Everything kicked into high gear… the increasing traffic, the deadline to make the airport in “The City” and a general desire to keep moving fired us up. Mexico has been calling my name and the desire to get south was hitting in earnest.
Needless to say, Highway 1 continued to amaze as we poked our way south towards San Fran, the traffic, RV’s and road construction keeping the pace slow. Due to the deadline to get to the airport, stops were limited and we pushed hard
Alexis had a pipe dream to make a flight at 4:30 that afternoon in San Fran, but the traffic kept getting worse the farther south we rode, and I had to laugh at the fantasy posted “Speed Limit 55” signs along the way.
As the day got late we finally gave up and stopped in Petaluma at an Irish Pub in the downtown section to cool off and tank up. After an hour or so we geared back up for the Interstate and San Francisco, arriving at rush hour and the setting sun on the Golden Gate Bridge. It was our first time to see it and San Francisco.
The flight issue required Alexis to take a very early flight the next morning so I found a relatively inexpensive motel in the vicinity of the airport and we all crashed for the evening, with one stop for some great Chinese food. We were up at 4 am the next morning and I dropped Kim’s daughter at the airport about 4:30, then blearily looking for a cool coffee shop to no avail, riding around for probably 45 minutes in various neighborhoods before finally giving up in frustration and riding back out to the airport area to the only breakfast spot I’d seen...
After drinking enough coffee and finally waking up, I hit the motel to find Kim packed and ready for the day’s ride. The plan was to cut short some of our time in California and get to Utah for the parks and Highway 12, one of my favorite areas on earth. The rushed pace, traffic and such had hit us both hard since crossing the border back into the U.S., and getting back to some solitude was about all we could think of.
From SF, we hit the throttle and I-80 for Sacramento and then Reno, NV. The long buzzing drone of engines on the interstate and the remaining early morning fatigue lulled one into a brain dead stupor, simply getting to the destination as fast as possible being the only motivation of the day.
Gassing up outside Reno and swallowing a sandwich was the excitement for the day, finally reaching Fallon, Nevada for a motel as the day wound down. After the magic of the riding for months in the places of the recent past, we both were feeling the down turn of emotions as this phase of the journey was nearing it’s completion.
The next morning as I walked out with my duffle to toss on the back of the bike, I heard a voice to my left and turned. An older gentleman stood by the doorway to his motel room, waving and with a weak smile said “God bless your travels!”… I thanked him and walked over to say hello.
As I reached to shake his hand and introduce myself, he said “My name is Vasco.” I hesitated for a moment, the name recalling school history books of explorers from forgotten history lessons. He reached to pull up the sleeve of his t-shirt, exposing a frail arm with a large flourish tattoo with “Vasco” and “Portagee”, now a bit faded. As he pointed at the tattoo, he said “I am Vasco the Portagee!"
He then asked “Do you know history? No one knows history anymore.” I said that I did to some degree. He then asked “Have you heard of Vasco da Gama?" I responded “Yes, he was a world renowned explorer”. That much I knew, though I couldn’t recall the specifics of what his fame was for at that moment.
Vasco began to shake physically and tears came to his eyes. He said “No one knows history anymore and I can’t believe you know that name.” Through aged, tear-filled eyes he proudly said “I am the 18th generation grandson of Vasco da Gama. I was named for him to carry on the family lineage." I told him I was honored to meet him and he shook my hand again. He once more lifted his shirt sleeve to show me the tattoo of his name, then lifted the other sleeve to reveal a tattoo of Christ on the cross, the image shrunken on his now frail arm. He again pointed to the tattoo of his name and said “This is who I am” and then pointed to Christ on his other arm and said “and this is why I’m still alive."
I could see that Vasco was struggling some physically, and asked him if he was okay. He said that he was about to drive to a doctor’s appointment for a bad concussion, one that had happened months earlier when he fell off his front porch and hit his head on the ground hard. His local hospital told him he was okay, but he said he knew he wasn’t, because his head felt like it was full of fluid and he now had serious trouble remembering things. He’d not been able to convince anyone how bad his fall had been and said they never checked him for a concussion, despite his repeated story and complaints. In frustration, he’d driven to Fallon to visit another doctor.
About that time Kim came out of the room and saw us, coming over after tossing gear onto her 1200. I introduced her and told her what was happening. We offered to drive him to his appointment, but he insisted he was okay to drive. Vasco asked about our trip and where we were going. He’d had a Harley for many years but could no longer ride. Vasco said he used to say “Have a safe trip” to other motorcyclists, but now prayed for them instead. I told him we’d love to have his prayers for us.
He gently placed his shaking arm on mine and asked God to protect us as we rode. When he finished, Kim and I both put our hands on his shoulders and prayed for his concussion and cloudiness to go, and for God’s blessings to fall on him. He cried quietly and thanked us, grasping both our hands and holding them for a while.
I told Vasco I was honored to have met him and that I needed a picture to remember him by. He smiled and said “Wait a moment”, shuffling slowly back into his room and returning to proudly display his NRA cap for the picture. After the shot, I shook his hand again and we watched as he slowly climbed into his old Toyota pickup and backed out. With a wave he slowly drove away.
Kim and I prayed for Vasco again as we rode out on Highway 50, the “Loneliest Road in America” towards the distant Utah border. Highway 50 cuts Nevada in half west to east, going through the vast empty center of the state and earns it’s name well. It was a sunny and warm day, thankful to be alive and thankful to be riding through the Nevada desert in the fall and not the summer.
The loneliest road was a wonderful ride. The seclusion, lack of people and cars washed away much of the recent traffic and metropolitan clutter, with beautiful sweeping vistas of nothing but rock and desert mountains. The farther east we traveled, the skies darkened with heavy clouds.
From the KimCam:
It was ride we both enjoyed, passing eventually a few cattle in the sparse landscape, along with the carcasses and bones of dead cows sprinkled randomly along the roadside. It was an odd sight and one wondered if it was drought, disease, redneck gunshots or cars that caused the dead carcasses, all within 50 yards of the road and spread a mile or so apart.
As the day drew down, we turned south on 487 / 21 and passed the entrance to Great Basin National Park. It was a park I’ve never heard of and the temptation to once again use the National Park Pass was abated by the threatening rain storms. High winds killed the last thoughts of entering the park, and instead we pulled off to suit up for the approaching rain to the southeast.
We were lucky to have only mild spats of rain and winds the rest of the way to Milford, Utah. More rain lay ahead towards Cedar City and Zion National Park, our actual destination for the day, so we decided to look for a motel in Milford instead. Kim located one online at a great price and we arrived to an old motor inn off the beaten path. The clerk was waiting for us, proudly presenting our keys and pointing to the notebook he’d made for things to do in the area. It was painfully obvious he had almost no clientele and had excitedly waited for us to arrive, bursting into a full presentation the moment we walked in the door. He was very nice, but also one of those people who made you feel awkward, with long pauses and long stares. We both felt a little weird at the awkwardness but were glad to find a clean room after some of our other motel experiences.
That night I googled "Vasco da Gama" to refresh my memory. Vasco had been the first explorer to make the voyage around the south tip of Africa and all the way to India from Europe, in doing so singlehandedly building the Portuguese empire by establishing a new spice trade route and causing Portugal to become a world power. What Vasco did back then was the equivalent of our first moon landing.
It’s interesting the jewels one finds hidden in dusty, forgotten corners…