Cross-country Motorcycle Trip 2013
Part 2
Part 2
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Get a comfy chair, this is a long blog
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Seriously. Popcorn, too. Know what? Just block off like two hours of your day.
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| Humbling. Even an 8mm lens isn't wide enough. Redwood Park, CA |
Departing Spokane, WA meant that our next stop would be Seattle. I had assumed, wrongly, that Seattle was a primary destination. As it turns out we had three primary destinations. Portland, Bandon, and Salt Lake City - Redwood was in there as well but it wasn't a stopping point. Bandon proved the least-expected-most-amazing. I was weary of Salt Lake but two gracious hosts made it far more enjoyable than I had expected. I regret not having more time to spend in all three locations.
Day Seven and Eight:
The middle of Washington is indistinguishable from Siberia. I say this having never been to Siberia. In one moment of bemusement I could almost swear that a herd of wing'ed Yak were making their way north for the summer. Upon reflection this may have been caused by a number of factors, such as having been on a motorcycle for entirely too long or insanity or some bad yak jerky. If the occasional road sign had been in Cyrillic, I would not have been surprised. Near Moses Lake, about the dead center of Washington State, there are massive amounts of irrigated farmland - in fact looking at it from an overhead map it appears to be some kind of cosmic braille. Perhaps telling the sky Yaks where to land.
We passed the Columbia River - which looked more or less like one of the fingerlakes in upstate New York. But with a bridge. And lower taxes. And it wasn't ringed with houses. Or trees. Or wineries. Also it had this air about it like it belonged on Mars. So "less" like a fingerlake, then. Perhaps at this point there were whispers of homesickness creeping into the edges of wanderlust.
If Montana had been more scenic than we expected, then what came next was so far past hyperbole as to be a word as yet unheard by human ears. Snoqualmie Pass was something that was lifted directly from my dreams. That is to say I've had dreams that look exactly like this. I mean exactly like this. One can imagine seeing a dreamscape brought to life and then riding through it at posted speed limits. I caught it on video. It does no justice to this place and certainly does no justice to the fact that I wasn't breathing throughout the entire thing. Breathtaking? No. It makes you forget that you have lungs, forget that there are other vehicles around you. Each person on his or her or their own journey through this place that cannot be real. That disappears and you glide over the ground while having flashbacks to things that happened solely in your own mind while you were asleep. Yet here it is.
I hope to return to Snoqualmie Pass some day - and perhaps it will be on the same motorcycle. But I also wouldn't mind being a passenger in a car. There is so much to see that it is well worth the cost of having someone else pilot a vehicle just to be able to see more.
Our arrival in Seattle met with little resistance. In fact the sun was out. Yes, folks, Seattle gets only 58 sunny days per year and we happened to arrive on one of them. We rode our bikes downtown and parked in a ramp garage. I mention this because it appears that parking anywhere in Seattle means getting a bank loan. Our 4 hour parking cost each of us 13 dollars. Are we in New York?
We managed to visit quite a few hot spots in downtown Seattle. Pike Market is one of the busiest places I've seen in my life. We even came close to the famous first ever Starbucks. Kind of odd but I suddenly found myself longing for Leaf and Bean. A random lunch at Steelhead Diner proved that I know nothing about fly fishing and that staring at lures (a clever, artful decor) wasn't aiding my lack of knowledge. It also proved to be a solid choice for a relaxed atmosphere and good food. That is saying something as the balance of this area is hectic and crammed.
Our walk along the waterfront led to a long string of theories about the cost of each apartment based on viewing angle to the water. The last estimate said something like 5% GDP for a studio apartment with a window facing the water with minor occlusions. Clearly there is some very heavy zoning being enforced or I would imagine every last building along the shore to be 30 stories high. I think back to Rochester for a moment and our own shoreline in downtown. We knocked down a slum recently and built... something that looks worse.
Pike Market also allowed us to absorb some of the local tourism. The ferris wheel was neat - if only for the potentially non-sober people riding in the same car as us. We'd encountered people along the way that were impressed that we'd ridden so far. But these folks looked at us as if we were batshit insane. I'm talking parrot-owning nutters. One of them owned a bike as well though I cannot recall the exact model at this point. None of them had ever heard of Buell and I had a rush of pride upon learning this. Yes, look it up when you get home. Look it up and absorb the fact that I paid less for my work of art than most people pay for entry-level UJM's. Boor and I beamed with pride at realizing that we were now really truly across the country.
Our first day in Seattle ended and I made my way to a market across the street from the hotel. Local wine, cheese, and bread rounded out my meal for the night and I was content to think about the vast distance we had covered just to get to this point.
The next day we opted to take a cab into downtown, looking to save on parking and avoid in-town rain on our motorcycles. I wasn't worried until the cab driver called, asking where we were. This had been covered, as far as I was concerned, when I called the cab company dispatcher. But the driver was, shall we say, not good at his job. His inability to read his GPS, keep his cab clean, or place his vehicle within the white lines of the lane was worrying. His weaving maniacally through the grid pattern of the city was also an issue as the meter ticked ever upward, soon displaying digits that are normally found on a TI-83.
Boor was almost apoplectic by the time the Space Needle came into view. I was calm as I'd always considered being monetarily bludgeoned by taxi drivers was part of the charm of the big city experience. When the taxi driver then explained that he only took cash, then proceeded to keep all 60 of the 48 dollars he was owed, I became so enraged I very nearly bought a souvenir.
As it turns out, our trip had crashed directly into a festival. The Northwest Folklife Festival is notable for the forests of weed being smoked by very nearly every person there. At festivals in New York you may run into a crowd smoking cigarettes. You may walk past a person, likely holding a child, that is smoking - heedless of persons around them that may not like smelling like a rancid ashtray. In Seattle the cigarettes were of the funky variety and in the damp air the smell hung like a chicken in the window of a Dickens' novel butcher's shop.
I haven't smoked before nor do I ever intend to. But I was suddenly reminded of hemp and its inclusion in the 'war on drugs'. I'll refrain from a rant here - I will only say that one of the most useful plants on earth needs to made available for large scale production. I'll also include this link. If the term "sovereign nation" gets your patriotic blood pumping - please seek out the linked documentary and tell me if you were able to keep from smashing your TV.
Our experience with the cab driver from hell meant that we were making poor decisions. We walked from the Space Needle to Mercer Island. I'll let that sink in and also let you look that up in your favorite non-google mapping system. Go ahead. I'll wait. No really you owe it to yourself to look. It is hilarious - especially the bridge part. The closest route I can map out says it was about six and half miles. We had some wrong turns in there so I'd say 6.7 or so, really. In the rain. Through Chinatown. Across Lake Washington. Uphill both ways (and I wish that was funny but Seattle is effing hilly). I called an audible at 72nd Ave SE on Mercer and had a different taxi company dispatch. We were still 15 miles from the hotel and I doubted my sanity would hold out much longer - my pants were wet and I HATE walking across Seattle in wet pants.
This taxi driver was much different than the first. He, despite being obviously of foreign origin, spoke very good English. His taxi was spotless and he was dressed like an executive. It is quite telling, I think, that this man that was likely not originally American presented himself in a kind of ultra-hopeful-American guise. His route to the hotel was direct, his driving was careful and sane, and he (holy SHIT!) took plastic payment. I almost wanted to tell him that I wish every taxi driver on earth could be like him. In truth I think he will one day be running his own company. And that being a taxi driver is beneath him, in a sense.
I ate my cheese and bread that night, content with the fact that we had made it to Seattle only to find that it was exactly what we expected.
Day Nine and Ten:
I regret that, riding south to Portland, we only passed through Tacoma. It is an interesting enough place, I think, that a visit would have been appropriate. But perhaps that is for another visit. Pulling into our hotel, picked for taking what was left of one of my two hotel point "banks", was interesting. By interesting I mean scary. By scary I mean that I don't think it was a hotel. It was a bit more like a 3-story low-income housing with a hotel name stuck to it.
Boor commented on the sheer number of vehicles with 22 inch rims in the parking lot. And further noted, the next day, how they hadn't moved. We parked our bikes where they could be easily seen from our window and stripped them of all their cargo. Our third story room offered us a glistening view of the parking lot. Witnessing a woman of ill repute attempt to start a car at noon while either drunk or high is... well I wish I'd had more hotel points. This wasn't ideal but the room itself wasn't bad. I will say that I've never come across pillows that reminded me so much of pancakes, though. Their thinness was second only to their flatness.
Our first real introduction to Portland came via some information provided to us by Amy and Jackson, two friends I'd known but had yet to meet.
"Portland has more strip clubs per capita than Las Vegas."
Boor fell off of his chair and was having a seizure. He felt that a metric such as that demanded verisimilitude and when Amy and Jackson further suggested we visit a location called, simply, "Assets", Boor leapt from the ground and was out the door so quick he left a sonic boom in his wake. Windows shook, dust filled the air. A cat made the meow that all cats know as "what the actual fuck?".
"Assets" is not, strictly speaking, a bad place. If one wants a funny conversation with a bartender that admits freely that, in the pantheon of dancing establishments hers isn't even on the bottom rung, then this is the place to be. The almost fully clothed stripper lazily humping the ground certainly gathered no attention from the only other patron, and the next girl on stage refused to actually do anything on the grounds that no one cared. This is actually faultless logic and in terms of tips earned versus effort she absolutely won out.
I do not like strip clubs. My stance on this is simple: they are nasty. But Assets reached such a level of perfect badness that I almost didn't want to leave. In fact I was almost tempted to start a pool on when the last time the fryer oil in the, well I hate to use the term "kitchen", was changed but instead opted to listen to something Boor and Amy were discussing.
"We need to start a business called Slutty Chunky Bitches."
And suddenly my respect for both Boor and Amy ratcheted up several notches. It is by far the best business idea I've heard in a long time. The name alone is so charming one can't help but wonder why other business don't take this direct approach to naming. Abercrombie would be "Clothing for affected middle-class wankers", Starbucks would be "Milkshakes with coffee", Target would be "Red, non-scary Wal-mart with shorter lines".
We later stopped at a local pub for some food. This was Boor's first experience with peanut butter on a burger. Part of the sheer joy of this ride was seeing Boor experience these things along with me. Peanut butter on a burger may not seem life-altering. But things experienced for the first time - whether they be passing through mountains that only existed in one's dreams, or food - are the reason for travel. They are the things that make the world bigger. Everywhere you go in this country there are the same stores. Same everything. Differences, small ones, are therefore all the more important. In these minor victories we expand the earth, for its distances will always get smaller as we get faster. We expand it and keep the interesting things as shining beacons in the night that weary travelers, those that look up, may see and wander towards.
We toured Portland mostly on foot the next day. Downtown Portland is certainly dense. But it has this very Ithaca, NY vibe to it. That is to say it doesn't feel like a city. It feels like a village. Ithaca is one of my favorite places to visit, so this is not faint praise. I thought I would like Seattle, but instead I found Portland to be more my style. It is far less touristy, yet it seems to have all of its tourist spots ready to impress. It feels very much like a city that does things for the people that live there. That may sound silly but most larger cities seem to exist only for the people that visit.
Seeing college students and, in fact, a college buried downtown was refreshing. I even witnessed a public transportation system that was used by people. Not only that - it was used by a wide variety of people. I felt like I was in Europe for a moment. Sipping coffee, watching college kids ride their skateboards, it all seemed like it shouldn't exist in America. Like this large city had simply scaled up a smaller city without getting confused about who lived there. Public transportation is the first thing that disappears from a society that forgets its people.
We stopped by a few stores but most of this day was spent just walking downtown. In contrast to Seattle, Portland felt welcoming. We returned to the hotel. None of the cars had moved. I was feeling ill, so Boor decided to hop back on his bike and do some touring. He brought back two burritos for dinner. One can surmise that this was a bad decision and his regret would come later, as the burritos are both way too hot to eat but also tend to wreak a special kind of havoc on one's digestive system.
The next day we packed the bikes back up and decided that we'd found the worst hotel that existed in all of Oregon. Our next stop was Bandon, south along the famous 101.
We turned onto Highway 101 at Otis, OR. At this point we were still not within sight of the ocean. Our first fuel stop was at Lincoln City - whose layout would be copied throughout most of the coastal towns. Very little was to the east and there were strip malls and housing tracks to the west, when there was enough land to hold such things.
It was certainly a dramatic change of scenery. But the first real taste of what was to be had here came upon our stop at Cape Foulweather. This marks the point during the trip where all of my snarky sarcasm fails. In fact it wouldn't return until Nevada.
We were 500 feet above sea level. I had to keep looking at the sign to make sure I wasn't seeing things - my brain perhaps adding zeroes much like it does with my bank account. Captain Cook named this area and I can't help feeling like I could see his ship down there on the sea, rocking about and creating history as it went. There was a gift shop just a few feet from the parking area and I couldn't help but enter. Despite its touristy trappings, the view out of the windows is worth every last trinket in the shop. There the words "500 feet" take on a spine-tingling meaning as you picture the entire building sliding into the sea.
We also were just below cloud level. To the east were hills and I paused to watch the treetops disappear as clouds made their way around the earth. I felt that I could touch them, almost. In fact standing here I felt like a true explorer, despite the paved roads.
I was aware at this point that I would be unable to convey what this felt like. Awe is not a condition I find myself in very often. I would dare say that it is almost some kind of psychological defect. Or an overactive imagination - reality somehow blunted and less colorful than the things that happen in my head. But awe would be nearly ceaseless during our days in Oregon. It came easily and it was welcomed, as if I'd been thirsty and this scenery was the ice cold water that I needed so badly.
Our many stops along the coast were like a series of never-ending chances to ruin our cameras. The mist blowing in from the sea and the sand meant that we only rarely brought out our cameras - more often than not we simply used our phone or my "tough" point and shoot. Still there were plenty of pretty things to see. Our stop at Neptune State Park afforded us the sight of freshwater mixing with saltwater.
The trees at the edge of the coast were all permanently bent inland. It looked as if a blowtorch had made its way across the shore, bending limbs and leaves both. The effect was of a battle between the wind and the wood. Craggy rocks are no place for a home but the dense and determined forests would not cede their hovels so easily.
At every turn of the road, it seemed, there was more to see. Eventually it became obvious that stopping at every single scenic site would be impossible. It may also be dangerous - the corners here require attention and it was often difficult to determine a good location to stop and safely operate the motorcycles. We pressed on, stopping when we could. The wind was ceaseless, salty, cool.
Bandon seemed like any of the small towns we'd already passed. The difference would be brought to Boor's attention before I knew anything about it. He was informed of a beach at the end of the road. Unimpressed, he wandered down and experienced something. That something was the beach at Bandon. We were staying with another friend, Noelani. Her mother, and old friend of mine, was dying and this would likely be my last chance to say hello in person. While I was out helping drive people around, Boor was being told about the beach.
Day 11 and 12:
The plan was originally to head to Redwood and stay there overnight. My hotel points were scarce and Boor told me that I absolutely had to go to the beach at Bandon. It wasn't that I didn't believe him so much as we could easily hit Redwood and get back to Bandon where we could sleep for free.
Our ride down to Redwood included the requisite passing through California's border. Here they ask if you are carrying any goods that may, in the fullness of time, turn California into some other state. We were waved through without so much as a second glance - both bikes echoing through the enclosure.
We had a lovely conversation with a woman at a diner. She was insistent that we move to the area. Boor had clearly already decided to - his willingness to buy a literal shack to live in was palpable. Having yet to see the mythical beach I merely agreed that the weather was quite nice and the scenery so far was stunning.
Redwood park is easy to get to and easy to travel, even on a bike. What isn't easy is capturing the trees. They are simply bigger than you think they are. That's the only way I can explain them. Even the pictures make them look about half the size they really are. I felt awkward riding my, shall we say, "sky being torn apart by raving lunatic gods and rabid fire-breathing wolves"-loud bike through such magisterial forests. (If you've heard my bike in person you'll appreciate that more)
Our journey back to Bandon had us stopping at several capes and coves along the way. One of the more notable being Whaleshead Cove. Here we descended a loose-gravel road that had me seriously concerned that we would not be able to return up the hill. Luckily my beloved Brünnhilde was protected by 5-0 Dro's suite of crash gear. The effort proved worthwhile, however.
The sun started setting and I decided to grab my camera and walk down the road, where I was told there was something to see.
Boor had undersold his description of the beach at Bandon. It isn't that his description wasn't vivid and his demeanor one of stilled awe. It was that no words could overstate what nature had done to this place. I will limit my words here, in fact, and merely include a few choice photos.
The trip was now over. What remained was simply to return. Return? There was the sense that we shouldn't leave. But reality is strident and though I could easily live out my days under a tarpaulin, eating a meager helping of fish and wandering the beach for shells to make pauper's jewelry, this beach was not home.
Day 13:
Day 14 and 15:
The Great Salt Lake smells like salty, sulfur-laced, rotten fish. The giant copper smelter stack, on our right as we approached SLC from the west, was a welcome sight and I had half a mind to go steal some ingot. Oh how the legend would spread of the madman on his loud aluminum horse and his fine taste in ingots. Ingotry would become a national sport.
Despite a lack of address I still managed to pull off the highway at the right exit. Now - most of you don't know this but my head seems to have a GPS in it. I recall a trip to outside of Ottawa in which I read the directions exactly once, forgot to take them with me, and made it to a remote location without getting lost. I mention this because it is honestly disturbing sometimes.
We arrived at Boor's cousin's house and were greeted with smiles and salsa. Tucking our bikes behind a fence was comforting and they both seemed glad to be in the shade. The bugs were thick on the motorcycles and I wondered if any amount of cleaning would get the worst of them off.
Tommy and Katt welcomed us into their home and provided an outstanding steak dinner on our first night. Gracious hosts are perhaps most welcome on the return leg of a journey, when awe is drained and spirits wane. A cold beer and a calm night under a tree are worth three hours of sleep to a traveler that is worn. We drew straws and I ended up on a couch so wide I wasn't sure how to sit on it.
The next day Tommy took us to breakfast and then later to Park City for dinner. The route to Park city involved roads that I would not want to take any motorcycle on. At least not while other vehicles were around. We also went by several houses that we shall call "out of my lifetime income range".
Day 16:
We opted to take 70 to Denver, which meant heading south first before meeting 70 proper. This wasn't my first choice but I gave in to recommendations that this route would be more scenic. If being pelted by ice while you ponder your own mortality while at 10,662 feet above sea level means "scenic" then yes, it was scenic.
The trouble began just outside of SLC where road construction had us come to a halt more than once. The mountains enveloped us still and my only thoughts were of I-80 and its relatively uncurvy boringness. As we made our way east the scenery took a dramatic shift from green mountains to outright desert. Dry desert. A landscape as rocky and foreign as any I could imagine. It at once felt like Mars but also somehow like a badly drawn matte for a movie.
The twists and turns became more frequent and without realizing it we were again surrounded by green. Great pine trees as far as the eye could see stretched and meandered over mountains that could have been as old as time itself. We were climbing. That much was clear - ever so slightly I needed to twist the throttle more and more to maintain speed. And then we passed through Vail, CO. 10,662 feet above sea level and back across the Great Divide we'd crossed going the other direction in Montana. Boor's bike was coughing and spitting, its carb unable to adjust to the conditions.
We stopped for fuel at Copper Mountain, CO and that's when the the sky decided it would close in and shit ice all over us. It began in the distance. Looking remarkably like a shitty storm moving in, we started gearing up. At first they came one by one, infrequent. Slushy ice drops. Then they picked up and it became clear that we either had to outrun them down the mountain or get stuck up here until the storm finally passed. The bikes were fired up and it became torrential. I was unsure of my decision at this point. Racing ice down a mountain on a motorcycle was... non-optimal. I had visions of the local news describing two imbeciles and their ill-fated decision to outrun ICE. On motorcycles.
It caught up to us more than once, but must have been moving at an angle to ours as we did eventually beat the ice in our race down. We passed through Eisenhower Tunnel and came upon yet more construction. The rain started up and the roads became, well, soapy. At least that's what it looked like. Soap suds all over a nice slick black asphalt road up in the nice forgiving mountains. Thrilled that we were almost to Denver, we continued. Our arrival at the hotel coincided with the storm's arrival as well. It had followed us. I couldn't help but think it was greeting me with a rare display - mammatus clouds. Breathtaking. We beat that storm and had a relaxing evening in comfort. Most of the bugs had been washed off our bikes.
Day 17:
To describe the ride from Denver to Omaha as uneventful would be like saying western Nebraska is very boring and flat. It is true, and understatement, a well-known fact, and also meaningless. Unlike Iowa, western Nebraska really exists. These were some of the easiest miles we came across on our return route. No high altitude mountain passes full of shitty ice storms. No non-existent gas stations. Just a completely dull and easy ride.
We arrived, slept, and left. Honestly I was just ready for my own bed at this point. As much as a plan to see old friends would have been wonderful... I had lost the mental and emotional capacity to accomplish this task. Knowing the toll road hell that lie ahead wore on me as I lay in a guest bed at my sister's house. I was almost tense, really. I could barely complete a sentence in my own head, much less deal with anyone AND the two more days of riding ahead.
Day 18:
Lake Station
Did we drive through Iowa? I don't remember this part of the trip at all. I would like to think that a small blue box whisked us from one end of the state to the other. But then again the TARDIS cannot travel through Iowa as it doesn't exist. Iowa, that is.
Either way I became well aware that we were nearing the East when the tolls started showing up. Oh how I had missed the constant traffic bogging down at the booths. The convoluted routes with not nearly enough signage and poor road design. Joy of joys. I grasped my EZ-pass and decided that I would one day smash it in retaliation for the insanity that is the toll system.
We made it all the way to Lake Station, IN before I couldn't handle it anymore. The next big town was just too far away for me to keep riding.
Day 19:
We managed to visit quite a few hot spots in downtown Seattle. Pike Market is one of the busiest places I've seen in my life. We even came close to the famous first ever Starbucks. Kind of odd but I suddenly found myself longing for Leaf and Bean. A random lunch at Steelhead Diner proved that I know nothing about fly fishing and that staring at lures (a clever, artful decor) wasn't aiding my lack of knowledge. It also proved to be a solid choice for a relaxed atmosphere and good food. That is saying something as the balance of this area is hectic and crammed.
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| Pike Market. Seattle-itians throw salmon at you upon entering. You must pay them in soy latte's or they will switch to scallops. The people on the ground were wounded and required evac via autogyro. |
Pike Market also allowed us to absorb some of the local tourism. The ferris wheel was neat - if only for the potentially non-sober people riding in the same car as us. We'd encountered people along the way that were impressed that we'd ridden so far. But these folks looked at us as if we were batshit insane. I'm talking parrot-owning nutters. One of them owned a bike as well though I cannot recall the exact model at this point. None of them had ever heard of Buell and I had a rush of pride upon learning this. Yes, look it up when you get home. Look it up and absorb the fact that I paid less for my work of art than most people pay for entry-level UJM's. Boor and I beamed with pride at realizing that we were now really truly across the country.
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| Boor and I enjoy an air conditioned height modifying circular device. |
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| This reminds me. A girl riding in the same car as us asked "How far down do think the water goes?" and I said "I bet it goes all the way to the bottom." This is what I call "Schaefer" humor and its genetic. |
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| Boor decided that fighting the metallic squid was futile. |
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| I, on the other hand, was offended by its stance on unions. A kerfuffle ensued. |
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| The steerability of this concrete post is in question. |
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| After this was taken I was attacked by a sea lion, a friend of the metallic squid. I bought it a beer and we became friends. Also, for a brief moment, I was captain of this particular concrete post. It blew a headgasket, fell off drydock, and cost the city of Rochester... oh no that was a real boat. |
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| There are times in my life when I have to pee THIS bad. |
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| The children welcomed their new metallic overlords with gusto and umbrellas. Metallic overlords like gusto, especially with a nice chianti. I also thought this area would make a nice velodrome. I swear to god I'm going to keep using old words until someone throws a parchment at me. |
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| What's it called? Monorail! |
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| This is a library. Seattle, WA |
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| They make... Cray-zee computers... and.. .ah hell. Sorry. |
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| My GPS becomes sentient and decides to create an original art work. This made navigation difficult. |
The next day we opted to take a cab into downtown, looking to save on parking and avoid in-town rain on our motorcycles. I wasn't worried until the cab driver called, asking where we were. This had been covered, as far as I was concerned, when I called the cab company dispatcher. But the driver was, shall we say, not good at his job. His inability to read his GPS, keep his cab clean, or place his vehicle within the white lines of the lane was worrying. His weaving maniacally through the grid pattern of the city was also an issue as the meter ticked ever upward, soon displaying digits that are normally found on a TI-83.
Boor was almost apoplectic by the time the Space Needle came into view. I was calm as I'd always considered being monetarily bludgeoned by taxi drivers was part of the charm of the big city experience. When the taxi driver then explained that he only took cash, then proceeded to keep all 60 of the 48 dollars he was owed, I became so enraged I very nearly bought a souvenir.
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| The Space Needle. A little known fact is that this is merely the tip of the fabled "Saturn 7" rocket. It is said that the Saturn 7 would have launched directly into the sun on a mission to toast enough marshmallows to create a sugary moon for Mercury. The debate rages on. |
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| We unintentionally wandered into a festival. To say the smell of weed was prevalent would be like saying there were a number of merchants selling hemp-based products here. Or that it is often cloudy. |
Our experience with the cab driver from hell meant that we were making poor decisions. We walked from the Space Needle to Mercer Island. I'll let that sink in and also let you look that up in your favorite non-google mapping system. Go ahead. I'll wait. No really you owe it to yourself to look. It is hilarious - especially the bridge part. The closest route I can map out says it was about six and half miles. We had some wrong turns in there so I'd say 6.7 or so, really. In the rain. Through Chinatown. Across Lake Washington. Uphill both ways (and I wish that was funny but Seattle is effing hilly). I called an audible at 72nd Ave SE on Mercer and had a different taxi company dispatch. We were still 15 miles from the hotel and I doubted my sanity would hold out much longer - my pants were wet and I HATE walking across Seattle in wet pants.
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| Chinatown has unusual taste in highway support pillars. In New York this would be met with a fine and rejection of citizenship, followed by taxes. |
I ate my cheese and bread that night, content with the fact that we had made it to Seattle only to find that it was exactly what we expected.
Day Nine and Ten:
I regret that, riding south to Portland, we only passed through Tacoma. It is an interesting enough place, I think, that a visit would have been appropriate. But perhaps that is for another visit. Pulling into our hotel, picked for taking what was left of one of my two hotel point "banks", was interesting. By interesting I mean scary. By scary I mean that I don't think it was a hotel. It was a bit more like a 3-story low-income housing with a hotel name stuck to it.
Boor commented on the sheer number of vehicles with 22 inch rims in the parking lot. And further noted, the next day, how they hadn't moved. We parked our bikes where they could be easily seen from our window and stripped them of all their cargo. Our third story room offered us a glistening view of the parking lot. Witnessing a woman of ill repute attempt to start a car at noon while either drunk or high is... well I wish I'd had more hotel points. This wasn't ideal but the room itself wasn't bad. I will say that I've never come across pillows that reminded me so much of pancakes, though. Their thinness was second only to their flatness.
Our first real introduction to Portland came via some information provided to us by Amy and Jackson, two friends I'd known but had yet to meet.
"Portland has more strip clubs per capita than Las Vegas."
Boor fell off of his chair and was having a seizure. He felt that a metric such as that demanded verisimilitude and when Amy and Jackson further suggested we visit a location called, simply, "Assets", Boor leapt from the ground and was out the door so quick he left a sonic boom in his wake. Windows shook, dust filled the air. A cat made the meow that all cats know as "what the actual fuck?".
"Assets" is not, strictly speaking, a bad place. If one wants a funny conversation with a bartender that admits freely that, in the pantheon of dancing establishments hers isn't even on the bottom rung, then this is the place to be. The almost fully clothed stripper lazily humping the ground certainly gathered no attention from the only other patron, and the next girl on stage refused to actually do anything on the grounds that no one cared. This is actually faultless logic and in terms of tips earned versus effort she absolutely won out.
I do not like strip clubs. My stance on this is simple: they are nasty. But Assets reached such a level of perfect badness that I almost didn't want to leave. In fact I was almost tempted to start a pool on when the last time the fryer oil in the, well I hate to use the term "kitchen", was changed but instead opted to listen to something Boor and Amy were discussing.
"We need to start a business called Slutty Chunky Bitches."
And suddenly my respect for both Boor and Amy ratcheted up several notches. It is by far the best business idea I've heard in a long time. The name alone is so charming one can't help but wonder why other business don't take this direct approach to naming. Abercrombie would be "Clothing for affected middle-class wankers", Starbucks would be "Milkshakes with coffee", Target would be "Red, non-scary Wal-mart with shorter lines".
We later stopped at a local pub for some food. This was Boor's first experience with peanut butter on a burger. Part of the sheer joy of this ride was seeing Boor experience these things along with me. Peanut butter on a burger may not seem life-altering. But things experienced for the first time - whether they be passing through mountains that only existed in one's dreams, or food - are the reason for travel. They are the things that make the world bigger. Everywhere you go in this country there are the same stores. Same everything. Differences, small ones, are therefore all the more important. In these minor victories we expand the earth, for its distances will always get smaller as we get faster. We expand it and keep the interesting things as shining beacons in the night that weary travelers, those that look up, may see and wander towards.
We toured Portland mostly on foot the next day. Downtown Portland is certainly dense. But it has this very Ithaca, NY vibe to it. That is to say it doesn't feel like a city. It feels like a village. Ithaca is one of my favorite places to visit, so this is not faint praise. I thought I would like Seattle, but instead I found Portland to be more my style. It is far less touristy, yet it seems to have all of its tourist spots ready to impress. It feels very much like a city that does things for the people that live there. That may sound silly but most larger cities seem to exist only for the people that visit.
Seeing college students and, in fact, a college buried downtown was refreshing. I even witnessed a public transportation system that was used by people. Not only that - it was used by a wide variety of people. I felt like I was in Europe for a moment. Sipping coffee, watching college kids ride their skateboards, it all seemed like it shouldn't exist in America. Like this large city had simply scaled up a smaller city without getting confused about who lived there. Public transportation is the first thing that disappears from a society that forgets its people.
We stopped by a few stores but most of this day was spent just walking downtown. In contrast to Seattle, Portland felt welcoming. We returned to the hotel. None of the cars had moved. I was feeling ill, so Boor decided to hop back on his bike and do some touring. He brought back two burritos for dinner. One can surmise that this was a bad decision and his regret would come later, as the burritos are both way too hot to eat but also tend to wreak a special kind of havoc on one's digestive system.
The next day we packed the bikes back up and decided that we'd found the worst hotel that existed in all of Oregon. Our next stop was Bandon, south along the famous 101.
We turned onto Highway 101 at Otis, OR. At this point we were still not within sight of the ocean. Our first fuel stop was at Lincoln City - whose layout would be copied throughout most of the coastal towns. Very little was to the east and there were strip malls and housing tracks to the west, when there was enough land to hold such things.
It was certainly a dramatic change of scenery. But the first real taste of what was to be had here came upon our stop at Cape Foulweather. This marks the point during the trip where all of my snarky sarcasm fails. In fact it wouldn't return until Nevada.
We were 500 feet above sea level. I had to keep looking at the sign to make sure I wasn't seeing things - my brain perhaps adding zeroes much like it does with my bank account. Captain Cook named this area and I can't help feeling like I could see his ship down there on the sea, rocking about and creating history as it went. There was a gift shop just a few feet from the parking area and I couldn't help but enter. Despite its touristy trappings, the view out of the windows is worth every last trinket in the shop. There the words "500 feet" take on a spine-tingling meaning as you picture the entire building sliding into the sea.
We also were just below cloud level. To the east were hills and I paused to watch the treetops disappear as clouds made their way around the earth. I felt that I could touch them, almost. In fact standing here I felt like a true explorer, despite the paved roads.
 |
| The view towards the south. Cape Foulweather, OR |
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| Taken with my helmet-cam. The slope here is dramatic and gives a very unusual sensation of near-vertigo. Cape Foulweather, OR |
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| Just for the record. Cape Foulweather, OR |
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| The trees sway to the will of wind and men. Neptune State Park, OR |
The trees at the edge of the coast were all permanently bent inland. It looked as if a blowtorch had made its way across the shore, bending limbs and leaves both. The effect was of a battle between the wind and the wood. Craggy rocks are no place for a home but the dense and determined forests would not cede their hovels so easily.
At every turn of the road, it seemed, there was more to see. Eventually it became obvious that stopping at every single scenic site would be impossible. It may also be dangerous - the corners here require attention and it was often difficult to determine a good location to stop and safely operate the motorcycles. We pressed on, stopping when we could. The wind was ceaseless, salty, cool.
Bandon seemed like any of the small towns we'd already passed. The difference would be brought to Boor's attention before I knew anything about it. He was informed of a beach at the end of the road. Unimpressed, he wandered down and experienced something. That something was the beach at Bandon. We were staying with another friend, Noelani. Her mother, and old friend of mine, was dying and this would likely be my last chance to say hello in person. While I was out helping drive people around, Boor was being told about the beach.
Day 11 and 12:
The plan was originally to head to Redwood and stay there overnight. My hotel points were scarce and Boor told me that I absolutely had to go to the beach at Bandon. It wasn't that I didn't believe him so much as we could easily hit Redwood and get back to Bandon where we could sleep for free.
Our ride down to Redwood included the requisite passing through California's border. Here they ask if you are carrying any goods that may, in the fullness of time, turn California into some other state. We were waved through without so much as a second glance - both bikes echoing through the enclosure.
We had a lovely conversation with a woman at a diner. She was insistent that we move to the area. Boor had clearly already decided to - his willingness to buy a literal shack to live in was palpable. Having yet to see the mythical beach I merely agreed that the weather was quite nice and the scenery so far was stunning.
Redwood park is easy to get to and easy to travel, even on a bike. What isn't easy is capturing the trees. They are simply bigger than you think they are. That's the only way I can explain them. Even the pictures make them look about half the size they really are. I felt awkward riding my, shall we say, "sky being torn apart by raving lunatic gods and rabid fire-breathing wolves"-loud bike through such magisterial forests. (If you've heard my bike in person you'll appreciate that more)
Our journey back to Bandon had us stopping at several capes and coves along the way. One of the more notable being Whaleshead Cove. Here we descended a loose-gravel road that had me seriously concerned that we would not be able to return up the hill. Luckily my beloved Brünnhilde was protected by 5-0 Dro's suite of crash gear. The effort proved worthwhile, however.
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| The formation that gives this area its name - Whaleshead Cove, OR |
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| More of Whaleshead Cove, OR |
Boor had undersold his description of the beach at Bandon. It isn't that his description wasn't vivid and his demeanor one of stilled awe. It was that no words could overstate what nature had done to this place. I will limit my words here, in fact, and merely include a few choice photos.
We left Bandon and I couldn't help but feel like we were at the end of the trip already. Without a doubt the sunset at Bandon was the penultimate moment of the adventure. Nothing came close to the imagery. Nothing could. Nothing felt like it or had such an effect. I'm leaving a bunch of photos right here. They do very little justice but alas, the photos and two (soundless) videos are all I have. Video 1 Video 2 I recommend full-screen and HD mode for these. I am aware it all looks like some CGI.
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| Can you tell I have my motorcycle boots on? |
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| Boor likes long walks on the beach, chicken wings, and reading a good book when its raining. |
Going east from Bandon is difficult. There aren't any major highways in the I-90/I-80 size class. Instead there are scarce towns and questionable routes. My GPS, having just recovered from a existential crisis, was confused about its place in life and thus had picked a route that would take us 800 miles out of the way. We ignored this route until a few resets later, when the GPS finally came to its senses and had picked up the route that Boor and I had planned out earlier.
At one point we ended up on the side of a mountain. No guardrails. No real shoulder. It is not so much that I thought I'd slip in a corner so much as I pictured myself being run over 16 times in a row by my own motorcycle as it and I tumbled in a sort of binary system down the side of the mountain. I even tried to figure out if I'd be able to grab the the key out of ignition before gravity tore me a new several paths for blood to escape. Skip to about 5:00 in this video for the view from near the top.
The distances between fueling stops was carefully thought out. I'd checked, in as much detail as possible, our available driving radius and there hadn't been an issue finding a station. Yet. Then we came upon Denio Junction, NV. Our route included a fuel stop at the gas station on the corner of 140 and 292. Both of our phones made it clear that there was definitely a gas station here. Both of our motorcycles were thirsty. None of that mattered - there was a sign taped to what would have been a pump. It stated, brightly, "We should have our new gas tanks in the ground by spring". A tumbleweed spontaneously formed in front of us and made its sad journey across the dusty ground. A look inside the adjoining building revealed that the place was indeed abandoned.
A lump was forming in my throat as I searched on my GPS for the next-nearest fuel stop. It was almost 90 miles away - in Winnemucca. I did some quick calculations and decided that we would need to fully drain one of the bikes of fuel to supply the other, add in my spare fuel supply, and then we'd still need a miracle to make the next station. Then add travel time to come back to the dry bike... it just didn't seem like we would be having a very fun night.
Denio is in the absolute middle of fucking nothing. In fact it makes the term "middle" seem too specific. Its in the general area of Lost Bambleweeny and just east of Circling Vultures Wildlife Refuge. We headed north to Denio proper, where there was a Big Truck convention. With so many vehicles around, filled with so many ranchers, we expected a station to be forthcoming. It was not. No, friends, we were looking really and truly "super-fucked".
Jason waved down an approaching Dodge Ram Diesel. For once in my life I really believed the owner needed a diesel. The occupants seemed confused at Jason's inquiry. "Fuel?". The word seemed foreign to them, as if Jason were asking where the nearest SluttyChunkyBitches was located. I could see them discussing something in the cab of the truck. Luckily my ear plugs were in, as I'm sure their actual conversation went like this:
"He's asking for fuel. Have we seen anything like that in these parts?"
"Why no, dear. I think 'fuel' is German for beer. They are looking for a bar."
"I have some re-bar in the shed. But why would two guys on motorcycles be looking to solidly reinforce concrete with iron?"
"No I think they want beer. That one is on a Harley which means he also is part of a gang of misunderstood miscreants that just want to be loved."
.... and so on. It took several moments of me freaking the everloving crap out before they finally said, and I'm not making this up, that there "Might be one in Fields but we haven't been there in years."
I could hear Jason's next line of thought. I was thinking exactly the same thing. I wanted to run up to the truck and give the driver a very sane screaming-at followed by a punch in the throat. Where, for the sake of all that is good, do these people get their fuel from? Surely these trucks ran on fuel. This one was diesel but there were others in the bunch that weren't. They didn't miracle the stuff out of the air. Is this really that difficult of a question? Where is the nearest gas station? Did Jason ask it in Farsi? What was the NASDAQ at as of closing? Will Mars ever be habitable?
The driver told us to follow him to Fields. We did so and what was described as a 15 minute ride turned into 23 minutes of hellish self-berating. Fields is in Oregon and though it lies beyond some very nice scenery it is also in the wrong direction. I was expecting a small town. What we found when we arrived was a combination gas station, motel, convenience store, bar, restaurant. That IS Fields. The owner was walking up the street to his house when he turned to see us arrive. He had a short conversation with the people in the truck and turned back to us.
"I guess I'd save your life if I gave you some gas." He said.
We confirmed this but without waiting for an answer he started opening up his store again. I'm unsure if anyone anywhere else would have bothered. I could picture this situation in New York. First the police would be called, then the DMV would confiscate our license plates, and finally we would be banned from ever buying fuel again. Also taxes. To his credit the man, with a smile, opened up shop again and turned on the old rotary-readout fuel pump. We filled up - my own tank taking quite a bit more fuel than I am willing to admit.
I gave the man a solid handshake and meant every word of "Thank you very much". The entire time he had made casual conversation. My own brain was in turmoil over the near crisis. What would our options have been of this guy hadn't been here? 23 minutes north of nothing, we'd found an oasis.
The sun had set and now the sky and the mountains were both the same hue of orange and purple. The desert was giving in to night and as the temperature dropped the distance to our next stop seemed further away somehow.
At one point we ended up on the side of a mountain. No guardrails. No real shoulder. It is not so much that I thought I'd slip in a corner so much as I pictured myself being run over 16 times in a row by my own motorcycle as it and I tumbled in a sort of binary system down the side of the mountain. I even tried to figure out if I'd be able to grab the the key out of ignition before gravity tore me a new several paths for blood to escape. Skip to about 5:00 in this video for the view from near the top.
The distances between fueling stops was carefully thought out. I'd checked, in as much detail as possible, our available driving radius and there hadn't been an issue finding a station. Yet. Then we came upon Denio Junction, NV. Our route included a fuel stop at the gas station on the corner of 140 and 292. Both of our phones made it clear that there was definitely a gas station here. Both of our motorcycles were thirsty. None of that mattered - there was a sign taped to what would have been a pump. It stated, brightly, "We should have our new gas tanks in the ground by spring". A tumbleweed spontaneously formed in front of us and made its sad journey across the dusty ground. A look inside the adjoining building revealed that the place was indeed abandoned.
A lump was forming in my throat as I searched on my GPS for the next-nearest fuel stop. It was almost 90 miles away - in Winnemucca. I did some quick calculations and decided that we would need to fully drain one of the bikes of fuel to supply the other, add in my spare fuel supply, and then we'd still need a miracle to make the next station. Then add travel time to come back to the dry bike... it just didn't seem like we would be having a very fun night.
Denio is in the absolute middle of fucking nothing. In fact it makes the term "middle" seem too specific. Its in the general area of Lost Bambleweeny and just east of Circling Vultures Wildlife Refuge. We headed north to Denio proper, where there was a Big Truck convention. With so many vehicles around, filled with so many ranchers, we expected a station to be forthcoming. It was not. No, friends, we were looking really and truly "super-fucked".
Jason waved down an approaching Dodge Ram Diesel. For once in my life I really believed the owner needed a diesel. The occupants seemed confused at Jason's inquiry. "Fuel?". The word seemed foreign to them, as if Jason were asking where the nearest SluttyChunkyBitches was located. I could see them discussing something in the cab of the truck. Luckily my ear plugs were in, as I'm sure their actual conversation went like this:
"He's asking for fuel. Have we seen anything like that in these parts?"
"Why no, dear. I think 'fuel' is German for beer. They are looking for a bar."
"I have some re-bar in the shed. But why would two guys on motorcycles be looking to solidly reinforce concrete with iron?"
"No I think they want beer. That one is on a Harley which means he also is part of a gang of misunderstood miscreants that just want to be loved."
.... and so on. It took several moments of me freaking the everloving crap out before they finally said, and I'm not making this up, that there "Might be one in Fields but we haven't been there in years."
I could hear Jason's next line of thought. I was thinking exactly the same thing. I wanted to run up to the truck and give the driver a very sane screaming-at followed by a punch in the throat. Where, for the sake of all that is good, do these people get their fuel from? Surely these trucks ran on fuel. This one was diesel but there were others in the bunch that weren't. They didn't miracle the stuff out of the air. Is this really that difficult of a question? Where is the nearest gas station? Did Jason ask it in Farsi? What was the NASDAQ at as of closing? Will Mars ever be habitable?
The driver told us to follow him to Fields. We did so and what was described as a 15 minute ride turned into 23 minutes of hellish self-berating. Fields is in Oregon and though it lies beyond some very nice scenery it is also in the wrong direction. I was expecting a small town. What we found when we arrived was a combination gas station, motel, convenience store, bar, restaurant. That IS Fields. The owner was walking up the street to his house when he turned to see us arrive. He had a short conversation with the people in the truck and turned back to us.
"I guess I'd save your life if I gave you some gas." He said.
We confirmed this but without waiting for an answer he started opening up his store again. I'm unsure if anyone anywhere else would have bothered. I could picture this situation in New York. First the police would be called, then the DMV would confiscate our license plates, and finally we would be banned from ever buying fuel again. Also taxes. To his credit the man, with a smile, opened up shop again and turned on the old rotary-readout fuel pump. We filled up - my own tank taking quite a bit more fuel than I am willing to admit.
I gave the man a solid handshake and meant every word of "Thank you very much". The entire time he had made casual conversation. My own brain was in turmoil over the near crisis. What would our options have been of this guy hadn't been here? 23 minutes north of nothing, we'd found an oasis.
The sun had set and now the sky and the mountains were both the same hue of orange and purple. The desert was giving in to night and as the temperature dropped the distance to our next stop seemed further away somehow.
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| I snapped this on our way out of Fields, OR. The Belt of Venus was stunning. |
Riding at night is always an odd experience but the strangeness in amplified in the desert. Distance is meaningless when a streetlight is reflected off of inversion layers and form a mirage - that sodium-arc light is an hour away, not just a few minutes. The path to Winnemucca includes some dead-straight portions of the road that truly wreak havoc on your senses. The wildly fluctuating temperatures were also strange. Half a mile of chill, half a mile of warm.
Winnemucca is to Reno what Reno is to Las Vegas. That is to say it is smaller, more desperate. An oddness, though, is that the outskirts smell like laundry detergent. Our nighttime arrival meant we were privy to the hordes of beer-carrying gamblers all huffing it on foot from casino to tiny casino. One gets the sense that all of the slightly faulty neon signs end up here. All the light bulbs that don't quite meet their lumens rating. Winnemucca clearly has no open container laws and I was half tempted to sit on a street corner with a pony keg and bray at the moon. You know. Because that's, like, the thing to do. Ironically.
Winnemucca is to Reno what Reno is to Las Vegas. That is to say it is smaller, more desperate. An oddness, though, is that the outskirts smell like laundry detergent. Our nighttime arrival meant we were privy to the hordes of beer-carrying gamblers all huffing it on foot from casino to tiny casino. One gets the sense that all of the slightly faulty neon signs end up here. All the light bulbs that don't quite meet their lumens rating. Winnemucca clearly has no open container laws and I was half tempted to sit on a street corner with a pony keg and bray at the moon. You know. Because that's, like, the thing to do. Ironically.
Day 14 and 15:
The Great Salt Lake smells like salty, sulfur-laced, rotten fish. The giant copper smelter stack, on our right as we approached SLC from the west, was a welcome sight and I had half a mind to go steal some ingot. Oh how the legend would spread of the madman on his loud aluminum horse and his fine taste in ingots. Ingotry would become a national sport.
Despite a lack of address I still managed to pull off the highway at the right exit. Now - most of you don't know this but my head seems to have a GPS in it. I recall a trip to outside of Ottawa in which I read the directions exactly once, forgot to take them with me, and made it to a remote location without getting lost. I mention this because it is honestly disturbing sometimes.
We arrived at Boor's cousin's house and were greeted with smiles and salsa. Tucking our bikes behind a fence was comforting and they both seemed glad to be in the shade. The bugs were thick on the motorcycles and I wondered if any amount of cleaning would get the worst of them off.
Tommy and Katt welcomed us into their home and provided an outstanding steak dinner on our first night. Gracious hosts are perhaps most welcome on the return leg of a journey, when awe is drained and spirits wane. A cold beer and a calm night under a tree are worth three hours of sleep to a traveler that is worn. We drew straws and I ended up on a couch so wide I wasn't sure how to sit on it.
The next day Tommy took us to breakfast and then later to Park City for dinner. The route to Park city involved roads that I would not want to take any motorcycle on. At least not while other vehicles were around. We also went by several houses that we shall call "out of my lifetime income range".
Day 16:
We opted to take 70 to Denver, which meant heading south first before meeting 70 proper. This wasn't my first choice but I gave in to recommendations that this route would be more scenic. If being pelted by ice while you ponder your own mortality while at 10,662 feet above sea level means "scenic" then yes, it was scenic.
The trouble began just outside of SLC where road construction had us come to a halt more than once. The mountains enveloped us still and my only thoughts were of I-80 and its relatively uncurvy boringness. As we made our way east the scenery took a dramatic shift from green mountains to outright desert. Dry desert. A landscape as rocky and foreign as any I could imagine. It at once felt like Mars but also somehow like a badly drawn matte for a movie.
The twists and turns became more frequent and without realizing it we were again surrounded by green. Great pine trees as far as the eye could see stretched and meandered over mountains that could have been as old as time itself. We were climbing. That much was clear - ever so slightly I needed to twist the throttle more and more to maintain speed. And then we passed through Vail, CO. 10,662 feet above sea level and back across the Great Divide we'd crossed going the other direction in Montana. Boor's bike was coughing and spitting, its carb unable to adjust to the conditions.
We stopped for fuel at Copper Mountain, CO and that's when the the sky decided it would close in and shit ice all over us. It began in the distance. Looking remarkably like a shitty storm moving in, we started gearing up. At first they came one by one, infrequent. Slushy ice drops. Then they picked up and it became clear that we either had to outrun them down the mountain or get stuck up here until the storm finally passed. The bikes were fired up and it became torrential. I was unsure of my decision at this point. Racing ice down a mountain on a motorcycle was... non-optimal. I had visions of the local news describing two imbeciles and their ill-fated decision to outrun ICE. On motorcycles.
It caught up to us more than once, but must have been moving at an angle to ours as we did eventually beat the ice in our race down. We passed through Eisenhower Tunnel and came upon yet more construction. The rain started up and the roads became, well, soapy. At least that's what it looked like. Soap suds all over a nice slick black asphalt road up in the nice forgiving mountains. Thrilled that we were almost to Denver, we continued. Our arrival at the hotel coincided with the storm's arrival as well. It had followed us. I couldn't help but think it was greeting me with a rare display - mammatus clouds. Breathtaking. We beat that storm and had a relaxing evening in comfort. Most of the bugs had been washed off our bikes.
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| Denver, CO. Effing storm. |
Day 17:
To describe the ride from Denver to Omaha as uneventful would be like saying western Nebraska is very boring and flat. It is true, and understatement, a well-known fact, and also meaningless. Unlike Iowa, western Nebraska really exists. These were some of the easiest miles we came across on our return route. No high altitude mountain passes full of shitty ice storms. No non-existent gas stations. Just a completely dull and easy ride.
We arrived, slept, and left. Honestly I was just ready for my own bed at this point. As much as a plan to see old friends would have been wonderful... I had lost the mental and emotional capacity to accomplish this task. Knowing the toll road hell that lie ahead wore on me as I lay in a guest bed at my sister's house. I was almost tense, really. I could barely complete a sentence in my own head, much less deal with anyone AND the two more days of riding ahead.
Day 18:
Lake Station
Did we drive through Iowa? I don't remember this part of the trip at all. I would like to think that a small blue box whisked us from one end of the state to the other. But then again the TARDIS cannot travel through Iowa as it doesn't exist. Iowa, that is.
Either way I became well aware that we were nearing the East when the tolls started showing up. Oh how I had missed the constant traffic bogging down at the booths. The convoluted routes with not nearly enough signage and poor road design. Joy of joys. I grasped my EZ-pass and decided that I would one day smash it in retaliation for the insanity that is the toll system.
We made it all the way to Lake Station, IN before I couldn't handle it anymore. The next big town was just too far away for me to keep riding.
Day 19:
Somewhere in the chaos that is Cleveland, we became separated. We would not see each other again for several days. Boor's phone died as we were trying to coordinate to regroup in Pennsylvania and it became obvious that we simply had to head home. I once again set Neko Case as my riding music. Pennsylvania came and went and as I waved my transponder in the air, like some kind of secret pass to enter the ever-so-cool New York, I almost wanted to scream.
All those miles and still this stupid piece of shit plastic transponder will help New York State charge me too much for traveling on their poorly maintained roads. The slightly-too-far rest areas. The expansion joints, lovingly tossing my bike into the air because no one bothers to shave down the parabolic frost heaves that are inevitable on such a poorly cared for road. Crumbling infrastructure such as this could be justified if it didn't cost so much. I longed for Bandon. Couldn't I just own a sleeping bag and call that chilly beach my home? No. New York welcomed me with constant reminders of systemic mediocrity. The cost of doing the minimum.
All those miles and still this stupid piece of shit plastic transponder will help New York State charge me too much for traveling on their poorly maintained roads. The slightly-too-far rest areas. The expansion joints, lovingly tossing my bike into the air because no one bothers to shave down the parabolic frost heaves that are inevitable on such a poorly cared for road. Crumbling infrastructure such as this could be justified if it didn't cost so much. I longed for Bandon. Couldn't I just own a sleeping bag and call that chilly beach my home? No. New York welcomed me with constant reminders of systemic mediocrity. The cost of doing the minimum.
So what was learned?
What was gained? Would we return home and carry on as if it was a
mere vacation?
Maybe I'd seen,
somewhere in those miles, a metaphor. In between the rocky and
fascinating outer edges of this country was a flat and empty core. In
fact that must be it. In the east it was so fucking frustrating just to leave.
The arcane toll systems and traffic. That really is what it is like
in New York and other eastern states. Why make it simple to do anything
when we can levy tolls and taxes and make it generally impossible to accomplish
basic tasks easily? The midwest was wide open, flat, windy, and dull.
Montana and South Dakota were far more scenic and had so much more in
them than I had imagined. I will never think of Montana as a
wasteland again - it is truly gorgeous. Idaho and parts of Washington
were like being on another planet. The terrain is regal and ancient.
The pacific coast blew my mind on such a regular basis that it reminds me
of a fevered dream. I have to look at the photos every now and then to
remember that I really was there.
Yes, then. A
metaphor. For all of our sharp edges and interesting exteriors we are a
nation of empty windswept centers.
As I pulled into my garage I shut Brünnhilde off
and flipped the kickstand out, giving a long sigh as my eyes adjusted to the
dimness of the garage. I've always had a tendency to stare at my bike whenever
passing by the garage door. Since day one I've looked at her with
respect at such a machine as she. I can't help but think that maybe,
after all that we'd been through, she looks back at me with respect as well.
The Data:
Miles traveled by
motorcycle: 6,802
Days: 19
Average miles per day:
358 (not taking into account days we didn't travel)
Average miles per travel
day: 485
Average MPG: 52 (Buell)
Times mind was blown:
138
Cost per person: $1500
Days:
1.
Rochester, NY to Joliet,
Il 614 miles
2.
Joliet, Il to Omaha, NE 447
miles
3.
stayed in-town
4.
Omaha, NE to Keystone,
SD 547 miles
5.
Keystone, SD to Bozeman,
MT 537 miles (not counting stop at Mount Rushmore)
6.
Bozeman, MT to Spokane,
WA 399 miles (Great Divide pass - 6,329 feet)
7.
Spokane, WA to Seattle,
WA 279 miles
8.
stayed in-town
9.
Seattle, WA to Portland,
OR 174 miles
10.
stayed in-town
11.
Portland, OR to Bandon,
OR (via 101) 256 miles
12.
Bandon, OR to Redwood
Park and back 214 miles
13.
Bandon, OR to
Winnemucca, NV 545 miles (plus 50 mile detour to Fields, OR
for fuel)
14. Winnemucca, NV to Salt
Lake City, UT 353 miles
15.
stayed in-town
16.
Salt Lake City, UT to
Denver, CO (via 70) 525 miles (Vail Pass - 10,662 feet)
17.
Denver, CO to Omaha, NE 537
miles
18.
Omaha, NE to Lake
Station, IN 492 miles
19.
Lake Station, IN to
Rochester, NY 567 miles
Special thanks to:
Becky Schaefer
Amy Fitzpatrick and Jackson Conrad
Noelani Fisher
Tommy and Katt Freeman
My wife for putting up with my need to travel
Becky Schaefer
Amy Fitzpatrick and Jackson Conrad
Noelani Fisher
Tommy and Katt Freeman
My wife for putting up with my need to travel
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