Santa is 69. I know this because we camped with him and his wife, Wendy, one night just outside of Idaho Falls, Idaho. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Frank and I headed out on our motorcycles on a clear, sunny morning on Wednesday, June 14th, 2006. We were loaded and as ready as possible for our anticipated 3400-mile trip to Las Vegas and back, for his brother John’s wedding to the lovely and vivacious Claudia.

Day One took us from Illinois, across Iowa and halfway through Nebraska. We traveled 600 miles past many farms and fields and many fields and farms (did I mention the many farm fields?). I remembered hearing that Iowa has the least amount of natural, undeveloped land in the U.S. We hit pockets of rain crossing Iowa, but nothing too severe. The wind picked up as we headed into Nebraska and after 200 miles of fighting the gusts, it had worn me out. That night we stayed at the Harold Warp Pioneer Village in Minden, Nebraska. It sounds tacky and it was, but it was the first sign of camping we’d seen in many miles and the shadows were growing long. Still, the price was right ($5.48 — not $5.50 but $5.48!), and the showers were clean; welcome relief from high temperatures even at 7 at night. The lone campers in the tent area, we had our choice of sites. We made the best of the evening, playing a round of mini golf next door (I won by 2), though it proved too windy for a fire afterward. Sleeping conditions were wonderful but for interruptions by a loud train whistle which came with increasing frequency as morning drew near.

The morning was sunny, though clouds threatened on the horizon. We quickly packed our tent and belongings and headed out, hoping to miss the worst of what appeared to be a severe thunderstorm. The winds, though still present, were much tamer on this day and riding was pleasant. We managed to avoid getting rained on, and headed into Colorado. Gradually the farm fields became vast plains, dotted with cattle and other livestock. Green turned to brown, until the occasional irrigated field startled the eye. Crops, though they were sparse, were grown in circles, with clearly defined edges indicating the reaches of large sprinkler systems. It struck me odd that despite the seemingly endless and often apparently unoccupied expanses, still every piece of land was fenced off.

There was an incident in Colorado which I must confess to because Frank will tell you if I don’t. I dropped my bike. At a gas pull-off, we went different ways – he to the first available exit and I to one signed with gas services. As I watched him travel the bridge over my road I realized I could easily meet up with him. I headed toward Frank but he was headed back to me. We passed one another on the road and I indicated I’d U-turn and join him. Unable to maneuver my bike in the space available, I stopped and walked my bike around to face the opposite direction. Then I hopped back on. My foot slipped on the loose gravel and the bike, already too heavy for me to hold up on an angle, but now piled high with the additional weight of a week’s worth of clothing and camping gear, came down on it’s side. I held it up as well as I could, laying it down so as to incur as little damage possible, but down it went none-the-less. I watched helplessly as the shifter peg snapped off, rendering the bike disabled. I knew I could still ride it in this condition, but it was going to be difficult and would require repair – how much I was unsure. Suddenly I became acutely aware of how isolated our location was. Well clear of the road, I stood helpless and frustrated as trucks and cars whizzed past. I started to phone Frank but then a car turned around and couple offered to help. The man assisted me to get the bike upright just as Frank pulled up. He called his father who quickly got us the phone number of a dealership in Denver, 60 miles away. We called for directions, gassed up and headed for repairs. Soon thereafter Frank’s coat flew off the back of his bike onto the highway but he declined to return for it, knowing we needed to reach the dealership and not knowing how long it would take to find somewhere to turn back on this remote stretch of road. BMW of Denver turned out to be a well-stocked, friendly dealership. They repaired the bike for the cost of a bolt and, after the purchase of T-shirts and oil change kits, we headed off to the Rockies. We were plunged into the midst of rush-hour and riding proved slow, hot and unpleasant. It was welcome relief when we reached the other side of the city and traffic let up. Soon we were into the mountains; the sights grew grander and the temperatures dropped. As we traveled up and down, through tunnels and rock, it went from the 90’s down into the 50’s within a short distance. We stopped for dinner, then donned jackets and gloves. Seeing signs for camping soon thereafter at the town of Frisco, we pulled off for the night. The location was beautiful; we had a view of snow-capped mountains, the smell of evergreens and well-spaced camp sites along a small lake. We enjoyed a fire, admired the stars and had a restful night, grateful for our warm sleeping gear.

Friday morning was once more sunny and clear. The prior day’s events had reduced our mileage and we knew we were in for a long ride this day. After a camp-stove breakfast we were packed and on our way. Breath-taking scenery in the mountains made for a wonderful morning of riding. Along the way we spotted many other BMW motorcycles and for a time we rode along with three other models of BMW bikes. It was fun as the five of us blasted along the winding roads, enjoying a spirit of kinship you don’t feel traveling by other means. We gassed up before heading into Utah and the desert. The road we traveled was located in a wide flat valley but all around us was ever-changing mountainous terrain. Every corner or hill seemed to open our view to a new colour or variety of rock formation. The vegetation changed also but the only sign of animal life for miles on end were the flattened carcasses of small prairie dogs; 10 20 for every mile of road by my count and that was only the westbound lanes. We stopped for lunch at the first town and gassed up. Signs indicated no more services for another 90 miles. As we continued through the sparsely populated region, we were blessed with temperatures in the mid-70’s; ideal for riding. We rode on into Arizona - only about 40 miles across the north-west corner of the state, but through a narrow, deep canyon that made me feel very tiny in the grand scheme of things. Just inside the Nevada border we stopped once more for gas. The temperature had risen into the low 100’s by now and even the wind offered no comfort. We soaked our shirts with water and headed into the desert once more. Now the land spread out hot and flat with rocky peaks far in the distance. The small comfort offered by our wet clothes lasted no more than 15 minutes before the moisture was wicked away by the hot dry air. It was only about 90 miles to Las Vegas but that felt like the longest 90 miles of the trip. We were tired and hot and on the tail-end of a 700+ mile day. From the open desert, it was a jarring contrast to ride into the hustling, loud, colourful streets of Vegas. We unpacked the bikes and checked into our room, grateful for air-conditioning and a bed for a couple of nights. Dinner was had under light mist sprinklers on the patio of a restaurant across the way. Tuning out “the city that never sleeps”, we hit the bed instead of the casino.

Saturday morning, the day of John’s wedding, was sunny and hot. We rode my bike over to check out the Monte Carlo where the wedding would be held. After losing a quick $20 at the slot machines, we headed out to see the Hoover Dam. The ride was hot but the dam was worth seeing. It’s size and the facts of it’s construction continue to draw thousands of people, many of whom seemed to be there the same day as we were. On the way back we toured through the older section of Las Vegas, the downtown, and then on along “The Strip”. It was easy to understand the many sirens we heard and the signs of many accidents — there was so much to distract a driver from lights to billboards to unusual people and all of it appeared gaudy and overdone. We returned to the hotel for a quick dip in the pool, decided on a different route home, north to Yellowstone Park, and then readied ourselves for the wedding. With plenty of time to spare, we left for the Monte Carlo. As we had been warned, everything looks like it’s close in Vegas. Yet we failed to heed this warning and set out on foot. We were walking on the wrong side of the road to catch a cab in the direction we needed to go and the busy six lanes of traffic looked more difficult to cross than walking. When our feet began to hurt, we decided just to make it to the corner. But then we turned that corner and the hotel looked so close it seemed a little silly to catch a cab now. In all we walked two miles. We arrived with little time to spare, we were hot and limping painfully and not quite sure where it all went wrong.

The service was wonderful. It was short but well-spoken and the happy couple were married. We met up with their many friends and the family in the wedding suite afterward for champagne and cake. Frank and I joined his parents, his sister and her fiancé for dinner which turned into a bit of a debacle. We, the children, determined we didn’t want to eat a little diner his parents had found. No, we wanted to live it up a little, enjoy a good steak dinner at a finer restaurant. Innocently we chose a restaurant inside the Bellagio. We were seated at the only available tables, in the bar area. The menus were handed to us and we realized we were out of our league. Still, rather than admit defeat, we ordered wine which, at $9 a glass, we determined was actually less expensive than by the bottle. Then we agreed on a large group appetizer and made it pass for dinner. It was a seafood combo, the cost of which was well in excess of $100. Side salads were in the $10-$13 range. We ended up paying for his parents’ dinner knowing full well they would have been happier at the diner they wanted to go to in the first place. Afterward we stepped outside to view the magnificent fountain and light show in front of the Bellagio. A different display is presented every 15 minutes and, though there is likely a repeating pattern, we didn’t see the same one twice. We broke up for the evening, with his parents needing to get up early in the morning for their flight, and us promising to meet up with everyone else later that night at The Palms. Though we arrived there around 11 p.m., we were still well in advance of the others who planned to be up for most of the night. At midnight, determining we weren’t cut out for the Vegas life, and knowing we too wanted to get an early start on the day, we headed back to our hotel.

Sunday morning was once more hot and sunny. We loaded up the bikes and headed north. Thankfully, the temperature gradually dropped as we traveled. Once more the scenery changed from flat desert to rocks and mountains. The further we headed north, the greener it got. Around 5 p.m. we were just north of Salt Lake City, Utah, heading for Idaho. As we looked for signs of camping in the lengthening shadows, we found ourselves in the town of Blackfoot, Idaho. Seeing a sign too late for the campground, we turned around and were promptly pulled over by the police. We pulled onto the next street and stopped to see what the problem was. We had just gone the wrong way on the only two one-way streets in town. After a check of our identification, we were sent on our way with questionable directions. The officer suggested a green spot behind the nearby motorcycle dealership that used to be a Harley dealership that used to be owned by a man who used to welcome travelers to tent out on his property. What we found was a well-maintained lawn that didn’t appear to have been camped on any time recently. So we headed to the fairgrounds where the officer had thought there might be camping, if was any existed at all. The signs pointed to a gate that was chained shut, clearly not welcoming campers. We headed back to the Interstate and that’s when we ended up in a county-owned RV campground, next to Santa and Wendy. His name is Red but his beard has long-ago turned pure white and he truly does have that twinkle in his eye like the Coca Cola Santa. He has played Santa at the same mall in Texas now for nine years and loves it. If you can believe it, their last name is Beard. Yes — he’s Red Beard with a white beard. They are an interesting, talkative, colourful couple who kept me amused with their stories while I set up the tent and Frank went looking for dinner in town. They once lived off their motorcycle for six months, traveling all over the U.S., sleeping in a tent and now they live in their RV. The stories were plentiful and delightful. Frank came back an hour later empty-handed as the town was completely closed up at 9:30 at night. Instead he and I rode ten miles up the highway to a truck stop he’d located. That night it rained, hard and steady. In my half-sleep I felt sure it was a sprinkler system, so steady was the rain fall. I must have been convincing because Frank even believed me at first. We stayed dry inside our tent, however, and it had stopped by morning. This was our least expensive site of the trip; it was free. There was no one to pay and the two couples at the campground didn’t know how much a tent would be charged anyway.

We packed up and braced ourselves for what promised to be a day of on-and-off rain. As it turned out, we were only rained on a couple of times and never very much. Stopping once more at the truck stop for breakfast, we planned our route into Yellowstone, turning 80 miles into 120 as we added scenic routes. Once inside the park we rode a further 230 miles and were treated to views of mountains, hot springs, waterfalls, rivers and pastures. We saw elk, deer, buffalo, a wolf and three bears (no, not The Three Bears). After viewing Old Faithful we bought supplies at an on-site grocery store and found a campground inside the park, close to Lewis Lake. Though the site was small, on a hill and we were unable to locate firewood, we enjoyed our stay. There were spots of snow throughout the campsite, though we managed to stay warm enough. It wasn’t too cold for the mosquitoes either … as soon as we stepped off our bikes we were swarmed by them. Oddly they didn’t seem to bite though we were quick to cover ourselves in bug spray. We enjoyed dinner, a bottle of wine and made a meager fire with some magazines and the few dead branches we could find, then shut it down for the night.

Though we knew we were still a long way from home, Tuesday morning was a slow one for us getting up. We’d been away for six days and had traveled close to 3000 miles. We slept a little later than planned and lingered over breakfast, enjoying the birds that flew in to steal bread from our picnic table and clean up the egg remnants from our frying pan. By the time we were on the road, it was 10 a.m. As we fueled up, we were warned of road construction and long delays. It was still a long way until we would reach the Interstate and but at least we knew there were beautiful views ahead as we headed into the Grand Tetons. On the road out of the park, heading for Cody, Wyoming, a couple of times we had to wait up to 30 minutes and then travel at a very slow pace over miles of gravel. The miles we covered were hard-earned. Even once we got past the construction the road was winding and pace was slow. The views, however, were beautiful as we traveled through mountains and small, quiet little towns. Once more the temperatures rose and fell with as much as 30 degree variations throughout the day. We saw in excess of 100 deer and antelope in the fields alongside the Interstate, though very few were close enough to present any potential danger to us. Nightfall found us well short of our intended mileage. After passing up a scraggly-looking campground in New Underwood, we stayed at the Sunnyside campground in Wasta, South Dakota. Once more we were the lone campers, though we were told the previous night there had been more than 40 tents. A sudden storm whipped through and tore down tents, even blowing one far away. Those campers, native Indians who were participating in a movie being shot nearby, were now housed in the town’s motels. We headed over to the local bar where the bartender fed us food, drinks and stories. He sent us off with pens bearing his name and number and invited us to call him about moving to Wasta when ever we were ready.

Wednesday morning, knowing we had 800+ miles ahead of us, we were up early heading east. The roadside was littered with hundreds of billboards advertising each town’s reason why a traveler should stop there. Brown plains turned to green farmland once more as we left South Dakota and entered into Minnesota. Three hundred miles later (and likely more than 300 fields later) we entered the valley of the Mississippi, crossing over the river into Wisconsin. Fueling up one last time just over the border, we headed into the final 200 miles toward home. Though neither of us regretted the additional miles and time it took to travel to Yellowstone, the green beauty of Wisconsin was lost on our weary eyes and minds. We now wished to accomplish only one goal — to get home. That we did around 9:30 at night. We unpacked the bikes and fell into bed, knowing we had to rise early for work the next day.

We essentially fit two trips into one eight-day period. We visited twelve states, traveled more than 4000 miles and saw almost as varied landscapes as can be viewed in this country. Before we fell asleep we agreed it had been a blast and we’d have to head back out west in the future and explore some more.