Ural Patrol Crosses US Border

DESTINATION BELLINGHAM, WASHINGTON, United States of America. It was the first time Frank and I crossed the border on our URAL bike. In order to get off the Vancouver Island, we ferried across at Nanaimo and rode south on Highway 99 to the Peace Arch Crossing. The crossing officer accepted our passports and waived us through.

Our first stop was the Custer Rest Area where we shook our hair loose from under our helmets and relieved the pressure of coffee consumed on our first leg of the trip.

The purpose of our excursion was three-fold: to have the bike maintained by a reputable shop; to meet up with family; and for me to shop for dresses.

Bellingham has an open-space, country feel to it. Our grandson took over as monkey and accompanied Grandpa to the workshop. They spent over five hours with the mechanics fussing with everything on the bike. It hummed like a song on our way back to Canada.

Border crossing then rest

Ural Northwest

Bought two dresses

Brown's Bay the Biker's Way

WE EXPLORE our neighbourhood with our Russian URAL bike. One day we headed out to Brown’s Bay, north of Campbell River, to have a picnic and fly our kites. We settled in a cozy place to unpack and feast on fresh fruit and sandwiches. Sadly, there was not enough space to fly our kites.

A friendly seal paddled around the dock and made eye contact with us. Boats were moored and fishers took to the water.

On our way back to Highway 19A, a steep gravel road caught our attention. Frank motioned for us to take it and I responded with thumbs up. The Ural is meant to handle this type of trail especially when it’s kicked into two-wheel drive. Frank revved the motor and roared up the road. The forty-degree grade was a challenge for the URAL. It felt like riding an untamed stallion. The thirteen-kilometre vertical challenged Frank's strength as the loose gravel flew in all directions and our wheels sunk into the soft sand.

When he stopped the bike I climbed out of the sidecar to admire the spectacular view of mountains and clear blue sky. My eyes caught something uncommon on the road behind us.

“Hey! What’s all that?” I said.

We walked closer to realize that our trunk had unlatched and all the contents had fallen out. We re-loaded the trunk, locked it securely and rumbled back down the trail.

Brown's Bay Vancouver Island

We love the side roads

I Did a Bad, Bad Thing

I HAD BEEN WARNED by fellow sidecar passengers and a couple of drivers, including my husband, that wearing a lap blanket in the sidecar can be very dangerous if you’re not paying attention. Their forewarning played out dramatically on our eighty-seven and a half kilometer journey from Campbell River, British Columbia to Gold River.

September 28 offered up a bright, blue-sky morning, the perfect conditions for a ride. The fall weather called for my fur-lined leather jacket and my favourite blanket to wrap around my legs. I heard the motor roar; we slid out of our parking lot onto Dogwood Street, continued north on Highway 19 and turned left onto Gold River Highway. The autumn smells included the pungent odour of dead leaves and the cool scent of clean water wafting from Upper Campbell Lake. The contrast between the stoic dark green of the coniferous trees and the sharp orange and yellow of the semi-dormant deciduous types brought a smile to my face. I nodded off three kilometers before the Muchalat turn off into Gold River.

I was startled into reality by a striking sensation that my blanket was being torn from me.

“Frank, stop!” I shouted. He couldn’t hear me over the distinct growl of the motor. I slapped his knee to get a reaction and had my hand swatted away. I covered the top of one hand in a T-shape with the other, my signal that we need to stop, and showed it to him. He made a left turn and could I see from the panic in his face that the resistance from the sidecar wheel was interfering with his steering. He struggled the bike into the driveway of a gas station and turned off the motor. His bunched up face told me he was angry.

My lap blanket was gnarled around the sidecar drive shaft. I looked on as Frank and two truck drivers, who had seen the incident, slid under the Ural, taking turns hacking away at the blanket with their knives.

The excursion home was a bit chilly without my blanket. Since then, I’ve created a snug, zipped sleeping bag that doesn’t fly around. 

The lap blanket fiasco

One of the rescue knives

Smell The Ride

THE ODOUR OF GASOLINE fills my nostrils as I plunk myself on the cushy seat of the sidecar. My husband-driver, Frank, has just poured fuel from one of our three attached Jerry Cans into the tank. The roar of the motor fills my ears and the tang from the engine pierces my nostrils.

We drive away from the city of Campbell River, south on Highway 19A. The stench of a recent road-kill grabs my attention. I glance quickly to see the remains of a white-speckled fawn on the highway. Everything seems so close on the Ural bike. I look up to see a streak of white plume following a jet. The sky is brilliant blue and filled now with a low-flying flock of Canadian geese.

The aroma of evergreen trees replaces all fragrances with their robust attempt to stay strong. Fall season, on this part of the Vancouver Island, means that yards are being cleared. The stinging smells of burning bushes fill the air. As we roar down the highway an enormous wave of perfume fragrance fills my nostrils. I close my eyes to help keep the memory of the precious scent but soon the reek of skunk shocks me into reality. Whether near of far, the stink takes over everything.

As a passenger on an Ural bike, you have the distinct pleasure of absorbing the smells that no car passenger would ever imagine. Take your time and enjoy the ride.

Smell is a potent wizard that transports you across thousands of miles and all the years you have lived.

~ Helen Keller  Courtesy of http://www.brainyquote.com

Son and grandson get to smell the ride.

The odour of gasoline.

Smell the ride.

The Journey Is The Thing

Homer, the ancient Greek poet, must have rode in the sidecar of a Russian Ural motorbike. It’s true that the journey’s the thing when a passionate driver is chauffeuring you about. Getting ready for the journey is also part of the fun. I wear a Hoodie, which I pull over my head and set my helmet on. My earplugs help suppress the noise from the motor that roars on my left and protective glasses keep my eyes wet.

September 22, 2012, on central Vancouver Island, offered a bright sunny day and moderate temperatures. I packed a lunch for my husband and I, and hopped into the sidecar like an excited puppy. We had a destination in mind, and had never travelled the logging roads to Lost Lake. To my great pleasure, on the way, we took a side path, explored more forestry roads and ended up at Loveland Bay Provincial Park where we enjoyed a lakeside picnic. We stopped at Lost Lake on our way home and walked the short hiking trail to explore the area.

It’s the fragrance of nature, the sound of chirping songbirds, squawking crows, and the sight of regal eagles that keep us travelling and stopping along our journeys.

Logging Roads Galore

Sidecar Views

Loveland Bay Provincial Park