arkline
04-20-2006, 02:22 PM
By eight o'clock on Sunday, eleven hours into the ride, I was still around 150 miles from my goal. Darkness had fallen like an iron curtain, enhanced by a thick cloud cover that absorbed stray photons and kept them from illuminating anything outside my headlight's beam. My faceshield was smeary with road grime and the by-products of gasoline that had been burned. The headlights of oncoming cars refracted and reflected in interesting ways. My arms were heavy. My hands were numb. My stomach muscles shivered, sending vibrations up my spine and into my outstretched arms. I was looking for the marge of Lake LaBarge, hoping to meet up with Sam McGee.
I'd started my journey at nine in the morning. I'd dithered and waffled way past the time I'd expected to leave. The traffic cams at Snoqualmie Pass showed snow on the sides of the freeway and slush and ice on the roadway. Not ideal conditions for a motorcyclist. But what to do? Pack it in for the day and wait for better weather? Here in Seattle that could be a long wait.
So with everything strapped and bungied securely to the back seat, I hoisted my leg up onto the seat and over and started the bike. Up the driveway and out onto the street. First stop gas. I rode carefully, getting the feel of how the bike handled with the extra weight. At the gas station I found that layering up under the 'Stich and the bag on the back seat made getting off the bike a ballet move at the bar. Lifting the beast onto the center stand required finding a new hand-hold. Filled up, I had to devise a better way to get fundament onto seat. So I stood on the peg and stepped over the seat with my right leg. Having cranked up the preload and with the additional height of the Sargent, rolling off the center stand was a bit of a struggle, but workable. And then I was off.
The plans I'd made for my first leg were inoperative, so I got onto I-5 and headed for Portland. The bike felt good and so did I. Seventy/seventy-five, no wish for a ticket. Being Easter Sunday, the traffic was light. I ran through a couple of patches of rain and south of Tacoma the winds began to pick up. Still, I was relatively warm and dry in that 'Stich with four layers of cloth covering my core. The grips were on to full heat and I began to gain some confidence. At Kalama, 156 miles south of Seattle, I bought gas, found an empty lot, smoked a cigarette, and called Donna. Back on the freeway, I managed to by-pass the knot of concrete that ties up traffic in Portland and entered I-84.
Cruising along beside the mighty Columbia, the surface chopped into whitecaps by winds that gusted down the Gorge, the weather began to be less friendly. Dark clouds rolled down the heights and there were several areas where I rode in the tracks of cars or trucks that were clear of slush. Still, heading east the highway is magnificent. The Gorge at that point is a wide river hemmed in by almost vertical bluffs. You ride a rollercoaster as the roadway hugs the contours of the level just above the river's surface. The highway has a nearly perfect patina and as you rise onto the Columbia Plateau, the weather begins to clear. The pavement dries and the side of your body facing the sun is noticeably warmed.
Stopping for gas in Oregon is another peculiar dance. Oh, getting on and off the bike is getting to be routine, but in Oregon you aren't supposed to pump your own gas. Once I get the bike up on the center stand, an attendant comes over and pulls the nozzle out of the pump. He then hands it to me. I guess keeping the dribbles off the paint is my own responsibility. I pump my three and a fraction gallons and the attendant takes the handle from me and sticks it back onto the pump.
Rolling again, I notice that the Oilhead is running like a champ. Swapping between 5th and 6th is a quick snick up and down, up and down. The sweeping curves are lovely, leaned over just a bit, hauling close to seventy-five, moving to the left to get around the semis, check the mirror, signal on, moving to the right. This is a better life, this is what I wanted to have. Outside Pendleton, several hours later, I stop for a bite, some fluids, and a smoke. I am now close to four hours behind my schedule. Instead of running the hypotenuse from Seattle to Hermiston, I've had to ride the legs of the triangle. But the scenery is pure western America. The Columbia Plateau is a gently undulating flat land. Those big, white, fluffy clouds up there in a painfully blue sky drop most of their moisture over the mountains, so the Plateau is light tan. It is windy, of course. Gusts up to 20mph or more, but steady most of the time. Back in the saddle, I try to make some time to LaGrande.
I can tell that I'm rising in elevation, the air becomes colder and the sky begins to darken again. Up into some stark hills, up into the darkness. Still the highway sweeps around some amazing vistas. The roadway becomes damp again, then wet. The darkness blesses me with rain until above some unmarked elevation, snow begins to fall. For miles I'm riding in the cold and I begin to feel myself begin to stiffen in the arms and shoulders. I force myself to relax, breathe a deeper breath, the generous curves don't like rigid arms and a death grip on the bars. I pass over several bridges where there is a slicker rime on the surface. Wiggle a little and it feels okay. Wiggle a lot and your heart suddenly becomes obvious in your chest. Over the pass in the Blue Mountains of Oregon 4963 feet in elevation. Now down the other side into a valley where a dark gray reigns over the day. Another gas stop. I find I'm road stupid, relatively incoherent as the attendant hands me the nozzle. Good grief. I am so cold now that I shiver uncontrolled. I fill the tank and go into the store. A cuppa would help and as I pay I ask the clerk how far it is to Boise. Oh, probably another four hours. It is around 4 in the afternoon and I ask what time it begins to get dark. Oh, around seven or so. I step back outside and huddle under the roof that covers the pumps, smoking a cigarette with the attendant who had handed me the nozzle and sipping my coffee.
Back to motion, I'm riding through rolling country. The temperature is near 35 and I have to work to keep myself loose. The clouds are thick and gray and getting grayer as the sky begins to darken. Another 150 miles or so. And darkness engulfs me. I ride through some unremembered towns and have to be careful to keep my following distances. Finally sanity takes over from the desire to make my goal. I see a sign advertising both a Shiloh Inn and a Days Inn at the next exit. I move to the right hand lane and ease off the speed and ease down the ramp. Odd, the front end of the bike is weaving. It's never done that before. I consciously loosen my arms and the weaving goes away. Hmmmmm. Time to stop for sure.
I pull up in front of the office to the Shiloh Inn which is marginally closer to the highway than the Days Inn around the next corner. I stump in to book a room and can't control my shivering, don't seem to be able to speak particularly clearly, and am just barely successful at extracting my credit card from my travel wallet. I scrawl my name on the sheet of paper, pinch the naked key in my fingers and have to move the bike to the stairwell. Third floor. Damn. Third floor. I unload the bike completely taking several trips up and down the stairs. Then I come back and put on the cover and tramp back up the stairs. Six hundred plus miles. Damn, I'm cold.
In the room, I lay on the bed and watch the weather on the tube. Cold and snow from Boise to Salt Lake City. I become aware that my left-hand thumb is numb. Not discolored or anything like that. The hand is tired and a little sore, but the thumb has definitely lost consciousness. I check my arm. No numbness or pain that shouldn't be there, so I'm not having a coronary. I strip to my skivvies and sit contemplating what to do on the following day. Can I do another day in worse conditions than I've met so far? The bike is fine. The ride is smooth and inspires a high degree of confidence, but the snow and cold are debilitating. Can I do another day at less than 40 degrees? There are still some mountains ahead. Do I want to chance it? How much do I want to gamble?
From somewhere in the back of my cortex, I begin to realize that this outward bound part of my ride is over. If there were twenty more degrees in the air, if the clouds were to disappear overnight, if my grip on the bars would just loosen, I'd be able to do it. But this is the time of the year when the mountains can surprise you and I'm really not up for any more surprises. I call Donna and let her know that I'll be heading back in the morning. I call Dean Lear to let him know that I'll not make it to Show Low this time around. Talking with Dean improves my spirits a bit. I get something to eat and crawl into the bed, a bit tuckered out.
In the morning, I manage to get some breakfast, load up the bike and ride to get some gas. It is 32 degrees and I manage to drop the bike on its left side at the gas station. It is a huge effort to get it up and on the side stand since everything is back on the bike. Damn, the valve cover is a bit scraped up. Back on the road, I mirror the ride I made the day before. The winds start early and punch my helmet around. Back up through the Blue Mountains, back through the low clouds, back through the snow and iced bridges. I notice several deer corpses stinking sourly by the side of the road and thank fate that I'm not laying there with them. In one spot the snow becomes hail and I can feel each strike as it hits my gloves. I can't figure out how, but some flakes manage to get into the space between my face and the shield. Up to the pass and back down to the Plateau. Somewhere in Oregon I can see low clouds off to my left, butted up against the hills with white curtains of snow and rain pouring from the bottoms of the clouds. Luckily, my road took me away from that experience. Gas and go. Gas and go. I make good time and by 12:30 I'm leaving Oregon near Hermiston and cutting up I-82 to Ellensburg, hooking up with I-90 and headed back to Seattle. The time goes quickly and before I know it I'm at the Bear Creek Rest area about 90 miles from Seattle, but on the east side of the pass. I stop, smoke a couple of cigarettes, and call to let them know that I've got about an hour and a half before I get home. Alex says to be careful and I assure her that I will.
Entering Snoqualmie Pass from the east, the pavement is dry. Traffic is relatively light and I'm clipping right along. I go through the snow tunnel and enter the area where huge chunks of mountain have recently fallen and killed four people as their car was crushed. On the west side of the pass, it begins to snow and rain. My face shield becomes a muddy mess as I slow and cars and semis pass me covering me with roadspray. I manage to keep my speed up to sixty-five but can't really see far enough ahead to feel safe. Sometimes you just have to hold on and hope for the best. I keep wiping my shield with my left hand glove and kept my right hand steady on the throttle. The descent ended just about the time my patience with the lack of visibility ended. The pavement dried out and I rode through the winds at North Bend. Issaquah next. Then Bellevue.
My luck was holding steady. I managed to get myself into rush hour traffic on the east side of Lake Washington. A rolling parking lot mostly. With lots of parry and thrust, jockeying for position to make the exit from I-405 to the floating bridge. Luckily, once on 520, I could use the HOV lanes to get to the bridge. And then the traffic came to a standstill. One, two, three miles an hour over the bridge across the lake. What should be less than three minutes took around fifteen.
Off the bridge and past the University, I was hyper careful to make the couple of miles home. I pulled onto the sidewalk in front of my house and had to wrestle the opener from the pocket on the sleeve where I had parked it. Funny, the door is going up and down. Hmmmm. Donna has punched the button from inside the house and I've punched the button out on the side walk. As I begin to walk the bike backwards down the drive, something I've done hundreds and hundreds of times, I manage to get off side and hit the rock wall with my right side case. Over I go onto the left side again. I get pitched off the bike and my helmet hits the rockery on the left side of the drive. I struggle to get up and Donna is trying to lift the bike by herself. Not a chance of that happening. The bike is fulcrumed on the left side case and is relatively more upside down than it should be. I move to the right side and push down on the rear wheel and the bike gets more ordinarily oriented. As tired as I am and with Donna's help, the bike gets upright before I have to worry about hydrolock in the left cylinder. Carefully we both ease the beast backwards into the garage and I prop it on the sidestand. The ride of a lifetime is officially over. 1071 miles, more or less, in two days. And no progress made toward Texas.
I can't express how disappointed I am that the trip of a lifetime has ended with no real trip at all. Or how bummed I am that I won't get to meet the T and A (Texas and Arizona) Peckerheads, scallawags, etc. Maybe next year. Only next time, I'll fly in and rent that fancy Harley. Now, I have to wash some incredible grime off the bike and figure out how to fix the cosmetics on the valve cover. And figure out how to afford a bike that is really meant to do some distance with some protection for the rider...Oh, yeah, I forgot. Dean recommends Gerbings and I think I'll take him at his word.
I'd started my journey at nine in the morning. I'd dithered and waffled way past the time I'd expected to leave. The traffic cams at Snoqualmie Pass showed snow on the sides of the freeway and slush and ice on the roadway. Not ideal conditions for a motorcyclist. But what to do? Pack it in for the day and wait for better weather? Here in Seattle that could be a long wait.
So with everything strapped and bungied securely to the back seat, I hoisted my leg up onto the seat and over and started the bike. Up the driveway and out onto the street. First stop gas. I rode carefully, getting the feel of how the bike handled with the extra weight. At the gas station I found that layering up under the 'Stich and the bag on the back seat made getting off the bike a ballet move at the bar. Lifting the beast onto the center stand required finding a new hand-hold. Filled up, I had to devise a better way to get fundament onto seat. So I stood on the peg and stepped over the seat with my right leg. Having cranked up the preload and with the additional height of the Sargent, rolling off the center stand was a bit of a struggle, but workable. And then I was off.
The plans I'd made for my first leg were inoperative, so I got onto I-5 and headed for Portland. The bike felt good and so did I. Seventy/seventy-five, no wish for a ticket. Being Easter Sunday, the traffic was light. I ran through a couple of patches of rain and south of Tacoma the winds began to pick up. Still, I was relatively warm and dry in that 'Stich with four layers of cloth covering my core. The grips were on to full heat and I began to gain some confidence. At Kalama, 156 miles south of Seattle, I bought gas, found an empty lot, smoked a cigarette, and called Donna. Back on the freeway, I managed to by-pass the knot of concrete that ties up traffic in Portland and entered I-84.
Cruising along beside the mighty Columbia, the surface chopped into whitecaps by winds that gusted down the Gorge, the weather began to be less friendly. Dark clouds rolled down the heights and there were several areas where I rode in the tracks of cars or trucks that were clear of slush. Still, heading east the highway is magnificent. The Gorge at that point is a wide river hemmed in by almost vertical bluffs. You ride a rollercoaster as the roadway hugs the contours of the level just above the river's surface. The highway has a nearly perfect patina and as you rise onto the Columbia Plateau, the weather begins to clear. The pavement dries and the side of your body facing the sun is noticeably warmed.
Stopping for gas in Oregon is another peculiar dance. Oh, getting on and off the bike is getting to be routine, but in Oregon you aren't supposed to pump your own gas. Once I get the bike up on the center stand, an attendant comes over and pulls the nozzle out of the pump. He then hands it to me. I guess keeping the dribbles off the paint is my own responsibility. I pump my three and a fraction gallons and the attendant takes the handle from me and sticks it back onto the pump.
Rolling again, I notice that the Oilhead is running like a champ. Swapping between 5th and 6th is a quick snick up and down, up and down. The sweeping curves are lovely, leaned over just a bit, hauling close to seventy-five, moving to the left to get around the semis, check the mirror, signal on, moving to the right. This is a better life, this is what I wanted to have. Outside Pendleton, several hours later, I stop for a bite, some fluids, and a smoke. I am now close to four hours behind my schedule. Instead of running the hypotenuse from Seattle to Hermiston, I've had to ride the legs of the triangle. But the scenery is pure western America. The Columbia Plateau is a gently undulating flat land. Those big, white, fluffy clouds up there in a painfully blue sky drop most of their moisture over the mountains, so the Plateau is light tan. It is windy, of course. Gusts up to 20mph or more, but steady most of the time. Back in the saddle, I try to make some time to LaGrande.
I can tell that I'm rising in elevation, the air becomes colder and the sky begins to darken again. Up into some stark hills, up into the darkness. Still the highway sweeps around some amazing vistas. The roadway becomes damp again, then wet. The darkness blesses me with rain until above some unmarked elevation, snow begins to fall. For miles I'm riding in the cold and I begin to feel myself begin to stiffen in the arms and shoulders. I force myself to relax, breathe a deeper breath, the generous curves don't like rigid arms and a death grip on the bars. I pass over several bridges where there is a slicker rime on the surface. Wiggle a little and it feels okay. Wiggle a lot and your heart suddenly becomes obvious in your chest. Over the pass in the Blue Mountains of Oregon 4963 feet in elevation. Now down the other side into a valley where a dark gray reigns over the day. Another gas stop. I find I'm road stupid, relatively incoherent as the attendant hands me the nozzle. Good grief. I am so cold now that I shiver uncontrolled. I fill the tank and go into the store. A cuppa would help and as I pay I ask the clerk how far it is to Boise. Oh, probably another four hours. It is around 4 in the afternoon and I ask what time it begins to get dark. Oh, around seven or so. I step back outside and huddle under the roof that covers the pumps, smoking a cigarette with the attendant who had handed me the nozzle and sipping my coffee.
Back to motion, I'm riding through rolling country. The temperature is near 35 and I have to work to keep myself loose. The clouds are thick and gray and getting grayer as the sky begins to darken. Another 150 miles or so. And darkness engulfs me. I ride through some unremembered towns and have to be careful to keep my following distances. Finally sanity takes over from the desire to make my goal. I see a sign advertising both a Shiloh Inn and a Days Inn at the next exit. I move to the right hand lane and ease off the speed and ease down the ramp. Odd, the front end of the bike is weaving. It's never done that before. I consciously loosen my arms and the weaving goes away. Hmmmmm. Time to stop for sure.
I pull up in front of the office to the Shiloh Inn which is marginally closer to the highway than the Days Inn around the next corner. I stump in to book a room and can't control my shivering, don't seem to be able to speak particularly clearly, and am just barely successful at extracting my credit card from my travel wallet. I scrawl my name on the sheet of paper, pinch the naked key in my fingers and have to move the bike to the stairwell. Third floor. Damn. Third floor. I unload the bike completely taking several trips up and down the stairs. Then I come back and put on the cover and tramp back up the stairs. Six hundred plus miles. Damn, I'm cold.
In the room, I lay on the bed and watch the weather on the tube. Cold and snow from Boise to Salt Lake City. I become aware that my left-hand thumb is numb. Not discolored or anything like that. The hand is tired and a little sore, but the thumb has definitely lost consciousness. I check my arm. No numbness or pain that shouldn't be there, so I'm not having a coronary. I strip to my skivvies and sit contemplating what to do on the following day. Can I do another day in worse conditions than I've met so far? The bike is fine. The ride is smooth and inspires a high degree of confidence, but the snow and cold are debilitating. Can I do another day at less than 40 degrees? There are still some mountains ahead. Do I want to chance it? How much do I want to gamble?
From somewhere in the back of my cortex, I begin to realize that this outward bound part of my ride is over. If there were twenty more degrees in the air, if the clouds were to disappear overnight, if my grip on the bars would just loosen, I'd be able to do it. But this is the time of the year when the mountains can surprise you and I'm really not up for any more surprises. I call Donna and let her know that I'll be heading back in the morning. I call Dean Lear to let him know that I'll not make it to Show Low this time around. Talking with Dean improves my spirits a bit. I get something to eat and crawl into the bed, a bit tuckered out.
In the morning, I manage to get some breakfast, load up the bike and ride to get some gas. It is 32 degrees and I manage to drop the bike on its left side at the gas station. It is a huge effort to get it up and on the side stand since everything is back on the bike. Damn, the valve cover is a bit scraped up. Back on the road, I mirror the ride I made the day before. The winds start early and punch my helmet around. Back up through the Blue Mountains, back through the low clouds, back through the snow and iced bridges. I notice several deer corpses stinking sourly by the side of the road and thank fate that I'm not laying there with them. In one spot the snow becomes hail and I can feel each strike as it hits my gloves. I can't figure out how, but some flakes manage to get into the space between my face and the shield. Up to the pass and back down to the Plateau. Somewhere in Oregon I can see low clouds off to my left, butted up against the hills with white curtains of snow and rain pouring from the bottoms of the clouds. Luckily, my road took me away from that experience. Gas and go. Gas and go. I make good time and by 12:30 I'm leaving Oregon near Hermiston and cutting up I-82 to Ellensburg, hooking up with I-90 and headed back to Seattle. The time goes quickly and before I know it I'm at the Bear Creek Rest area about 90 miles from Seattle, but on the east side of the pass. I stop, smoke a couple of cigarettes, and call to let them know that I've got about an hour and a half before I get home. Alex says to be careful and I assure her that I will.
Entering Snoqualmie Pass from the east, the pavement is dry. Traffic is relatively light and I'm clipping right along. I go through the snow tunnel and enter the area where huge chunks of mountain have recently fallen and killed four people as their car was crushed. On the west side of the pass, it begins to snow and rain. My face shield becomes a muddy mess as I slow and cars and semis pass me covering me with roadspray. I manage to keep my speed up to sixty-five but can't really see far enough ahead to feel safe. Sometimes you just have to hold on and hope for the best. I keep wiping my shield with my left hand glove and kept my right hand steady on the throttle. The descent ended just about the time my patience with the lack of visibility ended. The pavement dried out and I rode through the winds at North Bend. Issaquah next. Then Bellevue.
My luck was holding steady. I managed to get myself into rush hour traffic on the east side of Lake Washington. A rolling parking lot mostly. With lots of parry and thrust, jockeying for position to make the exit from I-405 to the floating bridge. Luckily, once on 520, I could use the HOV lanes to get to the bridge. And then the traffic came to a standstill. One, two, three miles an hour over the bridge across the lake. What should be less than three minutes took around fifteen.
Off the bridge and past the University, I was hyper careful to make the couple of miles home. I pulled onto the sidewalk in front of my house and had to wrestle the opener from the pocket on the sleeve where I had parked it. Funny, the door is going up and down. Hmmmm. Donna has punched the button from inside the house and I've punched the button out on the side walk. As I begin to walk the bike backwards down the drive, something I've done hundreds and hundreds of times, I manage to get off side and hit the rock wall with my right side case. Over I go onto the left side again. I get pitched off the bike and my helmet hits the rockery on the left side of the drive. I struggle to get up and Donna is trying to lift the bike by herself. Not a chance of that happening. The bike is fulcrumed on the left side case and is relatively more upside down than it should be. I move to the right side and push down on the rear wheel and the bike gets more ordinarily oriented. As tired as I am and with Donna's help, the bike gets upright before I have to worry about hydrolock in the left cylinder. Carefully we both ease the beast backwards into the garage and I prop it on the sidestand. The ride of a lifetime is officially over. 1071 miles, more or less, in two days. And no progress made toward Texas.
I can't express how disappointed I am that the trip of a lifetime has ended with no real trip at all. Or how bummed I am that I won't get to meet the T and A (Texas and Arizona) Peckerheads, scallawags, etc. Maybe next year. Only next time, I'll fly in and rent that fancy Harley. Now, I have to wash some incredible grime off the bike and figure out how to fix the cosmetics on the valve cover. And figure out how to afford a bike that is really meant to do some distance with some protection for the rider...Oh, yeah, I forgot. Dean recommends Gerbings and I think I'll take him at his word.