Day 1: Sunday, June 15, 2001

I hit the road this California morning, about four days later than originally targeted. All my client projects and most pressing personal business were under control before leaving, as I had decided to make that a priority for this trip. Leaving no loose ends to worry about while traveling took precedence over maintaining a defined schedule.

The bike was packed Saturday night and ready to go. Sunday morning I was out of bed at 6:30 and riding at 7:15 after doing all my usual fussing and double-checks on door locks, stove turned off, coffee pot unplugged, and so on. I stopped at my favorite Starbucks for a mocha and muffin and double-checked my new computer and T-Mobile connection for email while eating. Everything in order, I was back on the bike and leaving town at 8:15.

Interstate 580 out of Pleasanton through Livermore and over the Altamont Pass was the usual frenetic traffic mess. Once I passed Tracy on I-205 and headed north on Interstate 5 toward Stockton, traffic seemed quite a bit lighter than normal. I did the smart thing this trip: took the exit for Route 4 east from I-5 and did a quick shunt over to Route 99, then north just a mile or two to Route 88 toward Jackson, thus avoiding the surface-street traffic and route confusion in Stockton that one encounters when trying to connect directly from I-5 to Route 88. The 4/99 method of getting to and from 88 east of Stockton is much faster and cleaner.

On 88 east after a few miles the central-valley orchardlands yield to beautiful rolling grasslands of Amador County with dark oaks and volcanic rock outcroppings set starkly against the grasses now dried and golden in their summer hue. From Jackson, dark hills are visible ahead. One prominent knob just east of town is especially impressive -- most likely Jackson Butte, on the map as elevation 2310 feet.

Route 88 takes a sharp left turn after junctions with 108 and 49. Suddenly the grasslands are gone. The two-lane highway begins winding slowly upward though piney woods and threads its way through quaint little towns like Pine Grove, Pioneer and Volcano, Cooks Station, Hams Station. The foothills increase in size. Somewhere east of Hams I stop to take a picture of snow covered peaks across Bear Reservoir and realize I am in the Sierra Nevada.

A few more miles uphill the road becomes wider and faster then passes beautiful Silver Lake before cresting near Kirkwood at 8400 feet above sea level. It was a good Spring for snow. There is still plenty of it on the ski runs at Kirkwood in mid-June, although the ski area has been closed for two months now. Then the downhill begins, past a dam holding back another beautiful lake, Caples, where plenty of fishermen and a couple of kayakers are enjoying this Sunday, past the junction with 89 where I could turn left and go to South Lake Tahoe, but don't, through Woodfords and Alpine County where I got a speeding ticket riding the Harley in 1997 while headed to Reno to hook up with my friends from Boston, Bob and Michael Wagner, for that summer ride. So this time I hold the 55-mile-per-hour speed limit. The trees gradually become sagebrush before I see ahead the green valley farmlands of western Nevada. I reach the junction with Route 395, turn left and head north to Carson City.

It is now past Noon. The sun is hot and getting hotter. Traffic on 395 is heavy compared to that on 88 and slows to a crawl in Carson City. I stop for gas, then head east on US 50, but only as far as Fallon, Nevada, where I turn north and follow US 95 for about 30 miles until it connects with Interstate 80. This little jog, about 50 miles eastward then north, lets me avoid the congestion and traffic I knew would be waiting for me in Reno had I decided to stay on 395 north to 80. The temperature has increased to 85 degrees, and the scenery is the desert and desolation that I always associate with Nevada: Two lane highway with no shoulders. Gravel, sagebrush and salt flats with treeless mountains ahead, alternating in various shades of orange, white-gray, dark blue and purple.

I head east on Interstate 80. The temperature passes 90 degrees Fahrenheit. The speed limit is 75. I set the cruise control on the BMW and manage to hold a steady 85, less speedometer error, for about 250 miles, passing through Winnemucca, Battle Mountain, and various smaller towns consisting of the usual Nevada collection of old dusty house trailers and weathered shacks surrounded by rusted vehicles and machinery. I stop several times at gas stations, drink Gatorade to avoid dehydration, and eat a couple of the chocolate-chunk granola bars I brought along to stave off hunger and fatigue.

I fill the tank again in Battle Mountain, proudly touted on one billboard as having been awarded the title "Armpit of America" by the Washington Post Magazine. My full-face helmet becomes uncomfortable in the heat and is threatening to give me a headache, so I switch to the half-helmet that I brought along almost as an afterthought in case of passenger. The half helmet is much cooler and more comfortable if less protective. There is very little traffic on I-80, and the road is wide and well-paved. So for this stretch of highway the protection is probably adequate. One fact that stands out about Nevada: the roads are excellent. Another 70 miles or so, I stop in Elko for the night.

I had hoped to make it to Salt Lake City this first day. Salt Lake is still 300 miles ahead. I calculate that it would be at least 9:30 PM when I arrived, and there are very few towns where there is likely to be a motel room or a decent meal in between. So I wisely stop and get a comfortable room in Elko for $29.95 at the Motel 6. I ride downtown and find a good Basque family-style restaurant -- the Nevada Dinner House, 351 Silver Street, highly recommended -- for dinner. I sit alone surrounded by several large family groups, but fortunately there is one other lone guy at the next table and we strike up a conversation during dinner. He is from Colorado Springs and has come to Elko for a job interview with a mining company. Mining is big is Elko, if anything can be called big in Elko. That, and casinos.

The dinner of grilled salmon was delicious, as was one Budweiser and a rather large glass of house chardonnay. After dinner I hop on the bike and deftly ride back to the Motel 6 before the full effect of the chardonnay hits me. There I wash the bugs off the front of the bike with the washcloth I brought with me for that purpose, hang the cloth in my room to dry. I also wash my T-shirt by hand in the sink, using a bit of shampoo for lack of laundry detergent, and hang that up to dry overnight. Soon after, I am naked in bed and quickly in a sound sleep.

At 2:30 AM I awake thirsty. After a drink of water, I find myself obsessing that I parked my bike too close to another motorcycle that needs to come off its center stand before leaving in the morning. Fearing that may anger the owner if he leaves before I do, I throw on clothes, go out, and quietly move my bike to another space. Then I decide to turn on my computer and write this first day summary. Now it is 4:30 AM, there's a diesel train lowing in the background as I write, and I'm about to fade and hope for another two hours of good sleep.

Interstate 80 follows the route of the original transcontinental railway, opened about 1870. Until then all cross country travel was by horse and wagon. The Union Pacific railroad still follows this route. A hundred years ago that sound would have been a steam whistle.