Road Trippin'- Vegas Edition

Place: Stovepipe Wells, CA
Date: Sunday, August 1, 2010. 12:00 PM.

     I open the door of the small air-conditioned hut and it takes my eyes a moment to adjust to the blinding sunlight outside. I take a few steps through the door, and a brutally hot blast of air instantly reminds me where I am. The mid-day sun beats down mercilessly and I fumble anxiously with my gear, growing more uncomfortable by the second, as I walk toward my bike. I quickly reach my motorcycle and place the sticker on the windscreen, indicating that I’ve paid the park admission fee, as I gear up as quickly as I can. Every moment spent standing in this heat saps me of energy and fills me with worry. It’s 120 degrees outside- ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY DEGREES- a temperature I find difficult to comprehend, and yet here I am… in the middle of Death Valley… in August… at noon. The fact that my motorcycle is the only vehicle in the parking lot besides the park ranger’s vehicle is both disconcerting and not surprising at all. For a moment I wish I was back in the minimart 100 yards back up the road, with it’s refrigerators full of cold drinks, fans blowing cold air, and pleasant music playing on the radio. There are even a few tourists back there, though I have no idea where they came from or where they plan to go in this heat. I chuckle as I remember the ridiculous look the cashier gave me as I commented about how hot it was outside. He didn’t need to utter a word, his quick glance said it all; “No shit. What did you expect.” When he finally does speak, he makes a crack about how this is a cool spell, and next week they should be back up to their normal temperatures.

     From the first moments that I had originally conceived of this trip in my mind weeks ago, this was the stretch of road that most worried me. Every person that I’ve told of my plans has looked at me with the same incredulous look… “you’re going to ride through where? When?” I didn’t intentionally keep this trip a secret from my parents, but I may have accidentally failed to mention it until just a few days before departing. They do worry, of course, as all parents do, so I figure that worrying for a couple of days is better than worrying for a couple of weeks.

     I straddle the motorcycle and thumb the starter button, and am immensely relieved as the bike’s engine immediately barks to life, it’s single cylinder emitting it’s characteristic staccato thump-thump-thump-thump sound. As I pull out of the parking lot I accelerate with an urgency, desperately seeking to feel some sort of wind against my now sweat-soaked gear. I am greeted with a rush of scalding hot, dry air that provides no relief. I aim the bike towards Las Vegas, which still sits more than 140 miles away, and I twist the throttle sharply in disgust. I remind myself that an ice-cold beer is just two hours away.

-----------------------------------------------

Three weeks earlier:

(Phone rings)
Francine: Hello? Steena-girl, what’s up? (Pause) Really? When? Hold on, let me ask John…
(Fran covers the mouthpiece and whispers to me): Christina and Billy are going to las Vegas and they want to know if we want to go along?
Me: When?
Fran: First week of August. They’re staying at the Mandalay Bay. Can we go? The kids would love it!
Me: That’s perfect. Quarter-end is over so I can get a few days off work. (Pause) Hey, how about if I ride out there and meet you guys? (Grinning, expecting a ‘yeah, right’ sneer).
Fran: … ummmm, sure. If you want to. (Turns her attention again to the phone) Hey Steena, yeah, we’re in. Let’s talk tomorrow to finalize plans. (Hangs up the phone).

     I stare in disbelief, not knowing whether my wife is serious or not. Somehow the reaction seems genuine. Suddenly my mind is racing. Did I just say I’d ride my motorcycle to Las Vegas? How exactly am I going to do that? That’s like a gazillion miles. How the hell do I do that? Is she serious? Am I insane? Is this some weird dream?

-----------------------------------------------

Place: Los Gatos, CA
Date: Saturday, July 31, 2010. 9:00 AM.

Ready to ride!

     It’s too late to change my mind now. Besides the fact that buying an airline ticket at the last minute would be ridiculously expensive, I’ve told too many people I’m going to do this to back out now. My bike sits at the bottom of the driveway, warmed up, packed up, and ready to go. I’ve spent the last three weeks preparing for this trip. Countless hours have been spent going over the bike, making small tweaks, checking things, re-checking, packing tools and spares for the trip, planning routes. To back out now would be the worst kind of defeat, not to mention quite embarrassing. Am I really going to ride my bike to Las Vegas? Through Yosemite and Death Valley? I’m not worried for my safety, per se, but this trip is far more ambitious than any I’ve done so far on a motorcycle in the few years I’ve been riding. I’ve done 250 mile days before, but the trip there would be two back-to-back 300+ mile days, and the return trip would be a staggering 550 miles in one day. While not massive by some riders’ standards, for me this is a big deal, especially on a bike like the Kawasaki KLR650, which is in it’s element on dirt roads and tight, twisty potholed back roads, but far less happy on large highways. I liken the KLR to the VW Beetle. Not the new one, the old one. Though it’s been updated cosmetically, the KLR is mechanically largely unchanged today from the original model introduced in the mid-80’s. It’s carbureted single cylinder engine puts out a whopping 34 horsepower (less than a quarter of what some modern sport bikes can put out) and is as technically sophisticated as a brick shithouse. Oddly, the thought never even crosses my mind to take my other bike- a far more modern and powerful machine with twice the power of the KLR, fuel injection and a better suspension. For as fun and powerful as the Ninja is, it’s sport bike ergonomics preclude any sort of real distance riding for someone on the wrong side of 40, unless I want to pay to bring a chiropractor along on the trip. Before I can psyche myself completely out of it, I kiss the kids and Fran, wish them a safe flight, tell them I’ll call them along the way, put my helmet on, and give one last wave as I ride off on the start of my adventure.

The route

Lick Observatory - Mt. Hamilton

     I’ve carefully planned the route to Las Vegas to avoid major highways as much as possible.  Besides the fact that the bike doesn’t like highways, they’re just plain boring and tedious, and this ride is all about having fun after all. The return trip will be, by necessity, all highway in order to be done in one day, but I’ve split up the trip there into two days so I can ride at a more leisurely pace and enjoy some of California’s finest backroads. I start off the day with a run up one of the best riding roads in the bay area- Mt. Hamilton Rd, where I find UC Berkeley’s Lick Observatory at the summit (Go Bears!).  After a brief break to hit the restroom, snap a few quick pictures, and joke with the bicyclists about who can get down the mountain the fastest, I continue down the backside into the

View of Santa Clara valley from Mt. Hamilton

Livermore Valley - Del Puerto Canyon

Livermore Valley and on to Hwy 5 for a brief stretch to Manteca, where I refuel. From there I catch Hwy 120, which will take me through Oakdale, Chinese Camp, and Big Oak Flat before arriving at the west entrance to Yosemite. Even before entering the park, traffic has deteriorated to a 20 mph parade of RV’s, trucks towing boats, and tourists stopping to gawk at every pine tree and squirrel.


I decide that my plans to detour down into Yosemite Valley for lunch at the Ahwahnee Lodge are a fool’s errand, and I instead decide to head straight over Tioga Pass in order to enjoy the ride in daylight and still get to my stopping point for the day at Mammoth Lakes in time for dinner.

View of Half Dome from Tioga pass

Tioga Lake

Mono Lake

In the home stretch, baby!

     Despite the traffic (or perhaps because of the traffic) I’m able to relax and enjoy the ride over Tioga Pass at a nice leisurely pace, stopping every few minutes to take pictures and marvel at

the magnificence of the park. It’s been years since I’ve been to Yosemite, and the views of Half Dome, Tuolumne Meadows, and Tioga Lake are simply breathtaking. I really wish that Fran and the kids were with me to enjoy this. I shoot some video with my helmet cam, hoping to capture some of the magic of riding a motorcycle on this road. In my heart, I’m sure the video can’t possibly do it justice, even in high-def, but it’s worth a try. As I make my way past Tioga Lake, the road begins it’s descent and the topography and vegetation changes as I now find myself on the eastern slope of the Sierras. The contrast is simply amazing. Gone are the massive pine trees, which have been replaced with low scrub vegetation. barren slopes, steep rocky cliffs, and pockets of snow and ice that hide, clinging to the shadowy crevices of the highest peaks. Several times I have to forcibly divert my attention from the massive drop-offs to my right-hand side and concentrate on the road ahead. The scenery is all at once breathtaking and disconcerting when you’re hurtling down the mountain at 60 miles per hour without the comforting embrace of a massive steel cage and airbags surrounding you. Tioga Pass Rd comes to an end at Mono Lake,

and with some sadness that this magnificent stretch of road has come to an end so soon, I make a right turn on highway 395 and head south towards Mammoth Lakes 30 minutes away. 395 runs north/south along the eastern Sierras, and is an easy stretch of fairly straight road. Besides a few Clif bars, I haven’t had anything to eat all day and am by now very hungry, so I crank the throttle wide open as I imagine what sort of dinner I might enjoy tonight. Unfortunately, wide open throttle on a KLR at 8,000 ft elevation into a 40 mph headwind means I’m struggling to

hold 70 mph, so it takes a bit of time to reach my hotel but I eventually arrive at my resting spot for the night- safe and sound, exhilarated, and thrilled with the first day’s ride. After a decidedly anticlimactic dinner, I retire for a good night’s sleep, and dreams of what the next day holds in store for me. I am serenaded to sleep by the sounds of strong, gusting winds that blow down through the chimney of my hotel room all night making a disturbing howling noise, and by the hooting and cackling of the local kids playing at an apparently all-night miniature golf course conveniently located just outside my hotel room’s window.

Eastern slope of the Sierras on a spectacular Sunday morning

     I awaken the next morning to find that the previous evening’s strong winds have subsided, and the nocturnal mini-golfers have gone. In their place I find an impossibly clear, high-mountain morning sky, full of the bluest blue you can imagine, and a remarkably good breakfast of eggs, sausage, potatoes and toast and, of course, lots of coffee. My waiter is also an avid rider, and we chat about bikes and riding throughout breakfast. However, knowing what lies ahead, I can’t linger for too long, as I cling to the notion that it’s possible to get through Death Valley early enough to “beat the heat”. I might as well have stayed for another cup of coffee. The low in Death Valley in August is 98 degrees. Even if I’d ridden all night straight through I would have still encountered ridiculously oppressive weather.

Fun times ahead!

Well now, this is a bit anticlimactic...

     The ride down Highway 395, past Lake Crowley, through Mesa and Bishop and down to Big Pine, in the warm glow of a summer’s Sunday morning, is beautiful beyond description. I could easily see myself getting off the bike and laying there on the side of the road, staring at the mountains and the sky, for a full day. Just past Big Pine I finally reach what is, in my mind, the defining moment of this trip. The turn onto Highway 190, which will take me through Death Valley. I’ve wondered for weeks what this moment, this intersection would be like. In my dreams there is sometimes a large gate covered

in skulls and bones and monstrous warriors and a drawbridge and moat guarding the entrance. Much to my dismay this is, in fact, not the case and I find just another intersection of two of California’s backroads, full of nfinite blue sky, mountains, and a big green road sign. After taking a few pictures to commemorate the occasion, I move on, a bit disappointed by the lack of drama.

Looking back on Hwy 190.  Lake Owens on the left.

Father Crowley Point

     To my surprise, the first 50 or so miles inside Death Valley are all at an altitude of 3,000 - 4,000

feet. I make my way past the Owens Lake bed, the China Lake Naval Weapons Center, Crowley Point, and through Panamint Springs, all the while enjoying the spectacularly stark and dramatic scenery, stopping to take photos, and wondering what the heck the big deal is about Death Valley. Then, as I come through Towne Pass, at en elevation of nearly 5,000 ft, I begin the rapid descent through Emigrant and into Stovepipe Wells and in less than 15 miles I find myself at sea level, and someone has opened the oven door. Almost instantly, it has become impossibly, unbearably, unimaginably hot. The names of the landmarks now seem to reflect that this is a perpetual situation, as ahead lies the Devil’s Cornfield, Hell’s Gate, Furnace Creek, Dante’s View, and Coffin Peak. Oh, how I long for the relative coolness of a forest fire.

One hundred twenty degrees... in the shade

Heaven a.k.a. Stovepipe Wells Village

     It’s now taking a fair amount of mental energy to contain the ever-increasing level of concern. I’m comforted somewhat in knowing that I have a lot of water with me, and in the event of a mechanical failure I have a GPS transponder that can summon help. However, this is rapidly becoming a very uncomfortable and inhospitable environment. I am suddenly far less interested in enjoying the scenery, and almost entirely preoccupied with my GPS unit and trying to determine exactly how many more seconds remain until I arrive at the wonderfully air conditioned lobby of the Mandalay Bay Resort.

And then it appears. It sits in the distance like a mirage on the shimmering horizon, but as I draw nearer I realize that it is, in fact, real. At first, I can’t quite comprehend what I’m seeing, as it makes no sense that something like this would be out here, but before me now sits not just a gas station or minimart, but an entire little town. Not some god forsaken ghost town or decrepit meth lab hideaway, but a modern little town with a hotel, swimming pool, store, and visitor’s center. The sign says Stovepipe Wells Village, but it might as well be called Heaven. As I approach the town, the store and gas station are on my left, and I ease the bike up to one of the pumps (the one in the shade) and jump off. In a sequence that is by now well rehearsed, I remove all my gear and fill up the bike as swiftly as I can. I leave the bike sitting next to the pump (it’s the only shade in sight, and there don’t appear to be any other vehicles around in need of gas) and trot off to the store in search of a cold drink and some momentary relief from the heat. I am not disappointed. Inside I find one of the cleanest, most well-appointed stores I’ve yet come across on this trip. I head straight for the back of the store, where a large bank of refrigerators sits, and I grab a large bottle of water and a bottle of Gatorade. The beer section seems especially well-stocked, and I let out an audible sigh. Instead, I find a Clif bar and head for the cash register. As I’m paying, I offhandedly ask the cashier if he has any recommendations for the fastest route to Las Vegas. I’m not quite sure why I ask this question, as I have not one, but two GPS units on the motorcycle already. The cashier retrieves a photocopied flier with a map of the valley, which shows three routes. Two head off on detours to ghost towns. He advises that the route over Ash Meadows Rd is what he would suggest. Oddly, I’ve not heard of this route and neither GPS unit is indicating this as the route to take, but I trust his local knowledge, so I thank him and take the map as I head out the door. He reminds me that this is a National Park, so I need to stop at the ranger’s station up the road to pay the park entrance fee. I pause for a moment at a picnic bench in the shade of the store’s eaves outside the front door to drink my Gatorade and eat my Clif Bar, and to fill my Camelbak with water, and I head back to the bike. I hastily throw my gear on and ride off in search of the ranger’s station.

     Before the bike is even in third gear the ranger’s station comes into view up ahead. The small cottage stands by itself, away from the rest of the village. Parked in front of it are a few vehicles, including a park ranger’s truck. There is no shade to be found, so I park the bike in the nearest spot, and run for the door. Not expecting to be inside for more than a moment, I don’t bother to remove anything except my gloves as I pull the door open and step inside. Much to my chagrin, there is a line of people waiting to pay. There is an older couple at the front of the line who are looking over maps and asking questions about different attractions. After several minutes they seem satisfied with the information they’ve received and they thank the ranger and leave. Next is a gentleman with an English accent that starts to ask all sorts of complicated questions about annual passes and whether they cover all national parks and whether he can redeem the entrance fee he paid in Yosemite last week towards an annual pass. My patience wears thinner by the minute as I stand there, helmet and jacket still on, quietly sweating profusely. Finally it’s my turn. I quickly hand the ranger a $10. I ask no questions- I just want my sticker so I can move on. I’m handed the sticker, a receipt, a map, and a pamphlet which warns of the extreme dangers of heat and dehydration. I thank the ranger and briskly head for the door. By now, there is nobody else in the office, and as I step outside all the vehicles are gone except for my motorcycle and the ranger’s truck. I fire up the bike and immediately notice that my iPhone, which is mounted on the dash and connected to a charger that runs to the bike’s battery, doesn’t turn on. Besides providing me with music through my helmet’s bluetooth headset, the iPhone also runs my primary GPS nav, so this is an unwelcome surprise. The more robust Garmin GPS unit mounted next to the iPhone appears to still be functioning, and I believe I have a good mental image of the map I got in the minimart, so I ride off without wasting any more time troubleshooting the iPhone. The Garmin taunts me by telling me I still have over two hours of riding ahead of me.

     10 minutes later the iPhone, apparently cooled enough by the blowing air, comes back to life. I am tucked down low behind the bike’s windscreen seeking refuge from the infernal blast of hot wind as I push the bike as hard as I dare. The temperature gauge reads just below the halfway point, where it has been for the entire trip, so my only concern for the moment is minimizing the amount of oil the bike burns. Thumpers, as single-cylinder motorcycles are affectionately called, are typically not high-revving machines. They are the mules of the motorcycle world, in contrast to the thoroughbred sport bikes which can easily rev to 14,000 RPMs. The KLR will protest being asked to run in excess of 5,000 RPMs for any length of time by burning it’s precious engine oil, so I carry with me an extra quart of oil in my bag and check the oil level at every gas stop. For the last day and a half the bike has happily loped along on windy scenic routes, but the route has now become straight and flat and my interest in photographing has waned so the tachometer’s needle now hovers at the magical 5K mark and my GPS is telling me I’m cutting through the hot wind at over 75 MPH.

Made it at last!!!

     The bike has now been running at it’s threshold pace for 90 minutes as I guide it down Nevada highway 160 over Mountain Springs. By now, Ash Meadow Rd is a distant memory, Pahrump is 30 minutes behind me, and the Las Vegas skyline has just come into view ahead. I pass a few pickup trucks and 18-wheelers, whose drivers invariably glance at me with a look of surprise and the occasional approving head nod. The end of the ride is now in sight, and I briefly allow myself to revel in the thought that I’ve managed to pull off something which, just a few days ago, seemed quite daunting. Despite the heat of the last few hours, the last two days of riding have gone off without a hitch. As highway 160 merges with highway 15 and I suddenly find myself in the southern outskirts of Las Vegas I am filled with a tremendous sense of relief and accomplishment. Up ahead, the shimmering golden figure of the Mandalay Bay Resort is visible from the highway, and as I take the freeway exit I voice-dial Fran from my helmet’s headset. Despite the fact that I’d spoken with her in Pahrump just a short while ago, I can hear a definite sense of surprise, relief and happiness in her voice when I tell her that I’m now just a few moments away. She quickly hustles the kids out of the pool and they head off to the hotel’s lobby to meet me. As I make my way through the giant revolving door into the cool air-conditioned lobby passers-by in shorts and t-shirts gawk at the bizarre sight as I stand in the center of the lobby in my riding gear. Then, out of the corner of my eye I spot them, and before I can fully turn around I’m greeted with three huge hugs and the smiling faces of Fran and the kids. What a wonderful end to two memorable days of riding.

-----------------------------------------------

Epilogue
Wednesday, August 4, 2010

     After spending two and a half wonderful days in Las Vegas enjoying the pools, attractions, shows, and restaurants with the family, it’s time to make the return trip home. This trip will be quite different from the route to Las Vegas. The emphasis today is on getting home in time for dinner. With over 550 miles on the agenda, and a bike that’s allergic to speeds in excess of 75 mph, this will be a day-long game of going fast slowly. After a quick breakfast with the family, I’m on the road by 8:30, and with the exception of one stop at a Circle-K in Wasco for two slices of pepperoni pizza, my day is largely spent on the bike riding through such scenic places as Barstow, Baker, Bakersfield, and Mojave. After riding west for most of the day, I reach Paso Robles in the early afternoon and make the turn onto 101N, and I feel like I’m on ‘home turf’ now as a head northward towards the bay area. As I reach Watsonville the wind has picked up to a steady 40 MPH from the west, and my bike is leaned over to the left just to go in a straight line. A dense cloud cover has settled over the area, and temperatures have dropped to the point that I can no longer hide from the cold behind my windscreen and I’m shivering, so I pull over at a gas station and quickly put on several layers of clothing. I’m back on the road in a few minutes, feeling far more comfortable, however as 101 winds northward and inland and reaches Gilroy the cloud cover is gone and the temperatures are back in the 80’s. I decide to suck it up as I’m now less than 45 minutes from home. As I fly through Morgan Hill, San Jose, and finally make my way south on 17 to Los Gatos I can’t believe I’ve covered as much distance as I have in one day. I’ve dispelled several misconceptions that I had before this ride- chief among them is that my ass is not twice as sore after a nearly 600 mile ride as it was after a 300 mile ride. I’m rather pleased to discover that somewhere around Bakersfield I reach a sort of ass-pain equilibrium. Also, I discover that there is, in fact, such as thing as too much Creedence Clearwater Revival. Lastly, I discover that trying to wipe bugs off a visor is a rookie mistake. Just leave them be- better a small speck than a huge smear. All that notwithstanding, I am convinced that the very definition of paradise is being greeted at the front door, after 10 hours of riding, by your wife with a kiss and an open bottle of beer.

Thank you Francine!!!

Until the next ride…
-John