Bass Lake Quickie

I had been wanting to make this run for a couple of years now; heck, since I got back on a bike in ’07 – it’s a ride I’d done several times on my old Honda CB500. Bass Lake is where my mom was raised and where our family had spent many wonderful vacations at all times of the year. I rode up to visit my grandparents and my cousin Lee’s family a few times and a couple of other times rode up to visit my mom during a Junior High Summer Camp that she advised. We had great fun loading the kids on the back of the bike with my too-large-for-them helmet and riding them around the camp. I can imagine trying that in today’s litigious environment; I would never get it by the Session (ruling body) at LCPC.

I had a small window of opportunity for this ride with my daughter’s family getting a cabin at the lake for a couple of days and I took it. The ride up on Friday the 15^th was most remarkable for smells; first the freshening air going up the grade to the Tejon Pass, then out along Hwy 99 and through the fertile valley where I passed the onion truck and dodged the skins flying off, same for the load of hay, and then there was the dairy farm with its pungent array fertilizer and methane. It was nothing like riding by Harris Ranch on Hwy 5 but still, it’s a dairy and there is no way except by holding your breath to hide from odors while riding.

With my 6a.m. KSU departure I made it in plenty of time to enjoy a low-traffic Friday and Hwy 41 and the roads leading into the lake  were traffic light so that I only “had” to pass a couple of cars. I had 23 hours with Matt, Ashley, and my grandkids, Teya and little JJ. Jeremiah took a nasty tumble down the stairs while I was getting out of my riding gear and sported a half a hardboiled egg sized knot for rest of their mini-vacation – tough kid though as it did not deter him from trying to head butt me off the swimming dock later that day. We had a two-hour putt around the drought depleted lake on a 50hp pontoon boat for fun and then an easy and laid back dinner.

I had the kickstand up at 10 a.m. the next morning and did my traditional ride around the lake for a photo op on the dam. The ride home was more hectic with people trying to get home after their week away and everybody kept a frenetic pace until it was stop-and-go up the grade from Santa Clarita to San Fernando due to an accident. Even so, I made it home in a little less than 5.5 hours with a longish lunch stop.

It is not worth 11 hours of riding for a 23 hour visit, including sleep time, with your grandkids…said no biker ever. I had nice ride on a great bike to see one of my very favorite places with family. Can’t beat that.

For a fun little challenge, post your own “said no biker ever” quote, either your own or one you “borrow” from someone. Post it either as a comment to the blog or on the FB page.

Directly across from the Marina where we stayed.

This is Thanksgiving time level for the lake

Y’all keep the iron side up.

A Not So Subtle Reminder

It was a stark reminder; nothing subtle about it. There were some harbingers that things weren’t right on the road ahead; the L.A. City fire hook and ladder that had made the turn from Foothill Blvd. on to Oro Vista just before me and two sport bike riders stopping to talk with them and pointing back the way they’d come, the way I was headed, and then the group of a dozen or so sport riders coming down Big Tujunga Canyon Road and giving me the slow down signal. I had just passed the Vogel Flat Road turn-off and came around the last passable turn heading up to the Angeles Forest Highway where I was stopped by a yellow-slickered Cal Fire man with his stop sign and he had me pull over on to the shoulder. There were already 10 or so sport bikes on the left shoulder with two or three on my side of the road. The CDF truck blocking the lane was one of six or eight emergency vehicles representing at least three agencies. Search and Rescue would soon join them as the LA County Sherrifs' rescue helicopter circled above looking for the closest landing zone. A couple of hundred yards up from us was a rider on the ground surrounded by trained personnel administering first aid and stabilizing the rider. His bike was a few yards up totaled by the impact with the guardrail, one that I’d seen being replaced back in 2009 after the Station Fire had burned out every wood supported rail for mile after mile of forest roadways.

Down Rider and Bike

On the way down the hill...

...and on by the onlookers

The scene in front of me was forthright – vigilance always; know the road, your bike, and your capabilities. To quote Dirty Harry, “A man’s got to know his limitations.” The rider had lost it on a curve, not blind but with an open view of the whole turn leading into the next one. No one around me knew if he hit something and lost it or what really happened. Some things are just unavoidable, indescribable.

I could have walked up to get a closer look but 200 yards away was as close to a looky-loo as I wanted to be. It wasn’t too long and they had the man lifted into the back of the search and rescue pick-up and passed by the growing and waiting crowd and out of sight where they met up with the helicopter which soon rose up and flew over us up the canyon and then over Mt. Lukens to head to a local hospital; maybe Verdugo Hills but likely either Glendale or Huntington Memorial.

Rescue Helicopter at its base

Again at the base in 2009

I had stood around mostly apart from the other riders but within earshot as they spoke to each other about their own incidents, about how they handle things, and about their safety gear. By the time the last EMT had picked up his paraphernalia I had geared back up, rolled my bike off the dirt turn out (not favorite thing on a cruiser) and headed back down the eight or nine miles to Foothill and over to my remote office to write this up. My enjoyment for the ride up to Angeles Forest Highway, over to and then down Angeles Crest Highway and a writing session on another project had disappeared with the rescue helicopter.

I said a few prayers for the downed rider and his friends and here’s one for my readers: “May God watch over you each day, around each bend in the road, and through every intersection. May he guide your path and keep you vigilant. May the Lord keep your eyes open to the road and all it brings your way. May he help you every day to keep the iron side up.”

Country Roads - New England Style

During our week in the New England states we drove on, walked down, and great country roads and trails. As you can see, this post is more about driving and walking then about riding motorcycles but there are points of interest for the rider and riding the roads was never really far from my mind.

Walkways at Bennington College are mown
 paths winding through lush meadows

“Country Roads” by John Denver or “Country Road” by James Taylor – take your pick; they are both great songs and we had both of them bouncing around in our heads during our recent trip to attend the graduation of our daughter-in-law from the Bennington College Masters of Fine Arts program. Yes, we’re proud of her for the accomplishment and we’re proud of our son for being the strong supporter and caring husband he is; they are bringing a lot of joy. 

We landed in Boston a few days before the graduation with a loose plan to take in some of the New England history and views. We had no real plan for that first day except that we wanted to see some historic sites and maybe paddle around in the Swan Boats at the Boston Public Gardens. Getting out of the airport in our rental car, a white VW Beetle, and into the city was problematic with toll roads being a big part of the route and a very small part of our previous experience. California is moving in the toll road direction and I’ll have to discover how best to work with them, especially on a motorcycle. We opted to pay cash at each toll station and we’ll rethink that next time we are in a heavy toll area and perhaps go to the electronic pay method. Once off the toll roads we cast about looking for a way over to the city without paying tolls again spotting a church spire and simply made our way toward it hoping for the Old North Church; nope. We parked and walked by it anyway, the architecture was great everywhere we looked, even some of the rundown areas are interesting. We saw a tall monument rising above everything around and made for it on foot to find ourselves about a mile away from where we parked and at the Bunker Hill Monument and one end of the Freedom Trail.

I hustled over and moved the car nearer to the monument park and to freshen up the “parking clock” in case a parking enforcement type person was busy. We walked to the Old North Church which took us by Old Ironsides. It was early evening and we found out that most public places close up at five; plan accordingly. We saw the sites from the outside and they were stirring; walking the Freedom Trail, and later the next day the Battle Road, made me regret being such a passive history student.

The plan for the following day was to go up to Concord in New Hampshire and see some historic sites and Walden Pond before dropping back down to The Inn at Crumpin Fox in Bernardston MA for the night to give us a shorter hop over to Bennington VT to meet up with Ani. Yes I know, hello poor history student. Fortunately the navigator and real brains of our duo spotted Walden Pond and the historically significant Concord. We were right on top of it and she saved us several hours of driving to disappointment. This also gave us the time for two walks, one around Walden Pond, the other along the Battle Road at the Minute Man National Historical Park.

Henry, Cindy, and me

Walden Pond is a beautiful place and is now an attraction and swimming and paddle boating location during this time of year. The walk around the pond was great; spending time at Henry David Thoreau’s cabin site, the re-creation of his cabin to take an ussie photo with his statue, and even the gift shop – all of it was deeply thought provoking and humbling to this wannabe writer. 

James Taylor said it very well in his Country Road, “I guess my feet know where they want me to go, Walking on a country road.”

The Minute Man National Historical Park information center provides a refresher course on the events that rent the thin fabric holding the colonies to Britain. We took a short walk along the Battle Road which the British soldiers took from Boston to Concord and back. It is lined with the old rock walls built up as the colonists farmed the land and removed rocks from the fields as they plowed. All along this footpath are markers proclaiming acts of heroism during the battle, marked homes of the farmer communities, and told of the cost on both sides of the battle. The fact that no one ordered the first shot or who fired it hung in the air as we considered what might have been our history if men of reason were able to sit down and work out a fair way to have a representative government and tax schedule tied to Britain. We could have walked the whole road back to Boston, maybe someday we will. 

Those roads we walked are wonderful and worthy of a planned hike end to end on the Freedom Trail and Battle Road and all around Walden Pond again with a dip in the water at the end. And the list grows on…

What struck us as we motored along the highways was that once we leave the cities and the metropolis fades in the rearview mirror we are immediately on country roads and highways. In Southern California we go from one city to another city or suburb and have to travel traffic clogged many miles to find a country road that is, as often as not, in a desert. We kept saying “it is so green” to each other. (Of course we need only remember the winter they just came out from to know why it is so green) The forest comes right down to the right-of-way on the four lane highways, so thick that the trees obscure the towns the highway passes by. We preferred the two-lane, numbered roads that the highways closely paralleled; the forest comes right down to the shoulder and thins only as we approached the towns – first with hidden driveways, followed by a trip down Main Street with old town buildings, churches with spires and old graveyards marked with flags for the veterans of all our wars, barns and out buildings, old town stores. We made plenty of quick stops and passed others that we wished we could make; we could have taken many days along our route making stops to take in the history and the feel of the communities we drove through. The vista at Hogback Mountain boasts a hundred-mile panorama and looks into another state with views of two national forests. It is breathtaking, to use an old cliché for an old place. 

180 degree + panorama shot from Hogback Mtn.

One thing that struck me as we wound our way from place to place was what great roads they are for riding, horses or bikes, motored or peddled. I didn’t regret the time spent in the cage, it was one of those nice road trips with my wife that allowed us to talk or simply enjoy the road and views in a comfortable silence. We never once turned on the radio of the rental. It was hot and humid as we drove along and we spent a few miles driving through downpours so be ready for both when riding in New England in the summer, all that green takes a lot of water. I put down the window for long stretches and gave the bike salute as they rode by; I hope that wasn’t a sacrilege to send off the greeting from inside. We spent a day after the graduation at Lake George, NY, a huge lake by our standards, 35 miles long and seven or so wide. We had lunch on the second story deck of a restaurant overlooking the main drag of Lake George Town, across from a park, and with a view of the lake. It was a cruiser street and we watched as loads of bikers, classic car enthusiasts, and hotrod hound dogs cruised by.

These country road photos won't do the drive justice but you'll get the idea:

One of many covered bridges

Old Indian sign at the Natural Stone Bridge Park

View from the bug

 John Denver’s Country Roads “I hear her voice in the morning hour she calls me, Radio reminds me of my home far away, Driving down the road I get a feeling, That I should have been home yesterday, yesterday.”

Storm Racing

Storm Racing Out of Klamath Falls 

A leisurely visit with my folks ended with a race; we weather-watched and saw that a storm was coming in to the Klamath Falls, Oregon area. The two-day ride up a few days earlier had been ideal, both in weather and route. I’ll backtrack to that ride on a later post. The plan had been to head home Monday to arrive back in La Crescenta on Tuesday after a layover at my friend Jim’s place in Walnut Creek but the weather apps showed two days of rain coming in starting Sunday around noon. We agreed that I would be better off to get down the Siskiyou Mountains ahead of the rain and we set up for an early morning departure on Sunday, a day earlier than planned. Riders need to be vigilant and flexible in their plans.

The kickstand was up just before sunrise and I cruised down the Hwy 140 along the lower point of Upper Klamath Lake to the junction with Hwy 97 which took me to Weed, California. The 97 is a mostly a two-lane highway that parallels an Amtrak rail route through agricultural sections interspersed with wetlands. It winds in and out of the pine forest and mountain roadways; a biker’s road to say the least. It was cloudy and cold, down to 39^o, and I was glad that I had geared up with the rain suit if for nothing else but the extra layer.

Motoring down the 97, I took advantage of my Cross Country’s get-up-and-go and passed the early morning cars and trucks on a more regular basis than I usually do in order to keep ahead of the storm front. However, that put me on a pace to catch up with the leading arm of the storm swirl. Heading southeast with a clear road in front of me leading into the foothills I had the waning half moon and a beautiful rainbow straight ahead of me. The rainbow as God’s promise of grace rode right next to the scientific promise of falling water droplets refracting the rising sun behind me. The rain was moving on up into the hills as I caught up to the drizzle that had given birth to the rainbow. I lucked out and was able to keep a good pace along the twisties with the pavement not being too wet and made it out to the high plain leading into Weed without hitting any downpours; I fueled up and downed a hot chocolate to break the chill. It was enough for a subtle reminder about taking all your gear on a long ride and promising enough to add some thrill to the race.

I left Weed south on Hwy 5 toward Redding, part of my favorite section of what in a lot of areas is a straight and boring route with intermittent truck-dodging sessions. From Weed to Redding it is anything but boring with the Shasta-Trinity National Forest coming right down to the highway right-of-ways and twisting its way through the Siskiyou Mountains. There are views of Shasta Mountain as well as the passage over and along Shasta Lake which at this time of year should have a lot more water in it than what I saw; save your water folks, it’s going to be a long, dry summer.

By the time I came down the grade into Redding the water leaden clouds were receding and I’d won the race this time around but not without that little reminder that storm racing is iffy at best. I fueled up, geared down, and headed out to finish the day's run.

Be well and keep the iron side up.

328 From Tombstone

328 From Tombstone and Back and Home Again

Saturday morning started innocently enough with a latish breakfast at the Helldorado Chuckwagon, an "Eatery", where we had a great breakfast served by waitresses that called you “Hon” and laughed with us; Jim is especially good at relating to them – it was like breakfast with family and that suited us just fine. There was no solid plan in place for the day as the weather was a big concern; everyone checked and rechecked the weather apps and GPS units; they said the same thing, wind, more wind, and possible rain late; we rode anyway.

The objective was a couple of mountain roads over in New Mexico. After walking back to the Sagebrush we geared up and rode out of town with only a breeze until we got further up Highway 80, nothing that presaged what our day would really be all about. Once we hit Highway 10 east the winds picked up and we were in 10^o leans with the full intensity of the day’s blasts hitting just as we entered New Mexico, it was though the state meant to blow us back to Arizona and we were at 20^o leans. We had 30 MPH sustained winds with 50 MPH gusts for the remainder of the ride with the only respite being the mountain roads and even then we had to be vigilant for the vagrant gust coming down the canyons as we twisted our way back to the main highways. 

In the photo here, taken of me by Steve Mclean Sr., I had just turned my head to give him a wave when a gust hit me from the right snapping my head and shoulders back straightening my arms out and I had to get busy getting back into position. When I had followed Kevin on a calm day his flags whipped straight back; on this day, in this wind, his flags whipped 90^os one way or the other. There was a long Facebook discussion on the physics of this but it would tax my understanding just to copy it to this post.

We took refuge for a much needed break at an abandoned gas station somewhere in New Mexico during the return part of the loop. It seemed to me at the time to be emblematic of the day's ride. It was a mixed bag of a ride with some very ride-worthy sections with the winds and, thankfully, only a couple of minor sand blasts. It could have been worse in that regard, much worse; we saw frequent permanent signs warning of blowing dust and sand and we sand storms in the distance. I know that I uttered a couple of prayers hoping to fend off the sand.

You know that you are on a great ride when the visibility is for miles and you can only see a quarter mile of road in front of you. When the lead-dog disappears in front of you and the sweeps can’t be seen in the rearview and then you come out of the gorgeous sweeping curve to check your speed and are surprised at the top-end then you know you are locked in and riding good tech hitting the entry, the apex, and shooting out the far end. You know you are in a great group when everyone forms up on the flats in tight formation without batting an eye.

Likewise, you know that you are in for a workout when you see every rider in a 20^o lean from upright in the straights from lead to sweep. And you know it’s really tough when everybody is in a lean but not to the same side at the same time. 328 miles mostly in the crosswind; my best recollection of the route (I hope Kevin will correct me here) was Hwy 80 out of Tombstone, east on Hwy 10 into New Mexico, down the 146 to the 9 over to the 80 at Rodeo, south through Douglas within spitting distance of Mexico, and then back up the 80 through Bisbee to Tombstone where we spent some time at the Boothill Cemetery. The route could have been very different – I was mostly focused on staying with the group and between the guardrails. I would have benefited by having a GPS app recording the route for the day, I’ll work on that.

Boothill was entertaining with the nicknames of some of the people buried there and sobering at the same time with so many graves with “Unknown” markers, a section of men hanged (1 lynched), and so many shot, stabbed, or that had otherwise met a violent death. There were the clearly marked graves of the three Cowboys killed at the OK Corral with the notice that they were “murdered in the streets of Tombstone”. It was a hard time in a harsh land and after our ride I wondered just how they got along without pavement in such a place.

Dinner that night was followed by slow walk back through the historic section of town after a short rain shower while we ate. It was Twilight in Tombstone but my timing was bad and I didn’t witness any of the free gunfights staged around the town, bad timing I guess. The OK Corral has a store but you have to pay to see the actual area where the historic gunfight took place as it is now surrounded by high walls.

We ate an early breakfast at the Helldorado, riding down the three blocks with bikes ready to ride out. After we posed for a group shot on the main street of Tombstone we road home with a series of goodbyes, first Kevin split off east at Highway 10 on his way to Dallas for a conference and eventual Iron Butt run home, then it was Mike, Jim, and Greg at a couple of junctions in Phoenix, Mike and Jim to roundabout way home and Greg to visit a friend in town before heading home the following day. Tim, Brad, and Gerald peeled off well into California and then it was Steve and me until we split up when I jumped off the freeway to refuel at the junction of the 10 and 57 freeways. The only thing that marked the ride home for me was riding blind for 250 miles when my speedometer and tach went out. After each stop it they would work for a time and then go out. It wasn’t too bad with me following the others but the last 50 miles home was a bit nerve-wracking. Something’s loose and not just the nut between the seat and the handlebars…all in all, it was a fine adventure with outstanding bikers.

Tombstone Group with OK Corral in the background.
Photo courtesy of Steve Mclean Sr.

The Road to Tombstone

Gerald on his Highball -
Photo courtesy of Steve Mclean

Tombstone; the destination for my first multi-day group ride and longest single-day ride total. By the time we all met up there were nine riders, all of us on Victories for the three-day ride – three Visions, five Cross-countries if we still count Brad Parrack’s beautiful newly and heavily modified bike, and one High Ball ridden by Brad’s son Gerald. On the visions we had Kevin Shaw, the ride leader, Steve Mclean Sr., and Jim Liston. Including Brad and me our Cross riders were Mike Roark, Greg Brown, and Tim Tarbet. In my mind Gerald had the gutsiest ride of us all with the High Ball, moderate ape hangers, no windscreen, and no seat back; he rode the crap out of that bike and reminded me of when my best friend and I took off on our under powered and under equipped Hondas for 4,000 miles – a CB500 and a 350 Scrambler. Well done young man. 

My kick stand was up at 4:27 am, three minutes early, and I headed east out the 210 to meet Kevin at the Seidners Collision Center in Duarte. Fortunately this was not a harbinger of things to come and nobody needed the place other than as a meet point. The Cheshire moon was low in front of me and had Venus hanging below like a Liz Taylor diamond gleaming in the predawn sky. The two us jumped right back on the 210 for 13 miles to pick up Steve at a park-and-ride. Still dark out, we rode out to Moreno Valley and brought the ride number up to seven with Brad, Gerald, Greg, and Tim.

After we met, re-met, and greeted each other we geared up swapping out clear eyewear for sunglasses and jumped on Highway 10 for the first longish, as it turned out, ride segment to gas up 94 miles later at Chiriaco Summit. The sun made its grand entrance and we rode right into it. For the most part I rode in the middle of the pack with Tim preferring the sweep position and Kevin in the lead. We had a pretty calm ride until we hit the San Gorgonio Pass and the big wind farms with the gigantic turbines stretching along the pass and ridgelines like Indian warriors stretched out as shown in the old western movies. With the sun rising more white than yellow making the clouds silver in the celeste-blue sky and us coming up the grade into it the riders ahead of me were silhouetted in front of the turbines in the grayscale scene; the only color showing was the red taillights drawing us onward as we snaked up the grade.

Fueled up, we pushed into Arizona to meet up with Jim and Mike in Quartzsite. At this point Kevin was taken to task for being ten minutes late after 234 miles and three meet points. After all, we had another 100 miles to breakfast in Buckeye and Jim was hungry. To be honest, as soon as he said it, so was I; I hadn’t given it much thought with all the excitement of the adventure ahead of me. Considering that we wouldn’t eat lunch a late proper breakfast, as Dale Moews would describe it, worked just fine. As the rest of the trip unfolded, not stopping for lunch was the pattern; I felt right as home as that was the way we worked microwave radio site visits in the middle of nowhere.

The next hop was 150 miles into Tucson where we stopped at HMD and since I hadn’t taken the time to figure out what that was I had a nice surprise. HMD, Heavy Metal Desigz is a custom design and fabricator for motorcycles and specializing in the Victory line. Arlen Ness and HMD are official distributors of each other's parts. This is where Brad got the parts and design help for his bike. They also do cars and trucks; basically, anything on wheels they will make look awesome! Mike Saenz is the originator of HMD and he hosted a tour of the shop; he and the rest of the team are gracious, knowledgeable and friendly. The current in-shop project is shown here and is similar to Brad’s black XC, they are both stunning bikes. I highly recommend a visit to the website at: http://www.hmd520.com/ . Start with HMD if you want to do some great work on your ride.

HMD design Victory Cross Country

Close up from HMD Website

Another 69 miles later and we checked into the Sagebrush Inn in Tombstone, it was perfect for our group, hitching posts in front of the rooms for our bikes and everything. I had the Fred McLaury room having left the Maureen O’Hara suite for Tim. Dinner that night was a 10-block walk to The Depot Steakhouse & Johnny Ringo’s Bar and since nobody really noticed my western style riding boots I’d have been better off walking it in my tennis shoes. Good meal, good friends, and a good day all around.

When all was said and done and all was seen that I was to see over the 571 miles and 10-block walk the quote of the day for me was something like this: “Hair? I thought she’d just got out of the pool and that was a swim cap!”

Ride safe, be well, and keep the iron side up.

Patchwork 2 - Tombstone Tune-Up

I am preparing for my first multi-day trip with two or more riders since the summer of 1972 when three riders on two bikes left my house for what was scheduled to be a six week ride that, for me, ended as four weeks out with a solo run home from Bass Lake. It was a great journey in many respects and should be the subject of a multi-post series. This weekend’s trip to Tombstone, Arizona will be different in almost every aspect and I’m not so sure that I know how to get ready for it. There will be nine or ten riders meeting up at different spots from Monrovia out to Quartzite, Arizona. I’ll leave my place at 4:30 in the morning to meet Kevin at 5 a.m. in Monrovia. I’d be yawning already except that’s not too different from dozens of long work trips I’ve taken over the years, not to mention the personal road trips with friends, family, and on my own. I feel at home on the road.

Mentally, I ticked off several items that I needed and/or wanted to do prior to going; clean the bike that’s been mostly idle for six weeks or so, see about a bike-to-bike communications system, check all my gear including rain gear, protective gear for the heat and cold, off-bike clothes, and rider’s group vest, and I also needed to get on the bike for at least an hour at one stretch to make sure the bike and rider are in sync.

I started out looking into the comm. system by asking Kevin, the trip leader, what he suggested. He uses a CB system that requires installation; the time and money ruled that out for me for this trip. Kevin suggested that I ask the group what they are using by going through the Facebook message we’ve been running. Brad, Tim, Jim, and Mike all use a Sena device. I already have a Scala Rider Q2 by Cardo Systems but I haven’t used it in a couple of years. I decided to dust it off, charge it up, and see if I can talk to anybody. The only problem is that when I opened the box the charge and MP3 cords were not there; they may be buried in my spare bike gear box in a garage that has been Wedding Central now for six months and two weddings. I may excavate later today or I may be running silent.

I know I’m good on the riding gear, cold and hot, so I decided to tackle the tune up ride and rider’s vest at the same time by running out to Buckle and Belts in Calimesa yesterday. You might recall from my previous post that I screwed up the last attempt by letting my saddlebag flop open and losing my patch. I started out the ride by having lunch in Montrose with some retired phone company friends and having the lunch extended by running into some old friends I haven’t seen in years. From there I headed out the 210 freeway and followed my Waze app directions to the end of the 210 and onto the Highway 10. The weather was just right, 72 degrees with light patchy clouds. The roads were wonderfully clear just after noon and I was able to keep a brisk pace in the carpool lane all the way out - 80 miles in less than 75 minutes. This was the perfect tune-up for me.

Prior to leaving I had double checked my saddle bag with the vest and patch, having acquired a new one from Kevin over the weekend, and checked the bag during the run out to Calimesa every once in a while as I’ve become a little paranoid about it. I arrived at Buckle and Belts to find a very nice looking Harley Sportster out front, clean chrome with a gold and black trimmed paint job, it was a pretty bike but it looked too small for me. I went in and asked the ladies about having the patch sewn on while giving my sob story about losing the first one. I was lucky that the right person was there who is not usually there on Tuesdays. Whew! I shopped around while she sewed it on after having positioned the patch for her and picked up my first personal patch to be sewn on at a later date. Again, I recommend the place and a visit to their website to read the owner’s story: http://www.buckle-belts.net/ . I found great service with a large selection of patches, vests, and other riding accessories.

I learned one thing on the way home; I should let the Waze GPS app lead me. Waze had me going home via Highway 10 to the 57 to the 210. Thinking that I knew better and going back the way I came as soon as I hit the junction from the 10 to the 210 traffic came to a dead stop. I jumped off the nearby off ramp and doubled back to the 10 and had a good ride home. I feel tuned-up for the ride to Tombstone, making some new friends, deepening other friendships, and exploring some of the fabled scenes from an era that I sometimes feel is where I should have been born to. With my luck though rather than being a US Marshall I’d have been a blacksmith apprentice or running a telegraph office.

Ride safe, be well, and keep the iron side up.