My rides are a perfect mixture of careful planning and free form. Rides that find refuse from the swarm of disposable banality and derivative mediocrity that’s been spreading through the motorcycle community like a raging virus, a virus extinguishing the pockets of cool that used to make riding with others worthwhile.
I miss my friends, and the rallies we all gather at every year, but, if I kept doing that, year after year, I would’ve never met Thora, Reagan and Patches, the 3 dogs that dot my journey some 4000 miles away from home.
I rolled into Whitehorse yesterday and immediately seeked out the Harley Davidson dealership. Snidley Whiplash and his dog Reagan had already beaten me there. Exchanging head nods at a gas station in Watson Lake, Snidley (I never got his name, but he had that wicked moustache like Snidley and he sorta talked like him, AND he was always riding like Dudley Do-Right was right on his tail, so it all added up) and his Fox Terrier had just gassed up and heading back to the campground. The next morning they pulled out the same time I did from my hotel and soon left me in the dust. We have been “meeting” at pumps and places ever since.
I asked P.J., the service tech if he had time to give Kai a wash and a once over and an hour later, a quickly detailed and newly tightened up Kai and I were off with a brand new spanking T-shirt back to the Airport Chalet, located right across the Whitehorse Airport on the Alaskan Highway.
BTW, Kai was washed, but me, well; let’s just say I just keep getting a little bit grimier as the week goes on.
The Yukon Harley sales gal and her dog Patches, were sweet and didn’t seem to notice my condition. That was rather impressive actually.
I would hide in a mummy’s coffin leaned up against the wall if I saw the likes of me coming.
ZOINKS is right!
After showering I sat at the Chalet’s Bar, had a few drinks and somewhat lackluster of a dinner. By the end of the evening, I ended up chilling with the tender and some locals, all talking hockey while watching the Pittsburgh Pens win the Stanley Cup over the Wings IN Hockey town!!
Even though I dig the Flyers, it was still really rad to represent Pa’s cheering section this far North into Canada.
The next morning finds it very cold, but I suck it up and soon find my head in the curl heading to Beaver Creek, my last stop overnight before trying to get into Alaska.
Feckin’ Canadians, at least toss in a 6 pack of Labatt’s up into that cold front that insists on accompanying my ride.
Looking over my vast wheel estate, I couldn’t help to think how small the fish, how big the ocean. The Alaska Highway has thrown surprise after surprise my way, and today was no different. 80 miles or so from Whitehorse, I arrive at Haines Junction and am staring wide-eyed at Mount St Elias, which rises some 18, 000 feet above sea level.
I top Kai off at a gas station right smack dab in front of the base of the mountain. I walk in and say to the clerk that he has the prettiest view to work under each day. Him and his wife just mumble something, take my money and go back to watching their stories. Of interesting note, the shopkeepers were of what appeared to be of Korean descent, and were taking in a Korean taped soap opera.
I dwelled on the mumbling attitude for a few miles, thinking there is some poor slob crunching numbers in a windowless office in some random gridlocked town, making identical money, who would trade work environments any day of the week, and they still appear to hate life. Oh well. I spend the next 10 mins or so taking loads of pics and thinking of their attitude so much so that I make a left instead of a right.
Significant, as a RIGHT is taking me to my next hotel, the LEFT does not.
I go about 3-4 miles, clueless of my carelessness, when I pass swiftly by a very small sign saying – Haines Alaska 200 kilometers.
WHAT?
HAINES?
Thank god I even SAW the sign, as once I’m on the road I need to be, I’m usually about the wildlife and not the signs. Stop the bike, shut her off and dig out my map, turning pages seeing my mistake as I look around keeping a wary eye out for bears or Moose that seem to think a wayward biker would be excellent to have its way with this mid morning.
Man is it quiet here.
Turn around, laughing at how lucky I was, and soon find Snidely, Reagan and a new fellow tagging along. The 3 of us ride together for quite some time, until we pass a couple of stranded kids peering into a old Suburban packed WAAAY past full. I lost Snidely and fellow when my Boy Scout mentality kicked in.
Stranded kids needing no assistance, I continue on the next 100 miles by my lonesome. No wildlife. Just a child in time and I’m ecstatic to be in the nick of it. Strange that with acres and acres of open spaces to test under my boots these last few days, I nonetheless ride straight, following a pattern I barely detect (if at all), never feeling constrained, yet, constrained.
I’m unabashed in my bondage to the road, and my goal, demanding no rescue from it.
Next gas stop finds Kevin, Mom and Thora hanging out. We greet each other like old friends, talking about the last night or two, and when I came out from the restroom, they were gone again. Either to be never seen again or passed 5 mins down the highway.
I climb up places called Bear Creek Summit, Boutillier Summit and into Soldiers Summit (named after the meeting between the Soldiers building the road from the North and the South.
After riding this thing, seems like the Soldiers from the South ended up doing more work taking in consideration of miles built.
The road takes me to the other side of the St Elias Mountain range, through some really sketchy construction around the HUGE Kluane Lake in Destruction Bay, through Burwash landing and into my last fuel stop about 30 miles outside of Beaver Creek.
The fuel stop was like a mini reunion, as I roll in and Snidley was there, looking over his bike. Kevin, Mom and Thora roll in as well, greeting me with another hello and this time Mom grabs camera to document our moment. I pump fuel into Kai’s little 5 gallon teardrop belly and walk in to pay.
This elderly couples shop was a complete mess, but in such a way that made ya feel like home and wanna poke around all day in. He tilled out my change, doing calculations from an actual calculator while his wife sat in a lazy boy next to a perfect temp wood stove, watching network news from a little 12 inch. I nose around, checking out his wares for sale. From everything from colorful stones, to arrowheads, to boxes of tea and macaroni and cheese, batteries, a few old spark plugs and a whole shelf of used paperbacks and cd’s. In a glass case in the back corner, I saw a bunch of lighters, a mug or two, and 5 random Nascar Drivers figurines. Fun little dump of a shop.
A shop, that in today’s society, would be snubbed, for its total lack of cleanliness and disarray, but ya know what, Snidley came in saying his spare tire for his camper trailer was coming off and he needed 2 certain size screws to hold er on, and didn’t the old man come from the back with a huge collection of said screws in a huge plastic pickle jar, him and Snidley picking through until he found the ones that will get him where he’s goin’.
Won’t find 2 old screws at your local mini-mart that’s fer sure.
Snidley's fix well under control and email addresses swapped with Kevin, I alone ride the last 40 miles to Beaver Creek. I am still riding cautiously as now I have huge back snapping frost heaves in the road, wildlife to watch for AND getting caught in a passing shower, but I am determined to get to Beaver Creek quickly, cause that puts me ever so close to Alaska.
In fact, I am so determined to make it to Alaska now, that if my front wheel came off in the middle of the ride, I would just take that as a sign to hurry.
The Westmark Inn at Beaver Creek Yukon is where I rest tonight, completely shut off from the world sans a little am/fm black radio, as there is NO internet, NO phone in my room and fuck, NO TV either.
Guess who is gonna be bright and sunshiny for my long awaited meeting tomorrow!
Hope she is feeling the same way.
Peace Grease and Beats
