Dual Sport - Sure

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May 27, Wednesday

The tent was fairly dry when I got up and made some breakfast. Definitely packable by close of the meal, and I hung the footprint up along the great little 20 foot line that Joel had made for me years ago, which fits into a film cannister, with a hook and ring on one end and a tent slider cleat device at the other. I kept reminding myself NOT TO FORGET to pack up that handy line. Once the footprint was dry, and all the gear packed away, I took off for Joel's house in Iowa. This day was much nicer, sun and puffy clouds, a little cool, but perfect for riding. Of course, about 60 miles away from the campsite, I realized I had FORGOTTEN to pack up the handy line. Dagnabit. Oh well, I hope whoever finds it really makes good use of it. Sheila directed me along the route to Joel's place, and even around the road closure about 5 miles from his house. About 1 1/2 miles from the farm, and about 4 or 5 miles into the gravel roads that lead to it, Sheila told me to turn north. This was no big deal, because I could see that though normally I would travel one more mile east, then go north, Sheila was simply sending me north, then east. I cruised at a nice clip northbound on the gravel, down the hill then started up to the next rise. As riders know, when you're running along a gravel road, it often feels like you're "floating" on top of the gravel, the wheels ease left and right, but by keeping the speed up, the general direction of travel is assured. I started feeling a bit more of this "floating" feeling as I climbed the hill, and by the time I crested it, the rear end was actually sliding left and right to an alarming degree. The realization that I was just about to completely loose it came to me, as I passed by a sign saying "Class B road, not maintained, travel at your own risk". Oh baby, not good. Still sliding left and right, and barely staying upright, I managed to gently slow down to a stop, aiming a quarter turn to the left, downhill with my tires and feet in about 2 inch deep muddy clay, mixed with a light dusting of small gravel. Thanking God for helping me stay upright, I rested there for a bit to relax the tension, then eased out on the clutch, hoping to be able to slowly roll down the hill to the 90 degree right turn, leaving one hill to climb and about a mile and a quarter eastbound to Joel's driveway. It was not to be so easy. The rear wheel simply slid far right, and down I laid the bike, in the guck, on it's left side. Yucky mess, but all was still intact. The Micatech bags, and the crash bars did a great job of protecting Bear. Off the bike, assess the situation, and then using Skert's proven technique of righting the bike alone, I was able to stand Bear back up again. I did a little maneuvering with judicious clutch control while staying alongside the bike, and got it straightened up again, aiming downhill. Back on, and now very gently easing my way down the hill, I made the turn, then came to another stop with a huge puddle across the road. I'm not sure, but I think the farmer had been planning to grow rice in this spot. I parked the bike on the kickstand with mud plate beneath, and slopped over to the puddle. There was no way Bear was going to make it through that slough, so back to the bike I went, and begin to ease it into a 180 to try to get back around the corner and up that nasty hill. Half way around the 180, out went the rear wheel again, and down went Bear, again on the left side. Skert's procedure worked again, and I was able to get the bike up and around the corner, while sloshing alongside, and using about 20,000 miles worth of slipping clutch in first gear to do so. I started up the hill, and reached a point that I thought I could mount up again and while going slowly, I could get to the top. This was another bad idea, as about 5 feet later, down went Bear again, this time on his right side, just to balance the mud quotient. This time, it was lower the kickstand, and around to the side to lift Bear up for the third time. I couldn't get a very good grip with my boots, and straining as hard as I could, I couldn't get it to stand up. Now my 51 year old heart was beating like a drum in the 1812 overture, and the muscles in my shoulders, arms and hands felt like yogurt. So, I decided that all I had was time, and I waited about 5 minutes while my body got back to some semblance of relaxed state. Once more heroic try later, Bear was still laying on his side. Argh. I called Joel. He was not home, but he did answer, and told me he'd have his friendly neighbor, Farmer Ron, come out to help me get the bike righted and out of the mess. Apparently this particular road is known in the area as a vehicle trap. To bad Sheila didn't get the info. Anyway, while I was waiting for Farmer Ron, and watching the sun go down, I thought a little more about the physics of lifting the bike. By tugging on the front end, sliding the bike to a position of laying across the road, instead of parallel to the direction of traffic, if there had ever been any traffic, I was able to get the inch or two more of angle necessary to lift the bike on my own. Hooray ! Bear was upright again, without the embarrassment of needing a tractor. Once again I abused the clutch while walking alongside, easing up the hill bit by bit, and re-aligning the direction of travel when the rear end tried to slide away from me. Just prior to the crest, when I though I was home free, out went the rear end again, and down for the fourth time went Bear, again on his left side. This time it was an easy adrenaline rush away from righting him, and in a few minutes we were at the crest, looking downhill. On the kickstand, and time for another long rest. Still no tractor sounds in the area, by the way. Now I was thinking that it would be an easy push down the hill, which turned into usable gravel road in about 200 yards, but again I was wrong. I began pushing, and we rolled along for about 4 feet, then came to a stop. The front and rear tires were both caked with mud and gravel, and it was jammed hard up into the flap over the front wheel. I cleaned it all out with a handy stick, then began rolling again. 4 feet later, another stop. Four clean outs later, I started thinking there must be a better way. I removed the two side bags, a 5 minute operation, mentally berating myself for not having done that an hour ago, and down the hill we rolled all the way to the “good” section. As I turned around to climb up and retrieve the side boxes, one at a time of course, over the hill put-putted Farmer Ron. He stopped to pick up the boxes, then come on down to meet me. I was proud of myself for getting out of that debacle without help, and glad that I didn’t have to slog up and down the hill twice more. Ron followed me around the block to Joel’s house and it was with great relief that I pulled into the driveway, 1 !/2 hours later then necessary. Except for lots of pebble-filled clay mud, and a couple of minor scratches on the side boxes and engine guards, there was no damage to Bear. What a great bike. What an adventure. What sore muscles I’m going to have tomorrow. Too bad I didn't think to take some pictures.

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