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Date: Wed, 14 Jul 1993 00:49:06 -0400 (EDT)
From: Dances With Federal Rangers <cdw2t@dayhoff.med.virginia.edu>
Subject: RCR Trip Report
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This long-winded tale is my account of the Second Annual Right Coast Ride,
held this past weekend in beautiful Cass, West Virginia.  I've tried to be
as literate as possible, in the Fine Olde Tradition of What-Rec.Moto-Used-
To-Be, so give it a try before hitting 'n', won't you?


                Friday Afternoon: The Ride Out.

I had the bike loaded to the gills as Will Heyman (#638), a last-minute
participant, drove through my yard and parked.  After chatting a bit and
deciding on our route, we went to fetch the lovely Sari (my SO of choice as
well as Choice SO), catching every red light and being split up by a rude
cager.  An omen of things to come?  Rain threatened and even began to fall --
unfortunate, as the SO did not possess raingear.  Sari did overhear me say
"Well, at least *I* won't get wet".  An omen of things to come?

We set out to the meet site, the Blue Ridge Parkway/ Route 250 interchange.
And waited.  And waited.  An Aerostich-clad rider aboard a BMW R1100RS pulled
up at last:

        "Where am I?" he queries.
        "You're with us, where you belong." I reply, assuming the world
                revolves around me.
        "Where are you heading?" he quizzes suspiciously.
        "Cass, West Virginia." I matter-of-factly exclaim.
        "Nope, Sherando Lake." he caustically retorts.

We helped him out after I remove my steel-toed boot from my mouth.  Finally,
Dave Lawrence pulled up in a cloud of dust to announce that the group had
decided not to take Skyline Drive to our location; we headed off to the new
meet site.  And waited.  After the north contingent arrived (missing a few
notable net persona (Chris BeHanna and Annette, Mr. Bill Leavitt, and the
Tavareses)), gassed up, and posed, we set off in a group for Cass.  The group
broke up about three minutes later when the leaders executed a four- or five-
car pass.  A two-up Seca2 don't play that, much to my chagrin and that of Dean
Cookson and Amy, who were stuck behind me.  We rode in a two-bike 'group' to
Monterey WV, passing through some of the best twisties I've ever ridden (that
doesn't say much, but these roads were NICE).  Everyone again met and filled
'em up in Monterey.  All but Mark Cervi and I elected to stay and fill them-
selves up at a local greasy spoon; we headed west.


                Friday Evening: Beer, Lies, and Videotape.

When we arrived at Cass, the offices were closed.  Pops Penschow directed us to
and fro; finally, we found the cabin "assignments" in a mailbox on the side of
a building.  Hearing the rest of our gang approaching, we ambled down to the
main offices.  The experience of having a half-dozen or so motorcycles coming
at me in the dark was unique: I expected them to begin circling me, laughing
and speaking of "fresh meat".  Finding them somewhat tamer, we explained the
convoluted sleeping arrangements and got our saddlebags from Scott Lilliott's
wife's cage (thanks, Basie! [sp]).  After unpacking and ingesting a wonderful
lasagne dinner (thanks, Bill!), we set off, beers in hand, in search of
something social yet motorcycle-related.  Denizens were everywhere, so our
mission was easily accomplished.  The larger party took place at a cabin on
the hill, so we headed for it.  The vote for Most Dramatic Entrance goes to
that wacky Brit, Nick Pedophile [sp].  After zipping up the grassy knoll to our
location, he began drifting backward -- directly toward a row of bikes.
Stopping in time, he parked and proceeded to hook his leg on the bike while
dismounting, performing a neat one-legged pogo stick impression as a save [for
the record, I heard Nick's bike-handling skills were quite good; rumors of his
videotaping while riding 15- and 20-mph twisties "at speed" reached us].  The
party down around 12 or so, with cries of "Spirited Riding at Ten" echoing
through the hills 'til then.  We retired to the morality-enforcing, narrower-
than-twin beds for the night, atingle with excitement.


                Saturday Afternoon: Rides, Swimming, and Beer.

Our Saturday morning began when my alarm clock, in the shape of a Ninja 250
with a Pipe, went off at about 7:20am.  As I had left it across the street and
could not reach it from the bed, I relied on its owner (Jim Bothwell) to
remove it from the area.  Downing French toast, peach cobbler, and fresh-brewed
coffee (thanks, Genie Ranck!), we wandered down to the Scenic Railroad parking
lot, where the Spirited Riders were assembling.  As if reading my small mind,
a black-leather-bedecked Chris BeHanna began circling me on his intimidating
ZX-11.  I couldn't hear his threatening comments, though, they being lost in
the throaty music of 26 other motos.  A growing number of civilians watched
with wary interest, unsure whether to gawk or run for their lives.  The group
took off in search of twisties (they didn't have too far to go for that
(thanks, WV!)) before a group photo could be had.

Passing some time with Jack and Jackie Tavares, Dean and Amy, and Sanjay in
the train station's diner, we saw an older gent in a shirt whose pattern
exactly matched the curtains.  I tried my hand at a complicated joke involving
a blood relationship between that guy and Scarlett O'Hara; it failed.  Never
attempt obscure literary jokes with motorcyclists in the morning.


Sari and I opted for the road less gravelled (tm), heading for Marlinton
to pick up food supplies for ourselves, a "healthy dinner" for Dave Lawrence,
and to avoid adding our names to the list of gravel-induced lowsiders at RCR2.
The SecaII is a good bike when used properly, but two-up carving is not a
strong suit.  It may not even be a weak suit.

The ride to Marlinton was excellent: roads were smooth and nonlinear, with
every bend announced.  I quickly learned to ignore any turns labelled "35mph"
or higher; WV roads beg to be run at 60-80mph.  Marlinton was having Pioneer
Days, which put people everywhere.  We tried to get far from the madding crowd,
found a grocery store, hit the produce market, and headed back home.  The
Spirited Riders had still not returned, so we explored the area, finding the
Greenbrier River quite swimmable.  Walking back to the cabins, we stumbled upon
the Riders, returned and preparing a group photo session.  As no picture of
motorcycles would be complete without a SecaII, I brought mine down and wedged
it between a Katana 1100 and a Buick Skylark (2600, I think), both of which
concealed it well.


        Saturday Evening: Dinner, Drinking, and Lie-Swapping.

A hideous planning snafu resulted in Dean Cookson, his girlfriend Amy, and Tim
Seiss not getting to take the dinner train ride.  The greatest disappointment
of the whole affair was that, with at least four extra tickets, Denizens and
their Friends took advantage of the chaos to scam Dean out of $100.  He
and Amy bought dinner and ate it with Dave, Sari, and me -- we praised their
wisdom of not eating anything prepared at my hands.  Dave continued his
weekend-long habit of borrowing small amounts of money from various persons
(resulting in a well-spread-out debt of formidable proportion), eating the
dinner we bought and prepared for him.  He even managed to squirrel out of
washing any dishes.  Truly is his DoD number deserved.


By this time, the remainder of the squids^H^H^H^HSpirited Riders had returned
from dinner and the Saturday Soiree was beginning.  We grabbed a couple beers
and headed for some noise.  In olden times, this would have put us in the
company of Seth "Two-Stroke"/"Roid" Zirin but, alas, he could not attend this
year.  The second, and minor, disappointment of RCR2 was that there were so
many people spread out in so many cabins that it was difficult to spend time
with all of them -- the main reason we were all there.  Nevertheless, we gave
it a go.  A gentleman from Poland had ridden all the way here to be with us;
we chatted briefly but long enough for me to forget his elusive name (Zippy?).
Sari and I counted the evening a success: politely, no one said I was in their
killfile and neither of us acquired the dreaded title of Keeper of the
Hangover.  A scary moment was passed when, walking by a house, I managed to
utter some inbred joke or other perhaps a _Deliverance_ reference) without
realizing that a pack of West Virginians were sitting on their porch and
overheard me.  Passing the house on the way back, they were for some
inexplicable reason brandishing shotguns at 12:30am.  Go figure.  


                        Sunday: Swimming and Riding.

Sunday morning saw us checking out by ten. As we were less than three hours
from home, we took a more leisurely approach to getting on the road than most.
Dave, Will, Sari, and I headed down to the river for another swim, finding it
much colder than the previous day.  After a bit of frisbee in which no one
wanted to get wet above the waist, we moved the game to the parking lot.  We
waved goodbye to Cass and its magical roads around noon, heading for the last
mountain twisties between there and .... home.

The trip home earned me the moniker "Back Marker", as I was consistently left
by my more skilled, more daring, less laden companions.  Although these were
some great curves, I couldn't shake the immense sense of responsibility for
my non-leather-clad pillion's safety.  I also couldn't ignore the shoring up
the Seca's suspension would need to be a more competent two-up carver:
Progressive springs, front and rear.  Yamaha took their handling cues for this
one straight from the V-Max, I think.  And I took my bike-handling cues from
Grandma Moses.

A food stop in Monterey got us an 18", three-topping monster pizza and three
large drinks for .... $14!!  I gassed up and we set out to conquer the last set
of bends before the interstate.  As expected, I got dusted, languishing behind
a safe-driving woman in a righteous Escort (12mph in the "15 mph" curves) with
no clear opportunity to pass and no power to do so, either.  We met at the top
of the mountain to use up the last few exposures on the film.  The Confederate
Army had some sort of facility there in the war; the sign at the parking lot
said "Confederate Breast Works" with an arrow pointing to the left.  As a
mature, politicaly correct Man of the Nineties, I exploited my woman for some
low-brow photo humor.  I also took to repairing my TourMaster saddlebag, which
had ripped only moments before.  Some twine on the bags and a large burn on my
knee later, we were off.  I'll have to get Steve Andersen to make me a bracket
of carbon-fiber for future use.

We slabbed it the last 50 miles or so instead of red-lighting it through
Staunton and Waynesboro.  One of Will's securely-bungeed shoes escaped its
elastic prison a couple miles from home, yielding a cheap excuse for a butt-
break.  I was nearly to the errant footwear when, its pilot grinning, a
Winnebago ran over it.  I pointed to my DoD patch.  He stopped smiling.

I got Sari installed in her air-conditioned apartment, had a bev, and barely
beat the major rainstorm home, hauling the non-waterproof bags inside just
before the skies opened for the first time all weekend.


                        Epilogue.

Major kudos to Dean for site selection and the donation of his time in
organizing the RCR2, which was a great deal of fun.  There were many more
people there than the few I've mentioned, all with unique bikes and lies,
and the event held not one unpleasant time for Sari and me in the whole
weekend.  Except that we weren't aboard an FJ or VFR -- but that's another
story.


                        Author's Note.

If you've made it this far, you really should seek counseling/counciling/
consoling/be commended.  If you can make it to next year's RCR, you really
should; it is the highlight of the Right Coast season.

Ride safely,
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
|     Cliff Weston        DoD# 0598    AMA# 300771      '92 Seca II         |
|                                                                           |
|I don't think the two inches you have on me would make a lot of difference.|
|                            -- Dean Cookson                                |
|                                                                           |
|       Keep it straight, willya?                 -- Ron Miller             |
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