Return-Path: From: east@big.att.com Date: Thu, 20 Jul 95 16:41:26 EDT Reply-To: east@big.att.com Sender: east@big.att.com Original-From: drg@owl.HQ.ileaf.com (Daniel R. Guilderson) To: Multiple recipients of list Subject: RCR To RnF Trip Report (so long, it'll make you cry) X-Comment: East Coast Motorcyclists Mailing List If you don't like trip reports hit 'd' now. If you hate long 800+ line posts hit 'd' now. If you know me hit 'd' now. If you are still here, you are a masochist. =-=-= It Started Out Innocently Enough... I met Mark Holbrook and Steve Woodbridge in Westboro and Mark led us on a wild 2 day tour through the Northeast to Thurmont, MD. It was something less than 600 miles but it was mostly Classic Holbrook(tm) "Back Roads. Period." We met Dane Walther (fresh off his lowside into the weeds) in Northern CT and proceeded to torture him with all manner of tricky twisties. I, of course didn't want Dane to overreach his confidence after his traumatic wreck so I held back for him (not because I was scared or nuthin). I remember we got lost in an enchanted forest. It was as dark as night in there with only tiny faint hints of sunlight. So we stopped to ask a troll how to get to the town and he tried to trick us into going into the Darkest Depths of Mordor (somewhere in PA) but Mark was too smart to fall for it and led us out to safety. We had to make a lot of U-turns because back roads navigation is an imprecise science. I remember one U-turn in which I found myself exhausted and suddenly falling over to the ground. I found the strength of 6.9 men and was able to save my bike from harm by muscling it back upright. Finally our luck ran out as the sky opened up and spewed forth on us. We were already way behind schedule so we jumped on a slab (US15) and rode it out to Thurmont. Right Coast Ride IV This was easily the most diabolical torture chamber I have ever witnessed. Hundreds of smelly biker Grendels were laying about snoring, quaffing mead (whenever they awoke) by the gallons (Imperial) and worshiping the devil. Luckily there was a sweet princess there to shame the heathens into behaving somewhat. Her name was Princess Muffy and she was a beauty beyond imagination. Unfortunately, she had her eyes on Martyn. I don't think he deserved the honor judging by his unruly behavior but she was enamored with him nonetheless. My only consolation was that Josh was hiding in the women's shower room and getting a lot of good shots of nekkid babes. Thurmont, or more precisely Camp Westmar, was where I was finally able to meet the two other men who I would journey across the country with to the Ride 'N Feed in Boulder, CO. I gathered with Dave Lawrence and Chip Roberson in the kitchen of Camp Westmar. We all exchanged words of encouragement and tried to hide our nervousness. And then out of nowhere a cocky kid runs up to us and declares he is going too! Joe Krause was just too damn nice for our own good. I suspect he brought Murphy along with us too. The night before we left, I dreamed that I saw 6 guys simultaneously working on a Ducati 916. What a ridiculous dream! I laughed. Sunday morning we prepared to embark on our journey during a lull in the torrential downpours hammering western MD. When we were finally ready, Dave pulled out onto the dirt road out of Camp Westmar, then Chip, then myself. We stopped and waited for Joe. And waited. And waited... Finally, after what seemed to be an eternity, Joe appears from behind a cabin. "Joe, what happened?", I yell. "I went down in the wet grass!" On That Note... If you know anything at all about USENET, you know that David C Lawrence is the Godfather. If you also ride motorcycles and read rec.motorcycles, you have probably heard of Dave's reputation for "self-victimization" and/or, well, let's just say his proclivity for a brisk pace. If you know me at all, you know that I hate pain and I associate warp speed twisty road roosting to crashing and crashing to pain. Call me a wimp. Dave assured me that he would wait at every turn and/or change in the route. Not once did he break that promise during our entire journey. At every turn there was Dave beside his bike relaxing in a lounge chair and reading romance novels. Obviously he was taking shortcuts because I was absolutely *ripping* through those 90+ degree gravel covered switchbacks. Joe was right up my ass and I realized immediately that he was in way over his head. He was trying to keep up with my lightning pace but his lack of experience and courage was making it dangerous for him to continue in this way. I let Joe go ahead of me so that I could monitor his progress and not put pressure on him to keep up with me. He was just a 22 year old kid ferchrissakes! After a while, I felt it was necessary to let Joe cruise several miles ahead of me so that he wouldn't feel so much pressure to impress me with his riding ability (or lack thereof, whatever the case may be). Meanwhile Chip was trying to impress Dave with his race-ready Ducati 900 Supersport and the lala-land techniques he learned in that CLASS racing cult he joined. Our ride through Maryland, Virginia, and West Virginia was relatively uneventful if you're willing to forget that car that nearly pulled out in front of me while I was happily going 50 mph. I prepared to slide under it in the hopes that I could countersteer and pop back up on the other side but the guy put on his brakes at the last minute and I just cruised by. The Appalachian Mountains is beautiful country. Forests, mountains, rivers and twisty backroads make it a real pleasure to ride there. My only complaints are the heat, humidity and 69 ton coal trucks going 69 mph around every switchback and hairpin. I guess I wouldn't have minded so much if their front grills hadn't looked suspiciously like cheese graters. I think they must have tinted windows too because all I could see was bloodshot eyeballs peering evilly out of the cab. Not that I was focusing on them, I was way too busy carving through the highly technical turns of those beautiful backroads to be worrying about the evil spirits at the controls of the devil's machinery. We camped at Babcock State Park that night. Rather than pitch our tents in the waning twilight, we decided to ride 10 miles down the road to a "Five and Dime" store owned and operated by somebody's grandmother. We were the only ones there, there was no menu but Mrs. Parker offered to cook us hamburgers. Cool. We made ourselves comfortable in bar stools while she fried up 4 patties for us. These weren't your wimpy McD's type burgers. Mine was a big ball of meat that weighed in at about 1.2 lbs cooked and it cost about 15 cents (US). After figuring in the bottle of Coke and chips, the grand total for me was something like $1.00 (US). I gave her a whopping 25% tip and Joe started giving me hell for being cheap. Well where I come from a 25% tip is heady stuff. What's Joe's problem? Camping is great I tell ya. It's so cheap that you almost forget about the incredible heat, humidity, dirt, grime, mosquitos, crickets and rainwater flooding. I highly recommend it. And whatever you do, don't pitch your tent in the sunlight. That's for pussys. Pitch it in the dark so you can laugh in the morning when you see the red ant hill right in front of the tent door. We pitched our tents in the dark every night. Boy did we have a lot of fun! I noticed that Chip had some special techniques for camping. One night he pitched his tent in the dark, clipped a shining flashlight to the ceiling of his tent and leaving the tent door wide open he went off to brush his teeth. Later he came back, climbed into his tent, zipped up the tent door and turned off the flashlight. For the rest of the night all I could hear was this strange noise coming from Chip's tent---*slap*, *slap*, *slap*. I never did get a chance to ask him what the hell that was all about. "Now I Know I'm Immortal!" Monday morning we headed for Kentucky and even more coal trucks. We got bogged down in some heavy traffic along the Virginia/Kentucky border so Dave decided to change the route slightly so we could avoid some of the traffic and see what the Middle-of-Nowhere really looked like. We didn't see much traffic or anything else for that matter. Every once in a while there was a farm or a house along the road. This was backroads alright. With every tight turn we took my confidence built enough so that I felt even Joe must be getting better at negotiating the difficult roads. I closed up a little on Joe to help build his confidence. Meanwhile Dave and Chip were far ahead trying to scrape rubber off the sidewalls of their tires for increased weight savings. I recall Joe and I coming around a gentle right hander onto a medium length straight. Suddenly it became apparent to me that a motorcycle was lying on the ground on a gravel road which intersected with the road we were on (KY 160) at the entrance to a tight right hander which lead to a bridge over a river. I could see Chip and his Ducati had pulled over to the side of the road but I could not see Dave right away. As Joe and I pulled up to the accident scene, I realized Dave was standing off to the side of the gravel road with his helmet on. I jumped of my bike and ran to Dave and asked him if he was alright, hoping that rigor mortis hadn't already set in. No answer. I asked again and again, hope fading with each question. After about the 5th time I asked, Dave's body was shocked back to life and he yelled, "I'm fucking *pissed*!" Thanks to my quick actions, Dave's life was saved. Chip was in shock by the side of the road and completely useless. I took charge of the situation and screamed, "What the hell are we going to do?" That brought Chip back to his senses and he and Joe started trying to pick up Dave's formerly pristine condition Honda CBR1000. I immediately jumped in and gave a token effort at helping to lift the heavy bike off its right side and into the upright position. Chip and Joe determined that the coolant leak was only coming from the overflow canister and was not a concern. The fork was pushed off center so Chip, Joe and I wheeled the beast 100 yards up the road to a Post Office where we found a handicap parking sign. The plan was for Chip to sit on the bike and swing the front wheel into the pole so that the forks would be banged back into the proper position. We positioned the bike next to the sign and Chip swung the wheel, *BAAAANGAWANGAWANG...Joe grabbed the loose sign to quiet it and whispered, "Let's not upset Dave anymore than he already is." Chip whacked the wheel against the sign a few more times and voila, the forks were straight again. The only other little problem was that the right footpeg was sheared off. We determined that the passenger peg could not be fitted in its place and Dave decided that he would rest his foot on the rear passenger peg in what looked to me like a very painful position. Chip and Dave were able to explain to me and Joe exactly what happened. Dave was in the lead and as he came down the straight at his usual brisk pace he failed to recognize that the road went right and over the bridge until it was too late. He applied a ton of brake and his interlocked braking system was able to lockup the front wheel. Just before it tucked, Dave realized that he should let go of the brake but failed to do so as the spectre of highsiding over the side of the bridge or into an oncoming coal truck froze him to the brake. The thought of taking a chance at steering across the road and down the gravel side road was too complicated to contemplate in the 0.0000009 seconds that he had before the front wheel tucked in and the rear wheel slid around to the right and tossed him over in front of and to the right of the bike. The bike slid past Dave on its right side into a ditch which spun the bike violently. It then continued onto the gravel road still on its right side where it came to rest. Dave slid to a stop at the entrance to the gravel road. The damage to Dave was minimal. He had road rash on his right knuckles probably due to punching the pavement after the wheel tucked. His pocket knife escaped his pocket by punching a hole through the front of his denim jeans. He destroyed his faceshield with massive scratches and chipped a little piece off the front of his chin guard. His leather jacket was scratched all over especially the back. He was covered with dust. He was sore all over. The damage to the bike was mostly cosmetic. The right side plastic was scratched to all hell. Big clumps of mud and dirt from the ditch where sticking out of every opening on the right side. The front brake lever was bent. The right exhaust can was pushed in. Other than the right foot peg, no functionality was lost. We picked up miscellaneous pieces of Dave's luggage and whatnot while Chip gleefully snapped photos of the entire scene. Dave replaced his damaged smoked faceshield with a clear one and donned his shredded gloves. As we climbed onto our bikes I heard Dave say, "Now I know I'm immortal! I've had several serious crashes and not once have I been hurt." Cool. We were back on the road about an hour after the crash, Dave riding as fast as ever (maybe even faster to make up for lost time?). We never saw any cops and no report was made. The only person who even took notice was a toothless tobacco juice drooling farmer from across the road. We pulled into Monticello, KY just as the last hints of twilight disappeared into a monstrous thunderhead just west of our position. Dave pulled over and gave us our options, "We can keep riding for another couple of hours in the dark in that murderous thunderstorm or ..." "Plan B!", we echoed in unison. We took a motel room that night. The hot showers, copious towels, clean linen, and comfortable air conditioning are all highly overrated. We recommend camping instead but this night we had no choice. "Help! Help! Help! Help!" The next day (Tuesday) we headed out determined to get back on our original schedule but as it turned out we would be slowed down a bit by a few things. For one, Dave was getting tired of riding with his leg twisted back up on the passenger peg. We agreed that we would look for a bike shop in Clarksville, TN during our lunch stop. We had finally come out of the mountains and we were now in the rolling hills of Kentucky and northwestern Tennessee. The roads were still twisty but now instead of cliffs and steep slopes we had high weeds and dirt embankments to contend with. If you have ever seen Joey Dunlop sail through the Isle of Man in "V-Four Victory", you have an idea of what it is like to rip through a righthand sweeper in farm country. The road disappears into the tall weeds for an eternity until you are spit out on a straight. You hope that a tractor won't be waiting for you in the middle of the road. I nearly flattened several dogs because they were often hanging out by the side of the rode. Whenever, Joe would fly by on his badass '86 VFR750 with the *loud* aftermarket exhaust wailing, the dogs would go nuts and jump out in front of me as they chased Joe down the road. No casualties but there were a lot of surprised doggy faces when my sewing machine quiet '94 VFR750 blasted the dust off their furry coats. We found a salvage shop in Clarksville that had a box of used foot pegs. Dave found one that fit his bike and installed it. After Dave paid the bill we mounted our bikes and noticed that the parking situation was pretty peculiar. The shop was located on a hill. The street sloped steeply off to the right (when facing the shop) and the shop had a driveway up to its garage door. I use the term driveway loosely. It was more like a steep concrete ramp. Where the driveway and street met it was almost like a pit, it was so steep off to the right. We parked our bikes at the top of the ramp and it was too narrow to turn around so we had to back down to the street and turn around. Chip was first and he tries to keep both feet on the ground---big mistake. Chip has the longest legs of any of us and even he couldn't reach the ground off to his right but he decides to try anyhow. He sets his right foot down, slips and immediately the beautiful red Duc 900 starts listing to the starboard side. The rest of us watch helplessly from our bikes as Chip goes down with the ship. "Help! Help! Help! Help!", he yells in a panicked voice that made my hair standup on the back of my neck. I watch as the Duc hits the deck with Chip still hanging on even as he gets tossed on his back. A big dude from the shop helps Chip pick the bike up and we determine that other than a few cosmetic scratches, the bike is ready to go. Chips pride on the otherhand is destroyed. The rest of us gingerly back down the ramp and get the hell out of there. As we rode off, it occurred to me that I was the only one that hadn't gone down on the trip. The thought was not comforting for some strange reason. "A Bridge Too Far" Dave's route through TN was particularly obscure. We were on a lot of unnumbered routes not to mention unmarked, unsigned and generally unrecognizeable roads. Dave was concerned about a river that we needed to cross. Apparently the bridges over this river were spaced far apart and only one bridge was conveniently located on our route. Most of Dave's maps did not indicate that a bridge even existed at this location but there was one that did. We turned down what looked more like a driveway than a road and a few miles later we arrived at the river. There was a bridge. And a fine bridge it was...once. However, it was now apparently closed. I think we were tipped off by the large sign that said, "Bridge Closed" but we already had our doubts when we saw the huge 4 foot high pile of rocks completely blocking the roadway. We pulled over and Dave hopped off his bike to make a closer inspection of the situation. Joe got so scared that he put his kickstand down (or so he thought). He leaned his bike over onto the kickstand (which was folded up under the bike) and dropped it to the ground. Doh! Luckily the damage was undetectable amid the myriad scratches and jagged broken plastic from previous dumps. Dave was now around the road block and heading towards the bridge on foot. I hesitantly yelled to him, "Should we go for it?" Unfortunately, Dave misinterpreted this to be the statement, "Go for it!" Later, doctors determined that Dave suffered brain damage in the wreck and no longer is able to understand questions. Dave didn't need any more encouragement. He ran out onto the bridge, bounced his ample body up and down a few times and proclaimed, "We're goin for it!" I looked at the hulking rusted trusses and deteriorating concrete slabs with no guard rails and wondered which one of us would send it crashing into the river 30 feet below. Dave and Joe determined that we could get our bikes around the rock pile by riding in the weeds on the edge of the pile. There was another rock pile on the other side of the bridge but it was a little trickier. There was only about 2 feet of ground between the rock pile and a steep sloping ravine into bushes 10-12 feet below. We tried not to think too much about the consequences of dropping a bike into the ravine. Dave was first, he eased his big CBR1000 out onto the bridge and across to the other side where he successfully negotiated the gauntlet between the rock pile and the ravine. I was next and as I crossed the bridge, I prayed that Dave hadn't sapped all the strength out of it. He didn't. I made it through the gauntlet and pulled my bike up and around a pickup truck parked along the road (apparently belonging to a fisherman on the river). Joe was next and while he was intently negotiating the weeds on the other side of the bridge, I ran back to the gauntlet so that I could help push on his bike should it start to tilt over towards the ravine. As Joe came across the bridge he saw me standing half in the ravine with my bike nowhere in sight. He slowed. I waved him on. Suddenly he stopped, successfully put his kickstand down, jumped off his bike, placed his helmet on the ground and raced towards me with a pained look on his face. I asked, "what the hell are you doing?" "Where's your bike?!" he yelled as he scanned the bushes below. "Behind the pickup!" "Oh!" Would I have done the same for him if the tables were reversed? Hell no! I would have kicked him deeper into the ravine as I sped past. Like I said, Joe was just too damn nice for our own good. Chip was last and he too made it through without incident. We were golden! Hell, we were almost on schedule. We're the Heckowies? Like I said before, the state of Tennessee doesn't believe in wasting valuable taxpayer's money on silly things like road signs and markers. If you don't know where you are then what the hell are you doin in Tennessee?! Dave was undaunted. He wanted to "save some time" by taking unnumbered backroads as a shortcut to the I155 bridge over the Mississippi River. OK. My impression of this shortcut was one of pain and frustration. It seemed like a never-ending series of short (less than 1 mile) sprints to the next stop sign. None of the roads were marked so it felt like we were constantly lost although Dave claims he "knew" where we were. I had my doubts when he pulled out his compass at one intersection. After seemingly hours of this, I started hallucinating and thinking that the Miss. River must be right around the corner. We banged a right onto a small road and raced through the front yard of a farmhouse where we got chased by 20 rabid dogs. This "road" started getting narrow after the farmhouse. After a mile, one half of the road turned into gravel and the concrete half had huge moguls in it. After two or three more miles the road hung a left around a bend and ended down in the middle of a corn field. Finally after riding 50 yards into the dirt of the corn field, Dave came to his senses and realized this was a Road to Nowhere. I didn't want to kill crops so I did a 1000 point turn in the loose dirt (I wasn't afraid of dumping my bike, honest). We went back and got chased by 20 rabid dogs. Finally, we found I155 and crossed the Miss. River into Missouri. At dinner in Caruthersville, MO, we were so tired, we were giddy. Our waitress at Pizza Hut wasn't working with a full deck. I declared to her that Dave, Joe and I were meatlovers so we wanted a Pepperoni Lover's Pizza and Chip wanted a Veggie Lover's Pizza because he was a vegetarian. She brought us a Pepperoni Lover's Pizza and a Meat Lover's Pizza and no Veggie Lover's Pizza. We giggled endlessly. Chip got a salad. We judiciously decided to not try and make it to our original destination and instead we decided to camp in northeast Arkansas. We rode in the dark. We were having trouble finding the state park we intended to camp at so we pulled over by the side of the road while Dave studied his maps. Suddenly the trees around us were being strobed by blue light and I think I smelled donuts. We were drenched in a spotlight. If I had been drunk, I would have sworn I was being kidnapped by aliens. I was almost ready to call Geraldo when I realized it was a Law Enforcement Officer. Luckily for us, it was Officer Friendly. He offered to escort us to the park. Cool, we could get used to this. We pitched our tents, in the dark of course. "You Boys About Ready to Break Camp?" Wednesday morning we woke to bright sunshine. It looked like a great day to ride. Dave borrowed some sunblock for his right knuckles which were now sunburned in addition to the road rash. If you are ever in Arkansas on a bike, find a way to get to the Ozark Mountains. They are absolutely beautiful. We spent all morning and a good part of the afternoon lapping up the roads in the Ozarks. The climax had to be Skyline Drive which takes you from Arkansas into Oklahoma along a long ridge. Goodness, that was beautiful. I want to go back just for that road. It is AR 88 in Arkansas and OK 1 in Oklahoma. We were dumped out into the plains of Oklahoma. Mile after mile of perfectly straight road through fields and pastures. Wake me up when it's over. Our plan was to camp in the Wichita Mountains National Preserve. Of course, we couldn't possibly get there until after dark but we pressed on. At the Dairy Queen where we ate dinner we were warned about driving in the dark on the preserve because of all the buffalo, longhorns, bobcats, deer and all manner of other wild game free ranging (i.e. no fences between us and them) on the preserve roads. Of course it must have been a new moon since it was pitch fucking black out. When we finally rode into the preserve that night the music from "Jaws!" was playing in my head. "Dunt, Dunt! Dunt, dunt, dunt, dunt!" I was expecting to be gored off my bike by a longhorn and then ripped to shreds by a bobcat as I lay helplessly on the ground. Damn, it was dark! We pulled into the Wichita Mountains National Preserve camping area around 11:00PM that night. The sign said the camp closed at 10:00PM and no after hours camping was allowed. "Pshhyah, right! It's 11:00PM, we're hours from anywhere. There is *no* fucking way we are not camping here tonight!" We slipped around the raised road spikes and made our way to a camp site with the honest intention of paying our fee in the morning. None of us noticed the little light shining in the camper by the gate. After spending about an hour pounding tent stakes into the concrete slab that is a Wichita Mountains campsite, we were ready to call it a day. Just then a pickup truck came screetching around the camp road and squealed to a stop in our campsite. "Gee, what could this be about?" we wondered. "You boys about ready to break camp?" inquired the big burly female assistant ranger as she rolled out of her pickup truck, its headlights illuminating our tents. Dave, who had already layed down, came stumbling out of his tent and whined, "Have some sympathy!" "Shutup Dave," begged Chip. "Attitudes will get you in jail," offered the ranger. A few minutes later two sheriff's deputies from town arrived on the scene. The situation didn't look good for our heroes. We handed over our IDs and started taking our tents down. The deputies seemed to be a good humored bunch and shined flashlights on our activities while engaging in small talk. It came to light that Joe was in the military, on leave after having just graduated from the Naval Academy. As it turned out the deputies were ex-military. Suddenly there was much whispering and scheming among the deputies and Joe. As near as I could tell the deputies were gonna spring Joe and leave the damn civilians to be raked over the coals by the federal ranger. The ranger was happy to inform us that the fines would add up to $100 each. I started having trouble swallowing the lump in my throat. After receiving our tickets, the deputies let us know that we could sleep in a picnic area along the highway about 10 miles back through the preserve which we had just risked our lives riding through. "Dunt, dunt!" We started pitching our tents next to the picnic tables in the tiny park. Occasionally a car roared by. A while later the ranger came by in her pickup truck and offered to rip up our tickets. Cool. She explained to us that the Park Ranger's son had seen us "break in" to the camp and had woke her up out of a sound sleep to bring justice to us. She said that with the Ranger's son being there she *had* to give us the tickets or the little brat would've told his daddy and she would've been in big trouble. But apparently it was OK for her to rip those suckers up out of site of the drippy nosed rugrat. We were overjoyed. Joe knew this all along because the deputies had told him what was going to happen. That's what they were scheming about. We finally laid down to rest about 1:00AM. "You Guys Don't Mind a Little Dirt Road Do You?" Way back in the early spring when we were planning this ride, Dave mentioned that there could possibly be some dirt roads on the route. I've been on Mark Holbrook's infamous back road rides and I figured I could handle a little dirt. Well Thursday's route would have a widdle, bitty, 17 mile dirt road from Black Mesa, OK into northeastern New Mexico. No problemo, I thought as I sat in my posturepedic chair in my climate controlled office in Massachusetts. Bench riding really builds confidence let me tell you. Thursday morning we rode out of Wichita Mountains, gawking at all the herds of buffalo and longhorns which we could not see the night before. Chip even saw an elk and a deer. We made our way through mile after mile of pastures, cattle feedhouses and oil pumps as we crossed western OK, into the Texas Panhandle and back into OK on its panhandle. The roads were once again perfectly straight and to stave off the boredom, I started counting the number of miles it took to ride to the horizon. The longest run I counted was 5 miles. Perfectly straight. We started back into the mountains as we entered Black Mesa, OK. We couldn't figure out why it was called Black Mesa because we didn't see any black mesas but it sure was beautiful. As we headed west the sky became increasingly cloudy but it had not yet started to rain as we approached the 17 mile stretch of dirt road. Dave and Chip attacked the dirt road, riding 50-60+ mph by their own estimates. Joe and I were a little more conservative. The road was not bad. It was smooth but it was a little dusty for my tastes. The rain took care of that problem. I was not keeping track at the time but with about 5 miles left on the dirt, it started to rain. It wasn't torrential but it was better than a light drizzle. I decided it was time for me to pull over, take a badly needed leak and put on my rain gear. I saw Joe disappear off into the distance as I pulled over to the side of this desolate road (there was maybe 3 farmhouses in the 17 miles). After putting my rain gear on, I took a step towards the bike and noticed a huge clump of mud sticking to the bottom of my sneaker. Hmmm, I hadn't noticed any mud before I stopped. I figured it was just a little puddle. I mounted my bike and let out the clutch slowly, I started forward and then suddenly the rear wheel slid out to the right. I didn't panic right away, I was only going 5 mph at the most so I steered into the slide a bit. The rear came back around and started sliding to the left. I steered to the left a bit. In one big swing the rear came way around to the right perpendicular to my forward motion and I lowsided the bike. I immediately turned off the ignition and started trying to lift the bike out of the mud. Both tires were sliding down the road so it was impossible for me to lift it upright. Joe was down the road out of sight taking a leak. He started worrying when I hadn't shown up for a few minutes so he turned back to look for me. When he arrived on the scene, he too was surprised by the thick silt-like mud covering the road. He's a dirt wizzard, however, and was able to stop his bike without going down. He helped me get the bike upright and we started back down the road with slightly better results. A lot of slipping and sliding but no toppling. Meanwhile Dave and Chip were now waiting at the beginning of the pavement having made it through the dirt before it turned to mud. They spent a while reading romance novels before they realized that Joe and I were taking an unusually long time catching up. They decided to head back and investigate. They too were surprised by the slipperiness of the mud which was once firm dirt. They too are dirt wizzards and while they slipped and slid they did not topple. Upon seeing Joe and I slowly making our way through the treacherous mud, Dave stopped in the dead center of the road and waited for us. As I came upon Dave, I realized I would either have to go to the right or the left of him in order to get around his stopped bike. I chose left. I ended up in a tire rut as I passed him. A few yards later the rut bumped me out onto the left shoulder of the road which sloped into a ditch. I slowly slid down the shoulder and promptly toppled into the ditch. Not wanting to damage the left side plastic *twice* in one day, I miraculously crashed it onto the right side plastic instead. Symmetry is highly overrated. I shut the ignition off and stomped away plotting how I would kill Dave's parents in revenge. Joe and Dave immediately came over and picked up the bike. While Dave rode, Joe and I pushed the bike out of the muddy ditch. I was hoping Dave would then ride off into the sunset on my bike but he gave it back to me instead. After another 2 miles of mud play, we made it to the pavement where I was able to admire my new body work. The quadripartite was complete. Four went, four went down. I was relieved that my part wasn't more painful. We still had a long way to go so we jumped back on our bikes and sped up into the fog shrouded, rain drenched mountains of northeastern New Mexico. The fog was so thick I could only see Joe's tailight when he was less than 100 feet in front of me. When we reached Raton, Dave of all people, threw in the towel and unilaterally decided to get a hotel room in Raton. There was no argument offered from any of the denizens. The Ride 'N Feed As it turned out we were terribly lucky we did not try to complete the planned route. The Rockies were being pounded by heavy rains and fog from New Mexico all the way through Colorado, not to mention a bridge had been closed along the way. And never mind that there was another 50 miles or so of dirt road on the route in CO. On Friday morning Dave, Chip and I headed north on I25 while Joe had a new rear tire installed on his bike. He would catch up with us later in Boulder. Chip broke off from us in Colorado Springs so that he could hang with his long lost buddy in a forest somewhere. Dave and I continued on up to Denver where we found the weather to be quite a bit more agreeable so we headed into the mountains for a little canyon carving. We reached Boulder in the late afternoon and while gassing up waved Joe down who just happened to be riding by at the time. We headed over to Jill's house where we were planning to crash that night. Matt from CA showed up and the 5 of us swapped lies over dinner in a local grub house. Matt turned out to be a crazy bastard along with all the other West Coast Denizens but I was taken in by his lies over dinner and thought he was a regular guy. Jill was a real sweetheart and I think Joe may have been smitten. She knew just when to laugh at all our lousy jokes. She really made us feel special. We went back to Jill's place and passed out on the floor, on couches and anything else that looked half comfortable. Saturday, after an entire day of doing miscellaneous crap like washing my clothes and crashing my bike a third time, I finally made my way up to Laszlo Nemeth's cabin high in the mountains northwest of downtown Boulder. I had heard rumors about his treacherous *dirt* driveway and I was filled with dread. It lived up to all the legend as it was steep twisty and slippery. I conquered it! I rode that bike like it was a buckin' bronco all the way up that mile long treacherous so-called driveway. I was proud of myself until Laz let it be known that they had graded the damn thing and it was now a piece of cake. Damn! My ego was deflated. The West Coast Denizens gathered around Laz' cabin. Laz verbally abused everyone because he can't stand biker scumbags. His mom, Evi, apparently doesn't like biker scumbags either because she gave us a waterbaloon slingshot to play with. We promptly put fear into the hearts of mortals and scared the shit out of ourselves too. It started out with innocent little flicks down the driveway into a goddam Volvo, *splash*, yeah! But it ended up with two bikers ontop of the garage holding the slingshot while another scumbag hung off below. They stretched the sucker a good 15 feet and let go. With a mighty rush the baloon shot straight up into the air. I lost it for a few seconds when it passed 500 feet above the garage. Then it came back into view. It was speeding down towards us. We scattered just in time to see it explode in the potted plant on the picnic table. Dirt and water sprayed all over the food. We fell down on the ground laughing. The West Coast "Elders" gathered their cabal to vote on who would receive the "Dave Lawrence Award For Egregious Self-Victimization". Otherwise known as the "Dickweed" award. There was much argument between the half-dozen or so men wearing strange "Pigs In Space" t-shirts. Finally the decision was handed down. The entire Right Coast Ride was awarded the trophy. The reasoning being that "statistically, they all went down." We protested futilely as apparently only "Pigs In Space" can vote. Chip reluctantly took possession of the trophy with the intention of delivering it back to the Right Coast. When it got dark, Laz gave us his Spud Gun. I was half in the bag on 3 beers (8000 ft up one beer is like a kick in the head) so I'm thinking, "Kewl, artillary!" We grab some raw spuds and ram one down the barrel. Jeff sprays half a can of WD-40 in the chamber and starts clicking on the trigger like a lunatic. No dice. Laz to the rescue. He starts wielding it all over like a baton, aiming at our heads while we run for cover. Finally, Laz successfully unfloods the chamber and instructs us to only put a couple of squirts of WD-40 in. For the rest of the night we are happily wasting rocks and trees with tremendous blasts from the Spud Gun. Joe and I pitched our tents in the light of day (amazing). Later we decide Laz's cabin looks more comfortable and crash there instead. Laz let a bunch of scumbags lounge around in his hottub with him (I figure he must have been too drunk to care by that time). I swear on a stack of bibles that I saw a red-headed woman get out of the tub *buck nekkid*. You don't see shit like that in Massachusetts. I started trying to figure out how I could move out to the West Coast. I had sweet dreams that night. Sunday morning I woke up, packed my bike and headed out with the denizens to the Insult on Mount Evans. I had been warned about Mt. Evans' treachery by Kevin Malloy. He was telling me all the horror stories about denizens tossing their bikes under pickup trucks and 2000 foot drops off the side of the road. Was I alarmed? Who me? Hahaha, I laughed (nervously) in the face of danger. Kevin really didn't do justice to this road. I was already shaking like a leaf by the time we got to Echo Lake and we still had 14 miles more of tight switchbacks and hairpins. There were no guardrails and the shoulder, if you want to call it that, was often no more than a couple of feet of dirt leading to rocky 1000+ foot 45+ degree steep slopes. To make matters worse, the snow pack was worse than Kevin had ever seen it before. Heavy 40+ mph winds wipped across the road blowing snow onto it. Although the air temperature near the top was below freezing, the road had warmed up enough in places to melt the snow and then cooled enough to turn it to ice. In summary, it was a biker's worst nightmare. This didn't stop Hesh or Mad Matt from CA. They made an all out assault on the road. Hesh was two-up with a woman riding pillion. I brought up the rear of the 13 bike column since I didn't want to pressure any of the others into riding above their limits. If I had really wanted to, I could have blown right by Hesh, Matt and the other poseurs and really shown 'em how to ride. Instead I lurked about 4 or 5 miles back behind the leaders where they wouldn't be embarassed by my superior riding skills. One of the group tossed his bike on the ice breaking the left crankcase cover and spewing oil on the road, on his rear tire and on anything else that happened to get near. I came up on the disabled bike and figured I should stop to help my comrade. Then I felt the howling wind try to blow me over. I looked at the snow blowing onto the road. I noticed the ice rapidly building. I thought, "Fuck that! I'm outta here!" I blew by the hapless denizen and a few minutes later I was at the top of the mountain, 14,260 ft above sea level. It might as well have been the Artic Circle. I parked my bike perpendicular to the direction of the wind so that it would have the best chance of being blown over and then I ran to the edge of a ridge and snapped a couple of photos of the desolate landscape. As I ran back to my bike, Matt pulled up alongside on the downwind side (Danger is his middle name). He asked me to snap a couple of pics for him. I thought to myself, "Is this guy for real?! I could be *killed* up here!" I snapped the photos, jumped on my bike and all but wheelied the hell out of there. On the way down I passed the hapless denizen on his wrecked bike and realizing that he was making some progress, figured he didn't need *my* help. Mad Matt zinged by me at Warp 9 a while later. When we all made it down off the mountain safely, we sent the hapless denizen home and proceeded to chow lunch, swap lies and wonder if we could buy "I survived Mount Evans" t-shirts. Home Sweet Home Dave, Chip, Joe and myself exchanged goodbyes on Sunday and went our separate ways. Dave headed back to PA to meet his girlfriend. Chip headed north to Wyoming to stay with his long lost buddy. Joe moved in with Laz and Mikey. I headed to Denver thinking that maybe I would turn west and check out Vegas for a day or two. When I woke Monday morning neither Dave, Chip nor Joe were around to listen to my tales of danger and intrigue. I immediately started feeling very lonely and the thought of riding for days on end with noone to talk to was unbearable. I decided to go home. After riding 700 miles to Des Moines, Iowa I grabbed a motel room for Monday night and figured on trying to make it to Buffalo the next day, an 850+ mile trip. Tuesday July 4, started out pretty well. Nice sunny weather and not terribly hot. Other than the mind numbing boredom brought on by mile after mile of farmland, the only problem I had was the brutal winds on the plains. It must have been a rock steady 30+ mph wind which blew northward across the road all the way to Ohio. Passing trucks was a real adventure. I could never figure out if a certain truck was of the "blowing away" or "sucking in" type. Almost all the trucks had a vicious windblast coming off the front end. Just after passing south of Chicago, I stopped for gas and noticed the right saddlebag had lost its raincover in the wind. Damn, there went $20 down the drain. I jumped back on I80 and immediately hit a toll. As I went to put the toll ticket in the breast pocket of my Aerostich, I noticed the zipper was wide open. Hmmm, I keep my *wallet* in that pocket! I frantically searched for my wallet. It was gone. I pounded the seat of my bike in frustration. Luckily I keep my cash in my pants pocket so I still had plenty of cash but my ID, ATM and credit cards were all gone. I was deeply distressed but I was somewhat comforted by the thought that this was America and cash gets you anywhere you want to go. I theorized that I had forgotten to zip up the pocket back in Iowa and the wallet had blown out on the highway. I continued on determined to make it to Buffalo. Just east of Toledo, Ohio the sky started getting terribly dark and threatening just southeast of me. For a while it looked like I would just skirt the thunderstorm avoiding the worst part of it. I increased my speed a little bit hoping I could get by before the storm blew northward and over me. No such luck. I rode right into the belly of the storm. I have never seen such heavy rain. Lightning was striking the ground in every direction. I could only see blurry shapes and beyond 200 yards I could see absolutely nothing but a wall of white. The wind was gusting to 50+ mph. The road was a river. I decided it would be prudent to pull over but I waited until I came upon an overpass to stop. I waited under the overpass until the storm blew over and thanked the Lord that I wasn't turned into a smoking charcoal by the lightning. I shuffled off to Buffalo. At about 1:00AM I pulled into the parking lot of a Red Roof Inn just outside of Buffalo. The clerk inside greeted me from behind his bulletproof glass enclosed office. He had a vacancy. "How are you paying?" he asked. "Cash." "I need an ID." "Excuse me?" "I need a license or some form of ID or a credit card." "I lost all that in Illinois." "Sorry, can't help you." So much for apple pie. In my exhaustion-induced stupor I decided to go the distance to Boston. After a couple of cups of coffee (Dunkin Donuts high-test), I set out to Boston. During the long night I suddenly found religion and started praying, singing, talking to the traffic and doing celebrity impressions all in an effort to stay awake. Only once did I nod off for a split second. It scared me so much that I stepped up my praying and singing to new heights. Twenty-two hours and about 1400 miles after leaving Des Moines, I pulled into my driveway in Winchester, Massachusetts and stumbled off my bike. I was home. Thanks to all those that helped make this such a memorable, fun and *ADVENTUROUS* trip: Dave Lawrence, Chip Roberson, Joe Krause, Mark Holbrook, Steve Woodbridge, Dane Walther, Jim Bessette, Jill Lundquist, Laszlo Nemeth, Mikey, Evi Nemeth, Alan Fleming, Kevin Malloy, Martyn Wheeler, Mrs. Parker, Mad Matt, the nekkid red-head, Chuck Rogers, Josh Fielek, and everyone else who attended the RCR and the RnF. What a trip! -- Daniel R. Guilderson Interleaf, Inc. Engineering Staff 9 Hillside Ave/Prospect Place dguilderson@hq.ileaf.com Waltham, MA 02154 617-290-4990-7166 FAX 617-290-4960