The Oregon Doughnut Run

It was perhaps forty miles past Creech Air Force Base, and the sun beat down like a friendly sparring partner – a drastic difference from the rains I had experienced earlier that day. I pulled my lonely little Honda motorcycle into the gas station across the street from the Area 51 Gift Shop and Cathouse, and brushed the dust from my teeth. Five gallons of 87 later, I was back on the road on what I would come to call the Oregon Doughnut Run.

America is not the first nation to get in to motorcycling; this belongs to the Germans and the Brits. However, America is the land of the long distance motorcycle rider, and took to the mode of conveyance in times past harder than nearly anyone but the denizens of India and certain Southeast Asian states. I have not ridden in those places, and as such I cannot speak much to the nature of their culture. No, this is a missive from the land that prompted the invention of the Goldwing, the highways where fairing-clad Harley Davidsons cruise at technically illegal speeds through the great empty expanses that separate the Rockies from South Dakota.

Twenty miles south of Las Vegas, a shadow fell across the land with the speed of an angry falcon. The dry valley swiftly turned to water up to my boots, and I found I had to slow to 15 miles per hour to be able to see and keep traction. Behind me, a Jeep slid slowly to the shoulder, the driver confused as to why his 4×4 couldn’t hang with the weird man on a bike from 1982 with a duffel strapped to the tail. I paid him no mind. There was a semi ahead of me, and I was more concerned with not dying. As we exited the rain, I saw a Triumph adventure bike headed in the opposite direction on the highway. I tapped my helmet and pointed up, signaling danger – location: above; we shared a wry grin in the moment before he passed and headed into the storm.

To ride is to sit in a strange place, more connected to but more exposed to the road than any other method of travel – other than perhaps walking. Zipping along on two tiny contact patches, traction can be a tricky thing, made up for by a maneuverability no car can match. However, this necessitates a sort of engagement and focus on what *your* bike is doing, sometimes to the point of viewing all other road users as simple obstacles to be avoided: “Ride your own ride” is hammered into every new rider. And yet, those who dance with death machines on lonely highways, isolated in focus upon their task share a sort of fellowship that seems at odds with the solitude of any ride, even group runs. Every rider knows and loves the connection to the road, the feeling of freedom, the smell of hot iron and rubber, the relaxation of becoming lost in the task of riding.

As the great valleys and plains gave way to the mountains of upper Nevada, my ride became significantly more fun. Instead of hanging with my hand on the throttle, the other on the tank, the dots of the dashed road-lines flashing in the mirrors of my sunglasses, I could actually ride properly. Even with my clothing and gear sitting in the duffel on the back of the bike, I could still shift my weight and corner, riding the twisted and tangled mountain roads like great waves of rock and asphalt. You can’t fall asleep when you’re riding this way. Even light sprinkles of rain and hail as I climbed a great mountain ahead of a struggling Porsche couldn’t decrease the sheer joy of the road. I stopped for gas again at a tiny town nestled in the mountains. Before me was another great plain; it would be another vast and empty run before I could make it to the high deserts of central Eastern Oregon.

There are in my experience a few types of riders: The ADHD-inflicted, who find something as close to meditation as we get in thinking quietly while our senses are bent to riding. The old tourers, mostly or fully retired, on their Goldwings and full bagger Harleys, who have decided to enjoy their sunset years on the road. The rebellious youngsters on sport bikes, drinking adrenaline while annoying everyone else (including other riders). The less-rebellious track riders, who have realized they can go even faster in controlled conditions, and who would rather speed where they won’t encounter drunks and semi trucks on the way. The outlaw gang wannabes (and members), who ride as much for image as for the joy of it. All will stop and say hi, and ask about your bike – especially if you’re riding something unusual.

As I dropped out of the mountain gas station and into the plain, the clouds and rain began again. The same storm system that had caught me outside Las Vegas the previous day had found me again. As I rode through the sparse corners and long straights through gullies and across hills that characterize the voidlands of north central Nevada, where you ride amidst ancient foothills and rolling range, the storm threatened. Lightning struck hilltops a few hundred feet away; every dip threatened to become a flash flood. A high spot in the freshly glued chip road (only tarred a week ago, according to the signs – itself a potential danger) kept my tires out of the worst standing water. To stop was to die, to ride on uncertain at best, to turn back impossible, for the last canyon had flooded behind me. So I rode, tucked behind my gauge cluster, my body soaked to the skin through my armor, my shoulders and fingers cramping from the cold. I felt the mighty hand of God upon me, as the waters parted before my front tire; in this I found rare peace. Ninety miles later, as I approached the nearest town, I rode a corner out of a gully and was immediately warmed by the breaking sun: I had reached the end of the storm, drenched but intact.

Every rider has stories. Adventures, things done that probably shouldn’t have been – but turned out ok. Crashes, religious experiences, unsanctioned races, track passes, and legends. They will tell them to you, if you will listen, especially if they think you’ll get it – because you have stories of your own. This is the nature of the American motorcyclist: Perhaps ghostly, from some psychological challenge still unhealed; perhaps outcast by family or circumstance; perhaps ground to a breaking point by the demands of a society that handles being truly unusual with disdain, no matter how much conventional success you obtain. But still free, and full of stories and dreams, and willing to share them.

About 50 hours from leaving Phoenix, I rolled my bike in to the parking lot of the hotel where I was to meet my parents before a wedding. I was still in one piece, and I had only run out of oil once. Two days later, I was on the road again, headed home. I’d forgotten the doughnuts, but road stories taste better than the tourist stuff Voodoo puts out, and you can write far more words about 3,000 miles on an ’82 Honda anyway.