The Third Wheel to El Rio

The Third Wheel to El Rio

Man, it's a scene at El Rio

No, I didn’t ride a trike, a Can-Am, a Slingshot, nor even a bike with a sidecar to the 2017 El Rio Toy Run. Yes, I know it’s 2018. More on that later. I do confess to thinking about slapping a sidecar on my Victory in the event I need to take Oliver with me in order to get rides in.

One of the many colorful definitions for ‘Third Wheel’ found in the Urban Dictionary is: “One who deters the socialization of a couple, perhaps when being invited out of pitty [sic] or through a feeling of duty.”

Tim Robertson and Bev Hope, the couple, and I met up at our frequently used meet-spot for rides in Northern L.A. County and on northwards. Now, Tim and Bev are not usually given to pity for Shakespeare and none was required for this event. The three of us were moved by compassion for an all but forgotten segment of the American landscape, the children of migrant farm workers. Yes, we get to feel good about ourselves for having brought a bit of hope and happiness to children with the simple gift of a toy. We can allow ourselves to let go and feel, shed a tear or choke them back all while we look over 500 or so kids as we wonder how we can make more of a difference for them.

Our brief run from Thousand Oaks to the El Rio Plaza Elementary School, home of the Chargers, gave me an ideal opportunity to observe the riding style of Tim and Bev. There were no other riders for me to consider while they rode in a harmonious stagger formation in front of me. Their movements were perfectly syncopated while they anticipated each other’s actions in traffic. A Dancing with the Stars tandem couldn’t have looked better. I can imagine other couples I know that each ride doing so with equal grace. While we don’t all have spouses or significant others that ride by our side, I’m willing to bet that nearly every rider-reader has at least one person they ride with that they feel that sense of ease and comfort, a unity of movement on two machines where you feel like they might be one. Mine is my friend Jim. Today I slipped in and out of the feeling riding behind Tim and Bev.

Who is your riding compadre?

The 2017 El Rio Toy ride was originally scheduled for December 9, 2017 and would have included close to 200 bikes had it not been postponed due to the Thomas Fire and the horrific effects it had on the area. Bikers for Christ (BFC) host the event and did not let the fires burn out their desire to bless the children of migrant farm workers in the Oxnard/Ventura area and we had Christmas in February. Nearly 80 bikes met at the school campus, did a little circle and came around to the playground to pass by 500 or so elementary school kids and their teachers.

We delivered our toys, at least two per rider, to the cafeteria/auditorium where BFC reps and Girl Scout troop 60408 received the toys and made some order of the chaos. Maggie Taylor led the charge; cheerleader, organizer, and roustabout, gloriously resplendent in her purple Santa Hat. As the bikes cooled in the playground the kids cheered the riders while the riders waved and greeted the kids. It was difficult to tell who was happier to see the other. Once the bikes cooled the kids were ushered through the rows and returned to classrooms. Mostly.

The children were then brought over to the gift collection a classroom at a time in descending order of grade level. The three of us joined other riders in the seats arranged for us to view the distribution of toys. Small groups of each class where let in and guided through the toy selection. I think it was two per child but as I watched I heard various kids ask, “Can I get one for my little sister”, “my cousin”, or “my friend at Catechism”? There didn’t appear to be greed here, only wonder at getting their first doll, toy truck, or a new soccer ball. Santa awaited them at the end of the toy selection for sweet treats and a photo op.

It was a miracle of the Loaves and Fishes all over again. The piles atop the tables never seemed to diminish. I asked Maggie what would happen with the left over toys and she told me the games will stay with the school for teachers and programs, teachers will have their pick of items for classrooms or children they know who weren’t there, and then the rest will be given to other toy collections for the needy. Nothing will be wasted; no toy, no heartfelt offering.

I moved over to follow the kids with their toys and met two of the outstanding Girl Scouts from Troop 60408, Strummer and Ellen. They were handing out a toothbrush for each child. A local dental group had donated boxes of them, enough for all the kids. Strummer, Ellen, and the troop were indefatigable and never let their smiles drop. These are the faces of a caring generation that doggedly pursue compassion over isolationism.

I found Robert Guynn, Principal of El Rio Plaza, directing the classes via hand-held radio. Robert rode in with us on his hog, a beautiful Harley. As the kids existed the room he greeted them and shared in their joy at the toys and great day they were having. At times there’d be four or five kids all opening their bags of goodies, eager to share with this rock star of a Principal. The deep care he has for the students was evident in his face as he oversaw the whole operation looking here and there to make sure everything was running smoothly with the various classes. The heart of a good shepherd guided his every action.

Robert told us a little of the plight of these children and their families and how many were housed two or three families in a two-car garage with primitive toilet and water availability at best, a hot plate for cooking for so many. I was reminded of the shoe story where two brothers were never at school on the same day because they shared a pair of shoes until the issue was discovered and shoes were made available.

I looked out beyond the bikes and playground equipment to the grass field beyond and saw some small groups sitting and sharing their newfound bounty. A soccer scrimmage had broken out with a new ball.

This is why we rode on February 3, 2018.

Ride well, keep the iron side up, and ride with compassion.

Jerry ‘Shakespeare’ White

Could be an artist, a Nobelist, a pro soccer player in the mix. Without a doubt, big hearts.

New Year's Day 2018 - Bobbing and Weaving

Bobbing and weaving, we wound through the canyons and along the spine of the Santa Monica Mountains on the Mulholland Highway through the Snake and past the Rock Store so we could hook up with the PCH for lunch at Duke’s in Malibu. Because that’s how we like to ring in the New Year.

Were our fifteen bikes a boxer, no palooka would they be. We did not attack the twisties with vicious body shots and head butts. No, we are more like The Greatest – floating and flitting through route like a butterfly. It was poetry in motion from the Starbucks in Porter Ranch to Duke’s.

Our four first-timers with the group fit like well broken-in gloves, as though they were born to the group of usual suspects. (List of riders and their rides below) We had clean lines through twisties, nice tight groupings in traffic, and exquisite spacing throughout. It was a joy to open the New Year with a ride like this on a clear day with mild temperatures; in the mid-sixties on the coast and low seventies in the hills.

We had Johnathan on his orange/white High Ball, soon to be customized to take out the white tank highlights. I think it will be an awesome look. Aaron joined us on a Touring Cruiser, a model I hadn’t heard of ‘til this ride. Larene and Roger came in from Bakersfield on a XC Touring and Vision, respectively, and won the prize for longest commute to the meet point. Vickie won for overcoming obstacles having repaired a flat and coming in from the Inland Empire on her Honda F6B and getting to the Starbuck’s in time for a Martinelli’s New Year’s toast before we put up our kickstands for the ride.

Kevin joined us after his forced sabbatical to care for his beloved Dory who passed away this past October after battling Alzheimer’s. We honored her with winged ribbons Bev put together. We all miss her and it was not lost on us how poignant this was for Kevin being his first holiday season and New Year’s Day without her. We continue to hold him and the family in our hearts for his grief.

New Years are for renewal. Rides punctuate our love for the road with friends, new and old. Our rider’s hopes are for roads to new places and rides to refresh our connections to familiar favorite roads and destinations. May it be so for you.

Ride well, keep the iron side up, and be blessed in 2018.

jerry

New Year’s Day 2018 Group:

Tim Robertson – Vision (The Enterprise)

Bev Hope – Vegas (Cloud 9)

Jed – Vision

Sue – Cross Country

Larene Meng – Cross Country Tour

Roger Meng – Vision

Steve McLean Sr. – Vision

Kevin Shaw – Vision (Nit Vision)

Todd Skaggs - Vision

Shawn Frausto – Cross Country (Sancha)

Vicki Peterson – Honda F6b

Aaron Staubach – Touring Cruiser

Stephen Thrasher – Cross Country

Johnathan Urazoff – High Ball

Jerry White – Cross Country (Stick II)

Note: We had more Vision riders than any other model. And, they let us know it.

Approaching Pt. Mugu

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