Buckle up, friends – this is a really long one. You know when I say that… well. Get a sandwich, bring the Camelbak, and don’t forget to hydrate as we go. I’ll probably have to break this up into Thanksgiving-meal-sized portions, so let’s call it:
A Trip to Tucson and Down Memory Lane: A Brief, 73-Part Series
Proofreading has been shoddy, at best – I apologize for any horrible typos or grammatical tomfoolery.
Off we go!
Day Nothing – Background
This past Tuesday, my company had our biannual group retreat, and the winter version means it was held in Tucson (summers are Bellingham, WA.) “Would you rather drive or fly,” our HR person asked. Loathe to fly commercially on any given day, and particularly during this COVID-19 outbreak, I was not inclined to fly at all. Besides, by the time I Lyfted to the airport two hours early, waited for the flight, had delays happen, took the flight itself, disembarked, Lyfted to the hotel, et cetera, I’d probably save time not flying.
I asked if it would be possible to ride as I no longer have a car. Historically, this has been met with a resounding “NO” from the boss-man, but I now had a secret weapon: The HR person is his sister-in-law, whom he adores, and she happens to enjoy motorcycles, too. The next day, the “Saddle up!” command came through – woohoo! I was going to get paid to ride my motorcycle!
I haven’t had many free weekends of late to ride with the club, and I miss you all immensely. One development during this several-month absence is a new nickname for me, developed by the Cowboy and Wade: Lance Corporal Chaos. Those of you familiar with the rank will, no doubt, immediately grasp all the nuances there, but to those for whom it means nothing (I was included in this lot myself until so recently educated,) I gift this story from my longtime friend and retired Marine, Wendell. When I told Wendell about the new moniker, he laughed just about hard enough to have an aneurysm.
“Erin, you could put a Lance Corporal, buck-naked, into an empty rubber room, give him two cinder blocks, and when you came back to check on him an hour later, he will have broken one and lost the other. A more fitting nickname there perhaps has never been.”
Thanks, Wendell. Truly.
Jerk.
I’d try to argue, but it’s pointless: Better to embrace the chaos, because it’s been a lifelong companion. You’ve seen the evidence, largely in various shots like this:
This nickname comes into play in every aspect of my life, and motorcycles are no exception. Motorcycle trips are especially rank-prone. Let’s watch.
I was not excited, per se, about the ride to Tucson, for much of it is in long, straight lines. However, there were some beautiful sights along the way, and I was certain I could find some interesting back roads as I went. My first choice, dipping into Mexico along the 2, was nixed as apparently cartel activity is heavy this time of year. Fiiiiine. Back roads to Yuma, then slab, slab, and more slab to Tucson. Even on the freeway, any day on two wheels is a fine one.
Day -1
Because I was having an internal tantrum about having to go at all, I procrastinated packing. It was only a three-day trip, so not much packing was required. At the eleventh hour, I threw a bunch of stuff into my panniers and insanely large (but powered) SWM tank… suitcase… and went to bed. I did not load the bike up, because even though I live in a safe neighborhood, there’s no sense inviting trouble.
Like many of you, I over-pack clothes when I have the option to do so. I like choices, friends, in all aspects of life, and clothing is one of those things pretty high on the list. What if I don’t want to wear that particular shirt? What if my socks get wet? What if I get stuck there for extra days? It’s less being spoiled and more pragmatism… right? Right?!
For the briefest of moments, I even considered packing my recently acquired pregnancy pillow, which has absolutely changed my life in terms of sleep. Incidentally, I highly recommend these things to everyone – male, female, pregnant, not – as does my physical therapist, who appreciates me keeping my spine as aligned as possible at all times to mitigate the poopshow going on in there. I have this one linked below, and holy crap, you guys – wow. I want it with me at all times – but it doesn’t pack down very well:
https://amzn.to/3ccXdOt
Reluctantly, I bid it adieu for a few days. No, I am not pregnant – I am the annoyed owner of a trainwreck of a back.
The panniers, carrying… ok, I admit, 5 days’ worth of clothing, one pair of engineer boots, one pair of dressy shoes, toiletries, emergency gear, laptop, GoPro stuff, and other sundries, were not “light,” but they were manageable. No top case or duffel required. Score. The trip before this one, my bike looked like this:
The bike was going to be practically svelte. Go me!
Day 1 – 0400
The plan was to be on the road no later than 0700, but ideally by 0600. I woke up around 4 without an alarm, cleared the work that had come in overnight, threw the remaining odds and ends into the luggage, and snuck out to the bike in the darkness, trying ever so hard to wake neither my landlord (some of you will remember he lives in my garage, which he has converted into … well, let’s just leave it at, “he lives there”) nor my nearby neighbors.
I slipped the bikini cover off the bike – the entire point of which was to keep the seat dry – but as I moved it around in the dark, I neglected to see the rivulets of dew pouring onto my saddle, anyhow. <sigh> The Klim Switchback pants remain awesome, but they have not become any more waterproof over time (they were not designed to be.) I wiped the glistening saddle down with my sleeve, grumbling. “Something, something chaos, something something <expletive>.”
I went back and grabbed the immense tank bag and fitted it onto its top-of-tank receptacle. I should say, I “attempted to fit it,” because the bastard wouldn’t click in. Futzed around with that for a good 10 minutes before finally getting it right. The clock was stampeding toward 530, so I hurried back to grab the panniers.
It was still dark in the street, and I went to pop right right case on, as I have done thousands of times. It wouldn’t latch. Every time I tried to shove it into the mechanism, it simply slipped off. After fiddling with it for 5 minutes, I sighed and went back for a flashlight.
“…Oh. Good. The bolts that hold the bag on are entirely gone. Excellent! Lance Corporal Chaos strikes again.”
I now had to completely repack everything into different containers. The Givi topcase is a heavy sucker, but it is also huge and holds a lot of stuff. It swallowed a goodly portion, mostly of lighter or bulkier items – I simply do not trust the tail plate attachments to withstand constant bumps and whatnot with a honkload of weight. The rest went into the Givi waterproof Storm Bag, which I strapped to the pillion pad. It was 6am. Dangit.
Day 1 – 0600
Working up a bit of a sweat, I donned all the layers – for it was 41 degrees outside, and I am a complete wuss when dealing with temperature extremes — Ok, to be fair, even when dealing with temperature moderates these days. I had a Klim thermal shirt, a t-shirt, a CuddleDuds top (Shhhhh, they’re amazing despite that asinine name,) my Widder ‘Letric Vest with arm chaps up top, and my Klim Artemis jacket. Legs were simply thick leggings, the Widder chaps, and the Switchback pants.
I’m going to digress for a long minute here to tell you A Tale of Pat Widder.
Day Approximately -7732 (1999)
I knew Pat through the Ironbutt Association. He invented and manufactured some very, very nice electric heated gear, and he was also just an exceptionally nice man, himself.
As many of you know, I grew up in Michigan, where the temperatures are Generally Quite Stable: It is not going to vary overly much from day to night, and there is no such thing as “altitude” in the Lower Peninsula. This was my wildly uneducated framework for thinking about what to bring on a month-long trip across the US as fall approached.
In late August of 1999, I packed up my K1100RS and headed out for a month to see the sights and to help out with that year’s storied IronButt Rally. I ran an errand and rode the bike to see how it felt with the weight, just a test ride. Somewhere along the test ride, my right hard bag fell off and vanished, never to be seen again.
Undeterred, I located the single bag in the Detroit Metropolitan Area that could replace it, and went to purchase it – an hour away in thick traffic. Bag secured, we turned around to head home – as the sun was getting low in the sky on my last day before I was to leave. Fun.
Then, one stoplight North of the dealership, a red Dodge Shadow decided to turn left directly into my left ankle, thereby sending me, my K1100RS, and the BRAND NEW HARD BAG WE HAD JUST BOUGHT, crashing on our right sides onto the pavement. My BMW Kalahari boots protected me flawlessly – not so much as a bruise. The bike was scuffed, my new hard bag destroyed – not one full mile from where I had just bought it. The woman tried to drive off – through rush-hour traffic in downtown Warren, MI. Ain’t happening. I chased her down on foot.
My dad was with me on his CB750, and I had never seen my father yell at anyone until that moment, nor have I heard him yell since. Suffice to say, he let that woman have it. We bungeed the wrecked bag to my bike and headed back to Ann Arbor, where some friends helped me cobble together a luggage solution. I suppose you could say I’ve always been Lance Corporal Chaos – it just took the right folks to put a name to it.
I was heading for the desert, which, I assumed, would be rather warm. A meandering route to the Southwest, followed by a more direct route to the Pacific Northwest, followed by a meandering route home, eventually. I had no idea what the PNW held in store, so I packed my first-gen, arm-chapless ‘Lectric vest and a warm shirt, “just in case.” I packed for summer, for that it what it was.
It was near Needles where I damn near had a heatstroke. The 40 was backed up, it was 114 degrees (Celsius, as far as I could tell,) and traffic was at a standstill as we approached the agriculture check station. Relatively new to traveling by motorcycle on my own, and never having ridden in California, I did not know lane-splitting was a thing. So, I stopped and I waited and I stopped and I waited for a good 30-45 minutes in the blistering sun. Out of water. Out of patience.
Both the K bike and I whined harder and harder with every passing moment, for the pauses between movement were not long enough to allow turning off the engine.
The covered agriculture station, which was inching infinitesimally closer, was the only shade I could see for miles. I couldn’t wait for my turn: At least I’d be out of the sun whilst the agents interrogated me as to whether I was smuggling fruit (aside-within-an-aside: When I moved to San Diego, my dad and I drove from Michigan together. It was his turn at the wheel when we reached the agricultural station as we crossed into my new home state. We stated we had nothing to declare, and Dad drove about 100 yards before virtually slamming on the brakes and saying, with abject horror in his voice, “I have a banana in the car.” “Dad, it’s ok. I don’t think we have to turn around and go back.” Bless his law-abiding soul.)
Where the hell was I?
Needles, right. We’re not getting through this anytime soon, I apologize (but obviously am not so sorry as to not continue.)
As I approached the small agricultural station and its glorious, glorious shade, I was dripping with sweat, red-faced, breathing heavily, eyes begging the sun to just stop already, but it was mere seconds before I would get my 30 seconds in the shade. Three cars… two… one… I was NEXT!!
As I rolled up… the agent waved me through.
My smile evaporated into the unwavering heat, along with any remaining hope of survival. Sighing, I made my way to the first stop (a Denny’s in Needles,) where I had the waitress set up an ice water IV drip for me.
That was the hottest I have ever been in my entire life. It confirmed my (then) firmly held belief that I would rather be extremely too cold than extremely too hot, because in the cold one can always put on more clothes. I love the naivete in that statement; I want to pinch its cheeks. The dark and cynical part of me, the part that can’t help but revel in ironic foreshadowing, slithered up and hissed, “And what, pray tell, does one do if one has no access to additional clothes? We didn’t think about that, now, did we? No, no we did not. Well, hang tight, little one; we have plans in store for you.” <Menacing, knowing cackle> With that, she slithered back down into the black depths of her lair.
I arrived in Ojai relatively shortly thereafter, from which the Iron Butt Rally was to launch. We were headquartered at the Widder HQ, so I got to spend some quality time with Pat. I met IBA legend and personal heroine, Fran Crane (who would later tragically pass away during the rally, due solely to a medical error at the hospital) I got to spend time with my super-fun email pen-pal Chuck H., and a hung out with a bunch of just amazing human beings. There are very few photos of me during this time, but here’s one:
Fast-forward several days later, sprinting from Ojai up to the first checkpoint in the tri-city area of eastern Washington state – just over 1000 miles and just over 24 hours to get there. Plenty of time to sleep. My buddy Dale and I stayed on Mt. Shasta, and awoke at 3am to sally forth and beat the riders to the check-in.
Friends, this was the first time I have ever experienced what August is like at altitude at 3am in the morning.
It was 19 degrees.
It was dark. There was black ice.
I had only my long-sleeved shirt, the ‘Lectric vest, and midweight gloves. No heated grips. No warm leg gear. Nothing. Ten minutes out, I was shivering – and this was when I was younger and far hardier in terms of temperature fortitude. After 30 minutes, my teeth were chattering hard enough to shake the helmet. After 45 minutes, my hands were frozen into claws around the bars and working the levers was almost not possible.
As previously mentioned, I had heretofore until this very moment, unwaveringly thought, “I’d rather be too cold than too hot,” but this trip changed my mind almost instantly on that front. Having now experienced the worst extremes I’d thus far encountered within a few days of each other made the stark comparison overwhelmingly clear. I heard Cynical eDar give a satisfied snort from her cave. She’s a jerk.
I’d never been more miserable on the bike. There was no time to stop, other than for a quick coffee hand-warm-up once I could no longer activate my levers at all: We were on the clock, and this Really Important. I could see the first glimpses of dawn’s glow beginning to appear, and anxiously willed the sun to forgive me for begging it to stop ever so recently, I didn’t mean it, baby, please come back to me, I’ve changed, things will be different now.
Suffice to say, the sun did rise, I began to thaw, and we reached our destination on time later that morning. After taking care of the IBR checkpoint, I rode to Seattle, where I stayed with my friend, the aforementioned Wendell, for a few days. From his home, I wrote a several-Erins-long email to the list the IBA folks frequent, regaling them all with every painful detail of the Mt. Shasta debacle.
Upon reading this, Pat replied with concern and generosity: “Airyn (for that is how I was spelling my name in those days, boring story,) this is a problem I can fix. Please send me your measurements.”
Two days later, a full set of brand new Widder gear arrived on Wendell’s doorstep – free of charge. Second-gen vest with arm chaps, gloves, leg chaps, controller. Pat was a kind and generous man. His thoughtfulness moves me to this day – and the gear he sent me is still in use, more than 20 years later. It’s good stuff, and it’s too bad it’s no longer around; Pat passed away some time ago, but his legend and his durable products live on. I think of him often. Other than eBay and the IBA store offering the few remaining unsold items to its members, ‘Lectric gear is largely a thing of the past.
Moving back to present day (at long last.)
Day 1 – 0615
Fully layered, I slogged, Michelin-Man-Style, back out to the bike. I texted Perry that I was leaving, as requested, so he could send his “safe travels” thoughts along with me, as well as his condolences for having to make this awful trip at all. Perry recently completed it himself, though only East to West as he brought home his new-to-him GSA. I would have the pleasure of going there and coming back: <Monty Python “yayyyyyyy…”>
Incidentally, he broke his GSA in quite well on its maiden dirt voyage a couple of weekends ago:
The sun was threatening to rise. I made sure everything was secure, climbed aboard, and so it began. I started rolling at 0615 – not bad, given the whole repacking situation.
I had decided that running 94 on a laden bike in the dawn hours when our crepuscular animal friends are most active was probably not a great idea. With an audible sigh, I hopped onto the 8 and headed directly into the soon-to-fully-rise sun.
It was a balmy 44 degrees now, so I cranked the Widder gear to “charbroil” and settled in. It was quite a lovely sunrise, but I knew the winds would be pummeling me soon enough and didn’t put the GoPro on my helmet to avoid the extra drag it would induce. I and the dozen or so people in my new traveling pack shielded our eyes despite sunglasses and visors as the beams warmed our bodies and fried our retinae.
Day 1 – 0730
I pulled off in El Centro to fuel up both the bike and my belly, having forgotten to eat anything before my departure. There was an IHOP right by the freeway – good enough. I pulled in and parked next to four dirt bikes – three KTMs and a Husky, all with Montana plates. Cool! Inside, I was seated next to them, but they were not at all interested in chatting. A brief acknowledgement nod, a polite offer from them to move their gear aside if I preferred a different table.
When I asked where they were going and tried to engage in some bike/travel talk, their answers were brief and perfunctory – Baja. Clearly, they weren’t interested. That seldom happens, most riders I encounter are all too happy to talk about their trips and plans, bikes, big fish stories, and so forth, but not these stately gentlemen. We ate, minding our respective businesses.
The food was mediocre and of immense portion – ah, Americana. The waitress, however, was remarkably amazing, and earned herself a 50% tip. Gassed up at the Chevron, fought a bit with the danged tankbag mount point again, and was back underway in less than 45 minutes.
Back onto the road. I was maintaining a sedate pace, not wishing to bring upon myself the wrath of any LEOs, and also wanting to preserve my tires as much as I possibly could. The LEO presence was strong the entire trip there and back.
As I tooled along, I was nearing the end of a wonderful audiobook, _Redshirts_, by John Scalzi. Scalzi is a Hugo-award-winning, largely Science-Fiction-based author who is clever and poignant and insightful and funny and has all the things I love in a writing voice. It is read by Wil Wheaton, who was perfect in every way – who ever would have thought, when Wheaton played the ever-whining Wesley on Star Trek: TNG, that he would become the thoroughly amazing person he is today? Likewise, Neil Patrick Harris/Dougie Howser…. but I digress. Again.
You’re probably used to that with me. Sigh.
The book’s end was intense and wildly emotional, and so it came to pass that I was cruising along the I-8, past sand dunes and semis and oblivious people on their cell phones, with tears streaming down my cheeks, choking back an “oh my gosh, what a wonderful ending” sob. As I had planned to stop at the rest area in the midst of the dunes to take some photos, I began to gather myself so that I wouldn’t be wandering around the parking lot with mucous and tears going every which-way, lower lip trembling, breath ragged, wanting to reach out to every person in sight about what a great book I’d just heard (I can’t quite bring myself to say “read” when referring to audiobooks – it feels like cheating.)
Day 1 – 0900
While at the rest area, I figured I’d take care of the “I should probably try to pee” thing. Thus, it then came to pass that I found myself perched over a pit toilet, the cleanest of those available… which was… well, it wasn’t as bad as The Chairs on a Sunday spring afternoon, but it wasn’t great.
Perched/hovering, gargoyle/vulture-like, over the seat, I could feel a cool breeze flowing up from the spectacularly graphic miasma below. Had I cared to look, I probably could have told you what the previous occupant had for dinner last night, but whatever it was… had not sat well. Hence, the hovering. A statistically significant portion of my brain was chewing on how many and what sort of pathogens and other microscopic unpleasantries were wafting against my ladyparts, which made it rather difficult to relax and just do the urination thing.
There is a very primal, reptilian, female part of my brain that has A Very Difficult Time peeing standing up unless I’m in the shower (oh, hush – it saves water.) There I was, hovered, wearing pants that were only halfway down. That lizard brain says, “but your pants are on and you’re standing up and there is a breeze on your bum and no I will not relax the bladder muscles, no thank you, please, until you are sitting down and the pants are all the way properly down.”
I recalled the first time I ever used a female urination device in the wild, circa 1997, quite literally forgetting and then quite literally rediscovering the meaning of “pissing into the wind.” Good times.
At any rate, we’ve now spent more than sufficient time on this particular fiasco, so let’s move on.
I had parked the bike in a photographically strategic spot (or as close to one as I could find, really,) waited for the nearby cars and big trucks to leave, and had just gotten everything all perfectly staged when a very nice couple in a very nice Toyota TRD with a very nice cattle dog in the back pulled up mere inches from my rear bumper… thereby ruining my carefully crafted shot that I had waited so patiently to carefully craft.
They were lovely, though, asking what it was like battling the winds on a motorcycle, where I was going, how long it would take – the usual chitchat riders get in rest areas and elsewhere. I’m always happy to be a good motorcycle ambassador, so I cheerful conversed, took the best shots I could manage under the circumstances, packed up and geared up… just as they were ready to leave. Ah, that Lance Corporeal timing, though, eh? It wasn’t that important a photo. We pulled out together into the increasingly violent winds.
While in the throes of the Redshirts story, with its incredibly unexpected (and, frankly, hilarious) plot twists, I had barely noticed the gradually stronger and stronger winds buffeting me about. Coming out of the dunes, “not noticing” was no longer an option.
Sideways winds make things interesting on motorcycles, sudden changes in heading or bearing, pitch and roll. Enormous plastic sheets blowing across fields on what looks like an intercept course. The bow waves coming off the front of semis that make passing so much fun… coming up behind the rig, VIOLENT WIND THRASHING SIDE TO SIDE. Alongside, the calm between storms, a blissful moment of quiet with tinges of “are any of those tires going to explode on me?” Then, as we pass the cab, SLAM enjoy your sudden lane change if you’re not paying attention. Fortunately, only about 87% of the traffic for this trip was big rigs.
Day 1 – 1100
As I came through the mountain pass just West of Dome Valley, my left trapezius, sternocleidomastoid, and various other bits had had Quite Enough, thank you very much. I had been looking for an excuse to pull off to avoid one or more muscle spasms, and the very enticing mountains in the northern distance twisted my mental arm enough to coax me off the freeway and into the unknown. “Where does that road go, I wonder?”
Further, I was being actively reminded of my bilaterally injured ulnar collateral ligaments, as well as the increasing number of ganglion cysts now romping through my hands. Aging, as we all know too well, is a motherfucker.
The neck relief was instant upon hitting sub-freeway speeds, and an intense “aaaaahhhh” feeling filled my whole self. There were gorgeous mountains, lush fields, bright colors contrasting in the warming sun.
I had until 1700 Mountain to arrive in Tucson for dinner – more than ample time to explore for awhile.
I aimed for the most interesting peaks on a very nice two-lane. The worst part was passing by all the amazing-looking dirt roads without going down them. They looked well-groomed and easy, but certain promises have been exacted regarding me going off-road by myself on the GS. Whimper.
I stopped many times to take photos and videos, and ended up doing four passes by the multitudinous farm workers as I gathered them. I was in love with the colors and the water and the mountains and the machinery and the greenery and all was right in the world: I was getting paid to ride a motorcycle and take photos. What could be better?
The road ended before getting too close to the peak – at least its pavement ended, so I was left to gaze longingly down the dirt portion for awhile before turning around. Whimper, indeed.
There was an enormous mud puddle which had crept a short ways into the road. I couldn’t resist it, though I was circumspect, staying away from the edge of the road, not knowing what lay beneath the muddy waters or how deep they were. Splish-splash-grin.
Twice.
Put on your hats and pull up your grown-up pants, because I’m going to get political here for a minute. I almost left this out, but these thoughts were an important part of the journey, and we’re all adults here. Ok, you’re all (mostly) adults here – My maturity level varies wildly with context and mood.
Should you wish to keep your politics and your motorcycles separate, please skip any snowflakes accumulating on your screen and scroll down to <end rant> to avoid it all.
<begin soapboxy stuff>
The wanton luxury of water in the desert boggles the mind at times, particularly if it is not being used conservatively or intelligently. Sprinklers arcing 10 feet into the air for acres and acres, an enormous portion of their volume being instantly sucked into the air, rather than being deposited onto the intended crops (ground-level/-soaking methods being more effective.) Watering at mid-day, when evaporation will be highest and also when plants are most likely to get sunburned through the magnification effect of the sun passing through water drops. Enormous spouts feeding the aqueducts being well above water level, and therefore also subject to massive evaporation as a result.
Coming from Michigan, whose bountiful fresh water in the form of the Great Lakes (over 20% of the entire planet’s fresh water) is much-sought from less-fortunate climes, I hate to see water wasted. I am keenly aware of how fragile our various ecosystems are, and cannot fathom draining our lakes to feed the desert Southwest. When I see effing golf courses in the desert, I seethe: At what expense to the world are the golfing elite enjoying their hobby? Meanwhile, in less-fortunate countries, people walk for miles to get fresh water and then carry it home. On foot.
In Flint, here in the US, we are still battling for potable water. And yet: Golf courses in the damn desert. Sure, why not. What could be more first-world?
I looked at the uniformly brown faces working in and around the fields – bosses and laborers alike – and wondered how many of them lived in fear every day of harassment, deportation, or worse, irrespective of their immigration status. Where were all the white people clamoring for these jobs, as some would insist there are? These folks were laughing and talking, working hard in the sun with big, floppy, protective hats, smiling and waving at me each time I rode by – I didn’t even see any raping or murdering at all, go figure. I am 100% certain that if, in the “unlikely” event I ran out of leg and tumbled over at one of my numerous stops, I would be immediately surrounded and overwhelmed – by a whole swarming passel of helpful people who would be instantly upon me to get things sorted. Border crisis, indeed.
<end rant>
It was nearing noon, and was definitely time to doff some layers before hopping back onto the 8 and back into the frenzied Santa Ana winds. Off came the GoPro, and I rolled the shemagh into a sort of cushion that would support my head on the right side (that lasted for all of 300 yards before unraveling, alas.) The wind repeatedly tried to rip my clothing from my hands.
The winds. Oh my hell, but the winds. I’ve been in worse (half a mile from a tornado in 1997,) but I’ve never battled this strong a Santa Ana for that many hours straight. I took to resting my head on the tankbag, or in the crook of my arm that was on my tankbag, in a desperate bid to fend off the cramps. Thankfully, I was successful.
Day 1 – The Rest of It
The dreaded straight-stretch miles rolled interminably on. Unceasingly. I fought to stay awake at times. Somewhere along the way, my Sena microphone had ceased working, so I couldn’t voice-command anything, including “gas station nearest me,” so when I saw “Gas station, next exit” at someplace called Casa Grande, I figured I’d better heed my “Range” readout – when in the desert, get gas when you see gas, because you never know when you might have the next chance.
I’m a little miffed at this sign. For, what it does not mention, is that the gas is about 10 miles North and East, in the middle of … I cannot think of any gracious words to describe the greater Casa Grande experience. I’m sure it has a lovely singing voice? THERE. Everything else is effing terrible and depressing.
4.35 gallons of insanely cheap gas and a whole lot of shocked “where is your male escort?!?” glances from men and women alike later, I made my way back to the freeway, hopped on, and, much to my consternation, discovered that another 10 miles down was Real Civilization, with gas and food right next to the bloody freeway. Ah well, that’ll teach me not to stop and look at the phone map.
Maybe.
We all know I’m occasionally stubborn.
(But only occasionally.)
My destination was only some 75 miles hence, so on I droned, starting to have a few squabbles with traffic as we neared Tucson proper. In Casa Grande, I had set up navigation to the hotel, and I followed it in. Tucson is an interesting and peculiar place to find in the middle of Arizona, and I will leave most of the reasons why as an exercise for the reader to avoid further unpleasantries. Visually, though, it’s got a lot going on. There are also street trolleys, which means slippery rails going every which-way at intersections.
I pulled up to the Hotel Congress, tired, ragged, very much looking forward to a shower. A silver Civic had preceded me into the loading zone out front, and I parked a good 20-25 feet behind it, turning off the bike and locking the forks before dismounting.
The Civic began backing up. I figured he was just realigning, but watched carefully. He kept coming. And coming. My forks were locked, so I couldn’t quickly react and back the bike up, and it was turned off so I could not quickly honk the horn, so I began to yell: “Hey! Hey! HEY HEY HEY HEY HEY! HEYHEYHEYHEY!!!!!!!” in increasingly deep and insane-sounding tones. By the end, I was ugly-yelling, and the passers-by were looking worried about the entire situation.
The guy was literally one inch from my front tire when I saw him startle into awareness. He hit the brakes, 1/2″ from toppling me over. I took a deep breath: We all make mistakes. I was not going to dress him down in the street. I began to unload the bike, studiously ignoring him. He and his wife sat motionless in the vehicle, probably too alarmed by the crazy, shrieking banshee to risk exiting.
I shook my head and went into the lobby. The Hotel Congress is a beautiful and historic building staffed by friendly, attentive, and very helpful staff (generally.) I checked in and trudged up the steps (the Congress does not believe in elevators, televisions, telephones, light switches, or too many other modern fripperies) to my room. I was astonished to find this fully function typewriter on my desk:
As I came back down, the would-be Erin-crusher was at the front desk himself. I didn’t have to walk past him to exit and went out to continue unloading. When I entered the lobby again, he came up to me, reaching out a hand to my arm, apologizing profusely. “I’m so, so sorry,” he began, and I said, “I’m just very glad you didn’t hit me.” “Me, too!” he replied, very genuinely. Instantly, I felt guilty for not being more kind and compassionate. When I came back downstairs, he and his wife were still at the front desk. I went to them and said, “I’m sorry if I scared you with my insane yelling and screaming.” They both insisted it was completely understandable, and we parted ways. When we next saw each other, they didn’t recognize me because I had transformed from Scary Biker Lady to Well-Dressed Socialite. It was just as well, the awkwardness need not continue.
As I gathered my Buffalo Trace and ginger beer (with a lime, of course) from one of the bars, I began to notice colorful beads adorning… oh, everything. “They must be preparing for Mardi Gras,” I thought.
And then it hit me, a sudden, sinking, realization: TODAY is Mardi Gras. How had I not realized? Turns out, no one in our entire group had. Thus, we all had front-row rooms to the downtown Tucson Mardi Gras festivities.
Shit.
All but one of my co-workers are, shall we say, “significantly” younger than I am, so the first thing we did that evening was to go to … a barcade. For the uninitiated, that’s an arcade that serves alcohol. Magical? Torturous?
After a lot of drinking and games, we headed to an amazing restaurant nearby, the name of which escapes me because of the aforementioned “a lot of drinking.” My boss is a generous man, and there appeared before me a long string of excellent bourbons, including the fantastic Willet. After dinner, guess where we went?! Back to the barcade. <yyaaaaayyyy>
More free drinks. I am not that strong a drinker; I am a pothead (yes, I know, this explains so much, right?) I remember at one point staring at the once-again-full Buffalo Trace and ginger, and realizing, “I… have to go lie down now.” I made my goodbyes (I think,) I made my way to a bodega and bought Haagen-Daaz ice cream and Pop-Tarts (for reasons which escape me, other than I was moderately hammered and my inner three-year-old took over.) I then managed to find my way back to the hotel on foot.
I soon discovered there is a radio station on the first floor of the hotel. It plays music. Loudly.
All.
Night.
Long.
However, I didn’t even notice the music after about an hour, because from 2330 onward, I was in the midst of having The Worst Possible Time of Anyone in a 12-Mile Radius for the entire night. I didn’t need loud music or revelers to keep me awake, oh no – I took care of that allllll by myself.
That whole deal will be in Feast-Sized Portion #2, for I, like the I-8, have gone on for far too long.