Much like your motorcycle: your gear, your body, and your immune system eventually all fall apart.
I found out what that was like during these last couple weeks when I was travelling down the coast of Washington on my way to Oregon.
First it was my motorcycle not starting in Pullman. It turned over but it sounded like there was water in the gas tank. We had no idea why, so I started calling around. It was a Sunday, so all of the motorcycle repair shops would be closed for at least another day or two. To the ones I could get a hold of, even Honda Town in Minneapolis, they told me it was sounding like the spark plugs.
My buddy Cascade and I took half of the motorcycle apart to get at these spark plugs. There are 4 on the bike because it's 1100 CCs, and 2 of them are very easy to get at from the exterior. The other two? We had to take the gas tank off and dig around deep in the bike to get at them. At a certain point I looked at Cascade and said "I'm worried if we go too far, we might put it back together imperfectly and cause another issue." So we put it back together without ever reaching the other two.
Then Lechuza roars to life starts with no issue.
We later would chock it up to not only having bad gas, but because my air filters hadn't been changed until long after the Dalton Highway, it is possible the gunk from the Dalton had gone past the dirty filters and into the intake, gunking up the interior of my chambers and hurting my spark plugs' effectiveness. I bought some Seafoam and we also cleaned off the 2 spark plugs that we could get at. So far, no issues. It's a relief, but I'm going to have to change them eventually. I purchased 4 new spark plugs and I have yet to change them.
According to the manual, you're to clean them after 15K miles, and replace them after 30k miles. I'm now at 22k miles.
Later, I myself started to break down.
After staying in Seattle, I found an amazing free campsite just south of Mt. Rainier. It was perfect. Isolated, far from the road, free, with a trickling creek alongside it that ran into a river.
I kind of woke up in the middle of the night smelling smoke. Of course I was 80% asleep and began to go into a panic:
"Oh my god, is that a forest fire? Am I going to get ROASTED?!" and I looked around to see it was dark. "Is that the ash cloud? Is smoke blocking the SUN!?"
Of course, I was fine. It was night. The 'Goat Rocks Fire" off of US 12 was kicking up loads of ash and smoke in the region and my site was downwind during the night.
When I woke up the next day I packed up camp, headed out, and passed right through the worst of it. The Fire had bellowed out a massive cloud of smoke over highway 12 on my route, and I was unfortunately on a motorcycle, unmasked, following slow-moving semis carrying firefighter equipment and machines. I breathed that smoke in raw. It wasn't ideal.
When I got to the town of Packwood, WA, I also took some time to call my folks when I was still in a little bit of the smoke. Probably not smart.
By the time I had settled my head down to sleep at another campsite- a garbage-filled, rocky, wide open spot near the boat launch of the Cowlitz River south of Ethel, WA, my lungs were burning. I knew it was the smoke and I cursed at myself for being so careless. I could feel myself laboring to breathe as I laid my head down to sleep.
By the time I got up in the morning to pack up my tent I could feel it. My bones were aching, my head was pounding, and my throat was starting to swell. In my very unprofessional medical opinion, the smoke must've cut up and explosed my lungs to the outside world, because it was the last my immune system could do before it broke and fell to illness.
What's worse, is that the ride to my next bunk-a-biker was through some cold rain. My body was also struggling to maintain temperature as I was starting to fight off whatever already had the upper hand on me.
This was just the beginning.
I stopped for some soup and hid myself from the weather but it was still getting worse. I stopped at a dollar general across the street and bought nyquil and dayquil and cough drops. I didn't know how bad this was going to get but I was preparing to take it on.
I took a Covid test and it was luckily negative. The phlegm in my lungs was also an indicator, the coughs I had were not dry at all.
When I'd finally arrived at my bunk-a-biker on the Washington coast, I was ready to collapse. It was still drizzling cold Cascadian rain and I set up my tent just knowing it was going to be a rough night. I had the shakes, my head was pounding so hard I could hardly keep balance (not good for a motorcyclist), and my skin was hot and clammy to the touch. I was sweating in the cold rain.
When the homeowner arrived, he said he could post me up in the garage on a cot. I broke the tent down and hung it up to dry inside.
I wasn't allowed in the house because the host said one of his dogs could be violent, so I was pretty much isolated to the garage.
I was able to have some conversations with my host, however, as I was not totally incapacitated. The beauty of bunk-a-biker is your access to an array of perspectives and walks of life, and this was no different. You kind of pay for your stay in your company and tales. When we got to talking, the host said he would make me some ribs for dinner. I was super excited to hear it, since I was already looking forward to some ramen broth if he had no dinner to offer.
Again, I never expect to be fed at bunk-a-bikers. I don't ask, they only offer. I minimize my cost to the host in any way I can, always making sure they know if I plan to use their shower, laundry, or any other facilities.
The host disappeared into the house for about an hour and a half to make dinner. During that time I laid down on the cot with the lights on and even napped a little. The illness was still getting worse. I did not yet have the upper hand on it.
Upon his return, he set down a plate for me and I got to eating, and he sat on a motorcycle to converse with me some more. We got to talking about where I came from, and I told him I was in Aberdeen Washington checking out the Kurt Cobain memorial park. The host expressed displeasure at Grunge, he thought of Cobain as a junkie and how stupid it was everyone worshipped him that went there. "I bet they were leaving flowers for him, right?" Actually, some people had. He said he liked newer music, however, like Greta Van Fleet. They're known for how much they sound like Led Zeppelin, so I think he just likes music that sounds like what he grew up with regardless of the time it comes from.
He asked me if there were any addicts or homeless near the park and I told him that I saw some blankets under the bridge that I'm sure someone was using. The whole town was in a state of urban decay. It looked rough. It was a working-class city with very little going for it. Addicts and homeless wandered the streets in the open and the homes were covered in moss and peeling paint- the climate of the Cascades isn't kind to the structures that inhabit it if they're not taken care of regularly. Every metal structure from bridges and pipes to cranes for shipping are coated in rust, as if it's the town's official color.
I said about Aberdeen: "It's pretty sad, really."
This was an opinion that set the host off.
"SAD?!" his expression changed on a dime. It was like a trigger word for madness. His brow furled, his tone turned to anger, and he raised his voice: "It's not SAD, these people are WORTHLESS. They're like stray cats, they just keep taking and taking. If you keep giving to them, they'll never go away. All they do is take from me and my hard work!"
A rant then ensued. Holding me verbally hostage, he spouted off hatred for his governor (mine as well) and his disdain for the poor and addicted. It went on for about 15 minutes until there was a moment I could finally pivot the conversation. "These are nice ribs, man." I say, and his expression changes. Like Dr. Jekyll and Mr Hyde, his face calmed, his voice lowered, his tone became more soft and he thanked me then took my plate of scraps indoors to wash and clean up the meal.
That night was the worst night of my illness. The host had upgraded me from my tent outside to a cot surrounded by motorcycles with a space heater to keep me warm. I was reluctantly mouth breathing since I couldn't breathe through my nose, so the space heater would dry my mouth out and I would constantly sip water out of my pack. Rain pummeled the exterior of the structure as little rodents would knock things around and squeak at each other amongst the piles of dusty motorcycle parts and equipment in the night.
Upon awaking, I was feeling miserable. Sleep gave me a fighting chance, but the quality was low compared to a warm bed indoors. I received a text from my next bunk-a-biker. He is an ER nurse, had a warm bed in an RV next to his house to offer, and we got on the phone about my symptoms and how I was feeling. It was a drastic improvement.
My current host locked the violent dog into a room so I could use his shower and he offered me some pop tarts and instant coffee for breakfast. I was thankful, but ready to move on. Again, I went through the cold rain to my next destination, staving off my recovery by yet another day.
When you're travelling like this, your body takes a beating. I have a kink in my spine that flares up when I cough that brings me almost to my knees. My wrist is still not 100% from hyper-extending it in Prince George almost a month ago when I was taking Lechuza off of a trailer. My motorcycle helmet visor won't stay up anymore, so I'm packing the gears with paper towel so it can stop on the notches easier. I've patched a few holes in my tent, and a few things need replacing like my compact hand sanitizers, shaving cream, etc.
Things are genuinely showing wear or running low.
I guess it's because I've hit that 10,000 Mile mark.
All of this, however, is before I tested positive for Covid and went into a whole new spiral.
JT
10/6/2022