Let the Rabbits Run

Thar be rabbits on the road for any given ride; those vehicles that push the speed limit beyond my comfort zone, up to 15 MPH faster at 80+ and they are mostly obnoxious about it, approaching fast and getting right on fenders trying to intimidate the other vehicle into moving over even if they are in the process of passing another one to the right. They can be anything on wheels from mini-vans with a carload of kids they don’t care about to bikers to SUVs and anything smaller that the driver doesn’t mind torturing to that speed, you know, like Sentras. I call them rabbits because I like to let them run up ahead and draw the law-dogs’ attention while I stretch my personal ticket-safe speeds.

It’s the ICBMs on the road that you really have to watch out for, they push their speed to 100, weave in and out of traffic at will and they think everybody sees them and will come from your blind spot and weave in front of you within inches of your fender. I find it best to be aware of them and not to make any sudden accommodating move that they might not anticipate.

I took a weekend trip up to Brentwood in the Bay Area to see my cousin Lee, closest thing to an older brother that I have, and his wife Kathy who are now staying with their daughter Jennifer and her family. I opted for my Victory Cross Country and a more scenic route than Highway 5 up the middle of the state when it was apparent that I wouldn’t need a car. I took the 210 freeway to the Highway 118 that heads west and in the town of Moorpark turns into a two lane road and took me through the agricultural corridor to Highway 101 right about where it rejoins the US 1, The Pacific Coast Highway; they split again at about Los Cruces, the 101 continuing on as the El Camino Real. My plan was to take the 101 up to US 680 and on into Brentwood, only using my GPS after lunch to zero in on Jen’s place.

I really like the section of the 101 from Ventura on up to Salinas, even when the ag-traffic picks up after King City (where I put the GPS to work) with tractors and trucks getting on and off the road. Hugging the coastline early on I had the Pacific Ocean to the horizon on my left and the rugged coastline stretching out before me and dotted with great beaches like Carpentaria, El Capitan, Refugio, and finally Gaviota as the 101 heads inland through a little pass with a short tunnel where I dropped down a gear and jumped on it (see Baritone Solo for why). I was happily alone with my thoughts and prayers, thoughts for my writing and prayers for friends and family, particularly my folks and Lee. I let the rabbits run along the coastline with no thought of stretching the speeds; I used them liberally from Las Cruces on up.

I trusted my little GPS app Waze and it betrayed me taking me off the 680 on to an eight mile stretch of surface streets and a quasi-country road only to get back to the 680 for about 150 yards and off again to where it really got interesting. I was directed on to Calaveras Road that skirted by the reservoir of the same name. This was a fun road, full of challenges, twisties to the max. The engineers didn’t even bother putting a centerline in it because that would have indicated that only motorcycles could pass each other and stay in the lanes. It was tight, brothers and sisters, and traveled by rabbits who used the road for commuting every day. Two were on my tailpipe so I let them run on by to pave the way for me while I stayed with them the rest of the way to more two-lane roads into Brentwood. I suppose that route saved me from sitting in freeway traffic since I don’t split lanes. I would have enjoyed it a lot more if I didn’t already have 400 miles behind me and I knew it was coming.

Coming home, I used Highway 5 from Walnut Creek after my great visit with family and then my friends Jim and Shirley. This run was notable only for a couple things, the light traffic by leaving on a Sunday morning and spectacular rabbit. Actually, she drove a VW Passat wagon and drove it exquisitely. She had come up behind me to the left and then I got in behind her and stayed there from Patterson until she got off at Buttonwillow, 110 miles of following the best rabbit ever at a few miles over my ticket-safe zone but never becoming an attention getter. She never got obnoxious with the other drivers she approached; if they didn’t move over she would do so in plenty of time not to panic or slow down much. Every move was signaled; a few times I would anticipate and make the change first giving her a clear lane change. We were an ad hoc caravan of two and when she slowed to exit at Buttonwillow we acknowledged each other as I passed to head on home, her with an electric smile, me with a thumbs up.

Y’all watch the ICBMs and keep the iron side up.

Baritone Solo in the Angeles National Forest

I kicked over the motor of my Victory Cross Country at about six on a Thursday morning careful not to rev it too much in deference to my neighbors. The V-Twin, 106ci engine and exhaust combine for a nice baritone sound, at least to my musically challenged ears. To get to a deep bass sound I’d have to modify the system and it seems that comes with a decibel increase which goes against my quiet nature. The early start got me headed up the Angeles Crest Highway and into the Angeles National Forest by six thirty that morning. There is one spot after getting onto the Angeles Forest Highway where I break with my native desire for quiet and that touches a part of my lingering, childlike joy at hearing my own voice echoed back. That is in a nice little tunnel along the road there where I have to crank it up just to hear the rumble come back to me and to feel the reverberations. I think we’ve all seen the look of wonder on a kid’s face as they let out a whoop to hear it come back in a canyon or even a room of any size that echoes. The look is almost always punctuated with a smile, the glee rocking the child’s whole being – I say nurture it.

The early start coincided with a nice onshore marine layer of fog whose tendrils wound their way up the canyons of the lower elevations and bubbled over where the canyon met the winding road. They were like witches’ cauldrons with steamy tendrils snaking out as if to grab me as I into leaned the corners.

It was an ideal day to wind around in the mountains, no alto-tenor street-racers buzzing along pushing the envelope and on this morning the inbound commercial traffic all headed on up toward Mt. Wilson instead out to Palmdale. I rode against the commuter traffic of the high-desert dwellers “beating” the always backed up Highway 14 to the 5 junction. These are a variety of cagers with a sprinkling of bikes who travel the road every weekday and know it like an old friend. Many of them are trying to make time not too dissimilar from the weekend sport bikers, pushing the envelope, and sometimes thinking nothing of being within a car length of the next guy in some moronic effort to intimate them into driving off the side of the road so they can pass. They often drift well over the double yellow line to the inside of curves ignorant, or just plain uncaring, that there might be someone with the nerve to be going the other direction. As the Angeles Forest Highway empties out toward the Antelope Valley there are a couple of the straightaways, one lane each way, where I was thankful for my extra riding lights but nevertheless considered where I could put more and still keep the sleek look of my bike. It seemed that Parnelli Jones was their tutor as some drivers popped out to pass only to see me coming along to block their maneuver, forcing them to pop back in line.

I had a breakfast date with my friend Kathy from my days as an AT&T Broadcast Video Planner and hers as the Television Operating Center Area Manager. We hadn’t gotten together in well over a year and Kathy is living her dream in Marrakesh living there six months of the year and working among the people there while learning to love and understand the land and culture. We had a great visit while we ate at Karen’s Kitchen in Quartz Hill, a nice local eatery with locals coming in and out, Kathy as one of them. I sometimes envy her pursuit of her dream and then I have to realize that my riding and even my writing are my dreams, my way of understanding and loving the road and hopefully coming to a deeper understanding of what makes me tick. Writing can do that; the world is a blank page until it is written on.

My friends, pursue your dreams, yell into the canyons and tunnels of life just to hear them yell back, come to a deeper understanding, and watch the drifters you encounter along the way.

Y’all keep the iron side up.

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.