Week 52 - On the Road Again... and Again

Okay, I may have waxed poetic about North Carolina's humidity, but I must admit I enjoy the dry weather too. Daytime temperatures in Montana were in the 70s and nighttime temperatures were in the 40s. I slept out under the stars every night, and with the smoke cleared a little they were quite brilliant. With the shorter days it got dark more quickly, and you could walk out and see the milky way just an hour or two after sunset. I spent a good bit of time catching up with SE and TB, since we'd had a month to think of new ideas to exchange, and I worked a couple of half days, but my main agenda was getting my stuff squared away to hit the road on Wednesday. All my gear was much as I'd left it, which is to say fairly disorderly. I spent two afternoons unpacking everything completely and getting rid of things I could do without, or that didn't spark joy, as Marie Kondo puts it. Probably the most major item that I ditched was my tent, which I was finding to be bulky, hard to pitch, and kind of confining. Instead, I kept the tent pole and my new camo tarp, although I wouldn't need even that most nights as long as I was in the desert.

My route plan had changed dramatically. I had been planning to head west across Idaho and southern Oregon to reach the ocean at the northern edge of California, but this also happened to be where all the worst wildfires were. I'd heard a lot of roads were closed, and the state of California shut down all their national forests, which are one of my go-to camping options. As I was talking with my mom about it just before leaving North Carolina, she pointed out that I could simply go around the fires, and as soon as I thought of doing that I felt a huge sense of relief. More than avoiding the chaos, I wanted to avoid breathing smoke for days on end, and being unable to get out of it quickly or to go inside. So instead, I decided to go halfway across Idaho and then head south down the eastern edge of Nevada, down to Las Vegas where I had some friends to visit. It was a shame to miss the redwoods and all my friends in northern California, but I felt sure it was the better move, and I could always go back there when conditions were better.

By Tuesday night, Punkin was packed and ready to go. On Wednesday morning, SE took a picture of me, we hugged goodbye, and I was off. Punkin was a little hard to start, but I put it down to having been in storage for a month. The engine was running okay, aside from a few little hitches in the power, but as I rode it started getting worse and worse. About seven miles into the journey, the power loss was really obvious. I checked the fuel tank and valve, which seemed fine, pulled apart the throttle, and noticed the carb needle was adjusted all the way lean. I tried making it one notch richer and the engine wouldn't run at all, so I put it back the way it was. After a few more miles, the engine cut out completely and wouldn't start. I checked everything I could think to check, and couldn't find anything obvious stopping the bike from working. Maybe the mysterious problem I'd been chasing had just reached its endpoint. I called SE for a rescue, and TB set out in the truck to pick me up. I pushed Punkin across the road and laboriously up a hill, then as I was rolling down the other side, managed to start the engine and putter into a pull-off where loading would be easier. While I unstrapped my luggage and waited for the truck to arrive, I thought about what to do. I'd poured a lot of time into trying to fix this problem, and nothing I tried worked. It could be as simple as a piece of debris in the fuel system, or it could be something tougher like a damaged valve. Whatever it was, I knew I didn't want to spend a week or two trying to diagnose what was wrong and waiting for parts to arrive. On a whim I pulled up the Bozeman area Craigslist and sorted motorcycles for sale by price from low to high. And lo and behold, on the second page of results there were no less than three CT90s for sale. Maybe it was a sign. As soon as I thought about just buying a working bike, I felt a weight lift from my shoulders. This was a problem that money could solve, and luckily I had money to solve it. Of course I felt bad about abandoning Punkin, because I'd really been hoping we'd make it all the way from coast to coast together, but at the same time I was excited about having a machine I could trust to take me a few thousand more miles.

Out of the three bikes for sale, one had just recently started blowing smoke out the exhaust, which ruled it out. Between the other two, one was in better condition and being sold by a dealership, so I decided to go with that one, because a mechanic would have checked it over, and I knew the buying and title transfer process would be quick and smooth. The only catch was it was in Manhattan... Manhattan, Montana that is, only 50 miles or so away. By the time TB arrived with the truck, I'd already called the dealership to make sure they still had it and sketched out a new plan. We lifted Punkin into the truck, drove back the ranch, unloaded there, I packed my helmet and riding gear, and we headed straight to the dealership. When we got there I looked over the bike and it was in really nice condition, obviously restored by a collector and with only 2077 miles on the odometer. It was a little hard to start but that was to be expected after sitting for a while, and when I took it on a test ride around the building, it sounded right and ran extremely well. It was a 1971 model, and Honda had improved so many things starting in '69: the suspension was better, the brakes were better, there was a kickstand as well as the center stand, the cargo rack was sturdier, the key was in a more convenient location, the front mudguard was less likely to rub, and so on. I agreed to buy it, and TB headed back to Whitehall while I was doing the paperwork, since the plan was for me to ride it back as a little shakedown cruise.

Once the deal was done, I headed up the road to eat lunch at a little cafe, and then started riding west out of town. After about nine miles, the bike started losing power and I pulled over. It wouldn't start. Holy smokes, not twice in one day! I looked to see if I could figure out the problem, but there was plenty of gas in the tank and the valve was open. I did notice that the headlights were really dim, so maybe it was an electrical problem. I called the dealership and told them where I was, and the shop manager drove out with a trailer to pick me up. I was in the dumps and feeling like I'd made a huge mistake, trading one unreliable geriatric bike for another. I'd signed a contract saying I bought it as-is, but maybe they had another one I could trade it in for? After some waiting and repeated tries, I managed to start the engine again, and was able to get to a convenient pull-off; such a strange echo of my experience in the morning. My rescuer arrived and took a look inside the battery box. He found a blown fuse which someone had bypassed with a piece of foil... maybe the solution would be something simple like the foil making poor contact and shaking loose with the vibration of riding. We got in the truck and headed back. He'd thoughtfully brought a bottle of water for me, and gently tried to sell me on trading in for the lightly used Honda Africa Twin they had in stock. Certainly it would be a reliable adventure bike, but it was far too big for my taste in every way. Back at the dealership, their best mechanic was just about to head home, but the manager got him interested in the problem and he stayed to take a look. He swapped out the fuse holder for a more modern blade-style one, and adjusted the clutch, since I'd noticed the gears had seemed to be doing something funny as well. They test-rode the bike and called it good.

Once again I rode out, and this time I was still downtown when the bike stopped working. I managed to start it and ride it back to the shop. Luckily the mechanic was still there, and I hung out while he checked into things a bit more deeply. It seemed likely that the battery might be bad, but they didn't have a replacement. He called another mechanic nearer to Whitehall who had one, and said I could just pick it up there and the dealership would cover the cost. While we were discussing the transmission, I suddenly realized that it was exactly backwards from the one on Punkin! Instead of shifting up from neutral to 4th, you had to shift down from neutral to 4th. This explained why it had seemed so strange to me, because I was always shifting in the opposite direction from what I wanted and the engine would start racing whenever I thought I was up-shifting. Well, I'd need to rewire my brain but it shouldn't be too hard. The low battery voltage made starting harder, but we determined that once started, the bike would run indefinitely as long as the headlights were off, so I decided to proceed with the original plan. It was a lot later than I'd anticipated, but I'd gotten to know the guys at the dealership, had some good conversations with them, and learned a thing or two. Actually I think the most useful thing I learned was that with some vehicle problems, diagnosing them is really hard and stumps even the professionals. I tend to assume that when I run into trouble it's only because I'm ignorant, and although I definitely still have a lot to learn, it was comforting to know that when I fail, I'm failing at something that's fundamentally not easy.

I got back on the road, this time with all the lights off. This was definitely not legal, but I figured the sun was bright, I was wearing a high visibility orange vest, and I had a good explanation if I ever did get stopped. The only thing was, I really needed to get back by sunset, and it was going to be a close call. The late afternoon sun picked out the texture of the hay fields and distant mountains and gave them an air of magic, but as it sank lower the air started to get a little chilly. It had been nice and warm when we left the ranch, and I hadn't counted on things running this late, so I hadn't packed any layers. In fact I hadn't really packed anything at all apart from what I was wearing. But the scenery was enough to take my mind off the cold, particularly the section of Highway 2 which winds alongside the Jefferson River between London Peak and Cave Mountain, which I think might be the most stunning few miles of road I'd ever been on. I got back to the ranch just before dark, shivering with cold. But the test ride was a success, and I figured maybe I could actually trust this bike to get me down the road.

In the morning, TB and I got back in the truck to go pick up the new battery. On the way, we had a great conversation where I talked out my anxiety about breaking down on the road, and figured out it was largely because I didn't want to need any help from other people. Even asking my friends to help wasn't easy for me, let alone strangers. But after thinking it over, I realized that most people actually like to help others, and if I broke down in some remote area it would probably just lead to befriending some locals and having a different kind of adventure than the one I'd planned. I relaxed a little and my anxiety shaded into excitement. When we got to the mechanic's shop, it felt like a very comfortable place for me, with the many vehicles in all states of disassembly, the fascinating clutter, and the friendly dog hanging around. It so happened that SE and TB knew R, the mechanic, and he was a legendary wizard with small engines of all kinds. He put acid in the new battery to activate it, and while waiting for it to charge, we started talking and I found he was a fellow CT-90 enthusiast. He showed me a pile of them out back and we talked about the fine points of different model years. One of his rusty barn bikes had a really cool spare gas tank attachment, and I almost would have bought it from him except that it would have been hard to access with my luggage setup. On the way out, he showed us a live rattlesnake in a five gallon bucket, which he'd caught on the property and was saving for his girlfriend to cast into a piece of resin art. You can always count on small town America to be weirder than you expect.

Back at the ranch, I spent the rest of the day on mechanical work like installing the battery, transferring my cargo racks and luggage from Punkin to the new bike (which I decided to call Sugar), making sure all the bolts were tight, and so on. In the process, I found a few more little issues, like the carburetor being improperly attached, but nothing that couldn't be fixed with a few parts from the hardware store. One interesting challenge is that while I'd fitted Punkin with a 12 volt electrical system, Sugar was still running a the original 6 volts, so there was no easy way to keep my phone charged while riding. Instead, I decided to route a cable from the solar battery in my luggage and use that, which seemed to work pretty well. In the evening, SE and I went into Whitehall to get reliable internet for a Zoom meeting with some friends, and since we had to rush off before dinner was ready, TB was awesome enough to finish his scratch-made pizza and deliver it to us in town.

On Friday morning I was finally ready to hit the road again. We said goodbye for real this time, although some part of me fully expected to break down yet again a few miles down the road. But all went well, despite a scare when I unexpectedly ran out of gas because I hadn't correctly understood the labels on the fuel valve. Luckily my 1.5 liter auxiliary tank saved the day, and I wouldn't make that mistake again. I stopped for lunch in Dillon, and wound up parking next to a craft fair, behind the booth of a woman selling Ghanian baskets. We wound up chatting for a bit, since I'd taken an interest in visiting Ghana when it was one of the few countries allowing international travel. She wouldn't say where she was from, identifying as a pan-African citizen, but she'd clearly traveled in Africa quite a bit, and she recommended Aburi in Ghana, which has a very cool high-altitude climate, and also Senegal and the Seychelles. Back on the road, I joined up with the Beaverhead River, gently climbing past its flow of milky aquamarine. For a while my route followed a frontage road along the interstate, which was at first paved, then gravel, then suddenly a rocky track between a steep slope and the concrete wall that stopped boulders from rolling onto the highway. Well, it was time to see how Sugar could handle some fairly technical offroading, picking my way between large rocks. The bike handled perfectly and the telescoping suspension made for a much smoother and safer ride. The only real downgrade was that the seat wasn't quite as comfortable as the wide and soft CT110 seat I'd put on Punkin. Oh well, it would force me to take more breaks, which would be good for me.

After a long, slow climb I reached the headwaters of the Beaverhead at the Clark Canyon Reservoir, a massive artificial lake with tall rocky islands rising out of the shimmering water. From there the road began climbing more steeply toward my campsite for the night at Bannock pass, high up in the Bitterroot Range on the Idaho border and the Continental Divide. As I rose above 6000 feet, I tested out one of Sugar's advanced features, a little knob in the carburetor that can be pulled out to compensate for high altitude. I couldn't tell much difference but it seemed like it must do something. Toward the end of the climb, the road turned to dusty gravel, and then crossed a cattle gate and leveled out into a large parking area, with a sign giving the altitude as 7672 feet. I pulled up behind some young men unloading an ATV from a trailer. Turns out they had driven straight from Minnesota for the first day of the season for bow-hunting elk, which would start at midnight. We chatted as they packed their food and camping gear into the ATV, and when one of them cut his thumb and couldn't find their first-aid kit, I provided a Steri-Strip from mine. They finished packing, waved goodbye, and puttered off up a steep mountain trail, while I unfolded my solar panels to catch the last of the evening sun. Just after sunset it got cold fast, and I went for a brisk walk and then bundled into my sleeping bag next to Sugar. As I looked up at the starry sky, I reflected on my past year of adventuring, which I had started on a tiny scooter loaded with two plastic tubs and finished at this high place most of the way across the continent, with a complete living system in my saddlebags and my duffel bag. I'd gotten a drivers license and a motorcycle license, learned to clean and adjust a carburetor, made new friends and reconnected with old ones, and achieved the best health of my life so far mentally, physically, and spiritually. I have absolutely no idea what the next year of adventuring will bring.

Things I Learned

• Montana has cattle guards across the interstate on-ramps. It makes a whole lot of sense when you think about what it would be like to hit a cow while driving at the 80mph speed limit.
• It's really hard to judge the grade of a road while driving on it. For a long time I kept worrying that Sugar's engine was starting to lose power and it always turned out to be just a hill or a headwind. I set my mapping system to display the altitude and that helped a lot to calm my fears.
• People sometimes implant an RFID tracker into a rattlesnake, paint it orange, follow it back to its den, and wipe out the rest of the snakes in the den. I happen to like snakes, but at least it doesn't seem as if they're endangered out west, since R said he was catching dozens of them a year just around his shop, and that eventually they would make a new den.

Wonderful Things

• Seeing the milky way clearly again. I remember seeing it back home as a kid, but I think the light pollution from nearby towns had made it harder and harder over the years.
• A little toddler walking around her family's Mexican restaurant, holding a piece of chocolate in one hand and waving enthusiastically at me with the other. The cutest part was that the lower half of her face was completely smeared with chocolate.
• Having good friends to help me get out of a jam.