The definition of adventure: taking equipment to places it was never intended to go.
I had to hand it to the engineers at Yamaha; they probably never placed their supersport brainchild on a road like this. Then again, neither did I. But there I was, and all I could do was grin and bear it. Despite the choking dust, steep grades, perpetual gravel, and washboard road surfaces, my Yamaha R1 ricocheted along, spitting rocks and fishtailing as the fat, rear tire attempted to get a grip. Oh, but what a view.
My brother Dave, longtime friend Stewbert, and I had saved the finest stretch of scenery for our concluding push to San Diego, California. This was the culmination of the trip - the motive behind braving the Rocky Mountains in April, on motorcycles. We stopped for fuel in Tucson, and I stripped down to the bare essentials. The same clothing that kept me warm in freezing conditions only days before, was now keeping me cool and ventilated in the dry desert heat.
Thumbs up, we pressed north via scenic Highway 79. Although the road was flat and straight, I have rarely experienced such exceptional natural beauty, as the desert in bloom. I rode with my visor open, to suck in as much fresh air as possible. This was early enough that the bugs were few, and the sunshine mercifully pleasant. Without vegetation, the land might have appeared drab and featureless. But on that stretch of highway in early May, the roadside simply erupted in color and life.
Stocky shrubs covered the earth with a powerful green. Intermixed were several specie of short prickly cacti, presenting bold yellow and red flowers. Above them towered the stately Saguaros, standing tall and proud. Their distinct profiles stood out against a perfectly blue sky, providing a signature that only Arizona could pen. Scattered throughout were patches of red and tan bare ground, which only complimented the palette. I found myself wandering within my lane, and had to chuckle; some of the Saguaros were being overtaken by scraggly trees. The branches and limbs of both were intertwined, as through they were boxing at each other, competing for space.
I can laugh now; we rode along, Dave, Stewbert, and I. At one point, we passed a police car. I glanced down and was horrified to see that we were cruising at nearly 100 miles per hour, on a road posted for 55. You wouldn't believe it, but so smooth are the motorcycles, and so enticing the scenery, that we simply lost track of speed. We braked profusely just as another officer pulled out behind us. The squad car pursued our group, now traveling exactly 55 miles per hour, for several miles into Florence. At an intersection he turned left, into the police station. I can only assume it was a shift change, but either way, lesson learned.
At Theodore Roosevelt Dam we stopped for a breather, and to pinch ourselves, still not completely sure how we avoided a ticket. Thus began our adventure. Highway 88 connects the dam to Apache Junction, and includes a 30-mile stretch of road that appears as though it was conceived, but never followed through. Switchbacks, steep grades, and blind one-lane corners defined this path, which was coated with nothing more than a loose conglomeration of dusty gravel. This was the epitome of adventure, and let the record show that we were the only motorcyclists. My R1, designed to scream past the competition on surgical racetracks, grunted and snorted her way through this trail. The rear tire barely gripped, fishtailing with each acceleration. The front tire squished and wobbled with every deceleration. Every incline was like washboard, and I actually worried that the bike, or my tooth fillings, might vibrate themselves to death.
But, what a view. I truly believe, that the more out-of-the-way a place is, the more spectacular it appears. We were clearly in the minority for tackling such an endeavor. Between the blooming desert along Highway 79, and the azure waters and untouched hills of Highway 88, I have never experienced such profound natural beauty. Thanks to the spirit of adventure, I made it with no problem. For posterity, Dave posed with his Honda 919, Stewbert and I with our Yamaha R1s, next to a towering Saguaro. If only the multi-century-year-old could talk.
At Phoenix we grabbed Interstate 10 West and legally resumed our pace. California was a stone's throw away. I had never been to the Golden State, and pondered how I would find it. At the border we passed through an inspection station - this felt a bit like traversing across Europe.
Crossing into California was like flipping a switch. I caught a whiff of fresh-cut alfalfa. The earth was irrigated and green. It smelled like spring, like life anew. Along the Salton Sea, the temperature spiked to well over 100 degrees and I baked, despite my mesh gear. Our motorcycles took the brunt, running nearly 40 degrees over their normal engine temperature. Still, they held up flawlessly, thanks to the spirit of adventure.
From here, Dave led us through a series of county roads and state highways. We pulled into his home at Chula Vista via a curvy, hilly, blacktop highway. With a place to stay, and mountains and ocean within sight, I thought about what we had just endured to get here. I thought about the farm, and the challenges of getting away.
As Stewbert, Dave, and I unpacked and stretched our legs I realized: It's all worth it.
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Monday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net
I had to hand it to the engineers at Yamaha; they probably never placed their supersport brainchild on a road like this. Then again, neither did I. But there I was, and all I could do was grin and bear it. Despite the choking dust, steep grades, perpetual gravel, and washboard road surfaces, my Yamaha R1 ricocheted along, spitting rocks and fishtailing as the fat, rear tire attempted to get a grip. Oh, but what a view.
My brother Dave, longtime friend Stewbert, and I had saved the finest stretch of scenery for our concluding push to San Diego, California. This was the culmination of the trip - the motive behind braving the Rocky Mountains in April, on motorcycles. We stopped for fuel in Tucson, and I stripped down to the bare essentials. The same clothing that kept me warm in freezing conditions only days before, was now keeping me cool and ventilated in the dry desert heat.
Thumbs up, we pressed north via scenic Highway 79. Although the road was flat and straight, I have rarely experienced such exceptional natural beauty, as the desert in bloom. I rode with my visor open, to suck in as much fresh air as possible. This was early enough that the bugs were few, and the sunshine mercifully pleasant. Without vegetation, the land might have appeared drab and featureless. But on that stretch of highway in early May, the roadside simply erupted in color and life.
Stocky shrubs covered the earth with a powerful green. Intermixed were several specie of short prickly cacti, presenting bold yellow and red flowers. Above them towered the stately Saguaros, standing tall and proud. Their distinct profiles stood out against a perfectly blue sky, providing a signature that only Arizona could pen. Scattered throughout were patches of red and tan bare ground, which only complimented the palette. I found myself wandering within my lane, and had to chuckle; some of the Saguaros were being overtaken by scraggly trees. The branches and limbs of both were intertwined, as through they were boxing at each other, competing for space.
I can laugh now; we rode along, Dave, Stewbert, and I. At one point, we passed a police car. I glanced down and was horrified to see that we were cruising at nearly 100 miles per hour, on a road posted for 55. You wouldn't believe it, but so smooth are the motorcycles, and so enticing the scenery, that we simply lost track of speed. We braked profusely just as another officer pulled out behind us. The squad car pursued our group, now traveling exactly 55 miles per hour, for several miles into Florence. At an intersection he turned left, into the police station. I can only assume it was a shift change, but either way, lesson learned.
At Theodore Roosevelt Dam we stopped for a breather, and to pinch ourselves, still not completely sure how we avoided a ticket. Thus began our adventure. Highway 88 connects the dam to Apache Junction, and includes a 30-mile stretch of road that appears as though it was conceived, but never followed through. Switchbacks, steep grades, and blind one-lane corners defined this path, which was coated with nothing more than a loose conglomeration of dusty gravel. This was the epitome of adventure, and let the record show that we were the only motorcyclists. My R1, designed to scream past the competition on surgical racetracks, grunted and snorted her way through this trail. The rear tire barely gripped, fishtailing with each acceleration. The front tire squished and wobbled with every deceleration. Every incline was like washboard, and I actually worried that the bike, or my tooth fillings, might vibrate themselves to death.
But, what a view. I truly believe, that the more out-of-the-way a place is, the more spectacular it appears. We were clearly in the minority for tackling such an endeavor. Between the blooming desert along Highway 79, and the azure waters and untouched hills of Highway 88, I have never experienced such profound natural beauty. Thanks to the spirit of adventure, I made it with no problem. For posterity, Dave posed with his Honda 919, Stewbert and I with our Yamaha R1s, next to a towering Saguaro. If only the multi-century-year-old could talk.
At Phoenix we grabbed Interstate 10 West and legally resumed our pace. California was a stone's throw away. I had never been to the Golden State, and pondered how I would find it. At the border we passed through an inspection station - this felt a bit like traversing across Europe.
Crossing into California was like flipping a switch. I caught a whiff of fresh-cut alfalfa. The earth was irrigated and green. It smelled like spring, like life anew. Along the Salton Sea, the temperature spiked to well over 100 degrees and I baked, despite my mesh gear. Our motorcycles took the brunt, running nearly 40 degrees over their normal engine temperature. Still, they held up flawlessly, thanks to the spirit of adventure.
From here, Dave led us through a series of county roads and state highways. We pulled into his home at Chula Vista via a curvy, hilly, blacktop highway. With a place to stay, and mountains and ocean within sight, I thought about what we had just endured to get here. I thought about the farm, and the challenges of getting away.
As Stewbert, Dave, and I unpacked and stretched our legs I realized: It's all worth it.
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Monday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net
