Ride to Death Valley—Truth or Dare

The clock is not my friend, not my ally, nor my conscience. No, the clock instead is my bane. Never mind that when I actually attempt to follow a time constraint I am instead foiled by the clock. Not being my friend, the clock has a way of messing with me; my perception becomes deception, leaving me senseless regarding time. What I am saying here is NEVER expect me to be “on time”. It won’t happen and my husband is still trying to reason this out.

That being said, we began our adventure late. Now the dawdling time needed to be controlled, and I am not controlling by nature. I am late…you may now see my dilemma. I begin our ride with head hung low, taking hits for messing with our map program’s ride schedule. I think to myself, I will hear about this later, but I quickly surrender it to the more lofty areas of my brain, where all the other “late” responses live.

Let’s get moving!! We bike up and head out. It is a lovely morning, however a chill is in the air. We are desert-bound, with Death Valley our destination. I smile to myself, thinking of the desert warmth and muted hues which should be spectacular, knowing that in a few hours we will settle into the desert evening, beer in hand, toasting the great ride that brought us to this desert paradise. Now rewind.

Covered Bridge on Fiddletown road

Highway 88 flanked by snow-filled ridges, is a beautiful sight. Run off is trickling across the highway and as I zip by I notice my rear tire is lacking in traction. My hairline bristles a bit as I consider this scenario on the upcoming tight turns. I now concentrate to keep the bike upright while crossing the demon streams. So far, so good.

We travel 88 to 395, backtracking a bit to detour Monitor Pass, still closed in with snow pack, arriving in Minden/Gardnerville to have a quick bite. The clock foiled what might have been a real lunch stop. We gas up and climb back on the bikes, heading south on 395, Death Valley bound.

Highway 88 in the snow

Hwy 88 by summit recreation area

Descending to Topaz Lake

Around Bridgeport the temperature drops considerably. My fingers are beginning their transgression toward numbness, after which my brain invariably joins in the fun. My entire body goes through its cold awareness 12-step program, beginning with my fingertips and ending with slow firing synapses in my brain. The process is definitely not a pretty sight, especially with a 600 lb. motorbike sitting under a dull-witted being. My husband watches with empathy, but can offer no solution for finding the girl he married, instead of this abominable snow girl. We press on.

The elevation on US 395 is a roller coaster event with a quick rise to 8000 ft. and an equally quick drop to about 1000 ft. Up to the chilly high ground, down to the reasonable flatland with heat rising from the core. I am not warm. I keep trying to visualize heating pads, sun rays, electric blankets, hot male bodies, but my brain is shutting down as the chill creeps in. We stop in Bridgeport for a warm up break and rest stop, quick but efficient. Next stop, in Bishop, is more memorable. We spot an espresso bar/coffee-house to the right and signal to pull into the parking lot. G smoothly maneuvers the entrance; only I am contemplating a woman exiting the lot in a large van. I see she needs a bit more room than I am able to give her so I look to my right to judge the distance of the curb, and stare directly into the mesmerizing cement. Quickly I find my way down to the gutter. A loud “thunk” tells my husband, as he stops his engine, that I am in a less than suitable parking spot. “What the hell happened??” Well, I looked and I went. Yep, I sure did. Lola — my beloved 600 lb. beauty — was fine. My pride was moderately injured, and matched nicely with the dunce cap I was now wearing. We picked up the bike and parked in a more user-friendly area. Man, did I need coffee!!

I went for the quad shot white mocha. Yep, caffeine and sugar – otherwise known, in my mind, as a “slap and go” – did the trick. Lola forgave my earlier misjudgment but kept me aware of some basic motorcycle rules. Look where you want to go. So I looked south and Gary led the way.

Beckoned from above

Can u say phallic?

Bridgeport Courthouse

Between Topaz Lake and Mono Lake somewhere in the desert

Ignorance is bliss. From Lone Pine down into Death Valley is 80 miles. The local in the gas station and liquor store assures me it takes 2.5 hours to descend to the valley floor. I am thinking this guy has to be nuts as it is only 80 miles and we are on big powerful tight maneuvering machines. Time, my antagonist is rapidly bringing on dusk, his dealer of dirty tricks. As I retreat from Mr. Liquor Store’s vile news I find Gary entertaining the spawn of Mad Max wheeling around the gas pumps. I find words difficult to describe the scene. Young kids are riding wheeled vehicles, each one with some sort of strange creative bent. The eldest, about 11, is on a welded bicycle big wheel with a toddler seated on a precarious angle on the rear wheels’ cross beam, at the back of the bike. I am wondering where their mother’s think they are. They ask how fast G’s bike will go and he tells them 5,000 MPH. They aren’t buying it, other than one kid who looks rather amazed. They chat for a short while inquiring where we are from (France) and where we are going (Mars). They exchange knowing smiles between one another and ride off as we return to challenging time.

Highway 395 above Lone Pine

Dusk descending into the valley

Dusk moves to darkness and we are 1.5 hours into the valley. The road is twisty but nicely surfaced. And man is it dark…I mean dark, like chocolate pudding or the darkness you see behind your eyes as you fall into deep sleep. G takes pity on me. Using his bright lights and cautious speeds, we take on the twisties. I know that just beyond that headlight high beam is probably death defying drop offs and flowered crosses. I carefully follow my husband into the mouth of the beast.

The beast turned out to be not so deadly this evening, and we arrived at Stovepipe Wells Motel sharply at 8:55. We had five minutes ‘til the restaurant closed. I ran in to place an order as Gary organized the bikes, noticing about 25 Harley’s in the lot. He then proceeded to go and find my father and stepmother in space 3 of the RV park. It was their inspiration that brought us to DV to view the wildflowers and to visit. They are worried, not being motorbike riders, however still glad to see us, only wishing we had used another mode of transportation. We eat, visit and check into our humorously inadequate room. “No-frills” should have been the description. No frills, no phone, no TV, no bible. I am certain the last people that used the bed weighed in at no less than 800 lbs, there wasn’t a spring left alive. We dropped into the vast caverns of mattress and slept.

The sounds of rushing water pressure ring through the paper-thin walls, awakening me. I need coffee in a half-gallon pouch with an IV drip. Sipping is surely too draining, but the drip just may work. I need a shower, too. I opt for showering first. Gary sleeps on. He amazes me. Sleep is also not my friend, eluding me like a lottery award. I stare hard at him, hoping this will wake him so he too has to suffer with me, but no chance of this. My presence goes unnoticed. After a shower and coffee I give G a nudge and remind him that we can go for a ride before meeting the parental units and our yet unmet friend from our motorcycle forum. He quickly dresses, grabs coffee and we are out on the bikes.

Lola Star in the morning light in Death Valley

The 25 parked Harleys begin to awaken as their German riders emerge, coffee in one hand, key in the other. They are touring on rented Harleys and their tour is coming to an end as they return to Los Angeles. As the machines come alive, some pipes scream for attention while others speak in muffled deep throaty tones. I imagine any nearby sleeping guests are no longer asleep.

As I clean my 1100 V Star’s buggy windscreen, a German tourist approaches my quietly humming bike and through broken English and sign language I ascertain that he also has an 1100 V Star at home. Our love for motorcycles has given us a common language to share. As the group mounts to leave, he bids me auf wiedersehen and they head off in the direction of Bakersfield. The final rider, the sweeper has two flags flying behind his bike, one German one American.

German Tourist’s rented Harleys

At 10AM we meet the parental units and discuss possible options for viewing the wildflowers. At 10:30 Art arrives. After introductions and a general plan we gear up and ride a short few miles to see the dunes. They are magnificent and I can’t help but wonder why they are there. Ya, I know — because they are, I’ve heard that one. However a better explanation would suit me. Tis amazing that in all this similar desert with similar terrain and wind, that this huge pile of sand stays unmoving while a million tourists and 1/2 million dogs run and slide upon the warm drifting surface.

The Dunes

Back to the road surface and onward to Furnace Creek to gas up and revisit a place of my past. As a teenager, my family would visit Furnace Creek Inn and the parental units would give all the kids free reign. I imagine the Inn employees shaking their heads dubiously as the hippie type teens run amok. This was the time when Bob Dylan was singing about “Johnny in the basement, mixing up the medicine, I’m on the pavement, thinking about the government.” I played the guitar and was awaiting my big break. I thought for certain someone famous would discover my hidden talent as I played poolside, singing folk songs. Ya….sure.

View from Furnace Creek Inn

Donna trying to lock my helmet and Kathleen (my step mom) protecting herself from the camera

The Lily Pond at Furnace Creek Inn

Furnace Creek Inn coming from pool

I really wanted to visit the Inn and see what I recognized, if anything. Other than the outside structure, I was at a loss. So much for recapturing lost youth. Let’s ride!!

The three of us, Gary, Art and I, stopped to get some liquids and then headed without Dad and Kathleen to Scotty’s Castle. I truly don’t think the weather could have been more perfect. Warm breezes enveloped the bikes and we slid over the smooth road surfaces. The valley flora were painted in both bold and fading yellows, dotting together to create a canvas done by the pointillist Suerat or the impressionist Monet. As the heat rises the floral palate fades to muted umber and sienna and eventually the desert warmth will fade this beauty to gray tinges with blue browns, the color of the desert floor. I consider our good fortune; however will reconsider this later while riding a storm northward.

Blooming Cactus

Art’s bike

Donna and Art chat

Scotty’s castle is an amazing structure, built between 1922 and 1930. They took an artesian well and piped it throughout the walls to cool the structure in the deadly desert heat. People lived there year round, enjoying parties and social events. They must have been a tough crowd!

Scotty’s Castle

Art has given us his day and we have enjoyed it! We later discover that he is secretly celebrating his birthday; the rascal has not breathed a word. Time reminds him at 3PM that he needs to head home. We hear later his return ride was not without challenge and he doesn’t arrive home until after 11PM, tired and chilled. There must have been something in the moon, or stars or muskrat…something somewhere was having fun with all of us. Our fun was about to end.

After a decent dinner in Stovepipe Wells, complete with a yummy robust shiraz, we kissed my father and Kathleen goodnight and bid them adieu. I was not allowing the clock to take charge tomorrow morning. I grabbed my cell phone and set the insipid musical alarm clock to 6AM, several hours earlier than the start time of this trip.

Since time was now under control, weather decided to throw us a curve. In the night, the winds began howling and squealing, throwing dust where one would think dust couldn’t go. I slept poorly, listening to the gales. No way this could be happening, I thought… not after finally getting the clock by the gongs. Gazing out our motel window, I discover the morning light, defused and thick with fine sand and dust. I went for coffee and good sense, but found only coffee. Gary rose and we packed and left by 7:30.

Morning winds

A very cold road

Strom Shadow and storm ahead

The trip home is fraught with challenge. Wind tried to rearrange the close contact we wish to keep with our motorcycles. More wind tried giving us the road shoulder up close and personal. Wind fortunately fails in its attempt at removing us from the road, so the huge diesel trucks on Highway 95 join the campaign, sending gusts from yet another direction. My shoulders are stiff with stress and my fingers have begun retreating as cold-induced numbness moves in. I need warmth.

The need to stop every few miles, between fill-ups, becomes a survival requirement. My body is going on strike. My lips are blue with signs of hypothermia. I no longer care to go home. I no longer care to go anywhere. Lola, my V Star, agrees with me and we roll to a stop in the old mining town of Goldfield.

Goldfield is quite picturesque on a good day. Today, though, it is taking on a Stephen King type small-town façade. Our waitress provides some humor and a big smile telling us that yesterday it was 80 degrees. Thanks, I needed to know that, when the only thing over 80 degrees on me is my aorta. I am closer to ice than to steam. I am so cold that if I stop moving I am certain I will fully congeal and turn completely solid, all my liquid succumbing to the dictates of physics. I sip my coffee and read the bulletin board, shuffling in front of it for fear that stopping will let the freeze have its way. For sale: Horses. For sale: Trucks. Upcoming events: Rummage sale, art festival, poker run. For rent: One bedroom furnished apartment. Ok…I can do that. Goldfield is breathing and Stephen King is renting an apartment. Yep, you go home Gary, I will remain here.

No go. He loads me on my bike and we again head north making several stops where my fingers flirt dangerously close to my vtwins in an attempt to steal some warmth. At this point my core is the only thing surviving this madness. My legs, arms, feet, fingers and toes have all but checked out. I coerce them onward with these teasingly rapid warm-up stops. Again I defer to the clock as time ticks away. It snickers and I ignore it.

We arrive in Tonopah, stopping to warm up at a gas station. Three other riders from Indiana have joined us at the station, also aiming to thaw. They are wearing half helmets without face covers and all have scabby windburn. I make mental note to never ride without my full-face helmet, never ever.

On to Coaldale, then Mina and a quick stop at a very surreal general store/gas station, then to Luning and Hawthorne. Past Hawthorne and the strange military test fields, we approach the Walker River Canyon and see an amazing storm brewing. I know now what Dorothy felt as she and Toto gazed upon the billowing tornado. We ride directly into the storm.

The storm gathers

Clouds forming along the ground

This one delivers snow

As snow fell on my helmet all I could think about was my rapidly aging rear tire that undoubtedly had much less tread than at the beginning of our journey. I sincerely doubted that the Indian reservation around Schurz was going to offer much of a solution in the way of V Star tires. I don’t dwell on tire disaster and instead ride on through the wind and snow, which, lucky for us, is patchy and fleeting.

I am unsure at what time I realized that I was NOT going home on this day. I am still riding behind Gary who I know is as frustrated and tired of this continual challenge as I am. But he is male and by nature warmer than I. Within one split second of our arrival in Fallon I know that going home is no longer an option for me. I could NOT ride over Donner summit on I-80. I knew it would be much colder there, after all I grew up in this area, we studied the Donner party, I could only envision the horror!

Nope, I got out the trusty cell phone as we gassed up and called my old friend Mike hoping his guest room was vacant and ready to receive one chilled pal. I left voice mail and Gary and I parted ways reluctantly, but part we did. I headed to Carson City and he headed off to scoff at the Donner party.

Well, my ride could almost conclude here except for the 20 miles I had to ride — through a snow storm — to get to Dayton, NV. Then the few short miles from Dayton to Carson City was like a free fall, smooth and quick. Mike had the fireplace blazing after receiving my message and I arrived with a bottle of wine in hand. I spent the next hour within 2 feet of the fireplace and sipped my red wine. A fantastic meal was presented and I had a wonderful warm evening with Mike and his lovely wife and feisty little dog. Around 8:30 PM I phoned home hoping that Gary had an uneventful trip over the summit and down into the Sacramento Valley. He deserved a break, in the weather that is. I got a hold of him and he sounded tired but satisfied and understanding that I could not even consider the trip over I-80 that evening.

The clock said 11 PM and cried victory while I sneered at it and lay down in the world’s most comfortable bed laden with down comforter and pillows. Sleep finds me, giving me only moments to plan for obtaining a new tire and riding the final 110 miles to my front door. I dream of warm Barbados and hot cabana boys.

Wednesday morning is cold but sunny. I gather my gear, give thanks to my hosts and head toward Reno and Michael’s Reno Power Sports. They are quite busy, however they make time to squeeze in my Star and replace the tire. They are wonderful, friendly and competent and chuckle at my tale of tales. They exchange knowing glances regarding the ever-changing weather through the desert, for each of them has been caught once or twice.

I mount my now ready steed and head to I-80 and the awaiting summit. The Donner party becomes a fading memory as I ride confidently by Donner Lake. The road is clear and the wind is light, however the air is quite cold. I make great time stopping only once for warm up and a quick bite. As I descend into the Sacramento Valley, the welcomed warm air massages me. I pull into our driveway around 5PM and smile to myself. The clock is still not my friend, but today has rendered me timeless. As I enter the house, some deep recess of my brain secretly considers the next trip.