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Mario's Trip To Wing Ding

I like to travel on a motorcycle and share what I learn.

This is an account of my motorcycle trip around USA.

An old Honda and a voyage to see America.
Explore the world around you and discover the world inside you.

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You, Me, a Bike and the Road.

Or see last summer's trip.

My mirror site, more trip reports and Homepage is here.

I planned to ride my motorcycle on an extended trip around USA because I always wondered what
the rest of the country was like. I heard many stories about the wonderful roads and delightful people
of USA, so I figured, it was time to see for myself. Initially, I planned to stay home for the 4th of July celebration of Independence Day. Impulsively, I decided to make a mad dash across the country to attend the Honda Gold Wing Convention called Wing Ding in Huntsville, Alabama.

    One reason for this sudden change of plan was that an Internet friend of mine named Erold Ansell was involved in a fatal accident and memorial flags were delivered to the Wing Ding event. For many who knew him and wanted to honor this great fellow by flying the flag of the Australian Boxing Kangaroo, this would be a gathering place. Once I made up my mind…there was no turning back. The event only lasted until July 5 and I had only a few days to get 2,800 miles across the country. My goal was to see the Hunstville fireworks show on the 4th of July with the thousands of motorcycle riders attending the Wing Ding event.

    June 30th was a Tuesday and at 2:00pm I headed out from Montesano, Washington with full camping paraphernalia, a gallon jug of water and two months of clothes packed into my suitcase. In memory of and as a tribute to my Internet friend Erold, I tied two streaming black ribbons to the luggage rack of my bike. If anyone were to ask what they were for, I would tell them about Erold.

    The first day began leisurely with a trip south on Washington's Highway 101 and over the mouth of the Columbia River to the Oregon border over the Astoria Bridge. Knowing it would be a while before I would again see country as lovely and peaceful as this, I took my time and warmed up to the long ride ahead. Using the soft glow of afternoon daylight, I headed east on Highway 30, a wonderful ride in itself. Passing through Portland, Oregon,  I hooked to Highway 84 and cruised past the beautiful Mutinomah Falls, Hood River and on toward The Dalles along the southern edge of the Columbia River. For those who have not yet ridden this lush, green, tree covered area of the country, you have a wonder to look forward to.

    Sunlight softly drained into the night as I picked up my pace toward Pendleton, Oregon. Using this southeasterly direction I hoped to avoid the storms predicted for Montana and Wyoming. All through the evening the skies on my left blazed with lightning and over my shoulder I caught glimpses of thunderclouds churning in the skies. Cold weather garments wrapped my torso and gauntlet gloves kept wind from entering the sleeves of my leather jacket as I traveled all through the night. Frequent stops and hot coffee restored my circulation and kept away the chill night air. Somewhere, late in the night, I passed by Bogus Basin and on through Boise, Idaho as I surged onward toward Utah.

    Dawn highlighted my anticipation of warmer temperatures and each rest stop found me searching for new storage space as I peeled off layer upon layer of clothing. The day grew warmer and I traded my black gauntlet gloves for shorter leather work gloves. With sunglasses on and eyes set on squint, I set my sights for Salt Lake City. Just past Ogden, signs pointing to the Salt Lake coaxed me from the highway. A short side trip brought me to the shores of a surprisingly large body of water. Speedboats towing skiers cut arcing patterns into the glass-like surface of the water. The refreshing coolness of the lake contrasted a much harsher surrounding landscape and I fought an almost overwhelming urge to take a nap. Reaching into my Hondaline sidebag for a Power-bar and downing some of the clean Montesano drinking water from the gallon jug I had bungie-corded to my seat revived me enough to start up again. It is a nice lake, though.

    The freeway into Salt Lake City inadequately funneled heavy traffic through a blustering metropolis. A detour around the downtown area seemed reasonable. The bypass route under construction with brutally rough roads and narrow lanes made for a tiring stretch of highway. During one of many lane merges, a large lowboy truck carrying a piece of heavy equipment joined the traffic from the right shoulder. With little warning, I was forced to either merge with the lane to my left or pile into the back of the slowly accelerating semi. I glanced over my shoulder in time to see a pickup just a bit to my rear. I signaled a left turn only to find the driver of the pickup unwilling to give up a few feet of space in front of him. He punched his throttle to keep me from entering his lane and I immediately realized I was in trouble. A quick look in my rear view mirror ruled out any chance of braking on my part and I had only one way out. I pulled in the clutch, downshifted twice, and grabbed a handful of throttle. 900ccs of engine came out of cruise mode and revved to about 8 grand, I shot ahead of the pickup truck, and I ducked my head to pass under the extended mirror of the merging semi. Without the power of my engine to pull me ahead of the insane driver beside me, it surely would have been over for me. With my heart pounding I rolled off the power and the pickup driver surged past me in the next left lane. As he passed, he scowled at me for stealing his private spot in the lane. Rage spent the energy of an adrenaline rush coursing through my veins. In years past, I know I would have pursued the mentally deficient offender for a confrontation, but now I actually felt delight that I shared no more than a fleeting moment with a person who's values were so distorted. I knew there was no room in my life for a person who would kill for a few feet of lane space.

    Along with the soaring heat, the miles and hours were catching up to me and weariness invaded my entire being. I wanted off this dangerous and harrowing interstate. At Provo I cut off the crowded Interstate 15 and turned onto highway 6 toward the south and east. A smaller and less traveled road with a steep climb into the mountains left the busy Interstate behind me and helped me relax. Not being used to the heat forced me into another stop at a small creek where a rest area offered parking. I was at the end of my energy and took some time to pull off my boots and cool my feet in the delightfully cold water of the slow running creek. Seemed I set a precedent and soon other travelers lined the creek soaking their feet as little children scampered gleefully around the edges of the water. This was so much better, sitting here in the shade of the overhanging trees being away from the city and all the construction to support the rapid progress. With more than fleeting reluctance I soon continued up the pass and dropped down the other side of the mountain entering a small town called Price. There was no doubt this was as far as I could go and I knew I had to stop. I looked at my watch. It was about 2:00pm and I had ridden over 1000miles. Good enough to prove to myself I qualified for a personal Iron Butt.

    I checked into the fanciest motel in town, (not), ate an apple, a banana and a Cliff Bar. A leisurely walk worked out the stiffness in my joints but I wondered how I was going to recover from the pain of my sore butt before morning. My CB900 sported the stock seat and with the addition of a homemade, double-wedgie poopoo pad, I made it this far. Comfort no longer being a factor in the equation, the question was, could I still even sit down? A long shower and a self-administered foot rub helped bring the comfort I sought. I went to sleep in a room darkened only by eyelids and echoing the unfamiliar pulse of an air-conditioning unit. My eyes never opened for a solid eight hours. Thanks…I needed that.

    The following morning, after a small breakfast and repacking my gear, I headed out at about 7:30 am. The rest of highway 6 (191) went through some very barren desert. My immediate destination was the junction of Interstate 70 at Green River. At first I wondered about the lack of trees but as the hours went by the increasing heat demonstrated why every fiber of foliage burnt away from the red, blazing rocks. I reasoned the rocks looked red because they must still be hot from the immutable solar exposure. The little patch of bare skin between my shirt sleeve and short leather glove became burnt and red. Occasional tumbleweeds, not caught by the wicked barbed wire fence running along the side of the highway, rolled across the road. Searching for moisture was my guess. I swerved my bike around these and wondered why I was punishing myself in this scorched moonscape. After filling with fuel and nursing an orange juice at a gas station hidden in the rocks, I began to question my sanity for taking off on such a ridiculously risky expedition. Here I was riding in the middle of a dessert, on a sixteen-year-old motorcycle, scorching my ass under the flaming sun and no one even knew where I was. No CB radio for communication, no GPS for guidance, no AM/FM radio for company, and not even a tape player to remind me of more sensitive times.

    Just when I all but convinced myself I was totally alone in the world, I spied a motorcycle approaching on the westbound side of the highway. His gleaming red/burgundy steed harmonized with the colors of the craggy rock background, complimenting the magnificent spectrum of nature. At the exact same instant, we saluted each other just as if we knew what we were doing there. Now let me explain something here. This was no weak, two fingers to the side, testing the slipstream kind of 'Harley' wave. Oh no! This was a full on, sit up straight, arm extended, with hand held high, 'Gold Wing' wave. I felt vibrant electricity shooting between us and slamming into my arm like a bolt of grounded lightning. Goosebumps gathered and raced down my sleeves all the way across my chest, tingling their way in pulsating waves clear down my legs to the toes encased in my work boots. Never before had I felt such power in a gesture of greeting. I craned my neck around to hang on to that powerful feeling until we disappeared into each other's history. Wow! I felt so much better. It totally amazed me how revitalizing that wave felt. It was such a relief to know I was not by myself after all. It felt good to know there was some other dumb, SOB out here in this god forsaken, over cooked, pile of sand and rock. I still strain my memory trying to decipher if his face held a smile of glee or a grimace of pain. What ever it was, I know we were glad to see each other. To me, it indicated there was indeed some way to make it across what lay before me.

    Rejuvenated, I joined highway 70 at Green River and began my route heading true east. Trucks again joined my trek and the pace certainly picked up. Going through some of the narrow canyons found me trying to pass U-haul trucks pulling cars on trailers in the right lane and semi trucks pressing close behind me in the left lane. I wondered why it was a struggle to hold my line through the curves. Perhaps I needed to repack my duffel. With no place to pull over, I kept the pressure on all the way into Grand Junction, Colorado. After a short stop, more orange juice and another tank of gas, I continued east on 70. The crosswinds seemed a bit worse and soon I was fighting to keep the bike on course. Something felt wrong and I decided to pull over to have a look. As soon as I slowed to a stop, I realized I had a flat tire on the front. Even the short distance across the overpass required a steady hand to keep the handlebars from violently shaking. I wobbled my way into the parking lot of a small town called Parachute. A quarter spent in the air pump proved there would be no way to continue with out a repair. The hole was too big to hold pressure for even a couple of minutes. Closer inspection showed a gash big enough to throw a cat through. You would think I might have noticed running over something big enough to cause a cut like that, but I didn't.

    The friendly people at the store directed me to a small shop where a short, stocky fellow kept him-self busy fixing a tractor tire and selling soda pop to the local 'Cowboys'. Since I wore a bandana doo-rag instead of a cowboy hat, it seemed I was condemned to stay at the back of the line, although for some strange reason, we shared a similar gait. When all cowboys were satisfied and no one remained in the store, the benevolent proprietor asked what he might do for me. When I explained my dilemma, he insisted he could not, in good conscience, put a plug into the hole on my tire. "That just ain't done on a motorcycle." he spat! "Well, since you have no motorcycle tires and no machine to break down a motorcycle tire, what might you recommend?" I asked. "There might be some motorcycle shops in the next couple of towns." he thumbed over his shoulder. I walked around in circles for awhile and finally convinced him to sell me a plug for 5 dollars if I agreed to put it in myself. He smiled as he took the money because he had been relieved of the responsibility and I put in the plug. It held air and I bailed out of Parachute. I hit every town for the next few miles searching for a motorcycle shop that might be able to repair my tire. The constant fear of taking a spill from another flat tire kept my speed to about 40 miles per hour. I finally called ahead to the Honda dealer in Vail and the gentleman on the telephone said they could put on a proper patch. Once I found their location and went inside, the man in charge said they did not patch tires; they could only sell new ones. He also mentioned they were far too busy to help me today and it would be tomorrow before he could get to it. (He was changing spark plugs in a snowmobile.) Well, I was on a mission and did not want to wait for an entire day for such an inconsiderate shop to service my tire. For some reason, I thought the person travelling on the road took….; Well, never mind what I thought! I was getting an education in more ways than of my own ignorance.
    I left the well stocked Honda dealer and went to the local Wal-Mart. I bought one of those compressed air and sealer in a can tire fixes and some more tire plugs. I stuffed these into my luggage bag and down the road I went. I figured: I already had a flat at 60 miles an hour and I lived. If it happens again, I might be closer to Denver where help might mean something in the line of "Today!" Shoot, the mountains were starting to get pretty, I wanted to get out and ride.

    A steady climb and progressively interesting mountains held my enthusiastic view. I had to keep my eyes on the road but I spent as much time as I could soaking up the scenery. I can understand why this is such a popular area. Up, up and away we went to a pass boasting an elevation of well over 11,000 feet. We went through some tunnels, and rode along side a river. The passes were so narrow in a few places that the west bound lanes were built on stilts over the east bound lanes that wound along the river on the right. You can count on the fact I will be back to spend time in this area. This one time shot through was not enough for me. A quick drive by only whetted my appetite for more. Descriptive words like, startling, panoramic, vistas, magnificent, exciting, could be used for any part of, or this entire piece of USA. I confess, it was worth the trip across the desert and I plan to go there again. Down the other side of the mountains seemed effortless and long sweeping curves required only an occasional application of brakes. Part way down the mountain the westbound traffic of the highway plugged at the scene of a terrible accident. The remains of an RV/camper sat where it had burned right down to the pavement and for miles behind, traffic stood at a standstill. Way down the mountain, a rescue vehicle meticulously picked its way through the parked vehicles, working its way up to the accident scene. People stood next to their cars and for the next ten miles the west side highway became a virtual parking lot. A helpless feeling came over me and a somber wish of wellbeing for the occupants of the RV remained on my thoughts for many miles.
 

On to Denver