Picto Diary - 18 September 2026 - Motorcycle Memories with Mark

Above: Ivins, UT. 18 September 2026.
Out and about on the 'Wing.

Today I rode the 'Wing on a two hundred fifty-mile loop from Ivins, UT to Las Vegas, NV and back.

I rode Old US 91 from Ivins, Utah, toward Beaver Dam, Arizona, just after 10 a.m. MST. In the high twists of the desert mountain road the air cooled to 80 degrees, the asphalt a coiled ribbon through sun-bleached rock and spare, wind-scoured slopes.

The Mojave Desert opened below like a vast, unblinking eye—Utah's only Joshua Tree stand, pale basins, distant ridges the color of rusted iron, heat already beginning to shimmer at the edges of vision. By the time I dropped into Mesquite, Nevada, the temperature had climbed toward 90 degrees.

Against that hard, mineral landscape a sky of deep blue held great white cumulus clouds, as if the desert had been given a momentary, impossible ceiling.

From Mesquite I pointed the Gold Wing another eighty miles toward Las Vegas and a brunch date with my friend Mark. The bike settled into a steady eighty miles an hour, its engine a low, constant drone that soothed without sedating—more companion than machine, a pulse against the empty miles.

The return was a different country. From Vegas back to Mesquite the air hit 100 degrees, the desert no longer merely backdrop but a living furnace. I stopped twice to scarf down electrolyte infused drinks, the heat pressing in like a weight on the shoulders, the road a bright, vibrating line through glare and shadow. Notwithstanding, the whole ride sharpened rather than dulled me. From Mesquite I rode all the way to St. George on I-15 through the fabulous Virgin River Gorge rather than take Old Highway 91 direct to Ivins.

On the way down my mind kept turning up old rides with Mark—the same highways, different years, the same shared language of throttle and lean. Brunch would be easy: two riders trading the stories the desert had already begun to retell.

What a bike! The Honda Gold Wing is not a motorcycle. It’s a six-cylinder luxury battleship that decided two wheels were enough. Under that long, low hood lives an 1,833cc liquid-cooled horizontally opposed flat-six. Square as a damn box — 73mm bore, 73mm stroke — Unicam four-valve heads, 10.5:1 compression. Honda claims around 125 horsepower at 5,500 rpm and a meaty 125 lb-ft of torque at 4,500. Those numbers look polite on paper. On the road they feel like a freight train that learned manners. That flat-six doesn’t scream. It whispers like a Porsche 911 that’s been to finishing school. At idle it purrs so smooth you can set a drink on the tank and it won’t ripple. Crack the throttle and 125 lb-ft arrives immediately, like somebody just hooked a locomotive to your spine. No drama, no vibration, just a massive, velvet shove that makes 850 pounds of touring iron feel like it just lost 200 pounds and found religion.

You can loaf along at 80 mph in sixth (manual) turning barely 2,500–3,000 rpm. The engine is so relaxed it feels like it’s mocking every other touring bike on the highway. Need to pass a line of RVs? Just roll on. The Wing doesn’t downshift so much as it inhales and then launches you past them like they were standing still. It’s the kind of torque that makes you laugh out loud the first time you feel it.

The riding experience is pure motorhead luxury. Double-wishbone front end and Pro-Link rear soak up everything from expansion joints to potholes like they’re suggestions. The whole bike feels planted and impossibly light for its size — you can carve a mountain road two-up with luggage and still think you’re on something sportier. Shaft drive, of course. No chain slapping, no mess, just silent, endless power going to that fat 200-section rear tire.

The engine is the star. It’s the last great flat-six on two wheels — turbine smooth, torque-rich, and built like it plans to outlive you. This thing doesn’t just tour. It owns the continent. You get on in the morning, twist the grip, and by sunset you’ve covered 600 miles without realizing you were working. That’s the Gold Wing. A 1.8-liter six-cylinder living room that happens to be the most refined, most addictive touring machine Honda has ever built.

1. September 11, 2001 — Vence, France Checking in at the Hotel Diana, we found a small crowd huddled around a black-and-white television in the lobby. We stepped closer just in time to watch, live, a second jet take down the second tower. The world cracked open in a hotel lobby while our helmets were still warm from the ride.
2. Cody, Wyoming — late September We woke in the Hotel Irma to find three inches of snow sitting on the seats of the bikes like a practical joke the Rockies had decided to play. Winter had arrived overnight, uninvited, and parked itself on the leather.
3. 2001 — Paris, France Breakfast at Jo Goldenberg’s deli in the Marais. We asked the server if Jo Goldenberg was still around. “Yes,” he said. “That’s me.” Jo sat down with us and told the story of the 1984 terrorist attack on his restaurant as if it were just another morning anecdote over coffee and bagels.
4. Flagstaff Texaco Chris Draayer and Mark standing at the register. Chris, to the female cashier, deadpan: “Do you have any petite condoms? My friend here needs some.” Ten people within earshot—including the cashier—exploded. The whole store became a comedy club for thirty seconds.
5. South Rim overlook, Grand Canyon Mark, me, Bob Ilg, and Chris Draayer. Chris walks up to some cute girls. “Will you take our picture?”
   “Sure. Where’s your camera?”“Oh no,” Chris says. “We wanted you to take a picture of us with your camera. We’ll give you our address, and you can send it when you get it developed.”  The girls looked at us like we were either the most charming idiots or the most idiotic charmers they had ever met.
6. Austin, Nevada In a dingy restaurant/casino, a guy a foot shorter than me, well into his cups, squares up and announces, “Hey big boy, you look like you want to fight! Do you want to fight me?” Mark steps in before it becomes a scene. Later I hit a slot machine that vomited several hundred actual nickels. The house refused to turn them into paper money. Mark—who wasn’t even riding that day; his bike was in the truck—quietly hauled the loot home for me like a loyal pack mule with a sense of humor.
7. Guaymas, Mexico Overnight ferry across the Gulf of California toward Santa Rosalía. Mark and I shared a dingy cabin. I spent the night seasick, barfing on and off like a broken fountain while the boat rolled and the dark water slapped the hull.
8. Marfa, Texas Outside the Hotel Paisano we stood talking with the owner of a Dodge Hellcat about a recent highway race. Desert night, hotel lights, a man who had just tried to outrun the horizon in a car built for exactly that kind of foolishness.
9. Homer, Alaska Standing on the bank of Lake Tustumena, staring at a sign that read, with perfect Alaskan understatement: “Do not go into the water. You will die within thirty seconds.” Nature, posting its own warning label.
10. Temecula, California Mark goes down on the left shoulder trying to miss a white truck that pulled out in front of him. Shaken but not seriously hurt, he asks Bob Ilg to take his gun before the police arrive. Hours later his girlfriend sends her private plane to fly him back to Park City —because even a crash, in that era, could still end with a dramatic exit.