The Longest Day

Vivid memories frozen in time

I'd been colder, or cold for longer, but I'd never been this cold for this long. Still under thick cloud cover, hope remained to find warmth by dropping down the hilly range that separates Wickenburg and Phoenix..

Instead the clearing leaves me and the red Le Mans smack dab in the middle of a damp inversion that covered AZ's highway 74 like a soggy blanket. Believed to have inspired Gordon Lightfoot's Carefree Highway, at that moment the long, lonely stretch of blacktop was anything but. Shivering, I ran the numbers for the umpteenth time. 300 miles down leaves one hundred to go. Resolve says I'll make it, that it'll be a great story. But this day was not a day for stories, it was a day for endurance. It was the longest day of my life.        

This probably should have been written last year, being the tenth-anniversary of the 'event' but as memory serves there were other pressing issues. I'd made plans to ride my Le Mans -a different one- to the Mid-America Auction in Vegas, using the trip to snag photos for a feature in RealClassic Magazine. That turned out well, and although it was cold in spots, memories of a different day made me chuckle. I'd gotten out of town late, which meant catching up with The Usual Suspects two rounds down and already in a compromising position. But I digress...

In what turned out to be an early assignment for the then-new Moto-Euro Magazine, it was nearly 11-years ago to the day when we were first told of the Mid-America auction, then invited to tag along with a group of locals. Some things never change because like now, more of the bikes in the shed were apart then together, but no matter. I'd been (ab)using my old Moto Guzzi CX100 as a rolling camera hack for well over a decade, rebuilding the 949cc twin in 1993 after wadding it chasing a fast Ducati. A favorite, the engine had been tweaked by a previous owner, but the whole thing needed doing over. Twice. I enjoyed the experience, and after spooning on a new pair of Metzelers and replacing the clutch it was ready for more. Packed like a mule, we pointed wheels north at dark-thirty on Friday, 27-January.

With many, many thousands of miles and numerous cross-country trips on just the CX alone, I did not leave unprepared. Layered with thermals and a thick cotton sweater, I'd polished off the rolling snowman motif with my trusty Dakar and an equally beefy set of UK-made leather trousers. The details of the ride up are fuzzy, but I remember shaking uncontrollably after stopping for coffee in Wickenburg. Walking around, I chatted with a BMW rider whose on-dash thermometer read 38-degrees F. Mentally running the wind chill numbers made me shiver some more, so I stopped. Also heading to Vegas, Mr Beemer rider was turning back. His wife forwarding the news of a snow storm in Kingman, he wanted nothing to do with it.    

For those of you who consider anything over freezing shirt-sleeve weather, understand the desert rat's natural environment and the resulting kerosene-thin blood needed to adapt. Done making excuses I will admit it did warm up eventually, but even past Hoover Dam and down into the natural bowl where Vegas is parked it remained in the 40s. The camaraderie of the group helped, for like any problem, it's a bit easier to deal with if others are dealing with it too. Before hypothermia set in the bright lights of Vegas appeared, followed by a well earned hot shower. Enjoying the scene inside the auction house on Saturday, I snapped pictures and chatted with other vintage bike enthusiasts, paying little attention to the pouring rain or the snow that melted on the sidewalk that evening. It'll clear. It's always warm in Vegas, right?        

Back home, my eight-year old son Alex waited for his dad. Before leaving, I promised him that I'd be back in time to watch the Super Bowl, and I wasn't about to break that promise. Watching football is something I'd done with both him and his little sister since they were infants, and still do. He was waiting. That's why I didn't stay in bed when my alarm rang at four in the morning, twelve-hours before game time. That's why I didn't stay an extra day after looking out the window. An early start would give me plenty of time...more than I'd need.      

It was cold and wet when I rolled out, forty-five minutes before dawn. Catching the 515 then towards the dam an eerie confusion overcame me. Did I misread the time? Why was it still so dark? Fighting to break through, I'd rounded the first corner leading over the reservoir when the sun's strangled illumination told the story. Painting the eastern sky was the blackest, thickest, angriest looking mass of cloud cover I'd ever seen. Now in complete denial, I worked my way to old 93 and the 75-miles of arrow-straight highway that rose to meet Kingman.       

I'd never felt anything like it. The cold bit through my leathers with razor sharp fangs, numbing my hands and feet and freezing my lips together. Each minute an agonizing hour, to my utter dismay the temps dropped even lower climbing into Kingman. Questioning my sanity, I limped into an Arby's when I suddenly remembered an old trick my dad once told me about. Dropping quarters into the machine I pulled out the Sunday paper and slipped it down the front of my jacket. Exhilaration was felt when turning east on I-40; it was getting warmer!

Blasting up through the gears, I'd just cleared the city limits when the snow started. It arrived without warning in a mighty, crashing wave of white, covering everything and everyone. Semi trucks and cars pulled off but I remained steadfast in my mission. Twisting the throttle back I laughed an howled like a madman; 'Avast! You can't beat me! Avast ye demon cold!!' Peeking left into my mirror I stared with wonder at the narrow, slightly wiggly black line my tires were cutting into the snow.

I was a different person then, living a different life in a far different world than I'm living in now. I'll never forget all the work that went into having a family, jobs, and everything that goes with all of that while still trying to realize those elusive dreams of youth. The crazy part? Some of the wilder dreams came true while others, those things that I counted as certain, disappeared into the vastness where only memories remain. I didn't...couldn't know it then, but changes were on the horizon. It's no stretch to say what occurred seven-months later changed everyone, but for many that sudden, tragic day was just the tip of a nasty, decade-long slide. Looking back from this vantage point, I never would have guessed. But that's life, isn't it?

I made it, in case you're wondering. And I'm not just talking about the game. South of I-40 on Highway 93 is Wikiup, a popular wide spot in the road as a food and gas stop. Peering up at the digital time/temp sign, the number '16' glowed ominously. Wobbling inside the cafe like a leather-covered popsicle, the waitress wouldn't take my money and despite her urging to stay, that kind lady watched in disbelief as I headed back out. Rolling into my workshop with a half-hour to spare, I looked back in amazement at the Guzzi; it's red finish and polished bits all covered in the same shade of frozen gray. Whispering a prayer while taking off my jacket, that lifesaving Kingman Miner spilled on the floor. Thanks dad.       

I don't remember much about that Super Bowl. Napping contentedly beside my young son on the couch, I woke briefly sometime in the third quarter to ask who was winning. “The Ravens are creaming them”, he answered between a handful of nachos. Funny, I remember that like it was yesterday and never regretted my decision to get there on time. Still feeling the throb of the Guzzi in my hands, I dropped off with a smile. Maybe I'm not so different after all, because what was important then is important now, and always will be. I'd do it all over again. Nolan Woodbury