family at Two Wheels To There

A Dirt Road to the Future – 2011.08.21

Published on June 22, 2015 by Ry Austin 12 Comments

Surtch Pherther switched off Escape Artist and leaned it on its stand at the T-junction of Ourantah Ridge Road and the rural highway between Trapper and Portcullis.

Ahead, to the east across the asphalt, badlands lay in wait, known to Surtch only through paper maps and hearsay, a rumorland–a land of rides to come. And behind him? Well, behind stretched 45 miles of the most delicious dirt he’d ridden yet, a finer way from point A to B-b-b-beyond, a tool and a toy–a promising path to his riding future. In fact, Surtch was already speculating how to extend the experience, how to nudge the dirt–by linked like routes of rocks and dust–closer to the City of Contradictions.

Civilization seems to self-assess somewhat by the amount of pavement it lays, to equate progress with wildness subdued, dirt covered, and curves tamed. It might then be the two-wheeler’s duty–civil disobedience moto style–to bypass the straight with twisty and the paved with dusty, leaving the slabs and their vanishing points to cagers and deadline riders.

Surtch Pherther at Two Wheels To There: A motorcycle blog by Ry Austin — Mr. and Mrs. Ed

That morning, Surtch had broken camp, scarfed down breakfast bars and parfait and cold coffee, bidden his folks goodbye, and coasted Escape Artist down toward the boat ramp, hanging a left just before. There, San Cosme Reservoir Road reached far to the tip of a sloped spur, then sharp-turned south, switched to gravel, and scampered up past thorny shrubs, sagebrush, and quaking aspen stands that tremble-filtered the harsh light for undergrowth of tender grasses and wildflowers and small ferns…

Soon it sprinted–a rutty, pocked, dirt traverse–through a lodgepole wood across a craggy mountainside toward a jumble o’ junctions where Surtch had U-turned the year before for poor dirt legs, throb-throb-throbbing in his full-faced head from having his wisdom teeth yanked just days before, and mind-fog and body-blahs from half a week of juggling painkillers…

It leapt through meadows and mixed forests high above San Cosme Creek–a creek to which a younger self and his brother and their dad had tromped through autumn-tan and -brittle brush in a frigid late fall to cast for brooks and browns but catch zilch…

It dashed past a shadow of a two-track down which on that same long ago trip the three had driven dad’s ’72 Ford “Blue Ox” Bronco and eaten hash browns with onions and lemon-peppered pork chops before a bonfire and slept like dead in their bags through a mute night to wake the next morn to half a foot of snow and they miles in on a “closed” road…

It hopped left and right in switchbacks tight to San Cosme Peak’s shoulder where Surtch wrong-turned twice but soon got on track for a change of scene to gray from green, to sparse pines among rabbit brush and sagebrush again and a clay soil road that went greasy from a cloudburst, causing Escape Artist to waggle about and to about go down, spooking a passing sheepdog but not the Peruvian shepherd or the pro horse he rode by on, the only creatures (short of Mr. and Mrs. Ed, of course, of course) that Surtch had seen all afternoon…

And finally it scrambled up to the last stretch of Ourantah Ridge, to the north of which the land rolled soft and somewhat green toward dinosaur digs and toward pumpjacks keeping time in fieldlings of oil and gas and toward the vast Cairn Mountains’ rock pile peaks, and to the south of which the earth broke jagged-dramatic toward coalfields and more dino digs and the Bucksaw Cliffs flanking a clayscape waste and toward–afar–the vivid desert of sandstone and dunes.

Back at the T-junction, Surtch switched on Escape Artist, heeled up its stand, and pressed its starter. By highway, the nearest town was 30 miles off. About 110 farther–through Lupo Pass and South Middlefield, past Keetstone Lake and the Silvervale roads, and over Big Canyon summit–waited the City of Contradictions, surely facing fitful sleep through another sultry summer night.

But for his hunger for a cheesesteak with fries and coffee at Pemm’s Hash House in Trapper, the lateness of the day with its shadows already presenting and the typical chill already making the usual threats and more cloudbursts abrewin’, and the guarantee that large game would soon again be jaywalking after dark, Surtch would’ve U-turned and gone back the way he’d come.

Oh well–he’d be back. Yes, Surtch Pherther would be back. For Ourantah Ridge Road had changed everything.

Was a specific road or stretch of road a game changer to the development of your skills or confidence as a rider?

Relations & Reflections, Motorbiking & Mudbugs – 2011.08.20

Published on June 1, 2015 by Ry Austin 4 Comments

Because motorcycling makes me feel like a kid again. It’s a predictable answer to an inevitable type of question, a type that riders rarely ask: They know that the experience, as skittish as a wild creature, eludes definition and that words often fail. To ride might be the only road to an answer: If the experience doesn’t take, an answer won’t be given. If it does take, a new rider will be born to pursue a passion that enlivens living–one possessed striving to possess the possessor.

It had been over five years since Surtch Pherther was–himself–born again, baptized by throttle into the Vespa sect of that divinely inspired Two Wheelers tradition, and much remained to be revealed to him—technically, socially, geographically, soulfully. Indeed, because motorcycling makes me feel like a kid again would have to do—for now…

“We’re going crawdaddin’,” hollered Surtch’s brother. “Who wants in?” The lunch-lazy camp stirred then squirmed then surged to life with kids of all ages wriggling into swimsuits and slipping into flip-flops, grabbing buckets and nets, and shouting “Shotgun!” and crying foul as they dashed toward the cars.

“I’ll meet ya there,” yelled Surtch, and he geared up, saddle up, and throttled off.

He hugged the few curves on the paved road from camp (they squeezed him back, right in the adrenaline) and then caved to the lure of an unlocked DOT gravel pit, low-banking its scattered mounds and slow-going its small slopes of shifty cobble in a continuing bid for practice makes better.

Perfect riding skills, especially off road, seemed an impossibility to Surtch, and frankly, immeasurable—like judging artistic merit.

From the gravel pit, he followed a faded two-track down to the pebbly beach and rode through the shallows half up to the hubs toward where his people were waist deep—splashing, laughing, crayfish net-catching—and closing in on buckets full. The scene flashed him back to a younger self’s first memory of wild water and a snippet of something he once-upon-a-time scribbled about it:

…I was four or so when my parents first took me and my siblings to wade in a desert river. We were headed home from camping when we stopped to try to squeeze out any lingering essence. The sun was setting, and damp river-bottom coldness was beginning to rise, which is typical for the desert—it can be blistering at noon, but frigid at midnight. I tiptoed through thin willows, purple-flowered tamarisk sprouts, and beds of coarse snake grass. The alkali sand, crusty and white, broke and sloughed beneath my little footsteps, exposing organic under-soil to which even the sparse salt grass clung fiercely. And all the while the Johnsie River just rippled, whispering its endless tale:

“I am a desert river and was dreamy in my youth. I only wanted to enliven difficult land, but of that I was deprived, doomed by the ages to dredge deeper and deeper until I flowed too far below any surface I could serve. I’m just a desert river—old and lonely—a thoroughfare for the evening breeze which to every spider delivers a fly. Look high, on the cottonwoods that dot my bank, higher than your reach. It’s where I wear my dry drift scarves and my deepest desire keep–to flood. Oh, just to flash once more. It’s when I’m at my peak.”…

Back at camp—nets tossed aside, buckets of creepy craw-dudes placed in the shade, flip-flops swapped for shoes, and swimsuits for dry duds—everyone had begun to slip into sun-stupor when…

“We’re off to hit a geocache,” hollered Surtch’s brother. “Who’s coming along?” And once again, as though on cue, the camp stirred then squirmed then surged to life with kids shouting “Shotgun!” and crying foul as they dashed toward the cars.

“Okay, man. You lead,” yelled Surtch, and a few minutes later, a few miles down from camp, they rolled to a stop on the hillside shoulder of a wide curve in the reservoir road. The kids goofed in the nearby brush while Surtch’s brother briefly consulted the GPS before pointing to a rocky outcrop on a low spur.

Up the gentle slope, through winding paths defined by giant, pungent sagebrush and impenetrable wild rose, along vague trails left by critters small and large, and safely past a stunning wasps’ nest sculpture, Surtch and his brother led the children. At last they scrambled the final bit onto the spur and then strolled out to its small point overlooking San Cosme Reservoir.

The kids spied the cache, traded trinkets, marked the booklet, and for a while everyone gazed upon the glimmering water below. Surtch repressed an urge to ask them for their thoughts, a query that seldom delivers anyway, and never in the moment: Most folks reserve the real stuff; impressions require digestion; and words—those imperfect tools for imperfect beings—often fail.

Oh, to be able to channel my child self, thought Surtch, to know his untainted impressions. Then maybe I’d know if I’ve grown, know if this bizarre, existential experience has been worthwhile so far.

Evening—calm, cooling, barely cloudy—was upon them upon their return to camp, so they lit a fire and soon they had a blaze. Amid the banter typical for fireside dining, Surtch politely declined his brother’s offer of boiled, um, freshwater lobster (a flattering name indeed) in favor of applesauce, beef jerky left over from lunch, and instant red pesto pasta. As night took hold, the children one by one yawned their ways to their sleeping bags and the adults followed suit until just the two brothers remained at the campfire.

“I was surprised when you showed up on Escape Artist,” said Surtch’s brother, with a knowing smile. “I had expected you to ride in on a new machine—something orange and sporty maybe?…” Surtch just chuckled.

In silence thereafter they watched the final flames die, the mound of orange coals cool and shift, the last few sparks rise and twist, and–curling smoothly around sky-pillar pines–the smoke waft like sacred incense in a grand, roofless cathedral.

To Surtch, this was the only religion that had ever made sense.

To Desire, a Satisfaction – 2011.08.13(b)

Published on May 11, 2015 by Ry Austin 2 Comments

With the armor stacked on the toilet tank, Surtch Pherther plunged his dust-choked jacket into the clawfoot tub’s warm water and suds, agitated the mix, and went back to the kitchen to seek dinner, leaving the textile tea to steep.

For riding, it had been a good day: From sunrise to -set he’d been there, immersed, reluctant to release the small adventure. It might sound trite, but if lessons lingered in the mindquake’s wake, never take desire for granted was one. Indeed, postquake, Surtch had arrived at maybe his best understanding yet of this bizarre, existential experience: To be human is to desire, and to desire is itself a satisfaction.

In the kitchen he was trying to cobble together a meal from clearly incompatible components when he became distracted by what sounded like a leaf blower, distracted less by the muffled hum than by the incongruity: It was late evening, well after dark, so “why the hell would anyone be using a leaf blower”? He stepped down the back stairs, out the door into the sticky night’s big arms, along the dim drive to the walk, and stopped… Aside from the chirping of crickets, the street was quiet.

Yes, for riding, it had been a very good day: From the Tumen Creek kilns, he’d taken that ridge-cresting road past a wind farm vast and new since he was last through, back when his dad, siblings, and a younger self were regularly backpacking deep into the Cairn Mountains Wilderness, back when it seemed that such times couldn’t possibly end. But they had ended, and recently–with his dad in denial and no one discussing it–and in life’s typical style too: by its stealing from aging man what it granted him in youth. The key was for all involved to evolve or wither in soul, to pursue new pastimes, to seek new adventures.

I don’t mind your doing your job, Father Time, Surtch had often thought to the universe, Lord knows that the cosmic clockworks would be nothin’ without you. But it’s when you wrench the throttle of this absurd conveyance… You can give us mental whiplash, you know, leave us essentially changed.

Back in the kitchen the incompatibility of dinner’s components refused to be resolved through their combining, and though Surtch tried to dismiss that nagging, muffled hum, distraction was again taking hold. He strode down the back stairs, out the door into the night’s muggy hug, along the dark drive to the walk, and stopped… Crick-crick-crick-crickets was the only sound on the street. “Weird,” he mumbled, “weirdness is goin’ on.”

From the wind farm, he’d descended a short dugway and then headed south into the Hacker Creek drainage to re-find westbound Rose Pitch Road. It was a route that, midweek, might have offered a relaxing ride through forest and meadows, but this Saturday in August the heating air was abuzz and a-gag with noise and smoke and dust from wild herds of two-strokes and four-wheelers tearing recklessly along the road and without restraint across trackless terrain. Surtch knew that they were only providing the state with more reasons to tighten restrictions, but he also knew their type: If challenged, they’d be eager and ready–pistols in hands, rifles in arms–to defend their “right” to abuse the places they “love”.

Late in the day–with shadows growing long; with the wetlands chill rising to roost in the woods, and large game milling down to the marshes to water; with the twisties of West Cairn Road through Bardom Pass and the south end foothills near ahead, and far ahead, sleepy Middlefield and the Westwitness Peaks–Surtch had finally hit pavement.

He agitated the jacket once more in the tepid, sudsless murk before reaching in to scoop it out. Dirty water fell into the tub, and in his arms the wet wad was buzzing like a hive of livid bees. “Oh, shit!” He dropped it–splat!–in the hall, fumbled open the jacket’s inside pocket, and yanked out his cell phone that was vibe-ing its life away and popped off its back and flipped its searing battery onto the kitchen floor.

It had been his phone–the noise of its dying vibes amplified by the water and the tub–that for half an hour or so was sounding like a blasted leaf blower…

WELCOME: smart-alecky comments and caption suggestions for the poor tripod placement for the photo above. Here’s a start…

“Hey, Propeller Helmet, you’ll need wings as well if you hope to take flight!”

Simpler Then, Easier When – 2011.07.03

Published on February 13, 2015 by Ry Austin Leave a Comment

The gaps from bolts to claps were closing ominously as Surtch Pherther hurtled along the highway, hoping the embracing forest would continue to provide cover, or taller targets at least. Though wilderness had schooled him not to defy such weather, the Cairn Mountains, famous as storm-makers and summertime snow-collectors, could get socked in: He wanted to beat it to Lake Lynnwood’s east side, a high desert where “taller” were few and far between.

He had departed the City of Contradictions predawn, risen up Big Canyon with the sun, veered east at the Interchange interchange, and eaten breakfast, likely in Booth Union. Yet the day had begun to stick only after he left the slab at Blacks Fort, and to engage only after his Birch Spring grocery stop: From there the pavement, hugging high the deep lake’s curves, elevated fitfully to about eight K into the Cairns’ east foothills and into that randomly sear-streaked, churning gray smother.

Upon finally crossing to the other side, of Lynnwood Dam, that is, Surtch glanced back to glimpse a smoke thread rising from the woods. Though a bolt had struck, the attending downpour would halt the smolder’s spread, and “Thank goodness!” the thunderstorm was dissolving over the broad water between. He would nevertheless get drenched the next day through the San Cosme on the Cairns’ south edge.

After greeting his family at camp, he stowed Escape Artist’s luggage, and everyone headed for the old Spear Ranch site far below the dam on the Crosscapes River (Surtch rode the dirt dugway’s steep grades a-peg and “no hands” to thrill his sister’s youngsters in the truck behind). They leisure-lunched from coolers and then the grownups lounged while the kids goofed on the lawn. At last, the day was warming, but slowly. Surtch lay as low as possible on the chilly grass, trying to elude the braille-eager fingers of the blind breeze.

He could sense the Crosscapes, knew it was near of course, had strolled its bank before lunch. There is something about a wide river on a flat: It might flow silently, but it nonetheless manifests a presence, possesses a spirit, is a being. The attuned wanderer usually can sense such a river long before he can see it, and always before he can hear it.

Surtch rolled onto his side and gazed at the cluster of century-and-a-half old structures, humble yet hardy. He’d always presumed simple those bygone days when folks doubtless presumed easy the days to come. Indeed, often romanticized are “then” and “when”. But “now”? Rarely.

Almost Ice in August – 2009.08.08

Published on February 13, 2015 by Ry Austin 1 Comment

Surtch Pherther had merely to squeeze the Vespa’s brake levers for a safe approach to the Tillage station… Somehow he managed, slowing in a wide arc through the lot to a spot near the doors of the welcome refuge.

“Damn,” hollered his brother, rolling in on the right, punctuating with exaggerated flexing of his left hand, “I almost couldn’t slow it down–clutch, shift, brakes, you name it.”

“Yeah, tell me about it, and I just have brakes to control.”

Eager to get inside and get hot coffee inside of them, they removed their thin gloves and their glasses and helmets while shivering toward the doors. For the wet and cold in which they’d been immersed for nearly two hours, every movement was a challenge, even thought and speech were slow. Needless to say, they left on their coats and other layers, foolishly few as they’d worn.

They had set off that morning in the face of a rainstorm threat–a threat that by north DeLusiville had become a promise, and just before Call’s Mill, a bully. Surtch had wanted to stop at Lutrec Marsh to gather any leftover magic from the year before, but such weather is only for curses.

In Agton Canyon the downpour really set in, and with each slight gain in elevation, the degrees dropped, until–at the pass, just a mile or so from the Tillage station–they hit a ride low of thirty-four Fahrenheit. Wet is wet; cold can mean discomfort; windy cold can be dangerous; but from all the time they’d spent in the harsh outdoors, the brothers knew that cold and wet in riding wind can be deadly, especially for the underprepared. Hypothermia is, after all, a skilled and silent seducer.

For about an hour at the corner booth they cupped large coffees in their convulsively shivering hands and tried not to shake too many crumbs from the donuts they’d bought. Fortunately, by the time they suppressed the storm’s effects, the dense overcast was breaking. It wasn’t exactly warm out, but afternoon sunlight was shining through. Surtch picked up the last of his groceries and packed his cooler, reluctantly scooping ice with his bare hands.

“Shit, man, that’s hardcore,” said a guy walking by, pointing at the laden scooter, “Did y’all come over the top?”

“Yeah, ‘bout an hour ago, all the way from the City of Contradictions. It was thirty-four up there.”

“Shit…,” shaking his head as he entered the station.

Across the lot, Surtch’s brother idled in wait at road’s edge. Surtch rolled up on the right, nodded, and after a moment, seconds before throttling onto the highway, casually said, “You know, I’m considering getting a motorcycle”.