I knew to listen to my inner voice long before this debacle unfolded. It was a lesson that was learned many summers ago, and often since, but passion can swamp its silent messages.
A few years ago, Tom called and asked if I was interested in visiting a mutual friend in Bonner’s Ferry, Idaho, 60 miles from the Canadian border. A little voice inside said no, but I was dying to do a road trip. All the motorcycle rallies had been shut down all summer due to the COVID hysteria, so I buried the voice under an accumulation of frustrations and agreed to join him.
We decided to trailer the bikes through the Central Valley up to Northern California, as there is little point to depleting tires and enthusiasm on the long, hot, flat, tedious road that is Interstate 5.
Dave agreed to let us borrow his trailer. After Tom picked it up, he told me that it hadn’t aged well over the last 10 years. He had to remove the rotted floor and the joists underneath and replace them with metal joists and fresh plywood. When he inspected a non-functional tail light, he found that the insulation on the wiring was as brittle as a fresh potato chip, so he replaced the entire wiring harness. Then he greased the bearings, replaced the tires, and finally the trailer was ready to go.
While he was doing this, I was working on my BMW R100R. On a shakedown ride, the regulator/rectifier failed. Got a new one and it still didn’t work properly. What's that about? With help, I was able to sort it out.
As I replaced a blown voltage meter, the dash caught fire with four-inch flames (burning bush, is someone trying to tell me something?) Fortunately, my extinguisher was handy but it made a mess of the bike.
The swing-arm bushings needed replacement, and in the process, a friend discovered that the drive shaft was out of alignment. Damn, you buy a brand new bike, and 227K miles later, it gives you nothing but trouble. Maybe I should have bought a Honda?
After installing the new shaft, I took the bike out for a shakedown ride. All went well for about 100 miles. Then I heard an unfamiliar racket during a particularly tight turn at the top of Mesa Grande Road in San Diego County. What now! I pulled over to check things out and found I was missing a saddlebag – the one with my credit cards, money, license, registration, and insurance. The bank on the other side of the road dropped several stories and was covered in three-foot-tall undergrowth! Is someone trying to tell me something?
It was at least 100 degrees out, I was wearing full leathers, but I had no choice. I had to start looking for it. Either that, or spend months arranging for replacement documents.
Soon I spotted a gleam far down the slope. Is that an empty bottle or the reflective club sticker of my saddlebag? The prospect of a dusty, difficult climb under the relentless sun was less daunting than the alternative.
It was an interesting descent. Every step down resulted in a slide the equivalent of three. Fortunately, it wasn’t a bottle; it was a sticker placed on the back of my saddlebag. Hallelujah!, as Leonard Cohen might say.
I eagerly picked up the scratched, dusty, heavy saddlebag, lost my footing, and slid six feet down the slope, uprooting weeds with my teeth on the way. The whole trip back up the slope went about the same way. It took all my sweaty energy for over an hour to make it up to the road.
Back in the city, I put my foot down at a stop light and almost dropped the bike. Must be some oil on the road. But it was the same thing at the next two stops. My boot must be covered in oil! Is the bike leaking?
When I got home, I discovered the problem – my boot had lost a sole on the steep slope. Is someone trying to tell me something?
On departure day, Tom drove his comfortable Toyota sport truck over with the rebuilt trailer, we loaded up the bikes and all our gear, and headed for the tiny town of Laytonville, California, 650 miles away.
We knew there were fires in California, but we didn’t know how bad they were. We saw no visible sunshine through the entire 450 miles of the Central Valley. The smoke irritated our eyes and throats and covered the truck in soot.
San Francisco was also covered in smoke and ash. It got worse north of there up Highway 101. We had to take a room in Santa Rosa because a fire had flashed over the highway and closed it.
Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons/US Department of Agriculture/public domain.
It was still closed the next morning, so we called our friend Rand, who suggested we detour over a mountain pass through the big trees to the coast road, then north, and then east again over an even narrower, twistier mountain pass called Branscomb Road. It has no road markings on the top section and is famous for its careening logging trucks. On one occasion, we were forced to take the trailer so close to a steep drop-off, it seemed the trailer wheel was hanging over the edge of the pavement. These loggers are homicidal. If Tom hadn’t been such a skilled driver, you might have read about us in the newspaper.
It was almost dark when we got to Rand’s cottage at the end of a gated road. He’d agreed to allow us to park our rig there while we rode the bikes to Idaho.
We woke up the next morning to more smoke, unloaded the bikes, and rode out hoping it would clear in Oregon. But it got worse and more irritating as we rode north. I felt bad for Tom as he’d never toured this fabulous area.
Brookings, Oregon is right on the coast, and we took a room which normally oversees the waves and sunset. No waves, no sunset, only smoke. We hadn’t seen sunshine in four days.
The next morning, we learned that three major Oregon fires were out of control, a million acres were burning, 10 percent of Oregon’s population had been evacuated which amounted to half a million people, and the hotels in the state were booked. The road through the Washington Cascade Range was also closed.
At a grim breakfast meeting, Tom and I decided to abort the trip. We could have avoided all this agitation and expense if I’d only listened to my inner voice.
Tom listens to his inner voice.
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