All the Way to the Water - Day 5

 DAY 5: It’s the little things.

Today was going to be a great day. For most of my life, I had wanted to visit the Bonneville Salt Flats in Utah. Our targeted stop for the night was Provo Utah, an easy 475 mile day along the Interstate. Between here and there lay the Salt Flats, and the Great Salt Lake. All we had to do was get there, and take the correct exit and we would be on the flats. During the course of planning this leg of the trip, I had researched the Salt Flats and found that once again chance had touched the trip. It seems that the week we were going through was also a speed trials week and they would be running cars on the salt on the days were went past.  One couldn’t ask for better luck that that I suppose, and thus far on this trip I had already experienced one amazing coincidence after the other, and this one proved to be another interesting story and memory maker. But before we got there we took advantage of the proximity to Nevada for me to ride through and cross off another state from my map.  

We zipped down Interstate 84 from Boise to Twin Falls, a quick 125 mile ride that joined us onto Highway 93. Highway 93 runs due south from Twin Falls into Nevada and eventually hits Interstate 80 going east to Salt Lake City and the salt flats and salt lake.

 As Highway 93 travels south, it takes one into the desert of Northern Nevada. The countryside gets rougher and rockier as well as dry and foreboding.  The road is nearly straight with almost no shoulder, so if you ran off the surface you would quickly be bouncing through rocks, brush and lots of dusty loose soil. With almost no vegetation to hold the soil it was a wonder to me that the dirt hadn’t simply blown away?  Huge outcroppings dotted the landscape as the rock had proven itself stronger than the erosive forces acting upon it for many years past.  It was an absolutely forlorn place and a lonely section of road and I found myself glad for the company of my riding friend as we cruised through the area.  If one had a break down or accident out here without help, it would be a severe test. 

The distance from Twin Falls to the Interstate junction is about 200 miles, which puts it near the outer limits of the Goldwing range. Bill and I ride nearly identical 1500cc Wings, his being 4 years newer than my 1996 version. We had noted during previous fuel stops that my bike always seemed to get slightly better fuel economy than his. While we rode along, we compared the very slight differences in bikes. The only major thing we could determine was different was the windshields. Mine was a more swept back aerodynamic type and his was a more upright style. His provides more protection for a co-rider than mine does, but as I ride solo much of the time this was of little concern to me. However, I do gain about 3 MPGs over his set-up which translates to about 18-20 more miles per thankful of fuel than his. Our range that day, while running at the speeds we were running, was probably right at 190-200 miles.  He also has wind wings mounted to the fairing to further open a protective bubble around the riders, but in my opinion, this will create a small bit of aerodynamic drag, which equals lower fuel economy. Normally this isn’t a concern; but today this leg of our journey was right to the bottom of the tank. For many of the last 35 miles we talked about whether he would make it to the Interstate where fuel was available. The stark landscape coupled with the idea that he may run low on fuel created an air of tension as we rolled along this long lonely stretch of deserted highway.  Riding the last 20 miles with the Low Fuel warning light on can play tricks on a riders mind and today was no different. While Bill professed a lack of apprehension; I was worried enough for us both. As my light had yet to come on I KNEW I was going to make it, and I could always run for fuel and return for him, it still would’ve been a major inconvenience (although another good story) had he run out.  Fortunately, we made it to the Interstate without incident, filled up and started the 60-mile run along I-80 to the Bonneville Salt Flats.

Turning almost due east and getting onto the superslab for the next hour proved to be just what we needed. We had been running at highway speeds all day, but on a two-lane road with little accompanying traffic, and now we were on the interstate with 60 miles of quick moving to our destination.  As we motored along one of the countries main arteries, we began to anticipate the moment we would arrive at the Salt Flats. I knew from doing research that as we approached from the west we would travel downhill into the basin that forms the flats and the Great Salt Lake. I reminded Bill of the exit we were looking for and he worked that into his gps so we wouldn’t overshoot and be forced to circle back.  The doublewide boulevard was inviting as it pointed to a gap in the rolling hills on the horizon, and we set our cruise controls and started counting down the miles to Bonneville.

The morning was well over as we approached the gap in the mountains’ that lead down the hill to the vast flat known as Bonneville Salt Flats and we had been riding hard for some time. As we crested the hill, we could see the vast expanse of dull grey-white that made up the enormous bed of a dried inland sea. The entire scene was surreal and ‘other worldly’ for a person from the Midwest. I knew the story of the vast inland seas but had never imagined how it would look once I got there. Pictures cannot present the proper perspective as to the size of this flat area…it goes well beyond the horizon in every direction as you travel down I-80.

 The entrance to the park area was just beyond West Wendover and we talked about grabbing some lunch before we made our way out onto the salt. So after a quick fuel fill, an easy decision to pop into a fast food joint was made, and we exited the highway before we found the salt.  One of the things I find fascinating is that when I travel by motorcycle people seem to want to talk to you. They make an excuse to say hello, find out where you are from, and where you are going, as if they could grab just a little piece of the feeling vicariously and live a small part of their own dream for a minute. I enjoy these fleeting moments because they are so genuine; just people being curious and interested, and the conversations are fun because for just a brief moment you become an icon in someone’s eyes.  In this regard when a motorcyclist meets another motorcyclist, the conversations are ever so much more energized, because one has found a kindred spirit, another brother of the road, a like-minded soul who understands the challenges and exhilaration of riding through the countryside.  

Our lunch stop was soon to be enlightened with a story that will offer insight into fellowship, and the type of person who takes to the road on a motorcycle. The process of dismounting from a well-equipped touring motorcycle takes some time. After the obligatory stand and stretch, it is time to secure the bike, and the variety of valuable possessions carried along. Things like mp3 players, gps units, cell phones and accessories, drink cups and snack bags are all things that will be fastened to the ‘dash” area of the bike for a long run. These all require a few split seconds of attention once one decides to dismount and take a break. Helmets, jackets and gloves all need to be secured in such a manner that the casual petty thief or prankster isn’t tempted to take advantage of a careless rider.  Even being certain the bike is properly leaned over onto the side stand to prevent it from rolling and tipping over while we were away can take a few moments. Add all this up and you will find the process can take a few minutes…it is not as simple as getting out of the car, and locking the doors remotely as you walk away.

As Bill and I dismounted from our bikes in the parking lot and went through our individualized, well-practiced routines of disembarkment, we noticed a few other riders coming in for a lunch break as well.  They rode in and pulled into stalls a few spots away from ours and as we finished our ritual, we walked over to say hello as they began theirs.  The next several minutes are the testament to testosterone, and braggadocio as found in the middle-aged American male, and I will attempt to retell the story for you. After customary greetings were exchanged, the conversation went something like this.

Me: “So…Where you going?”

Rider #1 “Going to the salt flats”

Me: “Us too..”

Rider #2 “I see you are a long way from home”

 (after glancing at our bikes and license plates).

Bill “New York and he’s from Wisconsin, but we were in Portland yesterday”

(a reference to the fact that we have been doing some hard riding.)

Rider # 1 “That’s a long way..”

Just then, rider #3 pulling in on his Spyder trike interrupts us. After he pulls in by the others and dismounts, we say hello and the conversation goes more like this.

Me: “Nice ride! I love the Spyder, Someday I think I might get one. Do you like it?”

Rider #3 “Love it, but this one isn’t the touring model, the new ones are much nicer and set up for touring.”

Bill “So …have you seen the NEW Spyder yet?”

Rider #3 proudly responds, “I got in my e-mail the other day a special announcement talking about the new model coming out next year. It is going to have a lot of improvements. I got this e-mail because I am on their list and they send me all the advanced information.”

Rider#2 “sounds cool…have you seen it?” (directed at us)

Bill “ SEEN IT…?” (hardly able to control his excitement at this moment because he and I both knew the trump card was about to played) “WE RODE IT!”

The disbelieving looks from these 3 was a thing of absolute perfection.

Me: “ Yesterday, on Mt Hood, they were doing a photo-shoot and they let us ride the 2011 pre-production prototype..”

There you have it. The ultimate example of one-upmanship. Guys have a tendency to do this. We tell a story and then the other guy is obligated to tell a better story; each one getting more and more outrageous than the last. All must be centered in truth and provable or they are disallowed but a certain amount of embellishment is expected. Moreover, here we had set the bar so high it could not be cleared by the next story. A few more comments about how we had been so lucky as to stumble across the photo shoot and the subsequent ride and the conversation was over.  Bill and I chuckled about this for a long time. It was (pardon the crudity) a dick-measuring contest and we had won without dispute.  Now all we say when someone begins telling a “larger than yours” story is…

“Have you seen the new Spyder yet?”

After lunch, it was time to venture out on the salt. We didn’t really know where or what to do but we wandered down some back roads to where the likely exit to the park was and found the road to the entrance. The road takes you out into the expanse of salt and the appearance is more like a brown/grey mud that had dried out and left a crusty surface. It did not appear that it would support the weight of a vehicle. The slat flats are largely a mud flat that the spring rains flood each year and then the summer dries out. The high concentration of salt left from the ancient inland sea then rises to the top and forms the crust over the mud. The salt is diluted into the water and leaches to the top as the water evaporates. In late summer, the flats are dry enough to drive on in many areas but the lowlands are always crusted over mud. The road leads you out to the area that is usually dry and a place we can drive out onto. I am taken by the enormity of it. I can see that it is flat for miles and miles and I know now why people come here to test their exotic cars for speed. This week there is another speed trial taking place so we pass RV’s, motor homes and campers alongside the road all stationed for easy access to participants.

As we near the end of the access road, we see a “blockade” of sorts. This is a speed week and there is an entry fee to be able to go out on the salt and watch the speed runs. We talk to the people at the tent that are collecting the entry fee and find it is $20 for a day pass. This is a problem because they are essentially blocking us from reaching the sign, the salt and the photo-op we had come here to get.  I tell them we only want to stop and take a few pictures and ride out a little way onto the salt and then we would be gone in 15 minutes. They relinquish, and tell us we can go to the sign but not out on the salt without paying the entry fee. I of course agree, knowing that I would disobey as soon as possible. We ease our way past the “gates” (a blockade of several pop up canopy) and glide the last few hundred yards to the large cul-du-sac that serves as an entrance to the salt. It is here the parks department had erected the sign that details the location and a bit of information about the flats themselves, and the speedway that has evolved.  Everything is coated with a light dusting of the salt, the road, the sign, and my bike as well. You can taste it when you breathe through your mouth, and smell it in the air, which was dry and hot while we visited.  There were tracks running off the pavement in many directions but the majority of them all went out toward the testing grounds in the distance. The area where this occurred wrinkled from the sheer weight of the traffic and it looked like the ground had been pushed up like a rug against a door bottom.  The surface was loose and grainy as if someone had spilled the content of a gigantic saltshaker and swept it off the road with a massive broom.   After we had collected our pictures at the sign, we glanced around and began to talk. I noted that the ‘gate keepers’ were not paying close attention and they would never know if we had gone out onto the salt or not. We agreed that they would have to catch us first, and we rode out onto the salt. Over the wrinkled surface and onto the hard flat surface of caked mud and salt.

The speed limit posted on the salt was 45 MPH, and we tried to stay below that for a while but the vast emptiness, and the long stretch of open space in front of us was too tempting and the speedometer quickly climbed to 55, then 65.  After riding out toward the speed trials site for several minutes I felt like I had pushed my luck far enough and rather than risk a confrontation with the event organizers we turned around and rode back to the gateway.

After the short trip back to the Interstate we rolled eastward toward Salt Lake City, as we cruised I noticed in the distance a large object that was standing in the salt desert, on the far side of the road. I was puzzled by; it and made sure to take a few pictures of it as we rolled past.  Once I made it back home, I did some research on this “steel tree”.  It is the “Tree of Utah” which is a sculpture by a Swedish artist from the mid-1980’s. Also called the Tree of Life this sculpture stands 87 feet high. The artist wanted to bring some height and color to the stark landscape that had proven so daunting for travelers for many years.

One thing you may notice in this picture is the mountains in the background and the dark clouds all around. The flats are surrounded by these mountains and they affect the weather being endured on the low lands encircled here. The mountains hold off and redirect the cloud cover, with the heat rising from the lightly colored reflective desert floor serving to “blow” away the clouds above with the intense thermal currents racing upward.  The clouds get shoved and forced away from the center and into the hills all around, and the desert floor is a clear spot in a dark and foreboding sky.  As we motored away from the center of the salt flats, I was taken with the vastness of it. It is 120+ miles across the flats from West Wendover to Salt Lake City, and the flat, light grey features of the flats give no perspective to gain a feeling of depth. We just kept moving along for quite a while, watching the cloud cover, and looking at the bleak surface all around. Eventually the surface begins to change as the Great Salt Lake approaches.  There are pools of brackish waters along the roadside, and the salt forms a crust on everything as the waves lap up the sides.   The air was scented with brine as if we were near an ocean; but not the freshness one associates with the usual beachfront; but rather the smell of brine and dirt and water in the wind like a science experiment from some high school freshman biology class.  The wind was right that day and scoured the surface of the lake as we rode along its southern edge and brought the taste of the lake to us even though we were zipping along at nearly 75 mph. I wondered how well cars fared in this environment with this amount of salt exposure on a daily basis…? Would they rust out just as our cars used to do in the Midwest from the snow melting salt applied to the roads?

Our eastbound ride soon found us at the Great Salt Lake and the weather was beginning to get our attention as the skies darkened and the wind shifted. We needed to ride around the city on the interstate and the pending rain seemed imminent. Riding in a rainstorm, during rush hour traffic, in a strange city, is not something high on my list of “to do” moments.

As we merged into the daily commuters traffic and swung southward around the bypass a curious thing developed with the weather. The mountains that so effectively trapped the clouds and protected the salt flats, also served to steer the rain systems. The dark clouds overhead never jumped the edge of the barrier formed by the ridgeline that ran alongside the southerly running bypass. I surmise the pressure was not great enough to push the clouds over the top and toward our highway.

As we traveled south we outdistanced the weather, and now all we had to do was push onward to Provo. Bill and I had developed a unique traveling partnership over the many miles we covered these past few years.  One of our advantages is we do different things well, although we like much of the same stuff. Usually when we travel we have no hotel reservations, and we find a place as we near our targeted destination. This entails doing a “find” on the gps, and making a few phone calls to locate the best deal. Bill is particularly adept at doing this, and his bike is fully integrated with the technology required to do these things while on the move. As we went along the highway heading out of Salt Lake City, I noticed he was quite busy on his bike in front of me. I quickly surmised he was arranging for our nights stop in Provo. Without discussion, I moved into the lead bike position so he could continue to concentrate on this process. With me in the lead, all he had to do was follow along, and not monitor the gps for directions, or traffic for dangerous situations. He could be somewhat safely “distracted” by the process, and yet be reasonably safe while doing so. Of course, there is an element of risk to this; however all motorcycling has some inherit risk and all one can do is try to mitigate this risk to some degree.  Once Bill was finished, he came on the cb, and told me what his research had revealed, and where we were staying that evening.  I agreed and he retook the lead (he had already programmed the hotel into his gps) and off we went to our slumber. This entire exchange had occurred without verbal communication, at highway speeds, and yet it was so well choreographed that one would think we practiced it for years.  In fact, I am unsure if Bill even knew it happened and it only sticks in my memory because I remember thinking at that time how well we traveled together, and how this was an example of that.