Broken Axel, Flat Tire and the New America
Posted on 25. Nov, 2011 by admin in Gypsy Bikers
by Michelle Hope
This is my sixth year, technically homeless, living off my motorcycle and this year my son James decided he wanted to join me. He conscientiously purchased his first cruiser, an ‘86 Honda Magna, and hauled-ass to the 2011 Sturgis motorcycle rally where he began his travels with me to see if he would like living this far-out freaky lifestyle that I so avidly treasure.
Of course I wanted to take him to every beautiful place I have ever been in just a few short weeks. But alas, the triumphant practicality opted for a ride through Wyoming and Utah.
Still being somewhat of a rookie to all this biker shit, I don’t always make the right choices in times of perceived need. So after crossing the line into Utah, I indeed made one of those blunders. I pulled off the road to allow the car that was riding James’ ass to pass. Well, uh, James didn’t have time to break on pavement, as the car was bearing down on him, so he went sliding (upright) behind me in the dirt I pulled into, coming to a stop down a small embankment (oops, sorry James). Everything being ok, James rode the bike back up to the road and on we went, with instruction that if I make a stupid move again, don’t follow! Stopping at a store up the road, we met a few riders on a drizzly poker run as an ambulance flew by, sirens blaring. Both James and a fellow rider acknowledged, “That’s not good”. Playfully, I jested, “It is probably going for James”.
Drizzling, but not yet too wet to ride we headed up the road. When the clouds began their downpour at the Flaming Gorge Dam we pulled into the parking lot, presumably to put on some gear. Soaking wet did not at all sound appealing so I told James to pull his bike next to mine so I could throw my large tarp over both of us, seconds later, it began to hail – perfect timing! The rain diminished and a nearby sheriff took that opportunity to come over and ask a question. He was also quite impressed with my weather sense, albeit lucky timing. He wanted to know if we saw a motorcycle go down up the road. Um… it turns out that ambulance was looking for James. We laughed and stayed a bit longer under the tarp, you see sometimes you just wait… It hailed some more…
Teaching my son the ropes of road-life not only entails how to find a place to sleep, shower resources, and how to optimize your Zen with a road atlas, but also when NOT to ride. Sometimes it is just time to sit.
We instinctively knew when it was time to go, and traveled in dry comfort to the town of Vernal where we camped for the night.
We had a lot of fun; there were great views, good camping, funny mishaps, and wonderful company but I want to tell the story that inspired the title.
About 25 miles south of Hanksville, Utah I began to feel a wobble in my front end, in seconds it was apparent that I was in the midst of a rapid loss of inner-tube pressure, emulating that ever dreaded blow-out – from wobble to near 
panic in microseconds. Because of my exposure to people who ride, I had heard that in this situation it is best to let the bike stop on its own accord, no brakes. I was expecting that maybe I would hit pavement toward the end, I also heard that happens. But my angels where with me and I managed to keep the shiny side up, so to speak.
A small nail was the culprit. It was soon decided that James would ride back to the last town, get the green slime and a way to pump up the tire. I amiably bid him adieu.
So there I was, a girl with a broken motorcycle, 25 miles from the nearest one-horse town, in the middle of the Utah desert, in the middle of summer, in the middle of the day. Thermally challenged to say the least.
Many cars passed by without even slowing down to see if I was ok. I thought about the guy we helped on the highway the day before and was glad that I had the mind to stop and lend a hand. But what was going on here today, on this lonely highway in the heat of the desert’s afternoon summer sun?
James had noticed a couple of trees across the highway before he left and suggested I go there. The shade was far enough away from the road that I would feel comfortable about Two-Lane’s safety, so I picked up my little dog and crossed the highway. As I approached the trees I noticed a strange sign on one of them. It wasn’t a no-trespassing sign; after all, there really was nothing to trespass out here, it was something different. Curiosity commanded it be read.
There on this tree, somewhere in the midst of the desert, unbeknownst to all (except the one who put it there) was the story of a family that passed this way in 1937, complete with pictures!
“October 1937
Frank, Ethel and 5 year old Mike Barrett were stranded here when their Dodge car broke an axel. This was their camp site at this same tree with the same rocks. One day a visiting cowboy gave Mike a ride on his horse, but it took 6 days before the Chaffin’s car, the first car to come, arrived.
“They had fun. They killed a rattlesnake”
So there I was, this random spot where my tire blew, cars zipping past me at hassled modern speeds, rushing to their next objective, while 100 feet away was a story of a family who camped for 6 days waiting for help. Back in that time the road barely even existed, if at all.
With contemplation I returned to my current quandary across the highway, all 
my possessions weighing down on a bike with no air in the back tire.
James returned with the green slime, but no way to inflate the tire, so he soon departed again to the next town ahead of us, however far that was. It was at this time that a kind man stopped to help the damsel in distress. Finally…
He had air but the tube wasn’t holdin’ any of it, so it was time to take off the back tire. Well it seems that the manufacturers of my wonderful little Suzuki Boulevard forgot to add a center-stand to its design. So what does a person do if they have a flat tire in the middle of the desert?
My new friend Mark had an idea, he took a small square of plywood out of his SUV, found a strong enough piece of some kind of tree branch, and with that we began to raise the bike, well that and some local rocks. He would pry up one side and I would stuff rocks under the wood, to the other side, back and forth till we got that back wheel off the ground. Whew!
At about this time James came back to a couple of hot diehards trying to get a
wheel off a stone-jacked bike. It seems that the designers of that beloved Suzuki didn’t want us using a socket to take off the bolt, as the exhaust pipes wouldn’t permit it. If only I had a 22 mm wrench, that would have fit (I have one now). Anyway, whoever tightened that tire’s axel bolt last time put it on really tight and it actually broke my heavy-duty ratchet. Now what?!
…I told James and Mark about the sign on the tree.
For the first time in my 5 full years on the road I gave in to pay a tow-truck. The driver was a local in Hanksville since the late 1960’s, whose wife worked for the Bureau of Land Management. I told him about the sign on the tree and even he didn’t know about it. He, in turn, shared with us about road conditions in 1937, lack of road more accurately; it was the time of the Uranium rush and most people traveled by creek-bed. The roads came later.
What a wonderfully rich experience we shared, as we were privy to this 
delicious morsel of history, a story possibly told for years, finally becoming a homemade waterproof sign on a tree in the middle of the desert to commemorate, perhaps, a life-changing event that occurred around today’s 25-mile marker of highway 95, south of Hanksville, Utah.
I went to sleep that night, next to the station where my bike landed, in their planning-hopefully-soon-to-be-if all goes well-campground, thinking of the difference between those 1937 travelers and travelers of today. Wondering if all this technology is actually an 
improvement or a distraction. How I take good roads for granted. And, how that family of adventurers waited for the next car, and that car rescued them. What a tale to tell for them all. Whereas, I witnessed many (in my mind) blazing their course, rushing through the journey to their destination, missing the opportunity to momentarily relinquish that haste – for a story of a family in 1937 that broke an axel on their dodge and camped in that very same desert under those very trees for 6 days.
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