Bike About

Here's a page of a journal, from my friend who rode his 1974 Honda 650
up the Alaskan Highway one summer. Beemers succeeded, Harleys broke down
on the gravel road. His Honda needed a rebuild in the middle of nowhere,
he camped out and worked on the bike in a mechanic's quonset hut until
he got it rolling again.

Albin sent letters as he made his way north. They were titled, "Bikeabout."

No matter what, it takes me an hour & a half to pack in the morning or
unpack in the evening.
That includes food.
I was on the road at 9a & quit the road at 8:30p.
There was about an hour & a half out of that to enjoy the Yukon river &
bull shit with a pilgrim.
Right hand cramps up.
New shotgun bottle of Old Crow for the end of the day.
It's plastic, tip it up and squeeze.
Followed a river up that continuously braided with itself.
White barked leaf trees & Black Spruce.
It got colder & I got closer to the clouds.
Now only Black Spruce & they are getting thinner & smaller.
Wind is getting a real bite to it.
Into the clouds.
Wind blows tiny drops of water over everything.
Up, up & visibility drops to nothing.
Bigger than a hill, not as rocky as mountains.
Everything covered with spongy moss, showing in between the breaks in
the fog.
I weave from side to side as the wind catches me & I slip & skid on the
snot slick like pieces of the road.
I ride tight to my bike for the engine warmth.
Then down out of the sky on to a dry road.
Stop & pick Blue Berries.
On to Circle & the Yukon river.
Food there & watch the Yukon river.
I'm next to the Yukon river!
End of this road.
Checked the old lodge at Circle Hot Springs.
Retraced my path back through the fog covered wind blown mountain - hills.
The moss covers them in different shades of green in rounded patches.
I stop & walk on it to feel the spongy coating on the earth, the wind
blown fog drops in the air.
This is what I came to Alaska to find.
Shiver in the cold, where is the heat from my love, my bike.
The wind and the cold.
Too cold.
If I broke down here I'd have to get my tent up next to my bike to fix it.
The road turns slick.
I squeeze a new crease in the saddle with my butt.
Foot dragging speed.
It starts to rain.
That & the low level of light.
Can't see the rocks and ruts in the road.
Find a turn off, turns out to be a great camping spot.
Oil my chain and set up.
Coffee cup with cold water and a coffee bag pushed into my hot engine to
brew for the morning.
Squeeze my bottle of Old Crow.
Home is here tonight.

--
--
Spidergraham
Chaplain, ARSCC



"Comparing Scientology to a motorcycle gang is a gross, unpardonable
insult to bikers everywhere. Even at our worst, we are never as bad as
Scientology."
-ex-member, Thunderclouds motorcycle "club"