Just looking for a sofa...

[ridin gaijin]

Hello all, this is a ride report mostly about my trip from Santa Fe to Phoenix to look at a sofa I wasn't going to buy. I didn't take any pictures. Instead, I'm linking to ones that are much better than I could've taken. If you like, feel free to imagine a Tiger in some of them!



OK, the trip starts with a Tiger, a normally colored one. I left at about 9 in the morning. It was clear and very cold. Regrettably, I had to take the Interstate to get where I was going; I-25 to I-40, then west. After escaping Albuquerque I headed southwest through the El Malpais National Monument. Clumps of dusty gold cottonwoods  dotted rolling plains, which in turn gave way to stately mesas, and the Malpais featured some pretty riding on twisty, not well-kept-up roads. These big formations guard your left as you head south, while over your right shoulder stands of cottonwoods show where water collects on the flatter terrain to the west.



Outside Trechado I opted for NM 603 to Pie Town. 603 is a dirt road, a post-apocalyptic mess of a road that was once paved in areas but is now broken up, bashed up and washed out by gravel and sand. It was fun...and it was for a good reason. Previously I had been denied pie in Pie Town, New Mexico, by arriving a few minutes after all two restaurants closed. Not again. Not again! I arrived in time for lunch at The Daily Pie.



As I pulled up on the now-filthy Tiger, I couldn't help but notice four or so immaculate Harley FT FCKRS  parked outside. Sure enough, inside a bunch of Village People were eating lunch. However dumb they looked, it must be said that at the moment they undoubtedly smelled much better than I. I had a slice of cherry pie with ice cream. It was very good--! The cherries small, dark and tart; the crust crumbly yet full of body. Ahh...pie. Thus refreshed I crossed Rt 60 at Quemado and headed south into the Gallo Mountains. The Tiger pulls 45+ mpg when ridden over 70 mph, and 50+ mpg when kept under 65 or so, and with a 6.5 gallon tank it goes farther than I can before needing a break.



Pleasant mountain riding brought me to Luna, on the Arizona border, in densely forested hunting country. Homes had signs outside advertising ELK PROCESSING in big letters. I gassed up in Luna--for the second time, recently, encountering a gas pump so old-fashioned it didn't register prices past $3 per gallon. The station owners would set it to $1.55 or whatever and just charge double. The first time I came upon this was in rural Arkansas a couple of weeks ago.



When crossing the New Mexican border into another state, the roads usually improve, and 260 west to Hon Dah was a lovely, clean, scenic stretch of blacktop. At Hon Dah--ostensibly a Navajo name, but in fact I suspect Orcish--I turned south-ish to Fort Apache and eventually the Salt River Canyon. This stunning piece of scenery is a blast to ride, with many winding corners, steep curves, and even some thoughtfully provided passing lanes so you can just ease by all those laboring SUVs. Riding well is a constant challenge to explore and then stay within your limits and Salt River gives you plenty of chances to do just that--while forcing yourself to ignore much of the splendid scenery whizzing past!



Aaaand right about there I discovered one of the more boneheaded things I've done in a long time. I'm hot, I thought, I want to take off my thermals. So I pulled over to give the motorists a little show...and realized I had left my luggage keys at home. Since my 'pack-light' mantra precludes anything strapped to the machine, all I had access to was what was in my tank bag. So much for camping somewhere between Globe and Florence...so much for camping enywhere. New destination would become Phoenix Motorsports, where I hoped to easily replace such a...well, easily replaceable item...as luggage keys. Stay in Globe! Right? Wrong! The rodeo's in town, and bad motel rooms are upwards of $200 per night. Same for Miami...so it's on to Apache Junction, an eastward-reaching tentacle of the behemoth that is Phoenix. I stayed in a motel that was so bad the guest rooms had to share a party line. My room featured a disassembled stove and some plastic patio furniture.



Early the next morning with time to kill before the Triumph boys opened up, I went to the only place in Phoenix I like, the Desert Botanical Garden. It's incredibly peaceful early in the morning; it looks sounds and smells wonderful. Going early is very good...especially if you are wearing yesterday's thermals because you've no place to stow them.



At Phoenix Motorsports, I arrived prior to opening at 9:30 but was excellently treated regardless. Dan and Danny in Parts and Service quickly established that despite their cheapish appearace, those locks on the hard cases are not easily replaced, and even the key code wouldn't result in a new set. Rather than replacing the barrels with all new locks--ew--we called a locksmith. He spent 10 minutes trying to pick the locks before deciding to just make a new key. Who knew those locks were so robust? A T-shirt later I was out the door and off to Ikea.



Ikea! Vision of Swedish wholesomeness, of happy blond families, of primary colors and easily constructed knock-together furniture. Ikea! A leather sofa that would be easy to clean up and loook halfway decent. The 1950s chic Kramfors; the comfy Borgholm; the oh-so-appealing Ektorp. There was no chance of purchase; the shipping to Santa Fe would've been insane.



And yet I ask you: do we really need a 'sensible reason' to go on a 2,000 mile motorcycle tour? Do we? I certainly hope not.



Anyway, they have Swedish meatballs. By this point of the trip I was in my 'one meal a day' mode, so at the cafeteria I ordered up a mess of meatballs, a big side of steamed veggies, a plate of salmon and a nice wedge of Swedish apple cake. I ate slowly, looking at these pretty photos on the walls...those Swedish people looked so happy...if only I were Swedish... {sigh}



The thing about Phoenix is, you just can't get away from it fast enough. I mean literally. It took forever to escape the sweltering, swarming hive and backtrack--which I hate doing--back out past Globe. I camped out that night on the San Carlos Lake, evidently the largest body of water in Arizona and simply teeming with fish. Apparantly a catfish weighing three quarters of a ton was caught there in 1953. Or something like that. Anyway, the lake's on the San Carlos Apache Rez, and those are some of the friendliest people I met the whole trip.



The dam itself is some 70 years old and looks it, but it's cool because you can walk around all over the top of it and stare down at the water. (No, I don't know who the person in the picture is; I told you I didn't take these.) The other side features a high drop and two spillways, one on either side, that look never to have been used. After a ride along the south side of the lake, winding up and down and in and out of canyons, I chose a dirt path at random and bounced along it till I reached the water.



The night was cold and I had noisy neighbors. Coyotes woke me up often with their weird yips and squeals and each time I had a hard time falling back asleep. During these interludes I counted seven shooting stars as I watched the moon's slow ascent and the stars' timeless rotation. Herons whonked, fish splashed. Some 39 hours later, dawn finally arrived.



Luckily I had a new friend. Next morning, this little guy could not stop checking me out. He perched on the Tiger, he perched on my helmet. When I hung my sleeping bag to air out on a bush, he went and hopped all over it. When I went to roll it up, he zipped back to the Tiger and even hopped inside one of the hard cases. Intensely cute.



I bumped and rattled my way along the rest of the lake. One of the Apaches last night had told me this was the old Rt. 70, before they put in the more convenient, better maintained, and altogether less interesting new one to the north. On this road in parts only the centerline was undecayed enough to ride smoothly. I hooked up with the new 70 and rode down to Safford.



The Gila valley grows a lot of cotton. Muted red and green bushes, punctuated by profuse puffy white cotton bolls, stood in orderly rows on both sides of the road. Several times I saw harvested cotton ready to be shipped (by train I guess). It sat in enormous bricks, snow white, about 18' long by 6' wide by 6' tall. I wanted to go and poke one to see if it was soft or all compressed. A few minutes on I-10 (yuck) took me to Bowie, where I got onto the dirt road to the Ft. Bowie historic site--location of various battles, wagon train ambushes, and massacres in the wars with the Apaches. I didn't go see it--you have to walk a mile and I wanted to loiter in the Chiricahuas further on down.



186 took me to the Monument and that is still one of my favorite places on on earth. I spent about 2 hours riding and walking, then hit the road again. I wanted to stop for gas in Sunizona but there were problems--cops and border patrol had 191 north blocked. "There's been some fatilities up there," one said. "Chopper's landed in the road. If you go up there you'll be cited." Eventually I whined enough so that he let me go the half block to the gas station. Jeez. I saw a lot of Border Patrol guys from that point on.



Douglas, AZ is a sleepy border town with not a lot going on. I had a big lunch (only meal, remember) and headed across the border, though with some trepidation. I wanted more tequila and some Dia de los Muertos stuff, but before any of that could happen I needed a safe place to park the bike. There weren't any lots on this side of the border and as I cris-crossed Agua Prieta I saw there weren't any there either. (Please note, previous picture is totally unrepresentative...no trash everywhere nor mobs of people either.) Oh well...I never did see any place I would've left the Tiger for even a few minutes, and I never did get off the bike. Back across and then north on 80, once back in NM, hop over on 9 through Animas and Cotton City to avoid just a few extra miles on I-10. Cotton City, by the way, is about 2 dozen buildings and nary a cotton plant in sight. I did see plenty of pretty red chiles, though, bright red and ripe on their trim little dark green bushes.



At this point I realized I was too far away from any campgrounds to arrive before dark, so a motel it was. Lordsburg, NM features one stoplight and 13 motels. Mine advertised a swimming pool which on inspection proved to be crammed with decaying mattresses and busted-up motel furniture...nice. The night was uneventful; the morning cold.



I rode up to Silver City, where right away three motorists in a row tried to kill me. Great to be back in New Mexico...! The first failed to yield at a Yield sign, the second failed to stop at a Stop sign, and the third just all of a sudden decided he'd rather be in my lane than his. The rider's only defenses are alertness, agility, and patience: the only way we win is if we come home intact, and there are multiple ways to lose. From Silver City I zigged southeast to Deming along an allegedly scenic route. I don't know what drug-addled staffer at Rand McNally makes up these things; likely it's a task given to some intern. For the record, Rt. 180 between Silver City and Deming is NOT scenic. It's flat and straight with some mountains in the distance and signs reading Dust Storms and Zero Visibility Possible.



From Deming I had intended going up to Hatch and then down again along 185 to Las Cruces, because I like 185. It's a pleasant drive with chile fields and hundreds of acres of orderly pecan orchards on either side. But I was too cold. The sky was completely overcast--so much so that I decided to screw it and just take I-10 again. It was so cloudly you couldn't see the mountains of Mordor which normally loom over NM's second biggest city. (Okay, so it's not Mordor, it's the Organ Mountains. Good name. "Look at the Organs!" "The Organs look majestic today, don't you think?" "Yeah, look at the size of those Organs.") A big barbeque lunch in Las Cruces--and a steaming hot cup of coffee, which I don't normally drink--and up 70 to the White Sands National Monument.



This is a cozy little corner tucked into the White Sands Missile Range. If you grew up somewhere near sand, like on a coast, you will be thinking (as I was), "It's sand, and it's white. Big deal." The approach is unimpressive, featuring dirt that goes from brownish to yellowish to whitish; scrubby desert plants; humvees; and border patrol guys staring at you. Then you get into the park, where they have a dumpy little visitor center and a gift shop best described as 'relatively adequate.' You proceed down a road (more yellowish-whitish dirt), pay your $3 and enter the park. Then you start seeing white sand dunes. Then you start seeing more. Then you see a sign that reads PAVEMENT ENDS and suddenly everything around you is utterly, purely white.



Plants poke out from dunes looming over your head. The road is made of packed white sand plowed like snow. (Most of the time I was there my brain was yelling, "It's snow, you idiot, slow down! Something will happen!") You can climb up a dune and if you're deep enough into the park, all you'll see is brilliant white gypsum dunes, and hazy faraway blue mountains, under the great vault of the blue sky. It's utterly unearthly.



The whole time I was there--in the middle of an Air Force missile range--I didn't see or hear a single explosion. I mean, come on! The chimp has mortgaged our future (and our kids') by spending billions of dollars nobody has and a regular citizen can't even see an explosion or two? On a missile range, for god's sake? Come on!



The road home to Santa Fe wound up through a dozen little villages, eventually climbing through gold-colored mountains and late afternoon sunlight. A man was walking his puppy by the side of the road. It was small, round, fluffy and white, except for two black spots over its eyes and a big black patch on the back. It looked like a little tiny round panda. I got home, with an extra 2,000 miles on the odometer, before sunset and the accompanying 7,000 foot chill set in.



I didn't get the sofa. But that's no reason to go on a trip like that anyway.

[Patrick the Scot]

Awesome report!



I really think you  are aiming for a Pulitzer Prize for the Most Original and Quirky Ride Report. Your writing style reminds me of Stienbeck's Cannery Row. I enjoyed reading your report very much.  



Also, I relate to the time and place as we just got back from the upper Pecos River valley, north of Cowles, New Mexico.  The colors were stunning and the fall weather was perfect.



A matter of housekeeping here.  You wrote:  "Several times I saw harvested cotton ready to be shipped (by train I guess). It sat in enormous bricks, snow white, about 18' long by 6' wide by 6' tall. I wanted to go and poke one to see if it was soft or all compressed."  The enormous bricks are called cotton modules  and are quite dense. http://www.cotton.org/edu/faq/index.cfm

http://agnews.tamu.edu/dailynews/storie ... y2102a.htm  If you were to punch one with your fist you very well might break a bone or two. The modules are transported from the field to the gin via a module mover truck. http://www.moduletruck.com/what.htm

[tallman]

Your report mentioned some of my favorite places in NM. The pie in Pie Town just tastes better for being so far from a supermarket.



I used to ride from Lubbock (worked at Reese AFB, attended TT) into NM on long weekends--usually towards Carlsbad caverns or to Taos just to have some place where the ground went up and down and the road curved naturally (in my most pathetic moments I used to ride the on and off ramps on the Lubbock Loop just to feel the bike lean at speed).



When my wife and I move to Albuquerque in two years, we should meet at the Triumph dealership to take some of the backroads. I will need to escape ABQ frequently--would welcome advice on the best twisties nearby.



What do you think of the asphalt road up the back of Sandia Peak?