From Worn and Frayed to Slick and Shiny

 

Pt. Mugu on the PCH Northbound

Always make sure your rubber is up to the task.

How are your tires? Are they good for taking the long way home with the few twisties you like? Always take a peek before you throw your leg over, make it part of your own circle of safety as you walk around your bike to make sure there are no loose ends and everything is shipshape for your ride. Planning a long trip? Do more than peek, inspect everything. Who needs to be halfway between Bass Lake and Yosemite when a tire goes or your battery gives up the ghost?

The last few weeks I’ve been planning a 1500-mile ride that includes, a run up the coast from Santa Monica to Cayucos, over to Walnut Creek to visit my best friend Jim and take in a Giants game with him, then ride through Yosemite to stay in Lee Vining before riding through Death Valley to Pahrump (a scene visit for my book) before heading home.

I made a checklist for myself:

• Q  Check battery and replace as needed
• Q  Ensure tire wear is in line for a 1500-mile ride
• Q  Inspect helmet, replace if it is time (okay, I’ve wanted to make a change anyway)
• Q  Check brakes, belts, electrical cables, and nuts and bolts
• r  Wash the bike, especially the windscreen
• r  Change the oil and filter
• r  Check tire pressure

The battery was a no brainer because I suspected it was at its end. The helmet was easy too simply because I’ve wanted to make a change and upgrade my helmet cam/communications unit anyway. Brakes, belts, and such I do regularly. The tires on my Victory Cross Country? I needed help. I suspected the rear tire needed to be changed because it appeared close to the wear marks. The front tire I thought might be okay for my trip.  The receipt from the last tire change was not to be found and I wanted to go back to the same place. They were/are very good and being a repeat customer is a good thing to be. There is something comforting about having someone you trust work on your bike. My friend Jed gave me a recommendation and bingo, it was the place. Jed was likely the person who sent me to M-C Tire Works in the first place.

My grand plan for the day of the tire change was to arrive promptly when they opened at 9am, kill time while they worked their magic with a little reading and writing, and then ride up to Santa Barbara via the coast route to catch my grandson’s freshman football game. It was a brilliant plan that needed a bit of tweaking with Jeremiah’s game being pushed back a couple of hours. It turned out I would need the extra time and extra tweaking.

I was a few minutes early and was there to watch Tony open up the shop for the day and greet the technician who would work on my bike. Tony and I walked around the bike so he could assess my needs. It turned out that I really needed his practiced eye. My front tire was due, there was no maybe about it. The rear tire had some miles left on it and Tony said I could have the 1500 miles left on it but couldn’t make anything certain as every bike and rider wear tires in their own way. I opted to go with the safe and secure option. Finding a lift and getting a new tire in Death Valley at 120-degrees with a blown tire is dicey thing, we’ve already lost a couple of riders this year to the heat out there.

They were done with the work at just under the estimated time and I was ready to roll out by 11am or so. This is where I found the need for more tweaking for the ride up to Santa Barbara. Tony reminded me that the new tires are slick and need 100 miles of careful riding. I remembered the slick part, just not the 100-mile recommendation. I had to watch for water, tight turns, and be mindful of my throttle. He pointed out a sign on the counter warning about the slickness, the 100-mile recommendation. The sign ended with, “Too much gas and you will be on your ass.”

I am a big fan of M-C Tireworks! 5 of 5 ês!

I took these things seriously and altered my route to use as much surface street mileage as possible from North Hills to Malibu Canyon. Traffic wasn’t bad, thankfully. I left plenty of space between me and the next guy and maintained a good safety bubble. I made the most of the ride up Venture Blvd. When I was a Communications Technician for the phone factory I had offices all throughout the valley and good memories accompanied me along the ride.

Malibu Canyon presented the big challenge and was a cause for some clinching and I’m not talking about my teeth. I thought it would be okay since there would likely be traffic to hold me in check and I was correct. Traffic up PCH was reasonable with only one or two cagers trying to run up my tailpipes. I had enough space on the 101 Highway from Oxnard up to Santa Barbara and simply bided my time until I got off the highway at Cabrillo Blvd. to ride along the coastal part of Santa Barbara. I came to a stop at Milpas and Cabrillo and hit the 100 miles dead on. Now, I didn’t immediately start slaloming through Santa Barbara traffic and hitting the gas on every turn. Not my style. However, I breathed a bit easier.

I made it to the game to watch an improved San Marcos High Royals’ team play with my grandson at center, the prize at the end of the ride. This made it a night ride home which was fine by me, though it had been a while since I’d taken a long one at night.

As an epilog of sorts to this post, I took my wife’s car in for a quick oil change and added on a change of break fluid while we were at it. During the process to change the fluid the tires were removed and I was treated to their technician rolling a tire over to me and pointing out some damage, pictured here. At some point, one of us hit something sharp and we were close to having a blowout at any time. Too close.

Inside edge of an otherwise healthy tire...

My takeaway from this is whether bike, car, truck, with or without a trailer – check the rubber and make sure it is up to the task.

Keep the iron side up my friends!

Jerry ‘Shakespeare’ White

Paradise Remembered

 

Jerry White heading down the pier for the next boat...

The Sandcastle Restaurant, what is now known as Paradise Cove Beach Cafe, has been a mainstay of Paradise Cove in Malibu, California since before WWII when it was first set up as a club house. James Garner in The Rockford Files had his mobile home just up the beach from the cafe. Mel Gibson had his trailer just down the beach from the café in the Lethal Weapon films. Cindy and I celebrated our 48^th anniversary at the café with our feet in the sand and an excellent meal.

Cindy's and my Paradise Cove Beach Cafe Brunch. What a view!

The place played a key role in my recovery after my dark days that included the breakup with my fiancé and the dashing of my hoop dreams, if playing Division II college ball could be called a dream. One likely hastened the other and ushered in a period of wandering. Doug Clark got me a job with him working as a Pier Coolie running the boat hoist on weekends, maintaining the rental fleet of fiberglass boats and their 5-hp motors, and other pier related duties. During the summer of ’74, I ended up living in his parents’ single-wide mobile home while working full time just after my parents moved away and left me. Okay, I had the option of moving with them to Concord, California but opted to stay since I had a new girlfriend and was getting my college life back on track. Yes, it was Cindy and that was the best decision of my life.

 

Doug and I would arrive at the locked gates of the pier at 5:30am after a fine breakfast at the café ready for a hectic morning of launching boats. The first person in line was nearly always someone from the mobile home park who’d slept in their car so they could catch the first fish. The weekend line would often stretch along the entry road and wind up and out onto PCH.  

 

After checking that all was ready and with the nod of Bob Morris, who ran the pier and now owns the restaurant, we opened the gates. Doug and I each towed a boat behind a golf cart and up to the hoist where another Bob ran the rig. While one boat was hoisted over and into the water, one of us would pull a red fiberglass rental boat to be third over the side. In two hours or so we would launch around 100 boats. By 6pm, all but one boat would be retrieved, the one holdout rocking at anchor for their weekend of fishing.

 

The cabin cruiser at anchor was owned by a middle-aged couple with no kids to worry about and was easily the biggest boat we would launch as the hoist groaned with the weight. They went out nearly every weekend except when they pulled the boat south and fished out of San Diego. These folks always brought us the best smoked yellowtail or tuna from their southern trips in appreciation for us getting them on the water and out again.

 

On days when the water was nearly flat and glassy, we would drop Tex Clark’s boat over the side of the pier and ski. I was never comfortable with the idea skiing with sharks that far out but Doug convinced me that we would be inside the kept line and everyone knew sharks stay out. Right? The first time we out was after we closed the pier. Earlier, a boat came in with two blue sharks draped over the bow of their boat. Doug’s argument was they were fishing up around Point Dume and off Zuma Beach, a known breeding ground for blue sharks. I acquiesced. Then a competition skier came in after training for a race out to Catalina and back. He was shaking and told us how he just missed skiing over a big shark. Doug argued that he was training well beyond the kelp line. Later, to top off the shark parade, a pier fisherman caught a leopard shark, those popular sharks then populating Marineland. It was not uncommon for me to yell “hit it!” as Doug tossed me the rope. I couldn’t get on top of the ski fast enough. Good times though.

 

When we were dating, Cindy would come down to the cove and visit. While I worked, she read, tanned, and swam. The L.A. County Lifeguards maintained a Baywatch boat at the end of the pier and they had a one-person hut with a nice telescope. I could find her almost all the time unless she hiked further up toward Point Dume. Paradise Cove is a special place for us.

 

Paradise Cove Beach Café has its walls nearly covered at every conceivable point with black and white photos of the glory days of the Malibu area with the cove featuring heavily. Some of them date back to the 30s and cover every decade since. Autographed movie star 8X10 glossies festoon the soffit above the bar.

 

We would see celebs who walked to the end of the pier sometimes. Barbara Streisand who didn’t last too long because she got swamped by fans; Sony Bono who had chartered the smaller fishing boat but wasn’t too friendly we think because it was during his divorce with Cher; and others. Our top though was Vincent Price who was there to go fishing out on the Gentleman with his 11-year-old granddaughter. He came by and talked with Doug and I about fishing and introduced his granddaughter. One of the regular pier-fishermen, a trailer park resident, came over and asked if Mr. Price would mind going over to say hello to the man’s mother over in a wheelchair, fishing pole in hand. He went over, squatted down to get eye level and proceeded to chat like they were old friends. One class act.

The Gentleman that Vincent Price and his granddaughter went out on a half-day excusion.

I love looking over the photos and, on this day, I struck gold. As I was walking out through a walkway little used by the public as there is a wait-station there for cutlery and cups I saw the photo below hung on the wall above the entry. I laughed out loud as I recognized myself driving the golf cart and shared my joy with the busboy boy busy putting service groups together.

The pier, now a stubby remainder, then with the hoist, boats waiting for launch and me heading down for the next one.

 

It was a great day to fondly remember Paradise Cove.

 

My hope is that you have your own version of Paradise Cove.

 

Peace.

A Tale of Two Rides

 

I am an old-guy biker and so occasionally someone will ask me how much longer I intend to ride. It is a fair question and one I ask myself now and again. I’ve pretty much settled on the idea that I will ride until reverse gear gives out. That is a concern as I have had aging knees for half my lifetime. When I was 35 my orthopedic surgeon told me he would replace my knees by the time I was 55 if I didn’t quit playing basketball. I wept. Then I took steps to fix the problem on my own by ceasing my city league playing and not playing anymore pickup ball. But I kept running with the teams I coached and as many CVHS Alumni games as I was in town for.

The main thing I did was to ride my bike to work three to five days a week at 11 to 14 miles each way depending on the route I chose for the day that added up to 120 miles a week plus recreational rides like taking my birthday off and riding at least as many miles as I was old. I have Cindy to thank for her insightful suggestion. Thanks, love! The company moved our office from Pasadena to Alhambra and that ended my bike commuting but other forms of exercise took over though once my Lauren grew out of youth basketball. Life got busy with other pursuits and regular exercise waned. My knees recently started complaining daily even though, or because of it, I was walking with Ollie between three and five miles three of four days a week.

I dusted off my bicycle, got it going again, had the gears tuned up and started riding a few times a week around the Rose Bowl and have worked up to 15 miles on any given ride, occasionally popping up out of the bowl to add some hill work. Then I added a nice set of knee supports with more a thoughtful design than my old neoprene braces. It has been as close to a miracle as I will claim for myself. I am busy extending the life of reverse gear.

I decided to ride a bike trail I hadn’t ridden since some long-ago birthday ride, the San Gabriel River Bike Trail. My goal was to take a little break from my routine rides to help keep my interest up and extend myself to an 18-mile ride. I thought I would show up at the Sante Fe Dame Recreation area close to their opening, pay for the parking, then peddle around to find the start of the bike trail. My GPS took me to what ended up being the back gate into the park. Shit. I drove around and found the line into the park. I am unfamiliar with this park but was okay with waiting in line until I came around a corner and saw the line heading off into the horizon. I pulled a quick 180 and hunted for a marked entrance to the bike trail.

I ended up driving right by the place the GPS aimed me for and came upon the Whittier Narrows Recreation area, parked and rode around a bit to warm up, and headed back the way I’d come. I found the ‘marked’ entrance at a ‘nature center’, a pocket park of sorts. I rode through, found a sign pointing the way to the bike trail which is loosely packed dirt and not great for my road tires. I found the entry – it was locked. Shit.

I decided to ride by the seat of my pants and using the tried-and-true method of dead-reckoning found a way onto the trail. The marine layer was still in effect and I couldn’t see the mountains for reference and took a guess as to which way would take me back to the Sante Fe Dam. Ten miles later I was proved correct and was looking up at the back side of the dam. By the time I returned to the car I had exceeded my 18-mile goal by two miles and learned a couple of lessons for the day – don’t bother with the Sante Fe Dam until school starts back up and then on a weekday and always verify the GPS.

I haven’t quite gotten to the point where my bicycling is second nature so those rides have not leant themselves too much in the way of introspection. There is a lot going on for me to keep the cycle going without crashing – skinny little wheels that can’t be over corrected, keeping the legs pumping, eyes out for obstructions, worry over speeding cars while sharing the road with them, etc.

It is different for me while riding the motorcycle. Even though vigilant to all the obstructions and cagers on the road, a part of my brain can work through an issue I’m facing or return to that thing I’m thinking about without much effort when the circumstances of the ride allow for it.

I haven’t been riding much lately due in part to several of the people I have enjoyed riding with moving away from riding and on to other pursuits. One of riders from our group decided on a ride for July 4^th. We were to meet for breakfast and then ride the Angeles Crest Highway west to east, ending at Highway 138 around Victorville in the southern end of the Mojave Desert. I’ve done the ride before and it is a twisty-lover’s paradise. But cooler heads prevailed and we decided to avoid the 120 degrees heat we would have ridden into. Greg and the love of his life stayed around the coast for a little ride and I took an early solo run up the Angeles Forest Highway, down the Sierra Highway, and finished up the loop on the 14 freeway to home.

Wind therapy. There was little traffic to worry about and I could take the twisties at my leisure. I let my subconscious work through a couple of nagging issues to the point I that I now have a path forward I am at peace with. The path stretches through the year and likely into 2025 so I am well prepared for course changes as things arise. With my reverse gear improving I should be able to take a ride or two to effect acceptable course corrections without jeopardizing my long-range goal.

Find your center, work to maintain it, and don’t hesitate to invite others to help.

Keep the iron side up,

Jerry ‘Shakespeare’ White.

Ride Angels

 

Jed, an angel by Webster's definition. Procedure done, heading home. Photo credit to Sue, another angel.

I have found that there are angels associated with my rides, and already one connected to my ride that doesn’t start until three more days. Most of these people wouldn’t consider themselves to be such a one, they were being true to themselves and being who they are, they couldn’t help themselves helping me.

I’d like to share two examples, one in the long ago past and one ongoing. But first a word from my friend Webster. Noah says this about ‘angel’: a spiritual being serving as a divine messenger and intermediary and often as a special protector of an individual or nation. Both people and instances described below fit the definition.

1972 - During the late summer of 1972, Jim McClelland and I set off on a planned six-week ride to cover about 6,000 miles. We were told by bike shops and people we were talking to that people would jerk us around and just plain be nasty to us. After all, the “Easy Rider” movie was only a year or two old. With one slight exception, we found the opposite to be true and that guy was being opportunistic and greedy and he didn’t win anything from us.

One angelic visitation I keep in mind was during the day Jim and I had planned to ride into Yellowstone National Park at the eastern gate. We broke camp and hit the highway as planned. There was no one sharing the two-lane strip of asphalt when we passed two boy scouts hitchhiking. We looked at each other, shrugged, and went back for them, strapping their packs on top of ours. Within minutes, we came over a rise that overlooks a plain and we saw the rain a mile or two out front of us. We pulled over and explained things to our guests as we pulled on our cheep rainsuits. We had nothing to wrap our gear in and no windscreens to protect us on our basic bikes. The boy scouts decided to tough it out. We rode over 150 miles in the rain into Cody, Wyoming only to find out the entrance to the park was closed due to snow, in August.

Everything the four of us had with us was soaked. We found a laundromat and hauled everything in and began loading dryers. Our plan was to get dried out and find a cheap motel for the night, not an easy task with all the caged park visitors doing the same thing only without the need for a dryer. Before any of us could drop the first quarter in the slot a woman came out and she was aghast at what she saw. It was a reaction that made Jim and me think we were about to be kicked out. Not so.

“Oh, you poor boys! Here, let me…” The owner/manger of the laundromat opened the four dryers’ controls and turned them on while she told us to dry everything we needed. When I asked her if she knew where a decent motel was, she saw the ichthus I wore around my neck and explained that most of the motels would be full right then but that she knew a preacher who ran a half-way house we could stay the night at. Jim and I took her up on the recommendation but the boy scouts opted to go their own way.

This was one exceptional angel and I offer a prayer of thanksgiving for her kindness every time I remember her.

On our way out of town the next day we passed by the hitchhiking boy scouts who, when they saw us coming, suddenly needed to find either change or keys in their pockets. Jim and I waved as we rode on and into the park.

Wednesday, September 6, 2023 – This was the day I had planned on changing the oil in my Victory Cross Country in preparation for my 2000-mile ride starting next week. Simple, right? Not so much.

I have limited space in my garage to do oil changes but then, I don’t need much for the procedure. I got everything I needed ready for the operation and loosened the drain plug. And loosened and loosened it until I was sure something was wrong. It wasn’t backing out. I figured I could wedge a chisel in to give it some leverage for the threads to bite. But then what? I’d have a bike with no oil and be standing there with a drain plug in my hand and no way to adequately secure it to hold oil, even for a trip down the hill for gas.

I needed an angel or there would be no trip for yet another year. I texted Jed.

Instant response. “Hi Jerry. I have the proper fix it kit for the drain plug here…” When I asked when a good time would be he said, “Now is good”. I cancelled my attendance at the weekly lunch with my father-in-law and brothers-in-law and Cindy went by herself. I geared up and rode over to Jed and Sue's.

I was feeling like a doofus, a term I am applying quite liberally to certain drivers while I’m either driving or riding along. Jed explained the procedure and told me he had done this to both his and Sue's bikes and other friends’ as well. I felt a little less doofusly. When Jed started out with the same steps I had done and then brought out the chisel, I began to feel normal. For me, anyway.

We hadn’t seen each other in weeks. Maybe months. From our last little ride up to visit a bunch of glampers in Buellton. While the engine cooled, we caught up with each other. I helped him through the procedure while between steps he handled a sale of an engine and transmission out of an old Ford Mustang. Well, okay, I watched a lot and fetched an item or two.

While we wrapped up and put tools and materials away, I asked him how much I owed him. “Lunch”. Sue came home while we were moving the engine and transmission out for the guy coming to buy them. She told us she had stuff to make lunch and invited me to stay.

Fix-it – done. Lunch – served. I owe them more than they can imagine. I thank them profusely and the only thing they did was talk about joining me for the Ride to the Flags on Sunday.

Our angels may not always be apparent and it may well be the only angel we have is our own vigilance on the ride. So, ride safe and keep an eye out for angels and hazards alike. And keep the iron side up.

Jerry “Shakespeare” White.

Prelude to Opa’s Wild Ride

 

Translation: I am a motorcylist grandpa. Like a normal grandpa but a lot cooler.

On August 20, 2023, I posted a blog entry entitled, “Plan It or Fuhgeddaboudit!” and it worked for me. The results are twofold: a long-term plan is unfolding for a long and winding epic ride next season and a short-term plan for a cool ride starting in a couple of weeks. Well okay, it more likely will be sweltering. I’m calling it “Opa’s Wild Ride”.

My grandchildren call me Opa, a Dutch/German word for Grandfather. I am neither Dutch nor German. I simply picked the name when my oldest was expecting her first child who is now 16 and driving. The trip will get me to the three households of all my children and a quick visit with all seven grandkids over an eight-day span with one layover day. I will cover 1,993 miles in three states: California, Nevada, and Oregon. Oregon to visit one of my sisters.

When I said, ‘more likely will be sweltering’, that is because the first two legs are from home to Palm Desert and then on to Pahrump, Nevada - all desert and nothing but the desert. From Grants Pass to Lodi could be hot as well because it takes me through Redding where my bike’s thermometer hit 118 degrees several years ago, my hottest ride day ever.

I have an aggressive itinerary with only one day of slack time built in all the while I’ve wedged the ride into a tight calendar spot. Look at the screen shot below of my overall route. Such is the risk when planning late and not making the ride the priority for the season.

As with any ride, there are things to consider and things to do.

          Things to Consider:

·       Total miles may vary as road conditions might change such as wildfires, weather, and road closures.

·       Daily destinations may change due to family or friend issues at planned stops.

·       I must remain cognizant of my own physical, mental, and emotional health.

Things To Do:

·       Change the oil on the bike.

·       Check the tires to ensure they are good to go for the entire length of the planned trip.

·       Check all the gear, create a packing list, and follow it.

·       Pre-pack the gear on the bike to ensure I have everything I need to secure the gear.

·       Keep my ears and eyes open for suggestions. So, bring them on!

I have a few hopes for this ride: that I will rekindle my riding/writing for Iron Side Up, I will rekindle my drive to rewrite my novel based in Pahrump, I will hug all my grandchildren, I will have long overdue visit with my sister, and more hopes that will form throughout the preparation process.

Plan a ride, take a ride, and keep the iron side up.

Jerry ‘Shakespeare’ White

The Route

Plan It or Fuhgeddaboudit!

 

The left book we got in 1972, probably from my folks. The right book I probably scammed from our rummage sale a couple of years ago.

Want to take a ride? Want to make it epic, something to tell your grandkids about? Plan it, or fuhgeddaboudit.

I’ve been in the doldrums* as a rider and writer for so long I am embarrassed. And yes, riding and writing can certainly be connected though not inevitably. I’ve used riding to prime the pump for my writing, this might be an attempt to reverse things.

*Doldrums, as defined by my friend Webster is a spell of listlessness or despondency or a state or period of inactivity, stagnation, or slump.

It seems that if I don’t plan it, it won’t happen, even taking the bike to church. If a ride is going to be epic or otherwise memorable, the plan needs to be well put together but allow for some spontaneity.

Some considerations for a good ride plan might include:

• Destination and/or route. Do you have one or the other, or both? I’ll list some of my ideas below.
• Riding alone or with others?
• The motorcycle.
• Capability of the rider.
• The Calendar, including weather patterns therein.
• Money.

Destination and/or route: It might make a fine ride to simply through your leg over the bike and take off but reaching the epic status will take filling in some of the items in a solid plan on the fly. Pick a place, pick a route, then plan. I’ve had a couple of routes and destinations wafting by at the back of my mind. I suggest writing them down and having a tried and true list:

• Route 66, end-to-end.
• Pacific Coast route, Canada to Mexico
• Reno Street Vibrations
• Ride To The Flags (a charity ride I’ll be taking)
• Make one up to fit all the other plan considerations.
• I would like to hear your dreams…

Riding alone or with others?”: For me, this could be a case of “Plan it and they will come”. Often a group of friends and riding-mates create a synergy and an epic ride emerges. Even so, this is no guarantee you’ll take the epic ride. I was on the verge of taking one and then regrettably dropped out toward the end of the planning phase. It would have been epic and would have completed the ride I did as a kid but which had to be cut short.

Start the planning and talk about it (or write about as I am doing) with your rider community and maybe it will turn into a group ride. Or start talking and see what develops.

Or maybe, a solo ride is one of your primary objectives. Fine then, be that way.

The motorcycle: Speaking from experience, this may be the most critical piece of a well-executed ride plan. My best friend, Jim McClelland, and I planned and executed an epic ride in the summer of 1972, we were 18 and 19, respectively. I think we had the orange book pictured above in hand, probably provided by one of our parents. We violated one of the key components found in the Table of Contents, pictured below – Selecting a Touring Machine. We were indestructible, or at that age, felt like we were. Heck, we took the bikes we had; Jim’s Honda 350 Scrambler and my Honda CB500. The 350 had a sissy bar and I had a passenger backrest and rack. No wind management, no saddle bags, not even a tank mounted map case or gear case.

We left in August following my summer basketball league and practice schedule. We had rain nearly every other day and snow once on the Million Dollar Highway in Colorado. By the time we made our exit out of the Western end of Yellowstone National Park, Jim was burnt toast on his two-cylinder machine and I was nearly done in myself on my four-cylinder, but small, bike.

Our plan had been to ride up into Canada to Banff National Park then across to Washington State and down the coast to home. Canada had not been kind to us in sending all that rain and we had talked about alternatives. Jim opted to go straight home. I was chasing a dream of walking onto the Division II basketball team at Humbolt State College in Arata, California and needed to get there, see the campus, and pick up paperwork to start that phase of my dream. Had we had touring bikes, we could have, and certainly would have, braved the weather, and kept to our plan.

The facing page of “Two Wheel Travel. Motorcycle Camping and Touring” simply says: “retreat gracefully”.

Plan a trip with your bike in mind or get a bike with your trip in mind. Make sure it is a sound machine from the rubber on the road up through and including the mirrors.

Capability of the rider: How’s your health? Plan a ride you are physically, mentally, and emotionally capable of completing. Keep the Dirty Harry quote in mind, “Man’s got to know his limitations.” The lowest common denominator for this will be the most limited rider in your group.

The Calendar: This is likely the most limiting factor for my riding. When I got back onto a motorcycle, I made a personal commitment of my own volition to myself as well as my wife that I would not ride when it precluded doing something that could be done with the family. We now have seven grandchildren, a strain on any calendar.

Pick a ride that fits with your calendar, plan your calendar to fit with your ride. Do it early so that you can plan your other commitments around your ride. Had I done that, I’d be heading to Reno Street Vibrations this year. By the time it did come to my attention, I’d already made a commitment to others on a big event at church. C’est la vie, as I always say.

Money: This will determine how long you can ride, if you need to camp even if you’d rather stay in resorts, how you feed yourself, and what gear you pick up along the way.

Path forward: It is too late in this season to plan and execute my Route 66 ride but not too early to start planning it for next season. So, I’ll start that and see how it goes. I’ll need to get from Chicago back home so a route back across the country to the start of the Pacific Coast Route is a possibility.

However, it is not too late to put together a ride that fits my current calendar. It might not be epic in the bottom-line sense of the word, but it could be something special and inspiring. Now, if I can only get the weather to cooperate. Writing this during the dregs of Hurricane Hilary doesn’t inspire all that much confidence. But no plan – no ride, and plans can be altered to fit changing conditions.

Don’t fuhgeddaboudit, plan it. Keep the iron side up while you do.

Jerry ‘Shakespeare’ White

Back in the Day - Jim and Jerry

 

Jim ready for a cold and wet ride on his half of
The Gross

    

Jerry at Bass Lake w/ Loaded STICKI

Just after my Senior Year basketball season ended in 1971 my dad and two or three of his buddies went out and bought Honda Mini Trail 70s (CT70) so they could knock around the dirt fire and logging roads during their annual pilgrimage to Doc and Al’s, just outside of Bridgeport, California. He let me ride that thing to school and work. When my best friend Jim McClelland got one the two of us were off and riding. We called ourselves ‘The Gross’ because between the two of us we totaled 144ccs. We rode all over the place and made nightly forays onto the 210 and 2 Freeways then under construction.

Early in 1970 my paternal grandmother passed away and left me $1500 that I hadn’t been aware of. Early in my freshman year at Glendale Community College, my dad decided it would be safer for me to ride a real motorcycle as my primary vehicle. He told me of his scheme and the money he had sitting there for me, so we set off for Carnes Cycle Shop in Sunland to buy a Honda CB450K3 to meet the declared safety objectives. We opened the doors to the shop and were greeted by a new model, the Honda CB500 Four. It was love at first sight. I had Carnes add the engine guard (because the term “crash bars” would have scared my mom), a rack, and passenger backrest. No “sissy bar” was installed because, well, “sissy”.

Jim followed suit by purchasing his older brother’s Honda CB350 Scrambler and we started planning a summer trip for 1972. We mapped it out at around 6,000 miles that would take us out to Yellowstone, up into Canada and Banff National Park, over to the Pacific Coast and back down to home. Our kickstands were up in mid-July, me with my girlfriend on the back (for the first week), Jim and I both loaded down with backpacks, a tent, sleeping bags, etc. We could fill a book with the adventures and challenges we faced on that trip (some self-imposed). Perhaps someday we will.

We ran into intense weather nearly every other day. Snow on the Million Dollar Highway in Colorado and torrential rains here and there almost daily. Imagine how spent we were by the time we headed out of the western gate of Yellowstone, particularly Jim, vibra-massaged on his two-cylinder underpowered bike (hence, Honda’s appropriate model name of “Scrambler”). Neither of our bikes were equipped with wind or weather management gear. The storms were all coming down from Canada so we scrapped that loop. Jim headed straight home but I needed to work my way over to the California coast to stop in at Humboldt State University in Arcata so I could see what I needed to be doing to apply there after my sophomore basketball season ended in the Spring of 1973.

We had started out with a six-week plan that allowed us to spend a day or two in a few of the places we rode to and through but the weather pushed us the edge every day for three weeks before we split up.

I made my way down spent a couple of days at Bass Lake visiting my grandparents before finishing up this trip, getting home, and going back to work.

As abbreviated a trip as it was, it was epic for us and something we refer to now 50 years later, as a defining summer for us.

Off into the sunset. Or was that the sunrise? After 50 years, either way works for us.

Faithfully submitted, a near as we remember it,

Jerry White and Jim McClelland

Jerry’s note: In July of 2022 I submitted this the American Motorcyclist Magazine for their monthly section entitled, oddly enough, “Back in the Day”. They never gave me the consideration of a reply and the article hasn’t appeared with lesser entries. Their loss.