Driving the Aorta of the West: Interstate 5

Six weeks have gone by fast. It seems like yesterday I was hopping in my truck, driving to Vancouver with a motorcycle strapped in the bed, awaiting the adventure ahead. All I had planned (if you can call it that) was that I was going to ride my motorcycle for a week or so into the province and see where the adventure took me. Now that it’s time to return to the United States, I’m humbled and blessed by not only the number of things R and I got to do together, but the quality in which they were done. Nothing felt rushed, but we also didn’t linger too long, which kept things continually interesting.

In many ways, it felt like living in Canada rather than vacationing there. I wasn’t particular about my return date, only telling R that we’d know the date when it came—and that date has now become tomorrow. I need to return to California for some key appointments that I cannot defer, but it only reinforces the desire to see one another again soon. I got to experience British Columbia in a unique and personal way. R and I flew back east to see my folks. Work called me south for some meetings. We hosted and entertained some of his friends, some of my friends who were vacationing in Vancouver, and met some new folks in each of the experiences along the way.

And here we are on a beautiful Friday night, standing next to each other, looking over a magnificent English Bay on the last sunset of the trip. I couldn’t have been more pleased nor filled with joy at a better outcome for our time together. Thank you.

I woke up and Vancouver laughed at me, knowing that she wanted the last word in our six-week summertime fling. She wanted to remind me of her more enduring nature—low, gray clouds and the drizzle that comes with them. Departure day could not have been more Vancouverian, lol. California may be 100°, but it’s only 53° and wet here!

R knows just about everybody in building management throughout the city. We were a little nervous about getting the nearly 600-pound motorcycle back into the truck after it took four of us to unload it on my arrival. R knew someone who knew someone else that had access to a loading dock. Even then, we weren’t quite sure if I could navigate the motorcycle through the ramp and around the staircase to get to the loading dock. Needless to say, other than a little finesse with the Rivian’s air suspension, I was able to roll the bike right into the truck, and we got it strapped down and ready for departure. I’ve gotten a number of questions from folks at home and online about how the GS fits in the truck.

Short answer: great. With the tailgate down, the bike easily fits inside the truck. Based on recommendations online, I purchased a few supplies to make strapping the bike easier and more secure:

Amazon for the win here, and the wheel chock came just in the nick of time! Here are some photographs of the truck and bike all packed up, for those who might be considering a similar adventure with a Rivian and a large displacement motorcycle.

The truck drives differently with the motorcycle in the back. Turning is noticeably affected—you can feel the weight of the bike sitting high up in the bed. Range is likely reduced by about 0.2 to 0.3 miles per kilowatt, even with taking the windshield off. Acceleration and braking feel the same, though I didn’t push either too hard to minimize stress on the bed.

When I left California, my neighbor ran out to hand me a red rag to tag the back of my motorcycle in the truck. She said, “My father always made sure I had a red rag hanging off anything I was carrying in my car or truck.” I smiled and obliged—technically, she was right; I should have the red rag on the back of the bike. Still, I couldn’t help but think: how could anyone miss a giant motorcycle in the bed of a relatively small truck? I made sure she knew I’d use it for the whole trip and return it when I got home (which I did 😊).

Now it was time for departure. R and I shared a long hug. It had been a great trip—one where neither of us realized just how much, or how quickly, the time had passed. The experience has definitely changed my thinking and approach to spending time in Canada. Having the motorcycle in the truck made Canada feel a little bit more like home, for which I am thankful. The hassle and logistics were definitely worth it.

As I drove south toward Surrey, I saw the sign: Highway 99 South – USA border. This time, that sign wasn’t just an acknowledgment of direction; it was a signal that this season of life was shifting. The irony is that Highway 1 East toward Hope is where the trip began, with the great adventure across the southern portion of British Columbia. In just the blink of an eye, Highway 99 would quickly become Interstate 5—the largest artery along the West Coast connecting California, Oregon, and Washington to this place where I’ve enjoyed a wonderful summer.

Now, this part of the trip is about time and miles. I tend to like having a long first day on the road, which sets me up for a much easier second day. To ease the transition back into California, I’ve invited some good friends over for a barbecue upon my arrival—a not-so-subtle call for help in getting the bike out of the back of the truck.

Goal: Grants Pass

Driving long distances and flying can be challenging as a Type 1 diabetic. I often find my insulin usage creeping up during long days of sedentary activity like these. If I’m on top of things, I’ll remember to set the airplane profile on my insulin pump, which delivers 30% more insulin to account for the inactivity of driving. At my first stop for power, I spotted a Jimmy John’s nearby. I was ready for lunch—but Jimmy John’s isn’t exactly diabetic-friendly, with bread dominating the menu.

What I did find, however, was a novel idea: the UnWich. What’s an UnWich, you ask? It’s a fresh take on an old idea—swap the bread for large lettuce leaves, and maybe add a little extra meat and cheese if you’re nice to the Sandwich Artist. Wait, Sandwich Artists work at Subway. Doh! I have to give credit to the marketing department for walking the line of bathroom humor that made me laugh—bold enough that I had to share it here.

I rolled into Grants Pass late. Leaving Vancouver just before noon with an eleven-hour drive ahead meant I was one of the last to arrive for the night. I slept hard, but not too hard—I still needed to be home by 6 PM, with four willing volunteers to help unload the motorcycle, provided I fed them dinner.

Nearly 40,000 miles in, and I still find the way the truck processes energy fascinating. Climbing up Grants Pass (the actual pass, not the city), the truck’s energy usage plummets—serendipitously so. The energy use isn’t as significant as climbing through the backwoods near Happy Camp, where I was getting 0.7 mi/kWh, but 1.38 isn’t exactly something to write home about. Hopefully, I’ll recapture a good chunk of that on the downhill back into California.

I always find agricultural inspection interesting. Living on the East Coast, we’d often travel through states without anything similar. I remember my first time driving into California over twenty years ago, scratching my head and wondering what this was all about. The inspection officer asked if we had any fruit products. We replied, “No,” and kept driving. My 20-year-old self didn’t grasp the significance of protecting California’s agricultural production.

Years later, living in Truckee for a short season, agricultural inspection became a regular part of life—making weekly trips down to Reno, “the big city,” and having to make declarations coming back into California. Often, the inspection officers weren’t even there, or only focused on tractor-trailers. I’m sure agricultural inspection serves a necessary purpose, but Sacramento seems wishy-washy in supporting it. It never feels consistent, which makes me question its effectiveness.

Further down the freeway, I finally reached Mount Shasta. Over the past year, I’ve wanted to get to know this part of the state. With the Sierra Nevada overcrowded post-pandemic, this area has sparked my interest with its relatively unpopulated landscape and unique volcanic features, while preserving much of what I love about the Sierra. Call it one for the glamour shot!

I decided to linger in Mount Shasta a bit longer for a quick charging stop. When Rivian shifted its mapping software from proprietary data to Google Maps, the route calculator became exceptionally bold, often telling me I could drive until the battery was below 5%. I prefer a bigger buffer, so Weed became my charging stop.

I still appreciate that those of us charging are a captive audience. I’ve met some characters along the way, and Dan was no exception. He walked up to my truck—couldn’t have been more than 25—beaming, “Dude! You have my dream setup!” All I could do was smile. Dan told me how he fell in love with the BMW GS through the series Long Way Round. I shared that R and I watched the same series recently on our trip to Vancouver. We both loved Long Way Round, but felt Long Way Down focused less on motorcycling. Dan was surprised to learn there were two more series: Long Way Up, where they rode electric Harleys from Ushuaia to Los Angeles (supported by Rivian), and Long Way Home, where Charley and Ewan traveled across Europe and the Arctic Circle. The ethos: they’d traveled the world, but hadn’t really explored home together. I told him Long Way Up was transformational for me—it was the lightbulb moment that Rivian was the right truck for my adventures.

Dan shared his own adventures. He had an older truck and a 2006 BMW R 1200 GS, gifted by his uncle, who wasn’t riding it and effectively donated it to Dan. Since then, Dan has put on 58,000 miles, much of it off-road. We laughed that he only gets to ride nine months a year—Sacramento summers are brutal. I shared his enthusiasm as a younger guy exploring on an adventure bike. It reminded me of my 20s on the V-Strom, exploring California with two goals: set foot in every county and ride 100,000 miles from new.

What surprised me, as Dan continued, was the ageism he encountered in the BMW community. I haven’t seen or felt it myself as a solidly middle-aged man, but I remember being told I was riding “an old man’s bike” in my 20s with the V-Strom. Dan said that sometimes, when ordering parts, he’d get attitude—people questioned if he knew what he was ordering, or assumed he was buying for his dad’s bike. He’s had similar experiences in the community at large.

This hit home. As a member of various social clubs over the years, I’m convinced that one of the key metrics for an organization’s long-term health is its adoption of newer, younger members. The older members can only run clubs for so long. I’ve seen organizations focus inward, dwindling as the years go by. I know the attitude Dan is talking about. These organizations don’t thrive long-term, and some clubs I know are struggling to grow. If you’re a leader of a social organization, always—always—think about how you find and grow new members.

Dan, if you’re reading this—thank you for the thoughtful and salient conversation.

As I was closing in on home, I needed to make one more stop in Dunnigan. This is one of Tesla’s newer charging stations, and in many ways, it’s a novel entity. The station features 45 high-speed chargers, each capable of delivering 200 kW of power—translating to about 450 miles of range per hour when charging at full speed. Every parking space is shaded by solar panels, which both reduce the load on the grid and shield the charging equipment from direct sunlight. Since this station uses the v4 Tesla charger, the cables are long enough to reach the charging port of any electric vehicle, making parking easy. I no longer have to take up two parking spaces or block someone else from charging just because the cable is too short.

As a kid, I quickly learned that my parents were not marathon road trippers. Sure, we’d take trips six to eight hours away, but we were never the family that spent two weeks each summer driving cross-country to visit national parks. Likewise, I’ve never been drawn to the Iron Butt award—given to those who ride a motorcycle 1,000 miles in 24 hours. It’s a prestigious achievement in the community, and worth noting that the award only starts at 1,000 miles per 24 hours.

This is my third drive up and down Interstate 5, and I’m starting to learn how to do it well. I know I like stopping in Grants Pass and Olympia. I’ve learned that stopping in Eugene makes for two long days, rather than one long and one short day. I notice the change in moisture levels—from dry California to the well-watered Pacific Northwest—leaving southern Oregon as the likely sweet spot. Usually, Oregon is aggressive with speed enforcement while California is lackadaisical at best. However, on this trip, the California Highway Patrol was ever-present, keeping the motoring public in line.

Over the years, I’ve come to appreciate the purpose that Interstate 5 serves. While it’s not exciting motorcycling by any stretch of the imagination, it really is the modern-day river, and we are all paddle boats moving up and downstream. It’s the artery of the West Coast, connecting Southern California, the deserts, all the major West Coast cities, the rich Central Valley, the volcanoes of three states, and the redwoods—ultimately leading us to our neighbor to the north.

I landed at home about half an hour before my guests were to arrive. Not only did Amazon help me start this trip well by providing all the necessary accoutrements to secure the motorcycle—they also supplied all the food for the barbecue I was yet to have. I timed it so that the delivery arrived just before I did, skipping a painful grocery store run I didn’t have time for.

We got the bike out. We drank a fantastic Cab Franc from the Okanagan Valley of British Columbia. And we caught up, sharing our adventures like we’d never skipped a beat.

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