More time on the road = more adventures

I was going to take it easy today. That was the plan. Thirteen hours later and 523 miles, I had one heck of a day. Most of it unplanned.

I was on the road before 8 this morning, putting Florence, Alabama in my rear view as I headed for the Natchez Trace again. The weather looked promising and the Parkway looked deserted.

In short order, I crossed the Tennessee River. A beautiful sight and a great day.





As I crossed into Mississippi, though, the clouds started forming. I was certain I'd be in rain gear by the time I made Tupelo. But, fortune smiled, and the clouds broke up, revealing a blue sky that went on forever. As I rode the Trace, I started smelling something like burning oil. "Uh oh. That can't be my bike." I didn't see 20 cars in two hours but I bet I saw 30 bikes, all heading the other way. The smell grew stronger and suddenly, up ahead, I saw two guys on what initially appeared to be mopeds. The speed limit on the Natchez Trace is 50 mph and I was doing a little more than that so I came up on them fairly quickly. I slowed down to figure out what they were. One guy was definitely on a moped - he was working the pedals (for exercise, maybe). But the other guy was riding a vintage, e.g. early 1900's Harley Davidson. He was leaning over, giving it all it had and was still just creeping along. That explained the oil smell. I passed and waved and they waved back. A few miles up the road, I came up on another guy, also driving a vintage bike. It wasn't a Harley but a Premier, I think. I'd never seen one before. He was chugging along smoothly but also burning oil so I smelled him before I saw him. Same deal - slow down, pass and wave, and keep moving. Miles ahead of both of them, I came up on two vans with decals on the side - "Motorcycle Cannonball.com". Aha. I passed them, too, and kept on for Tupelo.

I made a good decision to get off the road last night. This morning, I was barely on the road when a deer bolted across. Man, they're stupid. It was way past time to bed down and here's a deer, still out yimyamming around, causing trouble. Further down the road, I also came on two different sets of two dogs, running wild on the side of the road. I slowed, waiting for them to bolt across, but they seemed smart enough to know the deal about vehicles. Lots of other wildlife, too. Yesterday, before it got dark, I saw a skunk waddling around in a field, and today, there were wild turkeys. Lots of trees, lots of shadows. Just a very nice road.

As I got close to Tupelo, there was a welcome station for the Parkway so I pulled off to get some information about Elvis Presley's house. That was a "must-see", insofar as my bride is/was concerned. Two bikers came up and we yakked for a while. Hard core guys from Missouri. One had a regular beard; the other had a tie in his goatee like Lou Albano. "Where you going?" Shrug. "Wherever. We've only done 200 miles a day lately 'cause we don't want to go home. When we get home, we gotta go back to work." Nice guys but they looked like they just got out of prison. I recognized prison tats on one of them, anyway.

I got off the Parkway and went in to Tupelo. I found Elvis' neighborhood easy enough. It's an older neighborhood with small homes. Signs point to his house and you're at 306 Elvis Presley Drive almost immediately. The house is two rooms and was built by Elvis' father, grandfather and uncle. He only lived there for 2 1/2 years, though when his parents couldn't make the payment.

Graceland is really where everyone goes but this is a pilgrimage for true fans. The city bought the house and surrounding property in 1957 and it's been rejuvenated since then. Nice grounds, the actual church where Elvis attended services, a memorial chapel, a story wall, a fountain of life, and a museum/gift shop.





An employee told me that about 100,000 people visit each year. Nice trek where I learned that Elvis got his first guitar for his tenth birthday. His mother paid $7.75 for it. Elvis wanted a .22 rifle or a bicycle but his mother, Gladys, was overly protective. The minister at the Assembly of God church taught him D, A, and C chords, and he learned to play "Ole Shep". History after that. But, Judy and I never could have gotten that big-ass moving van in the parking lot in 1983. I think it was a 26-footer. In addition to everything else we owned, it had our Le Car in the back. As it was, I ripped the van open on an overhang in a hotel parking lot in Sallisaw, OK.

I was riding through Tupelo to get on state road 6 or 278 (as it was both...) when I noticed a huge crowd in a park with signs for overflow parking. Out front were four police Harleys with the officers standing by. I had to see what this was about so I pulled a u (out of sight of the law, of course) and quickly discovered this was a stop for the motorcycle cannonball!

http://www.motorcyclecannonball.com/

I looked up the road and in short order, bikes appeared in the road. The police stopped traffic while the bikes limped in, along with the support vehicles. I ended up with a picture of the motorcycle cops (a dream job if there ever was one), and got back on the road.



It was two lane for a while and then turned into a nice, speedy four lane road to Oxford. I got off in search of John Grisham. I couldn't find him. But, I did drive through the town. Old money houses - sweeping lawns with plantation style houses, huge trees. After that, I went on the Ole Miss campus. About 20,000 students and a thousand acres. U of Mississippi is a big place. Lots of brick - mostly red but different shades - with colonnades on many buildings. It looked like a stately campus - except for the stadium which looked brand new. It was also called the Papa John's stadium - there was a huge (and I mean HUGE) sign on the stadium front with the Papa John's logo. Guess they made a significant contribution. I looked up the stats on Ole Miss and it's actually a very good school.

I got back on 6/278 and it continued for a while as a four lane but after I passed the I-55 turnoff (north to Memphis; south to New Orleans), it dropped back to two lanes.

I got to Clarksdale in the early afternoon. Pretty sad. This is the first city I've seen that is truly depressed. Boarded up store fronts, trash everywhere, people hanging out. I found the Delta Blues Museum on... wait for it... John Lee Hooker Drive. Classic. I thought that was great. The museum is in a brick warehouse by the train station. It's an old building.





I went in and looked around. Pretty cool stuff but I really wanted to go to the Crossroads. So, I bought the only t-shirt I wanted to get on this trip, and headed across town.

I stopped to top off the tank and there was a brain-damaged derelict yelling at the cars at a four way stop. He was playing a harmonica, singing loudly (L-O-U-D-L-Y), whistling at the intersection and incorporating three lines into his song shout. "Watch the light" (no light - just four stop signs) "Hey now" and something that sounded like "rurrurruuhh". One hand playing the harmonica and the other pointing. I went up to him and took his picture. I gave him $2 - that's the cost of doing business with guys like that. Pretty solid performance for a guy with no more brain cells.



The Crossroads was a block away. A few years ago, I thought it was going to be like the scene in the movie O Brother Where Art Thou. And then I saw a show where some people visited and that ruined it. In the movie, there was an intersection (ostensibly Highways 61 and 49) and the guys picked up the Robert Johnson character. Maybe in 1937 it looked like that. The legend is that Robert Johnson sold his soul to the devil to learn to play the guitar. He was 27 when he died so his story became legendary. The deal was that he left home and a few months later, when he returned, he was a skilled guitarist. Anyway, he wrote a song called the Cross Road Blues that became a classic about a black man trying to hitch a ride so he wouldn't be caught out after dark. Since then, Cream, Jimi Hendrix, Steve Winwood, Mountain and probably 20 other groups have done covers of it. So, it's a landmark in blues history. The reality of the place is kind of disappointing so you have to be blind to it. The monument is overgrown with grass and needs a paint job; there's a Church's Fried Chicken across the street; the lot on another side is vacant, full of weeds and for sale; and there are two gas stations on other corners - one with a few layabouts sitting on chairs watching the world go by. I got my pictures, though and then got on the road again.





This time I was on 61/278 south. It's listed as a scenic road. Wide open spaces interspersed with farms growing mostly cotton. I'd noticed some cotton on the Natchez Trace and then again some in fields after Oxford on the way to Clarksdale.



Here, there was significantly more. It was hot outside, and sticky. I was down to a t-shirt and even with the air swirling around me, I was still sweating. I couldn't imagine pulling cotton by hand. No wonder the Blues Men left the Delta.

I stopped in Cleveland to fill up the water bottle with ice. I've been stopping along the route and asking before I took. Each time, in every state, people said, "Sure. Help yourself." This time, the woman told me, "Forty two cents." I told her I'd been in twelve states in two weeks and no one charged for ice. She didn't care. So, I took my business (granted, I was asking for a freebie so technically there wasn't any business) elsewhere. I stopped at the next town, Leland, and the lady squared me away when the ice machine didn't work by going in the back room and returning with a full scoop of ice. For free again. Forty two cents, my ass.

After Greenville, I crossed the Mighty Mississippi on what appeared to be a new bridge. New cables, new road, new concrete, new everything. What a river. I crossed into Arkansas and the roads immediately became the worst in the United States. The view of the river was nice. It was on my right and there were some houses backing up to the river with what appeared to be ten acre lawns in front. Big money. Breaks between the properties allowed me to see the Mississippi and eventually, I came to a point where I could snap a picture.





Cars and trucks zoomed past but no one honked at me like I was being a tool for standing in the road taking photos. Work was being done on the roads and for miles, it was hit or miss. Mostly, it was cracked pavement and uneven surfaces with an occasional smooth piece of road. I was on a two-lane road, heading west. Cotton fields as far as you could see. I stopped and got a few pictures. It was deceiving. Up close, the plants were more than five feet high. From the road, I never would have guessed that. I snagged a souvenier - a cotton blossom or whatever you call it.





And so I continued down the road. Very little traffic as there were few towns.



The places were probably twenty or more miles apart, and small town. Somewhere between El Dorado and Magnolia, my phone vibrated. I set it for vibrate since I can't hear the ring and if it does go off, I'll try to stop to see who it is. By the time I do stop, there's usually a message. This time it was from Ruppert who was on a quick break. I pulled over in the middle of no where and yakked with him as a few semis blew past. When we finished the call, I looked up the road and an old beater - it looked like a 70s Ford - came past with a few guys in it. They looked at me and as I climbed on the bike, I looked back. They went a half mile down the road and made a u-turn. I had the bike started and as they came back, I left. I don't think they followed as I didn't see them again. If they were wolves looking for an opportunity, and I would have been broken down, I would have been helpless. It could be they were just a few nice fellas, intent on being good samaritans instead of shitbirds looking for nefarious activity to pursue, and maybe my imagination got ahead of me.

At Magnolia, the sun was starting to fall. The sun had been in my eyes the entire trip through Arkansas so I knew it was going to be sunset while I was on the road. Nowhere to stop in Magnolia, though, so even though I still had 75 miles until Texarkana and it was going to be dark, I kept riding.

As the sun fell, the bugs swarmed. The headlights, signals, mirrors, brake and clutch levers, and most of all, the windshield, were filled with dead bugs. They were splattering on my hands and my legs. When I stopped, my jeans from my knees to my ankles were full of dead bugs. I thought about stopping to clean the windshield but there was no shoulder. Plus it was pitch dark. I was about 15 miles from Texarkana when I ran up against a piece of blown truck tire. Suddenly, it was JUST RIGHT THERE. Dang. Just as my brain told me what it was - and that was after the headlights picked it up but I was doing 60 so I was on it before it registered - it brushed by the front tire and hit the left foot rest and my boot that was hanging off the rest. It was about a foot and a half long and standing on its side - so the width of a truck tire. Scared me but all I could do was keep going. My adrenalin was up after that.

I got to Texarkana on state road 82 and crossed into Texas. At a gas station, I took a picture of the windshield before I cleaned it.



Afterwards, I headed off to look for a hotel. Surprisingly, there were no rooms in the house... No kidding. Everything was full. I climbed on the bike and got on I-30. I was going to stay on 82 but a cop I talked to at the gas station told me Paris, Texas was about an hour and 45 minutes away. On a two lane road. On the interstate, New Boston was only about 20 miles away, still heading west. I got the second to last room at a Holiday Inn Express. The clerk told me they were full up tonight because people couldn't get rooms in Texarkana.

Not sure what I'll do tomorrow. Maybe just stay on I-30 and head for Dallas. It's only two hours away on the interstate. From there, I can get over and take 287 to Amarillo. I'm going to New Mexico from there. We'll see how I feel in the morning.

So that took 13 hours - the tip of Alabama to the western part of Texas. Lots longer than I planned to be riding today but "it be's that way sometimes".

Thanks for reading and posting. More tomorrow.

Home Again, Home Again, Jiggity Jig

Made it home in less than five hours. It was cold this morning so I had to bundle up. You can tell Fall is here and Winter is coming. I was on the road by 0730.

I left Cortez via US 491. The road, like everything until after Moab when I got on I-70 east to head home, was a two laner. The area was mostly farmland and it went on forever. As you get so accustomed to seeing here, there were mountains in the distance. I turned around to get this shot of sleeping Ute Mountain.





Here's the legend that I copied from a web site:

In the very old days, the Sleeping Ute Mountain was a Great Warrior God. He came to help fight against the Evil Ones who were causing much trouble.

A tremendous battle between the Great Warrior God and the Evil Ones followed. As they stepped hard upon the earth and braced themselves to fight, their feet pushed the land into mountains and valleys. This is how the country of this region came to be as it is today.

The Great Warrior God was hurt, so he lay down to rest and fell into a deep sleep. The blood from his wound turned into living water for all creatures to drink.
When the fog or clouds settle over the Sleeping Warrior God, it is a sign that he is changing his blankets for the four seasons. When the Indians see the light green blanket over their "God", they know it is spring. The dark green blanket is summer, the yellow and red one is fall, and the white one is winter.

The Indians believe that when the clouds gather on the highest peak, the Warrior God is pleased with his people and is letting rain clouds slip from his pockets. They also believe that the Great Warrior God will rise again to help them in the fight against their enemies.

After Dove Creek, I crossed into Utah.


From Monticello to Moab is almost other-worldly. Red rock outcroppings everywhere. This is one of my favorites. If you'll notice there's a small hole in the middle, at the bottom of the rock. To give you an idea how big it is, that hole is easily the size of a garage. This is on private property but plenty of people have crossed the fence or driven in there to have a look at it.



The scenery continues all the way to Moab, with stones rising from the ground to make the oddest shapes.









I came into Moab fairly quickly. You can always tell you're close when this ledge appears.






I rode through Moab and took 128 toward Cisco. There are high canyon walls on each side of the narrow road and the Colorado River runs alongside. At one point, you come to the confluence of the Colorado and the Delores. It's unbelievably beautiful and on the weekends, it's a slow, slow drive.









Today, there was a bike race. The canyon runs for 34 miles and when I came out, I stopped at the bike aid station and asked about their race. One group was riding 68 miles - out and back - and the other was doing a century ride. Not sure where they went after they did a round trip to get the extra 32 miles. There were hundreds of bicyclists, brightly clad in many-colored racing jerseys. It was a great day for a ride - cycle or bike.

There's another 15 miles or so to get to the cutoff for the interstate. I stopped and took a picture of where I'd just been.



And then it was on I-70 east, headed home.



I crossed the state line into Colorado once more and rode a little more than a half hour to the hospital. Judy is working today but I wanted to check in and let her know I was OK.





I pulled into the house.



And so, the ride is finished.

I rode 5114.5 miles over 19 days and visited 16 different states (with Colorado and Texas getting two different rides). I saw millions of acres of trees and rich land, thousands and thousands of cows and horses, pasture land, ranchland, farms, wilderness, major rivers and small streams, ponds and lakes, some interstates, and mostly backroads of America.

I lost seven pounds and one pant size. (I'm thinking about leaving again tomorrow to try to lose another seven that way.) I got a sunburn.



I saw friends and family I haven't seen for years. I visited my "first love" (Judy wasn't threatened a bit) and resolved a 34 year old question.

I crossed the Tallahatchie River but didn't see Billy Joe McAllister floating anywhere (for those of you too young to have experienced the Bobbie Gentry phenomenon in 1967, no one knows what got thrown off before Billy Joe McAllister jumped off the Tallahatchie Bridge).

I burned 113.93 gallons of premium. That comes to almost 49 miles/gallon. I made 44 stops to put gas in the tank and most places were in the $2.80's per gallon. The cheapest was in Greenville, TN at $1.99 for premium; the most expensive at Monticello, UT at $3.43.

I was glad to see Scot, Sylvia, Peter, Desiree, Kevin, Dean, Uncle Rudolph, Aunt Alma, Uncle Woodard, Aunt Veronica, Brett, Scott, Mark, Gina, Park, Rachel, Jamey, Andi, Bob, Ski, Sharon, Michael, Dave, Bao, Jeff, Colleen, Lindsay, Emily, Cindy and any others I failed to name. I appreciated everyone's generous and kind hospitality.

There were many, many people I talked to who left impressions on me, including the old guy with a Ranger cap in the Delta Blues Museum who told me his life story about three tours in Vietnam and ironically, whose son is in the 101st Airborne in Afghanistan - the very same unit that replaced Ruppert's unit earlier this year. Who would have thought it? There were many other random people and stories that I didn't include in my blog. The old black lady with the eyepatch in Mississippi who looked like an old ninja that Quentin Tarrantino would have cast when she was in her prime who told me to "be careful". The couple at The Big Texan who are traveling along Route 66 to California who shared their concern about bedbugs with me. The strangers and my brief encounters with them as they asked me enviously about my trip, and then wished me a safe ride. Even the old sourpuss who was going to charge me 42 cents for ice made an impression. The wolves circling around in the car in Arkansas who confirmed Ski's adage that "an armed society is a polite society" aren't going to be forgotten soon. The hotel clerks who graciously gave me discounts. Other bikers who stopped and yakked.

My kids texted and called me throughout the trip. Reilly helped me every night with the map and if not for Ruppert's gloves and plexiglass cleaner, the trip wouldn't have been as friendly.

I talked to Judy every night and am still amazed she lets me do all the things I want to do. You'd think that after more than 30 years of being together, she would have grown tired of my weird ideas and impulsive need to get off the beaten path.

I'm still searching for the perfect set of ear buds, an IPOD whose battery lasts more than 4.5 hours, and the world's best chicken fried steak.

My Harley was a gem throughout, asking only to be topped off with premium gas and never faltering as a result. Plenty of power when I needed it and it made for a confident ride. I saw hundreds of splotches on the road and I knew something met its fate there; thousands of pieces of blown truck tires that were always on my mind when I was around semis; and all the hundreds of dead animals and resultant chunks of meat that if they had to be run over, I was glad it wasn't my motorcycle that did it.

My two best friends when the ride got hot and sticky were my Old Spice Classic deodorant and my bar of Safeguard - both of which were almost used up.

For the first time in my life I was on a trip where it was about the journey, not the destination. It was the height of self-indulgence. Having the freedom to do whatever you want, when you want, is an experience I highly recommend for everyone. At least once, anyway.

In 1967, Craig Peterson rented a Honda 65 and he let his brother Chris and me (both of us were 13 when Craig was 16) learn to ride it in a field. We fell over plenty while we tried to get the hang of the clutch and throttle, the brakes and the gears. Wherever Craig is, he has no idea that he put me on a 43 year love affair with motorcycles. There's a simultaneous exhilaration and sense of calmness that results from riding a bike. I know those emotions are contradictory but if you ride, you know the deal.

And so, that's it. I want to thank my friends and family for following me and "riding along" as Cindy so aptly put it.

Ride safe. And, of course, Sho' You Right!!!

Get your kicks on Route 66

455 miles today.

I woke up with a sore throat, runny nose and cough. I've been teetering for days now, ready to fall on the side of sickness. I think my white blood cells have rallied, though. Feeling OK now.

I left Tucumcari this morning and the weather was cooler. The rain last night dropped the temperature significantly but the skies were clear and bright blue, so it was a good day to ride. Almost immediately, I got on Route 66.

















I read somewhere that it's just going to fall into disrepair and won't be maintained anymore. That process has started.





















Route 66 parallels I-40. The road is a quilt of asphalt patching, some of which is elevated significantly. The asphalt on the sides of the road (it's a narrow two-laner) are crumbling and weeds and flowers are growing in their stead. At one point, the road changes from one side of the interstate to the other, and in doing so, it goes through a small narrow bridge under I-40. Whether it was because of the rain, or just general decline, that area was filled with mud and water. The bike, already dirty from my travels, was mud-caked after that little endeavor. It's a pretty cool thing to ride on it, as it's history and filled with stories but it's very difficult to imagine this road as being the only thing from California to Chicago. What a tough trip that must have been.

http://www.historic66.com/

There wasn't much to see. It resembles a poorly used frontage road more than anything else. I passed by a derelict cemetery that must have been part of a community once upon a time.


























An old gas station came into view and I stopped for a picture. One pump, two dogs, an outbuilding that may have been a house, and the station. It had seen better years.

















At one point, the interstate was on my left and immediately to the right was a grassy area, maybe 100 feet wide, and it was bordered by train tracks. There were cows and a bull grazing in that area. Beyond the tracks was the wild and flat area of New Mexico that went on forever. Lots of sagebrush and not much else.

A train came by and I did my arm pump communication with the engineer again. I was rewarded with two blasts. I raced ahead, stopped the bike and caught a picture as he came abreast of me. He gave me another blast as he went on. Coincidentally, Route 66 quit at that point and put me back on the interstate.


I'd been riding for a while and was still more than an hour from Albuquerque when billboards appeared advertising a stop where everything imaginable was for sale. Everything. Probably twenty billboards, imploring people to stop and buy gag gifts, New Mexico souveniers, t-shirts, food, Navajo rugs - you name it. I rode past and eyeballed a mammoth warehouse that was doing a brisk business.

A short time later, more billboards appeared for yet again another similar place. One of the billboards advertised "World Famous Fudge". I was immediately sold. A piece of fudge would taste good, and I could see "World Famous Fudge" that up to that moment, I had been unaware even existed. I'm a sucker for superlatives.

Kind of reminds me when Ruppert and Reilly were young. Before Father's Day one year, I got a t-shirt that read "World's Greatest Father". Pretty moving for me as I had been unaware there was a contest, much less that my little family had quietly registered me for the title. I suspected competition was awfully keen. After all, it was for the WORLD'S greatest. No essays; no interviews. I don't know how I managed to garner the votes, but, here was the proof - a t-shirt that said "World's Greatest Father". So, I put it on before we went out and practiced my most humble expression in the bathroom in front of the mirror. I anticipated being mobbed by people when they found out the winner was in their town, and I figured I'd be asked some parenting questions - all of which I knew the answers to because I had been told I was the "World's Greatest Father". Imagine my surprise when I saw other men wearing similar shirts. Well, that couldn't be. Maybe they were Great, or maybe even Greater, but there could only be one Greatest. I knew they were poseurs. I didn't chastise anyone for being a charlatan that day but I vowed to get in touch with the governing body that decided I was the Greatest to tell them how many people were wearing shirts under false pretenses. That's still on my things to do list.

So, now there was a "World Famous Fudge" in a behemoth-sized gift shop 15 miles east of Moriarity, New Mexico. It could happen but I was dubious. I went in and bought souveniers, of course. My bike is listing now from all the crap I've bought. I found the small display and asked the lady if I could buy a piece. "Sorry, no. You have to buy 1/2 pound." I heard THE accent so I asked her, auf Deutsch, if she was German. She smiled and seemed surprised that someone spoke German so we launched into a discussion in Gerlish - a combination of German and English. Both of us were doing it. She was from Rheinland Pfalz and for 20 years, she'd gone to Germany for four weeks every Christmas. I asked her how she ended up out here "in the boonies" as she said. Married a GI many years ago. What else could the answer have been? With my new friendship now firmly cemented, I tried to buy a piece of the "World Famous Fudge" but she didn't acquiesce. She told me that if she was the boss, it would be different. But, she wasn't the boss, and 1/4 pound was the rule. In retrospect, what was I thinking? Get an exception to rules from a German? Was I forgetting my own heritage? So, I still don't know if it's good fudge. Nor do I know if people around the world talk about it. I mulled that over until I was about 50 miles from Albuquerque where I saw mountains in the distance. I thought it might have been the Continental Divide but I didn't have time to figure it out.

I must have had a petit mal seizure because I thought I was still about 30 miles from Albuquerque when suddenly the highway changed from a regular four lane to six then eight lanes. Full of cars. Albuquerque has over a half million people and there were all on the interstate, in separate cars, changing lanes abruptly. They weren't making me feel very welcome. Before I went farther west, I-25 loomed ahead and I took the exit, believing the traffic would thin. It went to 10 lanes. "What the hey?!?!?" Ten lanes? What kind of community needs to fill up 10 lanes of traffic?

I got off for gas and a girl at the pump told me about a short cut to US 550. If I'd gotten back on I-25, I would have come to the turnoff, but I'm always up for a short cut when shared by a native Albuquerquean. Well, she had a sick sense of humor.

"Take that road, at the second light go right, and there it is." It was nearly 40 minutes later; I'd asked at least eight people where 550 was; I had made a half a dozen turns on to different streets; and I had driven through a congested part of the city. But, hey, there it was finally.

On the way, I passed some kind of activity at the WalMart in Bernalillo (I was on 528 and getting close to 550). Police cars were everywhere, preventing cars from turning into the shopping center. I glanced over and saw crowds of people and at least two ambulances. Lights were flashing everywhere. I assumed someone had been shot but it was nothing that sensational. See below:

http://www.koat.com/news/25053836/detail.html

US 550 was a fast four lane that went through at least two Indian reservations, the Zia's and the Apache's.


The Zia Indians are famous for this symbol that you may recognize:


Unfortunately, they must not have made any money from it as I passed a small community across the street from this station:


The community looked as forlorn as the Big Chief Gas Station Market.

Further down the road, I came across a marker for a route that an expedition from Coronado's army took in 1541. (This is for the benefit of the serious historians.)


The reservation land was full of sagebrush and not much else. The terrain changed some as I climbed to 7,000 feet and passed a marker for the Continental Divide. Along the way there were some small mesas and rock outcroppings but for the most part, the land was wide open.




Further along was the Jicarilla Apache Indian Reservation. Very similar to the Zia's reservation except their community seemed to be a little more on the ball. They had a water tower with the town name and a school with the same name and a few other places with the same name.

It kind of reminded me of Mister Mxyzptlk, the imp who was Superman's nemesis in the '60s when I was a big Superman comic book fan. If Mister Mxyzptlk could be tricked into saying his name backwards, or writing it backwards, he was sent back to the 5th dimension where he would stay at least three months, at which time he could come back and plague Superman and it would start all over again. Anyway, Dzil H-Na- -Dith-Hle might be something like that. First, you spend a few years learning how to say it with just the right inflection and then you say it backwards, and you get to go to the casino. Of which there was one on the Apache reservation so I'm not being out of line...

When I got to Farmington, NM, I'd planned to head for Cortez, cutting through the Navajo Nation and the Ute Reservation. But, I saw a sign for Aztec and I decided to change my plan.

When I worked for TSA, at one point we had eleven airports, one of which was Farmington. The other ten were in Colorado. Geographically, it made sense to have Farmington as whenever we checked on Cortez and Durango, it was the third point of a triangle and was only an hour from each. (Eventually Farmington went to New Mexico when Governor Richardson decided he wanted NM airports handled by NM TSA people.)

When I traveled to those airports, I usually went through Aztec and stopped at Chubby Chicken. It's not a place you'd look at and think to stop. Chubby Chicken is in a refurbished two room house and frankly, it looks like a place to run away from.


I'd been told about the place by the TSA folks in Durango, however, and after I stopped there once, I made it a practice to go everytime I was at our southern airports. The breakfast burritos are out of this world good. Nearly everything in that part of the country, including hamburgers at MacDonald's, have green chilis. One of the guys I worked with in Afghanistan was from New Mexico and his wife sent cans of green chilis to him that he took to the mess hall and sprinkled on his food. So, it's a local cultural thing. Once I took a cooler to Chubby Chicken and filled it up with those breakfast burritos, freezing them when I got home and enjoying them for some time.

So, once the idea took root, I headed in the opposite direction. It was only 10 miles out of the way and I fully intended to reverse course and ride through those two Indian reservations to get to Cortez. But, as I stood in front of Chubby Chicken, leaning on my bike and munching on my breakfast burrito at 4 PM, I decided to head for Durango instead. The reservation drive is hot, barren and depressing. The drive to Durango is fairly scenic and the mountains begin to appear. From Durango to Cortez is only about 45 minutes going that route and it's one of my favorite roads in the state. So I took a circuitous route that added probably an hour or so to my ride.

I got to the state line


and then started to get close to Durango.


Durango sits in a valley and is a popular vacation spot.


I went through town and got on the road for Cortez. It's another beautiful ride with much changing scenery.




I rode into Cortez and pulled into the Holiday Inn Express. There were more than 60 bikes in the parking lot. I talked to a guy and he said they were from Ontario, doing a loop through Las Vegas and back. There were more than 90 people riding on the bikes. Naturally, there was no room in the house and they sent me to the EconoLodge - a dump if there ever was one. But, with few rooms remaining, and the last non-smoking room in the place, I took it.

The ride tomorrow will go through Utah on US 191 through Moab and then follow the Colorado River after Arches National Park. I'll ride to Cisco on state road 128 and cross back into Colorado on I-70. That will be a fine ride with beautiful rock formations everywhere. It's amazing scenery and I've enjoyed it everytime I've been on it in a car. On the bike, it'll be doubly so.

Thanks for reading and for posting. I'll make my last update after I get home tomorrow afternoon.