International Roaming: Wendover to Rawlins

PHOTOS | KEL McINTOSH

The ridiculous king bed in my dated motel room gives me the best damn sleep since I arrived in the country, despite last night’s disruption (which in retrospect could have been a nasty situation had I not keychained my door. Thank you anxiety, you did good).

5:45am has me downstairs entertaining the idea of a complimentary “continental” breakfast which consists of cereal boxes, juice boxes, yogurt pots and waffles. So. Much. Sugar. I opt for buttered toast and black coffee, immediately regretting not packing Vegemite. I stash a couple bottled waters and granola bars, remembering yesterday’s heat and keeping my blood sugar stable. My new Cali mates (Mike, Kenny and Tony) discuss the days travel ahead. I tell them I’m headed straight for Bonneville. They’re keen so I load up the bike and we roll out, me on the Scout and they in the biggest fuckoff RV I have ever seen, hauling a fully fitted out covered Harley bike trailer that is packed to the gills full of sweet, sweet bikes (spoiler alert, all Harleys).

Pulling out of the motel, we turn right to hit the gas station, then circle back past the Super 8 and onward. The morning air is cool and dry. I try to savour it, knowing it will be a sweet, sweet distant dream in a couple hours. After some swearing and poor navigation of exits (all me, still unlearning a lifetime of “keep left”), I’m on the highway again and the sparkle of the flats twinkles on the horizon.

Let’s talk about Bonneville Salt Flats. Imagine a place so flat you seem to see the curvature of the planet, so barren not even the simplest life forms can exist. This is how Utah.com describes Bonneville, but aside from being a geological wonder, people have been racing and breaking land speed records there since 1896. Look it up. Fall in love. You must go there. Don’t argue, just go. The otherworldly vastness of the space is breathtaking. Don’t let the rush of semis behind you distract. The only semi worth worrying about is the one that is metaphorically developing in your pants as you witness the wonder of Bonneville. 

We grab some touristy pics and part ways. Because the RV is pulling a trailer, the guys can’t go much over 75-80mph without churning through gas. Me on the other hand… I strap on my gloves and helmet and fang out of there down the straightest stretch of road I’d seen so far (if I only knew what was to come in South Dakota). 

By the time I hit Salt Lake City, it’s as hot as Satan’s nutsack. I get lost three times and sworn at probably more before I get to Salt Lake City Eagle Rider where I stop for an engine check - since I left Ely yesterday afternoon, the bike sounded like it wanted to stall on 1st & 2nd. They top up the oil, check tyres and a couple other things while I drink all their complimentary water and coffee. Isn’t A/C beautiful? Toying with the notion of heading north to see Robert Smithson’s Spiral Jetty, I decide I’ve had enough of Salt Lake City by this stage and just want to leave.

Bailing out of there on the Lincoln Highway 80 I ride for about an hour on some rather cruisy road, flanked by some cooler, greener cliff sides. By the time I stop to fuel up at Coalville, a message arrives from the guys announcing they’re heading to Bear River State Park rest stop for lunch and that I should join them. Wyoming here I come. After getting lost at an exit in Evanston, the weather starts to cloud over, and I’m sure I can see a storm blowing in, and when I finally pull into the rest stop, everyone has well and truly finished their lunch. Even though the sky has gone a blue-grey, it's beautiful and serene. The guys serve up a real swell picnic. Fuck yesterday’s granola bar lunch - today is all you can eat buffet. Next stop is Little America for ice creams. I am thrilled when Kenny suggests it. We roll out. The wind is starting to pick up. It challenges me as it whips around the bike and I see wind breaks across the plains. I’ve heard horror stories of semi trailers flipping on these roads. I go well over the speed limit each time I need to overtake, ensuring I have adequate room to do so and a visual on the truckie in the drivers seat. Always had a soft spot for trucks. I pass some beautiful rigs, grateful for the windshield I was originally unimpressed with. I snuggle up against the tank of the bike and tuck my helmet behind the windshield as I roll on the throttle. The wind is howling now and if I wasn’t so busy trying to ride in a straight line and resist the wind as it circles around me, I might have been shit scared.

Two hours of full bodied assault by an invisible force and we end up in the weirdest town of Wamsutter, Wyoming. The gas station is closed and there’s a really eerie, religious ilk to the place. I eat my weight in tacos and nachos at Hacienda Mendez Bar and Grill. It’s sundown and we still need to get to our motel.

The next forty miles are gruelling. I get belted up by some insane winds and rubber bullet impact kind of rain, trying to trail in the airstream of the RV for some relief and swearing at every fucking thing. We are nearing Rawlins when my travel companions take me off road behind a gas station and halfway up a vacant gravel lot in the middle of fucking nowhere. First instinct is “Fuck, are they are gonna kill me or something?”. They pull over and stop the RV. I yell through my visor “what the fuck are you doing?!” I am tired and in no mood for bullshit. They apologise, but it turns out they were trying to find a short cut to the hotel because they were worried I’d get blown off the bike in the wind. GPS gave them a dud steer and sent them off road. I spend a couple minutes yelling at them for taking my bike on gravel, telling them that they’re all bastards and if they were gonna kill me, they should have done it after the Mexican food rather than making me ride another forty miles in high wind.

It’s pitch black when we finally make it to the motel and I think I can hear a dog howling somewhere in the wind. It is also now slice-and-dice icy fucking cold. Mike and I try to have a cigarette with our beer after the long day’s travel, laughing as it takes nine minutes of solid trying just to light the damn thing. It’s late. I’m stuffed. After a hot shower I face plant in my home for the night. Tomorrow’s another day of riding. Can’t fucking wait.