Just One of Those Days

I arrived in Cornville, AZ the day after yesterday.  It’s absolutely gorgeous here.  The verde valley truly is green at this time of year and the daytime high is around 90F.  Let me back track a little to one of those days.  It was just one of those days.

Nowhere Road – Death Valley Hwy South

The morning I rode through Death Valley, I woke up to frozen toes and 35F in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada – Mammoth Lakes, CA.  I decided that morning after halfway thru my run when I started to feel my tootsies again that I would spend the following night soaking in a hot springs under the great desert skies.  This was before the ride through Death Valley.  On the road south I watched the sign for Tecopa Hot Springs disappear in my side view.  I had spent the afternoon soaking in a puddle of my own sweat and the evening dusk was bringing in a cool breeze.  The last thing I wanted was hot springs.  Instead, I watched my shadow stretch across the road elongating with the dropping sun.

I decided to find a place to snuggle up under the stars in the Mojave Preserve.  At least that was the plan.  But, after all, it was just one of those days.  The road seemingly stretched into nowhere.  With a shoulder made of loose sand and fine gravel, stopping became implausible.  I tried to pull over at a turnoff and found myself snaking through 1ft of loose dirt.  It was fun, but at the end of a long day, I was not interested in dropping my bike down a sandy road.

By the time I reached highway 15 the sun was down.  There were no motels in the area, so I decided to travel east.  Or was it south?  Or perhaps, the road ventured north and then east until I found the turnoff to go south.  The first motel I found didn’t take credit cards.  I was really venturing down nowhere roads and the time was slowly ticking.  The woman at the front desk told me I had a 35 mile ride to Laughlin where I could find a motel.  At 9:30 pm I rolled into Laughlin, took one look at the bright lights, sprawling casinos, drunkards, and partiers and decided to keep going to Kingman.  After all, it was just one of those days.  Right?  Of course one road turned into another.  And stretched on through suburbs without any indication of Kingman.  60 miles out of my way and 10:30pm (12 1/2 hrs on the road), I came to Needles.  The first motel looked like a 5 star resort to my weary eyes.  At $28 a night, a complete lack of ventilation, residues of smoke and dust bunnies, a freeway out the back window and all-night trains passing out the front, I managed to sleep the whole night thru.  Because, after all, it was just one of those days.

Between 6 pm and 11 pm all I could think of was what it would be like to ride the Dakar, lost somewhere in the sandy dunes with no end in sight.  My one day was nothing in comparison.

At Large in the World

I passed a camper van on a long stretch of tarmac.  It wasn’t that the driver was going particularly slow or that the van was one of those notorious slow crawlers.  Sometimes, I just like to feel as if I have the road to myself .

At the following gas station the driver pulled up and jumped out of his van.  He came over with a big grin on his face and said, “I saw this bike coming from behind and then watched you pass.  My daughter was with me and she took one look at you and said, “Right on!”.  I glanced over and saw this frail thing with a ponytail whizzing by obviously fit for adventure, and I also thought, “Right on!”".  He proceeded to tell me that a long time ago he had read a book called, “Tales of a Female Nomad.  Living at Large in the World”.  He said that every time one of his friends ask him what he is doing travelling around in his van he responds, “Oh.  I’m just at large in the world”.

I like this.  Right on!

What a Long Strange Trip

A friend recommended that I find a means of recording thoughts while on the road.  I have been travelling nearly two weeks and have written so little that I don’t know where to start.

After yesterday, the beginning and end of all tales feels like it belongs in the heart of Death Valley.  I was so excited to ride through the valley in late September.  After all, how hot could it be?  And really, it is only a couple of hours through the valley floor.  Right?  The picture above was taken at the top of the descent into the inferno.  Bright eyed and eager for the ride, I casually brushed off the question posed to me by the man taking the picture.  ”Is your riding gear hot for this kind of riding?”

I should have responded to such a seemingly obvious question when I was halfway across the valley floor and ran out of water.  Or perhaps the response should have come when the road looked hazy due to the heat rising from my body.  Better yet, I’m sure the answer could have come when I recognized that the shimmering bodies of water were merely dusty salty flats reflecting in the assault of the sun.

Death Valley in the fall (and perhaps, winter) is like the hottest day in Phoenix.  Luckily, I wasn’t stopped in the unbearable traffic of a city street and kept a steady, “65 mph-and-I’m-outta-here” pace.  There was a point, after running out of water, that I panicked.  Not because I was concerned for my own body’s hydration, I was concerned about the possibility of Dusty running out of his.  I could not even imagine overheating in the middle of that blasted valley floor.  I kept thinking to myself, “when was the last time I checked the coolant?  Could there have been a leak that I missed?  Did the bike really just shudder?  Is he stalling a little going uphill?”  The questions droned on until I remembered my mantra and brought my mind back in focus. At which point, I found myself completely amazed by the awe-inspiring surroundings.  This truly was like no place I have been on earth.

When I came to a general store and gas station, I was relieved to find a cooler full of cold beverages.  I cannot remember the last time I drank a V8, but I managed to put one back in minutes.  It was here that I discovered a “secret hatch” to Dusty’s coolant reservoir and that the levels were the same as they have always been.  This is one trust-worthy motorcycle – kudos to the German and Austrian engineers.

It is amazing how the mind can so easily change the perspective on a situation.  Here I was in the valley of death and suddenly the most amazingly beautiful landscape appeared before me.  Massive towering cliffs, hoodoos, black strewn rock, long barren flats, and white drifting sand dunes.

I was riding along immersed in what lay before me when the most incredible thing appeared out of the mirage.  Was it?  Really?  A man running.  Yup.  It was.  A man running along the side of the road, drenched in sweat.  His mouth was parched, his pace staggeringly slow, but there he was, jogging through the valley of death.

After witnessing that, my perspective was completely altered.  A sticker that I saw in the morning came to mind.  It was pasted to the windscreen of a world-travelled motorcycle, “What a long strange trip it’s been…”

Bitter-Sweet

It was a cold damp afternoon leaving Fernie and a bitter-sweet goodbye.  I must admit that the strong emotions I used to experience around coming and going dissipated long ago.  Perhaps, on this life’s road I neither come nor go.  I just travel on with the smiling faces of loved ones so present in my mind’s eye.  I know they are here with me, gliding effortlessly by my side.

So when I see a shadow creep around the eyes and hearts of loved ones upon my departure, I send my love.  To my dearest parents; “I am so blessed to have you in my life.  Thank you for the gift of being and the kind and loving nature that embodies our relationship.  Thank you for the opportunity to share time together.  In gratitude we grow, evolve, expand, and learn from each other”.

So if the shadow ever becomes a tear, I hope we all take the opportunity to taste it.  Like a precious liquid, I have learned that tears embody a myriad of flavours well beyond bitter and sweet.

Full Autumn Moon

I have been transported back into the land of maps.  It seems as if every time I close my eyes little topo lines appear behind the lids.  If I had been born in the times when great adventurers set off by ship to explore unknown worlds, I think I would have stowed myself away.  I would have crept onto the deck at night to breathe in the cool ocean air and to gaze at the stars.  And each day, as the skies lie steadfast above the rolling swells, I would watch my path reflected in their patterns.  I’m sure I would have watched the full moon rise as it will in a couple of days – a giant orange orb touching the land with its soft pale glow.

Shortly after this harvest moon, I will set off on the next leg of this trip.  Soon, I will be on the road again.

Happy Dusty Cows

 

Well. I figure the picture speaks for itself. However, a friend of mine took one look at it and said, “you look like you’re taking a break on the set of some apocalyptic film!!! You all look so crazy dirty and baddass, and the icecream looks so sweet and cool”.

Last Sunday, I went out riding with Tyler, Roberta, and Chad (you guys rock!) It was yet another fantastic day it the Elk Valley.  We rode up to the Flathead on the dry dirt roads that are ubiquitous to the area after so many hot days this summer.  Needless to say, the river was a welcome relief after an hour or two breathing dust.  All of us managed to make the icy plunge, albeit, Roberta remained in the mountain-fed river long after the rest of us had splashed, screamed, yelped, shivered, and climbed onto the hot rocks basking in the sun.  Kudos to you, mermaid-woman.

I could not help but do the “ice-cream” ride coming back into Fernie.  If you have never seen such manoeuvring done by a rider covered head-to-toe in a fine dark silt, come to the valley and check it out.  You can probably spot us somewhere between Fas Gas and Rip & Richards on Highway 3 with our tongues rolled slightly out of our parched grinning mouths and a big ole’ double scoop in hand.

Migrations

I haven’t seen the hummingbirds in a week now.  The mornings are crisp and the flowers are wilting and turning brown.  Summer in the rockies can touch you like the fleeting glimpse of a stranger.  I have been here already a month.  A spectacular month of hiking in the mountains and breathing in the wild fresh air.  Dusty and I have gone on little jaunts, but more often than not, we have stayed close to home.  Zipping here and there, checking out new hikes, harvesting plants and berries.  I had a strange dream last night that a big chunk of his tire tread was missing.  And what did I do?  I thought about the next big ride and whether I should be replacing it.

There comes a time when I feel a sense of urgency around the darkening days and the frost-bit mornings.  Not necessarily for the oncoming winter, but rather, I think of the southern departure.  I suppose, in some ways, I have become a migratory animal.  One day, I will wake up and know that next week I must ride my bike south to escape the cold blanket that will cover this part of the world.  We made it in the nick of time last year.  Freezing mornings, cold camping, long hard days, and one snowstorm later, we were in the desert.

It seems early this year, the morning chill.  But soon.  Soon. We shall dust off our wings and fly again.

 

The Optimal Flow

I went for a ride with a friend in Fernie last night.  He rides a GS Dakar (Dusty’s big brother) and is a great rider.  I love following him through the twists and turns of the forest service roads.  Watching the dirt fly from his tires and the bikes play tag on the road.  Although, I wouldn’t say the roads we traversed were challenging, they definitely had some obstacles.  And a scenic beauty lush with waterfalls and vistas that I am thankful to have experienced.

There is so much more to riding the backcountry then on the pavement.  Not only is it important for me to be capable of handling my motorcycle, but I also have to be keenly aware of the changes in road conditions, hazards, and unforeseen obstacles that may pop up at any time.   Sometimes I wonder if riding a motorcycle accelerates the mind’s ability to react at a speed beyond normal human functioning.  The ability to evolve with technology fascinates me.

There are those situations, however, that just hit me.  They sneak up and tap me on the shoulder to remind me of where I am.  I have attempted to look back on the “incident” and remember how it was that I managed to slam Dusty into a ditch and still keep him upright.  I remember having the last moment thought, “oh no!”  I wish I could tell you that that thought was elongated or temporarily slowed down.  If this were the case, I would have long avoided the hazard or stopped in time.  Instead, I slammed right into it.  I then heard a “WHACK” and a sharp pain at the base of the neck.  I pulled the bike over on flat ground and got off.

My throat started swelling immediately.  A mark was there that left a deep red welt.  I looked at the bike and was amazed to see that my neck had smacked so hard into the windscreen that a piece of the plexi had broken off.  I wondered at how that was possible.  Then I took a deep breath and was relieved to be able to inhale the cool mountain air.  I took another deep breath and smiled.  And then I swallowed.  Ouch.  I decided then to get back on the bike and keep going.  For years I rode horses and recall some awe-inspiring moments of flying through the air.  Independent of which way I landed, if I could stand up, dust off my breeches and put my feet back in the stirrups, I was good to go.

So onwards I rode, releasing into the joy of being back on the bike.  Occasionally, my hand would flutter to the base of my neck.  And I thought of the energy coursing through that area and the body’s incredible ability to heal.  So unlike the machine I was riding, with an irreparable windscreen.

Later I realized that I had hit my throat directly on the chakra.  This chakra is, in part, associated with listening to one’s intuition and helps guide one in an optimal flow.  Perhaps, the next stage beyond speeding up my awareness to the tune of the machine is to move into a state of intuition and be guided by the optimal flow.

On the Reesor Ranch

I checked my odometer rolling into Cypress Hills, AB and was astonished to see that 8,000 miles have passed.  Have I really been on the road for almost 2 months?  The last couple of days riding across prairies in heavy wind was gruelling.  If I had any foresight on the conditions, I would have taken a before and after head shot to see whether my neck is permanently kinked in the northwest position.

I finally rolled into the campsite by Elkwater Lake to meet my parents grinning from ear to ear.  It was great to reunite after 7 months without seeing them.  Of course, my mom had a beautiful spread of BBQ’ed goodies, salads, and rhubarb crumble from a neighbour’s garden.  In celebration we opened a bottle of sparkling wine and cleaned up the last of the night’s meal before a thunderstorm swept in at tremendous force and flooded our little party.  Party pooper!

The next couple of nights we retreated to the warm comfort of the historic Reesor Ranch on the north rim of the Cypress Hills provincial park.  What a fantastic place to visit!  I highly recommend an evening on the porch surrounded by the sounds of nickering horses and the rustle of prairie grass.  Theresa and Scott (our hosts) were instrumental at bringing a piece of their family history to the table with stories, photographs, antiques, and cowboy poetry.  Yup.  Cowboy poetry over a breakfast of eggs, bacon, pancakes, fruit and coffee is my new favourite way to start the day.  I wish I had some words written directly by the poet himself, but we will have to wait on an update from Scott Reesor for that.

Here is a little snippet found online from Don Edwards’ Saddle Song, Make Me a Cowboy for a Day:

Under the star-studded sky so vast
Campfires and coffee and comfort at last
Bacon that sizzles and crisps in the pan
After the roundup smells good to a man
Stories of cowboys and outlaws retold
Over the pipes as the embers grow cold
These are the tunes that old memories play
Make me a cowboy again for a day

Friends and Strangers

I have a few friends who are motorcyclists.  But amongst the motorcycle community, I share a sense of camaraderie independent of whether they are friends or strangers.  So when I was driving west on the trans-Canada and came upon a group of motorcyclists standing around their friend who had just been in an accident, my heart leapt.  The motorcycle and trailer was lying in the grassy median.   The front end looked irreparable, the frame bent and trailer crunched.   And although I did not know these people, I felt a part of their tribe.  A small group on a summer holiday travelling across the country with camping gear stashed in every compartment.  I can only imagine their conversation at the last gas station, how they shared their stories, spoke of the ride ahead and eagerly embarked on the next section of the journey.  So wherever you are out there, I send you healing thoughts and a lighter heart.  May we all learn from the challenges of being on the road and embrace the experience of being present for the ride ahead.