Montana to Valparaiso - Back to the Driveway Evolution Evo Engine Sportster Speed

So, I'll take the part of Mel Gibson,
you, old friend, are now the undecided suicide handcuffed to me on the narrow ledge,
and I have that look in my eye...
Are you Ready? Are you? Let's DO IT.

Dropping out of the South West portal of Glacier is anticlimactic. Its just there, and snap the truth hits: We are back in the United States. I know, the whole experience of Glacier Park was within the USA, but that was surreal. This is real. Look at how its easy to find Kalispell, Ravelli and bang into Missoula. They mark and explain the way; we just mope along and decide to pull off in late afternoon and rest once more. That park bench wasn't up to a real rejuvenation of the wearies. Check the bike over as the sun goes down, have a nondescript meal and scrawl into the little notebook. Scrub your teeth with genuine Tequila flavored astringent from the flask. Crawl into the little tent, and think about - home. Oh my.

"She paused a minute.
He could tell that she was thinking, and thinking was not the best thing that she did;
she reacted at deeper levels than those of mere thought." George R. Stewart, Earth Abides

Don't get me wrong. Judy thinks really well. My thought was how she reacts at an even deeper level than mere thought... She just has an internal stability that extends out and includes me. She reacts, counteracts instability, and her gyroscope always settles down smoothly. I benefit so much more than she does. All I have to do is sigh, and I see her smile. My little notebook did not even try to describe the Glacier, the sunset, nor the even the longing. Just the above (was misquoted, even) aspect of my appreciation.

Morning is cold. I pack with cold-hearted determination, and pack tight. I put everything; the camera, flask and all and draw up the end of the duffle bag sphincter so tight it puckers to an asterisk. An inspiration glimmers, grinning in the back of my thoughts, and just a small smile comes out... I spend three complete tries at the tie-down to get it right, but now I mount the duffle bag lengthwise. Not side-to-side. I put the bottom of the bag next to me, and barrel hitch the body of it down to the seat, letting the slightly tapered top end hang out the back. I know it droops down; I'm the one who pulled the rope down tight to the frame extensions. It’s tight to the tops of the shocks. Its tight side-to-side. I changed my mind after that, and instead of tossing the empty red gas container, I strap it down at the bitter end with the blue straps. Not only does its firm plastic resist wind flapping, the sight of it might amuse the four wheelers out there. The spout is pointing down.
Check adjustments. I sit normally, and the bag braces my back tight at the lower lumbar. I raise up and heave as hard as I can, smacking it with my butt and sure, its tight and solid and won't move. I look down the side and to the back. No part of the bag sticks out into the wind stream.

As I told Roger Covey, I have a more perfectly formed teardrop shape.
Lets go.

Have you driven Montana? Missoula is not far ahead, can't get lost. The bike warms up, the road slips by, and we're through. Traffic is light, and swift. The mountains, sky, and road ahead are crisp and sharp. Tank is full, the early Eastern sun is now high and easy on the eyes, but it keeps everything in contrast relief and the three dimensional scope of vision goes up and down, side to side, with my little capsule being passed every once in a while by cars, once by a bike, but not to worry, the little smile is still there, but its not yet the right moment. Cruise, swift is OK, bike feels good. Very good. Fill up again. Road in long arcs, pavement smooth, hills gentle and line of sight is long.

Roll on a little more throttle. Let the bike breathe and get all the heat soak temperatures to come up natural, but more so. Neck is pulling; lifting my chin but the helmet is quite tight and can't rock back. Feet are on the back pegs, but I reach down and lift each one so the ball of my foot feels the rubber, not the instep of my boot. Ankles are in tight, lean forward. Face mask is clean, scarf is wrapped tight and no gaps to inflate the jacket. Gloves cover the wristlets, zippers closed, no entrance to blow up the sleeves. There is only a few hundred miles on this oil, the filter is new, not even any seepage on the lines, no leaks. Carb mount very tight, filter is new. Roll on a little more, and tuck down lower. Don't even mention the scratches on the tank, more important things going on. Passing everybody, easy and courteous. No hot dogging, not nervous, no balance feedback from front or back wheel. Smooth. You know, the old '66 made its pipes glow red a few times. The grapevine was first, I think, but I remember the Rockies too, and Pike's Peak - egad, full throttle in the gravel at dusk. That was dumb. This one has these fag chrome covers, can't see the pipe glow at all, night, day, or shadows. Pay attention.

More. All. Let it go and put both hands on the lower triple tree, take it easy... . Keep my little fingers wrapped, just go by the clutch cable on the left, just grab the brake line and all on the right, it won't be used for a while. It is steady as a rock, pull down tight with my arms, and look steady back at the big eyes of the speedo and tach. Needles are blurry and low down to the right, both of them, oh my. The bump bangs the gas cap into my chin. Didn't feel a thing. Tuck my toes tight onto the joint of the pegs. If my right heel is on the oil tank, my boot can't be in the bare drive belt. That belt is pulling hard, I'll bet it sings a little, but the banshee cat-scream of the pipes is holding a note better than the fat lady ever did. My knees are tight on the tank, the air cleaner bumping the right one; I'll bet I get a bruise. Nobody can see my grin. The wail of the engine and the roar of the wind come easily through my shooting ear plugs. The air is just pressure in front, lifting everything and making the front wheel light. The forks are tight as if they are welded in place, but just thinking around the curve makes the bike just do it. I can feel nothing change position to turn, it just goes. Let the bike go, pulling and tugging the air as it goes past, up hill is power, down hill is just pressure and the shriek says faster. Maximum. Do it. Hold it. More.

All my favorite kinds of pain are in concert: terror so palpable as to cause time to slow, sound of the engine scream telling me there is no more and maybe this is too much, unnatural position threatening to cramp, unfamiliar strength needed just to move my head and arm-wrist-fingers to the throttle, my heart and blood pressure are stressing like the flame filling the exhaust pipes, the sting of fluttering Levi's above my ankles and below my calves, the air pressure is forcing the whole clear Montana sky into my lungs. I can let go the throttle after passing that car, the next too, because the road is clear to the next rise again so full blast it is. Full bore on, arms and shoulders back tight again, oh my...

Pull the whole trip in the vacuum behind me into one crystal piece of clarity and wedge shaped precision. All the horsepower is pushing the bike, it has welded me to it, and the shimmering brightness of Canada, Alaska, the Pacific ocean and the glaciers are visible in that transparent icicle, that smoky piece of black glass obsidian so thin the glow turns iridescent in the glare, with my perception at the point and the thickening cone trailing and glittering in the sun. How sharp is the point? = How fast can I go.

I'm sure there's a shock wave. Not the supersonic kind, but the dirty turbulent edge of my brute force punching these few seconds of eternity through the hard static fluid of reality. Its all distorted, relativistically slow, but my speed stretches each instant into a heated image, printed on my little life, and making it permanent right there and burned deep. I've got it with me now... I own that moment and didn't let it wisp by unnoticed. Here comes the next.

Let's go. Keep it up to Valpo, it can't take long. The blast of sound fades, the needles bury deeper, the speed must be better because the bike feels like its coming together tighter. I'm loose, only pulling fiercely with my biceps and gripping just tight enough with my knees. Full out. No compromise, this bike and I are doing it and doing more or maybe blow its guts, but that's it with me too. More, stay with it. Terror fades just a little, grin goes to smile, my neck hurts. Steady state at speed. All this bike can do. More. The bike finds something and delivers more. I didn't do anything, it just is going faster.

There comes a peace. It can’t be, but the impression comes like a theory of Relativity. My gestalt of experience and perception gets the shape the universe: E = MC² reads my Experience equals the Motorcycle at the maximum speed it is capable of doing. That’s it, there is no more finite space except the egg, the bubble, the teardrop shaped volume within the event horizon of noise – power – and the boundary layer of wind shear. There is nothing, no apparent world beyond that capsule. The view out of it shrinks from 360 degree in all three planes of pitch|roll|yaw to a tiny window forward along the axis frontward. Three dimensions drop down to two, there is no height, have only flatland. That flatland is a warped plane though, sometimes the span of the handlebars, the top edge of the speedo/tach housing, the distance between my eyes. Does not match the horizon. It is tilted and the grid of the flatland reality that my teardrop egg is flying through is warped like a potato chip. I go faster. Again the maximum speed the Sporty can do gets faster. The energy really does approach the speed of light squared because now my vision drops another dimension again. The three dimensional world fell through two and is now down to one. There is only a tunnel vision – blasting through a shrinking pipeline. The big sky country looses its sky. The flatland perception looses its width, there is only a shrinking streak making a line – a bee line. Faster yet. How? (?). The one dimension line isn’t defined by length or forward/back or front/rear. It is defined by exhilaration/fear. The exhilaration is coming, the fear balanced out perfectly. Faster. The bike/me combo is just doing it. It is the male symbol, the Mars symbol, the tiny egg with the arrow pointing out forward. I and this bike make the only entity, and there is nothing else except the vector. The light pipe out the front. The pipe isn’t even straight but bent by where I will it to go. How it gets bent I don’t know. I cease to feel crosswind or curve lean, hills or any mechanical linkage in bones or bike. My future is just “that way” along the pipe of light. My teardrop egg is shrinking, imploding in tighter; the collapse of the bubble is just balanced by the pressure of the power and noise and the weight of my belly on the seat and my claw-hands on the forks. I imagine somewhere below my heart is a beating, roaring engine (I’m pretty sure I’m on top, but it starts to merge è my now spherical yin/yang).

You know the pistons move up and down only kind-of together, like tyrannosaur teeth chewing on the corpses of long-dead brontos. Their fossil fuels are consumed in one last roar of defiance. When you watch them, the flashing top dead centers are not exactly together. They go one side then the other but the jaw muscles work hard, and throat roars loud and the flow of flaming red comes down along each side. That old fossil roars long, loud, defiant and proud of its old but brutal peak of evolution.

The power/scream/shriek pressure holds back the white noise of wind shear tearing. What’s the center of that? It is the tiniest of places, the gentlest of force, but it holds it all together. I won’t, I don’t know how to share it with you. It isn’t even perfect, but I do get it, or at least I try for it, every once in a while. The power-thrust projects that perception pipe forward, time slows and maybe stops, there is only speed. Life is good, it really is, and that is the only reality.

My wrists are rubbery. My elbows, where the bump of the bone comes out on the inside, are gripping the lower edge of the tank but that hurts like hell. Start to think, the big risk of the bike blowing up is past, it would have done it by now, but I'm showing the strain. Getting old. Maybe, just maybe I'll get older by a day, or a mile, or the next bump that whacks both my chin on the tank and right elbow on the air cleaner. Maybe. Maybe slow down. Nah. Yeah. Plan it though, take time to do it right. Balance my belly button on the tank centerline, all the wind even and when my right arm slowly eases, the rest of my body needs to not fly off the equilibrium. It takes real strength to just steadily get the glove out there and gently wrap around the throttle. One hand out / one hand in - is not as controlled as before, so now is the right time. Take it from full to just less than that, feel the bike ride, feel it go back to having weight and contact with the pavement. Now, the sound comes lower in tone, just as loud, but coming down. Two hands, long time since that happened.

Touching that throttle at speed has the right handgrip in my palm, but know this, that has nothing to do with steering the bike. Now that I have both hands on the bars, I concentrate on NOT steering at all; just let the bike slow down. My belly is still tight on the tank, and my shoulders are flexed back, tight and bunched and cramping between my shoulder blades. Less throttle. Shriek goes down to a high howl. I get my butt steady and lift my chest a little, wind is pushing hard, feel it pulling the speed down too. Slower. Slower. Cruising at 90. Hold this for a while, it feels slow, but I'm regaining my feel for the bike as I let it cool from the run. I have no idea how much gas is left, but I'm grinning that it didn't hit the reserve tank back there. No way do I think I could control an unexpected drop in power, let alone any surging in and out. Nice thought, now that I think of it. Dumb shit. Leaning in to the wind at 90 is more natural. I've done that going to work. The road is still clear, and my speed is quite mediocre here. I even get passed again, and all I see when they go by is big oval faces. Nothing of interest here anymore, and I was nice when I passed them....

There's a sign, and I decide to decrement my speed gradually so when I get gas, the bike will be normalized back to touring temperatures. I bet that oil has the viscosity of cheap Tequila. Come to think of it....

That's a project. I pull in to the truck stop and unpack the pull flask. Now, don't get me wrong, I had to reset that duffle bag sideways anyway, in case a Montana cop wanted to see my license plate. But, since the nerves are still needle stinging and tingling, the Tequila-oil additive goes down as smooth as Bardahl. I'm sitting in the shade, and I can't take my eyes off that bike. Now that's stupid. Here it has been over a month; those wheels haven't been a stone's throw away from me all that time, but look at it. The duffel is at my side, I'm actually leaning on it. The bike is in the sun, filthy as a buffalo chip, but what we just went through. Egad. I certainly did blow the pipes out on it before, and on my '66, but never like that, never so long that I got almost not-terrified. Never without compromise uphill and down, through interstate sweeps at speed so as to feel the weight of the turn pressing down. Never that bad, never that good.

Tom's Rickman had a better suspension and feel at speed. You sure crouched like a toad on it, but it was sweet and you could think it through goofy switchbacks and get all out of shape and still brake hard. OK, so that's cool. Look at that filthy bike over there and what we just did. Stock out of the crate, romped through the gold roads and game trails above the Arctic Circle, and we just flew for the angels over hill after hill after hill. Fast. Oh my. Another pull. Thanks. Thanks for coming along with me on the back. We didn't accomplish much, but it was good to have you along.

You're not at all interested in whether the route was the North way by I94 or the South over I90, but since I whined to you about Minneapolis just a few minutes ago, it makes it easy to pick the South. I hadn't claimed a mile in Wyoming in many a year, and don't expect at all to make anything of it, but that was a good idea at the time because the weather held clear, and the little bike just sang along. Steady, comfortable.

The shadows lengthen.

Trucker Picnic

- Another rest area ahead.

Some fatigue, so no hurry. Just a little story.

I stopped here, and had a most pleasant sunset and met a most interesting long-haul trucker.

I'd like to introduce Mr. Lawrence Coriell. If he hooks up to the internet and finds this, I'm the goofy biker you spoke to way back in '96.

I remember you sharing your pork chops and you telling me about the trucking life. The loads you took, some you even wanted, some not. Your wife was absolutely charming, and the vegetables tasted just great. Please accept my thanks. I know you went on about safety and, if you read above what I had just done, I hope you understand when I fell silent at odd times during our talk. Thanks again, and I hope this finds you both happy and well.

I left in the morning mists among the idling diesels, they seem contented just burbling in place, and I am too. The bike opens up the road quite eagerly, and books along with me just thinking. Steady going. Quick gas, quick food, doing well on miles. Later, there was a heritage site where Native Americans had an outlet, with an artist in residence that made me wish I had a pile of money to ship some of his stuff home. Nice work, made me think deeply and long.

Wouldn't you know it. I'm getting tired, and the weather gets dismal right about Madison, so there isn't much of a decision, let's just push on and see if we make it. That was a strain, because I got a chill and all my fatigue went and helped it. The traffic gets heavy, and I don't remember whether I prefer I90 or I94 into Chicago, and can't remember the difference between the two. I figure I can't get lost, but the state of uncertainty is no fun in the rain, cold, and for some reason my fellow drivers on that road turned snotty. Far be it from me to offend anyone, especially when I'm the most vulnerable and confused one out here tonight, so just let me live.

The drizzle turns in to a mixed light rain, and yes, that night in July was cool, and when you are wet at a rate of 60 to 70, the chill sets in deeply. It is quite late, and the Dan Ryan is moving smoothly, I take it over to the far left lane and decide to let the bike find its way home. It is usually quicker doing the Skyway and Indiana toll road, but tonight I don't have a clue how to fish out two dollars from my rain suit, let alone coins for the toll baskets. The 'Ryan goes to the Borman, I can feel Indiana when it hits, and then the fates put out the last little surprise. I hit the reserve tank. Right about Highland someplace. I'm totally nonplused - no clue where to get gas. I never had to do this before, I travel these roads so often but on a through route basis, always knowing before I leave that I have enough gas. Not tonight. I find myself getting lost, going South when I was sure that way was West, but then focus my dark sunglasses at night, finally, and pick up Highway 6, locally called Ridge Road, and just limp on, all the way to I65 and the way home. Yes, I bought gas, but getting back to the Borman was too much for my fatigued brain.

As I mope along Highway 30, it is only about ten more miles to Valpo. I think back to that high speed run I just did. Why? Why would I do that? Every biker has heard so often: We have a Death Wish. I really don't think I do. Yes, my fear of death made itself known, powerfully, when I was that scared. I had to deal with it like a physical force inside me. But, did I use it as a tool to convince myself "Life is Sweet" - ? Again, I don't think so. The death wish should entice with some reward. I worked hard and life was already sweet. The proximity of death was a threat just then, not a lure. I was drawn for the rush, of course, the adrenaline pumped distortion was in the doing of it, the Death Wish would have been some additional thrill due to annihilation. It didn't come that way, I was as sure as I could be of preventing it, as much as I possibly could, and even savoring the memory doesn't include the nearness of death. I do remember the smile growing, and it got stronger as I got to where I could tame the beast of speed. I think I pushed old Death back a bit, just for a short while.

It was late. The entrance to the neighborhood came up, and so did my spirits. The rain had stopped, the yard lights were forming a path to the familiar driveway. I took it really, really slow. The garage door was coming open all by itself? No, fool, Judy hit the switch. Such a smile.

In the morning, I go out to see what condition the rig might show in the light of day. I'll share. I had just nosed it into the garage, and never even considered unpacking.

This is just rolled back out and not touched more than that. Why?

That rain has dried on the duffel. Inside the bag, remember, is a double heavy plastic garbage bag, then the second pulled on the opposite way, so the ends are on either side. All dry in there.

The smell came when the sun hit the bugs.

Fascinating to me why they aren't all washed off. Then, think again, they made contact at full throttle, so they are stuck pretty tight. Poor little bugs. Then the air and sun baked them good.

Look, what is that just behind the back tailpipe?
Yes, Virginia, that's a bag of bark, waiting for the Mulch Boy to get home to his duties. In a way, it is nice to know I'm still appreciated.

I told you it was raining and ugly that night.

I don't have aesthetically inspiring images for this, but for some reason documenting the results at the end seems to do me some good. It was not all pretty, even you might have guessed that, but in the end, most of it will wash off.

More, you say? Sure.

I'd say about 20% of my airflow through that oil cooler is caked with mud. All through the trip, I took great pains to keep the pins clear. Yes, I know that if I had left the front fender off, it would have been even worse.

Notice too, no oil mess. That is pure dried mud, and if the dark smudges are looked at closer, it is just different colored mud drying at different temperatures.

After all that adventure, I know many a Harley driver will appreciate the dry concrete under that bike. Nice.

No, No, those aren't my bloodshot eyes. That's the front of the speedo and tach. I've even preserved the Monarch butterfly, whose wing is just visible at the very center of the frame, a little to the right.

Next day, the dirty clothes are in the garage along with the bike. Yes, you guessed it; there are still rules and regulations about air pollution, even in Northwest Indiana.

Do you want more of these souvenirs?

I have plenty.

Most of them are in my head, but I've tried to share some with you. We should do it again.

No harm done Judy, yes I got that nasty gas can away from the flowers.

Sure, honey, I'll get right to it... . I want to unpack my bag and get that spiral notebook. I need to make some comments before - well before my memory fades.

You know how I get sometimes.

Did I bring you something? Oh, sure, it’s right here somewhere. I was thinking about you all of the time. Well, most of the time. Why am I holding my arm funny? I have this blue mark on the inside of my elbow. It hurts. I think I hit it when I took out the trash this morning... No, I'm not whining. .

I'm going to wash this thing, OK? I mean, there is mud and bugs and calcium chloride on the... Oh, about a half an hour... Looks better, huh? Oh that, you remember, it’s from work, the whole trip was this morale booster thing for ... sure it was...

Wasn't it?

No, I haven't found it, yet.

I'll keep looking, I know for sure I wouldn't loose it.

It was from Alaska, honey, and it was gold, for sure, and, oh wait a minute, I know where I packed it, real careful for no damage, here it is,

come look...

finis
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