A Life Goal Achieved

The hotel's breakfast was great - I loaded up on biscuits and gravy and bacon, and took a banana for the road. As I was packing up the bike, a man stopped to ask me how I liked it - he had a wee-Strom and loved it. I think he wanted to talk more, but he kept glancing nervously at the two women he'd been walking with, who were quickly disappearing down the parking lot, and it wasn't long before he said a hurried goodbye and trotted after them.

The morning was cloudy, chilly and damp. A light mist floated down and settled on my skin as I did up the bungee cords, making me shiver. I put on my fleece-lined leggings under my jeans, and my wool sweater and sleeveless hoodie under my riding jacket. Even with all that, I had to stop 30 miles into the ride to add the liner to my jacket. The change in weather was startling but not unwelcome.

At the first glimpse of ocean from the road, I dove into a sandy pullout and came to a stop. The sight marked the official completion of a goal I think I stated for the first time at age 16: to ride coast to coast on a motorcycle. I hadn't done it all at once, taking instead many months, an extended stop in Houston, and two motorcycles to do it. But I'd done it, at long last. The previous days' trials in the desert made it even sweeter. When the road is long, ugly, and treacherous, the end is so beautiful.

Goal: checked.

But it wasn't the end, of course, just a wonderful milestone. I rode a little bit of route 1 along the ocean, but there were campers lined up along the shoulder and dogs and children running everywhere. I was afraid to run any of them over, so I popped up onto 101.

The road turned mountainous for a while. The temperature rose and dropped and rose again. The clouds cleared, releasing the sun and showing me why California is called the Golden State.

My biker friend Amber from Beaumont saw that I was heading up the coast and suggested a stop at Old West Cinnamon Rolls in Pismo. It was 120 miles from Port Heuneme, so I decided to make it my first break for the day. An almond cinnamon roll and a cup of coffee while watching the town go by were a nice respite from the road.

After Pismo, the road turned inland and the temperature soared. I stopped at a random gas station to change out of my warm layers and chatted briefly with a couple on a 1988 BMW.

In the late afternoon I pulled up in front of Rogue's stepbrother Jesse's house in Benicia. He had messaged me on my first traveling day and told me I was welcome to stay even though Rogue couldn't come. I thought it might be a little awkward staying with a stranger, but it wasn't at all. Jesse and his two little kids were awesome, and it turned out I did know someone in the house - his mother Sue was visiting. They made a stirfry and we sat on the back patio and ate dinner and drank wine.

View from Jesse's porch

I stepped outside in the late evening to grab my clothing off the bike. As I walked out the door, I paused - something wasn't right. It felt like I was still indoors. That's when I realized how accustomed I've become to Houston weather. If it's not at least 80° and as humid as a pool room, I must be indoors. I laughed at myself, then stood outside for a few minutes and enjoyed the crisp weather.

Fountain Hills to Los Angeles

Friday morning I woke in a state of confusion. What was this strange room? Where was I? Had I gone to Dallas? No, that didn't seem right. Was I...on a bike trip. At Dawn's. In Arizona. About to spend another grueling day in the desert. I wished I could go back to sleep.

When I stepped outside, I was surprised to find the air very pleasant. I grabbed my flip flops and took a walk down the hillside into the desert, picking my way carefully among the rocks and the thorns and the spikes. I'd never seen a live saguaro until the day before, and I wanted to get up close and personal.

When I returned to the kitchen, Dawn and Virginia had made coffee. We ate breakfast on the back porch with the pups and watched the sun creep over the house and down the hill. When I started to feel myself sweating again, I put my things on the bike and rolled out.

The heat was immediate this time. I don't mind hot weather riding - I was comfortable crossing Kansas when it was 95, and I've become accustomed to daily commutes around Houston. But the desert was a new animal. Mile after mile after endless mile of dust and rocks, scorching sun and blistering asphalt chipped away at my resolve. Every stop ended with me soaking my face cloth in a sink and then dumping a bottle of water down my jacket. In twenty miles it was all dry again.

I did have one bright moment. Somewhere in New Mexico I'd come across a biker stopped on the shoulder, hiding in what little shade he could find, and I'd stopped to see if he needed help. Walt had run out of gas but help was on the way, so we chatted for a few minutes and said maybe we'd see each other again on our mutual way toward LA. Making my way along in the desert the next day, I saw a blue BMW merging onto the highway ahead of me and realized it was Walt. We waved to each other and then were separated by traffic, but it left me with a smile.

At Chiriaco Summit, I stopped to cool off. I didn't need gas, but my head was starting to swim. The scenery never changed and the heat was unbearable. I couldn't pour enough water on myself to control my body temperature. My helmet had ceased to be a hiding space and instead become an oven in which to roast my brain.

At the counter in the cafe I ordered a lemonade, then tried to decide whether it was smarter to eat or not to eat. The decision was overwhelming. I stared at the menu for way too long and tried not to cry.

How much longer would I be out here? I couldn't look; there was no cell service and the WiFi didn't work. I didn't know how many miles I had gone already. I thought about my plan to find a camping place that night and just couldn't do it. I decided it would be a hotel night, for the sake of my sanity. The desert was so damn big, and I'd failed to account for it properly in my planning.

I ordered a soup and salad, ate less than half, and went on my way again. The next sign said I was 140 miles from Los Angeles. I stopped again 30 miles later to get gas, hoping it would be my last desert stop.

It was. We pounded on for another 80 or so miles, and then the road started to climb small hills and stopped being completely straight. Then traffic came to a standstill.

I took a deep breath, holding on carefully to my patience, hoping whatever was wrong wouldn't last. It was much too hot to be sitting still on top of a hot engine.

That's when the first lane splitter sailed past me. I swear the rider stared at me in puzzlement as they went by, though of course I couldn't see through the helmet. That shit's legal here.

I jumped into the breakdown lane and rolled past all the cars. I do it occasionally in Houston, another place where it's too damn hot to sit still on a motorcycle, but it's with the knowledge that any cop who catches me will have something angry to say. In California, I was home free. The traffic jam disappeared in my side mirror in no time.

Over the crest of a hill, the temperature dropped abruptly, and I started to see signs of civilization. I wondered how hot it still was; it felt almost chilly. When I passed a thermometer sign that said 91°, I was surprised at how cold that felt.

I stopped for gas in an eastern suburb of LA and made myself a hotel reservation in the Ventura area. The last hour of the ride was pleasant - the road wound around the base of the hills, and the scenery was full of trees and flowers and blue sky. Eventually the highway-scape gave way to farmland, and I realized I was driving through strawberry fields. The air smelled heavenly.

I pulled into the portico at the Holiday Inn Express in Port Heuneme as the sun was brushing the horizon. I was actually cold, and I could smell my sweaty jacket even with my helmet still on. It was past time for a shower. I'd gotten a good deal on a room from Priceline, my favorite booking site, and was stunned when I walked in - I had a whole suite to myself. I enjoyed a shower in the beautiful bathroom and then walked across the street to a Thai restaurant, where I had a wonderful if lonely dinner.

Las Cruces to Fountain Hills

Morning in Las Cruces was surprisingly pleasant - 75° and clear, with a beautiful view of the desert. Unfortunately I woke with a nasty cough, for which I blamed the air conditioning.

The rest of the day was just a constant push through the ever-increasing heat. I stopped at Picacho Peak for a break, and a guy stopped to ask which direction I was headed.

"Toward Phoenix," I told him.

"It'll be 115 by the time you get there," he assured me, and followed it up with, "I never ride during the day."

"I see why," I said. I dumped a bottle of water down my jacket before riding out again. I had already learned to tie a bandanna over my face to keep the dust out of my lungs, even under the full face helmet. Strangely, the hotter it got, the more gear I put on. Correct application of layers actually protects from the heat, not just the cold.

By the time I pulled into Dawn's driveway in Fountain Hills, it was 107°, and I don't think I could have gone much farther. I sat in her kitchen and sucked down three glasses of water while we caught up.

Eventually I took a shower, and then Virginia and Kelly came over. Dawn made chicken parmesan for dinner, and I had finally cooled down enough to be hungry. I followed Kelly outside to see her new Mini Cooper, which was white and striped with pink and purple racing decals. She encouraged me to sit in it to prove that I would in fact fit. It was much more spacious than I expected.

Cooper, Dawn's spaniel

On the way back inside, I stepped on something sharp on the stairs. Kelly told me that everything in the desert is sharp, and I made a mental note to wear shoes at all times.

Houston to Las Cruces

On Wednesday morning, I took off alone. I don't feel guilty about it, because if I were in Rogue's place, I would've insisted that she go. But I do feel bad for her predicament, and I'm sad to be traveling alone again. It's more fun with a friend.

After a quick stop at Stubb's, where the windscreen extension that I wanted didn't fit and so I bought nothing, I got on I10 and went. My whole day would be on I10 - hell, my next three whole days would be on I10 - so I didn't need directions or to pay attention to anything but traffic.

Storm clouds fretted on the horizon but no rain appeared, and the first 250 miles were pleasantly cloudy and cool. That, of course, didn't last - it is the south in the height of summer. The sun came out around San Antonio and the heat started to climb. The air dried out as sub-tropical Houston gave way to desert. By the time I reached Fort Stockton, it was 104°.

The new bike turned out to be very comfortable in spite of the windshield being too short (I'm tall enough that even the touring shield doesn't push the wind over my head). For some reason the miles between 300 and 400 were the hardest, and then I settled in and felt okay.

There were mountains on the horizon as I rode, but they never seemed to come any closer. There were also clouds, and I started to hope it would rain. Coming out of one gas stop the storm looked particularly promising. I saw what I though was a wall of rain crossing the highway, but when I drove through it, it wasn't wet. I realized it was a dust storm. There were some impressive forks of lightning and a few fat drops of rain, but then it stopped and didn't return.

I watched the sun set just east of El Paso. Even though it was past dark, the temperature rose again as I drove through the city. Then on the other side, it dropped suddenly. I pulled into the Super 8 in Las Cruces around 9:30 local time. I pounded out 824 miles in 13.5 hours. My projection had been 16 hours.

I almost sent an "I'm so tired" text out of habit, and then realized that for all the riding I had just done, I actually felt great. Nothing hurt that much. I didn't feel like I was about to keel over. I made my gas-station ramen with the hotel's coffee maker, stuffed my face, and fell asleep.

Rogue and Zee Are Broken

It was Tuesday afternoon and I was rolling my underwear into packable shapes when my phone rang. Rogue had gone out to get a shirt for the trip, and was probably calling to see if I'd remembered what I wanted from the store while she was in it. We were set to leave at 6am.

"Hello?"

"I crashed," came Rogue's shaky voice over the phone. "I think I broke my collarbone."

I dropped the underwear on the floor. "Where are you?" She gave me directions, and I shoved my boots on and ran outside. It was raining, but not too hard to ride. I took off for Westheimer and promptly got lost. Rogue knows that section of town a lot better than I do.

After some side-of-freeway texting, interrogation of my GPS, and lane-splitting down the 610 feeder, I found Rogue in the back of a police car in the parking lot of a hotel. Zee had been pulled from the street by some good Samaritans, and the cop was willing to drive her to urgent care.

The story as I understand it is that someone stopped suddenly in front of her, because that's what Houston drivers are good at. When she tried to stop, the bike lost traction in the rain, started to slide, regained traction too late, and threw her off. Her knee, elbow, helmet, and bike all show the marks.

Fortunately, the helmet did its job and her head was uninjured. Her collarbone didn't fare so well, though. An x-ray confirmed her fear of a fractured clavicle, and she walked out of urgent care with her arm in a sling.

Zee ran and rolled but I didn't trust her in Houston traffic, so we left her at the hotel for the night. What was supposed to be a going-away party at the house became a get-well-soon party. Rogue insisted that I should continue on the trip without her, and I didn't protest too much - she'll have more peace and space to heal without me there, and I know there are plenty of people in the house who will help her out if she needs anything.

Growing Pains

The new bike was missing all the awesome farkles I used to have on Bee - the extended windshield, storm guards, engine bars, highway pegs, electronics...and luggage.

I installed a new 12-volt charging port and a connector for my heated vest and replaced the windshield with a Puig touring screen; those were the easy parts. I couldn't afford engine bars so I started looking for highway pegs that would fit on the frame.

Everything I could find cost more than I was willing to pay, but when I searched for '1.5" bar mount' on eBay, an interesting solution appeared: a set of light mounts for off-road vehicles. They looked like highway pegs, so I bought them as an experiment. They did exactly what I hoped.

Since the bike has a luggage compartment where the gas tank would normally go, no one actually makes a tank bag for it. I removed the tank foot from my Ion bag, got out some bungees, and got creative.

I modified this setup later so it's no longer pulling on the zippers. It works well enough.

I saved the aluminum Zega panniers from Bee, but can't get replacement mounting rails until the end of July. (Thanks a lot, Touratech.) So I pulled out the dry bags and a mess of bungees and a cargo net.

All of this would be fine if the gas filler wasn't located under the passenger seat. I get gas as many as eight times a day depending on my milage. This happens every. Single. Time.

A Sad Goodbye to Bee

The problems with Bumblebee continued to get worse. When we arrived in Houston, we went straight to British USA so they could replace the fork seal that mysteriously started leaking again a month after I replaced it the first time. That plus a new front tire cost me $500.

Less than a month later, she began to have a starting problem, and in under 24 hours had stranded me in Pasadena. I had a passerby give me a push through a long parking lot to try to bump the engine, but after he nearly crashed me by pushing on one side of the bike, the engine wouldn't go. I had her towed ($180) up to Stubbs, who told me they didn't have the necessary diagnostic tools to troubleshoot her. Rogue picked me up and then brought me back with the jump-starting kit, and we limped her to British.

She was there for two weeks waiting for parts, and another $600 later we rode out with a new rectifier and stator. The auxiliary lights put on an obnoxious strobe show with the new hardware installed, and I returned to British and asked them to fix it. They poked around and announced that it was a loose connection. I said I could replace that myself, so I went home and replaced all the connections. The strobe show continued.

As long as I had her apart, I decided it was a good time to fix the gas leak, as well. I removed the tank and used JBWeld to epoxy every possible crevice, let it cure for the recommended 24 hours, and put her back together. Then I rode out to Bandera to go to a friend's wedding, and when I put the first full tank of gas in her, she started leaking again.

The oil leak was continuing in steady fashion, too. Every time the light came on I added a quart, and occasionally I wiped off the engine. Full Throttle had told me it was the valve cover gasket. And of course there was that mysterious case of metal shavings in the oil that I'd been ignoring since January...

I took her for an overdue oil change at Stubbs, and while I was there I inquired about a trade-in value. It wasn't quite time yet, but it would be good information to have.

The mechanic took his sweet time going over her, and when I got the report, it sounded like this: "Are you actually riding this? 'Cause we're concerned for your safety." Apparently all the seals in the engine were dried and cracking, and it was only a matter of time before she ejected all her oil.

I poked through the used bike lot and test drove a KLR650. It felt lazy, and the knobby dirt tires wouldn't lend themselves well to the kind of riding I do. "I don't love it," I told Justin, the salesman. "I want to love it."

I drove a Versys, Rogue's dream bike - it also felt sluggish, both in the throttle response and in the cornering. One round of the parking lot and I shook my head and put it back. On the showroom floor, I found a brand new 2015 black Honda NC700X. I'd done some reading on the CB500 and NC700 (sister styles of bike) and decided to take it for a spin.

It was on. I forced myself to park after several circles of the track-like area in the back of the parking lot. It was light, it was responsive, it was quiet, it was beautiful. They offered me $2500 on trade-in for Bee, Honda made a $700 down payment on my behalf from their "seasonal kick-starter" fund, and I signed my life over to Honda financing for the rest. This is how one goes in for an oil change comes out with a new motorcycle.

Bee on the left, unnamed NC700X in the front

I gave Bee a hug (and uninstalled a few accessories) before riding away. She was really fun while she lasted, and I'll miss the face-melting acceleration and high suspension. But I won't miss the constant problems.