Up at 5 or 5:30, on the road at 6 seems to be the mantra for this trip.

Heading east out of Bend on 20 is easy going – until I hit the down side and the temperature drops to 36F. It varies in and out of the shade from 36 to 40 to 42, and holds at 36 when the sun comes up. I know it gets colder just after the sun rises, but this is getting ridiculous now.

I pull over and put on some silk glove liners and my Aerostiche rain pants to try to keep warm at 60 miles an hour. It helps a little, but I’m unprepared for these temperatures. I was under the mistaken impression that this was summer.

A hundred and thirty miles and two hours later I land in Burns, cold to the bone. A gas stop followed by another 300 yards finds me in the parking lot of a local restaurant. It seems to be popular with the locals, judging by the half-tons in the lot. I’m still shivering as I kick the stand down and dismount.

I walk in and find an empty booth since there’s no counter here. The place is about three-quarters full, with BLM* fire fighters, EMT personnel and a scattering of locals mixed in. In another life I spent some time working with and flying fire fighters around in northern Canada, and on seeing them here I start reminiscing to myself about the camaraderie of the fireline and the people manning it. It was a great job with some fantastic people. The work is dirty and gritty and dangerous, and they don’t get paid nearly enough to do it.

I’ve been in the diner for about half an hour now, long enough to give my order of hot cakes, eggs, bacon and toast to the waitress, but I’m still shaking uncontrollably. I cup the coffee to help warm my hands, but my core temperature has been lowered so severely in the low temperatures and by the wind chill at 60 miles an hour that I still haven’t warmed up.

I must look really miserable, because nobody has said a word to me, which is unusual. They’re all leaving me in peace and quiet to ponder the wonders of riding the road in 36 degree temperatures.

The hot food arrives and I’m hoping that will add some fuel to my body’s furnace. Finally, it does, and the shivering stops. I can hold my hands steady now. I ate too much, but my body needed it.

I pay the bill and walk out to the parking lot to stand in the warming sun. Finally! As I kill time checking out the bike, an older man in an RV walks up and starts talking about his riding experiences around North America. He wants to know where I’m headed. I tell him, and he helps to pass some time by telling me about what to expect further down the road; what’s around to sight-see; a rally long ago in Twin Falls. I’m grateful for the break — the sun is getting higher and warmer.

It’s time.

East again on 20, this time headed to Boise. It’s substantially warmer now. I can relax into the easy two-lane blacktop. The sun is no longer in my eyes so visibility is good. I crank up the pace, hitting 80 — no troopers on this road.

By now it’s hotter than Texas tar. I am almost – but not quite – grateful for the freezing cold of this morning. The heat becomes more unbearable all the way to Boise. I stop at a roadside rest area on the 84 and collapse in the welcome shade of a tree. It’s definitely time for a snooze.

An hour later it still hasn’t cooled any. The ride to Twin Falls is completed in the sweltering heat. It’s been an exhausting day because of the extreme temperature ranges that I’ve been experiencing.

* Bureau of Land Management

I had dinner late last night at a Thai restaurant that I tripped over on my walk back to the hotel. It was good, but don’t ask what I had – I don’t remember. The girls couldn’t join me – they were still dancing when I left. Not that they would have wanted to.

Morning comes early, but the cool of the morning is a good time for riding, so I saddle up and do a little sight-seeing into the trendy part of downtown. There are lots of little shops and cafés and restaurants to while away the hours in, to be sure. I find a bakery and have breakfast. The bakery reminds me of one in Djibouti, many years ago, but here everyone speaks English and the ambiance is very different.

I head out on back roads to see the mountains and the lakes and the trees that I miss so much in the high desert. It’s a completely different environment here. In the desert there’s nothing to filter out the dust. Here, with all the trees, you can’t see past the edge of the road, although there are lakes that are plain enough for all. I find it very relaxing to pull off onto a side road and park beside a small lake. The clear blue sky, the gentle breeze, the soft-sounding waves are all here to enjoy.

I make a loop west around Mt. Bachelor, then south and back east and north to the city where I’ll spend another night at the peeler bar. Well, I won’t spend the entire night there.

I’m just going for the conversation, you know?

It’s cool and dark, with mist on the bike, but I know that won’t last long. I push out to the street, away from the sleeping guests. There are some morons who would start up and rev the shit out of their engines next to the rooms, but not me. I’ve learned to be respectful. You never know when someone might recognize you by the side of the road and try to chase you into a ditch.

After a brief engine warm-up I’m off once again at oh-dark-thirty. Believe me when I say I’m a little stiff this morning. The stiffness will work itself out farther up the road, but I’m glad I still work out with weights, otherwise it would probably be a lot worse.

I’m on new pavement now, with lots of sunshine to show me the way. I don’t see any construction, although there are signs that there had been in the weeks and months earlier. So much for checking road conditions in a bar. I wonder how often that bar girl travels north on this road to Reno. Probably not often, which seems to be the case for most people. They’re not travelers.

I’m settled in now, and the miles are piling up. The road is good, the weather clear, the day warm. What more could there be to life on this day?

First comes Carson City. I stop for breakfast at an empty restaurant, answer the questions put to me by the waitress when she sees my map, and wonder why the place is empty. Will I pay farther down the road? No, she says. It’s just a slow morning. Oh good!

Reno flies by faster than I had thought it would. For some reason I thought Reno was larger than it actually is. Why? I don’t know. I’m glad I’m not stopping though. For a gambling city in Nevada, it doesn’t look too healthy in the economic sense.

At Susanville I head west on 44. Although I’m not close to the jail, I wave anyway. It’s a minimum security place, but that doesn’t matter. I’m glad I’m not there.

At the junction with 89, it’s north again, and I sail into Mt. Shasta on Interstate 5 for lunch at a Mexican restaurant. Damn I wish all Mexican restaurants could be this good! Who would have thought in the middle of nowhere there would be a meal like no other? And Mexican at that!

Just a little farther north on the 5 and I’m turning off onto 97 for Klamath Falls. It’s hotter than a pig, and I’m tired. I stop for gas, park in the shade, drink some water, take a break. I look around and spot a movie theater and contemplate sitting in on a matinee for a couple of hours in air-conditioned splendor, but change my mind. It’s late, and I don’t want to ride 97 in the dark into Bend.

It hasn’t gotten any cooler up here, even with the elevation changes. That surprises me.

It’s almost dark. Bend is a welcome sight. I find a room, take a shower, and walk over to a peeler bar that I spotted on the way in.

No Canadian girls dancing here, but there’s one or two that look pretty good in the dim light. Not bad for Bend.

August 7, 2005 – Part II

My ass is sore.

My shoulders ache.

My arms are tired.

My back is stiff.

I’m sunburned.

And this is only day one.

It won’t take long though, that I do know. After four or five days I’ll really be back in the saddle again, for after days of hugging the yellow line I’ll once more become accustomed to the rigors of long-distance motorcycle riding.

Those of you who never do more than a quick ride to work, or a short bar-hop on a Saturday night will never understand what it means to get dirty and gritty with asphalt perfume. Mile after boring mile, you think. Well, let me tell you, it’s never boring. You know why? Because there’s always another curve, more blue sky, another town, another bar, more hotels, women who want to know how long you’ll be here and where you’re going next. Old people walk up to you and tell you stories of the bikes they owned and the rides they took generations ago.

I’m ready for that and more.

Adventure awaits.

I am off.

I miss you, mon amour.

August 7, 2005 – Part I

It’s 5 a.m. — still dark — when I fire up Ghost Dancing and head down the driveway and out onto the highway. Eventually I’ll connect with 395 northbound, but for now it’s an easy start in the coolest part of the day, which isn’t saying much given that it’s 85 degrees.

I stop for gas just after sunup at Kramer’s Corner, a crossroads in the middle of nowhere. There are lots of places like this in North America, and I’ve seen a lot of them. One or two gas stations on each corner, an attendant half asleep. A junkyard across the street. Cars parked with drivers asleep at the wheel and with their heads rolled back or pushed up against the door glass.

I’m certain that so far my ride has been better than their drive.

I gas up, check the oil, throw a leg over, fire up and turn right.

395 can be a dangerous road. It’s two-lane blacktop, full of dips and plenty of no passing zones, but that doesn’t stop a lot of drivers from crossing their fingers and pulling out to pass on blind spots and double-line no-passing zones. I wonder what they think. Are they half asleep, or just plain stupid. Certainly they’re not psychic, because no one knows what’s around the corner or down in the dip ahead coming their way on the opposite side of the road. It could be anything from a Volkswagon to a semi.

I find myself crowding the yellow line every time someone in front of me passes in a no-passing zone, and I try to see what’s coming up ahead. I find I’m always disappointed though — no head-on meetings where no one has time to take any notes.

I’m not really disappointed, of course, for who among us would actually want to witness the highway carnage of a head-on wreck? Not only that, but the delay would be unpredictable, and I want to get farther north before dark. Yes, call me cold, but I’m hoping it’s gonna be a lot cooler up north.

It doesn’t cool farther north though. It stays just as hot, and I’m forced to take a lot of breaks and drink plenty of water to stay hydrated. I have to stay covered up too, because bare arms and shoulders in this heat would help to dehydrate me. Lots of newbie bikers don’t realize that, and when I see them uncovered, sunburned and tired, I know why. They just don’t get it. You can tell an old road warrior by his clothes. Chances are he’s covered up in the sun.

The sign says another town up ahead, this one called Bridgeport and nowhere near Connecticut. Carson City and Reno lie north within striking distance, but it’s time for gas, and a long, tall, cool drink.

There’s a bar in the center of town — center being relative — since Bridgeport wouldn’t exactly be described as populous. The bar isn’t rocking either, which gives me a chance to talk to the pretty girl behind the bar. She’s a fountain of knowledge regarding the highway north (lots of construction and delays) and Reno (no rooms available there due to a late summer festival known as Hot August Nights.) Okay. She’s cute. Why not stay here?

I got a room, hit the sack for a couple of hours, and wake up at 5:30 in the morning.

So much for all those stories of bikers and bar girls on this day.