Riding, Day 4

Friday, August 1, 2008

No taps on the door, no jarring wake-up calls this morning. The wrecking crew is spent. Over four hundred hard miles the day before, up late blogging, and there's a rumor going around that certain folks were playing dominos and downing Crown Royal until the wee hours...no photos though, so no proof. Well, almost no proof – let's just say it was the "old guys" rousting the lads this a.m. and you can draw your own conclusions.

A quick shower and it's down to the lobby for a yummy free breakfast. OK, "yummy" might be a stretch. Does anyone ever really know how long the sausage has been decomposing in that fat-encrusted pan? And the eggs, well, let's not even talk about the eggs. But did I mention it was "free"? Blood sugar levels stabilized, we wander outside to hook the luggage onto the bikes.

By day four, our routine is now…well…routine. Everyone has their own method and style for packing and unpacking their stuff. I'm a minimalist...take out just what I need for the day, leave everything else alone. Vince, on the other hand, does a nightly inventory and "rearrange" of the contents of his trunk. Five guys, five different ways of doing the same thing. But we're becoming more efficient every day, less wasted motion, ready to hit the road that much faster. It's a small thing, but it's one of the things that makes "riding the life" a truly unique experience. The joy is in the doing, if that makes sense.

Loaded up, ready to go and oh, damn it's hot! A dash across the parking lot for a quick splash and go (NASCAR-speak for “fueling up” for you folks not up on redneck lingo) and suddenly my head is spinning. No doubt about it, I gotta get more than four hours sleep tonight. Being dizzy and riding 300 miles in an oven isn't a winning combination. But ride we must, straight to Flaming Gorge Harley Davidson on the next block for a long-sleeved shirt. I only packed two and I need one more to get me to the Promised Land. Properly equipped for posing safety, the vest stays in the T-Bag today and we head east on 80.

We're finally getting off the Interstate and onto some proper two-lane roads with real curves, but first things first – we've got about 150 miles of Highway 80 to put behind us. Mark leads us out and we're on our way. Still morning and the mercury is continuing its ascent...fifteen minutes out, I’ve got cottonmouth.

Lots of construction around Rock Springs – left lane closed, right lane closed, and back again. What are we "constructing?" you might ask…pretty much nothing, from what we can see. After crossing four states our little group has developed a theory on "highway construction" that may not be original, but it's ours: It's all a revenue scam. "They" (insert corrupt government agency of your choice) create a "cone zone" (note to self: invest in whatever company makes those damn orange barrels) – doesn't really matter if any actual work is being done – then double the fines for speeding. Give the troopers some radar guns and bingo! You've got a moneymaking machine. Like I said, it's just a theory…

A strong crosswind buffets the bikes, but only randomly so it’s no big deal, and we cope without even thinking about it. Our group stays tight as we pass an endless procession of trucks. It's kind of a game: you approach the truck, the bike starts to wiggle and shake from the "jet wash" coming off the back of the rig, but the draft effect takes over as you pull alongside and you can feel your machine speed up as you roll past. It's a neat feeling. Once past the cab, the crosswind that the truck had been shielding you from might punch you, or there might be nothing. You never know, and that's what makes it fun.

We are seeing more and more bikes heading east, mostly Harleys, so we assume they're on their way to Sturgis. We also see quite a few bikes on trailers, towed by everything from Prevost motor coaches (AKA “rock star buses”) to ratted-out rusty pick-ups. A word here on the practice of "trailering": Rather than getting into the "are they real bikers or not?" argument, I just think it's kinda sad. They're really missing out on one of the best aspects of motorcycling, which is the actual riding – the basis for all the adventures, tales and lies that follow. How many really cool stories begin with, "So there I was, in my F-150..."? I’ll hazard a guess: it’s a precious few.

We're thirsty and so are the bikes. Pulling into the first gas station we see in Rawlins, Wyoming, we jump off our machines and head for the store. We hang out, hydrate and plot the rest of the day’s route.

It's mostly two lane from Rawlins to Casper, the kind of two lanes you see in the movies, stretching to the infinity of the horizon, rising and falling with the contours of the ancient Wyoming badlands. Miles and miles with no fast food joints, strip malls, or Wal-Marts – just the occasional family farm, oil pump (who knew, oil in Wyoming?) or, as Nate is only too happy to point out (the kid’s got some good eyes!), antelope. The state is practically crawling with antelope, and me without a deer whistle (sorry – it’s an inside joke with Vince, and a story for another time).

Anyway, the riding is absolutely choice. Sure, there are slow pokes to get around, but who cares...let those machines breathe. After about 30 miles, the group separates into two with Mark and JP setting a more leisurely pace, while Nate, Vince and I wick it up a bit. We regroup in Casper. More gas, and we're on our way to Lusk, a meal and a bed.

Leaving Casper, we take Highway 25 south. More stunning landscapes, and yes, more antelope. Oh, and Republican Presidential hopeful John McCain. Yep, about twenty miles out of town, we pass the Straight Talk Express heading north. Cool. Around Douglas, we hop on State Route 20 for the forty-mile jaunt to Lusk. If the ride has been amazing so far, oh man, it gets more remote, more beautiful, more "real American heartland" than I've ever ridden before. A tight group of five of Milwaukee's finest cruising at 75, sweeping through the curves as one…there are smiles in every helmet.

Pulling into Lusk – a small town frozen in time, population 1,400 – we check into the clean, neat and very biker-friendly Covered Wagon Motel. If you're heading this way, you could do way worse. They give you towels just to clean your bike! Shower off the road grime and then it’s over to the Silver Dollar Bar for an awesome ribeye, fries and salad. Old school bar, old school customers, great dinner.