Where pigs fly

In the sky, bye and bye. No lie! Well, maybe no higher in the sky than the sign, but it's a real restaurant in Dover, DE, and I rode there last Saturday. It all started when I finally got around to reading an email sent by a friend who goes by his last name, Davis. It had the cryptic subject "MTF RTE at WPF" and I didn't bother to try to figure it out for over a week. Then Friday afternoon the email shouted at me: "Motorcycle Touring Forum Ride to Eat, dummy!" I happen to be a member of the RTF, and we all know about riding to eat, so I opened the missive. The event was the next day, in Dover, only an hour away (as a member, I should be ashamed not to show up at an event that close). Weather was promising to be nice, and, wonder of wonders, I had nothing else scheduled! I rather more informed Val about my intent to attend the event than ask permission. Not that I really needed permission. She's pretty compliant about letting me ride—after all, the bike was a birthday gift from her. Saturday morning rolled around. We coordinated our schedules (Val had to work, so she couldn't come along) and I geared up. Just like in my work of fiction a couple posts back, the bike started right up. Several times. Finally on the fourth or fifth try it stayed started, and ran the rest of the day without so much as a hiccup. I really need to make the apron in front of the shed about two feet wider. The only way to back out of the shed is to run onto the mud grass at the edge of the existing concrete pad. About the time I got to Middletown, I idly noticed that both my ancient GPS (which I use mainly as a speedometer, since the one on the bike reads about 10% fast) and the dashboard clock said 9:00—I had two hours available to get down there. I had left an hour early. No wonder I hadn't had time to do the dishes and clean up the kitchen! Funny that neither I nor Val noticed. Time to take some back road twisties through lovely rural Delaware. I was a couple cars behind a pair of Harleys, and I decided not to follow them. This early they probably weren't going to the RTE anyway. I swung right at the first intersection—and ran into downtown traffic. Middletown is a growing area, and the street I accidentally picked has attracted about every franchise in the country, including Home Depot, Walmart, and 40 grocery stores and fast food places. The time on a bank marquee said 10:20. My steel trap mind figured out that neither the GPS nor my clock had been set to daylight "savings" time. Now I was not only marooned in heavy traffic going the wrong direction, but I didn't have the time I needed, and those Harleys would beat me there! I eventually got back on track, took the slab (toll) instead of the back highway (free) and pulled into the restaurant with several minutes to spare. I saw a couple dozen bikes, and about that many riders milling around in the parking lot. I milled around, too, and several people admired my vintage BMW. I saw plates from Virginia and New Hampshire, plus the states between. Several bikes had auxiliary tanks and heavy-duty touring farkles. No one seemed too eager to go inside, so I checked at the desk. They were open, and had no idea they were about to be descended upon by dozens of hungry motorcyclists. She assured me they could handle it, bring 'em on in. So I went back out and hollered that the food was ready. Apparently they had just been waiting for someone to take the lead: I was promptly trampled to death. The food was pretty good. They feature an onion loaf that serves 3-4, and about a hundred combinations of flesh with BBQ sauce on it. The sauce has a nice citrusy tang, and wasn't too spicy. Free refills on soda, including birch beer. Reasonable prices. I took a bunch of pics. They are on Picasa. The ride home was fairly straightforward and uneventful. I didn't ramble too much—I had a kitchen to get clean.