I spent the day cleaning my gear, washing the bike, drinking NA beers, listening to Tom Morello, and thinking about our trip across America.
Faithful readers will note that James and I rode a similar route last year, through Oregon rather than Washington. Last year’s ride was taken up by “Strange Patriarchs”: men either talking about guns or carrying them or otherwise attempting to demonstrate their control.
Troubling. Of a piece with it all.
This year we were really only met two strange ones, both at the same gas stop in Montana. One was a guy in a military-style, olive-drab jumpsuit and sunglasses, with an oddly weighted fanny pack. He was charging his Tesla and taking the time to patrol the shops around the gas station. He carried with him some menace.
While we were keeping an eye on him, a heavyset manchild came up to talk about his neighbor’s specially swastika-decorated Harley military bikes from the late sixties, betraying a fantasy confusion about which side Harley supplied motorcycles for as well as the time-period of WWII. After shaking my hand approvingly—huh?—he climbed back into his van, and we pulled out, leaving the Tesla owner to his battery cells.
The feeling was different this year. Other than those two, everyone we met was genuinely engaging—from the bull watching us as I read McCarthy on the Sacajawea Historic Byway (I wish I got a picture of him), to the photographer on the ferry to Port Townsend, to the ferry motorcyclist who lead us through the Edmunds’ traffic to route 2 east, to the bartender/hamburger chef at the Sportsman’s Tavern in Alberton, MT. They were all willing to share some time and even a story.
It felt a lot less troubling.
Our trip had no destination. We met in Pinedale, WY, and agreed to cover about 250 miles a day. We headed northwest, with a vague sense that we should see the coast, but it was up for grabs. We got as far as the Kitsap Peninsula in Washington State, not quite the coast, but a lot of water, for sure.
At the end of the night we watched a guy on the Sundance out of Juneau, Alaska, unload barrels with a lift. He worked alone, seriously and without pause, late into the night. We assumed he was the boat’s owner and operator. His effort struck us as a statement of purpose and of pride in labor. If there was a message for our trip, that was it.
Any motorcycle ride with two guys on Harleys, with almost no luggage carries some of Easy Rider‘s legacy. Last year, I really felt that. We were outsiders, confronted by the people we met, people who we didn’t recognize or want to recognize as our own.
This year’s trip was different.
Perhaps that two bug bespattered men can ride into town and be welcomed, or at least not bring out the worst elements, perhaps that bodes well.
The ride was optimistic in its way. Still, James and I couldn’t help but notice that we had headwinds heading out west and coming back east, both.
It felt like a metaphor.
The wind got so strong in Wyoming that it knocked six miles off my mileage. I pulled into a gas station in Bar Nunn. Gas was pretty near five bucks. It cost me fifteen to fill up half a tank. I wondered what it cost the enormous pickup next to me. Or the family eating bologna sandwiches out of their van in the hot sun. Or the anxious mom scolding her daughter to stay in the truck, while she went in to pay.
It felt like an earlier time in America. I felt the Ghost of Tom Joad near.
Onwards! 
Great Adventure Wm – Wide country, and woolier North and West- Lewis and Clark on iron horses!J
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Thanks for a fascinating report. It’s encouraging that it felt more positive than last year.
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