I’m the ride coordinator for the Seattle bike club known as the Vintage Motorcycle Enthusiasts, or VME for short. It’s a great club of about 600 members, but for some reason not many of them attend the longer rides. The exception to this rule is, not surprisingly, the Guzzi guys. Riders of Eldos and Ambos don’t seem to fear riding 600 miles over mountain passes in the same way that, say, riders of old Brit iron or AMF-era Harleys do. I don’t know what excuse to apply to the riders of old BMWs or Japanese bikes, but for whatever reason, they don’t join in.
Our longest ride of the year is the “How I Froze My Gas on the Pass” adventure. As rides go, it’s nothing that difficult or long, but it sures takes you through some pretty terrain and plenty of curvey roads, in cluding the North Cascades Highway and Canyon Road. I always enjoy it for the ride itself but also because it has become more or less a ride for the local Guzzi boys. The Froze Gas ride was last weekend, and it was another great one. The weather even cooperated, for once.
Before we left, the weather sure looked iffy. One of the guys going on the trip stopped by the shop the day before the ride asking if it was still on, 'cause the weather forecasts were so bad. I told him it was on, and he said he'd be there. I wondered how many others would not show, based on the dire forecasts? Fortunately, the weather clowns were all wrong, as usual.
My neighbor Pete and his lovely red Griso. He can make that thing scoot and is always up for a ride.
The plan was to rendezvous at a restaurant north of Seattle, on the route that would take us up into the foothills, have breakfast, and then head east. My neighbor Pete (red Griso) and I (on the trusty Eldo) headed north out of town riding under a thinning overcast, with temps in the 40s. Cops were everywhere, pulling over one vehicle after another. Pete and I skated through and arrived at our rendezvous point, Patty's Egg Nest, to find one other VMEer already there. This was Al, on his kitted R1150 GS.
Here’s Al, the only Beemer rider who ever joins in on the long rides. He has an old airhead but takes his R1150 GS. He’s an enthusiasts enthusiast and great company to boot.
A few minutes later, Illuminati Karl showed up on his 1974 "Superman" Eldo. He'd been messing with it the night before, and now it was spitting oil out of one of the oil fittings, and the wind blast from riding blew that oil all over the bike and his left leg. He tightened up the most likely fitting, and we all adjourned inside to order breakfast.
Here’s Karl “Kotex” Kierney and his “Superman” Eldo. Karl’s an ironman. Three weeks earlier, he’d slid out down near Mt. St. Helens and broke his collarbone in two places. He rode home to Seattle before going to the doctor. Don’t tell his doc he was on this ride, either.
Just after we ordered, in pulled Pedro on his 1974 Eldo and his buddy Matt on a Speed Triple. Turns out they had not been successful in skating past the cops. Both of them had gotten tickets, from different cops. Craptastic luck, that. Ten minutes later, Bob Bennett pulled in on his V11 Sport and joined us.
Sadly, that was all that showed. Seven total. Five were on Guzzis. Four were left-handed. Three were on Eldorados. Small numbers but good numbers. The rides always seem to go better when Guzzis are in the majority, and the post-ride conversations are never better or wierder than when lefties are in the majority. We didn't get a majority on Eldos but we'll work on that for next time.
Bob Bennett and his black V11 Sport. I had never really ridden with him much before but sure look forward to doing more of it in the future.
Off we blasted through the thinning fog. One of the great things about moving the rendezvous point north of Seattle is that within a few miles, we were on nice snakey river roads that carried us east and north to Rockport, where we turned onto the North Cascades Hwy. and pulled in to Marblemount for the last gas available until you're on the other side of the mountains.
A funny moment at the gas station: Karl's Eldo was still spitting oil, so he bought a couple packs of Kotex pads and shoved them in around the generator to soak up all the oil. There's some original thinking for you.
After that, the plan was to bliss out and take the whole stretch to Winthrop without stopping. This is one of the great roads on the West Coast. The next 100-ish miles would be nothing but twist and turns, rises and falls and one stunning view after another. The weather was great, too: overcast, so the road wasn't alternating bright light and deep shadow, and despite the dire predictions, it was neither raining nor snowing where we were and didn’t look to be ahead.
I took it pretty easy because the Eldo seemed to want to wobble at anything over 90 mph. Still, the Eldo and I were all alone for most of the ride until Pete was able to catch up on his Griso near the end of the mountainous section. We did some great swooping, though. One of the things that makes the North Cascades so fun is that it’s lightly traveled, so you’re not always stuck behind crawling RVs. The only weather was a snow flurry between Rainey and Washington Passes. The pavement’s in amazing shape, too, probably because instead of plowing, they just let the pass close for the winter. The only pucker moment was on the final 30-mph 180 at the end of the mountainous section. It felt like they'd just laid fresh gravel on the turn, as both Pete and I slid hard to the outside of the curve and and thanked providence that we had only gone into it at 60 rather than 75.
We did some great swooping, though. One of the things that makes the North Cascades so fun is that it’s lightly traveled, so you’re not always stuck behind crawling RVs.
Matt, looking heroic near his Speed Triple. Another great new riding companion.
Pete and I pulled into Winthrop and stopped to wait for the stragglers. Soon, Karl pulled up on his Eldo, then Matt on the Speed Triple, and then Bob on the V11. We were just standing around joking when I got a call from a Park Ranger, saying Pedro was broken down with a flat tire back at mile marker 127 and that I should bring a patch kit and pump. I figured that Al must've stayed with Pedro, or else Al was broken down, too, 'cause he still hadn't showed up.
Before I headed west out of Winthrop, I really had no idea where mile marker 127 was. I just assumed it wasn't that far back, so I gave a few instructions to the group about the motel and my clear future need for a big bottle of bourbon and headed back over the North Cascades at Mach 2 to the rescue.
Ten miles on, I saw the first mile marker: 187. "Ouch! Sixty more miles to go? I don't have enough gas to get there and back." So, I turned around and headed back for a refill in Winthrop. While at the station, I cranked in a bunch more rebound damping on the shocks, hoping that'd reduce the wobbling and blasted back toward Pedro at mach 3.
An hour later, I reached Pedro, sitting in the sun all the way back near the base of Diablo Lake, and I was glad to note that Al had stuck with him (it’s nice to have a little company while broken down). A quick peak revealed that Pedro's rear tire had what looked like a goiter poking out of the left upper third of the tread on is rear tire. This misshapen lump was the result of shoving two of those weird dogbone-shaped plugs from Al's BMW plug kit into the long gash in Pedro's rear tire.
The irrepressible Pedro and his ’74 Eldo. Even a flat tire doesn’t dampen his spirits.
I'd never seen such a gash on a street tire. He must've hit something really sturdy and sharp. And he was lucky to've wrassled it to stop upright given how fast it must've went flat. This was my old rear wheel and tire, though, so it had been converted to tubeless, which helped keep air in for a precious few more seconds.
It seemed to me that maybe some thinner plugs and rubber glue might do a better job of sealing that gash, so I pulled out the big plugs and replaced them with the skinny rope plugs I carry and goobered everything up well with glue. Then, we took the bike off the centerstand and rolled it until the patched area was held closed by the weight of the machine and gave it ten minutes to cure. Even that didn't work, though. When we pumped air in, it was whistling out way too fast to even hope we could limp it downhill into town.
So I climbed on the Eldo and roared further back to Newhalem to see if I could find a pay phone or cell signal that would allow me to call out and arrange for someone to come with a truck. First call, I raised our buddy Easy, and he agreed to come to the rescue, as he always does. It’d take Easy maybe two hours to get there, and it was getting both dark and cold, so I told Easy to pick Pedro up at the Seattle City Light visitor center from which I was making the call. Thank God for Easy. You can always count on him.
Back to Pedro to tell him the plan. He was cool with it, and didn’t even want a ride back to where he would meet Easy. He said he could hitchhike, and that he probably would hitchhike on to the first bar down the road. Sounded like a good plan, and I was grateful for his self-reliance because the 20 minutes to take him into town and get back to where we were could be better used getting Al and I to Twisp before dark. So, Al and I abandoned Pedro to a night of drinking with the locals while waiting for Easy, and headed out into the increasing gloom.
The ride was great, as usual, and we didn't even see any deer until we were off the mountains on the flatter ranch country near Winthrop, but then they were thick, crossing the roads and filling the fields. There's good hunting up there, I bet. Just at full dark we pulled into the hotel, hungry, thirsty, and worn out. That is the first time I’ve gotten to ride the North Cascades three times in one day.
Strange bikes and stranger characters Sunday morning the Idle-A-While Motel in Twisp.
Karl, Bob, Pete, and Matt had indeed found a liquor store and were well into my bottle of bourbon and another of Jameson's. We had a snort with them and then walked into town for a pretty damn good meal at the brewpub, followed by more drinks and bullshitting at the motel, and then off to sleep.
Our departure time of 9:00 came what felt to me like way too early, and I think everyone but Al was a little hung over I certainly was, but what better way to clear a groggy head than to ride? We gassedup and rode out of town, hoping to spot a good breakfast joint on the way. That part of Eastern Washington has fantastic scenery, and it never looks better than when lit by the low morning light of fall. This is the dry, coulee-riven side of the state that looks world’s apart from the mossy wet west side of the state.
I slowly came fully awake as we wound through a nice canyon alongside the Methow River. Just then, I felt the left sidecover fall off my bike, so I turned around. There was everyone else clustered around my fallen sidecover, looking very hungover and ready for food. Bob mentioned that the café a few miles back was pretty good, so we headed back and ate. It was OK.
Karl’s Kotex sure did a fine job of soaking up the oil. The bike never dripped for the rest of the trip.
We continued south on 97 and then cut off at Alt. 97 and Bob took us on a detour along Lake Chelan and down through some canyons that was very nice. At Cashmere, we stopped for gas and to decide which way to go from there. Earlier reports suggested that our preferred route, which was to continue south over Blewitt Pass and then take the exquisite Canyon Road south to Selah and then go north and west over the very nice Chinook Pass, might be a poor choice. The weather reports said to expect snow and high winds on Chinook Pass. They’d been wrong all weekend, but we needed to avoid snow because Karl’s rear tire was completely bald, and Pete’s wasn’t much better.
One alternative would be to head west over Hwy. 2 and Stevens Pass and thence directly back to Seattle. I personally hate that route because there’re always too many cars and the sun shines straight in your eyes the whole way. Option B would be to continue south over Blewitt Pass and then take I-90 over Snoqualmie Pass into Seattle. That one’s not so horrible, normally, but I-90 was all under construction and would’ve excruciatingly painful on that Sunday evening. In the end, we each made our own decision. Al and Matt opted to take the direct route over 2; the rest of us, four on Guzzis (three of the four left-handed) said, “Let’s go for the curves,” and headed south over Blewitt.
Blewitt’s a scenic ride, but that’s about the best you can say for it. The road climbs out of the dry and back into the lush, green firs and hemlocks. Unfortunately, there’re always too many cars for it to really be fun. Still, it doesn’t suck. After the pass, it drops you back down into the dry country, where the road merged with I-90. We took the freeway a few miles east and took the exit onto Canyon Road.
This is one of my favorites in the state. The pavements nice, there’s a nice mix of near-constant hairpins and sweepers, and the country’s wide open enough that the sightlines are great. Making it more enjoyable still, is the odd fact that the cops are never there when I am.
We were jamming along pretty good when I spotted a bike ahead that looked suspiciously like a Guzzi Norge. I wicked it up a bit to catch up, and sure enough it was a Norge ridden by my friend Rene Young. I waved as I passed and kept going. Pretty soon, I looked back to see three bikes right on me, including the Norge. We swooped on a ways, and then I just had to stop and relieve the sloshing in my bladder. Rene pulled over, too, and asked if he could join us for the trip over Chinook. So then we were five—all on Guzzis.
A bathroom break on Canyon Road. We’d picked up another Guzzi and rider shortly before this stop: Rene Young and his Norge.
The rest of Canyon Road was great. We gassed up in Selah, and headed up toward Chinook Pass. That’s a lovely road, too, but on Sunday afternoon it gets mobbed with so many slow-moving RVs that it takes some of the fun out of it. Though there was snow in the trees near the road, the pavement was dry and the waning sun made the mountains surrounding the pass look all the more magnificent. We stopped for a few pictures. Rene abandoned us there, explaining that he was already an hour overdue. We watched some hawks soar on the thermals and then set off down the pass to Enumclaw.
Bob and I sunbathing atop Chinook Pass. How many times do you luck out and get bright sunshine here in October? Last year, it was pea-soup fog and a blizzard as we slip-slided through here.
We cut north around Enumclaw to the junction with Hwy. 169, where Bob abandoned us to go directly home. Pete, Karl, and I took the twisty little Green Valley road as far as we could before getting on the freeways and going home our separate ways. It was a good ride of 550 miles or so. My added trip to see Pedro brought my total to about 700 miles and three passes over the North Cascades. It was a good weekend.
Here’s a map of the route, if interested:
http://maps.google.com/maps?f=d&source...650253&z=11
