June 8 – July
1, 2006
“Just turn me loose, let me straddle my
old saddle underneath the Western skies. On my cayuse, let me wander over
yonder 'til I see the mountains rise…”
I began to sing that country-western ballad while
riding my BMW F650GS Dakar on the fourth day of this trip to the Pacific coastline
in response to an invitation from friends that I met in Montana while Jim
Hoellerich and I were returning from my 8th trip to Alaska. My entire sensory
system was alive with anticipation as I headed the little cayuse west on the
type of long solo back road adventure I enjoy most. My plan included seeing as much
of Americana close-up as I could along the way. I had stopped earlier on the
trip to visit with my daughter Donna and five of my ten grandchildren in southeastern
Virginia. She had birthday cake and ice cream ready to celebrate my 81st
birthday.
These long, solo back-road adventures are a
complete change of pace from most trips I’ve taken to Alaska and other faraway
places in North America. This type of ride is much more relaxing, and I can see
much more of the country than I do while riding with others where much of my
focus is on them and their needs and preferences. The day after leaving
Donna’s, I visited with my 92-year-old brother Ralph in Troutville, VA in the
heart of the Blue Ridge Mountains. His home is less than a mile from the famous
parkway that follows the crest of the ridge through much of Virginia and North
Carolina. We sat on his veranda sipping wine and enjoying the beautiful panorama
of the lower Shenandoah Valley while chatting for hours about old times and
family in NY.
Before reaching Ralph's, I stopped on my way
across Virginia to visit the famous McLean House in Appomattox Court House
where Robert E. Lee surrendered the entire Confederate Army to Ulysses S. Grant
in April 1865, marking the end of the horrendous Civil War. I planned to ride the
parkway southwest for several hundred miles from there to its end near eastern
Tennessee, although one of the few low points of my trip happened when I
unknowingly passed a small 25 mph sign on the otherwise 45 mph parkway, due mainly
to my poor eyesight. I got a $100 federal speeding ticket for 47 mph in a 25 mph
zone. The first I knew of the NPS police cruiser tucked in between the bushes
was after I rounded a bend, which was obviously too late. I exited the parkway a
short while later and opted for several scenic secondary roads in the same
general direction for the rest of the day.
The air was brisk and cool on the morning I rolled
out of the Great Smoky Mountains of North Carolina into Davy Crockett country
of eastern Tennessee. I was singing lines from “Don’t Fence Me In”, which I sang often during the next two weeks. The
sun was directly behind me with my long shadow stretching far out in front. Small
patches of fog lay in the valleys and the morning sun was just beginning to
break over the hilltops. Everything felt, looked, smelled and sounded great, as
my little 650 single broke the early morning calm, straining only slightly for
the steepest grades. The sound of the bike's exhaust ricocheted off the
surrounding hills as it carried me effortlessly into the wide-open country and eventually
to places beyond the horizon.
Happiness to me is a full tank of gas, a
full stomach and an empty bladder, with hundreds of miles of two-lane country
road ahead. I’d often go for as long as four and five hours before stopping for
gas and a quick lunch, and I’d be relaxed and singing to myself most of the way.
Taking a trip like this is something I’d rather do than just about anything
else in the world. People would often ask, “Don’t you ever get lonesome out
there all by yourself?” My answer would usually be, "I’m never alone. God
is always with me wherever I go." I communicate with Him much more during this
type of trip. I believe the Holy Spirit is my constant companion to guide and
protect me whenever I need it most. I don't feel the same while riding with
time constraints, riding with others, or with the destination as my primary focus.
It becomes an opportunity to take a reality check on the never-ending process
of striving to build and maintain a decent character - one that I can live with
and hopefully in some way become a role model and an inspiration to my children
and grandchildren, which is sometimes difficult to do in a world where so many
seem to have lost their way, or are in pursuit of far less venerable goals such
as money, self-indulgence or the pointless accumulation of lots of stuff they
don't really need.
I've thought often of taking a trip like
this around the country for the entire summer, much like an itinerant drifter, using
only the sun and shadows as a guide, with no route sheet or destination in
mind; and doing it exclusively on back roads. It would be a huge challenge and
a great adventure that's always been on my "bucket list". It would be
much like what early the pioneers did when there were no roads. The challenge
would be greater on days with no sun, when a compass would be helpful. It might
often be difficult to locate overnight stops in the sparsely populated areas,
so maybe a sleeping bag would be essential. I've read that Daniel Boone often
walked from his home in Kentucky through Appalachia all the way to Philadelphia,
using many of the existing trails, but also blazing several of his own.
I seldom felt the need on a trip like this to
travel any faster than 60 mph along the lightly-traveled byways, especially when
I have plenty of time. Whenever I travel faster, I need to keep my eyes peeled
to the road for control and safety. I not only miss out on much of the beauty
of the countryside, but I also have less time for introspection. I get much better
gas mileage at the lower speeds. On this entire trip I averaged between 72 and
73 mpg, which is the most I’ve gotten with any motorcycle on any trip, even the
225 Yamaha Serow, which I pushed to the limit during much of that trip. I often
got up to 80 miles per gallon with the Dakar for the entire day. I had been
riding it regularly for the past few years and I had grown quite attached to
it. Having found it futile to locate a decent all-weather windshield for it, I
asked Leif Gustafsson to make another, like the one that got smashed when I hit
the sheep on the Alaska Highway. It’s not the panacea of windshields, but it’s
better than any others I’ve tried. This time I stood by and watched the forming
operation as he shaped the hot plastic by hand. Consequently, the end product
came out a little more to my liking.
It often takes months to plot out a back
road trip like this to enjoy every part of the ride. I find that in the end, it's
much more enjoyable than seeing how fast I can get there; although I've done
both. I tried to lay this one out in a way that I can enjoy the flora and fauna
on the prairies, deserts and farmlands as much as I enjoy the hilly terrain. There’s
always something to see and enjoy wherever you might roam when you take the
time to plan it.
The temperature rose to 98° that day, and the
late afternoon sun was directly in my eyes when I finally stopped at a motel in
West Memphis, Arkansas, just beyond the Mississippi River. It turned out to be
the longest day of my trip at 540 miles, almost all of which was two-lane
country roads with no traffic. Some of the roads had route numbers and some
didn’t. I passed through many villages and small towns as I meandered across
the breadth of Tennessee. Much of it on roads I had never seen before. I gained
an hour entering the Central Time Zone, which helped to put on some of the
extra miles. Minor errors on my route sheet contributed to others. I would make
impromptu changes to the route sheet whenever I came across an error. Then I'd use
several rural roads with and without numbers to reconnect with my originally
intended route, which took me through interesting places I would never have
seen.
I carried no
maps on this trip and I re-routed myself several times using the sun and
shadows as a guide, along with a lot of guesswork, which became a part of the challenge.
I prepared the route sheet at home from memory of past trips using several
individual state maps, a Rand McNally Road Atlas and a big magnifying glass.
I’ve also been using the Internet because many of my maps are out of date, and they
don’t show the most isolated roads. Since my eyesight had gotten worse and I
enjoy the challenge of exploring and riding without maps, I seldom carry them
anymore, although a few times during this trip, I’d say to myself, “It sure
would be nice to have a map right about now.”
The heat and maximum UV that day was a harbinger
of many days to come. It was especially noticeable because I wore the full
riding suit all day, every day. I didn’t have much room on the bike to stow it,
so I wore it for the entire trip. I wore only a lightweight T-shirt and shorts
underneath, and I would rinse them out in the sink almost every night. On cool
mornings I would have everything zipped up, and I'd even be wearing the jacket
liner, which would usually come off before lunchtime. I would keep the
air-vents open on the bottoms in the afternoon. As it turned out, I could have
done without the riding suit for the entire trip because it didn’t rain from
the time I left New York until the day after I got home, a month later. The great
weather seemed to follow me all the way across the country and back.
Managing
the body's hydration is always a challenge, especially in the summertime; but
since I was on a medication for congestive heart failure that had a diuretic
side effect, my concern was even greater. I usually tried to manage the level
to the low side, which allowed me to travel longer distances without stopping.
It’s not easy to find rest areas or other private places to stop in the open
farm country. It's not like traveling in wooded areas or on interstates where places
to stop are much easier to find.
I chose AR Rte 14 for my fifth day and followed
it for more than 200 miles across Arkansas. It’s one of several scenic east-west
roads I've used through the Ozarks. Late that afternoon I turned north into the
southwest corner of Missouri to find a motel in Noel, a small town a few miles
from the Oklahoma state line. I chose one alongside the slow-moving Elk River
where I could probably catch a supper of catfish from the dock directly behind
the motel. I’m afraid the combination of fishing and long distance touring has
its own myriad of challenges that would take a lot of extra planning,
preparation and fishing gear. In the morning, I headed northeast for about 90
miles to reach US 160 in Oswego, KS. I chose it for my main route across the
country this time because it’s a lightly-traveled, well-maintained scenic road
that passes through many small towns and villages as it wends its way 1,465
miles across the heart of Middle America, much like Rte 66 did before
interstate highways were built. Almost the entire length is two-lanes through
rural countryside with light traffic. Mostly farmers or their wives use it when
going to or from the small towns. I followed it this time for 3 days to beyond the
Continental Divide.
The corn was severely stunted in some areas
where the ground was exceptionally dry. I saw how most of the crops thrived
best where watering rigs were used, which happens mostly west of the 100th
meridian, which runs through the center of the Great Plains from the Dakotas to
Texas. During the trip I saw rice paddies, beans, wheat and other crops, and I
saw farmers working in the fields with tractors, combines and other equipment. I
saw rice growing in the hot lowlands of the lower Mississippi River Valley. I
saw many places where the hay had been cut and left in the fields in huge
bales. I also saw cattle grazing in the lush green fields of eastern Kansas, as
well as in some of the drier areas like Nevada where they often graze on the
open range, and steel cattle guards help to keep them off the highways. I saw very
little green grass in Nevada where the terrain tends to be drier and the flora
is considerably different. I’ve often heard people refer to riding across
prairies and deserts as boring. On this kind of ride, I see almost everything
out there as anything but boring. Every cactus, every clump of sagebrush, and
even tumbleweed has its own individual God-given life. Every plant and bush is
unique and alive.
The trees in the west are the most
impressive - from the aspens in the Rocky Mountains to the junipers and cedars
in the drier areas of Utah and Nevada, to the Ponderosa pines and Douglas firs
that grow majestically throughout the Sierra Nevada Mountains from California to
Washington State and beyond. Near the Pacific coastline I saw the huge, the centuries-old
redwoods that still thrive in protected areas - some for the past 2,000 years. I
found Rte 160 to be an excellent ride, although it was along this road and
during this trip that I had one of the most harrowing experiences of my
million-plus miles. I’m not sure exactly where or when I rode the
millionth mile, but to the best of my knowledge it was somewhere on this trip,
probably along US Rte 160. I started my seventh day in Medicine Lodge, KS,
making a quick gas stop in Meade where I met a guy with a nicely restored,
single-cylinder BSA XT-500. We were getting gas at adjacent pumps when he asked
if I belonged to a singles club. At first I thought he was referring to my
marital status, but he was looking at my BMW at the time, and I realized he
meant a club that’s made up of single-cylinder motorcycle riders. I answered, "No,
I don't."
His next question was, “How does that little
BMW handle in the wind?” I said it handles fine for me just about anywhere, especially
on back roads and gravel roads. I said "I’ve never had a serious problem
with it in the wind. It does get thrown around sometimes". I didn't
realize it would be put to an extreme test not far from there. It had already
been blowing quite strong out of the southwest most of way across Kansas, which
I was constantly aware of, but it was nothing like what it would be a few miles
west of there on a deserted stretch of US160 leading into southeastern Colorado
where the terrain flattens out and there are no trees, houses or anything to
break the powerful force of the wind.
About 10 miles west of Meade it got so
strong that it began picking up dirt and sand and blasting the side of my face
with it. It increased to a frightening velocity until I realized I was caught
out there in a full-blown sand storm with no shelter anywhere. I was in the
heart of the infamous Dust Bowl of the early 1930s. The first thing I thought
of was to stop and remove the duct tape that was holding my face shield open. After
stopping, my feet kept slipping and sliding on the sandy surface and I didn’t
have enough hands to keep the bike from blowing over, and working on the shield
at the same time. The road was covered with sand. I tried to turn the bike into
the wind but the sand kept making the surface too slippery, and my feet kept
sliding out. I was miles from anywhere, and there was no place to duck into or
get behind. As soon as I got the face shield closed and my glasses put away, I
decided to leave instead of sitting and struggling with it, which was becoming increasingly
more difficult. It was a tough decision. I knew the consequences could be a lot
worse while riding.
After getting underway, I thought the safest
speed might be between 50 and 55 mph because anything less was not offering
enough gyroscopic action from the wheels, and the wind was throwing the bike
around a lot on the sandy surface. I figured that riding any faster wouldn’t
leave enough weight on the road for tire traction. Meanwhile, the temperature
was around 100° and it was drying me up like a prune, especially after having
taken my diuretic medication. When the wind kicked the rear wheel out about an
inch the first time, I thought about the blood-thinning medication I was on,
and it reminded me that my bare thighs were exposed from the side zippers being
wide open. I couldn’t possibly spare a hand to zip them up, and if I stopped
again, I would need both hands to try to hold the bike steady. I had no idea
how long the storm might last, but I kept going. My next thought was, what if
the bike got hit so hard from the side that both wheels broke traction at the
same time? Could the wind possibly cross it up so bad that it would throw me
over the high side? I was aware that any kind of spill could be serious, especially
while I'm on blood-thinning medication, but a concussion could be fatal. I was
aware of all the risks before I left on the trip. I've ridden with them for
years. My knuckles were turning white around the time I began to recite the
Lord’s Prayer, followed by the 23rd Psalm where some of the lines are:
“Yea, thou I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no
evil; for Thou art with me; Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.” The
prayers did comfort me some as I continued to ride.
It reminded me of the time
many years ago when the Honda Gold Wing I was riding in west Texas broke
traction with both wheels from a powerful blast of crosswind while I was traveling
at 75 mph along a wet, slippery I-10. That happened about an hour west of El
Paso, near the New Mexico state line. It had been very windy all day and it was
pouring rain at the time. I had just passed an 18-wheel semi as we both emerged
from a railroad underpass. The truck was close behind when a powerful gust hit
me so hard from the side that both wheels broke traction together, like I was on
an ice pond. I could hear the blasts of air behind me as the trucker hit his
air brakes, probably thinking I had lost it. I thought I did too, for a moment,
but I was able to regain control enough with God’s help to ride it out. The
bike kept sliding one way and then the other on the wet surface. I learned that
skating around, totally out of control at high speed gets real scary! Somehow I
managed to pull it out that time, but this time I was on a much lighter machine
with a much older and much more fragile bag of bones aboard at 81 years old, but
I survived this one too with God's help.
The rear wheel of the little Dakar broke
traction several times as the unrelenting wind and sand continued to blast from
the side. I managed to hold onto the handlebars for the next 150 miles through
the most powerful sand storm I had ever experienced. The rear wheel slipped a
little a few times, but the 21-inch front tire never broke traction once, which
was probably one of the factors that got me through safely. By the time I reached
Springfield, CO I was totally exhausted, and I had a wicked headache. I also felt
a little nauseous, which was probably from the thought of what could happen;
and maybe also from dehydration. In any case, it made me realize again that the
Lord is my Shepherd, and that He has protected me all these years, in spite of
some of the disturbing situations I've gotten myself into. The wind died down a
little by the time I gassed up in Springfield where the temperature was 102°. I
drank a lot of water at the stop, but I continued to feel light-headed and
nauseated for the rest of the day. By the time I reached Trinidad, CO, my
planned overnight stop, I was totally exhausted. It was certainly a day to
remember. I found a room at a Budget Host and slept well after 390 miles – many
of which were truly unforgettable.
The next day was a much more relaxing day of
reflection and thanksgiving as I rode much easier through the southern
foothills of the Rocky Mountains. I crossed the Continental Divide at Wolf
Creek Pass (10,850 feet) and saw snow up close for the first time on the trip,
in spite of the extreme heat a few hundred miles back. In many areas of
Colorado the tree line is roughly 10,000 feet, but there were lots of trees at this
pass. I went through a few towns and some more foothills before taking a motel
in Cortez. Rte 160 passes the entrance to Mesa Verde National Park where I
remember visiting at least a few times, both alone and with Lillian.
I was on the road a little before 7:00. I
located what the maps called County Road G about 5 miles west of Cortez and followed
it across the state line into a part of Utah occupied predominately by Native
Americans of the Ute Nation. The name changes to Ismay Trading Post Road at the
state line, although neither section was marked. I didn’t see any markings from
the time I left Rte 160. I got to a T intersection in the reservation and asked
for directions to Ismay from a guy putting gas into a pickup truck at a small
gas station. He said, "This is Ismay." It didn’t look like a town but
his answer was enough to tell me to turn right, which my route sheet said would
take me to Rte 95 and eventually Hanksville.
Like much of Utah, the roads that day went
by many spectacular buttes and bluffs of all shapes and sizes with colors ranging
from light tan to golden brown, and from light pink through several shades of
salmon. At the mid altitudes I saw mostly cedars and pines. Above the
6,000-foot level there were many aspens. It was a nice ride with many colorful
panoramas of southeastern Utah. One of the roads went over the 7,000-foot level
and afforded beautiful views of the countryside. I took a few photos and enjoyed
the scenery until I decided to pick up the pace and ride an extra 130 miles into
Cedar City, rather than go off-course into Panguitch where I had originally
planned to stop. I was due to meet my friends in Tonopah at noon the following
day.
Somewhere
in central Utah I stopped when I saw a few BMW riders alongside the road. I learned
that they were from Long Island and New York metropolitan areas. They were in
Utah for a BMW rally scheduled for that weekend in Panguitch. They commented on
my “funny-looking little BMW” so I proceeded to expound on its virtues,
mentioning that it has been to Alaska and back, and that it handles
exceptionally well on all kinds of roads. I suppose putting my aged and
somewhat saddle-worn appearance together with Alaska and Buchanan, one of them asked,
“You wouldn’t by any chance be Piet Boonstra, would you?” I answered that I
was, and he said he had read my Motorcycling
Stories book, which inspired him to ride to Alaska. Being recognized on the
road more than 2300 miles made me feel good. We talked for a while before I
moved on. I reached Cedar City around five after an enjoyable 475-mile day. I checked
into a new-style Motel 6 there.
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Southeastern Utah, near Hanksville
|
After a quick breakfast at a nearby
McDonald's, I headed northwest towards Tonopah. An hour later I was in Nevada
where the terrain was drier and the temperature rose into the 90s. I stopped
somewhere between Caliente and Rachel and spoke briefly with another group of
riders parked alongside the road with big touring bikes. Their main topic of
conversation was complaints about how boring it was crossing the desert. I had
been enjoying every mile, even though I’ve been through that area at least a
few times before. I filled up at an antiquated pump just outside the highly secret
Area 51 facility in Rachel, NV, and I had a granola bar from my bag to hold me
over. A short while later I came close to hitting a full-grown cow strolling
down the center of the road that I didn't notice until the last second. She
apparently got by one of the cattle guards or through a fence somewhere, and she
seemed content on following the double-yellow line home. She never flinched when
I went by very close.
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Breakfast Stop
|
I learned from the desk clerk at the motel
in Tonopah that my friends had checked in 15 minutes earlier. I asked the girl
where she thought they might have gone for lunch. Without hesitation she
directed me to a combined restaurant and bar not far from there. Jim Bellach,
from the Fresno, CA area, riding a Suzuki DL1000 V-Strom and John Dey from
Corona, a Los Angeles suburb, riding a nicely-restored classic Honda CB1100F were
enjoying lunch with John's friend Alan Cheever from the Lake Havasu area of
Arizona. Alan was riding a Honda XL650. I had met Jim and John in Montana in
2004 while returning from Alaska with Jim Hoellerich. During lunch I learned
some of the details of Jim’s plan for the next three days. He said he would be
the primary host during my visit.
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Mormon Crickets everywhere
|
John, being somewhat of a protagonist of the
practical jokes, announced later at the motel that as a special treat, they had
fixed me up with a woman who would be arriving at my motel room at 10 PM. I
said, “You can’t be serious!” I told him I plan to be in bed by nine, and there
better not be a knock at my door. I thought he was probably kidding, but I
wasn’t sure. After we were packed and loaded in the morning, we headed north
out of Tonopah and stopped at a sit-down restaurant in the desert for breakfast
and bonding. We continued north from there through Toiyabe National Forest to
US Rte 50, and then west into Austin, NV where we stopped for gas. Austin was
being inundated by millions of Mormon crickets. Jim said it happens around the
same time every year. I learned that the huge shield-back katydids grow up to
three inches long and they descend on Austin around the same time every year. They
move along the ground and climb the sides of the buildings in huge schools. The
road-kill around the gas station numbered in the hundreds and maybe thousands. It
looked like squashed bugs could become a problem after a while. They were
moving all over the ground and on anything they could cling to.
After
checking into a motel in Quincy, CA, Jim noticed that his rear tire was soft. It
had a huge nail in it. He and John plugged it that evening, but it was still
leaking a little in the morning. We stopped along the way for a can of "fix-a-flat"
that worked well enough to finish our ride. After stopping for gas in Mad River
on our second full day, we were on a relatively straight stretch of pavement
when John and I got horsing around in an acceleration test to see how well the
25-year-old 4-cylinder CB1100F Honda Classic could do against the more modern
single-cylinder, 650cc single cylinder Rotax engine in my BMW Dakar. In the
process both bikes got up to 105 mph in a relatively short distance. It was fun
while it lasted, but we had to cool it for a series of turns coming up. The
result was very close and made the adrenalin flow and gave us something else to
talk and laugh about that evening, along with another round of John’s practical
jokes and stories of past experiences. It was much cooler in Eureka than it had
been on our first two days, which was a pleasant change from the extreme heat in
Nevada. We sat outside the room and talked for hours while enjoying a bucket of
Kentucky Fried Chicken and beer. After a few drinks, John insisted I accompany
them to a nearby strip joint where he said they would introduce me to pole dancing
and I would learn first-hand about lap dancing, or whatever. I was quite sure he
was pulling my leg.
The next day was the highlight of our three
days together. We rode south for about 20 miles to a small, picturesque
Victorian town named Ferndale and headed west from there toward the ocean on
Mattole Road, a seldom-used, narrow, twisty blacktop with many tight off-camber
curves and hummocks. It was a fun ride with practically no other vehicles for
the entire distance to the Pacific Ocean where we stopped at a place called the
"Lost Coast", which
is a natural, development-free area of California's northern coastline that
experienced major depopulation in the 1930s. Jim said it
was now considered to be the longest undeveloped stretch of coastline in
California, and he told us a little of the history.
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Working on Jim's flat tire
|
We continued along Mattole Road to Honeydew,
a small town near the edge of the Humbolt Redwoods State Park, stopping only briefly
at a few interesting spots along the way. At one
of those intermediate stops, we pulled over onto a grassy area along the
river where a girl was drifting toward us on a float tube. John said she was
carrying a case of beer for a picnic they had arranged especially for my visit.
I assumed that he was kidding, but as he was pointing and waving, she was
smiling and waving back, like maybe they actually knew each other. This time I
believed him, but when she got closer, she floated on by with a wave and a
smile.
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Alan Cheever, Jim Bellach and John Dey in Honeydew, CA
|
We stopped at the Country Store in Honeydew for
lunch where I ordered a deli sandwich with a local-brewed ale. We ate at a
picnic table in the shade. While we were there, two much larger biker groups stopped
by. John mingled through one of the larger groups, telling stories about me, my
books and my travels, which resulted in an order from a rider from San Diego
for "Motorcycling Stories". After lunch, we visited the
Humboldt Redwoods State Forest and stopped for several photos. The Honeydew
stop and the redwood forest was the pre-planned finale of our three days together.
They had arranged with Alan to accompany me from
there as far as Redding, roughly 150 miles from there. After breakfast with
Alan in Redding, I headed northeast alone on Rte 299 through relatively flat
desert-like terrain towards eastern Oregon. It was an enjoyable and relaxing
ride with no traffic. I rarely saw a vehicle in either direction. I could see Mt.
Shasta and the Cascade Range on my left for several miles. I spent most of the
time reminiscing the three days the group spent together. The first town of any
size I came to after 335 miles was Burns, OR, which appeared clean with wide
streets and well-kept homes. It reminded me of a few places I've seen in New
England. I checked into a Days Inn and chatted with the female manager before heading
for a place to eat not far from there that she suggested.
I
originally anticipated an easy 375-mile day from Burns to Carey, ID, but
finding no motel in Carey, I went another 100 miles to Blackfoot, which I
originally thought would take only two hours; but I ran into road construction
halfway. I didn’t see a warning sign near the start of the first construction
area and I flew off a 4-inch drop into soft, deep dirt at a pretty good clip.
Fortunately I was on the Dakar and rode it out safely. Later, as I was
following a pilot car through another construction area, near the entrance to
Craters of the Moon, my wheels dropped into a deep soft rut. The bike
squirreled around a lot there too, but it came through again. Pilot cars were
used in both places. Together they cost me more than an hour because I had to
wait a long period each time for the pilot car to come from the other end, and
then follow it slowly through, stuck between a string of cars, trucks and RVs.
I got to Blackfoot around 6:00 and checked into a Super 8.
My decision to go all the way to Blackfoot
put me considerably ahead of my planned schedule and out of synch with my
original plan for motels, so I took out the map of the western states that John
insisted I take before leaving, and using a magnifying glass that Jim insisted
I take, and I laid out a loop for the following day through an area of Idaho,
Utah and Wyoming that I had never seen before. I saw many potato farms in
southeastern Idaho where watering rigs were being used. They look beautiful in
the morning sunlight with the huge sprays in all directions.
I rode south from Idaho along the west side
of Bear Lake into the northeast corner of Utah. I skirted the edge of the
Wasatch-Cache National Forest and went through Logan Canyon, and later into the
southwest corner of Wyoming. I stopped for lunch at a privately-owned fast-food
place in Kemmerer, WY and ordered a taco salad with lemonade and the senior
discount. The girl behind the counter looked at me and asked if I was 65. I
laughed and thanked her for the compliment and told her I was 81. She couldn’t
believe it and called a few of her friends from of the kitchen to guess my age.
I had hoped to make an overnight stop in Manila,
Utah after a long, hot 400-mile day, but the only two small motels that I saw
had no vacancies. I was exhausted from the heat and the long ride when the
woman at the second motel said the nearest motel might be in Vernal, but she
said they too were probably full because of work going on in the area by Halliburton.
She said the overflow motel business was being felt for a 100-mile radius and
it was unlikely I would find a room there either. The next town in the
direction I was headed was Craig, Colorado, 120 miles east of Vernal, but there
was a possibility they too might be affected. It would be another three-hour
ride to Craig, which would take me into the night hours. I was already overtired
and I was riding with a blown headlight bulb for most of the trip. This was the
first time I might need it.
It was almost 5:00 when I mentioned to the
woman that I should be able to make it from there to Vernal in an hour. She shook
her head and said, “That’s highly unlikely. It’s 67 miles, and the road goes
through the mountains with switchback turns much of the way.” She said it was
also patrolled and there were many deer. Her description of the road jogged my
memory. I’ve been over it before. I figured I’d give it a try. Needless to say,
I seriously wore rubber from the sides of the tires for the first time since
leaving home, but it paid off, because I got there just before six, and got the
last room at a Days Inn. The next day I rode 160 miles across more desert-like
terrain into Steamboat Springs, CO, followed by another 100 miles south through
the western foothills of the Rockies to Dillon where I got a room at a familiar
Super 8 where I've stayed before.
Early the next morning I rode 18 miles up
the old section of US Rte 6 to Loveland Pass and waited for almost an hour for
the morning fog to clear enough to get a few photos. The temperature was only
35° at the summit – the coldest of anywhere on my trip. I rode a short stretch
of I-70 and exited near Central City. I had a nice ride down through another
canyon to Boulder where I had been invited to visit with Chris and Erin Ratay. They
are in the Guinness Book of Records for the “Longest Motorcycle Ride by a Team”
for having ridden their two F650GS BMWs around the world together between May
1999 and August 2003. During their trip they visited 50 countries on 6
continents and went through 86 borders for a total of 101,322 miles.
I had no trouble finding the street they live
on but I had a little difficulty with the house number. Erin heard the bike and
came out to guide me the rest of the way into their garage. I arrived just in
time for a company picnic that had been arranged with Chris’ fellow real estate
entrepreneurs and their families that was being held at a local park. We broke
away from there early because they had invited other friends to join us for their
backyard cookout. I met Chris and Spice Jones, a friendly young couple who are
also motorcycle riders of some renown. They had already ridden together to
Tierra del Fuego on the southern tip of Argentina. Chris is an expert off-road
rider who was also signed up to ride the upcoming Paris-Dakar desert race in
Africa with a KTM 650RR. A little later in the year, Spice was planning to take
an adventurous motorcycle tour across Asia with Erin and a few other famous
women riders. They were not free to discuss the details, which were still being
worked out. Two other riders, Steve and Paul joined us, and we spent most of the
evening enjoying the food and conversation. I left the next morning with a
genuine admiration for Chris and Erin as the kind of people that I’m proud to
know and proud to call my friends. They had graciously invited me into their
home and into their circle of friends, and they treated me as their honored
guest.
I headed directly into the bright morning
sunlight and failed to see several signs while leaving Boulder. But I soon found
myself on I-25 headed north into the huge Denver I-70 interchange, in the midst
of morning rush-hour traffic. I got onto I-70 heading east, which I intended to
use as far as Limon, CO. I made a few more wrong turns later while making my
way southeast across a lot of barren prairie toward southwestern Kansas. I eventually
went an extra 100 miles of mostly secondary roads, and finally called it a day
in Scott City, KS after only about 300 miles for the day. There wasn't much
choice of motels, and I eventually shared a crummy room with a bunch of dead
crickets.
Around noon the next day I stopped in the
small town of Beloit, KS to inquire about a road that I had been looking for
and thought I might have passed. The road I was on went straight through the town
like many small towns on the prairie. I parked in front of a Case-International
tractor dealer and went inside to ask for directions. I didn't see anyone so I
called out loudly, “Anybody here?” No one answered. I repeated it a few times,
which echoed inside the building. There were many huge farm vehicles and pickup
trucks inside, and at least three offices; but not a soul around. I walked next
door to an open hardware store and called again: “Anybody here?” There was no
one there either, so I walked across the deserted street to a gas station,
which was closed and locked. I stood for a minute and looked around. Nothing
was moving anywhere - only dead silence. I was beginning to get an eerie
feeling that maybe there was no one in the entire town, like in the old TV
series, The Twilight Zone.
I went back to the bike, got on, and drove
off slowly, looking into every yard for someone to ask. I was about to leave
the north end of the town when I saw a diner with at least 15 to 20 pickup
trucks parked outside. The parking lot was packed. I found a place to put the
bike and went inside. The loud din of voices suddenly fell silent as everyone
turned to look at me - a stranger. I said loudly, “Could anyone please tell me
where I could find US Rte 36?”
After a brief pause, a gruff male voice said,
“Up the road about 12 miles.” I thanked him, and added: “Does everyone in this
town go to lunch at the same time? I couldn’t find a soul anywhere.” I left
while they were laughing. Shortly after leaving town I noticed a car driving
close behind me with his left-turn indicator blinking. I thought he was about
to make a left turn, or maybe he intended to pass, but he didn’t do either. He
got even closer behind me with his turn signal still blinking. I didn’t see any
place to turn and I thought he probably didn’t realize his blinker was on. I
was about to turn my own left signal on to tell him that his blinker was on when
I realized that mine was already on, so I turned it off and his went off. When
he passed, accelerating like he was in a hurry, I noticed the word “Sheriff” on
the side of his car. I guess I was lucky I didn’t get a ticket, or at least get
stopped and checked out. I wondered if he was parked somewhere in town watching
everything I did, or maybe he was in the diner. I got up the road about four
miles and saw him tucked in behind some bushes. I threw him a big wave but got
no response.
I checked into a Super 8 in Chillicothe, MO
late that afternoon, after an exceptionally long 540-mile day, all of which was
two-lane country roads. It was one of the longest days of my trip. I stayed on
US 36 for a while in the morning and turned onto US 24 just before crossing the
Mississippi River into Quincy, IL. I missed one of several turns that US 24 takes
in Quincy, and I found myself leaving town on an entirely different route. I
stopped at a custom bike shop to ask how to find US 24 East. The middle-aged
proprietor looked at me strangely and said, “I don’t think you want that road.
Where are you headed?” I said, “New York”. He said with a strange look, “Not on
24 East I hope.” “Why?" What’s wrong with 24 East?” He said, “It’s rough.
You don’t want that road.” I said “What do you mean by rough? Does it go
through towns with a lot of congestion and traffic lights?” “No” he said, “It’s
all hummocks and potholes, and it’s narrow and rough. No one ever uses that
road.” I asked him if there were small farms with cornfields and cow pastures,
and he answered, “There’s a lot of that, all right.” I said, “That’s the road
I’m looking for. It’s not a problem. The bike has good suspension.” He said, “You’ll
need it!” and he sounded serious.
He was right about it being rough. The small
rear mudguard of the Dakar snapped clear off from one of the potholes, and by
the time I got to Indiana I was sore all over; but I did see a lot of corn and
beans - mostly corn, and I wasn’t singing "Oklahoma" at the time. It was an interesting ride though. There
wasn't a great choice of motels in Attica where I planned to stay, but I
eventually found a small motel a few miles east of town. The next day consisted
of a short ride to Montgomery, Ohio where I had arranged earlier to visit with
Walt Maerki, a US Navy dive-bomber pilot during WWII who flew in the same
squadron with my brother Dirk, who lost his life in the South Pacific while he
was serving as a tail gunner in dive bombers. A few years earlier, while I was authoring a labor-of-love biography
of my brother entitled, “Never to be Forgotten”, I was struggling to
find information about what aircraft carriers and small islands he flew from
during the last six months of his life. The Navy and Marines were advancing fast
at the time, and his squadron moved around a lot – both aboard aircraft
carriers and island-hopping where they used tiny airfields recently captured
from the Japanese, or where the Seabees hurriedly built new ones as the entire Navy
and Marines were focused on reaching Tokyo.
I had seen the name WG Maerki
on a condolence letter that was sent to my mother soon after Dirk was killed in
December, 1943. I was sure that this pilot, who was the Senior Naval Aviator of
the squadron at the time, could fill me in on the missing details. I found his
phone number on Google, and I called him. We talked several times by phone. Not
long after our first talk, Walt lost his beloved wife. I also recently had lost
my mother, my wife, my oldest daughter and my best friend in a short seven-year
period, so I knew his pain, and I wrote a condolence letter to him. Soon
afterward, he invited me to his home in Ohio to meet with him and his family. I
was planning this trip at the time, so I suggested that I could stop for a
brief visit while passing through.
I used mostly I-74 to get to Montgomery, a
Cincinnati suburb. I arrived around noon and had no problem finding his
address. As soon as I arrived, he called his daughter to join us. She was about
to leave with her family for the July 4th weekend, but she stopped
by for a brief visit. The three of us talked, mostly stories about my travels.
Her family was waiting, so she had to leave after only about a half-hour, but
Walt and I continued to talk for the rest of the afternoon. We went to dinner
together at his nearby athletic club. After breakfast that he prepared in his
kitchen, I was on my way to AMA headquarters in Pickerington, east of Columbus,
to visit briefly with a few members of the AMA staff, after which I put on a
few hundred miles that brought my total mileage for the day to 380. It left an
easy 330 miles for my final day. My average daily mileage for the trip was
about 375, with a 24-day total of 9,000 miles. With all things considered, it
was a very enjoyable trip.
The Next chapter is: 17 High Plains Drifter
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