Sportbike NW: Day 4
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. This is the fifth and final installment. If you’re arriving mid-story, you can catch up here: Day 0, Day 1, Day 2, Day 3. Pictures by Carry. Text by Nick.
Cold cold cold.
Sunday morning was darker than other mornings. The low-hanging clouds created a cozy effect. If I had a living room window to curl up in front of with a cup of coffee, I would. But we didn’t. We were camping. The best we could do was have a plate of scrambled eggs tossed with the leftovers from last night’s paella and half a cup of really awful coffee.
We packed our bags and took the tent apart, trying to remember where everything went a few days before. I swear I didn’t bring this much stuff with me. Who slipped me the extra fleece pullover? Where did this spare pare of shorts come from? How on earth did I fit the tent poles in my trunk bag? We made arrangements with David to meet us at the coffee shop “soon” and we would blaze our way north.
By the time I arrived at the coffee shop, Carry was reading a magazine and already drinking tea. I had been getting gas for the last 20 minutes. Buying gas on this trip was an exercise in frustration. For whatever reason, the gas stations in Oregon wouldn’t read my debit card. None of them. Every fill up required a trip inside, where they told me to select “pay inside” and then come back. But at least in Oregon they were willing to sell me gas. When I filled up in Stevenson, the pump didn’t work. It’s like it didn’t want me to leave town! “No gas for you!” said the gas Nazi.
Bahma Coffee Bar makes a mean Americano. Hot, flavorful, and about a dollar more than their already-excellent drip coffee. I was feeling extravagant, so I ordered one. While Carry was there alone, I figured David would be right along. I drank coffee, looked at tourist pamphlets, reviewed my map, scraped bugs off my helmet, watched some dipshit on a Harley nearly knock Carry’s Monster over trying to park his barge of a motorcycle. Still no David. “Do you think he left town already?” “No, he said he’d meet us here.” “Do you think he’s at another coffee shop?” “This is the only one in town.” We finished our drinks and elected to go back to the fairgrounds to see where our traveling companion was.
David’s packing exercise was a disaster. We found him trying to remember how he strapped his saddlebags, tent, sleeping bag, and kitchen sink to the back of his Superbike. Tent pegs strewn all over the gravel, t-shirts hanging from exhaust pipes, sleeping bag stuffed haphazardly between instrument panel and windscreen, David was in trouble. Carry and I sat on a bench and watched in amusement as he tried to fit it all together securely. Eventually, two hours after the planned coffee stop, we were off.
The ride was the reverse of our trip down, only colder. We stopped at the intersection with the Wind River Road to add layers. I was cold enough that my arms were tensing up. My friend Jeff, an old cycling teammate who also used to race motorcycles, used to always remind me “tight grip, loose arms.” Tight arms are bad when going fast on twisty roads and perforated leathers are bad when it’s cold outside. But Jeff never mentioned that.
I really can’t emphasize how wonderful this set of roads is. They’re engaging and twisty; the sort of road that makes you feel like a hero regardless of your pace, skills and style. We regrouped at a rest area with an awesome view of Mt. St. Helens. Shivering, I bared my chest to the frigid winds in order to pull on a wool undershirt, a wool jersey, a fleece pull over, and a wind-proof cycling vest to shut out the mountain air flowing freely through my jacket’s holes. Our next stop would be the observation point at Windy Ridge.
Windy Ridge is appropriately named, unfortunately for us. Last time I was there, the wind was like a hair drier blowing in your face. This time it was like an air conditioning unit. Carry took the opportunity to dash off to the restroom and change into thick woolen long underpants while David and I dashed to the sheltered presentation area where the same Forest Service ranger that guided Carry and I through the Ape Cave was about to tell the Eruption Story.
Volcanoes erupt all the time all around the world. But Mt. St. Helens is a little different. We knew the eruption was coming for months. The mountain was isolated in an evacuated safe zone. Television crews were poised to capture it all. With all the makings of a made-for-t.v. nature special, we were still caught off guard and there was still human cost. Harry Truman was the owner and long-time resident of the Spirit Lake Lodge, the picturesque and inviting vacation destination on Mt. St. Helens’ north side.
He refused to leave during the initial evacuation order, and refused again when the big show began. Spirit Lake’s surface rose 200 feet due to mudslides and eruption debris. Truman and his lodge are at the bottom.
After the talk and some lunch, just as frostbite was about to set in, we hit the road back to the coffee and gift shop perched on a cliff at an observation point a few miles back down the road. Everything in the building was on sale, including the counter, the cook top, the popcorn machine, the soft drink dispenser, and the cash register. A going out of business sale. Carry grabbed some cut-price postcards while we relaxed with cups of coffee and tea. A few more crowds of riders filtered in. The sun was coming out and the parking lot was warming up, so we took the opportunity to suit up and go looking for more trouble. Just a few miles down the road, we’d find some.
We were standing at the apex of the best corner on the road to Windy Ridge, deep in Mt. St. Helens’ blast zone moonscape. We were taking turns blitzing the sundrenched corner with Carry in place at the exit to capture the heroics on camera. I accelerated toward the corner just as the white Jeep lumbered into view. I slowed and pulled over while the ranger parked on the shoulder and got out of his car.
“So, what’s going on here?” drawled the park ranger as he strutted up to David and me. His Jeep Cherokee said “Law Enforcement” on the side. A gun hung from his hip.
“We’re just taking some pictures,” David replied.
The ranger gave us a hard look and said “I know what you’re up to. We get complaints about guys like you. I write my tickets in triplicate and I push down real hard when I write and the judge don’t like that. Do I make myself clear?” “Yes sir.” “Let me tell you something: There are old riders, and there are bold riders. There are no old, bold, riders.” With that admonition, he walked back to his truck and drove off. “Now where were we? Nick, I think it was your turn.”
We finished up the photo-taking monkey business and renewed our journey north. Soon, we rolled back into Randall to buy gas and have some snacks. As usual, a crowd of Ducatis at the gas station will attract someone with a story. A man possibly in his 60s strolled over and told me “I used to have a ‘93 SuperSport. It was a fabulous bike. I never should have sold it.” It occurred to me there was a theme to the stories I hear, and I should avoid selling my bike if I want to avoid the bummer life.
There aren’t a lot of roads in that neighborhood, so when you’re trying to get home after a few days of riding, your choices are seemingly made for you: main roads to Eatonville, main traffic-clogged, stripmall-lined road back to Puyallup, hand-to-hand combat on 167, and then the rat race up 405 to Kirkland. It turns out we were in for one last treat. Our man David knew a side road past Ohop Lake that let straight into downtown Orting. “Where?” “Orting. Haven’t you been here before?” Yet another small town in my back yard that I’ve taken the highway right past for years. It was a great way to delay getting back on the freeway, but soon enough, our best available option was to join the fray. Half an hour later we were home, luggage strewn all over the living room floor, bottles of beer in hand, toasting the end of a fabulous trip.
Comments:
Next entry: She's crafty
Previous entry: Download Eleanor Grosch wallpaper