Thank You, Idaho

Idaho is like Pennsylvania’s younger, hotter sister, who always got disciplined way less and somehow has naturally great skin. Idaho is what Pennsylvania wishes it was: magnificent, vast, yet dynamic, super republican. From sky to immense sky, there’s nothing but flowing fields, mesas, wind farms, agriculture. It was too hot to wear the GoPro today, but I very much wish I did. It’s hard to describe the landscape of Idaho and do it justice. It’s special. I’ve spent the majority of my life in Pennsylvania, and while I was cruising through Pennsylvania Dutch country, or up through the Hazleton mountains, what I really wanted to see instead, was Idaho.

I feel like the leper with the mask on, “oh hey, look, a democrat” is what I surmise everyone’s saying when I walk inside a store. But I could totally be republican here. This land is vast, and it feels vast, but not like a desert, or out in the ocean. The way the sun’s light makes patterns through the clouds, or the hazy hills in the distance reminding you that there’s more out there, you feel simultaneously so small, and yet, part of something so large. Like you’re looking at the world through a wide-angle lens. Like it’s just you and the land, and that’s all you need to survive. Global economy? What are you talking about. All I see from east to west is sky, and my land. I want to keep the money I earn, I don’t want the government to give it to anyone, even the less fortunate. I can’t see the homeless camping out under the 101 from here. All I see is other farmers, the store owner, the mechanic. I want the feds to stay the hell out. Idaho is my state, my father’s state, his father’s state, and we believe in Jesus. We worship him here. We traditionally believe that abortion is murder. Why should we change? It’s worked for us. Trump might be rough around the edges but he believes what I do. About America. About freedom. He might be the only New Yorker I like. And he’s got the balls to vouch for my values from the pulpit of the Federal government. If I lived in southern Idaho, I could be a republican. I don’t care much about the religion, but something about this place makes me want to possess it, and tell New York City to take its tall buildings, academia, and “culture”—and the god damn pandemic—and keep them the hell away from here.

Thankfully, though, I don’t live in southern Idaho, but I can feel its soul, and it’s given me some of that good good limbic empathy I needed to keep my perspective in check.

“Hey, uh, I’m sorry, man, you put it on backward.” “Did I? I did. Fuck.”

Somehow I overlooked the literal most fundamental thing to consider when embarking on a huge journey: the condition of your tires. Well, I didn’t entirely overlook it. I bought two tires out in Pennsylvania at the Yamaha dealer I used to go to 10 years go, and I scheduled new tires and an oil change when I got out there. Still, I looked at my shredded front tire, rapidly balding rear tire, and for some reason said to myself, “eh, they’ll make it.” What an idiot. For a few hundred dollars, I could have spared myself the agony of wondering if maybe this corner, or this corner, or this corner, my tire’s going to give out. The sidewall’s going to flex just a little too much, the stone is going to exert just too much pressure, and BOOM. The thing about tires on a motorcycle is that, unlike a car, a flat tire isn’t a minor inconvenience. It can often be life and death. Even if you manage to not get thrown off your bike, and even if the bike manages to survive the crash, you can’t even limp along. You’re dead in the water. After cruising through eastern Oregon, it really hit home that should I get a flat in the desert, I might actually not survive, or at best, have a terrible week and almost certainly cancel the trip. Okay then, let’s fix this.

Last night, I determined that this morning, I would get somewhere past Boise, but before Yellowstone, and try to find a motorcycle shop that 1. Had my tires in stock, and 2. Had the time to put them on. I found one place that looked promising, and in my eternal optimism, determined that I’d get up at 5am, blast over there as fast as possible, just when they opened, and for SURE they’d have tires that fit my bike, and they’d look HOW COOL I was and be so glad to change my tires. Hell, they’d do it for free. They’d take a picture with me. The mechanics would offer their wives to me as a sperm donor. I would be DEIFIED.

I got to the shop about an hour after it opened. Parked my bike, walked inside. (Nobody’s wearing masks, still weird.) Nobody’s behind the service counter. I walk around a bit, and find someone with a logo’d polo on, certainly they could help me. I see a woman turn the corner and start walking toward me. “Hey! Uh, I was wondering…” “One sec, hun.” She disappears into a door, then pops out behind the counter. “What can I do for you?”

“Well, I’m on this big cross-country trip, and (*thinks to self: I’m a fucking idiot but…) it seems that I didn’t consider how fast my tires were wearing. Do you have any time available on the schedule today?”

“Oh, hunny. We’re all booked up. Super slammed. Sorry!” The woman pauses and looks at me for a second longer. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

No. No there is not. Goddammit, Fran, you are a moron. 

I finally found a shop about 30 miles north that 1. Had tires that would fit, and 2. Had time to put them on. Over the phone, just as I said “I really, really appreciate this” for the 20th time, Bailey said, “oh, one more thing, the quote for everything is $675.” Ok, for context, the tires were total $250. That means that somehow putting two tires on equated to $425 worth of labor. I was in an unsettling position. Do I express my displeasure at the price? Do I take the tires and run? I ask how much the labor rate is. It’s $85 / hr. Um, okay, Bailey, but I can do simple math. You said it would take an hour, but somehow I’m paying for 5 hours of labor. I hang up the phone and I’m feeling so dumb. GAH if you would have jut planned better. Well, this is the tax you pay.

I get to the service shop, and it’s crazy how open things are. I ask for Bailey, and she directs me to pull my bike around back. I drive into the garage, and they have me drive it on the lift. Many times, shops will make you leave, for insurance purposes, they shoo you out of the working area. Not these guys. I’m right there working on it with them. I half expected them to crack open a cold one. But it is a very good thing I was there. I was observing their work like a hawk, and I told them 1. The first time they installed the rear wheel ABS rotor incorrectly: TAKE IT OFF, DO IT AGAIN, 2. Then I realized the tire was installed backward—yes, they installed the tire backward: TAKE IT OFF, DO IT AGAIN, 3. Then I realized that there was air leaking out of the tire due to a balancing bead stuck in the tire bead: TAKE IF OFF, DO IT AGAIN, 4. Then I realized they didn’t install the front ABS rotor correctly, TAKE IT OFF, DO IT AGAIN. Two hours later, we had a bike that finally had two fresh tires on it, put together properly, torqued properly, and ready to ride. Of course I was skeptical when I pulled away, locking up both wheels to test the ABS, and giving it just one more visual inspection to make sure we didn’t forget anything else. Well, I’m about 125 miles from there now, and the bike feels solid, so I’m giving it a thumb’s-up for the rest of the journey. Oh, and I ended up paying $575. Still highway robbery, but better.

Now, I’m nestled into no-contest the best campground so far, and maybe ever, called Riverside Campground in Ashton, ID. Don’t come here, please. I wan’t it all to myself, you know, the next time I’m in Ashton, ID. The camp host and his wife are the actual sweetest people on earth. They brought me firewood. It’s an awesome setup, I almost don’t want to leave tomorrow.