On a Steel Horse I Ride

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Starting your morning with Mr. Eastwood is a hell of a way to set the tone for the rest of the day. To many who fancied cap guns over cootie-ridden girls as kids, he is considered to be the quintessential man's man even still to this day (I want to grow up to be the cranky old guy he played in Gran Torino - him or Dos Equis' spokesman, the Most Interesting Man in the World). Be that as it may, in all his iconic spaghetti westerns, the measure of his - for lack of better word - badassness cannot be credited to him alone. His characters are but the stuff of fiction but surely, what of the beasts of burden who shouldered all that greatness? They must've been equine characters of merit as well. If it weren't for the hero's trusty steed, where would he or she be? Just something I thought about throughout the next couple of days.

I managed to get some journaling done before breakfast, which by the way had been the tastiest breakfast I had since the start of the trip. I made sure Carolyn knew it with a fat tip, taking back only a dollar from the change. Asking for the marker and staple behind the counter, I participated in a decade's old Middlegate tradition...

Stapling the signed dollar to the bar's ceiling was no easy task for there wasn't much room in all it's square footage. Be that as it may be, I joined the ranks of many interesting patrons such as one bill signed by Aerosmith's rock star Steven Tyler just a few bucks away. What he was doing way out here is anyone's guess. How the tradition started isn't all too known either but the theory about the practice is that if you ever made it back to Middlegate and you were broke, at least you'd have a buck waiting for you to score you one cold beer.

I'll miss the place but it was time to move on. I'm sure it'll be just the same as I left it if I ever make it out here again someday.

Chance and I sallied forth eastward again but not more than a mile down the road did an offensive smell strike at my nostrils which cued me to only one thing. We pulled over towards a ditch where a van was parked. Respectfully, I took my helmet off and greeted the famous tree.

Here lies the Shoe Tree. The story of the tree is best told by one of Middlegate's owners in person but this snippet from a Los Angeles Times article lamenting a slice of Americana comes close:

Fredda Stevenson sized up the despondent young man who'd slunk into her remote watering hole on U.S. Highway 50. He was thirsting for beer and, as Stevenson learned, advice.

His new bride, he grumbled, had blown all their cash on slot machines in Reno. Then they'd sped east through 100 miles of sagebrush and hills as dark and lumpy as mud pies. They camped down the road from Stevenson's bar, near a large cottonwood tree that had inexplicably thrived in Nevada's badlands. The couple started quarreling.

She threatened to walk home. He snatched her shoes, hurled them into the cottonwood's branches and said: Go ahead. Try. He stormed off with the car and ended up two miles away, at Old Middlegate Station. He polished off two beers before listening to Stevenson's sage counsel:

"You want to be married for the rest of your life? You better learn to say 'I'm sorry' now."

As Stevenson told it, the groom shuffled back and apologized. Then, at his bride's insistence, he hurled his own shoes into the tree.

That was in the late 1980s. Ever since, other passersby have pulled over and added their footwear — worn-out sneakers and too-tight pumps, ballet slippers and snowshoes. Horseshoes knotted with baling twine. Plastic stilettos from brothel courtesans (or so locals claim).

I read about it before my trip and thought I'd bring my old work dress shoes as an offering to the tree but I soon found out it was cut down... Nevertheless, I should have known better that the American spirit is a resilient one!

Meet the Shoe Tree 2! What were the odds that another one of these trees happened to be right next to the old one in the middle of a desert that didn't have many to begin with!

Shucks! I only brought the pair I was wearing and it'd be a cold day in hell before I surrendered my adventuring boots!

The couple that owned the van concluded taking their photos and we chatted about the tree among other things. They were on their way to San Francisco so I suggested making sure to take a load off at Middlegate. In exchange, they wrote down directions to a special hot springs not known to many just east of the next town on my way. Before we wished one another bon voyage, we shared anecdotes about our means of transportation. Apparently their quirky van had broken down three times already but at the most serendipitous times, not unlike the one from Little Miss Sunshine! Despite the husband being an owner and mechanic of classic Porsches, the both of them expressed a love and appreciation for their beat up old van. I knew the feeling.

I had a little over 500 miles to cover before reaching Bonneville and every few miles I'd look at Chance, feel, and listen to her in amazement that she not only got me this far but was up for the miles ahead. I hadn't been the emotional type in the last five years or so but whenever I heard her engine work hard for me... I'd hate to admit it after just mentioning the movie icon of masculinity, but sometimes I'd genuinely want to lean into the tank and embrace it. Maybe I got the mushy impulse from my girlfriend who often "pets" the interior of vehicles as a way of thanking the machine. No, now that I think about it, I've always had an affinity with two wheels since I could remember.

My first memories are of my red and white tricycle which I insisted on riding everywhere. Then there was always the issue of taking the Philippine's second most popular mode of public transportation also known as tricycles though they actually were just motorcycles with sidecars attached... Where passengers were normally supposed to sit. Apparently my mother said I would make a fit if I didn't get to straddle right between the driver and the handles, pretending to be steering every time.

Then in preschool there was the coolest playground in which there were several small playhouses representing shops, banks, and other establishments in which some of the toddlers could role play being the shopkeeper or bank teller. The other kids could take a few training wheel-equipped bikes to ride around to each and pretend to do whatever grown ups do. Naturally, I went straight for the bikes. Although, whether I actually played pretend properly with the rest of the kids is lost to memory.

My first bicycle in the States was a 7th or 8th birthday gift actually dressed up as a motorcycle. Albeit the plastic fairing was made to look like one of those Japanese imports that I've come to scoff at and call "Power Ranger cycles," the seeds were being sewn. And yes, for the record, I was not only one of those kids who attached baseball cards to the rear wheel's spokes but I also devised rigging small cardboard boxes as well. I found they gave a more authentically robust sound of an engine.

Biking around and exploring my backyard and neighborhood was my favorite thing to do all throughout my youth next to "expeditioning" on foot but I don't think had an endearing connection with a two-wheeler until Napoleon. I got him in my first year of college as a long-awaited gift from my mother. It was the first time I ever gave an inanimate object a name.

Napoleon was named after the first and last horse I ever took riding lessons on. The name fit because she was a traditional single speed cruiser from the 50s that enjoyed "conquering" the hills around where I lived and saw no road, or lack thereof, as a deterrence to traverse. We went everywhere together, whenever and hell, we'd even bike in the snow to school. He held his own keeping up with those fancy multi-gear, ultra-light, style-less cycles and made sure to prove it any chance he got. You could say it had a complex by the same name.

I think it was then that I started giving the metal and and rubber attributes of horses which I had come to admire at the time. It was no longer just a bicycle but a steed. I think around the same time I actually spent months writing an unfinished semi-fictional story about a boy and his horse, inspired by relationships between riders and their hoofed partners like Frank Hopkins and Hidalgo.

Through triumphs and accidents that bond continued to be reinforced and I'd rarely be seen outside without him. When I transferred to the University of Washington, which was leagues further than my bikeable domain, I took after one of my most highly regarded role models, Howard Hughes, and spent a summer attempting to convert Napoleon into a motor-powered bike. Unfortunately this was around the time when I began to get swept up in a faster pace of life and the project's still collecting dust in the garage. When Chance came along, she took on the relationship I had fostered with the bicycle and ran with it. Over the years the motorcycle earned my trust and friendship in a way that was different than the casual way many men baby their vehicles like a trophy to be admired and shown off.

What Chance meant to me would reveal itself to the both of us the following day. In the meantime, the miles were long towards the end of the highway but my ride was insistent on carrying on the whole way through. Whenever I thought stopping for a while for lunch or entertaining the idea of visiting those hot springs I just got the impression from bike that she was willing to keep going if I was. As crazy as it sounds I needn't make an effort to give the bike personification because sometimes it just speaks to me though my gut, if that makes sense. You just have to take a chance and listen!

It wasn't quite a lonely as I thought it'd be! In case you're wondering, I seldom talk back to it but when I do, it's usually under my breath so no one thinks I'm crazy.

After five hours and about 300 miles later we reached the end of the Lincoln Highway...

We were actually about 200 miles directly south of Bonneville but there was a national park that I had to see and not to mention a historic stretch of pavement to complete for pride's sake. We rolled into a motel called the Border Inn. It was quite literally on the stateline of Nevada and Utah. The office was located on the Nevada side while the rooms were actually in the state next door. My bed was as far east as I'd allow myself to venture that day for we still had business in the Silver State.

As I checked in I spotted a small book that I had wished I had picked up at the start of the highway. It was a tongue-in-cheek survival guide with descriptions of the stops to make and places to get stamps. When you got them all, it could be sent to the state's tourism commission and you'd be mailed back an official certificate for surviving the trek much like the Spanish pilgrimage. If I did, I'd make sure it wasn't notarized with my name; all I did was hold the throttle.

The next morning I woke up on the wrong side of the bed. No, I was in Utah but I was rather grumpy. I think the last couple of places I stayed at spoiled me. It was the most I paid for accommodations thus far and it definately didn't seem worth it. They certainly took advantage of the fact there wasn't another motel for at least 80 miles in either direction. These caves better be worth the detour, I grumbled.

A couple days before the adventure began, I was antiquing in downtown Tacoma, looking for anything that might be useful for the trip. The only things I walked away with, however, were a pair of Nevada/Utah road maps from the 1950s that I thought would be interesting to reference and see what may still be around. One of the points of interest was the famous Lehman Caves just before crossing the border at Baker.

Researching it only that morning must've added to the day's bad start as I found out exploring the caves required not only a tour guide but at designated times in which reservation were recommended for weekends. I had to actually look up what day it was since the sun was the only reference to time I had been using lately. Aww, Sunday? The next tour was in an hour and the other not until later in the day. There was no way I'd kill the day by sticking around at this overpriced dump but packing methodically and getting saddled up has averaged nearly an hour. Looking over the map, it calculated the ride over to be thirty minutes. Just then, I caught a glimpse of the bike parked outside and thought I'd try my luck.

The packing and mounting up was done so furiously that I almost forgot to check out! Throwing the keys at the office door would've matched the hospitality I received but I kept my cool. As soon as I casually exited, I hopped into the seat and as Gandalf would exclaim, I demanded Chance to show us the meaning of haste!

The last time I sped like this was racing through technical roads on the way up to see Mt. St. Helen's before the observation deck closed. As I took a shortcut through a prairie I inadvertently scared a heard of young antelope! Their speed was inspiring, actually! Somehow we reached the park with 20 minutes to kill and one slot left for the tour. The bike and I exchanged a figurative wink.

As much as I would rather explore on my own, you can't have the full American road trip experience without participating in a cheesy tour. Actually the guide was quite witty with his geological jokes which seemed to go above everyone else's heads save the older couple sitting next to me. The comical-looking fellow in the ranger hat actually managed to pick my spirits up from the ditch I was in earlier.

That hole up there was one of the original entrances before the tunnel was built. It would also be the last natural source of light until we exited an hour later.

Early on in the tour, the ranger simulated what the first cave tours back in the 1880s were like. Absalom Lehman was the first to discover the caves and commercialize them by charging a dollar for visitors to take a candle and explore. The cold temperature of the cave as well as the natural breeze made keeping the candle lit rather difficult, as the ranger demonstrated with a pair of original makeshift lanterns. Apparently, Lehman would come after you if you didn't emerge in 24 hours. We stood in the dark for only 20 seconds, which I found to be refreshingly peaceful but to others quickly escalated anxieties.

It was a surprisingly extensive labyrinth! I occasionally entertained myself by hastily navigating through some of the tighter and lower corridors as if I were the water that once flowed through. I must say, there were passages that required me to strafe through sideways. It made me wonder if disclaimers are given before the tour to the more average-sized Americans. The chambers were named after certain events that took place there like the Chapel where a couple was married in the 1920s.

In the Music Room, the stalagmite and stalactite formations developed in a way that when struck would produce a sound much like a hammer would strike the wires in a piano.

One of the larger chambers used to host parties and camp outs for Boy Scouts.

Those lines indicated the original floor surface. In the earlier years of touring the cave, one would have to crawl on their stomachs to get through this portion of the cavern. Later, paths were created by destroying some of the features such as making a walkable hallway in that last shot.

At the end of the tour, I was quite satisfied! Both the geological and human history of the Lehman Caves made the extra day, mileage, and shoddy motel well-worth the visit.

Having skipped breakfast and fueling up, we made our way back to Baker but not before visiting another archaeological site seen on the speedy ride to the national park.

To my dismay, it wasn't very impressive, mostly because there were no actual artifacts or ruins exhibited. Instead, representations of where walls stood were indicated by mounds on the ground. The actual structures were reburied for conservation purposes. Despite it all, it was interesting to read the trail guide which told the story of a still-mysterious native culture scientifically identified as the Fremont Culture. A recovered artifact of a carving in the shape of what appears to be a bird, used as a motif throughout the site, has become a symbol for the town of Baker.

The impromptu detour had my stomach grumbling, reminding me there was a couple smooshed Cliff bars at the bottom of one of the saddlebags. Satiated, I held out for the first real meal of the day by waiting until we got back on the Lincoln Highway to a town at the junction for the road we needed to head north on. This town of Ely was still 80 miles away and Chance wasn't going to risk it as she only had a range of about 150-160 miles on a full tank and the trip meter was already sitting at 80 since the last fill up.

Since the stop in Ely would just be for a quick lunch and nothing more, now was a good time to look the bike over for the next 200 miles of straight riding. Having done so much rocky dirt roads the other day, I needed to make sure nothing came loose from bags to bolts.

Over an hour later we made it to Ely, and tanked up again, myself included. My appetite came out of nowhere as I ordered a generous serving of Mexican food and didn't leave a grain of rice on the plate.

We aimed north for the first time since Golden Gate Bridge. The sign meant to have been pictured just now warned "Next Gas 124 Miles." Tally ho, to Bonneville we go!

Had I been in a car, I'm sure I would have fallen asleep and crashed, except the terrain was so featureless there wouldn't be anything to hit. Thankfully, being on two wheels keeps you fairly engaged with your surroundings at all times... Most times. The author to a best selling book written in the 70s known as Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance described the state of mind best:

In a car you're always in a compartment, and because you're used to it you don't realized that through that car window everything is just more TV. You're a passive observer and all of it is passing by you boringly in a frame.

On a cycle the frame is gone. You're completely in contact with it all. You're in the scene, not just watching it anymore, and the sense of presence is overwhelming. That concrete wizzing by just 5 inches below your feet is the real thing, the same stuff you walk on, it's right there, so blurred you can't focus on it, yet you can put your foot down and touch it anytime, and the whole thing, the whole experience, is never removed from immediate consciousness.

The book is actually less about Zen Buddhism or motorcycles than it is on philosophy so as true as his words are the one thing he fails to mention is how entrancing it can be to be immersed in your surroundings. A hundred miles north and just over twenty miles from the end of my first pilgrimage, the white horizon came into view.

I couldn't believe it! A place I had only read about and seen in pictures and movies was right there before my eyes! That initial feeling was indescribable but definitely overwhelming enough to warn me about being distracted. In a fervent effort to stop and pull over to take it all in an accident occurred...

It all happened so fast that the helmet-mounted camera only saw so much in the five second intervals it had been set to earlier. All I knew was I was standing and Chance had gone down. I must have been thrown off just in time. For my reader's sake I'll state now that I suffered nary a scratch but my well-being was the last thing on my mind at the time. The sound of her engine soon ceased and was replaced by my pounding heart reverberating inside my helmet. I stood there in disbelief and a series of emotions overtook me.

For a moment I almost didn't believe that was my motorcycle in the dirt for I had never seen it in such a disoriented state. Then next a moment of sadness. We were so close, I thought... Her home was just right there... But before pity could settle a surge of determination came over me...

Somehow I mustered the strength to lift some 600lbs upright without as much as one roar of an exhale! In doing so I noticed the gravel was soft like quicksand which revealed itself as the source of the crash. Quickly, I hlooked her over while trying to balance in the shifting earth and couldn't see any damages that weren't cosmetic. I had to get her off the slope before we toppled again so I hoped to God she would start.

My heart soared at the sound of the thunder erupting beneath me! She clicked into first gear without a hitch and steadily rolled us away from what I thought would not only be the end of our journey but the gravesite to a dear friend.

Wasting no time once we got on a level and sturdy ground, I got out of my helmet to get a closer look at her.

To my surprise, everything was intact, if not covered in dust. My fear was breaking the shifting lever which usually happens in low siding motorcycle crashes, severely damaging the gear box. I hadn't been in a motorcycle accident since taking the training course in which I actually high-sided and broke the bike pretty bad (I miraculously got away from that unharmed as well, even getting commendations on sticking the dismount). Everyone says everyone downs a bike once and I thought I got it out of the way with that loaner.

After much careful inspecting, she was deemed fine. Though the soft shoulder was to blame, it also provided Chance with a padded fall. Relief, at this point, was an understatement.

I imagine how my parents must be feeling in reading about this is similar to what I went through for Chance. It's by no means the same effect as losing a child but it sure as hell felt poignant enough. She had been my only companion on this trip so it broke my heart to see it laying there.

I babied her once we got back on the highway, slowly moving up the gears but no higher than the third. The wind wasn't deafening at that speed so I could actually here myself talking to her. The gratefulness I tried expressing to it for not only keeping me from harm but also getting back up just didn't seem adequate in English. As the road opened up before us with Wendover coming into view on the horizon, I felt her wanting to quit with the silly trot and burst into a sprint. Laughing to myself, I contended. We hadn't done a celebratory "ton" (100mph) since last year back home and I wasn't about to break any speed limits at any point in this journey, not to mention taking it easy on the engine in case there might have been internal damage.

Nevertheless, she sounded not only normal but seemed to convey to me that if I wanted to thank her properly, I'd put some wind in her sails. Either I was going crazy or my bike was somehow calling the shots now that it saved my limbs. Shaking my head, I wrapped the camera mounted on my helmet inwards out of the wind, couched towards the tank and opened up the throttle. The thrill of climbing to the speed that the T100 model is named after not only put a smile on my face but hoots and hollers exploded out as well as I had just been proven how trusty my steed really was.

In no time at all, we made it to Wendover - the only town for miles and home base for the Bonneville Salt Flats. We have arrived! It made me think of the roller coaster of an odyssey undertaken by Burt Munro all the way from New Zealand to a place he had always dreamed of.

As usual, I needed a place to stay and after having spent so much time in humble lodgings, I thought I'd celebrate the first pilgrimage's end with luxury. On the Nevada side, I parked in front of a huge, gaudy hotel/casino. The front desk painted a beautiful picture of one of their deluxe rooms that cost half what I paid just 200 miles directly south. I was almost sold until they noted that parking was in a separate multistory garage nowhere near the rooms.

My valiant companion was still in view from the lobby. I smiled and told the clerk, no, thank you. Just a block down the street and across the stateline into Utah was a hovel of a motel dubbed the Knight's Inn. In quixotic fashion I saw it as a suitable place for a knight errant and his Rocinante with a proper stable right outside my chambers.

We'll stick together, through and through.

That night I removed all the equipment from her. The next day while I wrote of what had transpired as of late, Chance enjoyed a day of rest. Today, she will receive the first wash since two summers ago and we'll go dancing on the salt flats.