Hurricane Mountain Road

The Dream

A small tent, some extra clothes, a pocket full of cash; that and a trusty two-wheeler is all that is needed for realizing an adventure. Ask any motorcycle enthusiast if he or she has ever dreamed of traveling the land, free from the worries and responsibilities of ordinary day-to-day life, free to go where ever the wind would take them. I'm sure you can guess what their answer would be.

It was 1971, and I was a typical fifteen-year-old teenager enjoying a summer break from the scholastic drudgery we were all expected to endure. I spent much of my free time riding my little Honda 65 with my friends in the fields surrounding my suburban home just north of Montreal. We all had bikes, and we all rode them regularly, including on our neighborhood roads, though only a few of us at the time had licenses to make it legal. My friends and I all dreamed of breaking loose and searching for real excitement, the movie Easy Rider still fresh in our minds.

I'm not sure how it came about, but one day my friend Ken enlightened me with the news that he was planning a road trip to Boston. He and another friend, Oliver, or Ollie as we all called him, had decided to live the biker's dream. They were going to load up their bikes with basic traveling necessities and then explore the back roads that lead from our "oh so familiar" habitat to the big American city, and they were going to do it over a period of one week. I was not only impressed, I was jealous. I wanted to join them real bad, but I knew that the odds were very high that unlike them, I wouldn't get very far without a driver's license. I probably wouldn't even make it across the border.

The early seventies must have been a very different era from today. Today, I would have a serious issues granting permission for either my son or daughter to wander off on their own out of the city, much less the country. Even if they could convince me that it would be safe and organized wherever they were planning to go, they would still have to check in with me regularly on their cell phones. Ken's and Ollie's parents on the other hand were wholly confident in their sons responsible nature, and felt that the boys (aged 16 and 17) were mature enough to be trusted on their own. Were they ever naïve!

With nothing to lose, I presented my case for joining my friends to my parents, and unbelievably, after only a relatively short deliberation, I had their permission. Cool, man! It looked like I was going on a road trip after all. 

The Bikes

These days, typical engine displacements for motorcycles seem to grow with each new model year (witness Triumph's 2004 Rocket III at 2.3 liters). What were once considered behemoths at 1000cc are now frequently thought of as entry-level bikes. Which begs the question, what category would Ken's Kawasaki 90 and Ollie's Yamaha 80 Trailmaster fall into? It is amusing to read, for example, the long internet forum discussions on the suitability of the Harley-Davidson's 883 as a touring motorcycle when bikes half that size (or less) have successfully been used for just that purpose for decades. How times have changed!

A close fascimile of Ollie's bike from the net.

So there we were preparing to embark on a voyage that would take us close to 1000 miles before its completion on a couple of bikes not much bigger than mopeds. Ollie's bike was a well-worn trail bike, shod with universal tires and gearing better tailored for off-roading. Ken's bike, though not much bigger, was at least a street model. I found a review by Cycle World that described the little single cylinder two-stroke as having 10.5 bhp, and a top speed of 70 mph. They also recorded a 20.34 second pass in the quarter mile with a trap speed of 60 mph. While no speed demon, these figures were very impressive for the time.

Our gear consisted of inexpensive sleeping bags, a ratty three man pup tent, a basic tool kit, spare plugs, and a couple of bottles of injector oil. We also packed a few grocery items, and we each had a compact mess kit that we would use for our meals. Everything fit into two large green army surplus duffel bags that were bungeed on each of the bike's carriers. Ollie would carry the tent, as his bike would have more room. I would ride with Ken as his passenger.

None of us was rich and if I remember correctly, we had less than $300 between us. Ultimately it would prove to be not enough, but at the outset we figured we had plenty. Credit cards? Never heard of them.