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Money Creek, MN seemed like a quaint town name for this year's MGNOC national rally. The name came from a bag of bank notes dropped in up stream and the surprised locals who fished them out. The name proved prophetic for many of us.

When you ride with guys for years you never really think of them as heroes. Then circumstances conspire to open eyes and take new stock of your riding buddies. Just such an event occurred at this year's Moto Guzzi National Owner's Club Rally in Money Creek, Minnesota.

Howard, Bob and I were picked by the university's computer to share the same dorm floor at Iowa State in 1970. Bob came equipped with a Bridgestone 350 GT while Howard and I acquired CB450 Hondas in the spring. Being the resident biker boys we started taking short overnighters together then longer two wheeled excursions to the Pacific. In 1972 I acquired a young traveling man's dream: a one year old black Moto Guzzi Ambassador, low miles. After graduation we went off in our separate directions pursuing careers, but every year due to my Ambassador's link to the Guzzi club we would rendezvous at the annual Moto Guzzi national rally. The first ones were in Manhattan then Sylvan Grove and then on to Larned, KS. The carefree times changed. Job situations got stickier and more rallies had to be skipped. Twenty-five years past without a rally rendezvous. Then through the miracle of email we three planned our way to this year's rally. I rode from Arkansas to Bob's in Iowa then together north on Friday to Minnesota. Howard rode from South Bend, IN arriving in Money Creek ten minutes after us.

Being surviving, long time riders we cautiously chose a camp site well above the small creek 60 feet away. Tents pitched, we began retelling old riding and traveling adventures while chowing down on the lunch brats in the rally site's central pavilion. Moto Guzzi North America graciously trucked a beautiful load of new Guzzis for us to test ride. The Breva 1100 was a great ride with precision cornering and the lusty exuberance of a big bore Guzzi engine. What FUN! We decided to save the test ride of the new Moto Guzzi Norge for the next day.

Saturday morning brought drizzle and a new friend, John, a track hoe and heavy equipment driver from Minneapolis. The mist turned into a steady, day-long light rain while we four sat under the awning of one of the camp's permanently anchored travel trailers that served as a summer home for the now absent owners. We all offered our thanks to the owners for the dry shelter as the rain continued. As we talked I noticed the trailer next door was identical to the one my wife and I pulled from California when we started our construction project in Arkansas. It was unusual for a small travel trailer with its two doors, one front and one at rear for easy escape in case of fire.

The rain cancelled the demo rides and kept us in the pavilion trying to keep dry. John's friend Ernie gave up his vendor booth and joined our damp discussion group. The awards and door prizes were given out before the evening meal so those tired of rain drumming down could leave for the quiet of a warm home. Just before dinner the rain changed temperament with lightning and hard rain. The drumming on the roof now matched the tone and volume of the rumbling clouds. After eating a good steak meal we retired to the camp ground cafŽ for ice cream while Ernie made the wise decision to join those homeward bound. The cafŽ was well insulated and though the rain pounded down all seemed in good spirits as we watched the weather channel for news of a let up. Then the satellite signal failed.

We went back to the camp site taking up residence under the awning with some other fellows. Tom from Hawaii shelved his dome tent under the back corner of the awning. We were all talked out and quiet. I went to my tent and immediately slept.

Shouts in the dark! Feeling for my glasses and flashlight in the dark. My hands down beside the sleeping bag, the tent floor feels like an old memory, the same squishiness of a water balloon. Flashlight on! Pants, boots, shirts, jacket, each a slow struggle. I'm standing now, the tent floor rises up engulfing and trapping my feet and ankles. I crawl and step outside into a foot of water, reach back into the tent and put on my helmet. I grab my floating saddlebags prevented from floating away by the tent vestibule. The darkness is complete then a flash of lightning and I see the bike. I pull the tent/rubber raft to the bike. I struggle, cursing, to attach the saddlebags to the bike in the dark then push the bike to the slight rise where others are pushing their bikes. I go back for the tent. The new digital camera falls and in another lightning flash I see it rush away in the growing brown torrent. The water rises behind us. The water now covers the entrance road with four feet of rushing brown. In front of us the berm and chain link fence of the swimming pool. We're trapped! Then someone shouts to cut the fence. Another finds a pair of pliers. I wade through with my flashlight. Howard unweaves the wire strand from his side while I reach over and pull it back and push it through from the other side. Time: Un-lasing the wire seems to take hours, days, while the water continues to rise. The grudgingly stiff wire slowly yields to our persistence. Howard yanks the last few inches free and I drag the fence upstream against the current and hook the fence back on itself.

The riders waiting begin the ford through the current and up the berm. Wheels spin on the grease like grass then splatter mud showers. Bob pushes a new Goldwing, its rider struggles with the weight, then a Venture. An Ultra-Classic is next, we can't see to get his trailer unhitched, he spins, the berm is too steep, the trailer too heavy. My turn. I take the inside line near the folded fence. The way is steeper, but away from the beached Harley. With Bob's help I am up and riding behind the other bikes. The water rises topping the berm as we go. The Wing and Venture get stuck near the west end of the pool where the ground is more water than soil. I turn upstream to go around, the water is now over a foot deep over the berm. Ahead is Howard on his K-bike, riding the sidewalk in front of the restaurant. I turn through the fence gate with only100 feet between me and the road and high ground. Howard's engine floods and dies, but he pushes it forward and out. I wait and considered running the bike up into the restaurant entrance to gain a foot of dry ground. Looking left I remember the 16 new Guzzi demo bikes. There is just a fleeting glimmer of their tanks and handlebars showing above water in the lightning. My turn again, thirty feet to go then the engine dies. The water is up to the bottom of the tank and into the air intake. I push. Howard comes back and pushes too. I am exhausted, panting in short burst, my head is on the gas tank, but we are on the road, out of the deep water.

We push our bikes up another 50 feet and go back. "Where is Bob?" we ask each other. We walk around the pool following the fence. The water is now two feet over the berm. Walking is getting harder. The current pushes each foot fall down stream from where I expect. The Venture and Goldwing have stalled against the restaurant wall. The pressing water has trapped an EV-11 Guzzi in the gate I just went through. Bob is standing on the knoll with two other riders with their bikes. Bob's bike is there in waist deep water. Howard wades/swims across the road and guides the riders across one at a time. "Take small steps, take your time!" he shouts over the roar of the water and thunder. I hold to the safety of the fence and grab and guide them up the submerged berm. Bob comes across and just shrugs when asked about his bike. Howard wades toward the travel trailer in our area with people in it, but the water is rushing around him chest deep. He comes back. The people are stuck on the roof of their trailer. The rain continues to pound down.

I shudder and realize the riders are walking away from the fence taking the short cut to the restaurant. The swimming pool is indistinguishable from the rest of the swirling water. I yell and Howard yells to get them back to the fence. If they step off the edge of the berm into the pool with their riding gear on, that would be their end. More lightening. Tires, fire wood, ice chests, tents churn and swirl past us. The water is nearly to the top of the fence, waist deep. With each step I lift 50 lb. boots. I am beat.

We find a trailer deck high and back away and watch the water continue to rise. It now covers the restaurant entrance I was considering as a place to park my bike. Water is over the top of the door frame, four feet above where my handlebars would have been. It is cold, most of us are shivering to ourselves. Everyone is quiet, watching the water, listening to the trapped trailer top people howler for help. We can do nothing for them. I lay back on the wet wood deck planks. My helmet, still on my head, clunks down on the wood. I close my face shield and my eyes.

Dawn finally grays the still drizzling sky. I lay inside my helmet planning how I will attack the water inside the engine of my new motorcycle. I raise my shield looking out to the wet world. I screw out the lower spark plugs and watch the brown water pour out, about a half cup on each side. I was getting hungry. The muck spilling from the engine spoils my appetite. The oil level is above the full line even with the front wheel pointed uphill. We push my bike up the hill to Matt Forslund's trailer. Matt, from New Mexico, fixes bikes for a living from his combination traveling workshop and travel trailer. Matt kindly lets us roll my bike into his shop out of the rain. With the last turn of the oil drain plug another quart of brown water spills from my engine. After what seems like a long time, dark oil replaces the water as the crankcase contents empties.

Next the air cleaner comes off revealing an air box full of water. We pull the throttle bodies off the engine, shooting WD-40 through to flush the silt from the throttle plates. Shinning a light into the intake port shows brown silt on the intake valves. Rotating the rear wheel with the transmission in gear opens the valves for more WD-40 flushing and the oil and silt pour out the lower spark plug holes. With more flushing, cleaning, drying and fresh oil in the crankcase the bike starts like a champ. Matt refuses to take money for the use of his tools or even for the new engine oil.

We walked down to the camp ground to see if we could find our tents. The roof of the pavilion collapsed, the support columns pushed over from the force of the moving water. Howard's caught a tree branch only a few feet away from its starting point with its contents washed free and missing. Mine snagged a wire rope guy. The sleeping bag, Therma-Rest, and riding gloves floated away. Muddy clothes and seat sheep skin sank and were inside. Bob's tent was hanging above deep water in a tree a hundred yards away. His tent was just south of the 35 foot goose neck trailer that floated over the road, hit the trees and tipped on its side. Another trailer with three antique bikes inside was attached to its towing pickup at the front with the rear stuck in a tree 12 feet off the ground. The travel trailer with the two doors washed off its footings, floated down stream over the top of the bridge railing and was gone.

We helped up right several bikes that had spent the night under water and pushed them through the water and mud up to the road. We pushed Tom's Rossa up the hill to Matt's for dehumidifying along with a lime green V11 Sport. Next to a pretty Le Mans on its side was the aqua green trunk of a Yamaha Venture. When I first saw the trunk I thought it had float free as my saddlebags had tried to do. The trunk was in the water and debris upside down at an odd angle. A closer look revealed the bike's chassis still bolted to the trunk. This meant the front wheel was six feet below the surface. There were others, none of them pretty. More cash in the creek.

We met up with John. He was pretty quiet. His bike was not where he left it when we went in the restaurant for ice cream. It washed down stream, gone along with his tent. He only had what he wore on his back. We looked for him before we left, but I think he took the bus to the emergency shelter in the next town.

Money Creek had no electricity, water, food, sanitation, phone or shelter. We had not slept for 30 hours. We were thirsty, near exhaustion and had been soaking in mud and bacteria laden water for hours. We helped all we were able and now we needed to take care of ourselves so we stayed healthy. We planned to go to the emergency shelter for water and directions out. As we prepared to go the Emergency Management people said the emergency shelter in the next town was closed. They evacuated the town because the rain water filled river was going to crest and put four more feet of water in the town. The bridges on all the paved roads out of the area were washed away. It was raining. It was time to go.

I hated to ride my bike. There may be silt that entered through the vents in the transmission, rear drive, rear master cylinder, alternator and clutch. I carried Bob's remaining gear and Bob rode on Howard's larger passenger seat. Following directions we rode west through two mud slides on the road and one area where the outside half of the road bed had washed away to the valley below. At the top of the hill we turned down dirt roads winding our way through the corn fields on top of the ridge. Several miles of slithering along brought us to a short length of pavement and on to I-90. We rode west nearly 50 miles to get around the area where bridges were out then turned south for home.

I try to regard such difficulties as described above as learning opportunities. Here is what I learned.

1. It's never good to swim with your motorcycle.
2. If you think your camp site is high enough to avoid flooding - go up.
3. No matter what you lost, someone will be having a tougher time. Appreciate what you have. Breathing is good. No one drowned at Money Creek, other locations lost six.
4. Keep your sense of humor. If you can get a giggle out of the difficulties of your own human condition all is not lost. Later these difficulties will make good stories for telling around camp fires at future rallies.

- Jerry Heil is a rider, teacher, fiberglass monger, welder, firefighter, airplane mechanic and pilot and does these in Paris, AR with wife Barbara and son Bill.