20 Loves, Part 10: Motorcycle Road Trips

It's How We Roll

There's nothing like a motorcycling road trip with trusted, compatible, good friends. I'm writing this blog from The Road with my buddies. Life is good.

The Four Amigas: Laurie, from North Bend, OR; Virginia, of Litttlerock, CA; and Sylvia and me, from Bakersfield, CA. We have clocked hundreds of hours and thousands of miles in the saddle over the years, riding nearly every region of the USA and across Canada.

We all can be assured of these things: "Clutches out at 7:00" means right then or a few minutes earlier. Our bikes will be road-worthy, in the best riding condition possible. We will ride as a unit, safely and within the law. We will look out for each other. There will be copious laughter and bushels of fun and community laundry.

Last spring when we began planning this summer's ride to Billings, MT, excitement and anticipation of another trip together began building. The emails flew as the route through Yellowstone and Cody, WY, and accommodations along the way were decided. July, when we'd depart for the Women on Wheels(R) International Ride-In, sure seemed a long way off.

As with all long-awaited events, the day finally arrived. Clutches out and we were rolling at 6:53 a.m. on July 5.

Over the next few days the passing scenery filled, and mostly delighted, our senses. A golden strobe light effect through the early morning sunlit trees along the Umpqua River. Scorched, leafless stalks with ashen branches like otter whiskers stood tall on the fire-blackened roadside. As we rode through farmland, distant cathedrals became granaries surounded by silos, and man-made rainbows sprang from irrigation pipe spray. Cattle, with reddish-brown rumps and spines huddled around mounds of fodder. Real cowboys, sleek horses, and mighty buffalo in pastures. The majesty of the Grand Tetons and the wonder of Yellowstone.

Fresh-cut hay, rain-dampened earth, feedlots, smoke, rivers and stagnant ponds, and the sweetness of flowers took turns assaulting and soothing our noses.

We passed through towns with unfamiliar names: Brogan, Vale, Hammett, Chubbuck, Rainey, and Waipiti.

And, we met the friendliest people at every stop. There was the young Latino family of five from Houston who were in line in front of us at The Bunnery in Jackson Hole. The woman from Madison, Wisconsin, who struck up a conversation as she left our motel this morning. Travis from Ohio, who was sent to Idaho Falls to liquidate the stock of a car dealership that was going out of business.

We talked with the owner of the combination gas station, market, and cafe in Hammett. He apologized when we couldn't get breakfast there. The cafe had been closed because of slow business since irrigation equipment had replaced the 50 laborers who'd moved the pipes by hand and the men and their families had left the area to look for work. The weather had been a factor, too, with the high winds making it impossible for fishing enthusiasts to get their boats out onto the nearby reservoir. Times were tough in Hammett, but it hadn't seemed to break his spirit.

Yellow, diamond-shaped road signs warned us of hazards. We needed to watch out for wildlife crossing, frequent high winds, icy roads and falling (and fallen) rocks, as well as vehicles towing trailers. You can bet money that a pick-up or large SUV in this part of the country will be pulling a trailer loaded with a boat, ATVs, or farming equipment. All this is important knowledge for motorcyclists, traveling on four-inch-wide tires

All across Idaho and into Wyoming, our constant friend, the Snake River, showed up no matter which direction we turned. Its branches and forks crossed our path and surrounded us. I had a sense of being on the river itself as the high winding road that we followed alongside the water mimicked the sweeping ribbon of the Snake.

Three riding days gone. The ride, the road, the countryside, the sights and smells, the destinations, the four amigas. It's the best.

~ xoA ~