Oh well, we didn't hear the alarm when it went off anyway, so we got up at 6:30 instead.

Now, the previous night I noted my odometer getting fairly close to the point where the low fuel light would come on. However, in the morning I reasoned that the area we were planning to visit was only 5 miles away, so I could easily wait until we were through to get gas. After all...the light wasn't on yet, and when it did come on, I still had ~40 miles to go before running out. Thus begins the comedy of errors which was this day....

We headed into Arches National Park, an area of Utah noted for its gorgeous rock formations. I told James that I was there to sightsee and snap pictures, not carve corners, and to expect a suitable pace. He agreed and got behind me.

I stopped here, I stopped there, snapping pictures left and right. I just left my tankbag open with the camera laying there, pulling over and snapping a shot without even getting off the bike, most of the time.

At one point I looked behind me, and no James. I hadn't seem him pull off, but I assumed he was just stopping someplace to snap a picture I hadn't wanted. I continued and came to the next major scenic area, where I turned in. I figured he'd turn in, too, since this was one of five areas specifically designed for tourist viewing and picture snapping. I rode to the parking lot and got off. No James. Oh, well...he'll be along. I ungeared and grabbed my camera, snapping off more pics. No James. I finished the roll of film. No James. WTF? He must've blown by this area and kept going. Oh well, I'll catch up to him. I geared back up and started riding back to the main road.

*Cough*

*Spit*

*Expire*

Interesting. I'm out of fuel, but my gauge shows 1/8 tank, and my fuel light's not on. However, I am well past the point the light SHOULD have come on, based on the odometer. However, this bike is new to me, and perhaps gets better mileage than mine. Unlikely, since I haven't noticed this before today, but perhaps. I also notice now that my temp gauge is showing zero. Highly unlikely...I am in the desert, after all. And, now that I think about it, since my engine's stalled but the ignition's still on, I should have a whole SHITLOAD of idiot lights lit on my dash. Oh, and my neutral light's not on, either. Well, I guess we can diagnose some kinda electrical problem here. David Ryder: Master of the Obvious.

Well, sheep shit. Running out of gas in the desert. Don't this beat all. I sit on a rock for a while and ponder my situation. A lizard looks at me and says, "Dumbass". I try to catch him, earning a further dumbass. He's only slightly slower than the speed of light. James will come along, soon, I figure. After all, it IS one of the major areas we're here to see, and EVENTUALLY he'll figure out that this is the ONLY place he hasn't been yet. So I wait.

And I wait.

And I wait s'more.

At one point I walk back to the bike and perform the Happy Gilmore quote, "WHY DON'T YOU JUST GO HOME??? THAT'S YOUR HOME? ARE YOU TOO GOOD FOR YOUR HOME???" It's possible I was starting to hallucinate at this stage.

Okay, this is getting silly. I'm getting mighty sick of red rocks, too. Now, cars go by me about every 10 minutes, so I'm not that isolated (or I might REALLY be panicking about now), so I consider the best way to flag one down. Wearing full moto-gear, I'm a fairly strange sight, but if I take it off I'm wearing Coolmax tights underneath....probably no major improvement in respectability there. Either way, upon seeing me, someone's more likely to step on the gas than the brake. I've got it...if someone sees me pushing my bike, they'll figure I need help. So I do so...sure enough, a car pulls up next to me and asks if I need help. Score!

It turns out to be a young couple from New York, in a rental car. I explain my predicament and ask if I can siphon some fuel from their car. He says sure....it's a rental, he could care less. I try, using a 7-ft. piece of icemaker tubing I keep for just such occasions. After 10 minutes of sucking unleaded fumes, he tells me he's really low on gas himself. Rats. He then says they were just heading back to Moab, and could bring me back some. Whoa, nice guy! I offer instead to travel to Moab with them and buy his gas, taking some for my own use in a Gatorade bottle. We do so, and my bike is once again purring, though the bottle wasn't that big so it won't purr for long. I thank him and his wife profusely...not only were they very nice, they were a lot of fun to rap with, especially after being alone for so long. I head for Moab.

I get about a half a mile from the main exit to the park when the engine dies again. Fortunately, it's all downhill from there, which will get me to the visitor's center at the entrance with no problem. I coast down the hills, doing the 15mph switchbacks in dead stick glide mode. Kinda cool, actually. As I slid into the parking space in front of the visitor center next to a guy getting off a BMW R1150GS, I'm sure he thought, "Damn! Those ST's really are quiet!"

At that exact moment James walks out of the visitor's center, where he was filling out the obligatory missing person form required for any dumbass tourist who goes in and doesn't come back out. The requisite dumbasses are exchanged, and I siphon some more gas out of his Interceptor, after which we head back to Moab for a complete fill-up and some lunch.

Now, yes, through my various assumptions, I most definitely earned a resounding dumbass for this day. But regardless, there's something definitely wrong with this bike now, and I no longer have the confidence to go twiddling off into the desert for sightseeing. I'm starting to get nervous about making it home at this stage, so I ask James if he minds canceling the rest of our sightseeing plans, and he doesn't, so we hit a souvenir shop in Moab and then split off to our respective destinations, he back to Arizona, me northeast toward Grand Junction, Colorado. I'm still a bit miffed about blowing off the most enjoyable day of scenery of the entire trip, but I just couldn't justify it with a limping electrical system, and I didn't know what else might go wrong next.

I focused on making it to my next destination, a city with resources which will allow me to troubleshoot, and hopefully repair my ailing steed. Fortunately, GJ's only about two hours away, and I can do that on one tank of gas, easily.

The trip to GJ takes little time and offers no excitement, other than a few brushes with Colorado's highway patrol, running new Camaros. Painted silver and with a cool diagonal blue stripe down the door, they look quite sweet. In fact, when I spotted one on the side of the road pulling someone over, I pulled over on my side and got out the camera. Apparently not recognizing my admiration for what it was, the cop immediately started stomping his feet and yelling at me, so I had to leave before I could snap it. Sheesh. I like it when someone admires MY ride. Ever since Rodney King, cops seem to get nervous around cameras....

At one point I passed an exit with a sign that said, "Services: food, gas, golf". I wasn't aware golf was a service, but there ya go. A necessity of life, apparently.

Upon my arrival to Grand Junction, I do a little wandering around the town. I've been here before and would consider relocating here sometime in the future, so I'd like to look around a bit. It's changed a great deal since I was last here, ten years ago. Gotten a lot bigger. Obviously, others have the same idea as me.  Finally I spot some kind of motorcycle shop, so I pull in to check it out and get some local info.

The place is a nondenominational shop, with about 40 bikes out in the parking lot for sale, all used. No new bikes. There's a fairly beat ST, a couple even worse Sabres, and lots of sportbikes and cruisers. I walk the showroom and check out their Tshirt selection. Nothing I had to have, but one was cool...showed a dirtbike on the ground and the text said, "Always wear clean underwear...you never know when the paramedics will have to cut your pants off." Had it come with a streetbike graphic, I'd have bought that one.

I'm approached by one of the saleskids who asks if he can help. I ask if he knows of a local campground and he replies in the affirmative, provided directions. It's close and it's a KOA, so I'm quite pleased. He gives the information without pressuring me for a sale, which was also very nice. As I'm leaving I see a door marked "Used Parts", so I go in there. Oh, man...imagine a 70 x 150-ft room filled with shelving, with nothing but used parts! All sorted by model and year! Want a rack of carbs? There's about 40 sitting there. An entire bin of shocks. The ceiling is a gleaming nest of hundreds of handlebars. Man. Very cool. A used motorcycle parts Kmart!

I head out for the campground, following the directions I've been given. They're very straightforward, yet somehow, there's no campground. Instead, the road he tells me to take becomes an entrance ramp for I-70. Well, shit. I follow it down an exit where I see a sign for the Grand Junction Visitor Information Center. Hey, that's me! I get off and go in, where I find a little old lady behind a desk. I ask about local campgrounds, and she takes me to a wall of brochures, staring at them myopically. My eyes fall on one marked, "Grand Junction Campgrounds". "This one?" I ask. "Oh, yes...there it is!" she gushes.

Opening it up I find several, but the only one near the town is in the Colorado National Monument, which is near the town, but on the other side from where I am. Oh well. I ask for directions, but she tells me she just moved to GJ. Thanks, you've been very helpful. I grab another brochure, this one with a map of GJ, and head out.

Now, the key is to be near the metro area, since I'll be needing dinner and will probably need something to fix the ST's electrical problem, too. I travel across town and out, arriving at the Colorado National Monument. If you've never been there, it's a misleading name...it's not a monument, per se. It's actually a very large canyon, resembling the Grand Canyon, but on a smaller scale. Still, it's about 20 miles long. I arrive at the western gate and look at the info plaque. Rats. The campgrounds on the EASTERN side, 20 miles away. 20 miles of 15mph hairpin curves away, that is.

Now, I'm up for carving as much as the next guy, but a.) this bike handles like shit, b.) I've got 100lbs of stuff strapped to the back, c.) I'm not so asphalt-horny I'll risk being stranded in the middle of nowhere by an unknown electrical problem just for the opportunity to carve some sweet curves, and d.) I NEED TO BE CLOSE TO THE TOWN IF I NEED PARTS! I travel inward a about a mile, which takes me about 10 minutes, just to see what it's like. Sure enough, it'll take me more than an hour to get to the campground, and then it's like as not to be a $10 charge for a chunk of rock and sand on which to set my tent. There's no grass here. This ain't happenin'. I turn around and go back into town.

Now, I rationalize that I've done everything I could be expected to do, in my attempt to remain legal here. I've talked to the locals, I've even hit up the local visitor center. And I'm still homeless. I start looking for other options.

First off, I want grass. I'm not shredding the bottom of my expensive tent on rock and gravel (which is 90% of Colorado, west of the Rockies), and my plastic groundcloth won't stand a chance, either. However, the only place there's grass around here is where someone waters regularly, and that means private property. I consider asking one of the many churches if I can throw a tent around back...they've got nice grass, and churches used to offer travelers sanctuary, right? I also keep an eye out for a motorcycle dealership...if anyone would feel sorry for a travelling motorcyclist, it'd be a motorcycle dealership. Right?

Finally I pass a small church/school, which has Spanish writing on the sign out front, and looks like it's seen a few better days. I turn around and go back, casing the joint. Seems deserted...probably one of those places which only gets used once or twice a week, and no onsite staff. I pull in and go around back. Gravel parking lot with weeds...it doesn't get used much, that's for sure. In back of the lot there's an area of trees. I park and check it out. It slopes down as it enters the trees, and there appears to be an abandoned picnic area, with several dilapidated picnic tables and the remains of a long-ago campfire. Score.

I move the bike to a less conspicuous spot and unload the tent and other camping gear. Setting up my giant tent takes a while, but I soon have a cozy (if spiderweb and anthill-infested) little camp, nestled in the trees and almost completely hidden from the road. Through the trees in the other direction I can see a neighborhood and a gravel road leading down to it, so there's always the possibility someone will walk a dog through here, or some kids will come to score some weed, but the area appears to be totally unused, so I risk it. Heheheh...I'm a squatter.

I take the bike and hit a local Abu-mart for some food, and while I'm there I call Janine from a phone booth. Hilariously, as I talk on the phone, pouring out my tale of woe, I see movement in the grass next to the parking lot. WTF? My first reaction is that I've just seen a prairie dog, but here? In a grocery store parking lot, in the middle of a fairly large city?? I tell Janine to hang on and walk closer. Sure enough, that's what it is....in the area that would be nicely manicured grass back east, that separates the street from the parking lot, is a town of prairie dogs. 5-6 of them are standing up on their hind legs, trying to figure out WTF I am. A movement closer and they all disappear down their holes. Heh...I'm used to that effect nowadays. I resolve to come back later with the camera.

After the phone call I return to my little oasis, park the bike down in the copse with me and begin the troubleshooting process, keeping a wary eye on the hundreds of anthills around me. First off, I check and then remove the carefully installed V1 electrical harness, on the supposition that somehow I screwed something up installing that. Unlikely, but then I remember my satellite communication days, when my mentor used to say, "Rookie, what did you fuck with, just before everything stopped working?" With the harness removed and everything normalized, the gauges and lights are still inoperable.

I then start unplugging and checking connectors. All appear to be fine, so I work my way down the bike's chassis, checking other connectors, though I know the odds are getting long...this is definitely something to do with the dash itself. No joy. My secluded little grotto is now littered with ST body plastic.

My troubleshooting process brings me to the fuse panel, but I'm not really considering this to be a strong possibility, since the circuits involved aren't consistently bad. For instance, sometimes the coolant gauge works, but the neutral light doesn't. If it was a single fuse, the condition would be more binary, I'd think. I pull the fuses and all are good. I'm getting a bit desperate now, and lucky me, there's now clouds of what I hope are gnats, but turn out to be mosquitoes are hovering around me, so I grab my Leatherman and start rapping on electrical connectors, harnesses, the fusebox...

*BLINK*

The entire dash console lights up (I left the key on during all this).

I rap the fusebox again.

*BLINK*

Hmmmm. Methinks we're onto something here. I wiggle all the fuses. Nothing. I rap and everything blinks again. I rip the fusebox out of its mounting point and flip it over, checking for obviously frayed or failing mechanical points. I pray to the gods that this ST doesn't have the same type of fusebox a V65 Sabre has, which starts falling apart all at once and once it starts, you can't save it. But no, everything looks solid back there, and wiggling the wires doesn't yield any results.

I check the fusebox's explanation sticker, and find the one fuse which says, "Horn, indicator". On a hunch I try my horn, and IT doesn't work, either. I yank that fuse and replace it, and everything lights up continuously. Repeated raps with the Leatherman yield nothing but a rapping noise. Joy and rapture. Apparently this fuse, which looks fine, has a hairline crack or something. It occasionally works fine, occasionally doesn't work at all, and OCCASIONALLY allows enough current for SOME of its circuits to work and some not. But the little bastard's outtathere now.

Amid clouds of nasty little mosquitoes (who have no problems biting me through my Coolmax tights), I reassemble the ST in record time, then retire to my tent for dinner and a book. Taking some of Russell Stephan's Guerilla Touring Advice(tm) I purchased a box of Handi-wipes during my store trip earlier, so I spend some time learning how to give myself a shower using these things. Memories of daughter diaper changing drift through my head as I get a whiff of the scent of the wipes.

I breath a prayer to whatever deities keep track of wayward motorcycle vagrants that no cops, psychos, bears, or moose will discover my hidey hole and drift off to sleep.