Editor’s Note: This is the second installment in a three-part series of Wolff’s travels.
Sunday, September 7
The early morning coastal fog was juicy. I watched as water drops traced the workings of the Laminar Flow on my windshield. The road-plan for the day was, get to I-15 towards Vegas and make a right in Barstow (I-40). The Texas border is 956 miles east after that, then another 500 miles to Ennis. I-40, for the most part, cuts a straight line through the historic Route 66.
Mid-day, I reasoned the temperature had peaked at 106. I was fascinated watching the bikes thermometer, passing the time seeing how closely I could guess heat fluctuations. Right after crossing into Arizona, just past the Lake Havasu, I felt it in my shinbones first, the heat ricocheting off the asphalt, through the perforations in my leathers. The new record for the day was 111 degrees.
It was hot, but it was okay. The FJR purred. The heat whooshed through my helmet, drying the sweat as fast as it appeared. The desert images rolled by like my favorite westerns. Most times, the first day of a trip, it’s about putting it behind me. I don’t usually get in the groove until waking on the road the next morning. This was early, and it was on, and all good.
I kept rolling until Flagstaff. Wasn’t so much the rain, but the lightening closing in that had be throw in the towel at the Super 8 Motel at the last exit leaving town. Five hundred and fifty miles that didn’t seem near that much.
Monday, September 8
It’s not right to expect the morning to be perfect just because I’m there – still a part of me always does. That’s the tightrope I walk on the road – somewhere between complete faith and careless nonsense. Ultimately, the lean towards faith always wins. It’s what keeps me coming back.
Incrementally the miles unfolded into the sort of Monday that makes it easy to overdose on the daily-recommended serving of bliss. Smooth, undisturbed travel – Winslow, Sanders, Grant, Albuquerque. Yesterday it was Needles, Barstow, San Bernardino. It occurred to me how many of these towns had songs.
Today encouraged me to ride further than yesterday. I finally called it a day in Vega, Texas, just over the state-line, 35 miles east of Amarillo. The song “Amarillo by Morning,” repeating in my head.
That left just over 400 miles to Ennis tomorrow, the easiest of the three days so far I reasoned.
Tuesday, September 9
I’d crossed two time zones, my watch and I had only accounted for one. Thought it was 6:30, but it was an hour later. Why so dark outside then? Pushing back the motel curtain the answer came in as fog. Not the heavy wet stuff, the kind you can’t see through this time.
Two couples, having coffee in the lobby, riding matching Road Kings, headed for Oklahoma, were the first to tell me about the coming rain and hurricane.
I called Susan for a weather update. The news wasn’t good. “It’s been raining since yesterday, heavy at times,” she reported. Adding, “Even if you make it, Ike’s scheduled to slam the Texas coast in a day or so. You’ll be riding into it.”
I thought about turning tail and heading back the way I came, but it wouldn’t take hold. I’d come 1150 miles and a decade to this point. I needed to face this Susan person that was prying open doors in my head I didn’t know existed, and getting me to write things I thought I’d never even speak about. Couldn’t finish my book until I did, that much was clear.
Six exits on the backside of Amarillo is where I-40 meets with US-287. That’s right about where the fog lifted some too. It was plenty gray, but dry, at least for the first hour or so along 287. By the time I reached Memphis, Texas the yellow rose started showing thorns.
As I rolled out of a Café driveway, out of my left peripheral, I caught sight of a truck-bed sliding and heard the sound of rubber searching for traction. I blipped the brakes. The rain was heavy now. The rear bumper of the truck missed the front wheel of the FJR by half a breath. Nearly held the bike up too, but water and gravel undermined my footing.
Before I got myself righted, another trucker had stopped in the middle of the road, blocking traffic from running me over. He and I lifted the bike. The out-of-control truck never stopped.
The FJR suffered surprisingly minor cosmetic damage. A cracked mirror, light scratches on the fairing and side-bag. Lying on my back on US-287, the reality that the journey would end here did cross my mind.
Never believe motorcycles don’t have souls. I got lucky and saved us both, the FJR showed gratitude by rolling on even more confident. We bonded at that moment. It was probably the adrenaline surge, but I knew we wouldn’t be stopped. Bob Seger’s Running Against the Wind became the day’s mantra. Coming out of a gas station mini-mart, an old cowboy commented on my California license plate, “You ride that all the way out here?” I told him I did. After pausing to look me over he added, “Takes a pretty mean cowboy to do that.” A huge compliment indeed.
It rained on and off, mostly on, the rest of the way. The wind started swirling a while ago. The only sunshine the entire day came entering Ennis city limits. I resisted reading too much into that, but couldn’t squelch a cheesy helmet wide grin.
