Oregon Ride

[Fred C. Dobbs]

I have to say I'm a little dissapointed with the Travel section of this forum. Not much imput. Surely, many of you take to the road with your V11s. I've a Ballabio set up with H&B luggage, a few mods for comfort, and it is proving to be a grand travelling bike in the contenental tradition of comfort, style and elegance. Even though I have a busy schedule in summer, I manage a short trip or two. Simply, the bike demands it of me.

 

Last week I did a three day run through eastern Oregon--about 1300 miles all told. Sad to say I left my camera at home, dolt that I am. Next time I will be better, I promise. Sorry in advance for the lack of editing and spellcheck, too.

 

I live in eastern Washington in the foothills of the Cascades, hard up against Canada. Plenty of good riding hearabouts. But the Guzzi likes to stretch her legs, as do I, and as I've heard such glowing accounts of the country and roads of north central Oregon, the first bit of daylight that appeared in this busy summer of mine (Work, Buy, Consume, Die....alas) I lit out for the territories.

 

Out of the barn at first light Mister Guzzi and I made quick work of the four hundred miles, give or take, to Mt. Hood. Pretty mundane stuff early on--fast two lane on hyway 97 (lots of truck traffic and dozing vacationers/citizens) to Ellensburg, a moderate sized city on the edge of the Columbia Plateau. From there we swung onto the Yakama River Road and followed its sinuous path along the river canyon. This road is posted at 45MPH. As the traffic was light and conditons perfect, the only time we saw 45 on the clock was accelerating or deaccelerating past it. Still, lots of blind corners on this one and rockfall off the road cuts to to be mindfull of. Not to mention the Wa. State Hyway Patrol, a rather unsympathetic lot in my experience.

 

Hyway 142 out of Goldendale paces the Klicikitat River. Dusted with sand and narrow, devoid of centerline stripe, this bit of curvecous heaven delivered us up to the Columbia Gorge. Don't belive the Guzzi saw higher than third gear on this snake belly of a road.

 

Hot as Hades in Hood River on the Oregon side where we stopped for provisions. Traffic and congestion, confused tourists and bother. We camped at a Forest Service campsite near Mt. Hood a ways up hyway 35. Rehydrated in the river buck naked and wondered why-oh-why I negelcted to pick up a couple of cold beers in Hood River to bring with. Dolt, times two! Nonetheless, I slept like the dead.

 

Up and off at dawn and not quite awake, as I dragged the rear brake about a mile up-hill to the turn off to Maupin. The rear brake got so hot the fluid boiled and the paint on the rotor discolored. Dolt, times three! V11 Moto Guzzis are considered, by some, to be "special needs" motorcycles, but honestly I don't know how my Ballabio survives my occasional thick headiness.

 

Maupin is an old river town on the Descuhutes. Fancy fly fisherfolk in thier cityfied SUVs rub shoulders with unshaven locals driving 30 year old pickups with rust holes the size of baby heads. We're out into the high desert now, lots of basalt outcroppings, sage, deserted homesteads, derelict windvanes clattering in the wind. Blue sky, white clouds, and serpentine black-top all the way to Shaniko. The track from Shaniko to Antelope was a left-right, left-right affair. No time to see the sights on this one, the Road demaded full attention. On the final pitch into Antelope I finally shook off the Too-Much-Goddam-Work-Blues and the big Guzzi and I fell into an un-thinking rythem, just reacting to the sweep and pull of the pavement. I pulled into town a happy man.

 

The towns of Fossil, Condon, and Kimberly passed in succession. No traffic to speak of just winding roads to die for: rapid switchback decents into cool shaded river courses, gracefull wide open curves--easy in, watch the entry speed, light countersteer and a little weight shift, carve through the apex and roll on the throttle, then set up for the next one. Again and Again and Again. With the exception to stop for gas, hydrate, piss, and to exchange the leather pants for bluejeans (nearing 100 degrees at this point) the Guzzi and I lived the life of the blessed until we arrived in John Day. Hot and plumb wore out, tires like the nub of an over-used eraser. MPG avg. for the day: 32--best money I ever spent. Period.

 

Rehdrated with a couple of Foster's tinnies in the cheapest motel in John Day, stood in a cold shower untill I shook, then slept like the dead. Again.

 

Up at dawn, 500 plus miles between me and home. Cool this time of day following the gracefull sweep of the smooth (your tax dollars at work) blacktop through the Blue Mountains. Sunday morning, passing slow moving pickups with campers on thier way to the local fishing holes. Little kids in the passenger seats fingering thier rods, big smiles all around. The sun flashes on-and-of through the tall stands of trees like a strobe. I just cruise this stretch, letting the Guzzi humm smooth as silk as she talks to me through those sweet M4 cans. I never tire of that sound, a glorious obbligato.

 

We skirt I84 near Baker City, coursing through flat agricultural land east of the freeway. Freshly mown hay lies sweet on my nose, late model Chevys full of returning church-goers, Hispanics in the fields doing the real work of the day. The heat begins to build as we follow the Wallowa River Road into Enterprise, the road packed with land barges and rubber necking tourists. The Ballabio and I idle along enjoying the ride. Gonna get much better milage today.

 

We get gas in Enterprise and talk to a fellow on a Honda V-Twin, a Harley-clone of some sort. He's been on the road for a month and the Honda has not treated him well--several break downs in rural areas where the local Honda dealers are more adept at fixing weedeaters and fourwheelers than his bike. I pat the Guzzi's tank and give thanks. "Special needs" bike, indeed.

 

Hyway 3 from Enterprise to Clarkston Washington follows the Grand Ronde River. And as it is an old road bed it is anything but straight. Early on we ride on fresh chip seal. I can hear the loose gravel shotgunning the paint off the Guzzi's oil pan. Easy on, and easy off the throttle is the rule of the hour. Soon, though, we reach the river proper and solid pavement. No traffic--a surprise on a Sunday--and the Guzzi and I go predatory. This is a take-no-prisoners sort of road: smooth, well cambered turns, a road where you park the bike in fourth gear and use the throttle like a reaostat, never touching the brakes, entertained by the thunderous V-Twin overrun as you dive into a turn, see the exit and roll on the gas. Repeat as necessary.

 

We tank up in Clarkston at the Shell Station and Starbucks. South Eastern Washington lies ahead, gently rolling wheat country, and as it is harvest time the combines are in the field bringing in the goods. At this point we are smelling the barn and are in a get-home zone. I choose a pretty straight run of roads to maximize our forward progress. If there are no other concerns, I usually shift into sixth gear at about 70 mph and let the Guzzi drift up to 80. The bike just lopes along at that speed, solid and comfortable in all respects. The sun is getting low in the west now and we are burning daylight. We rip accross the high desert at a steady 80mph, slowing only for cross roads and the occasional curve, but not much else. The bugs are accumulating on my face shield but I don't even consider stopping to clean them off. My knees ache and my back is tight, on we thunder. Combines clatter in the fields, dogs bark in the distance, the sun is straight in my eyes, blinding, yet I don't back off.

 

Gas and a snack in the farming town of Wilbur and we are nearing home, I can see it along the run of mountains to the west backlit by the setting sun. After and hour of deserted darkening black top we crest Loup Loup pass and enter the Methow Valley, my home. Running easy with two fingers on the front brake lever (lots of deer at dusk on this road) we ease up-valley, through the town of Winthrop, up four miles of tightly packed gravel, up a quarter mile of two-track driveway to the best home I have ever had. I dismount and shake off the stiffness of a six hundred mile day, not exactly ready to do it all over again, but could if it were necessary.

 

Not tomorrow, but next week, easily.

[Mark in Hollister]

I was worried about the heat when I was up there in September a couple years ago. Instead it was cold and rainy the whole time. Even snowed on us going over a 6000 ft pass. Thank god for heated gear. There are also those nice cheap hot springs to stay at in John Day or Crane. That was a good trip.

 

Fantastic roads though around Fossil, Service Creek, John Day, etc. Mile after mile of near perfect pavement with almost no traffic. Roads that remote in California are usually better suited to a dual sport.