The New Bike and Bentanite

On the road - not even noon, okay, maybe but we still had plenty of light left and an a new bike to get broken in. We pulled out of Monarch Harley Davidson, turned left and headed towards Evanston, WY. "Grandpa" sounded nice, deep throaty rumble and a stereo, damn what more could a man ask for... okay, there are a couple of things but I was easy to please that day.

We rolled out of Orem and headed towards Provo Canyon opening the bikes up as we went. With each turn my smile grew wider and my wife calmed down, it seemed as if we were making this trip happen come hell or high water and both of us were equally determined to freeking enjoy it. Even if it killed us! One switchback after another, one climb followed by a descent, each mile ticking by a little faster than the last and it seemed before we knew it we were turning east on to highway 80.

We knew at this point that we were well on our way, the miles between us and Arizona were now considerable. The scenery had changed from high desert plateaus to pine covered mountains. Highway 80 cut through one mountain pass after another and the number of motorcycles heading east seemed to grow with every passing mile. Evanston came and went and was little more than a fuel stop--gas stations were packed with bikes from every state in the western US--fuel and go was our mission, as fast as we could, and just to keep the travel gremlins at bay each of us would ring our "bike bell" just prior to starting up and heading out. Onward we went towards highway 189 North to Kemmerer, Wyoming and then towards Daniel, Bonderaunt and finally Jackson (aka Jackson Hole). The miles were mounting up fast. We stopped in a small town, population one gas station and a mobile home, for an "ass-break", a quick smoke and something to drink and snack on. A quick check-in with the kids back home just to let them know mom and dad were still alive and kicking and the new bike was running like a kitten with a really nice roar. Fifteen minutes of stretching and bullshitting it was time to ring the bells and head north - on to Daniel.

The plan, I know, here we go again with this damned plan, but the plan... was to stop in Jackson for the night. We had ridden hard and covered a lot of ground if we could get to Jackson we would be nearly back on track.

We fired up the bikes and pulled back towards 189 North. A left turn, the clank of the gears dropping as we quickly got up to speed and then we saw "Them". We are not usually scared by "Them" but on this trip we learned to be and the group was about
to get our first lesson in how to "fear the sign."

What sign, you ask?

The feared "Road Work Ahead" sign.

We didn't know at the time that we should be afraid. We had never been afraid of a sign before. Why start now? It's just a sign. It's an eye grabbing orange with black letters shaped like a diamond - so, what's to fear?

As we rolled on what the sign had warned us about was starting to come in to view; it seems that in Wyoming when they do "road work" on the back roads, which really is what highway 189 is--a farm road, they tear up the top of the road and leave only the bentanite bedding for the farm/ranch trucks to travel on. This works good enough for motorcycles as well as long as it hasn't rained... and it had.

We pulled to the side of the road, shut down our bikes and just looked at each other shaking our heads. We all thought it--but it took a few moments for anyone to say it--WTF can't we catch a break!?

Bentanite, when prepared for roadwork, and mixed with rain, becomes as slick as riding on ice and just to make matters even more fun you sink in to it just enough that it will build up on your front wheel and turn steering in to a full body work out.

As you may remember from previous chapters in the 99 Trip to Sturgis story; I have been riding from the age of 10. I started out and road for years dirt bikes in the deserts of Arizona. I have a fairly high comfort level with off roading--dirt biking, just not on a nearly 900 pound motorcycle with 400 pounds of riders and gear, my friends have less.

As we all stood there watching farm truck after farm truck trudge through, sliding sideways, we knew we had to decide on one of two options: Ride forward through the 1/4 mile of road-less roadwork or turn around and ride 80 plus miles back to the highway and cut across the bottom half of Wyoming. The second, really, was not an option we had come this far, been through this much we were all going to Jackson and then to Yellowstone--end of story. So it was said--so it shall be done.

Mike decided that he'd go through first, JR would follow then the rest of the group. Mike's a bit crazy--you may remember him as the lead rider from the Riding Through Hell Chapter--so he and his lovely wife pulled out, followed by JR and his wife, and then the rest. Nice and slow was what we had said, too fast and the bike will get squirrely in the Bentanite, to slow and you may have a faster build-up on the tires... 100 feet and while not easily controlled we were all doing fine. 200 feet with each of us following the other. Nearly half way now, we were staying pretty much in the tracks of a truck and the new ones that Mike was carving along the way--and then it happened--as fast as you could scream "OH F*CK!" Mike's rear wheel slid left and then right and down they went sliding through the rain soaked Bentanite, JR swerved left to avoid running over Mike and his bike, corrected back to the right. Just when he got around Mike and Kim-- the bike slid to the right and then to the left and down they went doing their best imitation of Mike and Kim sliding through the mud.

It was sometime between Mike hitting the ground and JR doing the same that my wife began screaming at me and beating me on the shoulders and back. I don't know why. I still wonder to this day what would possess her to smack me around with everything else that was going on--I mean, after all I was the one in control of us falling or not--why hit me? I pleaded for her to stop but she wouldn't she slapped me and smacked me and beat me on my back, yelling things at me that are normally reserved for the bedroom, a divorce court or a combination of the two.

I knew she was scared and worried about her friends lying there in the mud but I couldn't stop - there was no place to stop. I trudged on, taking my beating as I went, listening as the profanities were volleyed at me like mortar rounds in a fire-fight and just for good measure an occasional "Let me the 'F' off of this bike NOW!"... thinking the whole time...soon honey and if you keep hitting me it may be sooner than you think.

I had put my feet out to the sides of the bike to offer a bit more stability--hoping my feet would act as skis through the muck and figuring if it goes down I should end up standing over my motorcycle and not under it like my oh so unlucky friends. To be honest I was also pulling from every memory and trick I had learned while dirt-biking and thinking the entire time... Jesus, I just bought this F'ing bike there is no way on God's green earth that I'm laying down!

As soon as I made it through to the other side I pulled my motorcycle off the road and we ran back to our friends, covered in mud, a little bruised, and not at all happy to say the very least. We picked their motorcycles up and pushed them the rest of the way through.

No one spoke, with the exception of one question and one statement; "Why were you beating on Troy, what were you thinking? You could have caused him to put you and that new bike in the mud!"

A few minutes to gather ourselves, calm everyone's nerves, pick the bentanite out of every crevice of my buddies motorcycles and we're ready to head to Jackson for the night...

And it started to Rain!



Motorcycles, Bikers, Motorcycle Travel