Words and Photos By Keith May
La Cave Restaurant in Newport Beach, California has been a favored Southern California steakhouse and lounge since 1962. Literally underground, the dim, warm light provides subtle illumination to red-vinyl booths filled with Orange County’s wealthiest alcoholics. Legend goes that La Cave was a favored haunt of John Wayne who lived nearby. A constant parade of hipsters and well-dressed curmudgeons make deals or drown sorrows around the vintage walnut bar. It’s a cozy setting for photographer Barry Hathaway and I to enjoy drinks and watch plots thicken.
“Was wonderin’ if you want to drive with me to Colorado Springs to see my Grandfather,” Barry asks tentatively. “Drive to Colorado? No thanks. Too bad your bike is in Europe or we could ride to Colorado. Then I might be interested,” I countered. Topic closed, we returned to inflated tales of previous conquest until last call.
Next day, Barry calls to say he has borrowed a Moto-Guzzi 1100 and only hours later, we’re hammer-down on I-15, running the gauntlet through Las Vegas. Colorado Springs, here we come. “Today we pay our dues!” Barry yells through the wind.
450 miles of baking desert later, we check into an adobe motel in Zion, Utah. After seven hours tucked in, flat out on my Suzuki SV650, I’m looking forward to a hot meal at a comfortable diner. Unfortunately, all we find is a grocery store, and endure cold sandwiches and warm salads in the deli aisle. “How do you feel about waking early to catch the sunrise?” Barry asks. “I’ll let you know tomorrow,” I respond. The sun rises without us, but we also miss freezing our ass off.
A twist of the throttle and we enter Zion National Park. Infinite formations of rock melt like candle wax across the horizon. The winding roads a welcome change from yesterday’s Interstate. Arched windows carved into tunnels offer a blurred glimpse of what lies ahead. Anticipation building, we exit into bright sunlight. Eyes quickly adjust to focus on dramatic panoramas of rock and pine. Seemingly in the blink of an eye, Zion is behind us. We consider turning back, but are anxious to see what lies ahead.
My compliments to America’s Bureau of Land Management as well as the D.O.T. Perfectly maintained highways snake gracefully through Bryce Canyon. A sea of boulders large and small defying gravity in abstract formations and intricate patterns. Bryce seamlessly becomes Escalante. Another priceless rock collection and more flawlessly maintained roads free of traffic. A gradual increase in elevation reveals groves of chalky, white aspens covering the rolling hillsides. Back at sea level, aspens are replaced again by rocks. Stopping at last in Hanksville, we check into another cheap motel, contemplate dinner and watch the sun go down before debating merits of seeing it come back up.
“Looks like rain…” I sarcastically observe opening the door to a crisp, cloudless morning.” “The only dark cloud is over your head,” Barry responds with impeccable timing.
An ignored treasure, Glen Canyon is heaven on Earth. While the majority of vacationers fish in Powell, party in Havasu or fill the Grand Canyon, time passes among these burnt sienna walls without interruption.
Running on fumes to Blanding. North to Monticello. East on 666 to 141. 90 to 145. 162 to 550. Crossing the Rockies on 50 and stopping finally in Salida where we call it a day.
This time Barry does wake me at sunrise. He’s anxious to see his Grandfather who lives in nearby Woodland Park, Colorado. Paul is a well-respected artisan of metal, wood and textiles, living in the home he built for his family two generations ago. The property is filled by his prolific work, surrounded by old-growth pines at the end of a dusty road. Paul’s health is failing and that’s why we’re here. “The secret to good coffee is good water.” he says. “Damn good water,” I reply. After quality-time with Paul, we motor on to Colorado Springs and part company while Barry visits the rest of his family.
In a greasy spoon called “Western Omelet” I meet Gary, a fellow rider. “You’re bike looks fast,” He comments, admiring the SV outside the window. “I have an XR for local mountain trails,” he adds. When I mention the beauty of our National Park System, his tone changes, regarding entry fees and fishing taxes. “They get you coming and going,” he says.
After checking into Garden of the Gods Inn, I walk down Colorado Avenue looking for cheer. Among touristy gift shops sits a historic roadhouse called The Meadow Muffin. Alone at the bar, I try to appear inconspicuous but the tattered roadmap in my lap is an easy giveaway. “It’s Happy Hour all day,” the bartender offers. Taking it as a sign, I watch the afternoon go by through a dusty window.
Next morning the motel clerk points out the baldness of my rear tire. On a tight schedule (and budget) I had been trying to ignore it. I do some calculations and when I check messages it only confirms that I need to get back to Costa Mesa. Since Barry needs more time with family, I head South on Friday, now flying solo.
Regardless of the balding tire, I choose a scenic route and glide onto Highway 25 South with dark clouds directly in my path. It really does look like rain this time. The ominous weather follows me to South Fork, where ice on Wolf Creek’s 11,000-foot pass forces an extended time out. I check into a cheap room and meditate on this new obstacle.
Saturday morning, I awake determined to cross the Wolf Creek summit, regardless of bald tire and icy impasse. Tentatively, I rumble up the slope, into the clouds. Swirling flakes surround me, slush and ice beneath me. Twenty miles of elevation ahead of me. My hands and feet are wet and numb, the extreme conditions slowing me to an idling crawl. Big rigs parked along turnouts weighing their own options, I note an absence of vehicles headed in the opposite direction and soon understand why. The SV stutters in agreement, and I reluctantly turn around. Back in South Fork staring at the map it appears the only route west is a detour, one hundred miles east. Swallowing my pride, I fold the map and accept my fate.
Wind blasts from all directions, only picking up speed in New Mexico. Now at 8,000 feet, dark clouds blanket the surrounding hillsides. Determined to make forward progress and going a bit nutty, actually. Yelling euphorically at the poor hand I’ve been dealt, wishing I was back at The Meadow Muffin. Upward and downward, upward and downward, reaching Santa Fe at 1:30. I enjoy a sandwhich and bake in the patio sun before heading on to Albuquerque. Extreme weather now behind, a new problem rears its head.
Without warning, the SV loses compression. No response from throttle, I downshift and stay on it. Surging forward, she reignites. The problem continues intermittently, but each time correcting itself. Limping to Albuquerque, where I call friends for remote diagnostics. Theories include: 1: vacuum hose kinked; 2: loss of cylinder; 3: electrical connections; 4: water in gas. I check hoses and connections then limp to a local parts store for fuel additive. Riding around the parking lot, the bike now sounds fine.
As I hit the onramp, the SV again falters. It’s now Sunday, so either I go for it, nursing her down the highway or lose another day waiting for shops to open Monday. I choose to push forward. The SV cooperates and after a hundred miles, I begin to relax. Happy to be moving forward. But, you guessed it, the SV stalls out again. I stay on the throttle and downshift, awaiting the now familiar surge of power. I begin inventing morbid scenarios; Broken down, leaving the bike, hitching a ride, returning to the bike, the bike gone. Flying home, defeated. I pay close attention to mile-markers and populated exits.
When I eventually arrive in Flagstaff I begin tearing the bike apart. Plugs? Fine. Filters? Fine. Hoses? Fine. Everything within reach appears sound. Tomorrow is Monday. Do I continue limping home, across the barren Mojave?
Barry calls from Colorado, enjoying his extended visit. He suggests I locate a mechanic nearby and replace that bald tire while I’m at it. Relieved to have a plan, I enjoy dinner downtown. There are worse places to be stuck than Flagstaff.
Monday morning, I locate a Suzuki dealership in the yellow pages and arrive promptly at 9am. But there’s no Suzuki dealer, instead a Hyundai lot. So, this is karma. With grim determination, I hit the onramp. I even allow myself enjoyment of a beautiful spring day, making it all the way to Seligman, California before trouble re-arises. The same routine: No power, downshift, throttle, eventual surge forward. No power, downshift, throttle, eventual surge forward. But now, in this barren desert, the bald rear tire has my full attention. Down to steel belt, I’m amazed it holds air. With a thin, flat profile, I feel every pebble. Confident that engine problems will reliably appear and disappear, morbid scenarios now involve exploding tires and loss of control. I ride with extreme caution and blind faith. Inching ever closer to salvation.
At the end of the day, I stutter into my garage, park the bike and call Barry to tell him that my days of spontaneous adventure are over. “Yeah, right,” he chuckles. “I guess that dark cloud followed you all the way home. I’ve seen nothing but clear skies and rainbows. And the Guzzi is running flawlessly. I’ll see you at the bar tonight.”
