"Man Journey”

Let me start this ride report with a little introduction as to the how and the why. Graduating from college into this economic climate is not fun. Graduating from college early into this economic climate is even less fun. As I just graduated from the RIT with no job prospects lined up, I did what any other college student would do: I went home to live with mom. All in all, this is a lot better than it sounds. What makes this situation terrible is that home is in Cleveland, OH. Definitely not the cultural center of the USA by any stretch of the imagination. I picked up a job as a warehouse manager and after the first week of work, I knew I could not survive in this town for much longer. And so, a plan was formed: pursue the dream I had since youth - live in San Francisco!

I started putting the majority of my earnings into savings and began devising a way to get out there. Right around this time, someone on the XJBikes board posted a link to the “NY to SF on a $50 bike” ride report on ADVRider. After I read the first page, I knew exactly how I was going to get to San Francisco: motorcycle! I had just recently, in December of 08, purchased a 1985 XJ700N with a little over 10,000 miles. It was cosmetically perfect, but needed a lot of work on the mechanical aspects. I bought the bike for the sole reason that the majority of it's operation relies on mechanical aspects so I would be able to fix just about anything that went wrong myself, without relying on a shop. Being my first bike, I set to tearing it apart with the goal of taking my first ride by

March 1st. Many cold evenings in a (unheated) garage and my bike was running! The first ride was freezing and I ended up doing a 270 degree turn on a patch of black ice. I knew that if I could survive that, I could survive a trip to CA.

I spoke to my friend Misha several times over the course of several months leading up to the journey. Having told him in full detail about my upcoming trip, as he had no job prospects either, he decided to make the migration to the West coast with me. Unfortunately, after looking at several bikes, all of the good deals (read: those he could afford and those that would make the trip) either fell through or were snatched up before we got a chance to look at them. So what do we do now that Misha has no ride? We venture to his backyard and find two perfect examples of German engineering ready to handle anything that comes their way: matching (1984 and 1985) Porsche 944s... in less than desirable condition. With only 1.5 weeks to go before departure day, the 1984 is sold to pay for the trip, and the 1985 is fixed up just enough to survive (or is that, just enough so the occupant survives?) the trip.

A few days before departure I was talking to Natalya, an older Russian friend of mine. As I finished describing the trip to her, she was in shock that instead of taking a plane I was going to ride a motorcycle the whole way. As I tried to explain to her, she just shook her head and said, “Man journey, I understand.”

Day 1

Waiting to depart

I have been awake almost all night due to nervousness and anxiety of starting. All of my stuff was packed in to one duffel bag weighing in at 60 pounds. Everything else I either sold off or gave away to friends. Getting out of bed, I check that everything is strapped on nice and tight and have one last (most delicious) breakfast with my mom. Misha arrives at my house around 11:40 (an hour and a half late) and we already start changing the ride plan. Instead of heading out to Indiana, I decide it would be best to push to Chicago, IL and sleep in a bed at our friends place. Many heated discussions later, we agree to head to Chicago and are on our way at noon.

We fill up with gas a mile from my house and I mark the mileage on my odometer. The plan is to do the scenic drive along Route 2 to Toledo, OH to see the glass museum and eat some lunch. Two minutes out, I already feel the rain drops. As soon as I hit the highway, pouring rain commences down on me for the next one and a half hours, almost the entire way to Toledo. I am glad I made the investment in waterproof armor and continue to brave the elements. Well, 20 minutes of braving the elements and I am chilled to say the least. Riding with my t-shirt untucked and without the liner on my jacket has allowed for rain to seep in. Not to mention that I'm wearing canvas shoes. Riding in 64 degree weather is nice, riding in 64 degree weather when you are soaking wet and battling highway winds is not nice. I change shirts, shoes and socks right outside of Toledo and we make the last half hour to the museum with the sun shining over our heads.

Toledo is a strange city in that the debilitated neighborhoods almost instantly become nice and then before you have a chance to blink again, you're back in a run down portion of the city. Despite this, I would recommend taking a visit to the glass museum if you are in town.

We spend almost two hours browsing the displays and watching a live glass blowing demonstration, after which we feast on a lunch of boiled eggs, bread and tomatoes (Thanks to Misha's mom for sending along food! It saved us on numerous occasions) before heading out to Chicago. As soon as we hit the highway, the clouds rush in and the rain begins to pour again. The rest of the way to Chicago the weather alternated between rain and mist. To make matters worse, the exit we needed to take to get to our friend's apartment was blocked off for construction and the next best way to get there (according to the Garmin Nuvi (worst GPS) was for us to use an exit in Gary, Indiana. Wow. Talk about urban decay. Factories were spilling out waste right in to the side streets, toxic smells permeated the air and the only people I saw out on the streets were homeless. After taking a roundabout (and somewhat scary) drive through Gary, we make it to the Illinois border and get going on the final stretch to Chicago. When we hit city limits, traffic comes to a grinding halt. It would have been faster for me to walk the remaining mile than wait in traffic. We managed to get in to Chicago right as the baseball game was letting out and we also managed to get ourselves on to the Inner Loop which, as I am told, is the worst place to be after a baseball game lets out. Frustrated, cold, and wet I arrive at our friend Alyssa's apartment at 10:30, over an hour behind schedule due to all of the detours and traffic.

A warm shower and a hot plate of food later (Thank you, Alyssa!) we do what any exhausted travelers would do: head to the liquor store (Thank you Chicago for allowing your liquor stores to stay open late!) and purchase some vodka as a house warming present. The long, hard day catches up to me two shots later and I proceed to go to bed.

Day 2

I wake up at 6 AM. This is quite a surprise to me considering how exhausted I felt yesterday and how exhausted I still felt as I lay in there in bed. I force myself to doze on and off for the next hour or so until I finally decide that it is time to get up and be useful. A hearty breakfast, with extremely strong coffee (thanks again, Alyssa!), and I feel like a new person despite the overall lack of sleep. I spend the next two hours hyped up on caffeine and planning the route for the next few days. The original route I had spent 2 months researching and planning was no longer good as we had already pushed an entire hour further on the first day and our schedule would be off-set for the rest of the trip. Next stop: Cedar Rapids, IA and then Waterloo, IA to camp for the night.

We chit chat, recharge and load our iPods with new songs and head out in to Chicago traffic some time after 11 AM. I am unsure of what's worse, waiting 30 minutes in a traffic jam to move a tenth of a mile, or being exposed to Chicago drivers during rush hour. I'll let you decide for yourself, but I must say that I've never been quite as alert as I was when leaving Chicago - being cut off left and right by SUVs and trucks going well over the speed limit.

And then finally, we enter Iowa!

Iowa!

The transition from Illinois to Iowa is quite smooth. We are exposed to what seems like endless rolling plains... and the smell of manure. Strangely enough, this is also when

my iPod dies and continues to stay dead for the rest of the trip. Undaunted, we push onward to Cedar Rapids. As we get closer I become increasingly anxious to get off of my bike and stroll around as the past day and a half of riding is getting to me. Oh, I should have added this to the preface, the longest ride I took prior to this trip was only 70 miles. We'd already covered 5 times more than that on the first day and my butt was asking for a brake from the saddle. As we entered Cedar Rapids, I instantly forgot about my aches and pains when I was greeted by a completely dead city. It was startling, there were hundreds of cars everywhere (and a church every 100 or so yards) but the streets were completely empty as we drove through downtown. Some of the buildings even had boards over the doors and windows. And these weren't house sized buildings either, but large, multi-story office buildings.

We stop by a random intersection (3rd and 10th?) in an attempt to find a bar. Exploring the city we stumble across this brilliant feat of architecture:

I really like the thinking behind this building.

A little ways down the street from this building, we find our target: a dive Irish pub! As we enter through the door, I realize we have found the place where all hope goes to die. The contents of the bar include a less than enthusiastic bartender, two middle-aged (and extremely drunk) couples, one Harley rider, and, most surprising, one student doing work on his laptop. Less than thrilled with where we are, but too tired to care, we plop ourselves down at the bar and attempt to order two local brews. Once we find out that all this bar serves is Miller Lite, Coors Light, Bud Light and Fat Tire. We order the only beer that isn't as watered down as the rest: Fat Tire.

The beer is served to us in glasses fresh out of the freezer, coated in a fine layer of ice. Just what I needed after sweating pools in my armor for the majority of the morning and mid-day. The first few sips of beer hit my stomach and it starts to grumble, begging to be fed something other than a liquid diet. Glancing over the menu, I am less than enthused and decide to go with a (somewhat) safe bet and order a taco. The food arrives and I am pleasantly surprised; The taco is a good size, tastes great and comes with free chips and salsa! I am even more surprised when we receive the bill. $2.25 for each beer and $1.50 for each taco! At $3.75 each (plus tip!) this is the cheapest meal we eat all trip.

Satiated and with some time to spare we decide to walk off the alcohol, proceeding to meander around Cedar Rapids. With the exception of the bridges, only one other thing caught my eye: pasta by the gallon!

Having experienced enough local culture, we head back to our rides and proceed on our way to Waterloo, IA where the plan is to camp at George Wyth Memorial State Park. The ride is rather uneventful and as the sun begins to set all I really want to do is set up our tent and sleep. We arrive a little after 8, behind schedule again, and get a non-electric site for $11. Tired from the road, it takes us a while to unpack and we end up having to set up the tent by the light of the moon (and a tiny LED flashlight). We also quickly realize that our plan to scavenge for firewood is a no-go as there are no downed trees to be found anywhere. Thankfully an extremely nice couple shares some of their firewood with us.

Eating and planning the next days route.

We proceed to build a small cooking fire and cook some of the best potatoes I've had in a long time while also brewing a kettle of tea. Satisfied with the meal, the rest of the wood is used to create a roaring blaze which we watch from our tent as we slowly doze off.

Day 3

George Wyth State Park, complete with proximity to major highway.

We wake up at... Wait, that's the wrong way to start Day 3. We have been awake for most of the night, each sleeping for roughly an hour. The cold, hard packed dirt underneath the tent has been most uncomfortable as a mattress, and the armor in my pants has not exactly been the best pillow, either. We lay on the ground for as long as possible, doing our best in an attempt to rest up any way possible. Tired from trying to sleep, we finally get up to eat. As soon as I take the first bite out of my hearty breakfast of cold, left over potatoes, banana, spoonful of peanut butter and water I realize my throat is sore. Ten minutes later all possible flu symptoms set in. So far, it's been an excellent start to an adventure. We finish off the breakfast water, pack up and set out by 9 AM.

Things only become worse the further we head towards Minnesota. The wind picks up in intensity with each passing mile that by the time we reach Minnesota I have to drive with a hard lean to my left in order to keep riding in a straight line. I've encountered strong winds, but this is something altogether new to me. To top it off, my bike starts to act up and, as Misha informs me at a too frequent gas stop, is shooting black smoke out of my left exhaust when I accelerate. Great. I'm sick, I'm back in my armor cooking in the heat as we ride along exposed fields all day, fighting heavy wind and my bike is devouring gas at an increasing rate (I averaged 26 MPG for the entire day.).

Maybe my bike was drunk?

Another major milestone. The Minnesota border.

This was the most elaborate border marker. It sits upon a base, roughly 40' x 40' of raised concrete and surrounded by freshly planted vegetation. Try as we may, we were

unable to get a picture of both of us on it as the timer on the camera ran out before either one of us could climb it.

Finally, another major milestone. The South Dakota border!

Failed jump picture.

By this point, the endless fields and pastures split up by straight roads I first encountered as we left Chicago had lost all appeal to me. As my odometer racked up miles, the landscape stayed the same. Before I left, I really wanted to see what it was like to see green fields and open space all around. Now, my brain had had enough of the monotony. When I was younger, my dad told me stories of merchants in far away lands who had to cross long stretches of desert on camels, alone. He told me that to prevent from going crazy and losing their ability to talk, the merchants would start to sing songs about anything they encountered so as to pass the time and practice speaking. I tried my best to make up songs about the sun, the grass and the pavement, but was feeling particularly uninspired that day. My body ached and so did my mind. All I wanted is to reach the mountains of Colorado.

As we approach Chamberlain, SD, our camping destination for Night 3, exhaustion has really set in to my muscles. As we are about to enter Chamberlain, which is situated right next to a bridge crossing the Missouri river, something inside me is moved. I look over the bridge to the other side, and I am filled with elation and

become more at ease. We pull in to camp at American Campground(?), a place right on the river run by an extremely energetic, funny and outgoing older gentleman. We chat with him for a few minutes about our adventure and finishing college. Hearing our story, he reduces our camping fee to the minimum and tells us “You just finished college, you need the money more than I do,” and hands us a map marking our designated camp site. It's a really heart warming feeling when a total stranger, especially in times like this, helps another total stranger. After this, I started to notice that the further West we went, the more selfless all of the people became.

We roll in to our designated camp site, which ends up being prime lake front property, set up the tent in a matter of seconds and set out to do some serious work. Misha goes to get firewood, which we end up having to purchase, to start dinner. I call up Rick and we start trying to diagnose why my bike suddenly started running rich on the #1 and #2 cylinders. Rick suggested that the jets may have rattled loose in carbs #1 and #2. With tools in hand, I fight the waning daylight to tear down the bike.

Carbs off, I start to probe around. Working against time, I check that all jets are still in place, that all butterflies open and then I check the diaphragm assembly. The brass piston on carb #1 is stuck halfway up, and the piston on #3 does not seat properly. I polished the slide bores before the trip, so I'm guessing something got sucked in through the air box and wedged itself in there. I do a quick field polish, using WD-40 as a lubricant, and make sure that all piston's clunk close. I put the carbs back on the bike, resorting to a tiny LED flashlight to light the work area. Swatting away the mosquitoes (which happened to be particularly vicious) I head back to camp and am

delighted at the sight that greets me.

Culinary masterpiece

Misha took the initiative and created another fine meal for our dining pleasure. Fire roasted potatoes seasoned with cayenne pepper and salt as well as pork something or another. After this point I am unable to recall much of anything except that the food was very filling. After I had put the carbs back on the bike, I took NyQuill to soothe all of my cold symptoms as I had been suffering the entire day. To give you an idea of my mood, here is my last journal entry for the day, in NyQuill induced chicken scratch, “Really want to reach Co. / Spirits are low & / I am exhausted.” I close my eyes and sleep comes fast.

Day 4

The alarm on my phone rings. It is 6:00 in the AM. Both of us get straight up, as if we were automatons, clear the tent, and pack everything in a matter of minutes. Breakfast is a different story. I treat myself to a banana which I dip in peanut butter, bread and water. For some strange reason, this combination fills me with more energy than I had imagined it would. The sun is shining on my face from the East. Turning my head to the West, a bridge crossing the Missouri awaits. Misha and I take our time with breakfast and enjoy the serenity of the early morning. A first for the trip, a grueling 8 hour ride awaits us.

I saddle up and Misha settles in. We crank our respective rides in unison, and

without word roll out of the campground. I took the lead and went on a more scenic (Misha says: "longer") ride through Chamberlain. I had never seen “small town America” and was always curious to see it firsthand. The scenic route, which takes us an extra 2 minutes, quickly comes to an end and we are greeted by the on-ramp to the bridge.

As soon as we crossed that bridge, it was as if we had crossed through some sort of portal. The scenery became captivating and every rise and fall of the road would draw me in.

The sun rising over my back enveloped me in a blanket of heat and radiance that was just enough to combat the early morning chill. The NyQuill had done it's job. My stomach was full. An excellent start to an early morning!

We cover the first 58 miles in what seemed like no time at all. Then we stop for gas. My bike ate through 2.3 gallons of gasoline during those wonderful miles of riding. Concerned, I pull the plugs and now discover that ALL FOUR were covered in a thick layer of black soot. Knowing I would need a greater range than 70 or so miles out of one tank, there was but one thing to be done: carb teardown. I pull my bike to the side of the gas station, grab my tool kit from my saddle back and get to pulling the tank. As I am working, a bus pulls up. As it was behind me, I payed no attention to it until sheriff's started walking in and out of the store.

We hesitated on taking this picture. That is until another curious person asked the sheriff if it would be possible to take a picture to which he cheerfully replied “Yea, go right ahead!” and strolled in to the Sinclair gas station for a cup of coffee. As soon as we snapped the picture, a smaller armored van pulled up next to the bus. Deputies with shotguns stood at both doors and a head count was followed by an exchange of prisoners. At that time, this seemed perfectly normal to me. Only now do I think back and think of how surreal it was for me to be sitting in front of a partly disassembled bike, dirty rack of carbs in hand watching this entire procession. Speaking of carbs; I take off the hats on #3 and #4 and pull the shims that I had put in there before leaving Cleveland when I was fighting a lean issue on those cylinders. Assembling everything back together, I give a healthy turn in on the #1 and #2 idle adjustment screws (no shims under the #1 and #2 needles) and wipe my hands clean.

Behind schedule due to unexpected maintenance, we ride off towards Mt. Rushmore. Pushing West on wonderful roads (except for one 21 mile section) I

encounter another first. There is at least an even number of motorcycles as there are cars on the road. I had heard that people in South Dakota really love their toys, but did not expect such a huge turn out. This was spectacular, until I realized that 95% of the riders were on Harleys and would never return the salute when driving by. The other 5% seemed to be ADVrider-style folks on their BMW adventure machines, complete with farkles. I just assumed they were too busy looking at their GPS to return my salutes and the Harley riders were blinded by all of their chrome to see me and cheerfully pressed on. One pit stop to do a plug chop on the side of the highway is the only thing that interrupted the rest of my ride to Mt. Rushmore.

Arriving at Keystone several hours later, I park my bike between a row of shops on the main street and pile into Misha's car to save on parking costs by the memorial. The walkway in between the statues, plaques and flags leading up to the viewing platform and trail heads prepared me for something grand. Walking out on to the open concrete deck looking up at more than a decade worth of work by hundreds of people, I was less than enthused. Especially since Misha had hyped it up and informed me that each head was as tall as a sky scraper. Shame on me for failing to research this prior to departure (It was Misha's goal from the beginning to see Mt. Rushmore) and shame on Misha for making me believe that these heads are larger than they really are. Wandering through the museum, reading about the undertaking and seeing it in photos from start to finish really put a new perspective on things though. Using the tools that were available at the time, the monument created is larger than life. I only wish that they would open the hall of records for the public to browse.

Unfortunately, due to time constraints we had to rush through the sightseeing. As I have learned from a fellow traveler, “Always leave a reason to come back.” So we did, agreeing that we would be back to find at least one of the several thousand air hammer bits that are scattered at the base of the mountain. Back in Keystone, we enjoy a light lunch of burger and a brew from Colorado. I even explore the shops and pick up a trinket to send back home to my mom as a souvenir. With renewed spirit we head through Custer and the Black Hills on Route 16. This is a beautiful drive and I highly recommend that anyone in the near and not so near area take a ride through here. The rolling hills, punctuated by abrupt climbs through vast expanse of forest takes us directly to the Wyoming border.

As we stop to take a picture, I use the opportunity to check my plugs as Misha reports that I am still shooting smoke from one of my exhausts. A quick check reveals that I am still fouling out plug #1 and #2, while #3 and #4 are in the “just right/slightly rich” neighborhood. Still averaging roughly 26 miles per gallon, I decide to ride it out until Colorado and deal with the more frequent fuel stops. Riding on, I see landscapes that right away make me think of the “Wild West” as it was described to me in history lessons back in middle school. Everyone we talk to all through Wyoming is nice, sincere and extra friendly. Even the Harley riders salute! The drive down Route 85, a 200 mile stretch of mostly straight, flat road, shows me a completely different

meaning of “in the middle of nowhere.” Passing through Iowa and Minnesota, even parts of South Dakota, I saw signs selling acreage in the high hundreds. Here, I was passing signs that read “3,873 acres for sale,” with dirt roads stretching across the landscape and disappearing off beyond the horizon.

Halfway between Newcastle and Lusk I honk to 2 ragged looking bicyclists as we pass by them. Deciding to ask if they need any help seeing as the next town was over 40 miles out, I pull over a couple of hundred feet down the road and get a few apples out of Misha's car. As they ride up to us, we exchange greetings and get to talking. Turns out these two guys, Joel (thanks to the business card!) and sorry I forgot your friend's name, are doing a Portland, Oregon to Portland, Maine ride and then back.

We met them five and a half months in and on the second half of their journey. We chatted and got to hear a little bit about their adventure as well as sharing some of ours. If you're interested, you should check out Joel's site at www.honestexpression.com and read about his travels. Parting ways, we venture forward toward Hawk Springs “State Recreation Area” as Joel and his friend pedaled on towards Lusk.

The rest of the drive up until Torrington was a joy. If I had wanted to, I could have closed my eyes and rode for miles on end without fearing for my safety as we saw only a small handful of cars, and all within close proximity to city limits. The smooth, straight road took us farther down south through Wyoming. In my mind, I was eagerly awaiting Colorado and using this portion of the drive to rest mentally and physically as I

had only a slight grip on the throttle to keep the bike sailing along. We get to Torrington right as a rainstorm had passed. As we hit city limits, the sun begins to set and I start to develop an uneasy feeling in the depths of my stomach. I had put my camera away and could not reach it, but wish I could have snapped a photo of this bar's sign: “Bitch's Bar & Drive Thru Liquor.” It had the take out window right on the side, too.

I ride out of Torrington alongside a freight rain. As the sun sets, the temperature seemed to instantly plummet from the comfortable upper 60's and into the low 50's over the span of a mile. Suddenly the splashes from my front tire as I rode through the puddles became a nuisance as the cool night air started to evaporate the water from my gloves, shoes and pants. I had already used up all of my spare gas earlier (gas stations all closed by the time we rode through Torrington) and I was slowly starting to freeze. I pushed my bike to the absolute edge, riding 77 miles on one tank with the red fuel light glaring directly at me. The cool night air had drained all of my remaining energy from me and I knew that I needed to stop, both for fear of running out of gas and for my own safety. I pull over next to the first house I see, ask the gruff owner where we could set up a tent for the night and am directed down the “driveway” (a mile long stretch of trail covered in gravel) and am told to set up camp by the clearing used as a staging area for duck hunting. Expert at setting up our nightly accommodations, the tent goes up in a minute and we pack it with all of the necessities for the night:

• 2 cans of condensed soup purchased in Lusk• Left over bread slices• Cheese we forgot about since Iowa• Large canteen of water• Small bottle of vodka

Exhausted, without fire, we crack the soup open and proceed to eat it straight out of the can without even bothering to mix it with water. Cold, salty, and overly condensed, the soup still goes down fast and the bread / cheese combo offers an excellent filler. I hang my headphones from the the top of the tent, turn my malfunctioning iPod up as loud as it can go, and we share drinks in our newly created bar.

Day 5

Rise and shine!

I had had the worst night to date. The ground and surrounding air became so cold that I had to put on my armor in an attempt to stay warm. Doing so had decreased how cold I was feeling ever so slightly, while exponentially increasing how uncomfortable it was to lay down. Try as I may, tossing and turning, I lay cold, until the morning light. As the first rays of sun began peaking out over the horizon, I had finally worn myself out to the point of exhaustion and managed to fall asleep. Only to be awoken an hour and a half later as the sun had made it unbearably hot in the tent. Misha, on the other hand, slept all through the night and was rearing to head out. Having eaten our now standard breakfast fare of bread, banana and water, we pack up and head out towards the Colorado border.

The first hour of riding is hell. My eyes are running, my nose is running, my face is so hot that I alternate riding with the face shield up to get some cool air and my arms and legs are sore from being unable to properly stretch out all night. After all this, finally! We had arrived in Colorado! I was waiting for this moment since I first started planning this trip. I had heard only wonderful things about Colorado and its wilderness and I wanted to see and experience it for myself. My poor mood and recurring flu symptoms all seemed to disappear as I set tread over Colorado soil (the DayQuill I popped may have helped, too). Having taken the obligatory border crossing picture, I sat back down on my bike and cranked her over. The plume of black smoke that shot

out both sides of the exhaust enveloped me and rose up in to the sky as if a bomb had been detonated. Startled at how much soot was shooting out of my mufflers at each twist of the throttle, I convince myself that it's only 3 more hours of riding until I can do a complete tear down and tweak the mixture screws on #1 and #2, the worst offenders, down to just 1 turn out. Giving the bike some extra throttle to get her going, I roll into Colorado feeling bad about negatively affecting the air quality.

We get to the on-ramp for Highway 40 and, having ridden 76 miles since my last fuel-up with the warning light still off, I decide to make a pit-stop on the side of the road and inspect my ride before heading up into the mountains. I walk around to the back of the bike, undo the ratchet strap holding the gas can to the seat and pop open the fuel tank. To my surprise, there is still an ample amount of gasoline left in the tank. I put the gas can in the tank and begin to empty it, being careful in case it spills over. The entirety of the gas can, exactly 2 gallons, filled the tank almost to the bottom of the hole for the gas cap. A quick calculation shows that I averaged between 36 and 38 miles per gallon.

I decide to check on the plugs just in case. Pulling all 4 plugs shows that each one is identical to the other: slightly rich (dark insulators, but not black) Excited for the improvement in gas mileage, yet stumped as to why considering the now increasing altitude, I return a missed call from Rick and tell him the new developments.

Snacking, on the phone with Rick.

Equally stumped as to the how and the why, Rick and I mull it over for a short

bit. We part with Rick telling me he envied me and to ride on. Strapping down the gas can, we watch for a break in the traffic and proceed up the on-ramp to Highway 40. Ten minutes later, Misha and I are 9,500 feet above sea level and the cloud from the previous picture has caught up to us. The front of freezing rain comes at me like a wall. In seconds, my shoes are soaked, ice water had seeped in through my jacket cuffs, my fingers went rigid on the controls as arctic water had turned the insides of my gloves into a pool, and my face shield was covered in sleet and fog. With my vision and motor skills reduced drastically, I encounter the steepest, highest part of the pass in to Tabernash. Struggling to keep the bike upright and in the lane, all I could think about was how I envied Rick as he sat in his home; comfortable, warm and dry.

Misha's condition was only marginally better. Riding with the sunroof removed (for purposes of using it as a method of entry in to the car), his windshield wipers worked over time to clear bits of ice and rain from the outside while Misha did his best to look through the thick layer of fog that formed on the inside. Using the red color of my bike as a marker for where to drive, Misha inched up closer than normal. The road all of a sudden gets wider and I lose sight of the lane dividers as a river of water rushes down the mountain. Out of what seems like nowhere, there is a sharp, upward turn to the right. I notice it too late and fearing riding in to the oncoming lane of traffic, I engage my brakes as fluidly and swiftly as possible. I skid to a stop with my front tire well over the yellow dividing line and turn back just in time to see the Porsche sliding towards me. Misha had missed the turn, too, and out of panic slammed on his brakes. I froze like a deer in headlights as the car comes to a halt mere inches from my back tire. I blink once. Misha blinks once. I look at him with shocked eyes as he stares back with a similar expression. In mere moments, fear is replaced by panic as I struggle to get my bike moving and out of the way of oncoming traffic. Misha gets his car moving first and pulls over on an embankment several hundred feet up the road. As I catch up, he is screaming for me to run over and help him put the sun roof back on (it required two people to align, push in to the slots, and lower to seal the opening). Running over to the car, we slam the sun roof in place and Misha yells for me to get in the car and wait out the precipitation. I scream something along the lines of “I'm not leaving her out there like that!” and run back to my bike. Mounting it in one fluid motion, I crank the motor over and give her full throttle. The next 100 yards were a struggle. Still rich at idle, worsened by the lack of air at altitude, the bike had no go from idle even with the throttle wide open. Rolling backwards and thinking fast, I grab the clutch in as I twist the throttle. Feeling the revs race, I feather the clutch in and out and get the bike to slowly start climbing the steep grade. A few minutes of fighting the cold and I emerge on to the highest point of Berthoud Pass. Roughly 11,000 feet above sea level, I park my bike on the first turn-out, and, amid a mild drizzle of freezing rain, change out of as much of the wet, cold gear as I can. Putting my gloves on the engine, I pop the liner into my jacket, change to my back-up pair of Converse's, and put in fresh, warm socks. Slightly warmer, I turn around to this view:

Berthoud Pass, 11,000 feet above sea level

My day only becomes better from this point. I ride the downhill portion to Tabernash with absolute glee. Around every turn and bend of the road are MORE turns and bends! This is followed by several downhill straightaways through majestic, pine dotted mountains. Everything around me looks so fresh, so alive. I was so overwhelmed by the sheer size of everything around me and by it's natural awe and beauty that I thought to myself I could just stop here and save myself several days of travel and a lot of sore muscles. I definitely plan to acquire land in the Tabernash/Granby area as soon as possible and return for an extended stay. That area is a true gem, and it's really sad to see new developments and strip malls being carved out of the forest and into the mountainside as this becomes the next “it” place to be in Colorado. This is somewhat of a rant, but being a passionate snowboarder who really appreciates the mountains, I am hurt to see what is happening to natural ski areas. I'll leave it at that as I can go on for days about tourism and responsible land use.

We approach Tabernash and a blue Ford pick-up jumps right in front of us. We are staying with our buddy Kurt tonight and he spots us coming down the road and leads us back to his cozy living arrangements. Pulling in to the driveway, I extend my hand out in greeting to Kurt. In return, my hand is filled with a cold bottle of beer! (To everyone, please take note: This is the proper way to welcome guests!) Refreshed, and with proper handshakes out of the way, we retell our adventures as we get a tour of the house and decide on a GRAND dinner. Making our way to the store, Kurt tells us about a cattle drive (I think this is what the term is. When people on horses move cows from one pasture to the other,) on his cousin's property of 180,000 acres! I thought

Wyoming was vast with 3,873 acres for sale. This was in a whole other league. Getting only the essentials to construct our dinner and mega breakfast, we grill on the deck as the sun sets over head.

Three(!) ¾ pound patties!

While the grill is doing a fine job of cooking through all that meat, I get a call from minturn. As my running problems had almost disappeared, we chat about the area, XJ's and riding in general. I fill minturn in on my route and am told that I70 is quite the scenic highway as it winds through the mountains. Thanks for offering your support Jim, I really appreciate it. It was a pleasure talking to you! In an even better mood, I sit down to eat dinner.

This burger is a monster! You are looking at ¾ pounds of meat on an oversized 1/3 pound roll with healthy servings of cheese, tomato, onions and assorted condiments. Surrounding the beast are fresh curly fries and home made salad. Having feasted on banana, bread and water for the past few days, the conversation dies as we bite in like predators. Underprepared for the overwhelming task of eating, all of us take a mid-meal intermission with only minuscule amounts of burger to go.

Sleep.

No, just kidding. We talk (read: bullshit) well in to the night and we definitely finish that burger! With only a 3.5 hour ride from Cheyenne, WY this day has definitely been the most pleasurable and relaxing thus far. Tomorrow will prove to be a real test of my riding skill and capacity.

Day 6

The 3 of us wake up “late” at 8 AM and stumble downstairs to the kitchen. Exhausted from relaxing so much the night before, we take our time in preparing breakfast burritos, packing our bags, eating and saddling up. Looking at the map and our route for the day, we joked about riding all through the night so that we would be able to spend a full Friday in Vegas instead of arriving in the evening. Finishing up our breakfast and brushing teeth, we head out somewhere around 11 AM.

We need to get on I 70 West and the best way to do so was to head back through Berthoud Pass. With the sun shining overhead, and clear blue sky stretching as far as I could see, I was sure that the second time around Berthoud Pass would prove to be a lot more enjoyable. Fueling up in Winter Park, I generously applied the throttle and soared through roads that wound and snaked their way up, around and through the mountains.

Twists and turns!

The ride was brisk and the next 37 miles were pure joy. My bike was running fine, the air was crisp, yet just warm enough to enjoy the ride, and people smiled as I shot past them. Turning right at a sign for I70, the road quickly narrowed as we drove along dispersed homes and lush vegetation. Jumping on to the ramp for I70, the road opened up in a pass through a valley, with towering masses of land in the distance.

I want to keep a list of roads that I consider absolutely worth riding. At this point, the stretch of I70 from Idaho Springs, CO to the Utah border is the only major highway on that list. The scenery change is equally as extreme as the elevation change. The mountain passes give way to barren valleys which turn lush as your ride takes you along the Colorado river. This part of the ride was a different type of thrill. The road wound through the mountains as it followed the Colorado river west to Utah.

This stretch of road would have been perfect for an extended chase scene. I made good use of my throttle hand to power through each turn as I bolted past tractor trailers and cars alike. The road carved it's way through narrow valleys and tunnels,

eventually opening up to flat land with only remnants of the mighty Rocky Mountains.

By this point, the cool, refreshing mountain air had turned to sweltering, arid heat. As the temps rose, my gas mileage fell. We stop in Fruitvale, CO for fuel, fresh water, and restrooms. I can feel the heat from the oven underneath me radiate outward as I coast to a stop next to a pump. The bike needed a break, as did I. I pull my helmet off of my face and my jacket from my body. The air around me starts cooling my sweat soaked self and I feel instant relief. In the shade of the gas station overhang, the bike looks much happier, too.

This rest stop turns in to an extended layover as we encounter several extremely varied and interesting characters. I go inside to cool off and on my way in notice a Honda VTX 1100(?) with California plates. Seeing the only “biker” looking gentleman, I ask him about his destination. By the end of the conversation, I learn that the best time to cross the Utah desert is at night due to the extreme heat. Seeing as it was 90 degrees at 6:30 PM, I started pondering his advice and wanted to bring it up to Misha. I go back to find him and another guy fresh in to college on an 86 Porsche 944 talking it up about their cars, and what they did to them, and how fast they take corners, and whatever else Porsche drivers nerd out about. I inspect his car, and while it is nice, it seems to be in poor electrical order. It seems as if almost every 944 produced had SOME sort of Achilles heel. As we are talking, a man who's been “on the move” for 27 years of his life offers to wash the car for cigarettes, pot, or cash. We talk to him for a bit and he shows us where he was shot, twice, through the leg. Bidding him a safe journey, I let Misha in on the information I gathered from the VTX rider. Out comes the

map, printed directions and the cell phones. We needed to figure out if this would be feasible to do in a timely manner.

Maps consulted and an open garage door ready to receive us in Vegas we crossed the border in to Utah and pulled over at the first gas station. I needed to play with the carbs and see if I can get my plug fouling issue cleared up a bit, fuel up for the road, eat and, in theory, still have time for a short nap before we were to head out at 8 PM. Accomplishing everything with the exception of the nap, both of us purchase a bottle of 5 Hour Energy to use down the road. Everything strapped down tight, we pull back on to I70 and head West towards I15. Riding off in to the beautiful sunset, our next major milestone would be Fishlake National Forest.

The ride to Fishlake is rather uneventful as I ride through mainly nothing at all because I am only able to see where my headlights shine. Nightfall had come fast and the rest of the ride would be in darkness. Prior to this trip, I really enjoyed riding at night and was looking forward to the adventure. As we enter Fishlake, I encounter these 3 road signs, followed one by another every quarter mile : “Frequent deer and elk crossing/Next 13 miles,” “Watch for rocks on roadway/Next 6 miles,” and the “Truck use low gear/7.5% grade next 6 miles.” As I read each sign, my hands tensed up even more on the grips. I now had two potential obstacles to deal with as I weaved down the sloping roadway. I make a mental note to come back and do this drive during daylight hours some time in the future.

After the next fuel up, I pass a sign stating “no services (fuel) next 100 miles.” 30 miles in to my tank, averaging 26 MPG and with 2 gallons in reserve, this may prove to be a close call as not all gas stations are open 24 hours. I manage 80 miles before I absolutely have to pull over and put the extra fuel canister in to the tank. I take this opportunity to pull the plugs and check if any progress had been made with the carbs.

In the middle of the night, out on the side of a lonely highway, I stand up and listen. There are what sounds like coyote in the distance. I whistle and it seems to carry for miles. With the lights off on the car and on the bike, I turn off my LED flashlight and let my eyes adjust to the darkness. Quite a nice feeling to be so far away from cities, traffic, and street lights. I take time to stare up at the stars. It has been years since I have seen so many stars in the night sky. Lingering in the moment, I snap out of it as I

realize we still have quite a distance to cover by day break. Hopping on the bike I fire her up and ride off.

Not even a minute goes by and my bike starts to sputter. Seconds later it comes to a grinding halt in the middle of the roadway. I hop off, panicked, push it to the side of the road and try to crank it again. The starter engages, the engine turns, but no fire in the cylinders. Frantic, every possible scenario starts to run through my mind. My worst fear was clogging a jet on one of the carburetors and having to do a tear down in the middle of the night. Suddenly, a light bulb comes on in my head. I lean over to the left side of the bike, and sure enough, my fuel valve was set to the “off” position. Relieved, I turn it back on, sit for a few seconds to let the bowls fill with fuel and crank her over again. With a single push of the button, the bike starts up and we continue on our journey.

As we pass through the mountains, the pleasant night air turns cool and then downright cold. With the liner already in my jacket, I hunker down behind the windshield, tuck my arms in and put my legs as close to the engine as I can to warm up my bones at least a little. The majority of the trip through Utah is one big blur. I counted the time by the amount of gas stops we made. Each stop was identical, but it helped to break the monotony of the ride and give me a chance to stretch my legs. Somewhere around 3 AM, we hit Arizona.

The 5 hour energy, if it ever really worked, had long run out. We were both exhausted, and Misha claimed that he was starting to slightly hallucinate which he

blamed on the 5 Hour Energy drink. I am tired, but more bothersome of all, I am sore. My butt is sore, my legs are sore, my hands are sore, my arms are sore and my neck is sore (I want a lighter helmet!). I try to think positive and note to myself that at least I am being kept awake by my discomfort. Before heading off in to Arizona, we both agree to skip the pictures at the Nevada sign in order to save time. The last hour of today's trip proves to be the most grueling. I am no longer able to keep switching positions to transfer the feeling of soreness from one body part to the other as everything hurts equally as much. Finally, the lights of Las Vegas appear in the distance. It is as if a sea of light has flooded the dark valley opening up in front of us. It is almost 4:30 AM and there is enough light in front of me to pass for noon. The cool air I experienced in the mountains is once again replaced by arid heat as we enter the Vegas city limits. Henderson is on the southern point of Las Vegas and we need to drive through the entire city, in which we hit EVERY stop light. The heat is radiating from my engine, and I know my bike needs a break as badly as I do. We need to travel 8 more miles until we arrive at our destination. Something that would have taken mere minutes on the freeway, requires almost a full half an hour of stop and go driving, cursing at every stop light.

Arriving at the apartment complex a little after 5 AM, we circle around a few times until we find our friend Erica's place, to which the garage door is supposed to be open so we can let ourselves in. Finding the garage door closed, and locked, we proceed to call her phone with such repetition that even a telemarketer would be ashamed. 28 tries later, there is still no answer. With the sun rising over head, our exhaustion completely over takes us. I spread my jacket on the parking lot pavement and lay down to sleep, using my backpack as a pillow. Misha goes the extra mile and drags out his sleeping bag and passes out in the parking spot next to me. We laugh about our situation as bums and drift off to sleep.

Day 7

6 AM. We are roused from our slumber by a ringing phone. Erica is on the other line and apologizing profusely as she did not hear her phone ring or know that the garage door was closed. Opening the door for us, she finds us sleeping on the concrete and has a good laugh. At least we were able to brighten someone's day. Barely making it up the stairs to the apartment, I plop myself down on the floor. After last night, the carpet feels like it is made from cashmere and I am content with staying where I lay. Despite my protests to moving, I eventually decide it would be best for me to occupy one of the free beds and so I drag myself to it and fall asleep until 1 PM while the rest of the apartment dwellers go off to do their duty as teachers.

It feels awkward to be so stationary. The past 6 days have been packed with action and adventure that I find it hard to occupy myself within the apartment. I elect to brave the Vegas heat by spending a good portion of my afternoon poolside. The cool water is a stark contrast to the dry, warm air. I don't bother with a towel as the desert breeze dries me completely before I make it back to the apartment. Reconnecting with our hosts, we make plans for the night. The South Point Casino, a little bit off of the

main strip, is having $1 drinks from 7 to 10 PM. Always on the look out for good deals, we decide it would be best to attend.

Arriving at South Point, I learn that is is $1 for ANY drink, made of ANY combination of alcohol. Sadly to say, everyone else at that casino learned the same thing as I stand in line for the bar for close to 25 minutes. Upon my turn, I follow the general trend and order $6 worth of drinks at once using as much brand name, top shelf liquor in the process. Manny, the bartender, was working as fast as possible to serve the growing line of patrons. It always surprises me that people can be so mean and rude to their bartender. The guys and girls in front of us complained about how it was taking so long to get served and that the bartender needs to work faster. After receiving well over a hundred dollars of drinks for something close to $20, the entire group stiffs Manny and leaves him not even a cent as tip. Having worked in the service industry, I know how it feels when people complain about a situation out of your control. Misha follows my order by pointing to all of the top shelf vodka and requesting a shot of each, while Erica opts for the most colorful, pretty looking drinks. Drinks in hand (and just about anywhere else they would fit) we thank Manny and find a table. As Rick said, what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.

Day 8

We allow ourselves to sleep in and take it easy today. Much of the morning is spent lazily walking around the apartment, cleaning up, fixing drawers and hooking up electronics. Taking advantage of the fully stocked kitchen, we eat a filling breakfast as we decide how to spend the day. With it being so hot, and the Grand Canyon being so far (and me still being sore), we elect to visit Red Rock Canyon with Erica and her roommate Maryssa instead.

It's somewhere close to 110 degrees and we are warned to take extra water with us. Being foolhardy, we purchase four 1.5 liter bottles and head off. Upon arrival, Misha and I split from the girls to do a quick hike and climb to survey the area. Making it back to the car some 30 minutes later, we drain most of the water we bought within seconds. Being exposed to the sun and the heat radiating off of the sandstone really makes you thirsty. Somewhat quenched, we ration the rest of the water and proceed to do a short group hike to explore the area.

Despite being a lot smaller than the Grand Canyon, Red Rock proves to be a

very peaceful and interesting place. In the late 19th and early 20th century, it was used as a sandstone quarry and many large, cut bricks of sandstone still line the area.

Rejuvenated by the fresh air, and out of water, we head back to the apartment. The plan for today is to rest and then visit the main strip.

I am going to summarize our extremely long night in several sentences. To Misha, being on the strip was like being a kid in a candy store. Every time he put money down on a game, he walked away with more cash than he started with. We lead Misha from table to table, through all of the major casino's on the strip. Time really flies underneath all of those neon and fluorescent bulbs, as I check my watch and it is nearing 5 AM. Informing everyone of the hour, it is as if time had all of a sudden caught up to us. Tired and no longer amused by the appeal of winning a jackpot (except for Misha, who would have played well until after the sun came up if given the chance) we make our way home.

Day 9

I wake up early(ish) knowing that I have to take a look at my bike and figure out what is wrong. Getting dressed, I notice that something is missing. Thinking about it, I realize that I am short $100. Having saved on things like food and shelter during the first few days, I had extra spending money and wanted to use it at the strip. With Misha's good luck, and my self restraint, I saved the majority of the money I brought to the casino's. I tear apart all of my belongings, the car, and the apartment but as luck would have it, my money is nowhere to be found. Thinking long and hard, I believe that I may have lost it when I was hopping barricades to cross a street. Discouraged, I venture in to the garage to work on the XJ.

I check the air filter, check the oil, check my tire pressure, dismantle the carbs and give them a thorough cleaning, and make a new seal and gasket for the now leaking fuel valve. Working with chemicals, in an enclosed space with temperatures above 100 is a real drag. Satisfied with my work, I clean up and reinstall everything. The first time I go without ATGATT on this trip is to test the bike in the parking lot. I turn the fuel supply on and as gas rushes to fill the carbs, I wheel it outside. Turning the key, I crank the engine over. Nothing. Hmm. I hold the throttle completely open and crank the engine over again. Now, it's trying to work, trying to burn up all of the fuel in the cylinders. I lean out the idle mixture and get back on the bike. Again, holding the throttle open I crank the engine over to life. Things are looking up, but I need to keep the throttle open wide to prevent the bike from stalling. I hold the throttle open for a good 30 seconds, thinking of what needs to be done to fix the issue when all of a sudden the revs race up. I let go of the throttle and get the bike to idle nicely. Is it possible that there was extra gas in the combustion chamber and I had to let it all burn off before the bike could run normally? Whatever it was, the problem had vanished and I was ready to take a test ride. Tearing around the apartment complex, I learn two things: I am rich at idle and have a low-end stumble when trying to take off from a standstill, and, despite the danger, cruising in shorts and sandals, feeling the wind through my hair, is a really liberating experience. Happy enough with how my bike is running, the rest of the day is spent exploring the town of Henderson, NV. Tomorrow we would be coming ever closer to the end of our journey.

Day 10

For everyone that did not appreciate their teachers, I ask you to reconsider. We wake up at the same time as the rest of the household: 5:30 AM. While Erica and her room mates run around getting ready, making coffee, double checking lesson plans, I choose to use my time wisely and fall back asleep until 6:20. More tired than I was at 5:30, I get up and sleepily wander in to the kitchen where kids grades, progress reports and talk of parent conferences is flying about. I can barely keep my eyes open long enough to sip coffee. The last to eat breakfast, we are hurried along as we need to be out at the same time as everyone else to lock up the place. We say a quick round of good byes and the girls fly off to a long day of teaching.

I stare up at the Nevada sun. It is already too hot for me and the temperature is supposed to keep rising. As much as I believe in ATGATT, today there was no way I was going to be wearing any of that. I embrace the road with only jeans and a t-shirt (and helmet!) as we begin on the tedious task of making our way out of Las Vegas. Heading north on Highway 95 towards Reno, we are exposed to desert and wind. Lots of wind. I manage the first 30 miles of the trip with relative ease, and in comfort as the combination of sun and the air swirling around my body created the perfect mix of hot and cold. It was like those times when you step in to a shower and you have the faucet(s) opened just right for that perfect temperature.

Soon after, the severity of the winds picked up. I had ridden through gusts,

but nothing like this. I was riding with a hard lean to my left just to stay on the road. Somewhere close to Beatty, NV I am unprepared for an extra severe gust of wind and am blown right on to the shoulder. I fight the steering to stay upright and brake hard to stop myself from flying right off of the road and into the tumbleweeds. Considering this a fair warning, at the next gas station I put on and (partly) zip up my riding jacket. I ask the clerk about the wind and he said it would continue all the way up until Reno, with gusts that can reach 70 MPH. Nice place to put Nellis Air Force Bombing and Gunnery Range.

My gas mileage has been keeping steady at 29, and we were making considerably good time. The next time I look up from the road was on highway 264 heading towards Bishop, California. The scenery was changing. We cruised through desert, dotted by masses of land sticking up in the distance.

The road weaved up and down and led us through valley's surrounded by scenes straight of the Wild West. We passed abandoned towns and houses with corrugated roofs, dirt roads leading to abandoned and sometimes still functional mines, as well as old, debilitated, heavy machinery. We stop at a Nevada historic site and explore a mine shaft only to find out it has collapsed itself closed.

With the Sierra's off in the distance,

we make haste until we reach:

To be honest, the state sign came of out of nowhere, and was so shot up that we blew right by it until we were able to safely stop. Misha spins his car around in a circle on the side of the road, and leaves the music blaring as he climbs out to take his turn in front of the sign.

This was it. As far as state crossings go, this is as far we were going to go. We took some time to relax and look around, to appreciate how far we've come.

We are now entering the most fun stretch of road of the entire trip; California 168. It begins as a gentle, sloping ride towards the mountains lasting a few miles. The road nicely eases you in to a steep, twisting climb, which ends as abruptly as it started. A short descent leads in to a valley populated by cows, what appears to be a hot spring, two farmhouses, and a 13 mile long straightaway!

The next climb appeared fuzzy as it was shadowed in a haze. No matter how much I moved, it appeared as if the mountains were equally as far away as before. Like I was riding on a giant treadmill. The road suddenly took a sharp, upward turn to the right and I was about to be treated to the grand finale of California 168: the ride through Inyo National Forest. If you have ever played the earlier Need for Speed series, then I need to say no more. If not, let me elaborate. The road is narrow, barely wide enough for two cars, twists up to a peak, and descends, winding down through hills and valleys. The road follows the lay of the land so naturally, filling out every dip and bump as you rocket through perfectly banked turns, some of which are more than 180 degrees. This section was the most technical and put to use everything I learned about riding to date. By the end of the 37 miles that is Cal. 168, my clutch was feeling maladjusted and the tires were missing a whole lot more rubber. I recommend that EVERYONE take the time once in their life to ride the full stretch from the Nevada border to Big Pine, CA. I have never “slain the dragon” so I can not compare, but I must warn everyone to be cautious as I considered this a challenging road and found myself on the wrong side of the yellow line twice. With the mountains we saw at the state line fading fast in my rear view mirror, we ride through the Sierra Natl. Forest and Mammoth Lakes up California 365 to Lake Tahoe.

The scenery along this portion of the ride was as varied as the people that inhabit San Francisco. We saw small-town America, a hippie commune traveling by bus, endless forests and lakes. Out of all of the waterways that we saw, Mono Lake caught my eye the most. Just having passed a town of no more than 200 people, I was careening down the mountain road, eager to pick up the speed I lost in the 25 MPH zone. As I rounded a corner, a vista of watery expanse opened up in front of my eyes, delighting my senses. The lake expanded out to my left, reaching the horizon and melting in to the sky. The varying hues of blue in the water had an iridescent white coating that reflected light out, making it appear as if the lake had a slight glow.

From then on the California landscape changed again as we rode through excessively green, sunny pastures filled with hundreds, if not thousands of cows. I remember seeing a commercial for “Real California Milk” with the happy California cows. Let me tell you, these cows have to be the happiest cows in the world (maybe with the exception of some in India) as they roam countless acres of grassland and tan in the sun.

Ever closer to S. Lake Tahoe, our destination for the night, we have one more pass to cross: California 89 – Monitor Pass. This road starts right next to a forest fire brigade station. The signs entering the pass read “Snow Chains MUST be on during season,” and “If flashing, road is impassable.” Sounds like fun. The road carves its way through rocky outcroppings and lifts you up and over the valleys filled with happy California cows. At a pull out, I stop to take a breath and take in the vast spaces of open land. At the highest point of Monitor Pass, I could see for miles. The only things obscuring my vision were the clouds and the curvature of the Earth as vast mountains in the distance were swallowed up by haze from the sky.

Elevation: 8,300 ft.

The fresh air filled my lungs and the long day finally started to catch up to me. The rest of Monitor Pass is secluded as it winds back down closer to sea level. I took a leisurely pace, coasting through most of the down hill sections with the clutch in. After roughly 3,000 miles of hearing the same XJ noise at 5K RPM, pulling the clutch in and coasting at idle was as if I was being thrown in to silence. All I could hear was the whirr of the speedometer cable as the bike let gravity take over and pull it down in to S. Lake Tahoe.

Day 11

Well rested, we eat milk and cereal, and head outside to an astounding day. 65 degrees, slight breeze off the lake and the craziest cloud patterns in the sky.

Today would be the shortest ride of the entire trip. At just over 3.5 hours of travel, we planned to take it easy and drive slow as we have no place to hurry to. And this last sentence should be explained a bit better. I had spent months researching apartments in SF and had finally been able to locate one that was affordable and in a decent area in the city. I had sent my FICO score to the potential landlord, as well as my credit score, my bank statement showing proof of income, and even a copy of my license to make sure I check out okay. After jumping through all sorts of hoops, we receive a call the day before that they changed their mind about leasing the apartment. But, this has nothing to do with the ride report, only some commentary. Forward and onward!

The roads we took portrayed the general attitude of California as they casually wound through lush forests,and later turned in to vast stretches of land connecting ever bigger growing cities.

Many, many gas stops and 3,329 miles later I have reached my destination of San Francisco.

Google map me, I'm somewhere in this area:

END

I really appreciate all of the support from the XJ Bikes community along the way. Whether through informative write-ups about cleaning carbs or changing the fork oil seals, or lending an ear when I could not diagnose problems on the road by myself, their support has been instrumental in making this move possible. I have now found a place to live in the center of town and am enjoying life. The only downside is that I do not have California residency and am unable to buy a parking pass for my baby. Unbridled and resting from the pressing weight of the saddlebags, she is forced to sit in an enclosed back yard, surrounded by tables and boxes.

The wheels on the bike may have stopped turning, but the wheels in my head keep on spinning as I am itching to start another adventure!

For those considering something like this trip, this is what I learned:• You need a running bike. Forget what ADVRider says about the latest and

greatest.• Have the desire to complete your journey and be prepared.• Out of all of the gear I brought, tools and camping supplies were the most

important. I packed as light as possible and had space to spare. If I had a chance to do it differently, I would have used that space to bring more camping gear to make my outdoor stays a lot more pleasant. This is the only part of the trip that I had a dislike for: camping. I was simply under prepared with supplies to enjoy a night under the stars as I only had a sleeping bag and a tent. I would highly suggest taking a day trip or two and camping somewhere from your motorcycle to get an idea of what you can survive with.

• Last but not least, be able to do basic repairs along the way.• Oh, and I guess this is actually last, but I made my own Bead Rider and that

definitely helped along some portions. At other times though, it just plain hurt to sit on the beads so I alternated between bare seats and my own Bead Rider as my butt saw fit.

Also, XJBikes member WildWanderer and I have been sending some messages back and forth as he recently rode his bike from Pittsburgh, PA to Chico, CA. He mentioned wanting to write his own ride report after reading mine. I suggest

everyone send a PM to WildWanderer and harass/encourage him to do a write up about his adventures. It would be nice to sit back and wait for updates instead of writing them.

I hope this ride report both inspired and encouraged all of you to get out and enjoy the roads this country has to offer!