“You can ride it whenever you like,” Morris told me. He was storing the Kawasaki 175 on my father’s farm, and could not have uttered sweeter words to a wide-eyed twelve-year old. I immediately took him up on his offer, unaware of my mother in the kitchen window with her hands on her face, wide-eyed for another reason. My joy was short-lived, however, when on only my third trip to the back of our hundred acres, the motor sputtered and quit, and I had to push it through fields of wheat and corn back up to the farmyard. The bike went in for repairs and, for reasons I don’t recall, did not return to our farm. And for 32 years I would not have another serious opportunity to ride.
There comes that infamous time in a man’s life, however, when he realizes it is half over and there is still so much he wants to do. And while it may appear a bit cliché for said man to go out and get a motorcycle, it was truly what I wanted. I took the rider training course at Niagara College and promptly bought my own first bike: a 1998 Suzuki Marauder VZ800. A few months of practice, a winter of planning, and I was ready to set out on my first trip with nothing but my M2 licence, a two-man tent and two changes of clothes. At times, I had wondered if I was taking on too much for a rookie; it would be a long way from Vineland, Ontario, to the Pacific Coast Highway in California, but I was excited to hit the road. It’s a good thing I don’t believe in omens, because before I even left the driveway, I burned my leg on the exhaust pipe, and before I left the country, I ran out of gas. Nearing Sarnia, the engine sputtered, but as I reached down to the fuel petcock, I discovered it had been left on reserve. That sinking feeling immediately set in; I had used all my fuel. A benevolent construction worker drove me to the nearest gas station, and I was on my way again, wondering just how big an adventure I had gotten myself into.
Two nights later, I visited with friends in Madison, Wisconsin, before tracing out a laser-straight line across the plains of Minnesota and South Dakota. I was barely out of Wisconsin when I began to notice an unusual number of motorcycles on the road, and meeting lots of riders at restaurant and gas stops. “Are you on your way to Sturgis, too?” they asked me. “We’re from New York and Pennsylvania and we go every year.” I had to confess that I didn’t even know it was time for the famous Bike Week, and decided I should take a short detour from my planned route to see this thing for myself.
With the annual arrival of 500,000 visitors, the tiny town of Sturgis and its surrounding areas make use of every possible square foot. Residents were just gearing up for the big week, and I stopped at a house that was advertising “tent sites” on the lawn. My host, Mike, offered wonderful hospitality and showed me around town, introducing me to friends and neighbours and barbecuing steaks for all four of his guests. But because Bike Week was an extra in my itinerary, I couldn’t stay longer, and, after having a souvenir patch sewn on my leather jacket, I headed to Mount Rushmore the following morning. Along with the impressive sculpture of four American presidents, I also discovered the thrill of riding “The Needles” (Highway 87) and Wildlife Loop Road in Custer State Park. Ups and downs, twists and turns, switchbacks marked 10 mph, “pigtails” and tunnels – it was a great workout for the Marauder and me. Plus I saw mule deer, antelope, a White Mountain goat, and had to come to a complete stop while a herd of over 200 buffalo surged past and around me as they crossed the road. Soaking in the pleasure of it all, I thought, you don’t get this in a car!
The next day brought me across the open range of Wyoming and into Bighorn National Forest at Ten Sleep, a tiny (and unusually named) hamlet of nice homes and irrigated lawns – the only green in an otherwise barren rock and sagebrush landscape. After lunching at an A&W that hadn’t changed since 1969, complete with drive-in, order buttons and trays that clip on your car window, I encountered a serious wildfire between Cody, Wyoming, and the east gate to Yellowstone National Park. The mountains were smouldering and trees still bursting into flame. In places, it had burned right up to the asphalt and the roadside was still smoking. Firefighting crews were carrying gear up the steep slopes and others were standing roadside, planning their next move.
As they didn’t seem to need the help of a sixth-grade teacher, I continued on my journey.
Soon, a herd of buffalo came out to greet me as I entered Yellowstone National Park. As I stopped to take pictures, a huge bull strode up the road toward me and stopped not five feet away. Something about his eyes suggested “confrontation,” so I lowered mine, and he moved on. It was only afterwards that I read a park leaflet: “Warning! Many visitors have been gored by buffalo. Buffalo can weigh 2000 pounds and can sprint at 30 miles per hour – three times faster than you can run. These animals may appear tame but are wild, unpredictable and dangerous. DO NOT APPROACH BUFFALO.” This might have been good information to know, I thought after the fact.
Yellowstone was more than I had imagined. The entire area is a dormant volcano, and there are vents all over the park, some spouting water – like Old Faithful every two hours. Some are a hole at the roadside exhaling steam, while others create hot springs and gradual mineral formations. Some are just “mud pots,” and others are bubbling puddles, like they are ready for you to dump in a box of Kraft Dinner. That is, if you wish to cook your noodles in water that can be up to 200°C (400 degrees on the Fahrenheit scale).
On August 4th, the second morning of camping at Bridge Bay, I awoke at 5:30 a.m., desperate for the bathroom and very cold. So I dressed hurriedly and rode to West Thumb for a hot breakfast. En route, I was so cold I had to keep touching my gloved hands to the cylinder heads just to keep the feeling in my fingers. The friendly server at the restaurant told me it had gotten down to about 0°C (32°F) last night. No wonder I was cold! Bridge Bay is at 2,357 metres (7,733 feet) elevation and, I discovered, cooler summer temperatures are not that unusual here. After hotcakes, for which I was very grateful, I rode south to Grand Teton National Park, as far as Jackson, the well-known ski town. The views were breathtaking, and my camera’s shutter hardly had a moment’s rest.
Leaving my campsite the next morning, the smoke from the wildfire was so thick that I had to ride slowly due to poor visibility. I soon was out of it, though, riding on up to the north gate of Yellowstone. It was a beautiful, rugged place to see – steep mountainsides and cliffs, with fields, trees and cascading streams, home to deer, moose, buffalo and grizzlies, the latter of which I was glad not to encounter. Just beyond the park gate, a friendly Montana State Trooper alerted me to a highway sign that read 70 mph, and for a fee, offered the additional information that I had exceeded that limit. I sincerely apologized and asked if he could tell me how fast that was in metric, since my speedometer “displayed only km/h.” Not only did he not know, but he was not inclined to accept my ignorance as an excuse. I hoped my sins would not follow me back to Ontario, where it might affect my insurance rates. And since this happened just outside the town of Pray, I did – and it didn’t!
In Spokane, Washington, I began to suspect my drive chain was going, and by Portland, Oregon, I was certain. It was Friday, and the very fine mechanics squeezed me in on their lunch hour so I wouldn’t be stuck all weekend. Nevertheless, it did put me behind schedule, and I had to forego a planned route through the Cascade Range and Reno, Nevada. Instead, I simply took I-5 South as far as possible. I made for Sacramento, where I began to look for another Motel 6, and ended up all the way in Stockton, California, some 80 km distant, where I tumbled into bed and slept until 9:00 the next morning.
On Sunday I arrived at El Portal, at the east gate to Yosemite National Park. I set up camp and then toured some of the park. My campground host came by that night to warn me of rattlesnakes and poison oak, and to say that a mountain lion had been coming down to the river to drink in the wee hours every morning, and maybe I would be lucky enough to see him. No wild buffalo to beware of here, I thought, just lions!
Yosemite was perhaps even more spectacular than Yellowstone from the precipitous El Capitan, a 914-metre (3000-foot) cliff, and Half Dome, where rappellers look no bigger than specks of pepper, to the beautiful Nevada Falls and Vernal Falls, I realized where images of paradise were born.
At first I decided I did not have time to make the out-of-the-way trip to the south gate to see the giant sequoia trees, but then I reconsidered. Who knows? I might never be here again. So two hours of beautiful scenery later, I arrived at Mariposa Grove. (And in my rush to make time, had my first experience of scraping a peg or two – Woohoo!)
When I first dreamed of this journey, I imagined riding my motorcycle over the Golden Gate Bridge. So, after a short but rewarding hike among the giants, I set off for San Francisco. Upon approach, every hill, it seemed, was covered with wind-powered generators. I enjoyed lunch at Fisherman’s Wharf, snapped a photo of Alcatraz Island Federal Penitentiary, and even thought I might have glimpsed Forrest Gump and his shrimp trawler.
By 3:00 p.m., as I headed out of San Francisco, fingers of fog began visibly to crawl over the mountains from the Pacific. I intended to be in Big Sur by nightfall, so I set forth. All along the Pacific Coast Highway (Highway 1), thick fog blew up the mountains, slipping over the road that had been notched into the west face, and creating a tunnel of fog I was able to ride under. The fog had settled in before I arrived at the campsite well after dark. Unable to see 15 feet ahead, I was very cold and wet, but a long, hot shower at the campground brought feeling back to my fingers and toes – and lightened my pocket of quarters.
It was still a cold ride the next morning until I got down around Malibu, where I finally shed my leather jacket and two undershirts. Highway 1 truly is as beautiful as all the movies and commercials for new cars make it look. I arrived in Los Angeles just at rush hour, which was not bad news at all, because motorcycles are permitted to ride the dotted line between the lanes of cars here. I was a little tentative at first, wondering what might happen if someone did not see me and decided to change lanes or – even less likely – open a door. But soon I was following other riders who confidently bypassed the gridlock at full speed. Another woohoo moment!
After a weekend breather in L.A., it was time to point the bike east. My route began with a portion of old Route 66, and then I set a course for Utah. As I neared Las Vegas, Nevada, the landscape was covered with Joshua trees, but only at about 1200 metres (4000 feet). These strange but wise old trees did not venture lower into the Mojave Desert basin, where the temperature was 41°C (105°F) or more. And although there was a strong wind, it was a hot wind. The town of Baker, Nevada, is aptly named, I mused. I then crossed the northwest corner of Arizona, and near Mesquite, the skies that had been threatening for hours finally opened up. First with a wall of wind so strong that clouds of dust and tumbleweeds struck me. And then the rain. I was forced to the shoulder more than once, even though I slowed down to 60 km/h. Then came the hail – first small, but soon the size of marbles. It pelted my bare hands and stung right through my rain gear. With no shelter in sight, not even an overpass, there was little to do but hold on tight, grit my teeth, and charge forward. Later, when I stopped, water was draining out the bottom of my saddlebags. Everything would need to be emptied and hung to dry at the campsite that night.
