black chevrolet

I yawned as I stumbled, half-awake, out of the Days Inn into the morning sunshine.  Not a cloud in the sky.  Not one. The rain last night had washed the mountain air to a painful polish.  I could see for miles, or at least felt I'd be able to once I woke up.

I dumped my bags next to the bike and worked the cords and straps mechanically, slowly reassembling the gigantic mule pack I'd torn apart in haste and impatience in the dark and wet last night.  I dropped a cord and stooped to pick it up.  

My watch said 10:30 am. It was going to be a long day, and I was getting started late.  I hate getting started late.  But I need the sleep.   Not taking breaks on a long trip piles up on you till your body commits mutiny.  I needed that extra two hours, didn't want it but took it.

I walked through the double door into the lobby.  The receptionist took my key card and asked how was my night.  Good, I said.  My nights in motels are always good.  By the time 2 am rolls around and I face the fact that if I don't pull over and go to sleep I will crash, I am far too gone to notice whether the bathroom is clean, or rather too far gone to make a fuss about it.  Yeah, my night was good.

I stride back through God's morning sunshine to the bike, plug in the key and swing a leg over.  The ignition sequence rolls through the panel like a speed racer initializing.  The speedometer and tachometer needles wave good morning and the fuel and temperature gauges come up in their central-command LCD.  Well, sort of come up.  Two bars on the fuel gauge.  Two bars out of five, standing against 180 miles.  I always get bad mileage on the freeway.  Wringing out the little half-liter engine loaded down with 220 pounds takes its toll.

I should get gas.  Should.  But I have two bars left and that ought to be more than ample to get me to the next major city.  The fuel gauge is inaccurate.  I know this.  But two big fat bars and I'm not awake yet so it's more than enough.

Pack stowed, last minute mental checks complete. I blearily trundle out of the shiny black parking lot toward the onramp.  Rain has left the pavement slick and wet and I am easy with the throttle as I approach the onramp back onto Interstate 70.  Aah, it's bright up here.

I accelerate to Highway Mode and settle into watching Colorado fly along beneath my feet.   begin to look lazily for a gas station.  I had flipped my map around last night but I was already off the chart to the east.  

An AmocoBP slips by, glistening in its rainwashed green and yellow glory.  A gas station.  I should get gas, but  I don't feel like stopping.

Minutes became miles and miles became  nearly an hour.  The sun was now past the zenith and I-70 had become a vast sweeping river of asphalt careering around rockface after rockface.  My throttle hand had sunk deeply into the power and I was flying fast, now, entranced by the beauty of it all, unable to think or move.  Big fish fell away on either hand, Cadillacs and Ford duallies and Tauruses pulling trailers, swimming lazily in the sunshine, content with their sublegal speeds.

What was that on the LCD?  SOMETHING'S MISSING. Oh yes.  I guess the the gas gauge just dropped by a bar.  One left.  Uh, that was fast.  That was only 30 miles.

I tore on through the early afternoon.  Clouds began again to dapple the sky and the asphalt river became mottled with shadow.  I had left civilization for sure, but gas stations are everywhere along an Interstate.

Only minutes later the last bar began to blink.  Ok, this is not funny.  My minds eye recalled the green and yellow sign soaring above the trees, mocking my arrogance. Oh god please don't let me run out of gas in this waterless place.  Time to get tucked and get serious.  The little gas-pump icon began to flash.  I sped up to 80, took the motorcycle out of gear, and turned off the key.  The motor fell quiescent.  I shuddered.  This is what it will be like if I don't find a gas station pretty damn quick.  "When the fuel-injected 650 runs out of gas, boom, it's done, that's it.  Your pushing."  The words from Motorcycle Daily News writeup on my motorcycle flashed briefly through my head.

The buzzing gone, I fell like a glider on a descent through thermals.  A rather rapid and decelerating descent.  I crouched behind the windshield to eke any last bit of aerodynamics from my manifestly un-aerodynamic profile.  And the big fish began to pass me.  Cadillacs and Ford duallies and a Taurus pulling a trailer, happily cruising at a warm and fuel-rich 55 mph.  Little kids pointed out the window at the strange visored alien crouched over the wedge-shaped motorcycle in a comical contortion.

I started the motor again just as I dipped below the minimum speed limit.  Sweat began to start under the helmet.  I have no idea how much fuel is left in my tank.  No idea whatsoever. Could be a gallon, could be next to fumes.  The first two bars invariably mark about 4 gallons out of my 5.8 gallon tank, the last three bars are far more vague in signification.  

Don't die don't die dont die....please.

I crested a ridge, puttering along at minimum rpm, and shut down again for another glide into a valley.  It's really a great thing for negligent motorcyclists that West Colorado is higher than Central Colorado.

The blinking became more insistent.  Gas station, where's a freaking gas station! (Realistically: let's be realistic: how far could I push before I'd have to stop and rest?  A mile?  A mile and a half?  Half a mile uphill?  More like quarter of a mile I'd think.  And I have no water, just energy drink.  I'd be screwed.  So we are not thinking about pushing.  We are thinking about motion, about moving forward and cresting the next hill so I can shut it off again.  Yes, the next hill.  I twisted the throttle with trepidation expecting sputters.  The 650 chugged bravely on.

Well, we crested that hill, glided, thought about eternity, crested another, glided again and one more hill revealed salvation in the shape of a yellow and red shell poked up above some rocks.  Far off still, but I could see it approach.  I would make it.  I would make it just fine.  I will live, I will not have to push my motorcycle fully loaded on the freeway for miles, I will not die of dehydration or be run over by dozing driver in a semi-truck.

And I did make it. Parked, then in the cool shade of the roof over the pumps,  I sat and meditated upon my foolishness as the tank hungrily sucked at the pump.  The meter read only 5.3 gallons when it shut off.  I had a half gallon, a whole 25 miles, left in that tank.  I could have driven on normally and still would have made it quite handily without making a complete fool of myself in front of numerous five-year-olds....