The Tribe MC of Seattle

As reported by our Sofer Ned Porges 

“OK, you’re home and so glad you called me. From Arlington, was it? You took shelter from hail the size of marbles, ran out of gas in the mountains, detained at the border, and say this was the best time ever? Last time you were blown off the road and came home with a fever and that was the best. I still don’t get it. So, start at the beginning.”

We met at the usual place, Starbucks in Bellevue at 9:00 AM.  Friday. I was ready the night before, gassed up, and there at nine sharp. Neil says he was up and ready at six. The weather promises to be clear for the next few days. Despite the positive outlook, I have my newly acquired rain gear tucked away in the Givi, thanks to Clive. Had a toasted bagel, on both sides of course, hit the rest room twice to be sure, introduced to guest rider Tad, and hit the road at 9:30 sharp, my very civilized Honda Pacific Coast behind four Harleys and two Suzuki Boulevards; the start of the greatest ride ever.

Seventy-five miles later we get off the I-5 slab and had north. We decide to not detour to see the Grand Coulee Dam and continue north. A quick stop in the 1960s Bavarianized Leavenworth for a break. Neil and Ned, senior citizens they are, head for the nearest rest room. Too touristy so we ride another ten miles and stop at a real guys bar-for lunch. Great stand up, life sized, girly Budweiser posters. Next stop at Ned’s suggestion is Suicide Hill in Omak, home of the annual Colville Tribe downhill horse race. Later, a stop at a Harley dealership, for who knows what. Rather than stand around looking at drooling hog lovers, Ned heads for the local grocery to stock up for Shabbat.

We cross into Canada and head for the Best Western Osoyoos. Bikes are lined up under the portico, we are under cover for the night. Lucky Ned gets the single room and announces a meeting at 7:30 in his “executive suite.” Laid upon the table are two candles, two bottles of wine, a fresh round bread loaf, and cups. Clive says, where are the yarmulkes? Hats appear, and the brucha begins with gusto, Ron in full voice. We break bread, pour the wine and feel good. Tad asks if that was a Jewish drinking song. Doug explains this is a religious ceremony. Tad says, “I like this religion.” We walk a couple blocks to an Italian, nee Chinese, nee something else, restaurant. Hostess says no, we’re closed. Owner sees seven hungry bikers,”…of course, come on in.” We dine well.

Day two, bright sunshine, dry and warm. Wonderful feeling. Beautiful lakes, mountains, rock formations, twisties. Temperatures drop as we climb to 4000 feet elevation. Sign says last gas for 125 km, (75 miles.) First to run dry is Clive, then Ron. It’s fourteen miles to Merritt and $20 for a plastic gas jug.  Jeff Kay straps the jug to his KSHRHOG and goes back up the highway to our stranded companions. Meanwhile, back in town, we convene at a local, colorful bar where a tattooed, pierced, attractive female youth implores us to enter the calf-roping contest outside. Neil almost succumbs except for the entry fee. The local cowboy-hatted winner has a red hot iron and brands a wood post inside, near our table. Smoldering wood permeates.

Next stop is Harrison Hot Springs. What a pleasant surprise. Elegance, grace. Copper clad grand piano in the lobby, valet parking. Ned calls for another meeting in the “executive suite.” Doug proposes a toast and cracks open a single malt scotch. Ned produces a six-pack of iced, hard apple cider. Then it’s off to the hot, and hotter pools. White robes are hanging in each closet. Seven grown men, laughing, talking loud, soaking away worldly cares and thinking dinner. Dry off, walk in the drizzle to the local watering hole and down dinner with two pitchers of beer. Another memorable day.

Day three. Thanks Tad for drying off the bikes. We load up and hit the road at 11:30 with low dark clouds overhead. Lunch stop at Mission, B.C. A tall young proselytizing man wearing a long overcoat demands to know if we are hell or heaven bound. Clive wonders what all the religious stores are about, Mission this and Mission that. Doug explains the town is named Mission. Now we’re paralleling the border on a freeway heading for another Harley dealer. Place looks more like a boutique with everything emblazoned with various H-D logos, kids clothing, mugs, greeting cards, and…oh yes, a few motorcycles. Intermittent rain. The new rain suit is great, warm and dry. A few more miles to the border crossing. A stop at the duty-free and then in line. Customs officers decide that Ned needs to be privately questioned in the detention area. Twenty minutes later he comes out, puzzled, but grateful that Ron is waving a fistful of bail money.

Unbelievable rain, sheets, low visibility, pull over onto the I-5 freeway shoulder. There is a committee meeting deciding what to do next. We head for the nearest exit and a Shell station just south of Arlington. We take refuge in the convenience store and pour hot chocolates. Then, a deluge of marble sized hail drops from the skies. We have to shout to be heard as the hail pelts the metal roof. The rain stops, skies clear and we continue south into sunshine. At the 405/5 split, we grin and wave good-bys.

Where do we go next? Some people just get it, and some don’t.