Alaska: Day 21 (25 June 09)
Up at the crack of dawn again, I got an early start, hitting the road a little before 7, early enough that there were still a number of deer out on the road south of Durango. No problem, I was paying attention.
My original plans were to cut east across northern New Mexico on Hwy 64, a ride I've made many times before through Chama and Taos and Cimarron Canyon and so on. In fact, I'd originally planned to stay at the Eklund Hotel in Clayton, NM, an historic old place discovered on my last trip out this way with Greg and Elaine. But the trip was winding down and I wanted to be home. I realized now that I should have spent more time in Alaska. Here, this close to home, the road was all too familiar and fast losing its appeal. I was ready to see the family, get kisses from my dogs, sleep in my own bed, etc. And it was getting hot. Before the day was out, I would really miss the Arctic temperatures I'd left behind.
Anyway, I followed Hwy 550 south of Durango toward Farmington. The Rockies dropped down into the arroyos and mesas Dan Fogelberg loved to sing about. I passed through the town of Bloomfield, trying for the life of me to remember the mile marker where my Tiger's engine had blown up several years ago and left me stranded. (It's in that ride report.) Couldn't quite pinpoint the spot, though. Also couldn't see far enough to the west to spot Shiprock, which kinda disappointed me as I always enjoy seeing that singular, unmistakable spire rising from the surrounding desert. Somewhere along the way, someone asked me if I'd heard that Michael Jackson had died. I shrugged. Who cares? Then I was told that Farrah Fawcett had lost her battle with cancer. That made me sad.
550 carried me down through Cuba, where I gave a moment's thought to seeking out a particularly difficult part of Hwy 126 that had given Gregger fits years ago on his VFR. I've always wanted to verify that the road probably wasn't that difficult at all and that Greg was just being a whiney-wuss. No matter how many times I pass through there, though, I never seem to manage to do that. Didn't this time either, as I had my eye set on I-40 and a quick ass-hauling for OKC. So I eventually rolled into Albuquerque, grabbed the hated interslab and opened up the throttle for the home stretch.
Good gawd was it ever hot! 105 degrees on the interstate. What had happened while I was gone? Where were the thirties, forties, and fifties of Alaska? The only way I could survive was to stop every hundred miles, buy a big bottle of cold water, pour half of it down my throat and the other half down my collar. At one such stop, some nerd with his pretty wife sitting next to him rolled down the window on his air conditioned SUV and said, "Aren't you hot in that gear?" I wanted to bounce my empty water bottle off his head, but instead just smiled and patiently explained how, having been down a couple times in my life, I valued the skin on my body. He gave me a "whatever," roll-of-the-eyes kinda look, rolled up his window, and drove off. Guess he was really wanting to hear me bitch and moan about how uncomfortable I was riding in the heat so that he could feel good about riding around in his boring (but air-conditioned) SUV. Truth, though? It wasn't that bad. Riding a motorcycle - especially on a trip like this - has more than its fair share of discomfort: heat, cold, rain, your ass screaming at you to get off, etc. I'll trade that discomfort any day to travel in the way that I've come to love so much. I was alive in that heat (even though it was killing me!), just as I'm alive any time I'm on a bike. You couldn't pay me to trade the discomfort for the boring interior of that SUV. And what irritated Mr "Hey, aren't you hot?" is that he knew that. He wished he was in my place and had hoped my answer would at least to some extent abate those desires and perhaps show the wifey how much better off they were in that SUV. "Look at this dumbass," he'd probably told her, hoping I'd confirm the misery he'd hoped I was enduring.
Anyway ... Durango to OKC. 765 miles. Definitely a long day. I rolled through my neighborhood about 8:30. As always, there was no one outside to notice. Nobody to wonder where I'd traveled to have gotten the GS so incredibly filthy. Three weeks, people! I've been gone for three whole weeks, but I guess you didn't even notice? Over 10,000 miles to Alaska and back - the farthest I've ever ventured on a motorcycle (and I'm reminded now how that had hit me one day in Alaska, all at once, a "Holy crap, even if I wanted to be home right now and turned in that direction, it would take me 8 to 10 days of riding just to get there!").
The door was up, so nobody heard me pull into the garage. I spent a few minutes with Lucky Dog, mostly just savoring the sensation of standing on my own property again, the joy of seeing my other bikes just as I'd left them there in the garage. Gracie, my mastiff, was outside, too, but apparently she'd forgotten who I was in three weeks' time and wouldn't come close, running around behind the house to hide (you've never seen a bigger fraidy-cat than that dog). It would take her a few hours to warm back up to me. Finally I went on in the house where everyone was excited to see me.
I was home.
I'd ridden my motorcycle all the way to Deadhorse, Alaska and back.
Wonder where I should go next? Heh heh.
Love my GS!
My original plans were to cut east across northern New Mexico on Hwy 64, a ride I've made many times before through Chama and Taos and Cimarron Canyon and so on. In fact, I'd originally planned to stay at the Eklund Hotel in Clayton, NM, an historic old place discovered on my last trip out this way with Greg and Elaine. But the trip was winding down and I wanted to be home. I realized now that I should have spent more time in Alaska. Here, this close to home, the road was all too familiar and fast losing its appeal. I was ready to see the family, get kisses from my dogs, sleep in my own bed, etc. And it was getting hot. Before the day was out, I would really miss the Arctic temperatures I'd left behind.
Anyway, I followed Hwy 550 south of Durango toward Farmington. The Rockies dropped down into the arroyos and mesas Dan Fogelberg loved to sing about. I passed through the town of Bloomfield, trying for the life of me to remember the mile marker where my Tiger's engine had blown up several years ago and left me stranded. (It's in that ride report.) Couldn't quite pinpoint the spot, though. Also couldn't see far enough to the west to spot Shiprock, which kinda disappointed me as I always enjoy seeing that singular, unmistakable spire rising from the surrounding desert. Somewhere along the way, someone asked me if I'd heard that Michael Jackson had died. I shrugged. Who cares? Then I was told that Farrah Fawcett had lost her battle with cancer. That made me sad.
550 carried me down through Cuba, where I gave a moment's thought to seeking out a particularly difficult part of Hwy 126 that had given Gregger fits years ago on his VFR. I've always wanted to verify that the road probably wasn't that difficult at all and that Greg was just being a whiney-wuss. No matter how many times I pass through there, though, I never seem to manage to do that. Didn't this time either, as I had my eye set on I-40 and a quick ass-hauling for OKC. So I eventually rolled into Albuquerque, grabbed the hated interslab and opened up the throttle for the home stretch.
Good gawd was it ever hot! 105 degrees on the interstate. What had happened while I was gone? Where were the thirties, forties, and fifties of Alaska? The only way I could survive was to stop every hundred miles, buy a big bottle of cold water, pour half of it down my throat and the other half down my collar. At one such stop, some nerd with his pretty wife sitting next to him rolled down the window on his air conditioned SUV and said, "Aren't you hot in that gear?" I wanted to bounce my empty water bottle off his head, but instead just smiled and patiently explained how, having been down a couple times in my life, I valued the skin on my body. He gave me a "whatever," roll-of-the-eyes kinda look, rolled up his window, and drove off. Guess he was really wanting to hear me bitch and moan about how uncomfortable I was riding in the heat so that he could feel good about riding around in his boring (but air-conditioned) SUV. Truth, though? It wasn't that bad. Riding a motorcycle - especially on a trip like this - has more than its fair share of discomfort: heat, cold, rain, your ass screaming at you to get off, etc. I'll trade that discomfort any day to travel in the way that I've come to love so much. I was alive in that heat (even though it was killing me!), just as I'm alive any time I'm on a bike. You couldn't pay me to trade the discomfort for the boring interior of that SUV. And what irritated Mr "Hey, aren't you hot?" is that he knew that. He wished he was in my place and had hoped my answer would at least to some extent abate those desires and perhaps show the wifey how much better off they were in that SUV. "Look at this dumbass," he'd probably told her, hoping I'd confirm the misery he'd hoped I was enduring.
Anyway ... Durango to OKC. 765 miles. Definitely a long day. I rolled through my neighborhood about 8:30. As always, there was no one outside to notice. Nobody to wonder where I'd traveled to have gotten the GS so incredibly filthy. Three weeks, people! I've been gone for three whole weeks, but I guess you didn't even notice? Over 10,000 miles to Alaska and back - the farthest I've ever ventured on a motorcycle (and I'm reminded now how that had hit me one day in Alaska, all at once, a "Holy crap, even if I wanted to be home right now and turned in that direction, it would take me 8 to 10 days of riding just to get there!").
The door was up, so nobody heard me pull into the garage. I spent a few minutes with Lucky Dog, mostly just savoring the sensation of standing on my own property again, the joy of seeing my other bikes just as I'd left them there in the garage. Gracie, my mastiff, was outside, too, but apparently she'd forgotten who I was in three weeks' time and wouldn't come close, running around behind the house to hide (you've never seen a bigger fraidy-cat than that dog). It would take her a few hours to warm back up to me. Finally I went on in the house where everyone was excited to see me.
I was home.
I'd ridden my motorcycle all the way to Deadhorse, Alaska and back.
Wonder where I should go next? Heh heh.
Love my GS!Labels: Alaska, motorcycles
posted by Brian A. Hopkins at 3:33 PM
1 Comments:
Awesome ride report. Man, wish I was with you. I agree, I would rather be freezing/sweating my butt off on a bike any day than cruising in my SUV. Thanks for sharing your trip with all of us still stuck at our desk.
Post a Comment
Links to this post:
Create a Link
<< Home