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Old 06-06-2012, 11:30 PM   #46
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Day Five - On the Way Home

Day Five – Tuesday, ate w:st="on" Year="2006" Day="25" Month="4" ls="trans">April 25, 2006ate> – Sedona to Scottsdale, 176 Miles Ridden (1,170 Total)
“Few can foresee whither their road will lead them, till they come to its end.”
-JRR Tolkien

The alarm didn’t go off the next morning, but that was okay. I had already been awake since 6:00am. Despite the flurry of voice recorder entries, I really didn’t get anything done when I got back from the restaurant the night before – no writings about past loves went into the journal and no lyrics about the desert and the vortices poured out of my head. I just conked out. My good friend “Pony” called my cell phone this morning at 5:30am PST. He lives in Delaware. This should have been expected of course, because I emailed my gang of friends last night about the adventure. Either way, even 8:30am EST is too early to call anyone.

It was a lovely day. At 9:10am, I headed down to get breakfast. My plan was to go back into town and check out the shops and old town area that Craig and I had missed on our way through the first time. Padding quietly down the stairs, hoping I didn’t look too rough, the thought crossed my mind about the last leg of the journey: maybe I’d take that other road back south if I had the time – it could be interesting, and why backtrack over the same old routes?

Back in my room at 10:30am, I was asking myself, “Why do I eat the breakfasts?” Yes, everything was tasty, but there was sausage. And regardless of how good it is (okay, okay, enter “sausage” jokes here), sausage is the death knell for my stomach. I should learn my lesson, but it was damn good, and I rarely get to eat this well at breakfast, Sitting outside on the gorgeous patio, surrounded by the house and the lush landscaped grounds, I enjoyed a potato, sausage, and egg frittata. Songbirds and hummingbirds flitted to and fro. Another late-diner was sitting a few tables away. I began to feel like I was the lazy, toxin-riddled bastard of the inn, which I was. Guarantee: no one else snuck into the place after 11:00pm last night. The service was homey and non-intrusive. As I watched the frittata disappear, I knew I would be in trouble. It was too delicious, and too rich. I left a tip and hurried back upstairs.

Back in my room, I knew I needed to check out soon, probably around 11:00am. I would hit the Sedona Choppers shop in town for a t-shirt or something, and see what else was around. Based on the time of day and the miles I needed to cover, I wasn’t going to be able to hit a Harley dealer on this trip. My tradition of acquiring a local H-D t-shirt when I travel someplace on a Harley would have to be skipped.

Once I’d reached a physiological state as close to equilibrium as possible, I finished packing, pulled on the riding clothes, and made two trips from the room to the bike. It was already hot at 11:15am as I packed the boxes and bungeed my backpack onto the sissybar. I was parked on the gravel lot behind the B&B, right next to their much-touted labyrinth.



When you travel, you can make the biggest plans and achieve only the basics. You can say you’re going to see all the sights, stop at all the historic markers, check out the museums in all the towns, but it almost never works out that way, especially as a young working man. There’s just not enough vacation time as a paid serf in the corporate world…the same world that provides the ready cash and credit that made a trip like this so easy to dream up, plan, and purchase. It’s a double-edged sword. I thought I’d get a real “Sedona Experience” while I was there, seeing the sights, feeling the spirits, poking around in the funky places. Nope. Craig and I got a good view of the area from the Airport Mesa a few days before, and I got to roll through Oak Creek Canyon in both directions, but we didn’t do any of the “touristy” things.

The labyrinth sat there, low stones winding around and around, creating a path to a central “altar”. This was not the kind of labyrinth most people normally think of. It wasn’t like a European garden maze with 10-foot-high bushes, or a rural American corn maze where you can truly get lost. The path was made with small rocks. It had no false turns or dead ends – there was no possible way to get lost. Besides, you can just step right over the “walls”. The idea is that you just follow the turns and curves to the center, thinking and relaxing and meditating all along the way.

What did I think about or meditate on as I stepped in and began? Nothing. I just stayed quiet, walked slowly along the path, and took time to apply sunscreen to all potentially exposed body parts. It was nice. At the center of the labyrinth was a small “altar” of stones with various trashy mementoes like gum, baseball cards, inspirational bracelets, photos of loved ones, fake flowers, and sparkles. There might have been some used dental floss there too. Whatever relaxes you…

At 11:25am I had walked back through the labyrinth (without cheating) and finished absorbing the PABA.



Back on the Harley, my odometer read 994 miles as I left the lodge and headed into downtown Sedona. The rental place in Scottsdale was probably two hours from there on the highway, and I wanted to arrive by 3:00pm, so I would probably not have time to fool around in Sedona or on back roads, and might not take that alternate route, but we would see. The travel writer William Least Heat-Moon said, “Life doesn’t happen along the interstates. It’s against the law.” That’s why we almost always stuck to the little roads, just like he did. Then again, Jack Kerouac said, “The road is life.” You figure it out.
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Solo Around Scotland (BMW R850R); AZ and UT (H-D Road King): http://www.advrider.com/forums/showthread.php?t=744536l; Death Valley & Vegas (BMW R1200GS): http://www.advrider.com/forums/showthread.php?t=926499; NW Colorado (BMW K1200GT): http://www.advrider.com/forums/showthread.php?t=955168
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Old 09-18-2012, 07:03 PM   #47
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Bring it On Home? Or Coast to a Stop?

As I mentioned, I am OUT OF PHOTOS for this trip. But fear not, I shall paste in a ton of totally unrelated ones to entertain you!


The “chopper shop” in Sedona was nothing of the sort. It was t-shirt shop, really (some haters might level that description at Harley-Davidson dealers). There was a slick custom chopper in the back, made by a local builder, but there were actually no “Sedona Choppers” to be sat on, seen, or even purchased. The bike in the store was made by Arizona Custom, called the “Cobra”, and lists on their website for $55,900. Yep, $55,900. I noticed they were also listing a “1999 Custom Harley Dyno” for $25,000. You figure for $25,000 they could at least get the name of the bike right (should be “Dyna”). I spent most of the time waiting to get out of the area because of a tour bus doing a U-ey right in front of me in the tiny motel parking lot where I was parked. A man was trying to direct the bus back and forth in the tiny lot, trying to keep it from hitting cars (and bikes). It was noon at that point, and I decided to take 87 south. I figured I had a little time and wanted to see some new landscapes. It was a solid 89 degrees.

At the intersection of 89 where we stayed on our first night of the trip, I took a left on 179 south. It wound nicely through the suburbs of Sedona, passing craft stops and antique malls. I didn’t think of Sedona as having “suburbs”. So I wonder – as I always do when I pass through remote places: “What do these people do??!” I guess there are a lot of yoga instructors and masseuses, but I also imagine there are a lot of just plain rich people who have retirement places or second homes out there. Many of the houses looked like simple, everyday-people houses. Where did they work? How could they afford it? I rode on and was soon out of the suburbs and back into the desert wilderness, broken only by a trailhead parking lot, and occasional abandoned buildings and industrial shops. I zoomed underneath Interstate 17, the road I vowed to avoid on this whole trip. No highways! It can be an important motorcyclist mantra.

Well, I figured a short jaunt on I-17 wouldn’t hurt if it got me back onto a small road, so I jumped on for just a few miles down to Camp Verde (“Salsa Verde” from the first leg of the journey). I exited onto Route 260 east, another road we’d been on before. I didn’t want to backtrack and see the same roads twice, but there weren’t many choices headed south. Besides, when you’ve got such great scenery, it can look fairly different going in the other direction.



I was flying, really bombing down the road. From 260, I got onto 87 south and zipped through familiar town names like Strawberry and Pine, enjoying the chilly ride through the mountains, and making great time. After the relative metropolis of Payson, I got stuck behind a truck which slowed my pace, but at least those twisty and forested roads were nice and cool. I remembered what a precipitous drop in altitude this road saw. From Payson and the pines, I quickly lost upwards of 2,000 feet and found myself back into the low, hot desert.

87 South turned into a highway – more or less – as it dropped south into the desert. There was one final motorcycle-worthy section of road to exhilarate me before I headed onto the straight and narrow back to Scottsdale. It was the last mountain to descend, and the road wound back and forth in fantastically fast, wide switchbacks with long stretches in between that made me wonder if I was going too fast for them. Some of those curves to the next stretch had me dragging the Road King’s floorboards, which made me smile (I mean really, was I going to damage the bike any more than I already had?). I recalled one of Craig’s last orders to me before we parted ways: “Drag those floorboards!

The valley yawned below as I careened back and forth through the curves, then finally hit bottom. I pulled off at a rest area (I think it was named “Mazapal”) at 1:45pm with 1,011 miles total for the trip that far. I was seriously hungry and thirsty, and reeling under the power of the Arizona sun. The setting was dramatic: mountains, desert, and dry heat beating down. Just 60 miles left to go in the trip. The little thermometer on my jacket said 85 degrees, but I don’t think it had a chance to get out of the cooling road wind (and I also think it was broken). It had to be at least 100 degrees. My right shoulder was killing me. It was an issue I’d always experience when I’d do long mileage in a short time frame. I needed cruise control, and not that silly little thumb wheel that Harley gives you, which only works in airstrip/Utah-straight roads that go for 30 miles without a single turn or stop sign.



I ate the only snack I had: half a trail mix bar and a few ounces of hot water and hot Diet Coke. I got my legs back under me and started back around the driveway toward the exit and the highway. Right before the rest area exit, I waited as a strange car gingerly backed out of a space. I realized that thing was definitely something being tested by a car manufacturer for a desert environment. It was some sort of hatchback/small minivan, maybe a VW, and was all wrapped in black.

From that rest area, I spent part of the next hour or so enjoying the fascinating depth and diversity of the rocky desert, jagged cliffs, and finally the typical saguaro cactus land. It was beautiful. I never thought I could say that about a place that didn’t have lush vegetation or crashing waterfalls, or all the other stereotypical things that we think of when we’ve never been to a true desert. I wished Craig could have seen this area. It was hot, but I was loving it.

Well, until I realized that I was running very low on gas. It had been well north of Flagstaff since I’d refueled. That was over 170 miles. I figured the bike would get at least 200 miles to a tank, but when you’re on a new bike (to you) you never quite know how many miles it can take it you before you really do sputter to a stop. You have to think back to how you’ve ridden on that tank, and if there’s a reserve – and how aggressive with the throttle were you over the last 170 miles? Did you do a lot of drag strip starts or blast a bunch of slow jerks in the left lane of the highway by twisting the right wrist as far back as it would go? Were you really wrenching it out of some tight curves to see what kind of lean you could get? Were you doing a steady 94 mph for the last couple of hours? Anyway, because H-D fuel level indicators are notoriously inaccurate, you never really know how many more miles you have when that low fuel light goes on. My indicator turned on when I was deep into that desert.



Running low on gas is always stressful, but for some reason it’s especially so when you’re on two wheels. The concept of leaving your vehicle and all its stuff on the side of the road without being able to “roll up the windows” and hide the valuables in the trunk is unnerving. And then there’s the whole hitchhiking thing. Plus, whom do you call? What if you don’t get a signal? What if the tow company can’t (or won’t) handle a bike? I just never want to have to do that. I hate having to be so desperately reliant on someone else. Especially in the heat I’d been riding through.

I rode for what seemed like 50 miles on that low fuel light with no gas stations at all. No towns at all. No civilization at all. I was tempted to ride faster, but that would eat up gas. I tried to slow down, but that just didn’t feel right – I felt like I wasn’t making any forward progress toward civilization and a gas station.

I watched for road signs. Every crossroad made me wonder if I should take a chance and head down it to find a gas station, but there was never any guarantee that one of those specks on the map (as if I would stop to look at a map!) would have a gas station. I figured it would be best to just keep rolling straight south toward Scottsdale. The needle on the fuel gauge was scraping the left side of the little window, and the light had been insistent for miles.



No civilization in sight - I was freaking out. I was going to run out of gas on the side of the road! I was going to have to hike for miles and miles to the nearest gas station! I was going to be late to drop the bike off! I was going to miss my flight! I was feeling the stress of high levels of potential adversity, inconvenience, and monetary cost! You want your machine to always work and never break down, but you know it might. Your car might get two flats or overheat, but it doesn’t quite feel the same as being stranded on a bike.

There were turnoffs and random side roads, but they just made me wonder and question myself. My maps wouldn’t help me, and I feared stopping and turning off the engine. I had the belief that if I was running on fumes, the engine wouldn’t restart, and, if I was running on fumes, I’d better make as much forward progress as I could – especially if I’d be walking and sticking my thumb out. The only number I knew to call would be the rental place – if I even had a cell signal (go back to the concept of “stopping or not stopping”).

The desert was beautiful though – it really lived up to what I thought the it was going to be, especially coming out of the high Mazatzal Mountains, lower and lower, into vicious, rocky landscapes, jagged hills, then into what I would call “typical” saguaro cactus desert in which I was currently stressing out. There they were, the “stereotypical”, tall, green cacti with outstretched and upturned arms, just like in that pinball game I used to play on Spring Break in Ft. Lauderdale. Many of them had supports and braces placed under the arms, holding them up, and keeping the bodies straight. The locals clearly valued these symbols of the region. I know I wouldn’t have felt like I had seen the southern Arizona wilderness if I hadn’t seen the most famous cactus of all.

But that was tempered by the fear of having to pull a powerless Road King over next to one of them, with no gas. I would definitely take an arm-stretch photo of myself with one of those big cacti, before starting the rescue process.

The miles ticked by. The heat beat down and reflected up. The nervousness and dread sat and vibrated in my stomach and reverberated in my head. The orange light on the dash became a constant frustration. How many miles did I have left? I thought I’d noted when I first saw it, but I wasn’t sure how many miles the reserve would give me – this was the first time I’d seen a Harley-Davidson low fuel light! Did I have 35 miles? 50 miles? Eight miles?



Turns out, as I went down and down and down, feeling the beat of the sun through my jeans and leather, I’d gone only eight miles under the low-fuel light, though it felt like about 30. Every one of those eight felt like a half an hour. Every tenth of a mile ticking by on the odometer was like a drop of sweat. Later, as a Harley owner and as a more experienced rider, I’d learn that the low-fuel light means very different things depending on the bike. With a Harley-Davidson, it practically means you have a quarter tank left – that could mean 40-50 miles or more! With my Buell, I’ve read on the Internet that it means 35 miles – I’ve never tested it.

At 2:39pm, I approached the Fort McDowell Indian Reservation and a massive, bizarrely square, blocky casino with huge electronic signage along the highway. Then I knew I was going to be okay. At the very first gas station after the gaudy sign, I pulled in and basked in the shade of the overhang – the first shade I’d felt since leaving my room at the B&B about three and a half hours earlier. My body went limp after hours of hard, fast, highway riding in blazing sun. The trip odometer read 1,146 miles, just 30 miles from Scottsdale. I was so glad to have gas back in the tank. Now I could forget about fuel and think about lunch.

After some air conditioning at Wendy’s, I cruised along East McDowell Road, a suburban street through strip mall areas, residential areas, along interesting canyon cuts, but ultimately back into a major desert metropolis. The red lights were brutal, sitting in that heat in my leather, but knowing that the trip was just about over made the last traffic-choked miles a little sweeter. I even got slightly lost, not knowing which direction to go on Scottsdale Boulevard – north or south – back to the rental place. I was even so humble as to ask for directions at a gas station. It was just another few minutes before I found my way back to Eagle Rider, parked the Road King back out front where I had originally found it, and trudged in to make my case as to the cause of the damage. It was 3:50pm, and the ride odometer said 1,170 total miles. Pretty good trip.




The finale is to come...
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'06 Buell XB12X Ulysses; '07 H-D FXDB Dyna Street Bob

Solo Around Scotland (BMW R850R); AZ and UT (H-D Road King): http://www.advrider.com/forums/showthread.php?t=744536l; Death Valley & Vegas (BMW R1200GS): http://www.advrider.com/forums/showthread.php?t=926499; NW Colorado (BMW K1200GT): http://www.advrider.com/forums/showthread.php?t=955168

BadWHooper screwed with this post 09-18-2012 at 07:23 PM
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Old 10-10-2012, 05:53 PM   #48
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Still More To Say...

It was a different guy at the front desk this time, which made me happy – the guy who initially rented me the bike was kind of a jerk. This guy was much more easygoing. He couldn’t have been cooler about the crash – an “don’t worry about it – it happens to the best of us” kind of attitude (as long as you had the money to fix it). I would find out the next day what the “damage” would be. The guy used to race Ducatis and Aprilias and made a decent amount of money doing it, but he also has a new hip, ankle, and plenty of aches and pains and stories of broken backs and bones for all of his 27 years to show for it (compared to my then-34 years and water-ski-broken little toe and snow-ski-cracked shoulder). When I showed him the wee little spot of road rash that I had incurred underneath my leather jacket, he told me a sobering story of when he went down in full leathers in a race and found his whole body covered in road rash even though he was fully covered. It’s just what can happen.



He took a few minutes to examine the Road King and document the damage, which I signed off on. The plan was that his superiors would determine the cost and call me with the damage. I just wanted to get out of the heat, get out of my old sweaty clothes, and get to the airport and make my flight (the likelihood of which was starting to make me nervous). The cabby was taking his sweet time. In my many bike rental experiences, I’ve noted that the cabbies seem baffled by the concept of taking me to a business address rather than to a residential address. They get especially freaked out when the place is located in an industrial area. Can’t blame them.



The consequences of the crash? Yeah, I boofed it. The basic insurance program I signed up for ($4.50 per day or something) had a $2,000 deductible. Unfortunately, the damage amount came up to $1,500 or so, which still strikes me as being crap. For $2,000, I would have had to really messed up that bike. Makes me think – if it hadn’t just plopped itself into that ditch on the side of the road, and instead went down on its side, I might have gotten the benefit of the insurance. I can imagine bunged-up grips, broken clutch levers, broken gear shifters, broken foot boards, busted luggage guards, etc.

Finally the cabbie arrived, after I’d changed into a more-or-less clean shirt and into some street shoes and clean socks. Knowing that I’d have to go through airport security, I didn’t want to destroy the machinery when I put the footwear through the system, and didn’t want to leave funky footprints on that short walk of humiliation that we all take when we fly. “To the airport.” I said. I could have said, “To Sky Harbor International Airport.” Portland, Maine calls their little airport a “Jetport”, but a “sky harbor”? Arizonians must have lack of water on the brain.

I was finally in the cab and finally out of that infernal heat, only to be hit in the face by some serious B.O. It was not mine, surprisingly, especially after dealing with stop and go traffic lights in Scottsdale in a leather jacket. I only saw one other dude on a bike wearing a helmet on that final 10 mile stretch through the Saguaro desert, and it was someone on a sportbike. And of all the other riders, only one of them wasn’t wearing shorts. I don’t want to know what my back and legs would have looked like on that dirt road if I hadn’t been wearing my leather jacket and jeans.



I talked a little bit with the fragrant driver. He had moved to AZ because of frostbite. Seriously. He had been living in the upper United States and had gotten stranded on the side of the road one bitter winter, was rescued, and barely survived, but not before suffering some frostbite on some of his extremities. He was so embittered (badump-bump) by the experience that he vowed to move the hell (badump-bump) away from anyplace that had anything that resembled a winter, and became a cab driver in Phoenix. He hadn’t even been up north to Flagstaff or any of the local ski areas.



Aside from the gruesome story about frostbite, it was a routine trip to the Sky Harbor and onto a Southwest Airlines flight back home, which gave me several hours of time to think about the trip.

It was done, and it was a learning experience, if anything. Some bruises, raspberries, a bit of a jacket-burn, a mysterious little slice on my ear (perhaps from a flying rock), and those damn cactus needles. And don’t forget the interesting design on my back…and the requisite sun/windburn on my face.

I was still really mad at myself for such a simple mistake and boneheaded screwup. I fixated on that deep sand and the bike went right at it. I resolved to never let myself make that kind of mistake again.



Anyway, another great experience in one of the world’s most incredible places…something to check off the big list (and Utah was a new state for me).

And now my friend Pony is calling me “Captain Roadrash”.
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'06 Buell XB12X Ulysses; '07 H-D FXDB Dyna Street Bob

Solo Around Scotland (BMW R850R); AZ and UT (H-D Road King): http://www.advrider.com/forums/showthread.php?t=744536l; Death Valley & Vegas (BMW R1200GS): http://www.advrider.com/forums/showthread.php?t=926499; NW Colorado (BMW K1200GT): http://www.advrider.com/forums/showthread.php?t=955168
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Old 11-07-2012, 03:57 PM   #49
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So What's Next? What do You Do After the Grand Canyon?

So, what would be the next big bike journey? And next time, I really do want that Road Glide with a CD player! “What? No Road Glide? A Road King instead? Here’s what I think of your Road King!CRASH!



Craig and I talked about doing Highway 1 up California to Oregon and back. That would be a long one, and could involve lots of different weather. Arizona was easy as far as that goes. Craig talked about doing Wyoming too, which would also be awesome, but he hates riding in cold weather (not that I like it, but I’ve got lots of good experience tolerating it and the equipment to handle it). I still have in mind a ride around Spain, or maybe the Alps.

But who knows…I might get lucky with one of these chicks online and all this bachelor frivolity will be a distant memory until my next 1/3-life crisis, around 60. One can only hope. Just me and the bikes. Then again, why should I think that I won’t meet someone who will be more than happy to let me disappear for a week every now and then? I think I’ll stick with my optimism.



Back at Baltimore-Washington International Airport, I wearily picked up my baggage, opened up the red ski boot bag, and yanked my jacket out. Putting the sun-baked leather back on – cold from the plane’s cargo hold – was a nice feeling. It felt like armor. I half-expected some sand or grit to fall out of it as a reminder of my trip, like that Dido song “Sand in My Shoes”: she finds her shoes have remnants in them from a getaway at a beachy paradise with a lover and is reminded of the trip’s events. Good song. No sand in my jacket, but the weight of it reminded me of everything, no sand or sun or cigar smoke needed. My nose felt a little bit like a dry leather jacket though – a nice sensation from another part of the world, and that’s what I was after. That’s why I do these things, and why I go these places, and why I write about them afterwards.


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'06 Buell XB12X Ulysses; '07 H-D FXDB Dyna Street Bob

Solo Around Scotland (BMW R850R); AZ and UT (H-D Road King): http://www.advrider.com/forums/showthread.php?t=744536l; Death Valley & Vegas (BMW R1200GS): http://www.advrider.com/forums/showthread.php?t=926499; NW Colorado (BMW K1200GT): http://www.advrider.com/forums/showthread.php?t=955168
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Old 12-07-2012, 10:50 PM   #50
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Wrap-Up

Epilogue



“We wander for distraction, but we travel for fulfillment.”


Hilaire Belloc


This trip was not like Scotland. I didn’t have to fly so far, I didn’t ride through constant rain and cold wind, and I didn’t have to change my currency. However, I write about this trip to Arizona as if it was a trip to a foreign country because, like a solo motorcycle tour of Scotland, this is something many people will never do. One might definitely go to the Grand Canyon, and drive on some of the same roads that I traveled on, but most will almost likely never do it on a motorcycle with a good friend trailing behind or leading ahead. One might rent a convertible, which will provide a bit of the experience, but only a bit. Aside from the wind in your face, the fact that motorcyclists are restricted as to what they are able to pack plays a part. The fact that you are physically taxed at the end of each day on what many would just consider a “road trip”, and that you find your back a bit achy after 200 miles on that road that day – this all plays a part.


The impact of weather plays a part. The sheer reliance on the 100% reliability of those two tires under you is significant…there is no spare, no jack, no “easing it over to the shoulder” if a tire blows. It’s different. Henry Ford said, “Today the American road has no end; the road that went nowhere now goes everywhere.” You know the gas stations, the fast food, the motels, and the traffic patterns. Arizona and Utah weren’t foreign in a nationality sense (geographical, yes), but they were still someplace strange for us, and constituted a trip that many have never taken. In some way or another, I recommend everyone see them like I did – in direct contact with the sun, wind, sand, and stone.

Oh, and I did get married about three years later to a woman who seemed cool with the bikes at first. Heck, I plowed into a deer a few months after I met her and she still got on the back of an Electra Glide and went down Big Sur with me for a few days, just a month or so after that crash! Well, after the ring was on the finger, the fear of my riding starting to increase. Understandable. And, she understands that it’s not something anyone will convince me to give up…it has to be a personal decision. I haven’t done any long trips since Big Sur, over four years later. Hm.



Thanks for reading...I hope I can document another of my rides soon...

Keep riding as long as you can, when you can, if you can, and because you can. We're lucky to be involved in one of the great experiences of life, and sharing it all here.
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'06 Buell XB12X Ulysses; '07 H-D FXDB Dyna Street Bob

Solo Around Scotland (BMW R850R); AZ and UT (H-D Road King): http://www.advrider.com/forums/showthread.php?t=744536l; Death Valley & Vegas (BMW R1200GS): http://www.advrider.com/forums/showthread.php?t=926499; NW Colorado (BMW K1200GT): http://www.advrider.com/forums/showthread.php?t=955168
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Old 12-08-2012, 02:39 AM   #51
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did many of the same roads on a solo trip a couple years ago. really enjoyed reading your story. Thanks
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Old 12-13-2012, 01:25 PM   #52
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Thanks for the comment...I'll definitely be back there one way or another...
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Old 12-13-2012, 02:11 PM   #53
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Sounds like a great trip. I have flown over the Grand Canyon but have not been to it yet!!
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Old 10-19-2013, 09:45 PM   #54
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'06 Buell XB12X Ulysses; '07 H-D FXDB Dyna Street Bob

Solo Around Scotland (BMW R850R); AZ and UT (H-D Road King): http://www.advrider.com/forums/showthread.php?t=744536l; Death Valley & Vegas (BMW R1200GS): http://www.advrider.com/forums/showthread.php?t=926499; NW Colorado (BMW K1200GT): http://www.advrider.com/forums/showthread.php?t=955168
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