Colorado: The nosebleed section.

4000 ft: Rockies, Ho! (And there's a forest fire too, if you look closely)



5000 ft: The Arkansas River carries me into the mountains.


6000 ft: It's official: Were out west


7000 ft: Some lake I drove by. Whatever.


8000 ft: Enough with the damn clouds, already!


9000 ft: I can't breath. And I think I see John Denver.


11,312 ft: May I have some air with that gas? Old faithful steamrolls over the top.


The pictures below are from the San Juan Skyway, which is like the Blue Ridge Parkway of the Rockies, only with more cinnamon buns available. I actually rode this on the way home, but you don't know that!

Kansas: Outlaw Territory

Kansas hospitality

So here's what happened in Kansas, in rough chronological order:

A yellow jacket slammed stinger-first into my neck at 70 mph, causing a huge swollen mass that almost caused me to be denied service at Subway.

I befriended a former oil-refinery electrician/Hell's Angel at a motel who filled me in on the the drug habits of the guys who ran the crude-oil cracking tower as well as what happens if one happens to spill hydroflouric acid on themselves.

I caused a stir among the Independence, KS Walmart staff by changing my oil in the parking lot, spilling a majority of it on the pavement and then handing the still-warm remainder in an oily soda bottle to the prim woman in charge of the Lube department.

I motored through a Dodge City friday night, the whole town steeped in an ammonia haze from the giant US BEEF plant in the center of town.

I happily left for Colorado.



Bury me on the lone prairie.

Across Big Muddy and "Aux Arkansas"

My hopes of catching a glimpse of a blind bluesman puffing on a corncob along the banks of the Mississippi were in vain as the Mississippi is a very elusive river. There aren't any towns or roads within ten miles of the river because of the flood hazard and the only roads across are interstates which allow no place to pull over for a look. After blasting across I found myself in Carruthersville, Missouri, the first town I had been to with a truly midwestern-sounding name. From there it was straight into the Ozarks, a weird, hilly area filled with a reverse-engineered version of appalachian culture very far from the actual appalachians. Suffice it to say that the per-capita stockcar ownership rate is as high here as it is anywhere. I laughed at the truth of Ozark stereotypes when I was passed by a pick-up with a bloated cow carcass hanging out the back. I laughed even more when I was passed by a second truck with the same load. I got stuck for an hour behind a tow truck laboriously pulling a just broken-down school bus out of the hills. The roads however were awesome:tight, twisty, with plenty of stomach-dropping rises and falls.

"Y'all heard about that gun giveaway down at LeGrand?"

Tennessee Stud

That's Amore.


"Daddy got a job with the TVA,
We bought a washing machine
and then a Chevrolet"
-Alabama

East Tennessee is TVA country which is illogical because the Tennessee river isn't in this part of the state. Go figure. Every valley bottom is filled with impounded water which makes motorcycling sort of inconvenient. Due to this lack of dry, flat spots, all wayfarers within a one hundred mile radius are funneled through downtown Chattanooga regardless of their final destination. I tried to make a policy of not riding through cities but this looked unavoidable. I steeled myself and found comfort in the words of Grandpa Jones, Lomax-era Bard of the Blue ridge:
"Knoxville is a pretty place,
Memphis is a beauty,
But if you wanna find them pretty girls,
Then hop to Chattanoogee"

Anyway, this stanza did nothing to alleviate the wafting engine heat that drenched me with sweat as I sat downtown at a red light on MLK boulevard for ten minutes because the traffic light sensor failed to recognize my presence.
After Chattanooga I entered central Tennessee, populated primarily, as far as I can tell by groups of snow-white haired old ladies that congregate each morning at McDonalds only to stare disapprovingly at my grease-stained pants.
Just when I thought their couldn't possibly be anymore of this freakin' state I entered the missisippi delta, a hundred miles of wide open, flat, hazy, sodden farm land. Here's some TN pics:

Tobacco Row.






The Tennessee River. Right across from Arby's.



Delta Blues.

D-Day

Every great story needs a great villian, and ours is the misguided youth and/or forty year old man who stole my helmet the night before I was supposed to leave for a month. Picture this: I
wake up on day 1 exited as a schoolgirl on Christmas morning, go through the ten minute process of doning all my riding gear, pack up the final items and even start up the bike and lock the front door when I realize that the one object that I absolutely can not do without was gone. I couldn't even ride to get a new helmet because I didn't have a helmet to ride with!. Not only that, but the next day was Labor Day, so it seemed like I would be grounded for at least forty-eight hours until stores opened again. I was supposed to be shredding America and delving into french cuisine (I promised!) but it looked like I was going to be watching Judge Judy and eating grilled cheeses in bed until Tuesday.
I put in a last ditch call to Gabe: Landlord, friend and Guy Who Knows How to Make Things Happen. He had just finished a grueling 100 mile bicycle ride but nevertheless was able to get a line on a Regan-era skid lid from Sid, the connsumate rennaissance man. Well, needless to say they saved the day. Thanks again guys!
By this point Sunday was already halfway gone so I postponed departure, devoting the time to sharpening the knife I carry in a holster on my right calf. Standard biker protocol.

Ole' sway back on day zero: Tired, overburdened and still in the driveway.

So anyway, I woke up the next morning overjoyed that no one had stolen the blanket off of me during the night, put on my new helmet and quickly got out of town before anyone could unbolt my engine.
I motored out of the horse-and-hound infested V-A red clay and up-up-up into the Blue ridge mountains. As soon as I reached the storied heights of Afton Mountain and the Blue Ridge Parkway I was swallowed by a fifty-foot-visibility fog bank that wouldn't clear until hours later, and then only to reveal ominous grey clouds that would stay with me until I reached Utah.

My descent into the "Gnarled Tree as Art" school of photography begins immediately.

The subsistence farm I hewed out of the wilderness on my first night.


NC rainbow gathering.

The Blue Ridge Parkway is considered holy ground to many motorcyclists, given it's flawless pavement and banked turns, and indeed on Labor day when I rode it it seemed like a really long private driveway between Charlottesville and Asheville. But I still find it kind of sterile, as it lacks any human component. No ten commandments posted at intervals along farm fences, no old man at the grocery store telling you about the Suzuki 125 he used to own in 1965, and nowhere to impulsively buy donuts and coffee, which happened a lot during this trip, I promise you.
My first night destination was Asheville, NC: Mountain paradise, home of my beloved alma mater WARren wilsON COLLEGE as well as the few remaining friends who have not yet managed to pull themselves free of the powerful energy vorticies here. However, the downside of having a goon squad of friends is that they can be slightly unreliable. I couldn't get a hold of anyone so I bedded down at Motel 6 #345 , Swannanoa, NC for the night.


The mandatory bike in motel room shot.

The next morning I continued west on the parkway, slowly climbing up and above the valley fog. Realizing that my legs were going to get zero exercise on this trip the way things were going , I opted for a little hike up Mount Pisgah, but only after my bike had brought me to within a hundred feet of the summit.


The Smokies were not named in honor of Donald R. Smoky.


Asheville Good Vibes transmitter #1

After I headed off my developing bed sores at the pass, I continued on through Cherokee, NC, where the casinos are always full, and all the signs are in Sylabbary, invented by my man Sequoyah:

Getting directions to Knoxville from the man himself!

Western NC truly is a special place. There isn't a flat spot anywhere and due to the rain and heat the vegetation here is truly out of control. Moisture laden limbs hang down into the road and every inch of road shoulder, right into the travel lanes is covered with Kudzu. But before I knew it I blasted involuntarily into the Volunteer State, the subjectively longest state in America. Stay tuned!

Back to the Grind

Well I've made it safely home to America's #1 city (Fodors, 1989) , heeding the advice of armchair euphemisers I met along the way to keep my bike "rubber side down" as well as "between the ditches". I cruised triumphantly through the heart of a stylish Charlottesville Friday night , 6000 more miles on the odometer, camchain rattling violently, every surface of clothing and bike covered with insect corpses, and in possesion of a debit card now worth only the Chinese plastic it's printed on. I'm dirty and broke, but at least I'm not a statistic!

Now, the beauty of a blog lies in the fact that friends, associates, bored office workers with no relationship to the writer and internet predators that live along your route can follow your exploits on a daily basis. Unfortunately I was not able to post daily as I was faced with the choice of either taking a laptop or taking pants, therefore you the reader are going to have to be happy with the lump sum option. To hold your interest, know beforehand that in addition to the motorcycle aspect of this trip I also recreated a recipe from Julia Child's "The Art of French Cooking" each night in camp. Now for the trip!

Preparations

Well, as if on cue September 1st has brought crisp temperatures, and the distant Blue Ridge have come into crystalline autumnal focus from my lofty position at the top of the corporate ladder (literally-I work construction). Smells long held to the earth by the summer heat, the kinds that makes one think of plaids and tasteful scarfs have risen into the air. Its generally a faux pas among outlaw bikers to think about fall fashions, however, so my thoughts have turned to getting myself and "Big Black" ready for my trip.
For all you gear heads out there (a small subset of the droves that will be reading this blog daily) here's a rundown of my bike preparation. People constantly set off on long car journeys with their check engine lights burning bright, but motorcyclists are a bit more vigilant. Something about having four gallons of gas and hundreds of metal pieces moving at supersonic speeds between one's upper thighs, I guess.
Tires- After four days spent in a steadily deepening catatonic stupor researching tires on the web I ended up slapping on some Mefo Explorers, the finest tires that calculating, coldly efficient German engineering have thus far produced. These are used in the infamous Paris-Dakar Rally so I assume they can get my overfed self across Middle America.
New Chain and Sprockets- Old motorcycle chains eventually break apart at 70 mph, first smashing through your engine case and/or fibia and then becoming tangled in your rear wheel, so I figured this was money well spent.
Spark plug check-up-They say that the eyes are the window into the soul and similarly, sparkplugs are the window into the condition of your sooty, souless engine. An old timer mechanic could take one look at the tip of your sparkplug and tell you everything you needed to know about the condition of your bike's motor. My sparkplug told me I should spend less time peering down tiny orfices at piston crowns and more time working on personal hygiene as well as streamlining my five-year plan. This not being what I wanted to hear, I promptly shoved sparkys ugly little snout back in the motor so I didn't have to listen to any more of his harrangue. But not before brushing him off and re-gapping him.
Valve Clearance Check-Because motorcycle valves expand as they heat up, there is a tiny clearance between valve parts to allow for this. A tiny clearance being the thickness of two human hairs. Anything less than one human hair and your poor valves will gradually begin glowing red , finally becoming molten blobs on the DesMoines Beltway.
Real Oil- After spending millions of years deep within the earth's mantle, you would assume your average motor oil would be able to withstand a couple 'thou in a motorcycle engine. Not the case. Hence Rotella T Sythetic Tractor Trailer Engine oil. This stuff is usually bought in 50 gallon drums by trucking companies and is expected to last 50,000 miles between oil changes in tractor-trailer engines. It has more detergent in a quart than I've used on laundry in the last decade so it also keeps the inside of your motor sparkling clean.
Bolt check-I thought checking the tightness of every bolt on my bike would be pure drudgery, but it was actually one of the most satisfying things I've done to get ready. It feels great afterwards to know that your eyes have been over every inch of the bike and any noise you here is one that's supposed to be there.

Ill spare the details of packing for myself as it mostly revolved around the age-old split-end versus conditioning formula conundrum.