Next morning, we were up and at it again after chowing on some pastries bought at a grocery store the night before (no doubt whilst shopping for something for Chris).  North out of Moab on 191.  South on 279, which becomes Potash Road -- pavement at first, then dirt.  Same initial route as the morning before.  It was threatening rain, but what's a dualsport rider to do?  Rain or shine, we gotta ride.  This time we stopped for some potash pond photos, but at the end of Potash Road we turned left instead of right.

Chris on Potash Road enroute to the White Rim Trail.

My Tiger on Potash Road.  A potash pond in the background.

Signpost up ahead: You are entering the Twilight Zone ... nah, just Canyonlands
and the White Rim Trail.  How bad could it be, eh?  (Photo by Rich.)

The trail here alternated between patches of slickrock and red dirt, peppered with rocks and highlighted with desert greenery.  The Tiger was running great.  The weather was a bit nippy, but for the moment it appeared as if the storms might back off.  Ominous dark clouds were rattling around in the canyons, looking grumpy and pregnant with rain, but seemed as if they might miss us entirely.  Working the big Tiger on the trails, I was plenty warm.  In fact, all of us started shedding gear pretty early.  I stowed my heated vest in my tail bag, careful not to crush the crackers I was hauling for our lunch.

We did some leapfrogging in order to get photos of each other in action.  Around every corner was another photo op, and the views just kept coming.  We'd ride our bikes right to the edge of the thousand foot drop to the Colorado River. Peer over the edge whilst fighting vertigo.  I tried to stand with the toes of both feet over the edge of the cliff and look down past them for a photo, but just couldn't do it. Best I could do was hang one foot off the edge.  Self-preservation is a nearly impossible instinct to suppress, I guess.

"Come back, Chris!"

Here comes Rich.

There goes Rich.

Further down the White Rim Trail.  Puddles on the slickrock from early morning rain.

The Tiger takes a breather.

Rich overlooking the Colorado River on the White Rim Trail.

The Tiger and I splash through a wee bit of water.  (Photo by Rich.)

A short way down the trail, we came across Musselman Arch.  I've heard stories of people riding bikes across this thing.  You gotta have some major stones to do it, I guess.  A sign there clearly states that you'll get your peepee whacked for doing such a thing (though, come to think of it, I think the sign said "no bicycles," not "no motorcycles").  Regardless, none of us were that foolhardy.  When I announced that I was going to walk across the arch, Rich and Chris backed off.  "Uh huh," said Chris, "you don't know when that thing's gonna fall.  There was one somewhere that collapsed not too long ago."  I crossed anyway.  Stood there in the middle and called them chicken.  Jumped up and down a bit.  "See?  Stable as a rock."

It took a bit more teasing, but finally Rich ventured out after me.  Not to be labeled the only pussy, Chris finally walked across, too, but you'll note in the photo below that he does so without looking at anything but his feet.  LOL.

Walking across wasn't that scary.  There was little or no wind blowing.  And the arch is a good six to eight feet wide.  It is a long way down, though.  And I'll confess that I stayed away from the edge.

Musselman Arch on the White Rim Trail.  Gotta look close 'cause
it kinda blends in with the background.  Just a thin bridge of rock
suspended five or six hundred feet above the canyon floor.

Yours truly on the Musselman Arch.  (Photo by Rich.)

After much taunting, Rich ventures out across the
Musselman Arch.

Afraid of being labeled the only wuss, Chris finally
joins us, but as you can see, he refuses to look up as
he crosses.  Ha.

After a short break at the arch, it was back on the bikes for some more great riding.  This section of the White Rim Trail is pretty easy riding and you just can't beat the scenery.  The views simply do not stop.  Ride your bike right to the edge if you're so inclined.  (First time I saw Chris do this, I kinda hung back.  What if my brakes failed?  What if I panicked and lost control of the bike?  Eventually, though, I was riding right up to the edge same as the other guys.  Funny how different things intimidate us.  I had no problem walking out on the arch, but somehow riding to the edge bothered me.  Chris was just the opposite.  Before leaving for the trip, I had thought it would be really cool to ride the bike right to the edge, with the front tire poised right there on the brink, and take a photo looking down over the fairing.  Faced with the reality of such a position, though, I realized there was no fucking way I could do it.  I never even considered attempting it.  Just standing on the edge was enough -- and, as I said before, I couldn't manage to stand with both my feet at the edge for a photo.)

From the Musselman Arch, the trail took us through Little Bridge Canyon, Lathrop Canyon, Buck Canyon, Gooseberry Canyon, and other places I can only name now because I am looking at a park map.  All I know is it was spectacular, awe-inspiring, breathtakingly beautiful ... insert your own cliché or overused metaphor here.  You really must see Canyonlands for yourself, because no one could possibly convey to you the full impact of that landscape.  See it from the paved roads in the park if nothing else.  But if you can, get down in the canyons.  It doesn't have to be on a motorcycle.  A 4x4 will take you over the White Rim Trail with very little drama.

Triumph Tiger on the White Rim Trail.  Purty, huh?

"Don't jump, Rich!"

Yours truly.

The one thing you don't expect to see on the trail is the Port-a-potty pumper
truck.  (Yes, the park maintains Port-a-potties on the trail.)  Guess all that crap's gotta get
out of the park somehow...

In the heat of the afternoon, Rich sheds some gear.  GQ Magazine will
be calling him soon.

Chris on the White Rim Trail.  Note that thin spire off in the distance.
Wonder how long it will stand?  Looks like a good strong wind could
take it down at any moment.

Eventually, the trail cut away from the Colorado River, meandering west toward the Green River.  It would probably be neat to continue south and view where the two rivers converge, but there's no trail heading that way down through the canyons.  (To view the confluence of the two rivers, you can enter the Needles district of the park by taking Hwy 211, then hike to the Confluence Overlook.)  This section of the trail became something of a cross country enduro run.  There was soft sand in some places, but mostly it was fairly solid red dirt spotted with rocks.  A lot of shallow washes cross the trail, but there was little water to speak of that morning, just a couple inches here and there.  Some of these washes were pretty wild at high speed, though.  We were moving now.  I actually had the Tiger in third gear.

Rich's bike was having some problems with the rear fender.  Each time he'd bottom out through one of those washes or hit a particularly large bump, his rear tire would take a bite out of his fender.  Following Rich, I knew when the bumps were coming, because I could hear the crunch! as his fender hit his tire.  At one point, he got far enough ahead of me, though, that I couldn't hear it.  I came flying down the trail at 30 or 40 mph and slammed down into a particularly deep (and pretty well hidden) wash.  Bottomed out my suspension.  Compressed all the vertebrae in my spine -- snap, crackle, and pop.  Hit so hard that my handlebars twisted down in the clamps, such that the Tiger had suddenly taken on a more sportbike-ish appearance.

I stopped on the trail and tried to muscle the bars back up into their proper position, but it was going to take loosening the bars in the clamps before they would budge again.  Since Rich and Chris were disappearing off into the distance, I decided to leave the bars alone for the moment.  When we stopped for lunch, I could break out my toolkit and fix things up.  It made riding a bit difficult, though.  And my mirrors, now revealing the ground whizzing past on either side of my rear tire, tended to be a bit of a distraction.  No, I didn't really need to check my mirrors on the trail (since I was bringing up the rear at this time), but motorcycle habits are hard to break, seeing as how the maintenance of such habits is what has kept me alive on the road for over 24 years of riding now.  I've been riding so long that it's just habit to scan my mirrors every 10 seconds or so.  Even with them suddenly useless, I couldn't break the habit.  Like I said, they were a bit disconcerting.  In retrospect, though, I should have gone ahead and fixed the handlebars right away.  Rich and Chris would have figured out soon enough I wasn't back there and waited for me.  Where exactly could they go?

Where the trails became sand, I stayed on the gas, lightening the front suspension so that the front end of the heavy bike didn't wash out and send me down.  "You must commit to the sand," dualsport riders will tell you.  (Their other credo is that "momentum will carry you through most obstacles."  We'll put that one to use later when we hit mud.  Hey, it worked in Arkansas.)  I committed, dammit.  There were a number of squirrelly moments for me, though.  At times, you'd have two wheel tracks of sand separated by a pile of rocks running down the middle.  Slewing sideways in the sand, it was easy to hit the rocks, and next thing you know you've been launched all out of control.

Coming over a hill at a pretty good clip, trying to catch up to Chris and Rich (who could fly across the sand much easier on their lighter bikes), the trail dropped down into a big sandy wash and hooked a hard left.  No way to gas it and lighten the front end coming down the hill and trying to turn like that.  The Tiger's front tire tried to tunnel into the soft sand and put me down.  I had to stand the bike up a bit.  I was in the left wheel track, trying to cut the inside corner, and when I stood the bike up, my front tire hopped over a nice levee of rocks separating the wheel  tracks.  I was suddenly bouncing and wallowing all over the place, now in the deeper sand on the outside of the curve.  Didn't help that my handlebars were rotated about 20 degrees south of where they needed to be (offroad control is all about leverage).  The right edge of the trail was a berm, maybe three feet high, of sand and rock.  I was heading for it.  I thought I could ride it out, bank off the berm like a real motocrosser, but my tires sank in as I hit it.  Crunch!  I plowed into the berm.  The bike came to a halt laid over on the bank at about 45 degrees with my right leg twisted back and pinned under the bike.  My right handguard and mirror were buried in the bank.

Crap.

I tried to get my leg free, but I was stuck pretty good.  No problem, I thought.  In a minute, Rich'll notice I'm not in his rearview mirrors and come back to see what became of me.  I waited a few minutes. No Rich.  I struggled with my leg, finally managed to dig it out of the sand bank.  All that struggling, I was sweating under all my gear now.  I took off my goggles, helmet, gloves, and jacket.  Time to get the bike on its feet.  Shouldn't be too hard since it's not all the way over on its side, right?  Wrong.  There's no way to get under the bike since it's plowed into the berm.  The only way to get on that side of the bike is to be on the bike.  Needless to say, it's not easy to pick a bike up when you're straddling it.  I struggle.  Struggle some more.  Where's Rich and Chris?

I try heaving it up by standing on the trail side of the bike.  Ain't happening.  It's 500+ pounds that you're trying to heave up while leaning over it.  No way.

Rich'll be along in a minute.

Rich?  Oh, Ri-iiiiiiiiiiiiich!  I ain't in your rearview mirrors anymore, dude.

Finally, I crawl over the bike, wedge myself down between it and the bank, and manage to heave it upright.  Damage assessment: right engine guard no longer pristine, scratches to the gas tank, a couple nasty gouges in the fairing, scratches on the handguard and mirror, and my right front turn signal is history.  Damn.  Damage to the numbnuts rider: one twisted knee.  Didn't hurt too much at the moment, but a week later as I write this, it still aches.  I don't heal as fast as I used to.