Riding The First Airbag-Equipped Gold Wing Cross-Country Made Me Feel All Warm And Fuzzy. Very Warm And Very Fuzzy.
Nonetheless, the first day had gone better than I'd hoped. On Day Two, however, I cratered after a mere 300 miles to Salina, Kansas. I didn't then yet know the whole country was in the grip of a massive heat wave. All I knew was it was so hot, I felt sick. And if I didn't stop, I'd fall off the bike.That evening I asked the owner of the motel's restaurant, The Bombay Room, how far west I had to go before it cooled off. With an expression like the RCA Victor dog's-but with a strange mix of contempt and pity-he said, "This isn't hot." It had been 102 degrees in the shade at 5 p.m. Two hours later, the door to my west-facing room was still too hot to touch.Day Three, Sunday, was a 400-plus-mile slog. Within 20 minutes of hitting the road, my mouth was dry. I stopped midday for fluids and another failed attempt to eat at a fast-food joint in Kansas, leaving the Whale parked in the sun on the vast concrete parking lot. When I returned, the bike's digital air-temperature gauge read 124 degrees. By the time I stopped in Colorado Springs, you could have stuck a truck-load of forks in me, I was so done.Making it to the USGP was out of the question now. Shoot, I was so sick, shaky and miserable, I slept for 36 hours straight. Food? If I tried to eat, I'd gag. Which is why, even after sleeping like a cinder block, my heart was in my socks when I tried to saddle up again on Tuesday, Day Five. That's when I figured if I felt any worse, I'd just pull off the road and lie down.After the emergency room visit, there wasn't much left to do but keep riding. Wednesday brought some temporary relief in the cool altitude of the Rocky Mountains and Colorado's magnificent Highway 550. Missing a half-dozen apexes in a row, though, made it quite obvious I still wasn't up to the task. A whopping 222 miles later, and back into the superheated air of New Mexico, we reached Farmington.I have to admit, the Whale certainly did its part to help me get through the Trail o' Tears Tour. Honda's Gold Wing has remained largely unchanged since its makeover from GL1500 to GL1800 for 2001, and for good reason: For hauling one or two people and their stuff from one horizon to the next, few motorcycles can equal it, let alone better it. The saddle is magnificently comfortable, even after multiple high-mileage days. The engine gobbles up miles tirelessly, whether you're going 55 or 105. Almost nothing-including a cooling breath of air-gets past the bodywork's weather-protection envelope. The suspension, with its air-adjustable shock, makes compensating for a passenger and luggage a push-button luxury. And the chassis's road manners are as astonishing as ever for something so Brobdingnagian in scale.Day Seven, Thursday, brought one of the trip's few high points: seeing dear, old friends Larry Works and his lovely wife Wilma in Snowflake, Arizona. Works is the best editor I've ever known and the man who first hired me in this industry at the late Cycle Guide magazine in 1982. He met me in town on Elvis, his Harley Road King, and we rode back to their spread, the Sixgun Ranch. We hadn't seen each other in more than a decade, so it was a joyous reunion.My plan was to leave the next day, but a revisitation of nausea and the whirlies at departure time caused some second-guessing. When the symptoms abated somewhat, I decided to make a run for Flagstaff. Larry thought I was nuts and considered wrestling me to the ground to take the Whale's key, but I guess he could see how desperate I was to get home. Not, however, before I got a speeding ticket.A detailed description of the calamities on Saturday, the ninth and final day of this doomed, Ahab-like voyage, likely would strain the readers' credulity beyond the breaking point. Suffice it to say it was 113 degrees by 10:30 a.m. and stayed that way, and that I saw both fires and rain, plus miles of choked-up traffic manned by a series of homicidal drivers. It felt as if all the universe's forces had aligned in some hellish plan to break what remained of my will and leave me hunched over the handlebars, sobbing, at the side of the road within sight of home.But finally, 13 days after leaving Los Angeles, the Whale and I wheeled into the garage. I walked inside our squalid little hovel, shucked my gloves, helmet and jacket, and once again collapsed face-first into bed. The air conditioner was on, and I was home.
Even before the paramedics burst into the room, things had not been going according to plan. I'd hardly eaten for three days, I felt sick to my stomach, and it was getting worse. That morning, under the heading "Ugly Thoughts," I scribbled in my notebook: "If I continue to feel like I have the last couple of days-moments away from puking or blacking out-I'll just park the bike and lie down. In the shade, I hope. Someone will summon an ambulance, and I can go home."
The fierce, relentless July heat had been trying to kill me for days, and it was winning. Did you know the sun's rays can penetrate a helmet's sophisticated composite shell, EPS liner and comfort lining until it feels like your hair is on fire? Me neither. Until now.
I'd left Colorado Springs that Tuesday morning, the fifth day of the trip, hoping to make it to Durango, some 300 miles away. But at less than half that distance, I knew I was a goner. In Gunnison, after barely managing to check into a Holiday Inn, I asked the poor, frightened young woman behind the counter to call a doctor, quickly, please. I staggered to my room and fell face-first into bed. The phone rang, and a voice said doctors don't make house calls in Gunnison.
"Fine," I said. "Then please call an ambulance."
As soon as they arrived, the paramedics stabbed an IV in my left arm and started what appeared to be a saline drip. Some four hours later I left the Gunnison Valley Hospital emergency room after taking on one-and-a-half additional liters of fluid. That saved my ass and made it so I could ride the next day-not that I felt any less like Death on a Ritz.
This was supposed to have been simple: All I had to do was watch the world's first airbag-equipped Gold Wing released to any publication being built on the Honda of America Manufacturing assembly line in Marysville, Ohio, then ride it back to Los Angeles. (Note to readers: You cannot pick up a bike at the Marysville facility. It is not possible; don't even ask.)
You'd think riding cross-country on a GL1800 wouldn't be a death-defying experience. And you'd be right-normally. To the contrary, it should have been dead easy. Just point the nose of the Great White Whale-the Wing's logical (to me) nickname-westward, twist the throttle and go. With roughly 2500 miles to cover, five 500-mile days should do it, right? There'd even be time to take some happy-snaps. Get home, spend a couple of days relaxing and doing laundry, then saddle up a sportbike to ride to the USGP at Laguna Seca. What could possibly go wrong?
That's why on Friday, as I was getting ready to leave Marysville, the only things on my mind were how far behind schedule I was, how many miles per day I'd have to ride to make up for it, and, gee, it sure is hot. Despite leaving stupidly late, the Great White Whale and I made good time, more than 500 miles to the college town of Columbia, Missouri, by 8 p.m. How? First off, I was so freaked out about being late I stayed on the superslab, U.S. 70. And second, because you people out in the Heartland haul ass, running 80 to 90 mph where it's posted 75, I could run 100-plus without attracting any undue attention.
Incidentally, the Whale didn't show the slightest sign of distress at such speeds, despite having been assembled only a couple of days before. In fact, except for needing about a half a quart of oil on the seventh day, the bike shrugged off such abuse as if it were nothing.
As an aside, I have to say the people in America's Heartland seem a bit conflicted about their morality. Many times on Highway 70 I passed a billboard that read, "Do You Know JESUS?" And then, within a couple of miles, there'd be another with an altogether different message, such as "BIG ADULT VIDEO SALE NEXT EXIT!"
Even so, I have nothing but praise for the drivers I encountered in Ohio, Indiana and Illinois. Being in a big, overheated hurry meant the Whale and I passed a lot of cars, and in those three states drivers invariably pulled over to let us sail by. As soon as we reached the Show-Me State of Missouri, however, that courtesy came to a screeching halt. One can only imagine the cars' inhabitants were too busy showing each other something to notice a Great White Whale bearing down on them, lights-a-flashing.