Uncle Hud
Just another blob of protoplasm using up your oxyg
August 30, 2015 Uncle Hud
Somewhere semi-private
Mr. Michael Kneebone Dunwoody, GA 30346
Iron Butt Association
P.O. Box 9450
Naperville, IL 60567-9450
Re: SaddleSore 1000 attempt
Dear Mr. Kneebone:
Plan your ride; ride your plan.
It sure didn’t work out that way — but I did ride over 1,000 miles in under 24 hours, had witnesses sign the forms, and managed to keep my receipts dry, so here is everything for your review. I sincerely hope you find things satisfactory.
The plan was almost all Interstate: I-75 south from metro Atlanta to I-10; turn left for Jacksonville, then south on I-95 to US 1 and Hudnall Road. From there, I would meet a group of fellow FJR riders in Mims and take a nap. At 1 pm, the plan headed me west on the Beach Line and Greenway to Orlando, and I-4 to Brandon. The final turn would put me onto I-75 north for home. Easy peasy.
Everything started OK; a bit late, but what’s 25 minutes when you’re talking about riding for 17 or 18 hours? Got Maxwell, my starting witness, to sign, and headed out. Remembered to get my starting receipt just as I was passing the gas station. An abrupt move across three lanes to turn left – not a problem at 3:30 am in my part of town – and I was chuckling about how this is not the way to start a long day of riding.
The start receipt says 8/29/2015, 03:36:55 am.
Carefully stashed the receipt in a waterproof container inside the waterproof topbox, and started rolling down the wide, empty freeways of metro Atlanta. There were high clouds covering what I knew was a full moon. I hadn’t planned the ride for a full moon, but was pleased to add that psychic boost to my adrenaline load.
Bluetooth music did its job well, as did the magnificent machine that is the Yamaha FJR 1300: cruise control at 10-over, trip computers calculating, fairing and windscreen slicing through the night, and the suspension adjusted to 1-up/soft/zero to match the Interstate work planned for the next 17 hours.
The miles and checkpoints fell on schedule: Tifton at 06:21, where I changed into sunglasses for the in-progress sunrise; White Springs at 07:47 to mark the turn eastward; and Jacksonville on I-95 just south of downtown at 09:02.
Had a little bit of trouble finding a good photo opportunity for the Hudnall Road street name sign, but eventually snapped a keeper. Ninety minutes later, having passed Daytona International Speedway and yet another freeway construction zone, I pulled into fljab’s driveway and settled in for an hour of jaw-jacking and a brief nap.
LKLD showed me the weather radar on his phone as I was preparing to leave. Ugly orange and red blotches covered Florida’s Gulf Coast from Sarasota to the Big Bend. I shrugged my shoulders: “It is what it is, and I have to get home.”
Since dawn, the cloud cover had consisted of huge, fluffy, towering things that covered about half the sky, yielding spots of coolness amongst the clinging Florida heat. As the Beach Line stretched in front of me – arrow straight and flat as a tabletop – the clouds began to cluster and turn dark grey. The rain began softly in the swampy emptiness of southeast Orange County, and built to a steady rain as the first toll booth approached.
This part of the adventure was mostly familiar, having raised soccer-playing sons in Brandon, but it was hard to sightsee because the rain and traffic demanded almost all my attention. That, and the fact that toll booths appeared every few miles, requiring me to stop, lower the kickstand, dig out a dollar or a buck-fifty, and listen to the toll collector make their joke about how lucky I was to be riding in this downpour. And, yes, the rain intensity had increased.
Florida’s famous sun finally returned as I watched the Mickey Mouse powerline towers shrink in the rearview mirror. In about 20 minutes, I was completely dry.
Pulled into the Flying J in Brandon at I-4, exit 10 – the receipt is time-stamped at 15:40 – to take my last break before heading to the house. The cloud bank to the northwest was scary: dark, almost black, with a sharp, distinct squall line separating it from the clear sky immediately overhead.
Hmmmmm. Better scarf down a last Slim Jim and saddle up quickly. Maybe I could get far enough north to miss the worst of it.
How silly a thought! I-75 northbound was tight with traffic moving at 60 mph as the sunshine disappeared and rain of biblical intensity began. And then got worse. And got even worse as the bike and I passed the SR 56, Wesley Chapel exit.
How bad did it get? The crazy drivers were going 25 mph, with flashers flashing, spraying water everywhere. Us sane people were driving no faster than 20 mph, realizing that even at this speed we couldn’t avoid something stationary that appeared in our path.
My eyeglasses and visor were fogged and covered with rain – I had opened the visor in a failed attempt to keep the glasses from fogging – so my visibility, already limited from the intense rain, was reduced even further: 50 feet in front of me was very blurry; 100 feet away, vague shapes weren’t visible. I struggled to keep the taillights of the car in front at the limit of my vision: that technique provided the maximum cushion I could verify by sight.
Why didn’t I pull over? I tried; desperately. Two reasons: road construction had eliminated the right shoulder. There was considerable shoulder off to the left, but that would involve negotiating into the fast lane, and slowing sufficiently to safely pull off the road. Possible if visibility was good; risky or worse under these conditions. Besides, this was a construction zone and I couldn’t see if it was a smooth transition to the shoulder or a six-inch drop.
The second reason is a little more complicated. It took so much concentration just to keep the bike upright, on the road, and away from other vehicles, that very little mental capacity remained to scan the road for opportunities to pull over. After reviewing my Spotwalla trace, I believe I drove past the SR 52 exit without even realizing it.
I did pull over twice. Once was under a bridge, but the shoulder was only six feet wide between the right-hand lane and a huge concrete wall. After scrambling around to the back of the wall and finding nowhere to sit, I declared this situation unsafe, took a leak, saddled up, and started the bike northward again.
The second pull-off was ten minutes later, after berating myself out loud, and very profanely, that this was incredibly risky behavior. Out of nowhere, a twelve-foot shoulder appeared on the right! I wove through the orange construction barrels, parked, turned off the engine, and stood beside the bike. Completely exposed to the elements (though still protected by my helmet from big, goober raindrops), I was calm for the first time in an hour amidst the lightning and chest-rattling thunder.
After a few minutes, I made the decision to get back on the highway, take the first exit, and seek any type of shelter from the rain. Actually, I had made that decision a long time ago, just hadn’t had the chance to put it into effect. The decision to abandon the Saddlesore ride had been made even earlier.
Amazingly, within a few seconds I came upon the exit for Blanton Road! Just as amazingly, there were no structures around! No gas stations, convenience stores, businesses … nothing. I turned right rather than wait in the pouring rain behind a string of four or five left-turning vehicles, and found myself surrounded by more nothingness.
“You have to be kidding me! An interstate exit with no infrastructure?” No, I am not kidding you.
My female cyber-navigator kept telling me, “Make a U-turn”, but finally gave up after three or four minutes. No way was I re-entering the death trap of Interstate traffic with rain-splattered glasses and visor. Besides, these roads were empty, and the bike could maintain 30 mph because I could see that far. I took the next “real” road to the left, in an attempt to regain a roughly northbound course. Turns out that was Trilby Road, Pasco County road 575.
Remember that name if you’re riding in the rain in central Florida.
My visor and glasses were still covered with rain – I had not found a place to pull over that was under cover – but I could see well enough, if I peered over the top of the glasses and under the edge of the half-lifted visor. Of course, that meant I had uncorrected eyesight, but it was sufficient to identify the road, lane markings, and objects like cars and fallen limbs. (Oh yeah, off the interstate there was a lot of blown down twigs, leaves, and occasional tree branches.)
Pasco 575 would probably be fun in dry weather. It weaves through pastures and woodland, with ups and downs, some gentle curves, and a few 90-degree right angle curves that are common in rural areas as the road twists to avoid somebody’s farm.
After riding through a couple of puddles in the dips of Pasco 575, my overworked brain registered a pattern: rain is accumulating in the low points on this road. A few dips later, the pattern was confirmed and I identified what kept hitting the soles of my boots: puddled water thrown up by the front tire.
Mistake #1: Shifting into 3rd gear to take advantage of cruise control. What logic supported this decision? Cruise control eliminates one aspect of the overall driving task, leaving more mental power for visual processing and decision-making – which were critical at the moment. Reasons to regret this decision? You can’t get into trouble in second gear. Third gear is NOT second gear, and your risk of trouble increases at least tenfold when you shift up. (No quantitative statistics, just experiential data to support the Hud Theorem of Moto-Trouble.)
Mistake #2: Confidence that, “I got this.”
As I approached the next dip at 25 mph, I could see a light brown coloration about ten feet wide at the bottom. No biggie; water and perhaps sand that had washed across the road. Seen it a dozen times in the last 30 minutes and many times prior. As always, blip the clutch to disengage cruise control and slow a little, spread the elbows to better handle the shock through the handlebars, and shift weight from the saddle to the footpegs.
Splash! The front tire and handlebars swing sharply and completely to the right, the bike goes down, I low-side onto my back, helmet slaps pavement, and I slide on the ground in a super-slow-motion spin through 180 degrees and maybe 15 feet. Without thinking, I jump up and run to the bike to kill the ignition. She’d done a slight rotation herself while on her starboard side, and lay atop and perpendicular to the centerline double-yellow stripe.
“Am I OK?”
“Yeah; nothing’s broken – you’ve had enough broken bones in your life to know – and nothing is hurting.”
“Well, that's good.”
“Now you’d better get your bike upright and out of the middle of the road before a car comes along.”
Several minutes of passionate struggle ensued, all unsuccessful. My beloved was lying with her tires on the uphill slope. The puddle was above mid-calf, and the slick-as-snot centerline was where I needed to put my feet. And sometimes this bike is just too heavy for me to lift by myself.
“What now?”
“Go stand at the top of the next rise to warn approaching traffic about the ‘object’ in the middle of the road.”
The sight distance was quite short to the rise I would have gone over ... if I hadn't fallen in this pond covering the road. Cars coming from that direction would have less time to see the bike and stop.
Did I mention it was rural? Did I mention that it was raining cats and dogs? It took a while before somebody came along – don’t know how long, really, but long enough for me to contemplate lots of possible outcomes.
At last a pickup truck approached. Very, very slowly. Perhaps it’s because they saw a blue-jacketed person in a motorcycle helmet waving frantically in the pouring rain in the middle of nowhere. I changed from waving my arms to a beckoning motion and the truck resumed its approach, although still very slowly. I walked to the truck and the window came down a crack. (Hey, it’s raining pretty hard and I probably looked like a psycho.)
“Can you help me pick up my motorcycle? I hate to ask, but it’s too heavy for me to pick up by myself.”
The nicely-dressed middle-aged man looked at his wife, who was expressionless except for wide eyes, then back at me, and said, “Yeah. OK.”
I turned and went back to the bike. The truck door had not yet opened. I saw him struggle into a windbreaker, then walk toward me.
“I am so sorry to ask you for this, especially since the water is pretty deep, but it’s in the middle of the road and has to be moved.”
He didn’t say anything, but got in position at the back of the bike, with one hand on each side of the topbox.
“I’ve already got the sidestand extended. Ready? One, two three, unnnngh!”
The bike came up, tipped just beyond vertical, and settled on the stand.
“Hooray! Now let’s see if she cranks.” Not sure if I said it out loud, but it was most definitely shouted in my mind.
I sloshed a water-filled boot over the top – ventilated boots fill quickly, but also drain quickly – and set my soaked butt onto the saddle.
The key twisted, lights lit, I found neutral and hit the button, and that magnificent engine purred to life.
“Yahoooooo! Thanks a bunch, man! You have helped far more than you can imagine!” This I know was shouted out loud, as I got a wave from that angel just before he disappeared back into his dry truck and calm life.
They waited for a few seconds to see me shift into gear and drive past them. I couldn’t see or hear their reaction, but I imagine it was a quiet word from the wife about crazy people and how she hoped God kept special watch over them.
Shaken, but still functioning, I was now scouting for ANYWHERE to stop. Must be paved for parking the bike, but does not have to be covered. Anywhere paved would suffice. Anywhere.
Lucky me stumbled into the unincorporated community of Trilby within three minutes, and found its tiny Post Office with a paved parking area and covered porch. Carefully, slowly, and with both feet acting as outriggers, the bike was parked and I was on the porch, finally out of the rain, with my helmet and gloves off, trying to control my breath and consciously force my pulse rate to slow.
The Spotwalla message, time stamped 17:15:09, says (sic) “nbekievable rain. stopped for a while”
The next Spotwalla message says “starting again” and is time stamped 17:32:33.
I’d made a few calls, checked the weather, tested headlights, tail/brake lights, and turn signals (all working), and looked at maps on the iPhone. Discovered I was really close to I-75. The Saddlesore certification ride was long ago abandoned; I just wanted to get home.
I did a careful assessment of the situation: A few hundred yards east was US 98, which interchanged with I-75 in less than two miles. The weather had improved, but was still a steady light rain. Glasses and visor were dry, but had that infuriating film that incites rapid fogging. Everything I was wearing was thoroughly soaked, but I had dry clothes and serious rain gear in a sidecase. They were in the sidecase, however, and would get wet if I fetched them in the current situation. I could – perhaps – change clothes in the unmanned Post Office lobby, but changing clothes in a public space is always a sketchy plan.
The assessment led to this: Get back on the road. Get gas at the I-75 interchange, and use their paper towels to clean my glasses and visor. Forget the Saddlesore ride. Leave on the wet clothes, because dry ones will become wet ones in five minutes. Get home in one piece.
And that’s precisely what I did, with two exceptions.
Exception #1: When the rain stopped, I trashed the men’s room at the Archer Road Burger King in Gainesville, changing into dry clothes and rain gear. Everything dripped water all over the floor and fixtures, despite my best attempts to wring the excess rain into the sink. I got semi-dry, but also ate, drank, swallowed a cup of coffee, and got warm.
That was an excellent idea.
Exception #2: In the first hour or so after leaving that Burger King, I began to calculate that I’d be home before the Saddlesore 24-hour limit would expire.
That was an exciting idea.
“Really? Do that math again, Hud.”
“Same result, pal.”
"That's pretty funny, isn't it?"
<quiet chuckle>
<loud laughter inside the helmet>
<little dance on the saddle at 80 mph on a deserted 3-lane Interstate>
Kept the cruise control at +10 and watched my fuel range carefully, since central Georgia has many closed gas stations in the very early hours of a Sunday.
The finish receipt says 8/30/2015, 1:48:33 am; I had almost two hours to spare.
And so, Mr. Kneebone, please accept my documentation for this Saddlesore 1,000. My final statistics are 1,114 miles in 22 hours and 12 minutes. If you have questions or need more information, please let me know.
I’m already planning my second certificate ride.
Respectfully,
Uncle Hud
PS #1: The crash had no discernible effect on me or my riding gear. My beloved FJR has new scratches on the starboard sidecase, and the right side fairing panel is cracked. No other damage was noted, but an in depth survey has not yet been performed. (The right-side mirror folded back like it's supposed to, and is sturdy now that it’s been re-set. Seems like the mirror stay is intact.)
PS #2: Am considering naming my bike Esther Williams.
PS #3: Spotwalla trace is here, and you can see I turned it off at a gas station adjacent to the Archer Road Burger King.
Somewhere semi-private
Mr. Michael Kneebone Dunwoody, GA 30346
Iron Butt Association
P.O. Box 9450
Naperville, IL 60567-9450
Re: SaddleSore 1000 attempt
Dear Mr. Kneebone:
Plan your ride; ride your plan.
It sure didn’t work out that way — but I did ride over 1,000 miles in under 24 hours, had witnesses sign the forms, and managed to keep my receipts dry, so here is everything for your review. I sincerely hope you find things satisfactory.
The plan was almost all Interstate: I-75 south from metro Atlanta to I-10; turn left for Jacksonville, then south on I-95 to US 1 and Hudnall Road. From there, I would meet a group of fellow FJR riders in Mims and take a nap. At 1 pm, the plan headed me west on the Beach Line and Greenway to Orlando, and I-4 to Brandon. The final turn would put me onto I-75 north for home. Easy peasy.
Everything started OK; a bit late, but what’s 25 minutes when you’re talking about riding for 17 or 18 hours? Got Maxwell, my starting witness, to sign, and headed out. Remembered to get my starting receipt just as I was passing the gas station. An abrupt move across three lanes to turn left – not a problem at 3:30 am in my part of town – and I was chuckling about how this is not the way to start a long day of riding.
The start receipt says 8/29/2015, 03:36:55 am.
Carefully stashed the receipt in a waterproof container inside the waterproof topbox, and started rolling down the wide, empty freeways of metro Atlanta. There were high clouds covering what I knew was a full moon. I hadn’t planned the ride for a full moon, but was pleased to add that psychic boost to my adrenaline load.
Bluetooth music did its job well, as did the magnificent machine that is the Yamaha FJR 1300: cruise control at 10-over, trip computers calculating, fairing and windscreen slicing through the night, and the suspension adjusted to 1-up/soft/zero to match the Interstate work planned for the next 17 hours.
The miles and checkpoints fell on schedule: Tifton at 06:21, where I changed into sunglasses for the in-progress sunrise; White Springs at 07:47 to mark the turn eastward; and Jacksonville on I-95 just south of downtown at 09:02.
Had a little bit of trouble finding a good photo opportunity for the Hudnall Road street name sign, but eventually snapped a keeper. Ninety minutes later, having passed Daytona International Speedway and yet another freeway construction zone, I pulled into fljab’s driveway and settled in for an hour of jaw-jacking and a brief nap.
LKLD showed me the weather radar on his phone as I was preparing to leave. Ugly orange and red blotches covered Florida’s Gulf Coast from Sarasota to the Big Bend. I shrugged my shoulders: “It is what it is, and I have to get home.”
Since dawn, the cloud cover had consisted of huge, fluffy, towering things that covered about half the sky, yielding spots of coolness amongst the clinging Florida heat. As the Beach Line stretched in front of me – arrow straight and flat as a tabletop – the clouds began to cluster and turn dark grey. The rain began softly in the swampy emptiness of southeast Orange County, and built to a steady rain as the first toll booth approached.
This part of the adventure was mostly familiar, having raised soccer-playing sons in Brandon, but it was hard to sightsee because the rain and traffic demanded almost all my attention. That, and the fact that toll booths appeared every few miles, requiring me to stop, lower the kickstand, dig out a dollar or a buck-fifty, and listen to the toll collector make their joke about how lucky I was to be riding in this downpour. And, yes, the rain intensity had increased.
Florida’s famous sun finally returned as I watched the Mickey Mouse powerline towers shrink in the rearview mirror. In about 20 minutes, I was completely dry.
Pulled into the Flying J in Brandon at I-4, exit 10 – the receipt is time-stamped at 15:40 – to take my last break before heading to the house. The cloud bank to the northwest was scary: dark, almost black, with a sharp, distinct squall line separating it from the clear sky immediately overhead.
Hmmmmm. Better scarf down a last Slim Jim and saddle up quickly. Maybe I could get far enough north to miss the worst of it.
How silly a thought! I-75 northbound was tight with traffic moving at 60 mph as the sunshine disappeared and rain of biblical intensity began. And then got worse. And got even worse as the bike and I passed the SR 56, Wesley Chapel exit.
How bad did it get? The crazy drivers were going 25 mph, with flashers flashing, spraying water everywhere. Us sane people were driving no faster than 20 mph, realizing that even at this speed we couldn’t avoid something stationary that appeared in our path.
My eyeglasses and visor were fogged and covered with rain – I had opened the visor in a failed attempt to keep the glasses from fogging – so my visibility, already limited from the intense rain, was reduced even further: 50 feet in front of me was very blurry; 100 feet away, vague shapes weren’t visible. I struggled to keep the taillights of the car in front at the limit of my vision: that technique provided the maximum cushion I could verify by sight.
Why didn’t I pull over? I tried; desperately. Two reasons: road construction had eliminated the right shoulder. There was considerable shoulder off to the left, but that would involve negotiating into the fast lane, and slowing sufficiently to safely pull off the road. Possible if visibility was good; risky or worse under these conditions. Besides, this was a construction zone and I couldn’t see if it was a smooth transition to the shoulder or a six-inch drop.
The second reason is a little more complicated. It took so much concentration just to keep the bike upright, on the road, and away from other vehicles, that very little mental capacity remained to scan the road for opportunities to pull over. After reviewing my Spotwalla trace, I believe I drove past the SR 52 exit without even realizing it.
I did pull over twice. Once was under a bridge, but the shoulder was only six feet wide between the right-hand lane and a huge concrete wall. After scrambling around to the back of the wall and finding nowhere to sit, I declared this situation unsafe, took a leak, saddled up, and started the bike northward again.
The second pull-off was ten minutes later, after berating myself out loud, and very profanely, that this was incredibly risky behavior. Out of nowhere, a twelve-foot shoulder appeared on the right! I wove through the orange construction barrels, parked, turned off the engine, and stood beside the bike. Completely exposed to the elements (though still protected by my helmet from big, goober raindrops), I was calm for the first time in an hour amidst the lightning and chest-rattling thunder.
After a few minutes, I made the decision to get back on the highway, take the first exit, and seek any type of shelter from the rain. Actually, I had made that decision a long time ago, just hadn’t had the chance to put it into effect. The decision to abandon the Saddlesore ride had been made even earlier.
Amazingly, within a few seconds I came upon the exit for Blanton Road! Just as amazingly, there were no structures around! No gas stations, convenience stores, businesses … nothing. I turned right rather than wait in the pouring rain behind a string of four or five left-turning vehicles, and found myself surrounded by more nothingness.
“You have to be kidding me! An interstate exit with no infrastructure?” No, I am not kidding you.
My female cyber-navigator kept telling me, “Make a U-turn”, but finally gave up after three or four minutes. No way was I re-entering the death trap of Interstate traffic with rain-splattered glasses and visor. Besides, these roads were empty, and the bike could maintain 30 mph because I could see that far. I took the next “real” road to the left, in an attempt to regain a roughly northbound course. Turns out that was Trilby Road, Pasco County road 575.
Remember that name if you’re riding in the rain in central Florida.
My visor and glasses were still covered with rain – I had not found a place to pull over that was under cover – but I could see well enough, if I peered over the top of the glasses and under the edge of the half-lifted visor. Of course, that meant I had uncorrected eyesight, but it was sufficient to identify the road, lane markings, and objects like cars and fallen limbs. (Oh yeah, off the interstate there was a lot of blown down twigs, leaves, and occasional tree branches.)
Pasco 575 would probably be fun in dry weather. It weaves through pastures and woodland, with ups and downs, some gentle curves, and a few 90-degree right angle curves that are common in rural areas as the road twists to avoid somebody’s farm.
After riding through a couple of puddles in the dips of Pasco 575, my overworked brain registered a pattern: rain is accumulating in the low points on this road. A few dips later, the pattern was confirmed and I identified what kept hitting the soles of my boots: puddled water thrown up by the front tire.
Mistake #1: Shifting into 3rd gear to take advantage of cruise control. What logic supported this decision? Cruise control eliminates one aspect of the overall driving task, leaving more mental power for visual processing and decision-making – which were critical at the moment. Reasons to regret this decision? You can’t get into trouble in second gear. Third gear is NOT second gear, and your risk of trouble increases at least tenfold when you shift up. (No quantitative statistics, just experiential data to support the Hud Theorem of Moto-Trouble.)
Mistake #2: Confidence that, “I got this.”
As I approached the next dip at 25 mph, I could see a light brown coloration about ten feet wide at the bottom. No biggie; water and perhaps sand that had washed across the road. Seen it a dozen times in the last 30 minutes and many times prior. As always, blip the clutch to disengage cruise control and slow a little, spread the elbows to better handle the shock through the handlebars, and shift weight from the saddle to the footpegs.
Splash! The front tire and handlebars swing sharply and completely to the right, the bike goes down, I low-side onto my back, helmet slaps pavement, and I slide on the ground in a super-slow-motion spin through 180 degrees and maybe 15 feet. Without thinking, I jump up and run to the bike to kill the ignition. She’d done a slight rotation herself while on her starboard side, and lay atop and perpendicular to the centerline double-yellow stripe.
“Am I OK?”
“Yeah; nothing’s broken – you’ve had enough broken bones in your life to know – and nothing is hurting.”
“Well, that's good.”
“Now you’d better get your bike upright and out of the middle of the road before a car comes along.”
Several minutes of passionate struggle ensued, all unsuccessful. My beloved was lying with her tires on the uphill slope. The puddle was above mid-calf, and the slick-as-snot centerline was where I needed to put my feet. And sometimes this bike is just too heavy for me to lift by myself.
“What now?”
“Go stand at the top of the next rise to warn approaching traffic about the ‘object’ in the middle of the road.”
The sight distance was quite short to the rise I would have gone over ... if I hadn't fallen in this pond covering the road. Cars coming from that direction would have less time to see the bike and stop.
Did I mention it was rural? Did I mention that it was raining cats and dogs? It took a while before somebody came along – don’t know how long, really, but long enough for me to contemplate lots of possible outcomes.
At last a pickup truck approached. Very, very slowly. Perhaps it’s because they saw a blue-jacketed person in a motorcycle helmet waving frantically in the pouring rain in the middle of nowhere. I changed from waving my arms to a beckoning motion and the truck resumed its approach, although still very slowly. I walked to the truck and the window came down a crack. (Hey, it’s raining pretty hard and I probably looked like a psycho.)
“Can you help me pick up my motorcycle? I hate to ask, but it’s too heavy for me to pick up by myself.”
The nicely-dressed middle-aged man looked at his wife, who was expressionless except for wide eyes, then back at me, and said, “Yeah. OK.”
I turned and went back to the bike. The truck door had not yet opened. I saw him struggle into a windbreaker, then walk toward me.
“I am so sorry to ask you for this, especially since the water is pretty deep, but it’s in the middle of the road and has to be moved.”
He didn’t say anything, but got in position at the back of the bike, with one hand on each side of the topbox.
“I’ve already got the sidestand extended. Ready? One, two three, unnnngh!”
The bike came up, tipped just beyond vertical, and settled on the stand.
“Hooray! Now let’s see if she cranks.” Not sure if I said it out loud, but it was most definitely shouted in my mind.
I sloshed a water-filled boot over the top – ventilated boots fill quickly, but also drain quickly – and set my soaked butt onto the saddle.
The key twisted, lights lit, I found neutral and hit the button, and that magnificent engine purred to life.
“Yahoooooo! Thanks a bunch, man! You have helped far more than you can imagine!” This I know was shouted out loud, as I got a wave from that angel just before he disappeared back into his dry truck and calm life.
They waited for a few seconds to see me shift into gear and drive past them. I couldn’t see or hear their reaction, but I imagine it was a quiet word from the wife about crazy people and how she hoped God kept special watch over them.
Shaken, but still functioning, I was now scouting for ANYWHERE to stop. Must be paved for parking the bike, but does not have to be covered. Anywhere paved would suffice. Anywhere.
Lucky me stumbled into the unincorporated community of Trilby within three minutes, and found its tiny Post Office with a paved parking area and covered porch. Carefully, slowly, and with both feet acting as outriggers, the bike was parked and I was on the porch, finally out of the rain, with my helmet and gloves off, trying to control my breath and consciously force my pulse rate to slow.
The Spotwalla message, time stamped 17:15:09, says (sic) “nbekievable rain. stopped for a while”
The next Spotwalla message says “starting again” and is time stamped 17:32:33.
I’d made a few calls, checked the weather, tested headlights, tail/brake lights, and turn signals (all working), and looked at maps on the iPhone. Discovered I was really close to I-75. The Saddlesore certification ride was long ago abandoned; I just wanted to get home.
I did a careful assessment of the situation: A few hundred yards east was US 98, which interchanged with I-75 in less than two miles. The weather had improved, but was still a steady light rain. Glasses and visor were dry, but had that infuriating film that incites rapid fogging. Everything I was wearing was thoroughly soaked, but I had dry clothes and serious rain gear in a sidecase. They were in the sidecase, however, and would get wet if I fetched them in the current situation. I could – perhaps – change clothes in the unmanned Post Office lobby, but changing clothes in a public space is always a sketchy plan.
The assessment led to this: Get back on the road. Get gas at the I-75 interchange, and use their paper towels to clean my glasses and visor. Forget the Saddlesore ride. Leave on the wet clothes, because dry ones will become wet ones in five minutes. Get home in one piece.
And that’s precisely what I did, with two exceptions.
Exception #1: When the rain stopped, I trashed the men’s room at the Archer Road Burger King in Gainesville, changing into dry clothes and rain gear. Everything dripped water all over the floor and fixtures, despite my best attempts to wring the excess rain into the sink. I got semi-dry, but also ate, drank, swallowed a cup of coffee, and got warm.
That was an excellent idea.
Exception #2: In the first hour or so after leaving that Burger King, I began to calculate that I’d be home before the Saddlesore 24-hour limit would expire.
That was an exciting idea.
“Really? Do that math again, Hud.”
“Same result, pal.”
"That's pretty funny, isn't it?"
<quiet chuckle>
<loud laughter inside the helmet>
<little dance on the saddle at 80 mph on a deserted 3-lane Interstate>
Kept the cruise control at +10 and watched my fuel range carefully, since central Georgia has many closed gas stations in the very early hours of a Sunday.
The finish receipt says 8/30/2015, 1:48:33 am; I had almost two hours to spare.
And so, Mr. Kneebone, please accept my documentation for this Saddlesore 1,000. My final statistics are 1,114 miles in 22 hours and 12 minutes. If you have questions or need more information, please let me know.
I’m already planning my second certificate ride.
Respectfully,
Uncle Hud
PS #1: The crash had no discernible effect on me or my riding gear. My beloved FJR has new scratches on the starboard sidecase, and the right side fairing panel is cracked. No other damage was noted, but an in depth survey has not yet been performed. (The right-side mirror folded back like it's supposed to, and is sturdy now that it’s been re-set. Seems like the mirror stay is intact.)
PS #2: Am considering naming my bike Esther Williams.
PS #3: Spotwalla trace is here, and you can see I turned it off at a gas station adjacent to the Archer Road Burger King.
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