Here are some pictures from our first camping trip. We actually didn't get very many photos as we were all pretty caught up in trying to keep up with Soapie.
Camping was pretty fun except for the stupid dog that bit me on the ankle because it decided I was a threat for helping to stake down her owner's tent earlier in the day.
We're heading out to go camping this weekend for the holiday. This will be Soapie's first time tent camping and we're all a little anxious. The nice thing though is that this camping trip was organized by Soapie's playgroup so a bunch of her friends will be there. Plus, the place they picked is pretty nice. It's right next to a lake and there's a bunch of stuff like paddle-boating and swimming that she'll enjoy. It'll be the first time I've gone camping again since my boy scout days so I'm pretty excited for it. We were supposed to camp on the Manride but wimped out on that.
Speaking of, I got behind on posting those. Doh. I'll get back on track on those. Especially since Carbon's posting his version of it now!
We're planning to go camping over the 4th so as a practice, we set the tent and table and everything up in the backyard. Soapie loves the tent. She loves the sleeping bags. She loves cooking and eating outside. But, she hasn't quite grasped the concept of actually sleeping overnight in the gear. As she got tired and was ready for bed she announced, "No tent!" and then went to her room in the house.
Hopefully, it goes better when we're at the lake next weekend or it's going to be a long drive back that first night...
I woke the next day in Ely refreshed and ready to face the next day of Manride. I was full of hope and optimism that today would be a better day. I opened the curtains and took in the world outside.
There was a layer of snow on the bike and the skies were gray.
Figures.
I closed the curtains and went back to bed. No rush for the day, anyway. It was a hour or so later that I dared to poke my head back out of the curtains and was pleasantly surprised to see that all the snow had melted and there were blue skies. After abusing the excellent shower yet again, I packed everything back onto the bike. I was pleased to find that everything packed and rolled right back up easily. I'd been a little worried that the packing I'd done at home under 'controlled conditions' wouldn't be easy to do out on the trip. I munched on Pop-tarts and breakfast bars and then checked out, taking the bike towards the 6. I hoped that Kevin was going to have better luck today then he did yesterday. He'd be transversing the Extraterrestrial Highway, so that probably meant abductions and anal probes for him.
Good thing he was wearing leather pants.
It turns out, I learned, that it is indeed possible to get lost with a GPS. Unlike the 93 or the 50, there's a weird convoluted way to get to the 6 in Ely. It involves going through some neighborhoods. The GPS was still trying to sort my position out, I guess, so I ended up doubling back once or twice before it had me all squared out. Riding through the small neighborhoods behind Ely's main drag was interesting. Everyone waved as I rode by. Just small-town Americana, I guess.
With brothels.
The ride on the 6 was a repeat of yesterday's ride on the 93. Despite still being chilly, the sun was shining and the traffic minimal. The most looming fear I had was running out of gas somewhere on the 6 before we made it to Tonopah, so I kept the throttle at an even 60 and settled back to watch the scenery flow by. I suffered the second technical problem of the trip on this leg. I was trying to rotate the handlebar mount for the camera around to get some panning shots of the landscape and it snapped off in my hand. Oops. Fortunately, one of the things I had packed in my small "oh-shit" kit (along with the plug repair and air compressor) was an syringe of epoxy. I figured once I got to Warm Springs, I'd sit down and see about trying to repair the mount. We were planning to film as much of the trip as possible to try and make a video and would need a decent amount of on bike-footage to go with it.
I was sad when I passed the road intersection for the Lunar Crater. It would have been cool to see.
I pulled into fabulous Warm Springs a bit around lunch time. As promised, the place was a ghost town. Or ghost rest-stop. There were two modern buildings; one appeared to be a house and the other was a boarded-up cafe. Behind the cafe were a number of what appeared to smaller, older buildings built primarily from wood and stone. They seemed significantly older then the cafe but they were far enough off the road that I didn't feel like hiking over to them. Everything was behind barbed wire fencing. I guess when they closed the place down, they didn't want anyone coming to monkey with the whole lotta nothing left behind. Warm Springs essentially sits alone at the intersection of 6 and 375. Someone said, at one point, "Hey, maybe people traveling these roads would want to stop and eat." Little did they know that people traveling those roads would just want to get the hell to where they were going.
I got off the bike and strolled around. I was unsure of how much time I would have before Kevin showed up. I broke out the kit and had a small lunch. I set about attempting to repair the handlebar camera mount. The mount is a pretty simple and hollow construction. I figured my best chance at repairing it with the epoxy I had would be to fill the hollow with epoxy. To help with the strength, I dug around for a stone that would approximate the size and shape of the hollow to try and serve as a backbone for the epoxy. I found a rock that was almost right and in the process of trying to pare it down, I ended up destroying the cheap Chinese clone of a Leatherman tool I had gotten free somewhere. The pot metal construction bent easily went paired against a rock. Which, at least, gave me some hope for my scheme.
Every now and then, a car would drive by and, interestingly enough, stop more often then not to see if I needed help. Nice to see people were still essentially good folks, especially when out in the middle of nowhere (aka Warm Springs). One van that passed by me pulled over to the side and sat there for a good ten minutes before continuing on its way. No one ever got out. Don't know what was going on there.
Sometime later, a truck pulled up and three cowboy looking guys got out. One of them promptly hopped over the barbed wire fence and went around the back of the closed Warm Springs cafe while another came over to talk to me. After finding out I was just hanging around (and that I was recording with video), we chatted for a bit. The three of them were coming back from a construction job in Fallon. Apparently, they spent a lot of time on this route. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder toward a small building set behind and a ways to the side of the cafe. All I could really make out was that it was fenced in on its on and had a big red 'Keep Out' painted on it.
"Know what that is?" he asked. I told him no.
"It's the warm spring."
"I thought that's the Warm Springs," I replied, pointing to the closed cafe.
"Nah, that's the restaurant. That," he said, jerking his thumb again, "is the actual hot spring."
"Hot spring?"
"Yeah, hunnert degree water. Still coming outta the ground and running down the channel they built into the pool. You can just go up to it and get in. All the running water around here is coming from that." He indicated a small stream that ran perpendicular to the road.
"It's OK?" I asked, thinking maybe of fungus or something.
"Oh, yeah, it's great. Lots of people go there. You ought to check it out if you're going to be here awhile." By about that time, his friend had come back and climbed into the truck. We said our goodbyes and then the truck drove away and left me staring up the small hill at the outbuilding.
"Hundred degrees, huh." I looked at the small outbuilding. Then I looked down both ways of the 6 and saw no cars. I looked down the 375. Couldn't see anything coming. I walked along the barbed wire fence a bit and found that, at the point nearest to the hot spring, the wire had been bent and twisted out so that you could walk through. The guy must have been right about people still coming here. I walked on in and up the hill to the outbuilding. Here again, the chainlink fence surrounding it had been cut up the side and a makeshift entry way, right next to the padlocked one, created.
Indeed, it was a pool with steam coming out of it. It was artificial, but not as finished as a pool you might find at the YMCA and considerably smaller. The outbuilding turned out to be changing rooms, split down the middle; presumably for genders. I bent down and stuck my hand in. Yeah, that's hot water alright. I could see a channel on the other side, made from wood maybe, that went under the fence and funneled the water in from wherever the spring was. It wasn't clear where the water went since the level always seemed to stay the same. The sides of the pool were slightly spongy, from algae and decay, I think.
I was just about to shuck my clothes and jump in when Kevin finally rolled up. I walked back out to meet him and as soon as I said, "There's a hot spring up there", he was all over it. Funny enough, we used the men's side changing room to strip down to our clothes. Funny how some things still matter. Inside the changing rooms, the walls were covered with grafitti from past visitors and how awesome it was to find the hot spring. I could only hope none of them suffered horrible rash-related deaths.
No, we didn't go naked in the water. We both wore boxers. Partly because we were filming everything and partly because I didn't want to see Kevin's ass. The water was hot and refreshing as promised. The bottom of the pool was a spongy mass of I-don't-know-what. I did my best not to actually stand in the pool and just sort of float. After a half-day of riding, it was awesome. This was exactly the kind of thing we'd been hoping to run into on the Manride.
After a good long soak, we got out, dried off, and climbed back into our clothes. We walked over to the abandoned cafe and found that the side window was open. After a soak in a closed hot spring, waltzing into a long abandoned restaurant seemed only natural. It seemed a popular spot with kids, judging from all the graffiti. We found a couple of old booth seats lined up in a way that made us think they were for making out. It struck me that Warm Springs was a long ways to go to find a place for making out. There was also a big ass pool table. I ought to go back with a truck one night and take it!
Curiosity satisfied, we headed back out to the bikes and I got my first good look at Kevin's ride. The first thing that struck me was that he had a small roller suitcase strapped to the back of his bike. He said it was something his brother suggested, but I don't know. It didn't seem that great idea to me. It's a rigid form that's occupying a defined amount of space. Something that's at a premium on a motorcycle. Unless he was shoving that thing bulging full of stuff, I don't think it would be something I do.
That and it didn't look cool at all.
We mounted up and headed off toward Tonopah. We were both worried about whether we'd make it there not due to gas concerns. We kept to 60 miles an hour and nursed our way west.
I woke up from a nap in the Jailhouse Casino and Hotel worried that I had missed Kevin. It was early evening, and I thought maybe he was in town and had called my phone without it waking me up. I had texted him the hotel and room info, but the fact was: it was a couple hours later and still no Kevin. I was relegated to watching TV in the room, while I waited for him. I had been thinking we'd see some of the sights in Ely, but I didn't want to chance missing him at the room.
So, I waited.
And waited.
Finally, the phone rang with Kevin on the other end.
"About damn time," I said. "Did you find the hotel OK?"
"Um, no," replied Kevin. "I'm not in Ely."
"Where are you?"
"Alamo."
I checked my map, looking along the road that leads to Ely. No Alamo. I thought, he's got to be mistaken. Or maybe it's a tiny rest stop kind of place. I turned the map over and looked and there was Alamo. On my map, it looks like it's two inches away from Las Vegas. In reality, (or Google), it's just under a 100 miles. So, for the first day of Manride, with a projected mileage of 246 miles, Kevin had managed to make less then half of that and evening was coming on.
"What. The. Hell?"
Kevin talked of many things. He repacked. His bike fell over, necessitating a further repack. A cat escaped. He ran into a traffic jam getting out of Vegas. He was recruited by the Star League to defend the Frontier against Zur and the Kodan Armada. In short, a bunch of stuff happened and Kevin was still a long ways away from Ely.
"Don't worry. I just stopped here in Alamo to gas up and then I'll get back on the road." I consulted the map. Between Alamo and Ely is basically a whole lotta nothing. And it was starting to get dark. And the predicted low for the evening was 20.
"Yeah. No," I said. "I don't feel like driving south into the desert tomorrow to find your frozen ice-cube of an ass."
"Well, then, what?"
Frustrated, I suggested that maybe, just maybe, he ought to turn around and head back to Vegas. He was incredulous. Turn around? From the Manride? I rubbed my eyes and stared at the map. The original plan called for us to make a loop out west on the 50 and back east on the 6. Kevin was pretty much stopped right at a Y, where one road took him north to Ely and the other, the infamous 375 aka the Extraterrestrial Highway, took him northwest.
Right into the 6.
The junction of the 6 and the 375 was a place called Warm Springs, which I took to be a good omen for the coldness so far on the trip. I even felt jealous, because he'd get to ride that ET Road, which is the closest public road to Area 51 and past UFO tourist trap, the Little A'Le'Inn. I'm a big UFO nut so seeing that would have been way cool. Alas, I would instead be riding the 6 southwest to meet Kevin in Warm Springs and hear his awesome tales of seeing cool shit rocketing outta Area 51.
The new plan made sense to both of us. Kevin would hole up in Alamo for the night and stew in failure and I would another glorious hot shower and eat dinner at the steakhouse next door. I had the intention of draining every last drop of hot water in that place. The day had been some cold riding all around. I don't I ever completely warmed up from getting out of the snowstorm over my house.
Getting off the phone, I called my wife to tell her of the change in plans and what was going to go down with meeting up with Kevin. Rendezvous in Warm Springs. Gas up. Maybe catch some food. We could backtrack up the 6 north of Warm Springs and head off the road to see the Lunar Crater National Natural Landmark. It's the remains of a volcano and looks pretty much like a big ass crater. From there, we'd head back west towards Tonopah, NV. I could hear her on the laptop. She was Googling the new route.
"Warm Springs?" She asked.
"Yeah," I said. "At the junction of 375 and 6."
"There's nothing there."
"Sure, there is. It's called Warm Springs. It's on my folding map here. The one I bought from Wal-Mart."
"Yeah, there's no Warm Springs. I'm looking at a satellite photo. There's nothing there. Maybe one building left. Maybe a streetlight. It's nothing."
I felt that sick feeling again. My biggest concern now is that its roughly 170 miles from Ely to Tonopah. If there was a strong headwind like what I'd been riding through today, I was worried the M50 wouldn't make it. Forget about seeing the Lunar Crater altogether. I'd have to carefully watch my speed just to make sure I didn't run out somewhere on the 6. From looking at the map, it didn't seem Kevin would have much opportunity for a refill either. Between us, we were carrying about a gallon and a half of spare fuel. I figured it'd be enough to get one of us into Tonopah to bring back more gas if it came to that.
With the way Day 1 of Manride was going, I was pretty sure we'd end up on the side of the 6 sometime tomorrow, most likely dead; certainly naked.
It'd probably be snowing, too.
Making the best of it, I walked across the street to checkout the steakhouse. It's Thursday evening now and the small casino was still deserted. The desk staff were still idly chatting to each other. It was a little weird to see a casino so empty. I thought about the 'big' casino I saw across the street; the one with the rundown limo in the front. When I had rode by it earlier, it hadn't looked very busy either. Maybe Ely was really happening on the weekend. They had an airstrip and, I guess, limo service to and from it.
The Jailhouse steakhouse was cool. It continued the jail theme with comfortable kitch. Every booth was a cell. Western stuff hung on the walls. Fortunately, they did not have a costumed deputy walking around to make small talk with the 'cell mates.' Maybe on the weekends. The food was good. BBQ beef back ribs. I hoped that it was a lot better then what Kevin was eating down in Alamo. I gleefully pictured him grimly eating out of a can of cold beans against the backdrop of a grim post-apocalyptic future. It made the ribs taste better.
I was pretty upset about the way the first day had gone. Our carefully laid plans for the trip were all pretty shot. I wondered how much of the planned route we'd end up even covering now. One thing was already clear. We'd be going the wrong way round now, going from the 6 to the 50 to make the loop. My big hope was that it would get better from here. Any worse and I'd be really tempted to turn around and beeline back to Salt Lake and write the whole thing off as a bad idea. I bought that idea up to Kevin and he was pretty upset by it. Despite his slow start, he had gotten fully back on board with Manride. I think all the adversity of the first day was fueling his determination to make it through.
Wendover is essentially 90 miles from Salt Lake. The range on my bike is about 160 before the fuel light starts giving me the blinky. I've nursed close to 200 out of it on a tank before. Just as I saw a sign announcing that I was about a 20 miles out from Wendover, the light came on. At 12 miles, it was blinking pretty insistently. I rolled way off the throttle and was trying to nurse her into town, but was starting to seriously consider that I was already going to have to dig into my emergency 1/2 gallon fuel sitting in two MSR bottles in one of the saddle bags. Here I was, on my FIRST tank of the trip, and already running outta gas. The headwind I was driving into was murder on the mileage, cleaving it down to little better then half of what I usually make on a tank. I was flogging the bike hard to keep up to 5-10 over the speed limit (consistent with the flow of what traffic there was) which, if I recall correctly, is 75.
The light was blinking to the point that it was almost on steadily, which I think means I'm just about done. I spot a gas station. On the outskirts of Wendover is a gas station on a road that leads to the Bonneville raceway. I just about coasted the M50 and then almost promptly fell right over from the wind. I filled up and headed inside to check in with Kathy on the phone and have a cup of HOT Mexican chocolate to make up for my lukewarm tea. I also took a few moments to reflect on my first lesson of Manride, which I thought I already knew. I got on the 80 and just wound out the throttle trying to make good time across the flats. I couldn't recall looking at anything but the road and my gauges. I'd already forgotten one of the main points of the ride: see the country (well, Nevada and a tiny sliver of Utah anyway). There was an easy fix though. Checking my map, I had roughly 120+ miles from Wendover to Ely, via the 93 Alternate. Between those two towns was a whole lot of nothing. So, I was going to slow down. I would ride about 5 miles an hour under whatever the speed limit was, maybe slower if traffic permitted. That way, I think I'd see more. I'd be more relaxed. I'd look around more. I'd be forced not to concentrate on the ride the way I would be if I were tearing the road up.
I pulled out of the gas station and got back on the 80 for a mile or so and exited into Wendover proper. My GPS led me, first, towards the casinos, and then away until I ended up on a single two-lane road leading out of town and into nowhere. I gunned the throttle away from Wendover and climbed the road as it led up and away. I was alone on the 93. Once I crested that first rise, I found myself exactly where I wanted to be. I was creeping along around 60-65 miles per hour along a two-lane blacktop that I owned completely. I couldn't even see Wendover in the mirror. The sky was a clear bright blue with puffs of white clouds. Even better, there was no wind. Nothing pushing at me. I leaned back in my saddle, kept a hand on the handlebars, and breathed in deep. The air was really sweet and crisp. I was riding through the dream that was the Manride back when I first thought of it. The road was mostly straight with a gentle overall bend and rose and dipped with the land. It was around lunchtime and I wondered if Sophie was napping or not. It's a conflicted feeling being on this Manride which had suddenly become everything I wanted, and yet, be on the beginning of a journey that was taking me away from my wife and daughter. Kathy had been really supportive of the whole ride because she said I would be easier to live with if I got out there and did it. She's right. I felt sad that I was going to miss a few days of time with them, particularly because Sophie seemed to be growing so fast day-by-day. Every day, she was saying something new. Or attempting something new. Or showing some new personality trait. Even just a few days away felt like I would miss a lot.
I carried a picture of the two of them tucked under the clear window of my tank bag and I found myself looking at it quite a bit as I rode the 93. That stretch of road was ideal and reinstated just about all the faith that I had felt ebbing away in the days leading to the Manride and the crappy bit across the salt flats on the 80. I truly just cruised. If I had highway pegs on the bike, I would have kicked my feet up. The two or so hours spent on that road were the best of the day. I ran into two tiny storms; one that sprinkled rain on me and another that dropped tiny ice balls on me. Both lasted for less then a minute. I could see the small clouds that were dropping the precipitation, like orphans trailing after the main storm system to the east, I guess.
I rolled on in bliss until late afternoon and felt more then a little disappointed when I reached the outskirts of McGill, a small town just north of Ely. It's one of those tiny towns where the highway is the main street. It gave me the feeling as being a feeder community of Ely itself, but other then that, I couldn't really see much about the town. From a satellite photo, it looks like it might be a farming community. The one interesting divey take-out was so divey that it was boarded up. Ha! Dig that, Guy Fieri! It was about McGill that the billboards started for the hotels and casino (singular) in Ely? And for the brothel! Though, from what I understand, its not legal to advertise brothels in Nevada. This one got around it by advertising an attached oriental massage parlor.
Somehow, I just didn't see Ely being the place exotic girls of the Far East were going to be washing up in.
A short hop outta McGill and I was finally in Ely. Rendezvous for Manride! It was late afternoon and the first thought through my head was, "Where we sleeping tonight?" A couple of those billboards back near McGill had looked OK. 93 fed right into downtown Ely so I just followed it through town, looking left and right. Ely looked like a pretty decent-sized place compared to, well, McGill; plus bigger then my expectation for the town. It has an airport. Well, an air field, but it was there. With airplanes. I soon came upon what I think might have been the one casino in town. One dedicated one, anyway. It was the tallest building in Ely, being a casino/hotel. It was one of those older rectangular brick buildings, think, Modern Old West. It was pretty cool looking. There was a run-down stretch limo parked outside. No doubt it's purpose was to pick up the high rollers flying into town via the Ely airfield.
Snazzy.
Before I knew, I was rolling out of Ely. Literally. The town just stopped. Not peter out. Not turn into isolated houses. Nope. It just stops and US 50 rolls west. That was going to be the route of town tomorrow morning. I swung around and came back down a side street running parallel to 50 to head back up. And that's how I found myself in front of Ely's TWO brothels. They're across the street from each other. Essentially, they're small single storefronts (that look like bars) that are connected to a number of double-wide trailers. One of them was walled in like some sort of sex compound. That was the one with the massage parlor on the side. The other had no such wall and looked smaller and less... well, can a brothel be reputable? I think something else that contributed to the whole aura was that the street was shite. Like, falling-apart-big-gaping-cracks shite. Not exactly HBO's Cathouse, ya know?
So continuing to head back the way I came, I came across the Jailhouse Motel (and Casino!). Most important to me was the sign that promised free in-room wifi. Because I am a giant nerd. And nerds need 'net. I pulled in, hopped off, and tromped my way to the front desk. Mind you, I'm wearing a thermals, multiple shirts, sweater, and big ass leather jacket and armored textile pants. Tromping is exactly how it looks. I could have rushed onto the scene of a third-rate sci-fi movie as "Goon with gun #3". Possibly I'd even get a line, like, "Halt, Intr-AAARGHHHH!" or maybe "Did you hear someth-ARRRRGGGHHH!" The desk folks were entirely unfazed by my appearance. They were chatting with each other and it took a moment or two before they wrapped up their conversation enough to talk to me. I took the time to check out the 70s-era cigarette machine that was in the lobby next to the Coke machine. I actually didn't mind the pause. It gave me a chance to decompress from the bike. I wondered how far behind Kevin might be, or if he was already in town.
I got out my cellphone and checked my messages. I was a little shocked to see a text from Kevin essentially saying he hadn't left anywhere near the time I thought he had. His cat had got out, his bike had fell over, he had to repack... a lot of stuff was happening down his way. And he had left not too long before I had reached Ely. At this rate, it was going to be evening before he made it here. There wasn't anything else to do but check us in and go wait by the phone for when he got into town. The place also had a steakhouse that opened in a hour or so. At least, I wouldn't have far to go for dinner. I walked around the tiny casino. It was small and I only saw slot and poker machines there. I don't think I saw any actual tables. Nor did I see any actual gamblers. The place was seriously empty. Deserted. Just all these video slot and poker machines softly beeping to themselves. It was a little creepy. Of course, it was an early Thursday afternoon, but still creepy.
I went back across the streets to where the rooms were. Pulling the bike up to the room, I proceeded to unload. It sort of sucked that I had packed the bike for camping and was now humping all this gear into a hotel room. But it was better, I think, then having to try and camp in a 20 degree night. It's a decent room. I can recommend this place if you happen to be in Ely. I cranked the heater and checked out the shower, which turned out to be pure hot nirvana. I think I took a combination hot shower and bath for almost an hour, just letting the warmth get all the way down into my bones. The room was hot, the water was hot. After spending the morning and most of the day feeling cold, this was just awesome.
Then, I napped. Turns out good beds there are the Jailhouse Casino Hotel, too.
Thursday morning was deceptively good. I woke up, got out of bed, and checked all the forecasts. I paid particular attention to the scrolling weather radar. There was a hole in the storm system that was off-centered over the valley and it seemed that there was only light rain happening. I was ecstatic. I hurriedly called Kevin and, much to his surprise, gave him the GO. Manride was on. I was ready to jump on the bike and get, but he wasn't. His packing wasn't complete and he was having a rough morning, I think. After the previous night's call, he seemed decided that the Manride was all but canceled. Far from the enthused response I was expecting, the conversation went something like this:
"Kevin, the weather looks OK. I can get out of here."
"You're calling too early," replied Kevin. I was calling about an hour ahead of the time we scheduled the previous night for our go/no-go call. He may have still been in bed.
"I was checking the weather. It's good. I thought I'd call now. We're on, man."
On?"
"Yeah, Manride is a go. You ready?"
"Um. No. I need to pack. You sure we're going?"
"Yeah, we're going."
"Oh..." His tone was the tone of a person who had other plans. It occurred to me that maybe I had prepared Kevin for a cancellation a little too well. I was pretty glum the night before and was pretty sure in my own mind that it wasn't going to happen. All week long I had had people picking at me to cancel the ride for various reasons and it probably came through in last night's discussion. I did a quick pep-talk for both of us and set a kickstand-up time for about 10 to 11, thinking that would give him plenty of time to get ready to go while letting me have an opportunity to cross a couple of last things off the prep list.
Mainly, I was thinking of getting a new multi-tool and an adapter to allow my mini air-compressor to run from the powerlet socket I had installed on the cruiser previously. The compressor had only come with SAE and cigarette lighter connectors. I had removed the SAE connection on the M50 when I had installed the powerlet socket, intending to use that for all my power needs. The powerlet was similar to the cigarette socket in design but thinner in diameter. Normally, I might not have worried too much about it, but my previous cruise from Salt Lake City to San Diego had seen me stranded roadside along Interstate 15 with a flat tire and a three hour wait for a tow truck (so much for speedy roadside assistance). With similar mileage along even more isolated roads, I didn't want to take a chance on not being prepared for another flat. I'm not the most mechanically apt person with a motorcycle, but I can handle a flat.
About 9:30, I was watching TV and still goofing off when I happened to glance out one of the windows.
It was snowing.
Hard.
Not being able to see hard. My first reaction was shock. I rushed to the window and watched with a sinking feeling. I noticed, though, that while it was snowing really hard and yard was slowing turning white that none of the stuff was sticking to the asphalt. Driveway, street, and sidewalk were all clear. Wet, but clear. I made an instant decision without hesitation. I knew from looking at the weather map that this storm was pretty localized. Plus, living where we were on the east side closer to the mountains, it was always worse for us. If I could get clear of my side of valley, I'd be out the snow and maybe in rain. Get clear of the whole valley and I'd be out of the wet stuff altogether. I rushed to the garage and hurriedly donned my gear. Fortunately, I had already put on the thermals and underlayers I was planning for the cold ride so all I had left was my outer pants and jackets. I stuff the last remaining odds and ends into the tank bag and fired the M50 up. I imagined that if any of my neighbors were watching, they probably thought they were seeing an insane person pull out of his garage on a laden motorcycle into a snowstorm. I took it in feet. Make it down the driveway and see. Make it into the street and see. Make it down the block and see.
Other then the snow sticking to my visor and making it so that I had to continually wipe it clean, it wasn't very much different then riding in rain. A quick wipe to clear the mirrors and I set off. I was still half intending to stop and try and do those last minute errands, but as I headed west out of my neighborhood, the snow wasn't letting up. It still wasn't sticking to the ground at all, but it just kept coming down. I had to ride with my left hand always wiping the visor of my helmet. I could see the snow building up on my arms. It wasn't until the freeway that it seemed to be more rain then snow falling. I almost fell over trying to get on the freeway when I became momentarily fixated on the curb of the on-ramp as I was trying to feather the clutch and throttle as the snow built up on the visor and my field of view got obscured. Once I got the nose pointed in the right direction, I opened the throttle wiped the helmet and climbed the relatively short on-ramp from snow to rain.
I was on my way. Things went largely as I hoped. It was rain as I headed north through the valley and when I turned west onto the 80, the rain thinned out and I could see blue sky poking through holes in the clouds. I got a brief pelting of hail as I ran along the edge of the Great Salt Lake, but as I continued onto through the salt flats, things got considerably drier. And windier. Way windier. And all of it going the wrong direction. I had to push the bike hard to keep my speed up and it felt like I was going much faster then I really was due to the windspeed. I hunkered down behind the windshield and powered on. On both sides, as I passed the western outskirts of Tooele and Granite, the land gave way to the flat and featureless salt flats. I had about 90 miles till I hit the Nevada border and the Wendover, where I would have to do my first fuel stop. I was glad that I had topped off the M50 from a tank at home, negating the need for having to stop in the storm and gas up on the way out.
As I came over a rise and hit a particularly strong gust of wind, I suffered the trip's first casualty. I had tucked my sunglasses into my tank bag on the way out. It wasn't bright enough to wear them and I was in too much of a hurry to pack the glasses away properly. I watched helplessly as the wind causally lifted the glassed from where they were, floated them across my field of view, and out past my shoulder. I immediately slowed and pulled over. Traffic was really light along the 80 and I thought I had a chance tor retrieve the sunglasses without too much trouble. Swinging off the cruiser, I was a little surprised (and amused) to find that there was about a 1/4 layer of ice built up on my legs from the knees down and on my arms from the elbows up. I was relieved to find my outer gear doing the job of keeping the cold and wet reasonably away from me. I walked back about an eighth of a mile to where I thought they might be just in time to watch an 18-wheeler roll over them and send flying in pieces. I strolled into the road and retrieved the shattered frames. Since I had walked all the way back for them, I thought it'd be a shame to leave them there so they came back with me. I stuffed them back into the same spot on the tank bag and got bag on the road.
I pulled in a short time later at a rest stop. Utah does rest stops right, even the ones out in the middle of the sticks. I went inside where the heater was pushing out lots of hot air and got warmed up a bit. I thought this would be a good time to take a break and try out the penny stove in the wild to heat up some water to make some tea. I immediately realized that despite having made the stove a month or so before and cooking with it a number of times that I had neglected to make the accompanying wind screen for it. I'd always cooked it with it in the garage so wind had never been an issue. However, out on that blustery day perched on a hilltop rest-stop, it was. The picnic table and its accompanying one wall was situated exactly wrong to stop any wind whatsoever and, in fact, I think it was actually funneling it. I set up my food bag and body to try and shield the stove as much as possible, but it took twice as much fuel as normal to get a hot cup of water. I cheaped out on the cup and it was just a simple piece of aluminum. I had taken some effort to insulate the handle because it transferred all the heat of the contents very efficiently into my fingers. If I had just been making something quick, like cocoa, where its heat, dump, stir, and drink then it would have been ok. However, making tea required letting it steep. And in the 3 or 4 minutes that took, the wind had sapped almost all the heat out of the water. I ended up quickly drinking a lukewarm cup of tea while checking text messages on my phone and ipod. Kevin hadn't left yet, and I was a bit relieved at that. One of my bigger worries was that since Kevin was going to have reasonably good weather for his solo leg that he was going to beat me to Ely by a good deal and be left stuck sitting around waiting on me. With him apparently going kickstand-up later then me, then I figured it would put us closer together.
Sitting at that first rest stop and sipping my cup of tea, I felt really good. I was on the road. For real. I had four days of riding before me and no idea what was going to be happening next. It was a great feeling. The weather was sunny. Behind me, back towards Salt Lake, I could see the storm clouds and rain falling on the valley. Seeing rain fall from far away, it looks likes the clouds are stretching down towards the ground. Ahead of me to the west, the skies were clear and blue. I sipped my tea and sat there just feeling good. For the months we'd been planning Manride, this was one of the moments I had kept dreaming of. As I packed up and bundled back into my gear, an old man who parked next to the motorcycle asked if I was feeling cold out on the road. I told him the wind was strong, but I wasn't feeling cold at all.
After all, I had just come riding out of a snowstorm.
To be continued...
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