It's been just over a week since we returned from our ride. I'm still getting used to not being on a bike all day, not having to find a place to sleep every night, not waking up in a different city every day. The first of those things is something I miss especially. Financial rewards notwithstanding, sitting at a desk for eight hours a day is much harder than riding for ten.
Riding day after day, not staying put, you discover so much, not least about yourself. But covering so many miles a day, you can only skim the surface of things, never get to know anything too deeply. I'd like to go back to many of the places we visited, and some of the ones we didn't get to visit, and spend more time getting to know them better. There are so many places I haven't been yet, though. It's hard to justify do-overs when so much more begs to be done for the first time. (Well, the first time for me, anyway.)
It will likely be a couple of years before I can justify a ride like this again. These things cost money, which has other priorities clamouring for it. And there are the responsibilities that come with being married - which I wouldn't give up for anything.
There's also something in daily life that's hostile to the kind of freedom that the road offers. That's the curse/blessing of adult life: the necessity of balancing freedom and responsibility. If you choose too much of one or the other, you risk becoming either outlaw or docile.
Nobody wants to be docile, but we all like the romance of the outlaw. Why else would books and movies be so filled with outlaw heroes? We all know in our hearts, though, that the anarchic instinct is akin to the kind of vertigo we feel at the cliff's edge, urging us to lean just a little further out, and then further still. Or the feeling we get leaned over in a sharp turn, when we are on the very edge of our balance, and our skill. Part of us wants to push further, lean deeper, go faster, go all the way. But mostly we don't, reasonably fearing the crash that awaits.
Still, every time I think about it, the road beckons. And that won't stop. And so I'll spend the next year or so deciding what the next long ride should be, and then planning for it. I still want to do my original idea: Vancouver to to L'anse aux Meadows in Newfoundland, and back. There through Canada, back through the US. But who knows? There is so much to see in so many places, and the road has a way of taking you places you never expected.
In the meantime there are day rides and weekend rides. Shorter roads that beg for exploration, unexpected places not so far from our doors. Charted but undiscovered, you might say. We'll find them two wheels at a time.
Crescent City to Portland, by the coastal route we had planned to take, meant riding for more than eight and a half hours, not including stops for fuel or food. Taking the US 199 and the I-5, however, would take less than six hours. It was going to be our 20th day on the bikes. We were tired. We took the interstate.
I have no regrets about that decision, boring as the I-5 often is. There was nothing new to see on the 101. I've ridden and driven the route before, and it's fantastic, but after California, it would be just more of the same in Oregon.
The US 199, however, turned out to be a great ride, with lots of twists and turns, tall trees rising on either side of the road, a steep drop to a river on our right. With the exception of the moments stuck behind timid Harley riders, it was a fantastic start to the day.
The I-5, as I said, is often dull, but it does have the advantage of being fast. We reached Eugene in time for lunch, and Portland in time for dinner. It was hot and muggy, and we were dripping with sweat by the time we checked in and unloaded the bikes.
After quick showers, we headed to Henry's Tavern for dinner. The food was excellent, and the beer even better. Henry's is like Mecca for beer drinkers, with roughly 100 taps devoted to microbrews and ciders from the West Coast. We ended up staying till just after last call, then walked back to the hotel.
The last day of the ride, we exhausted and missing our partners. We chose the I-5 again, reaching the border by half past two. We gassed up the bikes one last time in Blaine, then shook hands and went our separate ways. Colin wanted to re-enter at the Truck Crossing. It was closer for me to use Peace Arch.
I was a little sad the trip had to end, but everything does. And I was, at the same time, happy to be coming home. After a relatively short, but seemingly interminable wait in the queue, I was waved through with only a few questions.
Between the border and downtown Vancouver, I encountered more driving idiocy than I had in the previous three weeks. There are some things about home I really didn't miss.
Looking back, here are some stats about our ride:
11,000 kilometres ridden
21 days on the bikes
12 states traveled through
10 National Parks visited
4 pairs of sunglasses lost or destroyed
1 iPod lost and replaced
Here is a short video Colin produced of our California ride. As always, we hope you enjoy.
Friday, September 23, 2011
We are in Oregon. We have been at Henry's Tavern, and I am in not in any shape for a full post. So, the top five things I'm looking forward to after I get home tomorrow:
5) Resuming my workout routine. It's been three weeks since I did any serious exercise.
4) Seeing my cats. Meow.
3) Catching up on Breaking Bad.
2) Seeing my mom and my friends again.
1) Being with Adele.
That's all for now. Tomorrow we'll be home again. I'll have a final post in the next few days.
Up early and on the road by shortly after nine, we rode US Hwy 101 North from San Rafael to Petaluma, a pretty little town about fifteen or so miles North of San Francisco, just inside Sonoma County. It looks like the kind of place you'd want to settle down in. It had an old, historic looking downtown, and neat old houses, well-maintained for the most part. The weather was cool, but sunny, and we rode calmly along a country road that ran between Petaluma and Bodega Bay, on the coast.
We had a quick (sort of ) breakfast in Bodega Bay, and then were slaloming up California State Hwy 1 - a mecca for motorcyclists.
The twists and turns are so relentless, you often feel more like your are skiing than riding. And the turns get so tight, you have to lean your bike much further than you'd really like to just to stay on your side of centre. And that's if you're a somewhat cautious rider like me. If you're a maniac, (not, most assuredly, like Colin), you just dive in and go, and when things straighten out, you go even faster.
This lasted, with very few interruptions, for about five hours. We did, naturally, have to stop for gas once or twice, and another time pulled over just to take pictures of the surf. It's so rare to see the tides not tamed by an intervening island.
The water pounded and crashed repeatedly against rocks the size of a large-ish house. In a strange way it was a soothing break from the road.
Eventually, Hwy 1 winds its way up to Legget, which is little more than a gas station and a couple of houses, for all I could see. There you merge back onto Hwy 101, which has its own twists and turns, and leads through unnumbered small towns and through what will be our last National Park on this trip, Redwood. Sadly, there was no place to purchase a sticker for my bags, which are now nearly covered anyways.
Before reaching the park, though, we had to pull in at Eureka for gas. The whole town was blanketed with low, cold clouds, which weren't quite fog (yet). We talked briefly about calling it quits for the day, as it was already half past five. It would be at least another hour and a half till we reached our target destination of Crescent City, just North of Redwood National Park.We didn't like the feel of the town. It was even sketchier than Vallejo - sort of like Greybull on a much larger scale. So we decided to push on.
The clouds lowered to ground level just a little ways past Arcata, and they settled there for pretty much the rest of the ride, with only brief, teasing moments of reprieve, where the dimming sunlight threatened to burn the clouds off. By the time we reached Redwood National Park, the fog was hung in the trees like disused curtains, or a sepulchral tinsel.
When we reached a place called Elk Meadows we found, of course, a small heard of Elk in a meadow. About twenty or thirty of them. A little ways past that was Lost Man Creek, where I supposed we could find a creek, and where at some point, I'm sure, a man had become lost. The place names are nothing if not imaginative.
We rolled into Crescent City about five minutes after sunset, and checked in to the first available place for the night.
Tomorrow we continue homeward, stopping for the night, likely in Portland. It should be a good ride, and Portland is one of my favourite cities in the Western United States. But with Hwy 1 and the last of our ten national parks behind us, the rest will be a sort of denouement to our three week (mis-)adventure. It's been a great ride, but it will be nice to come home to our partners, and our families and friends.
Colin is working on another video, which I'll post a link to as soon as it's available.
We were up early, and on the road before ten, which is pretty good for us. After gassing up the bikes, we set out on US 395 into the Sierras. It was already pretty warm, for Northerners like us, and bound to get warmer.
The road snaked its way up the hills into mountain passes, a steady incline of roughly eight degrees. Cactus gave way to oak trees, and we re-entered Inyo National Forest. The temperature lowered as the altitude increased, but I had no regrets this time about not putting on my cold weather gloves. It was still warm enough.
Eventually we left the 395 for California State Road 120, a.k.a., Tioga Pass Road. Fortunately, the road was open, or we'd have had to sweat our way through Death Valley - and today would prove to be hot enough without that.
The 120 is brilliantly serpentine in its design. Which is good, because the scenery, breathtaking as it was, lacked the strangeness that we'd experienced over the past several days in New Mexico, Colorado and Utah. Anyone who has traveled much in the Rockies won't find the Sierras strange.
Tall oak and pine trees, high rocky peaks of grey stone, waterfalls descending in a rush over cliff edges from pent up lakes. If it weren't for all the curves in the road, what would have held our attention for the hundred-odd kilometres traveling through the park?
Aside from a quick stop at the visitors centre, where I purchased yet another sticker for my bags while Colin adjusted his video camera, now affixed to the top of his helmet, we rode more or less non-stop through the park, occasionally frustrated by the timorous four-wheeled travelers impeding our progress.
Eventually we left the park, and continued on the 120 to Groveland, a small town in the Western Sierras, where I once waited for close to two hours for a tow truck, which was stationed about a mile away, to carry me and my old bike to a dealer in Modesto. Today's visit was less stressful. We stopped for lunch at the Iron Door Saloon, both of us, apparently, craving grilled cheese sandwiches.
The Iron Door is a fantastic place, with wadded up dollar bills stuck to the ceiling throughout. It is an old-style saloon - it's not just a bar - that has been there for more than 150 years. A stuffed bear cub and coyote cavort above the bar, and a buffalo head is mounted above the entrance. I remembered it having been recommended on my previous visit to the town, but then I didn't feel like eating.
After refueling ourselves, we did the same for the bikes, then continued our descent from the high point of the Sierras, some 9,800 ft, down to the small plain that leads from the mountains to the sea. All the while, it got progressively hotter. By the time we reached Oakdale, it was well over 40 C (that's 'freakin' hot!' in Harenfeit).
We slogged our way between date and almond farms, wilting in our gear, until we reached Manteca. There we turned off of the 120 onto Interstate 580, bound for San Francisco.
We had already decided, though, that we were going to bypass San Fran, since we a) wouldn't really have time to see much of it, arriving only at around six p.m., and b) wanted to avoid paying any tolls. In the past, the Bay Area Transit Authority exempted motorcycles from bridge tolls, but, alas, no longer.
We soon discovered, however, that you can run but can't hide from BATA. After bouncing from one interstate to the next, we finally did have to pay $5 for the pleasure of entering Vallejo, a working class suburb of San Francisco. We stopped there just long enough to agree not to stop there, and then were on our way to San Rafael, speeding past San Quentin Prison on the way. I began to sing 'Folsom Prison Blues' to myself in my helmet.
We arrived in San Rafael at about half past six, checked into a hotel, and settled in for the night. Time now to rest up for tomorrow's ride, along the brilliantly and insanely twisty Hwy 1.
*****
Thanks to everyone who's visited this blog. We've had people sign in from Canada and the United States, Greece, Germany and Peru. I hope you've been enjoying this so far.
*****
Here is the link to Colin's video of our visits to Bryce and Zion. As always, please enjoy responsibly.
I couldn't post an update yesterday, as the hotel we stayed in didn't have free Wi-Fi, and frankly, we're too cheap to pay thirteen bucks for it. Well, I know I am, anyway.
*****
We were up early and on the road to Bryce by half past eight. Our recent good luck with weather was holding, and it was sunny and cool as we set off.
A block from the motel we turned up a street that became UT Hwy 14, connecting the sleepy by pleasant town of Cedar City, home to a Shakespeare Festival and Southern Utah University, with US Hwy 89, from which one can access not only such well known metropoli as Panguitch and Kanab, but also, and more importantly to us, the entrances to Bryce Canyon and Mount Zion National Parks, both of which we intended to visit before heading to Vegas.
Colin had warned me that it would get 'very cold, very fast.' Still, I couldn't believe I would need more than my leather gauntlets and heated grips, and the lining zipped into my leather jacket. He was right, I was wrong. Hwy 14 ascends to some 10,000 ft above sea level, and at just after nine on a September morning, that means cold. Most of me was ok, just a little chilled, but my fingers were numb before we reached the summit.
Aside from that, and the occasional moment of blindness coming round a corner out of shadow into glaring sunlight, the ride was excellent. There were almost no other vehicles to spoil it either, a sign near the entrance to the highway proclaiming it was 'not recommended for semi trucks.'
In a much shorter time than foretold by Google Maps, we arrived at the entry gate to Bryce Canyon National Park. After a quick visit to the gift shop, to pick up another sticker for my bags, we headed into the park. I'm pretty sure we saw more deer in Bryce than in all the previous days of our trip combined. Thankfully, none were on the road. We rode to a trailhead for a couple of viewpoints, and hiked to them. Like Arches the day before, the scenery was out of this world. Tall spires of sandstone carved out by wind and rain over millennia, with arches high in the cliff walls.
We encountered wildlife on the trail, too: chipmunks and salamanders scurrying through the scrub. One of the chipmunks posed for several photos for us before scrambling to safety.
We could have spent hours there - some of the hikes would have required us to - but we needed to keep moving.
Next up was Zion National Park, a few dozen miles down Hwy 89 from Bryce. The ride there was enjoyably uneventful. The sun was higher in the sky now, and the temperatures were increasing. Never mind the gauntlets, it was time now for my warm weather gloves! The liner was out of my jacket, too, and I opened all the vents in my jacket and helmet. Let the air in! Breathe!
By the time we reached Zion it was approaching 'hot'. Proably 30 or more
Celsius, if I were guessing. The landscape here was different from
either Arches or Zion, although still predominantly sandstone. Here
everything was oversized. This was a place made for dinosaurs, not
people. Boulders whose diametres were measured in scores of feet were
strewn casually about ravines like forgotten toys. We rode through a
long, dark tunnel, with windows allowing the light to peak in every 500
ft or so.
We were stuck for long stretches behind insanely insecure drivers who insisted on going 15 mph if the signs said 25, 10 or less if they said 15. There were times I thought I would have to get off my bike and push it. Eventually we reached the South entrance of the park, and I ducked in again to the Visitors' Centre to pick up some stickers. It was, by now, well and truly baking. We rode into Springdale, pushed hard up against the Southern flank of the park, for lunch at a little Mexican place. I couldn't finish the taco salad, although it was easily the best I've ever had.
After lunch, we were back on the bikes in scorching heat of the Southern Utah desert, making our way to even hotter Las Vegas. I seriously considered taking off my leathers when we stopped for gas along the way. There were just too many drivers, though, who were more interested in their cell phones than the road to make that seem like a decent calculated risk. The two biggest issues on the road in America, from my casual and unscientific observations, are the preponderance of drivers who talk and text while driving, and the crazy everydayness of motorcyclists without helmets. I can't think of many combinations that could be worse.
We arrived in Las Vegas around 6 p.m., thoroughly exhausted and overheated. The 'secret hotel' that Travelocity picked for us is a few miles south of Mandaly Bay, at the Southern end of the strip. It's a nice enough place, but we might as well be staying at the airport, or in Henderson. We ate at one of the hotel restaurants, if only to avoid the additional cab fare of eating anywhere else. The casino is largely filled with largely filled-out Americans, and a large number of Phillipinos, too.
****
We were up early, and out of the hotel by half past eight. I wanted to stop and pick up a replacement iPod for the one I lost in Utah, and we wanted to look at boots at CycleGear. By the time all was said and done, we managed to clear the city limits at about one in the afternoon. The traffic was amazing. People in Vancouver should stop complaining. (Although I will join them when I'm back.)
We took the laser straight US Hwy 95 North from the City of Sin, pulling off for gas in Beatty, NV, immune to the siren song of Bikinis brothel, a few miles South of town. As neither of us were lashed to our bikes, we'll have to assume it was the earplugs that saved us from that ruination on the rocks. (If you don't know what I'm on about, go read The Odyssey.)
There was a sign leaving Beatty that read, 'Next Services 95 Miles'. I remembered a few years earlier, on my trip with Scott, that we had seen a similar sign at the Big Pine Junction. I also recall running out of gas 40 miles from Beatty. But we had full tanks today, and we should have no trouble making it a mere 155 km.
We continued up the 95 for another 83 km, then turned Westward on Nevada state highway 266. We continued on in a more or less straight line until reaching the state line. Then the now California state highway 266 began to change character. First, the pavement became much older. Then, after a total of 72 km on the 266, we switched over to the 168. And that's when the twisties began.
I didn't take pictures today, so here's another of Bryce Canyon.
California is twisty central. I'd almost forgotten, though, just how perversely this 61 km of road is. You crest a hill to discover a nearly 90 degree turn just past the rise. You're in a sharp upward turn, and find the apex is at the crest of the hill. This becomes especially challenging when you enter the thirteen miles of Inyo National Forest. Colin and I decided that the road designer was a frustrated modern artists, who thinks roads should resemble a Kandinsky. Either that or a roller coaster. In any event, our thighs - and buttocks - ached by the time we reached the junction with the US 395 to Bishop. About where the infamous sign had read 'No services for 97 miles' all those years ago. But looking at my trip metre, which I re-set when we filled up in Beatty, we'd traveled over 240 km. No wonder I ran out of gas! Oh, well. It wasn't much of a vindication. Better that I didn't repeat the mistake.
We took the 395 to Bishop, only to find the first three motels we tried to check into were booked up. Finally, we got the last room at the Comfort Inn. I asked why it was so hard to get a room on a Monday night, and the woman at the desk said, 'Why are you here?' Point taken.
Tomorrow we will cross the Sierras, passing through Yosemite National Park as we do. We hope to spend the night in San Francisco, before the rest of our journey becomes Northward. Homeward. It will be good to see our families again, and our other friends. All journeys have to have an end. But not yet. There are still four more days of riding. We have miles to go before we sleep, to borrow a phrase from Robert Frost.
In the meantime, here is Colin's latest video, featuring our rides through Mesa Verde and Arches National Parks. As always, we hope you enjoy.
Today began with Colin doing an excellent imitation of one of our better known local weather forecasters in Vancouver, Mark Madryga. 'A bit of low-level cloud resulting from marine air, but not likely that we'll see any precipitation.' An hour later, the imitation proved to be perfect, as an absolute deluge accompanied our breakfast. The rain eased off a little after our third or fourth (who's counting?) cup of coffee at PJ's Restaurant, which is a good little no-frills diner, if you ever find yourself in Monticello, Utah. We ran back to the hotel to finish packing up and check out.
Unfortunately, just before we were ready to hit the road, the rain came down in buckets again. If we hadn't been on relatively high ground, I'd have been worried about a flash flood. It was no good trying to start out in such a mess, so we sat and waited until it eased again, at around ten - a good hour later than we'd hoped to start.
The rain was steady until we were about half way to Moab, then it began to trail off. As we rode between towering Mesas, our gear and our bikes slowly began to dry. We reached Moab, on the sunny side of the storm, a little before eleven, and pulled over on a side street to shed our rain-proof layer. I was warm and dry, except for my feet. I really have to replace these boots. They're great when it's dry, but crap in the rain.
We rode to Arches in warm sunshine, and our moods were definitely much improved from the time spent in Monticello, which is not a bad little town, playing the sort of role in relation to Moab that Castlegar does in relation to Nelson.
After stopping at the visitor centre so I could pick up some more stickers for my bags, we rode into the park on a narrow, winding road that, once again, would be brilliant if there were no cars on it. We pulled in at the Courthouse Tower Viewpoint to take photos. The immensity of the mesas is stunning, as is the copper red of their sandstone.
After a few minutes of walking around taking pictures, we got back on the bikes and rode till we reached the turn-off for Delicate Arch. Unfortunately, when we reached the parking area we found the trail had been flooded by the rains the previous night, and we had to turn back.
We continued along until we got to the parking area for Sandstone Arch and Broken arch. We pulled in and got out of our riding gear so we could hike in to the arches.
Sandstone was first, and was hidden between to narrow, towering mesas. We hiked in between them to the arch, took some photos, then hiked in further, until the path became too narrow for us. (Big shoulders, you know.)
We hiked back out, and headed off for the more distant Broken Arch, which we could see in the distance. We followed a very recently dried creek bed, which looked like it would be thigh or waste deep on me in a flash-flood, picking our way between sage and prickly pear, careful not to step on the beetles that occasionally scuttled across our path. There were many people on the trail, though not the tour bus loads of them that were at Mesa Verde yesterday. One of the best things about Arches is just how uncommercialized it is, especially compared to Yellowstone, Mount Rushmore and Mesa Verde.
Ringo?
After a decent, but not overly strenuous hike, we arrived at Broken Arch, so named because it appears to have a fracture in it. (The creativity is astounding, no?) It was much larger than Sandstone Arch, and large enough to be visible from at least a half mile away.
We climbed up the sandstone to the base of the arch, and walked through it, taking pictures both of it and the surrounding landscape. It was astonishing. The whole park makes you wish you were riding a horse in a Western movie, six guns in your holster, squinting into the sun like Clint Eastwood.
After riding and hiking around Arches for a couple of hours, we headed back to Moab for lunch at the Moab Brewery, before gassing up the bikes and heading North to the I-70.
I could have spent another week just in Moab, exploring the two National Parks and two State Parks they have handy; mountain biking, off-roading, sky-diving, river rafting. But there is only so much time, and I'm just grateful the weather cooperated with us today, so we didn't have to miss this like we did Chaco.
Once on the I-70, we made good time heading West. The speed limit is 75 mph, which is fairly reasonable, and we kept close to it for most of the way to the junction with the I-15.
Most interstates are not known for their scenic splendour, but the I-70 is an exception. Towering mesas, on either side, the road has sweeping curves, and is a great ride when you need to make time without making you feel like you've missed out on scenery.
We pulled in at one of the many viewpoints to take some photos of Black Dragon Canyon, but otherwise we were all business. It's a four-and-a-half hour ride from Moab to Cedar City, where we'd booked a room, and we didn't leave Moab till half past three. Sunset is around half past seven now, and we didn't want to spend a lot of time riding in the dark. Not only are there deer, which seem to have suicidal ideations involving motor vehicles, but it also gets cold at night. Even colder at 80, I mean 75 mph.
We arrived here in Cedar City at about eight, and checked in to our hotel, exhausted but happy that, after an initially dismal start to the day, we had such good luck with weather. Tomorrow, we'll try to get in Bryce Canyon and Zion National Park before heading to Las Vegas for the night.
Colin is currently working on the next video, which will feature Mesa Verde and Arches. Stay tuned for that!
Oh, and yesterday Google miscalculated our mileage as just over 240 km. It should have been roughly 325 km.
