Four
By Phil Walker
Copyright © 2011 Phil Walker
Smashwords Edition
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Chapter 1
We went from laughing about being too cold to a state of life-threatening, reduced-core temperatures in about 30 minutes. Our jokes about the need for Wayne’s emergency blanket that were so funny only moments before suddenly struck me with icy potency. The wrong decision at this point had the very real possibility of leaving Wayne and I frozen to death on top of a West Virginia mountain in the middle of the worst freak snowstorm that anyone could remember. Our options were limited, our time was running out, and the whiteout was absolute. As I shivered hard enough to shake the snow and ice from my face, it was almost impossible to remember the beginning of our trip, only 18 hours before.
After graduating from college and getting our first jobs, Rob, Chris, Wayne and I went in separate directions as we followed the pathways of our lives. But we still remained close friends. During our college lives at Virginia Tech, we used our dirt bikes to commute to class, run errands and meet at the Subway down near Main Street. For the most part, the weekends found us partying fairly lightly, by college standards, because on most Saturday and Sunday mornings we could be found up in the mountains exploring new trails or blasting through familiar trails as though they were the streets around our apartment building. We rode during the days and nights and in the freezing rain and snow. One winter week it was so cold that Chris and I kept our motorcycles in our apartment hall and still needed to heat the engine cases with a propane torch in order to start the bikes in the morning. That day the wind-chill was minus 25 and I was like a freeze dried pork chop by the time I made it to class -- cold, shrunken and tasteless. Little did I realize on that day that my short, brisk ride to class was an icy omen to what was in store for me just a few years later.
Motorcycles were our hobby, our passion, and the center of our lives. We rebuilt bikes on the front lawn of our apartment and made numerous friends and perhaps even a few enemies while wrenching out there. We did our shopping on bikes, took laundry to the laundromat on our bikes, and some of us even met our future wives one way or another through motorcycles. To this day, my dearest friends roll on two wheels. I have never mindfully chosen my friends this way, but somehow cosmically this is how I connect.
Chapter 2
It was late on a Friday night as Rob and I motored down the highway in his Explorer pulling a small trailer with a couple of dirt bikes. Since it was early November, the sun had long since departed and the lights from the Ford beat easily into the night, up and down as the truck eased through the road’s expansion joints. The air was cold, crisp and clear while we trucked south to the meeting spot. We talked easily and our excitement was fresh as we bantered about our jobs, new friends and recent adventures. It was the regular sort of conversation you have with a good friend you have not seen in a few months, the kind of conversation you fall into as easily as listening to your favorite song on the radio. Fresh graduates from VA Tech, our most current adventures tended to center around work activities, so getting out and exploring the woods was a vacation for us. The giddy excitement of a weekend in the mountains was akin to the same sort of getaway feeling as going to the beach or a night in the big city for others.
About a month prior to that day, I signed up and rode in an organized, off-road ride in the mountains of West Virginia. It was not a competitive event but instead just an opportunity to spend a couple of days riding in the mountains on dirt roads and trails that were pre-planned by the event organizers. The 200-mile ride included a stop for lunch and a number of optional trails that allowed the entrants the ability to have a full day of riding as well as enjoy a full stomach of local barbequed pork. My wife came along for the ride and we enjoyed a day full of clean air, pulled pork sandwiches and fantastic dirt trails. I had such a good time on the ride that, upon getting home, I called my friends and organized a weekend for us to follow many of the same trails I had just ridden. I had the maps and the route sheets with directions, so a re-creation of the ride would be easy, I thought.
Rob turned the Explorer off the highway and pointed it west toward the mountains. The hills rolled gently as we approached the chosen meeting spot. Thick fog owned the trees and spilled listlessly into the dirt road of the campground, making finding a spot to park the Ford a bit strenuous.
“You think we’ll be able to find the boys in all of this fog?” I asked Rob.
“This place doesn’t look too big really, let’s just find a place to park.” Rob’s deep voice always seemed to intone confidence.
Just as Rob was finishing his sentence, the road broke out of the trees into a big field. The campground had been officially closed since the beginning of November, but during the height of the summer season, it was easy to imagine the entire field filled with tents, travel trailers and campers running around with their bicycles and fishing poles. The fog rolling gently across the rhythmically undulating field provided the ghost images of the summer fun. The evenly spaced camping spots off the main road were tilted in such a way that it appeared almost as if we had come across a drive-in theater in the middle of the West Virginia foothills. At the very end of the field, in the last parking spot before the woods reclaimed the meadow, was a tiny spark of light peeking through the fog like a spark floating up from a campfire.
Rob chugged the Ford toward the light and we soon came upon Chris in the back of his Subaru station wagon. The back seats were folded flat and Chris was there in the midst of his clothes, gear and provisions reading a book using the interior light on the Suby like his own personal sunshine. He dropped his book to the side and smiled as we rolled up next to him. He was reading a McMaster Carr industrial supply catalog. Obviously Chris had arrived some time earlier and was occupying himself brainstorming his way through the toy catalog of engineers and tinkerers everywhere. I had seen Chris do similar things in college where he came up with a solution to a problem with some obscure item he had cataloged in the back of his brain from some previous late-night read. Secured tightly on the trailer tucked behind the Subaru was Chris’ trusty Honda CR250.
An unexpected, freshly exposed beam of moonlight struck us as we stepped from our vehicles.
“Hey Chris, how long have you been here?”
“About an hour or so,” remarked Chris.
The three of us shook hands followed by warm embraces. There were no pretenses with this group. We were very close friends who had spent many years in each other’s company.
“Has anyone heard from Wayne?” Chris asked.
“We talked to him before we left Falls Church,” I said. My wife’s parents lived in Falls Church, Virginia, and we had dropped her there for the weekend. I had called Wayne before we left to make sure everything was still a go.
“Some of those roads coming in were awful to navigate with the fog,” said Rob in his deep and slow-paced voice. “Hopefully Wayne won’t get slowed down too much if it continues to build up.”
“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” said Chris. “He’s such country boy that driving in bad weather is second nature to him. Let’s get our camp set so we can try to get some sleep.”
It was well past midnight when we started to put up our tents. We used the lights from the cars to give some leadership since the stray beam of moonlight from before had long since disappeared. The conversation was light as we threw up the tents and cast in our bags and basic gear. As a result of our inexperience with the area, looking around in the night with our eyes blinded by the car lights and the air layered thick with fog meant it was impossible to get any sense of what lay ahead for tomorrow. Rob, Chris and Wayne had heard my stories about the area from our phone conversations, but standing around in the middle of the cool November night, we all had little idea of what exciting adventure awaited the next day. We might as well have been standing in a cold, darkened room discussing the amazing riding that would happen the next day. Our surroundings were unknown, creating a feeling that was both a little ominous and certainly exciting.
Tucked tightly in our sleeping bags, it was still pretty easy to drive a conversation through the thin veneer of our tent walls. We caught up on families, jobs and dreams for our careers. Sometime after one in the morning we heard the sound of an engine working its way through the trees. One by one we poked our heads from our tents like prairie dogs to see Wayne pull by in his truck with his Honda CR500 tied down in the bed. He had his window rolled down even before the truck came to a stop.
“Hey, Wayne. Any trouble finding the spot?”
“Nope, I just got a late start. Let me get some of my gear unloaded so I can get my tent set up as well.”
Wearing nothing but long johns, we all crawled out of our tents and, as Wayne stepped out of his truck, we exchanged enthusiastic greetings just as before when Rob and I had stumbled upon Chris. Excitedly we helped Wayne get only the necessities out of his truck so we could quickly get him set up in a tent. We repeated the same process of using the car lights to make setting up Wayne’s tent easier. The air was still crisp and the moon was still hidden behind the clouds and the fog. Within ten minutes we had the vehicle lights turned back off and we were all bedded down for the evening. We talked excitedly as before through the walls of the tents for a few more minutes before the discussion naturally trailed off and exhaustion settled in solidly. As we were saying our final good nights I added, “Tomorrow is going to be amazing. Just wait until you guys see all of the trails we are going to cover. It will be fantastic. Good night, guys.”
We concluded our good nights and I tucked my nose under the edge of my bag to keep the chill away.
Chapter 3
Ultimately we were a band with no leader. I organized the gathering and possessed the maps, but we were all equal in our ability and desire to lead and follow. This chaotic momentum had never been a problem with any of our other adventures and there was no reason for it to be a problem here, either.
Rob was the least experienced motorcycle rider of the group though he made up for his lack of experience with his unbridled enthusiasm. Wayne probably had the most actual riding miles under his belt and had never found a motorcycle he could not tame. Chris has a skill that has always been particularly astonishing to me -- his natural coordination. He is the most naturally skilled physical person I have ever met. When we all learned something new, whether it was spelunking or riding our Roller Blades on the half-pipe for the first time, Chris would advance in ability and competence far faster than the rest of us. As we looked awkward or physically confused, Chris always progressed quickly and looked smooth and confident doing so.
Our excitement for the ride, combined with the darkness escaping, had us all waking up near daybreak. I dressed in the tent but felt that, though the morning was cool, it was not cold enough to wear an extra layer under my clothes. Peering out of the tent I could see my breath filling the air in front of the gray sky. Rotating my head around like a turtle peering from its shell, I sensed activity from all of the boys and heard the silence from the night being slowly replaced with the mouse-like sounds of bodies awakening and gear being moved.
As we broke camp and packed up our gear, we began discussing the details for the day. Even the low clouds clinging over the tall pines did nothing to subdue our spirits and excitement.
“When I did the ride a few weeks ago, we left from this campground and headed west and then south at the next town. We’ll follow the paved road up the mountain. There is a dirt road at the top that we’ll follow and look for a place to make camp. I need to get some fuel in my bike so we can stop at the gas station down the road.”
“We’re going to eat on the road today, but what are the plans for dinner tonight?” asked Wayne.
“I haven’t quite figured that out. We should plan on being back at the campsite by late afternoon or early evening. Maybe we can pick up some cans of Dinty Moore stew and heat them up in the fire,” I replied.
Chris interjected, “Dinty Moore is the best and easiest camp food; it’s filling and loaded with calories.”
“Better than an MRE,” said Wayne. He was referring to the Army’s “Meals Ready to Eat” which were infamously loaded with enough carbohydrates and calories to keep eager, battling soldiers ahead of the energy curve.
“I’m good with whatever,” said Rob. “Hot dogs, peanut butter sandwiches, whatever works for me.”
“We’ll just pay attention in the afternoon and when we come across a small store we’ll check on our options. I just want to get going. Is everything packed up?” said Chris.
Wayne was standing beside his truck leaning over the bed side securing his last bag. He nodded to Chris that he was ready to go. With a quick tug on all of the motorcycles to assure ourselves of their security we piled into our respective vehicles and slowly navigated our way back through the campground.
Chapter 4
As we meandered out to the main road, the car’s engine blocks warmed and the cars’ cabins were filling with enough warm air to take the chill out of the wet air. The night’s fog had vacated the roads though many of the wooded areas had not shed their silky bed of mist, which drifted lazily like fake cotton-ball snow I once saw in a neighbor’s model train diorama.
Moving west on the main road, the mountains rose in front of us like layers on top of the gray skies and the very high clouds. This was a typical gray and cloudy, east coast day. The day never made you think twice. If it was bright and sunny, you would remark about how amazing the day was, or if the skies were pouring down quarter-size drops of rain, the conversation in the car would have certainly focused around how we were loony or breaking all of mommy’s rules by riding motorcycles in the mud on a cold, rainy day. This day, however, was starting out like many others: it was full of clouds, expectations and excitement. As the trees and the yellow curvy-road signs passed by my passenger window, I thought to myself that I could not think of a better way to start out the day. The Subaru and Dodge truck followed eagerly behind us; our short train of vehicles was lonely in the early morning foothills.
Lost in my thoughts of perfect day recipes and the clanking of the trailer over the bumps in the cold asphalt, the fork in the road –which we were to take south and up into the mountains – came upon us suddenly. Fortunately my recollection of a gas station was correct and I told Rob to hit the brakes and drift into the station so we could grab some fuel and supplies.
I wasn’t the only member of our group needing fuel and the rest of the troops topped off their motorcycles and vehicles. Post fueling, we found ourselves probing the shelves of the ubiquitous gas station convenience store, looking for breakfast and some snacks to pack for our trip. A natural choice for breakfast for a motorcycle race or ride is a pack of those six small chocolate donuts. Fat and sugar all rolled into a package of chocolate joy that sits nicely in your stomach and has a bit of staying power. If you are so lucky as to be travelling with a friend in a car or truck on the way to a meeting spot, there is always the shared pleasure option of a full box of those little circles of happiness.
We were all laughing and joking around as we circled the small isles and selected our goodies for the trail. These small, country stores are always different in layout but similar in content right down to the homemade beef jerky by the counter. Sometimes they have homemade chocolate chip cookies by the checkout, or maybe even Rice Crispy treats. They have chipped linoleum tiles or sometimes even ancient hardwood floors. Occasionally the doors have bells and in more sophisticated stores, an electronic beeper. Many stores merely have a squeaky door that alerts the cashier that someone has just entered the building. There is, however, one unifier among every country store; one key trait that makes the country store special and unique but common with other stores: the knowledgeable local behind the counter. No local store hires someone from another town to work there, and in most cases it is the owner, him or herself, flattening the bills and chain smoking in synchronicity. Our local store was no different and was typical, especially with obvious outsiders invading his territory, striking up a short conversation was an expected part of the transaction.
I stepped up to the counter with a pile of junk food, chocolate donut box included, and a small stack of weary bills ready to settle my tab. Our store proprietor was an obvious chain smoker with a dried up face, orange moustache and orange tips on the front of his uncombed white hair. To a non-smoker, Marlboro Reds seemed like a bold, early morning smoking choice, but I guess to an addict it is never too early. Taking a deep puff on his Marlboro resting in the crotch of his left pointer and middle finger, he looked out his smoke-misted window at our rigs with our bikes strapped on. I was surprised he could actually see anything with the stain so thick on the windows, but then I noticed a clean spot in the window that was evidently regularly rubbed with the elbow of his flannel shirt to maintain a clear view out to the gas pumps.
“Where you boys headed today?” He spit out as he leaned over to the window and rubbed the clean circle bigger with the elbow of his shirt. “Looks like you’re up for having some fun.” His accent was thick and obviously local. His voice was dry and strained with decades of the Marlboro Reds.
“We’re heading straight up to the top of the mountain. We’re going to camp up there and ride some of the fire roads for the next few days,” I responded. “You heard anything about the weather? We saw these clouds all day yesterday as we drove down here.”
“Yep, we’ve had these clouds for a few days now, I reckon. Radio says we are supposed to get some rain. A solid storm, even.”
“We like the rain,” I said as Wayne elbowed his way in next to me.
“Yeah, we’ve probably ridden more rainy days than not,” Wayne jumped in.
Indeed this was true. We were certainly not known for being fair weather riders.
Phil, Chris and Wayne out playing in the woods
Chapter 5
In our college days, we rode our motorcycles as often as we could. This usually meant a ride on Saturday or Sunday morning, and on many weekends, both days. We also would take rides during the week though these tended to be less adventurous, dirt-road cruising rides, many times with passengers on the back. Our enthusiasm for riding our bikes, coupled with the school year starting in the fall until spring, meant that most of our riding weather was cold and wet. We would get up early on the dreary mornings, ride until afternoon, then go back to our apartment and attempt to wash the mud off our bikes, clothes and bodies. A particularly difficult task was extricating my body from my jeans after every ride when the jeans were soaked with mud. Muddy jeans and assorted clothes were on constant display outside our apartment, especially on the weekends.
One wet week late in the fall, we were planning on driving about an hour away to ride on a scrambles course that was all single-track. Single-track describes the width of the trail. A single-track is sort of like a cow trail, where a double-track usually means an ATV trail or a very narrow Jeep road. Single-track riding can be very technical but also extremely fun and rewarding both for motorcycle and mountain bike riders alike. We had lots of single-track and double-track trails near us at Virginia Tech, but the place we were going was actually private property and the 15-mile loop was some of the best single-track in the area. It was special to be invited and certainly not something to be missed. Saturday was going to be the big ride.
Unfortunately, on Thursday, I could feel the delicate soreness in the back of my throat that is the subtle indication of the onset of some type of cold. By Friday, the cold was in full force and Chris, my roommate at the time, was also in the early throws of the cold. We commiserated over hot coffee and soup on Friday afternoon but we were determined to take care of ourselves and be ready to head out for the ride on Saturday morning. We packed our gear into our beat up old bags and went to bed early in hope the extra rest would bring us much-needed healing for the big day.
I woke up early with the foggy head of the full blown flu. It was still dark out as I stumbled to the kitchen to heat up some water for the Theraflu drink which might offer some relief. As Chris broke into the light of our cramped kitchen I could tell that he was in the same condition that I was, possibly even worse. His eyes were gray and his voice was only a hoarse whisper as he painfully greeted me, “Good morning.”
“How are you feeling?” I asked with my voice cracking from the burning in the back of my throat.
“Pretty lousy,” he whispered. “I didn’t get much sleep last night with all the coughing I have going on.”
The microwave beeped and I poured out the water into two mugs pre-staged with the awful Theraflu powder. I slid one of the mugs over to Chris then stood by the counter as Chris sat on the barstool. We slowly and silently sipped our steaming hot brew. The hot liquid combined with whatever pho-narcotic exists in that powder provided some basic numbing of the pain in our throats and heads. We finished the first cup and by the time I had heated up the water for the second cup, the black of the night was just turning to the first shades of ugly gray. I picked up my mug, walked to the window and squinted out into the darkness.
“Chris, it is raining,” I said, “hard.”
Chris walked over to the window, the hot tea giving his steps a bit more vitality than when he had first stepped into the kitchen. He adjusted his glasses, coughed into his hand and gazed out the window for at least a minute. Without taking his gaze from the dark skies and with a squeak in his weak, hoarse, dead pan voice he said, “Well it looks like today we are going to be breaking all of mommy’s rules.”
I laughed and coughed at the same time thinking about all of the times we had ridden in similar or worse weather. I also thought about the disapproval from my parents about owning and riding motorcycles. Finally I thought about Chris and I, sick as dogs, leaving the apartment early on a chilly, rainy Saturday morning to go spend the day soaked with rain and mud. No, mom would definitely not approve, I thought. The die was cast, however, and from then on many of our questionable activities would be qualified as “breaking mommy’s rules.”
By the time we made it out to the riding area with our bikes loaded in Wayne’s truck and our stomachs full of gas-station doughnuts, the rain had only intensified. We unloaded our bikes and hid them from the rain under a paddock in the middle of the staging area for race starts. We spent the morning riding through the trees and slipping and sliding our way over rocks and roots. The rain kept coming and the local dirt, with its large composition of clay, became slicker until we spent more time going sideways than forward on the trails. The riding day ended with a few of us huddled under the paddock trying to get warm while we watched another friend of ours attempt to climb a small hill trying to get back up to the paddock.
The rain poured down and with each attempt he would get almost to the flat when his momentum would run out and the mud flying off his back tire would begin to shoot up over his head coating him in an ever thickening layer of slimy Virginia gooeyness. We laughed harder and harder with each passing attempt. After about 20 attempts at the ascent, we agreed he would never make it and a group of us slid down the muddy hill and spent the next 30 minutes dragging his bike and him back to the paddock.
We made it home that night in time to take a warm shower, eat some hot food, and have a couple of more cups of Theraflu before crawling into our beds. Ignoring all of the warning signs for disaster, it had really been a good day.
Wayne, Rob and Chris in the mountains of Virginia
Chapter 6
“You boys be careful out there and have a good time,” said the old timer behind his counter, smoke still circling around his head. “The weather comes and goes around these parts. Stay dry.”
Grabbing my doughnuts and sliding them away from the cash register, I thanked the local. “We’ll be great. We love this kind of weather. Have a nice day.”
One-by-one, we walked out of the store toward our vehicles waiting like collected elephants around a drinking hole. Loading our supplies into the rides we bunched back near the hood of the Dodge for some final coordination.
“The top of the mountain is about 10 miles ahead on this road. Then we’ll take a right on the main dirt road and look for a place to set up camp. While we’re unloading and getting ready, I need to change the rear tube on the XR. It has a slow leak and I need to get it fixed before we head out. Be careful up this road, it can be a little windy in some spots,” I said.
“I’ll take it slow where needed,” said Chris, “and when we get to the dirt road, don’t worry about me and the Subaru, it will go anywhere.” This was a certain truth. I had been on numerous trips with Chris and the Subaru, with its low-transfer case range, coupled with the low center of gravity and the four-wheel drive. The only thing that would stop that car was a clearance problem.
“Alright,” Wayne said as he downed a bit of cinnamon roll between his sips of coffee. “What are we waiting for? Let’s get moving.”
Rob nodded his head and backed away to the Ford while Chris was already opening the door on the silver Suby. I opened the passenger door on the Ford as Rob was already starting the engine and shifting into gear.
“This is going to be so great,” said Rob “I can’t wait to ride up here. It’s been long enough since we rode together in college that this weekend is going to be excellent. Dirt trails during the day and a warm campfire at night, the perfect weekend.”
“I’m excited, too. This place has so many places to explore and ride.”
As we pulled away from the station, I glanced back to the door and noticed the old man watching us through the oddly shaped clean spot in the window. Our eyes met for a second before we passed by the side of the building. He was probably just passing the time, but there was something that seemed to sparkle in his eyes, something telling.
Before long, we were moving purposefully along the road and the day was in full swing. The sun had fully risen but was completely hidden from us by the dark cloud cover. The time may have changed since we had first awakened, but for sure, the weather had not become any lighter.
Chapter 7
It was less than 10 minutes later when we hit the rain. As we first began the ascent, the air appeared to get thicker though there was no rain or fog. It was almost as if the fog was about to burst out at any time and the air was thickening in apprehension. The trees on the edge of the road looked heavy in the gray air while silhouetted against the background of the dark forest. Tree after tree passed us by as we moved forward up the mountain. Soon a light mist began to gather on the windshield. Not long after, we had to turn on the wipers to move away the gathering mist, and within another half mile the wipers were dancing in full swing across our vision as the rain scattered with each swipe. The trees along the sides of the road became very hard to see as the rain and fog clouded the space around the Ford. As we moved through the tight corners, we kept track of the progress of the boys by watching the lights behind us move through the moisture like spotlights in a smoky club.
“Well,” I said, “we sort of knew this was going to happen. Not much of a surprise though it’s still a bit of a letdown to see it so early in the day.”
“Yeah,” replied Rob. “No big deal though. I brought enough stuff to keep me dry in the rain.”
“Yeah me, too. I have that new Gore-Tex jacket that has worked pretty well the couple of times I’ve had it out in the wet, though I’ve never been in an all-day rain.”
“I have a rain jacket that I’ll wear over my gear and some rain pants as well. The rain will just make things more fun, and likely make the day a bit more interesting.”
“Totally,” I said. “More and more, this ride is starting out like some of the rides we did back in college; the messier the better!”
“For sure.”
“Slow down up here, we’re getting close to the top.”
The rain was strong and constant by the time we got to the top of the mountain. Wayne and Chris were following diligently behind with no obvious inclination to turn their vehicles around and run for fair weather. We turned off the main road and onto the dirt Jeep road. About 50 yards into the road, Rob stopped the Explorer.
“This truck is sliding around a ton,” he said. “We need to get this thing into four-wheel drive. It’s so new to me I’ve never had to engage the four-wheel. Any idea how we do it?”
I popped the owner's manual out of the glove box and flipped through until I found the section about engaging the transfer case. No manual engaging of the hubs was required and the four-wheel drive low range was as simple as a button on the dash. With the appropriate button depressed, we were back on our way, crawling ourselves through the mud and around the puddles that were rapidly getting bigger. The trailer behind us diligently followed the path of the Ford and crawled around and through all of the obstacles. With the fog on the rear window, we were barely able to make sure the bikes were still tight in their strapping as we bounced along the muddy road.
Chapter 8
Chris and I were the oldest friends from the group. Chris was my first roommate when I entered VA Tech and even though we had four or five additional roommates throughout the years, he and I continued to live under the same roof and share many, many adventures.
On my first day at college, my parents did the obligatory delivery of me and my goods to the dorm. Typical of me, I had done little or zero preparation work for my dorm life so I had neglected to call my assigned roommate and attempt to coordinate stereos, refrigerators, and color matched hand towels. He had not called me either, so I had little concerns about our symbiosis.
However, when my parents and I arrived at my assigned dorm room, my room was still empty since my roommate had yet to show. I had a few people come by and introduce themselves. Many of them had been on that hall the year before, and as it turned out, my new roommate was a sophomore that many of them knew. Making me a little disconcerted, I received a unanimous reaction when I told them the identity of my new roommate: one of sadness and consternation. A common reaction was, “Oh you’re Chris’ new roommate…good luck!”
With these reactions, I probed for more details but most of my new hall mates would slowly shake their heads and excuse themselves from the room. I had heard enough “you’ll find out on your own” reactions to accurately read that there was a lot more to this story. After some prodding, I was able to extract from our next-door neighbor that my new roommate was an “interesting guy” who had blazed through quite a list of roommates in his first year.
I was starting to have some trepidation about the situation, but there was enough excitement going on in my dorm room with people stopping by and me trying to get things in the room set up that I mostly pushed the concerns away. I was starting college! How bad could it possibly be? Most people who have been in a situation with a lot of people moving into a place in the same day, like the military or even a cruise ship, know the tension, excitement and fast pace associated with such an activity.
I was busy stacking my Fugazi CD’s next to the pile of my Beatles, Front 242 and Fishbone tapes when in walked a preppy looking blond guy with a big bag over his shoulder. Behind him, his attractive mom and another man strolled through the door. Introductions were exchanged all around in the casual, yet slightly awkward way 19 year-olds say hello. My parents were still hanging around before needing to leave later in the evening, so they also had a chance to say hello.
I was immediately struck by Chris’ confidence in talking to my parents and how smoothly he broke into small talk that particularly got my father’s attention. This guy is smooth, I thought to myself.
To be fair, I’m only really telling half of the story. The pimply 18 year-old kid in my corner of the room was tall but relaxed, with casual clothes that were probably torn in a few places and most likely purchased at a thrift store. This was not an economic result but in fact a choice by me and my general disinterest for fashion or trends. The summary would be that I was not such a ‘looker’ myself and as much as my observation of his preppiness may have given me some concern for the future of our success as roommates, I am sure that his potential for judging me as a potential poor roommate far outweighed the opposite, though he didn't seem the least bit judgemental.
Off he went to get more things out of the back of his mom’s car. I briefly spoke to my parents as they did their best to assure me that the issues he had the previous year were some sort of fluke and that they were sure everything was going to work out just fine. As my parents were doing their best to convince me I was not going to be hacked up and stored in the closet, Chris came back into the room with a couple more boxes of goods. Dropping the boxes on the floor, he emptied their contents and began sorting them around his side of the room.
Circular saw?
Who was this guy and why would he bring a saw into a dorm? This was a bit arbitrary but nonetheless interesting.
Airbrush?
Chris already told me he was an engineering student. What was with the Airbrush?
Combat boots?
Ok things are getting strange. I had this guy pegged as a straight-laced Polo boy. The combat boots were raising my eyebrows. I might not need to hide my saddle shoe Dr. Martens.
Prismacolor Markers?
Ok, now things are positively odd. Prismacolors are not something everyone carries around. They are professional grade markers that are used by designers to add colors to their drawings. It just so happened that I had the same set sitting on the top of my desk.
Power drill?
The drill was really all I needed to see. He may have been a bit pretty on the outside, but the moment the markers and the drill came out I knew we were going to be fine. This guy was a hacker, an artist, and an adventurer much like I saw myself. For as much as it might have seemed we were different, we could have been split from the same cloth.
To the outside world, I’m sure we looked like quite the mismatch. And certainly there were quite a few things that we did not have in common, but beneath our exteriors it turned out we liked many of the same things, including motorcycles. Like many strong friendships we had our turmoil, but looking at our college lives in hindsight, Chris and I complemented each other almost perfectly. That remains true as much today as it did the first day we met.
Chapter 9
The rain pounded down so heavily that the mud in the road was topped with an undulating glassy layer. The wipers on Rob’s Ford were cranking at full speed and the rear window of the Ford was completely fogged over.
“Damn it, I knew that getting a truck with no rear defroster was a bad idea. There is no way to get any heat back there. At least no way to get enough to clean that thing off.”
“Well,” I said, “at least it doesn’t matter so much for this trip. As long as the trailer is still rattling around we know it’s back there. We’ll get a honk from the boys if something falls off.”
“I guess you are right. The truck was a good deal, though. I guess I need to focus on that.”
“Do you see any places for us to get off this road? Through the rain on this side the trees are right there. There are no pull-offs.”
“I’m seeing the same thing over here.”
“Stop for a second and let me check on the boys.”
Rob put the right tires on the grassy banked side of the dirt road. The Ford tilted a bit as the tires climbed up the bank. I pulled the top of my jacket over my head before I opened the door and sprinted back to the Subaru trying my best to OJ Simpson over the big puddles. By the time I made it to the driver’s window of Chris’ car, my lower half was very wet.
“We can’t see through the back window. You still ok back here?”
“Perfect,” Chris responded.
“We’re going to keep going to find a place to pull off and set up camp.”
“Excellent, let’s keep going. The Suby is doing perfectly. In low range, it just crawls along, even with 95 horsepower.”
I looked up from the Suby and back toward the Dodge with Wayne sitting patiently in the driver’s seat. After making eye contact through the sheets of rain dividing the air between us, I gave Wayne the thumbs-up. This was the “inquisitive” thumbs-up and not the “I’m okay” or the Fonzi “I’m awesome” thumbs-up. Wayne returned the “I’m okay” thumbs-up and I turned and retraced my steps back to the Ford.
“Everything is good. Let’s keep going,” I said while trying to get back into the Ford without letting the flash flood of water erupt on the passenger side. “They are having no problem following. We should be good until we find a spot.”
Rob put the Ford in gear and hit the gas pedal. The Ford was sitting on a small incline in the road and even with four-wheel drive and the low-range transfer case, the weight of the trailer spun the tires in the mud. Rob let off the gas a bit and turned the steering wheel. The whine of the tires slowed and they slowly caught grip and pulled the Ford first to the side a bit and then as the truck gained momentum, it pulled us straight forward.
“Whew, I thought we were going to be stuck there for a second,” said Rob. “I’m not too excited about this trip getting stalled before it gets started.”
“We won’t get stuck,” I assured him. “Besides, with two other vehicles around and plenty of straps, I’m not too concerned about getting stuck. I’m just glad we’re moving again”
We both stared straight forward through the wet windshield as the Ford rocked back and forth over the bumps in the dirt road. If we kept moving forward, I had no concern for us getting stuck, though getting home might be quite an adventure.
We plodded forward through the muck and Rob guided the Ford around a bend in the road that was blind as much from the foliage on the inside of the corner as it was from the sheets of rain falling. Rob tried to keep the tires of the truck out of the ruts that were filling with water as they turned into parallel streams finding their way down the dirt roads.
Around the bend, the road abruptly straightened out and a football-sized clearing rose to the left. The clearing was grassy and flat and a more-than-adequate looking spot for a camp site. The edges of the clearing were difficult to see through the rain, but the clearing was more than big enough, regardless.
“Hey Rob,” I said. “That looks like a great spot for us to pitch camp. Let’s head over there.”
Rob pointed the Ford off the road and the truck pitched and shook as it clawed up the muddy rise to the clearing. The trailer dutifully followed the truck over into the field and the Subaru and Dodge happily kept in line. Without consciously trying we parked the vehicles and their trailers in a half circle in some type of crude circling of the wagons, though of course we would’ve been exposed on one side had we really been attacked by the natives.
Chapter 10
Wayne was, by far, always the most hard-core motorcycle rider out of all of us. His dad was a big dirt bike rider and had supported Wayne in the ways of dirt bike riding during his youth. Wayne’s years of experience earned him tons of respect. In many ways, he was the wise old motorcycle rider. In the early days of our college motorcycle experiences, we looked up to Wayne for approval and advice. Wayne helped us fix and ride our motorcycles from the very first day we met him. In fact, Wayne went out of his way to help me get a new chain on my bike only hours, or was it minutes, after our first meeting. This was, and still is Wayne; the guy would give you the shirt off his back if you needed it. Besides Wayne’s generosity and commitment, there are numerous wonderful stories about our adventures.
Not long after I first met Wayne, I learned something wonderful. Almost any mechanical dilemma can be, at least temporarily, fixed with zip ties. Those amazing little plastic straps, with the small box on one end that allow them to cinch items together when the end of the strap is fed through the ratcheted box, can solve many problems. Multiple zip ties can also be daisy-chained together in case a bigger loop is required. As I found out, zip ties are amazing, and are honestly one step up the evolutionary tool genealogy from the much-heralded duct tape. Duct tape can be equally as effective but far from as elegant.
One day before a mountain bike ride, Wayne was describing to me the virtues of the zip tie. So passionate was he that I half expected him to have a bumper sticker that read, “My tool bag has zip ties,” like a proud parent would say, “My kid goes to South High School.”
On that day, we started off on a mountain bike trail where we climbed about a mile to a beautiful ridgeline and then followed the single-track for another mile or so before continuing over the backside of the ridge down into a deep, wet and muddy ravine. At the bottom of the ravine, the single-track trail snaked in and around a small stream while crossing wet logs and rocks. After a few minutes of racing each other through the wetness, I felt my pedal crank arms beginning to feel loose and it wasn’t another 50 feet before one of the crank arms on my bike fell completely off.
Accessing the situation, we determined that there were two fasteners in this crank design. One fastener held on the crank arm, and the second actually prevented the first nut from coming loose. We found one of the nuts, but for all of our searching, the second nut was gone somewhere in the muck.
With my hands on my hips and my head tilted up to the hillside with the prospect of pushing my bike out of the ravine, Wayne began feverously digging through his fanny bag. With an “Ah ha” like Sherlock finding a clue, he whipped out two zip ties and confidently declared, “I can fix this with these two zip ties!”
We had no tools to tighten the big nut, and more importantly we did not even have the second fastener which was required to keep the big nut tight. I rolled my eyes and told him there was no way he could fix the bike with the zip ties.
Wayne laughed and quickly got to work finding a couple of rocks to use for his plan. He found the shape he needed and proceeded to use one rock as a hammer and a pointy rock as a drift to beat this internal nut into a relatively tight and secure position. Then he continued to beat on the rock until pieces of the rock were broken off in such a way that the nut would not easily back off. Wayne then found a silver dollar shaped rock and placed it over the end of the crank hole so the other mashed parts of the rock could not easily dislodge and come out of the hole. The silver dollar rock was then zip-tied securely over the end of the crank hole.
Not only did this fix provide me the ability to ride my bike out of the ravine, but in fact I rode the bike like that for several more weeks before I properly fixed the cranks.
Long live zip ties!
Chapter 11
Though the rain continued to pour down in veritable sheets, we did not spend any extra time collecting our thoughts in the vehicles. The purpose of the trip was to ride through the mountains, and we intended to completely maximize our time exploring the expanse. No sooner had the trucks stopped when the doors opened, legs swung out, and big rain jackets were pulled over our heads.
Rob and I carved our way through the rain toward the back of the Ford so we could unsecure the bikes and roll them off the trailer. The rain had soaked the nylon straps causing the buckles to become extra tight, like a freshly washed, but hastily dried, pair of jeans. With the buckles freed reluctantly, the bikes practically jumped from the trailer as their springs rejoiced in their new freedom.
Knowing that my Honda still had a hole in the rear tube that needed repair, I pushed the bike over the noisy, slushy ground toward a cluster of pine trees offering basic protection from the rain. The ground was wet enough that pushing the heavy bike over the dirt and low mountain grass made a squishing noise not unlike emptying a sponge of water. As I snuck up under the canopy of the tree, I was surprised at the amount of rain protection it afforded. It was actually the driest spot we had seen in the last hour.
I hurried through the rain back to Chris' car, grabbed the plastic crate he had in the back and returned to the big pine with the broad branches. Hefting the big Honda up on the crate allowed me to easily remove the back wheel using some tools I had dragged back from the car. While I purposefully went about pulling the tire off the wheel to give me access to the limp tube, the boys were each working dutifully on their own getting their bikes ready, their gear on, their rain gear on top of that, and some snacks tucked into errant pockets. The few drops of rain that escaped through the branches of the pine and dropped on the now freed dead inner tube caused me to momentarily look up for their origins. Peering upward, I noticed the rain clouds had dropped so low that their resulting blanket had misted the upper branches of the tree. Looking out into the field, I saw the seemingly angry clouds hanging very low – almost touching the heads of the guys – leaving the rain to drop only a few feet after leaving the confines of the clouds before exploding on the ground. The drip, drip, drip from the mist inside the tree branches emanated from an unknown source. Perhaps it came directly from the cloud, or perhaps it followed the numerous paths down the limbs and needles of the massive pine before finding the single point to release itself and land on my tube. Either way, the rain was coming harder, and it showed no signs of slowing.
Wayne was the first to interrupt my water and cloud-infused daydreams, poking his head under the branches and checking my progress. He had all of his gear on with his jacket pulled over his head in an obvious attempt to keep himself dry for as long as possible.
“What’s the status on the tire? The rest of us are getting close to roll. We’re certainly not going to get any drier hanging around here.”
“Just a couple of more minutes to get the tube in and things buttoned up,” I said. “If you’re ready to go, you can give me a hand holding the tire as I get the tire levered back on.”
Wayne nodded his head and with that assumed the position on the ground with his knees surrounding the tire and hands holding the carcass. I fed the new tube into the tire and the stem through the rim and started to work the tire back around the rim. While working the tire back on, I watched Wayne’s experienced hands dance along with me biting the tire with the tire iron, over and over. Looking up I could see an expression change from within the confines of his jacket hood. Curious as to what he was thinking, I asked.
“What is so funny?”
“Nothing,” he said “I’m just excited to get going and we’re about there. Come on, get this thing aired up and on the bike. I’m ready to go.”
True to his statement and expression, Wayne was always the epitome of excitement, most especially when it came to motorcycles. When we went riding he was always excited, always helpful, always faster than any of us out there, but usually riding at the back of the group, just to make sure everyone made it along and no one was left behind.
I grabbed the bicycle pump that Wayne had dragged over and stroked the handle up and down until the tire had 20 pounds of air. The exertion, combined with the ultra-moist air, helped me break a tiny sweat under the dripping pine tree in the middle of a fall, mountain rainstorm.
Chris getting ready to unload in the rain
Phil and Wayne fixing the back tire under the pine tree
Chapter 12
In college, Wayne had a tiny old Ford pickup truck. Ford was on the nameplate, but it was an import truck from some nameless Asian manufacturer that worked a deal with Ford to allow them to import the truck -- probably to compete against the new collection of Toyota and Datsun mini trucks. While in theory it may have seemed like an excellent idea for the Ford executives -- for which someone most likely got a huge bonus -- in practice, the first examples of these import trucks were light on features, toughness and durability. They certainly looked the part of a tough, small truck but after 100,000 miles of daily driving they aged particularly badly, or at least Wayne’s version did.
Chris named Wayne’s truck “Three Paws” because some type of failure had occurred on one of its four cylinders. Not only did it have 25% less power than the standard, gutless engine, it smoked and used oil like a power plant. The consumption began relatively benignly with just a half a quart of oil per tank of gas, but Three Paws’ thirst for oil only got stronger and stronger until Wayne was begging used oil from the local service station to supplant Three Paw’s two-quart-per-tank oil cravings. Oil consumption remained steady at two quarts per tank of gas and so the gutless wonder soldiered on with an extremely underpowered engine and a name that stuck like gum on a bedpost. Three Paws became one of our means of transport to more remote riding locations for the next few years.
It was possible to fit three bikes in the back of the truck, although the third bike had to be slid in backwards so the handlebars could clear the seats of the two outside bikes. As crowded as the bed of the truck was with bikes, the cab of the mini Ford was twice as packed with three guys, shoulder-to-shoulder, hip-to-hip packed across the bench seat like the aforementioned mini-donuts in a six pack on the gas station shelf. The middle seat passenger was always a coin-flipping event since not only was that person locked in on both sides, but one of the most wonderful examples of college silliness was for the passenger side occupant to duck down below the dash before approaching a crowded, four-stop intersection. The resultant situation of two grown men crowded up tight, side-by-side, in a little truck at a stop sign always made for good entertainment to the other cars around the intersection and caused unstoppable chuckling within the cab.
Late in the afternoon on one warm fall Friday, I rolled into our apartment after a particularly long astrophysics class. Chris was hanging near the front porch with the seat off his Honda and his elbows deep into some type of repair.
“Wayne and I are going motorcycle camping tonight. Do you want to come?” He asked.
“Where are you going?”
“East, by the Appalachian Trail. Wayne’s coming over in Three Paws in a few minutes and we’re loading up and driving to the trailhead. I’ve never been on this trail, but Wayne says it’s rideable and there should be places to camp near the top.”