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elizillaMy friend Airyn is involved in long distance riding. She was entered in the Feast in the East mini rally, and she suggested that I might like to enter it as well. I went out to their web site and checked it out. It looked interesting, and I love the riding in North Carolina, so I signed up.
As it got closer, I got more and more excited about it. I made arrangements to share a room with Airyn and her friend, Andrew. Then Airyn had to cancel. I was disappointed that she wasn't going, but of course I still would go. I made arrangements to ride down with Andrew, it would be interesting to finally meet him. The bonus list came out a week before the rally, and I spent several evenings finding and marking all the bonus locations on paper maps. I didn't expect to win, but I did want to make a respectable showing.
As the rally drew closer, I was having some small problems with my bike. The ignition switch was failing intermittently, and it was running just a little bit rough. I stayed home the weekend before the rally, and spent most of the time puttering around in the garage.
The ignition switch was failing due to worn contacts. No amount of cleaning and tightening was enough to solve this problem, and a new switch would not arrive until after the rally. So I bypassed the switch, routing the wires to a toggle switch that I mounted under the instrument cluster. Good as new, except I no longer needed a key to start and run my bike.
The bike was overdue for a valve adjustment, but last time I did that it took me all weekend to struggle through it. I decided to put the valve adjustment off until winter closed in, it wouldn't be much longer. I wanted to change the spark plugs, but the local auto parts store was out of the kind I needed. I changed the oil and the fuel filter, and the bike seemed to run a little more smoothly. I bought a PIAA super bright headlight bulb in the same wattage, and swapped it in. I upgraded the horns so they would be louder than a pet mouse that squeaks when squeezed.
I wondered if the bike was running roughly because the weather was getting so much colder? I asked Erik to ride the bike and see what he thought. He didn't think it was running that roughly. He suggested perhaps a carb synch would be in order. We made arrangements for me to come to his shop on Wednesday and do this. But on Wednesday afternoon he called to say that he'd realized that someone else had borrowed his carb synch tools, so we couldn't use them that evening. I was leaving Thursday straight from work, so I decided to put the carb synch off until after the rally.
I arranged to leave work early on Thursday, at 4:30. Andrew met me at my office. I wasn't quite ready when he arrived, and I felt a little shy, making this near stranger wait in my office while I mucked with my last few tasks. I couldn't look at him. Fortunately that was soon over, I could leave. We rode backroads to Milan, where we stopped at Zack's Cycles so I could pick up a spare main fuse and a set of spark plugs. While we were there I also made an impulse purchase - a pair of nice warm cycle gloves. I squirreled these items away and led the way onto the slab, US23 south to Toledo.
As we entered the freeway it occurred to me that we had not discussed what pace we liked to take on the slab. Great, how fast should I go? Hmm. I decided to try going fast. Andrew kept up, but he was pretty far back. Maybe this was too fast. I slowed down. He didn't catch up. I decided that he just didn't follow as closely as other people I'd ridden with, and the way he was hanging back didn't have anything to do with preferred speeds. I decided to just ride whatever speed seemed right, and stop worrying myself about him. The traffic was moving more slowly than usual out there, so I adopted a speed just above the prevailing traffic speed, and rode.
As we entered 80/90, I waved Andrew to lead. He set a slightly faster pace than I had, but nothing extreme. The miles rolled by. We stopped to put on our electrics at the first plaza, since it was getting cold. I put on my new gloves. They were stiff but I appreciated the warmth. We stopped for dinner at a Big Boy at the third plaza, and the last of my shyness passed. (I'm pretty gregarious, and shyness never gets more than a very tiny hold on me.)
On past Cleveland and onto I-77 south, it had been dark for some time and was getting colder by the minute. The plan had been to stop in Marietta or Charleston for the night, and I was kind of hoping for Marietta, which was perhaps an hour away, when Andrew led us off the freeway and into a motel. It was around 11:30 and he was starting to get sleepy. This motel didn't have any vacancies, so I offered to lead the way to the next one. Ten miles or so down the freeway, there were two motels at an exit, a no-brand motel and a Ramada. The no-brand motel was closer to the freeway. I gave it a close look and decided it looked OK, so I turned into a street just past it, and asked Andrew what he thought. He said he'd like to try to Ramada first. Fine by me. We went on down the street to the Ramada, and got their last room.
Andrew put the cover on his bike, and I wrestled the saddlebags off of mine. We dragged our junk up to the room and spent the next two hours looking at maps. Andrew hadn't spent as much time as I had finding all the boni in advance, but he had better maps. We discussed what routes were likely to be best.
The next morning we ate the hotels continental breakfast and headed out. The weather was great, just a little cold, but sunny, and we'd gotten far enough to be out of the flatlands. Up and down the hills, we followed I-77 south. Suddenly, my bike lost power and got quiet. Uh-oh. It felt like I had lost another spark box. Oh no! And I even had a spare at home, which I didn't bring. Argh! Well, if it was like the last spark box failure, it should kick back on again momentarily. I kept my speed up as best I could (way full out was around 70mph going uphill, and I could almost keep up going downhill) and waited. It didn't come back. Grr. I started flashing my headlight trying to get Andrew's attention. He kept getting too far ahead, then he'd slow down, and I'd almost get up within waving distance, then he'd pass another car or truck and I couldn't catch him. Finally he figured it out, took the next ramp off the freeway, and led me into a gas station.
At the gas station I told him my spark box theory, struggled out of my helmet and stitch, and started pulling out tools. I was unable to explain the workings of spark boxes to his satisfaction, he's an engineer after all. But I knew from experience that if I switched the two spark boxes and ran it again, the tach needle would drop when the box cut out, if the problem was the spark box. I rode the bike a few miles down the side road and back. It seemed to be back to normal power, the spark box didn't cut out, the tach stayed normal. I got the bike up to 100mph indicated, and it kept accelerating. A mystery. We topped off the tanks at this gas station, packed up, and went on. What else could I do? I left the boxes switched; if it cut out again I'd check the tach then.
About twenty miles down the freeway it cut out again. The tach needle did not drop. OK, it wasn't the spark box. What could it be? Before we reached the next exit, it came back. This would be the pattern for the rest of the trip to Morganton; the engine would briefly lose power, then surge back.
In Charleston, with 159 miles on the trip meter, I ran out of gas. I normally get 175-200 miles between fill-ups. Fortunately, the place where I ran out was close to an off-ramp, the ramp was mostly downhill, and there was a gas station there. Andrew gave me two pushes to get it over two short spots that weren't downhill, and I coasted to a stop right across the street from a gas station. From the I walked the bike across to a pump and filled it up with 5.7 gallons. I made a mental note to get gas earlier, and went on.
Over lunch I looked at my Clymer's manual. It offered a reassuring assortment of understandable things to check. Next door to the restaurant was a NAPA; I stopped over there and picked up a few things to increase the capabilities of my already extensive on-bike toolkit. I talked it over with Andrew and we made the decision to split up when we reached the Blue Ridge Parkway. I figured I'd better slab it and get to the motel as early as possible, and there was no sense in both of us missing out on the opportunity to take the scenic route.
We continued our ride south. The weather was lovely as we approached the Big Walker tunnel. I recalled my last trip through this tunnel, how it had been like the door into summer as I rode out of the misting rain on the south side, and into a clear sunny day on the north side. I hoped I wouldn't find the reverse to be true today. Hooray! Sunshine on the other side of the tunnel, too!
A few miles before we reached the Blue Ridge Parkway, we matched pace with a couple on a late model BMW R-bike with vanity plate, RDUDE. I wondered if they were on the way to Morganton as well? We came to the BRP and Andrew waved goodbye as he exited, and I went over the ridge, and there was what looked like all of North Carolina spread out before me. It was incredible! I hadn't noticed this, the only other time I'd traveled this road, because I'd been going north. I was awestruck. Then I was grabbing a handful of brakes, as traffic ahead of me stopped dead in its tracks.
It took fifteen minutes to travel the next mile, and I never had to actually use any of the bike's power to move, I could just coast down the steep grade. I chatted a bit with the BMW couple, but neither of us could hear well enough to have an intelligible conversation. I did learn that they were not going to the FitE; they were on their way to Hickory. I could see for miles, and the traffic jam appeared to continue. I figured I might as well take the scenic route myself, because I sure wouldn't get to the motel early at this rate. I popped onto the shoulder and took the next exit, figuring I'd find my way back up to the BRP and over to some state route to go south.
The roads I was on got tinier and tinier, but I never actually ran out of pavement. I did go uphill for several miles on a road where I could never get out of first gear due to the twisties. That put a grin on my face, and I hit the BRP just before sunset. I stopped at the first pullover in North Carolina to change my tinted face shield for the clear one. It was full dark by the time I came down from the parkway by way of Roaring Gap, and got back on the freeway in Elkin.
As I was riding west on I-40 to Morganton, I thought about how lucky I am. I've had the most incredible, awesome summer, traveling to all these wonderful places on the bike, and just having a blast. I was worried about the bike, but even if the problem turned out to be terrible, I figured I'd get through it, and journey was definitely worth the risks. I wondered if I would ever again have such a magical summer? Just then I saw a brilliant shooting star! I don't think I've ever seen a shooting star that bright! I wasn't even in a dark place where the stars were easily visible, but that shooting star lit up that whole corner of the sky. I decided it was a good omen.
I pulled into the motel just in time to keep Andrew from worrying that I had not gotten there before him. I was directed to technical inspection. They sent me back out onto the freeway, to ride to a certain exit and come back, so they could calibrate my odometer. My odometer reads a little high, but it's not too bad.
I went into the hospitality suite to fill out the forms. There were actually two people there who I recognized, Bob Todd and Art Holland. I was introduced to a lot of people, whose names immediately blurred in my mind. I remember Art grinned at me and said, "You know me, Kathy." and even though a minute before I'd been sure his name was Art, something about the way he said that made me doubt myself. Lately I've been Katherine so much that being called Kathy is almost confusing, and the way he said it made that seem like a test I hadn't studied for. Vaguely mocking. I resisted the temptation to insist on being called Katherine; with smug people like that you're better off the less you say.
There was a venerable old guy in the chair next to mine, who stared at me with great interest. His name was Corky and they told me he was the mayor of some town I didn't catch the name of.
He said, "So you're a friend of Airyn's?"
"Yup."
"So where is she? Why isn't she here?"
I made the same joke I'd been making all week, "Oh, Airyn's just avoiding riding with me. You know we have never yet ridden together?"
Without batting an eye, he said, "I've never gotten to ride Airyn either."
OK, it was going to be that kind of conversation, eh? I whacked him with my pen. That seemed to be the correct tactic. He made several other similar remarks, and I whacked him with the end of my braid. After that the hazing seemed to be past, but I'm not one to forget. I would get even.
Finally he said, "My wife would like you, do you know why that is?"
Ah-hah, my turn, buddy! I raised my eyebrows and said, "Because your wife likes girls?"
This seemed to go right by him, but I heard at least one snicker from the others in the room. Score!
"You're a credit to your gender! Yes, you are!" Etc. I later learned that Corky was a retired professor, that must be where the pontificating tones of this came from. All in all, it was a bizarre encounter. Definitely a character. I liked him.
Finally I finished with the paperwork and made my escape from their scrutiny. I moved the bike around to a real parking spot near the motel office. Andrew moved his bike too. I was taking the soft luggage off the bike when a couple arrived, people that Andrew seemed very glad to see. I followed him over to be introduced. Her name was Mary, his name was Mike. Andrew and Mary chatted while Mike went into the office to check in. A few minutes later he came back. The motel had given away their room, and said no others were to be had! Argh! I'm a veteran of many such sad tales at the science fiction conventions, so I looked at Andrew, who was looking at me, and I said, "Do we have two beds?" It was quickly settled, they would stay with us. Andrew went in for two more keys, and Mary and I went up to the room.
It was good to set my stuff down, use a clean bathroom, and sit down on a bed. I took my hair out of its braids, it had gotten tangled enough during the day that it was pulling every time I turned my head. It felt so good to brush it out and feel it falling freely down my back. I would really miss that if I cut my hair short.
I was starving, but I did not want to suit up again and go out. I went back downstairs and got a coke, and looked for a few people to order pizza with. It quickly occurred to me that this inquiry would either get no decisive responses, or else it would get far more than I wanted to deal with organizing. In the end I just went to the room, found the phone book, and ordered two pizzas and some bread. I figured that when the delivery arrived, those who were interested would follow me upstairs to get a share. I was not mistaken; I ended up finding five other pizza eaters who ate all but two pieces, and those last two pieces were gratefully wolfed by Bryan Moody when we brought them back downstairs.
Mary and Mike went down to the motel office to see about getting some extra blankets, and the clerk informed them there had been a cancellation, they could get a room after all. They came back for their stuff and moved out. I was kind of disappointed; I had been looking forward to getting to know them better. The rally would start at 5:30am, and I wanted to at least change the spark plugs beforehand, so I went to bed around midnight. I was pretty wired up, and it seemed to take forever for me to fall asleep.
I woke up in the dark. Something was beeping and I did not know where I was. Eventually I realized I was in a motel room and the thing that was beeping was a television set. I hadn't set the TV to beep. Andrew must have done it. I waited for him to make it stop, but the lump in the next bed never even moved. Finally I couldn't stand it any more, I stumbled out of bed and across the room to try to make it stop. It was dark and I didn't know how it worked. Finally Andrew stirred and I asked him if this was some kind of intelligence test or what? He mumbled something, and I turned on the light to look for the button that would MAKE IT STOP! Finally I got the thing turned off, and I could move on to getting ready to face the day. I made it to the 5:30am rider's meeting with seconds to spare. I'm not a morning person but I play one at work.
At the riders meeting, Brian reiterated a few of the rules. Riders started taking their rally books and leaving. I went back to the room and got my tank bag, and went down to swap out the spark plugs on the bike before getting my rally book and starting my clock. I had until 6:30. I realized that while I had the socket for the Champion plugs that were in the bike, I didn't have the correct socket for the new NGK plugs, so I hunted down Greg Roberts, sure enough he had what I needed. I pulled the first plug, it was pretty corroded. Maybe the new spark plugs would resolve my issue! I put in the new plug and pulled the second one. It didn't look too bad. I wished Andrew good luck on the rally, and watched him ride away. Then I pulled the third plug. Eew!!!!! It was nasty! The electrode was bumpy, the porcelain was gone from the middle, and the threads were slagged all down the side. Uh oh! No rally for me today.
Various folks came over to offer their opinions, and the general consensus was "Bad! Very bad!" There wasn't any use in rushing now, there was no way I was taking this bike out on the rally. So I went back to bed.
I woke an hour or two later, because the phone was ringing. Someone whose name I lost in my sleep-dazed stupor (I still have no idea which face goes with the voice on this phone) gave me directions to a shop and the name of a mechanic, and I dutifully wrote them down even though I was barely conscious. I waited until 8:30 and then called Mike Stewart to see if he would store the bike for me; he agreed to do this. A little while later I rode to breakfast in a (hack, cough, phtooey) cage. I pushed the food around on my plate but didn't get very far with it, I just didn't feel like eating.
A little later, Greg Roberts followed me as I carefully rode Cordelia off in search of the shop. The voice on the phone had told me to go to exit 111 and turn right several times, but I hadn't been coherent enough to comprehend exactly how many right turns he was talking about. I turned right twice and found myself in a residential neighborhood, no sign of a motorcycle shop. I stopped the bike and waited while Greg went off to scout. I didn't get off the bike, just leaned forward and put my arms around the gas tank, sort of hugging the bike and crying. I knew it was silly but I was very sad. Poor Cordelia, I shouldn't have kept going once she lost power, I should have stopped and taken care of her better. I managed to compose myself by the time Greg came back. He led the way to the shop, and I rode around to the garage entrance as the phone guy had told me to do. Inside I found the mechanic whose name I had been given. He did a compression test, and there was no compression on that cylinder.
They offered to keep the bike but I really wanted to take it to the Stewart's house. I just didn't feel right about leaving it there in this strange shop. What if they decided I wasn't coming back quickly enough to pick it up, and they scrapped it or something? The mechanic said there was a guy named Mike who worked upstairs who would probably be willing to help me move it to the Stewart's house. Greg and I went upstairs and found Mike, and waited for him to get a break between customers. While we waited we looked at the bikes. There were a lot of dirt bikes. Greg told me about dirt bike riding when he was a kid. I told him I'd never been allowed to ride motorcycles as a kid. We looked at a Polaris Victory cruiser that was on the porch, and Greg said something about trading Cordelia in on a bike like this. I said I'd rather have Cordelia in the condition she was in, than ride this cruiser! Greg said he wanted to shake my hand. Finally we got a chance to talk to Mike. He said he would do it, he would help move the bike, once he got out of work at 3pm.
Greg agreed to bring me back to the bike shop at 3 to help take Cordelia to the Stewart's house, and I rode back to the motel as his passenger. Greg is an amazingly good rider. I'm always very nervous about gravel when I'm riding my bike, but Greg was able to make very tight radius turns, on gravel, with me on the back of the bike! I felt very safe riding behind him; he was a good rider, the Wing felt very solid, and the passenger seat was so low that I could have put both feet on the ground. (But I wouldn't, because it's bad when the passenger does that!)
It was lunchtime by the time we returned, and I was actually starting to get hungry, so I asked Greg to stop and I got some fast food to go. Back at the motel I had hardly finished eating before it was time to go back to the shop. At the shop, Greg and I helped them roll the bike from the porch inside so they could close. We loaded the bike on the truck, and I rode with Mike while Greg followed on the Wing.
When we got to the Stewart's house, they were not home. We were able to unload the bike onto a convenient rise in the ground, and we rolled it up into the driveway and left it there. It was then that we spotted the note; the door was unlocked and we should put the key inside. Not very accurate, that note; the door was most definitely padlocked shut. I stuffed the key under the door, and after collecting my tools and my license plate from the bike, I got on the back of Greg's bike and we went back to the motel.
We got back just in time to help score the rally. Time to make myself useful, instead of just being taken care of. I added the scores in many different rally books. As I came outside after finishing this, the announcement came in that the food was ready. Suddenly I noticed just how few people were left. I had better find a way to get to the feast before everyone is gone. I looked around for a familiar face, but didn't see any. Well, everyone had been nice so far, no reason for the trend not to continue. There was a fellow getting ready to ride off on a Concours, who did not appear to have a passenger. I inquired if he was on his way to the feast, and he said he was. So I asked for a ride. I hurried upstairs and grabbed my gear. The Concours rider's name was Steve, and he turned out to be yet another friend of Airyn's.
At the barbecue, I started looking around for Art. Andrew was not going straight back to Michigan on Sunday, so I needed to see if Art would give me a ride. I tracked him down, and he agreed to do this. I got in line for the food, and found a place to sit. I showed my spark plug to various people. Suddenly Ron Butterfield, another Sabre rider, appeared out of the crowd. The only maggot I'd expected to see was Phil Ross, and he hadn't turned up. Ron and I talked about Sabres in general and Cordelia, the Tank Rocket, and the Asphalt Chainsaw in particular. I don't know how people can get by without naming their bikes. How do they distinguish which one they are speaking of when there are multiple bikes of the same make and model?
I rode back to the motel with Andrew, and settled in for a night of drinking and tire kicking in the motel parking lot. I watched a couple swing dancing (really well!) in the parking lot, to the tinny sound of a bike stereo. I saw many beer cans emptied and crushed. A fellow whose name I never caught lectured me on how one mustn't get emotionally attached to bikes, that bikes are tools. Duh. I'm not about to claim that emotions are rational, but what kind of arrant idjit can deny their power? I wondered if this fool would feel sorrow if it bit him in the ass? (I can criticize him here without worrying, because I'm sure he's far too rational to get upset over words on a website, should he even see them.) I talked to a guy named Doug for some time, mainly about the lives of women and how men treat them, kind of an odd conversation. Later I sat and talked with Steve and Andrew for a long time outside the hospitality suite. But I didn't stay up too late; Art wanted to be on the road by 7am.
The next morning at 6:30 we had a memorial service for Fran Crane, and people talked about Fran and other riders who were no longer with us. I thought about Tim Freeman, who hit a deer early this summer in Montana, and about Maverick, who I met for the first time just a few days before his final encounter with a guard rail in Kentucky. I couldn't bring myself to speak.
Art made room in his saddlebags for some of my stuff, and Andrew agreed to carry the rest. It was time to go. Art motioned for me to climb onto the ST first. He held the bike while I climbed on. This was strange to me, and very awkward. (I asked him about it later, and he said that's how he'd done it on his Wing. I suggested he get on first, it's much easier that way. It might also have worked better if I'd held the bike for myself and gotten onto the driver seat first, then moved back so he could get on.)
Finally we were both on the bike and we rolled on out of the motel parking lot and onto the freeway. Brr! I was fine in the sunshine, but when the low angle of the sun put us in the shade of nearby hills, it was cold! I wished I had remembered to grab the wiring harness for my electrics when I left Cordelia behind at the Stewarts. I looked forward to the sun rising higher in the sky. I thought about the weather predictions I'd heard for the trip home. Someplace between NC and MI, we were supposed to cross a front and ride into colder weather and rain. By the time we got home it would be dark. I was not looking forward to that end of the trip, in fact I was shivering even more just thinking about it.
When Art stopped at a rest area near the Tennessee border I mentioned it to him, and suggested that perhaps I should call Michael and ask him to meet us someplace in Ohio with his cage. Art asked me what kind of electrics I had? I told him I had the Gerbings, at which point he produced a plug of the exact kind I needed. It seems that's what he uses to plug in his battery charger. It was so nice to be able to plug in and be warm. From that point forward, I began sleeping on the back of the bike. I probably slept more than half the trip home.
We stopped for a late breakfast at an IHOP in Knoxville. Art was a pleasant breakfast companion, which was a relief. The night before he'd seemed smug and mocking. (I suspect that was the beer talking.) We rode the rest of the trip home with no significant stops, just getting gas a few times and once stopping to examine the map when Art missed the turn going from the Cincinnati bypass to I-75 north. (I was asleep.) We went 3/4 of the way back to I-75 south before turning around. I liked him a lot more after that. I mean, it's one thing to appreciate how kind and generous someone is being, as they do you a big favor, and another to actually like them. I'm too independent to feel comfortable depending on someone, and I felt like Art thought I was a twit. It was good to have him demonstrate that he was not infallible. When we reached the turnoff to I-75 I pointed at the sign, smiled in my helmet, leaned forward and gave Art a hug as we rolled down the highway.
We arrived at my house not long after dark. I was so stiff I could barely get off the bike. It was odd to arrive home so early, and not to be sleep-deprived when I got there. I thanked Art for the lift, and invited him in, but he said he needed to get going. I went inside and composed a thank you note to send to the ldrider list. They had been so very kind.
Editorial comments:
It was really strange to get home so early. I seldom get home before midnight, when I ride by myself.
It was fun to hear again and again that people like Airyn so much. I always like hearing my friends praised. Besides, as I said to her later, the part of my soul that's forever stranded in grade school enjoys being the friend of someone who is popular. :-)
Andrew Duthie was much younger than I had expected.
Kevin Wynn was also much younger than I'd expected, and I never once had to stand my ground as he attempted to take the tools out of my hands. :-) I'll have to ride with him sometime.
I was disappointed to not see Phil Ross, but I guess being gainfully employed puts some limits on his travels.
Corky da mayor is a dirty old man. Every group needs one of those.
Bob Todd knows more about fixing bikes than he lets on.
Being the wife of the rallymaster is a thankless task.
Mike Stewart still doesn't know how many 45mph signs there are between the corner and his house.
Greg Roberts is as skillful at low speed maneuvers and riding a heavy bike in gravel, as Phil Ross is at twisties. Another rider to watch and learn from!
Riding on the back is very odd and I wouldn't want to do it all the time, but it was nice getting the extra sleep.
Despite the untimely demise of my bike, I'm glad I went on this trip, and I had a very good time. I never doubted for a minute that I would somehow be able to cope with the bike problem, but the ldriders made it much easier on me than it might have been. They're a great bunch of people, and I look forward to riding with them (on my own bike!) at future events.
As it got closer, I got more and more excited about it. I made arrangements to share a room with Airyn and her friend, Andrew. Then Airyn had to cancel. I was disappointed that she wasn't going, but of course I still would go. I made arrangements to ride down with Andrew, it would be interesting to finally meet him. The bonus list came out a week before the rally, and I spent several evenings finding and marking all the bonus locations on paper maps. I didn't expect to win, but I did want to make a respectable showing.
As the rally drew closer, I was having some small problems with my bike. The ignition switch was failing intermittently, and it was running just a little bit rough. I stayed home the weekend before the rally, and spent most of the time puttering around in the garage.
The ignition switch was failing due to worn contacts. No amount of cleaning and tightening was enough to solve this problem, and a new switch would not arrive until after the rally. So I bypassed the switch, routing the wires to a toggle switch that I mounted under the instrument cluster. Good as new, except I no longer needed a key to start and run my bike.
The bike was overdue for a valve adjustment, but last time I did that it took me all weekend to struggle through it. I decided to put the valve adjustment off until winter closed in, it wouldn't be much longer. I wanted to change the spark plugs, but the local auto parts store was out of the kind I needed. I changed the oil and the fuel filter, and the bike seemed to run a little more smoothly. I bought a PIAA super bright headlight bulb in the same wattage, and swapped it in. I upgraded the horns so they would be louder than a pet mouse that squeaks when squeezed.
I wondered if the bike was running roughly because the weather was getting so much colder? I asked Erik to ride the bike and see what he thought. He didn't think it was running that roughly. He suggested perhaps a carb synch would be in order. We made arrangements for me to come to his shop on Wednesday and do this. But on Wednesday afternoon he called to say that he'd realized that someone else had borrowed his carb synch tools, so we couldn't use them that evening. I was leaving Thursday straight from work, so I decided to put the carb synch off until after the rally.
I arranged to leave work early on Thursday, at 4:30. Andrew met me at my office. I wasn't quite ready when he arrived, and I felt a little shy, making this near stranger wait in my office while I mucked with my last few tasks. I couldn't look at him. Fortunately that was soon over, I could leave. We rode backroads to Milan, where we stopped at Zack's Cycles so I could pick up a spare main fuse and a set of spark plugs. While we were there I also made an impulse purchase - a pair of nice warm cycle gloves. I squirreled these items away and led the way onto the slab, US23 south to Toledo.
As we entered the freeway it occurred to me that we had not discussed what pace we liked to take on the slab. Great, how fast should I go? Hmm. I decided to try going fast. Andrew kept up, but he was pretty far back. Maybe this was too fast. I slowed down. He didn't catch up. I decided that he just didn't follow as closely as other people I'd ridden with, and the way he was hanging back didn't have anything to do with preferred speeds. I decided to just ride whatever speed seemed right, and stop worrying myself about him. The traffic was moving more slowly than usual out there, so I adopted a speed just above the prevailing traffic speed, and rode.
As we entered 80/90, I waved Andrew to lead. He set a slightly faster pace than I had, but nothing extreme. The miles rolled by. We stopped to put on our electrics at the first plaza, since it was getting cold. I put on my new gloves. They were stiff but I appreciated the warmth. We stopped for dinner at a Big Boy at the third plaza, and the last of my shyness passed. (I'm pretty gregarious, and shyness never gets more than a very tiny hold on me.)
On past Cleveland and onto I-77 south, it had been dark for some time and was getting colder by the minute. The plan had been to stop in Marietta or Charleston for the night, and I was kind of hoping for Marietta, which was perhaps an hour away, when Andrew led us off the freeway and into a motel. It was around 11:30 and he was starting to get sleepy. This motel didn't have any vacancies, so I offered to lead the way to the next one. Ten miles or so down the freeway, there were two motels at an exit, a no-brand motel and a Ramada. The no-brand motel was closer to the freeway. I gave it a close look and decided it looked OK, so I turned into a street just past it, and asked Andrew what he thought. He said he'd like to try to Ramada first. Fine by me. We went on down the street to the Ramada, and got their last room.
Andrew put the cover on his bike, and I wrestled the saddlebags off of mine. We dragged our junk up to the room and spent the next two hours looking at maps. Andrew hadn't spent as much time as I had finding all the boni in advance, but he had better maps. We discussed what routes were likely to be best.
The next morning we ate the hotels continental breakfast and headed out. The weather was great, just a little cold, but sunny, and we'd gotten far enough to be out of the flatlands. Up and down the hills, we followed I-77 south. Suddenly, my bike lost power and got quiet. Uh-oh. It felt like I had lost another spark box. Oh no! And I even had a spare at home, which I didn't bring. Argh! Well, if it was like the last spark box failure, it should kick back on again momentarily. I kept my speed up as best I could (way full out was around 70mph going uphill, and I could almost keep up going downhill) and waited. It didn't come back. Grr. I started flashing my headlight trying to get Andrew's attention. He kept getting too far ahead, then he'd slow down, and I'd almost get up within waving distance, then he'd pass another car or truck and I couldn't catch him. Finally he figured it out, took the next ramp off the freeway, and led me into a gas station.
At the gas station I told him my spark box theory, struggled out of my helmet and stitch, and started pulling out tools. I was unable to explain the workings of spark boxes to his satisfaction, he's an engineer after all. But I knew from experience that if I switched the two spark boxes and ran it again, the tach needle would drop when the box cut out, if the problem was the spark box. I rode the bike a few miles down the side road and back. It seemed to be back to normal power, the spark box didn't cut out, the tach stayed normal. I got the bike up to 100mph indicated, and it kept accelerating. A mystery. We topped off the tanks at this gas station, packed up, and went on. What else could I do? I left the boxes switched; if it cut out again I'd check the tach then.
About twenty miles down the freeway it cut out again. The tach needle did not drop. OK, it wasn't the spark box. What could it be? Before we reached the next exit, it came back. This would be the pattern for the rest of the trip to Morganton; the engine would briefly lose power, then surge back.
In Charleston, with 159 miles on the trip meter, I ran out of gas. I normally get 175-200 miles between fill-ups. Fortunately, the place where I ran out was close to an off-ramp, the ramp was mostly downhill, and there was a gas station there. Andrew gave me two pushes to get it over two short spots that weren't downhill, and I coasted to a stop right across the street from a gas station. From the I walked the bike across to a pump and filled it up with 5.7 gallons. I made a mental note to get gas earlier, and went on.
Over lunch I looked at my Clymer's manual. It offered a reassuring assortment of understandable things to check. Next door to the restaurant was a NAPA; I stopped over there and picked up a few things to increase the capabilities of my already extensive on-bike toolkit. I talked it over with Andrew and we made the decision to split up when we reached the Blue Ridge Parkway. I figured I'd better slab it and get to the motel as early as possible, and there was no sense in both of us missing out on the opportunity to take the scenic route.
We continued our ride south. The weather was lovely as we approached the Big Walker tunnel. I recalled my last trip through this tunnel, how it had been like the door into summer as I rode out of the misting rain on the south side, and into a clear sunny day on the north side. I hoped I wouldn't find the reverse to be true today. Hooray! Sunshine on the other side of the tunnel, too!
A few miles before we reached the Blue Ridge Parkway, we matched pace with a couple on a late model BMW R-bike with vanity plate, RDUDE. I wondered if they were on the way to Morganton as well? We came to the BRP and Andrew waved goodbye as he exited, and I went over the ridge, and there was what looked like all of North Carolina spread out before me. It was incredible! I hadn't noticed this, the only other time I'd traveled this road, because I'd been going north. I was awestruck. Then I was grabbing a handful of brakes, as traffic ahead of me stopped dead in its tracks.
It took fifteen minutes to travel the next mile, and I never had to actually use any of the bike's power to move, I could just coast down the steep grade. I chatted a bit with the BMW couple, but neither of us could hear well enough to have an intelligible conversation. I did learn that they were not going to the FitE; they were on their way to Hickory. I could see for miles, and the traffic jam appeared to continue. I figured I might as well take the scenic route myself, because I sure wouldn't get to the motel early at this rate. I popped onto the shoulder and took the next exit, figuring I'd find my way back up to the BRP and over to some state route to go south.
The roads I was on got tinier and tinier, but I never actually ran out of pavement. I did go uphill for several miles on a road where I could never get out of first gear due to the twisties. That put a grin on my face, and I hit the BRP just before sunset. I stopped at the first pullover in North Carolina to change my tinted face shield for the clear one. It was full dark by the time I came down from the parkway by way of Roaring Gap, and got back on the freeway in Elkin.
As I was riding west on I-40 to Morganton, I thought about how lucky I am. I've had the most incredible, awesome summer, traveling to all these wonderful places on the bike, and just having a blast. I was worried about the bike, but even if the problem turned out to be terrible, I figured I'd get through it, and journey was definitely worth the risks. I wondered if I would ever again have such a magical summer? Just then I saw a brilliant shooting star! I don't think I've ever seen a shooting star that bright! I wasn't even in a dark place where the stars were easily visible, but that shooting star lit up that whole corner of the sky. I decided it was a good omen.
I pulled into the motel just in time to keep Andrew from worrying that I had not gotten there before him. I was directed to technical inspection. They sent me back out onto the freeway, to ride to a certain exit and come back, so they could calibrate my odometer. My odometer reads a little high, but it's not too bad.
I went into the hospitality suite to fill out the forms. There were actually two people there who I recognized, Bob Todd and Art Holland. I was introduced to a lot of people, whose names immediately blurred in my mind. I remember Art grinned at me and said, "You know me, Kathy." and even though a minute before I'd been sure his name was Art, something about the way he said that made me doubt myself. Lately I've been Katherine so much that being called Kathy is almost confusing, and the way he said it made that seem like a test I hadn't studied for. Vaguely mocking. I resisted the temptation to insist on being called Katherine; with smug people like that you're better off the less you say.
There was a venerable old guy in the chair next to mine, who stared at me with great interest. His name was Corky and they told me he was the mayor of some town I didn't catch the name of.
He said, "So you're a friend of Airyn's?"
"Yup."
"So where is she? Why isn't she here?"
I made the same joke I'd been making all week, "Oh, Airyn's just avoiding riding with me. You know we have never yet ridden together?"
Without batting an eye, he said, "I've never gotten to ride Airyn either."
OK, it was going to be that kind of conversation, eh? I whacked him with my pen. That seemed to be the correct tactic. He made several other similar remarks, and I whacked him with the end of my braid. After that the hazing seemed to be past, but I'm not one to forget. I would get even.
Finally he said, "My wife would like you, do you know why that is?"
Ah-hah, my turn, buddy! I raised my eyebrows and said, "Because your wife likes girls?"
This seemed to go right by him, but I heard at least one snicker from the others in the room. Score!
"You're a credit to your gender! Yes, you are!" Etc. I later learned that Corky was a retired professor, that must be where the pontificating tones of this came from. All in all, it was a bizarre encounter. Definitely a character. I liked him.
Finally I finished with the paperwork and made my escape from their scrutiny. I moved the bike around to a real parking spot near the motel office. Andrew moved his bike too. I was taking the soft luggage off the bike when a couple arrived, people that Andrew seemed very glad to see. I followed him over to be introduced. Her name was Mary, his name was Mike. Andrew and Mary chatted while Mike went into the office to check in. A few minutes later he came back. The motel had given away their room, and said no others were to be had! Argh! I'm a veteran of many such sad tales at the science fiction conventions, so I looked at Andrew, who was looking at me, and I said, "Do we have two beds?" It was quickly settled, they would stay with us. Andrew went in for two more keys, and Mary and I went up to the room.
It was good to set my stuff down, use a clean bathroom, and sit down on a bed. I took my hair out of its braids, it had gotten tangled enough during the day that it was pulling every time I turned my head. It felt so good to brush it out and feel it falling freely down my back. I would really miss that if I cut my hair short.
I was starving, but I did not want to suit up again and go out. I went back downstairs and got a coke, and looked for a few people to order pizza with. It quickly occurred to me that this inquiry would either get no decisive responses, or else it would get far more than I wanted to deal with organizing. In the end I just went to the room, found the phone book, and ordered two pizzas and some bread. I figured that when the delivery arrived, those who were interested would follow me upstairs to get a share. I was not mistaken; I ended up finding five other pizza eaters who ate all but two pieces, and those last two pieces were gratefully wolfed by Bryan Moody when we brought them back downstairs.
Mary and Mike went down to the motel office to see about getting some extra blankets, and the clerk informed them there had been a cancellation, they could get a room after all. They came back for their stuff and moved out. I was kind of disappointed; I had been looking forward to getting to know them better. The rally would start at 5:30am, and I wanted to at least change the spark plugs beforehand, so I went to bed around midnight. I was pretty wired up, and it seemed to take forever for me to fall asleep.
I woke up in the dark. Something was beeping and I did not know where I was. Eventually I realized I was in a motel room and the thing that was beeping was a television set. I hadn't set the TV to beep. Andrew must have done it. I waited for him to make it stop, but the lump in the next bed never even moved. Finally I couldn't stand it any more, I stumbled out of bed and across the room to try to make it stop. It was dark and I didn't know how it worked. Finally Andrew stirred and I asked him if this was some kind of intelligence test or what? He mumbled something, and I turned on the light to look for the button that would MAKE IT STOP! Finally I got the thing turned off, and I could move on to getting ready to face the day. I made it to the 5:30am rider's meeting with seconds to spare. I'm not a morning person but I play one at work.
At the riders meeting, Brian reiterated a few of the rules. Riders started taking their rally books and leaving. I went back to the room and got my tank bag, and went down to swap out the spark plugs on the bike before getting my rally book and starting my clock. I had until 6:30. I realized that while I had the socket for the Champion plugs that were in the bike, I didn't have the correct socket for the new NGK plugs, so I hunted down Greg Roberts, sure enough he had what I needed. I pulled the first plug, it was pretty corroded. Maybe the new spark plugs would resolve my issue! I put in the new plug and pulled the second one. It didn't look too bad. I wished Andrew good luck on the rally, and watched him ride away. Then I pulled the third plug. Eew!!!!! It was nasty! The electrode was bumpy, the porcelain was gone from the middle, and the threads were slagged all down the side. Uh oh! No rally for me today.
Various folks came over to offer their opinions, and the general consensus was "Bad! Very bad!" There wasn't any use in rushing now, there was no way I was taking this bike out on the rally. So I went back to bed.
I woke an hour or two later, because the phone was ringing. Someone whose name I lost in my sleep-dazed stupor (I still have no idea which face goes with the voice on this phone) gave me directions to a shop and the name of a mechanic, and I dutifully wrote them down even though I was barely conscious. I waited until 8:30 and then called Mike Stewart to see if he would store the bike for me; he agreed to do this. A little while later I rode to breakfast in a (hack, cough, phtooey) cage. I pushed the food around on my plate but didn't get very far with it, I just didn't feel like eating.
A little later, Greg Roberts followed me as I carefully rode Cordelia off in search of the shop. The voice on the phone had told me to go to exit 111 and turn right several times, but I hadn't been coherent enough to comprehend exactly how many right turns he was talking about. I turned right twice and found myself in a residential neighborhood, no sign of a motorcycle shop. I stopped the bike and waited while Greg went off to scout. I didn't get off the bike, just leaned forward and put my arms around the gas tank, sort of hugging the bike and crying. I knew it was silly but I was very sad. Poor Cordelia, I shouldn't have kept going once she lost power, I should have stopped and taken care of her better. I managed to compose myself by the time Greg came back. He led the way to the shop, and I rode around to the garage entrance as the phone guy had told me to do. Inside I found the mechanic whose name I had been given. He did a compression test, and there was no compression on that cylinder.
They offered to keep the bike but I really wanted to take it to the Stewart's house. I just didn't feel right about leaving it there in this strange shop. What if they decided I wasn't coming back quickly enough to pick it up, and they scrapped it or something? The mechanic said there was a guy named Mike who worked upstairs who would probably be willing to help me move it to the Stewart's house. Greg and I went upstairs and found Mike, and waited for him to get a break between customers. While we waited we looked at the bikes. There were a lot of dirt bikes. Greg told me about dirt bike riding when he was a kid. I told him I'd never been allowed to ride motorcycles as a kid. We looked at a Polaris Victory cruiser that was on the porch, and Greg said something about trading Cordelia in on a bike like this. I said I'd rather have Cordelia in the condition she was in, than ride this cruiser! Greg said he wanted to shake my hand. Finally we got a chance to talk to Mike. He said he would do it, he would help move the bike, once he got out of work at 3pm.
Greg agreed to bring me back to the bike shop at 3 to help take Cordelia to the Stewart's house, and I rode back to the motel as his passenger. Greg is an amazingly good rider. I'm always very nervous about gravel when I'm riding my bike, but Greg was able to make very tight radius turns, on gravel, with me on the back of the bike! I felt very safe riding behind him; he was a good rider, the Wing felt very solid, and the passenger seat was so low that I could have put both feet on the ground. (But I wouldn't, because it's bad when the passenger does that!)
It was lunchtime by the time we returned, and I was actually starting to get hungry, so I asked Greg to stop and I got some fast food to go. Back at the motel I had hardly finished eating before it was time to go back to the shop. At the shop, Greg and I helped them roll the bike from the porch inside so they could close. We loaded the bike on the truck, and I rode with Mike while Greg followed on the Wing.
When we got to the Stewart's house, they were not home. We were able to unload the bike onto a convenient rise in the ground, and we rolled it up into the driveway and left it there. It was then that we spotted the note; the door was unlocked and we should put the key inside. Not very accurate, that note; the door was most definitely padlocked shut. I stuffed the key under the door, and after collecting my tools and my license plate from the bike, I got on the back of Greg's bike and we went back to the motel.
We got back just in time to help score the rally. Time to make myself useful, instead of just being taken care of. I added the scores in many different rally books. As I came outside after finishing this, the announcement came in that the food was ready. Suddenly I noticed just how few people were left. I had better find a way to get to the feast before everyone is gone. I looked around for a familiar face, but didn't see any. Well, everyone had been nice so far, no reason for the trend not to continue. There was a fellow getting ready to ride off on a Concours, who did not appear to have a passenger. I inquired if he was on his way to the feast, and he said he was. So I asked for a ride. I hurried upstairs and grabbed my gear. The Concours rider's name was Steve, and he turned out to be yet another friend of Airyn's.
At the barbecue, I started looking around for Art. Andrew was not going straight back to Michigan on Sunday, so I needed to see if Art would give me a ride. I tracked him down, and he agreed to do this. I got in line for the food, and found a place to sit. I showed my spark plug to various people. Suddenly Ron Butterfield, another Sabre rider, appeared out of the crowd. The only maggot I'd expected to see was Phil Ross, and he hadn't turned up. Ron and I talked about Sabres in general and Cordelia, the Tank Rocket, and the Asphalt Chainsaw in particular. I don't know how people can get by without naming their bikes. How do they distinguish which one they are speaking of when there are multiple bikes of the same make and model?
I rode back to the motel with Andrew, and settled in for a night of drinking and tire kicking in the motel parking lot. I watched a couple swing dancing (really well!) in the parking lot, to the tinny sound of a bike stereo. I saw many beer cans emptied and crushed. A fellow whose name I never caught lectured me on how one mustn't get emotionally attached to bikes, that bikes are tools. Duh. I'm not about to claim that emotions are rational, but what kind of arrant idjit can deny their power? I wondered if this fool would feel sorrow if it bit him in the ass? (I can criticize him here without worrying, because I'm sure he's far too rational to get upset over words on a website, should he even see them.) I talked to a guy named Doug for some time, mainly about the lives of women and how men treat them, kind of an odd conversation. Later I sat and talked with Steve and Andrew for a long time outside the hospitality suite. But I didn't stay up too late; Art wanted to be on the road by 7am.
The next morning at 6:30 we had a memorial service for Fran Crane, and people talked about Fran and other riders who were no longer with us. I thought about Tim Freeman, who hit a deer early this summer in Montana, and about Maverick, who I met for the first time just a few days before his final encounter with a guard rail in Kentucky. I couldn't bring myself to speak.
Art made room in his saddlebags for some of my stuff, and Andrew agreed to carry the rest. It was time to go. Art motioned for me to climb onto the ST first. He held the bike while I climbed on. This was strange to me, and very awkward. (I asked him about it later, and he said that's how he'd done it on his Wing. I suggested he get on first, it's much easier that way. It might also have worked better if I'd held the bike for myself and gotten onto the driver seat first, then moved back so he could get on.)
Finally we were both on the bike and we rolled on out of the motel parking lot and onto the freeway. Brr! I was fine in the sunshine, but when the low angle of the sun put us in the shade of nearby hills, it was cold! I wished I had remembered to grab the wiring harness for my electrics when I left Cordelia behind at the Stewarts. I looked forward to the sun rising higher in the sky. I thought about the weather predictions I'd heard for the trip home. Someplace between NC and MI, we were supposed to cross a front and ride into colder weather and rain. By the time we got home it would be dark. I was not looking forward to that end of the trip, in fact I was shivering even more just thinking about it.
When Art stopped at a rest area near the Tennessee border I mentioned it to him, and suggested that perhaps I should call Michael and ask him to meet us someplace in Ohio with his cage. Art asked me what kind of electrics I had? I told him I had the Gerbings, at which point he produced a plug of the exact kind I needed. It seems that's what he uses to plug in his battery charger. It was so nice to be able to plug in and be warm. From that point forward, I began sleeping on the back of the bike. I probably slept more than half the trip home.
We stopped for a late breakfast at an IHOP in Knoxville. Art was a pleasant breakfast companion, which was a relief. The night before he'd seemed smug and mocking. (I suspect that was the beer talking.) We rode the rest of the trip home with no significant stops, just getting gas a few times and once stopping to examine the map when Art missed the turn going from the Cincinnati bypass to I-75 north. (I was asleep.) We went 3/4 of the way back to I-75 south before turning around. I liked him a lot more after that. I mean, it's one thing to appreciate how kind and generous someone is being, as they do you a big favor, and another to actually like them. I'm too independent to feel comfortable depending on someone, and I felt like Art thought I was a twit. It was good to have him demonstrate that he was not infallible. When we reached the turnoff to I-75 I pointed at the sign, smiled in my helmet, leaned forward and gave Art a hug as we rolled down the highway.
We arrived at my house not long after dark. I was so stiff I could barely get off the bike. It was odd to arrive home so early, and not to be sleep-deprived when I got there. I thanked Art for the lift, and invited him in, but he said he needed to get going. I went inside and composed a thank you note to send to the ldrider list. They had been so very kind.
Editorial comments:
It was really strange to get home so early. I seldom get home before midnight, when I ride by myself.
It was fun to hear again and again that people like Airyn so much. I always like hearing my friends praised. Besides, as I said to her later, the part of my soul that's forever stranded in grade school enjoys being the friend of someone who is popular. :-)
Andrew Duthie was much younger than I had expected.
Kevin Wynn was also much younger than I'd expected, and I never once had to stand my ground as he attempted to take the tools out of my hands. :-) I'll have to ride with him sometime.
I was disappointed to not see Phil Ross, but I guess being gainfully employed puts some limits on his travels.
Corky da mayor is a dirty old man. Every group needs one of those.
Bob Todd knows more about fixing bikes than he lets on.
Being the wife of the rallymaster is a thankless task.
Mike Stewart still doesn't know how many 45mph signs there are between the corner and his house.
Greg Roberts is as skillful at low speed maneuvers and riding a heavy bike in gravel, as Phil Ross is at twisties. Another rider to watch and learn from!
Riding on the back is very odd and I wouldn't want to do it all the time, but it was nice getting the extra sleep.
Despite the untimely demise of my bike, I'm glad I went on this trip, and I had a very good time. I never doubted for a minute that I would somehow be able to cope with the bike problem, but the ldriders made it much easier on me than it might have been. They're a great bunch of people, and I look forward to riding with them (on my own bike!) at future events.
