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big day today. point-to-point is only 170mi., but i was held to a pretty slow pace on the alternate route from Paisley to Lakeview, so i was in the saddle all day, right up to sunset. thats why this was my first motel night.
My first crisis/scary moment happened just outside of Paisly, OR on my way to Lakeview on the scenic alternate route of Rd. 33. As i rounded a blind right hand curve about 5 miles from Paisley i came face-to-face with a speeding truck, fully loaded with timber on his way down the mountain cutting the corner into my lane. the road at this point was a single-lane paved route with turn-outs, and this rig had crossed the centerline and was going about 60 verses my 45MPH. in the space of about half a second, or around 250 feet i managed to counter-steer the shit out of the bike and lurch onto the shoulder in time for him to blast by me and i cleared the left side of his rig with only inches to spare. i actually jabbed at the 'bar 3 times until i got the bike to change direction that severely. if i had been any further into the left side of the lane or had hesitated at all i would have surely collided with the grill of his rig. it was probably the closest i've ever come to a head-on collision. it took several seconds for the rush of adrenaline to hit and i was overcome with a wave of cold sweat and a pouding heart. after that, the road was deserted and i made it to Lakeview, but the anxiety of the whole thing left me very tense.
Once into Alturas, i wasted at least two or three hours searching for a handful of campgrounds that were either missing or closed in the hills around Alturas and Canby. i guess this was the first time i got a little lost, searching for Cottonwood Flats campground, but i was really lost so much as the road ended up taking much longer than i thought it would. the actual mileage for that day was more like 280 or so. i was exhausted, so i just paid the $55 for a room and walked down to the store for some beer and water. on my way there, as i passed a trailer park down the street from my motel, some crackhead d-bag started shouting out at me, "hey! hey, dickweed! hey! you! i'm talkin' to you! hey faggot!" i couldnt believe i was actually being called a "dickweed". i dont think i've heard anyone use that as a serious taunt or insult since 1989. down the street at the corner gas station a posse of local boy-ranchers had corralled their pickups like covered wagons and sat there, leering at me between hee-haws and racial slurs as i passed. in the store the clerks mad-dogged me all the way from the front door to the beer cooler, then avoided eye contact as they took my money at the register. on the way back to my room the crackhead was gone, replaced by a pair of blood-thirsty rottweilers barely leashed to their trailer. back at the motel, the vacant rooms next to me had been filled by a crew of local cowboys passing through on their way between rodeos with all their horses and shit. they were sitting outside on their benches chewin' and spittin' and drawlin' all night about horses, trucks, and Mexicans. it was like i had been transported to the redneck olympics where every competitor was Slim Pickens from Blazing Saddles. totally bizarre. in the morning i cleared out by 8AM and made my way west, towards Redding...
