|
|
Plan No Plan: Riding the five corners part 2
A Guide to Biker Valhalla
 By
Joshua J. Dugan
...continued from part 1
Our second day on the road started late. As we were loading up our scoots we
struck up a conversation with a local lady and her sister. More accurately, they
bombarded us with questions and offered up a few tales of old. They were just
amazed at our bikes and asked us dozens of questions about life on the road, the
Navy, and the war. Nicest folks in the world. They gave us great wishes for a
safe journey and lots of support for our efforts overseas. They were promptly
rewarded with a photo opportunity on our rides. That simple act of a casual
conversation and a seat on a Harley probably did more for biker/community
relations than anything else in their long lives. The black leather clad bros
and the little old ladies shared stories, laughs and a love of motorcycles that
transcended the mere moments we shared.
Once we started heading down the road again through the cool morning mountain
air and got through Colville on US395, the air started to warm and the sun came
out to greet us like an old friend. The dramatic change in scenery was almost
immediate. We left the deep lush green of the north behind us for the rich
golden-tan wheat fields of central and southern Washington. The day prior we had
been hitting lots of twisties through a densely wooded forest mountain range
that reached to the heavens. Now we entered an area of Washington that is very
sparsely populated by much of anything except rolling hills, wide-open vistas as
far as you can see, and winding roads with an occasional cluster of pines
thrown in for effect. What a sight. We got back into the rhythm of our machines
and the rhythm of the road. The wind in your face, the thump of the engine, the
bark of the exhaust, and the little mechanical noises of primary chains, tires,
and valves combined with the sights and smells of fresh cut hay, combine
harvesters with their wheat, and newly spilled water vapor rising off the
asphalt result in a truly hypnotic mixture of sensory stimulation. I was taken
somewhere that day on that road south and when I returned I was someone else. I
was one with my machine, I had reached my Biker Valhalla.
We rumbled into Spokane and helped a few lost Canadian bros find their way.
Good thing we held off on our border assault the day prior otherwise they may
not have been too friendly. We made a quick pit stop at Latus Harley to pick up
a road trip t-shirt and shed the leathers. It was too damn hot for much more
than a pair of faded jeans and a weathered black t-shirt. The sun was in full
force and even hotter than before. The clouds were gone so it was 'round about
100 degrees at noon and the mercury wasn’t getting at all tired of rising. We
cruised down 290 across the border and into Idaho with a quick stop to exercise
our freedom of choice, helmets got stashed on the bags. We rode along 290 making
our way eventually into Coeur d’Alene. I’m not much on cities but that really is
a nice city. Clean, pleasant and visually stunning. With the lake at its feet
and the mountains at its back it made for a stunning setting. We had an awesome
lunch at Froggy’s in downtown. Cool joint. They have an old Triumph chopper with
a flame job to greet you just inside the door. Again, I think I gained five
pounds on that meal alone. So what, we’re on plan no plan.
After getting some easy direction from a guy on a Honda Shadow we blasted
down US95 headed for Lewiston. 95 is a really nice road. Truthfully, all of the
roads we’d been on so far were really nice. The last time I had been through
Idaho along I90 I was amazed at how bad the surface was. Washington good, Idaho
bad-bad-bad, Montana good was the way I remembered it. I had visions of a bumpy
ride through Idaho when we hit the border. Thankfully, that was apparently
limited to I90 alone. Just one more reason to avoid the interstate if at all
possible. Being originally from the East, I guess the wide open expanses of the
West are some of the most dramatic and inspiring for me. Obviously not this trip,
but I decided last year on the way to Sturgis that Montana is called Big Sky
Country for a reason. This leg of the run wasn’t much different. The wide-open
expanses of rolling golden wheat fields shimmering in the sun mile after mile
and bend after bend put me back to that place I had been taken to earlier in the
day. Plummer, Potlatch, and Moscow rolled past in a waving golden blur as the
miles rang up on the odometer.
As I said earlier it was hot, ya know…Africa-hot, Middle East-hot, fry an egg
on asphalt hot….get the idea. Both Shelby and I being military guys and more
accustomed to dealing with extremes in weather than the average person made it a
habit to hydrate extremely well and cover up exposed skin with either clothing
or the highest SPF sunscreen we could find. Heat injuries and severe sunburns
are very real possibilities when on the road all day in the hot sun. Heat
injuries can literally kill you so please pay heed to my advice….drink copious
amounts of water, use sunscreen, and cover as much exposed skin as you can
handle. If you start getting a headache, feel dizzy and/or nauseous…immediately
find shade or air conditioning and start sipping water. It is VERY easy to get
dehydrated on a motorcycle in the desert. You’ll know if you have enough water
in you if your urine is clear and you need to go about every hour or so. If
you’re not, you’re well on your way to dehydration, which in turn will make you
very susceptible to heat injuries such as heat exhaustion and subsequently heat
stroke. Given adequate care, you’ll likely recover just fine from heat
exhaustion. Heat stroke on the other hand has a very high mortality rate….yes,
it’ll kill you.
When we rolled off the plateau from the north and down the steep grade into
Lewiston we thought we’d run into a blast furnace. It was like opening the oven
door a crack and standing there as wave after wave of heat blasted you in the
face and arms. I felt the water leaving my body by the bucket. God bless the
people that live there because He knows I wouldn’t and couldn’t. I didn’t know
it before hand but this is where we picked up the Lewis and Clark Trail that
we’d eventually follow all the way to the coast. We turned onto US12 (Lewis and
Clark Trail), scooted through town and over the bridge into Clarkston. Clarkston
being in Washington State we no longer had the freedom of choice to wear our
helmets. There’s always a time for protest and opinion but breaking the law
isn’t it. After putting our lids back on we rumbled through town on a crazy-long
detour route and continued along US12 back into the rolling wheat fields of
southeastern Washington.
A few small towns rolled by, each unique in their own right, and then we
entered the Twilight Zone, Pomeroy. It was a town just like so many other small
towns across America. Assorted houses and businesses, some in disarray and some
not so much, situated at a wide spot along the road. My motorhead mantra of
oblivion stopped when Shelby yelled over to me "Where in the hell is everyone?"
I hadn’t really noticed it at first but there wasn’t a soul on the street or in
yards or in cars or in the stores or anywhere we could see. As I re-materialized
there on my scoot I thought maybe he had answered his own question. It reminded
us both of an old Twilight Zone episode where a family discovers that it’s all
alone in their town. The screen pans out for the viewer to discover that the
family was only dolls in a make believe town. I don’t know what was up or what
was going on in that town but we weren’t going to stick around to ask any
questions. Being the optimist, I kind of wondered if all the people went to
Biker Valhalla. I didn’t see them there so they must have gone somewhere else.
With a flick of the wrist we were off like a prom dress to the next town.
We rambled on for a while soaking it all in until we reached Dayton. Looked
like a nice enough town and we were pretty much beat by now. We had been going
through our water and Gatorade supplies pretty fast all day. Did I mention it
was hot? We pulled into another Mom and Pop motel along the road. Again the lady
at the desk as nice as could be and very helpful. Within a few minutes we had a
clean, air conditioned room that was priced right and got a good data dump on
what happens in Dayton. We got settled and took showers to beat off some of the
funk we had picked up along the road. Did I mention it was hot? Off to the only
restaurant in town we putted after getting a better lay of the land. We ate
dinner in an old bowling alley that had been converted into a dance
hall/bar/restaurant by the present owner and his wife. Nice guy, filled us in on
all the gossip and explained why everything was dead, dead, dead in this part of
the state….harvest. Everyone, and he said everyone, is involved in the wheat
harvest from that crack of dawn until dark until everything is done. That
explains Pomeroy to a certain extent but it was still weird there.
|
|
