An American Odyssey: Road to Sturgis, Part IV: Freewheeling in the Promised Land: From Provo to Jackson Hole in the Great American West

Welcome to Zion: Provo, Utah!

Summer days last forever in the upper middle United States.  The sun banks over an infinite horizon around 9 PM, and the sky grasps onto lingering shards of light until the late hours.  

Summer days dawn early in the upper middle of the U.S.A. as well.  I could tell because brilliant rays of light would penetrate the hotel curtains to splash heat onto my eyelids.  It was past time to awaken though, as my fully-dressed father hovered over me skeptically while sipping a cup of coffee.  “Road train leaves at nine.  We’ve got a few new riders joining us.  Get moving!”

Hot shower, morning coffee, denim pants, riding boots, leather vest, sunscreen: I jammed out my morning routine and dashed outside into a light so luminous it made me believe this was God’s favorite state.

“Andrew, meet the Aussies.”  Before me stood three double-sized, hairy, leather-clad, elder statesman of the road.  They looked like what bikers should be.  Bandanas pulled back shaggy locks, torched-red skin framed their sunglasses, and “Harley-Davidson” logos leapt off of vests, jackets, and t-shirts.  I’m no midget at 6’0” plus a two-inch boot lift, but each of the three Aussies towered over me in weight, height, and girth.  They all emanated authority- shoulders pulled back, bellies heaving out, heads held high.  These were seasoned road warriors.

“Good to meet you, Andy!” cried Jake.

“G-day mate!” said Dean.

“Heard you used to live in Australia. . . . Let’s ride!” shouted Allen.

My father/son crew of two had now swelled to six riders, and I was slightly irked.  I predicted we were about to slow down a lot, and we still faced a long and winding road.  Then again, I was the last one ready this morning: Maybe I was the deadweight?

No time to over think it.  We revved our engines and launched out onto Interstate 15, the same freeway I had started on days earlier in San Diego.  

Now I was to learn about the riding formation.  When you’re riding with a crew, there are essential rules to follow.  You’ve got to ride in a staggered formation (left-right-left-right), so all riders can see each other and so you occupy the entire lane, preventing other vehicles from crowding you.  You’ve got to keep up with your crew.  You’ve got to be sure everyone understands when a maneuver is being made, which means you’ve got to read the guy in front of you and pass on the message to the rear.  We were like a team of reindeer, but without a shared harness, we had to simulate an organic, responsive, and synchronized unit.  We had to move as one, even though I hardly knew half of the crew I was riding with.  

As the youngest and greenest rider in the group, my position in line was caboose.  I deferred to the authority of age and experience.  I put a little pressure on the rider in front of me, but I didn’t consider trying to take the lead.  I didn’t deserve that position yet, and given the hand signals, unilateral decision-making, and awareness required up front, I wasn’t ready ready for it.

Our six-man motorcycle gang pulled off the Interstate into the most idyllic small city I’ve seen in my 31 years: Provo, Utah.  Situated exactly where rolling foothills surround a crystal clear lake at the foot of craggy peaks, Provo is the Emerald City gateway into the celestial mountains. We looked like shaggy barbarians invading the holy capital as we cruised through the broad boulevards of Norman Rockwell’s picture-perfect America.  

Provo, Utah.  When Joseph Smith founded his religion and Brigham Young led the Mormon exodus from upstate New York to the New Jerusalem, this must have been the paragon of his dream.  A booming commercial mid-rise district first greeted us, with shiny glass buildings, busy workers constructing the future with massive cranes, and Biblical company names like “Zion’s Promise” engraved above shop windows.  Broad sidewalks, perfectly manicured landscaping, and well-groomed white people were all illuminated by the brazen sunshine.

We moved through a transition zone of Mormon temples of every architectural style, from soaring Neo-Gothic, spire-laden houses of worship to sturdy, stone churches built with the granite and limestone unearthed from the hinterland.

 Finally we moved into the pulsing soul of Provo, Brigham Young University.  No glossy brochure could do justice to the glorious beauty of this University campus.  When Plato imagined his school for philosopher-kings, he was imagining BYU-Provo.  School was out of session, but still eager young people drifted through the tree-lined walkways, brick buildings, and playing fields of their college.  The imposing football stadium tucked snugly into the Rocky Mountains looked like the most successful temple in town (and in terms of attendance at its seasonal ceremonies, it was).

I was lost in my thoughts and observations, as I often was on my motorcycle.  Riding a motorcycle is at turns social and private.  Social when you’re off the bike, and private when you’re on.  As you zoom around, with the engine rumbling, the wind whipping, and the music rocking, you’re consumed in your own psychological world.  This is probably why some people love to ride, and why others don’t care for it at all.  You’ve got to enjoy your company, and you’ve got to enjoy the mere prospect of absorbing where you are.

We left Provo and finally cut off Interstate 15.  She had taken good care of us for over 1,000 miles.  Dwight Eisenhower’s legacy to the nation- the Interstate Highway System- continues to be one of the marvels of modern engineering.  Whether we as a nation are willing and able to maintain these roads (and whether President Obama can find enough support to invest in these national treasures) remains to be seen.  But just as the Roman Empire was linked by its roads, so is the American.  Harley Riders know this in their bones.

We cut up into a tight ravine leading to Park City.  We stopped quickly to gear up with jackets, gloves, and full face helmets.  This 20 mile riverside mountain pass was pure riding nirvana.  We banked, curved, and raced on open roads as we climbed up thousands of feet into ski country.  Rivers tumbled by below us, full of merry river-rafters, campers, and weekenders.  We emerged from the pass into a high valley, where the resorts of Park City and the Canyons dominated the mountain-scape.  The ski-slopes were bare and grassy, but in my imagination I covered the mountains with snow.  

We carried on north in search of the beginning of Interstate 80, an eastbound road that would carry us all the way to the Center of the Empire (New York City) if we let it.

Early afternoon arrived, and we continued to fly.  We crossed from Utah into the great state of Wyoming.  We were only one state away from South Dakota, but we were about to race north so we could enjoy the wonders of Jackson Hole, the Grand Tetons, and Yellowstone.  We turned north off the Interstate, and entered into a glorious region of lakes, rolling mountains, and natural parks.  This is the America that immigrants, pioneers, and poets pine for.  Wide open spaces, water, green fields, friendly towns.  The ride was a dream, as I passed through places I never would have visited otherwise, and likely never would again.  

In the mid-afternoon we ducked into a biker bar.  We couldn’t resist the guady plastic Budweiser posters plastered out front trying to capture Sturgis missionaries.  The dark bar was full of grizzly old bikers, including the Fried Brothers, a couple of fuzzy, 30 year Sturgis veterans who played in a rock-band together.  They had clearly been enjoying themselves for the previous three decades.  We talked story and fueled up on Bratwurst.  Uncle Buck made fast friends, and we chased the Fried Brothers through the mountains to the next bar, where they were playing an annual show where the bikers and cowboys would all dance and rumble.  We lingered for a bit, until reason took over and we realized we were about to lose a day of riding if we didn’t keep moving.  Uncle Buck elected to stay behind for the party. No surprise there. . 

Welcome to a sportman's paradise: Jackson Hole,  Wy.!

The afternoon ride was harrowing.  As we flew through the river mountain forest, we approached an awful accident.  I turned the corner to see a trike smashed to pieces being guarded by a police detail.  We would later discover three people had been killed when a car crossed over the line.  A pall fell over us as we all remembered that riding motorcycles is fundamentally dangerous.

We arrived in Jackson Hole, Wyoming in the early evening.  What a town!  The consummate mix of cowboy culture, western beauty, hipster-yuppie amenities, resort coolness, undulating ranches, and world-class skiing.  We proceeded to lose ourselves and the Aussies, as my dad tried to use his memory from over thirty years prior to navigate the town.  Next time we’ll use the map, dad.  

Welcome to Driggs, Id., my home for tonight.

Lodging was booked solid, so we finished the day by climbing and descending a 2,500 ft. mountain pass into Driggs, Idaho, a country town at the foot of Alta and Coeur d’alene lane ski resorts.

We were cold, beaten-down, and exhausted from a 12 hour, over 400 mile day.  We went out quickly for a Thai dinner served by a Russian hostess, and we consumed it hungrily while watching the London Olympics.  We earned our Best Western beds on this day.