I normally wouldn't use a non-o-ring chain, but I bought into the Tsubaki brand for all my bikes. They sell bare master link clips in bulk, and since I seem to lose them every few thousand miles it saves me from having to buy a whole new master link. I can also pull the chain at any time for cleaning without coming to any grief over reusing the clip. In addition, even on the non-o-ring chain Tsubaki's master links have press-fit side plates. In the inevitable case of losing a master link clip, the pins and plates stay put. I also wasn't replacing my rear sprocket, so I expected accelerated chain wear due to the mismatch in tooth profile--no sense wasting a $100 o-ring chain. Since mounting this chain, I feel like the bike shifts and changes speed more smoothly due to the reduced rotational force in the lightweight, low-friction o-ring chain.
Anchorage Yamaha referred me to a motorcycle aftermarket parts store, Go Pro, which had the 14T sprocket I was looking for. They gave me space to work as I changed the oil and installed the new sprocket (thank you too!). With those things squared away and thank-you packs of beer supplied, I went to search for a campsite. I decided to make a stop at Alaska Leather to see what they had to offer, and I bought a pair of waterproof heated gloves. They mentioned that there was free camping and hot showers for travelers at the local Harley dealership.
I found it by the enormous chrome bear statue up front, and rolling into the camping area I saw Bjorn's bike! He was accompanied by a German couple on their own BMWs, who were also traveling around the world. I must have looked suspicious circling around on the tiny 250 because after I inquired about Bjorn they asked each other out loud if he had mentioned a "Mike" before.
Bjorn showed up and proper introductions were made, and we got settled in. They invited me to join them for boiled potatoes and carrots and ground beef so I went to the grocery store and came back with an enormous quantity of additional food. I tried to make Bigos, a traditional type of Polish hunter's stew consisting of sauerkraut, fresh cabbage, onion, sausage, and a dried fruit like prunes or raisins. My stove's generator must be a bit clogged because I couldn't simmer low enough and burned the bottom, but it tasted alright nonetheless. A moderate success, and my first meal cooked on the stove. The Germans were happy with their food alone so I also feasted on the bigos as well as a loaf of bread, a stick of butter, a basket of strawberries, and a 6-pack of beer.
I was planning to head out in the morning, but I ended up spending the afternoon at REI sizing up stuff sacks and buying wool underclothes, and left several hundred dollars poorer. A fellow traveler at the campsite correctly estimated that spending at REI can be represented as a function of time: roughly $100/hr. I needed to stay the night again so I picked up a 12-pack of beer on the way back, tucked it behind the tankbag, squeezed myself into the remaining saddle space, and rolled back to the Harley dealership. No one was around and I started pondering the consequences of finishing the whole pack myself. Fortunately a few fellows showed up to save the day and we shot the breeze late into the night.
All backgrounds were represented, and my opinion of Harleys rose from total pieces of shit to desirable pieces of shit. If they were practical and modern and well-designed, would Harley riders sit around and talk about how they successfully navigated tight corners, how they stopped in front of a deer with 20 feet to spare, and occasionally set their bikes on the side for the mild aerobic exercise of picking them up again? Like flagellants with chrome whips, Harley riders are brought together through their suffering.
That evening two riders showed up, returning to their tent that was set up in the furthest corner of the dealership parking lot (outside of the camping area). I waved to them a few times but they ignored me and everyone else. They were a pair of ladies and didn't seem to have any interest other people, just the tires on offer at the motorcycle guide shop next door, MotoQuest. We were all a little puzzled at being ignored and curious about the strangers so we fell into staring and speculating like a bunch of schoolboys, trying to figure out who they were, what they were, and what they were up to. I spoke with them the next morning, one seemed skittish as a deer at first to have someone talking to her, and the other approached very assertively to ask about my WR250R. They were riding back to Northern California and it sounded like they were on a schedule.
In the same vein, this trip has changed my expectations of motorcycle travel. When I set out, I had modeled the experience in the image of wilderness expeditions. I had envisioned a great solo struggle against the elements and technical obstacles, of early morning starts and long days on the road. What I failed to realize is just how many other people there are out on the road doing exactly the same thing, and almost all are very friendly and interesting. At most campgrounds I found at least one or two fellow riders and we'd talk late into the night. Few would leave earlier than late morning or noon unless they were on a very short vacation. The strangest thing on the road is the person who rides doesn't participate in the community. Frankly, the world would have been a better place if the great heroes of exploration had followed this model, if Robert Falcon Scott and Roald Amundsen had decided that this race to the pole business was total bunk and instead shot the shit about mechanical sledges versus sled dogs versus man-hauling for days, took notes, rejiggered their gear, and went off to conquer Antarctica together.
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