Silently, Stewbert and I strapped our gear to our bikes. This was the worst part of any cross-country motorcycle trip, and we each dealt with it in our own way. Stewbert was ready far ahead of me, anxious to just hit the road and get going. I, on the other hand, found myself in a typical state of subconscious procrastination. I couldn't seem to get the straps right, my gear took forever to don, and I kept second-guessing myself; did I remember everything? This was typical, albeit slightly frustrating. Like Stewbert, I was anxious to just hit the road and get the 2,000-mile return journey underway.
My brother appeared, looking sharp in his Navy flight suit and cover. On this day he went back to work, thus returning his life to a state of normalcy. We said our goodbyes, still thankful that we were able to connect for part of the ride. It was pretty fantastic, that a Naval officer, dairy farmer, and computer technician could each coordinate his schedule so as to make the endeavor.
Likewise, we said goodbye to Dave's wife Christie, and their three kids. My nephew and two nieces were growing like weeds, far away from my home. I rarely got a chance to see them, and by default have become that "My how you've grown!" long-lost uncle. Still, I marveled at the kids - each evening, Christie worked with their oldest daughter. Just in kindergarten, she could already read and write. One of her science projects required her to cut-and-paste photos of wild birds, and then properly label which species was which. As I watched mother and daughter, I was reminded that the responsibility of a good education does not lie solely with the school.
With one last goodbye, Stewbert and I fired up our R1 Supersports. Thus far we had enjoyed beautiful weather, and our departure seemed to promise more of the same. Goodbye, Spanish-revival subdivisions. Goodbye, manicured medians with blooming wildflowers. Goodbye, Mexican border and salty ocean. Good riddance, crazy drivers; good grief. Within minutes we were rolling through county highways, shadowed by leafy overgrowth. We were leaving San Diego, Wisconsin-bound. All seemed well, except for one thing.
I couldn't quite put my finger on it, but Stewbert's and my departure from San Diego carried an ominous feeling. I couldn't shake the sensation of impending disaster, as though I had been too lucky, for too long. I found that this sentiment affected my driving. Normally I'd lay into the turns, full-throttle and knee dragging. This time, I crept. Suddenly, around one corner, traffic ground to a halt. Emergency vehicles had a lane roped off, and were tending to something in the ditch. As we crawled past, I saw that someone had lost control around the corner, rammed through the steel barricade, and plunged 60 feet over the side of the road. We were barely out of San Diego, but I couldn't wait to be home.
Our return to Wisconsin included a few sights that we simply did not have time to visit on the way out. We swung north, through Joshua Tree National Park. Stewbert and I stopped, snapped some obligatory photos, but kept moving. Like he said, "Normally I'd be impressed, but we actually hiked through that stuff on our way to Carrizo Gorge."
On a spur of Historic Route 66, I noticed a car race up behind us. We were in the middle of nowhere, dried lakebed on either side. No one else was in sight. From my rearview mirror, I saw the car roll its side windows down. Expecting the worst, I clenched the throttle and positioned my foot above the shifter. Even while cruising at highway speeds, the R1 could downshift and rocket away; with a top speed of nearly 200 miles per hour, I would be able to escape if needed. With anticipation I watched the car shift lanes and slowly come broadside. No threat here; just a bunch of college kids. They smiled, gave us enthusiastic thumbs-up and, car redlined, struggled ahead of our bikes before disappearing in a cloud of dust. At a fuel stop along the same road, I topped off my tank. A shiny convertible pulled up, its presence betrayed by crunching gravel. I could sense it behind me, idling. Slowly but confidently, I turned to face the aggressor. In this case, the "aggressor" turned out to be a pair of dolled-up middle-aged ladies. They smiled flirtatiously, waved, and drove away. Shocked at the spectacle; it was the last thing I expected on a dusty, abandoned road in Southern California, I walked over to Stewbert. "Well, man," I said, "I guess we've still got it."
Still, that ominous feeling persisted. We linked with Interstate 40 East, and then Highway 89 North. We were hoping to hit Monument Valley, Four Corners, and Mesa Verde before grabbing interstate for the rest of the way to Wisconsin. But, we could not find a hotel with vacancy. Thus, after nearly 800 miles on the road, we wound up in Kayenta, Ariz., in darkness.
Kayenta should have been a premonition. The only available room in town was in a jokingly overpriced hotel, which continued to exist solely because of its proximity to the Grand Canyon and Monument Valley. The only restaurant still open was McDonald's. A cool mist greeted us, and it was upon arriving in Kayenta that my motorcycle developed its first mechanical problem.
Still more than a thousand miles from home, dark clouds were on the horizon.
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Monday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
My brother appeared, looking sharp in his Navy flight suit and cover. On this day he went back to work, thus returning his life to a state of normalcy. We said our goodbyes, still thankful that we were able to connect for part of the ride. It was pretty fantastic, that a Naval officer, dairy farmer, and computer technician could each coordinate his schedule so as to make the endeavor.
Likewise, we said goodbye to Dave's wife Christie, and their three kids. My nephew and two nieces were growing like weeds, far away from my home. I rarely got a chance to see them, and by default have become that "My how you've grown!" long-lost uncle. Still, I marveled at the kids - each evening, Christie worked with their oldest daughter. Just in kindergarten, she could already read and write. One of her science projects required her to cut-and-paste photos of wild birds, and then properly label which species was which. As I watched mother and daughter, I was reminded that the responsibility of a good education does not lie solely with the school.
With one last goodbye, Stewbert and I fired up our R1 Supersports. Thus far we had enjoyed beautiful weather, and our departure seemed to promise more of the same. Goodbye, Spanish-revival subdivisions. Goodbye, manicured medians with blooming wildflowers. Goodbye, Mexican border and salty ocean. Good riddance, crazy drivers; good grief. Within minutes we were rolling through county highways, shadowed by leafy overgrowth. We were leaving San Diego, Wisconsin-bound. All seemed well, except for one thing.
I couldn't quite put my finger on it, but Stewbert's and my departure from San Diego carried an ominous feeling. I couldn't shake the sensation of impending disaster, as though I had been too lucky, for too long. I found that this sentiment affected my driving. Normally I'd lay into the turns, full-throttle and knee dragging. This time, I crept. Suddenly, around one corner, traffic ground to a halt. Emergency vehicles had a lane roped off, and were tending to something in the ditch. As we crawled past, I saw that someone had lost control around the corner, rammed through the steel barricade, and plunged 60 feet over the side of the road. We were barely out of San Diego, but I couldn't wait to be home.
Our return to Wisconsin included a few sights that we simply did not have time to visit on the way out. We swung north, through Joshua Tree National Park. Stewbert and I stopped, snapped some obligatory photos, but kept moving. Like he said, "Normally I'd be impressed, but we actually hiked through that stuff on our way to Carrizo Gorge."
On a spur of Historic Route 66, I noticed a car race up behind us. We were in the middle of nowhere, dried lakebed on either side. No one else was in sight. From my rearview mirror, I saw the car roll its side windows down. Expecting the worst, I clenched the throttle and positioned my foot above the shifter. Even while cruising at highway speeds, the R1 could downshift and rocket away; with a top speed of nearly 200 miles per hour, I would be able to escape if needed. With anticipation I watched the car shift lanes and slowly come broadside. No threat here; just a bunch of college kids. They smiled, gave us enthusiastic thumbs-up and, car redlined, struggled ahead of our bikes before disappearing in a cloud of dust. At a fuel stop along the same road, I topped off my tank. A shiny convertible pulled up, its presence betrayed by crunching gravel. I could sense it behind me, idling. Slowly but confidently, I turned to face the aggressor. In this case, the "aggressor" turned out to be a pair of dolled-up middle-aged ladies. They smiled flirtatiously, waved, and drove away. Shocked at the spectacle; it was the last thing I expected on a dusty, abandoned road in Southern California, I walked over to Stewbert. "Well, man," I said, "I guess we've still got it."
Still, that ominous feeling persisted. We linked with Interstate 40 East, and then Highway 89 North. We were hoping to hit Monument Valley, Four Corners, and Mesa Verde before grabbing interstate for the rest of the way to Wisconsin. But, we could not find a hotel with vacancy. Thus, after nearly 800 miles on the road, we wound up in Kayenta, Ariz., in darkness.
Kayenta should have been a premonition. The only available room in town was in a jokingly overpriced hotel, which continued to exist solely because of its proximity to the Grand Canyon and Monument Valley. The only restaurant still open was McDonald's. A cool mist greeted us, and it was upon arriving in Kayenta that my motorcycle developed its first mechanical problem.
Still more than a thousand miles from home, dark clouds were on the horizon.
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Monday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
