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I won't go into the details
of my layover with the Bakers here; suffice it to say that I paid my
respects to my grandparents and enjoyed my time with the Bakers immensely.
I think we formed a new friendship that wasn't there before and I'm
sure I'll always have a place to visit when I head west.
I left Las Vegas three days after arriving with a new rear tire, refreshed, and ready to tackle the heat of the drive. However, to avoid the worst of it, I decided to take a northern route towards the east, instead of I-40, like I'd been planning.
So back
up through the Virgin River gorge I went and up into Utah.
Utah was again a hot place to travel through, but has spectacular vistas in spots. I travelled along I-70, which I didn't know started this far west, and got as far as I could.
Now, let me qualify what "as far as I could" means. I came up on a little town called Elsinore, Utah. I remember the name of the town because I thought it odd that someone would name a town after one of Shakespeare's castles. Hamlet's, to be precise. A place of mystery, fear, treachery; a place remotely located, away from any immediate help or salvation; a place ruled by a despotic 'tard.
Elsinore, Utah turned out to be similar.
You see, I stopped there to get gas. I grabbed the handle that said 91 (the highest octane they had), filled up, and went inside to pay. It took fifteen minutes. Two girls, who didn't know what they were doing very well, were training a hapless older gentlemen; kinda the picture of the unfortunate coming-out-of-retirement-to-pay-the-bills McJobber, though I assume a lot there.
And though I'd spent enough time to stretch my legs, what exactly was my affair in Elsinore? I should drink deep ere I depart. Outside, I got my radio out, cracked open a giant Gatorade, some cheese crackers and beef jerky and proceeded to have lunch. On the radio was terrible news: New York, and much of the Northwest, was blacked out. It was pretty clear this wasn't terrorism, though it seemed to me that New York and the rest of the affected areas were reacting exactly like they had on 9-11. To wit: the New Yorkers calmly took the rest of the day off (and the next as it turns out), filed across the bridges, patiently waited for cabs and buses and ferries, and generally made their way home without the subway or trains. The rest of the affected country, on the other hand, was panicking and rushing to the gas pumps and grocery stores. New Yorkers may be too jaded for their own good. I was half-glad I wasn't there, and half-sad I was missing what would be a truly unique nightsky.
So, with one tank filled,
the other drained, and my belly full, I kicked her over (figuratively
speaking) and headed for the off-ramp.
And got halfway up it. Then Roxie died.
I checked the plugs: soot black. Changed 'em. No start. Checked the air filter, thinking something had come loose and blocked air flow. Nope, nothing. Feeling fortunate I'd purchased some roadside assistance before I left home, I called them and they assured someone would soon call me back. Thank god I found a cellphone charger in a K-Mart or I would have been screwed. Sure thing, though, someone did call from a local towing agency. I asked if they could handle a motorcycle and they assured me they could.
While waiting for the truck, I went over the problem in my head: you only need three things to turn the engine over and keep her running: spark, fuel, and air. I'd eliminated the first and last, though the black plugs bothered me. What about the fuel? Bad gas? So I took the cap off and stuck my finger in. Hm.... oily, warm gas. Should have been wet, cold gas. Smelled like cattle backrub.
Crap! Diesel!
"There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy." Yeah, like my collossal stupidity.
Well, the tow truck showed up and I told him I didn't need a tow, but if he would keep an eye on me as I glided back downhill into the gas station and then lend me a large wrench, I'd appreciate it.
I explained to him, once back at the gas station, that I needed a large wrench to get the petcock off, as removing a gas line wouldn't work for draining the tank. The petcock is vacuum operated, you see. So he got one, and a container for the gas, and I proceeded to take the petcock out.
Diesel fuel went everywhere! It got all over my bike, all over me, all over the ground. We got perhaps 2/3 of it inside the can. I stood over the bike and rocked it back and forth to try to get more diesel out, then put the petcock back in (clean fuel filter by the way) and filled up with 3.339 gallons of 91 octane UNLEADED. After perhaps a dozen prime-and-crank tries, Roxie started up, rough at first then smoother, 'til she was singing like her usual self.
All this time, the convienence store clerks, truly a pair of gyniuses*, stood around watching and smoking. Keep in mind we're about eight feet from the gas pumps. At one point, one of them realized perhaps they shouldn't be smoking around the gas coming out of my bike. Before I could say anything, the tow guy educated them: diesel doesn't burn, it ignites under compression only. Correct, as far as I know. But still...
Got back under way and made it perhaps another hundred miles. It began to get dark, I was tired, and I was just shy of Colorado. Figured that would be a good place to stop and pick it up in the morning.
*that's for you, Deb & Lilly
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