The Wrong Way Home

by Bill Dragoo

Day 1 May 13, 2026

Am I nuts? Some might think so. I do. But they say that if you think you are crazy, you’re probably okay. Yet I have willingly boarded United Airlines Flight 4668 out of Denver, the second leg of my journey to Bakersfield, California. Looking around I wonder where my fellow passengers are headed. What adventures await them at their destination. I feel sorry for them too. It is unlikely any of them are on the same mission.

I left my home town of Norman, Oklahoma and the smile of my beautiful wife this morning with little more than an ambition to ride a motorcycle near my age over more than 1,500 miles across the desert and mountains. My kit consists of one extra pair of pants, two spares of underwear, a little foul weather gear and a minimal pack of tools. Oh, and a points file I’ve had since I was 14… I will probably need it.

I turn 71 in four months. The bike, a magnificently restored 1967 BMW R69s, sits waiting in the workshop of David Hostetter, long distance traveler in his own right. David brokered the deal between me and Joy Blake, the widow of the collector who had sponsored the build of this marvel of machinery. Scott Haith was himself 70 when he began collecting rare vintage iron. He quickly made up for lost time, accumulating some 40-plus magnificent motorcycles before succumbing to cancer at only 74.

Where Scott’s dream was to collect, mine is to experience these early marvels of engineering in the wild, where they were meant to be enjoyed, patina-ed and abraded by the very elements that would one day return them, and us, to dust. Fortunately, unlike us, they were designed to be refurbished over and over again and parts are still available. As long as there are enthusiasts and mechanics, these relics will live on.

Jim Reinert had restored this bike at Scott’s request and painted it a rare but correct Granada red. Post restoration, “Rot,” as it was called, meaning red in German, sat in Scott and Joy’s living room another five years after his passing. Thanks to the efforts of Dave Hostetter, Rot has been awakened from slumber and prepared for this epic journey. I feel a tension between eager anticipation and trepidation as we begin our descent into Bakersfield. I will meet my ride home in less than two hours. I like the way an airliner feels when throttled back… the cabin grows quiet and the air gets smooth, my thoughts are amplified. Thoughts of Danny Liska, who wrote Two Wheels to Adventure about his fascinating travels from the Arctic Circle to the tip of South America aboard his R60, and of a man my age droning across endless miles of the desert and mountains of the American West.

Day 2 May 14, 2026

Yesterday’s arrival was without fanfare. Dave picked me up in his wife’s black BMW X5. How apropos. We were only a few minutes from his home. I would finally see the apple of my eye in the flesh, or metal, as it were.

Rot, pronounced rote, sat alone on Dave’s Handy Lift, gleaming and eager to take us home. Or so I had hoped. The build was a decade old and as with humans, stuff happens to a machine when it sits idle too long. Also, Rot was built to show… some might say . . . not to go. When a motorcycle is routinely ridden, things that loosen, dry out, rot or leak are generally taken care of in short order. Bikes that sit in living rooms only have one job. To look good. And not to leak. Okay, that’s two but, given enough time, even leaks stop manifesting themselves. Dave had already ordered a new fuel petcock and put enough fuel in the tank to get the motor running. He even took it for a brief spin and most everything seemed to be in order. Dave was struggling between difficult medical procedures so any effort to restore life into the old Beemer was an effort and very likely against doctor’s orders. And, it’s easy to take a bike’s mechanical state for granted when standing before such a nice looking machine. I didn’t succumb to the temptation and had built in an extra day in my schedule to sort things out. Hopefully it would be enough.

Dave replaced the leaking petcock while I inspected the fuel lines. On the outside they looked great. Original style braided cotton over rubber. But, upon closer inspection, we could see internal cracks, lots of them actually, extending deep into the inside diameter. Dave came to the rescue with some fresh, correct braided fuel line, .032 stainless steel safety wire and a pair of aircraft safety-wire pliers. I had used a now vintage version of these for over half a century so on we went, tightening and tidying up potential leaks before they happened.

We tended to the engine oil, transmission, final drive and drive shaft tube oils. All were fresh and full with the exception of the driveshaft tube. It only holds 150cc but the drain plug wasn’t even wet. I had discovered a crack in the driveshaft boot and wondered… even though it’s an uphill exit, could the fluid have seeped out there? The boot was badly dry rotted but showed no signs of gear oil. The lack of residue was a red herring. I filled the tube and did my best to tape up the boot.

A few screws and bolts were found to be loose here and there and the left turn signal didn’t work. I traced the fault to a loose wire in the switch and made the simple repair. Still no signal though. Pulling the cover off the Hella Bar End turn signal, I discovered there was also no bulb. Dave produced a 12v bulb which worked but was dim and blinked slowly in this 6-volt system. Problem mostly solved but time to move on. We discovered a couple of missing nuts and bolts and replaced them within a few minutes. So far so good. It was dinner time and we were to meet the previous owner’s widow, Joy Blake, for dinner at The Pyrenees Diner in a sketchy part of Bakersfield. Dinner was delicious and Joy was, well, Joyful. She commanded me to take care of Rot and send pictures from my trip. I promised to comply.

We were almost ready for a shake down ride… or so we thought. This morning I added gasoline and fired up the bike. I was eager to take it on a spin. The tape we had wrapped around the drive shaft boot had already failed. There beneath the bike something nobody 1,500 miles from home with only an old motorcycle to get him there ever wants to see. Major drips under the bike. A closer look revealed the unwelcome truth. My makeshift repair on the driveshaft boot had done zilch to staunch the oil from flowing out of the drive shaft tube.

What to do? Tomorrow is departure day and my new bike is bleeding like a blown aorta. I don’t have a replacement boot and, besides, even if I did it’s no small task to change it out.

Wheels turned in my head. I had been in worse situations before but at the moment I couldn’t quite recall when. Okay it wasn’t as bad as the time my parachute failed, or as urgent, or maybe that time my MG Midget quit running during a blizzard on a lonely road at midnight, but both of those times I was much closer to my destination. Then it occurred to me. What if I cut up an inner tube and made a makeshift boot? I would still need to pull the driveline to slip it over the universal joint gap… or would I? With a shortage of used tubes, Dave sacrificed a new one for the cause. This would be an experiment but all good solutions must evolve from something. Not trying leads to dying, or in this case something less dramatic but still quite traumatic. I was determined to ride this bike home. At least to start or die trying.

I cut the tube into strips and burnished the ends where they would overlap. A generous application of rubber cement and “Viola.” Rot had a new boot. I refilled the drive shaft housing and rolled the bike off the lift and onto the driveway. It was time for the shakedown ride.

My first stop was the Union 76 Gas station three miles away. Gear oil poured from a gap in my repair. Rubber cement, as it turns out, melts in the presence of Valvoline GL5. This was getting old. Dave and I were both hungry and weary from working all day on one solution after another to prevent a litany of various possible failures. Dave was all in. I wanted to give it one more try before packing it in and ordering a new boot from across the country or renting a U-Haul. I unceremoniously removed the bands holding the dripping slab of rubber from the drive shaft tube and tossed it aside. I used a box knife and cut another section of inner tube twice as long. Within minutes I had burnished the ends, double wrapped it around the gap and secured it with more rubber cement. This time, however, I also added a deep and wide strip of black RTV as a barrier between the caustic gear oil and soluble rubber glue. Now, more confident than ever, I refilled the drive shaft tube and went to wash my hands so we could go to dinner. As we walked past the bike Dave said, “Uh oh!” Dang! A puddle was already forming under the bike… again. I inspected my repair and although the overlap had held, the front clamp was too large to take up all the slack between the clamp and tube. I sliced off a narrow band of rubber, loosened the clamp and reassembled the whole affair. Slipping a piece of cardboard under the repair we headed for dinner. When we returned the cardboard was dry. Thank God! Finally!

Day 3 May 15, 2026

Dave and I shared one last breakfast before my 7:00 a.m. departure. Highway 178 took me on my first leg towards Death Valley. It did not feel smart to include that route on an unproven, sixty-year old machine but what the heck. It would be scenic, epic and all the “icks” that constitute a proper adventure.

As we worked our way up the mountain pass the morning air grew cooler. Goose bumps formed but I wasn’t sure if it was the mild chill or the eager anticipation of finally getting started. Whatever it was, it felt good. I wanted to soak it up because I knew that later it would be very warm.

Kern River Canyon Road split off the main road and I was compelled to take it. This narrow, patched county road climbed on above Highway 178, offering spectacular views into the canyon and ever tightening turns. I had the road to myself. Except for an army of chipmunks, jackrabbits and, I was almost certain, at least one or two Jackalopes who tried racing us down the road. Sadly, one quick chipmunk dove straight into my front wheel. I felt the thump almost the instant he appeared. It was a surprisingly abrupt thump considering his small size. I suppose they are relatively dense. At least he most certainly was.

I was getting more confident on the curves. The tires were 11 years old so there was some concern there and I took it easy at first but the bike seemed to urge me on. The Germans knew something about handling. Rot ate the curves like candy and I just hung on for the ride. It was exhilarating to be aboard such an old motorcycle on such an old and twisty road watching how they got along. It seems they had been friends for a long time.

And then there was the thump. Not the chipmunk but a mechanical something… hard to identify. It was not a miss but a slip-and-grab kind of sensation in third gear around 40 mph. It was almost imperceptible but still, definitely there. I would need to keep an eye on this

Day 3 Part 2

That thump, the one that wasn’t the kamikaze chipmunk, returns often when accelerating in third gear and passing 40 mph. It hasn’t changed at all and there is no mechanical sound… just a thump. Like something slips then grabs. The clutch is tight and works as it should. No slippage under hard power dumps. What could it be? I suppose if it’s serious we will all know soon enough.

Leaving the mountains, I gassed up in Ridgeline. Temps were rising now and the chill, for all the reasons it first showed up, was gone. Eager anticipation and cool air were only a memory. I was in it now. The bike was still running great although at any altitude at all its 42 horses felt more like gerbils. Rot did have legs though, compared to my old R60/2. It would easily cruise at 65-70 and clearly, given a little time, could do more. I choose not to push it though. It’s still an old bike on old tires. I came upon Trona Pinnacles and thought back to when I was there in 2010. I had just won my place on Team USA for the International BMW GS Trophy, to be held in South Africa. After the contest I had made a trip north with James Pratt, one of my first publishers and his wife Kay. Susan joined us too for the first few days as we toured the area around Sutter’s Mill where gold was first discovered in 1848… the event that started the famous 1849 Gold Rush. Returning from that and other exploits on the Lost Coast Trail, I worked my way south again before crossing the Sierra Nevadas. I had taken the sand road out to the pinnacles and promptly gotten myself stuck to the belly pan in the deep sand. Prayer and low air pressure finally freed me from my predicament, sweaty, worn and humbled.

The town of Trona seemed practically abandoned today as I rolled past. Skeletons of mining equipment were dark against the sky and still as corpses. Sort of a post-apocalyptic setting. I topped off my fuel, chatted briefly with a couple from France and moved on. It grew hotter as I closed in on Death Valley. The last mountain pass before descending to sea level took me back in my mind’s eye to when I first crossed Death Valley back in 1978. My wife and I were riding new 1977 Honda CB 750 and 550 Super Sports. We had been out for almost a month. It was growing late and we needed showers. We shut off our motors and coasted several miles down into the valley. It was pretty surreal, never having been there before. I had only seen it in the Twenty Mule Team Borax-sponsored TV show “Death Valley Days.” There it was in real life. And it was 125 degrees. Pretty spectacular. We rolled into Stovepipe Wells and rented a campsite at the rocky campground there. I asked the attendant if the showers had hot water. He only laughed. Both taps, as it turned out, only dispensed hot water. The evening cooled quickly and I remember feeling betrayed as we almost froze to death that night… in the hottest place in the country.

Rot and I descended normally, braking when needed and using engine compression to arrest our speed when it was enough. We only stopped briefly for a photo at the sand dunes east of Stovepipe Wells before setting off to find a campsite in a more hospitable place. Beatty, Nevada proved to be that place. I asked some locals where a man might find some good BBQ. We were advised to turn the corner and try out Big Tony’s. The BBQ was great and priced at a fair value.

When I went to start my bike I noticed my right boot had giant holes in the sole. These were Harley Davidson boots I had purchased used but “like new” for $35.00 on Marketplace several months back. They looked great and were comfortable. They should have been perfect for the trip but it turns out that Harley boots are no longer designed for kickstarting motorcycles nor are they for standing on the center stand post to put an old BMW on the stand. The soles are about the consistency of a slab of medium cheddar cheese and comfortable until they blow out.

These were the only footwear I had brought along. I was in trouble. Rick (from the BBQ) came to the rescue. Within minutes his friend Jeff had brought me an old pair of cowboy boots, size 14. I only took the right one since room is at a premium on Rot, and skedaddled to my primitive campsite a few miles south of town. A turnoff at Vanderbilt Pond led to several trails into the desert.

I hadn’t planned to take Rot off pavement but chose to be realistic since we had intended to primitive camp when able along the way. Dirt was going to happen, like it or not. I found a nice spot west of the pond surrounded by mountains, peace, quiet and a herd of wild burros, descendants of those let loose by the gold and silver miners after their use in the early 1900s. As darkness fell, a dozen pairs of eyes closed in around me, curious about my presence. It was a little creepy hearing hoof steps on gravel in the dark then seeing their eyes glowing in the beam of my flashlight. Their silhouettes looked like the giant jackalopes I had imagined on the Kern River Canyon Road the day before. Spooky. The final yikes came when one of the wild burros snuck closer than the rest and began to hee haw as loud as he could. The first honk might as well have been a train horn. Thankfully I had already had my evening nature break.

Before it became fully dark I sat down to repair the boot. I first cut a section from the sole of the cowboy boot then used it as a template to cut a section out of my damaged boot. I used some coarse sandpaper I had borrowed from Dave to prepare both surfaces. I had purchased super glue for emergencies and some RTV. Using both, I took a stab at securing the makeshift sole to my old boot. Tomorrow, if my earlier inner tube repair is any indication, I expect I’ll rip it all apart and try to find some Shoe Goo or something that might actually hold a boot together.

Walking around in the desert with only one boot presented yet another problem. Without spare shoes, while my boot was taped up and drying I only had my socks, which served to secure cactus thorns to my foot. Tilley hat to the rescue! Tilley hats are known for their versatility. They have a tough insert in the crown to act as sort of a soft “hard hat” against mild impacts and to provide some shape. The chin strap perfectly held the hat to my foot and I was able to move around more or less normally until bedtime. I can’t help but wonder now, as I lie here in my tiny tent, what does tomorrow have in store for Rot and me? Awww, who cares? Today has had enough trouble of its own. Why borrow more from tomorrow.

Wow. Just look at those stars!

Day 4 May 16, 2026

The boot is dead. Long live The Boot!

The second thing I thought about when I woke up this morning was my boot. Not because I have any particular affinity for a boot but, thought #1 was that I had to pee. As I was camped among flint and cactus, walking outside could be hazardous. You may recall last night’s use of my Tilley hat as a substitute boot… which would have worked fine again for this task; however, I was curious about the repair and I had placed the repaired boot by my head just outside my tent. It was actually the first thing I saw when I woke up.

The good news is, the boot still fit perfectly. The repair seemed durable enough at the onset and walking was actually much improved compared to the holey boot, or even the Tilley hat. Once again my boot had a sole, or soul, depending on the value placed on its protective nature and potential for life beyond the world as we know it. Like Rot, it seems boots are, although not quite immortal, almost infinitely rebuildable.

Speaking of Rot, my other “boot,” the one made of inner tube and tasked with holding grease in the drive shaft tube, started leaking again. Not as bad as before but the rear clamp, like the front one previously, was also not as tight as it should have been. As with the front clamp back at Dave’s, I took a few minutes to cut a strip of rubber from spare inner tube bits I had brought along. Unfortunately, my first attempt to slice the rubber failed miserably. My once razor sharp Skeletool knife was now as dull as a hammer. Cutting through the donated Ariat cowboy boot last night I had discovered a substantial steel shank about where a stirrup would sit. And where I was trying to cut. I had ruined my knife.

Fortunately several nearby rocks had similar characteristics to whetting stones from Arkansas. I selected a fairly flat specimen and applied it to the knife. I had in essence invented the Nevada oil stone, without the oil. The knife performed well and I was able to cut up the inner tube into a fine strip. Removing the clamp, I slipped in the strip and clamped it all back down tight. Also fortunately, I had secured a small bottle of Valvoline GL5 80-90 wt. gear oil for just this task. Dave had kindly donated one of his wife’s hair dye bottles to use as a combination measuring cup and funnel. It worked perfectly. Packing was quick with so little gear and I was soon on my way back to Beatty for breakfast and a little reboot for myself and the bike.

Back at Big Tony’s, I ordered my favorite breakfast of three eggs over easy and oatmeal. I tossed in a cup of coffee, just to keep things festive. While waiting I grabbed a quick shave and gas station cleanup… sort of a George Carlin quickie, if you recall his bit on one-minute showers. I won’t repeat it here but you get it.

Breakfast came and went. I posted up a complimentary review on Big Tony’s and some of his employees and took a hike down to the Family Dollar to resupply my glue stash. I added a roll of strong tape and some octane booster in case I came across another 87-only pump along some remote stretch of highway. They were becoming more prevalent. The R69s with its higher compression ratio wants and needs enough octane to prevent destructive pinging. I also added a half quart of oil and checked the newly repaired drive shaft boot for leakage. Zilch. Maybe this time…

My own boot repair stood up to the Family Dollar hike just fine but a thrift shop across the street was calling. I hiked over and immediately upon entering spied a moderately distressed but still intact pair of Cabela’s canvas top Goretex lace up boots in size 11 1/2, my size. They fit and felt fine. $5.00 made me an owner so I took the plunge and wore them back to Big Tony’s before switching them out for my original boots. I tied the new acquisition to my tail bag and felt more secure knowing I now had a spare pair, just in case. I could not imagine trying to kick start Rot with no sole in my boot.

By the time I had captured most of my notes up to the moment it was lunch time. Since I was still at Big Tony’s and they had been so hospitable so far I ordered a cheeseburger to fuel my body on the trip over to Zion National Park. It would be a long ride on almost all interstate. I hated the thought but there are few roads to get there from here and I wanted to settle in for the night before dark. It was noon before I was rolling but it had been a good stop.

My route took me down to Las Vegas before arcing back northeast to Zion. I exited Loop 215 north of Vegas to top off my fuel tank. I had been pushing fairly hard, running a steady 70-75 mph. The bike was down to 28 mpg on the south leg against the wind. Not quite the 40-plus I had seen the day before but it was to be expected given the circumstances. My choice of exit was not good. Hundreds if not thousands of tall traffic cones forced narrow lanes and funneled me into some sort of carnival-like affair. I was caught in the tide and couldn’t see where I might pull out for gas. A traffic officer stood at the intersection so I stopped beside him and asked where I could get fuel. He pointed to the nearby Sinclair and told me he would hold traffic so I could make a U-turn. As I pulled away he said “Hey, awesome bike!” I discovered from Robert, a security guard at the Sinclair station that this was The Electric Daisy Carnival. A half million folks come together for a night of drinking, drugs and general debauchery. I have never seen so many police at one event in my life. One motor officer who stopped to admire my bike said they would be hauling folks to jail or to the hospital throughout the night. He also advised me I could not reenter the interstate northbound from where I was. Traffic was nuts and it was hot. It appeared I would be forced to make a huge loop backtracking through the melee when suddenly the motor officer told me to follow him. He hit his lights and led me a couple hundred yards, through lines and past the barriers until I could hit the highway. It took less than a minute. You’ve gotta love the brotherhood of motorcyclists and the common love for old bikes. Pretty awesome.

Still at highway speed after turning north, the wind at my back drew a whole new set of sounds from Rot. The exhaust whispered evenly as the growling intake ebbed and flowed with each hill or change in speed. It reminded me of Edgar Cruz playing his 12-string guitar. There was way more music than one would expect from a single source.

It was another two and a half hours on to Zion. I topped off my tank just outside the park and entered a little after 7:00 pm. The south campground was marked Full however there was nobody there. Apparently it was simply closed. With no camping place in sight I rode through the park at dusk and took advantage of the Golden Hour to grab a few nice photos. I exited the park at the east entrance, hoping for a place to primitive camp. I had prayed for a break as I passed the closed campground where I came in and sure enough, just a few short miles from the gate I spied a perfect spot. The sun was setting as I finished setting up camp. I was tired but it had been another good day. God is Good.

Day 5 May 17, 2026

Please don’t pinch me. If it appears I am asleep, let me be. If this is a dream I don’t want to wake up.

It was dusk. I was riding an antique motorcycle through a landscape that looked like the surface of Mars. The sounds coming from the machine were intoxicating and primal. This morning I realized it was not a dream. I was returning to Oklahoma aboard my newly purchased 1967 (built in 1966) BMW R69s. This is a motorcycle I have longed for since I first became acquainted with the Boxer-motored, Earls fork and plunger shock-suspended R60/2. I have owned two and loved them both. Unfortunately, my budget and storage space must be considered when adding to the stable so they were sold to make way. The R69s looks virtually identical except for the two finned valve covers and coveted chrome R69s emblem on the rear fender. These markers indicate another 12 horsepower, 42 vs. 30 on the R60/2 version. The extra power is most notable at higher rpm and at speeds above 60 where the R60 starts to peter out. The R69s was famous for its ability back in the day to “do the ton,” which meant it could exceed 100 mph. If you were patient. Gearing was such that the engine could still pull and not over rev at the ton.

So my dream/reality today is looking over that glorious red nacelle headlight at the magnificent scenery of southwestern Utah. A chrome protective strip accents the shape of the headlight, and whisker-like Albert mirrors mounted to the headlight mimic the sweep of the low profile handlebars. The bike has the squatty, muscular and menacing stance of a gasoline-powered buffalo.

Leaving Zion I had camped at the Hi Road Campground just outside the east entrance to the park. Campsites there were beautiful but the bathroom facilities were atrocious. Women even had to use the men’s facilities because theirs were completely inoperable and only one men’s toilet would even flush. It was cold when I got up at 6:20 and the warm shower, despite the filthy conditions, was a welcome reprieve to my three-day old funk.

Breakfast at Mt, Carmel, a few miles down the road, was also a welcome treat. Back on the bike I found myself smiling again at the scene before me. I was halfway through my journey from Bakersfield, California to my home in Norman, Oklahoma and finding my groove. Every mile brought a brand new smile and every campsite felt like a victory for my bike and me. Few machines have left such an impression. I can see how people become addicted to these completely analog inventions…machines that will keep on running even after the EMP.

At Page, Arizona, I stopped for a quick meal of necessity at McDonalds, the restaurant I love to hate. It gets the job done but I always feel like I’ve hurt myself somehow by going there. Next door to McDonalds was an Autozone. It was a good time to do an oil change and I thought it would be a good idea to install a new set of spark plugs while I was at it. The old ones were burning a nice golden brown, a good indication the fuel mixture was correct, but a ring of soot around the edge was likely causing some fouling and the occasional misfire. Jon Silva greeted me at the door and immediately began helping me put together a kit consisting of a borrowed drain pan, funnel, grease rag and neoprene gloves. He also rounded up the spark plugs and two quarts of Valvoline VR1 20w50. I grabbed a can of brake cleaner to tidy things up on the bike and set off to work. The job was challenging with winds exceeding 30 mph but I managed to keep things collected and didn’t litter a bit. The bike ran better than ever with the new spark plugs and knowing the oil was new too just made us both feel better.

The wind seemed to increase near Jacob Lake and continued on into evening. I gassed at a Shell station at the crossroads of Highways 98 and 160. I grabbed a turkey and cheese sandwich from the deli cooler and picked up some trail mix and banana chips for breakfast. These I stuffed into my backpack and set off for today’s final destination. En route I received a text from Ballistic Ken of ADV rider, offering me a place to stay if I could make it on to Farmington, New Mexico. My friend and past student Carmel Rubin had made the suggestion and given me his contact information. With the wind and feeling tired after a long day, I chose not to push it another 150 miles before stopping. Instead I looked for a nearby alternative. The Navajo National Monument offers free camping and it was less than a half hour away. Perfect! The road in was yet another incredible sensory stimulation experience. Every direction frameable images presented themselves. From distant views of frozen sand dunes and fractured sandstone to alluring trails leading off among the dense pinon-juniper woodlands and conifer forests. Ancient Anasazi Indians inhabited these alcoves long before the Navajo. Where did they go and why?

Entering the park, signs indicated there were at least two distinct campgrounds, Canyon View and Sunset View. I chose Canyon View. It should be noted here that I teach people to ride large motorcycles in deep sand. Today, the teacher became the student. Back in 1967 the German engineers, it seems, were still working on a suitable frame geometry to handle deep sand. In case you were wondering, a 450 lb. BMW R69s plus baggage and equipped with that iconic Earls fork does not work. Anything I did just seemed to make things worse. The beast plowed and wallowed like a drunk walrus with even less directional control. I found myself approaching a moderate descent with deep sand dispersed among the occasional slab of sandstone. I had to go down in order to orient myself back up again. I feared this could be where I camped for the night, motorcycle sitting buried smack in the middle of the road. Rot complained and shook its head like a bull hit with a brick but we finally emerged back on the “main road” in. A Navajo family in a pickup met me at the intersection and stopped. The driver’s side rear window came down and a middle-aged man looked at me inquisitively. I asked about the campground and he directed me back up the road I’d just come down. “This is the wrong way. Turn right at the cattle guard.” I asked if the road was good, to which he answered, “It’s paved.” About that time the driver’s window lowered revealing what I presumed were his parents… or maybe grandparents. These people were the real deal. I thought they should be in a western movie where the white man got his comeuppance. The woman in the passenger seat looked like she might be thinking bad things about me so I thanked them and moved as quickly as I could back the way I’d come.

Turning right just past the cattle guard, sure enough there was a nice campground. Sunset View. I have no idea what happened to Canyon View but by this time I was not going to be picky.

I met a German fellow, Michael, at one of the sites. He had been traveling the US on his motorcycle solo for the past nine years and was about to head for Alaska. I didn’t linger because I needed to secure a camping spot and set up my tent. Maybe in the morning we can chat more. As I lie here now in my tent at Navajo Monument campground I am satisfied that even though I will never make the miles I would on my big R1200 GS, the satisfaction of partnering codependently with an antique machine to journey together across the country just makes life worth living. These reflections were interrupted by thunder rumbling in the distance. My tent filled with dust and then the wind picked up even more! Are those raindrops?

Day 6 May 18, 2026

One of my favorite places in the world is in a tent during a rainstorm. Sleep is elusive but who would want to sleep during such a display of God’s power?

Rain continued off and on until nearly daylight. At times it was sleet. Fortunately there was no hurry to get out of my tent. It was a chilly morning and electric gear doesn’t work on a six-volt electrical system.

It was a good time to reflect. I thought of other storms I’d sheltered from while on a motorcycle ride. On my first long distance trip at 16 I ducked under a partially collapsed barn in a hay field in southeastern Oklahoma. There was barely enough room under the eave to drag my brand-new 1972 Honda XL250 in beneath the fallen structure. Sleep came easily that afternoon. I had ridden a long way wearing only jeans, a t-shirt and a Levi jacket. I had been cold most of the day and had no rain gear. Rays of sunshine replaced streams of water through the nail holes in the tin roof, warming and awakening me with the most gentle of alarm clocks. The whole story can be read here:
https://billdragoo.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/06/sidetracked-rain-on-an-old-tin-roof_roadrunner-feb18.pdf

The  campground was stone quiet as I packed my gear this morning. My tent was filled with dust from the blowing sand. Rot was speckled with mud and bristling with water droplets… an unusual sight for a show bike, almost like a Kentucky Derby champion in a barrel race. Not something one would expect to see.

Once packed I strolled over to where my German friend from last night was camped. Michael Lorenz was about to throw a leg over his Yamaha TT 600 single, Yamaha’s answer to the Honda XR650 a couple of decades back. I learned that Michael’s plan for a two-year ride through the U.S. had become a nine-year-and-counting tour of the world. He had given up his job as a mechanical draftsman for the freedom of the road and to satisfy his desire to see the world. Michael has no family or other obligations to tie him down so he is, as they say, living his dream.

Rot was a little slow to take hold with thick oil in the cold high desert air. A few kicks to loosen the oil and a bit of priming by tickling the carburetors more than usual and Rot sputtered to life. We rolled out slowly, as was becoming our custom, and savored the ride back through Navajo National Monument. Intriguing trails, no doubt some used by the ancient Anasazi Indians, petrified sand dunes, juniper, and sturdy pinon trees lined the road on both sides.

I turned east onto Highway 160 and, picking  up speed, immediately felt the relentless chill. I was cold all day, stopping now and then to soak up a little sunshine, like a cat. I had initially chosen a northern loop home, extending my ride by several hundred miles across Nevada and Utah to try and miss the heat I expected would bake me if I took the more direct route along Route 66. This year marks the 100th anniversary of The Mother Road and I strongly considered exploring as many of the original alignments as possible but chose what would wind up being the wrong way by some counts. Rot was unproven, with only a couple hundred miles on a complete restoration. Anything could go wrong. I preferred to risk survivable temperatures, not the 111 degrees in Needles, California, two days before my departure if a breakdown were to happen.

A weather front turned me back south before I could finish my planned route through Colorado. As a result the whole ride has been much cooler than expected and the bike is performing almost flawlessly with the exception of an odd thump that keeps recurring briefly after each shift to third gear. It doesn’t seem to affect anything but it does occupy some of my thoughts. I’ll get it sorted eventually. We don’t ride old motorcycles long distances to have a perfect and predictable experience. They take us back in many ways to simpler times when a large percentage of riders and drivers knew the inner workings of their machines. Owners’ manuals in the ’60s and before offered technical information on maintenance items like valve adjustments, spark plug gaps, cable adjustments and more. We carried tools to fix things and in some cases parts, anticipated as needing changed along the way.

Rot had needed very little on this relatively short trip of under 2,000 miles but there were a few things to justify my carrying tools. I was glad I had them. The turn signal switch fell off once, left hanging by its wiring harness. Fortunately the screw was captured by the mechanism and it was an easy fix. The clutch needed an adjustment and I performed an oil and spark plug change in Page, Arizona, a few days ago. And then there was the self-destructing boot, the one on my foot and the one on the drive shaft tube, both of which, by the way, are still holding up. Neither one leaks. It is interesting to note how people get behind you, offering help in many ways when needed. The donated cowboy boot is a great example. Rick from Big Tony’s BBQ called a friend to bring me an old boot. Jeff brought me a pair within minutes. And so it goes when you are vulnerable.

People are wonderful. Some say otherwise and it reminds me of a story I heard a long time ago. A traveler was far from home. He came to a city and was met at the gate by a citizen there. The man asked how were the people there. The citizen asked in response, “How are the people from where you came?”
“They are the most wonderful people you could imagine. I enjoy my travels but I am also eager to return.”
The citizen then answered, “You will find them much the same here.”

Later another traveler came to the same city gate and met the same citizen. The second traveler asked the man at the gate about the people there. The citizen asked him, “How are the people from where you came?”
The second traveler, who happened to be from the same city as the first said, “They are scoundrels, the meanest people you can imagine. I hope never to go back.”
“You will find them much the same here.”
I was finding the people on the road much the same as the people I had left behind.

My lack of sleep the night before was catching up as I crossed the Navajo lands in Arizona and New Mexico. I finally succumbed and parked by some pipeline equipment near the intersection with Highway 550. A tribal police officer woke me up. “Are you okay?” he said. I was actually fine and would rather have nabbed a few more winks but I answered, “Yea, I needed a nap.”
“Okay. I was just making sure you weren’t dead.” I suppose at some level I appreciated his concern and thanked him. It was time to get going anyway and the few minutes’ rest refreshed me considerably.  

Regina was parked at the gas pumps when I stopped to fill up. I commented on her gleaming red Toyota Tundra pickup. She beamed and donned her Panama hat as she exited the truck. She said yes, it had been quite dirty and she had just given it a bath. She then commented on my motorcycle, looking dingy against her bright red pickup but holding its own for eye allure. She and her late husband had ridden motorcycles together until his passing two years ago.  She said he had always wanted to ride The Tail of the Dragon in North Carolina and asked if I had ridden it. I said yes, a few times, and that it was all it was cracked up to be. She had spread his ashes on one of her subsequent travels and, as she drove The Dragon she tossed a few out the window of her car.  “He finally made it,” she said with an air of completion in her voice. She was heading for Chaco Canyon for the first time. I told her of my wife’s writings on Chaco Canyon and showed her where she could find them.

The remainder of the ride was a grind across and against the wind, just making the best speed I could into Albuquerque where my friend Nate Skelton and his lovely wife offered me a place to reboot before my final push home. Nate had the garage door open and waved me inside when I arrived. Rot was placed on the center stand… no easy task on this bike when loaded and we went inside for a fabulous, home cooked meal. Before bedtime Nate and I checked tire pressures and engine oil… of which very little was being burned. The engine seemed to be breaking in nicely. And I gave the bike a bit of a spit bath using Simple Green, Windex and a couple of soft towels.

An odd state of mind often hits me after long or particularly stimulating trips. As I get closer to home there is a sense of loss. Leaving the road, the newness of each day, the unknown challenges and question of whether I had the means to tackle them all… or would I be defeated… even that an adventure of its own kind. These intriguing uncertainties lingered and then faded in the growing light of the next chapter. I am one of the lucky ones. I have a loving and lovely wife at home and many projects queued up and waiting for my attention. I know the lawn will need mowing. I look forward to seeing my aging mother, my sons, grand children and in-laws. The road lures us away from these things and these things lure us back again. The pendulum of adventure swings on. As long as we are blessed with choices, choices must be made or we risk rust. We must choose to leave comfort or to embrace what discomfort might be over the next hill. As we grow older those choices diminish and if we are lucky, we will have our adventures to remember, to share with others and to sustain us as we relive them again and again. I love to explore but the going back is perhaps one of the best parts. Maybe that’s why we love old machines. They take us back.

Day 7 May 19, 2026

“Sir, your motorcycle fell over.”
Yea, it was true. Nobody wants to hear those words but they came through loud and clear as I was paying for four Tacos Supreme at Taco Bell in Clayton, New Mexico. This day was a physical and emotional test.

It didn’t start out that way. Nate and Colleen were incredible hosts at their beautiful home and acreage a few miles east of Albuquerque. I felt well prepared after last night’s bike maintenance session and the fabulous dinner they so graciously provided. Laundry privileges were part of the package and this morning I was introduced to “Papa’s Pancakes.” Nate is quite creative, using Greek yogurt in place of milk and ground oats instead of flour. Topped with warm maple syrup and real butter, they were delicious! Three eggs over easy and a couple slices of bacon rounded out the meal and set me off ready to tackle what may come. If I had only known just what all was coming…

I fueled up before turning onto the county road that began my route down to Mountainair, on Highway 60, which parallels Interstate 40 and is a much more scenic and less stressful drive. County Road B038 came up before I made it to Mountainair and beckoned me eastward past beautiful farm lands and up and down hills, running as straight as a carpenter’s string and as far as the eye could see. I have always driven Highway 60 through this area so B038 was a refreshing alternate on the old BMW.

The chilly wind was at first an annoying distraction but eventually a chill set in and stuck with me all day long. The easterly winds were literally in my face the whole day, driving my speed and fuel mileage to new lows and my helmet flat against my face. My chin and nose were chafing from the abrasion. The only relief was when I would let go of the left handlebar and lift the chin piece away from my skin. It was tiring and more than a little daunting to consider how far I had to go while riding in this position. A knife was thrust into the juncture of my neck and left shoulder blade, or at least that’s how it felt. Any attempt to stretch it out shot a bolt of pain into the spot. Relief was hours away.

I tried to ignore the pain as best I could and stopped once or twice for a snack and a cup of coffee to help keep me alert and somewhat nourished. I skipped any real lunch, opting to make as much time as I could. My intended destination was Merus Adventure Park still over 300 miles to the east… into the wind the whole way. This would have been a rough ride on a Gold Wing. On an antique 600 cc motorcycle with no windshield and only 42 horsepower at sea level (a tad over 30 at this altitude), Rot felt anemic and I felt trapped in a bad dream. But onward we went, mostly at full throttle. The bike would slip past 60 mph on the downhills and slow to 50 or so going back up. Flat out and full throttle seldom is above 65. It was like pedaling a 500 lb. motorcycle home from Albuquerque. Into the wind.

As evening grew near, we pulled into the Clovis Taco Bell for some semblance of real food. I stood there in disbelief when the stranger gave me the news my bike was lying on its side. I wanted to say, “You’re kidding!” to delay reality and the illusion my beloved new machine was now wrecked a few more seconds. I could not bear the knowledge that beautiful Granada red paint was damaged. My messenger walked out with me and together we gently put the bike back on its wheels, as though if we did it slowly enough we might undo the inevitable. No such luck. A big white row of vertical scratches was etched into the paint on the left pannier like the screen on an EKG. Thankfully, if that word can in any way be applied to the situation, that was the only damage.

Why! How could this have happened? I was always careful to fully deploy the side stand before walking away from the bike. With Rot back on its center stand I soon discovered that the pivot pin for the side stand was backed out approximately 4-5 millimeters… just enough to cause the protrusion on the side stand to slip past its stop. After inspecting the cause I was quickly able to screw the pivot pin home and snug it up. The stand once again worked perfectly. A stitch not quite in time. I had just filled up the tank so off to Merus we went with all the enthusiasm Rot could muster, again beating into the strong winds. My disappointment at damaging the bike quickly faded and was replaced with the realization that if I pulled off this fly-and-ride with no more than a scratch on a pannier, I should thank my lucky stars… and more importantly, thank God for saving me from myself.

Merus was still nearly three hours away and by my calculations I would lose the battle to arrive before dark set fully in. With a six-volt electrical system it didn’t take a brain surgeon to suss out that the last hour would be stressful, if the rest of the day wasn’t already that. Little did I know just how much. Highway 60 eventually arced back northeast following the railroad tracks. At Bovina we came across the first feed lot. They continued almost the whole way to Canyon, Texas, and were crawling with cattle like an ant colony at high noon on a hot day. With an easterly wind, the dust was palpable, filling my olfactory pipes with cattle funk. It was difficult to breathe and my eyes burned with the thick stench.

To make matters worse, that third gear thump had increased. The thump was the same but I could now get two or three thumps while accelerating in third gear. As we closed in on Canyon, the smell suddenly changed like a scene in a Broadway production of Little Orphan Annie. There must have been a highly productive bakery nearby. It was a welcome reprieve to say the least and soothing to my offended senses. Gassing up in Canyon, Rot decided to protest the flogging I had been dealing out. The motor refused to start. A local resident, or resident idiot I called him under my breath, after watching unashamedly, unhelpfully offered that he would “never shut that damn thing off,” if it were up to him. I casually mentioned that would be difficult on a trip that was taking us across the western United States but didn’t respond to his continued degrading and foolish insights. The last thing I needed right then was to get into a fight with a man 20 years my junior when every second was going to count. Soon after he left I found the right combination and the motor coughed to life once again as though nothing had happened. We were friends again but I had been scolded.

I could barely read the speedometer in the last glow of daylight when I pulled back onto the highway. The route became more convoluted the last hour of travel and my speedometer light was not working. The dim headlight was merely a suggestion as its orange glow reached maybe 40/50 feet ahead. Hopefully it was at least enough to keep us from being involved in a head-on collision. The road was also dark and hard to distinguish from the surrounding terrain. A huge raccoon decided that very second was a great time to cross the road in front of me. I saw him briefly as I passed a few feet behind. His body was bunched up like a cat trying to look mean as he waddled on past the headlight beam. It was a close call.

I became more vigilant as we approached the gate to Merus. The last 2.4 miles were dirt. Now the orange glow of a headlight fell on the reddish orange of a rough clay road. Ooof! The first chuckhole was a surprise. The next couple were enlightening. Looking for a ray of sunshine, or any kind of light for that matter, I allowed myself to be impressed with just how tight this bike was. Even when stuttering along on a corrugated surface, not a single rattle was heard. Even newer machines often complain by ticking, tinking or clanking when hitting bumps. Rot was made of good stuff.

Finally there, I tried the gate code to unlock the padlock. No joy. The code didn’t work. It was almost 10:00 and there was nobody in sight. It finally occurred to me that a place as big and popular as Merus must have an electric gate. As I was scouting for another entrance, camp hosts Mike and Hailey drove up in a side-by-side. They helped me find the correct gate just a few feet to the north of where I sat. They had also upgraded my campsite to one of the primitive cabins. Mike secured a couple of 2x12s to help shim the bike into a stable position on the gravel while Hailey brought me up to speed on the latest improvements at the park. What began as one challenge after another ended with yet more kindness offered by strangers and hope for a better day tomorrow. My attitude had been tested and l remained intact despite fatigue, irritation and injury to Rot. Tomorrow, Lord willing, would also be my last day on the road… for now.

Day 8 May 20, 2026

The Wrong Way Home: The Final Leg

Rot smelled the barn. With the bit in his teeth, he switched to autobahn mode. At these lower altitudes, all 42 horses were harnessed and he pulled like a Roman chariot team into battle. Our intent was to stay on secondary roads, even to take in a few alignments of Route 66, but with all the dots and dashes of this dispersed highway, we had little choice but to hit some interstate. The wind was against us yet again… all the wind generators were aimed towards a 075 to 080 vector. We were heading 090, almost straight into the gale.

The night had gone well at Merus Adventure Park. Our little Sunrise Cabin #2 was stone quiet and delightfully comfortable. The bed was exquisite and the sheets and pillows the same. The initial plan was to camp but with our late arrival and fatigue from a long day, the upgrade was a blessing we would gladly accept. We would need the energy.

Speed, on a motorcycle, has many facets. Modern motorcycles make it easy for anyone to go fast. With large-displacement fuel-injected engines, variable cam timing and high compression pistons that can easily rev into the double digits, a twist of the wrist and an ounce of audacity is all that’s needed. Old iron, by contrast, requires an investment… a sacrifice even. Giants in the trilogy “Chronicles of Thomas Covenant” used Earthpower to propel their stone boats through the water. The giant’s own energy was transferred through the tiller to the keel and ultimately propelled their craft like magic. Even a giant’s energy was limited but this primal collaboration with the machine was effective as long as he could hold out.

Getting speed from a sixty-year-old super bike is much the same. I found myself willing the bike forward, against the wind and at the upper end of highway speeds. On a Ducati, it’s easy. On Rot, it was rewarding to see other vehicles drop behind as I urged him onward towards home. It is a unique synergy gone by the wayside, erased by technology and considered dead by all but those willing to expose themselves to the challenge.

It was exhilarating but I am no giant and the pace was wearing me out. We exited the interstate at Sayre, Oklahoma and split to Highway 152 eastward towards our home in Norman. It was a relief to drop ten miles per hour. My neck needed the break and my chin was raw from shoving my helmet against the wind.

Lush green farmlands welcomed us from the arid desert climate and showed us we were back in the Sooner State. We had stopped at the beautiful art deco Conoco station in Shamrock, Texas, for brunch, a nod to the 100th anniversary of The Mother Road, and ran into a dead end on one alignment, forcing a bit of trail blazing to get us back on the interstate.

On 152 the town of Cogar came and went but we made a stop at the old Apco service station and general store for posterity. Sadly, this relic from the glory days and featured scene in the movie “Rainman” with Tom Cruise and Dustin Hoffman was vandalized not long ago. The rare antique sign was removed from the pole, never again to be seen.

The last hour was spent navigating road construction and closures but we were not to be thwarted. The garage door was open when we arrived and Susan was waiting, camera in hand to document the end of an amazing ride.

We had set out to miss the heat by heading north rather than east out of Bakersfield, expecting cooler crosswinds and tailwinds most of the way. What we got were chilly temperatures and strong headwinds, a few mechanical issues and a lot of “nice bikes” and “What year is it?” comments at every stop. The 1960s “Route 66” TV show’s Todd Stiles and Buzz Murdock would have been proud of how we represented travelers of the era with the bright red icon from Germany.

I dismounted the bike, kissed my wife, kissed the ground and told Rot he could kiss my butt if he wanted to go anywhere else for a while. It was time for some RR and M. Rest, Recuperation and Maintenance. And dinner with my wife.