Do you ride alone?  A personal experience that happened on May 13th has me reevaluating my propensity to ride alone when documenting roads for the site, or any time for that matter.

It had been awhile since I was out and about. It was clear and sunny, so I decided it was time to finally ride the West Fork Smith River Road. It wasn’t raining and the pavement was mostly dry. West Fork Road is remote enough, but when I got to Roman Nose Mountain Road, I decided to take the side trip.

Talk about remote! From the tire tracks in the winter’s fallen debris, it was obvious there had been very few vehicles on this road in the last several months. On the way up the road, I had to go around and over several obstacles. If you’ve ever been up Roman Nose Road you know that the pavement ends about a half mile from the top of the mountain. I stopped at the end of the pavement to consider the challenge of riding this steep portion on gravel that was rutted by winter rains. The top was so close, the temptation overwhelmed me and up I went. Not 50 feet into the gravel portion, I nearly went down trying to navigate the heavily rutted road bed. The thought that I was completely nuts went through my mind, because If I went down here, I knew I would be lucky to pick up the heavy RT. The rest of the way up was dicey on the unstable rocky road.

With my heart out of my throat after the near fall, but still worried that I’d made a big mistake, I made it to the gate that is still a tenth mile from the very top of the mountain. I got off the bike and spent several minutes looking at the expansive views the 2900-foot mountain in the middle of the Oregon Coast Range offers. I kept putting off thinking about the inevitable descent until it was time to go. Going downhill on these rip-rap road beds is more difficult than going uphill. At least I knew what to expect, and I managed to make it back to the pavement with a big sigh of relief.

On the way down it wasn’t anything I hadn’t already seen, and I admit my attitude and attention to detail got a little lax. When I came to a large branch down across the road, I decided to go around it instead of just going straight across it like I did on the way up. As soon as I made the commitment to turn around the branch, I knew I had made a mistake. The path I chose required me to make a corner through the loose tree needles that had accumulated on the shoulder of the road. Stupid move! As soon as I hit the needles, the front wheel slipped from underneath the bike and down I went.

It seemed like a slow motion movie as the bike low-sided, I came loose from the bike and we both went sliding down the steep pavement. Seemingly a million things went through my mind in the few seconds the whole thing happened. The first thing I was aware of was I wasn’t hurt. I knew immediately I was okay. My next thought was concern for my bike as I heard it sliding on the pavement and saw the sparks fly off the valve covers. After getting up and hitting the kill switch, I assessed myself and the bike’s condition. I seemed to be fine except for a slightly sore shoulder. Amazingly, the only damage I saw was the engine guard in pieces, the valve cover scraped flat, some amazingly minor scratches on the saddlebag, and the driver’s foot peg was broken off. The bike slid about 50 feet on just the valve cover and the left saddle bag. Nothing else was even scratched.

I looked over my riding clothes (ATGATT forever) and the only thing damaged was my riding jacket. Not a scratch on my boots, pants, gloves or helmet. I slid approximately 40 feet on just my left shoulder. I managed to pick up my bike (no easy feat in the best of conditions.) After the initial shock wore off, it suddenly hit me how extremely lucky I was. Nothing broken or even sprained. I would make it home in okay shape.

What if I wasn’t so fortunate? If an arm or hand was even mildly injured, would I have been able to pick up the bike? If a leg or foot was injured, would I have been able to pick up the bike? No, on both counts. I was about six miles up a road that might not see a traveler in weeks, off of a remote road that was 12 miles from a lightly traveled road that was about 25 miles from the nearest town! If I had an arm injury, at least I would have been able to walk out. If I’d injured a leg and my cell phone didn’t work…well, it’s hard to imagine. The kicker is that not 30 seconds before I went down, I realized I probably should have told someone where I was going. I didn’t. I’ll never do that again.

So, after all that, what now? I have to let someone know where I’m going and approximately when I expect to return. I have to be less cavalier about road conditions, not only on rutted gravel like I navigated at the top, but on seemingly innocuous pavement as well. I have to question if it is prudent to ride alone, especially in such a remote locale as Roman Nose Road. The first two resolutions I will have no problem adapting to. But riding alone is something I will probably continue to do. I can go where I want when I want without having to consider anyone’s needs but my own. I love it and I feel truly free on the road by myself. I enjoy riding with others but I wouldn’t give up my solo sojourns for anything. What I will do is have a more realistic appreciation for the dangers that exist is solo riding.

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.