Watching the MotoGP race at newcombs is a longstanding tradition amongst the area's motorcycle enthusiasts. Sunday rides on race days are started a little later than usual, so you get to nukes in time to get a good seat and watch the boys duke it out. It's one of those synergistics relationships between TV and real life.
This past sunday, i woke up around noon and realized that since i had nothing better to do, i'd meet up with the SCS guys and head up to nukes. The weather report was grim, though the weatherman assured me that the sunday stormfront was due in the evening, well after I'd get home and be warm, picking over leftovers.
The ride out to the shell was uneventful, I was running a little late, so i was hustling to get up to the tree and catch the SCS ride and ride up with them to Nukes.
On the way, saw the SUV and Stout setting up shop on the lower part of the mountain, and given the miserable weather all weekend, the roads were pretty empty. About a mile before the Ranger Station, I came upon a pretty gnarly wreck--I'm not sure exactly what happened, but from what i could tell, a rider went head-on with a neon. The bike was utterly destroyed, front end of the car also destroyed, and the rider on the other side of the road, being comforted by his friend, whilst bleeding profusely out of his nose and mouth. I'm not an expert, and only got a quick survey of the scene, but it appeared that the rider went wide and crossed the DY, though considering the road at that point, it was a little curious because it wasn't an especially hairy turn. Could've been a simple brain fart or too much speed, but since i didn't see pieces of the rider strewn across the road, i'm gonna chalk it up to the former.
It was my first up-close accident scene, and it wasn't a pleasant thing to think about as i made my way up forest. A little extra brake, a little less lean, a little more vigilance in every corner--i didn't break any speed records as i trekked along the road at 55 mph. It didn't help that it was freezing cold and my hands were freezing around my clip-ons. I closed every vent on my well-venting helmet, and tried to tuck as well as i know how. When i got to the tree i didn't see any of the guys, so I made my way back down forest. I wondered if i should head up 9-mile to watch the race, or take a hint from mother nature and head home.
Since i'm dumb, i decided to go to nukes. Nevermind the snow on the side of the road, and the wet spots on the upper part of the crest that could've easily been patches of ice. I shivered every inch of the way, and waded through the high sierra mist; when i finally got to newcombs, i took a good 2 minutes to lovingly embrace my tires and exhaust heat shield--just to get some warmth back in my fingers.
The guys were inside and i caught the tail end of the 250 race. On a sunny race day, Newcomb's is absolutely packed with bikes. This sunday there were 6 bikes up there. I guess 6 of us were dumb enough to ride up in that kind of weather. It was even dumber when it started to actively rain, and the mist got even thicker.
No pictures, but visibility was 30' at best, assuming your visor wasn't fogged. The ride down was the slowest ride down ever undertaken by a group of 4 motorcycles. 35 mph until halfway down the upper crest, and every agonizing second was cold, nerveracking, and painful.
Once in the lower elevations, it warmed up and dried up. At the shell it was almost pleasant. And news from CHP Officer Coleman (who stopped by the shell to shoot the shit with us, nice guy) was that there was no news about the downed rider. I'm hoping that means he pulled through.
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