WetLeather Motorcycle Rider Information

I wasn't sure of the route. I wasn't in a hurry. I didn't plan a schedule. All I knew was that I was going to prepare the Bandit and ride from Seattle, Washington to San Francisco, California -- the long way. I kept a diary of sorts most of the trip. When alone, why not spend a little time writing?

I wanted to ride to the places I had been in the last twenty years; to see them again, to be there. It didn't matter when I got there, just that I at least passed through. I didn't want any company on most of the trip. I just wanted to be there, those places, and remember.

It's Saturday morning and my odometer reads 4,708 miles.

I head south and east, towards highway 410. On the way out of Enumclaw, on 410 I started singing a song I'd recently grown fond of: Homeward Bound.

Relieved and refreshed I ride, higher and higher, into the snow. Snow, in June. Little was I to know how much more weather I'd encounter on this trip. The road is rough and the Bandit bucks over pavement ripples and bumps, doing it's best with the weight of the bags, my speed, and the stock suspension with the preload set pretty high. I ride stiff and clumsy, running not into some corners. It takes miles for me to find a steady rhythm, to learn how the bike handles with packed bags. Sometimes it feels as if some giant is pulling me around by the back of the bike -- that's the tent, the clothes, camp gear, spare helmet and other essentials reminding me that this is not a risk taking trip. Take it easy Jenner because if you crash, you will have lost your ride home.

The downhill sections are the hardest. They always have been the easiest to buy a load of trouble that my riding skills checkbook can't cash. Eventually, I turn west onto highway 12, headed for Mt. St. Helens.

Helens is a different landscape indeed. The road into the east side of the park is brand new. If it weren't for the devastation, the snapped trees, the moonscape being such a distraction, I'd have ridden faster. There was just so much to see. Huge trees laying snapped off like metaphrocal matchsticks. You can see where the hot gasses bounced off mountains and skipped over valleys shadowed from their fury by ridges.

I ride past Spirit Lake, which had been moved hundreds of yards by the blast, it's surface fulled with tree trunks reminicent of a handful is sticks thrown in to a pond by a child. All around me is a destroyed land, slowly coming back to life.

Soon I'm at the lookout point. As I pull in there are two bikes parked, the ones that passed me on the way into the park. I pull alongside the yellow CBR and black CBRXX. I stay long enought to have a snack, chat wit the riders, take a rest and check my map. I know I will not be traveling a state highway on my way shouth, but a forest road. I'm watching my fuel and wondering if I have enough to make Hood River, some 150 miles away.

Leaving the park, I snake my way south along the east side of Helens. Two miles of gravel and dirt greet my street bike on my way over a small summit and find me running lower on fuel than I predicted. For a five mile descent, I shut the Bandit down, the only sound I hear is the wind of my 40 mph descent, the slight chain humm, and the occasional low vibration of my front brakes. I stop to speak to a couple riders at a rest stop, inquire about fuel and admire the Norton. They tell me Couger is my only choice for fuel. So it's on down to Forest Road 90, where I decide to make a run west to Cougar. A quick blast west along the water and I'm there, fueled up, fed, and on backtracking my way east towards Forest Road 25 and my route towards the Columbia.

The sign says "Slow Bridge Grating."

The sign should have said, "Gocha you fool -- it's almost a half mile long!!!"

I've ridden bridge gratings in the past. On the Bandit its' tires tend to follow them a bit. I've never had a problem with them but, I've never ridden over a windy bridge, at 25mph behind a van, over such a long distance. Staying loose is the key, but the longer I wobbled across that bridge, the stiffer I got. I had to keep telling myself to loosen up, that I wouldn't fall down, that I'd crossed stuff like this just fine before. It still wasn't fun. I was glad to reach the toll crossing where the toll taker smiled at me a bit, seeing the tired look on my face.

"Fun, ain't it?"

All I could do was smile and nod.

So here I am in Hood River, Oregon, at 6:00 pm. Looking over my maps I'm deciding where to stop for the night. I haven't ridden a lot of miles but I am getting tired. I eat, lube the chain on the Bandit and decide to press on south on Highway 35 towards Mount Hood.

I climb up from the Gorge and find myself in beautiful farm country. I head south towards Mount Hood. The mountain looms ahead as I fly by pastures full of cows. The Bandit runs easy, climbing the grades, a comfortable ride, inspiring confidence after this long day. I know I can go farther and I will.

After approaching and passing Mount Hood, and checking out a couple campsights, I choose Clear Lake. All the spots are full of partiers but the camp host points me to some free spots near the boat launch. I fine a primo spot near the water and make camp.

Come 6:00 am I'm up, had breakfast, packed up the tent, and out of there by 6:45. It feels good to get moving again. I'm headed south on 35 again, towards Warm Springs Indian Reservation.

Soon though, as I near the end of the reservation, the road climbs between two dark bluffs, and I start a steep winding, and windy, descent towards the Deschutes river. These shoulders of land jut towards the sky, looming over the road, and dominating the landscape. There are a few downhill sweepers I have to share with 70mph weaving cagers and I'm along the river, headed towards the little town of Madras.

"That's it," I mutter, not too loud, but none too quiet. "I'm outa here." The wait staff and manager look at me with such surprise. The other people waiting for a seat or service don't look surprised.

I pick up the 'Stich, head out the door, pour myself in the suit, mount the Bandit and blast out of town, saluting the fine eating establishment with my left hand as I go. Sometimes I get grumpy when I don't eat. Sometimes when I'm grumpy, I'm rude. So, no good memories of beauitiful downtown Bend, Oregon; not even a simple Grand Slam and coffee. Soon though, Bend is behind me, the road opens up a bit, and I forget about the rudeness of a waitstaff that would leave a traveller hungry while they chat.

I ask him what he means. He points at the bike with the immense bags. He says he meant it as a compliment and he likes the idea of sport touring on a, "little red rocket instead of a big gold couch." I grin, thank him, and comsume my maintenance lunch. As I eat the wind starts blowing, the sky is clouding over from the west, and it starts to get dark, though it is early afternoon. Time I should be going before I'm caught in it.

I ride south into darkening clouds, growing wind and rain. I feel sorry for the Harley riders behind me. They look cool in all that leather but I don't think their bare faces will enjoy what is currently slamming into my helmet faceshield.

At Diamond Lake Junction I've been riding in the rain and crosswinds for the last 25 miles. I had thought about circling Crater Lake but I just don't want to in the weather. So, like I did for many possible stops on the trip, I skip it and continue on. Twist throttle, continue south, faster, faster...

The landscape at the caves is desolate. It looks as if the land bubbled up and flowed like hot chocolate. My enjoyment is tempered by my concerns of having enough fuel to make it to Canby, 82 miles away. The odometer reads 100 miles, and I've got at least 20 miles of roads to ride from highway 139 to get to the caves. The wind is picking up again. I had been playing cat and mouse with a storm front all afternoon. Maybe this mouse should find a hole.

I head for the caves, riding along large rolling lava beds and eventually find the ranger shack. Mr. Ranger tells me there is a gas station right in town, not far away. I find out later he left out the part about it not being open on Sundays. A few more miles on the route around Tule Lake and I'm at the caves. I spend a little time exploring a couple of passages but decide to leave when it looks like it will really storm soon. I mean, I can hear the wind and I'm a good few hundred feet underground. It's late in the afternoon and I don't want to camp in the great wide open, exposed to a wind and rain storm.

I leave just in time for a storm previously unseen, hidden by the butte overlooking the lava beds, to come crashing over the bluff to the north. It just opens up on me as I ride back towards the little town of Merrill, back in Oregon, for fuel. It gets so bad I'm eyeing large trees off the road for shelter. Then the lightning starts hitting the lake. I'm just about the only thing higher than the lake and I'm in the middle of nowhere. I don't stop. I keep moving northeast as the storm heads south. In a dead on in your face, hard, rain. I'm passed by a Jeep. The occupants give me a thumbs up. They are cheering me on. I grin, and ride on. I'm actually enjoying the roar of the rain on my helmet as I ride through the standing water on the road. The raindrops make dinner plate sized spashes in front of me.

I make Merrill, in Oregon, gas up, and backtrack my way into northern California again. I'm on 139 heading southeast towards Canby, 82 miles away. After miles of desolate rolling country, populated by redwood looking pines, I make Canby and start thinking about bedding down. It's getting near 5:00 pm and I've been riding since 6:30 am. There is this one run down, fifties looking motel near the gas station. It doesn't look appealing. I fall into a habit I was to repeat the rest of the trip; just a little farther, just another 26 miles to the next town, just another 69 to the next. Soon I'm at the little dip in the road called Adin. I eye the hotel there but it really doesn't look very appealing, especially with the loud bar below, which is packed at this early hour. Susanville is only 69 miles away. It's getting darker because of the storms but Susaville is bigger and ... it's only 69 miles away. I want a hotel this night and not a dive. I gas up, eat a snack, and head south again on 139.

My next goal is Eagle Lake, just north of Susanville. Along the way, more storms gather, the sky darkens, and I get cold. Time for another layer under the 'Stich and a change to my warmer, waterproof gloves. I stop at the side of a deserted stretch of arrow straight road just north of Eagle Lake. The only other creatures are cows spread out across the range to my left. None of them are near the road. I pull over to the side of the road, shut the Bandit down and start pulling on a warm sweatshirt and quilted vest. It is so silent it takes me a while to notice. Then I look up...

I "moo!" and they jump in unison, not expecting me to make any noise in this dead quiet time before the storm. As I get my clothes sorted out I keep speaking to them, "woofing", "meowing". Every time I make a noise they jump and look at each other.

While I'm there an orange pickup passes by then stops ahead. Two men get out and ask if I need help. I thank them and say I'm fine. They keep walking towards me, asking if I need anything. I don't like this one bit. I move around back of the Bandit, open the top case while they are still twenty yards away. It takes me a few seconds to reach into the locked case. I smile friendly like and let them see me pull out my pistol, slide in a magazine, place it in my chest pouch on the suit. They stop walking towards me, turn, and leave.

The storm is catching up to me, flanking me. I can see it covering the valley. I start the Bandit up, watch the cows jump yet again, and mooooooove on, keeping an eye out for my good neighbors. Thankfully they must have continued on.

"Uh, hi. Can I sleep in your barn Mr. Rancher. No sir, I won't come near your daughter."

However, my suit keeps me warm and dry. Only my combat boots are starting to feel wet after two hours of solid rain.

The mountains are challenging. I've not ridden that much in the rain over such elevation changes or through such curves for such an extended period of time. I just remind myself to ride smooth, that I don't want to crash, that this ride is my only ride. Keeping a decent pace (much faster than I thought I could ride) I continue on, chased and caught again by the storm. Soon I'm crossing the summit and descending into Susanville. A few minutes riding around town and I'm checking into a Best Western.

I pull up under the overhang, shut down the Bandit and dismount. Water splashes onto the concrete. I'm literally dripping water from every surface. Entering the office, I reach into my right sleeve pocket, expecting to find soaking wet money. It's bone dry. The damn suit works. I really works. I check in, head for the room, lock up the Bandit outside the door, remove the Givi bags, and settle in.

A quick trip to the liquor store, a quick phone call to order pizza, and it's back to my room for a hot bath. Crack the Fosters, sink in the steaming tub and -- Ahhhh -- Life is good. Not long out of the tub, write in the journal, call a few folks and I'm out like a light. I awaken to clear skies. I sip coffee as I pack the Givi bags, mount them on the bike, give the Bandit a bath to remove last nights storm dirt, and I'm soon headed south.

My next stop is Reno. Along the way I pass a Shoe Tree. Standing alone, nothing near, is a perfectly symetrical tree, decorated with pairs and pairs and pairs of sneakers. I regret not taking a picture twenty miles away. I even think about going back.

Not too long and I'm approaching Reno on Highway 395. It doesn't take long to pass through town on a Monday morning. Leaving the Casinos behind I head south for Highway 841 and Virginia City. Soon I'm climbing the twisty and slow road into the old cowboy town. I see billboards and signs for famous things like the Poker Table of Death, this and that saloon, and the famous Ponderosa Ranch of Bonanza fame.

Virginia City is really one desolate town. The reddish-grey dirt surrounding the place reminds me of the remains of blasted concrete and brick buildings. There are few trees. All the homes look quite old. They fit the frontier nature of a town I remember visiting when I was just 14.

I gas up before pulling into town. Soon I'm walking along the board sidewalks. I decide to leave the 'Stich on. I don't really have room in my bags to store it and I don't trust leaving it on the bike. I even cable my helmets up to the frame. It's crowded with tourists -- weird looking tourists who aren't camera shy...

Soon I'm bored with the cheap shops, the tourists, and the crowds. Throughout this trip I'm plagued by an impatience, encouraging me to move on an not stay in one place too long. I head back towards the Bandit and head west out of town, decending through the few buildings of Silver City, and towards Lake Tahoe. It doesn't take long to reach the lake and soon I'm riding past Heavenly Valley, the casinos and stopping for gas.

I had origionally planned to head down 395 to Mono Lake and Yosemite but the weather reports called for evening thunderstorms. I just didn't feel like camping out on the rain that night. I'll see Mono Lake and Yosemite another day.

I decide to take a route I haven't seen before, Carson Pass. Highway 89 climbs south out of Lake Tahoe, higher and higher, towards the junction wit Highway 88. I'm stopped by a road crew and take the opportunity to ask about road conditions.

"Clear and dry," they say. "All the way to Pioneer this morning."

Liars.

Sure there is snow on the side of the road, but the road is only wet. "It doesn't feel cold enough to snow," I think, as hail starts to rain down on the road ahead of me.

Ride smooth, Jenner. Just ride smooth. It can't last forever, you will stay dry in the 'Stich, and you will be fine. So, with those reassuring thoughts I ride through the worst weather of my riding life. The rain is large, golfball feeling heavy as it slams into my helmet and pools on my ScotchGuard soaked tankbag. I discover later that everything inside stayed dry.

I ride along the first of two frozen lakes, marveling at what I have run into in June. The landscape is white, foggy and frozen looking but, my assessment of the road is right. It's just wet. Just wet, that's all. And besides, it's beautiful, really beautiful here.

It never lets up for a minute. It's rain, rain, hail, rain and more rain. Through it all, I'm just amazed at how dry I am. It really makes a difference. I remember riding years ago, without rain gear, getting soaked through my jeans, thinking it was just part of the game. Inside my rain covered facesheild I laugh at myself and ride on.

Now it's getting old. I wonder just how much longer it will continue. I ascend, then descend, roads reeking of diesel and shining with rainbows in the midday light. They oiled the damn roads??!! Just ride smooth, Jenner and you will be fine. I don't lie to me -- I'm fine. Soon I stop after passing the second frozen lake. There is a small store there.

It's is coming down like gangbusters when I pull up. I shut the bike down and step just inside the store entry. A woman comes out eventually and looks me over like I'm some kind of nut. She informs me the restroom I'm searching for is for "paying customers" but I can use it -- over there.

I walk past a herd of Canadian Geese huddled under the roof overhang on my way to the restroom. They don't look happy. It's cold and it's pouring.

What the hell am I doing?

I return to the Bandit and start it up again anyway. I want out of this and I'm convinced I can ride out of it. Miles and miles later I prove myself right as I finally descent out of thirty-feet visibility fog and rain to dry pavement. The two old men sitting on the porch of the General Store must of thought the rider, screaming by at 70+, shield open, yelling, "YeeeeeeeeHaaaaaaaaaa," was nuts.

I'm out of it, and headed into Pioneer for gas, then past the small towns leading towards Lodi, where I once lived. On the way there, after all that weather, after all that snow and cold, diesel oiled roads and hail, I'm almost taken out by a teenager in a clapped out japanese import all race-car'd out. He turns left into the lane beside me from across the street then calmly just takes my lane.

I gas it, yell inside my helmet, honk the horns and take off. He stays behind me as I continue to descend into the valley.

I stop in Lodi, cruise the town, taking in some memories, make a phone call or two, and head towards the Bay Area on I-5. It's I-5, high winds typical of the afternoon blowing me across the grooved concrete pavement, battering me as I pass numerous tractor trailer rigs. Now I know why I hate some California highways.

Through Bay Area traffic at 8:00 pm and I finally pull in front of my digs in El Cerrito. Man, am I tired. I say hello, ditch the 'Stich and start to unpack. As I pull my heavy Givi off the low side of the Bandit it stands up on it's suspension and just flops over on the right side -- thump. Gads, I could not believe I just rode a thousand miles only to drop the bike on their sidewalk. Fortunately, the other bag, the case savers I installed, and the handlebar all catch the bike well on the lawn. The only damage is to the paint on the case saver.

A beer, a sit in the easy chair, some socializing and I'm seriously out for the night. Tomorrow, I start my week long stay in the Bay Area, visit family and friends, look up some now friends from the rec.motorcycles USENET newsgroup, and just explore.

You can get anything you want....at Alices Restaurant. All I wanted was french toast and a coffee. Both arrive soon enough and I sit there, Rocket Man in my 'Stich, eating my lunch. I'm taken back to long ago, as I look over at the parking lot across Skyline. I remember, years ago, wandering among the bikes parked there, knowing little, saying even less, just looking. Today, the lot is empty.

I leave Alices and head east on Highway 84. I remember an ingorant young man of 22, years ago, riding this same road, trying to keep up with racers, with more experienced riders. Today I ride at my own pace. Not slow, though slower than some others, I ride my own pace. Highway 84 starts tight and cambered, then opens up to great, long, roll on the throttle and watch the radar detector, sweepers as it nears Highway 1 and the coast.

I take a rest stop at San Gregorio Beach then continue south towards Santa Cruz, the place of my honeymoon, almost twenty years ago.

Highway 17 snakes it way through the Santa Cruz mountains. I used to drive it almost every Saturday night in the summers I lived in San Jose. The winding, two lane road isn't for the lazy drivers. Thinking back, I can't believe I drove some of those clapped out vehicles to the Boardwalk. On the way north the road isn't that bad. Then again, it's not rush hour and the traffic isn't it's usual backed up frenzy. Next thing I know I'm approaching the Los Gatos exit.

Today, I make it safely to the offramp. Today, I check the road.

It's pizza for dinner with some DOD members from rec.motorcycles and an good end to a good day. I later make plans to ride with Steve and Seth, riding Highway 84, Page Mill Road and Skyline to Alices again. I do my best not to keep up with two FT500 Ascots on the twisty roads -- roads I haven't been on in ten years. At the parking lot across from Alices we run into a guy riding really cool Suzuki Super Motard. I end that day with pizza with Steve, my riding host. Good company, good riding, and riders patient that my Bandit and me shoudn't be able to keep up with their Ascots and their experience on those roads. A good day to ride.

A wonderful Saturday night and it's off to breakfast on Sunday, then the homesickness sets in. I decide, late that afternoon, as we attempt to nap in the heat, to head home -- now. I say my goodbyes, send my regrets through Jenny to her partner and my friend Darcy, who I will miss because he is out of town on business. Off then to El Cerrito. Pack up my stuff, double check everything, them back across the Richmond bridge, past Fairfax and Jenny's home at 5:00 pm, and on to Highway 1 North. I'm on my way home about three days early. I figure it will take me two days to get home this route. I will stay somewhere along the coast tonight. Little am I to know the characters I will run into.

I sit there, watching the sun set on Anchor Bay, read the local rag and watch a crowd of Harley riders on the pier. They roar about, taking the short road back to the hotel, leaving their helmets on the seats of their bikes. When I return to the hotel, they are all there, staying in the same place.

I pick up my bottle of scotch, snag a cigar, and go and say hello. The Ghost Riders of Lompoc are a friendly type, prone to exaggeration on how fast they ride, but I get the impression they aren't slow either. I spend the evening sitting at a picnic table, puffing on my cigar and listening to Eccles give them all a hard time.

You see, Eccles is from New Zealand. He shipped his Yamaha cruiser up here for a little holiday. He isn't with the riders. As a matter of fact, he seems to get great enjoyment out of ribbing them about their rides. They take it all in stride, even though he is saying things you wouldn't hear from my mouth (simple respect on my part you see). It's all in jest, and they seem to like him. I like Eccles too.

The next morning I'm off very early and heading north with some excitement. I'd like to make home by tonight. I have around 800 miles to go. The first part of my trip was more meandering. This one won't be. It's straight up the coast to Crescent City, east on 199 to Grants Pass, then I-5 straight home.

Now I head north on I-5. There is a strong wind from the west. I ride in crosswinds for hours, through Roseburg, Eugene, Albany, Salen and finally making Portland right around rush hour. I only stop for gas, restroom breaks, and to grab a little water and a snack. Those stops give my butt a break. My knees also feel stiff. It must be because they are bent in the same position for hours. They are fine when I get off the bike and walk. So, in the last part of this trip, the long blast home, I deal with sore knees and a very sore butt.

It was a long, long trip. I went alone to places I had never been, spent needed time alone, and appreciated all the more the friends I've missed and being home again with my family. All in all, I was only gone a little over a week. Most of that time though, I was riding alone, either through downtown San Francisco, through wilderness, or along the coast.

The best part weren't the destinations, but the getting there.