When I checked out, the sun was already blaring over the scrubby little trees in the parking lot. A family was getting ready to get into the car. By overhearing their conversation, I surmised that they were on their way to the Grand Canyon, too. I turned and smiled, and the mother collected her young daughter and ushred her into the car like I was some sort of axe murderer.
Hopping on the bike, I flipped the switch to get it running. Just before shoving off, I realized that I still had the brake lock on. This was another narrow miss, but at least I didn't try to shove off with the thing still hooked up. Shutting off the engine, I wondered how much more damage I did by starting the bike and shutting it off while it was still trying to warm up. Of course, I guess I could have fished the extra key for the lock out of my stoker bag, but I was just too lazy.
The bike runs great even though I'm at a couple thousand feet altitude, and that has me relieved. I was afraid that I'd notice bogging or sluggishness because of the thinner air and different gas, and that would make me worry all day long. But there's no such problems, and I'm quite happy.
There's really very little to the country out here. There's lots of little shacks at the side of the road selling "Real Indian Jewlery", but the land is completely blank except for the occasional entrance to a ranch. The land is full of tiny rocks and a bit of sand, and the occasional outcropping of huge rocks makes for just an amazing view. There are gigantic cliffs overhanging little tiny houses, and both seem to spring up randomly from nowhere. Little mesas and even the occasional pueblo bring added colour and countour and scenery to otherwise barren land.
The wind, thankfully, is nothing as severe as yesterday and I can ride along without any twitchyness. It's very much a relief. I didn't see anything about storms on the news before I left my hotel, either, so the going should be smooth.
From Tuba City, I had to ride southwest for just a few miles on US-160 and then catch US-89 south. In the middle of the Painted Desert, among the Navajos and Hopis, I stopped in Cameron to get gas. AZ-64 cut west into the Grand Canyon. There were still indians selling Real Jewlery on the way in, almost all the way into the park.
I was shocked to find that I had to pay to get into the park, but the price for a bike was pretty cheap. Then, just after the gate, the real news hit me: The Grand Canyon was completely commericalized. As I drove along the twisty park road at the south rim, the little shops sprung up and like a flock of girls wearing prom dresses at a rodeo.
My helmet was full of disappointment: all of this expensive gasoline, shops that did 1-hour film processing, and fast-food made me sick. I thought the canyon would be just a huge, whistling hole in the rocky bed of the desert, and it wasn't. There were fat tourists here, sucking down beef byproducts and spending thirteen dollars on a single roll of film.
I got away from the little outcropping and stopped at the next turn around. It was nice because it was much quieter; there were no pushy people. A couple of guys on a pair of Harleys rode up and we chatted for a bit: they were quite friendly. I walked down the hiking trail a ways and snapped pictures and looked around; it was very enjoyable and much more like what I really imagined--a huge, jagged, serene and beautiful hole in the floor.
Milling about a bit, I ended up coming up from the canyon on the other side of the parking lot. A man and a woman were unhappily married and fighting, and started into silence at my presence.
On the way out of the south entrance to the park, traffic was stacked up for at least ten miles. The little two-lane road, now US-180, was thick with RV's and campers and rented cars full of tourists. I figured that they would end up waiting hours before they could get to the canyon, and I shuddeded at the possible disappointments that kids and adults and wives and husbands would have after waiting so long. What would you do as a parent if you waited so long and your kids didn't groove on the experience? What would you do if you begged your wife to see the canyon with you, had her sit in the car for so long, and then she didn't like it?
Riding on, I thought of how afraid I was about the incertainty of emotional bonds between people. Everyone I know is divorced. Everyone I know isn't truly happy. Everyone I know longs for something better, but never knows really what it is. How can anyone carry on? How can anyone leave the stinging lonliness only to fall into a searing relationship? How can you talk yourself into believing that being with someone hurts but is till better than going back to being all by yourself? Every day in a relationship, you can get to a point where bet your happiness on the happiness of someone else. What kind of place is that to be?
US-180 turned back into AZ-64, and then hit I-40. Just before getting in touch with the slab, I had a problem with this jackass in an older Monte Carlo. He tailgated me and was dirving very erattically. I was going about 75 in the posted 60, and he kept on my ass the whole way. He took a couple of ill-advised tries at passing, and finally one of the wider passing lanes opened up and he zinged by only to cut in front of me abruptly and stand on his brakes. What a jackdaw: I just can't believe that even in the middle of the desert I have to deal with people who think their cars are weapons. Since it was Sunday, maybe this guy had a hare in is pants about getting to church on time.
I-40, as it headded west, rose and fell abruptly. There were spirlaing turns that made me dizy as they swept down the sides of the huge hills, and the traffic was actually quite thick. We cut through pass after pass in the Aquarius and Hulaappai mountains, and then sailed down the other side into the Mojave desert.
The Mojave finally showed me some different terrain. The colourful sandy, rocky composition of the painted desert was replaced by plain grey and brown sands, speckled by intrepid shrubs and tumbleweeds. At more than one point along I-40, I could see ahead of me for ten or fifteen miles and caught glimpses of zephyrs sweeping across the flat highway and surroudning ranch land. I wondered why, for all these ranches, I'd never seen a herd of anything execept shrub grass.
In Kingman, I stopped to get gas and have a hamburger. It was beat-down hot, but hardly a problem unless I was actually sitting still. Just off the exit of the highway, a sign at a bank pointed out that it was just over 100F (23.5C) degrees. I came out of the Burger King to find a young boy and his father ogling my bike. We chatted a bit and the kid seemed really interested, so I told his dad to give him a boost and let him sit in the saddle as I held the back end of the bike. It seemed to really make the kid's day; he was about six. I'm twenty years older, and it makes my day to sit on the darn thing, too. I have to keep telling myself that there's really nothing wrong with it.
US-93 cuts northwest from Kingman to Las Vegas. It's almost a completely straight shot, and I kept letting my speed edge up just a little at a time. I'd then see a cop, either stopped on my side or with some fresh income on the other side of the road and I'd slow down again. Sure enough, I was passed by a rental car going about 90 MPH and ended up passing them again about 3 miles later with a tooper writing them a certificate of achievement.
The air around me was getting hot. As I cut north, the heat just seemed to build and build. I didn't have any water with me because I actually expected it to get cooler, but I couldn't have been further off. By the time I reached Hoover Dam, I had a bit of a headache. I stopped in the gift shop and bought a trio of bottles of Evian. I paid more than two dollars for each 500ml bottle! I dunked one straight down my back, and drank the other. The third ended up in my tank bag, since I was sure I'd want it later.
From the parking lot at the upper gift shop, I snapped a few pictures. The dam is pretty amazing; I wished that I felt like I had time to look at it and take the tour. I wound down the side of the hill in the thick traffic and drove over the dam to the other side. It took more than an hour to make it the mile from one side of the river to the other because tourists haphazardly crossed the street in a couple of places on the dam, and everything stopped for them. When I finally made it over the last crosswalk, I popped a wheelie out of frustration. Some little kid screamed; I made one really happy, and I terrified another today--I'll never get ahead.
On the other side of the river, casions started springing up even just before I crossed the Nevada line. I rode the rest of the way into Las Vegas, and suburban condominiums started growing denser around the highway. I saw a mall, which seemed completely foreign after two days crossing the desert.
Eventually, I was on the Vegas strip. I found my hotel, but they botched my reservations. They said the confirmation number I had was a digit short of getting me a room. I went insane; on the Independence Day weekend, I'm sure I'd never have a chance in hell of getting a room. I tried a couple of places off the strip at random, and they were dry.
From a previous trip to Las Vegas, I learned about these little tourist distress places so I pulled into one. The traffic on Las Vegas Boulevard was at a complete standstil, and combined with the insulation of my leathers and the heat of the idling bike, I was in much worse shape than at the dam. I finally cut up on the sidewalk and carefully navigated through the parking lots of a couple buildings adjacent to the aid center and parked the bike.
In the barely air-conditioned desk area of the aid place, I waited for some help. This man and his girlfriend seemed to be finishing up their business for half an hour. They were interrupted when a couple who was newly married came in and gave the girl at the desk flowers because she made the arrangements for their wedding. Finally, they were all four out of there and the couple in front of me got started. They were older, and apparently retired. The man kept arguing about getting comps for gambling and shows, and his wife just wanted to have a room that faced the desert instead of the strip. I was suffering and need to have a cold bath.
I kept sipping iced tea, and after more than an hour I was helped. The girl called around and finally found a room at a run-down condominum complex just off the strip and, ironically, about a block from the Holiday Inn. I was really getting stung on this one: the rate for a night was $230.
The little resort was behind a sports club that apparently was out of business and now being overrun by gang members. The resort had a room for me, though, and wasn't half bad; a suite-style place with my own mini kitchen and refrigerator. I thought of putting my clothes for tomorrow into the freezer.
Instead, I took a cool shower and drank a bottle of Gatorade that I'd bought at the minimart downstairs. I called my girlfriend; she wasn't in a good mood, so the conversation was short and I went to go cruise the strip. I decided to take a taxi to the further end of the strip and just walk back, and that was lots of fun. Las Vegas is just an amazing place--somehow, when people really suck and are terrible to eachother, the little sparks of politeness and care seem so much brighter.
In Sam's Town, I stopped at the $5-bid blackjack table. I won a few hands and had a pretty good time, though I ended up leaving the casino down fifty dollars or so. While I was playing, a terribly dressed fellow came up and sat with me at the table. He was betting between twenty-five and fifty dollars on each hand, and it was just very startling because he looked like he didn't know where his next meal was coming from. He was a good player; a few times, he doubled-down and ended up with a bet so big that the pit boss had to come over and help the less-experienced dealer the casino had there on the cheaper table.
I started getting a bit drunk, so I ended up stumbling down the strip. I popped into the casinos that looked a little less croweded and cooled off, but never stayed longer than four or five hands. Winning back a bit of my money back made me feel some strange sense of accomplishment, but I don't think I broke even. My buzz was making me nervous about getting into any serious gambiling, or even staying for more than a few hands. Before long, I was back at my little condo snoring away.
Finished on 7 March, 1997.