A few weeks ago, I was cruising around the backroads of Virginia's horse country, and stopped at the Philomont (Va) General Store to see if they had anything to eat. I was pleasantly surprised with a huge, delicious, and reasonably-priced Bar-B-Que sandwich. After lunch, I decided to explore Jeb Stuart Road, a gravel road to nowhere. I was watching the road, and failed to see the sign...
I came to this creek. I dismounted and checked out the creek, and found it to be only a few inches deep, with a gravel bottom. So I forged ahead and easily forded the creek, Whoopie! I continued up the road aways, but I had no idea where it went, and since XLCHs are always low on gasoline, decided to turn around and go back the way I came.
I merrily plunged back into the creek, keeping, for no good reason, to the right side of the road. To my total surprise, I stalled the bike in the middle of the creek. I put my feet down, and the water came up to my knees. The high pipe kept the exhaust dry, but the resistance of the water and deep sand bottom had done me in. I felt like a kid again, and just sat there laughing my head off.
Over the 10 or 12-foot width of the road, the creek had changed from 4 to 18 inches deep, and the bottom from gravel and pebbles to deep sand.
When the giggling subsided, I addressed myself to the task of pushing the bike out of the creek. I couldn't put the kickstand down, or it would just sink in the sand. There was no chance of getting help, since it might be weeks before another idiot came down to the creek in this God-forsaken wilderness. There was no choice but to have at it. The deep sand bottom offered fierce resistance, and each heave-ho gained only a few inches progress. A few more inches followed the previous few inches, and soon enough I was out of deep water. But then the sandy creek bank proved even more difficult than the creek bottom.
Eventually I found solid ground, put the kickstand down, and poured the water and sand out of my waterlogged shoes. The eXcellent XLCH fired right up, and I continued on my journey. By the time I got home, my pants were dry, but my shoes were still pretty squishy.
A few days later, I strapped on my camera backpack, and returned to the scene. For some reason, I decided not to try to recreate the actual "event". But I did find the other end of the road, where the sign was not covered up by trees...
A week before this happened, I had attended the local Harley dealer's Open House and Bikini Bike Wash. The Bikinis did a great job washing the shiny areas of the bike, but wouldn't touch the dirty, greasy, grimy bottom of the motorcycle. Beaverdam Ford got the bottom nice and clean.
Summer's almost over - get out there and go Swimming with your Sportsters !!!