In May of 2016, I was riding my 1979 Honda CM400T motorcycle south along the Sierra Nevada mountain range in eastern California. I was just outside Reno and the wind began to howl. Although my smaller bike had made it this far into a multi-thousand mile roadtrip (proving the naysayers wrong that such a small engine couldn't make this long of a journey) the rig was showing signs of fatigue as the small highway grew to multiple lanes, and the grooved payment began to induce a consistent wobble in my front tire. I had avoided highways for most of that trip but this section was unavoidable, and upon reaching the I-80 interchange near Bordertown it was clear I needed to take a break.
To this day I'm still not sure why, but maybe between the increased crosswinds coming down from the mountains and the surge in draft currents from the extra amount of cars on the freeway, my speedometer needle began to shake, constantly hovering ten to fifteen miles per hour above and below my actual speed. As the range of the needle's wobble continued to grow, like watching a child swing ever so higher on a swingset, wondering if they'll break that gravitational hurdle and swing all the way over the cross bar, my speedometer needle finally had enough. It broke free from its mechanical bondages and began spinning completely around the inside of the casing like a clown watch.
After a few minutes of amusement while watching this phenomena take place, my red oil light also began to flicker. Like I said, it was time for a break. I pulled into an O'Reilly Autoparts and troubleshot my mechanical problems. Just like the flying circuits on the Delorian after the lightning strike at the end of Back to the Future II, my speedometer never worked again. I did an oil change in the parking lot of the autoparts store before continuing south on my journey towards San Diego. I arrived just in time for my nephew's third birthday party in Escondido, complete with a jump-jump castle and Paw Patrol themed decorations. Although parts of that trip didn't go to plan, my thirty-seven year old, four hundred cubic centimeter motorcycle stuck the landing on a road trip from Cedar Rapids, Iowa to San Diego, California.
After I completed that journey, I had no idea if I would ever have the time and resources to complete another long road trip such as that one. It turns out it would only be a year later, when hanging out in a hammock at a hostel in Nicaragua, my buddy Anthony would send me a text message to plan another trip for July of 2017. Apparently planning motorcycle roadtrips isn't that hard. Perhaps I should plan a few more?
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As Anthony and I traversed the great state of South Dakota, he on a 2005 Yamaha Vstar Custom 1100 and me on a 1982 Yamaha Maxim XJ650, we pulled into the small town of Winner and had lunch at the China Buffet right where State Highway 44 merges with the 183. The cuisine was surprisingly good, and we met a family of Mexican Americans who were traveling through. They owned a restaurant in a town further north of the area and were traveling with family that was visiting from Mexico. Chinese food with new Mexican friends in South Dakota. I'll take it.
It was a hot day and my body was sticky with sweat as the sleeves of my leather jacket felt like they were glued to my skin. After burning through another tank of gas it was time to find some shade, however, when we pulled into the town of Wanblee, situated deep in the heart of the Rosebud Indian Reservation, the only cover available was the small shadow from the roof overhang of the gas station. We went inside to discover what all the locals of the reservation had already discovered: this gas station has air conditioning. I peeled my leather jacket off my arms and sat down in a camping chair that was available for purchase for $7.99 (I didn't buy it). Anthony and I bought whatever snacks our hearts desired. I went for an ice cream Snickers bar and relaxed inside the store while we chatted with a few members of the reservation. A couple of loaded up motorcycles usually serves as a good ice-breaker for conversation.
After our body temperatures felt like they could endure the heat, we rode a little ways to the town of Interior on the outskirts of Badlands National Park. As opposed to the heat wave we had experienced only a few hours prior, by the time we reached the small gas station at the edge of Interior a cool breeze was swiftly engulfing the area and gray storm clouds were fast approaching. We had every intention of riding the scenic drive through the park, but this approaching storm didn't give us much hope for too many scenes along that drive. We headed over to the Wagon Wheels Bar, ordered a pizza, and waited for the storm to pass, which it did just as quickly as it approached.
We entered the park as the clouds were beginning to clear, and as the sun was setting it cast a spectrum of colors over the jagged rocks and geologic structures that make up Badlands National Park. Reds, yellows, and oranges all reflected off the sandstone walls. Although the storm seemed to hinder our journey at first, the beautiful hues and color tones provided in its aftermath really was the best time to drive the small Highway 240 across the park. We picked an elevated spot to pull over and watch the sunset off in the horizon. I usually don't like riding at night for safety reasons, but the risk was worth it that evening to see one of our country's most beautiful natural areas at a time when the light was just perfect.
The next day we drove past Mount Rushmore. Not because it wasn't worth seeing, but because it was July 4th and it was a zoo of tourists and cars crowding the roadway. As we idled in traffic along the winding mountain road that passes the entrance to see the monument, the faces of Washington, Jefferson, Lincoln, and Roosevelt came into view. As both of us had seen them on previous trips, we pulled over just enough so traffic could still get by, snapped a selfie, then popped over into the thru traffic lane and continued on to the Crazy Horse Memorial.
On my previous trip through the Black Hills in 2016 (the same trip my speedometer needle went for a ride), it was foggy and cloudy the day I drove past Crazy Horse, so I was determined to visit it on this go'round. The history of this memorial is fascinating. Although it will still be decades before it is completed, it serves as a great reminder of both the story of Crazy Horse - the original leader of the Black Hills - and also a story of passion, grit, and dedication of the sculptor, Korczak Ziolkowski. His descendants are still a part of the ongoing efforts, and I hope it continues to move forward. You can help by donating to the completion of the project here.
One of my favorite stretches of road during this journey was a small section of Highway 14 between the Wyoming towns of Gillette and Sheridan, just prior to entering Big Horn National Park. Rolling hills, mountains off in the distance, and huge swaths of grasslands in between all filled with Mule Deer and Proghorn Antelope. Anthony later confessed that seeing deer along the roadside while riding scares him every time, and rightly so, as you never really know when a herd of horned animals will jump the small property fences lining the road and decide to make an impromptu road crossing.
We pulled into Sheridan with a little daylight left and found our way to Wyoming's Rib and Chop House. I ordered a steak. Rare. I ate it. It was delicious. I was a little tired from the ride and my nerves were agitated by a problem that had grown over the last few days of riding. Right around the time I was eating my ice cream Snickers bar in Wanblee, I noticed a small oil leak dripping from the left side of the engine case. As I have learned from previous maintenance issues encountered on other old bikes, I didn't allow this to bother me too much at the time (sometimes problems are temporary, and over diagnosing a small issue can snowball into a project far more than for which you bargained). When I first noticed the leak, it was a ridiculously hot day and I figured the extreme temperatures merely temporarily altered the viscosity of the oil, making it just thin enough to squeeze through a break in the shaft drive oil seal. I figured wrong and, when we exited the restaurant after devouring my rare steak, there was a puddle of oil the size of a Tony's frozen pizza under my bike. Not good.
Thankfully, there was enough oil still in the engine to get me to the KOA campground for the evening where I tried my best to calm my nerves, fall asleep, and prepare my mind for whatever I was about to face the next day in order to fix the bike and safely continue the trip. I would be dismissed if I didn't admit to thinking: "Welp, I guess I live in Sheridan, Wyoming now."
The next morning, I found an old water bottle to serve as a drain for whatever oil was remaining in the bike. I used an allen wrench to crack open the left side of the engine case, knowing that if I couldn't easily fix the problem then I literally would be living in Sheridan for a while. Thankfully, all the mechanical components looked in tact, and I was surprised to discover that this part of the engine was sharing the same oil reservoir as the lower crankcase. I had never owned a shaft driven motorcycle before this one, and really didn't know what to expect when I opened it up.
Anthony rode back into town to pick up three quarts of 10W-40 motorcycle oil as I began cleaning the old oil seal off the left side engine cover. A new friend who had come over to see what "man things" were happening as my tools were scattered on the ground around my bike. Although his name has since been lost in the file cabinets of my mind, he was a retired race car mechanic, and having another like-minded individual to share my thoughts with was reassuring. His physical appearance would make you think he had just come straight from a Willie Nelson concert - long white hair, a scraggly beard, a white tank top, cut off jean shorts, and sandals. He and his wife were traveling in their RV and just so happened to be camping next to us that day. We both agreed that a new oil seal would likely do the trick for my current predicament.
I usually carry a basic oil resistant gasket maker in my tool kit precisely for this type of maintenance issue, but I have never had to use it until now. After ensuring a smooth surface on the inside of the engine cover, we applied a thick line of the gooey substance along the shape of the cover, much like making the outline of some eastern European country (like Jared Leto's character in Lord of War when he uses cocaine to make an outline of Ukraine, except minus the kilos of drugs, and minus the guns, and minus Jared Leto).
We re-installed the cover over the shaft drive gears, hopefully ensuring a tight seal to avoid any further oil to escaping along the edges. The tacky gasket maker requires a hand-tightening, followed by an additional tightening to torque specifications, followed by a twenty-four hour cure time. I gave it about six hours before filling the engine with oil then taking off with Anthony into Big Horn National Forest via the winding Highway 14. I guess I was a little impatient. Admittedly, I was a little nervous the seal might not hold, but as soon as we drove past a moose standing three feet from the road deep inside the forest, I just didn't care anymore. That moose was awesome.
After cruising through the towns of Greybull and Cody, we decided to camp for the evening next to Bufflo Bill Reservoir just outside Yellowstone National Park. The clouds were looking indicative of another storm and I didn't have the energy to endure a rainy ride. Anthony and I nestled into our abodes next to the water and had a bromance message-fest over a public Facebook post, fully embracing all the 4G LTE coverage we could handle as the rain began to fall on our respective tents.
The next day we rode into the park. It was a beautiful clear day with sporadic clouds. The temperature was pleasant, and it made the previous week of riding in not-so-clear weather seem completely worth it. We traversed almost the entire east-west distance of the park, passing Yellowstone Lake, herds of buffalo, and other wildlife until we reached the western most point of our journey, Old Faithful.
It was summer and it was a picture-perfect day, so the crowds were out in full force, but it didn't detract from the awesome power which that geyser can produce. This was my first time seeing this natural phenomenon and I have to say it was completely worth it. Although I knew what to expect, it was truly a crazy thing to see the amount of water this geologic hot spot can spew out the top of itself on such a regular schedule. I would compare it to seeing photos of the Grand Canyon. You know what to expect, but nothing does it justice besides seeing it in person. As a geology major, this still amazed me to see this natural explosion of thermal energy take place in person.
Anthony and I continued south along 191 through the park on our way towards the Tetons just north of Jackson Hole. We pulled into an overlook with the sawtooth edges of the mountains in the background and captured a few final photos together. Unfortunately Anthony had to begin heading back towards Iowa. His life includes two beautiful children for whom he needed to return in the next few days. I was continuing my trip south into Utah before heading back towards Grand Lake, Colorado for a wedding (one for which I had traveled to El Salvador to buy a wedding gift).
It was bittersweet saying goodbye. Although I was thoroughly looking forward to a few solo days on the bike, it was great spending the previous week with Anthony. We began our friendship in high school and unfortunately lost touch as many do once we parted ways for college and as other things happen over ten years of life. (Remember those two kids I mentioned!) In fact, even writing this post makes me miss that companionship. Life is made up of so many emotions and experiences for each individual, but some of the greatest are when we have someone to share them with. I'm glad I got to share that week with Anthony.
I'll return with the rest of the roadtrip as I made my way through Flaming Gorge Scenic Byway and everything in between on my way to Grand Lake.
Cheers,
Dustin
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