Tuesday, July 26, Day 10          I brought my alarm clock in last night. I wanted to get an early start. However, I set it in the dark and also I forgot it doesn't have any batteries in it. Isn't there some sort of rule, never set an alarm clock when you're exhausted? My watch at 7 a.m. starts beeping. Always have a backup plan. I doze a bit more, shower, grab only the few things I brought in and vanish.     I have to make a decision as to which direction to head. The same clouds from yesterday hang low and ominous in the sky. They seem ready to explode in buckets of rain. To the north is Fairbanks and in-between there is Mount McKinley. The highest peak in North America. I have been told that the ratio of tourists who actually see the mountain on a clear day is like one out of ten. Not very good odds. Looking up it seems pretty obvious which side of the ratio I'm on.     On top of that, I'm haunted by this constant sense of urgency. Sure I am on vacation, but my current style is not to just tool around from place to place. But rather to cover distance. Lots of distance. The idea of riding the motorcycle thousands of miles is what really excites me. I want to conquer continents, not just run around to all the sightseer places.     The roads here in Alaska form the shape of a triangle with a major city at each point. Anchorage is at the bottom. Fairbanks is at the top. And Tok, the first town coming into Alaska is at the far eastern point. I study the map while standing in the parking lot of the military base. The bike is all packed up and ready to go. Time to cross out Fairbanks and Mount McKinley from the To-Do List. I notice a road heading north splits the triangle. Beside it in little letters spells out 'Alaskan Pipeline'. Decision made and I head north. That is what this trip is like. I have no idea where I will be tomorrow. I am just heading off into the distance each morning.     While standing there about to leave, behind me is the runway and gray fighter jets roar off into the sky, one after the other, banking sharply to the left and then disappearing straight up into the clouds. I try to imagine what it would be like with that much raw power strapped to the bike. Hmmm…     I leather up and head north. As I head off into the mountains, it begins to rain and the road becomes slick. I get closer to Glennallen and I weave my way through the mountainous curves. While crawling along twisting back and forth, I ride up on two guys on Goldwings. At the first service station, we all pull in together. They both have coolers attached to the rear fender on a little platform. I bet they’ve got some sandwiches in there and something to drink.  Neat idea.

The dark clouds that greet my ride

They say they just finished up Alaska and are heading back east. They even sent their wives back home on a plane. They plan to ride back down to the lower 48 themselves.     "Now the fun begins", one of the guys says smiling a big grin. We chat about the roads and the things we have seen up here. There is something about bikers that sort of binds all of us together. We ride and therefore we all have something in common. I have talked to almost every biker I've come near.     I ride back up the same road I rode in to Anchorage on spotting the same glaciers off in the distance. The clouds are low and thick and at times, they extend all the way down into the valley. The motorhomes and I ride through the spotty rain and fog patches. The curves are all slick and the road is very treacherous. I can't lean the bike in the corners and at times it feels like it's going to break loose at any second.

Going into one very tight left corner, I suddenly realize I am not going to make it. I'm crashing. It just happens that quickly. There is no time to recover or think about what I did wrong. I'm crashing and crashing doesn't care. I arc around the curve heading off the edge of the road on a tight up and over left-hander. The front tire passes over the white line and hits gravel. Metal guardrail lines the edge of the road and my brain sends the signal to the rest of my body I'm going down. The first impulse that triggers in my mind is "Save the bike!" The bike is life. Save the bike!     I try to stay upright as long as possible. I spot dirt between the guardrail and the edge of the road and head for that. The guardrail is about two and half feet off the edge of the road and there is a small ditch beside the road about a foot deep. The tires start sliding in the soft dirt and I feel myself being thrown off the bike flying into the air.     It all happens so fast. In my mind I am thinking of crash scenarios. Watching all those superbike racing crash videos come to mind for some strange reason. Here are these sportbike riders crashing at a hundred miles an hour and just getting right up. They crash, slide a ways, then walk away.     Inside my mind, I am screaming, "Slide! Slide! Slide!"     I am wrenched off the bike, and my left hip hits the pavement first, slamming down. My entire body follows like a rag doll into the surface of the wet road. Then my black leather figure goes shooting down the road.     In the quarter second that it takes to get thrown off the bike, I realize I am sliding down the road on my belly protected by my leathers that cover me from head to toe. I slide on my belly and chest. My arms are outstretched before me as if I was sliding into first base. My brain is relieved, even as the sliding is taking place since my physical state is very important. I am in the middle of nowhere and thousands of miles from home.     I slide 20, 25 feet down the road, which is damp from the rain clouds that recently passed through. I slide to a stop and just pause there for a half-second a bit dazed trying to realize what just happened. I am lying on my stomach on a wet road on a blind mountainous corner. The bike just lies there a short distance away on its side saved by the crash bars and the V shape of the shallow ditch. No spectacular explosion of plastic bits or twisted hunks of metal here.     My mind commands my body to rise. There is just this figure lying in the middle of the road in the middle of the mountains. Just lying there, not moving. Again, my mind commands my body to get up, get out of the road.     I get right up as if I meant to do that and walk over to the bike. I forget about myself for a moment and am overly concerned with the state of the motorcycle. The headlight is still on, shining through a small cloud of dust. I reach over and turn the key off. The radio on the left side is hanging free but still attached to the broken dash panel. The left turn lens is busted and the left highway peg is busted clean off. The fairing is partially separated from the dashboard and the cycle has scooped up the soft dirt into every crook and cranny on the side of the bike. The bike is still in gear and the shift lever is bent under the bike just enough to prevent me from shifting it.     It's only then that I realize that I am okay. I wiggle my big toe, yep, that works. Everything else seems okay too. Little finger, both arms, that sort of thing. As quickly, as my attentions turn to myself, it turns back to the bike.     The first motorhome to round the bend sees the bike lying there. He stops and runs over. I start pulling stuff off the back of the bike. Gas cans, sleeping bag, the top hard bag, and ALICE pack. I cannot budge the bike from its position. It's wedged against the side of the guardrail and when I try to right it, it bumps into the side of the rail. The bike is so heavy; I cannot get any leverage and it just sits there lying on the ground.     The motorhome guy finally reaches me asking if I am all right. I assure him I am fine. He has a bad back and can't lift much. But together, we pull the front end up out of the tiny ditch and push the bike upright. It starts right up, but it's stuck in fifth gear. The shifter seems to be stuck in place. I slip the clutch though just enough to get rolling and manage to get the bike up on the road. Gathering up all my things, I thank the man for his help assuring him again that I am okay. He says I am lucky.     The bike rolls to the bottom of the hill where I can make the necessary repairs. There is a dirt road here, I think it is Chickaloon Road, and I pull into this off the main road. Popping out the kickstand and letting the bike idle, I notice there's a good size scrape in the leather chaps on my knee. There's another on my forearms. The chest of the leather jacket seems to be fine though.     Out come the tools and eventually I figure out a way to bend the shift lever to a place where it'll work. I pull in the clutch and run through the gears, yep, works just fine. I bind all the loose plastic of the fairings together. As I finish, it begins to rain. Crashing sucks.     I motor up Highway 1 through the rain as the clouds slide down the mountainsides creating think fog and slippery roads. It's terrible, terrible weather and I notice the steering is pulling to the left. Figures I probably knocked something out of alignment. With no options but to keep on going, I just ride through the miserable rain finally reaching Glennallen and gassing up.     "Did ya get hurt?" The old guy behind me asks while I pay for the gas.     "No," I say nonchalantly giving the easy answer, "I guess I got lucky."     Not wanting a conversation I walk out the door, hop on the bike and start off. I decide to give Alaska one last chance. I can't just leave, I don't want to leave. But suddenly my enthusiasm for the state has left me. Crashing will do that to you.

The Richardson Highway (Highway 4) begins in Valdez, home of the infamous Exxon Valdez 11 million-gallon oil spill in 1989, and splits this triangle. Highway 4 heads due north along the Alaskan Pipeline. Just past Gulkana, I take the turnoff and head for the pipeline. Visibility improves some but I can still only see maybe a half-mile while riding the ridges. The clouds are low and dark. Sunlight seems like a distant memory.

My first sight of the Alaskan Pipeline evokes an immediate reaction, of awe. I am riding across this barren stunted tree wilderness, and here lies this mammoth man-made tribute to human achievement. It rises from the ground, goes back into the ground, rises from the ground, goes underneath streams, and rises over hilltops, zig zagging across the terrain.     It was long known that large oil reserves in Northern Alaska existed. Native people were known to cut chunks of tundra from the ground and burn it. The tundra chunks were soaked with enough oil to ignite and provide fuel. Oil was discovered in March of 1968 in the North Slope area of the Brooks Range. The problem was how to get it to an year round ice free port. A pipeline was the answer and Valdez was chosen as the port.

While it only took three years to build all 800 miles of it, it took six years to plan the thing. The pipeline was completed in 1977 at a cost of 8 billion dollars (in 1977 dollars). Over 28,000 people at one time worked on the pipeline to build it. Today, people who live here get money just for living in Alaska. The money comes from revenues generated from the flow of oil in the state, which has generated billions of dollars of revenue for the state. I bet a lot of doom and gloomers predicted the end of the world back then when they built this.     Since 1977, 10 billion barrels have traveled to Valdez. Over 13,000 oil tankers have been filled there from this one oil discovery, about 70 every month. It multiplies out to 4 million gallons every hour.     It takes five and a half days for the 90 degree oil to make the 800 mile journey. Since it's beginning, an average of 42,671 gal./min. has flown up out of the earth and southward through Alaska so we hungry consumers can gas up our cars, and motorcycles, with cheap gas. The pipeline supplies 20 percent of the domestic oil in the states. The numbers to me are amazing.     The pipeline was quite an engineering accomplishment in the early seventies when it was designed. A heated four-foot thick 800-mile elevated and underground pipeline crossing 3 major fault lines. It also crosses three mountain ranges of the Brooks, Alaska, and Chugach Mountain Ranges up and over 4739 feet at its highest. The pipeline can withstand an earthquake on the Denali fault as much as 20 feet of lateral movement and 5 feet up and down and not spill a drop.     The zigzag in front of me is to allow for the expanding and contracting of the pipe as the temperature can range from 90 degrees to 90 below. The pipeline in each of its 40-foot lengths will expand or contract three tenth of an inch with every 10-degrees of temperature change. However, that works out to 9 inches of total possible expansion, which happens for every 40 feet. The zigzag allows for this too as the pipe floats atop the pilings.     Another really neat thing about the pipeline I read about is how they clean it and check out the insides of the pipe. They use something called a 'pig' that gets propelled through the pipeline by the oil. They can use this thing for all sorts of uses.

They load this thing up in the pipe and send it though inspecting the pipeline, even cleaning off the wax that builds up on the inside. There's a scraper pig, a magnetic pig, and even an ultrasonic pig that looks at the wall thickness using ultrasonic transducers.  It reminds me of that James Bond movie where they load the Russian defector guy up in the tube and send him off across whatever border that was, something like that. Always was a big James Bond fan.     Eventually I reach a spot where the pipeline crosses the road. I pull over and walk over to it where it sinks right into the ground to go underneath the road. It’s enormous close up. I walk right up on top of it and look out over a vast green wilderness. Ah, Alaska

In front of me are the pilings, called VSM's (vertical support members) that the pipeline sits atop. The aluminum things on the top of the pilings are actually aluminum radiators that transfer heat out of the surrounding ground to prevent the permafrost from melting. They adorn the tops of the girders for as far as I can see.     Onward to the sprawling metropolis of Paxson, which is actually just a lodge at an intersection called Paxson Lodge which beginnings date back to 1903. I fill up the tank debating what to do and which direction to head.  It's that sort of trip, just deciding which direction to go at each fillup.  I look down at the map scotched taped to the tank.  Not too many options.     To the west is the 135 mile Denali Highway through the Denali National Park and Preserve. I don't even think to ask about the road conditions in all this rain. I haven't gotten that involved. I'm just sort of wandering around Alaska.     I decide to chance heading west. It's a split second decision. Due west will carry me toward Mt. McKinley. The map shows the road as all gravel, but I can't just leave Alaska yet. Or can I? I get back on the bike, start it up with my fresh tank of gas and make the decision. I'm going to chance it anyway.     At first, the road west is freshly paved. Swooping over hills that swell and sink gracefully, no mountains here, just wonderful up and down hills. Although to the north is the Alaskan Range of mountains with three peaks over 11,000 feet and much of it glaciated. I can't see very far into the distance with the low clouds though. If the sun were shining, I bet this scene of brilliant green grassy knolls would be thrilling.     Then the rain starts up. It's drizzle for a few minutes than a pouring rain. I am in the rain suit but it only helps so much. Boots, gloves, neck, all eventually become saturated. Then the motorcycle starts to act funny. Like it's running on three cylinders instead of four. Like it's sucking on water rather than a yummy mixture of air and gas. Maybe there isn't any air out here; the air instead is being displaced by torrents of rain. I am worried. This has never happened before. The motorcycle is my lifeline. Everything depends on it running smoothly and consistently.     The further I go, the worse it gets. The motor is popping and gasping, backfiring, misfiring, all sorts of stuff. It sounds horrible. It's as if I'm heading directly into the belly of the storm. I can't see anything through the fogged up visor. When I raise it, the raindrops are like bullets to my skin pelting me a thousand times at once. The rain strikes my face so hard, it hurts. It feels like little pins pricking my skin. The windshield of the bike fogs up and now I can't even see through it either. It requires me to sit up straight and try to peer over the top. I lower the shield to its middle position to protect my face and still be able to see over the windshield. I head right down the middle of the road moving over for the occasional vehicle.     A motorhome goes by the other way shooting up a blast of grime. It covers the windshield and myself with dirt spray. The vans pulling pop-up campers and station wagons loaded down with coolers and bicycles coming back the other way are covered in dirt. I wonder to myself if this is a good indication of what I'm heading into. I press on hoping the bike will work out the popping and misfiring and keep on running. I pull in the clutch a few times coasting and revving the motor. That doesn't change anything.     Then as I round a corner cresting a hill, I run into an absolute wall of water. The wind is howling and the rain batters every part of me. I have ridden in rain for hundreds of miles but it feels like I am in some sort of tropical storm. Something you'd see only on TV. I am miles from anywhere and this is beginning to worry me even more. By now, the bike is barely holding on, sputtering and spitting. I brace against the wind and counter balance the bike against the gusts, leaning into it. The bike is getting blown all over the road. I can't see a thing.     Okay, okay, you win. I slow to a stop and just sit there for a moment in the pouring rain holding the throttle open to see if I can blast out more of the water if that's what's causing this. The engine sputters and misfires and coughs. I flip the throttle lock that holds the throttle in place and let it run at 2400 rpm. The rain is just coming down in buckets.     I pull myself off the bike. It's hard to move in my yellow rain slicker, the kind they wear on fishing boats. It's not exactly a motorcycle-rainsuit, but was given to me for free. It goes over the top of all my leathers but I feel like the Michelin Man. I stand there in the middle of the road looking westward. Mount McKinley. It's why people come to Alaska.     At 20,320 feet, it is the tallest mountain in all of North America. Its peak can be seen from as far away as Anchorage. The timberline at the base is only 2,700 feet. Above that, trees are not able to endure the harsh conditions. This is a sad decision. The bike huffs and puffs behind me struggling to run. I walk back over to it heaving my leg up and over the 31-inch seat. Then I pull around the other way and head off through the driving rain. Something did not want me to go down that road if you believe in that sort of thing.     Back to Paxson and joining onto the main road heading north along the pipeline, the rain subsides and the bike returns to normal as if nothing happened. I am not even sure what did happen on that road, but the downpour was the most intense I have ever experienced on a motorcycle. Making north on the Richardson Highway, it's still very slick and very wet. But it is not raining anymore and that is a blessing. The hum of the bike carries me up and over 3000 foot Isabel Pass through the Alaskan Range. The road descends into a valley cut by a dirty mountain stream of the Delta River full of glacial silt. The map shows glaciated areas on either side of me but with the low clouds, I can't see anything. Nothing like all the glaciers while riding from Tok to Anchorage.

The Richarson Highway along the Alaskan pipeline

I ride for awhile through the rather strange looking forests of taiga. It looks like a pine tree, only much smaller, like a miniature tree. At the crest of a hill, I fall into a smooth plain of incredibly green forest. I ride the several miles to the other side and stop. Looking back, it's quite a sight, one of the most scenic of this entire trip. A dark turbulent boiling gray cloud jutting out from the rest leads the pack north. I stop the bike along the side of the road. I have to pause a moment to realize how fast it is moving through the valley off to the west. I pull the bike to the middle to of the road and snap the picture. This is such a beautiful land. And to think we snagged it from the Russians for a couple million dollars. Suckers.     It is time to leave. No way I am heading for Fairbanks in this weather. I hit Delta Junction and gas up. Delta Junction is the official end of the Alaskan Highway even though Fairbanks is 100 miles up the road. There is a monument here and they even have certificates that laud the travelers of their reaching the end of the road. Just thinking about the ride from Whitehorse to Tok makes me think they shouldn't offer certificates, but rather a medal. As every town has its claim to fame, Delta Junction has its annual Great Alaskan Outhouse Race to be held this coming weekend. There are four pushers and one sitter. The outhouse racers compete for the 'Golden Throne' award. We had a three-person outhouse behind the house as a kid on our farm. I cannot fathom racing that thing down Main Street.     Another odd thing about Delta Junction is that when I think of Alaska, the last thing I think about is farming. I think of forests, and mountains, and bears- that sort of thing. Yet this area has a huge farming industry. There are 40,000 acres of farmland surrounding the small town of 736 people. That's a lot of land, considering our farm was only 60 acres in Wisconsin, and that was average for that area. They raise oats, wheat, barley, potatoes, peas, and other crops. There are dairy farms, swine farms, beef farms, even a bison ranch. There's also a wild bison herd that was transplanted here in the 1920's that have their own 70,000-acre preserve just southeast of town. Like I said, lot of land up here.     I will be leaving the pipeline, which fascinates me so much. Just up the road a few miles in the opposite direction is the Tanana River where the pipeline goes right across the river as a suspension bridge. The pipeline goes across 13 major rivers. The widest river the pipeline traverses is 2,295 feet, a whole half mile.     I turn east and head for Tok. It's time to leave Alaska. I'm ready. Once on Highway 2, the road becomes flat and straight for long stretches. Something new after the hundreds of miles of mountainous roads I have been on the last few days. The road is wet but the rain stays away. I make tracks to ride the 120 miles to Tok by nightfall.     I hit the town in the early evening and gas up spotting Fast Eddies. I see lots of other bikers lined up outside and I say, yep, that's the place for me. I pull up next to Electraglides and even a BMW Paris Dakar. I hop off and at the same time, the owners of these bikes walk out. One group is from New Hampshire, Rick and Skip White of the White Mountain Riders Motorcycle Club from Berlin, New Hampshire. About 6 or 7 of us stand around and swap stories, especially of my wiping the bike out earlier today. I tell the story in a comical way and we all get a good laugh. They're probably actually thinking- they're glad it wasn't them.     "I like this guy," the guy with the Boston accent keeps saying as I tell a couple tales from the last two weeks. I make them laugh about some of the strange things that have happened so far on this trip. It feels good to talk to people. It's odd to travel a 12-hour day and not say a single word. Sometimes I say something outloud to myself and am surprised to hear the sound of my own voice.     In return, they tell of a monument to all motorcyclists in Coldbrook, New Hampshire and insist I go there to see it. The couple describing this are even wearing t-shirts bearing pictures of the 35-ton monument. I of course promise to stop by. As they leave, I start talking to the couple on the Paris Dakar with the Corbin seat. They are from Albany, New York.     "Don Rowland," he says giving my hand a firm shake.     "Tim," I say back smiling. He's wearing a full leather suit. Someday I will have to get something like that. I am wearing a leather jacket I bought years ago in high school that wasn't designed for motorcycling in the least. It's rather thin and most of the time I wear my Marine Corps jacket over the top of it to stay warm, not to mention my long johns and two long sleeve shirts.     "This is my partner Pat Cobleton." Don says. His 'partner' Pat wears black leathers too. They tell of having to change the rear tire and not having the right one and of the people who in the end helped them out. They mention another guy they met who is also on a Paris Dakar. As soon as they say that, he motors on by and waves. Nice timing. He has a front tire bungeed onto the back along with all his other gear. They say they have to be back on the 7th and if I am near Albany, New York anytime, to stop by. Then they hop on the bike and motor on.     Inside Fast Eddies, I order a roast beef hoagie although I am not exactly sure what that is. It turns out to be the best sandwich I have had in the last 4000 miles. And Reases Pieces pie for desert. But of course. Chocolate and more chocolate. I still have a few Oreo's left too in case of an emergency.     I am not sure what to do as I survey the roads on the maps spread out over the table as I finish my meal. The weather is bad in all directions and who can say how long that will last. Another storm is waiting for me to the east.     I decide to take the Top of the World Highway. I'm not sure what the Top of the World part means. Probably that it's really far north I suppose. Anything not to go back down the mudbath it was coming up here, if you call that a road. I'm a few breaths away from deciding to head up the highway northward. I figure I'll just find a place to sleep along the side of the road. I measure out the distance of 175 miles of gravel road to Dawson City.     It sounds crazy but doable. Maybe I am just young and adventurous. Besides, the whole town is booked up says my waiter when I ask about staying here for the night. He doubts I could get a room this late. It's normal for the entire town to be booked up this time of year he adds.     I gaze out the windows at 9 o'clock at night, the sun still shining as if it were noon time. Two Harleys pull up and park right outside the window. I think this must be a sign. Both bikes are not the pretty polished type you see running around on the weekends, rather these two bikes are covered in mud and wet gravel dust. A coat of gray covers every nook and cranny. Two scraggly guys in rainsuits shuffle in, see me, and plop down in the next booth. Tugging, pulling off rainsuits, chaps, neckerchiefs, gloves, and jackets, they settle in next to a heap of clothing. Much like my own.     They are from Southern California and it feels nice to run into someone also from California. They have just arrived in Alaska and driven all the way up the Alaskan Highway in the last few days. They hear of my indecision. My thought to head off into the wilderness in the middle of the night piques their interest. In return, they insist I shack up with them. They've secured a bed and breakfast down the road a ways. I oblige. How could I refuse?

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