Category: Travel

Catch up on the earlier Chapters: 1, 2

Day 3

Yesterday’s winds were gone, the air was clear and cool, and I was looking forward to a nice day of riding. Traffic was light and I could spend time looking for landmarks that I could remember. There were not many of them as the whole area has built up over the years.

I was in awe as I followed I-10 to I-5. I had never seen such roads! At Claremont there was a triple flyover; four levels of road in one place! I had never seen such sights!

I had also never seen grooved pavement and the wiggles gave me a bit of worry as I tried to get used to it.

On the way to the exit that I needed I passed one for “Olive St.” Later that trip I would encounter the sign for “Roscoe St.,” exits with the names of my paternal grandparents.

The low fuel light had come on sometime back and, as it didn’t look like I was going to make it to the Sunland Blvd exit, I pulled off the freeway and promptly got lost. I refueled and figured my way back to the freeway.

In an apparent effort to discourage gasoline use, California has a new type of nozzle on gas pumps and they do not work well with motorcycles, shutting off too early and not allowing any further fill. The entire time I was in the state I was always about a gallon short of a full tank after gas stops.

At last! Sunland Boulevard, and many memories of the area came rushing back, such the gas station on the corner at the exit. As I made my way up the road I could see many familiar sights. Often the only difference was that the area has grown up over the years. The Viennese-styled restaurant is still there and the Von’s supermarket is in the same place, even though it’s now called “Ralph’s”.

The intersection at Mt. Gleason St. was unchanged, right down to the convenience store on the corner and the restaurant across the street. Hill was a couple of 4-way stops away and there I was at 7743. I’d made it.

Lynn had given me directions to get there and I followed them right to the house. 7743, that was the address. I pulled into the driveway and shut off the engine. I’d made it.

* * *

I parked across the street from the former von Groff house and rested while I took some pictures and lit a mini-cigar in celebration. Sadly, no one was home and I had to be content with photos of the outside.

When I knocked on the door Lynn’s mom, Mona, answered. “Lynn’s still is school,” she informed me, “She’s got one week left.”

I was flabbergasted. In my worldview, school had already gotten out. All schools had already gotten out. I had not considered the possibility that hers had not.

While Mona went back to her vacuuming, I tried to decide what to do.

I was now officially halfway through my trip and had made my primary goal. I had a nice ride up Big Tujunga Canyon ahead of me but first I wanted to get some lunch. I had passed the Jack-In-The-Box where Lynn and I shared our first kiss so I decided to eat there.

I didn’t know what to do. I had planned on spending only a few days with Lynn, then on to Frisco. I had arrived on Monday so I decided to spend the week there and play the trip back by ear. Again, I had planned to camp out, but the von Groffs graciously allowed me to sleep on their couch.

While Lynn finished her semester I spent the next few days riding around the Los Angeles area, taking in the sights. One day I took the Universal Studios tour, another I worked with Lynn’s dad, Jim, at his mechanic’s shop.

Afternoons and evenings there was Lynn, adorable, lovable, Lynn. One of the first days I helped her practice for her track meet on the upcoming Saturday. We’d ride the San Fernando Valley, stopping in at Jack or Shakey’s Pizza for something to eat, with kisses in the parking lot.

That weekend the family attended the track meet where both of the daughters were participating. Here was taken the only photograph of the entire trip, with me, Lynn, Mona, and Lynn’s sister Cheryl. Lynn was quite the runner. While in high school she set the state record for the 440 yard run for high school girls.

The von Groffs had a bathtub instead of a shower and I was so shy that I declined to bathe the entire time that I was there. I must have had some pretty good BO by the time the weekend rolled around!

Saturday evening there came a phone call. Jim’s old friend, Al, was calling to see if there was an extra boy hanging around. Jim handed the phone to me and Dad explained that Mom was worried about me and, wasn’t it about time that I came home? I meekly protested that I hadn’t gone to Frisco yet but Dad convinced me to head back. I started back the next day, returning over the same route.

The last time that I had ridden a motorcycle up Big Tujunga Canyon I managed to run out of gas and Mona had to rescue me. This time I fueled up before the ride but had a different worry. Severe forest fires had devastated the national forest the year before and many roads in the area were closed. Checking the web I could find no specifics and, starting up the canyon, I didn’t know if the road went through to Palmdale or not.

Much of the ride was familiar as the road climbs from the canyon bottom. The road quickly climbs up the steep sides, several times crossing impressive bridges spanning deep ravines. Lots of curves and very light traffic enhanced the pleasure of the ride.

Evidence of the fire was everywhere. I had recalled a pine/juniper forest but most of the landscape was barren, testimony of the intensity of the conflagration. To me, though, the scenery was reminiscent of the desert and held a stark beauty of its own.

And the road was mine. I only saw a few cars on the entire trip. I felt a bit of sadness when the curves came to an end and I encountered the traffic of the Antelope Valley. After a bit of traffic I entered I-15 to Barstow and my hotel for the night.

When traveling I like to eat well and avoid the “greasy spoon” type of places. Criss-crossing the west as I have over the years, I have started a running joke; someone will mention some out-of-the-way place and I’ll pipe up, “Dell, Montana? I know a good place to eat, there!” Well, Barstow has one of the best steakhouses in the west.

I returned to the motel and once again sat outside sipping a drink and smoking a cigar. No one came by so I turned in for the evening.

Day 4

Another disappointing breakfast at the Days Inn, but I had read about a place in Amboy that was semi-famous so I figured I could grab an early lunch there. No such luck. The grille was shut down, as I guess it was past tourist season. I had my choice of candy bars and soda. I chose a bottle of water and went on my way.

As I mentioned, I prefer to take loop trips, this year, however, I wanted to ride the original routes. I-40 ended at Newberry Springs in 1970 and picked back up at the mountain pass above Needles. After topping off fuel I exited the freeway onto Historic Route 66.

Of the four trips that I made between New Mexico and California in 1972-73 only the last was over the newly-completed freeway from Barstow to Seligman. One was over the 89A/I-10 route and the other two were over old 66 in California and Arizona. The biggest frustration was the traffic behind trucks on the two-lane and traveling at night was iffy because of the lack of 24-hour gas stations at the time. When crossing the newly-completed I-40 in the early summer of 1973 the traffic was so light that I was able to stop on the middle of the road in the middle of the night to take a leak.

Almost immediately I ran into trouble. The macadam of the road had deteriorated and was badly in need of repair. Many tire-sized cracks were in the road and I continuously had to watch for gaps that could break a sidewall or bend a rim. I decided that if the road was this bad past Ludlow then I would have to abandon this portion of the trip by necessity and return to the freeway. To my great relief, the road conditions improved greatly at Ludlow.

In the ghost town of Bagdad I found another Whiting Brothers station surrounded by a fence and junkyard dogs. It was in pretty poor shape and the demise of Bagdad was one more example of a small town vanishing.

Back in 1970 I had first noticed the displays beside the road. The white sand of the flat desert of the dry lakes along the road had messages laid out in the black volcanic rock from elsewhere. In later years I’d seen the same thing in the salt flats along US-50. Most were of the “John loves Mary” variety although there were a few political messages (“End war now”) and even an enigmatic “RP fuck it”. I thought of leaving my own statement but I didn’t collect any rocks from elsewhere and I didn’t want to disturb any of the other messages. Some were obviously old, some were shrines with cairns and crosses but most were made of local rock. Surprisingly many were obviously made of stones from elsewhere, brought a large distance to make a statement.

It was on this stretch of road that I realized that I was in the perfection of enjoyment. I could see the road before me, going over the hill twenty miles hence. I was stopped in the middle of the highway and not a single soul was coming or going. “I like this,” I decided. I want to do more.

The road connected back with Interstate 40 at the top of the hill above Needles. I was low on gas and had planned on fueling there but as I approached I decided that I could make Arizona handily and could avoid one final encounter with the worthless California gasoline nozzles.

I had to backtrack slightly to get to the turnoff to old 66. The road from the freeway was a winding track, over hilltops and across arroyos towards Oatman.

Another great ride! Turns and dips through the arroyos and no traffic! Oatman is known for the wild burros that inhabit the town and there were several burros (and considerable burro-droppings) in the center of town. I had looked forward to a cold beer in the local version of Los Ojos but the intense density of tourists dampened my thirst. I pushed on.

Tight turns around ridges and ravines, with spectacular vistas all the way. When researching the road I learned that travelers in the 1930s would often hire a local to drive their car down the road, as the hard turns and drop-offs were too intimidating. Today, even on a motorcycle, one has to be totally aware of the road as the turns are frequent and the drop-offs are steep.

Too soon I reached the end of the mountains and crossed the valley towards Kingman. Taking the back way into Kingman I was reminded that I-40 bypassed one of the prettiest little canyons in the area. Old 66 wound through the valley next to the train tracks and into the original downtown. A few of the buildings looked familiar as I turned onto Andy Devine Blvd, following the original route.

The traffic was light heading up the valley and I could take time to enjoy the view. The area was growing and it was easy to see why; clean air, mild climate and glorious vistas.

Every time that I had driven the US-66 loop I passed by the Grand Canyon Caverns and each time I told myself, “I’m going to stop one of these days.” Well, this trip was the excuse that I needed and I booked a night at the local motel. The ads on the Internet looked promising, the motel featuring a bar and cable TV, and the local restaurant advertised buffets for dinner and breakfast along with a full menu to choose from.

I pulled into the motel parking lot under a banner that proclaimed “Bar Open.” At the front desk I told the girl, “You’ve got my two favorite words on your sign outside!” She looked uncomfortable and replied, “Well, the bar is only open on Fridays and Saturdays.” Disappointing, but she did have some package beers available so I could wash the down the dirt from the road.

Got into the room and discovered surprise #2. Not only did they not have cable TV, the local channels were barely viewable. Not a big problem, I had plenty of music on my computer to listen to for the evening’s entertainment.

By now it was dinnertime and I was ready for some good grub. The restaurant was at the top of the entrance to the caverns a mile or so from the motel. On the road there were signs proclaiming, “Steaks!” I was looking forward to a large piece of dead animal flesh.

I knew that things were not as I had been led to believe when I entered the dining room and saw their advertised buffet totally empty. In fact, the whole place was mostly empty except for the bored guy behind the counter.

“What’ll ya have?”
“A steak and a beer?”
“Well, the only steak that we’ve got is a chicken-fried steak.”
“I’ll take a burger. You got the beer, right?”
“Yeah, that we’ve got.”

While waiting for dinner I looked over the place and saw the board with the prices for the cavern tour. The number that I saw was $49.95. Fifty bucks for an hour’s walk? I reconsidered my plans as I munched my dinner.

Again I sat outside of my room smoking a little cigar, waiting to visit with my neighbors. As this was off-season, I had no neighbors and I went inside to bed.

Catch up on the first Chapter: 1

Day 2

As I mentioned, I was still operating on Mountain Time and had to wait for the breakfast from the lobby. I managed to dump coffee all over my shirt so had to rinse it out in the bathroom sink. It didn’t take too long to dry the shirt on the back of my bike. This actually made me smile as I thought of a similar circumstance on the previous trip, washing my clothes in the bathroom sink of the motel.

After topping off the fuel I started one of the most pleasant motorcycle tours I’ve ever taken.

US 89-A used to be the primary road south of Flagstaff toward Phoenix but was bypassed in the late 1970s by Interstate 17. The old road is still the most scenic way to Sedona and the primary route to Prescott and beyond. And one of the bonuses (at least to gypsy motorcyclists) is the ride down Oak Creek Canyon. The canyon rivals Zion National Park for its dramatic colors and spectacular scenery. At the bottom I am sure that I had the same feeling this year as 40 years ago; “I want to do that again!”

I had chosen a non-weekend day for my ride and was rewarded with light traffic. It really didn’t matter as I was in no hurry and was enjoying the ride. A couple of times I let people go around while I rubbernecked.

At the base of the canyon I discovered that a building that had been an important part in the earlier trip was still intact. In 1970 it was a Texaco gas station that had an air hose that I needed to fix my flat tire. Today it is a thriving deli and general store. The original Texaco oval sign now was painted for the new business.

The flat tire on the rear caught me by surprise on my return trip. I had the tools to repair the tire and, fortunately, a Texaco station was right there with an air hose.

The problem was that then, as now, I have the mechanical ability of a bonobo. Every time that I would try to mount the repaired tire, I would pinch the tube causing a new leak. It was well past dark and the owner said, “I’ve got to close and I need to shut off my air compressor!” I was still fighting myself and begged him to leave the air hose. I finally convinced him that I would push the air hose thru the hole in the building when I was finished. After multiple attempts I was finally able to get the tire to hold air and headed on to my last night in Flagstaff.

The last time that I had passed through Sedona I had caught it at rush hour and was trapped in traffic. Today I had the road to myself and was able to enjoy the beautiful setting of the city. Riding in through the red bluffs reminded me of our own red rocks at Jemez Pueblo.

The town of Jerome is perched upon the hillside and the road matches the destination as a narrow, two-lane road. It was there that I discovered a fundamental fact about some humans.

I was behind two cars on a road with no passing zones. As I was going nowhere, I put some distance between myself and the car ahead. I was going the exact same speed as the cars in front of me, merely at a distance where I would not have to worry about sudden maneuvers. This drove the guy behind me completely batshit insane. On a short stretch of road ahead he passed me across double yellow so that he could follow the two cars ahead of me the remainder of the way with me still following behind.

Lynn and I have stopped at Jerome in the past and toured the tourist spots. This is one of the places that I could retire to. I could totally see myself operating a hamburger stand there. Unfortunately for me, it was 9:30 AM local and no place was open for lunch.

The ride to Jerome is only the beginning of the curves and slopes of 89-A. For a motorcyclist, this was heaven, tight curves and little traffic. I took my time, enjoying the scenery.

A few miles on the other side of Jerome I encountered some minor road construction and I found myself at the end of the traffic behind the pilot car. I was in no hurry and kept back in the pack, looking for a place to take some photos of the highway curves. Finally I came to a spot where I could photograph the road and the valley below from the highway. Because of the traffic control I knew that I had plenty of time so I stopped the bike, leaned it on the kickstand and pulled out the camera.

A few photos later I was ready to move on. After putting the camera away I readied to raise the bike off of the kickstand. And discovered that I was unable to do so.

The place that I had chosen was on a curve and I was on the slope, leaning downward. Probably the deal-breaker was my bag on the back, its extra weight just enough to keep me from getting upright to where I could balance the bike. Regardless how I pushed, I could not get the motorcycle vertical enough to raise the kickstand.

This was ridiculous. Although I wasn’t in immediate hazard I knew that it was only a matter of time until the next wave of cars was released by the flagman. I couldn’t get my short legs to push enough off of the pavement below to get the bike into an upright position where I could balance it.

At last I dismounted and held the bike up from the downhill side. I was able to start it and, holding the clutch in with my left hand, engage first gear with my right and walk the bike to the shoulder. There I could mount my motorcycle and continue on the road. It was easy to laugh about it afterward but I was in a bit of a fix for a bit, there!

The city of Prescott is one of the nicest towns in all of Arizona. Set high in the mountains it is surrounded by pine covered hills and miles and miles of open space. As I was thinking how pleasant the town of Prescott was I crossed Pleasant Street! Coincidence?

89 continued with more curves and light traffic.

By this time I was getting very hungry and resolved to stop at the next place that I saw for some lunch. Driving through Yarnell I spotted a restaurant, the only one that I had seen. The criteria that my brother had established (the more cars around a place, the better it is) was appropriate as the parking lot was full and I stopped for a well-deserved break.

Walking in I instantly felt a sensation of déjà-vu; I knew that I had been here before.

In 2002 Lynn and I had traveled to our niece’s graduation in California and had done a loop trip that included 89-A. At dinner time we were still a long way away from our hotel in Prescott so we stopped at a roadside diner for dinner. Yep, same place. To top it off, as they advertised being in business since 1948, it is entirely possible (yet totally unremembered) that I stopped at this very place for lunch in 1970.

I still had a few more miles of curves ahead to be enjoyed. The road at one point became so steep that the uphill and downhill lanes were separated. This removed the hazard of uphill traffic and allowed me to enjoy the view without worry of traffic.

At one point there was a vista point which showed the industry of the Congress valley below. At last it was warm enough so I took off my leather jacket and stuffed it into my saddlebags. In hindsight it was here that I made a major tactical mistake by not buying and downing serious amounts of water. It was soon going to manifest itself as a potentially life-threatening situation. One of the most enjoyable mornings of riding was going to be followed by one of the most miserable afternoons that I’ve ever had.

The winds had been blowing all day but the trees of the forest had kept most of the pressure off. Now that I arrived at the desert they returned with renewed vigor. The wind that had been a nuisance was now a major force. Passing through Salome on Highway 60 I saw a dust devil that was more of a tornado. I watched its progress so that I would not be caught up in it, awed by its impressiveness as it soared thousands of feet above. Still, the winds! Pounding, unrelentless and sucking the very moisture out of my body. Now that I was out of the mountains I felt that I could open up the bike and cover the remaining miles. I didn’t count on the effect that the heat, dryness and winds would have on me.

I carried a water bottle on the inside of my windshield where I could get at it easily. But the constant pressure of the winds plus the traffic, particularly the trucks, meant that I generally felt uncomfortable taking my hands off of the handlebars so I failed to keep drinking fluids. And what happens when one becomes water-deprived? They lose common sense, including the incentive to drink water!

I was lucky to gas up in Congress as it was the last gas for many a mile down the road. I’m not sure that I would have made it from Prescott to the next gas station. The pleasure of the two-lane road was offset by the horrendous winds and the terrific heat. I’ve lived in New Mexico most of my life and am used to 100 degree days but this heat was at least ten to fifteen degrees above that and I was in gale-force winds and staring directly into the setting sun. Things didn’t get any better when I joined the truck traffic on Interstate 10. I was lightheaded trying to find gasoline in Blythe and drove around much of the town in a daze.

I pushed onward. I only had about 100 miles to go and I figured that I could endure whatever was necessary. That endurance proved to be a test of my mortal abilities.

My destination was Indio. I had forgotten how desolate this portion of the desert was. Scores of miles passed by with no sign of civilization. Exits were for roads through the desert and there were no services to be had. I pushed on, dodging the trucks and fighting the unrelenting wind.

The wind also sucked the very moisture out of me and I suddenly felt an intense burning in my right eye. The hot, dry wind irritated it and I could provide temporary relief by closing the eye. After a few minutes my vision in that eye turned totally white and I was blind in that side.

At the time I concluded that I had sunburn on the eye. Although I was wearing UV-protective sunglasses my thoughts were of people who watched arc-welding and the subsequent first-degree sunburn that it caused.

I pulled off at the first exit and splashed water from by water bottle into my eye. The cool water cleared my vision for a few moments but the wind quickly dehydrated it once more.

I had to assess my options, and they were pretty few. There was no other town until Indio, another 50 miles away, where I had a motel reservation. I could sit at the exit until my vision cleared or I could push on one-eyed. Daylight was slowly fading and monocular driving could only be worse at night. I had no choice. I closed my eye and returned to the highway.

I felt pretty pathetic by the time I got to the Motel 6 and had to make a decision to take a downstairs room or a room with wifi. I chose the latter and had to haul my bag upstairs to the room that was diagonally across from the top of the stairs, the farthest room away.

Finally I was able to soak a washcloth to put across my eyes and lay down on the bed in the darkness. After dozing for half an hour or so I discovered, to my relief, that my sight had returned. The nap had restored my energy and I was ready to find some dinner.

As I washed my face I could see the dead skin of second-degree sunburn on my cheeks. Although I had used sun blocker it was obviously not near enough for the intense sun. Fortunately I had picked up some aloe lotion in Flagstaff and applied it liberally to my face.

I was finally ready for dinner.

As a general rule I avoid Mexican food outside of New Mexico but the neighborhood where I was staying looked an awful lot like the South Valley of Albuquerque and if I wanted to eat, it was going to be Mexican.

I discovered, to my joy, that the offerings looked a lot more like home than the usual sour cream and guacamole encrusted glop of most Californian “Mexican food.” I ordered a beer and water. And water. And more water. I guess after a while the waitress figured from my face what was going on and brought me a pitcher.

Not knowing their chili I went with the fajitas. The flavor of the carnitas took me back to the steaks that Dad had cooked years ago. I don’t know what they used that was the same.

On the way back to my room I noticed that the motel next door bore a strong resemblance to the one that I had stayed in on my original trip. The location was about right and the layout was as I had remembered with a separate building in front and a strip of rooms to the right. If it was, indeed, the same place (now named “Economy Inn”) then it was quite a coincidence being right next door to where I was staying!

Originally my trip was to have been two days out, a couple of days in Tujunga and then a return home via San Francisco. Quite the trip for a sixteen-year-old on a dirtbike! My plans got changed for me by a sandstorm while crossing the desert and I was forced to make an unscheduled stop in Indio.

I checked into a motel next to the highway. The room cost $8, one tenth of my entire traveling funds. In addition, the TV required a dime for each half hour of viewing. I bought a buck’s worth of dimes from the office and rolled the bike into the room to get it out of the gale.

I was a bit concerned about what that dust was doing to the innards of the bike so, in between washing my clothes in the bathroom sink and feeding dimes into the TV, I tore down and rebuilt the carburetors. When I checked out the next morning I left a good-sized gas/oil stain on the rug.

I really didn’t feel up to visiting with the locals and the remoteness of my room meant that there wasn’t anybody strolling by, anyway. I hit the bed early.

To be continued.

Introduction

In 1970 I was 16 years old and caused a minor family scandal by driving from New Mexico to California to see my girlfriend on my 250cc dirtbike.

I had forsaken all local females (for reasons that are best left unstated) and sent letters to two out-of-state daughters of family friends, resolving to visit whichever one answered first. Fortunately for me the one from Pennsylvania never replied and I carried on a correspondence with Lynn from California. I planned my visit to see her for the week that summer vacation started (between my junior and senior years in high school).

I’ve always loved motorcycles and grew up in a family of two-wheel enthusiasts. Dad had a variety of bikes when I was growing up and our uncles sold my brother and me our first motorcycles. Dirtbikes were natural transportation for us growing up in the mountains. Somewhere along the way I picked up a Yamaha Big Bear Scrambler that was big enough for me to ride back and forth to school. And fast! This 250cc two-stroke was one of the quickest bikes off of the line in its time and I routinely beat 350cc Hondas from light to light. But, being two-stroke, I had to keep tabs on the level of oil in the auto lubrication system. Generally, though, the usage was about a quart for every couple of tanks of gas.

I prepped the bike by changing the sprockets to gear the bike for a road trip and added some highway pegs before I left. The latter were actually quite useful. Sitting in the same position for hours gets to be uncomfortable and tiring. I often drop one or both legs back hooking the heel of my boot on the passenger pegs. The highway bar was a section of pipe that I bolted onto the frame in front of the engine to give an additional position to select.

I knew that there was no way that Mom and Dad would let me go on a trip across three states so I told them that I was going to go camping in Colorado for a week. I didn’t know it at the time, but Dad had pretty much figured out where I was going to go, although he never said anything. I actually intended upon camping during this trip and had a sleeping bag and cooking gear along with me. Flagstaff was the designated midpoint for both going and coming and there were some good campsites in the area.

At the time of my previous trip, Interstate 40 (US-66) was fairly complete between towns but would divert traffic through each municipality that was along the way. Some of the towns weren’t too bad: Winslow; Grants; Gallup. Some of the gaps were significant, such as the stretch from Seligman to Kingman in Arizona and from Essex to Ludlow in California. It was the latter two stretches that induced me to take US-66 to Flagstaff, then AZ-89A to Prescott, connecting to Interstate 10 near Blythe, California. From there I followed Interstates 10 and 5 to Tujunga, where the von Groffs lived. I returned by the same route.

By the way, I wound up marrying the girl.

Forty years later I’m still married to the same lady and still riding, now a Kawasaki Vulcan cruiser instead of the two-stroke. I had been looking for a trip to take and it occurred to me to repeat the 1970 trip including the diversions through the towns, and see how things have changed.

I joined the US Air Force in 1971 and, by some berserk malfunction of the normal tendency of the military to assign someone on the opposite side of the globe from where they request, I was assigned to March AFB, 80 miles away from my sweetie. During this time Lynn and I made several trips from California to my parent’s place in Cedar Crest and also during this time many of the towns were bypassed by completing the freeway around them, although we still made trips over “old” US-66.

While I covered the same ground going and coming in 1970, today I prefer to do loop trips, outbound and inbound on different routes. Hence I resolved to duplicate the 1970 trip from Cedar Crest to Tujunga and then to follow historic Highway 66 on much of the return trip.

Day 0

I now live in the Jemez Mountains, 150 miles from my original beginning in Cedar Crest. A search on the Internet turned up a bed and breakfast that is, remarkably, less than a quarter mile away from the folks’ house (as the crow flies, at least). I made a reservation and planned to start the trip from there.

Part of the purpose of this trip was to observe and comment upon the changes to my old “stomping grounds” so I drove by many of my old haunts. I knew that the area was going to grow; it’s a prime place to live and raise a family. But, wow! Some places, then large fields, now were large subdivisions. I tried to find the road back into an area where we used to hunt and drive dirtbikes. Wall to wall homes now.

The summer that I first got my drivers license I drove all over the area including a near-daily ride to Sandia Crest. I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to repeat the ride. The road winds up the east side of the mountain, rising from piñon and juniper through pine then into spruce and fir forests. Many curves and light traffic; a rider’s dream. I had to limit my time at the top of the mountain as a thunderstorm was threatening and there weren’t many things taller than me on the mountain!

The folks’ house looked the same and the ride up the road gave me a momentary rush of nostalgia. It was the same, but different. An arroyo where I used to ride my dirtbike is now full.

I still had some time before dinner and I took the road north to San Pedro then turned east on 344. Family friends had lived in San Pedro back in the 1920s when it was a booming mining town. By the 1960s there was nothing left but the concrete foundations of some of the buildings. Today it was difficult to find even those.

This road loops around the Lone Mountain through Cedar Grove to Edgewood. There was no traffic and the light rain only reassured me that I was self-contained and ready for anything. My bike was running perfectly and I was comfortable in seating and control. My motorcycle was ready for this. I was ready for this.

At the B&B, I visited with a couple of my fellow lodgers. I was curious what had led people to stay overnight a stone’s-throw from where I grew up. In both cases the Internet had led them here, outside of Albuquerque yet near to all of the attractions that the city had to offer.

One fellow was a bit older than me, probably in his mid-60s. He had made a successful career in engineering and, now that he was retired, he was looking for a more creative outlet. In his case he was learning to play the bass guitar.

I mentioned that his story had many similarities to mine. I, too, have had a career in engineering and am now trying to develop my own creativity, writing in my case. Oh, and when I was a teenager I played the bass guitar.

Day 1

After breakfast I packed up and followed the road to Highway 14. My trip had begun.

North 14 (I still call it North 14 although it is just Highway 14, now. Hell, I remember when it was North 10!) is now a 4-lane road serving the entire East Mountain area. The freeway wasn’t there in 1970 so I followed old 66 through Tijeras canyon.

I don’t have any direct memories of leaving that morning in May of 1970. I probably would have grabbed some breakfast then left early to avoid embarrassing questions from the family. My duffel bag was strapped on back and I followed the dirt road to the highway. The trip down North 14 and 66 would have been familiar as I rode it each day to school. The freeway through Albuquerque was complete and old-66 connected at Carnuel. I crossed town to the West Mesa where the freeway ended and the four-lane began.

The freeway through Albuquerque had been completed in 1970 and now as then I entered at the Carnuel interchange.

Despite the giant casino, the bridge over the crossing of the Rio Puerco on the frontage road was still there. They removed a similar girder-style bride over the Rio Grande when they built the upgraded road at Otowi and I always thought that was mistake.

Over the years I’ve driven past the pull-out for Laguna Pueblo and never stopped. Well, I finally stopped and took a couple of photos. It seems we’re so busy nowadays that we never stop to look around at what we’re passing.

The lava flows near Grants are always interesting. At the first exit the freeway would have ended so I turned to drive through town.

I remember driving past the lava outside of Grants. Grants was the first diversion from the freeway and I drove down main street.

About this time I encountered a fellow motorcycle traveler. He introduced himself as simply “Stogie” and he was riding a Honda 160 that had seen better days. We were headed the same direction and resolved to ride together.

Grants today is depressing to drive through. Many old buildings are still standing, the land not worth their destruction. Some of this can be blamed on the collapse of the uranium mining, but many of these buildings would have been standing when I passed by forty years ago.

Part of what I was looking for on this trip was the heart of Old 66 and deep in that heart were the Whiting Brothers. They ran a series of gas stations and hotels along the highway and the secret of their success was name recognition. For example, few autos of the 40s and 50s had air conditioners. The Whiting Brothers rented window-mounted units that provided cool air via evaporation of water when traveling at highway speeds. The driver would return the air conditioner to the Whiting Brothers station at the other end of the desert for a return of deposit. They placed their businesses in well thought-out locations and I photographed an abandoned gas station and hotel at Continental Divide. Big trucks were light on power at the time and it made sense to approach the highest part of the road with empty tanks for the least amount of weight.

As near as I can remember I had never been west of Bluewater on I-40 with the folks, so I probably had a rush of excitement as I passed that point. Uncharted Territory! Here be monsters!

Gallup was a completely different world than Grants. Very few abandoned buildings, many businesses. Most old service stations closed in the 70s and 80s but the buildings continue on as florists, pottery shops and even auto repair mechanics.

In Grants Stogie made a phone call while I topped off the gas and checked the oil. “Good news,” he said as he returned. “I got us lunch!”

We rode our bikes up the hill into Rich Folks Land. Stogie knew this guy from college and they were great pals. I kept quiet and admired the kitchen while Stogie and young Mr. Kennedy chatted up. Then it was time to push on.

After lunch I re-entered the freeway and headed toward Holbrook. I had to laugh just as I was leaving New Mexico. Chief Yellowhorse’s tourist spot is still in the same place on the border and doesn’t look like it’s changed a single bit in 40 years.

From the count of the mile markers, it appears that the knife-edge of the bluff over Chief Yellowhorse’s place is the state line and indeed it is quite close to there.

Just inside the border, traffic is diverted through an official looking building. I knew that I was “clean” and had all of my required paperwork (although I didn’t know at the time that I could have been held as a “minor in flight”). I asked Stogie what was going on. “It’s just an agriculture inspection station. They’re looking for contaminated fruit. You got any contaminated fruit?” I assured him that I didn’t and we were whisked through with the minimal amount of hassle.

I was quite surprised to see how many people live in the villages off the freeway through the Navajo lands. More people in the world and they’ve got to live somewhere.

The freeways are fast and the miles roll by and as I approach Holbrook I recall the flat tire 40 years ago.

I had been losing air in the front tire for some time but had been able to keep it going with a fresh fill at each gas stop. This time, though, the distance and, probably, the heat seemed to speed up the process so I finally pulled over at one of the washes with a flat. I had tire tools with me and a little tiny air pump that could fill a football before the first quarter was over, but a bit slower with a tire. “Take the whole wheel off,” Stogie said, “And I’ll take it to the truck stop in Holbrook.” I unbolted it and he threw it on the back of his bike and took off. Wasn’t but a short time later that I began thinking things like, “I don’t know this guy, I don’t know his real name or where he’s from.” My bike was totally disabled almost 200 miles from home. I had only a vague idea of where I was and no one else who cared for me knew even that. My fears disappeared when I saw Stogie a while later crossing the median with my tire in his lap. I quickly remounted the tire and we drove on to Holbrook.

I wanted to thank Stogie for running the tire but I wasn’t old enough to buy him a drink like in the movies so we settled for a coke in a diner. There he broke the news to me that he was stopping his ride here. His engine was using a lot of oil and making some noise so he didn’t figure it would make it across the desert. His plan was to go to the truck stop and find some trucker who had room for him and his bike to haul to LA.

I thought of Stogie as I came into Holbrook. It was easy to spot the diner where we parted; it’s even still a diner. There was a bulletin board at the SUB at UNM where people could advertise or try to connect with other students. I left a couple of messages there when I attended a couple of years later but never heard back from him. Makes you wonder sometimes about people who just drop into your life at the right time to help you out of a jam then disappear forever.

Holbrook looks hale and hearty, lots of small businesses, very few closed buildings. Saw some buildings that would have had to have been here 40 years ago but I didn’t remember directly, aside from the diner.

Over all, most of the places that I visited on this trip were much better off in 2010 than in 1970. Recessions come and go but the country continues to grow.

The wind had been getting steadily stronger, coming at me just to the left of head-on, and the electronic highway signs gave warning of high wind alerts ahead. My windshield cut a lot of the force but some of the gusts felt like they were going to rip the helmet off of my head. It was hitting in massive gusts, pounding me as I went.

When one rides a motorcycle the bike leans to turn. With the pressure of the wind I would lean to the left to counter its force simply to go forward. Suddenly the wind would stop and instead of countering the force I would be turning to the left such that I had to lean to the right to recover the correct direction. Then the wind would strike again and, leaned to the right, I would feel like I was going to go down on that side. I would then have to balance my propagation down the road to the pressure of the wind on the side and lean back to the left into the wind. Repeat constantly. A very tiring process, to say the least, and not exactly safe as the pounding of the gusts reduced the control of the bike considerably.

The effort with the flat tire used up much of my daylight and I rode westward into a setting sun. Winslow was off the freeway but was a divided road so that I could keep ahead of slower traffic. However, the climb into Flagstaff was in the dark and pushing a bit of a headwind. I discovered that I could find a respite in the wake of the trucks and spent as much time as I could there until they slowed for the hills and I went around. The truckers seemed to be cool with that and I kind of felt like they were looking out for me.

I got my first true feeling of nostalgia when pulling into Winslow off of the freeway. There was a park there to welcome travelers and it had not changed very much in 40 years. I recognized a couple of former gas stations that I had fueled up in the past.

Back into the wind and onto the freeway.

I passed Two Guns and Twin Arrows, gas stations and curio shops that, even in 1970, were closed.

Two Guns and Twin Arrows are relics of the Old 66, spots on the highway to get some gas, some water for the radiator and maybe buy a bit of Indian jewelry. From the style of gas pumps at Twin Arrows it must have made a renaissance in the 80s but it’s nothing but an abandoned building covered in political graffiti today.

I took an early exit in Flagstaff showing Historic 66 and it was a relief to get out of the wind.

The ride through the town was uneventful and I checked into my motel.

Although I had intended to camp I arrived in Flagstaff well after dark. I had a chum from high school, Bruce, who had moved to Flagstaff so I gave him a call, begging a place to sleep. He said “No problem” and gave me directions to his house.

Most of the memories of my stays with Bruce, both going and coming, are lost. I do recall the evening of my outbound trip.

Bruce was playing in a garage band and they had rehearsal that night. They were jamming without their singer and invited me to take place. I, of course, jumped at the chance. I didn’t know the words of a lot of songs and would do occasional improvisations as necessary. They played the Cream song “Spoonful” and, as I thought that the lyrics were obscure references to drug culture (they probably were), I made up my lyrics to reflect this. I was asked to tone it down (the parents were listening).

Part of the intent of this trip was to converse with my fellow travelers to get their insights of the road. After dinner I set a chair up outside of my room, poured myself a drink, lit a cigar and sat down to interface my fellow man. No one showed up. There was a Harley across the parking lot but I never saw its rider. Quite a bit later on a fellow showed up who was highly agitated and probably quite drunk. I decided that my interaction resolution didn’t include agitated drunks and I kept my distance from him.

I looked at the bike as I sat there and noticed something interesting. When I was a teenaged motorcycle enthusiast I often encountered parents and relatives of my friends who were glad to tell their motorcycle tales. One guy talked about the day he had ridden all day in a crosswind and when he got to where he was going he saw that the front tire of his bike was so worn that it was showing threads on one side. At the time I took it as another “tall tale.” But I had put a new tire on the front of my bike in preparation for this trip and the right side of the tire still had the nubs. The right side and not the left as the nubs on the left were completely worn down. I had been fighting the wind from the left all day and I now had a new appreciation of old motorcyclists and their “tall tales.”

When the drink was gone and the cigar was cold, I went back inside.

To be continued.