Europe

Weekend In Motreal

The Journey

 ...there was a plan. But like all the great plans of mice and men (though what mice are planning I do not know. Go ask John Stienbeck) this one had a couple of wrenches thrown in for good measure. The plan was, to conduct training classes in Los Angeles CA, Boston MA, Richmond VA and Atlanta GA and use my motorcycle to get to all these locations. The timing of the classes allowed me to get from one place to another at a leisurely pace (or so it originally seemed) and be able to ride my motorcycle on some of the best back roads in America.

 Sunday, June 13, 1999 We had celebrated Kathleen's birthday the day before and I wanted to help with cleaning up before I left, since she was being so nice about this crazy trip I was planning. I got up early on Sunday morning wanting to begin this epic journey across the county with a leisurely jaunt down to Los Angeles. I had planned a very meandering route, possibly Hwy 25 that winds through the mountains between Hwy 101 and Interstate 5. Then jump on twisting California 58 and work my way down to Ojai (Home of Astronaut Steve Austin) via Hwy 33. This was supposed to set the tone for the rest of the trip as a back-road extravaganza, working my way from the West Coast to the East Coast while avoiding all the boring Interstate highways. It was not to be. After the party clean up, there was a million little motorcycle related details that needed to be taken care of. Rigging the tank-bag, fashioning a sheep skin cover for my seat, making sure the cruise control worked, checking the tires etc. Kathleen made the comment that I never seemed to need all these accessories on the other cross-country motorcycle trips I've made. Age, neither gray hair nor facial lines are as telling of someone's advancing age as a sheep skin cover for his motorcycle seat. (Oi! My aching tuchis! -Suddenly I'm Jewish.)

 The planned departure time kept getting pushed back. First 12 noon, then 3:00pm, then 4:00pm, then 5:00pm and finally 5:30pm. Well guess what, that meandering journey wouldn't be a lot of fun when the sun went down. So there I was, traveling down Hwy 92 not 2 minutes from home and already changing plans mid way. I had to flip a mental coin. Would it be a fatiguing drone down I-5, or only a slightly more entertaining journey down 101 with a stop in San Luis Obispo to see Ivan? Heads, it's 101. Highway 101 is at least a little more enjoyable as there is the occasional curve now and then.

 The trip down to San Luis was painless (Oh thank you my little sheep skin. Your life was not given in vain.) Travelling at 90mph I was a little surprised how frequently I was being passed (certainly a change for me.) However, it helped keep my promise to Kathleen about "No speeding tickets." That's what I love about her, she knows I'm safe on my bike and doesn't mind if I speed, I'm just not allowed to get caught. It was warm and clear and I was wearing a light jacket, which kept me comfortable all the way to the Questa Grade just north of SLO. Suddenly I went through a thermal layer so well defined and abrupt, I went from comfortably warm to hypothermic. From that point to Ivan's house it was only 5 miles, but by the time I got there my teeth were chattering. It was time to put all that cold weather equipment to use that was bungeed to the back of my bike.

 Alan Jasenovic 

The journey (Part2) - And God Said. "Let there be (tail)Light"

 After Ivan provided me with a tasty dinner, I donned all the clothing I brought including my electric vest (Though that sounds like something a Rhinestone Cowboy might wear, it's actually a thermal vest that plugs into the motorcycles accessory socket.) Toasty, snug and full (the bike and me) I was ready to blaze off into the darkness and polish off the next 200 miles without a stop. Plugged in and warm, looking like an advertisement for Gore-Tex and Polertec, I reeled in mile after mile in comfort even though the temperature at the coast had dropped into the low 50's. Even with all these technological advances that were working in my favor, the simplest problem would become my biggest headache. Somewhere between Santa Maria and Santa Barbara my fellow motorists made me aware that I was travelling in stealth mode. The cars behind me kept flashing their high beams at me. Were they just being jerks, pissed off that some motorcyclist was passing them with the greatest of ease? No. After some careful analysis (and craning my neck to look behind me at 90 mph) I came to the conclusion that my taillight bulb had burned out. This was not a good thing on black bike with black bags and rider wearing a black suit. Pulling over now would be useless, as I was in the middle of nowhere and by the time I got to Santa Barbara it would be 11:30pm and certainly no Auto Parts stores would be still be open. I stopped at a gas station in Santa Barbara and they had bulbs, but they looked more like they would fit in a Mack Truck rather that my diminutive taillight. I called AAA and they were no help at all, "I'm sorry sir but there aren't any auto parts stores open at this hour" (Duh!) Then, just to make things interesting, a California Highway Patrol car pulled into the gas station. At first I was a little reluctant to disclose my dilemma, but then began asking the two officers if they were aware of any options. Possibly I could purchase a flashlight and some red cellophane and make a temporary taillight. I asked them if using my emergency flashers would suffice. One officer seemed non-committal about making suggestions, apparently worried that if I did get pulled over, his name would come up in the conversation "Uh, officer Johnson said it was O.K." After they left I decided to chance it. With my four-way flashers blazing I hit the road. After about 5 minutes this became quite annoying. Not only were the signals making other drivers aware of me, but the strobing cockpit lights were beginning to mesmerize me. It was time for an executive decision. There was little traffic, now that it was midnight on a Sunday, so I used Vulcan logic to come up with a plan:

 A taillight is only needed if vehicles are approaching from behind. If however, I was passing everyone, then a taillight isn't really necessary is it?

 All thoughts seem logical in the wee hours of the morning. Fortunately traffic was basically non-existent so I made the 80 miles to LA with no other problems. At 2:00am the parking attendant at the Doubletree on Wilshire Blvd looked at me with a mixture of bewilderment and awe. I think he was worried that I might ask him to valet park my bike. I was exhausted after the trip but after checking in, the traditional Doubletree chocolate chip cookies made a lovely bedtime snack.

Alan Jasenovic

The journey (Part3) - The walking dead. 

 Monday, June 14, 1999 The training I conducted on Monday went well, though I can't remember most of it. I was in a sleep deprived haze all day and kept dreaming (figuratively and literally) throughout the day of getting back to my hotel room for a solid 12 hours of coma-like sleep.

 Tuesday, June 15, 1999 This lack of sleep explains much of my behavior on Tuesday morning. My throat felt a little rough from speaking all day during training, so I decided to seek out a nutritious breakfast to avoid getting sick. I drove around half-asleep, starving, looking for a place that would sell me some real food for breakfast (not doughnuts and not 7-11 burritos). I was so focused on finding food that I had tunnel vision, scanning mini-malls to see if there were any stores that could supply me with the nutrition I craved. I spotted a Deli and homed in on it. I started to pull into the parking lot so intent on finding food that I didn't even notice the "Exit Only - Severe Tire Damage" sign. Before I realized what had happened, I rolled right over a row of those nasty one-way spikes. Aaaaaaaaaaaa!!! Doooooh!!!!! Son of a..........!!!!!!!!!! I couldn't believe it. I jumped off the bike and checked my tires for damage and found that the front tire had a little puncture and scrape mark in the middle of the tread. The tires hadn't deflated but I couldn't tell if the tire was damaged internally.

 What an idiot! I was so pissed off at myself for being so stupid. It was the fact that these were BRAND NEW TIRES with only the mileage from San Francisco to Los Angeles on them that really irked me. I had been so meticulous in my preparation, tuning the bike, buying new tires which I fully expected to carry me across the country and back, and here I was, not even out of California yet and I caused more damage to my tires than excessive mileage ever could. I rode to the local BMW dealership that afternoon to get a replacement taillight and had them check the tires at the same time. The rear tire had also fallen victim to the vicious spikes but I was lucky because the bike is lighter than a car. This lack of weight didn't press the tires down on the spikes hard enough to fully puncture them. Perhaps this is all part of a new ritual. If you do something really stupid before you begin a long journey, this sacrifice to the gods will prevent you from making any more bonehead mistakes along the way. That's my theory and I'm sticking to it.

Alan Jasenovic

The journey (Part4) - Get your Kicks, on Route 66.

 Thursday, June 17, 1999 Training was completed on Wednesday afternoon and I took the opportunity to rest and recharge my body's batteries for the long trip. Early on Thursday morning, I was up and ready to go, long before LA was even hitting their snooze buttons for the first time. I was looking forward to this first part of the trip. I was going to ride along old Route 66 through Los Angeles and then up to the Angels Crest Highway.

 The first part was amazing. Traffic in LA can be horrendous and its one of the main reasons that it's not my favorite places to visit. However, at 5:30 in the morning during the pre-dawn glow, it's like another world. I felt like the Omega Man (Starring Charlton Heston) with LA all to myself. Like a post-apocalyptic survivor I rode through the quiet urban streets that would, in just an hour or so, be choked with daily commuters. With nothing by green lights before me, my headlight piercing the early morning fog, I followed the signs that led me along Historic Route 66. I continued north along Santa Monica Boulevard to the mountains that mark the Los Angeles basin's northern boundary.

 I'd read about the Angels Crest Highway. It's the route that all the motorcycle magazines use to test the latest and greatest sport bikes. It didn't disappoint. The road wound its way up climbing and climbing, eventually breaking through the fog to the clear blue sky and the sun just breaking over the mountain tops. I savored each corner, the tires warming to their maximum grip and I slalomed my way up the road. The air smelled fresh in the trees and at this hour, just like in the valley, I had the road all to myself. Well, almost to myself. I had to keep dodging suicidal chipmunks that would run across the middle of the road. Indecisive little creatures, some would run from the right side of the road, stop on the double yellow line and wait until I got perilously close. I could see them in the distance and I would change my cornering line to avoid them. But then at the very last second, they would dart back across the road requiring me to grab a handful of brake and induce an adrenaline sweat in the cool mountain air. No victims were claimed that day, but just as a precaution, from then on each chipmunk was met with a loud blast from my dual FIAMM horns to discourage last minute U-turns, "BEEEEEEP!!!!!!!!! Get the hell out of the way you crazy little varmints!"

 As I crested the summit I could tell it would be a perfect day. The desert lay before me with Barstow in the distance and still I had curves to caress (Sensuous no? -And people think motorcycling is just about butt-ache.) The road wound down to the desert floor and I stopped for breakfast. It was already time to start utilizing the various riding gear I had brought. Now that I was out of the crisp high altitude air, I packed away my Aerostich suit (affectionately known as "Mr. Suit") and donned the Holy Jacket. (No, this is not the Pope's personal riding jacket, but a leather jacket fully perforated with holes to allow maximum ventilation while still affording road rash protection.)

 I love the desert. I'm not sure why. I had never been to the desert until I was about 25 years old. But now it's got some sort of spell on me. (Ya, ya I know I'm not the first one to feel that way, but it's my story.) Coming out of Barstow and heading east, I rode parallel to I-40 along what is left of old Route 66. You have to pay attention or you'll miss it, but it basically is the access road that runs along the main Interstate now. It's a very satisfying road to ride. Since most people never bother with it, there's no one on it and since it parallels the main highway, you can go just as fast as the Interstate traffic with less stress (Read: No Cops). Plus you get to see where they filmed the movie Bagdad Café. It's a working Café and you can stop in and get a cup of Joe or a tasty piece of pie. (Though it's unlikely that Jack Palance will paint your portrait. - But you never know.) Travelling along Route 66 is truly like going back in time. The old road meanders away from the Interstate from time to time and you really get a sense of what it must have been like to travel in the 1930's and 40's. It's a lonely road, but when you spend your life surrounded by people and seemingly endless traffic, that's really not such a bad thing.

Alan Jasenovic

The journey (Part5) - If you can't stand the heat, stay out of Amboy.

 Thursday, June 17, 1999 (continued...) Just east of Amboy, CA Pop. 22 - and the only gas for miles around, I turned left and started heading north into the great unknown. It was unbelievably hot. Even at 110 mph it was still hot. (I'm not saying that's how fast I was going - on the advice of legal council - but if you were going that fast - which I wasn't - it'd still be hot.) It's at times like these my mind starts to do a myriad of calculations:

 "Ok, I filled up in Barstow, that was 85 miles ago. My bike will go 200 miles on a tank of gas. The station in Amboy wanted $2.00 a gallon for regular unleaded. There's a spot on the map there, Kelso. Kinda looks like a town. I wonder if they have gas? Let's find out. I wonder if AAA even knows where this road is? Pretty barren around here. That new cell phone isn't going to do me a lot of good out here in the middle of nowhere is it?"

 Well, as it turns out there wasn't any gas in Kelso, just the coolest looking train station I have ever seen. But who uses it? It was the only building in town and it's 100 miles from anywhere. Oh well, press on I guess to the next town Cima, 25 more miles. No gas there, no town really either. Just a couple of abandoned barns. There's another spot on the map, Nipton, last town in California before Nevada. My reserve light comes on. Hmm, $2.00 a gallon is starting to seem pretty reasonable. Nipton, no gas, but they do have a country store. I eat a delicious lunch of prepackaged bologna sandwiches and Sunny Delight as I watch dust devils cross the road. I inquired about gas. "Yep, just down the road. Searchlight, 22 miles." Does that mean they'll need a searchlight to find me in 22 miles or that's the name of the town? I nursed the throttle during this stretch of road but to add to the tension of the moment, a strong cross wind was blowing from right to left across the road, threatening to shove me into the oncoming lane of traffic. I watched as motorhomes passed, listing like sailboats in the wind... (Insert your favorite nautical term here.)

 In Searchlight Nevada I filled up and contacted Kathleen. She put me in touch with Rob, whom I would meet in Cedar City, Utah that evening. Rob is a schoolteacher on vacation (bastard!) and had considerably more time than me to ride his new motorcycle wherever he pleased (bastard!). So he was slowly working his way across the country to see his family in Port Huron, Michigan. The two of us had decided to ride together for as long as my schedule would allow. I had four days to get to Boston, it was Noon on the first day and I hadn't even made a significant dent in the continental map yet. When I called Rob had said that he was somewhere on Highway 50 in Nevada. One of our tentative plans was for me to intersect his line of travel and meet him in the middle of the desert somewhere. However I was having too much fun and decided to stick to our original plan to meet Utah.

 After passing through Boulder City, south of Las Vegas, I made a quick stop at the Hoover Dam and dropped on to Hwy 166, which was barely on the map. It runs along the western shore of Lake Mead and changes names a couple of times to 41 and then 167. Barren and twisting, it was absolutely fabulous. It's a shame that my body temperature was now one degree below spontaneous combustion, otherwise I would have been having a REALLY good time. If only it was just a smidge cooler. Ah, the joys of desert riding in a black leather jacket.

 Later in the day I got really tired, the heat just sapping my energy, so I decided to forgo additional scenic bypasses and get on I-15 heading straight for Cedar City. I didn't feel as confident about the absence of cops on the Interstate as I did on some of the more remote roads I was travelling on, so I kept my speed down to a "safe and sane" 90 mph. The official limit was 75 mph and I didn't feel that 90 mph was stretching things too much considering the nature of desert driving. Most of the roads are arrow straight with excellent visibility. However when a couple of minivans began passing me like I was standing still, that was too much to take. I latched on to the wake of one minivan doing 100 mph (and they call motorcyclists crazy) and let him be my rabbit. I matched his speed and let him lead the way about a mile ahead of me. That way I could see any flashing blue and red lights appear out of the bushes with enough time to slow down nonchalantly.

 Driving along I-15, I was pleasantly surprised by this stretch of Interstate. As the road cuts across the top left corner of Arizona it appears as though the road heads straight towards a shear rock face. That's because it does. The road leads right up to the base of a spectacular mountain range and not until you are literally right up against the rocks do you see the narrow pass that cuts right through the middle of the range. The pass must have been originally formed by a river (later augmented by the Department of Transportation) and snakes though the smooth rock. The road was very entertaining, allowing me to experience dramatic lean angles through the curves at 75 mph. The remaining travel time to Cedar City passed surprisingly quickly and this section of Interstate proved to be not nearly as boring as I had anticipated.

 I met up with Rob in Cedar City and we shared our experiences of the separate routes we had taken to this destination. Rob had traveled along Highway 50 through Nevada, "The Loneliest Road in America" but he said that Highway 93 from Ely to Caliente was infinitely lonelier. As we discussed our plans for the next day our anticipation diminished the day's fatigue. We had come all this way for one reason: Highway 12 through southern Utah. Riding through Utah can be a religious experience (Just ask any Mormon.) But now it was time to sleep. With an expected departure time of 5:30am, tomorrow would come soon enough

Alan Jasenovic

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The journey (Part 6) - The Highway 12 Experience 

Friday, June 18th, 1999

 Have you ever been experienced? (Thank you Jimmy Hendrix) Well I'm here to tell you that riding a motorcycle can be like great sex. ("Send the children to bed dear, he's getting smutty.") It's true, there are many parallels. Allow me to illustrate my theory. The road is a like a beautiful woman (The previous sentence is to be read with the European accent of your choice.) You want to start out the day with a shower, so you're feeling fresh. Then you'll want to anticipate any changes that the day may present, so you don't get caught off guard and have to interrupt your progress. While riding you can get hot and sticky, but amazingly you will still be having a great time. (I'm not making any parallels about having a sore bum. You'll have to draw your own conclusions there.) Then at the end of the day you're spent, satisfied and in need of a snack and some sleep. Using this theory then, Highway 12 through Utah is like a Victoria's Secret model, with a brain. (Not unlike the girl I married.) Seductively curved, silky smooth, a few surprises thrown in for good measure and always entertaining. She so nice you'll even want to bring her home to meet mother.

 Rob and I spent a considerable amount of time getting ready for the day (She's not the jealous type, she's willing to share.) We kept checking the weather reports trying to anticipate how much warmer it would get as the day progressed, because we didn't want to overdress (She's not into sweaty guys.) And also trying to guess how much cooler it would be at higher altitudes so we didn't underdress (She's not fond of shrinkage either.) Certainly we came prepared for anything, but as mentioned earlier stopping every 5 minutes to add or remove a layer simply interrupts the enjoyment of the moment. We made an educated guess about what to wear and rode out of Cedar City up Highway 14. As the road climbed, the temperature dropped. I was happy with my decision to stick with Mr. Suit that morning, however my fingers were growing numb with cold (And no woman likes cold hands.) I didn't want to have to stop but I couldn't feel anything (And continuing my sexual parallel, what's the point in that?) We stopped so I could put on some warmer gloves but this had interrupted our seamless progress. As it turned out, another 100 feet down the road, unseen through the trees, were absolutely flawless 20mph semi-circle turns. By stopping I had ruined my setup to these wonderful curves (Sorry darling, let me start again.) Fortunately she's the forgiving sort and now with warm hands I was ready to ride all morning (Isn't that what all men say?)

 A quick left onto Highway 148 put us on a narrow two lane with snow patches lurking in the shadows of the trees. The air was crisp as we rolled past picture perfect meadows with the sun still low on the horizon flickering through the trees. The morning dew lit up like diamonds in the sunlight as we watched deer grazing in the fields. All was right with the world. This perfection continued all the way down to Panguitch where we filled up. The name Panguitch always makes me hungry because it sort of sounds like a tasty sandwich, perhaps made in a pan (Mmmmm, Panguitch). This is also the gateway to Highway 12.

 Travelling east on Highway 12 it begins with an "Oh my God" and just gets better from there. The first part is an innocuous half-mile stretch of road, then twists a bit and instantly you are in Red Rocks Canyon. The colors are surreal and it's difficult to keep your eyes on the road while beautifully shaped rock formations surround you. The road passes through two tunnels carved out of a cliff. A careful eye will spot how these tunnels have been strengthened over the years with concrete, the patches having been painted the color of the surrounding rock. However, so vivid is the natural color that this man made attempt to replicate it pales (literally) in comparison.

 A short distance down the road brought us to the entrance of Bryce Canyon National Park. Rob was able to convince the park ranger that I was his brother, so we could both enter for free using his National Park Service Gold Pass. Though the park ranger was obliging, she informed us that the Gold Pass only works for wives and significant others. From then on not only was I Rob's brother but also his lover. "You shore do have a pretty mouth." Do I hear banjos playing?

I believe that the human eye registers more colors from Bryce Canyon's Sunrise vista point than from any other single location in the world. The cloud like rock formations spread out before us like a labyrinth of Technicolor whip cream (Mmmmm, Whip Cream).

 We pressed on and the road continued to amaze and entertain. It twisted over smooth rock that seemed as if we could pull off the road and continue driving right up the side of the mountain on nature's own pavement (But we didn't, so no letters from the Sierra Club please.) It was as if the rock had been hand smoothed, like running your hands over the curves of woman's waist and hips as she lay upon a warm sandy beach (The preceding sentence was brought to you by Courvoisier, the official drink of Leon Phelps "The Ladies Man.") The scenery changed with every bend. Through dramatic narrow high-walled valleys, the road snaked along the rock cuts made by ancient rivers. From these shaded depths it rises to the mountaintop, that becomes a section of the road which I feel has to be the most dramatic portion of Highway 12. Here the two sides of the mountain meet like a roofline and the road teeters on this razor's edge. No shoulder exists along this stretch, the landscape simply falls away on both sides of the road. You come upon this section so quickly and it's over before you have a chance to comprehend the peril involved. Already 3 miles down the road, my self-preservation instinct finally kicked in producing the profound thought "Holy Shit!" Along this section of road the consequences of brain fade could be disastrous. However, the sensation and the experience (there's that word again) are worth the risk.

Alan Jasenovic

The journey (Part 7) - Interlude 

Friday, June 18th, 1999

Where was I? Oh ya. It's still Friday, it's still Utah's famous Highway 12 and Rob and I are moving a little slower now. Partly because we don't want to rush through this spectacular scenery, and partly due to an earnest attempt to keep hydrated in this arid climate. As a result, I now have to stop and pee every 5 minutes. Classical Gas The tempo of the road keeps changing like an intricate piece of classical music. Vivaldi's Four Seasons would make an excellent accompaniment to this part of the journey. I felt my pulse rise and fall with the changes in scenery and the road's character. Red Rock Canyon's cathedral like setting has a decidedly Andante feel while Bryce Canyon's excites your senses until your pulse is racing at Allegro speed with its spectacular visuals. In keeping with this Italian theme, my butt was beginning to feel decidedly Al dente (Cooked and firm).

Though I hardly noticed this encroaching pain as we rode along the last part of Highway 12. The highway engineers should be praised for their artistry. The road snakes downward in a beautiful series of constant radius turns that encourage insane lean angles, yet I always felt in control. The sun sparkles through thee aspen forests that line the road, occasionally opening up to reveal spectacular vistas of Glen Canyon. The only potential danger along this section are the open-range cows that amble from one side of the road to the other. They kept staring at my leather jacket with that "Hey, didn't that used to be my cousin Enid?" look.

Rob and I stopped at a gas station to fill up stomachs and bikes in Torey, UT which is the terminus of Highway 12. We met another BMW rider with a New York license plate. He was riding the same model motorcycle as mine. He had come a long way and the dead bugs and thin gray film of road grime covering his bike silently told of his journey. In comparison, my bike was still shiny, it's black bodywork still mirror-like and the chrome gleaming in the sun. My first reaction was "Ew, wash your bike, Man!" But mine would look significantly worse by the end of this trip.

We packed the sandwiches we had just purchased and rode a short distance down the road to Capitol Reef State Park. It was like an oasis on the moon. Or perhaps Mars might be more appropriate given the color of the indigenous rock. We ate lunch upon the grass amongst the apple and cherry trees, deer frolicking nearby, craning their necks to reach the abundant fruit. This place was like the Garden of Eden (No snakes allowed.) This place exuded the slower pace of the journey I was looking for. Rob and I staked out a couple of spots in the shade of a tree and lay down upon our jackets for a mid-day, post lunch nap. This type of behavior should be written into law. It changes your whole perspective on the afternoon. Staring up at the surreal blue sky against the contrasting red rocks and green trees, it was a Kodak moment.

Alan Jasenovic

Friday, June 18th, 1999

My moment of tranquility and reflection had allowed me to juggle time and distance calculations, which brought me to an unfortunate conclusion. This pace, though idyllic would not get me to where I needed to be in time. As we mounted up for our afternoon stint I was in denial all the way from Capitol Reef to Hanksville. The road to Hanksville (featured briefly in the movie Easy Rider) was to be the last bit of pure unadulterated motorcycle road I was going to experience for the next 48 hours.

What I would have to do to make up for the previous day's frivolity is ride straight and fast along (dare I say it) ...the Interstate. There is a road on the map in Utah that connects Hanksville to Interstate 70. It was at this point that Rob and I had to part ways. He had much more time to explore and wander, but my plan to be in Boston in 2 more days would be impossible if I didn't make some serious mileage this afternoon. Denver or better by tonight seemed reasonable. So at Hanksville, we shook hands, wished each other good luck and happy riding and I turned on to Highway 24. This road exists for one reason, speed. Designed as the shortest possible link between the Interstate and Lake Powell, it is well traveled on the weekends by boat towing pick up trucks on their way to enjoy water skiing on Lake Powel. However today, the road was all mine.

Suzuki introduced a motorcycle this year called the Hyabusa. Named for a Japanese falcon that can attain speeds of over 180 mph as it dives for its prey, this motorcycle is capable of traveling at 180+ mph comfortably. Of course the biggest response from the non-motorcycling public has been "Why?" "Where can you go that fast?" I myself wondered the same thing as I read the road test of the bike in the comfort of my living room. Occasionally putting down the magazine to stare out the window upon the urban sprawl and congested traffic that has become the San Francisco Bay Area. But now, on Highway 24, alone, visibility about, oh... 200 miles, with not so much as a telephone pole to break up the great expanse spellbound by the magic that is a deserted road, I started to dream of the Hyabusa. My motorcycle by design is limited to a maximum of about 130 miles per hour because it was meant to cruise the German Autobahn well in excess of American speed limits. Well I saw 130 mph on that stretch of road. And not just for a moment during a testosterone induced rush of speed to determine the age-old question of: "What'll she do?" No. This was deeper. This was the kind of rush that Marathon runners must feel at the 25th mile mark of the Boston Marathon. I rode at 130 mph for one and a half hours straight. Crazy, that's what some people will say. Irresponsible, reckless, stupid, I've heard them all. I could try to sway you with a soliloquy of "Calculated risk", "Living life to the fullest" or "Because it's there", but I won't try. You either get it or you don't.

Alan Jasenovic

The journey (Part 9) - Denver or Bust

(Editor's Note: Kathleen and I will be leaving for Europe on Sunday August 22nd, returning on September 13th. So for better or worse this continuation of The Journey will resume at that time. And besides, I'll have material for another boring story when we get back. Talk to you then. -Alan)

Friday, June 18th, 1999

With my Hyabusa dream fading and a significant amount of mileage under my belt (in record time I might add) I merged with the traffic on Interstate 70. The Interstate Highway system is an engineering marvel designed for travel at 100mph all day and night. Unfortunately the Highway Patrol and the engineers never got together for lunch to discuss this. Strangled for years under the bureaucracy of the federally mandated 55mph, these wide sweeping roads now have their limits set by the states through which they run. Montana even had the balls to not set a specific limit on its Interstates, during daylight hours, asking its motorists to travel at speeds that were "Prudent and Reasonable." But even that was too good to be true and Montana recently set limits of 75 mph. As I crossed into Colorado the limit was also 75mph however the general public being what they are, tend to push these limits resulting in a traffic flow of 85 to 90 mph. This suited me fine, as I was intent on making as many miles as possible today.

Wearing a motorcycle helmet can be like floating in a sensory depravation tank. On long featureless stretches of road my mind tends to wander. It's not like falling asleep it's simply that the task at hand requires so little from my gray matter that I slip into overdrive. The droning of the engine fades away and I start to hear songs in my head. This can be a good or bad thing depending on the song my mind's needle is stuck on. I once had the misfortune of travelling an entire day with the jingle for a men's hair color for beards stuck in my head, "No one can tell, Just for Men Gel." However, other times it can be like the ultimate 12 inch single. Imagine singing "Route 66" along Route 66, all 2000 miles of it. Been there, done that.

Other times it's my eye that wanders. Along the Interstates there are invariably service roads that run parallel to the main road. This is much like the portion of Route 66 described earlier in this story where the main roads that existed prior to the Interstate coming through is now used for local traffic only. These roads are nameless now, they sit silently, largely untraveled proclaiming "I was here first." I call these roads, "The Old Road" and as I travel along any modern highway my eye is magnetically drawn to these relics from the past. Built during a time when engineers couldn't feasibly just move a mountain out of the way to create the shortest distance from A to B, the old road meanders, following the natural contour of the land. As I'm stuck on the Interstate, my mind rides the old road when time won't allow me the luxury of actually traveling upon it. Sometimes though, this mental journey is all that's possible anymore. The old road may be completely abandoned like backwaters along the Mississippi River, where a new path was deemed more economical. Still I can trace the path with my eye, watching the old road disappear off into the forest because it needed to find an easier way around a hill through which a giant V cut has now been made for the modern highway. I twist my neck as I crest the hill, hoping to catch a glimpse of where the old road merges with the new road, then it disappears unceremoniously into overgrown weeds and crumbling pavement just as the two are about to meet. Choosing to travel along one of these old roads can give you a sense of the road less traveled because all the traffic tends to drive along it's modern replacement. This sense of tranquility I get along these old roads is actually quite ironic because the original road must have become so congested and hectic over time, which is what prompted its replacement. But I'm terminally nostalgic, so what are you going to do?

My focus back on the road, I start to see darkening clouds in the distance. It's been warm all day so I'm reluctant to change in to Mr. Suit from the Holy Jacket right away. I decide to risk it a little farther. Deeper into the Rocky Mountains now, I can't slander I-70 completely as featureless slab of concrete. The road here has a unique character as it follows the Colorado River. The Interstate winds along the serpentine ravine with the west and east bound lanes creating a concrete stair case down to the river's bank. The final step of this set of endless gigantic bleachers is a bicycle path that runs along the shoreline of the river. It's rare to see a super-highway built to include such human needs.

When I reached Vail the clouds continued to threaten and the altitude has cooled the air, so I began the layering process. Knowing that I would continue to climb, I put on my Electric vest but don't turn it on just yet. After this short stop, the road dampened. I must have just have missed the downpour, but following in the path of semi-trailer trucks that created a fine shower composed of road grime, my bike began it's transformation from shiny black Knight to dingy gray Road Warrior. In no time at all I was at the top of the first pass above 10,000 feet. I parked at the top just in time to catch the remnants of the sunset as it created an alpen glow across the mountain peaks. Tourists piled out of Mini Vans, dressed in shorts an T-shirts shocked by the 40 degree temperatures and the snow encircling the parking lot. As the sky continued to darken I changed my helmet's visor from tinted to clear happy to see the electric vest's indicator light glowing red in the twilight.

Problems, problems. As I prepared myself for the last push into Denver about 100 miles away, I noticed that the road seems darker than it should. I stood up on the pegs and lean over the front of the bike. No low-beam. Great. This was becoming the "Can't see, can't be seen" trip (which is in no way affiliated with "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" policy of the American Military.) First my taillight and now this. Well at least my high-beam worked and so did my parking lights. I attempted to keep from using the high beams when I came up behind someone so as not to fry their retinas, but as I got closer and closer to Denver, the traffic increased and I felt reluctant to turn off the high-beam in case I couldn't be seen at all. Vulcan logic again: Better to be annoying than squished. And needless to say I annoyed a lot of people on my way to Denver. I saw hands waving to their rear-view mirrors, people flashed their hi-beams back at me, trucks honked the way only trucks can. It was definite, Denver was going to be my destination tonight, I couldn't go any further. Besides, Denver was probably going to be the last place that was going to have a headlight bulb and I didn't want to play out this scenario again tomorrow night. A Holiday Inn Express presented itself on the outskirts of town and pulled in for the night.

Alan Jasenovic