Easter Break
Nine Days of Wind, Rain, Panic, and Chocolate Chip Cookies
EASTER BREAK
Frosty Wooldridge
Declining a free trip to Mexico just to go see my younger brother may seem a little crazy. Some friends who are also teachers asked me to accompany them on a trip south of the border during the nine-day Easter break but I declined because I hadn't seen my 13year-old brother or my mother for two years. The trip from Colorado to Georgia is 1650 miles, which is no big thing on today's super highways, so I decided to ride my motorcycle.
On the last day of school before the break, the 3:30 p.m. bell rang and the kids went flying out the door. At 3:31 p.m. 1 hopped onto the saddle and looked east out of Denver. The plains still had a little snow, but the highways were clear. I could make 300 miles before midnight with little trouble. After a short warm-up, I got into the wind and headed east on Interstate 90. My plans were to gradually drop south as I approached Georgia.
Plans fall apart rapidly when you’re on a bike and cold rains begin to crash your body at 55 miles per hour. I continued for several hours, but my body began to chill
so I decided to stop at the nearest motel and take a hot bath. A little hint of doubt crossed my mind, but I kept thinking how much my younger sibling would enjoy visiting Disney World with his big brother.
Plans fall apart rapidly when you’re on a bike and cold rains begin to crash your body at 55 miles per hour.
At the crack of dawn, I jumped out of bed and onto my bike. The wind was blowing out of the southeast. Of all the insane times for the wind to blow the wrong direction, this was it. Catching the wind in your face and body while riding a motorcycle makes it something less than a joy ride. It buffets and pushes a biker all over the road and gripping the bars against the increased wind velocity causes pain in the shoulders, hands, arms, and neck. In this case, I was pushing well over 100 miles-per-hour winds (combined bike speed and wind). It can really do a job on your spirits and determination, but I am a very determined person so I pushed on against this inland gale.
After successfully traversing Kansas, I headed my machine southeast. Seeing nothing but clear highway in front, I eased up on the throttle just a hair. The next thing I saw was a red light flashing behind me. The officer was incredibly understanding. I think he felt sorry for me as he made me promise to go 55 mph. I promised. Thank you sir. It was quite a break to get out of that speeding ticket, but I still had 800 miles to go as I stopped for the night.
The hot tub of water did absolutely nothing for my aching body. Every muscle in my back and shoulders hurt as if I had been in a pro football game. A great deal of doubt crossed my mind as to the wisdom of this journey, but my family would appreciate my efforts.
Getting out of bed on Sunday took the effort of Samson because my whole body felt like a bag of rocks. After a couple of peanut butter and jam sandwiches, I was heading more confidently through Arkan sas. The wind had died down, but my body ached from the day before.
Normally I love riding a motorcycle. I have time to be with my own thoughts. It's like being at the controls of my own space ship and being totally alone with my mind. Thoughts are free and my spirit feels re freshed. The landscape unfolds anew with every rise and curve in the road. That night. however, I went to bed cold, tired, aching. and soaked to the bone. By Monday, I was only 250 miles from my destination and arrived at 2 p.m. What a relief.
It was great to see Mom and my brother and I was satisfied that the trip had been worth my noble intentions. Of course, John wanted to go to Disney World the next morning as I had promised him. So, not wanting to disappoint him, I dragged all my gear back onto the bike and set off with him to Orlando, Florida, some 350 miles away.
We had a great time and returned on Wednesday. The thought of leaving on Friday had me on the verge of the d.t.'s. However, I had no choice and tried to recuperate as much as one day would permit.
After bidding good-bye to my family, I set out across Alabama enjoying a clear blue sky. As luck would have it, however, the sky became dark and foreboding. I stopped under an old deserted gas station eave and began preparing myself for the rain when a state trooper pulled up.
"Howdy sir," I said.
He didn't say much but started pawing around in my pack until I asked him what he was looking for.
"I hear all you bikers carry marijuana on you," he said. -
All I could think of was the horrors ot the stories from the movies. I was very polite and told him I was a teacher from Colorado returning from a visit with my mother. I informed him that I did not carry any drugs. Trying to lighten his demeanor, I spied my chocolate chip cookies and offered him a treat.
"Naw, you might have marijuana in them cookies and cause me to become delirious." he said.
I couldn't help but laugh silently and cry in reality. This guy wasn't sure what his next step was so I just hopped onto the saddle and sped down the highway. As I looked back through the mirrors, I could see him standing there in complete confu sion.
The big black clouds rolled in quickly. Lightning streaked across the sky and thunder roared like a thousand lions. All around me the air took on a quiet chill and the animals became still. The horizon went from light to dark and goose bumps popped out on my skin as I watched the drama of nature about to unleash her fury.
A few drops of rain began to fall, then a downpour. The drops splashed against my face shield and ran down the sides of my helmet. The sheets of rain came down like a curtain being closed. Raindrops danced in the road and cascaded into the sewer drains. Passing cars sprayed me with a wall of water. I drove on into the jaws of nature, and you might say I was devoured. I stopped at the next gas station and looked down to find the entire casing of my rear tire was tearing loose. I checked all over town but not another tire was to be found. I nursed my bike for the next two hours until I hit the next town big enough to supply me with a new tire.
It was late afternoon when I finally left Alabama and got into Mississippi. The
rains continued to pour as I drove on into the night. The difference was almost negli gible as the darkness of the day rivaled that of the evening. I stopped at a motel and spent the night.
"You might have marijuana in them cookies and cause me to become delirious."
Next morning, 550 miles down and 1000 miles to go, I realized I had been biking almost continuously for six of the last seven days. My body had long since be come numb to the pain and my mind had but one goal and that was to get home. Believe me, the mind is a powerful force or I would have given up long ago.
The new day was overcast but dry-fine except for the constant wind (which as luck would have it, was now coming out of the west). I decided to draft a truck. I slipped behind a big rig and enjoyed being pro tected from the wind. Some truckers don't like bikers doing this and will tell you right away. This one, however, didn't seem to mind so I remained in position.
We passed the next hour or so in the mutual condition of parasite and shark cruising through life and sharing the jour ney for our own needs. Then, out of no where, another trucker honked from behind me and motioned me to get off the other trucker's tail. I couldn't figure out what put a bee in his bonnet, but I con tinued on my way. Then I looked back and this nut was steaming down on me at about 80 miles per hour. I mean, he was trying to
continued on page 116
continued from page 61
kill me. I dropped my 750 into fourth gear and wound it out to a quick 80 mph and then urged my bike even faster. I passed the other truck going 90 and that guy was still coming down on me. He wasn’t more than 30 yards off my tail and still gaining when I spotted a sign for an exit in one mile. The wind was blowing like crazy so I laid down on the tank and cranked it on all the way. I couldn't get any more power past 90 because of all the wind drag from my pack, and that truck was definitely still gaining. The exit was less than half a mile away and he was within 15 yards of me. I was terrified and began to pray. I stuck to my tank and hit the exit at high speed. All I could hear was an angry horn of the trucker as I fought to bring the bike around the curve at 90 miles per hour. I eased on the disc and rear brake and leaned almost parallel to the ground. I shot out of the curve and braked hard just in time for the stop sign.
My heart was pounding as I got off the bike to regain myself. That whole scene went beyond my understanding. This stuff only happens in the movies. However, I waited half an hour and got back onto the highway.
I hadn’t been cruising more than 20 minutes when I came over this rise and guess who was there, parked alongside the road—those two truckers. They saw me and immediately moved to the road with what looked like billy clubs. (I found out later they were tire thumpers with lead ends used for checking tires on trucks.) My heart went into my mouth and my mind froze with terror. It was too late to stop so I gunned my bike and laid low on the tank. They threw their clubs. The first one sailed right in front of my nose and the other one ticked my helmet. I was almost totally in the grips of my fright. I gunned the bike up to 90 mph and held it there for the next 50 miles, hoping for the police to stop me so I could relate my brush with death. Unfortunately, none were to be found.
That did it. I got off the main highway and headed west on secondary roads. Better that I make a little less time than no time at all.
The sun came out in Texas and my spirit returned somewhat. My body still ached and I was tired. I had to make Amarillo before turning in for the night so I would have only 500 miles to go on the last day.
I was breezing through Dallas when the sky became ominously black. It wasn’t rain but I could tell it was bad. Then it hit: a wind sandstorm. It blackened the sky and sent grits of sand crashing into me at 100 miles per hour. I had no choice, so I rode into this holocaust with what now seems to me to have been courage above and beyond the call of duty.
Even with this unexpected obstacle, I made good time and gassed up after eating a quick dinner of milk and apples. Back on the road again, and about 30 miles out of town, the whole back end of my bike sank down and began to sway violently. I quickly applied the front brake and wrestled the big machine to a stop. After collecting my senses, I began to cry. It was 7 p.m., 30 miles to the nearest town, sand blowing at me 50 miles per hour and I had a flat tire. What had I done to deserve all this?
I sat there in complete shock. What little light there was quickly began to disappear. Then, a blond haired boy in a pickup truck passed by going the other way. He turned around and I felt as if an angel was swooping down from heaven to whisk me away. He loaded my bike and me into his truck and took us to the town from which he had just left. I fixed the tire and thanked him with all my heart.
Still having 150 miles to Amarillo, I jammed her into gear and headed into the wind again. The storm had died but the ensuing low pressure center caused the temperature to drop to 40 degrees. I stopped at a motel about 50 miles out of Amarillo.
I was up at the crack of dawn, and found the temperature was about 25 degrees. What choice did I have? None. I ate a quick breakfast and cranked that poor old engine over one more time. The day was sunny and clear but the temperature remained around freezing. That puts the chill factor around —10 degrees when riding against the wind on a motorcycle. When it gets that cold, you keep your body rigid in order to maintain body heat. Any movement to the left or right causes air leaks around the neck area allowing the freezing cold to sneak in. It’s a bone chilling experience. I biked another 16V2 hours, stopping only twice for gasoline.
The lights of Denver were twinkling against the mountains as I pulled into my apartment at 10:00 p.m. I dragged my weary body off the bike and dropped into bed. Thirty little faces would be eager to hear about the good time I had during my Easter break.
I traveled eight of nine days, averaged 15 hours a day, and rode about 4000 miles through the worst rains and flooding the South has experienced in five years, sandstorms, flat tires, brushes with death, freezing cold and drug inspections.
As I sit here in my hospital bed, I’m trying to figure out what and why it all happened. Why am I in a hospital bed? Well, on Monday morning, I smiled at the kids coming through the door, accompanied them at the next recess to the high jump area, and promptly broke my ankle leaping over the two-foot-high stick. It was broken so badly that they hospitalized me for a week. SI
