In the world of motorcycling, the Iron Butt Association has some notoriety. You can become a member by riding 1,000 miles in 24 hours. But the best-known event is the Iron Butt Rally, in which participants ride at least 11,000 miles in 11 days ("safely," the web site says) while reaching specific checkpoints. Stories of brain-scrambled riders doing weird stuff abound.
Which brings me to my point. I love motorcycling. I look at those Iron Butt guys and think, "Yeah, let's take something we love, and do it until we hate it."
I liked my trip. I didn't overdo. In that last week, after I went farther east than I originally intended and had to zoom back across the country for Mother's Day, I was riding a little more grimly than I did at first, just hoping to dodge the weather and get some miles in each day. Even so, I enjoyed watching the country flow by me.
So, first impression: this is a big country. There is a lot of room out there; it's not all built up. There's a lot going on. Every region has its own unique features, but the constant presence of national chain stores and restaurants in larger towns and cities was either reassuring or, depending on your point of view, depressing. I would say the pivotal states on the trip were Texas and Oklahoma, where you can be in pure desert on one end of the state and in wet, green country on the other end.
The roadsides were cleaner than I remember from earlier decades. My excursion to Puerto Palomas in Mexico, opposite Columbus, New Mexico, reminded me of how frightfully bad public trash can be in Mexico. In contrast, it was hard to find litter on the sides of U.S. highways. This might be a testimony to the success of all those "Adopt a Highway" litter collection efforts. More power to 'em.
A lot of people stay where they were planted. I guess I could plead guilty to that, too – I've moved around Southern California some but not beyond that. People get comfortable with their little circles, with the rules and conditions that govern where they live. Should they move? Maybe everyone should, just to gain some understanding of the things they had been taking for granted.
Where would I go? In my travels I found that I was drawn to water. The abundance of streams and lakes, especially east of the Mississippi, just fascinated me. And yet, as I rode back through New Mexico and the mesas of the Navajo and the Zuni, I felt a kinship with that land too – and there isn't much water there; that's for sure. There's no one place that fulfills all my needs.
Would I take another long trip like this one on a motorcycle? It's probably too soon to answer that. During the trip I came up with a long list of reasons why the trip would make more sense in a car. But I do love riding. I suspect that I'll do shorter trips on the bike in the future and try to loop my girlfriend into another long trip by car. I didn't camp on this trip; I could barely carry my small amount of gear as it was, much less camping gear. But a car would make it practical to bring camping gear.
I'm a few years from retirement yet. I took this trip partly because I didn't know how long my health would allow me to do stuff like that. For a long time, I hope. When I retire I will take a serious look at doing some more unstructured roaming, free to spend a lot of time in spots that I take a liking to. That will make me feel like a rich man, in spirit.
Thursday, May 14, 2015
Saturday, May 9, 2015
Home
One month to the day, with 6,885 miles on the little Ninja, I'm here. I walk around this house and everything looks a little different, displaced, as if I were in just another stop along the ride.
I arrived yesterday afternoon and spent time talking to some loved ones and zoning out rather than working on a blog post. I'm starting this after a long night's sleep.
The day started cold and rainy in Prescott, Arizona. (Despite my hopes, I did not escape the weather.) Highway 89 south from Prescott winds and climbs out of town, then descends to open plains. It reaches about 6100 feet going over the mountains, and it is a fiendish little road, with many, many tight turns in the first 15 miles signposted for 20 MPH. And, in the wind and rain and with my new low-performance tires, I took those turns at 20. I was a slow, super-conservative rider. Miraculously, no one overtook me during that entire time. Once I got down to the plains, to occasional sun and dry pavement, I picked up the pace. It's really a lovely trip through the cedar-dotted plains and ranchlands. The ranches of Peeples Valley are particularly pretty. I rode through low, rolling hills to the folksy town of Yarnell. That's where an entire team of 19 "hot shot" firefighters from Prescott died when a fire unpredictably turned on them on June 30, 2013.
South of Yarnell, the earth just fell away. The speed limit dropped to 30 MPH and the road seemed to plunge off the level ground of Yarnell into the vast, open view to the south. It was more like being in an airplane than on a highway. That stretch is one of the most dramatic roads I've traveled. The road clings to the steep mountainside and descends almost 2000 feet in several miles to the town of Congress, below.
Once on the flats at Congress, the road stayed flat and straight for many miles, passing ranges of hills but holding to long, long straight stretches through desert and farmland. The wind blew strongly from straight ahead. I twisted the throttle and accepted the lower MPG in my haste to get home.
My eastward route on this trip was entirely separate from my westward route, except for 6 miles of US 60 between Salome and Hope, AZ. As I passed that way I looked for the gorgeous bloom of ocotillos that I had seen on April 9, but it was long gone.
Around Hope I began passing numerous RV parks. I like the desert, but I wouldn't want to be a snowbird parked in some RV ghetto in the middle of nowhere all winter, nowhere near any form of culture or entertainment. However, some people must like it. There were sure a lot of spaces out there, although now, in early May, they were beginning to clear out. A sign on a Mexican restaurant said "Closed - Reopening September 1."
The front that dumped rain (and later snow, I learned!) on Prescott still held isolated showers, sometimes in lacy veils that didn't quite reach the desert floor, sometimes in cloudbursts that did. None of them impacted me, although as I crossed the Colorado River bridge into California on Interstate 10, I did get a minute or two of rain.
I was dressed in more clothes that I had worn on the entire trip, spurred by the rain and cold at my starting point. But I remained dressed that way during the entire ride. It never really warmed up much. Across the California desert the wind gusted strong from the side and ahead. I rode along tilted to the left and wiggling in the gusts, passing slower trucks. In the Coachella Valley the wind eased a little. Snow was falling all around San Jacinto peak and rain was falling into the "Indian Canyons" south of the peak. The summit was buried in clouds, as was Mount San Gorgonio, which was undoubtedly getting a snowfall, too. I barely saw any snow during my entire trip (tiny glimpses in New Mexico) and now, back in my local neighborhood, I was getting the full show.
As Interstate 10 passed between those two mighty peaks, at the town of Banning, an ugly rainstorm began. The crowded freeway, dim light, and heavy rain made for some paranoid riding. I pushed through and 10 miles later the rain stopped and the road gradually dried. Other pockets of showers were visible all around the route ahead, but they didn't cross my path.
To complete my trip, I did a little lane-splitting in slow traffic past Ontario airport. California is the only state in which that's legal. Yeah, the little Ninja was wide-hipped, as shown in the photo at the top of this post, but it still fit those lane holes. Then I used carpool lanes for about 25 miles until the last run up the Glendale Freeway to home.
I was glad to see my son, Casey, who was at the house. We talked for a while and then he left for an appointment. Later my girlfriend Deni came over and I talked about how much I had missed her. I gave her a trinket that I had bought on the Zuni reservation. We'll be getting together again this weekend, when I have recovered a bit from my travels.
At some point I zonked out on the couch, then woke at midnight and went upstairs to bed. Now there are pieces of mail to handle, plenty of cleaning up to do, and plenty of catching up on work emails.
What did I expect on this trip? What did I discover? I will post about that, but not this morning. That will take some time to put into words.
I arrived yesterday afternoon and spent time talking to some loved ones and zoning out rather than working on a blog post. I'm starting this after a long night's sleep.
The day started cold and rainy in Prescott, Arizona. (Despite my hopes, I did not escape the weather.) Highway 89 south from Prescott winds and climbs out of town, then descends to open plains. It reaches about 6100 feet going over the mountains, and it is a fiendish little road, with many, many tight turns in the first 15 miles signposted for 20 MPH. And, in the wind and rain and with my new low-performance tires, I took those turns at 20. I was a slow, super-conservative rider. Miraculously, no one overtook me during that entire time. Once I got down to the plains, to occasional sun and dry pavement, I picked up the pace. It's really a lovely trip through the cedar-dotted plains and ranchlands. The ranches of Peeples Valley are particularly pretty. I rode through low, rolling hills to the folksy town of Yarnell. That's where an entire team of 19 "hot shot" firefighters from Prescott died when a fire unpredictably turned on them on June 30, 2013.
South of Yarnell, the earth just fell away. The speed limit dropped to 30 MPH and the road seemed to plunge off the level ground of Yarnell into the vast, open view to the south. It was more like being in an airplane than on a highway. That stretch is one of the most dramatic roads I've traveled. The road clings to the steep mountainside and descends almost 2000 feet in several miles to the town of Congress, below.
Once on the flats at Congress, the road stayed flat and straight for many miles, passing ranges of hills but holding to long, long straight stretches through desert and farmland. The wind blew strongly from straight ahead. I twisted the throttle and accepted the lower MPG in my haste to get home.
My eastward route on this trip was entirely separate from my westward route, except for 6 miles of US 60 between Salome and Hope, AZ. As I passed that way I looked for the gorgeous bloom of ocotillos that I had seen on April 9, but it was long gone.
Around Hope I began passing numerous RV parks. I like the desert, but I wouldn't want to be a snowbird parked in some RV ghetto in the middle of nowhere all winter, nowhere near any form of culture or entertainment. However, some people must like it. There were sure a lot of spaces out there, although now, in early May, they were beginning to clear out. A sign on a Mexican restaurant said "Closed - Reopening September 1."
The front that dumped rain (and later snow, I learned!) on Prescott still held isolated showers, sometimes in lacy veils that didn't quite reach the desert floor, sometimes in cloudbursts that did. None of them impacted me, although as I crossed the Colorado River bridge into California on Interstate 10, I did get a minute or two of rain.
I was dressed in more clothes that I had worn on the entire trip, spurred by the rain and cold at my starting point. But I remained dressed that way during the entire ride. It never really warmed up much. Across the California desert the wind gusted strong from the side and ahead. I rode along tilted to the left and wiggling in the gusts, passing slower trucks. In the Coachella Valley the wind eased a little. Snow was falling all around San Jacinto peak and rain was falling into the "Indian Canyons" south of the peak. The summit was buried in clouds, as was Mount San Gorgonio, which was undoubtedly getting a snowfall, too. I barely saw any snow during my entire trip (tiny glimpses in New Mexico) and now, back in my local neighborhood, I was getting the full show.
As Interstate 10 passed between those two mighty peaks, at the town of Banning, an ugly rainstorm began. The crowded freeway, dim light, and heavy rain made for some paranoid riding. I pushed through and 10 miles later the rain stopped and the road gradually dried. Other pockets of showers were visible all around the route ahead, but they didn't cross my path.
To complete my trip, I did a little lane-splitting in slow traffic past Ontario airport. California is the only state in which that's legal. Yeah, the little Ninja was wide-hipped, as shown in the photo at the top of this post, but it still fit those lane holes. Then I used carpool lanes for about 25 miles until the last run up the Glendale Freeway to home.
I was glad to see my son, Casey, who was at the house. We talked for a while and then he left for an appointment. Later my girlfriend Deni came over and I talked about how much I had missed her. I gave her a trinket that I had bought on the Zuni reservation. We'll be getting together again this weekend, when I have recovered a bit from my travels.
At some point I zonked out on the couch, then woke at midnight and went upstairs to bed. Now there are pieces of mail to handle, plenty of cleaning up to do, and plenty of catching up on work emails.
What did I expect on this trip? What did I discover? I will post about that, but not this morning. That will take some time to put into words.
Friday, May 8, 2015
Crossed Fingers
Today is my last run. I'm headed for home. It's 47 degrees in Prescott, headed for a high of 50 with a chance of thunderstorms. Same for the other roads before I reach Interstate 10 near the Colorado River with a high of only 73 in Blythe, a notoriously hot place. And, big surprise, strong winds from the west are forecast. This trip isn't letting me go easily.
The first part of the run, Highway 87 south, is a bunch of twisties over a mountain range. I better get out of here before it starts raining.
The first part of the run, Highway 87 south, is a bunch of twisties over a mountain range. I better get out of here before it starts raining.
Wind from the West
(I started this on Thursday night but fell asleep before I posted. Finishing it now, Friday morning.)
Yesterday's ride from Oklahoma City was all about crosswinds and headwinds. I'm not complaining, though. I got on the road at 8:30 in the morning and later in the day the city was pummeled by several tornadoes and up to 5 inches of rain. So I'm very glad that I left.
Still, fighting those winds on a 250cc motorcycle can be exhausting, physically and psychologically. And late in the day today, Thursday, the wind was back. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
When I left Albuquerque this morning the winds were still. Interstate 40 climbed for miles away from the Rio Grande Valley. I was headed for Grants, where I would turn off on a long side road to the Zuni reservation. Before Grants, the highway passed through several other reservations – Acoma, Laguna, and others. Various styles of pottery and jewelry originate from these tribes. I have an Acoma bowl, jet-black, with a stylized fox or coyote etched around the sides. It's always been a favorite. And casinos! Almost every tribe has a casino, and more are seemingly randomly placed along 40. I passed at least a dozen of them on my ride today.
Although I was wearing some warmer clothing, it wasn't enough. It was a little cold this morning. Not that it would bother you too much just walking around, but going into that coolness at 70 MPH for hours will really chill you. At Grants I put on some more clothes and took off down Highway 53.
The red rock and juniper country just does something to me. As much as I loved the abundant water in the South, this kind of country makes my soul breathe easy. On I went for miles, climbing steadily higher. I passed the side road to the Bandera volcanic crater and the nearby ice cave, but kept going. I crested the Continental Divide at over 7800 feet. Soon after, a Mountain Bluebird took off from the side of the road. Some distance on the other side of the divide was El Morro National Monument. I took some time here to walk the interpretive trail. A pool at the base of the sandstone cliffs is the only surface water for 40 miles or more, and for a thousand years native Americans, Spaniards, and frontier travelers have carved their names or petroglyphs into the stone.
White-throated Swifts wheeled through the sky above the stone. They love cliffs as roosting and nesting places. This vertical crack at one end of the cliff was perfect for them.
Off I went, through the Ramah Navajo reservation and on to Zuni. There were many beautiful mesas along the way. This one was typical, except for the white sentinel stone standing by itself, on the plains away from the cliffs. It reminded me of an orchestra conductor.
At the town of Zuni I secured my Mother's Day gift. I traveled westward and crossed the Arizona border. The mesas fell behind and the land was sage and cedars at first, then just endless sage scrub on gently undulating land, seemingly forever. The west wind was blowing hard now and the little Ninja had to work hard to keep up speed. I turned north to Sanders to rejoin I-40.
The wind was howling, so for 50 miles I "drafted" a big rig, following closely enough to gain some relief from the wind blast while maintaining a distance where I could brake safely. We passed turnoffs for the Petrified Forest and the Painted Desert. I have been to those places as a small child, but there was no time to visit them today. At Holbrook I drafted another, slower big rig into the town of Winslow. My eventual destination was Prescott and I was going to go there over the White Mountains.
Highway 87 ran straight into the headwinds. It was tough keeping any speed. It crossed the Little Colorado River (just a trickle today) and led out of town across open grazing land, past a state prison and then on toward low hills. There was little traffic. Cedars and sage were the dominant plants, with the omnipresent cheatgrass. Jacks Canyon, a gorge with almost vertical walls and verdant greenery, cut through the dry plains, its top level with the surroundings so that you could only see it when you were right next to it. The road rose gradually and then steeply into the White Mountains and ran for many miles through pine forests. It reached 7400 feet. It was cold! I took a turn on 260 west and soon the road descended out of the pines into oaks and then into desert plant communities. The views were vast and a 6% grade ran downhill for 9 miles. At the bottom was Camp Verde and the Verde River.
Here I had to get on Interstate 17 for a run of several miles before taking an exit to Prescott. That highway was nuts, with many aggressive drivers jockeying to pass slow trucks on a long uphill with headwinds. I dropped from sixth gear to fifth, and even to fourth at one point, looking for more power to keep from being mowed down.
The road from the interstate to Prescott was 30 miles long. It ran through a stretch of chaparral that looked just like something from Southern California, and then got into Prescott Valley, which was also reminiscent of the generic, national-chain landscape of SoCal. I checked into a hotel at the eastern edge of Prescott itself and called my friend Linda. We headed to the historic district and had drinks at the Palace Saloon, the most venerable institution on Whiskey Row, across the street from the town square.
Then it was a nice lasagna dinner, and I was dropped at the hotel to begin blogging. At some point, sleep overcame me before I published my post.
Yesterday's ride from Oklahoma City was all about crosswinds and headwinds. I'm not complaining, though. I got on the road at 8:30 in the morning and later in the day the city was pummeled by several tornadoes and up to 5 inches of rain. So I'm very glad that I left.
Still, fighting those winds on a 250cc motorcycle can be exhausting, physically and psychologically. And late in the day today, Thursday, the wind was back. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
When I left Albuquerque this morning the winds were still. Interstate 40 climbed for miles away from the Rio Grande Valley. I was headed for Grants, where I would turn off on a long side road to the Zuni reservation. Before Grants, the highway passed through several other reservations – Acoma, Laguna, and others. Various styles of pottery and jewelry originate from these tribes. I have an Acoma bowl, jet-black, with a stylized fox or coyote etched around the sides. It's always been a favorite. And casinos! Almost every tribe has a casino, and more are seemingly randomly placed along 40. I passed at least a dozen of them on my ride today.
Although I was wearing some warmer clothing, it wasn't enough. It was a little cold this morning. Not that it would bother you too much just walking around, but going into that coolness at 70 MPH for hours will really chill you. At Grants I put on some more clothes and took off down Highway 53.
The red rock and juniper country just does something to me. As much as I loved the abundant water in the South, this kind of country makes my soul breathe easy. On I went for miles, climbing steadily higher. I passed the side road to the Bandera volcanic crater and the nearby ice cave, but kept going. I crested the Continental Divide at over 7800 feet. Soon after, a Mountain Bluebird took off from the side of the road. Some distance on the other side of the divide was El Morro National Monument. I took some time here to walk the interpretive trail. A pool at the base of the sandstone cliffs is the only surface water for 40 miles or more, and for a thousand years native Americans, Spaniards, and frontier travelers have carved their names or petroglyphs into the stone.
White-throated Swifts wheeled through the sky above the stone. They love cliffs as roosting and nesting places. This vertical crack at one end of the cliff was perfect for them.
Off I went, through the Ramah Navajo reservation and on to Zuni. There were many beautiful mesas along the way. This one was typical, except for the white sentinel stone standing by itself, on the plains away from the cliffs. It reminded me of an orchestra conductor.
The wind was howling, so for 50 miles I "drafted" a big rig, following closely enough to gain some relief from the wind blast while maintaining a distance where I could brake safely. We passed turnoffs for the Petrified Forest and the Painted Desert. I have been to those places as a small child, but there was no time to visit them today. At Holbrook I drafted another, slower big rig into the town of Winslow. My eventual destination was Prescott and I was going to go there over the White Mountains.
Highway 87 ran straight into the headwinds. It was tough keeping any speed. It crossed the Little Colorado River (just a trickle today) and led out of town across open grazing land, past a state prison and then on toward low hills. There was little traffic. Cedars and sage were the dominant plants, with the omnipresent cheatgrass. Jacks Canyon, a gorge with almost vertical walls and verdant greenery, cut through the dry plains, its top level with the surroundings so that you could only see it when you were right next to it. The road rose gradually and then steeply into the White Mountains and ran for many miles through pine forests. It reached 7400 feet. It was cold! I took a turn on 260 west and soon the road descended out of the pines into oaks and then into desert plant communities. The views were vast and a 6% grade ran downhill for 9 miles. At the bottom was Camp Verde and the Verde River.
Here I had to get on Interstate 17 for a run of several miles before taking an exit to Prescott. That highway was nuts, with many aggressive drivers jockeying to pass slow trucks on a long uphill with headwinds. I dropped from sixth gear to fifth, and even to fourth at one point, looking for more power to keep from being mowed down.
The road from the interstate to Prescott was 30 miles long. It ran through a stretch of chaparral that looked just like something from Southern California, and then got into Prescott Valley, which was also reminiscent of the generic, national-chain landscape of SoCal. I checked into a hotel at the eastern edge of Prescott itself and called my friend Linda. We headed to the historic district and had drinks at the Palace Saloon, the most venerable institution on Whiskey Row, across the street from the town square.
Then it was a nice lasagna dinner, and I was dropped at the hotel to begin blogging. At some point, sleep overcame me before I published my post.
Wednesday, May 6, 2015
Sopaipillas
Sopaipillas are one of my favorite things about Albuquerque.
Here we see them pictured with a big plate of carne adovada, another New Mexican specialty. I had to hurry across the street to this restaurant when I finally got settled in my room at about 7:00 pm. They were only open until 7:30. I told the server I hadn't had sopaipillas in 30 years and she brought me two extra. I know they won't be as good later tonight (you really must eat them piping hot and fresh) but I'm sure I'll enjoy them anyway.
Getting to Albuquerque was not easy. I got on the road at 8:30 this morning - 7:30 in New Mexican time. I rode about 550 miles. Almost the entire ride was into strong crosswinds or headwinds. The Ninja 250 is a spirited little bike, but if you throw a 25 MPH headwind at it, it will have difficulty going faster than 60 or 65 MPH. Sometimes less! I spent the entire ride listing about 5 degrees to port to compensate for the crosswind coming from that side. It was very tiring. I'm still a little buzzy and my sense of balance feels like I'm still on the bike.
Going west from Oklahoma City, the countryside was a few farms, a lot of pastures, and big groves of woods. Pretty. As I got closer to the Texas border, the trees got smaller and fewer. At Texona, just before the border, a murmuration of blackbirds lifted from a plowed field and headed on an intercept course. They got very close, all around me, before swerving away.
Here's a link to a Youtube video of a bigger, more numerous murmuration. Very inspiring. Mine was much smaller, but also nice.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QOGCSBh3kmM
Texas looked a lot like Oklahoma, at first. But in a few miles the first yucca appeared, then the first mesquite. Dried-up cheatgrass was pale blonde on land recently soaked by rain; all the other plants were greening up. I was going far slower than any other traffic on the road and I got used to being blown around by the combination of crosswinds and the blast from the trucks passing me. As I went west from Amarillo, the landscape flattened until it seemed I could see the curve of the planet. Several miles from the New Mexico border, the plain suddenly ended and the road dropped down into a landscape of caprock and little draws. It was pure desert now, with numerous pencil cholla cactus and mesquite bushes. On the way to Tucumcari the mesas got larger. Farms appeared; must be underground water present. I took about half an hour at Tucumcari because I was feeling totally dragged out. I got some food and soda, gassed up, and got on the way to Albuquerque, 180 miles away. The wind dropped a little but still gusted strong sometimes. Cedars appeared in the red rock mesa landscape. I was feeling a little better. I stopped once for fuel at Moriarty, then went through the foothills of the Sandia Mountains and down into town. Across the street from the motel was the restaurant with the sopaipillas.
Whew, I finished writing this before I fell dead asleep. Tomorrow I will try to do some birding next to the Rio Grande, then set off to... where? Not sure yet. I'll decide in the morning.
Here we see them pictured with a big plate of carne adovada, another New Mexican specialty. I had to hurry across the street to this restaurant when I finally got settled in my room at about 7:00 pm. They were only open until 7:30. I told the server I hadn't had sopaipillas in 30 years and she brought me two extra. I know they won't be as good later tonight (you really must eat them piping hot and fresh) but I'm sure I'll enjoy them anyway.
Getting to Albuquerque was not easy. I got on the road at 8:30 this morning - 7:30 in New Mexican time. I rode about 550 miles. Almost the entire ride was into strong crosswinds or headwinds. The Ninja 250 is a spirited little bike, but if you throw a 25 MPH headwind at it, it will have difficulty going faster than 60 or 65 MPH. Sometimes less! I spent the entire ride listing about 5 degrees to port to compensate for the crosswind coming from that side. It was very tiring. I'm still a little buzzy and my sense of balance feels like I'm still on the bike.
Going west from Oklahoma City, the countryside was a few farms, a lot of pastures, and big groves of woods. Pretty. As I got closer to the Texas border, the trees got smaller and fewer. At Texona, just before the border, a murmuration of blackbirds lifted from a plowed field and headed on an intercept course. They got very close, all around me, before swerving away.
Here's a link to a Youtube video of a bigger, more numerous murmuration. Very inspiring. Mine was much smaller, but also nice.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QOGCSBh3kmM
Texas looked a lot like Oklahoma, at first. But in a few miles the first yucca appeared, then the first mesquite. Dried-up cheatgrass was pale blonde on land recently soaked by rain; all the other plants were greening up. I was going far slower than any other traffic on the road and I got used to being blown around by the combination of crosswinds and the blast from the trucks passing me. As I went west from Amarillo, the landscape flattened until it seemed I could see the curve of the planet. Several miles from the New Mexico border, the plain suddenly ended and the road dropped down into a landscape of caprock and little draws. It was pure desert now, with numerous pencil cholla cactus and mesquite bushes. On the way to Tucumcari the mesas got larger. Farms appeared; must be underground water present. I took about half an hour at Tucumcari because I was feeling totally dragged out. I got some food and soda, gassed up, and got on the way to Albuquerque, 180 miles away. The wind dropped a little but still gusted strong sometimes. Cedars appeared in the red rock mesa landscape. I was feeling a little better. I stopped once for fuel at Moriarty, then went through the foothills of the Sandia Mountains and down into town. Across the street from the motel was the restaurant with the sopaipillas.
Whew, I finished writing this before I fell dead asleep. Tomorrow I will try to do some birding next to the Rio Grande, then set off to... where? Not sure yet. I'll decide in the morning.
Moore
My motel is in Moore. I had forgotten the significance of that until I met some people in the breakfast lobby. They were all geared up in work clothes, part of a Bay Area group that does good works in disaster areas. They were here to build houses, fences, and other structures as part of the recovery from that F5 tornado that hit the town in May 2013.
I just want to get out of Tornado Alley as quickly as I can today. It's gray, cool, and windy right now with threats of residual showers. Severe thunderstorms are still a possibility along the way. A 25 MPH west wind will hamper me a bit. I'll get to Amarillo and then see how close I can get to Albuquerque.
OK, gotta go, packing up.
I just want to get out of Tornado Alley as quickly as I can today. It's gray, cool, and windy right now with threats of residual showers. Severe thunderstorms are still a possibility along the way. A 25 MPH west wind will hamper me a bit. I'll get to Amarillo and then see how close I can get to Albuquerque.
OK, gotta go, packing up.
Tuesday, May 5, 2015
Nurse, I'm Ready for my Medication
Today's "stretch goal" was Amarillo. Instead I'm in Oklahoma City, about $400 poorer than I expected to be, and grateful to be here.
I left Little Rock headed for Fort Smith on the Oklahoma border. It was a pleasant ride, and I have to take back some of the comments I made yesterday about wondering why Arkansas was even a state. There was considerably more civilization on this route, along with some lovely lakes and hills. A brisk wind came sometimes from behind, sometimes from the side.
I realized that I hadn't taken any pictures of Arkansas, unless you count this one inside the Flying Saucer pub where I dined last night.
To get your name on one of those plates on the ceiling, you must consume 200 different kinds of beer in the establishment. I regretfully declined.
To take an outdoor picture in the state, I stopped at an overlook along the way to Fort Smith.
Note those scudding clouds up ahead, driven by the wind. They will come into play later.
I gassed up in Fort Smith and crossed into Oklahoma. OK was just as pretty as AR. Immediately Interstate 40 began traversing Indian nations - the Cherokee at first, later many more. It added meaning to the stories I have heard of the Trail of Tears and other forced migrations where tribes were dispossessed. The countryside was open and lovely.
The crosswind continued, the sky grew darker, and it looked like there was rain ahead. I pulled off 40 to put on some rain gear and at that moment a brief thunderstorm rolled through. On I rode, through mist thrown up by trucks on wet pavement. I passed Lake Eufaula, featured in the lyrics of "Choctaw Bingo" by James McMurtry, a wicked and clever songwriter. Worth checking out. I got closer and closer to Oklahoma City. About 20 miles out, it looked like more serious rain threatened. I stopped at a gas station, looked at the dismal weather forecast (100% chance of heavy rain) and booked a motel in Oklahoma City.
The Ninja was riding funny. I thought perhaps I had a kinked chain. But I did my 20 miles at a slow pace behind a truck that was also going slowly. Just as I turned off the freeway, then the service road, then the driveway of the motel, I could fell something going very badly wrong in back. It had to be a flat tire.
It was a flat tire. I was expecting some delays on the way to California, but this had the potential to be a big delay. It was 5:00. Dealers close at 6:00 around here. There was a Kawasaki dealer two blocks away that didn't want my business. "Call House of Kawasaki," they actually said, naming another dealer on the far side of town. I did call them, and they promised to stay late to get the bike turned around today.After a great deal of conversation with the American Motorcyle Association, a tow was dispatched.
Pretty cool, huh? The entire flatbed lies on the ground so that the bike can be pushed onto it, then secured. Then the entire flatbed is lifted and inserted into the truck bed.
The dealer didn't have any performance tires in my size, so I had to get the OEM tire that comes with the bike. It's not a very good performer. But I was grateful that anyone would work on my bike at this late hour, allowing me the possibility of making some miles tomorrow morning. The previous tire had developed a bad bald patch very suddenly, just on one area of the tire. That was the reason for the flat. As they were tidying up, the technician noticed that the front tire, which had plenty of tread left, was undergoing some kind of tread separation - severe cupping and blistering. It was about ready to fail, too. And a front tire failure would have been a bad accident. So I got an OEM front tire. I can't say enough good things about these guys who stayed late to help a fellow road-tripper get back on the road.
New tires are unusually slippery because of the "release compound" that manufacturers use to pop tires from their molds. It wears away in about 50 miles (opinions differ on the mileage.) But I had to leave the dealership directly into heavy rain. I got on the freeway at a cautious speed, in the slow lane, but I was repeatedly tailgated. Very disturbing. On the drive back to the motel I passed two horrendous chain-reaction accidents. And people were still zooming through the rain. Oklahomans aren't too bright in that respect.
The sobering nature of the tire failures, the scenarios of how badly it might have gone, and the dramatic accidents on the ride back took their psychological toll on me. Heavy rain is forecast to continue all night. The wind is howling slightly through the motel room door that doesn't quite seal. I'm popping a benadryl and heading for sleepytime. I will get on the road relatively early tomorrow, fighting a strong post-front headwind, and rack up some miles westward to get back on track.
I left Little Rock headed for Fort Smith on the Oklahoma border. It was a pleasant ride, and I have to take back some of the comments I made yesterday about wondering why Arkansas was even a state. There was considerably more civilization on this route, along with some lovely lakes and hills. A brisk wind came sometimes from behind, sometimes from the side.
I realized that I hadn't taken any pictures of Arkansas, unless you count this one inside the Flying Saucer pub where I dined last night.
To get your name on one of those plates on the ceiling, you must consume 200 different kinds of beer in the establishment. I regretfully declined.
To take an outdoor picture in the state, I stopped at an overlook along the way to Fort Smith.
Note those scudding clouds up ahead, driven by the wind. They will come into play later.
I gassed up in Fort Smith and crossed into Oklahoma. OK was just as pretty as AR. Immediately Interstate 40 began traversing Indian nations - the Cherokee at first, later many more. It added meaning to the stories I have heard of the Trail of Tears and other forced migrations where tribes were dispossessed. The countryside was open and lovely.
The crosswind continued, the sky grew darker, and it looked like there was rain ahead. I pulled off 40 to put on some rain gear and at that moment a brief thunderstorm rolled through. On I rode, through mist thrown up by trucks on wet pavement. I passed Lake Eufaula, featured in the lyrics of "Choctaw Bingo" by James McMurtry, a wicked and clever songwriter. Worth checking out. I got closer and closer to Oklahoma City. About 20 miles out, it looked like more serious rain threatened. I stopped at a gas station, looked at the dismal weather forecast (100% chance of heavy rain) and booked a motel in Oklahoma City.
The Ninja was riding funny. I thought perhaps I had a kinked chain. But I did my 20 miles at a slow pace behind a truck that was also going slowly. Just as I turned off the freeway, then the service road, then the driveway of the motel, I could fell something going very badly wrong in back. It had to be a flat tire.
It was a flat tire. I was expecting some delays on the way to California, but this had the potential to be a big delay. It was 5:00. Dealers close at 6:00 around here. There was a Kawasaki dealer two blocks away that didn't want my business. "Call House of Kawasaki," they actually said, naming another dealer on the far side of town. I did call them, and they promised to stay late to get the bike turned around today.After a great deal of conversation with the American Motorcyle Association, a tow was dispatched.
Pretty cool, huh? The entire flatbed lies on the ground so that the bike can be pushed onto it, then secured. Then the entire flatbed is lifted and inserted into the truck bed.
The dealer didn't have any performance tires in my size, so I had to get the OEM tire that comes with the bike. It's not a very good performer. But I was grateful that anyone would work on my bike at this late hour, allowing me the possibility of making some miles tomorrow morning. The previous tire had developed a bad bald patch very suddenly, just on one area of the tire. That was the reason for the flat. As they were tidying up, the technician noticed that the front tire, which had plenty of tread left, was undergoing some kind of tread separation - severe cupping and blistering. It was about ready to fail, too. And a front tire failure would have been a bad accident. So I got an OEM front tire. I can't say enough good things about these guys who stayed late to help a fellow road-tripper get back on the road.
New tires are unusually slippery because of the "release compound" that manufacturers use to pop tires from their molds. It wears away in about 50 miles (opinions differ on the mileage.) But I had to leave the dealership directly into heavy rain. I got on the freeway at a cautious speed, in the slow lane, but I was repeatedly tailgated. Very disturbing. On the drive back to the motel I passed two horrendous chain-reaction accidents. And people were still zooming through the rain. Oklahomans aren't too bright in that respect.
The sobering nature of the tire failures, the scenarios of how badly it might have gone, and the dramatic accidents on the ride back took their psychological toll on me. Heavy rain is forecast to continue all night. The wind is howling slightly through the motel room door that doesn't quite seal. I'm popping a benadryl and heading for sleepytime. I will get on the road relatively early tomorrow, fighting a strong post-front headwind, and rack up some miles westward to get back on track.
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