A Wet Wyoming Ride

I am sitting in my little computer room and thinking about writing and riding all the while listening to the rain patter down on the roof and watching it dimple off the birdbath in the back yard. It’s been over a month now since my big ride to Laughlin and my three posts about that adventure. My riding has been pretty tame since then with one ride to Santa Barbara and only commutes to work to round it out. Rainy days are great for reading, writing, and considering things, all sorts of things, and most of them pretty pleasant.  Riding in the rain is one of my least favorite conditions but I am reminded today about one of the many chapters in Jim’s and my big ride, so set the “WABAC” machine to August, 1972. Jim will likely have some different recollections on this and I can’t wait to hear them.

We broke camp, literally, somewhere in the Big Horn National Forest with building excitement for the end of the day’s ride, Yellowstone National Park. Taking off after packing everything on the bikes, Jim’s Honda 350 Scrambler and my Honda CB 500, we headed west on Wyoming State Highway 14 and had the road pretty much to ourselves on a grey day and mild temperatures. It wasn’t too long after we dropped out of the heavy forest area and winding our way along when we passed two Boy Scouts hitchhiking along. We passed them by and then looked at each other with the question hanging in the air between us, “Were those guys hitchhiking us?”  We each shrugged our shoulders in a “why not” sort of way and doubled back to ask them. Since there was no one else on the road they were asking us or kidding around. When we asked them if they really wanted the ride they looked at each other real quick, shrugged their shoulders and said that they would ride. It took some doing on our relatively small bikes to put two up and all the gear for four guys securely mounted for the ride. We couldn’t do this today because we only had one spare helmet and that meant one rider was helmetless.

Not long after we rolled out with our Boy Scout friends we got our rhythm going and everybody seemed comfortable. Shortly before hitting Greybull, Wyoming we came out of the hill country and had a long plain in front of us; it was a beautiful sight up to the point where we could see the rain starting under the darkening sky. The clouds had thickened up and we could see the line of rain cutting the plain and putting up a curtain blocking out what we wanted to be seeing, Highway 14 stretching out and inviting us to Cody and beyond that to Yellowstone. Jim and I pulled over and broke the news to our passengers that we were putting on our rain gear and they were welcome to continue on or look for a covered ride. They were up to it though and put on rain gear of their own and five minutes later we were wet. So wet. When I tell the story these days I say that we went 150 miles in the rain but as I look at my US map today it was somewhat less than a hundred. It just seemed like 200 and I rounded down to make it believable.

We passed right through Cody hopping to still make Yellowstone and a place to make camp but it was not to be this day. In Wapiti, just before the climb up to the park entrance we were informed that the pass was closed due to snow. Over 8500 feet of elevation will do that, even in August. Just about everything we had with us was soaked; our cloths even through the rain gear, sleeping bags, and nearly everything in our packs so we looked for a laundry mat to dry what we could. The very kind woman who ran the place came out and belied all the warnings we received from the motorcycle shops that we would meet with people out to get us as motorcyclists. The fact was that with only one exception we ran into really great people all along our way and have kept them memory of them as a hopeful sign of the health of our country. She took pity on the four of us and unlocked the biggest set of dryers she had and we got it all dried out for free. Jim and I asked about hotels in the area but they were filling up fast with the pass closed and people delaying their entrance as well. Once she found out we were Christians she suggested a halfway house that a pastor friend of hers ran as a place to sleep. Our scout friends went their own way and we ours at that point.

We found the halfway house for drug addicted young people coming clean and were given the floor of the living room to bed down on and were grateful for it. We had gotten there later in the evening and the pastor was pretty busy but not so much so that we didn’t have a few minutes to talk. He was a good hearted man and cared for the drug weary folks seeking shelter just like the Good Shepherd himself. Giving us one last word on the rules of the place he noted that the police had free access to come in and check people for drugs and sure enough, our motorcycles and road worn looks brought them in around two in the morning. They were nice enough about it but flashlights in the eyes at that time of the morning after the long and wet ride were pretty harsh.

The storm passed through that night and we were greeted with the news that the pass was open and our trip would continue that day. We loaded up again, got breakfast at a home style coffee shop and were on our way. As we left Wapiti and the good folks we’d met behind we saw our scout friends just out of town on the road hitchhiking again. They saw us just after we saw them and they both suddenly needed to find out how much change they had in their pockets; they took no chances but missed a fantastic, if chilly, ride into Yellowstone National Park.

VMC SW Meet – Day 3, "The Road Home"

Sunday morning came and I was up with the sun, showered and then went out for a walk along the river to pray a bit and then find a quick breakfast; a McDonald’s #2 breakfast meal. Since I didn’t connect with the L.A. riders I was on my own and decided getting on the road was a good idea. After the big group ride I looked forward to being solo for the day but open for what might come along. I gassed up at the same place I did on my way in to Laughlin at the junction of Highways 163 and 95. I bought myself a new license while I was there and then jotted down a couple of notes on thoughts I had during the last couple of days.

The Lone Shepherd, not a good pick for a handle for me, but something I was feeling like over the weekend and I tried to fit Jesus into that. Not a perfect fit but in many ways he was on his own during his earthly ministry with only that exceptional connection to the Father and the Holy Spirit. None of the disciples were capable of taking leadership responsibilities from him even though they got their feet wet when he sent them out in teams of two. The few times we see the disciples stepping out on their own they became object lessons. It wasn’t until Jesus went to the right hand of the Father and the Holy Spirit had come upon them that they became leaders and established the church.

I think it is good for us to ride with the pack, do things we wouldn’t normally do or wouldn’t even attempt on our own. Of course there is good and bad in that and at the end of the day we are the ones who’ve done them and are responsible for the choices we made along the way; at least that’s what I’ve told my kids and need to own up to for myself. I like the solitude of solo rides, at my pace, over my routes, and the quiet. It is even more profound this morning after my frantic ride with 80 plus bikes yesterday. Don’t get me wrong, I’ll do it again someday.

High winds picked up about 10 a.m. just as I made the transition to Highway 40 and it was chilly, down in the 50s and I eventually pulled over and changed my mesh gloves for the full gauntlets and wish I had pulled on my long-sleeved shirt under my jacket. It stayed windy for two hours until I made it to Barstow for a lunch stop and it was a tense and exhausting ride navigating the cross winds but the desert still held pretty scenes with high clouds giving character to the sky and dappling the desert floor with fantastic spots of shade as they shot across the sky. The big trucks rumbled down the highway like wild fires creating their own windstorms and the 40 was full of them. Eddies they created were tricky coming up behind them and then along side where the under-winds of their trailers wanted to push my wheels out from under me. The only thing I could count on with the trucks was the gale force wind they pushed out front and to the sides and I got skilled pretty quickly at timing my lean into them.

I found the In-and-Out in Barstow and had lunch; this was the busiest one I’ve ever seen with five order takers and a line of “guests” feeding them. I couldn’t count the burger makers and there was at least one fry maker pushing potatoes through the slicer to cut them up busy at all times. Amazing. I ate outside where dozens of House Finches set up a chorus of chirps waiting for any crumb to fall or even not waiting and landing on my table to make tentative hops toward my fries. I never encourage them with junk food; what’s not so good for my large body has to be devastating to their tiny frames. I had enough space to read a chapter of Luke before gathering my stuff and heading for the bike when Kevin and the five or six other bikes from San Gabriel and Santa Clarita pulled in for lunch. I found him and shook hands and finally made an acquaintance. Of course I promptly forgot their names because I’m horrible at names; just ask any youth basketball player. It was always about three games into the season when I finally stopped yelling “Hey You!” to get their attention on the court.

I had intended to take the same route home as I did going out but I missed the connection to the 138 in Victorville and decided to continue on down the 15 to the 210 rather than doubling back. I was more into getting home by then than I was about the route even though the Cajon Pass blows with the downhill pace many drivers keep and their abrupt maneuvers they use to keep that pace. How rude. Once I got through the pass and sped down to the 15/210 interchange I took note that the partly cloudy skies of the desert had became mostly clouding skies in the valleys that looked pretty threatening. Since there had been no prediction of rain I hadn’t packed the rain suit that I didn’t own and I hoped that I wouldn’t have to dodge raindrops to make it to the Dorothy Street. At least if I did get wet it wouldn’t have been for long and I’d be home to dry off. Note to self: buy and bring a rain suit. A decent one doesn’t take up that much room. “Vigilance in all phases of the ride” will be my new motto.

All in all, it was a good experience and I plan to do other rides with groups or to a big rally like the Fall Street Vibrations in Reno. I’ll have a more refined set of expectations and a better idea of how to move about scene for the next one.