Riders On the Storm
Riders on the Storm
LEANINGS
Peter Egan
AH, SOMETIMES I FEAR OUR VENERABLE local club, the Slimey Crud Motorcycle Gang, is falling on hard times. Many of the guys—at least those who live in the Madison, Wisconsin, urban zone—have taken to riding scooters instead of their sacred Nortons, Ducatis and BMWs.
You can hardly blame them, I guess.
It’s hard to beat 100 mpg these days, and free parking upon any random curb with bicycle-like impunity. And, of course, we must admit that scooters are fun, light and agile—and even stylish, in those cases where the scooter looks as much as possible like a classic Fifties Lambretta or Vespa. Or actually is one.
These are four traits the motorcycle industry would do well to emulate in its continual slide toward greater bulk and complexity, while apparently holding internal design contests to see who can come up with the ugliest bike.
Yes, the scooters are forgivable-I wouldn’t mind having one myself, just to offset the seriousness of life-but our annual Crud trek to Road America for the Superbike races this past weekend took on a more wistful and elegiac quality.
In years past, 10 or 12 of us used to meet at the home of Mike Puls (our Road Captain for Life) and ride the backroads of Wisconsin all the way to Elkhart Lake. Rain or shine, we’d leave en masse, stopping for “snacks” at two backwoods cafés famous for their large sandwiches, fine cheeses and promise of unbridled weight gain.
Late in the afternoon, we’d ride at last into the little village of Elkhart Lake, check in at the lovely old Siebken’s Hotel, a series of riverboat-like buildings with gingerbread trim, floating on green lawns amid the shady trees. We’d park our bikes in a row in the alley that runs through Siebken’s courtyard, open beers, look at bikes and marvel at the rightness of life.
This year, however, no such trip took place.
We have several members who are no longer riding, and those who still do ride had cleverly looked at the Doppler radar pictures on their home computers, which showed an angry red storm about the size of Australia moving northeast out of Iowa. Tornado warnings had been issued, with possible hail, flash floods and high winds
Furthermore, the forecast for the weekend was not good. Rain every day. Big rain. Wind, chaos, mayhem, etc.
So, one by one, our remaining Crud riders bailed and decided to take their cars. Even my friend Lew Terpstra, who normally can’t be pried off his new T100 Bonneville with a crowbar, decided to take his swanky old Cadillac.
“I don't blame you,” I said. “And for purely selfish reasons, I would actually encourage you to drive. That way, if it rains all weekend. Barb and I can ride to dinner in your car. Nevertheless, we’re taking our bike.”
Barb, bless her heart, didn’t even suggest taking a car. Her saddlebag was packed, literally and psychically.
And so we left, heading northeast on our Wagnerian-Thundercloud-Gray 1984 BMW R100RS, dodging big thunderstorms, leaning diagonally against the wind, zigging and zagging toward patches of blue sky under the torn and angry scud. As we arrived at Siebken’s, large raindrops began to fall. A little later, Jeff Underwood cruised in on his KTM 950 Adventure, the only other Crud to ride.
The rain held off on Saturday to let Spies win the first Superbike race, and that evening we all climbed into various cars and motored about eight miles north of Elkhart Lake to Schwarz’s Supper Club (one of the best restaurants in all the civilized world) in the tiny crossroads village of St. Anna for prime rib. Barb and I rode in Lew’s Cadillac.
During dinner, all hell broke loose. Continuous, welding-shop-grade lighting flickered through the restaurant windows and rain battered the roof. Lew later drove us back to our castle, dry and warm, on a night right out of a Frankenstein film.
The forecast was so dismal the next morning, Barb and I decided to ride home early and get it over with. We left Elkhart in a toad-strangler downpour, and soon I was navigating via oncoming headlights and the edge of the road. Rain ran down both sides of my faceshield in a dual waterfall. If there had been a large anvil sitting in the middle of the road, I would never have seen it. Barb and I wore all our raingear, but the water still got in. It ran down our necks, up our sleeves, into our gloves and invaded the linings of our helmets. When we got home three hours later, we were well-soaked. No harm done, though, and nothing a good clothes dryer couldn’t cure.
When we watched the news that night, it turned out this had been one of the most intense rainstorms in state history. The papers are now calling it “The Flood of’08.” Dozens of towns were flooded, and earthworks near the Lake Delton dam gave way, causing an entire lake to disappear within minutes, taking four homes with it. Some towns got their annual average rainfall in three hours. Our place, built on a hillside, was high and dry, but our creek was raging and shaking the old iron bridge with ominous creakings, like a submarine about to break up.
Sunday evening. Barb and I drove into town with our exotic Pontiac Vibe to get a pizza in the midst of yet another lightning-fest, with the wipers slapping feverishly on high like a pair of perfectly synchronized defective Lucas voltmeters.
“On some days, there’s much to be said for riding in a car,” I remarked.
Nevertheless, we agreed over pizza that evening we’d still take the bike to Elkhart Lake if we had it to do all over again.
We got a little wet but saved about $40 worth of fuel. Also, the real nature of the storm impressed itself upon our memories-as it always does-quite a bit more vividly than if we’d seen it through a car windshield. Sort of like the difference between war and war movies.
We arrived at the motorcycle races on a motorcycle, which is a tradition I’m not quite ready to give up.
Also, we had the shelter of Lew’s Cadillac on the way home from dinner. That’s a tradition I’d like to keep going as well.
