Hurricane Mountain Road

Things Get Real Interesting

We were about 20 miles outside of Boston and the day was getting late. We were tired and hungry, and ready to give our sore butts a break. As had been typical since we left home, Ken and I were in the lead and scouting both sides of the road for a place to stop for the night. Suddenly I felt a glancing blow off my left arm, and before I could even react, I saw Ollie ricochet off our bike to do a lazy half turn in front of us before going down hard. Ken had taken the brunt of the impact between the two bikes, but managed to keep his upright. We quickly stopped and rushed to help Ollie. Thankfully he was up (and still in one piece) just as we got to him, and we all lifted up his bike together and surveyed the damage. We could all obviously see that the Trailmaster had taken a major beating. Lights were broken, levers had snapped, and the front end was severely twisted. A dozen or more kicks had brought the engine back to life, so at least that gave us hope that we were not stranded in a foreign country.

While deciding on what to do next, we determined the cause for the accident. The Kawasaki's battery had died sometime earlier unbeknownst to us, and though the bike ran fine on its magneto ignition, at low rpm's it did not produce enough voltage to power the lights properly. As Ken had applied the brakes to slow down for a possible camping location, the brake light had become dimmer instead of brighter. In the waning evening light, Ollie's weary eyes had no chance in registering Ken's reduction of speed, and he had simply plowed into us.

But luck had not left us completely that day, for someone had witnessed the incident while it happened. That someone had run from her home to see if we were all right and then after hearing our woeful story, invited us to camp in her backyard. We awkwardly pushed Ollie's bike to the side of her house thanks to the twisted forks, and unloaded our gear. By the time we were finished setting up the tent, darkness had fully descended upon us. Our gracious host must have felt really sorry for us, for she came out to check on us and then invited us in for a meal in her kitchen. We had been roughing it for about four or five days to that point, so the luxury of sitting at a table and being fed something other than that which came out of a can was truly heaven.

We spent many hours talking at the table and shared many stories with her. We also received some useful advice in return. We learned that Boston wasn't the greatest, or safest place to visit, and that we were better off visiting other attractions in the surrounding area. In fact, we were told about a drag strip not too far away that interested us greatly. None of us had ever been to a drag race, much less one of the caliber that she said this one was. By the time we retired to our tent around midnight, it was decided. The heck with Boston, we were off to the races.

Off to the Drags

After a good night's sleep, we had our bikes repacked and ready to go. Both Ken and Ollie were rather stiff and bruised from the collision, plus Ollie also had to contend with numerous cuts and abrasions. As for the Yamaha, we pulled and tugged on its front end in an effort to return it into some form of alignment. We finally got it so that the handlebars only pointed 30 degrees or so off centre. Not great, but rideable. With our final thank you and good-byes taken care of, we were back in the wind.

We sat on the hill in the background of this photo I found from around the same time we were there.

Sometime later we pulled into the drag strip grounds. I believe that this was the New England Dragway in New Hampshire based on a search I recently did on the Internet. I'm a little foggy about whether we arrived there a day early for the races and camped there overnight, or if we had gotten there early on race day before the gates were officially opened. In any case, we had most of the place to ourselves for a very long time. While waiting for the action to begin, we understandably tried to keep ourselves low profile because of our illegal entry. We established ourselves on a hill that overlooked the entire track and gave us a terrific view, especially of the finish line.

Eventually "paying" racing enthusiasts started to stream in and fill the spectator stands and our chosen spot on the hill. With race time fast approaching, we noticed the track's security personnel wandering amongst the crowds. We must have looked very guilty, or like foreigners, because they zeroed in on us almost immediately and asked to see our tickets. We were caught!

The official that had confronted us gave us two options; leave the premises, or buy two tickets and he would let us off for the third. After spending so much time waiting for the races to begin, not to mention to lose out on such a big event, was just too painful to consider, so we took him up on his offer and bought the tickets. In retrospect, that official had been more than decent to us.

This unexpected expense would prove to be a greater burden than we could handle later on, but for the sheer entertainment value, it was easily worth every cent. I remember sitting on that hill in awe as the funny cars thundered down the track, the ground beneath me shaking like it was alive. The power and noise of those machines reverberated within my very core. Nothing I've experienced since has ever come close to that day.