I wanted to do one of those reports like [Daniel Kalal] does – a ton of great photos with commentary. But it was not to be. I’ve not mastered the patience to STOP and take the photos, and no ride plan survives contact with the world intact. So this one is referred to as
“ The Numbers of Things “.
Every couple of years my brother and I challenge each other to come visit – we’re a scattered family, not as close as we should be. I go see him in Arizona, he and I visit my dad while we’re there, and my brother comes out my place and we go to the beach.
It was my turn to travel, and Josie had not seen any serious action since I brought her here from Tucson. The PO named her that, and allowed as I’d probably want to change the bike’s name, but she hasn’t asked for a different one.
I was short on cash, and planned to make the trip by siphoning gasoline out of police cars and eating gleanings from farmer’s fields. I was hoping my state tax return check would show up in time but I was down to leaving tomorrow, and I was wrapping up my challenges at work when the controller asked me to talk to him.
He closed the door and began to explain that the insurance changes mandated by Obamacare / Socialized Medicine / whatever you want to call it / had jacked with the price structure of my medical insurance, and he’d only now been able to pull together the data required to properly calculate what I should have been paying for health insurance.
Remember that card in the Monopoly game, “BANK ERROR IN YOUR FAVOR” ? He handed me a check.
I got home and my tax refund had arrived in the mail. There was also a tiny rebate check from Castrol for an oil change I did on my car a year ago. And I’d left a piece of home brew equipment on the front porch on the Craigslist honor system, and the buyer had left cash under the flowerpot.
$1010 – the amount of timely money made available for the trip
Friday April 3 - I pulled the bike in front of the apartment and packed it up.
.22 – the caliber of the rifle I was giving to my nephew in AZ – it had been my grandfathers, the case had belonged to my brother, and I put a box of rounds in the case.
9 mm – the caliber of the Glock I was taking to practice with – my brother had bought a brick of factory reloads.
.38 – Roscoe, the S&W snubnose I travel with when practical. With the stock grips it’s no pleasure to fire, but it fits in a pocket nicely, and doesn’t bag much.
I was going to take tools, then I decided to trust to my good fortune and the kindness of strangers, then I decided to take tools. Thus insuring that if I broke down it would be something I needed sockets for, since I only brought wrenches. My heart wasn’t really in it.
A blue bag containing a sleeping bag, and assorted goodies for a mere four days.
5 apples – I know I’m not going to be eating properly half the time.
I’m worried about overheating in the desert, and I put on a CamelBak filled with ice and topped with water, under my jacket. I tie the bag and the rifle case on and ride down the sidewalk, off the curb, and down to the street. It couldn’t have been more than
60 pounds – It could not have been more weight than this, and it might have been less, but at the bottom of the driveway it sure affected braking.
I went by the bank to deposit the checks. All the parking places were full, but there was a little one in back where the landscape architect had become confused. I realized I was going to have to stand in line for a while without being to see the bike, which had a rifle case conspicuously strapped to it. Begins the worries…
There was a security guard in the parking lot. I shut the bike down, went up to him and told him “ It would make me very sad if somebody was to mess with the bike while I was in the bank – will you please keep an eye on it? “ He agreed to, and I did my banking. I told the teller I was as excited as a little kid, about to ride to AZ. The nice lady flagged my accounts that I was traveling these dates, and not to shut anything off or panic over far flung transactions.
$5 – The bill I slipped the guard when I thanked him for watching the bike. I know, not necessary, but I was feeling prosperous and giddy.
78 East / West – the highway I got on to get out of town.
One – the post I cannot find on the forum of somebody who rode that exact same road and posted a string of pictures of every tumbledown farm house, solar-powered cow pasture, green canal and tiny farm town that I was too excited to stop and photograph.
295 miles – one way. I rode that leg Friday there, and Monday back.
I’d resolved to fuel at every Chevron I passed, and every other excuse for a pit stop along the way. I have little confidence in the Bassa’s range.
I roll out of Escondido and my head is going wild – how will I take all the pictures I need? Can I make myself stop often enough? Will I break down? A speeding ticket? Crash? Flat tire? The rear Pirelli Sport Demon is on it’s last legs – I figure this trip will finish it. Will I meet friendly people or bandits? Run out of gas ? It’s been so long since I did anything by myself. The weather was looking to be good (it was great the whole trip). I resolve to get some pictures of the bike with people in them – I’ll recruit anybody who talks to me about the bike.
A good omen – as two lanes become one leaving town, at the very last moment a little blue car goes out of its way to let me get ahead of it, and gives me a friendly toot of the horn as I pass.
I’m beginning a string of small fuel top-ups that I’ve resolved not to feel bad about – better to gas up too often than not often enough. My calculations looking at Google Maps tell me I’ll be okay if I gas in Julian, Brawley, Blythe, Quartzite, but I’m going to be impulsive about fueling.
The first stop was in Ramona. Just gas, no bathroom break. I don’t want to leave the bike. I’m going to be looking for opportunities to pee in the bush. The presence of the rifle case shouts “GUNS ON THIS BIKE” and I’m not happy about it. I don’t mind toting out of sight but the long gun case makes me nervous.
I’m getting used to the feel of the laden bike. My riding improves a little bit every time I get out of my comfort zone, and that will be the case over the course of this trip.
I fuel again in Julian, and on my wife’s advice I buy a bunch of beef jerky. And that’s when I meet Jack and Riley. Jack is admiring the bike on general principles, and Riley owned a 1973 police model Eldorado in the seventies.
Then a BMW rider pulls in on some spaceship looking model, and when I inquire about fuel economy he replies “About like a Harley”. Then some hobo milking the coffee machine free refills starts telling me how Moto Guzzi’s used to be priced like Rolls Royces, and I realize my challenge will not be finding people to talk about the bike, but keeping moving while the crowds gather.
A delivery driver asks if I can move so he can get fuel, and I’m outta there. Going down the back side of Julian I cross territory I rode a few weeks ago with Bill of Team Subtle Crowbar and the Euro Sport Riders on a sixpack of LeMans, then it’s the moment I’ve been craving - into unfamiliar territory. Granted, I’ve been over all this before, but it was first as a kid camping with my parents, then as a teen camping with friends eons ago.
I’m through the backside of Julian, trees and shade, and moving down into desert. And I see a cross with a name on it, probably should take a picture, keep moving, and out of the corner of my eye I see water.
This is So Cal – we don’t do water much around here, and I’m in the high desert. I make a u-turn, then another, and get pictures of the cross and the pool. I wonder if he died from drinking the water. I thought about tasting it, but it was still, not flowing, so I chose not to.
When I was preparing to post this report, I googled the man’s name on the cross. I was gobsmacked, as you will be.
http://www.tributes.com/obituary/show/Dwight-Fredrick-Asmus-90596695http://www.eastcountymagazine.org/valley-center-resident-killed-borrego-springs-motorcycle-horse-trailer-collisionI came down out of the hills and though some beautiful twisties, and then it flattened out and it was open desert road. I twisted her tail and let her go.
I tried gazing into the desert distance, but as pretty as it was my eyes kept coming back to the road. In-motion motorcycling is not the best method for in-depth sightseeing.
I pass through the enormous sand dunes that make up Glamis, famed for sand toy adventures. I stop at the store for water. The dozen or so people sitting out front appear torpid in the warmth, but again I look for a bike guard. There’s a tough looking fellow by himself at a bench outside the store door, and I say “ Sir? Can I ask a favor of you? If anybody messes with my bike, will you please raise hell?”
He looks at me, looks at the bike, and replies “ I will. I’m a motorcyclist too. I got it.” I offer to get him something from inside but he says he has provisions at his camp. The store is stocked for off-roaders: There’s hardware and power tools in addition to the usual campground supplies.
Back outside I introduce myself to Doug, who tells me of the Hondas he likes to ride and his home in AZ. I tell him of this forum, thank him for his help and ask him to pose with the bike.
Back on the road and flying. I cannot resist opening it up, and the highway is a string of sand dusted sweepers. After resisting the impulse
2 times – on the third, I succumb to the urge to ride out into the sand and take a break.
I pray to the thorn gods and hope not to pick up a thorn that will show itself as a flat later. Theres little clumps about the size of my gas cap of flowers everywhere. I eat my apple for the day.
Back on the road, eventually running out of desert scrub and transitioning into agricultural. The bug count steadily goes up and the windscreen goes from transparent to translucent. I resolve not to wash it until the trip is finished.
100 – estimated bugs per square inch on the fairing and screen
24 – bugs that made it past the fairing and splatted on my helmet over the course of the trip
2 – bugs that made it into the helmet – one through a half-inch gap of open visor, and one that came under the chin bar – both fly-sized
I pass through a series of fading farm towns and active fields. Some of this I’ve seen in other trips, and it triggers memories of the post I’m unable to find here by searching “solar + cows “. There’s a couple of stinky feedlots full of cows lazing under the solar panels mounted overhead.
There’s also a grove of palm trees, and my nose tells me someone is running a still. Okay, actually, I can just smell fermentation, probably sileage of some kind. It’s sweet though, and I’m guessing a few percent ABV. It would be interesting to design something to harness all this sunlight as a pre-heater and then provide the finishing heat required to cook off the alcohol in an orderly manner. I’d have to do something to pass the time if I lived out here.
My planned fuel stop is in Brawley, but in Palo Verdes I find a Union 76. Good enough – I top up. I’ve noticed that the bike is not being at all picky about what I’m running in it. It’s all premium 91 and my usual brand discrimination does not appear to be an issue. It probably helped that I ran a can of Sea Foam through in two very rich tanks before I hit the road. When I get curious I’ll drop my head below the fairing where all you can hear is engine, and everything sounds orderly and happy.
It just keeps on, active farms alternating with dead ones, sleepy little quarter-mile long townlets with low speed limits, one sheriff’s station but no visible cruisers. 78 West keeps making
90 degree turns, going around fields and canals, left and right.
Some of them are stop signs, there’s an occasional light, and the one serious right-hander marked
“ 15 MPH “ - it really means it – every time I’ve been here there’s a set of car tire tracks going off of it into a plowed field, and this time is no exception. I respect the sign and don’t add my tracks to the field, although it looks like a soft enough landing – some kind person with a sense of humor keeps it plowed.
The road gets more civilized, new construction, and then I’m in Westmoreland, not quite to Brawley. I fuel at a Shell only to find a Chevron a block further on, and I make a mental note of it for the return.
A few more rights and lefts take me to the 10, east and west. I jump on it heading east, and in Blythe I get off to fuel again at a Chevron. After fueling I push the bike in front of the restrooms, where I can keep an eye on it while I go in the convenience store.
$1.49 – The price of a fountain soft drink the size of my thigh – they must make it up on volume. I fill a vase with ice and take it to the counter. The clerk looks at it and says “ Is that all you have ?” I tell him yes, and he says
“ 30 cents “ - I tell him he’s just too cool, thank him, and return to the bike. I ice up the CamelBak. I really need to pee. I look around, and a woman and her son (or a cougar and her boyfriend, choose your story) are just starting to pump gas next to the bike.
“ Hello – may I ask a big favor of you ? “ I say to the woman, indicating first the bike, then the bathroom door. “ If anybody messes with my luggage in the next minute, will you please scream bloody murder ? “ The young man goes into the store, and the woman pumping gas smiles and agrees. I pee as rapidly as I am able. Both she and the luggage are still there when I emerge, and I thank her.
Back on the 10 East again – lots of truckers and off-road trucks, family cruisers on vacation. I pass the CA / AZ border, cross over the Colorado river, and roll through the increasingly Arizona-like desert that leads to Quartzite. I know, it’s all desert, but it feels different over there. I stop and get Roscoe from the bag and put him in my pocket.
Why? Just because you can, in Arizona. They’re nice like that.
It’s legal to carry openly, no permit required. You used to need a permit to carry concealed, but as of recently you don’t. Despite all that, I almost never see firearms here. Everybody I meet is friendly.
Quartzite – there’s an advertisement for a Chevron on the other end of town, and I roll through the mostly sleeping town. The peak snow-bird & tourist season just ended, and while this place has grown a lot since my dad lived here in the eighties and nineties, it’s still the kind of town that you’d expect to find a horse tied up to a hitching rail while somebody in a serape naps under his hat in front of the saloon.
At the Chevron I meet two riders, one on a Goldwing and the other on a Harley. The ‘wing rider is boasting about his gas mileage and the Harley rider is offering to do a carb adjustment to him. They ooh and ahh over the Bassa, and the Harley rider asks “ You traveling with a rifle? I had a bare 30 – 30 strapped to my forks once in Santa Barbara, and when they stopped me you’d thought I was going to prison by the fuss they made”.
I saw no point in telling him that it being California AND Santa Barbara a case would have gone a long ways to ease the situation. They tell me that they ride every day, there being nothing else to do out here.
I realize I’m disobeying wifely orders by not having eaten much today – a bad habit of mine when I get excited. In the convenience store I find a seriously packaged tuna sandwich on wheat, and despite the absence of any dates on it I take a chance.
The sandwich and a quart of Gatorade goes down in five minutes and about ten bites, and the Gatorade tastes good to the last drop, which is a bad sign. Usually I can drink part of a bottle and then it gets yucky tasting. When it tastes great all the way through I know I am not getting enough electrolytes.
95 – It runs north and south. It’s also my top speed for the trip both ways. I jump on 95 North for the final leg of the trip. It runs along the Colorado river for much of the run, and it’s really nice, alternating between two and four lanes. I pick up somebody who knows the road and wants to fly, and I ride in his wake, dropping down to
3rd – gear for passing. Wow – the bike sounds so great. It really helps with the earplugs in deep. Traffic is moving at 70 – 80, and the rabbit and I are running 85 – 95.
I pass through another Chevron outpost of civilization in the middle of nowhere – it’s obvious that as long as I’m willing to fill a gallon or two regularly I can drink my brand of choice. Josie is not thirsty though, and I don’t want to lose my rabbit.
We make the southern edge of Havasu City, and I slow it down, watching for my landmark. A couple of turns, and I’m there.
8 – the number of hours it requires me to make what is a six hour drive according Google
9 – the age of my brother’s granddaughter, who introduces herself, gives me a hug, and says “You have a very beautiful motorcycle – will you please take me for a ride? “
Saturday April 4 – my wife’s birthday – she’s working, slaving over a hot candy counter at See’s the day before Easter, the day that zombie Jesus rose from the dead. She’ll have Sunday off, and she’ll go hiking on the beach and then drink a
$50 dollar bottle of champagne, and read library books
My brother and I go out in his
4WD
200 – rounds of 9mm and 22 fired at targets
I get my camera out, and my brother says “ Are you still lugging that old thing around? “ ( It’s a Konica / Minota DiMage
A2, state of the art around 2001) The battery promptly dies, and the spare is dead also. I think he hurt it’s feelings. There are no further pictures taken.
Sunday April 5 – In the morning I’ll take the granddaughter for a ride – she says she wants to go fast. I keep it under 75. I tell her to remember Moto Guzzi, and to get one when she has the opportunity.
My brother, his son and I go down to Quartzite and say “ Hi “ to my dad.
6’ – the theoretical depth my dad is located at – he was born in
1933 and died of heart failure in 1997 – if I’d been married to his second wife I’d have had a heart attack too. I’m a few years younger than he was and understandably curious about the next decade.
We shoot at targets and try to shoot a quarter dollar, then find it. We shoot several but are never able to find one afterwards.
We go to the Quartzite Yacht Club for drinks afterwards. There actually is a yacht, although it’s been converted to a room you can rent. My brother tells the tale of how he and a bunch of regulars, off from their shifts in the local restaurants, stores, and gas stations, were drinking in there one day when the swamp cooler on the roof died.
The owner was out of town, and the bartender said “open the doors and tough it out guys “. It was
120 degrees Fahrenheit outside – the regulars went down to the hardware store, bought parts out of their own pockets, climbed on the roof and fixed the swamp cooler. The bartender said he couldn’t take any cash out of the box but they could all drink for free. I’ll wager the owner lost money on that deal.
Monday April 6 – I pack up and pull out. I saunter back to the 78, then again I find a rabbit and this time my trip through the farm lands is done at wide open throttle. I pass wound out in third, push it to fourth and wind it out again to pass cars and trucks doing 80 and more. My rabbit knows the road and I can’t hardly keep up with him. The urge to pee in the desert wins and I go off on a dirt trail that crosses some train tracks.
Something about peeing outdoors is so satisfying. Don’t get to do it much in the city. Got to take your chances when you get them.
So I’ve held the throttle wide open for a couple of hours. I come to a turn in the ladder-steps that make up Highway 78 West, and I pause at a light, ready to follow the signs left to Brawley. Wait a minute – I never went to Brawley – I fueled in Westmoreland and the 78 went around Brawley. I think it over for a minute and decide to go right, and a damn good thing too.
A tractor-trailer with doubles gets impatient and pulls out in front of me to cross the road. I was going at a gentleman’s pace now, and I’m taking it as a compliment that he thought I would brake so well.
In a few miles I’m back in Westmoreland – and the bike starts to sputter, run, sputter, and dies. I’m out of gas, no surprises there, after that long stretch of WFO. I coast into town and I can see the Chevron up ahead. There’s oncoming traffic and I can’t make the left across it into the station.
I keep rolling, wait for a spot in the flow, make a u-turn, up the driveway into the station, and
10 – the number of yards I have to push the bike to the pumps
4.707 – Number of gallons the Bassa will take on the sidestand after running dry
26.8 – miles per gallon derived from that tank at WFO
The convenience story is a wholly Mexican experience – I love these places. I speak just enough Spanish to get by. I buy a quart of coconut water and go to the hole in the wall kitchen to ask a woman who was somebody’s lover, and is somebody’s mother, if I could please have a burrito. The burrito is fat and juicy – I put it all in the travel bag and go looking for some desert to eat it in.
Again I choose a spot where I can safely edge off the road into the sand and go out away from the road. I think my Bassa might be part Stelvio – then again I treated my Eldorado like this too. I go far enough that the road is a distant ribbon. The burrito has meat, beans, tomatoes, what is probably cabbage, and is juicy with sauce, yet does not leak a drop. It is glorious.
I tear it apart with my teeth, growling at every bite and wash it down with coconut water, fantasizing about beer. But alcohol takes the adrenaline / endorphin edge off my riding buzz – I’ll make up for it when I get home. The place I have chosen is scattered with the rusty shells of
60 – year-old beer cans, their tops punched in two places with a church key, their labels unreadable. I’m not the first one to pick this location. I take some time to gaze around the desert.
1 – the amount of times I thought I might be about to witness Shai – Hulud, the giant sandworm from the book / movie Dune.
Westward between my vantage and the mountains on the horizon a sand cloud grew, first small, then stretching across my view. Probably not a sandworm, but a man needs to be prepared for anything.
I ride back to the road and open it up again – the wind is picking up just enough to make it interesting – I get buffeted a little but not threatened. Sand snakes, only a foot tall, are starting to wend across the road in the low spots – it’s fun to ride through them.
I go back through Glamis at full pace, and as the highway winds across a dune crest I swear I see Doug’s hunched form and shaven head at a camp below. The sands turn to higher desert and it begins to cool down. The weather has been great all weekend, just a little bit hot in AZ and it will just get a little bit cold as I’m in the home stretch.
I run back up the side of the mountains Julian is perched on – the valleys are green, something we only see a few months a year.
1 – bee sting just above the belt line in the right side of my back. I thought it was a cramp, stopped to rub it out, and found the dying deliverer in the waistline of my jeans. I put him out of his misery with my boot.
I can tell my riding has improved again – I lift my eyes through the line before I get there and it feels easy to follow that line. Odd to have ten years of riding and
160 – some thousand of miles under my belt last century, and feel so beginner-ish again after another
8,407 – miles I put on the bike since buying it 1/12/2014, intending to only put
4,000 miles per year on it
I fuel in Julian, fuel again in Ramona. I’m getting sleepy – good thing home is less than an hour away.
12 – total fuel stops
0 – the number of showers taken, shaves done, and girls kissed
6 – average number of beers drank per day. Average…some days less.
7 – Thousand miles on the rear Pirelli Sports Demon. It’s toast. I’ll put a few rides on it but once my wife see’s it she is on my case about a new tire, NOW. Love that woman. I really got lucky when a mutual friend got us together.
