There are many ideals that I try to remain conscious of during my travels, the first being, I don’t plan to break speed or distance records. Also, I don’t intend to ride where no man has ridden before, or care to intentionally confront bad weather. I knew that all journeys have a beginning and an ending, but in the interim I simply want to enjoy my time wherever I happen to be.
Choosing to visit Alaska for a second time wasn’t an easy decision, especially with memories of my first visit still fresh in my mind. In 1998 , the roads of Alaska left me with an altered posture due to its ruts, pot holes and washboard like gravel roads. Flying rocks from the steady procession of semi-trucks and r.v.'s left dents in my motorcycle gas tank, chipped paint and a broken headlight giving my machine the appearance of something that was dragged around Alaska instead of ridden. Breaks for fuel or exercise needed to be taken with the same speed and agility as a N.A.S.C.A.R. pit stop, to avoid being attacked by millions of mosquitoes with memories like these; you might wonder why would I return?
Riding around Alaska left me with many positive memories as well. I can still recall the sounds of the glacier rivers. I can still picture the awesome Alaskan Range with its blanket of ultra white snow packs adhering to the shaded portion of the mountains. I remember the countless lakes with mirror like surfaces and borders of rich green moss, but ultimately it was the image of the sun sinking from a neon pink sky at 2A.M. that made me want to visit again.
When I returned to Alaska this summer, I had a variety of places I wanted to visit. I was interested in the Kenai Peninsula, the towns of Chicken, Seward, and Homer, but my primary destination was Prudhoe Bay via the infamous Robert Dalton Highway.
The Dalton Highway runs north from Fairbanks, crossing into the Artic Cricle and then knicks the boundary of Gates of the Artic National Preserve. Farther on, it crosses Brooks Range and ends at the oil fields of Prudhoe Bay. The highway is commonly referred to as the “haul road”, because it is used by the large trucks that haul supplies and equipment to the busy oil fields. Gas stops exist at a few small settlements, but most travelers carry a spare fuel can. The road routinely undergoes construction because of the effects of permafrost, and the toll the tandem trailer trucks take on its surface. The surface at the beginning of the highway is asphalt, it then turns to a deteriorated form of pavement, which I call “asshurt”. Farther on, it turns to gravel and that’s what makes up the majority of its surface. The approximate length of the road is 1,020 miles, and within a few days I would be ready to give it a shot.
It was late June when I arrived at Fine Tuned Wheels of Fairbanks, and made the acquaintance of Peter Bailey, the shops manager and the head motorcycle mechanic. I liked Peter the moment we met, something about his attitude made me feel like this wasn’t just a shop where parts or service were available, but a refuge from the outside world. Easy chairs and couches surrounded a television in the showroom, where guys could sit and watch old biker movies. It was also a sanctuary for dreamers, a place to sit and flip through various biker magazines and fantasize about what kind of motorcycle they hope to someday ride. Peter showed me his collection of motorcycles which included a Ural and an old Harley Chopper, and soon we talked about my travel plans for Alaska.
All day long I worked on the motorcycle, hoping to have it ready for the morning. I changed a worn tire and the oil while listening to the stories Peter told of others who had come to ride the haul road, but were no so successful. He reminded me that this was Alaska, and there’s good reason why it’s considered a frontier. Things here are harsh, weather can change, sometimes bringing snow in July, and man and machine aren’t bulletproof. I could respect his advice, but I was still determined to ride the Dalton. Peter offered me a place to camp in the shop, and I gratefully accepted. I set up my tent between a torn apart Honda and a distressed looking Harley, and when it came time to sleep, I put my coat over my head to muffle the sound of cursing that goes with knuckle busting mechanical work. Tommorrow was D day and the road was on my mind.
My first few hours on the haul road turned out to be a test of mental stamina and physical endurance. As I climbed into the hills outside of Fairbanks, a mystery problem surfaced within the engine. I stopped and replaced my spark plugs and things seemed to be o.k. after that. Next, I went through a construction zone that coated my bike with black muck transforming its appearance to that of a big chocolate cake. Then I had to deal with psychotic truckers who had obviously watched the movie “Duel” too many times. As they rumbled past me, I was enveloped in a cloud of dust and pummeled with rocks. As they pulled away, I imagined a muscular, tattoed arm emerging from the driver’s window, to stamp a silhouette of a motorcycle with an x through it on the door of the truck, signifying a fresh kill.
Day one on the haul road was tough, but day two was even tougher. The morning temperature was 50 degrees, but with winds gusting from the North it felt more like 30 degrees. I put on my fridgadaire wear and pressed on still determined to go forward. The motorcycle once again began to misfire and cough when climbing steep hills, but I couldn’t pinpoint the problem. Later, I stood gazing at a sign indicating that I was now in the Artic Circle. With my ski mask still on I posed by the sign while another traveler snapped a photo of me. Trucks coming down from the North had snow on their roofs and I began to have doubts about going the distance. With the combination of a mysterious mechanical problem, freezing temperatures a possibility of snow, and a mountain pass ahead, I had come to the conclusion that to go on would be foolish.
With a new goal of returning alive, I set out as fast as I could to Fairbanks. Soon the rain started, making an already precarious road lethal. Water eventually penetrated my rainsuit giving me that oh so nice feeling of incontinence for the next 15 hours. With a few mechanical experiments, I tried to remedy the engine problem, but instead I got water into my carburetors. Sputtering along, I averaged 15MPH, through the ceaseless rain and sloppy mud roads arriving around 11:30P.M.
I hoisted the unlocked rear overhead door open, and brought my exhausted, soaked body into Peter’s shop. Everyone was gone, and I was beyond caring if I was breaking and entering or not. I smiled and thought to myself, jail cells are warm too. Once, in some dry clothes, I set up my tent exactly where I had been just a few nights ago. The motorcycle would be o.k. with a little attention in the morning, and I would be o.k. with a little sleep.
The next day the guys shuffled in, and welcomed me back. I told them of my experience on the haul road, and they gave me an “Atta boy” for trying. It was nice to be among men that didn’t measure success by miles traveled or for lands conquered, but by the plain fact that an effort was made. The frontier had kicked my rear, but at least I had the opportunity to give it a shot, and for that I am grateful.
