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I've ridden to Denver many times over the past few years, always solo. This time would be different. Last year, my brother, Doug, came out here for a visit. As "Sluggo" had never ridden a motorcycle before, I put together an XS850 for him to play on. This year he would fly out, and we'd both ride back to Denver (Broomfield, actually): Me on my "F", and him piloting an "E" model I put together... carbs done, valves done, fluids changed; new front tire, brakes, fork seals and battery, fairing and hard bags. We clowned around town for a few days so he could get used to it. I had no worries about him making the trip... he seemed to handle the bike well, and it would all be deserted highway miles for the most part. (The "E" seemed just a little faster than my "F", which I found ... distressing.
"Now Brother... It is only right that you give unto me the best that you have... that's the Brotherly Way." How could I argue. And with that now said... the story begins.
The trip begins... and abruptly ends
The plan called for leaving early in the morning, so naturally, we rolled out of my garage a little after noon. Traffic was light, all was going well. Hit the first rest area at the hundred mile mark to help ourselves to the free coffee and cookies (Yes... I donated!), but also to check the bikes over.
Hmmm... oil sprayed all over the right side o' his bike. Engine dry, tranny dry... wet from the rear shock back. Doesn't figger.... Could the seal on the shock have blown... pumping out oil with each bump in the road? So, we gas up at the next exit, and head back to the ranch to replace the rear shocks.
Quite shocking
Back home in the garage, I scrounge up a set of spare shocks, and sit back drinking coffee as Sluggo puts them on. (I mean... if he's gonna own a bike... he needs to get his hands dirty. Besides, he's an ex-Chevy mechanic)
"Brother... this shock oil smells like 90 weight. Isn't that a little thick for a shock?" "Oh man... don't tell me..." I reach under the bike and start pulling at hoses. Yup... the vent hose from the middle gear is all wet. Seems some boob,(me) over filled the middle gear. (Hence, my post a few weeks ago concerning the middle gear dipstick) After much name callin' and finger pointin', I make a gauge out of a coat hanger and do the job properly. "Like you should have done the first time!" "Shut up!" The plan is set to leave early the next morning. "I mean it, this time!"
On the road again"
Left at a good hour... heading south on I 5. Hit Portland, Oregon for fuel. Waved my hand in a southery direction(Did you see me, Geezer?), and both bikes turned east to face the morning sun. Next stop... Stonehenge.
A Memorable Memorial
Stonehenge War Memorial, just past "The Dalles", on the Washington side of the Columbia River.
Rich guy who was over in England during WWI built this Stonehenge replica to honor the war dead from the local area. Impressive place... But the ride there was more memorable. I had been there a few times, and thought that I knew the road pretty well. I went screaming into a corner... which was a little sharper than I had remembered... and slammed on the brakes at a stop sign that I didn't remember. "I wonder how Sluggo's gonna do?", (I said to myself, as no one else was around to hear me) I check my left mirror... "Hmmm, don't see him yet." I check my right mirror..."Hmmm... not there, either. I just hope he doesn't run into that big pile of garbage on the shoulder... which... the more I looked at it, the more it started to look like some guy trying to crawl out from under a motorcycle. Lean sharper and take the corner...? Stand the bike up straight and coast into the gravel parking area...? Both are viable courses of action. Of course, the time to decide was short, too short, and he hit the gravel at an angle. By the time I got to him, he was on his feet. "Now Brother... If I knew that you were gonna just throw your bike down in the dirt the first chance you got, I wouldn't have spent so much time painting it!" Damage Report: Scratched fairing. No damage to the body, his or the bike's. (Later that night... he shows me a strange bruise on the inside of his knee... a round circle with a line sticking from it. Petcock lever!
Ghost stories... for the ghost town
Rode most of the day, stopping for the night about a hundred miles from the Oregon/Idaho border at Baker City, OR. Wanted to check out a coupla' ghost towns in the morning, as I like to do when I travel. First haunt would be the town of Sumpter... old buildings and a huge gold dredge for sifting gravel from the river. Hmmm.. most modern ghost town I've seen in years! People, stores, hotels, gas stations(luckily). Now is a tourist trap of sorts. Couldn't even get to explore the dredge (now a museum), as the road to it was being re-paved, and they had a team of prisoners putting a new roof on it! Breakfast at a too-modern restaurant. I went outside for a smoke while I waited for the food, and to retrieve my copy of "Ghost Towns of the Northwest". (usually fairly reliable)
Yeah, just what I thought... First printing 1971. A lot can change is 35 years!. I asked the waitress/owner about the next town, Granite, further up the valley. "Oh yes, that's the place you want to see... all the old buildings still there, etc."
Some ghost town! The spirit was willing, but the town was weak!
"... Granite, Oregon, population: one", says my guide book. More like one thousand! Sure, the old buildings where still there... sardined between all the Yuppie's townhouses! There's the Ol' Schoolhouse... note the satellite dish. There's the livery stable, note the SUV's and Hummer's tied to the hitchin' post. A waste of time and fuel, though on the way back to the highway, there was an open air display of a lot of old mining equipment, which we poked and prodded at for a spell, as mechanics tend to do.
Idahoooooo, Utahhhhhh, Vrooooommm
Idaho, and most of Utah, went flyin' by. Much better... after Oregon's 65 MPH crap. Average speed: 90+. Average Mileage: 25 MPG(down from Oregon's 35MPG) I waved my brother to pull up beside me. Took him up to a hundred, with plenty of power to spare. Rode till it got dark. I was getting tired of seeing all the dead deer along the shoulder. One real impressive strike... big blood stain in the middle of the road, and a big smear on the concrete divider where the carcass bounced, told me it was time to stop for the night. We soon found a motel. "Riding at night is the Devil," Sluggo said. "No, Brother... non-smoking rooms are the Devil."
"HARDLEY a challenge!
Up early... hit the road hard and fast. Up in the distance... a lone rider. I give more throttle and take off to check him out. From a half mile away... I can hear his engine singing that old melody. Potato, potato, potato... Singin' with all the gusto of an asthmatic miner with Black Lung. As I had never seen a Harley that could sustain a steady 85 MPH, I pull up alongside to study his machine. I gave a friendly wave, as is my way, which he refuses to acknowledge. I slowed down and fell back in behind him to wait for my brother to catch up. "Oh, this would be too easy," thought I. Victory is nothing... unless one can also toss in a little humiliation. I pull back a little further to bide my time.
"I am the Infantry... Follow me!"
And there... as we rounded a sweeping corner... loomed one of the longest, and steepest hills in the state of Utah. Through a series of complex, prearranged hand signals, which consisted of pointing, and then placing my thumb against my nose and wiggling my fingers, I conveyed my intent to my brother. He nodded in agreement, and we crept forward. We were about halfway up the hill when we both opened her up wide. I waved at Harley Boy again... though not using as many fingers as I did the first time... as I flew by. The hill soon evened out... a long, flat stretch of open desert. I watched as the Harley tried for a few miles to catch up... eventually fading back and taking an exit... to get gas, or oil, or whatever it is that Iron Pigs drinks.
Don't be fuelish!
All is running smoothly for another hour... till my engine sputters. "Huh?" Then she sputters again. I check my trip meter and do some quick figuring. "This is madness," I cry. My calculations were based on an easy 25 MPG, which had now dropped to 21 MPG. My next planned fuel point was about thirty miles ahead. I flip to reserve, and motion my brother to come up along side. Before I could point to my petcocks... I see him reach down and flip his, too. This is not good... as we slow down to a more energy efficient 65/70 MPH and press forward.
Damsel in distress
Round a bend... another hill... and there at the top... FUEL! But half-way up... I sight a white car parked on the shoulder. I wave one finger over my head several times and point... thinking State Cop, and we slow down again. As we approach... I notice that the hood is up, and a vision of beauty is standing there with a sign in her hand..."OIL?" Oh, how my mind works. Deserted highway... lone, stranded female... (Must... get... rid... of... brother... somehow) But... being a mechanic, who also has a quart of Castrol 20w50 in his saddlebag, I pull over. (Ok, I'll admit that I thought my lewd thoughts a little too long. By the time we finally stopped our bikes, we were a good two hundred meters past her) Dragging my feet on the ground, I coasted backwards down the hill toward the car. As I neared, I looked for her in my mirror, but all I saw was some guy running toward me.
"Man... don't that beat all? Who's this loser?" I ignore him and continue backward to the car, him being too winded to follow. Ahhh.. there she is! Maybe about my age... looks sort of like a librarian... but one of those librarians... with potential. "Can you help me, I'm out of oil?" I reach into a saddle bag and pull out a quart. "Oh, you're wonderful... how can I thank you?" (Lewd thoughts return... This woman stirs my manhood... I must possess her!) As I'm thinking, 'Hey baby... how about using those lips... ' , my brother and The Running Man walk up, '...to siphon some gas out of your tank? ' (((Oh, come on... did you really think I was that crude?))) Oil goes in, car fires up, and we take off again.
Top of the hill, take the exit and head for the gas station. My engine starts sputtering in the intersection, but I make it. Sluggo... I have to walk back and push, as he ran out of fuel ten feet shy of the pumps. "No worries, Brother," I say, as I pat one of my saddlebags... the one holding the 1 1/2 gallon can of gas held in reserve. After refueling, we parked to the side for a break. In pulls the little white car... smoking, steaming and knocking. "Looks like they've got trouble." "No Brother... we've got trouble," I say, as I point to the storm clouds gathering on the horizon.
The Imperfect Storm
We charged hard and fast. The road curved, first away from the gathering storm, and then back into it again. No way out... we were going to get wet. It started slowly as a discomfort, which soon turned to annoying. Time for shelter from the storm. We hit the next exit, swung underneath the overpass and took a break.
Sat for a while waiting for the rain to let up, but it didn't. Time to get out the wet weather gear. I put on the only thing I had, a nice camouflage Gortex Rain suit, courtesy of Uncle Sam. Sure, the 'woodland' pattern was out of place in the high desert, but I'd be dry. Sluggo reaches in his truck and pulls out this bright yellow slicker looking thing. "What'd you do... beat up the Gorton's of Gloucester fisherman?" "Shut up... at least I don't look like a head of lettuce."
I watched as he tried to stretch the pants on over several layers of clothes, which somehow reminded me of a butcher making sausages.
((Sluggo profilin' the latest in "Rain Gear Fashion"))
We set out again into the rainstorm... a tall leafy bush, being chased by a ripe banana!
Still Stormin'
We ran for about twenty miles. Visability was 'fer sh!t'. Each passing semi made it worse... a coupl'a seconds of blindness. I didn't want to put my brother through this more than necessary, but we still had miles to go. I signalled him to come up along side me to see how he was doing. He pulled next to me, spitting and farting.(His bike didn't sound too good, either!) I pointed... and we took the next exit. Truck stop parking lot... time to see what was wrong with his bike. I scooped water out of a puddle and splashed his header pipes. Sizzle, sizzle, sizzle, phfft! #1 cylinder wasn't firing. Yup... rain had shorted out something, but this wasn't the place to fix it. Back up on the highway we went... next exit Lyman, Wyoming and a motel. Not even fifty miles into the state. Wasn't even noon yet, and we were stopping for the day.
Prometheus Performs for the Crowd
Was several rainy miles to Lyman and the motel. Pulled into the parking lot and stopped by the door of the office. ( I was glad to have found a motel, as the rain was kickin' my ass, too) There were a few people standing about... a perfect time to demonstrate my world famous dismount technique.
Yes, I did the "Get off the bike without putting the side stand down first" routine, again! Not wanting to be pinned underneath it like my brother was the day before, I managed to hop on one leg out of the way before it crashed to the ground. I stood there on one leg, like a pink lawn flamingo, till my brother came over to help stand it up. Damage report: Bent handlebar, bent clutch lever and a broken windscreen mount. "OK folks, nothing to see here... move along, now." Motel was full, but they just had some people leave. Would I be willing to wait twenty minutes while the maid cleaned the room? "Wood eye...!" I shouted to the guy, but he didn't remember the old joke.
We spent the whole day and the whole night there. My brother sleeping, and me lying on my bed, listening to him still "spitting and fartin'"
Blue skies... smilin' at me
Next morning... sunshine. Took off early. Ran most of the state, no problem. (Sluggo's electrical problem fixed itself over night) Gased up outside Laramie and the rain threatened again.
"Now Brother... It is only right that you give unto me the best that you have... that's the Brotherly Way." How could I argue. And with that now said... the story begins.
The trip begins... and abruptly ends
The plan called for leaving early in the morning, so naturally, we rolled out of my garage a little after noon. Traffic was light, all was going well. Hit the first rest area at the hundred mile mark to help ourselves to the free coffee and cookies (Yes... I donated!), but also to check the bikes over.
Hmmm... oil sprayed all over the right side o' his bike. Engine dry, tranny dry... wet from the rear shock back. Doesn't figger.... Could the seal on the shock have blown... pumping out oil with each bump in the road? So, we gas up at the next exit, and head back to the ranch to replace the rear shocks.
Quite shocking
Back home in the garage, I scrounge up a set of spare shocks, and sit back drinking coffee as Sluggo puts them on. (I mean... if he's gonna own a bike... he needs to get his hands dirty. Besides, he's an ex-Chevy mechanic)
"Brother... this shock oil smells like 90 weight. Isn't that a little thick for a shock?" "Oh man... don't tell me..." I reach under the bike and start pulling at hoses. Yup... the vent hose from the middle gear is all wet. Seems some boob,(me) over filled the middle gear. (Hence, my post a few weeks ago concerning the middle gear dipstick) After much name callin' and finger pointin', I make a gauge out of a coat hanger and do the job properly. "Like you should have done the first time!" "Shut up!" The plan is set to leave early the next morning. "I mean it, this time!"
On the road again"
Left at a good hour... heading south on I 5. Hit Portland, Oregon for fuel. Waved my hand in a southery direction(Did you see me, Geezer?), and both bikes turned east to face the morning sun. Next stop... Stonehenge.
A Memorable Memorial
Stonehenge War Memorial, just past "The Dalles", on the Washington side of the Columbia River.
Rich guy who was over in England during WWI built this Stonehenge replica to honor the war dead from the local area. Impressive place... But the ride there was more memorable. I had been there a few times, and thought that I knew the road pretty well. I went screaming into a corner... which was a little sharper than I had remembered... and slammed on the brakes at a stop sign that I didn't remember. "I wonder how Sluggo's gonna do?", (I said to myself, as no one else was around to hear me) I check my left mirror... "Hmmm, don't see him yet." I check my right mirror..."Hmmm... not there, either. I just hope he doesn't run into that big pile of garbage on the shoulder... which... the more I looked at it, the more it started to look like some guy trying to crawl out from under a motorcycle. Lean sharper and take the corner...? Stand the bike up straight and coast into the gravel parking area...? Both are viable courses of action. Of course, the time to decide was short, too short, and he hit the gravel at an angle. By the time I got to him, he was on his feet. "Now Brother... If I knew that you were gonna just throw your bike down in the dirt the first chance you got, I wouldn't have spent so much time painting it!" Damage Report: Scratched fairing. No damage to the body, his or the bike's. (Later that night... he shows me a strange bruise on the inside of his knee... a round circle with a line sticking from it. Petcock lever!
Ghost stories... for the ghost town
Rode most of the day, stopping for the night about a hundred miles from the Oregon/Idaho border at Baker City, OR. Wanted to check out a coupla' ghost towns in the morning, as I like to do when I travel. First haunt would be the town of Sumpter... old buildings and a huge gold dredge for sifting gravel from the river. Hmmm.. most modern ghost town I've seen in years! People, stores, hotels, gas stations(luckily). Now is a tourist trap of sorts. Couldn't even get to explore the dredge (now a museum), as the road to it was being re-paved, and they had a team of prisoners putting a new roof on it! Breakfast at a too-modern restaurant. I went outside for a smoke while I waited for the food, and to retrieve my copy of "Ghost Towns of the Northwest". (usually fairly reliable)
Yeah, just what I thought... First printing 1971. A lot can change is 35 years!. I asked the waitress/owner about the next town, Granite, further up the valley. "Oh yes, that's the place you want to see... all the old buildings still there, etc."
Some ghost town! The spirit was willing, but the town was weak!
"... Granite, Oregon, population: one", says my guide book. More like one thousand! Sure, the old buildings where still there... sardined between all the Yuppie's townhouses! There's the Ol' Schoolhouse... note the satellite dish. There's the livery stable, note the SUV's and Hummer's tied to the hitchin' post. A waste of time and fuel, though on the way back to the highway, there was an open air display of a lot of old mining equipment, which we poked and prodded at for a spell, as mechanics tend to do.
Idahoooooo, Utahhhhhh, Vrooooommm
Idaho, and most of Utah, went flyin' by. Much better... after Oregon's 65 MPH crap. Average speed: 90+. Average Mileage: 25 MPG(down from Oregon's 35MPG) I waved my brother to pull up beside me. Took him up to a hundred, with plenty of power to spare. Rode till it got dark. I was getting tired of seeing all the dead deer along the shoulder. One real impressive strike... big blood stain in the middle of the road, and a big smear on the concrete divider where the carcass bounced, told me it was time to stop for the night. We soon found a motel. "Riding at night is the Devil," Sluggo said. "No, Brother... non-smoking rooms are the Devil."
"HARDLEY a challenge!
Up early... hit the road hard and fast. Up in the distance... a lone rider. I give more throttle and take off to check him out. From a half mile away... I can hear his engine singing that old melody. Potato, potato, potato... Singin' with all the gusto of an asthmatic miner with Black Lung. As I had never seen a Harley that could sustain a steady 85 MPH, I pull up alongside to study his machine. I gave a friendly wave, as is my way, which he refuses to acknowledge. I slowed down and fell back in behind him to wait for my brother to catch up. "Oh, this would be too easy," thought I. Victory is nothing... unless one can also toss in a little humiliation. I pull back a little further to bide my time.
"I am the Infantry... Follow me!"
And there... as we rounded a sweeping corner... loomed one of the longest, and steepest hills in the state of Utah. Through a series of complex, prearranged hand signals, which consisted of pointing, and then placing my thumb against my nose and wiggling my fingers, I conveyed my intent to my brother. He nodded in agreement, and we crept forward. We were about halfway up the hill when we both opened her up wide. I waved at Harley Boy again... though not using as many fingers as I did the first time... as I flew by. The hill soon evened out... a long, flat stretch of open desert. I watched as the Harley tried for a few miles to catch up... eventually fading back and taking an exit... to get gas, or oil, or whatever it is that Iron Pigs drinks.
Don't be fuelish!
All is running smoothly for another hour... till my engine sputters. "Huh?" Then she sputters again. I check my trip meter and do some quick figuring. "This is madness," I cry. My calculations were based on an easy 25 MPG, which had now dropped to 21 MPG. My next planned fuel point was about thirty miles ahead. I flip to reserve, and motion my brother to come up along side. Before I could point to my petcocks... I see him reach down and flip his, too. This is not good... as we slow down to a more energy efficient 65/70 MPH and press forward.
Damsel in distress
Round a bend... another hill... and there at the top... FUEL! But half-way up... I sight a white car parked on the shoulder. I wave one finger over my head several times and point... thinking State Cop, and we slow down again. As we approach... I notice that the hood is up, and a vision of beauty is standing there with a sign in her hand..."OIL?" Oh, how my mind works. Deserted highway... lone, stranded female... (Must... get... rid... of... brother... somehow) But... being a mechanic, who also has a quart of Castrol 20w50 in his saddlebag, I pull over. (Ok, I'll admit that I thought my lewd thoughts a little too long. By the time we finally stopped our bikes, we were a good two hundred meters past her) Dragging my feet on the ground, I coasted backwards down the hill toward the car. As I neared, I looked for her in my mirror, but all I saw was some guy running toward me.
"Man... don't that beat all? Who's this loser?" I ignore him and continue backward to the car, him being too winded to follow. Ahhh.. there she is! Maybe about my age... looks sort of like a librarian... but one of those librarians... with potential. "Can you help me, I'm out of oil?" I reach into a saddle bag and pull out a quart. "Oh, you're wonderful... how can I thank you?" (Lewd thoughts return... This woman stirs my manhood... I must possess her!) As I'm thinking, 'Hey baby... how about using those lips... ' , my brother and The Running Man walk up, '...to siphon some gas out of your tank? ' (((Oh, come on... did you really think I was that crude?))) Oil goes in, car fires up, and we take off again.
Top of the hill, take the exit and head for the gas station. My engine starts sputtering in the intersection, but I make it. Sluggo... I have to walk back and push, as he ran out of fuel ten feet shy of the pumps. "No worries, Brother," I say, as I pat one of my saddlebags... the one holding the 1 1/2 gallon can of gas held in reserve. After refueling, we parked to the side for a break. In pulls the little white car... smoking, steaming and knocking. "Looks like they've got trouble." "No Brother... we've got trouble," I say, as I point to the storm clouds gathering on the horizon.
The Imperfect Storm
We charged hard and fast. The road curved, first away from the gathering storm, and then back into it again. No way out... we were going to get wet. It started slowly as a discomfort, which soon turned to annoying. Time for shelter from the storm. We hit the next exit, swung underneath the overpass and took a break.
Sat for a while waiting for the rain to let up, but it didn't. Time to get out the wet weather gear. I put on the only thing I had, a nice camouflage Gortex Rain suit, courtesy of Uncle Sam. Sure, the 'woodland' pattern was out of place in the high desert, but I'd be dry. Sluggo reaches in his truck and pulls out this bright yellow slicker looking thing. "What'd you do... beat up the Gorton's of Gloucester fisherman?" "Shut up... at least I don't look like a head of lettuce."
I watched as he tried to stretch the pants on over several layers of clothes, which somehow reminded me of a butcher making sausages.
((Sluggo profilin' the latest in "Rain Gear Fashion"))
We set out again into the rainstorm... a tall leafy bush, being chased by a ripe banana!
Still Stormin'
We ran for about twenty miles. Visability was 'fer sh!t'. Each passing semi made it worse... a coupl'a seconds of blindness. I didn't want to put my brother through this more than necessary, but we still had miles to go. I signalled him to come up along side me to see how he was doing. He pulled next to me, spitting and farting.(His bike didn't sound too good, either!) I pointed... and we took the next exit. Truck stop parking lot... time to see what was wrong with his bike. I scooped water out of a puddle and splashed his header pipes. Sizzle, sizzle, sizzle, phfft! #1 cylinder wasn't firing. Yup... rain had shorted out something, but this wasn't the place to fix it. Back up on the highway we went... next exit Lyman, Wyoming and a motel. Not even fifty miles into the state. Wasn't even noon yet, and we were stopping for the day.
Prometheus Performs for the Crowd
Was several rainy miles to Lyman and the motel. Pulled into the parking lot and stopped by the door of the office. ( I was glad to have found a motel, as the rain was kickin' my ass, too) There were a few people standing about... a perfect time to demonstrate my world famous dismount technique.
Yes, I did the "Get off the bike without putting the side stand down first" routine, again! Not wanting to be pinned underneath it like my brother was the day before, I managed to hop on one leg out of the way before it crashed to the ground. I stood there on one leg, like a pink lawn flamingo, till my brother came over to help stand it up. Damage report: Bent handlebar, bent clutch lever and a broken windscreen mount. "OK folks, nothing to see here... move along, now." Motel was full, but they just had some people leave. Would I be willing to wait twenty minutes while the maid cleaned the room? "Wood eye...!" I shouted to the guy, but he didn't remember the old joke.
We spent the whole day and the whole night there. My brother sleeping, and me lying on my bed, listening to him still "spitting and fartin'"
Blue skies... smilin' at me
Next morning... sunshine. Took off early. Ran most of the state, no problem. (Sluggo's electrical problem fixed itself over night) Gased up outside Laramie and the rain threatened again.
and Part 2
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