Drinking Bud Lights at Ray’s, Green River, the best burger place between Vegas and Denver, Mr. BMW M5 from Simi Valley chatted me up. More sophisticated, younger, and handsomer, but no less self assured or apparently successful than ol’ Mr. Corvette from Twin Falls, he is probably not a Trumper, but I didn’t ask.
The Harley is in the U-Haul. I’m ready to be home and pretty much thankful for the AC and the radio.
I got out at 5:30 this morning. By the time I got to Virgin River Canyon it was between 95 and 100 degrees, a single lane of standing traffic for ten miles.
I used my new lane splitting power-up unlock to keep going at 20mph, but the heat was truly overwhelming. 40 miles down the road my proud Harley began to buck when over 80mph, then at 70, then at 60. A mile out of Cedar City she rolled to a stop on the shoulder.
I made some calls, maybe ten minutes, and she jumped to life on command, happy as ever. The Colorado Brain Trust concluded she was suffering from fuel system problems acerbated by heat. I rode to the U-Haul.
Everybody sorta said, “you could ride it another forty miles and see what happens,” but the prospects of ninety-degree weather and breaking down at six, when U-Haul is closed, or in some no-cell zone, or worrying for another 600 miles, or getting tangled up in Saint George Harley Davidson’s “Road to Sturgis” repair schedule, or not seeing my beautiful wife for another day, didn’t appeal.
So I went to Home Depot, bought some straps, and hit the road, bike in the box.
Tonight I sleep at Robber’s Roost, which definitely seems like a stage for larceny. I’m so tired, I’ll sleep through it.