Friday morning. Cool and cloudless.
Mom dropped me off at the Valley Metro station at 19th Avenue and Dunlap.
I caught the 7:01 eastbound, which cruised smoothly and quietly and at a surprisingly good clip through downtown Phoenix.
I was more than happy not to deal with rush hour traffic.
* * *
Mom dropped me off at the Valley Metro station at 19th Avenue and Dunlap.
I caught the 7:01 eastbound, which cruised smoothly and quietly and at a surprisingly good clip through downtown Phoenix.
I was more than happy not to deal with rush hour traffic.
* * *
After my arrival in Laughlin on Wednesday night, Larry and Gary had helped me hump my gear up to the room I was sharing with Gary, then we had a surprisingly good pizza at the Pint’s brewery.
Gary drank Jackass Stout vicariously through me. Sadly, his digestive system has become intolerant of beer. In response his drink of choice is now the margarita.
Upon returning to the room Gary mentioned he’d checked out my blog, and he offered praise for it, which really means something coming from a rider with his level of experience. He acknowledged the time it takes me to keep it flowing. I replied that I wasn’t writing it for guys like him, who have their own riding stories and don’t need to read mine. My tales and ruminations are far more entertaining, I assume, to those who would never do such a crazy thing.
I did jest that maybe I wouldn’t tell anyone next time I set out on such a journey. It would certainly free up my evenings…
But as I mentioned early on in this blog, despite what now seems a minor legion of fans (thanks again for following!), I write these memoirs for my own purposes anyway. So I guess they’ll keep coming.
Hopefully next time they’ll be generated from newer, more reliable, and more compact devices with much better internet connectivity.
And yes, it’s way past time for me to GoPro these rides.
* * *
Gary drank Jackass Stout vicariously through me. Sadly, his digestive system has become intolerant of beer. In response his drink of choice is now the margarita.
Upon returning to the room Gary mentioned he’d checked out my blog, and he offered praise for it, which really means something coming from a rider with his level of experience. He acknowledged the time it takes me to keep it flowing. I replied that I wasn’t writing it for guys like him, who have their own riding stories and don’t need to read mine. My tales and ruminations are far more entertaining, I assume, to those who would never do such a crazy thing.
I did jest that maybe I wouldn’t tell anyone next time I set out on such a journey. It would certainly free up my evenings…
But as I mentioned early on in this blog, despite what now seems a minor legion of fans (thanks again for following!), I write these memoirs for my own purposes anyway. So I guess they’ll keep coming.
Hopefully next time they’ll be generated from newer, more reliable, and more compact devices with much better internet connectivity.
And yes, it’s way past time for me to GoPro these rides.
* * *
I worked long into the night on Laughlin Dispatch 2, but I flamed out before publishing. So I ended up dragging myself out of bed to wrap it long before Gary rose. I still barely got it out before it was time to leave; we wanted to get into Phoenix before rush hour.
We all had enough gas to make it to Kingman, but I wanted to tweak my tire pressures before we rolled. The air station at the Chevron next to the hotel took $1.50 of my hard-earned money and for that princely sum the damned thing just bled air out of my tires rather than adding any. Larry asked via intercom what was going on and between expletives I reported the problem…then realized he couldn’t hear me; after we’d parted in Monterey I’d removed my microphone because it just got in the way.
The mic issue wasn’t something to be dealt with at that point, so I saddled up and we headed out of town. I was disgruntled about having tire pressures even less to my liking and being once again effectively without intercom, this time during one of the last chances I’d have to use it, if for no other reason, to chat with my old friend before my tour ended.
“Friend” being singular because even though Gary was also equipped with a radio headset, he didn’t want to talk to us while riding.
Knowing Gary, that wasn’t a big surprise. He probably considers it an invasion of his personal space and he doesn’t like that to be compromised.
As we climbed the long grade out of town, a direction I’ve never ridden before, I got my first view of the rock formation among the hoodoos on the ridge that looks exactly like a hand flipping the bird to every eastbound traveler. Larry returned the gesture to this unaccountably rude bit of geology. Since that’s the kind of mood I was in, so did I.
We came up behind an Explorer that was weaving dangerously all over the three lanes of the divided highway, sometimes within its lane, sometimes between lanes, sometimes with a signal, sometimes not. Larry started to overtake but when the Explorer’s signal flashed, hinting that it might be about to lurch into the fast lane, he held back. Then the thing just sat there in the center lane with the left blinker on.
My inclination at that point was to drop way back and watch what I expected would very soon become a spectacular crash, hopefully not involving Larry.
But then Larry went for the pass. I waited until I had what I hoped would remain an entire lane and shoulder’s worth of room to maneuver, then asked Therese to deliver a very large measure of motive force, so we’d spend as little time as possible adjacent to the rolling hazard ahead. Therese complied enthusiastically as always.
Because I was moving so quickly when I went by the Explorer, I only got a glimpse of the driver. I’d expected to see someone head-down in a cell phone, or perhaps polishing off a fifth of Jack. But it was just grandma; some gray-haired lady with both hands on the wheel and no obvious explanation for the most erratic driving I’d seen in the last 5000 miles.
When we stopped for gas in Kingman I dug the intercom mic out of my luggage and got it working. I would have hunted for an air station, but Gary was already waiting with helmet on, and Larry was donning his.
Larry and I chatted for a while, then he tried once again to broadcast music. That exercise failed, again. Larry had music, but it wasn’t coming over to me, so I rode on singing Jackson Browne’s Running On Empty to myself.
We stopped at a rest area twenty miles outside of Wickenburg, pulling our bikes into the shaded picnic area.
We all had enough gas to make it to Kingman, but I wanted to tweak my tire pressures before we rolled. The air station at the Chevron next to the hotel took $1.50 of my hard-earned money and for that princely sum the damned thing just bled air out of my tires rather than adding any. Larry asked via intercom what was going on and between expletives I reported the problem…then realized he couldn’t hear me; after we’d parted in Monterey I’d removed my microphone because it just got in the way.
The mic issue wasn’t something to be dealt with at that point, so I saddled up and we headed out of town. I was disgruntled about having tire pressures even less to my liking and being once again effectively without intercom, this time during one of the last chances I’d have to use it, if for no other reason, to chat with my old friend before my tour ended.
“Friend” being singular because even though Gary was also equipped with a radio headset, he didn’t want to talk to us while riding.
Knowing Gary, that wasn’t a big surprise. He probably considers it an invasion of his personal space and he doesn’t like that to be compromised.
As we climbed the long grade out of town, a direction I’ve never ridden before, I got my first view of the rock formation among the hoodoos on the ridge that looks exactly like a hand flipping the bird to every eastbound traveler. Larry returned the gesture to this unaccountably rude bit of geology. Since that’s the kind of mood I was in, so did I.
We came up behind an Explorer that was weaving dangerously all over the three lanes of the divided highway, sometimes within its lane, sometimes between lanes, sometimes with a signal, sometimes not. Larry started to overtake but when the Explorer’s signal flashed, hinting that it might be about to lurch into the fast lane, he held back. Then the thing just sat there in the center lane with the left blinker on.
My inclination at that point was to drop way back and watch what I expected would very soon become a spectacular crash, hopefully not involving Larry.
But then Larry went for the pass. I waited until I had what I hoped would remain an entire lane and shoulder’s worth of room to maneuver, then asked Therese to deliver a very large measure of motive force, so we’d spend as little time as possible adjacent to the rolling hazard ahead. Therese complied enthusiastically as always.
Because I was moving so quickly when I went by the Explorer, I only got a glimpse of the driver. I’d expected to see someone head-down in a cell phone, or perhaps polishing off a fifth of Jack. But it was just grandma; some gray-haired lady with both hands on the wheel and no obvious explanation for the most erratic driving I’d seen in the last 5000 miles.
When we stopped for gas in Kingman I dug the intercom mic out of my luggage and got it working. I would have hunted for an air station, but Gary was already waiting with helmet on, and Larry was donning his.
Larry and I chatted for a while, then he tried once again to broadcast music. That exercise failed, again. Larry had music, but it wasn’t coming over to me, so I rode on singing Jackson Browne’s Running On Empty to myself.
We stopped at a rest area twenty miles outside of Wickenburg, pulling our bikes into the shaded picnic area.
Gary extracted a small 12-volt air pump from under his saddle and I finally got to put a couple more psi into my tires.
For a few years now such a device has been an item on my sophisticated and ever-evolving packing spreadsheet, but I’ve never gotten around to obtaining a pump and making space for it in The Bag That Must Not Be Opened.
Therefore the checklist item has always got assigned a green "X” icon, indicating “no it’s not packed, but that’s OK” (because I always had what I thought was a lot of CO2 cartridges).
After running out of cartridges up in Sequoia without even fully inflating my tire, I’ll certainly make sure the air compressor gets a green checkmark before my next trip.
For a few years now such a device has been an item on my sophisticated and ever-evolving packing spreadsheet, but I’ve never gotten around to obtaining a pump and making space for it in The Bag That Must Not Be Opened.
Therefore the checklist item has always got assigned a green "X” icon, indicating “no it’s not packed, but that’s OK” (because I always had what I thought was a lot of CO2 cartridges).
After running out of cartridges up in Sequoia without even fully inflating my tire, I’ll certainly make sure the air compressor gets a green checkmark before my next trip.
We stopped at Spurs in Wickenburg, arriving in the middle of the lunch rush.
Our meals were a long time getting served but at least we’d got a seat with a view of the bikes, and were served up refreshments right away.
It was at this point that perhaps the worst thing happened of the entire trip.
The day before I’d paid a very heavy premium to buy tires from an official BMW motorcycle dealer and have them installed by a certified BMW technician. My buddies were shocked to hear what I’d paid; I think the word “raped” might have been floated (not that I think I was gouged any more than is normal for such an establishment, and I still feel grateful for the speedy service). While riding and chatting with Larry he’d said I shouldn’t have gone to that trouble and expense, and as we waited for our lunch Gary concurred. They both thought I’d been excessively cautious.
What I should have done, they agreed, was ride that plug all the way back to Phoenix (picking up a 12V tire pump on the way, of course). Both felt that while a plug might develop a slow leak, it would not fail catastrophically. They thought I should have followed through with the plan I’d formulated after I’d cooked up my “fly and ride” idea: during the winter Larry would ride Therese from Mom’s house to Omar’s decidedly non-BMW-certified shop and have a new set of treads put on for about 3/5 what I’d paid in California.
This made me very sad.
Not because of the money I’d (probably) wasted, although that certainly did smart.
No, the problem was that I’d forfeited a final day of riding twisty roads along the slopes of the Sierra.
Money is just money. I can get more of that.
But the real currency of riding motorcycles on mountain roads is time, the availability of which is only and ever diminishing.
It was at this point that perhaps the worst thing happened of the entire trip.
The day before I’d paid a very heavy premium to buy tires from an official BMW motorcycle dealer and have them installed by a certified BMW technician. My buddies were shocked to hear what I’d paid; I think the word “raped” might have been floated (not that I think I was gouged any more than is normal for such an establishment, and I still feel grateful for the speedy service). While riding and chatting with Larry he’d said I shouldn’t have gone to that trouble and expense, and as we waited for our lunch Gary concurred. They both thought I’d been excessively cautious.
What I should have done, they agreed, was ride that plug all the way back to Phoenix (picking up a 12V tire pump on the way, of course). Both felt that while a plug might develop a slow leak, it would not fail catastrophically. They thought I should have followed through with the plan I’d formulated after I’d cooked up my “fly and ride” idea: during the winter Larry would ride Therese from Mom’s house to Omar’s decidedly non-BMW-certified shop and have a new set of treads put on for about 3/5 what I’d paid in California.
This made me very sad.
Not because of the money I’d (probably) wasted, although that certainly did smart.
No, the problem was that I’d forfeited a final day of riding twisty roads along the slopes of the Sierra.
Money is just money. I can get more of that.
But the real currency of riding motorcycles on mountain roads is time, the availability of which is only and ever diminishing.
At another rest stop we met a fellow who rode in on a Harley hauling one of those tiny teardrop-shaped trailers. Turns out he’d built it himself, and it was one of a very small batch. When asked where he was from he said he’d left San Diego in 2010 and he’s from all the places he’s ridden to since.
He wanted to tell us his riding stories, and had we let him we’d have been there for weeks without even telling any of our own. But rush hour was approaching; we wished him continued safe travels.
I gave Larry a hug before we saddled up.
I didn’t hug Gary.
As we rode the final leg it occurred to me that “according to the plan”, today would be my last ride on Therese for a long time.
The thought gave me a melancholy feeling.
While it’s true that back home the season is normally about over by this time of year, considering this fall's absurdly warm weather it’s entirely possible that 2017 might be one of those years when November in Michigan is great riding, that my penchant for a ride on the day after Thanksgiving might be easily-indulged, that I may be able to go for a nice bug-free ride on my birthday in mid-December or even Christmas eve.
It occurred to me I didn’t have to leave Therese in Mom’s garage.
I’d bought insurance for the plane ticket; I’d forfeit a mere $19 to blow off the flight and ride home. The weather was still cloudless and unseasonably warm for a thousand miles in every direction. If I rode my ass off I could depart Mom’s house tomorrow morning on these nice new tires, be at Dad’s Friday night, get in another quick shot of Colorado mountain roads, be home Sunday, back at work Monday morning.
I floated the idea to Larry, but he talked me out of it.
“This is a great way to wrap up a tour”, he said with confidence.
He’s probably right.
* * *
He wanted to tell us his riding stories, and had we let him we’d have been there for weeks without even telling any of our own. But rush hour was approaching; we wished him continued safe travels.
I gave Larry a hug before we saddled up.
I didn’t hug Gary.
As we rode the final leg it occurred to me that “according to the plan”, today would be my last ride on Therese for a long time.
The thought gave me a melancholy feeling.
While it’s true that back home the season is normally about over by this time of year, considering this fall's absurdly warm weather it’s entirely possible that 2017 might be one of those years when November in Michigan is great riding, that my penchant for a ride on the day after Thanksgiving might be easily-indulged, that I may be able to go for a nice bug-free ride on my birthday in mid-December or even Christmas eve.
It occurred to me I didn’t have to leave Therese in Mom’s garage.
I’d bought insurance for the plane ticket; I’d forfeit a mere $19 to blow off the flight and ride home. The weather was still cloudless and unseasonably warm for a thousand miles in every direction. If I rode my ass off I could depart Mom’s house tomorrow morning on these nice new tires, be at Dad’s Friday night, get in another quick shot of Colorado mountain roads, be home Sunday, back at work Monday morning.
I floated the idea to Larry, but he talked me out of it.
“This is a great way to wrap up a tour”, he said with confidence.
He’s probably right.
* * *
Sister Sue came up to Mom’s and we had a very nice Thai dinner.
As usual none of us remembered to take a picture.
Epilogue
I’ve always loved to fly. Of the things I've done, or failed to do, my only real regret is not having got my pilot's license decades ago.
But for years now I’ve come to increasingly despise the experience of commercial air transportation. I’d rather spend days flying an open-cockpit biplane across the country than two hours in a sardine can hurtling through the stratosphere.
On my flight back to Detroit I discovered another reason to hate airliners: it’s when the guy with the window seat keeps the shade closed for the entire duration of the flight.
Why in the flaming hell would anyone not want to look out the window while flying???
I’ve always loved to fly. Of the things I've done, or failed to do, my only real regret is not having got my pilot's license decades ago.
But for years now I’ve come to increasingly despise the experience of commercial air transportation. I’d rather spend days flying an open-cockpit biplane across the country than two hours in a sardine can hurtling through the stratosphere.
On my flight back to Detroit I discovered another reason to hate airliners: it’s when the guy with the window seat keeps the shade closed for the entire duration of the flight.
Why in the flaming hell would anyone not want to look out the window while flying???
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