Roadtrip '05
We went dancin' across the U.S.A.
On that crazy kings highway
Too much passion
Too much play
We went dancin', dancin',
Dancin' across the U.S.A.
– Lindsey Buckingham
Bob's bike was still parked next to mine when I left my motel room in Wendover, Utah, on the Nevada border. I knew it would be. Bob had an important on-line business meting that morning, so he wouldn't be leaving his room anytime soon. He and I met up the night before on the main road through Wendover when we were both looking for a motel room. Our meeting wasn't planned. Bob had left the Iron Butt Association meet in Omaha that morning, just as I had. But he left earlier, taking a meal break while on the road. I ate a full breakfast before leaving Omaha, then I just rode gas tank to gas tank. The end result was we both arrived in Wendover about the same time.
We opted for a small motel on the Utah side. The motel was an older, cinderblock structure, probably dating back to the late 50's. Old enough that it's first customers might have known the highway running passed town as the Lincoln Highway, instead of Interstate 80. The motel was certainly older then the flashy neon-lit, high-rise casino-hotels a block down in West Wendover, on the Nevada side of town. This little motel was cheaper than the Nevada hotels, but offered high-speed Internet access, a must for Bob. It seemed strange that the big hotels didn't offer Internet access. But I reasoned that if they did, there might be a chance that you'd be in your room on-line instead of in the pits with your wallet open.
After getting our rooms, we walked to Nevada, and stopped at the first hotel-casino we came to, the Montego Bay. We had dinner in the 24-hour restaurant, and a drink at the bar. Then we tried our luck in the pits. We played a few hands of Blackjack, and we both actually won enough to offset the cost of our dinners. Being more than happy with that, we walked back to our respective rooms and called it a night.
The next morning the sky to the east was a fiery red – to the west it was still dark as I took the cover off of my bike, and loaded my saddlebags with the few items I'd taken into the room the night before. Only one more day of riding, and I'd be with my wife again after a two-week absence.
Fourteen days earlier I'd left my home in Napa for a solo, cross-country motorcycle ride. I'd been through Arizona, New Mexico, and Texas. Then up through Oklahoma, Kansas, and Missouri, before stopping in Omaha, Nebraska, for the inaugural Iron Butt Association meet. During the first portion of the ride my primary objective was to obtain bonus photographs for two of the AMA sponsored Grand Tours that I was riding for 2005.
The first tour was hosted by Team Strange. The object of the tour was to spell out the phrase, "Team Strange Airheads 21" by using city limit, or post office signs. There were three different ways to obtain the phrase. The basic route was one letter at a time. The second option was one letter at a time, but with the challenge of each letter being in a different state. The third option was to spell the phrase in as few photos as possible. A rider could choose any of the three route options that he or she wished, or do more than one option. My goal was options 1 (basic) and option 3 (efficiency). See: http://www.teamstrange.com/2005/grand_tour/rules.htm for specific tour rules.
The second tour I was running for the year was the H2O Tour hosted by the Midnight Riders motorcycle club. The goal of this tour was to photograph your bike in towns with water related names.
The first day's ride from Napa was south down I 5, then east to Barstow. This route held no surprises, it was dry and hot. That's no surprise. My first photo op was the post office in the little town of Newberry Springs just east of Barstow. This was a two for one stop. Meaning I could use the town name, Newberry Springs, for both tours. The N in Newberry filled in for the N in strange for the basic Team Strange tour. The Springs in Newberry Springs was one of the water related names for the H2O tour. I like the two for one stops, I feel like I'm getting more value for my riding time.
Did I mention it was dry and hot here? Windy too. It was getting on in the afternoon, and the sun was starting to hang low in the west, its heat and rays burning against my exposed skin. The hot dry wind was sweeping the moisture away from my body. Mental note to self: don't move to Newberry Springs. The wind played with me by making it hard to get a photo without the rally flag blowing around like hell while I tried to snap the picture. I eventually managed to get a couple shots with each of the required rally flags. I got back on I 40 and headed for Needles. Needles, California, is a hot place. Seriously hot. Hot even after dark. I grabbed an average motel, I think it was a Super 8, or something. It had air conditioning – that was a good thing.
Arizona came into view early the next morning under a bright golden eastern sky. In Kingman I took my favorite detour in these parts – the longest remaining separate section of Route 66 left in the country. This section is roughly one hundred miles of sweeping asphalt two-lane between Kingman and Ash Fork. The early morning hours, and the rise in elevation meant cool, clear morning air. This was a very pleasant contrast to the day before. Along the way was the town Peach Springs, in the Hualapai reservation, another photo op for the H2O tour.
By lunchtime I had worked my way south from I 40. I was now in the little town of St. Johns, Arizona, at the junction of US 180 and US 191. When I spotted a local Mexican restaurant, my stomach reminded me I hadn't eaten for hours. I parked in the gravel lot near the back door, walked around to the front, and went inside. The hostess, a young girl perhaps in her late teens, seated me in the non-smoking section of the restaurant. She handed me a menu.
"Would you like something to drink?"
"Water, please." I replied. She smiled and walked away.
This part of the business held perhaps a dozen square tables with four chairs, one per side. A red and white checkered tablecloth covered each table. Each place setting had a paper place mat, and a set of silverware setting on a paper napkin to the left. Only one other table was occupied.
As I gazed out the window, another lady appeared at my side to take my order. I got the impression she was the owner. My usual method of operation in a new Mexican restaurant was to order my standard meal, the bench mark that I judge all Mexican restaurants by – the combo plate of a chicken enchilada, and chili-relleno, with rice and beans of course.
A few minutes passed. In that time the small family that had occupied the other table paid their bill and left. I sat alone in the room for a few more minutes, but not for long. Soon a big hot combo plate was set before me. I will here and now readily admit that I have a problem. For a few years now I've been wrestling with a monkey on my back – I have a serious chili-relleno habit. I am NOT in recovery, and I have no plans to be. I ate every bit on my plate. Being hungry always makes things taste better. Really, this place was standard fare for a Mexican restaurant. But it was fine, and I would stop there again.
I paid my bill and walked around the back to my bike. A little gray kitten scurried away from my bike. He (she?) ran under the stoop of the restaurant's back door steps. As I was putting in my ear plugs, and getting my helmet ready, an older Mexican woman was getting out of a car that had just pulled in and parked. As she walked by she stopped and said something to me. I pulled out my left earplug.
"Sorry?"
"Where are you going?"
"Well, Texas for now, then Nebraska."
"Oh my! Where are you from?"
"California."
"Oh, my goodness!" she exclaimed, as if in disbelief. She turned away and walked up the steps. The kitten stared at me from under the steps with two, wide, unblinking eyes.
I crossed the continental divide in New Mexico that afternoon and I spent the night in Socorro. The next day I continued east on US 380. Just before the Texas state line I stopped at the post office in Tatum, New Mexico. I decided to use the T in Tatum as the T in Team for the Team Strange Tour. Tatum is not a big town. The words Tatum, New Mexico, and the term urban-metro center would be an oxymoron.
I parked my big LT in front of the post office. There were parking slots in the front of the building; a few on the left side of the lot, a couple on right side of the lot for handicapped parking. Splitting the two sides of the lot was a wheel chair ramp. When I pulled in and parked there was a 3/4-ton Ford pick-up parked next to me. The other wise white truck was brown with a coat of mud splatter mostly around the wheel wells. Just walking out of the post office was the truck's owner, a white man in his 50's – tall, tanned and thin. He was wearing jeans, cowboy boots, a button front plaid shirt, and a straw cowboy hat. He looked like he had spent all his life ranching. To the right side of the wheel chair ramp, in the handicapped zones, were parked two big sedans. Standing in front of the sedans were two gray haired little old ladies talking away. They looked like they knew all the local town gossip and were eager to share what they knew with each other.
In contrast to the locals, I was wearing a black flip-face helmet and a Hi-Viz yellow, Aerostich Darien jacket. My bike had California license plates, and I was taking a small blue and white rally flag out of my top case. As I was attaching the Team Strange tour flag to the bike and getting my camera ready, I heard someone speaking behind me. I still had my earplugs in, and my helmet on, so I couldn't make out the words. I turned around to see a man sitting behind the wheel of a panel van, stopped in the street. His left elbow was leaning out the open window. His right forearm was lying against the steering wheel, in his right hand was a clipboard. He was slightly leaning out the window, his face towards me, his lips moving.
I shook my head as I stepped closer, "Excuse me?"
"Are you from around here?"
Am I from around here? I'm standing next to a touring bike with California plates, dressed like a Power Ranger from Mars. The weather-faced rancher was climbing into his muddy pick-up, the two town gossips were chatting away; but out of the four of us, this guy asks me if I'm the one who's from around here. "Dude, you need to pay attention to a bit more detail – maybe you wouldn't have gotten lost in the first place." At least that's what the voice in my head was thinking.
"Sorry, no." is what I said.
The van driver pulled away without another word, then the rancher backed out. I got my photo.
Twenty minutes later I stopped at the Texas state line. I bought my first motorcycle in Texas some twenty-seven years before. Twenty-five years had now passed since I'd last been in the Lone Star state. A celebration of my triumphant return was in order. I looked around, but I guess the governor forgot to send the brass band. I took another picture instead.
The day before, about mid-way through New Mexico, the weather had slowly changed. The bright sun and blue sky had given way to clouds. By this point on US 380 here in west Texas, the entire sky from horizon to horizon was turning to a flat, lifeless gray. It wasn't really cold, and there was no rain, but it was dreary and dull. US 380 is a great highway if you like flat fields of nothing, and a never ending ribbon of straight asphalt. Oh sure, you can count phone poles as they whiz by. When you get tired of that you can count them in Spanish.
I spent my first night back in Texas in Sweetwater, in a hotel at an I 20 interchange business area. The "water" in Sweetwater works as a bonus location for the H2O tour. The lady at the hotel gave me directions to downtown and to the post office when I checked out the next morning. I got into downtown Sweetwater okay, but some road construction got me off course from finding the post office.
As I was riding along one of the downtown streets I spotted a mail carrier walking his route. He was going the same direction as me on the right side of the street. I found an opening along the curb, pulled over, and waited for him to catch up. I flipped up the face of my helmet as he approached. I almost said, "Are you from around here?" the voice in my head thought that would have been hilarious.
"Excuse me, where's the post office?"
The mailman pointed up the street and said, "Take the next right, go down to East First and make another right. The post office will be on your left a few blocks down."
"Great, thanks."
Sweetwater has a very large, multi-story post office building. It was easy to spot once the postman got me on the correct street. By the size of the building I figured this post office is probably the primary postal hub for that general area. I parked in front of the building, dismounted and got my camera out of the saddlebag. I flipped up my face shield, and began to look around. The building has the words United States Post Office written right there on the front in big letters. Yes sir, it clearly is the United States Post Office. But nowhere, and I mean nowhere, did it read Sweetwater. Crap. I got off and walked up the steps to the glass front doors. Maybe Sweetwater is written there? Nope. I walked around the corner to the side street on the west side of the building, nada. Shit. This is a bust. I put my camera away, flipped down my face shield, got back on the bike and I took off. I briefly thought about driving around the outskirts of Sweetwater looking for a city limit sign. But I was slightly irritated now, and I just wanted to get on the road and get going.
I got on eastbound I 20, my next goal was the little town of Ranger, Texas. While not getting Sweetwater wasn't really a big deal for the H2O tour – getting Ranger was a big deal for the Team Strange tour. My whole option-3 route absolutely depended on the word Ranger. Wonder if the Ranger post office is like the Sweetwater post office, no name on the building? This whole trip would be for nothing I though to myself. Maybe that's the way they do it in Texas – it's your responsibility to know what town you're in. If you asked a Texas postmaster he'd probably say, "Why should we chisel the town name on the side of the building just for you?" Yeah, I bet that's the Texan attitude.
Well, I'll just have to get a city limit sign when I get to Ranger, yeah that will work, I thought to myself. But what if Ranger doesn't have a city limit sign? Or wonder if the city limit sign is in a place where there's no shoulder to safely pull over and park? Wonder if I have to stop in the middle of the road to get my picture? Wonder if a big truck comes along and blows my bike over?! Wonder if the truck knocks me over!?!
The voice in my head said, "Ah, dude, why don't you just relax and enjoy the ride?" I took a deep breath and looked around. Actually it wasn't a bad day. It was still a bit cloudy, but not the dull gray overcast of the day before. There was some sun shining through the clouds, and it was kind of on the warm side. I tuned into an Abilene country music station, and relaxed. I'll deal with Ranger when I get to Ranger.
The most glorious sight I saw that day, bar none, was the Ranger post office. Chiseled in big letters on the front of the brown brick building was, UNITED STATES POST OFFICE RANGER TEXAS. Yes, the town name was clearly on the building. Color me a happy camper! My mood had definitely improved as I clicked away with my cameras.
Back in the late '70s Uncle Sam put me up for awhile at a wonderful place called Fort Hood, in central Texas. As I turned south from Ranger, riding deeper into Texas, I recalled that many of the counties in central Texas were dry counties. Of course when I was posted to Fort Hood I could buy a 6-pack at the PX, and take it back to my barracks; or get a drink at the NCO club. In town, I could buy a membership at a local tavern, or restaurant. Under the guise of it being a "private club" the business could serve me a drink if I was a "member". But generally there was no off sale beer. I figured things hadn't changed. I definitely wanted a beer when I got a room that night.
I pulled into a gas station mini-mart in Stephenville and topped off my tank. I walked into the store and looked around for a beer cooler. There wasn't one. I figured I was in a dry county, but I thought I'd ask anyway. I selected a small bottle of water and I walked to the counter.
If you can picture in your mind the typical COPS episode where the officers, or deputies, are in a white-trash trailer park, and the half naked cranker-chick is screaming about what a bum her old man is? You know the one. Well, that's what this clerk looked like, a typical thirty something, meth using, trailer trash broad.
"Do you sell beer?"
"Naw, sir, we're dry. You can go to 'alar, they got off-sale just as you git in town."
Maybe it was my helmet and earplugs, which I still was wearing; maybe it was her thick Texas drawl; maybe it was her missing teeth, but I could hardly figure out what she was saying. I could see that she was pointing down to the next intersection, and then gesturing to the east. I paid for my water and thanked her.
While walking back to my bike I kept thinking where the heck is "alar"? Did she mean Taylor? Parlor? What was she saying? I pulled out my map and found Stephenville. I started looking east from there. I found the town of Tolar just a few miles over the county line in Hood county. "Tolar", okay that makes sense.
I rode down to the intersection, turned east on US 377, and headed for Tolar. The liquor store was easy to find. It was one of the largest businesses on that side of town, with plenty of advertising out front. There was no shortage of cars in the lot either. I figured this place drew quite a few customers from the dry counties near-by. I went inside and bought a 6-pack. Tonight, I would have to make sure I found a hotel with a refrigerator. On the way out of town, I grabbed a photo at the Tolar post office; it worked for another T in the Team Strange Tour.
My plan was to stay two nights in the central Texas area. I wanted to go back to West Fort Hood, and ride the roads around the area that I hadn't been on for twenty-five years. A few hours after my Tolar beer stop, I was in Lampasas. Lampasas was close enough to Fort Hood that it was an easy drive, but just far enough away that you didn't really feel like you were in an Army town like Killeen, or Copperas Cove. On the east side of town was a fairly new Holiday Inn Express. I got a mini-suite with refrigerator, for two nights.
The next morning dawned gray, windy, and overcast. As I rode east on US 190, I noticed this section of 190 is now also called the Central Texas Express Way. I figured this was an indication of the growth this area has experienced in the last couple decades.
I passed through Copperas Cove on the large business boulevard that is US 190 through town. Copperas Cove was just as I remembered it, but bigger. That is more. More fast food joints, pawn-shops, gas stations, car lots, etc. More of everything that it takes to make up a military town.
East of town I exited 190 at the West Fort Hood exit. Twenty-five years ago the road to West Fort, and Robert Gray Army Airfield, was a little two-lane, with a small guard shack at the entrance to the military reservation. During my entire stay at West Fort I never saw anyone man the guard shack. The post was open for traffic to come and go freely. That old, lone guard shack was a remnant of the days when nukes were stored at West Fort, when it was known as Killeen Base. But the world turned, the nukes were moved out, and West Fort was home to a few Army aviation units during the post-Vietnam era. Security was not a priority in that era.
Well, as I rode south from 190 I could see the world had turned once again. That little empty guard shack was gone. It had been replaced by a multi-lane, toll-booth style check-point, manned by several security officers from a private contract company. I pulled up to a booth, and presented my driver's license as ID. I gave a brief explanation that I was just passing by on vacation, and I wanted to drive by my old barracks. I was told I needed to report to the Visitor Control Center over on the main post. The guards here could not issue visitor passes.
A few minutes later I was parking in the Visitor Control parking lot near the main gate to Fort Hood, and I walked inside. The place was a lot like a DMV, which it kind of was. You had to show your driver's license; registration for your vehicle from your home state; current insurance; and your orders, or in my case an explanation of why I was visiting. There was a take a number and wait system, which beat standing in line. I took my number and sat down, and looked around. The place wasn't very busy, but there were a few others waiting. The ones wearing BDUs were obviously military. All the others in civilian clothes I bet were Army as well. The young guys were probably junior EMs, the guys closer to my age were most likely senior NCOs. I'm sure I stood out as a civilian. Although I keep my hair cut fairly short compared to some guys, it is still longer than a GI's. But it was my mustache that was a dead give-a-way. Being on vacation I had let it grow into a long Fu-Man-Cu type – most definitely not mil-spec.
I only sat for ten minutes or so, before my number was called. I walked up to the window that had called my number; in my hand was all my paperwork. The lady seated behind the counter was still typing something on her keyboard, and looking at the monitor that was off-set to her left. I could see a civilian employee ID card clipped to her blouse, although I couldn't make out her name. I wondered if her husband was active duty.
I laid out all my documentation on the counter and said, "Hi."
"Hi. Just a moment." She replied without looking up.
Her fingers kept flying over the keyboard. A few seconds later her fingers stopped, her eyes were still on the monitor. A few more seconds passed, and she turned fully toward the counter. Still without looking up at me, she scooped up my paperwork, turned back to her keyboard, and monitor. She began typing again.
After a few moments she asked, "What kind of BMW is this?"
"K1200LT."
She finally looked up, a puzzled look on her face. Had I know where this was going I would have said it was a convertible. "A motorcycle", is what I said. She nodded and returned to her keyboard. I guess not too many GIs in-process with LTs.
After a few more keystrokes, she paused and sorted through my papers. She looked up and asked, "Do you have your motorcycle safety course card?"
"Ah, no." Oh shit, I thought. I added, "I'm just visiting for the day. I was stationed at West Fort in the 70's, and I'm passing by on a riding vacation. I thought I'd drive through there again. I can't prove it, but I use to teach MSF years ago, and I've been through police motorcycle training back in California."
She nodded to what I'd just said. Then she leaned over to her left and began to speak to the gal next to her, "Can we issue a one day pass without the safety course?" The other gal's eyes never left her monitor, and her fingers never stopped typing, but she slowly shook her head no. I got the impression that both ladies were personally sympathetic, but Army rules are what they are. I knew that was that – I'd be set away without a pass.
"Sorry." The first lady said, as she handed me back all my documentation.
The day wasn't a total loss. I headed back through Copperas Cove, and then I turned south. I zigzagged my way through the Texas countryside on the local roads – passing through the towns of Oakalla, Briggs, Florence, Liberty Hill, and a few others. I stopped in the town of Marble Falls for a photo of the post office. "Falls" worked for the H2O tour.
Starting back toward Lampasas I spotted the best B-B-Q in Burnet County. I knew it was the best in the county 'cause the sign said so. Well, if the sign said so, there you have it, I thought to myself. No telling who voted, or what the criteria were, but according to the sign, it was the best. Yes sir.
I parked and walked into Peete Mesquite BBQ. The place was set up cafeteria style, so I grabbed a tray and stood in line. When my turn came I ordered the beef brisket with the usual fixings. I had them add a Jalapeño too. I can't say I was impressed with this place's version of Texas hospitality. Nobody was overtly rude or mean, but it was pretty much a wordless affair. I gave the man serving the food my order. Without comment he dumped it all on a plate, slid the plate over the counter to me, and went on to the next customer in line. The lady at the cash register took my money, and gave me my change with a mumbled, barely audible, lack-luster "thank-you." Well, that's okay, I guess I'd rather have quiet and efficient over somebody being condescendingly patronizing. The food? Yeah, it was good. The best? Heck I don't know. For all I know, maybe it's the only BBQ place in Burnet County, which, I suppose, makes it the best. But I'd eat there again, I just won't expect a big Texas grin from any of the employees.
I got back to my room and checked The Weather Channel, severe thunder storms were en route through central Texas. I was scheduled to check-out in the morning, but I decided to hold up another day. I had plenty of time on this ride. The gal at the front desk was helpful and friendly, and my room was secured for another day.
I woke the next morning to flashes of lightning, and the rolling rumble of thunder coming through my window. Besides a walk to a near-by restaurant, and 30-minutes in the hotel's exercise room, I stayed in my room and relaxed. High speed Internet came with the room, so I spent most of the day working on my little 12-inch Power Book. I downloaded my photos, made notes in my ride journal, and posted to the LT board. Basically, I just took it easy and hung out.
The next morning I was on the road again. The thunderstorms had moved east, the air was still, but the storms had left behind a lot of moisture. Although the temperature was pleasant enough, the sky was gray, and overcast, with a lot of humidity in the air. As I rode along that morning I had to periodically wipe my face shield of the condensation build up.
So far, I'd been through the mesas of the American southwest; the open area of west Texas; then down to the northern end of the Texas hill country. But now I was far enough east and just a bit south enough to see change again. The countryside, towns, and architecture were now more reminiscent of the old-south, rather than the southwest. Antebellum style homes set back from the road, down a winding driveway. Some were rather old and weathered. Some were new and freshly manicured. Between these homes were forests of trees set in red-clay dirt. No mountain vistas on the horizon like out west. Nope. You couldn't see the forest for the trees here on the edge of the south.
I made two stops that day, one for a highway 21 sign, and one in Hearn, Texas. Hearn was a back-up town. I really didn't need it for my primary Team Strange route, but it fit as a back up if needed later. I found the Hearn post office and backed into a slot right in front of the building. I clipped the rally flag to the windshield and began snapping photos.
As I was clicking away I noticed a woman watching me through the window of the post office. I stopped, and lowered my camera. I paused for a moment, then gave her a smile and a wave, I was hoping to look friendly. I went back to taking my photos.
I had put my cameras away, and I was making notes in my rally logbook, when out of the corner of my eye I saw someone approaching me. I turned to my left, and stopping in front of me was a middle-aged black man wearing glasses. He was dressed in a plaid short-sleeved shirt, dark blue tie, and dark blue polyester slacks. Clipped to his pocket was a US Postal Service ID card.
"What are you doing?"
"Hi." I said trying to be cheerful. "I'm on a motorcycle tour for the American Motorcycle Association. It's a fun ride to various towns in the US." I continued to explain the purpose of the ride, as I open my rally logbook for him to see.
"So, you're just taking a picture of the town name?"
"Yeah, that's right. Post offices are the best way to show exactly what town you're in."
At this point in my head I there were two voices; one said to tell this middle-management bureaucrat to go screw himself. After all, this was a public parking lot, and a public building – he didn't have any right to ask me what I was doing!
The second voice was a bit louder, and a bit more reasonable; people are concerned when a stranger is taking pictures of them, it makes them uncomfortable. This poor guy was the most official person in the post office, so he got the dirty job of going out to ask the strangely dressed motorcycle rider what he was doing. Under the circumstances it wasn't an unreasonable question, and he does have a right to ask.
He stood there with a blank look; I could tell he really didn't know what to do. I set my rally book on the bike's seat, dug out my wallet, and I handed him a business card. He took my card, and while he was reading it, I turned back towards my bike and put my rally book back in the saddlebag. When I was done I turned back around to face him with my right hand out to shake hands. He already had his back to me and was walking away. "Good to meet you too, Mr. Personality", I thought to myself. Then I thought, I better split.
I finished my southeast loop, and I turned due north. Late that afternoon I crossed the Red River, and entered Oklahoma. I'd never been to Oklahoma before, it was greener than I thought it would be. I guess I had too many Steinbeck - Grapes of Wrath mental visuals of the dust bowl days.
After an overnight stay in Ada, Oklahoma, I was back on my way. My next high priority photo op was Amsterdam, Missouri, just a few miles east of Kansas. That was my goal for the day. I pushed north to Coffeyville, the home of the infamous gun battle between the Doolin gang, and the citizens of Coffeyville, back in 1892. I didn't hang around to see any of the historical sites. I only stopped at the Subway Sandwich shop for a quick lunch, and then I turned east on US 166.
The weather today was okay, partly cloudy and mild, but windy. I was actually getting a bit bothered about the weather. For the most part, the weather on this trip had been on edge. That's to say it really hadn't been terrible, but it hadn't been the pleasant, sunny, warm, spring days I'd expected. Oh, sure, most days were okay, but just okay. They were still either cloudy, damp, or like today, windy.
I turned north on US 69 and ran north along the eastern edge of Kansas. I took a right at Kansas SR 152, I passed along the south edge of Lake Cygne, and then entered the state of Missouri. It was a beautiful ride, a gently sweeping asphalt two-lane country road, through green rolling hills. I noted that I was on Highway J. "J"? What's up with that? I'd never seen highways with letter designations before. Oh well, it was a nice ride no matter what they called it. I took a left on Highway Y, and found myself entering the little country berg of Amsterdam, Missouri. Another left on Main Street and I was in front of the post office.
I did my usual park, rally flag up, cameras out routine. As I was photographing, a lady walked towards the post office door. Under her arm was a package. She looked my way for a moment as she entered the building. Oh crap, am I going to be questioned again? I put my rally flag and cameras away, after getting my photos, and making my notes in the logbook. Then I walked into the post office, this time I'd head them off, I'd introduce myself, and explain what I was doing before anyone asked.
The post office wasn't very big, only a small public area, and one customer counter. The lady with the package was at the counter, the postal employee, another middle-aged lady, was on the other side. They were engaged in a conversation that seemed to be more involved than just post office business, it was apparent that they knew each other fairly well. I reminded myself that this was small town America, where people stopped and talked, they weren't in as much of a rush. I stood there for a moment with a stupid grin on my face – I was trying to look polite, but I probably looked like a dork. After a moment they stopped their conversation.
"Can I help you?" the postal lady asked. The package lady turned to look at me too.
"Ah, I'm the guy on the motorcycle outside." "No shit stupid.", the voice in my head said. "I thought you might be wondering why I was taking pictures of your building." I added.
The ladies kept smiling without saying a word.
"You see, I'm on a cross-country motorcycle tour that requires me to photograph various towns in the country. Your town name fits with the tour theme."
The package lady asked, "Where are you from?"
"California."
"Oh!" they both said.
"There might be other guys on motorcycles taking pictures of your post office this year, just so you know what's going on."
"Oh, well okay, thank-you." the post office lady said, with a big grin.
I smiled and waved good-bye, they both smiled in return and wished me a safe trip. I know it may be anecdotal, but I sure was more impressed with the politeness of these two Missouri ladies than I was with the people I'd run into in Texas.
I rode back down Main Street to Highway Y. I knew I wanted to go north, so why go back the way I came? Why not see a new part of this area and go out a different way than I came in? Without checking my map I turned north on Highway Y, and rode for a short bit. I came to a county road that headed west. I figured this would eventually take me back to Kansas, and US 69. Cool I thought, let's go.
I was enjoying a nice country ride on a small asphalt two-lane when I saw a sign that read, Pavement Ends 500 Feet. I slowed, and thought about it, how bad could it be? These were regularly traveled county roads. "Don't be a puss", the voice said, "You're out here to see new country." I kept going.
At first it was hard packed dirt, dry without ruts – easy going. Then there was a bit of loose gravel, then a bit more. Soon I was down to about 15 MPH guiding my front tire through a narrow right hand tire track. Over to my left was the other tire track. These ruts in the gravel were most likely made by the occasional rancher's pickup truck. Between the ruts were several inches of loose gravel, along the shoulders of the roads were more piles of loose gravel.
"No problem" the voice said. "Just hang in there and this will take us right out to US 69". Yeah, that's it, no problem.
When I came to a road barricade with a bright orange sign that read, ROAD CLOSED - LOCAL TRAFFIC ONLY, I knew there was a problem – I wasn't going to get back to US 69 this way. "WTF!" I said out loud (although I didn't actually say WTF). Where was the detour sign?
I looked back over my left shoulder. About 200 feet back, at the last gravel road intersection, I could make out an orange warning sign that read, DETOUR TO ROUTE US 69 with a left arrow. Well, they had it marked for eastbound traffic, but the westbound sign was missing, or I never saw it.
Let me take a moment, and explain something. On this trip I chose to ride my LT, that's BMW speak for Light Truck. A wonderful motorcycle when you're on a wide, smooth, asphalt highway. Yes sir, flip up the power windscreen, turn on the stereo, set the electronic cruise, and cover mega-miles. Yup, smooth, and comfortable, for those long distance hours in the saddle. That's why I bought the LT, and had Rick Mayer fit a custom saddle. All for the hours and hours, of miles and miles, on the open highway – a highway made of asphalt. But, asphalt was something I was currently lacking.
Right now, I was straddling an eight hundred plus pound Teutonic hippopotamus that wanted to roll over, and lay there at the slightest error from me. There was no way that I would be able to right this huge beast by myself if I dropped it. I might have to wait for hours for a rancher to come by to give me a hand. I proceeded to make what was probably the longest, slowest, step-by-step, inch-by-inch, 3-point turn in history.
I slowly slipped the clutch, looked left, and turned the long LT handlebars to the left. My motor training told me to get my feet up, "F that", the voice said. I kept my eyes up, and I paddle walked around very slowly plowing through inches deep gravel. After bringing the front wheel of the LT to the far road edge, I stopped, and paused a moment. I shifted to neutral, and then I reached down and flipped the reverse switch to R. I looked back over my shoulder and pressed the start button. The electronic starter engaged and began to pull the beast backwards at the blazing speed of 1-MPH. My riding boots kept pace by tapping along in the gravel, my eyes fixed over my shoulder as I slowly guided the handlebars to the right.
After what seemed to be about 27 minutes, I was facing back the way I came – and still up right. I mopped some sweat from my brow, and I shifted into 1st gear. I pushed through the gravel, and rode the couple hundred feet to the intersection. I gingerly made an eyes-up, left turn, and straighten out. Soon I was in second gear. Wow, do I dare try for third? I did, and soon I was back to a cautious, but steady speed. I even stopped at a bridge, over what I think was the Miami Creek, for a few photos. I continued on, made a left at the next intersection. Somewhere along the way I crossed back into Kansas, and not too much later after that, I was back on northbound US 69.
I stayed the night in Lawrence, Kansas. After a dinner at a near-by Mexican restaurant (yup, chili-relleno, and a chicken enchilada), I walked back to my hotel, I got a load of laundry started in the guest laundry, returned to my room, and turned on the TV. TWC was calling for thunderstorms, some possibly heavy, to be coming across northern Kansas, and Nebraska, through the night and the next day. Oh well, I guess that's why I packed good riding gear.
I was out of my room, and on the bike before dawn. There was no rain, but I couldn't see any stars. I knew the cloud cover had come in. It was a few miles north of Lawrence when the dawn broke. But the sky wasn't a warm, orange glow – it was a cold gray steel. As the sky increasingly lighten, I could see the grayish black rolling billows of the thundercloud bottoms, scattered all around.
My goal for today was Omaha. I was heading for the first annual Iron Butt Association meeting at the Crowne Plaza hotel. As usual I try to avoid the interstate, and major metro areas. I did that today by taking a variety of US Highways north: 24, 59, 159, 36, and 75. It was still early, and traffic was very light. Except for the occasional school bus making its rounds, I had the roads mostly to myself.
These highways took me through several small rural communities. Passing through these towns there always seemed to be one place that was the morning hub of activity – a local coffee shop. It was usually the only business with its lights on that early. Out in front were always parked a half-dozen or more pickup trucks. As I slowed my speed through these little towns I was able to get a glimpse inside these cafes, and see Norman Rockwell's America – men in blue jeans, or denim overalls; plaid shirts; John Deere baseball caps, or straw cowboy hats. Many of the men smoked as they hunched over their morning cups of coffee. The waitress was scurrying from table to table, filling coffee cups, and taking orders of fried eggs, ham, biscuits and gravy. The scene always looked homey, nostalgic, and quaint.
However, what was also notable was that many of the other near-by businesses were boarded up and closed. These little towns looked to be struggling in an America that was leaving them behind. It probably wasn't nostalgic and quaint to anyone trying to make a living in these towns.
My luck for the day finally worn out, raindrops started about an hour into the ride. It was chilly, and I had my electric vest, and heated grips turned on. One thing that I was happy about, was that the wind wasn't too strong. I hate riding in strong wind. I was also acutely aware that I had been in tornado alley for the past few days. My eyes occasionally scanned the skies for funnel clouds. Now that would really suck.
I arrived at the Crowne Plaza/Old Mill hotel, in Omaha about mid-morning on Wednesday. I had called a head a few days before, and they said I could have my room early at the same group rate. Although, the IBA meet wasn't to officially start until Friday, I knew some riders would be showing up early. But not this early. Mine was the only motorcycle anywhere to be seen when I pulled into the parking lot.
I parked near the front doors, and I went inside to check-in. After securing my room I drug in my saddlebag liners, and laptop; then I headed back outside. I could see a couple maintenance guys for the property standing not too far away. I walked over and told them I was here for the Iron Butt meeting. Then I asked where they wanted the motorcycles parked. One of the guys pointed out an area they were just getting ready to block off. He told me to go ahead and pull over there now.
The Crowne Plaza sits atop a bluff over looking Omaha, and while the rain had stopped, at least for now anyway, the winds were fairly strong up here. I parked my bike into the wind, covered it, and I used two bungee cords to hold down the cover. I returned to my room, and unpacked a few things; then I took a nap. I awoke an hour or two later to thunder, and pouring rain outside my window.
Other riders started coming in on Thursday, mostly singly and a few in pairs. A few of us helped Lisa, the chief organizer of the event, to pack registration bags for Friday's formal check-in. By Friday the lot was packed with bikes. All the usual marquees were represented. The license plates bore state and province names from every region of our country and Canada. California, Florida, and Maine; British Columbia and Alberta were just a few. Bugs, mud, and road grime were the norm for every mount in the lot.
I took a few hours on Friday, and rode over to the Strategic Air & Space Museum, west of town towards Lincoln. The thundershowers had stopped, but the sky was still overcast, windy, and cool. I find military and scientific type museums fascinating. This place was no exception, huge indoor hangers packed with aircraft of all types.
Saturday was seminars on motorcycle maintenance, long distance riding tips, and sleep management. The event finished with a banquet dinner in the hotel grand ballroom. Dozens of round tables, covered in white linen, filled the room. To the front was the podium and lectern. The bus boys and wait staff scurried about in bleached white dress shirts and sharp black bow ties. The formal room and setting made quite a contrast to the several hundred riders in attendance. Many of us wore T-shirts from our favorite motorcycle company, or a T-shirt from some past motorcycle event or rally. Most of us were in jeans.
By Sunday morning the seminars were over, the banquet dinner had come and gone; and we all had had our fill of the beer drinking, and parking lot story telling. Like a heard of turtles shot from a cannon, the parking lot was rapidly emptying of riders. I was no exception.
For the majority of this trip, thus far, I had avoided the Eisenhower Interstate Highway System, and stuck primarily to two-lane rural roads. The back roads of America are more appealing to me. I get a better sense of the region I’m passing through. The architecture of the buildings; the type of business; the little roadside cafés; their unique employees; all give hints of the culture, and flavor of the local community. But I had a date with my wife in Reno, Nevada, on Monday afternoon. So, for the rest of this ride, back roads be damned.
My wife had managed a few days off from her work, and we had reserved a suite at the Peppermill Hotel in Reno for two nights. I was very much looking forward to it after these many days on the road. And while a ride down the super slab holds no thrill for me, it is a great way to cover miles in a hurry. With the thought of a two-day Reno vacation with my wife on my mind I went into "iron butt" mode. I turned the bike onto the westbound on I 80 on-ramp, and I set the cruise control. With the exception of one quick Nebraska highway 21 photo, I spent the rest of the day riding tank to tank. That is, I only stopped when the gas tank was close to empty, and I only took a very minimal amount of time at each of those gas stops for a personal break.
I crossed the 1,000 mile mark somewhere near Salt Lake City. It was overcast with a light rain. I could tell that the sun was getting low on the horizon behind the gray haze of clouds in front of me. I pushed ahead into the gathering dusk. It was full on dark when I emerged on the west side of the Salt Flats and closed in on Wendover, Utah, and it's Siamese twin, West Wendover, Nevada.
I still felt that I had enough energy to make Elko, but I've been across eastern Nevada at night before on a motorcycle. It is a very sobering sight to see the carcasses of full size Mule Deer lying in the road, having probably just been hit by an 18-wheeler. I shudder to think what would happen if I was to impact one of the those cloven hoofed vermin on my motorcycle at 75+ MPH. I threw the towel in for the night in Wendover knowing that Reno was within easy reach tomorrow.
The old saying, "Red sky in morning, sailors take warning" didn’t cross my mind as I looked at that fiery red eastern sky while I loaded my saddlebags, next to Bob's bike the next morning. Maybe it should have. But the news from the talking head on The Weather Channel was on my mind. I had switched on TWC Sunday night just before turning out the lights in my room. The anchorwoman had called for unsettled weather across the Great Basin on Monday. "Oh joy", the voice in my head said sardonically.
In spite of the fiery red sky the air was calm and still, the temperature fairly mild that morning. Standing in that motel parking lot on the edge of the Great Salt Lake Desert I was comfortable in only a T-shirt and jeans. Hoping for the best, at least for a while anyway, I rode away in my lightweight riding jacket. About 30 miles west of Wendover I knew I was being too optimistic. The temperature was dropping fast, and the sky ahead was thick with dark, heavy, foreboding clouds. I was already at about 5,000 feet, but I knew Pequop Pass, at almost 7,000 feet, was coming up. I needed to stop to don my wet weather gear. I exited at a place called Oasis. The name lied.
I got off the interstate, and I headed towards the only nearby building, a single story roadhouse. It looked as if someone had turned a short, squat box upside down on the desert. As I got closer I could see that this joint was closed. Not only closed for the day, it was closed for good. The building's exterior was stucco, at least that's what it looked like between the huge sheets of plywood bolted to the walls. The stucco looked like it once had been painted a bright cheerful white, now it was stained and a dirty gray. The plywood sheets covered all the doors, and windows. NO TRESPASSING was spray-painted by hand across one of the plywood sheets on the parking lot side of the building. A faded, rusted old sign that read: BAR – SLOTS – POOL, hung from a pole at one corner of the parking lot – it creaked and groaned as it rocked in the wind. The asphalt parking lot was strewn with several broken bottles that I had to skirt around as I pulled in to park.
I found the cleanest spot of asphalt I could, stopped, and turned off my motor. The rumble of an 18-wheeler up on the slab was the only sound that occasionally broke the howl of the wind, and the creaking of the sign. I pulled out my Darien jacket from my saddlebag and started to put it on. The roadhouse rested on the edge of a small state highway that terminated at its junction with I 80. The state route consisted of only two lanes that ran away from the interstate at an angle to the northeast. The small ribbon of black asphalt split the sagebrush and seemed to vanish into a distant mountain range. A small group of tumbleweeds blew across the highway several hundred feet away. There was no sign of any living creature anywhere. The wind continued to howl like someone blowing into an empty soda bottle.
My thoughts turned inward as images from the past came to mind. I recalled taking this small state route several years ago with my wife. Traveling with us were a few other couples on their touring bikes. We were on our way for a two-week vacation to experience parts of the west, specifically to see Yellowstone, Mt. Rushmore, Little Big Horn, and the Crazy Horse monument. I remembered that this little back road leads to the remote corner of Utah just north of the Great Salt Lake. The day we turned off of I 80 and onto this little highway, the weather was warm and pleasant. Along the way our group enjoyed a very amiable ride through a panorama of western scenery – purple mountains in the distance, a bright cobalt blue sky with an occasional cotton ball cloud. The sage and prairie was a blend of greens and golden tones. We chatted the miles away on our CB radios, teasing each other with lame jokes, and eagerly pointing out each soaring bird of prey, and herds of Pronghorn that we passed. We gawked and marveled at the wide-open expanse of America.
Another gust of wind howled and the BAR – SLOTS – POOL sign creaked and groaned again causing my vision and mind to focus back to the gray sky, dusty sage, and the dirty, littered parking lot that I was standing in. I finished pulling on my gear and threw my leg over my bike. I slapped the visor closed on my helmet and rode back to the interstate on-ramp.
A mile or so passed Pequop Pass the smell of wet sage and ozone came into my helmet. Moments later rain drops splattered across my windshield as I rode into a steady rain. At least the winds were light, and I had already put on my wet weather gear. So, all was as well as it could be on this soggy, gray day. I settled in to just drone out the miles to Reno.
Today I followed the old biker adage to ride at least some distance before stopping for breakfast. To that end, I had left Wendover with only a cup of bitter motel room coffee in me. I had been on the road for over a hundred miles when I passed a billboard that advertised the bacon and eggs special in the 24-hour coffee shop at the Red Lion in Elko. My stomach growled. I pulled off the interstate in Elko, and pulled into the parking lot of the Red Lion. The 3-story hotel and casino sat waiting, its brightly lit marquee inviting me inside, away from the rain and cold. There was a large bus sitting idle by one entrance. I motored passed it and I parked the bike not too far from the hotel entrance. I put the rain cover over my bike seat and I trudged through the parking lot puddles to the door.
Once inside, I worked my way passed the rows of slot machines. Only a few of the machines had players seated in front, and those that were there were elderly men and women. The men were all wearing polyester slacks, and dress shirts without ties. The women were all wearing knit sweaters over polyester pantsuits. Some wore sunglasses the size of welding goggles, some smoked, every one of them carried a change bucket. These folks appeared to be all from the same "gambler's special" bus tour. The clue was they all had the same style name tag on their shirts, those peel and stick kind of name tags. Pre-printed on the top of each were the words: "Hi, I'm..." Below that was a large blank area where, with a black felt pen, each one had a first name hand written. I made my way through the Berts, Bobs, Alices, and Annabels. None of them smiled. All of them played their respective machines almost robotically, their eyes fixed forward as if in a trance. Coin in, push the button, watch the reels spin. Wait. Nothing. Coin in again, and repeat. Once their coins were all spent they would no doubt be herded back onto the bus, and off to the next casino set to take their money.
At the entrance to the coffee shop were the cash register, and the cashier-hostess. She was a young lady dressed in a white dress shirt and black slacks. Her Red Lion name tag read, Jennifer, Elko. Jennifer looked old enough to just be out of high school – maybe.
"Is the counter open?"
With a nonchalant look she replied, "Yeah."
I set my helmet and gloves on the stool next to me, and tossed my jacket over the back of the stool. A few raindrops ran down my jacket and onto the floor. The waitress, Betsy from Salt Lake City, according to her name tag, came by a minute later. Betsy was dressed the same as Jennifer. But Betsy looked old enough to be divorced – twice. Betsy asked, "What'll you have, hon?" Coffee shop waitresses always call you hon.
I replied, “Bacon and eggs, over medium, wheat toast, black coffee, please.” She wrote, nodded and walked away. It was a standard coffee shop exchange, polite but to the point.
The coffee shop was nearly empty, a few people scattered around a few tables. There was only one other gentleman at the counter three stools away. He read his newspaper, and sipped his coffee quietly. The kitchen area was open to view from the counter. I watched the cook. His dark hair was tied in a ponytail behind him; his greasy black baseball cap was worn backwards. His cook white shirt was clean, but well worn. The only time he ever looked up was to retrieve a ticket from the waitress. Then he would go back to his silent chores without ever missing a beat. He appeared to be someone who knew his job well. My order came up quickly. Betsy delivered my plate with one hand and topped off my coffee with the other. Then, with a silent smile she was gone. I ate quickly, wanting to get back on the road.
The rain had let up a bit as I returned to I 80, but it hadn't completely stopped. Neither had the truck traffic. When I would find myself alone on the highway, away from the 18-wheelers, the ride was calm and actually kind of pleasant in spite of the rain. Keeping this 800-pound highway bike going was a no-brainer on the empty interstate: sit in the saddle, and twist the throttle. I was on autopilot. I would only occasionally need to wipe my visor with the mini, two-inch, windshield wiper attached to the index finger of my left glove. But as I would close in on the rear of one of the big rigs there would be billows of gray mist, and dirty highway grime, spraying from the rear duals. I would merge from the number two lane behind the truck, to the number one lane, and begin my pass. I have to ride through each wave of air turbulence thrown off by these highway behemoths. I'm buffeted right then left, pulled forward then pushed back as the air pressure increased and dropped between each wave. With a little experience, however, it actually became easy to predict each wave and change of pressure. I was able to make minor throttle adjustments, and body lean changes just like a surfer as I hit each wave. By doing this I was able to keep the bike in a fairly straight and steady path. The only tricky part was getting the timing just right to take my left hand off the handle bar to wipe my visor. The gray billowing spray would quickly decrease visibility through my visor if I didn't wipe it clean every few seconds. But with each pass another truck would gradually fade in my mirror and leave me in peace.
Between the packs of trucks the highway was generally empty. I would find myself alone with the humming road, the sleeping desert, and the distant, watchful mountains. I passed the time reading the many billboards that went by. I knew who was playing in the show rooms of the big clubs as far away as Reno, and Tahoe. I also knew what the room rates, and breakfast specials were at all the little motels and sawdust joints along the way. But mostly I thought about getting to Reno to see my wife.
Battle Mountain is the next town of any size west of Elko. Remember what I said about finding the real America in her little towns? The charm of the rustic architecture, the regional foods, the down home people? That doesn't apply to Battle Mountain, Nevada. Oh sure, you can get a tank of gas just off the highway, a greasy burger at the Nevada Hotel, or get drunk on domestic beer, and lose your cash at video poker in the Owl Club. You can even pay for a soiled dove at the "Ranch" on the outskirts of town. Battle Mountain has all the charm of a mongoose. Your first hint is the town initials in huge white letters on a near-by hillside. That's right: "BM" out there for all to see. To be fair though, Battle Mountain's primary economic base is mining, and mining in the area has been off for several years. Times and life can be hard in these parts. Actually I feel a bit sorry for Battle Mountain. A few years ago the Washington Post named this town the "Armpit of America". How rude. That's kind of like calling someone's new baby ugly. Even if the little brat does look like Winston Churchill, it's tacky to say so. I blew passed BM at 75 MPH.
As Battle Mountain vanished in my mirror the rain had stopped, and I thought I caught a glimpse of blue sky peeking between a couple of clouds. Maybe there was promise for the rest of the ride to Reno. But I noticed the wind was picking up. I would occasionally have to lean a bit more into the gusts to keep a straight line.
I was about ten miles west of Battle Mountain when I first saw it. It must have been in my view for a while, but it was one of those things your mind does not perceive right away. Kind of like a low-volume clock radio that clicks on when you're in a deep sleep. It creeps up on you. But there it was – a solid gray wall across the highway, maybe two miles wide, and towering to the sky. I had nowhere to go. There was no exit anywhere in sight. The eastbound lanes were at least a hundred feet away to the south, and separated by a divider of wet sand and small shrubs. There was no way I could get this touring bike across that. The highway shoulder was only a few feet wide, and there were 18-wheel monsters behind me coming at full speed. The voice in my head said, "This is going to suck." It did. I felt like Jonah as I rode into this whale of a storm cell.
It felt as if the hand of God had struck me with sudden fury. The bike and I were thrown hard to the right – I nearly went completely off the road. I counter steered hard to recover, but the gusts kept coming, blast after blast. It was all I could do to stay on the asphalt, let alone within one lane. I felt like a pinball being slapped from flipper to flipper. The adrenaline dumped into my body caused my breathing and heart rate to jump. My rapid breathing had completely fogged the inside of my helmet's face shield. I was blind. I grabbed at the face shield trying to lift it, but each time I took my left hand off of the handle bar I would swerve out of control from the blasts of wind. On the third grab I managed to throw the face shield back. I was greeted by what seemed like a full bucket of water being thrown in my face. I coughed and gasped for breath. Through the torrents I could see large tumbleweeds being blown across the highway. I guessed their speed at 40 to 50 MPH. Some were huge. There was no way I could keep this up much longer. I could now make out a sign ahead, it read: Valmy One Mile. Below were the little symbols for a gas pump, a phone, and a fork and knife. I bobbed and weaved like a child’s top for the longest mile of my life.
This section of I 80 was elevated and the Valmy exit ramp dropped me down to the frontage road below. The raised highway bed of the interstate broke some of the power of the wind gusts. My heart rate and breathing were coming back down as I turned off the frontage road and into the parking lot of the roadhouse. Just like the building in Oasis, this one also looked like a short, squat box set upside down. Unlike Oasis, the lights were on inside this box. There was a pair of gas pumps in front of the building on a concrete island. I plowed through large puddles of water as I passed by them. I noticed a sheen of gasoline shimmering in the puddles. I distantly wondered if this place met federal gasoline tank storage requirements. Then I wondered why I would care at that moment. I parked in front the business, and I walked to the door. I didn't bother with the rain cover for the seat this time, the winds would have just tore it off and blown it away. And besides, everything was already as wet as they were going to get by now. The bike and me might as well have been dunked in a lake.
I pushed open the door and I found myself in a combination mini-mart and coffee shop. The lunch counter ran along the interior wall. At the end closest to me was a cash register, farther passed were half-dozen stools, just beyond that were the doors to the kitchen. To my right were a few restaurant style booths. Filling in the rest of this side of the building were a few small grocery store type racks that held snacks and various sundry items. The back wall had the beer and soda coolers. I noticed to my left there was a hallway that led to the other side of the building. Over the doorway at the far end was a sign that read, NO ONE UNDER 21 ALLOWED. Inside the bar I could see a few slot machines lit up with blinking lights.
The lady behind the counter watched me as I took off my rain gear and set it on the seat of the closest booth. I walked over to the self-serve coffee area, pulled a 16-oz Styrofoam cup from the top of the stack, and poured myself a cup. Whenever I stood still rainwater dripped from me forming a puddle at my feet. I took my coffee to the register. The lady asked, "Will that be it, hon?"
"Yeah, thanks." I replied as I handed her a five. She was wearing jeans and a bright red sweatshirt from the Alamo Truck Stop in Sparks. She wasn't wearing a name tag, but I bet she was a Betsy.
"Wet enough for you out there?" she asked as she handed me my change. I nodded and I commented about how the winds had almost blown me off the road.
She nodded sympathetically and said, "Yeah, these storms can get pretty strong out here. I heard Winnemucca was having some flooding today." I responded with a grimace and thanked her. I walked over to the booth where my gear was. I slid in closest to the window and sat down to wait out the storm.
A few minutes later a bobtail truck pulled into the lot. Written on the side of the trailer was the name of some medical supply company with Reno – Las Vegas written below. The truck pulled around to the west side of the building just out of my view. Within a few moments a man walked into view from that side of the building. He was hunched over just a bit and moving at a quick walk, the way people do when trying to escape the rain. I couldn't make out his face since his black ball cap was tipped low, and his head was down. The man was wearing a red and black plaid Pendleton shirt, his hands were balled into fists holding the unbuttoned shirt close to his chest. The tails of the heavy wool shirt were loose and not tucked into his jeans; they billowed around his waist as he walked. He passed through the door quickly. Once inside, he relaxed his grip on his shirt, stood straight, and slowed his pace. The man nodded to the lady as he walked to the self-serve coffee.
Seeing that his truck was labeled as being from either Reno or Vegas, and since we were on I 80 in northern Nevada, it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that this guy was either going to, or coming from Reno. Maybe he'd know the road conditions up ahead.
"Excuse me." I said as I walked over to the man. He looked up from pouring his coffee. He raised his head in an upward nod, and raised his eyebrows at the same time. A wordless version of, "What's up?"
When the man had walked in to the roadhouse only the right side of his face was visible. Now I could see the left side of his face. Over his left eyebrow was a long deep cut, a cavernous red valley well over two inches long running in a jagged line from his eyebrow towards his cheek. While the wound was not new it clearly had not healed yet. I guessed the man had received the injury a day or two before.
The voice in my head said, "Dude, you need stitches." What came out of my mouth was, "Sir, do you know what the weather is like the rest of the way to Reno?"
"Are you on the bike?"
"Yeah."
"Oh man, it's like this all the way to Reno, and from what I hear it'll be like this for days. There are several storms lined up in the Pacific coming in, be careful."
"No shit.", the voice thought. "Okay, thanks.", my mouth said.
The man paid the lady for his coffee and walked into the bar area. I sat back down in my booth. From my location I could look straight down the hall into the bar. The man took a stool in front of one of the video poker machines. He fed a bill into the machine and started playing. I wondered if anyone was waiting for medical supplies.
All the way to Reno, like this? I thought to myself as I sipped my coffee. There’s no way I can keep going in this for two hundred more miles. As I pondered my predicament another lady came in through the kitchen door, and walked in going directly behind the counter. She was older than the first lady. I guessed this woman to be in her 60's. She pulled off a long dark coat and shook the water off as she rolled it up and placed it under the counter. Under her coat she was wearing a white button down woman's dress shirt. Her pants were jeans, but they were black denim, not blue. She then untied the plastic rain bonnet that she wore over her head and pulled that off as well. The bonnet was made from clear plastic with multi-colored flowers printed all over. The flowers reminded me of gaudy looking daisies, the kind of flower design one might see on a 1960's peace poster. The second lady mumbled something about "cats and dogs" to the first woman, who was going through her cash register receipts on the counter. The two women spoke for a few minutes as they went about various chores around the counter. Their conversation seemed to be a mix of business, personal, and local gossip. After about fifteen minutes of this the first lady pulled her own coat out from behind the counter and told the second lady, "See you tomorrow." She left out through the kitchen door.
I walked up to the self-serve coffee and topped off my cup, this time with decaf. I walked over to the register. The second lady was behind the counter, with her back to me. I waited for a moment but she didn't turn around. I spoke up, "Any charge for a refill?"
She looked over her left shoulder and replied, "Oh, no sweetie, it's on the house." Now I was a sweetie. Is that better or worse than being a hon I wondered.
"Great. Thanks."
"Are you on the motorcycle?" lady two asked without turning around.
"Yes, I am."
"Rough weather to be out riding. I used to ride on the back of my ex-husband's Harley years ago. I remember how nasty it could be when the weather turned bad."
Wanting to be polite I asked, "Oh, what kind of Harley did you two have?"
She turned towards me slightly as she continued to unpack a box of napkins. She smiled, shrugged and said "A big one, with a something-or-other head engine. He was always working on it." She shrugged again and added, "That was over twenty years ago."
Shovel Head I figured based on the time frame. But I didn't say so. I didn't think she was really interested in talking about the evolution of Milwaukee motors.
"Which way are you headed?", she asked.
"West. I'm trying to get to Reno for the night."
"Be careful, there were some flooded streets in Winnemucca this morning when I was getting ready for work." She paused from what she was doing and pointed up with her right index finger, "This came over town and dumped a lot of rain. It was gone by the time I left for work but of course I drove right back into it by the time I got here."
"So this should be passing by in a while, huh?"
"It should probably die down."
I looked out the window. Maybe it was just wishful thinking on my part, but the shrubs and brush along the frontage road didn't seem to be bending as much. The wind force did seem to be less.
"How far to Winnemucca?", I asked.
"Forty-two miles", she smiled, "I do it twice a day."
"Thanks." I walked back to my booth and sat down.
It really didn't make sense that the weather could be this strong all the way to Reno. This was just one strong, wet storm cell moving east. But would there be more behind it? The truck driver said storms were coming in one after the other. The Weather Channel had called for the weather to be unsettled. I bet that meant the weather would have its ups and downs. Maybe I should go for it, ride from town to town, and evaluate conditions along the way. There sure wasn't any way I could stay in this place tonight. I spent another ten minutes watching the weather. While the winds weren't gone they were definitely less and the rain had subsided. I finished my coffee, threw my cup away, and put on my gear. Feeling a little guilty about the pools of water my stuff had left on the booth’s seat, I used a couple napkins to dap up the worst of it. I threw those away and walked to the exit.
"Thank-you." I called out as I open the door.
"Thank-you." lady two answered back.
I climbed onto my bike, turned the motor over and carefully backed out. I wove my way around the greasy puddles, out to the frontage road, and onto the westbound on-ramp. I flipped my face shield closed, accelerated, and I merged into the westbound number two lane.
The storm had dumped a lot of water. There were large deep puddles along the highway on both shoulders. The road surface was still holding water, its drainage slope not able to keep up with the amount of water that had come so quickly. Although, the 18-wheelers that had continued down the road had pushed most of the water off of the asphalt in two well defined wheel tracks. I maneuvered the bike into the left wheel track of the lane in order to lessen the chance of hydroplaning. Forty-two miles to Winnemucca, so far, so good I thought. I planned on gassing up in Winnemucca, and I would see how the weather would be when I got there. At least there would be places to stay if more storms hit.
The forty-two miles passed uneventfully, and I found myself exiting I 80 in not much more than a half an hour. If the town of Winnemucca was flooded I didn't notice. The main road through town was open and the light traffic was moving without any trouble. I pulled into the Chevron on the west end of town and filled my tank. The sky was a dull, gray color, and the wind was actually very calm. Only a very fine, light mist floated down like the last hand full of confetti at the end of a parade. I couldn't make out any significant change in the sky to the west. It seemed to be just a flat gray, not necessarily bad weather, but not clear either. It was like trying to read the face of an old poker player – you just couldn't tell. I decided to go for the next town, Lovelock, seventy miles away.
A few miles out of Winnemucca, the flat gray sky began to lighten to a haze, and patches of blue appeared overhead. By forty miles I was under partly cloudy skies and the road had dried. But another bad cell was to the northwest a few miles away to my right front. I could see its huge gray tentacles hanging down sweeping the desert floor like a giant sky-born Man O War. The interstate between Winnemucca and Lovelock heads south as much as it does west. I knew I would miss this monster, but I was once again being buffeted by winds.
A few minutes later the first Man O War's twin brother came into view, this one on the south side of the highway and coming my way. "Jesus tap dancing Christ", I said out loud in my helmet. I started to feel like one little lonely bowling pin, and Mother Nature rolling bowling ball after bowling ball at me.
I forced my fear away; it wouldn't help a lick anyway. I decided to get mad instead. The voice in my head said, "Okay, bring it!" I lowered the power windshield a bit, and hunched down to reduce air drag, I twisted the throttle and fed more fuel to the injectors. The speedometer and tachometer needles both started rolling to the right. The two giant Man O Wars on either side of me played tug of war with their wind power. They threw wind gusts from the left then the right, but the road was dry, and visibility was good. I moved between the two storms at a speed that probably should have earned me a roadside chat with a state employee – you know, the ones that wear the funny hats, and carry big guns. But that wasn't to be, and Lovelock appeared ahead in record time.
As I passed the second and last Lovelock exit the sky ahead looked clear. The northern cell was well behind me in my right side mirror. The southern cell was just past, if it was going to cross the highway it would be behind me now. Okay, now Fernley was in my sights, about sixty miles away.
On the way to Fernley no more storm cells came into sight, but the wind was now a constant force from the north. I spent the next forty-five minutes in a steep lean to the right to keep a straight line. Beyond Fernley, I 80 drops into a canyon as it begins to wind along the Truckee River towards the Reno-Sparks metro area. The canyon walls meant a break from the wind. I was finally able to ride in a straight line without leaning over for the first time in miles. I released my white knuckled grip from my handlebars, and I kicked my feet out onto the forward highway J-pegs, unbending my knees for the first time in hours.
I turned south on US 395, and then I made my way onto the surface streets of Reno. As I pulled off of South Virginia, and into the parking lot of the Peppermill, I looked up the east slope of the Sierra Nevada. Another bowling ball was just raising its black head over the peaks leering down at me, its Man O War tentacles rolling down the mountain crevasses. "No thanks", the voice in my head thought, "I'm done playing." I parked, covered the bike, and went inside to register.
My wife arrived safely a few hours later, making it over Donner Pass in her car without incident. That night after dinner we returned to our room, a Jacuzzi King suite. We filled the tub, and pulled the cork out of a bottle of wine. As I slid into the welcome warm water of the Jacuzzi, the stress and tension of the day drifted away like the night's mist in the warmth of dawn. I smiled a smile of victory as a splatter of wind whipped rain hit the window of our upper floor suite.
"At least this hobby is more exciting that stamp collecting", the voice said.
Copyright 2006 by Tom Lashbrook
