It was unbelievable there, and looked more beautiful than anything can. The sky alone was perfect. Here’s an example as we approached the North rim:

This will be updated as time allows!

More pics are in my Flickr album.

The leather “wiper” on the index finger of my left glove was no longer wiping my face shield clean. Admittedly I was making some pretty weak wipe-attemps, as every time I removed my hand from the heated grip, my fingertips went instantly from stinging cold to aching cold. I could see a hazy red dot ahead of me – either Dad’s KLR650 taillight, or the mouth of Hell – and where my shield wasn’t totally fogged, I could see snow pouring down.  Illuminated as it was by 200 watts of twin PIAA 910s, and coming at me at roughly 60 miles an hour, the blur of flakes made it look like I was entering light speed in the Millennium Falcon. I bet Han Solo’s hands never hurt this bad.

After the 300th time trying to clear my face shield, it hit me: I can’t get this water off, because it isn’t water anymore. My shield has frozen over. Oh hell, my GLOVE has frozen over.

My life was about to end at 9,000 feet, crossing the frozen Sierras, and my Dad was going to have to explain to my Mom and Incredibly Understanding Wife that I had ridden bravely, but ultimately not quickly enough to clear the Sonora pass before the storm came and froze my arms and legs off, leaving my torso to balance precariously on a rock-hard, freezing cold Sargent saddle, and my bike then careened into the woods behind Strawberry.

I needed some dry clothes, a hot shower, and an evening with a beautiful woman. I made do by thawing my gloves on the jutting cylinders of the GS as I pounded a slushy Red Bull.  After four straight days of riding, and in blistering cold, I wasn’t sure that that Red Bull was going to be enough to get me home.

When we left, I knew there was a risk that we wouldn’t make it back by Tuesday.  On that last day, I was confronted wit the possibility that if the weather got worse, or I stopped paying attention, I might not make it back at all…

What had started as a four day pleasure cruise with Dad had become a full-on race against time. We had decided that we’d “try to make it to the Grand Canyon,” but if we saw that we were not going to be able to do it, we’d just turn around after two days and head back. Yeah. Like that’s gonna happen.

Dad and I had managed to get Friday and Monday off, making a nice long weekend for a fun fall trip. Maybe a little camping, maybe a little dirt, maybe see some sights and explore. Then we both realized we had explored everything nearby. And everything that was near that, too. If we were going to go anywhere, we were going to have to really GO somewhere. In four days. With the first good winter storm of the season coming in from the North.

So, South it was. Baja seems cool, but I had never seen Zion National Park, and neither of us had seen the North Rim of the Grand Canyon. How far can it be? We have FOUR WHOLE DAYS. That’s a lot, right?

Well, it was nearly enough. So we cheated and left our jobs at 3:00 on Thursday to get a head start and beat the traffic out of the Bay Area.

Keep checking sundaybender.com for more updates here – you have to read the part about the Clown Motel. We stayed there. It’s for real. And it is worth a visit…

Five days, ~1,671 miles
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Day one – 226 miles

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Day two – 471 miles

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Day three – ~ 121 miles

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Day four – 449 miles

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Day five – 404 miles

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Why, you ask? (Do it, ask.)

Because she got on the back of the GS, and let me pilot her from La Honda out to the coast, down to Pescadero for a sandwich (which was awesome and a half, by the way) and down Pescadero Creek road back to our house.

For non-natives, imagine the second half of the Matterhorn ride at Disneyland. We basically did that, but on a bike. With no abominable snowman or whatever.

She’s awesome! She waved to fellow bikers, she leaned into turns, she made me laugh inside my silly looking helmet. F-ing amazing. I didn’t even crash! Come on!!

Next up – Chile. Or maybe Mexico. Or maybe Woodside.

Check her out! Sweet BMW jacket, huh? I am jealous. I may have to remedy that soon…

Seems that Gazo’s creek road turns dirty and leads to a secondary entrace to Butano state park. Nothing too challenging, just a good old dirt road, with a couple of sections that were “paved” way back when, but have over time been reduced to gravel and chunks.

Shiny new R1150GS and lack of dirt riding experience be damned – I was gonne give ‘er a try.

The bike was impressive. More impressive than I was, to be sure. That said, we made it 5.9 miles up and 5.9 miles down without incident, ABS-ing along the way, and bouncing around a bit because I forgot to lower the pressures in my Tourances to a more dirt-friendly level.

Kevict and the KLR went bounding up and down without issue, as expected from a veteran dirt guy and a “real” dirtbike, and I impressed the hell out of myself by puttering up and down without scaring the life out of myself even once. A little clutchwork, some balance, juducious braking and looking far ahead served me very well… Hm, sounds almost like track riding to me…

I don’t think I have ever had more fun going eight miles an hour. I am addicted. This GS is amazing. The KLR is amazing. Touring is awesome. I had no idea. I can’t wait to actually go somewhere! I wonder how much a good GPS costs? What about knobbies? Do I have a tent? How much vacation time have I accrued? how many clif bars fit into the side cases luggage?

Oh man. Trouble.

As I tend to do, I have recently become preoccupied by the idea of a new BMW. This time however, the manifestation of my longing has only two wheels instead of four. I don’t know how it happened, but I decided that I’d really like to take the Incredibly Understanding Wife around on the back of a motorcycle and see this fine nation. Or at least, this fine area very close by our house. Or maybe I would just commute to work on it by myself. I dunno, something. Whatever. It was a romantic notion.

If I was going to force the IUW onto the back of a bike, It couldn’t be the torturous pillion accommodations afforded by my track-prepped SV1000s. I needed something more grand. More luxurious. More appealing. More German.

An K1200RT would be the right bike for sure. Knowing that, I decided to become preoccupied with an R1150GS instead. Tall, rugged, strong, black… it’s everything I wish I was. I began dreaming about it, and what started as Internet research snowballed almost overnight into full-fledged obsession.

The IUW, seeing my compulsive buying behaviors begining to surface, tried to nip this whole process in the proverbial bud.

“Honey, we can’t get one.”

“Of course not, I know.” I reply as I surf craigslist and email a seller to ask for more detailed pics, “It’s dumb.”

“Seriously, honey, we can’t afford that.” the IUW, now clearly vexed, strains to see the laptop screen.

“I’m not gonna buy it. But check it out – Ohlins shocks front and rear! And full luggage! This is really a deal!”

“We’re not buying one, honey. We can’t.”

“I know. We’re not.”

“Okay, I hear your words, but it feels like we are buying one. You just emailed the seller!

“That’s just because I am curious. Because even though we aren’t buying one, I might, you know, have to buy this one.”

“You need to stop looking. Are those heated grips?”

“I am not looking. Yes, they are heated grips! Holy crap this thing is awesome!” I reply, and then I email a dealer to ask when I can test ride the perfect bike I have just found.

The dealer says Tuesday. I say perfect. I email on Tuesday to confirm, and the bike has sold. I weep. Just a little. Like a man, though. A rugged, tall weeping. The dealer says that another bike, very much like the one I am pining for, the one I never even saw or touched but that had somehow become part of my very soul, the one whose sale severed the only link I had to true bliss and eternal enlightenment, the dealer said another bike like it would be coming into his shop in just two weeks. This other bike belonged to a regular customer whom this dealer knows well and trusts and who takes good care of his bikes. Would I like first right of refusal on that similar bike?

My heart skipped, my stomach leapt to my throat. Could it be? Could fate be so clearly forcing me to buy an R1150GS? Even when the one I need so badly has sold and left me hopeless and gasping for breath, another emerges on the distant horizon, staring mistily at me, pawing the ground gently and tossing its wild mane as the rising sun glints off its dewy sweat-soaked coat. I cannot argue with destiny. I agree.

And then it’s my birthday. The IUW gets me a little box, wrapped beautifully. In it, another box. In that box, another, like a series of Russian dolls, each tightly packed inside the other and gaily decorated.

And in the last box, a funny-shaped key.

Thanks entirely to the IUW, Kevict, my mom, and a very clever salesman from BMW of Santa Cruz ,there, outside of my folks’ house (only recently PUSHED to that place of rest by Kevict himself, who had sneaked away under the guise of visiting his own parents who live nearby and fetched said bike, whose key was wrapped and waiting for me to find it and thus he bike was not able to move under its own power) was the R1150GS. The very one that had sold the day before I was able to see it. The very lifeblood that I thought had been sapped from me! It was there in my parents’ driveway, magnificent and regal, big and scary, clean as the proverbial whistle and as real as the nose on my extremely surprised and seriously confused face.

When the dealer told me the bike had sold, I never once thought it might have sold to Kevict and Megan, my IUW, who bought it for me. And unbeknownst to them I had been trying to buy it for myself, nearly ruining the surprise. What a heel! What a fool! What a lucky lucky sonofabitch!

They did it all without my even beginning to know anything was afoot. I have never been more surprised. I really am the luckiest boy ever, to have people who care about me so much.

It’s better than I ever imagined. And look – Ohlins shocks front and rear!