Today is our last day on motorcycles. Before this trip, I was concerned about sleeping on the ground for 15 nights, but modern camping gear is amazing. Between my sleeping pad, camp pillow, and finishing each day exhausted, I’ve slept very well, except last night. It was in the 30s, and I was frigid. This morning, I crawled out of my tent with a sore calf muscle and limped to the picnic table where Madison, one of our film directors, sat. “You okay?” She asked. I rubbed my calf. “My head is pounding, and I somehow injured myself while sleeping.” She chuckled and handed me some Liquid IV.  “I think you’re dehydrated.” 

Ronnie Jim Ginsbock thought he’d hit Blossoms and Brew for a quiet breakfast, but his small, local coffee shop had been taken over by our team. When Jerod and I arrived, every member of our film crew had joined a table of locals. We were introduced to Ronnie, a welder and longtime resident of Buffalo, South Dakota. Ronnie had worked as a commercial welder (agricultural, construction and oil field) but also dabbled in metal art. He was curious about our travels and spoke of his love of finding beauty off the beaten path. After chatting with Ronnie, Jerod and I sat down for breakfast. I had over-easy eggs, bacon, hash browns, and a biscuit.

The morning air was chilly. I put on my moto gear, rolled out of my tent, and set up my camp chair to brew coffee. We are on a gentle hill at the crux of a congregation of pine covered mountains around us. We lingered at camp this morning, enjoying coffee and toasted homemade cinnamon bread.

This morning, we rode across the dam for Lake McConaughy. To our right was 30,000 surface acres of water. It was an unbroken plane of blue, and I have to say, the view was alright, alright, alright. To our left, we could see last night’s campground. Jerod and I talked over our helmet comms. We agreed that it’s unnerving to sleep next to a wall of earth with an immense amount of water pushing against it. 

Zane Hoeslton, a maintenance worker for the city of Eustis, Nebraska, was driving through downtown when he saw two guys on adventure motorcycles. Jerod and I were looking for a place to grab breakfast. Zane owns four Kawasaki motorcycles, so he stopped and asked us where we were headed? The sign on the door of his Chevy pickup read, “Village of Eustis—Sausage Capital—You’ll Love our Wurst.” Surely the sausage capital had a breakfast joint. Zane said no, but we might find some local sausage to cook later at the H&J Grocery and Beverage. It was a community hangout with a coffee bar, tables, and some grab-and-go lunch items. I ate a ham and cheese wrap and a whole bag of spinach. 

We stopped in Seward at the world’s largest time capsule, which is topped by a white concrete pyramid. The underground capsule was sealed in 1975, and the pyramid was added in 1983. There are over 5,000 artifacts inside, most notably a Chevy Vega, no mileage, and Kawasaki motorcycle, also no mileage. It will be opened next year on July 4th. 

Last night, we parked the bikes under Feit Memorial Park’s pavilion. It had lights and electricity, an unusual perk for tent camping. We charged phones, helmet comms, Jerod’s camera batteries, and with the pavilion lights, we inspected Jerod’s front fork. When we rose this morning, there was a small pool of dark oil next to his tire.

Our first miles of gravel featured a caravan of small buttes and mesas that rolled across the horizon. Bursts of yellow peppered the hills around us. Fall is quietly descending upon Kansas. We traveled on Blue Stem Road and took a long diversion on Little Egypt Road through tall grass prairies interspersed with densely wooded bottoms. Toto, we’re in Kansas, and I’m in love.

Today, calamity ensued. Our first dirt of the day was a scruffy piece of double-track through thigh-high ragweed. The path beneath us appeared and disappeared under a blanket of weeds. Suddenly, Jerod dropped in and out of a knee-deep hole. He popped out of the seat like a whack-a-mole. The inertia pitched him back, and he couldn’t help but twist the throttle. It was a full-on rodeo, and Jerod was along for the ride. His motorcycle turned and headed straight for a barbed wire fence. Jerod stopped it just in time. “I thought you were done for,” I said. Jerod looked at me, back to the five wires strung on t-posts, and said, “I was more worried about having to fix that rancher’s fence.”

I crawl out of my tent and jump on the motorcycle first thing in the morning. The comfort and quiet of a car would be nice, but the vulnerability of the open cockpit instantly connects you to a new place. When you meet other riders on the road, they drop their hand low, palm facing forward, and give the two-wheeled wave. The camaraderie of motorcycle travel never gets old.

I slept for a solid six hours last night. I feel rested for the first time in four days. We camped on Foss Lake, where this morning I rolled out my travel yoga mat and did a 30-minute flow next to its tranquil waters. Rejuvenated and rested, I mounted my motorcycle and followed Jerod out of the park. To our right, we saw the first signs of what the day’s dirt held for us: a freshly plowed field the color of red velvet cake. It looked delicious.

This is a 15 day trip. We are on the motorcycles from dawn to well past dusk, and every night is spent in a tent. You must create little moments of solace. I call them micro vacations. I slept five hours last night. This morning I showered for the first time in three days. Micro vacation. 

With only four hours of sleep last night, I woke disheveled, packed my gear, and went to fire up the motorcycle. My key was missing. It was packed inside my tent, which was two bags deep on top of my pillion seat. After a quick unpack and repack, Jerod and I departed Lake Colorado City State Park.

We were up before the sun and wasted no time getting started. It was instant coffee, a hand full of granola and back on the bikes for the longest leg of the trip. 368 miles were on the books. We made a quick stop at the limestone bed of the Pecos River before exiting the Pandale Crossing River Resort. The water flowed on either side of us. The current quickened as it flowed under a long forgotten concrete bridge.

Day ONE: We rose before dawn by the light of a thunderstorm erupting across the Chihuahuan Desert. A cold front chilled the desert morning. The storm sat atop Casa Piedra Road and drenched it’s gravel surface. That 50-mile-long piece of our day’s route, with its sandy creek beds, would be too arduous for our heavy adventure bikes.

Today is our launch day from Lubbock, Texas, to our starting point in Presidio. It’s 500 miles of tarmac to this beautiful little spot on the Rio Grande, so there’s little time to waste! Tomorrow, the Great Plains Project officially launches—15 days and over 3,500 miles of big skies, dirt conditions, and a pair of friends looking to see some country from a pair of Africa Twins.

The North American Great Plains are one of the most important places in the world for the world. I often say this when describing the significance of the Great Plains to folks that have maybe up to that moment just viewed them as a patchwork of fly-over country. I also add that, like many places where there has ever been any human population, it has dramatically changed over time.