My intention was to move the bike over to the slot in my garage closest to the steps from the laundry room. Since the BMW was still in the shop I had this space free to do stuff, which was nice. But when I opened the garage door my heart sank: it was raining! It was hard to start a journey of several thousand miles by only riding a mile at a time. Motivation to start such a trip with wet miles would be hard.
As I rigged the bike up, I found my rain gear and put it aside. With the bike on the center stand in the garage, I strapped up everything and made sure the rig was straight across the back of the bike so I didn't have more weight on one side or the other. I checked the tyre pressure again, even though I had done so the night before.
Taking a break from packing, I went upstairs to check the radar on the Internet. The clouds were all to the west of the Cascades, so I knew I'd have no problem if I could convince myself to ride the first 50 or 75 miles out over the pass.
After puttering around and trying to assure myself I hadn't forgotten anything, I pulled on my rain suit. It fit fine, with a little fussing, but I felt like a marshmallow wearing it. Even though my leathers are huge, I don't mind wearing them. Putting the nylon rain gear over my pants and jacket made me feel foolishly large, though.
Before leaving, I double-checked that I hadn't forgotten anything. After sevreal long-distance trips, I realized that I needed certain things and couldn't live without them. But after years of all sorts of travel, I also realized that anything I had forgotten could almost always be easily purchased wherever I was going. So, I focused on things I wouldn't want to replace (camera, books to read, expensive sunglasses) or things that I simply couldn't replace conveniently (like my allergy medicine). Plus, fighting my way back across country would suck if it ended in returning to a house without a key to unlock it.
Parking the bike in the driveway, I ran through the house to close the garage door and then lock the front door. By the time I put my key into my stoker pack and hoppe aboard, the saddle was already wet. My helmet was popping with the droplets.
From my house, I buzzed out onto WA-202 going east. I thought about how the next week would be dominated with the word "South", and then I'd suddenly become preoccupied with the words "North" and "East". Riding across country leaves me with this phenominal sense of perspective. After studying maps and planning and playing wth computer routing programs and just becoming so focused on tiny details, it really doesn't matter: you can ride from Seattle to Boston vaguely thinking of Boston as your goal. With that goal ahead of you, making simple decisions every day about which highway to take or where to turn have really obvious answers— whichever choice gets you closer to Boston works.
WA-202 meanders through the valley towards Fall City. I rode past Fall City and the junction to WA-203, then up the twisties towards Snoqualmie Falls. There's lots of construction out here, as the roads are fixed to handle the new traffic from all the residents who found a new crevace, an unclaimed corner of property, or shaved extra land from a subplot to build a house out here. It was about 9am when I set out, and the in-bound rush hour was going the other way. But I was stuck behind a tandem dump truck.
At the first opportunity, I blasted past the dump truck and went sailing up the bendy, sloped road to the falls. At the summit, I didn't slow much and headded past Snoqualmie into North Bend. The traffic in my direction was still very light, and the traffic going westbound was diminishing.
The rain continued to patter my visor, but I'd put Rain-X on it just the night before so it beaded and disappeared quickly. I was now stuck behind another dump truck and lost ten miles an hour. Looking around me, I realized that I was here, right here, taking a trip again. I had nothing in front of me but riding and riding some more.
For just a little while, I decided that it would be perfect. I didn't forget anything, and anything I did I could buy. It was raining but I knew where the rain was over and the rain here wasn't bad at all. The girl who didn't want to see me before I left was gone, and either she would wait or she wouldn't. I figured that she wouldn't, but then I'd be back: a heroic world traveller with stories to tell and beer to drink and money to spend. And she would realize her lose and cry herself to sleep.
The dump truck bailed out and I road the flat part after North Bend, just as the state road paralleled the highway, as fast as I dared. The rain had stopped, but the roads were still wet and some spray was still coming from cars and trucks going the other way.
Upon the hiwhay, I opened it up. Really: the front wheel rose, and I rode my monster out into a huge gap of space on the highway. It's all me. I dropped the front end and steadied the bike and grabbed the next gear—I guess third, by now—and let out another deep breath. This trip wasn't going to be like the others; I would have time to think instead of fight with myself, I would have time to do instead of just go.
Over the top of the pass, the weather thinned completely. I continued to follow I-90 through Cle Elum and out towards the eastern side of the state. Every mile brought clearer skies. By the time I got near Ellensburg, it was downright sunny. Just east of the town, I hooked I-82 and started heading south-east towards Pendelton and Kennewick.
After catching the exit, the two-lanes of eastbound were clogged with semi trailers lumbering up the hill and motorhomes which moved only slightly faster but still decided to use the left lane to pass. A motorcycle among those giants is tiny, but I'm used to it and I know how to ride. There's a scienic overlook most of the way up the hill, and I bailed there to get out of rain shell.
At the rest stop, I looked out over the valley behind me. The loopy turn-in had me facing West again, back where I came from. Peeling off the pants is awkward, and getting the jacket off is easiest if I take off my leathers from underneath, too. I folded everything and wedged it back into my rear-set pack, and then rearranged my pants so I was comfortable. The jacket wet back on, and a new tape.
Back onto the highway, I felt much cooler. The rain shell doesn't let water through, but keeps most of the wind out, too. And I need that air to keep cool.
This bike is fast. Really, really, fast. It's so much fun to rap it out as I get onto the highway, I just imagine doing it over and over again. There aren't any cops around today, and it's hard to figure out why; they always show up when you don't want them to, somehow. I-82 keeps going south towards Yakima and then Kennewick. Yakima was uneventful, but there was certainly much more traffic. I can't bleieve how many people are here in this little town.
Just south of Yakima, I stopped in Union Gap to get gas. The bike is still getting more than 35 miles to the gallon, even though I'm buzzing along at 80 miles per hour most of the time. The Texaco here in Union Gap is very much a real truck stop: there's a driver's lounge and showers and lots and lots of parking for the big rigs. While gassing, I wished that I took WA-821 which touches the Yakima river on it's way south: it looked a little more entertaining than the slab did.
The highway snaked through the valley and drwe me towards Kennewick. There, I hung onto I-82 due south until I crossed the Columbia river into Oregon and darted east on US-730. That hit OR-73, and I followed it into Pendelton.
I remembered my stop here last year; I passed the exit for the hotel where I stayed and the McDonald's where I narfed a couple of burgers to nurse my raging hangover. US-395 starts south from Pendelton, and meanders through hills and valleys and farms in this area of Oregon. In this area of Oregon, there's nothing much more.
Little towns kept scrolling by, and then I entered the Battle Mountain State Park area. Climbing and falling through the trees on the two-lane highway was just perfect: this is why I ride my motorcycle across country every year. Some construction sites slowed my progress, but the roads were just fine otherwise. Little traffic was in my way, and there were few things to worry about.
I stopped in Long Creek and filled up. It was starting to get hot, so I took a rest in the convenience store. Oregon has a strange state law about not letting you pump your own gas: every single station is full service. Unless you're on a bike, of course; then, someone comes running out and you pay the ten extra cents per gallon to have them switch the pump on and hand you the nozzle. The ladies at the convenience store were somewhere more than friendly—I think they were downright lonely. Just the same, it was enjoyable to speak with them and hear a human voice.
With the new tank, I kept pushing south through the Malheur Forest where I was treated to shade and lots more fun switchbacks. There wasn't an RV in sight, but the highway sometimes followed a ridge that had a huge drop and no guardrails. The riding wasn't very dicey, but I always think of my time in Mount Saint Helens when I have such a road under my ass.
In Burns, I filled up again thinking that Burns Junction would offer another shot at fuel. I had no such luck: there was a sign on the way out of Burns stating there were no feul services for 93 miles—the approximate distance to Burns Junction. Burns Junction doesn't appear on a map, by the way; it's in southeast Oregon where OR-78 meets US-95. On the way there, you pop into the Mountain Time Zone and then back into the Pacific Time Zone in just fifty- some miles as you travel south.
At Burns, I asked the gas station attendant about the condition of the road down here. Indeed, OR-78 was in bad shape. More than three times, I swept the bike around a corner only to find the road was missing or so full of holes to look completely unorganized. The map would have you believe that Malheur Lake was huge and cool, but you couldn't put that by me: I didn't see it at all. The sun continued to beat down on me and my black motorcycle. The forest had given way to scrubby plains desert.
But I should have asked the attendant about more gas. I guess I should've rode into Burns Junction on US-95, but I jumped on US-95 south and found gas at McDermitt, Nevada. This town was amazing. The sign said the population was 400 or so, but I didn't see any businesses. There certainly weren't any farms, and I couldn't find a hotel—this could't even qualify as a sportsman's paradise. For one of the few times in the trip, I longed for a computer so I could research this little town and discover what it was for.
Post entry: Indeed, I did. Ft. McDermitt is an Indian Reservation just to the east of the town. Apparently, it's a hotly-disputed dumping ground for nuclear waste How the government can give the Indian back his land with one hand and ruin it with the other is completely beyond me. But that's what happens in McDermitt.
The first gas station where I stopped had only 87-octane, and that made me creepy. I'm sure a tank or so of the stuff wouldn't hurt, but the bike was my only hope in this desolate landscape and I didn't want to take any chances. I rode on about 100 yards and found a tiny shack of a gas station that sold 91-octane fuel, so I filled. The last tank, with just a little nursing, took me 205 miles on just more than 5 gallons: just nearly 40 miles to the gallon.
Here in McDermitt, I was about 650 miles into my ride. It was about 7pm, and the sun was hanging low in the sky. I decided that I would be able to make Winnemucca, but I wanted to be sure I would have a room. I pulled out my travel guide, but I couldn't complete a call to the 800-number or the local number for the hotel listed in Winnemucca, and my cellular phone was completely worthless. I pressed on, hoping for the best of luck.
I tore through Orovada, and stopped about 5 miles south of the town at a rest stop. I tried to get my Alice in Chains tape to play, but it didn't work: it had snapped. I didn't think I could ride the rest of the country without Alice, so I needed to find a record store as soon as I could. I laughed at myself: out here in the hard desert, my biggest worry is hearing my favorite tape. I'm not sure if I'm cocky or stupid or both.
The sun was setting over the mountains to my right, and there were more mountains to my left. None of my maps name these ranges. The effect was amazing; my shadow grew longer and longer and longer, until I thoguht it would cast over east-side mountains. My bike purred under me in sixth gear at only 5000 rpm, driving me forward at more than ninety miles per hour. I didn't touch the throttle the whole way to Winnemucca.
Winnemucca, what a town! Like most other Nevada cities, it tries to be like Las Vegas. There's a strip, and it's lined with bright, blinking casinos and hotels. By watching the billboards, I decided to stay at the Red Lion. Unlike most other Red Lion franchises, this one didn't get converted to a Doubletree Inn.
I checked-in and unpacked. Since it was the first night, I was still worried about the bike and tried to park carefully. Before the end of the trip, I'd be leaving the keys in the ignition—but for now, I was very wary of my surroundings and the chance for theft. After making my way to my room, I took a shower. My thoughts covered my progress; I spent some time congratulating myself for all I did today. Riding more than 700 miles on a sport bike is serious business, and I nailed it.
Spreading out my Southeast United States map on the bed drove the point home. It was a huge trip. I combed my hair and went down to the casino.
I had a couple of beers, and then homed in on a $2 blackjack table. Just like I'm not addicted to drinking, I'm not addicted to gambling. But I love to play a few hands and count cards and watch people and talk to them. Some guys at the table left shortly after I sat down, perhaps because they were annoyed with my confusion at the house rules. They were dealing face-down, and I'm not used to that. You can't ever touch the cards with both hands, and you mustn't flip your cards over inappropriately.
After a while, I caught on. But the casino was downright sloppy: you could double-down on anything you liked, and the house paid on pushes! It was amazing. I played from 7pm or so until 1am. Then, I took my comped breakfast and went to sleep. I lost about $125, but who cares? Out of my wad of a couple of grand to blow gambling, it was nothing. And I might win. Plus, I sure drank some beer.
Finished on 12 August, 1998.