Night of the Odocoileus

June 12, 2008: After leaving San Diego for the ride home to Washington, we decide to loop north to escape the heat and stop for a while at the North Rim of the Grand Canyon, which Linda has never seen. It’s a clear day, giving beautiful views of the canyon. We end up staying too long, and I know we’ll be riding in the dark soon.

As the light fades, we ride north on U.S. 89 and inquire about motel rooms. But the prices are outrageous, and I decide to push on. It gets darker and chilly and we realize motels are few. We stop at a gas station in Long Valley Junction, Utah, to fuel up and put on more layers.

Under the pump lights, I study the Utah map. Looks like it’s best to take State Route 14 to Cedar City and I-15, with more motels. If we stay on 89, we’ll be riding all night.

The station is closing, the employees clearing out. One stops and asks where we’re from and where we’re going; Linda tells him and says we’re going to Cedar City.

“On this road?” the man says. “Better be careful. Lots of deer out there. ”

Ah, jeez, I think to myself. Deer are unpredictable and dangerous, especially in the dark. I’ve heard way too many stories; just one can take down a motorcycle. Usually they jump out in front of you. 14 is a rural road and almost pitch black and we’ll be on it for about 40 miles before we reach Cedar City.

“I’ll be careful,” I tell Linda as we saddle up.

I’ve upgraded the stock bulbs on the BMW to high-output halogens and added a set of PIAA 510 lights, one on each side. They’re like a pair of small spotlights, but fairly powerful. We start off and I switch on the high beam and the 510s, using every light I’ve got.

The road is two-lane asphalt with gravel on the sides and it quickly turns curvy, wandering in and around hills. I keep our speed down to about 20 mph, the lights fade behind us, darkness moves closer and I start living in the tunnel of light ahead. I’ve put more than 70,000 miles on this bike and I trust her. We’re solid together. We should be okay…then I see a deer ahead, no, two, standing by the side of the road watching us as I throttle down and pass them.

“Did you see that?” I yell back to Linda.

“Yes, two!” she yells, and we’re yelling not only over the engine noise and the full-face helmets but because I’m wearing standard earplugs, which help lessen fatigue on long rides. It’s tough to carry on a conversation, though.

I tell myself we’ll see more and sure enough, brown bodies and bright eyes start appearing on the hillsides and up the road, startled by our running lights. I back off the throttle and count…3,4,5, wait, two more…Jesus! There’s about a dozen. More up ahead. We’re in a herd!

The road twists, turns and straightens for a bit; we’re moving at about 10 mph, passing deer left and right until I catch movement out of the corner of my eye and turn my head to the left and see a large buck galloping alongside us, getting closer. My heart stops and I twist the throttle and the bike surges ahead and away from him.

This is too much, I tell myself, and I realize I’ve left the grille covers on the 510s, which cut down the light they cast. I know I’ll have to stop and remove them. No other way.

Trouble is, there’s no place to stop without being in the road and though we’ve seen no cars, I don’t want to stop on this road in this black night.

But then I see the asphalt widen a bit, a junction with a gravel road. This will have to do. It’ll just take a second, we’ll stop, pull the covers, stow them in a side case, remount, and get the hell out of here.

I stop the bike as far to the right as I can, without straying into slippery gravel. Linda gets off, says, “What’s wrong?” and I say I have to pull the covers, I need more light. I shut off the engine, hit the four-way flashers, and get off to lift the bike onto her centerstand. But something’s wrong, Linda’s gasping, “We’re too close to the edge,” and the bike loses her keel and tilts away from me and I can’t hold it and she crashes into the gravel.

I cuss mightily and try to get her up. Linda helps and we finally get her upright. Linda steadies her as I keep a deathgrip on the handlebars and move around to make sure the sidestand is down and get the bike set.

I’m sweating in my riding suit and waiting to be run down by some drunk guy careening through the Utah night. I try to check the bike for gas or oil leaks with a tiny LED light attached to my jacket but I can’t keep a firm grip on the light and it flashes on and off, like lightning in a bad horror movie. At that moment, a car drives up and stops and the driver asks, “Are you all right?”

I can hardly hear him through the helmet and earplugs. “WE’RE FINE!” I say, trying not to yell but probably yelling anyway. And I realize how ridiculous this is; we’re standing in the dark, on the side of the road, and I can’t see or hear anything.

The driver leaves and I attack the 510 covers and find I can’t get them off. I remember they were loose before and my father and I worked on them in his garage back home in Cleveland; he added an ingenious extra washer which made them fit just right, but harder to remove until I discover how to do it. I stow the covers and look around for Linda. She’s taking pictures. I yell for her to get on the bike and finally we’re moving again.

The uncovered 510s give us better light for the rest of the ride, but we find we’re past most of the deer, only a handful by the side of the road. I’m tensed up and I stay that way until we finally reach the lights of Cedar City. We stop at the first decent motel and I’m too tired, too wrung out, to care about the price.

Cyril and His Motorcycle

My father’s family came from Slovakia. My grandfather grew up in Drahovce, about an hour’s travel from Bratislava, the capital. He emigrated to the United States for better opportunities when he was 19, before World War I. He left behind his parents and two sisters, the younger of which was the mother of Cyril Kudela, the gentleman you see here.

My grandfather’s departure essentially split the Petráš family in two. He wrote his family but never returned to Slovakia. We knew we had relatives in Slovakia but no one quite knew how many or where. My father’s sister was the only one who maintained a line of communication with the family in Slovakia. I was able to contact them in 2004 and we were able to visit them in 2006. I saw my great-grandfather’s grave during that visit.

Cyril is a few years younger than my father. I don’t know for sure when this picture was taken, but I suspect in the late 1960s. That looks like Cyril’s daughter Iva behind him. The motorcycle is a 125cc Jawa, a bike made in Czechoslovakia.

Salvador Dali’s Gas Station

June 2008: It’s already hot as we leave the hotel in the morning in Ehrenberg, Arizona, and cross the state line into California.

We’re looking for a gas station because the one next to the hotel was packed with cars and some of the pumps weren’t working, which guaranteed sweaty, irritable waits. We’d endured soul-killing heat throughout Arizona and I was too tired to fill up the night before.

The bike has enough fuel to get us into Blythe and we sail across the Colorado River bridge on I-10, getting no relief from the heat even over water. The sun is glaring. I pull into the first station, an Exxon just off the highway. It’s on the edge of agricultural fields that are baking in the heat, dry, dusty acres impossibly kept alive only by irrigation.

It’s about 105 degrees already and the air is still and dry. Even the cement of the road looks bleached. “How could anyone live here?” I wonder.

There is little relief even under the awning over the pumps. Linda gets off the bike and heads for the store. I pull the bike onto its centerstand, put my helmet on top of the gas pump, and fumble for the credit card.

While filling the tank I look around. There’s a small green metal shed with doors standing open that’s filled with old soda and beer cans. A collection point of some kind. A forlorn motel sits next door. The station itself is quiet and nearly deserted, only one other car or two.

I finish refueling and Linda returns. She stays with the bike as I go inside to use the restroom. When I come out, she’s talking with a woman who has seen the bike and wandered over, curious.

She’s deeply tanned and dressed to be looked at, sunglasses, sandals, shredded cut-offs, and a ragged shirt tied up under her breasts, leaving her belly bare. You can’t help but notice her muscular physique, like a female weightlifter, but there’s something wrong, because she looks wasted somehow, as if she’d spent a week in rehab before being kicked out. “She’s going to ask Linda for money,” I think.

But she doesn’t. Instead she’s telling Linda most of her life story, how she was a bodybuilder in California and did pretty well, but then had some sort of medical problem that required brain surgery and a plate in her head.

She and her husband stay at the motel next door after he lost his truck driving permit and they’re collecting cans and she should be taking medication but the medicine doesn’t really work for her so she drinks beer instead, calling it self-medication. Linda gently suggests this may not be a good idea, and the woman says she knows, but…

I catch movement out of the corner of my eye and turn to see a Hispanic man, a little older than me, pulling a kid’s wagon with a makeshift awning on it — four sticks and a towel stretched above. It’s piled with junk and cans and two small dogs are sitting in it, in the shade.

They have to be dying out here, I think, and the man pulls the wagon up to the hose at the station’s side and gives the dogs some water. They drink and he goes inside.

The bodybuilder is telling Linda she knows the man and that he collects cans, and she and her husband look after him. The man comes outside carrying a small bag of ice, which he puts in the wagon.

I search the pockets of my riding suit, looking for cash because I have to give this guy something, anything. And I don’t have a damn thing on me. I used up the last of my cash late last night in Ehrenberg because the truck stop’s credit card machine wasn’t working and we were buying food.

I find only four sad crumpled dollars but take them to the man. I put them in his hands and say “Vaya con Dios, señor,” the only Spanish I know, and in English he says, “in the name of Christ Jesus, amen,” and I walk back to the bike, ashamed of the four dollars, ashamed I can’t change anything for him, ashamed that I’m leaving him and his dogs in the heat.

The bodybuilder says good-bye and we climb back aboard the bike and I watch the Hispanic man leave. Where he is going I can’t imagine but later I will find him, again and again, burned into memory as he pulls the wagon and the dogs sit resigned and the ice bag melts, down the silent bone-white road, in the heat, in the sun, in the heat.

The 1964 Odyssey

Endurance eastbound on I-70 overlooking the mountains near Organ, New Mexico.
Endurance eastbound on I-70 overlooking the mountains near Organ, New Mexico.

June 2002: I think my fascination with motorcycles truly began in February 1964 when Robert McDaniel, an adventurous uncle of mine, rode a black 305cc Honda Dream from San Diego to Cleveland, more than 2,000 miles.

He intended to ride to Florida to see his parents (my grandparents) but learned enroute they were in Ohio. He turned north in New Mexico, riding U.S. 70 where he passed through starkly beautiful country. He paused on the roadside for a smoke near the craggy mountains of Organ, N.M., and dreamed of Indians crossing the valley floor.

He had not anticipated riding north and was ill-prepared; his gear consisted of a leather jacket, Levis, light gloves, and three-quarter helmet with face shield. It was warm when he left California but he ran into a blizzard in central Ohio and skidded off an icy road and was nearly hit by a delivery truck.

But he toughed it out, kept going and finally arrived; Instamatic photos show him exhausted and disheveled in a black motorcycle jacket, images of family legend.

I tell you of his ride because it was the first pivotal moment in my personal history; I was six years old and it seized my imagination. We recreated his ride in June 2002 and stopped at the same place he did 38 years earlier; the mountains were still stark and serene.

Out of the Rain

August 2006: I’m on the motorcycle, rolling westbound on I-10 outside of El Paso in western Texas in the early evening when I see a huge dark cloud build up to the south. It’s so impressive I stop and take a few pictures as I put on a jacket.

The cloud keeps growing and getting darker, promising rain (rare for this part of the country). When the rain finally comes down, hard, I bail, looking desperately for a building with an overhang — a car wash, a bank with a drive-through window, a funeral home (don’t laugh, I spent an hour at one during a downpour in Eddyville, Kentucky).

In Socorro I find a darkened school administration building with a recessed entry way and nearly empty parking lot and I ride the bike right up the handicap ramp. The entry is 30 feet wide, 10 feet deep, and totally dry. Perfect!

A stack of sandbags lines one inside wall. I back the motorcycle into the opposite corner and set her up on the centerstand. Then I put my helmet and gloves on the top row of sandbags and sit down…I find it’s really comfortable, because the wall is angled inward toward the windows, giving me a natural place to recline.

I relax on the bags and watch the rain pour down. I’m dry and I have a half bottle of Gatorade and a package of peanut butter-and-toast crackers. Things could not be any better…I feel almost smug. The rain continues to alternate between moderate and ferocious.

A little over an hour later, the main door opens and a janitor comes out. He glances at me, says hello in a friendly way, and turns to watch the rain.

“Hi,” I say. “I’m going to give it another 20 minutes and then take off. I should be going anyway.”

“Oh, no problem,” he says. “Just watch out for the black widows.”

“Black widows?” I say. “Where?”

“There,” he says, and points in my direction. “They like to hide in the sandbags.”

Motorcycle travel