The cold had a way of seeping through every layer, no matter how tightly I wrapped myself. The thin blanket on top of my sleeping bag was almost laughable in its attempt to keep the chill at bay, and even my heavy motorcycle jacket, thrown on for extra warmth, wasn’t enough. The ground underneath, hard and unyielding, seemed to draw the heat away from me with every passing minute. I hadn’t expected upper 30s in Oklahoma, but here I was, shivering through the night in the tiny tent, mentally cursing my lightweight gear. There was no point in lying to myself—I’d need better equipment if I planned to survive more nights like this.
When the morning finally came, I was already wide awake, desperate to get moving just to warm up. Tahlequah, while small, felt like a town with life in it—a far cry from the ghostly quiet of other places I’d passed through in the South. Colorful murals decorated the walls, and I found myself wondering about the artists who painted them. What drove someone to pick one particular wall, in this particular town, to tell their story? In a way, I understood the feeling—my journey was a canvas, too, though much rougher and more uncertain than any mural. Today, my canvas led me to Tulsa, with the goal of finding gear that could handle the cold.
At a Bass Pro Shop, I picked up a 2-inch thick sleeping pad and a new bag rated for 20 degrees. Both were long enough to fit my 6’4” frame, and as I packed them onto the bike, I realized I was pushing the Scrambler’s capacity. Strapping everything down felt like solving a puzzle, each bungee cord a potential weak link in the setup. Still, I managed, and soon enough, I was back on the road.
As I navigated through Tulsa, flashes of memory scratched at the edges of my mind. I hadn’t been here in years, not since I was a kid in first and second grade. Yet, something about the street signs and buildings felt vaguely familiar. I stopped for lunch and called my mom, rattling off names of places I passed. She confirmed what I had only half-remembered—I had lived in this part of the town, less than a couple miles from where I was riding now. But the memories were too distant, and the town had changed too much for me to recognize anything. With a strange sense of detachment, I continued on.
The landscape began to shift as I left Tulsa behind. The rolling hills flattened, and the road stretched out in a straight line toward the horizon. The forests of Appalachia were long gone, replaced by wide expanses of farmland and open plains. To most people, this might seem boring—mile after mile of straight pavement, no twists or turns to break the monotony. But for me, it was a different kind of challenge. One of the things I loved about motorcycling was how engaging it usually was—the physicality of leaning into turns, the mental focus required to pick the right line through a curve. Here, there was none of that. The road just... disappeared ahead of me, and the horizon never came.
I found myself playing mental games just to stay alert. "How far is that object? A mile? Five? Ten?" Without cruise control, my speed was tied directly to the angle of my wrist on the throttle, so even something as simple as stretching my hand meant slowing down. The wind, however, never let me forget where I was. It came at me constantly from the side, forcing me to lean into it just to stay upright. Each time an oncoming truck passed by, it disrupted the balance, creating a momentary shelter from the wind, only to hit me with a blast as the truck pushed through, sending me swerving.
The horizon, the road, the wind—it all became a test of endurance. I’d lean into the wind, brace for the next truck, then go back to doing the mental math. There was always the anxiety about fuel. My Scrambler didn’t have a fuel gauge, just a low-fuel light and the trip odometer that I reset after every fill-up. Back home in Virginia, I knew I could get 42-47 miles per gallon, giving me a range of about 135 miles. But with all this gear weighing the bike down and the constant battle against the Oklahoma wind, I had no idea what my real mileage was. Every few minutes, I glanced down at the odometer, running the numbers in my head, double-checking, triple-checking, all while scrolling ahead on the GPS, hoping to find a gas station within the range I’d calculated. But what if I was wrong? What if the next gas station was further than I thought? The thoughts gnawed at me, and though the storm clouds were gathering in the distance, my mind stayed locked on fuel calculations.
By the time I reached the Great Salt Plains State Park, I was exhausted and hungry. I hadn’t seen anywhere to buy groceries since Tulsa, and as much as I wanted to set up camp, the idea of riding out to Enid to find food seemed more practical. Enid felt more alive than the endless stretches of road I’d been riding through, but even here, the isolation lingered. After grabbing groceries at Walmart, I realized I didn’t have the energy to ride back to the campsite. The thought of another cold night in a tent was unappealing. Instead, I made my way to Vance Air Force Base and checked into a room for the night, grateful for the warmth and a proper bed.
The next day started slow, with me cooking oatmeal on the stove in the room’s kitchenette, the first time I’d used my new camping cookware. After eating and packing the bike again, I left Enid, the roads still as straight and flat as ever. I stopped once to take a picture of some cows—they seemed bored with their routine and decided to wander over, as if putting on a show just for me.
Soon enough, the weather took a turn. The sky darkened ahead, and I watched as dust devils spun across the fields. Oklahoma in the spring always meant storms, but this one felt particularly ominous. Lightning flickered in the distance, and I wondered what I’d do if a tornado dropped out of the sky. The rain started in light drops, but I knew heavier weather was coming. I checked my odometer—enough fuel to reach Boise City, but turning back wasn’t an option. Pressing on was the only choice. The fear of running out of gas battled with the fear of the storm, both gnawing at me as the rain began to pelt my helmet.
I pushed through, grateful for the rubber tires beneath me, convinced—perhaps irrationally—that they would insulate me from a lightning strike. The road led me through a narrow gap between two storm cells, and by the time I reached Boise City, the worst of it was behind me. I stopped for fuel, relieved to be out of the rain, and struck up a conversation with a Harley rider who had come through New Mexico. He mentioned a scenic dirt road winding through the mesas, and for a moment, I imagined taking the same route. But the storm had drained me, and I knew I needed to keep moving.
By the time I reached Black Mesa State Park, the rain had settled into light showers. I set up camp, only to discover that my new sleeping bag had gotten soaked. The compression sack wasn’t waterproof. I spread it out inside the tent, hoping it would dry before nightfall. Dinner was quick—a simple meal cooked over my alcohol stove—before I hunkered down in the tent, listening to the distant thunder. It wasn’t the storm that unnerved me now, but the open plains themselves. There was something about the sheer emptiness, the vulnerability of being so exposed, that kept me awake. The next morning came early, the chill still lingering in the air. I packed up camp and set off before dawn, determined to make progress. As I rode, the landscape flattened even more, the road stretching endlessly into the distance. The horizon felt impossibly far, and the sky—huge and wide-open—seemed to swallow everything around me. I had left behind the mountains and forests of Appalachia, and now it was just me, the road, and the wind.
In that isolation, my thoughts inevitably turned to Alyssa. The long stretches of road gave me plenty of time to reflect on the decision I had made back in the Smokies. Every mile brought me closer to home, and with it, closer to her. She felt like my constant companion, even from miles away, her presence steadying me as I pushed through the physical and mental challenges of the ride. As the miles rolled on, I rehearsed how I would propose—where I would do it, what I would say. The more I thought about it, the more certain I became. This journey, as tough as it had been, had shown me just how much I wanted her by my side for every adventure, every challenge.
The road stretched on, endless and unchanging, but the weight of the journey felt lighter. Each mile brought me closer not just to home, but to the life I wanted to build with Alyssa.