Rattlesnake Pizza and the Week in Review - Day 8

We arrived in Kalispell less one rider.  Nothing dire, just that Jim had to head home to deal with business concerns.  It was regrettable for all of us, but we will focus on the time enjoyed rather than the premature ending.  Saturday we will say goodbye to Ben and Steve after we cross Glacier National Park on the famous "Road to the Sun".  They have work obligations in Medicine Hat late Saturday.  That will leave George and I to chart a new course of unexplored challenges for the next 7 days.  After last year's 6 weeks biking around the perimeter of the continental United States together, we are entirely comfortable just the two of us, but we will miss the friendly bantering and good company of Ben, Steve and Jim.

We ran the gamut of weather today, starting with a cold (50 degrees Fahrenheit, 10 Centigrade) climb up the Bitterroot Mountains out of Dillon, Montana.  An hour into the ride we stopped for coffee in the high plains village of Wisdom, Montana (population 114).  It felt like winter with dark clouds arching over us and blowing cold air down our necks and into any other clothing gap left open.  I had optimistically worn shorts and  T-shirt under my motorcycle garb as I had each day but needed to dig out my rumpled motorcycle coat liner to wear the rest of the day.  Despite being cooler, the run north up Highway 93 was fast and fun until we got to Missoula where the locals and tourists all joined a long weekend traffic exodus in unison.  Progress slowed as we kept our eyes on the clouds.

They threatened to unload their heavy liquid burdens on us all afternoon, but only made good on that threat for sporadically a few minutes at a time.  Still, after our escape from the mountain storm 2 days ago, this time we stopped to put on the rain gear that all except Ben had brought along.  Faced with what seemed to be a certain dousing, we stopped where Ben managed to find a rather noticeable set of gear at a local hardware store.  Of course, once we were prepared for the storm to hit us it never did more than moisten our windshields.  We arrived in Kalispell, Montana, in the late afternoon looking like brightly coloured tropical fish, only we were outside any liquid environment and were perfectly dry.

Now it is very difficult for 5 very diverse guys to pick a nice place to eat in towns where we know none of the restaurants.  We often have had no one to ask, except hotel clerks who might well be part of a kickback scheme, or total strangers whose tastes might well run at variance with our own.  So tonight we Googled, "best places to eat in Kalispell".  Up popped "Capers" on Main Street (all American small towns have a Main Street), less than a mile away from our humble motel.   Sounded great, and looked good too when we arrived.  It was not very busy, although we met a fellow Canadian biker from Abbotsford in the entrance (what are the odds of that?).    Teri, the best server we had experienced so far, explained the specials, "Honey-Baked Salmon or Rattlesnake Pizza".  What would you guess I chose?  I hadn't had rattlesnake since killing and cooking one over a campfire when I was a 13 year old Boy Scout.  It was delicious then and again tonight.  Teri told us the chef has a line on snakes that are milked for their venom before becoming pizza topping.

Over supper we summarized the trip so far, given that it was going to be over for 3 out of 5 of us by tomorrow.  We have traveled 4500 kilometres (2800 miles) or 600 kilometres a day (375 miles) over the 7.5 days so far.  We have scaled dozens of mountain passes and peaks, as well as traversed a few plains and prairies.  The temperatures have soared to a very sweaty 95 F (35 C), and fallen to daytime lows of 40 F (5 C).  We have seen snow banked high on the edge of some roads we traveled, as well as blowing sand, hail, pouring rain and gale force winds.  We have waved to hundreds of bikers en route, and met dozens of them in person, including folks from Germany, Tennessee, Toronto and California.  We have remained healthy, except for the expected aches and pains.  The scenery and wildlife have been amazing and ever changing.  And the week's stories are filed away, to be recalled at some opportune moment, are now legion as well as the stuff of legends.  We have experienced more in one week than in a normal year.  And I never seem to be short of blogging material.

We have been blessed in so many ways.

The Journey As a Metaphor - Day 7

Every day of this motorcycle adventure I think about how it constitutes a metaphor for life; specifically, my life. Today, as we traveled 400 miles (650 kms) from Cody, Wyoming, through Yellowstone to Dillon, Montana, was no different.

As with life, every new day, no matter how similar to another day, brings with it unexplored (or maybe unrecognized) experiences that we can learn from. Today, we climbed the steep grade outside town to travel Chief Joseph's Scenic Highway headed towards Yellowstone Park. I was feeling disappointed we were missing Beartooth Pass, having decided to avoid the roadwork we were told about at this morning’s coffee by two Toronto bikers. Roadwork takes away the fun of riding. It is like deciding to take a jog around the neighbourhood only to be confronted by some hardened woman authoritatively holding up her STOP/SLOW sign like Moses’ staff and demanding that you get down on hands and knees and crawl for a few blocks. We have done some “crawling” on this trip, as you might expect (although one traffic delay gave me a chance to nap). Despite the frustration of the route change, the simple, rugged beauty of the arid landscape quickly captured me. I had seen this exact route before, but I had forgotten its silent, almost spiritual, feel. The swooping corners and sparse traffic added to the total pleasure of the morning.

Of course, landscape splendor was not the only interaction with nature, as we saw deer, big horn sheep (wandering across the road as I was approaching at 65 miles per hour – I think that was the speed limit), elk, a fox, prairie dogs, hawks and eagles, moose, buffalo and even this bear, which totally ignored the gawking tourists and “growling” Harleys some 30 feet away). Then there was the temperamental weather; one moment we were sweltering with not a cloud to give relief, while an hour up the road we were racing between two black-bottomed clouds so as to avoid a repeat drenching disaster. These sightings were marvelous reminders of how we are so blessed in our part of the world, where nature in all its finery is so evident and accessible.

Perhaps the most fascinating interactions of each day come in the form of people. Take the scruffy young man, with old torn jeans loosely belted and wrinkled shirt hanging out, who checked us in at the motel tonight in Dillon, Montana (population 4000). Obviously well spoken and capable of being nearly professional, he spoiled the raw ability he evidenced by only exercising it when the phone rang or someone forced him to abandon his computer game for a time. Then there was Shelby, the 18 year old who works summers as a server in the family run Blacktail Station, found in the converted basement of a building on Montana Street near the motel. She was admittedly new on the job, but tried very hard to be professional, and pulled it off for the most part. Formality and pretention were not part of her character. She told us the Bread Pudding on the menu was made by her grandmother “Bootsie” and then brought the shy woman out of the kitchen, bread pudding in hand, to be introduced with obvious pride. Isn’t it odd that most folks seem to have no difficulty talking to 5 “older” men who, though unshaven and a little rumpled, clearly do not present as gang members. Doug, a 75 year old quiet man at the Chevron station in West Yellowstone, seemed only to happy to discuss motorcycles he had owned before his knee gave out. These three were just people who stepped into and then promptly out of our lives. Everyday we have similar serendipitous meetings that can be handled caringly or carelessly.

Finally, there are the dynamics of my own “helmet time”. Riding a motorcycle is different than taking a car trip. Bikers must (1) watch the road for potholes and tire-slicing metal; (2) sweep both sides of it with careful reconnaissance for bounding deer or even a panicked chipmunk determined to become road kill; (3) watch unblinking any and all other vehicles that, through a driver’s split-second of inattention, could make a mess of rider and bike; and (4) listen constantly to what your bike and body are telling you. But despite these serious sensory demands, there are plenty of alone times when the silence is marred only by wind blowing past your helmet. In that secure compartment I find my thinking trying to sort itself out. I forgot, there is a 5th thing that must be diligently performed while driving a motorcycle. You cannot lay a map beside you on the seat, as in a car, therefore you must watch highway signs, remember the directions to your destination and, contrary to what I did getting lost twice in 20 minutes this morning, look ahead instead of down at the GPS.
We can learn much through experiencing travel as a metaphor for life. As St. Augustine said, “The world is a book and those who do not travel read only one page.”

Attack on the Mountain - Day 6

The darkening skies hurried towards us like pallbearers to a newly arrived hearse.  The temperature plummeted from over 90 F (35 degrees C) to 60 F (15 C) in 30 minutes.  It all foreshadowed events we could not predict.  We did not know what it would be or when it would choose to attack, but we knew the assault was likely.  Goosebumps stood out on my arms from the sudden coolness and the anticipation of the assault. 

We were high in the Big Horn Mountains, having made the ascent by roaring up perfectly graded switchbacks to the last lookout where we stopped to look back at Sheridan, Wyoming, now a miniature village in the valley 5000 feet below us.  We picked up our pace, hoping to make it through the pass and down the other side before the brooding beast struck.  But our effort was in vain as we encountered roadwork near the summit.  For several miles we doddled and detoured around the work on a freshly graded, gravel and sand surface, slipping and spinning as we followed a funeral-like procession  of vehicles.  There was nothing we could do except endure the temporary hold up and then pass the slow moving line up on the straight stretches ahead.  We were impatient to get over the mountains and down to the valley on the other side, stopping only for a photo of a grazing moose.

We were beginning to think we had escaped the anticipated fate as we started down the steep grade marked by repetitive signs, "Caution Steep 10% Grade".  You know, the yellow ones with the image of a car looking like it is driving down a boat ramp to a watery grave.  We learned later that 10% was the steepest incline sign that Wyoming had and our actual grade of descent was probably 15% or more in places.   Through  e could see and longed for the safety and sunshine of the valley floor through the gathering gloom but we knew it was too late.

The storm struck with the speed and desperation of a wounded mountain lion.  Its claws lashed out in the form of lightning that lit the darkness, momentarily slashing the dark clouds then retracting to some hidden sheath to wait.  A growling roar of thunder echoed across the face of the mountain, the road shaking in fear.   The wind joined the battle scene feinting and jabbing like a boxer, swooping from behind a rock outcropping then ramming its fist into our backs by surprise.  It whirled and punched with alarming variety, first pressing hard, then backing off suddenly, then slamming us from all sides at once.  We were defenceless.  Our bikes rocked and bucked like rodeo broncos out of control.   The gusts picked up hands full of sand from the rough roadway and threw the grit at our faces, stinging skin and getting in our eyes.

And then the rain began.  First dabbing our windshields it quickly progressed to wetting our motorcycle coats and helmets.  I began to dearly miss my wind-wrecked visor for the first time as the wind whipped the rain like small nails being thrown at my face.  Soon the rain was drenching us, too late to put the rain gear on.  Besides, where could we stop without endangering ourselves in the path of cars with wipers slapping at the flooded windshields.  We would be risk our bikes suffering serious damage by being blown over in the wind.

I pressed on down the 13 miles of mountain highway 14A that was treacherous beyond anything experienced.  I was drenched to the skin and wondering what was in front of my smeared and water-streaked glasses.  I was fearful of stopping yet afraid to keep going.  The latter seemed the lesser of the two mortality-testing choices.   I crept slowly as if blind down the descent, around each corner, rock wall on one side and cliff on the other.  I crawled down the face of the mountain like a wounded climber getting off the summit before any disaaster would result.   Finally, we all arrived at the first town in the valley and breathed in deeply, as if for the first time since leaving the top.  The adrenalin had amplified my Parkinson's tremor so much that I could only keep from totally losing control by gripping the right handlebar grip as if my life depended on it.  We were grateful to arrive soaked but unscathed.

Surprisingly, by the time we got to our destination, Cody, Wyoming, some 45 miles further, we were all dry and warm again, the mountain ordeal having already faded to more 'exciting' than frightening.  However, we all admitted it was the worst driving conditions we had ever encountered astride a motorcycle.  We had survived the attack on the mountain and were happy.

Black Heart of the Black Hills - Day 5

Sturgis, South Dakota, does not look like a famous town, but it is.  In August each year tens of thousands of bikers from around the world come to this unremarkable place on the northern edge of the Black Hills.  Why?  That is the question that has caused an itch in my thoughts all day.  Despite being an ardent motorcyclist, the last place I would want to be during the 7 days of the Sturgis Motorcycle Rally is at the Sturgis Motorcycle Rally.  This year the event celebrates its 70th Anniversary, and with it an anticipated attendance of 700,000 people.  No, I did not add a couple of zeros.  There will be almost three-quarters of a million biker types visiting a town with an official population at last census of 6442 (incredibly brave or twitterpated) souls.

The Rally is, for many, the Mecca of motorcycle culture.  In some respects it tries to live up to its image of a tough biker destination.  But regardless of the reputation ("Good girls go to heaven.  Bad girls go to Sturgis."), the stats don't support the label.  Despite the apparently tough crowd, in 2000 when there were 631,000 attendees there were only 10 Rally-related deaths, 359 parking tickets handed out, 111 people actually jailed, and 390 visits to the Hospital.  G8 and G20 Summits resulted in more dramatic statistics.

If it does not fit the annual 'bad biker dude place to be' label, why does it attract the masses.  As one friend stated, "Perhaps it is just herd mentality."  It has become, simply and inexplicably, the place for bikers of all description to congregate, if only to buy and then wear a T-shirt that proves one's attendance.

So why are we in Sturgis?  Of course, it is not during the Rally, or we would be paying $400 a night instead of $85 for our modest motel rooms.  Mostly, it is to say we were here and buy a T-shirt from this motorcycle Mecca.  The same logic, or lack thereof, was present when we went to see Mt. Rushmore today.  We were quite ready to abandon the idea of actually joining the throngs going through the entry gates, replacing the urge to do so by simply snapping a few photos while posing along the road by the sign that said, "No parking, stopping or standing at any  time".  We are creatures susceptible to 'group think'.  Witness the anxious desire to join in when passing the 'SALE' bin where others are frantically pawing through its contents like a dog digging after an escaped burrowing animal.

Maybe there really is a phobia imprinted on our genetic make up.  My daughter calls it "FOMO", the fear of missing out.  Then following on that fear we seem to have the need for self-validation.  If we invest time and effort into something (say a motorcycle convention of sorts), it would  be rare for us to admit it was a waste of time and effort.  We would rather sing its praises than complain about the poor choice we made.

So how was my day?   Well, Sturgis was a quiet town waiting for its population to grow by 100 times for one week.  Mt. Rushmore was still there, standing tribute to an eccentric, incomplete and controversial project that has awed and attracted 2 million Americans and others annually for roughly the same 70 years as the Rally.  It was a fascinating day of recognizing, without understanding or even appreciating, the human need for ritual. Like my habit of eating Tootsie Pops while riding cross country. 

Going the Distance - Day 4

Some days of every motorcycle trip call for dogged determination to cover distance to a destination.  Today was one of those days.  It was a great day; sunshine and very warm, no "events" to mar the ride, and lots of variation in the scenery as we travelled over 600 miles (975 kilometres).  The day started with a 730 am departure from the motel in Missoula.  We literally flew east along I-90, as the speed limit is 75 mph, which we only rarely exceeded.  At a place called Crow Agency we left the freeway for Highway 212, a scenic route dotted with historic but tired-looking towns like Busby, Lame Deer, Alzada, Muddy and Broadus. Each place was populated by a disproportionately large number of dilapidated buildings and few, if any, amenities. The reason for existence seemed to be limited to a cemetery, like the one at Little Bighorn, or some other footnote in some history text gathering dust on a library shelf somewhere.

We went virtually the entire breadth of the great state of Montana today, ending around 8 PM in Belle Fourche, South  Dakota, just north of the Black Hills and Mt. Rushmore.  In fact, we are at the same motel, and ate at the same restaurant, as George and I patronized last year July 4.  And there are still 4400 folks living in this town but, despite the re-paving of Main Street, it seems to be fighting a losing battle against age.  It has past its prime.

It was not particularly difficult day, just long, with the heat causing more fatigue than normal. We covered lots of countryside, interrupted infrequently by siting grazing antelope or some historic town clinging to hope and relevance in a world that passes by on freshly paved roads without any need to stop or even slow down.  There was lots of time to think.  I thought of my life and how sometimes parts of the journey feel more like perseverance than important.  But I realize that my life has times when it is necessary to get to a new place if I  am to stretch and take in an experience outside my current space and comfort zone.  And there are times when I feel like one of those tired towns along the way, desperately wanting to be noticed and relevant rather than just getting a drive-by glance at a relic reminder of some faded historical fact. 

For me, the day was like my Parkinson's disease; a necessary discipline through a sometimes dry country, letting go of the past with its now outmoded dreams, and aspiring to a new direction with new challenges, new opportunities and new relevance.

Curves and more Curves - Day 3

Imagine the fluid motion of a downhill skier carving S-shaped curves through new powder with a rhythm that looks effortless, but takes a dancer's concentration and repetitive daring attacks of the mountain like a bullfighter. One false move and the music will end in discord, the artistry destroyed. That is what a biker experiences.

For most touring motorcyclists there are few more satisfying events than when riding a powerful machine on a highway slalom course of perfect turns. First left, then right, lunging and leaning into each corner as if to make it submit to the sidewall grip of the two tires. Then accelerating out of each curve as if whipped by a chain of skaters, hurtling almost out of control over the ground as if on blades cutting into ice. The rider pushes the machine while studying the road immediately ahead as if searching a typewritten page for the smallest error, simultaneously scanning the landscape on both sides the road for potential deer or other wildlife, or even an ignorant driver pulling back onto the pavement like a plane onto a runway oblivious to the aircraft coming in to land. Carelessness, by you or the errant motorist, can send you onto the shoulder or clamping hard on brakes in defence. There are risks, as there are in any adventure, but care and caution reduce that concern without depriving the two-wheeled traveler of the thrill of conquering the highway.

Today was spent vanquishing 600 kilometres (350 miles) in three States on some of the best asphalt to be had. Departing around 8 am we zipped over the undulating drylands of the southeastern corner of Washington.  In the process we passed vast fields of grain that were literally mimicking the waves of the ocean in the wind, small American towns with stately courthouses decked out in preparation for the Fourth of July and lazy creeks and small rivers meandering through deep cut ravines to feed the demands of the great Columbia river. We were headed for Idaho and then Missoula, Montana, via the Lolo Pass Highway #12. We were familiar with this matron of great biking roads, having ridden it several times before. It boasts almost 200 miles of enough weaving and winding to thrill everyone from the most seasoned biker to the novice crouching over the stubby handlebars of a crotch rocket. There are seemingly countless 40 mile per hour bends the road that cling to the banks of the Lochsa River.  It is the river that gave birth, and still gives character, to this route.

Before starting Lolo Pass, we had a warm up and diverted to Lewiston Hill. It is a series of 30 mile per hour switchbacks, dropping a scenic 1500 vertcal feet down the steep hill above the Idaho town of the same name. We rode it both ways today, once for fun and once for photos.

All in all it was a great day of sunny skies, safely scraping foot pegs on corners and enjoying great divergence of scenery. Just wait until I tell you about tomorrow.

The Bad Part of Helen's Backside - Day 2

My relationship with Harley Davidsons has always been a friendly rivalry.  That is, before today. 

Today held experiences in extremes.  We were on the road before 8 am, ready for the day's challenges and adventures.  Little did we know.  It started off as a day of magnificent mountaintop experiences as we rode as far as possible up Mt. Rainier, 3 metres of snow on either side of the road, which kept us on the cool side of comfortable.  Then we careened down a road no snake could duplicate until we reached Packwood, Washington, taking time for a decent cup of coffee and a muffin before we pressed on to our next pinnacle.   You can get near the top of Mt. St. Helen's by two routes, one from the east and one the west, both great for motorcycles.  We had chosen the eastern "backside" as it allowed us to avoid the freeway and travel the curvaceous corners of Highway 131.  It was a treat for all of us, with one exception.

Windy Ridge atop Mt. St. Helens, overlooking Spirit Lake, has special significance for me.  My father-in-law and Renae's brother-in-law had built the stone walls and other masonry there after the volcanic eruption of 1980 had taken its toll.  What's more, I had worked there too.  In fact, we passed the exact spot where I had cut and laid some stones on the back side of the wall of a lookout wall.  Thankfully, visitors could not clearly see my amateurish masonry amongst what is surely artwork.  I had no plan to stop at  that "overlook", but we did.

We were enjoying our way up the 20 mile ascent to Windy Ridge when we caught up with an older style Harley Davidson.   He was slower than us, as were most vehicles as they doddled beyond logic.  But I was in no hurry to pass, recognizing that the summit was a few miles ahead.  As well, I was tuckered out from the number of corners I had conquered so far.  But the blue Harley must have heard the clarion call of the view and at the last second he suddenly decided he would turn left and enter the "overlook " .  He was not in the left turn lane, but I was, having interpreted his slowing down as an invitation to pass.  Accelerating at the same time as he swung the old hog to the left I hit him hard, glancing off his bike with a sickening sound of crumpling metal and plastic.  Wobbling, but still upright, I was able to stop in the wrong side of the road before reaching the edge of the drop off to an unknown conclusion.

That was when the shaking began.  I mean more than normal with my Parkinson's disease.  But, amazingly, except for a dislodged highway peg, my bike was unscathed.  Not so with the Harley, its engine guard bar was bent at almost a right angle, just barely short of preventing his front wheel from turning.  He and I checked out the damage in relative silence.  He seemed to know it was his fault but no allegations where stated.   I stopped shaking twenty minutes later.  I was thankful that neither my body, bike nor our trip were ruined by what proved to be only a scare.  Honda meets Harley and comes away a winner!

The rest of the afternoon was spent descending to the Columbia River gorge and then traveling east in what became a very hot 150 miles to our destination for the day, Kennewick, Washington.  Arriving after doing a respectable 550 kilometres (300 miles) I was minus the visor from my new helmet, which had blown off earlier and ended up under George's front tire.  But tonight, while enjoying an incredible Italian meal, we all agreed that the day had certainly been eventful.  Maybe we had enough adventure for one day.