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The Wheel Turns – 2012 X-Country Ride: California Bound; 620 miles of Hell and Irony.

Morning in Wendover was hot, even before the sun rose. All that concrete couldn’t dump its heat during the night, so the place just gets hotter and hotter. A camp breakfast and cup of hotel coffee and we were on the road. This is perhaps the earliest start of the trip. It would also be the most miles covered in one day, thus the carpe diem. The throttle was rolled and once we hit 80 mph you settled in the seat and assumed the position. Our stops were limited to gas and go. As the day came on in earnest, they would become more frequent.

Road Shot

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Nevada has a unique beauty to it. Sure the land is desolate and bleak, but if you can see past the veneer it rivals any of the sights we have seen on this trip with mountains and high deserts, windswept expanses of nothing in all directions. The vistas were used as a distraction as the heat of the day poured it on. Before noon we had broken the ride’s temperature record at 107 degrees while moving. You had to laugh; I mean this was getting ridiculous. Nevada stretched on, horizon after horizon waving in the heat. Long hours later the Sierras loomed before us. Visions of riding in the cool mountain air gave a jolt to keep the wheels turning.

After an unending brown, the tree line greeted us with green. Dry but still lush to these eyes. The rivers and lakes were low yet sparkling clear blue, and cold. The temp didn’t drop so much as we would have liked. Kale reminded me to ice up as we were headed down the mountain into the Central Valley. He didn’t mention the current temperature in Davis, Ca. He didn’t have to.

Surely at some point the tires of the bike have to melt and end this madness. Especially now. We crawled through Sacramento, Ca. at rush hour. Eight lanes of solid cars supposedly heading east greeted us. ‘What the hell is that?’ I thought when tail lights started going on ahead of us. For ten miles we clutched the unforgiving stretch of asphalt surrounded by talking heads on cell phones. At least we were moving. The eastbound lanes had turned into a parking lot.

Then suddenly free. The lanes ahead opened and RPM’s came up. The wind, even though hot, was still refreshing after sucking exhaust fumes for a half an hour. The sun beat down on us, but somehow it wasn’t a killing blow. Putting together all the things learned over the course of the ride came into play, keeping you alert and responsive.

Davis, Ca. was gasping for a breath of cool air when we pulled off for our final fuel stop. I needed re-icing and a good douse of cold water. In paying attention to the ambient heat, I missed something Kale was saying about weather just ahead. The joke would be on me. Another half hour of the blistering heat and we crossed the San Gabriel Mountains into the Bay Area. The temperature plummeted with the altitude as fog rolled in across the Berkley Hills.

115 degrees to 54 degrees in a matter of minutes. Moments later I was shivering. The iced bandana, wet shirt, and salted body from sweat soaked up the cold moist air. At seventy miles an hour, it was not time to fiddle with the knot on my bandana. Turn on the heated handgrips instead and start laughing was about the only appropriate response I could think of. Having dreamt of a moment like this for thousands of miles I certainly wasn’t going to bitch when the dream came true.

A stop at a grocery store for fresh salad and ice cream. Then through the streets of Oakland to Kale’s house. Kickstands went down, a pause. Engines shut off, another pause. We both just sat there for a moment, in mindful thanks before swinging down off the saddle. A high five. A robust hug. I think at that moment, all we wanted to do was get back on the motorcycles and keep going.

As Kale put it, “It was a blast, I tell ya, a blast!”

John’s Bike

Next: 2012 X-Country Ride; Thoughts and Observations, a Retrospective

Kale’s Bike

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About john g rees

John g rees is not your average horror writer. Not your average martyr either. After the death of his father and that of a close friend, john found the release he was loooking for and started writing. Born in the Midwest some half-century ago to two soon-to-be morticians, one can see where his ‘dead pan’ humor truly came from. Playing amongst the caskets and his catholic school upbringing underscore much of his work. He went through many types of employment. Moving west first to San Francisco, finally making his home in the Hawaiian Islands, john g rees has worked in many diverse, yet tangent fields: from the repair of Ferraris to the repair of underwater dock pilings; painting houses to painting ship zincs; general construction to general salvage diving on many sized ships - working out of Pearl Harbor for a while, on Navy vessels, some top secret. He has traveled the world looking for work and play in out of the way places. Never finding what he expects. He likes it that way. He has been happily married for 20 years.

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