We knew a Nevada-focused trip would cover many roads we'd seen already on different trips. In fact, I'd be visiting places I hadn't seen in 22 years, long before I started riding a motorcycle or met my husband. But on our motorcycle trip to national parks in Utah in 2014, we had driven through Great Basin National Park, and I thought it would be fun to go for a couple of nights, tour the caves and see the legendary starry sky of the park. I had also been entranced with the historic hotel in French Glen, Oregon and wanted to stay there. Stefan was wanting to, at last, ride around Steens Mountain right next to Frenchglen. And we both thought it would be fun to revisit Rachel, Nevada, a place we've both been but never together. Put it all together and it sounded like a good two-week trip from our home in the Portland, Oregon area.

Obviously, the date was a huge mistake for our annual two week motorcycle trip, no matter where we chose to go this time, as it was last year when we went in August to tour Washington State here in the USA. But Stefan has been dealing with the aftermath of after a very serious crisis at his workplace (fire) and, a year on, it still dominates his work schedule. July was the only time he could go this year and, so, go we did.  

I've never been to Las Vegas, and I've just stopped for lunch a few times in Reno on my way back from camping somewhere, so I haven't had the experience most people associate with Nevada: lights, casinos, shows, glitz, etc. And that's just fine with me: I like my Nevada better. I've driven through Nevada a lot over the years, going in various directions, and before this trip, I'd enjoyed it - but this trip made me love Nevada. Yes, heat and all. There is something about the remote towns of Ely, Eureka, Austin, Tonopah, Luning, Rachel, Caliente, Gerlach and Empire and on and on, that really appeals to me: some are historic, some have beautiful old buildings, some feel like the edge of civilization, some aren't at all picturesque and are barely hanging on, all are quirky and surprisingly welcoming. I say surprisingly because I'm not sure any such tiny towns in Oregon have ever made us feel quite as welcomed as these remote places in Nevada. Sure, some of Nevada's long and not-so-winding roads can get boring fast. And the heat of summer - oh, the heat of summer - it's awful. And the lack of trees... But there is something about Nevada... it's hard to explain...  

As always, I hated the idea of leaving my dog and cat... I forbid my pet sitter from contacting me while I'm gone, because if I see a text message from her, I will automatically assume it's bad news, because I worry so. But it's better this way, not to get updates unless there's something dire and I need to come home. Spoiler alert: the animals were fine upon our return.

I packed days before the trip and we did all we could to be ready to leave promptly Saturday morning, with no delays. We rolled out of the driveway at 9:30 a.m. - just 30 minutes late! (often, we leave two hours after we'd originally planned - usually because of me). We headed out Oregon state road 47 going South through Gaston and hit a detour in Yamhill - some kind of parade and festival that closed the entire downtown/main drag. After some confusion and a detour, we navigated around it all and got to Oregon state road 240 to Newberg, then after some more confusion and back roads towards Interstate 5 in Aurora. We hate interstates and had done this route to avoid as much as we could, but, sometimes, you have to take them to cut down on the time it takes to get somewhere. Also, taking back roads let me practice maneuvering with a loaded down bike - it stops so differently with all this weight.

We stopped at the truck stop in Aurora just before the entrance to the Interstate - we already needed to hydrate and pee. A guy walked up in the parking lot and gushed about the bikes. So many 50 or 60 year old men approach us when we're riding to gush about how they used to ride, or want to travel like we do. I usually love talking with them but, damn, it was HOT! Parking lots are the WORST when it's hot. We were nice and let him gush but, I have to admit, later on the trip, I had to cut some guys short because I just couldn't stand out there anymore. 

I can't believe I used to live so near this truck stop and never, ever went to Popeye's. And still didn't this time. I try to avoid fast food, even when I'm not on a road trip. But Popeye's... so unhealthy and delicious... 

We got on Interstate 5 going South and then very thankfully left the interstate in Salem for Oregon state road 22 through Detroit Lake, stopping for lunch at a place making its best effort to welcome bikers (lots of signs and motorcycle images). In fact, we parked next to two fellow adventure motorcycle riders on dual sports, both KTMs (we somehow missed the riders inside). I have to admit that I just don't get the appeal of Detroit Lake, in terms of being a vacation spot. But I digress...

We turned onto US Highway 20 to take us into Sisters, and I was feeling really fantastic: the climb and the speed of other drivers on the road has messed with my brain on previous motorcycle trips, but this time, I did just fine - in fact, I really enjoyed it. We stopped at our usual stopping point on the road, an overlook of Mount Washington, and met a super friendly guy on a Harley - which, of course, means he was Canadian. He was SO HAPPY to be here! We strongly suggested he give McKenzie Pass (Oregon state road 242) a ride, gave him some directions, and later, I was pleased to see him and his girlfriend/wife/whatever turning off for that part of the road. We got gas in Sisters and were floored at how much the city has grown since we were there last. There was a 20 something (or younger?!) guy in a beat up pick up truck at the gas station where we stopped with a sweet old Honda motorcycle in the back. I thought he'd driven somewhere to pick up the motorcycle but, in fact, he'd ridden the motorcycle to pick up the truck. He was very proud of both. 

We headed on 126 to Prineville, stopped for beer and ice at a grocery and baked in the parking lot as we attempted to hydrate, then we turned off onto Oregon state road 27, a new road for us at last, to look for a campground on the surrounding Bureau of Land Management (BLM) land. One campground where we stopped was empty except for a huge family with laundry hanging amid two adjoining campsites and three large dogs barking their heads off. We left and rode on down the road and ended up at the Palisades Campground, on the Lower Crooked river. The campground is about 15 miles south of Prineville. It was a short but difficult gravel road from the main road down to the sites on the river, but after navigating the VERY difficult road to primitive camping in the Painted Desert a couple of years ago with my fully packed KLR, I was ready. Mostly. Gulp. 

Even though the campground was almost full, we ended up in the BEST site, all the way at the end of the campground, far from all the RVs (and their generators), and pretty much by ourselves at the end of the road. It was a bit far from the bathrooms, but worth it. We still had plenty of daylight, so after setting up camp I didn't have to immediately start cooking - we could relax, walk to the river, look at rock formations through Stefan's monocular, and enjoy the evening as it cooled off. I could not have been in a better mood. We finished off a little sampler bottle of Crater Lake vodka and our six pack of Shock Top beer and enjoyed the stars. It was warm enough to sleep on top of our sleeping bags and without our rain fly, but cool enough to feel comfortable. What a great way to start the trip!

At the end of Saturday, we had ridden 218 miles. That's about as much as I care to ride in a day, to be honest. I love being in a campsite well before dark, to just sit and enjoy the scenery.

I cooked a ridiculously huge breakfast of scrambled eggs with some chopped bell pepper we brought from home. Stefan's little cooler that he takes on our trips really spoils us in terms of the food we get to bring, cook and eat at campgrounds while on our motorcycles. We packed up, I gave away the vegetables we'd brought (no way we could keep them good for another day in this heat, even with his cooler), and I made the incredibly difficult uphill gravel right turn out of the campground - HURRAH! That is something I hate having to do...

Stefan said that Oregon state road 27 would continue to be paved and then, at some point, would be unpaved, but it would get us back to US Highway 20, where we needed to be, and it would be a nice way to practice before the Steens Mountain. The rest of state road 27 turned out to be particularly beautiful, weaving its way through a beautiful canyon. There are a LOT of campgrounds along it - but I think none were better than ours. As the land finally begins to flatten out and get away from the river, indeed, the road becomes gravel, but other than some washboards early on, it was quite easy gravel. It wasn't the most scenic place ever, but I was enjoying it: the remoteness, the desert plants, the isolated ranches, the cows... and I was standing for most of this ride on gravel, something I'd learned to do at the off-road motorcycle clinic from back in April. I was having a great time!

But then my bike started being a bit wobbly. I thought, well, I'm going faster than I'm used to, this is a new feeling but nothing to worry about, it's probably not a flat back tire. But after a few minutes Stefan pulled up beside me and motioned for me to stop and I knew immediately: my back tire was flat. I'd gone probably half a mile on it. I'd hit a nail.

We were going slightly uphill, there was a steep hill going up on one side of us and it continued as a sharp drop off on the other side, so there was no shoulder. There was also NO SHADE, other than a space not even as big as the space a motorcycle takes up. We talked about calling Progressive Insurance roadside assistance, but Stefan pointed out that there was nowhere for a tow truck to take us anywhere nearby, and it would take hours: Stefan would first have to leave me (or vice versa) to ride ahead to find cell phone service to call Progressive, Progressive would have to find an available truck on a Sunday, and there wouldn't be one anywhere nearby, the truck would have to drive a long distance and find us, the truck would have to drive us all the way to Bend, about 40 miles away in the wrong direction, we would have to wait until Monday and then beg a bike shop there to change our tire, we'd have to get a hotel and miss our reservations at Frenchglen... Hours and hours of delay.

So, we went with the alternative: we always carry a spare innertube and Stefan was about to do something he'd never done before on the side of a road: change the innertube in a tire on the side of a road, rather in the garage. With just hand tools. He'd practiced a few times in our garage - and punctured the new innertube while trying to get the tire onto the wheel. It's a long, frustrating experience. Could he do it under these conditions? For two hours, Stefan worked in the baking sun to change the tire. Mostly, I held up my sarong to generate additional shade as he worked.

The first three SUVs that passed us on that remote gravel road didn't even slow down. I was furious. It was obvious we were disabled and we were TRAVELING - on a remote gravel road. Not that there was anything those people could do, other than give us water in case we were running out (and, yes, we were). But I was PISSED. How could you not stop and make sure we were okay?  I would have. No, they weren't all from California. A pickup stopped at last, after the three SUVs passed. He didn't have extra water - he was on his way to a campsite with no water. He was very sure that the nearest help we could get was in Bend, so it confirmed that Stefan was right - and if things got bad, we'd have to go to that horrible plan B that would take hours and a tow truck to Bend and cancelled plans. But I sure appreciated someone stopping and making sure we were okay. Another guy stopped in a car a few minutes later, going in the other direction. He didn't have any water either, but he was halfway into a PBR six pack ("I'm just out here drinking and driving - don't tell nobody!") and he offered us two of his last three cans. We declined. And then one more guy, in a regular car, stopped and asked if we needed help. 

When we first pulled over, we tried Fix a Flat. Lesson learned: that's a great short-term fix it when you wake up in the morning and find your tire is flat from a slow, small leak, as happened to us in Silver City, Idaho, and you are pretty sure your innertube just has one small hole. But if you have ridden even a few meters on a flat, you have shredded your innertube, and Fix a Flat not only won't help, it will create a horrible mess. Beyond trying to provide shade for Stefan with my sarong, I also used my very long skinny fingers to clean out the micro beads in the tire that resulted from the failed attempt to use Fix a Flat, giving Stefan a much needed rest.

Later, Stefan pointed out how important it had been to have my panniers with the removable tops, versus his with the hinges (both of which are available, as well as top boxes, from Coyotetrips). He used the tops of my panniers to put every nut, every bolt, every piece of metal or anything he took off the tire or motorcycle as he worked, as well as his tools, to keep it all clean. It is essential to keep all tools and parts clean during this process, because dirt can re-puncture the innertube, it can gum up gears and what not - it's something you want to work very diligently to prevent. The top of the panniers as clean work spaces were essential to that end. 

So, the entire process is thus:

And it worked! Altogether, it took two hours. Though I didn't believe it had worked until we continued up the gravel road and onto the flat plain that would take us to US Highway 20. I was holding my breath a lot for that first hour, terrified the tire would give at any moment. It didn't!

We stopped briefly at a cafe in the tiny barely-a-town Brothers that had lots of "open" signs and claimed to have food and ice cream - it had neither and the one person working didn't really seem that happy to see us. We cooled off and then headed on through Burns, a town I'm not fond of (it feels militant, like a bus stop in Egypt we once passed through and were told NOT to get off the bus because the locals hate foreigners). We turned onto state highway 205 towards Frenchglen. Eventually we passed the Malheur National Wildlife Refuge, site of the takeover by right wing terrorists in 2016. Had we not had the flat tire drama that day, we would have had time to stop there, something we've never done in our previous travels in the area, and I would have liked to, to show my support for the staff and for federal government administration and management of our public lands.

We continued on, finishing just 180+  miles in total that day, arriving at 5:30 p.m. at Frenchglen. I couldn't believe it. I had imagined sadly trying to call from somewhere out on the road and telling the Frenchglen Hotel through tears that we wouldn't be making it after all. And here we were, with plenty of time to unload the bikes, change clothes, have beer out on the lawn, relax, watch the sunset and have the communal supper everyone raves about.

I have wanted to stay at the historic Frenchglen Hotel ever since we saw it on a previous trip several years ago. It was established in 1916 by a meat packing company that then owned a nearby ranch. The current building was constructed in 1923 and contained five rooms. Around 1934 the US Department of Fish & Wildlife bought the nearby ranch and surrounding area and it all became part of the Malheur Wildlife Refuge. About this time the Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC) crews planted the large Carolina poplars you can see around town - and are like a beacon when you are driving in from the otherwise treeless landscape along the road. In 1938, a CCC crew added onto and remodeled the hotel, putting in the bathrooms. Now, the Frenchglen hotel rooms still have a rustic feel, but the entire building is air conditioned.

We sat outside drinking beer for a while and enjoying the scenery and wild hares or rabbits (not sure which) hopping about. At one point, the HistoriCorps truck and trailer went by - it had the name on the sides of both - and I totally fangirled and called out, "Look! It's the HistoriCorps people!!" Jayne is both a volunteerism nerd AND a history nerd... I would LOVE to work on a HistoriCorps project some time. And then I rattled on about how great HistoriCorps is while Stefan zoned out.

Unfortunately, the bugs came out in force and Stefan got some very painful bites and welts. We figured it was about time for the communal supper anyway, so we went inside, and it was delicious: baked ham (I know, I normally avoid pork, but I'm also not a rude bitch who waits to announce dietary needs AT THE TABLE), salad and a macaroni and cheese dish with tomatoes that was so good it made me forget anything else we were served with the exception of desert, a yummy pumpkin flavored bunt cake. I loved listening to the other travelers talk - one guy was touring Basque restaurants and Basque historic sites - and share stories and advice, and we offered a few of our own. I still couldn't believe we'd actually made it and I was getting my dream evening!

Just before bedtime, Stefan killed a mosquito that must have just feasted on him - so much blood, like a horror movie! Ugh! But even with that trauma, I slept incredibly soundly. I was worried, since we were right next to the women's bathroom, but I never heard anything.

I was worried about my ankles, They were swollen, especially the right one. I have really bony feet and ankles, so I know immediately if they are swelling even slightly. I noticed it happening first in 2014 when I flew to Ukraine, and my ankles would swell almost every day of that oh-so-hot summer. I had to put a box under my desk so I could elevate my feet when I sat at my desk. Things got better as soon as the weather changed that year. It's happened on and off over the years, always in the summer, but this was the first time I'd noticed on a motorcycle trip, and it scared me.

I brought up Anthony Bourdain at least three times this day. I just still can't believe he's gone, and I remain crushed that he was that unhappy. He crossed my mind so much on this trip.

We began the day packing up as much as possible without having to change into our motorcycle clothes and going downstairs and ordering breakfast. Pancakes were on the menu and, since Stefan doesn't like pancakes, I eat that or biscuits and gravy most every morning when we're on vacation and I'm not cooking breakfast myself. I was a happy gal. We talked with our fellow guests some more, got our container of liquid dish washing soap refilled (thank you, Frenchglen hotel), then loaded up the bikes: it was time for me to tackle the Steens Mountain, a legendary site for adventure / dual sport motorcycle riders.

The Steens Mountain is surrounded by the Steens Mountain Wilderness, more than 170,200 acres managed by BLM. Steens Mountain isn't a volcano like Oregon's other famous mountains (Sisters, Mount Hood, etc.) and, therefore, it doesn't have the traditional look of a mountain, rising to one general point. Steens Mountain is land cut out by glaciers and forced upwards by internal pressures, like a tilted shelf. If you are West of Steens Mountain and look East towards it from Frenchglen or state road 205, you see a slow rise in the land with some gaps on the horizon, rather than a pointy mountain. But if you are in the Alvord Desert or on Fields-Denio Road, to the East of the Mountain, and look West toward it, you see a massive series of sheer cliffs rising in front of you far into the sky, with flat land on the top. I didn't know that Steens Mountain didn't look like a mountain before this trip, though I had seen it from the Alvord Desert.

The road to Steens Mountain North road starts in Frenchglen. The hotel manager had said the first part of the road was horrible with washboards but that, after the campground, it was fine, and he was right. We saw some deer by the road by the river just before we started an incline on a very easy, very decent gravel road. I kept looking for the mountain - as I said, I didn't know Steens Mountain didn't look like any other mountain in Oregon, so while I was going up it, I had no idea I was going up the actual Steens Mountain. I also didn't know the entire loop on the mountain was 52.8 miles, and I'm really glad I didn't - I have never ridden that many miles of gravel in a day and it would have messed with me psychologically. It's really not that outstanding in terms of landscape until you get well past gate 2, at the 15.5 mile mark. Then the canyons far to your right become visible, and the land starts rising more dramatically, but still not anything intimidating for me.

We skipped Kiger Gorge overlook and headed straight on to the East Rim Overlook, which is where most people stop. To the East is the dramatic, at times sheer drop into the valley below, and to the West are the double gorges. We walked around for a bit and talked to some of the hikers at the top. Stefan wanted to push on to the Steens Summit about four miles away, but I didn't - I saw a road with a rather dramatic turn around a peak, with a sheer drop on the other side, and decided I didn't want to push my luck. Turns out that there is a gate before that dramatic turn, so he didn't get to take it. He came back after just a few minutes.

We headed down the South side of the loop road. This turned out to be the scarier part of the ride on the mountain, the part I had seen in videos: this side has a much steeper incline/decline for 11 miles from the East Rim Overlook, with sheer drops on the South Side and, on our trip, a VERY big washout at one point that would have eaten my motorcycle. I hate going on gravel downhill, but was grateful I was doing so on this part of the road, because it meant I had the inside track on the right side of the road, rather than the outside track next to the sheer drops.

We stopped at the South Steens campground pit toilets for a break. I was feeling VERY confident about my gravel riding skills. Perhaps too confident. We had less than 20 miles to go on the gravel before we reached paved state road 205 and things were looking very easy. But on the flat stretch of road after the campground, there was a LOT of washboards and a lot of thick gravel on either side of the road, built up by the tire tracks of cars and trucks. I began to lose control on the washboards and then drifted over to the thick gravel, where I began to fishtail and then fall, almost sliding completely off the road. I road the bike all the way down, but my panniers (made by Coyotetrips) kept me safe: I didn't land on my leg as a result. I didn't feel any pain anywhere but I felt so sad: I thought I had just ended our trip. I began saying, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry" over and over again - which, apparently, is exactly what I was saying when Stefan found me under my bike on the Shaffer Switchbacks in Utah (I have no memory of that previous crash, at the moment of the crash, or a few minutes after it). So Stefan was thinking, oh, geesh, not again, she's got a concussion... But I insisted I was fine, I flexed my ankles and feet and fingers and what not, and everything felt okay - though how it would feel an hour from now, I couldn't say.

No way we could get the bike up ourselves, not at that angle. We unloaded everything and then waited for someone to come by. I was afraid we were thoroughly screwed - I figured most people would NOT be heading up the mountain for lunch and most people who were on the mountain had left before us. But after a few minutes, we heard a vehicle. It was a local in his pickup with his dog. The driver didn't seem all that concerned - he hopped out, changed his shoes, said something about his buddy that rides a motorcycle doing this all the time, helped us upright the bike, changed back into his flip flops, complained about all the traffic on the road and drove away.

We looked over my KLR. Unbelievably, it all looked okay, even the panniers (did I mention those are available for purchase from Coyotetrips?!). After lots of water and pep talks to myself, I rode the last 15 or so miles of gravel hoping this would be the last disaster of the trip. We got to the junction with 205 and there was a bit of shade under the information board, so I laid down in it and just gathered up my emotions. I stood up, looking defeated. Stefan hugged me and I tried not to cry. I said I felt so stupid, making such a mistake. He said, "Look, remember all the times Ewan McGregor fell in his TV shows where he was traveling on his motorcycle?" And I said, "Yeah, but everyone makes fun of him." And we laughed. And I was fine.

Onward we went to Fields, Oregon. This is a favorite stop of motorcycle travelers. The "town" is, pretty much, the restaurant and a few adjacent cabins for rent. The restaurant serves standard American roadside fare, including awesome milkshakes, a small convenience store, gas, and BLM-managed public pit toilets. There can also be a fair amount of right wing rhetoric inside: last time we were here, a guy next to me started saying he hoped President Obama would die in a plane crash, and I stormed out. That did not happen this time, thankfully. As we were about to walk in, I saw a large, diverse group of very young BLM firefighters watching a guy change a tire - my gads, they looked 12! I wanted a photo so badly of the group - it was one of those wonderful "THIS is the USA!" moments. But I didn't want to bother them.

We went in and ordered milkshakes and burgers and drank the shakes as we watched the short-order cook work her magic at the grills and fryers preparing our meal. I would LOVE to be able to cook like that, seriously. Most everyone had cleared out by the time we started to eat, so we got to talk to the staff a bit. The place had been for sale the last time we were there, and we'd feared it would close, but a family member bought it and all seems well. We did notice that one of the cabins outside had been torn down - one of the really scary looking cabins, and its loss made the two remaining cabins look way better.

We went outside to gas up and prepare to head further South, and noticed rain clouds. Wow, would it rain? Awesome! As Stefan gassed up his bike and I stood next to mine getting ready to ride it over to the pump, a flash of light, followed by a VERY loud BOOM struck. I almost jumped out of my boots, and a car alarm went off nearby. Minutes later, here came the BLM trucks from behind the Fields restaurant, making a right out onto 205. We finished gassing up, filled up our water bottles and headed in the same direction. It was getting dark and I thought it was just the rain clouds moving in, but Stefan zoomed up next to me and pointed to my right. I looked up and there was, literally, a RING of fire on the side of one of the mountains, with smoke billowing out of it. Firefighters were heading up a dirt road towards the flames. It was an amazing site and I'm sorry my eyes are not a camera. Our photos don't at all do the sight justice. For the rest of the ride, all the way to Winnemucca, we passed BLM firefighters headed the opposite direction towards that fire. We never heard anything else about it, so we think they got it out quickly. Plus, shortly after we passed the fire, it rained very hard on us for about 30 seconds - I hope they got that too.

We continued on Oregon 205, which became Nevada 292 and went through Denio - sorry we didn't have time to stop at the open public library in a cute little house. We needed to get to Winnemucca to get an innertube - we didn't have a spare now, per our earlier flat, and what would we do if we had another flat? An internet search earlier showed there was a store called Sonoma Cycle, "a true enthusiast motorcycle shop." We wouldn't make it before closing time this day, but would be there when they opened on Tuesday. It was just 125 miles or so to ride from Fields, on a day of just over 200 miles of riding in total, but it was SO hot, well over 90, and Nevada 292 is one of the most boring roads you will EVER travel on. This was my third freakin' time on this road. Ugh. It was miserable, except for the rain. I hate this road. We got onto US 95, which was horrible - the speed limit was 70, but everyone was going faster, and I didn't want to go over 65 because I didn't want my tires to overheat in this horrible heat and, plus, I HATE going over 65 on my motorcycle. Just outside of Winnemucca, we stopped at a convenience store and gas station. I went in and almost melted in a puddle right in the middle of the store. I must have looked horrific, because the store workers suggested I go around the back of the store to the trucker's lounge and sit in the air conditioning, watch some TV and cool down. She was so sweet. She was our first, but not at all last, encounter with a super nice convenience store worker in Nevada on this trip. 

It was too hot to camp. There was no way we were camping - we couldn't sleep in that heat. We followed the signs to downtown Winnemucca. I stopped at the Holiday Motel because it had a pool and went into the office and asked if they had any vacancies. "No," the woman behind the counter snapped. "But I'm going to send you to a place that's just as good as us." And she named the hotel and started giving directions, and I remembered passing it - and it wasn't what we wanted. So I said, yeah, thanks, but I think we will keep looking. And she snapped again. "Okay, fine, but there is a firefighter convention in town and you will NEVER find a room because EVERY hotel is FULL. You will have to sleep on your bike!" I drove right across the street and they had a room. In fact, the hotel across the other street also had vacancies. We heard from others at our hotel that the woman at the Holiday Motel in Winnemucca is this way with EVERYONE. Ugh. Don't stay there. 

So, we stayed at Pyrenees Motel, which is run by a very nice, helpful man from India. The road workers staying there from California that were in the room next to us and tailgating to cook their supper said they always stay there because the manager is so nice. The air conditioning felt HEAVENLY. We peeled off our motorcycle gear and changed into comfy clothes and walked a block away for some beer and muffins for supper (our lunch had been huge), then came back to the room and enjoyed the air conditioning, took showers, enjoyed our bounty, played on the Internet and planned the next day - no leaving Winnemucca without that innertube!

As for any injuries: my left shoulder felt a little sore when I moved in a certain way, and a few times my right ankle felt funny, but otherwise, I was fine. And, spoiler alert: by the next day, I didn't feel anything anywhere that made me remember the wreck, except in my pride. I was fine for the rest of the trip.

We got up at 6 a.m. and figured out that Sonoma Cycle was just a few blocks away. We decided to eat a big breakfast at the Griddle, a good diner with terrific service that we have eaten in before on a previous trip. I had biscuits and gravy - a bit spicy and really delicious. Another adventure rider came in just before we left - he was on a KTM. We talked a bit - he was on his way home to California. Then we went back to our hotel, suited up and packed up, and drove to Sonoma Cycle. And we bought the LAST innertube they had that would fit our bikes. Apparently they hadn't restocked in a while - which is weird, for a motorcycle ATV shop, but whatever. We had our innertube!

We headed out on Interstate 80 and took it 53 miles to Battle Mountain. Yuck. I hate going that fast. I hate going over 60 miles an hour. I think I 80 is 75. I hate that speed on a motorcycle.

We exited the Interstate at Battle Mountain, got gas and things cold to drink, then headed South on Nevada State Road 305, which we'd taken before in the other direction on another trip. The first 40 miles from Battle Mountain are boring as heck - though I did see a "beef is freedom" sign I wish I had photographed - but the next 50 miles are much prettier. We stopped at the only rest stop in the road and crammed into the only shade provided to hydrate. We pushed on, having to wait way too long for road construction (yuck) and follow a truck through all the construction. I was surprised to see all of the BLM signs on the road - the brown signs - had all been replaced, from fading wooden signs with engraved gold lettering to metal signs with white lettering. It was actually nice to see - it's an area with a lot more camping than people might realize. We had to pass by Ravenswood, our rough camp site we love so much, because it was much too early to stop for the evening (and too hot). At some point, I had to pull over to fix my visor, which was starting to come off, and I made the mistake of pulling off on a broad shoulder covered in thick gravel - I can't believe I didn't go over. We even got rained on a bit at one point, which feels great at the time, but is followed by hellish heat and humidity.

We got to Austin, Nevada in time to still get lunch. I stopped outside the International Cafe mainly because I saw a bicycle traveler outside of it - I wanted to ask him if he'd eaten there. He had and said it was decent. He's from England and traveling from the Southern tip of South America all the way to Alaska. We exchanged info and I invited him to stay with us when he comes through our area.

Austin, Nevada always throws me for a loop, because the city is in a canyon, and all streets and parking lots are at a sharp slant up from the road. I hate parking there. But I managed it. We had a nice lunch at the cafe and I had half a roast beef sandwich leftover - supper! Next to the International Cafe is a dusty, crumbling bar, kind of like the Trump administration they support. Amid the run down surroundings is an ornate wooden bar still looks amazing. It has a stamp that says it was made by the Brunswich Balke Collender Company. According to Wikipedia, the company made "large ornate neo-classical style bars for saloons" at one time. There were two old guys in the bar and they were trying to start a conversation with us, but I was leery because of their obvious political leanings. They ask me where I was from and I said Kentucky and one of them said, "You know, I used to date two girls from Kentucky. Sisters. Twins." I said, "Oh, I'm too young to hear this story" and walked out. They laughed.

We headed out on Highway 50, promoted by Nevada as "The Loneliest Road in America." I've been on Highway 50 before, and I wasn't sure it would hold much new for me and feared I would be super bored. But this was the longest stretch of road I would do on a motorcycle, and though it was crazy hot, I did enjoy it. I felt really empowered and connected and all that stuff I'm supposed to feel while riding a motorcycle. Except I was also really, really warm. The sky was oh-so-blue, and there were lots of fluffy clouds. It was lovely.

One note for travelers on Highway 50 looking to camp: there are a LOT more places to camp than a map might tell you. I was surprised at how many signs I saw for camping on BLM special areas that weren't marked on our road maps. These will be primitive sites with maybe a pit toilet but no water. Just keep an eye out for those brown signs, which may be a bit off the road. It will mean riding or driving on some gravel, and there may not be any shade, however.

We didn't stop at Hickison Petroglyphs - I would like to visit when it's not so very, very hot, when we can camp there, and when we can spend all day hiking and looking at the petroglyphs, something that I believe takes more than just a quick stop to appreciate. If we made it to Ely, we could continue on to Cave Lake State Park and camp there for the night instead, closer to sunset. It would end up with us riding more than 300 miles in a day, but I was up for it. We stopped at a rest stop - just shelters, no bathroom - and met a family from Belgium, then pushed on, stopping in charming Eureka for gas and hydration. I wish Eureka - and Ely and Austin and Caliente and every small city in Nevada - would create a tree-covered campground just for tents and VERY small camping trailers. It's something so desperately needed and would be fully utilized. Think of it: a group of people there almost every night, ready to spent their money in the bar and restaurant or even the only convenience store in town. It wouldn't just be great for travelers: it would help save a lot of small businesses.

Just outside of Ely, I almost pulled over so we could take photos of some abandoned buildings that looked like old prospector cabins, but I pushed on - I wanted to get through Ely and on to the state park. Just after I passed the display of signs for all the churches and civic groups in Ely, I looked in my rear view mirror and Stefan wasn't there. I pulled over and waited. He  probably had stopped to take photos of something - he does that, and when I notice he's not behind me, I pull over and wait for him. If the minutes start to drag, I count cars, and decide I'll start to worry if he's not among the next 10 vehicles to pass. And this time, he wasn't among those cars. Then I decided to wait for the next 10 cars. And he still wasn't there. I decided to wait for two minutes to pass. Cars and minutes passed: no Stefan. I am not good at turning my bike around, and I didn't have much room, but I kept calm and managed it, and just past the two curves that lead passed the aforementioned signs, there was Stefan, on the side of the road, helmet off, on the phone. Oh no...

Yup, another nail and another flat. He was trying to request roadside assistance from Progressive Insurance via their online app, and when that didn't seem to work, he had tried to call. He wasn't getting through. I couldn't believe we had cell service. So I called Progressive on my phone, to see if I could get help faster verbally, and he went back to trying with the app. There was no way Stefan could change the tire on the side of that road: the shoulder was tiny and then went into a steep slope, and traffic didn't slow down at all from the 70 miles an hour speed limit - they were passing by us with just inches to spare. It was terrifying. In Oregon, that's against the law: you HAVE to slow down for a car on the side of the road if you are in the lane next to it.

I got through to Progressive Insurance roadside assistance. Now, as you may remember, I had to call Progressive back in 2016 when we had a flat in Silver City, Idaho. In that situation, it was a very slow leak on Stefan's back tire, so we used Fix a Flat, road 53 miles to a bigger city and THEN called Progressive for a tow to get the tire fixed - and they sent a truck that couldn't tow a motorcycle, and with instructions to take us to a place that did not sell nor fix motorcycle tires or innertubes. I was furious back then. Luckily, that time back in 2016, we renegotiated with the tow truck driver, who knew of a Honda motorcycle dealership, and we followed him there and he pulled some strings to get them to work on Stefan's bike - no thanks to Progressive at all (except that our coverage, which we pay for, paid for the tow truck).

So, armed with that 2016experience, I called Progressive to get a tow and was ready to make sure none of that happened again. And the call was a nightmare:

All the while, traffic is barreling by at 70 miles an hour or more just inches away from us, including an asshole on a Harley - so much for bikers looking out for each other. And it was starting to get dark.

I was scared, I was angry, I was getting desperate. She wasn't listening to me, just repeating her script over and over and over. Finally, I said, "Look, I just want you to get a tow truck to take us to a hotel in Ely and we will DEAL WITH THIS OURSELVES. We will fix the tire OURSELVES. I want to go to a hotel. That's what I want. Get me a tow truck!" And then she wanted me to name a hotel - she couldn't send a tow truck unless I had the name of a hotel. So I just blurted out "Ramada", which I thought I might have seen on a sign at some point. Then she said she had to confirm that there was a Ramada in Ely (apparently, she did find Ely and, indeed, there's a Ramada) and then she said she had to send a signal to our phone to confirm our location since we couldn't provide an exit number or a cross street. I was ready to just start screaming into the phone, just one loud, incoherent scream, for several minutes. If that signal hadn't worked, we were not getting a tow truck. Thankfully, the signal worked, she got confirmation of where we were, and she said a tow truck would be there in 40 minutes. I told her that if the truck showed up and wasn't prepared to tow a motorcycle, as happened last time, I would freakin' lose my mind. She assured me that wouldn't be the case - but, quite honestly, I didn't believe it. She might have believed it, but the reality is that she was merely reading a script, merely following written out steps and never told how to actually HELP someone.  

Here's a visual of what I think of my experience with Progressive Insurance Roadside Assistance.

Look, Progressive, here's how it should go: when someone calls you regarding roadside assistance for a motorcycle, you should have your representatives use a DIFFERENT script than the ones they use for cars and trucks. And you should have a procedure that works for motorcyclists. Your representatives should ask the rider, "Do you want to be taken to a safe space to fix the flat yourself or do you need to be towed to a place that can fix your tire?" Your representatives should know that car dealerships and tire shops do NOT work on motorcycles. And you should know that not everyone has a smart phone. What if we'd been calling from a regular phone or a simple cell phone? How would we know what hotels are in the area without that? How would you have confirmed where we were without that, despite our directions of where we were that you wouldn't believe? And your representatives should know how to find ATV shops and motorcycle shops - and if the nearest one is 200 miles away, so be it, but I'm going to assure you that Ruth, Nevada does NOT have one.

Anyway...  

Within 40 minutes, Battle Born Restoration sent Seth and his tow truck, and he was AMAZING. He knew exactly how to squeeze that massive truck onto the side of the road, get the dolly under Stefan's bike and get it onto his truck. He was all business - though he said he could tell some AMAZING stories about some of his rescues, and I would LOVE to hear them... We decided I would ride with Seth and direct him to a motel and Stefan would ride my bike behind us. Seth started driving and I said I really did not want to go to the Ramada, I just wanted an affordable hotel or motel downtown where we could park Stefan's bike outside the hotel room and he could work on it there. He said he would drive me to a hotel and if I liked it, great, and if not, we'd go to the next one, and keep going until we found what we needed. I almost cried - he wanted to help us!! He was listening to me!! We ended up choosing the very first hotel, the Jailhouse Motel and Casino. Seth waited for me while I ran into the office to ask if they had a room, and I told them the circumstances, and the staff freakin' could NOT have been NICER. They would have given me a beer right then and there if I'd asked for it. They were concerned only with getting us a room that met our needs. They got us a ground floor room and Seth slid Stefan's motorcycle into a parking space just a few spaces away. He was paid by Progressive, per our plan, but we tipped him anyway - he went way, way above and beyond what he had to do. He needs to do a customer service training for Progressive.... 

Here's a good photo of the nail that almost ruined our trip. Stefan got to work on the motorcycle in the parking lot and I walked to find a six pack of beer and something to munch on. I had to walk 14 blocks round trip to fulfill that mission - Ely folks drink in casinos. Once again, in the convenience store, I encountered unbelievably nice, sympathetic Nevada folks. Nevada folks on this trip were giving the South a run for the money in terms of friendliness and helpfulness, truly. AND, there were many mullets. MANY mullets.

It took 90 minutes this time for Stefan to change the tire, but Stefan was much more relaxed: our room was steps away, he could drink beer and relax and take a break when he needed and not bake in the sun. The sun set by the time I got back to the hotel and we broke out the headlamps. Just when Stefan was getting the tire back on the wheel - the hardest part of the task - and I was struggling to help, both of us kneeling and grunting on the pavement, this guy walked up out of nowhere, said, "My sons race motorcycles, I can help," and he just kneeled down and manipulated the tire exactly how Stefan needed and, POP! And we said thanks and he disappeared into the night, never to be seen again... no, seriously, he came back later to see how we were doing. Nice guy.

We retreated back to the room to eat the leftovers from lunch, eat chips and salsa I had bought, finish off the beer and talk about the day. We were exhausted. In all, we did 286 miles that day. And, remember, we had bought that new spare innertube THAT MORNING, and it was the ONLY ONE they had. I was emotionally drained and struggling not to be overwhelmed by anxiety of what happened and by what ifs. What if they HADN'T had that one last innertube? I almost cried at one point, just overwhelmed by it all. Miraculously, even with this latest flat, we still weren't behind our initial schedule - we had less than 100 miles to go to get to Great Basin National Park. We just were spending WAY much more money than we expected, on hotels. But what worried me was that we kept getting thrown these BIG challenges - what happens when we can't overcome such? The 95+ degree heat day after day wasn't helping.

I was so in awe of Stefan. He'd taken care of every crisis, and they'd been big ones. I, however, was useless. He did say my super power was dealing with people on the phone - sometimes, you need a pushy bitch to get shit done.

We woke up to a day even hotter than it had been already, if you can believe it. I was hoping that the altitude of Great Basin National Park would offer some relief once we got there.

We decided to have a big breakfast at Denny's in the historic Nevada Hotel and check out the casino so Stefan could, at least, stand in a casino. We met some motorcycle travelers in the parking lot there, a man and a woman. It was nice to know we weren't the only idiots out in the heat. We saw one or two dual sport travelers every day, so we were hardly alone. Sad to say the Denny's breakfast was mediocre. I expect better service, at least. And I couldn't finish my coffee - I felt nauseous. In fact, I was feeling a little crappy overall. I wrote it off to the heat and anxiety. We went back into the Hotel Nevada casino and Stefan gambled on a one-armed bandit. All in all, the morning had a feeling of disappointment and dread about it, and it shouldn't have - so far, everything had worked out. But I was still so anxious. I was even disappointed by the Nevada Hotel. Gambling just isn't our thing, and the lobby wasn't as... oh, I dunno... as romantic as I was hoping for. I would still like to see a room at the hotel. There is a star out on the sidewalk for each celebrity who has stayed there, and according to Wikipedia, that includes: actress Ingrid Bergman, actor Gary Cooper, U.S. President Lyndon B. Johnson, actor Ray Milland, actor Mickey Rooney, singer Tennessee Ernie Ford, Senator Harry Reid, singer Charlie Rich, author Stephen King, motorcyclist Evel Knievel, and gangster Pretty Boy Floyd.

We had only about 80 miles to cover to get to a campsite at Great Basin from Ely. We packed up and headed out. We stopped at a tire shop just to make absolutely sure they didn't have an innertube for our motorcycle - nope. The guy suggested we go to Napa and we rolled our eyes - Napa is a shop for cars, period. But we went - maybe they could order something? A super nice guy behind the counter said they did, in fact, have a couple of motorcycle innertubes, and we checked them out and, of course, they didn't fit out bikes. But he said he was happy to order such for us and that it could be there by Thursday, but it would be best that we assume they would be there by Friday. We were stunned and thrilled and agreed! We would come back to Ely on Friday, pay for and get the tube, and then head on our way! Hurrah!

And so we continued...

And now a word from my husband:

 
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