Heat

I said this morning there might be stories. There really is only one. Heat. Broiling, inescapable heat. So darn hot it beat us up and broke up the crew.

We rolled out of Tehachapi at 0800, fairly mild temps and blue skies. Looked like an easy day runnin' the big road into Needles and on to Flag. We just didn't count on what the Mojave had in store for us. And that can be a nasty desert. It gave us some of it's primo stuff today, that's for sure.

We busted into the desert and with every mile the temps just climbed. We peaked at about 115 according to my fancy little magic box on the Geez. At times the bikes were struggling, bit of popping and wheezing now and then -- we all struggled the whole day. It was like riding into the mouth of a blast furnace. As Bassman put it: "At one point I thought I was going to watch the skin on my hands blister and peel away.". Kinda says it all.

Getting into Needles, we pulled off and got to say hi to Scoot. He's the State Captain for Arizona and one of my best friends in the Club. He can't make it this year (first time in 5 years or so), but it was good to see the boy.

Then the miracle occurred.

Maybe not quite on a par with Lourdes, but close.

Seems the only place close to eat was Denny's. It was just too damn hot to go looking about for something else, so despite the fact that Denny's can screw up cornflakes, we decided to eat there. And I had one of the best damn grilled chicken sandwiches I've ever tasted. The meat was thick, juicy, hickory grilled to perfection and topped with caramelized onions worthy of a good French kitchen. The lettuce was crisp and fresh, the tomato ripe, the bun perfect.

I may just have to call the Catholic Church and have them send a priest to investigate. Or an exorcist.

After lunch, Pizan decided to hole up in Needles and run out early tomorrow morning to catch up with us in Flagstaff. The heat had just gotten to him. And it was a good thing he did. After Needles the desert got serious. And any of you that have been in the Mojave know that when that place wants to lay it on you -- it don't play.

So we baked until just past Kingman, where it started to cool down. Hit a little 10 minute thunderstorm; didn't gear up -- we just let the water soak into our thirsty skin and reveled in it. 2 minutes later we were dry.

We kept climbing towards Flag, and topping 7000 feet, we  began to feel alive again. On into Flag -- so cool and the air so sweet. Realized later it was over 80 -- but after 115 it felt like a New England fall, crisp and clear.

So here we sit in Flag. Waiting on Pizan, enjoying the morning. Ready to see what the Goddess has in store for us today. Maybe heat. Maybe rain. Maybe stories and lies and magic. We'll find out when the tires are on the pavement, eatin' up the miles.

The great wonder and joy of our lives: the Road is always there.

Waiting.

Seasons

Truck drivers say there are only two seasons: Winter and Construction. On California Hwy 99, there's only the latter. What I fail to understand, is that with all the constant "improvement" on that road -- why the heck it's still so screwed up. That is one rotten piece of pavement. Populated with idiots.

Good. I feel better now.

Hit the road about 0730. Damn, the scoot's running fine. Took some advice from Bear, who's ridden these big Geezer Glides more than I, and did some asymmetrical packing. The primary on these things weighs a ton, so packing heavy on the right side really evens things out. Damn thing's tracking straight as a die. It was one of those great mornings: still, quiet, cool but not cold. Didn't even turn the radio on. Too peaceful for that. Just wanted to run the road in silence, thinking about the miles and experiences to come.

Hit Pizan's house by around 0915 and we were on the road again by 10.

Really -- I don't want to bore you with Atwater to Tehachapi. Flat, hot, mostly 99. It was, as I said in an earlier Post, really just a positioning run.

We expected it to cool down once we got some altitude but it's stayed hot even on the mountain. The A/C in the room was a joy to step into.

It's now 0600 on Monday. Pablo got in last night at about 1700, Bassman about 0530 this morning. Gonna grab a bite and start headin' East. Looks like Bassman's got a leak in his primary -- so we'll need to keep an eye on that. I've got tools and Pablo is a pretty good Harley wrench, himself, so if things go south we'll get it fixed -- at least enough to get him to a shop.

Takes me back to the old days when wrenchin' on those things, especially on a long trip, was simply de rigure. We'll get were we're goin', be it by bailin' wire or duct tape.

Time to grab some chow and get rollin'. The boys are down there now, and I can tell they want to hit the Concrete Goddess. Lot of long, hot miles to run today.

Maybe, hopefully, even some stories.

Holding Patterns

Time does drag when a run's coming up.

I sent my old bags off to Bassman so he could use 'em on the run. He's riding an old school FX, so they should work as well for him as they did me. Starting to see all the Brothers getting ramped up for National. Putting hookups together; giving each other tons of crap about everything -- a predicate for all the smack talkin' that'll go on in the Ozarks. I can tell everyone is in the same place I am:

Time to get on the road, but; it's still a week away.

And that's for the crew out here in the West. Little over 2,000 miles for us to the Hub, so we're pretty much the first to hit the road.

Back in the day (as the modern expression goes), when I was flying the New York TCA, we used to make a lot of circles in the sky. Holding patterns they're called and every pilot hates 'em. You hit a fix (beacon usually) run for about a minute, make a 180, run back the same amount, make another 180 and do it again. And again. And again. If you're a big boy you can get 10 mile legs. Big deal. Kinda like NASCAR, only you go nowhere faster.

In the military we called it "hurry up and wait".

The Geez is ready. oil's changed, tightened everything up, tires look good. Packing doesn't take long -- my standard daily uniform in multiples: 6 t-shirts, 3 pairs of Levis, extra socks. All the rest is "what if" gear for cold and wet. Tools, rags, assorted junk. Got so much room on this big bagger I ride now that there's no art to it anymore. Easy as pie. Roll everything up, stuff it in the pull out bags, slide them into the hard bags, fire it up and roll.

Old guy's dream.

Now it's Monday and I can start to feel it. Just want to be on the Concrete Goddess headin' somewhere. Need that feel of the wind, that hum of the tires and that rumble of the big V-Twin. Need to see Pablo in the mirror, steady on my 8 or 4, runnin' hard on the big road. Need to have that "weather eye" on the horizon, figuring what's coming and how to get by it.

Need to be gone.

Don't get me wrong, I'll miss everyone here -- but heck, I'm at that point in life where I start every long run knowing it could be my last. Don't know how many miles are left in this old tank and, on this road, there ain't no more gas stations. That's not fatalistic, just a recognition of the fact that I get much more mail from AARP, Medicare and Social Security than from friends these days. Definitely more from AARP. And I'm not even a member. I know -- I've got friends in their eighties who are still runnin' the road and I might be at that age, too -- but there are no guarantees. So I savor each run now as I never did when I was young -- it's been said before: "Youth is wasted on the young".

As it should be.

Gettin' Ready

Don't know if anyone is reading this anymore. Hell, I would probably not follow the damn thing the way it starts and stops.

Ah well, if I wrote every day about the mundane that is the normal aspect of my life -- you'd never need sleeping pills again. Think I'd call it Facebook or something. Maybe even open it up so you could write boring stuff too. Hmmm...

Anyway; it's time to start gearing up for the run to Arkansas and the Brothers. Not going all the way to the East Coast this year; after the rally I'm running down to Breaux Bridge to meet our newest family member, Sebastian Lee. Seems my beautiful Sofia now has a little brother.


I'm really excited about getting to see him in a few weeks, as well as spending some time with Steph, Nick and, of course, Sofia. 3,300 miles is a long way to be from your family, but, then again; my family is spread all over the countryside. Schizophrenia may be a hallmark of this crowd. You've got the restless bunch and those with roots so deep they're basically in magma. And, of course, the biggest gypsy of the bunch is me: hence this blog.










SO... I'll start posting here every few days until the run starts. Maybe, possibly, could be... you guys know me.

This run will be different, as well. I'm running the Geez, naturally, and an FL is just not as romantic, old school or cool as an FX. Hellova lot more comfortable, though. I'm runnin' the big roads also and I'll have several of the Brothers with me all the way. Mi amigo, Pablito, as always, and Bassman, President of our LA Charter, at least and a few more may make it. We're hoping to meet up with some of the other western Charters on the way and get a good group running into the Ozarks.

Maybe.

If you followed last year, you know that an FMRC run has no guarantees on hook ups.

So -- no 66, donkeys or side trips on old alignments this year. No Seligman, Oatman or out of the way Lodges. No pokin' my nose onto some cracked old piece of pavement just because it looks like it might go someplace interesting. Nope. This year is I-40, smokin' hard for three days with the Brothers to get to the Hub. But we are talking Pablo and Bassman here. They're both funnier than all get out and we get along really well. Something could come out of that. One can only hope.

'Course there still might be Germans. Ya' never know...

Now the ride home is a different story. I'll run down fro the Ozarks with the Bayou Travelers Chapter and drop off at Breaux Bridge. The run home from there is solo and I've no idea what that may bring. Haven't thought that far in advance.

Got more important things on my mind.

Motorcycle Maintenance and Small Kindnesses

In all the years I've been running around this country on scoots, I've really had very little trouble. Always maintained my bikes and gave 'em a good goin' over before a long trip. The few times I've had some ill luck -- big or small --though, I've been gifted with people who just wanted to help. From that ol' boy out in West Texas who figured out that minor fix on my saddlebag on the last trip to the old Harley mechanic in Vicksburg, Mississippi 40 or more years ago who cobbed together a chain when I was on the road and broke (the bike and my pocketbook) and the damn thing lasted another 20,000 miles. Somehow, it just always works out and reminds me of the basic goodness of people.

This trip did it again.

Pablo rolled into Tehachapi a bit after midnight; Pizan and Char the next morning. We visited for just a bit, then lit 'em up down the mountain and through the Mojave. Just mile after mile of smashing bugs and runnin' 85 - 90 on that big road through the desert. Kinda just ran tank to tank most of the day. Wind, sun and the hum of the tires.

We dropped Pizan and Char off at Needles -- they weren't going to Tombstone, goin' to meet up with everyone in Kingman -- and then it was just Pablo and me.

Pablito's one of my favorite Brothers to run with. Real low key kinda guy who likes to run hard and fast. We ride a lot alike and just plain get along. Real easy. Solid.

We ran 40 till US 95 which cuts down to 10 and Phoenix.

Most desert two lanes are long straights that just disappear right in front of you in the far distance. Not so 95. Lots of curves on the route, some of 'em pretty tight. So it's not surprising that it was on this road that the Geez told me it wanted to feel some love. Needed to feel some love. The whole trip it's felt a little dicey. Sometimes a wobble at low speeds, little mushy in the front, sometimes a bit of float in the huge banked turns on the big roads. Nothin' I could put my finger on. Just figured it was me.

It wasn't.

We were rollin' into a fairly long, tight right hander at, I must confess, somewhere considerably north of 100 MPH, when it decided that it just didn't want to track too straight right then. Front end just started skippin' all over the place. That sort of thing leaves ya' but one option: roll that throttle on and hang on for the ride. Thank goodness for lots of power. Engine pushed it right through and on to the straight. Pablo didn't budge. I looked in the mirror and he was right on my 8 where he always is and saw what might have been a raised eyebrow.

So we just kept rollin' to the 10 and through Phoenix and hit the sack in Casa Grande. Got up early next morning and blew through Tucson till US 80, turned south and ran to Tombstone, to legends and lies and the Brothers. To Jimmy Doherty and one of those small kindnesses we talked about earlier.

But that's for tomorrow.

Smashin' Bugs

Interstates sure get you where you want to go quickly. They do. But, to me, there is always something missing when one rolls down Eisenhower's dream. I've always been, by personality as much as it was a function of the type of motorcycle I've always ridden, a creature of the small roads. A denizen of the sleepy byway and two lane that tend to lead one to the people and places that make America as unique as anywhere on Earth. The roads that lead to the heart and soul.

Perhaps the above words were prophetic. Rollin' down those big roads at 85 and 90, smashin' bugs, runnin' hard, we got to where we were going so quickly that this got kinda left in the dust. That first paragraph I wrote Saturday night. It's Thursday morning right now.

And I really don't have time to write too much. Got a 'scoot to pack, people to meet and miles to run.

Y'see, I don't want to give short shrift to what's been a hellova run. Want to take some time to tell about comin' down the hill with Pablo, Pizan and Char. Want to tell you the saga of  Tombstone (no internet connection for three days, by the way) and Kingman and Oatman. Of Bear and Cheryl and Bohdi and Rooster and Big Don and Shortbus. Of finding out that a steering headbolt was loose in a curve on a two lane desert highway at somewhere north of 100 MPH and taking a motorcycle apart in a gravel parking lot. Of Tattoo parlors (no, not me) and dives.

Of hard, hard country and the wind.

But, I know I'll have a good internet connection tonight and like I said -- I've a scoot to pack and people to meet and (with a nod to Frost)

I've got miles to run.

The Geezer 'n me.

The Geez and I busted out at about 0600 this morning and all I can say is: sure is different. Think I'll leave it at that -- otherwise Bear'll meet me in Tombstone with a pound of cheese. And I'd deserve it, which'd piss me off even more.

First few miles of a run, especially when you're runnin' solo, are always a bit strange. Settling in, listening to the 'scoot, gettin' a feel for things. How's it runnin'; how's the load; how's it trackin' -- that sort of thing. Kinda shakin' it all down for the miles to come. An easy run down 99, only got cut off twice -- and for 99 that's damn good. Just an easy 300 miles today, got to Tehachapi  by 1130. Yawn...

The big difference I see in runnin' on The Geez (aside from sittin' back, cruise control on, tunes blaring, sippin' on my Starbucks, fer goodness sakes) is that I don't think as much. Maybe that's a good thing -- maybe it'll kill this blog. I'll find out in the miles and days ahead, but I'm not too worried. This was more a positioning run today. Tomorrow I'll start meeting up with friends and Brothers and that's what this is really about, so I think the thoughts and ideas will flow.

The Geez.

Tehachapi's a pretty place. Sits on the hills just out of Bakersfield and just before you run down to the desert and Edwards, in that area where the Sierra kind of peter out -- only about 4,000 feet here. It's unique in its own way, not foothills but not the big rocks of further north. It has the feel of the mountains without the craggy harshness (which I love, as well) of the High Sierra. Kinda mellow place, still isolated from that awful sprawling mess to its west.

I like it, always have.

So runnin' up the hill from Bakersfield, I didn't get too upset when Bubba found it necessary,  time after time, to put 60 or 70 feet of iron in the fast lane, goin' uphill, just so he could pass another truck doin' maybe 1 MPH slower than he was. I didn't, but that BMW in front of me seemed to get -- from his hand gestures anyway -- just a might troubled. Guess that's why he was about a quarter inch off Bubba's bumper each time till he could pass. He seemed to be surprised and more out of whack each time we came upon two trucks and one just had to pull out right in front of him to get around the other. Got to figure those Beemer folks have yet  to realize those ol' boys do have radios. And they use 'em. Kinda reminds me of the old joke: What's the difference between a Beemer and a porcupine? Porcupines have the pricks on the outside.

From what I can see on the BullBoard, the eastern Brothers are still runnin' hard on 10 -- almost through Texas. They could make Tombstone by tomorrow if they push. Maybe the west coast vanguard will too, heck, I don't know -- it ain't then yet.

For now I sit here -- hittin' the keys, dumping the day onto the page. Waitin' for my Brothers to show up. Waitin' for it to turn from a ride into a run.

Oh yeah, there'll be stories tomorrow...

'Scoot's loaded. Fueled up. Spent today packin' and wrenchin' (checking really) and dreamin'.

The Concrete Goddess calls and tomorrow I answer.

Funny how different a run is from a trip. A trip is a journey that's about where and when and how. It's about side roads and vistas, little run down diners and gas station hot dogs. Often, when one runs solo as I most often do, it is about self discovery and introspection.

But a run. Whoa Nelly, now that's a different beast. 

A Run is about the Brothers. About old friends and, often, new ones. About runnin' 20, 30 maybe 50 or more strong, pipes bellowin', patches worn with pride, givin' each other more crap than most people could understand and gettin' away with it because each of you knows the other one has his back.

A Run is first and foremost about the Club. It may, and usually does, contain the elements of a trip, but it also has that indefinable something that reminds you why you joined this Club to begin with.

A Run is about the Brothers.

So tomorrow the tires hit the asphalt, throttle gets twisted, feet go up on the highway pegs. I run solo to Tehachapi, meet up with Pablito. Saturday morning Pizan and his ol' lady meet up with us and we burn it out East -- to Phoenix at least, maybe farther. Who knows?

After all --- it's a Run.   

Back Again...

See ya' in a few hours...

I wrote those words seven and a half months ago, fully intending to make good on them.

Oops.

Life, as they (whomever the heck that is) say, happens.

Since I wrote the above words I've buried some of my family and welcomed others. My term as Master of my Lodge has ended and I've gone on to focus on other parts of Masonry. Cut my hair, shaved my beard.

My beautiful old school bobber, softie, upon which I did the ride that is the majority of this blog, is gone. Sold.

Yeah, that one.

I now have gone down that road of no return and ride a "Geezer Glide" To wit: a 2011, FLHTK, ElectraGlide Ultra Limited.

Oh, it's purdy, got bells, whistles, gegaws and whatchamacallits all over it. It's perfect for what I'm doin' now... but I still miss my baby everyday.

But, see, part of that seven months or so that the blog was dark was that when Bear (Grand Director of the Club) and Glo-Joe came by on their ride they asked me to take on California as State Captain. It's a big State and the best way to get around is Freeways. The Geezer is perfect for that. Runs those big roads like it owns 'em. Heck, it'll out corner the old softie all day long. Got cruise control, ABS, stereo, GPS and enough baggage room that I can (and do) go grocery shopping on it. Got a big ol' 103 Cubic Inch engine and with the Vance and Hines headers and Reinhardt mufflers it sounds like it. Heck, it's got heated hand grips fer goodness sakes!

I've already got 10,000 miles on it -- and that was over the winter.

Oh, I love it, but until today, actually, I never felt close to it like I did the softie. Bikers are weird suckers -- we have a relationship with our 'scoots that a non-biker just can't understand. Just today, after all those miles, it struck me for the first time: this is my 'scoot and I'm real fond of it. More importantly: I trust it.

For those of you that ride -- that's the big one, ain't it?

So anyway, I'm back for whatever that's worth.

Got another run coming up -- our annual "Run To the Sun" for the Club. Brothers from all over get together in Tombstone, Kingman and Oatman (yeah, the donkey place) AZ to hang out for a totally outrageous time. Headin' out with my Brother Pablito, President of our Santa Maria Charter, on Friday to make the run to Tombstone and meet up with the Brothers from the East. The rest of California will join us in Kingman. Thought this particular "Goat Rope" (as we call it) might be worth a blog or two. It's my excuse to start writing again. Got to trick m'self into it ya'see.

When I was back in my old hometown, burying my Uncle Bud, I had the enormous pleasure of seeing Slats' little sister, Mary. She and Deb (my little sister) are still, after all these years, best friends. She said to me: "Tim told me to ask you how long he was going to have to wait for the next installment of the blog". "Forty years, I guess" was my reply.

Hell, Slats, as with the opening of this post, wrong again, huh?

Some things never change.