Day 8: Cleveland to Ithaca

370 miles.

There is some sense of letdown that Ithaca, New York is the final destination. I should've stopped at Niagara Falls.

Dad was waiting for me at my apartment in Ithaca. For the last 100 miles, I stayed upright by thinking of the big moment when I finally finish this ride, Dad there to greet me. When I pulled up the apartment, I saw his car in the parking spot. I parked the bike and walked in. "Hello?" I said.

Dad was asleep on the couch. Some moments are better left to the imagination.

Day 7: Davenport IA to Cleveland OH

499 miles.

Couldn't quite make it to 500.

But, Cleveland rocks.

Day 6: Grand Island, NE --> Davenport, IA

Miles today: 466
Total miles: 2409
Route: I-80 East

Half of Nebraska and all of Iowa.

Last night, some severe thunderstorms moved through the area where I was staying. Given that this is late August on the Plains, I expected to hit a few patches of rough weather on my ride. In fact, I devoted much of my thinking while on the bike to worrying about what I would do if got caught in a tornado. 15 minutes till Judge Wapner. So, rather than continue my tour of semi-interesting 2-lane roads, I decided to get on Interstate 80. In truth, after the serenity, solitude, and god-awful loneliness of western Nebraska, I think I was just looking for company, and I was desparate enough to welcome the company of RV's and big-rigs on the interstate.

I-80 is familiar territory for me, as my family took it from New York to Colorado and back pretty much every summer growing up. 3 kids in the back seat, no AC, and grumpy parents up front, stuck together for 3 or 4 days. Riding a motorcycle at 75 MPH is remarkably similar to riding in a car at 75 MPH, if you're the little kid stuck in the middle backseat and every window is rolled down all the way. Bugs hit you in both situations; by the end of the day, you have trouble walking, and you're a little deaf.

Not much of consequence happened today. The interstate, (or "superslab," as bikers call it), presents a heretofore unseen set challenges. People just don't see you, for one (they don't see you on 2 lane roads, either, but the physics are different on the interstate). Second, you're constantly fighting to stay out of the way of trucks. Following a truck is not advisable, because not only is the air choppy, but a trailer tire could blow at any moment, with unpleasant results for the motorcycle rider if it happens right in front of you. And, oh yeah, it's a good assumption that truckers really won't see you, even if you can see their mirrors. And, the interstate is really, really, loud. And on this particular day, really, really windy. I've talked about the effects of wind before; nothing's changed since then. Note Old Glory's stiffness:

By the afternoon, each stop gave me a mini-crisis-of-confidence. On the bike, in traffic, I felt pretty much in control of the situation-stay out of the way of trucks and cars, keep a good following distance, look ahead, anticipate, etc.; stopped, at a rest area, watching the traffic go by, how could I possibly feel calm in the middle of that? This was not the irrational anxiety one might feel, say, in anticipation of an awkward social or academic setting, where the buildup is always worse than the actual experience. In those situations, I'm told, letting go of irrationality can actually make the experience pleasurable. In the present situation, the very absence of fear would be irrational, which was probably the scariest thought.

I resolved to keep going thusly: I'm in the middle of Iowa; if I don't keep heading east, I'll still be stuck in the middle of Iowa, it'll probably rain on me if I stay here, and my head hurts. I'm not going to crash, or get run over, or die, because I can't. I just can't.

Rational, no?

And, perhaps most importantly, the Holiday Inn in Davenport has a Holidome. When I was 6, staying at a motel that had a pool and video games was the best part of the trip. I could beat my older brothers at the video games, and they would try to drown me in the pool, and one of us would end up sleeping on the floor. That would be me. But not tonight; tonight, my stuff would get one bed, and I would get the other:

When I pulled into the Holiday Inn front parking lot (which I found without any trouble-it was not a conscious choice to exit the interstate when I did, nor to follow the road past 4 other motels, but somehow I knew how to get to the Holidome), I took off my jacket and rested it on my seat. Sweat poured out of the sleeves, forming two pools on the ground.

This made me laugh. Only 2 more days to go.

Day 5: Windsor, CO --> Grand Island, NE

Day 5

By the Numbers:

• Total miles today: 422
• Total miles for trip: 1943
  
• Time on the bike: 8 AM mountain time
• Time off the bike: 6:30 PM central time
• # of conversations about the bike: 2

Route: CO Rt. 14 East to US 6 East. US 6 to US 281 North to Rte. 34 East. No interstates today.

My uncle told me that once I left Windsor, I'd immediately regret the decision, because what's left for me to ride through is a vast nothingness. He was half right. I didn't regret it, much, but Eastern Colorado and Nebraska are truly empty places. And when the road is flat and straight, there is less to occupy your mind, which leaves room, even in a brain the size of mine, for lots of thoughts.

As it was, I mostly thought about how hot it was, and how I was probably doing my body lasting damage. I haven't mentioned it yet, but Advil is a wonder drug. I credit it with getting me through today. That, and the steely determination that's just inherent in my nature.

It's 100 miles along Route 14 from Windsor to Sterling. In the middle is the Pawnee National Grassland. Here's someone who spent more time here than me. One of the first white men to explore this west, Major Stephen Long, described the area of Colorado thusly: "never be fit for human habitation other than the nomad races." Truly. I mostly experienced it at 75 MPH.

At Sterling, I stopped at a McDonald's to stretch my legs. On one side of the restaurant, 6 or 7 grizzled, gray-haired old men dressed in overalls and John Deere hats sat, not quietly, over their coffee. On the other side, a dozen women of the same vintage acted out the same scenario. I sat in the middle, thinking, really, I don't think I'll come back here, if I can help it.

Eastern Colorado

I caught old US 6 east of Sterling. US 6 "runs uncertainly from nowhere to nowhere, scarcely to be followed from one end to the other, except by some devoted eccentric." Hmm. It starts, or ends, depending on your point of view, in Bishop, CA, a place where certain members of my family have done things crazier than riding a motorcycle 3000 miles, alone. Then again, said family members actually are crazy, whether a doctor has told them so or not. But we love them anyway. Seems to run in the family-the main reason my uncle wanted me to stay an extra day in Windsor, I think, was so he would have an excuse to go on a gonzo hike with me (and justify it to my aunt). As we discussed the possibility of this, my uncle and I chuckled over the impulse the other male members of my family share to do crazy things, often on our own. My middle brother has set the standard for this: a bicycle trip from Mexico to Ohio (with a hand broken on the first day); ascents of Mt. Hood (fell off the mountain, survived); driving to Belize in a Datsun 510 (as an 18 year old college student, got robbed); bouldering in Wyoming (lost his nerve, got stuck [ok, he was only 10, but still...]); an absolute killer solo 100 mile bike ride, in the Rockies, with over 19,000 feet of climbing (got home before dinner); and, to me, the kicker: 2 summers spent counting wild sunflowers, by himself, in Western Colorado and Nebraska (for his doctoral thesis). My oldest brother is now showing signs of emulating the middle one, and my father, in his newly-retired state, is adopting the "can't beat 'em, join 'em" attitude, much to Mom's dismay. So maybe this whole trip is me saying, screw it, I can do crazy stuff too, even if I am the most well-adjusted of the bunch (classic little-bro dynamic). I suspect the real reason I encountered any resistance at all to this trip from my family is they all want me to support them, financially, as they grow old, and, even if they will get my couch if I eat it, money from your little brother when you're 50 and unemployed is pretty cool.

Anyway...I'll leave the psychoanalysis to the professionals.

US 6's eastern terminus is in Provincetown, MA, 3,227 miles from Bishop. Like Route 66, or Route 40, US 6 has its share of devotees who celebrate its charm by walking it, bicycling it, driving it, photographing it, or writing about it. And then there are those who ride their motorcycle along it, and are conceited enough to write a blog about it. Some people.

US 6 runs into Nebraska along Frenchman Creek, which means there are trees, which are rare in these parts. It is common, however, to refer to this area, while in this area, as "these parts." Bugs are also common in these parts. Again, I marveled at the Harley riders, who generally ride with as little protection as legally allowed. Some of these bugs were large enough to cause pain through my jacket, and one hit my knee with all the force of a hammer strike. It may have been a small bird, I don't know. Harley riders just grin and bear it. Why? I don't know. Part of the mystique of riding on technology that's 40 years old is eating bugs, I guess.

I managed to make it to 260 miles before lunch, which was the highlight of the day. Somewhere between McCook, NE, and Holdrege, NE, is an award-winning barbecue joint called "Four Legs Up Barbecue." It's truly a joint, in that I think the building used to be a gas station and I only noticed it when I doubled back through town. Anyway, kind of a boring story, but the brisket there is definitely better than most. And their barbecue sauce is award-winning. That, and the fact that the family that runs the place was extremely friendly (they gave me free cookies), gets them a plug in my blog. So, if you're ever on US 6 in western Nebraska, check them out.

Talk about empty plugs.

The afternoon temperature hit 92 that day. At speed, this is not too much of a problem. A 90 degree wind blowing 75 mph is still 90 degrees, but at least it's a 75 mph wind. It's only a problem when you slow down, as I did in Hastings, NE, and later in Grand Island. It's also still a 75 mph wind when a pickup passes you in a no-passing zone, crosses back over the double yellow line right in front of you, and runs over some dessicated animal, kicking up a piece of the animal, which somehow finds its way under your faceshield and slaps you in the mouth. Ahh, Nebraska.

The history lesson for the day has to do with POW internment camps. In the US, we do that well. During WWII, in 1943, the government set up a POW camp in Nebraska for 3,000 German POW's captured in North Africa and Italy. The POW's were put to work as farm workers until 1946, when most were sent home. Farm workers, how quaint. Ain't this America? Where's the torture? Where's the sexual humiliation?

Anyway, that chimney in the distance is all that's left of the POW camp.

My original plan was to stay in Hastings, as it looked like a big town on the map, and staying there would allow me to continue on US 6 the rest of the way across Nebraska and beyond. However, I guess when I-80 got put in 30 miles to the north, Hastings lost all of its hotels/motels, and is now a gritty, run-down place with very little to recommend it, save for cheap gas and a payphone. So, at the end of a very long day, I was forced to ride 25 miles north to Grand Island, a motel town on I-80.

At the hotel, as I was unpacking my bike, I talked with the manager of the hotel, who was having a cigarette next to his behemoth of a Harley. He was skeptical of my intent to make it to NY, given what I was riding. The way my body, and mind, felt today, I'm a bit skeptical too.

Tonight, during dinner, I got the call saying I got the job. Sweet. Maybe law school won't be so painful now. Who am I kidding.

Day 4: Lander WY --> Windsor, CO

Day 4

By the Numbers:

• Total miles traveled today: 321
• Total miles for trip: 1521
• Time on the bike: 7:15 AM
  
• Time off the bike: 2:30 PM
• # of conversations about the bike: 1
• # of times I flirted, unintentionally, with a tractor trailer's tractor: 3
  

Route: US 287 South to Rawlins, I-80 East to Laramie, back on 287 South to Fort Collins, CO area, Route 14 East to Windsor.

Today was to be a sort of rest day. It was, in the sense that I didn't ride 500 miles. It wasn't, in the sense that the areas of Wyoming and Colorado I rode through are hazardously windy. Idaho has nothing on the Wind River and Southeastern portions of Wyoming, another place to consider returning to. The morning dawned a little overcast, and the weather report talked of afternoon thunderstorms. I was headed to Windsor, CO, a small town outside of Fort Collins, which is apparently a nice place to live. US 287 was fine at first: empty save for a few trucks, wide open, rolling prairie. You can see for miles, and not see a thing that resembles civilization, save for plentiful snow fences bordering the road, though everyone knows free-range is better for the snow. For a long stretch, 287 actually parallels where the Oregon Trail went, so you just know crazy things happened here.

Sweetwater Station, near Ice Slough

I stopped at two places along the Trail. The first was Sweetwater Station, which is near a milepost on the trail called Ice Slough, where even during the hot summer months, Oregon Trail emigrants could dig down 18 inches and find ice. I wonder how they discovered this. During the winter, Ice Slough was known as Just Another Ass-Cold Place. Nowadays, it's just the undisclosed location where Dick Cheney's heart is kept, guarded by an ultra-secret Delta Force team. They let it out at night, when it drinks the blood of jackrabbit bunnies and baby coyotes ("nature's al-qaeda," it snarls, bearing more than a passing resemblence to a ling cod on a line).

Really, that's where his heart is kept. He's a Wyoming native, after all. You just won't find his name here. Not that that's really a problem, except when it is. And when your hands are all over groups like this, it's actually kind of offensive.

("Dude, I thought this blog was supposed to be funny.")

I thought about Dick Cheney, the bionic man, all the way to Split Rock, my second stop along the Trail.

Split Rock

Split Rock was a landmark along the Trail that emigrants could see for days in either direction, and was a good place to camp. But, to quote the informational sign, "Mormon emigrants tried to camp on the opposite side of the river from the main trail to avoid confrontations with others also heading West." I realize that one can only put so many words on a sign, but...a little more information, please?

Split Rock was also a stop for the Pony Express, which, for $5, could get a letter "across the west" in 10 days. In today's money, that's about $4.3 million. Buffalo Bill Cody once rode 322 miles in 21 hours and 40 minutes, using 21 horses. I, or more specifically my ass, has a newfound appreciation for this feat.

Outside of Rawlins, WY, the winds kicked up as the sky darkened alarmingly. I was starting to feel the effects of 3 days on the road, mood-wise, and the wind and impending rain encouraged me to find a place to stop, eat, and relax. If only such a place existed in Rawlins. Finding none (seriously, I drove back and forth across the town...apparently people live there, but they don't eat), I filled up my gas tank, gritted my teeth, and got on I-80 East. While the rain held off, the winds were so strong, I often found myself leaning the bike right, while turning left. This is not the MSF-approved way to ride. In fact, this is an exhausting and stressful way to ride. I didn't realize till I stopped at a rest area that these winds are in fact celebrated in Wyoming:

Wyoming is Windy. Yay!

At this rest area, I had a lengthy conversation about my trip with an earnest young man, who, along with his girlfriend and what appeared to be her mother, were moving to Utah from Alabama. I didn't ask what side of the river they camped on, but I've got a guess. He claimed to have a Honda Nighthawk in the back of his Uhaul...which meant, obviously, as we talked, he was considering ditching his woman and future mother-in-law, and heading back east.

Somewhat wistfully, I think, he got back in his Uhaul.

There was also a tipi ring at this rest area. Tipi rings are the most common artifact found in the West. Here's a picture, kind of. This could also be a picture of the ground.

Anyway, the rain held off, and I made it to Laramie, a university cowboy town. Would've loved to stay a little while here, as it seemed like a cool, laid-back place, but I had relatives waiting for me in Windsor, CO, and one thing I've learned about riding a motorcycle: don't keep your relatives waiting, because they've already divvied up your stuff amongst themselves, and they're just waiting for the green light from the hospital to proceed with the liquidation. "Sure, I'm sad, but you gotta admit, he had a really nice couch." So onto Colorado...

Route 287 from Laramie to Fort Collins is another of those fast and interesting roads that is ideal for motorcycling. Cars probably hate the motorcycles on this road, as I'm sure that there are too many college kids feeling a need for speed. Ever the diplomat, I kept it under 80. Again, I'm kicking myself for not taking more pictures, because the scenery is fairly awesome in this part of the world.

The last 20 miles of the day took me completely out of the mountains and into the high plains of eastern Colorado. And with that, say goodbye to interesting scenery and interesting roads. Hello, Nebraska! Do I really want to ride the rest of the way?

Day 3: Pocatello, ID --> Lander, WY

Day 3

By the Numbers:

• Total miles traveled today: 325
• Total miles for trip: 1200
  
• Time on the bike: 7 AM
• Time off the bike: 5:30 PM
• # of stops: too numerous to count
• # of conversations about the bike: at least 4
• # of naps: 1
• Pain Points: Neck, forehead, knees, ankles, wrists. Butt.
  
• Pleasure points: Soul.
• Route: I-15 to Idaho Falls; Route 26 East; Route 31 East; Route 22 over Teton Pass to Jackson; Route 191 North into Grand Teton Natl. Park; Route 26/267 East to Route 131 to Lander, WY.
  

Day 3. The best day of the trip so far. Nothing but two lane, twisty mountain roads, a national park, and cool little towns. My plans had changed the evening before. Rather than heading up through Yellowstone National Park into Montana, I would head East by Southeast to Northern Colorado to visit my aunt and uncle. Three days alone with my thoughts is enough, even though I had really wanted to see parts of Montana again, as well as experience Yellowstone for the first time. In retrospect, I probably made the right decision, but it would have been nice to at least see the Custer Battlefield again. It's a tidy encapsulation of the history of the American West that can't help but move the visitor, like many such monuments in the west. Maybe not everyone, I guess.

Anyway, I got up very early, watched the sun rise as I packed my bike (I'm an excellent driver), and headed out in 45 degree weather. On a motorcycle, going 70 miles an hour, this feels a lot cooler...fortunately, the previous owner of the bike had installed heated grips. I'm just a country boy, but I'd recommend heated grips to anybody who likes a little comfort for their ride.

Idaho became very beautiful as soon as I hit Route 26 East. Dry-land farming here yields wheat, which was just being cut as I rode through.

This is a place I need to come back to, I thought. Crosswinds and trucks made concentrating on the road of paramount importance, but I still managed to take in the amazing scenery. The air is remarkably clear, and the greens, yellows, and blues just seemed deeper. Of course, much of the previous day had been spent in the browns and grays of Nevada, so...

Somewhat reluctantly, in Swan Valley, ID, I decided to move away from Route 26 and took Route 31 through the Bridger-Teton National Forest and over Teton Pass (via Route 22) into Jackson, Wyoming. This route was a little twistier, a little steeper, and much more fun than any road thus far. Freshly paved, at the base of the pass were warning signs for truckers that the grade was 10%. On the western side, the side I was ascending, it didn't seem too steep, however (90 horses on the rear wheel+50 lb/ft of torque may have something to do with that). Teton Pass is not that high (~8400 feet), but when I pulled over at the summit, my bike died in 1st gear. Carburetors will do that sometimes. Not that I'm a worrier, but considering I'd be spending much of the day at altitude, this gave me pause. More pressing was the downhill, with its 10% grade and signs announcing the presence of "Fresh Oil".

Teton Pass. Jackson, WY is in the distance.

But, I got the bike started again, and made it down to Jackson (not before being passed by a minivan with no brakes). Jackson is the home of Jackson Hole Ski Resort, a cold, cold place where lots of snow falls. It also has a bustling and touristy downtown. After the isolation of Nevada, it felt good to be around people, even tourists like me, though no one was too friendly.

The National Elk Refuge is just east of town, and you ride next to it for a mile or two before being smacked with one of the great views of the West, Grand Teton National Park.

For the next 20 miles, the mountains dominate the landscape. Since much has already been written on these peaks, let me just say that it appeals to my inner Beavis that French fur trappers dubbed them "Les Trois Tetons," meaning "the three tits." Must've been a long time in the wilderness for them. Just go see it, and judge for yourself. They are strangely seductive. Once in the Park, I saw two coyotes, who (which? that?) were sporting a brownish summer coat. Apparently, lots of wildlife exist within the park, in places me and my bike couldn't reach. I also took a short side trip to Jenny Lake, one of three lakes within the park:

I probably spent a good two hours tooling around the park, then had lunch at a lodge in the north end. Gassing up, I exited the park via Route 26/287, which again presented a great riding opportunity. I didn't know it at the time, but this road is listed as a Top Motorcycling Road, as is pretty much today's entire route. It sure felt good.

55 miles outside of the park is Dubois, WY, a small town with numerous billboards proclaiming the existence of the World's Biggest Jackalope, and one interesting sign that simply read "Trial Lawyers College." Not interested in fake fauna, and thinking that "Trial Lawyers College" was short for "We Shoot Lawyers," I found a little park and took a nap on a park bench (of course, now I realize that I was wrong about the college). I awoke 20 minutes later to the wind whistling through the aspens, and the sing-song voices of little girls having a birthday party. The only thing missing was the sound of wind chimes, and I could've been in a bad horror movie. Not spooked at all, I hopped back on the bike, and continued to Lander, WY, reaching it about 5:30. Just a phenomenal day of riding, with great roads, great weather, and great sights.

Lander is a cool little town, very Wyoming. On one side of the street is the gun store with an NRA neon sign in the window; on the other, the district headquarters for the Nature Conservancy. At dinner, the salad choices were "mixed organic baby greens with a light vinaigrette," or "iceberg lettuce with ranch." I wonder who chooses which. No, actually, I don't.

Some pictures of Lander:

Day 2: Winnemucca, NV --> Pocatello, Idaho

By the Numbers:

• Total miles: 420
• Total miles for trip: 875
• Time on bike: 8 AM
• Time off bike: 5:30 PM
• Stops: about 8
• Conversations about bike: 3

Route: I-80 East to Wells, NV. North on US 93 to Twin Falls, ID. East on I-84/86 to Pocatello.

Started out today feeling a bit nervous about the aforementioned ooze, as well as a big dose of uncertainty about what I was doing and where I was going. That said, however, I was happy to be on the bike. Took awhile to check out of the Motel 6; despite the fact that Marge's nametag said she had been working there since 1981, turning in my key turned into a 10 minute ordeal. In the parking lot, an old couple walking past started talking to me as I put my gear on, asking me where I was from, where I was going, etc. Actually, it was just the husband doing the talking, a pattern that would hold throughout the trip. When I said I was headed to NY, he said, "Why the hell do you want to leave California?" Amen, brother. But not everyone shares our view.

I-80 was a lot cooler in the morning, and a lot less crowded. The first 20 minutes were pure exhilaration. My idea was to make Wells, then have a late breakfast. It was only 170 miles from Winnemucca, no big deal. Unfortunately, body part after body part resumed aching in ways old and new. How is it that my big toe hurts? I tried keeping my elbows bent and wrists loose, but that meant tensing up my lower body. Try keeping your legs tense for an hour. To relieve the strain on my legs, I could tense my upper body, but you see the problem. Total relaxation on the bike is not achievable. But by far the sharpest pain was in my forehead, where the force of the wind, combined with a fairly big head and an apparently slightly undersized helmet, resulted in a 1 inch X 2 inch pressure point that could only be relieved by removing the helmet. I recognize the pain, though...where have I felt it before? Here? Or maybe here? No, no, it's definitely more familiar than that.

These colors don't run...from bugs

I flirted with the idea of stopping off in Battle Mountain, which had proudly advertised on several billboards as being "The Armpit of America." Apparently, when the Washington Post bestowed this title upon Battle Mountain, residents saw opportunity. I just saw an armpit, so I pressed on to Elko...which turned into a relative paradise, as there was a Starbuck's in a casino, and further, the Starbuck's had internet access.

Forehead better, I said goodbye to I-80 (not really...it's just a road, after all) and got onto US 93, a fast, straight, and well-paved two-lane road. Turns out, however, that this road isn't all that pretty for a lot of motorists: last year, the stretch of US 93 from the Nevada border to Twin Falls had among the most fatalities of any road in the region. Of course, as the newspaper I read at lunch pointed out, the high fatality rate could be linked to the fact that people in this area generally don't like to wear their seatbelts.

US 93, a most dangerous place.

Still, this news gave me pause (motorcycles don't have seatbelts either), and decided that I should take the relatively safer Interstate 84/86 east as far as it would take me that day. This meant staying on US 93 for a few more miles, as it crossed over the Snake River and one of the more infamous gorges in motorcycle history. Apparently, the ramp is still there, somewhere.

Twin Falls is gorges.

The stretch run of about 110 miles from Twin Falls to Pocatello was fairly uneventful. Too tired to be interested in much besides making it to the hotel, I have no pictures or interesting memories from this afternoon. I can say, however, that Idaho, for all of its gentle quirkiness or just plain dumb thinking, is a pretty state. I am not surprised at all that it is something of a resort destination for the people with real money.

I stayed at the Ramada Inn.

Day 1: Palo Alto, CA --> Winnemucca, NV

By the Numbers:

• Total miles: 455
• Time on bike: 8:30 AM
• Time off bike: 6:30 PM
• # of kids who wanted me to wave: 2 minivans full
• # of people talked to about the bike: 2
• # of mechanical issues: 2
• # of stops: 6 (3 gas)
• Length of time spent thinking about Mia Farrow: at least 2 hours
• # of tanning salons in Fallon, NV: at least 1

Route: 84 East over Dumbarton Bridge; 880 North to 580 East; I-5 North (because my middle name is Danger) to US 50 East. US 50 East through South Lake Tahoe, caught I-80 via US 95 North in Fallon, NV. I-80 East to Winnemucca. Motel 6'ed it, with about a dozen Harleys.

Not every day can you say your destination is Winnemucca, Nevada. Thank goodness. But I get ahead of myself. Today was to be the perfect day. For the next 8-10 days, all I have to do is ride, eat, and sleep, just not concurrently. I should have been able to get on the road quickly this morning, but I wasn't packed, and it took some time to get the bike together. That accomplished, my incipient OCD kicked in, and just getting out of the apartment's parking lot turned into a chore. 82, 82, 82 toothpicks. But I made it out.

Next up, dueling with cars and big rigs on 880 and I-5. Not too bad, actually, given that it was a Saturday and there was no commute. Problems arose after about an hour, though, when I stopped at a McDonald's in Richard Pombo's big backyard.

Central Valley, CA: Nature's Playground.

I would've thought Rep. Pombo, with his cowboy hat and shit-kickers, supported my idea to utilize the dwindling fossil fuel reserves to spirit myself across the country, but apparently he figured out I think he's an asshole and sought to sabotage my plans. First problem was a strap that held my saddlebags down snapped, apparently due to the rear wheel bouncing up and grinding away at it. I retied it, but noticed a second, somewhat more alarming, problem: an apparent oil leak. The black ooze just below the blue brakeline marks the spot where it oozed out of the crankcase and onto the shift lever and interior bodywork.

Ooze

Now, VFR's, and this VFR in particular, are known to be extremely solid machines. Further, the previous owner of this bike is a co-owner of Honda/Suzuki of San Mateo, who staked his reputation on this bike. He did say those exact words, actually, but I knew nothing of his reputation prior to the statement, a fact that was not lost on me as I looked at the ooze. Third, I had the bike checked out by another dealer before the ride, and it had a clean bill of health. Indeed, when I checked the oil level, it was fine (in fact, the oil was practically clear, having been changed less than 400 miles before), which led me to believe that the high speeds of the highway had put pressure on the seals, causing them to leak a bit, then reseat, and that all in all, this was harmless. I came to this conclusion about 8 days later, actually, so...I may have lost a little sleep over it. 82, 82, 82 toothpicks.

Highway 50 offered some real twisty riding, finally. East of Sacramento (50 may not exist west of Sacremento), it's a mix of two and four-lane, mostly in the mountains. Kind of a "mountain-lite" road, actually, as rarely are speeds of less than 50 mph called for, and only on the last descent into South Lake Tahoe are you really in danger of flying off the mountain.

US 50

The mountain air was a little cooler than the Central Valley sun, and I welcomed the shade of the trees. At this point, I did notice that I felt some pain in my neck, wrists, knees, feet, and most of all, forehead, but nothing could deter me from the pursuit of the perfect day. So I pressed on to South Lake Tahoe, home of Heavenly Ski Area and casinos that are second-rate when compared to Reno's, which are second-rate when compared to Vegas, but which are high-class when placed next to any casino in any central Nevada town. And I thought for New Year's I was going to be less judgmental. It's August, dammit. South Lake Tahoe turned into a fantastic traffic jam, and it took about 45 minutes to make it through, creeping through retirees, campers, and jackasses in mustang convertible rentals who responded to my horn with friendly waves. Jerk. The ambient air temp was about 87 degrees, the temperature on the pavement was about 110, and the temperature inside my jacket was about 345. Sweat drained off of me, and by the force of gravity, (which, incidentally, works so well, it can only be explained as part of His plan), pooled in the heels of my boots. The last time sweat pooled in my boots, I was 19 years old and painting an apartment above Mia Farrow's boutique clothing store in the Northwest Corner of Connecticut. It was an extremely hot and muggy August day, and there was zero ventilation in that apartment. When I came down at the end of the day, I ran into Mia.

Me: Hi, I'm Bill, I'm painting that loft upstairs.
Mia: Hi, I'm Mia. Don't marry your daughter.
Me: I don't have any daugthers.
Mia: You can always adopt.
Me: Ok.
Mia: Just don't marry her.
Me: Ok. Uh, are you paying me in cash or by check?*

*(Ok, the conversation may not really have gone like that.)

So, I took US 50 toward Carson City, then east for a bit to Fallon, NV. Gassing up before turning north to catch up with I-80, I heard a small voice saying "Hey Mr. motorcycle man." I had the distinct impression that the little girl in the backseat of the beat-up Oldsmobile at the pump next to me had repeated this phrase several times before it registered she was talking to me. Anyway, she wanted to know if my motorcycle was red. I guess she couldn't really see it over the Olds' acre-wide hood. But, I could have imagined the entire exchange. At this point, I don't think I realized the extent to which the heat was fucking with my brain, because the only other thing that registers from that afternoon is that Fallon, NV, where it's the middle of the desert and maybe rains twice a year, has at least one tanning salon. It's right off US 50, in case you're interested. I wasn't, much.

Fallon, NV...looking nothing like Central Valley, CA, really.

US 95 up to I-80 was a fairly nice road, if you like long, hot straightaways, with no shade and no chance of shade, ever, from the beginning of time. I-80 to Winnemucca is more of the same, but with more lanes and a rest area that is 14 port-a-potties stuck in the ground. If you've ever been on I-80 in Nevada, you know the rest area I'm talking about. Of course, I stopped there, for old time's sake-it had been a resting point for me 5 years earlier, when I had driven from Denver to San Francisco in one sitting. And I thought my body hurt then...

At Rest.

I pulled into my Motel 6 in Winnemucca after 6 PM. Judging by the 20 big, comfortable, American bikes in the parking lot, Winnemucca offered a convenient stopping point for those bikers leaving Sturgis. Said bikers were about as friendly to me as our Prez is to dissenting thought...or thought in general, for that matter. ("But my bike is based on post-WWII technology!" I pleaded, to no avail. God loves America, so He must also love Harleys, because America won WWII, not Japan, with its POS plastic bikes...or something.) Nah, whatever, we're all bikers, and we all get along. Even those on foreign bikes.

So, my body pretty much is shot, and there's only about 2600 more miles to go. Which will give out first, me or my bike?