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Fri/Sat
Mar 21&22/03
Brian
Mid-afternoon and I was (finally) ready to blow out of Carter
Motorsports in Vancouver on a new, functioning 2002 VFR and catch up
to Mike, who had headed for California a day earlier on his new 2002
VFR. And we were only
four and five days late, respectively, from our joint planned
departure date.
Allow me to back this particular bus
up a bit. After much consideration we'd finally decided that our
third book was going to be Destination
Highways Northern California. In January, smack in the middle of our
OR versus CA deliberations, a missive from the Oregon Motor Vehicle
office showed up and threatened to ban me from riding in the state
if I didn’t cough up some extortionate amount of compounded speed
tax for some offence which happened so many years ago I couldn’t even
remember it. I took this as a strong and direct hint from God
that He’d prefer to ride California next after finishing BC and
Washington State.
Mike's ZX 11 engine had blown up late
last summer (yes, after we had put DHWA
to bed) just outside Ashcroft, BC.
“Yeah, didn't you know about the No 3 cylinder crankshaft bearing
weakness on those bikes ?”
“Well, no as a matter of fact I didn't, or I might not have had
you do all that engine work a few hundred kilometers ago”
So yes, Mike needed a new bike. And after clocking 56,000 mi (90,000 km) or so on my trusty
1994 Triumph Trophy 900, most of that doing DHBC
and DHWA, I was ready to
retire it from continued, day-to-day DH service.
Since we couldn’t get any
manufacturers to talk to us seriously about a sponsorship
arrangement in exchange for a couple
bikes (as I said to Mike, that’s okay, it’ll just cost ‘em more down the road),
the best deal we could cut for
bikes appropriate to our needs was for
last-years-model-dealer-priced-to-move Honda VFRs. There were
even
enthusiast clubs for the damn things, always a good sign.
Hell, Carter Service Manager James McInnes had a 2001VFR as
his personal mount. Apparently, the 02 edition is one of Cycle
Canada Editor Bruce Reeve's favorite mounts and that says
something, considering the wide range of beautiful new things he's
parked his butt on.
We could get the VFRs with ABS, something that
appealed to me.
I could get the hard-luggage triple panniers I preferred while Mike
could get the hardware for his soft-luggage system. We even
liked the sexy way the pipes tucked up, high and tight, underneath
its beautiful, jeweled ass.
Yes, these bikes would be absolutely
perfect for our needs. Or
so everyone told us. Rock solid.
Never cause any problems. Bulletproof.
Reliable. Proven.
A gentleman's sport-tourer. Really? Well that’s okay, we'll
take 'em anyway. Three bright red ones please, one for Mike in
Vancouver and two for us to ride to California.
Unfortunately, by the time we were
able to get all the i's dotted and t's crossed, it was Friday, four
days later than our planned Monday departure day. And only one of
the bikes was ready. The other one had a glitch in the its little
ABS brain. That had
been fixed but the warning light wouldn't go out.
The techs had all busted their asses, trying everything they
could think of, including scavenging all possible parts from the
third bike. It could be ridden safely but the cost, not to mention
the hassle, of getting that warning light to go out down in the U.S.
would be a colossal pain in the ass.
So, we were waiting for advice from the service gurus back
east in Sarsville, Ontario. Let’s
just say the moto-journalist from Road
Runner magazine had lots of time to take photos of us for his
story.
Mike had to get down to the Seattle
area by the end of business Friday to pick up the hardware for his
soft luggage so, mid-afternoon, I suggested he bungee his luggage on
the one working bike and take off.
I'd catch up later on that evening, hopefully in time for
dinner at that unbelievably fine restaurant masquerading as a
non-descript Bar & Grill in non-descript Fife just off the I-5,
a couple blocks east of the Destination Harley-Davidson shop. (And no, since you ask, we haven't opened our own bike shop.
Yet.)
As Friday wore on, there didn't seem
to be a fix for my VFR's recalcitrant warning light.
Since the problem seemed to be deep in the bowels of the
second bike, the back-up plan was to shift all the appropriate parts
back to the third bike and have Business Manager David Lough do some
incredibly fancy paperwork transfer stuff so I could take it
instead.
(At this point, I'm thinking if you want two working VFRs, it's a good
thing to buy three.) Problem was, this couldn't be done until
“sometime” Saturday. And sometimes, in life as in motorcycling, you just have to accept the Zen of things. I left an
update on Mike's cel voicemail about my status and tipped the lucky
bugger off to
the Fife restaurant (where I understand he had a fine dining
experience, although he made the mistake of passing on the equally
superb breakfast the next morning. Who thought a place like that
even did breakfast....).
Before I left Carter's, I asked Rio
Constable, one of the hard-working techs, to leave the battery cover
off the third bike to facilitate attaching the video gear power cord
which I would bring on Saturday. “I’m not sure you're taking
this bike", he said with a funny look. " I heard they’re bringing in a fourth VFR for you.”
Off I go to Sales Manager Patrick
Webster to find out what the hell is going on.
He admits that they can't get the third bike to rev over 1500
rpm, which he figures is a tad slow for me, so they're bringing in a
fourth one of these problem-free, rock-solid, absolutely reliable
motorcycles to prep. I took the news like a gentleman and revised my theory
on buying VFRs: if
you want two working ones, better start with four.
Fairly early Saturday, I get some good
news from Service Advisor Shannen McNee. She advised me that Ty Kha,
their resident VFR specialist, had been mulling over the baffling
ABS problem
in the middle of the night and had come to the conclusion that maybe the
glitch might simply be a loose
wire. Sure enough, he
came in Saturday morning and found exactly that. Tys brilliance as a
tech comes partly from his having been a motorcycle mechanic since
the age of 14.
The overnight wait also meant that I
could now take my top box, since the hardware for it, rushed
from somewhere back east near Sarsville, had just come in that
morning. In spite of some reluctance, it had finally been encouraged
to mate with the sidecase hardware by service
tech (and noted Italian scooter expert) Will Brydon.
A 12-pack of Bavarian-Purity-Law-approved appreciation for the techs
(and the
other hard working Carter folks) was left in the care of genius Ty
and I was good to go.
A little earlier, I had talked to Mike
who was getting his first oil and filter change service done in
Eugene, Oregon. He suggested that if I could make it there that
night, he’d wait. No problem, I told him and hung up.
But by the time I was actually ready
to leave, it was
3:15 pm. I was about to climb
on a brand-new bike I hadn't ridden a mile on for my first
ride of the season and I was looking at 500 mi (800 km). Apparently,
in the rain.
And mostly in the dark. Yeah, but at least it would be an I-5 drone. Piece of
cake, really.
Considering that Gulf War II had just
broken out a day or so earlier, the US border guy was remarkably
sanguine about my baffling answer to his question about how long I
was going to be in the U.S. I
answered that I was supposed to leave last Monday and be down for
two weeks but, because I got hung up, I would down for only a week
until my flight back from San Francisco next Saturday. He looked at
the bike and then back at me with a quizzical expression. “OK, let
me get this straight...”
After I explained about DH Northern California and that
I would be leaving the bike down there for the duration of the
research, he wished me a good trip. I droned down the interstate in
the intermittent rain towards Seattle, getting bogged down there in
the usual 24/7 gridlock. At
one overpass, there were some people waving Old Glory and signs in
support of the troops. Inching along down below, we had lots of time to read the
signs and honk our approval. I found myself musing that a few of
Saddam’s WMD, or alternately USAF Mothers Of All Bombs, could nicely clear the massed pylons
around me.
I was in the High Occupancy/Velocity
lane doing about three mph (when I wasn't stopped dead) when the
traffic behind me was muscled out of the way by a lit up ambulance.
After pulling over, I nipped back in behind him and, at a
responsible distance, slipstreamed along for a few miles, thinking
I’ll be out of Sea-lot-o-people in no time. Then the pylons became
so thick that the HOV traffic couldn’t get out of the way and the
ambulance opted for the left-hand shoulder. I rehearsed the line
“Well officer, it's dark and I thought this might be a special escorted
Very High Occupancy/Velocity lane” but decided that this early in
the season I'd better let discretion get the better part of valor.
Once past Seatopolis it was drone, gas coffee &
Powerbar
...and repeat. At least
my rain gear didn't appear to have that leak that I suspected it
had. Must not have done
it up properly that last time I used it. With the riding not
occupying too much of my brain, I let it wander around all sorts of
topics. Once again the American interstate highway system, modeled
on Hitler's autobahns and first built by President Eisenhower to
move troops and equipment around the USA, was doing a marvelous job
of allowing me to make no-brain miles in a hurry.
Not to mention keeping a lot of pylons off a lot of
Destination Highways.
It was raining when I rolled to a stop
in Eugene around 10:30 pm. It was so damn cold I could see
my breath. I was glad I’d selected the bike’s thermostat to
monitor the engine rather than
the ambient air temperature.
I checked my cel's voicemail to pick up
the name of the hostelry where Mike undoubtedly had a wee dram waiting to revive me from my now near-hypothermic state. At
the hotel, I pulled in beside Mike's bike, got a second key from the
front desk and went to the room.
The TV and all the lights were on (as usual) but Mike was
nowhere to be seen. More
importantly, I was disappointed to see there was no tawny-colored liquid from Scotland being restrained in
its bottle by a cork (at this point, even a screw cap would have
been acceptable). Man, did I need me some aqua breatha.
Back to the front desk. Thinking Mike
might be lounging in some heat, I asked “Do you have a Jacuzzi
here?” Negative. “A bar?” Nope. “A restaurant?” Uh-uh.
“Okay then, where is the nearest bar I can walk to?” "Across the parking
lot, in the next building where the Chinese restaurant sign is and
turn right."
I
didn't even remove my raingear. The
directions were unusually excellent.
The same thing couldn’t be said about the bar.
The only reason it was still open was that the seedy
“clientele” were, it turned out, the staff waiting for a manager
to come in and pay them. The
only whisky in sight seemed to be Cutty Sark so I asked if that was
the bar Scotch. No, apparently the Cutty’s special and would cost extra. With
some trepidation, I asked what the bar Scotch was.
“McSomethingorother, it’s made in Canada.”
“Wouldn't that be the bar rye?”
“No, we got that. That's made in Canada too.” At least that’s
to be expected, I thought.
“And the bourbon?”
“Yep, made there too.”
I was warming myself with a second,
straight-up double Cutty and marveling at the talents I had not
hitherto
known my fellow countrymen possessed in the liquor field (outside of
bootlegging high-quality booze to the USA during Prohibition, of
course), when Mike shows up. He'd
been out in a nice, warm movie theater.
I let him finish my drink and then we headed for a chain
restaurant, the only place open where I could still get something to
eat. Once inside, I
asked if they was licensed and was told that while some of the staff
were, the restaurant itself wasn't.
Huh? Yes, well, they do say Oregon's different.
Realizing that this was yet another sign that
California was the correct choice for our next book, I restrained myself from
asking if one of the licensed staff could run out to the 7/11 and
grab me a beer.
Over
the fine dining experience that didn't follow, Mike and I agreed that while the VFRs
seemed okay, the riding we had done hadn't really given us a chance
to evaluate them. We were certainly impressed with the bikes ability
to loaf along at plus-100 mph (plus-160 kmh) without breaking a sweat. We
liked the ability to go from kilometers and kmh to miles and
mph at the push of a button as well as the nice big digital read outs on
the dual tripmeters which would make our job easier. The
number of high beam flashes we got from the pylons on the other side
of the freeway confirmed our low beams were plenty bright. While the
ergonomics was certainly not cramped, I did find that I was down on
my wrists a little more than on my Triumph. Mike found the grips to
be positioned the same as on his old ZX-10, so he felt quite at
home. We both found the seats to be quite comfortable and decided to hold off
on the
planned Corbinizing. A more thorough appraisal of the bikes would
just have
to wait for roads a little more DHy than I-5. Hopefully, they
wouldn't be too long in coming.
Fri
Mar 21/03
Mike
It had been a while since either of us had bought a new
motorcycle. It seemed so easy in theory.
We’d negotiated the deal on the new bikes at Carter Honda
in Vancouver. Head down
on Friday morning, pick ‘em up, be on the road by 10 am right?
Not a chance. The
two, brand-spanking new 2002 Honda VFR’s
(any colour you want as long as it’s red) had to be
un-crated, paint-protected and road tested.
Papers had to be signed.
After a photo session with RoadRUNNER magazine we were ready
to hit the road. It was
3:30pm
But
wait. You know that ABS
these bikes come with? There’s
a warning light on the dash that’s supposed to go out once the
bike starts to move. But
on Brian’s bike that light was stuck on.
I had had enough and was out of there, Ventura luggage
bungied on the back racing to get to Edmonds, Washington to pick up
my VFR luggage hardware brackets before the Northwest’s sole
distributor closed. If
only the border would cooperate.
No reason it shouldn’t of course, unless you consider the
minor fact the U.S. is at war with Canada’s close ally, Iraq.
Fortunately,
the presence of a helmet camera and the bizarre explanation of what
it is we do raises only eyebrows and not suspicions so I got through
without undue delay. Besides,
no Islamic terrorist would be crazy enough to ride in this weather.
It
had rained all week so why should it stop now?
And according to the satellite images on the Weather Channel,
this rain ended about 500 mi (800 km)south of the California border,
which at this point, was about 600 mi (966 km) away.
1100
mi (1771 km) of rain to ride through.
And we hadn’t yet decided on what new riding gear we were
going to get so it hadn’t been ordered.
Almost enough to make wish you believed in trailer queening.
Almost.
Despite
the rain, despite the leaky, duct-taped raingear, the first time
back on a bike after the winter is great.
Especially when it’s a new bike—you know, the kind you
have to break in and not rev too high.
I
made it to Edmonds. Not
in time, but Amy was kind enough to stay late and even found me some
tools to install the hardware.
I even bought a couple of headlight protectors for the VFRs.
Out of there at 7:30 pm and it was on to Portland.
Who am I kidding? Try
Tacoma. Just made
closing at the Fife City Bar & Grill, a gourmet truck stop just
off the I-5. Even the
croutons in the Caesar Salad were homemade.
But I particularly recommends the corn and halibut chowder.
Sat
Mar 22/03
Mike
Still no sign of Brian, who was still farting around with dashboard
lights. I woke up at
6:00 am, looked at the horizontal rain, and went back to sleep.
When he got up at 8:00, the Weather Channel showed a strip of
clear amid the 4-state wide, 3-state high trough of rain.
And it was just edging up against the I-5. Hit the road in the clear.
Some rain, some of it hard, but miraculously it stayed mostly
blue. Could have put on
some major miles, too, but with an oil change due at 600 miles and
it being Saturday, I felt the most time-efficient plan was to pull
into Eugene’s Cycle City for an early oil change.
Getting out of there at 5 pm, I figured I’d grab a motel
and wait for Brian who had finally left Vancouver at 3;15 pm.
C’mon Brian, you can ride 700 mi (1127 km) in the rain in
the dark. You’re a
Destination Highways rider, after all.
I
entertained myself by taking in the “Life of David Gale”.
(Two and a half stars according to TIRES). When I got back, Brian had pulled in and had managed to find
an open bar near the motel—only open apparently because the
employees were waiting for the boss to come and pay them.
After a tearful reunion, your heroes went to Shari’s for a
late night bite. The
restaurant is not licensed, but its employees are.
Whatever that means, it does not mean getting a beer.
Sun
Mar 23/03
Brian
The next day started with more rain intermittently leaking out of a
gray, albeit textured sky. Mike
was upset that we didn't leave earlier so as to beat the weather
going south. He seems
to believe that weather going in his direction has a hard edge; if
it isn't raining where he currently is, this somehow means it won't
be raining five minutes ahead. My view of weather is that it’s a
little less organized than that. That, and if there's any
possibility of rain nearby, I'll be in it. Especially if I’ve just
washed my bike.
We continued our journey south on the
I-5 through a mix of wet and dry. The temperature was a certainly
warmer than last night although it got a little cool up in Canyon
Creek and Sexton Mtn passes. If
you're going fast enough there's a few nice curves in those two,
though. I mean, considering you're on an Interstate.
At Medford, it was time for my 600 mi
(1000 km) oil and filter change.
Knowing I'd be in Nowhere, Oregon on a Sunday when this
needed doing, I had bought synthetic oil, a filter and the special
filter socket from Carter's and brought along a socket wrench. We
headed for the Wal-Mart auto service (where I could borrow a funnel,
a drain pan and dump the oil legally) in nearby Talent where we'd
find out if we had any.
I'd consulted Will at Carter's on what
bits of plastic I needed to remove from the VFR to do the job and
was told just the lower left fairing.
The owners manual agreed but then tried to lead me astray by
stating authoritatively that "the inner fairing must be removed
to service the engine oil filter"
And before this could be done the lower right
side fairing had to come off.
We got the lower left side off without
too much problem; although those clips are tricky with their
push-in-to-release and pull-out-to-insert trickery, especially the
two on the bottom of the fairing.
We couldn't see any reason to remove the inner or lower right
side fairings and indeed, the filter came out easily with them still
in place. A cynic would
think that Honda is trying to scare you off and provide more work
for their shops.
About two hours later (hey, nobody
said we were mechanics) we thanked the helpful Wal-Martians and
streaked for the California border. One across, we wasted no time
getting off the I-5 at no-towns Henley/Hornbrook and.... getting
lost.
See, we were supposed to stay on the
Copco Rd and check it out as it followed the Klamath River and then
wound around the Iron Gate reservoir to mapdot Copco.
Instead, we ended up on the Ager Beswick Rd coming out
towards the east end of Copco Lake where we recognized our mistake.
It was getting dark by the time we hit gravel trying to get
to the correct road around the north side of the lake. Since we
could no longer tape due to lack of light, we retreated whence we
came. The old
navigation skills get a little rusty after a day on an Interstate, I
guess don't they Mike? Well,
at least we found out that Ager Beswick is no TE.
Rather than heading back to I-5, we
turned south on Ager Rd and headed via this straight but well paved
road to a night in Uer..., sorry Yreka. By the time we got there, it
was pretty chilly. We
found a cozy-looking,
old-fashioned bar called Rex’s Club before we found a cozy motel
and checked in just in time to see some of the Oscars, although
sadly not in time to see Roger Moore's (Bowling
For Columbine) rant. Because
all the restaurants were closing nor could we hang around for Roman
Polanski's acceptance speech for Best Director. We grabbed some food
and called it a night.
Mike
Well, Brian was back. The
purveyor of rare riding and proscribed speeds had returned. Would we
ever be safe? This,
of course, meant sleeping in, having a leisurely breakfast, putting
on the headlight protection I had bought for us and hitting the road
sometime around noon. While we were lounging, the rain caught up to us.
After getting out from under it again, it was a pleasant, I-5
ride (if that’s not an oxymoron) to Medford.
Here, Brian had to change his oil and this time, there was no
dodging it. Out with
the manual in the Walmart parking lot and two hours later it was
done. Honda, it turns
out is not infallible after all.
The VFR’s fairing is held on by four different sized bolts
(when one size would clearly do).
Moreover, the manual tells you to
remove both lower fairings AND the inner fairing in order to
get the oil filter off. Pity
the rider who goes to all that trouble only to find it wasn’t
necessary.
Siskyou
Pass time. The highest
part of the I-5 on the Oregon-California border is also its DH-iest. You can actually have some fun on those 2-lane 50-mph curves
that climb to the summit.
Unfortunately,
our first experience in California was not the greatest.
Inaccurate maps put us on gravel.
And technical problems with the video equipment (alright I
should have been a little more careful with weather protection for
the VCR since my tank bag had a broken zipper) slowed us down as
well. Thus, it was well
past dark by the time we made the chilly plunge into Yreka.
Warmed up nicely perched on a barstool at Rex’s Club, a
quirky old bar, watching this year’s
particularly political Oscars.
Just made last call for take out at the Italian restaurant
down the street. Paid
less for the bottle of Ravenswood Zinfandel at the restaurant than
we’d have paid back home in British Columbia-- the alcohol tax
capital of the world.
Mon Mar 24/03
Brian
You know, I like Givi hard
luggage. I really do. And my new side panniers have those neat little painted flaps
you can open with their three digit combination so that you don't
have to use the key and open up the whole case. The flaps are even
accessible from your riding position on the bike.
Very handy. And getting the cases on and off your bike is
literally a snap. A
brilliant system, really. At least if you don’t count those
infernal (and fragile) plastic connectors which join the restraining
straps inside the bags. But the one thing I don't like about these
Givis is that when you do use the key to lock a case, you can't
actually see that the latch is securely closed. Half the time it's
not, and, after a couple of seconds, it flops open, scattering the
contents all over your motel room or on the road below your bike.
At least it usually shows this irritating little foible
before you start moving.
In this instance, I had parked outside
Grandma's Cafe for breakfast and needed to open up the whole case to
get my microcassette recorder which was at the bottom. After
"locking" the case, it flopped open, smashing the painted
combination access flap against a higher-than-normal concrete curb.
And scratching the paint, of course.
It had only taken me two days to get this first bit of road
patina on the new VFR. I
had even beat Mike doing this, which was extraordinary.
Over a quite decent breakfast, I
quietly pondered the meaning of this perfect convergence in time of
flawed design with my lack of careful checking and high curb.
I checked but presumably-wise Grandma wasn't around to ask
for advice. (Probably out organizing a protest against what locals
claim are the highest gasoline prices in the country.) Even Mike had
no ready answer for me. Surprising really, considering his
undergraduate degree is in philosophy.
I was forced to rely, yet again, on my
younger brother Greg's sage approach to these things whenever they
happened to him which, strangely enough, they did quite frequently:
"It's just a ----------, for Christ's sake." I filled in
the blank with "motorcycle" and repeated the phrase
silently a few times, finally reaching some semblance of peace.
After gassing up, we were out on Hwy 3
to Montague to check out some TE possibilities in the Little Shasta
Valley. The combination
of Little Shasta Rd, Lower Little Shasta Rd and Harry Cash Rd is an
unremarkable but pleasant enough 10 mi (16 km) or so
lightly-trafficked scoot through farmland and scattered forest from
Montague to County Hwy A12. A little more exciting is the Big Springs Rd loop south off
A12 around Lake Shastina combined with Jackson Ranch Rd from where
you drift into the little I-5 town of Weed via either Hoy Rd as Mike
did or the back way via mapdot Edgewood as I did.
After a little R&R in Weed, we
wafted back up I-5 to just south of Yreka where we picked up Old 99
Hwy south off Hwy 3. It's
name promises more than it delivers.
Even if combined with the Old Westside Rd alternative. Best
thing you can say about these Old roads is that they offer a smoking
bypass option to I-5 between Yreka and Weed. The Old Stage Rd hooks
into the end of Old 99 at an I-5 exit north of Weed but it's not
very good either, traveling as it does through quite a housey area
to the town of Mt Shasta.
By now it was late afternoon and our
available light was fading fast. The sky had also bruised badly, the
temperature was falling and the weather was definitely threatening
to turn inclement. Since it didn't look like we could tape much
longer anyway, we decided to forego the last few side roads we
wanted to check and flee directly south on I-5 to largish, and we
assumed, probably relatively sophisticated Redding, approximately 50
mi (80 km) away for a decent motel and meal.
After stopping once for gas, we arrived
in downtown Redding and quickly realized that it's not a place you
want to flee to, at least not if you want a decent restaurant or a
decent motel. And by
the look of it, probably not for any other reason either. The bad
motel we ended up in recommended what seemed, on the surface, an
equally bad Chinese restaurant.
We were forced for the first (and alas probably not the last)
time to turn to Mexican, my least favorite cuisine. (And yep, it was bad.)
Mike
Poring over maps is a big part of DH life.
So, since Brian forgot his reading glasses in Vancouver, this
presented a bit of a problem. Bearing
in mind that Brian’s reading glasses are exact replicas of the
ones sported by Hollywood Squares’ Peter Marshall back in the
70’s, this wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.
Until it became clear that the replacement pair would have to
come from the wide selection at the Yreka Chevron.
After
breakfasting at Grandma’s Place, a better-than-average pancake
eatery, it was out to check out the TE’s that run either side of
the I-5 south to Mt Shasta. Some
pretty poor pavement, particularly on Harry Cash Rd and at the south
end of Old Stage Rd. Great
scenery, though, with the snowy Mt Shasta full-on in our faces all
day. That same snow,
however, is keeping us from getting too high in the mountains.
As is the threatening weather and noticeable lack of warmth.
It’s time to heed that cold wind as it says, “go south,
young men, go south.”
So
south we went. We
blitzed in the dark as far south as Redding, neglecting to fuel up
before we did. On a new
bike, you never know quite how far you can go on reserve.
The fuel gauges on the VFR’s were flashing panic mode on a
rather remote stretch of the I-5 when we found the gas station that
represents the forsaken mapdot of Pollard.
The restaurant/bar in the back of the gas station had been
there a while. As, by
their look, had the patrons.
Redding
is, shall we say, not Northern California at its best.
Some nifty neon signs, but that’s about it. Our choice of motel wasn’t great either.
You’d think you’d at least get toilet paper in the
bathroom for your $55.00. (In
fairness, it was available on request.)
Finding a decent restaurant in the downtown core wasn’t
easy either. Our
motelier referred us to Lim’s Chinese Restaurant (pronounced
“Lime” in Punjabi). We
pulled in—and then pulled out, opting instead for the Mexican
chain—Casa Ramos. Didn’t
see a fresh vegetable on the menu. Sigh. We deserve
better after a long day.
Tue
Mar 25/03
Mike
We decided to pass on eating breakfast in Redding.
Mounted up instead and blitzed southward in the drizzle,
breakfasting in Corning. I
picked up a new earphone (gotta love Radio Shack) and it was time to
check out some promising routes west of the I-5.
The dead enders up into the green foothills out of Paskenta
were either narrow, or gravel or both.
But the countryside—particularly up Toomes Hill Rd-- was
staggeringly beautiful. Is
all California like this? We’ll
find out.
My find of the day was FH7, the Alder Springs Rd, a
gravel-outer that twists on beautifully engineered pavement up into
the Mendecino National Forest.
I ended the day connecting roads down the Sacramento River
from just south of Willows to Knights Landing that covered the full
range of Pavement and Engineering.
We spent the night in
Woodland in another crummy motel.
At least this one had toilet paper.
And admittedly the meal at Morrison’s was definitely worth
staying in town for.
Brian
We awoke to more threatening weather.
Our dining experience last night didn't encourage us to stay
in Redding for breakfast anyway, so we blitzed south on I-5
(alright, we know the VFR's a good interstate droner. When are we
going to get to the twisties?) to Corning for breakfast.
This town is home to the famous Olive Pit, where you can get
anything olive there is to get. I’ve heard the olive jam is
particularly good.
After
breakfast the weather was looking worse to the east, so we headed
west across the I-5 to split up and check out some TE possibilities
on the western side of the San Joaquin Valley.
I headed north on Paskenta Rd to the Flores Ave exit on I-5
then re-traced my steps and tacked on the winding Black Butte Rd
around the north end of Black Butte Lake (pretty) and then Road 306
and Hwy 162. Some nice riding and naturally the closer you got to
the mountains on the west side of the valley, the nicer it got. Our
prearranged meeting place was mapdot Elk Creek where Mike was
waiting to inform me that he was still having problems with his
recording gear. We
fiddled with it for awhile and seemed to get it going again so we
checked our routing options and split up once more.
I
headed south down the Ladoga-Stonyford Rd between Maxburny Ridge and
the Stony Gorge Reservoir. The
rolling, hilly countryside was beautiful at this time of year,
carpeted in a rich green and complemented by darker green trees
scattered in the landscape. I was thinking how much it reminded me
of New Zealand without sheep when damn, if a bunch of the wooly
herbivores didn't appear in a field to my right.
Okay, now this did
remind me of The Land Of The Long White Dotted Line more than any
other place in the world I've been: lush, beautiful, warm, no
obvious population, few pylons and decent, twisty asphalt.….
Say,
hang on a mo. This road was expected to be just a TE but it's
feeling awfully DHy. I
pulled over to see if there might be enough other roads around, if
the numbers warrant, to possibly put a DH together. Hmmm... yes, Hwy
162 back to Willows looked good. And to the south there was Lodoga
Rd around the East Park Reservoir which then climbed up to Grapevine
Pass before heading down to the mapdot of Maxwell, just off I-5. If
this routing was anything like the Ladoga-Stonyford Rd I was on,
we'd have a very nice little loop DH off the interstate named
Willows - Maxwell. Only
problem was, I was smack in the middle of it.
Nothing to do but re-trace my steps back to Elk Creek, head
to Willows, turn around and re-start tape from there. Because that
kind of thoroughness is what you pay us for.
Things
looked as good on the Hwy 162 stretch.
So, after gassing up and recording the services in Willows, I
shook off the rust and, for the first time in California, loaded my
brain's built-in TIRES data observation software. Good, everything
seemed to come up.
Things
went very well until I got to the Stonyford Ranger District Office.
There, I wasted some time checking out the Stony Creek Rd, a
piece of crud that led into the foothills of the Snow Mountain
Wilderness and to an off-road motorcycle park and some campgrounds.
Back on the main road to Lodoga, it quickly got boring and
worse, surprisingly cluttered with housing.
Past Lodoga, the climb up to Grapevine Pass was pretty good
but unfortunately my enjoyment of the road was severely impaired by
the very low grade pavement. By the time I got to Maxwell, I felt that the road probably
wouldn't make it on the numbers.
Oh well, at least it was good to be back in full-on TIRES
mode.
The
plan at the end of the day was to meet in Woodland some 50 odd
interstate mi (80 km) away. I'd
done enough interstate for the day though, so I took Old Hwy 99 W
south from Maxwell to the little town of Williams, got its services
on tape then headed West on Hwy 20.
My plan was to scope out Hwy 16 in the fading light down to
Woodland for DH potential. Unfortunately I was stopped by a line of traffic just prior
to Hwy 20's first real curve. Some
wanker truck pylon had failed to navigate the corner, flipping
himself in the process and completely shutting down the highway in
both directions.
I
went back along Hwy 20 and bounced a mile or so down Leesville Rd to
confirm that it was not a decent alternative connection to Willows
– Maxwell, although it was paved, if you could call what it was
surfaced with that. It consisted of a myriad of asphalt patch dots,
which we’ve unfortunately since learned is all too prevalent in
the state. Even though this monochromatic medium had no chartreuse
tints, post-Impressionist pointillist
masters Seurat and Pissarro might have appreciated this stuff.
But then, as far as I know, neither were motorcyclists.
Certainly the pointillism exhibited here creates no harmonious work of art for
riders.
I
ended my riding day as I began it; making time south on I-5. It
was dark by the time I found Mike's VFR parked outside a bar on
Woodland's main drag, so we quickly grabbed the nearest motel room
and headed off to the suggested Morrison's for dinner before it
closed. It was located
in a nice old heritage building on 1st St with a bar on the first
floor and the restaurant upstairs.
We found the food uncommonly good (at least what they weren't
out of, which included the baked potatoes!) especially after what we'd
experienced thus far in California. Over a nice bottle of California
wine and local lamb, we agreed to recommend Morrison's in DHCA-N if
Woodland ended up on one of our maps.
Wed
Mar 26/3
Mike
Winters-Rutherford. Or
is it Winters-Napa? The
numbers will tell which routing gets top billing. But either way, the twists, turns and tribulations of this
challenging route started this day off right.
How jazzed were we? Didn’t
even stop off at the Beaulieu winery tasting room.
Unfortunately, equipment problems continued to plague me and
there was no opportunity to switch VCRs with Brian without him
knowing. As a result,
some probable TE’s west of Napa will need redoing.
Beautiful B&B and
beautiful meal in Napa --a civilized, if expensive, place.
Frankly, the kind of place I would rather be with my girl
friend than with Brian.
Brian
From Woodland we took Hwy 16 over to I-505 and shot down to the
little town of Winters. After servicing it, we took Hwy 128 up over the mountains and
down into the Napa Valley. No
question about it, this squiggle will definitely be a DH. I wouldn't be surprised if it got 30/30 for twistiness
We stopped a couple of times to discuss Engineering and
Pavement as both hovered a lot on the cusp between different grades.
Overall, a highly recommended and entertaining ride whose
major drawback would be that, in the high season, you’ll probably
often get stalled behind difficult-to-pass pylons.
Our jaunt ended in the little Napa town
of Rutherford. Unbelievably,
right at the end stood the Beaulieu winery, one of my Napa favorites
which I hadn't visited in ten years.
And opposite it stood Francis Ford Coppola's winery.
How seriously does Mike take our job?
Well, he nixed my suggestion that we do a little TIWES
research. Oh well, it's probably for the best.
Since my last visit, I've heard that most of the Napa
wineries have instituted high tasting fees which would have left a
bad taste in my mouth no matter how good the wine was.
We split up to check out some TE
possibilities in the area. I took the Silverado Trail south down the
eastern side of the valley and consoled myself with identifying the
location of the wineries between Rutherford and Hwy 121. The two
roads I had to check out turned out to be duds.
Now, it was Hwy 121 back up to its
junction with Hwy 128. It
promised to be, and indeed was, just as good a ride as the higher
numbered road had been. This
may be an Alt DH situation. I
waited for Mike at the junction and then we both took the Steele
Canyon Rd up to the southern tip of Lake Berryessa.
A nicely paved, dead-end jaunt into the
cooler heights of Wragg Ridge which ends at a resort with a bar and
restaurant right on a beautiful, refreshing lake. Ah, what more
could you ask for after a hot, hard day sampling fermented grape
juice down in the Napa Valley?
Well, maybe a place that doesn't charge $500 per year to ride
your bike from the gatehouse down to said bar and restaurant right
on said beautiful, refreshing lake. Right then, Steele Park Ripoff
Resort and Marina is not a place DHCA-N will be recommending.
Our plan was to check out the
intriguing looking Berryessa - Knoxville Rd which headed north
around the western side of Berryessa Lake but we decided that if it
turned out to be a DH, it was too late in the day now to get good
tape on it. So we
headed back south on Hwy 121 to check out more TE possibilities in
the Suisin Valley south of the highway. The one I checked out
(Wooden Valley Rd - Suisin Valley Rd) is a decent little country
option down to mapdot Rockville, just north of I-80. In the fading
light, I spotted at
least one winery on this road. If you're wined out (or priced out of
wineries) and looking for something that tastes great and less
filling, there is always Fairfield's Budweiser Brewery a couple of
miles east of Rockville. I'm
sure their tasting fees are low.
Let down by his map, Mike got lost.
His gear packed it in. And there was no exit for him to get
to our prearranged meeting place, the junction of I-80 with I-680.
None of which I knew about, of course. I'll tell you, the shoulder
of a busy interstate junction can be a cold and lonely place to wait
for someone in the fading light of a California March day.
After about 30 minutes, no cel
voicemail and no response to mine, I figured I'd better go look for
him. Now as you
probably know, when meeting someone on the road, this kind of
decision often leads to you circling each other for hours trying to
outthink each other. At this time of day that would certainly put
the kibosh on our planned splurge dinner in Napa.
On this occasion, I whipped down to Hwy 12 pulled a u-turn
back onto I-80, took the exit east of the one I had waited at,
turned on the first obvious road and at the next light, pulled up on
the shoulder beside Mike who had just stopped and was trying to get
a signal on his cel. Amazing!
With
DHCA-N (as well as with DHBC and
DHWA) of course, you won't ever have this problem. Bike separately
all day if you want to and then meet at a convenient, prearranged
service location as identified on our maps.
Our day did end on a high note, though.
We quickly repaired to Napa’s Misto Restaurant (serving fine
"California Italian" cuisine) for a well-deserved meal and
flagon of Beaulieu’s best before checking into the funky,
small-scale (and cozy) downtown Best Western B&B.
Thu
Mar 27/03
Mike
Landmark day, our first flat tire of the season.
And unbelievably, it wasn’t mine.
After I experienced six flats doing DH
Washington, you’d figure I was on a roll.
But of course when Brian gets a flat, he gets it in a town
(Winters), kitty-corner to a bar, after managing to complete his
taping of a particularly seductive DH-to-be:
the sweepy northern half of Hwy 16.
Naturally, he found a bike shop with an appropriate tire
within 30 mi (48 km) and was back on the road by 6:00.
Total turnaround: 4 hours.
No pumping your back tire full of 6 cans of tire gunk and
limping 100 miles back into cell phone range for him.
Oh, no.
After ensuring Brian
was looked after, Mike headed east to Grass Valley on some
unpromising-but-needed-to-be-checked-out routes. And wasn’t far from there at 7:30 when darkness fell.
“I’ll see you at my brother’s in Turlock,” was
Brian’s cheerful phone message.
Oh, was that the plan? Great.
Only 200 hundred mi (322 km) till dinner.
Brian
My day didn't start off well. I
should have taken that as an omen because it didn't end very well
either. Leaving Napa to
the south, I somehow missed the (very obvious) Hwy 12 junction I was
supposed to take off Hwy 29 and ended up in Vallejo.
No problem. I
just hopped on I-80 then took Hwy 12 to Suisan City.
My goal was to check out Grizzly Island Rd south to Grizzly
Bay. This road started
off well, rambling around the Potrero Hills through the Joyce Island
State Game Refuge and the Grizzly Island Waterfall Management Area.
Somewhat
at war with the peace of this undeveloped, open area were the
incongruous, lumbering transport planes flying low from nearby
Travis Air Force Base. If
you're into fishing, you might want to come here but otherwise, we
suggest you give it a miss as the road straightens out, then turns
to gravel.
Back to
Fairfield for gas, then it was one exit east on I-80 to the Pleasant
Valley Rd exit. This
road winds north up the Vaca Valley between the low Vaca Mountains
and the English Hills. Combined
with the Putah Creek Rd into Winters, this is a veddy pleasant TE.
The Lake Solano County Park CG looks like a nice spot to take a
break or stop for the night.
From
Winters, it was north on Road 89 to Madison where Mike had just
arrived from checking out some other potential TEs.
I gassed up and then we both headed west into the Capay
Valley to see if Hwy 16 to its junction with Hwy 20 was a DH.
It’s fairly ho-hum until the road passes Rumsey and climbs
out of the valley to track Bear Creek, whereupon Twistiness and
Scenery both increase markedly.
We'll have to see how the numbers come out but overall I
think Hwy 16 just may squeak in as a DH.
Then we
headed for Williams on Hwy 20, a high-speed blast. (I'm looking forward to
checking it out west of its junction with Hwy 16.)
The wind had picked up and at speed was pushing me around
more than I'd like. I stopped to have a brief Pavement conversation
with Mike and then took off again.
As I rounded a giant sweeper into Salt Canyon, the wind
buffeted the bike quite badly, making it feel very loose.
I noted that hard luggage is not a great help when the wind
is especially strong.
Then, I was
out on the flat of the
Colusa Basin for the short, straight shot to Williams.
Leaving the town's one traffic light, I quickly realized that
the looseness I thought was caused by the wind had more to do with
the fact that my rear tire contained no air.
It amazes me that you can actually ride a bike at 90 mph (140
kmh) with a completely flat tire. Not that this is generally advisable, of course.
Mike rolled up beside me and when I
told him, he mentioned that he noticed when I pulled away from our
Pavement meeting that my rear, as he put it, looked "a little
low". Uh Mike,
next time you notice my tire looking "a little low", do me
a favor. Catch up to me and let me know, will you?
Great. Now, if you've ever had a flat tire on the road (and who
hasn't, eh Mike?) you know what a pain in the ass it can be to track
down even the phone number of a bike shop. Never mind finding one
that actually carries anything approaching the kind of tire you
need. Just one of the irritating things riders don't have to worry
about when they carry our books (plug, plug).
Once again I was glad we paid for the
optional motorcycle coverage on our Canadian Automobile Association
memberships. They (and AAA) won't cover help with your bike if you
don't have it plus you get 100 mi (160 km) of free towing versus 6
mi (10 km) with the regular membership. Need another incentive?
Think about the $4-$10/mi (US$) a California tow truck
company will charge to move your bike. This can really add up to a
serious bill if the bike shop you are going to isn’t really close.
And when are they ever?
My cel had a signal so I dialed up the
AAA number on my card, explained my predicament and requested a
flatbed. After
explaining to the helpful (but not terribly bright rep) why I
particularly needed a flatbed, she cheerily informed me that it
should arrive in 30 minutes. Now
all I had to do was find a place to direct it to.
Kitty corner to my crippled steed was
Granzella's Restaurant Delicatessen Bakery & Lounge. Mike had
lunch while I grabbed a mit full of quarters and started the always
tedious job of hunting down a bike shop to get me back on the road.
Fortunately, according to the yellow pages, there seemed to
be several not too far away. Unfortunately, most of them leaned
towards dirtbikes, ATVs and personal watercraft rather than stocking
tires for sport tourers.
On about the fifth shop however, I
struck gold. The Honda Yamaha Sports Center, fairly nearby in Yuba
City, not only had lots of tires but even had the exact one I
needed! And the helpful
folks there assured me that if I got to the shop by 5:30 pm, they'd
get me back on the road today. I checked my watch. No problemo.
Of course because there's less demand
for flatbeds, there are less of them under contract to AAA and
therefore they take longer to show up.
By the time mine showed up and we got the VFR loaded and
strapped down, I calculated that we should have just enough time to
cover the 30 mi (48 km) to Yuba City. Mike headed east to check out
more possible TEs as I climbed into the cab.
Halfway to
Yuba, Joe my faithful driver casually mentioned that the last
motorcycle he transported had been strapped to his flatbed on its
side.
"Funny way to carry a bike" I replied
"Didn't matter," Joe drawled, "the bike was totalled
and the rider wad dead."
Apparently, this unlucky sap had gone off the road exactly where the
only tree for miles around stood. Hit it dead center and
bounced back about 20 feet, leaving a huge helmet dent in the trunk
as he shuffled off this mortal coil.
Of course, I hadn't allowed for the
fact that flatbeds tend to go just a bit
slower than I ride. When it became obvious that we were going to be
late, I called the shop. They said don't worry, we’ll hang around
and take care of you. I made a mental note to add enough onto the
invoice to cover a case of shop beer. And talk to Mike about the
possibility of identifying recommended bike shops in DHCA-N.
Back on the road just
before 7 pm, I headed to a rendezvous with Mike at my brother's
place in Turlock, a mere 150 mi (240 km) freeway drone away.
Fri
Mar 28/03
Mike
Lots of probable DH action today. Waterford –Coulterville.
Moccasin-Bear Creek. The
latter’s a lock. This
piece of Hwy 49 is the best ride we’ve been on so far, hands down. And an amazing view from the top. If it weren’t for the guy in the Citroen smoking weed and
cranking the Bee Gees, the scene would have been perfect.
Fuel issues prevailed
once more as your heroes neglected to fill up in Mariposa and ended
up heavily into flashing reserve and bumping down a one lane goat
trail that would been better if it was gravel otherwise known as
Indian Gulch Road. Safely
back on Hwy 140, we cruised west at 50, coasting down the hills
toward the lights of Merced in the distance.
These VFR fuel gauges sure start panicking early.
We made it without a sputter.
One of these days, though, we’re going to get burned.
Then we’ll know.
Brian
We straightlined out of Turlock and up to uninteresting Waterford to
check out interesting looking Hwy 132.
We gas up and we're good to go, except for one wee problem:
the flashing moisture alert on Mike's VCR.
Hard to believe since the temperature was about 85 degrees
Fahrenheit. There was nothing to do but excise the recalcitrant
little clam-shelled bugger from Mike's tank bag, open ‘er up and
let it catch some rays.
We were just on the outskirts of town
and so was Jimbo's, a sun-bleached relic of a drive-in that appeared
to be from the '50s. I’d already serviced the town so karma seemed
to be calling us for lunch even though the contents of the menu
board looked pretty malevolent.
The order window was very low; '50s people must have been a
lot shorter. I bent double to talk to the chef de cuisine squatting
down on the other side.
"Why are we squatting?" I asked.
"No idea" she replied.
"I mean, why is the window
so low?
"I don't know" she giggled.
I abandoned this line of questioning in favor of "Got anything
good to drink?"
"Well, we used to have home made lemonade but it kept going bad
after a few days so now we only have pink lemonade."
Which, one assumes, doesn't go off. Who would've thought that making
lemonade pink stopped it from spoiling.
Food technology is indeed a wonderful thing.
"Okay, I'll have whatever clear, carbonated beverage you have.
Medium, no ice"
She passed me what appeared to be a
half gallon container. I was glad I hadn't ordered the large. To
have something for this ocean to wash down, I went for the BLT on
wheat, usually a fairly safe bet.
Oh-oh, they only had white bread. Bad sign.
I gave Mike a knowing look. He fell
back on his usual safety meal, the chefs salad, which in most dodgy
places he's usually done quite well with.
Not today. The salad came with ham-like meat substance (or
was that meat-like ham substance, I can't remember now).
Naturally, the cheese was unnatural: that peculiar, plastic,
processed stuff known as American cheese
which insults both Americans and cheese. The lettuce appeared
to be extruded. It all
made for a dangerous looking salad, indeed.
The amazing thing was, there was a
steady stream of vehicles stopping so the occupants could get this
crud to go. The food in
Waterford proper must be unbelievably
bad.
The VCR had stopped blinking its moist
little message. Not
being tempted to linger over lunch, we were up and outta there.
After this inauspicious start I wasn't expecting much from
Hwy 132. So it was a
pleasant surprise to find a well-paved road winding consistently
along the north side of the shallow Tuolumne River valley.
There was higher Remoteness than I expected and the Scenery,
while mild rather than wild, was pretty good in places.
After La Grange (decent biker bar there
I visited on my next trip), the Twistiness increased as the pretty
countryside started to roll up to the wilder, scrub-covered heights
of Piney Ridge and Penon Blanco Ridge where 132 stops being a
highway at the historic California gold rush town of Coulterville.
I think we found us another little nugget of a DH.
Coulterville's a good place to stop and
look around, too. The
historic Hotel Jefferey is one of the last 49er hotels owned by the
same family since 1851. The
family must finally be getting tired as unfortunately, this saloon,
restaurant and B&B combo is not currently in operation.
Since it was closed, I entered the nearby Cafe for a little liquid
lunch. A few minutes later, Mike came in holding this
ginormous carrot erect and asked me where the can was. After
thumbing the direction aver my shoulder, I advised him that it would
look suspicious if he spent too much time in there with such a firm,
young root vegetable.
We retraced our steps back to La Grange
and turned north on county road J59 to Hwy 120/108.
I found J59, which wound casually through rolling
tree-scattered hills, more enjoyable than Mike did but then I seem
to be more attracted to this kind of vaguely British-like
countryside than he is. (He’s
going to be tough on England in DHUK, I can see that.) We headed
north on 120/108 until it split into its constituent parts.
Then, it was down Hwy 120 to Chinese Camp where 120,
apparently afraid at being alone alone, pairs up with Hwy 49 in a
boring, straight conjugality to Moccasin whereupon the two roads get
divorced.
East from the junction, Hwy 120 looks
tantalizing but it would have to wait for another day.
Our task was to scope out Hwy 49 south from this junction for
potential DHability.
Wow. Hwy 49 started off well with good
Pavement, high Remoteness and great Twistiness and continued like
this pretty much all the way to Coulterville. (Say, this place looks
mighty familiar...) Past Cville, everything got even better as the
road corkscrewed further into the foothills of the Sierra Nevada.
With the other TIRES components this good, you're inclined to
overlook the lower Engineering.
We
were
quite impressed by the ease with which our mounts
handled this first major twistathon we’d encountered. We
had to step on the stir sticks a lot and keep the VFR boiling in
their VTEC zones but we all enjoyed ourselves. No question, the highlight road of the trip so
far. Moccasin - Bear Valley is going to be a very good DH and will
certainly 30/30 for Twistiness because the corners just never end.
After confirming that Hwy 49 between
Bear Valley and Mariposa is nothing, we back-tracked halfway back to
BV in order to check out the Old Toll Road. This turned out to be
our second stupid move. The first was not getting gas in Mariposa.
Time had taken a toll on the surface
quality of Old Toll. It
quickly turned to that pointillist
(see Mar 27/03 Brian) crap that beats the shit out of you.
We bounced unpleasantly down to the very fine Hornitos Rd
where both bikes were by now frantically flashing their "I need
to mate with a gas pump" indicators. Here, we made our third
dunderhead move. Instead
of turning left on Hornitos, we turned right to go and check out
Indian Gultch Rd in the poor dusk light. (I later discovered turning
left would have taken us to gas at Catheys Valley, some 3 mi (5 km)
away. Ah yes, if we'd only had DHCA-N.) The asphalt on the goat path
that was Indian Gultch was so bad, it made the stuff on the Old Toll
Road look good. Mike
must have had a maxburner moment because he remembers it incorrectly
as gravel but believe me, gravel would've been preferable.
We finally hit Hwy 140 and rolled down
it at 50 mph (80 kmh) in top gear. Where’s some development when
you need it, dammit? Nothing to do but ride slowly towards the
far-away, glimmering salvation that was Planada.
Nope, no gas open here so we had to limp to Merced. Where we
also took a chance on some inexpensive, dust covered 15 year old
Napa wine that we found stored upright on a grocery store shelf. Our
luck was on the upswing, right? Apparently not, we discovered over
dinner back at Turlock bro's.
Pre-Order
DHCA-N
Go on to May
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