In the States, under regular driving conditions, I liked to try to see exactly how far the Rebel could go without running out of gas. I got a pretty good idea through various experiments, and I thought I had it wired.
The Yukon apparently has a few more hills.
Here's a blurry picture of where I was when the bike crapped out:
Couldn't be much better. Nice shoulder, sun's still high in the sky.
From the other direction, looking downhill:
Also pretty decent! Admittedly, the road does not appear to be heavily trafficked at this particular moment. But otherwise, we'll take it. I bit into a delicious homemade peanut butter cookie I had bought just to spend money at my last stop when I had to pee, took off my helmet, and enjoyed the silence and the wind for a moment. I briefly contemplated how many bears might be nearby.
I had budgeted an easy 300km for each 2.6 gallon (9.2 liter) tank. On flat ground, I can get nearly 320km per tank, but I had noticed in other hilly sections that the mileage was nowhere close to what I had expected.
In retrospect, on this ride from Watson Lake, I really let it rip for the first 150km, going fast and ascending hills with real vigor. I was on high alert for bears, but I was also starting a little late in the day and wanted to peel off a few kms and get things going.
Maybe 40km after I started the ride, I passed a gas station. I kept on trucking, thinking to myself, "I know I'm supposed to fill up every time, but this is just too early." This was my fatal mistake. Due to a lot of Closed For The Season signs and some apparent business troubles in other gas/camping locations, that turned out to be the last station I passed.
About 180kms into the journey, I knew what the score was. I knew I was unlikely to make it to the next gas station (listed as the only other "town" between me and Whitehorse, the provincial capital, on all road signs).
I was confident I'd pass other less prominent fuel stops, but I took preventative measures anyway. Instead of ripping through turns and hills, I slowed to about 55mph, pulled all the way over to the shoulder, hunkered down behind my windshield, and hoped that I'd get better mileage the rest of the way.
That didn't work. But the amusing part, in hindsight, was that the bike died only a few hundred meters from the crest of an insanely large hill. I could have cruised in neutral all the way down to this, less than a kilometer from town:
... at which point I would have needed a ride anyways. Motorcycles, if you can't interpret that sign, aren't fond of these metal-grated bridges. You jiggle and sway uncontrollably, holding on for dear life the whole way. That wouldn't have worked without some throttle. And there's nowhere to walk across that bridge, particularly if some swaying and zagging motorcyclist might come down the pike while you're walking across.
Anyway, a nice local mom picked me up in her pickup truck. It was full of kids, so I got the extra joy of riding in the truck bed because I couldn't fit in the cab.
At the gas station, they tried to sell me an enormous $50 jerry can that could hold 6 gallons of gas. I said that I wanted their most modestly priced receptacle. The attendant looked at me quizzically for a while, and then walked to the trash can and yanked out a discarded empty gallon jug, formerly filled with water. He gave it to me for free.
Here we are on our triumphant return across the scary bridge.
Bike refueled, mission accomplished. I had a distinct impression that I wasn't the first biker to die on that hill, nor would I be the last.
Thanks to yet another good Samaritan for helping me where I couldn't help myself.
The Yukon apparently has a few more hills.
Here's a blurry picture of where I was when the bike crapped out:
Couldn't be much better. Nice shoulder, sun's still high in the sky.
From the other direction, looking downhill:
Also pretty decent! Admittedly, the road does not appear to be heavily trafficked at this particular moment. But otherwise, we'll take it. I bit into a delicious homemade peanut butter cookie I had bought just to spend money at my last stop when I had to pee, took off my helmet, and enjoyed the silence and the wind for a moment. I briefly contemplated how many bears might be nearby.
I had budgeted an easy 300km for each 2.6 gallon (9.2 liter) tank. On flat ground, I can get nearly 320km per tank, but I had noticed in other hilly sections that the mileage was nowhere close to what I had expected.
In retrospect, on this ride from Watson Lake, I really let it rip for the first 150km, going fast and ascending hills with real vigor. I was on high alert for bears, but I was also starting a little late in the day and wanted to peel off a few kms and get things going.
Maybe 40km after I started the ride, I passed a gas station. I kept on trucking, thinking to myself, "I know I'm supposed to fill up every time, but this is just too early." This was my fatal mistake. Due to a lot of Closed For The Season signs and some apparent business troubles in other gas/camping locations, that turned out to be the last station I passed.
About 180kms into the journey, I knew what the score was. I knew I was unlikely to make it to the next gas station (listed as the only other "town" between me and Whitehorse, the provincial capital, on all road signs).
I was confident I'd pass other less prominent fuel stops, but I took preventative measures anyway. Instead of ripping through turns and hills, I slowed to about 55mph, pulled all the way over to the shoulder, hunkered down behind my windshield, and hoped that I'd get better mileage the rest of the way.
That didn't work. But the amusing part, in hindsight, was that the bike died only a few hundred meters from the crest of an insanely large hill. I could have cruised in neutral all the way down to this, less than a kilometer from town:
... at which point I would have needed a ride anyways. Motorcycles, if you can't interpret that sign, aren't fond of these metal-grated bridges. You jiggle and sway uncontrollably, holding on for dear life the whole way. That wouldn't have worked without some throttle. And there's nowhere to walk across that bridge, particularly if some swaying and zagging motorcyclist might come down the pike while you're walking across.
Anyway, a nice local mom picked me up in her pickup truck. It was full of kids, so I got the extra joy of riding in the truck bed because I couldn't fit in the cab.
At the gas station, they tried to sell me an enormous $50 jerry can that could hold 6 gallons of gas. I said that I wanted their most modestly priced receptacle. The attendant looked at me quizzically for a while, and then walked to the trash can and yanked out a discarded empty gallon jug, formerly filled with water. He gave it to me for free.
Here we are on our triumphant return across the scary bridge.
Bike refueled, mission accomplished. I had a distinct impression that I wasn't the first biker to die on that hill, nor would I be the last.
Thanks to yet another good Samaritan for helping me where I couldn't help myself.
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