As Stewbert and I sped toward Utah on our motorcycles, I was quickly reminded that there is a mind-blowing amount of distance to cover. In this vast and limitless nation of ours, which seems to stretch on forever, rounding every corner and cresting every horizon offers a different scene. The beauty of crossing the country on a bike is that you can sit back, relax, and just take it all in with only freedom and wind in your face.
I love the undulating green hills of southern Wisconsin. I like crossing the Mississippi River into Iowa and watching the land gradually smooth. By Nebraska, the terrain is soft and flat, and before you get too far into Colorado, the ground begins to rise sharply, indicating that the mountains are near. Each region is shaped by its prevailing industry, and riding a motorcycle offers a glimpse of what that industry might be. Only in Wisconsin is the countryside dotted with compact dairy barns and grazing cows. Iowa offers the pungent smell of the large-scale swine operation, while masses of Angus beef cattle can be seen - and smelled - in Nebraska. By the time Stewbert and I rolled through Denver, I have never been so hungry for barbeque ribs and ribeye steak as I have after riding across Iowa and Nebraska.
For the beginning of our trip, we were most concerned with making distance. There would be plenty of time to slow down once we met my brother in Las Vegas. So, the first three days were dedicated to the breakneck pace of the interstate. You may find this crazy, but I actually enjoyed this section of our journey. Imagine riding a Yamaha R1 supersport, a motorcycle that is so refined, so nimble and agile, that you don't ride it so much as you wear it. Keeping up with the pace of traffic, Stewbert and I literally spent three full days going 90 to 95 miles per hour, all day long.
At this speed, the R1 is in its comfort zone. It is barely touching the bottom-end of its power band, meaning the bike is not being overworked. In fact, it still has much power and speed at its disposal. It slices through the air effortlessly, running as smooth and steady as a jet engine. As crazy as this may sound, with Stewbert in the lead I could rest myself against the tail pack, let the bike drive itself, and allow my mind to wander.
For those three days, I dug deep into the archives of my memory. I recalled things, relived things, and turned things over in my mind that I hadn't thought about in years. I remembered places and faces, and put together the sequence of events that have shaped my life. I was only occasionally distracted by having to shift lanes to pass a semi, or stop for fuel every 130 miles. Never before was I granted the tranquility of such deep thought. On that stretch of highway, from Wisconsin and into Utah, I studied what had brought me this far in life, and where I was going from here. The most exciting part was that, at only 28 years of age, I knew that the best was yet to come.
Actually, I was brought back to earth just west of Denver. Stewbert and I had been enjoying progressively warmer weather the farther west we ventured. This would change in central Colorado. We knew that the weather was famously unpredictable in April and May - one day could be warm and sunny, the next can offer a full-blown winter storm. Our plan was to stick with Interstate 70 West, all the way to Bryce Canyon, Utah. This route, although the most direct, would take us through a series of mountain passes, some jutting skyward at nearly 12,000 feet. Maybe our good weather luck would hold?
It did - I-70 meandered up and around a progression of snow-capped rocky peaks, above which only blue sky beckoned. The road was clear, although I couldn't help but notice that we were into the snow line. Alongside the highway and in the median, a patchy carpet of white became full-fledged drifts. By the time we crested Loveland Pass at 11,990 feet, the only clear section of earth was the road. Everything else was blanketed with snow. With our drastic increase in elevation came a marked decrease in temperature. According to the outside air gauge on the R1, we were now driving 85 miles per hour in air that was 35 degrees Fahrenheit. Still, I had packed properly and my gear was holding up. My windproof jacket and riding pants kept my core warm, my Merrel boots and Smartwool socks protected my feet, and although my nose ran freely, only my hands got cold. This was quite the disappointment, considering I had packed snowmobile gloves. I am now convinced that there are no gloves on earth capable of keeping my hands comfortable.
Soon enough we zigzagged down out of the mountains, crossed into Utah, and forgot what being cold felt like. Another change in scenery - the mountains melted into flat, rocky, unproductive scrubland. We would ride I-70 west to Richfield before turning south, toward Bryce Canyon. From here on, our driving would be slower and more scenic. My interstate meditation, although greatly appreciated, would come to an end.
If I am remembered for nothing else, let me be quoted as having said this: Some of my best thinking in this life was done while traveling 95 miles per hour down the interstate on a supersport crotch rocket.
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Monday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
I love the undulating green hills of southern Wisconsin. I like crossing the Mississippi River into Iowa and watching the land gradually smooth. By Nebraska, the terrain is soft and flat, and before you get too far into Colorado, the ground begins to rise sharply, indicating that the mountains are near. Each region is shaped by its prevailing industry, and riding a motorcycle offers a glimpse of what that industry might be. Only in Wisconsin is the countryside dotted with compact dairy barns and grazing cows. Iowa offers the pungent smell of the large-scale swine operation, while masses of Angus beef cattle can be seen - and smelled - in Nebraska. By the time Stewbert and I rolled through Denver, I have never been so hungry for barbeque ribs and ribeye steak as I have after riding across Iowa and Nebraska.
For the beginning of our trip, we were most concerned with making distance. There would be plenty of time to slow down once we met my brother in Las Vegas. So, the first three days were dedicated to the breakneck pace of the interstate. You may find this crazy, but I actually enjoyed this section of our journey. Imagine riding a Yamaha R1 supersport, a motorcycle that is so refined, so nimble and agile, that you don't ride it so much as you wear it. Keeping up with the pace of traffic, Stewbert and I literally spent three full days going 90 to 95 miles per hour, all day long.
At this speed, the R1 is in its comfort zone. It is barely touching the bottom-end of its power band, meaning the bike is not being overworked. In fact, it still has much power and speed at its disposal. It slices through the air effortlessly, running as smooth and steady as a jet engine. As crazy as this may sound, with Stewbert in the lead I could rest myself against the tail pack, let the bike drive itself, and allow my mind to wander.
For those three days, I dug deep into the archives of my memory. I recalled things, relived things, and turned things over in my mind that I hadn't thought about in years. I remembered places and faces, and put together the sequence of events that have shaped my life. I was only occasionally distracted by having to shift lanes to pass a semi, or stop for fuel every 130 miles. Never before was I granted the tranquility of such deep thought. On that stretch of highway, from Wisconsin and into Utah, I studied what had brought me this far in life, and where I was going from here. The most exciting part was that, at only 28 years of age, I knew that the best was yet to come.
Actually, I was brought back to earth just west of Denver. Stewbert and I had been enjoying progressively warmer weather the farther west we ventured. This would change in central Colorado. We knew that the weather was famously unpredictable in April and May - one day could be warm and sunny, the next can offer a full-blown winter storm. Our plan was to stick with Interstate 70 West, all the way to Bryce Canyon, Utah. This route, although the most direct, would take us through a series of mountain passes, some jutting skyward at nearly 12,000 feet. Maybe our good weather luck would hold?
It did - I-70 meandered up and around a progression of snow-capped rocky peaks, above which only blue sky beckoned. The road was clear, although I couldn't help but notice that we were into the snow line. Alongside the highway and in the median, a patchy carpet of white became full-fledged drifts. By the time we crested Loveland Pass at 11,990 feet, the only clear section of earth was the road. Everything else was blanketed with snow. With our drastic increase in elevation came a marked decrease in temperature. According to the outside air gauge on the R1, we were now driving 85 miles per hour in air that was 35 degrees Fahrenheit. Still, I had packed properly and my gear was holding up. My windproof jacket and riding pants kept my core warm, my Merrel boots and Smartwool socks protected my feet, and although my nose ran freely, only my hands got cold. This was quite the disappointment, considering I had packed snowmobile gloves. I am now convinced that there are no gloves on earth capable of keeping my hands comfortable.
Soon enough we zigzagged down out of the mountains, crossed into Utah, and forgot what being cold felt like. Another change in scenery - the mountains melted into flat, rocky, unproductive scrubland. We would ride I-70 west to Richfield before turning south, toward Bryce Canyon. From here on, our driving would be slower and more scenic. My interstate meditation, although greatly appreciated, would come to an end.
If I am remembered for nothing else, let me be quoted as having said this: Some of my best thinking in this life was done while traveling 95 miles per hour down the interstate on a supersport crotch rocket.
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Monday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
