Pashnit Travel: 6000 Miles in 8 Days
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Riding across America
6000 Miles in 8 Days
A Pashnit RoadTrip

Pashnit about Motorcycles
Aprilia Tuono 1000
Buell Ulysses XB12X
Buying a Ducati Motorcycle
Triumph Speed Triple
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Moto-Guzzi V11 Lemans
Sidecar Motorcycles
Suzuki DRZ400 Motard
Suzuki Hayabusa
Sport-Touring Busa
Speed Triple Street Fighter

Thursday, January 13th - The 600 Mile Day

I slept in this morning. I felt guilty for not getting an early start. It’s as if I owe it to myself to get out there. Yet after sleeping a couple hours on a concrete slab and a few hours in the desert the night before that, a real bed felt too good to be true.

    In the light of midmorning, the edge of the sea is right outside the door and there is a boardwalk running along the edge of the beach. I am kicking myself for not going rollerblading. Yes, I brought my blades with me, fit right into the hardbags, but I blow the chance. I got up so late all I could think of was the road. Can't stay in one place, can't keep still, have to keep moving, have to see what's over the next hill, around the next bend.

    I packed up after my first shower in a couple days. A real shower, wow, does that feel great after 3 days in the same clothes. Lug out the hardbags, which attach just like luggage, bungee down my backrest/sleeping bag, and away I go. The vibration and sound of the motorcycle soothes me like an old friend. The sensation streams through me. My this feels good, this motorcycling thing. The blue sky above, the ocean off to my right, the town here of Galveston. then I catch myself and think- motorcycling is where it's at!

I debate stopping at the car museum the couple mentioned last night. They also mentioned an aviation museum also here in town. Cars, planes, motorcycle, cars, motorcycle. I can't stop. The road was a magnet pulling me forever onward. A quiet voice whispered into my ear beckoning me. It's the morning of the 4th day into this trip. With my plans changed, I hadn't even decided where I was headed.

 In order to get off Galveston Island and cross to the Bolivar Peninsula, there is a ferry that runs day and night. No bridge, thus the ferry. I have never been on a ferry so this was a new experience for me. As we started the crossing with only a few other cars, I was able to walk around and climb to the next level to look out across the water. Galveston Bay lies to the north, the Gulf of Mexico to the South. The skies were clear blue and held no rain. I felt relaxed, at ease, complacent, at peace as the ferry churned across the bay. The air tasted like salt as I gripped the handrail of the second deck bracing into the stiff wind. I just stood there and watched the world go by.


Galveston Island in the background - Headed to the mainland.

 

    I rode through Port Bolivar and the town of Gilchrist. The road comes to an end outside Gilchrist because a hurricane in '87 washed out the road so north it is then. Marsh grasses line either side of the road, not much to look at except an occasional bridge over a waterway. Soon I hit the freeway and simply pull over still having not decided where to go except the general direction of east. Today is Thursday, four and a half more days... Out come the maps once more. I can't go back the way I came so west is out. South is the gulf so that's out too. That leaves north and east but a little voice warns me of the cold awaiting me if I head north.

    East it is then as I absorb my map of the entire United States. I see where I am, at the corner of I-10 and 124 in the town of Winnie. I could go slowly across the bottom of Louisiana on back roads but it looks to be just one big bayou and riding all day through a swamp doesn't sound enticing. New Orleans isn't all that far away, hmm... I make a split second decision looking at the nation as a whole. Pensacola, Florida sounds like a good place to head for and judging the distance it looks reachable. I guess about 500 miles, not bad for an afternoon ride.

    Must eat first and lucky me, there's a McDonalds not far away. I munch away as a creaking pickup coughs into the parking lot. Its doors burst open and two high schoolish looking guys clamor out. They both wear huge cowboy hats and pointy snakeskin cowboy boots. Boot cut blue jeans and loud boisterous rodeo shirts with flames stenciled in. One had a belt buckle large enough to deflect bullets. It probably prevents him from even bending over. I think though that it was I, dressed in all black alongside my helmet and jackets, that was out of place.

    At one in the afternoon, I join the freeway traffic as the adrenalized fire surges through veins reaccustomed to breakneck speeds. I embrace the feeling as the last two days haven't produced much distance and toodling along the coast is nice, but slow going. I've decided to ride and keep on riding till whenever, or Pensacola comes along, whichever comes first. I'll just let the moment develop. I settle in, lean back against the sleeping bag and let the towns, cities, even states pass by. Going through some of the refinery towns is quite an ordeal for the ole sniffer. The smell is pungent, how could anyone endure smelling this I wonder. It passes as quickly as it comes.

    In order to cross the bayous of southern Louisiana, an elevated freeway on stilts ferries travelers unencumbered of the soft land below. Occasionally, the bridges go on for miles. They can be bumpy as the freeway rises and falls into the mushy ground. My monoshock suspension is set all the way down so the bike rides like a Cadillac. It was a swoopy ride, mile after mile of elevated freeway, like being on a rollarcoaster. Ride through Baton Rogue and across the top of New Orleans. Passing near New Orleans, the sun slams into the horizon on this short winter day. A few miles more, and then across the mighty Mississippi into the state of Mississippi I ride headlong right into Alabama.

    I am realizing the reason why you don't travel in winter is because the day is so short. With night comes the plunge in temperature. The weatherman was right. At one stop for gas in the middle of nowhere, I didn't even know what state I was in. The temperature was in the low 40's. I struggled to raise a numb leg off the bike and onto the ground. I just started waves of shivering, vibrating all over the place. The cold sinks in after a few hours of this night riding. I pay the lady and away I go within minutes.

    Through Gulf Port, Biloxi, up and over Mobile Bay, and I reach Florida. I have to stop just to survey where I am and how far have I come. Key West suddenly became very tempting again. Why Key West? I have no interest in Florida right now but still just to stand at the furthest southeastern point where the road comes to an end. A place where there is no more road. No more worlds to conquer. But it'd be a 1000 miles back and I've got class on Tuesday. I'd be on the wrong side of the United States if anything went wrong. Now there is a funny thought.

    I needed a place to sleep as the clock on my dash ticked past 10 PM. For some odd reason this ride just sped by. With night driving you just ride, nothing else exists. I am alone with the bike, my thoughts, and through the night I ride. On the map illuminated on my tank by the tiny map light, I spot Conecuh National Forest just over the state line into Alabama. So much for Florida. Country roads, the middle of the night, the steady hum of the motorcycle, this feels so good. North into the forests of southern Alabama following road signs to what I hope will be a campground. I ride surrounded by nothing but the rustle of leafless trees. Pure transcendence.

    The road rises and falls over hills, a curve here, a curve there. It invites speed on this still night and I accept the invitation. Then I almost miss the turnoff. I hit the brakes and U-turn in the road. As I pull in to the National Forest campground, I misjudge the placement of the road and cut the corner. The bike sinks into inches of soft mud and just plops over on its side. It lays their idling. I feel really stupid realizing it must have just rained here. And I am standing in a mud puddle in the middle of the night in Alabama in a ditch with mud covering everything.

    I shut the bike off from pure embarrassment as if someone out here even notices. I still feel real stupid standing in the mud. The smell of gasoline is pungently sweet as it trickles out of the tank and onto the ground. I struggle to find handholds on the motorcycle. It lies on its side like a wounded animal. I get a good grip, plant my feet, and start grunting trying to right my beloved 750-pound hunk of metal. The first few times I try, nothing happens. I struggle in the dark groping my way along. Finally with a hearty oofta I get the bike upright. It obediently starts right up. I ease on the clutch going a mere 6 inches. The front wheel slides right out from under me along with the rest of the bike.

    Now I feel reeeaally stupid, twice in once day in the same spot even. Same process all over again, grunts here, oofta there. Finally, I ease the bike back onto the road and ride on in to Open Pond Campground as if nothing happened at all.

    I discover a glass lake right beside my little road that is merely two rutted tire tracks through the forest with grass growing in-between the ruts. Thin slivers of moon shadow the scene. Rocks clink against the fenders as tires skit along the narrow path. The bike beneath me utters a subtle relaxing tune. I find a secluded space to my liking, and in darkness roll out my sleeping bag upon a bed of leaves. I lie on my back, my arms crossed upon my chest staring into the starred sky through tree branches swaying gentle. It's 12:30 AM. I left the McDonald's 13 hours ago.

    My, what a great land this is.

 

Day 1     Day 2   Day 3    Day 4    Day 5    Day 6    Day 7    Day 8


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