Road Repair
By
David Tilsen
3220 10th Ave
South
Minneapolis, MN 55407
612-823-8169
Road Repair
Prologue
I wasn’t sure I
would be able to have a fall motorcycle trip.
The pieces just were not falling together. I had been laid off at the consulting firm I
worked for in the spring, and I had picked up a gig at Andersen Windows
reworking part of their SFA (Sales Force Automation) system. The money was a lot better than unemployment,
and as I had no guarantee that this would continue forever, I really needed to
make hay while the sun shown.
I am not even sure
even why it seemed so important to me. I
know I enjoy being alone, being able to make my own decisions minute to minute,
and I certainly enjoy the adventure of being on the road, but today it feels
like more than that, a lot more. This
summer has been difficult for me emotionally.
I got laid off from what had been the absolutely perfect job for me, and
then the tragedy of an automobile accident that left a niece in the hospital,
her daughter dead, and other nieces, nephews, and my children traumatized. During all of this I was not sure how to
help, and I felt that as a father, as an older Uncle and brother and son, I
should do more to help than I was able to do.
I still have nightmares and much insecurity from this experience. I don’t feel that I can talk to anyone in my
family, because all of them have had the same or worse experiences, and anyway,
none of this is really about me, except to myself.
So I felt that
getting away on the motorcycle, experiencing the freedom of the road, the
camaraderie of the bikers, and the beauty of a national park or two would be a
lot of fun, and possibly therapeutic.
Then at almost the
last minute, everything fell together.
The project at Andersen went into hiatus in late August, and a business
owner friend in South Dakota, wanted me to spend a couple of days in Phoenix in
September. Add this to the two rallies
in New Mexico, one, the CCR, after Labor Day weekend, and another in Taos the
following weekend. It looks like a
trip. Leave Labor Day weekend, take
three days to go to Santa Fe, after that,
Taos, and then spend a week to get to Phoenix. Yup sounds like a plan.
Plans were changed
again when a dear family friend passed away,
and I decided to try to make it to his memorial in Fresno on Saturday
the 7th of September. This
would involve skipping the second rally, and driving the approximately 1000
miles to Fresno between Friday AM and Saturday noon. Certainly doable since the entire route was
superslab, and anyway I was up for it
and really wanted to be there with old friends.
Saturday the 31st
arrived finally, and I was all packed.
The only thing not fitting into my built-in saddlebags on my BMW K1200LT
was my riding gear, which I planned to wear much of the time. If it was simply too hot to wear either the
pants or the jacket, then I would use the bungee cargo net and strap them to
the top of the trunk.
I also was not
exactly sure how I wanted to use the camelback.
I knew that staying hydrated was going to be a challenge and extremely
important in the southwest, and I like the camelback as a solution. I did not get the backpack one, as I have
found in the past that my backrest on the bike makes backpack ones
uncomfortable. I was hoping that I could
put the one that I bought behind the backrest, or if that did not work, in the
pocket of my riding jacket that is meant to hold the back armor. I had removed the back armor, as it made the
jacket ride up in back and interfered with the helmet. I froze the camelback full of spring water
the day before, and was ready to go.
As it turned out,
I didn’t like it in my jacket, felt kind of like a backpack, and it didn’t
really fit behind the backrest. So much
for those plans. I bungeed it to the top
of the trunk, and hit the road.
Saturday August 31st
Beautiful day,
perhaps a little hot. Went down through
Shakopee, Mankato, Sioux City IA, into Nebraska, and across the state. No freeways, lots of small towns, had nice
visits with local people and other bikers.
Enjoyed the CD’s I had on the bike, had an MPR CD with some pretty funny
songs on it. My goal was to get as close
to Denver as possible, but as the day went on, it became clear that I was not
going to get out of Nebraska before dark.
I decided about 7:00 pm, as it was getting dusk, to pull into a small
town called Lexington near the interstate (which I was going to get on in the
morning). I got a room, and asked about
a place for dinner. I was told that
there were some Mexican restaurants, but “not the kind of Mexican food I was
used to”. That sounded kind of cryptic
and roused my curiosity.
I went into
town. Most of the store signs were in
Spanish. The grocery stores, and the
clothing stores, and even the gasoline stations. Lexington was clearly a mostly
Spanish-speaking town. In the middle of
Nebraska! I went to a small restaurant,
and the waitress did not speak any English, she had to get a man out of the
kitchen to take my order, and I had wonderful tamales, and chicken mole, rice
and beans for under $6.00. The other
customer’s eyes were glued to a Spanish speaking television show, soft porn,
some kind of stripping game show. Quite
a scene.
I went back to my
room, called my wife, and went to sleep dreaming about hitting the road in the
morning, and riding the mountain roads of Colorado.
Sunday September 1st
Beautiful morning,
going to be a hot one. I treated myself
to eggs benedict at Perkins for breakfast, and hit the road. This time taking the superslab across
Nebraska towards Colorado.
As I drove down
the interstate, my mind went to the hospital in Pine Ridge after the car
accident. My brother was crying, the
baby, our niece, had died. My son was
walking around in a daze. It seemed like
he wanted to talk, but when I went outside and sat next to him, he didn’t say
anything. He has never been very
talkative, something that used to really piss off my mother when she was
alive. Anyway, we called my sister in
St. Paul, talked to her about the fact that her granddaughter was dead, and her
daughter very badly injured, they did not give her a lot of hope. The helicopter was on the way to take her to
Rapid City, and my wife was going to ride in an ambulance with the baby’s body
to Rapid. My sister’s request. I don’t remember what my brother did, isn’t
that strange, I remember he was gone,
but I don’t think he rode in the helicopter, or in the ambulance, and he left
his car at the hospital. My son drove it
back to my nephew’s house, The mind does
strange things. I guess he must have
gotten a ride with someone to Rapid City, but I don’t remember who.
The strongest
memory I have is after I left the hospital, very early in the morning, I drove
to my nephew’s home. My three kids, and
about a dozen cousins, (nieces and nephews) were all there huddling around a
fire. They wanted to stay together, not
go back to the hotel rooms we had rented off the res. I was too tired to drive back there, but felt
like I needed the sleep and one of my nephews agreed to drive me back to the
hotel. The image of all of those kids,
so strong, and so sure of themselves, sitting around the fire, that image is
how I want to remember them. Not the
next several weeks of pain, confusion, isolation, and despair. Right now they knew who they were, what they
needed, what they could give to each other.
I admired and envied that at the time, and still do.
I crossed the
border into Colorado, and as I did, my ear drops antibiotic for an ear
infection flew out of my shirt pocket and into the wind. I swore to myself, and thought about the
consequences. I needed them. I had been fighting this infection for awhile
and if I didn’t kill the bugs off, then a new colony of ones that survived the
first three days, and therefore had some resistance to the antibiotic, would
reinfect the ear. This could cause real
problems. I kind of thought that my helmet was reinfecting me, it could have a
pretty funky smell when it was hot and humid.
Of course so could I, but that is a digression from the digression from
the digression ………..
I asked my Garmin
GPS where the nearest pharmacy was, and after a couple of cities, I found a
Walgreens north of Denver. Pressed “Go
to It” on the Garmin, and it led me right to the place. Pretty cool.
They had my records, gave me a refill, and I was on my way. Crises averted. I also lysoled the Helmet, just to make me
feel better. Now it smelled like pine
trees.
Approaching
Denver, and I had absolutely no idea what I wanted to do. I heard that there were some good rides
outside of Colorado Springs, which is south of Denver, so I decided to go
there, but I did not want to stay on the superslab. The mountains to my right,
as I drove South looked inviting, and I really wanted to get up into them. Cooler temps, twisty roads, good scenery etc.
I knew that
eventually I wanted to do the Million Dollar Highway, between Montrose and
Durango, I had heard about it a lot, and getting there also looks like
fun. I got south of Denver and left the
freeway, heading east-south-east. I do
love the Garmin.
Took a small road
that looked like it followed a river through a state park. Wonderful, but then the pavement ended. The sign said 7 miles of gravel, well I can
handle that. Took some concentration,
and it was beautiful. The road did
follow the river, and I could look down at different points and watch people
canoe and raft rapids, fly fish, swim, picnic and generally enjoy the river.
When the gravel
was ending, I began to notice a grinding sound from the bike. Then after I got on pavement, there was a
wobble that I am sure was not there before.
I stopped at a road house, put the bike on the center stand and looked
at the wheels. The noise sounded like a
wheel bearing, but there was no looseness in either the front or rear wheel,
the axles did not feel hot to the touch, but the brake rotor did! Perhaps this was a brake problem, did I shake
the caliper out of alignment so it was rubbing?
I looked at everything, and decided to let it cool down so I could touch
things easier. I went into the roadhouse
and had a nice dinner.
Still could not
find anything wrong with the bike, so I decided to go south to Woodland
Park. The grinding was getting louder,
but still pretty subtle. The wobble was
also subtle, but irritating. As I drove
south to Woodland Park I thought about a fellow rider from home. We had planned to ride together, but he wanted to go the northern route
through the Black Hills, and I was just not ready to go back there right
now. Besides, I absolutely hate the
interstate through South Dakota, and I have driven the roads and seen the
beauty of the Black Hills, the Badlands, and the grasslands a lot over the last
thirty years. I really wanted to see new
places. I knew that Nebraska did not
have too much to offer in the way of mountains, twisty roads, and scenic
vistas, but the fields of corn, wheat, beans, are kind of soothing. He was supposed to have left Mpls. the same
morning I did, and we had suggested that we meet up in Colorado. I resolved to call him that evening.
Arrived in
Woodland Park. Kind of upscale and
touristy. No Super 8 or Motel 6
around. I guess I will have to go to the
hotel on the hill. Seems like a nice
place. Checked in, put in a call to my
friend, and he called me back. We talked
about my problem. He said he was
traveling with his laptop (my laptop belonged to my employer, and I had to turn
it in when I was laid off), and he would put my predicament on the list serve
that we belong to for owners of our bike.
I thanked him, and went out to get some food and look at the bike some
more.
Still could not
see any problem with the brakes, Tried driving around without touching the rear
brakes to see if the rotor still got hot.
It didn’t. Then tried it with the
front, cool as the proverbial cuke.
Picked up a salad and a chicken sandwich at Wendy’s and went back to the
room.
Called my wife and
told her about my situation. She
expressed sadness that my trip was being ruined. This really surprised me. I was enjoying myself, dealing with whatever
came up. This difference between my
perception of the trip and others’ expression of condolences would continue to
surprise me over the next couple of weeks.
Monday September 2nd (Labor Day)
The list serve had
a couple of ideas. One idea was that I
had the dreaded rear end problem. This
was a failure of the casing for the bearing around the rear end differential, They had failed on a few bikes and it really
should not happen. I was told that the
main things to check were to grab the tire with the bike on the center stand
and see if there was any play in the bearing.
Also look for any leakage of rear end lubricant. The other suggestions were that it was
simply the result of feathering or cupping of the tires, and nothing to really
worry about.
I did the rear end
check, and there was no play or leakage, and I did have significant cupping on
the tires, so I decided it was just tires.
I did get pretty strong advice to just get on the interstate and head
down to the rally in Santa Fe and skip riding around Colorado. The thinking is that the closer I can get to
Santa Fe before any breakdown, the more likely I would get the bike to the
dealer there for repair and not miss the rally.
I decided not to take that advice.
I headed west out
of Woodland Park headed towards Buena Vista (I figured any town named Bueana
Vista better have a pretty good view), Montrose, and the Million Dollar Highway
down to Durango.
Wonderful mountain
pass, really the first one on this trip.
Coming down the mountain I was behind a pretty slow moving motor home,
and was riding my rear brake quite a bit, didn’t think a lot about it though. I got down the mountain and was riding across
a valley, desert, sagebrush, and cattle.
There were a lot of “tar snakes” on the road, and I started to slip on
them. This was weird, didn’t usually
happen. It got worse and worse over a
span of only a quarter mile or so, and just when I decided to stop the bike and
see what was going on, I started skidding down the road, the back wheel totally
locked up. I hadn’t been skidding on the
tar snakes, the rear wheel had been locking up!
I got over on the shoulder, and looked down to see billows of smoke
coming from my rear wheel. I jumped off
the bike and saw that indeed, where there was smoke, there was fire. Lots of flames around the rear wheel, and
rear brake caliper. I tried to blow them
out, but they would not blow out. I
scooped up handfuls of sand, and threw them on the rear wheel and did manage to
put out the flames. I then noticed that
oil was literally pouring out of the center unit, onto the breaks and down the
tire. Yup, no question, I had the rear
end failure. I had never heard that
anyone else’s rear end failure had involved fire, but well, clearly mine did.
After changing my
phone’s system mode to accept roaming calls I called AAA. They told me it would be a long time before
someone could come way out to the boondocks where I was (just short of Buena
Vista), but I should sit tight. The sun
was beating down, but I had my camelback full of water from the morning, (ice
was already melted).
I had no shade
other than my bike, and it was about 10:30 AM, and the sun was getting
higher. I tried to find some shade on my
bike. Several bikers stopped (a lot more
went by), and we talked. Most of the time I sat there thinking, and throwing
stones at the vultures that circled overhead, or landed near me and watched for
me to start to rot.
I thought a lot
about my son. He had been the first
person on the scene of the accident. Him
and my brother, that is. They were in a
vehicle a few minutes behind the one that flipped. He went to his cousin who had been thrown
from the truck. He did everything
right. She had a couple of broken
vertebrae, and had he moved her he could have caused spine damage. He
didn’t. He put pressure on the bleeding,
and talked to her until the ambulance got there. I know it was really horrible for him. He spent the next three weeks at her
bedside. He took all of the graveyard
shifts, and didn’t sleep much during the day.
I stayed in South Dakota most of that time to be there for him, but he
didn’t want to talk. Several times we
just sat together and didn’t talk. His
two sisters felt badly that he didn’t want to talk about what he was going
through, as they also wanted to help him.
I tried to tell them that this wasn’t about them, it was what he needed,
but actually I felt similarly. He was
spending a lot of time with my brother, his uncle. I was sure that the shared experience of
being on the scene first was something he was trying to work out, and the two
of them had been pretty close anyway.
They had been going camping together once a year for over a decade
now. The two of them stayed in close
contact throughout the summer, with him staying over at my brother’s house more
often than he stayed at home. I know he
was a 22 year old young adult, and I wanted very much to respect his own
instincts about what he needed, but part of me could not help but feel that I
should be able to help him more. I knew
what his sisters were feeling, but I was not sure I could even help them with
their difficulty. I wanted very much to
be strong and helpful, but I just didn’t have the slightest idea of what to
do. I helped my sister prepare food a
couple of times, and did a lot of logistical assistance, but no one in the family was feeling very
good. My sister said that we all had
broken hearts. Perhaps that was the
case, but it wasn’t only my heart that felt broken. I could not think, digest food, hold a
conversation, trust, or anything.
I thought about
one particularly horrible day. Several
of the people in the family had located a grief counselor. The thought was that perhaps we could get
some help as a group. I was really
uncomfortable at the thought of it, but I was (I thought anyway) willing to go
along. I tried to keep up with the plans
as the time, the place and the expectations changed minute by minute. We had a large group, and although my father
was the senior member of the family, we had always been more matriarchal than
patriarchal, and ever since my mother died, we had really looked more to my
oldest sister for leadership in these kinds of things. She was taken up by supporting my other
sister, who’s daughter was in critical condition and her granddaughter
dead. My youngest brother, and my oldest
daughter had taken the leadership in trying to set up this session. Everyone (over 20 people most of the time)
had their ideas of what should happen and what they wanted to say.
I finally gave up
with keeping track of what was going on and decided to go to the room at the
appointed time. One of my nephews was
there setting up the chairs into a circle, so I helped him.
Then we sat down. People drifted in. It was fifteen, twenty, thirty minutes passed
the time. About ten or so of the cousins
were there, and I was really getting angry. I didn’t want to talk about what I
was feeling anyway, and now I was just waiting.
It seemed like I mean where the hell were the organizers. We all came here and they just are keeping us
waiting! I felt my adrenaline start to
rise, and I was really having a panic/anger attack. (I didn’t realize it at the time, but that
was what had happened). Then someone
came into the room and told us that the meeting location had been changed. Well that was the end, I really flipped
out. I don’t remember everything that I
did, but I know I hurt my daughter, my brother, and a couple of nephews, not to
mention the outside grief counselor that I unloaded on. Then I totally collapsed, and couldn’t stop
crying for the next several hours. I
felt totally isolated from everyone, angry, guilty, hurt, and devastated. The only thing I really remember from that
evening was despair. I remember going
back to my hotel room, and sitting up all night, trying to figure out why I did
what I did.
The AAA truck was
here. Good, we loaded the bike up on the
flatbed. I positioned the tie downs,
didn’t trust anyone else to do it.
During the drive back to Colorado Springs I got to know this
driver. He looked Indian, very dark
skin, long straight black hair. He said
that he drove all over for this towing company.
He certainly handled the large flatbed truck well on the curvy mountain
roads. We took my bike to the BMW
motorcycle dealer in Colorado Springs, they of course were not open on Labor
Day Monday, but after leaving the bike in the driveway, he dropped me off at a
hotel nearby. I checked in, and called
around to find an inexpensive car to rent.
They picked me up, and then I had a car.
Went back to my bike to pick up my stuff, and then went out to dinner
and back to the hotel.
I spent the
evening talking to BMW experts from the list server, my wife, and my
friends. Basically I was told that I
should press BMW to cover the repair under warranty, as they were doing this for other
people. This breakdown should not
happen, and even though, at 40,000 miles, I was over the 36,000 warranty
figure, I was told that it was likely it would end up covered.
That night my mind
returned to the look on my daughter’s face when I yelled at her. She was really hurt and angry. She certainly did not deserve my rage,
especially at a time she was feeling vulnerable and hurt. I know how risky it is to take leadership
positions, and I have had my share of misplaced rage. I feel so much remorse and guilt. My mind is
haunted by her
face. It took a long time to fall
asleep.
Tuesday September
3, 2002
I was at the
dealer before they opened at 7:30 the next morning. I had been told that the service manager
often got in early. Sure enough he did. I talked to him, he looked at my bike, and we
commiserated. He said he would take it
apart, see what it needed, order the parts, and I should be on the road by
Thursday.
I talked to him
about getting the repair covered under warranty. He said he would put in the request to
BMW. That was all he could really
do. I said fine, let’s go for it.
I made sure that I
had everything I needed from the bike, and set off in the rental car for Santa
Fe. It looked like about a 4 hour drive
on the map.
It sure felt weird
to be driving a car. Not as much fun,
and certainly not requiring as much concentration as the bike. Perhaps that was deceiving; I was going just
as fast. I was moving south on the
superslab out of Colorado Springs.
I was thinking
about superstring theory. This is the
theory that all of the elemental particles, quarks, that make up electrons, protons, neutrons,
are made up of vibrating strings of, of what?
Electromagnetic force, or something.
Anyway, the intriguing thing is that these strings are supposed to be
vibrating in lots of extra dimensions, maybe 12, maybe more than 20. When I try to think about more spatial
dimensions than three, it helps me to remember Flatland. Flatland is a book by Abbot about an
imaginary two dimensional world peopled with creatures of triangles, squares,
circles, living on this two dimensional plane.
Well what would they think of strings vibrating in three dimensions.
As anyone who
remembers the book recalls, what a flatlander sees is only what intersects the
plane. So a sphere moving through their
“world” would first be a single point, then a gradually increasing circle, then
a gradually decreasing circle until a single point again, and then nothing.
So what would a
vibrating string (line) look like. Well,
it would look like a point (particles) moving
as different parts of the vibrating string intersected the plane. But of course they would not really be one
particle, they would be different parts of the string as waves intersected the
plane. In fact flatlander physicists
could certainly conduct experiments similar to the double slit experiment that
could demonstrate a wave-particle duality.
The wave-particle
duality is one of quantum physics concepts most difficult to resolve
intuitively. Light and other
electromagnetic forces sometimes act like waves, and sometime act like
particles. One of the weirdest things is
that in the double slit experiment, a single photon of light, can act like a
wave, and generate a pattern like it is “interfering” with itself.
Well the
flatlander would think that a vibrating line was a single particle, smoothly
moving along, when in fact at each second in time, she is seeing a different
part of the vibrating line. Well then if
light is really some kind of energy vibrating in other dimensions, we could
certainly see photons as single particles when they were just different parts
of these waves, these vibrating strings.
Hmmm this is kind of cool, I have no idea if I am thinking of it
correctly, and I have never heard a physicist talk about the strings this way,
and anyway, who knows if physicists are thinking about it correctly, but
somehow I feel more comfortable. Like I
have intuitively pictured how the wave-particle duality could exist.
Then my eyes catch
a sign. Ludlow Massacre Memorial. I pass the exit before it sinks in. My grandmother and my mother have talked to
me about Ludlow, the place where the Rockefeller goons burned women and
children in a cellar. My grandmother
wrote a book in which the Ludlow monument plays a part. Yes Ludlow, Colorado, of course, I am in
Colorado. I take the next exit and turn
around and go back.
The town of
Ludlow, Colorado doesn’t seem to be much.
Not even a gasoline station.
About 1/5 mile down a gravel road is a sign with a United Mine Workers
logo on it. I drive into the dirt, stump, and pothole specked parking lot, and
park the rental car. There is no one
here; in fact there is not another building anywhere other than the unoccupied
shelter with five or six picnic tables, signs, and a large memorial statue.
I read the signs,
a history of the mine workers’ strike in the early part of this century. Here most of the mine workers were Mexican,
treated poorly, made to live in company housing, buy their food at the company
store, and never able to get out of debt of the company.
They went on
strike, the company hired police, and there were several fierce battles. The strikers were living in tents, but they
built cellars under their tents, probably to get cool, but they also served for
safe places to go in gun battles. Well
about 12 women and children suffocated
here in their cellar when their tent was burned. – I opened the gate to the
grave, and went in. I read the words on
the statue, and thought about the debt we owed to these brave people who fought
so that future workers could have vacations, benefits, and be treated like
human beings. They certainly never got
those things in their lifetimes. There
was a door on the ground, a cellar door.
The sign said this was the actual pit that the people suffocated
in. I opened the door and went down the
concrete stairs, into a dark concrete cellar.
I doubted if the strikers put concrete around their cellars, did
they? No I believe the concrete must
have been added later. But these were
construction workers. I mean you can’t
build a mine unless you can use concrete, and braces, and build strong
underground structures. Perhaps they did
“obtain” concrete for their cellars. I
wonder…..
I climb out of the
cellar, close the door, and go over to the shelter. As I smoke a cigar sitting on the concrete
picnic tables, I think about the fight of the mine workers. I also think about the UMW maintaining this
memorial for all of these years. The
grave is well kept, but clearly they do not have much of a budget. I presume there are a few local people who
make it their calling to maintain this site, perhaps they are descendants of
strikers. I wonder if they have memorial
marches. The 100 year anniversary is in
2014, in fact the 90th anniversary is in a couple of years. I wonder if they are going to have a
ceremony. I am almost sure they will,
and I decide to find out, and try to participate. It is the least I can do. I would never have made enough money to own
my motorcycle and take this trip, had it not been for the sacrifice of these
people, almost 100 years ago.
I put some tobacco
on their grave, said the kaddish, got into my car and head back to the freeway.
As I drove down
the freeway, thinking about Ludlow, and the reasons that so many of the young
people I work with today, do not recognize the debt they owe to unions, and
union activists, I saw a motorcycle on the side of the road. Now I always stop for motorcycles when they
look disabled, and the fact that just yesterday I was a disabled motorcyclist
just added to my feeling of duty. This
guy was clearly either a 1%er or a wannabe 1%er. Old ragged clothes, three day beard (I had a
three day beard also), old panhead chopper, leathers with colors, the whole bit. Anyway I stopped and he informed me he was
out of gas. I offered to take him to the
next town, but he said he didn’t want to leave his bike, so I said I would run
into town and get him some gas. I did
this. Had to buy a gas can, and brought
him back some gas. He said thanks, that
I had really saved his ass. He seemed a
little embarrassed about having to thank me, a cager, but we shook hands, he
paid me for the gas I had bought and we were both on our way. I am not sure we made any connection at all,
but I was glad that I had helped him anyway.
I put Willy Nelson
on the tape deck (no cd player in this Hundai) and drove across the mountains
of New Mexico into Santa Fe. I drove
into the Santa Fe Hotel where the rally was headquartered, and was immediately
greeted by friends and people who were eager to become friends. Most people were very sympathetic about my
breakdown, and curious as to what warnings I had. I found out that four people had had the same
rear end failure on their way to the rally.
That is 4 out of 200 people. 2%
is a lot I am thinking. More than enough
to warrant a recall of some sort. Of
course the people attending our rally do tend to be people who put more miles
than average on their bikes, but still, this should not be happening. One of the people who had the failure was an
ace motorcycle mechanic, in fact a guy who was going to lead the seminar on how
to do your own maintenance on the bike.
I felt a little better, when he assured me that it could not have been
my fault.
I did get a phone
call from the dealer in Santa Fe, asking me to document that I had performed
all of the required maintenance. He said
that if I could document that, then BMW said that they should be able to “help
me out” whatever that meant. I gave him
the information he needed and went into the hotel to check in and register for
the rally.
It was really fun
to check in. Just kept seeing people I
knew over and over again. Lots of hugs,
teasing, and sympathy for my breakdown. I
purchased some t-shirts, got my registration packet and went to my room and
collapsed. I was really thirsty. I realized that the relative humidity here
was about 3%, and the altitude was about 7,000 feet. Both of these took significant
adjustment. My lips were pretty badly
sunburned, and dry and chapped, I figured, from the low humidity.
A couple of words
about the rally. This grew out of a
Yahoo list group for owners of the kind of motorcycle that I have, the BMW
K1200LT. The LT stands for luxury
touring (not light truck as some people have said). It is, in my totally objective opinion, the
best motorcycle made. Or at least it is
the best motorcycle for my needs. It is
large enough to handle my 300 pounds, but still act as nimble and free as a
sportsbike. The members of this group do
tend to be of higher income, (the bike is not cheap), but they also tend to be
people who like to ride a lot. The list
group became a lot of fun. Also
sometimes a little overwhelming, and I admit I have not always kept up with
it. Three years earlier, some of the
Texas good old boys on the group decided to call a get together. The first rally, held in Broken Bow, Oklahoma
(the place of the first scene of the X-Files movie), had no registration fee,
no real events organized, and no pre-registration. It was a tremendous success. It was dubbed the “Curve Cowboy
Reunion”. I don’t know if this was the
Texas group that named it or what, but the name stuck. We love to carve those curves, and our bike
allows us to do it with grace, comfort, safety, and style.
Well next year the
rally was better organized, a non-profit organization was formed, became a
chapter of the BMWMOA, and a board (mostly the old Texas folks) was formed to
keep the torch lit. It was moved to Hot
Springs, AK, because the resort in Broken Bow was full in about January! I made my reservations before I left CCR1 in
September.
This year there
were some hard feelings because registration filled up in March, five months
before the rally, even though the size of the rally had doubled from the year
before. In the end it worked out,
everyone who wanted to go was able to go due to cancellations. Anyway, I have been to all three of the
rallies, and our slogan, “It was the bike that brought us together, but it is
the people that keep us together,” really rings true for me. I don’t know if I have a lot in common with
the other members of the group politically, socially, or philosophically,
although the few times that conversations did drift off of motorcycles, I was
pleasantly surprised. We really enjoy our bikes, each other’s bikes, we support
each other in this pretty expensive, and sometimes dangerous hobby. There is something joyful and affirming about
spending time with this group of people.
I don’t love them like I love my family, but then they don’t want the
same commitment from me that my family does.
It is enough that I love my bike.
The other thing is that almost no one outside this group understands why
I love my bike. Some of them know that I
do, and are ok with it, but very few of them really understand it.
Well the first day
of the rally not much was planned. There
were a lot of rides around New Mexico, but as I did not have my bike with me,
that did not make sense. That evening
there was a reception with free drinks, and then Flamingo Dancers. These were amateur dancers from a class or
club in the area. They were certainly a
lot of fun, their energy was huge, their skill level adequate, and their
costumes fantastic. The group
appreciated them very much. After that
there was a group called the Booze Brothers, where people had brought expensive
and rare single malt scotch’s, fancy tequilas and other such beverages. I don’t usually drink a lot, but I did have
several glasses of very good scotch and tequila, and then staggered back to my
hotel room. I slept pretty well that night.
Wednesday September
4, 2002
This was a day of
immersing myself in the lore of the K1200LT.
Since I could not go riding, I spent the day in various seminars and
workshops on the bike. I learned how to
do a tune-up, how to change all of the fluids, how to change the fuel filter
and the fuel pump. Also I had numerous
discussions with people about the rear end problem. It seems that the district representative
from BMW was going to be there later that day.
We had a lot of discussion on what tact to take. The decision was to try not to be hostile or
overwhelm him with questions about the failures. The goal would be for one of us to try to get
a good working relationship and open communication channels with him. We felt that in the long run this was best
for all of us. I went to the pool and
the vendor area about 4:00 after most of the seminars were done. To my dismay I missed an open session with
the BMW rep. I did get filled in
however.
BMW is
unofficially aware of the problem. They
are working on it. It seems to be a
metallurgical problem with the casing of the bearing. They have changed suppliers for the casing on
the 2002 models. At this time they were
not going to do a recall, nor were they admitting to any problem or
liability.
Repairs for rear
ends on low mileage bikes that have been maintained according to specifications
will be covered. This sounded good to
me. I had talked to the dealer earlier
in the day, and he had told me that he had not ordered the parts yet, because
he had not heard from BMW. I told him to
go ahead and order the parts, that I would pay for it if BMW had not come
through and that I would deal with them.
This meant that my bike would not be done on Thursday. It was now looking like Friday.
That evening there
was a parade to the local BMW dealer, very cool watching it from my car. About 200 K12s and a smattering of other
BMWs, Wings and Vtwins. The local BMW
dealer was a combination car and motorcycle dealer. I did not know such things existed, and I was
intrigued. The consensus seemed to be
that motorcycles would get short shrift in this situation, because there was
less money to be made in motorcycles. I
was not so sure about that, but I was not able to strike up a conversation with
anyone to find out. The BMW rep was
there, and although I was sorely tempted to talk to him about my situation, I
remembered the decision we had made, and simply welcomed him and told him I
appreciated him being there.
I later talked to
the guy who was going to talk to him, and he said that my specific situation
had been talked about, and I was to be assured that BMW would cover my
repairs. This was appreciated, but I
hoped someone would tell the dealer that!
That evening
several of us went into downtown Santa-Fe and had a western style meal. It was good, but nothing that wasn’t
available in Minnesota. In fact I
thought the salsa was pretty mild.
It also was
becoming obvious that I would not be able to make it to Fresno for the memorial
services on Saturday. If my bike was
done on Friday at all, it would not be until late on Friday, there would simply
not be enough time for me to make it the 900 miles by Saturday afternoon. I called my father, who I was going to meet
there and told him. He did not seem
surprised. I guess I was not
either. This decision did make my next
week a little simpler, but now I needed to decide just what I was going to do.
The rally would be
done on Friday evening, and I did not have to be in Phoenix until a week from
the following day. It was beginning to
look like I would be really able to tour some of the southwest.
Cool.
Thursday September
5, 2002
The night before
at dinner we had talked about going on a trip in my car today.
I did not understand why anyone would agree to that when they had their
bike here, but I wasn’t going to argue.
A couple of people wanted to do it.
One because he wanted to do something with me (isn’t that sweet?) and
the other because his bike was overdue for service, and he didn’t want to put
any more miles on it. His appointment
was the next day. This seemed to me to
be a little obsessive but who was I to argue.
Well we decided
that going to Los Alamos for the science museum and the lab there would be
cool, and nearby was Bandelier National Monument. They were not all that far from Santa Fe, so
it looked like a plan.
I have often
noticed how different distances are between bikes and cars. 100 miles is a long distance in a car. I have often ridden over 100 miles for lunch,
on occasion even for breakfast on my bike!
Well we got in the
Hundai, and drove up to Los Alamos Nuclear Lab. Unfortunately, we were too late
for the once-a-day tour, but the museum was open. I enjoy science museums, and this one was
certainly unique. I thought it would
upset me, this being the location of the Manhattan Project, the place that
invented the Bomb, and specifically built the bombs that were dropped on
Nagasaki and Hiroshima. They did have
models of Fat Man and Little Boy (the nicknames given to the two bombs they
built).
Not many people
stop to realize that in 1945 these were the only two atomic bombs that existed
anywhere in the world. After they were
dropped on Japan, there were no atomic bombs at all.
The museum was
about a lot more than the Manhattan Project.
The lab does a lot of basic research, and has been at the forefront of
several major scientific advances. It
was interesting, but still seemed kind of gruesome to me. The stop action photographs of the Atomic
tests were amazing. You could just step
through the films frame by frame, frontward and backward using a track
ball.
I called the
dealer in Colorado Springs. He said the
BMW had informed him that all my repairs were to be totally covered. I said good.
He said that the bike would be ready Friday afternoon. I told him I would probably pick it up on
Saturday.
After going to the
museum, and getting some refreshments (Baskin Robbins) we went to Bandelier
National Monument. This is a large
canyon, but not your normal canyon. This
one was made by the eruption of a volcano many millions of years ago. We are told that it was filled with volcanic
ash, which eventually blew or eroded away leaving the canyon. This canyon is very deep, at a significantly
lower altitude than the surrounding countryside. As a result it is much cooler, has water, and
green foliage. If you were in a desert
climate isn’t this where you would prefer to live? Well not surprisingly, this has also been the
case in the past.
Bandelier is home
to cliff dwelling homes, and much archeological exploration of very old
civilizations. The homes have been
restored, and you can climb the ladders and go into them. There is a museum there with examples of
pottery and other artifacts that have
been found there. It did surprise
me that there was no modern people living there, as this was by far the best
climate I had found in New Mexico. There
was actually some humidity in the air down there. Also I learned that Ponderosa Pine tree sap
smells like vanilla. It really does!
As it was getting
dark we returned to Santa Fe. That
evening was the kick-off of Santa Fe’s annual festival. There was a day long series of concerts and
craft sales at a local park, and in the evening they were going to burn
Zorzorba or “Old Man Gloom” This was a
several story tall puppet that laughed and danced and was set on fire every
year.
I was going to go
to the park, but there were 30,000 people there. It seems more like a rock concert with mosh
pits than a community festival. Anyway
we could see the puppet from outside the fence.
People were encouraged to write down things representing their “Gloom”
on slips of paper which were put inside of the giant puppet. They made a big show of stuffing a large sign
with “Osama Bin Ladin” on it up the backside ass of the puppet.
They shot off
fireworks over the head of the puppet as it burned. Pretty spectacular really.
I went back to the
hotel, smoked a cigar around the pool with other people, and retired for the
night.
Friday September 6,
2002
I talked to the
dealership again in the morning, and they assured me that that bike would be
ready. They were replacing everything,
the rear unit and the breaks that had melted.
We agreed that I would be there on Saturday.
Today was a day
for visiting with friends, washing clothes, looking at bikes and vendors,
saying goodbye to people and sitting by the pool.
At the laundry I
met a man that I will call the Admiral.
He actually is an admiral in the U.S. Navy. He is known for two things in the group. One is that his office was in the Pentagon on
last September 11th, and the second is that he is a premier long
distance rider. He has circumnavigated
all of the Great Lakes in less than 40 hours, has done coast to coast rides
back to back, has done all 49 states (you really can’t ride a bike to Hawaii),
all in record times. It seems that the
guy has an incredible ability to go without sleep. He has well over 100,000 miles on his current
bike in just a year of owning it.
Anyway, he and I were washing our clothes together and the talk came to
the upcoming war. He is clearly part of
the Bush administration, but I was pretty frank with my thoughts.
We had a good conversation, and he said that it seemed to be what
everyone was talking about. I said that
it was unusual for us to have someone as
high up in the military available, and as our country was seriously talking
about going to war, I wasn’t surprised that people wanted to talk to him about
it.
I really always
thought my niece was going to survive the accident. I tried to tell my sister that during the
period that my niece was still in intensive care and only marginally conscious. I just have always had this feeling about
her. Even when she was a little
baby. I do have feelings about people,
and most of the time I go with them. It
has served me well. The feeling that I
had was that she was going to grow into an adult who was really going to make a
difference in the world. I felt that her
and I were going to work together long into my old age. I just have felt this since she was an
infant. I know it sounds strange for
someone who considers himself to be a scientist to put any stock in these kinds
of feelings, but I do.
My sister’s
reaction was that it would be difficult for anyone to survive losing their
child. I agreed, but I also said that
lots of people have done it. Including
our grandmother. I was trying to be
comforting, and also communicating the strong conviction that I had that she
was going to make it. Later my sister
told me that she knows the minute that her daughter decided to live. That this was a decision that she made, that
part of her wanted to follow her daughter into death, but that she decided to
fight and live. My sister is not one to
make those kinds of statements lightly, so if she says it was true then she
believed it, and so do I.
My niece did
live. She woke up, and then made up her
mind to have all of the surgeries she needed, bury her daughter, mourn, do the
physical and occupational therapy, and go on with her life. I am in awe of her strength and resiliency,
and I look forward to knowing her for years to come. It has been, and continues to be a
struggle. It reminds me of a poem by
Irene Paull that my wife put to music.
Some people keep on
fighting
When they’ve lost an
arm or leg
Some still keep up the struggle
When their fragile as
an egg.
I’ve seem men rasping,
I object
With voices turned to
gravel
I’ve seen a woman
raise a fist
That couldn’t lift a
gavel
And even with a broken
heart
One still can take a
stand
So lead my grandson
lead the way
Reach back and take my
hand ……
It’s true, people
are strong. Can endure a lot and are
very resilient. It’s a good thing too,
because sometimes I am amazed at how strong and beautiful my children are,
given the ignorance and mistakes I made as a parent. I am so proud of them. I want so much for them to know that, and I
want to help them, but since I don’t know what they want to do, it is difficult
to help. I remember one of the major
realizations I had about U.S. foreign aid to other countries. Even
though people are hungry, or lacking of basic sanitation, or housing, or
clothes or something, it is impossible to just give humanitarian aid. All aid has to be routed through, or at least
delivered with the assistance or acquiescence of someone in the country. As a result, the aid that is given
strengthens either the government in power, or some other power group in the
country. It is unavoidable. It might seem to be a weird analogy to make
with raising children, but it is the same way.
They need to follow their own path, and just my decision to help pay for
college, but not for something else after high school, will result in me
pushing my agenda. I have tried not to
do that, but it is hard, perhaps impossible.
That evening was
the final banquet for the rally. People
started drinking and looking at the silent auction stuff several hours
before. I put in some bids on things,
but with this group it is next to impossible to get a bargain. In fact, it is common for the bids to exceed
the retail cost of items. I do not know
if people just get caught up in the competitive spirit, or if they are just
being generous. The proceeds of the
silent auction go to some charity chosen by the board.
It turns out that
the admiral is the keynote speaker. He
was asked to speak, I am certain, about his long distance riding, but he
decided to talk about terrorism and the war.
He said that so many people had talked to him about it during the week
that he was sure that is what people wanted him to talk about. I was embarrassed at the part that I played
in this misconception, and most of the people around me wished he would have
talked about riding. The banquet was a
lot of fun, lots of funny awards, including the insensitive manufacturer award
to BMW, for which we made the BMW rep wear a Harley shirt and have his picture
taken. A good time was had by all.
After the banquet
I went out and sat by the pool with a box of cigars. Other people came out and joined me and we
had a good time talking, laughing, and smoking.
There were some pretty funny scenes and some truly touching
moments. We were saying goodbye, to some
people for a year, some longer, some shorter, some perhaps forever. No one wanted it to end, but finally fatigue
got the most of us.
I made
arrangements with a couple of people from Minnesota to meet in Durango. I still had not done the Million Dollar
Highway. I was going to pick up my bike,
return my rental car in Colorado Springs, and then meet them in the evening in
Durango. I knew this was iffy, but we
exchanged cell phone numbers and agreed to keep in touch. They were going to go to the Four Corners
Monument and then over to Durango.
Saturday September
7, 2002
Got up early, gave
heartfelt farewells to friends, old and new, and drove up to Colorado
Springs. Drove past the site of the
out-of-gas biker, past Ludlow Memorial, and up to the BMW dealer. My bike was sitting there, ready for me to
ride away. I talked to the service
manager, and asked if I needed to settle up.
He said there was no charge for anything, including the additional
oil/filter change I had asked him to do.
He then asked me how long I had that wobble. I was confused, and said that just before the
breakdown it had started, and I had attributed it to the upcoming rear bearing
failure. He said no, the rear wheel was
bent. He did not have another one, and
did not notice it until the final road test so there was no time to order one. He suggested strongly that I get one as the
rear tire was cupping in an unusual manner.
I had noticed the cupping, but did not really know what the deal was. Anyway, I thanked him, and said I was going
to go and return the rental car, and then be back for the bike. Off I went to the rental car place.
At the rental car
place the young man checked me in and then said that he was alone and there was
no one to drive me back to the dealer. I
told him this was a problem, and that he needed to get me back there. While I was waiting for someone to be found,
I called the Minneapolis guys, and left a message that I was in Colorado
Springs and hopefully would soon be heading out towards Durango. It sure was hot!!
I thought back to
another incident while the family was in Rapid City at the hospital. My sister had asked that everyone stay with
her at least until her daughter was out of Intensive Care. She said that she and her kids needed our
support. I thought at the time that this
was a lot of pressure, and not everyone was in a position to just miss work, or
whatever other responsibilities they had.
She said that she did not mean to put any guilt on anyone, and that of
course people were going to have to do what they needed to do.
One of my brothers
was there with his daughter. She really
needed to get back to St. Paul and it was weighing heavily on his mind that
they had not left yet. She was pregnant,
and had a knee injury (could not walk well at all), and the pressure of the
decision, every day he did not get her back, was clearly hard on the two of
them. I think all of us agreed that they
had to leave. We supported the decision
they made, but I am not sure if we gave him enough support when they finally
decided that they had delayed her return to St. Paul for medical and pre-natal
care as long as they could and they had to get back. I am sure it was very hard for them to
leave. I kept wishing my sister would
make it easier for them, but she was putting all of her energy into her
daughter, and simply did not have any energy to take care of anyone else. I wanted to hug him and tell him it was ok,
and that I understood, but somehow I never did it. I wish I had, I hope other people did.
Finally someone
showed up to give me a ride, and I got back to my bike. Loaded it up and hit the road. It was going to be hard to get to Durango before
dark, but it should not be much later than that. Finally I was on my bike and boy it felt
good. I was really enjoying myself.
Smoking outside of
enclosed vehicles, and throwing butts outside of car windows was illegal in Colorado due to the
fire hazard, so I was really surprised when a car passed me and a woman flipped
a cigarette butt right at me. I wish I
would have had the presence of mind to catch it and throw it back in her
window, but I didn’t. I just kept
thinking that this was a felony.
I was remembering
the last morning before we all split up.
My oldest daughter was heading west, and we were heading east. I said an unkind teasing remark at breakfast. At the time I thought it was not that bad but
I have since realized more and more how insensitive it was. Especially since we all were feeling isolated
and bad about the last month’s experience, and we were about to leave on long
drives. That is what I think she was
feeling, I am not all that certain.
Anyway, this comment has really strained our relationship. I have called her and apologized, but she has
yet to let me off the hook. I really did
not want to cause her pain, I really wanted to bring us closer. Among men, teasing does seem to do that, but
it certainly doesn’t (or at least didn’t) in this situation. Part of the problem was that there were other
people at the table, and part of it was the perceived content of what I
said. God I hate regrets. There is a Willy Nelson song playing on my cd
player.
I could cry
for the time I’ve wasted
But that’s a
waste of time and tears
And I know
just what I’d change
If I could
go back in time somehow
But there’s
nothing I can do about it now.