55th Class Reunion on a Two-Wheeled SUV:
A Two-Wheeled What?
Laying On the Utility
Thinking Small for a Big Trip
Day 1: Tucson to Las Cruces
Day 2: The Road to Santa Rosa
Day 3: Kittycorner to Kansas
Days 4 and 5: Wet Wichita, Sunny St. Joseph
Day 6: This Way to Humboldt
Enjoying Humboldt (Iowa)
Gas Tank Blackjack
The Real Kansas in Technicolor
A Liberal Dose of Memories
Holbrook? How Did We Wind Up In Holbrook?
Painted, Petrified, and Perfect
The Home Home Stretch
Planning and packing done, let's hit the road. The first day's ride will be a leisurely jaunt to Las Cruces, New Mexico, using eastbound I-10.
It's 6:00 a.m., early in July. At this hour, this time of year, a T-shirt will generally provide warmth enough even for a Tucsonan, whose body is adapted by evolution for triple-digit temperatures, but can stand it down to 80. I know that it'll be cooler outside of town, so I set out in a heavy sweatshirt. To my consternation, this isn't enough. Almost immediately after reaching speed on Interstate 10, I'm huddled all up and gritting my teeth. This is cold, and I haven't brought anything warmer except for the rainsuit. There's no point turning around to fetch a jacket; if I had one, I'd have to take it off later in the day, and I can't think of anywhere to pack it. I decide to tough it out until the rest stop at Texas Canyon. It's only 60 miles, and I had planned to stop there for pictures anyhow
Pictures at an Interstate rest stop? Doesn't that require an eccentric fascination with people walking their dogs? Ordinarily, yes, but Texas Canyon is rather scenic. As far as I can see, no river runs through it, but it's surrounded on two sides by what amount to canyon walls. If you aim your camera high enough, you can limit your picture to them. They're the sparsely vegetated rock variety that is typical of the desert. Scenic-wise, that's an acquired taste, but I acquired it long ago.
By the way, never undervalue a well-appointed rest stop. Texas Canyon is the last we'll see for a while. Some states lavish resources upon rest stops, others don't. Let's hear it for Arizona.
Anyway, I put on the rainsuit, and happily it provided plenty of warmth. That was in doubt beforehand, because it's a new one, a two-piece Tour Master. Its predecessor, a one-piece First Gear outfit, went through storm and drench with me for five years, but finally sprang a leak. Not its fault -- I touched the leg once too often to a hot exhaust pipe. That brings up a cautionary point. Normally, your leg is well removed from any exhaust pipe, which is below a foot peg, but when you put your feet down at a traffic stop, be aware. The Tour Master rain pant is supposedly protected by something called nomex, but I'm not planning to test it.
The rest of the ride to Las Cruces was comfortable and uneventful, though it did have a lurking potential for adventure. That stretch of road in eastern Arizona and western New Mexico is infamous for dust storms. They're the kind that reduce visibility to zero and lead to chain reaction pileups. None has ever happened when I was there, and I'm not hankering to have the experience, but occasional stories in the press lend a mild excitement to the ride. For those who are readily bored, the numerous warning signs may be a welcome stimulant.
In Las Cruces, I delayed refilling the gas tank until my trip odometer (which I reset at every refill) read 118. This was well within the range that should be attainable without switching to reserve, but I'd never tried it before because of occasional stoppages at 100 miles or fewer in Tucson. That it worked this time emboldened me for some doubtful looking stretches of the route ahead.
