Perspective is a powerful and ultimately positive tool. It has the power to open dialogue, open minds, center oneself, and even relieve stress. People have been saying “Walk a mile in their shoes” since shoes were invented. I guess it would have been 'Walk a long way in Unga Bungas woolly mammoth skin sandals', but I digress. Navigating todays society, it feels like people are looking for a reason to disagree, be offended, or feel superior. 'Winning the sentence' without regard to the point. Perspective is so easy to find, but you are the one who needs to look. Find and use that power to bridge a gap between yourself and a stranger, and you will be comforted to find the commonality that all of us Earthlings share. Hopefully it's motorcycles. And beer.
The Bubbles and I are in high spirts. The well rested day in the Outlaws private cabin gave us a chance to completely unpack, inventory, and re-pack. A Marionberry pie breakfast, and having most of Crater Lake Nat’l park to ourselves means life’s pretty good right now. We are drifting through the north end and sweet curves of the Umpqua Nat'l Forest on another sunny and warm day to hook up with the 97 and head in the general direction of the highest concentration of local breweries in Oregon. It's an easy ride towards Bend, plenty of lakes, grasslands, and even more trees. It's a cool place that has a way of being a big city, but still out of the way. It's that disconnection which lets local flavor take hold in place of the usual corporate branding and let creativity flourish. We're here because one of Bubbles many contributions to this fun journey was finding a Facebook link for Bunk-a-biker, where like minded people can share their home (or yard) for the night to put up people crazy enough to be thousands of miles from home with no plan for sleeping. Thats us. Perfect.
Just as the sun is just getting to that shade of orange that reminds you it’s going to be dark soon, we crossed the city line and checked in to the Book of Faces to get the address to pop in the GPS. Rounding the corner of a tree filled neighborhood (ya, it’s still Oregon) I spy a cool looking place. It’s got muscle car projects under covers, patinaed farm trucks, and a garage full of motorcycles. Just as I’m exclaiming over the comms “Whoa! Wouldn’t it be cool if….” ya, thats the place. We rumble up as Andrew comes out of the garage wearing cover-alls and holding one of the familiar red shop rags that is just so comforting to a life long mechanic like myself. My people are good people.
We spent the next half hour in the street, rapid fire talking cars, bikes, and adventures, before we even get into the driveway. Andrew himself is just back from an over 3000 mile trip on the first bike he ever bought, a 1967 Shovelhead, that now wears the grime, mud and bugs that would be expected from an all guys trip like that. I’m sure we didn’t get all the stories, as it should be. It’s not long before we also meet his charming wife Miranda who gushes excitedly about the new-to-her CB200 twin that will be her first bike, the little Briggs powered scoot that he’s got their 9 year old daughter fiddling with, and when the the boys Arthur and Henry come out to play we really feel like old friends already. The boys are in the jumping-off-whatever-they-can-find stage and it is very comforting to know people still let their kids get dirty. You get good humans that way.
A quick unpack and tent set-up next to the fire pit, I need to run to town for a few small items and by the time I’m back, Andrew has an excellent batch of BBQ chicken done and sipping whiskey. Just like the old friends we are, we kept them up way too late swapping stories by the crackling fire until we all finally gave in to droopy eyelids and settled in for the night. This is our very first time trying the Bunk-a-biker thing and its Andrew and Mirandas first time too! None of us knew what to expect, especially during a pandemic, but if this experience is any indication, all of us are ready for the next one.
The cool clear air rustling through pine trees and a big bright moon once again made for the best sleep one can have. The sun coming up came around way too soon but with solid sleep like that we both woke up raring to go! Excellent coffee (thanks Miranda!), Cliff bar, and some genuinely sad goodbyes had us back on the road north.
Next stop on our list of destinations-not-destinations is to see my own lovely Mumzy, Lady-of-the-Manor. Her house is still in little Lake Oswego where I grew up as a kid, which is about 20 miles west of Portland and 180 short miles from Bend. A direct shot would have us feet up and relaxing in about 3 1/2 hours for cocktails, laundry, and a couple days rest. Or we could take 8 hours to get there, going 350 miles in a day while battling nightmarish winds along the Columbia River Gorge the whole way. Hmmm.
On our way up to the Columbia River Gorge through central Oregon it struck me that this land, all this land, fertile, temperate, open, is just so empty. The roads are smooth and well maintained, a few (two?) tiny little towns that are supported by river rafting the Dechutes River and not really anything else. It’s not as arrow straight as you’d imagine, some great curves and dips to play in and even though we’d been blessed with excellent weather the whole way, as we went up in elevation it got pretty cold for being August! We would plateau over a hill and see Mt. Hood in the distance, temptingly close, but for 2 hours of heading straight for it, it sure didn’t seem to be getting any bigger on the horizon. After crossing the Dechutes river at the tiny, welcoming town of Maupin, we pulled over to rest for a bit and had a visitor on a RoadKing stop for the obligatory wellness check (motorcyclists are awesome). He had just finished white water rafting in these rainy, freezing temps and was riding home (where?) in his t-shirt. Crazy.
The plan was to continue up the 97/197 to The Dalles for lunch, cross over into Washington and for a run right to Mumzys house on the 14 along the Gorge. We got right up to The Dalles when WHAM! Bubbles was going to have a very big, very scary test of being a motorcycle rider.
There are notable milestones to anything that requires skill to do well. Some things can be studied beforehand, trained for, planned for, but other skills can only be built by experience. It’s the latter thats the worst for a motorcyclist. Anything unexpected is frightening, and it's frightening because it is truly dangerous. Ask a rider and the answer of what they hate the most will probably be the same. Rain? Na. Tires and electronics today are amazing. Ice? Maybe, but it's your fault being out there when you should be sipping brandy by the fire. It's wind. Big, 40mph, gusty, bullshit wind. You have no control of the invisible hand waiting to smack you into the next lane as logging trucks, and oblivious people in a hurry rip around you. Add that we're on the first freeway we've seen in 1000 miles and a little woman on a fully faired, feather weight bike thats stacked with bags is a kite and thats a recipe for fear and panic.
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