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Day 4





Day 4; Smiley Creek to Sun Valley to Cascade

When you awaken to the pitter-patter of raindrops, the idea of a road trip on a motorcycle loses its luster. However, we have decent gear, so we loaded up and headed to Sun Valley. It’s easy to tell when you’re getting close to the destination ski resort; the ‘cabins’ get crazy. Huge entries, winding paved roads, and mega-houses sit in stark contrast to the austere farmhouses, even if some are rather large.
Sun Valley is what Las Vegas isn’t. We stood out like sore thumbs with our raingear and jackets. But the temperature is freezing! It must be sixty, and people are running around in shorts. Remember, its 108 in Vegas, cooling to a balmy 90 at night.
Sun Valley people are what Las Vegans aren’t. There are no plastic surgeons, botox, liposuction, breast enhancements, or lap bands. The Sun Valley people take care of it with bicycles. Every other billboard (in fact, there aren’t any) doesn’t advertise for the parasitical lawyer who wants to shake someone down for money.
But the Sun Valley people aren’t beautiful. They are elemental, thin, and in good shape.
What Sun Valley lacks, however, is a Target. Or 7-11. Too many snotty stores charging ridiculous prices for trendy stuff. How a lift operator could afford to live there is beyond me. I guess we’re just lowbrows.
Off again, and the Little Woman and I must backtrack for forty miles or so, then spend most of the afternoon along the Payette river, and the north fork Payette river. Each mile increases the trees per acre, and the beauty escalates exponentially. The grass grows tall enough, that on a right turn, it could clip the mirror. And the river treats the eye to raging cacophonies of boiling water; class III, IV and V rapids crash mercilessly. We see rafts exiting and people lunching, but failed to see them negotiating the caldrons.
Turning right at highway 55, we enter (drumroll please); the best section of highway to ride so far!
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, the road winds and curves, following the north fork up through the canyon with evergreen trees shading the pavement on the left, and the river cascading along the right. Left and right turns await, a veritable roller coaster, that you control the speed.
We have Chatterbox intercoms and here’s what I heard as we wound up the hill;
“45.”
“What’s that, honey?”
“The sign. It said, 45.”
I glance at the speedo. It reads 57.
“45 what?”
The twisting turns are a point of tension between me and the Little Woman. Actually, the tension resides between the Little Woman and her sphincter. Maybe if they put in a few more guardrails, it would relieve the tension.
But it sure wouldn’t be as fun.

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