Did you ever fall in love with those grader's berms of spongy gravel cleverly left exactly where you had to cross them to avoid the truckers?
I fell, alright, smartass! Not in love....in gravel.
MCML's Spot Tracker From Start to Finish
We left Wiseman, AK the next morning, crossed Atigun Pass and continued north. While I am certain that Steve, who has something like 40 more years riding experience than I do (and a lot of off-road riding experience) had his moments, he made it up and back without incident. Twenty miles south of deadhorse/Prudhoe Bay, however, I got knocked a bit sideways into one of those very berms at around 35 mph, experienced my first tank slapper and went down. Freakin A, 95% of the way there, too. Next life, perfect (what's the emoticon for sarcasm?).
Makes a reasonable bookend for Michael's (ShinyPartsUp) picture don't you think?
The gear worked perfectly and, except for a small bruise that is located exactly at the gap between the Cycleport chest armor and back armor, I was unscathed. I walked back to the bike to get Steve on the radio. "I'm down. I'm down." By the time Steve was able to double back, one of the Alyeska pipeline security guys, Jim Rau, had pulled up and offered to help in any way he could. We lifted up the bike and I assessed the damage. Side case ripped off, clutch lever bent, mirror broken off, foot peg behind shifter snapped off, muffler knocked loose at clamp, muffler (and pillion foot peg) bracket badly bent.
And the bike won't start. Oh Lord stuck in Deadhorse, again. But wait, the kickstand is down. Hold the bike up, retract kickstand. Still won't start. Can't shift into neutral. Steve says to rock it. We've got neutral and we have a running machine. It turns out the the clutch lever "I'm in gear but it's okay to start 'cause I have the lever pulled in" switch was screwed up, too.
Rau put my side case in his truck and followed us to Deadhorse. That was really the only option as we did not have enough fuel to get back to Coldfoot and, besides, we're motorcyclists, right? I was riding very slowly, shifting by stomping down and kicking up. Made it to town, thanked Mr. Rau, crammed gear from sidecase into whatever other storage space I had (tankbag, other side case, top case, duffle), checked at hotel about where the local machine shops were and ended up at GBR Welding which is located at the stop sign as you pull into town (for those of you who have been to Prudhoe Bay, are planning to go there, or watch Ice Road Truckers).
I parked the bike, walked into the shop (a large building with concrete floors, high ceilings, large doors and a number of people who were all wearing two or three sweatshirts). Mostly GBR builds and fixes really, really large metal stuff. I spoke to Jose who told me I had to walk over to the office and speak to Ken. Ken was on the phone and the two whiteboards behind him listed dozens of what had to have been very well paying jobs that were underway. Ken got off the phone, asked my business, and, after I explained the situation, said simply "Tell Jose that I said to fix you up." I passed the message to Jose, who is now my great friend. Turns out Jose used to work in my present hometown of Tarzana, CA!
I do not know the story of how Jose ended up in Prudhoe Bay but I am glad he did!
With an application of heat, Jose straighened the muffler bracket enough so that, with a longer than stock bolt (custom made to length) and a spacer we could secure the muffler. I moved the pillion foot peg down to where the rider's peg had snapped off. It drooped so we jammed, first a welding rod and then a wedge-shaped piece of scrap that Steve had found, in place to keep the peg level. Of course, all the way home if I brushed the peg and lifted it the wedge would slide down and the peg would re-set higher, and higher. That wedge would lock itself in pretty tightly and it was located pretty close to the exhaust pipe, too. Do not ask how I know this, please.
When the job was complete, I asked Jose what I owed. He said to talk to Ken but to tell him that Jose could not fix it! I did talk to Ken. Told him that we had patched up the bike and asked him "How much?" Jose had worked on the bike for at least an hour, likely more (I was not paying close attention. Preoccupied, I was, at first certain that I was stranded, then, as the realization that I was not stuck but that I had to ride 200 miles back down the Haul Road many hours later than we had planned, almost wishing I was stranded). In any case, Ken rubbed his chin, and told me to send Jose a T-shirt when I got back home. He said that they appreciated people coming to see what they were doing up there and that they believed in treating their visitors hospitably. Both Jose and Ken are going to receive something from me and it decidedly will not be T-shirts!
Here is where I wish that I had kept my wits about me a bit more. Crash or no, I was at the end of the Dalton Highway. We had just ridden the entire length of the Haul Road - on top heavy, fully loaded street bikes. Knobbies? Nah, Pilot Road II's for us (okay, not the smartest approach, I agree). We were at the Arctic Ocean for goshsakes! I had never been able to say that before and did not know if I would ever be able to say it again. I wish that I had remembered to take a deep breath and savor the moment. I guess that I will just have to go back again someday. Anybody have the phone number for Alaska Airlines?
We rode off to the local "gas station" which was "a trip" as we used to say back in the '60's. The pumps were in a shed in a large yard filled with various and sundry above-ground fuel tanks. Inside the shed were several gasoline pumps, similar to those you would find at your local service station, and the most elaborate credit card reading machine I have ever seen. You had to select which type of fuel you wanted while you were inside and then you went outside and grabbed the appropriate hose/nozzle. Then, if you wanted a receipt, you went back inside, swiped your card again and pressed a few more buttons. The entire set-up probably made a lot of sense at thirty below.
Next, on to the Arctic Caribou Inn for a meal. It was steak night. Those oil/pipline workers eat well! $20 for a steak buffet with all the trimmings, beverages, desert, etc. I called the Boreal Inn, where we had stayed the night before (and re-christened the Mosquito Lodge by Steve). They had a room for us, would likley be in the office until 2 or 3 a.m. and would leave room number 4 open for us if we arrived later than that. Piece 'o cake! Of course we still had to ride another 200 miles of the Haul Road (back over Atigun Pass, to boot) but what the heck. I ain't hurt. I ain't stranded in Deadhorse and the bike is ride-able. I do confess, though, that my ride that night was far from relaxing even though it was completed in the daylight (duh). We did not get stuck. We did not get eaten by grizzlies or kicked to death by a mother moose.
I did have the presence of mind to snap a photo of the bikes parked outside the Arctic Caribou Inn, just in case any of you think that I am making this stuff up. Note how "uncluttered" the left side of my bike now looks.
Approaching Attigun Pass from the north.
At the pass.
On the way down I got splattered with slimy ooze from a passing truck. Almost lost it again, too, in some of that slimy mud, Alan!
The bikes at the Boreal Lodge. I was tired, dirty and very, very happy to be swatting mosquitos.
The next day we rode the 200 or so remaining miles of the Dalton back to the main highway. A few miles before the end of the road, on a dirt section, I saw yet another water truck making slippery mud. As the distance between us closed, I slowly shook my head from side to side and, I swear it's true, the driver turned off the tap! Thank you! Didn't make much difference, though, as he had already soaked several miles of the road I was about to traverse (without incident). When I got to the intersection, Bluestreek was waiting. Now, he claims the entire run up and back was, for him, a breeze, but look at his expression in this next photo and tell me that the man was not happy to be off the Dalton.
Bye-bye, Mr. James W. Dalton!
When we got to Fairbanks we found a high pressure self-serve car wash. The mud was on the bikes like Gunnite. Many, many, many quarters later the bikes were, well, not clean by any stretch of the imagination, but at least the moving parts, and radiators, could function. We rode on to Tok and, the next morning, wind and weather permitting, we would ride the Top of the World Highway to Dawson City in the Yukon. Sergeant Preston and his faithful dog King. Who remembers that? Probably the same gang that recalls Sky King.
We were heading
south to the Yukon. How odd was that?