I left Peach Springs behind me with a sense of excitement building inside. I had very nearly traveled from one side of the country to the other, only a few hours away from California. However, the view through my helmet belied how close it seemed on the map. Rather than the rich green landscapes of the Hollywood hills, I was still deep inside the tans and browns of the Arizona desert. And instead of the busy cities of Los Angelas and San Francisco with their sprawling suburbs, the places I passed had been reduced to only a few kitschy buildings, their owners hoping to cash in on tourists driving along what remained of the famous Route 66.

The vast Mojave Desert spread out ahead of me and, as I crossed the California state line, I noticed something strange out in the distance. A set of bright lights, almost like the flood lights of a stadium, floated off the desert floor. At first, it felt otherworldly, as if I had stumbled upon something out of Area 51. I spent a couple of moments racking my brain to come up with anything that could produce that much light, but couldn't think of anything. It was only miles later that I was finally close enough to tell the lights were the massive collection towers of a solar farm, illuminated by the sunlight reflected from the field of mirrors below. Never before had I seen anything like it.

Once I stopped for gas, I realized a downside to being so deep into the middle of nowhere. Yes, it probably cost more to deliver fuel to somewhere out of the way, but the station's owner knew he had a monopoly, with his station the only structure within miles. Anyone who needed fuel had no choice but to pay whatever he charged. I shook my head at the $4.99 per gallon but, with the small range of my bike's 3-gallon tank, I too paid up.

I pushed forward, eager to hit Saratoga Springs Road, an off-road trail that had piqued my interest during my planning and would take me into Death Valley. Pavement turned to gravel, and gravel turned to sand, my front wheel soon plowing a path through the loose surface. I relaxed my grip slightly, trying not to fight against the controls as the tires rocked from side to side in their search for the easiest path forward. Relying on an idea that a faster speed would help, I rolled on the throttle, expecting my momentum to provide a bit of stability or perhaps even let my tires float on top of the sand. But going faster meant it would hurt more if I was wrong. And I was wrong.

The fall came fast, a sharp pain shooting through my shin. Fortunately nothing was broken, the only damage to me being a two-inch cut on my leg slowly beginning to bleed. When I turned to look at the bike, however, my stomach dropped. Picking up a 500-pound machine in loose sand wasn’t something I was looking forward to. Stripping off my jacket and emptying the bike of gear, I gritted my teeth and pulled. The bike barely budged, the deep sand providing no leverage to pivot against. After several more attempts, the bike finally stood upright once again.

It wasn’t until I started repacking my gear that I noticed a shiny pice of metal sticking from the ground underneath my bike. I picked up the piece from the sand and examined it. It was my gear shifter, still gripping around the shaft that normally stuck out of the transmission case, that shaft having snapped clean off.
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My mind raced with the consequences. Could the bike still move? Would I be stranded here, in the middle of Death Valley? I squeezed the clutch and turned the ignition. The engine responded, and cautiously, I made my way back to the road, figuring I could at least limp my way to Barstow.

The bike was stuck in a single gear, either in third or fourth, but too low for the interstate. I ignored it, feeling the engine vibrate under the high RPMs as I pushed the bike as fast as I felt comfortable, riding in the slow lane and being passed by semi trucks.  

I pulled into Barstow after what felt like an eternity, the stress and engine vibrations sapping my energy. Finding a parts store, I bought a set of vice grips and some JB-Weld, hoping for a miracle fix. I put something together to hold the shifter in place, and let it cure overnight.

The next morning, I walked out to the parking lot and tested the fix, slightly lifting and pressing on the shifter with my fingers. It seemed to hold, so I mounted the bike, pulled in the clutch, and lightly pressed down with my foot. The shifter failed almost immediately, dropping to the ground with a metallic "clink". I was stuck.

I needed help, and thought a good enough welder might be able to come up with a solution. Finding someone nearby, I explained the situation. He seemed skeptical at first, but after looking at the bike, offered an idea. While the original shaft piece was too sall to be welded back in place, he had an old Honda shifter shaft that he could modify to fit. It would stick out some compared to the original, he explained, but at least it would work.

Forty-five minutes later, I was back on the road, riding with a jerry-rigged but functional bike. The relief was immense, knowing Iwouldn't be thwarted a handful of hours from the Pacific.

I followed the winding CA-33 through Los Padres National Forest, climbing and descending through mountainous terrain. Each turn brought me closer to the ocean, and finally, after what felt like endless ascents, I saw it. The Pacific Ocean stretched out before me, a vast blue expanse. A surge of pride rushed through me. After riding across the country, battling the weather and breakdowns caused by my own stupidity, I had finally made it.  

I set off early the following morning, the lingering high from my accomplishment still with me. Taking the past San Simeon. I stopped to take a few photos—this was the moment I’d wanted to capture. The bike, the ocean, and me, framed by cliffs and waves. Nearby, elephant seals sunned themselves lazily on the shore, honking and flopping in the sand. After a few minutes of watching them, I got back on the bike and continued my ride north.

The Pacific Coast Highway was beautiful, but it wasn’t without its frustrations. RVs and tourists clogged the road, slowing progress to a crawl. Eventually, I left the scenic route for the faster 101, passing through familiar sights in San Francisco. The city felt both alien and known, its hills and landmarks like old friends.

As I approached downtown, I pulled into a garage, ready to make one of the most important stops of my trip: the jewelry store.

Inside, diamonds glittered under the bright lighting of their pristine displays while I felt dirty and dusty after two weeks on the road. It was a contrast that couldn’t have been sharper, but it didn't matter. If anything, it felt symbolic, with the miles, hardships, and triumphs of the past meeting a promise of the future to come.

As I crossed the Golden Gate Bridge, the late afternoon sun cast a warm glow over the city. I had done it. Not only had I crossed the country, but I had reached my ultimate goal—both physically and emotionally. The road had tested me, and I had overcome, the entire weight of the journey now held inside of a small blue velvet box.