About 20 miles this side of Chilliwack things took a disturbing turn. Tony and I had finally dropped out of the mountains and onto the freeway which led 50 miles or so into the city. It was warmer down in the valley and we settled into a cruisey 70mph in light weekend traffic. We had a system where, since my mirror was useless with Tony’s bulk perched behind me, I’d smack him on the leg when I wanted to switch lanes. Once on the left leg for left, twice for right, and he’d have a look and smack my shoulder if it was cool. By this point I was cramped up in the hands from the previous cold and 30 miles of heavily rutted road we’d passed on the downhill slide into Hope.
The trip through the mountains had started out clear and bright on a late August day. But it had got cold quick as we headed up into the Cascades, the road following the winding river in a series of long hills followed by switchbacks and more long hills. Up, right, down, tight left, up, right, down, tight left….climbing a little higher on each cycle, like going the wrong way on a rollercoaster. Nearing the summit we entered a right hander at the top of another long hill.
Until now I’d been taking them at 60-70mph even though the signs recommended 40. Being up-hill, the bike held the road well and powered through the turns easily. But this particular corner not only had signs, it had flashing amber lights warning it was a 40mph turn and I don’t know if I was tired or arrogant but I entered that corner at 80mph with a 200lb passenger. The reason for the fuss with the signs became apparent. This corner didn’t seem to end.
Little thing about corners, it’s a bad idea to brake in them, especially with 200lbs riding behind you. The corner just kept turning and we began to edge closer to the center line as I threw the bike as hard over as I dared thinking ‘if Tony spooks and sits up straight instead of leaning with me, we’re fucked’ – it would throw us over balance, and he’d done it before, although that time I’d recovered. But he leaned in with me, foot pegs too close to the road as we continued to edge closer to the center, even though I’d let off on the throttle, which was throwing weight forward, and was tapping the back brake trying to pull it back without locking up the wheel.
On a shorter turn we’d have been out of trouble by now but we were going through 180 degrees and still turning and I was riding right on the center line and still creeping out. Any further and I was going to have to lay it over or risk a head-on. A Ford truck with a big camper rounded from the other direction and his big extended mirror whooshed past my helmet, missing by about a foot. Tony, still in a lean began beating on my back as we straightened out finally and I could reduce speed safely. He kept hitting me until I punched his leg as I pulled into a rest stop at the top of the hill. He was swearing his head off as we took off our helmets. He thought I’d done it on purpose. I needed a cigarette, and we sat and smoked for a ½ hour until the trembling stopped.
We’d even hit a squall of thick rain at one point. Thick rain is rain trying to be snow. But now we were back down near sea level and we’d stopped to remove some of our outer gear. After the 15-mile-long hill down into Hope and the Fraser Valley, the road badly rutted and grooved from thousands of trucks straining against gravity on the descent, we were happy to be on good flat pavement which stretched straight ahead to the horizon in a pleasantly boring way. And then with Sardis somewhere behind us and the city fringes starting to become apparent, the bike decided it had had quite enough. We dropped from 70mph down to 40 so fast I thought the chain had broke and jammed the wheel. Tony’s helmet smacked into mine at the sudden deceleration and we coasted to a stop on the side of Highway 1 West.
Traffic zipped by, heavier now we were closer to the city. The bike didn’t want to start. I had a smoke and let it cool off a bit, trying to think. After another try I managed to kick it to life but it was running rough, the rpm spiking erratically as one cylinder refused to fire sometimes. I figured maybe one of the spark plugs was faulty. I didn’t have any tools but we flagged down a guy on a big Honda and borrowed his. I cleaned the plug and put it back in, thanked the guy who wasn’t that pleased to stop, and kicked it over. It seemed better, running smoother, if a little slow to respond. We set off again.
We soon got into traffic as we entered Surrey and crossed the bridge over the muddy Fraser into Coquitlam and Burnaby, the freeway lined with Carpet Warehouses and Furniture Barns. It was raining and I wanted to take it easy on the bike so we cruised along in the slow lane at 50mph, over the Second Narrows and into North Vancouver where we joined up with the Sea To Sky highway for the short run out to Horseshoe Bay and the ferry to the Island. We’d missed our planned boat and had two hours to wait for the next. The booth-lady gave us our boarding pass and directed us down to where the bikes wait to load.
I shut down the grateful bike, still not running right, and backed it into a spot under cover. The clouds came down and touched the sea in a salty drizzle and seagulls lined the piers not caring. I was bone tired and sat down on the pavement, leaning against the bike. There was a group of touring bikes nearby with Quebec plates. Big Goldwings with saddlebags and tapedecks, full fairings and padded saddles. Five or six men and women stood nearby, dressed in expensive matching leathers and they stared our way talking in French. We were a mismatched pair, Tony wearing two shirts, three sweaters and a windbreaker with a red knapsack on his back – and me in my dad’s old trials leathers which were too short in the pant and a brilliant red and yellow in colour - on our little green 500 triple. Tony told them to fuck off, and sat down next to me. Just as the boat arrived and began offloading, a guy and his girlfriend on a nice little Yamaha RD600 pulled up. The guy and I talked bikes and they smoked a joint with us just before we were directed to begin loading.
The tide was in and the ramp into the boat was steep. I’d almost thought the bike had settled down until it became apparent it wasn’t going to make it up the ramp. I just couldn’t get any power and with cars lined up behind me I had no choice but to wind it right out and slip the clutch, with Tony paddling his feet Flintstone style, and we finally made it up and stopped the bike near the front of the cavernous main car deck. I was that tired and that stoned that I refused to think about it just then and we headed up to the passenger decks, suddenly very hungry.
We got into the cafeteria before the line was too long and loaded up our trays with burgers and fries, large drinks and chocolate éclairs with whipped cream. Shuffling our trays along the rails toward the cashier, we encountered a blockage as a poor harried women with six children tried to organize drinks for them all. We lifted our trays and skirted around her to the waiting cashier who began to ring up our items while maintaining a cool air of detached boredom. We were sheep to her. The register stopped counting at $22 and as I reached for my wallet the lady behind us with the kids called out “come on, let’s go” to one of her brood. The cashier looked me directly in the eye and said firmly “you heard her, move along and make room”. Not knowing what else to do in my fuzzy state of mind, I grabbed Tony by the sleeve and we walked away with a free meal. Instantly I was hideously paranoid. We had to go back! But by now the lady had paid and they were arguing over plastic forks and napkins. Nobody was allowed to have ketchup for some reason. We scurried over to a corner and sat low eating our food, positive she was going to have one of those “hey, wait a minute” moments and the sour cashier would put her onto the two hoodlums with motorcycle helmets. I was way too stoned to try and explain to the poor woman so we ate our food and skedaddled back down to the car deck to sit with the bike.
The deck crew were getting ready to push us to one side when I finally got the bike to sputter to life and we limped off the ferry with a line of impatient cars following. By now it was dark and we were way behind schedule. I only had temporary plates and wasn’t supposed to be on the road after 9pm. It was quarter-to and we had 30 miles yet to go. On the way out of the dockside town of Nanaimo, as we headed South down the Island, the couple on the Yamaha zipped past and he tooted his horn. I gunned the bike to catch up and found the 40mph we were doing was in fact top speed at the moment and it was dropping. The group of Québécois tourers roared past and one of the women on the back fingered us.
It took us 3 hours to get the last thirty miles and it was close to midnight when the bike quit for good, a mere two miles from the destination. We left the bike in a hotel parking lot and walked the last bit. Finishing a six hour trip in closer to fifteen, on foot.
It turned out later that the bike had run out of two-stroke oil, though the bubble continued to show ¾ full, and had seized up back on the freeway. Eventually a second cylinder seized and by the time the bike quit for good it had been struggling along on just one burner which finally tired of doing all the work and joined its mates in seizure. One of the pistons had a hole burned clear through it, my Dad told me after he rebuilt it. He wouldn’t let me ride it after the rebuild and made me sell it shortly after to pay for the repairs.
I was only 17 and I sure missed the bike but I had had a great trip, got a free lunch and still had my pickup…the one with the 327 four-barrel Chev and the leaky fuel tank…
Over at Dan Tarrant's blog he's got some political punditry (this is why I don't do much on current affairs, Dan must read about 30 different columns and blogs a day to keep up). Anyway, one of the articles he mentions got me thinking about the sort of person who becomes a soldier. Let's work it out together... 
Thank you for your votes, the polls have closed. With twice as many votes (2), the winner is the legendary 1973 Kawasaki Mach III with its screaming 500cc, two-stroke triple. This was the street version of that year's factory works racing bike. As mentioned it had a 500cc, three cylinder, 2-stroke air cooled engine which red-lined at about 10,000RPM. Incredibly quick off the line with a top speed of 115mph (in my case). Even by today's standards that is fast, and for its time it was a fucking rocket.
