• CHAPTER TEN •
The adventurer gambles with life to heighten sensation—to make it glow for a moment.
—JACK LONDON
Day Three: Sunday, August 25
Jackson to Cody, Wyoming, via Grand Teton and Yellowstone National Parks: 229 miles
Staying in a Motel 6 is never a lovely experience, and this is probably the ugliest, most uncomfortable Motel 6 I’ve ever been in: all modern edges with shiny surfaces, no sense of gentleness or comfort. No box spring for the bed; the mattress simply rests on a hard-looking platform. Harsh fluorescent lights. The bathroom is spitefully bare-bones without that most treasured of amenities, a tub. But for about ten hours, we get to be off our bikes, out of the rain, out of the alternating hot and cold wind, with bellies full and a horizontal padded surface on which to lie down. Sheer exhaustion is the most wonderful soporific. After a satisfying dinner, Rebecca and I are out cold.
Last night at dinner, George, Edna, Rebecca, and I brainstormed how we might move forward given Edna’s hobbled bike. She learned from the tow truck driver that any repair shop who might be able to deal with her tire will be closed today, a Sunday, and likely the next day as well. She was able to get names and numbers of locals who might have a lift to change the tire or have access to a new tire. But if Edna and George are delayed longer than a day or two, they’ll have to abandon the trip altogether and turn back. They are both expected in Santa Barbara within a week to run motorcycle security for the Avon Walk to End Breast Cancer. Plus, staying in Jackson would be an expensive proposition.
Jackson is a major gateway for millions of tourists visiting nearby Grand Teton and Yellowstone National Parks and the National Elk Refuge each year. This is the only location on our journey we had to book a hotel ahead of time and then paid double what we’re paying in other places for a Motel 6, the cheapest digs we could find. Staying for more than a few days might quickly wipe out a cross-country motorcycle budget.
Though we’ve been calling it Jackson Hole, I learn that name is a misnomer. Jackson Hole refers to the entire valley in which the town of Jackson is located. The term hole derives from early trappers and mountain men who entered the valley from the north and east, descending relatively steep slopes, giving the sensation of entering a hole. These low-lying valleys are surrounded by mountains and contain rivers and streams, which make good habitat for beaver and other fur-bearing animals.
But given the cost of food and lodging here, I imagine the only fur-bearing animals we’ll see are of the human variety adorned in pricey coats. High-end ski resorts like Aspen and Vail come to mind. According to the chamber of commerce, a strong local economy, primarily due to tourism, has allowed Jackson to develop a large shopping and eating district, centered on the town square. That, along with a sky-high cost of living, means most of the people working in Jackson cannot afford to live here. But the real abomination is the fact that this amazing natural beauty is at arm’s reach and yet stores and galleries hawk cheesy mimicry, fake imitation Indian crap, and Mangelsen images.
Last night we came up with the plan for today. Rebecca and I will ride through Grand Teton and Yellowstone while George and Edna see what can be done to fix tire. We tried to talk George and Edna into doubling up on George’s bike, joining us to see the national parks. They insisted that since they’ve been in this part of the world many times before, they’d rather spend the time getting the repair completed. Rebecca and I, who have never been here, should go on ahead. If all goes well, Edna and George will meet us in Cody, Wyoming, at the end of the day. If they strike out, Rebecca and I might then choose to turn back to Jackson after seeing the national parks to wait with them. Or we might decide to forge ahead on our own. George and Edna will be fine either way, they assure us.
By the time we’re ready to set out, I am bundled beyond recognition. Though the day might be reasonably warm in parts of Yellowstone, there is a 60 percent chance of rain coupled with morning and evening temperatures that are frigid on a bike. I’m wearing long underwear under my armored textile pants, with a rain and wind-resistant liner zipped in as a midlayer. On top, I wear a thermal layer, a woolen shirt, and a down vest beneath my leather jacket. My hands are sheathed in heavy leather gloves with liners. Two pair of woolen socks smother my feet, which are crammed into motorcycle boots. When we wave good-bye to Edna and George, I am the Pillsbury Doughboy trying to mount Izzy Bella.
Leaving town, we pass the Million Dollar Cowboy Bar, one of the few landmarks that had topped Rebecca’s must-do list when we’d planned out our route, renowned for its line dancing, barstools shaped like saddles, the famous country music acts that have performed there, and the general wildness said to occur. I’d been the one asking for Yellowstone and the Rockies—the big-ticket items. But we were all exhausted last night and never made it to the bar. It’s early now and the Million Dollar Cowboy Bar is shuttered. I regret we didn’t motivate ourselves sufficiently to fulfill Rebecca’s meager wish list.
Heading toward the Tetons, I’m intensely aware of the gratitude I feel for Rebecca. She’s walked me through some of the most difficult experiences of my life, the person who got me on a motorcycle in the first place. It was this time of the year—late summer—two years ago that I first learned to ride while I watched my father die. Rebecca was steadfast in her support, as I had been for her a few years earlier when she left her marriage of eighteen years. She was with me when, even as I grieved my father’s passing, I also discovered a new freedom.
Rebecca and I enter Grand Teton National Park within an hour. These rugged peaks jut up abruptly to the west, some of the summits snowcapped even in August, as the rising sun throws its pinkish glow on the base of the mountains. The colors slowly climb the magnificent hillsides, tossing out hues of honey, mauve, and gold. We stop at a vista point to take in the view. The Teton Range spans forty miles and is characterized by three distinct spires. The name is attributed to early-nineteenth-century French-speaking trappers—les trois tétons (the three teats)—later Anglicized and shortened to Tetons. The morning has not warmed up much yet, but stopping to take in this sight heats our enthusiasm. The peaks are breathtaking.
After photos, we roll north toward Yellowstone. I have wanted to visit here since I was a kid watching Yogi Bear and Boo Boo in Jellystone Park. I grew up camping, hiking, and exploring Sequoia National Park in central California. I knew that the picnic basket–stealing cartoon bears were nothing like life in a real national park, but the grandeur of Yellowstone, even through that cartoon medium, always beckoned. It was a place I longed to see. And today is the day.
Riding into Yellowstone, the road changes from being relatively straight with gentle, sloping curves to a barely perceptible climb; then, almost without knowing it, we’ve entered Yellowstone.
The leaves are just beginning to change colors and we ride through vast openness, punctuated now and again by shadowy areas; at an elevation of nearly eight thousand feet, the terrain is broad and plains-like. In California, at this altitude, we’d see many more peaks.
We make it to the site of Old Faithful just as the geyser, known to go off every ninety-one minutes, is getting ready to blow. We rush over, ungainly in our bulk, to see the show. I seem to have developed a knack for ending up at the right place at the right time. For years I worried about being late, trying to wrest control from the hands of a clock. But now when I let go, all the pieces simply fall into place. This amazes me. Even though I was certain that leaving my marriage while my daughter was still in high school was the worst case of abandonment, I see now that it needed to happen when it did. Showing up at Old Faithful at this exact moment reminds me to trust this path and to keep moving forward.
My cell phone rings just as Old Faithful exhausts itself. Through some miracle of networking among the locals of Jackson, Edna and George have been able to source a tire and someone who can put it on. They’ll meet us in Cody later today. Our plans are back on track. “Trust” seems to be the lesson of the day.
Rebecca and I loop to the Old Faithful Inn, possibly the largest log building in the world. The inn is gape-worthy with its multistory lobby, flanked by long frame wings containing the guest rooms. It is one of the few log hotels still standing in the United States and one of the first of the great park lodges of the American west. When the Old Faithful Inn first opened in the spring of 1904, the fact it had electric lights and steam heat was a big deal. Now, though the look is down-home rustic and hints at a hardscrabble life, the amenities are all twenty-first century.
I scurry to the bathroom to strip off some of the many layers I’m wearing. Rebecca and I order food. Though riding a motorcycle can’t possibly burn all that many calories, it’s a tiring way to travel. Every time we stop to eat, I’m famished.
Riding the rest of the way through Yellowstone takes the entire day. What looks like a short jaunt on the map is actually quite different. The roads are twisty, and with all the tourists, it’s slowgoing. Which is a bonus for us, offering more chances to turn off at waterfalls and to appreciate the bison and elk in a more natural habitat.
Three-quarters around the Yellowstone loop, all the cars in front of us come to a stop. Red-and-blue lights of an emergency vehicle flash up ahead. I worry someone’s been hit by a car, but as we get closer, I see a park ranger stopping traffic so bison can safely cross the road. I think of Yogi Bear’s “Mr. Ranger, sir,” and smile. We idle our bikes, inching forward, observing the impressive creatures, their placid eyes juxtaposed against their intimidating bulk. We curve toward the southern exit of the park and skim along the edge of Yellowstone Lake, mentally recording vistas of twisted, regal trees, wind-polished stone, and spacious alpine meadows before descending toward the barren plains of Cody.
I start to worry that we’re taking too long and that our trek is holding up George and Edna. Making it through Yellowstone took so much longer than I’d anticipated. The sun is lowering in the west as we pull up in Cody. I take out my phone, certain there will be irate calls from them wondering where in the world we are. Turns out, they called only two minutes earlier. When I reach them, I learn they, too, just this minute made it to town. Again, my concerns are unwarranted: Whatever it is we think we are doing, wherever we are expected, as grace would have it, we are right on time.
We find a gingerbread-looking family-run motel on the edge of town. The young couple that owns the place offers us a hose and rags to wash down our bikes. Clearly, they’re used to hosting motorcyclists. They also tell us about the rodeo tonight. As much as I’d like to experience a rodeo, we’re all too knackered. Though we didn’t ride that many miles today, with all the creeping traffic and distractions—glorious and mundane both—the attention required was intense and meant we were in the saddle for the majority of the day.
After a shower for the humans and the bikes alike, then a brief rest, we wander down the street to the famed Irma Hotel for dinner. George and Edna ride on George’s bike, but Rebecca and I prefer to walk, stopping to take touristy pictures with statues of bears. The Irma Hotel is a landmark built by William F. “Buffalo Bill” Cody, the city’s cofounder who named the inn after his daughter. The bar, made of polished cherry wood and mirrors, is the focal point of the restaurant and was a gift to Buffalo Bill by Queen Victoria. It’s odd to imagine such a pairing. And yet, who’s to say how life will gift us, or from whom? I think of the place I’ve been living, of the great friendships I’ve been graced with. When I keep my heart open, who knows what other gifts might arrive?
Day Four: Monday, August 26
Cody, Wyoming, to Wall, South Dakota: 428 miles
This is the first morning I’ve woken feeling ready for what might come. My muscles have finally settled into the pattern of riding hundreds of miles a day. Miraculously, my legs, back, and forearms don’t ache. I am becoming seasoned.
We down some coffee, munch Lärabars, pack our bikes with Edna and George, then hit the road. Our first stop, Sheridan, Wyoming, is 120 miles or so away, so we’ll need to plan a gas stop. As we leave Cody, I figure the morning’s ride will be uneventful. We just need to get to the next location.
How wrong I am.
East of Cody, the road rises and bends. As the twists become tighter, we lean gracefully into each curve, moving like ice dancers across the asphalt, four of us swaying in choreographed, effortless unison. The pattern of our movements is mesmerizing. We travel in perfect harmony, synchronized grace made visible. The canyon walls rise up right around us and the vistas become spectacular. We’ve entered Bighorn National Forest, one of the oldest government-protected forestlands in the United States. The light of the morning, combined with the shadow of the canyons and the magnificent views, and coupled with our feeling of nimble flight, creates a magical aura. The air smells of pine and soil and sunlight.
This forest lies well east of the Continental Divide and extends along the spine of the Bighorn Mountains, a mountain range separated from the rest of the Rockies by Bighorn Basin. Elevations range from five thousand feet along the sagebrush and grassy lowlands where we entered to thirteen-thousand-plus feet on top. Fifteen thousand miles of trails weave through this stunning preserve. We take U.S. Route 14, known as the Bighorn Scenic Byway, through the middle of the thirty-mile-wide woodland, a road that’s closed in the snowier months of the year. By the time we reach the top, the temperature has plummeted to the thirties and we’re all grateful to have motorcycles without sensitive carburetors that might cough and choke at elevation. What scant traffic there is comes to a stop so that cattle may cross the highway, herded by cowboys on horseback and dogs. We try to stay warm, balanced on our bikes, and I’m grateful for the heat rising off my pipes.
This day, for me, becomes emblematic of the whole adventure. There are days when you know something amazing is expected, like seeing Yellowstone yesterday. But days like today, when you’re not expecting anything out of the ordinary and yet are graced with wonders beyond your imagination—just the feeling of serendipity that comes with the experience cannot wipe the smile off my face.
After the glories of Bighorn National Forest, as we descend into Sheridan, the temperatures quickly rise. It has taken us all morning to go only 120 miles, and by the time we stop for lunch, the day is in the hundreds. We eat at a little diner and run into two men also en route to the Harley gathering in Milwaukee. One rides a ’70s vintage Harley that lost its brakes as he was coming down from the Bighorn Mountains. The thought of descending that mountain with no brakes terrifies me. Over sandwiches and fries, he tells us how he’s been looking for a mechanic in town to help him out. His younger companion is on a Buell sport bike, a family member of the Harley clan though it looks and rides nothing like a Harley. We will see these men almost daily until we hit Milwaukee. With each stop, we’re running into others who are part of the summer migration to Harley Mecca.
• • •
The wonders of western Wyoming are breathtaking. Eastern Wyoming, however, is an unlovely creature. After the joys of the morning, we settle into the numbing grind and cross the South Dakota state line, which promises “Great Faces, Great Places” and more hot, flat tedium.
We pass through the Black Hills and then enter the Badlands and their rugged beauty. The geologic deposits here are said to contain the world’s richest fossil beds. Ancient mammals once roamed the area. I can almost picture them: rhino, wooly mammoth, giant tapirs, a saber-toothed cat. The park’s 244,000 acres protects an expanse of mixed-grass prairie where bison, bighorn sheep, prairie dogs, and black-footed ferrets are supposed to live, but today we see little moving. The most memorable part is the deep silence that surrounds us. Amid the tall grasses, emptiness from horizon to horizon.
Next up is the ritual pilgrimage to Sturgis, South Dakota, home of the annual motorcycle rally held in early August since 1938. Originally created to showcase stunts and races, Sturgis has evolved into one of the largest motorcycle rallies in the world. My friend Emily, whom we’ll stop to see in New Mexico on the ride home, was taken to Sturgis as a nine-year-old by her Lutheran-minister father. Emily lost her leg as a young child to a congenital defect and then developed a mad yearning for motorcycles. Though she and her father, I imagine, could not have been more out of place at Sturgis, with its beer-swilling, sunburnt, bare-bellied biker crowd, I have always loved the story of her father’s unstoppable desire to please her, a desire so strong it carried them here.
By the time we reach Sturgis, the cleanup from the event a few weeks earlier is complete. I’ve seen photos, though, with the streets so lined with motorcycles it’s amazing anyone can get a bike in or out. Hotels and motels within a hundred-mile radius are booked months in advance. I imagine the thundering pipes and the craziness of the parties. I adore picturing little Emily and her dad among that bacchanalia, but not me.
Today, thankfully, it’s quiet.
We take an obligatory photo by the Sturgis bar, purchase cut-rate T-shirts at the souvenir shop, and stop at the Sturgis Harley-Davidson so George can top off his oil. As we have come to expect, more than a few male bikers request a picture with Edna and her Barbie bike.
Then it’s back on the bikes and the continuation of one of those days that stretch on forever. We pass the turnoff for Mount Rushmore and decide that we’ll save it for the return trip.
As I ride, the words of Lejuez, the addiction specialist, come back to me. Many people who embrace risk are either running toward or away from something, he’d said. Into which category do I fit? Yes, I am running away from the saintliness aura I had bought into as younger woman. But I’m not running toward its opposite, a kind of reckless decadence associated with both midlife crises and motorcycles. I am running away from a marriage that had begun to suffocate me, but I’m not looking for the arms of a new man to throw myself into.
So, what then, am I looking for?
Lejuez called on his expertise in addiction to help me understand risk taking. He explained that, from a learning perspective, there are two reasons why someone might use drugs. The first is positive reinforcement. It’s what we think of with drugs: the high, what feels good about it. But even more influential is negative reinforcement, the idea that we might be removing something bad or unwanted in the process.
To illustrate, he conjured up heroin users. If they’re experiencing withdrawal and they use again, another dose of heroin will take the pain of withdrawal away—that’s negative reinforcement, taking something bad away. But this process occurs on more than a physiological level; there’s also a very strong emotional component. Cocaine addicts, for example, might find the drug eases their depression and makes them feel saner and more normal than without it. Likewise, people who suffer from anxiety attacks but don’t know what’s happening. They’re walking around and all of a sudden their chest feels tense, they may experience heart pain, and they think they’re having a heart attack or going crazy. A drug like heroin can medicate that. Heroin or cocaine might be medicating emotional symptoms, blunting an emotional response, as much if not more so than meeting a physiological need.
The same thing happens with risky behavior like motorcycling. “You could argue that the ‘high’ someone gets from that kind of activity may be needed because they’re not feeling a lot of reinforcement in other parts of their life. It brings an excitement, a new group of friends,” he told me. I consider the thrill of the ride plus all the new people I’ve met, people quite different from those I knew previously in the world of writers and academics. All act as positive reinforcements. My world does feels larger.
“But it also removes something, a negative,” he continued. “For example, imagine someone in such a rut they don’t know how to say no to that rut. They’re the person who does this or does that and everyone has this expectation of them. That becomes a negative.” If that person finds a new love, like motorcycling, they’re suddenly so motivated by it that they get busy and are finally able to say no to the things they wanted to say no to all along. Through their new passion, they can make those things go away.
I consider how unhappy I’d been in my marriage. I’d aimed for perfection, character impeccability, and exactness, all the while feeding a subterranean desire to be the saint for whom my parents named me.
How many saints do you see on Harleys?
Though most people might label this scenario as a form of avoidance, Lejuez reassures me that our escapism reflex is probably one of the body’s most powerful and important responses. “In many cases, we think of avoidance as a bad thing because you’re not doing the things you need to do.” But avoidance really just means being able to make a choice that allows you to avoid something you don’t want before it happens. Sometimes this is a good thing. You’re avoiding all numbness and disconnectedness that’s built up over time and engaging in something to turn the tables. This is also accompanied by a release of endorphins and an increase of serotonin.
“Never underestimate the value of making negative things go away,” he said.
Lejuez talked about learning theory and what’s officially called punishing a behavior. When an alcoholic gets sober, for example, that person is punishing the addiction behavior. “Punish sounds so pejorative, but it just means what we do to make something stop.” If you punish one kind of behavior, though, you have to reinforce and reward alternatives. If you don’t reward the alternative—for example, taking care of and praising yourself for avoiding an addiction while addressing underlying issues—you may end up simply suppressing the drive until even more damaging behaviors arise. Think of people on a diet. They do what they’re supposed to, they strive to be “good,” and then one day, they just say, “Forget it! I’m going to do what I want.” There’s “this explosion of selfishness because they didn’t take the time to look out for themselves from the start.”
Though I hadn’t considered it before our conversation, I asked Lejuez if there’s a connection between my own two-decade abstinence from alcohol and drugs and my desire to ride a motorcycle in my late forties. “In your case, you can make the connection from an unhealthy escape/avoidance behavior to a healthy escape/avoidance behavior.” This, he said, is an important lesson. “Every one of us has had things that have crept into our lives and have taken over. We wish we could find a more healthy way.” It’s crucial, he said, to know that healthy alternatives are possible, that we can find new, enriching ways to meet these needs.
Throughout South Dakota, I keep seeing signs for a place called Wall Drug with the promises of free coffee to newlyweds and military personnel, free ice water to anyone who asks, the best pies in the country, the largest drugstore ever. We follow these signs, like Burma-Shave ads, for more than a hundred miles. By the end of the day we hit the little town of Wall. We’re weary and wiped out, susceptible to the lure of all that advertising.
Wall Drug is a cowboy-themed open-air shopping mall, unabashedly tacky, consisting of a drugstore, gift shop, restaurants, western art museum, chapel, and an eighty-foot brontosaurus. In The Lost Continent, humorist Bill Bryson writes that “it’s an actual place, one of the world’s worst tourist traps, but I loved it and I won’t have a word said against it.” The New York Times reports that it takes more than $10 million a year and draws some two million annual visitors. Wall Drug earns much of its fame from those billboards we passed. They pepper a 650-mile-long stretch of highway extending from Minnesota to Montana.
We snag motel rooms, shower, and go in search of the best dining option along the single street of restaurants and extended drugstore offerings, including, what I’m told, is an impressive art collection. By the time we leave the restaurant, though, it’s no later than 8:00 PM on a summer’s night and yet all of Wall has closed down. We haven’t yet seen its storied attractions beyond the tasteless diner. Just like we bypassed Mount Rushmore and skirted the Black Hills, we’ve missed our chance to see the Largest Drugstore in the World. But we got the magic of Bighorn National Forest this morning, and that’s more than enough.