Springfield Ride Report, Part 2

Party of the Second Part.

I’m not one for too much hype, I also tend to trust people, so when someone tells me that they have the largest ball of twine, my assumption is that they’ve found a way to measure other balls of twine and compare them to their own. Mass, diameter, or length of component twine are all valid ways to measure a twine ball, butt what exactly are units of loneliness? I only ask because I think the US 50 Tourist Bureau owes me an explanation. To compare specific lonely locations, I’d offer that loneliness can be quantified by human contacts per hour (including face to face contacts, waves to/at farmers, and passed cars). If so, the hundred miles of SR 278 from Tyrol to Eureka, Nevada (less than 1 human contact per hour), is markedly lonelier than the 200 miles of US 50 from Eureka to Fernley (greater than 2 human contacts per hour). Who gets the nastigram?

South of Gerlach, the Valentine erupted and I knew, too late, that I was pegged at twenty over by some LEO. I immediately slowed to the limit, looking for a place to pull over and giving him a chance to catch up. I became concerned for him after a few minutes and decided to pull off the road and wait, not wanting to initiate anything resembling a chase. This is where I became pissed because, despite reading the various rants on this list for six years, I don’t recall anyone warning that the “shoulders” of SR 447 leading to Gerlach are nothing butt pea gravel, which makes a heavy bike very unstable, especially when braking. If you’ve ever wondered how a truck escape ramp works to slow a runaway tractor-trailer, ride into a sea of marbles or the aforementioned highway shoulder. The tires sink half way to the rims, and steering inputs are met with nothing butt shoved marbles. Funny thing is (not funny, “ha ha” butt funny, “@!*^$@!”) the cop never showed. In retrospect, I was on that section of the highway that runs into and out of the Pyramid Lake Indian Reservation, so there may have been a jurisdictional issue related to my potential performance award. Hmm.

I was stopped anyway, so I took a picture of the flats and then forced the bike back onto the road and northbound, arriving at Bruno’s in the early afternoon. I had no idea that I’d make such good time across Nevada, so I cancelled my deluxe accommodations, had a very cold soda, lost two dollars in the slots (my gambling budget for the trip) and continued northwest into California. This road would be great, by the way, if only the pavement didn’t suck so hard. South of Cedarville, I waited for forty minutes for the pilot car at a resurfacing (“fog seal”) project. When I finally got moving again, I was the only piloted vehicle (take_that_ too, US 50). On the map, at least, US 395 looked too sterile, so I headed west to SR 139 before heading south again, camping north of Susanville on the west side of Eagle Lake.

The next morning I returned to Nevada, trying to make the least of Reno and Carson City and get back to the lonelier highways. By and large, lonely highways and I weren’t going to interact for a while, as I was headed into the Sacramento Valley. Butt first, Yosemite from east to west. Spectacular. Truly.

Even with multiple stops for picture taking, I traversed the park still hours ahead of schedule, so I canceled my reservations at the Hodgdon Meadow campground and continued west on SR 120 which, despite the traffic, was a great descent – twisty, vista-ed, not so crowded that I couldn’t pass. From here to Lodi was, at times, a real hoot. These seem to be old, old roads, hold outs from the gold rush days and constructed long before the advent of parabolic vertical curves and appropriate stopping sight distances. Great fun to ride as they were mostly unpredictable, keeping me on the edge of my seat (left and right edges, to varying degrees).

Just past Squabbletown (butt a bit before Tuttletown) is Springfield, California. If you trust the instructions from S&T, you’ll only find a monument to Columbia, butt go west another mile, and then north a mile, and you’ll find a monument to Springfield, planted there only as a reminder that Mark Twain used to live near by. Few remnants of the town remain, not much more than the historic trout farm. I read the plaque, captured a couple of images and headed northwest on SR 49 through Calaveras County. In San Andreas I stopped for fuel and liquids, parking in a corner of the lot for some relative privacy and started to remove the layers I had donned that morning in anticipation of the chill at 12,000 feet through Yosemite. Here, it was two miles closer to the earth’s molten core and very much the time to wear less.

Butt damn my modesty (or was it in fact a public service) that I refused to strip down to my shorts before completing my conversation with a couple of temporarily caged Beemerphiles who showed some curiosity and interest in the ride. I suppose I could have shortened this conversation, butt they were bikers and it was the first actual conversation that I’d had in a few days. Ultimately, I got some route information from them, as well as a few lane-splitting pointers. I thanked them for that butt ignored their preferred method for avoiding the congestion through Sacramento (“stop for ice cream somewhere until it lets up”).

I’ve ridden through worse than Sacramento rush hour traffic. Again, it was the heat that was the issue northbound up I-5. Plenty of liquids, as always, was key to my survival. That, and keeping the ‘Stich zipped up tight. I’d rather stew in my own juices than ride into an industrial sized blow dryer. I knew that I’d need air conditioning that night and settled into a nice room at the Redding Travel Lodge. Unloaded and freshly bathed, I emerged from my room cleaner, but no less scruffy, and walked down the street to enjoy a couple of burritos from the panel truck parked at the gas station by the corner.