Excerpt

I backtrack a block up US-180 from the Mustang station to eat breakfast at the Bear Wallow Café, 180 Southside, Alpine, AZ. I sit at the counter and order The Usual sans ham. My feisty, out-going waitress in her mid thirties tells me that she owns a Ninja 900.

“Where are you headed?” she asks.

“For reasons I’m too embarrassed to admit, I’m somewhat behind schedule, but I wanted to get near Flagstaff before sundown,” I reply unenthusiastically.

“Have you ever ridden down US-191?”

“No,” I answer, “should I?”

“Absolutely!”

“Why?” I ask with indifference.

“Because it’s unquestionably the most beautiful and thrilling ride this side of Deal’s Gap. You know, that eleven mile stretch of US-129 in North Carolina with 318 turns?”

“Yeah, Deal’s Gap is great. I’ve had the pleasure of riding it three or four times,” I say.

“Motorcyclists come from all over the world to ride the ninety-three miles south of here.”

“Ninety-three miles! One way? You know I’m already behind schedule,” I whine. “It’s that good, is it?”

“You’ll regret passing up this opportunity. It’s a pristine road with little to no traffic. Interstates 12, 17, and 40 take the modern, hurried traveler around this area. It’s not a fast road for SUV’s and motor homes. Better still, it’s a Tuesday. You’ll be lucky if you see ten cars all day!”

The balance of nature comes to mind. Let’s see; my touring experiences have produced one fairly reliable adage: A dearth of people and their vehicles usually equate to a plethora of wild animals, some of which are quite large and stupid. Remember my notions concerning horses? Can you spell D-E-E-R?

“What about deer?” I ask.

“Glad you asked,” she answers. “You definitely want to keep your eyes peeled, especially close to the shoulders. We’ve had so little rain this year. The water runs off the crown of the blacktop to the shoulders, and within three or four feet the dry soil has soaked it all up. This area is where the sweetest and greenest grass grows and, of course, where the deer prefer to feed.”

Better advice is seldom shared.

“I’ll think about it. You’ve painted a very tempting picture. If I don’t see you again, be careful on the Ninja, and watch out for those damn deer,” I admonish.

I pay my $7.00 tab (including tip) and ride two blocks down to the US-191 junction. Should I head north for Flagstaff or hang a left and check out the Deal’s Gap of Arizona? My itinerary for the day is blown anyway. What the hell! Look out US-191, here comes the Dragon Slayer!

About ten miles south of Hannagan Meadow, I stop at an unpaved turnout on the left side, put Noeta up on her center stand, and stretch out under a huge pine tree for a short power nap. I make a little mound of pine needles to prevent scratching my Nolan helmet in the rocky soil. Napping in a helmet is quite comfortable, but not so comfortable as to allow one to sleep too long.

I awake after fifteen minutes and walk a few steps back to Noeta. I don my gloves, climb aboard, and attempt in vain to rock the 900-pound Gold Wing off its center stand. I dismount and try in vain to lift it off. It seems that the center stand has sunk through the plush layer of dried pine needles. The rear wheel touches the pine needles but doesn’t provide enough traction to power off the stand.

The words of the waitress at the Bear Wallow Café echo in my ears, “You’ll be lucky if you see ten cars all day.” Talk about two sides to every coin. I should have turned north on US-191. I should not have succumbed to promises of two-lane Nirvana. I’m going to die here in the jaws and claws of the biggest bear in the forest. Is it my imagination, or do I hear the potato-potato-potato music of a Harley’s exhaust pipe a couple of turns away to the north?

As three fellows on three bikes barrel around the right hand curve to my right, I wave frantically for them to stop and help me. I feel guilty about interrupting their ride. They slow down, make a U-turn on a short straightaway to my left, and ride up to me. I’m the first to speak.

“Hey, guys. Thank you so much for turning around. I feel terrible about interrupting your ride. I’m not broken down; I got my center stand stuck in the down position, and I just need a little push to rock my bike forward and back on two wheels. Have you got a minute?”

“No problem, Buddy,” responds the man on the Honda Shadow. “I told the guys you couldn’t possibly be having mechanical problems. It’s a Honda!” he boasts teasingly to his friend on the Harley.

The fellow on the Harley is the first to dismount and push forward on my trunk lid. As I rock Noeta back and then forward, the rear tire descends to terra firma. I am now the luckiest, happiest guy in the world.

“Thanks, guys. If it weren’t for your kindness, I might have been stuck here for days. There’s not a lot of traffic on this road today,” I holler over their loud exhausts as they start their engines.

“No problem.” “See ya around.” “Take care,” they yell back as they continue on their ride up the winding grade to the south. I linger for a while at the turn out, drink some water, munch on some trail mix, and enjoy a Marlboro. Then I drive away in a cloud of gratitude for all of the guardian angels watching over me.

I ride this wonderful road through hundreds of sharp curves and past scores of majestic mountain vistas for sixty-three miles. At this point, the road straightens for as far as I can see across a flat and hot valley, so I make a U-turn and head back to Alpine.

Upon arriving back in Alpine after a memorable romp through a section of Apache National Forest, I am now 176 miles and four hours behind schedule! Hey, what are vacations for?