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Trans America Trail part 3 |
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Posted by Staff
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Wednesday, 24 October 2007 |
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Page 3 of 3
My crankshaft, however, had other plans. The trip
that had been lemonade at this point quickly turned to lemons. Somewhere, close to the Kansas line the DR
developed a habit of misfiring, along with a sound that resembled shaking bolts in a metal coffee can. I am not a mechanic, but this was not the
type of sound that could be ignored, and sooner or later, the bike would lunch,
and I’d have a long walk. The DR held
together, but just inside of Kansas, the fuel mixture ignited for the last time
and the raucous 650 fell silent. I
squeezed the clutch, signaled to Jeff, and pulled to the right. We were still 200 miles from the truck, and
according to the atlas, there was not a city of substance for miles.
As we schemed and plotted on
how to get out of here, the innate goodness of motorcyclists once again
surfaced as I saw the blinker of a passing truck and then reverse lights. The only vehicle we saw all day, as luck
would have it, was a motocross racer heading from Colorado to Wichita, Kansas
to visit his girlfriend. He asked if I
needed help, as if that was not the understatement of the day. We recapped our saga, and he immediately
offered to load me up and take me as far as he was going. We agreed on Dodge City Kansas, and I headed
out to finish my journey in a Toyota Tacoma, looking back at my bike lying on
its side in the bed of a truck. Jeff
and his KLR raced, burning oil as he went, and collecting a ticket from Kansas’
finest along the way. He made it to
Buffalo, and the local sheriff helped him load his bike into the truck.
About 14 hours after we started
that day, Jeff was in my truck, off to rescue me from the Flyin’ J truck
stop, and get me outta Dodge.The trip ended, much less
gloriously than it started as I sat in Dodge City waiting
for my Chevy Silverado. I was making small talk with
truckers and eating Combos, but I didn’t even try and explain what had happened to those
that seemed confused by the man wearing what appeared to be a “snowmobile
suit” as it was called (cordura pants and coat).
I was staring across the
parking lot at a lifeless dirtbike. I
am sure they would never understand why I was not upset at the bike, but
instead felt in its debt. My prolonged
stay at the Flyin’ J, the blown up bike, camping at a trailer park, the
kindness of a stranger, the stories of all of the people we met, all of it was all part of an amazing journey, and story that I’ll tell for years to come.
The
TAT is the trip of a lifetime, and a good basis for a cross country trip done a
bit differently than the chrome and leather crowd would expect; different, but
in the same spirit of Peter Fonda, Billy, and Captain America. We did not follow it as it is written, and
chose to change course due to weather and side trips for other ventures. We will return and finish it all of the way
to the Pacific one day, but as this
trip stands, it is an adventure worthy of firm friends and a common
obsession.
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