Always Head West
Solo Cross-Country Motorcycle Trip
I knew what I wanted to do, I wanted to ride my motorcycle, coast to coast, on Route 66.
And I wanted to "cowboy camp" in my hammock under the stars along the way.
I didn't know how I was going to do that, or what was involved.
Somehow I had convinced myself that I wanted it that way.
That not planning anything was actually all a part of the plan.
It seemed simple enough, I did my little bit of research. I bought rainproof gear. I packed 3 pairs of socks. I got a National Parks Annual Pass.
What I didn't bother to learn was basic motorcycle repairs. I stuffed a repair manual in my saddlebag and fooled myself that if I brought it and some tools, that would be enough. That I'd figure it out.
I was unprepared.
I had a great time.
I hope that after reading this, if you decide to take a trip like this for yourself, you can avoid a few of my mistakes.
Or not.
And I wanted to "cowboy camp" in my hammock under the stars along the way.
I didn't know how I was going to do that, or what was involved.
Somehow I had convinced myself that I wanted it that way.
That not planning anything was actually all a part of the plan.
It seemed simple enough, I did my little bit of research. I bought rainproof gear. I packed 3 pairs of socks. I got a National Parks Annual Pass.
What I didn't bother to learn was basic motorcycle repairs. I stuffed a repair manual in my saddlebag and fooled myself that if I brought it and some tools, that would be enough. That I'd figure it out.
I was unprepared.
I had a great time.
I hope that after reading this, if you decide to take a trip like this for yourself, you can avoid a few of my mistakes.
Or not.
All photographs shot on Ilford HP5+ 35mm.
Negatives scanned on with an Epson 3000 Flatbed.
On the first day, everything was going great. I was cruising down Highway 1, the Pacific Coast Highway, heading to stay with my friend Taylor in Oceanside for the night.
Sure, it had been a little colder in the morning than I had expected.
The wind had ripped through my clothing more than I had hoped, and I was shivering until the sun climbed high enough to feel on the road.
Easily enough, a little after lunch, I had made it to Santa Barbara.
Slightly south of L.A., was when I had my first thrill.
A truck cut me off on the Pacific Coast Highway and then slammed on their brakes, so I yanked on mine.
Memories from my Motorcycle Safety Class came rushing to mind, reminding me that I should be equally applying pressure to the front and back brakes.
Check.
Only problem, I'm not slowing fast enough.
I knew I didn't want to drop my bike on the first day, but I also knew I didn't want to get smushed.
I stood up to press harder on my back brake lever, and kept pumping the front brake handle.
The extra 70lbs of crap I had strapped to my sissy bar must have caused my rear tire to lock up, because I started to slide.
So there I was, day one, fishtailing a Z through the intersection, hoping to G*d I wouldn't slam into the truck in front of me.
In hindsight I should've realized that I was a small motorcycle and could easily have squeezed onto the shoulder.
I managed to keep my bike under control as my back tire caught and started rolling again.
I pulled over and sat on a curb for a few minutes afterward.
Then I text Taylor telling him I was 30 minutes away and that I would see him soon...
Sure, it had been a little colder in the morning than I had expected.
The wind had ripped through my clothing more than I had hoped, and I was shivering until the sun climbed high enough to feel on the road.
Easily enough, a little after lunch, I had made it to Santa Barbara.
Slightly south of L.A., was when I had my first thrill.
A truck cut me off on the Pacific Coast Highway and then slammed on their brakes, so I yanked on mine.
Memories from my Motorcycle Safety Class came rushing to mind, reminding me that I should be equally applying pressure to the front and back brakes.
Check.
Only problem, I'm not slowing fast enough.
I knew I didn't want to drop my bike on the first day, but I also knew I didn't want to get smushed.
I stood up to press harder on my back brake lever, and kept pumping the front brake handle.
The extra 70lbs of crap I had strapped to my sissy bar must have caused my rear tire to lock up, because I started to slide.
So there I was, day one, fishtailing a Z through the intersection, hoping to G*d I wouldn't slam into the truck in front of me.
In hindsight I should've realized that I was a small motorcycle and could easily have squeezed onto the shoulder.
I managed to keep my bike under control as my back tire caught and started rolling again.
I pulled over and sat on a curb for a few minutes afterward.
Then I text Taylor telling him I was 30 minutes away and that I would see him soon...
Route 66 was exactly how I imagined it.
Two lane road, one in each direction. The hot sun overhead, causing shimmers along the asphalt.
The wind kicking up dirt and straw balls.
Nothing around for miles.
When would I pulled over to stretch, or take photos, five or ten minutes would pass without a single car going by.
The miles continued through the desert, I was thinking repeatedly...
"How the hell was I going to hang a hammock in the desert?"
Two lane road, one in each direction. The hot sun overhead, causing shimmers along the asphalt.
The wind kicking up dirt and straw balls.
Nothing around for miles.
When would I pulled over to stretch, or take photos, five or ten minutes would pass without a single car going by.
The miles continued through the desert, I was thinking repeatedly...
"How the hell was I going to hang a hammock in the desert?"
I decided to continue on to a little town called Needles, CA to stay in a motel for the night.
I'd try my luck camping in Arizona the next day.
Maybe they'd have more trees.
Route 66 suddenly became worn down, I had entered onto a lesser maintained section.
The road turned into a mess of potholes, each the size of a hot tub.
Each one looking like it could swallow me whole, bike and all.
Exactly 19 miles outside of Needles, after doing my best to dodge the potholes, I ended up in one of the shallower ones.
I popped out the other side with a bang, and suddenly my engine sputtered a few wimpy times, and then died.
I freaked.
I could feel the cold sweat of panic start.
Slowly, I rolled over to the shoulder, thinking I could poke around and see if anything were obvious. Maybe somthing got knocked, and I would be able to plug it back in.
I didn't have a clue what to look for. Everything looked fine to me.
I switched my gas tank to the reserve, thinking I ran out of gas or something.
That I had miscalculated the miles before I would be empty.
Still nothing.
The engine wouldn't even pretend to try and start up now.
Something electrical.
Something I definitely couldn't fix.
Oh well, I thought, time to call in an expert.
I walked until I found cell service.
As the sun set on my second day, I called my first tow truck of the trip to take me 19 miles to Needles, CA.
That was on the Saturday evening before Easter Sunday.
Home.
Exactly one month later.
Something like 8,000 miles, something like 19 states, and one tired 'ol boy.
Exactly one month later.
Something like 8,000 miles, something like 19 states, and one tired 'ol boy.