BamaJohn
Active member
Barely! In every sense of the word. :helpsmilie:pps:
Been there more often than I care to admit....Glad you survived that night!
-
There were many reasons for the change of the site software, the biggest was security. The age of the old software also meant no server updates for certain programs. There are many benefits to the new software, one of the biggest is the mobile functionality. Ill fix up some stuff in the coming days, we'll also try to get some of the old addons back or the data imported back into the site like the garage. To create a thread or to reply with a post is basically the same as it was in the prior software. The default style of the site is light colored, but i temporarily added a darker colored style, to change you can find a link at the bottom of the site.
Lead, Follow or Git Outa the Way!
- Thread starter Calimusjohn
- Start date
Been there more often than I care to admit....Glad you survived that night!
Calimusjohn
Member
Yes, Artraveler, I researched the Archives and read other reports of Alaskan tours. There are some great stories and super photos. It's great that each rider had a different experience. The variations are fodder for future fireside chats with family, friends, and other riders.
Day 11.
It was a murky Monday morning. My stomach and intestinal tract were as empty as an I.R.S. agent’s heart. I folded and stowed the tent, straddled the bike, passed up another chance for poisoning at the truck stop, and slithered my way south.
The road crew was out early. They sprayed even more chloride over a thirty-eight-mile stretch of muddy roadway. Then I followed a Pilot truck for another nine miles. I’d have appreciated the stability of a three or more-wheeled vehicle today. My fingerprints were permanently embedded in the handgrips, regardless of the times I ordered my hands to relax.
Between stretches of riding on a "Slip and Slide," the road proved rough going. The bike shook, vibrated, and complained. I promised that if she carried me to civilization, I’d give her a bath, treat her to new tires, and an oil change. She rattled her approval.
Seven hours after starting the day’s ride I tried to turn left. The bike wouldn’t. I did a 270-degree turn to the right and pulled up at a gas station’s pumps. I poked, prodded, wiggled, and couldn’t find what jammed the front forks from rotating left.
After a humongous breakfast at the adjacent café (which opened after yesterday’s maintenance), I used zip-ties to replace missing bolts in the headlight fairing, and duct tape to secure a flopping brake line, and a loose fender. Another fruitless inspection and the handlebars were still limited to ten degrees of left turn.
Yesterday’s endurance run, three hours of sleep, bodily systems in full revolt, and a bike refusing to turn left, had my morale-gauge needle bouncing on the empty peg. I remembered from a post on Adventure Rider (ADV) or Horizon’s Unlimited (HU), that Dan Armstrong, located in Anchorage, 350 miles away, was the bike guru to see. I skirted Fairbanks and counter-steered my way to Neanna.
A nice lady in the Tourist Bureau telephoned all motels attempting to find me a room. No luck. They were all booked. She phoned the Railroad Museum and reserved the “Engineer’s Room.” The museum is housed in the town’s former train station. The museum docent (Christina, an exchange student from Moldova) allowed me to pile my goodies in a corner. I wiggled my way up a narrow staircase to the 1920s-style “Engineer’s Room.” It had an adjoining bathroom with a shower. Pure bliss.
Freshly scrubbed, I walked a block to a café. I ordered the “Special: potato soup, and a turkey sandwich.” The soup was green. Green? The soup’s main ingredient was salt. I passed. The turkey sandwich held an emaciated leaf of lettuce, a slice of tomato I could read through, and a deli-thin portion of turkey.
The movie My Cousin Vinny described my night in the museum. The train tracks were there for a reason. At oh dark thirty, a locomotive, twenty-seven feet, three inches away from my bed sounded its horn. There is a dent in the tin plate ceiling approximating my profile.
Day 11.
It was a murky Monday morning. My stomach and intestinal tract were as empty as an I.R.S. agent’s heart. I folded and stowed the tent, straddled the bike, passed up another chance for poisoning at the truck stop, and slithered my way south.
The road crew was out early. They sprayed even more chloride over a thirty-eight-mile stretch of muddy roadway. Then I followed a Pilot truck for another nine miles. I’d have appreciated the stability of a three or more-wheeled vehicle today. My fingerprints were permanently embedded in the handgrips, regardless of the times I ordered my hands to relax.
Between stretches of riding on a "Slip and Slide," the road proved rough going. The bike shook, vibrated, and complained. I promised that if she carried me to civilization, I’d give her a bath, treat her to new tires, and an oil change. She rattled her approval.
Seven hours after starting the day’s ride I tried to turn left. The bike wouldn’t. I did a 270-degree turn to the right and pulled up at a gas station’s pumps. I poked, prodded, wiggled, and couldn’t find what jammed the front forks from rotating left.
After a humongous breakfast at the adjacent café (which opened after yesterday’s maintenance), I used zip-ties to replace missing bolts in the headlight fairing, and duct tape to secure a flopping brake line, and a loose fender. Another fruitless inspection and the handlebars were still limited to ten degrees of left turn.
Yesterday’s endurance run, three hours of sleep, bodily systems in full revolt, and a bike refusing to turn left, had my morale-gauge needle bouncing on the empty peg. I remembered from a post on Adventure Rider (ADV) or Horizon’s Unlimited (HU), that Dan Armstrong, located in Anchorage, 350 miles away, was the bike guru to see. I skirted Fairbanks and counter-steered my way to Neanna.
A nice lady in the Tourist Bureau telephoned all motels attempting to find me a room. No luck. They were all booked. She phoned the Railroad Museum and reserved the “Engineer’s Room.” The museum is housed in the town’s former train station. The museum docent (Christina, an exchange student from Moldova) allowed me to pile my goodies in a corner. I wiggled my way up a narrow staircase to the 1920s-style “Engineer’s Room.” It had an adjoining bathroom with a shower. Pure bliss.
Freshly scrubbed, I walked a block to a café. I ordered the “Special: potato soup, and a turkey sandwich.” The soup was green. Green? The soup’s main ingredient was salt. I passed. The turkey sandwich held an emaciated leaf of lettuce, a slice of tomato I could read through, and a deli-thin portion of turkey.
The movie My Cousin Vinny described my night in the museum. The train tracks were there for a reason. At oh dark thirty, a locomotive, twenty-seven feet, three inches away from my bed sounded its horn. There is a dent in the tin plate ceiling approximating my profile.
Calimusjohn
Member
Day 12.
The 0530 train started my day. Refreshed by a good night’s sleep, I breakfasted on trail mix washed down with tap water. A review of notes revealed that Dan Armstrong resided in Fairbanks, not Anchorage. Good Grief! I packed up, made a right turn escape maneuver, and headed for Fairbanks a third time.
Inside an industrial supply store, I asked to peruse a Fairbank’s telephone book. No Dan Armstrong or shop was listed. The store’s counter lady asked, “Where would Mr. Armstrong buy his parts?” Duh!
The Harley-Davidson service manager gave me Dan’s telephone number. Dan gave directions to his home and garage-based shop.
“I can’t turn left,” I said.
“Really?” Dan shook his shoulder-length hair and began a ten-minute-long probing. “Eureka!” He fetched a magnet from his shop, taped it on the end of a wooden dowel, stuck it where the sun didn’t shine, and recovered an errant bolt.
Dan returned the bolt to its original hidden home and torqued it down. He spent the morning replacing missing bolts and tightening loose fittings. After a bath, an oil change, and a new set of tires, my Vstrom was ready for more adventures.
I don’t know if Dan is still in business, but contact me via PM if you want to know where I found him.
A super-sized Chef’s salad became brunch. I tooted the horn as I sped past Neanna and its museum. The hills located between Fairbanks and Neanna dribbled out onto a flat, scrub-covered plain. Far to the south, bumps appeared on the horizon. As I traveled, the bumps seemed to grow. The road snaked along the side of the Neanna River, between immense rock-sided canyons. I was in Denali country, home of Mt. McKinley, the highest mountain in North America.
An illegal roadside plywood sign led me to a unique motel. I rented a ten-foot, slide-in, cab-over, camper shell for $31. A shower, bathroom, and laundry perched a hundred feet away. A nearby café provided food that my body craved.
Day 13.
I ate, rested, did laundry, ate some more, took a nap, and ate, again.
I rode to the town of Denali and enjoyed eating a twelve-inch cardboard-flavored pizza for $27. Denali is a huckster’s paradise. Thousands of tourists arrive in tour buses, rented motorhomes, automobiles, and astride an occasional motorcycle. Hundreds of boutiques and small shops sell everything. If you need a yak-skin hat, or a glass globe containing brine shrimp―a Denali shop has it.
I needed to head south. The air was downright nippy. Trees have lost their colorful leaves. Tomorrow I ride.
The 0530 train started my day. Refreshed by a good night’s sleep, I breakfasted on trail mix washed down with tap water. A review of notes revealed that Dan Armstrong resided in Fairbanks, not Anchorage. Good Grief! I packed up, made a right turn escape maneuver, and headed for Fairbanks a third time.
Inside an industrial supply store, I asked to peruse a Fairbank’s telephone book. No Dan Armstrong or shop was listed. The store’s counter lady asked, “Where would Mr. Armstrong buy his parts?” Duh!
The Harley-Davidson service manager gave me Dan’s telephone number. Dan gave directions to his home and garage-based shop.
“I can’t turn left,” I said.
“Really?” Dan shook his shoulder-length hair and began a ten-minute-long probing. “Eureka!” He fetched a magnet from his shop, taped it on the end of a wooden dowel, stuck it where the sun didn’t shine, and recovered an errant bolt.
Dan returned the bolt to its original hidden home and torqued it down. He spent the morning replacing missing bolts and tightening loose fittings. After a bath, an oil change, and a new set of tires, my Vstrom was ready for more adventures.
I don’t know if Dan is still in business, but contact me via PM if you want to know where I found him.
A super-sized Chef’s salad became brunch. I tooted the horn as I sped past Neanna and its museum. The hills located between Fairbanks and Neanna dribbled out onto a flat, scrub-covered plain. Far to the south, bumps appeared on the horizon. As I traveled, the bumps seemed to grow. The road snaked along the side of the Neanna River, between immense rock-sided canyons. I was in Denali country, home of Mt. McKinley, the highest mountain in North America.
An illegal roadside plywood sign led me to a unique motel. I rented a ten-foot, slide-in, cab-over, camper shell for $31. A shower, bathroom, and laundry perched a hundred feet away. A nearby café provided food that my body craved.
Day 13.
I ate, rested, did laundry, ate some more, took a nap, and ate, again.
I rode to the town of Denali and enjoyed eating a twelve-inch cardboard-flavored pizza for $27. Denali is a huckster’s paradise. Thousands of tourists arrive in tour buses, rented motorhomes, automobiles, and astride an occasional motorcycle. Hundreds of boutiques and small shops sell everything. If you need a yak-skin hat, or a glass globe containing brine shrimp―a Denali shop has it.
I needed to head south. The air was downright nippy. Trees have lost their colorful leaves. Tomorrow I ride.
Last edited by a moderator:
ARtraveler
R.I.P. Dwayne
Super "Right On" about the town of Denali. :yes:
Last edited by a moderator:
Calimusjohn
Member
Day 14
The day was spent riding in fifty-degree rain. The heated grips and a vest made the experience less unpleasant. I admit that there are days when riding in a cage is preferable to the freedom felt on the bike.
A Subway sandwich imitated breakfast and lunch. My atlas listed Anchorage as being home to 291,826 residents. They were all in hiding as I splashed my way through. The number of single-engine aircraft at the airport impressed me. I’d never seen so many in one place. For sale signs decorated quite a few. Hmm . . ..
The Kenai Peninsula, with its snow-capped mountains and glaciers, reminded me of what I’d seen while flying over Tierra del Fuego, located at the tip of South America. Note: Before the advent of satellites, I piloted a U.S. Navy C-130 photographing the Palmer Peninsula for the Coast and Geodetic Survey. The photographs led to the first maps made of the interior of Antarctica.
On a straight stretch of highway, a leading black Chevrolet signaled. “Right turn.” My brain reminded me of a statement made by a Motorcycle Safety Foundation instructor, “A flashing turn signal light demonstrates that the bulb works. Nothing else.” The car slowed, I moved into the clear, left lane.
Yeah, you saw it coming. The Chevy turned left!
After 0.37 seconds reaction time, I simultaneously snapped the throttle closed, stomped on the brake pedal, strangled the hand brake, pushed on the left handlebar, pulled on the right, and uttered an expletive.
The bike shuddered as the ABS did it job. The bike slowed in direct relation to the coefficient of friction between the bike’s new tires and the wet road’s surface. Laws of physics took over as the bike’ s turn radius reduced as the bank angle increased.
If I lifted my foot from the brake pedal or my hand from the front brake lever―I could have touched the side of the car. The driver never saw how close I came to slamming into him.
Good grief! Even though I recognized a classic situation, I ignored the signs and nearly added to motorcycle accident statistics. I stopped a mile down the road. Adrenaline leaked from my eyeballs. My jittering nervous system screamed, “Why did you ever give up smoking?”
In Homer, my bike’s thermometer read 37 degrees. The rain made it feel colder. I looked for Tom Bodette’s house with “a light in the window.” He must have been out of town. The light was unlit. The Best Western Motel offered a room for $179 plus tax. The Beluga Inn invited me in at $139. A $25 dinner of fish and chips ironed the wrinkles from my tummy.
The day was spent riding in fifty-degree rain. The heated grips and a vest made the experience less unpleasant. I admit that there are days when riding in a cage is preferable to the freedom felt on the bike.
A Subway sandwich imitated breakfast and lunch. My atlas listed Anchorage as being home to 291,826 residents. They were all in hiding as I splashed my way through. The number of single-engine aircraft at the airport impressed me. I’d never seen so many in one place. For sale signs decorated quite a few. Hmm . . ..
The Kenai Peninsula, with its snow-capped mountains and glaciers, reminded me of what I’d seen while flying over Tierra del Fuego, located at the tip of South America. Note: Before the advent of satellites, I piloted a U.S. Navy C-130 photographing the Palmer Peninsula for the Coast and Geodetic Survey. The photographs led to the first maps made of the interior of Antarctica.
On a straight stretch of highway, a leading black Chevrolet signaled. “Right turn.” My brain reminded me of a statement made by a Motorcycle Safety Foundation instructor, “A flashing turn signal light demonstrates that the bulb works. Nothing else.” The car slowed, I moved into the clear, left lane.
Yeah, you saw it coming. The Chevy turned left!
After 0.37 seconds reaction time, I simultaneously snapped the throttle closed, stomped on the brake pedal, strangled the hand brake, pushed on the left handlebar, pulled on the right, and uttered an expletive.
The bike shuddered as the ABS did it job. The bike slowed in direct relation to the coefficient of friction between the bike’s new tires and the wet road’s surface. Laws of physics took over as the bike’ s turn radius reduced as the bank angle increased.
If I lifted my foot from the brake pedal or my hand from the front brake lever―I could have touched the side of the car. The driver never saw how close I came to slamming into him.
Good grief! Even though I recognized a classic situation, I ignored the signs and nearly added to motorcycle accident statistics. I stopped a mile down the road. Adrenaline leaked from my eyeballs. My jittering nervous system screamed, “Why did you ever give up smoking?”
In Homer, my bike’s thermometer read 37 degrees. The rain made it feel colder. I looked for Tom Bodette’s house with “a light in the window.” He must have been out of town. The light was unlit. The Best Western Motel offered a room for $179 plus tax. The Beluga Inn invited me in at $139. A $25 dinner of fish and chips ironed the wrinkles from my tummy.
1iHooligan
New member
Challenges are adventures in the making!
Calimusjohn
Member
Yes, Bangorbob, I was riding a Vstrom 650.
Calimusjohn
Member
Day 15
The TV weather guessers said, “Expect rain for the next five days.” Gag! I went to the ferry office. A sign read,” Open when ferry arrives, tomorrow.” Nuts! I rode to the end of the Homer spit looking for the “End of the Road” sign. The road ended, but there was no sign. Someone must have taken it as a souvenir. Drat!
Riding in the rain beats sitting in the rain―waiting. I threaded my way back up the Kenai Peninsula. Fishermen’s cars were parked in every available pull-out and along the highway’s edge. A visit to Portage Lake to honor my being raised in Portage, Indiana, was a no-brainer.
My head swivel needed oiling after thousands of twists and turns taken to scan glacier-scraped mountainsides, glistening mountaintops, miles-long, man-made waterways left over from gold seekers, and enough green trees to boggle the mind.
A second crossing of Anchorage revealed no inhabitants. They must have gone south for the winter. All had left except for a barber offering, “Walk-in haircuts $18.” I’d never seen a “Walk-in haircut.” I still haven’t.”
A hundred miles down the road, I found a food emporium. I ordered a “Dagwood” sandwich. It arrived twenty minutes later. The deli owner apparently did not know Dagwood Bumsted's approach to making a sandwich. The skimpy $16 sandwich rated a “two” on a scale of ten.
After enjoying as much of the day as I could stand, I found a lodge featuring $139 rooms. I considered pitching my tent in the rain . . . for about two and a half seconds . . . and paid for the room.
The TV weather guessers said, “Expect rain for the next five days.” Gag! I went to the ferry office. A sign read,” Open when ferry arrives, tomorrow.” Nuts! I rode to the end of the Homer spit looking for the “End of the Road” sign. The road ended, but there was no sign. Someone must have taken it as a souvenir. Drat!
Riding in the rain beats sitting in the rain―waiting. I threaded my way back up the Kenai Peninsula. Fishermen’s cars were parked in every available pull-out and along the highway’s edge. A visit to Portage Lake to honor my being raised in Portage, Indiana, was a no-brainer.
My head swivel needed oiling after thousands of twists and turns taken to scan glacier-scraped mountainsides, glistening mountaintops, miles-long, man-made waterways left over from gold seekers, and enough green trees to boggle the mind.
A second crossing of Anchorage revealed no inhabitants. They must have gone south for the winter. All had left except for a barber offering, “Walk-in haircuts $18.” I’d never seen a “Walk-in haircut.” I still haven’t.”
A hundred miles down the road, I found a food emporium. I ordered a “Dagwood” sandwich. It arrived twenty minutes later. The deli owner apparently did not know Dagwood Bumsted's approach to making a sandwich. The skimpy $16 sandwich rated a “two” on a scale of ten.
After enjoying as much of the day as I could stand, I found a lodge featuring $139 rooms. I considered pitching my tent in the rain . . . for about two and a half seconds . . . and paid for the room.
Calimusjohn
Member
Day 16
After enjoying a blueberry pancake breakfast that smoothed belly wrinkles, I went cruising. I topped a rise cruising in the neighborhood of sixty-five mph. A white sedan followed a motorhome about a half-mile ahead. The gap between us quickly narrowed. Trained observer that I am, I read, “Patrol Car” displayed on the white car’s rear bumper.
I dawdled along at fifty-five for a minute until the way forward was clear. Tapped the turn signal and began a passing maneuver. When I started around the motorhome, I noticed a Christmas tree light show flashing in my rear-view mirror. A single “Chirp” on the patrol car’s P.A. system convinced me that the occupant wanted to do a meet and greet.
I pulled over, stopped, killed the engine, put the kickstand down, and peeled off my helmet. “Good morning,” came from my blind spot. I turned around and read “Christianson” on a name tag.
“Top of the morning to you, Officer Christianson,” I said.
“I have the feeling that you don’t know the speed limit,” he said.
“Sixty-five,” I answered.
“Nope. Fifty-five. I figured you thought differently. You did see the sign on the rear of my car, didn’t you?”
“What? Yeah, I may be prematurely senile, but I can still read. You must be kidding about the speed limit. We’re in the middle of nowhere. The road is straight as a string.”
“Yeah, it’s a good road. The speed limit is still fifty-five. It has been for the last twenty miles.”
I shook my head and laughed.
“Where were you a cop?” Christianson asked.
“San Diego,” I said. “How’d you come up with me being a cop? We didn’t do a secret handshake or anything.”
“Anybody that laughs after being stopped for speeding is either a cop or nuts. Maybe both.”
We spent the next ten minutes swapping lies. He then glanced at his watch and said, “John, I’m heading back to town. The baker should have some fresh donuts about now. Now, I expect you to stick with the speed limit. The next patrol officer is about 140 miles down the road. You don’t want him to stop you. Man, he’s one tough dude.”
Officer Christianson flashed the car’s overhead lights and blipped a “Whoop―whoop” with the electronic siren as he headed away. It seemed to take forever riding that next 140 miles without police protection . . . at fifty-five-miles-per-hour.
The road skirted Matanuska Glacier. My camera’s battery died when I tried to get a photo. I flew over hundreds of glaciers in Antarctica. Seeing one up close and personal was impressive.
I rented a platform tent for $31 at the intersection of Highway 2 and the White River. The tent held a real bed, a table, a lounge chair, and a heating stove. The campground store offered a pint of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream for $9.95. My dinner consisted of a package of Top Ramen noodles and a can of chicken mixed with mushroom soup. Tasty.
After enjoying a blueberry pancake breakfast that smoothed belly wrinkles, I went cruising. I topped a rise cruising in the neighborhood of sixty-five mph. A white sedan followed a motorhome about a half-mile ahead. The gap between us quickly narrowed. Trained observer that I am, I read, “Patrol Car” displayed on the white car’s rear bumper.
I dawdled along at fifty-five for a minute until the way forward was clear. Tapped the turn signal and began a passing maneuver. When I started around the motorhome, I noticed a Christmas tree light show flashing in my rear-view mirror. A single “Chirp” on the patrol car’s P.A. system convinced me that the occupant wanted to do a meet and greet.
I pulled over, stopped, killed the engine, put the kickstand down, and peeled off my helmet. “Good morning,” came from my blind spot. I turned around and read “Christianson” on a name tag.
“Top of the morning to you, Officer Christianson,” I said.
“I have the feeling that you don’t know the speed limit,” he said.
“Sixty-five,” I answered.
“Nope. Fifty-five. I figured you thought differently. You did see the sign on the rear of my car, didn’t you?”
“What? Yeah, I may be prematurely senile, but I can still read. You must be kidding about the speed limit. We’re in the middle of nowhere. The road is straight as a string.”
“Yeah, it’s a good road. The speed limit is still fifty-five. It has been for the last twenty miles.”
I shook my head and laughed.
“Where were you a cop?” Christianson asked.
“San Diego,” I said. “How’d you come up with me being a cop? We didn’t do a secret handshake or anything.”
“Anybody that laughs after being stopped for speeding is either a cop or nuts. Maybe both.”
We spent the next ten minutes swapping lies. He then glanced at his watch and said, “John, I’m heading back to town. The baker should have some fresh donuts about now. Now, I expect you to stick with the speed limit. The next patrol officer is about 140 miles down the road. You don’t want him to stop you. Man, he’s one tough dude.”
Officer Christianson flashed the car’s overhead lights and blipped a “Whoop―whoop” with the electronic siren as he headed away. It seemed to take forever riding that next 140 miles without police protection . . . at fifty-five-miles-per-hour.
The road skirted Matanuska Glacier. My camera’s battery died when I tried to get a photo. I flew over hundreds of glaciers in Antarctica. Seeing one up close and personal was impressive.
I rented a platform tent for $31 at the intersection of Highway 2 and the White River. The tent held a real bed, a table, a lounge chair, and a heating stove. The campground store offered a pint of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream for $9.95. My dinner consisted of a package of Top Ramen noodles and a can of chicken mixed with mushroom soup. Tasty.
Last edited:
Calimusjohn
Member
Day 17
Detours and construction zones are sometimes a challenge. Flaggers in Canada and Alaska waved motorcyclists to the head of the line. When released, we didn’t have to fight the dust or take a mud-bath thrown up by the wheels of other vehicles. Thank you, flaggers!
Finding gasoline was a problem. Deliveries to remote stations were often disrupted. On multiple occasions, I traveled in excess of 250 miles before finding gas stations that were not closed or had fuel. I coasted down hills, rode at the most economical speed, and hoped for the best.
Meeting people and exchanging biographies was always fun. I met a helicopter pilot stationed at the White River campground. He flew botanists along mountainsides seeking certain plants. He said they had discovered a relationship between specific plants and the presence of gold. He would not identify the plants involved.
I related my history in helicopter operations and mentioned how expensive they were. When asked about their successes in finding gold, he laughed. “The company will do a lot better than break even. A whole lot better.”
The Teslin Café is across the street from the Teslin General Store, The Teslin Motel, and The Teslin Gas station. The sign maker loved painting Teslin. Two older BMWs followed me into the café’s parking lot. Two leather-clad really big guys dismounted. They appeared confused. They pointed at the various Teslin signs, consulted a book, waved their hands, and kicked the bike’s mud-caked tires.
They spotted me. One guy pointed at his mouth, rubbed his belly, and pointed at the café. I nodded.
Inside the café, they stood and studied the menu board and consulted their book. The waitress watched them point at Soup of the Day and French fries. She led them to a table at the far side of the café.
I finished my meal. I circled the mud-covered BMWs. Their license plates were fifteen-inch white squares. “RUS” preceded numbers. Country flag decals covered the saddlebags. Numerous stickers placed on the lower windshield areas represented cities and historic locations.
One of the riders came outside. I pointed at a license plate. “Russia?” I asked. He lit a cigarette and nodded. I pointed at the decals and stickers. “Wow!” I said.
He grinned, thumped his chest, and said, “Kamchatka, home.” A map from my fifth-grade geography class came to mind. Hmm. Kamchatka Peninsula, east end of Russia, the haven of volcanos and the place where a commercial airliner was shot down a few years ago.
He threw his leg over an imaginary motorcycle, twisted the throttle, and mouthed, “Varoom . . . varoom. Me go . . . Kamchatka, Mooska, Burrlin, Frankfurt, Lizbo, Mad-rid, Aero-fly, Bueno Aires, Oosha, Poonta Reenas, Valparaiso, Matshoe Peekshu, Mexico, U.S. A., Canda, Here, go home, Kamchatka.”
He “Varoomed,” one more time, turned off the key, put the kickstand down, and climbed off the invisible steed. I was in stitches. His partner arrived and began giving him a hard time. They inspected my Vstrom. One guy poked my rear seat pile of essentials. “Sink, too?” He laughed.
Their BMWs were eleven years old and had covered 40,000 miles in the previous months. The spokesman said, “We hard ride.” It was the understatement of the day.
When I turned onto the Cassier Highway, I recalled a conversation I’d had in Homer, Alaska. A man approached. “Hi, I’ve ridden Goldwings for the past twenty-five years. Had three of ’em. Rode ’em a total of thirty thousand miles. So, you know that I know what I’m talking about.” I nodded. “You thinking about riding the Cassier?” he asked. I nodded again. “Don’t! Don’t even try. It’s terrible. All gravel . . . potholes . . . no gas . . ..”
“Uh, excuse me. When did you ride the Cassier Highway.”
“Well, I didn’t ride it. I drove a car. Couldn’t have made it on a motorcycle. It was . . . oh, when? Umm . . . 27 years ago.”
Enough said.
Detours and construction zones are sometimes a challenge. Flaggers in Canada and Alaska waved motorcyclists to the head of the line. When released, we didn’t have to fight the dust or take a mud-bath thrown up by the wheels of other vehicles. Thank you, flaggers!
Finding gasoline was a problem. Deliveries to remote stations were often disrupted. On multiple occasions, I traveled in excess of 250 miles before finding gas stations that were not closed or had fuel. I coasted down hills, rode at the most economical speed, and hoped for the best.
Meeting people and exchanging biographies was always fun. I met a helicopter pilot stationed at the White River campground. He flew botanists along mountainsides seeking certain plants. He said they had discovered a relationship between specific plants and the presence of gold. He would not identify the plants involved.
I related my history in helicopter operations and mentioned how expensive they were. When asked about their successes in finding gold, he laughed. “The company will do a lot better than break even. A whole lot better.”
The Teslin Café is across the street from the Teslin General Store, The Teslin Motel, and The Teslin Gas station. The sign maker loved painting Teslin. Two older BMWs followed me into the café’s parking lot. Two leather-clad really big guys dismounted. They appeared confused. They pointed at the various Teslin signs, consulted a book, waved their hands, and kicked the bike’s mud-caked tires.
They spotted me. One guy pointed at his mouth, rubbed his belly, and pointed at the café. I nodded.
Inside the café, they stood and studied the menu board and consulted their book. The waitress watched them point at Soup of the Day and French fries. She led them to a table at the far side of the café.
I finished my meal. I circled the mud-covered BMWs. Their license plates were fifteen-inch white squares. “RUS” preceded numbers. Country flag decals covered the saddlebags. Numerous stickers placed on the lower windshield areas represented cities and historic locations.
One of the riders came outside. I pointed at a license plate. “Russia?” I asked. He lit a cigarette and nodded. I pointed at the decals and stickers. “Wow!” I said.
He grinned, thumped his chest, and said, “Kamchatka, home.” A map from my fifth-grade geography class came to mind. Hmm. Kamchatka Peninsula, east end of Russia, the haven of volcanos and the place where a commercial airliner was shot down a few years ago.
He threw his leg over an imaginary motorcycle, twisted the throttle, and mouthed, “Varoom . . . varoom. Me go . . . Kamchatka, Mooska, Burrlin, Frankfurt, Lizbo, Mad-rid, Aero-fly, Bueno Aires, Oosha, Poonta Reenas, Valparaiso, Matshoe Peekshu, Mexico, U.S. A., Canda, Here, go home, Kamchatka.”
He “Varoomed,” one more time, turned off the key, put the kickstand down, and climbed off the invisible steed. I was in stitches. His partner arrived and began giving him a hard time. They inspected my Vstrom. One guy poked my rear seat pile of essentials. “Sink, too?” He laughed.
Their BMWs were eleven years old and had covered 40,000 miles in the previous months. The spokesman said, “We hard ride.” It was the understatement of the day.
When I turned onto the Cassier Highway, I recalled a conversation I’d had in Homer, Alaska. A man approached. “Hi, I’ve ridden Goldwings for the past twenty-five years. Had three of ’em. Rode ’em a total of thirty thousand miles. So, you know that I know what I’m talking about.” I nodded. “You thinking about riding the Cassier?” he asked. I nodded again. “Don’t! Don’t even try. It’s terrible. All gravel . . . potholes . . . no gas . . ..”
“Uh, excuse me. When did you ride the Cassier Highway.”
“Well, I didn’t ride it. I drove a car. Couldn’t have made it on a motorcycle. It was . . . oh, when? Umm . . . 27 years ago.”
Enough said.
Last edited:
Calimusjohn
Member
Day 18
At some point in the past twenty-seven years, the Cassier Highway received a coating of asphalt. To keep things interesting, the engineers left a slew of potholes for drivers to sashay around.
For the first thirty miles, trees beside the roadway were blackened by fire. Bleak black. From the top of a rise, green trees appeared in the distance. Unfortunately, they were crowned by a plume of smoke indicating another fire was actively decimating the terrain. I later learned that the new fire had consumed over 5,000 acres. It would burn until extinguished by snow. Available firefighters worked fires closer to towns.
The Cassier is a two-lane black ribbon primarily lacking fog lines, center divider stripes, and signs announcing curves. Few guard rails block scenic views. A rider must adapt to ever-changing conditions. The road twists, turns, dives off ridgelines, swoops into canyons, curls along lakeshores, bores through tunnels, and leaps rivers on metal-gridded bridges. If God had money, the Cassier is the highway she would build.
Glancing sideways, I saw pesky glaciers slipping their way down mountainsides.
What a day! Good weather, a great road, little traffic, and my body not complaining. The bike felt like an extension of my body as we swirled through the curves and danced down the straights. Two Toyotas appeared in my rear-view mirrors. Evening was approaching, motels and resorts lay fifty miles ahead. I didn’t want a couple of cars to disrupt the rhythm I’d established.
The cars began tailgating. Well! Coming out of the next curve, I kicked down a gear, twisted the throttle to the stop, and rocketed down a straight-a-way. Braked hard, maxed out a curve, and accelerated again. My mirrors showed an empty road. I maintained a healthy pace for the next thirty minutes.
I pulled into a gas station for fuel. While filling the gas tank, the Toyotas arrived. A man from Japan leaped out of the front car. “You some rider! I ride Japan. I very good. You fast. Faster me.” I removed my helmet. His eyes appeared to grow. He shouted at the men sitting in the Toyotas, “Oh, you see this fast rider. Not a kid. He old man!”
They followed me until I pulled off the highway onto a road leading to a resort. The drivers honked and waved. I heard them cheer as they passed on down the road.
The resort offered me a tent site or the use of a cabin with a kitchen and bath en suite. I soaked my tootsies (and the rest of me) in a porcelain tub for an hour. Dinty Moore and Captain Morgan joined me at the dinner table.
At some point in the past twenty-seven years, the Cassier Highway received a coating of asphalt. To keep things interesting, the engineers left a slew of potholes for drivers to sashay around.
For the first thirty miles, trees beside the roadway were blackened by fire. Bleak black. From the top of a rise, green trees appeared in the distance. Unfortunately, they were crowned by a plume of smoke indicating another fire was actively decimating the terrain. I later learned that the new fire had consumed over 5,000 acres. It would burn until extinguished by snow. Available firefighters worked fires closer to towns.
The Cassier is a two-lane black ribbon primarily lacking fog lines, center divider stripes, and signs announcing curves. Few guard rails block scenic views. A rider must adapt to ever-changing conditions. The road twists, turns, dives off ridgelines, swoops into canyons, curls along lakeshores, bores through tunnels, and leaps rivers on metal-gridded bridges. If God had money, the Cassier is the highway she would build.
Glancing sideways, I saw pesky glaciers slipping their way down mountainsides.
What a day! Good weather, a great road, little traffic, and my body not complaining. The bike felt like an extension of my body as we swirled through the curves and danced down the straights. Two Toyotas appeared in my rear-view mirrors. Evening was approaching, motels and resorts lay fifty miles ahead. I didn’t want a couple of cars to disrupt the rhythm I’d established.
The cars began tailgating. Well! Coming out of the next curve, I kicked down a gear, twisted the throttle to the stop, and rocketed down a straight-a-way. Braked hard, maxed out a curve, and accelerated again. My mirrors showed an empty road. I maintained a healthy pace for the next thirty minutes.
I pulled into a gas station for fuel. While filling the gas tank, the Toyotas arrived. A man from Japan leaped out of the front car. “You some rider! I ride Japan. I very good. You fast. Faster me.” I removed my helmet. His eyes appeared to grow. He shouted at the men sitting in the Toyotas, “Oh, you see this fast rider. Not a kid. He old man!”
They followed me until I pulled off the highway onto a road leading to a resort. The drivers honked and waved. I heard them cheer as they passed on down the road.
The resort offered me a tent site or the use of a cabin with a kitchen and bath en suite. I soaked my tootsies (and the rest of me) in a porcelain tub for an hour. Dinty Moore and Captain Morgan joined me at the dinner table.
BamaJohn
Active member
:cheers:
pegasus1300
Well-known member
I loved the part about dinner of caned chicken Ramen a Canned Musgroon soup. In my camping days I had more then one meal from a can of Hormel Chili and a can of Cheddar Cheese soup mixed. Thank you for the parts about the two Russians a and the police officer.
Calimusjohn
Member
Hi, Pegasus1300,
People in cars seldom talk with people in other cars.
When I am on a bike, I meet the most interesting folks. When I enter a small-town cafe wearing ATGATT, I'm inundated with questions. "Where are you from?" or colloquially, "Ware ya goin'?" It's hard to eat between questions. Local folks are the best source of information on . . . everything local.
It's amazing how many people live with regret. The ones who say, "I always wanted to . . ." or "Wish I could do that." or "When I retire, I'm gonna . . ." or my favorite, "Someday . . ." On AdventureRider, I wrote a Mexico tour report entitled "Someday." It's still there. I found it and other reports recently by searching - calimusjohn - . The bottom line - Someday is here!
I'm getting cabin fever. There is a foot of snow on the ground in eastern Tennessee with the temperature at a single digit. I just spent 12 years in the Sonoran desert with temps over 100. My body is in full mutiny mode from the snow and cold.
Will someone please write about a tour in the tropics?
John
People in cars seldom talk with people in other cars.
When I am on a bike, I meet the most interesting folks. When I enter a small-town cafe wearing ATGATT, I'm inundated with questions. "Where are you from?" or colloquially, "Ware ya goin'?" It's hard to eat between questions. Local folks are the best source of information on . . . everything local.
It's amazing how many people live with regret. The ones who say, "I always wanted to . . ." or "Wish I could do that." or "When I retire, I'm gonna . . ." or my favorite, "Someday . . ." On AdventureRider, I wrote a Mexico tour report entitled "Someday." It's still there. I found it and other reports recently by searching - calimusjohn - . The bottom line - Someday is here!
I'm getting cabin fever. There is a foot of snow on the ground in eastern Tennessee with the temperature at a single digit. I just spent 12 years in the Sonoran desert with temps over 100. My body is in full mutiny mode from the snow and cold.
Will someone please write about a tour in the tropics?
John
pegasus1300
Well-known member
I have learned thru experience that someday never comes. It is right after the 12th of never. I have learned to enjoy that which I can do and enjoy the things I can't thru stories like tjis and videos like Itchy Boots. Thank you for generously sharing.
Calimusjohn
Member
Day 19
My morning routine starts slowly. Not necessarily by choice. My body, like all machinery, works better when all of its parts warm up to operating temperature gradually. It takes less than twenty minutes for me to leap out of bed. I stagger around trying to remember if I took a shower earlier or just need to go stand in a rain locker. A damp towel sometimes yields a clue.
I peek into my mouth to see if I still have teeth, brush their stubs, threaten my face with a razor, brush hair out of my eyes, and I’m ready to tackle getting dressed. My bendy parts don’t want to bend or are bent in the wrong direction.
I sit on the edge of the bed, take a deep breath, exhale sharply, and swing a sock out in a graceful arc toward the toes at the end of my leg. Hmm. My leg grew in length during the night.
After three or four tries, the sock captures a toe or two. I put my heel on the floor and use the other foot to wiggle the sock up the length of my foot. If that procedure doesn’t work, I remove the sock from my foot. I insert the sock into a boot with the open end folded over the top of the boot. It is then a simple maneuver to insert foot into the sock and boot simultaneously.
Note: Don underwear and pants before placing a foot into a sock-topped boot.
That’s enough of my habits.
My motorcycle has a temperature gauge. Initially, it indicates zip. After riding a mile or three, it shows an increase in warmth. By the time ten miles have passed under the wheels, the individual parts have joined with their partners and are ready to perform as designed. Meantime, I’m tuning into the sounds: little squeaks, rattles, thumps, the swishing chain drive, humming tires, throbbing exhaust, and wind whistling through the helmet’s vents.
I transform from a lump straddling an inanimate machine into an android-styled, wheeled partnership. Throttle twists, clutch engagements, foot shifts, and braking maneuvers become synchronous movements repeated hundreds and sometimes thousands of times a day.
It’s like stuffing three pieces of bubble gum into my mouth. Initially, the gum is only a gagging glob. Over time, a transition takes place. The glob softens. My tongue pushes it from one side to another. My teeth work it. My tongue pushes it against the back of my front teeth, My lips part. I exhale. Drat! The bubble formed is now stuck on the inside of my helmet’s visor.
Anyway, as the day progresses, I ride better. My road scan from left to right, dip to the rearview mirrors, eye-shift back to the road, glance at the gauges, and back to the road is smoother, and faster. My reaction times are quicker.
I concentrate on traveling the perfect line through curves. I’ve successfully rated a nine many times. I have never scored a ten.
The Day 19 ride report follows . . .
My morning routine starts slowly. Not necessarily by choice. My body, like all machinery, works better when all of its parts warm up to operating temperature gradually. It takes less than twenty minutes for me to leap out of bed. I stagger around trying to remember if I took a shower earlier or just need to go stand in a rain locker. A damp towel sometimes yields a clue.
I peek into my mouth to see if I still have teeth, brush their stubs, threaten my face with a razor, brush hair out of my eyes, and I’m ready to tackle getting dressed. My bendy parts don’t want to bend or are bent in the wrong direction.
I sit on the edge of the bed, take a deep breath, exhale sharply, and swing a sock out in a graceful arc toward the toes at the end of my leg. Hmm. My leg grew in length during the night.
After three or four tries, the sock captures a toe or two. I put my heel on the floor and use the other foot to wiggle the sock up the length of my foot. If that procedure doesn’t work, I remove the sock from my foot. I insert the sock into a boot with the open end folded over the top of the boot. It is then a simple maneuver to insert foot into the sock and boot simultaneously.
Note: Don underwear and pants before placing a foot into a sock-topped boot.
That’s enough of my habits.
My motorcycle has a temperature gauge. Initially, it indicates zip. After riding a mile or three, it shows an increase in warmth. By the time ten miles have passed under the wheels, the individual parts have joined with their partners and are ready to perform as designed. Meantime, I’m tuning into the sounds: little squeaks, rattles, thumps, the swishing chain drive, humming tires, throbbing exhaust, and wind whistling through the helmet’s vents.
I transform from a lump straddling an inanimate machine into an android-styled, wheeled partnership. Throttle twists, clutch engagements, foot shifts, and braking maneuvers become synchronous movements repeated hundreds and sometimes thousands of times a day.
It’s like stuffing three pieces of bubble gum into my mouth. Initially, the gum is only a gagging glob. Over time, a transition takes place. The glob softens. My tongue pushes it from one side to another. My teeth work it. My tongue pushes it against the back of my front teeth, My lips part. I exhale. Drat! The bubble formed is now stuck on the inside of my helmet’s visor.
Anyway, as the day progresses, I ride better. My road scan from left to right, dip to the rearview mirrors, eye-shift back to the road, glance at the gauges, and back to the road is smoother, and faster. My reaction times are quicker.
I concentrate on traveling the perfect line through curves. I’ve successfully rated a nine many times. I have never scored a ten.
The Day 19 ride report follows . . .
Last edited:
Calimusjohn
Member
Day 19 Ride
The road changed. Fog lines defined road edges. A centerline divided lanes. Curve signs suggested the speed to traverse them. Signs proclaimed: speed limit, no dumping, caution, yield, soft shoulder, no passing, no parking on pavement, and signs prohibited the posting of signs, signs. Squeeze me twice! Civilization kills creativity.
The lines and signs did not keep the rental motorhomes from wandering down the roads willy-nilly without regard to other vehicles. They stopped in the middle of the road. I assume the drivers spotted something unique . . . like a tree in the forest . . . or a black cow in a herd of black cows.
Today was a “hurry up and wait” day. I hurried from one construction zone to another. I came to a series of clear cuts. A path had been blasted and bulldozed through the forest. The downed trees and uprooted brush remained in piles fifty feet in diameter and thirty feet tall. A flagger explained, “They’re puttin’ in a big power line. Them piles will get burned after the first snow.”
At another construction site, I led another lengthy line of cars, trucks, and motorhomes past a huge machine drilling eight-foot diameter holes twenty feet deep. The holes were to be filled with concrete to form the base of the power-line towers.
A 4,000-gallon water truck broke down. The driver dumped the water in the middle of the construction zone where the asphalt had been removed. The resultant mud bath refreshed me.
A flagger waved. I stopped. “You brave?” he asked.
“I’m on a motorcycle,” I said.
“Okay. Try it.” He pointed at a bridge.
I approached slowly. Four guys wearing hard hats stood staring at the bent-steel overhead beams.
“What hit the bridge?” I asked.
“Dunno. It should be good to cross. Try it.”
Obviously, I made it across.
A gas station offered plastic-wrapped sandwiches that had no “created on” or “expiration date.” The store offered “1/2 can chicken noodle soup - $5.50.” I tried a mystery-meat sandwich. I should have eaten the wrapper.
Miles later, a black bear sat alongside the highway eating red berries from a bush. He didn’t offer to share. I didn’t push the issue.
Stopping and buying gas at every opportunity worked well. The longest leg without fuel was 259.9 miles.
The road changed. Fog lines defined road edges. A centerline divided lanes. Curve signs suggested the speed to traverse them. Signs proclaimed: speed limit, no dumping, caution, yield, soft shoulder, no passing, no parking on pavement, and signs prohibited the posting of signs, signs. Squeeze me twice! Civilization kills creativity.
The lines and signs did not keep the rental motorhomes from wandering down the roads willy-nilly without regard to other vehicles. They stopped in the middle of the road. I assume the drivers spotted something unique . . . like a tree in the forest . . . or a black cow in a herd of black cows.
Today was a “hurry up and wait” day. I hurried from one construction zone to another. I came to a series of clear cuts. A path had been blasted and bulldozed through the forest. The downed trees and uprooted brush remained in piles fifty feet in diameter and thirty feet tall. A flagger explained, “They’re puttin’ in a big power line. Them piles will get burned after the first snow.”
At another construction site, I led another lengthy line of cars, trucks, and motorhomes past a huge machine drilling eight-foot diameter holes twenty feet deep. The holes were to be filled with concrete to form the base of the power-line towers.
A 4,000-gallon water truck broke down. The driver dumped the water in the middle of the construction zone where the asphalt had been removed. The resultant mud bath refreshed me.
A flagger waved. I stopped. “You brave?” he asked.
“I’m on a motorcycle,” I said.
“Okay. Try it.” He pointed at a bridge.
I approached slowly. Four guys wearing hard hats stood staring at the bent-steel overhead beams.
“What hit the bridge?” I asked.
“Dunno. It should be good to cross. Try it.”
Obviously, I made it across.
A gas station offered plastic-wrapped sandwiches that had no “created on” or “expiration date.” The store offered “1/2 can chicken noodle soup - $5.50.” I tried a mystery-meat sandwich. I should have eaten the wrapper.
Miles later, a black bear sat alongside the highway eating red berries from a bush. He didn’t offer to share. I didn’t push the issue.
Stopping and buying gas at every opportunity worked well. The longest leg without fuel was 259.9 miles.
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