DUNE Riders

We arrived in a smoking hot Green River mid-day, a town lassoed along I-70, comprising of half-shuttered storefronts eking out a dying breathe of commerce with only gas stations, a few motels and campgrounds to serve as a watering hole to tourists and travelers. Denver was 350 miles to the east, Salt Lake City 284 miles to the north and Las Vegas 385 miles to the southwest. Tired truckers, Harley riders by the dozens, Lake Powell boaters and desert loving tourists fueled up body and engine there, but definitely not their soul in this place, moving on without a thought of ever staying there. But we needed to store our truck and trailer here. I had called the local KOA campground previously and made arrangements to leave our rig there. “Why of course that’s okay, we do it all the time” a cheerful male voice had answered me. And now in the flesh I met the bearer of that voice, Ken. Turns out Ken was a transplant of a few years from back east. He was too busy to get out exploring much these days, busily running the KOA with his wife, “but occasionally I get to go out ATV riding” he replied with a hint of sadness in his voice. However the sight of our Vespas brought his cheer and out a floodgate of memories of HIS Vespa Expedition came!

Turns out we were following in the path of another scooter pioneer. “Back in the 1960’s my buddy and I rode 1500 miles from Massachusetts to Newfoundland and back. I was on a bored-out 150cc Vespa, that’s was160cc, and my buddy on a 150cc. Best ride of my life and the worst. Oh the twisty New England roads were great until it snowed. Yeap, it snowed and snowed one night. We were on our way back, on a tight schedule and still had to go on. I still remember riding carefully in a single narrow car track up and down those snowy steep hills, slippin’ and a slidin’, wasn’t sure I’d every make back.Just about froze to death too!”

Princess Vespa and I were in major awe as he told us his story and meekly answered his numerous questions about OUR trip, which had yet to start nor achieve anything in duration like his. Mind you this conversation was in the cool air conditioned office of his. Our expedition would certainly see no snow and we dreaded stepping out into that 1PM desert heat. Those molten seats would fry our asses!

After we loaded the camping gear, into surprisingly compact but effective saddlebags, we gassed up (all 2.2 gallons each-a range of 130 miles) and motored westward onto the interstate for a brief hop of 10 miles to our exit onto southbound highway 24. Now Princess Vespa is normally confident riding up to 50mph on quiet backroads, but suddenly her life depended on keeping pace with truckers at 75mph! Of course there was a 59 mph GUSTING side wind with blowing sand in the 92F heat. Oh yeah baby, this is your vacation!

A white-knuckled spouse sternly gave me ‘the eye’ as she wheeled to a stop at the first exit into HELL. Sand was blowing everywhere and she informed me that “there better not be any more of that!” I assured her that somehow the sand would stop making dunes and the sky not generally fall down. What I hadn’t mentioned was this was the main arterial road south to Lake Powell where crazed ski boat owners from Salt Lake would be flying past in their quest for fresh water ripping. And highway 24 is a twisty shoulder-less road, that rolls across the bleached desert like the bones of a broken-down roller coaster. This intel was on ‘a need to know’ basis and she didn’t need to know I reasoned. With reassurances given I twisted the throttle like a bat out hell and got well out of earshot.

Turning due south we were continuously buffeted by headwinds now. We were losing more altitude now, rolling down the San Rafael Swell, one of America’s great geologic sights.  But we were too gripped to sight-see, nervously keeping our diminutive craft upright, pushed jerkily left then right and back in unpredictable combinations and counter-steer franticness. We by-passed the Goblin Valley State Park choosing to shorten our late start and windy day.

Fifty-four miles seems short on the map, but our start in that heat with blowing sand and heavy winds was a bit of a trial. We were glad to coast into a Hanksville service station, more for an ice cream bar than gas. In the shade of the sheet metal awning, radiating more heat than shade, we groggily ate our ice cream. Inside, three old coots rocked their chairs to the throb of an ancient swamp cooler. A real Mormon Mayberry. For 15 minutes nairly a car passed when suddenly a mob of Honda Goldwing and Beemer riding retirees pulled in. I lost count at twenty as they hogged the pumps like puppies to a teat, more than three to each. We jawed with two, finding out that they were from other states, Texas and California, en route that day to New Mexico across Lake Powell by ferry. As they cooled in the shade we rolled out westwards, determined to find some elevation and cooler temperatures.