An American Odyssey: Road to Sturgis, Day I: San Diego Through Las Vegas

Thursday, August 2 was blast-off day, but my father and I had a mountain of tasks to address.  My dad needed to close down his office for a ten-day absence, and I needed to finish eight hours of my English course and pack my bags.

I also had a helmet issue.  The Little Italy Harley dealership had run out of quality helmets, so they had handed me a top helmet with a flimsy strap and no visor or face protection.  For the epic quest I envisioned,this mini top-hat wouldn’t cut it.

Fortunately my soul brother Chris Mayer had a line on an underground operation in East County, where a black man with jerry curls would sell me a made-in-China faux carbon full-face adjustable helmet for just 70 dollars.  After my class at USD I raced out on Interstate 8 in the shimmering summer heat to a random hillside apartment complex.  Sure enough Little Richard sauntered out of his apartment, rolled back his garage cover, and plied through his stocked inventory of Department of Transportation-approved, rip-off helmets.  As I counted out the bills he stared at my motorcycle, bedazzled by the glittering blue sparkle of my bike’s shiny new paint job.

This mission accomplished, I raced back downtown to fuel up on my Scottish Granny’s steak and meat pies.  I scurried around her apartment, packing my luggage, jazzed that the adventure would soon begin.  The Pacific Ocean sucked the evening sun into its watery jaws as my dad and I loaded up our bikes.  We said goodbye to my grandmother, goodbye to my sister and her boyfriend, and goodbye to a glamorous Cajun homeless woman who my dad keeps an eye on.

And then, at 7 PM. We rode our first mile.  As we merged from the 5 to the 163 to the great Northeastern bound Interstate 15, I focused closely on my dad’s direction.  He is a prudent, controlled rider.  His moves are steady and planned, he calls out all hazards in advance, and he doesn’t push the speed limit beyond reason.  I followed his veteran lead as the evening colors moved down the spectrum from orange to purple to black. 

Our goal for the first night was to make the California-Nevada state line, a 5 hour journey of some 300 miles.  And so, we flew.  We passed through the inner commercial core of San Diego County, some of the densest riding of our whole trip, moving gingerly on five lane freeways.  The road opened up a bit in North County, as we swung further from the sea, and higher into the foothills of the Sierra Nevada.

We passed through the Dr. Seuss hill country of Fallbrook, the languorous wine country of Temecula, and the open foothill country of Vista and Lake Elsinore.  Moving North away from the coast is the stress free-way to enter Greater Los Angeles, and we approached the Inland Empire in the darkness through Riverside.
 

I don’t love driving at night, because you miss beautiful landscapes, it’s hard to see the road, and some people are drunk.  Nevertheless, we were on a mission to cover some early ground, so we carried on for hours and hours through San Bernadino and the Angeles National Forest region. 

And then came the midnight heat wave.  As we dropped down the mountains ringing L.A., we moved into the parched desert landscape leading through Victorville and Barstow toward Nevada.  My engine burst with hot combustion and my legs singed with heat under my denim and leather chaps.  My hair broke into a soggy sweat inside my full face helmet.  I couldn’t imagine doing this during the day; night was the perfect time to pass through this ferocious country. 

We stopped for gas, soft drinks, dad’s cigarette break, bathroom, hydration, and cell phone checks, but these stops were inevitably efficient.  Five to ten minutes, and then move on, because the road goes on for so long.

The glittering gambling palaces of the sunlight desert beckoned like a mirage as we descended on the Nevada State line.  It’s surreal to move from hot empty nothing to the gaudy, overblown amusement parks of human indulgence, especially to do it at 85 mph on a pulsating Harley. 

We had been riding for six hours, and the plan was to crash at state line, but I was feeling hyped from the riding.  Dad and I consulted at a gas station, and just 40 miles from Las Vegas, I urged him to keep up the run so we could see Sin City on a 1AM street cruise.  He obliged; we gassed up and jammed out.

Las Vegas is just a name on a sign until you come over the mountain pass 15 miles out.  Then, it’s the Emerald City at the end of the rainbow.  The organized grid of the outer suburbs lights the way to the epicenter of the postmodern faux-city that makes up the Strand.  My heart picked up RPM’s as I hurtled toward Vegas.  We overshot the city, and then turned back down the Strand. 

A sober view of Las Vegas at 1 AM is so very strange.  The Disneyland architecture is utterly absorbing: Caesar’s Palace, New York New York, the Bellagio, the Venetian, Wynn.  It’s all so irresistible.  We carried on down the Strand to the older, faded grandeur of the former Desert Inn and Circus Circus, and down to motel alley and Skid Row.  This blended into the courthouse and administrative district, and eventually back to the I-15.

My curiosity sated, we rambled on at 2 AM.  Staying in Vegas was never an option, as the vortex could easily suck us in and destroy the next day’s progress.  We pointed Northward and roared past Wal-Mart distribution centers, stock car speedways, and power plants.  We roared farther into more hot, deserted nothing, until finally raw hunger and exhaustion pulled us to a 3 AM respite in Glendale.

We checked into an all hours casino-hotel.  As we lugged our bags up to our $50/night double, I noticed a small army of motorcycles parked out front, perhaps 80 bikes of every style imaginable.  1,000 miles outside of Sturgis, there was already abundant evidence of the gathering of the motorcycle tribe.   After an eight hour, 380 mile opening stretch, my dad and I devoured a groggy 4AM breakfast.   I was out before my head hit the pillow. . .