The betrayal!
Early November in Dorset, there was a hard frost this morning and when Chris took Meggles out for an early morning game of chase the ball the long grass was crunchy and wet with frost. Winter was definitely on its way, maybe the papers were right for once and this year winter would be one of the coldest on record, after all, make the claim every year and one day you are going to be right.
He thought back to Neah Bay, there it was like coming back into summer from the other direction, up in Canada the trees had been turning and the leaves were falling, but riding south the seasons were rolling back, the sun was brighter and the trees were greener.
However at 4 in the morning the most apparent feature of the most north western part of the contiguous USA was the appalling stench that oozed through the small open windows in the tiny bunk room.
It was even worse than dead fish river in Hyder!
As this was a little fishing port the gasping friends decided it must be down to rotting fish dumped overboard and exposed at low tide, but whatever the reason it gave extra impetus to the morning pack up and go routine.
As expected the run back from Neah bay was a lot more fun with a dry road, now the twists and turn, dips and hills were a fun roller coaster ride rather than the deadly gamble they had been the day before.
Next stop Forks! The site of the great betrayal. it all started innocuously enough with a stop for breakfast in the vampire capital of Washington state, a nice breakfast during which Chris gambled his growing obesity problem on a chicken fried steak, not having been exposed to such fatally carb and fat laden fare since deep fried pizza in Scotland he was unprepared for the dish of fried potatoes and a smear of mincemeat in a fat dripping coating of bread, it was great.
After a quick visit to the local brick a brack shop to buy a Parks themed Christmas tree decoration Chris was shocked when he got back to the bikes to find Paul astride the gently blushing Best Beloved, what was going on?
Obviously all the promises and intimate moments meant nothing to this triple engined hussy. that midnight ride two days ago had not been so innocent, now Paul’s man bits were nestled where moments before Chris’s had been, all of a sudden there was a little bit of sick in the back of his throat and the day looked darker somehow, this was how betrayal felt.
Mounting Dora felt strangely familiar, he had been riding adventure bikes for the last few years and this was a good adventure bike, comfortable, grunty and, once on the move the weight just falls away.
After a few minutes playing with the toys on the dash Chris is settling down to big miles and enjoying the warming day.
The run down to Cape Disappointment was good and bad, the road was fun, the warmth was fabulous after the rain and cold but there was a sense of returning to civilisation, there were many more cars and it was hard to retrain a riding style which had relaxed in the barely populated north.
Chris enjoyed a “race” with a GS1200 which overtook him, following the BMW his suspicions were confirmed, the Triumph had a fair bit more grunt than the air cooled GS in front. This was going to be fun.
Cape Disappointment was beautiful and seemed populated mainly by Racoons, and Chris reckoned the little fuckers were after the bikes, or possibly the charcoal.
Walking in the dark to the campsite toilets was like a scene out of some sort of silence fiction horror movie, there were little thieving eyes everywhere, running along keeping pace on the ground, under caravans, peering round the corners of the toilet block and round the sides of trees, but the most disconcerting was looking up to find eyes in the trees, staring back and squabbling amongst themselves.
The deer wandering around the camp were much sweeter and it was all beginning to look a bit like a Walt Disney film.
Chris wandered down to try to find the sea, which was much more difficult than it should have been, he could hear it but there was a wall of driftwood between the road and the sound of the water, and in the dark it was too precarious to climb, a distant lighthouse flashed across the mist covered water and his breath misted in the light of the head torch, the sea is a lovely place to be.
Next morning was damp and misty but the sun soon broke through, Chris and Paul loaded up the bikes, swapping personal bits onto different bikes after The Betrayal.
They had now racked up 4777 miles and they were comfortably ahead of schedule, a quick breakfast in a little cafe near the campsite, run by the female version of the elderly odd couple, the owner who was capable and overworked and her assistant looked like one of those pity hirings which you regret almost immediately but are too nice to be able to correct. The assistant was mostly deaf, couldn’t see the menu, couldn’t hear the orders and couldn’t make the food, she also argued that it wasn’t her fault all the time, however Chris found a book out lighthouses of the western pacific coast and contentedly let the arguments wash over him as he enjoyed a red eye and a BLT that seemed to have been made with strawberry jam, very odd but not inedible.
Then he turned right whilst Paul turned left, noticing quickly that Paul had not followed but not sure why Chris stopped by the side of the road and waited, and waited…..
Fearing dropped bikes or breakdowns he turned round and went back to the cafe, no one there but one of the cafe customers gesticulated “he went that way” so the chase was on.
It was a slow chase, too much traffic to gun it, so cruise along, enjoying the sun and taking in the American west coast.
There were hand cranked rail trollies running along next to the road, which seemed a very masochistic way of enjoying the view, whilst pumping the handle on what looked like several tonnes or rusting iron, but this was Oregon, they make em strong and self abusive out here.
They were heading to Tillamook to meet a good friend of Pauls and did not meet up again until Chris spotted the Sprint parked up next to a bunch of hardcore adventury BMW’s, flirting like the little whore she is no doubt!
Loren was lovely, he bought lunch in a posh looking restaurant and discussed adventures, surfing and real estate.
Then back on the road hunting down a campsite for the night.
Less traffic and many more chances to make the Tiger roar, Paul had stopped to make an essential purchase so Chris was in the lead, he sort of knew where he was going but also couldn’t quite remember the exact name of the campsite or of the towns around it so started getting more and more concerned, as the hours of fast riding passed, that he had perhaps missed the site and Paul was already parked up and erecting his tent.
One of the problems with riding a motorbike, Chris had found, was that the more cars you overtake the less you feel like stopping, or slowing down to find out where the fuck you actually are. It’s a bit like grabbing hold of the Tiger’s tale, it’s dangerous but letting go also brings its own set of unique problems. And Chris’s tiger was so obsessed with the next car down the road, the next straight long enough to overtake on, the next bend to accelerate out of.
Finally he took a deep breath and turned off, then slowed, u turned and stopped for a moment.
Getting out his phone to check where he was proved more frustrating than revealing, no signal, then… what was that? the sound of a slutty triple, Paul on board the fickle iron filly flashed past the end of the road.
Another problem with riding a motorcycle, as opposed to driving a car is that Chris could not just put down the phone and drive away, he had to secure the phone back in his jacket, pull his gloves back on, not the work of a moment, before he could take up the chase.
He could just see the cute triple ass off his capricious lover disappearing up the road in the distance, the tiger roared again and the trees lining the road went backwards like they were being pulled, was that campsite sign, yes, something about dunes, hauling on the anchors too late Chris nearly overshot the entrance before hauling the grumbling tiger onto the campsite road.
The map of the site showed a circular road with camps on either side, predictably it took a couple of comedy circuits before the friends managed to meet up.
Choosing a camp took a couple more circuits, much to the interest of the few other residents.
This campsite had an honesty box, so another free nights accommodation.
Paul went off to beg borrow or steal firewood whilst Chris set up his tent and started the BBQ.
There were playful blue jays and tiny squirrely things in the bushes all around, bound to be bears so Chris set his tent next to the brambles which would be sure to keep him safe.
Trump and his supporters was the subject of the fireside discussion, one of the other campsite residents had put up the Trump flag, or a swastika, Chris couldn’t quite tell from Pauls furious spit flecked invective. When the subject of Paul’s ire trundled past on his way to the loo he seemed quite pleasant, especially considering he must have heard some of Paul’s rant.
(There is wildlife in the pictures, but it is small and a long way away)
Chris stares out at the grey rainy Dorset skies and dripping trees, the sound of Meg chewing solidified Yak’s milk drifting over from the other sofa, his phone chimes, Paul messaging from America! “Sorry i gave you homework” the reply “only two days to go”
The penultimate day dawned damp, the tents soaked with condensation, they were on the coast and everything was wet.
Paul had had enough of camping for one trip, and Chris was certainly feeling the miles, surely over 5000 now. How could you do this for months or years?
The penultimate day has faded in his memory, they carried on down the coast road but the details were blurring now, he can remember the road curving out of the trees and the long sandy golden beaches below stretching off into the distance, walking on the grey sand out to boulders in the surf, sending Dawny pics of his footprints on the sand but where did they stop for lunch or breakfast, there is a hazy memory of a diner and a wrap, or was it a burrito, he was never quite sure. Chris can remember more cities, more traffic and then California! Finally back in the place they started from.
Munching more freeway miles and the bikes dinking down the premium, another gas stop, a young couple on dirt bikes, chatting about muddy trails in forests far from here and far from anywhere, but that part of the journey was done, more people, more houses, then a crappy motel to dry off the tents, but they didn’t bother, just ate mexican food and slept, when the crazy loud residents let them.
The last day of the trip was one of the best for biking, Paul led Chris through the Sequoias then back onto the fantastic 101, banked over, knee inches from the tarmac (ok, feet from the tarmac but it looked closer) overtaking cages up and down the foothills of the mountain peaks peeping over the horizon.
Paul told him they had ridden this road on the way up but there is no memory of it now. Then onto highway 1, ride it before you die the article had said, one of many read by the friends in the build up to the trip, well the first half a dozen corners nearly killed Chris and all of the rest tried very hard to make sure they died before they reached the coast, so tight, with trees either side, cliffs reaching up on one side and plummeting down through the thick trees on the other. After running wide a couple of times Chris dropped back and concentrated on his riding, dropping a shoulder, staying loose and making certain his gear selection was spot on, thanking the torque of the triple which always seemed ready to lift him out of the corner and thrust him on to the next braking point.
The surface was cracked, rutted and damp in places, gravel strewn in others, when he could spare the time to look Chris could see Paul ahead, miraculously still on the bike and not implanted in the side of one of the road side trees. The road rose and fell and gradually the sky took on a brighter aspect as they neared the coast, the air freshened and then the road levelled and straitened and curved out onto cliffs overlooking the most fantastic vista of mist veiled coast stretching left and right, surf and rocks and seagulls and the warm sun congratulating them on surviving the first part of highway 1. What a crazy road, heading south towards Fort Bragg, narrow and twisty, running along clifftops and down into sandy coves then back up the other side, race along the straight, brake and bank left then right down hill then ever sharper right hand hairpins and climb back up the cliff accelerating as the road sweeps left to slingshot you back out onto the cliff top again, accelerate and overtake and get ready to do it all again, and again.
Garlic and crab omelette in a Wizard of Oz themed cafe, with a composting toilet out the back through the cramped kitchen, funny what memories stick and which ones fade away.
Getting proper hot now, thermal underclothes a distant memory, jacket undone front and wrists to let the baking air blow through and always the bike, roaring and juddering now on the brakes as the fork oil soaked into the brake pads, so much torque and revs wanting to throw him at the horizon, Chris was loving the ride, the betrayal a sad memory now, how fickle he was.
Paul stopped to show him one of his surf spots, back in his back yard but still many hot traffic filled miles from home.
The Tiger felt like home now, telepathically reacting to his every need, Paul overtook cars ahead but Chris was stuck behind for several miles as they made their way through small beachside villages, finally some straight road and the Tiger roared and the cars receded, keep the speed up, beautiful bends and scenery blurring and he chased the tail of the sprint. Winding him in, closer and closer every corner until they were riding together again.
An old Subaru ahead, racing around the bends with huge drop offs to the sea on the right and hard hard rocks on the left, they followed, any thought of overtaking banished by the speed of the demon legacy in front, finally it pulls over to admire the view, and what a view it was, no option for the friends but to stop a little further on and do the same, glancing back to the Subaru Chris was crestfallen to see the distinctly pensionable lady who was standing next to it.
Of course the scoobie got away first and once again they were stuck behind it, but that was no hardship as the glorious coastline ahead drew Chris’s gaze.
At the next set of road works a nutter on a bike zoomed past the whole queue of cars and the two adventure bikes to pull up in front of the old lady in her subaru, a week ago the two adventurers would have done the same but not today. Today was all about getting home.
After a quick stop in a hippy surfer juice bar they left the coast behind.
It was a journey to forget, hot, slow, crazy traffic, 3, 4, 5 lanes of hot hot tarmac filled with impatient traffic.
So hot the tank and frame burnt the inside of Chris’s thighs through his armoured jeans. filtering through rush hour traffic over the Richmond bridge and into the heat of the Bay area, had he mentioned the heat?
That almost unbelievable moment when they rode up the broken potholed rode to Paul’s house, the journey over, parking the bikes in the shade of the garage, just standing back and looking at them, her betrayal forgiven, disheveled and dirtier than they had ever been, Paul’s beauties had kept them safe for 5600 miles.
