Grande Finale

Day 18
States: 48
Miles 10,482

I awoke with a mix of emotions in New Mexico.  This would be the last day of my adventure.  On the one hand I was looking forward to getting home, back to my own bed, out of the hotels, anxious to see my best pal, Charmin, the tortoise shell kitty cat that rules the home.  On the other hand, I was sorry to see the fun and the experiences and the goal of reaching yet another state come to an end - a goal I had not yet achieved, by the way.  I had made arrangements to meet Bud and Betsy later this day, new friends to me, but old friends to my parents.  They are avid motorcyclists who had been following the blog upon my Dad's recommendations and since I was passing close to their location in Arizona they wanted to meet me, and besides, it was a good excuse for a ride!  We had agreed on a 10:00 a.m. meeting along Interstate 40.  I was about 90 minutes away, and not wanting to be late I scurried around getting packed up, wolfed down some of the free breakfast at the Quality Inn (no women wolfing down stacks of waffles here), and took off, intent on not being late for a planned event (a goal not once achieved during this trip).  Beatrice had always been quite accurate at estimating arrival times, and as I left New Mexico, I glanced down to see what she was predicting for my arrival in Holbrook, AZ, our meeting place.  I was a bit surprised to see that I was actually about 40 minutes ahead of schedule.  I was even more surprised to see that 40 minutes suddenly change to an hour and 40 minutes!  Then it dawned on me.  Arizona was the problem. 

Arizona is a screwy place.  I can say that, because I lived there for six years.  Don't get me wrong, it's a great place - if you don't mind using oven mitts to hold the steering wheel when you drive around Phoenix.  But Arizona does not change their clocks for Daylight Savings Time.  For a portion of the year they are on Mountain Time, and for the remainder of the year they are effectively on Pacific Time.  This presents a host of problems, one of which requires viewers to adjust their television viewing schedules.  Network programming, shows on NBC, CBS, ABC, for example are adjusted so that they remain on a consistent schedule.  L.A. Law, or whatever people watch these days, comes on at 9:00 p.m., regardless of the season.  Cable and live shows, however, ESPN and Monday Night Football, for example, start at either 7:00 p.m. or 6:00 p.m., depending on when the rest of the country changes time.  Then there are the airlines who must adjust their timetables for all flights into and out of Arizona cities.  Those are slight inconveniences.  At this point I had what I considered a major inconvenience.  I was going to be an hour and 40 minutes early!  In a panic I pulled over and called Bud and Betsy and explained my miscalculation.  Graciously, Bud said that would be no problem and that since they were a good distance from our meeting point, they could leave in a few minutes and meet me without causing me significant delay. 

We had arranged to meet at a McDonald's along I-40.  I arrived first and parked.  In a few minutes Bud and Betsy rode up on the biggest, most luxurious motorcycle I've ever seen, a beautiful BMW K1200 LT that looked like it could seat 30.  I think I could have averaged 1500 miles a day had I been on this machine. 

We swapped motorcycling stories for a while, I found out that they used to ride a Harley Ultra Classic for a while, and then it was soon time to move on.  We decided to cruise along together for a while and then they would have to exit to get ready for some friends coming over.  Bud pulled out and handled the big BMW as if it were a Ninja, and I scurried to catch up.  Soon they had to exit I-40, and we waved goodbye.  I had made yet more friends. 

The next stop was to be Flagstaff where my Dad and kinda-sorta step Mom were parked in the motor home for the summer, and escape from the heat of Phoenix.  We were going to have lunch before I made the final dash for Southern California.  Along the way I spotted another Harley stopped on the side of the interstate.  Again adhering to the biker code, I stopped to see if I could help.  The rider was the victim of a flat rear tire.  He had already been able to contact AAA and they were on the way to take him to the Flagstaff Harley dealer.  I happened to look back at my trusty Herm and noticed that my own back tire seemed to have a problem.  I had been keeping an eye on both tires throughout the trip, checking pressures, noting treadwear and such.  With 12,000 miles under foot, I was wary.  And my wariness proved to be warranted when to my horror I saw cords.  This was a surprise, because the tires had been holding up rather well, but it seems that three consecutive days of triple digit temperatures had taken their toll.  I gave some brief consideration to simply staying there with my new victim/friend, but then it dawned on my that he had already been in touch with the dealer, and I would be in line behind him.  I was still intent on getting home this day, so I kept my secret to myself, told him that I'd make sure they were ready for him at the dealer, and told him I'd see him there, neatly slipping into line ahead of him.  He thanked me and I took off.  Slowly.  I held my breath and prayed that the tire would hold up.  With 46 miles to go, I wasn't real optimistic.  It was the slowest and longest 46 miles of my life, but finally I reached Flagstaff - only to find that the dealer was yet another 15 miles beyond Flagstaff.  Oh, no.  Unfortunately there was no alternative but to continue on the interstate.  The speed limit on this section of road is 75, but with everyone really doing 80, and me doing about 60 I felt like a snail among a heard of cheetahs.  Finally, somehow, I got to Bellmonte, Arizona, where one of the many Grand Canyon Harley dealers was located.  The service manager took one look at my tire and said, "first, I don't know how you made it in here, and second, that's the worst one I've seen this season."  I was honored.  But my problems weren't over.  My tire, being a 200, vs. Harley's standard 140, was not exactly an off-the-shelf item.  Turns out they found one and lined me up for a tire change. 

The Bellmonte dealership is a popular spot, it turns out.  On the grounds of the dealership is the Route 66 Roadhouse Bar and Grill, a destination stop for area bikers and non-bikers alike.  The concept is a little different than most bars and grills, though.  The menu is varied, burgers, ribs, chicken, etc. and they have sandwiches too.  What's unique, though, is the fact that whatever you order comes raw.  Yes, raw.  You yourself are responsible for cooking your meal.  No complaints to the chef in this place.  I called my Dad and we decided that it would be most convenient for him and Jane to drive on over and we could have lunch while my tire was being replaced.  In short order they arrived and we went to work preparing our own meals, which I have to say was one of the best prepared meals I've ever had, and I complemented the chef appropriately.  Before we were finished eating the service manager came over to inform me that my bike was ready.  I have to put in a good word for the folks at this dealership.  I'd heard good things about them, and everything in my experience was first class.  I felt compelled to buy a shirt.  I'd have probably bought one anyway, because it had a really cool back, featuring an elk piloting a Harley.  This will go well with my shirts featuring donkies riding Harleys.  Most people currently favor the calendar girl motif on their shirts - I favor livestock.

We finished our meal, took a few pictures and then it was time for me to head home.  As I stopped by the desk to pay I noted that my broken down friend from earlier in the day had arrived and was getting ready to get his tire replaced, too.  He told me that it had taken 2 1/2 hours for AAA to get to him.  I asked how many others had stopped, and he said that 6 or 7 others did, one giving him a bottle of water.  It's reassuring that the Biker Code still lives to some extent.  It also confirmed that my decision to leave him and move on was a sound one, for another flat rear tire had been towed in and I was told another was on the way.  Tough day for rear tires on I-40 in Arizona.  I kept my suspicions that someone was out there shooting out the rear tires on Harleys to myself and departed. 

I had asked Beatrice how long it was to my home and she had told me a mere 351 miles. This wasn't unreasonable and I would still be home at a reasonable hour, 8:30 or so.  As it turns out, Beatrice had one more cruel trick to play on me.  I don't know why, I thought we had made up and let bygones be bygones.  We had been getting along quite well and I thought the relationship was back to near perfect.  But apparently there was something that she had stored away, because the next time I looked at the remaining miles, she had surreptitiously added an additional 115 miles!  You've got to be kidding me, I thought.  This was an additional two hours, and darkness was closing in quickly.  I weighed my options.  Kingman, AZ was close, Bullhead City or even Laughlin, Nevada were just a short distance farther.  After brief consideration, I decided to push on toward home.  It would mean crossing the California desert in darkness and dealing with LA area traffic when I was tired, but my own bed was just too enticing.  I pushed on. 

One of the least desirable parts of any trip involving going to and from Southern California is the return via Interstate 15, in particular the descent from the Cajon Pass.  The Cajon Pass, loosely translated is "God does not want you to be in this area," I believe.  It was created by the San Andreas fault, separating the San Gabriel Mountains from the San Bernardino Mountains.  It features wind gusts up to 80 miles per hour, trains regularly crash attempting to navigate the steep grade, fog often envelopes the road, and wildfires have raged there recently.  All of these are secondary, though, to the dangers presented by the wannabe race car drivers who seem to view descending the pass as an Indy 500 qualifying run.  On a motorcycle, it is terrifying as cars that normally can't top 60 mph, suddenly find the means to crank it up to 90 on the steep, downhill, curving grade, racing around you to your left and to your right, dodging in and out, then without warning, cutting you off.  And I was hitting this location in the dark after having set out about 15 hours earlier.  To add to all of this, the temperature had dropped to the coldest I had experienced along the entire journey.  How ironic is that?  Southern California, one of the most perfect climates in the entire world, and for the first time I was freezing my fanny off.  I gritted my chattering teeth, tried to ignore the Mario Andretti wannabes, and made my was down the pass.  I survived.

It was only another hour to the house.  Thankfully that passed without incident and shortly after midnight I pulled into my driveway.  Awaiting me was a "Welcome Home" banner stretched across my garage along with a banner of checkered flags that my neighbors had put up.  

Many of them had been following along on the blog.  I grinned happily, opened the door, pulled in and shut Herm's motor off for the final time of the adventure.  I had made it.  10482 miles, every state in the Continental United States accessed, countless friends and countless memories made.  It was an amazing and fulfilling trip.  For some reason Ernie Banks came to mind, and to paraphrase, "Let's do one more!" was considered…and dismissed.