Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
near Arlington, and up to sunshine on the pass with sweltering heat on the far side. After
lunch with friends, the Loop went on around, home by dusk.
Another run across the North Cascades would be a first step back. I forgot the twenty-
mile freeway scream up from Everett to Arlington, but it wasn't so bad and not too loud with
the Harley- Davidsons in back. The country road to the mountain remained free of develop-
ment, and a biker bar on the outskirts of nowhere looked laughable. Many times we backed
to that curb and bowlegged in for beer, low-rent ambience and the sheer raw camaraderie of
men bonding on common values, like hunky cams, loud pipes, low-end torque, custom paint,
pussy jokes and jukebox tunes.
Years later it seemed parochial and quaint, like a scene in binoculars viewed from the
front. The massive power station at the foot of the pass still buzzed. Third-gear curves along
the mountain felt easier, not so jerky and freer of close calls. Long straightaways through the
forest felt shorter. Maybe it was the better ride, balanced and lighter, no bulldogging required.
Maybe it was less dope, fewer stops, lower speed, and time passing more evenly on fewer
thrusts. Or maybe it was more scenery and less scene.
What about the Triumph? Like all things anticipated, it was more and less. Flawless it and
finish, superb handling and responsive tracking made a blink as good as a nod. Taking five
hundred pounds through the curves instead of nine hundred made for joy instead of work.
At sixty it wanted seventy and leaned into eighty. Ninety came on a perfect sweep along the
Salmon River in Idaho. Twenty miles of it connects White Bird to Riggins Hot Springs, so a
hundred was easy with an inch of throttle to go. But a hundred was plenty and helped round
the cogs, tame the gear dogs and ease things in. Decelerating from a hundred, eighty-five felt
eerily slow. Did I already feel that, forty years ago?
So far so good, but judgment would come at motorcycle Mecca: Lolo Pass, a hundred
twenty miles connecting western Montana to eastern Idaho. Lolo is revered. After Labor Day,
Lolo is empty. A road sign on the Montana end states the rider's prayer:
S
Winding Road Next 120 Miles
Lolo Pass is engineered to curve through nature's grandeur on a spiritual banking that em-
braces every rider. Warm, crisp air and rustling trees or rain and mists; all connect the rider
to the place. All components flow through Lolo. The road follows a river and feels like life.
Spirits linger at Lolo, beckoning and receiving till goose bumps rise from head to toe.
Spontaneous war cries rise at Lolo, where we ride again together, warrior brothers of the ages.
We die in a wave of civilization and cry out for what was and yet could be.
The blood-and-guts Harley Davidson guys made fun of the Speedmaster, calling it a Mix-
master or a good ride for a crack addict. But blood-and-guts was a show, a shallow rumble of
