Photo Credit - Lee Wonnacott
Everybody that has been around motor driven machines for more than a season or two understands that electrical problems can be frustrating, aggravating, a waste of precious time and very expensive. Our problems started just about 70 miles from home when Art's '84 Honda Shadow started running a bit rough. He thought it might just be a bit of water in the gas he got from a local station, but by evening it was evident that he needed a new battery. Ka-ching! There's $70 gone.
The very next morning, only 28 degrees in the South Carolina mountains, the bike failed to start. Bump start! Run 35 miles and we find a parts store to charge the brand new battery. Ka-ching! Not much, but you've always got to buy SOMETHING, don't you?
Another 50 miles down the road and my breakfast from the local diner isn't doing my stomach any favors, I feel about like the ever discharging battery. About the time that I make the decision to call it an early day and get a motel room the brand new, once recharged battery, decides to give up again - this time at the bottom of a very steep exit ramp that is nearly 3/4 of a mile long.
It's 85 degrees and Art has 65 pounds of gear packed aboard his machine. By the time we pushed him to the top of the ramp I'm literally ready to call an ambulance and breathing a clear lung full of air seems to be a nice thing. Then the first good thing of the trip happened - we met a one percenter; a true colors wearing, bad ass biker from the Warlocks Motorcycle Club.
Owen McClothin happened to be riding by on his old Shovelhead and stopped to ask if we needed help. I'm ready to pass out and Art is worried not only about his disabled bike, but about me. After a lengthy roadside diagnostic session it's obvious that I need to lie down. I regretfully abandon my son and his Shadow and ride just two miles down the road and check into a very expensive motel.
As I check in the desk clerk asked several times if I wanted her to call an ambulance. NOPE! All I need is some respite from the food poisoning. I dash to the room and a particular 'amenity' - well, I actually made several dashes and maybe a few dots too! Meanwhile, Art is under the protective wing of the local Warlocks tattooed bad ass biker. Owen has called in more help and before long Art is being taken to various places in an effort to get the Honda limping around. It took all of the afternoon and most of the evening, but Owen, his S/O Hope, and their friend Dan Johnson got Art going. We thought the problem was solved.
The next day was another nightmare of discharged batteries, bump starts, and lots of time spent at the roadside waiting for some form of local assistance. But, we did manage to make a few more friends so we take that as a sign of balance and settle into a state campground for a quiet night, NO, campfire breath, the folks in the next campsite think it's karaoke night in the woods. Have you even trudged over a mile through the DARK woods in order to find a Ranger? It tends to make you a bit testy. Ranger arrives on scene, threatens the offenders with expulsion and we finally are able to rest for the first time in a couple of days.
We are now seriously behind our planned 'schedule'. In order not to discharge the new, and by now doubtlessly damaged, recharged for the fourth time battery, Art disconnects the headlamp of the Shadow and we make a Bonzai charge across Georgia to the Florida border before nightfall. As the sun sets and the headlight is plugged back in we still have two hours remaining before we can end our day - 450 miles total. We made it, but in the last ten miles I thought we were again going to be pushing the old Shadow.
I wish I could say we were able to repair the bike completely in the next three days ... we sure spent enough money. But this morning, Wednesday, we only got about 45 miles down the road and the damn thing quit again. And again the only balance we found were several new friends that helped us off the edge of the road and carry the Shadow to another repair shop.
At each stop we have managed to find Veterans to talk with . . . men and women who have worn the uniform and have seen their own versions of Hell Week. One guy, Ed, who currently has his hands buried in the Shadow, is a 20 year veteran of the Marine Corps. One of his long weeks in the barrel had him crawling across desert sands with a sniper rifle in his hands. Frankly, I think he's more comfortable repairing broken motorcycles than placing the crosshairs of his weapon on the chest of a enemy combatant.
Yup, it's been a difficult week. But I think I know thousands of soldiers, sailors, and airmen in various parts of the world right now that would trade places with me in a second. Bless them all, and let's hope our government remembers to treat them right when they again become civilians.
Remember, "Ride today - Tommorow you may not be able!"
-LW