I didn’t start questioning my decision to not wait for an `05 Yamaha FJR1300 with the ABS option as the whipping rain turned into sheets of sleet punctuated with pea-sized hail. But when I saw the inch or two of fresh snow ahead, I seriously reconsidered that decision.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. That was the morning of day two of the trip that started nicely enough in Willow Park, TX on Saturday, April 23. This was to be the first serious trip on Pearl since I got her late last summer. The plan was to take two days to ride out to see my son, Rob, in Page, Arizona then spend a few of days riding around the northern Arizona, Southern Utah, Colorado area with him before heading back home. I packed a bag of tools along as well to help Rob do his first service on the BMW R1100RSA he’d gotten last fall.
It was cool but clear when I left at 07:45 Saturday. The least enjoyable part of the trip is the first and last days as they are almost completely consumed with just getting’ out of Texas! So, I settled in for a 180-odd miles of I-20 West. It appears the FJR is equally adept as a mileage disposal unit as her predecessor, Marlene the `94 R1100RSA. ( Motorcycle Vacations)
Headed north towards Lubbock, runnin’ a little hot, enjoyin’ bein’ off the slab, I have a chance encounter with one of Texas’ finest just past Justiceburg (no, really, look it up…). I was headed north on US-84 and he was headed south. I glanced down at the speedo as we came abreast. As he flicked past, I saw the roof lights come on and immediately chopped the throttle, hit the right turn signal and braked to a quick stop on the shoulder.
I left both hands on the grips and waited for him to approach. He made a wide, round about approach eventually walking towards the front clutch-side of the bike. As he started speaking, I told him that between the helmet and earplugs, I couldn’t understand him.
After taking off my Aria and removing the earplugs, we settled into the usual give-and-take conversation. I don’t know if it was my compliant demeanor, my sparkling conversation or the Volunteer Firefighter decal on my windshield but he ended up giving me a warning. As he was about to return to his cruiser, I asked him what his radar had actually indicated. He asked me what my speedo showed. I replied “78.” He replied, “76” and added, “That’s odd, most people’s speedo’s read slow, not fast…”
An hour after noon, I crossed the border into New Mexico, still headed West towards Fort Sumner, the legendary (and controversial) final resting place of William Bonney, aka Billy the Kid. From there it was but a short jaunt north to the first overnight stop in Santa Rosa. Day One, seven-and-a-half hours and 512 miles down.
Watching the weather channel Saturday night, I got a taste of what was to come. Although I’d kept an eye on www.weather.com, there had been no indication of this kind of precipitation and certainly nothing about frozen precipitation. Once again I’m reminded that TV weather forecasters are the larval stage of politicians. The impending weather forced me to change plans for the second day. I had planned to ride up through Angel Fire to see the “Shadow of the Blades” memorial, but the thought of crossing the tail end of the Rockies in sleet and snow had no appeal so I choose a more southern route, once again heading west on I-40 through Albuquerque and Gallup before turning back north at Flagstaff to Page. I was hoping this route would keep me south of the frozen rain and get me to the frozen margaritas quicker. Nope…
Having layered two long-sleeve shirts and a sweatshirt inside my Aerostitch Roadcrafter, overlaid with a light rainsuit, I pulled on my Tourmaster “water-proof” gloves and set off in a light drizzle. As I swept up the curving on-ramp, I got the first indication that all was not going to be well when the oil light came on. Now, I always, always, always do a check of the bike’s vitals on trip mornings and I was pretty darn sure Pearl had plenty of 15-50 to keep her happy. Still, I slapped the clutch, hit the kill switch and coasted to the shoulder of the Interstate. Climbing off and hoisting her up on the centerstand, I kneeled in the wet gravel to peer at the oil sight glass. Yup, halfway between the center and the top. Good to go. Cautiously I started the engine again. No oil light. For the next half hour, I kept at least one eye on the instruments. My concentration was focused as much on looking for that first red flicker as on the road. Until it started to sleet. Then hail. And finally snow. As the pea sized hail pelted me, I focused more of my attention on the road ahead. In particular, on looking for an overpass or anything that would let me get out of the weather. No such luck.
Somewhere in the midst of the Laguna Indian Reservation I hit the snow. Not finding any shelter, I’d been keeping my speed up so the rain, sleet and hail would flow around me to some degree. Snow changed that plan dramatically! Even though I’m a Texas boy, I’ve had experience riding in the snow in Wyoming and Colorado winters.
Of course, that was in the `60’s.
When I was a teenager.
On a variety of much lighter, less powerful bikes.
Now the wisdom of the years had me tucking behind the first 18-wheeler to pass me and quickly getting into the tracks his duals cut in the fresh snow.
Around Grants, I was out of the snow with only freezing rain and sleet to contend with. Over the next hour or so I found a great use for the electrically adjustable windshield on the Yamaha. As the ice built up on my face shield, I’d lower the windshield until the windblast cleared the slush and I could see reasonably well again. Then I’d raise the windshield back up to block some of the cold and rain. I guess it was along this stretch that I realized my “water-proof” gloves no longer were. Heck, they’re only about fifteen years old. It’s hard to get good gear nowadays… On the o ther hand, my Sidi Sympatex GT boots kept my feet dry if not exactly warm. By the time I reached Gallup, I’d had it and found a `motel with the light on’ for the night. Day Two, six hours, and only 252 miles.
Monday dawned cool but dry and I headed west to Flagstaff. I was a bit behind but made good use of the higher speed limit on the New Mexico and Arizona sections of Interstate. I’d called Rob the night before and told him about the changed schedule, promising to call him in the morning so we could arrange to meet and ride into Page together. The closer I got to Flagstaff, the worse the clouds looked. From pearl gray to leaden, they were pregnant with precipitation as I climbed into Flag. Turning north on US-89, I could see clearing skies ahead and rejoiced! As I cleared the mountains, I pulled to the side of the road to call Rob. Ooops! No signal on the cell.
“Can you hear me now?”
“No.”
Locals claim US-89 between Flag and Page is one of the deadliest roads in the Southwest. Fortunately I didn’t run into any of the reputed drunks that make it their primary crashing grounds. What I did find was increasingly beautiful land. Not in the pretty sense of Colorado pine forest or Northeastern leaf peepers, but in a ruggedness, a sparse barrenness that’s as elementally beautiful as a `57 Sportster or an old /5. In many ways, it reminds me of the Big Bend area of Texas, another place that I enjoy immensely. When you’re riding through country like this, you become very aware of your place in the universe. That is, if you’re aware at all.
I rolled into Page a little after two in the afternoon, stopped at the first gas station I came to and called Rob, leaving him a message that I was in town and where to meet me. Not fifteen minutes later, he came tearing up on the RS. After short greetings, we headed out to drop off luggage and tools at his place. Sipping a tall glass of cool water, Rob asked what I’d laike to do with the rest of the afternoon. “Ride!” I said and we were off!
Backtracking south a bit on US-89, we dropped down onto US-89 Alternate, headed for Lee’s Ferry and Marble Canyon. Sweeping curves parallel the Colorado River below Vermillion Cliffs. Watching my son gracefully arc the Beemer in a solitary waltz before two-stepping in the twisties. My helmet is full of laughter and my heart is filled with joy. It just doesn’t get much better than this. We head back to Page to clean up and get a bite to eat. Monday’s certainly been a better day.
Tuesday morning, drinkin’ coffee on the porch and scratchin’ the dogs. We head out for a Burrito breakfast and I find a chorizo and egg burrito that’s only slightly smaller than my tankbag. Stop at the auto supply store for 90-wt gear oil then head back to Rob’s to service his RS. Since Rob hadn’t had the pleasure of a BMW Service and Inspection we settled in for an enjoyable morning of tuning and learning. AS the RS was stone cold, we started by checking valve clearance, an easy enough job with the cylinders sitting out in the open. I did the throttle side valves while Rob watched and asked questions, then he did the left side. We buttoned `er up and headed out for a little route through Jacob Lake to Kanab, UT, looping back through the Glenn Canyon Recreation Area and coming back into Page from the North. Unfortunately, about 50 miles into the ride, the center valve cover gasket on the clutch side sprung a small leak and we had to ease back to Page. That gasket is easy to nick and you don’t find out until you spend some time above 4500 RPM. Of course, there’s no BMW dealer closer than Scottsdale, Vegas, or Grand Junction, all at least a couple hundred miles away. I keep a spare of both valve cover gaskets. In my shop. At home. 1100-odd miles away. I’m bummed. Rob’s bummed. We make an attempt to seal the tiny cut, to no avail. So, we decide to do the next best thing, go to The Dam Bar!
A couple of life lessons from The Dam Bar: First, their draft bock is cold, tasty and oh so smooth. Two, their horseradish sauce will clear sinuses at 100 paces. Three, the river rafters who hang out there work hard, party hard and make an old man feel his age. Around midnight-thirty, I ooze into bed.
Wednesday morning we drink coffee till around ten and discuss alternatives. My feet are beginning to get the wandering itch and Rob has things to do before his first 12-day raft trip come Monday. A quick hug and I’m back on the road, picking up US-160 up through Mexican Water to Shiprock, NM. The weather was turning spotty again and I’d had my share of moisture for the week so I dropped south on the old US-666, now PC’d into US-491, to Gallup then beat it east to Santa Rosa for the night.
Thursday morning, my next door neighbor in the motel is loading his car. It’s 04:00. He feels the need to look and unlock the car with his remote each time he brings out a bag. He has at least four bags. About the time I’m fixin’ to park his remote, he drives off. I can’t get back to sleep and the motel doesn’t start the coffee `til 06:00. After a quick shower, I pack the tank bag and head down the road to the truckstop. I drink coffee waiting for the sun. By 07:40, the sun’s making a little light and a little heat and I’m ready to head to the house. There’s a certain point on my trips where I’m only interested in one thing, getting home. Coffee and a breakfast biscuit in Muleshoe. Gas in Post. Water in Cisco and I’m sittin’ on the back porch with a Jack-on-the-rocks by quarter after four.
Total miles about 2600, I reset the trip odometer accidentally so I’m guessing a little. Mileage was 45 on the first tank and improved to 51 on the last tank with a 55 mpg thrown in for good measure. I guess the FJR really breaks in and loosens up around 8k miles, I know the shifting improved. Other than the one oil light anomaly, Pearl ran flawlessly, hauling me and my stough up hill and over dale without even breathing hard. I do believe she’s gonna be a good traveling companion.