A Nice, Soft Landing

Friends, as most likely was the case with a majority of you, this weekend has involved way too much driving. Unlike some of you though, I didn’t mind one bit (okay, maybe one bit, perhaps two bits, but certainly not a full four bits). They were all destinations worth arriving at. At least one of my fellow travelers did not share that opinion.

I arrived at the cabin on Saturday to be greeted by the folks (of all things!). They heard that I had heavy furniture to unload from the poor little Dakota and diverted fifty miles out of the way to my Aunt’s Easter-Eve festivities to help. I told them that I was perfectly capable of unloading the donated sofa/sleeper myself, but there they were and the job came off without a hitch. While not a surprise visit, it struck me how lucky I am to have their help.

My Aunt’s place is another seventy-five miles or so away from The Lodge, so the folks set off with haste after the moving job was complete. I loitered a bit to, well, loiter, then pointed the pickup down the twisty Banning road towards Riverside.

In this space I may have mentioned something about the Dodge Dakota’s handling prowess. I may have also said that it doesn’t have any. Something must be done about it, but in the meanwhile, the Banning road is strictly third gear work even while clipping the apexes and working the sweet spot on the Poppet Flat Carousel (I made that up, but it sounds like a cool road racing track feature, doesn’t it? what in hell are you talking about? – ed The 300 degree turn just past Poppet Flat! Duh! – bob). The scary Dakota oversteer mixed with its tendency towards unpredictable, last-second understeer make for a drive that will keep narcoleptics alert on stretches like that. Maybe that’s why I hadn’t noticed the sport bike boys on my tail for Jah knows how long.

Two young guys on brand new plastic superbike things were following way too close and had itchy wrists. It’s important to note that there are no legal passing opportunities anywhere on that road for twenty-five miles. It’s all double-yellow and if somebody is going thirty-five miles an hour, you figure out how long it’ll take to drive that distance if they don’t use the turn-outs. These boys, however, were rebels. Their cause was to go as fast as possible and I, along with the pickup in front of me, were keeping them from realizing their goal.

It’s also worth noting that I understand their dilemma completely. How were they to know that I was frightening myself every time I carried more speed into a corner than the Dodge would allow? All they knew, and rightly so, was that I was going too damn slow and not letting them by. Their first mistake though, was to take matters into their own hands.

They passed both of our pickups on a tight and blind left-hander, crossing into the opposing lane in the process. Completely into the opposing lane. No backing out, no kidding into the other lane. It scared the crap out of me and the guy in front nearly hit the guard rail getting out of their way. Two seconds later they were gone. Good for them, I thought. They survived a fantastically stupid maneuver and won’t learn a single thing from the experience except that it might be okay to try it again.

Or not.

Five minutes of plucking my way down the rest of the mountain—and retrieving a pounding pulmonary muscle from my esophagus—I, and my ill-handling compatriot, was greeted at another blind left sweeper by a man furiously waving flares urging us to stop. Now.

Sport bike boy #2 decided to get off his bike just past where we sat. At speed. Had he tried his passing maneuver again? Did the bike just fall out from underneath him? Oil on the road? Gravel? I wouldn’t stay to ask. All I knew was what I saw. A scraped-up kid lifting his shattered bike out of the lane, kicking the plastic bits to the curb and shaking his head in disgust. He looked okay, maybe a little dazed, and there were now a dozen other people who had stopped to help.

The flare guy waved me past the wreckage and I went. As I crossed the double-yellow line into this blind left-hand turn, into the opposing lane, it occurred to me that flare guy hadn’t actually looked down the road to see if anybody was charging up the hill to meet me. I took it on faith that I should just go, that everything would be okay.

The difference, I suppose, is that I’m going to actually learn the lesson that the boys hadn’t. Or wouldn’t.

Happy Easter!

– bob