Day Two
Up early after a fitful night sleeping. I had to assuage the quilt I felt leaving my family for frivolous self-satisfaction. That took at least five minutes, two cups of coffee and some stern self-talk, so much for altruism!!
I decided to head to Yerington, Nevada to visit my father and stepmother. I hadn’t seen them in several months as they winter in Mexico and I had finally reached them via telephone.
I hopped back on the Rebel and headed east on Highway 50- America’s Loneliest Highway. The Dayton Valley was almost unrecognizable; there was so much growth. The little town of Dayton, now had video stores and gas marts but all I remembered was an old bar and dance hall.
The highway was newly surfaced but filled with delivery trucks. The speed limit was 65. I pumped the rebel to top speed and jetted along. Amazing just how much this little bike could do. I zipped through Stagecoach, Nevada. What a sight criminey, who would live here??? I am amazed at all the homes and trailers. There is a state prison here, now and that I have no trouble believing. Seems the perfect place…who would want to escape! I get a quick glimpse of a strange deserted business called the Oasis, possessing a water tank disguised as a rotund cactus. What had once been a watering hole, was now a watering tank in a hole. Hmmmmm ouch. I should have taken a picture,
however, I was not into even slowing down in this spot!!
My junction was Hwy 95. If Hwy 50 proclaimed to be America’s Loneliness Highway wow, what is Hwy 95?? The traffic is traveling at least 95 MPH, is mostly big rigs, and the wind is unbelievable, screaming across the roadway.. I hang on for dear life, ride the wind as best I can and watch for flying retreads!! The air is close and hot, and I am certain I am now riding in Hell.
In the distant foothills I can barely read a sign on the incline of the mountain. Welcome to Yerington. I have to admit, relief to escape my riding purgatory.
My father and stepmother are thrilled to see their little girl, but less than thrilled to see the mode of transportation I have chosen, however over the course of my visit, I get a sense of his pride when my father, telling the neighbor that, "she rode her motorcycle all the way from California!" I can only chuckle knowing it was all of 160 miles!!
We ate great Mexican food, gambled on the penny slots after all this was Nevada, and visited like crazy. Fantastic!!
Dad and my stepmother, Kathleen and a home grown rose!
Day Three
More Mexican breakfast, good coffee and a million reasons not to leave. The air was chilly, the clouds looked ominous, the road was under construction. I heard them all and then packed the bike, kissed my caring parents and headed home.
The farm road was wonderful. Filled with amazing aromas. I felt like a dog, devouring odors if only for a second. When I got back to Hwy. 95, I was less than thrilled. Another day, but the same day, repeating purgatory.
The wind was much worse. How could that be?? The weeping willows were sobbing across the road. The air was full of dust and debris. I was certain to see cows flying by. I was definitely not in Kansas anymore, instead I was back in Hell. She blew left and then right and then in a tight little circle. I kept envisioning the tornado scene from the Wizard of Oz . The less than benevolent winds were trying to adjust my vertebrae and suck me off my bike. I think I was riding upright, however it seemed the horizon was no longer horizontal. To add insult to almost injury, I had to stop for gas. Nice, gale winds and gasoline.
The store was in Smith Valley, a beautiful place, sans the wind. I had to wonder if there were days without wind as everything I saw was battened down. I had seen no other motorcycles. I assume all the other riders either had better sense or had been sucked up by a vacuous tunnel wind and deposited in the California sunshine. To make matters worse when I reached Hwy 395 it was indeed as Dad had said, "under construction." The road was heavily grooved and had been newly surfaced with tar and gravel. Lovely. Now I had small flying stones, a bike I could barely keep upright and a road throwing me about. At this point I had to chuckle, damn I should have listened to my father, how many times in my life had I thought that??
The wind howled until Hope Valley, where it laid down quietly in the turning leaves and slept.
I was back in the land of motorcycles. I low waved feverously and am certain others wondered why. Wait until they hit the upcoming valley below.
The journey mellowed. I crossed the Mormon Emigrant Trail and stopped for coffee in Pollock Pines to talk politics with some very conservative Republicans, a fitting close for a tenuous day.
Arriving home I could only think, Man, do I love an adventurous journey, and may I aspire to many, many more.
Total Miles of this trip…390 and infinite entertainment! There is nothing better…
Hope Valley
Hope Valley from the summit side 8300 feet
