Mid-Life Rider

Ely Nevada: 505 miles

“Take what the road gives you.” My riding pal Ron and I talk about that when we do our long rides. It’s something he learned from spending years riding rivers (change the word “road” to “river” and it makes sense).

Day 2 of my long ride down and it’s raining. Been raining for hours and looks to continue that way for 40 days and 40 nights. I love living in the Pacific Northwest and wouldn’t want the alternative, but I am well and truly done with the winter. I’m mostly indifferent about riding in the wet, though I don’t like it on the track. But I can’t say that I was yipping with glee at the sight of the 1000 foot ceiling, soaked roads, and persistent rain. I had to remind myself of that good maxim as I prepared to ride. Take what the river gives you. I mean road.

My route took me back a few miles so I could hook up to Route 140 which drives east across miles and miles of miles and miles to Denio Junction in Nevada. A couple of miles in I stop to examine the pavement. It looks like loose aggregate but it’s not. It’s aggregate alright, but stuck in like it should be. So lots of traction. The same wasn’t true when it came to visibility. The magic goop I had applied to my face shield was performing miserably and I just flat couldn’t see the road. A bit of scrubbing got the goop thinned out and all was as right as it was going to be.

This road is made for winging it but not today. Climbing and then descending I proceed cautiously, hanging off to keep the bike upright in the corners, trailing my brakes deep into the turns to maintain stability. Finally the road opens up and the weather raises and I can flog the FJR just a bit.

Once on 140, there is just about nothing until you get to Denio Junction, which isn’t much. The nothing is lovely this time of year. The high lonesome is still fifty shades of subtly different green. Any place water can run or gather it does so all the riparian flora and fauna are duly present and accounted for. If it wasn’t pissing rain I’m sure I’d stop for a closer look. That’s what I tell myself.

I mean to get gas in Denio Junction but they’re out. Us city folks don’t even begin to understand that concept. Out of soy milk yes, but out of gas? How can that be? My choices are to head north to Fields (20 miles and then come back) or turn towards Winnemucca where I’m going and stretch it to Paradise, another 60 miles on top of the 140 I’ve already collected since my last fill up. I go south, figuring that I’ll cover the additional 60 miles with pints to spare. I’m right.

One of the things I like about riding motorcycles is how vividly the concept of decision making is brought to life. Packing is a good example. Space and weight are precious, so it’s a constant game of choosing wisely. It’s not possible to cover all contingencies and this trip will cover 4000 miles and everything from cold rain to triple digit temps. Then there are tools, tire kit, pump, and other bits and bobs to keep the bike in the game should a time out be necessary.

Riding is the same way. Do I go north to Field or south to Paradise? I can’t do both. Should I run fast and clip my mileage or run slower and save a few ounces? Should I pass this car or hang back?

For a trip like the one I’m on, routing is a constant decision game. There are a dozen obvious routes from Seattle to Tubac, Arizona and probably another thousand if you throw in all the slight variations. And much like war, most of the plans go by the wayside once things get rolling.

South of Denio Junction I’m finally clear of the rain but only just. By the time I fill up at Paradise the front is back on top of me. I spend the next hour or two racing the front, first South, and then dancing along its edge as I head east to Battle Mountain.

There’s an answer to the obvious question about Battle Mountain, but I don’t ask it. It’s the same question I have in the half dozen towns I stop in along the way. Why do people live here? Finally, when I reach Ely, the end of the ride today, the very nice lady who runs the B&B I’m staying in tells me: Copper. When the price is up, the town booms. When it pulls back, so does the town. Much of Nevada is like this.

I read somewhere that the Great Plains are the Saudi Arabia of wind. Riding south on 305 between Highway 80 and Route 50 I know why. I’ve been north and south through Nevada several times and it’s always the same. It just blows like the devil. I don’t know the economics of wind farms, but I have to believe the time will come when they’ll plant the state from horizon to horizon with wind turbines and solar arrays. It’s not like anyone will notice.

Route 50 is billed as the loneliest road in America. Or maybe it’s the loneliest highway. Between towns, there’s just high lonesome forever in all directions. This time of year it’s lovely in its winter green. I’ve never been through in the clutches of summer but I’m sure the loneliness quotient steps up a few notches. Every once in a while there is a sign with a squiggle and a dire warning that there are corners ahead. Waaaahooooo! They’re not much but after hours of knifing from horizon to horizon, any bit of left-right is a blessing. By now the road is bone dry and I dance the big FJR from apex to apex. We’re good partners after three years of riding together. It talks, I listen. I lead, it follows.

Austin and then Eureka come and go and finally there’s 80 miles left to Ely. My back is talking to me and it’s not happy. As much as I just want to let the miles roll by, I feel myself pressing to get to Ely and get off my mount. Hard boiled long distance riders sneer at a mere 500 mile day, but ten hours is plenty of Zen-in-a-helmet for me, at least this day.

My home for the evening is the too-cute-to-be-true Steptoe Valley Inn, in Ely (discovered on www.tripadvisor.com). The building has been a grocery, a saloon, a boarding house and who knows what else and is now a Bed and Breakfast. The couple that owns it also owns the Barbecue joint next store and a couple of pieces of property nearby. It’s all tucked away on the other end of town down by the old Nevada Northern train station, now home to an historic steam train that goes nowhere and back several times a day during tourist season. I fantasize about living here until the nice lady tells me: a) the history of boom and bust Ely; b) that they’re trying to sell the place; c) when they need real medical attention or want to visit a Walmart, they drive to Salt Lake City . . . which is 240 miles away. Another fantasy dashed.

Tags: LakeviewOregon, Ely Nevada, Route 50, Highway 80, Battle Moutain Nevada, Austin Nevada, Eureka Nevada, Steptoe Valley Inn, FJR 1300