Wasted Miles

Wasted miles

Peter Egan

LEANINGS

A FEW YEARS AGO, WHEN I WAS ON A motorcycle trip around Lake Superior with our Editor, David Edwards, and two friends named Tom Daley and Chuck Davis, we wrapped up a week on the road by shooting diagonally across Wisconsin to my place, where everyone planned to stay the night before heading home.

Suddenly, while we were cruising through the town of Fort Atkinson, only about 18 miles from my home, Tom waved us all over to the side of the road. "That corner bar back there looked like a nice spot," he said. "What say we stop for a beer or some coffee?"

I looked back over my shoulder at the bar and then at the road ahead. I was struck absolutely speechless for a moment. Finally my brain and jaw kicked in. "Sure," I said reluctantly, "why not?"

The problem was, I'd never done such a thing. One of my longtime bad habits as a touring motorcyclist has been to get "homing instinct" toward the end of a long trip. This is where you put the hammer down and blow off the last day (or two) of your ride so you can get back to the old homestead. No long lunches, scenic overlooks or detours on side roads. Just twist that grip and go.

I have no idea why I do this. After a long Midwestern winter spent dreaming about long rides, you'd expect a person to savor every mile and delay the end of a trip as long as possible, but it seldom works that way for me. Or at least it didn't until Tom brought me to my senses. I sat in the bar that day and vowed to do better, and since then I've been at least partially successful, if not fully reformed.

Late last year, for instance, the CW office called and asked if I could return the long-term yellow BMW RI 100S, which I'd had through the summer and into fall. Could I ride it back from Wisconsin to California?

Swiveling my office chair around, I gazed at my large Rand McNally wall map of the U.S. and felt that odd, almost electrical current of elation that runs down my spine when I contemplate any map depicting wide open spaces and wrinkled mountain ranges. "Yes," I said, "I surely can."

You can make it from Wisconsin to Southern California in three days on a motorcycle, but it's not much fun. The most direct route is 2200 miles, so you

have to cover about 750 miles per day. My wife Barbara and I did it in 1980 on a Suzuki GS1000, going to Elkhart Lake to cover the AMA races. I felt like a spent bullet when I got there.

This trip would be different. No wasted, sacrificial miles, no entire states disposed of in a mind-numbing blur. I set aside six full days.

Well, some wasted miles. It was October when I left, so the plan was to blast as far south as possible on that first day to avoid any potential snow. As it turned out, I need not have worried. The weather was warm and beautiful. I hit the interstate and made Cuba, Missouri, the first night, then rolled south on two-lane roads all the way through the Ozarks, on Highways 19 and 9 to Hot Springs, Arkansas, for the night-hundreds of miles of lightly traveled twisting road through some of the prettiest country on Earth. From there I cruised down through Arkadelphia and Hope (Clinton's hometown), then took 1-30 into Dallas to see my brother, Brian, for a day.

Then it was Highway 67 across most of Texas, another two-lane through beautiful rolling ranchland, across the oil country of the Permian Basin and up onto the Llano Estacado on the I-road and into Van Horn, Texas, for the night. The next day, after lunch in Deining, New Mexico, I took the advice of some local riders who were dining at a great little Mexican cafe called La Fonda and rode north on Highway 180 to Alpine,

Arizona, where I pulled into town at dusk with sleet freezing to my faceshield. Luckily, I was wearing my electric vest, which is to hypothermia what garlic is to vampires. Also had the heated grips on high.

Crossing several 8000-foot passes the next day in cold, sunny weather, I rode another 300-plus miles of mountain curves to Sedona on Highway 260, braking hard for elk here and there. At Sedona, I spent the night with my : friends Richie and Marlene, explored Red Rock Crossing (where scores of Westerns have been filmed) and then rode toward California on Highway 60 through cliff-clinging Jerome and Prescott. Richie rode with me part way on his trusty Guzzi T-3.

The rest was an easy, warm desert cruise on I-10 through Banning Pass and down into Orange County and my sister Barbara's home in Irvine, California. We celebrated with margaritas and Mexican food at my all-time favorite restaurant, El Matador in Costa Mesa. One mile from the Pacific Ocean.

Total mileage on the trip was 2600. By adding only three days and 400 miles to that former cross-country blast, I'd been able to do most of the trip on two-lanes, with time to ride the Ozarks, tour the ranch country and small towns of Texas, twist through the Rocky Mountains on virtually empty roads, visit my brother and old friends, and cruise the diamond deserts at nearlegal speeds, arriving relaxed. What a difference a little time makes.

Any wasted, thrown-away miles dedicated to just plain getting there?

Yeah. Quite a few, even on this trip. Another week on the road would have been ideal. With every trip I've ever taken, time is the hardest commodity to come by. Good things fly by at the edge of your vision, and there's no time to stop.

In a way, I failed again, hitting the interstate on that last day, when I could have crossed the San Bernardino Mountains on twisting roads through Idyllwild, then cut through the Santa Ana Mountains on the Ortega Highway. Some of the best riding ever, only hours from my destination.

Maybe I'll have to retire to finally get it right. Hurrying through life is a hard habit to break. Especially on that last day, falling toward home. □