I’m sure it’s good for a laugh or snide comment. I’d love to be a little bird in the cars with the “My Kids on Honor Student at …..” crowd.

Rhino

Makin' fun of Soccer Moms

Mr B Crests A Petrified Dune

The Slickrock Trail is a 12 mile loop composed of mostly petrified sand dunes. Don’t let the term “slick” fool you, the traction is amazing! 99% of the trail is on rock with the consistency of concrete. I was able to negotiate some of the steepest terrain I’ve ever encountered with nary a slip. In fact, unintentional wheelies were commonplace on most climbs. And traditional knobbies have less traction here than something of a more dual-sport nature. But it’s the totally undulating nature of the terrain itself that makes the riding so challenging … and subsequently rewarding.

The Slickrock Trail Is Well Marked

My favorite ridding buddy and I tackled the Slickrock Trail’s Practice Loop as our first challenge of the day. And by the end of the day, it seemed to us at least as enjoyable as the main trail, so we did it one more time in the reverse direction just to put the icing on the cake. By reversing the direction, it seemed like a completely different trail.

If you get tired of all the rock, the surrounding area also provides miles and miles of more traditional terrain to allow for a complete dirtbike experience. You’ll have to be comfortable with riding in sand also. This used to give me quite a bit of pause in previous years, but The Jimmy Lewis Off-Road Riding School that I took a little over a year ago, boosted my confidence immeasurably in this material. So much so, that I actually looked forward to encountering that slipping, sliding, out-of-control feeling. On one long uphill section of deep sand, I just pinned it, hollerin’ the whole way.

My biggest struggles were the many steep ledges, especially when transitioning from sand to rock or vice versa. Early on during the ride, my buddy tried a little jump from the rocks down into sand and made the mistake of landing the front wheel first, which dug-in and tossed him off. Of course, I also managed to tip-over several times during the day; they were all pride falls, mostly caused by hesitating when the moment called for commitment.

Taking A Break At An Overlook On The Practice Loop

We did encounter a few bicyclists during the course of our day, but all were friendly and willingly stopped and engaged in conversation of their own accord. There didn’t seem to be any animosity, but we also gave them lots of room, kept our throttles in check and when in doubt gave them the right of way. 

If you ask me, this is the best time of year to be engaging in this activity. The high temp was in the low 50s with abundant sunshine. I only got a little chilled when the clouds came over a few times, but after several strenuous sections, I’d worked up a good sweat. I can only imagine how uncomfortable it would be in the summer with temps near 100 and virtually no shade.

We camped in a primitive campsite near the trailhead for $10 (this included the trail fee). If you are just coming for the day and prefer to stay in town at a hotel, it’s only $5 (what can you get for that little money these days?) The only requirement on your equipment is that it be properly registered, either as a street vehicle or an off-road vehicle. Oh, and NO four-wheelers!

Mr B Takes-off From The Launch Pad

My friend decided to sample the latest craze in off-road rubber; he tried trials tires on his Husky. They have a lot more tread than traditional off-road tires and provided unbelievable grip on the super-hard slickrock surface. But he even seemed genuinely pleased in the more typical off-road conditions too. I’m thinking I may need a second set of rims and similar rubber if I start frequenting this place (likely).

As you might guess, the surface is quite hard on traditional knobbies (of course, if they are worn near the end of their useful life, they work even better). 

Over the course of the day, we did several other trails: Porcupine Rim, Fins and Things and the intimidatingly monikered Hell’s Revenge. The later possessing breathtaking scenery combined with a broad variety of challenges (my personal favorite). All of these other trails were just as much fun as the Slickrock Trail. 

Mr B Tackles Tip-Over Challenge

A word of warning: this area is for expert riders. If you have any doubts about your skills, this is not the place to sharpen them. The unforgiving rock surface doesn’t suffer fools kindly, especially with many cliffs and ledges thrown in for good measure. One bicyclists we passed barely made it 100 yards down the trail before taking a tumble  (cause unknown) and needing help.

The Author, Mid-Ride

But if you’re like me, always looking for something a little different, a loop around the Slickrock Trail will open your eyes to a completely different concept of off-road riding. And the vast trail network in and around Moab will keep me entertained for days or years to come. I’ll be headed back sooner, rather than later.

I started my journey headed to Phoenix, but unlike previous trips, which had me skirting the Grand Canyon, weather predictions indicated potentially substantial snow in the high country, so I kept my elevation down and limited my travel to the Interstate. This route had me on I-15 headed toward Lost Wages. I spent my first night sleeping in my gypsy wagon in the Virgin River Gorge which is an incredibly scenic stretch of federal interstate highway that passes through the northwest corner of Arizona for only a few miles between Utah and Nevada (AZ‘s boundary allows it the good fortune to possess this stretch of pavement). If you think the drive between Vegas and SLC is boring you’d be right, except for this stretch. Well worth waking up to in the morning!

Redstone Picnic Area

Instead of entering the Sin City, I detoured on a scenic route that borders Lake Mead. A former riding buddy told me this road had plenty of directional changes that I might appreciate. And he was right. That and great scenery will definitely add the road to my list of “try on a motorcycle someday”. The only negative was a good bit of construction in the early miles. Another advantage of this byway was being dumped out just a few miles from Hoover Dam with no added distance penalty.

Hoover Dam and the new bypass bridge under construction

As for the icon built to harness the Colorado River, Hoover is a magnificent man-made object placed in the middle of a natural wonder! Keep in mind, the Grand Canyon is only a couple hours away. And as a bonus, they are building a spectacular suspension bridge just downstream to divert traffic off the dam. Seeing the abutments growing out from the cliffs to eventually meet in the center, makes the mere accomplishments of man seem pretty amazing. The bridge looks set to be the equal of the dam as an engineering achievement. The crowds on Thanksgiving Day were pretty heavy but that made it even more inspiring. And security is very tight, with every vehicle being inspected by Homeland Security personnel.

Bypass bridge abutments growing toward the center

As I made my way through Kingman, recent rain had the activated the smell of creosote bush, which gave the atmosphere a marvelously pungent odor. I’ve come to associate this smell with the West, and it stirred memories for miles. The last time I took 93, it was a beat-up two-laner with limited passing opportunities and plenty of slower truck traffic. It has since been widened and smoothed into a very pleasant thoroughfare with great desert scenery, including Joshua trees in abundance.

Thanksgiving dinner was shared with friends of friends that included several families and provided entertaining company as well as great food. While most folks enjoy the traditional gathering of immediate family, the spread out nature of today’s extended families means oft times friends and even strangers spend this particular holiday together. I have to thank my hosts Simon and Jean for welcoming me into their home and treating me as if I was one of the inner circle.

Tres Hombres (Rhino, AngryBob and Ken)

Day two in the Grand Canyon State had me on the trails with blog leader AngryBob and his regular riding partner Ken. Rain the previous day left the trails in great condition. In most parts of the country moisture makes the riding more difficult, but in the desert southwest it defeats dust and adds to traction. Of course it also adds to trail debris.

While Bob likes to pretend it’s just a casual ride, it doesn’t take long for me to lose sight of my companions. That’s OK with me since my plethora of years has taught me the value of riding my own pace. There’s a difference between challenging and dangerous, and at this point in my addiction, I’m trying to minimize the number of injuries I add to my lifelong total.

Flat tires suck!

It didn’t take long for Bob’s aggressive style to catch up with him, a flat front tire manifested within just a few miles. I’m thinking of changing his nickname from AngryBob to BrakedownBob. In fact, it seems as if even Bob’s daughters agree. As we arrived back at the homestead, the 5 year old said something to the effect of “another flat, Dad!”

Bob’s misfortune had him headed back to the truck while Ken lured me into some very challenging terrain. It was some the most difficult riding I’ve done for a sustained period, but the challenge was worth every minute of suffering in terms of skills and confidence pay-off. And Ken was a total gentleman riding partner, diligently waiting at every junction for my sorry ass to show up before heading down the next trail. He did attempt to get me to try one rocky, nasty piece of single track by offering a bunch of advice, but after spending a sustained period of time on the edge of control, I told him I needed to turn around and try something with a little less excitement.

Several times, during both days rides, Ken and Bob tried to reassure me that they were going to take it easy on me, but it seemed every time we showed up at the mentioned location, it took even more balls than the previous one. I think I was being had, but didn’t put up much of a fight. Especially, since I had no idea how to find my way back to the trailer. Be forwarned, when you agree to ride with skilled riders in their own “backyard”, expect to find yourself over your head from time to time.

As inspiring as the riding was, the scenery was even more so. Dodging saguaro, ocotillo and cholla around every turn was quite a bit different to the terrain I’m used to. And my couple of years living in Tucson came flooding back. At one of the hilltops we were able to see the buildings of downtown Phoenix in the distance. Ken commented that usually the air was too polluted to see so far. As we packed up to leave I could only think of two things: how hungry I was and how sore I’d be the next day. Left over turkey, stuffing and potatoes filled the first need and Aleve helped out with the second.

Can you say "bent rim"? Sure, I knew that you could.

The next day confirmed my new nickname choice for Bob, as on this day’s ride he managed to bend a rim, establish a significant coolant leak and scatter tools out of his tailpack. This guy could single-handedly keep the aftermarket in business; I guess the first day’s setbacks weren’t enough. At least on the second day, none of the failures ended his ride.

Also, on this day, I encountered another mentally insurmountable obstacle. A section as steep as anything I’d seen thus far. And the kicker was just that, a kicker. After a steep climb in lose debris there was about 20 feet of what seemed to me to be a vertical rock wall followed by more of the loose steep stuff above. I had no shame in crying “uncle”. Ken walked part way down shouting words of encouragement, to no avail. There was no way I was going to make the attempt. Sometimes discretion is the better part of valor, and I really didn’t want to have to return to Salt Lake in a cast. I felt a little better when Ken confided that he’d had to ride several other friend’s machines up this particular stretch.

Ya gotta be impressed with a guy that will jump on any bike and head up something like that. We then rode a section that seemed like one steep climb followed immediately by another steep descent over and over. I actually enjoyed the challenge because it was within my capabilities, but after a particularly long series, I just bonked. It turns out we were almost through, but I needed to catch my breath for several minutes before continuing. It was at this time that Ken, who’d been riding behind me and watching, offered some advice. Usually, I’m not really good about taking advice, but after seeing many examples of his prowess for the last 2 days, I was receptive. I took what he said to heart, but had almost no energy to try to put it into practice. But it’s been filed away for future reference.

Author in Saguaro National Park

After a couple days being hammered in the dirt, I decided to get back in the “rapist van” (as Bob likes to call it) and headed down to Tucson, to spend the night camping in the Saguaro National Park. My former residence at the beginning of this millennium was just a few miles away, so I know the area well, and have some nostalgia for the memories. The howl of coyotes as the sunsets is unforgettable, and the stars go on and on. And even though I wasn’t overly enamored of my time in that part of the country, I find myself drawn back over and over each year to experience it’s unique sights and smells. It’s almost as if I needed a regular “cactus fix” since I left.

Desert Flora

The next morning I was headed west on I-10. My destination was a little known road in the middle of nowhere that climbs a 10000ft mountain. I hadn’t had a romp on this particular tarmac for about 6 years, but I vividly remember its convoluted nature. It’s one of those roads where you stop at an overlook and can view several of the curves you just enjoyed. I won’t tell you it’s name because I like to keep a few special places anonymous for my own enjoyment. I unloaded the R1 at a picnic area near the beginning of the good stuff and proceeded to make two round trips up to the snowline. Yes, snow!

The same storm that watered down the desert north of Phoenix on Thanksgiving Day also dropped white stuff at the higher elevation. I was able to get in about 10 miles of awesome twisties before encountering the real dicey conditions. The directional changes in this road had almost escaped my memory, so it was a real joy to rediscover. It even reminded me a bit of the infamous Dragon back east. In fact, I was so curious about comparing the turn per miles ratio, that on my second pass, I counted every turn! I wasn’t able to make a full 11 miles to give an exact comparison, but I was able to extrapolate a good estimate. My rough estimate put the proportion at 2/3rds as twisty, which is pretty decent for a western byway. Completely satisfying!

As I pulled back into the picnic area to load up for the short trip to my favorite free campground near the AZ/NM border, I noticed a woman strolling through the area. We exchanged pleasantries and she wandered off. A few moments later I heard a male voice say something like “well, why don’t we invite him for dinner”. Next thing I knew, the damsel reappeared with an invitation, which I hesitantly accepted (a bit of stranger caution dontcha know).

Sharing time with Jeff and Nayla was the social highpoint of the trip. Their curiosity, generosity and unconditional welcome to their hearth (burgers and chicken) boosted my faith in humanity once again. Serendipity is the best description I can come up with for the time I spent with such wonderful people in such and unexpected and idyllic place. The conversation was poignant and spiritual, and just the anecdote for a bit of solo road trip loneliness.

I’ve noticed over the years that riding a motorcycle seems an open invitation for people to interact. Stripped of a glass and steel cage and looking like a real traveler, seems to lower the normal societal walls we build, and beacons otherwise cautious folks to revert to the deeper emotions of curiosity and companionship. I’m constantly surprised by who will walk up to me out of the blue and start a conversation.

Moonrise over the Guthrie Peak

I had the campground all to myself and enjoyed a spectacular moonrise shared by Venus and Saturn. Perfect weather the in the morning promised a fantastic day on the former Devil’s Highway.

Blackjack Campground (no fee)

After waiting 20 minutes for a ore train to make it’s way through Clifton, the clear road, courtesy of weekday traffic, made it hard to keep the throttle in check. The southern end climbs up into the mountains as it skirts the Morenci open-pit copper mine. The road literally follows the edge of the pit for miles; the sheer size of the operation is staggering.

Author on the Devil's Highway

The next section is my favorite as you climb even higher through some of the best mountainside hairpins in the state with views to die for. The next 50 miles is just simply sportbike heaven, with turn after turn marked from 20 to 50 MPH. After what seems like forever, you emerge from the forest onto a super long and straight meadow that invites an open disregard for the posted speed limit. Doing the ton on this stretch actually feels safe and reasonable.

A disadvantage to riding at high altitude (~9000 ft) late in the season

After passing through another long and very crooked section, I approached the high point in the road, around 9000 ft,  the white stuff showed up again. And this time it was serious. It covered the entire road and was packed hard enough to be ice in the tire tracks. Size 10 outriggers out and a tiptoe rate of about 5 MPH got me across about 100 yards of this skating rink without incident, but with plenty of residual adrenaline. As the elevation started to retreat, the road provided a mixed bag of perfect conditions in the sunshine and slippery conditions in the shade. While many fair weather riders would find themselves disappointed with this combo, I relished the challenge. Besides, I’d just done 70 miles of exceptional twisties without encountering another vehicle going my way. I mean, how much good fortune is a person entitled too anyway?

I had lunch at one of my favorite small town restaurants, The Bear Wallow Cafe in Alpine. What makes this place so special is the atmosphere and the friendliness of the locals. For some reason whenever I walk in the place I feel like I live there. There so much authentic memorabilia on the walls that it seems like you’ve gone back in time 50 years. On this particular occasion almost everyone in the place was wearing camo (Bull Elk hunt), so I looked a bit out of place. But within moments, one of the brush-festooned patrons asked me how my ride was going? (There’s that approachable thing again). In addition to my bacon cheeseburger, I purchased a coffee mug and T-shirt to remind me of the place and stimulate the local economy in my own small way. I don’t want this place going away anytime soon.

AZ/NM border

The rest of my ride that day took me back south on the New Mexico side of the mountains. This stretch is nice because it’s still twisty, but in a more relaxed and predictable way. There was one stretch where it seemed like it was one 35 MPH corner after another for 20 miles. Eventually the road straightens out and it’s time to start messing around in the upper part of the RPM band again. After a turn to the west and a short little jog back across the border and through one last set of great curves, I was back at the campground loading up. The moto part of my journey at its end.

End of a long, scenic and challenging ride

As I passed through Phoenix a second time on my way home, I was in a reflective mood after enjoying so many different and fulfilling experiences. As I fueled up in Flagstaff, the real world intruded again in the form of an open hand and a sob story which I’d already encountered twice before on this trip. These days, it seems like more than a few folks are getting by only on the kindness or gullible nature of strangers. My personal favorites were the middle-aged twin females who were dressed well and smoking cigarettes but who “needed” some change.

Ho, Hum, not another incredible sunset

I was trying to make the Grand Canyon for this night’s stay, but ended up at a truckstop in Cameron. No matter, wherever I park my van is home. The next morning as I crossed Lee’s Ferry, I couldn’t help but think of all the poor souls fighting rush hour traffic in some metropolitan area while I enjoyed the deserted and scenic byways of canyon country.

All mine, for this moment anyway

I even stopped at one of my favorite overlooks just outside of Jacob’s Lake to brew some fresh coffee and soak in the beauty.

Fresh coffee in a picturesque setting

One last surprise occured near the entrance to the North Rim of the Grand Canyon. This entrance is closed this time of year due to snow, cold and a lack of tourists (the South Rim is open year-round). Since hardly anyone comes down this stretch of road at this time, the Park Service was doing controlled burns of the brush all along the sides of the road. It was pretty eerie to drive along in the perpetual fog and strong smell of cellulous combustion, with flames within a few feet of the van.

Controlled Burn near Jacob's Lake

The $1.49 Unleaded in Cedar City iced the cake. FIlled a 33 gallon tank for under $50!

All in all, a perfect way to spend the Thanksgiving holiday: Moto-style!

Rhino

I opened the box and started rummaging through its contents. The first three items hardly related to motorcycle gear - except in remote fashion. You see, the Camp Zama Motorcycle Club (ZMC) used to go on an annual weekend ski trip to the Japanese Alps at Yuzawa every winter as a club sponsored event. The items in the top portion of the box consisted of a ski parka, jacket and cold weather boots. These items brought back fond memories of those ski trips which ZMC members looked upon as a winter bonus, a benefit of club membership.

The second layer of stuff in the box included two motorcycle helmets, one full-faced “Romer” German-made; the other an open-faced with visor, Japanese-made helmet similar to a “Bell.” The summer heat in the garage had ruined the inner padding material under the liners. Both helmets looked good on the outside, but they no longer afforded the protection for which they were made due to deterioration over time and under extreme desert temperatures. They were reluctantly discarded. Remember, these items are not just helmets but memories. It hurts to dispose of them because they evoke pleasant recollections that cannot be relived or replaced.

The bottom portion of the box held the most interesting items, these being a blue and white motorcycle tank bag, a parcel of ZMC-specific clothing and some embroidered Ninja insignia. The tank bag still projected the road map of my last trip to Saku, Japan through its plastic face. The bag contained a few of the things carried on that adventure. There was some orange wet weather gear, a black RECONDO windbreaker, a pair of pants, underwear, socks, toilet articles, towel and a magnifying glass. I guess everything else went into the pockets of my leathers. I know, I know what you’re thinking . . . why the magnifying glass? It was used to read the map. And the parcel of clothing supplemented the tank bag contents, as needed. These items were not taken on every ride, just to specific events during the year. Our club colors were sewn on vests worn over our leathers and on lighter weight denim jackets for summer wear. Boy, did the memories flow when I looked at those ZMC Colors withdrawn from the parcel. The packet also included a ZMC cap and nylon, gold and black sport jacket for special motorcycle events. Yep! When we went to a club function or ride, we went in style.

So much for the box and its contents. I eliminated a few items, re-sealed and stored it back on the garage shelf. That’s where it will stay until I sell the house or leave the scene permanently. When my grand-kids ask what it contains, they give me a curious look when I tell them it’s just my motorcycle memory box.

     Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to all my fellow motorcyclists. Keep adding treasure to your memory box.

Skid Lid

A bit of good advice

I purchased it as a valuable reminder and as fodder for my moto-themed garage.

I fear that many of our brethern have found themselves in this situation with the subsequent unpleasant consequences. I myself have periodocally found myself making mid-corner correction as a result of stunning scenery.

 If you are riding, watch the road. If you want to sightsee, pull over!

Rhino

The Late 90’s and New Decade has not been the best of times for Speed Metal. Speed Metal has migrated off into Industrial and Metal/Goth hybrid music. I have been keeping my grove on listening to System, Manson, NIN, Genitorturers and Hanzel und Gretel in the past 10 years.

For me the greatest pain has been the loss of new Speed Metal material from my beloved Metallica. I have been listing and following Metallica since 1982. I remember seeing the band when the Ron McGovney was their bassist. I carried the Flag of the band though three great albums, the loss of Cliff Burton in 1986. I lived for …And Justice for All, and I accepted the Black Album and their new found success.

But the late 90’s and new decade was not a time where Metallica put out their “signature” sound that I loved so much. I was cool with Bob Rock years, Metallica experimenting and making a different sound. Their European CD’s, The S&M Project and Fan Can’s kept me around as it kept with the spirit of the band. But secretly I have been longing for another Justice or Puppets to come out.

Now with Metallica changing producers to Rick Rubin and the pending release of Death Magnetic on September 12^th, a possible new chapter of Metallica is opening up. I was able to get my hands on a copy of Death Magnetic and have spent a few days listing to my new favorite album. I wanted to share the overall feelings about the album.

Track #1: That was Just your Life – Has the historical Metallica operatic introduction with a ripping song. If you were to place a past album the song is closest to, it would be …And Justice for All.

Track #2: The end of the line – A more melodic and blues sound to it, with a hybrid of Justice and the Black album.

Track #3: Broken, Beat & Scarred – A strong grove song that has many tempo changes. The song becomes more jagged and has that Harvester of Sorrow Feeling to it.

Track #4: The Day that never comes – The first song off of the CD that has hit the radio. The song starts off with a strong S&M Projects vibe that also pulls from the slower and heavy songs from Re-Load. But then the song half way takes a turn to jump into a strong historical melodies from Master of Puppets and Ride the Lighting, that are threaded together in a manic and aggressive ending. The radio versions have much of this ending cut out, which is a big shame.

Track #5: All Nightmare Long – A fast and choppy song that would fit right in with the Master of Puppets album. The song has a lot of chop and changes in tempo. At the same time the vocals carry a quality that was not from the early years of Metallica.

Track #6: Cyanide – A choppy and hard song, This song could have come from the Black album, but with the many changes in tempo and energy it would be at home on the …And Justice For all Album.

Track #7: The Unforgiven III – I think this is the second best song on the album. It’s slower and very introspective, with a strong S&M Project feeling. The singing is the best and the background music detail is first rate.

Track #8: The Judas Kiss – This song is a defiantly from the Ride the Lighting era. Lots of great usage of the Wah Wah pedal by Kirk. Just a great song

Track #9: Suicide & Redemption – The song rolls up and down and changes tempo, it’s the return of the Classic Metallica Instrumental song. It’s a song that allows each of the members to show off their talent. We get to learn the style of Robert Trujillo, their new bassist. I would say the song is a bit more Puppets than Lighting, but it’s hard to target.

Track #10: My Apocalypse – The song just rips and it is my favorite song off the Album. The speed and aggression reminds me of Damage, Inc. It is just Heavy, Fast with wild tempo changes and key changes. A great way to end the album.

… So I have a new favorite Album to listen to on my next street ride.

I was stranded at a gas station in Tres Piedras, New Mexico after a regulator failure on my Ducati 748. Just to set the scene, TP (as it’s affectionately known to locals) is a crossroads in the middle of Bumfuck, Nowhere. There’s a crumbling gas station, a dilapidated restaurant and that’s about it. The nearest “town” is Taos which is about 50 miles away. With no tools to properly troubleshoot a dead electrical system, I assumed it was my battery that had died. After locating/calling a Honda dealer in Taos, who just happen to have the oddball size my euro-scoot required, I settled into that that semi-conscience trance brought about by the need to pass a couple uneventful hours in an alien and boring place. So with my partially stripped Italian (Ducati likes to put the battery behind the right side fairing) sitting over in the corner of the lot, the excruciatingly slow passage of time began.In my somnambulate state, the first impression I had of the approaching thumper was of an insect buzzing around my ear. Then as it grew in volume, I knew that was no bug, but a motorcycle. I caught site of the yellow machine out near the horizon. Within a few moments a yellow DRZ400 pulled up to the pumps. Ahh, someone to talk to who would understand my plight and offer a sympathetic ear, maybe even a helpful hand. When his helmet came off, a young man of distinctly Asian heritage appeared. The first words that came out of his mouth had such a thick accent that it was obvious he wasn’t from around here.

After exchanging some cursory greetings, I soon discovered that his lack of language skills would make this communication difficult. But I’ve never been one to shy away from a challenge, especially if it means leaving boredom behind. His pronunciation was so bizarre at times that I had to have him repeat many of his utterances multiple times. I tried not to speak loudly as many are prone to do when encountering an alien, believing that volume makes up for comprehension. (Just watch Nicky Hayden ask for con-di-shun-er from an Italian shopkeeper in The Kentucky Kid) I tried to use the most common and simple words I could muster to try to keep the conversation going. Fortunately, he was quite patient with me and I think he wanted to have a chat as much as I did. Being all alone on a deserted stretch of road will do that to you.

Through a lot of repetition and sign language, we were able to comprehend just enough to keep the conversation lively, even with an occasional joke thrown in for good measure. I told him about my predicament and how I had spent the last week riding all over the southwest looking for the holy grail of sportbikers, the vacant twisty road. I mentioned that I intended to cover a couple thousand miles when all was said and ridden. Then he told me how much he admired my spirit of adventure.

After further questioning, I came to understand he had flown to LA from Japan. Rented this barely street worthy machine, used a bungee net to strap down the bulk of his necessities and had set off to cross the entire United States by himself. He had planned finish somewhere in Florida where he would rendezvous with friends who were going to spend their week at DisneyWorld. I told him my sense of adventure couldn’t hold a candle to the journey he’d undertaken.

After a bit more small talk, we posed for this self-timer special (sorry about the quality). As it became apparent that he needed to be on his way and that I was stranded for the time being, we said our good-byes and in an effort to share a little Moto-Americana with him, I admonished him to “keep the rubber side down”! This brought a very puzzled look to his face. I knew my reference would need further clarification, so I explained that I was wishing him luck at keeping his machine upright and the tires on the road. After a few extra hand gestures, his widening eyes told me the light bulb had illuminated.

In an effort to help remember this new farewell, he repeated “key-a-lubba-sy-dow”. His cliché accent gave the words a completely different feel which made me laugh heartily and in turn brought a big toothy grin to his face. I was certain he would be the center of attention at the next gathering of his fellow two-wheeled comrades back in Nippon. I bowed in acknowledgement of what I considered a very sincere effort, as well as the pleasure of his company. His continuing repetition of the phrase indicated he was also delighted with his newfound American expression.

He donned his helmet, mounted his Suzuki, thumbed the starter and took off for his next adventure under foreign skies. Best of luck my intrepid acquaintance…………

Now I’m not the most cultured soul, but I liked the idea of riding some great roads and combining it with some intellectual entertainment, so I was in. The other riders in the conversation all bowed out with a myriad of lame excuses. So Molly and I made plans to ride the backroads down south, camp in the mountains (we were both cheap) and spend a couple days watching traditional Elizabethan thespianship.

I decided to take my Suzuki Bandit 1200 since I needed to take camping gear and a few days worth of supplies. I would normally have preferred one of my sportier mounts but El Bandito Grande, can hold it’s own when the road starts changing elevation and direction, and is vastly more comfortable on the long straight stretches. Molly rode her Harley Springer Softail Classic. I’d give you the multi-letter designation, but I’ve never acquired the knowledge or desire to decipher it. Molly was a match for her bike: attractive, in a girl next door kinda way, but also a tomboy and a bit rough around the edges.

We rode down to Cedar Breaks and pitched our tent in the mountains about 20 miles outside of town on a great piece of convoluted pavement. This gave us the opportunity to enjoy some challenging riding to and from our scheduled showtimes. And getting away from the crowds at the festival was a welcome respite also.

When we awoke the day after our arrival, there were no plays to attend until the afternoon, so my first thought was “let’s torture some rubber for an hour or two”. Molly was the still sleepy and bowed out, so I took the bags off the Bandit and proceeded to do a little canyon scratching. Now, the Bandit’s no ballerina, but she can get leant reet o’er when necessary, and after several entertaining passes through winding bits, I headed back to camp.

Upon my arrival, Molly (who was a bit more lucid), asked if I wanted to try out her Harley for comparison. As I’ve stated before, I’m not one to turn down the opportunity to experience a different flavor, so I said “sure”. As she proceeded to give me a preflight briefing, I could tell from her marketing type description of the bike, that she expected me to be totally enamored by the experience. Likely believing this test ride would have me eschewing all other manufacturers for American iron.

As I mounted the beast, my first thought was how different the riding position was. It took me several tries to find the floorboards. They were a lot further forward than I had imagined. The bars were also higher and further back than anticipated, putting me in the chopper traditional ape-hangar pose. Not a feeling of comfort or control for my sporty tastes. As the engine rumbled to life, I noticed shaking the likes of which were almost disconcerting. The front wheel moving back and forth a couple inches at idle. Also, the mirrors were a blur until you revved the engine. And, if you’ve never experienced heel/toe shifting, you are in for one strange experience.

So I took off, riding quite gingerly for the first several miles. As my confidence grew I started pushing a little and discovered some additional concerns. As expected, the floorboards touched down quite early, limiting my pace substantially. While the engine pulled strongly, it ran out of revs fast. The suspension travel was so limited that even small bumps caused wallowing and bottoming. And the brakes required a seriously hefty squeeze to get the bike to slow with authority.

As I arrived back at base, the expectant look on Molly’s face hinted that she was waiting for me to start gushing about her choice of mounts. In a good news, bad news choice, I usually lead with the positive side. I complimented how far Harley had come from it’s days of noise, smoke, leaking and general unreliability. I also made mention of the motors torque and relative smoothness when underway. I noted that resale prices made it a good investment. Unfortunately, I couldn’t think of many compliments related to actual functionality, especially when compared several other brands I’ve sampled.

After my synopsis, which created a look of disbelief and likely a bit of increduality, I took a few steps back over to the Bandit. As I slung a leg over and pressed the starter button, a surprised Molly asked “Where are you going?”
“To get the taste of that Harley out of my mouth” was my reply.

Rhino

The ’77 Honda I rode was very similar to the ’69 original that took the world by storm, catapulting the Japanese motorcycle industry in general, and Honda specifically, to the forefront worldwide. A position they’ve yet to relinquish for more than 40 years. Before the CB750, the British ruled the big-bore market with Triumph, BSA and Norton comprising the lion’s share. Honda’s racing success in the ‘60’s showed the world that the Asians would be a force to be reckoned with, but the CB was the sledgehammer blow that dealt the fatal blow to the Limey’s. Motorcycling would never be the same.

While this bike was very cutting edge in it’s day, disc brake, electronic ignition, overhead valves, pointless ignition; on the day I rode it, it seemed pretty “old school”. While I’ve never had a chance to ride anything older than this, it was enough to ruin any nostalgia I might have had for those “good ole days”. Even though it did everything I asked of it just fine, my butt’s been recalibrated over the last 30 years and this machine had no real appeal. While I’m sure throwing a leg over this thing in ’69 was a revelation, today it’s barely adequate.

I will say I was surprised by a few things that I was expecting to be horrible. Brakes have come a long way, but the stoppers on the CB were good. Not stoppie good, but I tried some panic stops and wasn’t feeling like I was going to have trouble shedding speed if it became necessary. It was actually quite easy to nail some clutchless up-shift while accelerating away from lights. And, in general, the transmission was slick and it was a non-issue to select each gear. The motor made good power everywhere and even had some stonk on top. Although my virtually stock SV650 would waste this bike.

Other than hard starting, the only real complaint I had was the suspension. It was sacked and in need of new springs and fluid. Oh, and the stock stepped seat severely limited for-aft movement.

So I got to try a piece of history. And while educational, I’m pretty glad we are where we are today. The old king is basically dead, long live his fuel-injected, synthetic-oiled, radial tired great-grand children.

Rhino

Finally, pictorial proof of my two-wheeled predilection?

This is photo of my Mom and Dad on a Harley two years (1957) before I was born. So upon my discovery I queried Mom about the circumstance and insisted on additional details. Unfortunately, I found out it was a posed photo and they never moved an inch. Oh, well, I can’t blame DNA for my addiction. I guess I’ll just have to accept that I’m a victim of circumstance. Maybe they were thinking about the Harley during conception

 Mom told me her father, my grandfather, rode a motorcycle from his home in Michigan to Texas once. I’ll have to get some confirmation on this one. The search for moto-heritage continues.

 (Note the cigarette in Dad’s fist and the oh-so-appropriate foot gear of the times)

Rhino