The PCH - Chapter 2

Friday July 9, 2004

We left at 4:45 in the morning for a reason. That reason was to put as many miles under our wheels before the desert reached its fiery climax. By the time we hit Blythe, California we are delighted to have accomplished a significant portion of that goal. It is still relatively early morning as we roll into Blythe but the change in temperature is already becoming apparent.

My tank holds enough gas to cover 150 miles and we have pushed its limits. My eyes have spent as much time watching the odometer (FLMNG1 has no gas gauge) as they have the road due to the mild angst about reaching a gas station in Blythe. I hope to reach said station before more traditional human leg power becomes a necessity. I don't want to push.

After a brief stop, we are soon hitting 80 miles per hour again headed in the general direction of Indio, California.

As we come through what I will call a mountain pass outside of Indio, the road curves from a northwesterly direction to a more direct westerly direction as it plunges down from the elevated pass. Traffic comes to a near stop and the dreamy introspection and out of body soaring experience of motoring down the highway is suddenly shattered by the remnants of a very bad accident. Good Samaritan types (and probably witnesses to the crash) are on the side of the road, waving for traffic to slow and it obediently does so. But the suddeness of this moment causes the adrenaline to flow as cars and semi-tralers come to a rapid and sudden halt. We did not lock up the brakes, but we certainly tested their limits.

We are safe. The traffic behind us slowed without parking on top of us (much to our relief) and we now slowly sputter toward the spot where the accident culminated. It clearly started several hundred feet earlier as evidenced by the skid marks and the tire tracks on the hillside. The emergency vehicles have not yet arrived as we slowly pass the victims and the car lying on its side on the shoulder of Interstate 10. The victims, for the most part, appear to be shaken but not severely injured; the car is not so fortunate. Their demeanors are haunting, including some visible and audible cries, and then the feeling of my utter vulnerability on this motorcycle is telepathically conveyed to me through their eyes. I see right into these terrified eyes as I pass and empathy lumps up my throat. It also occurs to me that, had we left Blythe a few minutes earlier, we could have been right in the middle of this and the result could have been devastating. Fate is a fickle bitch.