Please link, post and forward this wherever appropriate. Thanks.
The 1st Queer Biker Spring Kickoff Ride is now history. Three brave, adventurous, somewhat crazy, risk taking, queer bikers completed a 2,500 mile journey in eight short days through the deserts and back roads of the American Southwest, seeing incredible sights, sharing warm camaraderie, eating awful food, getting tired and saddle sore as they had an INTENSE queer biker experience.
What is a queer biker? He or she is someone who loves riding motorcycles...and is not afraid to admit that she or he is non conforming, eccentric, odd, peculiar, unusual, unconventional, or unorthodox. It may...or may not...mean that he or she is gay, lesbian, or bisexual. Assuming you know what gender turns a queer biker on will mean you might be correct some of the time...and, most assuredly, wrong at other times! You are now warmed about making assumptions about the sexual proclivities of queer bikers.
This ride was primarily an Internet advertised adventure. A web page, several mass e mails and one snail mail was the only means of announcing the trip. You had to be wired (in more then one way) to take part.
Numerous people expressed an interest, but in the end, it was three bikers who took part. They were, yours truly, Michael Psycle, plus Julia, and Tom. Both Julia and Tom had previously participated in the Queer Biker Invasion of Death Valley (Julia twice and Tom once). Others said they would make it but had to cancel for a variety of reasons. Too bad. It was a gas of a time. Perhaps this story might inspire them, and you, to take part in next year's Spring Kickoff Ride.
Day 1 - Friday, April 11, 1997 - At 8:00 am, three bikers appear on Castro Street in San Francisco to begin the journey. Julia was there, aboard a black, 1984 Honda VF700C Magna, ready to ride. With new headers and exhaust pipes on her bike, along with a new seat (to replace the duct tape version that previously graced her mount), she looked tough. Dressed in heavy (as in super thick) black leather riding clothes, a four inch knife at her side, this German born, American educated, Renaissance woman was waiting when I arrived. Artist, scholar, biker, construction worker, and weight lifter are only a few of the adjectives that could be used to describe Julia. A minute later, Tom appeared, having made it in from the suburbs to meet us in the heart of the city. Mounted on his black, 1994 Honda Pacific Coast...the scooter on steroids...he exchanged warm greetings with both us, as we had not seen each other since the Queer Biker Invasion of Death Valley last October. If there was a contest for Mr. Queer Affability, Tom would win. Always seeing the glass as half full, I immediately realized we had three disparate personalities about to embark on this adventure.
And there I was. In an Aerostitch Darien Riding suit, sitting on top of a 1992 Harley FXR, known affectionately as the Black Roc, named after that mythical bird of great size and strength, I came equipped with two saddle bags stuffed with emergency gear and a duffel with all the clothes and personal accessories I would need for a week (I am a firm believer in the luxury of choice). I sized up my riding companions and breathed a sigh of relief. When I put out the effort to "disorganize" this adventure, I had no idea if anyone would show up, or if whoever showed up would be the biker from hell. I knew immediately I was in good company and this would be a trip to remember.
First order of business...deciding on the route for the first two days of the trip. Two options were available. Option one was to go through Lake Tahoe and across Central Nevada, to arrive at Springdale, Utah, the entrance to Zion National Park, by Saturday evening. The second option was to go south from San Francisco and then east across the Mojave Desert. Julia expressed a strong interest in seeing the Mojave so it was decided that would be the way to go.
But it was not so simple. Do we take the super slab (Interstate 5) to Bakersfield before heading east? No! What do you think we are, mentally ill? We may be crazy, but not crazy enough to choose that route when others are available.
We leave the Bay Area heading south on Interstate 280. All along the Peninsula, as are surrounded by the green hills of the Santa Cruz Mountains. In April, the Golden State is still the Green State. We pick up Route 85 just north of San Jose and take that over to Route 101 south. Around Salinas, we stop for gas and to scream and hoop it up. We are actually on our way! This is for real. Eight days of riding ahead of us. This is all becoming exceedingly real. Continuing south on 101, we stop again just north of Paso Robles for lunch and more gas. Julia's bike has the smallest tank and needs to stop about every 100 miles. But this woman comes equipped. In her saddle bag, is an extra gallon of gas, just in case there are no fill up spots around.
At Paso Robles, we head east along Route 46, through the Central Valley of California. Past orchards, oil wells, farms and small towns, the miles begin to disappear. Route 46 ends just north of Bakersfield, where we head south for a little while on Route 99. Our riding styles are now becoming familiar to each other. All appear to be good riders. The disorganizer of this venture appears to ride the fastest and is the leader of the pack. Julia, while showing the ability to keep up with anyone, appears to be in the least hurry and rides second...at her own pace. And Tom is quite happy to pick up the rear. The order, once established, is kept almost throughout the trip. There appears to be a comfort in this arrangement.
In Bakersfield we head east on Route 58, up and over the top of Tehachapi Pass. The speed limit decreases from 65 to 55 as we begin to climb, even though this is a four lane road. Caltrans has obviously decided Californians cannot drive as fast with the front end of their vehicle pointed upwards as they can on a level road.
Tom, who is riding last, it equipped with a radar detector. Climbing toward the summit, I keep them in my rear view and check it every minute or so. I'm in a trance. It seems to incredible. An almost deserted high desert road, the Black Roc humming away, vacation just beginning, and I'm both in it and out of it. I look in my rear view mirror and see that Julia and Tom have dropped back, way back. At the same time, I am blasted from the left by a loud speaker in the car passing me saying "FIFTY FIVE!" The Sheriff's car then pulled along side and flashed five fingers twice. I had drifted up to 65. He then accelerated while I decelerated and thanked my fortunes that he had something better to do. Tom later told me the Sheriff had passed them doing about 85. No radar warning for Tom, though. That Sheriff was just using speed.
Over the top of Tehachapi and into the Mojave Desert. Past Edwards Air Force Base, where the Space Shuttle lands, some of the time. As we are puttering Edwards, at a mere 55 mph, the legal speed limit, three huge RVs pass us, doing at least 75, and with each towing an identical flat bed trailer upon which is sitting a Jeep Wrangler. Family? Friends? A club? Hard to know. But it appears we were being passed by at least three rather wealthy people, who like to travel in speed and style, while they were en route to exploring the back roads of the desert.
Finally we arrive in Barstow, California, for Night #1. Motel 6 and a Chinese dinner. 440 miles on the odo. Tired. Happy. Content. Sleep is easy.
Day 2 - Saturday, April 12, 1997 - Up early and a breakfast at Denny's. Hard to believe, but this is the first of several Denny's meals. In the world of fast food, Denny's comes up almost like a health food establishment. It is possible to get at Denny's some food which is not fried. You take what you can get when you travel through rural America. I ask a gas attendant if there was any mom and pop breakfast places left in Barstow, and he can only think of one place that didn't look too appealing. Franchises rule the day.
At our Motel 6, we talked with two Goldwing riders, one who is at least well into his 70's. A former motorcycle cop from L.A. Told us about when he bought a brand new 1947 Harley after coming home from fighting the Japanese in World War II. He thought, he said, that it would be impossible for motorcycles to get any better then his '47 Hog. He did acknowledge though that his new Goldwing was better. He rode Harley's for the LAPD for eighteen years before riding a 750 Honda for the last six months of his employment as a cop in the 1970's.
This present and former cop, along with hundreds of their colleagues, are riding shotgun for a relay race for runners from Baker to Las Vegas. Each runner runs about 5 or 6 miles of the hundred mile race before passing the baton on to the next runner. We are oblivious to most of it. We are too interested in riding our bikes.
It's onto the super slab (Interstate 15) at Barstow, because there is no other choice. There is no other road heading east. If you grew up watching Hollywood movies only, you might imagine that deserts are places where the air is hot and still. In April, in the Mojave though, it is cool and windy. Massively windy. Enough to make it seem that the bikes are perpetually leaning into the wind. Julia finds her gas mileage decreasing rapidly and barely makes it to Las Vegas on reserve, but without having to use her spare gallon. We fill up with gas on the outskirts and then look and see Las Vegas, much in the way Dorothy sees the Land of Oz, off in the distance. Towers and hotels rising out of the desert. An adult theme park on a grand scale.
We ride past the Luxor Hotel, mimicking ancient Egypt, past the Excalibur, where knights of old are still bold and Sir Lancelot is somewhere around. Across from the lion signifying the entrance to the MGM Grand, and also across the street from the airport so no one has to go too far after they get off their plane, we stop for lunch at New York, New York, the newest of the theme hotels. On the outside, all the familiar New York landmarks appear, the Empire State building, the Statue of Liberty, the Brooklyn Bridge, and dozens of others, all in one third scale. And inside, it is the same. Small winding streets of New York comprise the food area. The entrance to the casino is marked with a replica of the New York Stock exchange. I'm home. This ex Brooklyn boy pulls out his best New York accent. The whole place works. Kitsch it is, but wonderful kitsch. We eat in an ersatz New York deli. I pay for my meal and the cashier says "Thank you". I ask her. "What kind of a way is that for a New Yorker to talk?" She smiles and says "Get out of here!". You can go home again.
Lunch finished, we get back on our bikes and continue on the super slab, again because there is no alternative through the desert. And then the scenic highlight of the day, as Interstate 15 leaves Nevada and heads into Arizona, if only for a few miles...most of those miles are following closely the route the Virgin River has cut through ancient mountains. The road narrows and the speed limits decreases, but we go even slower. In this narrow canyon, with walls of red rock climbing high on each side, we snake our way though this miraculous piece of scenery. Canyon walls so close, it seems like they can be touched. From flat, bland desert to the gap the Virgin River carved through these mountains, in only a few miles. And then, almost as quickly, it is over. Into Utah, near the town of St. George, and all is fairly flat again. We leave the super slab a few miles later though and begin heading east on Utah State Route 9 toward Springdale, Utah, and the entrance to Zion National Park.
In Springdale, Utah, near the southern gate to Zion National Park, two other bikers were suppose to show up. One however, who identified himself as the "Wizard of Arizona" sent an e mail a few days before the trip saying he would not be able to make it. The other fellow, a guy who had recently moved to Las Vegas and had never seen the scenery of Utah or Arizona never showed up. His loss. 280 more miles on the odo. We checked into the Best Western lodge and spent the night.
Day 3 - Sunday, April 13, 1997 - This is the day we can't seem to go more then five or ten miles without stopping, and for good reason. It is one of the most incredible places in the world.
We begin by riding a few miles and stopping at the Zion National Park's Visitor Center. We then head up Zion Canyon, following once again the Virgin River, and once again amazed are by canyon walls around us. No need to go fast here. Slow is good. Before we get to the end of the canyon, however, several soccer ball size rocks come tumbling down the side of the canyon and land on the road just in front of us. As we swerve to avoid the rocks (talk about a falling rock zone), the driver of the pick up truck, which is slowly following us, stops and blocks the road and gets out and removes the rocks from the road, thus preventing someone else from attempting to ride over them.
Mile after mile on this twelve mile dead end road, there is the urge to stop every mile. We resist. We only stop every other mile. Kodak moments abound. But we finally get to the end and have to turn around. We rejoin the main road through Zion and immediately begin to climb a series of six steep switchbacks, culminating in a mile long tunnel through the side of the mountain. On one side of the tunnel, there is a picture frame opening to the canyon every quarter mile. So as you ride through the dark tunnel, suddenly there is a picture post card view of the canyon on your left, and then it is gone, only to have another appear a quarter of a mile later. Spooky.
After the tunnel, the scenery of Zion becomes less dramatic, but no less beautiful. We stop at one of these incredible high desert places, where the road widens and there is a place to pull off and eat an al fresco lunch. We are joined by a couple on a Yamaha Virago from Salt Lake City. They tell us that in March, the weather had become quite warm, with temperatures in the 80's, and everyone had thought winter was over. Of course the gods must punish this kind of hubris. So last week, the temperatures plummeted, they tell us, and it snowed all over southern Utah. The thermometer was rising again but we were told that with our route later in the day taking us through some high country, we could expect it to be cold, with plenty of snow on the sides of the roads. And we were not disappointed.
As we approached Bryce Canyon, the road climbs, the temperature plummets, and the sides of the road become white with snow. We had been warned. We check into the Best Western Lodge near the entrance to Bryce National Park, immediately unload our luggage and proceed to ride the eighteen mile road of the park. Unlike Zion, where we were at the bottom of the canyon, the road through Bryce has us on the ridge. So every mile or two there is a rest area with a view for a hundred miles of canyon formations. Impressive, but not as impressive as Zion where the walls of the canyon humble you. Here you are exalted, in Zion you are made to feel small, very small.
Dinner and a hot tub is again followed by a good nights sleep. A relatively short day's ride, perhaps 150 miles.
Day 4 - Monday, April 14, 1997 - This is undoubtedly the most spectacular day of the trip in many ways. We know this is to be a cold day so we each put on whatever warm clothing we have. Julia indicates she is wearing six layers of fleece. Tom and I put on much clothing and electric vests. A quick repair needs to be made to my vest, as one of the wires becomes disconnected. Problems getting this repaired were alleviated by my favorite all around tool, the vise grip pliers, which gives us added leverage we need at one point. Tom, who is a phone company installer, has handy skills for fixing electric vests. Julia comes up with some solder from her emergency kit, but it doesn't get used, even though it should have been used. I have so many layers of clothing on I look like a cross between the Michelin Man the Pillsbury Dough Boy.
The ride this day begins with leaving Bryce and heading north on Utah State Route 12 through Escalante. Going through the town of Escalante, the speed limits was 30. We were trying to keep it down for most of the trip and were doing a good job. As we left what seemed like the town, I saw a sign saying Speed Limit 40 off in the distance. I accelerated. I'm in my biker trance, not really aware of my surroundings. Suddenly, there is a police car parked the other side of the road facing us. I look down at my speedo. It indicates 50. I get a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach that I'm in trouble and it's not for riding at mega high speeds down the highway, but for going a little too fast through the end of a small town.
Tom hears his radar detector going off and slows down. Julia is naturally riding slow. I'm in trouble. I look in the rear view and see the cop car slowly turning around. Before too long, his light bar is flashing. We all pull over. I get off my bike while Julia and Tom stay mounted. The loud speaker on top of the patrol car says "Will the first rider please approach". I start walking back toward the patrol car. I am thinking fast. What can I do to get out of this ticket?
The cop emerges. Young and cute. Would be a hit in any gay bar. About thirty, several inches smaller then me, small red mustache, and looking quite sexy in his uniform. No time to gawk however. I'm in trouble and I know it.
"How are you doing today?", he asks.
I immediately decide I cannot talk my way out of a ticket...but perhaps I can act my way out of a ticket. I fancy myself being a fairly good judge of people. I respond to his question with an "Uh, uh, uh, nervous".
I have committed myself to an approach. I decide not to argue with anything he says but to seem quite upset about being stopped. He tells me I was clocked doing 51 in a 30 mph zone. I tell him, stumbling over my words "I don't know what to say"
I go on. I tell him, "This is probably not going to mean much to you but we really are three of the slowest riders around".
He startles me by the next question. "Are all of you traveling together?" Is this guy for real, I wonder? Three bikers with no one else around and all stop when the blue and red lights flash. He asks us if we are together. What is he thinking, I wonder?
He then asks me where we are from and I tell him the San Francisco Bay Area. He asks me what we are doing in this part of Utah and I tell him we are on vacation.
His questions then get a little more weird. He asks "Do you own those bikes or are they rented?" I'm perplexed, but encouraged. Something is going on with him, I am sure, something that I am not completely aware of but something that could be encouraging for me.
I make a decision to take off my helmet. I want him to be dealing with a human, not the Michelin Man. I answer in my now an even more halting voice, "No, we own them, It's quite difficult to rent motorcycles". I make a decision to continue, almost stuttering, "I guess I went into some kind of trance and didn't watch my speed. For what it's worth, I thought I was out of the town".
He then asks for my driver's license (but not the registration for the bike) and walks back to his patrol car. I stand there. After about two minutes, he emerges. "This is your lucky day" and hands me back my license. No explanation, just "This is your lucky day". Something was up. Who knows what? "Keep your speed down now" he tell me as I take the license and begin to walk back to my bike after thanking him and assuring him I would. Yeeow inside, no ticket. From the depths to the heights in seconds.
Back on the bikes, and observing the speed limits. The Escalante Ridge is beyond compare. Riding on the bike, on a two lane road, on one side of you is a 2,000 foot drop off. On the other side, the drop is only half as far, but you can see for a hundred miles of the most deserted part of continental America. In one section, visible from the ridge, is a section twenty seven miles across, where at night no light from humans can be detected by our spy satellites. And we are riding on the ridge. If this was the only spectacular part of the entire trip, the whole effort would have been worth it. But there was more to come.
The road begins to climb to a 9,200 foot pass. It gets colder and colder and the snow is getting heavier on the sides of the road. Fingers getting cold, but I am warmed inside again by the magnificence of the scenery. Finally we begin to descend to the town of Torrey, Utah, where he begin to head east on Utah State Route 24.
National Parks now seem to come a dime a dozen in this part of Utah. Before long, we are driving through Capitol Reef National Park. We stop at the visitors center and I ask the ranger how the name came about. He tells me the "Capital" part came because there are many natural domes in the area that reminded early settlers of the dome in the nation's capital. Along with these domes, were huge towering mesas that were impossible for the early settlers to climb and almost impossible to get around. Taking a term from nautical travelers, they called these mesas "reefs", as reefs proved to be the same barriers to the early pioneers of the sea.
By now it's past mid day and we still have miles to go. At Hanksville, Utah, we begin to head south on Utah State Route 95. More fantastic scenery. We pass Lake Powell and take photos. In the arid expanse of this desert, suddenly appears this huge lake of water. Water sports for everyone! We leave, but we arrive at Natural Bridges National Monument just as they are closing, and miss the umpteenth amazing sight of the day.
Serendipity is wonderful. One never knows what it will turn up. Leaving Natural Bridges, we plan to head south on Utah State Route 261. On the large AAA map of the Western States, this road is shown as a totally paved road. On the state map, if one looks close, it is possible to see that two or three miles of this road are unpaved, but the reason why that should be so is not clear. Our destination is Mexican Hat, Utah where we plan on spending the night. As we turn onto Route 261, we see a sign saying there is a steep unpaved section of the road twenty two miles ahead, and advising RVs not to take this road. We stop for a discussion. The alternative to this 33 miles road to Mexican Hat would be 70 miles around. We talk. We decide to proceed. We can live with two or three miles of dirt road.
Julia mentions her gas situation. She has not filled up in awhile and it appears that there is probably no gas stations until Mexican Hat. But she has an extra gallon and we proceed.
For twenty two miles the road is flat and straight. Then a sign appears. Ahead it says is a stretch of road called the "Mokie Dugway", whatever that is suppose to mean. What we do understand, however, is the part of the sign which says this road is unpaved and a 10 percent grade with sharp switchbacks. Like the sign at the entrance to Purgatory in Dante's Inferno, this sign had the effect of advising us to "Abandon all hope, ye who enter".
Julia stopped to fill her talk with the extra gallon. She didn't want to run out on the steep slope. As we proceeded, we finally began to understand what this road is all about. As we approach the dirt road, we suddenly realized we were on the edge of a mesa, with a 2,000 foot drop off the side. The dirt road was narrowly carved into the side of the mesa. We were about to descend down the side of the mesa on a dirt road where one slip might send us and our bikes over a 2,000 cliff. Piece of cake.
Our reaction was unanimous. Exhilaration. Excitation. Excitement. Hanging off the side of a mesa on a narrow dirt road is an experience not to be described. Hearts racing, but it being necessary to control the bikes, we reviewed what we each knew about riding in the dirt, which was not much. Each of us knew not to go too slow, to stay off the front brake, and when in doubt...give it some gas. We began. Julia immediately decided I was not going fast enough. So, one of the few times she took the lead was here, where she accelerated away from both Tom and I. She got far enough ahead to stop and take photos of us descending the mesa. At the bottom, we agreed that this was an experience that broke the norm and left us with a strange feeling of contentment. We did stop long enough at the bottom to tell two RV's towing trailers full of bicycles that yes, the signs were for real...and no, it was not a good idea for them to attempt this road with their RVs full of kids.
And it was on to our stop for the night in Mexican Hat, Utah. On the banks of the muddy San Juan River, we found a motel with a unit which had two bedroom and a kitchen. With a roll away bed in the kitchen, we found we could all stay in the same unit, and have privacy as well. After dinner and several rounds of beer and pool in the bar/restaurant on the premises, we headed for a night of needed slumber, having put another 300 miles on the odo.
Day 5 - Tuesday, April 15, 1997 - For most of America, this was a day of anxiety as last minute tax forms were prepared and checks written to the various government bodies. The three of us couldn't care less. Not only had we each taken care of all the tax matters before we left for his adventure, but we were in a place that seemed eternal, which existed long before taxes and would be around long after anyone recognized the initials IRS.
If it couldn't get any better then Day 4, then this day equaled it. It was getting to the point where we would come around a turn and see another spectacular sight and realize that was Spectacular Sight #4,152 and on and on and on.
Our day began with Monument Valley. Not familiar with the name? Perhaps. But it is almost certain you are familiar with it's sights. If you have ever seen any of John Ford's Hollywood western movies, or if you have ever watch TV long enough to see car or cigarette commercials, it is likely you have seen Monument Valley many times. Rising from the desert floor are innumerable mesas, buttes and spires. A mesa, from the Spanish word for table, are those wide, flat, geologic formations which rise out of the desert floors and go on for miles. A butte is about as high as it is wide. And the spires are the thin rock formations that shoot up from the earth in a phallic manner. In the TV commercials, there is usually a car sitting on the top of the spire. At the Utah/Arizona border, along Route 163, begins both the natural sights of Monument Valley and the political boundaries of Navaho Land. We stopped at the Navaho Visitors Center to take photos, and to revel in the natural beauty of the place.
The Navaho man at the entrance asked us if we want to take our motorcycles on a seventeen mile dirt road that transverses the valley. Since this road would be best done with a 4 wheel drive vehicle or a dirt bike, we decline. We do stop long enough to talk to some French speaking tourists. For the past several days, we have been surrounded by families talking in French. Why, of all the possible tourists were so many of them talking in French we wondered. This couple from Paris provided us with a possibly explanation. They told us that the entire French educational system was on their Spring holiday. All schools were closed and they thought that many of the French speaking tourists were encountering were teachers and their families. After we parlez- vous for awhile, we remounted our bikes and headed south through Monument Valley.
At Kayenta, Arizona, we picked up Route 160 and headed south. Where Route 160 met Route 80, we stopped at a trading post for some tourist shopping. As we were eating sandwiches on a bench out front, another biker pulled up along our bikes and parked. This exceedingly masculine looking man in his twenties, with a pony tail and a dark stubbly beard, dressed in lace up black leather pants, jacket and fingerless gloves was aboard a 1994 Yamaha GTS (the one with the forkless RAD front suspension). The custom license plate rim surrounding the Washington plate said on the top "1997 US Tour" and beneath the plate read "The A Man". Only 6,000 miles graced the odo on this three year old bike that was a thousand miles from home.
Like a lot of macho looking American biker men, he had trouble talking, as in "hello" and "how are you doing". But since we were a more verbal group, and since we suppose he wanted to talk, since he parked next to our bikes, we engaged him in conversation. He was involved he said in a three month tour of the US where he planned on riding through some part of all the lower 48 states. That was about all we could get from him in words, but Julia did notice how on one hand he could not stop checking her out while at the same time trying to be surreptitious about it. His testosterone was obviously flowing but a strong looking biker woman was beyond his ability to approach. So instead he broke the image by taking out his address book and postcards and began writing notes to the folks back home.
This fellow, and the two ex cops in Barstow, were the only other bikers we engaged on conversation for the entire trip. We only had several other opportunities to wave to other bikers, as most of our fellow riders appeared to be hibernating for the winter. What a loss. In this part of the country, once it becomes summer, it becomes almost too hot to traverse the territory on a motorcycle. This time of year was perfect, yet there were few other bikers to be seen.
After heading south on Route 93 for sixteen miles, we turned west on Route 64 and began the ascent to the biggest of all ditches, the Grand Canyon. Slowly, the road rises, and on your right are small glimpses of what is to come. A mile after you enter the park, however, is the first scenic lookout and then it becomes apparent this is like no other place on the earth. The Colorado River has carved a canyon through the rock of the desert that is miles across and deep. Layer upon layer of rock are visible as the Colorado, over the course of millions of years, ate away at the earth until the biggest, widest and deepest canyon imaginable was created. The river, which looks so insignificant from the rim of the canyon, continue to flow (if in an abated form due to all the dams along the river), continuing to carve and create this work in progress.
We stopped continually, at many rest areas, looking into this amazing ditch. If you are a hundred yards from the rim, it is possible to not be able to see anything, and then as you approach, all of a sudden the earth falls away and it is all before you. April, before the hoards of tourists arrive is definitely a good time to visit this place.
After a dinner at another Denny's, we headed south for destination for the night, Williams, Arizona. Arriving there late, hungry, cold and dirty, we were greeted with the words of the receptionist of the Motel 6, which were "Sorry, no vacancy". As we were about to leave, Jaime (as was her name) told us that while there was no room at this inn, if we wanted, we could stay at the local Holiday Inn for the rate we would have paid at the Motel 6. Since none of us we were raised to be fools, we immediately headed over to the Holiday Inn, and immersed ourselves in their hot tub and heated swimming pool before turning in for the night, knowing that once again we put about 300 miles on the odo.
Day 6 - April 16, 1997 - Another morning. Cold, but the weather forecast is for increasing warmth later in the day and for the rest of the trip. We began with another Denny's breakfast before getting on Interstate 40 for a 44 miles jaunt at the 75 mph limit to Seligman, Arizona. There we exited the Interstate and picked up the old Route 66. Julia was interested in seeing this fabled road and both Tom and I hoped to find the remains of John Steinbeck's America. We did find it in a way. What we found was poverty. A desert where the was little means to earn a living and where few people traveled or lived. And, as in every place in this desert where people lived, we found dogs. Not pure breeds, but mutts. Mutts whose coats were never brushed, but who were friendly to the strangers in their midst. For eighty six miles we followed Route 66 until it came to Kingman, Arizona, where the Interstate and civilization returned.
Just before we pulled into a gas station, we noticed a billboard for a Harley/Honda/Kawasaki dealer. We had no reason to stop until as we were about to pull out when Tom dropped his helmet and busted his face shield. So off to the dealer, the only one for miles around to get it fixed. While we were out in the middle of no where, we had no reason for a dealer. But as soon as one was near, a reason to visit appeared.
After this we began heading north on Route 93 toward Boulder Dam and Lake Mead. In all the years I lived in California when there was no helmet law, I only twice to my memory rode without a helmet. Now that helmets are the law in California, I usually, on each trip away from California, if I am in a state without a helmet law, take off the lid for awhile. As we were headed back toward Nevada, a state with a helmet law, I took off the lid and tied a bandanna around my head to prevent sunburn. It was now warm, with temperatures in the 80's. And it felt good to ride naked (at least as far as head protection was concerned).
We stopped at Boulder Dam, another dam along the Colorado to provide water and electricity for Los Angeles, Nevada and Arizona. So much water in fact is now taken from the Colorado that it no longer flows to the sea. It is all gone before it reaches the Gulf of California. But such is the way things are now.
Crossing into Nevada, we intended to take the road which hugs the north side of Lake Mead but somehow missed the turnoff and found ourselves headed back toward Las Vegas. Our plan had been to head home through central Nevada and traverse Route 375, the "Extraterrestrial Highway". Since we were Queer Bikers, we figured extraterrestrials were fellow travelers and would set out to find time. But it was not too be.
As we were passing through Las Vegas, we had one of those odd occurrences. To understand it, one must understand Murphy's Law. While Murphy (who was a real person, an engineer) said many things, many people misquote him by attributing "If anything can go wrong, it will" to him. He did not say that. What he did say, that was close to that, was "The more complicate machines get, the more likely they are to break down".
With myself in the lead, Julia second and Tom in back, we were now heading east again through Las Vegas. Suddenly I look in the rear view mirror and no Tom. I pull off with Julia and we wait, and wait, and wait. There is a rise behind us so we cannot see if Tom is broken down...or what.
I turn on my cell phone and give it to Julia. I then proceed to go to the next exit and turn around to look for Tom. About a half mile in back of where Julia and I had stopped, I find Tom removing the plastic from his Honda Pacific Coast.
Tom explains he was riding merrily along the highway when the engine suddenly quit and the tachometer stopped. By the time I arrived, he was exchanging fuses but was not able to determine what the problem was. And to all of our chagrin, everything was not working properly. I called Julia from Tom's cell phone and told her to join us. We then had a decision to make.
Murphy was right. Tom's bike was certainly the most complicated of the three machines (anything has to be more complicated then a Harley). As machines get more complicated, they tend to break down. Simple logic says there are more things to go wrong.
Proceeding as planned would mean heading out to where there was a gas station every fifty to one hundred miles and no motorcycle dealers at all. Here we were in the middle of Las Vegas. Only one thing to do. We headed to the local Honda dealer as fast as we could to see if they could figure why the bike stopped and was now running perfectly.
Since it was late in the day, they suggested they start the first thing in the morning. They said they would try to make whatever went wrong fail again, and if needed, repair it or order parts. Tom was amused. Being broken down in Las Vegas did not seem too upsetting. Having to spend several nights amid all the glitter and neon seemed attractive. Again, Motel 6 to the rescue. Two blocks from the Honda dealer, and two blocks from several major hotels, the Motel 6 seemed well situated.
After checking in, showering and resting, we walked over to the Excalibur Hotel for their "All you can eat dinner" for $5.99. Of course, it is necessary to walk through the heart of the casino, past the slot machines and gambling tables to reach the dinner buffet. The hotel owners aren't fools either.
So, after dinner and walking through the medieval England of Excalibur, we walked over the ancient Egypt of the Luxor Hotel. We were playing the slots and trying to win a new Jaguar convertible. Julia won about $10 in the slots and I won about $5. We quit while we were ahead. And we headed back to the hotel I loved best, New York, New York.
Upon entering, Tom, our cigar smoking queer biker, noted a cart from which a variety of cigars were being sold. He bought for himself, and Julia, cigars costing $10 each. Quite mild, they said. And the ventilation systems in these hotels are good to the point that Tom, Julia and many others can puff away on various tobacco products yet the air inside seemed clean and fresh.
One of the attractions at the New York, New York Hotel is a roller coaster called the Manhattan Express that surrounds the entire property. We headed there and waited in line, noting how the motif of the waiting area resembled a New York City subway. The real New York City subway in considered by many to be a thrill ride all in of itself. This roller coaster was however good competition.
From the opening drop, it was screaming at the top of one's lungs all the way. We were not only sent down perilous slides, but turned over several times. Las Vegas has succeeded once again. We exited the roller coaster feeling we had our money's worth on this $5 ride. Back to the motel and blessed sleep. This day we rode a little less then 300 miles.
Day 7 - April 17, 1997 - When we got back to the Honda dealer the next morning at 11 a.m., they told us they had not yet begun to work on Tom's bike. We had hoped they would look at it the first thing in the morning after we explained to them our predicament. But it was not to be. So, after encouragement from Tom, Julia and I decided to continue without him. The dealer felt parts would probably be needed and he would be there a day or two. So Julia and I began heading north on Route 95.
It was not the same. Without Tom, I felt something was missing. But we traversed more beautiful desert until late in the evening we arrived in Reno, Nevada, and once again, found the local Motel 6 accommodating. More then 400 miles of Nevada's deserts were traveled by Julia and I that day.
Day 8 - April 18, 1997 - All thing end. Of that I am sure. And like all things, this bike ride was coming to it's end.
We awoke early and picked up Interstate 80 west, toward California. As the California line, we noted the condition of the road deteriorated immediately. California does not take care of it's roads the way other western states do. Too bad for us.
We stopped at Truckee for gas and breakfast. The Sierra Nevada Mountains are always among my favorite mountains and the time and road passed fast. In Sacramento, we stopped again for gas and realized this would probably be our last stop before the Bay Area. Julia said she would probably visit a friend in Oakland and I would head on to San Francisco. The skies were beginning to look threatening. For the first time on the trip, and less then one hundred miles from home, we experienced some rain. The primarily casualty was that our bikes became quite dirty. But the rain soon stopped.
In Berkeley, Julia exited at University Avenue and I hit the first of two major traffic jams caused by accidents. I knew then I was home in the Bay Area. A little later I found myself pulling into my garage in San Francisco, 220 miles after leaving Reno.
At home I found a message on my answering machine saying that the dealer could find nothing wrong with Tom's bike and he was headed home. He made it back to the Bay Area in one long Friday's ride and the bike performed flawlessly, as it has continued to perform since his return. It remains a mystery why it quit two days before.
Yes, all things end. But other things begin. I can look forward to a summer season of riding, and the 4th Annual Queer Biker Invasion of Death Valley on October 11-13, 1997. Next April, with the specific dates still to be arranged, will be the Second Annual Queer Biker Spring Kickoff Ride, this time to the Sonora Desert of southern Arizona, with stops in Los Angeles and Phoenix. So, keep those dates open if you want to attend.
Safe, happy, and contented, I thanked the powers in the universe that exist for permitting myself to have this wonderful experience as I look forward to more wonderful rides with my queer brothers and sisters in the future.
Epilog
Friday, May 2, 1997 - Two weeks later finds Michael, Tom and Julia riding together once again. The dynamic trio went forth from the Bay Area to the hinterlands to experience the culinary expertise that rural America has to offer. This time the destination was Yosemite Valley and for a lunch at the Awahnee Hotel to rehash the trip, see each other's photos and to get together one more time and ride.
First order of business was arranging to meet. As I live in San Francisco and Julia had only the day before moved to Oakland and Tom was living in the hinterlands of Contra Costa County, it was decided that the three would rendezvous at the 76 gas station along Route 120 in Manteca, California. So at 8:00 am I leave home and about 9:20 a.m. pulled into the 76 station to see both Tom and Julia awaiting my arrival.
Greetings were enjoined. Two weeks has passed since the return from the Spring Kickoff Ride. In the intervening two weeks, I had my bike serviced at Dudley Perkins, the Harley Davidson dealer in San Francisco; Julia had spent considerable sums at Cycle Source in San Francisco having new front bearings put in her forks. Julia also informed us that she had taken a little side trip to Venice, California, the week before with a friend who had never seen California. Down Route 1 through Big Sur, past coastal towns, to the wilds of Southern California, they had rode, looking for adventure. But now it was the three of us, again.
I am the tourmaster when it comes to this group. And I had the day planned. With a 9:30 departure from Manteca, I planned on getting to the Awahnee about noon for a leisurely lunch and a tour of Yosemite Valley before heading back to the Bay Area. While not completely obsessive about time, I do tend to plan and am fairly structured. But the best laid plans of riders and men oft go astray. I had not countered on the Julia breakfast factor, something I knew all about.
As I said let's get going after filling up with gas, Julia mentioned that she'd like to stop for breakfast next door at the Lyons restaurant. Knowing my schedule was about to be shot to hell, I said, how about waiting until we get to the Awahnee to eat. Julia replied that she got up late that morning and had left in a hurry and did not have anything to eat that morning. I knew well what that meant.
Through the eight days of the Queer Biker Spring Kickoff Ride, Tom and I watched in amazement, as Julia ate breakfast each morning. While we two big husky guys would eat a normal breakfast, Julia would order two or three breakfasts. Julia is muscular but quite thin and wiry. She consistently ate more then one breakfast, the first one usually being steak and eggs, the second often an omelette, plus whatever other protein items were on the menu. Julia loves protein and cannot and does not operate without protein.
I really wanted to get going, but I also appreciated Julia being there with Tom and myself. And much as I may dislike having to make room for the needs of others, I does so despite my desire to have everything go my own way. Off to the Lyons restaurant where Tom ordered a normal breakfast, I ordered a fruit cup (having awakened early enough to eat a breakfast at home), and Julia proceeds to order a seven course breakfast.
Of course, this delayed the arrival at Yosemite by an hour. But that was not the only delay. It seemed that there was a mile long caravan of RVs ahead of us, each one of whom had a driver with a right leg that was too short to depress the accelerator pedal far enough to go more then ten mph below whatever the posted speed limit was. I was willing to cross a double yellow to get round this cretins, but I knew that he would not be followed in this by either Tom or Julia, so the exercise is illegally passing these behemoths would be meaningless.
And then there was the fellow in the white Camry. With a fish symbol on the back of his vehicle, this fellow showed that while he might consider himself to be a Christian, that did not mean he would have to act in accordance with any of Christ's teachings. As he was driving just in front on the three bikers on Old Priest's Grade (an extremely steep, twisty, hundred year old road that short cuts several miles of Route 120), the Camry would speed up, and the bikers would follow suit. The Camry would then remove his foot from the accelerator on a steep section for no apparent reason, thus slowing his cage down immediately, and without any break lights showing. It was apparent this was a calculated attempt to get us to plow into the back of his car. This was one Christian I would have loved to feed to the lions, one limb at a time, while they were still attached to his body. I wondered if he would like the bikers in back of him to live by the Christian principle of having us do unto him as he was doing unto others.
The caravan of RV's never stopped until Yosemite. Passing where we could, we were able to get around many of them, but there was always another one in front. Quite frustrating.
Delays, delays, delays. As the three riders approached Yosemite Valley, I was in a tizzy. When I am hungry, I am not in a good mood. The unplanned breakfast put my eating schedule far behind. As the trio approached Yosemite, all I could think about was food, and how angry I was at Julia for not awakening early and eating a breakfast before leaving home. But that was one of the advantages of riding a bike. Julia had no idea how I was targeting her with my righteous anger, and thus I was not able to do or say anything to damage a precious relationship.
Upon arriving at the Awahnee a little after 1 p.m., we headed straight (er, queerly forward) for the dining room. For those unfamiliar with the Awahnee, this is a massive room, perhaps fifty feet wide and a hundred feet long, with a thirty to forty foot ceiling, using huge logs at the structural members of the roofing system. Built perhaps sometime early in this century, (1920's?), it has always been a place meant for the rich. The regular folks can go to the cafeterias in the park. This is for the rich folks.
I asked the hostess if it was possible to get a table for three near a window, as outside is a magnificent view of the granite walls of Yosemite Valley rising two thousand feel from the valley floor, with Yosemite Falls visible from the dinning room. The hostess smiled. "Please seat this group at table #---", she tells another employee. We proceed to walk the length of the dinning room. The one seating us says "This is the table the Queen sat at several years ago". She does not have to say which queen. There is only one queen. All the others are impostors. I smile and say, "thank you".
In the far end of the dinning room, there is a small alcove with four tables. Three of those tables are tables for two and one is a table for four. We are seated at the table for four and in front of us is a huge picture window in the middle of which is Yosemite Falls. The tables on the sides of us are occupied, but the table for two in front of the window is empty.
We thanked the hostess for seating us at this table, and sat down and began the five minute long process of removing all the extra clothes we need for riding but which we do not need for eating, especially in surroundings like this. And as we finally got comfortable, a couple was shown to the unoccupied table for two next to us.
They were quite a sight. Into the dinning room came this couple, he dressed in a tuxedo with tails, and she dressed in a white flowing wedding gown. As we were later to learn, they had been married just two hours before in a meadow not far from the Awahnee. Aside from themselves, only a judge and a witness were present. They were now having their wedding meal and by sitting next to them, we became in effect, part of their wedding party. We "ignored" then for the first fifteen minutes, as it was obvious they wanted to celebrate together, but after a time, we engaged each other in conversation. With their camera and ours, we took photos of the wedding couple, and they took photos of us with our cameras. It felt like a gift to be allowed to share these moments with this couple who had obviously made a decision to be married without any friends or family present. We were, in a special way, the witnesses to their marriage celebration.
I ordered the prix fixed meal of Manhattan clam chowder, grilled swordfish and fresh baked apple pie. Tom had a crab sandwich and a sundae. Julia had a salad and a root beer float. Much better than Denny's.
Time was now running late. Back on our bikes and a tour of the Valley. We stop for photos in front of Yosemite Falls, El Capitan, Bridal Vail Falls and a shot as we were leaving the Valley of Half Dome. Utterly spectacular.
On the way home, we stopped for a five minute stop where Routes 120 and 108 join. This became a 45 minute stop as Julia informed us that she was having a sinus attack and was seeing cross eyed. Until the aspirin kicked in, we waited. Julia teaches me patience. After another gas stop in Manteca at the same 76 station, we parted, each heading home on our own. I pull into my garage in San Francisco at 8 p.m., contented
Call: 415 563-6100 (voice) or 415 563-6129 (fax)
e mail to Michael Bettinger