Last night, having crushed a 500 mi storm-dodging day, we were feeling on top of our return trip. Until we viewed an updated forecast. What was originally a 30% chance of rain had morphed into multiple-day scattered thunderstorm prediction. We were prepped for whatever the day would bring, but it wasn't looking favorable.
We were startled into an abrupt awakening by a thunder crash that shook our entire room. After a few seconds of sobering silence, I rolled over and said to Snake (whose bed was closest to the window), "no rain yet though, right?" Less than ten seconds later: deluge. The hardest downpour to date. As quickly as it came, it left, and within 15 minutes, the sun was evaporating the precipitous damage.
The first 120 miles of our cruise were ideal. Not too cool, partly sunny, low wind. It brought back the facile bliss of the Cruise - the open road ahead, America the Beautiful in all directions, and no one to answer to but one's own mind. "Born to be Wild" popped into my head, conjuring recollections of Easy Rider and the delighted envy of witnessing the Cruise on film, and wishing that someday I too, could Cruise. There we were - looking for adventure, and whatever comes our way.
130 miles in, what came our way was the all-too-familiar ominous blackness on the horizon. We were riding straight into it. Lightning soon emerged with the greatest frequency so far. We pulled over and broke out the rain gear in preparation, ready to brace the darkness ahead.
It started as a sporadic trickle, and became progressively worse. It wasn't like the previous rains - the pelting was cold and hard. We were being pummeled with hail; lightning striking to the left and right. We couldn't see a thing, and had to pull over until the worst of it passed by. As we slowed to the next exit, a bolt struck about 5 miles to our right. We wiped off our goggles, and a few minutes later, continued to trudge on. A half hour later, the storm was behind us, and we were soaked again.
When we had a sufficient lead, we stopped at a travel stop to dry off a bit and grab a bite to eat. The rain gear we had purchased back in Minnesota was one set each of Coleman pants/jacket. One day's wear, my pants were already tearing along the seams on both legs. Hiking rain gear was not designed for motorcycles. I had given up on my rain pants and jacket yesterday (fortunately, the leather is almost entirely waterproof), and resolved to let the wind dry my jeans, socks, and shoes - my rain gear now consisted of a set of ski goggles and nylon mitten slips for my gloves. Snake's rain pants had rubbed against his exhaust pipe, and melted on a bit, but were in decent shape otherwise, so he kept them on as a good luck charm to ward off the nagging foul weather.
With a lead on the storm, we pressed onward. We crossed the border into New Mexico, reading a greeting sign with the state's motto: "Land of Enchantment." And it was indeed. This was more the painted desertscapes so celebrated by southwestern artists - scattered brush, cliffs and basins of deep maroon contrasted with the traditional desert beige. It was lovely. The SNBF railroad line chugged along parallel to us, and I was transported back to my childhood love of the old stories of the cowboys and Indians of the west. Decades later, the reality of my childhood stories was much more sobering, but the landscape was no less enchanting.
As I was drinking in the surroundings, I looked up to see Snake and a car in the adjacent lane slamming on their brakes. I followed suit. We witnessed our first tumbleweeds blowing across the highway - a larger bush accompanied by its little sibling. Further up the road, I was again startled by random pieces of unidentifiable road scraps. Snake was slowing again, but more gradually this time - he was checking something on his bike. I pulled up next to him to make sure everything was alright, and burst into laughter when I realized the scraps I had seen whizzing by were pieces of his rain pants. His good luck charm were spiraling into destruction; after the last pummeling, their disintegration was ironically appropriate.
We arrived in Albuquerque, exhausted from the third consecutive day of weaving through storms. Our motel was toward the outskirts of town, but on Historic Rt. 66; we didn't anticipate having a problem finding a place to eat around 8 pm. We wandered down the street for several blocks with only fast food chains in sight (both non-chain restaurants were closed). The dark clouds had caught up and it started raining again, so we promptly turned around and settled on the Waffle House next to the motel.
The food verified what was expected - a modicum above McDonald's. Our waitress, however, was very pleasant. We had just missed the tail end of tourist season; the thunderstorms were not uncommon this time of year; the state trivia question was "red or green?" (referring to the chili, which was the pride of New Mexico). She was succinct with her conversation, but informed us of quite a bit. We paid up, bid her goodnight, and walked back to our room. The heart of the storm was passing overhead, and there was a display of lightning like I have never seen before. Bolts off of bolts, momentarily blasting open the night sky. The forecast predicted more of the same for tomorrow. The pre-Yellowstone feeling consumed both of us again - the inescapable subservience to Nature, stifling our desire to press on. The morning would be the ultimate determinant, but it seemed near certain that we would have to eat a day.
I awoke from a poor night's sleep of vivid and bizarre dreams with bad indigestion from last night's meal. I turned one hazy morning eye toward Snake; he had been up for some time researching the current weather patterns extensively. The data was conclusive - we would stay in Albuquerque. In my present state, the verdict came as a relief, and I rolled back over for a few more hours of rest, determined to make the best of it when I awoke.
The air was a bit chilly, but the sun was shining. We were trying not to doubt our decision, but it was hard to believe looking at the sky that anything threatening was on the horizon for the day. But we had adhered to the law of the gut, the Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance golden rule reiterated by my father - my most heroic of road warriors. Reminding ourselves of this, our confidence was victorious over doubt. We stood resolutely by our decision and accepted the present situation with grace.
In the New Mexico magazine perched on a stand in our motel room, I took notice of a column on local breweries. I have four delightful weaknesses when it comes to spending money on the road: books, cafes, vinyl records, and delicious beer. The shoestring budget I was already borrowing against was my primary regulator; lack of space ruled out altogether records and books (records would almost certainly be damaged, and I had filled up the remaining space in my saddlebag with some new reading); and the day's coffee had already been consumed. There was only one option left, rationalized by collapsing the brewery visit into the big meal for the day. We jumped on the bikes and for a cruise down Historic Rt. 66. Aside from the famous insignia working its way infrequently into business logos, the historic road was indistinct from homogeneous American state routes - chain restaurants, car dealerships, motels, gas stations, convenience stores, and the like. Pretty run-of-the-mill. Marble Brewery (given an A- by Beer Advocate, my litmus test of beer reviews) was off an unassuming industrial side street. We parked and headed in. The bar is built off the brewery; they have no kitchen, but a neighboring brewery prepares food daily. The food was par for the course, but the beer was excellent. I opted for several small samples - The Wildflower Wheat (brewed with a touch of local honey), Pumpkin Ale, and Oatmeal Stout - while Snake ordered a pint of the Amber Ale. All were delicious. We were content.
As we left, we observed the sky - partly sunny on the one side, black on the other. We high-tailed it back to the motel, and as we entered our section of town, it was evident that the storm had recently passed through. The section of street the sunlight had not yet reached was drenched. When we parked at the motel, water was gushing off of the roof near the gutters, and we noticed patches of what looked like snow. At first, Snake remarked, "must have just emptied the ice machine." We crossed the street to grab some juice at the gas station, and noticed other such patches still shadowed by signs, buildings, and dark corners. We looked at them curiously then each other, than went in for a closer inspection: thawing pellets of hail. Enough to have stuck on ground not yet frozen by the season, in 60 degree weather. We had chosen wisely.
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