Hines, Oregon
The towns between Vale and Burns are small and are separated by big expanses of plains-type desert and I'm not talking vanilla ice cream here (that would be plain-type dessert). There's a whole lot of nothing out there and it's all very beautiful. ...and hot. I respectfully declined to abide by the state mandated 55 MPH speed limit. Except for the areas surrounding the towns it just doesn't make any sense to go that slow. I was extra careful to slow for critters as they made their way across the road -- specifically the critters driving white Cameros with blue and red lights. Gotta be careful with them as they spit dangerously venomous tickets when you least expect it... or so I've heard. When I arrived in Hines, I topped off the tank. She took 4.5 gallons -- which I thought was odd since I should have gone on reserve when I had used 4 gallons. It turns out that I had been on reserve the whole time. Boy, wouldn't have I been surprised when the motor started sputtering and I reached down to switch over... oops. The desert isn't a really good place to run out of gas. My accelerated velocity, combined with a tremendous head wind cause me to consume fuel much faster than normal.
While I was there, I met up with another biker (Tom) who is also doing the Grand Tour. Turns out he's the webmaster for Rose City Motorcycle Club. I thanked him for his efforts because I used their web page to find out about this event. He ordered dead cow and I ordered dead chicken. Like I said, it was the worst thing I'd ever tasted. I highly recommend it. 
I came to rest at the end of the day in Bend, Oregon. It also happens to be laundry day, so I'm typing this up with the spin cycle in the background. Many people seem to be curious about the scruffy biker with the laptop but no one has dared ask. The "biker" image is so funny that way -- thanks mostly to Hollywood and a few well-documented incidences involving "outlaw" biker gangs. Most of the bikers I meet are really quite nice, hold high-paying jobs and have families. Sure, a few like to shoot at passing cars and to trash motel rooms, but who among us doesn't do those things from time to time? Oops. Time to reload... the dryer. |
I continued away from the bustling metropolis of Parma, Idaho westward along Hwy 20. If I have come away from today's adventure with any impression at all it would have to be that Oregon is big! I mean really big. You wouldn't believe how vastly, hugely big it is. (Thank you, Douglas Adams).
Speaking of consumption, I had a terrible meal at Worst Food in Oregon. Actually, it was quite tasty, but I felt it necessary to play along with the tongue-in-cheek name. The proprietor (the second generation owner) told me that the name came from his grandfather's admonition to "always tell the truth." WFiO is one of the oldest privately-held family restaurants in Oregon.