Jake Stangel
This is a disaster. Just a few hours into a three-day motorcycle ride through the unpaved wilds of Washington's Cascade Mountains, I've already dropped the bike several times. I'm beat up; my hair is matted with sweat. My wool base layers are wet-stuck to my skin. My confidence is brittle as burnt paper.
On a motorcycle, confidence is a small target that you need to hit squarely. Get too cocky, overcook a turn, and you're a flower-covered cross on the side of a highway. But if you ride timid, your lack of speed could put you at risk of wiping out; the faster the wheels are turning under you, the more gyroscopic stability they provide.
THE ROAD GETS BAD, BUT IN THE BEST WAY— MUDDY, NARROW, RUTS YOU COULD USE AS A KOI POND.
I'm doing that second thing: crawling too slowly over a rutted and rock-pocked moonscape. I'm supposed to be testing my own ability to step away from the civilized world, trying out the best equipment for eating, sleeping, and riding under the unobstructed sky. Instead, I'm spending way too much time looking up at the sky from underneath nearly 500 pounds of Kawasaki.
The problem, I'm guessing, is that I've strapped about 50 pounds of clothes and camping gear to the back of the bike, about a mile above my center of gravity. I'm riding the 2014 edition of the KLR650, a venerable model dating back to 1987. The KLR is the french fry of motorcycles: You can find one (and someone to fix it) anywhere from California to the Central African Republic. Its terrain-eating suspension and centrally mounted engine are designed to deliver the balance and clearance you need to go miles beyond the end of your comfort zone.
Unfortunately, the KLR's seat is 35 inches off the ground; my jeans have a 30-inch inseam. I don't so much sit on the bike as perch atop it like the kid in The NeverEnding Story riding the luck dragon. Only, the KLR doesn't kneel down gently to let me off. It just kind of tips over.
Jake Stangel
The first time I dumped the bike, it pinned my leg to the ground; if not for a pair of armored Alpinestars boots, my trip probably would have ended right there with a broken foot. It's not like I'm some first-timer. I started riding in college and have experience everywhere from the race track to rush hour. But I don't have much history off-road; riding on dirt is completely different from pavement. And because the bike is so tall, I can't get my feet on the ground to stop it if it starts tipping. This thought is in my head as the KLR slips out from under me again around a corner atop a steep slope of grass-covered rock. The only thing stopping me from stuffing a grenade under the bike and walking to the nearest bar is my lack of a grenade.
But if the problem is my center of gravity, I can do something about it. Choosing to think of it as an improvisation instead of a defeat, I unload the bags, set up a base camp, and saddle up again to explore the vicinity.
Free of its load, the KLR is still a beast, but I can handle it better. Now, if the bike starts to shift, I can recover from the wobble. Riding has begun to look feasible, but I'm still making mistakes. I'm shattered from the morning's dose of catastrophe, and I just want the day to be over. I point the KLR toward the campsite.
Jake Stangel
My tent, in contrast to the bike, is cooperative. Also it has a garage. Made by a mom-and-pop shop called Redverz, it sleeps two (technically three, but don't even) and has a ride-in vestibule to keep your bike sheltered from the elements. Sometimes, like when you're ducking a sandstorm while riding in the Paris-Dakar Rally, shelter for your gear as well as yourself can be important. On a clear weekend in the Washington mountains it is, I'll admit, a little overkillish.
The tent is great, but its instructions are laughable. One of the steps is basically “Put the poles in their corresponding sleeves,” but the single laminated page gives no indication of what corresponds to what. (I realize later that there is some half-assed color coding at play.) The tent also comes with stakes, so I put them in the ground, even though the instruction sheet doesn't mention them. Half an hour later I've got shelter. I wheel the bike in, start a fire (outside), change into sweatpants, rock back in my camp chair, and open a beer.
The cold of the morning on my nose—about the only thing peeking out of my down mummy bag—wakes me. It's still dark out, so I flick on my little Black Diamond LED lamp and dress without leaving the bag. (Put the next day's clothes in your sleeping bag at night and they're warm when you get up in the morning.)
Between my wool base layers and the insulated Rev'it riding getup, I'm cozy. Leaving my gear at the campsite, I get an early start and ride up a logging road that's supposed to have some challenging terrain. It gets bad, in the best way: muddy, barely 6 feet wide, ruts so deep you could use one as a koi pond.
The Redverz Expedition tent is so motorcycle-centric that it has a built-in garage to shelter your bike and gear. Jake Stangel
I ride it a few times, forcing myself to be light on the bars, to let the front tire follow the terrain, to steer with my knees rather than my arms. Speeding up, I aim for a sharp crest I previously avoided. I roll on the throttle to transfer weight to the rear wheel and hit hard. I clear it, only to realize that there's a bigger rock on the other side. Gravity and momentum pitching in, I hit that one even faster, and I feel the bike leave the ground. I touch down, tip to the right, throw my weight left, ride it out, and then skid my rear tire to a stop. This is what you call a turning point.
By the third morning, the bike feels dialed in. The air is cold on the patch of neck my suit and helmet leave exposed. I ride paved roads from mountain to mountain, and the bike is happy on the blacktop: dancing through the tar-snakes on the farm-lined back roads. Off-road, headed up a rock-and-mud slope, I push maybe a little too hard and almost lose it a few times. Almost.
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