Today’s new line on the map was AZ-101, a beltway around the east and north perimeter of the valley that didn’t exist when I lived there. Larry and Jana had carefully prepared me with the expectation of rush hour hell, but it was a cool smooth exit, especially given that motorcycles are always qualified for the HOV lane.
Not only was traffic flowing well, but the three of us were connected via a Bluetooth intercom system, which made it an order of magnitude easier than it’s ever been to maneuver a train of high-speed motorcycles around cell-phone impaired Maserati drivers.
I’ve long viewed motorcycle intercoms with the same kind of Luddite perspective as I have GPS navigation. I bought a Sena 10S unit prior to this trip only because I knew Larry and Jana were already using them, and they might consider me a PITA to have along if I wasn’t able to join in.
But I was pleased to discover radio communication enriched the experience in wholly unexpected ways. Most consistently useful is a definitive, “Here we go!” from the lead bike rather than a guessing game of if/when s/he’s planning to swing out and pass that Winnebago.
More important is the ability for everyone to quickly learn what’s going on when something unexpected happens, or to be alerted to hazards ahead.
Icing on the cake is that we’re old friends and riding buddies who’ve ridden thousands of miles together but have never been able to discuss it in real time. Since we all consider each other remarkably charming and witty conversationalists, this has been a regrettable aspect of our chosen sport.
Not only was traffic flowing well, but the three of us were connected via a Bluetooth intercom system, which made it an order of magnitude easier than it’s ever been to maneuver a train of high-speed motorcycles around cell-phone impaired Maserati drivers.
I’ve long viewed motorcycle intercoms with the same kind of Luddite perspective as I have GPS navigation. I bought a Sena 10S unit prior to this trip only because I knew Larry and Jana were already using them, and they might consider me a PITA to have along if I wasn’t able to join in.
But I was pleased to discover radio communication enriched the experience in wholly unexpected ways. Most consistently useful is a definitive, “Here we go!” from the lead bike rather than a guessing game of if/when s/he’s planning to swing out and pass that Winnebago.
More important is the ability for everyone to quickly learn what’s going on when something unexpected happens, or to be alerted to hazards ahead.
Icing on the cake is that we’re old friends and riding buddies who’ve ridden thousands of miles together but have never been able to discuss it in real time. Since we all consider each other remarkably charming and witty conversationalists, this has been a regrettable aspect of our chosen sport.
We had breakfast at Spurs Café in Wickenburg (I was pleased to see a toddler behind the counter, always a good sign), then continued northwest to Wikieup – yes there really is such a place, it’s not far up the road from Nothing, Arizona. The sky remained blue with high, thin, interesting clouds while the temperature gradually rose. The landscape became increasingly barren and hostile, but certainly replete with dramatic desert vistas as we climbed one ridge after another while winding our way along historic Route 66.
We stopped at the classic stone edifice at Cool Springs, and a bit later in Oatman where burros roam the main street, blocking traffic and accosting tourists for snacks. We made certain to get out of town before the scheduled 2:15 shoot-em-up started.
We stopped at the classic stone edifice at Cool Springs, and a bit later in Oatman where burros roam the main street, blocking traffic and accosting tourists for snacks. We made certain to get out of town before the scheduled 2:15 shoot-em-up started.
The final leg of the day’s ride dropped us down to the Colorado river, a riparian oasis in the middle of what I can only describe as a “sun-scorched hellscape”.
In fact, I considered calling this post Sun-Scorched Hellscape Dispatch, but Larry figured that title might be better reserved for tomorrow’s ride.
The ride across…Death Valley.
The ride across…Death Valley.
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