It was November 23rd and I had to go to Los Angeles on business. Tucson to L.A. is about 500 miles. My business required me to be in L.A. by 10 a.m. so I left home around 2 a.m. The weather was good, a bit cool but with a heated vest and heated grips it was not an issue. I got my first heated vest in 1981 and it changed cold weather riding. The vests have improved since then, but even the first one was a great improvement. It’s kind of like riding with an electric blanket wrapped around you. And heated grips are an item right up there with bungee cords and disc brakes as major advances in motorcycle technology.
I had a travel cup of coffee and stayed on I-10 through Phoenix. Since I was going through at an early morning hour I wasn’t concerned about traffic. The first stop was for gas at Tonopah, Arizona. As I was pumping gas a woman approached and asked for help. She said she wasn’t asking for money, but needed gas. According to her story, she had just split up with her husband and was headed to Sacramento where members of her family lived. Anyone who has traveled much has heard a lot of stories at gas stops, but I think I’ve been at it long enough to have an idea of what’s true and what’s bull. She was about 40, driving a four or six year old Dodge. Her eyes, her tone of voice and her bearing suggested a genuince person, an honest woman in a bad situation. I may have been wrong, but I was pretty comfortable that I wasn’t.
I told her to hang on a minute, finished filling the bike, then walked over to the pump at which she was parked, put my card in and started the pump. When I got back from the restroom she had replaced the hose and was waiting for me. I glanced at the pump and saw it read about $20. She thanked me, gave me a hug, and went on her way. I had that good feeling that comes with doing someone a favor. It was a good ride from there into California. Of course, you have to stop at the border to take off your sidearm and put on your helmet. You know, leaving America and entering California.
If you ride you know that the coldest time of day is the hour before and the hour after sunrise. When I got to Desert Center I took the exit then turned west on the frontage road. I like to stop in once in awhile to see if anything changes in Desert Center. Usually, nothing does. Once this was a fairly busy gas stop between Blythe and Chirico Summit. But cars don’t need work as often as they used to; radiators don’t overheat, tires last longer; no one needs a phone booth so Desert Center is primarily empty buildings and dead palm trees. Taking the frontage road west to the next on-ramp is a nice break from the Interstate. I stopped at a marker detailing the history of the Desert Training Center, the area that armored units trained for action in North Africa during World War II.
I was reading the marker when I heard a horn honk, just short blast like someone wanted my attention. There was a car on the frontage road and the driver motioned for me to come over. As I got closer it was clear that he was busily working on his phone, looking for something. And he was obviously a bit rattled, a good bit rattled. His first question was “Where is the nearest gas station?” He told me he was almost out of gas and didn’t think that he could get much further. I knew if he was traveling west that the last place he could have gotten gas was Blythe, and it was obvious that he hadn’t. His best chance was to continue west to Chiriaco Summit. His English was good, with a pronounced accent, but there were two problems. First, it was not clear that he understanded what I had advised. He seemed pretty confused. Second, he was very nervous.
I suppose if you’re not used to long stretches of empty desert it can feel very isolated and if you are about to run out of gas it seems even more isolated. And the 72 miles from Blythe to Chiriaco Summit is the definition of empty desert. His best bet, I told him, was to continue west and he’d hit Chiriaco Summit. The car had Florida plates. I know from riding I-10 from Florida to Santa Monica, California, there is not a more isolated spot than where he was parked. Parts of west Texas are close, but even there it’s not so empty. And there’s a 110 mile stretch of I-70 in Utah with nothing along the road, but the landscape is not as empty as this piece of California I-10.
The Harley has a navigation system and that system has a function that tells you how far you are from the nearest gas station. I told him to wait a minute and I’d look up the distance to Chiricao Summit. Sixteen miles to the next gas pump. I told him to get back on the highway, hold the speed down to about 60, and I’d follow him to the next gas. If he ran out, I’d put him on the back and take him the rest of the way. He followed directions well, driving at a moderate speed, and made it to the exit for gas. I followed him to make sure he made it all the way to the pump, which he did. I pulled up to say goodbye and was talking to one very happy guy. He stuck out his hand with a bill in it. I said that was not necessary but he insisted. I took the folded bill and shoved in my pocket. Then he asked me to wait while he filled his tank.
Turns out he is an author and lecturer and was going to Long Beach to lecture on something. He gave me a copy of one of his books, took my picture and said I would be in his next publication. It was the second time on this trip that I had an opportunity to help someone. When I got to my next stop I pulled out the folded bill that he had handed me at the gas station; a twenty. I just about exactly covered what I had pumped into the woman’s car in Tonopah earlier that day.
A pretty good day; I had a good feeling about helping out a couple people who needed help and came out even on the cash. I was ahead for the day.
Thoughts From The Road 