Archive for motorcycle ride
Last Ride of ’09 – Beer Snobs Invade Wine Country
Posted by: | CommentsNapa.
Just the name of the place conjures in my mind images of crusty old farts surrounded by snotty, towel-armed sommeliers, sitting in antique chairs, sipping their $100 glasses of grape juice while looking down from their high horses on all the annoying little people.
I love pissing off folks like that, which is half the reason we decided to visit Napa – to crash the party.
Awake early again, Sleeping Beauty and I set off for Napa. We have a reservation on the lunch time wine train. Before we leave Jenner, I made sure to try and get some of the wrinkles out of my best black Old Navy T shirt, and I even wipe some of the mud off my riding boots.
I’m sure I’ll fit right in.
Last Ride of ’09 – Racing The Sun Up The Flaming Coast
Posted by: | CommentsShock. Horror. Dread.
Sadness.
This intense mix of emotions hits me like a jolt of electricity as I turn the page of the calendar. September? Already? How the hell did THAT happen? An entire summer flew by, and I had, what… two semi-decent rides to show for it?
I grab a nearby paper towel to dab at my tears, then suddenly think of something better to do with the towel, something to take the sadness away. Ripping open my multi-color Sharpie package, a full color design starts taking shape in front of my tear-streaked eyes.
The Last Ride of ’09 Map-Kin
Satisfied, I sit back to look at my newly created ride map sketch. Not bad at all. But would this ride even be possible? There’s really only one way to find out.
I take my Map-Kin to the Boss for explanation, and hopefully, approval.
Got Milk?
Posted by: | CommentsAnother beautiful, sunny California Sunday dawns, and, as I’m awake early enough, with plenty of time before work imposes on fun and I have to catch my flight to Raleigh, I heed the call of the faithful. Donning my riding gear, the usual involuntary smile creases my face, in anticipation of the riding rapture to follow. Rain Cloud Follows, my trusty Yamaha FJR 1300, fully repaired after the last big ride, sat in the garage waiting, ready for some Sunday worship in the Church of Azusa Canyon.
The ritual of pre-ride checks complete, I swing a leg over, thumb the starter, and my old friend, garage bound for far too long roars to life, ready to roll. The shifter snicks into first gear, and Rain Cloud Follows and I are off on a Sunday Milk Run, our first fun ride in months.
I marvel at how long it’s been since I’ve ridden. The planning and successful execution of Fiona’s surprise thirtieth birthday party, work, and life in general have all conspired to get in the way of this year’s rapidly ebbing riding season. I swear a silent vow in my helmet to correct this issue, and correct it soon. Thoughts come and go as my motorcycle, on autopilot, leads me through town to the start of the Milk Run.
I pick up a few more of the Congregation of the Faithful on the way, three sport bike riders in full leather racing gear. I’d love to say I left them in the dust at the start of the Milk Run, but that was impossible. Not because they were much better riders than I, which they probably were, but because after the first few turns, our merry band of worshipers were blocked by a clot of unbelievers clogging the road with their minivans and pickup trucks.
My new friends, apparently much more devout than I, take matters into their own hand, twisting throttles, jumping over double yellows, passing rolling roadblocks, then disappearing down the road, willing to sacrifice their personal safety on the Altar of Speed.
Me? I’m not quite as fervent in my beliefs, so I wait for my opportunities to pass. I wait, and I wait, patiently crawling through the mountains of Southern California behind the ‘Soccer Mom Heathens.’ Soon enough, my patience pays off, and I’m free, winding my way through Azusa Canyon, the familiar curves in the road rising up like old friends to greet me once again.
For a while I find myself singing in my helmet, entertaining thoughts of all the far off places I want to ride to, the exotic locals drifting in and out of my tiny brain. I pass clumps of the faithful congregated on the sides of the road, happily exchanging the secret hand sign with others of the Brotherhood of the Motorcycle. Some of those same faithful later return that greeting as they roar past me on the way down the mountain.
While I ride, I contemplate. Next to a dimly lit bar with a pint of Guinness in hand, the best place for me to plan a ride is… riding. A few choice destinations keep burbling to the surface, and as I weave left and right and left again, I scheme how I’ll get to those places, who I’ll invite to come along, and exactly where we’ll go. Halfway through the ride, the random pieces have started to fall into place, and another ambitious plan has started to form. Now all I need is that frothy pint and a napkin to commit the route to paper.
At the crossroads, I have a choice to make. Sell what’s left of my soul to the Devil, head left toward Mt. Baldy, and miss my flight, or take the shorter, safer and most sensible alternative. A sudden blast of good sense overwhelms me, and, with a twinge of sadness, I turn right, finishing out my Sunday Milk Run by heading down the excellent Glendora Mountain Road, back home.
Sunday Milk Run Route – Short VersionAll too soon, the road comes to an end, as it always does. My small sacrifice of rubber and fuel was apparently enough to appease the Gods of Speed and Safety, and, with neither harm nor foul to man or machine, I return Rain Cloud Follows to the garage. I’m happy about this newly formed plan for another epic ride still marinating and incubating in my head. My involuntary smile couldn’t be wider if it was surgically enhanced.
It’s just ten in the morning, but already it’s shaping up to be the Best. Day. Ever.
Going For Milk
Posted by: | CommentsI don’t know about everywhere else, but the weather in the Kingdom of Rhode Island right now can only be described one way: shitty.
Rhode Island – January 12, 2009
Thank goodness I’m about as far from the Kingdom as I can be, with Sleeping Beauty in my adopted home of California.
California – January 12, 2009
I’m an early riser, while Sleeping Beauty, well, let’s just say she has that nickname for a reason. So, it’s early morning, I’m wide awake, the sun is shining bright and it’s already 68 degrees, and there are three motorcycles in the garage – Rain Cloud Follows, Abi’s bike Snowball, and Little Red Riding Hood, Fiona’s brand new Ninja 250.
I know what I’m going to do next, it’s pretty obvious. I just need to sneak out without waking Sleeping Beauty. I started gearing up as silently as I could. She stirred, then said, “Uhh… hmmmph… where’re… where are you goin’?” She turned to me, half awake.
Busted. Damn.
“Just going to get some milk, honey. I’ll be back soon, OK?”
“Hrrm… ok.” She rolled back over and fell back asleep.
That was close. I opened the garage, and an involuntary smile appeared. A chorus of angels sang sweetly as the door rose. Then, the three still-functioning synapses in my tiny brain linked up, and a thought formed. ‘Take the Coucours.’
I called Abi, wondering if I could get away with it or not. “Hey buddy, I’m standing in front of your bike, and it looks sad and lonely. It’s been sitting here, basically neglected for a few months.”
He interrupted me, “What are you getting at?”
“Well, I was thinking I would take Snowball out for a little spin. Get the blood moving and all that.”
“Fine. Just remember, the tires are brand new.”
Oh, don’t worry, I remember…
Those three synapses worked together to remember something I’d been told a few months ago. “Azusa Canyon is a great ride, and it’s just five miles from the house.”
Perfect. Let’s go! Evidently, I wasn’t the only one on a milk run. Two sport bikes passed me, obviously with CA Route 39 in mind. I waved as they passed, mentally assigning them the names ‘Tom and Dave’.
As soon as we were away from the busy streets, which only took about five minutes, I noticed my involuntary smile magically reappeared.
‘Tom and Dave’ took full advantage of the traffic free two lane roller coaster, while I took a more leisurely pace; stopping to take in the sights, and relishing the fact that I was riding in January, on a deserted two lane mountain road. It really doesn’t get better than this. (I don’t say that to rub it in to the subjects of the Kingdom of Rhode Island. Honestly.)
Snowball loved being out almost as much as I did.
There was hardly any traffic on the road, and after a while I started to give Snowball a bit of a workout, testing the new tires, the new brakes, and the lean angle limits. The involuntary smile is more of less a permanent fixture. My completely uneducated assessment of the Concours? Kawasaki definitely got this one right. I have to say that while I love Rain Cloud Follows… Naah, I won’t say it.
The only traffic I saw was LA County fire vehicles, about seven of them, heading the other direction. They didn’t seem to be in a hurry, so while I wondered what they were all doing up there, I didn’t worry about it. A few hundred curves later, I found out what all the fire trucks were doing.
Fire camp. That sounds like fun. I want to go to fire camp when I grow up. If I ever grow up. While I was snapping this picture, ‘Tom and Dave’ passed me. Again. Those guys seemed to be doing laps. I waved again as they went by.
Very nice of the state of California to build us our very own racetrack out here in the San Gabriel mountains. Thanks, guys!
What a great day! I stopped when the spirit moved me to stop, and enjoyed the scents, the sounds, and the bright sun and warm feeling on my face’s pasty fluorescent-light-bleached pallor. (OK, I’ll admit, I put that in to rub it in just a bit…)
Mount Baldy has some snow on the top. I bet it’s cold up there. See? I feel for Rhode Islanders enjoying the day’s high temperature of twelve. I really do.
. 
I also felt for this guy. It seems the motor fell right out of his motorcycle! I asked if he was OK. He nodded and he dismissed me with a friendly wave. While I was stopped making sure this fellow motor-less cyclist was OK, I heard a beautiful sound from down in the valley. None other than ‘Tom and Dave’ appeared for a third time.
This time I set off after them, catching them in mere seconds. They quickly signaled to turn off, and pulled into one of the thousand scenic stops on this excellent road. The conversation started as pretty much any conversation between motorcyclists does. “Hi!” the taller one said. “That’s a nice bike you’re riding there.” We talked about the Concours, the roads, and riding in general. I asked their names. The shorter of the two was named, I shit you not, Dave. The taller guy was Gary. Oh well. One outta two ain’t bad. Gary asked me what brought me to Azusa Canyon. “Oh, I’m supposed to be getting some milk.” I replied, remembering my reason. “It’s been over an hour, I’m probably in trouble by now.” They laughed. As I was leaving, Gary said, “Be careful. I just read in the paper the other day that this road is the most-crashed-on road in all of Southern California.” Great.
Gary and Dave – Two New Friends
That’s why I don’t read newspapers. The descent from Azusa Canyon back to reality was a bit hairy in spots. Off camber, decreasing radius curves would sneak up out of nowhere. The mighty Concours handled it all without a thought.
Smog Factory in the Distance
A few more enthusiasts were headed up as I headed back. We passed with a wave. I made it all the way back home before Sleeping Beauty got out of bed. My plan would have been perfect except for one thing.
I forgot to get the milk.
A Thousand Virgins in South Dakota
Posted by: | CommentsFour AM arrived far too early. The alarm clock’s piercing tone rang out through the entire Red Roof Inn, shattering the silence and ruining a really good dream. My first coherent thought as I returned to semi-consciousness was, “Wha?,” followed closely by, “Why?”
Of course my riding buddy Abi was already up and packed. He always is. I don’t get it, but I guess there isn’t much to get. He’s ready, I’m not.
“Dude, seriously, why are we doing this?” I was whining more than usual that morning, but that’s because I stayed up late writing a ride report on how we got where we were, while, wisely, Abi was sound asleep. “One thousand miles in one day? Why? Is there some sort of prize for this?”
Without even pausing, Abi replied, “Yes. There will be one thousand virgins waiting for us at the end in South Dakota.”
Good enough for me. I’m up. Let’s go.
The rules for certifying a SaddleSore 1000 are strict, but not unbearable. Here are some of the rules, from the Iron Butt site:
* * * THE COMPUTER TIME STAMP WILL BE YOUR OFFICIAL STARTING TIME * * *
At the end of your ride, before the 24 hour time period is up, obtain a computer printed gas receipt with a legible location, date and time stamp.
* * * THE COMPUTER TIME STAMP WILL BE YOUR OFFICIAL ENDING TIME * * *
OK, so it’s five AM, and we need a start witness. A group of Harley guys were getting ready to head to Milwaukee on the other side of the hotel, maybe they’d sign the form? As I walked closer, I could hear one of the Harley guys shouting, threatening to commit a fun reproductive act on another’s mother. We decided to have the desk clerk witness our start instead.
And we’re off!
Normally, when starting a ride, I don’t have an exact idea how far we’ll be going. The destination might change five times during the day, which is the beauty of never making reservations. An interesting detour might present itself at anytime, so I rarely look at the ‘Dist to Dest’ box on the GPS, as that ‘Dest’ is usually somewhat optional. But this day was different. We had a reservation in Rapid City, which lay a mere 1016 miles from our current location.
Finally, after procrastinating as much as possible, our attempt to break our own personal long distance riding records was underway. To date, Abi’s longest day was 660 miles, mine was a tad longer, at 730. Now, it was time to put ourselves to the test and find out if we could really go the distance.
After whet felt like a sufficient time and distance passed, I glanced down at the GPS. 985 miles to go. We’ve only ridden fifteen miles? That’s IT?!? Ugh.
Trucks. Like vampires, trailer trucks own the night. A convoy of thousands of trucks disappeared behind us in a blur of lights and diesel fumes in the pre-dawn gloom. The majority of these vampire trucks seemed to vanish at dawn, leaving the entire highway to us.
Trucks may own the night, but we owned the morning, at least until we reached Chicago. Then we had to share with thousands of people trying to get to work on time.
But even Chicago wasn’t that bad. The realization that this traffic jam would be our last of the day was comforting.
Less comforting was the sky; a dark, brooding mass of clouds blotted out the horizon ahead. 177 miles into our attempt, Rain Cloud Follows was about to enter the storm, along with… some boats? What the hell were we in for?
As the first fat drops of rain started to fall, we pulled off to prepare for the impending onslaught. Right there, in the parking lot, I started yelling at my motorcycle. “Dammit! I’m sick of this shit! Every time, every ride, it rains! If you don’t quit it, I’m sending you to the car crusher!”
Then it occurred to me. We were only 177 miles into this ride, and I was already talking to my motorcycle. That can’t be a good sign.
However, the threat worked. The storm never fully materialized, and pretty much gave up after fifty miles. While the temperatures remained in the 60’s, that was the only rain of the day.
The two lane highway stretched on in an endless ribbon of asphalt.
By 11 AM, we had already ridden 364 miles through Indiana, Illinois and were deep into Wisconsin. What little scenery there was quickly became redundant.
Lost in my thoughts, I left my turn signal on. For about twenty miles. Unable to take it anymore, Abi raced up next to me, and indicated his displeasure with a single upraised finger. I noticed a rest area ahead, and, leaving the signal on, pulled in.
“Dude, what’s your problem? I was just trying to tell you I wanted to take a little break. It’s not my fault the rest area was so far ahead.”
It was already mid-afternoon, but we still felt reasonably good.
The Iron Butt association is very strict. Especially when it comes to speeding and reckless motorcycling (understandable) and the use of stimulants (somewhat less understandable):
Corn. Farm. Corn. Barn. Corn. Silo. More corn. There’s a lot of corn out there. Then, we stumbled onto a farm of a different sort. They were growing what appeared to be gigantic Mercedes logos, probably for all the new Smart Car dealership popping up nationwide.
Yeah. I know. Lame. Well, you have to make your fun when you can. Part of my fun was working on my new camera technique.
After many crap pictures of the sky or the road, I finally figured it out. Press the shutter button, count to fifty, and the camera will usually take a picture.
The long day started to take its toll.
With a little less than 500 miles to go, Abi and I stopped in a town called Blue Earth, Minnesota for a stimulant-free lunch in my favorite Irish restaurant, McDonald’s. A very elderly, very sweet looking couple sat down at the booth next to us. We must have been looking a little less-than-fresh by then, judging by the look on their faces.
“What have you boys been doing?”
I wanted to impress them with our tale. “Well, we left Elkhart, Indiana at 5:30 this morning, and we’re not stopping again until we get to Rapid City, South Dakota,” I bragged.
The woman smiled and said, “Well, isn’t that nice? You don’t have far to go now, boys.”
Stunned, I had no answer.
Distance, now judged by the tankful, became irrelevant. I became a part of the motorcycle, my hands became the grips, my feet became the pegs. Thoughts swirled, music blared, and the day progressed.
Two tanks later, we entered South Dakota. The end, a mere three-hundred and sixty miles away, was in sight!
The thought of finishing, or, more correctly, of getting off these damn bikes energized us both.
The next hours became a race with the sun. I didn’t like the idea of riding these dark, deserted South Dakota roads at night, so we set off in a very un-reckless manner to put as many miles behind us as possible. A photographic bonanza celebrated the sunset.
The darkness enveloped us, and we rode on. The miles between us and the end of the road ticked down, 60… 50… 40… Suddenly, the bright lights of Rapid City erupted out of the darkness. A surprising swell of emotions overwhelmed me for a moment, fortunately it was too dark for a picture of my swelling. Eighteen hours after leaving Elkhart, we made it!
With 1021 official miles added to the odometer, all that was left was getting our end time stamp and a witness. I pulled up to a gas pump at a Flying J rest stop for my final tankful.
And, no receipt came out. Of course. I went to find an attendant to get this final, most important piece of paper, and was doubly stunned. When Jethro BillyBob Gasguy printed out my final receipt, the one thing I needed to prove I finished in less than twenty four hours from when I started this foolhardy attempt; when I tiredly looked down at the piece of paper in my hand, there was NO TIME STAMP to be found anywhere on the receipt! Every single station we stopped at the whole day provided us with everything we needed, so naturally the most important one didn’t.
Oh, what the fuck?!? After eighteen hours of riding, I didn’t need this. I withdrew $20 out of the ATM in the Flying J, which would definitely have a time stamp receipt, so I thought I would be covered. Abi, who noticed my increasing frustration, didn’t bother fill his tank. We went down the road to a Mobil station, where Abi was able to get his final receipt. Knowing the Iron Butt rules are fairly strict; remember, something as harmless as drinking coffee can get you disqualified, I put $1 of unleaded into his tank, so I would also have a final, time stamped fuel receipt.
And when it was all said and done, I knew one thing for sure. Abi lied. The thousand virgins were nowhere to be found, but at that point it didn’t matter. All that mattered was sleep. Off the motorcycles, we quickly congealed. The desk clerks at the Fairfield Inn were happy to sign our ‘end witness’ Iron Butt forms. To honor our accomplishment, we changed our traditional ‘Best Day Ever’ toast, and officially finished the day by hoisting a hefty glass of Macallan to in a toast to the ‘Longest Day Ever.’ And that, as they say, was that. Heading to the comfort of clean sheets, we were silent in the elevator, then I looked at Abi and said, “I don’t ever want to do that again.”
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