From: noemi@maui.cs.ucla.edu (Noemi Berry)
Newsgroups: rec.motorcycles
Subject: The European Adventure, Day 5.1
Date: 11 Nov 92 19:11:50 GMT
Article-I.D.: cs.1992Nov11.191150.10449
Organization: UCLA, Computer Science Department

This is the next installment in the tale of my 9-day
motorcycle adventure in Europe during the summer of '92.
I apologize for its length and hope that your news/mail
software will allow you to skip over it easily if it is
of no interest to you.

(in my opinion, this day is the one most worth reading,
since it was the day i had the most trouble :-))

noemi
*--------------------------------------------------------*

The European Adventure
Day 5, Part 1: The Day of the Drop

    Yea, the fourth test of faith was to be the most difficult.  Yahweh 
    commanded his people to ascend into the heavens.  Only by enduring many 
    hardships could they prove themselves worthy.  In their quest to fulfill
    the prophecy of the promised land, they would be smitten unto the ground
    again and again.  
                                    -Demonthenese

Monday, August 31, 1992
Landeck, Austria

I was packed and ready to go by the 8:00am breakfast time, and had a
bizarre breakfast of cold cuts and cheese.  It was sunny, but there
were heavy, threatening clouds spotting the sky.  Today was the day!
I would do an Alpine pass!  But first, I had a nail in the rear tire
to take care of.

The Gelbe Seiten indicated there was a Honda dealership in nearby Imst,
a short 18km scoot up Autobahn 12.  I found the dealership easily, but
it was closed.  Rats!  After showing someone in the shop next door the
nail in my tire, he wrote the name "Gachter" for me and said "yellow",
and gave me rough directions by pointing.  Right nearby there was a
yellow silo with the name Gachter written on it.

Gachter turned out to be a giant auto parts store and tire service for
every vehicle that wears tires.  A manager there pulled out the short
nail, wet the hole, and showed me the bubble that indicated it was
losing air.  He told me in adequate English that it needed a tube,
and assured me that they do motorcycle tires all the time.  100 painful
DM for tube and labor.  My only other choice was to ride on a possibly
flat tire 80km to Innsbruck.  But what could I do?  Shopping around would
cost me even more, in time on the bike.  Not fixing it could cost me a
great deal more than money.

A young man who spoke not ONE word of English performed the surgery,
while I hawked over the whole process.  I was glad an Austrian gentleman
who had struck up a conversation with me earlier told the guy that I had
said I knew all about how to do this.  Not entirely true, but it was
better he believed I understood it all.  I'd discovered that one danger
of a language barrier is that since you sound stupid, people think you're
stupid, and you get treated like you're stupid.

I followed his every move when he took the wheel and tire off, and
helped him roll the wheel back into place.  I nosed around the chain
when he put it back on, complaining: "Fest! Fest!" (tight!).  I drew
a picture of the correct chain adjustment markings, and pointed that
they should be the same on both sides.  I wrote down 2.3 and pointed
to the tire, indicating that's how much pressure I wanted.  Actually,
the numbers were meaningless to me: I didn't even know what units
that was in.  Claude had said 2.2 to 2.4 in the rear tire, so with
2.3 I was in the right range and would check it with my American
gauge anyway.

After making a total pest of myself, I was satisfied.  What a relief!!
It was now 11am and I had plenty of time to make it to an Alpine pass. 
That's all I could think of.  Twisties, I must have twisties!

Despite profound impatience, I knew enough to get errands over with when
already stopped, and contained myself long enough to seek out a place to
buy more Austrian shillings.  Imst was a small, semi-charming touristy
town, with the inevitable center containing all the banks and the post
ofice.  And a lot of sloped parking lots...!

I came *very* close to dropping the FT while parking in front of a bank,
and then again while parking at the post office (universally the best
place to exchange traveller's checks).  I could hardly sign my traveller's
check, I was shaking so hard from the very near drop.  I was surprised
I hadn't dropped it yet, actually, since it was luggage-topheavy and tall.
I didn't need a confidence-rattling drop now.  I MUST do an Alpine pass!  

Itching to get out of Imst, I stopped by a gas station to top off, and
checked the tires and oil too.  Aw, c'mon mom, can't we get going PLEASE?!
I'll grit my teeth and get it done now, so that when I finally get out of
Imst, I can find my Alpine pass with no more worries.

Except that there was no oil reading.  None!  The FT was on the centerstand
on a rare level spot.  I had never used a dipstick before, but I was certain
I was doing it just the way Claude had showed me.  Even screwing the dipstick
gave no reading.  Not sure if I was missing something, I shelled out
<cough, *choke*> ** 88 ** shillings for a liter of oil.  That was over
$8!!!!!  Biting my tongue and growing aggravation, I fed the FT the entire
liter before finally getting a reading on the dipstick at the very bottom
of the acceptable oil level.  I couldn't believe the bike had burned that
much oil, and really didn't know what was going on.  My spirits drooped.

It was now 12:30 and I was really anxious to get going.  On the short
Autobahn stretch back to Landeck, I found the FT had developed a new
vibration -- nay, a shudder.  At 120 kph (~74mph), it felt way wrong. 
Damn!  Maybe the rear tire was never balanced.  I forgot to check that.
I didn't know what an unbalanced rear tire felt like.  Is it possible
the rear wheel isn't aligned?  Is this the way innertubes feel??  Could
this have something to do with all that oil?  I cursed the multiple
change: with ONE thing different, maybe I could diagnose this, but
not with more.

Fighting deep worry, I kept going, "south" on 315.  In Nauders, the road
turned narrow and pretty, running alongside a river.  It also started to
get cloudy and dark, and smelled like rain.  Great!  The road climbed in
elevation and started to show sheer dropoffs.  At least I was going slow
enough, due to surprising traffic, that my new vibration didn't bother me
as much.  The pretty scenery calmed me as we got farther and farther away
from towns, though the conditions were changing so rapidly it was starting
to scare me.

I stopped at the Italian border for a break and for a warm-up.  It was
really cold by then, and I was wishing I had brought my winter gloves.
Last time I checked, it was still August!  An Italian waiter took a
fascination to me since I was from America and was riding alone, and
it was a relief to speak to someone in English.

The weather had turned cold, windy and damp, and I fogproofed my luggage
before continuing.  Mercifully, #40 descended in elevation, the sun came
out, and I was treated to a few wide 180-degree sweepers before almost
coasting into Mals.  Maybe this day would salvage itself after all. 
Turning onto 38 in Spondigna, I was getting closer to the squiggles on
the map.  I knew that today I would find my Alpine pass.

Gas worries and threatening rain had me fretting for about 10km that
I'd have to turn back to find gas.  It seemed like everything was going
against me today!  Gas, oil, tires: the essentials.  Thankfully, I came
upon a gas station in Prud that had just re-opened after the typical
2-hour lunch close.  An oil check revealed the oil very low, but it
hadn't changed since my last check.  I bought another painfully expensive
liter of oil anyway, and added enough to bring the oil level slightly
above the lowest safe level.

Finally, I was prepared to my my first Alpine pass.  Here it comes!
It was such a moment that I decided to first do a self-time picture
of me on the bike.  I set up the camera, and pushed the bike off the
centerstand.  Trying not to roll it out of the camera's view, I pulled
the front brake just as it came off the centerstand -- and the next
thing I knew, the FT was on the ground on its right side.

I KNEW I shouldn't have thought to myself that I hadn't dropped it yet.

I couldn't budge it from the ground, and found someone inside the
gas station (who mercifully spoke English) to help me right the FT.
I got my hard-won picture, and tried to start the bike.   No response
at all from the starter button!  Kill switch, battery...no, all OK.
On an impulse, I checked the gears and found it in 1st.  Once in
neutral, the starter button produced the familar whirrr of an engine
that turns over but won't catch and start.  Oh no!  Not this!  Well,
at least I knew about the starter not engaging if the bike was in gear.

I tried touching the starter button again and again, but after 15
frustrating minutes, it hadn't caught.  The attendant came out, surprised
I was still there, but went into his service area and produced a teenage
mechanic to whom he indicated to push the bike to start it.  I couldn't
get it into 2nd as it was moving, so a pop-start from 1st made a nasty
grinding noise and a near-start.  It was just enough though: I tried the
starter button again and vrrroooOOM!  The FT roared to life, I was on my
way.  But not after losing more time and patience.

Road 38 in Italy "southwest" was really, really pretty.  Heading toward
the mountains, a river cut a path in the rocks down the mountain, and the
road was built winding from one side of the river to another, with
wooden-planked bridges crossing over.  There were lots of trees, and it
had turned temporarily warm and sunny.  As the road climbed, it got twistier
and twistier and had all the makings of the Alpine pass I so clamored for.
I had indeed begun to ascend Passo dello Stelvio, overlooking the peak
Stilfserjoch.

The numbered hairpins started with #48.  I had fun with them, they weren't
so hard yet, and were predictably blind and steep.  I was *awful* at them
though, and showed absolutely no technique as I jerked around them.  They
got more and more frequent, and the straights in between then got steeper
and steeper and very narrow.  Occasionally I'd take a peek down the
mountain, and realized I had climbed pretty high, and the road had some
serious dropoffs.  This isn't a road, it's a ladder!  The turns themselves
became very banked, and this was new to me too.  On top of it, it got
cloudy and windy again, and the whole environment felt very severe.

I was awestruck when I saw the glacier across the way -- I'd never seen a
glacier before!  It had a curious bluish tinge to it, but this was no time
to contemplate geological wonders.  I was above the treeline by now and
the hairpins almost seem to have no bend to them: they looked more like
the point that joined two lines together at a 15 degree angle.  I wished
I could follow another rider to know how to take these turns correctly:
they were steep enough that I had to give the bike a lot of gas, but so
sharp that I didn't want to go fast at all.  Being wimpy on the gas felt
like the bike would slip backward, even in first gear.  OK, so I asked
for an Alpine pass, and I got it.  This is tough!  I prayed I wouldn't
have to stop, there didn't appear to be any place level enough to get
one foot down, let alone two.

But I had to stop: at hairpin #14, a right-hander, there was construction.
A line of cars was backed up, with motorcycles at the front of the line. 
I don't know how they got heavy equipment up there, but a bulldozer was
blocking the road on the straight after turn #14, and the workers were
letting cars by at 15-minute intervals.  I stopped before the turn and
put my right foot down on a small curb, not daring to leave my spot to
join the motorcycles at the front of the line.

Eventually, the workers let just the motorcycles go by, and I wanted
to go too.  I was on the absolute rightmost part of the road, with a
car ahead of my path of travel on my right.  To get out of this, I
would have to go straight forward up a very steep section, then do a
very tight right turn at the peak of a very banked turn.  I would have
to pull forward aggressively to clear the car on my right, but not so much
that I would overshoot my tiny margin and not even make the right turn at
full-lock.  My right foot was busy balancing (left foot could not reach),
so I had to hold the bike with the front brake until I got the clutch
and throttle going.  High degree of difficulty on this move, viewers!
Will she be able to pull it off?

No.  I didn't give it enough gas, the bike stalled, and flopped over
on its right side again, just missing the car.  Hell!

I indicated to the driver that I had not hit the car and tried to say I
was sorry.  He and a construction worked picked up the bike, and with
great difficulty due to the steepness, rolled it to the outside of the
turn, facing downhill!!  No no!  I'll NEVER get out of that!  I insisted
they turn the bike around, a difficult operation, but they did, and now
I was positioned on the outside of the turn, a slightly better way
to get going again.

The wind picked up and I prayed it wouldn't blow over the FT's
precarious position.  By now I was really frightened and wasn't
sure how to get out of here.  Finally, the construction workers
let everyone go by!  I started the FT and.....whirr whirr...

Oh come ON, not HERE!  Not this stupid starting thing again.  It was
hard enough to get on and off the bike without a risk of tipping it. 
I tried the touch-start method again and again, and it would not
start.  As I fruitlessly tried, a rider on a Suzuki DR650 pulled up
alongside me, and spoke just enough English that I could explain it
won't start after it's been dropped .  He did the unnecessary FINE-C
inspection and then remembering my experience at the first gas station
in Heidelberg, I offered the right grip to him.  He had the magic
touch and the FT started.  I was elated.

But now, we'd missed our opportunity to pass.  The kind DR650 rider had
to wait 15 minutes for the construction to let the new line of stopped
cars and motorcycles by, and his R100G/S companion waited a few turns
ahead for him.  I let the FT idle the entire time, feeling awful about
it since everyone there shuts off their engines after 30 seconds, for
environmental reasons.  I was not taking a chance on the bike not starting
again, and just waited self-consciously for the workers to let us go.

Finally they let us go by.  I escaped turn #14!  The dark clouds and the
on-and-off mist and the wind and the steepness made everything seem
scarier to me, but finally I was out of there.

I followed three riders up the remaining 14 turns.  Their weakest rider
rode first, and I followed their lines, which were to go to the absolute
outside of the turn first, even if that meant riding on the other "lane"
on right-handers.  Due to the drizzle and wind, no one was testing lean
angles and also seemed to be just getting around as best as possible.

At the top of turn #1, there was a level-ish parking lot where survivors
take pictures and gawk at the oddly blue glacier now below our 2758 meter
elevation.  I wanted to talk to the 3 riders I had followed, but couldn't
due to lack of language, and settled for having one of them take a picture
of me.

After my mini-photo session, I could see there was a hotel at the top
of the remaining hill, perfect for a much-needed break and hot coffee.
While mounting the FT, I pushed it slightly vertical -- just enough that
it rolled forward, kicked up its sidestand, and next thing I knew, it was
down again, this time on the left side.

ARRRGGHHHH!!!!!

A few observers ran over and helped me right the bike, and I embarrassedly
thanked them and got ready to get on the bike again.  Beside myself with
frustration and fighting tears, I was determined to get my mood under
control at the top of the mountain.

That's when I saw it.  The clutch lever dangled uselessly from the
handlebar, broken right before the joint where it attaches to the cable.
Horrified, I had to walk away from the bike to control myself during the
initial shock.  It was all I could do not to burst out crying.  I can't
believe this!!!  I'm at the top of an Alpine pass, in who KNOWS what
country by now (Italy, by a few meters), with nothing but a coffee shop
around for kilometers, with no clutch?!  FFUUUUUUCKK!!!!!

Wrenching myself from the grips of a severe crisis, I had to tackle
the daunting task ahead of me.  I found that I could brace the lever
against its broken piece and sort of pull the clutch cable.  This time,
I wasn't taking any shit from the starter: I ruthlessly cranked the FT
until it reluctantly puttered to life!

Carefully placing the lever piece, I pulled the clutch in, and was able
to let it out slowly just enough for the bike not to stall, though it
slipped for the second half of the cable travel and made the bike leap
forward.

I rode up the hill in first gear, and found a parking lot at the top
with other motorcycles, including the 3 riders I had followed, and the
Suzuki DR650 rider and his companion with the R100G/S.  They watched me
pull in, wild-eyed and terrified, and all 5 rushed up when I stalled the
bike in the parking lot and frantically waved the broken clutch lever.

This was a serious situation to all of them, and they stood around and
conferred rapidly in German about what I should do.  I looked around
and realized that no matter what, I had to go down.  There were three
roads down from this point, and they were all mega-twisties.  And from
there, the nearest civilization, let alone Honda dealer, could be many
kilometers away.  Sure, a bike can be ridden with no clutch lever, but
the roads required many stops and starts.  Besides, I'd hardly tried it,
and this was no time to learn.  As the severity of my predicament sunk
in, I got so upset I couldn't even talk.

The Suzuki DR650 rider, the only one who spoke any English, proposed that
I follow him and his [female] R100G/S companion down a road (ironically
the very one that I had come here to ride) to the town Santa Maria in
Switzerland.  Since it was raining and the road would be slippery, he
advised me not to use the front brake at all, just the rear!!  I shakily
smiled and thanked him, silently knowing I would ignore this advice,
but was in no position to start a rear-brake philosophy discussion.

So we headed down the mountain, with me in one of the worst situations
I'd been in in my short riding career.  With this, I'll pick up the
story in Part Two, since it is long from over.

End of Day 5, Part One

noemi
*---------------------------------------------------------------------*
noemi@cs.ucla.edu (for now)     				KotSBL
DoD #443  						'82 KZ 305 CSR
							(hang in there!)
	Next Motorcycle (NM) countdown: one R65LS to go!
*---------------------------------------------------------------------*
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