Sportbike NW: Day 1

Editor’s note: Nick and I went to Sportbike NW at the end of August, but the adventure was too good to splash up without careful editing. Hopefully you’ll enjoy the fruits of our labors. Pictures by Carry. Text by Nick.

Mission: Randle to Stevenson, WA, via the Ape Cave
Distance: Approx. 115 miles
Personnel & equipment:
Carry: 2003 Ducati Monster 620. Brand spankin’ new Avons.
Nick: 1995 Ducati 900 SS/SP. Suspecting a clutch slave leak.

Thank goodness we came down on Wednesday. When your vacation starts a long way from home, it’s better to not spend a vacation day getting to the vacation! We were on our way to Sportbike North West, a motorcycle rally in Stevenson, WA, a small town on the Columbia River. We split the ride down into two parts, leaving after work on Wednesday instead of early in the morning on Thursday. When we last left our heros, they had just arrived in Randle, WA.

Randle doesn’t have much in it. Wednesday night found us at the Big Bottom Bar and Grill not because we fancied the name, or thought we’d find good conversation inside, but because it was open. 

Our mission was to verify the condition of Forest Service Road 25, the fabulously twisty, somewhat crumbling road featuring spectacular views of Mt. St. Helens. We’d heard there was construction beginning this week, and there was gravel on the road. Before we left home, calls to the local Forest Service offices yielded no certain status: “They’re doing some construction at the north end.” “Can you tell us what kind, where the construction is, and how long it lasts?” “There is construction, you may encounter delays.” We resolved to ask the locals.

The Big Bottom was near empty on Wednesday night. A family in the far corner was dining on burgers and fried steaks while another group at the bar helped themselves to drinks. They were on a first name basis with the harried woman who ran back and forth from the kitchen carrying plates of food and who eventually offered me a beer.

When the barkeep at the Big Bottom couldn’t tell us about the road (“I’ve never used it”) we figured the breakfast crowd at the Mt. Adams Café could help us out. Breakfast was your typical diner fare; the coffee weak, the tea bland, the grease on the hash browns dripping. But, we hit the road info jackpot.

“What do you know about 25 south? I hear there’s construction.” “I don’t know, but I bet Danny does. Hey Danny, these guys want to know about 25.” A big-haired redhead wearing jeans and a blazer ambled over and gave us the scoop. “The road is collapsing in places, so they’re laying down new asphalt over the broken parts.” “We’re on motorcycles and we’ve heard there’s gravel on the road.” “Oh, there’s hardly any. There’s one spot, about from here to the grocery store (approximately 50 meters across the parking lot) and another about as long as your bikes.” This was great news. Our vision of spending 10 miles at a time cruising on fresh gravel had us contemplating a quick detour out to I-5. “I ride a bike myself, but I don’t really care for that road. Too curvy.” We thought to ourselves “what sort of rider doesn’t like curvy?” but then we noticed she was missing her right hand. How does she decide she doesn’t like Forest Road 25 if she doesn’t have a throttle and front brake hand?? Just one of the dark mysteries in this small town.

Forest Service Road 25 is a pretty nice motorcycle ride, but you have to be en garde against bits of road that aren’t there. Blazing along through mottled early morning shade, we quickly put Randle in our tracks and were soon pulled over at a view point featuring a decapitated Mt. St. Helens.

We did our morning stretches, marveled at the explosive power of the 1980 eruption, and waved to the Yamaha R1 rider we’d seen at the gas station back in town. He was going south dressed in a 1-piece leather racing suit and carrying only a tank bag. Dressed for trouble and packing lunch. The blue bike passing in anger reminded us of our schedule.

20 miles west of the junction between FR 25 and FR 90 is the Ape Cave, a lava tube on the south side of Mt. St. Helens. Carry’s first visit to the Ape Cave hit a minor snag: it’s in a National Forest, and that requires a National Forest Pass. Carry had TWO National Forest Passes AT HOME. One for each bike if she knew they were required! Begrudgingly, we pony up the $10 for the tags to hang from our brake levers. We elected to take the guided tour of the Ape Cave, which includes free lanterns!  A $4 value!

The ranger told us about how lava tubes are formed and about the bats and bugs that live in them. “There are other lava tubes,” she said, “but we’re not going to tell you where. People disturb the bats and cause them to wake up. Depending on the time of year, there isn’t any food for them and they starve to death while burning energy looking for food.” I hadn’t thought of my potential visit that way, but I could see how the untimely visit of a loud, Coleman lantern-swinging tourist could change your life for the worse if you were a hibernating bat.

Surfacing to the warm, humid forest air, we needed lunch and progress. A quick dash back up the sweetly-curved Forest Road 90 soon had us veering south on our way to the Eagle’s Nest country store and the Burger Buggy, a travel trailer converted to a burger and fries-slinging kitchen in the woods.

Two burgers and a side of fries were what we wanted, but we got so much more. The resident black lab and orange tabby cat at Eagle’s Nest loved attention. When I took off my coat and put it on the table where we were eating, the cat decided it made a pretty good bed. 

The section from Eagle’s Nest to Carson is fantastic. The stretches on Curly Creek and Wind River Roads are awesome pieces of pavement. Smooth, twisty and loads of fun, unless you get stuck behind a logging truck like we did.

We’re old hands at backpacking, so we always know what to pack and how to pack it. But, we’re new to motorcycle camping and when we pulled the tent components from our saddlebags at the Skamania County Fairgrounds, we found we’d left the stakes at home. Tent stakes are essential in the gale-force winds the Columbia Gorge serves up every afternoon. Just as we were scanning the camping area for suitable rocks, an amiable guy named Harvey turned up asking how our ride was. “The ride down was great, but we forgot our tent stakes.” “Well, there are a bunch of extras in that big tent with the Avon banners. That’s Amy’s tent and she’s the Avon rep. We call her “Avon Amy.” Thanking the karmic payback for having just installed Avon Storms on Carry’s Monster, we helped ourselves to stakes and fastened the tent to the ground.

Our plan for the afternoon included a trip to the Goldendale Observatory to look at stars. But it was hot and we were tired. Maybe an ice cream on the way to Goldendale would change our spirits. We stopped at Grandma’s Gedunk in downtown Stevenson for huckleberry cheesecake ice cream. We ate it outside on a bench under a big tree. Relaxing in the shade, we soon scuttled the plans for the 100-mile ride east and settled on a nap followed by dinner.

Back at the fairground, ambling toward the exhibition hall, I noticed a guy with a Ducati 748 doing something under the seat. “So how much room is there under the seat on a 748?” I ask. “Well, not much.” “Hmm. About as much as my Super Sport,” I reply. “Was yours that ’95 SS I just saw in town outside the ice cream store, with a silver Monster?” “Yeah, that was me.” “Man, I’ve got a buddy who used to ride one of those. He loved it. He had the 900, then for some reason, he sold it and bought an Aprilia. He didn’t have the Aprilia long before he bought a 748. And he loves his 748, but he says “you know, I really wish I still had my 900 Super Sport.”

I learn his name is David, he’s from Seattle, and is here alone. Before long, he invites Carry and I to ride highway 206 in Oregon. “I hear it’s awesome. I was down at Ducati NorthWest the other weekend, and the guys from MotoCorsa were telling me it’s awesome. No traffic, no cops, clean sightlines, just awesome flat-out riding. Want to come? It’ll be awesome.” I told him we’d ponder it over dinner.

Stevenson is well-developed and prosperous for a Gorge town. It has city-wide free WiFi and a brewpub, and that makes it alright with me.  Walking Man Brewing is a small brewery with a big patio. The night was warm and clear so I asked if we could share a table outside with two men and two dogs who were finishing their pints. Turns out the older of the two men was the brewer! We spent the rest of the evening sampling really interesting beers and eating pizza surrounded by other motorcyclists. 

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