The myth had become reality. We had been to Motorcycle Hell. The cast of characters: two lost souls (played by us) and The Devil (played by gravel). Location: The Alaskan Highway (the term “highway” used for humorous effect) between Muncho Lake and Morley River. Motivation: because it was there.
What a day! This actually was my favorite day yet on this trek. I did not feel so much like a traveling-through tourist, camera on a neck strap at an overlook. I really worked for the trip this day, and better yet, it was not easy.
There was sometimes still that underlying feeling of going through a somewhat tourist-ridden area when a RV towing a car would blow by, letting me enjoy its dust wake and an occasional spray of small pebbles. But, the fact that they were all blowing by us was exactly the point. Today was the first time that we literally passed no one and were passed by everyone (of course not a single one of them was on a motorcycle). We almost passed a lumber truck once, but it was only moving so slowly because it was making a turn up into a canyon. At least our record of no passes was kept unblemished; we did not even catch him before he turned into another cloud of dust heading perpendicular.
The road was occasionally paved – rough Alaska Highway style – but mostly wasn’t. And you would not believe the “wasn’t” parts. For a cruiser with four or more wheels, no problem. Just go slow, accumulate dirt, and look for strategic spots to pass wobbling lost souls on motorcycles. And some of them were not even going slow. And some were also not too strategic. Nobody got away clean, though.
The Universe shifted for two-wheeled landsleds. Our first encounters with 4-stroke speed skating came on gravelly sections similar to those from the day before. Just mild-out-of-controlness. Method of attack: slow down to 2nd or 3rd gear, feel bike squirm around, feel bike go in wrong direction, wiggle handlebars in some fashion that seemed appropriate, and rely on random chance to keep the rubber side down. This method worked well, even though I made a fair share of split second resignations to chewing up my jeans. It also occasionally put us in the lane of opposing traffic. The interest level always rose when traffic actually appeared and opposed. No countersteering on this stuff.
The Alaska Highway apparently decided that we were not being challenged to our abilities, so it then threw another whammy at us: same conditions, but wet. And the wet came from either our government buddies with their watering trucks or from Mother Nature with bursts of rain. Since the number of watering trucks was limited and could not follow us all day long, the trucks and rain tag-teamed throughout the day to keep us continually amused.
Wet gravel on top of wet, silty dirt. Basically, the only thing keeping me upright was a combination of Suzuki momentum and a balancing act. Rigid body, alertness, and tight grips through my leather gloves all rounded out the package. The worst part was worrying about falling and getting crushed by the tailgating, impatient RV vibrating in my rear view mirrors. I became quite adept at waving people on, around, and good riddance.
The worst came in the early afternoon. We had already survived the pothole slalom courses. And we even survived a five mile long avalanche zone beside which construction equipment was placed to make it look like we were still on a “highway”. This was the only place kind enough to warn us that there was a “Rough Road” ahead sign. After having come through everything else, we did not know whether to laugh or be scared upon seeing that.
Even so, none of these obstacles were as sadistically treacherous as the Mountains of Twisty Curves Covered With Ball Bearing Gravel. All of the other problems applied there as well, but the curves added new variety. Forward momentum and wheel centrifugal force, the only physical laws that previously worked in our favor, then worked against us to try and force us off the edges of curves, into ditches, or over cliffs. That wouldn’t do.
I tried using the brakes to slow myself once. The front tire locked up. “OK, don’t plan on slowing down”, I thought. I crested a large hill, catapulted up and down from a deep pothole, and rolled toward a sharp curve. I tried to straighten out the curve with a new trajectory, but the curve did not bend for me. I steered left with the road, the motorcycle continued its momentum right away from the road, brakes were useless, and all while accelerating faster going downhill. So I was galloping across the countryside, ending up sideways in a ditch.
My first road crash! I unfortunately had to qualify that with “road” since my parking lot drop tally was by this time at two, and hopefully holding steady. And, of course, use of the word “road” in describing this area was a matter of opinion anyhow. Nonetheless, it was a momentous event of dubious proportions.
After entering the supposedly wild territory of the Yukon, roads actually improved and transformed into something approaching a real highway. Concluding our day of motorcycle wrestling, we zonked at the Morley River Lodge. The laid back atmosphere and friendly, warm locals were a welcome treat. And a couple tall refreshing sodas felt good, too.