30 September, Flagstaff-Oatman-Las Vegas. “Whoa, reef the mains’l!”
I left Flagstaff, AZ this morning under a clear blue, sunny sky. The temperature was cold enough to light-off the heated grips and put a layer on—59 degrees displayed on the instrument panel. I proceeded out of town, very reminiscent of Bend, OR, and started the slow descend from the 7,700 plateau of Flagstaff. The trees gave way to desert brush and eventually no discernible vegetation whatsoever. I fueled at some one-pump way station in the middle of nowhere, and some guy on a Vulcan wanted to keep me chatting about motorcycles like some socially staved prison inmate just released from solitary confinement. It was Route 66 after all, so I wondered if I wandered into Radiator Springs (of Disney’s Cars fame), and would be stuck here until a repaved the highway into town. I made my escape, and then watched a weather pattern before me form over a red and green plateaued ridge in the distance—RAIN. This cumulus cloud looked like it had a dirty shower curtain hanging under it as it swept over the ridge toward the road. I saw ahead the white clouds forming around the vehicles down in the valley, spray from very wet asphalt. I checked my pocket zippers to protect my phone and anything else that might be damaged by the rain while doing 80 mph, like trying to retrieve a handkerchief to blow your nose while skydiving. I lost sight of any remanence of the road so slowed to 65, and then it happened. A cushion of water formed between my tires and the asphalt, and I was afloat, sailing across this mini-flash flood, rudderless at sea. I immediately reefed the mains’l, let off the throttle, threw out the sea anchor, and let my vessel sink to the bottom—good old man-made black tar and gravel. I called Vessel Traffic Service (VTS system that controls the US’s busiest waterways, much like air traffic controllers) and proceeded down the road at a cautious 30 mph with my four-ways blinking a distress signal to all ships at sea, hoping some arsehole wouldn’t come up my stern at a hundred knots and take me out.
Thankfully, my voyage was short lived and I was back on terra firma, the rain passed in my rearview mirror. The sky became cloudless as expeditiously as it had turned to monsoons. I turned SW in Kingman, following Route 66 to Oatman. The road to Oatman was built by Evil Knievel, especially for motorcycles. He came across the small village with wild burros and said to himself, “That road from Mojave City is too damn straight, boring, and not death-defying. I’m gonna build something that’ll break some bones!”
The turns are so tight, the road so narrow, and the lack of guard rails so prevalent that Arizona DOT posted a sign advertising that no vehicle longer than a lounge chair and no wider than a toilet seat may enter. It was a fun road until I hit a patch of deep sand across one particular hairpin turn that really tested the traction control—Trafalgar TA does work, I’m proud to say. I arrived in town, having survived the Evil K. obstacles.
Oatman is governed by a committee of burros that have created an ordnance whereby stupid tourists shall feed, pet, and faun over the residents. I sat on a bench located in the shade of one particular tourist trap, with a commanding view up main street. I enjoyed a cigar with the proprietor, an attractive woman named Amber, who has lived in Oatman all her life. She is one of the 59 souls who maintain the village for us wayward travelers.
I exited town out the “safe” road to Mojave City, and turned north into Bullhead City, a.k.a., City of Red-lights. I zoomed ahead to get some airflow, and then baked in the oven heat of 105 F, every hundred yards or so between sitting at the blasted red-lights. I stopped for fuel, dug out my cooling vest, and wetted it down just before I passed out from heat exhaustion. Throttle, break, throttle, break, repeat. finally after about a thousand miles of this suburban sprawl: red-lights and strip malls, I got across the river into and out of Laughlin, NV.
About twenty miles south of Las Vegas I dropped myself into the metropolitan pandemonium of Las Vegas. I felt like an ant on a sidewalk, dodging crushing footsteps of adolescent boys in front of an elementary school. I followed Tom to Rose and Ike’s Henderson winter getaway, and surprised them with a chance of free lodging. Later that night we went to the Las Vegas strip with their friends—I made the party number 10 on a Friday night at a popular eatery under the giant ferris wheel on the strip. So, after a seven hour wait, we enjoyed a great meal and load banter.
trafalgar adventures 