Newsletter Stories

3/6/02
"The Cold Ride From Tucson"

As we rolled into Florence Junction for our first stop the topic of conversation was how cold everyone was. The lines to the porta johns were long and I elected to wait till I reached the ballpark. Mistake! Not a good idea when you are already cold and then heading for the potholes and construction zones of Tucson. Every bump seemed like an earthquake to my insides. By the time we reached the ballpark the wind was blowing pretty good and it still hadn't seem to warm much. The bathroom there was a welcome sight, but I wasn't real thrilled with putting cold hands where it was relatively warm. Fortunately I'm from Kansas and had experience working around that situation.

After standing in line (on the shady side of the building) waiting for our burger, chips and coke we were ready to soak up some sun and try and thaw out. If the spring training attendance is any indication, the D-Backs might be a little tougher ticket this year. The place was sold out for the second spring training game. Knowing that I had to get back home by about 4:15, I got as warm as I could and tried to prepare myself for the upcoming 140 mile ride. One lesson I did learn on this trip is to not leave any gear in a friends saddle bags unless you are going to be with said person until you leave. I decided to store my gloves and headband in a guy's bags and never saw him again. So on top of everything else I knew I had to start my trip back with no gloves.

I bid farewell to my nice warm seat in the sun and hopped on the bike, stopped for gas and hit the road for my grueling ride home. By this time the wind had kicked up to about 30 mph and my route was taking me head on into it. So I settled into the flow of traffic at about 85 mph into this 30 mph wind. Simple math tells me that my face was doing 115 mph for the next 120 miles. It is amazing how you will occupy your mind when trying to get something over with. I kept looking forward to the next road sign that would tell me how fast the miles were clicking off. I'd see Phoenix 99 miles, then 89, 79, 69. They just couldn't go by fast enough. It was kind of like watching the clock on the wall in that boring history class in high school. It used to seem like those hands would never move.

By the time I reached Phoenix I had my fill of riding in a strong wind. It seemed like every time I passed an 18 wheeler I had entered a bull riding contest in a rodeo. One hand on my hat, one on the handlebars waiting for the 8 second horn to sound and the clown to run out and rescue me. Those things have more wind currents than Bill Clinton has excuses. Updraft, downdraft, sidedraft all in the matter of 2 seconds. Just like riding a bull. After 120 miles and hitting reserve 20 miles back I stopped for gas. I was hanging on so hard for the last hour and 45 minutes it felt like I had to pry my hands off the handlebars and peel my cheeks off of my earlobes. OK, I'll admit it, the thought of a windshield did cross my mind a few times.

You know, it's kind of a funny thing about riding a motorcycle. Everyone has their war stories about the cold, rain, wind, snow, heat and every other discomfort you can think of. But after an experience like this none of us can wait to get back on our bikes again and see what the next adventure is going to bring us. If Sheriff Joe put his prisoners through some of these things he'd have every rights activist in the nation on his butt. But we do it for the thrill and the quest for the unknown.