Will Guyan January '10 Print E-mail
Skating Away On Thin Ice
On a chill, moist November morning, the horde appeared as planned for a concerted effort to have lunch in Hopland, where the birdbaths were all frozen. The route would begin in Penngrove, home of a once-famous race track, or so I’m told by some very elderly hooligans.

Northerly we proceed, exceeding limits with every turn of wheel, and take steep Crane Canyon over to Bennett Valley, near where young Jack London once dreamed of his Wolf Run, only to see it burn down upon completion in man’s ultimate anti-climax. A few turns lead to ominous Trinity Road, a delightful, narrow snake-shaped path not wide enough for paint. Permanently shadowed in places and prone to black ice, the trail is scoffed at by blistered faux felons who make haste anyway. Until we reached the Oakville Grade, that is.
The race past hundreds of hidden driveways left us unhindered in our haste to a cheap meal in Hopland, where our favorite joint was run by Trustafarian owners who didn’t need the money or the hassle. A relaxed and loud place, it had become a biker bar and a destination for weekend runs. It has a nice outdoor area where massive, monk-style tables would seat all 20 of us. The Brits and hearty among us order ale while the rest watch with interest. Okay, now back to the ill-fated Oakville grade and Vinnie’s fate that chill November day.
The double-helix macadam stretches across the terrain beneath big oaks and other evergreen hardwoods, whose leaf debris carpets the already beat up, thinning asphalt. We were hustling pretty good, eager to pass the slug in front of us one and all, when we experienced, in single file, the most dreaded of all wintry sensations a rider can encounter: loss of traction, both wheels at once. Immediately upon feeling this helplessness, yet still balanced, I slid along this left-turn downhill section that had the consistency of wet snot and immediately, instinctively stood on the pegs dirt style. I was determined to save it if I could, but I had my doubts. Any second I was going down to the ruin of Staintune and valve cover. I was ordering the parts in my head as I slid to a stop, still rubber-down.
Have you ever been on the road, twisting and turning to that soundtrack in your gas-fired head, when all of a sudden there is negative traction? You’re bike is going dTown the slope almost sideways, on tires ill-compounded to save your badly-wrapped ass on this wet mucous, and you pray, yell, wish, only to save the thing you’re riding from going down. Going down may have exciting connotations in some circles, but not to riders on the storm. At least not until after lunch.
Down we slid, in single file, on different lines, standing and balancing as best we could, beseeching sundry unfamiliar deities to save us please, until coming to a stop in a shallow ditch. Hoo Ah!
Saved from ill fate one more time! But wait. Vinnie on that fat Bavarian adventure-wagen mit der grosse aluminum armoires that’ll get you all the way to Hudson’s Bay and back, had indeed gone down, and before lunch. We dismounted and ran back, slipping and sliding, to help the guy get out from under the titanic beast. Vinnie, poor lad, had cracked his ankle and wrist, and was finally removed by firefighters in many, many red vehicles with flashing lights, somewhere around eight of them, all on this driveway-narrow little road. We were there with him for fifteen minutes before the EMTs arrived. His bike was – we couldn’t believe it – unscathed. Apparently he had forgotten that these things need to be left on battery tenders 24-7, if you want your ABS to do its job. Funny, because we’d recently had this very conversation, Vinnie and me, on how the ABS needs a minimum amount of voltage to operate. Oh well, he forgot, locked the wheel and went down hard, riding the invisible layer of anti-traction on his side, snapped ankle, wrist, nine-gallon gas tank and all.
We parked his bike, awaited the meat wagon, and held his hand while preventing Pig Pen from ransacking the victim’s tank bag for snacks. Every emergency outfit between St, Helena and Schellville had deployed out of Sunday boredom, to bicker over who got to transport the lad. We, having done our duty “one for all and all for one,” took off re-tractioned and frisky until reaching Oakville Store for a bite and a short discussion on treacherous roads, invisible slipperiness, bad luck and trouble; our usual conversation.
Silverado Trail was dispatched quickly by we the survivors, and Vinnie’s plight, like the battle of Agincourt, was quickly relegated to the mental files containing encounters long forgotten. Highway 128 was enjoyed with that rapacious vigor we apply when tires bite and sun warms, even in winter. Life is good in Norcal. Route 29 is a wide and twisty avenue that’s as entertaining as they get, leaving Calistoga, as long as traffic is slight, and it was being the day of some crucial football game. The good Americans were ensconced upon easy chairs watching the electron tube while munching Cheezits and dip, beers and tepid pizza. We were the true explorers, and the survivors. So with untoward vigor we assailed 175, that meandering pathway through wide-open Lake County ranch lands and steep gulches all the way to Hopland. Passing through Whispering Pines one can almost hear that old cowboy ditty “I’m so Lonesome, I Could Cry,” which only made me think about poor Vinnie once again, broken on the mountain by a cheater road, invisible in its vile lack of friction. Friction is all-important to the horde, after all.
And so, arriving in Hopland after a (mostly) satisfying run, we order our meals and commence to discuss the event in earnest. “I’ve never seen something that slick,” said Duck. “How the debbil I didn’t go down is a mystery,” said Ray. “There was I, slidin’ catty-corner and stain’ upright, who knows how,” said I. This scientific approach was always taken by the experienced hooligans of AYU (As Yet Unhinged). Once assured of a feeding and once again warmed and reinvigorated on a snotty, chill November foray into whatever the road gods had in store for us, that is. Thing is, some of these dirty Aerostich-ed denizens were on bald knobbies and 650cc thumpers. Yet they had made it, through thousands of practice miles over scores of years, dirt riding roots keeping them upright even in paste-slick conditions. You never know what you’ll encounter in the cold months, but the truth is if you’re willing to adventure along despite the cold air and wet roads, the adventures never cease up here in Norcal. Praise Odin, and don’t forget your battery tender.


Will Guyan is a tree-hugging troglodyte with fuel injection and Öhlins on his roto tiller.  If it has big jugs, fat torque and no fork dive, he’s all over it. He bandsaws his used tires and takes a micrometer to the cross sections, measuring the thickness of his zen moments. Read more of his Teutonic scribblings in On The Level and www.bmwra.org.
  
 
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