Mesa was 160 miles away. I could explore back roads unhurried and still arrive early enough in Mesa for the first afternoon beer with Nick. Breakfast was still down the road a spell – first it was time for some unhinged, desert cruising with Stevie Ray Vaughn blasting on the stereo.

 

As rough as yesterday had been, Sunday offered the sort of riding conditions road trips are designed for. As I rode over the gentle, undulating grades of the Mohawk Mountains, I questioned why the need to hit the road is still so strong a drive. All I could come up with were the lyrics from a song by Faith Hills’ husband – “guess it’s just the cowboy in us all.”

According to my map, Gila Bend Arizona presented the first opportunity to veer off along a back road heading in the general direction of Mesa. At the one working gas station in town, I met the only other motorcycle rider I’d seen since early yesterday, when two other wing riders rode with me for nearly 100 miles.

Jerry Reardon had ridden his bike from Portland, Oregon, to Daytona a couple of weeks ago. He’d spent the last week ridding around southern Arizona and Mexico waiting for the weather to clear up north, he was waiting one more day before attempting the trek home. Jerry’s an old school biker with many colorful road tales. We sat for a while sharing stories and soaking up the warm Gila Bend sun.

Gila Bend’s Chamber of Commerce is open Sunday. It’s a tiny building, barely big enough to hold two chairs and the six-foot glass counter behind which sat two Native American women. Every nook and cranny was stuffed with handmade souvenirs. I asked the women for possible back road options. The older of the two women, the one knitting and wearing a huge smile, recommended I take Old Maricopa Road, adding it was a pretty good road now that it was paved.

Old Maricopa runs up along the bottom of the South Maricopa Mountains, ending at Hwy 347, which I’d then take north to I-10 and into Mesa. After thanking her and turning to leave she volunteered one last bit of useful information – “Watch for cows.” Maricopa Road surpassed all expectations. The desert landscape rambled on unobstructed in every direction until it fell silently off the horizon, with only playful puffy clouds dotting the turquoise sky. Clear sailing all the way into Mesa.

Monday morning when I woke at Nick’s house the sky over Mesa had once again shifted into uncharacteristically gloomy. Nothing like yesterday’s near perfect day. Nick assured me that it hardly ever rained for more than a few minutes in any one place in these parts. According to the local weather reports it was snowing in the Flagstaff/Sedona area – so that route was out. My options had once again been trimmed by nature. It was going to be I-10 all the way home.

The Arizona sky stayed moody nearly all the way to Blythe, but luckily no rain. There was wind again though, but nothing compared to the first day. The Wing hummed, the going was easy, the transformation of perspectives I was searching for had taken place somewhere between Yuma and Mesa – when I wasn’t paying attention.

It was 4:00 pm when I finished my buffalo burger and banana-date shake at Hadley’s, a favorite tourist stop just west of Palm Springs. I could do the bonsai thing and continue the next 150 miles back to Ventura now, or get a room and challenge the city traffic rested. I wisely opted for the latter.

Tuesday morning was once again the kind of road trip morning that teased my reasoning into doing something irrational like turning around and riding back the same way I came. I wasn’t completely ready to end this just yet. The stretch of I-10 that still lay before me wasn’t a favorite. I was too close home to end this trip on anything less then a truly harmonic note.

The Hwy 330 off-ramp towards Highlands was a mere two miles ahead. I turned my head to the right and glanced up towards Big Bear. There wasn’t a single cloud hanging over the mountains. Hwy 18 off the 330 was no doubt dry enough by now for me to traverse safely. I could follow 18 up and over the mountains and drop down into Apple Valley. On the other side of Victorville I’d catch the short stretch of I-15 West towards San Bernardino, hook back with Hwy 18 west and slide back into Ventura without ever dealing with traffic.

On road trips as in life, it’s best to keep your options open, go with the flow as it were. There’s an I-Hop in the heart of the Big Bear village ski resort. The lure of banana-nut pancakes and hot coffee strummed the proper harmonic chord I had been listening for. 

Clearly, my priorities and perspective had reassembled into a perfect, uncomplicated alignment.