Oregon - ~Epic '555' motorcycle journey tests hardy riders on shaky vintage machines~
SUMPTER, Ore. – When I tell people my weekend plans, I tend to get a variety of reactions.
Sometimes it's admiration and a bit of jealousy – "got room for a passenger?" - is a common response.
Other times it's bewilderment and condemnation. "Why not just drive a car?" some say. "You're going to get yourself killed" is another popular retort.
As you may have guessed from the photo, I prefer to take my road trips on two wheels instead of four.
This past weekend, it was time once again for a long ride I look forward to each year: the annual SFRC Gold Rush Ride from Portland to tiny Sumpter, Oregon.
The journey is loosely organized by the Sang-Froid Riding Club, a small Portland-based motorcycle club consisting of about a dozen friends or more dedicated to rolling up miles than sewing patches on their jackets.
However, this year the ride was a little bit different. The long, winding road out to Sumpter was the first leg in what can only be called an epic undertaking for a small group of local riders, which included some SFRC members.
Their larger mission? Reaching Knoxville, Tennessee, by motorcycle.
For a modern motorcycle, this would probably not be a feat worth mentioning.
Modern motorbikes are filled with cutting-edge technology, with large, powerful engines, fuel injection, ABS brakes, studied ergonomics and expansive cargo capacity. They can knock out that kind of distance without breaking a sweat.
But the dozen brave souls making their way from Portland to Knoxville – via Sumpter - are not riding the latest in motorized mechanical engineering. They're doing it old-school. Really, really old school.
It's called the "555 Ride," and the rules are as follows:
* 1. Your motorcycle of choice cannot be larger than 500cc. That's a tough limit when modern benchmark touring motorcycles like the Honda Goldwing or the Harley-Davidson Tour Glide are well over 1500cc. * 2. You are limited to $500 for the purchase and preparation of the bike - including engine work, tires and any other mechanical issues. * 3. Your road-legal bike has to have been made in 1975 or before. So at a minimum, riders are on 34-year-old machines.
Even if you don't ride a motorcycle, that last rule should make you grit your teeth a bit. Would you drive a $500 1974 Dodge Dart from Portland to Knoxville?
OK, now take away two of the wheels, most all of the horsepower, all the doors and add in crappy drum brakes, sketchy electrics, finicky carburetors and a likely top speed well below even the most conservative highway speed limits.
The result? A mish-mash of Japanese bikes from the early 1970s varying in size from a 175cc Honda twin cylinder ridden by a brave female pilot to a 500cc single-cylinder organ-shaking machine that will likely require the rider to get some fillings replaced at the end of the ride if his motorcycle, which had a few drops of oil already under it at the kick-off rally, makes it at all.
At a kickoff meeting on a cool Saturday morning in June, each bike was (over)loaded with the essentials for survival: a camping setup (bag and tent), bulky raingear, spare tubes, clothes, tires and lots of tools.
One rider reportedly was carrying spare engine internals in case the current motor beat itself to bits as the group pushed east, then southeast.
Two riders also managed to fit skateboards into the mix of their gear. You never know…
And if you're counting, be sure to add the weight of the rider in full riding gear.
It must be said that those undertaking the journey are experienced riders and most were pretty handy under the hood (or under the tank, as it were). Also, a chase vehicle was along for the ride in case of a major malfunction.
But still, at a Friday night kick-off party, the usually boisterous riders and their friends, while still fairly boisterous, were reportedly a bit subdued as the months of preparation and packing ended and the gravity of the undertaking began to take hold.
The time to put up or shut up was nearly at hand.
_________________
I get asked by non-riders why I suffer pelting bugs, cold, rain, noise and exposure when I travel by motorcycle instead of just climbing into a car and making the journey in comfort.
I tell them that the lack of "comfort" is one of the reasons. We live in a very comfortable society. Compared to many cultures and countries, we travel with great ease. Two hundred years ago, most people lived their entire lives within a few miles of where they were born. Long-distance travel was reserved for royalty, or those of great means. In many parts of the world, that still holds true.
But in first-world countries, travel is viewed as a right, not a privilege. Just gas up and go. Preparation? It's usually an afterthought.
Growing up, droning down the highway on any number of road trips in the comfortable family car, I dreamed of heading out on the open road on a motorcycle. My wanderlust was for the journey, not the destination. It remains so today. Comfort be damned, I'd like a memorable experience, please.
The key, I feel, is in the challenge.
I bought my motorcycle, a large 1982 Honda CBX with some nifty travel cases on the back, expressly for long-distance travel. As motorcycles go, it's pretty comfortable – and fast.
Compared to a car, it's probably torture.
Compared to the motorbikes the 555 riders were about to cajole over hill and dale, it's a flying sofa.
_______________________
Saturday morning dawned cloudy and cool and Team 555 met up in the parking lot of a local dealership in northeast Portland, along with dozens of bike-mounted well-wishers on far larger, faster, more comfortable and capable machines.
Most all the riders present were headed for Sumpter, about 360 miles distant, as a sort of informal escort for the 555 travelers.
Upcoming challenges for the 555 riders just to get to Sumpter included climbing and crossing the 4,000-foot pass at Government Camp on busy Highway 26, followed by numerous 5,000-foot passes on the back roads and scenic byways leading to Sumpter, a small dot of a town tucked between the soaring ridgelines of the mountains in northeast Oregon.
It would be a solid first test for the 555 comrades.
As the donuts and coffee ran out at Portland Motorcycle, SFRC member and 555 participant Patrick Leyshock gathered up the riders and attendees, said a few words (including a passage from Homer's Odyssey) and at last, zero hour had arrived.
The 555 riders did a last check of their packing jobs, which included lots of bungee cords, plastic wrap, duct tape and prayer, and brought their small machines to life.
Finally, they were off, tiny motors bleating loudly under heavy loads, although a couple 555 riders managed small celebratory wheelies leaving the Portland Motorcycle parking lot.
Behind them, dozens of fellow riders rode in formation along Northeast Marine Drive and the Columbia River and then into Gresham to pick up Highway 26. Once on the open road, the escorting riders on big bikes surged ahead while the 555 riders, in small packs, labored up the long hills and then burbled down the other sides of the grades in top gear.
Once over the hump across Mt. Hood, it was not exactly clear sailing. Routes that included names like Bakeoven Road and long stretches of deserted back-country highways between tiny towns like Kimberly and Fossil lay ahead.
Most of the 555 bikes carried three gallons of fuel at the most, but the tiny engines likely squeezed about 50 miles from each gallon, even under the loads they were shouldering.
As night fell in Sumpter on the longest day of the year, riders enjoyed cold beverages and conversation as more bikes rolled in, but not every 555 bike had yet made it into town.
Finally, a cheer went up from the dozens of riders waiting at the Sumpter Stockade as the last straggler rolled in, a dim headlight barely illuminating the way.
One rider suffered a mechanical problem in Maupin and needed a lift into Sumpter, but by the next morning, all 12 bikes and riders were ready to tack east again and cross into Idaho.
But there was a problem.
____________________
The staccato rhythm of heavy rain on the roof of the small rented cabin myself and two friends had rented woke me up early Sunday morning. It continued for hours.
On this same ride the year before, the weather had been ideal – sunny, warm, and dry. Now, small rivers ran down the roadsides and heavy clouds obscured the peaks and ridges around Sumpter.
On top of the copious downpour, it was very cold.
While enjoying a meal of pancakes, French toast, eggs and sausage at the Sumpter school house, word got around it was snowing at elevations just above town.
The rain finally stopped about 10 a.m. and a break in the clouds backed up the gossip: trees high up on the ridges around the town wore a mantle of white. It was the second day of summer.
The rain and nearby snow not bode well for our ride home, let alone for the 555 riders on their tiny tires and top-heavy, overloaded machines.
Riding a motorcycle – any kind of motorcycle – in the snow can be a harrowing experience.
An hour later, I stood at the top of a hill that afforded a view down Mill Street (a.k.a Highway 220), the long street that forms the backbone of "downtown" Sumpter.
Off in the distance, the 555 riders pulled out onto the road, cold engines whining and spitting as they slowly made their way out of town.
I wished them safe passage and good luck as they rolled out of sight.
__________________
On the ride back to Portland, my fellow riders and I tip-toed through mountain passes blanketed in new snow. Fortunately, the temperature was above freezing and the roads had broad stripes of clear but wet pavement that afforded decent grip and a modicum of safety.
I shivered in the seat of my bike despite being bundled in rain gear, warm gloves and a helmet that also kept my head fairly warm.
Breathing fogged my visor as I picked my way through frigid mountain roads that eventually led to long downhill cruises into Oregon's warm and fertile valleys, where green crops and wind power turbines sprouted for miles on end.
Along the way, I thought of the 555 riders, relying on their riding and wrenching skills and each other to fix problems, camping in cold conditions and nursing their ancient, worn-out motorcycles across soaring Rocky Mountain passes enroute to Knoxville, over 2,500 miles away.
Their adventure reminded me of those who had struck out before on epic rides, back before fuel injection, interstate highways, foolproof synthetic-fiber rain gear, reliable engines and all the other technologies and developments that have come along to make a cross-country motorcycle journey a simple feat rather than a grand adventure.
The 555 ride sounds like great low-comfort fun to me.
You can follow the Portland-to-Knoxville 555 ride on their Web site and on Twitter.
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