Editor’s Note: There is a confluence of interesting events today- a sporting event seemingly cast larger than those of the past, Add some uncertainty about the hemispheric air defense system and this morning has a distinct flush of energy. It is appropriate to channel some of it through Marlow’s view of the American Road.
Installment #11
– Vic
After my bike wouldn’t start again, I parked it with the primary drive facing the sun to warm up the engine oil and see if the ensuing reduced resistance would allow the engine to turn over. We left to search for and successfully find in east Flagstaff our breakfast diner place:
Good and plentiful food, friendly service, cheap eats. What was remarkable was the side to a $2.95 plate of eggs and toast that came — an approximate 1.5 to 2 pound serving of hash browns made out of mashed taters. Flagstaff was now firmly in the lead as this trip’s bargain.
Rolling out of our newly designated breakfast command center, we returned to the WWM to discover the Fatboy underwent a change of heart and now started with some minor resistance. This occurred only after I had threatened and then called the local Harley store to haul it in shame for a premature oil change and electrical check. Perhaps it was the cold early AM weather (28 degrees F) or the altitude or the early stages of high plains allergies. Who knew? Pre-Detour, its battery and electrics checked out A-OK.
The dealership’s tow-bed truck showed up as the bike sputtered to life on its 10th try. Followed him back to the shop. What a stealership! 10 miles west of Flagstaff. Prices on used and new bikes ranged between $4-6K over MSRP with extra chrome with many models just bone stock in the performance area. Service department was great. As electrics checked out 4.0; so, nothing could be done. I was happy they didn’t throw their parts and my money at an unknown problem. My oil change was cheaper than Steve’s, which he had done at the nearby Honda dealership while I waited for the mechs to pressure wash a lot of serious road crud off the bike for free.
Since our new Flagstaff buds said things up north in Monument Valley and the Grand Canyon would warm up later in the week, we rode south into the lower altitudes and warmer climes of Sedona-Verde Valley-Jerome-Prescott along AZ route 84 Alt.
Whoa . . .
Sedona had some major league red rock geological things happening. Lunch at Rosebuds sitting next to wall-to-wall 12×12 foot plate glass windows and achieved a nice state of mellow coming from the shifting colors and hues of the rock faces (red rock TV perhaps). Could have stayed there all day as they had several fine red wines from Napa, but the road called.
Before the mountain climb to Jerome, we passed through Cottonwood, u-turned and retraced our steps to help a fellow rider in seeming distress — a 68-year-old recent transplant from Massachusetts. Got conked real good in his novelty helmet by some road debris, loved his new yellow, 650 cc single cylinder thumper bike, and got it cheap from someone who was “scared of its power.” Cleaned him up, checked his reflexes, and we were on our separate ways.
The climb up to Jerome was through a great set of switchbacks and off camber turns, climbing over 4400 feet over 8-10 road miles. It’s an old mining town with a commanding view of the Verde Valley and Sedona in the distance. The venerable Hotel Jerome sat even with the mountain’s pinnacle.
On to Prescott. Had planned to superslab it from there back home. Decided to repeat the drive back north:
Roadtrip Tip #5: Knowingly break your own non-safety rules when your fun meter can be pegged. Repeating great riding roads is A-OK.
Before we turned around to head back to Flagstaff, we zig zagged hard to avoid a large cardboard box flying off a flatbed truck that was followed by series of spinning metal plates airlifted off in our general direction.
Lesson (Re)Learned #5. Don’t follow trucks even in slow traffic moving cities too close with gear adrift or uncaged animals. Give ‘em space or pass ‘em.
We decided to stay one more night at the WWM. We chose a Hitchcock nickname for it — the Bates Motel. Our plump middle-aged proprietress, Rita, remained shoeless for our entire stay. Our room’s décor showed signs of being forcible entered by battering ram wielding police, the ceiling around the a/c unit was crumbling, and no lightbulbs among the four generously supplied was over 40 watts.
Steve’s wife called daily to be greeted by Rita:
“Whispering Winds Hotel. Waddya want? (gruffness intentional)
Room phones had no voicemail, so she’d relay to our callers if we were there by looking out the office window to see if our bikes were there. Often, we were not, so they were instructed to call back later. CLICK.
We did, however, have a fresh new paper bathmat provided daily.
Did our first load of trip laundry at the most well decorated laundromat I’ve ever seen before or since. Lots of frontier tools, farm implements, flags, vintage maps, Arizona political memorabilia, folk art — all “bolted” to the walls. We were the only non-ESL clients that evening. We crashed afterwards without eating dinner.
Day 8 miscellany and counts:
Daily Windshield Bug Smash Bingo Game winners: Yellow in a walkover — butterflies.
Query count as of the end of Day 8:
Where’re you going? – 9
What’s that? (Steve’s Valkyrie) – 3
Damsels in distress? – 5
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