He turned away from the driving horizontal rain and faced back up the hill, for the sixth time that day he started squelching through the slimy waterlogged clay back to the site office.
The wind seemed to have evil intent as it drove the rain into the gap between his hard hat and the turned up collar of his waterproof jacket, where it finally managed to start the long dribble down his neck and back.
Thoughts turned to better times, Paul was up bright and early in 100 Mile House, off coffee hunting while Chris was still coming to in the stinky but not burnt down room in the Red Wagon motel.
The chosen coffee shop wasn’t open so they met up in the ubiquitous Ted Hortons.
This morning was damp and overcast but it was only going to get better from here on in.
Up out of 100 Mile House they rode, Chris in the lead on the 8 lane highway with the highest posted speed limit they had yet seen. 110kmh! But it was far too foggy to take advantage, was that a car ahead or a road sign or a moose, he really didn’t want to hit a moose.
Back onto two lane highway following a couple of “proper” bikers on Harleys.
Chris was quite glad that Harleys couldn’t scratch like a proper bike, at least he could follow them and not feel the need to chase the cars ahead, in the wet the overbanding was slippery and his head was still a bit fuzzy from the night before.
What a way to clear your head though!
Picture above shows how easy it is to make a mistake and how unforgiving trees are.
“Let’s go and look in that cave, there are bound to be bears ? or ghosts ?”
“Or maybe not” ?
Here was the top of the roller coaster called the the Fraser river canyon, well over 100 miles of fast twisting road, sometimes on one sides of the river sometimes on the other, chasing the railway line down towards civilisation, the reverse gold rush for Chris, this was the route used by the pioneers searching for their fortune, now it was a route back to warmth and sun, hunting the golden Californian sunshine.
They struggled through the border back into the USA at Whistler. Bit of fuss cos the border guard, ugly, hostile and American rather than beautiful friendly and Canadian, was affronted by the code on the British contingents passport which apparently meant the immigration official at San Francisco airport thought riding a motorcycle to Canada and back should be classed as a business trip rather than pure pleasure.
Paul vouched for him though and they were soon buying chevron gas again, the roads were long and straight between crop fields, with right angle corners and mountains in the distance. Very green and verdant but rain still threatened.
Another night in a motel, Paul renewed his love affair with the Sprint.
Chris, sat in the motel room heard the motor start then recede, what did it mean?
Over the last two weeks what had been a strong physical attraction had developed into a deep, almost telepathic joining of man and sexy curvy exciting machine, and now, with no warning, Paul’s man bits were nestling where his had been just a few minutes before, was it betrayal or had he taken her by force?
Back at the site office Chris took off the latest suit of wet clothes and checked emails, bloody windows leaking again, he looked at the rain sheeting down it, remembering the highway to Edmonds, on the coast just north of Seattle.
Following Paul through the torrential rain in the predawn murk, car headlights refracting through rain drops on visor and glasses, unfamiliar road signs and road markings blurring into a 90’s computer graphic like mess of shattered images and badly rendered landscape, the relief when they got onto the freeway and at least he didn’t have to worry about invisible junctions anymore.
Going slow was no fun, everything cruising past sending up bow waves of spray and rain, speed up, that’s the ticket, overtake the lumbering rigs and gas guzzling monster trucks.
Chris found himself retreating into the familiar place inside, like a mech pilot of his own body, sat safe and warm and dry somewhere behind his sternum, the beating rain and wind made more distant, the other traffic less of a threat.
Then the road ahead lit red with brake lights, morning rush hour in sodden Seattle. One foot goes down as he slows to a stop, exposing fresh areas of body to the elements, rain tricked down waterproof trousers into boots, ahh, motorcycling, nothing better.
They met up with Paul’s friend and his guys for breakfast, a dozen plumbers and two cold wet bikers.
So different to the trades back in the UK, unbelievable to think that this professional but friendly gathering was part of the business of plumbing, impossible to reconcile it with the experience of site trades in England.
They wish Steve and Rachel well, after Chris enthuses about the beauty of northern Scotland and the Orkneys. (I hope they enjoy it and thanks for breakfast Steve.)
Back on the road they head downtown to the ferry across Puget Sound, heading for Cape Flattery, the north western most point of the contiguous United States!
Both bikes perched precariously in the prow of the ferry, they head into Puget sound, apparently no need to secure the top heavy fully loaded precious bikes on the slippery deck, feet from a vertical fall into the cold cold ocean depths. Vancouver Island just visible to the north and squally showers playing on the surface of the Sound to the south. No whales though.
Bikes are ushered in first and shoo’d off before the cars on the other side, nice to feel special but Chris just feels guilty, for the first time he has been unable to obey Paul’s golden rule of warming the engine before riding away.
For almost the first time the pair have navigation issues, maybe the cold and wet has rusted their collective sense of direction.
As the roads turn to rivers Chris’s brain begins to shut down and the real possibility of falling asleep whilst riding rears it’s ugly head, they pull over and get directions (yes ladies, it can happen, ever so occasionally) to a cafe, described as a bit hippy.
Once again the rain is hammering down and they are so demoralised they struggle to park their steeds outside the cafe, and there are not many things easier to do than park a motorcycle.
More extra strong coffee and a slice of carrot cake revive spirits even as the rain gets heavier outside.
They checked on sat navs and maps and worked out what had gone wrong, back out into the wet stuff, Chris took the lead and headed off down the drowned road, he watched incredulously as the rain got harder, and missed the turning!
One quick u turn later they were back on track.
Following the 4lane up to Port Angeles where the twisted started again.
This time it was a struggle, uneven or even broken tarmac, very tight and twisty with lots of nasty slippery overbanding, Chris, still in the lead was just waiting for the front to fold or the back to slide out. Two oil wasters towing fishing boats grew through the rain ahead of the struggling bikers, imagine a broken tarmac rollercoaster with random rubber strips and you are seeing the road as they did, the pick ups slowed to let the bikes past at the bottom of a particularly steep valley, as Chris pulled out to pass he saw movement on the left out of the corner of his eye, there stood two deer, just trying to decide if this was the way they wanted to die.
Thankfully they decided to wait for us to pass before making the leap into the afterlife and Chris and Paul overtook the trucks on the way up the hill.
Finally, as they neared Neah Bay the sun came out and the road grew drier, on the right was the Pacific Ocean with pines growing down to the waters edge and mist patches in the valleys.
After a frustrating hunt for accommodation they found a cute cabin built for 4 which Paul kindly rented.
Demonstrating a complete lack of reason, which must again be contributed to the onslaught of the rain, our hero’s removed all of their wet protectively armoured motorcycle gear and rode said powerful widow makers the 6 or 7 miles of twisty roads through the woods to Cape Flattery and back, what a couple of knobs.
Think that’s Paul over on the other cliff.