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.
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| 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.
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| 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).
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| 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.
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| "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.
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| Dave making extreme dinner |
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.
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| AC being installed on my motorcycle |
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.
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| The amazing Mrs. Denay Jasperse and her killer breakfast |
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.
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| The Guest Log a the Loma Linda Chicken Sanctuary |
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