That pretty well says it all, but not to be too much of a smart aleck; my dad had passed away, moving my dear mother to California, good wife insisted that someone go with me, hauled motorcycles into gated community in middle of night, stopped by their security staff upon leaving since motorcycles are not allowed in community.
The first one hundred miles took us to an old Pony Express stop. Now a gas station, souvenir shop, convenience store, and as always in Nevada, a casino, we found our first fuel stop and took a brief break. Visiting with the locals is always a treat and an opportunity to meet new people. You never pass up a fuel stop in this country. Now fueled we headed out on the next one-hundred-mile leg to Austin, Nevada.
At the top of each mountain ridge the road began very normal and then disappeared into such a fine line that it was barely distinguishable. My view began at the top of the mountain and proceeded down and then back up to the next ridge. Making note of my mileage, I was able to measure ten miles downhill, ten miles uphill. This was repeated again and again across the high desert.
It was on one of the uphill runs that very old school hardtail chopper passed us. As we were nearing Austin, Nevada, that bike never left our sight. At Austin, he took to the first fuel stop with a deliberation that seemed to border on anxiety filled with relief. Passing by, we were looking for food and another type of relief.
Upon finding the restaurant/hotel/store/casino, we were very pleased that they were a modern facility and we weren’t forced to travel to an outhouse. We weren’t there long, and the door opened and in came our eastbound companion now fueled up and ready for food.
Raleigh was from Sacramento. Every year he would build a bike, ride to meet some friends in southern Utah, make a big trip around the northwest, then take the bike home and put it up for sale. Once sold, he would begin again.
It pays to stop and smell the roses or at least, talk to people. And the road goes on!
This all started when I went to visit my old friend, my accomplice on this journey which began with him as an acquaintance. That visit brought back a flood of memories.
My sister lived in northern California about eighty miles from Reno, Nevada. East of Reno lies a little town named Fernley. It was there that we were able to connect with Highway 50, the World’s Loneliest Highway.
My sister lived in northern California about eighty miles from Reno, Nevada. East of Reno lies a little town named Fernley. It was there that we were able to connect with Highway 50, the World’s Loneliest Highway.
Traveling across the high desert for three hundred miles and only meeting five vehicles going in the opposite direction and one going in the same direction is some pretty lonely country.
The first one hundred miles took us to an old Pony Express stop. Now a gas station, souvenir shop, convenience store, and as always in Nevada, a casino, we found our first fuel stop and took a brief break. Visiting with the locals is always a treat and an opportunity to meet new people. You never pass up a fuel stop in this country. Now fueled we headed out on the next one-hundred-mile leg to Austin, Nevada.
At the top of each mountain ridge the road began very normal and then disappeared into such a fine line that it was barely distinguishable. My view began at the top of the mountain and proceeded down and then back up to the next ridge. Making note of my mileage, I was able to measure ten miles downhill, ten miles uphill. This was repeated again and again across the high desert.
It was on one of the uphill runs that very old school hardtail chopper passed us. As we were nearing Austin, Nevada, that bike never left our sight. At Austin, he took to the first fuel stop with a deliberation that seemed to border on anxiety filled with relief. Passing by, we were looking for food and another type of relief.
Upon finding the restaurant/hotel/store/casino, we were very pleased that they were a modern facility and we weren’t forced to travel to an outhouse. We weren’t there long, and the door opened and in came our eastbound companion now fueled up and ready for food.
Raleigh was from Sacramento. Every year he would build a bike, ride to meet some friends in southern Utah, make a big trip around the northwest, then take the bike home and put it up for sale. Once sold, he would begin again.
It pays to stop and smell the roses or at least, talk to people. And the road goes on!
(Paul Richardson's column The Horse I Rode In On is published weekly in the Neosho Daily News, Seneca News-Dispatch and on the Turner Report.)
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