Hi all!
I'm making another temporary appearance on the list. Sorry to say
temporary, but volume is volume.
Some of you may remember I picked up a cherry `98 KLR250 this summer for a
song. The machine only had 700 miles of street riding on it and it appeared
to be right off the stealer's showroom floor. I love motivated sellers!
The machine was relegated to garage sitting duty and it was evident in the
fuel system and the carburetor. Muriatic acid cleansed the gas tank of rust
and a weekend disassembling the carb cured the varnish problem.
The bike did see a few miles of travel running around the yard, but I had
other pressing motorcycle endeavors to keep me busy and I didn't tag the
bike until recently. However, after completing the 2001 running of the Iron
Butt Rally I'm ready to devote some attention back to the little KLR.
Although the machine saw a little yard duty, I didn't get a chance to really
thrash it until I could drive it on the street.
My first street session saw a serious crank case blow-by problem. Engine
oil would literally be pouring from the spooge vent box leading from the
crank case to the air box. Enough oil in fact to make Hardley sized puddles
at stop lights look like mere drops. This is not good!
At first, I thought I had over-filled the crank case. Two oil changes
later, I figured I had the right amount of oil.
I'm now thinking its a ring problem. Currently I'm waiting on the arrival
of the factory Kawasaki manuals before I start the compression check and
debugging phase of this little investigation.
In the mean time, I'm still banging the bike around in the dirt at several
office construction sites near my house. Too much fun! I just have to make
sure I keep enough oil in the bike!
Anyway, I just thought I'd let the list know what's going on. Plus, I may
have a few questions to the small minority of 250 owners out there as I work
through this oil problem.
Below is a post I made to another MC list concerning some dirt fun from
10/28/01. NOTE TO THOSE EXTREMELY PC INDIVIDUALS... THE GIRL FRIEND
BEATING COMMENTS ARE JOKES. I ONLY BEAT HER WHEN SHE DESERVES IT!
Okay, here's one of those "cut her loose", "give her another chance", or
"just beat the shit out of her and hopefully she'll learn" questions. I'm
give this to the List because it involves other LMs, male pride, and of
course, bikes.
Girl friend arranges and pays for a weekend away at a lovely cabin buried
deep in the Hocking Hills area of Ohio. This lovely cabin is equipped with
a fantastic hot tub and all the peace and quite one could ask for. However,
all weekend long, said girl friend keeps referring to how a certain southern
LM living near Deal's Gap could treat her better and provide such a cabin
and atmosphere on a regular basis.
You know, LMs do borrow and crash bikes, but this is ridiculous!
After this long weekend of little peace and little quite, I though I'd take
my on-shaky-ground girl friend on a zippy tour of the neighborhood on the
back of the KLR.
Fun was had, mud was splattered, deer were spooked, rabbits were chased,
creeks were crossed, etc. In a moment of what-the-fuck-was-I-thinking I
pulled into a office parking lot and asked Ann if she'd like to try driving
the KLR. My first clue there was going to be a problem should have been
when she asked why the bike wasn't going after I released all the hand
levers. Ann doesn't know how to drive a standard automobile, by the way.
After just telling her to sloooooooooowly let out the clutch and allow the
bike to putt-putt around the parking lot for this first lesson, she climbed
aboard. She slowly let out the clutch all right, but something caused her
to grab a handful of gas. Her first time piloting a bike and she pulls a
wheelie!
That is, for about seven feet.
The bike came back down and fell to the left trapping her leg snapping the
clutch lever.
Personally, I'm voting for beating her ass!
=================
To see Ann's comments from a dirt outing 11/04/01, please point your
favorite browser to:
http://hometown.aol.com/anapoletan/myhomepage/writing.html
And since I never like to "take" from a list without first contributing,
here are a couple of write-ups from my Iron Butt experience.
PLEASE RESPECT THE AUTHOR'S INTELLECTUAL PROPERTY RIGHTS. THE
FOLLOWING ACCOUNTS AND OBSERVATIONS MAY BE DISTRIBUTED FOR
NONCOMMERCIAL USE AS LONG AS THIS COPYRIGHT AND THE ORIGINAL AUTHOR
BANNER ARE INCLUDED.
(C) Copyright 2001 by Russell D. Stephan. All rights reserved.
email: rstephan@...
-------
Iron Butt Rally, Leg one, Alabama to California, September, 2001
Sunk before the rally had barely begun.
You have to head east before you can point the bike towards the west
coast. As the rally started, the ST was traveling towards the first
bonus of my rally attempt -- Tellico Planes, Tennessee. It was rather
odd to be running this event and my first bonus was to get gas at a
station I visit four to five times a year anyway.
Now, being familiar with the Tellico Planes/Robbinsville/Smoky Mountain
National Park area I wasn't going to get sucked into making the trip
over the Cherohala Skyway to Robbinsville for the next closest bonus.
There ain't a fast way in or out of Robbinsville! And, traveling south
of the Smoky Mountain National Park is nothing if not a lesson in over-
crowded tourist traffic navigation.
Nope, my plan of attack was to get the Tellico Planes bonus then head
back out to I-75 up through Knoxville and over I-40 to Ashville before
bagging the two easily reachable Blue Ridge Parkway bonuses of Mitchell
and Pisgah.
The way I figured it, if I could be back on I-40 heading west before my
leg one countdown timer reached the 50 hour mark, I'd be on track time
and distance wise. I managed to meet my goal only shy by thirty-five
minutes or so.
Once I did start heading west on I-40, I relaxed quite a bit. You see,
I was relatively nervous about my decision to head east on this first
leg of my first Iron Butt. Although, I wanted to do well, I also knew
the kiss of death in an endurance event like the Iron Butt Rally is
biting off more than one can stomach. By meeting my self-imposed fifty-
hours-to-head-west deadline, I figured I'd met the challenge of walking
that fine line of maximizing bonus points without jeopardizing my on-
time arrival in California.
I chased the setting sun via I-40 and settled into a comfortable freeway
drone. Somewhere west of Knoxville and feeling the first signs of
fatigue, I spotted a deer ten feet off the shoulder of the highway.
Geeez, that animal is huge! It can't be a deer, must be a horse! What
the fuck is a horse doing on a freeway? Hell, it's only the first day
of this event and I haven't even started traveling though the seriously
dangerous areas of the country with truly *big* wandering animals.
That can't be a horse, too much fur around the neck. An elk?!?!? Did I
just see an elk? I know I've been on the bike for a number of hours
straight, but I shouldn't be tired enough to conjure up a nonexistent
elk. Are there elk in Tennessee? Must be, I just passed one and it
gave me a shudder.
Still traveling on I-40 heading west in western Tennessee around 1:00am
or so, I felt the need for an hour or two nap. As luck would have it, a
rest area was just ahead. And, to my utter surprise, the rest area was
closed for new construction. It's my lucky day! No cars, no trucks, no
noise, and no worries; this will be my private little roadside nap area.
The ST easily navigated between the gaps created by the orange barricade
signs leading off the freeway and to the rest area. The parking area
around the main under-construction/renovation bathhouse was completely
devoid of light. None of the sodium security lights were activated.
Makes perfect sense, the rest area was barricaded off and closed to
travelers. Why would TDOT light the place up? Oh, am I going to get a
comfortable rest here!
I pulled the bike up to have the front wheel touching the raised
sidewalk concrete and the ST's dual headlight illuminated the grassy
area of the rest stop. Well, I'll be. Check it out! There's picnic
tables there under a nice overhang. I gotta get me some of that! I'll
definitely be able to sleep well on one of those picnic tables with my
bike parked not but three feet away.
With a little gas I nudged the ST over the raised sidewalk and proceeded
to cover the fifty feet of wet dewy grass before the start of the
overhang's concrete pad. Just shy of the pad I stopped the ST and
played the gas/clutch/gas/clutch modulation game to get the bike's front
tire across a small section of pea gravel and up on the sheltered picnic
table pad. No sweat with the front tire! However, getting the rear
tire to follow suit would take three to four hours and buckets of dirty
sweat.
Circumstance -- a condition, fact, or event accompanying, conditioning,
or determining another : an essential or inevitable concomitant.
Yeah, well, to Hell with Webster and his damned dictionary!
Circumstance #1 -- The concrete pad of the overhang was surrounded by a
foot and a half wide border of pea gravel.
Circumstance #2 -- The pea gravel was about eight inches deep.
Circumstance #3 -- The pea gravel "moat" was bound on one side by the
concrete pad, the other side being a buried 2x12 plank of treated
landscaping lumber acting as edging between the stream rounded stones
and the grass of the rest area.
Circumstance #4 -- Doofus ST pilot didn't carry enough momentum to
completely clear the rear tire of the "moat".
Circumstance #5 -- The "moat" happened to be just the right width to
tightly swallow the ST's rear tire, but not tight enough to allow the
tire to climb out under engine power.
Circumstance #6 -- I'm under somewhat of a time constraint with which to
deal with this "challenge".
It was no big thing when the bike's rear tire first decided to settle in
the pea gravel moat. Hey, a little gas and in no time at all I'll be
putting down the side stand soon to be followed by putting down my head
for a snooze! Not this time Spanky!
I goosed the throttle and slowly let out the clutch.
How many of you out there know that awful feeling of a tire clawing and
bouncing around in a hole unable to find traction? If you are a reader
of this account having never experienced this sensation, I hope you
never discover its pain and stomach sinking drain because help is
usually a long ways away.
The high-pitched sound of a spinning tire trapped by circumstance is a
death wail. It's like the blood curdling cry of a wounded and dying
rabbit caught in the immobilizing hold of a snare. A rabbit fighting a
snare is a grotesque scene in its play of fast, sleek, and quick against
a standstill morass. The motionless ST might just as well been covered
in cherry red blood rather than its `97 red paint scheme.
Death to speed.
Death to sleep.
Death to covering distance.
Death to the movement of life.
No way to run from the death of my hopes.
Death to time as the seconds give way to minutes and rotting minutes
give way to decomposing hours.
I continued spinning the rear wheel hoping for a traction bit and a
continuation of forward travel. It wasn't happening.
In short order, the rear wheel had dug itself deep enough into the pea
gravel to bring the oil pan/exhaust system in contact with the edge of
the concrete pad. There was probably a foot difference between the
level of the front and rear axles. With a forceful and audible,
"Fuck!" I mentally resigned myself to a couple of hours of "problem
solving".
The side stand and center stand were utterly useless considering I had
zero clearance between the ground/concrete/pea gravel and the bike.
Luckily, the machine was stable enough resting with the exhaust on the
edge of the cement pad and leaning the left mirror housing against one
of the shelter's roof support posts. Had I not been fortunate enough to
be next to the support post, I would have needed to lay the bike down.
With the tip-over wings higher than the rear area, laying the bike down
would have probably complicated my life more than it already was.
Gingerly, I bumped and prodded the ST's resting position to make sure it
wasn't going to fall over as I removed the bike's luggage. Secure in
the notion the bike was going to remain upright, I commenced removing
the saddle bags and the bungeed Alaska survival gear.
Hoping the lighted load would allow the bike to climb out of its hole
under power, I gave it one more luggageless try. I didn't think it
would work, but I had to try.
After my failed extraction attempt, it took a few minutes for my eyes to
readjust to the low level of light my mouth mounted mini-Mag light
produced vs. the light produced by the lights on the ST. The sky was
also completely black with no moon or stars to observe this struggling
mortal fight with the whims and obstacles the gods throw down in front
of adventurous souls.
At note to those that travel with mini-Mag lights: Make sure you have a
way to use the light sans hands. They sell a plastic bite piece that
will allow you to comfortably use your teeth to hold the flashlight. I,
however, opted for the cheaper, thick, parachute packing rubber band as
a bite surface on the butt end of the light.
The Tennessee early morning air was hot, humid, and not conductive to my
physical efforts to continue west towards Pomona. I dropped my `Stich
and Bohn back plate on one of the picnic tables under the shelter acting
as my quagmire.
I took a deep breath, drank most of the ice water in my half-gallon
cooler, and took a step back to examine my options.
Call someone.
This was the first thing to pop into my head -- a towing company
perhaps. Shortly, however, I decided that this would just turn this
dark, off-limits rest area into a lit up scene ripe for some bored third
shift LEO to stick his looking-to-strut-his-stuff attitude in my face.
No, that would unnecessarily complicate my life.
I only need one or two people to help me lift the rear of the bike out
of this "moat". Maybe I could get on the hand held CB radio I have in
my gear and ask for assistance from freeway passers-by. No, I don't
think so. This would also act as chum in the LEO infested waters.
In three or four hours, the work crews renovating the rest area will
start arriving for their shifts. I think I'll just get some sleep until
they arrive. They'll probably be more than willing to give me a ten-
minute hand.
However, I was still pretty keyed up and I knew I'd have to take a few
minutes clearing my head before I could even contemplate sleep. Funny
how needing sleep put me in this mess and now the mess was preventing me
from a peaceful rest.
As my mind ran with the options of getting me out of this situation, I
also thought about how I could extract myself. The rest area was, after
all, under construction and the site had a myriad of building supplies
and tools.
Gee, I wonder if there is a cable ratchet winch for stretching chain
link fence lying around somewhere. I could use the shelter's exposed
rafters and ratchet the rear out of the pea gravel. Hell, even a rope
and a shovel handle to twist will do the same thing. Time to take a
cool-down walk around the construction site to inventory possible
extraction implements.
Now I'm in my element -- problem solving. What can I use? What do I
have to fabricate?
With my trusty mini-Mag light, I toured the site. The bare dirt in and
around the site was somewhat moist. My Combat Touring boots slipped and
sloped as I poked my light into various locations for materials and
ideas. God, it was humid!
My exploration of the construction site had the opposite effect from
calming me down for a nap. As a matter of fact, it ramped up my mind
with strategies to get back on the road.
I was unsuccessful in finding a ratcheting winch or a suitable length of
rope. However, I did find a couple of trenching shovels.
Trenching shovels are short implements of about three feet long from
business end to the tip of their handles. They have long narrow blades
and are mostly used for clearing cable and PVC pipe trenches.
I took one of the shovels back to the mired bike and started digging at
the grass and dirt behind the rear wheel of the bike.
Although, I've tried to describe the situation I managed to find myself
in, there's nothing like a picture to help with the image. Here's what
I was faced with:
NOTE: The following ASCII art diagram is best viewed in a fixed width
font like system Courier. If you have an email client that uses some
other font, copy the diagram and paste it to MS Notepad or some other
basic fixed width font display application.
| |
||
||
||
| |
| | Concrete Shelter Pad
| |
/ ------ | |
/ | |
/ Dig |-----------| |-----------|
Area | Rear Wheel| |Front Wheel|
\ |-----------| |-----------|
\ | |
\ ------ | |
| -------------------------------------
|
|
|
|
|
>>>|----------------------------------------------------------
^
2x12" Edging ^
Lumber ^
I spent the next forty-five minutes digging, sweating, and drooling with
the mini-Mag light hanging out of my mouth illuminating my late night
mining activities. My hands became covered in mud as I grabbed some of
the bigger clods of turf I cut out from behind the bike's rear wheel.
Slowly, the rest of me began to attract mud and dirt as I kneeled at the
excavation work.
With the preliminary digging complete and a hole three to four inches
deeper than the trapped rear wheel, I took a break for more water and
another psych session. Now, how do I deal with that 2x12 still hemming
in the bike?
With the shovel acting as a pry bar, I worked on the corner of the
edging material. This turned out to be one of the trickier tasks. The
corner 2x12's were nailed together rather well. Finally, I managed to
free the corner side of the 2x12 restraining the ST.
I was still stuck, however. The 2x12 planks were ten feet long. The
bike was only three or four feet from the just-freed corner of the 2x12
and there was no way I was going to be able to remove the whole ten foot
section of 2x12. In short sweaty order, however, I started working on
the edging plank to the left of the trapped bike.
It took me a few minutes of unsuccessfully trying to work the left side
of the plank like I did the corner section before I realized using the
shovel as a pry bar wasn't going to work. I dropped to my knees and
used the edge of the trenching shovel as a hatchet, chopping at the
edging and working my way through the twelve inches of treated wood like
a beaver. My hair and sweat drenched face became a haven for the small
bits of flying wood pulp and chop chips.
Finally, with the 2x12 cut, I removed the four or five foot section of
the edging plank from behind the bike.
For an instant I thought about digging out the gravel around the rear
wheel. No, that will have to wait.
With the material directly behind the bike removed, I walked over to
where the construction site had received numerous bound pallets of red
brick. A couple of the pallets had broken their bindings and allowed
the bricks to spill to the ground. I retrieved two to three dozen
bricks for the next phase of my extraction project.
My hands started to hurt. In my normal day-to-day existence the only
thing my fingers pound is a keyboard. The digging, the drying effects
of the mud, and my manual labor were playing havoc with my office-soft
hands -- the sharp edges of the heavy bricks only cut up my hands more.
Handling the bricks also made me careful not to crush or smash a finger.
That's all I need from this, a hand injury!
With a pile of bricks staged near the rear of the bike, I leveled the
bottom of the excavated hole placing the pavers end-to-end and side-by-
side.
I then mounted the ST for the first time in an hour and a half. I
double-checked my footing and proceeded to give the handlebars a serious
couple of yanks in a backwards direction.
Slowly but surely the ST inched out of the gravel and rolled back on the
pavers I had just put down. The front wheel was now at the edge of the
concrete pad. That's far enough! At least the bike is now moving!
My small success was soon dampened by the fact that I still couldn't use
the side stand. Now that the bike is almost completely off the concrete
shelter pad, I can't lean the machine against the roof support column.
I muttered another expletive and took a pause to consider this next
hurtle.
I needed to get off the bike. The effort of holding it up seemed to
distract my mind from coming up with a solution to this new dilemma. I
checked my footing again and forcefully shoved the bike back to where it
was previously. Three steps forward, two steps back.
Coming up with a solution to this problem wasn't too much of an effort.
I needed to fabricate a side stand of some kind and there was plenty of
scrap 2x4 scattered around the construction site. Although, I had the
bike support problem worked out, I took a moment to try and think ahead
to any other problems I would encounter as I willed this project
forward.
The rear wheel isn't a concern. I'm just going to build a brick ramp
out of the hole and drive the bike up on to the pad. Once on the pad,
though...
Ahhh, there's a pea gravel moat on the far side of the shelter pad I'll
have to deal with in order to get the bike back on the road. I could
just make sure I carry enough momentum to cross the moat. No, that
isn't too bright. Back to searching for lumber. A ten-foot section of
2x12 was called into service to bypass the pad egress and act as a
bridge.
At the bike, I pulled it away from the support pole, rolling the rear
wheel on to the pavers. Using the scrap 2x4's I found, I wedged the
sections between the bike's tip-over wings and the ground. The
temporary supports worked like a charm. I was, however, careful as I
continued to work under the bike as I thought allowing the ST to fall on
me like a blanket would further ruin my night.
With my trusty shovel I worked the pea gravel area and repeated my dig
and brick laying efforts as the sparse traffic continued to drive by
unconcerned about struggle going on a few hundred yards off into the
darkness.
Finally, with my work as complete as it could be, I was ready to chance
my escape. I watched the freeway for a break in the appearance of
headlights before firing up the ST and aggressively applying the
throttle to pop the bike completely on to the concrete pad. Geez, that
was a non-event!
Quickly, I scampered the bike across the bridge 2x12 plank spanning the
pea gravel moat on the other side of the shelter pad and motored back to
the rest area's parking lot proper before shutting down the ST. My
heart was pounding. I quietly listened to the Tennessee roadside
darkness as if waiting for a Candid Camera crew to show up and inform me
the world had giggled and laughed at my predicament and struggle.
Unceremoniously I walked back the shelter through the dew covered grass
to retrieve the ST's luggage and my riding gear. I returned the
trenching shovel to where I found it and made another pass around my
work area checking for anything dropped or forgotten.
I was still sweating profusely as I geared up my muddy body for riding.
It felt strange to have everything back together and ready for returning
to the freeway. It seemed like the world could really give a shit that
I had managed to extract myself from this situation. I felt somehow
cheated that no one was there to witness my efforts, my successes, and
my stupidity.
As I started moving, dodging the construction office trailers and large
piles of foundation gravel, I ignored an almost alarming desire to
return to make sure I didn't leave anything important behind. For some
reason, it seemed my mind did not want me to continue. Maybe I was
worried about other challenges the Iron Butt would throw my way.
My premonitions wouldn't be that far off.
Once out on the freeway, the moving air felt wondrous as it cooled off
my body. My sleepy state from pre-stranding was gone and would it be
absent for almost the next 36 hours.
================================================
PLEASE RESPECT THE AUTHOR'S INTELLECTUAL PROPERTY RIGHTS. THE
FOLLOWING ACCOUNTS AND OBSERVATIONS MAY BE DISTRIBUTED FOR
NONCOMMERCIAL USE AS LONG AS THIS COPYRIGHT AND THE ORIGINAL AUTHOR
BANNER ARE INCLUDED.
(C) Copyright 2001 by Russell D. Stephan. All rights reserved.
email: rstephan@...
-------
Iron Butt Rally, Leg three, Washington to Maine, September, 2001
My murder would mean a welcome rest.
I arrived in Hyder, Alaska around 3:00am for the obligatory photo of the
town's entrance sign. Now, time for some sleep before gas is once again
available at 7:00am. It had been raining off and on for the last twenty
seven hours so a building with some type of an overhang was high on my
list of places to find.
Thankfully enough, I had been paying attention as I motored towards
Hyder, because I spied a school building in Stewart, British Columbia
that had a nice concrete entrance pad with a large overhang. So even
before I bagged the Hyder photo I already had a place scoped out for
snoozing. One Polariod snapshot later, I returned to the school and
hunkered down for a couple of hours of sweet sleep.
Had this been a regular long weekend tour, I probably would have broken
out the Thermarest and sleeping bag for my nap. However, this was the
2001 running of the Iron Butt Rally and I didn't have time to futz with
such luxuries even though I was carrying them (including a tent) for a
possible remote Alaska weather emergency.
Nope, this nap was gearless -- well, almost. My Bohn spine protector
serves quite well as a mattress I can wear. The hip pads of the
AeroStich also do a fantastic job of keeping me somewhat comfortable on
less-than-ideal sleeping surfaces. Retained ear plugs for street noise,
my helmet still on, a bandanna folded a few times for blocking the
security lights from the eyes, and I was off like the proverbial thrown
switch.
I have no idea how long I was sleeping before I felt a tap and/or a kick
at one of my shoulders and heard the ear-plug muffled words of, "Hey,
biker dude."
Okay, I'm sleeping at the main entrance to an elementary school. My
first absolute thought was the rouster was a local LEO. Considering I
get rousted by LEOs on a regular basis when catching forty winks during
my "normal" touring and the fact that I received such attentions during
my travels to Alabama for the start of the 2001 IBR, this was not an
unfounded train of sleepy thought.
Slowly, I got up as I loudly announced every move I was making. I kept
my arms out away from my body and proceeded to tell my observer that I
was about to remove the bandanna from my eyes.
When I removed the bandanna, I was greeted by a woman teetering back and
forth from the wind swept tide of a few too many adult beverages. As I
quickly surveyed the scene, I saw that she was with a female friend.
The female friend was the wise one and managed to stay well away from my
position. A hard assed projecting LEO is what I was expecting, two
relatively small women, I was not.
Both women seemed my junior in terms of age. I would also say they both
looked like they were in their thirties. However, their late twenties
was probably more accurate. A life of hard living does add years to
someone's appearance.
The drunk woman responsible for my sudden awakening from slumber,
grabbed my arm saying with a stumbling tongue, "I'm not letting you
stay out here in the rain. You're coming home with me!"
The male pig in me wondered why such an invitation had to come when the
*only* thing I was even remotely interested in was actual sleep.
The woman kept tugging at my arm and I tried to explain her offer was
more than generous, but I was just fine right here at the school. My
benefactor would have nothing of my answer. She said she wouldn't hear
of me refusing her invitation. I looked at her friend and asked the up-
until-this-point-silent-one if she wasn't scared about waking strangers
sleeping in public places at 3:00am in the morning. She nodded her head
and sheepishly said, "Uh huh."
My drunk antagonist continued to pester me letting me know she was still
wound up from the booze and her mind was made up about "offering" help
to this apparent-to-her down-on-his-luck biker. Somewhere in our
exchanges, each of the women told me their names. However, my sleepy
mind did not allow me to retain the information.
I was tired. No, I take that back. I wasn't tired -- I was exhausted.
My level of fatigue was such that I agreed to accompany the drunk woman
in order to get some level of rest. I don't think she would have left
me alone otherwise. Besides, she mentioned the fact her husband rode
and would love to hear about my travel stories.
This last part put me somewhat at ease about taking up her offer of
lodging. At home, I've opened up my house to fellow motorcycle
traveler's looking for an overnight stay. Also, with the rise of the
Internet, I've become somewhat accustomed to other avid riders offering
bed space and hot showers to cross country bike travelers.
After I agreed to accept the sofa sleeping arrangements, my hostess had
a moment of clarity and seriousness. She looked me in the eyes through
the face opening of my helmet and said, "I have two small daughters at
home. You're going to be good, right?"
Her question concerned me. Not because she asked it of me, but because
it surfaced in her mind and she still made the judgment call to invite
me, a total stranger, home with her. As the next few hours unfolded, I
would see that errors in judgment would seem to be familiar ground with
this woman and her family.
The ride to my warm and dry place of rest was short. The town of
Stewart, British Columbia isn't what one would call large. With their
car in the lead, I followed on the ST into a small mobile home/trailer
park of maybe eight to ten residences. I parked the bike next to the
trailer appearing to be the woman's home. My host and her friend
emerged from their car and started walking towards the trailer's
entrance. With the sweeping arm gesture of a drunken boaster my hostess
said, "This is my trailer. I'm trailer trash." Once again, I was
admonished to be good because of the woman's small daughters.
We entered the foyer of the trailer and I immediately disrobed from my
wet `Stich and helmet. I also began to take in my surroundings. The
trailer's interior was clean and neat. It was a bit crowded with
furniture and fixtures, but I was impressed with the fact that someone
was proud of this home and it showed.
It wasn't but two or three steps before the three of us entered the main
part of the trailer at the kitchen and the sight that was to be the most
surreal of all my Iron Butt Rally experiences.
At the table in the kitchen was a man of similar age as the women that
led me to this place. He was rather small in stature at about one
hundred and twenty pounds. He was unconscious and leaning at a very
uncomfortable angle towards surface of the table. He was wearing only a
pair of brief-type underwear and a gray tee shirt.
The human mind is an interesting entity. Its thought patterns and what
it denotes as important have always been something I've found
interesting. As a motorcyclist, my mind is very talented at threat
evaluation. Cars, trucks, and errant drivers on cell phones; which ones
will possibly cause me harm and which ones must I avoid? Of course, to
ride means that I cannot completely remove myself from the dangers any
vehicle can unleash. Riding in traffic is a series of threat
evaluations that remain anything but static as objects and vehicles
enter and leave the circle of close striking distance around me.
My mind did the same type of evaluations as soon as this half-clad male
entered my perception. Unconscious, GOOD. Small in stature, GOOD.
Drunk or under the influence of some substance, BAD. No weapons or
implements on table, GOOD.
On the whole, my mind moved from a very narrow focus of this man and any
possible danger he represented to the larger kitchen scene. And it was
then every alarm and klaxon in my head went to full, straight-pipe
Hardley on!
The white kitchen floor was covered in a sea of still-wet blood and
dried, dark ruby footprints. The porcelain pure refrigerator also
contained the smudges and hand prints of a struggle.
My mind was racing.
The three of us, my hostess, her friend, and I, stood there for what
seemed like hours as each of us took in the bloody site of the stained
white kitchen.
But of course, it wasn't hours. At the most, it was a few seconds
before the quiet of our sight survey changed into a cacophony of shouts
and rousts. The wife of the passed-out male rushed over to her husband
and hit him in the shoulder multiple times with the open back of her
hand in attempt to wake him and discover the reason for the grizzly
mess.
Like any disturbed drunk, the man slowly came to, with crossed and
unfocused eyes. He looked at his wife, his wife's friend, and then me
towering over all of them. At 6'3" (6'5" with Combat touring boots) I
was a monster among this collection of Stewart, B.C., residents.
The wife now was directing the same amount of determination she used to
get me to agree to her lodging offer towards her husband. Where did all
the blood came from? Of course, being the only sober one in the room, I
began to put two and two together.
One of the man's arms was full of lacerations, some of them still oozing
blood as he moved. Glass was crunching under my boots as I moved around
in this Charles Manson-like crime scene experience.
I moved towards the couple now arguing about the mess. "He needs
medical attention", I said nodding towards the injured arm.
The drunk husband heard my statement and denied he was hurt beyond a
slight cut or two. Arguing with drunks is a futile effort. I never
mentioned external medical services again.
The friend noticed the glass all over the floor and started to clean up
the larger shards. She ended up cutting her stocking shorn foot. I
attempted to offer her aid so that she didn't cut up her fingers as she
attempted to remove the piece from her foot. Once again, I was rather
forcefully dismissed by the injured individual and rebuffed from
providing assistance. At this point, I though it best that I leave
these people alone to handle their dysfunctional lives.
"I'm going back to the school."
The woman that offered me the couch space turned her attention away from
interrogating her husband and tried to reassure me that it was okay for
me to stay. Maybe from her point of view...
She disappeared down the hallway away from the kitchen and shortly
appeared with a sheet and a comforter. She put the clean sheet over the
sofa and placed the comforter on one end of the sofa. Being tired and
extremely weary, walked over to the sofa and sat down as if drawn to the
piece of furniture like a magnet.
I sat there on the edge of the sofa for at least five minutes listening
to the cries of fatigue emanating from my own body and the boisterous
three-way conversation/argument taking place seven feet away in the
trailer's kitchen. I really should leave, my thoughts raced. This is a
situation having few positive outcomes and a multitude of horror
scenarios. Hell, I may end up with a steak knife in my chest before the
coming of dawn. I'm so damned tired, though.
Sitting at my computer and writing this now, I feel compelled to convey
the utter loss of motivation I had to leave this horrific scene. This
account will be read by a number of people other than Iron Butt Rally
participants and they will, no doubt, wonder how I could arrive at any
other conclusion besides vacating the trailer at once.
For those not familiar with the Iron Butt Rally, it is a motorcycle
event run once every two years that involves the circumnavigation of
North America in eleven days. It resembles a scavenger hunt involving a
whole continent! As you can imagine, such an event requires a
tremendous amount of stamina. A rider may have a huge reserve of
stamina, but over eleven days that stamina is going to wear thin.
During my experience in this trailer, my level of stamina was virtually
nonexistent. Obviously, my judgment was suffering as well.
I just want to lie down and go to sleep.
There's an interesting parallel I can draw with a few weeks of hind site
about my sofa-sitting lethargy. My mind was telling me to leave. My
body would have none of the argument.
In 1996 a number of Mount Everest climbers lost their lives to a sudden
and violent storm that caught a few climbers during their descent from
the summit. The definitive chronicle on that ill-fated climb is _Into
Thin Air_ by Jon Krakauer.
One of the dead climbers in Krakauer's book was Rob Hall. Mr. Hall was
an Everest expedition leader guiding a number of paying clients in their
summit attempts. Mr. Hall spent the last few hours of his life slowly
freezing to death, exhausted and weak from attempting to save some of
his charges.
For hours, members of Mr. Hall's support team talked with him via 2-way
radio from a base camp. "Get up! Start making your way down," his
team demanded. Mr. Hall kept saying he needed just a few more minutes
of rest. He never appeared to move.
I used to think, "How could anyone be so tired?" After my Stewart,
British Columbia experience, I'm now somewhat familiar with that level
of exhaustion.
By the way, those of you that haven't heard me discuss Krakauer's books
before, I would suggest them as rather apropos reading for individuals
participating in extreme activities. I count running the Iron Butt as
an extreme activity.
In Stewart, in the trailer, and on the sofa, I listened to the trailer's
occupants' loud argument/discussion taking place ten feet away from me.
I looked up on the trailer's opposite wall to the pictures of some very
adorable children. My mind registered sadness as I thought about the
environment in which these two little girls were being brought up. No
doubt, the children were loved, but loved by two people with
deficiencies in successful life navigation.
I was now catching bits and pieces of the three-way, drunk, slur-fest
going on in the kitchen. Apparently, earlier in the day the husband and
the wife had a little domestic turmoil. The wife left the trailer to
put on a liquor buzz, and the husband stayed in the trailer to tie on
his own drunk. The husband in his post argument frustration, punched
out a door with a glass window causing his injuries and the kitchen
mess.
Although, I never could discern the reason for the original husband and
wife spat, it appeared this guy was feeling a little inadequate due to
his complaining and moaning about his wife now bringing home strange
men. At this point, I'm wondering whether or not the morning sun will
be casting a sundial-like shadow across my chest with a protruding knife
handle serving as a gnomon.
I sat there on the edge of the sofa and removed my boots. God, it was
an effort to get them off! As I took the boots off, I again looked
across the trailer's living room to the opposite wall. Hanging on the
wall were framed pictures of the two little girls the mother had
mentioned at the start of this rather bizarre story.
In the pictures, the girls were smiling and appeared to be very happy
and healthy. The portraits contrasted greatly with the image of this
family now occupying my senses. It's hard to describe the heavy sadness
that poured over me as I kept a watchful eye and an attentive ear
towards the noise still emanating from the kitchen.
The behaviors and lifestyle of the adults in this trailer had no effect
on my sad mood. I'm used to seeing such dysfunction. The hours and
hours I've spent touring Appalachia has pretty much exposed me to all
kinds of social rot. But the images of the two small girls hanging on
that trailer wall really drove home a hopeless sense of helplessness.
The sins of the father and mother will certainly be visited upon the
children of this trailer in the form of undeveloped and malformed
relationship skills.
With my boots finally off and all the wall portraits examined, I leaned
back and stretched out over the sofa. My long frame required me to prop
my feet up on the far armrest. For a minute or two longer I listened to
the kitchen noise. The three Stewart residents were still busy with
their drunken slurred speech exchange.
Eventually, the tone and frequency of the words coming from the kitchen
table changed. They now sounded occupied, like the way a room gets
quiet as socializing guests sit down to eat. Curious, I lifted my head
up and peered lengthwise down the sofa passed my raised feet to the
table five feet beyond.
There in the middle of the trailer's kitchen table was now a cookie
baking sheet pan with a relatively large mound of dope. And just when I
thought it couldn't get any stranger.
Thankfully, I wasn't put in the position of turning down an offer for a
toke or two. I put my head back down on the sofa and due to the now
lowered noise level, I instantly fell unconscious.
In what seemed like only a moment or two, light was spilling in the
trailer's living room and kitchen area. I sat up quickly knowing I had
slept longer than I really wanted. The clock above the sofa said
8:00am. Damned! I was hoping to be waiting for the gas station to open
at 7:00am.
Quietly, I put on my boots and crept to the kitchen. The blood marks
were all now the color of deep red ruby stains. I wrote a quick thank
you note on the white board calendar mounted on the refrigerator. I
also wrote down my email address.
Deliberately and patiently I put on my back plate protector as well as
my `Stich. I picked up my helmet and slowly turned the doorknob leading
out of the trailer.
In a matter of moments, I was pushing the ST towards the entrance to the
small trailer park. At the trailer park's entrance I climbed aboard the
bike, thumbed the starter switch, and made a beeline for the nearest gas
station.
I still have yet to receive an email from my overnight hosts.
Thanks,
***************************************************************************
Russell D. Stephan, Voice: (614) 760-3065
Senior Technical Analyst Fax: (614) 760-3360
Technology Management Consulting, Inc. email: rstephan@...
9980 Brewster Lane, Suite A. russell.stephan@...
Powell, Ohio 43065 URL:
http://www.tmconsult.com