Highway 50 - Coast to Coast

Travels on a Triumph

As the days of my retirement drew closer, the most asked question by my co-workers was "What are you going to do when you retire?" My standard answer, "It's not what I'm going to do but what I'm not going to do. I'm not going to take the interstate anymore." After years of racing back and forth across the country on the interstate to fix airplanes, it was time to take it easy and enjoy the countryside along the two-lane blacktop. The moment I saw a sign in Ocean City, Maryland, at the beginning of Highway 50 that said – Sacramento, CA. 3,073 miles – an idea formed.

By noon of the third day of my trip, I arrived in downtown Ocean City, Maryland, from my home in Georgia. With my tank bag bulging with over 20 maps, I was ready for the long haul to the West Coast. I had taken my time riding along the Outer Banks of North Carolina, even camped one night at a hostel in Kitty Hawk, which would have been a lot more fun if I was 19 all over again. I thought it would be a good idea to stop in Ocean City and eat lunch before starting the long ride across country on Hwy 50. Wrong. After a couple of trips around town I couldn't even find a place to park my motorcycle. Stopping on the sidewalk to take a couple of pictures, I then rode under that sign and headed west for California. For the first 100 miles or so, Highway 50 was anything but the scenic two-lane I envisioned. Four-lane cement with plenty of traffic continued across Maryland to the Bay Bridge at Annapolis, and I soon realized I had a problem I had to fix.

The day before leaving Georgia I had installed two new tires. The front one had a wobble at low speeds that increased to an unwieldy vibration with more velocity. I needed to find a dealer with a tire in stock, so after crossing the Bay Bridge, I turned north towards Bob's BMW near Jessup, Maryland. Even though I was riding a Triumph, Bob's service department made a quick tire change and I was on my way by closing time on my third day. I've heard other people talk about their third day always being the worst one. Even while sailing or on a working trip, it seems like the third day is the worst. As soon as I left Bob's I was caught in a thunderstorm so horrendous it made the national news that night. Usually I ride through most storms but this one was so severe I finally took cover under a hospital parking garage and watched as tree limbs and trash blew by. In about 15 minutes it was over and I headed off to find a camping spot. The only place I could find was one of those with the three initials that cost me double what I had wanted to spend. But it was a dry, safe place.

The next morning the sky cleared. I didn't even mind the rush-hour traffic going into Washington D.C. Stopped in traffic, a guy next to me in a SUV rolled down his window and asked where I was going. "Coast to coast," I answered, "on Highway 50." He wondered if I had my tent with me. "Yep, I camp every night," I said, and at that he undid his seatbelt got out and approached. "I want to shake your hand," he said. "You are doing what I've always dreamed of doing, riding cross-country on Highway 50." What a great day. The ominous third day was behind me and so was Washington. The road turned to two lanes and entered the country on Northern Virginia. I've always had a strong interest in the events of the Civil War and Highway 50 across Northern Virginia is heaven for any buff. Here the route is known as the John S. Mosby Highway. Y'all remember Mosby's Raiders, don't you? Anyway, there was a lot of action up and down the Shenandoah Valley and I could hardly make any headway for stopping to read all the historical markers.

After passing by Snickersville, I continued on into West Virginia where Highway 50 has some serious curves and presents a great ride. When I reached Ohio, I turned north off Highway 50 and took some back roads to AMA Vintage Days at Mid-Ohio. Vintage days are like a trip back in time to the early eighties. Seems like everyone who owns a 70s or 80s model motorcycle in the area gets it out and rides it to Mid-Ohio for Vintage Days. After three days of camping and looking through something like ten acres of boxes holding dusty motorcycle parts, I made contact with Steve, a pal who had ridden up from Georgia in a day. We would ride together to California on Highway 50.

Angling down through End, Ohio, we once again picked up Highway 50 and headed west. I need to tell you right now everyone contemplating this particular trip needs to start eating plenty of corn. Along this route through Indiana, Illinois and Missouri, it's miles and miles of cornfields, all growing high and looking good. Entering Kansas, the road becomes straight and flat. As you exit one town, you can just see the top of the grain elevator on the outskirts of the next one, and in between each town, the endless cornfields featured low-flying grasshoppers ready to make a nasty yellow mess on our boots and motorcycles.

In the middle of Colorado, Highway 50 begins to develop some curves and more traffic as it climbs into the foothills of the Rockies. The morning we crossed Monarch Pass (11,321 ft.), winter riding gear was the dress of the day as we rode on toward Swink, Colorado. There, some BMW riders suggested a shortcut on Highway 92 between Spinero and Delta through the Black Canyon National Park. We took their advice and discovered a phenomenal ride. A must-stop for lunch through here is the famous Joe Crocker's Mad Dog Ranch in Crawford, Co.

For 200 miles, Highway 50 becomes Interstate 70 as it leaves Colorado and continues across Utah. It was on this stretch of interstate that we got our first lesson on gas availability on western interstates. Steve could go about 160 miles on his BMW before needing gas and I could go over 200. After 100 miles or so, with Steve in the lead, we passed a couple of signs – No service next 110 miles. As we passed the last exit, a state patrol car maneuvered between us and stayed there. I realized Steve had not seen the signs, but didn't want to press my luck and pass the trooper. Finally he turned across the median and I caught up with Steve and waved him over. We had no choice but to cross the median, too, and backtrack for gas. We paid closer attention to our consumption as we headed across the long stretches of desert.

Highway 50 across Nevada is posted as "The loneliest highway in America" and it probably was at one time. We decided along this stretch that most workers in Nevada are employed as road-construction flag people. Being on a motorcycle with no air conditioner to turn on or windows to roll down, we got to talk to all the flag people. One such person told us about how Highway 50 was named the loneliest road in America from a Life magazine story. The state had been advertising this through signs and brochures and I know it's not so lonely anymore. Seems every motorcycle rider, recreation-vehicle owner, and a few folks in cars want to be able to say they rode the loneliest road in America.

Our trip was a great ride across America. Even in Nevada the high had only been 70 degrees with only mild desert winds. I had been on the road for almost 2 weeks by the time we crossed into California at Lake Tahoe, and maybe we were on the road a bit too long. One night in Northern California at a campground, the owner offered us a stay in a "miner's cabin" for the same price as a tent site because the temperature was dropping to 38 degrees by morning. Steve and I both said no; we had become quite comfortable in our tents. (The owner was wrong; it went down to 37°.)

Coming up on Sacramento, Highway 50 becomes Interstate 80, which carries folks on into San Francisco. I have ridden this highway many times and in order to make the BMWMOA National Rally in Redmond, Oregon, on time, we turned north. After a great day riding through Northern California on Highway 92, we arrived in Redmond. With over 4,000 miles covered since leaving Georgia, it was time for a few days of well-deserved rest.