Summary: 1) Scale is 1/22, dictated in part by the availability and cost of materials.
2) This will result in a complete Mercury Redstone standing 45.25 inches tall (10.5" for the escape tower, 6.25" capsule, 28.5" for the booster). Outside diameter will be 3.125"
3) Located supplier for honeycomb sheets
4) Located supplier for fiberglass and carbon fiber
5) Escape tower will be constructed of 3oz fiberglass-0.125" honeycomb sheet-3oz fiberglass, .125" carbon fiber rods, and .25" plywood centering rings and bulkheads.
( ...details behind the cut... )

Original concept was posted here
Summary:
1) Scale change from initial goal of 1/14 to 1/28 or 1/32.
2) Goals for the project established, in order of priority 1) Scratch build and launch a scale model replicate of Freedom7 and its Mercury-Redstone Booster, 2) All stages and components must be recoverable and reusable, 3) Height goal for the "Level 2" certification flight 10,000, 4) Speed goal for the "Level 2" certification flight is 11,000 fps.
3) Body construction will be 3oz fiberglass - 1/8" honeycomb - 3oz fiberglass
4) Will be a three stage rocket, escape tower powered by 1/2A (6mm), Mercury Capsule 3C (11mm), Redstone booster with engine mount of 29mm (initial Level 1 certification flights) to 38mm (initial Level 2 certification flight).
5) Phases of flight were identified as being 1) Launch, 2) Flight (burn and coast), and 3) Recovery
( ...details behind the cut... )

I must have been more exhausted than I thought, because I collapsed into the bed at the Holiday Inn without even getting undressed and didn't wake up until house keeping was banging on my door.

I dragged a razor across my face for the first time on the trip, and rushed out the door, grabbing some Motrin and toast for breakfast and hit the road. I noticed my Yankee's cap was missing. It must have escaped at some point from the cargo netting on the highway the day before.

The police were everywhere on 99, tagging those who thought they could outsmart them by delaying their return 24 hours, and the road itself wasn't the most motorcycle friendly of roads. It was like riding wave after wave, the bike bouncing up the mini-peaks and surging down the back. I kept thinking "Its a good thing I don't suffer from motion sickness".

The traffic was also enough to make me want to weep and I've concluded that pound for pound there are more asshole drivers in California than in any other state in the Union. The sheer apathy, ignorance, and self centeredness of the drivers nearly cost me my life more than once.

A bumper sticker on a green car in front of me amused the cynic in me to no end. It said "Hang up and Drive". The owner of the car, was of course, chatting away on his cell phone completely oblivious to the fact that in his efforts to pass the car in front of him had nearly merged into me while making his lane change.

Then there was the silver infinity who decided that sacrificing my life was worth the five seconds of time he would gain by gunning it around the semi he was following and using the onramp I was on as a passing lane.

It made for a very long and brutal ride home.

I've concluded that the statement "Familiarity breeds contempt" is true. The closer I was to home, the more banal things seemed. Gone were the entertaining billboards exhorting repentance and BBQ dinners. Missing where the churches and their fiery messages of damnation or pious salvation. Gone where the lush thick forests and the barren sands. They were replaced by the "common" and the "everyday" and soon just blended into the background.

I gad to gas up in Sacramento, and twenty miles later I nearly missed my exit because my mind refused to accept that I needed to be stopping so soon.

Time slowed down the closer I came to home. I was anxious to see my wife and kids again, but at the same time I didn't want the trip to be over.

Traffic snaked slowly along I-10 as everyone in their RV decided to head west at the same time I decided to make for Los Angeles. The heat threaten to hammer both me and Morgain's Evil Twin into the ground. The protection the black leather jacket offered me from Fort Stockton's storms is a nearly forgotten memory and my camel back, with its leaky mouth piece is already dry.

It doesn't help that I'm cranky from a poor nights sleep, after the local police raided the Motel Six I stayed in for one reason or another. Contributing to my crankiness is the fact that someone, at one of my gas stops in New Mexico, swiped my bayonet, which had been hidden (and secured) under my tailbag/backpack. Its frustrating because I feel somehow naked without the illusion of protection it offered me.
( ...as Tyler Durden would say...a near life experience... )
Before I know it though, I'm at the gates of Edwards Air Force base, my last stop, and its only two in the afternoon. Due to heighten security, the base is closed to non-military personal so I content myself with taking a picture of MET in front of the Edwards sign.

I have a choice to make, I can head to Bakersfield or cut down to LA.

Its a no brainier, this close to the ocean I'm not going to miss out on going coast to coast. Three hours later I've been to the beach and I'm heading north on I-5. The signs tell me Sacramento is only 386 miles away, and I just shake my head. Not even 400 miles? Hell, I can be home tonight, two days ahead of schedule. With a little work and a side trip to 1, I could even turn this into a 1000 mile day and earn my Iron Butt.
( ...no IB for me...at least not this trip... )

Feeling better today. Anxious to get back on the road despite the poor accommodations last night (I hate dirty hotel rooms as much as I hate the police flooding the parking light with light and sound at 4am).

Going to gas up and hit the road towards LA. Tomorrow I'll stop off for a quick photo at the Edwards Air Force base gate, and then head on home. I had planned to head down to San Deigo, but I think I'm going to scrub that part of the trip.

I could be home as early as tomorrow night, but its far more likely I'll make it back on Wednesday.

The worst they can say is no, and then you aren't any worse off than you were if you had never asked...except angry.

When you lose your temper with a bureaucrat, you have already lost so you had better damn well make sure your rage was worth it.

Woke up this morning at 8am, packed up, checked out of the Motel Six I was staying at and headed out to White Sands Missile Range. I arrived at 8am, deeply confused. Then I realized that my watch read nine, while the clock at the guard house read eight, seems I had forgotten to adjust my watch for the new time zone.

There are two check points at White Sands, one for Military personal, and one for visitors. The visitors checkpoint doesn't open until 9, but after a brief conversation with the Lieutenant on duty I was able to get a walking pass to the missile park. He wouldn't clear the bike because he, and his troops, weren't properly trained in vehicle inspection. It wasn't a big deal, the park was maybe 200 yards away, and up a slight hill.

I toured the park, took pictures, swapped to my last charged battery, and took some more pictures. By 10 the visitors checkpoint was staffed, and the museum was open. So I took a quick tour of the museum, which wasn't much after the three other sites I've visited, learned more about the first atomic weapon detonated, and was creeped out watching a group of Japanese tourists get their pictures taken in front of a mock up of the "Fat Man" casing. It was odd watching them stand in front of it throwing thumbs up's and showing big toothy grins.

I walked back to the parking lot, mounted up on Morgain's Evil Twin, and drove to the visitors checkpoint. I wanted to get a picture of her in front of the missile park. Two guys take my license, registration, proof of insurance, and inspect the bike and my gear with slightly less gusto than walking corpses. You can tell they really don't care. Its just going through the motions. They are about to clear me, when this really hot looking woman in Air force blues walks over. She doesn't have any rank showing, and a closer inspection of her uniform shows it to be as close to an Air force uniform as you can get, and still not be one. She's a civilian security contractor.

"You aren't taking that bike on the base."

"Excuse me? I don't think I heard you correctly, let me get my helmet off." I pull my helmet off and turn MET off, she sputters unhappily.

"I said, you aren't taking that bike on the base."

"Is there a problem with my paper work? Something not in order?"

"You don't have a federal permit to operate a motorcycle on government property, therefore I can't allow you to ride the bike on the base."

Everything she says is with the clipped precision of someone who either just left the military or is planning on joining up. She's trying so hard to sound so official that I can't help but smile.

"I'm sorry, this is all new to me. How about if I give you the keys and just push the bike up the hill. I won't ride it..."

Her answer is a resounding clipped "No."

I try another track. If she won't let me wheel it onto the base, can I take a picture of the bike in front of base sign.

Again, she says "No."

I go on to explain that I've just come 3000 miles and had my picture taken at Kennedy, Huntsville, Stenis, and Johnson without an issue.

"You should have picked up the required federal permit before arriving her. Sounds like poor planning on your part."

By now I've lost my cool. I ask to see her supervisor.

"Its Sunday. I am the supervisor."

At this point I think I'm muttering things like "Unbelievable" and "It only takes one".

It doesn't matter, I've lost my cool, she knows it, and there is nothing I can say or do that is going to change things. I wheel MET around and head back to 25, where I pass a pickup truck parked on the side of the road with a trailer, that has a blue Triumph Thunderbird in it. On the trailer is space for another bike.

I lock up the wheels, come to a screeching halt and strike a deal with Dave, the owner of the truck and the Thunderbird. For $20 (the last of my cash) he'll ferry the bike onto the base for me. He works there as a civilian contractor.

Perfect. We make it to the gate, through the inspections, and just as they are opening the gate, Ms Blue Uniform stalks out of the guard shack, shakes her head no pointing at me in the passenger seat.

"I told you No. And if you try to breach security again, I'll have you detained. Now, get out of here."

Dave, who has the required federal permit, offers to ride the bike onto the base and take the picture for me. That probably should have been our first option, but fatigue is starting to set in and I'm making some pretty stupid mistakes.

I thank him for the offer, but tell him no, I can't afford to have the bike impounded.

I stop in Las Cruces again and give the Very Large Array site a call, only to get a recording telling me they aren't allowing visitors over the course of the Memorial Day weekend, as they won't be staffed. I figure its not worth heading out that way this time around and instead try to get out of New Mexico as quickly as possible.

I make far slower time today than I have in the past. I'm not sure what it is, the heat, the wind, or just that fatigue is starting to add up.

The funny thing about fatigue, is after a while you don't realize you are fatigued. Its like an old friend, you know its there, but just shrug and go on. That lasts until you catch yourself doing stupid things like throwing your keys away in the restroom, or leaving your sunglasses on the seat while you pull out of the gas station parking lot.

Yes, my sunglasses are now crushed flat, and really gnarly looking. I'd post a picture of I could find somewhere that has a bloody CF card reader.

Fatigue is also starting to set in with my equipment. My GPS is toast, I can get maybe ten minutes of battery life out of each set of batteries (both rechargeable and non-rechargeables), my camera has either developed some dust on the sensor or has lost a set of pixels in the upper right had corner. My camel back mouth piece has started to leak (which is a mixed curse, I can tuck it down the front of my jacket and let it help keep me cool, but find myself running out of water sooner than I'd expect).

MET is holding up surprisingly well, though the front brakes are going to need to be replaced soon, and I'm developing small cracks in the front tire. Nothing to worry about yet, but they, like the rear wheel pin bearings, are going to need to be addressed in the near future.

Right now I'm taking a break in Tucson before pushing on to Phoenix for the night. I had briefly considered trying to push on to LA tonight, but I just don't think its going to be worth it. Quite honestly I'm feeling run down, and after this mornings adventure and the loss of my sun glasses I'm feeling emotionally down as well.

Its been a good trip, and the fact that it is drawing to a close may not be helping matters much either.

Just a quick update as I'm not sure I'll have computer access tomorrow, or what time I will have it if I do. Took I-10 West out of San Antonio, which contrary to my comments about yesterdays ride, provided some of the most beautiful and rugged scenery that I have encountered along the route. I made pretty good time, arriving at Fort Stockton in four hours. It was there, that the weather went all to hell on me. Thunderstorms, driving winds, and hail all conspired to try and convince me that I was insane and should pull over at the first hotel I could find and call it a day.

At one point things were so bad I had to pull over and sit parked under and over pass while I waited for a particularly nasty front to move through. I've never been so grateful for my underarmor cold weather gear as I was then.

I stopped at a little place in Fort Stockton called K's BBQ and Steakhouse. It had all the markings of a local dive, the beat up cars and trucks parked out front, the country music screaming from the speakers, and that general worn-but-we-don't-care appearance. The place was packed, and the music was far to loud and not my style, but I figured I'd score a good meal and get some weather info before making a finial decision on if I should stay or go.

After placing my order, I asked the waitress about the storm. She shrugged and told me she wasn't from around here. That was the extent of my conversation with her. I asked a few others of the staff and received that same basic reply, they weren't from around here, hadn't been living in the area that long, etc. Mean while, outside Zeus has gone nuts and I fully expect to see the Valkyries riding through the air screaming for the blood of men...

After a lousy meal in which I discovered that no one in the crowd was from Fort Stockton (they were all either heading to San Antonio or like me going to El Paso), I decided to spit in the eye of the storm, mounted up and headed out.

120 brutal miles later I considered stopping in Van Horn, but sheer bloody mindedness at that point wouldn't let me stop. So I gritted my teeth and gassed it.

Ten miles later I see a motorcyclist stopped on the side of the road. I stop to offer assistance and find out he just stopped to take his rain gear off. I remember blinking and looking up only to discover the sky was clear, the winds had stopped, and the sun was starting to shine brutally down.

I never caught his name, just that he's from California, in the Marines, and rides a 2003 Harley Road King (Centennial edition). A good man, if you see him and his lone star bandana, wave.

I rode with him for the rest of the way to El Paso, we stopped in at the "Worlds Largest Harley" dealership and I discovered they have a Harley Davidson Barbie doll. I think I could have died a happy man not knowing that.

Its strange you know, being a part of this "Brotherhood of the Motorcycle", here we were two guys who knew nothing about each other, other than we both liked to ride, and we spoke as though we were the best of friends and had known each other from High School. We swapped stories at gas stations, shared common gripes (I don't care how comfortable the seat on your bike is, after 400 miles your butt is going to hurt), and the mounted back up and headed on out.

Odds are we will never see each other again, but for those few hundred miles, we were family.

I found a Kinko's to type out this quick update and then its back in the saddle and off to White Sands. I'll hit the museum there in the morning and then push on to Phoenix...although if I'm feeling up to it I might try and push on all the way to Oceanside CA, which is only another 300 miles past Phoenix.

The Johnson Space Center, on the last day of the school year is over run with rampant hordes of school children doing that "one last field trip". The front lobby area is virtually tailor made for kids, including a huge playground sponsored by Pepsi and Mickey Dee’s...

It all looks very fun, and informative for its target audience, which isn't me.

Once you get past that though, things get good. Not quite as good as Huntsville, but still better than most of KSC. I think I have it figured out, you go to Kennedy to watch a launch, you go to Huntsville to take a look at the history, and you go to JSC for information. At least that seems to be what they are tailored for.

In 1986 I entered Junior High, the previous year, the Challenger had exploded and I had watched some kid with the by-line "President of Space Camp" utter the immortal words "When we saw the explosion we just thought another engine had turned on..." At that point I decided that the future of the space program was in the hands of utter morons and I decided to do something about it.

So I wrote NASA a letter detailing a series of experiments I would have liked to have seen done on lunar soil. If they were willing to send me some lunar dust I'd be more than happy to perform the experiments myself. Among those experiments was using electrosis to separate the oxygen and hydrogen from the lunar dust and then further refining the H₃ to H and recombining the O₂ with the refined H to produce water. Given that you had a virtually unlimited supply of energy in the form of solar radiation I figured it would be cost effective, and easy. I also proposed that certain plants, grains, and low hanging fruits and vegetables (like strawberries and tomato's because they grow well in green houses anyway) be tested for growth in the soil and a green house like environment.

I received a very condescending letter from NASA back that in effect said "If we want the advice of a know it all twelve year old we'll know who to ask in the future". It was a very off putting experience for me, here I was excited about something, and I received what amounted to a slap in the face and has forever tainted my views of NASA as an intolerant and arrogant organization.

On my visit to JSC I found out that NASA has been doing exactly those types of experiments since 1979 in partnership with various high schools and colleges across the nation, a fact that the letter I received made no mention of.

I spent the route from Houston to San Antonio wondering how things might have been different in my life if the letter from NASA had said something along the lines of "That’s a great idea, so great in fact that we are doing it already. Would you like to participate?"

I'm still not sure what the moral of this little story is, but perhaps it has something to do with "Children should be encouraged to dream and live those dreams".

As I was getting ready to depart Houston, I received a couple of call backs from the mechanics I had left messages for. The rear wheel pin bearing issue on the '02 Triples shouldn't be a matter of concern until you reach about 20,000 miles (in the worst case, closer to 40K is more realistic). As I'm only at 14K, with another 1.5k to go before home I have plenty of leeway.

The trip out of Houston took far longer than it should have. Then entire I-10 corridor is under construction rendering it virtually impossible to access the HOV lane and so I spent most of the time trapped in "three lanes into one" road construction.

Leaving Houston was a relief even though I-10 is well on track to earning the classification as the worlds most boring road (an honor that currently goes to US-50 across Nevada). Its flat, its straight, and even though its more green than I expected its still a pretty dull ride. With US-50 at least you can burry the needle and put your bike through its paces. I-10 has too much traffic and is far too heavily patrolled to even dream of doing such a thing.

The current plan is to over night in San Antonio and then head west to either El Paso, or White Sands, depending on how I feel at the end of that run.

Disaster may have struck.

I took MET in for its "half way" oil change, and the folks at British-USA here in Houston handed me a list of twenty recall items that need to be preformed on the bike. They had the parts to do 19 of them, but the critical one, the rear wheel bearings, they were unable to correct and the parts will take between three and six weeks for them to order in.

As I obviously can't wait three to six weeks, I'm endeavoring to see just how bad of a spot I really am in. The real frustration is that the rear wheel bearing issue is several years old. I had Morgain (the original triple) in to have it taken care of the last part of 02. Of the twenty recalls on the list 18 of them should have been taken care of before the dealer who sold me the bike, sold me the bike.

So, now I sit and wonder how likely is the rear wheel bearings to seize and what would the end result be if they did so? I've got calls into Triumph, and calls into a couple of dealerships who's mechanics I trust (the guys at British-USA were pretty good but seemed pretty set on trying to get me to trade my 02 in for an 05 which makes me suspect they were throwing worst case scenarios out at me).

Speaking of the 05 Speed Triple, if you get a chance to ride one, do so. For me ridding a motorcycle is a pretty "religious" experience, and riding the 05 Triple is like touching the very heavens. Its everything I liked about the early triples (small narrow body, hyper edge handling, and unique styling) and everything I like about MET (lots of power, quick throttle response, and reeking with attitude). My only concern is the bike is a touch too responsive and felt twitchy, but that might have been the rider and not the bike.

Oh, and that rear fender, would have to go.

Due to all the time spent at British-USA I didn't make it to Johnson Space Center. I did find out the JSC is currently closed to the public so tours are currently limited to the large gift shop and the old mission control. So I'm going to take a short trip over there this morning and then head out to San Antonio.

After that, its through the desert where I hope there are enough gas stations to keep me fueled (I can go 140 miles on a single tank, but its a dicey thing).

One of the reasons I don't care for eating at chain restaurants when I'm traveling is because I can't stand tourists. They are rude, obnoxious, and filled with a sense of entitlement. I'd much rather find an out of the way dive someplace, sit back, eat good food, and watch the "locals". The food is not only better, but as long as you remember your manners the company is quite delightful.

Sometimes however, fate takes a hand in things and I end up at a chain anyway. Leaving New Orleans was one of those times. Desperate for a breakfast of more than just a multi-vitamin and a fist full of Motrin, but being short on time I stopped off at an IHOP for what I hoped would be a quick, but filling breakfast.

There was a short wait for a table, and while I was waiting a group of 12 mostly college aged kids wandered in sporting their University of Illinois t-shirts and hats. Followed closely on their heels was a group of four Army enlisted men, in their BDU's.

When it came my turn to be seated I asked the hostess to please seat the soldiers first.

From the way the children behind me reacted, you'd have thought I punched each of them in the face. They started bitching, whining, and complaining that they were their first. And that if I was going to give up my place in line it should be to them, after all they were here on vacation. They were here to party. One of the little girls made the comment "Its not like the uniform means anything anyway..." and before she could finish I held up my hand and cut her off with the words "It does mean something, to some of us anyway."

That quieted her for a moment or two, but did nothing to slow the rest of the kids down with their insistent bitching. The hostess finally told me, that while she understood the gesture, she'd have to seat the people in the order they came in. I tried getting her to seat them with me then, and she wouldn't do it. The table didn't have place for five.

So I shook the soldiers hands, thanked them, and left. The Centrum and the Motrin would have to get me through to Baton Rouge.

The ride into Houston was strangely anti-climatic. I was filled with an excitement to be back on the road again and looking forward to seeing and doing new things. But nothing happened. The miles passed, the scenery changed from lush and damp to dry and dusty, the accents at gas stations changed from the Creole mix of "southern and French" to that twangy slide that fills so many country songs. The temperature heated up, and both the bike and I handled it with aplomb.

As I crossed into Texas, I was greeted with a huge sign that said "Drive Friendly...its the Texas way" and promptly had the interstate close down to one lane. Those friendly Texans took it in stride, and drove through the barrow pit on the side of the road, and over a broken down fence to access the frontage road and continue on their way. Innovative and friendly, my kind of state.

One other odd thing that did crop up, was the deeper I made it into Texas, the more people began asking me if I was in the military. I always responded with "No, but I was..." and wondered why they were ask me that. Finally when the toll taker asked, and I told her no, but also added a "do you Texans ask everyone that, because everywhere I've been today people have asked me that" comment she snorted and pointed out it was my boots. I was wearing black (and thanks to the guy on the corner of Bourbon and Canal in New Orleans) well polished combat boots.

I made it into David and Brandi's without too much trouble (meaning I only got lost twice) and I'm looking forward to getting the oil changed in the bike and visiting Johnson Space Center. I'll also need to hammer out the last of my route, I'm leaning towards going back to the original plan of over nighting in San Antonio and then pushing on to El Paso and doing White Sands while on my way to Phoenix the next day. I'm a bit worried because the maps don't show any decent stopping places between White Sands and Dallas and if the blisters on my butt are any indication I'm really not up for an 800 mile straight shot through day. If I stop in San Antonio that cuts it to a 250 mile day and a 550 mile day.

If I do the Dallas route, its a 500 mile day and 500 mile day. I really don't think I'm up for that, although if I did that I could cut my rest time to four hours and shoot for the Iron Butt certification (1000 miles in 24 hours)...

So far on this trip I've lost four pounds. Today I gained it all back and them some.

I enjoyed steaks in Crescent City, watched the NBA draft lottery at the Old Absinthe House (yes I know I said wasn't going to stay on top of any current events but after watching the Jazz tank this year I had hopes for a top four pick...but no, the Jazz managed to screw that up too), ate Cajun and sea food at various places while listening to live blues and jazz. I had my boots shined at the corner of Canal and Bourbon street, and just lost myself in down town for a night.

And that was after really getting lost and stumbling my way around West New Orleans and admiring the sheer beauty of the city. Even the abandoned buildings (such as the old paint factory near the wharfs and Wal-Mart) has a certain elegance to it. It would be the ultimate city for urban spelunking I think, and I regret not having more time (or money).

Which does bring us to the one downer of New Orleans, everything costs. I burned through far more money than I should have (and it didn't help that I misplaced a pair of twenties at some point in my adventures), but on the flip side, everything was well worth it. The food was good, the music loud and in someplace quite amazing (although my personal vote for best band goes to the young kids belting out "When the Saints Go Marching In" on instruments that looked as though they had been scrapped together in someone’s basement).

I think everyone should visit New Orleans and spend a week there just soaking in the city. And with that in mind I'll pass along the two pieces of advice a security guard on Bourbon street gave me. 1) Don't come during Marti Grais. The city gets swamped under by tourists who show up, get drunk, get naked, and then puke all over the place. And 2) listen to the voice in your head, if you find yourself on a deserted street, day or night, and that little voice says turn around and go back the way you came...do so. And do so quickly.

I was sitting at the base of the Saturn V on display at the Space and Rocket Center in Huntsville and I'm at a loss for words (though you wouldn't know it from this entry). There simply aren't enough words that can be said, or pictures taken that will put into perspective just how large the Saturn V is.

I can tell you that its 110 meters tall and 10 meters in diameter. I can even tell you that each of its five F-1 weighed in at 18,000 pounds and produced a massive 6.7 million Newtons of thrust. But none of that really has any meaning and fails to give prepare you for the sheer immensity of seeing of these things in person. Words like huge, titanic, and colossal have become so commercialized as to cease to have any meaning. Perhaps gargantuan might come close but that word sounds so unwieldy and the Saturn V is anything but.
( ...because these posts go on long enough...more behind the cut tag... )
I hopped up on the bike, and suddenly, her and I just wanted to go. We didn't even stop for pictures of the SR-71 at the exit gate. We just wanted to go.
( ....points south...and deep south... )
I made it into New Orleans about 10pm last night, and now I just need to figure out what to do while I'm here.

One of the reasons that I enjoying riding as much as I do is for the feeling of connection it gives me. Its a feeling that allows me to feel like I'm a part of the trip even if its just a short commute into work. The sounds of the world are louder, the smells sharper, and the colors brighter. And navigating traffic is that much more of a personal experience when the slightest mistake can result in you dancing with Hunter S. Thompson's "Sausage Creature". Its a far more intimate experience than what I've ever experienced in anything with four wheels.

The trip up central Florida and Georgia has been no different in that respect. The colors here are amazing, the greens a sharp and vibrant with new spring growth, the smells are heavier with the scent of the ocean and in Georgia the smell of fresh fruit, diesel fumes, and road construction.

At mile 200 though, even that begins to pale and become a part of the routine simply because everything is so monochrome along the highway. The tree's are green. The road is that slate gray with white dots, and even the cars start to blend into the same color patterns after a while.

And that is when the local color really begins to present itself. I don't mean the people, though there are plenty of them who've I met that could be called colorful, but in this case, I'm talking about the billboards and road signs.

Cursing a long they'll leap out at you like giant flowers made of striking yellows and pale reds. Their words will make you do a double take, and you'll end up reading them again just to make sure they really did say what you think they said.

One of my favorite sequences took place just before entering Georgia. The first billboard, a huge yellow and red thing said "Bible Sales Exit 5!" in expansive lettering. The sign right after it was "Joe's Drive Through Liquor Store. Your last chance to grab and go!" And that lead me to one of my favorite signs "Fireworks 2 for one! Fresh fruit, free samples! Next exit, at the Texaco". It should have been subtitled "Explosives, Food, and Fuel, Texaco, your one stop shopping choice".

As far as state sponsored road signs go, Georgia currently holds the lead for the most unexplainable signs. "High Voltage Power Lines Overhead". This one I could almost understand if they were warning you the power lines were coming or something, but no, these signs are posted proudly, right where the power lines cross over the road. It makes me wonder why and who thought these signs were a good idea.

My other favorite is was a small yellow caution sign, again from Georgia is "Warning, bridge may be icy and cold". I'm still not sure if someone had just removed the "when" and replaced it with an "and" or something...

Speaking of local color, just south of Macon Georgia, I stopped for gas and lunch a few miles off the interstate at a place called Betty's. I pulled up, grabbed my bag, locked the helmet to the bike and crammed my hat on my head. I walked in, and the first thing I noticed was that Betty's looked like a greasy spoon right out of a 60's trucker movie. The air was full of cigarette smoke, grease, and oil. The people at the long bar that fronted the kitchen were all older fellows, with trucker hats. The hostess was one of those world weary matronly looking people in a pink frock with a white apron.

As I entered she just gave me a look and shook her head. Half a dozen of the customers turned and began devouring me with their hard eyes. Everything came to a stop, and I wondered when I developed such a stage presence as the banjo theme from "Deliverance" began playing in the background.

After an uncomfortable moment, one of the old timers spoke in a loud and gravely voice "Git dat uff ur 'ead BOY!" Off my head? What the f...

I suppose there are more dangerous ways of tempting fate than walking into a truck stop dinner in Georgia wearing a Yankees hat...but I can't think of any of them at the moment.

Speaking of eating at the dinner, if you ever do this (and you should, the food is good) don't bother with a menu. Just as for the special and a coke. Asking for anything else is going to get you looks. Unfriendly looks. Looks that say "You damn Yankee what are you doing here".

Don't ask what the special is, its going to be something fried, slathered in butter, or possibly both. And it will be good. Just eat it and enjoy it. Just don't ask (and I can't stress this enough) what it is. If you do, you are going to learn more about pig anatomy than you ever dreamed possible.

I hit Atlanta about five in the afternoon. Back at Betty's I had told myself that five hundred miles was going to be enough and I'd stop over in Atlanta and try and catch some Civil War history. However, after hitting the 20 and seeing the GPS showing I only had 160 miles to go I decided to push on.

After all, 160 miles is only tow, maybe three hours tops. Even shorter when a group of sport bikers comes flying up behind you and passes you at a high rate of speed. I mean, how could I not show these good old southern boys what Morgain's Evil Twin can do, even fully loaded with gear...

A hundred miles later (and 80 miles after the other bikers pulled off) I was starting to get antsy. I was sore and beginning to feel every mile of the last 600 miles. Betty's lunch, while filling was beginning to riot and roll in my stomach as it did battle with my Yankee sensibilities.

It was then that I discovered why the United States government selected Huntsville as the home for "Rocket City USA". No matter how close you get to this place, you are always going to be an hour away. I kid you not. I cut up 431 and hit a town 60 miles from Huntsville, with a speed limit posted at 60. It wasn't much of a town, but it kept that speed limit (and all the local's drove it so I assume it was enforced as well) until you hit a town 45 miles away from Huntsville where the speed limit was 45. That town lasted until you hit another town, 35 miles away, with (yes you guessed it) a speed limit of 35. Ten miles later I fully expected to run into an endless school zone or something.

I finally located pulled into Huntsville about five hours after leaving Atlanta and the longest 160 miles of my life. Exhausted I pulled into the first hotel I could find, a little place that looked like it rented by the hour, but I didn't care. At that point my knee's were shaking and nearly buckled when I slipped off the bike.

Of course, they had no room. When I asked for directions the lady behind the bullet proof glass directed me to "University Ave". I nearly wept when she seemed to considered that to be "good enough directions".

An hour later I found a "Holiday Inn Express" and begged them to take my $75 in exchange for a bed and a free breakfast.

This morning I shipped the laptop and tripod home. The laptop is dead. It hasn't handled the abuse of the constant vibration and being slung on my back for the last 800 miles. The tripod I needed to take launch pictures, and has turned out to be more of a pain than its been worth as far as packing goes.

I'm sure at some point I'm going to regret not having it with me, but for now I can't see anything happening that will make it worth the pain of keeping it with me.

The plan calls for a straight shot through from Daytona to Huntsville (Rocket City), AL. Due to a late start this morning (Condo lost power, which resulted in reset alarm clocks, missed wake up calls, and me getting locked out of my room after the keys stopped working) and conflicting weather reports that may not be possible. I may just head to Atlanta GA, over night there and then continue on to Huntsville the tomorrow.

Oh, one word of advice to all you would be hotel owners out there. Make sure you staff speaks at least basic English. Nothing is more frustrating that standing outside your hotel room trying to get a broken key to work and asking a member of the house keeping staff for assistance only to be met with a shrug of your shoulders and a "No comprendo ingles". Espically when its 14 flights down the stairs (no power so no working elevators or phones) to the front desk.

I'm writing this while sitting at KSC's rocket garden, where the history of the space program literal looms over you. This and the Debus conference facility with its Early Space Exploration display are two of my favorite places at Kennedy, a quite possibly two of my favorite places anywhere.

Sitting here in the shadows of these rockets, the air flooded with somber music and the rasping recording of early NASA missions, you can't help but feel "something". I wish I could articulate exactly what that feeling was, but I can't seem to find a single word for it.

Putting things in Perspective A sense of loss

I just saw two little girls, twins from the looks of them spy their daddy on the other side of the garden. With a squeal of delight and obvious love they raced off towards him. One raced forward not letting anything get in her way. She barreled through low bushes, over the flowers, and ran with the grace of a deer. Her sister slowed and carefully navigated the concrete paths, obeying all the rules real and imagined. I can't help but wonder which of these little girls typifies the NASA of yesterday, and which one shows us the NASA of today.

This feeling, its a mish mash of aw, respect, and a sense of loss all rolled into one emotion. Awe because you can't help notice all the effort that went into the design and construction of these devices, and for the courage it took for someone to sit on the top of them and allow themselves to be blasted skyward. You feel an overwhelming sense of respect not only for the men who rode these candles into space, but for those who took what amounts to bailing wire and duct tape, when compared with the technology we have today, and turned it into something that those crazy assed astronauts could ride reliably. The sense of loss comes from the fact that you know the NASA of today couldn't do it. They couldn't couldn't put a man on the moon, not today and not I fear in ten years. The "gemindshaft und gestalt" just isn't there.

An informal poll of those who have walked past me as I sit near the Saturn IB display, indicates that 8 of 11 people believe that we won't make it to the moon in their or their children's lifetime. Of those eight six don't even see any reason to try, and one (a older man from Hamburg Germany is still "waiting for the American's to do it on their own the first time")

The courage it took to achive our Lunar dreams is gone, lost in the routine. The imensity of their under taking is trapped in history, condemed there by a culture of safety and fear.

This shouldn't be taken as a criticism of NASA's recent decision to cancel the shuttle launch. I personally believe that the shuttle is out dated, out modded, and as such is becoming less reliable with each passing launch. It should have been replaced ten years ago. And today we should be starting the process of looking for a replacement for the shuttles replacement rather than trying to keep the existing hardware limping along.

This is something else that is missing from NASA's culture, a sense of continuous improvement, refinement and progress.

I had three goals on this trip. They were:

1) Not die
2) Not get arrested
3) Not get a ticket.

Lockheed's shuttle replacement.

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[1] The Dyna-Soar (also called the X-20A and developed by Bell Labs and Boeing) was part of an Air Force program that ran began before long before NASA's development of the Space Shuttle. Lockheed’s proposal, looks (to my naive eye) to be an enlargement of the original Dyna Soar design.

Well, its semi-offical (more coverage by the BBC here).

The Shuttle is not launching in its May/June window.

I wont bother with describing at how badly this hurts me. Its a real physical pain. I'm afraid if I do, it'll seem like I'm belittling NASA, or making light of the risk those brave men and women who have to ride that candle into the sky are taking.

Its just time to suck it up and move on.

I'm still commited to the trip and due to other commitments I'll still need to stick with the revised schedule of flying into Florida on the 16th and leaving on the 20th.

Bah. Two sources (independent of each other) have provided me with the following link:

http://today.reuters.com/news/newsArticle.aspx?type=scienceNews&storyID=2005-04-29T010451Z_01_N28124100_RTRIDST_0_SCIENCE-SPACE-SHUTTLE-DC.XML

Needless to say, things aren't looking good for the home team.

My source at Goddard did qualify his email with the following disclaimer:

"...nothing (either way) has been confirmed to us peons but unless a very good techinical reason crops up political and public pressure will likely force the launch in May/June window."

An email from KSC.

The target launch date has now changed to May 22, 2005 at 1:03pm.

Due to the new launch date, shipping of your tickets is currently planned for the 1st week in May.

Here's to hoping they mean it this time. Of course this is the first time I've heard anything about having a target date for the tickets.