Route:
I-8 from Yuma to Gila Bend; 85N to I-10E to I-17N into Phoenix. Around Phoenix area for a few days.
“Hume’s Fork: Either our actions are determined, in which case we are not responsible for them, or they are the result of random events, in which case we are not responsible for them.”
-Oxford Dictionary of Philosophy
When faced with a literal fork in the road, it can be guaranteed that due to my complete lack of a sense of internal direction, undoubtedly the wrong way will be taken. Even if playing the opposite of my initial guess, trying to psyche out the fates, so to speak, there is no conceivable way that the correct direction will be chosen and my own personal map is doomed to look like that of Billy’s from the Family Circus. Maps, the sun, GPS, written directions, Google maps on my phone and my compass (which I recently discovered does not work) are the line of defense with which I work. There is nothing internally wired to ever point me in a correct path of travel. Funny, right? Not when you’re trying to circumnavigate the perimeter of the United States on a motorcycle.
Awakening to the sunrise and an internal clock (which I apparently do have), in Yuma’s famed and renowned Motel 6 (there is only RV camping in Yuma, apparently). The balcony overlooks a refuse littered street, a Mexican restaurant, a few gas stations and a plethora of power lines and transformers. This would be one of the most beautiful sunrises ever seen by human eyes, if it not pock-marked with the scars and filth of a seemingly uncaring population. The night before, asking the locals and scouring some tourist pamphlets, I had found that there really wasn’t a whole lot that interested me in Yuma. That and that fact that some Phoenix buds, dating back to high school have off of work, makes for a quick (in jest) escape and foregoing of the pleasure of meeting Mr. Pappagiorgio and his multitudes of Vegas winnings. Packing up the bike after a night at a hotel still moves at the speed of snail and the term Volado seems perfectly suited as I have to continuously revise my efforts once realizing items forgotten (volado is a colloquial term from Chile, meaning something in the ball-park of absent-minded).
Flicking on some Pandora and leaving the room to make a quick pit stop for a couple cups of coffee before hitting the road, I groggily shuffle to the lobby. Two cups, two hands. This scenario doesn’t exactly make door opening a likely occurrence. Luckily, there is an elderly woman coming in for presumably the same reason that I am there and holds the door for me. Point: common courtesy is not dead. It’s been so long since experiencing an actual act of kindness from one stranger to another, my face resembles Sloth from The Goonies, due to the momentary confusion. Sloth love coffee. A few quick steps and the door to my room opens with Pandora blaring some well-suited tunes. Pandora has decided it situation appropriate to play Arrested Development’s Everyday People. Proper.
Java chugged and bike packed, it’s time to see what this Arizona desert has to offer. An RV Mecca, the exit out of the city is lined with RV parks, sales lots and gas stations with space big enough to accommodate the big rigs. Scenes from the movie Independence Day are made more realistic as having seen it first-hand and visions of a drunken crop-dusting Cousin Eddie bring on a chuckle. Roaring out onto I-8, it is bitter cold, but dry and sunny, the arid desert air sucking every last bit of moisture that it possibly can. Hangnails are as common an annoyance as mosquitoes on a Wisconsin camping trip and cracked skin across my hands resembles the desert floor , as if all meant to be one. For miles, not a car is seen, but there are the rampant reminders of human existence seen in the multitude of abandoned trailer parks, rusty cars, broken bottles and shredded truck tires that line the roads.
The Harley-Davidson Muscle flexes as it screams across flat desert plains and cuts through canyons like an ancient river. Suddenly a rock the size of a golf ball comes out of oblivion and decides to pay a visit to my inner knee-cap. Wincing, it’s a small price to pay for an experience like this. Bringing the scream to a low growl, I down-shift as my first experience with a Border Patrol checkpoint looms. Slowing down and expecting the unexpected, the encounter is all bark, no bite as the B.P. officer waves me through with a look of disgust.
“Why did you even bother to slow down, you average and legal looking white guy?”
The non-event leaves me feeling disappointingly uninteresting looking. No fear, checkpoint experiences to come would gladly welcome this response. Moving on with competing feelings of dejection and elation, I-8 leads to Gila Bend, a sleepy town with some hot eats, cool treats, metal dinosaurs and a very elusive space museum. Shadowing from the north, storm clouds have been hovering and threatening to take me out of the game for the last 50 miles, watching me like a judgmental relative at a family reunion. Checking the weatherbug, the Doppler shows a massive rain cloud to the north and west, approaching with ferocity. No kidding? So that’s what I’ve been looking at the whole time. Thanks weatherbug. The path dictates that the storm will pass quickly, so I decide to take shelter and hang out with my friends the metalsaurs. Giving a call to my buds in Phoenix to let them know of the delay, I’m answered with “we’ll be here, don’t sweat it, ride safe brother.”
An hour and a half go by, weatherbug reads “good to go” and once again, this time with preemptive rain gear, I hit the road to ride the storm out up 85N to Phoenix. The trailing winds of the storm greet me with a smile as dust devils swirl in the distance and meet me for some fun and games. Batting me around like a kitten with a ball of yarn, the Diablitos work like a crow-bar, as they try to pry me from my seat. Apologies little Lucifers, there are no souls for sale here today; we’ll talk again when we meet at the crossroads. Finishing up the last of 85N, turning onto I-10E and then I-17N, I arrive, low on gas, at the front door of some long-awaiting amigos. The house of Dan and Hilary has an unexpected surprise waiting. Yoonil, another long-time friend and small-town cohort is spending some time there as he awaits the coming of his own adventure. Dan and Yoonil greet me with hugs, handshakes and familiar smiles that have been too long missed. “My home is your home” is the norm here and the openness with which they welcome friends is yet just another reminder that courtesy and humanity may sometimes be sidetracked, but is far from missing. An ice-cold brew, some great conversation, catch-up and a couple hours pass by before we decide to head out to Thunderbird Park for a quick hike. The park is post-storm chilly, but as we reach the top of the hill, a full end-to-end rainbow that would make a leprechaun excited appears in brilliance.
Ending the hike with growling stomachs, Little Saigon beckons us with temptations of beef and shrimp spring rolls and Pho Tai. Mmm…Vietnamese food. Delicious. The Pho Tai is a delicious beef broth based noodle dish with hints and undertones of anise. The subtle, flowery taste of the anise is complimented well by the fresh parsley and basil that one plucks from the stems and sprinkles into the hot broth right before eating. Being my first experience with Vietnamese food, aping and mimicking Dan and Yoonil’s experience, I leave full, satisfied and ready for some cocktails and Scene-It. Dan wins, hands-down, everyone else is just there for show. Morning comes and Yoonil and I are on our own and he graciously offers to run me around Phoenix for some errands. Stop one – leather jacket. Due to a mishap in Yuma, a broken zipper on the current jacket nearly took my ears off my head as I wriggled and wrestled out of it before realizing there was a release clasp that could be undone with a multi-tool. Scouring the streets for a biker shop, a billboard advertising Joeta’s Leather magically appears, it’s a sign. Literally. Following the figurative as well as the literal, the 30 mile trek is made to Mesa to check it out. We are greeted by Kim, a growling biker cougar who is more than helpful. The race was close between two styles, until Yoonil secretly texts me that the old guy standing next to us is looking at one of the options and that picking the jacket an old man is contemplating may be socially detrimental and cause the cool bikers to laugh at me on the playground. After careful deliberation, a purchase is made of a real biker jacket, complete with Kevlar plates, vents and front gun pockets with lanyards (perfect for cameras and notepad). Slipping my arms into the sleeves and zipping up, the elevated level of protection is immediately felt.
Yoonil and I have contemplative talks about life, destiny, corporate America and working for “the man,” as bear spray, a Bosnian bakery and spy shop purchases interrupt the conversation. Though we had not hung out on a one-on-one basis for 15 years our incongruent paths had wandered in drastically different directions and the realization that we both have arrived with the same philosophies is mind-boggling. Walking into the house, Dan is roped into the continuing deliberations and now there are three in agreement. Something bigger inside each of us drives us forward, unsure of what the future holds, but very sure of the successes that will befall each one us.
An afternoon of great conversations leaves me with two schools of thought regarding extended travel that impart lessons of intense preparation for personal safety. Recognizing the need for preparation and caution, but also, that life literally is a highway and a certain amount of spontaneity and unpreparedness is needed, the ideas both compliment and combat one another. All hungering for some grub, the dinner coin is flipped, landing on brats, beer, asparagus and potato salad. A quick stop to the grocery store and soon our stomachs are full as the sipping of white Russians begins. The night leaves me reminiscing about old high-school times as I fall into one of the most content sofa slumbers that I can remember. All of us have the friends that made high school a bearable, pleasant and a memorable experience. These are just a few of the friends that carried each other through; it’s good to be back around their familiar faces.
Yoonil is preparing for an inspirational and emotional adventure of his own. Having been adopted as a child, he prepares to leave the comfort and complacency of his banking job in the U.S. to live in Korea in search of his birth parents. The trip is for an indeterminable amount of time, but his determination knows no definition. He will be going cowboy style, with an idea, the drive, the hope and the cajones to make such a leap in life. Encouraging him to write about the impending experience, I look forward to reading about his own inspirational adventure and wish him the best of luck.
Morning of the 24th arrives quickly and with it comes promise of a bed at my Grandparent’s house in nearby Peoria, a suburb of “The Nix.” Trials and tribulations administered by the road have been coming quickly on this trip and today is no exception. Pulling onto the ramp for the highway that leads to the Grandparents, a wicker couch bounces off of a truck trailer just to say “hello.” Swerving to avoid the sinister sofa, a 4x4 also offers greetings and salutations from the right side of my lane. Counter swerve, a few deep breaths as well as more deeply grounded expletives and the debate is served up as to which city holds the worst drivers. As of right now, it’s a close race between Los Angeles and Phoenix.
Traveling solo, erring on the side of caution is often the expected and accepted practice. This leaves great opportunity for second guessing one’s self and for these opportunities, I pass up none. Stopping to check the GPS and directions repeatedly, the trip turns from 45 minutes to 75 without hesitation as the Muscle rolls into the Grandparent’s driveway. As I unbuckle, unstrap and unharness all the varying degrees of security and storage on me and the bike, Bob and Luann realize who’s in their driveway and walk out with open arms and smiles that stretch across their faces. I follow suit.
A cold beer is offered and accepted, as well as some queso and chips. After a quick tour of the house, we settle into the couches and catch up. I tell stories of the road thus far and ask questions about lives past and present. They regale me with tales of the Navy, world travel experiences, relatives whom I may have met a handful of times as a child at best and of course golf. There is so much history, experience and adventure that have been had in the family that the stories have me gripped in wonderment. Dinner is filled with continued conversations, except now there is the added bonus of hummingbirds buzzing in to feed outside the windows around us. Never in my life have I seen so many hummingbirds with blazing patches of red and orange, shining swaths of green and blue, each one unique, each one amazing as their wings flap impossibly. It is sooo good to have a bed again. Soft sheets, a comfy mattress and a ceiling fan drive me to the land of nod, lickety split. Breakfast comes as a night of uninterrupted sleep closes as new day opens and salivation suggests I’ve been recently lobotomized as smells of coffee and Swedish pancakes dance in my nostrils. Delicious. Great way to start the day. Living in the boonies of Phoenix has its benefits. Say, such as being able to take a desert walk for around 2 hours after breakfast. Gramps and I stroll, talk and get to know one another a bit more on this hike. He’s a lean, fit, laughing and smiling 78 year old and you wouldn’t guess his age by looking at him. The desert gardens lining the walking paths are filled with ocotillo, teddy-bear cactus, prickly-pears and host lizards, birds, squirrels and a family of quail. Noon reveals itself as we walk back up the driveway, and my short but fulfilling time with the Grandparents comes to an end as I pack up to visit “Uncle” Dave.
Being mid-day, during the week, one would think that the roads would be fairly absent of traffic, making the route to the southwest suburb of Gilbert a quick one. A quick stop at Dan and Hilary’s to get my gear, followed by a lunch at Chino Bandito’s, puts me back on the road. Previous thoughts of a quick ride to Dave’s devoured as quickly as lunch had been and I’m putting my foot down at a standstill, next to a 65mph sign on Phoenix’s 101 freeway. Dropping the kickstand in the driveway, Dave’s wife Ronnie (whom I’ve met only once and briefly) opens the door and welcomes me in with smiles and hugs as if we go way back. An icy beer and some conversation go smoothly as we wait for Dave to come home from work and after our conversation leads to some burned butter, I excuse myself to follow-up on some phone calls and eliminate distractions. Walking out onto their back patio feels like south Florida more than Phoenix. A man-made waterway and palm trees flow and sway along the neighborhood giving me my last non-desert view for a while. The breeze soothes and refreshes while I make my phone calls and sip my beer.
Alexi Murdoch and Freddy Fender sing us through dinner, cocktails and conversation and I realize that these two are a lot of fun. Too bad it’s not the weekend and it is unfortunate that I’m leaving tomorrow. A night out on the town with Dave and Ronnie would be a fun time, thinking we all speak the same language. A quick visit, but a good visit, work will come knocking for them tomorrow, as an early and lengthy ride will for me. Anticipation of the wild west, the ceiling fan, the last minute preparations racing through my head or the realization that this is my last bed for quite a while keep my eyes fixated on the ceiling, refusing to close and deliver that much needed rest. Whatever the reason, I spring awake to the 6am alarm, take my morning dose of coffee and start packing the bike. Their hospitality cannot be appreciated enough and we say our “goodbyes, thank yous and ride safes” and then go our separate ways.
The time spent with friends and family has been great, but I am itching and antsy to get on the road and it shows. Now begins the true adventure. Now begins the ride that has declared martial law on my mind since the thoughts and preparations began. The Mexican border will test my resolve as solitude becomes my friend, the fence line and Rio Grande become my traveling companions, a tent becomes my hotel room and I push the limits of the Harley in the expanse of deserts speckled with cactus, coyotes and ghost towns. First stop: Kartchner Caverns State Park. Time to ride.
"The bike may break me. The road may take me. I'll forever be alive knowing that I followed the road paved by my heart."
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