wackyiraqi
Towelhead extraordinaire.
Wow, this is too fucking cool.
I'm jealous.
I'm jealous.
-
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Nemo Rides the Continental Divide (long)
- Thread starter Nemo Brinker
- Start date
Nemo Brinker
Tonight we ride
Day 9 Map
Waking up gritty and groggy, I ate some of my iron rations (Dear Trader Joe's: thank you for making chili mango slices) and wobbled off into a Wyoming morning on the plains.
I nearly ran into a cowboy herding his Angus heifers across the damn road, but avoided making Frederick Remington road-pizza, and kept going.
A town on the way up to Yellowstone
As Hwy 89 gained elevation and headed towards Grand Teton and Yellowstone, the ranches got greener and gave way to mountains.
Grand Teton Nat'l. Park was mighty impressive, but I couldn't help but think that those French trappers who named a mountain range "the great breasts" had too much time on their hands, and an excess of imagination.
Still, seeing them did make me miss my girlfriend!
And by mid-day, I fought my way through Jackson (traffic hell) Hole and was on my way to the Great American Nature Show in Yellowstone. Yellowstone was by turns beautiful and horrifying. In one sense, it's sacrificial ground to the American sense of nature-as-spectacle. The entire road through Yellowstone was pretty damn crowded, and most of it moved at around 35-45 mph. I was able to pass some of the RVs and sluggish Harleys, but not many, since the traffic was heavy (and I didn't want to unintentially plow into a buffalo). So you end up making this slow pilgrim's progress with the herd, trying to find parking in the packed lots at the roadside attractions.
It's also a theater of american excess. There's cell reception up there. There's a freeway, complete with an overpass, to get to Old Faithful, and a parking lot the size of 2 football fields. I saw a great many enormous RVs full of overfed, cranky turistas...one huge one towing, I do not lie, a Hummer. Conspicuous consumption at its finest.
I stopped and watched Old Faithful go off, and despite the crowds and the spectacle it really was amazing. You know you've been on the road too long when geology makes you horny.
Waking up gritty and groggy, I ate some of my iron rations (Dear Trader Joe's: thank you for making chili mango slices) and wobbled off into a Wyoming morning on the plains.
I nearly ran into a cowboy herding his Angus heifers across the damn road, but avoided making Frederick Remington road-pizza, and kept going.
A town on the way up to Yellowstone
As Hwy 89 gained elevation and headed towards Grand Teton and Yellowstone, the ranches got greener and gave way to mountains.
Grand Teton Nat'l. Park was mighty impressive, but I couldn't help but think that those French trappers who named a mountain range "the great breasts" had too much time on their hands, and an excess of imagination.
Still, seeing them did make me miss my girlfriend!
And by mid-day, I fought my way through Jackson (traffic hell) Hole and was on my way to the Great American Nature Show in Yellowstone. Yellowstone was by turns beautiful and horrifying. In one sense, it's sacrificial ground to the American sense of nature-as-spectacle. The entire road through Yellowstone was pretty damn crowded, and most of it moved at around 35-45 mph. I was able to pass some of the RVs and sluggish Harleys, but not many, since the traffic was heavy (and I didn't want to unintentially plow into a buffalo). So you end up making this slow pilgrim's progress with the herd, trying to find parking in the packed lots at the roadside attractions.
It's also a theater of american excess. There's cell reception up there. There's a freeway, complete with an overpass, to get to Old Faithful, and a parking lot the size of 2 football fields. I saw a great many enormous RVs full of overfed, cranky turistas...one huge one towing, I do not lie, a Hummer. Conspicuous consumption at its finest.
I stopped and watched Old Faithful go off, and despite the crowds and the spectacle it really was amazing. You know you've been on the road too long when geology makes you horny.
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Nemo Brinker
Tonight we ride
Old Faithful is part of a large geothermal area; another geyser went off (unscheduled) while I was there.
Another pool near Old Faithful, boiling
Elk near the Firehole River, which receives a bunch of the geothermally-active water, and is disturbingly warm.
You can see a bit of how much devastation is still there from the 1988 fire--miles upon miles upon miles of burned stumps and dead sticks that were once trees, with an understory of saplings growing ferociously up to take their place. It's still eerily post-apocalyptic for miles and miles in Yellowstone, but cool to see how much new growth is coming back. It's supposedly been good for many of the species of plants & wildlife, but man does it look rough.
Another geothermal area, this one a collection of boiling, steaming ponds in craters. Stay on the plank walkways, or risk breaking through the crust and boiling like a lobster!
The wind whips the hot, sulfurous steam across your face. A bit hard to breathe, but Nemo likes.
Mud/wind patterns at the hot springs
I hit the Continental Divide here, too.
And crossed into Montana.
Once across the border, another thunderstorm broke as I passed by Quake Lake. This one had less lightning, but much more rain than the previous storms, and soon my tires were throwing watery roostertails and I was pretty wet. I had covered my bags and put the liner in my mesh jacket, but my pants and gloves were exposed. Ah, well. I eventually passed through the storm and started to dry out.
Near Ennis, MT I passed by this mining-town-turned-tourist-trap
As the mountains flattened out into farming country, at the junction of MT-41, I came upon this freaky place: the Montana Children's home, closed since 1975, with its glowering brick buildings almost hidden by trees and falling apart.
I can only imagine the institutional horrors that were perpetrated here.
I pulled into Dillon, MT, where a friend of my gf's had graciously agreed to let me stay in his cabin for the night.
Dillon, as did many podunk towns in the west, had an air of broken-down desperation. Was it always like this?
But the cabin turned out to be a nice house, and man was I glad to have a place to dry out and sleep in a bed, particularly since it rained much of the night. I left the owner a bottle of good wine in gratitude.
Another pool near Old Faithful, boiling
Elk near the Firehole River, which receives a bunch of the geothermally-active water, and is disturbingly warm.
You can see a bit of how much devastation is still there from the 1988 fire--miles upon miles upon miles of burned stumps and dead sticks that were once trees, with an understory of saplings growing ferociously up to take their place. It's still eerily post-apocalyptic for miles and miles in Yellowstone, but cool to see how much new growth is coming back. It's supposedly been good for many of the species of plants & wildlife, but man does it look rough.
Another geothermal area, this one a collection of boiling, steaming ponds in craters. Stay on the plank walkways, or risk breaking through the crust and boiling like a lobster!
The wind whips the hot, sulfurous steam across your face. A bit hard to breathe, but Nemo likes.
Mud/wind patterns at the hot springs
I hit the Continental Divide here, too.
And crossed into Montana.
Once across the border, another thunderstorm broke as I passed by Quake Lake. This one had less lightning, but much more rain than the previous storms, and soon my tires were throwing watery roostertails and I was pretty wet. I had covered my bags and put the liner in my mesh jacket, but my pants and gloves were exposed. Ah, well. I eventually passed through the storm and started to dry out.
Near Ennis, MT I passed by this mining-town-turned-tourist-trap
As the mountains flattened out into farming country, at the junction of MT-41, I came upon this freaky place: the Montana Children's home, closed since 1975, with its glowering brick buildings almost hidden by trees and falling apart.
I can only imagine the institutional horrors that were perpetrated here.
I pulled into Dillon, MT, where a friend of my gf's had graciously agreed to let me stay in his cabin for the night.
Dillon, as did many podunk towns in the west, had an air of broken-down desperation. Was it always like this?
But the cabin turned out to be a nice house, and man was I glad to have a place to dry out and sleep in a bed, particularly since it rained much of the night. I left the owner a bottle of good wine in gratitude.
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Nemo Brinker
Tonight we ride
Day 10 Map
One of the 2 grizzlies mounted on the wall greeted me upon waking (Paul, the cabin owner, is a big hunter).
Here's Paul's place. Thanks, Paul!
And here is his collection of coyote skulls.
I set off for Missoula, startling some antelope in the alfalfa in the nearby pasture
I passed a cemetery out in the middle of nowhere near Wisdom, MT
I passed Wisdom and rode over the pass near Big Hole battlefield, where the US Army massacred the Nez Perce in 1877. There, an enormous, mysterious fogbank enveloped the road--why, I have no idea. The fog was so thick I could scarcely see the lines on the road at times. Creepy!
Eventually I hit the 93 and headed north to Missoula, where I met my friend Oskar in a nearby campground. After the solitude of the road and the chaos of the family reunion, it was awfully nice to just hang out with a buddy.
Oskar as a mountain man
Oskar's living out of his truck and writing for the month, so we stocked up on groceries, checked the map, and headed down some dirt roads to find a good campsite. Dirt roads aren't easy on the sporty, top-heavy VFR, but they can be done, even 16 miles of 'em--but we found a fine spot to camp.
from there, we settled into the business of splashing in the creek, walking around in the forest, picking amazingly tasty wild thimbleberries, raspberries, and huckleberries, and drinking good whiskey and conversing as the moon rose. Ah, such a hard life!
One of the 2 grizzlies mounted on the wall greeted me upon waking (Paul, the cabin owner, is a big hunter).
Here's Paul's place. Thanks, Paul!
And here is his collection of coyote skulls.
I set off for Missoula, startling some antelope in the alfalfa in the nearby pasture
I passed a cemetery out in the middle of nowhere near Wisdom, MT
I passed Wisdom and rode over the pass near Big Hole battlefield, where the US Army massacred the Nez Perce in 1877. There, an enormous, mysterious fogbank enveloped the road--why, I have no idea. The fog was so thick I could scarcely see the lines on the road at times. Creepy!
Eventually I hit the 93 and headed north to Missoula, where I met my friend Oskar in a nearby campground. After the solitude of the road and the chaos of the family reunion, it was awfully nice to just hang out with a buddy.
Oskar as a mountain man
Oskar's living out of his truck and writing for the month, so we stocked up on groceries, checked the map, and headed down some dirt roads to find a good campsite. Dirt roads aren't easy on the sporty, top-heavy VFR, but they can be done, even 16 miles of 'em--but we found a fine spot to camp.
from there, we settled into the business of splashing in the creek, walking around in the forest, picking amazingly tasty wild thimbleberries, raspberries, and huckleberries, and drinking good whiskey and conversing as the moon rose. Ah, such a hard life!
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Nemo Brinker
Tonight we ride
Day 11 Map
This continued well into the next day. Between the good company, the creek frolicking, and the intensely beautiful landscape, I very nearly stayed an extra couple of days, but I knew that if I didn't leave now, I might never leave at all. Montana, Montana...it was a damn fine idyll in the forest. Thanks, Oskar.
So regretfully, I bade Oskar goodbye and headed out onto the road, and down Lolo Pass into Idaho. A lovely road with fast sweepers and good pavement, 12 runs next to the Lochsa River. It's kind of a pilgrimage site for the sport-touring set.
It was 90+ degrees again, so I stopped here to dunk myself in the river. With all the constant riding, wetting, and drying, I had quite a case of monkeybutt. And with all those days of riding all day and sleeping on the ground at night, I wished I had a masseuse and an acupuncturist in my personal retinue.
Obligatory "winding road next 77 miles" photo on Lolo Pass, reminding me that with all the discomfort, there ain't nothin' like the road.
After zooming down the pass, it got smokier and smokier--there were wildfires afoot. By the time I got to Grangeville, Idaho, the air was a choking, reddish gray and the light was postapocalyptic. The road south was full of fire trucks, and helicopters were buzzing by, loaded with fire suppressant. And, of course, it rained: good news for fire control. I got my rubber dish gloves on and my stuff covered, and escaped most of the drenching.
Once I passed through the storm and through the Salmon River canyon into Idaho farm country, the wind really kicked up. I spent the next several hours wrestling to keep the bike on the road, and the storm and the struggle really wiped me out. I hit Vale, Oregon at sunset and checked into a cheap motel room, at the Wagon Wheel Motel, which came complete with a friendly cat.
She had no qualms about making herself at home on my jacket or on my bike.
This continued well into the next day. Between the good company, the creek frolicking, and the intensely beautiful landscape, I very nearly stayed an extra couple of days, but I knew that if I didn't leave now, I might never leave at all. Montana, Montana...it was a damn fine idyll in the forest. Thanks, Oskar.
So regretfully, I bade Oskar goodbye and headed out onto the road, and down Lolo Pass into Idaho. A lovely road with fast sweepers and good pavement, 12 runs next to the Lochsa River. It's kind of a pilgrimage site for the sport-touring set.
It was 90+ degrees again, so I stopped here to dunk myself in the river. With all the constant riding, wetting, and drying, I had quite a case of monkeybutt. And with all those days of riding all day and sleeping on the ground at night, I wished I had a masseuse and an acupuncturist in my personal retinue.
Obligatory "winding road next 77 miles" photo on Lolo Pass, reminding me that with all the discomfort, there ain't nothin' like the road.
After zooming down the pass, it got smokier and smokier--there were wildfires afoot. By the time I got to Grangeville, Idaho, the air was a choking, reddish gray and the light was postapocalyptic. The road south was full of fire trucks, and helicopters were buzzing by, loaded with fire suppressant. And, of course, it rained: good news for fire control. I got my rubber dish gloves on and my stuff covered, and escaped most of the drenching.
Once I passed through the storm and through the Salmon River canyon into Idaho farm country, the wind really kicked up. I spent the next several hours wrestling to keep the bike on the road, and the storm and the struggle really wiped me out. I hit Vale, Oregon at sunset and checked into a cheap motel room, at the Wagon Wheel Motel, which came complete with a friendly cat.
She had no qualms about making herself at home on my jacket or on my bike.
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faz
Sexiest Ex-Mod around!™
Great pictures!!!
veefereefer
Well-known member
- Joined
- Jun 19, 2002
- Location
- San Jose
- Moto(s)
- 06 600rr, 91' VFR750F, 99 F4, 97 XR400R, 09 DRZSM, 08 WR250R/X
- Name
- Dude
One of the better ride reports in some time Nemo!
What a fun adventure you had there.
More please
What a fun adventure you had there.
More please
redline
Greetings from THill...
Amazing so far! I'd love to do a trip like this someday.
yella600rr
popmonkey.com
- Joined
- May 7, 2004
- Location
- A bit south of Yakville
- Moto(s)
- xr50, crf70, ttr125, kdx200(plated), crf230(plated), cbr600rr, 250 virago
- Name
- Theresa
Your words with the pictures are excellant. I'm through day 4 but I need to get ready for work.
I got up early this morning to have a cup of java and read the journel of your trip. I do believe I look forward to doing the same thing tomorrow morning.
Ummmm BTW you're a hawty!
I got up early this morning to have a cup of java and read the journel of your trip. I do believe I look forward to doing the same thing tomorrow morning.
Ummmm BTW you're a hawty!
Christieland
cheesy rider
Very cool stuff Heidi! Thanks for taking the time to share. Looking forward to reading the rest!
Haole
Cynically Optimistic
- Joined
- Aug 28, 2006
- Location
- Petaluma
- Moto(s)
- Yamaha 2015 MT07
Yamaha 2006 R6
2009 MV Agusta Brutale 1078RR
- Name
- Heather
Wow...just wow. And I thought that my solo 300 mile day trips were adventurous. You're awesome Nemo. I am truly inspired. The photos are amazing! I have really enjoyed following your journey.
slowpoke
Well-known member
- Joined
- Jun 25, 2002
- Location
- IN A TRAILER DOWN BY THE RIVER!...
- Moto(s)
- Crash into trees...
- Name
- Asian Dan
- BARF perks
- AMA #: 1102172
Excellent write-up!
Thanks for taking so many pix and sharing!
Thanks for taking so many pix and sharing!
Nemo Brinker
Tonight we ride
Day 12 Map
I left the Wagon Wheel and the grey kitty, not quite as early as I'd hoped (8:30), and rode east from Vale into the Oregon desert. There are so many flavors of desert (and I'd tasted plenty on this trip), but Oregon's high desert has its own quality; lots of tall brown basalt columns covered with lichen, standing over wide undulating plains covered with grey sagebrush. Lots of melancholy grey and brown, lots of lonely space.
I hit Hwy 395 at Burns, noticing a deer strolling across the street in front of the gas station, and headed south. Along the way the road runs alongside Abert Lake, a salt lake that glimmers like a mirage in the desert.
It stretches under Abert rim, a huge brow-like fault scarp that rips 35 miles across the desert. Oskar had been reading geology books to me in Montana (John McPhee's Basin and Range), so I'm sensitized to theatrical geology.
I kept heading south, and as I passed into California (hello, home state, it's been awhile), I rode near Goose Lake and the tiny hamlet of New Pine Creek and its obligatory antique/junk store.
This one was pretty cool (although the now-closed junk shop in Idaho City, Idaho takes the all-time prize). Now, almost every little half-ghost nowhere town in the west has its antique/junk store. Why they're such a fixture, I have no idea, but they echo the barely-patched-together, threadbare collage of life in these little left-behind places.
I turned west on Hwy 299, and had crap lunch in Alturas. They did have a cool old steam engine by city hall,
but I was just glad I didn't have to sleep there. It was windy enough that there were dust devils spinning in the street, and hot, too. But the desert had given way to thin, dry forest, which got thicker as the road rose in elevation up to Lassen.
A gas station in Hat Creek
Well, do ya, punk?
The threat of fire is ever-present in these dry forests, and it's been a hell of a fire year already, all over the west.
I love riding through Lassen, and it was pretty sweet to be entering familiar territory.
Funny, I have the same photo, with my other bike, from the beginning of my trip last year.
Sort of brings it all full circle. All roads are one, in some sense.
I had a half-baked plan to camp near Mt. Lassen, take a nap, and hike up to the summit under the full moon. This plan, while grand, was thwarted when I discovered that there was only a single camp site left in the entire national park, and it was right next to a group of 20 rowdy boy scouts. Did I need that? I did not need that. Really, I was pretty tired and sore for a high-altitude, midnight solo trek, anyway. But I do love Lassen nonetheless, even if they did just smear goddamn chip seal on the southern half of the road.
I kept going south, following Hwy 32 near Deer Creek. I stopped at a small campground near the creek, set up camp, and had a lovely, leisurely evening swimming in the creek (and skinnydipping when I found a secluded spot), and reading (leaned against a rock near a deep creek pool) the 'zines that Oskar had loaned me, all about a woman who fishes the salmon run off Kodiak Island every summer. I cast an eye at the fat little trout in the creek, but alas, had no fishin' stuff.
It was a little bittersweet, knowing it would be my last night on the road, but my body was beat to hell by now, and I did miss my bed, my girlfriend, and regular meals. I mean, by now I'd been waking myself from deep sleep, doing motions that suspiciously resembled shifting and rolling on the throttle.
I left the Wagon Wheel and the grey kitty, not quite as early as I'd hoped (8:30), and rode east from Vale into the Oregon desert. There are so many flavors of desert (and I'd tasted plenty on this trip), but Oregon's high desert has its own quality; lots of tall brown basalt columns covered with lichen, standing over wide undulating plains covered with grey sagebrush. Lots of melancholy grey and brown, lots of lonely space.
I hit Hwy 395 at Burns, noticing a deer strolling across the street in front of the gas station, and headed south. Along the way the road runs alongside Abert Lake, a salt lake that glimmers like a mirage in the desert.
It stretches under Abert rim, a huge brow-like fault scarp that rips 35 miles across the desert. Oskar had been reading geology books to me in Montana (John McPhee's Basin and Range), so I'm sensitized to theatrical geology.
I kept heading south, and as I passed into California (hello, home state, it's been awhile), I rode near Goose Lake and the tiny hamlet of New Pine Creek and its obligatory antique/junk store.
This one was pretty cool (although the now-closed junk shop in Idaho City, Idaho takes the all-time prize). Now, almost every little half-ghost nowhere town in the west has its antique/junk store. Why they're such a fixture, I have no idea, but they echo the barely-patched-together, threadbare collage of life in these little left-behind places.
I turned west on Hwy 299, and had crap lunch in Alturas. They did have a cool old steam engine by city hall,
but I was just glad I didn't have to sleep there. It was windy enough that there were dust devils spinning in the street, and hot, too. But the desert had given way to thin, dry forest, which got thicker as the road rose in elevation up to Lassen.
A gas station in Hat Creek
Well, do ya, punk?
The threat of fire is ever-present in these dry forests, and it's been a hell of a fire year already, all over the west.
I love riding through Lassen, and it was pretty sweet to be entering familiar territory.
Funny, I have the same photo, with my other bike, from the beginning of my trip last year.
Sort of brings it all full circle. All roads are one, in some sense.
I had a half-baked plan to camp near Mt. Lassen, take a nap, and hike up to the summit under the full moon. This plan, while grand, was thwarted when I discovered that there was only a single camp site left in the entire national park, and it was right next to a group of 20 rowdy boy scouts. Did I need that? I did not need that. Really, I was pretty tired and sore for a high-altitude, midnight solo trek, anyway. But I do love Lassen nonetheless, even if they did just smear goddamn chip seal on the southern half of the road.
I kept going south, following Hwy 32 near Deer Creek. I stopped at a small campground near the creek, set up camp, and had a lovely, leisurely evening swimming in the creek (and skinnydipping when I found a secluded spot), and reading (leaned against a rock near a deep creek pool) the 'zines that Oskar had loaned me, all about a woman who fishes the salmon run off Kodiak Island every summer. I cast an eye at the fat little trout in the creek, but alas, had no fishin' stuff.
It was a little bittersweet, knowing it would be my last night on the road, but my body was beat to hell by now, and I did miss my bed, my girlfriend, and regular meals. I mean, by now I'd been waking myself from deep sleep, doing motions that suspiciously resembled shifting and rolling on the throttle.
Last edited:
Nemo Brinker
Tonight we ride
yella600rr said:Your words with the pictures are excellant. I'm through day 4 but I need to get ready for work.
I got up early this morning to have a cup of java and read the journel of your trip. I do believe I look forward to doing the same thing tomorrow morning.
Ummmm BTW you're a hawty!
You like that helmet hair, eh sweetheart? Thx!
Nemo Brinker
Tonight we ride
Day 13 Map
Well, it was the last day; time to head home. I packed up, and the retired folks (Julia and Don, I think) camped next to me offered me a cup of coffee and friendly conversation. It was nice to talk to folks who were curious, rather than worried or disapproving, about me traveling alone on a bike. Funny how good people can be on the road, sometimes.
I wandered up the creek to eat my beef jerky (black coffee and beef jerky, breakfast of champions) and watch the birds.
I headed down the road (32 is nice and twisty, but the pavement isn't in great shape, and there's a fair amount of traffic) and came out of the forest, stopping only to eat blackberries by the road. Once I got into Chico, it was, of course, 100 degrees.
There were, however, a bunch of cheerleaders by the side of the road, scantily clad and waving signs for a car wash. Hello, what's this? I looked down at my bug-crusted windshield and my dust-covered fairings, and considered it providence. I turned around, and pulled in. Sure enough, a bevy of scantily-clad cheerleaders were holding a fundraiser. Well!
Me: Do you wash bikes?
Underage hottie in bikini: Sure, I think so!
Me: (smirk) Here's my donation!
Somewhat sadly, the lone guy who'd been roped into helping his sister was all over the bike, telling the girls, "I'd better take care of this one." "Why are you washing the shortest vehicle?" asked the 8-year-old, and I agreed, but he was really into bikes and wanted to do it. Ah, well, I got to watch the other girls scrubbing down cars.
They let me hose my clothes down for the ride home, too.
Much cleaner, the VFR and I headed back out. I still couldn't take the idea of the freeway, though, so I stuck to the Sacramento River instead of heading straight for the 5.
I thought there were no surprises left, since I was on familiar roads, but I took a wrong turn on Hwy 45 near Colusa and found this little shrine near the road.
I'm not catholic (this spot was the site of the first catholic mass in Colusa County) but I bet the shrine looks pretty neat all lit up with candles at night, out in the middle of the fields.
I did finally hit the 5 and the 80, fought the bad pavement and the increasingly aggro traffic, and made it home: somewhat the worse for wear, a little wistful, and a much better rider. It was a little strange, unpacking, to realize that the little container of my dad's ashes wasn't there anymore: we scattered him up on the mountain, just where he wanted to be.
Even before I could unpack and take a shower, though, I wanted to see my lovely girlfriend. She was fabulous: she acted as if I was some kind of returning hero. She cooked me fabulous dinner, made much of me, and spent that night and the next day helping me feel much better about returning home. Yum, oh, yum. Humble gratitude, my love!
Sorry, I'm not gonna show you those pictures.
When I went to change the oil and wash the VFR more thoroughly, several days after getting home, I pulled the fairings off, wondering why there was an ant trail leading to the bike, and discovered a dead bird (?!). What a weird, macabre little thing: a juvenile sparrow, looked like, who had flown into the very small opening between the from fairing and my pipe, and died stuck between the radiator and the frame on the right side. I had to pull off the radiator to get the thing out, and wash everything off thoroughly.
In any case, though, aside from the coolant incident, which was my own damn fault, the VFR purred flawlessly down every road I pointed her at: high-speed burns through the open Nevada desert, slippery, shifty gravel roads in Montana, dirt tracks in Colorado, euphorically wide sweepers in Utah and tight, technical curves in Idaho. Hell of a fine bike, she is. Oh, and I wasn't riding especially aggressively (vultures and all) but the Metzler Z6s gave nary a slip on anything paved, wet or dry. And yes, I did wave to the folks on Harleys...usually as I passed them!
Now that I've completed my re-entry into everyday life, sitting here at my desk, I'm already starting to gloss over the parts of the trip that were heavy on the pain, uncertainty, monkeybutt, and solitude, and plotting my next adventure. Alaska, British Columbia, maybe the Alps sometime.
Well, it was the last day; time to head home. I packed up, and the retired folks (Julia and Don, I think) camped next to me offered me a cup of coffee and friendly conversation. It was nice to talk to folks who were curious, rather than worried or disapproving, about me traveling alone on a bike. Funny how good people can be on the road, sometimes.
I wandered up the creek to eat my beef jerky (black coffee and beef jerky, breakfast of champions) and watch the birds.
I headed down the road (32 is nice and twisty, but the pavement isn't in great shape, and there's a fair amount of traffic) and came out of the forest, stopping only to eat blackberries by the road. Once I got into Chico, it was, of course, 100 degrees.
There were, however, a bunch of cheerleaders by the side of the road, scantily clad and waving signs for a car wash. Hello, what's this? I looked down at my bug-crusted windshield and my dust-covered fairings, and considered it providence. I turned around, and pulled in. Sure enough, a bevy of scantily-clad cheerleaders were holding a fundraiser. Well!
Me: Do you wash bikes?
Underage hottie in bikini: Sure, I think so!
Me: (smirk) Here's my donation!
Somewhat sadly, the lone guy who'd been roped into helping his sister was all over the bike, telling the girls, "I'd better take care of this one." "Why are you washing the shortest vehicle?" asked the 8-year-old, and I agreed, but he was really into bikes and wanted to do it. Ah, well, I got to watch the other girls scrubbing down cars.
They let me hose my clothes down for the ride home, too.
Much cleaner, the VFR and I headed back out. I still couldn't take the idea of the freeway, though, so I stuck to the Sacramento River instead of heading straight for the 5.
I thought there were no surprises left, since I was on familiar roads, but I took a wrong turn on Hwy 45 near Colusa and found this little shrine near the road.
I'm not catholic (this spot was the site of the first catholic mass in Colusa County) but I bet the shrine looks pretty neat all lit up with candles at night, out in the middle of the fields.
I did finally hit the 5 and the 80, fought the bad pavement and the increasingly aggro traffic, and made it home: somewhat the worse for wear, a little wistful, and a much better rider. It was a little strange, unpacking, to realize that the little container of my dad's ashes wasn't there anymore: we scattered him up on the mountain, just where he wanted to be.
Even before I could unpack and take a shower, though, I wanted to see my lovely girlfriend. She was fabulous: she acted as if I was some kind of returning hero. She cooked me fabulous dinner, made much of me, and spent that night and the next day helping me feel much better about returning home. Yum, oh, yum. Humble gratitude, my love!
Sorry, I'm not gonna show you those pictures.
When I went to change the oil and wash the VFR more thoroughly, several days after getting home, I pulled the fairings off, wondering why there was an ant trail leading to the bike, and discovered a dead bird (?!). What a weird, macabre little thing: a juvenile sparrow, looked like, who had flown into the very small opening between the from fairing and my pipe, and died stuck between the radiator and the frame on the right side. I had to pull off the radiator to get the thing out, and wash everything off thoroughly.
In any case, though, aside from the coolant incident, which was my own damn fault, the VFR purred flawlessly down every road I pointed her at: high-speed burns through the open Nevada desert, slippery, shifty gravel roads in Montana, dirt tracks in Colorado, euphorically wide sweepers in Utah and tight, technical curves in Idaho. Hell of a fine bike, she is. Oh, and I wasn't riding especially aggressively (vultures and all) but the Metzler Z6s gave nary a slip on anything paved, wet or dry. And yes, I did wave to the folks on Harleys...usually as I passed them!
Now that I've completed my re-entry into everyday life, sitting here at my desk, I'm already starting to gloss over the parts of the trip that were heavy on the pain, uncertainty, monkeybutt, and solitude, and plotting my next adventure. Alaska, British Columbia, maybe the Alps sometime.
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CeruleanSkye
Rock Steady Vibe
- Joined
- May 12, 2006
- Location
- The 408
- Moto(s)
- 06 CBR 600RR; 06 Ninja 500 (sold); 07 KLX 300R
- Name
- Kitteh!
Awesome photos and stories! It was like a mini-escape!
Thanks for sharing!
I wish I could take a vacation!
Thanks for sharing!
I wish I could take a vacation!