I saw my first motorcyclist in Arizona on an old, clapped out Goldwing. Its rider was wearing T-Shirt, shorts and no helmet as if he was riding his bicycle. Turns out, many Arizona riders choose this as their riding outfit. I was amazed at the number of riders I saw without helmets and riding in T-shirts and shorts. What were we saying about squids again? 9 out of 10 riders I saw had no helmets or jackets whatsoever. I guess it�s the heat and the fact that Arizona does NOT require its riders to wear a helmet. In other words, they�re still free to make the choice. And many choose not to wear it.
Highway 95 remained a two-lane smooth asphalt all the way. Sometimes it was frustrating as there would always be one slow poke holding up everyone else. I really tried to be as patient as I could but being in a fast motorcycle and stuck inside my hot, black leathers, I could only be patient for so long. After a few minutes of watching Bubba with his cowboy hat puttering about in his POS pickup truck at 40 mph, I had enough and used the Bandit�s abundant passing power to swing passed him. I did the same with any other vehicle that got in my way. Passing lane or no passing lane I passed with extreme prejudice. I did use my turn signals and waved as if to say thanks for being an asshole and holding everyone up! I waved to maintain good relations as the road, after all, belonged to everyone and I was merely a visitor in their home state.
After Havasu City, Highway 95 turned away from the river and its fairly entertaining vistas towards the open desert. I was glad to actually get off the 95 and enter Interstate 40 heading east towards Kingman. I40 was straight as an arrow as it crossed the north Arizona desert. It was also hot like riding inside an oven. I had to stop and replenish my fluids every 30 minutes or so. And by this time, I had discovered the Bandit�s only fault: the seat was comfortable only for a few of hours. After that, my butt began to get numb, then began to hurt at certain spots. Thus, I began to stop every time my butt just screamed for mercy although the rest of my body and the bike had no need for a break. Also, the Bandit�s mileage of about 150 miles (at high speed) before its reserve light started blinking made me always think about distances very carefully. Needless to say I kept a close eye on the gas gauge and watched my speeds since experience has taught me that gas stations can be few and far between out in the open desert.
I arrived at Kingman and decided to fill up the Bandit�s tank. I knew that the final leg of my journey for that day was coming to a close. At the gas station, all eyes were on me. Who was this man in full black leather riding this strange looking silver motorcycle making all that noise? There was another motorcycle traveler gassing up. His ride was a 1984 BMW R90 festooned with hard luggage and even more soft luggage. We spoke for a few minutes and I found out his name was Dave and he was riding from Chicago to Irvine, California, a city 20 minutes from my home in Mission Viejo. Small world! |
