Wendover to Denver

Tuesday started even earlier than Monday, since I'd added 250 miles to the agenda by staying in Wendover. I was up at 5am and had wheels rolling by 6am. A beautiful sunrise over the flats was a great start to the day.

I was fighting through traffic around Salt Lake City by 8am and almost crashed when the cars in front of me stopped dead from 70mph. I managed to dodge into the HOV lane and escape. The weather was beautiful and so were the lakes scattered along the road.

Close to midday I met up with I70 and took a break. Several other bikers were also hanging around the gas station, and I went to chat with one who had parked nearby. I'd parted company just hours earlier with Jon, world-touring rider from Britain and leader of motorcycle tours, and now found myself speaking to John, world-touring rider from New Zealand and renter of motorcycles to tourists. I had to smile at the irony. One day I'll join their ranks by riding outside my own country.

The ride into Colorado was warm, scenic, and uneventful. I'd planned a gas stop at exit 142 on the western slope, in the town of Palisade. When I took the exit and saw a sign for Meadery of the Rockies I added a stop. I ended up chatting with a couple who had lived all over the country and done some motorcycle touring in the west, and got a camping recommendation from the woman working at the meadery. The mead was quite good as well, and I bought a bottle to bring to Steve and Ann.

It was warm in Palisade, so I continued on wearing my jeans and armored jacket without the liner. By the time we topped 10,600 feet at the peak of Vail Pass, I was freezing. I like to combine the purposes of my stops, though, and there was no gas in Vail or East Vail, so I rode on. The highway was busy and traffic was flying even though the curves were tight, and my attention was drawn by a loaded tractor trailer doing 85mph and passing cars and other trucks. Signs placed at regular intervals warned of brake failure, and the whole situation concerned me. I stopped at Copper Mountain, where I paid $3.22/gallon for 85 octane and more than $6 for a spinach and feta croissant. Somehow I thought that a gas station in the summertime would cost less than a ski resort in the wintertime, but obviously not.

A few rain squalls near the bottom of the eastern slope soaked my jeans and gloves, but I only had 30 miles to go and decided to wait it out. The rain stopped and started and stopped and started, and was gone before I got on 470. I showed up at Steve and Ann's perfectly dry, like it had never happened.

Winnemucca to Wendover

We were up and out early on Monday. Jon told me that early is not usually in his plans, but was a very good sport and didn't complain. We were back on the interstate, but it was pretty highway through desert hills, not the boring, endless drone of I10 that had gotten me across the south. Scotty had told me I'd be riding through the Bonneville Salt Flats and I wanted to stop and see the famous spot where all the speed records have been set.

I opted for lunch when we hit the Utah border, and we ate in another casino, the Montego Bay Resort. The breadth of options in their buffet was amazing, and the desserts were even better.

"I don't want to lose my riding buddy," Jon said. "I'm really looking forward to my mate showing up now." (A friend of his from back home in the UK is coming to the US in a couple of weeks to ride with him before they both go home.)

"I don't either," I said. I'd realized back in Texas that traveling alone is no longer my favorite option, and Jon and I were getting along like a house on fire. Taking off alone again just didn't feel right.

"So get a room here tonight and then go to Denver tomorrow," he said. The idea had already occurred to me and didn't need selling.

The salt flats were less than ten minutes from town. I'd expected them to be smooth, since you can't set a speed record on a bumpy surface, but they were actually so lumpy I couldn't exceed 30mph. So much for winding it up. A local told us later that unusual weather had caused the surface imperfections. I tootled along to the barrier, then took some pictures. We were both dehydrated and blamed our surroundings, and after we'd sunk into the soft, muddy salt at the edge of the dry zone, we went back into town. The bikes were completely caked, so task #1 was to find a car wash and hose them down.

 

When that was done, we grabbed six-packs at the gas station and jumped into the hotel pool to while away the afternoon. When the sun got low, we walked to the Salt Flats Cafe where I had some wonderful pork green chile, and then on to Carmen's Black & White Bar. Jon had found it on Google but been told by a local on his last pass through town that it wasn't a place he wanted to visit. That, of course, just piqued our curiosity.

The bar was right beside a trailer park and looked a little sketchy, but in we went. The inside was much more cozy, and the 4th of July decorations competed for space with an unadorned Christmas tree. A young chocolate lab decided after one sniff that we were his new best friends.

A posse of young rednecks at the other end of the bar had stared at us when we walked in, and if I hadn't had Jon with me, I would've walked right back out. Jon went and made friends with them, though, and we played a few games of pool. One of them in particular was quite friendly and asked Jon a lot of questions about the UK. One, however, started to become agitated when he got beaten at pool, and shortly we decided it was time to vacate the premises. Before we left, one of the guys asked me about the trip, and I ran off a quick list of where I'd been and how I'd met Jon.

"So how do you like it?" he asked. "Riding on the back all that way?"

I snorted. "I don't passenger. You couldn't pay me enough."

"What do you do then?"

"I ride my own!" I answered indignantly, annoyed by his surprise. I showed him a picture of the two bikes together on the salt flats. He didn't seem to know what to make of that.

Bandon to Winnemucca

Sometime late last year, while I was planning the trip that began in January, I was surfing the Triumph Tiger owners group on Facebook and a post caught my eye, made by an Englishman named Jon who was living on his bike in the States. Since I was planning to do the same, I sent him a message and we started chatting. When we hit a low point in the trip and I wasn't sure whether I wanted to continue, I messaged him again and asked for his thoughts. (Jon blogs about his travels at On Your Bike Tours.)

We've been messaging back and forth ever since, and when I mentioned that I was going to Oregon, he pointed out that our paths were probably going to cross. He was on his way south from Alaska, having just completed 49 of his 50 states tour, while I was on my way north. I invited him to stop by the house for dinner, and then Tracy pointed out that she and Carlo were leaving early and he should stay in the open bedroom.

Jon showed up on Friday and seemed to hit it off with the group immediately. Allen and Jon each told me that they found the other one to be very interesting. I love it when my friends become friends.

The six of us (Allen and Julie, Scotty and Danielle, and myself and Jon) went to the Coquille Lighthouse on Saturday and then returned to Edgewaters for lunch. (We'd been disappointed to find on our first visit that the crab mac 'n' cheese was only served at lunchtime.) I was surprised to learn that it was Jon's first experience with mac 'n' cheese, something I consider a dietary staple.

  

The Bozos had stocked the house with liquor when we arrived, making at least two separate trips to the booze barn to get the job done. By Saturday night, we still had a significant amount left, and assigned ourselves to finish it. Scotty, Jon, Allen, and I stayed up and by 1am had found the bottom of every bottle in the house.

I drank at least three pints of water before bed, but Sunday morning was not a good one for me. I was trying to pack up my things so we could leave, but all I could do was sit on the floor and try to keep down the breakfast I hadn't even eaten. I accepted Jon's help bringing my luggage outside.

Fortunately it was a pleasantly chilly morning and the cold air was good for me. Jon had asked if I wanted a riding companion on my way toward Denver, and I said absolutely. By the time we hit our first gas stop less than twenty miles out, I was feeling more like myself.

The riding out of Bandon was glorious. We sailed over hills and twisty road, sometimes shaded by trees and sometimes accompanied by water or meadows. It was so nice to be off the interstate. I'd almost forgotten what it was like to ride pleasant roads, out of the city and off the highway.

At Crater Lake

In the middle of the day we stopped for lunch at a Subway.

"Are you leaving your basha'?" Jon asked me.

"What?"

"Are you leaving your basha' on your bike?"

I squinted in confusion. "My what?"

He gestured at my helmet and I realized he was saying "bash hat." The new phrase went into my vocabulary, and we left our bash hats on our bikes and got sandwiches.

Pulling out into the street afterward, I realized the gas station was a quarter mile north on a southbound road, so I went south. Then I pulled into a parking lot, turned around, and drove north on the southbound road for about ten feet before realizing my mistake. Guess what...turning around doesn't reverse the direction of the road. I turned around again and followed Jon, laughing at myself.

  

I don't usually pre-book my travel. Most of my adventuring has been by the seat of my pants, and it works, but for some reason I had already booked a hotel and a campground between Bandon and Denver. Jon asked me why, and I couldn't remember. But I wanted to stick to the timeline, since my uncle Steve was expecting me in Colorado, so we hauled ass through Oregon into Winnemucca, Nevada. The Sante Fe Inn was very nice, and we took a walk down the street to The Pig. Unfortunately all we could get was enticing BBQ smells, as they'd closed right before we got there, so we kept walking to the Winnemucca Inn, which is a casino and restaurant. I'd call the food perfectly passable.

Bandon, Oregon

The week in Bandon was more of what I'd call vacation than travel. The group had rented a gorgeous house with a view of the ocean, and we walked the beach, drank on the porch, and ate a ridiculous amount of food. One afternoon a few people went horseback riding, and then the rest of us joined them in town. We wandered the shops and then had some excellent seafood at Edgewaters restaurant.

Another day we took a drive to Golden and Silver Falls State Park, where we hiked out to the Golden and then the Silver Falls, respectively. This adventure is better described with pictures.

Ichabod, who was nicknamed Dichabod after
barking me awake early the first morning.

Benicia to Bandon

Hopping through two time zones had me up early on Sunday morning. Jesse and family built a lego pyramid and then made pancakes while I packed. When I was ready to go, Jesse suggested a photo of the kids with my bike.

"My pancakes are going to get cold," the 5-year-old protested with a sigh, but followed us outside anyway.

I stopped downtown at Rrag's for a breakfast sandwich, which took a strangely long time to make. I didn't eat it there, but stowed it in my luggage and rolled south into Oakland. There I parked at the entrance to the Mountain View Cemetery, and before I even had my helmet off I saw my friend Caroline walking toward me with her dachshund Lily.

I got in her car and she drove us to what felt like the top of the city, where we sat on some steps and caught up on life. We met in third grade and became immediate best friends, and although we tend to go years without seeing each other now, the friendship is always just like it was. As a bonus prize, Lily is one of the very few small dogs that I actually like.

As I was leaving the cemetery, my sunglasses fell off my luggage. I noticed they were gone as I stopped to set my GPS, but by the time I located them, they had encountered the heavy end of a car and were shattered into many pieces. I mourned their loss - I've never had a pair I liked better, that were big enough to block all the sun, narrow enough for my thin face, and perfectly shaped to fit under my helmet. I'd looked for another pair like them before and never found anything close. I'd have to go with the first thing I could buy though, because the sun on the California highway was in it to win it.

But first I stopped at a coffee shop near the water, where I found Gabriella, another friend from grade school. We hadn't seen each other since we were 9, and it was interesting to find out what each other had gotten up to in all that time. I've found most people adopt new names as they grow up, and sure enough, she goes by Brie now. I neglected to get a photo with her, something I'll remedy the next time I ride through California.

Around noon I purchased some gas-station sunglasses and then hit the road to make miles. The vistas were sunny and beautiful, rolling hills covered in golden grass and dotted with trees. After a while the road became more twisty as it entered mountains and the sight of a snow-capped peak started to tease me, appearing here and there around corners and through trees.

A guy riding a sport bike merged onto the highway and I gave him the two-fingered biker wave, intended to say a passing hello. He took it as a desire to race, and he dropped in beside me and then opened his throttle. When he realized I wasn't following, he fell back behind me and gestured and nodded. I kept my eyes on where I was going, having no desire to get into a corner-carving contest with this guy in his khaki shorts and skateboarding sneakers. Eventually he moved away and then took an exit.

The road signs told me that I was seeing Mount Shasta, and when I realized that 101 went rather far around it, I stopped for a picture from the highway. It was an area I would have loved to explore, but I was already looking at a nighttime arrival on Agate Beach and I didn't want to make it any later.

There is no right way to dress for riding those mountains. The lower stretches were a toasty 95°, which made staring at the snow on Mount Shasta a rather disconcerting experience. The higher passes were colder, dropping into the low 60s and making me shiver. From the protected interior of a car, you can't tell how much the temperature changes around you, but a rider feels every degree. Looking at the temperature is just an estimate, and nearly useless when riding through changing elevations. Here it's 80°, and then you come around a corner and it's 60°, and then down in this valley it's 90°, like swimming through a pond and finding that suspicious warm spot where your friend was treading water a minute ago.

When I do long milage days, I find creative ways to change my position on the bike. One of these is to lie down on my tank bag with my left elbow draped over my clutch lever. I don't like to spend long in this position, as I can't see my mirrors from it, but sometimes a couple of minutes is all that's needed. I was sailing up a straightaway in this bent-over position when a black SUV pulled up and paced me on my right. I glanced over and with a sinking feeling noted the CHiP insignia. The officer pointed angrily at my front tire and mouthed something that rhymed with "Motown."

I had no idea how fast I'd been going, but I rolled off the throttle and nodded to him. I tried to pull into the center lane behind him, but he continued to pace me so I was forced to go in front. Then he pulled into the left lane and started pacing me from the other side. There was a strange noise, and I realized he was saying something to me over his PA system. Through my earplugs and full face helmet I had no idea what it was; all I heard was "wah wah wah" like Charlie Brown's teacher. He might have said "Texans suck" or "Enjoy the mountains" or "Sit up and pay attention, dumbass." Then he sped away and disappeared.

The sun was showing its golden afternoon side when I saw the Oregon state sign. I'd purchased a second new pair of sunglasses, as the first new pair gave me a headache. I made my last gas stop just past sunset, in a town that was closing down as I rolled through. I was the station's last customer for the night. The attendant said he'd let me pump my own gas.

"Is that not allowed?" I asked, confused.

"Well, you're in Oregon," he responded, then saw my plate. "Oh, you're from - you rode that here from Texas?! Wow."

Despite gathering clouds, hints of sunlight were visible in the sky until past 10 o'clock. I forged on through the mountain passes in the increasing darkness, hoping for no deer in the road. I was just thirty miles from the house when red and blue lights came on in my mirrors.

I sighed and pulled over. The officer told me I'd been doing 70, which is entirely possible, but he neglected to tell me what the speed limit was. My combination of Texas plates and New Hampshire license meant I had to dig out all my documents, which were buried in the bottom of my luggage. Fortunately the officer was very kind, letting me off with a warning and then telling me that my intended route was blocked by a landslide and giving me a new route.

He told me to skip the turn for 42S and my GPS would take it from there, but when I passed the turn, Google just told me to turn around. I pulled over and debated. I didn't actually know where the landslide was, and the officer had told me that the alternate route wouldn't be far out of my way. The only alternative I could see on the map added probably 20 miles to my trip, and I was cold and tired and just wanted to get there already. Besides, shouldn't Maps know about any road closures?

I ended up deciding to trust the officer and guess at the location of the road closure. I followed the only way I could see, my GPS protesting all the way that I was doing the wrong thing. The twists in the road tightened and the grade got steeper, and then it started to rain. Wonderful.

Thirty miles, I told myself, shivering. I covered the last few at a snail's pace, creeping around unlit hairpin turns and squinting through my messy shield. Suddenly the road got bumpy, and I was startled to realize it had become gravel. My shield was too wet by then to see through, so I raised it and let the rain beat me in the eyes. The gravel road led around a few more tight turns, and then I was at the gate. I got through but wasn't sure where to go from there. I ended up inadvertantly exploring the neighborhood, climbing a tiny, obnoxiously tight road, where I parked on the lawn of a likely-looking house. It was the wrong house. I went back down, nearly dumping the bike down the hill. Process of elimination eventually led me to the only road/driveway I hadn't tried, and there at last was a welcoming house full of friends.

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.