Sprinting Back to the Border
My clutch problem was worsening, however, in spite of the parking lot fix the day before, and I began to suspect that the cable might be nearing the end of its useful life. I figured that I could probably get it fixed at the BMW dealership in Tucson, but I had to get there first. And at the rate I was losing clutch function, that didn’t seem like a sure thing.
When we finally got all the Mexican paperwork done, and were inching our way to the U.S. border, I lost the clutch completely. It just wouldn’t disengage anymore.
It was hot, well over 90°F. We were at the back end of a long line of cars, creeping along, sucking on their exhaust. And there I was, stripping off sweat-soaked gear and duck-walking my bike out of Mexico. Not my idea of fun at all.
Of course the border agent, when I finally paddled the bike all the way to the front of the line, took one look at the stamps in my passport from Thailand, and Pakistan, and Uzbekistan, and all of the other stans I’ve been to, and made me open every bag and container on the bike. Sigh.
At length he tired of me, however, and I managed to push the bike onto U.S. soil, where I used the starter button to get rolling again.
There’s a trick to shifting without a clutch on a motorcycle. In fact, I gather that racers do this all the time. If you maintain just enough pressure on the gear shift lever and roll the throttle on (or off), it will pop into the next gear with a lurch. It’s ugly to watch. But you can shift that way, if you have to.
And that’s how, after saying my good-byes to my new friends at the Motel 6 in Douglas, I rode the 120 miles all the way back to Tucson. Getting to the Interstate on the solitary back roads of southern Arizona wasn’t that difficult. And the Interstate itself was a pice of cake. Once on I-10 I pretty much stayed in 5th gear. But on the city streets of Tucson I had to use the starter trick every time I had to stop at a red light. And the ensuing bucking bronco show must have been a real treat for all the other drivers who witnessed it. Haw haw, lookit that dork!
The BMW dealer there diagnosed the problem as a bad bearing in the clutch assembly, a small piece of fine German engineering that was now little more than a bunch of grease-covered Rice Krispies. This was much worse—and much more expensive—than a simple clutch cable replacement. So I was going to have to spend the night, and shell out a lot of bucks, in Tucson.
By two o’clock in the afternoon of the next day I was on the road again, however, and determined to make up for lost time. I figured that if I rode past nightfall I could make it all the way to Las Vegas. So I sped across Arizona, crossing the border into Nevada just after sunset.
My usual habit, when finding a motel in a big city, is to ride on through town and grab a place on the far side. That way I don’t have to deal with rush hour traffic in the morning.
This being a Saturday night, I needn’t really have concerned myself with rush hour traffic. But old habits die hard, and it was almost nine o’clock when I made it to the other side of Las Vegas and rolled into the parking lot of a Super 8 motel.
Sadly, they had no rooms available. And since I was at the far end of town, I had no choice but to backtrack along my route until I could find a place to sleep. Las Vegas is a huge place with lots of rooms. How long could it take?
Well, it could take long.
Most places I passed had their No Vacancy or Sorry signs lit. But the few motels that I pulled into that seemed to offer hope had either not bothered to switch on their signs, or had just one room, the Presidential, or Honeymoon, or High-Roller Suite available. At a price that definitely exceeded my budget. And when asked if they knew of any place where I might find a room, their answer was always two-part: “No,” and, “You might try Boulder City.”
Boulder City? That’s almost back in Arizona!
So I kept going back. Back into downtown Las Vegas. Back up the road toward Henderson. Back through Henderson. Back until I had backtracked 38 miles all the way to, yes, Boulder City, where at 10:30 at night I found a room for $86 at some dive of a motel. Unbelievable, I know. Not a single room, anywhere in Las Vegas! But true!
So I had the dubious pleasure of riding through Las Vegas again the next morning, up through Nevada and past Shasta, and back into sunny Oregon where I was greeted by—and in spite of what you may have heard, this is very unusual for this state—rain.
But I got a very warm welcome when I stepped through the front door. And that only went to prove my other #1 rule of travel: The best day of any trip is the day I come home.