by Bill Gedye
Long Distance Touring (or, how I learned to embrace monkey butt).

What is it that makes grown, mature men long for endless hours in the saddle of a motorbike? Baked by the sun and whipped by the wind, sometimes deafened by din of interstate traffic, soaked by the monsoons, pelted with insect missiles and flying debris? We revel in the experience – the sensory overload which puts all of our everyday concerns on the back burner.
We look forward to it like a dog wanting to go for a ride in the car. The time spent planning a ride is either like a military campaign or nothing more than:
“Which way are we headed?”.
“That way.”
…the answer indicated by a pointed finger.

The motivation for a ride is determined by one thing – anticipation; the anticipation of going on your first ride longer than the overnighter to Whistler, or adding to the experiences of a previous ride. Seeing Devil’s Tower for the first time, meeting new people, like that group of war vets at the old general store in Fort Klamath, getting lost at Billings then following the Bighorn River to that misplaced stretch of I-90, or wandering through the abandoned streets of Goldfield, our imagination running wild with visions of it’s heyday.

What do we get in return for the time and money invested in a long ride?

For one, we receive the precious gift of perspective. At the end of each day’s ride, we sit at the motel or campground, a cigar in one mitt and a Jack in the other, reliving the high and lowlights, like the best peach pie we ever tasted, or the debris field outside that abandoned truck stop. This information is unconsciously stored, and comparisons are made, to our everyday experiences in our lives.

Its like stopping to look at a traffic accident. Studies show that people slow down and gawk at MVA’s to see what happened, but more importantly to integrate that event into their own life and extrapolate what they would do in the same situation.

We are spectators to our lives. Sure, we actively live them and make decisions and choices, but at the end of an average day we’ll sit back and say, “Gee, I could have handled that better”, or “I hope that doesn’t happen again”. Looking back like that, we watch ourselves and how the lessons from that experience can be incorporated into ‘the next time’.

Motorcycle riders are forced to adapt every time we swing that leg over the bike and press the start button. Touring riders have to extend that adaptability for long periods and over several days, or weeks. Road and weather conditions, breakdowns, our bike falling over in a hot parking lot – even finding a place to stay for the night, this long stretch of having to meet daily challenges might just add to our depth of character, millimetre by millimetre.

When I was having a particularly bad day on the road, having lost a notebook which contained a week’s notes of the trip, my buddy Jack gave me a stellar piece of wisdom; …”It’s the bad days that make you appreciate the good days”. That stuck with me ever since and has carried me over some rough patches.

In the end, when we ride up the driveway and signal the finale of the trip by shutting the motor off, we’re both relieved and saddened that the experience is over. Relieved that we can get a good night’s sleep in our own bed without the parade of semis bellowing by the motel, and saddened that we have to wait for the next time we can load the bike down with gear. The anticipation starts about a week later. Our new found touring perspective makes us look at home through altered eyes. We appreciate the little things we took for granted, like the dog licking our face or how great our girl looks when she walks through the door.

We’re better people for the experience.

That’s why we ride.

Bill Gedye
Two Wheel Tales

by Bill Gedye

The KGB is coming to the Kootenays. Not the ‘Komityet Gosudartvennoy Bezopasnosti’ from the good old USSR days of James Bond and SMERSH, but rather the sound of laughter in the woods at the Kootenay Gut Buster. For the 3rd year, Mary Liard has managed to successfully blend the sounds of ‘har de har’ and the ‘potato-potato’ of an idling Harley into an annual live comedy event – the KGB.

Toad Rock Motorcycle Campground is the best kept secret on the west coast. It lies just north of Nelson and just south of Ainsworth Hot Springs, on BC’s Hwy 31. If you happen to approach it from Creston, BC, along Hwy 3A, you’ll be riding along “Destination Highways” #DH1, or the top rated motorcycle highway in British Columbia – 78.3 kilometers of abandoned mines, winding roads and ice-cold mountain streams. Running north from Hwy 3A, it follows the nap of the land and sometimes occupies a narrow man-made shelf of road along the mountains bordering Kootenay Lake, with wide, sweeping turns and lots of elevation changes.

When you arrive at Toad Rock, the first thing that will blow you away is the pavilion. It is supported by live trees and houses all the comforts of home – a bar, sofas, pool table,coffee corner and stage. The stage, complete with a permanent drum set so you can practice at 2 in the morning, presides over half an acre of picnic tables, a fire pit sand a concrete burn-out pad, complete with Dave Clancey’s burnt out Road King on a pedestal. It was lost in a 2004 barn fire.

Mary has 2 large dogs that rule 36 acres and keep errant bears off the property. Desi is a large black Bouvier and Lucy (pronounced Lucky, for obscure reasons) is a super-sized black Lab cross. In the middle of a black night, you’ll hear OWOOOOO, getting fainter and fainter as the dogs blast through the trees. When you don’t hear it any more, you’ll know that whatever was out there is in the next postal code. Legend has it that Lucy played a starring role in one previous KGB act when he ambled up on stage lookin’ for a little lovin’ and made a beeline for entertainer Scott Dumas’ crotch. Lucy, being the size he is, almost lifted Scott off his feet with a bag-tag. Without skipping a beat, and with a Jay Leno look to the hysterical crowd, Scott started in on a hilarious routine with the unwitting Lucy as the star. Desi just rolled his eyes.

This year, headliner and organizer Darryl Makk rode in on his 1300 Bandit with a new rear tire in the chase van known as the ‘clown car’, as it carried the rest of the cast. He announced that he would do a burnout at the end of the first evening on his Bandit and nosed it into the rock wall at Clancy’s Pit.
It was “The Silent Burnout”.

With the stock can on it, the rear tire disappeared in a fog of tire smoke but the weird thing was, none of the sleeping campers knew it had happened. It was like, “if a tree falls in the woods…”. The only thing anyone noticed was the pungent odour of rubber briefly intruding on the woodsy atmosphere but the tire was well and truly cooked.

Overall the feeling of the event was a sense of fun. The entertainers really look forward to coming to the Toad Rock venue and it shows in the energy of their performances. Darryl and the others were smokin’ all night, and there was rebellion in the air when he started slamming Tim Horton’s. Darryl also got onto the subject of the 2008 phenomenon decomposed feet found washing ashore in the lower mainland and the USA:
“Canada – 5, USA – 1 …we’re going to the playoffs!”, he announced jubilantly.
On the same subject he announced his new hobby – collecting feet:
“Hold it to your ear, you can hear the laces being tied”.
At this point, no well before this point, political correctness has suffered an agonizing demise.
Darryl also sideswiped the subject of the paranoia surrounding unattended backpacks:
“Hell, before 9/11, if you saw an unattended backpack – you stole it.”

Stephanie Foley, a little package of feminine dynamite, related a story during her first year of performing with the group. Darryl was off fulfilling his dream of signing female breasts and she was miffed….so she borrowed Darryl’s Sharpie and offhandedly commented that she would sign ‘nutsacks’. Don’t you know it, before the night was out,seven of them were lined up at the table. Darryl would never use that Sharpie again.

Peter Kalamus explained his version of ‘The Wave’. As he rides a V-Rod himself, he waves at anything. Sport bikes never wave at Harleys unless the Harley waves first. Never wave at a scooter. He had to chase down a scooter to take back his wave because some of the new scooters look like sport bikes from head-on.

Dan Guiry, Karen O’Keefe, Kelly Dixon and Mike Patterson rounded out the night. James Moore M.C.’d the evening, providing the comic glue joining these 7 acts into a solid evening of fun. If you’re from Calgary, you can watch this group on a regular basis at Darryl Makk’s ‘Comedy Detour’ in Kit’s Pub on 6th Ave NW. This is where they road test their new material.

Picture this – you’re sitting at a picnic table with a cold one in your hand, twilight promises a warm evening, the stage lights come on and the sound system crackles to life – the show’s about to begin and you’re going to have fun now that the KGB has arrived at Toad Rock.

But this year, guys, bring your own Sharpie, Darryl’s not lending his…

There is a place where things are as they used to be, where the smog of political correctness has disappeared. Its not Mexico, Cuba or Vegas, although the similarities are striking. Its a place where the old west has been successfully blended with our modern amenities in a relaxed and blissful manner. You can ride down the road fully geared or bareheaded with flip flops. You can smoke in the bars.

The trip begins hot as a pistol through the familiar roads of the Similkameen. The faster you ride the hotter you get. Its like riding in a hairdryer. The only relief is the wet bandanna around your neck and a stop in an old bar outside Hedley, where you sit on the veranda and catch what little breeze makes it around the corner.

The deer at the side of the road seem content to munch on the long grass. Its distracted them enough to forget flinging themselves into you like four-legged Kamikazes.

The coming Labour Day weekend means that motel rooms are harder to find than a straight flush at a hold-em game, so you end up staying in the overflow room by the abandoned go-cart track for the first night.

Crossing the border, the US Customs officer rolls his eyes when you tell him you’re heading to Nebraska to buy a pair of riding boots. Later, you find that he asks your buddy how long he’s known that crazy guy up front. Who the hell goes to Nebraska to buy boots?

A huge fire near St. Regis, Montana fills the sky with smoke and you smell like a campfire at the end of the day’s ride – another last chance motel room made available by a cancelling ball team. Flip for the king bed. Loser gets the pull-out sofa.

Funny the characters you meet on a ride. Like Mike, waiting for a ride to the jobsite outside Columbus, Montana. Mike is a recovering alcoholic who is now working steadily and trying to stay off the booze, despite the domestic wreckage he walked away from. Mike’s eyes light up when he receives your gift of a cigar. You’re proud of him and wish him the best on the rest of his journey through life.

Stop at the old Montana State Prison, in Deer lodge, and you appreciate your fortunate life. You’re free to smell the grasses, relieve the heat with a cold drink at your leisure, and ride the road in any direction for as long as you can.

Plenty of deer, and even an elk lie at the side of the road having fulfilled their mission. Are they martyrs and heroes in the world of ungulates? Do they get a hundred virgins when they go to deer heaven? Now you know why more and more Kenworths are sporting huge ‘roo bars’ which necessarily spoil the factory aerodynamics.

Butte, Montana reflects a day when mining was the cash machine spitting out volumes of the stuff which was converted into extravagant brick mansions. The old mine heads are monuments to the thousands of men who inhabited the abandoned 15 story hotels and grand office buildings in downtown Butte. You can just imagine how it looked with dirt streets, horses and gas lamps if you squint your eyes in the dusk.
Farther along the road, baking in the oven of Wyoming, Sheridan appears with a motel pool. You feel like jumping in the water with all your gear on but it was hard enough to renew that passport without having to replace that soggy mess it will become if you can’t resist the temptation. Buffalo Bill Cody built a grand hotel here served by a railway line which brought wide eyed tourists from the east and beyond to behold the exotic cowboy and indian shows, featuring the real thing.

The next day starts off cloudy and cool, with the smell of rain in the air. In anticipation, you unpack your rain gear and pull it on over your riding armor feeling as restricted as a 5 year old in a snowsuit. If the sun comes out, it will quickly become a personal sauna, like it did when you were stuck in traffic outside Hope, B.C., after that tanker truck overturned and burned. But it rains, and the wind starts up. No matter. Let it blow. You’re warm and dry, listening to Waylon Jennings on the headset. Go ahead, pick any station. They all play country music.

There it is on the right. That large green sign pointing to the promised land. Just 20 more miles on a new four laner taking you to….Deadwood. If you think that its going to be like the HBO series, you’re only partially right. The echo of the Deadwood spirit lives in the names of the buildings but the original wooden city was destroyed by a fire in 1878 that ate Bill Hickock’s favorite No.10 saloon and culminated when it arrived at the hardware store. That place held 8 kegs of gunpowder which provided a spectacular end to the historic boardwalks, false-fronted buildings and hitching posts.

Today, Deadwood Dick’s Bar, far enough off the main drag to develop the patina of neglect, welcomes you with worn and weathered arms. Its peaceful inside, with none of the bonging slot machine bells, canned western music or glittering chandeliers. Neon from the Budweiser signs mixes with sunlight from the huge old front windows to cast a warm glow on the bar taps featuring ‘Moose Drool Beer’, Busch and Miller. In answer to your query, Cindi strolls around the corner of the bar to reply that someone had bought the last two rubber tire ashtrays from the antiques display last week. They also have an old rocket ship piggy bank that you used to spend hours with as a kid, but at $250, it’s as affordable as a tankful of rocket fuel.

Stroll up Deadwood’s Main Street and you may see the staged shootouts, which give the local kids an outlet for their energy and fantasies. Off on a sidestreet, the sound of these little dramas is a mite unnerving as they sound too much like a drive-by.

A Bill Hickock look-alike beckons you inside for a prime rib buffet as you head down the street toward the subterranean Deadwood Tobacco Company, below the Oyster Bar. Run by a couple of tattooed, no-nonsense, biker brothers, this is another oasis of tranquility and a hell of a cigar shop.

Riding back to your motel home aboard the $1 Deadwood trolley, you can reflect on the everyday tensions and annoyances which have accumulated over the last year and how they have been washed out of your brain by this week’s ride and the beer at Deadwood Dick’s, then rinsed clean at Deadwood Tobacco Company’s smoky bar.

This is a civilized place.

by Bill Gedye

You’ve been riding for 25 years or so and you’ve done just about every road in the area,what do you do next? Obviously, you look for a stretch of road you haven’t done before and end up chowing on a great bowl of chili, chilling at a tranquil coffee oasis, exploring the U.S.Navy Underwater Museum, and riding an awesome stretch of road.

How about the Olympic Peninsula in Washington State? Now, the question is, clockwise or counter-clockwise? This looks to be about a 2 day trip, so overnighting somewhere is a necessity. Clockwise, there doesn’t appear to be too much in the way of accomodations other than State Parks in the Forks area, so its over to Port Angeles from Victoria on the Blackball ferry M.V.COHO and turn left.
The Blackball is pretty accomplished at moving cars and trucks back and forth across the Strait of Juan de Fuca but they are hopeless with bikes.

There is one spot up against a wall near the bow where all bikes are placed and you are directed to tie your bike to the bulkhead with a single strand of rope. This really made me nervous since it looked like dental floss attaching my crash guard to a point up on the wall. But, the Strait was calm and we made it without falling over.

More interesting was the escort by two armed U.S.Coast Guard zodiacs. They bracketed the COHO once we entered US territorial waters and looked like the familiar whale watching boats until you noticed the guy standing at the bow of the boat with the mpg attached to the pedestal. Now, my buddies speculated that the USCG is practising vessel escort. Considering the post 9/11 paranoia and the apprehension of Ahmed Rassad with a trunkload of explosives destined for LAX from this same COHO, they may be looking for a good reason to hose down the side of the ferry with that .30 cal nozzle. We made it into port without any holes in anything that day.
Once past a very polite and accomodating U.S. Customs officer, I entered Port Angeles and turned left, heading south along Hwy. 101, the northern end of the Pacific Coast highway. Traffic was light, the weather was great, but I had to stop for a coffee.

Washington State is known for great coffee, and roadside coffee stands dot the landscape like parking meters along a street. Inhabiting these tiny stands are gorgeous, personable American women of every size, shape and color. According to a Seattle talk show for guys, some of these coffee bar baristas have their own cadre of fans who return to watch the cappucino action again and again.

One of the best of these is “Brewed Awakenings”, just south of Port Angeles, manned by ‘Tracy’ on my visit. The amazing feature of this spot was the tranquil waterfall around the back where you could relax at a patio table. Avoiding the Zen references, I’ll just say that this place provided a refuge from the 101 traffic pouring by just a few yards away.

Further south along 101, through places named Hama Hama and Hoodsport, the 55mph speed limit forces you to slow down and enjoy the scenery. So does the continuous presence of the Washington State Police. These guys are everywhere. I must have see 4 or 5 cruisers in the last four or five hours – all with someone pulled over.
The highway winds alongside the Hood Canal for the most part, taking you through small towns with abandoned chip shops waiting for the summer tourists before they get splashed with new paint and come to life. Where the road winds closer to the canal,you’ll be amazed at how much it looks more like a large river – large enough to hold the John Wayne Marina, pilgrim.

Whoops, when I got toward the outskirts of Aberdeen, I missed the turnoff for the museum. That’s what I get for trusting road signs…they’re for locals who already know their way. Got lost 3 times in tricky sections through Aberdeen, so I’ll have to double back later to see the museum I’ve heard so much about. Part of the experience of the journey is getting lost, just like the breakdowns. Learning to accept them as part of the journey has lessened my frustration and heightened my appreciation of riding.
Finally made it to Ocean Shores via Hwy 108 to Hwy 12, then the tricky part of Hwy 109 through Aberdeen, and finally Hwy 115 south.

I discovered that this part of the coast is not as appealing as the area farther south around Long Beach, off Hwy 103. That area has more of a small town feel while Ocean Shores has wide deserted boulevards connecting large but scattered chain hotels. In the descending darkness and fog, the place looked like a set for a horror movie. It was amid these eerie surroundings that I settled in for the night, my trusty Jameson’s and a clip of large bore Nicaraguan cigars at my bedside in case of trouble. The muted roar of the ocean finally lulled me to sleep.

Man, mornings are cool on this part of the coast. Heavy marine layer cloud and a stiff breeze off the ocean made me don every stitch of clothing I carried for the ride out. You gotta expect that April is not summer, but this part of the State is about 10 degrees colder than farther inland, where the sun is just rising into the face of morning commuters. Here, the cool moisture in the misty air is so heavy that it is running off the windshield like rain. At least it is softening up yesterday’s baked on bugs for easier removal.

Heading north up Hwy 109, the road wound inland and the penninsula’s logging heritage was evident by frequent clearcuts. Abandoned sawmills, beehive burners, and rusted logging equipment overgrown with blackberry bushes meant that this area had seen better times.

Where the highway did contact the coast, the views were spectacular. The Sandpiper Inn, just south of Pacific Beach on Hwy 115, was sitting on prime ocean view property. This is where I should have stayed last night – right on the water for about the same price and I could have pulled the bike right up to the door.

Now head east through Aloha to Humptulips and head back north on Hwy 101 through the Olympic National Forest. This is another inland section of the highway which runs through the woods. Pretty straight and nothing but green on either side, but at Queets, you arrive back at the ocean and the great panoramas off to your left.

Just 35 mi south of Forks, at Kalaloch, lies Kalaloch Lodge, set in the middle of an endless stretch of coastal beach. It sits at the head of a small bay littered with driftwood. This is a more upscale resort but a great stop for a coffee and a warmup. The attached general store not only provides groceries for the resort cabins, but also gives us bikers an alternative to a restaurant sit-down-in-your-raingear if you want to stretch and get the feeling back in your fingers.

At last! Ten miles south of Forks, the sun came out and I started peeling off the layers of raingear. This is where I made my next great discovery…Moore’s Restaurant and Antique Store – located in Beaver, Wash. You’ll be able to easily spot this place…just look for the old 30’s style gas station with the Model T stake truck parked under the canopy. The chunky chili was fabulous and the staff treat you like a local.

Now comes the great part about touring on a bike….the surprises around the corner. Little did I know that another great discovery was waiting for me down the road a piece. Hwy 113 is the connector between Hwy 101 and Hwy 112 (which parallels Hwy 101 back to Port Angeles), but 113 runs along the water, so it was the obvious choice. This stretch of road ROCKS!! It follows a creek for the first part…winding and doubling back on itself through rich bottom land. Then the elevation changes start..up and down as well as winding around. All the time it is smooth enough not to upset the bike in the corners but enough to round off the flat center tread of the touring tires. Up and over the top of the hill, it straightens out and begins a downhill run to the coast and Hwy 101. Looking around, you can tell that the logging business is much better in this neighbourhood by the newer logging trucks complete with chrome wheels.

Farther along Hwy 101 toward Port Angeles there is a little town called Joyce, Wash. Two little creeks run through Joyce…. ‘Itsa’ and ‘Upthe’. If this isn’t enough, there’s a little bitty street named ‘Bythe Way’. Someone has given this a great deal of thought.

That evening was spent in the Silverdale area, very near the Underwater Museum. The museum is accessed by taking Hwy 101 from Port Angeles to Hwy 104, then Hwy 3 to the Keyport exit 49, just 5 mi south of Poulsbo, Wash. Exit 49 is actually State Route 308, which takes you right to the door of the museum.

Just pulling into the museum is an eyeful. Your brain has to choose between 3 large structures:
- one is the sail from the de-commissioned nuclear sub USS Swordfish, poking up through the grass like all 700 feet is submerged under the parking lot. This is unsubstantiated, but rumor has it that the Swordfish was depth charged by the Soviets for 3 days as it slipped into the middle of a Soviet Navy anti-submarine warfare exercise in 1963.
- another is the manned bathyscaphe TRIESTE, which dove to the bottom of the Marianas trench, the deepest part of the ocean, in 1960. TRIESTE is the vehicle which found and investigated the remains of the USS SCORPIAN and USS THRESHER, both nuclear subs inexplicably lost at sea.
- the third is the Lockheed built DEEP QUEST, the next generation bathyscaphe, operating from 1967-80. In 1969, it recovered the black boxes of 2 aircraft that had crashed in the Pacific Ocean.

Inside, even more wonders. The development of marine mines is traced from the original powder-filled kegs, which were let loose on the tide to float into enemy ships, to the latest air-dropped acoustic and magnetic type, which mined Haipong harbour during the Vietnam War.

There is a huge display of US, German and Japanese torpedos from the WWII era. If you are a torpedo nut, you will be in heaven. You will learn that only the early steam torpedos left a wake, like in the movies. The modern electric torpedo leaves no wake – you don’t know its coming until you hear the big boom.

There is a mock up of the control room from the USS GREENLING (SSN 614), containing the periscopes, ship control panel, ballast control panel, and the fire control panel.

Finally, what I consider the piece de resistance – a captured WWII Japanese KAITEN (Heaven Shaker) manned torpedo. This is 50 feet long with one sling seat, a small hatch, and one crude periscope. It is only just big enough for one small person to sit up. The pilot is sitting behind 3000 bs of high explosive and its a one-way trip after release from the mother submarine…you either hit something or run out of power. Only 50 of these ever saw action and only one US ship was actually sunk by a KAITEN – the destroyer USS UNDERHILL, July 24, 1945.

What are my lasting impressions of the trip?
- the discovery that there are more places to stay on the west side of the peninsula than I originally thought (Sandpiper Resort and Kalaloch Lodge).
-a unique coffee bar just south of Port Angeles on Hwy 101 (Brewed Awakenings).
-Upthe creek, Itsa creek and a street named Bythe Way near Joyce, Wash.
-the chili at Moore’s Restaurant in Beaver, Wash.
-the US Navy Underwater Museum in Bangor, Wash.
-finally, that fabulous stretch of Hwy 113, running from Hwy 112 to Hwy 101.

There’s lots to see out there and a surprise around almost every bend.

Bill Gedye
Two Wheel Tales.

by Bill Gedye

Well, here I am on the way to South Dakota, I think, but the sign ahead says “BISMARCK…..420 mi”….somewhere around Billings, I-90 split off into I-94 and I have to get back on track.

Normally, this would have meant a meltdown, but I have been on the road long enough, and recalled some Clement Salvadori which said something like: “the destination is not the journey, getting there is”. OK, so now I can pull over to the shoulder and pull out the trusty Rand-McNally to find out exactly where I am and where it is I want to be, and how to get there.

The beauty of this whole exercise is, if it hadn’t happened, I would have never known about Custer, Montana, and a deserted 2 lane, rolling ride through the Montana countryside beside the Little Big Horn River. Much like the central interior of B.C., there are scattered trees along the river itself, but the rest is gently rolling hills of golden grass.

Away from the noisy 20 inch wheels of the I-94 B trains, this little connecting strip of rural road was an oasis of peace – the only things I could hear was the wind against my helmet and the hum of my trusty 1100. Thirty miles later, I was into Hardin, Montana and the Custer battlefield….

…and back on track, headed south on I-90 toward Sheridan, Wyoming, then farther east to Mount Rushmore and beyond.

Putting miles on the US superslabs is one thing, and its not boring, if you approach it the right way…did you know that I-90 runs right through the middle of Custer’s Little Big Horn Battlefield? Also, remember the highway ads for WALL DRUGS in South Dakota? I’ve never seen anything like that except for photos of the old BURMA SHAVE highway ads…and right in the middle of all this, in a place where you would least expect, is a billboard for BUTCHART GARDENS in Victoria…just like the one at the top of my street.

Its not too hard to get lost, even with the good maps and compass, etc., just look at the confusing highway signs around the Coquihalla at HOPE, B.C., and on the TCH through Kamloops…even if you know where you are going, you can end up on the way to Banff, instead of Cranbrook.

Next time you’re lost, try to remember old Clement, and shift mental gears from the meltdown mode to “I just wonder what the next curve in the road will bring?”…toward seeing something new…even if its just an exit you haven’t taken before so you can turn around. Enjoy the journey itself and accept part of these diversions as an interesting interlude in your ordered world.

Keep on keepin’ on.
Bill Gedye
Two Wheel Tales

by Bill Gedye

You’re standing in the wind at the front of the ship, the deck thrumming beneath your feet. You’re on vacation, you’ve seen Vancouver, Manning Park, the Fraser Canyon, and now you want to see Victoria and Vancouver Island…. wander through the spectacular Butchart Gardens and sit in the Bengal Room of the Empress Hotel. One of the best parts of your trip is a mini cruise…and you’ve got your bike right with you as you glide between islands… almost close enough to reach out and touch the evergreens as they slide slowly by….

For those of you who are planning to visit our Province and leaving the beaten track mainland for the wilds of Vancouver Island, the Sunshine Coast, or any of the smaller islands, this will be your primer and introduction to the ferry system here in British Columbia so you that know what to expect when you ride up to the BC Ferries ticket booth.

It is really a mini-cruise… like nothing you’ve experienced before – unless you’ve been on the Chee Chee Maun to Manitoulin Island, or the COHO to Port Angeles. Vehicle ferries are an integral part of the British Columbia motoring reality…connecting the largest city, Vancouver, to its capital, Victoria, and all the outlying islands that make up this vast west coast. You can check out this web site for the fares and schedules: www.bcferries.bc.ca …and you should know that all bikes are charged the same rate – regardless of displacement…but there are additional charges if you are towing a trailer, or have a sidecar attached.

All bikes are sent to the front of the line up and are loaded first on – first off. Motorcyclists are treated like preferred clients. This is practical as well as generous. Bikes obviously take up less space than a car or truck. If you show up too late to be loaded up front, they will wriggle you into a space at the rear of the load – it seems there’s always room for another bike.

When you get on board, the deckhand will direct you toward the bike parking area at the front of the deck. On the larger vessels, it is usually the front right area; on the smaller vessels, it is usually anywhere on the front deck.

You will be expected to put your bike in gear and on it’s sidestand at a 45 degree angle to the midline of the deck.

You will have to look for one of the large wooden chocks to put under the motor on the opposite side of the side stand. (This will steady the bike against the movement of the boat and the bumps of docking. It’s simple but it works. In all the years of riding ferries, I’ve never seen or heard of a bike going down. The only precaution to placing this block is not to jam it up against your exhaust or the movement may damage the pipes…place it up against the engine block or frame, if you can.

Although there are deckhands roaming around the decks during the sailing, you would be prudent to lock everything up as you would when parking your bike, anywhere else…then enjoy the voyage.

When the ferry is about to arrive at your destination, you will hear an announcement to return to the vehicle deck. Once you get there, don’t remove the large blue block until after the boat is secured in the dock. There is always a slight chance that they will nudge the dock a little harder than you would expect, and that block will definitely help your ride stay upright. If you see anyone else removing theirs before the ship docks, that’s OK, they’re used to the procedure…and nobody will say anything… unless you’ve removed your block prematurely and your bike falls over onto theirs.

Now you are ready to enjoy the best motorcycling roads in North America….

……welcome to British Columbia!!

Bill Gedye
Two Wheel Tales

Touring Tales: The First Time …

Remember the first trip you ever took on a bike?

The mists of time have obscured those memories for those of us with graying temples, and have undoubtedly glossed over the frozen fingers and soaked clothing that the young and inexperienced endured because we were too dumb to know any better.

The first trip I took was to return my newly purchased second hand BSA Royal Star from Toronto back to Belleville … it was the first time I had even ridden a bike for any distance at all, other than the parking lot enduros of high school days.

It started with a bus trip to the big city … if you’ve ever been on any bus ride of 2 hours or more, it absolutely cements the notion of why you ride. Lucky for me, it was still early June, and I could open the window when the guy in front of me unleashed a Hungarian hot sauce fart … at least when your riding buddy does that, you can pummel him in the hotel room. On the road, you hope he is riding behind you.

A shorty helmet and Buckskin bike jacket officially proclaimed me a newly minted member of the riding fraternity … and newly minted, I was. No doubt, I wobbled my way out of the seller’s driveway, and by the time I hit the Woodbine Ave., I’d already gained invaluable experience from riding through city traffic without getting maimed.

Back then, there was no MSF course to teach you about streetcar tracks, tar strips, and sand/gravel on the road … the early riders made it through till today on pure luck. Don’t let any of these old liars tell you any different.

Finally, out on HWY 401, I could let it loose and I felt the magic of hanging on to the handgrips at 65 mph and the roar of the wind mixing with the drone of the exhaust … man, don’t those old twins sound great?

The next hour or two were my baptism into touring:

I learned that a stock motorcycle seat was designed by a Spanish inquisitor.
I also learned that, although it is nice and warm when you are standing in the sun, it gets goddam cold riding along at a steady 65.
I learned about pebbles thrown up by passing vehicles felt like getting shot when they hit your arm or leg … thank God they stayed away from my face.

Finally, I learned that this feeling was like no other I had ever before experienced … and that it was intoxicating. After the circulation was restored to my ass and I had warmed up, I was more than ready to get out there again and crank the throttle for another hour … watch the road go by under my feet … feel the blast of wind from a passing truck … watch those 10:00 x 20’s rolling by me ready to squash me like a blintz.

When I finally pulled up the driveway back at the farm, I was a believer. Like a newly converted evangelist, I had experienced something that would change my life forever, give it meaning, and flesh it out like a starving man walking up to a buffet.

Ain’t it the truth? Let me know about your first ride … and I promise in return, I will tell you about some of the greatest touring to be had right here in Canada’s backyard on the left coast.

Bill Gedye
Two Wheel Tales

Motorcycle Friendly: What does that mean to you?…that your bike wags its tail whenever someone walks by? Obviously not. Here, it refers to people and places that are receptive to motorcycles and their riders.

In order to explore this phenomenon, I packed my ride down with camping gear and headed east from Victoria into the Kooteneys, specifically to TOAD ROCK Motorcycle Campground. My wife observed that my bike had so much stuff on it, it looked like a wedding cake.
Right off the bat, while sitting at the ferry, I realized that BC Ferries itself was motorcycle friendly with their first-on policy. Thanks to BCCOM, it makes perfect sense, since a bike takes up half the space of a car and they can be crammed into every available nook and cranny. Not so with the Balfour ferry I took earlier this summer, where that crew apparently took it upon themselves to instruct the bikes to wait in line like everyone else then loaded them exactly like a car, taking up an entire parking space on the boat. Since they don’t take fares, I guess there is no economic incentive to load as many paying fares on board as possible.

PASTA TRADING POST– KEREMEOS
Once through Manning Park and down into the August blast furnace heat of Princeton, I was running ahead of gathering storm clouds and rumbles of thunder that I could hear above the passing traffic. This was going to be a dandy, so I wasn’t going any farther than Keremeos and I wasn’t camping in that either. Pulling up to the PASTA TRADING POST on the main street, I looked over the inviting façade which housed a restaurant, antique store and B&B upstairs in the updated, former hotel rooms. There was an inviting dining patio off to the side and hidden way in the back corner was a waterfall which, on closer inspection, fell into a hot tub sized pool. This, in fact, was the hot tub for the use of the guests when the patio closed at 9:00PM and the diners had departed. I certainly hoped this place was motorcycle friendly as the storm struck with such fury that it blew the tablecloths off the patio tables and caused a huge mudslide, closing the highway west of Keremeos and stranding several people in town who were headed west. Then I met France, the owner. She is a smiling French Canadian ex-Quebec civil servant who used to be an industrial designer in her former life. She embodies motorcycle friendly. After a sumptuous but simple chicken dinner prepared by Chef Rose, France directed me to park my bike in a small, gated courtyard off the back alley so it wouldn’t stay on the street overnight.

Everyone in the place was motorcycle friendly, and was as interested to hear of my experiences as I was to hear their versions of the slide’s effect on their travel plans.
Bill, the aircraft broker from Seattle, here to meet a client. Another Bill (the Pub Guy), apparently well known in Ontario for his Guide to Ontario Pubs, here to research locations for a Canadian Pub Guide. Bill actually saw the slide and, with eyes like saucers, told me of someone actually trying to drive through the moving mudslide with a Jeep. A retired investment banker from Toronto and a couple from Quebec who wanted to see ranches and horses rounded out my conversations, giving texture to the evening’s social fabric. That seems to be the beauty of the B&B experience.

Jim and Shirley’s INDIAN CHIEF
Jim and Shirley were passing through and stopped on their new Indian Chief wet and dirty from the fresh sealcoat they had passed through around Christina Lake. With this in mind, I decided to head north through the Okanagan and cross over through the Monashee to Nakusp and down in to the Kootenays and TOAD ROCK.

The room was surprisingly stylish, furnished with antiques around the inviting bed..a fan in the room provided a pleasant breeze not unlike you would get through the tent flap on a warm night. There was a new shower bathroom in one corner, though it was small, it was newly updated and a great start for the next morning.

As warm as it was through Princeton, it was hotter through the Okanagan, and the lineup for the floating bridge in the mid afternoon heat was awesome. Now I know what a chicken feels like in a frypan. Funny thing about a bike, everyone thinks that bikes are cooler running in the hot air but its really more like turning up a hair dryer…the faster you go, the stronger that hot wind blows in your face.

East from Vernon, through Cherryville, and a stop at the GOLD PAN CAFÉ. These people are not just motorcycle friendly, they are everyone friendly. The communal dining bench inside the log restaurant means most people share their meals elbow to elbow. A unique dining experience made greater by huge slices of home baked pies and aromatic buns to go with your coffee.

The Monashee summit, at 1241m, meant that the temperature cooled off about 10 degrees to 22C.
All my efforts to avoid the fresh sealcoating around Christina Lake were dashed when the last 15 Km into Nakusp was through fresh sealcoat gravel, which covered the bike and eveyrthing else in sight with a layer of dirt. So much for arriving with a clean bike, and the joy of riding on loose, fresh gravel made me wish I had more experience on a dirt bike.
That night, at the Nakusp Municipal Campground, I set up on a dirt square just inside the main gate. It was dirty. I hate dirty. It was so far from the cool, grassy, cherry orchard sites in Osoyoos at Walton’s Mountain campground, my favourite so far. The showers, however, made up for things somewhat as they were large, relatively clean and gave you lots of time for your buck. Two other bikes were there, Kelly on a Gold Wing, doing business in town , and Tim from Australia, on his V-Strom, making a long bow from local wood before he had to fly home in 3 days. Cleaning up as best I could the next morning, I carried on south toward New Denver.
Two km south of Nakusp, I caught what looked like a giant motorcycle yard sale out of the corner of my eye. Mark Veilleux’s yard is home to some 20 bikes, spread out over a half acre. I had to check this out and found a couple of jems. I didn’t know that HONDA even made a 350-4 but here was one sitting there next to a 400-4 and a BSA 650 Scrambler. That 350 motor was so small that the 4 exhaust pipes looked like spaghetti and you probably needed jeweller’s tools to work on it. Mark is the epitomy of motorcycle friendly and had heard of TOAD ROCK, planning to start his own campground in the 12 acres at the rear of his property.
Coffee at the Slocan Golf Club clubhouse was necessary to drink in the vistas of Slocan Lake from the back veranda. The restaurant help rode a bike so I was welcomed with a warmth not shared by the playing clientele, who viewed me warily.

A little jewel of a HONDA 350-4
Hwy 31A from New Denver to Kaslo ran through some of the most historic mining areas of the Kootenays. Evidence of old mine entrances, tailings, abandoned rail rights of way, concrete mine footings, jumbled piles of lumber which were once mine buildings, dotted both sides of the roadway. The road itself was patched and broken in parts but got better as you got closer to Kaslo.
Kaslo remains the emerald of the Kooteneys. The restored, original downtown buildings, and the paddlewheeler MOYIE pulled up on shore as a museum—all are tribute to an age where the Arrow, Slocan and Kooteney Lakes were the highways and a rare motorcycle may have come in as deck cargo. Kaslo is also home to the very motorcycle friendly Laddie Malik and his SILVER SPOON CAFÉ.

Laddie, a refugee from North York, has excellent Eggs Florentine, an airy patio for those campers among us and a covered porch in case its raining. He will also engage you in interesting conversation, since he just plain likes people. The help is also friendly instead of the usual standoffishness of upscale cafes in busier parts of the country where they tend to process us customers like bottom line numbers, and I’m thinking of the Kamloops Starbucks I went to the other morning. I’ve had some looks like I’ve just run over their cat.

Just 2 km down the road from Kaslo, is the MIRROR LAKE CAMPGROUND.
I’ve stayed here before, though I won’t be on this trip, but a visit with Terry at the front counter confirms my earlier impressions that this place is a, clean, well run campground with large, terraced, grassy sites leading down to a sandy beach to the aptly named Mirror Lake. Boat and canoe rentals combined with a lake full of fish means that you and your kids would have a ball here. This is more of a family campsite, however, and the sound of a old panhead warming up for 10 minutes at 600 in the morning would probably not be appreciated. This is not really a motorcycle campground, although Terry made it clear that we are welcome and it is a beautiful setting.

Finally, I arrive at TOAD ROCK Motorcycle Campground. The approach signs are hard to spot unless you are looking for them, and after a short ride up the packed dirt road, I pulled into the common area by the pavilion. There was Mary coming toward me with a square of plywood to put under my kickstand so the bike wouldn’t fall over in the wet grass after the rains. If you’re extremely fortunate, “Aunty Em” will meet you in her red slippers. I was blown away by Mary Laird’s concern for my bike and the open air pavilion, supported on all four corners by live trees. First impressions are powerful. Mary, and her partner Steve Ramsbottom, have transformed 34 acres of bush into their vision of what the perfect campground for motorcyclists should be…and it is. “It’s not a bar.” says Mary, as we sit on stools at the large curved kitchen counter in the pavilion. This is the community center, complete with eating area, wet sink, pool table, fridge and freezer, two sets of drums, and Mary’s old Honda cruiser. If you need to put something in the fridge or freezer, that’s what it’s there for. There is another cooler for beverages and if you take one, just put your money in the jar. A recently completed shower and toilet building makes this the nicest place to have a camp shower in BC…better than Bridal Falls Camperland, which until now, had been tops. Better yet, the showers are free…included in the $15.00 camping fee. Its soon obvious that this will be unlike any camping experience I have ever had. The honour system is alive and well here, as Mary reflected “ …this is based on trust, honour, and respect.” Free showers, free pool, new flush toilets, community coolers.

This pavilion, the new outbuildings, the burn out pit, complete with a burnt out Road King…this place is funky and cool—everything other commercial campsites are not. Maybe you’d be thinking that this is a raucous place but there are limits on acceptable and non acceptable noise. The old panhead warming up for 10 minutes in the morning is acceptable noise whereas AC/DC at full volume after 11:00 pm is not. Mary and Steve actually sleep out under the stars in a 4 poster bed, rather than hidden away in their rustic log cabin, so that if party noise is keeping you awake at night, it’s keeping them awake too and they’ll have a gentle word with the partiers to consider others. This is a work in progress. The vision is unique and grand. Pure B.C., pure Kooteneys, and pure motorcycle. They don’t care what you ride as long as you ride. My open armed acceptance as I rode in on my Aspencade was living proof of that as the place has a definite Harley theme.
The burnout pit deserves further mention. It is indeed both a place for burnouts, should the need overcome you, but it is also the fire pit where you can gather on a warm Kooteney night .

As cool a piece of sculpture as you’ll find anywhere, resulting from a neighbour’s winter storage shed fire, the Road King was enshrined on a stone mantle overlooking the lake. Residents and visitors at TOAD ROCK took up a collection the following year and presented the uninsured owner with $7000.00 toward a new ride.

There’s a different set of rules here—fewer rules—all based on trust, respect and acceptance…something we could all live by. This is also a new benchmark from which I will compare any future campground and, believe me, they are going to work awfully hard to met this new standard set by TOAD ROCK.
Email: info@toadrockcampground.com

HOW TO GET THERE:

TOAD ROCK Motorcycle Campground
2865 Toad Rock Rd.,
Hwy 31 (between Balfour and Ainsworth)
Phone: 250-229-5448
Toll free phone: 1-877-229-5448
Email: info@toadrockcampground.com

PASTA TRADING POST RESTAURANT/B&B
Keremeos, B.C.,
Phone: 250-499-2933
Email:PastaTradingPost.com

THE SILVER SPOON BAKERY CAFÉ
301 Front St.,
Kaslo, B.C.,
Phone:250-3532808

MARK’S MINI EXCAVATING &
Motorcycle campground
Nakusp B.C.,
Phone: 250-2653782

GOLD PAN CAFÉ
Hwy. 6 East of Cherryville

MIRROR LAKE CAMPGROUND
Hwy 31, 2 km south of Kaslo.
Phone: 250-3537102.

Bill Gedye
Two Wheel Tales

by Bill Gedye

You know it’s late in the year when you get up and you can see your breath. In the tent, that night, I had to put on an extra layer after that annoying cold spot in the small of the back couldn’t be covered easily. Unzipping the flap and heading out the door, I was greeted by an overhead spectacle where every star ever made was on display from horizon to horizon.

This was just south of Winthrop, Washington, where there isn’t a whole lot of street light “splash” to spoil stargazing. Since the laser surgery several years ago, I just look at them because I can. The Milky Way looked like a giant paint spatter across the black sky.

Getting late in the year also means the sun goes down way earlier and you’re stuck for things to do at 8:00 PM if you don’t have the Coleman lantern to read by. There aren’t many others in the campground’a few families with pre-school children by their campfires… the office is close to closing and it’s too cool for the pool.
A quick ride into Winthrop at 8:00pm was something like Victoria in the early days… wooden sidewalks rolled up and 90% of the stores darkened. The remaining stores are populated by owners lounging at the counter watching the clock for the longest half hour of the day just before they could close up and head home themselves.

Then there’s the weather later in the year on the west coast. Anytime after Labour Day, you can expect the warmth of summer to disappear immediately and turn to the daytime cool air/warm sun and more unpredictable precipitation. That’s the setting for the start of this trip.

The plan was to take the Washington State Ferry from Sidney, BC to Anacortes, Washington, then on through the Northern Cascade Mountains to Winthrop, Wash., and south from there as far as conditions would allow. Now, you realize that there is a LOT of harping about the BC Ferries within BC… especially after it had been converted from a Crown Corporation to semi private enterprise following the “fast ferry” fiasco. This was to get it as far as possible from the political interference that just about bankrupted the corporation when the political masters of the time decided to forgo any long range construction plan and go hell bent constructing all aluminum “Fast Cats” catamarans which turned out to be completely unsuitable for coastal BC conditions. They were too small, used too much fuel, and couldn’t reach their speed potential between ports due to excessive wash entering and leaving populated port areas. One billion dollars later, the government was defeated, and the “Fast Cats” abandoned…but the debt remained. But if you really want to appreciate BCF, you have to take the Washington State Ferry (WSF). The one I took from Sidney, BC, to Anacortes Wash., was a perfect foil to BCF. There was no food service on board due to a labour situation, so you were stuck with whatever you had in your pack, could bum from a fellow passenger, or the bag of peanuts from the gift shop. In addition, the bare linoleum floors and plastic seats make any BC Ferry look like the Regal Princess. The loading procedures are a gong show too. If you are travelling to Friday Harbour on the Anacortes ferry, you have to BACK ONTO the Washington State ferry. Try this with the novice towing the 5th wheel. All this will make you appreciate BC Ferries that much more.

It’s getting late, on with the story.

Have you ever tried to get an accurate weather forecast from anyone on the road? When I left home, the forecast was for scattered showers, but the sky looked far more threatening than that. One wag replied that it was raining when I asked him if he had heard what the weather would be.

A steady overcast deteriorated into a steady drizzle accompanied by increasing wind gusts. This made me abandon plans for camping that night at Bayview State Park, so I opted to hotel it at the Skagit Casino. First class rooms at a reasonable price, but the bike stayed outside in the storm that night.

The next day dawned cloudy with scattered deluges as I headed along Hwy 20, taking the route through the southern Cascade Mountains toward Winthrop, Wash. The rain gear was earning its keep on this trip so far. Lots of espresso stops for warmth and cover. At the Lyman espresso bar, that roll of black duct tape in the trunk came in handy to repair Toni’s the torn convertible top on her Cavalier. The leaves are just starting to turn colour and you can notice little piles of them under some of the trees…blasted off by this downpour, no doubt.

Fortunately, just past the 5200 ft summit, the weather broke, the sun came out and off came the gear, as it had warmed up to 50F. Sunglasses were necessary for the final run through deer country into Winthrop. This last stretch is on a deer migration route and they have signs up totalling the deer killed and the dollar damage done so far this year.

Still the same old Winthrop, as I hadn’t been through here for a few years. There was a large overflow parking area to the west of town, a new “Welcome to Winthrop” sign over the western approach to town, but the same comfortable “old west” flavour permeated the false front buildings and wooden sidewalks that thudded with each step of your riding boots. They have a great KOA just south of town and that’s where I was headed to set up for the night. It was just warm enough to make a splash in their pool to wash away the stiffness of the ride and dry off in the sun.

Parked a few lots over was Steve, who was dragging a new Leesure Lite camper trailer behind his anniversary HD Ultra-Glide. The trailer was brand new, purchased the previous day and this was the maiden voyage. Sure looked slick as hell. Unlatch the top, flip it open over the rear hinge and, voila!..you’re set up within 15 seconds. Packing it up is just as easy, with a little tucking and folding. The real advantage would be in wet weather, when everything I own gets soaked when I pack up in the rain, then have to unpack later to dry it all out before you set up again.

The next morning was a beautiful clear and bright fall day…the sun was warm but there was a definite nip to the air. I rode south along the Columbia River, enjoying the circles in the water from rising fish, while keeping an eye on the shoulder for deer… and that fool who’s following me too close. There were lots of other bikes on the road too, making the best of the break in the weather. There was a marker at one
spot along the Columbia that described how there had been a huge earthquake and rockslide in 1872 which had actually dammed up the river for a few days. It pointed out the darker seams in the rock where lava had actually filled the cracks in the fractured rock back in the early geological days.

There’s plenty of evidence of the early history of the area as well…like the old, broken down footbridge hanging precariously between both banks of the Skagit river. It would be scary enough walking over it by yourself, let alone carrying a load to the other side, which would have been necessary if you were an early American wanting to get to the other side. You probably had to pay a toll to whoever built it, as well. This is one of the amazing things about bike travel. You pay attention to the things that are going on around you and things just don’t pass by unnoticed while you’re reaching for the car radio. Of course, there are things you can’t help but notice, they are so huge and imposing, like the giant impeller from the Wells dam on the Columbia River.

After a stop at Wenatchee, I turned back north toward Winthrop, heading up the more placid westerly route along Hwy 97 alt, through the Lake Chelan area. Then, on the downhill section heading into Pateros, I heard an ungodly roar off to my right which sounded like a low flying aircraft. All I could see was a giant roostertail on the surface of the river. I pulled over to the side of the road and had the best seat in the house for a hydroplane race. This one had to be the size of the unlimiteds, but with a monster piston engine and the roar was wonderful. The crowd on the shoreline in the town park beckoned so I rode down the road, around the corner, across the tracks and pulled up right at the curb. There was not much of a crowd down at this end. Off came the lawn chair from my trailer and I set up camp in the middle of a huge expanse of grass with a clear sightline to the water. The next three hours in the sun was luxurious.
There were inboards, outboards, the formula 1 boats (tunnel hulls) which could turn on a dime, small v-8 closed-cockpit hydros with crackling 5 liter high performance motors, and the super stocks, which looked like drag boats…their big, chromed v-8’s bellowing across the water.

At the end of the event, clouds were starting to gather again, so I thought that a KOA Kabin would be a judicious choice for the evening…and what a luxury it was. If you’ve never tried one, keep it in mind when the weather is bad or you just don’t feel like setting up for the night. They are very Spartan on the inside, with just a mattress and bedframe but they have the luxuries of an electric overhead light and a small oil heater (which I used to dry out my shower towel). I could now read another few chapters of VANCOUVER after the sun went down. The next morning, I was greeted by the sight of my fogging breath…another cool start…may have to fire up the electric vest, but the air is clear and the sky is blue.

Headed north for the border today, which takes me through the Okanogan National Forest. Note the spelling, which is different from the Canadian Okanagan valley. Highway 20 went through Loup Loup Pass and the surrounding forest looked very similar to Manning Park except for the lack of bug kill. The mountain pine beetle has killed almost 1 in 3 trees on the east side of Manning Park. The ever present curtain of green along the road has been replaced by a wall of brown interspersed with the odd healthy tree, fuel for a huge potential fire. Here, on Hwy 20, the wall of trees is a healthy, vivid green.

Down south, the sky is getting very dark and evil looking but I’m headed north into the sunshine. It’s even getting warmer and I start peeling layers off again. Almost blew by the little berg of Riverside, Wash., but this is one of the opportunities to take the path less travelled. This is a one street, no stoplight town with a general store and across the street stands Detros Western Store. This looks like the Wall Drugs of Riverside, taking up just about a whole block of the two block town. Walking through the door, I am almost overcome by the smell of leather, and there’s a reason for it… the saddles, the boots, the chaps, the reins. They even have a huge pair of western boots sized 24EEEEE custom made by Tony Lamas for Andre the Giant. Apparently, Andre couldn’t take delivery as, in the time it took to construct the boots, his feet had outgrown them.

My last stop in the good ol’ USofA was Don’s Fruit Stand, just south of the Oroville border crossing. Don’s wife Pam was there and she proceeded to shower me with sample apricots and plums, which I added to my simple purchase of an apple to lend some variety to my diet of travel food. A strapping and bearded Don stopped by on the way from the orchard, admired the bike, then revealed his dream of having a Harley and travelling with Pam. I felt a little guilty about living Don’s dream (except for the Harley and Pam)…OK, I’m over it.

A short hop through the border: “Where do you live?, How long have you been in the US?, what’s the value of goods you’re bringing back with you?, Do you have any alcohol or tobacco?” That question reminded me that I’d forgotten to pick up a duty free Jack Daniels on my way.

That blackness down south is moving north and its going to rain within the hour, so I’m looking for a room for the evening. The HIGHLAND motel in Osoyoos will do it. Reasonably priced and clean, but not fancy. I’ve never seen anyone work as hard as the owner, a young (Spanish?) fellow with a great black lab helper. It cost about the same as the KOA Kabin, but has satellite and the Playboy channel. What else do you do in a small town except sit under the eaves of the main street espresso shop, light up a cigar and watch the locals roll by…some four or five times.

Osoyoos is also the place where LeesureLite Trailers are built, so I rode to the factory and told Rick Lees the owner, about my previous encounter with Steve and his new trailer. I have done business with Rick and his wife Dian before and have found them to be straightforward and honest…that’s all I ask…and they filled the bill admirably.

The final leg home that day was on the familiar Hwy 3 through the Similkameen valley where I passed the slide mentioned in my earlier story, “Motorcycle Friendly”. It was as I had imagined, as I had passed through the slide area only an hour before it happened. There must have been an enormous amount of water come from that August sky to wash that amount of material down from the hills, over about 80 acres of gently sloping land, across the road, through the park on the other side of the road, and down into the Similkameen river. There were apparently three separate slides trapping about 30 people in their cars between slides for a day or so until the road could be cleared. One fellow who witnessed one slide told me that night that he had seen someone trying to drive a Jeep through the slide while it was still moving. His eyes were like saucers while he was telling the story. He was reliving it. Hell, the worst I had to put up with during that great electrical storm was the tablecloths blowing off the patio in Keremeos, taking the cutlery with them, after flapping around like they were in the batcave. Beauty was, nobody got hurt.

A steady rain all the rest of the way home reminded me of a song:
“On a day like this, you know you’re gonna get,
Mighty damn cold and awful damn wet.”

But the interesting parts didn’t stop here they continued all the way home…like the old guy at the Cafe in Princeton, who solved his back problems by using mouse pads for insoles. Skid marks and roadside crosses. There are two more ideas for future stories. Road construction and fresh, slidey mud on a 650 pound bike towing a trailer…that’s an adventure on it’s own.

Its getting late…late in the year and late in the day while I finish this story. Tomorrow’s waiting to revisit my travels and plan for shorter trips as the weather gets colder. The camper is under a tarp and the tent is put away. We’re about a month away from putting stabilizer in the fuel and heaving the old Wing onto the center stand for the winter’s rest and repair. Not much time left before the trees are bare and the rain is a constant. Got to make every riding day count until then.

Bill Gedye
Two Wheel Tales

by Bill Gedye

There it sits, alone and forlorn, up against the side of that building or alone in the middle of that field off to your right as you slide by on your way down the road. Your attention is split between checking it out and hitting the proper apex for that next turn coming up so you don’t end up in the weeds, sitting alone and forlorn yourself.

One trip, these monuments to the past intruded into my psyche enough to start checking them out, instead of just passing them by. Most of these relics from the 50’s and 60’s are recognizable, and I’m old enough to remember when they were shiny new on the dealers’ lot, reflecting rows of naked lightbulbs in sparkling fresh paint.

Take this ‘64 Ford Galaxie 500 XL 2 door hardtop, for example. In it’s day, this unit was the cutting edge of style and performance. Ford had radically shifted their rounded styling of the ‘63 to the striking angular lines of the ‘64. They retained their trademark bullseye taillight and were well down the 60’s horsepower highway with the introduction of the huge 406 cu.in. motor….a big step up in displacement from the previous year’s 390, and the interim step to the King Kong 426 yet to come in another year or so. Then, displacement was king and this unit was a player. The new fastback roof line started in late ‘63 and was a great advantage in Ford’s NASCAR effort….everyone else was saddled with a brick like c-pillar. This piece was one of the big three in the days when performance meant displacement, meant horsepower….and gas was 25 cents a gallon.

Others are rusted skeletons of the 20’s or 30’s…unknown and unloved…their makers’ badges long since removed by souvenir hunters…their bones picked clean by the buzzards. They evoke images of Oakies fleeing the dustbowl conditions of the Midwest, these barely running wrecks heaped down with belongings, bleak faces staring from a black and white tableau. Is this what brought these old bombs to the side of the road? Were they abandoned after breaking down along the way? This area has entertained generations of fruit picking migrant workers and that scenario is as likely as any…one way transportation to a new life in the interior. And what about the owners? Who saw this sassy black box with the swooping fenders in the showroom and marvelled that it actually had a rack on the back that would accommodate a real steamer trunk? Who’s hands gripped that steering wheel, mile after dusty mile? Who lifted that hood up and cursed Nash ‘cause he didn’t fit a larger rad and now the motor’s seized?

Not only are the cars, but how about the trucks? They too eventually wear out after a hard life of hauling and dragging all manner of goods across the fields and into town, then they too are abandoned by the roadside. Huge square fronts sit side by side as if lined up in that last freight yard in the sky….escaping the relentless baking heat only in the shade of a tree which continues to grow between them, until they are hauled off to be melted down, their spare parts no longer of use to anyone.

Most of these truck hulks are recognizable, but how about those others, whose shapes only look like ancient toys…not the roaring lurching reality of work on the farm? Their windshields and drivelines broken, they are retired instead of abandoned…though retired none too gracefully, as few are restored to their former glory as a classic car would be. They sit here, warts and all, a rusting reminder of a past that we can only imagine, as all the hands that gripped those wheels are gone as well.

There are contemporary abandonements as well. Check out part of someone’s home on the way to the coast which found itself horizontal after missing a turn near Friday Creek on Hwy.3.
…and we ride on down the road, shifting up through the gears, getting back up to speed. Someday, someone may wonder whose hands gripped the handlebars of that rusting and neglected old 1100 Honda deteriorating at the side of that house…and the stories they could tell about riding through the 2 lane winding roads of the interior, watching the sun come up over the hills, knowing its going to be another hot one. The rain, the heat, the adrenaline rush when you saw that deer at the side of the road preparing to hurl itself in front of you…arriving at the campground, hot and sweaty after 10 hours on the road, to a welcome splash in the lake as soon as you can get your gear off.

We could tell them stories…..oh, we could tell them stories.

Bill Gedye,
Two Wheel Tales