OK, so here’s Day 1 of the Ride Tale I promised. I didn’t want to post just a photo album; some of the best ride tales tell a complete story, so I figured I’d take a shot at it. There’s a poll at the end; if you like what you see, let me know and I’ll continue with Day 2 and so on. FWIW, there will be many more pics (per day) for Day 2 and beyond.
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Day 1: Saturday, May 12
Route: Ann Arbor, MI to Lincoln, NE
Distance: 780 miles
It’s 7:25 in the morning. As I roll my bike to the bottom of the driveway and finish putting on my gear, the tension of the past few weeks is only just starting to fade away. Moto trips lately seem to be preceded by a lot more unease than in the past: I spend a lot of time playing “what if something awful happens far from home,” whether it’s a crash, mechanical trouble, or illness. Friends have had major trips hobbled by all three, and I harbor no illusions about my invincibility. Lately, as the odometer on the RT has neared 120,000 miles, the mechanical reliability is becoming more and more of a concern; only seven days ago the bike lay in pieces as I replaced a gushing fork seal, and Shawn (with about 85K on the clock) nearly had his trip to Torrey scuttled a few days ago by a broken bolt in his cylinder head. And two nights ago I had a strange ABS fault that came out of nowhere. But Shawn got his bike together in time and has already reached Nashville; I got my bike together; washed and waxed for the first time in about a year; cleared the mystery ABS fault, and packed it up.
A strangely good omen: the RID clock ticks off 7:30 (my planned departure time) exactly as I hit the starter. A few seconds for the RPM’s to stabilize, and I’m off. The unpleasant “what if” thoughts are replaced by a sense of relief and gentle enthusiasm at finally being under way. It’s a chilly morning, low 50’s, and I’m using most of gear, but no rain is forecast. The familiar sights of I-94 roll past as I make my way toward Chicago: mostly trees, a few farm fields, some small towns. I know in my mind I’m headed for Utah, but none of these sights factor into it yet: I’ve traveled to Chicago, Madison and Minneapolis so many times that this stretch of road is burned in my mind.
Still, the last stretch into Chicago inevitably builds up some tension. The highway changes to six lanes, traffic picks up, and forests and farmlands are replaced by a mish-mash of roads, buildings, and interchanges. I stop for gas halfway through the corner of Indiana, and put my brand new I-Pass in the tank bag window; I hope this thing works. Back on the highway, to do battle with Chicago highway traffic: lanes being added, deleted, traffic merging from every direction, left exits, all the oddities that make city driving so confusing and hazardous. This is a stressful place to drive, let alone ride, but there’s really no good alternative here. Nevertheless, there’s a smile creeping across my face. This is still familiar territory, but I know it’s about to change. I zip through a single tollbooth on I-294, then take my exit to I-80 westbound toward Joliet. Suddenly I’m on a road I haven’t ridden in three years; now every part of me knows I’m not going to Chicago, Madison, or Minneapolis.
I’m going to Torrey.
The dense traffic of Chicago immediately loosens up, but the buildings continue. In a few more years, Joliet will be swallowed up by the sprawling Chicago megalopolis. I have to ride several miles after crossing the Chicago River before the concrete jungle fades to suburbs, then farm fields with scattered housing subdivisions, and finally just farm fields. Dead flat farm fields, freshly planted; in a few months these stretches of bare dirt will be transformed into a vast ocean of edible greenery.
At Ottawa I stop for a quick lunch at Arby’s, shed a few layers of clothing and continue west. The flat farmland slowly becomes rolling hills, and soon I round the corner at Moline and cross the Mississippi River into Iowa. Before leaving the outskirts of Davenport, I fuel up at a Flying J for the long ride across Iowa.
Did I say it was a long ride? It’s not, really. In fact, Iowa is no wider than Colorado or Utah. It’s just that it doesn’t much change from one edge to the other, and the road is pretty much ram-rod straight. After a while you stop looking at the vastness of the scene, and start focusing on small details.
Navajo trucks, which I’d never seen before today. Their logo – a blue-eyed native-American woman – makes me laugh:
though I suspect that’s not the effect they were after.
I remember the C.R. England trucking line from back when I was a kid going on cross-country camping vacations:
Always smartly painted, and clean as a whistle. I never used to see them around home (Madison WI and Minneapolis MN); long ago they became associated in my mind with the pleasures of summer family vacations.
The occasional farmhouse can be seen from the interstate. The overall effect is not as exalting as a mountain vista, but still, there’s something satisfying about such pastoral scenes.
I reach Des Moines, round the northwest corner, and continue west. No lane changes, minimal traffic, and smooth pavement, all in stark contrast to Chicago. I squirt out of the city on the west side, feeling far less stressed than I did back at the south end of Lake Michigan.
I stop for gas in Casey. I’m only a half a mile from the interstate, but this is definitely rural Iowa: it’s a one-pump town, and a massive grain elevator looms on the far side of the narrow main street.
As I continue west, there’s a bit of wind: near Adair a massive wind turbine with a rotor maybe 150 feet in diameter is spinning along at a good clip, maybe 30 RPM. Coincidentally, in the eastbound lanes there’s a truck approaching with a ridiculously long turbine blade in tow, perhaps 100 feet long. It’s not even on a trailer, it simply
is the trailer: the root of the blade is secured to a swiveling platform on the truck cab’s fifth-wheel, and 100 feet to the rear, a wheeled undercarriage has been strapped to the blade’s tip. A few minutes later there’s a second, then a third truck, each bringing another blade.
An hour later, I’ve made it to the edge of Nebraska. From a highway traveler’s perspective, Omaha/Council Bluffs is a lot more like Chicago than Des Moines. Heavy traffic and a confluence of maybe half a dozen multi-lane highways keeps me on my toes as I work to navigate safely through to the far side.
I’ve rolled over 700 miles by this point, and my body is getting a little tired and restless. But anticipation kicks in as the GPS counts off the last few miles to my exit on the west side of Lincoln. I pull off the highway into a truck stop to gas up before heading to the hotel. I feel a strange rumble as the RT rolls up to the pump. With a vague sense of dread, I put it up on the centerstand and spin the wheels, but I can’t find anything wrong. Maybe I just imagined it? The RT’s advanced age makes me paranoid. I tell myself there’s no problem, that my body is just twitchy and itchy from a very long day in the saddle. Nonetheless, this paranoia will plague me for the rest of the trip.
I pick up a six-pack of Corona and putter off the last mile to the Super 8 motel. At check-in the clerk tells me the high today was 89 degrees; I thought it seemed warm. After bringing a few items up to the room I head back down to the bike to drink a beer and make a few phone calls. Twenty minutes later, Shawn rolls up; amazing timing, considering how long each of us has been on the road.
We head out for dinner, but keep it short: there’s still a lot of work to do. Only two days ago, Shawn reinstalled the cylinder head on his engine after a disastrously timed problem with a broken bolt. Now, after 1000 miles on the road, it’s time to retorque his RT’s head nuts.
Back at the hotel after dinner, we strip the Tupperware off of Shawn’s bike, but we have to wait for the engine to cool off. So we sit:
We pass the time, drinking beer and coke, reviewing the service manual on the laptop, and just sitting there. With the sun going down, it’s actually quite nice to be outside.
After close to an hour, the engine still feels warm, but we’re tired of waiting. Off comes the valve cover, and the four head nuts promptly get serviced. Shawn’s brought a whole lot of extra tools to make this happen, but only based on my recollection of what’s required for the job. As it turns out, my recollection is incomplete, and so we’re missing the 3/8” ratchet extension needed to reach a very recessed M10 bolt. Suddenly I remember the truck stop a mile down the road, so I hop on my still-assembled RT and head out.
This is one of those rare occasions when I ride without gear (except for helmet); it’s only a mile, so I’m wearing shorts, T-shirt, and sandals, and it feels nice
physically, although
mentally it’s a little disconcerting. And I finally realize why my feet always get so hot in hot weather: it’s not the sun hitting my black riding boots, it’s raw heat coming off of the exhaust system! It’s only about 70 degrees out, but my sandaled feet are uncomfortably warm!
At the truckstop, rather than buy a whole off-the-shelf toolkit, one of the on-duty truck mechanics agrees to lend me one of their ratchet extensions. But he can’t get into his buddy’s toolbox, where all the 3/8” ratchet accessories are. So we walk clear across the parking lot to his car, where he lends me a tool from his personal collection. Grateful for his having gone the extra mile, I hustle back to the hotel, where Shawn retorques the last troublesome bolt in about twenty seconds, and then I ferry the tool back to the truckstop. Back to the hotel again, and after a quick TB synch check, we put the RT’s skirts back on and call it a night.
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OK, so that's Day 1. How'd I do?
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