Wild Motorcycle Tales By Walter F. Kern Here's a great story from Thom. Got your own story? Send it to me. Bitterroot Chill Early June mornings in the mountains of Montana gladly test an individual's survival instincts. The hum of a gas generator acts as an alarm clock as the sun tries to come up. Somewhere close, campers in a self-contained RV feel warm and comfortable, having long ago lost their touch with the elements. For a moment, I long to be comfortable and warm in that camper but realize I have put myself in the current situation and now must seek a solution. My twenty-year-old pup tent, once bright red, now faded pink, sags, covered in heavy, wet snow. As I try to control my shakes, I wonder why I didn't pack warmer clothes. I now wear all my extra tee shirts, socks, and pants, yet it is not even close to warm enough. Being from Wyoming, I know cold, and I have never been this cold. Where is a traveling sleeping bag salesman when you need him? I know I must move, yet I want nothing more than to stay where I am. At least I am dry. I remind myself this is June, which is a summer month. As I unzip my tent and fully expose myself to the morning, I see a fresh coat of snow blanketing the campsite. Whiskery white crystals glint from the trees. The whole world is white, including my once blue motorcycle. As I brush the snow off the seat, I realize that the many miles we have traveled together have made us a comfortable team. Scratches are no longer upsetting events but badges of honor and memories, yet as I look at my traveling partner, I worry the elements thrown at us this morning by the adventure gods may be too much for both of us. Wet, cold, and hungry, I pack my snow covered tent with fingers I can no longer feel. My destination, the Redwoods of California, beckons as I only have two precious weeks to travel, and my vacation clock ticks on. I find the optimist in me has gone into hiding, and I long for a town with steaming coffee, personal heaters, and a table to sit at as the sun rises and works its magic. My traveling partner starts on the second kick, settles into a happy idle, and lets me know the time to travel has arrived. The snow in the campground rests on dirt and isn't all that slick, but the white pavement is another matter entirely. Normally, my Suzuki DR650 is not powerful enough to scare me, but on the snow covered highway, it turns into a high performance race bike that constantly spins its rear tire, searching for traction where there is none. I quickly determine that I am not a professional speedway racer, and survival isn't a laughing matter. The narrow two-lane mountain road that lies in front of me, with its elevation changes and many curves normally would cause my motorcyclist's soul to sing with joy. Today the road reminds me of the coils on a rattlesnake ready to strike. I find the side of the highway provides enough traction to prevent me from sliding down the road as I creep along in first gear. Pickup trucks howl past, cascading wet snow over my motorcycle and me, causing me to notice the stares from the passenger windows. Their looks say it all. As I glare back at these passing strangers, I answer, "No, I am not crazy. No, I have no death wish. Yes, I am freezing." It is so very easy for them to stereotype me as a reckless biker, and they must be doing just that, judging from the disbelieving looks of disdain. As I struggle to maintain forward motion, I shake so hard that my motorcycle starts to complain about the vibrations I am radiating. Time slows. Ten minutes, or is it a half-hour? Is there a town soon, or should I stop and try to warm my frozen body? How would I warm? Wait! The road curves, and I almost go straight into the ditch. I don't seem to care. The hostile morning has pried its cold fingers into my very being, shutting down the self-preservation instincts I need to stay alive. Danger like this is only supposed to happen on trips around the globe, not on a paved highway in Montana. I yell in my helmet, "Dumb, dumb, you are so dumb." Then just as hope is beginning to fade, etchings of a town start to appear, a town so small that it doesn't even live on a map. It sleeps warm, safe, and unaware. A small dirt road leads to a tiny group of houses, a closed convenience store, and a park with snow covered swings and a small slide for local thrill seekers. Only one building has a light glowing from the inside. This rustic weathered building reads U.S. Post Office, and thankfully, the door is not locked. The interior is the size of a typical walk-in closet. There is room for a table and a walkway to the service window that would require passing people to turn sideways in order not to bump into each other. The wall decorations warn of wanted criminals, local garage sales, and a lost cat. Tucked into the corner, I find a thermostat and an electric baseboard heater. A quick turn makes the heater click and smell of burnt dust. Heat starts to fill the small room agonizingly slow. Even heat knows better than to come out on this morning. As I sit on the table listening to the heater and pondering my current situation, I decide that a pop tart from my saddlebag might resemble a gourmet meal at this point in my life. I quickly scramble to my bike and return with my frozen prize. Reclaiming my table seat, I start breakfast, only to find that the tremors shooting through my body explode the pop tart in my hand and it falls, creating piles of crumbs on my jeans and the floor. What is it about motorcycle travel that makes this seem so normal? Only the second morning of my adventure, and it feels that I have lived and experienced more than I do in a typical month at home. Despite all the trials of my morning, I feel so peacefully alive. Experiences like I am living are such an integral part of who I am. Not only do I want these experiences, I actively seek them out year after year, mile after mile. Just then, as the philosophy of travel becomes a little too much, I notice the poster on the wall for the new U.S. collector stamp series: Travel America - The Grand Adventure. I still shake as I smile. -- Thom
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© 2015 Walter F. Kern. All rights reserved.
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