Advertisement
Published: August 22nd 2006
Edit Blog Post
1st to 3rd August 2006
The ride across Nevada was, in terms of time, short but sweet. However, this blog entry about it is not. So, put the kettle on, put your feet up and settle down for more of my musings on all things American.
The chosen route across the state was Highway Fifty, "The Lonliest Road in America." So named because a AAA representative once described it in Life Magazine as "Totally empty" and stated "We warn all motorists not to drive there unless they are confident of their survival skills." Not entirely accurate to my mind but, not exactly untrue either. This is what they call "Basin and Range" country; Miles and miles of semi-desert followed by miles and miles of mountains, followed by miles and miles of semi-desert fllowed by miles and miles of mountains, followed by miles and miles of.... oh, you get the picture! This goes on for over three hundred miles and there are very few towns along the way. We are, in other countries, always hearing about middle America. Well, this is middle of nowhere America! But, its emptiness is part of its charm and I, for one, loved every minute
of it..... nearly.
What I didn't appreciate was the wind. It whips over the peaks and with no trees or obstructions of any kind to slow its passage, it gusts across the basins and batters you. Sometimes it was a fight to stay upright. I likened it to being shoved around by someone with superior strength. They would be grabbing my shoulders from behind me to remain invisisble and unpredictable (just like the wind is) and they would constantly jostle me like a playground bully pushing around the puny kid in the class. I would end each day here with aching arms and shoulders from fighting the winds ferocity for hours on end. But, I would also end each day with a smile because I knew I had beaten it; The bully hadn't managed to blow me off the road and I still had my lunch money. It was still a pain in the neck, though and slowed me further from my standard speed of around sixty miles an hour.
I had begun my Basin and Range ramblings back in Utah but, I paused at place on the stateline for some lunch and to await the passing of
a storm I could see lumbering across the open landscape ahead of me. This particular gas station-cum-diner was a strange affair. It was positioned directly over the boundary between the two states and was apportioned accordingly. The Utah half dealt with those requiring fuel and sustinence while those with cash were catered for in the mini casino on the Nevada side, where it's legal to gamble. It was weird to see such a defining division of such a small space.
Also, at this stateline crossing I changed time zones again. Through Mexico, Arizona and Utah I have been switching back and forth between seven and eight hours behind home because of "Mountain time", "Indian reservation time", "Daylight savings time" and, seemingly, any other kind of time someone, somewhere wants to invent to bugger up my body clock and muddle my mind. Still, as far as I know, that's it now until I cross the Pacific later in my travels and I am determined to stay eight hours behind everyone at home until then. Some unkind people that know me very well would say that I have always been that far behind everyone at home but, they are just annoyed
by my apparently ponderous nature. This is, in actual fact, an indication of significant intelligence and not, as some would have you believe, an annoying tendency to seriously over-think things and take an age to come to any conclusion about anything. The conclusion that I had reached at this junction of junctures was that the storm had passed and I should get back on this, supposedly, lonely road again.
I was well aware of the weather pattern ahead of me that had followed the main part of the storm across the sky. The mountain range I was about to tackle was dotted with rain clouds and I was bound to get a good soaking on my way to Ely, the first overnight stop in Nevada. However, highway fifty had other plans. Every time I found myself approaching a cloudburst, the road twisted and turned, taking me around nearly every downpour. I arrived in Ely virtually unscathed and count my lucky stars that I did so. I have been very fortunate to avoid most of the inclement weather I've encountered thus far on this Trans-Western-America-Tour but, have a nasty feeling that I may just have put the mockers on it
by saying that! Och well, never mind.
The camaraderie of the road keeps my spirits up during these tempestuous times under intermittent tempests and along the lonely highway. Whenever another biker passes you here, salutes are exchanged. Unlike the UK, where a nod of the noggin is sometimes acknowledged, almost every time you see another on two wheels, a hand is raised in recognition of another like-minded being. Or rather, it is usually a nonchelant drop of the left hand from the handlebars that is performed. I have noticed many variations on this theme and have adopted my favorite as my chosen form of silent communication with others as I traverse the tarmac of this huge country. It's a sort of lazy slouch of the arm whilst forming an inverted victory sign. I have no idea of the meaning those that I have passed attach to this specific signal but, I do know, it looks REALLY cool.
Also cool (in fact, bloody freezing) have been some of the early morning starts I have made on this lonesome leg across the "Snow Clad" state (that's what Nevada means in the native tongue- 'had to throw in a bit of
cultural stuff somewhere). I liken the pain of a cold start to the day on a bike to that of having a tatoo done. First, there is a shock value to its freshness and, no matter how many times you have experienced it before, it still surprises you. Then, you get used to the feeling for a time, expecting and accepting what has dulled to an annoying discomfort. At the third and final stage, the chill goes far beyond an annoyance and develops an arrogance of its own because it knows its worth and will not go away until you get up out of the artists chair or, in this case, the mid-morning sun finally makes an appearance and warms your bones.
On the second day of these early starts I made a bee-line through Eureka and Austin on my way to Fallon- close enough to the California border for me to get to the surfers state the following day. I must have been visibly enjoying the ride; Outside Eureka's opera house a guy parking his truck a bit too close to Suzi for my liking got out of his truck and said "I didn't want to knock that
Somehow,
I don't think it was filmed here! over and piss you off 'cos you look like you're having a great day." Too true. And you may wonder why I was so happy on "The loneliest Road in America" but, think about it; It's not advised to go there, it's cold in the mornings, the gales buffet you all day long, the landscape is drastically desolate, it takes a long time and a bit of effort......... If that's not enough to make one happy, what is?
You may now be thinking "He's lost it!" Truth be told, I'm not sure I ever possessed it in the first place but, if you're not entirely convinced that I am compus-mentas, consider the potential for committal of the guy I saw braving it all on a bicycle.........Twice! How he ever managed to overtake me at some point, I'll never know.
Advertisement
Tot: 0.194s; Tpl: 0.012s; cc: 13; qc: 66; dbt: 0.0572s; 1; m:domysql w:travelblog (10.17.0.13); sld: 1;
; mem: 1.2mb