For Challenge Question #13, “How many miles did Patrick travel on this motorcycle trip?”
The answer is 2,641 miles.
The closest answers submitted were:
For the last 10 days I have ridden my old 1985 Yamaha V-max through cold winter winds and over two thousand miles on Interstate 10 West. I’m on my way back to California after spending Christmas with my family in Alabama.
This is the first time I’ve ridden a long distance in wintertime, and each day I’ve learned a bit more about keeping warm while being blasted by the cold on the open road. I’m wearing 4 long-sleeve shirts, 3 pair long underwear, thick socks from Christmas, a sweater, leather jacket, and leather pants.
Now just a few hundred miles separate me from my home in San Francisco. However, the TV back at the Super 8 Motel this morning showed large blotches of green and yellow on the weather radar across California – the remnants of a large storm system that has just ravaged the entire Bay Area with torrential rain and hurricane force winds. When I checked my email, I found messages flurrying back and forth between colleagues about power outages. Rosana in HR was even ordering pizza delivery for the entire company so that no one would have to go outside.
I’m on the road now and looking down the line of advancing stripes, but my mind is going over each compartment in the duffel bag and backpack behind me, searching for some forgotten item that might not be wrapped in a plastic bag. “So long as the laptop is dry, I’ll be fine”, I reassure myself.
The bright red waterproof jacket and rain pants flap playfully in the wind at my elbows and calves. I bought the combo for $30 at Walmart back in Arkansas just for an occasion like this, and now it will have a chance to prove itself.
The road stretches ahead through the flat desert east of Los Angeles. It’s still afternoon, but thick clouds already darken the western sky. A single streak of pale blue is the only sign of the battle between hot sun and cold clouds that rages above. The clouds are winning.
The air is pungent with the clean, spicy smell of desert shrubs that have been shriveled by months of heat into thin, dry, dusty limbs — then suddenly revived by a wash of clean water. The pavement scrolls dark with wetness. It has rained here recently.
The wind grows. It pushes against my forehead and roars past the sides of my helmet. The sound of the engine is now a distant purr in comparison. I lean the weight of the V-max into the crosswind pushing from the left and continue ahead.
I can see a downpour ahead in the distance – a thick white sheet that drops from a heavy dark cloud, just to the left of the highway. The direction of the wind will probably push it across the road in front of me. It’s a race to beat it across the road now. I ease on more throttle and the V-max growls up to speed.
A volley of light rain spreads over me. I can feel the cool of the rain against my chest and front of my shoulders. It would be much colder if I hadn’t stuffed a “Hothands” warming packet into the front of my collar. The little chemical warming packets have been a new discovery for me on this trip. Once exposed to air, they start an exothermic chemical reaction. The cold air against my scarf and neckerchief searches for a way down my neck, but the harder and faster the air blows against the warming packet, the more it reacts and the hotter it becomes. I love the little packets so much that I’ve stuffed seven of them in my gloves, boots, and shirt.
It looks at though the downpour has won the race, and I prepare to plow through it on the road ahead of me, but then the long highway turns gradually to the right and heads away from the column of rain. Now I’m headed northwest. It appears that I will avoid the worst of it.
Then a cool chill sneaks under my clothes and up my side. I ignore it for as long as possible, then the discomfort finally forces me to pull over. My jacket belt has slipped down, allowing a draft in. I loosen the belt, then cinch it back up over my waist. Wait for a break in traffic, then I’m back on the road.
The road curves and winds up and down through some hills. Now the heavy artillery starts – I can feel the thumping of raindrops against my knees, even through the leather and all the layers of long underwear. Big raindrops smack against the plastic faceshield of my helmet. They try to cling on, but I’ve coated the faceshield with Rain-X. I turn my head briefly to one side, and the wind wipes off the droplets to clear my vision.
Finally, familiar landmarks begin to appear – Tracy, Livermore, Dublin… the roadway seems more and more familiar. Now I know the turns in the road before I get there, and can relax a bit. At last I’m past the toll plaza and crossing the Bay Bridge. The welcome lights of San Francisco spread out before me.
I arrive back at the apartment, warm and dry, and collapse on the couch. All the bags are finally unloaded from the V-max, and it rests unburdened and safely parked in its new spot in the garage. Outside, I know a great restaurant just down the street for dinner, and at my favorite coffeeshop there will be a wooden bench in a corner by the window that is perfect for writing a travel story.
Arriving late in Phoenix after a long day of riding, I stop for some gas before arriving at the house of my buddy Darrell. Unfortunately, I am so tired that I neglect to put down the kickstand before I do so.
As if in slow motion, the V-max leans to the left and thuds on the ground. All 618 pounds of the motorcycle come to rest squarely on one point, snapping off the end of the gear shift lever!
There is just enough left that, if I press inward with the side of my foot, I can snag the end of the lever with the rim of my boot and still change gears. In this fashion, missing every other gear shift, I limp over to Darrell’s house.
In the morning, I make a few phones calls from Darrell’s place. The part will cost about $100, but it will have to be shipped in, and will take about a week. I search further, and a conversation with a guy that runs a scrap yard leads me to a guy named Dave. He owns a welding shop Fast Track at 1734 E. Main St, Suite 9. Dave says he’ll weld it back together if I remove the part.
This is the entrance to Dave’s shop.
Inside, Dave welds and creates all sorts of custom motorcycles frames. For $20 he welds my aluminum gear shift level back together, and it looks good as new.
Dave notices my rear tire is worn and recommends that I replace it before proceeding across the desert to the east. He cautions that shred truck tires and other road hazards could flat my tire, and there are no tire shops for miles and miles.
Dan and Kelly, two customers in Dave’s shop, call a friend that owns a tire shop, and an hour later, the V-max has a new rear tire.
Leaving Phoenix, I hit stop & go traffic, and without cool air flowing over the radiator, the temperature of the V-max starts to rise. The needles climbs gradually toward the red mark. It hesitates for a moment, then proceeds into the red zone. Normally a cooling fan will activate at that point, but I don’t hear the cooling fan come on. Traffic is bumper to bumper and virtually at a standstill. Suddenly a cloud of steam drifts up from the engine, and I force my way through traffic over to the shoulder in a tunnel.
A brief look finds that the steam is coming from antifreeze boiling over through the coolant reservoir and spilling down on the hot engine.
Nothing much to do but wait for the motorcycle to cool and take pictures.
After about 20 minutes, it is cool enough to go again, but traffic is still stop and go. I ride a little bit further then let it cool again. I do this a couple more times.
Rather than risk overheating again in stop & go traffic, I decide to install a switch that allows me to override the thermostatic sensor and power the cooling fan manually.
I see a Home Depot and pull off the highway.
Just testing the voting machine
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