I wanted to finish my story of riding around the country, but that trailed off in the past months and many of the details are a blur now. There was one story that I’ve wanted to get down before the details fade. It occurred in between my time in California and heading north towards Bonneville.
First posted on Chin on the Tank…
I’m cruising on Interstate 80, descending through the jagged, brown peaks of Nevada, when I first set eyes on northern Utah. In an instant the landscape changes from the familiar desert to barren white flats as I cross the border. It’s fucking wild! Then came the sign for Bonneville International Speedway — I slammed on my brakes and dipped off the highway. I passed the row of tents set up on the side of the road before the main gate — I was now completely surrounded by white under a clear blue sky. I pulled up to the gate and realized I couldn’t pay the $20 fee, so I told the guys my story and they let me in for free. I followed the cones into the distance until I reached beginning of the track. There was a two-lane line formed of hotrods and motorcycles and one-by-one I got to watch these guys launch down the line.
There was no greater feeling than crossing the desert through the open air atop my two-wheeled machine. I rode to a place that seemed so far distant on a map. The entire ride I was overcome with this heavy-spiritual feeling — I was riding some cosmic wave into the infinite. Anything seemed possible at that point—I felt invincible. The contrast of orange sand dunes against the big blue sky vibrated across my brain at a 100 miles an hour. After 3,500 miles I reached southern California, which sweltered in a 110° dry heat. The air parched every part of my exposed skin. I carried a water bottle in one hand and throttled aside the Salton Sea with the other hand. We made Joshua Tree by nightfall.
We met friends of Sara’s, a couple living in San Diego, at the Mojave Sands Motel. I was introduced to Mike, a photographer, his girlfriend Magda and their dog, Rosco. The desert air was perfect, making ourselves at home in the lawn chairs under a star-filled sky. The Milky Way stretched from north to south into the orange soaked horizon. In the master suite, there was a wall-to-wall record collection that stayed blaring out of the room in to the early morning. Sara had concocted a Kalimoxo into my coffee mug and made sure I was always topped off. We decided it was a good time to trip.
Unfortunately, by the time I was melting into the desert floor, Sara discovered Dennis in bad shape, still sick from the ride. We decided it was time to go to the hospital. I couldn’t leave a brother behind, so I gathered what was left of my coherent self and headed to the hospital. I would spend the next 3 hours in the ER waiting room in a state of delirium, listening to these poor locals complain about healthcare — all the while, Dennis was getting pumped full of morphine.
Waking up early the next morning, I decided to head out on my own for the first time since we left Pennsylvania. I rode into Joshua State Park and remember thinking — this is what it will be like soon enough — I’ll be alone, over 3,000 miles from home, with a few hundred dollars left and a saddlebag full of tools. I was sticking it to the winding scenic roads of the park before stopping at Skull Rock for some free-climbing. A few sections were difficult to scale, but the rocks were far from smooth and allowed my Doc Marten’s to stick in any situation.
I left after a few hours of exploring with the intent of dragging everyone back to the park with me. On the way out, while recording the sites on my camera, I lost my balance and nearly swerved into an oncoming car before regaining control. The footage from that day was unfortunately lost.
I regrouped at the motel, bouldered around Joshua Tree for a few more hours with everyone before the rains came, then headed southwest to watch the Asteroid 4 play. They had a gig in some old ranch/house-looking saloon outside Palm Springs. The rains had subsided, yet the storms remained in the distance, illuminating the mountains around us. Inside the bar, it was a mix of neo-psychedelia and garage-rock. I climbed to the roof of an old tour bus out side, where a few others were sitting, smoking cigarettes. One of them asked me where I was from. I started to them how I got there and they were amazed. You can really grab someones attention when you tell them you’re riding a motorcycle across the country. Everyone becomes inspired by that it seems. One of them told me he wished he could leave Southern California. “There’s just nothing here”, he said. I thought he was out of his mind at first, but I guess we all just need a change of scenery now and again. We spent our last night at Mojave Sands Motel tripped-out under the stars well into the early morning. We left the next day and went to LA.
The five of us sat in the sand on the beaches outside of LA. It was the first time I had been to the Pacific Ocean in 10 years. I had gone as far west as I was going to go. Around nightfall, we split and went to San Diego. The ride south along the pacific was incredible at night — The highway ran atop a ridge that bordered the ocean — I couldn’t see were the land met the water. The air was cool and for the first time in days, fog settled on the road. We had the luxury of crashing at Mike’s place for a few days, giving me time to explore the city.
The one place I planned to stop before hitting Cailfornia was Sedona, just north of Phoenix. It was out of the way and added a day onto our trip, forcing us north into the panhandle of Texas up to route 40 through Albuquerque, NM and eventually to Flagstaff, AZ where the route drops in elevation and latitude into the valley of Sedona. Our eventual crossing into California was the border city of Yuma, regarded as one of the hottest places in the country and 15 miles from the French center of the world (marked by a section of stairs transplanted from the Eiffel Tower).
The long trip from Albuquerque, NM into the barren landscape of northeast Arizona was hard. A storm began to roll across the plains giving way to a relentless wind that made every mile tiresome. Dennis was feeling worse every day since we left Austin and the sickness was starting to take it’s toll. He was going in and out of moments of nausea.
The highway dumped us in Flagstaff and from there I found the route through Oak Ridge Canyon into the red rocks of Sedona. Oak Ridge was the most technical of roads I had ever been on. Even exceeding speeds of 15mph down winding hairpins pushed the limits of my skill.
There was no room for error, where a guard rail was the only thing between you and a 1,000 foot drop into the canyon. Yet, I had the camera in one hand filming as much as I could.
The road winds through the canyon, surrounded by tall pines clambering to the jagged gray rocks of the cliff sides. If you look on a map, you can easily point out the most dangerous section, where it snakes around itself before unwinding into the red valley below. The change in landscape is drastic as it is in much of the American desert.
Any familiarity I had in the mountains of Oak Ridge was quickly replaced with the alien scenery of Sedona. The land stands as a testament to Earth’s prehistoric beauty, untouched for millions of years from the oceans that receded, giving shape to the stoic sentinels that now guard the land. It’s hard to gaze upon it’s surreal splendor without losing oneself. My photos make no comparison for how dreamlike it all felt.
We made a dash to the known energy vortexes that surround the city before sunset. Dennis was growing weaker and we left early nightfall on our way to Yuma. Exhaustion from a full days ride was setting in and we stopped before Phoenix for a 3 hour nap. As we closed in on the Mexican boarder doing 90mph, we couldn’t help but feel like drug runners making fast time to our drop off point for the Zeta Cartel. I laughed about it before being reminded of the boarder patrols surrounding Yuma.
On a dark desert road, with the lights of Yuma glowing behind the sharp mountain peaks, I tossed the pot I had been carrying in a handkerchief tied around my front master cylinder. I had wanted to smoke it in Sedona, but passed due to Dennis’ worsening condition.
We would spend two nights in Yuma, before crossing into California, so Dennis could get well. Sara, my desert tour guide, took me for an adventure into Mexico where the margaritas tasted like Gatorade and the women could be bought for a price.
Texas is fucking huge. I mean, Jesus! We couldn’t get out. I would have certainly got sucked in and stayed, but we had the rest of the west to conquer.
All I’ve grown accustomed to back is east is the notion that people are incapable of doing things. I forgot the vibe of the west, where anything is attainable and just being on my bike, doing whatever I feel — living 120 miles at a time until I need fuel again just adds to the possibilities. I have this picture in my head that we are these two wanderers in some post apocalyptic world blasting down highways in search of gasoline. It feels like that most when we’re riding through Texas at night. That’s usually the point where Steppenwolf starts playing on repeat in my head.
Before we set off en route to Albuquerque we stopped in Austin for 24 hours. I was exhausted and our luck couch surfing had expired. We set up in a Super 8 and cruised the scene on 7th street for a bit before hitting the showers and getting a good night’s rest in our own beds.
The next day we set out for breakfast, hitting the Buffalo Exchange for some new threads and getting sucked into a record store where I found a much wanted compilation album of David Axelrod. They shipped, so I sent the album home. The chick working there had a Ducati 1000 Sport and we started talking bikes. She referred us to the Ducati shop where we later picked up chain grease for Dennis on our way out.
Before taking off to the next town, we hit the Barton Springs, otherwise known as the heart of Austin. We were cooling off in the same waters the Indians had practiced their breast stroke.
Next to the Duc shop was a Subway. Maybe the coolest Subway in all of Texas. The guys told us to chill out in the ac and gave us some free shit while we ate, charged our phones and waited for the mushroom dealer of one of the employees to show. The deal fell through, so we packed our shit and headed out to venture through the Texas high plains until the sun rose.
It was easy to overcome the anxiety of the road when our weary selves were numb from the pain of being stretched over our bikes for hours on end. We had over 700 miles to complete through the great expanse of the Texas Panhandle on our way to Albuquerque. We were setting off from Austin and heading northwest on the small routes of Texas that would guide us from town to town. Some of the large towns, where we’d find gas, were separated by over 100 miles. This meant we needed to keep low rpms to conserve fuel. Many of the gas stations up that way were closed, so even when we’d hit the next big town, we’d be shit outta luck. A cop had stopped us as we were filling up in the town of Sweetwater. He kindly proclaimed his jealousy over our trip warned us about running out of gas on the way to Lubbock. We ended up buying 2 gas cans that night before setting out any further. The cop had also warned us about deer, which we had already run into on the way up from Austin. The rotting carcasses of deer had lined our route thus far, so Dennis and I would run side-by-side with our high beams on for maximum visibility.
Around 3 in the morning, I called it quits and we tried to grab some sleep on the side of the road. We pulled into a access gate to a ranch, hiding us from the 18-wheelers that hurled down the road. These truckers were fierce out here. They blazed the trail with their chrome grills, plowing through any wildlife that might cross their way. It was tough to fall asleep with them blowing by every few minutes, so I took a shot of whiskey to help me sleep. Dennis slept on the ground, but I opted to sleep above-ground on my bike. Positioned in reverse with my legs hanging over the saddlebags, I was asleep in no time at all. We both couldn’t believe the big night sky of Texas. The stars were in the billions and it was hard to decipher the constellations. Jupiter hung in the top of the sky standing out as the brightest among the stars. We were in the peak hour of a meteor shower and I watched, laid out backwards over my motorcycle, as they streaked across the sky in tight intervals. It was a surreal night.
Dennis got no sleep that night and was feeling pretty bad as we rolled into Lubbock. He offered to pay for a good nights rest at hole-in-the-wall motel. I watched the sun bleed into the night sky from the balcony outside our Lubbock motel room.
The battle for Albuquerque pressed on in the morning. The midday sun was putting out the heat, so we decided to shed the gear and work on our tans. Riding north of Lubbock was an endless expanse of flat farm land. Tin silos seemed to dance on the horizon and the road disappeared into the sky under the illusion of the heat rising off the ground. On my port side, I noticed a great swirling dust cloud hauling ass through a farmers field. As we rode closer, I could see it was headed for the road in front of us. We were going toe-to-toe with a dust devil. Not knowing what to expect, I kept the throttle pinned. Just as the devil hit the road, we slammed into it, becoming engulfed in the howl of swirling dust and wind. The winds were so strong I had to lean my bike over as if I were going into a sharp turn. We blew out the other side back to the tranquil blue sky and and hum of the our motors. The dust devil pursued more farmland and we pressed on into New Mexico.
Made it to Albuquerque after an exhaustive trek. Dennis, yet again, new someone out here. Aryon and his wife just moved out here a couple months prior. The place was all gated up and had a commune-kinda-vibe, complete with roosters, a meditation garden and a dog named Jackson Brown. We rested up and hit the trail early for Arizona. That day we would pull an all out 750+ miles into northern Arizona, through Sedona and onto Yuma in the southwest.
PA on it’s worst day is still breezy compared to hell of NOLA in the summer. Dennis and I hit breakfast in the French Market and watched the aftermath of hurricane Irene on CNN. We hit up Decatur St. and we’re immediately pulled into an Asian massage parlor. Happy endings aside, these Asians were the real deal. She did things to my feet that affected my whole body. We were in some serious pain after our hike in the mountains and a day on the cycles.
We hit the cycles in the heat to check in with Dennis’ friends. Most of the homes are in a state of disrepair and the streets are buckled and distorted. Dennis grabbed some vinyl from Domino and we waited out the heat in the AC until nightfall.
Off a good tip we strolled into “The Coop”, back on Decatur, where the night began it’s descent into a drunken array of strange characters. First filled my belly with Rabbit Jambalaya in Creole rice and once I was done, I ate the other half of Dennis’ meal, too. We met Glen, this old dude from Philly, who hid under a straw hat, long hair and a glass of whiskey. I only had to pay for one round before the bartender poured ‘em free for the remainder of our stay. Leaving The Coop, we made our way through the tourists, transients and beggars that lined Decatur. The rest of the night can just live out in my memory. It involved the back of a convenience store and good amount of pot.
It’s 9:30am when I wake up on a strange couch trying to piece the night together. I’m hungover as hell. The only thing to get me off the couch is the whereabouts of the bikes and all my belongings. By the time we got back on the bikes I was ready to ride again. The smoke from the marsh fire was very constricting and with the heat, made my hangover much worse. We hit 10 West outta Orleans Parrish, which is a system of bridges over miles of swampland. I was quite overcome as we crossed the Mississippi River, realizing we just hit a major mile. Texas came around 5pm and I was still feeling like shit. We laid low until the sun dropped off and battled through the beltways of Houston at nightfall.
Houston was fucking huge. Before entering the city, we passed factories and refineries the size of a large city. The smell of oil was in the air. We keep our speed around 75 through the city, not only to stay legal, but anything over 80mph starts to take a heavy toll on our bodies. Night time travel seems to be easier than during the day. As Houston fades from view, the number of cars on the road thins to only a few every 10 miles. After 8 hours, we turned off 10 West and headed to Austin up Texas Route 71. There’s nothing out here. Big sky in every direction. The only light is from our bikes.
A day off the bikes for a day up the Black Mountains of North Carolina. I’m just outside Asheville in a cabin built of vinyl records. Brian, a friend of Dennis’, set us up in his pad for the next two days. He has the most impressive record collection I’ve ever seen and lines every wall of his place. After a late night — still too buzzed off adreneline to sleep — I woke around 11 to the suggestion of hiking. Breakfast: bacon, eggs, pancakes, coffee. The Greybeard trail showed us the way up to an elevation of 4500 feet.
The mountain is familiar, resembling the trails I’ve grown up on, but the view from the top is much different.
The same can be said for the highways down into Asheville. Aside from the larger mountains and mere depth of those ranges, the highways look the same. Nevertheless, it’s not a boring ride.
We strolled around Asheville that night. It’s far more progressive than most places. It’ll probably be one of the last cities standing after the economic collapse.
Coming out of Tennessee we hit the tail end of the Smokey Mountains. The declines down those mountains are fierce, battling high winds and barreling turns. The blacktop is two lanes in both directions, which makes for a tight squeeze around tractor trailers and the summer vacationers in their minivans. Paying no attention to my side mirror, I lost Dennis to the stampede of traffic.
We’re not even halfway to New Orleans and the day drags on. The sun was punishing throughout the day yet we wore our leathers. A good jacket is vital to the ride. The right amount of pockets in the right place. I rock a side-zipper to keep rain and wind from between the teeth. There’s a good sense of security with a jacket and it let’s others know your not out just fucking off.
That jacket saved my skin when a truck tire blew apart in the lane next to us. Like a bad Brukheimer(sp.) movie, I was swirving heavy debris coming off a truck with my throttle pinned down an elevation drop. We managed to pass the truck.
We road nearly 14 hours that Sunday, putting on another 750 miles, setting 1,350 miles on the clock total. For the first time the landscape changed drastically. The trees became more gnarled as we road into Mississipi. We approached New Orleans, riding the bridges that cross the giant lake(name) north of the city. The marsh was on fire to the east and before long, we were riding into thick smoke. The whole town is filled with the smoke and the stench of a leaf pyre. My adreneline was the only thing keeping us focused after that many hours. I could hardly walk as I stepped of the bike.
The journey begins from Philadelphia to Washington D.C. The bikes are packed and ready to traverse the country. It’s Dennis and I on our cycles. I’ve turned my cafe Harley into a touring bike, equipped as our lifeline in case of any mishaps. It’s packing a complete tool set for both bikes, an on-board air compressor and battery charger. I’m also bagging my laptop and camera to chronicle the trip as I go (greeting from Asheville, NC). Dennis rides atop a 2010 Triumph Thruxton, fresh from a tuneup at Manayunk Triumph. Our position is speed, tucked low with our feet back. No old man cruisers for these two cats.
We fought through the rain and the night to make it to D.C. on what was an exhaustive battle against the elements. After touring the local scene, I hit my first couch. Got on the good foot around 11:30 and took a spin around our nations capital, then fled the scene as fast as we came in.
Off to the town of Front Royal in northern Virginia. Here we would find the entrance to Skyline Drive for an epic blast to 3000 foot.
We’d ride a total of 12 hours that day and well into the night before descending into North Carolina and climbing into the Black Mountains for another wet welcome.
A spiritual journey into the infinite…
Continue reading
A crack of thunder can be heard north towards the Appalachians.
The symbol of freedom guides the throttle in pursuit of it’s meaning.
Exploring the lands of the vast coal regions on two wheels is my ultimate past time. It’s gearing me up for the cross country excursion.
Shenandoah, Pa
On the banks of the Susquehanna through my eyes.
Finding passage across the mighty Susquehanna by ferry.
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