7:15 a.m., Saddlemen parking lot, South Susana Road, Rancho Dominguez, California. Blue sky, warm breeze. A full tank of premium for my Victory Vegas; a cup of coffee and a sticky donut for me. I was set to begin the longest motorcycle journey I’ve done yet, and I wasn’t about to taint it with a healthy breakfast.

RoadBike’s Associate Editor Steve Lita and I were joining about 20 other people for a ride to Sturgis that was sponsored by Saddlemen, Iron Works magazine, Bell Powersports, Edelbrock, and Progressive Suspension. The group included industry folks, firemen, writers, and friends. I rode the Vegas, while Steve borrowed a Royal Star Venture from Yamaha. Saddlemen’s Larry Langley had planned a scenic route for us, and he and his wife, Sue, would be following in a chase truck. As we pulled out of the parking lot, I was buzzing with caffeine-fueled excitement.

Day One: Desert Blues

Minutes later, we were heading east in the carpool lane of 91. The pace was quick and steady, and as we wound through fast sweepers on the highway, I grew comfortable with the group. We stayed on interstates through I-10; just before North Palm Springs, we turned north onto 62, a two-lane highway that occasionally cut through small towns. By then, the landscape had become much drier, with bare, brown mountains and scrubby land. In Twentynine Palms, we stopped to meet up with three more riders: Scott Hodgson of Progressive Suspension and his friends Sean and Arthur. At that point, the company broke into smaller groups, and I found myself riding with just Steve Lita and Saddlemen’s Tom Monroe.

The small towns soon faded away, and we began riding through the desert, surrounded by flat land and a thick, thick heat. There were no crossroads, not even a shoulder, just miles of sand lining a straight road that stretched as far as I could see. As the miles eked by on the tripmeter, I lurked at the edge of sanity, fighting the pressures of heat and boredom. The only parts of the scenery that piqued my interest were the scattered clusters of storm clouds shedding lightning bolts and rain in the distance.

We took a short break in Amboy, a nonexistent town with a motel, a gas station, a tiny airplane hangar, and a post office. Everything but the post office appeared to have been closed for ages. The heat was making me sleepy, and the air smelled of sage, earth, and ozone from the distant lightning.

Continuing on, we hit a point where 62 had been closed because of storm damage. A detour on a secondary road led us farther north and slightly west. Just after we crossed under I-40, we found a service station and stopped to fill up. We learned that 40 East was closed, so we decided to continue on the secondary road towards I-95, which would take us toward Vegas. But traffic was at a standstill on the secondary road, and it was slow going for miles. Finally, we came to an intersection where we turned left, away from all the cars. We hit the gas.

And then we hit the storm.

Suddenly, I could barely see Steve’s taillights through the pounding rain. Gusts of wind shoved me across my lane, and I hung off the right side of thebike, leaning into the wind, trying to follow Steve’s track through the water. I told myself, “You can do this,” over and over. Finally, we found a gas station and pulled off to wait for the storm to pass.

When the sky cleared, we set out into the desert again, with a horseshoe of storm clouds around us. Rain shadows fell over the land to my right and left, and the sky behind us was nearly black. Escaping most of the rain, we reached I-15 and took it up through Vegas, all the way to our destination for the evening:

St. George, Utah. One section of the highway was full of fast, fun sweepers and surrounded by tall rock walls. Though I could barely see the landscape, I felt its powerful presence.

We reached our hotel around 10 and ate dinner at a diner next door. I took a piece of warm apple pie back to my room for dessert, but I was asleep before I ever took a bite.

Day Two: Unforgettable Utah

It’s amazing what a little coffee and the prospect of a new day’s riding can do to chase away the morning fog. I felt refreshed as soon as we hit the road, heading north again on 15. We left the interstate at Hwy 9, which took us through Zion National Park. The road twisted and turned, climbing through spectacular red rock formations, and the group quickly spread out. Steve and I took our time, enjoying the scenery.

We all regrouped at the intersection with 89, and then took 89 north to Long Valley Junction, where we turned onto 14 for a scenic loop. We cruised through rolling hills and crossed over streams on a gently winding road. Eventually, we turned back onto 89 in Panguitch. There we picked up Hwy 12, soon entering one of the most incredible landscapes I’ll ever see.

It began with Bryce Canyon National Park, where gray mountains and red mesas dominated the landscape, wearing long layers of time. As we continued through Escalante and Glen Canyon, tall spikes of red rock jutted into the deep blue sky like candles melting in the sun. Leaving 12, we turned onto Hwy 24, and the scenery continued to blow my mind. I couldn’t imagine a more perfect day of riding.

Until it abruptly ended.

Riding towards the tail of the group, I turned a corner and saw a giant cloud of dust. A pickup truck with a horse trailer was just rolling to a stop across the road, and a rider was on the ground beside it. I felt sick as I recognized Arthur’s bike. I pulled onto the shoulder and took a look at the situation, trying to figure out how to help. Another one of our riders had crashed in a ditch across the road, his bagger sitting upside down in the dirt. He was up and walking around, albeit disoriented. Arthur wasn’t moving.

There we were, in the middle of nowhere, with a critically injured rider and a couple of trashed motorcycles, trying to pick up the pieces. Drivers of other vehicles helped out until the local sheriff and EMTs arrived, followed by long hours of medical intervention, organizing, and explanations. Finally, the injured riders were driven to the nearest town, and Arthur was transported by aircraft to a hospital, where he slowly began his recovery. For the first time, I faced the fact that in remote parts of the country, medical help can be a very long ways away.

Some people headed off to follow the injured riders, leaving a small group of us to finish the day together. Skipping a previously planned loop into Moab, we followed 24 to I-70 and took it all the way to our destination, Grand Junction, Colorado. I rode in sadness, occasionally terrified when the bike wobbled in a crack or hit a bump. I didn’t want to be riding, and I wondered if, once the trip was over, I’d ever want to ride on the street again.

Day Three: High Points

A big, fat breakfast was the only way to start this day. Eggs, home fries, French toast, and pots of coffee. We decided to cut out a portion of the planned ride, which would have taken us on a scenic loop along Hwy 133, ending on I-70; we’d just stick to the interstate instead. It was a beautiful ride, actually, sweeping through mountains. Feeling a bit melancholy, I’d at least gotten over my fear from the night before. Good news that morning was that Arthur had stabilized.

We exited the interstate at a road that I don’t have a number for but won’t ever forget. It started out as a pleasant, narrow, twisting street with a stream on one side and a rock face on the other. Then, without warning, it turned to packed clay covered with a layer of gravel. I hate gravel. And I’m talking about 30 miles of the stinking stuff. So here I am, plodding around blind curves on a narrow road with an easy drop-off into a stream, riding on a tricky surface. You don’t even want to know what I was saying to myself.

Finally, it ended. The road T’ed onto a byway, where Saddlemen’s Tom Seymour, Scott, and a few other people were waiting for the rest of us, laughing. As freaked out as I was, it was hard not to smile. I’d made it. Doc Robinson of Australia’s Heavy Duty magazine said, “Hey, Jessica,” laid on his belly, and kissed the ground. Amen, amigo.

We took 131 up through Toponas and Oak Creek, heading for US 40. When we stopped for lunch, I felt extraordinarily sleepy. I downed an energy drink and a cheeseburger, and we hit the road again. US 40 was absolutely beautiful, winding through a national forest with tall, white aspens lining the road. The curves were fast and fun. But I felt strange.

We stopped at a turnoff at the intersection of 40 and 14, which also happened to be on the Continental Divide. My riding had deteriorated quite a bit, and I decided it was time for a break. (It didn’t dawn on me until later that I had elevation sickness.) Tom Seymour volunteered to stay with me as the other riders continued on. After a short rest, we pointed the bikes east on 14, and I followed Tom at an easy pace. The next few hours became, for me, the greatest part of the trip.

I felt revived as we rolled past aspen stands and farmland. The farther we went, the more incredible the ride became. When we began to follow a river, winding in nice, round curves through stunning rock formations, I knew I’d found my new favorite road. In the late afternoon sun, the sparkling water and deep green foliage breathed new life into my weary bones.

At last, we came to the intersection with I-287, which we’d take to I-25 and our destination that night, Loveland, Colorado. Less than an hour to go, according to the map. But an accident on 287 had the highway tied up, so we asked for directions at a gas station. A friendly woman explained a detour: Go 7 miles that way, turn onto Owl Canyon Road, and follow the signs for 25, about 12 miles on Owl Canyon. “There’s just one thing,” she said, pausing. What? “ Owl Canyon is a dirt road.”

I looked at Tom. Tom looked at me. He cracked a grin, and despite three days’ worth of mental and physical exhaustion, I started laughing. “This is what motorcycle adventures are about,” Tom said. And that’s when it hit me: If you never do anything challenging, you’ll never have great stories. Bring on the dirt. We found Owl Canyon and eased the bikes along the empty, rural road with the sun setting behind us. By the time we hit pavement again, I was giddy with pride and relief.

We made it to Loveland right on time for dinner, and were greeted at the restaurant by a cheering, clapping group.

Day Four: Wrapping It Up

The last day of riding mostly involved hauling across flat land on Hwy 85 in Wyoming, as we planned to hit Sturgis by mid-afternoon. In South Dakota, we took 18 to 385, encountering many other riders as we neared the rally. The ride along 385 was pretty, but I was looking forward to the end. The roads became increasingly full of bikers, and we moved along at a slow pace, sitting at traffic lights and tooling along crowded streets while the heat rose around us.

Finally, we hit Main Street in Sturgis. Crawling along at an excruciating pace, we at last reached the Motorcycle Museum, where Larry, Sue, and a number of other people were waiting to greet us. As we sat down to eat, all the weariness, stress, and sadness I’d experienced was drowned out by waves of accomplishment. I knew that street riding would still be part of my life.

Thank you very much to all the companies for organizing this incredible trip. Thank you to all the riders, who were a pleasure to spend time with and made the journey unique. Most of all, thank you to Tom Seymour, who showed me that the road to adventure is always at my feet. RB