North America: Riding a 21 year old Goldwing: 39 - Leaving Tacoma, Bainbridge Island & The Olympic Peninsula

Tacoma was great; much needed rest and repairs made me feel really good about the upcoming journey across the country. The good news, the new tires and rear suspension worked like a charm. The bike handled like a Corvette (a very old Corvette that had been flogged like a rented mule... but nonetheless... a 'vette.) Please ignore the awful analogy, the bike handled like a 21 year-old Goldwing with new tires and 200 pounds of gear strapped above new shocks.

The bad news, the rear-end gear was about shot. The final-drive mates to a driven-flange. Both have splines that complete the drivetrain. Those splines were about 50% gone. That doesn't mean it has 50% of life left. Hardly. it needed to be replaced and so I got on the internet to see about lining up a replacement. It certainly was something that I could do in a parking lot with about eight hours and a six pack.

Paul told me to go easy on it and that it might get me home. I didn't tell him that I didn't have it in me to take it easy on the bike. Oh well. Either I make it of I don't. At least I made it back from Alaska.

A bit about Paul. Sure he is a retired guy that rides Goldwing. Three of them. Two of which are older than mine. He also lived in Alaska for many years. That's all pretty cool. But, get this, he has owned 14 planes!!! He showed me pictures of planes with wheels, with floats and with skis. Very very cool. I haven't met too many people on this trip that weren't over-the-top interesting.

I said goodbye to Paul and hit the road. Life was great! It was sunny and I had a great view of Mt. Rainer. All was good for about eight minutes. I hadn't even made the main road before my bike went berserk!

The usually-quiet Honda suddenly sounded like a drag bike (a really lame drag bike.) I pulled the super loud Old-Wing off the road to a gas station and saw that a spark plug had blown out of the top of the motor. Sweet! Engine Problems!

Turns out, the threads were intact so no damage to the heads. Perhaps something broke off and rattled around the motor and damaged the valve-train. Perhaps everything was ok. Who knows? Paul would. I called him and he rode down and give me lift to the autoparts store. A new plug and I was back in action.

Here's me holding the damaged plug. Having the riding gear with knee pads really makes it easy to work on the bike in a parking lot. I wore my pants all day in Chicken while working on my bike.

Before Paul arrived, Dave, a guy my age on an Ultra Classic Harley pulled in to see if he could help. His bike is his only set of wheels and he rides a lot. A Marine from WA, he had just been to Ft. Jackson in NC and ridden there and back. He was meeting friends to ride the Olympic Peninsula. What a nice guy! He couldn't resist but making a smart-ass comment about me riding on the back of Paul's bike. Last time I'd done that, I was 15 years old.

Back on the road and off to visit my buddies in Bainbridge. Michael & met while in GTE's Management Development Program in Dallas. I met his wife Tricia soon thereafter. Hopefully I've known them long enough that they'll not hold it against me for all the trouble I'd caused. (Sorry guys!) While riding around the island, I saw a pretty heron.

The last time I came to visit was a few years ago when their first child was an infant. This time, their third child was an infant... as was I. I 'd left my manners in Alaska, or was that Wyoming, Maine perhaps?

It was great to see them and play with the kids.

Two grown men trying to out-best each other on the Slip-n-Slide is pretty funny. Funny enough to make the kids laugh at least. Baby Tobin is adorable and Michael was having fun playing with all the kids.

Tricia is a professional photographer and I had a great time playing with her camera gear. The lenses are so amazing! Unfortunately I didn't take many with my camera.

After a great night of hanging out and another fun day, that's when things went awry.

Thanks Mom for raising me such that I know better than to keep the father of a newborn up until sunrise.

Stupid me for ignoring the lessons of childhood.

The two of us were still up when it was time to get up. Oops.

(At least the scotch wasn't gone, then we would have really been in trouble.)

Leaving the Island in early afternoon meant for good riding. It was sunny and beautiful and so I took off to ride the Peninsula. At one point, I started riding with this guy. We talked a bit at lights and even road two-abreast for a bit. Only on the West Coast, an old bearded-biker riding a chopper with full-on ape hanger handlebars riding in black Birkenstock Clogs.

I tried to ride with others when possible. If you've been following this, you know that I haven't had a speedometer since mid-July (it's now September first.)

Back in the Lower 48, a speedometer would be nice.

I rolled into Port Angeles and stopped at a surf shop to chat. (I surf about as well as I wrench on motorcycles, but that doesn't stop me from talking about it.) Thanks to the guys at North by Northwest for a great route-recommendation.

I doubled back to go to Deer Park. The road climbs to 6,000 feet in less than 20 miles. Not quite like Mt. Washington at 6,200 feet in eight miles, but pretty intense nonetheless.

The road up is gravel and full of ruts, big rocks, no guardrails, steep precipices, and the occasional automobile.

When I got to the top, a family from Alabama was there. Their little boy loved my bike and came right up to talk to me (he was about two or three.) They thought it was cool that I was up there on a motorcycle, and an old Goldwing at that. He said I should get a picture with the Jeep to show how rough the drive up was. Sure!

And so begins the decent. It's easier to take pictures on the way down, because while climbing a steep hill, taking my hand off the throttle causes the bike to decelerate very quickly, thus becoming unstable.

The view over my right shoulder.

Don't miss this curve or end up riding in the clouds!

Suddenly, a very strange thing happened. I lost my nerve. What I had been doing for the last hour, for the last four months, suddenly seemed crazy. I was scared of my motorcycle.

There was no way off this mountain other than me riding my bike to the bottom and I snapped out of it and went back to riding and taking pictures. The decent took about 30 minutes (to go 16 miles.)

As I rode down, I tried to figure out why I had freaked out?

Was it the road? No way, I'd ridden stuff far more technical and at higher elevations.

Was it that I'd spent three days on the ferry, two days working on my bike, and two days on Bainbridge Island? A week with little riding had worried me so I'd begun the day doing drills in parking lots and had begun the gravel ride with a few drills. My skills seemed sharp.

Was it a sign to park the bike? No way. I've had those before, but this was different. I just got scared. Not for a reason. Just scared.

How did I get over it? I thought back to a conversation with Just Randy from Ten Sleep. When we hung out at Evel Knevel Days in Butte a couple of months earlier, we sat around the camp and talked about reactions during difficult times. I heard Just Randy tell me to quit being a baby and to get the job done. Gotta love meeting inspiring people along the way. Thanks Randy.

I did figure out what caused me to worry. Unlike nearly every other time I got on my bike, I hadn't put in ear plugs. The sound of the Old-Wing going over ruts and rocks is as painful to me as is the riding painful to my old bike. It sounds AWFUL! Rattling, scraping, clanking, popping, sliding and wincing down the mountain is a pretty intense sound. I think it just got to me. Oh well... enough about be being a Chicken... except that I'll add one more thing... I'd made it to Chicken via the Top of The World Highway without getting scared so cut me some slack! (please?)

After reaching sea-level, I rode another 75 miles to Clallam Bay and stopped for fuel. As I walked in to pay, daylight was nearly gone. A guy walked in who wasn't a native and so went up to talk to him. I knew I was very near the reservation and didn't know much about the area or the people, or if tourists were common. Would they be friendly to a biker? To an outsider? I didn't know and I was inclined to find out the easy way, by asking rather than initiating conversation. Turns out, I met some of the best people on the trip that night. But not before I asked the non-native for direction.

"There is a great little bar up the road a few miles, it's right on the water, the people are great, and they are sure to let you camp." He answered. I left. Daylight was all gone.

When I pulled up in front of the bar, I was exhausted. Riding 30 miles of gravel for nearly two hours up and down a mountain had been tough. Riding the coastline was tiring. Plus, I'd been off the bike for awhile. I turned off the key and slowly undid my gear and dragged my tired leg over the seat and found myself standing in front of the bar and in front of a guy who was checking out my bike.

"Did you ride to Alaska?" - "yes"

"Did you ride the Al-Can?" - "sure did, rode the Top of the World Highway too"

"Man, I'm going to buy you a beer. Hell, I might even buy you two, come with me, there's some people that are going to want to meet you!"

That was my introduction back into the Lower 48. It seemed odd. That night got stranger and stranger and, unbeknownst to me at the time, was a great indication of how the rest of the trip would go.

Taken the next morning.