Epilogue

After I returned home I set out to try and recover my pictures. First I removed the drive from the laptop and installed it in a USB enclosure. I was hoping the problem was with the laptop; not the hard drive. Unfortunately, the drive was still unreadable. Next, I located the local branch of a data recovery company. They analyzed the drive and quoted me $1,600 to retrieve my photos – not a chance.

I had all but given up hope when a friend of mine at work asked if I had tried to recover the deleted photos from my camera’s compact flash card. I had never thought of it. He had a utility program for un-deleting photos from a compact flash and offered to give it a try.



It worked!!! I have all my photos!! Thanks Tom!!

Home again!

Up with the sun again, During my ride west the time zones worked in my favor. I picked up an hour when I crossed into Central time, then another hour when I entered Mountain, and yet another hour when I reached West Coast time. As I ride east I’m shedding those hours. My watch said 7:10 am when I rolled back on route 60, but for the Missourians I passed it was only 6:10am.

This part of route 60 was very familiar to me. I had come this way during my last ride. I cruised on to my first fuel stop at Simon’s Grocery and Hardware. I had established a pattern for fueling. I would pull into the station and go in to the store for something to drink (this morning coffee) and maybe something to eat. Then, I would return to the pump and consume what I bought while I pumped gas and made journal entries. My breakfast this morning consisted of a 25 cent pack of crackers and a 50 cent cup of coffee. With tax it costs me 83 cents. I could not believe how cheap it was. Later I would buy the same items outside of Nashvile and pay $1.64 - shhh don't anyone tell Simon.

I glided through the beautiful Missouri farm land. As I neared the Mississippi and Ohio rivers I could not help but notice how green and healthy all the trees and surrounding fields looked. The memory of the arid lands in the western desert provided a stark contrast to the farms of the Mississippi valley. I remembered the sign I saw in Colorado – “In the west, water is life.”

About 40 miles from the rivers, I got a glimpse of a yellow plane popping above the trees then diving down again. It would pop up, bank steeply, then disappear. When it was visible, it was no more than 100 feet above the ground. At first, I thought it might be a radio controlled model, but as I got closer I realized it was a full sized plane. It was a crop duster.

I lost track of it and cursed the small sky. Yesterday I started my day in a terrain that afforded me broad panoramic views under a big sky; this morning the terrain had closed in and the sky was small again.

I rode on, but I kept my eyes on the skies above the fields. I imagined with miles and miles of fields to dust, there would likely be more than one plane in the sky. Sure enough I spotted another one, but only for moment as it shot across a field apparently on approach for an unseen runway. I whipped the bike around at the next turn and rolled down the side roads to find where the plane had landed.

I found the airfield after the plane had already returned to the skies. The runway was in the middle of a cornfield. A small taxi way led from the runway to a gravel parking area off the road. On one end of the parking area there were pallets full of chemicals and equipment for mixing and pumping. Two men were busy mixing chemicals. On the end of the gravel lot there was a small office building. A yellow sign at the entrance to the parking area read “Dudley Flying Service”.

I pulled into the parking area and dismounted the bike. I took out my camera and walked over to where the two men were working. They eyed me cautiously. I showed them my camera asked if I could take pictures. The men nodded. One of them told me the pilot would return in about 15 minutes. I had already assumed based on the size of the plane I saw that it did not take too long for the pilot to expend the payload.

As I was walking back to the bike, a woman emerged from the office and asked if she could help me. I smiled and held up my camera. She nodded knowingly and said they get that a lot of that. She was very nice. She invited me into the office and introduced me to another woman who was busy working behind a desk. She gave me a Dudley Flying Services hat. I chatted with her and the other woman for about 10 minutes until we heard the rumble of an aircraft on approach.

The yellow airplane, I was informed it was called an Air Tractor, dropped out of the sky and landed on a short runway. The plane had barely stopped moving when the pilot jumped out of the cockpit walked straight over to me.

For a moment, I was worried I had done something wrong. I even hid the hat the woman gave in case the pilot didn’t approve of me having one.

It was nothing like that. The pilot, a tall lean man who wore dark aviator glasses and a red baseball cap, marched up to me with a smile on his face and his hand outstretched. I shook it, and we introduced ourselves. His name was Bruce, and he was the owner. We talked for a few minutes about the plane and crop dusting, but what Bruce really wanted to talk about was the Rocket. He asked the same question everyone does; how many cylinders, how many CC, and how fast. He gasped when I told him 2300cc.

Bruce sat on the bike and recalled how he once owned a Triumph, and he was considering buying another one. We talked and I told him Little Rock had a Triumph Dealership. He remarked it was a short flight.

While the pilot was talking to me, the men who I had watched working earlier, were busy pumping more chemicals into the plane’s tanks. They finished and Bruce waved goodbye and made his way to his plane. He did a fly by over the parking lot and emitted a burst of dust to provide a dramatic photo.

It was a cool experience, and it just further reaffirmed the value of taking chances on out of the way roads. I wished I had not chickened out on the windmill road. Who knows what I may have found down there.

I left Dudley Flying Services and continued on my final leg through Missouri. I crossed the Mississippi and Ohio rivers at a town called Cairo. Last year I had my little Bonneville and I was intimidated by the tall narrow bridges over the rivers. This morning I rolled over them on the Rocket without a hint of concern.

I was still 300 miles from home, but back on the eastern side of the Mississippi, I felt close. I was rolling over familiar ground. The Rockies, the dramatic desert, and canyon landscapes were far, far away.

I pointed the Rocket southeast and raced toward home passing the same towns I had traveled through on my way west last week. I made it through the rush hour congestion of Nashville without so much as a close call. One hundred miles from Chattanooga and Lookout Mountain, the all too familiar bill boards for Rock City and Ruby Falls began popping up everywhere. The sun is setting when I reach the steep hills outside of Chattanooga.

The Route 24 approach to Chattanooga from the west is one of the most beautiful rides I’ve seen. It twists through the steep tree covered Appalachian foothills and descends down a 6% grade worthy of a road outside of Denver. The Appalachian are far older than the Rockies and nature has rounded and softened them. They are not nearly as tall or dramatic, but they are still beautiful.

For some reason I notice the number of bill boards that line the highway and become annoyed. They seem out of place and I realize it’s because there were no billboards along the roads through the scenic areas of Colorado and Utah. Some wise official in those states must have realized the bill boards detract from one of the state’s greatest assets – its landscape. Tennessee may want to adopt that same stance in the areas around Lookout Mountain; despite what it would mean for the famous See Rock City signs.

While still following route 24 I cross briefly into Georgia. It’s a tease though. In a few short miles I’m back in Tennessee. I follow the signs for 75 south, and before I know it, I’m on it gliding toward Atlanta. I’m almost home.

At my final fuel stop I manage to do something I have not done for the entire trip. While trying to top off the tank, I spill gas everywhere. It’s on my clothes; on my bags, and worst of all in my helmet. I ride the final 80 miles with the sickening smell of gasoline inches from my nose.

It’s dark when I finally reach my exit off 75. In some ways, the last 20 miles are some of the toughest. I’m fatigued. My contacts are dry, and I am not seeing very well. Car after car tail gates me until they can pass, but I’m almost home.

At 9:00pm I pull into my driveway. I’ve ridden 5200 miles in 11 days. That’s an average of 457 miles every day. It’s deceiving, however, because I rode 2000 of those miles since Sunday (It’s Tuesday). During the trip, I fueled the bike 42 times, and I spent over $500 on fuel. I used 128 gallons of gas, and the Rocket got an average of 40 miles per gallon.

The places I saw were incredible, and the bike was perfect for the trip. I never felt uncomfortable or cramped, and I always had an abundance of power to roll on for a steep climb or short pass. I’m quite pleased with my Rocket.

During the trip I lost a few things. I lost my map pouch, some maps, 2 pair of sunglasses (including a nice pair that I really liked), a tire repair kit, rainx wipes, windex wipes, a rag for my head, and my photos (damn)..

I gained an appreciation for the vastness of the country and the beauty of the southwest. I will definitely make a similar ride again, but I’m fairly certain this was my last long solo trip. I just have to teach my sons to ride.

The Ride Home -- Part 2

Monday was all about covering as much distance as possible in a marathon ride.

There’s a lot to see in New Mexico, and unfortunately I would not see any of it this trip. I had originally planned to explore New Mexico as I had southern Utah. I was going to go to White Sands, Roswell, and Carlsbad Caverns, but Hanna may be coming and I have to beat her home.

It’s raining and cold when I climb on the Rocket for our longest day of riding yet. There don’t seem to be as many police in New Mexico as Arizona and I open the bike up. Soon I’m rolling along above 90 with a goal to cover the 250 miles to the Texas Border before lunch.

The dramatic landscape slides past me, but I barely notice. It’s beautiful, but. It all looks much like eastern Colorado. It’s greener than Arizona and there are lots of cattle. I can smell them. I have one thing on my mind – home.

There’s a light rain in the air for the whole ride through New Mexico, but thankfully I appear to have alluded the Thunderstorms that have been hunting me for the past two days.

The wind begins to pickup as I near Texas. Every highway bridge has a windsock mounted on it and there are signs that warn of high cross winds. I figure the wind is a constant out here, and I scan the horizon for windmills, but see none along 40 in New Mexico.

I pull into a Denny’s at a place called Tucumcan. I only chose the restaurant because most of them have WIFI; even if they don’t announce with a sign (I don’t yet know my laptop is toast). The waitress is amused by my question about WIFI. She has never heard about it at Denny’s before. I assure her I’ve surfed the Internet at several of them in as remote locations as Tucumcan. She laughs and tells me there are no other locations as remote as Tucumcan New Mexico. Before the trip I may have agreed with her, but I assure her I know of places in Utah that make Tucumcan look cosmopolitan.

I quickly order and take out my laptop. I’m well behind on my blogs and I want to see where Gustav is. I figured the waitress didn’t really know if they had the Internet or not. I press power button and wait, and wait, and then I see a diagnostic menu screen I never had seen before. By the time the waitress had brought my coffee I was pretty sure the hard drive was shot, and I knew I had many hundred miles of solitude to contemplate the loss.

I leave Tucumcan as fast as I can. I’ve reached a point now where it feels weirder to be off the bike than on. I’ve become so used to the feel of the Rocket’s saddle on my ass that I feel like I’m missing a part of me when I’m off it. I roll on power and hurdle toward Texas with a stiff cross wind blowing at my right.

I cross into Texas at noon and I am instantly aware of the police presence. It is, after all, the Law and Order state. I make sure I am not leading the pack of speeding vehicles as we pass speed trap after speed trap. The smell of livestock is very strong. Cattle and horses fill the ranges on both sides of the highway. The wind blowing on my right is affecting the handling of the bike. It is becoming increasingly difficult to turn.

Somewhere west of Amarillo the air turns warm and dry. The cross wind is now a 25 mph gale. The wind socks on the bridges are stiff orange phalanz symbols pointing north. I feel like I am leaning to my right the whole ride to compensate for the wind. When I pass a semi or in the rare moments when the wind breaks, the bike immediately dives to the right due to my lean.

Soon I spot the windmills I expected to see. On my left I begin to pass hundreds of them, and I wonder if these are the ones T. Boone Pickens talks about in his commercials. I want a picture, but stopping on the freeway is not an option. There’s not much of a shoulder.


I spot an exit with a road that seems to head right into the grove of Windmills, and I take it. Unfortunately, I discover too late and too fast that the road, including the lower potion of exit ramp, is gravel. The bike fish tales and I nearly need a change of underpants. Somehow I manage to keep control and bring the bike to a stop. “Wow!”. I catch my breath and head slowly down the long gravel road toward the giant whirling machines.


About halfway I lose my nerve. I’m going real slow. I’m not afraid of getting hurt, but the bike is too heavy for me pickup on my own, and there’s no telling how long I’d be waiting on that road for someone to come by and help me pick up the bike should it fall. Remembering only fools rush in where angles dare, I snap some pictures (which I have) and turn the bike around.


I stop for gas 80 miles from Oklahoma. There’s a State Trooper fueling his interceptor next to me. I ask him about the relentless wind. He looks at me quizzically. “What wind?” Then he smiles. “It’s pretty much like this all the time” he says. “Except for April, that’s when it really blows.”

As I’m preparing to leave, there’s a loud grinding sound behind me. The trooper and I turn in time to see a semi with a big dump trailer take out a street lamp and keep going. The trooper looks at me and shakes his head. He muttered something inaudible and jumped in his car. I watched as he hit his lights and pulled over the lumbering semi. I waved at him as I continued on to Oklahoma.


Western Oklahoma is much like Texas only greener. It’s flat. It’s full of cows, but it has more trees and the grass turns a few darker shades greener with every mile east. By the time I pass through Oklahoma City, and point the Rocket toward Tulsa, I’ve left the sage and straw colors that have dominated that landscape of the far west behind.

The sun is setting when I reach Tulsa. I have an errand to run here for my perpetually almost done book project. I need to research the areas around one of the office towers down town. The towers is called the Philtower (think Phillips Petroleum), and I use the tower and the area as a setting for part my book. When I was in Oklahoma last fall doing research, I did not make it Tulsa. I need pictures and I need to walk the area.

I park the bike in the shadow of the Bok Tower across the street from the old Tulsa City Hall.

Except for a small group of men on one street corner, this part of the city is deserted. I walk along Boston, 4th, and 5th street taking pictures and testing doors that lead into the tower. I look like I’m casing the place, and in a weird way I am. I hope nothing bad happens anywhere near the Philtower because I’m sure I’m on tape looking suspicious.

The sun has set when I finally get back on the 244 loop and join up with route 44 east. It’s a beautiful evening. There’s no rain, and the temperature feel like 70. I pass the large new Cherokee Casino, and I toy with idea of spending the night, but I’ve drank 3 or 4 large energy drinks and I’m all reved up to ride.

The 100 miles from Tulsa to Missouri pass quickly. At a rest area near the border I remove my contacts and get ready for a long night of riding. I leave the 44 expressway for route 60 which threads its way through rolling hills and around little lakes. I’ve been here before, and I know it would be scenic if it weren’t dark. I’m in the upper bounds of Oklahoma’s Indian country. Here the route is dotted with several mid sized Indian casinos from the Creeks, Cherokee, and Wyandotte.

In Missouri route 60 widens and becomes a major thoroughfare across the southern edge of the state. It’s late, but I’m still alert. I roll power on and fly through Springfield. The stars are out and it’s a nice night to ride. I dilute myself into thinking I might make Kentucky tonight, but Missouri is a big state.

It’s 330 miles from Oklahoma to Kentucky. I make it about a third of the way before I realize I’m dozing on the bike; not good. I’m unable to keep my eyes open and the gaps in my consciousness alarm me. I force my eyes wide open and scan each highway sign for a hotel. I resort to singing outloud at the top my lungs while I ride to keep awake.

Perhaps the energy drinks wore off suddenly, or more likely all the hard riding for the past 8 days has taken its toll on my body. It’s 2:00am, and I cannot make another mile. Up ahead, I see an exit with a lodging symbol (the little bed).

When I come to a stop at the bottom of the exit ramp, I’m so tired that I'm barely aware of the bike under me. I have to consciously remind myself to hold the bike up. Down the road from the exit I find a 1950s style motel. It’s lit up, and the sign says vacancy, but the office is dark. I ring the bell several times. Finally, a shirtless and very hairy man appears in the window. He has a room. I’m no longer sure that’s good, but I slide my Visa card through the slot and take the mechanical key he returns.

It takes me forever to park the bike. The lot is gravel and on a slight pitch. I need to make sure I position the bike so I can get it out in the morning a lesson reinforced at several camp grounds. I’m sure my late night maneuvering woke some of the other guests.

In the room, I discard all of the bedding in favor of my sleeping bag. It’s like one of the cabins I stayed in only cheaper. On the road I could not keep my eyes open, but when I got to the room, I could not sleep. I decided to use this time to speak to my friends at HP support. The exchange is both comical and frustrating, It ends when the support techs finaly give up walking me through bizzare rituals like rapidly removing the battery and reinstalling it 3 times, reseating the harddrive 3 times, and holding the laptop upside down for 10 seconds. They decide the laptop must be returned to HP where my photos will disappear forever.




I rode over 900 miles today. There are still more than 600 remaining between me and home. Tomorrow I sleep in my own bed.

The Ride Home -- Part 1

Post for Sunday 8/30...

I slept in Sunday morning. The sun had already risen when I finally unzipped the tent flap and poked my head tentatively out. The campground was stirring to life. The air was crisp and the irresitable smell of bacon frying remined me how hungry I was. Early risers were already out and about walking dogs and packing up. I scrambled out of my little tent and began my tear down routine.

It’s amazing how fast things can become routine. This would be my 6th campground morning, and already I had settled into a pattern for breaking camp. The pattern for breaking camp actually starts the day or night before when I would place in my day pack my change of clothes, shaving kit, and towel for the next morning’s shower. Then I would remove my hiking boots and place them in a water proof bag which I would leave outside the tent. Next to my bagged hiking boots I would place my Crocs water proof shoes. Inside the tent I would have with me my day pack (which I would use as an additional pillow), my cell phone plugged into a charger (I always got tent sites with electric and water – really roughed it),my rain gear, my laptop (for blogging -- when it was laptop before it became a paper weight), water proof bag for the laptop, my camera (for downloading pictures onto the laptop so they could be lost forever), the battery charger for the camera, miners lamp (so I could see in the tent), knife (for the attacking critters), and of course, my sleeping bag and camping pillow.

My morning routine was simple. I would exit the tent and put on my crocs. Then I would take everything out of the tent (assuming it wasn’t raining) and stow it where it was supposed to go (ie: sleeping bag rolled and ready to lash to back pack, laptop and camera placed in waterproof bags and locked in hardbag, etc…

After I cleaned up (showered, shaved…) I would put on the clothes in my day pack and return to my camp site where I’d select clean clothes from my full pack (big red hiking pack strapped to back of bike) for the next day and place them in my day pack. Dirty clothes would accumulate in another water proof bag, and I would wash them as needed or the opportunity presented.

The two pack method worked very well. I would stow the day back prepped for the next day in my big black bag where it was easy to retrieve. This came in handy when I made stops at rest stops and needed items from my shaving kit or a new shirt (I always kept a spare in the day back). I would just pop open the big black bag, pull my day pack out, and take it to the rest room.

Finally, I’d drop and pack the tent. Then I’d repack the bike. Before I left I had developed and practiced a system for strapping everything to the bike. Now I simply followed that system every time. It worked well. Nothing strapped down ever blew of the bike; that can’t be said for other items that were sucked out of their bags.


The whole process took about 30 minutes. With a little more planning and preparation it could be done in fifteen minutes. This morning I took my time. I had to beat Gustav to Oklahoma, but that didn’t mean fleeing the campground at dawn without breakfast. I went to find the source of the bacon smell.


There was a neat little camp kitchen setup where they had breakfast (eggs, bacon, sausage, pancakes…) and coffee for sale. I hadn’t the time to take advantage of it the day before, but this morning I sat down with my (then working) laptop, blogged, ate breakfast, and drank coffee until around 10:30am.

I got on the bike and began the long run home. My route began on route 40 there in Flagstaff. I followed it east. About fifty miles from the campground I stopped for gas near the site of the Meteor Impact Crater. It had begun to rain and the sky was looking ominous. I put on my rain gear and decided to take the six mile ride to the site. They had a small museum and a gift shop where I could hide from the rain, and I’d get to see the crater.


The ride to the crater took me through a flat range where cattle were grazing. I noticed boulders everywhere that seemed oddly out of place. I wonder if those rocks had been hurled out into the plain during the event. I never did ask anyone.


The crater is pretty much what you’d expect. It’s a crater. The Grand Canyon is not just a big hole in the ground, but the crater kind of is. It’s neat to look at, but when you get right down to it, there’s not a lot to see.




I loitered around the crater until the rain stopped, and then I headed back to the highway. I had been on the road for about an hour when I cam across signs for the Petrified Forest and Painted Desert national park. I could not resist. I took the exit and made the 18 mile trek to the park. Alas, I have no pictures of these two great areas. They were lost too.


I’d heard of the Petrified Forest, of course, but I’d never seen it nor had I ever seen petrified wood for that matter. I wasn’t even sure what petrified wood was or how it became petrified. It’s pretty amazing. The wood in the trees had been replaced by silica and turned to crystal and rock. The whole process started 250 million years ago when that part of Arizona was actually part of Panama (it’s a long story). What is high desert now was then a low flood plain where tress from that had been ripped from their roots during great rains were washed down a prehistoric river and deposited in mud that was rich with silica and other minerals capable of turning wood to stone.


The Petrified Forest is surrounded by the Painted Desert. As you can imagine, the desert gets its name from the layers of vibrant colors visible in the rock formations and buttes.
I was stalked by a thunderstorm in the park and had to keep moving. Out west in the high plains and deserts the sky is different. As cliché as it sounds, it’s bigger. It’s possible to see for great distances and watch weather as it develops.


The road through the Painted Desert is 26 miles long, but it parallels route 40 so it’s kind of like a real scenic detour. Nevertheless, I emerged from the park way behind schedule. I was still 220 miles west of Albuquerque and it was already close to 5:00pm. I pointed the Rocket East and rolled power on.


I saw almost no police during my rides through Kansas, Colorado, and Utah. In fact, I saw no police in Kansas and Utah. Arizona, however, was crawling with them. I traveled with the traffic flow and maintained speeds 80 to 85mph for the next 3-4 hours.


It was dark when I reached Albuquerque. I crested a hill and the lights from the sprawling city spread out before me. What Albuquerque lacks in population (about 500K) it makes up in size. I passed a highway sign that indicated the next 17 exits were for Albuquerque. There was fireworks show going on over the city. I pulled over and watched it for few minutes; another benefit of a big sky.


I stayed in a Motel 6 that night. It was cheap clean, and right next to the expressway. It’s ironic, the laptop worked fine there and I meant to make another backup, but I was so tired I could not keep my eyes open.


I watched TV for the first time in 5 days. The weather channel said Gustav was starting to pound New Orleans and its path would take it through Eastern Texas, Arkansas, and Oklahoma. I got out my ride atlas and plotted my course home. Ironically, it was close to the one I set out originally. I would take 40 east across the small nub of Texas through Amarillo (160 miles small) to Oklahoma City, but instead of risking a rendezvous with Gustav in Arkansas, I would leave route 40 (which would have taken me through Arkansas and Tennessee) in favor of a more northern arc. I would take 44 east through Tulsa to route 60 which I would take across Missouri to Paducah Kentucky. There I would pick up 24 east to Chattanooga where I would follow 75 south for my final run home through Georgia. The northern arch through Tulsa would cost me at least 200 miles, but it would keep Gustav south of me.

The Grand Canyon

Post from events on Saturday...

I mentioned to someone at the campground the other night that I was concerned the Grand Canyon would not seem so grand now that I had seen so much incredible scenery. The person shook his head immediately and said “I promise you don’t need to worry about that.” He knew what he was talking about.

The enormity alone is enough to take your breath away. It’s just that huge. Everybody likes to joke it’s just a big hole in the ground – sure – and the Pacific Ocean is just a big puddle.

The Grand Canyon has got to be one of the few places on earth where everyday 1000s of people, many of whom would be terrified on a twelve foot ladder, casually walk up to the edge of sheer cliffs beyond which is nothing but thin air for hundreds of feet.

I watched several, otherwise normal looking, men scramble, jump, wobble their way out on to jutting ledges or isolated precipices so a loved one could capture that awesome photo. Most of the time, these guys were lured to perches where a bad slip would mean plummeting hundreds (hundreds – many) of feet to their death. Just imagine what the photos must look like of the ones that did slip. There’s a whole book (a thick one) in the gift shops dedicated to all the people who have died in the park. There’s been 57 deaths since 1905 (I googled it).

I had planned to show you a few of the great pictures I had taken of the Grand Canyon in this entry including the one of me foolishly standing on a precipice (wink), but I can’t. My new HP laptop that I’ve been using on the trip to blog and store my photos no longer recognizes its hard drive. As if that was not catastrophic enough, the backup of my photos from Bryce, Zion and the Grand Canyon is corrupt. I had created two backup DVDs of all my photos, but something went wrong during the write process on that one. To be honest, I’m devastated. I had bought a new camera for this trip and had big plans for all those photos.

I can tell you the whole reason for the trip was for me to see the Grand Canyon. I think the Brady Bunch Grand Canyon episode had a lot to do with that. I’ve had this weird need to see the Canyon since I watched that episode. I’ve been carrying it on my bucket list all these years, and now I can cross it off, though there is no photographic evidence I was there (I did buy t-shirts and stuff). I guess Hawaii is next. My kids will have no idea what these references are about.

All kidding aside, had I rode all this way and seen nothing else besides the Grand Canyon, the trip would still have been worth it. Of course, I would have liked some photos (groan).

The south rim of the Canyon was 74 miles from my camp site. It is possible to stay closer, but all the real good places require reservations well in advance (like a year). Everyone tells you to see the south rim first because it is so much higher. It’s also very crowded and feels a little more like Disney World than a U. S. National Park.

The north rim was about 160 miles away. I did not visit the north rim this trip. Had I not gone to Vegas, I probably would have approached the Canyon from the north (Utah side) and seen both rims, but since I have to go back one day to get photos (my laptop died when I was already well away from either rim), I’m sure I’ll visit the north rim some day.

I spent all day moving from view point to view point and meandering along the 4 mile rim trail (where you can walk inches from drops higher than the elaborately railed Empire State Building observation deck). I was amazed at how many little kids were running freely along the paths. I would have been a wreck if my kids were there, and they are all grown. I think the thin air and the Disney feel lull parents into a false sense of security.

The skies were dark and threatening for much of the day. It was nice and cool. The temperature was somewhere in the mid 70s. I had hit rain on the way in. I left my rain gear on while I moved around the park. There was a brief volley of thunder and lightening.

All the high country parks do a real good job of raising your lightening awareness. Basically, they scare the crap out of you about it. When it started to thunder and lightning, I and many others, made our way to the visitor center. It was humorous to observe guys who moments before were dancing, literally, inches from their death run like scared rabbits when the lightening started.

When I was done and ready to leave, I discovered I did not need to ride back through the park to return to Flagstaff (though I gladly would have). I traveled to the park on route 89 North and entered on what is called the Desert or Tower View side (first view point when you enter from route 89). I left via route 64 East/South that also led back to Flagstaff.

On my way back one of the thunderstorms that had been prowling the area finally caught me. I was riding through the forest at the base of Arizona’s tallest mountain (San Francisco Peak) when the black sky opened up and rained down at a great rate nickel sized droplets of water. Visibility quickly dropped to zero and I had no choice but to pull the bike to the side of the road and sit exposed while lightning crashed down around me (and from cloud to cloud) and massive rain droplets pummeled me and made a great racket in my helmet (which I was glad to have on). Luckily, the worst of the storm passed quickly, and in a few terrifying minutes I was on my way (still in the rain) toward the campground.

I returned to my tent at the campground to find it dry. The storms had all remained north of Flagstaff. It was a beautiful clear and cool night. I toyed with the idea of leaving the rain cover open on the tent (so I could see the stars), but the memory of the nickel sized drops was too fresh. I did not want to wake with those droplets smashing through the thin mesh that would have been my roof had I left the rain cover off.

The campground was crowded, but not annoyingly so. Everywhere I looked there were large groups of people sitting together near RVs or other tent sites. My neighbors noticed I was alone and invited me to dinner. I joined them for a bit and explained the mystery of a middle aged man traveling alone and sleeping in a pup tent; then I excused myself and left to do my laundry. Tomorrow I would begin my trek home.

Hurricane Gustav had chosen the same route through the southwest as my planned path home, and some models showed the newly forming Hanna actually hitting my home on Friday. In the morning I planned to race them.

Hoover Dam and the road to Flagstaff

Two UPS drivers gave me directions to Hoover Dam from Las Vegas. The route they suggested had me follow Lake Mead Blvd through the Lake Mead Recreation Area about 20 miles south and east of downtown Las Vegas.


Lake Mead was created by Hoover Dam. It is the largest manmade lake in the country, and it is drying up. The desert has reclaimed most of the Lake Mead Recreation Area. The numerous scenic overlooks that once looked down on Lake Mead now look upon a dried up hole. The lake is less than 50% full. The same drought in the Rockies that weakened the pine forests and contributed to their demise by the Pine Beetles had slowed the flow of water down the Colorado River. Cities like Las Vegas draw their drinking water from Lake Mead, and they draw more and more each year.

Leaving the disturbing sight of the desolation of the Lake Mead Recreation Area behind, I follow route 93 south as it twists and climbs. Signs appear warning drivers about security check points and declaring the dam cannot be crossed by large vehicles (trucks, buses, and RVs). The security is a legacy of 911. Prior to the attack there was almost no security at the dam. Blowing up Hoover Dam would cause untold devastation to the cities downstream not to mention the long term loss of drinking water and power for several major southwestern cities. It’s not unthinkable. There was a time when one could not imagine anything bringing the Twin Towers down.


The men who built the dam never doubted it would last forever. There’s a monument on the Lake Mead side of the dam dedicated to the cooperation of the states along the Colorado River that cooperated in building the dam. Worked into the monument is a star map that acts as a celestial calendar to be used by future civilizations to date the dam. The monument’s designer imagined the dam lasting far longer than the society that created it.


I turn a bend, and there’s the dam. It’s incredible. I pulled into the dam parking garage. I’ve become quite adept at navigating the bike in parking garages. It was once one of my biggest anxieties. I’ve encountered a surprising number of them on this trip (hanging phrase intended).


There are two different tours. One tour, the long tour, takes you through the dam and power station. The shorter tour just takes you through the power station. I was too late for the long tour so I settled for the power station tour.


An enthusiastic tour guide led a group of us down to the power station (500 feet into the dam) and cited numerous facts about the dam. For example the dam is 700 feet high and it provides enough power to run 2 million homes. He was exceedingly proud of the dam, and he lamented repeatedly how the tour had been confined to small areas in the dam since 911.













I spent a couple hours at the dam. Before I left I bought post cards at the gift shop where the cashier worked dam into every sentence she spoke. She’d say things like “I hope you liked your dam tour” or “Here’s your dam post cards”. I guess those dam jokes never get old.









The Colorado River, and the dam, are the eastern border between Nevada and Arizona. Crossing the dam into Arizona I raced the 220 miles to Flagstaff. I had a tent site reserved and I did not like the idea of having to setup in the dark.






White band represents high water mark. The band is about 90 feet tall (ie: lake is 90 feet off full).


Route 93 intersects with route 40 in Kingman Arizona. I fueled up at Kingman and called the KOA in Flagstaff to let them know I would arrive after their office closed.


About a 140 miles west of Flagstaff I could see dark storm clouds and flashes of lightening on the horizon. I pulled over for dinner and put on my rain gear. The restaurant was filled with truckers. I spoke to one woman driver for a little while about the weather. She laughed when I told her how bad it was to be on a bike when a big rig passed in the rain. I waited at the truck stop for the storm to pass, but it never did.


I drained my 6th cup of coffee and headed out on the road. It was dark. Flagstaff at 7300 feet is 2000 feet higher than Denver. As I climbed toward it the air grew colder. I stopped for fuel early and put on another layer of clothes.

It started to rain and I had a tough time seeing. Numerous signs warned of crossing elk and deer (they actually have separate picture/symbols for elk and deer). It was one of the few times I can remember when I welcomed a semi tail gating me. The trucks head lights did a much better job of illuminating the road in front of me than my bike’s lights.


The rain and cold slowed me down. I stopped again for coffee to warm up. I did not reach my camp site until after midnight. Setting up the tent in the dark proved easier than I imagined. When I was equipping for the trip, I purchased a bright LED light that strapped around my head like a miner’s lamp. It illuminated everything in front of me. It was one of my wiser purchase.


The rain had slowed to a drizzle and I was able to setup without getting too wet. I’ve used my rain gear on this trip much more than I thought I would.


It was cold. I almost missed the desert. I crawled into my sleeping bag. Tomorrow I was going to the Grand Canyon.

Vegas Baby

Route 15 leaves Zion and instantly heads into the desert. If they have highways in hell, I imagine they are a lot like route 15 across the northwestern Mojave Desert. I was ill prepared for the extreme heat I encountered.

People drive across the Mojave Desert every day, but the vast majority of them are in air conditioned cars. They probably do not even notice the outside temperatures; even if they are hovering around 115. People ride across the desert in motorcycles too, but they generally do not do it in the middle of the afternoon. I think I saw one.

It was so hot I had to keep my face shield closed because the blast from the superheated slipstream was like staring into a blow drier. I even closed the vents. I was riding along slow cooking my brain. My fingers were burning. The inside of my thighs were on fire. I could not let them touch the gas tank. The sun was so bright my eyes hurt inside my super dark (think welders) goggles.

The ride across the desert (a.k.a hell’s highway) was 130 miles. I stopped 3 times to drink anything I could get my hands on. At one McDonalds I ordered a large drink and refilled it 5 times.


At the end of the ride was Vegas where the traffic clogged streets were even hotter than the highway across the desert. I had never been to Vegas before. I had no idea how the city was organized, and all my maps had blown away in Missouri (or Illinois). I had reservations at the Golden Nugget. I had originally booked a room in the Mirage, but the Nugget was half the cost and I could not tell the difference from the web sites.


My strategy for finding the Golden Nugget was to find the strip (Las Vegas Blvd) and cruise along looking for the Nugget. I went up and down the strip two or three times. I was nearly dead from heat stroke when I finally gave up and called the Nugget for directions. They are not on the strip. They are in downtown Las Vegas away from all the fun. No big deal; the trip was not about Vegas anyway.
I pulled the bike up to the main entrance of the Golden Nugget and proceeded to remove all the bags as limousines came and went. I made a curious sight. I was covered in dust and must have smelled like hell. The bike was dirty and my bags were everywhere. I received more than one odd glance. A few people did come over to look at the bike. The bike’s exhaust manifold has three ports (for 3 cylinders). Guys are always coming up to me and saying “Wow – does this thing have six cylinders?” A few men with their wives or girl friends in tow came up to me while I was unpacking in front of the Nugget and asked about the bike and my trip. I will say the room at the Nugget was worth every dime of the $63 I paid for it. That still amazes me. For $10 more than I what I paid for the bare bones cabins I’d been staying in I was in this huge plush room.
I ironed a shirt and wandered down to the casino. I had gave myself a budget for what I was willing to lose for the entertainment. When I did this, I accounted for the $130.00 the guy at the Triumph dealer said he thought it would take to replace my back brakes.

I can play Black Jack. I understand all the little rules for when to split and double down; when to hit and when to stay (for the most part). I rarely win though. I won big once a long time ago, but since then I’ve probably lost twice as much as I won all those years ago. I decided, for me, the way to win at Black Jack in a casino is to treat it as entertainment. I set a limit. I don’t take it seriously, and I don’t drink a lot.

When I pick a Black Jack table I always chose a $10 or $15 table. I want to have fun. I don’t want the guy next to me getting pissed off if I hit at the wrong spot or do something stupid like split kings. I look for a witty dealer who enjoys helping, and a crowded table full of loose players who are not stressed out over every misplay. I never sit at a table alone or with just one other player, and I always act like it’s my first time playing.

The first table I sat at wasn’t fun at all. It only cost me $50 to figure that out. The second table was much better. I played for hours and had a blast. At one time I’m sure I was up several hundred dollars, but, story of my life, I did not walk away. Things didn’t turn out too bad though. I wound up losing $26.00 (I was using $1 chips for drink tips and dealer bets). I played for hours, drank a little, and had fun for about what it costs to go bowling.

Things didn’t go so well the next day. My plans were simple. I was going to find a Golds Gym and work out then take my bike to have the brake’s checked. I left the hotel at 7:30am with what I thought were good directions to the Golds Gym. I rode up and down Sahara avenue looking for the darn gym 45 minutes and never found it. I called the gym for directions a couple times, but the kid who answered the phone was no help. It turned out I was looking for 4420 West Sarah on East Sarah avenue. Apparently Sarah divides down town and the addresses start over going east or west.

I gave up and headed to the Triumph Dealer. I had passed it while I was looking for the gym so I knew right where that was. In fact, I could probably drive a cab in Vegas now.

The Triumph dealer in Vegas is a place called Pat Clark Motorsports. I cannot say enough good things about these people. They practically fell over themselves trying to help me. They even prepared a brand new awesome 2009 Bonneville (like my small bike) for me to use while they worked on the Rocket. I couldn’t wait to ride that little bike.

It was not to be. The mechanic took my bike for a ride. When he came back he told me he definitely felt the wobble and it wasn't safe (sigh). He put the bike on the lift. Fifteen minutes later he came and got me. “I got good news and bad news” he said. “The good news is the the brakes are fine, but the bad news is you need a new back tire.”

The tire had worn unevenly and was no longer balanced. The wobble I attributed to my front wheel was actually my back tire. Everyone at the dealership was shocked the tire had worn so quickly and oddly. The bike had only 5,000 miles on it. They scrambled and called Triumph to see if it would be covered under warranty. Triumph referred them to Bridgestone (tire maker). Bridgestone agreed to replace the tire, but it would take 3 days to get one. I’d spend 6 times the price of a tire in hotel bills (Labor Day weekend) and gambling.

The dealer sent me to a motorcycle tire shop around the corner to have a new tire put on. I never got a chance to ride that sweet little bike they prepared for me. The guys at the tires shop were great too. They had me on my way in 2 hours (it’s a big production to change the back tire on the Rocket). The tire cost me over $300 to replace (ouch).

My day at Vegas had been spent in repair shops instead of by the big pool at the Nugget as I had originally planned. It was already late when I finally pulled out of the tire shop, and to make matters worse I got lost leaving the city. It was after 2:00pm local time when I finally got on the right road for Hoover Dam.


Editorial:
Here’s some final comments about Vegas. They don’t call Vegas Sin City for nothing. First, I was disturbed by the number of young mothers and fathers I saw dragging their toddlers and babies through casinos and casino arcades after mid night. Second, I saw more homeless men than I had ever seen in any other city including San Francisco. Most people who visit Vegas fly in and take a nice car or shuttle to their hotel. They spend their time on the strip surrounded by money and glitz, and though they may encounter a few homeless while they are partying, they may never realize what they are seeing is the tip of the iceberg. Perched on the back of my bike, riding through back roads in the city, I saw countless homeless men wondering the streets – scary.