Day 2: Baker, CA to Mount Carmel, Utah ~300 miles
When I walked outside, took a dusty breath, and stared deep into the armpit that is Baker, I felt a sigh of relief knowing the adventure had really begun. We were now deep in the desert and all of America waited ahead.
Joe plotted a course the previous night that would take us through Vegas and into Utah. We would stop at a motorcycle shop along the way for a few forgotten supplies, then blast into Utah working our way through Zion State Park. We weren’t sure how far we would make it, but Joe had hundreds of miles of great roads picked out from motorcycleroads.com, so things were looking good.
We blasted out of Baker and quickly crossed our first state line into Nevada. The trip through Vegas was pretty uneventful though we decided to drive down the strip as Joe had never seen it. While I’ve certainly become jaded with Vegas after years of tradeshows and other hijinks, it was pretty damn cool to roll down the strip on my motorcycle. This was the first time on the trip I realized how different ones perspective is on a motorcycle versus a car – places I had seen many times before took on a completely different feel and affect.
Once through Vegas we got off of I15 and headed toward . This was the first time we were off of major highways, and the two lane roads were wonderful. Unfortunately the traffic at the Hoover turnoff was out of control, so we skipped the damn and headed toward the canyons.
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Thumbs up for first real road!
We followed Valley of Fire State Park all through Nevada. The roads were great – fast, smooth, and lightly trafficked. We were able to keep a lot of speed without pushing too hard while leaning into some real corners for the first time. Even fully loaded, I was impressed with the handling and sure-footedness of the VFR. The bike was agile and willing, emitting a fantastic growl coming on VTEC as I ripped out of corners and flew down straights.
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After rapidly crossing the Arizona and Utah borders, the landscape morphed from stark grey to clay red, roads turned deep tar black, and canyons bloomed in the periphery. Unlike the higher speed riding earlier in the day, corners were increasingly tight and slow - mostly switchbacks with plenty of old-timey tunnels. Joe accidently pulled his first wheelie snapping on and off the throttle inside a tunnel, attempting to release the "v-twin thunder" (his words, not mine). I doubt either of us would have noticed had his raising headlight not lit the entire ceiling of the tunnel - pretty cool effect!
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One thing we did not expect was waiting for us on the decent. Zion National Park was under construction, and about 5 miles of downhill switchbacks had been torn up and were now loose gravel. I shat a brick. My bike tracked violently in the grooves and dips with the lightest application of throttle or brakes caused a complete loss of traction. Furthermore, speeds were so slow that the bikes were unstable (parking lot speeds) and we had to let cars pass, even minivans. Eventually we made it to the bottom, exhausted, but satisfied at what we had conquered.
Now at this point you’d figure things would be easy and we’d just eat some miles. Before we had left we made the general guideline of hitting the road around 9 and getting off by 6. This was to minimize poor visibility and keep us realistic about how many miles we could cover (target of 300 per day). I was anxious to keep racking up miles as we missed our target by 30%+ the previous day, but Mother Nature had other ideas. The temperature started to drop rapidly, from the 60s into the 40s. And then the sky opened up. This was the first time I had ever ridden in heavy rain, and while it wasn’t that bad from a riding perspective, it was nearly impossible to see. Fortunately the gear I purchased was doing a great job of keeping me dry and warm. We exited the park and stopped at the first motel we saw, the Thunderbird Lodge. A classic American motel full of truckers, Harley’s and Nic-nacs galore. We proceeded to watch my beloved Redskins get beat in the last drive by the Colts, ate some pretty decent food in the hotel restaurant, and hit the hay hard. The day ahead promised fantastic riding through arches national park, and we were excited.
Day 3: Mount Carmel, Utah to Bluff, Utah ~400mi
Day 3 was the shit. The most unbelievable riding experience of my life – one I doubt will ever be matched (not that I won’t try). The combination of the weather, the roads, the situation – pure perfection. Just enough went terribly wrong to make the whole thing terribly right.
We woke up to a cold and wet but no longer raining morning. We packed quickly, skipping breakfast, and bundled up. Temperatures were in the low 30s, and even with the right equipment, that is damn cold. We headed into the hills, stopping early for some Powerbars and hand warmers. I also had the scare of my life. While listening to some music, I was suddenly shocked by my mother’s voice loud and clear in my helmet. Apparently I had enabled auto answer on my SENA – her phone call being immediately transferred to the bluetooth. “Honey? Why is it so loud?? Where are you???” It almost knocked me off my bike. I managed to rush her off the phone and pulled over immediately to kill the auto answer feature.
As the morning wore on, the temperature began to rise and the sun came out. The timing was perfect - the roads got great just as the weather got great. We pulled over, removed our liners and neck warmers, put on the summer gloves, and got ready to tear it up. We had amazing views as we rapidly ascended out of the valley. We jumped off the bikes to snap some pics and chat with some fellow road trippers.
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We were making good progress over the next few hours, making fewer stops as we tried to burn up some miles and enjoy the sites. However, when we reached a particularly beautiful point in Glen Canyon (I think), we could no longer fight the urge to take a photo break. A constant tension through the trip was when and why to stop. I’m a firm believer that I was on that trip to ride, not to pull over, and therefore taking pictures was secondary. Joe had other ideas. Seeing what he thought was the perfect overlook, he pulled off quickly into what a reasonable man would quickly identify as a gigantic gravel trap. I watched him fishtail about as he desperately tried to stop, nearly missing the roads edge and plummeting to his beautiful but sure death. I radioed him that I’d find a safe spot ahead and wait for him there.
I saw a perfect turnoff ahead and went for it, even though it was a bit out of sight. I thought I’d go about snapping some pics quickly and be back on the road in time to catch Joe. However, the scene was epic and was unable to take it in quickly.
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When I returned to the road, Joe was nowhere in site and I knew the odds of finding him would be minimal. I made a quick run backwards to see if he was still there (he wasn’t) and then realizing he was probably trying to “catch me,” I turned around, twisted the throttle, and made chase. Now I’m all for being a reasonable man on public roads. I’ve spent a large part of my life racing cars and know the difference between a public highway and racetrack. However, I needed to catch my buddy, so my better judgment was lost and flat shifts, trail braking, and knee dragging (in my head anyway) ensued. For thirty minutes I rode the bike near the limit of my abilities through the most beautiful and thoroughly untrafficed roads any man has ever seen. I regularly hit huge speeds on the straights, took turns in the triple digits, and for lack of a better analogy tore that road up. It was fucking epic. Typing it now, as in my better conscious then, I realize how stupid and reckless that kind of riding is on public roads – but having made it through – it is easily one of the top experiences of my life.
So, taking a step away from riding like a jerk, I was starting to get nervous about Joe. I had been riding very fast (certainly faster than Joe could be riding...right?) for quite some time without seeing him. Thoughts ran through my mind of Joe actually falling off the cliff during his ill-advised gravel stop. Just when I was starting to get really nervous I came to an intersection, and in the distance, I could see Joe. I was exuberant – I approached him waving and giving thumbs up, but he had no reaction and seemed thoroughly displeased.
As one would figure, Joe reaction to loosing his riding partner was the same as mine – I need to catch him. He had been engaging in the same high-speed antics, and despite my initial doubt of his cajones, clearly kept up a good clip. He was sure I had perished in a twisted and awful accident – how would he find me? How would he explain it to my mother?
A good bro hug followed by a rapid download of our incredible feats of speed and adventure smoothed things over. His reaction to the “chase,” outside of his fears of death, were similar to mine – pure exhilaration, epic beauty, and the embodiment of why we went on this trip. However, there was just one small problem…
Joe was out of gas. *&%$#@!!!
Now when I say we were in the middle of nowhere, I mean it. The closest gas station was 50 miles out, approximately 45 miles farther than Joe could ride. We flagged down motorists, eventually learning there was a ranger station that had emergency gas 10 miles down the road. We rode extremely slowly, coasting down hills, and doing everything possible to keep the Italian hog from drinking up all the precious hydrocarbons that remained. We made it to the station, filled out more paperwork than required for a Cuban visa, and got a few gallons of precious 85 octane swill (at $4 a gallon thank you very much).
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I smile for gov't spec fuel
Full of low quality gasoline and seriously drained, the rest of the day was a slow and careful ride toward Mexican Hat. As we pulled up to a T-junction, I decided to pull over for a stretch and a map check. The problem was I chose to stop in some gravel and promptly dropped my bike, on my foot, and it hurt. Joe was coming behind and I motioned to him that I was in pretty severe pain and unable to get out from under the bike. He heroically jumped of his own bike to rescue me. Normally this would be followed with an embrace and expression of gratitude, but all I could do is laugh hysterically.
You see, Joe has a Hit Air jacket (www.hit-air.com) . Now I had given him a ton (A TON) of shit about his purchase earlier in the week as I thought the cable-activated system was more trouble than it was worth. When Joe jumped off his bike, he neglected to release the tether, causing his jacket to inflate fully. When I looked skyward to thank my brave rescuer, I was greeted by the fucking Michelin man! ☺ Furthermore, he somehow managed to drop his bike during the same graceful dismount – on the kickstand side – with the kickstand down. To add fuel to fire following the “chase” incident, Joe did not have any extra C02 cartridges, so his fancy jacket was now worthless.
The bikes were both fine, and a quick jump later (remember my battery issues) we were on our way to the Desert Rose Inn. We got there just as it got dark, checked into a very nice room, and had a great meal. I treated myself to some delicious Coors, checked in with the lady friend, and had one of the best nights of sleep anyone could ask for.
- Dan
Edited March 17, 2011 by danman