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The Eight-Day Dream
Spring-time is the athlete's chance to try new things and spend time away from serious training. Same goes for coaches, and Pete tells the story of his most recent adventure below
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\r\nThe Eight-Day Dream
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\r\nBy Pete Vordenberg
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\r\nDreams, not sleeping dreams, but wide-awake dreams are always so long and drawn out. They take time to develop and time to work on and more time to accomplish. Often years are involved and in many cases a lifetime. That is why I developed the eight-day dream.
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\r\nI came up with the dream from scratch. I had no interest in motorcycles, no experience with motorcycles and no desire to ride motorcycles, and without being inspired by anything in particular I decided I wanted to ride a motorcycle from Salt Lake to Seattle.
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\r\nThat was day one – birth of the dream.
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\r\nSeven days later, I am wondering: if I am having my mid-life crisis at 32 will I only live to 64? At the time I was ridding down Highway 55 in a snowstorm. No, is the answer to that question, in this snow, on this road, on this bike I will die much sooner.
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\r\nDay seven and the dream was well underway. I had shopped for a bike for two days, taken a motorcycle safety class for three days (during which time I learned to actually ride a bike) and left town on the sixth day.
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\r\nThere was little logic and few details to my plan, this dream also known as my early-mid-life crisis. I wanted to ride dirt and pavement. I didn’t want to get killed. I wanted a fun adventure. That was it.
\r\nI found a used Kawasaki KLX 650 – which is a dual-sport bike made for riding any terrain from rough trails to interstate. People ride around the world on these things. I got a nice helmet and a very nice leather jacket. I took a sleeping bag, pad and tarp, warm clothes, one tin of fish I found in the house and four matches – one of which I ended up using in a medical situation.
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\r\nI left Park City in a snow squall. The sky was dark and shifting with gusty wind. My path took me a short distance from Park City to Kimbal Junction where I got on my first dirt road. From much experience on a mountain bike I quickly learned to accept the slight float of the bike on the gravel, and settled in to the ride. I was underway!
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\r\nOnly a day before I was ridding around the parking lot of the Salt Lake Community College with my beginner’s motorcycle safety class.
\r\nMy friend Andrew Johnson, who rode motorcycles as a kid and who had also just bought a bike was in the class with me. The final hour of class was the driving test. Andrew killed it, getting an almost perfect score. It was my third day on a bike and I barely passed the test. I was still thinking about each shift, the coordination of hands and feet and body to make the bike go, stop and turn.
\r\nNow I was embarking on a thousand mile journey that would take me on dirt, gravel, secondary and even interstate roadways.
\r\nI had the essentials, bike, helmet, good leather jacket. After that I cut corners. I duct taped my backpack to the back of the bike. I wore another back pack on my back. I carried few tools and less knowledge on how to use them. I took my running shoes, just in case.
\r\nIt was alternating rain and snow. After about five miles I stopped my bike and put on all the clothes I had with me. I was freezing. I now wore, steel toed boots, two pair of high wool socks, long pants, quilted down pants, rain pants, a shirt, an insulated leather jacket complete with Kevlar slide pads, a Swix fleece jacket and a rain jacket, thick leather workman’s gloves, Rudy Project shades and a helmet.
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\r\nI guided the bike to the northern edge of the Great Salt Lake and rode off toward Idaho on a series of gravel roads that started near Golden Spike National Monument.
\r\nThe terrain was flat and I could see out over the lake and the clouds sweeping along trailing rain like purple jellyfish tentacles. At the northwestern edge of the lake, still on gravel I took a right and drove north toward the City of Rocks in Idaho.
\r\nThe City of Rocks is an outcropping of granite in the little known mountains of extreme southern Idaho. It’s a climbers Mecca and a beautiful place to hike and ride a bike.
\r\nFrom there I was spit out into highway 30 through Twin Falls and Burly where the trip became an ugly battle against the wind.
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\r\nI wasn’t in a hurry. If I wanted to get to Seattle fast I would have flown. I wanted to take my time but the wind of the open farmland was killing me. I gave in at Mountain Home and got on the Interstate for a high speed run to Boise. From there I could head north into the mountains and hopefully escape the wind.
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\r\nI feared the interstate. I pictured myself getting batted around by huge trucks and speeding minivans. My fears were not exactly unfounded, but probably exaggerated. I got up to highway speed and cruised along with the rest of traffic – no problem.
\r\nParanoia and motorcycle riding go well together. It is healthy to assume they are out to get you, for people really do not see motorcycles.
\r\nI gulped when I passed a sign stating that seatbelts are the law. All of a sudden I realized how vulnerable I was. No seatbelt, no metal cage, no weight, no protection besides a leather jacket, a helmet, my paranoia and four days of motorcycle driving experience – three of which took place in a parking lot.
\r\nBoise was my first taste of city driving. I had escaped Salt Lake on small roads but was mixed in with the flow of daily commuters, people on cell phones, eating French fries, in a hurry, late for work, stop and go, traffic lights and everything. While the driving test in the parking lot of the Salt Lake Community College freaked me out, I came alive on the streets of Boise. I was in tune with my surroundings, I was aware of the cars and space around me, I worked the clutch like a pro, gunned it out of trouble, braked, stopped, felt alive and energized.
\r\nJust as I was starting to feel cool I pulled into a restaurant parking lot, accidentally popped the clutch in first gear, lurched forward about two feet and stalled the engine. Humbled, I pushed the bike into a space and went in for a burger.
\r\nPeople are curious about bikers. As they walked into the restaurant everyone checked out my ride, inside they looked at me with curiosity, sometimes awe and sometimes disgust, but seldom with disinterest. They wanted to know where I was riding from, where I was going, how many cc my bike was (650… but what is a cc? Cubic Centimeters?… of what? I don’t know a damn thing about it).
\r\nMy friend Nathan Schultz colored his hair blue once. He said everyone treated him differently, and for the most part worse. He was still Nathan, but to the world he was a guy with blue hair. Freak. The same if true for riding a motorcycle. I was still Pete, but to the rest of the world I was a guy on a bike… wet, muddy road-warrior dressed in thick layers, with a bag duct taped to the back of the bike and an Ultimate hydration backpack strapped to my own back. I was not treated worse, just with more interest.
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Pete tends to bounce from one death defying stunt to the next...Here he's getting ready to BASE jump without a 'chute.
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\r\nNo matter what people say, you cannot ride motorized vehicles to experience nature. Not snowmobiles, not motorcycles, not ATV’s, SUV or cars. They are too loud, they are too fast, and while, in the case of a motorcycle you are very exposed to nature and have a better view and feel for it then from inside a car, you are not a part of it. They can grant you access to nature, but to really experience it you have to be self propelled, somewhat quiet and slower moving.
\r\nThere is, however a lot of up-close nature on a bike – mostly airborne bugs. In some cases you can see them coming through the air and then whack, bug juice. In other cases you don’t see them and they are just explosions on your helmet. I have a full-face mask helmet. It is not cool looking but in a crash it will protect my face – which I consider a part of my head and a part, in all modesty, I feel is worth keeping intact. Also, I cannot imagine being hit in the face by a grasshopper while going 75 miles per hour. Even against the windscreen of the helmet this is a genuine collision of two substantial objects. You can feel it, and the sound is startlingly loud.
\r\nThere was even one stretch of road, just outside of Boise on route 55 where a large digital screen warned of “Slippery Road Ahead” flip, flip, flip “Crickets On Roadway.” This is something I did not expect to have to be concerned about. This is a danger of biblical proportions – hordes of crickets swarming the roadway. I motored on, expecting to ride upon a sea of crickets. When I saw my first cricket I said to myself, here we go, and slowed drastically. I was disappointed to find only a few hundred crickets in total most long since squished and dried out. I would like to have seen the quantity of crickets it took to warrant such a sign.
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\r\nWind and weather are the most prevalent part of nature available to the biker. In the farm land of southern Idaho I rode against shifting winds that lay the crops flat, twisted spires of dirt into the air and made me lean as if going around a corner on straight roads for miles at a time. Wind is not fun. My bike did not come with a windscreen. It was pure handlebars and chest to the wind. This is intense. Next time you’re going 75 down the road stick your hand out the window, hell stick your head out the window, or your whole upper torso. That is powerful pressure. I bought a windscreen and it made a huge difference in wind and bug protection.
\r\nThere is a slightly more connected feel to nature on a bike than in a car. You can hear things, you smell things. Over the drone of the engine you can hear a single bird’s song. A strong, sweet smell reminded me of peddling my bike as a kid from Boulder to Longmont and back.
\r\nYou are intimate with the air and the temperature and the weather. You are exposed to rain and snow and gravel. The things that chip or crack the windshield of the car can connect with your shin or finger.
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\r\nHighway 55 offered me my first taste of real motorcycle riding. It wound next to a river, through pine forest. The bike and I leaned around the corners, carved through them. This is the sensation that keeps you interested, like skiing, snowboarding, carving a skateboard on asphalt, like road and mountain biking you un-weight the bike early and wide in the corner and then dive down and through the apex of the turn before rising, straightening and diving into the next bend. There is a synchrony in the motion that lends it this sensation of being one with your skis, your bike your board… in carving with ease through snow or asphalt turns.
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\r\nI entered my second snowstorm just outside of McCall, Idaho. There was a small pass and it was shrouded in dark clouds. A few flakes hit me then the blizzard. The road was only wet and not slick so I pressed on. The snow only got thicker, the clouds darker. People in their cars craned their necks to watch me go by. I was starting to worry. It was the middle-end of May and storms can dump feet of snow even in June. And then I reached the top of the little pass and before me was an open valley of sunshine. I cheered and pumped my hand in the air. I rode into the sun exalted.
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\r\nIn a town called Counsel I took a right toward Hells Canyon, the Snake River and Oregon. Like 55 I carved around the corners slowing prior to the turn and accelerating all the way through it. Then the road turned to gravel and I slowed. The further I went the less traffic it had seen. At an old barn the road turned to mud. There were only old tracks in the mud before me, and immediately I felt the machine skate around under me. I slowed even more. The skies were clear, but there had been recent and considerable rain. The road wove around and began to descend. There were switchback turns and sharp off-camber corners. I was becoming accustomed to the slick feel of the bike in the shifting muck, and was going too fast for the conditions and my skill level. The rear of the bike came around on a fairly gradual corner and I went into the ditch, still upright but not in control. I aimed the front of the bike back onto the road, such as it was, and bounced back up only to continue fishtailing through the slop – not fast but not in control either. With one final swing the bike went down in the mud and I leapt mostly clear.
\r\nThere was a dog barking somewhere, which seemed weird, as I hadn’t seen anyone for hours. The bike was still running on its side and I was having a hard time standing up in the mud.
\r\nI killed the engine and hoisted the thing back onto its feet, which was a struggle. I threw my leg over it, found neutral, pushed the starter and it jumped to life.
\r\nI was on my way, now at a cautious and jumpy 10mph.
\r\nThe road left the trees and began a wild descent toward the Snake River. Hells Canyon is bare of trees and carved into small valleys and rolls that are covered in short vegetation. The light on the far hills turned them velvety smooth and, below, the Snake wound silently north toward the Columbia.
\r\nThe descent of what I have learned is called the Kleinschmidt Grade was slow. I was pure old fashioned scared of sliding in the mud and hurling myself over the edge where I would roll and fall and tumble and be crushed by my bike and never found again. The road was a two-track, single-lane intestine-like trail winding down, down, down thousands of feet to the river below. I stopped on occasion to look around. Biking is like all sports – you look where you want to go – or go where you’re looking, and I didn’t want to go where I wanted to look – which was a thousand feet down.
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\r\nIn a town called Halfway, Oregon I stopped for gas. It was getting late as I cruised the small, quiet main street all of a sudden self-conscious of the loud bark of my bike’s engine and supped-up tail pipe. But the town’s teens came out to meet me and see who I was and what I was up to.
\r\nWe stood around, me still shaky from my descent into Hells Canyon they spitting tobacco juice on the sidewalk. They said there was nowhere within a hundred miles that was open for gas at this time of day. They were impressed at the distance I’d gone and the roads I had taken. I did not tell them I had been afraid of crickets, wind, mud and riding on the interstate.
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\r\nA man at a grocery store in Richland, Oregon engaged me in conversation. He told me that there were three benefactors to the youth of Richland – all self-made billionaires – who now supported the kids of the region with scholarships and other programs they’d started with their money. One such guy gave scholarships only to C students, as he was a C student himself who had made it big.
\r\nI hope that one day I will be in a position to be as helpful to a community or even to just a few people as these three billionaires from more or less nowhere northeastern Oregon are to their communities.
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\r\nThat night I could not sleep. The middle finger of my left hand had been trapped under the handlebar of my bike in my little spill. The finger was pounding painfully and the nail was black and purple. I could bend the finger, granted with pain, and so did not think it was seriously hurt. The throbbing however would not let me get comfortable. I took the safety pin holding my pants up and heated the tip to a red-hot glow with one of my matches. I applied the hot tip to my fingernail and pushed it through. A small geyser of black and then red blood erupted from the pinhole and I was granted instant relief and a solid nights sleep.
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\r\nThe next morning was another reminder of why I was riding a motorcycle. The road cut through cow country by way of a small curvy canyon. It was clear and cold and the road was mine.
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\r\nI jumped back on the interstate to finish off the rest of northeastern Oregon and get into Washington State. I was anxious to get into Rainier National Park and guide my bike under the big mountain.
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\r\nI rode through the Yakima Indian reservation and stopped for gas a the “Yakimart.” I drove over a series of bridges occupied by swarms of swallows nesting beneath them. As I motored over the bridge the swallows engulfed me in a cloud of wings and darting motion and then they were gone. After each bridge I couldn’t believe none of them hit me.
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\r\nThe road was nearly deserted and there were farm fields on both sides. I came across a lone dog sitting on an irrigation pipe looking out over the road. The dog had its butt on the pipe, its hind feet splayed off to the side and its front feet holding up its head. I slowed to look at the dog. I turned to look at it as I went by and it turned to watch me go by and then I was gone and the dog was still there, alone, sitting on a pipe, waiting. Several minutes later I came across an old man on a four-wheeler heading back toward the dog. I wonder if that dog was thinking, now where the hell is that old fool farmer, I’m ready to go home.
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\r\nHighway 12 and 410 to Rainier was another wonder of a ride. From the dry, flat of Yakima the road rose along the Naches River up into trees and winding corners and finally into the rocks and mountains. I am always reminded in high mountain terrain like this that I am a mountain person. I grew up in Colorado and spent my youth in the mountains hiking, fishing and camping. I love the desert, enjoy the city, like the beach and the ocean and even the jungle, but I am most comfortable in the mountains. Even on this foreign machine I am relaxed in the thin, cool air and the snow and the rock. And then there was Rainier. Huge. This mountain is huge. It rises even from the high pass I am stopped along up so high as to blend into the sky.
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\r\nDown now into the cities and traffic. It is rush hour in Seattle and I am creeping along on my bike in very heavy traffic, but I am almost there, and finally I am pulling up the steep little driveway and I have made it. Eight days from the birth of my dream to its completion. I am in Seattle. The eight-day dream is complete and the only question remaining: what’s next?
Written By: petevDate Posted: 5/18/2004Number of Views: 347
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