The Road Home
I’m writing this from the comfort of my couch, back in San Francisco. I pulled into my garage at about 6:30pm last night, turned my bike off, and fell into Katy’s loving arms. My neighbors were also there and welcomed me back. It took my body about 8 hours to catch up with me. My butt hurt, my head hurt, my shoulders hurt, my ears hurt. I was so tired from being awake since 3:30am, but I had such clarity in that moment and since then, that I’ve never been happier in my life.
In Ely, I woke up without an alarm at 3:30am. Lying in bed, I was tossing around whether to meditate my way into another hour of sleep, or just get this party started. I opted for the latter. I had my gear all packed and ready to go, and I showered before I went to sleep, so I threw down a can of cold brew coffee, drank some water, and out I went, double-checking everything as I left.
The desert is extremely hot during the day. It is also extremely cold during the night. As soon as I got out of Ely on Rt. 50, my thermometer steadily plunged down, settling in at about 42°F. On a motorcycle, that is cold. Especially at 70mph, with light pants on, a t-shirt, and my light, mesh jacket. I grit my teeth, and hoped if I could just wait it out, the temperature would rise. Then I hit my first mountain pass. Nope. I had to pull over, and in the moonless dark, unload my bike and swap my light jacket for my full Klim suit, zipping all the vents, and hoping it would keep me warm. It was only barely an improvement, as I was quivering on the seat and couldn’t feel my hands for about 2 hours until the sun started to rise. Even a few degrees warmer felt amazing. There really isn’t much on Rt. 50, giving it the name the “Loneliest Road in America.” I finally came to a town called Austin, NV, but, and I’m not exaggerating, the entire town was under construction, and I decided I had enough fuel to make it to the next town, about 89 miles away if I remember correctly. I was frozen, hungry, and tired.
I saw a sign saying Cold Springs was a few miles ahead, and I saw on my GPS a little icon for food. I’d take anything right now. There was a single building in Cold Springs called Cold Springs Station. It was not open, and the hours were “8-ish to 8-ish.” Bummed out, I still hung out on the porch of the building for a few minutes, trying to warm up, when I saw someone moving around inside. He approached, and opened the door. “Well, come on in.” He said. I was never happier to see a rotund, bearded man since Christmas. (Side note, I surprisingly never believed in Santa, even as a kid. My parents never perpetuated that, for which I’m actually very grateful to them.)
While he and his counterpart were mulling around getting the place ready to open, they already had self-serve coffee brewed, to which I immediately availed myself. There were antlers and guns hanging all around, a pool table in the corner, and a small merch shop. It had the makings of a small local saloon, which I assume gets extremely busy, because there isn’t much competition around, except the saloon and gas station at Middlegate, quite awhile down the road. I can only assume that people live around up in the mountains on remote farms, and use ATVs to get to Cold Springs. But I have no idea. I really don’t.
They cooked me up a hearty breakfast: two pancakes, bacon, sausage, and eggs, and I ate the entire thing. I could have had another. After I finally stopped feeling entirely frozen, I paid them and set off. I felt much better, but it was still only about 58° in the desert at that point.
Then, I found fuel in Middlegate, the only fuel for another 80 miles or so, and they knew it. A cylindrical tank full of 87 octane, and another tank of diesel was all that was there, and they were selling it for double what it was anywhere else in Nevada. It was an old-school, all manual pump: first, you pulled the lever, which reset the analog, rotating numbers. When they all reset to zero, the pump churned into life. I pumped my gas, and then went inside, telling the bartender how much gas I pumped, then paid, cash. It all felt extremely western. There were a few locals in that saloon as well, and it looked like the “upscale” one vs. Cold Springs. I think because it had exactly two more people, and an ATM.
Hour after hour passed, and I eventually went through Fallon, Carson City, and then South Lake Tahoe, where I stopped for a coffee break. I was definitely back in California. Lots of traffic, lots of people, and everyone was in masks. I stopped at Black Cabin Coffee in South Lake, and enjoyed an extremely bespoke ginger and turmeric latte, sat in a nearby bench, and watched all the people as I waited for my GoPro footage to download onto my phone. The people are so different here. So cautious. So aware of their own existence. “I’ll have a lox and bagel, but please hold the bagel.” As I looked around, happy to be off the bike, I felt intensely intimate with everyone who was there, I took a few moments to study every detail of them, and their interactions. If hell is other people, I am perhaps the Other according to Sartre. A short-haired woman, fairly overweight, cargo shorts, Birkenstocks, and a blue polo sat in the bench next to me, pecking away at her phone. Keep in mind that this cafe by now was bustling, and the small staff were running around frenetically trying to accommodate everyone’s nuanced requests. The kindly staff member put a cup on the counter, “Kathy!” she shouted. The woman next to me, in a normal tone remarked, “I’m over here.” “Kathy!” the server shouted again. “I’m over here, and I will be there momentarily.” The woman remarked again, louder, and in a huff. A few moments later, the cup still patiently waiting for its emptor, another staff member approaches the counter, looks at the cup sitting on its receipt and shouts “Kathy!” “OH MY GOD, I’m over HERE, and I will be there MOMENTARILY!” Kathy (evidently) shouts. Then she looks over at me, chuckles, and says “wow, some people!” Yes, Kathy. Some people. The icing on the cake was once she did amble over to get her coffee, she tasted it, and clearly there was something wrong, but at this point, nobody was around to handle her complaint. “Excuse me? Excuse me!” she exclaimed. But nobody was there to answer her plea. She eventually gave up, turned around, and walked off. I smiled.
Such is life in rich California. Everyone angry, everyone surrounded by beauty, everyone frustrated that everyone else doesn’t seem to recognize that the the point around which the earth revolves is precisely the place on which they stand. This would never fly in Durango.
I asked one of the staff if there was a public restroom I could use. She looked around, and quietly said, “ok, just come around back.” When I got there, she said “because you’re on a motorcycle…" and let me in to use the employee loo. I profusely thanked them, because judging from the look she gave me earlier, finding a restroom around there was an ordeal. This sort of offset Kathy’s bad karma, but I still had the shits of South Lake Tahoe, and I was ready to leave.
Next stop, Sacramento, at a place called Vintage Monkey, owned by the smart, enterprising motorcycle enthusiast Shasta Smith. Ok, so this place is a national treasure owned by one of the world’s rare genuinely good people. And it’s struggling due to Covid, or more appropriately, our mismanagement of Covid. You can easily find some photos of the venue and interviews with Shasta all over YouTube, so I’m not going to waste your time describing anything for you here, also I don’t want to post anything she wouldn’t approve of, so therefore I implore you to do your own research on this place. I will say that the issues that Shasta is facing has absolutely nothing to do with her, her world-class service, her impeccable design, or her funky-as-fuck venue space. The problem is California.
I walked into Vintage Monkey, feeling as if I entered the domicile of a celebrity. Shasta is very friendly and outgoing, and I also met one of her mechanics, Denny (I think? Maybe Dennis.), and her dog Willie (Or Willy?) It was hard to concentrate, because I entered the mecca of vintage motorcycles and a space that was so creatively appointed, I was instantly inspired in 10 different ways. It took me a good few minutes to parse what was in front of me. Two rows of motorcycles in the middle of the room, and several rare, custom bikes displayed around the periphery, and on the far end, as the centerpiece, a circular, hand-welded steel bar, at least 25 feet in diameter, with a poured epoxy finish, immortalizing thousands of spent ammunition in a beautiful mosaic of cross-hatched sparkles. Shasta offered me a bottle of water, and we started chatting.
Now, I’d like to think I’m a good conversationalist, but Shasta, she is the easiest to talk with, and has a lot to say. I think we might have talked for over two hours, about motorcycles, Covid, the bay area, business, the trip. The reality is that if you have an event venue during Covid, you’re in the middle, right now, of figuring out what the hell to do with your life. Now, instead of being the implement of misfortune to all of the hapless clients who have already spent their non-refundable deposits, Shasta instead has decided to return the money. This is called integrity. Doing the Right Thing™. Contractually, the money was hers, and she decided to return it. This money could have been used to sustain a business that she built with blood, sweat, and tears, but instead, she gave it to the god of humanity, sowing karma instead of rent payments.
I’m extremely grateful to Shasta for taking the time to talk with me and let me visit her shop. You can’t help seeing every little detail, the manifestation of someone’s personal creativity, made reality through days, weeks, and months of hard work. You can’t fake this. I realized that if this shop were to somehow instantly be transported to one of the other motorcycle-friendly towns I visited, you couldn’t pay people to leave. Ok, wear masks, but still appreciate what the hell is in front of you. How can people not appreciate this? Having zero context, and zero right to give any advice whatsoever, I still gave Shasta my 2 cents and said she should move the entire outfit to Durango or something. But regardless, I have full confidence that this smart and tenacious woman will turn this shit we’re dealing with today into something magnificent tomorrow.
Ordinarily, I could have hung out and talked much longer. It’s easy for me to just dwell on something for a while, and if this wasn’t the last day of my trip, I might have used the next few hours on the road lingering on about the shop, Shasta’s next move, and everything we just talked about. But this time, the prospect of seeing Katy and the pain of my physical exhaustion completely cleared my mind, and gave me a singular focus: get home, as fast as you can. I’m not sure how fast I was going on Rt. 80 from Sacramento. I had tunnel vision. Then to San Rafael. Then to 101. It was like I was on autopilot. Up the mountain. Through the tunnel. Over the bridge. Boom. Boom. Boom. 19th ave. Before you know it, I was home. Unlike Pennsylvania, I had no emotional response or reflection toward the place itself. I had no attachment to the Golden Gate Bridge. Even as I pulled up to our apartment, there was no feeling. It was all just to get home, where the heart is.
I’ve got so much more to write about this trip. This blog is really just the table of contents so I don’t forget where I was. I think people in the bay don’t understand America. I think spending some time in the red states is important. Empathize and connect with people who use “the Google” and think DoorDash is what you do when you have to poop after a long trip. Don't think for a moment that because of your job or where you live that you're smarter than the rest of America. I promise you that you don’t know the first thing about training reining horses, or how the power grid works in Texas. Don't think you don't have your own "gold teeth” that you believe in daily, without question. I know I do, and this trip has cracked the door open into yet another phase of re-exploration of my own worldview.
Our perspective about the emotional motivations, desires, and identity that drives the rest of the country is so myopic. What we prioritize to understand is different. I feel confident in extending this beyond myself to you, if you’re in San Francisco and reading this. I’m also not making a moral judgement on anyone. I’m just saying this is the way it is, and that the country we live in might not be the country you have in your mind.