Where to even begin…
I have another Ural. This time it’s a 2004 Troyka—which is sort of the upscale (for a Ural) model. It has nicer upholstery, lots of chrome and standard telescopic forks (vs. the leading link setup of the Gear Up I had). Colors are black, red and chrome, chrome, chrome—with a healthy dose of dust from the dirt road I live on now. And—of course—it leaks oil. This particular bike is leaking from the reverse shift lever. There’s a little seal that I need to replace. I have the part number, but haven’t gotten it ordered yet.
So far I’ve put a bit more than one full tank of gas through it—probably 150-170 miles—and although it’s still a bit of a challenge to keep myself focused to keep the rig going down the road straight, I’m getting back into the groove. The girls love it and seem to be after me every other night to take them for a ride. Even my wife has been in it—bought her very first helmet so we could take it on a date last weekend. I think I’m over it (already), though. I don’t care to ride it to work anymore and the thought of going for a ride with other Uralistas/Uralistos isn’t appealing enough to make me excited about doing that versus riding off on my KLR650 (alone) for my annual Father’s Day escape/ride.
It was one heckuva an adventure just going to get it though. That story probably warrants writing about here, though, so here goes.
Up until June 3, I’d completely given up on getting the bike for the weekend. I’d only decided to get it a few days before—kept imagining doing the one thing on it that’s still fun: giving the rest of my family rides and that eventually pushed me over the edge (the other leading contender had been some kind of adventure touring bike that I strongly considered flying several states away to pick up and ride home.
I tried to get friends to drive me up so I could ride the Ural home, but that didn’t work—everyone was busy. Then I tried to rent a car, but the little town where the bike was didn’t have any major car rental places so a one-way rental was out of the question. Then I checked to see if Uhaul had a trailer that would fit. After much research, I discovered that there was one trailer that would work and—according to the Internet—the trailer was available the next day, June 4. Great, I thought, I’ll go get it the next morning, drive up to The Dalles (where the bike lived), buy it, and trailer it home.
The next morning, I got up early, called to reserve the trailer, had a big breakfast and went to town to get the trailer. I very quickly found out that the language on the website isn’t the same language that the local Uhaulers speak and a 12 foot utility trailer is one thing online and quite another in person. After my wife made a few calls (while I gassed up the truck) we found that the only utility trailer like I needed was already booked. Crap! Time for Plan B. Can someone remind me what plan B was supposed to be again? I drove to an equipment rental place, and on the way, called my boss (who had offered the use of her trailer when I mentioned that I might go get the bike over the weekend).
The equipment rental place had a trailer, but they were too expensive and the trailer had very high sides and no easy places to tie the bike down. I got back on the phone and worked it out to meet my boss at her brother-in-law’s place to pick up their trailer. By the time I got hooked up and on the road (after checking out some really cool old motorcross bikes at my boss’ brother-in-law’s house), I was two hours late leaving town, so before getting out of cell range, I called the seller and let him know I’d had some problems getting things together but was on my way.
The truck pulled the 16-foot flatbed trailer well enough on the way up and—aside from stopping in Madras for water and candy bars—I drove straight through and got to The Dalles in about three hours. I’d forgotten what a nice ride it is up there as the terrain changes quite a bit during the drive—keeping things from getting too boring (unlike the ride from Bend to Klamath Falls).
I missed a turn somehow in The Dalles and ended up on the far end of town and had to call the seller who basically just had me stay on the phone and talked me back to his house—thank goodness for speakerphones. I barely got the trailer turned around at his house (lives on a dead end street), drove the bike, did the deal and had fun driving the rig up the ramps and onto the trailer—but got it done without incident. After some finessing, we got the bike strapped down satisfactorily and I left town without eating. At this point it was 4 pm and all the real food I’d eaten all day was breakfast (candy bars didn’t count).
Things went well—if somewhat slower, but, being kinda paranoid, I stopped right before Maupin to check that the bike was still secure and shoot some photos. It hadn’t moved, so I drove down through all the hairpins and across the incredibly narrow bridge over the Deschutes, past the Bridge Restaurant (where I bought my first Ural) and up the hairpins on the other side. Just after I got up on top, a law enforcement truck got behind me and I thought for sure I was getting pulled over because the trailer had expired stickers on the tag (did I mention that?). After several moments in agony, just waiting to put on my blinker and pulled over, he pulled out, passed me and I had no more worries all the way home.
I stopped in Madras for a McDonalds dinner and got home to two little girls beaming and waiting on me outside at about 7:30 pm. Not bad. A little more excitement and I got the bike down off the trailer (backed it down the ramps), then loaded various family members in for rides around the pond and a few more photos. Your basic, “good time was had by all.”
Now I’m kinda done with the bike. Go figure.
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