Our ride begins with classic Seattle weather, 35 degrees and raining. "At least we'll appreciate Baja after this" I naively offer to Steve. Although a bit demoralizing to start this way, we suit up in our new Gore-Tex and head out. The good-byes are uneventful as we've been leaving tomorrow for the last two weeks.
Fortunately the rain never turns to snow and we slip over Snoqualmie pass on I-90 unscathed. But night falls quickly and the foolishness of setting out at 4:00pm in January becomes quite apparent. Seattle appears determined to hurtle its detestable weather at us long after cresting the cascades. Our equipment presents us with two delightful choices, frozen hands or cold torso. The KLR, while adept at many things, excels at almost nothing. And supplying electricity fits squarely on the dismal end of the spectrum. Thus, you are left with the choice of directing the engines excess juice at powering your heated vest or electric grips.
I momentarily considered the merits of the two in a vain attempt at distraction. Figuring that hand dexterity carries a premium when operating a bike, I opt for the heated grips. It wasn't until the next day that I realized the grips had been switched to low heat. This proved to be a highly disappointing oversight.
Ice climbers call it 'screaming barfies'. An unpleasant but fitting description of what can happen when your hands reach a critical low temperature. Most everyone has felt the early stages of the sensation. It’s that feeling you get warming your hands after a rigorous bare handed snowball fight. While your body does a pleasant job of masking the pain during the exposure, it’s the re-warming stage when the pain begins. I’m sure it’s not clinically accurate, but it feels as if your blood has begun to crystallize while your heart keeps shoving it through reluctant veins. Naturally, the result leaves you with intense pain and spinning nausea. It’s brutal enough when you're stuck to a frozen waterfall, but downright frightening when you're doing 70 on the highway.
By now it was completely dark and my options were quite limited. Another 30 seconds of this and all motor skills would be gone. Perhaps enough to stumble down a snowy trail, but certainly insufficient to pilot a motorcycle. Suddenly I became deeply envious of those intelligent enough to drive something with 4 wheels and a roof. The miles passed by at a maddeningly slow pace, allowing my mind to conceive such brilliant thoughts as perhaps it would be warmer if I just crashed.
[Steve exits on the onramp to find Jim after all communication stopped]
Better judgment prevailed and an exit soon appeared on the outskirts of Cle Elum. A solitary cowboy bar just off the ramp promised warmth. Pale faced and past shivering, Steve and I stumbled through the door.
“You guys out snowmobiling?” Asked a local at the bar.
“No were actually on motorcycles, but right now I’d take a snowmobile.” I said, feeling half the fool, half the tough guy. They all laughed, emphasizing the former. At least there was a fireplace.
Hot cocoa in our bellies and hands fully thawed, we headed out to our trusty steeds. "Hey Jim, your headlight and brake light aren't working." Steve said.
Great. Remove panniers, dry bags, side panels and seat. You would imagine repairs on a bike would be quite easy, with everything close and accessible. While this is mostly true, I was unimpressed with the logic as I fumbled with screwdriver in freezing temperatures.
Blown fuse. Problem fixed. Feeling proud of our rapid and astute assessment of the mechanical problem, I hit the start button. Nothing. The $120 gel cell, uber battery was dead. Thankfully my neighbor, himself an avid motorcyclist, had shown us how to start a motorcycle using miniature jumper cables. Crouching between the two bikes in a snow filled puddle, I connected the wires and realized that if I electrocute myself at least it will have a warming effect.
