Go West Young Man!

2009-10-25T22:14:00.000-07:00

My name is Trevor Ware and this is my 1974 Honda CB550K. I built this bike from the frame up and lived on it for 32 days and 5,536 miles across the American South-West.

2009-10-24T23:27:00.000-07:00

I bought this bike in Iowa for 965$ in March of 2009. I spent 6 months completely rebuilding it, esentially in two stages. I did a piston rering and carb rebuild just to get it running and tooled around Little Rock for a few months popping wheelies and doing burn outs in grave yards. Then I had my first puff off a marijuana cigarette and was spiritually connected to thousands of dead hippies. They told me to see the great American South-West, and also to bring some shrooms.

Seriously, my buddy Justin and I had talked about motorcycle adventures for years. The more I worked on the bike the more road worthy it became and the farther I could ride it. Then in July I got shit-canned from my job and found myself with idle hands. If I was ever going to blow my mind on a motorcycle this was the time to do it. I rolled the bike back in my bedroom for the second time and rebuilt it bolt by bolt, nut by nut.

The top end rebuild shortly after I got the bike

Marking my work (below the primary chain hanging out of the right side engine case).

Coming together, about 2 months after I started the second rebuild and less than a week before leaving for California, the wrinkled raisin state.

2009-10-23T23:51:00.000-07:00

Gordy and I hadn't been talking about motorcycle adventures for years. So I was surprised when, after weeks of hounding, I was able to convince him to come with me. We found a 1981 Honda CX500 on Craigslist that seemed like a good candidate. Turned out to be about as good a candidate as Walter Mondale. This thing required some serious surgery to get ready and limited time to do it in. Here we are 2 days before the scheduled leave date putting his motor back in the bike. The stator was bad and required a replacement being overnighted, engine coming out and being opened up, and several huge handfuls of chewing tobacco. The chewing tobacco kept Gordy calm and girls away while we worked.

2009-10-23T22:45:00.000-07:00

September 17th

I get up around 9:30 and change my oil. Finish packing and Gord shows up. Neither of us can believe we are doing this. I wonder if I'm better at building motorcycles than riding them and hope I am not. It's overcast and threatening rain, but we drag ass anyways. The bikes are fully loaded, top heavy and unruly. We roll out of my front yard tepidly, relearning how to ride our now underpowered and overweight machines. I look back at my house and know I'll see it differently when I'm coming up the opposite end of the street nearly a month from now.

The ride out reveals something is amiss with Gord's bike. He's averaging around 30 miles per gallon. Considering he'd put only a handful of miles on it after we took out the motor I chalk it up to tuning. We agree to ride on and that we'll fix it in Tulsa, our day one destination.

Interstate 40 revolutionized the way people travel in this country. How many ghost towns did this soulless stretch of road leave in it's wake though? No road trip can involve riding this piece of crap. If anyone has had an adventure on a major interstate highway I'd like to hear about it. Riding i-40 to Tulsa from Little Rock was a necessary evil and none of it is worth remembering.

Finally in Oklahoma we hit the Muskogee Turnpike, pay our toll and ride into Tulsa. We meet my girlfriend in a bar. She's visiting a friend and has arranged for us to stay the night. Gord, me and Felicia share the front room. Out of respect for Gord I don't make sweet, sweet love to her in his presence.

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2009-10-22T15:54:00.000-07:00

Jordan and I spent two rotten days in Tulsa. Riding in we knew his gas milage situation was deteriorating rapidly to something like 50 miles per tank! The bike could only muster a ride out of the city limits before depleting its fuel supply. A tow truck got us to Honda of Tulsa, although they were closed. We got the fanciest hotel we could, considering Gord's insurance was footing the bill, and slept until about 10:30 a.m. like a couple of hobos on abandoned matresses. We headed back to Honda of Tulsa for some help in the morning. No assistance to be had at Honda of Tulsa, not all hands are helping.

We hunkered down behind a gas station and spent all day going through Gord's carburetors in the blazing sun. That, coupled with switching his bike to premium fuel netted us about 43 miles per gallon. That'll do pig, that'll do...

Behind the gas station

Back on the road we hooked up with state highway 412 and ripped across central Oklahoma like wildfire. We met a nice fella on a rare Suzuki GT550. That's a two stroke tripple! Very strange bike. Seems kind of useless for the highway considering it was a two stroke, but it looked fantastic. At a stop for gas Gord frantically tells me he has knocked both bikes over as I fill up my water bag. Luckily my bike broke his bikes fall. Then within a couple hours my tach needle jammed and while thumping the housing I break the glass. We are stumbling out of the gate.

We make it to Boiling Springs State Park just outside of Woodward, OK and the states panhandle. We learn how to pitch up our tent in the dark and are harassed by a Raccoon. Somewhere on the way my stun gun got stuck in the on position and depleted itself, presumably shocking my pillow and three bottles of Ensure for hours. The raccoon suffered no punishment for his rude behavior. Man how I would have loved to taze him.

2009-10-21T22:04:00.000-07:00

Our first night in the tent. Camping as an adult is so much better than as a kid. Its funny how imprisioned you feel as a kid being forced to go camping. I always felt that way. It's uncomfortable, like being in your underwear at your grandparent's. I slept solidly and am glad Jordan and I sprung for decent sleeping pads, bags and the dome tent. In the morning I lay in my bag and hear a dad yelling at his kids a couple sites over to "keep your damn shoes out of the tent" and see his teenage daughter texting furiously.

The Oklahoma panhandle is beautiful. Millions of acres of knee high grass blur the horizon and hide the curve of the earth. We're now two days from home and it feels like a real trip. Texas lingers below us by only twenty miles at points and we pass just North of a large storm and see it roll by in it's entirety. Jordan and I take turns buzzing eachother and alternating lead position. I feel like we're the only people on the road. We make it to Boise City late in the afternoon and the sky bruises as the sun sinks below the horizon.

Crossing the border into New Mexico Jordan pumps his fist triumphantly in front of me. The grassland crosses the border but the plains heave up scattered rocky plateaus now. It's dark at this point and cold for the first time. This is the first time we've ridden without at least city lights to guide us and I see a great beast lumbering along the side of 412. My heart races and I get goose bumps. Gord and I stop at a gas station and I ask "Did you by any chance notice that huge unidentifieable creature coming in?" which he did. After some deliberation he setteles on a baby buffalo (seriously) and I am split between bear and a man sized wolf.

We reach a KOA campground and are disgusted. This is where camping comes to die. The place is expensive and full of gray hairs. We bail for nearby Clayton Lake State Park, about 12 miles outside of town. Riding in we get lost and end up on a washed out service road in the middle of the park. We finally turn back and find the campsites. We build a big ass fire and my freaked mind is soothed while we stare up at the most unpolluted night sky I have seen in my life. There are more stars than space.

2009-10-20T14:21:00.000-07:00

In the morning we find the landscape has changed dramatically from last daylight and our trek through Oklahoma, although we've covered few miles. I now understand a little better how they carved up this country and established state lines. Jordan climbed the rocky bluffs sourrounding our site to snap a few pictures. We pack up and nab a quick shower up the hill near the visitors center. About an hour and a half elapses and the weather turns so fast I imagine there are Indians nearby dancing and begging for it.

We ride out for Taos, our planned destination for the day. Highway 412 peters out as we approach i-25 South, the main artery that connects i-90 and i-40. The weather clears as we roll West.

2009-10-19T21:00:00.000-07:00

Having ridden highway 412 for much of our journey we reach Springer, New Mexico and the wider swath of i-25. We stop for expensive gas and fruit at a small grocers. We're ramping up the Eastern edge of the Rockies and the weather hits you physically. The grey sky is claustrophobic and the cold numbs your body. Two girls at the grocer tell us about Cimarron Canyon, a severe pass en route to Taos. I catch glimpse of a thrift store and duck in to buy a large coat, but it's all Disney movies on VHS and bridesmaid dresses. Jordan and I ride up the i-25 onramp and realize we can't make it. There is most likely snow in the canyon and certainly in Taos. We head South for Santa Fe and looking over our shoulders at the cloaked mountains do not regret the decision at any point.

Springer, NM

I'm an old school mechanic like your grandpa. I swear by oil changes and whatever the circumstance I change mine when I've reached the bikes service limit. For this trip I've set the old Honda on an accelerated maitenence schedule. Every 1K miles for oil changes, two hundred miles for chain adjustments. In Las Vegas I picked up a couple quarts and some Ensure at the Wal-Mart and prepare to service the bike in gale force winds. Draining into a torn grocery sack becomes an especially offensive disaster considering the green times we live in. Gord thought this scene was hilarious.

"I"m not going green, I'm staying the same". - T. Ware

The ride South is no picnic and Jordan suffers for not having a windshield. I spend much of the time with my hands hidden beneath my gas tank, gathering warmth from my cylinder head.

It's dark in Santa Fe. I expected little from this town, maybe something of a truck stop. Turned out to be a wonderful, cultered city that I wish I could have seen more of. Hungry from being blasted South out of the mountains, Gord and I set out for an Arbys. Back home an Arbys receipt has an offer of a free roast beef sandwich if you take a short questionaire about their service. Jordan has dragged one of these free meal tickets all the the way from Arkansas with him, saving it for some special occasion I guess. Inside he orders and tries to trade in the coupon. They don't take them here, a thousand plus miles from where he got it. Who'da thunk? He has a nervous breakdown, yelling 'Goddammit!' at the counter and braindead teen dad. It was absurd.

After eating we aimed for a state park and, praise the Lord, never made it. I catch the word "Hostel" in bold letters and swing us around before making it out of the city. Hostels are so cool. I'm such a hippy (not really, I hate hippies.) But I really dug the hostel experience. The staff actually seemed concerned for our well being as the state park was at over 8,000 feet and treated us great. We got a private room, good conversation with other travellers and clean beds for 17$

Here's a real kick in the head, totally stocked kitchen!

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2009-10-18T01:46:00.000-07:00

Having sailed around the cape, Jordan and I did our hostel chores and said our goodbyes. Highway 550 (rad!) would wind us back up and around the more treacherous geology towards Farmington, Shiprock and out of the great state of New Mexico. Only 199 miles today.

Riding a motorcycle costs you something. The really good things in life do. In this case its an assault on your endurance. You twist the throttle harder and everything in front of you comes at you harder. It's a trade off. I have a bum wrist that bothers me at points during the day. The cold makes it worse and I decide to try out a little toy I picked up before the trip, a throttle lock. It's a device that locks your throttle tube while riding long straight stretches no-handed. Its an unwieldy device and I get vertigo with the thing, twisting the gas in the wrong direction. I panic, actuate the clutch lever and rev the bike almost 2K rpm's above it's redline. My insides throb and I actually feel sick. I pull over and snap this lovely picture of the painted hillls folding over themselves like drapery.

This little guy shows up. The bike is wounded and Death has come to claim her. He attracts creepy crawlers. We speed away from his boney grasp and the bike is fine. A well built motor can stand a little abuse.

In Farmington we arrive before dark, which has become rare. I hate riding in the dark and it's not worth the extra 60 miles you can gain from two hours riding in it. We tool around, get a little lost and stop for directions to nothing in particular. Locals suggest Farmington Lake for camping. We find it not far from the main strip. It turns out to be less of a lake and, more precisely, the towns water reservoir. Looks fantastic for camping.

Satisfied we've scrounged up safe camping, we head into Aztec for dinner. A retro A&W beckons us from the cold and we sit at a booth. I already know I want a chili wanger dog and wait for a waitress. Finally I realize that each booth has a telephone hardlined to the kitchen. I assume I'm supposed to do my best Big Bopper, pick up the receiver and say "Helllllloooooo Baaaaby!"

They send out our weiners and I spy this gnarly tattoo while Gord phones home. He said it represented pain. Personally I don't see it.

We stop for a much needed flashlight. My idea. When we get in the store Jordan picks his out and I decide one is enough and put mine back as we head to the checkout. I am a piece of crap. Back at Farmington lake we ride our bikes through the loose dirt and washed out hills gathering dead limbs. A fantastic fire warms our blood and we sleep like we're dead.

2009-10-16T15:54:00.000-07:00

It was broad daylight when I finally stumbled out of the tent, bleary eyed and ready to ride. Around the corner a fat red guy, dibetes-in-coveralls, was passed out in a lawn chair waiting for some mutant fish to bring him back from the razor's edge of coma.

Today was a big day for me. I don't know for sure what Jordan's Mecca was on this trip, but mine was Monument Valley. I knew that months before we kicked the doors down out of Little Rock. If you don't know Monument Valley by name you've seen the pictures. Towering red stone, a science lesson come to life. If you ever had trouble imagining the earth moving with any kind of haste or violence, this place will make it real for you. First though we sped West through Shiprock, a tasty little preview, heat blurred and strange. It's located on land owned by a Christian Revivalist church I think and we got no closer than this. The fine white to blue gradient crowded out any clouds that may have kept the sun off our shoulders.

Arizona! Years ago, on my first i-40 solo trip in a car, I got a speeding citation that went unpaid and am mildly concerned that I may have a warrant for my arrest in this state.

After climbing to a slightly cooler elevation we stopped in Teec Nos Pos, Arizona's most North-East town, for gas. A cop passed and gave me a tripple take, then whipped his patrol car into the gas station. I couldn't believe it, I was about to get pinched at our first stop in the state. Instead he rolled down the window, guessed the year of my bike correctly, and told me about being a Honda mechanic for 11 years. We talked shop for a while and he wished us luck on our way. Kept my ass out of the clink for one more day!

We backtracked up highway 160 towards Four Corners, where Americas states with the most liberal marrige laws rub up against each other. The actual 'point' was fenced in and required an odd 3$. This was close enough.

We crossed into Colorodo and over the San Juan river. It's only a few miles before connecting with highway 41 and crossing right back over the border, this time ending up in Utah, where 41 turns into 162. This little stretch felt very isolated and undeveloped considering the tourist traffic that must come through here in the summer.

Feeling sheepish... corny!

I think this town was called Bluff. They've got some serious stuff going on here. The cliff's were super badass. This is all very exciting for a hillbilly from Arkansas.

In Bluff we were also treated to this natural wonder, Twin Rocks. Raise your hand if you think this looks like, quoting Jordan, "Two penises fighting".

Had the land North-East of Monument Valley been just an inch closer Utah surely would have integrated it into the park. The hills spread wide then crumple in on themselves, each layer a whole other shade of red, brown and orange. Mexican Hat holds steady in the wind swept hills, which is astonishing considering our human nature as vandals. I swear you could push it over with a childs effort.

2009-10-15T19:49:00.000-07:00

Outside of Mexican Hat we crossed over the San Juan River for the second time. I stopped to straighten myself up and threatened Jordan with death if he didn't get some good shots of me in Monument Valley. The sun hung midway up the sky, weak from beating back the cold that was eager to settle in for the Winter months. The air was dry and just barely luke warm, which is perfect motorcycle riding weather.

Exiting Monument Valley we mazed over the hard land along numerous state highways, taking the back roads into Page, AZ. This is home to the Glen Canyon Dam and Lake Powell, neither of which were planned destinations. Zion National Park and Las Vegas were officially marked off the itinerary, as we decided Vegas no longer 'vibed' with the way our trip was unfolding. Decending a thousand feet into Page we arrived late and heard nothing, saw nothing. It was dark when we settled into the Lake Powell rec area. I got my bike stuck in the sand, brushed my teeth and Jordan & I listened to a little music under that massive Arizona sky.

2009-10-14T00:22:00.000-07:00

In the morning I did not expect Lake Powell. If you've ever seen an artistic rendering of dinosaur era Earth you would recognize this place. Probably every one of those pictures is based on Lake Powell. The funny thing is it's got a huge population of house boats and has to be party central in the Summer. So I can't help imagining a guy in pink shorts and Wayfarer glasses being chomped in half by a T-Rex, saying "Bogus!"

Also, this was the first night we ventured to sleep without the tent cover, which was totally gnarly.

The Glen Canyon Dam is equally huge. There's a saucer shaped visitors center perched over it and, while we were there, a guy mowing the weirdest patch of grass on Earth at it's base. The bridge spanning the canyon is nauseating to walk across and whoever dangled over it's sides, riveting and welding his way across, is a hardcore badass in my book. There were dinosaur footprints on display that I palmed my crazy looking hand to. So awesome.

The night before Jordan and I had ridden through an RV park in downtown Page and deemed it too lame to sleep in. We returned in the morning though, hoping to scam a shower, which are normally five bucks a pop. A very confused guy from the Netherlands was nice enough to give me his key code for the bathrooms and we showered up. I tossed my now filthy jeans in the dryer while Gord got his coffee fix at the gas station. I watched the Netherlands group get ready for a day of hiking, presumably through the desert East of downtown Page, as I saw them walking in the opposite direction of Lake Powell. Poor guys, I've never seen such nice people so lost. Highway 89 cut up and over the dull red hills, taking us South through Echo Canyon. I loved Page, I could live here.

2009-10-10T01:32:00.000-07:00

In Cameron we hook right on highway 64 and move in towards Grand Canyon National Park. The familiar red and yellow hues stack up, showing the land's age like the rings of an ancient tree. Then it suddenly changes. It's subtle, the way a distant gun shot is subtle. Rising over a ridge we catch a bizarre glimpse to our right. There is a crack in the Earth.

It's a mirror image of the ragged mountains, as if this was the hole they had exited when moving up through the Earths crust. We diverge and lose sight of the abyss as we rise through Kaibab. I'm warned one last time to dispose of any firearms and finally reach the parks entrance.

Pulling into the parking lot we don't say much. It's totally escaped me now why, but we were both pissed at each other most of the afternoon. Something like that is impossible to commit to memory on a day like this. We follow the small crowds down a white concrete path, through oxygen and water starved shrubbery. In one truly awe inspiring instant your line of sight clears and the entire canyon reveals itself. We're still deadly quiet, only the cause has changed and I have fully commited it to my memory. For life.

In a poorly executed pass my camera is dropped and I'm pretty sure it's toast. The first picture is blurry. Really, at the Grand Canyon? It sorts itself out and I get my first ironic photo of the trip, complete with a huge fever blister. You have to love non-genital Herpes!

This was the end of the planned trip. Having fully abandonded Las Vegas we rode a hard line South with no clear destination. Our trusted atlas promised good riding in Prescott a hundred miles out from the park exit. Fond memories of Flagstaff left me enthusiastic about our prospects in this part of the country.

2009-10-04T23:04:00.000-07:00

Williams, AZ. I have been here before. Jordan and I walk into a Denny's and some foggy area of my brain clears. I realize this is the very same Denny's I stopped at almost five years ago on my first solo California to Arkansas car trip. What a boost! Memories of my now deceased Bonzai tree named Andy, perched on top of my car, soaking up a Fall rain as I eat French toast, come rushing back.

As always the atlas joins us at the table. Prescott offers several campgrounds in addition to some of Americas best motorcycle riding. I take note of Wolf Creek campgrounds, the last outside of the city limits. We plan our route, a simple trek 16 miles West on the abysmal Interstate 40, then a short ride South on highway 89.

Prescott is such a cool town. Very similar to Hot Springs in Arkansas. Great bars, laid out like an old tourist destination. Hot Springs can thank the bath houses and major league baseball for it's notoriety. I'm not sure what Prescott's main attraction is. Maybe just good vibes. It's about 9 PM when we stop for gas on our way out of town. A great day of riding should always end with a great fire. We buy some wood and set out for Wolf Creek.

2009-10-03T23:34:00.000-07:00

[The abridged version of this post: we missed the campground, I got a gun pulled on me and we're lost in the desert]

White Spar campground came and went as we entered Prescott National Forrest. In the darkness we pass our sign, "Wolf Creek - 6". The road began to wind and twist in a way that made me really nervous. The riding was exciting and dramatic changes in temperature alerted me to the fact we were decending in elevation. I got dizzy at one point and short of breath. Almost an hour of wild riding passed before we found ourselves at the base of Prescott. I felt less like I had exited the forrest and more like I had been ejected. Looking back we realize the Wolf Creek sign meant "turn left here and go six miles, stupid".

It becomes clear Jordan and I have made a misjudgement. At the base of the mountains leading out of Prescott is the desert. Not an arid expanse of several miles, but the desert you see people staggering around in in the movies. Bleached bones type stuff. We've plummeted in elevation and our hands are swollen. I somehow feel as though I weigh a thousand pounds, but am also light headed. Outside Congress I spy two sheriffs deputies lingering behind the area's single solitary gas station. I roll up and kill the bike. Cop #1 unholsters his gun and cop #2 orders me to kill my light as he shines his in my face. They do not like me. Like a rambling hillbilly I quickly tell them we are lost and on a motorcycle trip from Arkansas and that we need their help. I also inform them we are considering sleeping in the desert. The guns go back in the holsters and out comes the sage advice.

Turns out sleeping in the desert (which we did actually think about) is a bad idea around here. There are snakes, scorpions and some of the people apparently will kill you and take your stuff if they see you. They tell us about a small state park heading towards California. Jackpot! We get directions and head West on highway 60 towards Wenden and Alamo Lake state park, our oasis in the desert.

Someday I will die. When I die I will either go to heaven or hell. I don't know what heaven looks like, but I have been to hell. Hell is the ride to Alamo Lake state park in southern Arizona. We are blasting through the desert and see exactly one car and, believe it or not, a guy on a chopper during the entire ride from Congress to Wenden. We reach Wenden and see this sign: "Alamo Lake State Park - 38". I'm crushed. In one of the most bizarre moments of my life Jordan looks at me with a wild eye. I'm officially in a bad acid trip. It's about 1 a.m. as we head towards Alamo Lake.

The ride out is 38 miles straight North into the interior desert. We rip through the darkness on a narrow two lane road with cattle tracks every mile and sinkholes that bring your stomach into your mouth. 38 miles doesn't sound like much, but we were rocketing into the pitch black, away from any kind of civilization with total abandon. It really felt like a death march.

We finally made it, pitched the tent in the first campsite we saw (they were all empty) and started a huge ass fire. There was a log obviously left as a chair that we threw on the fire. It burned all night. In the morning we woke to find we were in some abortion of a state park, a monument to epic failure. People of Arizona, your tax dollars are keeping a state park running at the gates of Hell. At 6 a.m. wild quail surrounded the tent making the most annoying call I've ever heard. On four hours sleep we got up, packed our gear and exploded out of the park. I did at least 75 every inch of the way back to the highway. We stopped for a couple pics. Enjoy the sport pants, I didn't give a crap any more.

Having finally made it out of that debacle we stopped for some fruit at a tiny grocer in Wenden. Local youth give us the stink eye. As I'm putting my helmet on I begin to tell Jordan an insanely vulgar joke before I realize an old woman is within earshot. She warns me 'You boys don't want to be broke down around here'. Riding out of town we see a sign for camping just outside the city limits. I yell 'WHAT?' in a high pitched voice into my helmet's face shield. Now this must be what acid is like.

2009-10-02T18:22:00.000-07:00

I'm riding through the broiling desert air in my skin tight sport pants with purpose. Jordan and I intersect i-10, the deep Souths main artery, and rejoin civilization. In the hottest September air of my life the California border station slows the interstate procession to a crawl and I'm quickly waved through. Jordan continues on and I stop just long enough to snap a picture and stretch a big dumb grin across my face. I built a machine that took me exactly where I wanted to go. It felt great.

I call our buddy Justin in LA who is waiting for us to arrive and to start the second leg of our trip. "Hey, it's me. We'll be there in 4 hours." Click.

2009-10-01T18:41:00.000-07:00

Exit 217. This is where Jordan's trip ends.

8 miles from the center of the desert I notice Gord has vanished from my rearview. I pull off exit 217 and wait. I try calling. About five minutes later I spot him, chugging down the shoulder of i-10 at a brisk walks pace. We exit together and pull into a cutaway in the desert. He tells me the bike has hit a wall and just won't accelerate beyond 2k rpms. Idles beautifully, then death bogs with any throttle applied.

We see a road sign in the distance but can't quite make it out. Gord zooms in for us with his Nikon:

Desert Center - 8

Indio - 57
Los Angeles - 184

This is the last photo on Jordan's camera.

We go through the bike check procedure that has become so familiar with no success. For the second time a tow truck hauls the CX in. His insurance covers a ride to Motorcycles Plus in Indio. A guy on a Gold Wing stops and gives us some water while we wait for the tow and I feel bad for the joke Gord and I had been telling on the trip, "Nice Gold Wing, you should get a motorcycle".

The next two days are spent at the Palm Tree Inn. We go through the bike from top to bottom with surgical precision and cannot get it. The owner of the hotel offers to store the bike for us in an abandoned restuarant they own. Justy, our buddy in Glendale comes to gather our corpses. I ride the 120 miles to LA behind them. Slipping past the city limits is bittersweet. I did it, but didn't keep my promise to Jordan that I could fix anything mechanical that could possibly go wrong as long as we could get the parts.

2009-09-30T19:13:00.000-07:00

In LA Justin showed us his new digs and some of the cities greatest offerings. In-N-Out Burger probably tops the list for me, Mulholland drive for Jordan. We all made it over to Ventura while sourcing some parts for the CX. I knew Jordan had never seen the ocean, but didn't realize he wasn't familiar with how it worked until I saw him accidently let two feet of crashing waves rush past his fully clothed legs and shoes.

I got to see the Capitol Records building where a few lucky artist have their most treasured works marketed to the masses in slick packaging...

... and Amoeba, where those records get thrown on the heap.

The bald guy above is talking to his friend about out of print Morrissey b-sides. Late nights in the city make for strange booze runs. I just got ice cream.

Back to the grind, Jordan and I made four 240 mile round trips back to Indio to work on the bike and try out replacement parts. Finally we got a SOHC4 forum member, Queeg, to drag the bike to Glendale. Hell of a guy. Jordan gave it one last college try, spending an entire day ripping through the bike to no avail.

That's not to say he didn't catch any lucky breaks. His boss kept shop in Little Rock, but lived in Los Angeles. He just happened to be heading East with a half full trailer that weekend and Jordan slipped his bike on board and headed back home, leaving me & Justy to carry the torch. Goodbye Jordan, thanks for taking the plunge with me!

2009-09-29T23:11:00.000-07:00

October 3rd

Justin and I get cheap hair cuts in LA. Somewhere after entering California I lost my tic-tac-toe silk scarf and am heartbroken. We pack up the bikes in a hurry, the first time for Justin. Luckily he inherited the pack Gord left behind; a good bag and blow up sleeping pad, neither of which he had. I was a little leary of his roughing it outlook, only because I had a killer rash, jock itch and a blistered spot on my face from a horrendous sun burn I got on my nose somewhere back in Oklahoma. I don't know how much more roughing it my frail body could handle!

Justy's bike is the '05 Triumph Bonneville Black.

Glendale to our backs, we get on the 101 at 5 p.m. Well shit. How did we leave this late in the day? A runaway hubcap almost kills me. We stop to stretch in Santa Barbara and walk through the crowds of wealthy, horny 30-somethings. At a grocery store Justin tries to talk me into shoplifting some fire wood. I'm too far from home for that kind of karma. Or at least any more than I've already built up in my short life.

Refugio State Beach offers ocean front camping and we're cold. Short day, but a good start. The campground is full but we ride through anyways, just hoping. We're flagged down at the group site by good folks who offer to let us camp on the outskirts of their site. Justin marvels. We agree; karma. After pitching the tent I shut up long enough to hear the ocean pummeling the beach and realize we're right on the water. I sit in the sand for a while under a full moon and am glad I came on this adventure.

2009-09-27T02:32:00.000-07:00

Refugio Beach gets windy at night. Like, moving the tent with us inside it kind of windy. Rolling up my pack was a nightmare. The folks that invited us to camp fed us breakfast burritos and orange juice. I wish I could remember their names. As thanks we gave them the fire wood and set off for Pismo Beach.

We hit our first wineries moving up the 1. Justin was stoked. Me, not so much. I don't drink wine because it tastes like blood. And it smells like my grandma's sloppy kisses.

In Pismo we parked and walked half way out the pier. Pismo is really nice when the beaches aren't full. As a kid I spent a lot of time out in the water boogie boarding here. This was all before I saw 'Jaws' of course.

Note to self: don't cheap out on future hair cuts.

I lived in Atascadero for a few years and Morro Bay is probably my all time favorite place to visit. I have a picture of myself in front of "The Rock", an extinct valcano, at just about every age. Justin and I even came here together on a trip with my mom in our pre-teen years before Justy had the height on me. No taffy this time, there was a street fair clogging up the works.

2009-09-26T14:04:00.000-07:00

The salty air blew us down the embarcadero and we stopped in at the Shell Shop. Justin picked the brains of some natives and got a line on a great little Mexican restaurant just off the strip. We ate cheap burritos and I called my aunt & uncle in Atascadero. I let them know I was in town with a friend and we were hoping for at least a lumpy mattress to sleep on. The ride over on Morro Rd. is a twisty one with the narrow asphalt flanked by a steep ravine and avocado orchards.

2009-09-25T16:04:00.000-07:00

In the morning we are alone, the house empty. My aunt & uncle had gone about thier busy lives and we roam around the house. Any food we source here is an Ensure we don't have to drink for breakfast. My filthy jeans toss in the dryer. I lock my helmet inside and Justin is all too happy to break in and get it for me. The day begins beautifully and we're nothing but eager.

The road back to the coast cuts through the golden, scorched hills high above Morro Bay and Cayucos. Hearst Castle lingers over San Simeon and is really representative of this region - spectacular, gaudy and somewhat insane. The PCH hugs the shore tightly and the pace becomes jerky as we trace the edge of the sea.

The world famous Bixby Bridge

In Carmel I called home to let my folks know I was now a man. We headed north for Monterey and made quick work of it, as we had spent most the day zig-zagging up the sheer face of the Pacific. We were still convinced we could make it to San Francisco before dark.

2009-09-22T21:48:00.000-07:00

"Cannery Row in Monterey in California is a poem, a stink, a grating noise, a quality of light, a tone, a habit, a nostalgia, a dream." — John Steinbeck

We strolled up to the Monterey Bay Aquarium around 5:30; just as they locked the front doors and stopped selling tickets. We snuck in the exit and of course got caught. A little sweet talking with the female ticket girl bought us thirty minutes to see the whole place, free of charge!

If I ever thought Justin couldn't get away with anything, he proved me wrong by asking a waiter on Cannery Row where the good places to eat were, and the dude actually helped us. Justy caught up with the NFL at the bar and I picked at a bland lump of fish. The bay darkened and we gave up on making it to San Fran. Our night ended with some super cool local girls we met at the restuarant dragging our asses home with them, keeping us out of the gutters.

Keeley busks outside the restuarant to the delight of two old perverts (not us, two other old perverts)

2009-09-21T23:47:00.000-07:00

In the morning Kate & Keeley let us buy breakfast as a thanks. Keeley returned all the shit she stole from us and we packed up for San Francisco. Definetly a couple of brave girls, didn't even call the cops when I showed them my stun gun and sexually vulgar postcards I wrote (no, I never mailed them).

We kind of screwed up and skipped the PCH for the expedited ride up the 101. Straight into San Fran we made a bee line for the Golden Gate Bridge. Motorcycles cross for free!

We got one of those bizzaro off season deals at the San Francisco Inn on Lombard Street. Paying 40$ for a 150$ room really appealed to the teenage thief that still lurks in the underdeveloped region of my brain. Grub came from Golden Boy Pizza, a North Beach institution and hang out for the combat boot crew. I hope they can fly a slice in when I'm on death row. We wrapped up the evening by riding over to Haight & Ashbury. It was kind of gay, if you can believe it.

2009-09-19T23:23:00.000-07:00

We found Lombard Street and gave our brake pads a good glazing. For all the beatings she endured on this trek, the single mechanical failure was one I built in to the trip. The little four's oil pan had been weeping through a hairline crack for months before I set out west, before and after I rebuilt the engine. I left it be in anticipation of visiting Charlie's Place in San Francisco, a shop run for the sole benefit of old Honda's like mine. Sure enough he had a new pan waiting for me. I strapped it over my pack and skipped port.

Justin and I ended up in Berkeley on accident, but made the most of it with an ice cream at Fosters Freeze. Our northern aim turned west for the fabled Yosemite Valley. Past Modesto we rode long through the short grass. Approaching the park boundry, Justin's glowing pipes were a welcomed distraction from the crippling cold that halted us at Mariposa, where we camped for the night.

2009-09-17T01:12:00.000-07:00

Justin's teeth hurt. Mine didn't because I brushed them the night before. He mistook my good hygene as an aversion to the nomadic roads and living beyond the humming cities. I didn't have any hard learned experience left to offer him, you have to sort that out for yourself. He complained less about my personal grooming after that, although our riding styles remained a topic of contention.

Still in Mariposa, we ate breakfast and talked. This morning I saw my first true doppelganger. The man seated behind Justin looked so much like my grandpa that I would have confidently sat at his table if I had walked into this restaurant back home. Out of Mariposa we climbed highway 140 deeper into the Sierra Nevada. Just within the park boundry of Yosemite I pulled aside, climbed down to a beach of pummeled granite and gulped a handful of the Merced River. If there's anything more pure I haven't tasted it.

2009-09-16T18:05:00.000-07:00

I may have written a paper on Yosemite in school. I don't remember, if I did it doesn't matter. Until you visit this place you won't believe it really exists. Everywhere your eye falls there is some spectacle of nature. El Capitan rises thousands of feet above the valley floor, sheer and absolutely unforgiving of weakness of grip or character. Sharing in the same field of vision is Bridalveil Fall. Justin and I walk the short trail and stand below it, trying to sniff out the weak mist floating down. We wonder if we had missed Half Dome, which we know only by name. Of course if we had known it by sight we would have realized how unmissable it was. I feel humbled when the tightly shaded park road opens up and the full spectacle of the valley floor becomes visable. I dare any man to improve upon a square inch of any of it.

We climbed and sat on a hillside just beyond the park boundry. I had a lot to think about. At that strange moment Justin and I were united in reaching the halfway point of our trips. Every mile onward was a subtraction that brought us nearer our respective homes. It was the first time I was confronted by the thought in weeks; at some point I had to go home. The realization was fleeting and the edge of the Sierra Nevada range gave way to the familiar monotone golden, rolling hills. My always thirsty fuel tank stopped us just outside of Madera. While I topped off the tank we struck up a conversation with Fred. The archetypal surfer dude, he warned us we had missed the A+ muff in Santa Cruz and had better go back. He gave us some weed and sent us on our way. Navigating the unfriendly streets of Fresno later that night reminded me why I couldn't live in California. As I drifted away on a rare hotel matress I dreamed of the gorgeous women of Santa Cruz.

2009-09-15T21:49:00.000-07:00

Das food. I guess the theme of this trip is chili wanger dogs. Although, we couldn't pass up the opportunity to patronize an independant fruit grower's stand outside of Fresno. Stocked up with tomorrow's breakfast, we made a fast break for the western entrance of the Giant Sequoia National Forrest and Kings Canyon National Park.

I don't know what to tell you about the groves of giant Sequoia that grow here. The park entrance offers no fair warning. The first enormous trunk will not compute. I remember reading that the Natives of this country couldn't see the sails of the early explorers ships because they had no concept of such a thing. I don't know if that's true, but I can understand why you would want to believe it. I'm not a worshiper of nature, but this is the first of its creations I've ever held in the same regard as another person. The trees here are as good as us.

Don't believe any of the nasty things they say about the French. Justin offered to help this large group of French tourists with a group photograph and within a couple minutes we had made about fifty new friends. They were the most gracious, joyful people I've met. Lots of genuine interaction, with hands on our shoulders and big smiles. They took lots of pictures with us. It was suggested by one of the older guys that "you share?" when we were introduced to Lydia, the lone young woman in the group. The three of us blushed and they all broke into hysterics. Beautiful people.

We tried to make it into Sequoia National Park, which shares it's border with Kings Canyon, but were pushed back by the cold and closed campgrounds. Generous neighbors donated several cut logs to our pitiful brush fire and we carefully hid our fruit in the bear proof boxes supplied by the park service. Justin smoked a little of Fred's weed and we enjoyed each others campfire antics. I slept lightly that night, always listening for the sound of my fruit being carried away into the darkness.

2009-09-08T22:19:00.000-07:00

Getting up second means getting up last when there are only two of you. Justin was busy packing when I dug my bare feet into the chilly moon dust we had pitched our tent on. Riding half way into Sequoia had been painfully difficult the night before, as the frigid mountain air ate away at our exposed skin. Circumstances are a strange thing. I thought of the absurdity of dehydrating to death in a desert, basking in the glow of some southern Arizona city. The morning after we nearly froze trying to enter Sequoia was so tepid we easily forgot how dangerous the Sierra could be under the right (or wrong) circumstances. I was quickly reminded though, when a brown bear lumbering through the heavy woods locked eyes with me for a moment.

In Sequoia Park proper we had the park nearly to ourselves. This late in the season, especially on bikes, there is no want for easy parking or lines of cars to navigate around. Off the bike and on unsteady legs we climbed over the railing surrounding the General Sherman. Justin and I snapped a quick picture of ourselves at the base of the largest tree on the planet.

We met this guy on a BSA thumper. He wasn't too chatty; BSA owners are prissy, just like their bikes. Helmet laws be damned, you have to take advantage of clean air in California when you get the chance. We risked busting our domes and let the pure Sierra air blow through our wigs.

2009-09-07T12:47:00.000-07:00

So the Kern County kid finally comes home. I was born in Bakersfield, son of an oil field laborer, who himself was the son of an oil field laborer. But I haven't lived here in over twenty years and the air of mystery that hangs over the southern tip of the San Joaquin Valley is almost as thick as the smog. Both my mom and my dad spent the entirety of their youth crusing Chester and Union, hanging out at the Valley Plaza Mall, sun tanning next to swimming pools tucked away in the suburban sprawl and, at the same age I am now, raising two babies.

The mystery of course is what kind of life I would have had here. For the sake of my sanity I assume my mother's sudden and perplexing move east almost twenty years ago kept me out of the oil fields, and from a shared fate with so many young men who weren't lucky enough to walk away safely from those oil rigs, my father included.

My grandfather still lives here though. The man lived harder and faster than anyone and now over the tip of eighty years old he's the only Ware left besides me and my brother. He's a master welder, self taught mechanic and all around old-school dude. His welcome was warm, and for Justin, brief. Within twenty minutes he was back out into the night to have his own unshared journey south. No need for goodbyes with Justin, they're never permanent.

I spent two days wrenching on my poor old Honda and visiting with family. I paid my respects to the ones that couldn't be there and then, as my grandpa later said, "left outta here like a cannonball".

2009-09-05T21:35:00.000-07:00

October 13th

I rode back to LA. Justin had a deficit of on-the-grid labor to pay for his brief prison break from society. He did let me sleep on his floor though while he toiled. The insomniatic blue light of LA peered through the window and I slid deep into my sleeping bag, and lightly into a strange sleep.

My cousin is stationed in San Diego with the US Navy. My plan was to ride down for a visit, then head east. I posted a request for a ride share on Craigslist the night before and to my amazement an offer waited for me that morning. Meeting my cousin didn't materialize, but I did meet Stevan, a retired police officer, in the parking lot of a large football stadium. We loaded Dee Dee into the back of his pickup truck. My mind pushed at my body the way alike poles of two magnets do as we rode comfortably in the wrong direction: east.

Stevan dropped me off outside of Tucson in a factory parking lot. The ride from San Diego had been about 400 miles, mostly through the desert. Weeks earlier this parcel had halted Gord permanently. But a few more miles around the sun had dulled the blazes daytime severity. I had hitched the ride because Dee Dee was starting to show her miles and I feared a similar mechanical failure in the heat, but it would have been a beautiful ride. I saw jagged black mountains encroaching our Mexican border and vast sand dunes populated with campers and paddle wheeled dirt bikes.

And then I was alone. In the factory parking lot I pored over our tattered atlas. A trip that had been defined by shared exclamations, laughing and slow conversation was now turned inward. Not silent, but outwardly quiet. In Tucson I sat in a Fry's Grocery parking lot and ate a chicken leg. If Fry's does well I'd hinge it on Anja, the shockingly gorgeous cart wrangler. She shyly asked questions while I took a mental picture of her electric smile, sure I'd need the image later to keep me going.

2009-09-03T22:11:00.000-07:00

That night I made my way to Catalina State Park. My headlight illuminated the edge of a Martian mountain scape as I loudly woke up the park, surely it's last arrival of the night. In the morning I struck up a conversation with another Steven, who had crossed the country on his Triumph just to have a beer on a California beach. We agreed to meet up at the New Mexican border and rode out separately. I looked in at the Pima Air and Space Museum, either too broke or lacking the conviction to pay for the tour. Saguaro National Park tragically passed under my radar and left me with the only possible reason to ever return to Tucson in my life.

I completely forgot about Steven and was surprised to see him at the New Mexico visitors center. We rode on together for Las Cruces. I was only able to pretend to be annoyed by his presence and secretly appreciated the intrusion. When we reached Las Cruces at nightfall our only camping option was north at Leasburg Dam. The rec area was gated and locked when we got there, and rather than push our bikes under the high fence Steven insisted we camp on the side of the road. Our proximity to the Mexican border left me with images of my spinal cord dangling from the necklace of some high ranking drug lord.

Steven turned out to be very weird. I finally convinced him to follow me into the park when a returning camper opened the gate. As we sat in our fireless campsite he told me his life story. As a young man his pregnant fiance had been murdered. This was bookended with stories of floozies he had banged while working as a bouncer in a bar. He was a good guy who I think was just dealt a cosmically bad hand. As the night wore on and his beers ran out my presence began to offend him more and more. I turned in for the night before he was able to demand a drunken arm wrestling match, or worse, punch me out. I think Steven had done a lot of punching in his life.

2009-09-02T22:45:00.000-07:00

Boozed up sleep must be restful, because Steven was packed and long gone when I moaned and grunted my way out of my sweltering tent. Due east lay the Organ Mountain range. As I sped up the carefully carved mountain road I got my first glimpse of the White Sands Missile Range, testing site of the worlds first atomic bomb. Approaching the base I was advised not to photograph the range and asked to prove my citizenship. My puny bike sat humbly in the parking lot as I perused a field of gutted rockets and decommissioned symbols of our military might.

And then there are the white sands. Have you ever felt out of place at a party? Well try feeling out of place on the planet and you can probably imagine how the White Sands National Monument would feel. Where the hell did 11 miles of fine, pure white sand come from out here? I'll spare you my fury about our government appropriating something like this for military use and just say I'm thankful to have been able to ride my dying motorcycle barefoot through the towering, blinding white dunes. As someone who's Xanadu would be an acre and shack on the dark side of the Moon I can tell you White Sands is a serene, cleansing place.

2009-09-02T13:24:00.000-07:00

When you have tunnel vision it's easy to overlook a mountain range here, million acre forest there. On the outskirts of Alamogordo I began climbing into elevations not seen since the Sierra's in California. My wandering finger found Lincoln National Forest in my always handy atlas. Huh, whoda thunk it? Even less expected was just how high above sea level Lincoln was, a staggering 8000+ feet; the highest elevation of my trip. It was a beautiful and unexpected piece of country.

The lack of gas stations was horrifying though. As the sun set I found Artesia, Dee Dee huffing and puffing on fumes. In the pitch black I sped south for Brantley Lake State park, similar in many ways to the hellish Alamo Lake in Arizona. Except there were people here. I spent an hour talking with a banker and his family about our failing economy, eating weeners and beans his mother had made specially for me.

Leaving Brantley in the morning I locked eyes with a slobbering bull and fully expected him to charge and gore me to death. I escaped and found Carlsbad Caverns National Park. The long elevator ride down emptied myself and about eight other people into what I can only describe as an underground football stadium, but bigger. It took almost two hours of brisk walking to bring me back to the exit. The cool, humid air steamed off my jacket when I finally stepped back out into the sun.

2009-09-02T09:44:00.000-07:00

I hit loose gravel on a lonely stretch of road and nearly gave up the ghost. It was Co. Rd. 720, a narrow two lane stretch over weak rolling hills; the last vestige of geological activity before settling into Texas' unbelievable flatness. It took some time to regain my composure and my feet hurt from putting them down at speed. As I cruised along, overly cautious, a spec appeared and grew in front of me. The spec eventually became a full sized truck. Considering the desolation I stopped to offer help. A very elderly rancher appeared with a shotgun and said he was shooting cows. Or that's what I thought he said through the muffle of my brain bucket. Helmet off, he clarified; he was picking off coyotes that were eyeballing his cattle.

His name was Tom, and after a few friendly minutes I was back at it. The archetypal bullet ridden signage welcomed me to Texas. Minutes are hours on roads this long and when I finally found Monahans Sandhills State Park I was fully surprised. If White Sands challenged what I though I knew about the desert, I realized I didn't know anything as I hiked up the lonely dunes and looked out over the entire state of Texas.

2009-09-01T10:19:00.000-07:00

The western cut of Texas was laid out special for travellers. Anywhere beyond the state, be it west or east, you are so much closer to home. This almost infinite breadth of space is sufficient to fill with all your thoughts, and you're afforded the time to organize all those memories, ideas and resolutions. I couldn't tell you word one I turned over in my head in all that time, but I know it was an important part of locking the past weeks experiences in the deepest canyons of my mind.

When I reached Dallas I stopped at Weinerschnitzel for one last chili wanger dog and called my grandpa for the first time in a month. We talked about riding and laughed for a while at what a gypsy I had become. A sub-ten minute oil change that afternoon stood in stark contrast to the unrefined disaster way back in Las Vegas, NM. I finally found one last soggy piece of ground to pitch my tent on. Atmosphere scraping cell phone towers beared down on me as I listened to "Silver Stallion" by the Highwaymen and let the riot going on in my mind push me through the door to sleep.

2009-09-01T09:01:00.000-07:00

October 19th

For a month I pushed nature into an unprecedented period of agreeability, but on the 32nd day she finally pushed back. Through Dallas I tread softly over the very spot, marked by a gruesome X, where President Kennedy was assassinated. By the time I reached the Arkansas border a nagging cold had set in and began nipping at my exposed hips. Lustful stares from girls won't keep you warm in low rise denim jeans. Soon night set in and the cold became a propellant for my mind, sharpening the edge of my determination to get home.

When the Little Rock skyline finally appeared in the horizon, acute angles perfectly stamped through the dim sheet of twilight, I smiled. The distant, familiar buildings quickly became my neighborhood and a mile wide grin spread over my face. But that smile escalated into weak laughter and my vision blurred with exhausted tears. Over a month ago I predicted my house would look different as I approached from this opposite end of the street. I was wrong though. Our little corner home appeared unaltered in reality and memory.

It was the road that was different.