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Kawasaki ER-6C, that's C as in Custom

583K views 2K replies 117 participants last post by  jdrocks 
#1 · (Edited)
:yeahsmile:THE BIKE BUILDS

DON'T YOU JUST LOVE IT WHEN A (FORMER) SUPER MODERATOR EDITS, RELOCATES, SCRAMBLES, AND DELETES YOUR POSTS. R.I.P. YA FREAKIN' DUMMY.
 
#1,232 ·
Geared back up, and I’m gone, but only 1 mile before I stopped for fuel, that’s right, 1 mile, down to the exact inch, the fuel light was on. Yeah, I was thinking the same thing, why hadn’t I fueled up the bike while I was waitin’ for that dummy dude, but it was a complex explanation involving some obscure physics equations that most wouldn’t understand, despite ponderous claims to the contrary from elements in the Euro bike crowd.

In more simple terms, the phantom vroooom, vroooom sounds I had been experiencing for over 12 hours had gone critical, the concussive effects had left me largely unbalanced, I had lost inertia, stalled. Scientifically speaking, I’d had a mental eclipse, brain waves lost in an electron fog, I’d swerved into the unequivocally freakin’ nutso lane. I needed gasoline really bad, hide the matches.

I could get a good look west across the open fields around the quik mart, dark clouds, more dark clouds, distant thunder, and I was in a fury to get movin’, screw the damn radar, I was in for it, no doubt. The card reader on the pump wouldn’t work. The card reader on the pump over on the next island wouldn’t work either. Fire was shooting out of my eye sockets, smoke billowing out of my ears, I was about to go postal, keep 911 on speed dial.

A young lady approached, she’d seen what was going on, maybe saw the smoke and was angling for the fire extinguisher, don’t know, but she said lightning had knocked out their com link, cash for everything. Ok, got it, and she was damn cute, beautiful smile, too bad about the dipped in orange mud spray tan.

Stomped through the front door, twenty-five people in line, no way I was going to be number twenty-six, walked right up to the register, launched a twenty at the cashier, “Turn on the pump”. Must have had that certain look, nobody said a word, nobody make eye contact, mainly they were all lookin’ a little fidgety, nervous, upcoming events uncertain. Filled the tank, marched back in for my change, it was waiting for me on the top of the register, no delay, no small talk pleasantries, the line was even longer.

Man, I needed to get away from here, daylight and weather against me, I wasn’t properly attired for this place anyway, kinda like showing up for a black tie event in John Daly golf wear. Ain’t got the wife-beater, ain’t got the ripped board shorts, ain’t got the flipflops, ain’t accessorized with a color coordinated 12pack in each hand. I was hopelessly outta touch with the mainstream rural quik mart masses, oh well.

Back on the bike, gear vents locked down, and I charged a temporary stop light a mile away, the exhaust note soaring up and down in deafening whoops, my brain molecules were now lined up in neat rows, my head was back in the game, and I was gone to Winchester. Got the green light, on the gas, a monster lightning bolt hits a tall Loblolly pine near the other end of the bridge, I’m freakin’ blinded by the arc flash, sounds like a huge bomb went off…and at that exact second, the rain starts comin’ down, cats and dogs.

(to be continued…)
 
#1,233 · (Edited)
I was off the gas, the bridge deck vibrating under the bike from the blast, the pressure wave had smacked me right in the chest, unbelievable, without ear plugs in, I’d have been deaf. Quick glance at the mirrors, the car behind had run up on me in the lightning strike and rain, I could have nearly reached back and touched it before the driver hit the brakes, stopping dead on the bridge, stunned most likely. Lucky I was playing horseshoes today, and with the euphoria that a near miss produces every single time, I was pounding on the shifter, rolling northwest, the horizon a little lighter.

At the thirty mile mark, I had run out of the rain, and was running along as fast as I could get away with, not much daylight left, I was going to get in late. These roads were overrun with deer, a gazillion, my hope was that the wet weather would keep them bedded down back in the woods, no social hour, no snacking on the road side grasses.

On the road for an hour, the last of the light, a few drops hit the visor, then a few more, then a skinny cat, a furry dog, a bucket, and I was riding through a flowing wall of water, wind whipped, I couldn’t recall anything quite like it, not at night anyway. Over two hundred watts of light were pointed the direction I was headed, damn, I could barely see the pavement markings 50’ in front of the bike. Very little traffic, most people apparently had the good sense to stay home, and half the vehicles I encountered had pulled off on the side, waiting out the rain, they couldn’t see the road either.

I had slowed to a speed that could be outpaced by a fast mule, still moving, practicing my free style stroke, could have been swimming there was so much water around me. The ditches were overflowing, streams running across the road surface, ponds building where the outflow backed up. I could have towed a water skier, that was a thought. A trick I learned was to put a substitute destination in place, insert a way station, and that’s what I did to make the conditions more bearable. Now my stop was in reach, I could count down the miles.

I had run as far as Massaponax, the junction with I95, in the worst rain I had ever encountered on a bike…mostly in the dark, man, I needed a suitable reward, how ‘bout some grilled lard at Burger King, sounds good. The turnoff intersection to get there was flooded, when I put my feet down at the stoplight, I was standing in a foot of water, vehicles were making waves, ya coulda surfed. My visor had fogged to the point of useless, someone throw me a life ring, I was goin’ under.

I was the only customer at BK, not another person in the whole place, so I wasn’t all that concerned that some little kid would drown in the sixth Great Lake created by all the water running off my gear. Ya could have stocked it with fish, set up a water slide, put in a boat ramp…it was a damn big lake. Since I was the only one there, I got the fastest fast food in the history of western civilization, my tray was on the counter before I put my change in my pocket. Sat down, poof, the food was gone, done disappeared. Just ‘cause I was duck dog wet, didn’t mean I wasn’t hungry. Heck, I was still hungry enough to eat half way through the contents of the Ark, at least the ones that would fit on the grill.

The manager stopped at the table, and I apologized for the mess I was making, no big deal to her, the crew was just loafing around with nothing to do, now they could get out the mops, drain the lake. I took a few minutes to work on the visor, new antifog, and a cleaning with Plexus, then back into some very soggy gear.

I was in a good sweet groove in spite of the rain, had been fed and watered, so when I fired up the rat it was with some optimism, it didn’t seem likely that this rain could last another hundred miles. I had a short hop on I95, always hazardous in poor conditions, those drivers don’t slow down for anything, so between the rain and the spray coming off the cars and big rigs, the conditions were horrific for a rider. I was pleased to exit, and was riding northwest again.

Riding the home stretch roads, still raining an inch an hour, when up around Delaplane, I ran completely out of the rain in a quarter mile of road. The road was now bone dry, strange, but so very welcome, whew. Opened the motor up to a normal cruising speed, the last miles a simple breeze. The garage door was open when I reached the house at 11, three generations of women standing under the yard lights, waiting for me, the welcoming committee, none better. Hellos and hugs, and a short conversation with my wife…

“Rain?”
“Yes.”
“Bad?”
“Yes.”
“Real bad?”
“Yes.”
“Monsoon?”
“Yes.”
“Bourbon?”
“Yes.”
“Rocks?”
“No, just bring the bottle.”

I had battled along the outer edge of wild in the dark this night, I deserved a taste, I believed I’d earned it. So, in the end and once again, I had survived a little problem, but man, I needed to keep things in perspective. Custer had a little problem at the Little Bighorn, mine was something less.

(to be continued…)
 
#1,234 ·
Wednesday, August 29, 2012, 229 miles

I had ridden down to the Catherders campout location on Sunday, glad I did, cool location, and I saw some riders I knew, met some new ones. I had to get back up to Winchester for a birthday party that day, man, if I was late for that one I’d find the locks changed when I got home. As if I needed a reminder about riding in the rain, I ran into some heavy weather running hard on I81, insane traffic, every bit as bad as I95.

Now I was heading south again, but the back way this time, and would pick up some Blue Ridge Trail roads along the route. I intended to do more riding while up in this area, but business activities had kept me occupied, even if remotely, there’s no escape these days even if out of the office. I didn’t have BRT tracks loaded, but the waypoints were still there, the road names easy to remember, figured I would find my way.

Fueled up, then over to 50/17, and I was riding southeast, gorgeous day, gear vents open, dry. I planned to follow the Shenandoah for a ways, turned left on Swift Shoals at the boat landing sign, and I was at the river. The small unimproved landing under the river bridge was where I saw a warden issuing tickets one sunny Sunday afternoon, the miscreants were a couple Mexican guys who had thrown hand lines into the river, small stones for sinkers, still dressed in church clothes, thirty other family members having a post church service picnic in the shade of the bridge. Yup, fishing without a license, I would have handled it differently, discretion and good judgment are not dead, badge or other. The entire group was cowering in front of that uniform, scared to death of the consequences, kids crying. Good job there buddy, a credit to the force…makeshift hand lines for pete’s sake, chicken skin bait. Picnic over, they quickly packed up and left.

Past the bridge, the road follows the river under a heavy canopy, no traffic today, sun filtering through the treetops.



The road breaks away from the river to the northwest, now farms, pasture, row crops, and horses, plenty of horses.



Swift Shoals transitions to macadam, and I passed the remnants of an old stone well house along a small creek, long in disuse, the manor house sitting on the hill beyond, the structure predating deep rock drilled wells in the area. A pair of large weeping willows framed the scene, not too unusual, but I hadn’t seen any this big around here lately.



Swift Shoals intersects Red Gate, I jogged southwest, and then turned northwest onto Bordens Spring, back on gravel. No traffic here either, large old estates mixed with newer homes, a regression in residential design evident. A five acre pond lies close to the road, man, I wish I had one of those, a pastoral postcard look.



I was on the side for a photo, bike running, then decided to shut it down for a minute to get some gear situated. My feathered neighbor was hiding, used to motor noise, but when I shut down the motor, the klaxon sounded, up periscope, he had to take a look, just in case I had bad intentions.



Bordens Spring ran northwest before swinging back southwest where I intersected Sugar Hill, running northwest on pavement before transitioning back to gravel on Featherbed, continuing northwest, then due north. The corn crop in the adjacent fields had failed in this dry summer weather and had been cut, not harvested, the first of many fields I saw just like it. Near 340, there was a John Deere coming at me, bush hogging the shoulder along the ditch, hmmm, I knew what this was all about.



It wasn’t the tractor, it was the men behind it, a work gang of men from the county jail, cutting grass up close to the fence. I idled on by, gave the low peace, mostly acknowledged, some dignity maintained.

(to be continued…)
 
#1,235 ·
South on 340 towards Front Royal, I hadn’t seen a vehicle on the back roads, now I was in solid urban traffic. Past I66, over the river, missed a turn when I couldn’t change lanes, and I rode through “downtown” Front Royal, banners up for the annual street dance. Picked a through street that would take me east, and I was back on 340, still south bound.

Skyline Drive, the entrance to the Shenandoah National Park, is on my left, but my turn is Rivermont, just a short distance farther on the right. Make the turn and immediately cross the South Fork of the Shenandoah, a gaggle of road bicycles ahead of me, fortunately they turn south on River Road. More on freakin’ bicycles later.

Rivermont starts a slow climb out of the valley, paved, but nice, several ponds along here too. Almost every small body of water in Virginia holds resident Canada geese, more every year, hunters don’t shoot enough of them despite very liberal bag limits. They poop about two pounds a day each, you don’t want a bunch of them in your yard unless you plan on wearing those Muck boots year round. They do keep the grass clipped down low, in one end, out the other. I did find out one interesting fact about these birds, after the first event, they completely ignored industrial size fireworks, the illegal kind straight from China. They seemed ensconced in their own little world, the process sublime…and just kept on pooping. I stopped to shoot a few.



A smooth reflective surface, and I shot this loner in the middle of it too.



Rivermont turned into Mountain along the way, and I was soon up to the old Front Royal Fish Hatchery at Passage Creek. The hatchery must have been a big deal back in the day, it’s still functioning in some capacity, looks abandoned with pools dry and raceways empty. When I rode in for a photo, some dude came out of the old building and started chasing the rat on foot, sorry mister, ain’t going to win that one. He stopped when I stopped, looked a little winded as he went back inside, no idea what he wanted, he never caught up, we never spoke.



Passage Creek runs parallel to the hatchery, and is stocked in a one mile section around the hatchery on dates coinciding with national holidays. Fly fishing, not much, worm under a bobber, yeah baby, that and a cooler of beer, Milwaukee’s Best Light…ain’t single malt scotch country out this a way.

The creek was low today, had been all year, except for a few heavy rains. It was the same all over this part of Virginia and into West Virginia.



Any fish still found had to be in any remaining pools.



Fort Valley is on the west side of the creek, and at this intersection I turn left, southwest. Fort Valley is an access road into the George Dubya, the George Washington National Forest, paved and twisty.



This spring, a sportbike with passenger had passed me near the Fort Valley intersection going 100mph into the GW, today the same thing, except only about 80. I didn’t find a wrecked bike in the 25mph zone ahead, I guess they made it.

The Elizabeth Furnace area has a day use park, it was a good day to check it out, nobody else around. A small bridge over the creek, water nice and clear.



Sometimes I see small features on these creeks that look like they could have been built up to create a pool to hold fish, maybe, maybe not, in this case.



The Fort Valley road finally breaks out of the GW park boundary, the country is open now, with pasture and livestock to the southeast. I had run up on my next turn at Boyer, and was riding west, on gravel, back up the mountain.

(to be continued…)
 
#1,236 ·
The turn on Boyer put me back on a Blue Ridge Trail road, transitioning to Mine Mountain, and I was back in the George Washington.



The maintenance on these roads had always been hit and miss, the steep grades can easily wash out in a single big rain event. Once high velocity sheet flow cuts into the road surface, the end is near, the next big rain might close the road.



There was a “Private Road” sign nailed to a tree marking the boundary of a development someone had started a while back by subdividing a piece of mountain land, there are numerous examples around the general area. As far as I knew, the road was public, I didn’t stop. The road was well rutted in places, no problem on the bike, but a slow, jarring ride in a vehicle. Plenty of “For Sale” signs along this road, no kidding.

Mine Mountain intersects with Woodstock Tower in a switchback corner, still gravel, still climbing. The BRT route would have jogged slightly southwest to pick up Powell Mountain Trail at Little Fort, but I remembered this as a user fee trail and I didn’t have a day use permit. No matter, Woodstock Tower is an interesting stretch of road. Climbing to the top, there’s a monument with a brass plaque inscribed “Woodstock Tower”, one of the first Civilian Conservation Corp projects from back in ’33. The plaque had been badly defaced, looked like some freakin’ dummy even built a fire on the ledge in front of it, a vacuous mind at play. Where’s that ballbat?



Once over the top, Woodstock Tower descended generally west down the mountain, caution required through half a dozen off camber switchbacks, any vehicles climbing the mountain are 100% guaranteed to be in your lane in these corners, swinging so wide that they will chase you off the road.



So, I was prepared when I saw a car creeping up the mountain, pulled over and stopped uphill from the switchback, right foot on the edge of the ditch, and one of those old Cadillacs, big as the QEII of the same era, still nearly ran into me with a hay wagon turn. The driver was geriatric, way too small straw cowboy hat stuck on his head, squinting through the windshield…man, someone should have yanked his drivers license 25 year ago, ya know, back when he was still in his 90’s. His window was down, and he passed so close I could have reached over and shook his hand, except he was so intent on the road, I don’t think he ever really saw me. HI-VIZ doesn’t work worth a damn if you happen to encounter the functionally blind, like blind as a freakin’ bat.

The road did have some straight downhill sections, didn’t pay to build a bunch of speed, there was a 180 degree switchback waiting on the other end. Down to the North Fork of the Shenandoah, nice ride, uneventful, and that Cadillac was the only vehicle I had seen since the turn at Fort Valley. One vehicle in the entire distance, and it nearly ran slam into me.



The bridge was a good vantage point to get a look at the river, low water in a tranquil setting.





Burnshire, then Cemetary, and the residential neighborhood got denser, a few jogs, and I was down to highway 11 in Woodstock, no lack of traffic here.

(to be continued…)
 
#1,237 ·
Southwest on 11, then east on Fort just as I entered Edinburg, an easy to miss turn. Fort quickly changed to Edinburg Gap, and I was back on a climb up another mountain, this time on pavement. The Shenandoah twists and turns all through these valleys, and I crossed another bridge over the North Fork. Plenty of room on the bridge deck, and I stopped for a look again.

Water barely moving, so I was able to see the shale bottom which wouldn’t be visible if there was a strong riffle.





Mixed pair of pirates idled by over the bridge as I was stowing the camera, also heading up the mountain, same direction. They were a ways ahead by the time I fired the rat, ok, let’s make a run at ‘em with the little 650, see what those big V twins got, and I was off like a freakin’ shot, damn nice drag race start, missed no shifts, and I caught ‘em in 4th running 90. Minor problem…they were only running 30, and I had to smoke the brakes and downshift like a maniac to avoid passing the tag end Charlie pirate girl in her lane. Turned out that when they idled past on the bridge, that was their top end speed, 30mph, slower in the corners, and I followed along up the mountain, guess they ain’t into any of that there racy behavior. So much for all that pirate hype, I was badly disillusioned, one of the local Mennonites would have passed us with horse and buggy.

They were sick of me following along behind them, but when they both pulled off by the entrance to Taskers, I did too, my road was right there, NF374. Must have scared them, or else I raised too must dust for certain chromium sensibilities. The pirate boy tried out his best evil look, beamed it my way, sorry mister honeybun, won’t work, I now know your personal top end on the mountain is a blistering 30mph, same as a Chinese scooter. Ya done forfeited your lifetime supply of the rolling thunder. They skedaddled, no low peace, and I was on my own again.

The NF374 road runs southwest, is usually in pretty good shape, and I’m always surprised when I don’t see more traffic through here.



I had been on this road several times earlier in the season, including when it was freshly graded, now there was wasn’t enough traffic to keep the grass down.



I had a good roll underway, scootin’, and when I come around a blind right hander, here’s a pair of mountain bikers coming at me, two abreast, using the whole road, including the southbound lane in the double track, my lane. Crap, and I was on the brakes, inched over right to the ditch, back end crossed up left, and I slid by the biker in my lane in a shower of gravel, a cloud of dust. Missed him by no more that two feet. Checked the mirrors, the suicide biker fella was giving me a double number one salute. Peace my brother, ya freakin’ moron, if I had hit your sorry ass, forget about that open coffin funeral.

Another two miles southwest, and I was down where I had seen a wildland fire crew walking a small dozer up the hillside to cut a fire break, plenty of fires around this area in an unusually dry spring. Another few miles, and I was at the intersection with Moreland Gap, I had been in the same general area the previous Sunday, but didn’t have time to ride the gravel. This was as far south as planned, and I turned east on Moreland Gap. This road is well graded, some small creek crossings with the typical concrete structures built to stay put in high water.



Looked down, here was a red spotted in front of the bike tire, run for your life, buddy, I’m on the move.



North on Camp Roosevelt, and a short run to Fort Valley, now riding northwest on pavement, inbound. The countryside around Fort Valley is pretty cool, remote enough that sprawl hasn’t reached out this far, not yet anyway.



I planned to stop at the little store at Fort Valley for a drink, and an ice cream bar, can’t forget that.



Two Harley bagger dudes, plus six bicycle riders, four women, two men. The bicycles had come down from Front Royal, this was their turnaround point. They were the skinny tire crowd, all very fit, and in good humor, so I took a chance and said to one cutie “I really like your bike, y’all got some fine lookin’ wheels too”, an old line, but it got a big laugh. She was looking at my ice cream bar like she expected me to offer her a bite, sorry, nobody’s that damn cute.

I was due back for a high school volleyball game, one of those “Don’t be late, or else” deals, and I was on the bike headed north again. The bicycles had left earlier, and after following along behind a slow moving Accord with a POW plate, I saw them ahead, four women in line to the far right, the two men riding down the center of the northbound travel lane, WTF. The Accord started to pass, changed his mind, edged right and nearly hit the guy in front. The bicycle guy was hard on the brakes, the rider behind dodged right, nearly colliding with the last two women in line, so very close, a miracle four riders didn’t go down. The Accord cleared the bike people, and I cleared the Accord, get me outta here, I was in a bicycle carnage zone.

Back through the GW, past the intersection with Mountain, up to 55, where I went straight through the intersection on the last bit of gravel for the day. Bucks Mill runs along and over the train tracks, then crosses Passage Creek not far from where the creek enters the Shenandoah. These old bridges were right out of the manual back in the day, still standing.



The railroad bridge hadn’t aged as well, a temporary repair in place, it still didn’t look safe, might see an unfortunate event covered on the evening news quite soon.



Sightseeing over, this loop took me back to 55, then over to 340, I was on a fast run back to Winchester. I arrived on schedule, more or less…dodged the doghouse one more time, whew. No gourmet meals served in the doghouse, ya don’t want to be a bad dog around where I live.

THE END…UNTIL THE NEXT TIME
 
#1,239 ·
this bike has over 20,000, runs great. must be that 15/50 Mobile 1 from walmart.

i'm kicking around a lot of ideas for a bike, i haven't made up my mind yet. maybe this winter. i've put many more miles on locally this year than i usually do.

glad you are enjoying the reports.
 
#1,240 ·
THE WILDS OF STARBUCKISTAN​

Early Sunday morning and I had a big day planned, a twist of fate later, I found myself fueling the bike across the street from a Starbuckistanian consulate, a supposed refuge of the intellectual and literati in the vast wasteland…or more simply, dweeb heaven, where varying shades of brown holy water are served. Well, ain’t that freakin’ Grande, and I was sucked in by the million Tesla pull of visionary cult marketing, I needed caffeine kinda bad, and if it meant elbowing some long skirted, quilt vested, granny glass wearing, Tractor Supply booted, braided hair hippy lady out of the way to get to the order counter, here’s notice folks, I was the man to do it.



I rolled in and parked in front, right where it said something about “FIRE”, but it was upside down from where I was standing, and I was near positive that this space was normally reserved for those rondel badged bikes, so hey buddy, tough luck, drink your coffee, quit that disapproving stare or I’ll do something really scary.

Helmet off, gloves off, and I thought about taking the key, naw, if any of these folks were going to steal the bike, heck, they’d want to read a pdf of the owner’s manual on their Iphone first, by that time I’d be back. I walked to the door behind a young gal who looked pretty spectacular from that viewpoint in her not-for-Sunday-church attire, and she looked over her shoulder as she opened the door, “After you”. I must have looked like her feeble grandpappy’s grandpappy. Great smile, a natural beauty, except for dyed raven hair, and two dozen piercings on her face and ears, man, it looked like shrapnel, but her choice, too bad none the less.

Only one person at the counter, two in line, both reading paperbacks, and when it was their turn, both had to think about it way too long. I was thinking too… about setting those books on fire to speed things up a little, but changed my mind, man, I hate seeing grown people cry, especially early in the morning. Besides, I was in foreign territory, might be laws and such. My turn, and I was looking up at that confusing order board, have no freakin’ idea what all that stuff is about, so I said “I want a big cup of coffee, black, quadruple caffeine, and if it doesn’t float a damn bowling ball, I won’t like it”. My coffee girl looked puzzled for a minute, like she was translating the lingo into official Starbuckistanian coffee speak, then said “I think we can do that”, and she did. I got a great big cup of coal black caffeine, I’d be wired all day, grinding my teeth, xray vision, super powers deployed, good, I was ready to ride, Starbuckistan in my mirrors.

(to be continued...)
 
#1,242 ·
that's the one.

hope you're not missing the KLR, from the various reports there have been a slew of engine failures on roadtrips this season. the common denominator seems to be oil loss on high speed runs.

i'm going to have to service the cop motor soon with a valve check and new plugs. running great as is, but i'm curious enough to check it out.
 
#1,243 ·
I was riding from the Winchester area today on the rat bike, the cool, fast dream bike, it’s got almost everything a man could ask for… and the exhaust smells like bacon. I was in my HIVIZ, the moto equivalent of the fat guy in the Tommy Bahama tropical print shirt, works on West Virginia drivers pretty well, no good on colorblind deer, I had the speed hole whistles for them. I had been up to the Michaux State Forest on Friday on a scouting trip, and now I was heading home to eastern Virginia via a big detour through West Virginia on a quickly stitched together network of roads, both paved and gravel. Face it, if things were any better, I’d be drinkin’ Martinis out of the CamelBak.

I didn’t have the proper paper maps for the serious effort it would take to get all the way south on gravel, so I guessed a little here and there, put it in MapSource, then downloaded the thing, figuring I might get lost a few times, waypoints in the wrong places, or on the fly changes southbound. The SPOT was on, blinking away, it’s not very safe to solo these routes without it.

The route took me on a quick run down to Stephens City, east on 277, then southeast on Double Church, yup, I rode past those churches, then west on Canterburg, and the first of a long day on the gravel. Many of the roads have been here for centuries, crisscrossing the valleys and creek bottoms, these signs found everywhere.



Once again, there are big differences in how these roads are maintained, you never know what you’ll find, even if there are a number of homes present.



Northwest on Salem Church where I crossed I81, south on 11, then northwest on Vaucluse, back on gravel. There is a rail grade ahead and these cause all kinds of problems for the guys moving mobile homes, or other long trailers. Get stuck at your own peril, that train is coming at you going 70MPH.



The crossing gate usually means someone has been killed at the crossing, otherwise no automated signal.



South on Hites, then west on Clark, rolling country with crops, pasture, and orchards. Southwest on Buffalo Marsh, there are many roads around the area which incorporate buffalo in the name, and I always wonder how far back the roads were named. Buffalo were encountered by English settlers as early as 1612 at the headwaters of the Potomac.



Paved, but interesting, the roads are asphalt or macadam, sometimes a combination of both.



The old milk house straddled Buffalo Marsh Run, but no longer evidence of flowing water down this small valley, and that would have created some hardship back when this stone building was erected.



Northwest on Capon Springs and Minebank to Middle, then southwest across the bridge at Cedar Creek. The creek cuts through a rock walled chute above the bridge, and must be a sight when the water is running high and fast.



Below the bridge, the creek spreads out, back to normal.



Gap to Coal Mine running north, then a turn northwest on Moores Ford when I ran up on another of those signs, oh brother, this time it ain’t no joke.



Some few miles farther down the road, I found out that Moores Ford didn’t mean Mr. Moores pickup truck, it was the other usage of that word, now smack dab in my way.



I didn’t have a vanity plate that reads “DMBASS”, man, I had to get a good look at this one, either part of the adventure, or the inglorious end. There were blinking red lights flashing in my brain, fire alarm bells, digital warnings on a continuous loop, the works. The song of the road was playing on the far side gravel landing, lightning strike guitar riffs, thundering drumbeats in a triphammer groove, and I was trying my best to tune in the psychic vibes, summon the magic, tame the Dragon.

(to be continued…)
 
#1,244 ·
Standing there, toes hanging over the precipice, the decision would be easy if I wasn’t alone, solo changes everything.



The water was gin clear, good because I can at least see the bottom half way across, bad because 100% of the time the water looks shallower than the true depth. Scouting a way across, I can see some big rocks I need to avoid, roll the dice, let’s jump this SOB.

Been Baptised, don’t need another, fired the rat, and I was into the water. First 8”, then 12”, then 18”, still doing ok at the half way point, but then I dropped into a channel with over 24” of faster water, was pushed downstream off my line, and ran into a deadhead buried in the bottom that I hadn’t seen from the other side, WTF now.

The front wheel was up against the log, bike still running, on the gas as the rear wheel broke loose in a violent lurch and swung around downstream right giving me a better upstream angle, and in an explosive cascade of flying water and gravel, I was able to power up and out of the creek. Hot damn, I lead a dull life. I’m not a believer in hanging around when stuff like this happens, lingering visions of bad outcomes aren’t productive for solo travel, and I was gone down the road, I’ll empty out the boots somewhere else.

This was Cedar Creek, the same one I crossed earlier, but the road on the other side was Mountain Falls, and the country opened to pasture in the valley as I rode northwest.



Some late blooming flowers adding color to September.



I had just turned southwest on Wardensville Grade when I found a horsedrawn wagon coming towards me on the gravel, a pair of big draft horses already skittish at a distance, heck, this was only a one lane road, how was this going to work? I pulled off on the right close to the ditch, motioned the teamster forward, and sat there idling, so far so good, but both horses spooked when they passed the bike, reared, the teamster hanging onto the reins, cussing a streak, half at the horses, the other half at me. Geez, plenty of entertainment in this neighborhood, times up, got to go.



Wardensville Grade takes me down to 55 and west, civilization, then north on Capon Springs, and I was climbing another mountain on macadam, then gravel. This road twists and turns in typical fashion before connecting to FR502, and I was riding south again.



These roads are all in good shape and show a lot of use, but I was alone out here today.



There was active clear cutting on this road, along with old cuts and controlled burns, some early fall color here and there.



FR502 intersects 55, aka Wardensville Pike, another small jog west, then southwest on North Mountain or CR5, the back way into town. This country road is macadam, homes and small farms, with at least one farmer not favoring Barack Hussein, so ol’ Barack best list him in the “doubtful” column for the November festivities.



North Mountain intersects 55/259 in Wardensville, pleasant main street area, bright sun, people enjoying the fall day, couple strolling metrosexual dudes with their man purse satchel thingies…shopping, or something, smoke trailing from thin cigars. I was tempted to stop at the Mercantile until I glanced at my watch, oops, no way, not with all the gravel road ahead of me.

I had been off and on gravel all morning, but the big gravel roads and more water were on the route, can’t linger. Checked the fuel, fixed the boots, tightened some straps, wiped dust off the visor, good to go, and I did, rockin’ through the gears, yowls, howls, snarls, and buzzy burrs snaking out of the exhaust, and I earned some looks reserved for the uncouth. Yep, that would be me, and I made the turn, gone south at full whoop, a murky promise of adventure ahead.

(to be continued…)
 
#1,245 ·
Departing Wardensville west on 259, this new section of highway doesn’t match the GPS, but FR344 isn’t hard to find, and I was riding southwest on a long run of gravel. The roads had been in the George Dubya since Capon Springs, and this one was part of the National Forest too. I hadn’t seen any vehicles on other gravel sections, but passed two coming north within half a mile, then a third where I found a guy cutting some deadfall firewood out of the road, friendly smile, two teeth, and a chaw as big as a baseball.

This road was well maintained, although it wears many faces, and runs from smooth two track to freshly placed and graded marbles.



Openings in the tree cover are few, so it’s not always possible to get a look at the surrounding terrain.



The rat was running fine despite that near catastrophe, no CPR required.



A little color over here too, must be specie related, not elevation.





This particular park road had undergone extensive recent maintenance, new 5/7 stone everywhere, maybe in preparation for hunting season traffic. Go ahead and rip if ya want, but those deep marbles can be treacherous.



As if another reminder is needed, I only saw the three vehicles near the very top of this long road, so if ya get all racy and come to an abrupt stop with the wheels pointed up in the air, you’re on your own, ain’t no help available.

Civilization, so to speak, and I transitioned back to macadam at Mill Gap, then down to the just-out-of-church-get-me-home-to-the-ball- game crowd of speeding vehicles on 259. I’m thinking of writing a short note to the local preachers, propose a sermon that starts “Thou shall not tailgate the Lord’s children that are encountered on only two wheels, there could be Biblical consequences sayeth the Lord…”, ya know, plant the seed, let them take it from there. If one of their parishioners, confiscate the car keys from that blue haired lady I saw run smack into a dead deer, then a possum, then a hound, a trifecta of roadkill encounters, no swerve, no drive around, must be blind as a freakin’ bat, puzzled by those new bumps in the road.

Southwest on 259, then braking hard for the easy to miss turn west on the Howard’s Lick/Lost River road, a short jog, and I was riding southwest on CR12-2, and out of the traffic. This series of back roads, some macadam, some gravel, would take me down to Bergton without staying on 259, much more interesting, and I rode southeast on Cullers Run, southwest on CR18/Crab Run, and finally southeast again on a combination of Arbuckle, Crab Run, and Bergton. Here I was, downtown metro Bergton, food and fuel, oh yeah.



I had been here a little over a week earlier with a group of ten riders on smaller bikes routed over another road network, sometimes more challenging than I was crossing today. This country store was a well known backroads stop, one of the few left in the area, and a must stop for the smaller bikes with two gallon tankage, it’s easy to run out of fuel around here. Straight gas, no blended fuel, and they sell a lot of it.

There’s always a group of codgers hanging out at the store, unfailingly cordial to strangers who share a few words, but I did more by sharing some recent adventure, and then we were all laughing. The back of the store has a grill, two 14y/o girl cooks today, and I had them make me a big breakfast, yeah, I know, but who cares.

There was a boy there too, the girls’ contemporary, fumbling around, getting in the way, so we all ganged up on him, barbs flying, none serious enough to cause mortal wounds, and he was enjoying the attention. He wasn’t specific about his duties around the kitchen, so I said “You must be these young ladies slave”, and he shook his head no, the girls shook their heads yes. Kids are surprised when adult strangers talk to them, but then again, I’m surprised when I find quick witted kids, no slackers in the give and take here.

Outside to sit in the church pew and eat my late lunch, I needed fortification for the final push south. Smokey Bear across the road, a timely reminder, it’s been dry all across the area.



Gotta go, rough roads ahead, yikes, more water crossings, and I was gearing back up when two 4x4 pickups pulling big horse trailers turned left onto my next road. Hmmmm, what are the odds…?

(to be continued…)
 
#1,250 ·
So when I turned the same corner, I was way late with miles to go, sun lower, shadows on the road, only seemed one solution, crank it on up, ya know, time travel. By the time I caught those freakin’ horse trailers, the headers had that incandescent glow, another mile and I was incandescent too, smoke coming out of my eyeballs, damn, I’d lost that bet.

Criders Road follows the German River, macadam, and then transitions to gravel as it climbs the mountain. The trailers were still on pavement when I caught up, there were other side roads where they could have turned, no opportunity to pass, but inexplicably, they were going to try to drag these trailers up the mountain on gravel, me behind, say…dusty, say freakin’ slow, and I was so charged up that I started making my own ozone with a spitting, crackling sound. This sure ain’t time travel, I could get across this mountain faster in a slightly overcooked Prius.

They were towing down the center of this narrow road at 10MPH, and I know they saw my headlights, no courtesy, no surprise, and the parade came to a halt when the lead truck couldn’t get around a very steep uphill left hander. The trailer in front of me was still in the middle of the road, and the woman driver jumped out of the truck, ready for confrontation, and motioned me past. No go with only a foot between her mirrors and the ditch, and she had to pull ahead to give me more room, thanks horse lady, yeehaw, somebody turn that thing out to pasture, looks like cowgirl hatted Mrs. Ed, swaybacked, not a good ride, take that to the bank.

The rig in front was having all kinds of trouble, but with 4 wheel engaged and the gravel flying, the trailer was moving up the mountain again, I was started too, except a pickup coming down the mountain suddenly appeared, everyone hit the brakes, and I found myself in a fast slide back down the grade, front brake locked, boots dragging, ain’t this fun, and I just missed hitting the horse lady truck behind me. Go ahead, throw a little more high test on me, it’s not like I was already on fire.

The two drivers meeting nose-to-nose were having a heated discussion on the finer points of gravel road etiquette, and when the horse trailer dude backed up a bit, I took the opportunity to squirt past in a shriek of first gear revs and a shower of tail wagging roosted gravel, the uphill horse towing boy yelling, the downhill pickup boy laughing. Yeah, well, he had a horse or two, I had 70, so long ya horse’s patoot, and I made the turn west on CR3-1, rolling again at a fast clip, ah, time travel.

The Cr3-1 or Camp Run, gets a much different level of maintenance, washouts often repaired with bank run available on the road itself, less often imported crushed stone, and the road surface is very passable, but much rougher.



Up and down the grades on these roads, the country crisscrossed with small creeks, some crossings seasonal, but other holding at least some water year round. Like most in the area, these crossings were nearly dry, but I stopped anyway to pick a line, this wasn’t the time of day for surprises, big or little.





There is a small primitive campground on this road, and as I went past I could see one of those huge 40’ fifth wheel trailers parked there, pulled in from the west, still must have been a chore. The road clears the FS boundary and immediately opens up, a small reservoir to the south. I’m not sure of the history or purpose of these reservoirs, but they’re found throughout the area, and built at no small expense.



This road takes me down to CR3, terminating in a peculiar little hairpin at the pavement in front of someone’s home, and I was south once more, calling an audible, I needed to skip a road on my route. I was already lookin’ at a pitch black 1000 ETA east, ripping along, hunched a little lower, the perfect dusty picture of non-aerodynamic drama.

(to be continued…)
 
#1,253 ·
The pavement was a respite, a moment to relax for a short period, and although not what I came to ride, at least it wasn’t a surface that could put the hurt on ya every other time you blinked. Shifting through the gears, dumping the fuel, I had pulled back on the ol’ slingshot, let ‘er go, snap, and I was launched farther south.

I had been riding hard for eight hours, a food break, and I saw fatigue on the horizon, dark clouds, looming like a weather front I needed to outrun. No mystery to this curving road as CR3 took me down to 33, then southwest to Brandywine, no stops, and I was south on CR21.

Riding south on CR21, still on pavement, past the Navy communication facility to the west, yup, I wondered myself what the Navy was doing so far from blue water, but since pork comes in so many flavors, heck, you get the general idea. No one expected it would become a Superfund Site within a NF boundary.

The CR24, or Little Fork road angles off on the left, well graded gravel to start, through pasture, and then past another reservoir, water level very low.



Well graded, no kidding, but that would change in another mile when the road entered the undeveloped part of the GW National Forest.



The road crosses Little Fork Run three times before connecting to CR25, paved this season. Today these crossing were showing about 14” of water, some velocity, and can get tricky in higher water flows. I stopped for a photo and to pick a line, gassed it, spray flying, and by the third crossing I was downright wet.







The Park Service paved CR25, Moyer’s Gap, this spring, had a whole bunch of people scratching their heads on the need for pavement here on this low traffic seasonal road, and in the context of the Park Service being flat broke. Now folks can go really fast, switchbacks, blind corners, no shoulders, I see wrecks, plenty of wrecks, motos too.

Southeast on CR25, then south on the CR61 gravel. This road, including links with a number of others, was my last southbound section today.



I had connected to part of this route earlier this spring when running northbound, but had never started the road from CR25 south. CR61 was another road that had seen some recent maintenance, but with bank run material, and the road was rough in comparison to graded gravel, the numerous small water crossings dry.

The road took me past Flesher Run where the Park Service bought out a small farm within the GW boundary, a common practice, often very controversial if the property was taken through an eminent domain provision to complete the sale.



The road gradually improves the farther south I ride, some use, but I was alone in here today, no deer either.



I found myself out of the woods and into a small clearing, time for a stop, take a break, not sure whether this little area had been clear cut or burned.



I caught a flash of moving vehicle through the trees, surprised me, but I was at the intersection with CR32, Shenandoah Mountain.



I turned north, still on gravel. CR32 connected to CR30, south again, then 620 westbound, where I passed an old borrow pit, very late, had to stop anyway.



I had crossed the border again on 620, now back in Virginia, the country opening to pasture, and I was soon down to 614, the valley road running back north to the border, becoming CR21, remember that one?



I had just spent a very long time on roads to a destination that would have taken 20 minutes on pavement to the same spot, but ain’t that why we ride. The 614/CR21 winds through a very appealing valley, I end of the road for some fortunate early settlers, the south fork branch of the Potomac follows alongside this road.





Down to the intersection with 250 and one of those defining turns I’ve mentioned in previous reports. After riding south almost all day, I was making the turn east, and inbound, an all out race for home…except for food and fuel.



I was in a big freakin’ hurry coming down off the mountain, had to grab a bunch of brake in the corners a few times, oh well, I ain’t that good these days, and when I ended up at my country store at the intersection with Deerfield Valley, the TKCs looked like I had been cookin’, at least a little.



This store is usually a north/south stop for me, not east/west, but it works the same, fuel, and the best greasy food anywhere around. I had been on a grease and caffeine diet all day long, why quit now. The bike got premium, I had plans.



Double cheeseburger and onion rings, 1000 calories with dripping aromatic lard, black coffee, diet Mountain Dew for buzzy hydration, and I was thinking about dessert when I decided to make a little conversation with a group of bear chase dudes, just in to replenish their beer coolers. Bad idea, the worst spontaneous idea I’d had in a damn long time.

I had forgotten that the bear boys think they enjoy exclusive rights to the back roads, some of the gravel roads I had just crossed, so let me put it this way, it wasn’t a pleasant conversation. See ya out there boys, rude behavior finds no favor with me.

Time to go again, and I’d left the bike pointed east on purpose, I was going to end the riding day in an all out sprint, driving lights blazing, all lit up, I’m betting you don’t want me tailgating…but one last stop on the way, to sort of close out the Starbuckistan loop. Has anyone noticed, these consulates are, like, everywhere. OMG!



THE END
 
#1,254 ·
i've got about 2500 miles of trips coming up, the rear TKC on the bike will make the first trip, but not the second. time to order a tire, and i decided to try a Full Bore.



from the right, new FB 150/70-17, Shinko 705 150/70-17, and a Tourance 130/80-17 just for comparison.

the FB is supposed to be designed and manufactured by the same people as the Shinko, and it's pretty obvious. the tread blocks are identical except for spacing, with the Shinko having 5mm spacing in the center, while the FB has 10mm. the Tourance tread block spacing is similar to the Shinko, except fewer blocks. the photo shows the unmounted FB to be a larger diameter in the same size, but used, Shinko, and almost exactly the same as the used 130/80. the tires are spread open the same at the beads, so it will be interesting to measure it when mounted.

a report on the FB performance to follow, plenty of gravel coming up.
 
#1,255 ·
when i was wiping down the bike and looking things over today as part of the prep process, i found loose mounting bolts on the subframe struts/passenger footrest mounts, whatever you want to call them.

the bolts are installed with blue gel and are the only ones on the entire bike that loosen up in the course of travel. i've stated previously that these struts are structural, and the reason these bolts loosen is because the Versys subframe flexes under load. the circumstances required to create flex can be debated, but it is happening, and i don't think you necessarily have to get off a paved surface to experience it.
 
#1,256 ·
Full Bore mounted.



this is a heavy sidewall tire, and mounts accordingly. helps to have it warmed up.

the tire measures larger than the calculated diameter at sidewall rated inflation pressure, and approximately 18mm larger than an inflated TKC on the same wheel. it even looks bigger on the bike.
 
#1,258 ·
you're early, the 1600th post, heck, this thread is meant to be read in the dead of winter when there's no riding and it's too cold to work on the bike.

stay tuned, i'm about to depart for a meetup with a riding buddy in Paris, so the next report might start something like

Deux amis, les ames perdues...l'histoire de nos vies: La tournee d'automne magnifique.



ok, my GPS has been a little erratic lately, and my buddy's hardly works at all, so i figure we'll be lost within the first 20 miles after leaving Paris...no worries, i'll send y'all a postcard.
 
#1,259 · (Edited)
...this thread is meant to be read in the dead of winter when there's no riding and it's too cold to work on the bike....
Dave - REALLY? You CAN'T ride ALL YEAR round...? ;)

:yeahsmile:

BTW - I just 'stored' the Green Hornet till spring - put 11,709 kms on it since returning from AZ in the spring. (Along with aprox. 9,000 miles on Big Red from last fall to this spring....)
 
#1,269 ·
Well, the day had arrived, sunrise, and I heard the starter pistol, man, I was out of the freakin’ blocks like Usain Bolt. Ya see, after much consternation and delay, I was finally departing for Paris. The details and logistics were a little fuzzy, but Monsieur Nix, my traveling companion, riding under the nom de guerre of dljocky, assured me that he not only knew the way, but was also fluent in French. I know a little French myself, but prefer not to use it since fistfights usually are quick to develop. When encountering linguistic difficulties, I’ve found it best to start speaking Spanglish, heck, just about everyone knows that language, so if ya don’t, it ain’t my problemo, amigo, whatever. See what I mean.

Figured I better let dljocky know I was leaving, Paris in my sights, and I caught him on the cell.

“Got the boat all set, see ya there”.

“Huh…boat?”

“Yeah, boat, ya know, Paris, gonna meet the captain and load the bike on the boat in 30 minutes”.

“WTF you talkin’ about?”…and the connection was dropped, oh well.

The captain was on time, and I met him in the parking lot, young feller, didn’t look too salty, and I said…

“Where’s the big ass boat you said you had ready to go?”

“Tied to the pier right over there.”

“How’s that boat supposed to get me and the bike to Paris, it’s the size of a freakin’ dingy.”

“Paris, like Paris, France?”

“Is there any other?”

“How the heck do I know, except you be wastin’ my time”, and that’s when dljocky called back, turned out I didn’t need the boat after all. At least I got the captain to take a photo. He made a motion like he was going to chuck my camera out into the saltwater, lucky he was mostly just kidding around.



I had the camera zipped into the tank bag when I said “You sure that ain’t a dingy?”, kicked it in gear, got the heck gone. As for the captain, he must be native Italian, at least he was communicating in Italian sign language. I was watching in the mirrors, paying close attention, now I’m multilingual, easy, didn’t have to pay for those expensive tutorial CDs either.

All news to me, but instead of heading east, now dljocky has me riding northwest to Paris. Hope it all works out, I’d like to try some of them snails, sample the foy grass.

(to be continued…)
 
#1,270 ·
With the route and schedule all topsy-turvy, I was on the road to Paris, Monsieur Nix to follow in a day, camping along the way somewhere, and we were to meet in front of that famous Paris church first thing Friday morning, can’t miss it. Say what, had to be a bunch of churches, and that was my final thought as I drifted off to sleep, wondering where dljocky was camped, heavy rain and hail pounding on the roof.

Friday dawned misty after an inch of rain, sun just might break through any minute, and I expected the arrival of a very soggy dljocky in front of the church at 8AM, but no, he was dry and chipper, camped out on the floor of a flea bag motel just up the road instead. He would have used the bed, but his aversion to bugs prevented it. Dljocky was riding a DR650, yeah, I know, he done switched koolaid flavors and didn’t change the name.

My first thought was, man, this Paris place is way smaller than I thought, and where the heck are all the Parisians?



Dljocky was admiring the church “Gosh darn, Notre Dame de Paris, never thought I’d get a chance to see it”.



Something wasn’t right, the damn sign on the church said Trinity United Methodist Church, and I don’t think there are supposed to be any Methodists in Paris ‘cause I think they’re all still loyal to the old guy with the beanie, ya know, the Pope.

Got to clear this up, and dljocky flagged down this Parisian dude, our first encounter in Paris, and launched into his very best French to no effect, the guy was goofing around like he couldn’t make out a single word.



I yelled over something in Spanglish, the goto language, and surprise surprise, the man didn’t understand the “Span” part, but was fluent in the “glish” part. Ok, now I got it, the guy had to be an American ex-pat living in Paris, although I have to admit that my interest sort of waned when he said he was a Cowboys fan.

After a short conversation in “glish”, he explained in somewhat terse language where our plans had gone wrong, all the time looking like he would like to exit our company on a dead run, dog in tow. He was a little fidgety when we asked him to take our photo, and thank God for image stabilization, the camera was shaking all over the place, don’t know whether he was scared to death or laughing. By that time, he was lookin’ at us like we were 100% freakin’ nuts.

I put my helmet back on real quick to conceal my identity, we were near Washington, DC and well within the blame-game boundary, yup, I intended to blame dljocky for this entire Paris fiasco. It was all his fault, I had nuthin’ to do with it.



Thank goodness we were nothing less than resilient, and although disappointed with Paris, the weather was improving, the bikes were fueled, and we were headed into the mountains, three states included. On the bikes and we were gone down the road, a first taste of gravel only minutes away. Vroooom, vroooom, that was my bike, Monsieur Nix’s DR sounded a little more like putt-putt.

Trouble was, we were about to vroooom and putt-putt right off the freakin’ maps.

(to be continued...)
 
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