Heading east of Burns on Highway 20, which mergers with 26, we headed toward the Utah-Oregon border. Rain was a consideration but we made a point to keep moving as long as the weather allowed. Riding the Buell in the rain was not a problem. Granted I had no windshield, but I was astride a bike that handled with ease, didn't wobble in the rain or track strangely, and it screamed along at 90 on the open road.

Each day of riding made the bike more comfortable to straddle for long stretches. Ducking the rain, we kept pressing toward the border until we came to the junction of the turn to Ontario or Nyssa. We didn't know much about either town except that a woman at the last gas stop pointed out that Ontario housed a sex shop.

At the intersection of Highway 20/26, Ontario was to the left, Nyssa to the right. The clouds loomed to the left so we went right for 8 miles into Nyssa, a dead town. It's sad to see some towns booming with activity and others that appear to have no life at all. Nyssa was one of them. We came across one bar, but it was only good for beer and wine. The gent behind the bar was a longtime biker and he told us where we could get a strong drink down the block. The interior of the Twilight Bar was nothing more than cheap partitions separating a take out food joint from a dull dining room. We wandered down the hall from one lackluster opening to the next until we reached the bar, which wasn't half bad. We were relieved to find that we hadn't stumbled into some sort of sleazy trap.

I set my painted helmet on the bar and ordered a Jack on the rocks from the cheerful waitress. As I talked to Chris and Veronica and watched several serious dart throwing competitors, I noticed a hand reach for my helmet. I spun to my right. "Don't touch my fuckin' helmet!" I said directly into the bloodshot eyes of a blond guy with nasty looking teeth and a goatee.

"I was just checkin' the other side, man. No offense," he said, backing away and tossing up a brotherhood handshake. "Where ya from?"

"Los Angeles," I said and he pointed out that he was from the San Fernando Valley originally, only 40 miles from downtown.

"This seems like a sorta down little town," I said. "Ya know if we should have our drinks and keep moving or could we find something worthwhile to hang here for?"

"I moved here 10 years ago to afford my children a quality lifestyle while growing up away from the city in So Cal," he started to explain while sipping his drink and slurring his words. His tongue snaked out of his mouth on a regular basis. "That was before my wife left me here and my life went to hell. But ya gotta stay. The food here is fine, you can walk across the street to the total nude titty bar for some entertainment and return here for drinks. Hell, there's even the motel around the corner. Don't go man. Ya gotta hang."

"Sounds good to me," I said, looking at the good doctor and his lovely Jewish princess, who I knew would try to find a way out. For a few moments we thought we'd hit a biker's paradise.

"Yeah, you could even party while the local religious freaks protest outside Miss Lilly's Gentleman's Club, but unfortunately it's Monday night and the club is closed," the bartender said.

"Damn," I said. "Would you call the motel and see if they have any rooms?"

"Sure," she said, dialing the phone. "Damn, the phone is disconnected."

"Well, I gotta go bass fishing at the crack of dawn. I'll be seeing you guys. You'll have a great time hangin' here," he said and backed away from the bar.

I smelled a bike thief as he crept for the door, stumbling slightly. We finished our drinks, mounted our scoots and headed down the main drag for the Arrowhead Motel. It seemed clean until we dismounted and headed for the office. A small sign hung wearily in the window, "Closed for repairs." We rode another 12 miles to Caldwell, where we pulled into the first motel we saw. It was a massive stone building, The Sundowner Motel,built some 20 years old and painted completely white with baby blue trim. Veronica dismounted the Betsy, as Chris had named his bagger, and Chris left it running to avoid me pushing to get it started again. Veronica quizzed the young Hispanic girl behind the counter, "Is this a nice motel?"

"You want a nice motel? You better take a left at the second light and go to 10th. Check into the motel on the left, the Desert Inn." Veronica thanked her, trying not to inhale the heavy sent of chlorine in the lobby, and came out to the bikes. We followed her directions onto 10th, which turned into an 8-mile haul down a street packed with every franchise on the planet, from Taco Bell to Home Depot. We eventually found the Desert Inn, with only two cars in the parking lot and rooms for $50 a piece. We were tired, it was almost dark and we were ready for chow. I'd noticed, though, that we weren't eating dinner before 10 p.m. And I knew why: It was the brunette hanging on the doctor's rear seat, complaining that she didn't have a full tour pack and the seat with armrests and speakers. If we didn't get on the road before 10 in the morning, we were forced to ride late.

There's one more item I need to bring up here. We'd been on the road since Saturday and every biker we ran across was going the other direction. We ran across one group going to the Glaciers, another to Alaska. Just an observation. We ate at a local Mexican restaurant in Nampa and enjoyed the food, but discussed our travel arrangements. "Listen, we've got to get moving earlier. How about pulling out at 8? We'll roll into Idaho City for breakfast. Whatta ya think?"

"OK," Veronica said.

As I looked into her beautiful eyes, I waited for the negotiating to begin. She had to be thinking of something, but nothing came.

We returned to the Desert Inn and shoved the bikes up close to my room for safekeeping. I called the lobby for a wakeup call, reset my watch to Mountain Standard Time and hit the hay.

This was one of those rooms with the phone all the way across from the bed. I'll never understand that planning. When the clock hit 6:30 a.m., the phone rang twice. I took a bath and hit the lobby for coffee, a muffin and a bowl of cereal. I used a couple towels to wipe down the Buell and loaded my shit. At 7:45 the doctor still hadn't arrived at his dresser with their goods so I called their room.

It rang five times before a voice struggled to answer. "Hello," Veronica said.

"It's 8 o'clock, ya ready to roll?" I steamed.

"Uh, it's 7," she said, still half asleep.

"It's 7 in California. It's fuckin' 8 here. Let's roll, we're burnin' daylight!" I smart-assed at her. Something about her tender features played on my weak male heart strings. I went back to the lobby for another bowl of Cheerios and coffee. As we rolled out of town and onto the 84 Freeway, I shifted my feet onto the rear pegs and felt totally comfortable. We hadn't gotten gas because we knew that Idaho City was only 50 miles from Nampa. It was cold that morning so we stopped at the dam and bundled up. I was scooting along at a rapid pace so I stopped to make sure the oil-spewing dresser would be there. We bundled up and headed into the hills.

As we pulled into Idaho City, I recognized the old time community in the pines and we pulled up to Calamity's, the same log cabin restaurant where I ate with Myron on our way to Sun Valley in '98. The roads are dirt but don't be afraid to cruise up the main drag through town.

The distance wasn't far to Sun Valley, but we quizzed the waitress, who was most helpful. The roads ahead were winding mountain highways, perfect for the Buell. Again Chris and I ate something light while Veronica ordered French toast, eggs and a slab of ham. The doctor and I congratulated ourselves on our decisions to eat light, yet we always helped the young lady clean her plate. We hit the only gas station in town and discovered that they were out of fuel. In the blink of an eye we were going to face a serious problem. Fortunately a refueling truck arrived within minutes.

It was slightly over 90 miles to the crossroads of Stanley. We were threatened by clusters of gray clouds, but seemed lucky in our attempt to stay on the dry side of the roads. Somewhere along the line another rider had pointed out to me that since we were running in high altitudes, our bikes would be running richer, so we could save on fuel by filling with the mid-range rather than premium blend. It felt against the code but we took up the rule and it worked. Although the Buell allowed me to roll through the hillsides and mountain ranges as if I were on a road racer through heaven's gates, I stopped at each crossing to wait for the Betsy to catch up. Chris has a history of sport bikes and racing in Europe and was capable of pushing his Standard to the max, but there was no reason to do so while packing and riding a bike not designed for cutting each corner at maximum speeds. Besides, I wanted to be there for pushing duties after he shut off the bagger. Each time I did, Veronica bowed humbly to me in gracious thanks.

Stanley was a warm noon stop where we changed clothes and readied ourselves for the final lap into Sun Valley 61 miles away. We had no place to stay in town but we have Hamster brothers who live there. Although we weren't sure of their whereabouts, I was certain I could call the Bikernet headquarters and pick up a phone number or two.

I pulled to the side of the road as I entered the tourist mecca of Ketchum and waited for the doctor. As they pulled up beside me, Chris shut off his bike while we discussed motel planning. I suggested the Ketchum Inn at the end of town. Of course his bike wouldn't start and we had to push him down the side street to fire the puppy to life. We rode through town until I spotted the river rock and log cabin entrance and pulled in.

Sonuvabitch, but the parking lot was packed with Hamster bikes and the two furry residents were standing under the arch. Lon Strickley, the helicopter pilot (and Vietnam flier), was with his FXR stroker and Barry Peterson was dressed for business.

I discovered that Lon's bike, although it looks like a fancy Hamster custom, has over 100,000 miles on the clock. He replaces the top end every other year and maintains the bike himself. Several other Hamsters were prepping their bikes for the haul to Jackson Hole to meet with the rest of the gang. Ron and Theresa had packed dual Road Kings for the journey. Veronica jammed inside to check on rooms and came out dejected.

We jumped on the bikes and headed to another hotel. The only rooms available were beyond our budget. We were told to head south to some skiers' condos called Pannay's. We were delighted to find an owner who helped Chris scrub down his oiled-over bike and rented us a two-bedroom condo for a reasonable price right at the base of the mountain and walking distance from the gym. I was stoked. Then Layla called from the headquarters. Her father had just passed away. The gent whose granddad was portrayed as Popeye by El Segar. Harold Olsen had just as much knowledge of the sea as his granddad and as much experience. Layla asked if I would think about a eulogy for his service. I was stunned, left with one major thought. How little I know about life and any occupation compared to this man. He was a master of the sea, ships, fishing, nets and fish. He was a humble man who didn't think of wealth or material objects. As long as he had a tool box and fishing gear he needed nothing else and never had anything else. I could understand his frustration regarding the kids of today.

While I pondered the eulogy, Chris tore into his electrical system. He removed his starter relay that was riveted to the side of his oil tank. He was afraid that the relay was overheating and causing the relay to open. I suggested that he check all his battery and ground connections, which he also did. He also made sure an electrical connection was made from the battery to an electric vest for Veronica, though I'm not sure she ever used it.

The next morning we took a ski lift to the top of Bald Mountain, 9,100 feet, and hiked down a narrow, slippery path. We talked about the efforts and dreams it took to build these paths and run the ski lifts nearly 100 years ago. That night we rode over to Lon's in Gimlet for dinner and a party. Although Lon lives across the street from John Glenn and down the street from Bruce Willis, his style is anything but yuppie. He lives in the mountains for peace of mind for him and his wife, Gale, and the openness of the woods for his children, Rocket and Clair. He wears T-shirts and Levi's and collects engraved Zippos from Vietnam. He drinks tequila like I drink Jack Daniels and he loves his family. While we sat around a bonfire we listened to Dr. Hamster's roadkill recipe for the rider on a budget. Seems all you need is fresh roadkill and a two-hour putt. He suggests that you wrap the kill in tinfoil after cleaning it and basting it in butter and some seasonings. Then stick it between your cylinders for a 200-degree cookout for two hours. We were just drunk enough to listen.

One of Lon's neighbors was a gentleman with wavy salt and pepper hair and a brilliant smile. His name is Marjo and he was once the youngest evangelist preacher in the world. He played the game for several years, but grew disillusioned. He won an Oscar for a documentary he produced about the facts behind the prayer meeting sales tool. The party was packed with good food and great conversation. Although you could have given some of our guests celebrity status, I looked at the group as just a bunch of tequila drinkin' bikers, except for Veronica. But the narrow-waisted woman with the Hollywood smile was growing on me.

When we left we discovered that the tequila-drinking, wild-riding Hamster has an evil side. Turns out he's VP of the homeowners' association and asked us to keep our pipes to a dull roar as we left the community of Gimlet. I looked at the doctor then back at Lon. "You know what, pal?" I said, licking the tequila out of my mustache. "I had one helluva an evening, but I'm going to try to forget that you have a sheriff's badge pinned to your boxer shorts."

We decided to meet at Lon's at 9 a.m. the next day for riding out.

On to Chapter 4 ...

Back to Chapter 2, Page 3 ...

Back to the The Garage ...

Back to the Stories on Bikernet ...

Back to Harley Davidson on Bikernet ...