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?
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