San Francisco, CA to Black Rock City, NV

Day 13 - San Francisco, CA to South Lake Tahoe, CA

With hesitation beget by leaving such a great city, I set off from San Francisco with a cute brown bag lunch, helpfully labeled with my name, that Jeff made for me. I rode over some of the steepest hills in the city, which was terrifying while on a bike that was too big and tall for me, carrying way too much gear. I rolled through all of the stop signs and made hand-signal apologies to all the cross traffic. I couldn't stop this crazy train or I would fall over. I was relieved to get to sea level. I crossed the Golden Gate Bridge and was treated to a gorgeous view of the city. Fog flanked the sides of the skyscrapers like fake snow in a holiday gift display window. It's like the fog always knows where to place itself as an enchanting, complementary accessory. I decided to take a side-trip to the Burning Man Festival in Black Rock City, in north eastern Nevada. I'd never been to the festival, I had a ticket, and some friends of mine I hadn't seen in six years were there and had a camp all set up. I was only a few hundred miles away, after all.
I rode through central California and the temperature quickly shot back into the 90s. I stopped at a gas station to shed clothes, eat lunch, and investigate the trinkets that Jeff left me in my lunch bag. I blasted through hot flat central California and zoned out while catching up on podcasts of This American Life. I hit the Eldorado National Forest along Hwy 50, where the altitude rose and the temperature dropped nicely into the 70s. The road was sublime and I remarked to myself at the incredible diversity of landscapes in California.
I hit South Lake Tahoe in the evening and decided to stop for the night. I thought about continuing on to Reno and doing my semi-annual $5 gambling spree and gorging myself on cheap buffet food, but I wanted to take the long way around Lake Tahoe and that would put be on twisty roads in the dark. I checked in with my parents, and they mentioned that a friend of theirs had a friend who knew a friend in South Lake Tahoe. Three degrees of separation, but what the heck? I called him up and learned that I was only a few blocks away. I should have heeded the 2nd degree of separation friend's warning: "You can call him Al. Al Coholic." I laughed at his comment, knowing that most people drink and like to joke about it like it's a new thing. He was not kidding around. This guy, Rick, was piss drunk when I got there. He was a 60ish aged excavator and when I showed up, he didn't quite know what to make of me, either because I was a young woman traveling alone on a motorcycle...or because he was piss drunk. Either way, he looked at me like I was a 5-headed leprechaun. He told me, on four separate occasions and with horribly slurred speech, to park my bike in the yard and not on the street. I asked if it was because of the risk of it being hit or stolen. His reply: "We don't have too many Mexicans 'round here, but there still are a few thieves." I was stunned and didn't know whether he was saying that Mexicans were poor drivers or thieves. Ok, so this guy is a racist, but at least he doesn't trigger the creep sensor. My Mexican friend told me later that I should have replied: "Well, as long as there aren't any Asians driving around here."
In the time it took to unpack my bike and put my stuff in his spare room (and granted, I am a dawdler) he had cracked and demolished three beers. Three of the cheapest beers money can buy...this guy was a professional. I eavesdropped on his drunken contract negotiation phone conversation: "I could built a fuckin skyscraper with my class A license...I don't have the knowledge or expertise to do it, but...fuck yeah, I got 2 million dollar coverage--who the hell do you think I am?" I changed clothes and as I examined the incredibly tacky tapestry on the wall (I should have paid him $5 for it and sold it to an Austin hipster for $50), I threw my jeans down on the bed and a cloud of sawdust filled the room. The spare bedroom was also his woodshop. And gun storage room, based on the items lining the floor against the wall. I knew that my life would become MUCH more dusty in the next few days, thanks to the playa at Burning Man and I wasn't going to complain about free lodging, so I headed out for some food as Rick cracked another beer. The guy was nice enough and I thanked him profusely for sharing his space...and got the hell outta there for the evening.

Move over, "Three Wolf Moon" t-shirt, this tapestry has an owl-moon!

I found a natural foods cafe and gorged myself on veggies and caught up on a few emails. I started to feel like a celebrity on my motorcycle--people would bother me and ask about it when all I wanted to do was sink into the recesses of a quiet coffee shop. Instead, inevitably some guy would come over, drool for a few minutes while I told him about my trip, and then launch into the ins and outs of the accessories he bought recently for his Ducati 1096 or R1 or whatever. I would pretend that I new what the fuck he was talking about by nodding politely. I am really not a gear junkie or motorhead, but because I was on a motorcycle, these guys assumed I had the requisite dude-knowledge built into by brain. When I start to feel annoyed, I take a step back and realize: it IS pretty fucking cool that I'm doing this...and I bathe myself in the compliments and own my badassery. Wow, I need more photos in this post. There's way too much text. Thanks for still reading!

Day 14-16 - South Lake Tahoe, CA to Black Rock City, NV

So I slept soundly that night and got up at the ass-crack of dawn and blasted out of South Lake Tahoe. Luckily, by bike had not been commandeered overnight by Muslims or grafitti'ed by Irishmen. I gave Rick, who had sobered up into a charming old man, a thanful goodbye and rode up the west side of the lake as the sun rose. It was a divinely gorgeous lake, an enormous pool of blue sparkly mermaid habitat. I watched as someone blew up a hot air balloon from the deck of a boat in the center and rode along yet another set of perfectly banked turns.

Lovely Lake Tahoe and a boat-deck hot air balloon launch (look closely)

 I made it to Reno by late morning and provisioned for Burning Man. I couldn't carry much--and luckily there would be people there to take care of me--so I grabbed a few things and rolled out. I had noticed some oil leaking from right cylinder head of the bike, but my all-knowing mechanic told me it was nothing to be worried about. Better to be over-paranoid than stuck in the middle of nowhere (I had no idea that this is exactly what was going to happen to me, but for a different reason...I'm giving you a taste of the next episode--this is where I would cut to a commercial. Good story-telling, eh? Ok, I'll get over myself and stop writing as a stream-of-consciousness)

Not to worry, it's just a leaky old beemer

I rolled through Gerlach, NV, the last (very small) city before entering the playa and the Burning Man Festival. The city was full of "Get your Burner Gear Here" stands and signs advertising hot showers. I stopped into a bar to use the bathroom and fill up my Camelbak with ice. I found some weary burners in there. They had returned to Gerlach and it was only the second day of the festival. Were they down on their luck? I asked. they were New Yorkers. It made sense. They couldn't hack it in the "wilderness" of a festival in the middle of the desert--nevermind that during Burning Man, Black Rock City is the 5th largest in the state and with most of the amenities if you are willing to trade a charm bracelet or cookie for it. They were not ready for trading for a beer--they were using good old fashioned cash to buy some.

Poor, bewildered burners from New York

As I approached the festival, I could see the stirred-up dust from miles away. I stocked up on fresh air. It was a windy day and the addition of thousands of RV's carrying trailers did not help. The speed limit into the festival was 10 mph, which was excruciating on a bike with all of my gear on. I budged a little bit in the line to get in (I think most people were understanding) and got lots of "wooo's" from people as I rode to my camp, where I got a hero's welcome. One of the other campmates, Marc, was also a motorcycle tourer and more or less humped my leg before I could even get off of the bike. He was a harmless flirt and a absolute riot to be around. Everyone was very helpful with getting my gear off the bike and into a dusty storage tent. The camp was named Bearwhalea, after the evolutionary link between the bear and the whale.

The Armadildo, our other camp mascot. Great for stirring drinks, until we couldn't account for its whereabouts

A few of the camp movers and shakers were ecologists, so it made perfect sense. The camp brought together friends from Minneapolis, Chicago, Kentucky, Cinncinati, No. California, and probably other places. The camp had constructed a three story scaffold structure, set up shade canopies, arranged a living room with couches, and made the camp into a dusty home away from home. The benefit of having two craft liquor distillers in the camp meant that we had a fully stocked bar with every type of liquor I could have ever imagined, including some of their delicious moonshine gin. My friend Zac was one of these people. He had also put a LOT of work into the camp due to his being gung-ho about Burning Man and his desire to procrastinate finishing his PhD dissertation. Upon arrival, I drank a beer from their three-story beer bong (I sheepishly admit that this is the first beer bong I have ever used). The problem with drinking a beer from three stories is the exponential gravitational acceleration that it picks up along the way. The beer hit my mouth and bad things involving my sinuses occurred afterward. I got a beer bath as well. Let the party start.

So overstimulated. Couldn't manage to photograph the camp without getting my finger in the way

 I whipped off my riding gear and clothes, but not all of them--after all, I'm still too much of a prude to go completely nude, unlike 25% of the festival-goers. I wore a bikini, cowboy boots, and a turban. My camp-mate Lori outfitted me with a tutu. After all, it was "Tutu Tuesday." Lori was one of my two "mama bears" at camp, who took care of me, the newbie. Zac's girlfriend Michelle was the other mama. She made sure I had enough water, snacks, and booze to get me through a playa day. I feel like she would have even cleaned up and kissed any boo-boo's or scraped up knees I might have gotten. I became even more fond of her when she, reclining in a frilly pink dress, told the group about a time when she butchered an elk. She let me borrow a sparkly butterfly top and a leopard print jacket. I am so grateful that I landed with the Bearwhalea camp.

My playa turban. Thanks Lori!

The dust-storm version

Sparkle-pony! Thanks Michelle. You came prepared.

 
I wandered around aimlessly, my head in a confetti fishbowl. I was overstimulated and had a hard time communicating or doing simple tasks like filling my water bottle. This place was an ADD-affected person's dreamscape. There were beautiful naked people, bizarre artful creations, and sensory explosions at every turn. The whole city was a swirl of color and texture, as if it had been drenched in clown vomit. The best parts of the festival, well one of the many best things, is that everything is free and it is zero impact. There was no trash anywhere and if you needed a massage, a pedicure, a shot of whiskey, a diaper, a AA battery, all you had to do was ask someone and they gave it to you in exchange for something, even if it was simply a hug. this place was fodder for a communist revolution, even though admission cost over $300.
The art installations and cars were the best. I am still blown away by the amount of time and resources tht people put into their creations. Sharks, spaceships, cupcakes, sandcastles, and house sections rolled by all day long. Everyone else traveled via cartwheel. It was like watching a disorienting movie--I had to close my eyes so that I wouldn't pass out from dizziness...and dust overload. A 90-year-old former lamplighter replied to my camp-mate's advice--"be good"--by saying "No. Don't be good. Get some on you!" So he did.
There were camps offered everything: solar-powered popsicle stand, sensual rope tying, to seminars on quantum physics, glitter outfitters, geology lessons about the Black Rock Desert, ultramarathons (50k!), oxyacetylene welding, bicycle repair, dildo fencing, a "Louisiana Purchase Interpretive Dance Reenactment," polyrhythm workshops (for training your body to maintain two separate pulses simultaneously), slave auctions, short term weddings/divorces, zip lines, bluegrass jams, "Madonnapocolypse," feasts while blindfolded, and perhaps my favorite: "German Sparkle Party: rubber boots and party pants, do you like to party? I like to party!"

Radio art car. Faaaaantastic.

Ship art car. Yar!

Silver surfer? On a sand-jet ski.

Playa dust everywhere!

Desert island art car

I thought about busting out my packet of Mystical Fire that I had brought from Texas and that had protected me along the way thus far, but 1) I still had a long way to go; and, 2) At burning man, bringing out Mystical Fire would be like holding a sparkler next to the sun. I decided to save it for later.

???

There was only one unfortunate incident, but it's really funny now that I recall it. Zac and I were doing some daytime exploration and happened upon a cowboy bar. We parked our bikes and made for the bar. We were stopped by a half-naked woman riding a dog/machine thing which was moving erratically (we later found out that it was remote-contolled). The woman got off. We turned around when we noticed that the water truck was passing by. Water trucks spray the camp roads to keep the dust from getting way out of control. The water truck also doubles as a shower. So, whenever the water truck rolls by, you can bet that a crowd in varying states of nakedness will be following behind it. Zac ran after it and returned to the bikes. A completely nude hippie guy carrying his dreadlock-bandana was following the truck. Zac and I both watched as he scampered by, hypnotized...I couldn't look away--he had the most pendulous man-parts I had ever seen (which isn't really saying that much, I guess). It was like watching the parts on a bull flailing around at a rodeo. He finished his shower and walked by us. The remote-controlled dog came up behind him and "bit" his ass, which was hilarious, so Zac and I both laughed. He whipped around and, thinking that the ass-biting had something to do with us, cracked Zac in the head with his wet dreadlock-bandana. Holy shit! I'd never seen such an angry hippie! Not cool man, not cool.

Zac riding through a "white-out" (dust storm)

The most impressive installation was a ~60 foot tall intricate beautiful temple, constructed to hold hundreds of people and with detailed, carved decorative panels. Inside, hundreds of synchronized (via strings and wizardry) bells and gongs made a mesmerizing sound that I listened two for a good part of an afternoon. I can't find a photo of it, for some reason. They ended up burning it on the Sunday of the festival.
At night, the festival cranked up the volume, visually and audibly. LED's and music flooded every inch of the festival grounds. A group of us ventured out and happened upon a real live Thunderdome! The battles were downright violent! Bloody even. It was fantastic.

Thunderdome!: Two men enter, one man leaves 

Awesome, color-changing lighted tree

Schwengel, this one's for you!

The video is someone's hot air balloon ride over the festival. It shows the size of the festival as well as the temple.


Dueling campfires - sorry video won't imbed



One night, Michelle and I ventured out to the desolate part of the playa and happened upon a movie theater that had been constructed. We entered and watched a good portion of Sullivan's Travels. What a trip. I'm getting overstimulated recalling the details. I could start an entirely separate blog about just the festival.

A movie theater in the middle of BFE!

I stayed two nights on the couches in our camp. Both mornings, I was awoken in very awesome ways. On the first morning, a vehicle resembling something out of The Road Warrior (sense the Mad Max theme here?) roared by blasting AC/DC song "Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap." It was a wonderful way to start the day.
The second morning, a naked hippie girl had climbed to the top of our camp tower, still high on whatever she had last night, and belted out Janis Joplin's "Piece of My Heart." (Weird. The coffee shop I'm sitting in right now just started playing this song...very weird). I would have been really annoyed by this naked nymph, but her rendition of Janis Joplin's voice was PERFECT. I was in awe. As I sat up and wiped the granola from the corners of my eyes, I saw the most awesome sight of my time at Burning Man: a midget/dwarf/little couple rolled by on two miniature Segways!!! Holy fucking awesome! I wiped my eyes again and wondered if I had really seen that. I looked over at my camp-mate and we burst into laughter. That was the day I reluctantly left. I knew that if I stayed much longer that I would freak out from all the stimulation and people--I do not have long-term crowd tolerance. Plus, I had lots more of the country to see. Marc had bedazzled my bike with stick-on decals that he created. It was the perfect regalia for heading out from the festival.

Departure on my freshly bedazzled bike

But not before a photo-op with Mr. Amazing

 That day, Day 16, would turn out to be a very long one, indeed.