Scrubbed!…Until It’s Right

Photo courtesy of Tim Robertson

I’ve contributed to this blog space from a number of perspectives – walking/hiking on Maui and in Ireland, driving trips in my SSC (Silver Sardine Can), about kayaks and rafts and Air Craft Carriers, being transported by song, and in a $500 VW (Lemons Racer), but never about a rocket. Until now.

This week the JPSS-1 satellite was to be launched into orbit via a Delta 2 rocket. I have been in an approved viewing area two nights this week (week of 11/12/2017) as a guest of Tim Robertson who works for NASA and on the payload of the satellite. Both nights it was scrubbed – first due to a red alarm condition that turned out to be a telemetry issue not directly associated with the rocket or its payload and then due to high winds in the upper stratosphere.

We were bummed, to be sure. But, even knowing it would be scrubbed, I’d do it again on the chance it could have been green-lighted. It was about more than liftoff. It was about friends gathering for another’s big event, hanging out around fire pits, eating pizza with new friends, and seeing the hope written on hundreds of faces including kids in unicorn sleepers, old guys in jackets with launch patches reaching back decades, and a host of human configurations in between. Oh, and a fifty-foot configuration of tables loaded with desserts that made my pancreas itch.

The first day I rode my Victory XC up to Buellton after attending a knee joint class. I ride or drive this route frequently to visit my daughter’s family in Santa Barbara and on this Monday in the early afternoon it was as smooth as you could want with only one traffic hitch that a quick U-turn helped me avoid. I found myself heading up the 101 at the ideal time of day and I watched the sunset into the Pacific with a cloud cover made to reflect all the colors you could wish for. By three a.m. Jed and I were asleep in his trailer after the scrubbing of the launch.

The second day was manic. I started home at 10 a.m. after quick goodbyes so that I could prepare for a committee meeting I chair. I had time for one all-too-quick nap. As soon as the closing prayer was given at 8 p.m. I was back on the road to meet up with Tim and friends at the Marriott in Buellton for the bus ride over to the viewing site on a Vandenberg AFB base golf course. My plan was to drive home immediately after the launch for an early morning men’s meeting at 6 a.m. There was no endless table of sweets, fewer people though the unicorn made her appearance, and the mood was muted.

We listened to the launch check at the four-minute mark of the countdown and heard some discussion on high winds in the upper stratospheres but the reports moved on and most of us neophytes were unconcerned. Tim was first to announce the scrubbing having seen a report come out on his phone. Once the announcers came back and made it official the muted moods were sadly dampened and everyone loaded up the buses. I made my way home without knowing when the next attempt would be made and got to the parking lot in time for the meeting but had to rush home due to an unforeseen personal issue. Otherwise the plan worked as intended. If you don’t count the scrubbing of the launch.

Now, we’ve all made plans for weddings, dates, trips, and a hundred other lesser things and at some point in time made the go/no go call. When do we do it for our rides? There’s so much to consider before we put up our kickstands and push off; our health, the weather, our finances, our family’s condition, the bike’s condition, and dozens of other items. We scrub them and go back to the drawing board or shove off and hope for the best, especially if we’ve compromised on any of our no-go items. You can’t do that with a rocket.

When I started this writing (Thursday morning) I wasn’t planning to go up for the rescheduled launch Saturday morning at 1:47 a.m. But writing this and texting with Tim inspired me and I’ve rearranged my schedules to go on up after getting my grandkids out of school. So I’ll pause now and finish off with a victorious paragraph on my experience watching, feeling, and smelling a Delta II launch. Hopefully.

The countdown is gradually picked up by everyone nearby…5…4…3…2…1 Ignition! A cheer erupts from the crowd in the field just before the white light fills your field of vision. Our eyes adjust and the light is hanging there surrounded by billows of steam for what seems like an eternity, sitting on the pad. The Delta II doesn’t move and you don’t breath. This is especially true for the folks who have a vested interest in the baby that’s to be put into orbit – like Tim Robertson.

This eruption of light hits you first because it travels at the speed of light. The rumble comes next as the sound waves travel through the air then you feel the earth tremble under your feet. The last sense impacted is the sense of smell as the odor of spent kerosene reaches your nose. The last sense, that is, other than the sense of relief and fulfillment when you hear that your dear JPSS-1 has reached orbit. Or maybe a month or so from now when they fire up your payload contribution and weather information pours down from its polar orbit.

As the thrust overcomes the rocket’s inertia and liftoff is accomplished you breathe again and your exhilaration overcomes your reticence for cheering in the cold of the early morning. The light coalesces as the rocket separates itself from the smoke and steam and assumes a graceful arc that belies the massive instrument being forced to leave the planet and its atmosphere.

Or so I’ve been told. You see, I didn’t make it to the viewing site this night and had to watch a yellow dot arc out into space, plainly seen, from the top of my garage. I’m content in saying it was poor planning on my part and leaving it at that.

Don’t mourn the scrub – with each one an opportunity for a happier outcome is born.

Keep the iron side up friends,

jerry

1 Minute Exposure photo courtesy of Tim Robertson

Angels in the Aisles

There were angels in the aisles as we practiced our grief and rose above it to celebrate all that had been and is Dorie Shaw.

Five of them lined up at the microphone to speak of her compassion and the love she had for her grandchildren. These angels were well spoken and did their grandmother proud. We know that their Nani will always be their sunshine.

Three others had preceded the five, thankful for their mother’s life and what she brought them: a childlike endearment, humor, and a love for dressing just right. Dorie’s passion for serving, living the moment for family, and her faith are their inheritance.

Another angel ranged about the hall bestowing wings to be pinned on lapels, shirt pockets, and blouses – mementos that call attention to the angel in everyone there. Still more roamed among the congregants and hugged it out, blessings passed from one angel to another.

Others rose and spoke of the Dorie Shaw they know and love, her Godliness and devotion and her steadfastness to friends.

It was all so fitting in the face of a dastardly foe that found it impossible to wipe away all that Dorie Shaw is.

Soon we’ll put the wind in Kevin’s face again to help erode the travails at his great loss and bring forward all those good things that can fill his heart.

Remember the part you play as angels in the aisles, on the road, and in the home and do not shy away from bestowing heartfelt words, caring looks, or hearty hugs that will buoy up a brother or sister in need.

Peace

jerry

One and the Same – Ride Lead and Sweeper

Morro Rock from the end of CA Highway 41

My summer ride for 2017 is over and it’s time to look in the rearview mirror and reflect a bit. I haven’t said much about the last two days of the ride and that’s because they were somewhat unremarkable compared to my ride out to Pahrump in fantastic weather, the ride around and up to Mount Charleston, and the big ride-day from Pahrump through Death Valley and Yosemite to Fresno. Really though, that’s not exactly fair – I was riding a motorcycle and that is remarkable.

The day after rolling into Fresno I completed the traverse of CA Highway 41 by riding to its terminus in Morro Bay. I commented on this in Facebook that there is something to be said for completing a highway from end-to-end and that I’d write it if I figured out what it was to be said. Still got nothing on that except it feels right. My final day of riding brought me home down PCH to CA Highway 118 and the 210 Freeway. Morro Bay is a worthy destination as is home.

Highway 41 from Fresno to the coast is notable mostly for the two-lane road experience, most of which is through agricultural country complete with agri-vehicles that slow things down; trucks, tractors, and such. One needs to stay in touch with reality when passing these big vehicles and I witnessed a couple of close calls for the impatient folks stacked up in front of me. The agricultural area extends beyond US Highway 5 for a time until you weave into the foothills of the coastal range. At that point CA Highway 46 and 41 coincide for a time, once they separate there is sign suggesting trucks use 46. That’s because 41 narrows and gets into twistiness through Atascadaro and into the town of Morro Bay. By far, that was the most fun stretch for the day’s ride as I was behind a local, once again, and she wanted to push the pace and I wanted to make use of her native familiarity with the road.

I could have easily done a full day’s riding from Fresno to Morro Bay and on to home and would have if I didn’t have a reservation for the night. I was glad that I’d stayed over and enjoyed a walk around Morro Bay snagging an old motorcycle book and getting a close look at a sea otter in the harbor. I’ll be back.

Now to the title of this post – something I thought about during the ride is what it means to travel solo over several days or even for one long ride-day. The ride leader and sweeper are one in the same and there is no one to blame but yourself for getting lost or stuck all by yourself.

Consider for a moment the responsibilities of the Ride Captain or Lead Rider. That person is responsible for the safety of the riders and the smooth running of the ride; including planning, thinking ahead, communication, and decision making for unforeseen events. The ride leader also establishes a comfortable pace for all the riders in the group and picks a good line for twists and turns and negotiating traffic. It’s up to the ride leader not to make a move that all the riders in the group cannot make or close the gap afterwards in a reasonable way. If you’re solo, that simplifies most of it but it also puts reading the right line squarely on your own shoulders and is something that slows my own pace a bit,.

The sweeper, or sweep, or Tail End Charlie, is the last rider in line and is a rider with a lot of experience if not the most experience. It’s their job to ensure everyone else in the group arrives at the destination safely. Other terms I’ve found for this rider are back door, tail gunner, or Ride Lieutenant. I’ve driven as the sweep in caravans and think of myself in that situation as the mother hen watching over the brood, keeping everyone in front and together. On a ride, the sweep needs to keep in contact with the ride-lead and radio communication between the two is best, otherwise you must rely on hand signals. The sweep can provide a bit of a traffic break if they are aware or anticipate maneuvers the leader is going to make.

Only twice have I been uncomfortable in a group ride and both times they were lead or organized poorly. Once during my first ever group ride with the VMC when the return trip disintegrated at a stop sign and everybody went back to the hotel willy-nilly. The other time was a badly organized toy ride with a hundred bikes going through several freeway junctions – it was a bad scene and we were luck nothing happened. I have otherwise ridden with the best leaders and sweeps in all senses of the titles.

The word that is paramount to the ride leader, sweep, and everybody in between is vigilance. Always be aware of the others, the road conditions, traffic concerns, and yourself. Strangely enough, if you’re solo, you need to double your vigilance because you’ve got nobody setting your pace or covering your six. A big part of your personal vigilance is being completely honest with yourself on how you’re feeling, how comfortable you are in the current conditions, and your personal capabilities as a rider. In a group, that honesty needs to extend toward the others; in particular, the ride leader.

Be prepared, be vigilant, keep the pace and by all means, forever keep the iron side up.

Peace

jerry

Final tripmeter reading - should I have gone around the block to tick over 1300 miles?

No Evidence of the Coming Dawn

Tanya Lake, Yosemite

My kickstand was up and there was no evidence of the coming dawn. The map programs all said it would take me twelve hours for the day’s ride so I set myself up to push off between 5 and 5:30 a.m. I hit the sweet spot at 5:15 as I left the Pahrump Nugget Hotel and Casino, heavy on the casino. The hotel seemed to be an add-on. The smell of the casino smoke permeated my non-smoking room and I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. It served its purpose and that was about it.

I’d ridden up to Mount Charleston and back the day before but didn’t feel like writing it. The experience was anticlimactic. I’d built it up when writing the scene for my character with all this wonderful twisty riding to be done. Don’t get me wrong, there were a few miles of it and the views were fantastic. But, I’ll have to rewrite the scene because the lodge is nowhere near the top or close to the ski runs. The Rueben was tasty though.

Back to today’s ride, a fantastic experience. I hope I can do it justice here. For the record, I rode up through the Death Valley National Park then north on Highway 395 to Lee Vining, up into and through Yosemite National Park, and down to Fresno for the night – 446.3 miles, KSU to check-in.

Leaving as early as I did put me in the darkest of desert nights riding along unfamiliar roads. This was the time of night all the creatures are out, both predator and prey. I worked hard at not outrunning my headlight. Once I was out of town and rolling down Bell Vista Ave. toward CA 190 which took me into and through the Death Valley National Park, locals started to catch me. You can tell locals because they drive the roads like it’s nobody’s business and you’d better get out of the way. Want to increase you’re speed at night on unfamiliar roads? Stay on a local’s six and you pick up five to ten miles per hour. You only really need to keep your light on their tail and you’ve increased visibility of the road by the length of their high beams. Nifty.

The beauty of heading northwest is when the sun comes up it’s not in your eyes. The bad part is the fantastic sunrise is behind you and you can only snap a helmet cam photo in the mirror.

The locals all dropped off the road at various mining pursuits and some mysterious concern going on under a huge tent. By then I had light and got into some twisties that lead into Death Valley. This is my favorite time of day in the desert, when the sun is low and the harshness of the environment is muted to the point I can be seduced into thinking it’s that lovely all the time. Evenings somewhat restore those thoughts but can’t quite erase the reminders of the blistering heat of the day.

I stopped at Stovepipe Wells for a quick drink and then pushed on out of the park after periodically riding by ‘Flooded’ signs and skirting around standing water that lent credibility to the signs. I was just as happy to be above sea level again and working my way up the Panamint Mountains. All the way through to Lone Pine I thought back to one of my favorite group-rides where we’d ridden the opposite direction I went today. 

In Lone Pine I refueled man and machine at a Shell/Carl’s Junior. I just made it to the head of the line as the place was invaded by Germans, at least three 7/8-passenger SUVs full of them, each vehicle flying a German flag. And they were having a blast fooling around while filling the SUVs and washing the windows until they found out Carl’s didn’t carry espresso, then things got serious.

The run up Highway 395 was uneventful during a lightly travelled Wednesday morning. It was easy going and I set my cruise control at a reasonable speed so as not to attract attention and still be able to eat the miles only slowing for the periodic town that straddles the highway; Lone Pine, Pines, Big Pine, Bishop… The temperature started dropping into the low 70s as I rode along after being comfy in the mid-80s all morning long. I pulled off at Mammoth to refuel and gear up for the climb into Yosemite.

I had a brief moment of panic as I saw sign out of the corn of my eye about Highway 120 being closed after September 9. It must have been the eastbound route because westbound was open as was the Tioga Pass into Yosemite. (note to self: vet all roads before departing) High clouds and water in all the places meant for Yosemite to have water made for a spectacular ride through the park. I did it non-stop, but regretfully so. My little family has done some amazing day hikes and rock climbs and I was pining for those days a bit, especially riding by Bridal Veil Falls where Cindy and I once climbed up to the pool at its base and swam with our two kids who at four and five climbing like mountain goats. 

Let me bring this to a close with a review of a fantastic ride full of endless variety. I left one of the most desolate of places in the predawn hours, traveled through lowest place on the continent with its other-worldly landscapes, traveled along a highway at the base of the tallest peaks in the continental U.S., climbed into and traversed the first of our National Parks, wound my way down the other side into foothills of oak trees and open grasslands peppered here and there with a vineyard or two. At that point I fully expected to see Boss Spearman and Charley Waite (Postalwaite if you want to get formal about it) riding down the hills to round up their free grazing cattle.

Having ridden through such environmental diversity with extremes such as this will have a lasting impact on me. And tomorrow I will complete my end-to-end ride of CA Highway 41 and see the Pacific Ocean.

Keep the iron side up,

jerry

Somewhere in there is Mt. Whitney

When There is No Meet Point

Pearblossom Highway and the Big Storm Cell

When there is no meet point, you’re going solo and you’ve set your own KSU and making the departure time means little. People like to call them rides of the lone wolf as if calling it that gives it more nobility. There’s plenty of nobility in riding without over-icing the cake.

I think riding is a noble activity. Some may argue that based on negative encounters with riders and I would tell them discourteous riders have surrendered a measure of their nobility. Be inconsiderate enough on a bike you’ll become a simple hooligan on two wheels.

It’s been at least two summers since I’ve gotten in a multi-day ride so I put on my big-boy pants and planned a ride for myself to end the summer of 2017. I took off this morning missing my KSU by 18 minutes. I could blame the dog but he was already low having spent the night waiting for Cindy to get home from her nightshift and that wouldn’t be fair to poor Ollie. I was worked up enough about this that I went without my morning Kick Start but made up for it later. It was a warm morning and I was headed to Pahrump for a couple of days of writing and riding my character’s rides.

Up the Antelope Valley Freeway I went and headed right into storm clouds. I could see scattered areas of rain but lucked out pretty much and just got smatterings of rain here and there for some time. I was finally forced to don my rain gear in Littlerock as it seemed obvious that I would end up smack dap in a hefty storm cell complete with periodic lightning strikes. I took advantage of the stop and consumed my favorite rider’s breakfast, chocolate milk.

As I was sitting on the curb of the gas pump island pulling on my rain pants a woman walked by and chuckled at me on her way to her mini-van to go to work after dropping her kids at school. We traded a couple of good-natured barbs and some serious talk about needing rain - I’ll not complain about rain when we need it so much and so many people in the southeast are losing everything to it. She was the first in a pair of bookends and ended by telling me to stay safe as she buckled up. People are generally goodhearted.

The skies were fantastic as I rode east on the Pearblossom Highway and I was not disappointed in my decision to put on the rain gear. With every curve in the road I either headed directly into the path of that nasty cell or it appeared that I would skirt it while all the time smaller cells splattered my just-detailed bike. The cell moved from my right to left in a general way, southwest to northwest. When I made the junction to Highway 15 north toward Vegas the big cell pelted the desert with rain and lightning but continued to fade off to my left. The skies continued to clear to leave only high and nonthreatening clouds.

I pulled over for a multi-purpose stop in Barstow to refuel, remove the rain gear, and down a Grape flavored Kick Start. All was right in this rider’s world. After polishing off the heavenly beverage complete with electrolytes and caffeine I packed away my gear. While doing so a lady sitting in her mini-van offered me a towel saying that she had beach towels I could use to dry off. I didn’t need them as it was hot and dry enough even with the clouds that I’d dried within minutes. I thanked her anyway and she wished me a good rest of my trip. The other bookend.

My original plan was to have breakfast at The Mad Greek in Baker where I’d breakfasted often with AT&T’s radio operations guys. I scrapped that idea as I just wasn’t hungry and topped off my tank at the station next to the telephone central office where many a high desert radio project was kicked off. By this time, I was riding in triple digit temperatures and heading deeper into the Mojave.

I made a stop at the Salt Creek preserve, a little site just off CA State Highway 127 on the way to Shoshone. You wouldn’t know it from the road but there is a spring-fed gully there with vegetation and wildlife, though on this day around noon the animals all had sense enough stay low until evening leaving just a lone wolf stalking the grounds…

Pahrump is what Pahrump is – a place to buy fireworks, gamble, visit a Chicken Ranch if you’re so inclined. My purpose was to ride around town a bit and check on locations I’ve used in the book I’m now editing. Tomorrow I’ll take a ride that my character makes in the story - from Pahrump to Mount Charleston with its peak at nearly 12,000 feet. I’m watching the weather reports as there was a 40% chance of rain for the mountain in yesterday’s predictions. I don’t really like riding in the rain – I’ve lost my comfort level for it since I grew up.

When there’s no meet point, just go.

Keep the iron side up and stay cool.

jerry

Totality Run of the SSC - Prologue

At Damnation Creek Trail - I love the fallen redwood and

how it is now home to several trees and dozens of ferns and mosses.

I’ve been told that a using a prologue is for presenting material out of sequence with the rest of the story so that’s what I’m doing with this post. Probably. I intend to write one or two more posts of our summer trip to be in totality for the eclipse, hike with Gene Mauk, see my folks, and travel down the Northern California Coast. This post is about or inspired by our run down from Merlin, Oregon to Ft. Bragg and our day in Mendocino and provides a look and feel of our trip throughout.

We left Merlin behind and took the back way out to the Redwood Highway (US 199). This is the only highway to pass through the Siskiyou Mountains of southern Oregon and connects Crater Lake National Park to the Redwood National Park. Merlin is about halfway between. We twisted our way through amazing forests, through Cave Junction and by pear orchards being worked and harvested. Almost immediately after passing through Crescent City, California we entered the Redwood National Park, one of our favorite places on the planet.

We have Ollie Verdoodle with us and we were on constant watch for where he was welcome. Our first stop in the forest was at the Damnation Creek Trailhead with its posted ‘no dogs on the trail’. We complied and took some photos around the parking area before moving on. I made some observations that lead me to the conclusion that people who heed signs about dogs and waste and cautions are the very ones who are best at taking their dogs along. The people who don’t heed them are the worst. In fact, the sight that most inspired this conclusion had nothing to do with dogs. It’s people. I won’t go into detail here but would if asked in a different medium.

We came to a trail that allows dogs – or at least does not post a ‘no dogs’ sign. The Ah Pah Interpretive trail is about ¼ mile long into the forest and then back out. It was amazing to say the least. The trail is along the pathway of an old logging road that was removed to reduce erosion. The signage is an educational tour of how things were with the road, why it was removed, and how things have improved by the road's removal. It was gratifying to see how the undergrowth bounced back given the chance. I was blessed by a quote I'll hold close to my heart:

“To cherish what remains of the Earth and to foster its renewal is our only legitimate hope of survival.” – Wendell Berry

We spent the early part of today, Sunday August 27, 2017, in Mendocino, a wonderful coastal town perched on the bluffs above Mendocino Bay. The weather was clear, something of a marvel mentioned here and there by the locals as we walked along the main street and around unique shops and eateries. We hiked out to the bluffs and down near the point with great tide pools and rock formations.

Notebook in one hand, monocular in the other, I scanned the kelp beds for sea otters from time to time while waiting for a gentle wave to deposit a bestselling idea in the tide pools below. Though none was laid at my feet the whole of the scene restored my soul, if you don’t mind my borrowing words from David. A thought crossed my mind, a wonder in itself that I’m capable of such a thing. But the wonder here, I think, is the benevolence of the sea lion to allow man to place a fog horn where he likes to sun himself.

Nature revealed herself – dolphin in the bay leading a small raft of murre, gulls floating overhead, Oyster Catchers working the muscle beds, a raven enjoying a seafood lunch, a starfish clinging to the cliff just above the waterline, cormorants winging past all the while as the sea lions accented the mournful tones of the fog horn with a chorus of barks.

We took lunch at the Trillium Café, a dog friendly concern, invitingly so. We ate on a deck overlooking the garden with a lilting fountain and had a view of the bay between the main street stores. It was the best lunch in a long time, with or without our canine companion along. He was so good and the food so tasty we just had to extend it with desert.

Sunset was coming on so we ducked into Fort Bragg’s Safeway and grabbed crackers and cheese and granola/fruit/yogurt parfaits for a dinner on the clifftops to watch Sol descend into the Pacific. A perfect ending to such a day.

Our trip is drawing to a close, one day on the road with a too-short time in Pacific Grove/Monterey before running the rest of the way to SoCal. It’s been filled with many wonderful things and people, as I hope to show in the coming posts. Cindy and I remarked to each other that this will have been the longest time we’ve been away from home together. And we’ve loved it all.

Ollie and me enjoying the sunset on the bluffs of Fort Bragg

Memorial Day Rumination

I am the son of parents who met while serving in the US Navy during the Korean War. Two of my uncles served in the Navy and one of those uncles, my Uncle Bill, had two sons who served; one in the Navy and the one in the US Air Force. None of them were injured or killed while in the service. Their holiday is more rightfully Veterans’ Day.

Memorial Day is a day of remembrance for those who died while serving in the armed forces. The day was initiated in 1868 and was held on May 30th up to 1972 when the day of remembrance was moved to the last Monday in May. There will be parades, gatherings at memorials in parks and shopping malls all around, and some will visit the gravesites of the fallen where volunteers have placed American Flags at the gravesides.

I have not served our country in the armed services and I don’t know anyone personally who has given the ultimate sacrifice for freedom. I was in the last draft lottery that brought young men into the service to send them off to Viet Nam. I often say that I’m just as glad Uncle Sam didn’t invite me in for a trip to Southeast Asia. In fact, I repeated that sentiment to Eric just a few days ago when I ran into him during a walk in Crescenta Valley Park. Eric was our starting center on the ’71-’72 Glendale Community College team, the Vaqueros. Shortly after our game on the day our lottery numbers came out I remember hearing Eric’s exclamation from the front of the bus as he realized he was drafted. I was well above the top number to be called at 253.

While I make that statement from time to time it is not entirely true. My father was aboard the aircraft carrier USS Point Cruz somewhere near Korea the day I was born. Cindy and I had an opportunity because of an overly long port of call during a recent cruise to tour the USS Midway in San Diego. I was thrilled all the while I went from cabin to cabin, command centers and through the flight and hanger decks while getting just a feel for what my dad went through. We came home and I got the name of his ship from my mom to do some research on it and wrote my dad a letter about his ship, added some old photos, and talked about my experience on the Midway. In the letter I made a confession to him that until that time I hadn’t told anyone – I wish that I had enlisted in the service out of high school rather than flail about in college for the first couple of years.

Though I did not serve I nevertheless mourn the loss of young lads and lasses that I would have served with had I gone into service. I mourn those who are injured and killed in every conflict and act of terrorism. We memorialize the fallen – as a country, as communities, as families, and as individuals. We create space to remember them in some way with special to ourselves.

I lost one of my best of friends while in my twenties to a car accident with a drunk driver. I still don’t completely understand God’s reasoning for it but I’ve gotten over the bitterness of it thanks to the laying on of hands and the prayers of a very special group of junior high kids and their advisers. Since losing Doug I found myself at Bass Lake over an occasional Memorial Day weekend, a place he and I went a couple of times with his parents’ boat and skied like crazy. To memorialize my friend I’d walk down to the lake from my grandparents’ home and stroll along Ski Beach until I found someone willing to take me out for a memorial run. Ski people can be very accommodating. I’d ski the crap out that lake either until my new friends got tired of it or I wiped out in some spectacular fashion. Nowadays I have a Dr. Pepper and lift it to him in memory. You see? It’s the little ways we can remember those we’ve lost and it’s all fine and good as long as it keeps the warmth of their memories close to us without sending us into the cold of bitterness. Bitterness doesn’t do us nor anyone close to us any good. It took a small miracle for me to find that out for myself.

What does this have to do with Memorial Day 2017? Well, there are hundreds of thousands of people memorializing their fallen today, mourning their losses, and some have every right to be bitter. I pray they don’t fall to bitterness or if they have then some miracle takes place for each one and they find those that will comfort them.

All in all, remember our lost well, keep warm memories of them alive, and pray for peace.

jerry

Spring Into Action

Harbingers of Spring are everywhere. Our front yard is a riot of clover sporting bright yellow flowers, everything is green, buds are at the tip of every living branch, and the pines are losing a deluge of pollen – everything standing still outdoors has a fine yellow coating and I dared not take a Sunday afternoon nap out on the porch. The occurrence that truly sets up Spring is Daylight Savings Time and the setting of our clocks ahead one hour which took place the night before.

Cindy had just left for a night shift at the hospital and I sat at this keyboard with a view of our riotous front yard and the birdfeeder visited by increasingly colorful birds. I had, and still have, things I needed to write, things I should have been doing and so I wrote the following Facebook post thinking that would do the trick and I’d dive right in:

“Such a conundrum; the house emptied out, there's an extra hour of sunlight, and a motorcycle in the garage...and my "God Said, 'Let's Ride'" tee shirt in the drawer.”

I may have been all right had I not added the tee shirt quote but I did and I listened to it call me. Less than ten minutes and I was coursing down Freeman Avenue and off for an opportunistic ride with staying off the freeways as my only requirement. I rode up Foothill Boulevard to Big Tujunga Canyon and took it through the neighborhood of Sunland/Tujunga into the foothills and on to the Angeles Forest Highway where I opted to head on up to the Angeles Crest Highway and down into La Canada. Just under an hour later and in a little less than forty miles I had sprung into action and was returned home. Some itches need to be scratched.

As I entered Big Tujunga Canyon with the stream-bed on my left and mountainside to my right I had the evening sun still streaming into the canyon at my back setting it up so that I was riding sweep to my shadow. My shadow kept a better line through the twisties than I did and I wasn’t bothered by that in the least. Once I rounded a particular long bend in the road I lost him anyway and I was on my own again.

At one point I rode directly under a drone and thought how nice it would have been to be carrying Mississippi’s sidearm of choice from El Dorado, a holstered sawed off shotgun. I could have taken that thing out without gearing down and rode on completely at ease. Wistfully I remembered Magnum’s satisfaction when he blew Higgins’ gas powered remote control plane from the Hawaiian skies.

The roads were clear enough that I never had to slow down for a soul with a few riders and cars passing me the other way. I did pull over for a string of cars - a mix of sports and muscle cars - and then had fun staying on their six until we reached Angeles Crest Highway where we went our separate ways.

I was able to catch the sun setting through the canyons as couples embraced while sitting on the hoods of their cars parked in the viewpoints to watch it set, and photographers snapped photos as the glorious orb went to rest for the night. My helmet cam didn’t do it justice but that’s the way of the photograph, they rarely catch what the mind tells us our eyes see.

Coming down the last stretch of twisties I was able to look out over the LA Basin in early evening light to see the marine layer coming in to consume the buildings leaving islands of skyline far below me.

All in all it was a pleasant resolution to my conundrum. Spring into action my friends and when you do, keep the iron side up.

Peace

jerry

My video heading into Big Tujunga Canyon: note here that not one sport biker returned my biker's solute. 

Stay Tuned - A Biker's Sonar

Group Ride - Laughlin - February 11, 2017

During our recently completed Laughlin Ride weekend I had plenty of opportunities to contemplate the phenomenon of the group ride. We had the rides out and back to Laughlin that grew in numbers at various meet points along the way out and that dwindled at freeway junctions on the way home and then we had a fun-ride filled with potholes, canyon runs with twisties, mountain passes with twisties, and a town full of burros – vigilance required at every stage.

For the record, I consider anything from three bikes on up to be a group ride. Two bikes is pairs-riding even though many of the things I’ll talk about below apply, it feels like a different animal to me to the point that I have a different bikers’ solute for three or more riders in a line where I go from the easygoing down-low salute to a fist pump, my Howitzer solute for the last rider in the line.

When we ride we need to use all our senses to maintain a heightened degree of situational awareness. I confess though that as I write this I’m struggling with where the sense of taste comes into play, feel free to weigh in on this. Your sense of smell can tell you about skunkage on the road ahead or a particularly nasty diesel truck laboring around the next bend. Our sense of touch helps integrate us with our own machine and how it’s running as well as tell us about the condition of the tarmac under our wheels.

Our sense of hearing in a group ride is our rider’s sonar as we take in information from other riders, the road, and drivers. Let me set the stage at bit; the two most well-known types of sonar for those of not working with the technology are active and passive sonar.

Active sonar is where the device sends out a ping and listens for the echo off a given target to measure size, distance and speed of the object. I can draw a little parallel here for riders’ sonar such as when our eyes lock onto an item of interest and our ears tune in for confirmation as when we see flashing lights we listen for the siren to tell us if it’s moving or stationary. This tells us what the signature is of the obstacle we are about to encounter. It’s not a perfect corollary but it works for me.

Passive sonar is strictly listening. Naval vessels, particularly submarines, use sonar to locate targets or obstacles. Submarines live and die by sonar, both active and passive. Regarding the sub’s passive sonar; it is a system of listening devices at various points on the sub or even trailed in the water behind. These are all fed into computers these days that run algorithms to tell range, speed, and location. One of the best examples of passive sonar use that comes to mind can be found in The Hunt for Red October where Jonesy detects the Russian sub and its revolutionary propulsion system. The link to the relevant scene is found at the end of this post.

Our riders’ passive sonar is hardly passive; it requires us to tune into all the relevant noises around us while filtering those extraneous sounds from cluttering up our attention. While riding in a group, particularly from the number three spot back to the sweep, we need to listen to the sounds of those ahead of us. Decelerations in RPMs, even backfires, warn us of a pending need to slow down. Accelerations tell us where we can expect to speed up through an apex on the turn. Break lights are fine but if like me, you happen to riding behind folks who are particularly adept at throttle control and the use of gearing to maintain proper speeds, their engine sounds are a vital clue.

Of course, our vision is number one. There is no substitute for seeing and being seen. Our eyes must tune to the road ahead to pick out lines through the twisties, road hazards, the action of other drivers and riders, and seeing the riders in front point out road hazards and giving warning hand signals. Lifehack has a nice article called ’12 Motorcycle Hand Signals You Should Know’:

http://www.lifehack.org/articles/lifestyle/12-motorcycle-hand-signals-you-should-know.html

Regarding the thought that loud pipes saves lives; if that is where you put your trust then you ride in a weak position. Relying on someone in a cage with the sound system blaring and kids screaming or passengers yammering in a car that advertised itself as quiet is trust ill placed. Personally, I prefer relying on being seen and knowing that I’ve been seen and even when I know I’ve been seen I don’t trust that the driver isn’t a nutcase. I spend precious little time in anyone’s blind spot.

The bottom line is to keep our senses finely tuned to the ride and everything about our riding environment. So tune in first, put your kickstand up second, and enjoy the ride. 

Keep it real and keep the iron side up.

Peace

jerry

UTube link to Jonesy’s Report in The Hunt for Red October:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y7g6dKncO-I

Admiral, There Be Burros Here - Ride for Fun - Laughlin 2017

There were bikers and pirates, babes and hedgehogs,
and then there were visions in the clouds

Jed planned a fun-ride for our Saturday of the Laughlin 2017 weekend over roads that could be ridden for the sheer joy of riding and included interesting stops for sights and sounds and experiences that, in and of themselves, were worth the stop. We twisted and turned, glided up and down, and all the while passed through scenery that was stunning. Oh, and the bouncing - we can’t forget the bouncing; it was rumored at the time that someone left a spleen on relatively short section of old Highway 40. Or was that Route 66? ...my brain got scrambled.

KSU was 8:30 in the morning with a planned late breakfast at Topock 66 on the banks of a quiet estuary of the Colorado River, just off Historic Highway 66. Another group of Victory riders were scheduled for a later KSU and joined us in time for some give and take, adding and switching of groups and post-meal rides. Topock 66 seems to have an affinity for butts; even their bar stools for butts are… well butts. Photos of patrons adorn the walls. No, you won’t find me there; they’ll only stoop so far.

Regarding the meal at Topock 66, I had a great omelet. The waitress heard that it was Shawn’s birthday and presented him with an excellent desert that triggered a rousing rendition of Happy Birthday. There were some rumors that Shawn may have milked the birthday thing but I believe it was a spontaneous outpouring of love for the man and, even if it was true that he worked it bit, it was well deserved. Again, happy birthday friend. Back to the food and service, both were great. I didn’t hear any complaints on either but I may have had my crap-filter turned up high.

Parking at Topock 66

Dockside at Topock 66

We continued on Route 66 until we came to Oatman, Arizona. To get there we traveled through desert-scapes that held a patina of greens covering the color pallet. The rains have inspired a rush of growth in the mesquite, Joshua Trees, shrubs, and grasses. The red and yellow cliffs jutting up along our canyon runs are spectacular. The roads and riding were awesome, definitely on my list of favorite rides.

Admiral, there be burros here! Almost as soon as we had our bikes parked we saw the town burros making their way along the main street looking for likely softhearted souls to feed them. Warning, take caution if you are carrying a brown paper bag, with or without burro treats in it, they are a magnet for the burros and some are more aggressive than others. The tale is that it was a miner’s burro that discovered gold which gave rise to the town, listed as a “Census-designated place” in Mohave County, Arizona. The actors who performed the mock gun fight referred to the town as a mining camp. Now the street is lined with curio and gift shops, make-shift museums, and such. Worth the visit in any case and the burros are generally kind and docile. Several of our Victory friends were already there having come in from other directions and destinations. Off highway vehicles of various shapes and sizes rolled into town and the mix of burros, dirt bikes, highway bikes, and family vehicles made for a busy street.

Donna Doval and friends
in Oatman

Donna and Sue and the Oatman Mutual Admiration
Society

We left Oatman and continued along a winding Route 66 to make a stop at Cool Springs for some history and a panoramic view of the desert. Cool Springs was the inspiration for Radiator Springs in the Disney Cars movies. Additionally, the older structure was used in an explosive scene in Universal Soldier and later restored. The docent at the museum housed there gave us a great reading and viewing of the history of the place and then took the photo of our group that is as of this writing, my Facebook cover photo and shown below.

While at Cool Springs we heard burros calling out to each other but were unable to spot them they are so camouflaged to their desert surroundings. We saw plenty of evidence along the road but only laid eyes on them in Oatman.

Outback at Cool Springs

Cool Springs and the Gang

We rolled back into Laughlin having put in around 130 miles of good tight riding through red-rock canyons and dazzling high-desert scenery that gives one an understanding of why folks choose to live in deserts though I confess I’m more of a beach and/or mountain person.

We arrived early enough to freshen up before gathering here or there. I ended up in the Jed and Sue Suite on the ninth floor overlooking the river walk. (more on this as a postscript) After a wine tasting experience about thirty or so ended up at the Colorado Belle Loading Dock for dinner. Offhand I’d say those who partook of the buffet came out ahead with the exception of the rib rack Jeb worked on. It was, as most rider’s gatherings are, a time for catching up, reliving the ride, talking out news of the day, and looking out to the future.

Keep it real and keep the iron side up.

Peace

jerry

Postscript – regarding the suite, I dare say someone would be unhappy if I didn’t cover a significant event that normally I’d let slide into the fog of myth and memory. We were instructed to pay no attention to the women behind the curtain. If Toto were in the room there would have been a startling reveal to rival that which occurred at Oz. It was over in a flash, shrieks filled the room, glasses continued to clink. They pointed down at the river walk where a Peeping Tom was seen, camera in hand though a professional camera w/ sporting lens would have been more up to the task of capturing the sight and the only evidence that anything occurred at all were four telling smudges on the window.