The Last Day
I awake refreshed from a hard night of sleep and quickly stow my stuff. This drill is getting shorter each time as everything is very familiar by now. I ascend the stairs out of the basement laden with my gear and deposit near the door as I detour and find the coffee already made. Wade and Jack are sitting and drinking their morning libation. I join them and Pastor Jason makes his appearance. We chit chat about the trip and our last miles home. We drain our cups and with just glances at one another, we signal it is time to load up and head to Fast Eddies.
Pastor Jason rides a on/off road bike which is very useful for the terrain in the Tok area. It is what I would own if I lived here. He puts his helmet on with us and it is seconds before we all arrive at the best breakfast place in town. We enter and discover even now it is filled with locals and tourists. We select a booth and the four of us squeeze in. Since there is no car to leave our heavy leather coats in, we drape them over a nearby chair like usual.
The omelets and pancakes and bacon all arrive and we dive in. We talk of ministry in Tok, motorcycles, the experiences and about getting home today. After eating, we wriggle out of the booth and retrieve our jackets. It looks like it could rain today. I switch out leather for rain jacket and layer up getting into my mismatched waterproof bag bungied to my back seat. We say our thank yous to Pastor Jason which seem inadequate for all the first class treatment we have received. It is time to get going and we all head to the Chevron station to fuel up.
Topped off, we merge onto the highway, I don't know what is going on with my motorcycle, it seems like it has a mind of it's own. It wants to run at top speed like a horse that senses it is headed to the barn. I can't hardly make it slow down. To discipline the Harley, I use the cruise control, the only thing that keeps it at a steady 70 mph. At the junction, we choose the Tok Cutoff route. I wince when I think of all the "road damage" we will have to negotiate today.
We pass all the out of business road houses, lodges and gas stations in reverse order from when we came. Soon enough the first "Road Damage" sign appears, the first of many. Jack is leading, and I am second. We spread out so when slowing up for the "loose gravel" we don't ride up on the person in front of us too close. Speed up, slow down, speed up, slow down. It is the Tok Cutoff true to form. It goes on for about an hour. We round a sharply bending corner on one of these damaged sections at the usual 35 mph. Jack is far enough ahead that he is nearly out of the loose gravel when a monster of a motor home, the kind with front windshields that look taller than an average height man and a half dozen doors on the side to the "basement". It is also towing what a rental car company would call a "full size sedan". The driver is not making use of the 35 mph advisement signs posted for the road damage section. He enters the loose gravel at what I estimate to be 60 mph and there is literally (and I do mean literally in the literal sense) an explosion of "gravel" flying through the air. It is interesting to me how incredibly fast the mind works at times like this. My eye spots what looms as a fist size piece of loose gravel, it traces the arc of trajectory and sends the information to my brain. My brain calculates that yes, I am going to intersect with the arc of that loose piece of gravel. I have enough spare time to do two things, wonder what the damage to my bike will be and close my eyes and brace for the impact. All of that in what must be milliseconds.
The fist sized piece of gravel makes contact with my helmet with a resounding "WHACK!" I also feel a stabbing pain in my left shin. The face shield is now flapping stupidly detached from the impact side of my helmet. I open my eyes a bit dazed and disoriented while still steering the Harley at 35 mph. The driver of the monster sized motor home drives on none the wiser. I exit the loose gravel and pull to the side of the road to collect my wits, do something about my face shield and look for damage on my bike. Wade who catches up to me, pulls in behind me wondering what is wrong.
I look at him through the dangling face shield and his eyes look puzzled. We shut off the bikes and I remove my helmet trying to collect my thoughts. We discover the shield is not broken but only detached from the hinge mechanism. Wade knows how to reconnect it and compresses the little spring latch while I press the shield back on. It works. I rub my left shin realizing I must have caught another rock. I am imagining that there must be damage to my bike somewhere. I walk around front and miraculously there is none to be found. I check the left side that was exposed to the flying gravel and still find no damage. I am amazed and thankful that it was only my head that took the hit. Honestly, had I not been wearing the helmet the flying missile would have undoubtedly knocked me out cold and / or taken out an eye. I resolve that I will always wear a helmet which I have already resolved but I renew the resolve on the spot.
After several minutes, Jack pulls up on the other side of the road and circles around to find out what is going on. We discover that a rock has taken out the headlight on his bike, the glass smashed out. All of the drama is over and I am sure it doesn't look like much to him. I am fine but still a bit rattled from the whack on my helmet. I can't wait to get done with the Tok Cutoff. I look up the "Milepost" description of the Tok Cutoff on the website when I get home. I have cut and pasted its description for your reading pleasure:
"Road conditions are generally good along the Tok Cutoff and Glenn Highway, with a number of improved sections of highway that have been or are in the process of being realigned and widened."
I don't know what Tok Cutoff they are talking about, but I disagree with the "generally good" part.
We finally reach the junction of the Tok Cutoff and the Richardson Highway. We turn left and on to Glennallen. By the time we reach Glennallen the stinging pain in my left shin has faded and I don't feel quite as rattled. I regard all motor homes with caution from this point on.
The home stretch lays before us. After fuel and a vivid description to Jack and Wade of my little mishap we make plans for lunch at the Eureka Roadhouse. It has rained lightly off and on ever since Tok but from Glennallen the overcast is higher and less dark looking south in our direction of travel. We set off again and put the cruise controls on 70 mph to keep the bikes from running off with themselves.
After the nastiness of the Tok Cutoff, the road out of Glennallen seems smooth and gentle. In general, it is better than most of the Canadian road surfaces we have encountered. I wonder what it would be like bike tripping in the lower 48 on the smooth blacktop that interconnects civilization down there. I'll bet there aren't as many "Road Damage" signs posted on the side of the road.
We get to Eureka in the estimated time and are surprised how busy the place is! Pickups with large tires pulling trailers with multiple four wheeled side-by-sides are lined up for fuel. Campers, motor homes (which I give an instinctive wide berth) and cars full of Memorial Day celebrators fill the parking areas. The weather lifts a bit and blue sky is seen between the clouds. We still have Sheep Mountain to pass through which for me never seems to not be raining or worse but the prospects of getting out of our rain gear is good.
The Eureka Roadhouse has a reputation for good pie. I never get to sample it because I am usually too full from their bacon cheese burger. I change my strategy. Pie is what I want but I'll need something else to go with it. I inquire about soups. The waitress says, "well, we have a broccoli-cheese bacon, and..." I raise my hand and tell her, "you had me at bacon." Wade and I order broccoli-cheese bacon soup and it delivers on its promised goodness. Jack opts for the chili. I then order cherry pie, my all-time favorite, yes, I will have it heated and yes I will have it with ice cream. Jack and Wade also order their pie and soon we are savoring the talents of the pie maker who provides these pies to the Eureka Roadhouse. I really want another piece of pie, but I tell myself to be patient while I sip the rest of my coffee and let the message from my stomach slowly transfer its information to my brain that I actually am full. If the message from my eyes to my brain and back is high-speed internet, the message from my stomach to my brain is dial-up modem. It finally does make the connection and I decide against another piece of pie even as I continue to scrape the remaining traces of cherry pie sauce from the plate with my fork. I would like to lick it clean but...
We exit the roadhouse and I begin to awkwardly remove my rain pants. I don't want to remove my boots and bending over after lunch is hard with a full stomach. Getting the elastic leg openings at the bottom of the pants over the huge and clunky bike boots is challenging. About a half hour later I am stowing the hated rain pants away and looking forward to riding with just my leather chaps, jacket and my helmet. Always wear a helmet.
To my surprise, the weather looking up to Sheep Mountain does not look too bad, about the same as Eureka. There is quite a bit more traffic because of the holiday weekend but so far, most of it is headed out of town still while we head toward town. We plan to take a final break somewhere in an hour or so before we head home.
The weather only improves and we are riding in wonderful sunshine, far different from the nasty weather we had only a few days before on this very road. The leaves are popping out and it is clear spring has sprung today on Sheep Mountain. The curves are a bikers dream only sullied occasionally by slower traffic. The road is narrow with hard rock mountain side on the right side and a steep, no guardrail, no shoulder chasm to the left that descends far below to the Matanuska Glacier or the Matanuska River. One would love to gawk at the scenery but with traffic and the curvy, narrow road, glimpses are all that can be managed. We pass through the little towns that still show signs of life, Sutton and Chikaloon have found ways to stay in business and I applaud them. We pull off as planned somewhere along this route to take our last break.
The weariness of the long distance, 5 day trip begins to be felt. I don't know if you don't allow those thoughts earlier because you still have a long ways to go or if you just can't help it. We realize that this will be our last conversation with Wade as when we get to Eagle River, he will be taking a different exit home and the plan is for me to stay with Jack and Ann Aiken one more night before I go home to Kenai tomorrow. We shake hands with Wade and fall in behind him as he leads us out of the pull off and back on to the highway.
We soon are passing the State Fairgrounds on the outskirts of Palmer. The road finally breaks into four lanes and we pass through the traffic signals of Palmer without stopping and on to the Glenn Highway. Traffic is moving briskly and we form up our stagger formation and tighten our spacing to help protect ourselves from aggressive drivers. We pass Eklutna and Mirror Lake knowing our exit will be soon. Wade continues on and Jack leads me off the Glenn and into his neighborhood. The garage door is open and Jack rides directly in and I park in the driveway. I am not home, but it sure feels good to be home. We pull off the leathers again and enter Jack and Ann's comfortable home. I am kind of amazed that the one pair of jeans I have taken on this trip are still fairly presentable, no mustard or other issues that I have to explain have happened to these pants. Because of all the showers we were able to take each night of the trip I don't smell too bad either, at least I don't think I do.
I sit in a comfortable chair as Jack and I relate the details of the trip to Ann. Did I mention the chair was comfortable? The house was warm and I am pretty sure I involuntarily fell asleep mid sentence talking with Jack and Ann. Honestly, I was in la-la land somewhere and enjoying every minute of it. When I awake some time later, Jack has stowed all the stuff from his bike back to the places he stows it and Ann has dinner from her magical "Insta-Pot" ready and on the table. I feel a bit of a goof for falling asleep on everyone as I am invited to share in the dinner. It is excellent.
I check the weather reports for the next day and notice that the rain is predicted to lift in just an hour and after that it is all sun. After a warm meal and a snooze I feel up to the last 170 miles and three hours of riding that lay between me and my Kenai home. My wife, who was on a trip out of state when I began this adventure arrived home the day yesterday. I decide to go for it as the light from the sun is constant and I feel rested.
I announce that I am heading home and thank Jack and Ann for hosting me so wonderfully. I start my bike and head to South Anchorage via the Muldoon-Tudor Road route to avoid downtown. I fuel off the Huffman exit and pull on the New Seward Highway. There is one tremendous squall looming up ahead that I am hoping I can avoid but it looks to be directly in my path. It is parked on the point of Turnagain Arm across the water and looks like a doozy. It would be the kind of rain that flooded the earth in Noah's day. I head across Potter's Marsh and we catch the edges of the downpour but are soon out of it by the time I get to Girdwood.
I have been over this portion of the road so many times in my 35 years of living in south central Alaska that the three hours go by in no time. The weather continues to improve the further south I go. Heading up the skinny road that connects Sunrise to Cooper's Landing demands dark sunglasses as the pitch puts you directly in line with the intense sun. Soon I am back in the shadow of the mountains and shortening the distance between me and home. As I pass through mile 74 I glance to the sides of the road hoping to catch sight of a little camera lost a few days before. No luck.
I pass through Sterling, Soldotna, and on to Kalifornsky Beach Road. I turn right on Ciechanski, left on River Hills and find myself pulling in to my driveway. JoLynn is playing fetch with our grand-dog, Lulu, our son's poodle, on the front lawn. I am home. I am greeted by a barking, growling poodle who is alarmed at this monster clad in leather. Assuring Lulu I am no threat I hug JoLynn and shuffle wearily into the garage to remove my riding gear for the last time. I pull my dirty, road grimy Harley Davidson into the garage and leave it for the next day to unpack and stow the stuff.
Just before I go into the house, I check the trip meter. It reads: one thousand, nine-hundred, forty-seven miles.
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