Mountain Interval

I knew about mid-week, that Saturday was going to be a good day and I wasn't about to miss a minute of it. Walking up to the bike just as the sun was beginning to peak over the horizon, the temperature on the weather station as I walked out the door read 19 degrees, pretty chilly. With the vest plugged into the bike, I toed the transmission into first and began my journey east to the mountains.

There was only one place that I needed to be about mid afternoon and that was in Kellogg, Idaho. No problem seeing as how that is right about smack dab in the center of where I was planning on wandering around today.

Riding into the sunrise on the meandering two lane roads that I had been choosing randomly as I made my way towards the Idaho border, one thing that was rather apparent, was the absence of any other motorcycles or cars for that matter. I felt like a thief stealing a portion of the day for myself, sneaking it away from all of the other people who were taking for granted the beautiful morning, tucked away in the warmth of their beds as I rolled through the frosty air on the vast empty stretches of two lane highway bathed in the golden hues of the late April Sun. With the foothills of the Rocky Mountains slowly rising into view on the horizon, I thought to myself, "This is going to be a good day."

Post Falls, Idaho came and then went; as did Coeur d' Alene thus beginning the climb up the Fourth of July pass into Northern Idaho. For a piece of the I-90 super slab, this is a fun stretch of road with long sweepers that force you to pay attention. At the foot of the pass to the east of the first range of mountains, lies Cataldo Mission up on the crest of a grassy hill. With 110 miles on the odometer since I left the house this morning, I made this my first stop of the day. The only other people around, was a family from British Columbia who had pulled into the parking area at the same time that I did, climbing out of the car and bracing themselves in the cool mountain air, they stared at me like I was from another planet riding around in this temperature. "C'mon now" I thought to myself, as I observed them stealing glances my way as I shed my gear, "You can't tell me that it's too cold to be out wandering around in this, considering where your from." I tried to remain ambivalent to their gawking, only smiling politely when one of them made eye contact with me.

Also known as the Mission of the Sacred heart, Cataldo Mission was built between 1848 and 1853 and is the oldest building in the state of Idaho. I stepped back and quickly took this picture after the family wandered out of the frame. The building of the Mission was a product of the combined effort the Jesuit Missionaries and over 300 Couer d' Alene Indians. More information on the Mission can be found here.

After spending enough time to stretch my legs a bit, I geared back up and headed for the hills that surrounded this area. I knew that I would be riding slower now so I stowed my Gauntlets away and dug through my tail bag for my lighter warm weather gloves. Among other things that I have been carrying in my tail bag were two books, one is a copy of "Mountain Interval" by Robert Frost and the other is "Don Quixote de la Mancha" by Miguel de Cervantes.

In the April issue of Cycle World, Jeff Buchanan did a brief essay on "Retracing the very real route of the fictional Don Quixote." Buchanan wrote that "If ever there was a literary personage that possesses the wanderlust so prevalent in the consciousness of motorcyclists, it is Quixote".......I bought the book the next day.

Whenever I am out riding and I stop for a moment, I like to sit down beside the bike and read a little bit (Mind you, I do ride where people usually aren't abundantly present on my days off, therefore there is usually no one around to witness my alone time with said bike and book). The more I read in the book, the more I realize that Buchanan hit the nail on the head in his modern day interpretation between Quixote and Motorcyclists. The other book, "Mountain Interval," I thought would be appropriate for the part of the world that I was going to be riding in today, so I pulled it off the bookshelf and packed it on the bike.

Finding out of the way places around here was no trouble at all, instead of taking a right turn to merge back onto I-90, I just went straight and in no time found myself turning off onto the first dirt road that came into sight. I followed the well groomed fire roads that followed the Couer d' Alene river, the only other signs of civilized life that I found were the occasional bridge that spanned the river and a Mennonite church tucked away in the mountains. Approaching various forks in the road, my only plan was to take the one less traveled, no maps accompanied me today, I didn't care where I was headed, only that I was headed away from everything for a while.

Mountain meadows along the Couer d' Alene river.

About an hour had passed since I left the Mission, and I decided to rest along side the meadow pictured above and read a little before heading back to Kellogg to hook up with a friend that was moving to the area. I took this quick picture (above) and read a little bit of Cervantes. I sat there for a while in the grass soaking in the sun like a fly on a window pane, appreciating the warmth especially after the relentless winter that we have endured around here, I always forget how "Solar powered" we humans really are until I am without the Sun for a spell.

-

The morning seemed to be passing too quickly and I thought that I had better start my way back. I didn't bother to check, but I was pretty sure that I didn't have a phone signal up here and I thought that I should start riding back to someplace where there was the possibility of one in case my friend was wondering when I might arrive. The whole time up in the mountains I didn't see or hear another soul, very refreshing.

-

I eventually did hook up with my old friend and we spent a nice afternoon together getting him somewhat unpacked and settled in before the end of the afternoon. I decided that I should start back home before the sun went down out here in the hills, just in case the temperature dropped below freezing and all of the standing water on the highways (Byproduct of the snow melting on the side of the road) began to freeze.

-

As I descended out of the mountains and back into my Palouse country, observing the setting sun peaking out from behind the clouds that had formed on the horizon, I realized that the Robert Frost book that I had packed, never got read; it just went along for the ride into the mountains with me. I began to think of some of the passages that I had read in the past (I've read them all at one time or another, more than once, trust me) that were in the book and one crept into my head almost instantly.

-

Thinking about my strategy today that seemed to work perfectly, that is, taking the road that was a little less traveled whenever I approached a fork in the trail and was left with a choice; I was reminded of the very first passage in "Mountain Interval". For brevity, I will only post the last verse, mainly because the last sentence of that verse reflects exactly how well today went for me. In closing, I was right about what I thought when I began my day while others slept in their beds. Today was in fact a "Good day."

-

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

Robert Frost

Ride well my friends.

E.T.

T.G.I.F.

I am looking forward to this weekend, mostly because the weather is promising to be in the mid-60's both Saturday and Sunday. I'm getting up early Saturday Morning to take the KLR in for it's 600 mile service, and then after that I'm hitting the road. Although the break-in calls for me to keep the rev's under 6000 RPM for a few more miles, at least now I can keep up with the traffic, when I'm confronted with them. Doug C. from "Cruising Ohio" has a little weather window on his blog site that has been terrorizing me lately with those wonderful temperatures, here in the Northwest, winter does not seem to want to give up. I've been riding to work in snow flurries and back home in hail storms. Ugggh.

I may venture over into Idaho to check up on an old Friend who is moving to Wallace this weekend, I'm pretty sure that I'll see my fair share of snow up in the passes, but as long as the temps are in the 60's, I'll fair just fine. Either way, I need to start packing the camera on my rides from now on so that I can share some photo's here on the site. I should definitely have something to write about other than weathering the snow, hail, and wind by the end of the weekend. T.G.I.F.

Motorcycles are just a phase

Photo taken from the internet of a KM100

Mikes bike was of the same vintage

Thinking back, I'm not really sure why Mike took it upon himself to do it. Laid back and affable, Mike Stotts was the older neighbor kid who lived across the street from me.

One day after school in the early springtime, I was out riding my Tecumseh powered mini-bike around the trails that snaked endlessly behind the homes in the development where we lived back in the mid 70's, when I ran into Mike riding his Kawasaki KM100 (just like the one pictured above, lights and everything) around the playground soccer field of my school. I don't remember how the conversation progressed, but for some reason, Mike decided that it was time for me to learn how to ride a real motorcycle. Volunteering his beautiful blue bike to the cause, I do remember one specific phrase, it was the first time that I had ever heard those particular words grouped together like that, and in the following minutes I had learned exactly what they meant. "One up, Three down" he said simply enough. "Let out the clutch nice and slow, and don't forget to cut the throttle between shifts." That was my first formal riding lesson.

My mini bike sat idle, resting up against the soccer goal post, as Mike watched me patiently riding lap after lap on his bike around the track that surrounded the soccer field. Eventually my neighbor asked for his bike back and I followed his taillight as we made our way home through the darkening woods of what remained of the day. All the way back, with my little Tecumseh chuffing away, trying to keep up with the sweet smell of that two stroke exhaust, my wily little adolescent brain began scheming about how I was going to convince Dad that I needed a real motorcycle. Dad was my best bet, after all, Mom was too against those hideous contraptions after spending the last year or so picking rocks out of my skin and pouring Hydrogen Peroxide over all of my fresh wounds. I wish that I could recall what I said, because in about a month's time, my parents had found me a used Honda XR75.

Another internet photo, my little bike looked
exactly like this one. Red stripe down the
gas tank and all.

One memory that sticks with me like it was just yesterday, was that first ride from my house to my best friend Billy Backer's to show off the new ride. Racing down the single track that ran between the backyards of my neighborhood, my heart pounding with satisfaction for the next couple of blocks as my little grey dirt bike rolled over the rocks and potholes that so often spelled my doom on the mini bike.

When I arrived, Billy and I stared at the beautiful piece of machinery sitting in his driveway, marveling at the technical wizardry of a real working suspension, clutch levers, and kick starters until his Mother would eventually call us into the house for popcorn during our weekly "Dukes of Hazard" night. Some time shortly after all of the excitement of my new bike had settled, I recall overhearing my Dad consoling my Mother, "Don't worry, motorcycles are just a phase, he'll grow out of it." They seemed rather confident that as I got older I would eventually move on to other interests.

Riding home from work tonight, while battling a 20 mile per hour headwind in the middle of a hailstorm, those awkward first laps around the soccer field crept into my thoughts along with my beautiful little Honda, and also my father's reassuring words to my mother about me and my "phases". I eventually grew out of the phases of the Dukes of Hazard, and bell bottoms, and long hair; but as I sat there leaning the bike into the cold angry breath of a Mid-April hailstorm, the ice pellets ricocheting off the face shield of my buffeting helmet, and my electric vest keeping the warmth against my torso, I had an epiphany; the realization that I have been here so many times before that I am no longer uncomfortable in this element, that this in fact just one of the many exciting challenges that we motorcyclists face day by day, week by week and year by year.

Through the decades that have seen the once long brown hair in my helmet now cut short with flecks of grey beginning to peak through, I sat there leaning, reflecting on the years, all those countless rides, some that I can't recall and others, I can never forget. All of those rides that have brought me to this one, in this hailstorm, I found myself thinking out loud inside the roaring din of my helmet, "This is one hell of a phase Dad!"