I reached the Hotel Nevada in Ely around nightfall, and Rod had already gotten a room. Ely is a pit stop for motorcyclists traveling across the country, and I had the satisfaction of parking my ratty KLR among the chrome Harleys in front of the hotel, and later, sitting outside smoking, of hearing one of my fellow travelers, pointing to my bike, say to his companion "How would you like to travel a long way on that?"
I told them you got used to it.
After talking to a few of the motorcyclists there (including a couple from Delaware who were running the length of Route 50 from Ocean City to Sacramento) and some beers at the hotel bar listening to the stories of a down-on-his-luck miner, I went to bed secure in the knowledge that one of the two motorcycle shops that opened at 8 a.m. would have the things I needed to fix my flat tire. Sadly, this was not to be.
The first, a Yahama dealership, didn't open, although it showed all the signs of being a going concern. I asked around and discovered that they hadn't opened their doors in weeks.
No problem, I went to the Kawasaki dealership other end of town, where they actually had new models of my bike in the window, only to be told that they didn't do tires, and didn't carry the things I needed to do it myself. For those who aren't familiar with the way motorcycle dealerships work, this is completely absurd.
It took several minutes of staring in disbelief before I was able to ask the "mechanic" where it could be accomplished. He suggested the auto parts store, where they did have a patch kit and some tire irons, but no new tubes. I again cursed the fact that I hadn't brought my tire tools. I had had a great deal of trouble getting the rear tire on before I left, and resolved that it would be better in the future to pay someone with a tire-changing machine to do it for me. I didn't know then that we would be taking "America's Loneliest Road."
I called a friend who is more active than I on the various motorcycle-touring message boards on the internet. He looked at Ely on the map, said "Jesus Christ" and then posted a request for help on advrider.com. As I write this, many days later, the request has received no response.
As I made my travels to the dealerships and auto stores of Ely, it began to dawn on me that the tire was holding air-- the tire slime I had put in the night before seemed to be doing its job. Rather than pull the tube and patch it, risking another hole as I muscled the tire back onto the rim, I decided to leave it alone, and try to make it to the next town, which, upon inquiry, turned out to be Delta, Utah, some 150 miles east. I broke every warning on the Tire Slime bottle, and got there before the shop closed, with Rod riding behind me and watching the tire for signs of losing air (or exploding).
At the shop in Delta, the service manager diagnosed the problem with the tire-- I had damaged the bead putting it on, exposing a bit of the metal belt that ran through the rubber. Over some 4,500 miles, it had rubbed a hole in the inner tube, causing the mystery flat. He advised me to get another tire, although they didn't have one in stock, and put a piece of duct tape over the damaged area. I figured if it had lasted this long without the duct tape, it should be fine for the rest of the trip, and ignored his advice.
The long straightaways of the loneliest road gradually gave way to the alien rock formations of Utah, and we camped that night in Green River, near the Colorado border.
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