Putting distance between misaligned priorities, Southern Arizona

Olaf Wolff
AllAboutBikes.com Sr. Staff Writer

Editor’s Note: This is the first installment in a three-part series of Wolff’s travels.

Few things are more fundamentally American than the road trip. From Christopher Columbus to Jack Kerouac, Willie Nelson to the Grateful Dead, Lewis and Clark to Fonda and Hooper – that insatiable craving to hit the road “just because” has helped define this country.

A road trip needn’t be about a particular destination, it can simply be about putting distance between misaligned priorities, an old worn-out perspective and replacing them with fresh ones, and digesting crazy, aimless mileage just because they taste good. 

Weather was the key factor in determining the direction of this adventure. Storms threatened to the north, so south it was. Southern Arizona, along the Mexican border, offers moderate weather ideal for nearly year round mileage gratification, so I reasoned anyway.

I rolled out of Ventura early Saturday morning. It was mostly sunny with the occasional fat cloud drifting lethargically in the path of the sun as I pointed the front wheel of the Gold Wing south on Highway 1. This stretch of the Coast Highway leading all the way to Interstate 10 nearly always puts me the proper starting reference for travel.

From I-10 I continued south on the 405 to I-5 through the business section of San Diego, finally settling in on I-8 east. At this point my only goal was to wakeup Sunday in Arizona. Uncomplicated and reasonably achievable I figured.

I still enjoy classic rock, but I’m listening to more country western music. I’ve made my peace with the fact that I’m never going to dunk a basketball – but I find a consolation in knowing I can still ride the hell out of anything with two wheels. To a mileage junkie, this sort of free and random associative thinking is a familiar session in road trip therapy. It’s as though my brain’s coil tension releases some with every measurable expanse of asphalt and concrete I devour.

Kites shaped like ships and airplanes speckled the clouded skies over Mission Bay. The wind was whipping up. On a slightly off-camber, long sweeping left turn on I-8, an adrenalin producing shot of wind hit the Wing from the east. My concentration immediately clicked up several notches.

Leaving San Diego, I-8 begins to pick up elevation. From my view, the end of the interstate menacingly disappeared into the descending gray atmosphere curtaining the top of the Cleveland National Forest. It was getting colder and rain was inevitable. The El Centro desert lay on the other side of Crestwood Summit. The desert was dry – I was fairly certain of that. What was in store for the next 19 miles before the summit was far less definite?

A quarter mile west of the Pine Valley exit, hail pelted the front fairing of the Wing, ricocheting ice BBs clanking on my helmet as though shot from a BB canon. On reflex I rolled back the throttle and pulled to the right in a single motion.

I retreated to the Pine Valley exit and took cover under the I-8 underpass. Within minutes the hail was gone as fast as it had arrived. I made the decision to stay off I-8 and get local updated weather information before heading on. Descanso Trading Post was the first stop. Inside a gracious stranger directed me to the Sheriff station further up the road in Pine Valley. The wind blew puffs of snow across the road like so much foamy surf at the beach. I rode the narrow snaking road into town very carefully.