Vancouver BC Day 1

Viewed Vancouver BC from the back of the Beast today. It's a good thing that I already know how to ride because if I didn't, I wouldn't dare get on a bike again. Riding on the back, trusting your life to someone else, sucks. It's a lot like being on a roller coaster that could go anywhere at any time that brakes at the last minute. Weaving in and out of traffic, no turn signals, tires screeching, people glaring, pedestrians running, holding on for dear life thinking, "why isn't anyone as pissed as I am?" Finally a yuppie in a Toyota Landcruiser gets cut off and honks his horn not bothering to slow down and almost landing me on his hood. I want to turn around and thank him for honking and ask if I can have a ride back to the hotel.

I had no idea the Beast could maneuver in such a manner. I also had no idea you could whip around a 20mph corner at 55 with a rider on the back, slide between cars with an inch to spare on each side, and basically use your turn signal only when YOU personally think it's warranted. And, well, it's apparently not warranted when you slip between two cars who are cruising at 45 mph with not nearly a car length between them. Yep. Color me freaked. My thighs actually hurt from straddling the bike with all my might and the prayers I said and promises I made while under duress will keep me being a good girl for years to come.

On second thought, maybe not. But still, I learned a valuable lesson. Never let someone put you on the back of your bike. It's your bike, you ride it. Because really, no one rides like you do.

Canada July 18, 2010

From Portland, OR the ride to Canada is about 5.5 hours. I'd like to say it's a scenic ride but trudging up I-5 and through Seattle traffic is a lot like going to the dentist and having a root canal. Nonstop traffic once you are outside of Seattle and all the way through town. By the time I was through it both my wrists were burning from the constant shifting and braking. My allergies and asthma were acting up due to the smog...cars bumper to bumper zipping in and out of lanes as if moving one over would accomplish some great feat.

Past Seattle the road narrows again and until you hit the Peace Arches at the border it's smooth riding with small towns and trees lining the way. And the border on a Saturday around 4:00 PM is a five minute wait. The questions are quick, "what is the reason for your trip? How long will you be here? Have anything on board you're selling? What's in the bag?" All for naught since clearly I could have brought in an army worth of guns and no one would have noticed. They did make me remove my sunglasses so they could "see if my picture matched" but frankly, on my passport my face shows an extra 15 pounds and make up that I never wear.

Riding into Surrey, my destination, my first stop is a liquor store where I buy two 4 packs of Mike's Hard Lemonade with Vodka. That's the reason I love Canada. I get back to my bike and realize I really don't have room for that much booze on the bike. I take them out of the boxes and shove them into whatever crevice is available in my sidebags. I'm ready to roll when I realize I'm parked on such a slant and the bike and gear weigh so much that I don't have the strength to push the bike upright. Great, another opportunity for failure. I get off, put the stand down, and slowly start pushing the bike backwards so I can get on more level ground. The kickstand is scraping along the asphalt and everyone is staring at me wondering what the heck I'm doing. I can almost hear them saying, "look at the dumb american who bought a bike that's too heavy."

Of course, I knew the trip wouldn't be complete without at least one episode of me being a dumbass. Last time I was here I asked if they were closed for Memorial Day. Um, the USA Memorial Day. Coincidentally that was also at a liquor store. Maybe I need to stay out of liquor stores, stay out of Canada, or just wise up. But, now that I ponder it, I'm glad I didn't disappoint.

Ride on.

Trout

 

This sweet little adorable chocolate lab is Trout. She's actually a nightmare in training. Well, I guess she's out of training and now is into the graduate program. Her favorite thing is the kiddie pool in the backyard and she runs to it every time the back door opens. Unfortunately she's really good at sprinting back inside the house before the door shuts.

Somewhere I heard dogs were easier to have than children, you know, the whole you can lock them in the backyard thing...well I am finding that's not true. And in fact, not even close..because at least the kid will eventually grow up, start mowing the lawn and doing other chores and move away. This little devil isn't going anywhere.

Moto Gear: Giant Loop Great Basin Saddlebag

Wow. Someone hand me a cigarette. Just got back from a ride using the Giant Loop Great Basin Saddlebag (http://www.giantloopmoto.com/)and the experience was that fulfilling.

At first glance the bag is a bit of a concern for a rider who's been using strictly hardbags. But let me tell you, the Great Basin is a rider's dream. The mounting is done in a quick and easy manner simply by looping the 5 straps around a point on the bike and pushing the strap through the fastener. Easy Peasy. The "U" shape of the bag allows it conform nicely on the rear seat and yet hang at an angle which didn't affect my riding. Their website touts "rides like it's not even there" and well, they aren't kidding. I had to turn around to make sure the bag hadn't fallen off.

Probably the best part is the weight of the Great Basin. Coming in at 50 liter volume and having an empty weight of only 8 pounds (on my home scale) the bag is light and has enough capacity for a day ride, commuting for work and even a weekend trip. And, it's light enough that even a child can lift it, carry it, and maneuver the bag without an issue.

The width of the bag when on the bike was about 29" as compared to my hardcases which are about 40" wide. The Great Basin has compression straps on the side so the width can change, and even when not completely full there isn't flapping in the wind due to the location of the straps and the compression ability. And speaking of flapping, not an issue in the world with drag, which is a common thing with my huge hardcase panniers.

I had the bag fully strapped onto the bike and realized I'd forgotten to put my purse in for my test ride. There was no problem with opening the zipper and just pushing it in because the zipper runs far enough down the edge of the bag to enable access. The zippers are strong and durable which is a good thing considering on most my gear the zippers break first.

Per Giant Loop's website the bag is made of waterproof material but the seams need to be sealed. This isn't a problem for some riders as their bikes are stationary until the rain stops. I ride all year round but I welcome the opportunity to test the bag in the weather.

My only real concern with the bag, given my type of riding, is security. In the set up I currently have the bags are locked to the bike and have locks keeping everything inside secure. The peace of mind I get from that is a big bonus. With the Great Basin there is essentially no security. Sure, you could use a Pacsafe but that's an extra expense. Of course, even with the extra expense of a Pacsafe anti theft system the Great Basin comes in at a reasonable price of only $399. That's less than a quarter of what I paid for the hardcases. A lot less.

Overall the Giant Loop Great Basin bag is a winner. I'd use it and I'd love it. Now about a tank bag....

Oops, I did it again!

The other day I decided to put the "rubber to the road" as all the cool motorcyclists say and ride the bike to Salem. It was a hot day for Oregon, about 98 degrees, and I was wearing all my gear like a good little girl. My driveway is just long enough to pick up momentum before turning onto the road and I live in the country where there's not a lot of traffic. I hit the end of the gravel driveway and start to make my turn onto the road when I notice a truck coming down the road. I slam on my brakes and the Beast comes to a sudden stop. Unfortunately, not before I put my left leg down to catch it. The foot peg slams into my calf and I nearly drop the Beast. It's then I again re-evaluate my mode of transportation and consider if I were on my last bike, the F650GS, I'd not have almost 600 pounds of bike to pick up and try to manage. Damn my ego!

Today I'm sporting an awesomely sized battle wound bruise on my left calf. It's a reminder to stop being an idiot on the bike, a precursor to things that will come if I don't start paying attention and stop acting like a girl when I ride.

But, oh what good stories I can tell simply based on my stupidity.

Yellowstone May 2010

Rusty, Jess and Jerry

I took a two week vacation this May and rode my bike to Yellowstone with two of my favorite riders, Jerry (on a BMW) and Rusty (on his recently rebuilt Honda 650 dual sport).  Our journey began in LaPine, OR.  We headed east toward Ontario, OR,  passing over a huge section of straight, barren roads that offered nothing in the way of scenery.  We stopped the first night at a "campground" which was straight out of a Deliverance.  I swear I heard pigs squealing in the distance as I set up my tent. The campground was more of a permanent home for the slightly underprivledged.  The trailers and cars were all dilapidated, some on blocks, some on bare rims.  There were bathrooms but the smell of the water was somewhere between vomit and manure.  Horrifying but entertaining.  We parked out bikes near the tents and it was a miracle they were still there in the morning.

We took off early and headed northeast, making a minor pit stop when Rusty's turn signal started breaking.  He fixed it using a tube of Superglue from a local store.  Sweet!  Everything after that came up roses.  If only that were true.  We hit the first condo (hey I ride a BMW and we went in style) and it was a nice place but a little small.  Rusty and I slept on the floor and listened to the snoring from the other room.

Rusty being really really safe. 

The next morning we mounted up and headed to a condo at West Yellowstone.  We spent three nights there, Rusty sleeping in the living room and Jerry and I cozy in our own private rooms, finally able to stretch out and relax.  We bought over priced liquor and had martinis and cranberry vodkas before sleeping peacefully.  The next morning we took a leisurely ride through Yellowstone, seeing buffalo, elk, eagles, and all kinds of wilderness.  We sat for what seemed like an eternity waiting for Old Faithful to burst, listening to a family from Florida discuss the merits of an RV.  Back at the condo, after a full day's ride, we ate like kings, drank more, watched basketball and laughed at Jerry's stories. It was a perfect day.   The next day we were off to Butte, MT to meet one of Jerry's old co-workers for lunch.  We met at a restaurant that is famous for it's breads (sorry, can't remember the name) so we bought huge cinnamon rolls for breakfast the next morning (which we forgot to eat).

Apparently the weather wasn't as happy about our trip as we were and the storms were moving in as we slept.  We decided to head home as soon as we were packed since we had a couple passes to conquer.  As we rode from West Yellowstone the hail and snow assaulted us.  I screamed into my helmet, "Bring it on!"  The weather Gods were not intimidated.  Right before the first pass Rusty's trusty Honda started leaking oil.  I thanked my stars for a good job and a new BMW.  We stopped constantly to add oil.  We had a few miles of good pavement then the rain started...and kept coming...then turned to snow....then turned to hail and snow...and all the while I"m screaming into my helmet, "Bring it!"  because I figured it couldn't get any worse.  Then it did.  Really.  More snow, thick on the windshield and all over the helmet.  My temp gage (Yeah, I know, spoiled, but it IS a BMW) read 32 at one point and I almost felt my fingers freeze.  You couldn't see with the visor down and when it was up, freezing cold water smashed into your face like a sledgehammer.  Wonderful.  Luckily I had a heated jacket while Rusty, meanwhile, was forming icicles on his privates.  Good gear goes a long way to making happiness.   (My apologies while you try to remove the visions of Rusty's icicles from your mind.)

Right before quitting time the rain stopped and Rusty ran out of gas.  He pushed the bike until a woman came outside her house and offered to give him some gas to get him to the next station.  It was the one bit of luck we had that wasn't bad.  She told us about the next town and how to use the gas pumps even though the station was closed.  We found the hotel and when we rolled up helpful man told us the proprietor was off having a birthday dinner for his wife.  We hit the pavement looking for dinner and found a Chinese cafe nearby (ok maybe it was one of the only places to eat other than the gas station).  During dinner the motel owner came down and found us, saying he'd go back and prep the room (turn on the heat since we were clearly cold and miserable) and even took money off since Rusty would have to sleep on a rollaway.  Nice town and wonderful people... if you can excuse the giant white elk with it's butt facing the sky on the roof of the hotel.

The next morning we ate two day old cinnamon rolls and and headed for Oregon.  And, wait for it, another pass with SNOW!  At this point I wasn't even trying to be entertained.  I was feeling sorry for Rusty and his bad gear, thankful for my nice waterproof pants and jacket, gloriously excited I had a heated vest, and beyond words thrilled about my nice gortex BMW gloves.  That night we stayed in a motel in a one horse town.  All I can remember is the one restaurant closed early, the motel was possibly used for a mass murder at one point in it's life, the words "clean" did not exist in the vocabulary of the staff, the floors creaked, the sinks leaked, but all I cared about was climbing under the dirty sheets and snoring.

That morning we rode a few hundred miles to LaPine and were home.  I took the next week off from my vacation to have a vacation at the beach.   And the week at Yellowstone?  It was a wonderful trip, a rider's dream on some roads, a nightmare on others. There's something about riding a bike through a snow storm and watching buffalo walk so close you can reach out and touch them, that bonds you.  So next year, I say we head...south.  To the sun and a beach.  Let someone else touch the buffalo.  I just want to touch a margarita glass and leave my heated jacket at home.

Blossoms

It's 2 AM on a "school night" and sleep fails me. Memories of who I once was and hoped to be fly through my mind like whisps of fog then dissipate. I only catch glimpses which lead simply to confusion instead of clarity. If I think really hard I can barely remember the girl who dared to dream. She would run though fields jumping over fences and chasing lizards. At least she did until that one day when her foot caught on the bottom barb wire and she crashed down chest first into a rock, left winded with just a lizard tail in her hand. Gasping for breath, watching the lizard run away merrily, half expecting it to turn around and taunt her. That girl, she is long gone. Time and experience have changed her. For the better or worse remains yet undetermined. What is known is that dreams that grew from childhood innocence still rest like fruit blossoms on a tree with roots that wind deep around her soul. Every so often she will see that tree and look at it with contempt. The tree is a reminder of what could have been; of things wanted and hoped for but never dared for. As she looks in the mirror she notices the lines across her face and watches a breeze pluck one of the few remaining blossoms and send it flying into the air. She is at the precipice of life. Standing there watching her bridges burn, the flames flickering around that tree of dreams...and she wonders...is it too late to chose a different path?