Motorcycle Conflagration
(Please note, I am removing this story from consideration for fairness, since it was run on Chop Cult)
Motorcycles are a polarizing form of transportation. Broach the subject and you will find people fall into two groups. On one side are the folks who think they are loud and dangerous, ridden by dirt-bag miscreants who eyeball women. On the other are those who lecture how the vehicle offers ultimate freedom, complete with the self-bolstering undercurrent of a social outsider. But like most matters in life, the truth is an alloy of these viewpoints. And the real beauty of a motorcycle comes from the random and at times dangerous events that occur along the way. This is the stuff that makes stories and legends for years to come, told and retold with steadily growing warpage of the facts.
This is one of those stories.
One day my phone rang. It was David. “Eh Mate. Whadda say we ride to Cottonwood, Arizona next week for The Smokeout?" He asked as if his mouth was full of marbles like all improper Brits. The motorcycle rally would be the same as the rest: overpriced consumables, crowds of poorly-socialized gorillas, and the inevitable apparel stating such crowd-pleasing favorites as Show me your tits and If you can read this the bitch fell off. But rallies are little more than an excuse to go somewhere on a motorcycle. The trips are about riding together and living unplanned for a few preciously free days.
“Just you and me?” I asked.
“Nah, Gilby’s comin’. You could meet us in LA on your way from San Francisco.”
I said yes and packed my things.
My journey of 1004 miles from Berkeley to Cottonwood began with the proverbial single step right into the ‘MacArthur Maze,’ a cheeky nickname for the junction of interstates 80, 580, and 880. This masterpiece of civil engineering has an uncanny ability to produce traffic jams at the least provocation, especially when fueled by Californians, a breed of driver who firmly believe they are entitled to occupy the fast lane regardless of speed or ability. Navigating such pandemonium on two wheels takes great skill and patience. But how could I exhibit such a virtue as a mother next to me turned completely around in her seat to yell at her kids? A highway patrol officer drove right past her on his cell phone laughing, maybe about the fact that as a cop he did not need to follow the law. A lifted Chevy Suburban with mud tires and a Harley-Davidson sticker in the back window cut me off, reminding me of one of the great truths in life: Huge trucks with Harley stickers are typically driven by folks who do not own a motorcycle and behave like they have something to prove. I kept to the slow lane, the only one that moves with consistency.
Exiting the Bay Area revealed route 101, a beautiful thoroughfare of alternating farm land and rolling hills that transforms from elephantine redwoods in the north to wind-sculpted Blue Oaks and pungent smelling eucalyptus in the south. There are even the occasional palm and cork tree. The landscape and myriad of trees, many of which were introduced from Australia, Europe and Africa, created a spectacular backdrop for a road trip.
Just south of San Jose the road entered the Santa Clara Valley, the heart of Steinbeckian California. Dusty farms dotted with migrant workers picking produce and tending crops lined my passage. Occasionally a person looked up, drawn by the engine rumble, though most ignore my existence. A jackknifed truck sat dormant in the opposing lane, surrounded by scattered crates disemboweled of lettuce. Some men collected the heads while other swept up the leaves. The entire stretch of highway contained random produce strewn along the road like remnants of some great war of vegetables. Gilroy, a town famous for garlic, enveloped my nose with the rich and homely smell of welcoming kitchens.
From Washington to California route 101 is peppered with enough amenities to ensure a comfortable transit. That is unless you are a person with a propensity for finding any stretch of road deficient of a gas station. Travelling south on a barren stretch of the highway, my small handmade gas tank ran dry and the bike sputtered to a halt. Checking the petcock, it was already on reserve! How could this have happened when I and I alone ride and work on my bikes? Clearly some lowlife scoundrel insinuated themselves into my shop and flipped the switch. It was the only logical explanation.
Waiting on the roadside for a AAA truck to deliver gas to your motorcycle crushes all undercurrents of a social outsider.
Gassed up and back on the road, 101 came to San Luis Obispo Bay. The highway graded up past a set of retired railroad tracks to reveal the endless majesty of the Pacific Ocean. At Pismo Beach I stopped for food and shelter. Skipping the quarter-driven showers, the ocean happily removed the road’s grimy remnants. Bobbing gently in the surf with nothing more than boxer shorts on, I watched the sun set.
In Los Angeles, Dave and Gilby were packed and ready to go. After listening to my recount of running out of gas, we agreed an extra can of gas was needed for the stretch to Cottonwood. Of course the can needed to be carried on my bike, since it was for me. And luckily I had prepared.
Earlier that year, my cousin gifted me a 1981 Honda Goldwing that could only be described as a real standout. It came complete with flat tires, rusted shut brake calipers, and gasoline in the tank that was so old it smelled like turpentine. The only way the engine would run was starter fluid – a superbly volatile mixture of hydrocarbons, diethyl ether, and carbon dioxide – dumped directly into the carburetor in amounts copious enough to set fire to Satan himself. Once the engine did turn, it shot fire from the exhaust, sputtering and stumbling like an asthmatic old man with a gimp leg. The bike did have one redeeming attribute though: Nice hard bags. And in the weeks prior to the ride, I mounted a single hard bag to the motorcycle using vacuum clamps. It was next to the rear wheel on the right side, since the left side would not accept it because of the license plate. When finished, the bag was three inches above the shot-gun-style exhaust pipes, plenty of room for heat to be carried away by the rushing wind of the open highway. And from San Francisco to Los Angeles this well-grounded hypothesis was validated. The cool breeze of the 101 in fall had left the bag unmolested by exhaust heat. My understanding of thermodynamics remained triumphant, or so I thought.
Our path from Los Angeles went due east by Joshua Tree National Park, where gnarled trees reminiscent of Dr. Seuss dotted a landscape ceaselessly assault by sunlight eager to transform its energy to heat. Gently undulating miles of road were bound by spiring mountains standing like sentinels in the distance. We rode through transfixed by the desert tapestry and the hot air rushing over our skin; friends on the open road in the vast and still wild west.
Needing water and gasoline, we stopped in Twentynine Palms. Exercising proper English, one would hyphenate ‘twenty-nine’ in the town’s name. However, this tiny Southern California hamlet has decided they have no need for such superfluous fanciness. And as the name suggests, there are palm trees there. The main road through town, aptly named Twentynine Palms Highway, is lined on both sides with mature, well-groomed palm trees. It was there in the Mojave desert that we learned just how much hotter the air had become.
(Story continued below)
(Please note, I am removing this story from consideration for fairness, since it was run on Chop Cult)
Motorcycles are a polarizing form of transportation. Broach the subject and you will find people fall into two groups. On one side are the folks who think they are loud and dangerous, ridden by dirt-bag miscreants who eyeball women. On the other are those who lecture how the vehicle offers ultimate freedom, complete with the self-bolstering undercurrent of a social outsider. But like most matters in life, the truth is an alloy of these viewpoints. And the real beauty of a motorcycle comes from the random and at times dangerous events that occur along the way. This is the stuff that makes stories and legends for years to come, told and retold with steadily growing warpage of the facts.
This is one of those stories.
One day my phone rang. It was David. “Eh Mate. Whadda say we ride to Cottonwood, Arizona next week for The Smokeout?" He asked as if his mouth was full of marbles like all improper Brits. The motorcycle rally would be the same as the rest: overpriced consumables, crowds of poorly-socialized gorillas, and the inevitable apparel stating such crowd-pleasing favorites as Show me your tits and If you can read this the bitch fell off. But rallies are little more than an excuse to go somewhere on a motorcycle. The trips are about riding together and living unplanned for a few preciously free days.
“Just you and me?” I asked.
“Nah, Gilby’s comin’. You could meet us in LA on your way from San Francisco.”
I said yes and packed my things.
My journey of 1004 miles from Berkeley to Cottonwood began with the proverbial single step right into the ‘MacArthur Maze,’ a cheeky nickname for the junction of interstates 80, 580, and 880. This masterpiece of civil engineering has an uncanny ability to produce traffic jams at the least provocation, especially when fueled by Californians, a breed of driver who firmly believe they are entitled to occupy the fast lane regardless of speed or ability. Navigating such pandemonium on two wheels takes great skill and patience. But how could I exhibit such a virtue as a mother next to me turned completely around in her seat to yell at her kids? A highway patrol officer drove right past her on his cell phone laughing, maybe about the fact that as a cop he did not need to follow the law. A lifted Chevy Suburban with mud tires and a Harley-Davidson sticker in the back window cut me off, reminding me of one of the great truths in life: Huge trucks with Harley stickers are typically driven by folks who do not own a motorcycle and behave like they have something to prove. I kept to the slow lane, the only one that moves with consistency.
Exiting the Bay Area revealed route 101, a beautiful thoroughfare of alternating farm land and rolling hills that transforms from elephantine redwoods in the north to wind-sculpted Blue Oaks and pungent smelling eucalyptus in the south. There are even the occasional palm and cork tree. The landscape and myriad of trees, many of which were introduced from Australia, Europe and Africa, created a spectacular backdrop for a road trip.
Just south of San Jose the road entered the Santa Clara Valley, the heart of Steinbeckian California. Dusty farms dotted with migrant workers picking produce and tending crops lined my passage. Occasionally a person looked up, drawn by the engine rumble, though most ignore my existence. A jackknifed truck sat dormant in the opposing lane, surrounded by scattered crates disemboweled of lettuce. Some men collected the heads while other swept up the leaves. The entire stretch of highway contained random produce strewn along the road like remnants of some great war of vegetables. Gilroy, a town famous for garlic, enveloped my nose with the rich and homely smell of welcoming kitchens.
From Washington to California route 101 is peppered with enough amenities to ensure a comfortable transit. That is unless you are a person with a propensity for finding any stretch of road deficient of a gas station. Travelling south on a barren stretch of the highway, my small handmade gas tank ran dry and the bike sputtered to a halt. Checking the petcock, it was already on reserve! How could this have happened when I and I alone ride and work on my bikes? Clearly some lowlife scoundrel insinuated themselves into my shop and flipped the switch. It was the only logical explanation.
Waiting on the roadside for a AAA truck to deliver gas to your motorcycle crushes all undercurrents of a social outsider.
Gassed up and back on the road, 101 came to San Luis Obispo Bay. The highway graded up past a set of retired railroad tracks to reveal the endless majesty of the Pacific Ocean. At Pismo Beach I stopped for food and shelter. Skipping the quarter-driven showers, the ocean happily removed the road’s grimy remnants. Bobbing gently in the surf with nothing more than boxer shorts on, I watched the sun set.
In Los Angeles, Dave and Gilby were packed and ready to go. After listening to my recount of running out of gas, we agreed an extra can of gas was needed for the stretch to Cottonwood. Of course the can needed to be carried on my bike, since it was for me. And luckily I had prepared.
Earlier that year, my cousin gifted me a 1981 Honda Goldwing that could only be described as a real standout. It came complete with flat tires, rusted shut brake calipers, and gasoline in the tank that was so old it smelled like turpentine. The only way the engine would run was starter fluid – a superbly volatile mixture of hydrocarbons, diethyl ether, and carbon dioxide – dumped directly into the carburetor in amounts copious enough to set fire to Satan himself. Once the engine did turn, it shot fire from the exhaust, sputtering and stumbling like an asthmatic old man with a gimp leg. The bike did have one redeeming attribute though: Nice hard bags. And in the weeks prior to the ride, I mounted a single hard bag to the motorcycle using vacuum clamps. It was next to the rear wheel on the right side, since the left side would not accept it because of the license plate. When finished, the bag was three inches above the shot-gun-style exhaust pipes, plenty of room for heat to be carried away by the rushing wind of the open highway. And from San Francisco to Los Angeles this well-grounded hypothesis was validated. The cool breeze of the 101 in fall had left the bag unmolested by exhaust heat. My understanding of thermodynamics remained triumphant, or so I thought.
Our path from Los Angeles went due east by Joshua Tree National Park, where gnarled trees reminiscent of Dr. Seuss dotted a landscape ceaselessly assault by sunlight eager to transform its energy to heat. Gently undulating miles of road were bound by spiring mountains standing like sentinels in the distance. We rode through transfixed by the desert tapestry and the hot air rushing over our skin; friends on the open road in the vast and still wild west.
Needing water and gasoline, we stopped in Twentynine Palms. Exercising proper English, one would hyphenate ‘twenty-nine’ in the town’s name. However, this tiny Southern California hamlet has decided they have no need for such superfluous fanciness. And as the name suggests, there are palm trees there. The main road through town, aptly named Twentynine Palms Highway, is lined on both sides with mature, well-groomed palm trees. It was there in the Mojave desert that we learned just how much hotter the air had become.
(Story continued below)
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