I knew this moment would happen. I’d been dreading it, but I accepted it as necessary. The “moment” was when the adventure was over.
An “adventure” doesn’t end when you get home, or get to your truck, or you climb into that commercial airline ride home… the adventure ends when you are no longer an adventurer. That sounds weird doesn’t it? Forgive me. If you haven’t done such things, you can’t know.
For this particular endeavor I’d allocated the bare minimum time (and I’d used it well!). This very day, I’d started my day arguing with U-Haul and my mind couldn’t forget the clock was ticking on whatever mayhem the U-Haul complication would create. Since then I’d climbed to the most gorgeous spot on the ridge and it was truly glorious. I was pleased with my accomplishments. The view was awe inspiring.
But now, it was time to move on. I’d just poured all my “backup” gas into the bike’s tank. I’d eaten my special orange. I’d done all I came here to do.
The adventure ends when you can no longer avoid thinking more about how you’ll get back home than the wonders you’ll see in the ensuing miles.
I fired up my SpotX and sent a message to Mrs. Curmudgeon; “Please reserve a hotel room in Casper, WY for tonight. Preferably on the west side of town. Thanks honey.”
I didn’t wait for a response. The die was cast. (For that matter, even if she didn’t get the message and didn’t reserve a room the die was equally cast. I’d never had a clear plan for the night anyway.)
I made some mental calculations about getting to a hypothetical hotel in Casper. I did so after I’d sent the message. Why? Because sometimes you have to force yourself into a choice. If this particular adventure was going to end with a long unpleasant struggle to the finish line so be it. What I’d done is make sure I had a finish line.
I had no idea how far I was from Casper. I guessed no more than 90 miles and possibly much less. (That doesn’t seem like much but don’t confuse miles on a trail with miles on an Interstate.) I had perhaps 8-10 miles of the ridge’s very tough riding to get back down to a road; a dirt road. From there I could hop on various dirt roads (no services) to the curiously named Poison Spider Road. According to the map, Poison Spider went straight to Casper.
On the ridge I’d been traveling at maybe 10 MPH. On a clean, well maintained, dirt road I could buzz along at 45MPH. I’d seen enough of Wyoming to know I wouldn’t find anything that nice. Assuming Poison Spider had the usual levels of washboards and sand (and hopefully a minimum of the very annoying big cobbles of private energy company roads) I’d probably average 30+/- MPH.
I had a couple hours of sunlight left. I wouldn’t make it all the way before sunset but I’d make it in no more than 4 hours. I would be very tired in 4 hours but it was do-able. I had the grit to last that long (and plenty of water). All that was left was the task and the ensuing sore muscles.
I ignored some messages that had arrived incoming to the SpotX. They weren’t emergencies and had nothing to do with hotels. It sounded like Dr. Mingo wanted to chat about his “inspiration” having seen my miniscule progress on the map coordinates I was sending. I’d have time to chat later. For now, having seen no good place to camp on this whole section, I’d rashly declared an endurance slog clear to civilization.
Tonight I’d sleep in a real bed!
Don’t think I was bummed out and weepy. Nor did the skies turn dark. The terrain didn’t change at all. It was still an awesome afternoon!
But my mind had new goals. My new goal was stacking the odds in my favor with the upcoming U-Haul hassle of getting back to civilization. I’d be in town a full day early. I might find other options. I might benefit from rest. The price, to be paid immediately, was a long, steady, partially after dark, grind.
Grind or not… the view was glorious!
And I was still a very long way from anywhere.
I made it from the high ridge to a “normal” dirt road without much hassle.
After the ridge, a regular dirt road looked like a runway!
It wasn’t. There was loose gravel and I nearly wiped out!
I’d gone too far to break a leg now! I dialed back the speed.
I was idly wondering if I’d “stiffed myself” by bailing out before I’d fully sampled all the things I should? As if in response Wyoming chucked a handful of road hassles at me. (Thanks Wyoming!)
I topped a low ridge going as fast as a TW200 can manage on loose gravel and rode straight into a flock of sheep! They were everywhere. I slowed way down expecting some guardian dog to kick my ass should I tag a sheep. I rolled that way for a surprisingly long bit. The sheep were grazing, not bunched up, and they scarcely noticed me. No dog showed up either.
Later I came across a critter crossing the road. A porcupine. I thought porcupines ate tree bark. There wasn’t a tree for miles. What the hell was he doing way out there?
I didn’t take a photo. I was trying to make time. I never saw another car… or sheep… or porcupine.
Just before sunset I was flying along a section of slightly better packed dirt when I spied a stick lying in the road. I veered slightly to miss the stick. The stick reared its head, opened wide, and struck!
Rattlesnake!
Neat!
Don’t panic; snakes are a thing like any other and I was prepared for my environment. First of all I was dressed head to toe in motorcycle safety gear. A snake fang might get through it but I’ll bet not. Actually, I’d literally bet not. And it seemed I’d been right.
Also I’d flown past the poor beast hell bent for leather. Snakes are fast but they’re not laser guided. It would have had to be a snake on meth to strike fast enough. Even if it was wicked fast it probably wouldn’t be able to pick out my ankle (which was in a protective boot and wrapped in crash resistant heavy material) amid the overall mass of a motorcycle. It would be a miracle if the thing even managed a mouthful of tire.
I was delighted. Every good cowboy movie has a snake strike and now I had experienced one too! I’ve spent plenty of time in deserts but (theoretically through due diligence) I’ve never had much trouble with snakes. Finally! I had a “the snake missed me” story. And I’d earned the story.
I’m sure the snake had no idea what the hell was going on. I circled back just to check that it really had been a snake and not an illusion. Remember, I wasn’t in a vehicle. You can safely drive to within a couple feet from a snake if you’re in a Ford. Not so when you’re trying to fiddle with a cell phone (camera) on a motorcycle that requires the left hand for clutch and right hand for brake. If the critter took it into his mind to challenge the motorcycle/human being that had pissed it off… I might have a hell of a time getting out of his way. It would be silly indeed if I dropped the phone too. If he slithered up to claim it we’d both have an interesting night. See how things on motorcycle are more “close to nature” than a car?
I took a photo, from a very respectful distance. The snake was PISSED!
Also, he was uninjured. I hadn’t run over him. Whew.
I went another quarter mile down the road before I stepped off my bike and inspected my ankle carefully. It’s unlikely, but possible, he’d nicked me or left a fang in my gear which would prick me later.
Not a scratch.
Minutes later, the sun set.
It got cold. My SpotX pinged. I stopped to read it. Mrs. Curmudgeon had reserved a room! She explained there was some sort of soccer tournament and every room in the city was booked up. She’d had to make many calls. I got the last room for miles. Fortunately, it was pretty cheap.
I’m lucky I sent the SpotX message hours ago. If she hadn’t started calling when she did I’d be sleeping on a park bench!
As expected, the rest of the ride was a slog. I put on warmer gear but it was still pretty chilly.
My bike isn’t good for long mile runs. My ass was sore.
It seemed like there was scarcely a human alive in Casper. A convenience store was the first lit parking lot I found and the lot was empty. I stopped there to turn on my cell phone. I needed to navigate to the hotel. What luck, I had only a few miles left!
I hopped on the bike, revved the engine, and blasted off like a hoodlum. I tore across the sidewalk, zoomed down into and across a shallow ditch, crashed up the other side, and gained a little air as I hopped over the curb and onto pavement. I was at full RPM (for my slow bike) from the minute I took off and had shifted through all the gears while careening across the landscaping.
I blasted along until I got to a red light. I stopped. Then I realized what I’d done!
I’d just plain flat out forgotten about… civilization. I’d been riding terrain so long that I’d forgotten you can exit a convenience store parking lot using… lanes. Hell, I’d practically forgotten about pavement. The place was dark and deserted. No cars to remind me. I’d slipped into Mad Max driving mode!
I’m sure glad nobody was there to mock me… or worse yet a cop. It had been an innocent mistake but how do you explain to a cop that you’ve gone feral? “Sorry officer, I’m in a good mood because the snake missed and also I plum forgot rules exist.”
Carefully remembering to ride like a human being, I covered the last few miles. I parked and checked into the scuzziest, most run down, clapped out, beat up, shithole of a hotel you’ve ever seen. I walked in; covered in dust and smelling of sweat. My limbs were a little out of kilter because every joint ached. I lumbered up the steps looking like a serial killer. No, that’s not right. I looked like someone who might attack and eat a serial killer.
The dude at the counter was nice and either didn’t think I looked scary or has dealt with such clientele before. I looked around the lobby, with it’s tattered carpet and a bucket catching drips from the floor above. I half expected to see dead bodies and spent shells… yeah I was nothing special here.
I dragged my stuff to a cramped room that smelled of cigarettes, notified everyone via SpotX that I was safely in a hotel, and collapsed into sleep.
I’d had a hell of a day.
