Paul (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} ace_combs) wrote,@ 2005-11-12 02:07:00 |
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The KLR650 Motorcycle: Ride America
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Somewhere outside Los Angeles, near a place called Temecula, I decided that I couldn't deal with Southern Califonia anymore. I found myself sinking into the same depression that had caused me to flee Chicago. The multi-lane, traffic-filled, concrete super-highways flowed through a seemingly endless suburban strip-mall landscape.
"Watch the sky," wrote Alana. The sky was heavy with ominous clouds. A cruel wind blew damp off the Ocean; I was tired of being wet and cold; no love came my way from SF. Maybe it was best to save the Pac NW for the Spring? I decided to alter my course: I took 79 to 74, and ran through the breathtaking beauty of the San Bernadino National Forest. And then it was all Interstate: Fallbrook, CA - Odometer: 4367 - Date/Time: Nov 8, 13:59 Austin, TX - Odometer: 5754 - Date/Time: Nov 10, 16:28 1387 miles (2232 KM) in 50 hours and 29 minutes. Counting the distance from San Diego, and the time lost to the Border Patrol stops, I did two 700 mile days of riding, back-to-back. For me, on my lightweight, single-cylinder motorcycle, that was a lot of riding. It was a good experience. Having made an effort to travel on two-lane State and County roads on my route to the Pacific, it was an interesting contrast to "burn ass" at high-speed along I-10. October 31 - November 5, The road from Texas to California: I entered New Mexico's southeastern region, near Carlsbad. The land felt exposed: open to the heat of the day and the cold of the night - swinging 40 degrees (F) in temperature through the course of any given 24 hour period: 
The scenery changed as I headed north, and drew near to Santa Fe. Mountains erupted from the desert. Santa Fe appeared to be something akin to a caricature of itself, suffering the same fate as Venice: indebted to tourism. When it is easier to buy silver jewelry than groceries, living becomes difficult. Still it (Santa Fe) bears the marks of centuries of civilization, standing out oddly proud in a humble state. The Spanish Cathedral of Saint Francis in the background: 
I continued north. Having learned my lesson about the climate, I stopped to don an extra layer of clothing when I saw the sun begin to set. Two young Mexican girls, on their way to trailer park homes, walked up to me as I changed on the roadside. "Nice bike," they chimed. And then one of the girls asked if I was there to "ride her away." I felt bad; that feeling stuck with me. Then an hour later, while paying for gas at a small general store named Bodes, I noticed a poster hanging on the rear wall of the place: there was Georgia O'Keeffe on the back of a motorcycle. And the text on the poster read: "The Women Who Rode Away." I had stumbled upon Georgia O'Keeffe's town of Abiquiu: okeeffe.santa.fe/timeline.html. That was/is the trip: I didn't/don't plan things; things happened/happen. I cannot imagine being a woman in America, interested in the arts, and not going to see that place. (O'Keefe's birthday is November 15.) But only in the sum of the lives of the trailer park girls and O'Keefe is the whole story told. New Mexico is more than an established artist's retreat. The evidence of widespread poverty and abundant natural resources remind one of Kentucky, Arkansas or West Virgina. I should have spent the night there, in Abiquiu, but I didn't. Instead, I approached Colorado - entering the Rocky Mountains - gaining elevation all the while. The sun set. I parked at a rest area, and slept for a few hours. The bike fell over; I was left with 7/8 of a clutch lever. And things continued to get worse. The temperature fell like my bike. I saw snow flakes swirling in the air. I pressed on, hoping to find something, anything, to keep me warm. Signs warning of "Fresh Oil" and "Loose Gravel" appeared. Elk - God damn they are huge - ran across the roadway, nearly killing me. It kept getting colder. I found nothing, and no one. And then, just when I thought that I couldn't continue, the Jicarilla Apache appeared: jicarilla.net/. The Apache allowed me to stay overnight in the lobby of their casino - for free. I asked if they wanted anything: my money, my identification. "What for?" they asked. That kindness saved my life, I am quite certain. This is their land, near Dulce, New Mexico, on the Colorado border: 
Morning broke. After profuse thanks, and a hearty breakfast, I rode into Arizona. I swear that there was a different "air" rushing up to meet me. This was the scene to which I was treated: 
I had entered Navajo Territory: thenavajotimes.com and nps.gov/nava/nav.htm. The outskirts of the Painted Desert and Monument Valley: 
Travelling southwest, through Arizona, I passed the edge of the Grand Canyon near Tuba City, north of Flagstaff. It must have been a thousand foot drop to the floor below the cliff's edge where this photo was taken: 
I got a hotel room in Flagstaff. The Days Inn East, Flagstaff, kicked ass. I got clean; I got warm. Route 89A, heading southwest, was awesome. Sedona - only a (relatively) few miles from the area of the Grand Canyon and Painted Desert - represented a radical change in environment: city-data.com/city/Sedona-Arizona.html. Mixed forests of Pine and Oak thickly covered the steep slopes and creek-filled valleys: 
Further along 89A, I discovered Jerome: theasylum.biz/azpubreview.htm, azjerome.com/. That city, Jerome, hangs on the side of a mountain - as San Francisco poises on its hills. TWISTY ROADS filled with motorcycles galore: 
Pictured above: Santa Fe, New Mexico - 285 - 84 - Abiquiu - 64 - Chama - Dulce - crossing into Arizona - 160 - 89 - Flagstaff - 89A - Sedona - Jerome - Prescott. That is the portion of the ride that I would do again, in a heartbeat. |
