I've been re-reading some of my motorcycle travel journals and decided now is as good a time as any to post some trip stories from years gone by. So here is my day-by-day account of my 14th Annual Midlife Crisis Tour in 1999:
I began my motorcycle touring career in 1986. I’d just bought a used 1991 BMW R100RS the year before and was eager for a long ride. The BMW Motorcycle Owners of America obliged by scheduling their 1986 National Rally for four days in July at Laguna Seca Raceway near Monterey, Calif.
I made the trip with Indianapolis BMW Club friends Tim and Linda Balough and developed a taste for touring and a love for the wide open spaces and magnificent scenery of the American West that persists to this day.
My 1999 trip, then, was my 14th such journey. My son Sean moved to Portland, Ore., after college to pursue a career in music and recording. So, beginning in 1994, I’ve made annual treks to Portland to visit him and see as much of the country as possible on the way out and back. A couple of trips took me up to Banff and Jasper in the Canadian Rockies. In 1998, I included the BMW MOA National Rally in Missoula, Mont., on my way out. One year, the annual three-week ride included a week with Indianapolis BMW Club friends at the chalet we rent each summer in Breckenridge, Colo.
This year, I left home with no particular route in mind. The only real specific was that I was going to Portland, then probably down the coast. I had it in mind to visit the Little Bighorn Battlefield and ride the Beartooth Pass.
A coworker, Art Harris, is an avid Custer history buff and once worked on an archaeological dig at the battlefield. I’d heard a lot about this famous episode in American history from Art and decided it was time I went there and experienced the place.
I’ve been listening to my BMW Club friends sing the praises of the Beartooth Pass for years and figured I’d try to get to it this trip.
My only other trip goal was to re-visit the Pacific Coast Highway through Big Sur. This is my favorite place to ride and I’m drawn back to it time and again.
These goals formed the framework of the trip as I packed and organized my stuff in the days leading up to July 6. The hot July weather and the Montana-Portland destinations meant I’d take a northwestern tack and avoid the heat of Kansas on the way out. Other than that, I decided to improvise from one day to the next in my choice of roads, balancing my desire to ride new highways against the need to make time to the next goal.
The anticipation of three weeks on the road and everything that goes into it – the planning, the decision-making on the fly, the tedium of long stretches of empty highway and the lurking awareness that I may get my ticket punched by some hapless deer or drunk driver – is always a little daunting.
My friend Ted Simon nailed it nicely in his amazing book, Jupiter’s Travels. Writing about an encounter with an awed South African gas station attendant who’s just learned that Ted rode his Triumph overland from England, Ted described how the encounter cast him in the light of an heroic figure.
“It is not a role in which I feel comfortable. I am learning, as I make my way through my first continent, that it is remarkably easy to do things, and much more frightening to contemplate them.”
That said, on with the doing of things.
Tuesday, July 6, 1999
Maria helped me organize and pack most of yesterday, so there was little for us to do this morning.
The bike was already loaded in the garage, but I discovered I’d forgotten a few things – like my hair dryer – and had to re-pack the left saddlebag.
Maria made coffee and a strawberry smoothie while I finished paying bills and shutting down the condo.
We rolled out about 7:30 a.m. – her to work at Avon and me to the open road.
I took U.S. 421 up to 116th Street, then west through Zionsville to Ind. 267 and south to the Brownsburg interchange on I-74. I stopped briefly at Hardee’s to perform the Lomax Axiom. (Indianapolis BMW Club member Jerry Lomax’s words to tour by: “Start every day with a full stomach and an empty colon.”)
It was already in the 80s and very humid and continued uncomfortably hot despite the highway speed. I’d forgotten how much construction there was on I-74.
I stopped for gas about 100 miles out and immediately discovered I was missing my Bank One debit card. I called Maria at work and got the 800 number for Bank One and spent a steamy 20 minutes – mostly on hold – getting the card canceled.
I suspect it’s at home on my desk, but I don’t want to take any chances with my finances.
That development guarantees I’ll use my Citibank VISA card and accrue plenty of frequent flyer miles on this trip.
My other pressing concern was a cold front draped diagonally across northern Illinois. The early morning radar sequence showed it losing its storm content overnight and my aim was to get through it before the thunderstorms fired up again in the heat of the day.
I rode through the front around Peoria without seeing any rain. I stopped for a late lunch at 1:30 p.m. at a McDonald’s just east of Galesburg. By the time I got back onto the road, it was under a cloudless sky. There was a noticeable drop in the humidity, although it remained warm.
Studying the Sprint PCS zone map over lunch, I determined my next opportunity to make a free non-roaming call would be in Iowa. I also noticed the Sprint coverage in the northern Mountain States is non-existent. Once I leave Iowa, I’ll be in roaming (expensive) territory until about Portland. I’ll have to use the phone sparingly till then.
When I got to Coralville at 3-3:30 p.m., I checked in with Maria at work. I’d had thoughts of pressing on to Omaha, but there were no Motel 6s near there on my route. I had the girls at the Coralville Motel 6 check with Reservations for Des Moines and found my first choice was booked and the others were charging more than the book rate.
Miffed, I decided to stay at Coralville – probably a bad decision since it was still early, but there it was.
The first day out is always a strange one for me. Today, with the Bank One card debacle, was no exception. I’ve come to accept that it may be a couple of days before I get into a road rhythm.
I also need to keep reminding myself to relax and enjoy the ride and not feel driven to charge on through to Portland.
Characteristically, I’ve taken no photos today. I only take pictures when I’m having a good time, I find.
Dinner was at a fly-infested Perkins restaurant across the street from the Motel 6. I also picked up a motel directory from the nearby Econo Lodge.
I’m thinking of making for Rapid City with an early start tomorrow to redeem myself for a 369-mile day today.
If the weather is as expected, it should be cool and clear all day tomorrow – a welcome change from the heat and humidity of the last several days in Indiana.
I phoned Maria from my room, then watched a couple of PBS things on Mt. Vesuvius and the Story of Golf. I left a 4:30 a.m. wakeup call and went to sleep early.
Wednesday, July 7, 1999
Tom Bodette woke me with his bogus message that I’d just won the lottery. I drifted for a few minutes, then hit the shower.
The National Weather Service radio station informed me it was 56 degrees at Iowa City and that sunrise was at 5:39 a.m. I managed to get everything jammed into my bag liners and rolled out right at sunrise.
It was a perfect morning – so golden and clear that I considered vowing never to miss another sunrise.
There were little pools of mist and fog in the valleys and fields on either side of I-80 as I rode west.
I hit DesMoines about 7:30 a.m., just in time for the morning rush hour traffic.
A little west of Des Moines and about 100 miles into my ride, I stopped at the DeSoto exit. The signs heralded the birthplace of John Wayne a few miles to the south. I topped off the tank. The oil level was down, so I added about one-third of a quart to bring it up to the dot in the middle of the sight glass. I rode to a nearby no-name café for a breakfast of coffee and raisin bran. After breakfast, I checked in with Mom and Maria via cell phone.
Getting back onto the freeway, I accelerated past a hog truck on the on-ramp. I figured the trucker was cool with it, but minutes later he and another trucker formed a rolling roadblock, holding me and other drivers behind them for several miles. Were they coordinating this little holding action by CB radio or was I just feeling guilty and paranoid?
Somewhere around Atlantic, I pulled into a rest area to shed my jacket liner, as the day was warming.
I took I-680 to I-29 north and rode between the Missouri River and the Iowa river bluffs up to Sioux City, where I crossed into South Dakota. I gassed at an Amoco station that boasted seven casinos strung out in its rambling innards. I explored the place looking for the rest room and was struck by the hopeless appearance of the older men and women, passing their time poking money into electronic gaming machines. One guy was cashing a check to get gambling money and looked like he could ill-afford it.
It got warmer as I rode north to Sioux Falls and picked up I-90 west.
The afternoon was a blur of gas-and-go, interrupted by a forgettable lunch at a Subway gas stop and a Dairy Queen breeze.
At lunch, I phoned in a reservation for the Rapid City Motel 6 and spent the afternoon slogging through 300-some hot miles that spanned most of the width of South Dakota.
I noticed plenty of cattle – many up to their bellies in farm ponds.
I rolled into Rapid City and made it to the Motel 6 before the 6 p.m. deadline, having crossed into the Mountain Time Zone somewhere in mid-afternoon.
I redeemed myself today, by riding 744 miles.
Dinner was at a Perkins restaurant again. This time there were no flies, but the service was so indifferent that I decided I must have become invisible.
It was spitting rain by the time I left the restaurant and hiked a block or so back to the motel. Lighting flashed in the clouds above the motel as I walked to my room.
I called Maria and updated her on my travels. Finding nothing to watch on TV except local coverage of President Clinton’s visit today to an area Indian reservatoin, I left a 4:30 a.m. wakeup call and went to bed about 9:30 p.m.
Thursday, July 8, 1999
The Tom Bodette call came as requested and I flipped on the TV for some weather clues.
I found a channel showing a live shot of the orange eastern horizon over a temperature-humidity-wind velocity and direction readout.
It was an unbelievable 85 degrees with a northwest wind of 4-5 mph. I dialed up my weather radio and it confirmed the high temperature. It also warned of a cold front that would bring high winds – some gusts of up to 55 mph in the Black Hills area and Northwest.
I pondered the wisdom of riding into a savage windstorm and hoped it would move through quickly.
By the time I had showered and loaded, the wind was gusting above 20mph and the temperature had dropped to 62.
I gassed at an Exxon station near the motel and headed onto I-90, not sure whether to kill time at Mount Rushmore or ride into the teeth of the wind.
The crosswinds and headwinds were scary and challenging, but I angled right at the junction, picking the open sky on the northwest horizon over the clouds hanging over Rushmore to the south.
I opted to stop for breakfast at Sturgis and found myself sharing a restaurant with several flight personnel of the Army's 101st Airborne Division. I wondered what guys from a Fort Campbell, Ky., outfit were doing here, then remembered the President’s visit day before. These guys were probably part of his support organization.
By the time I left, the wind seemed to be abating.
I took a wrong turn and found myself heading back east on I-90 and rode to the first exit, stopping to put the liner into my jacket and swap my hot weather ventilated gloves for my gauntleted deerskins.
Heading back northwest, I realized the temperature must now be down in the 50s because I was still a bit cool, despite my added layer.
I broke into bright, cloudless sunshine exactly at the Wyoming line and gassed at Moorcroft.
I pulled off at the Powder River rest area for a restroom break and struck up a conversation with a Gold Wing couple from Sioux Falls, S.D., who were heading home. Seems they were only averaging about 200 miles a day. They started their day in Sheridan, Wyo., and were heading for Spearfish, S.D.
They said it was 96 yesterday at the Little Bighorn Battlefield. Somewhere down by the river, someone was playing a French horn.
The process of forcing myself to take a break helped me shift gears mentally and I began to enjoy the ride for the sake of the ride.
The high desert smelled wonderful – almost a hint of cinnamon – as I approached Buffalo.
I stopped at Sheridan to gas and had a $2.95 McDonald’s lunch. I added another third-quart of oil.
A kid about 15 with Tourette Syndrome was at the restaurant with his family. By the way the manager greeted him, I surmised he was local and a regular.
There was also a guy with Down Syndrome working cleanup at the McDonald’s.
As he wiped off the table behind me, he tapped me on the shoulder and confided, “I don’t like that guy.”
“How come?” I asked.
“He talks too much.”
An elderly couple at the table in front of me had been quietly conversing in an Indian dialect. When they stood to leave, he faced her and straightened the collar on her dress.
I got back onto I-90 and rode the 60 or so miles to the Garry Owen exit.
After a few minutes of research, I discovered this was the site of Maj. Reno’s first skirmish and that the Custer site was at the next exit north. I chose the frontage road and rode about 4 miles to reach the battlefield exit. I rode up the hill east of the interstate and paid my $3 admission. Finding a parking space next to the national cemetery, I secured my helmet and hiked up to the crest of the ridge and
the Seventh Cavalry Monument, beneath which Gen. George Custer and several of his men are buried. I followed an Indian family up the path – mom, dad and two kids. Mom had a video camera to record the occasion.At the crest, I used my cell phone to place a collect call to Art Harris back at the Metro North office of The Indianapolis Star & News in Carmel, Ind. I described the scene, mentioning I had my hand on the iron fence surrounding the stones marking where Custer and the last remnants of his command fell.
I descended to the Visitor Center and inspected the displays, including weapons from the battle and Custer’s white buckskin suit.
As I exited, I heard one of three Indians standing outside the Visitor Center, “But they don’t want to hear about how Reno murdered women and children…”
In the military cemetery, I found the grave of a Hoosier – George Keo, a World War I veteran who died in 1944. I patted his stone and thanked him and his neighbors for their sacrifices for all of us.
I noticed there were only a few cars in the parking lot of the Crow Nation Casino at the foot of the hill as I returned to I-90.
The wind was gusty and strong over the 55 miles to Billlings. I passed a pair of Gold Wing couples pulling trailers that seemed to skip around behind the bikes in the crosswind.
After picking up I-94, I found the twin Motel 6s and chose the older one because it had rooms with outside access.
Dinner was a tasty and inexpensive London broil at the nearby Holiday Inn restaurant, using a 10% discount coupon the Motel 6 desk clerk gave me.
Over dinner, I studied maps and Motorcycle Tour & Cruiser Editor Laura Brengelman’s list of pre-empted ride stories and concluded I should do Coeur D’Alene and also one on the Palouse. It remains to be seen if I can get Beartooth Pass in tomorrow and make Coeur D’Alene by nightfall.
I covered 395 miles today – not a lot, but the quality of experience is beginning to take its rightful place ahead of sheer mileage.
Friday, July 9, 1999
I determined last night that (a) Billings expected a near record low temperature overnight and (b) local sunrise was 5:33 a.m.
Consequently, I left a 5:30 a.m. wakeup call with the hope that things would warm up quickly once the sun cleared the horizon.
I rolled out about 6:20 a.m. to an official 51-degree sunny morning.
I rode the short distance west to U.S. 212 and headed south, ignoring a gas station at the exit.
It was downright chilly and, after about 10 miles I pulled into the parking lot of a ubiquitous casino to get out my Gerbing heated jacket controller and my heavy gloves. As I stood there, a guy drove up and asked directions to Cody, Wyo.
I told him I thought he should take 212 south, but cautioned that I’m from Indiana and had never been on this road before.
I figured I had enough gas for Red Lodge but, having little else to think about, started looking for a as station about 30 miles south of I-90. I found one in Joliet and topped off my tank for the remaining 21 miles into Red Lodge.
I started scanning for a restaurant, preferably one with bikes in front. I wasn’t disappointed.
I noticed a guy wheeling a Harley-Davidson into a space next to five other bikes. He introduced himself as Tommy Williams from Madisonville, Ky., and invited me to join him and his friends for breakfast.
They were a congenial lot and started their meal with grace, so I knew I was with decent folks.
I had huevos rancheros and generally introduced myself to the group. They were headed over Beartooth Pass as well and welcomed me to ride along. I took an immediate liking to David Davis, a young engineer riding a ’97 BMW R850. He proudly shared that it was #5 of the original group of BMWs imported for the 1996 Olympics in Atlanta. He was the only one of the group who had ridden all the way from Kentucky. The others trailered to Nebraska and Red Rice, who was recovering from a stroke, had driven a car. All had spent the night at the Red Lodge KOA just north of town.
Well-fed, we geared up and rode south into the mountains.
Dennis Hart, a fire fighter, led on his Kawasaki Vulcan, followed by Davis and me and we gingerly attacked the steep road with the first serious switchbacks I’d seen this year.
By the time we pulled off at a rest area at the 9,000-foot level, we all realized were into some serious mountain riding. I alternated between fear and exhilaration as we moved above the tree line, then above the snow line. In places we rode between banks of snow five feet deep, reminded by the snowplow guide poles that this place is buried in snow much of the year. We saw the upper terminus of a ski lift in a place where we found it hard just to breathe.
Near the summit, we passed a couple of guys standing near a station wagon, skis in hand. I wondered if they actually meant to plunge down the steep mountainside and, if so, if they were experienced enough to know what they were doing.
At one turnoff short of the summit, we surveyed an incredible vista of snow-clad peaks to the southwest. Tommy rode his Harley onto the snow field and promptly got bogged down until some of his buddies pushed and pulled him free.
On the downhill ride, we saw a couple of squashed marmots on the road. One narrowly missed the same fate when he scampered across in front of Davis, who was leading at the time.
I had my camera - an Olympus 35mm point-and-shoot - looped to my right wrist and finished the trip’s first roll of film shooting from the saddle as we rode.
The downhill run was full of scenic surprises, including a waterfall exploding out of a rushing stream channel in the mountain to our left. We passed an artist with easel set up at the roadside, a photographer under the hood of his view camera and a fly fisherman in waders, hip deep in a lake to our right as the postcard-quality scenes flashed by.
I think we were all eager to talk about the experience when we pulled to the curb in Cooke City. We adjourned to the picture-windowed bar across the street for coffee, iced tea and water to unwind.
The Kentucky guys, who planned to spend a couple of days in Yellowstone, decided to save a couple of bucks and have lunch before going into the park – where food was bound to be more expensive – a short distance down the road.
I was still full from breakfast and wanted to keep moving, so I thanked them for their company and rode out of town.
Four miles later, at 11:52 a.m., I paid my $15 Yellowstone National Park admission fee and promptly found myself at the end of a line of traffic waiting for a pilot truck to lead us through road construction.
I took advantage of the delay to shed my jacket liner and heavy gloves.
I was in a construction zone most of the next 29 miles in conditions ranging from freshly rolled asphalt to graded dirt. In places it was incredibly dusty and I worried about my engine air filter loading up.
I stopped at the Tower-Roosevelt road junction to try to phone in a room reservation. I got a Motel 6 room in Coeur D’Alene, but also realized it would take some long, hard riding to get there tonight.
I stopped at Mammoth Hot Springs for a chocolate chip ice cream cone and chatted with a guy from San Diego. Then I rode five miles to Gardiner and the North Entrance of the park.
I gassed and checked at a Super 8 motel, making a reservation at the Super 8 in Belgrade, Mont., some 10 miles west of Bozeman for $48.49. It seemed a lot more realistic goal than droning on into the night to Coeur D’Alene.
The road back up to I-90 followed the broad and scenic Yellowstone River valley. The afternoon was warm and the traffic was light.
When I got to Bozeman, I decided to check on the price of a room at the Continental Motor Inn, where I had stayed last year en route to the BMW MOA national rally in Missoula. The price was $40.56, so I took it and canceled the Belgrade reservation.
Dinner was at the next exit west at an Apple Tree Restaurant where I had a meatloaf sandwich and mashed potatoes.
This morning was glorious, but I paid for it in the afternoon with the slow, dusty slog through Yellowstone. I was reminded anew that there is no such thing as a shortcut through a national park.
With only 271 miles on the trip meter today, I hope to make Spokane tomorrow night.
Saturday, July 10, 1999
I woke up a few minutes before the 5:30 a.m. wakeup call and flipped on the Weather Channel. I was chagrined to see the 5 a.m. temperature was a brisk 43 degrees.
“Oh well, I’ve ridden in cold before and I have my electrics,” I reasoned, and got into the shower. I took my time packing and organizing and phoned a reservation to the Super 8 at Spokane and notified Citibank that I’m on vacation and not to get alarmed at all the charges strung out over the West. By 6 a.m., the official Bozeman temperature was up to 48 degrees and, by the time I rolled out just before 7 a.m., I guessed it was in the low to mid-50s. I had flashbacks to last July as I rode west from Bozeman on I-90, seeing the same scenery in the same early morning light I’d seen on the way to the MOA national.
As I exited at Whitehall for fuel and breakfast, I thought about phoning my Indianapolis BMW Club friends at their Saturday morning breakfast spot at Shapiro’s Delicatessen and telling Rich Nathan and Dom LoDuca that I was having breakfast at the same restaurant where we accidentally met almost a year ago.
I gassed at the Exxon and used the windshield cleaner to scrub some of yesterday’s dust and bugs from the fairing.
I made a pass through the business district, looking for the restaurant where I’d had the huge plate of huevos rancheros last summer, but to no avail.
Finally, on the second pass, I found it – closed and empty. What a disappointment!
I put my ear plugs back in and headed west toward Butte and Missoula.
I’d been using the electric jacket liner to good advantage and added my poly glove liners at Whitehall to ward off the persistent morning chill. I’d forgotten how dramatically the road swoops down the mountain into the broad valley where Butte lies.
The ride went quickly and I was soon taking the first Missoula exit. I gassed at the same Conoco station where the Baloughs, Webb and Cindy and Bernie Heidt and I had fueled on the way out of town from last year’s BMW MOA National Rally, then rode down the street to the McDonald’s, directly across the street from the Burger King where we’d had breakfast that day.
I grimaced as I remembered how Bernie dropped his bike in the sloping parking lot.
A bacon, egg and cheese biscuit and a cup of coffee later, I saddled up and got back onto the road.
It was about 12:50 when I crossed the Idaho state line and into the Pacific Time Zone. I reset the Fuel Plus clock as I rode, pleased to gain another hour.
Just into Idaho, the road descended and the temperature rose, so I pulled off and stowed my jacket liner and gauntleted deerskin gloves.
As I approached Coeur D’Alene, I noticed a scenic lake route running along the eastern shore of Lake Coeur D’Alene. I took the exit and rode south around Wolf Lodge Bay and Beauty Bay. The road ascended the bluff and I found a great vista point where I was able to pose the bike against a view of the bay, the lake beyond and the I-90 bridge in the distance.
I discovered I was now in Sprint PCS territory and checked a voice mail from Sean.
Lured by the prospect of better views, I continued another few miles, but lost sight of the lake and finally gave up on the road.
I returned to I-90 and took the first Coeur D’Alene exit, which put me on a street that ran down to the center city beach and park.
I found a parking place, secured my helmet and jacket and went looking for photos.
I used my cell phone to check in with Mom, then went exploring.
I couldn’t tell if the big Saturday crowed in the park was mostly locals or visitors to this resort that’s practically on the doorstep of Spokane, 33 miles to the west.
There was a middle-aged guy with his radio-controlled tugboat in a little wading pond, chugging amongst the legs of several little kids.
Nubile young girls sunned everywhere and a sternwheeler was boarding passengers for a lake excursion.
As I parked the bike, I’d noticed a single-engine seaplane taking off. I walked out on the pier to get a better shot of the beach and found the offices of the seaplane business. The girl told me it was $40 for a 40-minute, 100-mile flight. I was ready to spring for this photo opportunity when she mentioned it was an $80 minimum and I’d have to pay it all if nobody else came along. I told her I’d be close by waiting for more customers.
But when I went back to the beach and stood drinking a bottle of spring water I’d bought from a vendor, I noticed a guy writing parking tickets in the one-hour lot where my bike stood.
I realized a 40-minute plane ride would put me over the limit in the lot.
So I blew off the plane ride, gave my parking space to a couple in an SUV and headed back to the freeway. On the way, I noticed that Coeur D’Alene has a Bates Motel, complete with the scary house-on-the-hill logo on the sign.
I was sweltering and, having had no lunch, stopped at a Dairy Queen for a Blizzard. I phoned Maria and, not finding her home, called my condo. Morgan answered and gave the phone to Maria. Seems they were waiting for Danny to come pick up the kids.
Back on the road, I stopped just inside Washington at a visitor’s center to get a state map and a brochure on the Palouse.
I checked into my Motel 8 room and did a load of laundry.
The National Weather Service radio said sunrise tomorrow is 5:04 a.m. (6:04 a.m. to my biological clock). I planned an early start to as to get the 60 or so miles south into the Palouse while the light is still golden from the morning sun.
I’d considered an afternoon run down to Colfax, but the temperature in the 90s killed my enthusiasm for it.
Dinner was across the parking lot at Denny’s where I had the fish dinner. I feel a little guilty about only 420 miles today, but tomorrow will be a more serious ride, with two potential stories – the Palouse and the Columbia River Gorge.
Sunday, July 11, 1999
My 4 a.m. wakeup call blasted me out of a dream and I flipped on the weather radio to discover the temperature was 56 in downtown Spokane.
I loaded the bike, put on my Conspicuity vest and rolled out of the Super 8 parking lot at 4:55 a.m.
I rode west on I-90 to U.S. 195 and headed south. About the time the four-lane ran out near Spangle, I saw the rising sun on my left and the terrain started getting interesting.
I stopped repeatedly to get photos of the rich green rolling hills of the Palouse and noticed that the rising sun cast my shadow to the west of the road. The moving shadow danced from guardrail to far out in the fields as I flashed down the ridge road and I noticed an aura of brightness around the dark silhouette of bike and rider – some odd optical phenomenon. I took it as a good omen that today would be a fine one.
Just into Whitman County and about 20 miles north of Colfax, I saw a particularly promising side road, having begun to wonder what the land looked like from off the highway.
I turned east onto a narrow strip of asphalt that quickly turned to black gravel – a one-lane county road that wound into the rolling hills.
I followed it and discovered a fresh view of the undulating countryside every time I rounded a bend or crested a hill.
I probed a couple of miles into the rich rolling farmland, finally stopping to take off my helmet and earplugs and savor the silence of the place. It was perhaps the most peaceful place I’ve ever been, with only the rustle of the light breeze in the grasses.
As I approached the highway, I paused again to listen to a bird’s morning song and to reflect that the occupants of the nearby farmhouse were probably still asleep. Even if the sun was up, it was only 6:11 a.m. I felt very lucky to be here in this moment.
As I rode toward Colfax, I stopped and doubled back often for photos, not wanting to have regrets about missed picture opportunities.
Riding down the incline into town, I noticed the high school on the left and began scanning for a café for breakfast.
At the south end of the little bridge over the Palouse River, I found Allen’s Drive-In where curb service – with the old-fashioned intercom tray speakers – is advertised to begin at 10:30 a.m.
I did a left U-turn into a parking spot as a red SUV pulled in a couple of spaces to my left. The driver was a guy in his 60s, tall and lanky with a straw cowboy hat, who entered right behind me.
I ordered two eggs over easy with German sausage and casually eavesdropped on the conversations around me, trying to get a feel for this place where my friend Joe Repp grew up.
Colfax is pretty close to the size of Delphi, Ind., the town of about 2,500 where I grew up and I figured most of the people having breakfast at Allen’s knew each other.
The guy who entered behind me sat at a nearby table and was joined a few minutes later by a guy who said he used to drive the cowboy’s dad around. Tuning into the conversation, I learned the cowboy’s name was Phil and his late father used to be a county commissioner. He raises some cattle and went to his 45th anniversary high school class reunion the night before.
His new table-mate was retired from the craft of blasting, having gotten out of the business because government regulations on blasting materials got too stringent and too expensive to follow.
I asked the waitress if she’d ever heard of Joe Repp. She didn’t think so, adding there are too many Repps around Colfax to keep track of.
I took Hwy. 26 southwest out of town, looking for more photos.
I found two mules – one white, one dark – in a field at a county road intersection. As I lined up the shot, I glanced up at the road sign and saw it was Helen Repp Road. I later learned Helen was Joe’s aunt.
I picked up Hwy. 127 at Dusty and connected with U.S. 12 at Dodge. I determined this was just a few miles west of where I got a speeding ticket 51 weeks ago to the day. The terrain grew steeper and less rolling as I continued south into the Snake River Canyon, crossing the river on a majestic bridge.
I skirted Walla Walla and picked up Hwy. 730 at Wallula Gap, following it south along the Columbia River to I-82, then south 10 miles to I-84 westbound.
I stopped at Boardman for water and to top off my oil, chatting with a Harley-Davidson rider from Waco, Tex.
The interstate was the same old slog with moderate traffic that built the farther west I rode. I stopped at The Dalles for gas and again at Hood River for a McDonald’s lunch.
I paid 50 cents to ride the steel grate bridge across the windy Columbia – the river was full of wind surfers – to the two-lane tranquillity of Wash. 14 on the north shore. It was a much cooler, more pleasant ride and I was immediately glad I’d made the change of route.
I was on a pace that I was sure would put me at Sean’s house before he was ready for my arrival, so I welcomed a fun way to extend the ride.
Presently, I noticed a bike in my mirrors, working its way up through traffic.
In time, he blew past me and I recognized the bike as a new BMW R1100RT with a rider and passenger. I followed them into Stevenson where, after cruising the main drag and its restaurants, we made a U-turn and doubled back to a place on the South Side of the street where Sean and I had once stopped.
Stephen Hale, a software consultant from Portland introduced himself and his girlfriend, Kari. I joined them for an hour of high-octane coffee while they had lunch. They were on their way home from a weekend ride in Washington.
After photos by the bikes, we saddled up and went our different ways. Stephen is a fine writer and has his own web site where you can read about his travels.
I followed Hwy. 14 to I-205, then over the river to I-84 and into Portland to Sean’s place, rolling the bike into his garage with 242 miles on the odometer for the day.
Monday, July 12-Wednesday, July 14, 1999
My bike rested for the next three days in the basement garage of Sean’s place while
I hung out with Sean. Sean and I explored the lava tube cave on the southern flank of Mount St. Helens and drove to the coast. On July 14, my 54th birthday, Sean took me to dinner at a place specializing in Caribbean cuisine, then we adjourned to the Laurelthirst Tavern.Thursday, July 15, 1999
I rolled out of bed at 5:10 a.m., showered and packed quickly. Sean carried some of my luggage down to the garage and, after the always-difficult good-byes, I headed out at 6 a.m.
I rode north on 39th Avenue to Sandy, took Sandy southwest to I-84 and was on my way out of town. I decided to do the initial few miles without earplugs or radio, so as to be more in touch with what I expected would be heavy rush-hour traffic. It turned out that I beat most of the traffic.
I stopped about 6:35 a.m. for breakfast at a Denny’s. Since I was still in Sprint PCS country, I called Mom and checked in with Maria before gassing at a Shell station and getting back onto I-5.
It was surprisingly chilly, so I plugged in the jacket liner and put the liners into my gloves.
Just north of Cottage Grove, I stopped at a rest area to use the restroom.
Minutes after I got back onto the road, I came upon a major semi accident in the northbound lanes, just south of Cottage Grove. This was an eerie repeat of last year’s experience. If I hadn’t stopped at the rest area, I might have witnessed the crash.
The rest of the morning was just an interstate drone. I remember a couple of crop dusters buzzing the highway, the smell of mint in the fields and little else.
The day really began for me after a McDonald’s breakfast at Medford and crossing into California.
About 1 p.m., with 300 miles already in my mirrors, I took off down Calif. 96 – the Klamath River Highway.
The road was in mostly good shape with places where CalTrans went a little nuts with the slippery crack sealer.
I followed the river down the canyon, criss-crossing several times over the 147 miles to Willow Springs. The road is mostly canyon and mountain riding – sometimes shadowing the river and other soaring high above it, affording spectacular view of the winding, rippling water below.
This is a primo recreation area and I saw lots of rafters and kayakers along with a couple of small gold dredges operating with their pontoon float craft and green canvas awnings.
The wilderness was interrupted here and there with ranches, riverside homes, U.S. Forest Service campgrounds, commercial campgrounds and the occasional linear community strung out along the highway.
I started looking for gas at Happy Camp, then Soames Bar where I stopped to buy some bottled water. The woman at the store directed me eight miles down the road to Orleans.
When I dropped down out of the mountains and across the bridge to Orleans and its 30 mph speed limit, I found only one pump at the Unocal place and three vehicles ahead of me in the gravel parking lot.
A young Indian woman was running the pump.
She helped a lanky old rancher type with a Jeep and a straw cowboy hat to fill his tank and two red Jerry cans, then filled the tank of a local guy in a Toyota 4x4.
The 87 octane was $1.89 a gallon and my tank took exactly $6 worth. The woman said the temperature had been about 114-115 degrees earlier in the week. It was in the 90s today.
The local volunteer fire department went on a run to a grass fire as we stood there chatting. I noticed gas was more plentiful further down the road.
I was pretty fatigued by the time I got to Willow Springs and the last 40 miles to the coast – much of them facing into the lowering sun – seemed to go on forever.
When I finally got to Arcata and U.S. 101, I stopped at the last turnoff to put in my jacket liner. I noticed a guy stopping nearby in a red Honda del Sol with a bicycle rack on the back. I watched his technique as he installed the top: he held it over his head, then sat down in the driver’s seat. I chatted briefly with him, then rode on in to Eureka to the Econo Lodge where I had a $31 room reserved.
I phoned Maria to let her know I’d survived today’s 517 miles, then went to dinner at the nearby Jalisco Café for a $20 dinner including three Dos Equiis.
Friday, July 16, 1999
The Weather Channel had the Eureka temperature at 54 degrees when I woke up about 5:30 a.m., so I took my time, finally rolling out onto the street about 7 a.m.
I gassed at a Texaco station, paying $1.96 for premium and putting a whole quart of BMW 20W50 in to bring the level up to the dot in the sight glass. Apparently yesterday’s thrashing in the heat down the Klamath River Highway took its toll. I decided to make best speed for Gilroy, so I stayed on U.S. 101 all day and passed up the tempting twisty road from Leggett to Fort Bragg and the coast.
I kept the liner in my jacket all day, since it started cool enough for electrics and stayed cool almost all day.
Breakfast was at a McDonald’s under remodeling at Willits.
I gassed again at Cloverdale and crossed the Golden Gate ($3 toll) about 12:30 p.m.
There was low cloud, but I could see the whole bay and the city as I descended to the bridge approaches. I rolled through San Francisco and somehow missed the Mountainview exit for California BMW, where I’d planned to pick up a replacement quart of oil.
I stopped briefly to check in with Maria and Laura Brengelman before riding the last few miles to Gilroy.
It was an even 360 miles to Gilroy and the Rodeway Inn, but I wasn’t finished for the day.
After phoning Art Harris at the office at 3 p.m. to talk about the buyout for News employees pending the paper ceasing publication, I hit the road for Monterey, Big Sur and Nepenthe.
There was a huge backup of northbound traffic south from Carmel Valley Road, but it was clear sailing for me until I neared the Bixby Creek Bridge, which was reduced to one lane for construction. I sat in line behind a yellow Porsche with the vanity plate PUR FIT about 10-15 minutes before we got moving again.
I was mildly surprised at how well I know this road and anticipate the landmarks.
When I got to Nepenthe, I went directly to the Phoenix clothing rack and picked up a couple of the recycled rag shirts I’d admired last year – one blue and one gray.
Since the cool of the evening had arrived, I put on the blue shirt and stowed the gray one in my right saddlebag, then went up to the restaurant for dinner.
I was seated at the west end outdoors overlooking the sea.
I had an ambrosia burger and a Kaliber non-alcoholic beer with coffee after.
Nepenthe is 75 miles from the Gilroy Rodeway Inn – a round trip of 150 miles for dinner, making for a 510-mile day.
It was wonderful to sit in the late afternoon sunshine and bask in Nepenthe’s ambiance again, but I missed having Maria there to share the experience.
As I saddled up, a young mother and her 2-year-old son watched me go and I waved to the wide-eyed kid.
Sunshine yielded to gray cloud when I left the River Inn area. It was chilly and I was glad to have my electrics as I covered the 75 miles back to the motel.
I phoned Maria and wrote in my journal, planning an early start on tomorrow.
Saturday, July 17, 1999
I got up about 7 and called Maria. I showered and gathered up the stuff I wanted to take on my ride down the coast today, along with the things to mail home.
After getting directions from the woman running the motel office, I rode down to the Gilroy Post Office about 8:30 a.m. to find that window service doesn’t start until 9:15 a.m. So I doubled back to the Denny’s by the motel for a light breakfast of cereal, toast and coffee to kill time.
I got back to the Post Office promptly at 9:15 and used Priority Mail boxes to ship the two Nepenthe shirts to Maria and Sean’s book and Maria’s Hawaiian shirt to myself.
I rode down to Seaside and spent about a half-hour searching for the BMW shop, trying to reconcile their directions with the bad address in the MOA Anonymous Book.
I finally found it and bought a quart of BMW 20W50 and a black shop T-shirt.
Then it was down the road to Big Sur.
Monterey and Carmel were in cloud and fog, but the sun broke through just past the Carmel Highlands. I stopped at one of the first vista point and found a way I’d never noticed before down to the cliffs. I got some great shots, then rode on, noticing all over again what a magical place this is. The colors are brighter and more vivid here. The tiny wildflowers sparkle along the roadside and there’s the occasional whiff of dill on the breeze.
I got to Nepenthe about noon and bought some post cards and a book at the Phoenix, then went up to the Café Kevah for a quesadilla of mushrooms, chili verde and cheese and a mocha. I savored the time, writing cards and soaking up the ambiance.
I left the sunny café to find a place on the upper steps in the dappled shade to write a journal entry.
I spent the rest of the day working my way down to Ragged Point and back.
I stopped at the vista point where I’d taken my signature photo of the Big Creek Bridge several year ago and spent about a half-hour just staring at the scene and trying to memorize every sensory detail of the place. I was engaged in conversation by a guy about my age from Ventura who had a son who went to Ball State and knew something of Indiana. Mostly, I think, he wanted to talk about bikes and his desire to get a Gold Wing.
Further down the road, at Mill Creek, I descended to near ocean level and hiked down to the pebbly beach and the light surf. There were a couple of guys playing conga drums on a rock about 70 yards south of the parking lot and it made an odd counterpoint to the pounding of the surf.
At Ragged Point, I topped off with $2.45/gallon gas and had a Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia pop. I walked a ways out onto the point, admired the view and took some photos.
I got back on the road and rode non-stop to Nepenthe for dinner. It was chilly out on the deck and I was glad to get back into my jacket after dinner for the ride back to Gilroy.
I did 259 very pleasant miles today and watched the odometer roll over 121,000 miles.
Sunday, July 18, 1999
I took my time about getting up and packing since I was only going 168 miles down the coast to Morro Bay today and wanted to give the coastal fog a chance to burn off.
I put on my slacks and Willis & Geiger Hemingway jacket and strolled across the street to Denny’s for a cereal, toast and coffee breakfast, then went back and leathered up for the ride.
It was still cool when I got onto U.S. 101 and headed down to the Monterey Peninsula cutoff of Cal. 156.
Highway 1 felt comfortably familiar as I rode past Munras, Carpenter and Carmel Valley Road. There was still overcast all the way down to Nepenthe, so I didn’t stop for photos.
I went first into the Phoenix to mail a post card, then up to the Café for brunch: the shrimp, spinach and cheese omelet.
I fed part of my sourdough to the crows from my seat in the southeast corner of the deck.
In the Phoenix, I did a little bookstore research and determined the yellow flowers so prolific at this time of year are Lizard’s tail. I made a note to order the book – The Natural History of Big Sur – from Amazon.com when I got home, since I didn’t want to spend the money and give up space in my saddlebags for a hardback book.
Back on the road, I traveled a couple of miles south before stopping to check out the Coast Gallery and drink a cup of coffee on their deck. I used the deck as a vantage point to shoot some photos of passing motorcycles before descending through the gallery of Henry Miller watercolors and other art.
I stopped again at the Big Creek Bridge vista point and sent about a half-hour trying to merge with this fabulous view.
Down at Ragged Point, I had another Cherry Garcia pop and took more photos from the end of the point.
Riding south toward Morro Bay, I noticed a crowd of people thronging to one end of a beach. I wondered what the attraction was, then spotted a large group of elephant seals sunning on the sand.
I found the Econo Lodge at Morro Bay and checked in. I gathered my laundry and rode a block to a cheesy little laundromat. I passed the time reading a book of Hemingway short stories. Then, with my clean laundry folded neatly in a saddlebag liner, I rode down to the Embarcadero for dinner, settling on a Chinese buffet. All told, I’d done 169 miles in this, my last ride of the trip through Big Sur.
Monday, July 19, 1999
Not wanting to leave the coast and rationalizing that it would be a bad idea to go charging up the hill to Atascadero in the early morning fog, I lazed around and watched the JFK Jr. death saga winding down on TV.
I finally got up and, after deciding against a $109 room at Lee Vining, booked a $48 room at Tonopah, Nev.
I rolled out at 8:39 a.m.
It was chilly, but not unmanageable. I broke out of the haze somewhere east of Paso Robles. I looked for some kind of James Dean marker at both junctions of Cal. 41 and Cal. 46, but saw none. I suspect I have my highways crossed up and need to do some more Dean research.
I followed Cal. 41 without stopping across I-5 and up through Fresno, past Coarsegold to just south of Yosemite where I stopped about 11:30 a.m. for a McDonald’s lunch and gas – I’d covered about 180 miles in one shot.
I entered Yosemite National Park at 1:10 p.m. and spent the next three hours or so working my way through the park. I noticed several TV news crews set up near the base of El Capitain to cover the ascent of the paraplegic climber.
I took a break at Crane Flat for water and a Häagen-Dazs popsicle and chatted with a guy from Austria who was touring California with his wife or girlfriend on a rented Gold Wing.
I got to Lee Vining about 4 p.m. and gassed. I reflected that I had come from sea level to nearly 10,000 feet in about six hours.
I headed south on Cal. 120 and connected with U.S. 6, bouncing through the seven miles of whoops some 33 miles out from Lee Vining. I recognized my old favorite speeding zone and wicked it up to 140 mph indicated.
I backed off almost immediately because of gusting crosswinds. Rolling into Tonopah about 6:20 p.m., I gassed and checked into the Hi Desert Inn Best Western. Dinner was chicken fried steak at the Silver Queen restaurant down the street.
Tuesday, July 20, 1999
My alarm went off at 5:30 a.m. and I was surprised to see the sun was already on the mountaintops flanking the town.
I loaded and was ready to ride out of town at 6:30 when I realized I’d be riding directly into the rising sun.
So, I doubled back to the Silver Queen for a breakfast of corned beef hash and eggs.
I finally rolled out of town an hour later, wit the sun at a more reasonable angle, but still dead ahead.
I resisted the urge to do warp speed and topped out at 130 before cruising most of the way to Ely between 90 and 100 mph.
I gassed at Ely and chatted with a guy on an 1100cc Honda Shadow who was riding from Fort Collins to Canada, via Lake Tahoe. He warned me of windy conditions to the east, which proved to be true.
I used my 2-year-old phone card to call Maria, then headed for Delta.
Just inside Utah, I ran into construction in the blazing desert heat.
I was drained by the time I got to Delta and took 30 minutes with a smoothie and a lot of water to re-hydrate. I gassed and watered again at Salina, calling in a Motel 6 reservation for Grand Junction – some three hours east – at 4 p.m.
I took only cursory notice of the gorgeous canyonlands as I dead-headed for Green River. It looked like serious rainstorms on either side of the road and I ran through about 10 miles of I-70 that had just recently been rained upon, but I only got a few sprinkles.
I gassed at the Green River Shell station and chatted with a Harley-Davidson rider who was two hours from home at the end of a week-long tour that took him as far east as Illinois.
The golden light of late afternoon lit my way as I rolled into Grand Junction and found the Motel 6 about 7:30 p.m., wrung out after 606 miles. Dinner was at a Wendy’s about a half-mile south of the motel. I rode 553 miles today.
Wednesday, July 21, 1999
I blew off my 4:30 a.m. wakeup call as too ambitious, considering it was 3:30 a.m. where I’d been for the last week. I finally got up a little before 6 and, after chatting with an Army family from Fort Campbell, Ky., who were eastbound in a car with Hawaii plates, I got on the road about 7:15 a.m.
The mountains did a good job of keeping the morning sun out of my eyes. The Fort Campbell folks overtook me about 125 miles down the road. We exchanged waves and I followed them for several miles until I stopped to clean my visor.
I stopped at Frisco for a breakfast of huevos rancheros at the Log Cabin and gassed at the Diamond Shamrock convenience store at the east edge of town.
I rode through the Eisenhower Tunnel and down to Idaho Springs, where I took the road up to Echo Lake.
At the lodge, I noticed I was dizzy and light-headed and debated the wisdom of committing to even higher altitudes on the road to the 14,400-foot summit of Mount Evans.
The sight of three bare-headed, T-shirted couples on Harleys headed up the mountain overwhelmed my better judgment and I turned on to the road to Mount Evans.
I paid my $3 and followed the Harleys up as far as Summit Lake, where they pulled off.
The combination of a lack of acclimatization and a lack of recent mountain riding made this a seminar in terror.
As always happens, I was hugging the inside lane on the 180-degree left switchback at Mile Marker 12 when a pickup truck came booming down the mountain the other way. Somehow, I managed to creep back to the right and avoided a collision.
When I got off at the top, I was so dizzy and oxygen-starved that it was all I could do to get off the bike, get a shot of the bike with the ruined Summit House in the background and get back into the saddle.
I had serious doubts about my ability to get the bike back down the mountain.
I said 14 miles of Hail Marys – all the way to the bottom.
By the time I got down to Idaho Springs and gassed, I was breathing easier.
I phoned Maria and Laura to report my survival, then stowed my jacket liner and heavy gloves and rode down through Denver.
I stopped for water at the Conoco just east of Denver and phoned in a reservation to the Motel 6 at Goodland, Kans. I stopped again at Limon to take a break and to buy a couple of cassette tapes in anticipation of a long boring ride across eastern Colorado, Kansas and Missouri.
There was rain all around me as I rode through eastern Colorado, but I only caught a few drops. At one point east of Limon, I shot a miraculous gap between a pair of thunderstorms on either side of the interstate.
I gassed a last time at Burlington, then crossed the Kansas line exactly at 6 p.m. Dinner was across the street from the Motel at Wendy’s where I met a BMW rider from Glenwood Springs who was driving with his wife and dog to Boston.
After dinner, I added about half of my last quart of BMW oil to bring the sight glass level up to about 80%. I did exactly 500 miles today.
Thursday, July 22, 1999
I was up a few minutes ahead of my 10-minute-late 5:30 a.m. wakeup call and was on the road minutes after sunrise at 6:30 a.m.
Today was one of those gas, eat, ride days with savage heat thrown in.
It was hot enough by 10:45 a.m. to douse my T-shirt with water at a rest area water break.
I noticed a bank time and temperature sign as I got onto the Kansas turnpike at Topeka advertising 97 degrees. I pulled off at the second rest area on the turnpike to cool off – this after a long lunch, gas and fluid stop some 60 miles earlier.
I called the BMW Shop in Kansas City to find out road conditions on I-70 through town. They predicted little trouble and they were right.
I stopped at Exit 28 in Missouri for gas and a Wendy’s frosty and to call Maria to research a report of a major construction delay around Columbia, Mo.
Yesterday, I’d run into a guy headed west at Limon, Colo., who warned of a miles-long construction backup around Columbia, and I’d been chewing on that nasty vision ever since.
The highway department spokeswoman assured me that, because of the heat, the construction had been put on hold until next Monday.
I got my second wind somewhere before Columbia and resisted the strong urge to veer on to an exit ramp and stop there for the night.
Instead, I pressed on, taking a new Mo. 370 link to I-270 around St. Louis. I crossed the Mississippi back into the land of radio stations with “W” call letters.
I fully intended to go the entire distance home at this point. I felt reasonably fresh, the heat of the day was over and I’d done the 950 miles from Goodland to Indianapolis in one shot once before.
But as night fell and my face shield filled up with bugs, I started thinking of the miles of darkness ahead. What if a deer decided to test my reflexes? It just wasn’t worth it.
I decided to bag it at Altamont where I’d stopped a few years earlier on the homeward run from Breckenridge with fellow Indianapolis BMW Club member Rich Nathan.
The old Aloha Motel is now a Super 8, but the rate was reasonable and the air conditioned room felt great.
Dinner was a fillet-o-fish at McDonald’s.
I closed out my 750-mile day flipping channels and planning an early run home.
Friday, July 23, 1999
Today was a rather anticlimactic end to a great trip.
I got up at daybreak and phoned Maria to let her know I planned to be home around mid-morning and arranged to take her to lunch.
A trash packer truck crew was banging around in the parking lot as I loaded and fired the engine for the run to Indianapolis. I got onto I-70 eastbound and aimed toward a hazy orange ball of the rising sun. It was amazingly humid – my sunglasses fogged the instant I walked out of the motel room.
I knocked down 48 miles before heeding my fuel warning light and stopping for gas at a BP station somewhere east of Effingham.
I crossed the Wabash River at Terre Haute at 7:30 a.m. and made quick work of the road past Brazil, Greencastle, Putnamville, Cloverdale and Plainfield.
I dropped my sidestand in my driveway at 8:50 a.m., having ridden 167 miles for the day and about 6,540 miles for the trip.
