Mid-Life Rider

Home, 288.8 miles

I opened my eyes at 5:45 this morning in a Holiday Inn Express, not feeling any smarter but happy to be on the last stretch to home. I pulled on my long underwear, loaded up, and left. Within a few miles I was off to the side of the road adding my electric vest and gloves. The Pacific Northwest was bent on reminding me of what I had left behind. It was 43 degrees.

Over the past two weeks I rode roughly 3700 miles. I didn’t keep close track, but I figure I averaged about 43 mpg, so that’s 86 gallons. I saw gas prices as low as 3.99 for unleaded on an Indian reservation and as high as 5.29 on a backroad in California.

I stayed in two B&Bs, one retreat center, one resort, and four motels. The motels were all roughly the same, but I paid between $59 and $139 a night for the privilege.

I rode on every conceivable kind of road under every possible condition but snow; from 15 mph in choking traffic in California, to 90+ across the high lonesome in Nevada. I bundled myself against 43 degree mornings and soaked my gear to survive 103 desert crossings, a difference of 60 degrees. On one day, from Flagstaff to Tubac, I rode through nearly that entire range.

I rode on interstates that were posted for 50 mph and 75 mph. Sometimes the same road was posted at 50 and later at 60, then back to 50, then 65, then 55, then . . . if there was a logic to all that beyond maximizing ticket revenue potential, I never figured it out.

At times on the ride I felt the utter bliss of being alone, no mental noise, just complete stillness as the bike stalked the far horizon. At other times, it was all I could do to find a single empty moment, my head constantly filling with phantom conversations, idle musings, things I might write, emails I might send, songs that wouldn’t stop repeating . . . I couldn’t shut it off.

I rode some of the most technically demanding roads I would care to ride outside the confines of a track. I filtered through commuter traffic in Orange County. I planned along for hours without having to budge the bars. I rode mountain passes and desert highways.

I smelled smells. In the northwest it was the pungent smell of pulping plants. In Lassen it was the sulphuric belching from deep in the earth. More than once I wafted along on the scent of fresh cut alfalfa. In Temecula, it was the sweet smell of fresh flowers, orange trees, and vines coming in.

I thought about all these things as home drew nearer. The trip that began many days and miles ago was now over. I wasn’t home yet, but I was done with the ride. The deeply meditative moments of the first few days had slipped into memory. The growl of the FJR as it clawed its way around yet another arching turn was somewhere in the past. I was ready to be home.

Tags: EugeneOregon, gas prices, speed limits, Flagstaff, Tubac, Temecula, FJR 1300