San Diego to Sierras: A COVID Motorcycle Trip Look Back

The following is a look back at what most of us did during COVID - ride motorcycles. Some, like Brett Shirley, took off on solo jaunts to settle the head. Here's what he discovered.

Soundtrack: Highway Anxiety, William Tyler

Sequestered in a tired hotel room in Ely, Nevada, I’m packing and repacking my gear. Bathed in the dim light, made even hazier with dust (or maybe asbestos), I reflect on the last few weeks, what they’ve meant, and what this particular stretch of road will mean.

In May 2020, I left Texas for California and rented an apartment in San Francisco. COVID notwithstanding, this was a rather pivotal time of my life. I had just re-entered the corporate world after a travel business I'd launched went all but belly-up. I spent the first 2 months working for a tech giant out of San Francisco and decided that since Angeline, my beloved BMW F 800 GS, was presently detained in Chile, I needed another moto to scoot around town and to take sporadic trips up and down the coast.

Enter Madeline…

I’d had my heart set on a Thruxton for such a long time, keeping a close watch on various second-hand forums, until a pristine 2014 900cc in British Racing Green caught my eye. Low mileage and well-looked-after, I worked with Kevin and Rich out of St Louis to negotiate a purchase and have the new filly shipped out to the Bay. However, this tale took a sad turn…

Within one week, the newly dubbed Madeline was stolen. She was taken for a joyride, then dismembered, and ditched in another neighborhood a few miles away. The police would not discover her for nearly a month, while insurance adjusters dragged their feet and made me feel more like the culprit than the victim.

Enter Madeline II…

While I was battling insurance adjusters on the valuation of Maddie I, I discovered another Thruxton, this time a 2016 1200R in Porsche Gray, that was up for grabs. The only catch was that I had to ship the moto from Hawaii to and San Diego, then get her up the coast to the Bay. After a lengthy 5-second deliberation, I made plans to ride the Pacific Coast Highway up from San Diego.

When I got word that Maddie II was ready for pick up at the logistics lot, I grabbed my lightly packed duffel and went to meet her, nerves jangling. It only took 2 tries to become accustomed to the clutch (yeah, yeah…I stalled out), before we were heading north on the PCH, a lifetime of twisted miles ahead of us.

As this was my 5th time traveling the PCH, I was well-versed in the places I wanted to lay my head. What I wasn’t used to was the abbreviated mileage allowance, once Maddie’s fuel light came on. Within the first 6 hours of familiarizing ourselves with one another, we found ourselves calling for an Uber on the side of the highway, just north of Camp Pendleton.

After an hour or so of waiting, pumping gas into a Gatorade bottle, and retrieving Maddie from her roadside nap, we were WOT (wide open throttle) again—destination Huntington Beach. A little late for our dinner plans, we arrived in the dark.

The next day, we awoke to a sign of the times and the signs of the protesters. Black Lives Matter on one side of the street and Blue Lives Matter on the other side of the street. In a country that has been plagued by systemic racism, I support the BLM movement and was both saddened and angered at the pushback the peaceful protest was receiving. Maddie blew her horn in solidarity before ramping up the RPM’s and making miles towards San Luis Obisbo (SLO), our destination for the night.

Once in SLO, we decided to splurge on the boutique Hotel Granada and Bistro. I highly recommend this iconic inn on the main drag. Soft sheets and a fireplace in the room staved off the night chill that can be unexpectedly sharp on the PCH once the sun goes down.

After banging out some conference calls and working from the terrace until the workday wrapped, Maddie and I were back on the road to San Francisco, which was to be a brief stopover before making our way to Tahoe.

Keeping it at 85mph and climbing to 7,000 ft at Donner Pass, this was the first time I started to miss the heated grips of my beloved BMW GS. And this was only a training ground for what the Rockies would eventually have in store for me.

Tahoe was nice enough. With COVID in full swing, all the city-dwellers had taken flight to the alpine lake and it was swarming (too much for my liking) with tourists. I was able to loop the lake in undr 3 ,hours, and by the kindness of a local, bartender was pointed to a secret locals' swimming dock. This bought me a little respite from the ride and gave me a break from the lines of cars that were slowly circling the lake like buzzards, looking for a proper place to park.

Once Tahoe had served its purpose, it was onward to Nevada. And having taken I-80 across northern Nevada on previous tours, I have one thing to say about that route: it blows.

Having read about Hwy 50, the “Loneliest Highway in America,” I opted for the more desolate route. What I can say about Hwy 50? It’s stunning. And while desolate most of the way, there was no concern of running out of gas. Mom-and-pop service stations, holdover boomtowns, and roadside nostalgia kept me from feeling like I was on an abandoned mission to Mars.

Out of Reno, I veered onto Hwy 50 at Fernley, NV. As far as I could tell, that’s where a dystopian world of heat and dust began. Once out of Fernley, I was staring into the horizon. Not really knowing what lay ahead, I made sure to pack a few bottles of water and some granola bars. If I’d learned one thing on my South America trip, it was that if shit can go wrong, it will. And when it does, you'd better have water and snacks because you might be a while.

Thankfully, we made it without a hitch to Middlegate Station, an old Pony Express stop turned pub/inn/fuel stop. One of the last gas stations left in the country, I’d imagine, that allows you to pump before you pay. And when you’re done, you just go in and tell the barkeep how much the pump rang you up for.

Hot as it was, Maddie and I hung out on the porch with a beer while we watched some kids from the neighboring trailer park cut donuts and kick up a dust cloud in a golf cart.

Warm Pacifico downed, and it was time to hit the road to Eureka, NV, for the first night’s stay on this all-but-abandoned stretch of Americana.

Maddie and I brrrapped into Eureka, just after sunset. I quelled my rumblings with a solid 14oz ribeye at the Owl Club Bar and Steakhouse (I knew it would be good because it was packed with local highway construction crews). After chasing the steak with a cold pint, I was ready to call it a day.

The historically haunted Jackson House Hotel had room so, with a full belly and a lot of miles behind me that day, I slept right through any hauntings and likely annoyed any spirits that were hoping to get a scare out of me.

The next day, after slogging through the calls and emails of the corporate world (I’m still working diligently from the road), we saddled up and continued east to Ely, the dusty bordertown heavily populated with electronic poker games and an army of one-armed bandits.

After checking into my $40 suite at the Historic Hotel Nevada and Gambling Hall, I stepped back outside to stretch my legs and wander the quiet streets. The wind played with a few ad sheets, batting them down the street, while the sun settled behind the spaghetti western roofline of Main St.

Not one to be drawn in by the bells and lights of an electronic gambling machine, I asked the concierge where I might find a little action with a live dealer only to be met with, “You must not be from here, we haven’t had a dealer in Ely in over 2 years. Just not enough people to justify one, I guess…”

So now, I find myself assessing the road ahead. The routes. The miles. And the destination. I’ve been on the road so long now that this dusty hotel room, with its animal print wallpaper, feels as much like home as anywhere I’m headed.