There is a stretch of the 5 south of Del Mar Heights Road that is total crap. The grooves appear to have been engraved by an apoplectic, astigmatic, drunken orangutan who was not, strictly speaking, qualified to operate the equipment.
There are other issues, but that’s the most relevant one for the moment.
Anyway, it damn near killed me tonight.
Now. Let’s rewind just ever so slightly. Today, five intrepid souls met at the Cafe 67 in Lakeside to ready ourselves for The Great Hunt ahead. All three food groups were copiously ingested: Carbs, protein, COFFEE.
Then, sated, the Cowboy, Nick, Nick2, Monte, and I all headed up Wildcat Canyon toward Ramona. Zip, zip, zip, before we know it we’re on OJH and then 79 heading to the Sutherland Dam. We wanted mud, we wanted water crossings – we wanted epic dirt. The rains of late, man – good stuff.
Nick2 was on an R9T with tires that are maybe 80/20 street/dirt and had never ridden dirt before today. He’s only been riding at all for a year and a half, too, so he’s getting started early, which is awesome.
At the dam, we prepared ourselves for the ever-fantastic Santa Ysabel Truck Trail and its assuredly EPIC DIRT. Because of all the rain. Down the hill, and it’s definitely seen some water flow. Across the bridge, up the hill, aaaaaaand, gate.
Shit.
Because of all the rain. <sigh>
Up Black Canyon, which was definitely the best I’ve ever seen it, allllmost a fourth-gear road right now. Mesa Grande. Over to The Fun Side (not The Fast Side, not The Tight Side, the FUN SIDE, or, as I now like to think of it, The Phil Side) of Palomar – Nate Harrison Grade to Mother’s for pie. [Sidenote: Granny’s in Julian is no more. Sad.]
Nick2 had his first kiss-the-dirt encounter, and was happy he bought crash guards. He also had a huge grin on his face about all of it – this one is hooked, my friends. Oh, yes. Our Sacred Lady of the Eternal Dust has cradled him in her tender embrace, and he is succumbing to her siren song, the one which promises us all 72 perfect trails here in the haven of San Diego (how many religions can I cram into one metaphor? Bummer – only three. Moving on.)
“THIS SHIT IS DOPE!!” Nick2 was heard to comment.
Monte needed to get going home, so he took The Tight Side, which in my head for some reason always comes out The Dinslage Side. The four remainders headed down The Fast Side on its ever-so-perfect, brand-new pavement. Ahhh, even on the KTM with knobbies, it’s like gliding down a satin ribbon of black and gold.
Chairs. Tire-kicking. Learned my long-lost friend Frank is still alive, kicking, and racing, at his tender age of approximately 700.
Earlier, I had remembered that Nick (my Nick, OUR Nick, not New Nick (Nick2)) has not yet had the pleasure of riding the KTM 690 Enduro R. I asked if he wanted to hop on and putter around, just for grins.
And I KNEW there would be grins – more grins than Nick has face, perhaps.
He did a few parking lot circles and off he went. I could see when he goosed it a little and I could feel his glee from 100 yards away. After a few minutes, I realized that maybe my bike wasn’t going to come back. I cannot get a foot down on his giant-assed F800GSA. Hm. Blow that bridge when I come to it.
Surely, he’ll be back, right? We’ve got all his STUFF here.
And indeed, soon, I saw a glow across the horizon – ah, there he was. The sheer radiance of his smile lit his path. And everyone else’s. Happy Nick – yay.
I mentioned to him that it’s a rock-solid platform, except I always know the instant I hit 83 miles per hour (remember this number, it will come into play (or not) later on) because the front end gets wobbly and the whole bike does a wobble-dance and it’s time to slow down a notch.
Nick and Nick2 headed for home, while Cowboy and I headed for Santa Ysabel Creek in one last-ditch attempt to get some water in. We wound our ways down the canyons toward Bandy, saw some nitwit who’d spun out his Corvette against an embankment — well done, Sir; well done! — through the orange groves with their uniform flat tops, and down the hard-packed entrance to Santa Ysabel Creek Road in the hopes of water and mud.
I could feel Cowboy’s “please oh please oh please” as we descended. Alas – only a few sparse muddy bits and one semi-large puddle, which Cowboy exuberantly parted like the Red Sea. I decided I wasn’t keen on a mud bath just now and skirted it – coward! True – but also, dry.
After the final parting of ways, I was getting onto the 5 just as I normally do – although normally, I’m on the GS, which would have laughed at this whole silly affair with only the barest of twitches before regaining her poise – as evidenced by this never having happened on the previous 200 entries.
The KTM, however, is sometimes an angry beast that does NOT want to be hobbled in any manner – she wants to dig deep into that single thrumming cylinder, she wants to push those gears until they scream. Come to think of it, she also likes to push her battery until it (literally) screams, but that’s another story. The KTM got me from Santa Ysabel to the Stagecoach resort in under 20 minutes – she slays, knobbies and all (and can I just give a huge shout-out once again to MotoZ and their phenomenal Tractionator RallZ and GPS lines.)
Typically, I make her mind her manners. After all, when I’m astride the KTM, I am usually a.) on dirt, or b.) going to dirt with other skinny-bike-type people, and they (being smarter than I) don’t want to fry off their tender knobs at supra-legal speeds. Also, I am always on the verge of tipping over from not having enough inseam.
Tonight, however, after (accidentally) popping a (very) small wheelie in third gear, I realized I hadn’t let her stretch those legs in awhile. Punched it Danger-Zone-style for just a quick few seconds, burning down the entrance ramp. I slowed a bit before entering traffic at a perfectly reasonable 70mph. Politely merged one lane over. Waited for a small white car to pass in the next lane left. He moved over to the next-left lane to let me in, so I moved to his former lane and gave him a little wave – Thanks, man. Appreciated.
About two seconds later is when everything began to go horribly, horribly awry.
I felt a tiny speed wobble – nothing alarming. I glanced at my (digital) speedo: 75. WTF? Remember how I always know when I hit 83? Not 82, not 85 – EIGHTY-THREE. Last I knew, and admittedly I am not hip to The New Math, but I’m still reasonably certain 83 > 75.
Wobble left: Whoa, that happened early.
Wobble right: Ok, ok.
Wobble left: Why isn’t this stopping?
Wobble right: This is getting worse.
Big wobble left: Uh-oh…
Big wobble right: Come on, bike, come on…calm down.
The wobbles did not calm down; no, they calmed UP.
Now, I sometimes intentionally make this bike wobble, usually by bike-dancing and rocking out to whatever fantastic noise is filling my ear-holes. At the recent ADV rally, I got a little overly zealous on this front and allllmost got myself into a bad way. But I didn’t. She’ll occasionally get into a little bit of a shimmy on grooved pavement at freeway speeds, but keeping things below 83 keeps it entirely manageable.
I know this bike and its wiggles, sometimes because I’m going too fast, sometimes because I’m going too crazy on the dance floor.
As I am careening down the 5 at dusk, surrounded by a moderate amount of traffic, not dancing at all, the wobbles get bigger.
And deeper.
And bigger.
And deeper.
The front and rear tire tracks move farther and farther apart with each pass. Heading, bearing, meh – pesky nonsense.
I know it has to be effing pavement, it can’t be anything else, unless something just actually fell off my bike (like a fork pinch bolt? (Too soon?))
Well, ok, this is happening now. It’s been happening for a few seconds, and it’s only getting worse…
… oh, frick …
Aaaand I’m now in the middle of my first tank-slapper/death wobble. My immediate reaction was, “Oh! Well this is new.”
Indeed, it was; I have never had this happen in my life. I’ve heard about it, I’ve seen videos, and I’ve never understood how, sometimes, when everything in the universe lines up like ducks, the bike recovers and behaves as if nothing has happened.
What Death Wobble?
Apt name, that: “Death Wobble.” It could also be called a “Sphincter Strengthening Wobble,” or an “Exactly how stupid do you feel right now because you cannot control your own damn motorcycle.”
Wobble.
As far as I know, the closest I have ever been to death (on a motorcycle, anyhow; the actual closest I’ve ever been to death involved something a lot less pleasant: A single-wide trailer, 54 wolves, and 2 dogs, but the short version is, “I am incredibly lucky.”) (that was too long a parenthetical diversion; let’s begin again.)
As far as I know, the closest I have ever been to death on a motorcycle involved an enormous, black Expedition, M-52, my 2012 Harley Super Glide Custom, and an inattentive person turning left from a side street off to the right. The short version is, because the Harley did not have anything resembling “performance brakes,” I wound up going down M-52, literally sideways (upright, mind you, but fully, 100% perpendicular to the wrong things – like the road stripes.)
You know how ice hockey players come to a stop? It was a lot like that, and to this day I have no idea why I didn’t high-side.
We started our slide step at about 70mph – had a mid-point of “Oh – this is how I die. Ok.” – and ended at about 50mph several seconds later. Probably two seconds, probably one, but it of course felt like about an hour and a half.
Yet somehow, my right foot and hand managed to let go of the brakes at precisely the right nanosecond, I fishtailed a few times, and all was well.
“Should I stop?” I wondered, concerned about the people behind me who probably also just had their lives flash before them while voiding their bladders. There seemed no point to stopping, though – I was fine, everyone was fine, I wasn’t freaking out, and I had a long-assed trip to Detroit ahead of me. I continued on my way.
Back to tonight.
I’ve written before how time slows down, allowing for excruciatingly detailed thoughts – entire conversations, really – to transpire in microseconds. On the 5, seventeen weeks have passed in my head over the last several seconds. I’ve had time to read the paper, do the crossword, soak in the hottub, and take an extended sabbatical in tropics. Solve the immediate problem at hand, though? Not so much.
Slam left: This is bad.
Slam right: Oh, this is REALLY bad…
Slam left: The guy behind me is totally freaking out.
Slam right: Ok, the front end needs to settle down.
Slam left: If I hit a brake, I’m toast.
Slam right: If I so much as move a muscle, I’m toast.
Slam left: Wish I had the GoPro on, shit.
Slam right: Any split-second now, I’m going to smack the pavement.
[And those moments, you guys – those moments when I was completely convinced I was going to wipe out and hard, those moments were precisely like those moments in dreams I’ve had where I knew with 100% certainty that I was going to die. Imminently (having just fallen into a frozen river in the remote Alaskan wilderness.)]
[It’s a serene but intense feeling – wanting to absorb every last detail of what’s happening right now, but also somehow surrendering to forces larger than I.]
Slam left: That’s not the real problem, of course.
Slam right: Deep breath.
Slam left: The real problem is not getting run over by any of these cages.
Slam right: And then, not sliding into the concrete barrier.
Slam left: I probably won’t DIE, of course, but I’m sure going to have a pretty awful few years here, I bet.
Slam right: Let’s dissect this, though, let’s actually try to fix what’s going on.
Slam left: So, when this happens in sand, we speed up, right? Let’s try that – just, the tiniest, teeniest, ittiest, bittiest, littlest bit – because doing much of anything right now will not end well. But if we add speed we will either high-side instantly or maybe calm ourselves. Throttle….
Slam right: Waiting…
Slam left: Still waiting…
Slam right: Nope, this isn’t working…
Slam left: Yeah, it’s not getting worse, but it’s not getting better.
Slam right: Ok, put your Physics Cap on, Ms. Darling.
Slam left: Absurdly, I notice my front fender doing this violent dance and once again wonder why the KTM designers made that angle so weird.
Slam right: If not sand, what about trailers?
I grew up in the Midwest, and I learned to drive on tractors and other farm implements. As a ranch hand on the alpaca ranch, there was a lot of towing of trailers and so forth.
When towing a trailer, a similar kind of speed wobble can happen and the trailer whips back and forth like a mofo, creating an incredibly dangerous situation for everyone around. One fixes this by very gradually reducing speed, using only the trailer brakes if braking is required.
This would also put more weight on the front wheel, which I think I need, but applying the right amount has got to be key, right? We don’t want to just DUMP a bunch of weight on there.
Oh the gentlest, most gradual reduction in throttle – a millimeter, perhaps two.
Slam left: Welp.
Slam right: So.
Slam left: I guess this is just going to happen.
Meanwhile, my body is of course automatically and subconsciously performing millions of tiny functions and corrections to keep this thing upright – 20-mumble years of street riding has managed to teach me a thing or two; a few reflexes have evolved.
Pilot friends from an eternity ago whispered, then screamed, into my ear: “Never stop flying the plane. Never stop flying the plane. Never stop flying the plane. NEVER STOP FLYING THE EFFING PLANE, ERIN!!!!”
Front wheel and rear wheel continue to be at literal odds with each other.
The Double-Take mirrors are blurs as they oscillate.
The plane is going to do what the plane is going to do at this point. I’m just along for the ride.
Physics did the heavy lifting, of course. All I had to do was not get in its way and keep hanging on. Unlike this fellow, who failed to hang on (he walks away, fear not:)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=as3lyruGObc&feature=youtu.be
Hark! With all the speed of a blossoming Puya raimondii, the wobble began to lessen.
70mph. Huh – maybe?
68mph: Holy crap, I think…. yes?
65mph: Everything is fine, as if nothing were ever wrong, no sign other than the collective exhalation of everyone in sight.
I see the abject terror on the face of the guy in the little white car behind me – the one who had moved over so I could merge, bless his heart. He probably thought he was about to see someone die, maybe even run me over, poor thing. I make an exaggerated show of wiping the sweat from my brow and flinging it to the side in a big “Phew, that was close! I’m fine, no really” gesture.
I glance in my mirror to see how much distance had passed during the wobble – whoa. It, uh, it really was quite a long time – perceived to be much longer, of course, but the actual seconds? Wow. 10? As I count through the memory, that seems about right.
After pondering a moment, I increase speed – just a bit. 70mph – slight wobbles begin, and nope, nope, nope, screw this. I look down and to the side of my front wheel as it spins, checking to see if anything looked cattywampus. All good.
68 is fine.
69, no problem.
70? Mmm, maybe you should reconsider oh ok you’re still going then and we’re at 71 you shouldn’t be here please go back. So I did.
I felt the knobbies on my front tire seeking and finding every stinking drunk line in Creation. This is never such a problem anywhere else; these tires are epic. I look more closely at the grooves and notice their complete lack of organization. Ah – there it is.
I swear the I heard the bike chuckle – like this casual, “Ha, j/k!” (That’s how we on the internet write “just kidding,” for Perry and my other Luddites.)
Then I’m pretty sure she farted and off we went to smoother pavements.
My luck, you guys, runs the gamut; but for the Big Ticket Items, incidents like this? Situations in which, incidentally (wow should that ever be implied, not written, but there it is, anyhow,) I all-too-often find myself because #erin, because #LanceCorporalChaos.
They always say, “Never ride faster than your guardian angel can fly.”
Thankfully, mine rides a fucking Ducati.