DAY SIX - Wednesday, October 29, 2008
One of the reasons I chose the motel I did the night before is because it had a hot tub available. Marc was kind enough to tell his brother that it would be ok for him to unlock the door for me earlier than normal (4am in lieu of 9am). I've always been a morning person/ early riser, so getting my day started this early is not unusual for me. Plus… since I had learned that it took me almost two hours to make my LSB post each morning, and I wanted to be on the road at sunrise as often as possible… this would be my typical rise and shine time, while on the road.
Flagstaff is just over 7,000 feet in elevation, and although the afternoon temperature was forecasted to be warmer than average for this time of year, it was after all… almost November. The forecast was for a high of 72 if I recall correctly, but what I'm sure I remember correctly is that it was supposed to be the warmest day on record. That's the good news. The bad news was that it was about 35 degrees when I got on Honey and started the next leg of my adventure as the sun breached the horizon.
The first part of that day's ride was on a major freeway, and with the big semi trucks and I just about the only ones on the road, it was kind of a culture shock for me, after yesterday's peaceful and quiet ride. Not a problem, I was only gonna be on the 4-laner for about 50 miles before getting off at Holbrook, and going south on hwy 77 towards a town with the cute little name of Snowflake.
I'm glad the humidity was low that morning, because the wind chill would've been much worse than it was. I estimate (from past experience/ knowledge) that at 80mph, the 35-degree air felt like about 10. I was wearing seven layers on my upper body (sleeveless t-shirt, short sleeve t-shirt, long sleeve shirt, sweater, lightweight jacket, and leather jacket w/ liner)… and 5 layers on my lower body (long johns, cotton socks, wool socks, levis and chaps).
Plus, I had under gloves and heavy gloves on my hands… and a scarf around my face. Wow, counting my boots, that's 16 items of clothing. I smiled a frozen smile to myself, when I thought how appropriate the name of the upcoming town was.
When I made my first stop of the day, I went to grab the leftover pork chop out of the ice chest that I'd saved from the last dinner I had with my girls in the GPA, and found that I had forgotten to zip up the bottom of the tail bag where the chest was, after having my morning beer before hitting the road. The chest had slipped about 1/3 of the way out of its compartment. Whew… that was a close one… there were a couple cans of beer still in there.
By the time I went thru Snowflake… got to Show Low… and turned east on hwy 60, it was about 11am and I had dropped about 3,000 feet in elevation. My body had finally thawed, but when I got off the bike for my stretch and cigarette, I noticed how warm it really was. It must've been close to 80 degrees! At least it felt that way after being frozen to the bone for the first couple hours that morning.
I went into the MMGS (that stands for mini mart gas station, remember that, you'll see it again… and again) to use their restroom to change my clothes. It was about the size of a closet… a very small closet. Not nearly enough leg and elbow room for me to remove all the layers I needed to take off, to get to my long underwear. There was no choice… I was gonna hafta to do a strip tease outside in the parking lot.
Fortunately, as I have said and as you are likely beginning to understand… I am not shy. I causally and as nonchalantly as possible… removed every single piece of clothing from my body except my underwear, cotton socks, and sunglasses. It felt great. I guess I have to admit that I'm a little on the other side of not shy.
Two of the phrases I use to describe me, are; 'look at me, look at me', and; 'I like to hide in plain sight'. The only bad thing about exposing myself in public was that I didn't see one person notice me while I was doing it. Rats. All that time working out in the gym was going for naught.
I thought about having another cigarette and loitering there for a while, but thought better of it. It would be perfectly acceptable behavior in Santa Cruz… the surfers do it all the time… but I wasn't sure what the proper protocol was, here in the middle of the high desert in eastern Arizona, and it would've put me behind schedule if I had been detained or perhaps arrested.
When I got to Springerville, I looked down at my road map on my 'tank bag' between my legs. The next town was 49 miles away, and according to my calcs Honey had about 60 miles left in her gullet. Common sense said to stop and tank up, so… I did the opposite.
I think I was still feelin' my oats from my exhibition back in Show Low. Or maybe it was just the boredom of the solitude of my ride, and I was looking for some (other type of) excitement. Either way, I felt my heart speed up a little and the blood rush to several parts of my body as I went thru town… without stopping for gas like I should have.
'Simple things for simple people'… that's one of the multitude of one-liners my mom used to say. I love you Mom.
… I need to say something about my mom…
Shortly after she died, I had a waking dream about her:
She was standing in line at Saint Peter's Gates, waiting to be 'interviewed' for acceptance into Heaven, and after patiently waiting for only a few minutes, two angels came up from around her side… took her by her arms… and said, "Hello Celia, welcome to Heaven. You don't have to go thru the interview process, you're already pre-approved… in fact we've been waiting for you, and we have your place already prepared for you."
My Mom kinda pulled back a little, and said, "Wait a minute, I'm not special, I should have to go through the normal process like everyone else." The angels simply smiled a loving smile at her, and said, "Celia, you ARE special, now please come with us, it's ok."
Mom let out a sigh of resolution, and allowed the angels to take her into Heaven thru a side entrance. When the three of them approached the place that had been prepared for her, Mom stopped dead in her tracks (sorry, I couldn't resist making a pun). She couldn't believe what she saw. It was a throne… HER throne.
As Mom's eyes welled in disbelief, the angels told her that it was her turn to take the seat next to God. Her predecessor had reached the end of her reign, and had been waiting for Mom to take her place.
Not only did my mother not have to go thru the qualifying process to get into Heaven, she had instantly been given the rank of 'Queen Of All Angels'. For those of you lucky enough to have met Celia Moreno Opdyke, you won't have any problem accepting my waking dream as a distinct probability.
For those unfortunates of you reading this, who didn't have the opportunity to meet her, you will simply have to take our word for it. My mother truly was, one of the most enlightened human beings ever placed on this planet called Earth. Yes, she was indeed a very special person.
Celia Moreno Opdyke - July 7, 1919 ~ June 5, 2002
Jasper Jackson (Jack) Opdyke was the middle of three children, and was born in 1915 in Trail, Oregon… a small cow town on the Rouge River, in the southwestern part of the State. My sister Jackie has a different version of our family tree, but I like mine better. I'm pretty sure hers is the correct one, because I heard mine from my dad, and he was a self-admitted embellisher of stories. My Dad's version goes like this. His grandfather… who was born in Holland, had 13 children with the same woman, and then at the age of 50, decided to leave them all, and sail to America. When he got here, he settled in Trail… married a 13-year old girl, and had 13 more children, one of which was Paul, my grandfather. The 'story' ends with my great grandfather finally dying at the age of 96, when he fell off the horse he was riding and hit his head on a rock. I added my own epilogue… I say that my great grandfather's wife cried huge tears when he died, because she was so happy she didn't have to have any more children.
When my Dad died, the waking dream I had of his arrival at Heaven's Gates goes like this:
As he was waiting in line for his interview, he couldn't help but notice that the gates were sagging just a little bit. It's no wonder he thought to himself… they were after all, very… very old. Fortunately he had brought some of his hand tools, and a small amount of misc. materials with him, so instead of waiting in line, and without asking anyone for permission, he boldly went up and adjusted and repaired the gates so they were in a condition as good as new. Pretty funny huh? Dad wasn't quite as enlightened as my Mom, but he was certainly in the front row of his graduating class.
Jasper Jackson (Jack) Opdyke - September 21, 1915 ~ August 22, 2004
Back to the story (leaving Springerville and being excited about the distance to the next gas station vs. the amount of fuel Honey had in her tank):
With only about 12 miles left before Honey ran dry, I came to Quemado, yet another town consisting of a saloon and a MMGS. I remember laughing at myself for the way I felt when I pulled up to the gas pump. That phrase, 'simple things for simple people' certainly applied. I was feeling a nose raising, chest pounding, arms up in the air, machismo driven pride… that I had won the gamble I took. Pretty silly.
After I filled Honey to the brim, and noted that she had swallowed 4.569 (out of a maximum of 4.7) gallons of go-go juice, I knew exactly how many miles per gallon she was getting, which is the only way to keep track of how much juice she has in her tummy at any given time. There is not a gauge on this style of bike, only a 'reserve' valve to turn, when the tank gets down to (about) one gallon remaining.
I call myself an idiot savant. For several reasons, one of which is my ability to remember obscure and unimportant numbers (as well as important ones too, most of the time). That's how I can honestly tell you how much fuel it took to fill Honey's tank. The truth is, the complete version of one of many phrases I use to describe myself is, 'I am an idiot savant'… 'heavy on the idiot.' I have no idea in the world why I would remember that number (4.569), other than that I am an idiot.
One of my other useless 'savant' abilities is to somehow know what musical note I am hearing. I can't do it all the time, especially when I'm trying to show off. But some-times, when I hear a train whistle in the distance, or a wind chime… something like that… I 'feel' the tone in my body, and can put the correct corresponding designation on it. I remember the first time I realized I had this ability. It was in the garage of Tom Roberts' house, the rocket scientist who purchased my grandfather's home in La Selva Beach.
My grandfather moved to La Selva in 1936 and built his home at the end of Playa Blvd, the 'main drag' in town, just above the road that leads down thru the private gate to the beach. I remember my Dad telling me 'Papa' (as he was called by everyone) bought 50 of the empty home sites in town for $50 each. I don’t know if Dad embellished this story or not, but even if it was ten times that much, it's still pretty amazing, because I can honestly tell you that there are very few empty lots remaining in LSB, and that a fair market value (even after the recent 'crash'), is around $250,000.
At the $50 price in 1935, that's an increase of five thousand percent in 70 years, or just over 70% per year. I actually owned the last home Papa built before he died, directly next door to his. My heart still aches when I think about having to sell it, when Ann and I divorced. I reconcile myself by remembering that I sacrificed the house to maintain my sanity (no offense Ann).
When I call Tom a rocket scientist I am not using the term only in a descriptive way. He literally was a rocket scientist for many years. He helped design the guidance systems for many of the rockets built and used by the US Government. Tom is the perfect example of the phrase, 'there's a fine line between genius and insanity.'
I use that phrase for myself sometimes, but it fits Tom much more accurately. He's a handyman now, and I've been told his projects take an inordinate amount of time, but that when he's done, the tolerance and the quality of his workmanship is that of a Swiss watch… or perhaps a patriot missile. Tom and I get along great, so I'm sure he'll take my description of him, in a good-natured way. He's kind of an idiot savant too, but not as heavy on the idiot as my self.
Anyway (boy, I really do bounce around a lot, huh), back in Tom's garage… I remember walking past it one day, and hearing some strange noises coming out of it. I walked up and saw his son Andy holding his guitar and picking single notes on it, as Tom was 'picking' a metal strap holding up one of the garage door tracks, or a pipe of some sort, I don't recall which.
I asked them what (in the hell) they were doing, and Tom said they were trying to figure out what note the strap was making. I remember not asking them why they were trying to figure it out, and I remember why I didn't ask. I didn't want to know.
And all of you reading this nonsense are glad right now, aren't you? At least you were warned at the beginning of this story that my bike ride was only gonna be a starting point to this story… mostly… 'it's all about me.' It's my story, and I can write about anything I want to.
Before either of them said anything about what note they were 'zeroing in on', I blurted out as a joke, "That's an F sharp." Andy dropped his guitar to his side and let his jaw drop. Tom looked confused (which is a typical expression for him). Then Andy says, "That is exactly correct."
At the time, I shrugged it off as sheer luck, but there have been several other occasions when I have been able to do the same thing. Like I said, only when I'm not trying to show off. Doggone it anyway, why can't I figure out how to make it work for money?
I'm gonna give Tom a copy of this story, so let me just (finally?) finish this thought with a truthful statement about him. Tom is one of the nicest, most generous, friendly, helpful, etc. people I've ever known. I think very highly of him, and almost all of what I've said about him on this page is only meant as a 'good natured jab'.
Tom, I hope you're smiling. If not, you're welcome to put something about me in the 'Beachcomber' or the 'Sentinel' or something like that. I'm sure you won't have to try too hard to come up with something embarrassing to say about me.
After gassing up Honey (yes we're… back to the story… in Quemado), I pulled her to the side of the entrance to the MMGS, and discreetly opened a can of you know what and grabbed the last remaining piece of the pork chop I'd been carrying with me since leaving the GPA two days ago. It was pretty much like jerky by then, but perfect for my needs. I can't eat big meals during the day when I want to stay fully awake and alert. Maybe it's the Mexican part of me, but when my stomach is full, all I want to do is take a siesta.
While sipping my beverage of choice (I sure wish I'd bought stock in Budweiser when I was a kid), finishing my pork jerky, and having a bad habit (that's what I call it when I smoke a cigarette), I counted 3… that's three, New Mexico State Troupers pull in, then out of the parking lot. It was around noontime, and I figured this was their afternoon donut stop. I got back on the road as the last one walked past me and went in the store.
I had kept track of when the other two had left, and which direction they left in, 'cuz even on the back roads, my typical cruising speed is around 80mph. It wasn't that I was worried about it… most of the other vehicles I had seen so far, since getting off the main freeway had been traveling at about the same speed and didn't bother to slow down, even when we could see the troupers coming towards us, or parked on the side of the road… I just keep track of that sort of thing, that's all… I'm an idiot.
The basic speed law obviously worked in full force out here in the middle of this rocky desert. For those of you not familiar with the law, it goes like this… 'unless marked otherwise, it is legal to drive at any speed that would be considered safe under the conditions at the time.'
It's not that I was trying to have another 'polite conversation' with a law enforcement officer… I'd learned my lesson about questioning their judgment already… it's just that Honey actually likes going 80mph. Her body doesn't vibrate as much as it does at other speeds. Plus, at that speed there is less of a chance of me becoming complacent, and loosing focus while traveling mile after mile after mile down roads that were often straight lines as far as the eye could see.
Just as I was reaching the point of being ready for another stop and stretch break, typically at about 60~80 miles, I was passing a bunch of HUGE satellite dishes. There must've been 50 of 'em, scattered across the desert. This situation happens for me consistently along the road, during my adventure rides… coming to a scenic outlook or something else of interest, at the same time I am ready to stop anyway.
I call it car karma when I'm riding in a four-legged animal, but I haven't come up with a phrase for it while on a bike. Let's see… how 'bout, cycle karma? No, that doesn't work. Nothing comes to me, so I'll use lady luck, 'cuz most riders think of their bikes as girls. I certainly do. Have I told you lately how much I love Honey?
I pulled over at the information sign that lady luck had provided for me, and walked over to read about these massive dishes out in the middle of nowhere. I learned they're called The VLA, or Very Large Array, and this is the biggest one of their kind in the world. They're used to collect radio waves from outer space, and they're lined up like spokes in a wheel, going out in three directions from a mid point only 4 miles away, according to the sign.
The road to get there looked like it was going to be about a 10-mile sidetrack each way, but I decided to allow my curiosity to take precedence over my schedule. What schedule? I didn't have no stinking schedule.
I like guessing, so I wrote in my journal, that I was going to loose the next day, the following information (I can document these facts, because fortunately I had included them in my LSB Site post the following morning). My guesses where:
1. Nine dishes going out from the midpoint.
2. One mile between each disc, for a total 'spoke' length of nine miles.
3. Each dish was about 100 feet tall, and…
4. About 60 feet in diameter.
There was no one else at the visitors' center and Lotar the 'docent', was just getting ready to lock the door. The overly dramatic frown of disappointment I put on my face did the trick… he smiled at me, and said he'd give me 10 or 15 minutes to look around inside. I thanked him profusely and went inside to find out more about this incredible technological wonder. I learned and saw examples of what this creation of man could do. I highly recommend googling 'VLA'… the pictures alone of what this thing has taken are worth the time and effort. I know you're all chomping on the bit' about how I did on my guesses, so… here ya go:
I was right on the money about how many dishes in each direction there were.
I was right on the money about the distance between each disc, and therefore the total distance of each of the spokes.
I was pretty dang close to nailing the height, the correct number is 94, but that means I was only off by 6%.
DAMN, I'm good =).
I was way off on the diameter however (sorry, I'm not perfect after all). They're not 60 feet across, I was off by 27%. They're 82 feet in diameter.
I also learned each one of them weighs a staggering 235 tons. That's 470,000 pounds. Nope, these dishes were not designed for roof top installations.
When I got back on Highway 60 and turned eastward again, I knew I wasn't gonna make it to Austin that day, as I had as a goal when I hit the dusty trail that morning. No sweat… I had 'nothing to do and all day to do it.' That was one of my mantras I use while I'm on my adventure rides. I also use it when I go golfing. It helps me relax. I have a tendency to get wound up, as those of you who know me are aware.
Great news! I just noticed in the print out I made from my LSB Site posts that I can now give you some mileage updates. Woo hoo!... are you as excited as me? When I chose the hotel to spend the night at in Carrizozo, and checked into my room… my faithful iron horse had 1,752 miles under her hooves. When I had left Aptos, I had guesstimated around 3,500 miles as my round trip total. Now my estimate was closer to 5,000. Whew, that's almost a coast-to-coast-to-coast trip across the Nation! The route I was choosing certainly was a zig zaggidy one!
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