Riding a section of the loneliest road in America

The Subway restaurant in Tonopah, Nevada smells of desperation, loneliness and sweat, sprinkled with brainless employees whose zombie stares tell of their dead end jobs and pointless lives in this nowhere land.  Slowly they plod around, shuffling their feet shod in untied shoes, staring at their toes, corners of their faces downturned and muttering orders under soiled breath.  Maybe they are half drunk, or stoned, or both, self medication the only prescription to numb the pain of eaking out a bleak existence in this corner of Nevada desert hell.  On a meaningless Tuesday in July it is 10:00am, already over 100 degrees outside and climbing rapidly.  I have to get out of this place.

Two weeks deep into my journey through the west I am passing through Tonopah to overnight at Ely and eventually ride the Bonneville Salt Flats.  Highway 6 connects Tonopah to Ely, a 168 mile stretch of highway dissecting the hot gut of Nevada.  There are no services on the road, no towns, no stops, no gas stations, no civilization, not a damn thing.  One hundred and sixty eight miles of empty.  This crappy Subway restaurant is the last oasis on the way to nowhere, and my last taste of electricity, indoor plumbing and air conditioning.  At least the employees here are friendly, or trying to be.

Canteen filled with ice water, gas tank topped off, camping gear, food, and stove all secured aboard my 1998 Honda VFR800, it looks less like a sport touring bike and more like a modern covered wagon setting off in search of the Oregon Trail, dysentery not included.  I have pulled as much as 250 miles from the bike before puttering to a gasless stop so the distance is not a worry.   But the heat, that is what might bury me.

I hit the starter button and leave Tonopah’s Subway zombies in the rearview.  Seconds later I hit the city limits and pin the throttle.  Speed, I tell myself, speed is the best way to rip off the miles.  Get out of the heat and get to the other side of the state as quickly possible.  No one out here gives a damn how fast I go because there is no one out here.

I glance at the VFR’s thermometer for entertainment’s sake and it says 105 degrees so I attempt to deal with it.  My Klim Latitude gear is flat black making me feel like a bug under a magnifying glass, all the heat in the sun’s power tightly focused on me.  Every vent is open giving my arms and thighs a convection oven blast.  I unzip my chest vent and my whole jacket inflates like a parachute which sounds like a good idea until I find it heats my chest and sucks the moisture from my core.  I try riding with my faceshield open but within minutes I can feel the hot air drying out my face and cooking my cheeks.  There is no escaping the heat.

The road does not help.  It is straight, desperately straight, longingly straight, a perfect line between point A and point B.  With nothing to go around and no reason to curve, it pummels me with boredom and, combined with the furnace blast of heat, it lulls me into a state of dangerous complacency.  Constant droning of the engine, numbing triple digit speed, scalding temperature and nothing in sight, not even another car sucks me into hypnosis so tempting that I have to close my eyes and shake my head to snap myself back to reality, which I do every time I realize I am slipping closer to the edge.  I have to talk to myself, reminding me that out here there is no rescue so I better pay damn good attention to what I am doing.  When I do, I look down to see I have dipped into doing much deeper triple digit speeds and the temperature outside has crept up to 110 degrees.

I took only one picture on the road because all of them would look the same, just like this.

“I am doing fine,” I tell myself, “I am good.”  I am well hydrated, have plenty of ice water in my canteen, tons of food, a stove, all of my camping gear, first aid supplies and plenty of gas…oh f#&!.  I am down to half a tank.  How?

While the VFR can exceed 200 miles of range, that is on a normal bike at normal speeds.  What I am doing now is abnormal.  Two giant blocky saddlebags, camping gear strapped to the back, heavy water and supplies everywhere make me a heavy machine.  With a throttle I have unconsciously pinned to the stop, not even an hour into the ride, I have gone 80 miles and drained half a tank.  Maintaining this pace means being stranded in the desert.  I have but one choice.

I slow down.  A lot.  Backing off the throttle slowly I let the bike drop from a jail worthy pace to 70 miles an hour.  This will work, I tell myself.  I would rather go slowly and make it to my camping spot than speed to an untimely stranding somewhere in the Nevada desert.  A normal pace seems like a crawl.  I think I could run faster than this.  I will just enjoy the view.

But there is none.  There is nothing to look at in this desert hell because nothing out here lives for long.  Suffocating heat kills everything that tries to grow higher than your knee.  Sagebrush eak out a meager existence.  Aspiring trees might as well try somewhere else.  I have not seen a bird all day.  Not even so much as a bug has hit my faceshield.  I can’t remember ever seeing another car on the road.  Nevada’s desert hell called Highway 6 is the death of life.

Not the most aerodynamic motorcycle and kit, especially at high speed.

Abandoned mobile homes are visible occasionally in the distance and I understand why they are abandoned.  I tell myself that in a pinch, should my bike run out of gas, sleeping in one of those things could be my backup plan.  Not a bad idea.  Wait, who thought of that?  Who said that?

Now I realize that I am telling this to myself.  Out loud.  In a brief moment of clarity I realize I have been talking to myself for the last twenty minutes, a very one-sided discussion about my speed, the gas mileage, sagebrush, the lack of other cars and the abandoned mobile homes.  Mental delirium has taken hold.  My temperature gauge says 117 degrees.  I hate this f%&*ing road. Wait, who is swearing at me in my helmet?  Do I have a passenger?

Then I see a cow.  How in the hell is a cow out here?  Where did it come from?  How is it surviving?  It is definitely not making it through the night.  But if it dies, I can eat it.  I haven’t had a good steak since I left home two weeks ago.  I have a knife, a stove, a general understanding of anatomy, determination…wait a second…I am talking to myself again.

Up ahead I see a blacked out airport transport van pulled over to the side of the road.  I might be hallucinating but no, the van gets bigger as I approach and there are people leaning against it as I pull over.  Three teenage girls are facing the road, leaning against the shady side of the van, water bottles in hand, despondency on their faces.  Shoulders slouched, sweaty heads drooped and silent, they are a testament that the desert cares not a wit about anyone.  I ask the girls if everyone is okay but they do not answer, barely turning their heads to acknowledge my existence.  The last time I saw this body language was at Subway.

Then a giant of a man pops out from the sunny side of the black transporter.  He approaches me uncomfortably close and is every inch my 6’2” height plus 40 more pounds of muscle.  His bald head drips with sweat down past his bushy eyebrows, down to his neatly trimmed grey goatee and around his thick square neck.  He looks like a refugee from a WWE ring.  I explain that I have plenty of food, water, tools and first aid supplies to help but he quickly and sternly refuses help saying that they got a flat last night, spent the night in the van and help should be arriving shortly.  He does not say it out loud, but everything about his abrupt tone and body language says he wants me gone.  Now.

Our discussion is the only time the girls look my way.  As the man talks all three of the slack heads slowly turn towards me in unison in an eerie unplanned ballet.  Then they stare at me, painful, desperate stares from behind bloodshot eyes.  It pieces my soul.  I feel their eyes, hear their thoughts.  They are desperate.  They need rescue.

My delirious brain spins.  Why in the hell is a giant man transporting three beautiful teenage girls through a remote corner of Nevada on a nowhere road in a blacked out airport van?  My voice tells me to pepper spray Steve Austin, beat him with the tire iron laying on the ground, dump my gear, strap the three girls to the bike and see how far I can make it.  Yes, that’s a good plan.  What could possibly go wrong?  Wait, am I talking out loud again?  Dang.  So much for the element of surprise.

I ride off.  I had other choices, none of them good.  I hate this road.

Imagine being stranded out here. In a blacked-out van. With a bald brute. This weighed on me, heavily. Photo by PHOTO AMERICA.

And it so it goes on, and on, and on.  Endless droning, saturating heat, draining gas and this voice in my head that will not shut the hell up.  I feel thirsty but the voice tells me that I am not.  It tells me to just keep going, I am doing okay, stopping to hydrate would just make the trip longer.  Okay voice, whatever you say.  I have not had a drop to drink since Subway.

Miles later I arrive at Ely with one blinking warning light of reserve gas and pull into the first crappy casino I see, of which there are plenty in Ely.  I guzzle all of the water in my canteen in one giant gulp like a college freshmen chugging beer.  I don’t stop to breathe.  It is not enough.  My socks squish with sweat as I walk inside to the bar and ask for a glass of water.  The girl behind the bar gives me a dirty look as she fills a glass half full of tepid water and pushes it across the counter.  Her blank look reminds me of the Subway employees at Tonopah.  Lifeless, hopeless, empty.  Is everyone out here like this? I report on the black van stranded back in the desert, and am flatly thanked for the information. Will anything be done?

My camping spot is miles out of town so I reluctantly backtrack on Hwy 6 out into the desert again.  The sun is starting to set and I pitch my tent at my campsite in the open desert with a expansive view of the desert stars.  Canteen empty and still thirsty I walk to the spigot to fill it.  I plan to drink water until my eyeballs float.

The oasis that is Ely, Nevada. A most welcome sight at the end of an agonizing day on Hwy 6. Photo by elynevada.net

Nothing comes out.  No water.

I stare at the dry spigot.  I have ridden all day in 117 degree heat, had only the water in my canteen plus a small glass of water to drink, have not peed all day and the voice in my head is making more and more sense.  Hello rock bottom.

Only one other camper is stupid enough to be set up out here and the owners come out to chat, excited to see life in the desert.  As they approach they slow and stare at me.  I must look like hell.  They explain that there has not been any water here since the nearby mine poisoned the local water supply years ago.  I tell them my tale and they take pity.

In one of the kindest gestures in all of my travels, they fill my canteen.  Watching them give up their water to fill me up was like watching someone pour out their life for mine.  To this day I have not forgotten this gesture.  I almost break down.  The desert has done me in.

As the sun sets the temperature drops from a high of 117 to horribly chilly in a blink.  My sweaty form sticks to the sleeping bag and I begin to shiver.  As I glance up, the stars come out.  With no light pollution, no trace of humanity and high elevation the heavens open up revealing a view of the stars that leaves even the voice in my head speechless.  Multitudes of stars, wavy streams of galaxies and satellites zipping about are my nightly entertainment.  For once, for just the ever slightest of glorious moments, the desert gives back.

Unfortunately, the only way to get to this heaven is to ride through hell.

Water, food and time staring at the stars have paved the way for clearer thinking.  My inner voice finally shuts up and when it does an epiphany hits.  Suddenly I understand the real reason for the Subway zombies in Tonopah, the lifeless employee at the casino Ely; I get why they look that way, why all the precious people in those two towns look that way.  They already know what I have just now realized, that the way out of those dreadful towns is to travel Nevada Highway 6, the worst, loneliest road in the world.

Ted

*What’s the worst road you’ve ever traveled on? Let us know in the comments below.