The weather is getting colder, and the days shorter. I decide to go for a motorcycle ride to clear my head before a week that promises to be full of challenges. My excuse to go is a benefit barbecue for an injured rider.
To Hood Canal
Leaving Shelton, I head up Highway 101 and take the Purdy Cutoff Road along the Skokomish River to Hood Canal. Lining the river banks are fisherfolk, dozens of them standing shoulder-to-shoulder, each hoping to interrupt the reproductive cycle of a large salmon. I see lots of gloved hands, but none attached to fish.
The gently twisting road following Hood Canal reveals gold and orange fall colors, or fog, or sunshine, or all of these as each new vista comes into view around the next turn. I ride carefully because where there are houses there are driveways with cars and families with pets.
At Belfair, I turn north to chase traffice on Highway 3, which was surprisingly crowded for a Sunday. Passing by Bremerton and Silverdale, I stay to the right while speeding cars fly ahead of me, trolling for speeding tickets.
Kingston Ferry
I stay behind slow traffic to Kingston, watching the dash clock and trying to calculate whether I’ll make the ferry. I’m sure I’ll miss it, but when I get there, I see they are just finishing offloading the ferry. I pay my five-dollar fare, and strain to hear the question the ferry worker asks me. She asked in a quiet voice, and when I explain I have ear plugs in and can’t really understand what she is saying, she rolls her eyes and gives much such a look of disgust, as if I had three heads and spinach in my teeth. I chuckle to myself about this odd reaction as I roll down to the staging area.
I was the only motorcycle on the ferry. Assuming the place of honor at the front of the ferry, I put the kickstand down, turn the handlebars, and put the parking brake on. Locking up the bike glove box and underseat storage, I scramble up the stairs and find a spot under a heating vent where I can thaw out from the crisp morning ride. But as the boat approaches Edmonds, I drop back down to the car deck to begin gearing up for the next leg. The ferry is still going at a good clip, and the cold marine air manages to find several ways to filter inside my riding clothes. I’m cold again.
I’m not the first vehicle off the ferry. One driver has begged the crew to let him go first, because (he says) he is late for work. So they wave him on while some crew members are walking away from the boat, and hold the rest of us until the crew is clear of the roadway.
One Eyed Jack’s Roadhouse
Off the ferry, I go straight up the hill and connect with Highway 99, then I miss the turn into One Eyed Jack’s Roadhouse parking lot by about 30 feet. I quickly pull into an unused alley and then backtrack on the sidewalk when nobody is looking.
Inside Jack’s, I’m visually examined for a brief moment by a young man on a bar stool by the door. Apparently, there is no need to check my identification, which is just more proof I must be getting old.
I’m the second or third rider to appear at this benefit BBQ. A PNWrider crashed his bike near Neah Bay this summer, and his medical bills are high. For six dollars, I get a chili dog with cheese and a soda pop. From Tracie, the organizer of the event, I buy several raffle tickets. I don’t expect to win anything, and probably won’t claim a prize if I do win.
The cook is having some trouble keeping orders straight, because by this time there are a few dozen riders present, and everyone is ordering food. The chili dog has a really good flavor from the BBQ and spices.
I sit and eat with Doug, who I have just met. Doug is not a motorcyclist. He is a coworker of the injured rider at an automotive repair shop. I also meet the rider’s mother, and visit with his employer.
The local riders don’t seem very friendly. I make eye contact several times, and try to strike up a few conversations, but they shut down every attempt. There are no introductions and they focus on their own universe, physically turning away from others.
That’s okay, because Tracie and Doug are friendly, and I enjoy talking with them.
Driving through Seattle
After I finish my dog, I thank Tracie and head south on Highway 525, then connect with Interstate 5, keeping to the right. Traffic is heavy north of the Seattle core. The expansion joints are brutal, and I realize I have made the harshness worse by topping off my tire pressures yesterday, to 35 pounds in the front tire and 41 pounds in the rear. Every expansion joint transmits a jolt right to my back. I’m going to feel this tomorrow.
The old neighborhoods
Traffic opens up around Boeing Field and I make fine time down to SeaTac. I take the 200th exit and roll slowly by Jan’s childhood home. The elementary school across the street looks larger and modernized.
Crossing Highway 99, I roll down the hill south of the airport, cross Des Moines Way (that is what it used to be called), turn left on 8th, and turn right on 208th. I can see Tacoma from this vantage point!
Cruising slowly through the old neighborhood, I am flooded with memories of the people who lived in these homes and the many events of my growing-up time here.
I make my way to the top of the 4th Avenue hill, where I pause to look down on the City of Des Moines and Puget Sound’s East Passage, with Mt. Rainer holding court in the distance. This view I’ll never tire of.
Saltwater State Park and Steilacoom
Riding through Des Moines, I turn right onto Marine View Drive and follow it to Saltwater State Park, where I can get off the bike and stretch my legs. I wander around in my riding gear, looking out of place compared to the runners in shorts and beach walkers in t-shirts.
On a whim, I make my way to Redondo where the beachfront road is jammed with cars, walkers, and bicycles.
Grandpa George
Back on I-5, I take Gravelly Lake Drive to Steilacoom and finally recognize Grandpa’s house. Where there had been a small shack in the adjacent lot is now a large home masking Grandpa’s place. Some of the trees and shrubs have been altered, creating more discontinuity between what I see and what I remember. But there is no mistake: that is Grandpa’s house, and I make a note of the cross streets — Sequalish and Wilkes — so I can plot it later.
Grandpa was mayor of Steilacoom, and I have good memories spanning many visits when I was much younger.
By now I’m getting tired, and I find my throttle hand getting a little impatient to get home. Forcing myself to stay in the right lane, I trundle home to Shelton. Tired I am, but I also feel good about the beauty I saw along Hood Canal, being able to provide some small support to a fellow rider, and taking a trip down memory lane through the old neighborhoods and family places.
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