Rick, No doubt much of this will be familiar to you.
From Warren Harhay:
Solstice Solo
Whatever your philosophical convictions may be, most folks will agree that a primal link binds our physical earthly environment to our inner self. For a few, a particular sensitivity to the duration of sunlight is more acute than others. This awareness or affliction, and affliction may be too strong a word, causes a reoccurring period of mild depression and physical unease creeping in about the end of October and bottoming out at year's end.
Science has determined that this Seasonal Affected Disorder (SAD) is caused by the reduced exposure to light due decreased daylight of late fall and early winter. Some aboriginal area of the brain stores on its chemical abacus the recognition of this diminished light and depresses production of naturally occurring endorphins. The result being a malaise, a reduced vitality experienced by those of us burdened with SAD.
The day in which daylight is shortest and night time longest is a divining of the decay of fall-winter and the promise of longer days with the future seasonal renewal yet to come. The winter solstice has now passed. It has triumphed over declining day and ever lengthening night. Now the period of daily sunshine is once again increasing. Imperceptive at first but by seconds, but soon minutes, than eventually whole hours. The ancients celebrated this watershed day. They probably painted their faces, donned headdresses and other celebratory regalia then danced in mixed worship and wonderment.
I rode my motorcycle...
The sky is clear azure blue. A clearness unique to the dry desert sky. The air is brisk and has a sting about it. It's in the low forties in Boulder City Nevada. A place one mountain pass removed from the hustle and hustlers of Las Vegas just to the North. Not usually sharing exactly the same weather patterns and certainly not sharing the same air as its energetic northwest neighbor, the atmosphere here is still clean, free from churned silt of gamblers frenzy. We're only a mountain pass but yet a world away. I won't traverse Las Vegas to the northwest in the height of a million folks last minute frantic Christmas preparations. I know that the northerly routes will be particularly cold and blustery today, so, I'll go south.
I'll do the dam tour.
I gas up at Dales'. Funny thing, there is no Dale. It's a phony name to give "personality" and a feel of "hominess" to this convenience store/gas station. It has BOTH pay at the pump and the old fashioned non-EPA mandated vacuum hose shrouded gas nozzle. And so with the luxury of paying at the pump I leave my helmet on. Surely that contributes to my air of mysteriousness as seen by the van full of kids at the next gas island over. Here's this big guy, clad in black leather pants, matching jacket, knee high black leather boots and black full face helmet standing next to a large powerful motorcycle. My upraised faceplate reveals only piercing brown eyes peering directly back at the minivan. A brave little boy of perhaps sevenish, sheepishly waves. I return his wave, my big grin beneath the Arai's chin bar unrevealed to him.
The refueling process complete, I'm on my way. First at a modest 55mph then to 70mph. The posted limit here is 75 and since this road is heavily patrolled I observe the limit with a grudging respect. Now free from proximity to other vehicles the first rush of relief begins to clear a head fogged and clogged with the previous weeks tensions.
Others have referred to this brain cleansing to be the work of a mythical drug called motorcyclene. Like the endorphins naturally generated within the brain, this ephemeral elixir is only emitted while being transported about on two wheels. For a lucky few, myself included, motorcyclene takes effect at mild speeds and under the most timid of road conditions. Elevated speeds and severe bank angles are not necessary to be flooded with its waves of euphoria. Others, more jaded, need more challenging conditions to get the same rush of motorcyclene. A few, even less lucky, must be astride a particular brand or style of two wheel transport to extract the effects of this mysterious potion. Nevertheless, we all share that same thrill of recreation that it provides.
Thirty eight miles of road is quickly devoured. I find myself at the outskirts of the old mining town of Searchlight. The speed limit drops from 75 then to 55 and quickly to 45 as I pass a community church housed in a "double-wide" mobile home structure. Abandoned mine shafts and their attendant timber framing protrude from the hillsides as I breeze past decelerating to 35. Over the rise a flashing yellow beacon warns of the 25mph limit through the township, housing but a small casino and three gas stations.
The casino is the Searchlight Nugget, their "hook" is coffee for a dime. A friend whose family was in the Nevada gambling business BEFORE it was legal once told me that his dad sternly lectured that ALL casinos are toilets - they just flush differently. I pass the casino, a Nevada trooper pulls out from the station house midpoint in the town and proceeds north from where I just came. I wave. It couldn't hurt, I think as I idle though this town that looks just about like it did more than a half century ago.
My reverie is quickly interrupted and my heartbeat elevated as the rush of adrenaline is sent coursing through my bloodstream. A siren blasts 130 decibels from the Highway patrol car that I just waved to. A quick glance in the mirrors reveals that a not so poor soul in a new Cadillac STS is the intended target of this law enforcement attention and thankfully NOT ME! A grateful sigh accompanies the thought that perhaps that distraction of a 10 cent coffee overcame the warning of the flashing yellow ?slow-down? beacon. If so, that will be a most expensive dime coffee for that the Caddy driver.
Over the hilltop the speed limit jumps back up and I resume my pace. To the left flashing strobe lights once blinked atop giant antenna tower arrays. Here was one of the many great anomalies to be found in the Mohave Desert, an abandoned Coast Guard facility in the midst of the most arid place on earth. It is the remains of the Searchlight Loran Transmitting station. A few more miles down the road and billboards seem to magically rise out of the desert floor hawking twenty-five dollar hotel rooms and three dollar buffets. I turn left toward that other southern Nevada boomtown, Laughlin. Here in mid-April tens of thousands Bad-boys, Fatboys and Knuckleheads will gather for their annual "Laughlin Run". There will be lots of motorcycles as well.
The state has widened this roadway to provide swift four lane transport to what not too long ago was once considered but a hell hole of heat along the Colorado. This same road was at one time was a holy terror to traverse with dips and curves, hills and swerves. In other words, a great bike road. That is unless you found yourself behind Ma and Pa in their Winnebago. Today traffic is efficiently and quickly transported through a number of mountain passes with wide banked sweepers but grades still challenging for oversize vehicles. Down the mountainside to the valley carved by the Colorado River, wide vistas sweep to the north and the south and are picture book pretty.
Laughlin is not my destination today. I am on the dam tour. The first of two dams I will traverse today is Davis Dam. Built in 1944 to further control the Colorado rivers flow into Mexico, It is the southern terminus of Lake Mohave and controls the water flow for what is now known as Lake Havasu just to the south.
I cross over the Colorado river on a bridge that was "donated" to the two states by the riverfront casinos. I always marvel at the generosity of this great humanitarian act as I zoom across this great benevolent structure that bridges the cultures and populations of Nevada and Arizona. Truly, this is THE piece bridge.
[End of Part 1]
From Warren Harhay:
Solstice Solo
Whatever your philosophical convictions may be, most folks will agree that a primal link binds our physical earthly environment to our inner self. For a few, a particular sensitivity to the duration of sunlight is more acute than others. This awareness or affliction, and affliction may be too strong a word, causes a reoccurring period of mild depression and physical unease creeping in about the end of October and bottoming out at year's end.
Science has determined that this Seasonal Affected Disorder (SAD) is caused by the reduced exposure to light due decreased daylight of late fall and early winter. Some aboriginal area of the brain stores on its chemical abacus the recognition of this diminished light and depresses production of naturally occurring endorphins. The result being a malaise, a reduced vitality experienced by those of us burdened with SAD.
The day in which daylight is shortest and night time longest is a divining of the decay of fall-winter and the promise of longer days with the future seasonal renewal yet to come. The winter solstice has now passed. It has triumphed over declining day and ever lengthening night. Now the period of daily sunshine is once again increasing. Imperceptive at first but by seconds, but soon minutes, than eventually whole hours. The ancients celebrated this watershed day. They probably painted their faces, donned headdresses and other celebratory regalia then danced in mixed worship and wonderment.
I rode my motorcycle...
The sky is clear azure blue. A clearness unique to the dry desert sky. The air is brisk and has a sting about it. It's in the low forties in Boulder City Nevada. A place one mountain pass removed from the hustle and hustlers of Las Vegas just to the North. Not usually sharing exactly the same weather patterns and certainly not sharing the same air as its energetic northwest neighbor, the atmosphere here is still clean, free from churned silt of gamblers frenzy. We're only a mountain pass but yet a world away. I won't traverse Las Vegas to the northwest in the height of a million folks last minute frantic Christmas preparations. I know that the northerly routes will be particularly cold and blustery today, so, I'll go south.
I'll do the dam tour.
I gas up at Dales'. Funny thing, there is no Dale. It's a phony name to give "personality" and a feel of "hominess" to this convenience store/gas station. It has BOTH pay at the pump and the old fashioned non-EPA mandated vacuum hose shrouded gas nozzle. And so with the luxury of paying at the pump I leave my helmet on. Surely that contributes to my air of mysteriousness as seen by the van full of kids at the next gas island over. Here's this big guy, clad in black leather pants, matching jacket, knee high black leather boots and black full face helmet standing next to a large powerful motorcycle. My upraised faceplate reveals only piercing brown eyes peering directly back at the minivan. A brave little boy of perhaps sevenish, sheepishly waves. I return his wave, my big grin beneath the Arai's chin bar unrevealed to him.
The refueling process complete, I'm on my way. First at a modest 55mph then to 70mph. The posted limit here is 75 and since this road is heavily patrolled I observe the limit with a grudging respect. Now free from proximity to other vehicles the first rush of relief begins to clear a head fogged and clogged with the previous weeks tensions.
Others have referred to this brain cleansing to be the work of a mythical drug called motorcyclene. Like the endorphins naturally generated within the brain, this ephemeral elixir is only emitted while being transported about on two wheels. For a lucky few, myself included, motorcyclene takes effect at mild speeds and under the most timid of road conditions. Elevated speeds and severe bank angles are not necessary to be flooded with its waves of euphoria. Others, more jaded, need more challenging conditions to get the same rush of motorcyclene. A few, even less lucky, must be astride a particular brand or style of two wheel transport to extract the effects of this mysterious potion. Nevertheless, we all share that same thrill of recreation that it provides.
Thirty eight miles of road is quickly devoured. I find myself at the outskirts of the old mining town of Searchlight. The speed limit drops from 75 then to 55 and quickly to 45 as I pass a community church housed in a "double-wide" mobile home structure. Abandoned mine shafts and their attendant timber framing protrude from the hillsides as I breeze past decelerating to 35. Over the rise a flashing yellow beacon warns of the 25mph limit through the township, housing but a small casino and three gas stations.
The casino is the Searchlight Nugget, their "hook" is coffee for a dime. A friend whose family was in the Nevada gambling business BEFORE it was legal once told me that his dad sternly lectured that ALL casinos are toilets - they just flush differently. I pass the casino, a Nevada trooper pulls out from the station house midpoint in the town and proceeds north from where I just came. I wave. It couldn't hurt, I think as I idle though this town that looks just about like it did more than a half century ago.
My reverie is quickly interrupted and my heartbeat elevated as the rush of adrenaline is sent coursing through my bloodstream. A siren blasts 130 decibels from the Highway patrol car that I just waved to. A quick glance in the mirrors reveals that a not so poor soul in a new Cadillac STS is the intended target of this law enforcement attention and thankfully NOT ME! A grateful sigh accompanies the thought that perhaps that distraction of a 10 cent coffee overcame the warning of the flashing yellow ?slow-down? beacon. If so, that will be a most expensive dime coffee for that the Caddy driver.
Over the hilltop the speed limit jumps back up and I resume my pace. To the left flashing strobe lights once blinked atop giant antenna tower arrays. Here was one of the many great anomalies to be found in the Mohave Desert, an abandoned Coast Guard facility in the midst of the most arid place on earth. It is the remains of the Searchlight Loran Transmitting station. A few more miles down the road and billboards seem to magically rise out of the desert floor hawking twenty-five dollar hotel rooms and three dollar buffets. I turn left toward that other southern Nevada boomtown, Laughlin. Here in mid-April tens of thousands Bad-boys, Fatboys and Knuckleheads will gather for their annual "Laughlin Run". There will be lots of motorcycles as well.
The state has widened this roadway to provide swift four lane transport to what not too long ago was once considered but a hell hole of heat along the Colorado. This same road was at one time was a holy terror to traverse with dips and curves, hills and swerves. In other words, a great bike road. That is unless you found yourself behind Ma and Pa in their Winnebago. Today traffic is efficiently and quickly transported through a number of mountain passes with wide banked sweepers but grades still challenging for oversize vehicles. Down the mountainside to the valley carved by the Colorado River, wide vistas sweep to the north and the south and are picture book pretty.
Laughlin is not my destination today. I am on the dam tour. The first of two dams I will traverse today is Davis Dam. Built in 1944 to further control the Colorado rivers flow into Mexico, It is the southern terminus of Lake Mohave and controls the water flow for what is now known as Lake Havasu just to the south.
I cross over the Colorado river on a bridge that was "donated" to the two states by the riverfront casinos. I always marvel at the generosity of this great humanitarian act as I zoom across this great benevolent structure that bridges the cultures and populations of Nevada and Arizona. Truly, this is THE piece bridge.
[End of Part 1]
