motorcycling experiences are far better as memories, and recounting them can be a way of reassuring ourselves that they’re truly over. I vividly recall collapsing into an overstuffed chair opposite the late, great Larry Grodsky upon reaching the hotel at the end of this misadventure; I hesitated, but it was a story I had to tell.
Although I’ve “told on” myself before in these columns, I generally prefer to describe how other motorcyclists get themselves into trouble, as though the same thing couldn’t possibly happen to moi. But, this time, I must share what is without a doubt the most embarrassing, bonehead thing I’ve ever done as a motorcyclist. Perhaps I can salvage the experience by keeping someone else from repeating it. Or at least give someone a laugh. And, anyway, you know what they say about confession . . .
I got the assignment to cover Larry Grodsky’s Stayin’ Safe Tour just two days before I’d have to leave Knoxville, Tennessee, to get to the training event’s starting point in Warrenton, Virginia, about 450 miles (724 kilometers) away. I was happy to go, being in desperate need of tuning up my road-riding skills as someone reentering the street-bike scene after taking a few years off to play in the dirt. Just the trip to Warrenton would double my street mileage thus far in 2004 and would equal what I’d logged in 2003 and 2002 combined. I barely had time to get my SuperHawk prepped for the trip, figure out what to pack, and triage the rest of my week’s work at the office. I was so excited and had to get so much done that I slept very little. All of that frantic activity allowed only the dimmest awareness of trepidation about taking on four whole days of riding (two days on tour and a day each to get there and back) after being out of the saddle for so long.
The morning of my departure quickly arrived. Suited up in my trusty Aerostich and with my clever VenturaPack luggage behind me, I felt ready. I’d “generously” allowed myself an entire day to travel those 450 miles, almost all on the interstate. Easy, right? It was a gorgeous day, and I had a lot to look forward to.
Needless to say, those miles did not pass as quickly as expected. I had to stop. A lot. My bones, tendons, and bladder had apparently undergone significant changes since my last daylong ride. I knew my muscles would be out of shape—you know, those mysterious muscles that seem to be used for nothing other than riding and identify themselves with piercing clarity after the first full-day voyage at the start of each season. But this was different. (Indeed, those muscles didn’t scream until the next day.) My joints were on fire. My hamstrings had shrunk to what felt like just a few inches in length. My head was numb. I had to rest half an hour for every hour of riding just to revive myself from the stiff and stuporous state into which I would repeatedly devolve from being fixed in one position. So much for the SuperHawk being a kinder, gentler, more comfortable sportbike! Actually, the main culprit was I-81, which greatly compounded my misery with thick, slow traffic for most of my trip.
The author’s SuperHawk (left), having survived its unconscionable mistreatment, rests with its cohorts somewhere in the Shenandoah Valley as the late Larry Grodsky holds court in the background.
By dusk, I’d finally made it to the end point of my interstate droning: New Market, Virginia. There, I’d at least gain the relief of switching to a nice curvy road (US-211) through some mountains on the last leg of my journey; finally, I’d be moving around on the bike. SuperHawks are gas guzzlers with small tanks, so I topped mine off—just to be safe. You never know what you’ll run into in uncharted territory. And, this way, I might be able to save a gas stop the next morning. After all, it had become abundantly clear that I needed as much rest as possible. I congratulated myself on this forethought.
The first couple of twisty miles were indeed refreshing. Although I was physically shot, the change of pace and scenery restored some of my mental acuity. The sunset was beautiful as I entered the dense forest at the mountain’s base. But as I asked my bike to climb the first rise, it balked. Kind of a burp/hiccup/backfire that sounded totally unfamiliar. Moments later, a miss, and then another. When I opened the throttle quickly, a cacophony arose from the engine bay like a jackhammer duet. I went easy. Great! A breakdown was the last thing I needed now. I’d miss my tour, have to get my lame bike home, and sleep in the wilderness on what was fast becoming a very chilly night.
I pulled over to take inventory. No sign of anything out of place. Maybe I’d gotten some bad gas. I guessed I’d have to burn through it, so I pressed on, but my bike ran worse and worse. I eventually lost one cylinder altogether, and the other was good for only about 30 mph. Whenever I slowed down, it stalled completely. And each time it was harder to restart. I just wanted to make it to Warrenton, but I was only halfway through the mountains. If I stopped here, I’d be equidistant from help in either direction.
It was then, maybe because the breeze had changed direction, that I smelled it. It was a sickening odor, not because of what it did to my nose but because of what it meant. It was the smell of a tractor trailer. A bus. A bulldozer. A diesel engine. Except mine was the only engine operating on this road for miles. My heart sunk into the small of my back. I must have put diesel in my tank in New Market. I pictured my pistons with huge gaping holes in them from what I now realized had been the sound of horrific detonation earlier, although its extreme intensity had made it unrecognizable to me then.
I looked behind me, and—sure enough—I’d been leaving a crop-duster-esque trail of thick, billowing smoke. My poor bike. Poor me. Unbelievably stupid, idiotic, #@&% ME! I’d never, ever done that before, not even close! Fortunately, I’d only put in two gallons; the rest of the tank contained premium gasoline. I remembered a little “last chance” gas station/diner/gift shop some 20 miles back, and I figured it was the closest place where I might drain my tank. Thanks to St. Honda, my bike limped all the way back. They had no siphon (SuperHawks don’t have easily accessed petcocks), but I was able to improve the ratio in my tank with an additional gallon of high-test. That got both cylinders firing, and—as long as I kept the revs up—the bike didn’t stall. It had grown very dark.
I made it, wrung out and bleary-eyed, into Warrenton at 7:00 p.m. With absolutely astonishing luck, I happened upon Blalock Cycles, which was just closing. They took pity on me, vacuumed my tank, and sold me new plugs. I filled up at the gas station next door, insisting on gasoline this time. After a few more stumbles, my bike acted like her old self again, apparently none the worse for wear throughout the rest of the trip. Amazing.
As I look back on this near-catastrophe, it’s completely inconceivable to me that I mistook the diesel pump for premium. It’s also impossible to believe that I didn’t recognize what was happening sooner or turn back earlier. Had I been fresh, I’d have disassembled my fuel lines and drained my tank at the “last chance” place, siphon or no siphon. I made one bad choice after another. All because I was tired, quite literally, out of my mind. I certainly knew I was sore and anxious to finish the day. But I had no idea how seriously impaired I’d become mentally, largely from the monotony and lack of bodily movement on the interstate—I was much more “out of shape” for those factors than for covering 450 miles.
Part of what gets lost in a state of severe fatigue, as in a state of inebriation, is one’s perspective on how fatigued (or inebriated) one actually is. If you think you can go on, it might be a good sign that you shouldn’t. If only I could have taken my own advice.
Time Machines
February 2017
Riding buddies do more than supply camaraderie and assistance. Sometimes, they also nudge us to try things we might not have checked out on our own. In this case, I didn’t require any pushing, just the offer of an opportunity I hadn’t previously pursued. Curiosity can be richly rewarded.
I was
