Issue #232 Unkind Cut | Dave, His, Bike, Road, Would

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Issue #232 Unkind Cut

Written by Robert Smith
Thursday, 12 July 2007
Sometimes life seems like watching a movie. Scenes change, actors come and go, events move in and out of focus. Then that sudden shock when reality hits you in the face, and you know things have changed forever. Sadly, for my friend Dave Gurry it was “fade to black …” I first met Dave through the British Motorcycle Owners Club. I’m not even sure he owned a British bike at the time, but the only membership requirement was an interest in British bikes. Dave had an interest all right. He was passionate. Not about British motorcycles per se, but all motorcycles. He’s the only rider I’ve known who was prepared to sacrifice body parts to save a motorcycle. When his 1979 CBX slid away from him on a Fraser Valley cloverleaf onto Highway One, Dave sustained agonizing road rash trying to hold the bike up to minimize the damage. His explanation: “Those pipes are impossible to replace …” His pace and stealth on the road were legendary. On one club ride, Dave’s brother Steve got a gremlin in his Norton’s transmission. Dave was riding his Honda RC30 race replica and offered to go fetch his pickup. The truck was in Langley, a mere 190 miles away. Steve sat by the roadside for a while, then decided to test the Norton. It seemed to be okay, so he cautiously rolled the Commando down into Lillooet, 40 miles distant. It was a few miles south of Lillooet that Steve met Dave returning with the truck. He’d covered maybe 300 miles of BC roads in something under four hours, half on the RC30, half in the pickup. I’d guess the first leg of the journey was quicker. Dave started work on his British bike project about this time. He bought a sad, tired 1972 Combat Commando and set about rebuilding it with all the top components and some serious engine tuning. Inside the strengthened motor casings went Superblend main bearings, Carillo rods, and a hot camshaft. Redline Norton in Vancouver worked over the head, porting and gas flowing it. Dave put the whole together with fully restored cycle parts and a metalflake blue gas tank. From the outside, Dave’s Commando looked completely stock, but it could ripple tarmac and shred eardrums. Not for long though; the stock Combat was pretty much the end of the road for Norton twin development—as Dave found out when the camshaft seized in its bushings. Undaunted, he rebuilt the engine with a similar specification, strengthening and improving as he went. The bike would yield to his will, not the other way round. Fast bikes aside, Dave’s daily driver was a 1991 R100GS “airhead.” Never have I seen anyone ride an obsolete, overweight and underpowered motorcycle so well. On real world twisty roads, I would back Dave and his packhorse GS against any rider on any bike. Cruising back from Winthrop to Burlington on US 20 near Diablo Lake, Washington, he passed me and a line of dawdling cars (legally, of course …) on a bend so tight, he must have been scraping the Boxer’s rocker covers on the tarmac. On four separate occasions, I asked Dave to help with my magazine photo sessions (his Kawasaki 750 H2 featured in CB October 2001), and not once did he hesitate to offer his time. Any excuse to ride would take him away from more pressing issues, he would ride anytime—except in wet weather. Getting caught in the rain was one thing; Dave would just shrug it off. But I don’t think he owned rain gear—and never left home on a bike if it was raining. Which makes it even more mysterious as to why he was riding east on 62nd Avenue in Langley on the morning of Sunday March 11—in a steady downpour. Six of us had just spent two weeks in the Baja, a sort-of boys behaving badly in the desert (most of us old enough to know better). As usual, Dave went everywhere farther, higher and faster, throwing his overloaded GS around like a small dirt bike. While most of us were still struggling through the sand and gravel, Dave would have scrambled up to an overlook, taking pictures of us as we rode by. Just south of Ensanada, a side road leads to the Parque Nacional Sierra San Pedro Martir and its 10,000-ft. summit. The ride started as a pleasant two-lane ramble across farm and rangeland before climbing into the mountains; then we hit the snow line at 5,500 ft. just as the surface turned from tarmac to gumbo. While we pulled off the road to admire the view, Dave pressed on, riding through snow as far as the park entrance at 8,500 ft. When I asked why, he just gave me a broad grin and a shrug. In spite of two weeks in close company, though, I’m not sure any of us got to know the inner Dave any better. I never heard him say a bad word against anyone, but he kept his own mind—he was “close,” as they would say in England. Dave was all about action. He was perhaps the most skillful rider I knew. Why then, while riding on a perfectly straight road that Sunday morning, did he suddenly change course and hit a parked reefer trailer? Perhaps standing water on the road caused the GS to hydroplane; perhaps another vehicle was involved. It seems unlikely we’ll ever know. Dave died on impact. And so my movie rolls on, but without one of the lead players. It just won’t be the same. Comments (0) Subscribe to this comment's feed Write comment You must be logged in to a comment. Please register if you do not have an account yet.