Into The Great Big Open

My freighting company had recommended I contact Richmond Motorsports to handle the crating of the motorcycle. I’d been in touch with them a few days before, and let them know they could expect to see me on Thursday afternoon. I found their store easily, and from my very first contact was treated very well. Multi-tasking service manager Miles kindly inserted my project into their already-booked service schedule, and lacking any plan for lodging, Linnea gave me directions to the hotel options near the airport, and called me a taxi.

The next morning I arrived at Richmond Motorsports just after opening time to strip the luggage and windshield from the bike. To stretch my legs (and get out of their way with my worried chin-stroking and pacing) I walked to a nearby motorcycle shop called 5th Gear, where I met and chatted with Paul. Being a former DR owner, and having ridden around Europe, Paul had valuable recommendations for both bike and traveler. Like all of the Vancouverans I’ve met so far, he’s a super-nice guy.

Around mid-afternoon I came back to Richmond Motorsports to see:

Crated bike with Alfred (left) and Miles. To get it into the crate, the mirrors had been removed, the handlebars rotated down, and the triple clamps slid down the fork tubes.

I never thought that seeing a ratty DR in a crate could bring such happiness. Getting the bike prepped and crated and to the shippers by end-of-day Friday was critical.  Shipping on time means I have a better chance of using the entirety of my Russia visa to get to and through Mongolia, and finally to Kazakhstan. Miles and Alfred at Richmond Motorsports really delivered. I called the freight company with the news, and they arranged for the crate to be picked up. In the meantime, I stuffed everything into the crate except for non-riding clothes and tankbag. In a flash the truck arrived, the crate was wrapped in plastic (at Miles’ recommendation) and forklifted onto the truck, and as it pulled away I felt the lifting weight of a dozen variables collapsing into knowns.

I continued the hot highway drone northwest into the tawny hills of Oregon, and entered Washington surprised to be surrounded by massive fields of crops. After 500 miles, searching for lodging in Ellensburg, and being weary and wary of braving the hoofed wildlife of Snoqualmie Pass, I paid much for little lodging.

Following the next morning’s free carb-fest breakfast I continued northwest through increasing humidity and elevation, crested the pass and began what seemed like an endless descent into the  flow of Seattle traffic. I peeled off at Redmond and after many wrong turns inside the city-campus of Microsoft, joined my amigo Richard for lunch. He’d failed to mention that his left hand had been surgically replaced with a Blackberry-type device.  I kid…Richard was kind enough to bump a meeting to make time to see me, buy me lunch and introduce me to a few of his motorcycling colleagues. Thank you Richard!

Idling up to the Canadian border, I expected a fairly quick process to be let in, and with a victorious rowing through the gears I’d be on my way to Vancouver. The interview with the surly man in the customs/immigration booth was very thorough, and the fact that my stated origin of New Mexico didn’t match my Arizona license plate garnered me a second interview (although the second official was more attractive, blond, and female and less surly than the first). 20 questions? I wish. By the end of the interrogation the questions turned from officialdom to personal interest to “Good luck” and I was on my way.

Note to self: I started the trip in Arizona. I started the trip in Arizona.I started the trip in Arizona.

So begins the long freeway burn to Vancouver, B.C.  — necessary to ensure that the bike is prepped, crated and in the shipper’s hands on Monday the 9th. I rode fill-up to fill-up, stopping at rest areas to pull off my boots and socks to let my toes loose to play in the grass. I was paying extra attention to staying hydrated: the August sun turned the interstate into a hell-hot anvil.

My sights were on Bruneau Dunes State Park in Idaho, a dozen miles south of Mountain Home. With sore joints I set up camp and washed laundry, then walked out to the dunes to stretch my legs and see what the dunes were all about.

Bruneau Sand Dunes, Idaho

I chatted with my camping neighbor, who was driving from the east coast to Portland, Oregon to start a new job on a cruise ship. In addition to being young and cute, Anna from Baltimore was also kind enough to share her beers and campfire with this worn out rider. Around midnight, she suggested that we walk out to the dunes to see stars, and not wanting to sound like an aching, tired middle-aged fart, I agreed. Flashlights in hand, we stumbled past surprised kangaroo rats, and after a few “unintended detours” found ourselves sprawled on the cool sand, gazing at a moonless firmament, engaged in the philosophical discussions that such settings tend to produce.

On the walk back to camp, the moon rose red and large on the horizon, and she tried to convince me that it was Mars.

From Farmington we headed to Durango to meet Larry, who would ride with us for the day. John had peeled off from our group during the previous night’s deluge, so after Larry joined us, our group again numbered four.  Randy and Larry were on Guzzi big twins, and Pete was astride a BMW RT1150, so your author’s overloaded 650 single was the rolling roadblock, setting the pace at a blistering 60-62 MPH.

Approaching Moab, Utah

From Durango we rode under cloudy and spitting skies through Cortez and Mancos, stopping for a butt rest in Monticello. We picked up highway 191 and chased it all the way to Price, Utah.

In the morning, Larry said “Good Luck” and headed back home to Durango, leaving Randy, Pete and me to enjoy the sweeping and scenic road to Duchesne.  This was the point where Randy was to begin his return to Silver City. At the gas pumps we shared a manly abrazo, and at that moment, some dust kicked up by a passing ore truck went right into my face, so I had to rub my eye a bit.

Pete and I continued up highway 40 to Heber City, and onward to the junction of I-80. Pete said his farewells and pointed his front wheel at Salt Lake, while I started toward Cheyenne, ticking off the first solo miles of my ride, feeling lonely and excited and ready, missing the companionship of my motorcycling amigos.

Let the record reflect that we intended to depart Silver City at 8AM, and indeed I pressed the starter button at 8:03…but we weren’t on the highway until two hours later thanks to a misdiagnosed starting problem with my bike. What we thought was a flooded carb was actually a lack of fuel delivery. Once it was all sorted, we headed north through piñon/juniper country, past the lava-capped mesas near Apache Creek, and by late afternoon we were among the volcanic necks north of Gallup.

In Shiprock we ate fast and cheap (and surprisingly good) Chinese food, and in the parking lot pulled on our rain gear while reservation dogs watched us with coy eyes.  An hour later we were in pummeling rain, and as darkness fell, lightning and  strong side winds had us turning around a dozen miles south of Hesperus, tucking tail to find cheap accommodations in Farmington. Humble beginnings indeed.

Charging the battery after too much cranking.