Long before the Eagles sang about standing on the corner on Winslow, Arizona with seven women on their mind women were being used to attract men to Winslow. In the 1950s and 60s along highways all over the west (and maybe in other parts of the country) one could see a small wooden image of a cowgirl leaning against a post. Each sign said, "For Men, Winslow, Ariz. ______ miles."
I came to Winslow to look at the "Standing on the Corner" statue, and to try to find out what was behind the roadside signs of my youth. The mystery of the roadside signs was solved in the Chamber of Commerce where I learned that an enterprising owner of a men's clothing store put the signs up all over the country. They worked. People came to find out what the signs were about, and perhaps to buy clothes.
Two men at the Chamber recalled that the cowgirl in the sign was wearing only boots and a hat. My memory of the signs doesn't include a clothes or no clothes recollection. The source of the signs was confirmed by a couple of very helpful librarians at the Winslow Public Library. Alas, the librarians also confirmed that the business was gone.
I suppose I risk ruining my image of a biker road runner by mentioning the library, but my compulsion to post these entries keeps me on the lookout for Internet access. In Winslow there is a coffee shop, but it doesn't have wi-fi. The wi-fi connection is in the library. This morning I am posting from a truck stop next to Cordes Junction Motel-RV Park where I spent the night.
The motel was a perfect road trip motel. Park the bike at the door, sleep on clean sheets, shower with plenty of hot water and pay only $41 for the room. I did wonder if I had made a mistake when three Arizona Highway Patrol cruisers came rushing into the parking lot as I was unpacking the bike. They weren't looking for me, and, as far as I could tell, the person they were looking for wasn't there because they left after a half hour.
I did have a police officer come looking for me yesterday in Winslow. I'm glad he did.
My plan was to travel from Winslow to Phoenix on Arizona Highway 87 through an area known as the Mogollon Rim, an area of interesting geologic formations and a rich connection to the earliest inhabitants of North America. Rolling out of town the road was newly paved and empty. Perfect. There was a chill in the air and the thunderstorm clouds were far enough away that they didn't pose a threat.
I was zipping along when I saw something that slowed me down more effectively than police radar. There was a sign that warned of elk for the next 50 miles. I worry about a deer darting in front of the bike. I'm not willing to think of the consequences of smacking an elk at highway speed.
Not far from town I passed Winslow's new industry which has replaced the railroad and supplements tourist income, the new state prison.
About 35 miles down highway 87 a series of signs announced that the road was under repair and that the pavement ended. The speed limit went from 65 to 25, and, indeed, the pavement ended. No problem. I had ridden this bike on the Dalton Highway in Alaska, 400 miles of dirt and gravel in each direction from Fairbanks to Prudhoe Bay. What was there to worry about?
In a word: traction. I thought the haul road was the slickest surface I had been on outside of an ice rink when the dust suppression chemical and water were freshly applied. I have a new slick road hall of fame member. It had either rained or the dirt had been watered shortly before I arrived because the surface was rutted, slick mud. It would have been fun on an off-road bike. On a fully loaded adventure touring bike, there was more adventure than I was willing to take on then and there. I turned tail and high-tailed it back to Winslow.
I was sitting in a parking lot trying to figure out the best way to get to Yuma down in the southwest corner of Arizona. The options were to take I-40 west to I-17 at Flagstaff and head south through Phoenix or go to the California line before turning south. That's when officer George Gould came looking for me.
"Are you having a problem?" he asked.
George wasn't wearing a uniform, and he was riding a very sharp Suzuki V-strom, the Japanese version of the bike I was riding. But he had that self-assured manner of cops. When I explained what had happened down on 87 George said it was a good thing I turned around there because several miles down the road from the construction the road was closed because of a forest fire. I guess when you're busy fighting fires and closing roads there isn't time to put up a sign to tell folks not to use that road.
George is a long distance rider who has covered Arizona on his bike. His advice: go to Flag and turn left. When you get to Phoenix take the by-pass around to I-10 and then cut down to I-8. I took that advice, and that is how I ended up in Cordes Junction.
At the motel I ran into Doug Schmale of Lethbridge, Alberta. Doug and a friend wee taking advantage of a long weekend in Canada to ride to Nogales, Mexico for a taco. They were then turning around to ride home. That is a three flags ride. I'm tempted, but going to Mexico from southern California is an invitation for a very long delay at the border coming back. If you tell the border agent that you went to Mexico for 15 minutes just so you could go to Mexico you're probably inviting a body cavity search. I think four corners is enough for me. Doug has completed a couple of the Iron Butt Association time and distance rides, but hasn't received his certificate. He wonders if the organization really exists. I told him I solved the problem on the Alaska run by not turning in the paperwork.
There is a BMW rally somewhere around here this weekend as I have seen many of the brand's bikes on the road. Two BMW riders, Loren Sederquist and Lambert Williams of central California, were getting gas in Holbrook when I stopped for gas. They told me I could put away my electric jacket when I got to California. I'm going to put it on this morning because it is chilly here high above the Valley of the Sun.
I'm off for corner two.
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