a few. I wanted to dive into my un-
known and dissect life in America.
All in the hope that I could honestly
answer the question of what it is truly
like to live in this country.
As I planned how to travel this
huge place and do it on a budget, I
gravitated toward “Road trip!"
I had such fond memories as a
kid travelling around with my fami-
ly. I didn't want to travel from point
A to point B; I wanted to experience
all that was in-between. I looked at
the options of Camper trucks or RVs,
but both of those options didn’t have
the lure that I was looking for and
on a whim I took a motorcycle safe-
ty course. I found exactly what I was
yearning for the first time I rode a
motorcycle.
It resonated within me, the earth
inches below my feet, and the smell
of everything around me. Every rid-
er I have talked too, has tales of this
exact feeling of being the active par-
ticipant in the travel. We all have sto-
ries of how you can feel a river or lake
miles before seeing it, or the smell of
rain hours before it starts hitting your
helmet, and the taste of diesel when
a jacked up 3500 truck with straight
pipes guns it in front of you.
I'd started to get a connection with
my bike more than I'd had with a car,
I felt when she was happy and riding
smooth, or when she started to get
bogged down. I knew by the sound
when to let off or change the way I
was riding. This came from the con-
nection a rider gets with their bike.
In July, I was starting to understand
this connection, but I really lacked in
the practical know how, an example
"how to solo lift a motorcycle off the
ground".
I rode down the gravel road in Can-
ada feeling quite accomplished. I had
conquered the Taylor Highway, the
Alaska portion of this route I chose.
The Taylor, is a stretch of crack sealed
road until you arrive in Chicken, Alas-
ka. From there the road turns into
gravel, and in most places large and
deep gravel, or extremely washed-
out areas from the spring break up.
I made it across this beautiful area
without incident. In other words, I
felt confident in my abilities. I start-
ed to forget I was riding on gravel and
turned my thoughts to the amazing
views the road offers. I climbed out
of Alaska, and up onto the ridge line
toward the Canadian border, the road
stretches out for miles with 360-de-
gree views of wilderness untouched
by any human. I encountered a tiny
border crossing station and contin-
ued east. It was at this point that I
came across an area recently patched
with new gravel. The loose thick
gravel kicked up under my bike and
one lucky rock happened to bounce
TRAVERSE 92
off the factory kill switch located in
my kickstand.
The rock killed my bike while it
was in gear, causing it to jack-knife
the front tyre. This sent me rolling
to the ground in one direction as my
bike tipped over in the other. Again,
my practical know how, was just be-
ginning.
I lifted the bike up pulling with
all my strength only to find that I
couldn’t get it more than halfway be-
fore having to set in back down. Try
after try I continued this way only to
get the same results.
I sat back on the road, thinking,
and began to recall the adventure
rider forums and videos I’d seen,
demonstrating how to pick a bike up.
I gave it one more attempt but this
time I dug in, back against the seat,
as I’d remembered, and pushed with
my legs rather than pulling with my
back. I squatted my bike upwards
until it was back on both wheels with
the kickstand down. This technique
made the job easy and the bike was
upright with little effort.
I’d checked the whole bike and
found only a turn signal and clutch
lever damaged. Nothing a little duct
tape couldn’t fix. I’d been surprised
my Triumph could withstand the
abuse, mostly unscathed, and on I’d
ridden.
I rode east following the ridge line