(Understatement of biblical proportions follows) This day didn't start out very well. (End understatement)

After packing the bike up I headed for gas prior to continuing. When I tried to put the bike up on the centerstand, I immediately noticed the position of the centerstand felt weird when I grounded it. Instead of having to overcome a small degree of incline, it felt like I'd have to overcome a LOT. Now, I have a lot of experience with ST1100 centerstands and this was just plain wrong. I remembered that the previous owner had mentioned an aftermarket rear shock, and I wondered if it was shorter than the OEM version, keeping the rear of the bike lower. Hmmm...wonder if this has anything to do with the weird handling? These thoughts were occupying the limited processing power of my brain as I continued to try and throw the bike onto the centerstand. My already overworked brain then came to the conclusion that I should try rocking the bike back and forth. As my monstrously heavy bike once again refused to get over the incline of the centerstand, it rolled forward and this time away from me. My brain recognized this about 1.5 seconds past the point where I could've done anything about it and over she went. It hit the tipover wing and began to tilt past that point as well, but my hand on the grip prevented that disaster, at least.

Meanwhile some guy in a pickup truck was filling up directly in front of me, and somehow managed not to notice half a ton of plastic and steel crashing to its side 15-feet away. I casually walked over and pointed out my dilemma, at which time he aided me in righting my wrong. The tipover wing had performed its job: no damage was done. I filled the bike on the sidestand and resolved to check the adjustment of that rear shock at the next overnight stop (I did, that night. As expected, its preload was set to absolute minimum, shortening the shock well below the length of the OEM unit. Maybe the previous owner was a midget.)

I walked in to pay for my gas and asked for some Windex to clean my glasses.  As I cleaned them with a paper towel, I heard a distinct crack. Sure enough, a weld on the frame had snapped. Just fucking great. I'm 2000 miles from home and I can't see. With little to lose I put my helmet on and gingerly stick my glasses on my face....the helmet holds things together, more or less. Good, cuz there's no one awake yet in this city to fix them, and it's a long way to Salt Lake City, my next destination. Off I go, wondering what else can go wrong.

As I enter Utah, the scenery takes a dramatic turn for the better. I don't know about this multiple wife thing, but Mormons sure enjoy some great scenery! Ogden is gorgeous, and as you come down into Salt Lake, the Rockies provide a spectacular backdrop to everything. The Salt Lake itself seems tremendously out of place in this environment...like Lake Erie surrounded by mountains. Weird. To me, growing up in Cleveland, areas around lakes are supposed to be flat. On the outskirts of Salt Lake City, I pass a pickup truck with one of those "pissing Calvins" on the back window....only instead of Calvin pissing on a Ford emblem, he's kneeling and praying to a cross. I figure I can die now as I've seen everything now.

I get off at a likely looking exit in downtown Salt Lake City. Since I'm looking for an optometrist, I figure I should aim for the highest density of people. I find one quickly but am told they don't do that kind of repair work. Instead I'm given a card for a guy who does, on the other side of town, and provided directions to get there. Now, for the next hour, every person who gives me directions tells me how easy Salt Lake's city plan is to understand, and attempts to give me a quick lesson. To my eye, it appears they used algebra to name their streets, but I'm sure they think it's easy to figure out. Regardless, I eventually find the place, and the guy working there tells me he can fix me up in no time. My relief is apparent, I'm sure. He goes behind a partition and the sound of jackhammering and grinding begins, much to my nervousness. After about fifteen minutes (and let me tell you, fifteen minutes without my glasses feels like about EIGHT HOURS) I hear a loud crack and hear him say, "Sonofabitch!"

Ruh roh.

I clear my throat and toss over the partition, "How we doing back there?" The amount of restraint I'm showing at this stage makes an oak tree look like a coat hanger. When you're talking about a pair of $300 glasses that you can't see without, NOTHING good comes from a cracking sound. Right about now I'm wondering what the cost would be for a quick laser corrective surgery procedure, and if there's any places that offer drive-thru service. I think to myself, "Hey, you're supposed to FIX glasses here", and hope the thought doesn't make it to my mouth.

He comes around the enclosure holding something which turns out to be the plastic nosepiece of my frame. Actually, it's the pieces of the plastic nosepiece of my frame. "These get old and brittle and tend to crack over time", he says. Bullshit...I take them out every week and clean them, and they were nice and flexible LAST week. I ask if he can fix them, or does he have another. He goes back and checks....he comes back and says he'd much rather solder two nosepad thingies to the frame. I tell him I'd much rather he didn't. I hate those things, and these frames were specifically chosen because they don't have them. He goes back and gets me a set anyway, and tries to talk me into it. I listen patiently (read: he's still alive at this point) and then say no. He sighs and goes back and eventually finds a nosepiece he thinks he can make work. Another 30 mins of jackhammer and grinding noises ensues (I consider myself fairly mechanical, and I have no idea what he could be doing back there, except possibly building a space shuttle), then he comes out with a whole pair of glasses again. Some mild tweaking is needed, but $25 later I'm able to see again. His Mickey Mouse nose piece feels funny, but it's stable. I can turn my own garage full of tools loose on it when I get home. It's time to rock.

A quick stop for food and gas was next. BTW, in Utah, "regular" gas is actually 85 octane. Nice trick, that. After a few gas stops, I try some...it's a lot cheaper, after all, and I'm tired of paying $2/gallon for gas. Sonofagun, it works great. No problems at all.

Anyway, I hit a Wendy's, but it didn't appear to have restrooms and I needed one, bad. Back on the bike and over to Burger King. Again, no restrooms. WTF? I thought it was a law you had to have restrooms if you served food?? Next place I ask and am told they're around the back of the building, like a gas station. What??? Oh, and I need a token to get in, which she provides. Utah is weird. Maybe there's a big black market for stolen toilet paper there.

After food I snag gas. At the next pump over is a sportbike covered in leopard-printed shag carpeting. When Sportboy comes out, I ask if he washes his bike or combs it. He thinks I'm being funny.

It takes me a while to free myself of Salt Lake's urban sprawl, but eventually I make it to the open road again. The suburbs give way to the desert, with the mountains in the background. I've got a full tank of gas, my vision is restored, it's dark, and I'm wearing sunglasses.....wait, scratch the last two. I wick things up a bit and settle in for a pleasant ride....

...only to come around a canyon wall and find a line of stopped cars. Now, what could be causing a traffic jam in the MIDDLE OF THE DESERT?!?!?!? I sit for a few minutes, then get impatient and leapfrog closer to the head of the line, where I see a large construction vehicle which paints double-yellow lines and edging on the road as it travels. It's going about 10mph, and has about half a mile of traffic backed up. And honest to god, the people are just following it at 10mph. There's probably 300 miles of desert in front of us, and we're all sitting behind a truck obstructing one lane of a two-lane highway.

Um.....no.

I downshift and engage warp drive, passing the remaining half mile of standing traffic and then the painting truck itself. There are construction people in orange vests standing around, walking with the machine, and they yell and wave their arms (obviously in appreciate of my beautiful bike) as I scorch past them. Sheesh. Now with nothing but a gorgeous vista of unoccupied asphalt and hectares of desert around me, I again settle in to burn some gas.

As I skirt over some low foothills of the Rockies, I pass through several areas of construction. These occasions always seem to garner me more attention than I could possibly deserve, and I start to wonder about radio communication devices between parties. In the process of carving around a nice canyon sweeper, my V1 radar detector gives a tentative chirp. Now, in the east, a chirp means nothing. You've gotta listen for a while before deciding if there's anything to be worried about. But out west, in the middle of nowhere, a chirp is serious business....no native wildlife emits microwave radiation, after all, so we're definitely talking police presence here.

I jumped on the brakes and slow in plenty of time to be going the speed limit (75) before the Utah state trooper appears, coming towards me from ahead. We pass each other and that's that. Or not. His radar signature diminishes with distance, then begins to get stronger again. I check my six and sure enough, a car has appeared about half a mile behind me. Oh brother. He thinks I'm going to fall for that old trick? Well, one thing I can say for Utah troopers....they're persistent. He stayed behind me for 20 miles. I was a model of law observation during that part of the trip.

The rest of the trip to Moab, Utah (my stopover point for the evening) went similarly: miles and miles of beautiful desert vistas reminiscent of the best Roadrunner/Coyote cartoons, punctuated by entanglements with Utah's finest. Utah seems very interested in protecting all that rock and sand from speeders, apparently.

At this moment I conceived of a good product for motorcyclists....a visor with a portion that offers a telescopic view. Like bifocals, you could just tilt your head when you want to examine whether that car a mile away has lights on the top.

Soon after this I noticed my neutral light was acting flaky....once it didn't come on, then did after a few seconds. The next time it didn't come on at all. Next time it did. Weird. Must be a sticking neutral sensor, I thought. No big deal.

I noticed this at a gas station where I stopped to do a map check and grab a snack. While I'm ungearing, I notice two guys standing by the phonebooth mounted on the wall outside the station. They're both dressed rather.....GQ-ish, have earrings in the wrong places, and have perfectly coifferred hair. Any doubts I may have about their sexual preferences are immediately removed once my helmet clears my head and I remove my earplugs. They're shouting at each other at the top of their lungs, in voices only an adolescent black girl could possess, complete with side to side head bobbing and wild gesticulations of their arms. In short, I'm witnessing that rare wildlife scene: a homosexual cat fight.

From the screaming I sift out the basic premise: Maurice did something to piss off Percy royally, and they're in Percy's car. Percy threw Maurice's silly ass out at this gas stop, and is about to leave him there. Maurice is on the phone, trying to locate someone to come get him, while Percy baits him mercilessly. I go into the gas station for some beef jerky and Gatorade.

When I come out I studiously examine the scenery while standing at my bike, enjoying my snack. A Harley guy pulls up to a pump and gasses up, giving first them a look, then one for me. Eyebrows are raised. After a few minutes I become cognizant of the fact that Percy has walked away and Maurice has been yelling something, apparently directed at me....

"Sir?"

"Sir!"

"SIR!!!"

I turn towards him.

"WHERE ARE WE?"

"Um....you're about 20 miles north of Moab."

"Yes, but WHERE are we? What TOWN??"

"You're NOwhere. There's no town here. You're at a crossroad of I-70 and 191, about 20 miles north of Moab."

"Am I in Colorado? What?"

"You're in Utah."

He goes back into his wild conversation with his would-be savior on the telephone, and I go back to my beef jerky. The Harley guy has left.

As I approached the outskirts of Moab, I saw a strange sight...a dust storm, right off the highway. Perhaps 50-ft tall, it spun and twisted just like a real tornado; the red dust made it visible. I hurried by, not wanting to find out if it liked motorcycles at all.

Arriving mid-afternoon in Moab proper, I wasted no time locating my accommodations for the night, a hostel called "The Lazy Lizard". It came recommended by a travel guide someone gave me as a present for fixing their bike last year. For those unfamiliar with hostels, it's basically a dormitory-style place of lodging, often frequented by students and other el-cheapo travelers like me. I was meeting James Stoehr (Arizona) here, and we were going to sightsee southern Utah the next day.

The place was run by a hippy-ish guy who was so laid back I thought he might ooze through the floorboards any second. He explained the costs and accommodations: $7/night for a dorm bed, $28/night for a double occupancy cabin. I figured James might prefer something a little ritzier than a dorm bed, so I got us a cabin and settled in to wait for him. The cabins were very similar to those at the Blue Ridge Motorcycle Campground, complete with electricity and linens. Seemed very clean, and mine even came with a friendly cat on the porch. I unloaded the bike and went back to the office to use my laptop and get some email. James arrived while I was there.

I gave him the tour and we headed off to Moab's "downtown" area, for dinner and a night of shooting pool. We both got a giggle when, after shooting several games of really bad billiards, some college dudes put their quarters up, thinking me an easy mark. I cleaned their clocks, badly. One guy threw his cue at the wall, he was so disappointed. Hey, with James, I was concentrating on the conversation. With them I concentrated on playing pool. Heheheh.

Back at the cabin, James put in a vote for getting up at the buttcrack of dawn to begin sightseeing. *Sigh* Another morning person. We then added insult to injury by talking into the wee hours of the morning.