International Roaming: Alamo to Wendover

PHOTOS | KEL McINTOSH

My alarm goes off at five. I slap together a nasty instant coffee in my little motel room, rubbing my eyes in disbelief that yesterday happened at all. Thoughts. So many thoughts. 

I look up my route on the map. Need to leave at 6am. I dick around for a bit, so it’s much closer to 7am when I pull out of the Alamo Inn drive. I’ve been warned that deer cross and graze at dawn along the road, so my already anxious nature is now on super alert. My only basis for comparison is wombats and roos in the Wollombi Valley. All I can think is how incredible Drazic looks against the sunrise. 

Drazic in his morning glory.

Up until now, I’d been riding sans back-up fuel. I need to fill up the ‘ol red plastic jerry can at the first petrol station. Easy enough. Shame the nozzle isn’t fitted into the cap properly. 95 grade guzzoline seeps into my canvas duffle as I occy-strap the plastic jerry on. I am now a goddamn firelighter with an engine, ready to rock into the desert, possibly in a literal blaze of glory. While there, I stock up on bandaids - I’d cut up my fingers yesterday from chafe in my gloves because sweat, leather and heat are more powerful than human skin. 

I wind through farmland and crossroads and nearly go to Rachel but decide heading north-east is best. Also, aliens. 

Passing through some magical bit that is all ravines and empty road, I have the place all to myself. Just nothing. Nothing but empty, wild countryside. Rocks are flashing purple as the sun rises higher. I feel like Bowie in the video clip for “Ashes to Ashes”. Turns out a “reflective-something-something” quality has reacted to my polarised sunnies (so I’m told, I should probably look this shit up). 

I heed advice that I have to fuel up in Lund or get stuck. This is my first time on substantial gravel. I’ve been told not to take the bike on gravel. I also know I can’t lift what is a 245kg dry weight. Considering the entire fuel station is gravel sans concrete space at pump, I make an exception.

Coming up to Ely, I get enthusiastic and take a premature turn off. Subsequently I become lost. There are some kids playing with some broken planks of wood. Where the fuck am I? I pull out my phone, it’s warming up quickly and I’m hungry. I navigate my way to the main road. How to describe Ely - cowboys? Hats? Slots. Last place you can gamble before you leave Nevada apparently. I pull over and consider eating at Denny’s. As soon as I walk in, I get paranoid about making it to West Wendover in time and leaving my bike out of sight. My lunch ends up being a granola bar on a bench next to an old sweaty guy in a big dirty hat. 

I roll down the road to fuel up and discover they have pokie machines in servos. This shit is fucked, America.

It’s getting really toasty now. I pass through McGill. This leads me to start singing “Rocky Racoon”, and I wonder what my dad is doing right now. 

It’s past 2pm. I stop off at the Schellbourne Rest Area. There are two signs: one about the Pony Express and the other about rattlesnakes in the bathroom. I take my chances with the snakes. Glad I did too cause in the next 20mins, I pull up to a dead stop in front of lollipop man. There’s some verrrrry slooooow moving rollers laying some bitumen. Really? You really need to do that now?? Roadworks can get fucked. Getting off the bike while waiting was the only option as the engine is giving off too much heat to sit still. The afternoon sun is cranking up to scorching. 

After another hour of riding, the heat finally puts the hard challenge onto my internal thermostat. The hairdryer heat in my face; sweat pouring down my back; occasionally adjusting my arms so oncoming air flows up my wrists to cool my back where the spine protector sits in my jacket. Whose idea was this anyway?!

Soon I spy hints of white to the right of me. Kinda looks like snow. Which it obviously ain’t. I do a double take. It is salt. I have the road to myself. I get a second wind and roll on the throttle. The road winds and turns with little hills and scrub obscuring the flicker of white glare at my side. I keep accelerating, gasping for air but motivated, knowing I’m close. 

Clearing a crest, West Wendover emerges into view, laying before me in the distance like the Emerald City. The blazing glory of salt flats gleaming to my right, like Dorothy’s sleepy field of poppies as Glinda the good witch sprinkles them with fresh snow. “You're out of the woods, you're out of the dark, you're out of the night, Step into the sun, step into the light. Keep straight ahead for the most glorious place on the face of the earth or the sky.…” 

I take a right at the end of the 93. Probably another mile down the road, I pull up to the Super 8 literally dripping with sweat. Legit only stop there because they have a pool. Bike parked, room sorted, dump gear, to the pool. Pool = heaven. I can feel my Sydney winter skin burning but I don’t give a shit. My fingers sting from the salt water. Salt water cures everything. 

I make friends with three blokes travelling with their Harleys in a trailer behind their RV. They give me an ice cold beer. I am now in my happy place. America, beer, in a pool, is goooood. We have a bit of a yarn for a while and then agree to head to the casino for food. Prime Rib fills my belly. My new friends are Mike, Kenny, and Tony and they’re heading to Sturgis too. I tell them I’m kicking off early in the morning and they invite me to meet up with them for lunch along the road. My stomach hastily agrees after today’s granola bar lunch fiasco and we laugh into the evening. I’m knackered and it probably isn’t even 9pm before I turn in.

Later that night I learn the importance of deadbolting my motel room door. Some bloke had checked in and was given my room number, AND tried to enter the room. I complain to management. They shrug. Fuck it. Whatever. I get back to bed. I’m riding out with my new friends at 6am. 

Fuck yeah.