Jammin' on the
East Coast

The East Coast Jam -  Ride Report
By Ramjet - 09-10-03
Kitzmiller

The Road Trip

I’m not sure what I enjoy more, the riding or the people you meet at these events. Perhaps it's a combination of both but small pleasures like swapping stories early in the morning over a bowl of frosted flakes will stick with me forever. Long after the memories of the ECJ trails are long gone.

I departed from work early Friday to head for the East Coast Jam located on the Southwestern part of Maryland. I'm driving with an empty trailer in anticipation of picking up my new Pilot I purchased from Redrider sight unseen. From my location at the crossroads of I-70 and I-77 in Ohio, it's an easy drive for me. Perusing my maps, I get the bright idea to take I-70 as far as Wheeling, WV and then snake my way down via Route 250 thinking I will save some time plus see parts of real America. I find interstate travel boring but this was not one of my brighter ideas.

Route 250 winds its asphalt way through some of West Virginia's prettiest but most depressing parts of the state. I drove through towns that commence and money up and left years ago killing any hope of growth. I passed through towns with the names Hundred, Belton, Pruntytown and places that no longer had names. Rain pounds me the entire way making the trip simply miserable.

In West Virginia, I was continually amazed where you can stuff a mobile home and how life clings to every hillside. If it was flat it had a yard. Each home I passed had at least three Craftsman riding lawn mowers; two broken down in the yard and one under a multi-colored tin and tar paper roof shed. There was an odd jumble of nice houses and homes that looked like a page ripped from an economic study on third world counties. Every child or person I passed waved to me; which speaks volumes about the people that live there. I met a brown and white cow on the road that seemed unimpressed that I was there as I slowly turned my truck around her. Later, on my journey, I scared the crapped out of a gathering of chickens that thought they owned their small section of turf on route 250. It is a brave (or stupid) chicken that challenges me in my Ford 4x4 F-250.

As I cross into Maryland, the rain lets up and the road improves. I have never been to Maryland before but I like what I see. Following the last third of Harescambles directions, I turned onto the road that will take me to the East Coast Jam. It passes through a small mining town that follows the beautiful North Branch River. The countryside is beautiful. Tree lined mountains and a winding river. The town is an old mining town long past its prime but looked like a pleasant place to live, nestle at the foot of a mountain. Coal was king and I suspect as the coal industry declined, it took the town with it. By this time, I'm tired of driving, my butt is numb, and I'm hoping I followed Harescambles directions correctly.

A good sign is the iron gate that blocks the entrance to the property as described in the directions. It's open and just a short distance I am greeted to the sight of trucks, trailers, Odysseys and Pilots dispersed about the base camp.

 

We are parked on a flat, bowl shaped, open field with the river to our backs and the mountains surrounding us on the remaining three sides. At one time, this was a working coal mining area long since gone. I park my truck and trailer and hop out.

The East Coast Jam
Chapter Two: Smiling Faces.

Steven Ambrose wrote an interesting little book about brothers. It's a small book that talks about the interdependent relationship of brothers and friends and although true friends may not see each other for years, the day they are reunited, they pick up right where they left off as if time had never passed.

This group reminds me of that.

There were some old friends from previous rides and many new faces that you only know as font pixels on this web site. Incredibly, the early bonds of friendship are there and everyone is happy to see you.



Moskito tells me about PilotHawk and I'm, shocked and sadden by the news. What a tragic thing to happen to a really great guy. However, he wanted the show to go on and we are getting up dates on his injury via the cell phone throughout the weekend. A small comfort since everyone is very concerned.



My new Pilot is better then the description Redrider provided and I am one happy Ramjet. He must have spent days cleaning it. I am so grateful for his efforts and kindness regarding the purchase of this Pilot.

Both Redrider and I were concerned that the original Ohtsu tires on the Pilot would not survive the weekend and planned to swap them out with new tires on site. I brought four new tires with me; two 4-Max's and two rear Titan 489's that I have had good success with in the past on the 350's. I could not locate any vendor with Douglas or ITP rims fast enough to have the tires mounted at home, so I take the tires with me, hoping to swap them on-site.

Now changing tires in the middle of a wet field is something everyone should experience at least once under the tutelage of a professional that has done it before. Redrider was that guy. Everybody pitches in to help remove the old tires off their rims. It was like tag team wrestling. Utilizing the vast warehouse of neatly organized tools from Moskito's box van that are sure to rival DunePilot's anal organizational abilities, Redrider starts with the front tires and they are a major pain in the neck to remove even with the tire-changing tools. After an hour and a half of struggling to remove, mount and air the two front tires, we call it a day and decided to leave the rears alone and take a chance that we will not lose one on the trail. I am again so grateful to Redrider for all his efforts and Moskito for all the air from his compressor.

I arrived too late to take the new Pilot anywhere Friday so I road it the few 100 feet from Redrider’s campsite to the EZ Up portable garage next to my truck and trailer. Everyone wants to see this nice clean Pilot muddy. Tomorrow, I will not disappoint.

Friday night, after a wonderful meal hosted by Harescambles and his delightful wife Terri, we catch up on news and try to remember the new faces. If HS and Terri ever start a restaurant, I am positive it will be a big hit. Terri introduces me to a spice that is popular in Maryland called Old Bay. This stuff is so good that you will want to sprinkle it on your Cheerios in the morning. It makes chicken and beef just taste great.

Looking up into the night sky, I see the stars start to disappear, the wind starts to pick up, and the temperature is dropping. All my years of aviation training tells me that a nasty storm is on its way. Others note the same thing, so, big deal for my weather training. It gets very dark and foreboding. Thunder cells start to roll in like huge wool packs heaped up in picturesque disordered. Understand that we are in this bowl shaped field that surly will act as a repository for the rain as the water makes it way off the mountainsides to the river. We just happen to have set up camp along its path.

All night the menacing mass of thunderstorms, roll by and deposit tons of water on our happy lot of Pilot and Odyssey drivers. I was concerned that the boys from New Jersey were going to be washed away since they set up camp with canvas tents on the ground. Fortunately, I have one of those fiberglass highboy camper tops on the back of my Ford F-250 that acts as my sleeping quarters and figured I was in good shape until the water mark hits three feet or I heard the screams of “man overboard” from the NJ crew as they were washed away. I cannot remember who set their tent up on their trailer but I was thinking it was a smart move that night. All night there was the crash of lighting, the sound of thunder, and the driving rain making sleeping difficult inside my happy little camper top. Periodically, it sounded like someone was dumping gravel on top my truck, the rain was that hard. I heard no screams from the NJ Titanic crew so I assumed all was safe or at least the water was not high enough to get into the bed of my truck.