MotoGP Redux: July 3rd

The road is calling, and I'm fixin' to answer. But first, Gabrelle and I drive out to Tent Rocks and explore the beauty of natural destruction. It's hot but dry, and the same wind that inexorably sculpts the nearby canyon also keeps us comfortable during the hike. Like most formations in the West, it is nearly impossible to comprehend the scope of Tent Rocks; the forces involved dwarf our transient existence so thoroughly that any depth of understanding would surely reduce any sane man into a babbling fit of tearful insignificance.

Somehow keeping my dignity intact, we hike the easy trail through the canyon. Even with an inboard passenger, Gabrelle manages better than some of the hikers we encounter – they almost look disappointed to hear about the incline and subsequent views ahead. And the views are spectacular throughout the canyon. In its depths, we are surrounded by giant crevasces and cascades that bespeak the chaotic power of nature, marked with soothingly regular grooves that imply artistic order. How could Native Americans, or any early explorer, have found this place and not assumed a greater power crafting such exquisite beauty? It's not the last time I'll wonder this on my journey.

It's time to manifest destiny and say goodbye to both New Mexico and my friends. I make it to the Arizona border in time to catch a glorious sunset illuminating the rocky red terrain. Just after nightfall, I reach the Petrified Forest National Park. It's too dark to tell stem from stone, so it's more or less a convenient spot to fire up the grill and catch some Z's. It's federal land, which pretty much amounts to a welcome mat for the sleep-in-the-car crowd. A few other last-minute holiday travelers pull in for the night, forming an impromptu slumber chain on Uncle Sam's porch.

goodbye, you cardboard talking head

I pretty much stopped watching the 24/7 news networks after the election. It's telling that an entire 90-minute morning news show can be summarized in five or six bullet points, so I'd rather spend 10 minutes surfing than watch a bunch of media types feign personal banter and lob softballs at near-scripted guests. Consequently, I hadn't even realized that Bill Hemmer – one of the most ingratiating and painfully square news "personalities" (because the term "reporter" hardly applies) had left the show.

Hemmer, who made his reputation by lingering around dangerous and unpalatable locations – Kosovo, hurricane landings, and Broward County, to name a few – will continue the trend when he takes his anchor-approved side-parted coif across town to Fox News. While such a move is the career equivalent to selling your soul, a journo-tainer with Hemmer's pedigree is clearly more interested in ratings than integrity. Case in point, Hemmer-style, from the Washington Post:

"I've watched Fox News grow for nine solid years. I find it to be an aggressive network. I find people show up every day to win, and that appeals to me . . . For several years, Fox has been the New York Yankees, and that's a tough lineup to crack. I just feel fortunate to be given the opportunity to play on that team."

What a purist. News professionals used to covet jobs at CBS because of Edward R. Murrow's legacy of truth and honest journalism. Now they flock to FNC because Bill O'Reilly and Sean Hannity can bully guests and spout partisan propaganda under the guise of information. Pawns like Bill Hemmer are sock puppets that happily ingest whatever directives the clammy hands of corporate leadership shove into them. Enjoy the act, Bill. Just don't expect to feel anything substantive inside when the master yanks his hand back out. Roger Ailes may not be the devil, but there ain't no Daniel Webster walking the FNC halls either.

goodbye, you crotchety faux-scotsman

James Doohan, of "beam me up, Scotty" fame, died yesterday. In a fitting, if grandiose gesture, his family will have his ashes lofted into orbit on a future space shuttle mission. Not bad for a guy who got typecast on a short-lived sci-fi show from the 60's.

Members of the early Trek family have fallen on both sides of the fickle celebrity blade. In the 70's, Doohan career was in the toilet; Star Trek was long gone, and he was relegated to guest appearances on Fantasy Island with the likes of Charo and Roddy McDowell. The stigma of shouting "I canna gi'ya much more, Cap'n" in an affected brogue had severely limited his acting opportunities. The success of the Trek movies brought a resurgence of popularity for Scotty and the other cast members, turning the typcasting into a profitable and welcome association.

The news coverage from CNN and BBC shows just how enduring the Trek actors have become. Not many B-list actors (and that's being generous) generate such recognition upon passing. But the unapologetic hopefulness of the 60's Trek, while campy and naive, has endured across decades, propelling its early stars to iconic status along the way.

When James Doohan died, a little piece of the Trek dream died with him. It seems just a touch less likely that any of us will be warping across the galaxy or beaming down to planets if ol' Scotty himself didn't make it. Hope will have to live on in re-runs and DVD, ready to inspire future generations to reach for the stars and live in peace when we get there.

MotoGP Redux: July 2nd

Today's miles are unproductive in the sense that they circle back to Santa Fe, but in all other ways they are amazing. James and I mount up bikes and cruise NM 4 through the Jemez Mountains, which proves to be a roller coaster of sweepers and elevation changes, with just enough tight switchbacks and natural distractions to keep the speeds somewhere south of indecent. We stop to admire the majesty of the caldera and the mystery of Soda Dam before retracing our path through the undulating curves and away from the Albuquerque traffic.

We swap bikes mid-ride, James taking the reigns of my FZ1 and I aboard his '89 Ninja 750. Despite the years and miles that separate our bikes, it is a thrill to ride the bad boy bike of the pre-Simpsons era. While it's almost old enough to be vintage, the Ninja's performance is potent even by current standards, with cutting-edge DNA that lives on in Kawasaki's motorcycles 15 years later. The motor emits a raspy growl in the low range, but above 8,000 rpms builds to a pleasing howl that belies the stock pipes. Its 140-section rear tire seems a bit girly given the modern penchant for fat rubber at the back, but it sticks just fine for our canyon carving and promotes turn-in that borders on telepathic. And guess which bike stands out amid the wash of look-alike race-replica wannabes?

Later that afternoon, I trade the visceral for the cerebral and tour St. John's College with Gabrelle. Where most institutions tout their dominating athletes or esoteric research grants, this one defers to the collected wisdom of history's philosophers and thinkers. Nestled within the beauty and solitude of Santa Fe's rolling foothills, St. John's inspires introspection and discussion above competition and status, which makes it a rarity in U.S. higher education. A graduate degree here probably won't net you a six-figure Wall Street salary, but it almost certainly grants the enlightenment to realize that such ends are bullshit anyway.

The rest of the day is spent lounging around downtown Santa Fe, which provides mediocre chai served up by an arrogant and/or intently vacant barrista. I gather this happens a lot here, what with the mix of money and pretension that eminates from the immediate area. The universe then conspires to prevent us from watching anime or eating blizzards, perhaps in retribution for our mockery of the "GANDALF" license plate spied earlier, so we settle in for a night of videos and popcorn.

Nights of comfort and mornings of leisure are almost at an end.

MotoGP Redux: July 1st

From Brady TX to Grady NM, things look pretty similar; desert scrub stretches out into the distance, only disturbed by few small towns and fewer farms and ranches. I belt along TX-176 at the designated 75 miles per, noting the increasing density of oil and gas drills – most of them rusted and inactive. My only pause before leaving Texas comes in the town of Andrews to admire the huge sign proclaiming the town's love of God, Country, and Free Enterprise. Halleleuja!

Crossing the border into New Mexico, the world seems to fall two branches further down the ugly tree. The scrub is scrubbier, the oil drills are more numerous, and the refining / sulfer smell that started in Andrews has definitely become more prominent. Maybe I'm just ticked that the road narrows and the speed limit drops to 55. No matter, the drive to Carlsbad is easy enough.

Carlsbad is best known for a series of caverns that formed inside a fossil reef on the edge of a prehistoric inland sea. Jim White, a local rancher, explored and popularized the caverns in the early 20th century, leading up to its designation as a national park in 1930. In the intervening years, paths have been paved, elevators installed, and a gift shop added underground, but most of the interior retains a stark, primordial atmosphere.

I walk the caves for several hours, enjoying the solitude and 55 degree interior as a relief from highway droning. The formations and shapes are stunning, and the transition from claustrophobic passages to cathedral-esque chambers defies my comprehension. I remember visiting caves as a child, thinking that the "curtains" formed by water and deposits looked like bacon. I don't see it all now, but the impression persists. Eventually the crowds catch up to me, the imaginary adventure becomes a chore, and it's time to leave.

I weigh my options since the regional camping is neither enticing nor available (oh yeah, July 4th weekend), and make for Santa Fe to visit friends rather than delaying in the desolation of Southeastern New Mexico. Along the way, I stop in Roswell, of UFO fame. I didn't have high expectations, but even the alien kitsch was pretty lame. The pastiche of newspaper articles and homemade alien-ana at the UFO museum failed to shed much light on the "visitation" that has dictated the town's identity. Even the town's 4th of July festival is alien themed, with more little green men than red white and blue on display. The downtown strip is closed off for the festivities, but the sidewalks are easily passable due to the dearth of revelers. Somewhere just off the strip, a blues band plays for a crowd of none. Thankfully I find a nice coffee shop and enjoy a really GREAT chai latte that had absolutely nothing to do with aliens or UFOs.

Full of caffeine and sugar, I hump it up 285 to Santa Fe, marking the gradual elevation change and scenic beauty with appreciation. I meet Gabrelle and James for dinner, and we wander the rustic adobe of downtown. It's like being in a foreign land that has never discovered limestone walls or shingled roofs. Also, there are no Wal-Marts or Starbucks to speak of ... I'm sure they lurk nearby, but out of sight is out of mind. Seems like a good place to hole up for a couple days before traversing more big square states.

MotoGP Redux: June 30th

Today is a series of tests. I'm trying to sneak out of town before rush hour to make time driving rather than sitting in traffic. Of course, the Gods of Work see things differently, and they insist I tithe a full day before leaving around 5:30. Surprisingly, traffic is far less brutal than the heat, so away I go. First test, passed.

Somewhere around Johnson City, the second test is issued. The "check engine" light, which has stayed dim since my pre-trip service a couple weeks back, returns to form. Rationally, I know it's most likely an O-2 sensor feeling a little sluggish or something equally benign, but the weight of a continental crossing sits in the back of my mind. Annoyance ensues.

First stop is Mason, TX to visit with friends. It's a nice respite from the blazing sun and the idiot light. We munch on burgers and chat until 10pm, and a sleep over grows tempting. I then remember that the 120 miles I've just covered is a rather pathetic dollop of water in the bucket of travel I'm trying to accomplish, and push on.

I'm taking a Northwest passage on 87 through San Angelo. It's a part of the state I've never visited and, once past Brady, won't try to again. The Hill Country gives way to flat lands of the Permian Basin, and the accustomed rolling terrain turns into a droning straightaway. I'd like to make it out of the state, but Big Spring seems like my last opportunity to get wireless access (part of my work-release program). Beyond there, it's a long and lonely road through small towns ... the risk of a secondary route.

The final test comes at the Holiday Inn Express where I pay too much only to find that their Internet is broken. This hotel annoyance on top of my auto aggro and limited 250 mile clip brings my cumulative grade down to a C- for Haulin' Ass 101. But it's still early in the semester; tomorrow the trip begins in earnest, and I know I can make it up on the mid-term.