Hey, Went on another solo motorcycle trip today. No destination in mind, just riding.

It was cold and gray this morning, the local news had the usual, " It's slippery out there, folks, be careful....oh look, here's some video of a car upsidedown in a pond, word is they're all dead, Mike." The inanity of the local news truly makes me turn it off after approximately five minutes.

Oh well, it might be wet. And cold. And snowing. I want to ride.

I bundle up into my Gerbings heated gear, waterproof pants, jacket, and gloves that all have heating wires, much like an electric blanket, sewn in. You plug yourself into the bike, turn the dial, and you're NEVER cold. Probably my most useful addition to my bike.

I look like the Michelin man, in black, but I'm warm and toasty cruising down the highway.

I hop onto the I-5 corridor, heading north, away from the city. Traffic's light in a relativity sense, errant cars whose drivers seemingly slept through the, " Keep right except to pass " portion of driver's ED. are easily dispatched with a swoop and wrist twist.

I'm running @ 90mph, north, just slightly faster than the flow of traffic. Enjoying filtering through the oddly clustered vehicles, looking for holes, being smooth, using my signals, not cutting anyone off, just that great sense of flow.

I pull off to fill up, check the watch. A look up has thick angry looking clouds roiling off the foothills to the north, I decide discretion is best and peel off of the Northern I-5 slab and head east, toward the mountains.

I turn randomly at intersections, but keep a general NNE bearing in my head. I pass through several little towns, clustered at the base of the Cascade mountains, happy little one-main street towns that.... damn, blinked and missed it.

The scent of fresh cut logs is everywhere, that sweet smell of sap and sawdust slightly modified with the oddly seductive scent of diesel smoke and chain saw oil. Not unpleasant, it brings me back to my formative years. (I grew up in a town where the only industry was a pulp and paper mill.)

It's cold out here. I don't feel it, but my faceshield is slowly becoming opaque. They use a calcium based deicer here in Wa when mixed with water it forms a corrosive gel like goo that coats everything. The fact that there's this "snot" on the road means we're in ice risk country. I can also feel the cold air sneaking in under my helmet and through the cracks of my jacket where the heating wires and seams can't come to an agreement, but my core is wonderfully warm and I don't even think about my chilly nose until I'm sitting here, writing this.

This is one of the downsides of heated gear.... it can mask the true temperature from you so you aren't expecting black ice.

I pass through Granite Falls. There's a sign here...road closed ahead 22 miles.

You know I've got to check that out.

The only traffic on this stretch are dump trucks, each pulling a trailer that doubles their capacity. There's quarries here, granite I'm presuming, and the faint yet insistent ticking noises I hear are bits of granite taking tiny bites out of all my chrome. Oh well, I'd rather ride it than rub it.

There's a wonderful straight stretch here, excellent visibility, deserted. HMMMM, better check and make sure the spark plugs are carbon free....now how could I do that?



Beyond this straight, the road again settles into a smooth rollercoaster, following the banks of a small river, rising and dipping, all curves flowing into each other, smoothly throttling up and down, guiding the bike, not forcing the lines.

There's snow here, it's getting thicker at the roadside. Still bare road.

I follow a long curve around. The trees now come right up to the roadside, they're huge conifers, the limbs bent down with the snow load. Within 500 feet the road goes from bare, to 2 inch thick slush. Enough. I slow gently, watching the mirror. My first attempt at a u-turn has the front tire turned fully, but the bike continues to go straight ahead. Not so good. Apparently Avon Venom tires are not all-seasons.

I slow further, use a bit of gas to spin the bike around. No problems. The heft and wheelbase of the Valkyrie grant impressive stability.

I stop, take these pics of the winter wonderland. The rivers full of gray/green water, carrying lots of sediment.





BRRR. I'm not plugged into my heat source anymore, I start to feel the cold seep in as I'm walking around, snapping pics. A pickup goes by, spraying wet slush, the driver looking at me and making circles at his temple with his index finger. Yeah, I know.











I mount up and gingerly ride back to dry pavement.

I take the long way home, exploring the network of tiny roads that spiderweb through the foothills and valleys.



Drivers are considerate here, a nice yet oddly disconcerting change from the apathy/hostility of city folk.

An example... There's many 3 and 4 way stop intersections here, not enough traffic to justify lights. At many of these, other drivers will often wave me ahead of them, even if it's not my turn to go, simply because they know bikes travel faster than cars here, and I'd just be looking for a passing opportunity 1/2 mile up the road.

How could I resist a road that advertises this...



Yep. Truth in advertising.

It's farm country now, I'm riding alongside a long, wide valley. An out-of place Porsche 911 turbo pulls liesurely out in front of me, then realizes his error and gasses it to get up to speed so I'm not inconvenienced. Cool. I trail him as we follow the curving tarmac, he's enjoying the road, too. We fly in formation for a while, I'm enjoying the sound of two similar flat-six motors changing pitch, creating exhaust harmonics that ebb and crest inside my helmet.

We end up at a set of traffic signals. We both turn right. I hear his motor start to come to life, I hit the gas too. We accelerate hard uphill. I admit, I was surprised at the acceleration the car had. Not even a contest, mind you, I had to roll off twice to avoid tapping him, but it hit 100 mph pretty briskly. We pushed through the next few turns, then came up on a line of traffic that put an end to the fun. He stuck his hand out the window, thumbs up, then pulled off into a small driveway. I gave a wave as I went by. Nice flying with you.

I arrive home 30 minutes later, 180 miles on the odo, the bike, my gear and helmet coated with mud, calcium, and dust. What a great day.