Solo on the Blue Highways: California to Massachusetts

The following appeared in the January 2019 Backroads USA Magazine

I am prone to hit the road, solo. I have driven four wheels across America from coast to coast. Each time, I spent nights camping, hiking and crashing on couches and staying in hostels. Last year, I found myself longing for a solo trip. To mix things up, I decided to take on the country on two wheels. I took a sabbatical from New England to live with a friend in the Sierras. While there, bought my first motorcycle to get around while there. Fast forward to mid-August and I needed to get myself and my motorcycle back to Massachusetts. So, I decided to make it a road trip to visit friends, family and ride solo.

On a cool, misty morning in the Sierras I headed out for the first leg of my 27-day solo ride across the United States on my 2017 Honda Rebel 500 ABS. It’s a small bike, but it’s bigger than what Robert Selig rode in Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance with his son on the back. So, it would suffice.

From Pollock Pines, I cut east over the Sierras via Mormon Emigrant Trail. This route beat the crowds on Highway 50. It climbed quickly then floated along the mountaintops before it descended to Carson Pass. On Carson Pass, I was rewarded with fresh pavement and birdseye views of Silver Lake and Caples Lake. As I headed into Nevada, the terrain transitioned from mountains to green valley to desert brush.  

Nevada is sizeable – 320 miles from east to west and 490 miles from north to south. My route – Carson City to Austin to Rachel to Panaca – kept me in Nevada for 538-miles. I start out eastbound from Carson City on the Lincoln Highway which is also known as “The Loneliest Highway in America.” Here, the highway didn’t feel lonely at all. It was crowded with strip malls, chain restaurants, desert casinos, suburban homes, and rumbling 18-wheelers. But as I entered the Dice Valley salt basin, the crowds dissipated, and the desert opened.

Highway 376, Big Smoky Valley, Nevada

I was enthralled with the quality of Nevada’s highways. Although they baked in sun and dust, they were perfect. The tar was smooth, and the painted stripes were meticulously painted. Soon the valley transformed from high desert covered in sagebrush to the arid Toiyabe Mountains. Save for the periodic low flying F/A-18 Hornets from Naval Air Station Fallon traffic on the Loneliest Highway diminished and the road got pretty lonely as I closed in on Austin.

The next morning, I woke early and continued east. Early morning hours were a good time to be on the road in the desert southwest. The air was cool, the highway was silent and the sky was inky blue and deep orange. After I traversed Toiyabe Forest, I turned into Big Smoky Valley where jagged mountains lined either side. I glanced at my shadow on the shoulder of the road and reveled at the vastness of Nevada and the tininess of me zipping along this black ribbon.

This route took me full length of “The Extraterrestrial Highway” named so because it went through Area 51 where aliens were rumored to have landed. I only came across cows, sand and Joshua Trees. There was no mobile phone coverage and no fuel stops. Aliens and motorcyclists should arrive fully fueled. There was one town of note, Rachel, which had one diner and inn that carried alien souvenirs and served a decent BLT and fries.

The Little A’Le Inn, Rachel, Nevada

I didn’t find Aliens, but managed to traverse the highway without cracking my spare can of gas. My next stop was Panaca, the last hamlet before the Utah border on Highway 319. There, I took a worthy side trip to Cathedral Gorge State Park and the old mining town, Pioche. After two days and 518 miles and I was still in Nevada with 20 miles to go before Utah.

My innkeeper insisted I eat breakfast, so I got a late 6:45am start which was exacerbated when entered Utah’s Mountain Time Zone. I would regret my lateness when the midday heat hit, but, for now, Utah greeted me with of blue skies, cartoony clouds and bright sunflowers. A quick jog on Interstate 15 took me to Zion National Park where I happened into gas station social hour with other motorcyclist before I headed into the park. The day was getting hotter and I had many miles ahead, but Zion didn’t disappoint with its stunning beauty. Although it was worth more than a blow through, the desert heat made we want to hustle onward. So, I sweated through the park in a slow line of traffic while taking in the dazzling red rock formations from my seat.

I relieved myself by soaking my cooling vest with ice water then headed south to Kanab. From there, I made my way east on a highway south of Grand Staircase-Escalante and north of the Arizona border. The scenery is spectacular with the sandy desert basin littered with buttes, towering rock spires and hoodoos.

The heat rising from the highway tricked me into thinking my engine was overheating, so I pulled over and examined the situation only to feel the blacktop’s heat penetrating my shoe soles. It was the road overheating. The sun was still scorching, when I finally reached Page, Arizona As a gateway to Lake Powell, Page is full of hotels and RV parks, but I found a cozy BnB  to retreat to for air conditioning.

In the morning, I made my way to the southeast corner of Colorado. I was born and raised in Colorado, so this was my homecoming day. My northern Arizona route to Dolores was almost entirely inside Hopi and Navajo Reservations with little more than small outposts along the way. I was eager to get to a friend’s house by lunch, so I only paused to fuel up and visit the Four Corners Monument. There, I took a selfie standing in Arizona, Utah, Colorado and New Mexico all at once.

Dolores offered the perfect night to reminisce over beers and the next day, I rode east into the Rockies under deep blue skies. I crossed the Continental Divide on the large swooping turns of Wolf Creek Pass to meet my husband in the San Luis Valley. He would be my Rocky Mountain riding partner for the next three days. We made our way over Poncha Mountain Pass into the Upper Arkansas River Valley to our base camp in Buena Vista.

Hoosier Pass, Colorado

We spent two days riding back and forth over the Continental Divide. The first and second traverses were over the fun and technical Independence Pass near Aspen. The next two traverses were via Hoosier Pass near Breckenridge. Construction kept us from enjoying the all twisties, but we got a few good ones in before making our way to Denver. While he dropped of his rental, I got treated to summer afternoon downpour. Luckily, I had a two-day break to dry out, relax and do laundry.

As a kid, my family used to make the trek across Colorado’s eastern plains to western Kansas every summer to visit my grandparents. It was a long flat stretch of prairie. The more scenic route eastward was through Wyoming and Montana before taking on the Midwest, but I was heading to Stockton, Kansas where I laid my mom to rest a year earlier.  If there was a heartland of America, it was not far her final resting spot which is 70 miles southeast of the geographic center of the continental US.

Sunrise in Topeka, Kansas

This also meant Stockton was right in the middle of the Midwest with a whole lot of straight, flat road in all directions. So, I kept going east. I stopped in Topeka for a night then moved on to St. Louis. The long stretches of golden plains, distant farms and small towns gave way to the rolling woodlands of the northern Ozarks. Near St Louis, I celebrated the long Labor Day weekend with family then set my sights on Louisville. It wasn’t in my original plans, but rains in Memphis sent me to sunnier climes.

I left Missouri and crossed the Mississippi River then the entirety of Illinois then the Wabash River then the entirety of Indiana before crossing the Ohio River into Kentucky. The steady head winds didn’t help, but it was a tedious haul. I alternated between highway and country roads attempting to balance time-saving with interesting scenery, but both roadways were clogged with traffic. Towns were full of dollar stores and chain restaurants, but I did manage to find a nice family diner for lunch.

Louisville was a welcome site. My last-minute booking rewarded me with a discounted room on a top floor of an upscale downtown hotel with two bourbon bars on site. I relished the spectacular view of the Ohio River before spending the afternoon and evening eating barbeque and sampling local bourbons while chatting with fellow motorcyclist.

Before leaving Louisville, I took the time to visit Churchill Downs, the home of the Kentucky Derby. Nothing much happening in September, but it was worth the stop before riding off to Bowling Green then Nashville.

Johnny Cash Museum in Nashville, Tennessee

Nashville is the home of Honky Tonks, the Grand Ole Opry, The Country Music Hall of Fame and the Johnny Cash Museum. That last one was the reason I planned two days in Nashville. I took a day off from riding and hopped onto a city tour bus to take in the sites and sample more local bourbons.

A rest day was a good idea because the next day, I would head to one of the grandest of motorcycle destinations: the road between Chilhowee, Tennessee and Deals Gap, North Carolina – The Tail of the Dragon. Not to miss out on a good curvy road, my husband rode his own bike from Massachusetts and joined me to ride the Great Smoky Mountains. Although it was well-trafficked, the Tail wasn’t overly crowded. So, we were lucky enough to ride the Tail multiple times and still explore the Nantahala Forest for some amazing and technical twisties. The Tail was the main attraction, but there were tons of good rides in these hills.

On the third day, we headed east from Tellico Plains on the Cherohala Skyway. The Cherohala Skyway felt like floating through an endless 360°curve. This ride is an exhilarating thrill, but those big ol‘ curves felt light and easy after days on the Tail of the Dragon. We carved through the big and fast swooping curves of the Skyway before switching to the expansive views of the Blue Ridge Parkway.

Deals Gap, North Carolina

As we descended on Asheville, North Carolina, temperatures dropped and the sky darkened. The remnants of Hurricane Irma were making its way right to where we were headed. It alternated between drizzling and pouring. I had emergency rain gear already, but my husband did not. So, we headed to the nearest motorcycle shop. I added gore-tex gloves to my repertoire, but my husband boldly chose a grip warmer kit. We are both quite competent mechanics, but I would not attempt such a tricky installation on the road with only my small tool set.  That’s me, but he really wanted warm hands.

I will forgo the exact unfolding of events, but let’s just say it didn’t go smashingly. It was seven hours, two trips to the hardware store, a good amount of cussing, two pots of coffee, a super-glue mishap, lunch delivery, and finally, a call to the motorcycle shop for last minute advice before the warmers were installed. All the while, I absorbed the weather forecast – cold, heavy rain and strong winds. I didn’t like it. Although I wanted to get to my sister’s in Swansboro, North Carolina before my nephew was scheduled to make his debut in the world, I wanted to get there alive. So, we decided to hunker down for an extra day and take in Asheville. Unfortunately, Asheville was an outdoorsy place and getting outdoors was not possible that day. Fortunately, Asheville had a brewery every few steps to pass time indoors.

As Irma made her way out of town, we also headed out toward Boone, North Carolina. Normally, the best motorcycle route would be the Blue Ridge Parkway, but Irma shut it down. We managed a short section and found out why. The hurricane left a wind torn mess of slick leaves and branches and the ridgeway was still very windy. At Boone, my husband and I parted ways. I headed toward Swasnboro with a stop in Durham, he headed back to Massachusetts.  

Blue Ridge Parkway, North Carolina

One of my guilty pleasures in North Carolina is the chain fried chicken joint Bojangles. I was just finishing off a lunch of dark meat and biscuits when my sister texted, “It’s raining like crazy here. Are you still on the road?”

That was sweet of her to worry I might get wet, especially since she was in labor. Rain was pouring at the hospital and it seemed my nephew was waiting for my arrival to make his own arrival. I attached my rain covers and hit the road. Fortunately, I timed my arrival in Swansboro between waves of down pours and parked in the garage just before the sky dumped. My nephew arrived a few hours later.

I spent 12 days with family then continued on to New England. My bike was freshly lubed, cleaned and repacked as I rode north. A few days earlier, I mapped a route along the Outerbanks to the Ocracoke Island ferry then an inner island ferry to Nags Head. Unfortunately, another hurricane, Maria this time, decided alter my course. The storm surge sent surfers to the Outerbanks, but it canceled my ferries and caused excessive winds on the Outerbanks. So, I rejiggered my route inland straight to Virginia Beach. 

Safe from Irma in Asheville, North Carolina

There was high pressure to the west of the hurricane – which was driving it northwardly along the coast. The air was thick and I had to ride through humid, sticky heat with just enough sprinkle of rain along the way to keep me damp and uncomfortable. I made it to Virginia Beach before another round of heavy rains arrived.

That evening, I obsessed over the Chesapeake Bay Bridge Tunnel and Cape May Ferry conditions. The bridge-tunnel had closed motorcycles for part of the day due to winds but the Cape May Ferry seemed to have spared.  I contemplated heading around the Bay toward DC for a 4+ hour detour. But,  I did not want to go to DC. I did not want to skip the ferry. And, I did not want to bail out of this opportunity to cross the Chesapeake Bay Bridge Tunnel.

At 9:24am, one mile from the bridge, I got a Twitter alert. “The CBBT is currently operating under Level 1 wind restrictions. Winds are in excess of 40 mph.” So, with a sigh and stubborn determination I paid my toll and entered the bridge.

Soon, I was coiled up and crouched down over the tank of my motorcycle to hide behind my windshield which was vibrating a little more wildly than I liked. I was 75-feet above the Atlantic Ocean riding into a 40+mph head wind and I was screaming into my helmet like a maniac. I screamed at the frothy waves that were below me and all around while I simultaneously tried to ignore them. If I were to acknowledge them, their siren song would beckon me to join them in their bone crushing and motorcycle crushing churn.

The wind didn’t win. Gravity and the abyss didn’t win. This day, I won.. Yeah, I might have sounded like I lost my mind, but I crossed the bridge. No embellishment, it was terrifying and I was scared. After more than 4000 miles alone on two wheels, this was freaky.

I took a moment for a little parking lot celebration then I rode through Maryland and caught my ferry to New Jersey. Except for the guy who asked my California license plates, this ferry ride was far less dramatic than the bridge. The winds were calm, the sky was blue and the air was perfectly salted.

I crashed at a friend’s house in Medford Lakes, New Jersey and proceeded to have a few too many whiskeys with her which haunted me as I skirted my way around Trenton the next day. My goal was to head north and avoid New York City commuters as best as I could.

Virginia Beach, Virginia

When I finally emerged north of Trenton, I was rewarded with long stretches of New Jersey farmland. The air was warm, but tinged with a early fall chill. Everything seemed to sparkle as I chased my shadow along the blacktop. There were winding roads, rolling hills, cows chewing cud, farmhouses and quaint, idyllic towns. For miles, a pair of touring bikes followed along accompanying me in silent acknowledgement of the perfection of the day. When we finally stopped at a traffic light, they asked “Did you ride that from California?” As the light changed, I shouted back “Yes!”  and noticed, in my review mirror, he raised his hand in a fist pump acknowledging my accomplishment.

Although I could have extended my farm country jaunt into New York and Connecticut, the day was waning and I had friends, a hot shower and a cozy bed waiting in Hartford. So, I scuttled out of the countryside and onto the highway.

The next day, I met my husband for the final leg of my trip at Charlie’s Diner in Spencer, Massachusetts. New England was sparkling and the air was crisp. I was taking in the moment and relishing in this last day on the open road. Weeks earlier, I left Massachusetts on an airplane. Although I had no return ticket, I did have a crazy plan to return on two wheels. And, then, I did.