November 1, it’s 5:30 in the morning and a frigid -3C. The darkness encompassing me is surpassed only by the cold that penetrates every tiny crevice of my outerwear as the buffeting 70 mph wind curls over and around my aching toes. The question arises again as my mind wanders: “Why did I embark on this crazy expedition?” It was not happenstance, but my own doing that I am here–alone, cold, and hungry with 50 miles behind me and 5,000 in front. “Ah, finally,” I mutter to myself as I pull into a roadside Tim Hortons, park my deep-red Gold Wing and toddle inside on uncooperative, aching joints. Sipping hot java, I shed my boots and attempt to massage some warmth and circulation back into my freezing toes as I quietly reflect on the past few days.
Ontario has only two seasons: Riding Season, which, in a good year, will last six months, followed by six more of Waiting Season, a precursor to the next riding season. With summer’s riding memories neatly dispatched to neural pathways hidden deep within my cranial folds, I sat at my computer perusing the classifieds of a popular motorcycle website. I said to my wife, “Come and have a look at this trailer, isn’t it nice?” She agreed, and thus began yet another unsurpassed adventure. A price was agreed upon, a money order sent, and the logistics of transporting my new motorcycle trailer from Benson, Arizona, to Newcastle, Ontario, began.
But where exactly is Benson, Arizona? Ah, there it is. My Streets and Trips program tells me that it’s right down in the southeast corner of Arizona, not far from New Mexico on I-10, that mind-numbing replacement for old Route 66. Always looking for an excuse for a ride, I wholeheartedly ignore the possibility of having the trailer shipped to me. The weather site tells me that Ontario and the midwest’s forecast is cool but doable: I have a window of opportunity with no precipitation expected for the next 14 days, at least not where I’ll be riding.
With my experience, derived from over 40 years of two-wheeled adventures, I ponder the prudence of a trip like this. It’s my sixth decade on Planet Earth, and the motorcycle accident that wrapped this old body around a tree last year should have some impact on my decision and make me realize that I do have limitations. It doesn’t. To use an old, overused adage, I’m only as old as I think I am. My head says I’m still 25; it’s just my beat-up body that disagrees.
Travel plans for my first day include a pit stop at my daughter’s home in Lansing, Michigan, where I will pick up a new pair of heated gloves, a much-needed item given that it is, after all, November–which hovers dangerously close to the tail end of riding season. I will ride as far as I can today and see where I end up. I don my heated jacket liner, leather jacket, textile motorcycle pants, and insulated mitts: this will have to suffice until I arrive at my daughter’s home. I start my journey at 4:30 a.m. to avoid Toronto’s psychotic morning rush hour. As I motor undaunted through the metropolis, I am exhilarated by the accomplishment of beating the insanity of this city’s morning traffic.
An hour west of Toronto, after thawing out at a Tim Hortons, I’m back on the pavement. I reach down and click my on-board thermometer–the temperature has climbed to a balmy minus one. I’ll soon head south rather than west, hopefully into warmer temperatures, and this thought keeps me rolling along. I pull into Lansing, Michigan, at 11:00 a.m. and greet my daughter, Leah, who has taken the morning off work to await my arrival. There, I unpack my heated gloves, a welcome addition to my riding gear, and within a half hour, Lansing is in my rearview mirror. I’m southbound now with Fort Wayne, Indiana, in my sights. I ba-boomp, ba-boomp, ba-boomp along I-69’s surface of connect-the-dots potholes, riding the less-travelled left lane to avoid the worst of it. Michigan’s I-69 is almost as boring as our trans-Ontario Highway 401. It’s comforting now to be southbound, my cruise control on and my feet up on the highway boards. I ruminate on just how wonderful life can be as the sun begins to warm my leathers and my spirit. The temperature is now hovering in the more livable low teens.
Just before Indianapolis, I catch the beltway, I-465, avoiding the city. As I now ride on the I-70, Indy fades away. Next stop, St. Louis, Missouri–but that will be sometime tomorrow. With my cruise control on, I sail along and avoid meeting any state troopers. With speed limits of 70 mph, I set my cruise to a speed I can get away with. (As the American highway patrol’s saying goes, “Five over, you’re fine; ten, and you’re mine.) Still, I am outstripped by tandem-axled behemoths travelling in excess of 90. I wonder if the drivers have ever considered how long it takes to get one of those rigs stopped. I plant myself safely in the right lane and enjoy the great vistas of Middle America.
The sun’s last golden rays fade spectacularly beneath the horizon as I look for a gas station, finally pulling off into Effingham, Illinois. I always try not to ride after dark. My daughter and son-in-law’s collision with a bambi at 75 mph on their Honda Valkyrie last April convinced me not to tempt fate by riding after dark. (Amazingly, they survived by keeping the bike up, smashed as it was, and they walked away nearly unscathed. How’s that for luck?) According to my odometer, I’ve travelled 853 miles today–not bad for the first day, though it did include a stop in Lansing and sub-freezing temperatures. Effingham’s temperature will drop to about 2 tonight, so my start in the morning will be another “refreshing” event. By tomorrow evening, it should be warmer.
Though I am packed for camping–my saddle bags and trunk filled to capacity, squashed down with a suitcase, sleeping bag, tent, and a folding chair strapped to the passenger seat and luggage rack–I can’t resist a highway billboard reading $39.95/night. I pull off and into a hotel parking lot, and then move everything from my bike to a nice, clean room. The fresh, clean bed feels wonderful as consciousness fades and the yellow centre line swishes by behind my eyelids.
My internal alarm clock goes off, waking me up at 4:00 a.m., prompting me first into the hot shower and then to load up my bike again in pre-dawn’s chill. I leave the motel, and the flickering neon glare of commercial America gradually fades in the distance as I transition once again onto the darkened freeway. I scan ahead fervently, watching for bambi’s approach from the left or right. I don’t like this, but I have to ride in the morning darkness if I’m to stay within my weather window: this is an iron-butt ride and the good weather will not last forever. The mind-numbing miles provide plenty of time for pondering meditation. There’s no quick formula: long hours of riding equals high daily mileage. It’s still early enough that most of the multi-wheeled leviathans are parked here and there along the side of the road while their drivers rejuvenate in their in-cab bunks. Finally, the sun peeks over the eastern horizon, and I wonder what this day will bring and what awaits me over the next hill or around the next bend.
The land is pretty flat around here as I meander into Missouri and, before I know it, St. Louis looms on my horizon. I cross the mighty ribbon of blue–the great Mississippi River–and now I’m on I-255. To my right, I catch a glimpse of St. Louis’s Gateway Arch in the distance. I lean right into the curve of the ramp for I-44 and St. Louis is soon behind me. Slipping again into cruise control, I’m stuck on super-slab until I hit Oklahoma City late in the afternoon. As I hum the George Strait tune, “Amarillo by Morning,” I hope that I can at least be there by nightfall.
I’m really pounding on the miles today, and soon I cross over another state line into northwest Texas, that part of Texas that pushes north almost to Kansas, known as the Panhandle because of what it actually resembles when looking at a map of the state. At McLean, Texas–another rundown ghost town, a result of the interstate highway system, replete with dilapidated buildings–I ride into town on a one-way street that is old Route 66. No gas stations open here, so I turn right, and much to my chagrin a one-way sign pops into view, followed immediately by the flashing red, white and blue lights of a police cruiser. “Yeah,” he says, “a lot of people don’t see that sign.” The officer and I have a brief chat about motorcycles, he tells me where I can refuel, and I’m on my way again without a ticket. As I get back on the highway, the glow of Amarillo soon appears in the evening sky, miles ahead on the high plains.
The high plains area of Texas is flat as a plate and one can see for many miles. As I get closer to Groom, a huge white cross looms on my horizon. A sign claims that this is the largest freestanding cross in the U.S.A., reaching 19 stories toward heaven. I see other bronze statues here and there with Judeo-Christian themes that invite the weary traveller to come in and explore, and although I’d love to take a break and visit, I just don’t have the time to dally. I crane to get a better look, and while I see a few cars in the parking lot, I don’t see anything indicating who has built this or why. I think to myself that maybe I’ll drop by on my return trip, if I have the time.
I finally I arrive at Amarillo, Texas, and I meander through the rumbling horde of transport trucks to my motel room as I think to myself, “it’s been a very long ride today.” I check my mileage: 994 miles. After two full days of riding, I should arrive at my destination tomorrow in good time. Riding alone and doing long distances give one an interesting perspective of America. And as I’m caught up in that nether land between consciousnesses and sleep, vignettes of the day’s journey slip across my mind as I drift off.
The next morning, with my nostrils full of diesel fumes, I weave between multi-wheeled monsters and head west out of Amarillo en route to Santa Rosa, New Mexico. I pass tall, massive grain elevators beside I-40 filled to overflowing with this land’s recent bountiful harvest. Soon, trains will roll in on their gleaming, silver ribbons of steel, fill their cars with nature’s gold, and transport their loads to destinations all over the country to end up as bread, cakes and granola bars.
At Santa Rosa, my plan is to turn south and take State Road 54 past the White Sands National Monument and the White Sands Missile Range. This is cattle country, and as I look across the vista I wonder how they manage to survive. Where I come from, the cattle graze on verdant green pastureland, but all I see for miles are sprigs of green here and there and lots of scrub brush. But this is free range, mile upon mile of it, so obviously there’s enough food for the cattle to survive quite nicely. As I leave Santa Rosa, like a greenhorn trying to follow his GPS, I miss State Road 54. I still end up heading south, but now I’m on New Mexico 84 heading for a place called Fort Sumner. No problem. I simply consult that old outdated relic in my trunk, my road map, and I discover that I can get back on my route again if I just take S.R. 20 after Fort Sumner, which will take me into Roswell, the UFO capital of the world. The road runs straight as a pin mile after mile in a dry sea of tan and brown with only sporadic sprouts of green here and there as small deer graze contentedly off in the distance. The terrain gently rolls and is beautiful in its own untamed way, and I never tire of it. The silence here is absolute, and I can understand why the pioneers came here seeking the solitude–of course the silver, gold and copper may have been somewhat of a draw, too.
In this expanse of nature’s raw beauty, I spot a train on the horizon as it slowly meanders on its predetermined trail across the desert floor. I catch up with it in Fort Sumner, just as it indelicately rumbles through town, the sound of its warning horn invading the relatively quiet ride I have enjoyed so far today. With its western-style storefronts, boardwalks and small windowed businesses, Fort Sumner is just like any other small western town, except this town’s persona is true to its history. This is where the infamous Pat Garrett lay in wait and ambushed Billy the Kid, finally ending his reign of terror as portrayed in the annals of American history.
Roswell, although a tourist mecca for UFO buffs, holds nothing that captures my interest, so I fuel up at the edge of town and it’s on to Hondo, Alamogordo and White Sands. In one of those rare moments that don’t come along too often, a lady in a Mercedes with Texas plates blows by me way over the posted speed limit. Soon the sight of red, white and blue flashing lights makes me laugh to myself. Cruise control, what a blessing for me.
