The year is 1995. The setting is a small kitchen in Laurinburg, North Carolina.
Me: I’m thinking of a motorcycle trip.
Wife: Where now?
Me: Cross-country. Across the whole country…and back. Shore to shore to shore.
Wife: You are crazy.
Me: If I had a dime…
Wife: You’d spend it on a new motorcycle.
Me: Yeah, probably.
Wife: Have fun.
Me: Really?
Wife: You are going to go anyway.
Me: Yeah, probably.
Wife: You’ve been talking to Tony?
Me: Yeah, probably.
Wife: He’s going too?
Me: Yeah, probably.
Wife: (dramatic eye roll)
It started with an idea and progressed to the Honda dealer in Rockingham, North Carolina, where I tossed a coin between a new Honda VFR750 and a CBR1000. I picked the CBR mostly because I hadn’t had one before.
My buddy Tony Crowell, who worked for a government agency, lived near San Diego, California. I told him about my plan, and he was in from the start.
I lived in North Carolina, about ninety miles from the coast. I figured I was close enough to the Atlantic to count it. I wanted to do a relatively scenic trip to the Pacific Coast and back.
Tony came up with his own idea and called me. He told me he would ride from California to Louisiana, his original home, like me. He said his Uncle Bill might want to go as well.
His Uncle Bill Jones, whom I knew as “Fred” Jones—or “Flyin’ Fred”—lived in Arcadia, Louisiana. We had ridden together many times before.
The plan was for Tony to ride from California to Louisiana, join Flyin’ Fred, and ride to St. Louis, Missouri. I would leave North Carolina and ride to St. Louis, Gateway to the West, arriving there at about the same time.
We were all Cardinals fans, so we planned to stay downtown near Busch Stadium and catch a game if they were at home.
They weren’t.
(Sigh.)
The next day, we would leave St. Louis and loosely follow the path of Lewis and Clark across Missouri before veering off so we could take Tony home to San Diego. Then Fred and I would head back east, dropping him off in Louisiana before I rode home to North Carolina.
In what I could have titled “What Was I Thinking?”, I planned this trip for the third and fourth weeks of July.
Today I laugh at that idea, but I was still young and immortal then, and I didn’t see an issue.
There was an issue.
On average, the third week of July is the hottest week of the year.
Thirty-six-year-old me couldn’t have cared less.
I was that guy who intentionally went out for runs in the midday sun when it was 100 degrees simply because I liked how it made me struggle, and because I knew other people wouldn’t do it.
I never considered the heat would be a problem.
It would turn out to be a problem.
Day One started great as I pulled out of the driveway at 12360 Colinwood Circle. My ride across North Carolina was warm, but the beautiful Appalachian Mountains provided some relief.
Day Two, as I rode two-lane roads across the beautiful hills, valleys, farms, and fields of Tennessee, the heat—in the upper 90s—began to wear on me, but I was still too excited about the adventure to care.
I stayed in Memphis, land of the Delta Blues, on the second night and had Memphis barbecue for dinner.
As I was packing up to leave on Day Three, during my third trip to load the bike, a guy I didn’t know walked up to me.
Not an unusual thing on motorcycle trips. Regular guys—those without motorcycles—often want to ask questions about traveling on a bike. The conversation usually ends with the words:
“But my wife…”
This guy, however, didn’t want to know whether my “crotch rocket” was comfortable enough to ride that far.
Instead, he held up a key ring that looked just like mine.
Hmmm.
“Is this yours?” he asked. “I found it in the parking lot.”
With a huge sigh of relief, I thanked him profusely. I hadn’t even realized I’d dropped it.
With my key securely in my pocket now, I decided to make sure I’d packed the spare.
I looked.
I had not.
If you travel on a motorcycle, packing becomes an art.
On one hand, because you’re exposed to the elements, you need a wide range of clothing. On the other, you don’t have much space, so you have to keep it to a minimum.
Everything has to be secured so it doesn’t come off, only to be picked up later by a teenager doing community service for some illegal mischief.
But there are some things that need to be easily accessible, so we like pockets and pouches and try to remember what we put in which pouch.
In none of my pockets or pouches was my other key.
Major fail.
I have never lost a key, and thanks to my new friend in Memphis, that record still holds.
My plan for the day was to ride along the Mississippi River up to St. Louis. It wouldn’t take all day.
I was not ready for the vista the day would bring.
The Great Flood of 1993 had devastated much of the area along my route. The landscape, which should have been forests, fields, farms, and villages scattered along the mighty Mississippi River, had become an eerie moonscape of dried mud plains, scraggly dead trees, and a smell that just wasn’t right.
It had been two years, but things most assuredly still weren’t right.
My somber mood lightened as I reached the familiar sights of St. Louis.
My dad was a true St. Louis Cardinals fan, listening to games on KMOX radio at night from his bed in Union Parish, Louisiana. He told me that at night you could pick up AM stations from hundreds of miles away, and there were two choices for baseball. WWL out of New Orleans carried the New York Yankees, while KMOX out of St. Louis carried the Cardinals.
He said most kids became fans of one or the other.
Daddy chose the Cardinals.
So did I.
The sight of the Gateway Arch in the distance felt familiar. It felt a bit like home.
Daddy took my brother and me to a game at Sportsman’s Park in 1964. Bob Gibson, Lou Brock, and Ken Boyer were among the players that day.
I’d like to say I remember it all.
But I was five.
We returned to St. Louis several more times over the years for games at Busch Stadium, rides to the top of the brand-new Gateway Arch, animal petting at Grant’s Farm, meeting the Budweiser Clydesdales, and tours of the Anheuser-Busch Brewery.
Daddy didn’t drink beer, but the brewery was still a fascinating place to visit.
After our honeymoon, the first trip Mary and I took together was to St. Louis. I couldn’t wait to share the city with her.
It was a wonderful trip.
We visited all of my favorite places, plus we took a helicopter ride around the city that lifted off from—and landed on—a barge in the river.
The Cardinals swept a much-delayed doubleheader against the Dodgers, ending with a walk-off home run by Jack Clark at about 3:00 a.m.
It was magical.
I have metaphorically taken a dirt road on my motorcycle adventure, but that’s where my mind went.
Sorry.
Leaving St. Louis, we crossed and re-crossed the Missouri River several times as we headed west.
We tarried in Kearney, Missouri, at Jesse James’s house before finally making it into Kansas.
“Amber waves of grain” are no joke.
Although they were still a little green, the farmland of America stretched mile after mile to every horizon.
The next day took us into Nebraska.
By my design, we rode through the tiny town of Hazard, Nebraska.
I believed Bryan Adams when he swore he left Mary by the river.
He left her safe and sound.
Anyway…
When we stopped for a cold drink at a little country store, I could swear the locals were looking at me with prejudice eyes, saying “that boy’s not right.”
Leaving that old Nebraska town, we ran into a major thunderstorm.
As the rain began pelting us, we turned down a dirt drive leading to an old barn surrounded by greasy-looking tractors and worn farm implements.
Fortunately, we weren’t greeted with a shotgun.
Instead, we were met by a confused—but friendly—farmer wearing faded overalls.
He was understandably skeptical of three motorcycle hoodlums showing up in his barn, but he quickly figured out we were harmless and simply looking for shelter.
After pulling on our rain gear and thanking the farmer, we climbed back onto the bikes.
Naturally…
The rain stopped.
As it always does once you’re finally prepared.
Ninety degrees in rain gear is its own special kind of misery, so just a few miles down the road we stopped again and packed it all away.
The first real break from the heat finally came in Colorado.
Our route took us into Big Thompson Canyon and on to Estes Park. High in the Rocky Mountains, glacial ice still lingered, and the temperature was gloriously cool.
The mountain vistas were breathtaking and majestic, and they would remain that way for the next two days.
I think our hotel was in Frisco, Colorado.
It was there that I decided I was going to go for a run.
What was I thinking?
Well, I was thinking how wonderful the cool temperature felt, and how great this run was going to be.
With my shoes laced securely, I headed down a mountain trail.
My run that day covered approximately…
163 feet.
At that point my wheezing became so labored that I collapsed into the grass, gasping for air.
There just wasn’t much air to be had.
Frisco sits at nearly 11,000 feet above sea level, and the lower barometric pressure meant that every breath contained only 13% of the oxygen than I was used to back home at sea level.
I simply told the guys I had decided to cut my run short.
___________________________________________
Day Two in Colorado took us over Independence Pass and across the Continental Divide—the point where water begins its journey either toward the Pacific Ocean or the Gulf of Mexico.
As we climbed higher, dark clouds began gathering around the mountaintops.
Near the visitor center the precipitation started.
Then the lightning.
This wasn’t a thunderstorm.
This was thunder-sleet.
Lightning.
Frozen rain.
Not exactly ideal motorcycle weather.
Shelter was only a short distance ahead, but we found ourselves trapped behind a line of vacationers in cars, pickups, motorhomes, and travel trailers, all inching cautiously through the storm.
Eventually we reached the visitor center and made a dash inside.
Before long, the gift shop looked like Noah’s Ark.
Everyone had decided they didn’t really want to be outside.
It was there that I ran into several people from Ruston, Louisiana.
I recognized the faces.
Even now, thirty years later…
I still have no idea who you were.
If you’re reading this, and you happened to wait out a thunder-sleet storm in Colorado during July of 1995…
Please let me know.
It’s been bothering me for thirty years.
I’d like to sleep again.
___________________________________________
Have you ever ridden a heavily loaded motorcycle down a mountain…
…on a dirt road…
…in the rain?
Well…
I have.
I’ve had less fun.
But it involved a dentist.
When we finally reached pavement, it took me over a minute to pry my fingers loose from the handlebars.
___________________________________________
And then there was Utah.
I believe it was Monty Python that once said,
“And now for something completely different…”
Where did all the trees go?
Yesterday we had trees.
Lots of trees.
Utah was unlike anything I’d ever seen.
The roads were magnificent.
The canyons were spectacular.
The parks were breathtaking.
This…
This is why you ride across America.
The photograph that accompanies this story was taken by an unknown Japanese tourist.
I had lingered behind Tony and Fred, stopping once again to admire the scenery.
Another family had stopped nearby.
I used the international language of hand gestures and hopeful expressions and pantomimed, “Would you mind taking my picture?” and handed over my camera.
They smiled.
They understood.
If you’re reading this, and you were somewhere in Utah during the summer of 1995 and took a picture of a scruffy kid on a motorcycle…
I’d still love to meet you.
What was I thinking?
Well, I was thinking how cool it would be to ride through Las Vegas and finally see the world-famous Strip.
There was absolutely nothing cool about Las Vegas.
It was only about 9:30 in the morning, and after breakfast at Mickey D’s, I was excited to finally see the city.
At the famous “Welcome to Fabulous Las Vegas” sign, the temperature already read 106 degrees.
Within minutes, traffic slowed to a crawl, and we began inching our way down the notorious boulevard.
Imagine sitting on top of a hot engine with no airflow, surrounded by hundreds of cars belching exhaust, with absolutely no way to escape.
That’s misery.
The excitement of riding the Strip quickly melted into the realization that we were slowly being roasted alive in Sin City.
If you can’t relate to what that feels like, go grab your hair dryer, turn it on high, stick it down your pants…
…then set yourself on fire.
I survived.
Luckily for us, it warmed up later in the day…
…as we crossed the California desert.
By the time we reached Oceanside and Tony’s house, I had deteriorated into a weary, wretched traveler.
I offered Tony one thousand dollars and a plane ticket back to California if he would ride my motorcycle back to North Carolina.
He thought I was kidding.
I wasn’t.
My schedule dictated that I begin the return trip as soon as possible.
There was just one problem.
The heat had melted my front tire into a puddle of useless black rubber.
So we headed to the Honda dealer for a replacement.
Even then, Californians enjoyed paying premium prices for everything.
I paid nearly twice what the tire would have cost in Louisiana or North Carolina.
I didn’t have much choice.
___________________________________________
With the new shoe mounted, we packed our bikes and prepared to leave.
Tony begged us to wait until evening and cross the desert after dark.
I refused.
He said,
“Okay, but when you come down out from Temecula and drop into Palm Desert, you’ll be descending into the pits of Hell.”
You might think he was exaggerating.
He wasn’t.
I met Satan himself that day.
Sure enough, the bank sign in Palm Desert read…
116 degrees.
“It’s a dry heat.”
Yes. It is.
It is a very dry heat.
After filling the tank and buying two large bottles of water, I noticed a water hose beside the station.
I immediately turned it on myself. I soaked my shirt. My jeans. Everything.
Then I filled my helmet with water, dumped it over my head, put the helmet back on, kicked the bike into gear, and pulled into traffic.
Naturally…
I stopped immediately at a red light.
By the time it turned green…
I was completely dry.
“It’s a dry heat.
___________________________________________
The only practical way to cross the Mojave Desert from Palm Springs to Blythe is Interstate 10.
The pavement was new.
Fresh black asphalt.
It felt like riding across the lid of a cast-iron skillet.
Later, I looked it up and learned road temperatures there can approach 200 degrees.
It is about 120 miles from Palm Springs to Blythe.
There is nothing in between.
Nothing.
Zero.
Nada.
Every ten miles or so, we pulled over to drink water and pour another bottle into my helmet.
The heat was merciless. But we made it.
Just before reaching Blythe, where there was finally a little farmland, I saw the only other motorcyclist we’d encountered all day.
I was wearing boots, jeans, gloves, and a long-sleeved white T-shirt to protect myself from the sun.
The other rider was headed into the desert on a Triumph Bonneville.
He was dressed head to toe in black leather.
Black pants. Black jacket. Black helmet.
I’m pretty sure he’s dead now.
Somewhere back East, somebody is still asking,
“Why don’t he write?”
By the end of the day we reached Scottsdale, Arizona.
There were trees again. The temperature was 80 degrees.
I actually got chilly before we stopped for the night.
Fred and I didn’t talk much on the ride back to Louisiana, but we shared an understanding of what the trip meant to us.
I’ve often thought about why we do the things we do.
Why are people compelled to seek out things that might very well kill them?
Is it the pursuit of adventure?
The satisfaction of accomplishment?
The joy of success?
Is it about defeating imaginary monsters…
…testing our will…
…our strength…
…our endurance?
Or maybe it’s just a slightly better-planned version of…
“Hold my beer and watch this.”
It wasn’t so I could post pictures on Instagram or Facebook.
We didn’t even have mobile phones.
So…
That’s why I’m doing it now.
I eventually made it back to 12360 Colinwood Circle on my CBR1000 and lived to tell the story, although it took me thirty years to tell it.
Fred passed away a few years ago.
Tony, as I write this, is somewhere on the Alaska Highway, returning from the longest and most adventurous motorcycle trip of his life.
He rode all the way to Deadhorse, Alaska…
…to the Arctic Ocean.
That somehow doesn’t surprise me.
The more I think about it, the more convinced I become that, deep in our souls, we completely understand why we choose adventure.
The part we struggle with…
…is explaining it.
I also believe every person lives a life of adventure.
Because life itself is an adventure.
My wife Mary proudly describes herself as “indoorsy.”
She doesn’t climb mountains.
She doesn’t ride motorcycles across deserts.
She doesn’t intentionally run in 100-degree weather.
But she’s spent a lifetime living with me.
And if that isn’t an adventure…
I don’t know what is.
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