The Low Point

Now I dont know if this is true for every long ride, but it sure was for mine. And I suspect it is fairly common.

I speak of the Low Point.

You have spent a long time planning and dreaming. Imagining the smells, the feelings, the sights you will experience. But the real trip isnt living up to your expectations.

For me it went sideways pretty much from day one. I had spent months prepping my 1971 moto Guzzi Ambassador. I went through the motor. I replaced the seals in everything. I even sprung for new paint. I spent the better part of a year setting it up. I had grand dreams of drifting across the map on my old friend.

But I made a mistake. When I inspected the bearings in the transmission, I knew one was sketchy. But I tossed a coin and decided it was ok. Dumb.

So at the evening of the first day, as I accelerated up the long grade to Coer D'alene Idaho, I heard a brief squeal from the bike. That was the death scream of that bearing. Later at the hotel, after calls to various Guzzi scientists, I drained the oil from the transmission and lo, there was a couple clunks and a lot of shining metal for me to pan for.

In what would become a theme for me, I had to wait an extra day because my bike had decided to quit on me on the one day that would guarantee I could not get a vehicle to move me and the bike - Sunday.

Once I had rented a truck, reloaded my gear onto my 2000 Moto Guzzi Quota (another fine ride in its own right) and returned to Idaho, I had lost 4 days. I have said elsewhere that the only real plan I had was a given date to be on the East Coast and another to be home. Unfortunately that 4 days had eaten up almost all of my wandering time. I was now condemned to making time East. No wandering up north. Just pounding down the fastest road. You do not miss your wife's birthday, period. So that was another downturn.

Headed east I began to get into the groove. The sun was hot, the bike was loping along. I found a really cheap but good hotel in Montana. Then in North Dakota the weather turned.

I found I was tailgating a heavy storm system. Now weather was to be expected, but this was ridiculous. This was a line of massive thunderstorms spawning tornadoes like flies. And as my luck remained true, they were moving East. So I would ride up on them, and hit a literal wall of water. One moment I am doing okay, the next I cant see twenty feet in front of me and the rain is literally hurting me through my gear. And so I would stop, wait half an hour. And then I would repeat the process. Again and again. I did get stopped by a trooper once so he could warn me about the tornados. I never did see them or even cross ones trail.

So time was weighing eve further on me once the storms turned north and I made my way east. My eyes constantly on the mileage and the clock. When I left Indiana, I found out why the thunderstorms went north - Hurricane Ernesto was trashing the eastern states like a fratboy discovering tequila shots for the first time. Ohio and Pennsylvania were crossed in a constant downpour and as luck would have it, my in-laws house was seeing a record rainfall. Ten inches in twenty four hours. I was so wretched and wet that my Mother-in-law commanded that I undress on the back porch. I dont blame her one bit. I was a mess.

It was good to stop for a few days and gather myself. I wrapped myself in the comfort of family and got a set of tires sent to me. And that began another downturn.

I have changed my own tires for years. But for some reason I could not seem to do it this time without completely screwing it up. When I left on the second leg, I made it 10 miles before my front tire went flat. With 600 pounds of bike, another 100 of gear and 240 pounds of rider riding on that front hoop, things can get exciting when it goes flat. And you know, a small electric pump is a godsend. I located a nearby bike shop and aired up the tire every few miles until I got there. There I learned a big lesson at the hands of a former six days trials rider - tire irons suck. Use spoons. He also corrected a bunch of my self-taught bad habits.

So with that hurdle overcome I kept rolling. Ernesto has somewhat moved on, but he was joined by some other prick of a storm from the Gulf. My dreams of wandering the eastern mountains were largely trashed as I was forced over into Ohio to head south between the two weather jerks. 

Now mind you, this wasn't  a constant barrage of wretched terrible days. There were lots of good and great moments in there too. You really can't get the feel for Gettysburg until you have stood there and seen the fields or felt the oppressive humidity. It was cool and raining the day I was there, I can only imagine how terrible it was in July on that day in history. And you really cant appreciate the beauty and the scars of West Virginia coal country until you have been there and looked. So even though the trip hadn't been constant depressing bad events and disappointment...it was a steady accumulation of events building up until I hit Tennessee.

Just as it was getting dark, I was just passing Kingsport, Tennessee. I figured on trying for Knoxville. I had just gassed up and was heading up the ramp, when the back of the bike got that nasty, mushy, vague feeling that means only one thing. Flat tire. So as it dropped toward full dark, I was stuck by the side of the freeway with a heavy bike and semi-trucks trying to blow me into the weeds. I did my best to maneuver it as far away from the fog line as I could. But really, have you ever tried to muscle something like that, wearing armored cycle gear in 80 degrees with humidity on the order of a wet dishrag? In a word: sucks. So I dig in and start pulling all the gear off the bike. and stash it in the weeds by the median. By the time I get everything ready to set to work on the bike, it is full dark. Now I am changing the tube in the dark by the light of a headlamp flashlight and being buffeted by traffic, intensly aware that one wrong move by some toolbox in traffic and I would look like one of those spectacularly splattered bugs on my windscreen. After twenty minutes of struggle I got the tire reassembled

I pinched the damned tube.

Now most bike stories start with "No shit, there is was...." But this really was one of those. it's dark. Traffic is heavy and threatening. I have two punctured tire tubes. I'm three thousand miles from home. I'm exhausted. I want my mommy.

Now most times, I am of the Macho School of road tripping. Dammit I will fix this on my own. But realistically, there is a point where you have to use your backup and the macho stuff just has to take a back seat. So I called for a tow truck. Which turned out to be a chore itself. I had purchased AAA recreational memberships and a road club from my car insurance company. both of them become a real pain in the ass when it comes to bikes. They are as bad as dealing with tech support for a computer. I prevailed though and got a truck to me. An hour later.

The driver was a nice fellow, with a drawling accent that needed subtitles. but he took me to a hotel in Kingsport that promised to be near a bike shop. Excellent. he drops me off at a Days Inn (or was it Econolodge?) right off the interstate in Kingsport. The guy at the counter took one look at me and charged me the second highest rate I had seen the entire trip.  But this would turn out to be the most wretched hotel I have ever stayed in...and I have dropped my head at some dives, boy. But at this point beggars cant be choosers.

I dragged my bike up under the window and hauled my junk inside. I still hadnt paid a lot of attention to the shape of the room. My first concern was food and drink. I was dehydrated and low on energy. This area turned out to be a large strip mall kind of area. The nearest food source was the large stop n rob gas station across the street. The street crossing was hazardous to say the least. The crossing signal was way short even for a fast moving long legged man. And traffic certainly didnt slow in volume enough to make dashing acros all 12 lanes a good idea. I played Frogger when I was a kid. I sucked at it. And I was out of quarters anyhow.

On my way back, I was struck a hard blow right between the eyes. This was Saturday night. This was Saturday night Labor Day Weekend. This meant that the likelihood that the bike shop would be open was mighty slim and probably wouldnt open again until Tuesday.

My only chance was to repair the tubes.

So while I restored my energy reserves I looked around the room. Holy balls.

 

Yes there were fixtures hanging by wires.

Never mind the busted fixture - what in hell is that dripping on it?

Now that is a floor to a 25 buck a night room. Not a 70 buck a night room.

Now all that other stuff can be ignored as just sloppy. Now this....This right here is the cherry on top

 

That, my friends, is a used baby-wipe stuck to the curtain like a cast off booger.

I'm not squeamish. And I'm not one to bitch about accomodations - provided they meet my expectations at the price I am charged. A chicken coop for free? No complaints. Now if the Waldorf burns my eggs, at the price they charge, I'm gonna bitch. This was nasty. At least the air conditioner worked. And I would use the nastiness of the room to my advantage later.

Pictures taken and food consumed, I set to work on my bike. Now mind you it is still 75+ degrees and near underwater humidity. And as I started work..I met my neighbors.

One of my few regrets on this trip was that I didnt get a family picture of them; because this is one of those times where words threaten to fail me. As I do attempt to describe them, I want you to keep something in mind: these were nice people. Possibly tragic people. But oh my, they were cartoons.

In the West, we have a particular notion about "rednecks". Most of our information comes from media. The movie "Deliverance" brings a lot of the stereotypes to us. And we do have our own versions of rednecks. But these people were deep south, backwoods REDnecks. The room they had was no bigger than my own. I think I counted around seven or so. The ages ranged from diapers up to grampaw. but when people live a hard life, ages can be hard to tell. And I never did figure out if this hotel was their home or their chosen vacation destination for Labor day weekend. looking back today, I see them as people - but on that night, given my state of mind, I only saw them as cartoons.

At first there were just a couple, the elder man and a younger woman sitting in chairs in front of the room drinking beer and smoking. At first I thought the woman was older and was overweight. I later figured out she was somewhere under twenty years old and several months pregnant. She was wearing a stained tank top and men's tighty whitey underwear. She was originally pretty tipsy. But she got steadily drunker within the hour. The first time I passed by with the wheel in my hand, she slurred "Hey...siddown n' drank a beeerrr wi' me" I politely declined, noting I needed to get my wheel working again.

I decided to work on the wheel inside the room because it had air conditioning and the owner certainly didnt seem to care bout his carpet.

Note that I atleast put a plastic bag over the greasy part of the wheel. See that curved tire iron in the upper left? Those suck. The spoons are so much better.

The process of inflating and finding holes in both tubes required several trips to the bike since my air pump runs off the battery of the bike. On one trip, the young lady stopped me "Ye got any matchhhssssz?" I handed her a pack of matches and watched her slowly zero in on them, her hand waving about in the air like the antennae on some insect. I was thinking to myself that the kid will spring from her womb with a Busch in one hand and a Marlboro in the other.

So I finally get the tubes patched. I muscle one into the tire and air the mess up. I left the wheel off the bike in my room. I figured I could better check it for air loss in the morning. Not to mention making it difficult to take the bike anywhere.  This is important later. Finally, dead on my feet, I rolled into my sleeping bag on top of the bed. No way was I risking bedbugs and lice in that room. it was about midnight.

I was fast asleep when round about two AM, someone starts hammering on my door. No not knocking, I mean beating on it. A voice on the other side is hollering "FIRE! Get out th' room! FIRE!". Nothing like pure adrenalin to wake your ass right the hell up. My first thought was this was a ploy to get me to open the door so I could be robbed. While the pounding and shouting continued, I grabbed my knife and held it behind my back as I opened the door. There stood a guy, his eyes peeled wide open. Tension striping his body as he bent forward on his toes at an improbable angle, shouting "FIRE!" in my face. I think he meant it.

I grabbed the pannier case that had my money and documents and headed out into the parking lot. There around the corner from my room sat a cadillac with flames reaching twenty feet into the sky. The fire department hadnt arrived yet. People from the other rooms walked toward it like extras in Night of the Living Dead. Me? I went and stood behind a minivan. From there I could watch but hopefully avoid being maimed when the car exploded.

And for the second time that day, I regretted not getting pictures. Once the firefighters arrived and it became apparent that the building wasnt going to burst into flame I retrieved my camera.

Yup. There it is. My bike. Immobilized. Way too close to fire for my ease of mind.

After the excitement I went into my room, sat on the bed, and laughed. I hunched up like I had dysentery and laughed myself sick. I roared. All the stress and disappointment had filled me to the stops and had to be purged. I knew that from that point on, I would only have a good time. I had reached the low point, and emerged on the other side, clean and blessed. In the morning I faced west and smiled.

oh sure there were other low moments and irritations. But nothing bothered me. I had learned to stop fighting the trip and let it move me how it wanted to. The next day I set my sights on one destination, Knoxville. A larger city offered more chances to repair my ailing tire. But I still had more than a day to kill. The day after The Fire, I reached Knoxville at 8pm and once again my tire was flat. But in the interim I had spent the whole day wandering the hills and valleys of western North Carolina. So I was laid up in Knoxville with yet another flat for two days. I had to walk to all of my destinations. That meant two meals a day at the Waffle House down the road. That meant supplies from the 7-11. I didnt care. I even managed to find an English style pub a half mile away as I walked the streets of Knoxville.

 

See? Everything was fine.