| Maynard Hershon November '09 |
|
|
|
BOISE, PT ONE As many readers will know, I do not love my KLR650. I have traveled on it in 2009 more than on any bike in years. But it shows evidence of cut corners and careless assembly wherever you look. Kawasaki has recalled them two or three times. A KLR will do many things, none well, none with even a hint of elegance. So I watch for bikes that might make me happier. I often visit the Happy Trails (www.happy-trail.com) website to check out what’s new. They’re a Boise outfit, specializing in adventure bike gear, panniers, racks and what have you, but usually not bikes. Late last week, the last week in September, I saw that they had for consignment sale a 2004 Moto Guzzi 750 Breva, a red one, showing 1000 miles. Just on the off-chance, I emailed the contact, Kurt, at Happy Trails asking if the owner might be interested in a KLR. I added a brief description of my bike, its mileage, completed upgrades and services, accessories, you know. On Monday, I got an email from Kurt saying that the owner would trade me straight across. The Guzzi had factory hard bags and looked just like new. I wrote him back and said, let’s do it. I called and left a $500 deposit via credit card - to hold the bike, not as part payment. I provided Kurt with my Kawasaki’s VIN and accurate mileage. I packed my saddlebags and rack-top bag and left Tuesday morning for Boise. On Tuesday I rode from Denver north up I-25 to Cheyenne and west across endless Wyoming I-80. By the time I reached Rock Springs, Wyoming, I was cold and beat-up by the wind. Nice folks in a motorcycle shop in Rock Springs told me how to ride secondary roads from Little America, Wyoming to Logan, Utah, at the same time the loneliest and most scenic riding of the trip. After riding past Bear Lake and through Logan Canyon, I spent the night in Logan. Nice town. So far, so good. In the morning, while I waited for the sun to raise the temperature just a bit, I checked my email on the computer in the motel lobby. Kurt had written to tell me that the Guzzi’s owner had decided that my bike’s accumulated 15,000 miles made it less desirable. He wanted another $500. I wrote Kurt and said that I didn’t want to pay the extra money but that I’d ride to Boise anyway and say hi, have lunch. I have to say, I did not retain high hopes of trading bikes at that point, but I’d said I’d be there, and I would. I guess I just didn’t want to turn around and re-experience I-80 across desolate southern Wyoming. I left Logan Wednesday morning in lingering cold, right at freezing. I rode north on I-15 to I-84, heading for Boise. I rode across the Idaho line, cold as a witch’s whatchacallit and buffeted by gusty winds. I rode over Sweetser Summit, snow at road level on both sides. When I could almost see Burley, Idaho in the distance, the wind got really fierce. I slowed to about 45 mph—on the interstate—and bobbled along, increasingly afraid. The wind got worse. Drivers saw me wobbling in my lane and gave me lots of room. I was so cold that I didn’t want to unplug my electric vest wire. As it was, if I fell I would be tethered to my bike by the wire. I saw a sign for a rest area a mile ahead. I hope I make it, I thought. Honestly, I wasn’t sure I would. I got so scared I stopped on the shoulder, afraid even then that the wind would knock the bike and me over. The wind blew hard all the time but the gusts were brutal. I convinced myself to get going again and reach the rest stop. And I did. I wobbled in and parked the bike in what I thought was the shelter of one of the buildings. In fact the wind would lift the bike up so the sidestand foot was off the pavement. I moved it later to a more protected spot. The Idaho and U.S. flags above the building flapped crazily and the wind howled. I didn’t want to take my helmet off and earplugs out. I staggered to a bench and sat down next to a guy in motorcycle gear. I saw his KLR, an earlier model than mine, parked on the sidewalk next to the men’s room. The back of the bike was piled high with gear. I could imagine how that bike would act in the wind. I learned that my new friend is from Eugene OR. I guess he’s between 40 and 45. He’d ridden to Banff, Alberta, Canada, and down the off-road Continental Divide Trail to somewhere in New Mexico, then back north as far as that rest stop. Only a short time before I got there, just past the rest stop he’d been blown off the pavement and crashed, his bike rolling end over end twice. He said he’d been leaned well over into the force of the wind when he felt his back tire start to skitter. He realized he could no longer control the bike. (There was a weigh station for trucks in the rest stop. The two officers manning the weigh station had been watching a wind-speed meter on the wall. There’d been several gusts of nearly 90 mph, they said. Mostly it blew in the 30s and 40s, occasionally up to 50 mph. A motorist saw my friend crash and stopped to help. They got the bike upright and back on the road shoulder. A highway patrol cruiser stopped and led my friend (whose bike ran and was rideable) back up the shoulder to the rest stop. We sat there on the bench, not talking much, never exchanging names. I couldn’t stop trembling. I believe we were both more or less traumatized—and there was no end in sight. We sat there or walked into the men’s room or walked (carefully—the wind tried to blow you over) to the weigh station to see if the wind gauge might show some lessening in the force of the gusts. No change. An hour later—no change. Hours passed. My friend thought that as the sun set, the wind would die down. I knew that if I waited until dark, I’d be too scared to ride, plus I’d be starving—no food in the rest area. I figured I could ask one of the several drivers of pickups with camper tops (also stuck there) if I could sleep in the cab of their truck while they slept in the camper. I could imagine a long night, trembling from fear and cold, my stomach growling. Up the road we could see an exit and an overpass just a mile away. If we rode, we heard, to that exit and crossed the overpass, we could ride a two-lane road to Burley, only 20 miles away. We could register at a motel, take a hot shower and have dinner. We could wait out the wind in safety and comfort. Tomorrow might be nice. But we were afraid to ride that mile. |