Susan Learns to Ride

“Forget everything you learnt about driving. This is a Ural,” my husband said.

My mind raced back to the workings of my first car with its standard-transmission, and the fun experience of  driving a scooter in Hawaii. Back in the moment, on a cool autumn day, I swung my leg over the driver’s seat of our 2007 green Patrol. I stared at the array of instruments and controls facing me.

“The engine throttle control is the right twist grip on the handlebar. To increase engine power, bring the grip towards you. To reduce power, roll the grip away from you,” Frank said.

In neutral, with the green light as an indicator, I pushed the foot break and twisted the throttle at the same time, just a bit, to hear the distinct rumble of the engine. I located the gear shift lever on the left side of the engine, next to the foot peg, engaged the clutch and shifted the Ural into first gear. I released the break, twisting the throttle slightly as I released the clutch, and moved the stallion forward. I strutted around in first gear for quite a while before I sped up, shifted, and managed second gear.

Round and round I drove over the open expanse of the vacant parking lot. What great fun! I thought. I glanced at Frank, now the monkey, sitting calmly in the sidecar. We came to a stop, turned off the engine and started the learning process over again.

Monkeys, do yourself a great favour and learn to drive the Ural. 

Susan learns to ride.

Susan as a biker.

Gripping and Grinding

TRAVERSING THE COQUIHALLA HIGHWAY, referred to as “Coke” by British Columbians, in the rain, pushing our Ural at 80 kilometres an hour, uphill to its 1,244-metre above-sea-level peak was hateful.

Our kickoff at Kamloops was pleasant. A warm July breeze and a bright blue sky surrounded us. We travelled 80 kilometres south on the four-lane freeway at 80 kilometres an hour while traffic on our left swept passed at 110 kilometres. At Merritt, we pulled into a gas station and filled our tank. As per my husband’s instructions, I pulled on my neck warmer and a bulky sweater; zipped up my flimsy windbreaker jacket and snapped it closed; pulled on my winter gloves and slid my hands into my leather gloves with gauntlets to protect my wrists and to help prevent the blustery wind from shooting up my sleeves. I had refused the offer from my husband to buy me a leather jacket. My conservative view at that time was that only ‘biker chicks’ wore leather.

Just outside of Merritt, it started to rain. Our destination was Hope, 120 kilometres away on the fast moving four-lane highway. I was beyond expectation of ever reaching the end of this trek without loosing my mind. My hands were numb from gripping the metal bar in front of me and my teeth ached from grinding. I had no idea that driving in an open vehicle under these wet and cold conditions could be so exasperating. I began to cry. I pushed my hands and arms under the tonneau, grabbed my blanket and wrapped it around my shoulders. I tucked my chin into my chest and waited for the Ural to come to a stop.

After 61 kilometres, at the Britton Creek rest area, I pulled myself out of the sidecar and stood quiet for a moment. The rain had stopped. Hope was still another 58 kilometres away. I stood with another women and sipped on hot coffee until it was time to mount our rides. She looked as though she had been crying too. The engines roared and we departed for our half-way destination.

That evening, I soaked in a hot bath and slept well into the next day.

Urals prefer secondary roads

Britton Creek Rest Area has character