Against the Wind

 Las Vegas to Laughlin is generally a short, pleasant ride through the scenic desert, with just enough change in the vista to keep you interested. Open flats of sand eventually give way to craggy hills cropped with dark green shrubs, a landscape reminiscent of Road Runner cartoons. I swear I even saw a coyote with an anvil precariously balanced over a pile of free bird seed.

This particular year, I was making a lone wolf ride to enjoy the festivities of the annual Laughlin River Run and I had just put a brand new set of beach cruiser bars on my Dyna. This was my first attempt at creating a more comfortable way to steer my hog along the dusty highways of southern Nevada. The only reason I was making this change in the first place was to combat nagging elbow issues, a consolation prize from my time in the military. Anytime I typed at a keyboard for too long, tried setting a new PR on the pull-up bar or even went bowling, my forearms would be useless noodles for a few days after. Worse, it was a pain which would creep up when riding with the eight inch ape hangers that came stock when I bought this particular bike.

The beach cruiser bars were an odd choice for a Dyna Street Bob. The bike itself was as stripped down as it could be; nothing but the bare essentials to keep two wheels cruising along the pavement. The bars on the other hand were the wide slung low look that came from old 1940s model heavy hogs, the kind you sat on top of rather than settled into. The mismatch of style didn’t stop at the visual image however; it actually made the bike very awkward to ride. I felt just that much less in control and this was not the day to be testing something new. 

As I started leaving Las Vegas and heading south out of the city, the winds began to pick up quickly. What started as a comfortable breeze within the confines of the blocked-in city streets, picked up into a screaming battle once I sat perched atop the wide open strips of asphalt that cut the desert into two equally angry halves. I watched great waves of sand being thrown across my path as though the desert were purposely trying to toss me from my chrome laden steed. The gale force that seemed to have come straight from the roiling oceans of old naval tales pushed me clear across the roadway time and time again until I was out of the designated lane and pushing the cycle along the narrow shoulder, edging dangerously close to going completely off road. Each time I would steer myself back to the farthest left edge of the lane only to be thrust once again to the very edge of the desert itself.

Within the first fifteen minutes, my muscles were aching with the effort of fighting to keep myself on course, the stress stiffening my back and shoulders until I felt as though my body were made from the same solid metal as the engine I was throttling along. An unwelcome dose of fear continued to creep further and further into my mind with every ferocious gust of wind. Could I actually make it through more than an hour of this punishing battle? What was happening to my enjoyable desert cruise? Each blast seemed to be stronger than the one before, letting me know just how small and insignificant one man on a motorcycle truly was on this planet.

I was beginning to feel as though I was moving forward in a constant deep lean, as if I should be turning, but it was just a fight to stay upright. It was a losing tactic anyway. My shoulders may have been dipping further left than my tires, but the rubber kept strolling over that long white line. I felt inexperienced. I felt as though a real rider should be able to tough it through this, but I was lacking the ability to do it myself. Not enough time in the saddle, not enough training, not enough courage. Whatever it was, this trip was not going to end well. 

By the third time that I found my wheels spitting up sand at sixty-five miles per hour and feeling like I was riding across glass, I decided it was time to throw in the towel. I turned the bike around, tucked my tail and headed back to the city. I should’ve felt defeated, but I didn’t have the space for those emotions just then. I still had to cover all the ground that I’d just made. All of those close calls that I had, I had to have them again, only this time, instead of being shoved into the desert sands, I was being shoved into the lane of oncoming traffic. I fought it by riding all the way to my right, on and over the white line for as much of it as I could, before that irate god of the winds came through and blew me across the roadway, inching closer and closer to the yellow dividing line. 

I managed to get back to my house downtown with only a few denim soaking close calls, one that I thought for sure was going to be it, but Iade it without a scratch. What was very damaged, however, was my pride. I hung my head low, listening to the bike cool, then pushed out my jaw and set to work. I had a pair of buckhorn bars still sitting in the box that I had purchased as a backup in case of this very situation. Without a moment's hesitation, I sliced through the tape and got to it. Nearly three hours later, I tossed the beach bars to the side and folded my arms, looking at the new vision before me. I had managed to get the bars changed out and even run most of the cabling through the interior of the buckhorns, leaving the bike looking very clean indeed.

I set out with a renewed sense of determination, laying into the throttle and barrelling out of the city, leaving the neon in the distance as I fought the desert winds like a hungry demon. To say the bike handled better would be an understatement. Maybe it was just my desire to get to the party, I can't say for sure, but that Dyna rode like a dream from that point on. Through wind and sand, I tore along the cracked pavement, feeling as in control of my bike, myself, and my destiny as I ever had.

Looking back, I don't believe it was the bars themselves that made so much of a difference in the ride. Maybe the winds had died down a bit by the time I set out for the second ride that night. Maybe the comfort level of the new bars put me in a different riding position that gave me better control. Maybe I was just driven by wounded pride. More than likely, it was some combination of all the above. I believe there is a lot to be said for how you feel on a bike that is going to echo in the way that you ride. If you feel like PeeWee Herman or if you feel like Ghost Rider, that's how you're going to ride. So it's probably best that you get out there and turn that throttle like you just sold your soul to the devil and he's on his way to collect.