On The Road Again

"It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step into the Road, and if you don't keep your feet, there is no knowing where you may be swept off to."
Bilbo Baggins

On The Road Again

posted 06/29/2007
First, I need to say that my Fearless Wife is the best wife in the whole world! And now you’re all wondering what kind of favor I’m trying to extract from her and the answer is "None!" She’s already given it too me. As my loyal readers know (both of you) I haven’t been writing many columns lately. One every few months at best and that bothered me. "Writers block?" I wondered. No, the answer is simpler than that and the solution begins with cedar kindling.

It’s a Monday and my wife and I are over at a friend’s home tossing some cedar chunks into the pick up truck. Cedar is worthless as a heating fuel but it’s comfort wood when it comes to splitting it for kindling. My motorcycle buddy Jack had more than he could use so we got the surplus. Jack is packing his bike to go for a long ride when the Fearless Wife asks him, "Where are you going?"

"The John Day BMW motorcycle rally" was his reply.

She thinks for a bit and then turns to me, "Why aren’t you going?" I stutter out "Because we were going to the quilt museum and I have things to do." A note of clarification here, I was going to drop her off at the museum and then go to a meeting of the Vintage Motorcycle group at the Conway tavern. Combined trips count as one don’t they? She continued, "You’ve been whining about wanting to go on a Boy-Dog trip. 600 men on motorcycles camping out sounds about right to me. Do you have anything that can’t be put off?"

"No."

"Do you have money?"

"Yes."

"Then go! I’ll go to the museum and visit my aunt on Whidbey Island". How can you argue with logic like that? I quickly find out that Jack was leaving on the 8 AM ferry. It’s 2 PM. Time to calmly panic and begin packing! The big touring BMW had just been serviced and had new tires on it and since this was a BMW rally it was the obvious choice.

The camping thing was the most troubling issue. I still had camp gear, maybe, somewhere. Still, it’s been decades since I last slept on the ground. Also, when sleeping soundly, I tend to… purr! Yes, that’s it. I purr like a large cat and I wouldn’t want to embarrass myself by waking my campmates. Maybe I could sleep away from the crowd.

As for the gear, attics are wonderful things. Things deposited 20 years ago are still there, patiently waiting. Soon I located the tent, the sleeping bag, and an old air mattress. Next the clothes and as usual I took too much. Cameras, cell phones, postage for the postcards I love to send. A quick call to a sister in Bend, "Hi sis. Got a spare bed? See ya tomorrow!"

The Highway Calls

8 AM saw me in line with the bike loaded like an Asian farm moped. A breakfast in Anacortes and the open road beckoned. The radar detector was hooked into the helmet speakers. I had a long road, a full tank. Then it occurs to me, the reason that I hadn’t been writing was a simple lack of road trips! I’d found a ferry schedule in the tank bag from the last overnight motorcycle trip I had taken: Fall 2004. Good grief, I’d retired only to go back to work immediately. I’d let my middleclass work ethic interfere with riding. The shame of it! Interstate 5 isn’t my favorite road but at least it’s a familiar one and helped focus my rusty riding skills on the drive to Portland. For once, Seattle was a breeze. Traffic was light all the way down and wide open from Centralia south. The radar detector was chirping away and I was re-learning it’s different sounds for the various devices used to enhance the state coffers. I jumped when the Laser alert went off. I’d forgotten how loud and disconcerting it was. It sounds like the tone you hear on Star Trek when a Romulan Bird of Prey de-cloaks off the port bow. This was just south of Mt. Vernon and I wasn’t up to speed yet so no damage done to my driving record.

Portland now and it’s time to turn East and head over Mt. Hood on highway 26. This is close to where I grew up so the oddly named towns were like old friends: Sandy, Brightwood, Wemme, Welches, Rhododendron, Zig Zag, and finally Government Camp at the pass on Mt. Hood. The traffic had thinned and I was all alone on the road with the sun lowering behind me and scent of pine in the air. I do my best thinking on the road. I’m not interrupted and there are no phone calls or visitors. As long as the road is long, I have miles to think a thought through, turn it over and examine it from all sides. Some people install helmet speakers to listen to music, communicate to other riders, and answer the phone. I want none of that. In our busy world, I just want time to myself. I roll into my sister’s place in Bend at 6:15PM, good time for the first day. My cousins are over for dinner and it’s a chance to catch up and relax with family.

Two days later the real trip starts. Bend to where the rally is held in John Day is only 150 miles so I look for back roads. My brother in law suggests I go via Wickiup Dam to Prinville. The Alfalfa store to Prinville is 50 miles. I passed 4 cars. The road starts very straight and then rises to a nice overlook back to the west. I stop and turn the bike to get a picture. I shut the engine off and sit in the middle of the road for 10 minutes enjoying the view. There is no traffic.

A long road and a full tank

From here the road drops suddenly to Wickiup Dam and crosses the dam to wind down the narrow valley cut by the Crooked River. The pavement is in good shape, though narrow for two lanes and some familiar tokens show up. I’m going slow now and I notice that my tribe has marked all of the yellow road signs! Oh yes, I’m Native American. I was born here and my tribal affiliation is the Peckerwood Redneck Band. All of the signs have bullet holes in them. I know that some will call it vandalism but it looks like home to me. Later in Prinville I’ll see more of my tribes favorite totem, the pick-em-up truck without wheels sitting in the front yard. This brings good luck and lower taxes to the family that possesses it. (picture3) Cowboy country

Through Prineville to Hwy. 26, the same one that carried me over Mt. Hood 2 days ago and here it’s a smaller road but a better one. Smooth sweeping turns rise and fall through the Ochoco Mts. There is enough texture to keep me sharp but not so much as to wear me out. Still very little traffic and one small gnawing worry: where are the other bikes? I expected to be in company of other motorcycles heading to the rally by now and so far I haven’t seen any. Did Jack get the date wrong? No, we had talked to another local who was also going to meet us here so I let it slide but as the day wore on the doubt still nagged.

I’m ‘canyon dancing’ now. Flowing with the road and moving fast but smooth. Done right, you flow down the road hardly touching the brakes and eschewing hard acceleration. This means the speeds are faster than most cars but not felonious. This later is a real concern in Oregon as a recently enacted law targets speeds in excess of 100 mph with impounding the bike, getting hauled to jail until you make bail, and a $1700 fine!!! Ouch! I have a special deal with my Fearless Wife. If I get a ticket, she gets what ever I pay as a fine paid into her quilting fund. This is a double hit for me but it gives me more incentive to pay attention and keeps her smiling when I do make a mistake. But $1700 to the state and $1700 to her would keep me off the road for a long, long time. No triple digit boogey this trip! No matter how straight and tempting the road, it just isn’t worth it.

John Day is coming into sight and still no bikes but suddenly I see a "Welcome BMW riders”]" sign and I know that I’m in the right place at the right time.

The road to Prineville along the Crooked River

The Old Squid

- The Old Squid

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