Trying and failing to break the law of gravity wasn’t the worst thing that has ever happened to me, absentmindedly parking my motorcycle on an incline wasn’t the worst thing that ever happened to me, it was watching Rain Cloud Follows topple over in slow motion, the resultant feeling of helplessness and stupidity for not paying attention to the inclined nature of the shoulder I parked on; the kick in the nuts my pride took that afternoon. That was the worst thing that ever happened.

And if that is the worst thing that ever happens to me on a motorcycle……..

When I put the kickstand down and got off, the bike simply fell over. Fortunately, with my incredible, cat-like reflexes, I jumped out of the way and wasn’t trapped underneath as Rain Cloud Follows took a little nap. The problem was, Abi was about two miles down the road (While he was heading a few miles down the road to turn around, I was parking to try and get some exciting ‘action’ pictures, such as they are.) and when a motorcycle assumes it’s natural resting position on a gravelly incline, it’s impossible to pick up, especially if your muscles have atrophied into marshmallow from too much saddle time, too much Guinness time and not enough ‘activity’ time.

A total of three cars had passed in the four hours we were on these straight, flat, deserted roads. But, as always seems to happen, when you really need help, it arrives. My saving angel was a guy in a pickup truck attached to a gigantic horse trailer that just happened to pull up less than five minutes after the motorcycle fell over. As he got out of his truck, I noticed with a chuckle that my saving angel, a rail thin fellow with a shock of bright red hair and a dimpled chin that looked almost surgically enhanced was a dead ringer for Howdy Doody.

Seeing Rain Cloud Down, he asked with some concern, “You OK?”

Am I OK? Well, let’s see. I’ve dropped my fucking bike for the first time ever, it’s much heavier than I thought, and gas is leaking on the ground from somewhere; the fairings are going to be all scratched to hell and cost a ton to repair or replace, and I can’t pick the damn thing up before Abi, rapidly approaching, sees the bike on the ground.

All things considered, yeah, I’m fine, and indicated so to Howdy. Then, looking down at my crumpled ride I asked, “Feeling strong today? This thing’s heavy.”

Abi, expecting to have his picture taken, raced by with a look of “HAHAHAHA!” on his face as Mr. Doody and I worked to right the fallen bike. After a few grunts and a few re-drops, we managed to get the bike upright and out of the gravel. I shook Howdy’s hand, thanked him profusely and waved as he drove away.

That little gravelly, gently inclined shoulder out there in the middle of Nowhere, Wyoming will, at least for me, be forever known as Wounded Cloud.

Well, when you fall off your horse (or let it fall over on its own) the best thing to do is get back on it. Dark Meat Snack, the consummate riding buddy, laughing too hard at my misfortune to immediately stop when he raced by, finally pulled up, barely able to contain his snickering. “Well, are you going to take the picture or what?”

A single upraised finger was all the reply me and my nut-kicked pride could muster.

Rain Cloud Down – Bruised, Scuffed and Scratched But Unbroken

Along with my internal temperature, which was almost at the boiling point, the external temperature continued to rise, until the thermometer read 101. I yelled over to Abi, “You know what? I’d much rather ride in the cold, like Newfoundland, than this heat.” He just shook his head.

The rest of the ride I sort of limped along, mentally kicking myself for being such a dumbass, and for having witnesses to my dumbassedness. I was so absorbed in this internal flogging that it took me a while to register the frequent POP! POP! POP! feeling on my boots and lower legs.

“Idiot!” POP! “You should’ve checked the angle…” POP! “You really need to be more careful, dumbass…” POP! “Uhh. What the hell IS that anyway?”

POP!

I looked down, and to my horror, saw that my boots and pant legs were covered with what looked like mustard stains. With legs.

We’d ridden through a swarm of crickets or locusts that were probably used to low amounts of slow-moving traffic on these back roads and were innocently warming themselves on the blacktop until we roared by, scaring them into reflexively jumping straight into our boots, and straight to their deaths.

For whatever sick reason, this insect massacre made me feel a whole lot better about my day. I started to enjoy each POP! and was almost smiling as we wound our way into a nondescript town to spend another nondescript night, the last ‘good’ night before Mother Nature had her way with us.

The next installment of The Epic Ride can be found here.

Author: frenchy