Up Front

UP FRONT

WHO WAS MOTHER FEATHERLEGS?

Allan Girdler

Before anyone skips to the end to find the answer to the above question, I confess. I don't know the answer. What happened was, I was crossing southern Wyoming, headed east. I had what the truckers call a front door, in this case a black Camaro driven by a woman with a fancy hairdo and a heavy foot. She was cruising faster than I wanted to go so I figured to stay behind, close enough to observe yet far enough back so’s if she got nailed, she'd get nailed without me.

We were on a country road, freshly tarred and graveled. The gravel had been separated by four-wheelers so there was, so to speak, a choice of groove or berm. I was in the groove, keeping out of the berms and tucking down when oncoming traffic threw gravel into the air. We were going pretty fair, I was hoping to dodge a thunderstorm on the horizon. In short, I had a lot to do.

But out of the corner of my eye I saw a sign. Mother Featherlegs Memorial, it said, with an arrow pointing left and the ^notation that it was 14 mi., on dirt. Well.

I had to think about that. I do like to see things, but the previous day Fd been on dirt and the GPzl 100 with those cute little bars plus tank and saddlebags hadn’t been what I'd call suited to it.

So I sailed on. The fast lady was parked in front of the flashing lights a few minutes later and I got to Cheyenne ^n time to park at a motel just as the rain poured down. All day I told myself I'd done right, and all day I wondered, who could have a name like that and what did she do for the name to go down in history, or at least on a monument?

What it was, was my summer vacation.

* Odd though it sounds, it wasn’t a

working vacation. On business I mostly have to fly, which is efficient, quick, and boring as hell. So for my time off I rode from California across Nevada, Arizona, Utah, Wyoming, South Dakota, Montana, Idaho, Washington, to the corner of British Columbia and down the coast through Washington, Oregon and back to California. I rode for 1 0 days, covered 4600 mi. and had such a good time I couldn’t possibly tell all the details.

Oh. I should say here that this was a trip I’ve wanted to take for years and finally gave myself permission for. Therefore, in case anybody else has the same dream and wants some persuasion, some random notes:

We are terrific people. Bike nuts, I mean. Of all persuasions. I was expecting some of the good feelings, like the BMW rider who told me how to find the ferry to Victoria and the 6-year-old girl who persuaded her father to keep the Honda store open long enough for me to pick up the new Cycle News. And there was Dan, owner-operator of a repair shop in St. George, Utah, who told me the noise from the front end of the GPz was merely an out-of-round disc. Then

he didn’t tell me I was falling victim to my own neurotic imagination (which I was, thus I was happy not to be told) and he directed me to the scenic way to Salt Lake City. Nor was I surprised when all the bikers gathered at the front of the dock, made friends and the guy with the best tool kit patched the tire of a man who wasn't prepared.

What made me happier than expected was the Bultaco mountain man who stopped to admire the Kawasaki and debate chain vs. shaft. And the station wagon herder who liked my touring leathers and commutes on a bike. And the VW driver who commutes, wants a big bike and asked about the merits of fairings and windshields. And the two Bandidos who mapped a beautiful scenic route across Washington. “Home on the Range” doesn’t do the west justice. I didn't hear one discouraging word, quail under one hostile stare. Not only did all the bikers wave, I felt welcome everyplace I went.

Oh, I did get my comeuppance. Walked into a cafe on the Crow reservation in the wake of a flood of blue-haired seniors from a tour bus. I was wearing my touring leathers and brand-new Sturgis T-shirt. Rather dashing, I thought. The waitress she can't have seen the Harley ads, surely handed me a menu and asked if Fd come on the bus.

Bikes are better than ever. I am thinking here of mechanical condition, that is, reliability. In the course of the 4600 mi. I stopped for every parked bike I saw: a Harley with a loose battery cable, a Suzuki with a flat tire caused by an old patch peeling off in the heat, and a Ducati with a flicking oil warning light. (“It was just gone over completely by an expert," the owner said. I expressed sym‘*pathy.) I can remember times when you’d see that many disabled machines every Sunday between here and the store. I was impressed.

Riding motorcycles means not having to look out a window to tell if it’s raining. That shouldn’t be a surprise, except that Inmost of my riding is seasonal. In the summer a windbreaker, a lined suit in winter, rainsuit when it rains. Simple.

What I hadn't realized is that those funny lines on the television mean something. Wet, dry, cold and hot are out there, one after the other. I went from |„too hot in a T-shirt crossing the desert to just right in leathers in the mountains, to teeth-chattering chill despite thermal longies, a wool sweater, leathers and lined mitts after dark along the coast, all this within six hours on the same day in the same state. Nor was I alone. We bikers were stopped in clumps to pile on or peel off, depending. One learns to read the skies and to check out ongoing motorcycles; whatever they’ve just sweated or shivered though, you’ll get to in a few miles.

Entertainment is where you find it. For example, there was a roadside sign •'(in Utah) that encompasses a philosophy of life. It said Rough Breaks Ahead.

Coming down a steep grade in Idaho I noticed run-off roads for trucks. Sand uphills bulldozed out of the shoulder. Hm, I thought, with knobbies I bet I could climb that hill. Then I noticed tire tracks, yes, leading just where I would have ridden, and at the bottom of the challenge, another sign: No Motorcycles Allowed.

The GPz has a Rifie fairing and BagMan saddle and tank bags. All good stuff. What I didn’t expect was that in a strong crosswind, from the right, the fairing and tank bag created an eddy of negative pressure, strong enough to pop open the map pocket on the bag’s top. I heard a rustle, looked down and stared dumfounded at the maps fluttering out of the pocket and into my wake. I haven't been so helplessly shocked since the Bultaco ran backwards.

¿ P.S. Having read all this the staff says well, what have you done to identify Mother Featherlegs?

Not a damn thing, nor will I. The fun you get from a really good question outweighs any possible answer.