Viktor and Ivan didn’t talk much. If they did it was in Ukrainian. The longest conversation we had in English was about the cost of living in Arizona, but the atmosphere in the rumbling diesel truck was warm, cozy, and friendly. They picked me up in Weed, California at a gas station, one of the two in town. This is a familiar story for me.
I’ll start at the beginning.
I left Phoenix on a whim. I had six days off in a row, a rarity which called to be exploited. Kevin, and anyone else I knew who had been on a bike, was pushing me to get on my bike for as many miles as I could before the start of my trip. It’s true, I am inexperienced in long distance rides on the road. Give me single tracks stamped into the dirt by meandering cows, and I am at home, but 750 miles on tarmac as black as the night I would inevitably have to ride though was a humbling experience.
I had a lot on my mind when I left. Each mile closer to San Francisco, my half way point, my mind seemed to untangled life’s intricacies with greater ease.
The intent of this trip was to push myself, but to also keep an eye out for my limits. One limit hit me rather forgivingly at a Denny’s outside of Bakersfield. I got off my bike and my left knee slowly dropped to the ground. No conscious effort was involved; soon I was napping comfortably in the same parking space my machine was resting in. I’m sure I got some concerned looks by other travelers, but it was a much needed and thoroughly refreshing nap.
I just wanted to get there. I just wanted to go. I hadn’t seen Sam, my cousin, in far too long and the longer I took to get to him meant the less time I would have to hang out and catch up, and also less sleep time. I hauled into San Fran, set back a little bit from stopping to adjust my chain in Palm Springs.
All went well. I was warm, safe, relatively dry, and as comfortable as my KTM would allow me to be.
He walks out to meet me with Nikki, his new girlfriend. She is sweet and energetic. His place is amazing! It’s massive, with a huge kitchen and wood floors. He’s got a great view too.
We park my bike and I tell some stories about my trip up - nothing too eventful happened except a pothole that almost swallowed my bike and I alive.
I told him that I was pushing on in the morning at 9. I had to get a new chain and I figured it would be best to do that in the city. There was a brief debate about whether or not to install the chain myself, which was settled when I walked out into the drizzling morning to discover that not only did I need a new chain, but I also had a flat tire. Several horrific interactions with my local KTM dealer in Scottsdale had severely prejudiced me against dealers, but I decided to try this one out. After all, I just needed a new chain.
I climbed atop my limping moto and rode, at a solid 12 miles an hour, up an down some of the steepest hills of San Francisco proper in the rain with a flat rear tire and a chain that might as well have been made out of elastic. It was interesting to say the least.
I rolled into Scuderia West after calling to see if they could fix it quick. They got right to work and left me to cruise the sales floor looking at expensive rain and adventure gear, the kind of stuff not offered in a place featuring parched, sun-baked, dirt such as Arizona. I talked with Danté, one of the sales guys. We shared a commonality - we both ran rear tires on our supermoto front wheels just to get a taste of dirt riding.
I gave Danté some stickers and explained my trip. Everyone at Scuderia was extremely helpful and friendly. We swapped stickers and he gave me the lowdown on Don, the owner of Scuderia West and partner in KTMTwins.com. Both him and the other sales person working the front (sorry, I didn’t catch your name) said that I should email Don about sponsorships, and that they would put in a good word.
Shortly after this interaction, Don himself came up to me to ask me if I had been helped. I told him that his shop was wonderful and the service guys were fixing me up nicely. I also mentioned that I was just passing through and I was so relieved to get what I needed so quickly. This lead into me explaining my trip to Don.
“There are two schools of thought on a bike for that trip...”
“Yeah, that’s what I have found as well... Get something cheap that you can fix on the side of the road with bailing wire and shoestrings if it breaks, or... get something that won’t break.”
Don’s eyes lit up! “Exactly!” he proclaimed. He has 25 years worth of adventure riding experience and seemed pretty excited at this point. He went into his office and gave me his card. He said, “Yeah, I can help you. We ship parts globally, and I know we can help you. Email me and stay in touch.”
We talked a little bit beyond that and by the time my bike was ready he was introducing me to other adv riders.
I paid for my chain, innertube, brake pads.... and an hour of their time. It was definitely worth it, and the best experience I have ever had at dealership. I left with a huge grin and a renewed excitement for the tarmac ahead.
Unfortunately that renewed excitement caused me to get pulled over by a California Highway Patrolperson. I had been next to him getting on the freeway and noticed him checking out my bike. Yeah, it’s a pretty bike. I rode behind him for about four miles. I was lost in my bike. It was performing the best it has ever had. The new chain and brake pads were respectfully responsive and I flitted in and out of lanes on a whim, taking full advantage of the legality of cutting lanes. He slowed quickly and got behind me. A second later his lights flashed on.
I cruised to the right shoulder, still feeling very light and happy. He walks up and I get off my bike and start the ritualistic clothing peel.
He is very cop like. He inspects every inch of my bike. I can’t tell if he is admiring it or looking for reasons to cite me. He asks if I knew how fast I was going, and to be honest I didn’t. I let the bike tell me how fast it wanted to go. He said, “80 in a 65 zone directly behind a cop... I’m going to write you a citation, do you have your registration and insurance?”
I say, “Ok, I trust you. Here you go!” and got out my info, stashed in the most convenient pocket of my backpack in a plastic bag.
He takes it and my license and walks back to his car. I wait and enjoy the breeze. Of course I would get a ticket in California.
He comes back and asks me when my last ticket was... It was exactly a year ago in California. I was driving a car then. He looks at me and starts explaining that if I had been going just one mile an hour more I would have gotten a much bigger fine. He rips the ticket off and hands me back my information. I hand him some stickers and tell him that I will take care of it right away, and that this is probably my last time in California for good...
That was the hook. He says, “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah, I’m just passing through going to Oregon. I’m doing a trial run for a big trip - Vancouver to Ushuaia - to research micro-technologies for sustainable development.”
“Wow. That’s crazy. I respect that.”
“Thanks, so is that my copy?”
“I’ll give it to you in a minute. I had the 530.”
“The exc? Did you like it? Do you still ride?”
“No, I got rid of everything except a yamaha 250. Hold on I am looking up an equiptment violation to ding you with.”
I was a little deflated at that. I thought I had him. He was hooked! I had cracked his hard cop exterior and unearthed the motorcyclist in him... Why another violation?!
He looked in his book for five solid minutes looking for the code for what he thought I was violating. Finally, he reaches down to my license plate. What?! What could be wrong with my license plate? I permanently fixed that flimsy piece of aluminum to a steel plate after I had lost 3 in a week!
“You don’t have a reflector. I had a cheap stick on one. You can get them anywhere. California requires them.”
He reaches into his pocket and digs out a black cube and switches a button on it.
“Recording,” he says in the same flat and disinterested tone he has been using throughout our entire interaction.
I assumed that meant that he had turned off his recording device.
“I can’t get rid of your ticket. I am citing you for this equiptment violation, which is a $20 fine and is correctable. You can send a picture of a reflector on your plate to the court and not pay the fine. I’ll cross off the speeding and give you a warning. Don’t speed behind a highway patrol officer again. Be safe going up to Oregon.”
I say thank you, tell him how much I appreciate it, and start packing and putting my gear back on. I get all set and hop on my bike. I waved goodbye and was much more cautious about my speed. California Highway Patrol Officers don’t mess around, but neither do motorcyclists.
The sun came out while I was talking to the highway patrolman and by the time I got going again I still had a huge grin and an excitement for what was ahead. I headed toward Mt. Shasta and Weed.
So fucking cold. So fucking cold. I need to pull over. NOW. Shit, missed the exit for South Weed. Central Weed it is. My hands are fumbling the throttle and turn signal. My arms feel like elastic bands and my feet feel like frozen planks of wood. I see a gas station and start to make a turn for that just before a laundromat catches my eye and causes a rapid change of direction.
I had a weird limp getting off. Every bit of me ached like I had been beaten with frozen baseball bats. I stumble in. There are a few people, mostly people who have grown up in Weed. I strip off my soaking wet socks, wring them in a washer and toss them in the dryer. I try to work my phone but the ice and rain that I had just ridden through had robbed my fingers of life and warmth and my phone refused to recognize them as human. How cruel. I start shaking uncontrollably.
I’m hugging a dryer for warmth. I am sure I look odd. My hair is wild and I’m half naked. I decided that even though my shirt, baselayers, and long underwear were dry, they could be more dry. Everything goes into a dryer.
I had a nice conversation with two people from Norway. Apparently there is an international art school in Weed that is unparalleled. I met a Chilean fellow two hours later who taught at the same school. He is a former bmx rider and was very interested in my trip. We chat for about ten minutes while I messed around with some plastic bags that I had intended to use as compensation for poor footwear choices.
I’m all set. I got handwarmers and plastic dishwashing gloves in addition to many plastic bags. I thought I was going to make it. I just wanted to fill up and get going. It was 9:45 and I was wasting time.
The gas station was empty except for a big Dodge 3500 pulling a car on a trailer and an old dirt bike in the bed.
I got off and walked around to get a better look at the antiquated bike. The two guys who belong to the truck are talking to me but I can’t hear them. I had spent so much time getting my gear just right that I contemplate ignoring them.
Viktor and Ivan. I went inside, paid for gas, filled my tank got my gloves on... Viktor and Ivan watched me from inside their truck. Just as I hopped on and got ready to flick the switch and press the ignition a big gust of wind laden with icy snow whooshed through the gas station.
Viktor rolls down the window. “Do you want ride?”
Without hesitation, “Yes. Thank you.”
They both hop out and start getting out tie downs. The ones they pulled out horrified me, rusted and frayed, but I was desperate and just wanted to get to Corvallis.
“Where you go? Show us on here.” Viktor pulled out a massive GPS unit which had their route mapped. I glanced at it - they were going north, I was going north... I didn’t even care that they had to stop in Bend before they would be able to cut back to I-5 and drop me in Corvallis. I didn’t care that Bend was 4+ hours out of the way.
The bike was tied to the very back of the trailer behind the car. I had tied the extra bit of strap of one of the worst straps they put on to my handle bars. The main part of the strap that held my bike to the trailer was frayed to half of its original width. I didn’t know if my quick and sloppy knot would make a difference but I did it anyway.
Viktor cleared a spot for me in the cab. It was so warm, so cozy. I threw my backpack and helmet in and got comfortable for the first time in 3 days. It was about 10:30 by the time we got out of Weed. I settled in amongst the clutter of the back seat and updated those who were keeping track of me.
“So you remember how I didn’t make it to Albuquerque and my bike caught a ride up with that cage fighter?”
“Ya. So these Ukrainian dudes named Viktor and Ivan picked me up this time.”
“Haha dude, dubstep and thick accents. I love my life”
Victor and Ivan both smoked. Ivan’s cigarettes reminded me of Alex, my Australian friend, and if I closed my eyes, I was in his sunny apartment in Paris. Viktor reminded me of my friend Thomas. Quiet, but nice.
The snow was thick and it looked like we were going at warp speed through space. I was so thankful that I wasn’t in that, or stuck in Weed. I was sitting on leather seats with the heat and stereo blasting lies about the environment we were truly in. I happily accepted those lies and settled in.
I didn’t care that Bend was out of the way. They said they were headed up the I-5 after that so I just relaxed and marveled at the craziness of the day. The conversations were short, but as we got further and further into the dark and thickening snow, I felt like these two Ukranian fellows were old friends.
At one point, Viktor turned his head a bit to me and said, “you would have froze. Do you want to get out?” He was trying to be funny but his thick accent, to anyone else, I’m sure would have made that sentence even more bone chilling than the weather outside. I said a quick and firm “No.” and sat back and shared in the laugh that followed.
We stopped for gas just before Bend. We had already gone through miles of low visability, windy, windy, snowy, icy road. This was the first building I had seen in hours. I was hesitant to get out but Viktor suggested I go to the bathroom. I went in and they stayed outside to smoke their nth cigarette. When I came back I checked the straps on my bike, only to find that one of the rusty and worn out tow straps had snapped. The only thing holding my bike to the trailer was the loose end of the strap that had broken which I tied as an afterthought to my handle bars so it wouldn’t drag or get caught up in the wheels. That loose end, and two inches of ice around my wheels and brakes grasped at my bike and held it to the trailer. I thanked my father for teaching me that trick and ran in the station to buy new tow straps. Viktor and Ivan strapped it down again and Ivan said, “Lucky.”
With that we were on our way to Bend. I texted Anji when I had service to let her know I would be incredibly late. I told her to quit the waiting game. I would meet her on her way to work in Corvallis - I could hole up there until she came to work. About an hour after stopping for gas, traveling at an average of 24 miles an hour, we arrived in Bend. Viktor and Ivan’s gps told them to go to the outskirts of town where signs of affluence were evident everywhere. The houses grew larger as did the distance between them. It was no longer snowing but it was icy and frozen outside the warm and protected truck. There were no street lights and only a sliver of moon to light the road. They were dropping off a car, and it was 2:14 in the morning. They wheeled my bike off the trailer to get the car they were hauling off. I stood outside and watched. They wouldn’t let me help. Ivan drove the car to the house and Viktor and I stood outside and waited for him. Viktor smoked a cigarette and stared up at the stars. He tried to point out some constellations and ask me what they were in English. We went through finding three or four before Ivan came back. We loaded my bike again, better this time, and set the gps for Corvallis, and apparently the most snowy and treacherous road through the Cascades.
We slogged on at 14 miles an hour. As the snowbanks rose above the cab of the truck my grin widened. Whatever happened didn’t matter, at least I wasn’t out there. I settled deeper into the leather back seat. I became aware that both Viktor and Ivan were glancing back at me, especially when the truck would slip on the ice a little. I was nodding off and at 3 in the morning I couldn’t hang on any longer. Riding two days straight through the cold, dealing with bike repairs, staying up chatting with my cousin during much needed sleeping hours, had taken it out of me. Viktor glanced back and said, “You sleep. It’s ok.” Again, his thick Ukrainian accent would have been intimidating, but the snow and ice beating the outside of the truck was more, so I curled up against our bags and closed my eyes.
When I opened them again it was just in time to see a road sign, “Corvallis 20.” Viktor had just gotten off the I-5 to drop me and my bike off. Ivan had fallen asleep too. He woke up at the turn off as well and said something to Viktor in Ukrainian. Soon we pull up to a Shari’s, a 24 hr diner that I had selected for them to drop me off at. At least I could eat, nap, and use their wifi while I waited for Anji. It was now 7am. We pulled up to a gas station and I paid to fill their tank while they pulled my bike off. I made sure to get Viktor’s number and to give both of them hugs before I threw on my helmet and warmed up my bike to take off. They refused cash for their help, so gas in their tank and new tow straps was all it cost me.
Anji was very understanding that I was on an adventure. I met up with her at High Priestess Piercing in Corvallis at 1pm. It was so good to see her, that shop, and Oregon again.
