Summer 2005 Cross-Country Ride
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We did it. We rode across the United States. We were on the road for 20 days, 7799 miles, from California to North Carolina to Connecticut to Montana, back to California.

This beauty of this country cannot be appreciated by flying from one airport to another or by watching the news. Even if you don't want to ride three thousand miles (one way) from one side of the country to the other, get in your car or runnamucka and go. Forget about red states and blue states. Look at the land, the plains, the prairies, the mountain ranges, the deserts, the river valleys. If you are on a bike, you can smell the land and feel the air as well. Listen up people, we need to pay more attention to caring for the heath and beauty of our land - we must not take it for granted.

We tried to ride about 400-500 miles a day. We did some interstate sprints, and some back-road / national park meandering. We took a couple days off in North Carolina, Connecticut, Montana (Yellowstone), and Nevada.. There was triple-digit heat in the west, and thunderstorms in the east - hurricanes Cindy and Dennis - a freak thunder and lightning storm in Nevada (over one thousand lightning strikes in a 24-hour period), and delays due to road construction and automobile accidents.

Starting from Mountain View, CA, here's the quick summary of the trip:

On Highway 50, known as the "Loneliest road in America", we encountered a bug which the locals call a Mormon cricket. The eastern section of highway 50 is littered with the bodies of vehicle-crushed insects and their live brethren who are feeding on the carcasses. Even under dry conditions, the carnage creates a slick reddish surface. The heaviest rainstorm in ten years was in the process of washing the roads. The rain-soaked cricket carcasses created a road slime about 3/8" thick. I crested New Summit at about 60 mph and hit that slime on a downhill turn, lost traction and touched the front brake. Bad mistake. I wasn't able to manage the bike's shimmy. The short story is that the bike and I went down in the dirt. The poor bike's body work was a mess, but the bike was ridable. I have a bruise on the back of my left thigh the size of a papaya - right now it is black and purple and ugly. It would have been a lot worse if I hadn't been wearing leather.

Three individuals helped me get back on the road. Ron Carrion of Eureka helped Peter pull my bike out of the dirt, fished my right pannier out of scrub brush, and collected various bits of metal and plastic that littered the site. Ron blocked traffic with his truck for 24 miles as I limped the bike back to Austin - the shift rod was bent - I couldn't get it out past second gear. Phil, a KTM rider who was passing through, straightened out my shift rod so I could ride to a dealership in Reno. Rick at Triumph of Reno (aka Freedom Cycles) scrounged a pair of rear view mirrors, and cannibalized his own bike for other parts and got me back on the road.

I'll be writing up the story over the next few days - sooner if the muse stops by for a visit. In the name of science we taste-tested several "energy drinks" and stayed in several motel chains, which we rated.

Here's my packing list. I've noted the stuff I didn't use, as well as the stuff I would bring anyway as a sacrifice to the road trip gods.

Finally, because it is 12:47 in the morning and I can't get myself to shut up and go to bed, you all know that when it's catfish you're cookin', it's a mess of catfish, and on top of the hill is a copse of trees, but did you know that in Yellowstone National Park you can find an obstinacy of bison?

The Crash. I'm starting with the crash, because everyone wants to know what happened. One person even asked me to post a picture of my bruised backside. Just a general interest in posterior contusions? I don't think so. You'll have to settle for words and form the picture in your mind.

The Mormon crickets' normal migration territory is slashed by several major highways, including Highway 50, which advertises itself as the loneliest highway in America. If you love the high desert and you are not agoraphobic, you will love this road. Between Eureka and Austin, the road is also a massacre site for the crickets, which get run over by motorized vehicles. Their hard shells get crushed, exposing their mashed innards which effectively glues their carcasses together, forming a slick surface. The local riders know about this hazard. At Freedom Cycles in Reno, one Harley-Davidson rider told me that if the swarms of crickets are too thick, he turns around and finds some other route to ride. We encountered some crickets between Eureka and Austin, and the woman at the Shell Station at the top of the hill in Austin warned us about the cricket hazard, but we couldn't have understood how bad it was going to be.

That day we had ridden in from Elko at the beginning of what would be the heaviest rain, lightning and thunderstorm the area had seen in ten years. We're riding with lighting striking the ground on either side of us, about every ten minutes. We were in the middle of nowhere, no trees, no shelter.

There are differing views of what the safest thing to do is when caught in a lightning storm in the middle of nowhere. I have been soundly chastised for suggesting that riding the bikes through the storm was safe, so I've done a little research. If you are stuck out in the open (no buildings), the safest place is in a car. Oh, by the way, the lightning current can flow through the metal frame of a car so if you are caught in a lightning storm while inside your car do not touch the exposed metal. Not so safe is on the bikes; you're still tallest object for miles around. What I can't figure out is who was dumber, us, or the group of four riders who had dismounted their BMW GS bikes. They were standing behind bikes, watching the light show. The guys were both six footers. Sitting on their bikes they would have been at least a foot shorter. Joshing aside, in our case, we should have known better. We saw the weather as we left Elko, and we put ourselves out there anyway.

We had topped off our tanks in Eureka and headed west to Austin. Twenty four miles out of Austin, a virtual ghost town, we reach the top of New Summit. We were not speeding, we were mindful of the wet road. Cresting the road, we rode down a passage that is one of the few areas that doesn't get full sun - the passage is carved through a hill. It does get rain, and the road maintenance people had recently thrown sand on the cricket goo. The right side of the road was covered with a brick-red 3/8" slime. There were two curves in the road, one about a third of the way down, one at the end.

Peter hit the slime before I did. He felt the bike lose some traction, but didn't feel the need reduce his speed. He managed the bike through the mid-hill turn and the bottom of the hill turn. After he noticed that I wasn't in his rear view mirror, he tapped his brakes. The road was still coated with cricket slime. Despite the VFR's ABS brakes, the bike twisted and tracked sideways so Peter let the bike's momentum run out completely before putting his feet down.

When I hit the slime, my bike started to shimmy. I touched my front brake which instantly caused the shimmy to increase. The downhill angle added momentum to the speed I was already carrying, which was too much. I hear myself yelling in my helmet. "Why are you yelling?" I asked myself. "That is useless. You need to figure out how you're going to get this bike under control." "I can't help yelling, there is too much input to process right now, and yelling is autonomic, not cognitive - it's a pressure release." "Well at least you aren't screaming. Still, we're going down. Make a decision, tarmac or dirt." "(a long holler in the background) If we go down on the tarmac, not only will it damage us more than the dirt, we might also hit whoever is just about to come around the curve at the bottom of the hill, or get run over. Better lay it down in the dirt." "Done."

The next thing I knew I was sliding on the dirt on my left side. Remembering film footage of racers who try to stand up too soon and break their collar bones after surviving a 100 mph get-off, I lay on the ground for a moment or two hoping I wouldn't see the bike coming down on me. I didn't see the bike above me, nor did I sense that I was still moving, and best yet, nothing felt broken. I stood up carefully and found my bike dug in to the dirt about ten feet away. The engine was dead. The mirrors were sheared off. One pannier was ten feet away in one direction, we would find the other pannier hidden in the scrub brush in the ravine about fifteen to twenty feet the other direction. My tank bag had ripped free of its double-zippered mount. The D-rings of the tail-bag webbing had ripped out.

I took off my helmet and started collecting bike parts and my belongings into a pile. A green Subaru wagon on its way up the hill pulled off the road and stopped. This is the car I would have crashed into or been run over by had I stayed on the road. The young couple was concerned for me, but clearly didn't want to get near my bike. I asked them if they would go find Peter, and let him know I needed help.

As they turned around and went down the hill, a big pickup truck pulled over. This guy, Ron, was a local, and had seen his share of busted bikes. Peter showed up at the same time. It took the two of them to pull the bike up out of the dirt and stand it up. The pannier that was in the ravine had cracked open, and the crickets were already rooting through my stuff, looking for food. I swatted them away but they just stood on their hind legs and hissed at me, "Finders, keepers! Finders, keepers!". Ron flicked them off the pannier then stepped on them. Crunch.

The body work was still attached to the bike, but let's just say it was a bad fit. The foot rest on the left side was missing. The shift rod was bent. The head of the brake pedal had broken off. The counterweight on the left handle bar was sheared off. The passenger hand rail at the tail of the bike was scraped and gouged. So, now what? Could the bike be ridden to a shop or did we have to get a flat bed truck? Peter put his hands on my shoulders, forced me to stand still, and looked me in the eyes, looking for pupil size mismatch, a sign of concussion. I assured him I was okay. He didn't buy it - we are equally stubborn and capable of ignoring pain. I was running on adrenaline, and he knew it.

The bike's engine turned over on the first try. It sounded okay. Nothing was leaking. The forks weren't bent. Peter turned the bike to face the road and asked if I wanted him to ride it back to Austin. Ron told us we were too far from Fallon and I knew I shouldn't try anyway. No, I was going to ride it; I was not going to ride his bike - what if I dropped his bike, too?

Peter lead the way because I had no mirrors. With my stuff in his truck bed, Ron drove his truck to block any traffic that might come up behind me, and we limped back to Austin at 50-mph, 6,000 rpm, because the shift rod is bent and can't get out of second gear. And no, none of us knew how to fix that at the time. Ron left us off at the Chevron station at the west end of Austin next to the Pony Canyon Inn. A modest establishment, but more than sufficient. I tripped on the door step to our room, and slammed my arm into the door. That hurt. That's when I realized the adrenaline was subsiding. The rain was coming down in torrents now.

A KTM rider pulled into the gas station. After he fueled up, I asked him if he could help me fix my shift rod. Phil was just passing through. He had two panniers filled with tools and would be delighted to use them. With practiced hands, he removed the round cap from the assembly, pulled the clip, removed the bent rod, gently straightened it, and reassembled everything. Then he removed the stump of left foot rest and replaced it with the passenger left foot rest. The angle of the foot rest would be wrong, but it would be better than having nothing the press my heel against when shifting. It was raining so hard, Phil got a room, too. At least he let us buy him dinner. He left at three in the morning.

We left at six in the morning and rode about 240 miles to Reno where Rick of Freedom Cycles / Triumph of Reno was expecting me. Rick had arranged for the pair of rearview mirrors to be ready, and was willing to cannibalize one of his bikes for whatever else I needed. He understood that this was a recovery effort, and I'd deal with the cosmetic issues when I got home. The bike passed their safety check, so I rode it home. The poor bike looks like hell, but the two of us finished the last 500 miles together - it would have been a real bummer to finish this trip on the back of a flatbed truck.

* * *

I spent most of the next day cleaning the bikes. It was the least I could do to pay my respects to them for their hard work and good service. When the drive chains of both bikes showed light-reflecting silver and not grimy black, I started to think how nice it would be to drive the car for the week to come.

Forthcoming Topics:

• Wearing full riding gear in hot weather
• Mormon Crickets - What I Didn't Learn in Grade School Geography
• The Connectedness of Riding as a Pair
• Pity the Vegetarian in a Roadside Diner
• Planning vs. Being in the Moment
• Sometimes You Gotta Just Lie Down and Sleep
• Beware of Automatic-flush Toilets
• Sightseeing? No. It's about the Ride. Just the Ride.
• Hearing? What?
• Last Resort Advice for Numb Nuts Who Get Caught in Lightning Storms
• Fresh Hay, Pine, and the Air Just Before a Rain Storm

I have just learned that a family member has died. The technician tried to cheer me up by suggesting that salvage would be nice to carry the memories into the future. I can’t think about that right now, I’m in shock. I got the phone call at work so now I’m having trouble staying focused. I suppose I could plead bereavement so I could go home and keen for my motorcycle.

The insurance estimator and the service manager at the Triumph dealership agreed on the extent of the damage. Even if they fix it, warrantying the bike is a no-go. I'm dependent on the dealership to maintain the bike so it doesn't make sense to have a bike that is less than a year old with no warranty, especially one with computer chips for brains. The sum of the parts, labor, and tax is to close to the Kelly Blue Book value of the bike, so the bike is being written off as a total loss. I’ll get a check from the insurance company. The bike’s finance company will get most of the payoff. I don’t want to think about how this is going to affect my insurance rates for the next three years.

* * *

On the trip, we entered Yellowstone National Park through the east entrance through Cody. That section of the park road was being maintained and had been stripped down to the gravel road bed. There was one lane open and we were lined up with cars and runnamuckas, our engines turned off, waiting for our turn.

Lined up like lemmings, headed for the edge of a cliff – that’s how I felt about it. I have little experience on gravel. I remember too well digging myself in on a back road in Death Valley. Yes I rode the gravel path to the entrance of Pompey’s Pillar in Montana, but that was like 350 yards and I could see the end of it. We’re told this unpaved section is about seven miles.

I’m starting to freak out – quietly, in my reserved, contained manner. Death Valley was flat. Peter was the only person there to see my incompetence (and rescue me). This road doesn’t look like it’s gonna stay flat, and there’s a potential audience of fifty or so vehicles, plus the road crew… I’m working myself into a very unhappy state when I hear a voice saying, “don’t worry, I’ll take care of you.” I look at Peter. He’s looking ahead at the flagger. I look into my own mind, looking for a vision, or something. Nothing. The message came in on the auditory channel, but to call it “hearing” is stretching things. Still, fine, something is going to take care of me, and I sure as heck need that right now. I feel my anxiety subside.

A few minutes later the line of vehicles starts to move forward. In addition to the dirt and gravel, many of those miles were exposed on one side - no guardrails. I didn’t dare look anywhere but directly in front of me – just scanning a little bit ahead and back to a few feet in front me. I had been appreciating the bike’s tires the whole trip, and was blessing them even more now. The gravel section ends and we finish the ride to the lake on paved road. The vast blue spectacle of the lake could not compete with the enormity of relief and gratitude I felt to be off that gravel section. I patted the side of the tank, "good bike, good bike".

* * *

I'll get more detail about the nature of the bike's damage next week when I talk with the insurance company and with the service manager. Knowledge will help ease the pain, but it won't change the outcome. Will one bottle of sake be enough to numb the sickness I feel in my heart and belly? My poor bike is ruined because I didn't know how to handle the Nevada equivalent of a long patch of black-ice. I get it that the insurance company is just following standard procedure - the cost of repair falls between the low and high Kelly Blue Book value, so from business point of view, it doesn't make sense to repair the hunk of steel, plastic, rubber and electronics. But that hunk of design and parts was not just a bike, it was my companion, and manifested a spirit, a connection to the universe. Sure, I can establish that connection again with another bike, but right now my heart aches and I am empty without my SprintST.

* * *

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you.” You did, my dear friend, you did, more than you’ll ever know. Thank you, thank you, and farewell.