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Five Corners On A Connie
or This Can't Be Happening!
by Jack Gustafson

Wednesday, April 10, 2002 Cache Creek, B.C., Canada

Wednesday morning found me up and feeling bright and frisky by 7:00 AM. After a meager breakfast that left me looking longingly at the closed fruit stands along the next 30 miles of highway, I was packed and ready to head south, then west. First though, I needed to notify my insurance carrier and get the ball rolling to accomplish repairs on the bike when I got back home. A little after 10:00 AM that had been taken care of, and travel could begin again. As I pulled out of Cache Creek after fueling up, there were clouds over the mountains ahead, but nothing detracted from the awesome scenery of the Thompson and Fraser River canyons that morning.

Those of us fortunate enough to have traveled these miles can only make an attempt, with words and photos, to describe the natural beauty. If you ever get the chance, spend some time in southern B.C. and over along the Alberta border in the Canadian Rockies. Sorry, but the Colorado Rockies pale in comparison.

The temperature was in the low sixties now, so the snowmobile suit was bungeed onto the Givi top case and I was once again able to wear the Roadcrafter. This left me feeling much more protected as I twisted and turned along the canyon wall high above the roily Fraser River.

Coming into Hope, a slight sprinkle dampened the pavement and lent a pleasant freshness to the air. Even though I've traveled this route since 1962, I never tire of seeing this part of Canada. Outside of Hope, Trans-Canada 1, which I'd been on since leaving Cache Creek, becomes a four-lane divided highway, just like an interstate down in the U. S. Nonetheless, it remains a scenic byway as it runs along the base of the mountains that stretch from here south across the international border into Washington State. This is the kind of riding I never tire of.

Before long, it's through U. S. customs at Sumas, Washington, then a stop on a side road to make a few phone calls now that cell phone reception is good again. While arriving in the Seattle area later than I'd planned and hoped, it's still early enough to swing by Ron's house in Bothell to tighten up loose bolts and nuts, and begin repairing some of the damage from the fall up in the Yukon. Ron, gracious host as always, drove me around to pick up some extra nylon screws for the windshield, and helped me with the repairs that would get me down to Bend, Oregon, where a few replacement parts were already waiting. He also came up with some 3M super adhesive foam that we used to remount my Saeng mirrors to the windshield. It held up fine for the rest of the trip.

With Ron's able assistance, we also discovered that the right hand driving light had only separated into several pieces, but had not broken. Reconnecting the wires to the bulb and back of the light, and fitting the lens/reflector unit back into the somewhat flexible housing, the light was functioning once more. Just to be on the safe side, however, we applied a full band of clear packaging tape around the whole assembly. Later, while riding at night, I would be very glad to have both of the Hella's adding their illumination to that of the single headlight.

While at Ron's, Russ Pagenkopf from Juneau, Alaska, who would be my riding partner for this little tour, showed up on his Honda Nighthawk. As an employee of Alaska Airlines, he had taken advantage of one of the perks of his employment and shipped his bike south to Seattle and flown down himself to begin the Four Corners Tour at nearby Blaine, Washington. After picking the bike up at the Alaska Airlines cargo facility, he'd ridden up to Everett Powersports to have new tires mounted and the bike serviced. He and his bike were now ready for the long journey.

Our plan at this point was to overnight at Blaine and then, after an early morning departure from that beginning point, meet Ron north of Seattle and ride together to the Washington coast for a lunch of fresh oysters. We retired to Café Veloce to discuss the finer points of our plan over a delightful meal, after which Russ and I headed north through the gentle Northwest rain to Blaine for a good night's rest.

Thursday, April 11, 2002 Blaine, Washington

Typical of this part of the country, adjacent to the Strait of Georgia, which separates Vancouver Island from mainland British Columbia, there was a gentle rain softly falling as we mounted our bikes and headed for the Denny's that we'd passed on the way into Blaine the previous night. Then back to the motel to finish packing, ride a couple blocks to the Blaine Post Office for our official photos, gas up, and away we go.

It was a pleasant morning in spite of the drizzle, and even that soon dried up so we could ride comfortably and without having to wipe moisture off our faceshields every few minutes. Traffic was moving at a reasonably rapid pace, and Russ and I were out in the hammer lane next to the median keeping our own pace rather brisk. Suddenly, there was a cloud of steam behind my windshield. The immediate thought was that I'd hit a larger puddle and the water vaporized when it hit my exhaust pipes. The smell of anti-freeze that followed on its heels quickly laid that wishful thinking to rest. Pull in the clutch, hit the kill button and the four-way flashers at the same time, and quickly get as far to the left as the guardrail will allow while slowing to a stop. For the second time on this trip I found myself thinking "This can't be happening". But it was.

After parking the bike on its sidestand, we looked back down the highway we had just covered, and the telltale trail of coolant was proof that the ride was on hold until some repairs were made.

While I hadn't really wanted to test AAA's Plus RV coverage for my motorcycle, I felt this was a time to find out how useful it might be. Digging out my cell phone, I punched in the numbers and waited for an answer.

Have you ever tried making a phone call while standing in the median with traffic whizzing by at 65+ mph just a few feet away? My hearing's not the best anymore anyway, and this situation didn't lend any assistance. Finally, I just explained precisely where I was, the nature of my problem, gave my membership number, and told the person on the other end that I hoped they could understand enough to get a truck out to get me. Whether I ever got an affirmative answer or not, I'll never know. Russ and I stood there on the back side of the guardrail for 45 minutes without seeing any sign of a tow truck or wrecker.

We were almost convinced we'd be there until traffic thinned out sometime later that night, when a pickup with a two-bike trailer whipped in right ahead of me. Thinking that AAA had really been on the ball, I was surprised when the driver told us that he'd seen us standing here as he drove northbound on the opposite side, going to pick up a bike and take it back to Lynnwood Yamaha, where he worked. As a thoughtful gesture to fellow motorcyclists, he'd stayed in the left-hand lane as he approached our location to see if we were still stranded there. I'm sure the gratitude we felt for his concern was evident on our faces as we loaded my Concours alongside the Yamaha he'd picked up earlier. As we were driving back to his shop, the driver introduced himself as Andy Hardin, the service manager at Lynnwood Yamaha.

Unloading the Concours in the yard behind the shop, Andy pointed to a tent set up next to the building and told me I was welcome to work on my bike there, out of the rain that was becoming imminent. Before starting on the bike, we contacted Ron, who said he would be headed up that way as soon as he could get moving.

At this point it's appropriate to mention that Russ and I had discussed the possibility of one of our bikes breaking down on the Tour, and we'd agreed that the partner with the operating bike could continue on, as there was no need to sacrifice both rides because of one bike's problems. But Russ was having none of that. He stayed there with me, even though Ron had also shown up to offer whatever assistance he could. And it was comforting to have all that help, even though there was only room for one person to work. That comfort didn't come without its price, however. Russ spent some time photographing me in as many embarrassing positions as possible, chuckling all the while. To add insult to injury, he used MY camera for the pictures. I'd get even later. Heh-heh.

It didn't take long to find the problem - a bolt holding a cooling line into a casting had backed out, allowing the coolant to spray directly out of the water pump onto the ground. Both the bolt and the O-ring on the coolant line were gone. Andy found two metric bolts, one of which was exactly right. Trying a Yamaha O-ring didn't work as well, though, but calling a nearby Kawasaki dealer resulted in finding 3 of the proper O-rings in stock. Ron and Russ hurried down the street to pick 2 of those up for me (luckily, as the first was destroyed in installing it). Finally, after being stopped for nearly six hours, the Concours was back together and ready to travel once more. This time with Loctite insuring the bolt would stay around for the remainder of the trip.

Once we were sure the Connie was again roadworthy, Russ and I ascertained that our bikes were loaded properly and ready to go, offered our heartfelt thanks to Andy, and made haste to get back on I-5. Before heading south, however, we had to go back north to pick up the tour where it had come to a halt earlier in the day. There was no way I would allow anyone to say that the Concours hadn't covered every inch of the Four Corners under its own power. Now, almost an hour after we'd left Lynnwood Yamaha, we were once again moving in the right direction.

As luck would have it, our timing was such that we got to the heart of Seattle just at the beginning of "rush hour". Having worked right through lunch, we were both ready to stop for a bite to eat, and soon found a spot not too far off the interstate. Not a dining establishment we would have chosen under other circum- stances, but for the moment it sufficed. Knowing that traffic would be heavy for another hour or two, we took our time and regrouped, so to speak.

An hour and a half later, with traffic in the downtown Seattle area lessened considerably, we headed south once more, into the rain that we could see falling from thick, leaden clouds down Tacoma way. Fortunately, traffic moved well, and we were nearing Olympia as darkness approached. Russ was in front, setting a good pace. Earlier, he'd told me the Battleax tires he'd had installed on his Nighthawk inspired confidence, and he was moving just a bit faster than the traffic. It was while we were leaving Olympia and traffic had thinned just a bit, that I took over the lead and discovered something that aided us for the next five thousand miles.

During my winter maintenance and preparation, I'd added a Kisan headlight modulator. If someone in a cage seemed to want to park in the number one lane, without making an effort to pass the vehicle next to him, I would hit the high beam, which would activate the modulator. Apparently the driver woke up, thinking that this might be a LEO in his rearview. Whatever, it proved to be very helpful and later, whenever Russ was in the lead and a stubborn driver refused to yield, I'd pull up behind the driver and flip on the modulator. It probably worked in 7 or 8 out of 10 tries. But once full dark arrived, the modulator no longer modulated, so we were on our own.

At one point, heading south from Olympia toward Portland, attempting to goad a young male driver into being our rabbit for a few miles, it became obvious that he was expecting US to be HIS rabbits. No thanks, it doesn't work that way. We lost him in a bit of heavier traffic and went back to finding our own rabbits.

At a rest area south of Portland, Russ and I stopped to compare notes and decided that stopping for the night and getting a good night's rest might be the wisest course. Neither of us had had a really good rest the night before, and after catching up, we could make better time tomorrow. Just as we were getting ready to remount, a young rider on a ZX6R pulled in next to us. Riding in the steady rain, just as we had been, the rider looked half drowned. But he seemed cheerful and ready to continue. During a brief chat, he revealed that he was headed for Southern California, wanting to arrive there the next night. Under questioning, we found that he was getting a bit cold, as he wasn't really properly dressed for an all night ride in the rain. His feet were especially suffering, he mentioned. Russ dug into his side bag and brought out a pair of polypropylene socks and handed them to the young man, telling him to wear them to help keep his feet warm. A moment that made me proud to be riding with Russ.

Friday, April 12, 2002 Salem, Oregon

Damp, and a little weary, Russ and I found a motel at one of the exits off I-5 in Salem. It would be nice to get a good night's sleep and then ride steadily the next day to make it to Death Valley in time to meet up with the group down there.

The next morning, feeling well rested, Russ and I hunted up a restaurant to start the day off with a good breakfast. We both knew meal stops were going to be an unaffordable luxury today, once we were back on the road. While I'd been hurrying to get from Dawson Creek to Seattle without being terribly late, Russ had been acting as coordinator for the parts that were coming from all over the U. S. Unbeknownst to me until I arrived in Seattle, these parts were headed to Bend, Oregon, to be held there by Carl Metler, one of the great guys (and also the Executive Director) of the Concours Owners Group. Now Russ and I were headed for Bend to meet Carl and to install the needed parts onto the Concours.

Once we found Carl and his charming wife Rhonda in Bend, we quickly removed the damaged parts from my Concours and installed the replacements that had been waiting there for our arrival. After an all-too-brief visit, we were back on the road with the intention of making it to Death Valley before morning.

There are several things that can cause poor gas mileage on a motorcycle. One of those things is a strong head wind. Another is a highway that's straight, has good visibility for a long distance ahead and behind, and that has little traffic and no towns. Funny how quick you can go through a tank of gas under those conditions. Such a road is Oregon Hwy. 31 heading southeast off of US-97 from the vicinity of LaPine. Having topped off our tanks before leaving Salem that morning, we waited until we were heading off into the more unpopulated south-central desert before refueling at LaPine. With just over 10 gallons of useable fuel aboard there was a chance I'd make it to Reno before having to stop again. Imagine my surprise and dismay when I discovered my fuel gauge bouncing off the "E" only 275 miles after filling up.

We stopped in Standish, California to allay my fears and grab some minor sustenance, while I calculated my mileage at a pitiful 30.6 mpg for this leg, and Russ smirked as he dribbled a little gasoline into his fuel-sipping Nighthawk. This wouldn't be the last time Russ cackled gleefully when observing the disparity in our fuel consumption rates. But my time would come before this ride was over. He who laughs last, and all that.

Once on US-395 again, we would sometimes ride side-by-side on this sparsely-traveled highway to give ourselves the advantage of two headlights and four driving lights revealing a path through the darkness as we hurried toward Death Valley.

Reno, Nevada isn't a particularly large city, especially when traversed from north to south, and we were intent on making it seem as small as possible this night, with many miles ahead of us. It was around 11:30 PM when we saw the lights along the southern edge of Reno, and dark desert highway ahead of us. It was also starting to cool down noticeably.

Not sure of the gas station schedules for the next 350 or so miles, we stopped for fuel in Carson City near midnight, again noticing the drop in temperature as night progressed here in this dry, high altitude air.

Saturday, April 13, 2002 US-395 south of Carson City, Nevada

This night I found that once again my expectations exceeded what nature had in mind to provide. Both Russ and I had been feeling the cool of the night, and as we dropped down along the shoreline of Mono Lake, coming into Lee Vining, California, I noticed my tell-tale thermometer dropping to 26°F. This isn't supposed to be happening, for crying out loud! Here we are in California, the land of sunshine and seashores, far from the frigid north, and we find below freezing temperatures. How far south would I have to go to insure staying warm?

As the highway gained altitude once more south of town, I found Russ' headlight diminishing in my rear view. Turning around to see what might be wrong, I found Russ putting on nearly every bit of warm clothing he had along. My snowmobiling suit had been left rolled up in a plastic bag at Ron's or I would have been doing the same thing. As I have pointed out before, the Goretex of which the Roadcrafter is made only slows the wind, it won't stop it. So I donned the Widder vest, arm chaps, and gloves, feeling like a real wimp now that I was here in "sunny" California, but staying pretty warm for the rest of the night. One more gas stop at Bishop, and then on to Lone Pine, where we turned east onto CA-190 and into Death Valley.

The brightening of the eastern sky ahead was a welcome sight, giving promise that the cold night was nearly over and we would soon be riding in comfort. This route into Death Valley was a pleasant experience, with the twisting pavement finally offering the type of riding we had been hoping to find, and the temperature rising to a pleasant degree with the drop in altitude.

Finally, at around 6:00 AM, we arrived at the motel at Stovepipe Wells and found the front desk. The night before, I'd phoned them from farther north to assure the management that we would indeed be arriving eventually, just hold the room and charge the credit card. So it didn't take long to get checked in and parked in front of our room, and luggage unloaded and stowed inside its spacious air-conditioned comfort.

Arriving when we did, just a short time after sunrise, there were people already up and about, enjoying the cool of the morning before the hot desert sun began beating down on this little oasis. This reminded me that breakfast would soon be prepared, and I was feeling hungry after our all-night ride with its chilly temperatures. Russ preferred to inspect the back side of his eyelids for the moment, so I left him to wander about and locate the dining room as well as locate any others from the COG group.

There was a lovely swimming pool near our room, and it dawned on me that I'd forgotten to include a pair of swimming trunks in my packing. Guess being surrounded by snow when I was packing at home had pushed the thought of swimming from my mind. This wouldn't be the last time I'd regret not having the proper gear for taking a dip.

As the sun climbed higher in the sky a few more of the vacationers came out of their rooms into the rapidly-warming daylight, and I started meeting some of the riders who had ridden to the spot the previous day. Soon I was seated at breakfast with a couple of them, and we began to get acquainted over our morning refreshment. It was nice, finally being able to relax with no distant destination imploring me to hurry.

While I realized I should lay down and get some rest, I was feeling good after breakfast, and there was too much to do and see for me to feel sleepy. Many of the riders took off for a circuit of the valley that would take them over passes and through all the most scenic areas. Having just parked the bike, and afraid that I might be too tired to keep up with all these fresh riders, I decided to stay closer to the motel. In a little while Russ was up and ready to take a ride with me, so we headed south to investigate the rest of the valley floor.

By now the sun was beating down, and although it was a "dry" heat, it was still mighty hot for two Alaskans dressed in motorcycling gear. Our first stop was at the Furnace Creek Visitors Center to grab something cool to drink and to discuss our potential route. We decided to see how bad it could get and headed on south toward the spot marked on the map as the lowest elevation in North America at 282 ft. below sea level.

As we rode, I kept a close watch on my digital thermometer, as I was interested in what extremes this whole tour would present. Watching as the digits climbed above 100, hovering at 103°F for several miles, then climbing again as we continued to descend, the highest reading that stayed on the display for more than a few seconds was 105. Perfect! I prefer nice, even numbers, and with the -15°F that I'd recorded 4½ days earlier this would make the extremes 120° apart - good enough for me. So as we approached the turn off to Artists Loop I slowed and turned in, coming to a stop on the edge of the side road. However, as soon as the bike quit moving the heat from the fairing and the engine below it hit the sensor and the temperature indication quickly hit 120 and climbing. As I'd wanted to take a photo of the high temperature, this wouldn't do. We could sit there in the sun, waiting until the indication came back down, and if either of us survived we could snap the photo for our survivors to enjoy. Somehow that didn't appeal to our sense of logic, so we had to come up with another plan.

Russ had a bottle of juice that he'd purchased back at the Visitors Center, so I asked him to put a drop or two on the sensor to cool it off. That worked - too well. Now the display indicated it was only 89° out there. Well, nothing to do now but wait, as we knew it would climb back up, and all I had to do was be ready when it passed through 105 once more.

Now Russ had shown a lot of patience with me and my foibles to this point, but I believe that patience was growing thin as he stood there in the still, hot air, with the bright California sun beating down on his black FirstGear jacket while I waited for the exact moment to snap my photo. Finally the numerals appeared as they should, I got the shot and put my camera away, and we continued through the twists and turns of Artists Loop.

Most riders are familiar with the fact that if you are riding at 53°F, and the temperature drops to 52°F, you can feel it nearly instantly. For me, it was the same way on the Alcan as the temperature dropped from -12 to -13, then to -14, etc. But Death Valley was off my personal scale. There was no sensible difference from 100 to 105°F, so far as I could discern. For this test I'd purposely left the Mira-Cool vest in the motel room, wanting to see what effect the heat would have on me, and how long it would be before I noticed it. Didn't take long. About 30 miles after we left the last stop (at least it seemed that far, might not have been), I started feeling the first hint of nausea. Told Russ it was time to turn around. We got back to the Visitor Center all right, and sat in the shade sipping iced tea for a while before venturing out into the sun again.

After getting back to the motel room at Stovepipe Wells we got cleaned up and ready to attend the dinner party that was planned for the evening. A good crowd showed up, with most coming from other parts of California. Frank Taylor and his lovely wife had ridden in from Salt Lake City, Utah, "Idaho" Bob Rainey from his home state, and if my failing memory isn't too far off, there were a couple of gentlemen from Texas. Wherever we came from, I believe the feeling was unanimous that it was worth the distance. As with nearly all such gatherings, the lies and tire-kicking continued into the night until heavy eyelids and planned early-morning departures brought it all to a close.

Sunday, April 14, 2002 Stovepipe Wells, Death Valley, California

With no real schedule to keep to today, Russ and I made a late departure from the motel. So late, in fact, I was afraid I'd be charged another day's room rent. But the management was generous, and we got off with just the standard outrageous charge. It was in the mid-80's as we headed west out of the Valley, and not unpleasant at all, now that we had acclimated. Just to be safe though, I was wearing a Mira-Cool vest that had been soaking in water all night. Combined with the extremely low humidity, this was as good as having air-conditioning - until we stopped for gas at Lone Pine. But a cold bottle of iced tea took care of that until we were once again underway, this time back north on US-395. We were going to follow the same route the others had ridden the previous day, but in the opposite direction.

Arriving at Big Pine, we turned east toward Death Valley once again. We'd been told that CA-168 crawled over two passes between the Nevada line and Big Pine, and provided some great scenery. Having the time to enjoy the side trip, we were looking forward to it.

Coming down from Westgard Pass, and out of the trees, I turned back to use the natural "facilities" the way we find ourselves doing in Alaska. While back a ways off the road, I heard a motorcycle stop very near where mine was parked. Soon I heard a voice calling to see if I was all right. I responded that I was merely answering nature's call, and the rider acknowledged and rode off again. As he pulled away, I could make out enough of the bright red bike to (mis)identify it as an ST1100. After all, aren't all ST1100's red?

Russ was waiting down the road a mile or two at a large gravel pull out, and when I pulled in, he was ready to go again. I led as we continued east, past Spring Creek Ranch, and up the hill toward the final pass prior to entering Nevada. As I got to the top - Gilbert Summit - I pulled off onto a gravel patch to take some photos of the panorama spread out behind me while I waited for Russ to catch up. And waited. And waited.

After a few minutes, I sensed that things were not as they should be. There were no good spots to pull off and take pictures until this one, so Russ should be coming on up. I'd better go back, it could be that this climb, combined with the heat and elevation, caused his bike to act up and maybe quit on him. Not sure what I might find, I headed back down from the summit.

About half a mile from the top, the driver of an oncoming car flagged me down. "Your friend ran off the road, but he's okay", she told me. And then went on to describe how far back down the road he was. This was not the news I wanted to hear, but at least Russ was okay, although how good "okay" was could be open to interpretation.

When I got to where Russ was standing, I felt much better. At least he was able to walk around. His bike was down off the side of the road, in among some little desert bushes, which were trying unsuccessfully to hide some rather large, nasty looking rocks. By this time Russ had detached as many things from his bike as were readily detachable, as well as a few things that shouldn't have been. His windshield was history, there was a deep ding in the gas tank, one bag had been ripped loose from its binding, and the handlebar was tweaked severely. Other damage surfaced much later, as we proceeded toward Las Vegas.

From the looks of the tracks, Russ had apparently taken the left-hander a little wide, and once onto the loose gravel of the narrow shoulder, it was all she wrote. The big rock right in his path as he headed out across the landscape didn't help, either.

When I got to the scene of the mishap, a very helpful gentleman had already pulled up in his SUV and was doing what he could to help Russ. A few moments later a motorcyclist pulled up and parked on the shoulder near where we were looking at the bike. As he pulled up, I recognized the bright red as probably being the same one I had seen pulling away while I was standing behind the tree earlier, but now noticed it was a PC800, not the ST1100 I had assumed it was. But when the rider removed his helmet, I was astounded to see that it was someone I recognized from having dined with him in Glennallen, Alaska the previous summer. Will Edwards, from near Seattle, Washington, just happened to be riding the same lonely road across the north edge of Death Valley that Russ and I had chosen. Talk about a small world!

While I would rather have met Will again under better circumstances, it was really good to see him again. As a retired motor officer, he has many, many years of experience on two wheels, and was certain to be a welcome addition to our little company. As we stood there talking, Will told us that he had been heading for Las Vegas to see the "Art of the Motorcycle" exhibit, as we were planning to do. Thus it was that we became three.

The helpful gentleman in the SUV lived in Las Vegas, and offered to transport some of Russ' belongings to his home where we could pick them up later, after Russ got his bike in better shape for carrying all the gear. So off we went, Russ in the lead, Will and I following. As luck (bad) would have it, we were riding into a fierce headwind almost all the way into Las Vegas, and with no windshield Russ was having quite a battle, hanging on to his bent handlebars while nursing some soreness in his neck and back.

Monday, April 15, 2002 Las Vegas, Nevada

My first visit to Las Vegas was in late summer, 1992, as I was hauling a load of computer manufacturing equipment from Boise, Idaho to LAX for air shipment to Israel. Driving west across US-93 from Caliente, Nevada that night, I'd noticed a glow in the sky to the south. One hundred miles away hundreds of megawatts of electricity were being consumed to make this probably the brightest lit spot on the face of the earth. The next day I dropped my trailer at a truckstop and bobtailed around the city, in awe at the number of places a sucker and his dollar (or nickels, dimes, or quarters) could be separated.

Interested in a little sightseeing, I'd hooked on to my trailer the next day and drove down 93 toward Kingman, but turned around just inside the Arizona line to take another look at Hoover Dam. I'll tell you, the best way to SEE the U. S. is from a cabover semi-tractor. Provided it's air-conditioned and has a comfortable bunk. But the best way to EXPERIENCE the U. S. is from the seat of a motorcycle.

Now here I was back again, maybe my tenth visit in the past ten years. The initial attraction had long since worn off, and it now appeared only as an oversized city sitting in the hot desert. We'd found a room Sunday night at the Motel 6 on W. Tropicana Blvd. and settled in for an extended stay. Russ needed to get some work done on his bike, and we had planned all along to visit the Art of the Motorcycle exhibit. As it turned out, Russ spent most of his day getting the work done on his Honda and purchasing parts and a new helmet. Will and I headed on to the Venetian to view the motorcycles, urging Russ to get there as soon as he could. From all we'd heard before coming down this way, it was worth every cent of the admission price. As it proved to be.

Something happened that Monday morning that made us wonder if it was safe to be in our company. Russ and Will left the motel in the morning to ride over to the Honda dealer Russ had contacted to work on his bike. They left the motel headed east, and were making a U-turn at the first intersection to head back west. As they made the turn, Russ looked in his rear view mirror and saw Will and his bike on their sides.

When we arrived in Las Vegas the evening before the wind was howling through the city. It was obvious, from the amount of debris that was blowing all over, that wind of this velocity was unusual, even for Las Vegas. Along with the wind came light, loose sand. It was a thin layer of this sand, virtually invisible, that had been Will's undoing. Fortunately, there was no discernible damage to the bike or rider, but we began to wonder.

Tuesday, April 16, 2002 Las Vegas, Nevada

The wind had died down to a steady breeze, and while it was pretty warm, at least the humidity was nearly non-existent. At 9:30 in the morning Russ and I were ready to get back on the highway and headed for San Ysidro, the second corner of our tour. Will was going to head back home to Seattle, so we'd said our good-byes the night before.

We topped off our tanks and prepared to get onto I-15 southbound. As we rode along, Russ in the lead, I detected a strong odor of gasoline, and closer investigation revealed a nearly steady stream of the fluid coming from Russ' bike. Signaling him that we needed to stop and check it, we pulled off the interstate and parked along the curb of a subdivision street, in the blazing hot sunlight. The fuel valve from his auxiliary tank was leaking, and it took a few minutes - which included removing the filler from the tank - to correct the problem. Now we were ready to make time in the desired direction.

There was no windshield available in Las Vegas for Russ' bike, so he had called ahead to a Cycle Gear outlet in San Marcos, California. They would have one sent to their store by UPS and have it waiting when we got there Tuesday afternoon. Now we had an appointment to keep prior to making the corner at San Ysidro. Once again Russ was riding without a windshield, but with new handlebars and without the vicious headwind it was much easier so we maintained a good pace.

After we got to Cycle Gear it didn't take Russ an hour to have the new windshield mounted and his bike ready to go again. Fortunately, there was a Baskin-Robbins ice cream store just across the side street, so I had something to do while Russ worked on his bike. Alaskans are reputed to be the largest per capita consumers of ice cream in the world, and it is only with diligence that we maintain that reputation. Had to stay in practice.

Nearing sundown, we arrived at San Ysidro around 6:30 PM and saw a little more of the town than really necessary as we searched for the San Ysidro Post Office. Having difficulty finding legal parking near the post office, we pulled the bikes up to the curb in front of the sign and quickly took our obligatory photos and departed. It didn't take us long to find our way back out to I-805 then I-8 and get our bikes pointed east. It was just after we'd started toward Arizona on I-8 that Russ and I had our first, but far from last, mix-up due to a lack of communication.

Being the idiot that I am, I'd failed to change my dark tinted faceshield to the clear one while we were stopped at San Ysidro. So now, with the sun well down over the horizon, I realized I needed to get it done if I were to see where I was going. Leading at the time, I signaled for a right turn to change lanes and take the next exit, which came up sooner than I'd expected. Russ was caught behind a couple of cars and didn't see me get off the freeway. We were now separated, with no plans made for getting back together in case of such an event, except that we had each other's cell phone numbers.

As long as I was off the interstate anyway, I went ahead and found a store with a large parking lot along the cross street, then proceeded to change my faceshield and take care of anything else that needed attention for the all night ride that was to follow. It wasn't long before my cell phone rang. Russ had realized what I'd done a bit too late to get off the freeway with me, so he'd gone on up a few more exits to one with a fast food restaurant. After getting directions from him, I rode up to join him in a meal that was overdue anyway. Now we were ready to travel.

Having read of many riders encountering high crosswinds as they passed over the summit east of San Diego, we were prepared to fight them ourselves. But to our relief, there were only some benign breezes to cool us before our descent into the purgatory of the Imperial Valley. We continued to make good progress as we approached the Arizona border.

Wednesday, April 17, 2002 I-8, nearing Yuma, Arizona

Midnight and a new day arrived together just minutes before we left California and crossed into Arizona at Yuma. A quick stop to refuel and grab some liquid refreshment and snacks, and back onto the interstate. The miles continued to fall behind as we waited for the sun to come up ahead of us. It was just getting light when we turned off I-8 at Gila Bend and headed north to intersect I-10 west of Phoenix. A few miles to the west on I-10 there was a Rip Griffin Truck Stop that I'd stopped at several times in the past, so we turned that way to grab some breakfast.

After breakfast, our next destination was the Cycle Gear outlet in Mesa, Arizona. I'd had a friend back home mail a spare Givi mounting plate there for me to pick up. We took a few minutes in the parking lot to bolt that on, completing the final repair to my Concours and allowing me to discard the strap that had been holding the tail trunk to the bike for the last 4600 miles.

Prior to our departure from Alaska Russ and I had made plans to visit the Big Bend country of Texas if we had the time. If we kept moving at a steady pace, we would have ample time before we had to be in McComb, Mississippi Friday night. Electing to abandon the interstate in favor of some two-lane highway, we continued east on US-60, fueling again at Apache Junction and then headed across the dry, hot country toward New Mexico. At Globe we turned onto US-70, which would take us on to Lordsburg, New Mexico, where we would once again join I-10.

Shortly before crossing the state line into New Mexico, Russ found a large pullout with a lone tree (although that term is even stretching it a bit) that offered a token shelter from the hot sun, because he needed to do some more work on his ailing bike. Thus the term "shade tree mechanic" became a reality there in that desiccating climate. The 10 months that have passed since that day have blotted the exact nature of the repair from my memory, but it was serious enough that we were there for over an hour while Russ worked on it. Long enough that at one point we had to move both bikes to stay in the shade as it circled around our miniscule shelter.

Finally the repairs were completed to Russ' satisfaction; his bike was repacked; and we prepared to leave Arizona behind. Except that the Honda's engine wouldn't turn over. We tried push starting it to no avail, the engine was locked.

Taking a break to think things over, the thought occurred that the problem might be hydrostatic lock. A little sleuthing proved that to be the case, and by removing all the spark plugs it was soon cleared up. The offending cylinder was apparently the first one to come up on compression stroke so there was insufficient inertia to damage connecting rod or crankshaft, and there was no indication of any damage to the engine. We breathed a joint sigh of relief when it was once again running smoothly and quietly, as a blown engine at this point in the Tour would have severely afflicted our schedule.

Now we were once again on our way to Lordsburg, where we enjoyed a meal, then rode on over to Las Cruces to spend the night at one of my favorite Best Western motels.

Thursday, April 18, 2002 Las Cruces, New Mexico

Las Cruces has always been a city I enjoy waking up in. This morning was no different. It was cool and dry, with a soft breeze gently shaking the leaves in the trees that surrounded the courtyard. Beautiful weather for a ride, and that's what we had planned for the day. It was just after 4:00 PM when we got to Marfa, Texas on our way down to the Rio Grande River at Presidio. There would be daylight for several hours, so we continued with our plan to take in the Big Bend area.

In many trips back and forth across Texas on I-10, I-20, I-40, I-35, I-45, and numerous two-lane highways in the past 40 years, I have gained the impression that Texas has more square miles of nothing to see than several other states put together - including Kansas. But the ride along the Rio Grande in that part of the state had me revising my opinion. Maybe I'm just a sucker for natural, rugged, mountain scenery, but I found myself rubber-necking like any other tourist as we rode down the narrow valley. I'll go back for another look, and many more photos, someday.

Dusk was coming on swiftly as we passed the Big Bend National Park Headquarters near Panther Junction, and we were soon back to using our driving lights as we sought to avoid the numerous deer yet get back onto a main highway and once again resume our trek eastward.

Reaching Fort Stockton around 11:00 PM we first fueled the bikes, then found a restaurant in which to fuel the riders.

Friday, April 19, 2002 Fort Stockton, Texas

We finished our supper and got on our bikes just at the hour they were in danger of turning into pumpkins. We had been hoping all along to get to McComb Friday night, but we still had a few miles to go (900, actually). So away we went once more, ready to do those miles at a Saddlesore pace.

Getting separated west of San Antonio, Russ and I followed divergent routes getting into that city, but managed to join up again in time to look for a place to eat breakfast as we exited to the east on I-10. Taking an exit with a likely looking dining establishment, we parked in front and proceeded to remove helmets, gloves, and riding suits. About the time we were ready to head for the door, a young lady - presumably the waitress - came out and announced that the restaurant was closing. This met with some skepticism from Russ and I, as the patrons within showed no sign of preparing to leave. In fact, a car pulled up and the driver strode on in and took a seat at a table with no sign that he was being refused service.

We took photos of the place, and noted the location (I-10, Exit 587, on the southwest side) in order to publicize the anti- motorcyclist attitude we witnessed there. It's nice to be able to report that in all our travels, that was the only instance of bias that we were aware of. We rode on up to Seguin to have our breakfast.

While stopped there, a gentleman approached us, asking a few questions about our travels. Before leaving, he mentioned that he had a friend who had ridden up to Colorado and thought he was traveling a very long distance. The man said with a big grin "Wait until I see him again. I'm gonna tell him I met some REAL riders today". Yeah, if we can just learn to keep our bikes upright.

By staying in the saddle and moving with the flow of the traffic in the passing lanes we arrived in McComb just about sundown. It was great to be there, and know that we'd have a day to just goof off and have a good time, as well as get caught up on laundry and any shopping we had to do.

Saturday, April 20, 2002 McComb, Mississippi

It had been just five years since I last drove through McComb, Mississippi, and it hadn't changed enough to notice. McComb is still a small country town beside the interstate. We got up well after sunup and took our time walking over to a nearby restaurant for breakfast. By the traffic up and down the main street, it was obvious to one and all that there were a number of motorcyclists in town. By now, McComb is used to this annual spring pilgrimage and we were greeted by friendly smiles wherever we went. Shortly after noon riders began the slow but steady migration across the interstate to Shane's huge yard.

It would be futile to attempt to describe the Crawfish Boil to anyone who hasn't attended such a fest, so I won't. Those who have been to one know what it's like, and those who haven't should try to get to one. Russ and I each had a great time, getting to meet many of the celebrities of the long distance riding crowd and even visit with a few. I felt like a teenager at a rock stars convention.

Along with many others, I offer my heartfelt thanks to Shane and his lovely family for putting this event on year after year.

Sunday, April 21, 2002 McComb, Mississippi

Knowing that most of this day would be spent grinding out the miles, Russ and I made no attempt to get an early start. After the bikes were packed and ready, we rode over to Shane's to say our farewells. Nearly all the other attendees had already left, and the clean-up was in its final stages.

Back in McComb, it was a beautiful Mississippi morning in which we fueled up at noon and departed in the 83° warmth. According to the odometer on the Concours, we had traveled just over 6740 miles since leaving Glennallen, not even halfway yet. Today's riding included a planned visit to Mayor Corky down in Lower Alabama so we angled across southern Mississippi to Mobile, Alabama.

Mobile is, to me, the archetypal deep south city, and I retraced a path taken many years ago to enter from the west side on US-98. The stately old oak trees weave a seemingly solid canopy over the broad Dauphin Street as it nears the old city center. Along with the sight comes the memory of getting my semi stuck under one of the branches after I'd turned onto a side street, with the trailer on one side of the branch and the exhaust stack on the other. With the aid of a police officer to block traffic while I maneuvered to extricate the tractor, I'd managed to avoid becoming one of the area's major attractions.

Russ and I elected to do a little sightseeing while at Mobile, and exited the interstate to visit Battleship Park on the edge of Mobile Bay. We had quite an enjoyable time, clambering up and down ladders on the USS Alabama, and then touring the aviation exhibit in its new building. Staying until closing time, we knew we'd have to make good time getting on over to see Da Mayor.

Our time spent with Dr. Reed went by all too swiftly, and left us wishing we'd had the full day to enjoy his enlightening company. But we had already used up most of the cushion we had when we left Blaine, and there were still two more corners to visit before we could stamp FINI on our tour. Somewhere around 11:00 PM we were back on I-10 eastbound.

Monday, April 22, 2002 I-10 near Milton, Florida

The dread I-10 high speed, run-over-you-if-you-aren't-doing- triple-digits-traffic never materialized, and we just continued riding at our pace just a little over the posted limit, passing a few vehicles, and being passed by even fewer. Not very many miles after getting back on the slab, Russ and I had one of those miscommunications that led to us inadvertently splitting up once more. Russ had been leading, doing a fine job of it, but I needed to make a brief pit stop so I passed him with the intention of leading us off at the next exit. Russ misread my intention (I hadn't signaled him properly, or if I did, he couldn't see it in the dark of the night) and passed me again, only to speed off into the distance as I was riding down the exit ramp. Since I was already off the interstate, I continued to take care of my business, tinkered a little with the bike to kill time just in case Russ turned around and came back looking for me, and then got back on I-10 to look for Russ. No sign of him. Oh well, we both knew where we were headed next - Key West - and we'd probably be there late tonight or early in the morning. We could get back together then.

One of the many benefits of being on the LDRiders list is the advice you get from other riders, the way they will share mistakes they have seen others make, or that they themselves have made, and suggestions for avoiding those mistakes. Sometime in the past I read advice regarding parking a bike in first gear, rolled forward against engine compression, before putting the sidestand down and leaning the bike over. That was something I know I'd done in the past, but neither consciously no consistently. But on this trip I was very conscientious about doing it every single time I parked the bike. The bike never came close to rolling forward off the sidestand, regardless what sort of grade I was parked on.

Another message related an incident in which the rider, in the wee hours of the morning, after many hours in the saddle, attempted to pull into a gas station but hit the curb and dropped his 'Wing onto its side. Thus forewarned, I was extra cautious in the early morning hours. But not quite cautious enough.

Somewhere in Florida, just west of the junction of I-10 and I-75 a few hours before sunup, I pulled off the interstate, crossed over the side road and pulled over to the edge of the on-ramp to park and check my map. As I recall, I was also getting chilly and had planned to put on my Widder vest.

The pavement had received an additional strip about 18" wide along the right hand edge. As I stopped, I slipped the Concours into first gear, pushed it forward against compression, and lowered the sidestand. Carefully dismounting to the left, I lifted my right leg over the seat and watched the bike tip over to the right, with no way to catch it. I had made the mistake of letting the contrast between the new dark strip and the older gray asphalt convince me that the right hand edge was raised and would cause the bike to lean to the left. The opposite was actually true, and the bike was leaning to the right even before I dismounted. Bummer! But this is why I carry a spare right hand footpeg bracket with me on my trips. Somehow the bracket had survived the spill on the Alcan, but a simple tip-over snapped it.

Not only was the bike on its side, but also the angle was enough to tip it beyond the horizontal, and there was less than a foot between the top of the bike and the guardrail, so there was no room to squat beside the bike to lift it in the usual manner. This was not going to be easy. About that time I was getting a bit unhappy with myself.

While I stood there surveying the situation, traffic started flowing down the ramp and onto the highway. It must have been time for people to start driving to their jobs in that area. Now back home, all you need to do in a situation like that is to wave for help and within a few minutes someone will pull over and lend a hand. Florida isn't quite the same as Alaska. No fewer than ten cars zoomed by, no matter how vigorously I waved my flashlight. But someone must have taken notice, because soon a State Police car came flying the wrong way up the ramp, blue lights flashing. The officer, after ascertaining that no one was injured, helped me get the bike back up onto its two wheels. He was obviously concerned that I might have been too groggy to handle the bike, or was incapacitated in some way, because he stayed, talking, for some time. By this time, of course, I was wide-awake, and no longer in need of donning the electric vest. We visited for a few minutes, during which he told me that he was an MSF instructor, and so was especially concerned when he'd been told there was a "motorcycle wreck" on the ramp.

A wreck of a motorcycle maybe, but not a wrecked motorcycle, thank goodness. I thanked him profusely for his help, and then remounted to go find a lighted parking lot in which to change the footpeg bracket.

That parking lot was found within a few miles, and the broken bracket found its way to a dumpster. While there, I had to opportunity to help an elderly gentleman (and he probably was thinking that he was being helped by an elderly gentleman) who had no taillights on the back of his pickup. One of my fuses took care of the problem, along with some electrical tape to insulate the offending bare wire. It's nice to be able to pass on the help we get from others.

The rest of the day was relatively uneventful, even including the rush hour traffic in the Miami area. Fortunately, I had paid close attention to recommendations of list members and kept moving at a reasonable pace all the way down to the intersection of the Sawgrass Expressway with I-75. That is, until I ran out of gas.

Not really out of gas, as I discovered later, but at the time it appeared I was. There's something about Florida that doesn't agree with me and gas. Prior to this, the only time I've ever had to call AAA due to being out of gas was in 1989, just west of Orlando. That time my tank was dry, and the gauge and low fuel light had both been warning me for some time. But this time I knew I should have had a couple of gallons in my fuel cell. Nevertheless, there I was, stopped on the side of the freeway, waiting for a can of gasoline. Thankfully, the sun was low on the horizon, and there was a mild breeze blowing. In my full Roadcrafter, I was a tad overdressed for standing around on a warm Southern Florida evening.

A few more miles that night was enough for me, and at Florida City I found an inexpensive motel with a restaurant nearby, and called it a day. Tomorrow would be corner Numero Tres (when in Cuba del Norte, speak as the Cubans…).

When we were last with our two intrepid travelers, they were both in Florida. The bad news was - they each were unaware of the other's location. The good news was that one of them had been able to keep his bike from falling over for over 2000 miles! We rejoin the two somewhere in deepest Florida.


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