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A great advantage of riding a motorcycle is that, over time, you get to meet many interesting people. And the odds favoring memorable encounters with interesting people go up whenever your motorcycle breaks down.
Here's the story. For more than 1,500 miles, the rugged Alaskan Highway had pummeled my motorcycle and me as I traveled north from Dawson Creek, British Columbia, to Fairbanks. At that time, most of the road was unpaved. After reaching my northern-most destination, I made my turn to head home. But as I traveled south, the rock-strewn road took its toll by shredding my bald rear tire. Luckily, when the tire went flat, I was just below the Yukon Territory border near the small village of Lower Post, British Columbia. The town's primary business was an all-in-one truck stop, restaurant, bar and grocery store. It provided a welcome, if not humble, oasis for people traveling up and down the Alaskan Highway and for the vehicles carrying them. Unfortunately, my rear tire was beyond repair. So, for the next three days, the establishment's benevolent owner let me shelter my motorcycle and myself in the service station's garage. During that time, I attempted to cadge a ride for my machine and me as far down the highway as possible. My efforts in this regard met with mixed results. One trucker offered to buy my motorcycle, which would have paid for an airline or bus ticket home. But I didn't want to abandon my bike or my journey. A tour bus driver was willing to stash my motorcycle with his passengers' luggage in the huge compartment under the bus and carry us both down the highway. This was a great offer, however, I feared the motorcycle would drool gas, oil and battery acid no matter how well I drained the fluids. A group of college kids had room in their van to take me or the bike -- but not both -- all they way down the highway. But with either option, I was leery of separating from my steed then trying to reconnect. On the evening of the third day, as I sat in the packed bar listening to morose country and western music, the doors burst open. In strode a stocky, barrel-chested man wearing a faded, red flannel shirt, dungarees and a sweat-stained cowboy hat. "Lynch is here," he bellowed. "Drinks are on me."
The copyright of the article My unforgettable ride down the Alaskan Highway with Lynch Collison in Motorcycles is owned by . Permission to republish My unforgettable ride down the Alaskan Highway with Lynch Collison in print or online must be granted by the author in writing.
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