I cry at movies. I also cry when I say goodbye to my sweetie for a year. Left home about 10:30am. Saying goodbye to Noemi was probably the most emotional and difficult thing I've ever had to do. Just taking a shower in the morning I started to cry. More tears as I donned my Aerostich and helmet after the obligatory departure bike photos.
In the weeks leading up to my departure, Noemi had experienced more emotiona ups and downs than I had, I guess the constant trip preparations which occupied my mind served to force thoughts of our impending separation from m mind. I occasionally wondered how Noemi viewed the lack of more frequent displays of emotion during those weeks.
My last image of sweetie was of her snapping a photo of me as I pulled out o the driveway and waved goodbye to her. I don't even really remember my exac thoughts at the time. Thoughts and fragments of thoughts were rushing throu my mind, while more tears welled up in my eyes. This was the moment I had s laborously planned for so many years, but I never pictured it being like thi either before I met Noemi or after. The mind is a wierd thing. Even though new she could not go on this trip with me, I think I held out hope until the end that she would change her mind, or we'd find a way for her to join me. After all, our 3 south-of-the-border trips have been among the most memorabl and enjoyable times together for both of us. While the thought of shortenin the trip, which may or not have permitted Noemi to join me, did cross my min selfishly perhaps, it was something I could not seriously consider. It woul have been a different trip; not the one I had dreamed of and planned for for so long. After all, my dreams are not Noemi's dreams.
I had to run to Cal to pick up a booklet of International BMW dealers and so fork preload washers. I thought I could compose myself by the time I got there and while there. At the parts counter Paul said, "So when are you leaving". I told him that I just said goodbye to N. and was heading south from there. I felt myself get a bit choked up, but managed to control it. Just then Kevin walked up and said "So when are you leaving?" I started to repeat the story, but couldn't control myself and just started crying. I heard Kevin say "are you all right" as I blurted out the rest, said "I'm sorry" and headed to the bathroom. On the way I heard Kevin say to Paul, somethig like "He just said goodbye to Noemi this morning? I couldn't handl that."
I managed to recompose myself, get my parts, say my goodbyes to Kari and the rest of the crew, along with receiving their best wishes, and headed out. No before getting the required departure shot in front of Cal's sign. Left around 11:30am.
Took 50 west to S. Lake Tahoe, and then to Ely in E. Nevada for the night. Was late (10pm) when I arrived so stayed at the KOA. KOAs are sort of like the Denny's of camping. I despise myself for staying there, but you pretty much know what you're going to get, and they're pretty consistent across the country.
Were a lot of late afternoon thundershowers in W. NV as I passed thru, but t road managed to follow the corridor of clear skies between most of the cloud Going thru 8-mile Mud Flats the road failed to avoid one particularly nasty thundershower, and I had about 15 minutes of pouring rain accompanied by strong side winds from the southwest. It was warm enough, and early enough the day, and I could see blue skies up ahead, so I didn't even stop to zip u my underarm vents or put the rain cover on the tankbag. As I climbed up the next ridge of low-lying mtns out of the mud flats the rain stopped and withi a half hour I was dry. The road avoided any furether thunderstorms for the rest of the day.
Since I was shooting to get to Ft. Collins on Friday to visit my sister, I decided to push across NV to Ely in the dark, avoiding the heat of the day a allowing me to cut south to S. Utah the next day, and go through Zion and Bryce National Parks.
Slept in till 9am. Then composed some replies to email which I hadn't had time to before I left. KOA office wanted $3 just to hookup my modem's phone line so I said screw it, knowing I would be at Janet's in another day. If I was south of the border I probably would have paid it.
Left camp around 10am. I had put about 280 high-speed, high-fuel-consumptio miles on the night before and hadn't gassed up yet. I was on the south eastern edge of Ely, headed SE, and thought I could make it to the next gas station. I never like to back-track if I can help it, even for a couple of miles back into town. But after riding 40 miles and then seeing a sign "Next gas 80 miles" I new that would be pushing it, given the speeds I had been going. So I turned around, and within 2 miles went on reserve. The last uphill into Ely, the bike stumbled a bit, but I made it. Put 11.2 gallons i the tank. It holds 11.8, but some quantity lies below the petcocks and is no readily available. I was lucky that time; and made a note to be a bit more sensible next time. Next time I won't be so lucky.
Quickly realized that due to times and distances involved, and if I hoped to get to Janet's on Friday, I could not afford to stop as I passed thru Zion a Bryce, and would have to content myself with absorbing the fabulous scenery from the bike's seat, and enjoy the splendid roads. This was not my first time thru the area, nor my last, so I could justify it.
Pushed on to a Nat. Forest campsite north of Escalante, arriving at dusk wit time to set up my tent before dark. Cooked my first dinner of the trip in t dark and hit thew sack about 9pm.
Got an early 7am start, knowing today would be mostly high-speed interstates if I was to get to Janet's today. Had about 120 miles of great roads and scenary as I headed north and then northwest to my unavoidable rendezvous wi I-70. From there it was about 390 miles to Denver and then another 70 or so to Ft. Collins. Blasted 80mph most of the way except for a few stretches thru the mtns.
Mileage suffered:~31mpg. Oil level only dropped about 1/8" on the dipstick. Up till then, at more reasonable speeds, it hadn't burned any.
Arrived Janet's about 4:30pm.
Bike has a bit of a wobble or head wandering at 70-80mph, but only when tank is about half full. I atttribute it to fuel slosh. When tank is full there is no room for fuel to slosh, and when empty, the amount of fuel is insuffucuent to cause wobble.
I must be out of riding shape; or getting old. I actually experienced numb-butt for the first time ever, where, how shall I say, ahh, parts of you buns get numb. I'm not sure if it was the shorts I was wearing, the heat an humidity of the 3 day ride, the long days (but by no means anywhere near my longest days - I've done several 1000 mile days without experiencing such effects), or a combination of the above. With 20000 or so miles ahead of me over the next year, I had visions of arriving in Tierra del Fuego buttless. So off I went to the local Ft. Collins REI to invest in a pair of bicycle shorts, the Lycra kind with a chamois pad or some-such material in the crotc since several riding buddies at home swear by them. Hopefully they'll produ the desired effect.
Tried dialing in long distance from Janet's, but couldn't make or keep a connection for more than 15 seconds. Got the modem to dial both the long distance # of my ISP and my calling card # automatically. Then tried dialin the number manually myself, but the same result - the connection would drop about 15 seconds. Also tried slower modem speeds, rather than letting the modem auto-select the speed. No matter. Certainly doesn't bode well for sending/receiving email from South America, if I can't even do it from the wilds of Ft. Collins. Gave up for the night.
Drove with Janet up to Pingree Park, 11000 feet up in the Rockies, where she did her bird habitat surveys this summer. In Colorado the term "park" is us to refer to a specific type of geological/ecological area, generally large, relatively open areas of meadows, wetlands, marshlands. etc. at high altitud in the Rockies, e.g., North Park, South Park. Did a couple of short hikes i the area. We drove up via a great paved twisty road along the Poudre (powde cache in French) River, and returned by graded dirt/gravel road. Would have been fun on the G/S.
Had another idea on the modem. I had been connected via an RJ11 doubler Jan already had connected. I removed everything and plugged my modem directly into the wall socket. Voila! Things work! Must have been some kind of wierd interaction with her answering machine. I get my fix of email for the first time this trip.
One mesage in particular affected me. It was actually a message Bob Higdon had written to Noemi, portions of which she had forwarded to me since they pertained to our situation, i.e., my leaving and her staying behind. Rather than try to paraphrase Bob's so elequantly stated insights, I include them i full, with Bob's permission.
Last week a couple of friends came over to watch an ancient video, "Fanny," made probably before you were born. It stars Leslie Caron, Horst Buchholz, Maurice Chevalier, and Charles Boyer and is set in Marseilles at some time in the late 1950s. Our hero, Buchholz, works in his father's waterfront bar. Being around a port all his life has ade him want to sail around the world. He is conflicted; he loves Fanny --- they have known each other since childhood --- but he says he feels sometimes that he "is falling toward the sea." She realizes that if she hangs onto him, he will grow to despise his life and his lost opportunity. He wants to see the isles beneath the wind, a magical place (he has been told) where the melons are gigantic and the air smells like camphor. Just the thought of sailing to such a land unhinges him.
So he sails away on a five-year scientific expedition on a tall-rigged ship, leaving a grief-stricken Fanny standing by the dock. She is also six hours pregnant.
Nearly two years later Buchholtz returns on a temporary leave. He discovers that she has given birth to his son. His life has not been what he'd hoped, but he admits to her that he can't admit to himself that for fear of looking foolish. Fanny has married to avoid the shame of an illegitimate birth. She is not happy, but her husband, Chevalier, has at least been kind to her and he dotes on the child; she is not about to leave the man. Buchholz is beyond distraught. And then it gets worse:
"Did you see the isles beneath the sea?" she asks him.
"Yes."
"What were they like?"
"Volcanic ash."
The tone of Buchholz' voice as he rasps out those words is the sound of a man's life fragmenting into ten thousand shards of glass.
A couple of nights later we went out to a local Pakistani-Italian restaurant where they stick a liter of cheap red plonk on the table when they see us drive up. They've got a second liter ready and waiting for our frequent hard nights. We couldn't stop talking about the movie, the motivations of the characters, the utter hopelessness of the entire affair. What could have changed? How could this or that have been prevented? It's not a philosophical movie by any stretch of the imagination, but it hits hard at the nature of love and the choices, often torturously made, that bend lives in agonizing directions.
I don't know what Doug is looking for on his ride. Maybe he's searching for the isles beneath the wind and the smell of camphor on a summer night. What makes people do the things they want to do is unknowable. In the end you hope that you can find something more than volcanic ash, but you don't know that when you start. If you did, you wouldn't start at all.
Bob