Category Archives: Short trips

Mechanical, Short trips

En route to Tulsa

Leave a comment

May 17-19, 2006

I needed a break, so I took off for Tulsa. It was hot when I started in the early morning darkness, and it got hotter by the hour across Kingman and Gallup and Albuquerque. Gas and go at every stop. Finally, at 800 miles, in Santa Rosa, New Mexico I had enough, and I pulled off for the night. I checked in and hit the sheets and didn’t wake up until 7 the next morning.

Refreshed and fed, I loaded the bike and found the nail in my flat rear tire. I could have plugged it, but I don’t like riding on two wheels with a plugged tire, especially at interstate speeds and in this heat. I checked locally, but there were no independents here. The closest dealer was in Santa Fe. I’ve never been to Santa Fe, but courtesy of Road America and $19.95 a year, I have now. Motorcycle towing packages are sweet, and this was the second time that I’d used mine.

I was back on the road by six in the evening, but only made it as far as Tucumcari. Tucumcari Tonight, as the road signs have said for decades. I didn’t care. It was bedtime for Bonzo one more time. I don’t like riding at night any more. Reaction time and eyesight diminish with age, and slowing down would only allow me to see the blur that I hit in the darkness. I think I’m smarter than that now.

The next day I steamrollered through Texas past the western hemisphere’s second largest cross, a religious monstrosity outside of Groom. It even has a memorial to every fetus ever aborted. Sweet. The cross in Effingham, IL is eight feet larger. So much for “everything is bigger” in Texas.

At the Oklahoma border I stopped for a water break. Things were getting a lot greener compared to the ride across the brown desert of the Texas panhandle. The humidity was going up too, and I wasn’t used to that any more.

The TA on the west end of OKC featured Popeye’s chicken and biscuits, so I had to stop there. There’s nothing like a little of Popeye’s best – naked, of course – to excite flagging spirits on the road.

By losing a day I was missing out on a lot of Route 66 riding, so in Stroud I pulled off to meet up with Coaster, a friend, and went to the Rock Café for lemonade and fried green tomatoes. The Rock Café has been remodeled to appear more like it did when Route 66 was in its heyday, and it looks really good. There’s a small store beside it, with slim pickings for souvenir hunters. Dawn, the owner, was there. Dawn is caricatured as one of the cars in Disney’s “Cars”, which is coming out in June.

Another hour and I was in Tulsa, visiting Coaster and wifey.

Mechanical, Short trips

If I have to explain

Leave a comment

I’m looking forward to a ride to Tulsa next week. It will get me away from here for a week or so, and make the time until my departure go much faster. I’ll spend some time on Route 66 too, since there’s a good portion of it remaining east of Oklahoma City. I’ve ridden Route 66 before, back in the mid-’90s, and I can’t wait to ride it again. I’ll be passing through some old haunts — Shamrock, Clinton, the DQ in Vega — nowhere places that have the ring of the old-time towns of the ’50s. There’s something about the atmosphere of these towns that to this day attracts me. If you don’t understand, I can never explain.

The reason I’m going to Tulsa is to visit an acquaintance from an internet movie forum. On the way home I’ll be stopping in Phoenix to see another net acquaintance. I’ve not yet met her, but I’m looking forward to doing so. Later, in mid-July, some of us from the same forum are making a trek to Cedar Point in Sandusky, Ohio to ride the roller coasters. That should be a lot of fun.

The weather in Oklahoma hasn’t been the greatest so far this spring. I’m hoping it will clear up for my trek. If not, well, I have a good rain suit, but I’m not tornado-proof. That would be an adventure for sure.

For now though, it’s tough trying to kill time until mid-June and my departure from here. I’ve been doing some work on the bike, replacing tired old shocks, oiling cables, changing circuit breakers, fuses and electrical relays. The bike is eleven years old and has 110,000 miles (177,000 kilometers) on her. She’s getting tired, and by doing a little preventive maintenance I’m hoping to avoid problems on the road as best I can.

Short trips

A Christmas ride

Leave a comment

Santa passed me by so I took off for a ride down the hill to warmer temperatures, blue sky and sunshine. With only 1,100 miles on the new engine I want to hit the asphalt as much as I can between now and when I head down the Baja early next year. I’d rather discover the problems before I’m on the road down there. The isolation and lack of communications doesn’t bode well for getting a lift to civilization or for ordering parts.

This is the second Christmas that I’ve spent out riding. I did the same thing last year. It’s such a welcome change from being up north in the cold and snow. I enjoy it down here so much because of the weather alone.

No matter what comes next in life, I’ll always have fantastic memories of the great riding, the places I’ve been and the people I’ve met. Even the hypocrites and the losers I know take on a new look in such weather. I can just smile at them all and venture on down the road while they remain where they are, trapped in their petty little lives trying to live a lie.

The riding is good. The weather is good. Life is good.

This man doesn’t need more than that.

Short trips

Happy to be here

Leave a comment

It had been a gorgeous day yet again with temperatures in the 90s all across the region. Mornings were in the 60s, perfect for an early start. For a Sunday, traffic was light, with few cars and lots of motorcycles. The ride was uneventful for the most part, with nothing to interrupt the serenity.

At about the 250 mile mark, it all went wrong. Something – I don’t know what – broke my concentration. It wasn’t a car coming the opposite way across the yellow line. It wasn’t another motorcycle speeding towards me. It wasn’t a too-sharp corner. They had been just like this one, all day long.

It just happened. For whatever reason. I lost concentration. I screwed up. And there I was, headed for the boondocks, on my way to certain death and destruction, I was sure.

It all happened in slow motion.

There was a wide paved shoulder on the right side of the corner. I straightened the bike up out of the cornering lean and hit the binders. I knew I could get it stopped. And I almost did.

Almost.

When I saw that I was going to go over the edge and into the rocks, I bailed.

I hit the ground at low speed. My helmet smacked the pavement and did what it was designed to do. I landed on my left shoulder and elbow, finally ending up on my back. Gloves and two shirts worked to my benefit too. I escaped with a scraped elbow, a broken shoulder, and sore ribs from the elbow caught between my ribs and the pavement.

Thankfully, I was well off of the road on the edge of the asphalt shoulder away from traffic. My bike was leaning on its left side, caught in the rocks that I had avoided by bailing early.

When I finally got my shit together I stood up. Shaken. Bruised. A little unsteady. All parts connected and working.

With help from some passers-by I was able to get my bike out of the rocks and back on the road. It was a 70 mile ride home, and I wanted to be there before the pain started big-time.

Damage to bike: minimal.

Damage to self: minimal, but I will be in pain for a while.

Damage to ego: substantial, but I’ll get over it.

The bottom line: I’m just happy to be here.

Short trips

Lost Wages

Leave a comment

No matter which direction I travel, I’m usually in the far left lane of the 15 when I pass through the city that never sleeps. That’s the fastest way to get through this morass of humanity commonly known as Las Vegas. But not this time. This time I’m taking a motorcycle to one of the convention centers in one of the major hotels. It’s to be a prize in a drawing to be won tomorrow. Once delivered, I have 24 hours to see the sights and enjoy the scenery before picking the bike up and returning it from whence it came, to be shipped to the winner.

Whiskey Pete's in Primm
Whiskey Pete's in Primm, Nevada

The casinos all look the same from the inside. Yes, I know, they have different owners, different names, different themes, and each has gone out of its way to be certain that your gambling experience is unique, but likeness abounds: row upon row of slots, whirring and clacking and clicking and clanging, clocks absent, windows non-existent, as though night-time pervades 24 hours a day.

Of course, the drinks are free, as long as you’re parked in front of a gaming table or a slot machine. Management’s hope is that you’ll drink more and spend more. Many do.

When you get tired of gambling, you can take a walk outside to see the spectacular light shows evident up and down the ‘strip’, as Las Vegas Boulevard is so inelegantly called. Illuminated fountains, laser lights, neon and glass all make for a splendid show for even the most jaded traveler. The only problem is this: after exhausting yourself by walking around, you find that there’s nowhere to sit down and rest, except in front of a slot machine or a gaming table.

How did I do, you may wonder? Well, 20 in the slots got me 204, and as one of the lucky ones who knows when to fold ’em, I took my money and left.

Thus did I eventually take a side trip to view a highly recommended show in its own right, one where the chairs were soft and plentiful, with armrests attached, where the ambiance was favorable to a hard-riding individual such as myself: dim lights, dark interior, and loud, pounding music.

I was in a 24-hour peeler bar (strip club, for you non-Canadians), watching the dancers perform their special magic. If you’ve never been to one of these places, it’s worth a trip in it’s own right just to see how they do it in Vegas. The drinking age here, as in most states, is 21, but that doesn’t stop 18-year-old girls from dancing. They get a wrist band, to remind both management and patrons that they musn’t be served alcohol.

Many a dancer did her job admirably by stopping by for conversation, trying to lure me into funding a floor dance. I spent a considerable amount of time talking to the girls. Although some were disappointed that I wouldn’t spend money on a floor dance and consequently abandoned me to solitary confinement at my table, more than a few would talk for extended periods about their various backgrounds and dancing experiences around the country.

Competition is fierce, and long hours are the norm if a dancer wants to make good money. She pays a fee to dance in the club. If she’s late for her shift, she pays a fine. If she misses her scheduled appearance on-stage, another fine is levied — unless she is doing a floor dance. After all, dancing for a customer is her primary responsibility.

Real names are never traded. Ask her what her name is, and she’ll come up with her stage name, of course. No, no, your real name, the men want to know, and she throws out another name. Thus I give them names by where they say they are from.

So then, Roadie from Rhode Island, Berdoo from San Bernardino by way of San Diego, Francine from Dijon and Tory from Toronto, here’s to you. Thank you for the time spent relaxing at my table. May your smiles be never-ending, your conversations interesting and your tips bountiful.

Short trips

Polar bear run

Leave a comment

Right. A polar bear run. The plan was for it to be cold for this run. It is forecast to be 87 degrees F. – one of the beauties of California’s ‘unpredictable’ weather.

I will show up at the diner early to check out the other riders, not to mention the mileages on the bikes that will be going on this ride. That will not be an easy task, given the predilection for electronic odometers, which means that there will probably not be a high-miler in the entire group. But that’s all right, since high-milers wouldn’t consider a run to Big Bear a distance event anyway.

Then why will I be there? Why, for the fun of it, of course.

I will certainly enjoy the costumes worn by one and all: new leather jackets and chaps, brand-name running shoes and boots and gloves and helmets and scarves and sunglasses.

Too cool for this fool.

I will be riding sweep, i.e., if one of the newbies falls down, I must help him (or her) get back up. It will be a daunting task, one not to be taken lightly. It also means that I must watch as the occasional rider, attempting to negotiate several switchbacks, very nearly runs off of the road.

Oh well. It is all in a day’s enjoyment: the sun will be out, the sky will be blue, and I have nowhere else to be at this point in my life.

Consequently, life is good.

Short trips

Bike weekend

Leave a comment

On Friday afternoon they start arriving in dribs and drabs from around the southwest: people sneaking away from the office, the factory, the courthouse, the city. They ride American and foreign, sport and touring, big and small, plain factory and exotic custom motorcycles. Men, women, boys, girls all roll into town for the event of the month known as Palm Springs Bike and Hotrod Weekend.

But wait! Didn’t I see someone arrive driving an SUV? Didn’t he get out all dressed up in biker duds, bandana and dark glasses and walk on down the street with his chest stuck out? Was that his kid dressed in an identical costume?

All right, it is almost Hallowe’en, but this is getting ridiculous.

Some trailer their bikes to this event, sometimes for thousands of miles. Winter weather, distance, injuries, timelines all contribute to this phenomenon.

Some are known to trailer their bike from a neighboring town, and, a mile or two down the road, roll it off of the trailer to ride downtown. Several hours or days later, the trailer will be loaded up and hauled home, to sit for one more year. After all, one doesn’t want to get too many miles on that custom paint job.

Walk around the event and discover the booths to buy t-shirts, caps, leather jackets, chaps, motorcycle parts, motorcycles, trailers and an array of various and sundry items unimaginable to the non-motorcycle crowd. The red and white alone have at least three booths competing for the yokel’s dollar.

Bring a chair, find yourself some PVA and you’ll have the most fun ever if you’re a people-watcher. You’ll be impressed with the pig-iron riding by, astounded by the costumes and enthralled with the women.

You’ll also be surprised at the large number of older men who have been accompanied by their daughters.

To the two riders on big-bore customs riding 283 to Idyllwild on Friday afternoon: when you pass the old boy loping along on the red bagger, you’d better be able to ride out in front, or get out of the way — which, thankfully, you did.