Return to Michigan Day 3: Friday July 2, 2021.
I began the day’s ride with the vague notion I’d end it “somewhere in Iowa”.
But I quickly decided it made as much sense as it ever could to do a 1000-mile day. It would be the third I’d ridden on Therese, and I'm not exactly sure how many on other machines, so it wasn’t a worrisome proposition. Less than two weeks past the summer solstice, this would be one of the longest days of the year; given what had proven a decently early start I’d spend relatively little time riding in darkness, despite losing the better part of two time zones on the way. I could cut the effort short any time I desired, popping up my tent or slinging my hammock in what would be a clear balmy night, if it came to that. But the farther I rode across the plains today, the shorter the next day’s ride would be, which was not a bad thing considering Saturday would be the day I’d have to run the Chicago gauntlet.
I despise the Chicago gauntlet, that funnel of east-west highways compressed under the Lake Michigan shoreline, which is nerve wracking and particularly dangerous on a motorcycle in even the best conditions. I’d almost certainly encounter traffic jams if only because of the funnel effect, but it’s also an eternal construction zone which despite continuous activity never actually seems to improve. And this time I’d be doing it on a motorcycle afflicted with a pronounced inability to operate in those specific conditions.
The prospect had been weighing on me since Kayenta.
To avoid the gauntlet, and to perhaps visit friends father north, I’d considered coming into Michigan via the Lake Express ferry from Milwaukee, or even through the upper peninsula. But a deadly heat wave that had been scorching the Pacific Northwest had now expanded into the northern plains; I-80 would be at least ten degrees cooler than a ride through either of the Dakotas, and temperatures for the ride from Denver to eastern Nebraska would be quite pleasant.
A possible option to end-run the gauntlet was to detour well south to remain completely clear of the Chicagoland conurbation; I've done so more than once, sometimes riding a hundred miles or more out of my way. But there's really no good route for this, and believe me I've studied the maps extensively trying to find one. The detour is an annoyance even when I'm in the mood to "shunpike", and would be doubly unpleasant on a machine that would be inclined to balk at every rural crossroad and particularly unhappy with a succession of midwestern towns that either couldn't be easily bypassed, or that I'd end up riding through the middle of due to navigation mistakes.
On top of that, south was where all the rain would be.
So my usual route seemed the least bad choice. Maybe I’d be lucky and skate through the gauntlet with minimal fuss, as I had the last couple times I’d run it.
It turned out I wasn’t lucky at all, but that’s tomorrow’s tale.
*
I got out of Denver via the metro freeway network just before rush hour.
Then it was I-76 to I-80.
Yawn.
My mode was to ride until I needed fuel, with due consideration of the distance to the next pump. Nominally Therese could squeak 200 miles from a tank, if I wanted to cut it close, but on the western plains gas stations are often so far apart I was usually obliged to stop shortly after 160.
At such stops I’d sip water from my hydration pack, use the restroom, clean my visor. I’d had a solid breakfast at the Hampton, so lunch would be the occasional consumption of one of the crumbling Kind bars from my bag of camping vittles. This mode minimized stops and is also my standard approach to utilizing a “mileage disposal device” (the term the late Neil Peart applied to any interstate highway).
The morning air was cool, almost chilly. Heated grips, my favorite fleece pullover, and vents zipped closed was just right. For many miles in I rode under very low clouds through a mist that hadn’t appeared on the radar map back at the Hampton, but I never even considered putting on my rain suit. I knew even if I got soaked to the skin, somewhere on the far side I’d eventually welcome the evaporative cooling.
Traffic was fast.
West of Omaha I came up behind a rider on a BMW R1200GS with a Michigan license plate “IBMWR”, which stands for the Internet BMW Riders club. I’d been somewhat active in the club decades earlier and wondered if this was someone I knew. After leapfrogging each other a few times I eventually fell into formation behind him, where I remained for a few dozen miles until I pulled up in the lane beside him and tapped my gas tank. He fell back and I took the next exit, where he followed me to the Shell station.
I’d never met him before, but we synched up quickly. He’d also started from Littleton that morning and thought he might push all the way to his home in Escanaba. This impressed me, as it meant he was prepared for a ride of over 1200 miles, much of it in the dark. But he was clearly accustomed to such travel and I had no doubt he could do it if he really wanted to. He acknowledged “somewhere in Iowa” was more likely.
He was appreciative of Therese, even envious. He used to ride a K1200S and knew what a comfortable platform it was for long-distance sport touring; despite what looks like an aggressive posture, if you’re the right size the seating position and saddle on these bikes is extremely comfortable for long rides. He was flat unhappy with the GS, purely on the basis of ergonomics and the bike being “too nimble”. I gathered he’d never again choose to ride one on such a tour.
We agreed loosely to ride together and “see what happens”; but not long after getting back on the highway a temporary bunching up of traffic broke our formation and he didn’t try repair it. He gradually fell behind me, then passed me later when I stopped at a rest area to locate a motel with a vacancy on the far side of my 1000-mile mark. I didn’t see him again.
The last half hour I rode in darkness, which I try to avoid in places with a deer population. I changed my riding style so as to use four-wheeled vehicles to run interference.
After a day’s ride of 1,005 miles by my odometer I arrived at the Park Motel in Morris, Illinois.
I began the day’s ride with the vague notion I’d end it “somewhere in Iowa”.
But I quickly decided it made as much sense as it ever could to do a 1000-mile day. It would be the third I’d ridden on Therese, and I'm not exactly sure how many on other machines, so it wasn’t a worrisome proposition. Less than two weeks past the summer solstice, this would be one of the longest days of the year; given what had proven a decently early start I’d spend relatively little time riding in darkness, despite losing the better part of two time zones on the way. I could cut the effort short any time I desired, popping up my tent or slinging my hammock in what would be a clear balmy night, if it came to that. But the farther I rode across the plains today, the shorter the next day’s ride would be, which was not a bad thing considering Saturday would be the day I’d have to run the Chicago gauntlet.
I despise the Chicago gauntlet, that funnel of east-west highways compressed under the Lake Michigan shoreline, which is nerve wracking and particularly dangerous on a motorcycle in even the best conditions. I’d almost certainly encounter traffic jams if only because of the funnel effect, but it’s also an eternal construction zone which despite continuous activity never actually seems to improve. And this time I’d be doing it on a motorcycle afflicted with a pronounced inability to operate in those specific conditions.
The prospect had been weighing on me since Kayenta.
To avoid the gauntlet, and to perhaps visit friends father north, I’d considered coming into Michigan via the Lake Express ferry from Milwaukee, or even through the upper peninsula. But a deadly heat wave that had been scorching the Pacific Northwest had now expanded into the northern plains; I-80 would be at least ten degrees cooler than a ride through either of the Dakotas, and temperatures for the ride from Denver to eastern Nebraska would be quite pleasant.
A possible option to end-run the gauntlet was to detour well south to remain completely clear of the Chicagoland conurbation; I've done so more than once, sometimes riding a hundred miles or more out of my way. But there's really no good route for this, and believe me I've studied the maps extensively trying to find one. The detour is an annoyance even when I'm in the mood to "shunpike", and would be doubly unpleasant on a machine that would be inclined to balk at every rural crossroad and particularly unhappy with a succession of midwestern towns that either couldn't be easily bypassed, or that I'd end up riding through the middle of due to navigation mistakes.
On top of that, south was where all the rain would be.
So my usual route seemed the least bad choice. Maybe I’d be lucky and skate through the gauntlet with minimal fuss, as I had the last couple times I’d run it.
It turned out I wasn’t lucky at all, but that’s tomorrow’s tale.
*
I got out of Denver via the metro freeway network just before rush hour.
Then it was I-76 to I-80.
Yawn.
My mode was to ride until I needed fuel, with due consideration of the distance to the next pump. Nominally Therese could squeak 200 miles from a tank, if I wanted to cut it close, but on the western plains gas stations are often so far apart I was usually obliged to stop shortly after 160.
At such stops I’d sip water from my hydration pack, use the restroom, clean my visor. I’d had a solid breakfast at the Hampton, so lunch would be the occasional consumption of one of the crumbling Kind bars from my bag of camping vittles. This mode minimized stops and is also my standard approach to utilizing a “mileage disposal device” (the term the late Neil Peart applied to any interstate highway).
The morning air was cool, almost chilly. Heated grips, my favorite fleece pullover, and vents zipped closed was just right. For many miles in I rode under very low clouds through a mist that hadn’t appeared on the radar map back at the Hampton, but I never even considered putting on my rain suit. I knew even if I got soaked to the skin, somewhere on the far side I’d eventually welcome the evaporative cooling.
Traffic was fast.
West of Omaha I came up behind a rider on a BMW R1200GS with a Michigan license plate “IBMWR”, which stands for the Internet BMW Riders club. I’d been somewhat active in the club decades earlier and wondered if this was someone I knew. After leapfrogging each other a few times I eventually fell into formation behind him, where I remained for a few dozen miles until I pulled up in the lane beside him and tapped my gas tank. He fell back and I took the next exit, where he followed me to the Shell station.
I’d never met him before, but we synched up quickly. He’d also started from Littleton that morning and thought he might push all the way to his home in Escanaba. This impressed me, as it meant he was prepared for a ride of over 1200 miles, much of it in the dark. But he was clearly accustomed to such travel and I had no doubt he could do it if he really wanted to. He acknowledged “somewhere in Iowa” was more likely.
He was appreciative of Therese, even envious. He used to ride a K1200S and knew what a comfortable platform it was for long-distance sport touring; despite what looks like an aggressive posture, if you’re the right size the seating position and saddle on these bikes is extremely comfortable for long rides. He was flat unhappy with the GS, purely on the basis of ergonomics and the bike being “too nimble”. I gathered he’d never again choose to ride one on such a tour.
We agreed loosely to ride together and “see what happens”; but not long after getting back on the highway a temporary bunching up of traffic broke our formation and he didn’t try repair it. He gradually fell behind me, then passed me later when I stopped at a rest area to locate a motel with a vacancy on the far side of my 1000-mile mark. I didn’t see him again.
The last half hour I rode in darkness, which I try to avoid in places with a deer population. I changed my riding style so as to use four-wheeled vehicles to run interference.
After a day’s ride of 1,005 miles by my odometer I arrived at the Park Motel in Morris, Illinois.
I paid $50 cash for a brass house key on a classic rhombus-shaped plastic fob, then ignored the room and went in search of a celebratory feast.
The town was rolling up the sidewalks. I didn’t even bother to look for a Thai joint or a sign with the word “brewery”. The McDonalds drive-thru was a line all the way around the building, Taco Bell was the same, and the next drive was a BP station so I pulled in, topped up the gas tank, and got inside barely before the convenience store closed. I gathered a collection of “food” that wasn’t entirely junk – I felt good about the bottle of V8 juice – sold to me by a gal dressed like Rosie the Riveter. She called me “sweetie” with every sentence until I protested that she’d also called another customer “sweetie”, after which I was “darlin”.
The plastic bag of “food” tucked into my jacket, I coaxed Therese back across the street. When I opened the door to Room 11 at the Park, I just had to laugh.
Naturita Lodge was positively swanky by comparison.
I wondered how many people I knew who would be willing to stay in such a place.
Not Laurel, that was certain.
But the Park did meet at least one of Larry’s criteria…
The town was rolling up the sidewalks. I didn’t even bother to look for a Thai joint or a sign with the word “brewery”. The McDonalds drive-thru was a line all the way around the building, Taco Bell was the same, and the next drive was a BP station so I pulled in, topped up the gas tank, and got inside barely before the convenience store closed. I gathered a collection of “food” that wasn’t entirely junk – I felt good about the bottle of V8 juice – sold to me by a gal dressed like Rosie the Riveter. She called me “sweetie” with every sentence until I protested that she’d also called another customer “sweetie”, after which I was “darlin”.
The plastic bag of “food” tucked into my jacket, I coaxed Therese back across the street. When I opened the door to Room 11 at the Park, I just had to laugh.
Naturita Lodge was positively swanky by comparison.
I wondered how many people I knew who would be willing to stay in such a place.
Not Laurel, that was certain.
But the Park did meet at least one of Larry’s criteria…
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