When all else fails, hold on.

Eyes opened to greet the onslaught of experience
Ears focused carefully to the tune of cylinders
Limbs playing the instrument of my design
Mind composing reality.
Heart beating for more.   

~Jaeson Cardiff


It came time to return home. We had traveled just over 2000 kilometers through landscapes that words alone will never do justice. We started out as a group of like minded individuals with a common interest, and left as friends you could sit and share a pint with; recounting many years from now the journey we shared. Certainly some of us will lend ourselves to creative liberty when we tell others of the sights and experiences.

Mike Harrison had left the day before to allow for a more leisurely trip north. We would meet up with him back at McCall Lake.

The route back to McCall was changed slightly as to avoid the traffic through Twin Falls. A wise choice for the continued scenery. I passed through one portion of the highway that had sprouted continuous sections of gushing water from sheer rocky cliffs. I've never witnessed springs flow with such force. Of course, I had to stop and video the scenery. Back into the vehicle, back to heading home.

I arrived an hour or so behind the rest of the crew. I found them all relaxing next to the lake. If ever I needed to find a moment of peace, or perhaps a glimpse of solace, I could very well find it here. Idahos best kept secret. Good natured people, clean air, cool water, trees stretching, and simplicity. One of the locals admitted to me that there was abundant crime, drugs and gang violence everywhere, followed with a smile. A story told to outsiders to prevent others from moving here. I knew all too well what that was like to lose a place to popularity. Windermere is such a place. Once a place for the blue collar, gradually giving way to the wealthy and the privileged. Yes, it's a sore spot with me.

We stayed the night at the same hotel we had arrived at a few days prior and once again, the next morning, the usual; with one exception. It was my turn to ride. The remainder of the return trip I would spend with only two wheels beneath me. I would drink deep the scenery of the wilderness and wild places we meandered through.

I left McCall with my father on his Virago beside me. A moment I won't soon forget. My father and I had a rocky past and it took many years and much maturity to arrive with most of the fences mended. The last proverbial board was fastened in place on this day. A poetic moment between a father and his son. I hope that I can one day share this moment with my own son, although I'm quite certain it will bear different meaning.

We arrived in Lewiston several hours later for lunch. My grandparents lived here for many years. My grandfather worked at the pulp mill till he retired back in the 80s. I must admit, I was surprised to be back here. After he died several years ago and we attended his funeral, (I might add with military honors as he served his country in World War 2.) I had concluded that I would never return here. Goes to show, you never know where you'll end up.

My father mentioned during our lunch that we should travel up the Old Spiral highway north of Lewiston. I was game and thought I would pull the Cafe off of the trailer and ride it through the course a time or two. For those not in the "know", the Old Spiral is an amazing stretch of road that anyone with a motorbike should travel (preferably at a speed beyond the recommended limit) at least once in your life. The highway travels six miles, has 64 turns and a drop in elevation of just over 4000 feet. With both our helmet cameras rolling, we filmed the most technical stretch of road I've ever been on.




Once we had finished with running the highway, rather than loading the Cafe back onto the trailer, I though I would simply continue on the bike for as long as I could. I made it as far as Fernie. Here, just outside of town, fate threw a pair of dice and thanks to what ever deity you want to believe in, I was spared from a very dramatic and entirely likely fatal accident.

I drove as far as Sandpoint on the second last day without incident. Riding the Cafe that my father and I built together with his Virago was also a very meaningful section of the trip. Dad had wanted a Virago since we started building bikes. Now with his dream bike and I with mine, it was as if the universe felt like everything was in it's place. Never tempt fate.

Just outside of Fernie is a little cafe called the Geoffrey Cafe. I had pulled ahead of everyone and was riding alone for a spell. I wanted to see how the engine would react in the mountain air. I was only pushing 120 to 130 kph. Just as I started to pass the cafe, 20 to 30 bikes pulled out in front of me and continued to pull out behind me. The next thing I knew, I was in the midst of the Hells Angels. I'm pretty sure that they didn't know I was in their midst. Strange as it sounds I think it took them ten minutes to realize I wasn't supposed to be their. They passed me and a few of them made gestures indicating I needed to get to the back of the pack. No problem. Not about to start anything I know would end against my favour.

No sooner had the last Angel past me when out of the blue, my rear brake assembly blew apart and locked up the rear tire. I went from going 130 kph to 0 kph in 50 feet. I skidded all over the road trying to keep my arse on the bike and keep the rubber side down. I brought the bike to the side of the road. I didn't move. I just stood there on my bike watching the Hells Angels carry on down the road. I was calm and seemingly unaffected by what had occurred. Jim pulled up behind me a few moments later. We loaded up the Cafe onto the trailer and off loaded his XJ750. When you get bucked off a horse, you get back on and keep riding.

It wasn't until a few days later that it all sunk in. Had my tire locked up ten minuted earlier, I would have knocked several Hells Angels off of their bikes and caused a major accident. If the crash didn't kill me, several angry bikers likely would have. Ten minutes. The difference between "Honey, I'm home" and "I'm sorry to report..."

I've been thanking the powers that be since then.

The trip home after that was mild and uneventful. As we carried on through our return home, the "Bums" gradually went in different directions. Brian and Richard left us in Lewiston to carry on the the west coast, John left us in Sandpoint  as he needed to get back to Utah to pick up an RV, Geoff left us at the U.S. border to travel back to his home up near Edmonton, and Mike left us in Black Diamond to take a different route home. My father, Jim and I arrived back in Okotoks around 10 p.m.

I arrived back home, dishevlled, tired and numb at around 11:00.

The Cafe stayed on the trailer and I didn't leave the house for two days.

What was Bums to Bonneville about? I'm still trying to figure that out. It was more than just a trip I think. It was an affirmation of sorts of what make us tick. A lesson in whats possible when you apply yourself and an exercise in pushing limits.

Thanks for riding with me. I'll see you all down the road somewhere.

Jaeson