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.
29 April 2011
28 April 2011
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.
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.
22 April 2011
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.
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...
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.
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...
21 April 2011
'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.
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.
18 April 2011
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.
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.
I now have gone down that road of no return and ride a "Geezer Glide" To wit: a 2011, FLHTK, ElectraGlide Ultra Limited.
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.
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