Boxer Shorts November, 2004 - 4 of 4
50 Compete in Green Mountain 400
Nearly 50 motorcyclists eagerly rolled off the parking lot at the Ascutney Mountain Resort in Ascutney, Vermont Sunday October 10 to test their stamina and riding smarts for a scavenger hunt that covered some 400 miles. Similar in scope to the national Iron Butt series and the YB Minuteman 1000, riders of the Green Mountain Mini Endurance 400 did not race against the clock, or for mileage, but for the accumulation of points earned for hitting certain locations or picking up objects, such as a portable pumpkin.
The debut event, complete with an evening banquet, attracted YB members and non-members alike and was generously sponsored by Max Stratton of MAX BMW of New Hampshire and NY. Said Rallymaster Rob Nye, "What Max did was the equivalent of him walking into the banquet and personally handing out twenty dollar bills to everyone in the room."
Although not on the list of bonus points, Lars Leivaag spotted a wild turkey (not the bottle of bourbon) minding its own business at roadside. Something about Lars' brightly shining helmet made the world's ugliest winged creature commit suicide smack against the DOT-approved head gear. Lars was forced off the road causing some damage to his bike but fortunately he was not injured. Story has it that someone jumped out of the bushes and stole the dead turkey for an early Thanksgiving. In another incident, Nina Glavin broke her ankle outside of West Haven but when she looked up skywards for God's help Gary VanVoorhis answered the call, sacrificing the rally to lend a helping hand. He figured, "Heck, if I can do a spine lube with my eyes closed why not a broken ankle?" Kudos to Gary.
Rallymaster spectacular Rob Nye and the Sled Dog Touring Team masterminded the entire rally in order to recruit and kindly thank the following volunteers who helped make the Green Mountain 400 such a big success: Jim Frens, Marja-liisa Kupiainen, Dave Riley, Nancy Riley. Peter Munro, Melissa Ryan, Fred Burgess, Robert St. George and Bob Maselek, who showed despite nursing his own broken ankle, courtesy the Damn Yankees Rally. The top 10 finishers were:
1 Olsen, Christian 7020
2 Cleasby, Craig 6600
3 Savage, Jack 6455
4 Edgett, Robert 5935
5 Schmitt, Alexander 5840
6 Kornreich, Maurice 5700 *
7 Hyde, Chip 5500
8 Grabowski, Mark 5450
9 Merritt, Gene 5120
10 Herrick, Jim 5100
* TWO UP! Complete results are posted.
~ Editor, with many nods to Rob Nye. Photo
by Max Stratton.
From Gastown to the Dragon's Tail
by Victor Cruz
We begin this tale in Gastown, a tiny hamlet 60 miles northeast of Pittsburgh. I towed two bikes with me, one going to Larry Van der Haven, my same-age uncle who I hadn't seen since the 70s, when I lived in Michigan with my father, who happened to marry Larry's 27-year old sister Inga, from Holland.
As teenagers Larry and I ran minibikes on my dad's 13-acre lot in Livonia, Michigan. We raised chickens, hunted for snapping turtles, picked and sold raspberries. We also liked to maul Subaru rental cars my dad drove home when his Bavaria was in service. One of us would lay flat on the hood, facing the driver, while the driver would try to knock the person off by cornering hard or braking, or going off jumps. It made for poor driver's ed, since it was hard to concentrate with a face staring back at you in a kind of cracking-up panic. We had a great time. Nobody got hurt that I can remember, though my dad would find his rental with a pair of flat tires in the morning.
I wanted to thank Larry for getting me interested in motorcycles. He had a 1968 Yamaha street bike that we used to abuse, fish-tailing it like a dirt bike. We'd hill climb that sucker 2-up, then fall over for lack of power. But many times the little bugger would make it. My payback for these lost times was to deliver a Cagiva Gran Canyon for a 7-day trip through Virginia's Skyline Drive, connecting to the Blue Ridge Parkway, and ending at the Dragon's Tail at Deal's Gap, which crosses into Tennessee at the North Carolina border along the edge of the Smoky Mountains.
Our first stop took us to Gettysburg, where
we drove through the Civil War battlefields.
A one-way tour road cuts through acres of
wide open fields, along the way are memorials
to the war dead, spaced apart. Every state
that sent its infantry to die in Gettysburg
had a stone, a column, or statue, to mark
the massive death. "All wars end in
stone," a guy named Ray told us that
night at the bar. Although a cute, well-dressed
town, Gettysburg was a sad place made sadder
by current events.
We camped at the Drummer Boy Camping Resort. This place had a heated swimming pool, movies, mini golf, fishing pond, pizza parlor and other things we never used. I couldn't believe they had modern, private showers with free hot water. Being used to camping in Vermont, I had brought along a baggie full of quarters. Larry pulled out his special $39 four-man tent from WalMart. I had my doubts, so I packed my $160 REI tent; but we never used it. WalMart won out.
Larry was under a lot of stress and needed a break. Nobody works harder than Larry. My father bought a 1947 Farmal tractor with a brush cutter that we used to make money with by cutting down overgrown lots. We'd run over old paint cans and car parts, the blades would kick up junk 30 feet. Crawling under the machine to untangle a mass of cable in the hot Michigan earth, the whirl of grasshoppers and flies buzzing about, you learned about grunt work.
I went off to college but Larry continued the tradition, buying a new John Deere tractor when he was barely 21. He built retaining walls by chain-sawing railroad ties, snowplowed parking lots at 3:00 a.m., rebuilt diesels and he's now building a house part-time. He was mechanically talented and could fix or build anything. Larry is the kind of guy who'll pull down a 200,000-mile transmission and have it rebuilt in order to squeeze another 100K out of it. He moved to Texas during the oil boom, then lost everything in a fire. He escaped a bad marriage and raised two kids on his own, while still a kid himself. He's now working nine jobs. He inspects fly ash at a coal-fueled power plant; he does commercial HVAC on the side, and he owns, or repairs, seven houses. I told Larry, who works every day of the week, that he was carrying too heavy a load; like he didn't know it already. I can barely manage one house, and he's got seven and five tenants to hunt down for $350/month rents. Yes sir, I really admire my Uncle Larry.
Over time, a penetrating scowl had grown root-deep between his eyes, a scowl that seemed permanent as concrete. This was troubling me, since Larry had always been a natural born joker. Going to pay for gas, he'd say something like, "I got a coupon, will you accept it?" At a $5 campground in NC he asked if they offered a discount that night. Our fill-ups cost about $7. In rural areas, the pumps don't take credit cards. Larry would tell the cashier his total was $3.49, just to provoke a response.
Lately his 20-year old daughter Lindy had been keeping him worried and on a steady diet of acid-reflex pills. She narrowly missed losing her life. Her on-again off-again boyfriend got in a car wreck, killing his brother and best friend. A miracle that Lindy wasn't also in the car on that drunken night. He's looking at jail time, and while we were in biker nirvana riding the Blue Ridge Parkway, Lindy had called to say he had attempted suicide. So the scowl on Larry's face didn't get a reprieve; it just buried itself deeper, ready to touch soul. It was my job to give Larry some breathing room, an escape into fresh air, to relive old times and retell stories, and to share a motorcycle tour he'd never forget.
From Gettysburg PA we rode to the start of the parkway system at the 105-mile Skyline Drive in Front Royal, VA, named after a drill sergeant who kept yelling to "front the royal oak!" to get his wayward troops to march single file. We were blessed by perfect 70-degree weather, little traffic, and non-stop riding for 600 miles. Many YBers have done the sanctuary that is the BRP. Jeff Stein said, "It just keeps going on and on."
The beauty of the Skyline-BRP system is that
no commercial traffic or retail is allowed.
You experience woods, orchards, cattle and
horse farms. You rarely see the modern world.
"Like a place frozen in time,"
said Len Weiss, who met us in Front Royal
and rode with us all the way down. The ridge
is a ridge, with overlooks every few miles
on both sides where the land falls away to
priceless vistas. The sweeping road is perfectly
maintained, with mowed grass at the edges,
eliminating any gravel. This sweet grass
attracts deer. Park reports say as many as
6,000 of these hoof rats rummage in the Shenandoah,
accounting for why the BRP is posted at 45
mph (though you can do 60 comfortably on
a lot of stretches). I came across four deer
sightings, all uneventful except for the
one that ran along beside me, as if in a
foot race.
One highlight of the trip was Mount Mitchell, the highest peak east of the Miss, at over 6,600 feet but unlike Mt. Washington, it's not above the tree line. Here a crop of trees stood pale naked, supposedly due to acid rain. There's a lodge, restaurant and campground at the top, and the grave of Dr. Elisha Mitchell, who died in 1857 proving this peak the highest.
At mile marker 469 the BRP comes to rest at a tacky souvenir town called Cherokee, home of the Cherokee museum that chronicles the Trail of Tears. From there it's about a 90-minute ride southwest to Deal's Gap Motorcycle Resort (www.dealsgap.com) on twisty, big river roads. AKA the Dragon's Tail, and famous for its 318 curves in 11 miles, what's funny about this place is the "Tree of Shame" that stands outside a row of motel rooms. Here you'll find bits and scraps of fairings, mirrors, rims, pipes, boots, etc., a hanging parts bin or scarecrow aimed at warning you to take heed before embarking. I saw the skin of a K1200RS nailed up there, the roundel long torn off.
Riding Deal's Gap is a perfect way to cap the BRP ride. The pavement is fresh, but the gullies will spell disaster should your front wheel veer off. After completing this hair-raiser it was time to return north for home. Here we said our goodbyes to riding buddy Len Weiss, who was just starting his western expedition to Arizona, Utah, Montana and parts beyond. Retirement has its privileges.
After tolerating a few interstates, we took Rte 219 all the way through the state of West Virginia. On the road, there are too few opportunities to acquaint yourself with locals. Riding on a bike makes a traveler more approachable to strangers, but points of contact are few. You meet people at gas stations, wait staff at restaurants, maybe a few hotel keepers and that's about all. So it was a special treat to meet Joyce and John Bowers, owners of the Five Rivers Campground in Parsons, WV.
Twice in the past two decades the town of Parsons was under 17 feet of water. Located at the juncture of five rivers, the flood zone drove business and residents to lives elsewhere. The Army Corps of Engineers dredged the rivers which created new land parcels. The Bowers seized the day and leased the land from Parsons under a 20-year term. A concert stage had been erected, and two Port-A-Johns. That was it for amenities. They lived on the property in a pair of mobile homes, otherwise the place was vacant and a tad off-putting. We were about to change our minds and look for another site when Joyce introduced herself. She had just sprung out of a shower and smelled like a tulip. She charmed us with southern hospitality, and we were instantly sold. Her hubby John showed up later, Joyce made a beer run, and we partied with them around the campfire until 2:00 a.m. They visited us again in the morning, offered us use of their shower, gave us cool T-shirts, and told us to come back with more bikers next time. What a great bunch of people. So if you're ever in Parsons, WV...
Motorcycling can be a transformative experience. It can change a life. Larry now is looking to buy a GS. He wants to visit Boston and ride our local Vermont roads. He wants to spend more time enjoying life in the seat of a motorcycle.
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