My journal entry doesn’t do this trip
justice. Five sentences describe a three-day weekend. The entry ends
“Good Ride”; I guess that really says it all.
We were invited to his niece’s wedding, 200 miles away. I had been a
licensed rider all of six weeks, and had my bike for just over 2 months.
We were going to make it a three-day weekend ride! We boxed up the
wedding finery and sent it off to his sister’s, now all we had to pack
was the rest of our stuff. He’s done this before, so I watched &
All packed up, we headed out, he on his Sporty & me on my Honda CB400T.
It was too tall for me, but it was a bargain I couldn’t pass up. We
still generally only travel on the four lane highways when it’s
absolutely necessary, and this trip was no exception. 60 miles north on
a nice 2 lane highway, thru the woods, 30 miles more it’s still 2 lane,
but farm land now. Still nice for riding, not much traffic. After a bit
we turn off the main road and onto a secondary 2-lane road. This road
runs along a small creek, the trees grow close on both sides, and the
road winds back and forth following the creek.
The creek… It had been raining a lot over the past couple weeks; the
creek was still muddy with run-off. There it was, the sign you really
don’t want to see on a small 2-lane country road: “Bridge Out”. So we
stopped and considered our options, we could turn around and go back,
take a totally different route or, just then the rural route mail
carrier stopped and asked if we were stopped because of the bridge. When
we confirmed that we were, she directed us to a road around the bridge.
It was dirt but it would bring us back out on the same road, just a few
miles beyond the bridge. Well that suited us, so we turned off our road,
onto the dirt road. It was a hard packed farm road and the going wasn’t
too bad. The farm road led back thru a cow pasture then made a sharp
turn and up the hill. Going up the hill was a little worse, the rain had
washed away some of the hard packed earth and left gravel in lots of
places, but we could see the top of the hill and it really wasn’t that
bad. At the top of the hill we stopped and looked down the hill. It
really was that bad. It must have really rained hard on this side, all
there was left of the road was “rocks the size of your head or bigger”
(that’s what my journal says), and the road was really narrow. There was
no way I was going to get turned around on that road, to go back the way
we came. So he went first, in case he had to park and come back to
rescue me. He would have had to go to the bottom and walk back, because
there was no place to park, his kickstand would have gone between the
Remember I said my bike was too tall? Well once I started down over the
side of this hill there would be no stopping for me either, until I got
to the bottom. There was just no place to put my feet down. The gaps
between the rocks looked like canyons to me. So I slowly headed down
that hill, from one rock to the next looking for the next best place to
put my front tire, hoping that I didn’t make a mistake. Slowly, slowly,
I went down the hill. He was waiting for me at the bottom; I think he
was holding his breath! I doubt now that it was much more than a quarter
mile down that hill, but then, who knows I certainly wasn’t measuring
it! The mail carrier was right about one thing, we did come out a couple
miles past the bridge, and once we got back on the pavement it was time
for a break.
Now when we go up that road, and I’m in the lead, I signal for the right
turn onto the DETOUR, look in my mirror at him and laugh!
Back to Index