Against the Wind

June 4th, 2008 · No Comments

Flagstaff Arizona: 485 Miles

It wasn’t until mid afternoon that I finally got it. The big storm system that had been chasing me since I left Seattle was keeping temperatures down. Rather than grumbling about the cold and off and on again drizzle, I should be happy. This flash of insight occurred to me when I finally got out ahead of the system only to find the temperatures had shot up into the high seventies and even eighties. Later I discovered the other gift of the leading edge of the storm: massive winds.

For the first two days of the ride I had been chasing the leading edge of a big storm . . . running from cold, dark, gray, and wet towards bright, light, and warm without ever getting there. Every time I got out from under the weather would catch back up once I stopped for gas, food, or photo ops. The general theme had a grim familiarity to it . . . stuck between, not really leaving and not really going. I say familiarity: Part of the purpose of this trip is to spend time consulting the spirits while down in Tubac, AZ and this occasional sense of foreboding is one of the wells I intend to descend into.

I woke this morning, Day 3, in Ely Nevada to the sound of hail. I laughed out loud. So more running with the devil is it?

I’m new to the whole bed and breakfast thing so I was delighted to be met with a hubcap sized plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, and homemade French Toast. And yes, the bread was home baked as well. It was more calories and cholesterol than I’m used to by twice, but an epic trip requires an epic breakfast. I ate it all and the slice of melon it came with. It was to be my last meal until dinner.

I rolled out of Ely at 10 after spending an hour on the phone with a client. I related in my first post my general sense of dread at the idea of leaving home. Once I’m rolling, the feeling inverts. I find myself frustrated, even panicky if I can’t get a clean launch. Three minutes gone any my GPS decided that it needed to navigate to the beginning of the route which was downtown Ely (if there is such a place). I knew what it was doing but I had to stop and consult a map to get myself properly sorted out. That’s when the panicky “let’s get the fuck out of here” feeling leapt up and grabbed me.

Ten miles on, in the midst of reminding myself to breathe, be in the moment, ride the bike, this road, this day, I looked in my mirror to see that the rain cover on my seat bag had come loose and my bike cover was trying to rip itself out of the pocket it was stored in. Once again I was on the side of the road fighting back waves of frustration at my inability to get the journey going. As I write, I’m reminded of a Nicolas Cage movie, Leaving Red Rock. Me leaving Ely.

Before I motored for real I grabbed a picture of the sky behind me. Dark, with an anvil like malevolence to it. It followed me all day. It’s sitting over Flagstaff as I type.

The road rolls under the wheels of the FJR. I ask each part of the bike if all is well and my instincts tell me we’re good to go. Before leaving I had replaced the front tire but not the rear and I’m now concerned that it won’t make the loop. By the end of the day I will have nearly ridden the center out of it. I will have to see about a new one either in Flagstaff or perhaps Tucson.

I’ve got the hammer down from the moment I clear Ely. It feels important to me to get to Flagstaff before 7:00, though I’m not sure why. The FJR inhales the road. There aren’t may turns of consequence and any sign of a squiggle is welcome. 180 miles go by before I stop for gas.

Somewhere out on a never ending straight I find myself grappling with a deep sense of existential angst. The shadow bag yawns open and all my yearnings, fears, and deeply seated ambivalence come tumbling out at once. I feel lost at 80 mph. If ever I needed a sign, this was it. And then it happened. I turned my head to see a massive, nearly black mushroom cloud gripping the western slope of whatever mountains I was riding alongside. It was a dark as I was feeling. And just as I looked, a bolt of lightning connected earth and heaven. It was a sign. The sky remained dark but the black cloud I had been riding with lifted. I’ll leave it to you to interpret this how you will.

Not three minutes later I looked to the right and there was sign number two: the mountainous face of a man lying in repose looking at the sky, the green of the trees outlining his brows and his beard. Hello there!

I often sing in my helmet . . . I loathe the idea of listening to music. For the past two days I’ve been humming and singing a Beatle song called “I’ve just seen a face.”

I’ve just seen a face,
I can’t forget the time or place
Where we just meet.
She’s just the girl for me
And I want all the world to see
We’ve met, mmm-mmm-mmm-m’mmm-mmm.
Had it been another day
I might have looked the other way
And I’d have never been aware.
But as it is I’ll dream of her
Tonight, di-di-di-di’n'di.
Falling, yes I am falling,
And she keeps calling
Me back again.

Something about the ride down from Seattle to Tubac connects me to the idea of falling. Like falling from Seattle to Tubac. It’s a good feeling.

The colors of the high desert in spring are impossibly lovely. The distant hills are deeply blue, purple, and gray. The wide sweep of land leading off in every direction is a softly textured sage sprinkled with brown and later bottle brush. The sky is mostly gray with some black and some white and later blue. So the visual is gray, blue, sage and then the road. Taking a picture of it is pointless. You miss the bigness of it all, how it wraps around you without every coming near.

Finally I break clear of the storm front as I descend into St. Georges. The temperatures start to climb and I pull off to shed layers and change my face shield from clear to dark gray. I’m just shy of half-way.

Jagging north on Hwy 15 towards Salt Lake, I lose the big road at exit 16 and take 9 towards Zion National Park then on towards the Grand Canyon. The road gradually gains altitude and the temperatures drop yet again. Finally there are twisties but the posted speed in 45 and a Arizona Statie has some poor vacationer pulled over near whatever summit I cross.

Descending towards Cliff Dwellers and the Vermilion Cliffs, the temperatures turn up yet again. I stop to take a photo of the famous cliffs and to swap my face shield yet again and I’m engulfed in a sandstorm of powdered red rock. My bike is covered in it.

From this point to twenty miles out of Flagstaff the wind howls and pummels and blasts. It’s like nothing I’ve seen and certainly like nothing I’ve ever ridden through. I keep thanking the FJR for being so sure footed. I lay down on my tank bag to get my head behind my windscreen. I ride this way for 90 miles, hugging the bike and hanging on with every aching muscle I can muster. It’s the hardest riding I’ve even done.

Gaining altitude towards Flagstaff, the temperature breaks back into the low sixties. The sky has closed in yet again and the winds have pulled back their claws. I stop for gas on the outskirts of town and clean the bike with the windshield squeegee. My rear tire is nearly done.

Finally I arrive at my home for the evening, The delightful Aspen Inn Bed and Breakfast. The owner, Joe is waiting outside to greet me. I’m the only guest tonight. It’s a charming place just a few blocks from the historic section of town. Joe tells me the house was built at the turn of the last century by Wyatt Erp’s cousin. Apparently the two were close and Wyatt spent a lot of time in Flag in his sunset years. I’m telling myself that Wyatt spent time in the room I’m in right now and perhaps even slept in the room I’m headed for when I finish this.