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| Today was the first day of my trip where
I’ve been the least bit concerned about gas. Not the upset stomach
type but the petrel type. When I decided to take Hwy. 50 to Hwy 6
through the southwestern corner of Nevada, I knew that I was going
to be riding through wide-open country. Wide-open country is fine
but it can make for long distances between gas stations. The morning dawned cool and bright as I left Richland, Utah, at 7:00 a.m. I needed to backtrack eight miles to find a local country road to Aurora, and the connection to Highway 50. Last night when I filled up at the Chevron station, I got detailed directions from a local sheriff about how to get there from here. All went as planned and within fifteen minutes I was on Highway 50, heading west. The beginning of the ride wound through some local hills and valleys then opened onto a long broad valley. The road, at this point, became straight as a string (photo 1) with little traffic and even less development. I took a picture of one house out in the middle of this broad valley, next to the mountains, with no one else around for miles and miles (photo 2). How do these people make a living out here? These folks are made of hearty stock: self reliant, independent, and apparently comfortable with being alone. I stopped in Ely, Nevada for gas and picked up Highway 6 to Tonopah, 164 miles away. It was at this point that I became somewhat cautious concerning my gas situation. There are no towns on the map between Ely and Tonopah. My Beemer averages about 40 mpg and holds 5.5 gallons. If all goes well that gives me a range of about 220 miles before I run out of gas. The problem is that I’ve never even gotten close to that distance before I’ve filled up again. In truth, I don’t really know how far this thing will actually go before running dry. I’m in the process of thinking about this situation when I pass a sign at about the 22 mile mark that officially informs me there is no gas for the next 50 miles. Hot Damn! I can go 72 miles with my eyes closed as long as I know there is indeed gas 50 miles ahead. After being on the road for more than an hour I come to a little store with one lonely gas pump out front (photo 3). It has only 89-octane gas and my motorcycle prefers 91. Hey, beggars can’t be choosers and 89 octane is close enough for government work. Fill her up!
There is one, lone, teenage girl in the store working the place. Two old buffalo stand quietly in a dusty, dry corral in the back, and me. I comment that this place is a fur piece from anywhere for a part-time summer job. She tells me her grandparents own the place and she’s staying the summer with them to help out. This is obviously a young lady torn between teenage desires to be with friends in the summer, and family responsibilities. I get the feeling she’s accepted her decision, reluctantly. I take 1.8 gallons and am set for the next 94 miles to Tonopah. The road to Tonopah is pretty typical Nevada country. Some mountains, lots of sage and scrub brush, straight roads that go on forever, some more mountains, and then repeat the above. The only real difference is that there seem to be fewer people here than the other roads I’ve traveled in Nevada, and there weren’t a lot of people there. Hwy 50 is not the “Loneliest Road in America.” Trust me, highway 6 is far lonelier. I reach Tonopah around 1:30 in the afternoon. I’ve gained an hour when I entered the Pacific Time Zone somewhere back down the road. I’ve actually been on the road, minus gas fill-ups, for seven and one-half hours. I stop at a nameless casino for lunch. Eating in a casino turned out to be a big mistake. The food was all right, but there was an awful lot of smoke from the casino. I have a bowl of soup and eat fast. With me, eating fast is easy to do. Almost all of my relatives were heavy smokers, so I grew up with it in our home, both my parents being heavy smokers as well. The city I now live in does not allow smoking in restaurants so I’ve become used to eating in a smoke-free environment and was not even aware of that fact until I started eating in the smoky confines of that casino. Truth be known, I prefer the smoke free meal. I don’t even want to go into the number of my family members who have died from smoking related diseases. They run the gamut from cancers of the throat and vocal chords, emphysema, lung cancer, early stroke, you name it and one of my family members has died from it. And the problem with cancer and emphysema is they don’t kill you fast. On the contrary, they are a slow agonizing death, which steal your self-respect. No, the Whitehead’s don’t do well as smokers. I’m back on the road by 1:50 and on my way west. This afternoon is a repeat performance of this morning until we get to California. I never actually know when I enter California since some kids have stolen the “Welcome to California” sign. Hey, kids out here have to do something for fun, with nothing but jack rabbits for company. In fact, between trucks at night and teenagers with guns during the day, this has got to be a dangerous place for jackrabbits. I stop at the agricultural inspection station for a drink, just outside the town of Benton. There is only one “inspector” way out here, a middle-aged lady, and she’s friendly and willing to talk. I find myself admiring these folks who live such a different life than mine and who are seemingly content in their situation. Our ability, as a species, to adapt to our surroundings must have played a major part in our climbing to the top of the food chain. From here the road starts to gain interest. First I climb into some red rock mountains, then a long stretch of almost straight road that runs behind the eastern side of the mountains. Then up again into a forested area of red bark pine trees that open on to vistas of the mighty Sierra Nevada Mountains. I can’t imagine what it must have been like as a settler, having just crossed the deserts of Nevada in a wagon train, and seeing those huge mountains. They stand like a citadel, protecting California from the Mongol hordes from the east. Apparently they weren’t that big a deal, since we’ve become the most populist state in the union. One out of ten Americans now live in California. Finally I come over a hill and see Mono Lake below and to my right. Lee Vining is only a hop and a skip away. The ride on the California side of the border is marked with signs warning, “Dips for Next 5 Miles.” This part of the trip is like an amusement ride with dips that create “G” forces in your stomach, and quick hills that make you light headed. Up and down, up and down. Yahoo!! It’s time to slow this sucker down before I hurt myself, or the bike. It’s now 4:20 and I’m close to the eastern entrance of Yosemite. I’m tempted to go on but my body says no, so I get a little cabin in Lee Vining for $65 (photo 4). Distance traveled today, 525 miles, a record for me. I clean up and head next door to the “Nicely’s Café” for a bite to eat. On the way in, I see two BMW’s parked outside, one a K1100 and the other a K75. Both are painted a light, matching metallic blue. After ordering my meal, I engage the owners in a conversation about their trip. They are a couple from Arizona and have gone almost the opposite direction of my trip, going all the way into Canada then down the coast. They are returning from the National BMW Rally in Redmond, Washington. They tell me there were more than 7000 BMW’s at the rally, small by Sturgis standards, but they enjoyed themselves and plan to attend next years rally in Virginia. Later, after dinner, they show me their bikes and we talk about some of the cruising improvements they have made. Nice folks, which is turning out to be the norm on this trip. I return to my motel to call Linda. For the first time, I’m starting to get anxious to be home. |
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