By
Sam Lepore
The road calls to many of us.
For some, the call is a soft
suggestion, a sweet whisper like the voice of a not quite clear face in
a dream. The rider who takes this road does not always know why, but he
or she usually enjoys it. For others, the call is a demand of necessity,
a call to arms. The rider who takes this road does battle with the elements
of time and distance, sometimes wining, sometimes not. He or she is drained
by the fight.
For me, the call of the
road is like the passionate plea of a lover enveloped in a deep embrace.
Take me! Take me NOW! And so I have given in again to the temptation to
travel for the journey, not the destination. This is my lust, my Wanderlust.
Or more precisely, this
is the pre-quel to Wanderlust ... a tune up trip to an Internet BMW Riders
lunch gathering in the mountains of New Mexico. Hence the title, WanderLUNCH.
Hey ... if Star Wars can do a prequel years after its series, so can I,
right?
Before today's story ... a little refresh:
It has been nearly two years
since I interrupted my cross country trip because of an illness at home.
That family member recovered but needed increasing attention which kept
me from being away more than a few days at a time. Sadly, she passed away
in January, and while I am now "free" to travel, I still deeply feel the
pain of Janis Joplin singing "freedom's just another word for nothing left
to lose". Well, life goes on, and even if one does not heal, you still
have to deal with it.
Last year another IBMWR
member took a long ride after an emotional break in his life. He wrote
about "The Healing Ride". I certainly understand that, but for now I have
much to deal with.
Actually, I have been riding
a fair amount this year - Southern California for some rally preparations,
Seattle for the LDR gathering, Death Valley, Lost Coast ... but the keyboard
lost its muse in sadness. Lets see whether tickling the keys will wake
it up.
Snoopy likes to start his
stories "It was a dark and stormy night." It seemed that way when I left
San Francisco because it was a windy a blustery fogged-in morning. Through
my sunglasses, excuse me - through my fog glasses the skies looked grey
enough to rain and I began to wonder why am I doing this? The answer was
clear as the sky by the time the wind blew me past the windmills of the
Altamont Pass. The ride is the reason. (But try telling that to the occupants
of the can-on-wheels called a Geo Metro that was doing wind induced unscheduled
lane changes! It seems strange a bike can be more stable than a car in
some winds, but I wasn't fighting it like they were.)
My chosen route for this
trip is to break the 1,200 miles into a 5/7 split. This is my first "serious"
ride in a while, and I thought to make it serious fun by taking a less
direct route. Across the central valley to CA 108 and over Sonora Pass,
then down US 395, the Owens Valley ... the drainpipe that fills the pools
of Los Angeles (the California Water Wars are not over yet ...).
The day was exquisite for
its contrasts. Between Oakdale and Jamestown it seemed that every other
field was either flooded almond trees or dust devils between new tilled
rows. Dust and flood. Flood and dust. California.
California is truly an amazing
land of juxtaposed disjunction. Where else can you stop for a photograph
of 6+ feet of snow on the side of the road, and less than an hour later
be in a desert with so little vegetation that there is no "ground cover".
That was between the 9,800 foot summit of Sonora Pass and the Tufta Islands
of Mono Lake. (And if you've never ridden CA 108 all the way down, add
it to your list of "whoo hoo"!)
The mention of ground cover
reminds me of my first look at California when I was 7 years old. Growing
up in New England, I thought all the land on all the Earth (except for
the desert and beaches) was covered with grass, weeds, or forest. Then
the family went on a visit to San Pedro. Guess what, they had spaces where
there was no stuff growing, nothing! Just 'raw' dirt! Oh, yeah, then I
learned California IS just a desert, a beach, they grow grass (weed) IN
the forest and ... well enough of that. :) You see what a confused kid
I was?
Anyway, it was very interesting
to note the change in the landscape as I descended further into the 'rain
shadow' of the east slope of the Sierra. >From the stately, massive fir
pines (some of these 'normal' pine trees have 10-feet thick trunks and
drop cones the size of office wastebaskets!), the downslope trees quickly
took a gnarled and bent stance, crouching against the wind. Then there
was scrub and sage, and only a few miles down the valley even the cactus
gave way to uncovered ground, which became piles of igneous rock. From
lush to barren in half a tank.
Years ago I used to run long
distance - 10K and marathons (So I suppose it is not much of a stretch
for me to like riding long distance too. That takes a similar mental stamina.)
After a lot of practice, runners get conditioned to the routine of the
effort so that the effort itself becomes a form of stimulus. It is called
the "runner's high". Recently when I was feeling low and lonely, I went
out for a run. I didn't expect it to happen, but there it was after about
5 miles. The feeling came right back.
And so it was today, which
surprised me that it could return so quickly - I had another Perfect Moment.
Without belaboring the description I wrote in Wyoming Wanderlust, a Perfect
Moment is the combination of everything happening just right and you recognize
it for the perfection. It is not a riding 'orgasm', it is more a state
of heightened awareness (but come to think of it, the afterglow is rather
similar :).
The Perfect Moment came
on a stretch of the climb from Dardanelles to the Sonora Summit. The western
slope of the Sierra is a gradual incline for about 75 miles that ends in
a sudden upsweep. Where the upsweep begins are some of the best curvaceous
roads. The road was clear, the weather warm for the high country, and I
was riding moderately aggressively - 45 mph around 30 mph (warning, not
limit) curves. Then it all clicked.
Heeled waaaay over in a
left hander where I could see all the way through the curve and maybe a
half-mile ahead through the fir forest, I felt the precise balance between
pressing on the left grip to dip the roll angle of the bike and the twist
of the right grip to lift the yaw of the front wheel. Two fully controlled
opposing forces, maintained in balance by the subtlest gentle movements,
and I was snicking through the turns like they were made for me. The sky
was filled with the passing blur of green/blue/green/blue as I dove in
and out of tree cover. It was gorgeous.
That's when I remembered
I forgot to pack my toothbrush.
Doesn't it always happen that your mind comes up with the most stupid conclusions at the times you least expect them. Oh well, I guess that's why I like to ride.
Some other observations before
this gets too long ... Once you get away from the cities, the drivers seem
to anticipate and encourage motorcycles more. I can't tell you how many
times I have had people pull over to let me pass without me having to push
them (lights, horn, or tail gaiting). It's nice to see them recognize our
ability to enjoy the road at a different pace - and let us do it.
One lesson I am learning
again and again - if you *ever* ask yourself: Should I stop for gas/pee/rest/whatever
... the answer is: You already should HAVE done so! Road weariness and
highway hypnosis is insidious. Da brain is trying to tell you something
when you ask a question for which an alert mind would have made a decision.
I learned that again, but at the cost of being overly fatigued for a "Day
1". And so to bed.
FuelPlus: 532 miles, 9 hrs 18 minutes engine time, 58 mph average
GPS III Plus: 530 miles, 7 hrs 32 minutes travel time, 57 mph average
SF I80 I880 I238 I580 I205 CA120 CA108 US395 CA58 Barstow
The morning mountains of the desert are full of unfulfilled promises.
So it seems, anyway, when
you can see their heat, feel their shimmer in the warming air, and imagine
how unforgiving they really are when they warm to their task of persevering
in desolation. As I ride through the open arid space that separates the
Colorado River from the sea, I am thankful that at least some of the technology
we have invented and imposed on our environment can bring back an appreciation
for what we rarely take the time to observe. Sailing across the vast emptiness
at 75 mph on a machine that hums contentedly, on an unbroken ribbon of
pavement, I can't imagine how anyone ever crossed it on foot in less than
a lifetime. It never fails to amaze and astound me that there is so much
open emptiness in America when I have seen the barrios of L.A. and the
ghettos of Chicago.
It is easy to get lost in
mysticism when you are alone with your thoughts for hours on end. That
is one of the magical properties of long rides on a motorcycle, although
some people have conditioned themselves to require aural abstractions -
cassette, radio, cb. I choose to listen to the many voices already in my
head shouting for attention. (Guess it is my nature to like being alone
in a crowd.) In the 'normal' world, they have too much competition and
are often unable to be heard. The helmet is impermeable from the inside,
and so they bounce around freely and happily. Where am I going with this?
Unsubstantiated, I have noticed that people who do not like to ride bikes
(I mean are actively against .... not just 'don't care') tend to not like
themselves as people. Makes sense. No one likes to be alone with someone
they dislike.
This is my first trip with
a GPS unit, and so far I've tried to do it without looking at a paper map.
This aspect of new technology being bent to common use is something that
is fun (ok, so I'm a geek) but it has a long way to go before it is ready
for grandma to use ... no matter what the Cadillac commercials say. By
following the GPS indicators, I made three complete circles of Needles,
California looking for River Road - and Needles is only two circles wide
:) . But it did work. The nicest thing about a GPS is that you exactly
where you are when you are lost. That's a technological improvement.
A month or so ago in his
column in Motorcycle Consumer News, Fred Rau wrote about a side trip he
took to a small town that isn't on some maps anymore. Oatman, Arizona is
on the original Route 66, which has almost disappeared. I left the Interstate
at Needles to find the road to Oatman, which the GPS pointed to plus-or-minus
52 feet. (Could be tricky. The road is only 25 feet wide. :) As soon as
I turned onto Oatman Road, I noticed that Route 66 literally DOES disappear.
The pavement is pressed tar and gravel, not the more common black bitumen.
It was made with local rock, so the road surface looks the same color and
consistency as the open ground on either side of the road (remember from
yesterday 'no ground cover'?). Look far ahead on the road ... and you can't
really see the road for the terrain. It would be easy to drift off if you
let your attention wander.
Another immediate image
is the high power poles. There are three-wire transmission towers running
along the road which are shaped like saguaro cactus. Not just angled cross
braces, but actual swooping arms, two on one side, one in between them
on the other side, bent gracefully upward. Arizona blends with itself -
I suppose you could say 'you are what you heat'.
Oatman is just like Fred
wrote. A ghost town with clean sheet ghosts. Not quite a tourist trap,
simply because not enough tourists go there. But my friend Kaaren would
like it. They have a herd of burros wandering wild though the streets.
The road caution signs have the outline of a burro.
Quaint and charming as it
is, I do not recommend approaching or leaving Oatman on its east side.
Old Route 66 snakes around the mountains, but the road is *covered* with
tar snakes. And they were biting. (For the non-moto readers, tar snakes
are cracks in the pavement filled with what looks like roofing tar. When
they get hot, the tar becomes gelatinous, and crossing them - especially
leaned over - can cause bike tires to slip several inches. Not a problem
for a car, but bad news for a bike.) But come to think of it, I don't remember
ever hearing someone having an accident because of the snake itself. Very
scary, anyway.
So, I got my kicks, so to
speak, on Route 66. What was more of a kick was going 66 on Route 66 (marked
for 30!). Some nice sweepers west of Kingman. But alas, that 45 mile "shortcut"
cost me almost two hours, and I had agreed to have dinner in Santa Fe.
Damned inconvenient about those time zones, too (I forgot!). And now there
are a mere 500 miles of I40 before me. Not quite the "Take me!" of yesterday.
More like "Shove this under your tires, buster."
One more chuckle before
the velocoraptor of the interstate consumed me (high velocity, but it eats
your brain): Approaching Flagstaff I noted the sign that said I was entering
the Kaibob National (Treeless) Forest. Look to the left. Look to the right.
See at least 50 miles to the horizon in either direction. The tallest thing
in sight would be a chipmunk standing on a fence post. National Forest?
Didn't make it to Santa Fe. And didn't make it in condition to write last night. Just out of Albuquerque a blast of dirt in my contacts put me down for the night. Hurt too much to finish. So I stayed in Almost Santa Fe.
FuelPlus 740 miles, 11:32 hrs engine, 65 mph average
Barstow I40, 3 circles of Needles, US66, I40, I25 Almost Santa Fe
This is a short report because it was a short day.
Morning at Meltz Mansion
(Centaur Cycles) was resplendent with eau de doughnut in the air. My nose
worked as well as the GPS in finding the gathering (before the gathering)
of the Internet BMW Riders. Sucrose and caffeine sustenance was in copious
supply (and copiously consumed) to fortify us for the agonizing travel
of ... oh, about 50 miles to lunch. Ok, ok, there was also orange juice
for the health conscious. Thank you Richard and Meg!
That agonizing ride was
beautiful agony. Through the back streets of Santa Fe - where every house
(and I mean every house without exception) is made of the same external
surface material. The mission adobe look is preserved in every building,
and it lends a pleasing visual serenity to the population carpet. Not that
Santa Fe is crowded ... but in many other places you can see where the
land has been conformed to the people. Here it appears the opposite.
Crossing the Rio Grande,
brown and muddy even this far from Texas, the road climbs toward the plateau
on which sits Los Alamos. What wonderful roads switch through the ponderosa
and quickly gain more altitude from the already high base of Santa Fe (over
5000 feet) than seems possible. The air begins to feel thin, and the K75
idles poorly without its high altitude plug at nearly 9,000 feet.
The 25 or so people who
breakfasted at Centaur did not ride as a group. Actually, I don't know
what they did, because I missed the departure getting gas. During my ride
I had the misfortune to fall in behind and follow a pair of potatoes who
were not part of our group. I don't often ride with potatoes, so this was
an opportunity to observe them. Not much ground clearance. Riders counterleaning
(not countersteering, actually leaning opposite the curve) on every corner.
Very fast in the short straight, followed by heavy breaking. And probably
because of the altitude, someone in front of me was running overly rich.
Peeee-uw. Enough. I dropped back.
We all arrived at the lunch
spot hungry. Well,,, ready to eat anyway. Brian had the grill going and
again the nose outdid the GPS in finding the spot. Got a bunch of digital
pictures which will post when I get home. So, I ride 1,350 miles for lunch.
Was it worth it? Of course! (But prize for long distance went to someone
from Colorado who took 2300 miles to cover 500 miles to get there. I gotta
get seriously lost next year. :)
Passing through Los Alamos
on the way down the plateau I noticed street names for local items of note.
These street names themselves would have probably been security violations
55 years ago. The intersection of Oppenheimer and Trinity was thought provoking.
Then to show how our culture is changing, not much further down the highway
was one of those "trash picked up by" signs announcing The Lady of The
Woods (Wiccan).
Well, an early stop tonight. Tomorrow Taos, then Chama, Shiprock, and
???
The Lunch is over. The Wander continues.
FuelPlus 133 miles, 3:13 hrs engine, 42 mph
almost Santa Fe US285 NM4 NM502 Español
New Mexico backroads are why I ride a motorcycle.
It is so wonderful to "find"
roads that have been there all along. And to find them on a sunny Sunday,
find them free of traffic, find them in good repair, and find them full
of curves, is to find them truly enjoyable. I "found" some incredible roads
today ... but much of northern New Mexico is like that. Instead of putting
up the main route from Santa Fe to Taos, I let Street Atlas select a 'scenic'
route from Espanola. It chose NM 76 and a series of two lane back roads
that followed the ridge of a bluff, then curved through a river valley,
coming in from the southeast. NM 76 is a road to remember. And I will!
The reason for going through
Taos (I never take the most direct route anyway :) was to retrace another
road I "found" about 7 years ago when I wandered down from the Four Corners
area. Listen up here! If you EVER find yourself in northwest New Mexico,
you *must* take US Route 64 from Farmington to Taos ... or from Taos to
Farmington. It has some of the most delicious back to back 180 degree 70
mph sweepers that I've found in the USofA. I would rate this in the category
of the famous LoLo Pass route. It is definitely on my short list of favorites.
Pay attention to the weather if you do this, because between Chama and
Taos the road climbs through 10,200 feet. Storms get nasty quickly there.
And don't be tempted to
do any of this in the dark. Even if you miss all the deer and sheep that
graze on the road, you will also miss the fabulous little Rio Grande Gorge
ten miles west of Taos. The high plateau is nearly flat there, then suddenly
there is a 650 foot drop straight to the river. The bridge over it is reputed
to be the second highest (water to road) in the US highway system. Anyone
want to guess the highest?
One more Taos tip. My favorite
breakfast spot is Michael's Kitchen and Bakery just north of town center
on Route 64. Today's belly weight was some huge red (raspberry?) gooey
pecan roll. Their omelettes are too big for me on a serious riding day
...
One last thing to mention
about backroads. Something that is common in the west is nearly unknown
to easterners (like me before I moved west). There are a lot of dips where
the road passes through a drainage culvert. These unimposing little gullies
fill rapidly almost beyond imagination with the slightest rain. I passed
through one that had a trickle of water dribbling across the road - and
around a car that had tried to make it through after yesterday's afternoon
thunderstorm. Or so the tow truck driver said as I waited to avoid riding
through the mud "plowed" around the car.
Just north of Taos, Route 64 turns west. That was a turning point for me emotionally, too. In every trip there comes a moment or a place where suddenly you realize you are "heading home". Some look forward to this, others ignore it. True, as Yogi Berra would say, the trip ain't over till its over. But turning home turns my thoughts to the home that is no more. There is no little one waiting as there used to be - one for whose happiness at my arrival was reason enough to return. But return we must, though with this turn in the road comes a tear of remembrance. - - - When you are done reading this, take a moment to go hug someone who is special, be they two legged, four legged, furred, feathered or family.
Earlier I mentioned the Rio
gorge. If you go that way, slow down a couple of miles west of the river
and be amused by the "Mad Max" houses. There is an entire community of
energy efficient houses buried in the terrain. They face south, have windmills
on top, plus solar water panels, plus solar electric panels, plus turrets
and "designs" that make them look like the Australian fortress in the Mad
Max movies.
What is it about Texan pickups
that they can't stay on the road proper? When you take a pickup license
road test in Texas, does the inspector drive beside you in the 'real' lane
to watch how you drive on the shoulder? This practice seems to be common
only in Texas, but they take it with them ... today I did not want to pass
the Texas pickup because I was going fast enough and enjoying the road.
He insisted on driving on the shoulder for several miles (we're talking
65 mph, here folks). Finally I could not stand the gravel being spit by
the right tires any more. Either these guys don't realize what they are
causing - or that's the reason Texas trucks have a lone star pattern in
their windshield.
When US 64 climbed high,
I noticed the deciduous trees above 9,500 feet hadn't wakened yet. Do trees
even know there is a winter, or is it just magic that it is always warm
when they awake? The evergreens must talk to them about winter, no? Or
do not all trees speak a common language?
Many people automatically
think "stereotyping" is bad. Like anything, it can be misused to prove
a bias or prejudice, but you know stereotyping is rightly the collection
of common - if not conclusive - observations. It is stereotyping to say
cows are brown. Many are, some are not, but we accept it as understandable.
How now brown cow. So it is that I made stereotypical conclusions observing
bikes on the road today. In the show off areas of the cities there were
all forms and all brands of bikes. (Although there were an over representation
of ape hangers ... bikes with seats so low some of them needed palm pegs
to rest their hands without dragging knuckles on the ground :) Out on the
road, however, I saw only stereotypes. Counted three separate clusters
of Harleys parked beside a self-proclaimed Cowboy Bar (remember, this is
noon-ish Sunday). Counted six immaculate Gold Wings (all with trailers)
parked beside the BBQ joint at the north edge of town. Saw a total of about
a dozen other bikes "out there", being ridden, packed and travelling. Ten
were BMW, one Yamaha Venture, and one I didn't catch. BMW uses the advertising
line of "adventure touring". It's working.
Quick observations: Shiprock
has food. Five or so years ago I came through there expecting to gas and
eat ... it is an Indian reservation "town" where the population is spread
over a wide geographic area - but there was only one gas station and no
place open to eat. Now they've joined corporate chain America. Burgers,
fried chicken, and even Chihuahua Chow (Taco Bell).
Picked up a nasty headwind
on the Navajo Mesa. After having carefully calculated being able to ride
my current tank to the end of the day, I watched the FuelPlus miles remaining
drop from 169 to 127 in the span of 10 road miles. If you have a K bike
and do not have a FuelPlus, you are foolish not to be fuelish. It saved
me by "suggesting" I stop for more before the last 90 mile dry stretch.
A chicken and egg conundrum:
near Kayenta, Arizona is the Peabody Western Coal Company. (Appalachian
natives and bluegrass fans will recognize that name.) Mr. Peabody's coal
train is electrified here, and it's sole purpose is to carry the coal to
the Navajo Power plant near Page ... so the coal can be used to generate
the electricity that among other things powers the train. So, idle mind
wonders: How did they start this self feeding cycle?
Approaching Page I saw a
road sign "Page 10". I didn't see any more, but I don't doubt that if there
ever was one that said "Page 2" some Paul Harvey fan somewhere is happy
now.
Finally, I ended up in Page
looking for a motel. After cruising through town twice, I decide to be
adventurous and try "Uncle Bill's Place" - the sign that said ROOMS $29.
Turns out Uncle Bill rents rooms in what were row houses on a back street
two blocks from the main drag where motels are two to three times that.
My very nice private bedroom is across the hall from the bathroom he said
I had to share with the two young Austrian girls in the other room. Uhhh.
ok. :) :)
(Check out Uncle Bill at
http://www.canyon-country.com/unclebill )
Fuel Plus 494 miles, 8:44 engine, 54 mph average
Espanola NM76 NM75 NM518 NM68 US64 US160 AZ98 Page
About eight or ten years
ago, when motorcycle sales were picking up again in the US as baby boomers
re-entered the market, I remember reading some articles in the fringe press
about how motorcycles can be bad for addictive personalities. Someone coined
the phrase "adrenaline junkies" to describe the go-fast crowd and their
penchant for taking unnecessary chances.
The truth is known to those
of us who have motorcycling in our blood. There is an organic, scientifically
undiscovered, but commonly known variant of adrenaline, called 'motocyclene'.
It is both a stimulant and a relaxant, but it is a transient chemical -
only the lack of which can be physically observed. Some of us who have
it are M+, some of us are M- ... that doesn't mean "infected", it is more
like blood type positive or negative.
M+ motocyclene sufferers
are charged by riding. They get thrilled and filled by their time in the
saddle, and when they end their ride their motocyclene receptors are happy.
M- motocyclene consumers start out pent up in the frustration of not leaning/accelerating/swooping
until they release that energy in the saddle. They end their ride calmed
in spirit and renewed by having escaped into their own world for a while.
Let's face it, riding is
a constant stream of instant interpretation challenges, and yes, adrenaline
is a frequent friend, but adrenaline rushes leave you tired when they pass.
Motocyclene dependent personalities end a ride feeling better - even if
they are tired.
I left Page in a brilliant
crisp desert morning. People write trite phrases about 'desert color',
but up close the sensuality of color profusion is really quite vibrant.
Purple grasses at the edge of the road. Iridescent orange blossoms on lilly-bell
flowers. Glowing blue stars on shrub bushes. And I haven't even mentioned
the multihued sand cliffs or the several blues in the sky. If this were
a digital image, a color count would be in the millions.
Unfortunately, I couldn't
really concentrate on the colors. I was involved in a game of death-squirrel
slalom. As I dropped off the Mesa to the Colorado River, there were hundreds
of ground squirrels darting across the road. The MSF should consider using
them in swerve/avoidance training. Somehow I managed to keep my tires clean,
but at least one made it clear between the front and back tire.
The river plain immediately
north of the Grand Canyon is about 4,500 feet elevation. As you travel
toward the north rim, the road suddenly rises to 7,900 feet in less than
10 miles. This area is a prime example of 'changing conditions'. I left
Marble Canyon in sunshine at about 90 degrees temperature. I pulled into
Jacob Lake half an hour later *in* the clouds at 45 degrees. But although
this may sound uncomfortable to non-riders and may not even be noticeable
to someone in a car, it is part of the tactile experience every rider looks
back on.
As I got off the bike I
heard a loud PLOP and tuned to see a pile of while goop on the seat. Thinking
$@$# birds, it suddenly occurred to me that the goop was melting. Then
another PLOP, then more ... I was in a snowball storm. Not a snow storm,
not hail! The snow was falling in clumped balls about the size of bubble
gum. Weirdest precip I've ever seen. Fifty miles later I was sweating again.
In previous writings I mentioned
"rain veils" - those clearly delineated curtains of precipitation that
drift down from clouds which have been compressed by the mountains, but
each cloud is a distinctly separate source of moisture. Not only did I
see them again today, but I was riding along side one that was moving in
the same direction I was. When the road veered slightly left, I was in
the (light) rain. Veer right, dry. I could almost reach out at stick my
hand into the shower.
The vast wide spaces of the
high plains have been good for the voices. They all have a place to go,
and the racket isn't quite so cacophonous. (Best comment I've seen on this
was a signature from someone on the IBMWR: "Are the voices in my head too
loud for you to?") All of the voices and I were amused, though, as we approached
Colorado City, Arizona. Nowhere near Colorado, but sharing the border with
Utah. Have you noticed the cutesy names in many western states that combine
two state names? Texarkana is perhaps the best known, but there is also
Calneva, Texhoma, Texico, and others. So why isn't Colorado City called
Utizona? Or better yet ... if there were a city near Four Corners, would
it be Ari-col-uta-mex or Zona-rado-tah-xico? Thinking back to circling
Needles ... the only name for a city across *that* border would be Haystack.
Gad, riding the desert can be quizzical.
My K75 turned 54,000 miles
and feels stronger and smoother than it did when first broken in. The last
tune up at BMW Marin did something magical. I'm getting better mileage
even in the high altitudes, averaging 47-50 mpg cruising at 70, and I saw
240 miles on one tank when I was taking it easy.
Quick observations: Southern
Utah has the most amazing sandstone cliff structures. From a distance they
are painted in colors, but up close they look like giant sandcastles ...
one almost looks around for the pail and shovel.
Interstates are sometimes
a necessity, although droning in a straight line at 85 (to keep _with_
traffic) is as exciting as having a package of corn for dinner. But if
you have to do it, I can't think of a more scenic 50 miles than I15 south
of St. George, Utah, through the Virgin River Canyon.
There were at least a dozen
F16 jets practicing out of Nellis as I rode through Lost Wages (Las Vegas).
Full afterburners. Loud enough to drown out the throttle tuners in the
next lane (bikers who sit at a light and rev the engine constantly).
GPS and StreetAtlas have
quite a sense of humor. There is no No. Lamb street off of Exit 50 no matter
what their maps say ... oh, what a minute, "N0 Lamb"? Lucky for me I still
know how to navigate by turning around.
Time for me to backtrack
and be fair to the stereotypes I mentioned yesterday. Today in the tourist
destination areas of the Grand Canyon I saw "out there" 2 GoldWings, 1
Harley dresser, 1 FJ, and even a Honda Pacific Coast. And 6 BMWs.
Sadly, as I was walking
to the restaurant for dinner, I saw a fellow picking up a R11R in the one
intersection in Beatty. He's ok. He grabbed too much brake at the stoplight
and lost it in a patch of gravel. Be
careful friends.
FuelPlus 416 miles, 6:55 hrs engine, 61 mph average
Page US89 US89A AZ389 UT59 UT9 I15 (cross Las Vegas) US95 Beatty
Oh, yeah, I almost forgot. Remember the Austrian girls? They were very impressed that I would ride a Bay-Emm-Vey so far from 'civilized cities' in this country. Karla and Gerta both want to say Guten Tag! to everyone ... next time I have to learn how to say "I'll wash your back and you wash mine" in German.
To me, travelling is an art,
not a product. If all you want is to get from here to there, take a bus,
which you can do with your eyes closed and enjoy the aroma of disinfectant-infused
plastic. If you want to get yourself there by private vehicle, you at least
have to have your eyes open. Getting yourself there by motorcycle, you
have to have your eyes, ears, nose, and that biggest organ of all - your
mind open.
It surprises me how some
things can register on the senses in passing, but not really be interpreted
unless you are open to wonder. Like when passing two green fields in the
Fish Lake Valley, on the border of Nevada and California. Both fields looked
like 'grass', but as the wind changed, I got a distinctly different smell
from them. Wondering (and not being a farm boy), I stopped to ask the workers
who were pressing the cuttings into huge breadloaf shaped bales. One field
was alfalfa and the other was spring hay. Nice to know it wasn't just my
imagination.
As I said, travelling is
an art, but being a mostly left-brained individual I have little or no
artistic talent. My forte is analyzing, categorizing, and noting detail.
Thank you to those who have enjoyed reading these rolling reports, but
they are just reflected reminiscence of the same experiences you would
encounter on the same trip. If you want art in writing ... read Warren
Harhay! (It would be interesting for Warren and I to ride together for
a day, then write. His masterful imagery and my precision road-kill counts
of the same road might paint a complementary bookends view.)
I was asked how I remember
so much at the end of a day ... I make 2-3 word notes on a small pad each
time I stop, to be used later as thought triggers. Today's notes:
trinity-trinity, whacking country, massage mirage, 4 BMWs, gas small towns,
120 whoopde, return path, 13 ACEs, walker, our little Kansas. Is that enough
to tell the story? ... perhaps if you had been there, so I'd better flesh
it out.
A couple of days ago I mentioned
passing the intersection of Trinity in Los Alamos. Yesterday I passed the
Trinity test site in Nevada. Somehow the thought was chilling. Did I follow
the same path as the first atomic bomb was transported? The Trinity test
site is open to the public once (or twice?) a year, I think in the Fall.
I'd like to visit it sometime ... and if anyone has been there I'd appreciate
hearing about it.
North of Beatty, Nevada,
US95 disappears into the infinite distance. There is nothing but nothing
and the tendency is for speed limits to be neither observed nor enforced.
This is what the Long Distance Riders refer to as "whacking country", where
you can whack open the throttle and make great time to the next checkpoint.
Tempted, I resisted for two reasons. First, I'm here to observe and whacking
speed doesn't let you distinguish between that massive crow inspecting
road kill and a truck tire shred ... they're just both blurred black objects
to avoid. Second, my calculation shows 212 miles between Beatty and Lee
Vining and no towns with gas if I take the 'side route'. The K75 is not
set up for aux fuel, so: whack not, walk not.
This is only May, but the
heat in the flat pan desert is already enough to cause mirages on the road.
They appear at each slight rise ahead on a straightaway. I was mentally
playing with each mirage, gauging the distance at which it would dissolve,
when there appeared to be a sign sitting in the middle of a mirage. The
sign said 'massage'. A massage mirage? No, the 'puddle' evaporated, but
the sign stayed. Ah, of course, this is Nevada. Welcome to Angel's Ladies
Brothel. Wondering (and again, not being a farm boy :), I stopped to ask
questions. HEY! Remember what I said about an open mind! (Geez, the things
I do for literary research.) Suffice it to say even a mirage is out of
my price range, but the beauty of the desert flowers is certainly something
to behold. And yes, they have a web site if ya just gotta know: http://www.angelsladiesbrothel.com
The touring brand disparity continues.
In the deep desert, I saw 4 bikes, again all only BMWs. But on US395
near Bridgeport, there was a motorcycle multiplicity mirage, or so it seemed.
I counted on the road 13 identically colored Honda ACEs. Either some local
dealer is mighty persuasive on this model, or there was a Honda Happening
Hereabouts.
I mentioned the 212 miles
between gas ... There has always been sparse coverage in the wide open
west, heck 50 miles between *houses*, let alone towns, is not uncommon.
But since the federal leaking-tank rules finally clamped shut last year,
there are a lot of small towns that lost their one pump. Benton was my
only hope had I not planned my gas flow. Benton was dry. In truth, gas
availability is one of the reasons why smaller bikes and some brands never
make it to the American outback. DON'T trust your AAA map, mapping software
data, or GPS exit info. In fact, don't even trust a local resident who
says 'sure, they got gas' unless he or she can tell you what brand the
station is. The N-DOT highway flag guy said he was sure they had some kinda
gas at "Sopers" on US6. Maybe from the beans in the restaurant, but that's
all. Thank you again, FuelPlus. With it I knew exactly how long until I
became buzzard bait. The reserve warning light clicked on 25 miles out
of Lee Vining, with 49 miles remaining on the FuelPlus.
Some of us are weird about
not strafing the same road twice (a phrase from Chuck Yeager). I hate to
take the same road on a return trip ... too many years of doing laps on
running tracks, I guess. So for the climb across the Sierra this time I
took Monitor Pass and CA4. The stretch of US395 between Bridgeport and
Coleville dances with the Walker River and is a truly great ride. You can't
miss choosing any of the passes (although Tioga through Yosemite is still
closed), but you shouldn't miss this segment of US395 if you do any of
them.
Do you remember when you
were a kid how roads seemed to have "whoop de whoops" as they rose and
dropped following the terrain contours? Your stomach would fall as you
sailed over the short crest and dove into the dip. If you love that feeling,
one more "don't miss" road is CA120 east of US395. About 20 miles of serious
whoops, and exquisite views of Mono Lake too.
Finally, drifting down toward
the foothills and the valley, I cross again from winter to spring. On Ebbett's
Pass, like Sonora, the snow is still yards deep, the lakes still have a
foot of ice so aqua in color it looks like there is a light inside. 40
degrees. Then alpine meadow. Then pine forest. Then leaf forest. Then the
rolling flats of the central valley. I think: our little Kansas -
already dry golden prairie grass waving in the sun. 89 degrees. The delta.
The coastal range. The end of the continent. Home.
Where do we go next?
FuelPlus: 513 miles, 9:47 hrs engine, 53 mph average
GPS Trip total: 2,763 miles, 47:08 hrs travel, 58.6 mph
average
Beatty US95 NV266/CA266 NV264 US6 CA120 US395 CA89 CA4 ... local roads
Sam Lepore, San Francisco
________________
Wanderlust Rider