US 5: Unexpected Return to Washington

No coffee shops were open when I slipped out to the verandah on Tuesday morning; and it was way too early to be getting on the road. So, I settled for a quiet smoke as I watched the sky gradually lighten in the east. There was nothing to remotely suggest any unexpected return to Washington. The transition from the star-studded blackness of the night sky to pristine day brought to mind an old Cuthbertson poem: 

The Morning Star paled slowly,

the cross hung low to the sea,

and down the shadowy reaches the tide came swirling free.

The velvet purple blackness of the soft Australian night

waned in the grey awakening that heralded the light . . .

Well, this was Utah and there was no tide to swirl free. But, the stars did fade slowly; and, the velvet purple blackness did, indeed, wane in the grey awakening that heralded the light. By 6 am it was fully light even though the sun had not yet risen above the mountains. The motel office was, however, open so I wandered down to get a coffee.

A slow start

Because there was no particular urgency about getting on the road, I kicked back; savoured my coffee; awarded myself the luxury of another cigarette; and, listened to the little town gradually come to life. Although we wanted to get to Sturgis, the Rally was not scheduled to start for another week or so. Sturgis was on my agenda rather than Mel’s. He probably agreed to it because I was insistent and he’s a pretty decent bloke. That being said, it is one of those iconic events that every biker aspires to attend at least once. It was difficult to believe that 400,000+ bikers would congregate around a little town in South Dakota; I actually had to see for myself. 

By the time Mel emerged I’d wiped the dew, and a few bugs, off the bikes; no point in cruising on a road trip with a couple of dirty motorcycles. Mel stepped down to admire the two gleaming 100th Anniversary Harley Davidsons and took a few pictures. This turned out to be something of a regular routine with him. Each morning, and at various other times during the day, he would snap off a couple of shots of the bikes while reciting his mantra:

Can’t have too many pics of the Harleys, Mate.

Breakfast at the only place in town

Having made an appropriate record of our bikes, we headed up the road to the Galaxy Diner. Hatch’s Finest – well, Hatch’s only diner actually.

It turned out we were the diner’s only customers and so got all the attention. We had coffee to start with while Mel looked at the menu; a long black for me and a cappuccino, complete with granulated raw sugar, for Mel. 

Mel likes to study menus. He gives full and undivided attention to all the possibilities; and often enters into detailed discussion with wait-staff about the finer points of each menu item. At this stage of our road trip, I decided that a meal ordering protocol would be the way to go. Mel could review all the options and then make a well considered decision before placing his order. I, on the other hand, could simply say I’ll have what he’s having. Generally, this would save the chore of looking through the menu before making a decision; and Mel usually chose pretty good stuff anyway.

Bryce Canyon and beyond

Breakfast was brilliant, and I was beginning to understand why Americans were so keen on eating out at diners. Poached eggs on toast, mushrooms, tomatoes, sliced avocado and hash browns. A couple of very generously sized plates were full to overflowing when breakfast arrived. The waitress couldn’t understanding why we declined the pancakes and maple syrup. But we set her mind at rest by explaining that pancakes were not a usual part of an Australian breakfasts. Now, while it is true that tipping is a way of life in the US, we really didn’t mind; it seemed an entirely appropriate vote of thanks for excellent service.

During breakfast we decided on a ride plan for the day. We’d head out to Bryce Canyon and then continue on to Green River or thereabouts. We also decided to do what you can only do in some States of the US: ride helmet free. After getting back to our cabin, we loaded, checked out, and checked the fluids in our engines, primaries and gearboxes. Then, because we’d fuelled up the day before, we fired up the bikes and headed north east on US 89. At the junction with US 12, we turned right and pushed out towards Bryce Canyon.

Disturbing noises

Riding conditions were just about perfect and the scenery became more spectacular as we progressed. And this, all the more so, because we were now riding helmet free. But, I began to sense and occasionally hear sounds that I thought might be a harbinger of an impending mechanical problem. I’m often asked how it’s possible to hear a problem on a Harley when these motorcycles make such a racket; particularly as my Deuce was fitted with an aftermarket Vance and Hines exhaust system. 

Well, the answer is this: after riding for a while you develop a feel for the engine, suspension, frame and the way the motorcycle works as the sum total of a myriad parts operating together. There is the normal rumble and thump of the exhaust; the mechanical clicking of valve-lifters and push-rods; the whir of the primary chain; the muted roar of air as it is sucked through the filter; and, the low whine of tyres on the hot bitumen road surface.

Taken together, this can add up to quite a din. However, when you get used to it, you become sensitive to other sounds that are too risky to ignore. The clatter I heard every time I backed off the throttle was one of those sounds. Under acceleration, I heard nothing. But, at cruise or during deceleration, I could hear a distinct, hard, metallic clatter from the primary drive area. That being said, there was nothing yet to suggest an unexpected return to Washington

Running repairs . . . or maybe not

At the intersection with US 63 which would take us out to Bryce Canyon, there is a service centre and, immediately after turning right, we pulled into the centre forecourt for a break and something to eat.

‘Think I might have a problem, Mate,’ I said as we leaned the bikes on their stands and got off.

‘Really? What sort of problem?’ 

‘Bit of a clatter in the primary drive.’

‘Really? What do you want to do?’ he asked.

‘I’ll check the primary chain. If that’s too loose, it will slap against the primary case. And,if that’s what is causing the noise, it’ll be an easy fix. Why don’t you get something to eat while I take a look?’

I sat down in the dirt at the outer limit of the service centre’s forecourt; removed half-dozen torx bolts; and, pried the inspection cover free. Now, after running a big V-Twin for a couple of hours, it gets bloody hot. So, I used the torch function on my cell phone to peer into the black internals of the primary case. I poked and prodded at the primary chain with a screwdriver. The free-play was probably somewhere between one and two centimetres; well within service limits, so that was not the problem.

No spares . . . limited tools

With only a handful of tools and no gaskets or spares, there wasn’t a lot more I could do. So I reinstalled the old gasket, replaced the inspection cover and snugged-up the torx bolts. 

Most of what I know about the way engines work, I learned from our Dad. During the years between losing my family in a boat accident and finally going to school, I spent most waking hours with him. I was with him when he was navigating the seas north of New Guinea; when he renovated and re-built the mission houses we lived in; and, when he worked on the old Willys Jeep he’d acquired from the American War Surplus Depot. I didn’t think much about it back then but as the years passed, I began to realise what a privilege it had been; how much he had taught me – without actually teaching at all.

Dad would know what to do

On one occasion, I remember seeing Dad take a long-handled screwdriver and put the blade end low down near the front of a running engine. Then, he put his hand over the handle end and put his ear against the back of his hand.

‘What are you doing?’ I’d asked.

‘Checking to see if there is a problem with the big-end bearings,’ he said.

‘How can you tell by doing that?’

‘If there’s a problem with the big-end or main bearings, there will be a clunking sound. That sound will be transmitted through the crankshaft to the engine block. When I put the screwdriver hard against the engine block, the sound will travel up the length of the screwdriver. Then, if I put my ear to the top of the screwdriver, I can hear that sound.’

So, on the forecourt of a service station near Bryce Canyon, I placed my right hand over the end of my longest screwdriver; pressed the blade end against the primary case just above where the engine pulley would be; pressed my ear to the back of my hand; and, listened. Right there, clearly distinguishable against the heavy, uneven beat of my V-Twin motor, was an unmistakable metallic clattering sound. The probability was that I had a problem and that it would be something to do with the bearings or engine pulley.

So, what now?

Just at that point Mel rocked up with that smug, satisfied smile he gets on his face after a tasty meal.

‘Well, what do you reckon, Mate?’

‘Mate, there’s good news and bad news. The good news is that there’s no problem with the primary chain; it’s within normal operating limits. The bad news is that the noise is still there.’

‘So . . . what do you want to do?’

‘Not a lot I can do here . . . don’t have gaskets, parts or the right tools. I reckon we go on to Bryce – it’s just down the road anyway. I’ll keep listening to the bike on the way and try to work out if it’s getting worse,’ I said. I was determined to avoid an unexpected return to Washington

He nodded. 

Carrying on

We fired up, pulled out onto the road, and accelerated towards Bryce Canyon. I’m sure there must have been a great deal to see, but I was focussed on the sound from the primary drive case and saw very little until we pulled into the visitor car park just above Bryce Canyon. Mel walked over to where my bike leaned on its kickstand.

‘What do you think?’

‘The clatter’s still there, and I think it’s probably getting worse’.

‘OK . . . so what do you want to do?’ he asked with a concerned look on his face.

‘We’re here Mate. Let’s take a look around . . . I’ll think of something.’

So, we did take a look around; took countless photographs; and made a truck load of ‘Ooo’, ‘Ahh’ and ‘Wow’ type sounds. 

Bryce Canyon

Seriously, Bryce Canyon is an absolute smorgasbord of colour and erosion on a truly massive scale. My words fall way short in any attempt to even hint at what is there to see and experience. Even the photographs I’ve included here don’t really capture the atmosphere and immensity.

After we were done being over-awed by the Canyon and vistas that seemed to stretch in every direction, Mel took off to get us something to drink. I retreated to the shade and searched the net on my cell phone for the nearest Harley Davidson Dealership. The closest options seemed to be: Salt Lake City –  four or five hours away; Denver, Colorado – the best part of a day away; or, St George – about two and a half hours away. But, I just hate going backwards.

To backtrack or not . . . that is the question

St George seemed the best option. But going back would mean that we’d have burned up two days just to get back to where we’d started. In addition, the road we’d travelled was absolutely crammed with hard climbs, a myriad curves, countless switchbacks and painfully slow traffic; riding this road again would mean constantly accelerating, decelerating and working the motor hard. Not so good! 

When I got back to the Deuce, I found that a bloke in a Dodge Ram 3500 twin-cab had pulled into the space next to mine; and, was giving the Deuce close inspection.

‘Nice Ride,’ he said, as I approached.

Advice

‘Thank you . . . and yes, I think so. I’ve got a problem with it though – something in the front end of the primary drive. Would you know where the nearest Harley Davidson Dealer might  be?’

‘St George,’ he replied.

‘What would be the shortest way to get there?’

‘Go back out to US 89 and then head North until you come to US 20 on the left just after Panguitch. That will take you over the range and out to Interstate 15 South. It’s not much shorter than going through Zion, but it’s faster and easier.’

‘Thanks Mate. We’ll probably give that a go.’

‘Stay safe,’ he said as he climbed into the cab, fired up the big diesel, backed out and roared off in a cloud of dust and diesel smoke.

In due course, Mel arrived back with drinks in hand and we talked.

He agreed that Zion Harley Davidson would be the best option; and, that we should cut through the range to Interstate 15 South before heading back to St George. No, whining, no complaining, no carping about wasted days. Not even you really ought to have had your bike checked out before we started this trip. Of course, if he had said that, he’d have been absolutely right. I should have had the bike checked and serviced before starting the trip; as he had wisely done. All he said, though, was,  ‘OK Mate, let’s get on with it.’

It now seemed clear that there was no avoiding an unexpected return to Washington . . . if the Deuce lasted the distance.

Over the mountains

We polished off our drinks, climbed aboard our motorcycles, cranked them over and headed back towards US 12. After beating our way back the way we’d come on US 12 we arrived at the intersection with US 89 and turned north towards Panguitch. And, just north of Panguitch we found the intersection with US 20. Taking a left, we pushed out across the plain towards the mountain range in the distance.

The cool of the morning had long gone; replaced by the baking heat of the high desert and a dry, hot wind blowing from the south east. Mel was up front and setting the pace. I had my eyes on his back and the road, but my attention was almost exclusively on the motor. I focussed on trying to distinguish between the general noise of my bike and the sound that was probably an early warning of mechanical trouble. As we thundered across the flat land towards the line of mountains in the distance, the question for me was: how far ahead would this trouble be?

US 20

We rumbled out across the plain and into the foothills of the range; the barrier we had to hurdle before we could get onto Interstate 15 South. The climb became increasingly steep and my engine was working hard. On the upside, the clatter seemed to vanish when the engine was under load. The downside was that when we started to descend, the clattering noise would return and it would probably be worse.

After an uncomfortable, worrying, oppressively hot half hour of traversing the range, we arrived back on the flatland and, almost immediately passed a large sign indicating that the intersection with Interstate 15 was imminent. We rode under the overpass and turned left onto the on-ramp to Interstate 15 South.

Almost there . . . but not yet

We’d reached the south-bound freeway and, much to my relief, the Deuce was still running and pulling strongly. Not so comforting was the fact that it was still making that deep, metallic clattering noise. At this point, Interstate 15 South runs through flat land that is bordered by ranges of mountains on both the east and west. The hot dry wind blowing up the valley from the south seemed stronger; the ambient air temperature was clearly well above 100℉ [38℃]; and a smoke haze blurred the sharp edges of the mountains in the distance. 

Because we needed to find fuel, we took the off-ramp at Exit 62 towards Enoch and a large road service centre just off the freeway. Normally, we would have been pouring sweat but a combination of the hot dry wind and our speed into that wind meant that sweat evaporated just about as quickly as it appeared. We did need to fuel the motorcycles but we urgently needed to slake our thirst.

‘How’s the bike running?’ Mel queried as soon as we’d shut down and it was quiet enough to hear.

‘Running well, Mate . . . but the noise is still there and I’m pretty sure it’s been getting louder.’

‘Do you reckon it’ll last the distance?’

‘Who knows Mate?’ But there aren’t many options. I guess we’ll either make it, or die trying – so to speak.’

Suddenly, I was a lot less worried about the unexpected return to Washington than I was about not getting there.

Interstate 15 South

A positive was that we were now on Interstate 15 where traffic pounded the pavement going North and South. On our travels through the Canyonlands, traffic on US 9, 89, 12 and 20 had been low – other than RVs – and there would have been very few options available for service or mechanical assistance if the Deuce decided to quit on me. Anyhow, against the odds, we were now on Interstate 15 and about forty-five minutes out of St George.

We fired up again, joined the traffic heading east on US 130, and then peeled off towards the right-hand on-ramp for Interstate 15 South. As we accelerated and merged with the stream of traffic, I realised that to this point I had been lucky. We were close, but this didn’t put to rest the worry that my bike might quit before we got back to the Harley Dealership.

Zion Harley Davidson, Washington, UT

That forty-five minutes was one of the longest I’d lived through in many years, but my bike did hold together and did stay the course. And, at a little after 4pm, we pulled into the forecourt of Zion Harley Davidson in Washington, Utah.

At the Service Reception Desk we met Richard, Zion Harley Davidson’s Service Manager. We introduced ourselves; told him that we were two Australian old blokes right at the beginning of a couple of months worth of road trip. I outlined what I thought might be the problem, and asked if there was any chance at all of having one of the techs sort things for me. Richard said that the Service Appointment Log was completely full, but also said that he would take a look provided I could leave the Deuce with him right away.

A great place to stay

I thanked him profusely and handed him the keys and fob. Then, I hauled off my T-Bag and, while Mel rode, I walked to the Holiday Inn just up the road. I sorted bookings for two nights; and then quietly thanked the universe that the Deuce had held together for the three hours ride back to St George. Well . . . Washington actually.

I had no real idea what Richard might find; or, how much it might cost to resolve whatever the problem was. But, there was not a lot to be gained from worrying about it. So we dumped our bags, cranked up the air conditioning, grabbed a couple of cokes from the bar fridge and kicked back. 

Just a thought . . .

Ignoring a problem doesn’t solve anything.

Sometimes, if you want to move forward,

you just have to go back, bite the bullet, and fix it.

Click to continue reading: US 6 Fault Repair and Slowing Down