This is a Fine Meth You've Gotten Us Into!

Day 4 - Part 1

States: 8
Miles: 2737

It had indeed rained on Herm during the night.  I went out to the front of the Days Inn to find most of the other bikers drying, packing up, and preparing their bikes for the day's journey.  The hotel obviously welcomes motorcycles, as they had several parking spots up front reserved just for bikes, so we were all concentrated in one small space.  I took advantage  of the collected rain water to clean Herm up a bit, and while doing that one of the others walked over and made a comment about my wheels ( a complimentary one).  We made some small talk, the usual, where ya from, where ya goin exchange.  He was a burly, rough looking dude, a typical biker straight out of central casting.  He said he was from New York, and this was his first trip out west.  He motioned over to another big burly, younger guy who was packing up his bike and told me that was his son.  He said he was experiencing the ride of his life and proceeded to tell me how his vacation plans locally in the New York area had fallen through.  Given that, his son called and said he was going on a ride and wanted to know if his Dad wanted to join him on a trip out west.  He said his wife said, "You better do this," and therefore he was with his kid exploring the country.  He said they were headed to Yellowstone that day and proceeded to tell me how amazed he was with Utah and Arizona and all of the sites that the west has to offer.  His expression was almost like that of a kid experiencing his first trip to Disneyland. The beaming in his eyes and the pride in his son was obvious.  The contrast between the roughness of these guys and the love and pride between them was fascinating to me.  It was clear that both of them were experiencing something special.  Soon they had everything ready and got ready to mount up and go.  They started up their bikes and pulled out, both giving me a wave, the anticipation on their faces a telling sign.  I felt good for them.  It's interesting, these encounters between motorcyclists.  You may never meet again, but there's a bond there. 

One of the interesting things on a trip like this is the encounters you have off of the road.  Some of the more interesting people I've met have resulted from a need to refuel my motorcycle.  People always seem to want to chat up bikers who are obviously on a long trip.  This one was more interesting that the typical encounter. 

It was late afternoon and not much had happened on the ride so far. I was fearing that I'd have to use one of my random ramblings that I'm saving up when there's nothing to report on.  That's when Amber came to my rescue.  Just before departing Wyoming I was ready for a break and I needed some gas.  A sign ahead indicated fuel was available at the next exit.  I took the exit, but didn't see any sign of a station.  This wasn't your typical roadside Stuckey's stop.  Instead there was a sign indicating gas was available one mile down the road.  So I proceeded to go down that road.  What I found was a small, depressed, nearly abandoned little town.  Apparently I had stumbled onto the meth capital of Wyoming.  I pulled into a sort of convenience store/fertilizer dealer/pawn shop that also happened to sell gasoline.  I was thirsty and needed a soft drink from the fountain machine.  I saw something I don't believe I've seen before, a sign on the dispenser indicating that food stamps could not be used to purchase soft drinks.  

As I returned to the pump, I heard a voice yell, "Hey!"  I was pretty sure I didn't know anyone here, so I ignored the sound.  I heard footsteps and turned around to see what I think was a woman coming out of a van parked nearby.  The van screamed child predoator/meth transportation vehicle all over.  The "woman" smiled (I think) and my suspicions were confirmed - missing teeth.  "Where ya goin'?" she asked.  "Up north," I replied.  "You ain't headin' to the mountains?"  "No," I replied.  Her expression turned to disappointment (I think).  She said, "my friend wants a ride on your bike."  I said, "Sorry, I don't have room for a passenger."  I looked over toward the van, and sitting half in and half out of the van was a malnourished, rather frightening looking female.  She had short black hair, long baggy shorts that hung below her knees, and a gray wife beater tank top (which somehow seemed appropriate).  She then got out and walked over while I filled the tank.  The conversation went something like this:

Her:  I want a ride on your bike.  I really like your bike. 
Me:  Thanks, but you'd have to ride fender. 
Her:  Doncha think I'm cute?
Me:  Absolutely - you're the cutest thing I've seen all day.
(It wasn't that much of a stretch - the only females I had seen were the fat Indian woman at the hotel check-out, and a gas station attendant dressed like Doris Ziffel from Green Acres.  It was then I noticed some strange tatoos.  The most interesting one read Black Bear in script on her arm.  I was imagining demons on her back and a battleship on her chest)
Her:  Where you from?
Me:  Southern California
Her:  Where you headin'?
Me: North
Her:  Where north?
Me: Custer.
Her:  Where's that?
Me:  In Montana
Her:  On this?
Me:  Yep
Her:  Right on!
(She looked a little young for "right on."  I figured she was trying to appeal to the demographic)
Her:  I don't believe we've met.  I'm Amber.
Me:  Pleasure Amber, I'm Biff.
(She then proceed to extend a closed fist to me - a fist bump.  I returned the bump.)
Her:  Where you from?
Me:  California
Her:  Where in California?
Me:  San Francisco
Her:  Oh, that's right.
Me:  Where you from?
Her:  Right here.
(Shocking)
Her:  I really like your bike. 
(Another fist bump)
Her:  It's really pretty
Me:  It's awfully dirty
Her:  I thought you like 'em dirty
Me:  Not that dirty.
(I thought that might deter her.  She remained undeterred, however)
Her:  Where ya' stayin?
Me:  I'm hoping to get to Bismark
Her:  Where's that?
Me:  North Dakota
Her:  Right on.
(One more fist bump)
(At this point I was done fueling.  I began removing my iPhone, my GPS, and locking everything possible.  I faked inputting  a destination into the GPS, trying to imply that i was ready to get going.)
Her:  What do you do when it rains?
Me:  I put on a rain suit
Her:  What if it rains really hard?
Me:  I pull over
Her:  Right on

At that point the van started up.  Toothless and a male driver I hadn't noticed yelled, "C'mon, Amber!"  Amber gave me one more fist bump and sauntered over to the van, trying her best to look sexy.  I could only shake my head.  I think I handled it about as well as possible.  Sometimes it's not easy being a chick magnet.  

Through the Northwest

Day 3
States: 7
Miles: 2056

I had no idea that I had ridden through bug Armageddon the previous night.  I had assumed that my inability to see through the windshield was due to the combination of a smoke gray plastic material and the gathering darkness.  Maybe the fact that my pants legs resembled fly paper that had been left at the cabin for 20 years should have been a clue, but I guess I was too tired to realize the significance.  When I went out to the bike in the morning I discovered several layers of bugs coating the windshield.  And the fairing.  And the headlights.  And every forward-facing part of the bike.  It was awesome.  I headed to the gas station and washed Herm down as best as I could, giving approximately 37,000 insects a very improper burial.  The view through the windshield improved considerably. 

Heading out of Pendleton, I wasn't expecting much in the way of scenery, but I was pleasantly surprised to be greeted by the interstate highway's version of the Tail of the Dragon.  It was a 3,000 foot climb up a grade so steep that it was necessary to design multiple series of 90 degree switchbacks.  Signs warning the driver to slow down to 45 mph were to be heeded.  And woe be to the unsuspecting driver coming upon a truck creeping up the hill in second gear.  Still it was fun - about as much fun as can be had on a bike on an interstate.  And the view at the top was magnificent - snow speckled mountains, green meadows, and lots and lots of pine trees.  That soon gave way to what I had initially expected, bland Idaho landscape.  And antelope.  Bikers worry about deer a lot.  For good reason.  In a battle between a motorcycle and a deer, there usually are no winners.  But a deer is to an antelope as Grandpa's Edsel is to a Ferrari.  I had been in the area a few years prior on business.  As I was driving a rental car to Salt Lake City, an antelope flashed in front of me with such suddenness that in between my declaration of "Oh" and "Crap" he bounded from one side of the road to 200 yards beyond.  Plus, while deer generally appear at dawn and dusk, antelope can be present all day long.  So I kept busy scanning the road and fields in front of me with great care.  Several dead deer could be seen on the side of the road, and interestingly one half of one deer (dead).  I preferred not to dwell on that too much.  The rest of the trip was spent gazing at clouds and rain showers in the distance, trying to predict whether or not they were present in the area soon to be ridden.  I got lucky for the most part.  The roads were slightly wet, but dry in the lanes where traffic had created enough friction to provide comfortable traction. 

My final fuel stop for the evening took place in Northern Utah.  As I shut down all systems at the pump to fuel up and check over the bike, a friendly lady walking out of the convenience shop toward her car asked me if I had gotten wet.  I responded that I had not and asked if she had experienced some weather.  She said that not only had she experienced some rain, but that she judged the storm to be one of the top ten she had ever experienced.  And she was no spring chicken.  My curiosity (and trepidation) aroused, I asked where she experienced this.  North Dakota, she said.  Terrific.  Right where I'm heading.  She assured me that she thought the storm would move out by the time I got up that way.  It was getting late, but it was still light out, so I was hoping to make up some lost time.  I was anxious to nab a third state for the day.  I had already knocked off Idaho and Utah, and Wyoming was within reach.  But about 100 miles down the road I hit rain heavy enough to require breaking out the rain suit.  Still, it was easy enough on the road and traffic was sparse enough that I was in no danger.  I figured antelope don't like the rain.  But when I spotted lightning in the distance, I decided I had gone far enough.  I succeeded in reaching Wyoming.  Evanston, in fact.  It appears to be a popular spot for Harley's to stop.  There are at least 8 of them in the lot of the Days Inn.  I'm now about four hours behind schedule, but that shouldn't be too hard to make up.  Unless the weather doesn't cooperate.  The weather report shows 30% chance of severe thunderstorms.  Could be interesting. 

Unusual things seen on the road today: 

• A Portland taxi cab.  About 400 miles east of Portland
• Half a deer

A Less Eventful Second Day

Day 2
States: 4
Miles: 1410

The day began with a look at the local TV station where the big concern was a flash flood watch.  Uh oh.  Turns out that was for Reno, which was in my rear view mirror.  I was relieved to be heading toward Oregon - it hardly ever rains there, right?  I set off from Susanville on a course to Redding, and I was instantly grateful that I had decided to shut it down the previous evening.  It would have been an absolute shame to go through this area in the dark.  With smooth, sweeping twisties, Ponderosa pines and Redwoods standing at the roadside, it was easily the most fun and picturesque ride yet on this trip.  It was the kind of day that a motorcyclist lives for.  I was virtually alone on this two-lane version of heaven, and the temperature was perfect.  I half expected to see Hoss and Billy Joe come riding out of the woods on horseback.  

I was taking it all in, making sure to enjoy the moment.  It was pure bliss.  Until, that is, I felt the chinstrap of my cursed helmet come loose again.  I had attempted to restore the clip to its original condition using a small piece of the rapidly dwindling fabric, and it didn't take long to realize that the effort was futile.  Knowing that the helmet cam was in place, I momentarily panicked, but ironically the weight of the camera seemed to be holding it in place.  There was no place to pull over, as the side of the road was minimal and I had seen logging trucks barreling down the road, and had passed a few.  Having no other options, I stuck the strap in my mouth, reasoning that if it did blow off my head, at least I might prevent the camera from certain destruction.  Thankfully, it stayed put and in a mile or so I came upon a crossroad where I could pull over on and be reasonably visible and safe.  Out came the plastic tie wraps again, but this time I made a little modification that I'm hoping will preclude a trip to the Harley dealer for one of their $200 helmets.  So far so good.

Overall, it was a less eventful day than yesterday, which is probably a good thing.  But it was a gorgeous day, both weather wise and scenery-wise.  The Sierra Mountains were absolutely majestic, snow-capped and gleaming in the sun.  The roads, with the constant elevation changes and turns, offered a better view of the mountains around each bend.  I tried to take some pictures, but they don't really do justice to the fantastic sites seen from the seat of the bike.  That, plus the fact that I somehow managed to turn my camera into black and white mode.  Maybe the ghost of Ansel Adams caused this to happen?

Portland traffic bogged me down a bit, and it was unusually warm, but as was the case with Sacramento, once you clear the city and start heading eastward, you are rewarded with spectacular scenery.  I-84 winds along the Columbia River, featuring some of the best scenery that I've ever seen on any interstate highway.  Washington state beckoned across the river, and I eventually found a bridge that would take me over to that side so I could knock off my fourth state.  The bridge was one of those steel grating types which was a bit unnerving, both because it grabs the tires and takes the bike where it wants to, and also because when looking down, the grating is virtually invisible giving the rider the illusion that he is floating above the river.  Far above.  I'm not one that's terribly bothered by heights, but I have to admit that this got my attention.  I got to the other side, put both feet down in Washington (which is my rule for officially being in the state), and turned right about to get back to Oregon.  I was rewarded with a stunning view of Mt. Hood in the background of the bridge.  

I was still in Ansel Adams mode, so I'm not sure if the photo is better in black and white or might have illustrated things better had it been in color.  I do know that once again the photo does not do the view justice.  You have to look really close, but way back there to the left of the bridge is Mt.  Hood.  Trust me, it's spectacular.  Really.  I finally decided to find a place to stop and get some rest in Pendleton, Oregon.  I had hoped to be In Boise by this time, but I'm not too far behind schedule.  About three hours off, and that's OK at this point. 

Unusual things seen on the road today: 

• A street sweeper - sweeping the interstate
• A snow plow - driving down the interstate
• A bumper sticker on a car saying "Keep Portland Weird"
• A stuffed buffalo on the side of the road dressed like Uncle Sam

An Eventful First Day

Day: 1
States: 2
Miles: 662

Well, we had enough things happen today to fill up the entire three weeks' worth of blogging.  If the events keep coming at me at this rate I'm going to need my own server at blogspot.com.  And about three additional weeks to document them.  I'll try to be brief but no promises.

The day started innocently enough.  Former next door neighbor and fellow Harley enthusiast Steve tracked me down as I was gassing up Herm and getting ready to depart.  I had sent him an invite to follow the blog, and apparently I inspired him to get his Ultra out and track down the missing wife and kid.  (Actually they were camping, but I like to embellish).  So after fueling Herm up with gas and me with a breakfast sandwich bagel, he accompanied me for the first part of the trip, but soon had to peel off and go find the family.  I was on my own. 

Traffic in LA was initially much lighter than expected.  I figured that the holiday week had people staying away from the freeways.  I figured wrong.  Once I cleared Orange County, traffic came to a standstill.  I'm not one to split lanes much, although it's legal in California.  But looking at approximately 9,950 miles in front of me and going nowhere, I decided that it was a better alternative than sitting still.  So along I went, happily splitting the number 1 and number 2 lanes, making reasonably good time.  Suddenly my mirrors filled with headlights.  A convoy of bikes was bearing down on me at a much higher rate of speed than I dared.  So at a convenient spot I pulled into the creeping traffic to let them pass.  The first one roared past me and right there on the back of the rider was the patch of the Mongols.  About 10 of them went by me, a prospect in the rear.  Oddly, none of them gave me the little motorcycle wave.  I wasn't quite sure what to do after they shot by me.  Get back between lanes?  Uh, no.  Flying up from behind on a group of 1%ers is not exactly a good way to introduce yourself to the boys in the club.  But sitting in LA traffic wasn't real appealing either, and only marginally more hazardous to my health.  I decided to wait about five minutes, whereupon I promptly made up roughly the time I lost saving myself from certain doom. 

Once I cleared LA, the road opened up - somewhat.  Traffic on the 5 heading to Sacramento was as thick as Gene Simmons' tongue.  So I just took it easy and watched the road ragers fight over the left lane.  I wasn't counting on one of them involving me though.  I was minding my own business, listening to my tunes, when in the mirrors I noticed a shape coming at me quickly.  From my angle it looked somewhat like one of those South American buses with all of the goods belonging to the entire village piled on top of it - the kind that Indiana Jones seems to favor.  I happened to be in the process of passing one of the 7,367 trucks going my way, so I was in the left lane.  He seemed adamant about continuing his charge regardless of my presence.  So I gunned it and pulled over, and he roared past.  I expected to see the thing filled with chickens and goats, but I was disappointed to find only humans.  The vehicle turned out to be a Jeep Cherokee with indeed what looked like all of the goods belonging to an entire village piled on top of it.  Duffel bags, folding chairs, coolers, and lots of things with poles adorned the roof.  The only thing missing was Grandma in a rocker.  But something caught my eye.  He had some orange tie-downs, and they were not tight.  In fact they were fluttering in the 90 mph breeze he was creating.  When you're on a motorcycle, you instinctively avoid things like this.  Having things like chairs, rakes and ladders fly out of vehicles in front of you is a good way to screw up your ride.  And it looked like he had already deposited some of those types of things on the road.  I dropped back and tried to stay out of his lane, but that proved to be harder than expected.  The thick traffic kept bunching up and somehow he kept ending up right smack in what I perceived to be danger territory.  Sure enough, several minutes after observing the fluttering tie-downs, I witnessed one of the duffel bags shift, stop, then bloop!  Right off the top and rolled off the right side onto the road.  It never came near me, but I saw a few cars swerve behind me and I could see it tumbling onto the berm.  The Jeep never stopped, apparently unaware or unconcerned.  As I was worrying about more deposits, I was relieved to see a split in the freeways that took him in a different direction from my route.  I'm still trying to picture him pulling up to this destination only to find the entire assembly on the rooftop to be gone.  And I'm smiling. 

The weather on the 5 can only be described as stifling.  The Road Glide has a gauge that measures air temperature.  I'm not sure where it takes its measurement, but I'm pretty sure it's located somewhere near the earth's molten core.  I marveled as the gauge went from 100 to 105 and on to 110.  And the scenery was about as unappealing as can be imagined.  Unless you're a big fan of zillions of square miles of dairy cattle pens, in which case it's pure heaven.  But once I reached Sacramento and turned up toward the Lake Tahoe/Reno area, things turned much for the better.  The contrast between the heat and ugliness of the 5 and the beauty and fun of Interstate 80 is remarkable.  The pine trees, the twisty, flowing road and beautiful views of the Sierras were absolutely stunning.  Not to mention the satisfying 25 degree drop in temperature.  85 never felt so cool.  And traffic was decidedly more sparse.  I didn't want it to end, as I finally entered my second state, Nevada. 

Upon reaching Reno I headed north on highway 395, a gorgeous highway that took me right back into California.  Not that I missed my home state, but it's pretty much necessary to go in that direction to get to Oregon.  The road was a four lane highway that eventually became a two-lane, with some limited passing areas.  I knew things were going to be promising as there were scores of motorcycles coming the other way - all of them demanding the little biker wave.  i felt like the Rose Bowl queen returning all of the waves.  Just as I was getting settled in and enjoying a little misting of rain I came up a sign.  It advised that the area ahead might feature some gusty winds.  The fact that the sign itself was waving back and forth like Richard Simmons guest hosting Glee was a clue.  More appropriate might have been: "Warning - F-5 Hurricane AND Tornados Ahead."  I hit a crosswind blast that would have capsized the Navy's largest carrier.  It was the kind that deposits you in the next lane before you knew what hit you - if you manage to remain upright.  Luckily there was nobody next to me.  It was necessary to lean the bike at approximately a 45 degree angle to make headway.  I'm not sure I've ever experienced such strong crosswinds.  It was incredible fighting to maintain a line to stay on the road.  If I had a bat wing Harley, I might be somewhere high above Kansas right now.  I know for a fact that I've never had the wind take my helmet and rip it off my head.  Oh, wait - that did happen once before.  Same helmet, in fact.  I guess my chinstrap isn't quite as strong as it needs to be, for it lost the battle and I watched in the mirror as once again, my helmet when bounding onto and then off of the road.  I pulled over immediately and tried to identify where its resting place might be.  This was a bad idea.  Not only were cars a trucks screaming by only inches away, but the wind was actually rocking the bike as it sat on the sidestand.  Fearing that it might blow over (yes, it was that strong) I decided it would be better to turn the bike around and let the sidestand act as a brace.  And that's when I spotted what could be the most beautiful site of the trip.  The misting rain and the angle of the sun had combined to create a magnificent double rainbow that I was completely unaware of over my shoulder.  Unlike this guy, I somehow resisted the urge to cry and scream, but I did take some pictures.  

I also dug through the weeds and managed to find my helmet, which now appears to have more road rash that Evel Knievel.  The chin strap was rendered useless, but since California requires helmets, I had to figure out a way to make this stay on my head.  To make things just that much more fun, the inside of the helmet was filled with burrs that had collected inside as it journeyed through the weeds.  To my rescue, as is often the case, came my trusted and proven solution to almost every problem I've encountered - the plastic tie wrap.  Unfortunately, my tie wraps were not long enough to substitute as a chin strap, so in one of my many MacGyver moments, I looped two of them together, pulled tight, and magically I had an instant chin strap.  

Albeit, a rather permanent one, for plastic tie wraps do one thing very well, and that is not come loose.  I think I'm going to have to come up with a better solution, because I don't have enough tie wraps to continue this for the next three weeks.  And the removal process is a bit unnerving.  Or so thought the folks watching me jam a pair of needle nose pliers into my neck, then squeezing firmly.  Then again those gasps could have been for my sunburned nose.  

I decided to call it a day in Susanville, CA, a bucolic village with stunning views of the mountains and a cozy feeling.  Or at least that's how a real estate agent might label it.  I'm really going to have to figure out what bucolic means.  I thinks it's a good thing.  I'm about 150 miles short of my intention, but it was just too dark and dangerous to continue, and hopefully tomorrow I can avoid bike gangs, blast furnace heat, camping obstacles, and removal of my helmet.  I will take another one of those rainbows, though. 

Unusual things seen on the road today: 

• the entire dashboard of a car on the side of the road
• a full size golf bag on the side of the road
• a helicopter on a flatbed truck
• a subway car on a flatbed truck
• a crashed helicopter on a flatbed truck
• 20 pairs of shoes and boots hung in a tree bordering the highway