of hours. Bringing it back, we decided to go back into town but this time, we chose to ride the bus from the campground to check out the nitwittery of Sturgis. We were not disappointed because it seemed that every outrageous personality in 50 states and several other countries had all converged in the Black Hills. There was even a wedding back at the campground.
Day 6, Thursday, August 12: We installed the new sprocket but failed to account that it was larger and required a longer chain, so I zipped back to J&P Cycles for a new one. Traffic was still outrageous. While we were at it, I bought brake fluid for Boudreaux since my brakes were feeling a little mushy. That afternoon, we completed the sprocket/chain installation and the brake bleeding and cleaned up for another bus ride into Sturgis for dinner. The bus goes into town every hour on the hour allowing for brief visits. We could have just as easily eaten at the campground but thought if we'd ridden over 1,600 miles for an event, we should at least go into town for it.
Day 7, Friday, August 13: Packing up to leave Sturgis, anticipating a 400 mile ride into Boseman, MT. Ran into a little rain and found a campground there. Since we were going to get an early start the next day, we pitched only one tent. By now, we had gotten rid of the sleeping pads, finding that they really didn't do much more for us if we chose a grassy spot to tent up.
Day 8, Saturday, August 14: A damp start but planned on 450 miles to Sandpoint, Idaho. We found ourselves in super fast traffic going down mountain slopes and sometimes pushing limits on speed that flatlanders usually don't experience. The interstate between Missoula and Coeur D'Alene was one of the most twisty 4 lanes I've seen in my life and certainly the wildest I've seen on two wheels. Traffic flowed at 65-70 mph but it felt like 120. We found a camp north of Coeur D'Alene and just south of Sandpoint.
Day 9, Sunday, August 15: We rode into town to reconnect with some of Gary's old relationships. After a few minutes, I dismissed myself and rode back into Coeur D'Alene for some motorcycle oil and took a brief ride over into Washington. After returning back to the campsite, we rested until late afternoon and changed oil in both bike so we'd be ready for our southern return Monday.
Day 10, Monday, August 16: Taking the very scenic route 200 from Sandpoint to Missoula, MT, we were amazed at the beauty along the rivers and lakes. After reaching I-90 in Missoula, we turned east. About 50 miles out, we stopped for gas at a little one horse town. As we were fueling up, I watched a very old lady trying to do something under her older van. I moved my bike away from the pumps and asked if I could help. Her tailpipe was completely gone and the muffler was dragging. I could not get up under the low van and didn't have the right tools to remove the muffler anyway. Begging a piece of baling wire from a rancher, I managed to haywire the muffler to the frame so she could travel. It should also be noted, we were a couple of doors down from the "outlaw" biker clubhouse of the Mongols but they didn't offer to invite us in for lemonade. Perhaps we looked way too clean cut. Just as well. Onward toward Bozeman.
Day 11, Tuesday, August 17: Leaving the KOA Kampground at Belgrade/Boseman, we headed south toward Yellowstone. Yellowstone was a delight, showing us waterfalls, steaming mud geysers, various wildlife and beauty beyond our belief. At one point, Gary was in the lead when we rounded a curve to find stopped cars. A bison was ambling down the middle of the road and had zero concern about getting out of the way. As cars would ease by, Gary was up next but thinking the buffalo might confuse him and his bike for another snorting beast, he did a U turn in the road and went back to a turn-out to wait out the animal. I was no dummy either.
As we climbed grades, Gary noticed that his clutch seemed to be slipping badly but it did OK if he was easy on it.
No available campgrounds in the park, we had to travel down int the Flagg Ranch in the Tetons National Park to find a tent site. Along the way, we saw even more buffalo, Canadian Geese and Wild American Tourists. I also saw a bull elk and small deer.
Day 12, Wednesday August 18: Brrrr...the 40°F limits on our sleeping bags were tested. Heading back up to Old Faithful and just inside Yellowstone again, Gary finds that the clutch simply will not take the high hills again. With no more adjustment available, we make the decision to try to get to a town. Jackson, WY is about 75 miles away, so we turn back south through the Tetons. Fortunately, there were not many hills to climb and would build up enough speed to make it over the few we did come to. Frankly, the scenery along that highway between Yellowstone and Jackson Hole was ever bit as pretty as Yellowstone.
Arriving at a fuel stop in Jackson Hole, he says he doesn't think it will go much further. Looking for solutions and motorcycle parts, we stopped at a Harley shop and finding it nothing but a T-shirt shop. They informed us there were no parts even close to there and even if we had to have something shipped in, there probably was no one there that had the equipment nor expertise to help us repair it. We made the sad decision at that time to abort the ride and to begin looking for a rental truck to get his bike home.
After wrangling with the U-Haul people in Jackson, we located a small truck 177 miles away in Diamondville, Wyoming so I made a quick ride though some mountains and some of the most desolate areas I've seen in my life. I went miles and miles without seeing so much as a single tree. Arriving at Diamondville, I rented the truck, loaded Boudreaux in the back and drove 2½ hours back to Jackson Hole where Gary had gotten us a motel room.
Day 13, Thursday August 19: We loaded Dot up with Boudreaux and began a marathon trip back to Louisiana. We stopped only for gas and a brief visit with my cousin Dan and his wife, Linda in Ft Collins. I wish we had more time because I had not seen them in 5 years but conversations resumed like it had been the day before. After a couple of hours, we headed back south through Denver, to the east to Limon and south into the panhandle of Oklahoma, switching between driving and resting.
Day 14, Friday, August 20: Traveling through the night, we saw daylight in Amarillo, Texas and eventually arrived at home in Louisiana at 10:30 pm.
Even though our adventure had not ended as we had planned, at least we didn't have to fight the heat through Oklahoma and Texas. My trip meter read 3,903 miles but Gary disputes that saying his is about 5 or 6 hundred less. However, I'm sticking to my electronic odometer reading and since I'm writing this, I claim the accuracy. Would I do it again? Yes, absolutely but not tomorrow.
Since the 1970's I've watched my hairline slowly inch back then become thinner on top and performed amazing tricks to hide it. I've been known to fluff it, perm it, swirl it, tease it and glue it down with a half can of hairspray but I knew eventually, none of these things would help.
I remember somewhere around the year of 2000, I was walking along near my office, when a gust of wind hit me in the face. The front of my hair had been swirled around and loaded up with hair spray to cover the male pattern baldness. As the blast hit me in the face, it lifted up in the manner that wind would lift the convertible top off a car if it had not been locked down. What was more embarrassing was I was meeting another guy face to face and his reaction was a mild grin when he saw the lift.
As time went on, and the hair became thinner, I began to shorten it and finally it came down to a buzz cut a few months ago.
Now, the final and last in the progression is the ultimate shaved head. Last week, I took the plunge, slapped a double handful of Barbasol on the top of my head and took out my trusty Trac III razor and did the deed. It's a truly liberating experience but it could possibly turn into a high maintenance ordeal because I will have to shave it every time I shave my face.
Gary and I have been planning a trip to Sturgis, SD for a while now to coincide with the ever so famous Sturgis Motorcycle Rally. Our plans are to leave August 7 for as much as 3 weeks in the northwest. So, to make sure we could put all our junk on the bikes, we did a dry run on packing today. Darlene says we look like the Clampetts from the Beverly Hillbillies.
Actually, it's not a rehearsal for me because I'll be going back to Pittsburgh for two weeks and fly in on Friday night before we leave early Saturday morning. I wouldn't have time to pack it at that point.
Sorry about the nasty driveway, just mowed it and had not cleaned off the grass clippings yet
Maybe I could be out on a limb here and ever so surely, becoming a curmudgeon but having no life at times, makes you concentrate on some of the more trivial things around you. For example: the over use of the word "Awesome." Bad as the over usage is, now it's pronounced by southern youth (as well as some baby boomers) as "ossome" which rhymes with "possum". Now where did that come from?
Now, Awesome itself is a word defined as inspiring awe, expressive as awe and showingorcharacterizedbyawe. However, it has crept into the lexicon of everyday blandness.
Typical uses could be, "I mowed the lawn this morning."
"Ossome!"
"No, it had to be done but I left a few streaks uncut."
You may think I'm nitpicking here but think about it the next time you hear your kid or someone else say, "Ossome!" Was it truly awe inspiring and will the folks from Guinness Book of World Records be rushing with sirens screaming and red lights flashing to record the "ossome" event?
Saturday, July 3, 2010 A cool morning in the low 60s beckoned me to get out and explore. This time, I wound up on Mount Washington and the West End overlooking Pittsburgh and the Allegheny and Monongahela and Ohio Rivers. A great site and at 7:30 in the morning, it was still a bit hazy overlooking the river junctures.
The community of Mt Washington has all the hills and inclines you would expect in San Francisco where the streets are narrow and cars parked outside the older homes make for a tedious venture through alley sized avenues.
Mt Washington also has a couple of attractions for which I took advantage of one, the Duquesne Incline. It lifts passengers from West Carson on the river level to Grandview at the top in Mt Washington. Built in 1877, it is a working museum. It has a sister incline railway a half mile south, the slightly older Monongahela Incline, which was built in 1870. Tourists still take time to enjoy them.
This place seems to be all about a couple of things; tunnels and bridges. It seems you can't get anywhere without experiencing one or both.
Another thing is the confusion in traffic. Just because you're in the middle lane doesn't always mean you can go straight. More than once, I found myself caught in the wrong lane and had to stay with the traffic flow at a light, lest someone would begin blowing horns at me.
Sunday, July 4, 2010 After scouting out Pittsburgh again, I looked at spots along the Allegheny and Monongahela Rivers where I thought be a good vantage point for fireworks at night. Every place I looked presented possibilities but each one gave me disturbing feelings of how it might be if there were some kind of emergency or disaster and I simply didn't want to be caught or trampled by a half million people. With those ideas tucked neatly inside my cranium, it was plain to me that the safest place would be back on Mt Washington again.
Parking was terrible and traffic through the narrow streets was frustrating but nevertheless, I still believe I made the right decision in finding a spot, literally, on the edge of the hill. Although I had to wait over 2½ hours it was a pretty good spot between an Indian family and a 4 pack of young Japanese students, each speaking their own language. We all watched a regatta, sky divers and the sun go down and at 9:30 PM, we received a spectacular light show over looking the Ohio, Monongahela and Allegheny rivers.
264 years ago, prominent people had a dream and a desire to be free to live their own lives with freedom to do as they pleased without the constraints of a king in another part of the world. Many died and most of the signers of the Declaration of Independence lost everything they owned including fortunes, health and loved ones. They did this for a hope for themselves and for those of us who would reap those benefits decades and centuries later.
Really! My bet was I'd be on a plane Friday just possibly going home but, alas, it didn't happen. I'm here in Pittsburgh (Bridgeville), Pennsylvania for a while. This is my first weekend here and got out a while this morning to check out Pittsburgh. I stopped off at Fort Pitt Museum and while there and shot a few shots of the bridge over the Ohio River as well as a stainless steel park bench.
I know, it's silly but I found it very interesting and it doesn't take much to keep me entertained. This area is rich in Revolutionary War history but that was then and this is now.
Somehow the geometrics combined with the reflections gave me pause to click a few.
In almost every city you go to, someone you know has already been or lived there and occasionally will give helpful advice on places to go, things to do or something to eat. In Cincinnati, it was Skyline Chili, Chicago, it's one of the Chicago style pizza joints, Hawaii it was Poi and in Tuscaloosa, it's Dreamland Barbeque. So in the case of Pittsburgh, a colleague (yes, Mac, you) summarily prodded, if not conned, me into looking up Primanti Brothers Restaurant, a little dive down in the warehouse district or "the strip district". Umpteen years ago, they started making sandwiches supposedly for truckers that included meats, cheese, french fries and coleslaw all jammed together between two slices of Italian bread. Slices, not a bun.
I'm always open to the local flavor so I trotted down to the original location in the Strip District on 18th Street. Primanti Bros. is a cash only place with stainless steel counters, a caricature mural of famous people who've eaten there and a half dozen waitresses with the charm and warmth of an IRS agent.
The waitress mumbled, "Whattayahavin'?" and I replied, "Whatever is your number one sandwich." Tinkerbell snapped, "They're all number one" and walked off to intimidate another patron. When she returned, I took the cue to order something quickly, so I blurted out, "The steak sandwich and iced tea!"
Well, when she eventually plopped that thing down all wrapped in butcher paper, I opened it to find a sandwich about 4 or 5 inches tall cut in two. I realize presentation can be subjective in some cases.
It must be a local thing (see the reference to poi in Hawaii and chili in Cincinnati) because I couldn't see what the big deal was. First of all, I had to mash it down so I could take a bite and in doing so, the vinegar based coleslaw caused the bread to be soggy, hence the thing to fell apart. That with the combination of tasteless french fries in between the steak slices and slaw just made it, well.....a revolting experience. Like I said, I guess it must be a local thing. If I admitted that to the locals, I'd be run out on a rail.
I'm not a particular fan of Memphis, Tennessee, simply because of an ongoing war with one of the carriers, but if you fly to or from any airport in Louisiana other than New Orleans, you're only selections are Atlanta, Houston, Dallas or Memphis.
Memphis, like Atlanta, is one of those places that seems inevitable that you're going to arrive at the end of one terminal and re-plane in the far end of another. I think that must be a law or something. Anyway, I've digressed so back to the tale.
Even though I pretty much dread putting up with the Pinnacle carrier for Delta/Northwest in Memphis, one of the joys there is Jim Neely's Interstate Bar-B-que found on either wing of the "Y" shaped B terminal. My favorite is the Chopped Brisket Smoked Barbeque sandwich. Actually, it really isn't a "favorite", it's the ONLY thing I order there. "What's the big deal?", you might ask. Well, now that you've asked, it's a wonderful piece of culinary decadence, guaranteed to make you stop. It will set you back 8 bucks but what the heck, I'm on the company ticket and it's not like turning in a receipt from Ruth's Chris Steakhouse and they shrug it off.
That mouth watering hunk o' burnin' love probably is a half pound of low fat beef brisket permeated with a deep smoke flavor and makes your lip curl back and gives you twitch like Elvis. It's served up with a tangy sweet sauce that you will drink if you don't open up that sandwich and drown your meat with it. Oh, there's sides available and quite sure there has to be a couple of other items on the menu but for me, it's the barbequed brisket sandwich. I can smell it just as soon as I see my itinerary say, "MEMPHIS."
I thought that if I ever had an hour or two on the ground, I'd make a pass by either the 3rd street location or the one in Southaven , MS but from the reviews I read about, the service is third degree lousy. So, I guess that means I'll forever be stopping in at Terminal B when I'm there.
When I've been on an assignment for a while, I'm always speculating where and when the next one will be. For the past few days, there has been banter between me and home office on whether to get a round trip ticket back to Detroit for my next visit at home. The last conversation pretty much insinuated I'd be there until Friday but no decision had been made whether a return flight was in the picture. I was surprised this afternoon when I got a call from the office telling me I needed to be in Bridgeville, PA, just out of Pittsburgh, immediately.
My mind jerked trying to snap myself into travel mode, calculating how much time it would take to get back to the hotel, pack my bags, check out and hook it to Detroit International Airport. There were several things needing my attention on the computer, paperwork needing to be sorted and clutter on the desk needed to be cleaned up before I left. All that and be able to catch the flight. I had even planned to wash my clothes Thursday night before I traveled.
After I settled down a bit, I realized how this exactly reflects life. Pardon me if this gets a tad morbid but here's how I reason it out. When we are supposedly healthy and not too long in the tooth, we calculate mentally, "Oh, I've got another 20 years left before I kick the bucket." Plenty of time. Well, life is no guarantee and it's much like my experience when I got the travel call today telling me to go now and not wait until the weekend.
When that time comes, many of us will not have our bags packed, no travel arrangements, no hotel reservations and no time to call everyone you know to let them in on your new destination. It may come as a complete surprise.
With this in mind, hopefully my bags will be packed, not too much clutter on the desk and no dirty laundry when the time comes.
I had wanted to ride up to the Mackinac (Mackinaw) Bridge and Island where the upper peninsula connects with the southern part of Michigan but that would be a 12 hour round trip not counting wandering around time. Plan "B" turned out doing a little flea market shopping which yielded nothing.
On my way back to the hotel, I took the scenic view along the Detroit River through the suburbs of Trenton and Wyandotte. They are the older but cleaner and neater areas full of auto plant retirees. The streets are home townish with active shops and little parks along the river.
Getting out at one park, I walked up on a fishing pier where not too serious about fishing families gathered and young sweethearts wrote messages on the rails. One guy caught my eye. He was throwing something into the water and dragging it back in with a ski rope. As I got closer, I could see it was a piece of pipe with hooks fashioned out of coat hangers. He would throw it out, let it sink then slowly drag it in again. It seems he spent his Saturdays doing that, sometimes dragging in lost fishing lures and other objects thrown or lost in the water. Frankly, he was having as much luck as the others.
Air travel just isn't what it used to be. Boarding a 757 in Houston, I found an older Asian guy in my seat who insisted I should take his seat in 8E (a window seat) so that he could sit next to his wife. It wouldn't have been that big of a deal but the night before, when I checked in, I specifically worked on getting an aisle seat to accommodate my ever increasing frame and would be able to occasionally stretch my leg into the aisle. Aggravated that he wouldn't get up but kept pointing to his seat and giving me a sheepish grin saying, "You take my seat, okay?" I looked around at other passengers who appeared to sympathize with him. Let's face it, there was no way I was going to win a public relations battle over it so I made my way to his seat where I sat squeezed between the window and a very large Amazonian female for the next 2½ hours. I felt like a pressed ham.
I can remember when flying was a big deal. The first time for me, included getting all dressed up in a suit, buying a cigar and having my picture made at the airport. Boarding a Delta Douglas DC 3 tail dragger at Selman Field in Monroe, Louisiana for a very long ride eventually arriving in Hartford Connecticut, I was ever eager give the appearance of an experienced traveler. That was in 1967.
As the twin engine plane belched fire, let out a puff of smoke and became airborne, you could see the wings bending under pressure as it rose to a cruising altitude. Sitting in the rear, with no one beside me, I lit a cigarette when the seatbelt and no smoking signs went off. By the time we were in the seven to eight thousand feet range, my cigarette had developed quite a long ash. Looking around for an ashtray, I found what looked like on on the side of the plane. Holding the cigarette with my right hand, I attempted to pull on the ashtray with my left but found it somewhat stubborn in it's release. Getting a firmer grip, I gave it a mighty tug a the same moment I swallowed.
Never having been at that altitude, I didn't realize that your hearing was slightly impaired and I would have to swallow to clear my ears. So at that very precise moment that I did so and pulled on the ashtray, all the noise from those twin engines must have tripled in my head. Just in that brief nanosecond, the synapses in my brain began to compile all kinds of tragedies and I briefly imagined I had pulled a hole in the side of the plane and could see myself being sucked through it.
All that is gold does not glitter, Not all those who wander are lost; The old that is strong does not wither, Deep roots are not reached by the frost. ~ J R R Tolkien
Thanks
Hi, I'm C R and thanks for the visit. I travel quite a bit and hopefully, this way, I can give you some photos and tales of my travels without you having to download them all.
Living on the road over 300 days a year absolutely destroys many a road warrior's dietary discipline.
Here's a few things I believe are detrimental to you and avoiding them are helpful in the prevention of packing on the pounds.
1. If your restaurant features some kind of stylized figure or cartoon character as it's logo or spokes person, don't go there, you can gain two pounds just by watching the commercial.
2. If your restaurant has a lighted sign on a pole and colored with yellow, red and blue, don't go there. You're a victim of subliminal advertising. Those colors crank your appetite into high gear.
3. Watch the other patrons. If more than half of them can be can be classified as overweight, fat, obese or morbidly obese, don't go there. You are who you associate with and misery loves company.
4. If your waitress delivers you two plates for you to serve yourself, don't go there. Buffet lines tend to make you want to "get your money's worth".
5. If your restaurant always has a cashier that can't operate the register and has to punch the pictures on the keyboard, don't go there. He or she wouldn't be able to spell cholesterol anyway.
6. If your restaurant asks you not to place the plastic trays in the garbage, don't go there. At least a tip isn't involved.
7. If you can't understand your waiter because the cars behind you drown out the speaker on the sign, don't go there.
8. If you find yourself humming the jingle of your restaurant, don't go there.
9. If you saw the restaurant's logo on the side of a truck and trailer on the interstate, don't go there.
10. If you know the menu by number and "super-size" is part of it, don't go there.
11. Finally, don't order diet beverages. Only fat people drink them.
Good advice, I think. Do I live by these words of caution, oh heck no! I fight the pounds like everybody else but I do believe that obesity is associated with these foods.
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