The Cast:
My Dad: Ron Jr.
Ray: All around nice guy in his 50s, a good guy to ride with.
Larry: Ex-Rockstar, now a computer geek who still loves to ride.
Don, old roommate, fair-weather rider with lots of experience. Shot some of the pictures that you see here.
Me: Ron III. Obviously the star. If you want to be the star, come ride with us, and write your own account.


BACKGROUND:
I've been trying for years to get my Dad back on a motorcycle.

He used to ride every day, and legend has it that he and my mother spent their honeymoon on two wheels. The last time I saw him ride anything with a motor was when I brow-beat him into trying out my '79 CB750F Super Sport that I had just purchased (very used), and had limped home. The last time that he had owned anything with two wheels that didn't have to be pedaled was a '73 CB350 that I think he bought new. He only kept it a year or so.

As many who have been following these stories are aware, I have a problem: Dogs follow me home. All of these dogs, however, have tires and wheels, and not a one has had a tail worth wagging.

I see or find cheap vehicles, and they just seem to follow me home. This has been true with cars, but more recently (except for that '65 Mustang in my carport that I'm still working on after almost three years), it has been motorcycles. I don't usually pay a lot at one time, but I guess you could look at it as kind of a payment plan. I have a tendancy to put at least as much cash into them as they are really worth, and no telling how much time and labor. On the plus side, with very few exceptions, I get rid of vehicles in significantly better condition than I get them.


ACT 1: Early May, 2000
My friend Larry, who had ridden with my general group for years had to sell his motorcycle that winter in order to afford the down payment on a house.

He still wanted to ride with us, and I thought through my mental rolodex of broken/damaged/abandoned motorcycles, and remember an '85 VT500C that has been sitting at the side of the house of a guy I know. It has been out there in the weather for three or four years, and was parked because it wasn't running well, and the clutch was slipping. I make a phone call.

The owner says, yes, I could buy it. The lowest he could go is about $350. Yes, the title is clear. No, he took the seat inside, he'd just have to find it.

A couple of days later, there is a pile of Shadow parts stacked in one corner of my garage. My '86 VFR was in one piece, and was riding, but there was no paint on it, and it was still relagated to the carport so that I could tear into the Shadow. New clutch disks, front brakes, rebuild of back brakes, rebuild of carburators (not just a cleaning, the diaphragms were dry and cracked), and new packing in the right muffler, and it was running pretty well. I put a junk set of LP turn signals on it, and straightened the handlebars as best I could, took several large dents out of the tank, repainted the tank, and fenders, and Larry rode it the rest of the season.


ACT 2: Mother's Day, 2001
Ride details are noted elsewhere on these logs, but a short form is that on a circumnavigation of Washington, we ended up at my Parent's house to warm up, get dry, and eat too much. Conversation with my dad got around to when he used to think about going on motorcycle tours, and camping out with the bikes. Ray, and I heckled my dad without restraint about being too much of a whimp to go around the block on a motorcycle. I didn't really think he'd do it. More, I didn't think my mom would let him.

My original agreement with Larry was very open ended. He could ride the bike until September of 2000 and give it back if it wasn't what he wanted, or he could buy it from me for the exact amount that I had into it in cash (approximately $500), and not owe me a thing for the work, just come riding with us. September came and went, and while the machine wasn't his ideal bike, it was better than anything else he could afford, but he couldn't really afford to pay me either.

I had the original idea on Mother's day, and the more I thought about it, the better I liked it. I think a 500 Shadow is the best bike possible for someone like my dad. It is tame, but has enough power to get out of the way if neccesary. It is a comfortable riding position, but isn't so heavy that you can't catch it if it starts to fall. In a word, the perfect beginner's bike, and I considered dad a beginner again. It'd only been 35 years since he did any real riding.


ACT 3: Early October, 2001

photo by Don
Dad was on his way here. He'd only actually been on the Shadow once, and I had to make some more changes for him so that it would be more friendly. I put different handlebars on it (it didn't have the stock ones before), readjusted the rear brakes, put bigger/better rear turn signals on it, rebuilt the forks, and put a small windscreen on it. I don't know how smart it is to not have ten miles under your belt over the last 30 years, and then jump in the saddle for at least part of a 900 mile ride, but its fun.


photo by Don
We left my home just east of Portland, and headed west, avoiding any freeways. We kept the speed around 50MPH even in the areas where other cars were passing us, and made a liesurly rout out along the Columbia River to Ranier, and then went across the Longview Bridge into Washington. From there, we caught Highway 4, and wound out of town just in time for lunch at a nice pub.


The route then took us out the north side of the river, where we turned north before getting onto the Long Beach Peninsula. We held a northerly route on Highway 101 through several of the small towns, just taking it easy, and catching up on the scenery. Pretty soon, it was time to start looking for a place to stop for the night.

Somewhere after crossing the Middle Nemah River, I saw one of those brown signs that the state puts up noting a campground down a side road to the west. I turned, and went about a mile where I saw what had to be the most run-down campground I've ever seen. I stopped and looked at the field that appeared to be the camping area. It was seperated from the road by three school busses that didn't look like they'd left that spot for years. I think people were living in them. The field also backed up against what appeared to be a garbage dump.

I guess that I didn't want to believe that the state would put up a sign pointing to this. I figured there must be a 'better' campground further down the road. Without discussing it with the people following me, I took off down the road at something less than twice the posted 45 MPH speed limit, looking for a campground.

That road ended at a place called Nemah Junction. It was basically a ghost town. Across from the T in the road was what I think was once a motel, but it was empty, and for sale. The for sale sign looked like it had been there for years. There was also, one of those old 'tourist guides' screwed to the wall. The kind you used to see at any gas station at the side of a highway--before the days of onramps.

The sign showed another town a bit further north, and showed a campground there. I wasn't feeling a lot of confidence in that faded sign, but by this time the rest of the group had caught up with me, and we didn't see a lot of other options. It was starting to get dark.

We came to the small town of Bay Center Junction, and after crossing to the other side of the John's River from it, found a very nice, though obviously older little campground. It was nearly empty, and I went in to negotiate with the owner for some space. At first he wanted to charge us for a campsite each, but I think I convinced him that we were willing to keep riding (I lied). We settled for $20 including tax for the four of us. Then went into town where the entire population including the constabulary were at the only resturant open. The food wasn't bad, and the beer was cheap, even for take-out.


Wood for the campfire only cost us another $15, but it was pretty cheery to sit and drink a couple of beers, stare at the fire, and stumble through the tents and bikes to the vice clean bathroom.


While I was smart enough to cover my seat with plastic, I managed to leave my helmet out on the bike. I got up and put it under cover when it started raining. Then I had wet feet in my sleeping bag the rest of the night. Luckily it didn't rain long, and we weren't really too wet for the morning ride.


While the tiny tents are great for hauling on a bike, there isn't much interaction once you turn in. I have owned and used each of the tents to the right, but only recently did I find one long enough to stretch out in. There just isn't a lot of room in there for luggage.

In the morning, we rode past the miniature golf course, to the only breakfast cafe in the area. I recognized at least a couple of them from the resturant the night before, including our waitress who is also the local pool shark.

photos by Don
As we headed up the coast, I didn't want to go back the way we came, so decided to stay on highway 109 when we met up with it. The road was so nice, I just didn't accept that it would dead end at Taholah. I was wrong. But they did have this nice display of a Moclips River Canoe, and a Whale's skull. I'm just not sure it was worth what turned into a 35 mile side trip, with seven of them on loose gravel.

Photo by Don
Our next stop was in the rainforest, at a little store in Quinault. Across the street (where the bikes are parked) is the Quinault Ranger Station and visitor's center. I've never before seen one of these that didn't have bathrooms, but this one didn't. The folks at the store were very nice about it, though. We bought gas at the 76 station just to the right of the store. Imagine as tight security as you possibly can, and you are probably getting close to what they spend their $2.45/gallon on. The attendant was seated behind banker's glass, there were bars on each of the smaller windows, the door was one of those heavy steel security types, and I counted twelve surveilance cameras. The place doesn't look that dangerous. Maybe they are just afraid of someone breaking in to use the toilet.

We looped into Port Angeles for a late lunch. It was obvious that the place we picked was also the favourite of the elk hunters. The food was lukewarm at best. We debated the merits of trying to make it to Doswallips State Park where it would probably rain, or taking the ferry across the sound and sleeping at my Parent's house. Warmth and a shower won (I lost).

Dad was home. His odometer showed 479 miles, plus the drive down to Portland. I guess he was a little stiff and sore the next morning, but he says he is ready to ride with us again come spring. He found a few things on the Shadow that need fixing; there is a slow gas leak at the tank to petcock connection, and he would really like a set of highway pegs, but they are minor things. I'm sure that the bike will serve him well for years to come.


ACT 4: The Morning After
In the morning, not too early mind you, we headed east to round out the trip. I had gotten directions to I-90, and thought I understood them. After an hour of the backroads through Snohomish, Monroe, and Redmond, I finally found it. We did have to stop at Snoqualmie falls. If you haven't seen it, make the stop. If I could figure how to edit it down small enough, I'd post a piece of video that Don (he rode Mellow Yellow on this trip) shot.


It always surprises me with the difference between my cheap digital camera, and others. Mine is the one on the left, Don shot the one on the right. I pretty much got lucky somewhere I'm amazed at the difference in crispness. They should be the same horizontal resolution on your screen. Yep, that's me, the knight in flat black leather, looking for things to err at. I've driven through Roslyn more than once, but every other time I've been there, The Brick has been closed. After it was featured so much in that television series (I never could come up with a good reason for liking it, but I did), I've wanted to see what the inside really looked like without the fancy camera angles. It looks pretty much like most other older small town resturant/pubs, but the staff was very friendly, and the food was quite good. The only thing I need to point out is: avoid the extra hot chili at all costs. It tasted great, but it was two days later before I was completely done belching jalapenos.

Each time we stopped, the rain would catch up with us, but not really get us wet. As we were getting back on the bikes, we again had to run for it. The closest thing we had to an incident happened when I was getting back onto I-90 after Roslyn. I accelerated hard down the onramp, and just as I leaned into the curve at the bottom, I hit gravel, and my real wheel came around. I don't know how I got it back under me, but the next thing I knew, I was upright, with the rear wheel sticking out to the left of my direction of travel, and I was sliding directly into traffic. Luckily for me, the one non-idiot on the freeway was driving that car, and they smoothly pulled into the left lane, and gave me room.


A fast trip out I-90, slowing down to (mostly) the too low speed limit on highway 821 and down Highway 97 kept us just a step or two ahead of the rain, and though the schedule allowed for another day on the road, we checked with the folks at the gas station in Goldendale, and decided that dryness was the better part of valor. A short stop at the Stonehenge monument in Maryhill, and then the backroad down through Biggs Junction took us across the river where we ran for home on I-84. The only place that we really got wet was coming through Cascade Locks. I, of course, didn't consider stopping to clean my face shield. I just figured that it was rain and fog. When I couldn't see the tail lamps of the car in front of me, I finally pulled over, and removed the quarter-inch of grime and dead bugs. It was a miracle!. Ray peeled off of the freeway in Troutdale, and went home his way, and Don and I put the VFRs to bed again in my garage.

All in all, well worth the time and effort. One of these days, I am going to make that part of the trip that takes me into Doswallips so that I can dig steamers and eat them over the campfire. This was attempt number two, watch for try three early next spring (you have to get there durring the good months for clams or you miss out).

Ron

FIN