Endall, Be All

Endall Road, our destination on February 23^rd, turned out to be all that was needed to satisfy me as a Ural bike sidecar passenger. The brilliant blue sky, slight wind and cool seven degrees Celsius temperature encouraged my husband and I to get on the road.

We travelled thirty kilometres south from Campbell River on South Island Highway to Endall Road in Black Creek. After a short distance on a smooth paved secondary road, a gravel side road caught our eye and we turned onto Sturgess Road. Remarkably, over the distinct engine roar, I could hear dogs barking, nearly screaming. I was shocked at the stressed screeches and then calmed considerably when I read the sign, “Canine Conduct Training Solutions”. It was feeding time at the breeding centre.

Our smooth packed gravel way turned into a roller coaster ride. Frank set our chariot into second gear and maneuvered through the loose chucks of large gravel, sloppy, slick, muddy, pot-holed construction site. The Patrol bucked at every opportunity to make its way past the mess. A man in a Visi-Vest flagged us down. Soon we were surrounded by a troop of seven workers.

“You’re on private property,” he said.

“We’re just exploring. We’ll turn around and head out,” Frank said.

The crew watched us drive away. I enjoyed the return thrill ride once again.

Back on Endall Road, we passed many farms. As a sidecar passenger, I’ve trained my nose to recognize the distinct odors of cow manure, horse manure and the all too grotesque scent of sheep manure. We travelled to the end of Endall Road and enjoyed a picnic of sandwiches, tea, carrot sticks and bananas. I’ve learnt over the years that you don’t have to look for extravagant destinations with your Ural bike, simply get on the road and explore your neighbourhood.

Sidecar Passenger Sky View

Sidecar Passenger Mountain View

Neighbourhood Pathways

Love the Ride

Sweetheart Ride

On Vancouver Island, you have to take advantage of whatever weather conditions are presented to you. On Thursday, February 14, 2013, we chose to ride even with the threat of rain in the forecast. My sweetheart driver kick started the engine and we roared south on Highway 19A. Our destination was thirty-eight kilometres south from Campbell River to a village called Mereville.

We turned west on Sackville Road and after only a short spin the paved secondary side road turns into Mereville Road. A spectacular Bald Eagle sat on a fence. It spread its wings and flew off to a more practical point on a tall tree. I stretched my neck to keep it in my sight for as long as possible. The bird’s distinctive size and colours are mesmerizing.

The odour of hay and cow manure filled the air. Two large brown cows had their faces pushed deep into a trough chomping and grinding the feed. The next pasture held five horses standing and staring, as horses seem to do when they’re not being ridden.

We came across an epitaph honouring a person named Mike. People who loose their lives while driving a vehicle have a great impact on me. As a sidecar passenger on our Ural motorbike, I put all my trust in the driver. I have my private imaginings going on in my head while Frank is totally committed to driving. We both consider this one of the best features of our ride.

Happy Valentines Day!

On the road again

Life is good on our Ural

Our Ural Hoodie Gets Razzed

“What’s that supposed to be? A parasol?” said one of the men standing close to his motorcycle.

I smiled. I’m used to getting questioned about the rickshaw rigging that my husband, Frank, built for me on the sidecar.

We had pulled into the parking lot of our favourite coffee shop. A large group of bikers had chosen the same destination that day.

“What’s a monkey doing with a covered sidecar?” asked another.

"She calls it a Ural Hoodie," said Frank.

I turned the keys attached to the sidecar windshield and released the green canvas top. With little effort, I pushed the convertible top over my head and tucked it behind me. I lifted myself from the cushioned seat and stepped out of my chariot. I pulled down the bottom of my leather jacket with one hand and unzipped it with the other.

“How do you like the cover?” asked one of the bikers.

“I love it!” I said. “It protects me from the hot sun, the ice pellets and the rain.”

“My wife better not see it. She’ll want one for the back of the bike,” he said.

I chose many years ago not to ride ever again on the back of a motorcycle. I got bored real fast staring at the graphics on the back of my husband’s helmet. My neck got kinked and locked from trying to peek around his head to see what was around me. That nonsense ended when we got the Ural bike.

The freedom of a sidecar is luxurious. I can look in any direction I like (within reason), smell the fragrances of the environment around me, nibble on raisins when I’m hungry and stretch my legs out in front of me. The Ural Hoodie that Frank made for me is spectacular. He got the idea after our having spent four years in China ~ there are a lot of rickshaws there.

Monkeys, think about a Hoodie.

Susan's Ural Hoodie

Protection from the elements

Rickshaw Rigging

Run To Youth Detention Centre

AS A URAL BIKE PASSENGER, I look forward to adventures on our shiny green Patrol. Our riding friends have a Gear Up and together we pour over logging road maps to point out our newest destination. Today, we headed out to find the Vancouver Island’s youth detention centre.

We headed north on Island Highway and after 30 kilometres turned west on Lakeview Road. The pungent odour of evergreen trees filled my nostrils and the narrow gravel road made me feel like it was for our exclusive use. Hundreds of intertwining logging roads on Vancouver Island provide adventures for those of us who enjoy nature.

We stopped once to check our map and arrived shortly at our destination. It was no longer a youth detention centre; it was Edaus School, a place for Korean children to live and study in an English-speaking environment.

We walked around the outside of the facility, peering into windows to see bunk beds and small dressers. We enjoyed our lunch with a spectacular view of Maud Lake. Later, we drove home.

Checking map coordinates

Lunch at Maud Lake

Food Run Memories

WE EACH JUMPED OUT of our sidecars and scampered from house to house gathering up bags of non-perishable items. We placed them in the back of the attending truck and brought our load back to one of the Ural troop’s garage. There we sorted the goods to fit into the sidecars and on the racks of each bike.

With our brilliantly decorated Urals, we rode in a parade-like fashion to deliver our treasures to the local Campbell River food bank.

Our lead driver was dressed up as Santa Claus and drove a Gear Up, Frank, my husband, followed in our Patrol and the third driver closed ranks with his Gear Up. We three monkeys followed them in a regular vehicle.

Along our route, the drivers got honked at by passing motorists and waved at by people out for an evening stroll. Once we arrived at the drop-off site, folks interested in the Ural bikes surrounded us. Some even helped us transfer the perishables to the waiting storage trailer. We left the parking lot with upbeat hearts.

Food Run Memories 2011

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