Silver Lake, Oregon
No, there's no monster truck story to tell, I've just always wanted to use that phrase. Today was a busy day for Yours Truly as I was able to collect three (count em' THREE) rally points. The first of these was Silver Lake, or "Sliverlake" as it is printed in the tour book. I began in Bend because it begins with a B. Took Hwy 97 south along the edge of the Deschutes National Forest, then took a left at Hwy 31 and endured a stretch of it that is almost completely void of any turns. Halfway through that part, I nearly forgot where I was going and then, as the first actual turn came, I had to remember how to steer. (Let's see... push on the bar... oh, lean!) The curvy parts of the road are quite nice and they lead out to some breathtaking vistas once you leave the forest. The hills are alive (not with the sound of music (or Grizwalds)) with the plant life that thrives in the semi-arid atmosphere found there. If I knew anything at all about plants, I'd name them. Lacking any specific botanical vocabulary, I would describe the plants as "greenish-brown" and "bushy." Oh, and "pretty." I think you know which plants I'm talking about now. You see them all over the place when you go outside or to plant stores. ...and stuff. ...and things. The Silver Lake Cafe and Bar is located almost at the end of "town." Beyond it lies, what I assume to be the actual Silver Lake. I can see the lake on the map and there did seem to be quite a number of boats and other water craft on trailers headed that way, but I didn't actually see a lake.
I finished breakfast, took another turn at talking, collected my rally stamp -- and then the most remarkable thing happened. They invited me to go do some crimes! I told them that couldn't because I had to go get my lip pierced (why not, something similar worked at Sheep Rock Unit?) Turns out that a couple of them had already had their lips pierced and they gave me some suggestions on where to get it done for cheap. "You'll neber whishle the shame whay aghain," I was told. They mounted up, covered the very tippy-tops of their heads in beanie caps that pass for helmets and roared down the road to go fill up those ridiculously small cruiser gas tanks. I started my bike, emboldened by the infectious lust for the sound of power, and was greeted instead by the dependable but anemic whine of my 750cc inline four. I waved to my new friends waiting in line at the gas station (which I'm certain they held up at gun point) as I moved on to my next rally stop. Certain parts of this story are fictional for the benefit of my mother-in-law who is worried that I might get in with the wrong crowd. (Hi, Mom. I'm fine.) What parts did I make up? My suit has no Kevlar in it. |
sunday! Sunday! SUNDAY! The ground is already shakin'!
What I did see was a small building surrounded almost completely with Harley's. "Oh no," I thought. "I take back all those bad things I said about The Motor Company." "They're going to kick Honda Boy across the parking lot." When I went in, clad in red Cordura and Kevlar, I saw wall-to-wall leather. "I'm going to die here." I selected a seat at the end of the bar and tried to look inconspicuous. After ordering some breakfast, I took time to listen in on my cow-hided friends' conversations. The topics included but were not limited to: Where to buy gasoline, Who dropped their bike recently, The stock market, Where to get those neat Harley hats and... wait a minnit? The stock market? Turns out that these guys and gals were all from Beaverton and were on the same rally as myself. Whew. Some of them even let me talk without first apologizing for not buying American.