The Breaking Point

© Ken Bingenheimer

Three weeks before the OFMC planned to head out for our yearly trip, the guy in the bike shop guaranteed me he’d have the work done on my Honda CB750 Custom in plenty of time. Long story short, he lied.

The appointed Friday arrived and John and Bill did what they had to do: They left without me. The shop was finally promising they would have my bike ready late on Monday, and the plan was for me to meet up with the others at the campground at the North Rim of the Grand Canyon on Wednesday.

Tuesday morning I headed out and it didn’t take long for me to discover the shop had neglected to put one of my highway pegs back on. When you’re riding long distances you’ve got to have different positions for your feet or the ride gets uncomfortable a lot faster. So now I’m hating those guys even more.

A long day’s ride took me to Durango, where I spent the night with friends. Mentioning the peg, one of the friends quickly pulled out a length of stout aluminum tubing and some duct tape and jerry-rigged me a replacement. At least that was taken care of.

Still, I simmered. I had missed out on four great days of riding with my buddies needlessly. All the guy at the shop needed to have done was tell me they wouldn’t have the bike ready in time and I would have brought it back in for the work after the trip. But no, they waited to even start on the job until two weeks after they should have had it finished.

The next day it was another long ride to the North Rim. Inquiring with the ranger at the gate, he was no help in finding the other guys, but the ranger who had just ended his shift happened by and knew exactly where John and Bill were camped. I went on in, found their site, set up my tent, and went to look for them.

I checked the most obvious spot, the parking lot for the lodge on the canyon rim. Their bikes weren’t there. Where would I go at sunset if I were them? Well, there is a viewpoint 22 miles down a windy road, out to some point. I figured I’d go there.

All the way out I went, the light fading rapidly. No, they weren’t there either. Turn around and head back.

I’d only gone a short distance when the bike began to sputter. I coaxed it along a bit more and then it died completely. I was 20 miles from anywhere, it was getting dark, and I was on a dead-end road. And I was stuck. Standing beside the bike it all overpowered me and I pounded my fists on the saddle screaming “God damn it! God damn it! God damn it!”

Then it occurred to me that maybe I’d just run out of gas. I flipped the petcock to Reserve, pushed the starter button, and she fired right up. Doh! Elated, I jumped on, hustled back to the campsite, and found John and Bill just returned from having dinner.

“The lodge is closed now and this is our last beer,” John said as I asked about food.

“Give it to me,” I said, taking the half-empty can from his hand before he could even reply.

I’ve never been so happy to see those guys in my life.