A 60 mile ride through the concrete jungle and traffic will give anyone road rage, no matter how well-adjusted and fulfilled s/he is. Bob Ross would have been painting jagged angry clouds, mountains on fire, and vampire woodland creatures if he had to put up with this sort of commute. My homemade muffin breakfast and good vibrations from the Denay Jasperse household pulled me through the madness. Los Angeles is a fun city, but living more than 20 minutes from work could be a mental health hazard. Speaking of health hazards, the Los Angeles smog lived up to its legend. After just a few days, the back of my throat was sore and I would wheeze and feel light headed whenever doing so much as carrying my panniers more than 50 feet. So, lane splitting is legal in California, but the combination of an extra wide load due to the panniers and a tendency toward self-preservation, I decided to stay in the regular lanes like the rest of the chumps in cars. At least at first...
I arrived at my friend Gina's in West Hollywood an hour later than expected, thanks to traffic and lane closures due to the filming of a movie and a Domino's commercial along my route. It seemed like there was something being filmed every 3 blocks along Melrose Ave. I guess this is where all the magic happens.
I arrived, I apologized profusely for being late, then we drove down Hollywood Blvd toward one of Gina's favorite sushi restaurants. There was fantastic public art and street art along the way.
The benefits of a recession in a creative city
Gina and I ate sushi until we felt sick, and it was wonderful. I've never known Gina well--she is the sister of one of my best friends--but eel and avocado brought us close. She didn't scoff at my picky seafood choice politics or the accompanying sustainable seafood mini-guide that I keep in my wallet. She's a keeper. She is an actress and improv artist who is also writing her own screenplay and trying to get signed to do more commercial work. She is undecided about it--a career as a Kotex spokeswoman is likely not most actress' dream job, but it pays the bills in the meantime. She has a great attitude about it.
Food porn
Later that evening, I met up with my friends David and Denise, who happened to be traveling through LA en route to Antarctica, where they spend 6 months of the year (during the other 6 months, they travel around on motorcycles and engage in other envy-inspiring shenanigans--this time, it was my turn). They are some of my favorite people in the world, so it was a surprising random treat to be able to see them. My "shake-down ride for this trip was with them in Colorado over the 4th of July. We're already hatching plans for moto trips next year. I took a photo, but David looks really scary in it, like he's going to kill you, so I didn't include it here.
We met up for an hour or so at a pizza place in the Silver Lake neighborhood, which also happened to be the meeting place for that week's East Side Moto Babes gathering and ride. As they were getting ready to leave, the ESMB ladies started showing up. What a badass group of babes! Grit and sparkly fingernail polish, all rolled up into a beautiful rolling sisterhood of fury. Most of them ride vintage motorcycles, but there were some newer choppers and sportbikes thrown into the mix for flavor. It was co-ed night, so there were a few brave men that joined the group. One of them, Frank, gave me some great route suggestions, although his hand-drawn map looks more like a human digestive system than anything that is capable of being utilized as a navigation tool. Regardless, he had good suggestions.
Road map / human digestive system schematic
We rode to a bar, had a round of girlie drinks, shot the breeze along with some pool and talked about the club and how it was started. I took notes for starting an Austin-based ladies moto club. The male "groupies" were pretty entertaining as well. A couple of them were art directors for a drag queen makeover show called RuPaul's Drag Race. "I've come to terms with having pink glitter stuck to me. It's ubiquitous in my life," one of them admitted. It is LA, after all.
East Side Moto Babes. Stacie, Ana, me, Ezra, Jeanette.
Day 9 - West Hollywood, CA to Los Angeles area
The next morning, Gina and I had a banana duel at the local coffee shop before hiking in the Hollywood hills in Runyon Canyon. The people-watching was second to none. There were gay men wearing coordinated outfits walking their dogs (also having coordinated outfits), man-orexics, women with designer workout gear talking about how their celery diet has too many carbs for their metabolism type, all with coffee in one hand and a cell phone in the other--into which they were breaking up with their significant others or sharing juicy gossip about why someone did or didn't get a part in a movie. Gina just laughed and rolled her eyes at the drama and that's why we're friends. There were probably some well-known celebrities hiking around out there, but I didn't recognize any and don't really care. Celebrities are just people that a lot of other people have seen. It's weird to me when people turn into frenetic hyenas around the most minor of famous people. The exercise felt good, despite the effect that the smog had on my lungs.
On guard!
Runyon Canyon, the trail, western L.A., and what would be a view of the ocean were it not for the smog
I packed up my gear and headed out later that afternoon. My bike was having issues--a excessively squeaky suspension, a tendency to fall out of third gear, and an occasional misfiring--so I saw a mechanic and discovered that most of the issues were in my head. Not surprising. I was starting to get paranoid about the bike and the littlest changes in noise or feel were being exaggerated into major failures. It's funny how the most minor things can be amplified by nothing other than fear and an over-sensitive mind. The bike has no reason to fail. It was given a clean bill of health throughout the trip and I've been babying the hell out of it. I know I have a tendency to approach new situations with trepidation and a feeling of inevitable misfortune waiting for me, but I've been fighting that old habit and it's made all the difference. People always find what they are looking for. The more I relax and take heed of all of the wonderful things and people around me, the brighter the future seems.
Later that day, [CENSORED]
Day 10 - Los Angeles area to Santa Cruz, CA
That morning, I hit the road early and ran out of west. I finally made it to the coast and it felt great. When I saw the Pacific, I smiled inside my helmet. The cool ocean breeze kicked in and I felt chilled in my riding suit. The Austin climate has given me the heat tolerance of a lizard, but in exchange, I sold my soul to a snowman. I've lost my Minnesota cold tolerance. 25 years of snow angels, early morning windshield frost scraping, and 15 degree bicycle races are all for naught. It was probably 76 degrees and I was shivering uncontrollably. Of course, I could have put on the fleece that I had in my tank bag, but I was so happy to be on the road and riding, I ignored my body's discomforts. Bodies are a real pain in the ass sometimes--they need to be fed all the time, they get sick, they get sore and tired, they get gas at inconvenient times and places, and they wear out after about 76-79 years. I wish I was a floating consciousness, unattached to a body, like the amphibious people in Kurt Vonnegut's story Unready to Wear.
My route took me through Ventura, CA. Judging by the smell of that city, it is where the entire Los Angeles area sends its sewage. In a big ol' shit pipeline. That whole day was marked by smells, many of them foreign, and none of them as bad as that first wretched stank. North of Ventura, I smelled strawberries, roses, peas, smoked fish, broccoli, asparagus, seaweeds, tomatoes, and dozens of other sweet or earthy smells that I couldn't place--most of them hit like a gust of wind. I was in one of the most productive farming areas in the country, where much of the domestic produce is grown or processed, and the olfactory evidence was unmistakable.
Then, I really got near the coast...within a few hundred yards. The wind was howling and blowing the bike sideways. Neptune had sand in his crotch that day and he was taking it out on the coast. I stopped at a "Elephant Seal Viewing Area" and was afraid of even leaving my bike on its kickstand for fear of the wind blowing it over. "This is training for Patagonia," I thought to myself. Well, it turned out to be an awful place to see elephant seals. There was only one and I think it was dead. I guess they all all said "fuck this" and went to get margaritas in some calmer cove down the coast.
Thar she blows
Every mile up the coast beyond that was even more incredible than the last. Twisty roads, fog rolling over sunny hillsides, waves crashing onto the road, rock slides...this area felt so rugged and alive. This is sort of embarrassing to admit, but a few times I witnessed scenes so beautiful that I started to get tears in my eyes. I think California is turning me soft. Now I know how the "double rainbow guy" felt. Other times, the roads were so fun and winding that I squealed out loud like a piglet. I actually had to stop riding at one point because I was getting dizzy along the twisty roads, which is a good problem. It gave me time to botanize on the side of the road and investigate what seemed to be plants imported from bizarro-world. There were hundreds of mist-dependent dune plant species that I tried to identify using the one book I brought along on this trip: Wildflowers of the Pacific Coast States.
Fog rolling in over a cow pasture
Hell. Yes.
Some of the dune plant species I have yet to identify
To be continued when I'm not about to fall asleep...
After saying goodbye to Andy, White Sands, and all of the missile-related propaganda around Alamogordo, I headed west on Hwy 70 to Las Cruces, then I blasted north on I-25. Nothing but long, straight, boring roads, a scarily-named town of Radium Springs (apparently their water is high in radium...how does the town maintain their population?--they are probably all sterile and I doubt that the town attracts many transplants), and another pointless boarder control checkpoint. I swear I saw two boarder control vehicles carrying trailers with hot air balloon baskets on them. Really guys? That's a little conspicuous.
By now my muscles had adapted to the constant discomfort of riding. Despite the pain, they would snap to attention and assume the positions the way a hunting dog does when he knows it's showtime--the pain was simply an indicator of future feel-good endorphins stimulated by the pleasure of riding.
I jumped off the interstate at AZ 152. What a welcome change. My stomach was grumbling pretty loudly at this point, having had nothing but crappy hotel coffee all morning. As I rode through the small town of Hillsboro, NM, I was shocked by the number of cool old cars and hot rods. I wondered if everyone drove an awesome car here. I stopped and asked a couple of chaps what the story was in this tiny town--food, gas, etc. It turned out that they were from New Mexico Tech in Socorro and they were there testing groundwater flow. Having a background in water quality science, I questioned them mercilessly about their geomorphological conquests. We chatted about carbon dating of water, trace mineral testing, and water recharge zone mapping. They were a smart couple of guys. Then, for no real reason, I took a photo of them in front of some dried chili peppers.
The friendly geomorphologists
I walked down the street in search of food and found a cafe that served the best damned homemade kettle chips I've ever tasted and, surprisingly, a veggie burger. As I was eating, I eves dropped on some local blue-hairs deciding amongst themselves how people should conduct themselves in public. They all agreed with each other on every point and nodded their heads slowly in unison. Their perceived pace of their lives seemed so slow compared to mine in the last few days. Their mannerisms gave no hint of urgency whatsoever. It seemed almost strange to me. I picked a book out from the shelf and read about the history and ghosts of the town. I read about the town's historic Spit n' Whittle Club (on the way out of town, I noticed that the same club still adopts the highway).
After I finished my heavenly lunch, I checked out the art co-op across the street. I was expecting to see the typical tourist town fare of little figurines with doilies under them and corny signs to hang on the doors of outhouses. I was surprised to discover some really amazing stuff--beautiful sculptures and photography--large format film prints, not uncle-Bob's digital SLR snapshots of old windmills. I was even more amazed by the shopkeeper, Gene. He was more "cowboy" than any I've seen in Texas. He had the hat, the drawl, and the bulbous nose one gets from decades of drinking and repeated sunburns down to the cartilage. Plus, his partially-unbuttoned shirt revealed a mohawk of gray chest hair! Awesome. He, of course, gave his motorcycle horror story, as most people do. His was an autobiographical one. 40 years ago, he was riding his Honda CB750 along the same road I came in on, hit uneaven pavement in a corner and crashed face-first onto the pavement. "Reckon the Man Upstairs [looking up] was watchin' out fer me that day er I woulda taken a long dirt nap. You be careful now young lady, ya hear?" he said. His story explained the condition of his nose. I bought some postcards, walked back across the street and mailed them, and was on my way.
Cowboy Gene and his awesome chest hair mohawk
The section of 152 out of Hillsboro is the stuff of legends. Beautiful winding roads through ponderosa pine forests and almost no traffic.
As I was riding, it was fairly toasty inside my waterproof riding suit. I started to think about the comforts of home, specifically, fancy cocktails. I got a craving for a mint julep, which I hadn't had in a long time. As I rode and fantasized about iced girlie drinks, I came up upon one of the sweet vintage cars that had been parked in Hillsboro. This might be because I still had the packet of Mystical Fire in my tank bag......but, the car was mint-green...and as I came up on it, I noticed that the license plate read: Julep. Holy shit, that's weird.
After exiting the Gila, I rode into the town of Silver City and contemplated whether I had time to do Hwy 191, which I had been dreaming about. The foreboding skies tested my resolve. There were storms brewing over the Black Range of the Gila (I entered and left the Gila NF several times--at over 3 million acres, it covers some serious real estate).
Storms a-brewin'
It was 6pm, 1.5 hours before sunset, storms inevitable, no cell phone reception for miles, and no plan for a place to stay. 191 would have been over 150 miles and no towns in between. 180, which runs alongside 191 to the east, is less curvy, but only 100 miles and with a few small towns in between. I spent an unreasobable amount of time at the fork that would take me to either...fuck it--I rode toward 191. I came all this way, after all, and I was not going to be denied my Hwy 191.
The skies were beautiful, in the way that I imagined the west being in my mind.
"The West"
Then, the part of my intuition that is tuned into my female instinct for preservation of the species kicked in. This could turn out very poorly. I turned back toward 180. Just as I was entering the Gila again, the clouds dumped on me, the wind picked up, the temperature dropped by 15 degrees, and the sky darkened by at least 3 f-stops (nerd). I was glad that I chose the safe-yet-still-entertaining route. And, after all, I'm still here typing this so it could have been worse. I have been proud of myself for managing risk so well on this trip. I have a lot of miles to go, so there is no sense in blowing it by walking too close to the edge. This was especially hard to come to terms with while riding behind two sportbikes in Texas. Aw shit, this is just me rationalizing for not riding was was probably the most awesome road ever. The thing is, every moment of this trip is simultaneously closing and opening doors, but I can only enter one at a time while wondering what was behind all the others. I have a real problem with the wondering and it has put me in some unpleasant places in the past. It caused me to second-guess my decisions and to distrust myself. Every time I start to wonder about the "what-ifs," I refocus my energy on the present moment and become thankful for the places the road has taken me, however uncomfortable and despite the potential fortunes of different routes. This shift in perspective has made my life so much better.
So...back along 180, which turned out to be an amazing road, I rode through a good bit of weather. The bike handled so well in the rain. I was so proud of her, I even gave her a pat and lovingly told her how good she was being. Perhaps I was starting to get lonely.
The rain stopped as I pulled into the one town with gas along the route. A lazy dog was sprawled out in the doorway, keeping guard. A pat on the head afforded me safe passage. I asked the attendant, who was obviously ready to close shop for the night, if there were any pay phones. She flippped her hand through her giant bleach-blonde bangs and motioned with sass that they were outside the building. Having no cell coverage for most of the day, I thought I would check in with my ground support crew. However, one pay phone was completely dead and the other didn't register the numbers 9 or 3. I realized that day that I have zero friends (at least in my travel journal) without those two digits in their phone numbers. I pressed on. The sunset that night was even more beautiful than the last. I stopped on the side the road near a pass and watched it set. Then I realized it was getting dark and cold and that I needed to cover ground. I snapped a photo and was on my way. I cursed myself for packing my gear so thoroughly that every bit of warm clothing would only be revealed after a 20 minute excavation.
I made it to the little town of Alpine, NM about a half hour after sunset. I surveyed the town as I rode through to determine whether there were any motels. There were a lot of cute little touristy cabins which were overpriced so I figured I would press on the 20 miles to the next, larger town. On the way out of town I noticed a little motel that fit the seedy vs. affordable balance and I slowed down a bit to give it further inspection. Just then, I hit a dip, some gravel, and BAM! down does the bike and I go tumbling into the ditch. I actually said to myself "Well that sucked" (some of you may be more familiar with that phrase). I just stood there and looked at the horizontal bike for a minute. Then I tried in vain to right it. Two guys from the motel heard the commotion and came out to assist. They righted it and wheeled it into the parking lot. I thanked them profusely. I think the bike decided for me that I should stay there that night. So I did. (This ended up being a very good decision--there was a huge mudslide up the road. Motorists were hitting it and sliding off of the road. There was also an elk collision). I walked into the office and was overwhelmed by the warm cozy atmosphere. Three giant dogs got up to greet me, a woman was sitting in front of the fire knitting, and the man at the counter was a slow-talking Sam Elliot doppelganger. There was condensation on the corners of the window and ubiquitous flannel motifs. It was like I happened upon Santa Claus' lair during the off-season. I was comforted by the small herd of motorcycles outside the motel doors, including some newer BMW GS's, a pair of Cagiva dual sports, and a handful of haggard little dirt bikes that looked like they had tumbled down several thousand-foot embankments. It got cold that night--the town of Alpine is at 8,000 feet after all. I had to turn the heater on in my room, which was strange after riding through heat for most of the day.
Day 5 - Alpine, AZ to Sedona, AZ
As I packed up my bike, one of the newer BMW GS riders and his wife came over to sniff around the bike. This guy was the biggest dork I'd seen yet. He had a BMW conductor's cap with a BMW name badge pinned to it. He immediately gave me his BMW business card. What a tool, I thought. He and his wife were pleasant people and he stood around the bike, as men have a tenancy to do, as I did my preventative checks and little maintenance task. Oil color: Gingerbread Shortcake. The BMW dork told me about a Moto Guzzi meetup a bit down the road. I thanked him and was on my way toward Springerville wondering and fearing that the fate of all GS riders is to become like that dork.
My route took me to 260, which I rode all the way to Sedona. It was a beautiful route through the Sitgreaves National Forest. Despite riding through 2 hours of storms and downpours and 20 minutes of hail, I couldn't be happier. I tested the waterproof nature of my Aerostich suit. The conclusion: everything is watertight, except for the crotch. The water seeped in and wetted the padded crotch area of my bicycle shorts and my crotch was to remain soggy for the rest of the day. Still, I couldn't have been happier.
The storm I had been riding through for 2 hours
Eventually the clouds parted and the heat turned on in a big way. I was in red rocks country now and it was like riding through a volcano. I rolled into the Sedona area around sunset. The combination of the huge rock formations of iron oxide-covered sandstone and the golden sunset light created a color that I didn't know existed. It was almost too vibrant to look at. This must be why people think that Sedona contains energy votexes or spiraling spiritual and metaphysical energy. For real. Check out the vortex map. I passed signs advertising the "transformational power of the healing vortex" and "get your vortex crystals here," and "got vortexes?". I didn't feel the power of the vortexes--luckily, I still did have my packet of Mysical Fire in my tank bag, so I was stocked up on metaphysical energy.
Can you pick out any energy vortexes in this photo?
I arrived at my friend Dave's and immediately made myself a gin and tonic and started writing. He and his girlfriend Lena were not home yet, so I had some much-needed solo decompression time. I started boiling some beans for dinner and walked up the street to a fruit stand and chatted with the two chaps running it. I told them I needed some fruits and veggies after several days on the road and an unhealthy intake of donuts and gatorade. It turns out that one of them, Derik, was a motorcycle tourer as well. We chatted at length about where we had been, where I was going, and he suggested some good roads to ride. The other guy was nice, but it seemed like he had spent a bit too much time ingesting the powers of transformational vortexes--or maybe just a lot of weed. Derik was also headed west the next day and he offered to put my bike on his trailer so I could sit in his air-conditioned truck across the hot desert. It was tempting. I told him I would take him up on it if the timing worked out. By that time, I realized that the beans were probably boiling all over the stove, onto the floor, and burning down the house. I quickly bought some apple cider and ran back. They were just fine. Dave, Lena, and Lena's two adorable kids arrived shortly afterward. I was so happy to see Dave. It had been so long. We caught up while Dave made some extreme dinner.
Dave making extreme dinner
Day 6 - Sedona, AZ to Loma Linda, CA
We all turned in early and I planned to leave at dawn to beat the heat. Well, I had selective alarm hearing and didn't get out of there until 8. Derik insisted that I take AZ 89A through Jerome so I obliged. And I was so happy that I did. Jerome was a beautiful little town hanging off the side of a mountain. It felt like a little european town, with narrow streets and cafes everywhere. If it wasn't for the giant pack of Harley riders, the town would be one of the most peaceful I'd ever been through. I wished I'd woken up earlier so I would have had time to stop into a cafe. The road outside of Jerome was the BEST road I've ever ridden. Recently paved, well engineered so that the corners were well banked, little traffic, and the best views yet....aside from the surprise chunks of fallen rock on the road (the Harley riders must have rumbled through and knocked everything loose).
The rest of the day was long and hot. I rode across the desert on I-40 in the middle of the day--not the best plan, but I needed to get to L.A. I broke my rule of always riding with the proper gear and wore jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. The idea of wearing the riding suit seemed more foolish. I stopped at every gas station I could and drenched myself in water. It felt amazing for following 10 minutes of riding, before it had completely dried. In Needles, CA, it was 111 degrees. According to the attendant, that was a cool day. I asked one of the service station guys to take a photo of me while I dumped water on myself. He happily agreed. I didn't know if the bucket that the attendant had given me was for washing windows or toilets, but I didn't care at that point.
AC being installed on my motorcycle
I rode for what seemed like 17 hours across the desert. It was hot, but some beautiful strange plant was blooming in the Mohave, I had the salsa music cranked up, and I was happy.
Along the way I discovered that hell on earth is a Dairy Queen in the middle of the desert. The only gas station/restaurant for 50 miles was packed with cranky tired kids and their even more unpleasant parents who had been worn down by their kids' pleas for ice cream for the last 30 miles worth of billboard advertisements. I got the hell out of there as quickly as possible.
By the time I arrived in Barstow, my spirits were not quite so high. I had just gotten my first experience with L.A. traffic and I was still 20 miles out from San Bernardino. At the gas station, a cop came over to me and I almost lost it--I thought he was going to hassle me about something. When he said "cool bike," instead, my attitude softened. We chatted about my trip and he told me about touring on his KLR 650. He wished me well and I was on my way to Loma Linda to stay with my friends Emily and David.
This is what 500 miles through the desert looks like on a person
An hour and half later (more traffic), I arrived, ready to collapse. It was the best possible place I could have collapsed. Emily and David's home was the polar opposite of my past few days. It was warm, cozy, domestic. There were chickens (named Breakfast, Lunch, Dinner, and Snack) running around in the backyard, there were little jars of grains and teas in the kitchen, and freshly cut flowers in the guest room. I swooned. This was exactly what I needed. I fell in love with their home immediately. The windows were all thrown open wide, a breeze was blowing through, and the golden light of sunset was making their pastel-painted rooms come alive. I immediately ate all of the fruits and vegetables in sight as a kitten wound its way through my legs. It was so idyllic for being in the middle of a city. Emily and David are some of the most genuine, loving people I've ever met--who needs transformational power vortexes of Sedona when these two are around? They have been such gracious hosts, making yummy dinners, breakfasts--Emily even packed me a lunch and brought me some freshly-squeezed grapefruit juice as I'm writing this. I kind of want to move in here.
From left: Dinner and Lunch
The Urban Farm
Day 7 - Loma Linda, CA to Loma Linda, CA
The next day, I attempted to ride the famous Angeles Crest Highway, Hwy 2 into the city but I was thwarted by a brush fire. All the roads were closed. Bummer.
Thwarted by a brush fire
After sitting in balled up traffic for a half hour, I sat at a gas station and tried to figure out what to do. I watched out the window a man smoking a cigarette with smog and wildfire smoke in the distance and wondered if his lungs missed breathing oxygen. L.A. is a really dirty city. I decided to spend another night at the urban farmhouse at Emily and David's. I was treated to another yummy homemade breakfast of cantaloupe, freshly-squeezed juice, and blackberry/oat/flax muffins that Emily had baked that morning. Who is this woman?! Amazing.
The amazing Mrs. Denay Jasperse and her killer breakfast
Day 7 - Loma Linda, CA to West Hollywood, CA
Now it's time to head into the belly of the beast. I'm planning on seeing my friend in West Hollywood, then meeting up with friends on a layover on their way to Antarctica, and then meeting up with the East Side Moto Babes. It's going to be a great day. Oil color: Loma Linda Sky, a half-quart low.
The day of lift off. It seems so long ago from today as I sit on my friend Dave's deck in Sedona, AZ, gin and tonic in hand. Those end-of-the-day aches have become my drinking companion.
Anyway, I had all of my stuff packed up, got all of the loose ends tied, made some last minute runs around town for provisioning and it was off to meet my riding companions, Ojas and Andy, who joined me on their sportbikes for the first few days. I pulled into Jo's Coffee on South Congress to meet my buddies, only an hour late (which is impressive for me!). As I pulled in to the usual parking spot next to the patio, BAM!, down goes the bike. Great. What a way to start the trip. The bike was heavy enough on its own, but it now had lots of crap strapped to it to make it super top-heavy. It was a slow drop and as it was dropping I saw my riding companions watch helplessly, knowing that they could not teleport over fast enough to prevent it from happening. Well, I got the bike up. No damages besides a scraped up crash bar and head and a good dose of confidence deflation. I had not eaten all day and was nervous about the next few weeks--I just needed to get on the road.
We headed out of Austin on our way to Leakey, TX and we were treated to some beautiful Hill Country riding. The best road I've ridden in Texas is Ranch Road 337, which winds its way from Vanderpool to Leakey and this time was no exception. I'll post a video as soon as I figure out how to compress a 2 gb video file I took using my friend Cory's GoPro camera. Ojas almost got taken out by a kamikaze hawk and I got a direct hit by a dragonfly on the 1cm of skin not covered by by Aerostich space suit. But I can't complain.
Once we got to Leakey we looked around for places to stay. The D'Rose Inn, which caters solely to motorcyclists and bicyclists, didn't have any rooms. On a Tuesday? Oh well. We rode 2 blocks away to another touristy kind of place. As we were trying to orient ourselves, a jolly old man with a cane and a laugh that sounded like an extended "H" sound steered us in the right direction. Once we settled in, food and libations were in order. The pickings were slim so we settled for some tallboys in paper bags and greasy, greasy Mexican food. Pure class.
Keepin it classy in Leakey
As we walked through the drive-through liquor store in Leakey, between a queue of trucks with dogs in the backs, I spotted some "Mystical Fire" next to the Campell's tomato soup that had been there so long that their labels had faded to pink. Having heard legendary stories from a fellow rider about Mystical Fire and Deep Fried Bacon, I decided to buy some and keep it with me for good luck or if I felt the need for other-dimensional pick-me-up.
We dutifully sniffed around the bikes over for any signs of trouble. We checked the oil, spark plugs, tire pressure. I felt very manly. I fought the urge to grunt and adjust my crotch--although I lack things to adjust, it felt appropriate. (Later, as we were all turning in, I found it ironic that I was NOT the one wearing pink toenail polish!. The BMW was perfect, as it still is. The oil is only a slightly darker than clear color. As my future career will be in the naming of paint chips and lipstick colors, I will practice on the oil color. That night, I would say the color was: Suburban Villa.
We settled in for the night and watched strange infomercials about the prostate gland. That night, I had a dream that it had rained in Austin (which is a far-fetched dream) and the infomercial guy saying over and over: "Every man has a prostate gland." I still don't know what they were actually selling.
The next morning my muscles were sore. After 6 weeks of strength training and weight lifting, I had still hurt myself trying to maneuver the bike. The rest of the week will be a trial-by-fire exercise for the muscles.
Day 2 - Leakey, TX to Marfa, TX
I started the day out right by dropping the bike again at the gas station. The damned kickstand is spring-loaded and I am unable to put the kickstand down while sitting on the bike. The cylinder head is in the way. Even if I was 6" taller or was wearing the worlds pointyest cowboy boots, I would still not be able to put the kickstand down. Terrible design. So, to get off of my top-heavy bike, I have to get off using a combination of ninja speed and yoga flexibility and balance to prevent it from toppling over as I swing my leg over. Andy and I mulled over some potential solutions that day and he spotted me in the meantime as I perfected my bike dismount. Thanks Andy! More on the kickstand situation later...
The ride was a long, hot one on Hwy 90 along the Mexican boarder. There were boarder patrols everywhere. I thought it was novel to go through a boarder checkpoint, but I have since become annoyed by stopping for them and their bulletproof identity checking process of asking: "Are you a U.S. citizen" and asking for no proof. I guess they are just checking for stowaways and although my waterproof duffel is large enough to fit 2 dwarves or 6 clowns, they did not check it.
A swim in the Amistad Reservoir
We stopped along the Amistad reservoir (a dammed up section of the Rio Grande that straddles the U.S.-Mexico boarder and went for a swim. We got to do some bonus off-road riding to get to a quiet cove. To my embarrassment, Andy schooled me on his sportbike. It must be all that time studying up on Ice Cubes techniques in the movie Torque--or a childhood filled with dirtbikes...one or the other. The swim was a necessary reprieve from the heat. Due to the insane level of Boarder Patrol presence, I partially expected to see a Mexican snorkeling by me as I swam. On the way back the gravel trail to the water, Andy's main fuse popped out. So much for riding a sport bike off-road. Luckily, it did not make it very far and instead of it being thrown into the weeds to become some sort of worshiped temple for ants, it was just under his seat. Sigh of relief and onward...
Sportbikes beware...
The rest of Hwy 90 is a long, lonely, desolate stretch without billboards or most of the typical signs of human existence, which was refreshing. The mind starts to convert from its normal verbal thought language to a more organic, free flowing form, which unsurprisingly is difficult to describe verbally. What a trip...
In the tiny town of Sanderson, the only gas for dozens of miles, I met one of the most entertaining old ladies in a long time. She saw me in my riding suit in the heat and gasped. She cursed men for inventing motorsports. According to her, men invented:
1) Cursed motorsports
2) The corners of microwaves and refrigerators that you can't use and can't clean
3) Vinyl flooring with raised patterns in it that are also impossible to clean
She had come to the store in her flowing white blouse, giant purple sunglasses, and rainbow pajama pants to pick up bread and beer. She was a sassy old coot. She told the clerk about how her neighbor's dog stole her Hello Kitty slipper, how she lived in Seattle next to Pike's market, and how, when she died, her male friend was going to wear her black and gold sequin dress (willed to him) while spreading her ashes in Key West, FL. I had already been hallucinating due to heat exhuastion, but this lady put me squarely in the twilight zone. I wish I had asked her name...
Most awesome old lady in Sanderson, TX
Marfa, TX
Marfa was a blast. It's like Austin Jr. Ojas, Andy and I stayed with Andy's friend Alex and a hyperactive sock-and-underwear-eating little terrier dog. We had an amazing dinner at the Miniature Rooster, where Alex works. I got all the greens in my system that I could manage, knowing full well that veggies would be lacking in my diet for the next few days. We went out for some drinks, checked out the Milky Way for the first time in months, and chatted with Alex's boyfriend Beto, who is a journalist with the local paper. He couldn't stay out late because the paper was so small he had to deliver the paper in the morning too! Gotta love small town newspapers. We got a late start in the morning and had some delicious breakfast with the maximum % by volume of veggies possible. I got to know Andy and Ojas much better and really like the guys. We talked about revitilization of Detroit, celestial objects, Indian-Pakistani friendship (which I thought was illegal), and Ojas' obsession with chickpeas.
Day 3 - Marfa, TX to Alamogordo, NM
Andy, Ojas and I headed north from Marfa and took 118, which passes by the McDonald Observatory. Gorgeous road. The evidence of recent wildfires was all around. Ojas split off at 166 and returned to Marfa to bomb around for the rest of the day. Andy and I rode a brutal stretch along I-10, stopping only for gas and to admire the bizarre gas station kickknacks and trucker gear.
Gas station kickknack. This is wrong in so many ways.
The stuff nightmares are made of
Yup...still in Texas
A long straight road through southern NM provided one of the most amazing sunsets I have ever seen. It was a missile testing range all around so there was absolutely nothing human in sight. Except for another useless boarder checkpoint. The rain showers were backlit by the setting sun and I thought I was going to have a "double rainbow moment" inside my helmet. We got into Alamogordo late, but had time to check out White Sands National Monument at twilight and while a lightening-filled storm was rolling in. Sadly, we couldn't camp there because the military base was going to be doing missile testing in the early morning. Serious bummer. White Sands is so surreal -- it looked like a Minnesota winter, but definitely felt like a desert summer. I could have spent a whole week photographing that place. And sledding down the sand hills.
By the time we got back to Alamogordo, all of the rocket, spaceship, and missile-themed restarants were closed, so we stuffed our faces with Chinese food, probably left over from the day's buffet.
The next morning, German engineering met Michigan engineering. Andy, a Michigan native, and I devised a "Home Depot Steampunk" kickstand solution (ok, Andy did most of the work and I took photos). Now I can put the kickstand down while I'm sitting on the bike. Hooray!
German engineering, meet Michigan engineering
Andy and I parted ways in Alamogordo and I made one more stop through White Sands during the daytime. It was blinding. The sand plow truck driver stopped to ask me about the bike and I got him to take a photo.
One more stop through White Sands before leaving New Mexico
More later...Dave is making dinner and I am being rude. I'm planning on getting up at dawn and riding through the hot desert to the City of Angels
“Traveling is not just seeing the new; it is also leaving behind. Not just opening doors; also closing them behind you, never to return. But the place you have left forever is always there for you to see whenever you shut your eyes.”
...well ain't that some grandiose flapdoodle...
Bags Packed, Nerves at Attention
So today is the day I leave Austin and head west. All I can think about is the Dr. Seuss book Oh, the Places You'll Go--it's corny but apropos reference for the day. I'm looking forward to getting some space from the familiar. When I planted the seed for this trip, it was done with hasty recklessness--I felt like I needed to get the hell out of town, never to return. I wanted to run away from the issues I was facing in Austin. Six months later, I'm glad I've stayed and grown and faced the ugly. I feel great and I'm happy. I'm glad that I've cultivated so many good friendships and found the outline of a yet-to-be-well-defined niche for myself in this funky cowtown.
Still, I need space. And I can't wait to see what awaits. Take me, universe--let's go dance the jitterbug. .
Getting Nervous
Ok, so maybe it's
A) the triple espresso I had earlier;
B) the realization that 4,000 miles is a LONG way and the last time I drove over 400 miles I had to lip sync to Michael Jackson's "Can't Stop 'til You Get Enough" to keep myself awake; or,
C) the advice from my friend Bill: "make sure you keep food in your breast pocket so when you crash and get pinned, you will have something to snack on until someone finds you,"
but my stomach is in knots. I need to go run 5 miles in sand, squeeze fruit in the produce aisle, or gnaw on on a log. I'm jittery and restless.
"This is supposed to be exciting," I tell myself. Why do I freak myself out? Why am I spending 3-4 hours a night in a state of half-sleep delirium and find notes on my phone in the morning that say "fill the house with pork and chocolate?" Why is my stomach making noises that I've only heard elsewhere uttered from the cartoon character Scooby Doo? Why can I only manage to eat one taco and coffee all day?
A Little Perspective
In the middle of a freak-out session in the car today, I was sitting at a stop light, going through the to-do list on my phone and worrying about bringing extra fuses or some such detail. A man with no legs wheeled his way across the intersection, nearly missing potholes and crazy ass Texas truck drivers, and I realized that all I need is some good old fashioned perspective. I'm worrying about the particulars of a motorcycle trip while other people are trying to bring home a gallon of milk without finding their way under a Dodge Ram 1500 Truck, Lone Star Edition. I have yet to figure out what "Lone Star Edition" means, other than a propensity to drive like an asshole and park on sidewalks...but I digress. So, opening your eyes to the people around you or reading the world news is like going to group therapy for addicts--you will realize how much worse off you could be. Perspective. Try it. Start counting your good fortunes instead of your problems. It makes all the difference.
Things could always be worse
My friend asked me last week "What's the worst that could happen?" to which I replied pessimistically "Get in a wreck and die." His reply: "oh.....................well, at least you would be out enjoying yourself." He's right. Every day, we put ourselves at risk. Riding a motorcycle across the country is, without a doubt, more risky than staying home. But the greatest hazard in life is to risk nothing...to wonder what it might have been like. The seed has been planted--it has to happen. I think back quite a bit about how I gave an ex so much shit about doing a similar trip and I feel like such an ass about it now. I didn't understand. Again...perspective is key.
Luckily for me, my approach to "the limit" is to eke toward it with minutely small increments of risk and push boundaries tenderly, as opposed to the approach of pushing way past the limit and looking back (if still alive) to realize where the limit was. I am the proverbial toe-dipping water temp tester at the pool. That's probably why I'm treating this trip with such trepidation. That, and a lack of testosterone--the stuff is poison.
The fear I feel is the same kind I have felt in a third world country: the feeling that nobody is watching my back, that I have to keep my senses on high alert, that I need to rely on my gut and my wit to keep me from getting knocked off this big blue marble. I've just got to go with it. The trip is not going to be perfectly executed. It is important to recognize when "good enough" is enough.
Reunited Soon...
The bike will be returned to me tomorrow and I can't wait until baby is back in mama's arms. I would have had it sooner, but there was some mystery smoke issue to be resolved. I am hoping that the smoke is just the ghost of future adventure and mystical fire instead of the ghost of maintenance past. I'll see if I can strap all of my crap onto it.
I am bummed out that my friend Cory is not going to be able to make it, but he did send his GoPro camera in his absence. It's a sorry replacement for having him along, but it's still better than a kick in the face.
The Pannier Dilemma
There have been issues with the BMW hard bag locks. I don't want to talk about it yet. It's too soon. I'm still getting over it. The solution: locking tie-down straps. They are like regular ratchet straps but the ratchet part locks and there is a cable inside the nylon to make it harder to cut. It is not an elegant solution, but it will keep the bags on the bike and it will keep curious hands out of my toiletries while I go take a photo of myself in front of the world's largest artichoke
A LOT of Miles
About 4,000 miles, to be exact. I can't even comprehend how far that is. I get bored to tears in a car on the way to Ikea in Round Rock and that's only 30 or so miles. Luckily, a motorcycle is a whole other type of experience.
I have the basic route figured out, but it more like a guideline (like stop signs). This thing is meant to be an adventure, after all. You will notice that the route stops in Seattle. Don't read too much into that. I'll be leaving the bike there in storage and flying back to Austin around the 8th of September. Austin isn't quite totally played out for me yet. I'm sure I'll miss it when I'm gone, but at the moment I can't wait to get out. The 40-something consecutive days of 100+ degree heat don't help.
If you have suggestions of places I can't miss or people I should meet up with, PLEASE let me know (especially if they have open couches!).
(NOTE: The map does not show the full route on one page. Scroll to the bottom and click pages 2 and 3) Route Map
Not Really
Ok, so how many of you are here because of the ring photo? You have been duped. I'm not engaged, I'm just pretending to be a wifey on this trip using the ring my co-worker found on the beach in Puerto Rico. Apparently, they don't have lost-and-found in PR. She got laughed at for asking. It's a finders-keepers only policy. There are no sappy stories about someone having their wedding ring returned by a plumber or a scuba diver because they noticed that "Michael Lee Aday, Always and Forever" was engraved into it when they discovered it. Not in PR. And luckily for me, it was my size. My co-worker only used it as her "back-up wedding ring" whatever the hell that means....
Why am I pretending to be a Mrs., you say? Well, I got the idea from the book Lois on the Loose, written by Lois Pryce. It's a travelogue and it helped inspire this trip. Lois, a redhead (of course) Brit quit her job/life and rode her motorcycle from Anchorage, AK to Usharia, Argentina. She wore a wedding ring along the way and it toned down the creepers by at least 10%. She even used it to get across a protest road block on the Pan-American by wailing about "Mi esposo!" with emoting worthy of a Spanish Telenovela on Univision. It worked. The crowd that had gathered for the protest were suckers to their goopy, melted hearts and let her through the road block to be with her fake husband. I have the ring. I will work on my acting skills.
Clara's in the Shop, Got Traveling on My Mind
My beloved Claramond von Haselhorst (Clara: "shining protector" Haselhorst: region of Berlin where she was born) is in the shop. She's getting a brand new grippy rear tire, a gel battery, an oil change, a carb work-through, and a lowering of the forks so my feet might be able to touch the ground when I come to a stop. Unfortunately, it looks like I will have to take up a smart-assed friend's suggestion of buying taller shoes. Some technogarble about the rear suspension being only to adjust the load and the forks needing a spacer...I am glad that my bike is in the good hands of a shop with mechanics who are damn-near rocket scientists.
In fact, I have been realizing that I am in many good hands in Austin and beyond. Thanksgiving is coming early this year. I am overwhelmed by the support I have received from my friends in Austin and beyond. A very good friend of mine, let's call him "Pablo" has offered to house-sit and make sure my dog doesn't lose her mind, which he has also done for me for the past few weeks. My friend Winston let me borrow his GPS, Steve and Monica let me borrow their bike-mount video camera and use their soldering gun, D is loaning me some clothes, the list goes on...and of course there are many wishing for me to check in with them because they will worry. It's the stuff that Hallmark card ink is made from. Good vibrations all around.
I even managed to wrangle some fellow motorcyclists to join me for a few of the first days. This includes my friend Cory from Minneapolis, who I completely adore. He is bringing his KTM down in the bed of his truck to ride out with me for the first week and I couldn't be happier. It's nice to have some folks around to take your photo next to the giant fiberglass novelty statues or the double-entendre street signs and someone to share the double rainbows with...and someone to keep the humor when things start on fire.
Then, there is the motorcycling community at large. I am humbled by the willingness of people to let near-strangers into their world and, in some cases, into their homes. The motorcycling community is a surprisingly small world. Folks from LA know folks from Seattle, who know folks near Big Sur. I am really looking forward to meeting up with the East Side Moto Babes in LA (and taking notes for a similar future Austin chapter!). One of their members hooked me up with a woman in San Fran who is an avid rider and just published a book called Chicks on Bikes. I also got hooked up with a shop in Portland called Doomtown Motorworks. Everyone seems like good folks and are very willing to help out.
I got a lesson in the power of social networks by reaching out to friends of friends and learned how far one or two degrees of separation can go. From a surfing lesson in Laguna Beach to the offer to sleep in a funky Lower Height District bathtub, opportunities abound. And I say "bring it on."
Unfortunately, the shining examples also help define the shadows and have helped me identify the people who I really want in my life...as well as the others. Life is fucking grand and I'm not wasting any more mental real estate on the people and things that don't deserve it. There's just too much good stuff out there.
