Jurassic World

Two Cold-war Dinosaurs, the Active Volcanoes of the Pacific Northwest, and a Raw and Muddy Land Where “old and Dangerous” Is a Compliment.

- Sam Smith

With the first day, I mostly remember rain. Sloppy drops the size of jelly beans, then an uneven mist, then a kind of plodding drizzle. Because of course it rains in Seattle in October, when you’re on a motorcycle, when you’re headed for dirt and volcanoes.

And then I met Steve and Peter. They walked up at a Chevron station south of the city, where I had stopped to duct-tape a leak in my tired motorcycle-touring pants. They just walked up and started talking. That’s what people do when you ride a sidecar.

“Afrika Korps!” Steve yelled, from about 15 feet away. Then, when closer: “Rommel!”

The bike was a new Ural, a sidecar rig, made in Russia but vaguely German and militaristic and even less vaguely old. Steve told me his name, that he worked for UPS and rode Harleys. He smiled a lot. The sidecar looked amazing, he told me, and he loved the rain. Said a trip sounded great.

Peter strolled over two minutes later. Scowling. He climbed out of a food-bank delivery truck and announced, apropos of nothing, that he used to race stand-up Jet Skis.

“I stopped riding them because I was tired of sitting in front of the TV, two hours later, water pouring out my nose.” 

He raised his eyebrows, as if to make a point. 

“Where you going?”

“Cascades,” I said. 

“Man, what a miserable day for that.” 

He shook his head, then got back in his truck. I resumed duct taping my pants, because pants don’t duct-tape themselves, and wet underwear is only fun in Vegas.