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Every motorcycle ride is an adventure, whether it is going down to the corner store, or taking a 2,700 mile ride. Of course, if one is lucky, the 2,700 mile ride is usually much more of an adventure than the trip to the local store.
The 2nd Annual Queer Biker Spring Kickoff Ride was quite an adventure. Once again, three hardy bikers left San Francisco on April 11, 1998, to explore the deserts of the American Southwest. In the process, they experiences, rain, deserts, snow, mountains, wind, small towns, sun, big cities, copper mines, places where time forgot, and places where no one should remember. Overall, a good time was had by all.
Michael Psycle, on his Harley FXR, Tom on his Honda Pacific Coast and Bob on his Harley Super Duper Ultra Everything Glide were the three participants. Others tried to make the trip, but circumstances in their lives prevented them from joining us. So, on a cloudy April morning, the three aforementioned bikes left San Francisco, in a very good mood.
Day 1 - Saturday, April 11, 1998 - And so it began, leaving San Francisco on I280. Twenty miles south of the city, the first stop had to be made. The clouds had changed to a light mist, which soon changed to a drizzle, with potential for getting worse. The weather report for this Saturday had been changing all week. Early in the morning, the final forecast was for scattered showers with clearing in between. But El Nino was to strike once again. The scatted showers picked up a lot of warm Pacific moisture and turned into a steady rain. For the next 400 miles, until we reached the outskirts of Los Angeles, our destination this first night, it rained, sometimes hard, sometimes light, but a constant, steady rain.
Near Woodside, we pulled over to the right shoulder, beneath an overpass. Bob put on his rain suit over his leathers. I was already wearing my Aerostitch Darien riding suit. I decided to find out, once and for all, if it was, as the manufacturer claimed, fairly water resistant. I declined to put on my rubberized nylon rain suit which didn't breath. I didn't want to feel as if I was in a sauna if I could avoid doing that. Tom made the unfortunate decision to see if his riding suit was waterproof. He also declined to put on his rain suit at the time.
I thanked myself for being well prepared. The previous day, Friday, April 10, 1998, I bought my first new helmet in years, a Shoei full face helmet, and added to it a Fog City shield, to prevent the visor from fogging in rainy weather. The month before, I had bought from a catalog a pair of work boots which had a gore tex lining, and which the manufacturer claimed was water proof. I had thought about getting waterproof gloves before the trip, but I knew I had a pair of large rubber gloves which could go over my riding gloves. So, I was set.
I kept thanking and thanking myself for the preparations. Behind the large windshield on my bike, I stayed dry and comfortable. I have, of course, been caught in the rain before. But usually I avoid riding in the rain. And in California, that is usually easy to do. For six months each year, it doesn't rain at all. And in the other six months, the rain is fairly predictable. You know when it is going to rain. One rule I usually follow is that I don't leave my garage on pleasure rides if it is raining at the time. That usually prevents my getting caught in the rain.
So, although I've ridden for thirty years, I have never ridden in so strong and consistent a rain for as many miles as I did that first day of the Spring Kickoff Ride. And neither had Tom or Bob. And what did we discover? We learned that riding 400 miles in a drenching downpour was much better than any of us being at work. The worse day of riding is better than the best day on the job, and we all seemed to like our jobs.
It's all a matter of attitude. Faced with what we had to deal with that first day, we could have gotten in to a funk. But seemingly all of us kept the same notion in our heads. This was the first day of a great adventure. So what if it was raining. While all of us would rather the weather had been sunny and warm, we each accepted that into each life, a little rain must fall, and this day it was more than a little. The deserts beckoned. The rain would stop.
So we headed south on I280 until we reached Route 85, which we took for a few miles until it connected with Highway 101. South on 101 for rain soaked mile after mile. A break for lunch and gas, then onward through the rain. Through the very green Salinas Valley. Over the pass into San Luis Obispo. Rain, continual rain, and more rain. But it was wonderful to be riding. I was dry, and warm thanks to an electric vest. Visibility wasn't too bad. We just rode a bit slower than we otherwise might have ridden. I was in the lead for the most part of the day, as I would be for the most part of the trip.
In Santa Barbara, about a hundred miles north of LA, and with the rain still pouring down as heavily as at any time during the day, Tom let us know that he was soaked to the skin. He realized his riding suit was not waterproof, and that he should have put on his rain suit long ago, but now the point was moot. Hypothermia was becoming an issue for him. He told us he would find a motel in Santa Barbara with a clothes dryer and meet us tomorrow morning at 10 a.m. at the Motel 6 in Hollywood where we had reservations.
Bob and I continued south on the 101 until we reached the outskirts of Los Angeles, where the skies cleared for the first time all day. As if Los Angeles was magic, the clouds parted, and blue skies appeared. I discovered that the Aerostitch suit did keep out the rain, my waterproof boots were, in fact, waterproof, the Fog City shield was a god send, and that my hands sweated in the leather gloves overlayed with the rubber gloves. That part needs fixing. We reached the Motel 6 and found we too could use the clothes dryer, primarily for the clothes my duffel bag which managed to get wet. After several hours of rest, Bob and I headed out for a queer night on the town in LA.
Day 2 - Sunday, April 12, 1998. Easter Sunday. After what seemed like an exhausting night on the town, at ten o'clock, not only did Tom show up, but a contingent of LA bikers who would accompany us for the first part of today's journey. David was leading a contingent of four people on three bikes, ready to ride with us through the mountains and deserts near LA.
Originally we had hoped that we could ride over Route 2, the Angels Crest Highway, through the high mountain areas near LA and arrive in San Bernardino in time to stop at the Chaparral Motorcycle Supply, the Wal Mart of the biker world. But El Nino had left a huge blanket of snow in the mountains east of LA, leaving the road still closed in April, an unusual condition. So, alternative roads, lower in elevation were found. After a lunch, the LA bikers departed for their trip home and Tom, Bob and myself continued on through the Mojave desert, and into the Joshua Tree National Park.
We had planned on hooking up with a couple of other queer bikers in the park. They had left their bikes at home and had rented an RV and were staying at a campsite. They told us they would be flying a rainbow flag for us. But we couldn't find the campground where they were staying, and we headed out of the south exit of the park, further into the desert. Joshua Tree National Park proved interesting. It actually seemed like two parks in one, geologically different. First the western part, where the Joshua trees were located. Then the eastern part of the park, several thousand feel lower in elevation, and all together different.
And in the process of our ride that afternoon, we got another lesson in stereotyping. At the south gate to the park, we crossed Interstate 10 and proceeded along Box Canyon Road. We rode through the canyon miles after mile. This was an undeveloped canyon, with no park facilities, no potties, no designated picnic sites. But what we found was several thousand people, most seemingly of Mexican or Central American descent, who turned this canyon into a park for that Easter Sunday. For mile after mile cars were parked on each side of the road, portable tables and barbecues set up, volleyball nets erected, and families celebrating together on Easter Sunday. What we so noticeable, was that despite a lack of facilities, the canyon was spotless of garbage, totally organized, set up by the people there to accommodate the crowd, all by themselves. The following day that canyon was likely to be a desolate canyon once again, but this Sunday it was a vibrant, alive desert canyon, that the following day would show no sign it had been used by several thousand people. Not the image most American have of the people in that canyon.
By the time we exited the canyon, it was time to start looking for a motel for the night. Out came the Motel 6 book and reservations were secured at the Motel 6 in Indio, in the heart of the Cochella Valley, one of America's most agricultural area. Dinner was had at a Mexican restaurant next door, which enabled all of us to have a few beers without having to ride out bikes.
Day 3 - Monday, April 13, 1998 - We are now in the desert. No mistaking it. Dry, dusty, and windy. When people think about deserts, they usually think of a hot arid place with hardly a cooling breeze for miles. What they miss is that deserts can be extremely cold at certain times of the year, especially at night. And what even fewer realize, is that deserts are windy places. The Mojave is such a place. In April it is cold at night, and windy almost all the time.
We awoke and looked at the map. We knew we wanted to get to some place in Arizona, but were not sure exactly where we would wind up that night. It was time though to plan the first part of the day. What stood before us was the Salton Sea, a huge foul smelling inland lake that was created by an engineering disaster in the early part of the century, and now stood between us and where we wanted to do. The choice was to ride down the east or west side of the sea.
We asked advice and listen carefully to the answer. We were told by several people to take the road on the west side of the Salton Sea. They explained to us this road was the better, faster, one and would take us thorough all the developed areas around the lake. So we took their advice seriously and ride down the east side of the Sea. Non bikers wouldn't understand. We didn't want to best and fastest road. We didn't want development. We wanted adventure. The east side of the Salton Sea is the poorer cousin of the west side. So, down the east side we traveled.
Being on a bike as opposed to traveling in a cage lets you be a part of the environment. And we were rewarded by aromas. By staying on the east side of the Salton Sea, we were able to avoid the foul smell of the dead lake. We were able however, to smell the agriculture, which in this case was field after field of growing onions. No the most pleasing aroma to many people. But then again, those same people would have a seizure if they realized they left home without applying their underarm deodorant. When you ride a bike, you get to be part of the place you are in. At other times, we would smell the pine tar of the forests, or the aroma of fresh baked bread. All parts of the experience.
So, south we headed on Route 111. At the only gas station on the east side of the Salton Sea, we filled up the tanks. The gas station had been there for years, with it's two pumps and a small store. A throwback to an earlier era. Leaving the shoreline of the lake, we proceeded south on Route 115, until we came upon the super slab, Interstate 8.
Sometimes you have no choice. While smaller roads were our preferred mode of transportation, here the only available road across the sand dunes of the desert was Interstate 8. And sand is what we saw. While much of the Mojave is hard packed dirt, here we saw massive sand dunes. Any road through this inhospitable environment, including the Interstate, is a marvel of engineering.
We found the three of us getting along quite well. Three very different people. Tom, who lives in suburban America with his wife and works for a major utility; Bob, a government employee and single gay man living in San Francisco, and myself, who I am loathe to describe, would find ourselves in a pleasant one week relationships. All of us being of good nature, easy going, and interested in all of us having a good time, found it easy to compromise when needed. Fortunately, none of us seemed to want to ride faster than the others, or to be on a different schedule. We were all content to start the ride early in the day and end it with a good meal and some rest in our separate motel rooms. This gave us all time to be together and alone.
Interstate 8 let us crank up the speed. With a posted speed of 70, and with our speeds often going a bit above that, we were all comfortable. Sometimes, speed thrills. One of the great advantages of riding a Harley as opposed to a crotch rocket, is that at a speed such as 75 mph, on a Harley one feels like one is moving fast and getting all the thrills that speed engenders. If we had been on a crotch rocket with a theoretical top speed of 170 mph, 75 would hardly seem like we were moving. Since two of us were on Harley's, and Tom was on his 850 cc Honda Pacific Coast, the need to go 100 mph to feel as if we were moving simply wasn't there.
But the miles still few by fast. Even as 75, one covers a lot of territory, and before we knew it, we were out of California and the Mojave Desert, crossing the once mighty Colorado River, and into Arizona and the Sonoran Desert. First stop in Arizona was the town of Yuma.
For someone who grew up on Hollywood westerns, Yuma is a mythical place. Home of the federal prison, Yuma appeared as a hot, dry, sleepy town in any number of westerns. As we exited the highway, old Yuma was before us. And in a blink of an eye, it was gone! The old part of town was all of about two or three blocks, restored, now transformed into a modern sterile tourist stop, where one is suppose to get a picture of how it once was in the old, wild, west. Not terribly interesting. Nor was the rest of the town of Yuma.
Something we were soon to learn is that all the new developments in Arizona were quite reminiscent of Southern California. We could have been anywhere, it all looked the same. Wide streets, fast food joints, chain stores, all identical to how it is in every other town and city in this part of the country. And travel was awesomely slow. If we came to a light and it had just turned red, it would be two or three minutes before the next green light. Not only did the traffic on the intersecting street get a green light, but the left hand turn lanes on both streets also got their own green lights. So, missing a light turned out to be a minor to major inconvenience. Sitting on air cooled engines in April wasn't so bad. It was hard to imagine what this would have been like in July or August. We presume we would have had to turn off our engines at every missed traffic signal. And the traffic signals were not coordinated. We would miss a light every few lights. It caused us to have an instant dislike for the new, modern Yuma, and all the other new cities of the southwest that we visited.
We were also becoming aware that in all these cities and towns, there was no where to eat except franchise food places. In Yuma, we finally settled on an uninspiring lunch at the Red Lobster. We found we could not get on the bikes fast enough. Yuma was an almost total wash out. Back to the Interstate.
It was 115 miles to our next stop, where we would exit the Interstate, Gila Bend, Arizona. Gila Bend in another of those places of legend. The name even sounds good. Gila Bend. Gila monsters, the Gila River. All conjure up images of the west and Arizona. The only road through this part of the state was the Interstate. There was no other choice. Bikers who say they never ride an Interstate don't travel through this part of Arizona. So, they miss much of this part of the Sonoran Desert.
As a town, Gila Bend was also disappointing. Not developed like Yuma, so there were no waits at traffic lights. But nothing was old. All the buildings were new, with the exception of one old building in town. When we asked, we were told there had been a fire awhile back. So Gila Bend could have been anywhere else. A stop at the Dairy Queen for ice cream picked up our spirits. And, we knew that for now, we had ended our stints on the Interstates.
We began to head south for fifty three miles toward the town of Ajo. Ajo, we were told, was Spanish for garlic. A small, no where town, where once copper was mined. But the pit closed about forty years ago, and now the town continued to shrink.
Several motels were listed in the AAA guide, so we figured we would have no trouble getting a room. Big surprise. All the motels in this small, no where town were filled. And we wanted three rooms. Nothing, except a dive of a cheap motel that no one would want to at, but which we had no choice. Paying prices that would get us much nicer lodgings elsewhere.
The town of Ajo showed a prosperous past. Phelps Dodge, the large mining corporation, had an open pit mine just south of the town. A mile across, it looked gigantic. Cooper for the troops in World War II was mined here. The town probably had thousands of inhabitants in those days. A nice town square remained, as did the boarded up buildings of an old hotel and corporate headquarters. Also, more than a few mountains of tailings. Where there is mining, there is tailings scaring the landscape.
Tom was feeling tired and headed back to the motel early for some shut eye. Bob and I hit the not spot in town, which was the local bowling alley. Yours truly, who has not bowled since he was in high school, scored a 99 while Bob bowled a 133. But in the second game something strange happened. The ball I was bowling kept knocking down all the pins. Why, I have no idea. I would try my best to keep it from going in the gutter, and instead, it would knock down all the pins. Again and again, until I had scored 178 points, while Bob scored 122. Neither of us could figure out this turn of events.
Arizona being a state where one is not required to wear a helmet on a motorcycle enabled me to have the pleasure of riding without a helmet for a couple of miles this evening. It felt free and liberating.
Day 4 - Tuesday, April 14, 1998 - We agreed to get up early for a 7 a.m. start to the day. This would be the earliest we would start any day. Why, we could not figure out. Perhaps it was to get out of Ajo as fast as we could. The town was depressing. It just seemed right, when we were heading for our rooms for the night, to declare an early start to tomorrow's ride.
The bikes have been running fine. Modern motorcycles are so much more trouble free than any of their older cousins. They just keep on going, and going, and going. Japanese, American, it doesn't matter. Modern engineering had succeeded. The silly debate about which one is best is just that, silly. Bikes are extensions of the rider's personality. All bikes are right for that rider. If not, they'll get another bike. I haven't come across a modern bike I could not respect.
Continuing south on Route 85 for ten miles, we turned east on Route 86. Going further south would have taken us to the Organ Pipe Cactus National Monument, and the Mexican Border. Neither appealed to us at that moment. We went a miles down the road, stopped and turned around. No reason t head that way. Along Route 86, at the town of Sells, Arizona, we met up with a biker from Flagstaff on an older BMW. Some small talk, then it was on to Tucson.
Bob started the trip without the power cord for his electric vest. He has been wanting to pick one up for several days, but had not managed to do so. In Tucson, he called several dealers and found one, a Ducati dealer on the other side of town who had the proper cord.
For as bad as Yuma was, Tucson was worse. Instant dislike. Nothing redeeming about the place. If the traffic lights in Yuma were bad and kept us waiting forever, Tucson seemed determined to out do this. The traffic lights were not coordinated. So, we needed to stop at every other light, and wait the several minutes until all the turning lanes and the other street had their right of way.
This became exceedingly frustrating. After picking up the power cord for Bob's vest, we headed back across town, stopping at all the lights we missed the first time through town. A growing anger inside of me said I never wanted to spend another minute in Tucson again. I was feeling antsy, frustrated, aggressive. I did what I needed to do.
I suggested to Tom and Bob that we avoid the secondary roads, and get on Interstate 19 and head south toward Nogales. I knew there were secondary roads we could take. But at this point, I could not meet up with another Arizona traffic light without busting a gut. I needed to be moving, and if there is one thing rural interstates can guarantee you, it would be that you will be moving, and probably at a good clip. About an hour later, we arrived in Nogales and exited the Interstate. I felt better, relieved. I could now face the future, and a traffic light, if needed.
When I was a kid growing up in Brooklyn, I couldn't understand how the cowboy could be riding around the desert, and just a little later, be riding his horse high in the mountains. It didn't seem probable to me. I accepted it as Hollywood license. But the next part of the trip would show it was real.
In Nogales, we started to head east on Route 82. And immediately, the road started to climb, a slow but steady climb, as we actually headed to the northeast, following the mountains that were there.
With every mile, came a change in scenery. From the brown of the desert, suddenly we were seeing green grass on the hills. This area was obviously wetter than the area around Nogales, just a few miles away. And then the wild flowers, in yellow, red, purple, orange and blue. Wild flowers lining the road on each side. Wild flowers in the fields. Spring in Arizona, moistened by El Nino's rain. I also noticed something else, my throat was beginning to feel a bit sore.
After climbing through the Tumacacori National Historic Park, we reached a high plateau, where the land flattened, and cattle and farming predominated. We found a place for lunch, and I stopped to make a phone call.
Before the trip, I bought a prepaid phone card for long distance calls. I bought this one because the rate to Australia was only 40 cents a minute, a bargain by any standards. One reason I arranged this trip at this time was that my partner had to be in Australia for two weeks working. That gave me plenty of time to roam around on the bike, before I planned on flying to Australia to join him for vacation after his work was over.
Australia is17 hours ahead of Pacific time. An easier way of saying that it that it is tomorrow in Australia, but seven hours earlier. What that meant was that when it was about 2 PM in Arizona, it was tomorrow morning, about 7 am there, just the right time to call someone who is getting ready to go to work.
So, my partner Bob and I would have our daily phone contact, half way around the world. While I had to dial an 800 number, plus a long access code, plus the phone number of his hotel in Sydney, Australia, I found that the numbers flew out of my fingers, and within seconds I had a connection as good as calling across town. It didn't even have the 1/4 second satellite delay. They are either using cables, or low flying satellites.
It seems we were both not feeling well. He in Australia, and myself in Arizona. I was hoping we would both feel better soon. It would happen, but only for one of us.
After another forgettable lunch, it was back on our bikes and continuing our ride through southern Arizona. Where Route 82 ended, we headed south of Route 80 to the town of Tombstone. Tombstone, Arizona, town of legend. The shootout at the OK Corral. The Earps, the Clantons, Doc Holiday. What we found was this historic town had been turned into a theme park, with all the depressing nature of such a place. Why anyone would be interested in this place was beyond us. Staying long enough to eat an ice cream was all we could stand. Riding was better than being in Tombstone.
Continuing south along Route 80, we passed through the town of Bisbee, another mining town where the copper mine had long ago closed. But this town, unlike Tombstone, immediately seemed interesting. Through fixed up to some degree, one could feel a realness to the town. It seemed like the kind of place one could live and enjoy it. Outside the town was an immense open pit copper mine, long abandoned, with the accompanying hills of tailing all around. Bisbee enjoyed a reputation as an artist and ex hippie hangout.
Twenty three miles later, we arrived in the town of Douglas, right on the border with Mexico. Out Motel 6 was right next door to a local prison where individuals who committed minor offenses were locked up for a week or so at a time. A loudspeaker of the guards yelling at the prisoners was almost constant during the evening hours. How the prisoners inside could hardly wait to get out, we thought.
While the ride was going great, I was not now doing so well. The sore throat became worse, and developed into a cough. I was also feeling weak. We had planned on leaving our bikes at the motel and taking a cab to the border and finding a bar in the town of Agua Prieta, Mexico, and getting drunk on Tequila. Tom was feeling tired and begged off. Bob and I went to dinner, but I knew I was not in good shape, so I suggested we turn in early, and skip the drunken sojourn into Mexico.
Day 5 - Wednesday, April 15, 1998 - Up early the next morning to see Bob once again cleaning up his bike. My bike is now encrusted with mud and bugs, emblematic of a long bike ride. Bob's bike looked like it pulled out of the dealer's showroom. A difference in orientation.
For the second year in a row, on the day when so many Americans are having shit fits trying to get their taxes done before midnight, I am on my bike riding around the deserts of the southwest. A much better choice.
I'm feeling lousy, but needing to push on. I not feeling well enough to feel good, but not feeling sick enough to stop and rest. I find that riding on the bike feels comfortable, so onward we go.
The first stop is a block away from the Mexican border were we park the bike at a gas station where the attendant has agreed to watch them for an hour or two. Then, we hike across the border into Mexico. There are all sorts of insurance issues regarding bringing a car or bike into Mexico which we didn't want to sort through So, walking through this small Mexican border village for about fifteen minutes convinced us there was little we wanted to see there, and we turned around and walked back to the US. While everyone who looked Mexican was being stopped and questioned, in our motorcycling suite, they asked us where we were born, and after hearing our American accents waved us through. No ID to show, no passports, no papers. Just a wave through. And the Mexicans watched.
Back on the bikes, we now headed to the north and east on Route 80, through the Chiricahua Mountains, into New Mexico. Another terrible lunch at a truck stop. We cannot fathom how truck driver survive on the food available to them at places like this. Bordering on the inedible.
In Lordsburg, New Mexico, we begin heading east on Route 70. The weather has been cloudy and threatening. Not what we would have expected, but El Nino has not had the last word yet. In Duncan, Arizona we head north on Route 75 and plan to head to the town of Springerville, through a hundred miles of almost uninhabited Arizona mountains.
Before heading into the mountains, we must pass through the town of Morenci, Arizona. Whereas the open pit copper mines we came across in Ajo and Bisbee had been abandoned years, here Phelps Dodge had the full operation going. It was of a size which cannot be described. Perhaps five miles across and twelve to fifteen miles long. It seemed t go on forever. Big trucks, which looked like the size of ants from the rim were being filled with ore. Up the roads of the side of the pit to their eventual destinations. We now fully understand why Arizona is called the Copper State. We felt small and humble in comparison to the immensity of this mine.
At an overlook for the mine, a young man driving a Ford Explorer came up to us. He mentioned that he noticed the Pride Flag on the back of Bob's saddle bag. His recognizing the rainbow sticker as the Pride Flag immediately let us know we were talking to a member of the family. He had graduated the University of Michigan the year before, and was on a two year long cross country trip, camping most of the way, to see America, and to decide where he wanted to live his life. We both planned on heading north on Route 191, so we suggested we would see each other later.
Route 191 is this almost abandoned road through the mountains of eastern Arizona. AS the road climbed in elevation, it became narrower, and curvier. The condition of the road also began to deteriorate, potholes and broken pavement. But the it started. A slight drizzle. Nothing much to worry about. We had worse rain the first day out. The only problem I thought, was this would get the bikes dirty again.
But as we kept climbing, the temperature kept falling. Suddenly there was snow on the sides of the roads, from other days. And, as we kept on going, the drizzle turned into a wet snow.
Onward, with myself in the lead, we pressed for awhile. I was looking at the road conditions. The cracks and pot holes were collection moisture. The temperature was getting colder. I was feeling lousy, tired, and coughing.. Finally, after another few miles, I pulled over. Time to discuss the situation.
Bob had a thermometer on his bike which read 32 degrees. We still had 70 miles to go on this road. It looked like those puddles of water would soon be sheets of ice. Not a nice prospect when one is on a motorcycle. We decided to admit defeat. We turned around and headed back south, back through the copper mine, back to a café with a telephone.
We canceled our motel reservations for that night and found another motel in Safford, Arizona, a fifty mile ride. I am exhausted, but I feel I have little choice. I put the bike into high gear and before we know it, we are ensconced in the Best Western Motel in Safford. I am dead to the world. I can hardly move. I pray that I will have more energy in the morning.
Day 6 - Thursday, April 16, 1998 - I don't feel much better the next morning, but I do find I can sit on my bike and ride, if I don't have to be too aggressive. We head east on Route 70 to the town of Globe, Arizona, to make a decision. If I had felt better, we would have north on Route 60 and then east on Route 260, through some more incredibly beautiful Arizona mountains. But I am not feeling well. It takes a lot of energy to ride, and it is all I have. I suggest we take Route 60 south to Phoenix, and then head north on Interstate 17 until we get to Prescott, Arizona.
In Phoenix, we have trouble finding a gas station. We pull off and find the Silicon Valley of Arizona, with all their high tech companies, but no gas station. Several miles later, we do locate a gas station, where we fill up, and I make my daily call to Australia. My partner Bob is feeling better, but I am feeling worse.
The same situation with traffic lights as existed in Yuma and Tucson also exists in Phoenix. The same city planners in all those places. I can't stand this place, any more than the others. We head out as fast as we can.
Interstate 17, while being a major road, does pass through interesting and beautiful areas. It climbs and the temperature falls. I am warmed by my electric vest, something I thought I would hardly needed.
Eventually, we get to the town of Prescott Valley where we bed down for the night in a Motel 6 that has a Jacuzzi and swimming pool. Nice for a Motel 6. A couple of Marines on Harley's beautify the place.
Day 7 - Friday, April 17, 1998 - A night's sleep and my strength is about the same. We head north on Route 89 and pick up Interstate 40 west in Ash Fork. Another terrible meal, and back on the bikes. Destination, Las Vegas. Through the town of Kingman and then north on Route 93, to the original sin city of the desert, Lost Wages.
It is clear to me that I cannot go on any further. I have a vacation in Australia and New Zealand planned for the following two weeks, and riding my bike has become dangerous. I cannot concentrate. I feel tired all the time. My better judgement tells me to stop here. I call the airline and make a plane reservation back to San Francisco for the following day
But what am I to do? Where does one leave a motorcycle in a strange city, where it will be watched and cared for. An idea hits me.
Day 8 - Saturday, April 18, 1998 - I get up and ride the bike to the local Harley Davidson dealer, Harley Davidson of Southern Nevada. I speak with WT, the service department manager. I tell him my story and how I can't go on. Will he let me leave the bike there for several weeks? Before he can answer, I sweeten the pot. I tell him I need a major (10,000) servicing of the bike. He could do it any time in the next three weeks, at his convenience. He agrees.
I load my duffle bag on the back of Tom's bike and head to the airport. A little later, I arrive back in San Francisco. I rest for the following three days. My cold goes away and I feel better. On Tuesday evening, April 21, 1998, I get on a United Airlines 747-400, and fourteen hours later arrive in Sydney, Australia.
Epilog, Saturday, May 9, 1998 - I am on another United Airlines flight, this one to Las Vegas. I am feeling better, and eager to finish my trip.
The Harley dealer did not work on the bike until yesterday. I get to the dealer and they are having a huge tent sale. I buy a PM rotor for the front brake that should have cost $385 for only $70. I now though, have to spend about $400 more on a four piston caliper. My bike is always a work in progress.
I try to get out of Las Vegas as soon as possible. The same hated and dreaded traffic lights. New Interstate 15, I get caught in two in a row and it takes me 6 minutes of waiting to go two blocks.
Finally, I am on the Interstate and six hours later arrive in Bakersfield, to stay at the same Motel 6 that I have so often stayed in during the Queer Biker Invasions of Death Valley.
Sunday, May 10, 1998 - Bakersfield to San Francisco via the back roads of the valley and coastal mountains. I am happy to be home. The spring ride is finally over. Tom and Bob had no trouble with their last two day's ride home.
Next year, we plan on doing it in late May, to take advantage of warmer weather. Won't you join us?
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Spring Kickoff Ride, 1726 Fillmore Street San Francisco, CA 94115Last updated 7/6/98