In February of 2019, I moved to Bozeman, Montana from Wetumpka, Alabama. I came driving a U-Haul truck, pulling my car behind me, and I was forced to leave my motorcycle in Alabama. (You can't pull a trailer behind a trailer, and the truck wasn't big enough to put the motorcycle inside it.)
At that point, I hadn't ridden my motorcycle (a 2008 Suzuki Bandit GSF1250S) for many months. The last time I had ridden, I had gotten about 15 miles from home and found that the clutch wouldn't engage. I waited a couple of hours and was able to get home, although the clutch was slipping mightily all the way. I had done some research on the problem, and ordered some clutch springs, hoping that those springs were the reason the clutch was slipping, although I knew that was unlikely. The clutch springs were not the problem.
When spring came to Bozeman, I began to miss my motorcycle, and was reminded every time I saw or heard another bike. My wife Melodie pointed out that now would probably be a good time to go to Alabama and fetch it, and I very much agreed. For only a smidge more than $200, I flew to Atlanta, Georgia on Tuesday the 14th of May. My youngest daughter Miranda picked me up and took me to Wetumpka. In Wetumpka, my friend Phil had gotten my motorcycle to the shop (15 miles away in Montgomery, Alabama) on Saturday the 11th, and they had promised to look at it when they could get to it.
The folks at the bike shop (Adams Motorsports) looked at my bike on Wednesday or Thursday, and called me Thursday evening, the 16th. They told me that my clutch master cylinder was broken, and the parts and accompanying costs would come to just over $600. Not having much choice, I told them to order the parts. The waiting game began.
I had hoped that the bike could and even would be repaired by the time I got to Wetumpka on the 14th; in fact, it was not repaired until Saturday, the 25th of May. I picked it up late that afternoon, and prepared to leave Wetumpka for Bozeman early in the morning of the 26th.
I would like to say that the folks at Adams Motorsports understood the problem. They repaired and resolved it correctly, and even would up charging me a bit less than the quoted price. They do good work!
I left my friend Phil's house in Wetumpka, Alabama at 0700 on Sunday, the 26th of May. My goal for the day was to ride roughly 650 miles, and stay with a friend in Springfield, Missouri. It took me over 11 hours, because I had to stop more often than I normally would -- my hind-end was not used to riding the way it had been, and when I sat on the bike more than about an hour, I was quite uncomfortable. But the day passed without incident, at I arrived at my friend Dave's place on the north side of Springfield around 6:30 in the evening. I had been in Alabama, Mississippi, Tennessee, Arkansas and Missouri that day; the heat in Alabama and Mississippi had been quite intense, but I had had no problems with the bike or the ride, and I was quite pleased to complete more than 30% of my ride in one day, because it meant I could ride somewhat less (about 450 miles) on each of the other three days. Dave, his wife Donna and I engaged in interesting talk about nothing specific, and they provided me with a lovely place to shower and sleep.
The next day was Memorial Day, the 27th of May. I left Springfield a little later (close to 9 AM) than I had wanted to, but I had a lovely breakfast with Dave and Donna, and it was well worth it. My goal for that day was to reach Sioux Falls, South Dakota. About 20 minutes after I started the day's ride, I ran in to a sudden and very hard rainfall; even some of the tractor-trailer rigs had pulled over to the side of the road. I wanted to, but if I had, I would have simply been sitting in the rain, getting wetter and wetter. So I continued riding, albeit slowly. About 9 miles (maybe 15 minutes) up the road, I pulled over at a Pilot truck stop. I was so cold (despite it being over 60 degrees) that I had been shivering near the end of those 9 miles. All of the clothing I had on was soaked through, and I was wet all the way to my bones! I gathered myself, getting a bit warmer, then went to the bike and got dry clothes out of my duffel bag. I managed to change all of my clothing in a bathroom stall, although it was a slow and laborious process. But I did start to get warm at that point, and I felt much more like a human being. In relatively short order, I got back on the bike and continued my trip. As I rode north in Missouri, I noticed that there had been a lot of rain, and as I traversed Iowa I saw that many of the Interstate 29 exits were closed, and had standing water on them. I got to Sioux Falls (about 575 miles up the road) around 8 PM.
In the motel room that night, I saw that there was rain predicted the next day from one end of my next day's route (crossing South Dakota on I-90) to the other. I went to sleep contemplating that, and when the weather prediction was unchanged the next morning, I chose to stay in Sioux Falls for an extra day. My 4-day trip had become a 5-day trip. I put the extra day to good use, getting some good rest.
After spending the night of the 27th and all of the 28th in Sioux Falls, I headed out (in the rain) to get to Rapid City, South Dakota on the morning of the 29th. I couldn't wait until 11 AM, when the rain was generally predicted to stop, but I knew that the rain was headed east and I was headed west. I bet that I would run out from under it in short order, and so it was. I only rode in the rain for about 30 miles, and since I already had my rain gear on, I didn't get wet at all. However, about 5 miles after I got out of the rain, my instrument panel went blank. There was a short somewhere, no doubt due to water creeping in to some spot it should not have gotten. I was resigned to finishing the trip (about 800 miles) with no instrumentation, but the engine was running fine, and I just kept going. About 10 minutes later, my electronics rebooted! My clock had been reset, but I had a working speedometer, tachometer and odometer. I guess that the wind and/or the vibration took care of the water, and the short went away. I was very pleased!
The rest of the trip across South Dakota was entirely uneventful, and I got to Rapid City (quite close to the Mt. Rushmore memorial in the Black Hills) quickly; although I had gone less than 400 miles, I wasn't comfortable going any farther with no guarantee of finding a place to stay, given the sparse population of the area would be riding in to. So a short and successful day, and I was mentally prepared for the final leg, from Rapid City, South Dakota to my home in Bozeman, Montana the next day.
Alas, it was not to be.
I left Rapid City early in the morning of the 30th of May, and planned to get home around 3 PM. After I had ridden 175 miles or so, I stopped to relieve myself. Now, I generally do a little inspection each time I am about to start out again; this time, I happened to glance down at my rear tire and saw a nail sticking out of the middle of the tread. My heart dropped. I was about 15 miles from the next town, which was Ashland, Montana, on highway 212. As the tire was not leaking air that I could discern, I starting riding at a reduced speed toward Ashland. Just as I got there, the rear end of my motorcycle started feeling a little squirmy, and I knew what that meant. I stopped and checked, and sure enough, I had already lost a great deal of my tire pressure.
Now this presented a real problem. I was in the middle of Ashland, and had not seen a gas station yet, much less a service station. I went in to the establishment I was closest to and asked if there was anyone who worked on tires in town. I was told that Fred did, at the hardware store. Hmmmm. So I walked back down the street to the hardware store and asked for Fred. When I talked to him, he informed me in no uncertain terms that he did not work on motorcycle tires, even if they were off the motorcycle. Nor did he sell any. Nor would he help me in any other way. He said something about liability, but that didn't make sense, nor seem to matter in any case. I rarely get myself into a situation that I can't get out of, but this was looking ominous.
On the way back to the motorcycle, I passed a little bar. Well, my friends.... I went in to the bar, and there were no customers. The young lady who was the bartender asked me how I was today. Sigh. I told her I was having the worst day I had experienced in a while, and gave her a few details. After I got a beer, she said, "Let me call my dad and see if he can help. He worked on motorcycles for years." "Great," I replied, interested if not hopeful. She called him, and he said he would come by. After I finished my second beer, her dad showed up. Leroy is somewhere in his fifties, and a truly nice guy. We went back to where the bike was, and rolled it down the street to the next building. He went and knocked on the door to the house, and the owner, Al, came out. He didn't have a problem with me having the bike in front of his house while I tried to figure it out, and we had a little conversation. He too had driven a tractor-trailer, so we hit it off just fine.
Leroy had the tools to take my rear wheel off the bike, and did so with alacrity. Then we began mentally casting about for a solution. He didn't like Fred (from the hardware store) a bit. Leroy opined that the nearest place I might be able to get a tire was Miles City; I looked up the bike shop there and called them, but they did not have a tire that would fit my bike. The next place that might was in Billings, Montana, about 130 miles away. I called them, and they did have one.
I called my wife and explained the situation. A tow truck was about $600, out of the question. Finally, Melodie decided on a course of action. She would leave work early, and drive to Ashland, stopping on the way in Billings to pick up the tire. Leroy had things to do, including driving to Miles City, but said that on the way back, if I hadn't gotten the job done, he would stop and help. I began to try to take the old, ruined tire off the wheel. Not having the proper tools, or even an elevated surface to work on, I spent a long time trying to break the bead of the tire with two screwdrivers. After nearly two hours, I did get the tire broken loose on one side. I took a break and got something to eat, belately realizing I had not eaten or drunk anything that day, excepting the coffee I had had early in the morning. After eating and resting a bit, I went back to the wheel. About 90 minutes in, I had not been able to break the bead on the other side of the tire, and was entirely enervated. Melodie was on her way with the new tire (a trip one way of about 275 miles). I went next door and purchased some water, and asked if I might wash my hands. The little store had several signs telling all and sundry that they did not provide a public restroom, but the proprietess grudgingly let me wash my dirty, greasy hands.
When I came out of the bathroom, there was my wonderful wife! I could see that she was a bit taken aback by my appearance, clearly exhausted and frustrated beyond all bounds. She got something to eat as well, and I rested a few minutes. Going back next door to the bike, it was clear that I would not get the old tire off that evening, and that when I did, I would have trouble getting the new one on. I had been planning on sleeping in the grass -- I've done that sort of thing before, although I was not looking forward to it. Melodie demurred, insisting that she would stay, and we would get a motel room. She was a lot better at evaluating the situation than I, especcially at that point.
We left the bike, and went down the road to the end of town I had not reached yet, where there were two gas stations and a fleabag motel. We got a room, and as tired as I was, I began to get a bit of energy and optimism back.
In the morning, we went back to the bike. Cyrilla, the young bartender, stopped by to see how the task was going. Not much later, her dad came by. He had the tools I needed, and got the new tire on the wheel in short order. Melodie, seeing that I was going to manage with Leroy's help, went back to Bozeman, knowing she had saved my sanity, if not my life.
Leroy would not even go to Fred's just to put air in the tire, so we rode back to his place, 5 miles out of town, and aired it up. We then returned to the bike, and got the wheel back on properly in very little time. After thanking him profusely (and giving him a well-earned $50 for his trouble), I rode to the other end of town, got some fuel, and headed for the house.
I got back to Bozeman around 3 PM on Friday, the 31st of May, having turned the 4-day ride into a 6-day adventure, and despite the negatives, having had my faith in mankind restored. And owing my Melodie a very big debt!