Subject: Curse of the monkey paw - a trip report (long) From: Blake Johnson Date: Fri, 16 Jun 2000 02:30:56 -0400 (EDT) Now that the bandages are off and the Love Glove is retired, I can recount the tale of woe that beset most of the members of the Philly contingent, adding tragic counterpoint to the triumph that was RCR-IX(Y2K) as all good theater demands. And despite Josh's, er, joshing, in defense of my mojo I still say it was Howard's bad luck that started the whole train of events, and that's my story until the DA offers me a deal. PROLOGUE: Howard Carson and I were working in his garage. He'd just changed his spark plugs, and after a test ride the bike was running like crap. So we're in the dimly lit garage peering at the bike, I lean over for a better look, lose my balance and reach unthinkingly for a big frame rail that turns out to be a 1200 F***ING DEGREE EXHAUST HEADER! Second degree burns on my fingers and 3 hours in the emergency room later, Howard is bikeless and I can't ride. So he rides my bike and I am relegated to driving the bagwagen (apologies, Amy, the licensing fee is in the mail), my left hand swathed in puffy bandages and clad in the infamous Love Glove. DAY 1. Howard (my '92 FJ-1200), Tom Biggs ('89 FJ), Andy Donohue (Concours) and I (Ford Contour) start off Thursday morning from Langhorne, Pa. A separate contingent - Dave Petke (Trophy 900), Mike (ST1100) and Mark (Bandit 600) DiTullio, Steve Rosenblatt (CBR900-RR) and Darren "Fanci Boy" Wright (GTS1000) - jump off from Dave's tax shelter barely within the northern Delaware border. It is decided that we will do a couple hours of slab in the morning so we can sleep in a bit, meeting the others for lunch in W.Va. - a decision for which the gods, or Col. Holbrook poking his backroads voodoo doll, punish us. As we're crossing the really skinny portion of Md. on US 522, Howard notices that Andy and Tom, who were right behind him, have gone missing at the last off-ramp. (I would have seen their mishap, but even in the car I was getting antsy. I ducked off onto PA 928 - wonderful twisties and sweepers, and not a single other vehicle in its 13 miles.) Anyway, as it turns out, at that ramp Tom threw his chain, cracking the cover on the primary, which also holds the clutch slave cylinder, and some other damage; and slinging a link into Andy's hand behind him. Howard figures they just missed the turn, they know we're meeting for lunch in Berkeley Springs, W.Va. just 10 miles down the road, so he goes on. The two groups wait a good while for them to show up, then go to find lunch in town, leaving a message at the meeting place. Meanwhile, Tom and Andy are tooling all over Hancock, Md., and environs trying to find an appropriate master link and a gallon tub of JB Weld. Failing miserably, Tom finally grabs a motel and waits to talk to a shop in the morning; he eventually returns home. Andy gets back on the road about 7:30 and hits the slab again to try to meet us at our first night's destination, Sutton, W.Va., coming about 80 miles short before he gets so tired he just grabs his own motel room for the night. The rest of us, having finished lunch, call Tom's wife to see if he's left messages. I'd backtracked a bit, but not far enough to find them. We leave her instructions on route and destination and press on. The riders gleefully load their excess baggage into the car, and begin plotting how to maim me for the next trip. They're joking - I think. God bless pork-barrel politics! Sen. Byrd has provided West Virginia with some *very* nice roads. 127 and 29 get us onto US 50, which is any where from good to excellent, especially in the miles east of Grafton. In Evansville we head south - 92/38/250/119/20/4 - with the last, WV 4, being especially entertaining, though our views of Poverty County are a bit disconcerting. I'm pleased to discover I've arrived at the motel only five minutes after the riders, since I haven't laid eyes on them since lunch. You can fling almost anything through a turn fast if you're of a mind to - one dump truck we passed is evidence of that - but some vehicles are a lot more fun than others. After dinner, the DiTullios and I hit the bar. Turns out the bartender's sister dates Brian Bostrom (or he dates Bostrom's sister - not real clear on this). Much entertaining talk ensues. End of Day 1 - Sutton, W.Va. - one rider out, one MIA. DAY 2. The next morning finds Andy waiting in the parking lot for us - he's slabbed down from somewhere around Morgantown, W.Va., I think, so at this point he hasn't even set a tire on a twisty road. We remedy that quickly. The route continues on WV 4. Some of its latter parts aren't as entertaining as the first leg, and then there is a very brief shot of highway just to get through Charleston. But soon we are on some very fine backroads: 3,10, Smoky Hollow Rd., 25, 37. Andy's finally getting some fun in; and then... Turns out, they mine coal in West Virginia. As Andy's coming around a tight right-hander on 25, there's an entrance to one of these mines, and a load of gravel and running water across his path there. He stands it up and runs off the road on a nice flat spot, but the dirt under the grass is soft and he can't keep it upright. He goes over in a minor highside and the soft earth still manages to be hard enought to snap his footpeg and luggage mount off, while he goes pitching through the windshield. The insidiously soft ground is also harboring another obstacle - an old stump, which Andy fetches up against with his shoulder (hard armor in the Stich takes the brunt), and the force folds him in half in a place where the human body doesn't actually have hinges. Damage to bike - it is now the world's only half-faired Connie, but most stuff works. We lock up the bike and head into "town," a little burg called Wayne. Finding a tire/muffler place, they in turn recommend a welder in town. Andy drops the peg off to be worked on and we again spend lunch speculating on whether we'll all make it to Ky. in one piece, or at least a reasonably coherent collection of pieces. The welder does a fine job, and while the rest of the gang continues on, Andy decides he's no longer in the mood for a challenging ride, so it's back on the slab. Howard and I follow. Total milage for Andy to Renfro Valley is 800 something, maybe 75 of that on entertaining roads. The other cross into Ky. at Fort Gay, and take a series of back roads, including 32, 172, and the gloriously unmarked 89 down through Dan'l Boone Nat'l Forest, arriving an exit down the highway from the camp. Arriving at the camp, a quick-thinking Josh realizes that the proper treatment for my burned hand is the immediate application of a cold beer, with followup of Michael Jackson jokes. The Love Glove is so dubbed. The riders show up about an hour and half later with big grins on their faces; only my injury prevents me from slapping them off. At dinner down the pike, Darren is smitten by our sassy teenage waitress; he manages not to again blurt out, "We ride motorcycles!" But the waitress handles him and the rest of us nicely, and certainly earns her hefty tip. After dinner, I notice Steve checking into the motel next to the restaurant. Turns out, 1)he'd forgotten to bring bedding since he'd expected to motel it on the way out, and 2)one of those damned rips in the space/time continuum has deleted a day from his personal timeline. Apparently he's supposed to be at some event back home a day earlier than he'd thought, so he's decided to slab it back the next morning. We bid him farewell. End of day two: One rider lost, one crashed, one flees in horror upon discovering what the Denizens are *really* like. DAY 3: It's a relaxation/exploration day. We hit the local Jean's for breakfast, and then plan a trip out to Natural Bridge State Park. Ian Howie, driving his truck, takes his own route to the same destination to accomodate frequent photo ops. I follow the riders' route, thankyouverymuch, while they get lost almost immediately (but happily, since they found their own batch of backroads to flog). KY 587 is a *nice* road, as is 11. I wonder if Eastern Kentucky has a bad road? At Natural Bridge I'm theoretically there about the same time as Ian, but we miss each other. I hike up to the bridge, a short 3/4-mile trail. Very nice; a little intimidating to have all that rock looming unsupported above me, more so than at Arches in Utah because the rock here is more fragile-looking and stratified. Lacking any other plan, I slab back to camp, hoping to catch a nap before dinner. No such luck; upon arrival, I'm summoned by the name "Contour Boy," and Josh tells me that the critical veggie lasagna, without which our non-carnivores would surely perish, failed to make its way to the caterers, some 30 miles down the highway. The author of said lasagna (Mike Sayers, yes?) and I drive down to pop it into a steam oven, and go waste time in a Geeks 'R' Us, aka Radio Shack, while we wait. About 45 min. later it's done, and they load it into a big insulated box for the trip back, which takes about 20 min. Lax speed enforcement is a good thing. We arrive with our just-in-time dinner delivery; Doc Deming would be proud. After consuming mass quantities the awards ensue. Our group does Pa. proud: the Love Glove award for me, Bike Least Likely to Make it Back for Tom, the Crash Award for Andy. End of Day 3: Two riders lost, one crashed, the near tragedy of uncooked veggie lasagna narrowly averted. DAY 4: Departure day. Dave and Darren have more fun planned by way of Deal's Gap, so they head off on their own. They have no idea how lucky they are to be separated from us. Howard had packed up the FJ, then he went to carefully park my bike by the side of the road, not realizing there is a drainage ditch right where his left foot wants to be. Remember Arte Johnson and his tricycle on Laugh-In? Exactly. Down goes the bike, snap goes the mirror, twist goes Howard's ankle, poof goes Howard's pride. Getting on the road, it's a final encore for SR 89, then westward on 52 and 30. Howard's not feeling right after the drop, I'm not sure Andy was in the groove either, so speeds are pretty conservative. I'm actually keeping up in an underpowered sedan. On SR7/US460 just north of Elsie, Mike is leading. We come around a moderate right-hander - somewhat restricted sightlines, but by no means blind - with the entrance to a steep, downhill gravel road at the interior apex. There, poking uphill from that road, is a pair of teenagers in a clapped-out Chevy, trying to make a left exit. Mike comes around and has to swerve a bit to avoid her nose. Apparently never contemplating the idea of "more than one motorcycle," or perhaps just being unable to count, she inches out more so she is now completely blocking our lane. She sees Mark coming around the bend; he sees her. Mark moves into the oncoming lane because it's all she's left him; she decides, at the same instant, to PUNCH IT to get across the road before Mark gets there, and they meet head on at the end of Mark's 15-foot skidmark in the oncoming lane. Mark thinks he was in a lowside at this point, and was somehow cartwheeled over the passenger side into a ditch; his bike's wheelbase is shortened dramatically, and it ends up in the ditch, too. Luckily for Mark, Andy Goldfine is no dummy; Aerostich does its job, and Mark comes away with an as-yet undetermined wrist injury. By this time the rest of the group is there, and Howard's gone ahead to retrieve Mike. A couple locals show up to direct traffic coming around the bend, a deputy who may be all of 19 shows up to take reports. Mark decides there's no need for an ambo. Formalities done with, we leave the group at the side of the road while Mike and I drive down into the "town" to try to find a truck for Mark's bike. The one place in the first town is closed, so we toodle into the next one, Paintsville, 20 miles down the road. After numerous, fruitless phone calls, we have a cascading epiphany: It is Sunday. It is late afternoon. We are in the Bible Belt. We are shit out of luck. Heading back to the group, we decide that with my one good hand, Mark's one good hand and Mike's two, count'em, two hands *with* opposable thumbs, we can manage to get the bike into a U-haul. So we send the rest of the group on their way, lock up the tattered remnants of the Bandit, and head down into town to find a motel; the U-haul place there will be open the next day. Oh, wait, not so fast: Everyone is parked on the aforementioned gravel road. Howard's put down a metal plate under the sidestand, and in kicking the plate out from under, knocks the sidestand up, nearly dropping the bike a second time that day; he saves it, but his ego is a goner. In town we install Mark in the emergency room, conveniently located directly across the street from the motel. The eventual verdict is that the tip of the ulna, up where it forms a cup for a wrist bone, has broken off. (A doctor back home find another fracture further down.) Pizza for dinner, sans beer because we'd have to drive another hour to W.Va. to find a wet county. Not worth it, at least not worth it for the kind of beer we'd find in Possumbutt, W.Va. End of day 4: Two bikes crashed, two riders lost, one bike dropped (almost twice). DAY 5: We get the truck (a fairly sizable moving van) and get back to the bike. Proving that slapstick is not dead, the 1 and 2/3 of us manage to wrestle the bike up the ramp, get it secured, and get on the road. Mark's stint in the Army driving heavy equipment serves him well; even one-handed, the moving van is no problem for him. Slabs take us across West Virginia, then the DiTullios branch off for Pittsburgh, and I continue on through Md. and Pa., finally pulling in outside Philly some 9.75 hours later. So, the final tally for the trip: One rider injured before starting; one bike out of commission before starting; one rider and bike lost on the way there; one crash on the way there; one rider having to leave without even meeting most of the Denizens; one bike dropped; one crash on the way back. But by God, there was hot lasagna. Blake Johnson 1992 Yamaha FJ1200 DoD #1257 blakeward@juno.com (blake@nchoicemail.com)