Photo by Michael Pierce

Riding a motorcycle at night across a mountain road is best described as ‘a visceral experience.’

This is the story of riding my Triumph motorcycle across California Highway 36 in northern California on March 29th. In it, I’m on a motorcycle on a mountain road, at night, in the dark, with bears and everything. It’s twoo its twoo!

Known by many as one of the best motorcycle roads in the west, CA36 is a lightly traveled road that winds from near Fortuna at the south edge of Humboldt Bay on the Pacific Ocean, across the rugged Coastal Range and over the southern shoulder of Mt. Lassen, where it ends near Susanville in the far northeastern corner of ‘The Golden Bear State.’

The section I’m about to tackle is the one made famous by the ‘curves next 140 miles’ sign, bellowing its way from the coast to Red Bluff. The road is at its narrowest along this segment, twisting and gnarly in the woods and catapulting itself with glee over these rock strewn hills. While I’ve traveled many times from east to west on CA36, I’m traveling west to east for only my second time tonight. The first trip was during daylight over eight years ago. Already my pulse is slightly quickened.

Today, I’ve ridden from Eugene, Oregon south on I-5 and west on CA96 through Happy Camp and Hoopa, then west on CA299 from Willow Creek to Eureka. Most thoughtful riders would call it a day, and find a place to hole up until morning.

That’s not an option for me. I’m due at Thunder Hill Raceway in distant Willows, CA, at 5:30am for a photography gig.

The only answer is to press on.

After a delicious dinner of fresh fish & chips (served by a cute brunette who coddled me with a delightful pint of Lost Coast Ale), I take a pee break and a stretching walk around the block.

Refreshed and relaxed I climb back onto my big black Triumph Tiger 900 and growl my way out of town with the clock striking an ominous 7pm. Ok, it didn’t strike – it simply digitally flickered from 6:59 to 7:00. Cut me some slack.

Destination – Willows. My distance to cover is in the vicinity of a hundred and eighty-five miles, with most of that being across a delightful mountain road. It has become painfully obvious that most of the distance will be covered while bathed in darkness. I have a brief hour of daylight remaining. The beauty of daylight fades, as I fly across the asphalt.

The sky darkens to indigo and the sunset plays one last ray onto the bellies of the blue, purple and orange tinted clouds. A twinkle of light above and another, as first the planets, then the stars become visible in the deep ink of the evening sky.

Not long after, I find myself hurtling into blind corners, lit with feeble stray rays of illumination. I am a rider, unable to see beyond the black, fleeing into the unknown.

The road is tight, twisting back on itself. Curling, writhing, plummeting and rising as if it were a living, breathing beast. I flash past giant Redwood trees mere inches from my elbows. As I climb, cold mountain air replaces the pleasant coastal afternoon warmth.

I reach down with a blind twist; I turn the heated vest up another click. My arms and back are rewarded with a flush of warmth. On, onto the spine of the mountain, I climb.

The road narrows, where the pavement turns a light gray in the bath of my headlamps, the centerline disappears. There is only a lane and a half now of roadway to play upon. I find myself sharing with a few oncoming locals. I politely dip my headlamps as they stay well to their side, yet I’m left with only the slimmest of margins to pass with safety. Slipping by, each time I’m grateful the traffic is near zero.

Colder now, I’ve climbed above 3000 ft. The roadsides are rock strewn with patches of ice encrusted snow. It seems darker. I know I’m riding further away from safety. My mind gently probes the idea of being lost, hurt, my broken body hidden down a hill or beneath a cover of branches. I contemplate facing death on this road. With a headshake, I reject those thoughts and refocus on being smooth.

My toe reaches out and I click up a gear higher than ‘normal’, to carry a smooth entry into and through the corner. I refuse to startle when a small rock intrudes on my line, instead I make subtle adjustments and roll past the threat. My Tiger triple growls out of the corners, the overrun burbling behind as I roll off, then back onto the throttle for each twisting curve.

I recognize that I’m making an effort at staying focused and smooth. I have to. It is now as far to return to where I left, as it will be to continue on to my destination. I’m at the mid-point of this night ride. There is no returning. There is only forward. On to the next set of corners, the briefest of rests on the ever shorter straight sections.

There’s a flash in my mirror. Another, then the road behind is bathed in the light of a set of powerful headlamps. What is behind is quickly catching me. I roll into the next set of corners and for a few moments I’m alone again. Not for long. I can hear the whine of a turbo over the bellowing exhaust of a diesel. Yes, I’m being caught and passed by a pick-up truck on this winding, narrow mountain road. I’ll admit it. My motorcycle headlights and exposed human flesh cannot compete with a rack of Hella driving lamps and the protection of a 3 ton pick-up, driven by a local who obviously has made many trips across this mountain. I pull to the side at a safe location, wave the invisible driver by and watch as he or she skillfully navigates their way out of the canyon and over the ridge ahead. Shortly, I’m alone in the dark. I pull away and accelerate.

Miles roll under the tires. I am putting all of my trust in them, leaning and pushing my way around blind corners. I am alone with my thoughts, a solitary motorcyclist on that dark road.

As I reach the summit at nearly 5000 ft, I pull again to the side of the road. Shut off the Triumph. Pull off the helmet and balaclava. Remove the ear-plugs. I lean my head back with a sigh, as I breathe in the cold night.

Opening my eyes, I’m struck by how there are stars everywhere. Here, there are stars between the branches of the trees!

And the silence! I can hear the harsh tinkling of my bike as the exhaust system cools. I can hear the gurgle of the cooling system as it contracts. I can hear my heart beating in my ears and I can hear my own breathing. This is alone. I am so very alone.

As my ears become accustomed to the quiet, I hear the wind sighing in the branches of the trees. I hear the clicks and clatters of small rocks as something disturbs them. I hear water running and gurgling down the hillside that towers along side the road. With a louder thud, something has caused a large rock to roll across the road not fifty feet in front of me. Oh! I am very alone, feeling very vulnerable. I pull on the safety gear, fire up the bike and roll on.

Downhill now, I’ve crested the pass. The snow on the eastern side of the pass is slower to melt. The roadsides are heavily lined with dirty remnants of the winter’s snow. It’s almost to the point of a snow berm lining the shoulder of the road, but not quite.

I’m back into the rhythm. Back at the practice of slow, look, roll, push. Rinse, lather, and repeat. The road throws a few extra curves at me. Sometimes I find it doubling up on lefts; sometimes it spends itself tossing a set of triple rights at me.

I haven’t seen another vehicle on this road for a long time. I’ve passed down through 4000 ft, down through 3000 ft. Not a single oncoming car, truck or bicycle. For an hour I’ve sat here, twisted that and gone there. I’m off the single lane section, there’s a centerline again. The pavement is improving, along with the width of the lanes.

The night air is warmer, softer, filled with the scent of spring grasses. Crazed rabbits dash from the shoulder across the highway, their pale brown fur showing up in the light of my headlamps, performing a dance of bunny suicides.

Around gentler sweeping curves I roll past the sleeping population of Platina. Passing the closed storefront of the Platina General Store, this is the first sign of any hints of civilization that I’ve seen for two or more hours. Lights are on inside, neon beer signs spreading a commercial of light across the parking lot. There is not a soul in sight.

CA36 isn’t done toying with me. Between Platina and Red Bluff the highway is draped carelessly across rolling pasturelands. It is playful and roller-coaster like during daylight, deadly and foreboding in the dark. With little notice you crest steep short hills to find the road making sudden course changes. Pop up, expect the road to go left and it goes hard right. My Triumphs suspension is lightly loaded as I crest these hills. The brakes are less effective when the tires are scrabbling for grip. The game becomes one of toss and trust, toss and trust the tires. I find myself slowing for the corners, marked and unmarked alike, earlier than I have all night.

Passing the last of the ranchland, mailboxes line more of the road. I slow even more. Population intrudes.

With a sense of delight, and basking in a glow of accomplishment, I roll into the gas station in Red Bluff at the end of this night road.

The bored clerk looks up from her newspaper with a smile. I pull my gear off and head for the coffee.

Cheers!

I will forever carry the memory with me of the spectacle I saw one Monday afternoon as I played IOM TT boy on CA140 east of Modesto.

Imagine the flashes of color as a fully loaded saddlebag leaps, flys, tumbles and spews its contents all of the way across an occupied cow pasture and on into the depths of a muddy creek.

“My! What a strange thing to see! Who could have lost that?” I said to myself. Then, I looked down and slightly back. Only to find that the fool who’d lost the saddlebag was me.

Getting my speeding steed stopped and walking back the hundred yards or so to the beginning of the carnage, allowed me to contemplate the wisdom and engineering prowess of the folks who designed my motorcycle. It also allowed me a brief window of opportunity to decide how I was going to get through the multi-strand barbed wire fence, fetch my lap-top and my skivvies, all while avoiding attracting the now piqued attention of the rather large bull who was watching over his girls.

Getting through the fence and into the field wasn’t all that hard. Getting OUT of the field and back through the fence, that was a challenge. Especially with a pulse rate of the elevated variety. Freaking huge things those bulls are.

I recovered most of my manties, a quart of oil, a couple pair of socks and my laptop.

Everything else was left behind to distract the now pissed off horned critter.

Take heed – the leaps of a motorcycle into the air may cause it to exceed the luggage design limits of the motorcycle manufacturer upon landing.

Have I lost other stuff off a motorcycle? Sure, but that’s another story.

Photo by Michael Pierce.

I yawn and roll over. There’s a burr somewhere near my ankle that has been pestering the hell out of me for most of the night. I struggle to locate the little… aggravation and finally succeed. There’s a definite downside to these camping… aggravations. I can’t get back to sleep. After laying in the dark for an hour listening to the night critters, there’s no more sleep to be found. I have to admit the truth. I’m wide awake.

I poke my head out of my tent to find that it is indeed as dark as the inside of any large animal you’d care to ruminate about. A firm press on the side of my trusty Timex “IndiGlow” ($12.95 at Target) wristwatch reveals the worst. I’m not surprised to find the big hand pointing to 6 and the little hand pointing to… uh… I need to put my glasses on for this. Oh…crud, the little hand is pointing to that odious blurred gap between 3 and 4. With a sigh, I launch myself into the now routine packing up camp jig. Thankfully there’s nobody but me utilizing this wee campground. I don’t have to feel guilty about waking anyone else, so I don’t. Both my bike and I grumble our way onto the road.

Twenty minutes ago I was sleeping. Now, I’m boring a hole through the inky blackness of a twisted gem of a highway. I head to Eugene on Oregon Highway 242. The Old McKenzie Pass Highway is narrow, and twirls through volcanic outflows and old growth timber, like a demented hippy-dancer at a Grateful Dead concert. It may be dark but the super bright headlamp I fitted to the nose of my beloved Kawasaki shreds the night while I play a funky beat with my right hand.

My sense of unity with the road, and with my motorcycle brings certain clarity to my head. No longer do I have feelings of failure. I am successfully living once again.

With clear skies and a warm morning sun playing through the trees along the highway, I follow the McKenzie River the last few miles to my favorite town in all of Oregon. I’m about to ride into “The World Headquarters of All Things Tie-died”. Some Hippy Haters call Eugene – ”Blue Gene”. I shrug that silliness off and admire how Eugene celebrates the free spirit in all of us. Heck, I’ve worn tie-died t-shirts most of my life. I just haven’t told anyone about my hidden Hippy.

Besides, the growling from my belly reminds me I’m hungry, and the pounding in my head from lack of caffeine increases my craving for a quad mocha. A stop at a long established café in the heart of town lets me soak up some Hippy Funk. I sit on a groovy little bentwood chair at a groovy little glass topped table and my waitress is a groovy college chick with dreadlocks and armpit hair. Soaking up all this Hippy ambiance, I listen to a cd of primitive World Music and savor some fresh free range chicken fried steak and a couple of certified organic eggs on eleventy-billion grain fresh baked bread. Hand sliced of course.

Eugene is a special kind of place. Yes, it sure is. Oh! Look! I think I just rode past the largest collection of VW Micro busses on earth!

Cool!

With a glance skyward to thank Jerry Garcia and all the Keyseyian Merry Pranksters, I turn onto Territorial Highway and head for Corvallis. My meandering route today will take me off the beaten track and onto some amazing one lane paved forest service roads.

It’s possible to ride from end to end in Oregon and do so without spending more than a few miles at a time on a road with a centerline. I won’t be pulling that feat off today or tomorrow. Instead, I’ll enjoy a sampling of some of the best motorcycle roads in the US of A.

We all know, Northern California has some famous roads. In fact, Highway 1 is one of the most frequently named “Ten Best Roads in North America”. I’ve ridden the coast route between Los Angeles and Crescent City a bunch of times. I’d never argue that it’s not a great road.

Riding in Oregon on this trip causes my opinion of ‘the best’ to waver. What I’m currently experiencing passing under my wheels is a revelation. In all my years of driving and riding in the Northwest and California; nobody told me that Oregon has so many hidden roads that rival the fantastic roads of California. If all you ever do is drive the Interstate from one end of the state to the other, you’ll never know what you’ve missed.

I’m throwing my bike through corners on yet another unknown road that gallops, falls, swirls and swoops through a dense forest. I’ve been doing this moto-dance for hours and I haven’t passed a single car or truck. Focus man! There’s no cell phone service out here and you’re still fifty miles from civilization! Plunge, bark, scritch, wail and flog. I’m working up a sweat with an outside temperature in the low 60s. I love it.

As the sun heads towards the horizon, I am sitting in yet another great coastal restaurant. Panko breading coated line caught Halibut dressed with a spicy wasabi based sauce, and accompanied by a fresh spinach salad used to hold a place on my plate. Now, it’s a pleasant memory in my belly. A crisp Rogue Ale has found it’s way past my lips and over my tongue. Life is good. I could get used to this kind of traveling.

I pay my waitperson (who’ll be here all week!) and head back up the hill from the tourist heavy Old Town area of Newport. A snug and simple motel room makes a nice break from the last week of camping. A hot shower, a book and a cold beer results in a solid night of sleep. As I fade away, I realize – there’s no burr bugging my ankle.

Morning means I continue north along the coast.

Today I dawdle, I delay, and I drag my feet like a five year old being told to go to bed. I’m very much aware that my trip is winding down. I’ve been on the road for almost a full month. I’ve grown used to riding nearly every day. I don’t fumble into my gear or waver in my riding. I’m as tuned in to being a motorcyclist as I’ve ever been. My riding is sure, confident and smooth. Yet, I take double the normal amount of time to pack my luggage. I stretch out the pre-ride walk around. I take chunks of extra time when I really shouldn’t be doing so.

I’ve become accustomed to setting my own schedule, planning (or not) my day by a whim rather than a need. Today, I have a goal. I look at the map this day, not with a sense of ‘where to?’ but with a sense of ’I need to be at that point by this time’. Already I note the subtle change in my mindset.

By this time tomorrow my trip will be a memory. I don’t want to be riding today. I don’t want this ride to end.

I press on. Riding north with the slate waters of the Pacific comforting me.

Afternoon is marked by crossing the Columbia River into my home state. The closer I get to home, the more I notice the frantic pace of humanity surrounding me. By late afternoon I’m at the southern edges of Puget Sound. The towns are closer together. My world begins to morph from a world of one into a world of suburbs, towns and cities. Finally with a knot of congestion it all congeals into one huge stewpot of people, where all those metropolitan zones merge.

I’m on the freeway this afternoon for the first time in weeks. I’m threatened again by people in their cages. They blissfully sip on their lattes as if I’m not there. The always busy cell phones are pressed to their ears with more fervor than ever. I dodge the lane changers who can’t be bothered to use their turn signals. I hover ahead of devil spawned tail-gaters in a self created safe zone as huge trucks and mini-van driving soccer moms do everything they can to squash me.

Stopping in front of a familiar door I reach down, and with a gloved finger I reluctantly press on the button of the garage door opener that has hung on my tank bag, unused for a month. I can’t hear the door open, even though I know there’s a rumble and a couple of clunks from the electric garage lift. I add an adjustment of the opener hardware to my mental list of things to do, as I pull into the comforting space of my garage.

This ride is over. I’ve covered more than eight thousand miles of roads. I’ve shared meals with friends. I’ve healed, I’ve learned to forgive and I’ve had a ball doing it.

With one last reach for the key, my journey ends.

The garage is swallowed by silence.

Photo by Michael Pierce.

I left Quincy in my mirrors as the sky started to lighten into a gorgeous orange sunrise. Riding a motorcycle in the pre-dawn hours is a lot like riding a motorcycle in the evening. It is a dangerous past-time. Deer and other forest animals are out and about seeking vegetation and water. They’ll blithely wander into the road without a care in the world.

“Dum-dee-dum”.

I’m not five miles outside of Quincy when I see a flash out of the corner of my eye. Instinct takes over and I swerve away from the source of the flash. There’s a sharp thwack and the bike bobbles. “Cheese!” I’m still upright but my direction of travel is now directly into oncoming traffic. “Son of a B….!” escapes my lips and I consciously look where I want to go as I steer the bike back into my lane. I’m braking heavily when my right side case passes me in my own lane. Scccrrrriitttch, then whap! The case makes a semi-graceful arc off the shoulder of the road before it explodes into a festival of color. “Fwoop! Fluffa fluffa” my nice clean laundry flutters into the muddy ditch. Well, that was way too exciting.

Now that I’m stopped, I look back and see a small deer staggering to his feet. Apparently he ran right into the side of my bike and removed my side case with his head. I’m not hurt, and he doesn’t seem to be either since he bounds off into the woods a few moments later. I gather up my clothing, pick up the side case and re-pack the contents. Amazingly, the case clips right back into place and I’m good to go.

Once my nerves settle that is.

Using back roads as much as possible, I ride around the east side of Mount Lassen and back across the summit of the volcano from north to south. A few picture opportunities later and it’s time to point the front wheel at the coast. Redding works as a stop for lunch, the technical turns and twists of highway 299 entertain me all the way to the shore of the Pacific.

Rolling into Eureka for the third time on this trip feels like coming home. I snag the same hotel room I was in just a few weeks ago, unload the bike and walk across the street for a steak and a single malt. I’m acutely aware that today was the first day of this trip when I didn’t have a single thought about my failed marriage. Well, until now that is.

The cool breeze off the Pacific is refreshing in the morning. It’s actually cool enough that I turn up the heated grips to regain some feeling in my fingers. This cool temperature is so different from the last several days I’ve spent riding in the Sierras that I spend a few moments mentally marveling at the diversity of northern California.

It’s deep into vacation season and I’m not the only person taking one. I’m riding the coast highway among a herd of gigantic bison like mega motor homes. Flocks of Subaru station wagons bearing mountain bike laden racks are plodding along like obedient sheep. Seemingly every vehicle out today has an ulterior motive. I ascribe to the philosophy of the “Anti-destination League”. I swear the people driving near me today are charter members of the ADL. “It’s time to head inland” I say to myself, so I do.

At Orick I turn up the hill onto one of my favorite ‘secret roads’. I climb from sea-level in just a few miles to Schoolhouse Ridge, and then ride along the ridge through the coastal redwoods until I reach a vast sea of wild grass. I’ve found Schoolhouse Peak. I ride to the fire watch tower and climb to the deck, taking almost an hour at mid-morning to absorb the beauty of this lightly visited area.

It’s a steep drop down the east side of the park on the switch-back filled, twisting, loose gravel cornered Bald Hill Road. I’m on edge, riding cautiously on a motorcycle completely unsuited to this task, until I reach the Hoopa Rancheria at the Klamath River.

The reward for the hour of clenched teeth is a two hundred plus mile loop of empty, twisted asphalt. For the next five hours, I’m intent on exploring the limits of my riding skills. I fly from Weitchpec to Somes Bar. From there it’s a giggle over ultra narrow Salmon River Road and narrower yet Sawyers Bar Road to Etna. A break from the assault of the twisties to catch my breath occurs as I ride the nearly straight road from Etna to Fort Jones and then, with a vengeance, I throw myself back into the corners as I ride Scott River Road from Fort Jones to Scott Bar. Catching CA96 at Scott Bar I turn west and south on this E-ticket road to finish the loop back at Weitchpec.

I’m elated, while at the same time I’m physically tired, and so is my bike. There’s a ‘tinking’ sound coming from beneath the bike as the exhaust system cools. I note with a sense of satisfaction that I’ve been using all of the tread available. This set of tires is worn clear to the edges. I unzip my jacket to catch the cooling breeze off the river and lean back against a low stone to stretch my legs. Behind my closed eyelids, I replay the highlights of the roads I’ve just been playing on. I nap in the sun for almost an hour.

A short break for a soda at the Weitchpec General Store and it’s time to fire the bike back up and turn north. CA96 is a continuous roller-coaster ride all of the way to Happy Camp, where I intend to head to Oregon on Indian Creek Road.

Following Indian Creek Road, eventually I’ll come out at O’Brien. I’ve been assured of this by my map. This is serious back woods country. Crashing in these woods could be fatal. Even if I were to survive a gentle biff, if I’m injured the lack of services and nearly non-existent traffic could mean the end of me. I’m highly aware of this as I decelerate and turn onto the National Forest Road. I have two hours of daylight remaining. I think I can make it to O’Brien before dark, I mean; it’s not even thirty miles! Of course I can make it.

I don’t. Instead of being in O’Brien as the sun sets I’m sullenly standing over my sleeping motorcycle as it lays prone, sighing like a lazy donkey, in the middle of a dirt road. “Son of a B…!” I say for the second time on this trip. I heave, I pull; I squat and lift with my legs. All my sweat is to no avail. Throwing a seven hundred and fifty pound motorcycle down on the dirt is a lot easier than lifting it back up.

Why am I in this predicament? First I miss a turn. Then, as if it is another page of my destiny, I lose traction climbing this rutted damned gravel strewn dirt road in the middle of God Knows Where in Sam Hill, when the front wheel hits a large rock. I am pitched to the ground. The Beast follows me and lays down with the sound of breaking bodywork, his wheels pointing up the hill. “Son of a B…!” I say again, as I start un-strapping my camping gear and doing my best to offload as much luggage from the bike as I can.

This is just not working out well at all. I set up my campsite right there in the road and fall asleep with one ear to the ground. Maybe I’ll get lucky and a stagecoach will come.

Salvation arrives in the form not of a stagecoach, rather it appears in the form of a CDF/California Prisons fire fighting team in a big red truck. At 3 am the lads from the state prison work camp are on their way from camp to a fresh conflagration in the woods, when they come down the road in their crew bus.

I come awake to the sounds of squeaking brakes and an idling diesel motor. I’m greeted with smiles and a hearty “Can we help you?” “Oh yes, yes indeed” say I. Minutes later the battered bike is back upright and I’m left behind in the early morning darkness. There is indeed a use for axe murderers and Daddy rapists. That purpose is rescuing my sorry butt. Thank you, good bad guys and your keepers who stopped to help.

I climb back into my tent and sleep until dawn. I’m barely awake when it becomes obvious that I need to remove myself from the dirt road to enable a fleet of fire fighting trucks and vans to pass. Apparently it’s a big conflagration in the woods. I follow their trail through the dust for a few miles until our paths diverge. As I pop out onto the highway, I find the wee town of O’Brien wide awake and filled with smoke from the fire on the Oregon / California border.

I was less than ten miles from my destination when my motorcycle decided to take a dirt nap.

I spend an hour with a roll of duct tape patching and reinforcing the cracked plastic bodywork. When I’m done, I’m satisfied that nothing is going to come adrift while I ride but, the old bike is way on the far side of handsome. Instead, it looks like the bike went a round or two with a prize fighter and lost. It’s a lucky thing that I have a complete spare Concours at home with near new bodywork. I think I’ve just given myself an excuse for yet another project.

I ride until late in the afternoon and luck finally smiles on me. I find a fantastic camp site in the Cascade Mountains outside of Sisters. With my tent set up and my sleeping bag waiting patiently to coddle me, I heat a can of beans and franks over a low fire, then settle back to watch the stars for a couple of hours after sunset. I climb into that inviting sleeping bag and sleep the sleep of the crashed. I hate days like this. I hate them especially when they’re a day and a half long.

Photo by Michael Pierce.

Since I was left like a drunken bride by Matt on Monday, three more days have passed with a flash. Between staying with friends along my route and camping at random State Park campgrounds it’s been a period alternating between companionship and solitude. Each time I stay with friends I’m emotionally and spiritually rewarded by the kindness of people who care about me. Each time I spend a night alone in the woods, I come away stronger and more at peace with myself. The longer this trip continues, the more the burden of the decisions I’ve made in the past lightens. I’m feeling deeply introspective and I want to wallow in it for a while. I decide to keep riding. It simply seems like the right thing to do.

The weather has been (for the most part) cooperating nicely on this trip. I stay at higher elevations to avoid the heat of summer in the central valley. Most days are cloudless with temperatures in the high seventy degree range and overnight temperatures are dropping to the low sixties. I find these temperatures and weather conditions perfect for extended motorcycle sport-touring adventures.

The last three days were filled with hundreds of miles worth of two-lane blacktop. All of it infested with a severe case of curves. I’ve been wailing, ripping, romping and generally being a back-roads terror. All of that fun comes at a price and I’m about to pay the piper for my entertainment.

It’s Thursday. Since early this morning, I’ve been riding the fantastic roads west of Lassen Park. Now, I’m heading to Chico for gas, dinner and coffee. There’s no intended order to that sequence, but that’s pretty much how it goes down. I fill the tank at the Chevron on the south end of downtown, grab a mega-wrap on Broadway and settle in for a much needed mocha and some people watching on Main across from the downtown park.

It’s a wonderful evening. I’m sitting outside, enjoying my mocha while minding my own business and enjoying the company of strangers caught up in their own worlds of conversation and intimacy, when I notice something looking ‘wrong’ with my rear tire.

There’s a bright spot in the middle of the tire tread and it’s catching the reflected early evening sunlight off the plate glass windows of the coffee shop. A dime sized bright spot where there shouldn’t be one. My heart sinks as I look closer and realize it’s the head of a large bolt. The rest of the bolt is obviously stuck deep into the meat of my tire. Damn, damn and more damn. I have a brand new set of tires waiting for me at home. Home, is something on the far side of eight hundred miles away. The tire is (strangely enough) still holding air; I have no idea how much longer that will continue to be so.

It’s almost 8 pm, the motorcycle shops are all long closed, so I opt for the nearest cheap motel instead of returning back to the mountain campsite that had caught my eye earlier in the day. The advantage of a motel is how a hot shower and a beer help me feel a little better about my circumstance. Sleep comes eventually but it’s a restless night as I worry about this unexpected problem.

In the morning I spend an hour on the phone with various motorcycle shops in and around Chico. Finally I locate a shop up the hill in Paradise that can repair the tire, instead of rape me of every dollar in my pockets, for a replacement. Before I leave the motel parking lot I check the tire pressure and find that it’s not lost any air at all. The ‘miracle of the bolt’! No matter, I’m cautious as I ride the ten or so miles up the Skyway to find Hill On Wheels.

Pulling up to the open garage door I’m greeted with a smile and a handshake. Moments later my bike is up on the lift and my rear tire is being pulled for repair. I try not to make a pest of myself but the owner of the shop keeps asking me questions about my travels and we enjoy a pleasant hour or so of banter before the bike is fixed and back on the ground. A measly fifteen bucks later and I’m on the road.

Or so I think.

Let the gremlins free! I feel the sputter rather than hear it. It goes away in an instant. Wait! What was that? Another sputter, this time it’s not only felt but it’s heard and it doesn’t go away. I’m an hour east of Chico in the Feather River Canyon. That makes me roughly halfway to my friend’s house outside Quincy. The bike is running on three cylinders with stretches where it’s popping and banging along on two. This for a motorcycle traveler is bad news.

I nurse the bike along with a hundred different mechanical scenarios going through my head. It could be a dropped valve (expensive), or it could be water in the gas (cheap). It could be a crack or damage to one or more of the coils (expensive) or it could be a bad plug wire (cheap). For the next hour my brain plays through all the various scenarios and options. Abandon the trip? Fix the bike. Abandon the bike and walk away from it? Buy a new bike and continue on the trip. The human mind can be agile when faced with the unknown. I’m worried and at this moment, even though I’m climbing into the high Sierras, my trip is going rapidly down hill.

It’s dark as I wind, banging and popping, my way up the steep dirt driveway of my friend’s house. She’s home, her husband who has the key to the work shop is not. We visit and I continue to fret. In fact, my anxiety is so palpable that Patty opts to go out and feed her horses rather than listen to me whine and complain. Eventually I give up on getting anything done with the bike and stretch out on the guest bed in the company of their wonderful dog and fall sound asleep.

I find myself wide awake at 4 am. The house is stone silent. I hear nothing but the sound of a soft breeze sighing through the trees outside my window. I get up as quietly as possible and find the shop key on the rack of keys by the back door. I start the coffee maker as I head out to tear into my broken motorcycle.

I look up from my work to the sound of laughter as a huge shadow blocks the early morning sunlight coming through the doorway. John is home for a three day break from his duties as a CHP officer, and he’s in a great mood. I wish I were in the same condition. A mug of fresh coffee is pressed into my hand and a friendly slap on the back is given me in encouragement. With fewer than a dozen words having passed between us, I’m left to my repairing. Sometimes working on a motorcycle is a solitary pursuit. This is one of those times. I’m grateful for the use of the space and the tools, and I’m intent on getting the problem identified and repaired.

I have the valve cover off and it’s become obvious that this isn’t a true mechanical problem. All of the valves are in perfect adjustment, there’s nothing cracked, worn or broken in the ignition system and the carburetors are clean and in adjustment. There isn’t a darn thing wrong with the exception of the carburetor float bowls being filled with reddish watery crap. Bingo! I drain the remainder of the gas purchased in Chico from my tank into a clear container, and confirm my suspicions immediately.

Water in gas is bad. Lots of water is worse. Out of the four gallons of gas I pour from the tank, there’s easily a quart of water in the bottom of the jug. By the time it settles fully I calculate nearly two quarts of water from that one fill up. When I show John what I’ve found he shrugs, grabs a clean gas can and heads toward his truck. We’re on our way to the gas station in Quincy within minutes. My mood is lifting and I enjoy an hour of chatting with the husband of one of my best friends. She’s in good hands.

Lunch interrupts my reassembly of the bike for an hour, yet by 2 pm I have everything back together and the bike is running perfectly once again. When I come into the house I find my friends have conspired to wash all of my dirty laundry and have laid it out on the bed neatly folded, and ready to be repacked into those droopy side cases. I love having good friends.

I’m up before dawn. Once more, the house is silent. The dog doesn’t even stir from his spot. I write a thank-you note and leave it in a prominent place on the counter. Rolling down the dirt driveway with the motor off, my headlight catches a glimmer of reflection from the eyes of a raccoon as he galumphs across the dirt track. I’m far enough from the house now; engine noise won’t be a problem. I ease the clutch out and the bike starts instantly. At the end of the dirt road I turn onto asphalt and my ride is back underway.