I Look For Crabs With Dick -- No Pictures

There is nothing quite like steamed crabs on summer’s day. The Maryland blue crab is without equal as the ultimate fingerfood and a great culinary democratizer. The complex structure of the crab renders everyone into patient, crab-meat pickers, swinging little wooden mallets to crack the shells, before going after every little morsel to get a mouthful. It doesn’t take long for the air to become thick with bits of crustacean, nor for the participants to begin wearing the guest of honor. And the blue crab is an expert accompanist. It goes equally well with white wine, beer, a Tom Collins, or a planters punch.

My buddy Dick and I have made numerous two-wheeled pilgrimages up and down the Eastern Shore, and in small towns that hint at a maritime connection in pursuit of the perfect steamed crab. The Crab Claw Restaurant, in St. Michaels, MD offers one of the most genteel settings for the consumption of the blue crab, overlooking the yachts of wealthy WASPs, initially launched on the sweat of the proletariat. Yet some of the best crabs within an easy riding distance of Chester County, Pa are steamed in modest “shacks.”

Captain Bob’s Crabs House on Main Street in tiny Railroad, Pa, (Route 851) continually sets the high-water mark for steamed Maryland blue crab.The ambiance is defined by a small, air conditioned dining room. This is enough on a July day. The crabs are succulent, fresh, and perfectly seasoned. Depending on the size, they run $30 - $65 a dozen.

Getting to this place is a pisser.

Choose any one of a variety of backroads that take you through the Amish communities between Lancaster and the Maryland stateline. Cross the Susquehanna River on the picturesque Rt. 372, and turn left on Rt. 74. In a mile or two, turn Rt. onto Rt. 851. This stretch is 15 miles of twisties, changes in elevation, and open farms. Some of the road surface is milled. Railroad, Pa is about ten minutes past the intersection where I-83 passes over Rt. 851. Don’t blink. Look for “Bob’s” on the right as soon as you cross the tracks.

One of the most peculiar places we’ve stopped for crabs is the Hopkins Crab Shack, on Rt. 222, between the towns of Conowingo and Port Deposit, in Maryland. This is the area’s oldest and strangest crab shack. A collection of ramshackle buildings that have been flooded a few times, the Hopkins crab shack offers mediocre crabs and fantastic steamed shrimp. If you have to take a piss, you can go in the woods. The place is on hard times. It would be worth it just to hit this joint with 20 riders at least once next season (if there is one). This is the kind of place that gets swallowed up by history. Again, getting here is most of the fun. We ride Rt. 926 (Pa) west to Rt. 10 (Pa), south to US-1 (Pa), southwest to Rt. 222 (Md), which runs right past the place.

Rt. 222 (Md) is really pretty here, running alongside the river. The cops watch it in the summer, especially on Sundays. It is the address of the Union Hotel and Bar, which is a big Harley hang out. You can find six acres of chrome outside this place on any summer Sunday.

Yet one of the big surprises for great crab is a little joint on Rt. 662, just above Douglassville, Pa. The place looks like an ice cream stand. That’s because it is. (They have a sign up that says, “Crabs.”) Once inside though, you discover they have an extensive seafood menu -- steamed and fried. Although the steamed crabs must be consumed on a picnic table outside, due to flying crustacean detritus. We ordered a pound of steamed shrimp and a dozen medium crabs. Lunch took about 90-minutes of crab meat mining. The crab and shrimp were excellent.

My arthritis was bugging me, the day was nice, a breeze was blowing, and I was in no hurry to get back on the bike. Dick starting putting on his ballistic Spiderman costume, however. This involves no less than 16 separate parts. He was in the middle of this ritual when a car, driven by a hot patootie of a young blond pulled into the lot, and stopped twenty feet away from us.

I have a sixth sense about these things.

She glanced around and started to change her clothes in the car. Off came the sweat shirt to reveal the skimpiest Victoria’s Secret brassiere that I had seen in a long time.

Dick had his back to her.

“Aren’t you going to put your jacket on,” said Dick.

I sat in silence, afraid to break the spell.

“Are you all right?” asked Dick.

The blond was fussing with the buttons of another top, getting ready to put it on.

“What’s the matter?” asked Dick.

“Turn around,” I hissed.

“What?” asked Dick.

“I said ‘turn around,’ “ I hissed, like steam escaping from a pipe.

“You want me to turn around?” asked Dick.

“Yes,” I hissed, in a stage whisper that could be heard two hundred yards away.

Dick turned around and froze like a deer caught in two Victoria Secret headlights.

The blonde put on the blouse, combed her hair, and stepped out of the car. She walked right passed us, smiling, and went into the crab place.

“Was that why you were just sitting here?” asked Dick, incredulous.

The ride home with Dick is always quick.

©Copyright 2008 Jack Riepe -- All rights reserved
AKA The Lindbergh Baby (Mac-Pac)
AKA Vindak8r (Delphi)
AKA The Chamberlain -- PS (With A Shrug)

Adventures in Perspective -- A Simple Trip For The Soul

The difficulty with writing a blog for riders who take motorcycle touring seriously is that many of them have had real adventures in comparison with those of my own.

My friend Edde Mendes recently returned from a 29,000-mile ride from Morocco to Sudan, to Turkey, to Russia, to Asia and across the United States. He faced poisonous spiders and bears in Russia.

Pal Doug Raymond rode from Philly to Prudhoe Bay (on the Arctic Circle) in Alaska -- and back in 14 days. He was chased by a wolf.

Buddy Jeff Harth conducts tours through the Andes, and routinely rides from Argentina to Bolivia. He got married.

Steve Asson, who first challenged me to a five-state ride three years ago, rode from Oregon to meet me in North Carolina. So did longtime friend and acquaintance Granny Two Wheels (Sammye), who rode from Oklahoma to attend the same rally. I stuck both of them with a bar tab. Granny gave me a lap dance, so she got something out of the deal.

There is little I can write that will appear new and adventurous to these folks, but I hope to offer a different perspective to riders of my own ilk. I am writing to the bikers who hear the call of the road, but who insist on taking it out of context. Adventure is where you find it. It can be a new road, a new bike, or even just a pleasant change of surroundings. I am considering four multi-state rides this summer. Most are are within a 900-mile radius of the driveway. But one could could stretch all the way from the Jersey Shore to the Pacific. Yet another will barely span two hours of riding fairly local roads -- and I can hardly wait for the trip.

Living in southeast Pennsylvania puts the best of the Amish country, the Delmarva coast, and some of the most hotly contested sites of the Civil War within an easy ride. Terrain, local culture, and cuisine change with every county line. Going west, you find yourself riding through 18th Century farms and stone houses. Heading north, you ride into mountains, coal mines, and the hellish fires of Centralia. Moving south, the steamed crab reigns supreme. This is the direction of this post.

The most northern tip of Chesapeake Bay touches land about 50 miles from here, in the Maryland town of North East. This charming crossroads offers a mile-long main street with boutiques, antique stores, and a once legendary restaurant called Woody’s Crab House. Five minutes outside the center of town will bring you to the bar of the Nauti-Goose Saloon, a crab-oriented establishment with tables right on the water.

My destination is eight miles beyond the bars of North East, however. Elk Neck State Park is a heavily forested tract perched on heights, overlooking the cool waters of Chesapeake Bay. The park offers numerous campsites, that are attractive, level, properly drained, and well maintained (as a rule). Elk Neck also has a limited number of camper cabins and more commodious structures, that feature some amenities, but no commodes. The camper cabins are basically sheds, equipped with screened windows, an electric light, and a lockable door. Wooden bunks (a double in some cases) come with some kind of mattress and I believe there is a table and bench of sorts inside. It’s like camping in a wooden tent. Cooking is done on a grill outside.

The "camper" cabins at Elk Neck State Park are like wooden tents. 

But nice backdrops for the bikes.

An even more limited number of “rustic” cabins are available. These are larger, alleged to offer a stove and a refrigerator, and cold running water. I’m told they have a screened-in porch and a view of the water. Guests are advised to bring a sleeping bag, any linens they require, and utensils. A washroom with hot and cold showers is about a hundred yards away.

"Rustic" cabins are bigger than "camper" cabins, 

with a stove, refrigerator and cold water.

No bathrooms though. A restroom with showers is nearby.

I have always wondered about these places. This year I decided to cure my cabin fever by reserving a “rustic” cabin at Elk Neck. I have a vision of sitting back on my little porch and watching the dusk color the bay. I want to hear the peepers fire up as the shadows grow. I want to read a book and sip my hot cocoa as the sounds of night lull me to sleep. And I want all this without riding to ends of the earth. So I got my reservation in for the first weekend of the season.

While I may bring something to cook on site, this park is fifteen minutes away from North East. The Nauti-Goose Saloon is an interesting place that caters to the tourist trade and the boating crowd. It is right on the water. On a nice day you can get a dockside table or one in a shaded pavilion with overhead fans. The fare here is touristy with a lot of fried fish dishes. Pete Buchheit and I had ridden down for the day, specifically looking for a new place to try. Considering it was an October afternoon, when the temperature was pushing the envelope for an outside table, the joint was empty. 

Several blocks away is Woody’s Crab House. This place used to be good but is no longer worth consideration in my book. The last time I ate here, with Dick Bregstein and Tony Luna, the soft-shelled crabs tasted like they were caught in the toilet and fried in motor oil. Tony ordered a seafood platter that was 10 percent fried fish and 90 percent hush puppies. And this was not a sudden thing. We’ve noticed a gradual decline in quality at this place over the past two years.

Both places can be seasonally mobbed.

About 15 miles west of Elk Neck State Park is the town of Havre de Grace, and home of the Tidewater Grille. This is a superb restaurant, with a commanding view of Chesapeake Bay, at the mouth of the Susquehanna River. Patrons have been known to arrive in boats, float planes, and helicopters. There are both outside and inside tables. The bartenders are competent and dedicated. The food is always good, though with a limited menu in the winter (as you would expect). During crab season, the bill of fare is a lot more expansive.

Cooking and cleaning pots seems like a waste of time with these options available. A pot for making coffee or instant oatmeal may end up being my only concession to the kitchen. Then again, it would be just as easy to get something “to go” from the Nauti-Goose, and to eat it at leisure on the cabin’s little verandah.

Oddly enough, I’m planning on doing this ride alone -- at least the cabin part. There is something about being alone with your thoughts at night, in a strange place, that I find soothing.

©Copyright 2008 Jack Riepe
AKA The Lindbergh Baby (Mac-Pac)
AKA Vindak8r (Delphi)
AKA The Chamberlain -- PS (With A Shrug)

Dealing With PMS (Parked Motorcycle Syndrome)

The symptoms of PMS (Parked Motorcycle Syndrome) have been well documented by the medical profession and renown faith healers in biking circles. The condition is rampant in the winter. The more obvious signs include:
• Yelling at weather forecasters on television
• Putting on your helmet in the house
• Cursing each day of winter
• Regarding your home as a prison
• Telling people to “Shusssssh,” whenever a motorcycle is thought to be heard
• The feeling that your spouse has not stopped talking since the first snow fell
• Sitting at an eastern window for hours on end, drinking, waiting for spring, like a character in a Russian novel

In some acute cases, the afflicted individual becomes utterly listless, attempts to live in the garage, and responds to simple questions by making motorcycle sounds. One extreme case affected a rider in the same manner as Tourette’s syndrome. From December 1st through March 31st, this gentleman sporadically peppers every conversation with his mother-in-law with the word “bitch.” He returns to normal the first sunny day in April, greeting this dear relative with an apologetic wink.

Riders subject to PMS have devised a number of ways to deal with the symptoms, which gradually subside with longer, warmer rain-free days. One guy I know has a TV on a stand in front of his bike in the garage. He sits on it watching motorcycle races, and shows like “The Long Way Around,” while a fan blows wind in his face. He keeps a cooler handy too! From time to time, his concerned wife comes out and lifts up her shirt to add to the realism. Not all women are this understanding. When I suggested a similar arrangement, my girl thought the garage might get too cold for me, and suggested she could leave the car running to warm things up.

Another cure for PMS is to plan trips. A real trip plan calls for mapping out routes, setting an agenda, choosing hotels or campgrounds, and picking dates. Really getting into it means figuring out the things you want to see or picking the kind of roads that leave you exuberant, and dripping with sweat. These two objectives are not always parallel. And unless you’re riding alone, choosing the folks you ride with can be more important than the destination or how you get there.

I never hesitate to enlist the aid of a planning aid, such as a book or reports from experts. Road RUNNER Magazine  provides thorough recommendations for rides on three levels: the international ride, the local ride, and the some of the most challenging rides you can think of. My posse and I are thinking of two rides proposed in a recent issue. They are loops -- one through Pennsylvania, Maryland, and West Virginia (775 miles); and another in Maine (975 miles). The mileages don’t include getting to the start. (What’s refreshing about Road RUNNER is that they occasionally review bikes and gear, and do not sugarcoat the reports to curry favor with advertisers.)

Some riders combat PMS by getting out on every clear, dry day in the winter. “It may be cold, but my electrics can take care of that,” said my riding partner Dick Bregstein, whose primary concern is gravel and cinders left on the road from a prior freeze. “I hate getting salt residue all over the engine covers, but that’s a small inconvenience when compared with the chance to get another day’s ride in. There isn’t much fun in waiting for spring, and there are a lot of pleasant 40º days in January and March.” Actually, we had a couple of days in the 50’s this past January.

Three weeks of winter down time can be put to good use in early January or February. There is no better interval to do your own maintenance, or get your bike over to the shop. Most mechanics and dealers are thrilled to get the business at this time of the year, and many offer incentives or discounts. I know guys who rush their bikes into the shop prior to a good snowfall for a thorough annual tune-up, then have the machines waiting on a battery tender for the first good day in January, February, or March. That’s the procedure I follow and I managed to log 775 miles in January, but only 124 for this month, owing to the weather. My riding partner and I head out in temperatures as low as 27º, as long as the road is dry.

Some winter hazards can’t be found on the road though. Not too far from where I live two old stone bridges constructed by the Pennsylvania Railroad (circa 1900) cross over Boot Road. Old stone and masonry railroad bridges are notorious for leaking and seepage. I passed through these last week, and couldn’t help but notice huge icicles (four or more feet in length) dangling from the roof liners inside. These could easily kill someone in a car, let alone on a bike.

I study the weather forecast the same way brokers look at stocks. Yet in the enthusiasm of getting out on the road there is sometimes a tendency to discount the safety margin where the forecast is concerned. One cold winter night, a group of riders and I met for dinner, with snow in the forecast for midnight. I opted not to ride my bike but others did. The snow started during the appetizers and there was more than three inches covering their bikes when they came out. Ken Bruce, a real adventurer, took off in the snow having only 5 miles to cover. He later described it as not one of his wiser decisions.

Ken Bruce exits dinner to find his bike covered by three inches of snow.

He attempted to ride it home anyway.  

Just this week, two other buddies of mine left their respective workplaces only to discover that falling snow beat the forecast by several hours. One had but a few miles to on on a level road and got home okay. The other had ten miles of curves and changes in elevation. He ended up dropping his machine on a hill, but suffered no physical hurt, though he slammed one of his sidecases. (He picked the bike up and continued on his way.)

Another friend, Jeff Harth, rides extensively through Argentina and South America. This past summer he thrilled us with stories about getting caught in the snow, high up in an Andes pass. He was forced to spend several days waiting for the storm to pass -- at the bar in a ski resort. The road thawed to blacktop by the resort, but was solid ice several miles away. He reached a point where he could go neither forward nor back -- and a transport truck driver loaded his machine onto a flatbed.

Adventure is where you find it. But you seem too find it a lot more often on two wheels.

Jack Riepe
© Copyright 2008 Jack Riepe -- All rights reserved
AKA The Lindbergh Baby (Mac-Pac)
AKA Vindak8r (Delphi)
AKA The Chamberlain -- PS (With A Shrug)