$100 Rooms For Rent... Each Couple Please.

We sat in the corner of the crowded little bar in Daniel, slowly enjoying our hard earned beer while we talked over the events of the mud-bog, the bentanite farting bike, the rain, the newly acquired bruises, and the caution in which we seemed to be employing during the trip to Daniel. We talked about the angels that must be following us, the road gremlins that kept trying to get us and how it all started with a bad intake, flat tire and a dead guy on the highway.

Nearly a thousand miles under our leathers in the past few days. It felt more like a million.

The beer went down smooth, the conversation was cathartic for all of us. The rain had slowed back to a mist so we paid our tab, left our tip and headed to Bonduraunt.

The road to Bonduraunt was slow going. The group was still a bit skiddish from the earlier events. The drivers might have pushed it harder had we been riding solo but we all knew that our passengers would have none of that at this point. The sun sets quickly when you're riding in the valley's of the Rocky Mountain range and before we knew it we were riding in to the night. The worries had gone from mud to animals. Deep in the mountain ranges miles from anyplace larger than a ranch house the game was sure to be running free and wild. Our pace reflected our concern over the possibilities of wandering deer and antelope, slow but sure. As the sun set the temperatures dropped quickly adding to our riding pleasure - damp clothes and leathers, cold temperatures and a self generated 55 mph wind.

We pulled in to Bonduraunt, not much more than a small vacation spot on the highway with a general store, a bait shop and some fly-fishing cabins. It must have been near 10:30--I don't remember exactly, and didn't write it in my journal, but I do know it was late enough that we pulled in to the fishing cabins to see what the price of a room would be for the night. The shop keep was just getting ready to close for the day when we walked in, tired, hungry and just wanting a place to crash.

We checked on availability and found there were two cabins available that would sleep all of us for about a hundred dollars a couple. I'm not certain, and I didn't care at the time, but I think that the room rates increased two fold when we walked through the office door. We agreed to the rate, got our cabin keys, unloaded and then went back to the office to grab something to eat. The sign out front said Snacks, Beer & Bait--we assumed that there would be something we could build a sandwich from, or microwave or... nope, nothing, nada. So we asked the shop keeper if there was a place around that may still be open for a meal. The closest place was about 25 miles on the north end of Bonduraunt Canyon, but if we were lucky...

Obviously This Guy Hasn't Read Our Story...

The General Store might still be open and they had pizza and a microwave.


Bonduraunt, Bonduraunt Wyoming, Cabins, Motorcycles, Bikers, Motorcycle Travel

We've Heard There's A Bar In Daniel...

We pushed the bikes a bit farther to where the Bentanite ended and the pavement began again, resting for a moment and still shaking our heads. Deciding we were once again ready to push forward--Daniel, Bonderaunt and then Jackson for the night--knowing that we were, as seems to be the theme, behind schedule and needing to make up time. Mike was lead bike, ready to roll; he drops the gear in to neutral, and hits the starter, there's an odd sound coming from the bike as his Road King tries to turn over. You can almost hear the pressure building just prior to the bang and splat of bentanite being shot from his exhaust pipes to the pavement. We all hoped that this was his bikes way of spitting out the bad shit it had just gone through and getting on to the good.

Ready and started we roll towards Daniel, curve after curve, running the foothills of western Wyoming. The passing country side is beautiful; lush green meadows, rolling tree filled hills, the mountains in the distance. All viewed through a fine mist just so mother nature could remind us who was in charge of this ride. As the miles passed I noticed our push to make up time was being taken at a more cautious pace. The 75 mph or more that we'd pushed in the past now hovered near a leisurely 55 mph.

Soon enough we saw the signs for Daniel. Entrances to small towns on back roads are hardly ever marked by mile count down signs you'll see on the interstates. The sure sign that life is approaching is the reduction in speed sign. First the notice - reduce speed ahead, then the 55 mph, 45 mph and finally the town... 25 - 35 mph. Daniel was 25 mph through the center of town. A pace just fast enough to carry you through but slow enough to stop and patronize a local pub should you so desire. We so desired.

Daniel, Wyoming is a small ranching community - a blink and you'll miss it marker along the western Wyoming highways. On this day Daniel was our haven from the storms both figurative and literally. We rolled in and spotted the only bar in town. Slowing our motorcycles to a near stop we pulled up across the street from the bar (right in front of the purple trees) parked and scrapped our road worn, muddied bodies from our saddles. We were a motley looking bunch. Stained with mud, wet from the rain, weathered and leathered. We walked up and pulled open the weather worn old screen door, it made the creaking sound you would expect from a door in it's condition, and walked in to the dimly lit smokey room.

I'm sure the ranchers and locals all were wondering what the cat had just dug up but my wonderment was only a passing thought, Beers all around please, it's been a long hard day and we're only half way there.

Daniel Wyoming, Daniel, Wyoming, Hwy 189, Motorcycles, Bikers, Motorcycle Travel

The New Bike and Bentanite

On the road - not even noon, okay, maybe but we still had plenty of light left and an a new bike to get broken in. We pulled out of Monarch Harley Davidson, turned left and headed towards Evanston, WY. "Grandpa" sounded nice, deep throaty rumble and a stereo, damn what more could a man ask for... okay, there are a couple of things but I was easy to please that day.

We rolled out of Orem and headed towards Provo Canyon opening the bikes up as we went. With each turn my smile grew wider and my wife calmed down, it seemed as if we were making this trip happen come hell or high water and both of us were equally determined to freeking enjoy it. Even if it killed us! One switchback after another, one climb followed by a descent, each mile ticking by a little faster than the last and it seemed before we knew it we were turning east on to highway 80.

We knew at this point that we were well on our way, the miles between us and Arizona were now considerable. The scenery had changed from high desert plateaus to pine covered mountains. Highway 80 cut through one mountain pass after another and the number of motorcycles heading east seemed to grow with every passing mile. Evanston came and went and was little more than a fuel stop--gas stations were packed with bikes from every state in the western US--fuel and go was our mission, as fast as we could, and just to keep the travel gremlins at bay each of us would ring our "bike bell" just prior to starting up and heading out. Onward we went towards highway 189 North to Kemmerer, Wyoming and then towards Daniel, Bonderaunt and finally Jackson (aka Jackson Hole). The miles were mounting up fast. We stopped in a small town, population one gas station and a mobile home, for an "ass-break", a quick smoke and something to drink and snack on. A quick check-in with the kids back home just to let them know mom and dad were still alive and kicking and the new bike was running like a kitten with a really nice roar. Fifteen minutes of stretching and bullshitting it was time to ring the bells and head north - on to Daniel.

The plan, I know, here we go again with this damned plan, but the plan... was to stop in Jackson for the night. We had ridden hard and covered a lot of ground if we could get to Jackson we would be nearly back on track.

We fired up the bikes and pulled back towards 189 North. A left turn, the clank of the gears dropping as we quickly got up to speed and then we saw "Them". We are not usually scared by "Them" but on this trip we learned to be and the group was about
to get our first lesson in how to "fear the sign."

What sign, you ask?

The feared "Road Work Ahead" sign.

We didn't know at the time that we should be afraid. We had never been afraid of a sign before. Why start now? It's just a sign. It's an eye grabbing orange with black letters shaped like a diamond - so, what's to fear?

As we rolled on what the sign had warned us about was starting to come in to view; it seems that in Wyoming when they do "road work" on the back roads, which really is what highway 189 is--a farm road, they tear up the top of the road and leave only the bentanite bedding for the farm/ranch trucks to travel on. This works good enough for motorcycles as well as long as it hasn't rained... and it had.

We pulled to the side of the road, shut down our bikes and just looked at each other shaking our heads. We all thought it--but it took a few moments for anyone to say it--WTF can't we catch a break!?

Bentanite, when prepared for roadwork, and mixed with rain, becomes as slick as riding on ice and just to make matters even more fun you sink in to it just enough that it will build up on your front wheel and turn steering in to a full body work out.

As you may remember from previous chapters in the 99 Trip to Sturgis story; I have been riding from the age of 10. I started out and road for years dirt bikes in the deserts of Arizona. I have a fairly high comfort level with off roading--dirt biking, just not on a nearly 900 pound motorcycle with 400 pounds of riders and gear, my friends have less.

As we all stood there watching farm truck after farm truck trudge through, sliding sideways, we knew we had to decide on one of two options: Ride forward through the 1/4 mile of road-less roadwork or turn around and ride 80 plus miles back to the highway and cut across the bottom half of Wyoming. The second, really, was not an option we had come this far, been through this much we were all going to Jackson and then to Yellowstone--end of story. So it was said--so it shall be done.

Mike decided that he'd go through first, JR would follow then the rest of the group. Mike's a bit crazy--you may remember him as the lead rider from the Riding Through Hell Chapter--so he and his lovely wife pulled out, followed by JR and his wife, and then the rest. Nice and slow was what we had said, too fast and the bike will get squirrely in the Bentanite, to slow and you may have a faster build-up on the tires... 100 feet and while not easily controlled we were all doing fine. 200 feet with each of us following the other. Nearly half way now, we were staying pretty much in the tracks of a truck and the new ones that Mike was carving along the way--and then it happened--as fast as you could scream "OH F*CK!" Mike's rear wheel slid left and then right and down they went sliding through the rain soaked Bentanite, JR swerved left to avoid running over Mike and his bike, corrected back to the right. Just when he got around Mike and Kim-- the bike slid to the right and then to the left and down they went doing their best imitation of Mike and Kim sliding through the mud.

It was sometime between Mike hitting the ground and JR doing the same that my wife began screaming at me and beating me on the shoulders and back. I don't know why. I still wonder to this day what would possess her to smack me around with everything else that was going on--I mean, after all I was the one in control of us falling or not--why hit me? I pleaded for her to stop but she wouldn't she slapped me and smacked me and beat me on my back, yelling things at me that are normally reserved for the bedroom, a divorce court or a combination of the two.

I knew she was scared and worried about her friends lying there in the mud but I couldn't stop - there was no place to stop. I trudged on, taking my beating as I went, listening as the profanities were volleyed at me like mortar rounds in a fire-fight and just for good measure an occasional "Let me the 'F' off of this bike NOW!"... thinking the whole time...soon honey and if you keep hitting me it may be sooner than you think.

I had put my feet out to the sides of the bike to offer a bit more stability--hoping my feet would act as skis through the muck and figuring if it goes down I should end up standing over my motorcycle and not under it like my oh so unlucky friends. To be honest I was also pulling from every memory and trick I had learned while dirt-biking and thinking the entire time... Jesus, I just bought this F'ing bike there is no way on God's green earth that I'm laying down!

As soon as I made it through to the other side I pulled my motorcycle off the road and we ran back to our friends, covered in mud, a little bruised, and not at all happy to say the very least. We picked their motorcycles up and pushed them the rest of the way through.

No one spoke, with the exception of one question and one statement; "Why were you beating on Troy, what were you thinking? You could have caused him to put you and that new bike in the mud!"

A few minutes to gather ourselves, calm everyone's nerves, pick the bentanite out of every crevice of my buddies motorcycles and we're ready to head to Jackson for the night...

And it started to Rain!



Motorcycles, Bikers, Motorcycle Travel

It's A Gas Cap Stupid

Paperwork has been shuffled and the Grandpa bike has been rolled in to the shop. The mechanics have gone through the bike from top to bottom. Brakes have been replaced (even though they were good - just a thing I have...) all the fluids have been changed, gaskets replaced we're nearly ready to roll.

It's getting close to lunch so we walk to the McDonalds across the street. We're feeling fairly excited about the prospects of getting back on the road. The past 24 hours have been stressful for my wife and I.

In case it's been a while since you've read the beginning (or if I didn't mention it before) my wife is new to riding - brand new - this is her first trip across the country on a motorcycle. She's been on a couple of day trips in the past three months but that is the extent of her riding experience. She's been through hell and earned her stripes and we're only on our third day of our two week trip. She's lived through mechanical breakdowns, flat tires, delay after delay, a dead guy on the highway, a thunderstorm from hell, nearly being killed at 70mph, the loss of a motorcycle that she "loved" nearly as much as I did, a ride in a van with a lady that sells sexy underwear out of it, and now the purchase of a new motorcycle - she keeps telling me that she loves me and she trust me - I don't know which one I fear most!

We order a burger and a drink from McDonalds, woof it down and head back to Monarch Harley Davidson to see if our bike is ready. As I walk in to the mechanics area the dealership manager pulls me to the side, it seems that we have a problem. Keep in mind that when I bought the bike I told these guy's just how important it is to get us on the road, I went through everything that we had been through in the past couple of days, and let them know that my wife was extremely stressed by all of the events. I know this weighed on his mind when he said;

"We can't get the gas tank open. It has a locking cap on it. The owner has the key and he's gone to Sturgis."

NO, it's not possible, you are pulling my leg right - just a good laugh before you give me my keys and send me on my way.

"I'm sorry, but I don't know what to do"

I think my response, it was a rant and a plea all wrapped in to one, went something like this: "Okay, here's an idea - open the fucking tank NOW. I don't care if you have to take a torch and cut the cap in half, if you need to pry it off with a screw driver. I don't care if it EVER locks again, I need to be able to put gas in the tank to drive down the road and you need to make it possible for me to do it. You don't understand, my wife has said that if we're not out of here and on our way - she's flying back to Phoenix and she doesn't care if I come with her. Get the cap off, really, I don't care how."

"We will try again to contact the owner..." at this point my wife and best friend walked up to us, they both have a built in radar that let's them know when I'm about to lose all control and start acting less than civil.

My wife asked what's going on, I told her. I knew my death was inevitable. I prayed it would come sooner than later, for it to be swift and painless. I knew better. I knew it would be cold and calculated, drawn out in a manner that would be akin to a mid-evil torture chamber, a slow and agonizing death, one meant to ensure maximum pain and suffering while I waited for the darkness to ascend.

She turned and walked away. This surprised me some but scared me more. I followed only to discover this wasn't my brightest idea of the day. When we arrived at a point far enough from the dealership that she safely felt no-one else could hear, she let loose. A stream of tears clouded with the profanity that had been building for days. I felt like I was witnessing the eruption of Mount St. Helens. The hot emotional lava poured forth in threatening promise after promise. I knew that I had but one option - they had to get the gas cap off or I had to sacrifice myself to the road gremlins and the gods that govern travel disaster. These would be the only options that would satisfy my wife's anger and frustration.

My friends again arrived to save me, at least temporarily, and while my wife's best friend comforted her and told her about her nightmare trips I managed to skulk off and head back to the mechanics bay to see what kind of progress, if any, was being made.

The mechanic was continuing to struggle with the locked cap when I arrived. I pleaded with him to do anything in his power, I didn't care if he ruined the cap - I would buy a new one - just do anything possible so we could get on the road. He must have recognized the desperation in my eyes and in my voice as he simply nodded, walked over to his tool box and brought out an a key blank (gas cap keys for on a Harley are round like the old fashioned soda machine keys) hit the grinder a couple of times, tried it in the gas cap, went back made some adjustments, tried it again, made some more adjustments and within five minutes the cap was open. I guess you need to plead your case to the right people to get anything accomplished.

The dealership apologized for the inconvenience; filled our tank with gas and we were finally, once again, on the road to Sturgis

Grandpa, bike, McDonalds, motorcycle, riding, mechanical breakdowns, flat tires, dead, highway, thunderstorm, dealership, mechanics, gas tank, Sturgis, Phoenix, death, Harley, road, Motorcycles, Bikers, Motorcycle Travel

Death of an old Friend leads to the Birth of a New One: On the Road to Sturgis Again

The last time I posted about the '99 Sturgis trip, and I know it's been a while, my buddy and I were on our way in to Monarch Harley Davidson in Orem, Utah. I still hate that ride in, you'd figure that I'd be over it by now - you know - move on already... nope. I hate riding "bitch" - my guess is that it's a control issue, maybe someday I'll take it up in therapy - but then again, when is the last time you saw a motorcycle parked in front of a therapist office? Motorcycles are therapy.

We arrived at Monarch Harley Davidson just prior to opening so we waited, not long, for the staff to arrive. When they arrived the immediately knew I was the guy they had spoken to last night - I don't know, maybe it was the "I'm riding out of here one of two ways - on my own bike or in a cab" look that I had on my face that told them. They greeted us, welcomed us in, poured us coffee and listened to our tale. Of course they did, hell, they wanted to make a sale didn't they. I would have stood on my head, ran to McDonald's and sang karaoke if I was going to get a sure fire commission first thing in the morning.

I looked at a couple of bikes that they had on their showroom floor; A 93 Police Cruiser in powder blue, a Black and Red Sportster (no way the wife was going for that one!), and a couple of others that didn't really suite our immediate need and then I came across the back that was to be affectionately named "The Grandpa Bike" by my buddy's wife. It was perfect - not what I wanted to go bar-hopping on but it was a great touring bike and that's what we were doing - touring.

A 1995 FLHTCUI (FLH Ultra Classic) Bike number 303 of a limited edition series. The first year that Harley had put fuel injection into this model. It was black and burgundy (look at the right side of your screen - that's it after I modified it a bit), hard side locking saddle backs, over padded saddle, AM/FM Cassette player with front and back speakers, Raised Trunk, arm rests with speakers built in, highway bars and pegs, custom foot(floor)boards, CB Radio with built in passenger to driver communications ports - it was perfect, albeit not my ideal bike - but I would grow to love "Grandpa" in a short period of time.

I had found the bike that would take us the rest of the way to Sturgis and back. Let's start the deal. It was a used bike, 3 years old, it had 13,000 miles on it and the price was $12k. Not bad, lets start the paperwork.

The rest of the group got to the dealership about an hour after the shop opened, the timing was perfect. We had time to look at all the bikes, talk about the work that I wanted done to the bike once we had purchased it, and get all of the paperwork completed except for my wife's signature. The dealership had everything lined up, the work orders were already submitted, the parts department (what? you can't buy a motorcycle and not put some of your own touches on it!) had all of the parts in stock and pulled and the numbers had already been run.

I showed my wife the two bikes that I had narrowed it down to, talked about the pro's and con's, as I saw them, of both bikes and told her which one I liked. She agreed completely; personally I think the padded arm rest, stereo and extra storage convinced her more than I ever could.

We signed the papers and the dealers wheeled my bike to the shop; brakes, fluids, some chrome adds, remove some of the baffle, fuel it up and we'll be off.

All of this should take about two hours.... if you've been reading this story from the beginning... guess what :)

Sturgis, Harley, Harley Davidson, Fuel Injection, Orem, Utah, Motorcycle, Motorcycles, Bike, Sportster, FLHTCUI, FLH, Ultra Classic, Sturgis, Dealership, Bikes, Motorcycle, Bikers, Motorcycle Travel

Biker Kiss

Morning came, the rain had stopped, we had a plan and while I wasn't certain it was a good plan it was a plan none-the-less. 83 miles away in Orem, UT, give or take, we would find out the fate of our trip.

Our plan was simple, simple enough that we were able to come up with it in the motel room over a couple of beers that we bought at the state run liquor store. I would ride "bitch" on my buddies bike; we'd leave ahead of the rest of the group and head to the Harley Dealer in Orem, where I would try to deal for a used ride to get us to Sturgis and home again. While we had left early - the others would ride out after breakfast and join up with us mid-morning. Two of the wives had met a lady the night before(who sold lingerie out of a van) that had to go to Provo in the morning and had offered to give them a ride so that the entire group could all be at the dealers early enough that we could get on our way without having to shuttle the 83 miles back to Price to pick-up passengers and then head out. The plan was cast - everyone had a ride to Orem, we'd make the purchase and be gone by noon. Once again back on the road to Sturgis.

I'm a good rider as long as my hands are the ones attached to the handlebars. I'm, unfortunately, not a good passenger - I've never had to be a passenger. I don't know how and honestly - I don't want to learn. Those were the longest 83 miles of my life. I almost would have rather walked them. Once the dread of my new position (back seat) had set in I wasn't sure what to do with myself so my mind started to work in it's utmost twisted ways. As the miles through town passed I had noticed that we were getting very curious looks from people going the opposite way. I can't imagine why, two guy's, clad in leather, tattoo'd from hither to dale (ok that's just me - my buddy ... mmmm, not so much, in fact only one) bandana's on, wrap-arounds in place and me, holding on tightly to my buddy. I think I'm beginning to understand why we were getting the looks we were getting.

Okay, let's have some fun. I wave, they wave back. I change the wave to the princess style - just a bit more "fem", they're not so willing to wave back. I blow kisses, they turn away. Cars beside us, well, they get special treatment. They stare in bewilderment; I notice; they keep staring; I start rubbing my buddies chest and lay my head on his back - shazamm! the stares stop, sadly, they won't even look at me again. I feel rejected. Now the entire time I was doing this my buddy started to play along which really freaked people out. When we hit the mountains my ability to focus on "playing" with our passing neighbors was greatly diminished by my instinct to hold on for dear life so all the antics stopped and I no longer noticed passing cars. I simply prayed for time to go by quickly.

I truly hate being the passenger.

Technorati Tags: Harley Dealer, motorcycle, lingerie Motorcycle traveling

Dinner and a Drink

Once the dust from the day had settled and we had gotten to a motel we decided a beer and dinner would be the trick for the evening. We could relax and talk a bit about the "What Next" factor. My wife and I unpacked our bags, showered and got ready to be ferried to the restaurant for dinner.

The ride to dinner was just as it should have been cold and wet. The group had found a place to eat just a couple of blocks from the hotel we were in so the ride was short but the rain was heavy. Walking into the restaurant made me remember the Bob Seger song "Turn the Page"

"...Well you walk into a restaurant, strung out from the road,
You can feel the eyes upon you as your shaking off the cold
You pretend it doesn't bother you, but you just want to explode.

Most times you cant hear em talk, other times you can.
Oh the same old cliche, is that a woman or a man
You always seem out numbered, you don't dare make a stand.

Here I am, on the road again.....

Very odd, WTF Utah, it's 1999 move on already.

We stood there waiting to be seated, bandanna'd up, chaps, leather vest, gloves and riding glasses... and the theme for the day just to top off the look... we were all rain soaked...

Table for six please and if you need to put two together.

And we'll have a beer.......

not here you won't.

.....Welcome to Utah

Motorcycle traveling

Death to an old friend

Finally the tow truck arrives, slowly but surely my bike is loaded on to the bed and strapped down. I asked the driver if I could ride in back next to the bike, I know it's an unreasonable request but I was always told that "you'll never know unless you ask", funny part is I think the driver considered it for a moment. My wife and I climbed into the cab of the truck and I don't remember the next 60 miles.

After an hour or so the truck pulled into a dealership in Price/Helper, Utah the bike was unloaded and I began talking with the mechanic. OK, it was more like begging to see if there was anyway he could get my ride fixed and get me on the road say within a day? The mechanic tried, he called all over Utah trying to find a casing but to no avail. After hours of his searching he broke the news to me. It would be a week before he could have the bike fixed. The rally would be over and my wife and I would be stuck in Utah waiting.

I huddled the group together and we talked about what to do now. There isn't an airport in Price so somehow we would have to get to Salt Lake City to fly home. Staying in Utah was not an option and we had already cost the group another day of travel time. We couldn't handicap them any longer and we certainly didn't want to ruin their trip. We had decided that the best option for us was to go home and come back to Utah in a week with a truck to haul my bike home.

Kathi, a lovely lady who is like a sister to my wife, and at times one of the wisest people that I have ever known came up to me and told me to stop talking bullshit this whole thing is about the journey it's never been about the destination. This is part of it and if there's a way to continue on we should find it. I became, somewhat inspired and slightly uplifted - I'm still in morning for my bike so don't expect a huge sigh here ok :)

Option after option was explored we looked in the darkest recesses that we could find trying to discover an option to salvage our trip that we hadn't thought of; we called the Harley Dealers and rental shops trying to get a bike to rent for a week. Now I don't know if you have ever tried to rent a motorcycle a day or two prior to the start of the Sturgis Rally but I might as well have been trying to capture lightning in a bottle. I talked to the owner about trading in my bike for one that he had on his showroom floor - not even one that I was remotely interested in other than it could get me to my destination. Understand this, my bike, the one with the hole in the engine, was a year old and had over $5,000 in accessories not to mention the price of the bike. It had under 5,000 miles on it and had been pampered beyond belief. The shop owner offered me $2K for the bike as a trade in. The freekin' paint job was worth 2K!! I politely explained all of this to him and he said that he was going to have to repair my bike in order to sell it - I offered to take care of the repairs (they were covered by my insurance), it was still a 2K offer from this idiot. I went and spoke to the mechanic, gave him authorization to fix my bike and told him I would be back in two weeks to pick it up. It would be a cold day in hell before I sold my bike to the crook that owned that shop.

Once again we huddled as a group. I had slowly shot down anything that looked like a reasonable option and we were running out of ideas. I don't remember who, but it was suggested that we get a room for the night, get something to eat and find a Harley dealer in Salt Lake City in the morning - I didn't wait, I started calling immediately; found a dealer in Orem, Utah made an appointment...


The group re-huddles.....

Motorcycle traveling

and it's starting to rain

....On top of it all we were in the middle of no-where and it's starting to rain...

Just prior to this trip I had decided to quit smoking for the umpteenth time, but like any deviant addict I had my stash, so as quickly as I could get off the bike I grabbed my cigars out of the pack and lit one up... ahhhh that was good... the bikes still "focked" but I enjoyed that cigar as much as I could, climbing back on the bike I go into one of my favorite resting positions - sitting backwards in my saddle, feet propped up on the backrest and my back against the tank, and I began to cry - not the boo-hoo kind but there were tears escaping the confines of my riding glasses, the group came together; first to check out the damage and offer the obligatory "DAMN! Dude you're lucky to be alive!", and then to offer some comfort in a very uncomfortable situation. No one knew quite how I was going to take this - my dear, loving, very close friends weren't quite sure what to do. They knew that while my wife and I were physically fine - I was an emotional mess, I have to admit that losing that bike - even 9 years later - still hurts.

This trip that we had planned for months - daily - the trip that we had poured everything into, built social events around, lived - breathed - and lusted after.... was, seemingly, over. The group still needed to address the elephant in the room.... so......

What do we do now!

We're in the middle of nowhere - surely we won't get cellphone coverage, and if we do who do we call? There was nothing to do but to try; between us we had five cell phones and five different cell carriers, it's worth a try. Now, who to call? I had, just on a whim, enrolled into a bike club just prior to our departure. Remembering that one of the services offered to club members was roadside service - very much like a AAA for motorcycles. So I called; the phone worked; the operator answered and a tow-truck was dispatched. We were told it would be about an hour before they arrived and they would haul us to the nearest dealer or authorized service shop at no charge...

and it was still raining...

Motorcycle traveling

Moab in the Mirror

Moab is in our rear view mirror, breakfast is starting to settle, we're all fuelled up and ready for the next 100 miles.  We catch I-70 West for the 30 miles or so that we need to take it, our cruise speed goes from 70-75 mph to around 85 so the miles click by in a blink.  The cooler air feels good in comparison to the oven we rode through yesterday although we are starting to ride with a bit of cloud cover and the threat of showers the weather seems to be holding out for now. 

The traffic on the Interstate isn't too bad, although I still hate riding the Interstates when I could be taking a back road.  Back roads always seem to offer just a bit more to look at and to think about as you ride through.  All of those thoughts that pop into your head, well at least mine, prompted by your senses; the smell of alfalfa - now where's the field; I wonder why they let that barn go, what's the story behind it? Is there a place we can get Ice Cream any where around?  On the Interstate it seems as if I spend my time thinking about everyone else on the road.  Before we know it the exit to 191/6 North is in front of us and we're heading north once again. 

It always feels good to know that we were ticking off the miles in the right direction.  Shortly after our exit on to 191/6 there's a fuel stop and since we've put some pretty decent miles on the group decides it's time to sync up with everyone.  After the quick stop, a little bit of joking around and we are off again, our next stop - Helper, Utah.  The plan is to fuel and then start the trek north-easterly towards Wyoming.  A mile or two down the road and it begins to rain, just a sprinkle to start with but soon turns into enough that we pull off to the side and get the leathers on, then it's back on the road.  The rains don't last long and don't slow our progress.  The road is wide open with very little traffic we may have seen a car or two so far.  Long open roads plus very little traffic is a motorcycle formula that only equals speed.  The posted limits are 55 and I'm certain that my speedometer hadn't seen that number in a while.  Over the rolling hills we went continuing to make time;  We (my wife and I) were riding second in formation out closest to the center line on the two lane highway when our day came to an abrupt halt. 

You see, along with all of the things that I love about riding back roads the one thing that I hate, as do all motorist, is that there is not the same level debris cleanup as there is on the Interstates.  At 70+ miles per hour I didn't see (until it was too late), and couldn't avoid the pot-metal piece of wheel rim that I was about to hit.  The rim was about 8 inches in lenght with a slight curve, it was also a very similar color of grey that nearly matched the pavement of the road.  When I did see it, I had just a split second to try to manuver around it, unfortunately I caught the edge of it and sent it upward in to my engine.  At the time I didn't know that it actually had pierced the engine casing, my focus was more on maintaining control of my bike which from the force of the impact had it's rear wheel lifted slightly off of the pavement as the metal passed underneth us.  Slightly shaken I began to slow and move to the right hand shoulder when the trail rider began blowing his horn and pointing right.  Immediately I pulled to the shoulder, stopped and got off of my bike only to find what little bit of oil that hadn't been blown out of my engine was now dripping to the pavement to add to the 40' oil slick I had left as my trail.  I checked to make sure my novice biker wife was ok, shaken, but ok.  I looked back down the road and my buddy who was trailing was slowly coming up next to us holding the piece of rim that we had hit. 

My heart sunk at the realization of a couple of things:  First and foremost; We were lucky to be alive, that could have easily thrown us.  and, My trip was now over - I had tools but nothing that would repair a 1 1/2 inch hole in an aluminum casing.  The bike that I worked so hard on, poured every spare penny into, and spent countless hours customizing for this trip was never going to make it's entrance into Sturgis.  On top of it all we were in the middle of no-where and it's starting to rain...

Motorcycle traveling

Day 2 Morning Entry

Morning comes too quickly after the day before but we've all agreed that we still need to make up time from the previous day.  Up at 5:30 and gone by 6:30, first stop: Moab.  We roll out of the Desert Rose and head north, the morning is absolutely gorgeous for riding.  The sun is just rising casting it's colors across the desert and the air is nice and crisp, it has that fresh taste and smell to it that you don't and can't get in the city.  The first part of the trip to Moab runs us along the river and through some twisting winding roads up out of the valley and to the desert plateau above.  We've all agreed that the first leg of the trip will be non-stop to Moab, about 100 miles, we'll run hard while we're fresh and try to push early to catch up on lost time.
 
We did the first 100 in under an hour and a half.  Good time, easy run.  The morning was going wonderfully.  We had just ridden through some of the most amazing landscape; Moab, Canyon Lands, Arches National - all of which made for simply amazing scenery - even if it was at 75 mph.  We quickly find a local cafe and grab a ton of breakfast.  I like to seek out places where I can get some really good biskets and gravy with tobasco sauce along with my personal pot of coffee. 

When we ride, we try not to eat at a chain restaurants too often, the group likes to explore a bit and enjoy the local feel of the towns we're in.  Breakfast is over and the group is feeling great about the day ahead.  We've got some really nice riding ahead of us.  Moab north to Interstate 70, we'll head west - back tracking just a bit to catch 191/6 North to Price/Helper, up through the canyons to Vernal, along side of Flaming Gorge and up into Kemmerer, Wyoming where we had planned to stop for the night. This route, not only is it beautiful to ride it was also going to take us about 400 miles in 8 hours of easy riding - a good days ride with the opportunity to push it farther depending on the time we were making and how the group felt near the end.  We were off to a good start getting the first 100 miles in and it was just 8:00 in the morning.  The day was looking promising.  

If you've read along this journey you know that I've said before, and it needs to be said again... "Man Plans - God Laughs", it will hold true throughout this trip.

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Motorcycle traveling

Day 1 - End of the day - Riding through Hell

Little did we know the price we were about to pay for our admission in to God's light and color spectacular... The thunder and lightning intensified and the winds began to pick up, it wasn't long before the rain began to come down. The problem that we were having was not in making the decision to push on or not, at this point we had no choice. We were near the Northern edge of Monument Valley, to far north to turn back and not far enough to be close to shelter for the night. It's nearing 8:00 pm and we've been on the road now for 12 hours, tired from everything that we've been through; worn out from the heat and the hours of riding. A quick group meeting on the side of the road and we've decided that Mexican Hat can't be that far away and surely there will be a place we can stay for the night. Unfortunately no one in our group has anyone ever ridden these roads before so there's no certainty to our decision. We put our greenhorn rider out in the front of the pack - a quick senior meeting and we've decided that we're all safer with him up front. A decision that later will cause us some worry and a bit of frustration.

Riding through the middle of the desert, there aren't any streetlights, and there's nothing in the distance that we can get a visual on that even remotely looks like it might be a town or some sign of life. The occasional flash of lightning to give us a glimpse of what's around us and then causes us to be temporarily blind as the light gives way to the complete darkness of the desert night.

The rains are now pouring from the heavens and the temperatures are dropping into the low 70's. Between the rain and our glasses / goggles now beginning to fog over seeing the road has gotten to be difficult at best.
We slow our speed to 30 - 35 mph and do our best to literally follow the white lines which are now submerged under the water that is running down and over nearly all of the road that we are travelling.

Continuing to push forward we can tell that we are climbing but we don't know how much or on what kind of road we're on. We don't know if there's a shear edge or rolling desert just off the roads edge. Slowly we make our way north, hoping that the rains let up soon. Still no signs of life or shelter. The lightning along with the rain has intensified and our periods of temporary blindness have become more frequent causing us to slow even more.

Riding in a staggered formation we're doing good to still see the tail lights of the bikes ahead of us. We are constantly loosing sight of the rookie rider who's out in front; none of us are sure if he's riding too fast and risking his safety in the process. The roads begin to curve back and forth, we must be riding in a canyon or up a mountain, or maybe down - it's nearly impossible to tell. We have lost sight of the bikes ahead of us only to find them again when the road offers a straight away for more than a few hundred yards. The water is pouring down the road now, we know we are climbing, the road snakes back and forth, one bend after another. Lightning flashes as we round a bend and in the flash we see a cow standing on the side of the road not more than 5' from where we are, thankfully the cow is just as surprised to see us as we are to see her. She doesn't move and we bend on by, our hearts beating just a beat faster than before.

We crest the mountain that we've been climbing and now the water runs down the road with us. The rains continue to pour on us soaking us through our leathers. Mexican Hat at last! Pulling in to the General Store / Gas Station we seek shelter from the rain and a room for the night. The group quickly parks and heads into the store, looking our road wear drenched best we ask if there's a room in town that the clerk may know about? Someplace, anyplace at all that we can stay for the night. No such luck, the only hotel is sold out there's some sort of river rafting event going on a a couple of white water clubs have the place booked solid. We're told that there's a place called Bluff about 30 miles or so down the road and we should have better luck there. 30 more miles, it might as well have been 300 more the way we were feeling and as hard as it was raining. It was after 9:00 now and the group wasn't in a big hurry to get soaked again, we decided that a few minutes to hopefully let the storm pass or slow wouldn't make that big of a difference. Something to drink, a snack, some discussion (mainly all of us bitching and complaining) and we decided it was time to get on the road, the storm seemed to have let up all that it was going to for the time being and we needed to get to Bluff to see if our day was going to end.

Two miles down the road the rains begin to pound down hard once again. Are we ever going to make it through this day! Once again we've lost our lead rider, he's long gone. Occasionally we'll see a flick of his tail light but it's just a speck on the horizon. The sky opens fully and lets loose with all the rain it had been holding, the winds blow between 20 and 30 mph, and we slow once again. There were points in this stretch where I literally could not see the road. I guessed where it was and when it curved. Each of the riders still with the group put some distance between the other; using each other as gauges for where the road was (and wasn't). I think at this point of the day my wife was quietly crying on the back of the bike. I know she was scared, although I don't think she ever said she was. Day one of her first cross country motorcycle trip... Good Lord I hope day 2 is better!

A light in the distance and it's growing brighter! Heaven has come to earth and we couldn't be more glad. Bluff is clearly in our sights. Coming in to Bluff from the West the first thing we ran in to was the Desert Rose. The Desert Rose had just been opened a few months before our arrival and was far more than we could have ever hoped. When we rode up we were in the worst shape that you could imagine, tired, soaked, road worn and we looked every part of it. The three guy's walked into the lobby; leathers dripping rain, jeans and boots soaked, faces sunburned and raccoon eyes from our sun glasses - we looked like hell. Without much hesitation we explained what we had been through and begged for a room -
even if that room was just a couch in the lobby. The lady at the desk was more than polite, extremely helpful and promptly took care of us - three rooms at a discounted rate. After we checked in it didn't look like the storm was going to pass any time soon so she asked if we'd like to keep our bikes in front under the overhang by the office for the night - this in part to keep them out of the elements and I'm sure in part because the parking lot wasn't completed yet. Regardless it was an extra mile that they didn't need go and they did. The staff and accommodations were top notch - so much so that the group would make Desert Rose a destination a few years later.

Day 1 - Evening Journal Entry - Monument Valley Monsoon

North we went, riding the white lines hard from Flagstaff, AZ towards the exit to Tuba City. Once again trying to out run the Monsoon storms and the impending nightfall. Our day had been long enough as it was and not a one of us wanted to extend it in to the night. Fortunately once you get on the north side of Flagstaff the road runs straight for miles - dead straight - so it's easy to open it up and run 85 to 90mph and we did, trying to make up minutes from the hours that we'd lost earlier in the day. Before we knew it we were taking the exit East towards Tuba City, still running hard and clicking the miles away. We took our 75 mile stretch breaks and we tried to push them up to the 100 - 125 mile mark or until our backsides started complaining too loudly. Time for gas and a break in Tuba City and once again we began to feel better about the distance we'd put between us and the morning.

East of Tuba City the road runs through some of the Northern Arizona Plateu Canyons making for a senic ride as you wind your way through the rock formations. The clouds overhead blocked just enough sunlight to add a nice coloration to the landscape with the occassional single ray of white light that was allowed to pass through the heavens to the earth making for some spectacular lighting, all of it seemed to be for our enjoyment. We would like to think that it was a nice visual reward for the hell we had been through that morning.

Pounding farther east and north towards Kayenta and Monument Valley the clouds had started to rain just enough to dampen the road and take the edge back off of the Arizona heat. Making the last few miles into Kayenta a bit more pleasent. The group rolled in to Kayenta about an hour before sunset giving us time to grab a bite to eat, re-evaluate our situation, plan or re-plan the last part of our day and relax for a bit. None of us could believe what a day it had been and considered the option of getting a room at the Holiday Inn just across the road. Sometimes it would be best if this group would listen to their instincts, but as it was we all decided that we'd lost so much time it would be best to push into the evening and get as far as we could on day one.


Leaving the Burger King we turn north and head in to Monument Valley. For all the struggles the group encountered throughout the day it seemed as if the Travel God's were going to shine on us for the remainder of the way.

If you have ever seen Monument Valley first hand you can understand what we were experiencing, there's nothing quite like riding the wind in to a cloud filled sunset with all of natures glory around you. This was, without a doubt, the most spectacular ride of our entire journey across the Western United States. We began riding north through the valley as the sun was setting to the west of us. Sunlight painting the clouds and the valley with a thousand shades of reds, yellows and blues. The monsoon coulds towering all around us added a dramatic effect to natures lighting. It seemed as if the colors of the world danced everywhere we looked. It's no wonder that the Navajo chose to settle in this part of the country.

We're starting to feel like the road gremlins were gone, and the travel Gods have given us a "pass" with each bend in the road offering something new to take our breath away. The Valley started to grow dark with the setting sun and the lightning started to flash along the valley's northern edge adding an increadible touch to the show that nature had been giving us. The sound of our Harley's rolling across the desert floor were soon being drowned out by the Thunder rolling across the northern skies. Little did we know the price we were about to pay for our admission in to God's light and color spectacular.

Tuba City, Flagstaff, Holiday Inn, Monument Valley, Kayenta, Monsoon Clouds, riding the white lines

Day 1 - Mid Day Journal Entry (part 3)

Depart Phoenix at 8:00 - 8:30 am, mechanicals keep us in the valley until 12:30 the "departed" on the highway and the rain storm delay us even farther, we finally hit Flagstaff around 3:00 in the afternoon. What should have been a nice 3 - 3 1/2 hour ride took us 7 hours! Finally we arrive in Flagstaff, it's a quick dash throught the city to get us to the north side of town. Time to fuel, grab a quick drink & snack and reset our plans.

Trashing our original plan of trying to make Moab that evening was our first order of business. As planning hadn't worked very well for the group so far we decided that we would ride as hard and as far as we could, or until our wives decided that we needed to call it good for the day.

I have to hand it to the laies in the group - each and everyone of them earned their stripes on this trip. My wife had NEVER been on a road trip longer than a 3 or 4 hour ride to our destination (and of course the return trip back). On this trip, day one, she'd already been through more than she's ever experienced on motorcycle and she's still smiling. Remember, it's only day one and the fatigue of riding mile after mile hasn't set in yet.

Being around three in the afternoon we figured we had another 4 or 5 hours of riding the white linesfor the day - max - and then we would be cooked. This should put us someplace on the north side of Monument Vally - where? We weren't quite sure of that but we knew we had to go through Mexican Hat, Bluff and Montecello. Montecello would have been the ultimate destination but was looking more and more unlikely. Hell, for that matter so was the north side of Monument Valley!

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Phoenix, Monument Valley, road trip, riding the white lines

Day 1 - Mid Day Journal Entry (part 2)

Flagstaff bound finally! We're only five hours behind schedule and at this point we're really thankful that we scheduled a light day for the first day of riding. It's going to be a push but we can still make our destination without much hassle. We've left the dead guy behind us and our bikes are rumbling up the hill towards Flagstaff. Just as the cactus and sage start to give way to the pines and meadows we can feel the temp start to drop. This is a double edged sword - the good is that we finally start to cool off, the cooler air has started to take the sting out of the 75mph/110 degree furnace that we've been riding in; the bad is that the temps are dropping to quickly and the breeze is heavy with water. Just as we crest the hill we see the wall of rain we're heading directly into. No shelter, nowhere to hide; while we all cursed being in our leathers just 10 minutes ago I'm certain we're all thankful that we have them on now because we are about to get soaked. We pass an exit ahead sign for Cherry Road - past experience has taught us that the exit offers no cover but the underpass does, 1 mile to shelter. Hopefully we won't get too wet between here and there. Before long we can see the underpass, hoping that we'll make it before the rain but hope is never a good plan. The rain comes, hard and heavy. It feels like 75mph needles performing some twisted acupuncture on our face and hands. The temps continue to drop - we must have gone from 110F to about 75F in just a few moments. The underpass which was once clearly visible is a misty shadow in the distance, the rain continues to pour, the bikes slow to a manageable 55mph or so only serving to prolong the soaking that we are getting but running fully loaded and two up it's always better to be safe than roadkill. Finally we are under the protection of the underpass, cold, wet and yet somehow we manage to find the humor in the day's events;

• Bad Air Intake
• Flat Tire
• Road Construction
• Dead Guy

and now a rainstorm that has forced us to pull under shelter - what next? I think we were all afraid to ask. We grab rock and wait out the rain, Flagstaff's only another 40 miles or so - my hell we still have another 250 miles or more to ride before the days end! The rain finally comes to a point where we can see more than an arms length in front of us so we saddle up and head north, once again trying to get to Flagstaff.

Back up to speed and still watching the Monsoon monsoonclouds in the distance.

Flagstaff, monsoon, bikes

Day 1 - Mid Day Journal Entry (part 1)

It's 12:30, just a little later than the 8:00 am departure that we were hoping for but on the positive side, by the time we were done subtracting mileage for our backtracking, we were still 30 miles closer. That had to have been the longest 30 miles I've ever ridden. 12:30 in the Arizona desert, not only is the temperature now about 105 and climbing but we can see the Monsoon storm clouds brewing to the north of us.

West on Bell Road to I-17 turn right and head north and head north FAST. Our exhaust pounding off of the pavement and the miles are starting to tick off; nothing now but the sounds of our bikes thundering down the road and in the wind. I think about thirty miles in we all start to relax and throttle back just a bit as we start to head up "the hill" towards Flagstaff, just about the same time we see traffic beginning to build up, then come the "Road Under Construction" signs, crap, can't we catch a break! Here we go (or not) again. Traffic begins to crawl, the bikes begin to get hot, the pavement beats the desert heat back up at us. Still in leathers, Damn it's hot. Traffic is just moving enough that we can't jump off and strip out of the leathers, we're stuck in our own personal ovens. Waiting, waiting for traffic to either move faster or stop completely so we can cool ourselves off.
Fifteen minutes now, yo-yo-ing with the traffic in the other lane. A white "Caddy", mom and dad in the front and kids in the back, has been our latest yo-yo companion. After the second or third time of taking turns taking the lead the dad rolls down his window wanting to know where we're headed.
The conversation is nice, helps to pass the time; we talk about our route, how long it "should" take, where they are from (Big HELLO to the tourist from England - sorry I don't remember your names), their route and how much they'll love the Grand Canyon. They begin to move ahead of us again when one of the ladies with us asks if they have any water they could spare; (105+ in leather, with the heat from the road, travelling like a tortise...auuugggghhh!)they promptly hand out three bottles of ice cold water - we thought we'd gone to heaven!

The line still moves slow but at least now we're seeing signs that we are nearing the construction site; pylons are in place, signage all over, in the distance we can see the Flagman. Surely it won't be long now.

Dead Stop, we're not moving an inch, another fifteen or twenty minutes have passed. The ladies get off the bikes and start walking up the road, hoping that they'll be able to give us an idea of how long the line is or at least what's going on. Surely it has to get better?! It doesn't take long before the traffic starts to move again and we catch up to the ladies, not sure if the line is going to go any faster they choose to walk along side of us as we creep-step the bikes along. Within a few minutes their back on the bikes and we're starting to move.

Traffic seems to be flowing a little better now, we must be nearing the end of the construction. One more bend, maybe? We round the corner to see the construction crew directing traffic to the shoulder - two lanes of Interstate merging on to the shoulder - no wonder it's taking so long. As we pass through the gauntlet of construction workers we notice a yellow tarp in the passing lane, covering what one can only guess is a body - fluids running out from under the tarp towards the shoulder, we pay our respects, humbled a bit now, we roll on towards Flagstaff. RIP.

Arizona desert, Monsoon storm clouds, bikes,Flagstaff

Day 1 - Morning Journal Entry (part 4)

It didn't take long before everyone was at the pay phone around the corner from the Dealership, thumbing through the "Yellow Pages" looking for the nearest tire center. Easy enough if I would have been driving my car it seemed like there was a Auto tire center every other mile... sigh...

A few minutes of searching and we came up with a couple of numbers to dial, and dial we did. Out of the three that were close to us (close being relative at that time) one said they could get us in right away and have us back on the road in about 30 minutes.

Over the years I've learned that when anyone promises you they can have you on the road in 30 minutes for anything - you had better double it.

Off we went to the Shanty Shack Garage - of course we didn't know that at the time - I think it was actually called Bob's Cycles or something close to it anyway. After about 15 or 20 minutes riding across town we arrived at Bob's. It was rustic to say the least. The newest motorcycle that they had sitting out front must have been 1970's vintage. For a biker this is actually a good sign. I wouldn't let just any wrench touch a vintage bike without full 100% confidence in their ability. I rode my bike throught the rows of vintage rides to the garage entrance where I was promptly met by... Bob. Nice.... Bob was a good guy, very capable, gave me all the assurance in the world that he had a wide-white that matched the tread I was running and could get me in and out in 30 minutes. I'm still happy... I put the kick-stand down and turn the bike over to Bob. My freinds all tell me that I need to come out of the garage and let the man work. I guess I'm a bit over-protective of my bike - I can't help it I've put blood sweat and tears into this thing, it is my mechanical sweet-heart. Reluctantly I walk to the opening of the garage and lean against the wall, waiting, watching, hawking.

Looking around the shop, I don't see any motorcycle lifts - a few come-alongs strung from the rafters but no lifts. Worry starts to set in and I start to pace. Again, my friends try to distract me, some mumbo-jumbo about cool stuff in the main part of the shop. Some antiquie things I should go look at - real cheap prices on leather... they were trying everything to get me out of the garage... I wasn't having it.

Out come the floor jacks - you know, those one's you buy at the autoparts store that are rated for 2.5 tonnes... What the heck is he going to do with those? That thought didn't last long before they were shoved under the frame of my bike and Bob and his buddy started to crank my bike into the air.

It was 100% involentary, I swear, but I started to move forward, covering ground like a lion on the hunt. I must have been half way across the floor when my wife and best friend were redirecting me, again towards the door, telling me they would watch my bike but if I wanted to get on the road I needed to walk down the street and get something to drink and let this man do his job...

Calmer or at least less anxious heads prevailed, I walked down to the convienience store for a bottle of coke, stopped into the main part of the repair shop, took a look around - they did have some cool old stuff in there, and by the time I returned to the garage my bike was ready and waiting for me to take her down the road.

12:30 - still in Phoenix but it's looking promising!

Northern Arizona - Here we come!

vintage, Northern Arizona, garage,Motorcycle

Day 1 - Morning Journal Entry (part 3)

We rolled to the far north side of the valley (Phoenix metro area), 50 miles or so from our starting point. The plan was to have an easy breakfast and ride hard to Flagstaff where we'd fuel, take a quick break and head towards Tuba City and on in to Kayenta (Southern side of Monument Valley). At least, that WAS the plan. We had the easy breakfast - there's nothing quite like hashbrowns smothered and covered to keep your belly from grumbling.

We had all just finished our meal, the ladies headed out to the bikes while the guy's took care of the check and as I'm standing in line to pay one of the ladies in our group comes up and tells me - "your bike has a flat tire...." and as she's telling me this she's backing away. First I thought she was kidding but was soon to find that she was serious. Someplace along the highway I had picked up a nail in the sidewall of my front tire... here we are, 10:00 am, still in Phoenix, and it's getting hot.

I thank God every day of my life for good friends. This day especially. Not only are they really good at keeping me calm when I really didn't want to be, they always jump in without hesitation to help whenever it's needed. Today was no exception. I never had time to think about it (other than to utter a few choice words) before my buddies were on thier way to get a can of fix-a-flat so we could get to the nearest dealer or tire outlet for repairs."

Within ten or fifteen minutes the fix-a-flat had arrived! Great right? Now it's just a matter of getting to the local dealer located about 15 minutes across town from where we were. No worries, 15 minutes, hey that's not a big deal. We'll get there, get in, get the tire changed and get back on the road in - oh, I don't know, I'm thinking an hour or so. Sounds reasonable, right?

sigh.... I really shouldn't think!

Around 10:30 am Our group arrives at the dealer, dismount and the guy's head to the service department while the ladies decide to browse main store, bikes, clothes and accessories. The Service tech and I go over what I need, I explain that we're on the road heading to Sturgis, we have 4 days to get there and I would appreciate anything he could do to get us in and out as quickly as possible. I personally think that the green dye in his hair has impacted his hearing and cognitive thought process. The only evidence to this phenomenom I call "Green Creep" is his response... "...ummm, we can get you in about 1:00 this afternoon..." I explained our situation again. Not trying to be unreasonable, nearly pleading for him to work us in. I explained that we were travelling across country, how long we had to get to our destination, the fact that we had reservations in South Eastern Utah tonight and we didn't want to ride all night to get there. I then asked if he couldn't do something to bump me up in the order, "it's just a tire change", it's not like I needed an overhaul and was demanding it in the next 15 minutes or anything. The answer remained the same a big, fat, "sorry dude". Still in search of some help I asked for a recommendation where I may be able to get in and out quickly, anyplace, it didn't need to be a dealer..(I did't think this was too unreasonable)... Ole' Green Hair must have skipped out on some of the Customer Service training that the dealership offered and took the class on "sorry dude" instead. I think my face must have given away some warning sign of my growing frustration with the Service Tech's unwillingness to bend a little or even offer any help. As I'm certain that I was about to kindly thank him for his lack of any assistance, my friends were ushering me out to the sounds of thier offering "Thanks anyway"...

We're now at 11:00 am - still in Phoenix. Still with 380 Miles to ride.

Day 1 - Morning Journal Entry (part 2)

We hadn't even pulled out of the neighborhood yet when we heard the wind being sucked into my buddies engine so it was a quick trip back to the driveway, break out the tool kit and try to figure out what the source of the problem was. Off comes the seat, the air filter cover, check the lines, check this, check that put it all back together and we get the same result. I'm sure if we would have not been in a rush to get on the road we would have/could have figured out the problem in just a moment or two. As luck would have it we were in a hurry to leave. We all desperately wanted to beat the 3.5 million people that were going to clog the highways leading out of the "Valley of the Sun" and start heading north to cooler weather. I'm sure my buddies stress level was starting to rise; here we were - the entire group - trying to get on the road and we needed to fix his bike before we could even leave the familiar surroundings of the stucco clad houses that are our neighborhood.

We found the problem after 30 minutes or more of searching. On his bike there is an air intake tube that runs under his tank towards the neck of the bike. On that tube, there is a rubber boot that connects it to the carb; correction... is supposed to connect it to the carb. Once we found the issue we quickly re-connected it and we were off.

Travel Plan - Arizona Route

Our travel plan for the Arizona route - Day 1. It should have been an easy 380 - 400 mile day. Should have been. :)


Travel Plan, Arizona Route