Dear Jordan - 2022 RTTF

 

Dear Jordan,

You were prepared to pay the ultimate price in the service of your country - our country. I admire you for that. In many respects, the price you’ve paid, and continue to pay on a daily basis, is steeper still than you were prepared for. Every day you put down a deposit that most of us will never consider making.

However, judging from what I’ve read about you so far and heard you speak of in the Ride to the Flags (RTTF) video, you are squeezing every benefit you can manage from surviving a horrendous Traumatic Brain Injury (TBI), the loss of a leg, and the loss of much of the use of your right arm: you have a wife and two kids who are amazing in and of themselves and more so with you at their side; you are waging a continued fight for your wounded comrades and speaking on their behalf; you are a better father, husband, and friend (your words).

It’s funny though – from the perspective on old unpaid writer, your benefits look like a lot of work. I admire you for that.

It will be my honor to ride for you on 9/11 in the RTTF. I’ve been stirred by the 9/11 commemoration at Naval Base Ventura County - Pt. Mugu in the past and getting to know you through the various media sources will make it that much more poignant for me. Thank you.

Speaking of ‘thank you’, I don’t think I can find sufficient ways to say it for the amount of sacrifice you are making. I guess I will just need to keep trying, keep praying, and keep looking – looking for the opportunity to thank you and your comrades.

Keep the iron side up.

Respectfully submitted,

Jerry ‘Shakespeare’ White

Iron Side Up Riders fundraising page: 

https://ridetotheflags.funraise.org/team/iron-side-up-riders

EOD2 Jordan Stevenson video: 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T7DWSo3_1Es

Prime Ride

 

Can't quite get myself to call this bunch the 'Dirty Dozen' but this is us

My first group ride in what seemed like ages was set for June 5, 2022*. Home to Buellton and back, hosted by Jed and Sue with a visit with others for lunch. (I didn’t know who all would be there when I started) I set out a little early for the meet point just off Golden Valley Road and was on my own for the first twenty miles. The weather was excellent and boded well for the ride up. Prime number = 1.

Jed and Sue arrived at the pumps just as I was topping off. Warm greetings were exchanged in the cool of the morning. The days since we last rode together had rushed by like the Rogue River on a storm-swollen day. They are a joy to ride with and Jed always sets a great pace on a well-chosen route. Before mounting up he laid out our route for the morning run – over Newhall Ranch Road to Highway 126, through the agricultural area and Fillmore and Santa Paula to Highway 101 and on up the coast to Buellton. I love this section of the Pacific Coast Highway and travel it often to see my daughter’s family. I waved to them just after passing their offramp in Santa Barbara; pretty sure they didn’t see us flash by. The weather held perfectly; the traffic was agreeable for us but not so much the southbound traffic. Prime number = 3.

We arrived at Flying Flags RV Resort (that’s code for glamping) right around 10:30 a.m. and we were able to locate Tim and Bev’s nifty trailer to park our Victories behind it. Another long overdue series of hugs ensued. I miss these guys. We availed ourselves of a key resort facility and hung out for a little while hoping for the next pair to join us. During the wait I was gifted two excellent journals from Bev, a gift I felt was from all of them. I put my new “Sin City – Victory Motorcycle Club, 20^th Annual National Meet Journal to work right away for this posting, pen and journal helping me keep the momentum up for me getting back. Prime number = 5.

We didn’t have to wait long for Kevin and Jeanie to join us as they pulled into the space next to the trailer, Kevin on his Victory Vision, Jeanie on her touring Cam-Am. They were packed and ready for a stay at a hotel within walking distance of the RV resort. More hugs and more catching up. I love it! Their ride over from Bakersfield over Highway 166 and south on the 101 was a bit more congested than our ride in but was nevertheless appreciated. Prime number = 7.

We ambled over to find Karen and Keith and were joined by Karen’s mother, Norma and thus ended my theme of prime numbers but I wasn’t about to be the one to tell her she couldn't hang out with us and I wasn't willing to stand apart. Norma and I were the only unattached attendees and made our number eight when she joined our stroll. Nevertheless, it was prime time for friendship. Norma fit in the group like a glove and I found myself calling her ‘mom’ like everyone else.

We arrived at Karen and Keith’s space and I found myself touring the most luxurious motorhome I’d ever been in. Slide outs for the length of the RV made it spacious and I was informed that the group, as assembled just then, had broken it in with style and grace with a dance. I’m reserving my own assessment on the grace until I have a chance to see them in action. I made two new friends here in Calvin and Lisa though our interaction was limited. And then we were a dozen.

Lunch for our group of twelve was at Firestone Walker, a brewery/restaurant. The food was excellent and conversations even better. I had a nice corner seat that allowed me one of my favorite pastimes, watching people loving being with each other. An observation worth mentioning is that three of the five couples were made up of a husband and wife who had each lost a spouse. Love had found a way, several times over and in my estimation included the other two couples. I will attest that each of these five relationships are made up of people with large hearts capable of holding on to memories of lost loves and still able to hold on to the one found – without remorse and likely made all the stronger. I’ve seen it and written about it for them in the past. I was honored to be there and watch it happen and honored to watch it continue. Thank you, friends.

Now, I need to make a confession here. I know one of the other two couples are holding fast to second (and third chances) but I don’t quite know about my ride-mates for the day and I am flummoxed that wouldn't know them down to the day they wed. But, I love researching my stories…

Our ride home was more eventful than anybody ever wants.

We stayed off of the PCH and thus missed the southbound grind above and into Ventura. Jed had us winding through foothills and canyons, twisting and turning and loving nearly every moment. Our route back was on Hwy 246 through Solvang with its smorgasbords on to Hwy 154 taking us by Lake Cachuma on to Hwy 192 through the foothills above Santa Barbara to Hwy 150 through Ojai where we fueled up to continue down to Santa Paula and on home.

The downer was along Hwy 192 (I think). We were in a long string on vehicles on the two-lane highway with a long string of cars heading the opposite direction as well. I spotted a deer grazing at the edge of the highway on our side. Just as I was passing a signal to the following cars the deer picked her head up and stepped in front of Jed. Jed swerved and narrowly (within inches) missed the deer who leapt to clear Jed but directly into an unsuspecting oncoming car. Sue swerved further to the right to miss the poor beast while I moved on to the shoulder in case the car who struck the deer lost control. It was over in a flash.

By the time we fueled up in Ojai the adrenalin rush was over and we were spent. We related the event to each other from our various perspectives and splashed down some Gatroade. We headed home somewhat heavy hearted. This was a sobering part of our day, an event that brings a harsh reminder that when we ride we have to be ever vigilant.

Ride safe and keep the iron side up. And for God’s sake, keep your big hearts open and love.

Jerry ‘Shakespeare’ White

* Jed, Sue, and I actually got together for a short ride on 2/27/22 to Ojai for lunch.

The Comfort of an Old Friend

 

STICKII at Triunfo Pass

True friends are gifts from God, blessings given sometimes when we least expect it or feel we deserve it. They come in dressed up as best friends, BFFs, Best of Friends (if you are so lucky fortunate as to have more than one), sisters/brothers from another mother, pals, chums, homies, four-legged friends, any number of other terms, or one of my favorites – ride buddies. Some might be new, some old both in age and term of service.

A hallmark of a true friend is the ability to pickup where you left off even if it’s been months, perhaps years, since you’ve seen one another. Once you are with each other, the talk might seem as though you are catching up with each other but the flavor of it is that of reminiscing. It is uncanny. Indeed, it can be unsettling and can leave us with thoughts of why we let so much time go by without seeing our friend.

I am fortunate to have true friends within all the above listed categories and some of these friends fit nicely within more than one. Regarding the term ‘fortunate’ and my strikeout of the word lucky – I had the occasion to discover the difference when someone I love and care about made some poor decisions and paid a dear price for them but recovered over time. Someone said he was lucky but I thought he was fortunate. Luck would have had him found passed out on the couch. Good fortune got him to the ER instead of someone finding him when it was too late.

I’m writing this because one of my Old Friends is an inanimate object, allegedly. STICKII, my Victory Cross Country is certainly an old friend to me and the two of us reconnected today when I rode her church. Also, I am writing this because I feel like it and all these thoughts about friendship crossed my mind as we rode along. Names and faces flitted across my memory pages and each of you made me smile. True friends.

As planned, I took the long way home, the route unplanned with the exception of the first leg which was through La Tuna Canyon to a good lunch stop, Yoshinoya in Sun Valley. Once there I was regaled by the symphony of laughter and voices from a family gathering, better than any piped in music the restaurant good of put out. Most Sunday rides home are a simple run up Sunland Blvd. and across Foothill Blvd. to home but I hungered for more and chose a nice little route – up Sunland, over Foothill to Oro Vista Ave. and then up to where it ends at Big Tujunga Canyon Road which I took on up to the Angeles Forest Highway and then down Angeles Crest Highway to take Foothill and on home.

That made a nice loop with plenty of juicy twists and turns. On any given Sunday I would normally avoid this route because there are too many people out challenging their riding or driving limits on bikes or in cars of every description. With the exception of one pack of sport bikers and an irritating Hummer H2, it was pure pleasure with perfect weather and clear roads.

This being late Spring, the chaparral is now ablaze with blooming Yuccas, scientifically known as Hesperoyucca whipplei. Colloquially, they are known by many names like the chaparral yucca, our Lord's candle, Spanish bayonet, Quixote yucca or foothill yucca. Mostly, they look like giant Q-Tips stuck in the ground with a fan of spikes guaranteed to remind you of why they should not be run into, I can attest to that from personal experience but it is a tale for another telling. The shapes of some reminded me of the Grinch’s hat or giant lollipops. The size of their blooms is impressive, some that would be as tall as me. Okay. Maybe not as tall as me but certainly as tall as Shawn.

It amazes me that I can throw my leg over STICKII and feel right at home as though it hadn’t been weeks since my last little ride. I’ve been fortunate like that since the day I first rode after my quarter of a century fast from riding.

So, get comfortable and connect with an old friend today, maybe more than one.

Keep the iron side up.

Jerry ‘Shakespeare’ White

Patina of a Remembered Romance

 

I dressed for church – Kevlar lined riding pants, Sunday ride-shirt, mesh riding jacket for the unseasonably warm day (70s in February?), and my western boots suitable for riding (They saved my ass from a spill on the Mulholland Highway once).

I took my open-face half helmet down because this would be a short ride to church followed by taking the long way home, a twenty-mile putt. The gloss of the black helmet was covered with a patina of dust. As I looked over my bike, I could see that they matched with the same dusty haze dimming the tank, saddlebags, fenders… You get the picture. I hadn’t ridden in a while.

It seems my riding has been reduced to quick solo rides when I’m going somewhere by myself. I don’t want sympathy here, I’ve had plenty of that. Here is a short list of why there is a coating of dust on STICKII, which I love to ride, a romance well remembered: Pandemic and the closures of great destinations, caring for and losing my parents over the last two years, and now the duties of closing out their estate, and a calendar rife with responsibilities that need tending to and I can’t shake the guilt if I take a day off for a ride (my own darned fault there). Those last two pretty much shut down any multi-day rides.

I haven’t had a group ride over these past two years either except for the brief one-way ride when I crashed Jed and Sue’s New Year’s Day lunch at Duke’s. Was it two New Years ago? My memory is dusty as well. Along with all the culprits mentioned above we suffered a momentous loss within the core group of riders I have shared the road with. Mr. Tim Robertson was forced into riding-retirement due to health issues resulting in pain that puts him at risk if he rides.

Tim is a master planner of rides and get-togethers. His destinations are creative, fun, and inclusive. His route planning is meticulous and while challenging, never dangerous. The pace he sets from the front of the formation never stresses me, I can fall back if needed and be assured of catching up. Within the group I have learned comfortable lines on twisties and discovered how to be at ease with my bike and in my own rider’s skin while growing my skills.

I have missed my gregarious friend, his warm smile scarcely hidden beneath his beard, feeling welcome and appreciated, and knowing that at the end of the day I will have had a good ride and get home safe. I am saying special prayers for him as he has sold his bike, The Enterprise, the pride of our little fleet. I know it was a sad day for him and I felt a bit of kinship in that as I considered the same fate for STICKII, my Cross Country. After all, it should never get dusty just sitting there, dirty from a well ridden road, yes, dusty in the garage, no.

Tim’s rides and those of the other planners in the group and riding with this group inspired me to write about them, both rides and riders. My Iron Side Up posts have been appreciated by many of you and earned me a ride-name that Tim bestowed on me. Shakespeare. I’ll keep that one, thank you very much, and work to find ways to keep it dusted off.

So, what’s a rider to do now that he’s confessed to ignoring his bike and taking her for granted? Back her down the driveway, washer her down and shine the beauty up. Make opportunities to go out and get some good old fashioned road dirt on her – bugs on the windshield and roll bars, splash marks from wayward puddles, you know – a down and dirty date, long and luxurious and speeding up at just the right moments.

Dust off the helmet, clean the face shield, and plan a destination ride while writing about the planning. What better thing for a writing rider?

Remember friends, don’t let the dust and rust build up, keep the romance fresh and keep the iron side up.

Shakespeare

Me and my Sunday Ride-shirt

Winter Wonderland Run - Caged

 

Mount Whitney while driving through Lone Pine

Cindy’s and my drive to Dayton, Nevada started out as expected. No, strike that. It started out better than expected for a Saturday as the traffic on the westbound 210 Freeway moved along even with the lane closure and ongoing construction. Since we stayed to the right to head up Highway 14 we didn’t get into the mess that almost always is the case when being in the left lanes to drive north on the 5 Freeway.

There was no rain in the forecast, no snow either, for our quick jog nor was any predicted for our return drive on Monday. During the week before we had five inches or so in La Crescenta while it snowed in the Sierra Nevada Mountains. There were also no predictions of chains being required for the trip in any of our research so I left them in the boot below our luggage and gear. Our drive through the Antelope Valley, Mojave Desert, and brief winding through the Red Rock Canyon State Park was without incident and seemed to me to be full of hope. The desert was coming alive with standing water in places and waterfowl enjoying the break on the last legs of their journeys south.

Highway 14 ends at the junction with Highway 395 just above Inyokern. We began seeing dustings of snow on the north facing slopes of the southernmost peaks of the Sierra Nevada Mountains. The further north we went the more prominent the snowcaps became. We passed through towns like Grant, Olancha, and Cartago, slowing for each town to speed limits as low as 25MPH. My philosophy of never being the fastest and letting the rabbits run ahead keeps me from worrying too much about legal entanglements and having to answer the question, “Do you know how fast you were going?”

I love driving through Lone Pine with the western feel to the town – boardwalks and storefronts heighten the old frontier sense. Mostly though it is because of the great memories the Dow Vista Motel has for me as a stopping point with my Victory friends. Lone Pine provides an excellent view of Mount Whitney, the tallest peak in the contiguous United States. She was resting under a blanket of snow that is now being amplified and hopefully packed as it should be this time of year.

From Lone Pine we continued north past Manzanar, through Independence, and on to Big Pine where we made a fuel stop. The snowline continued to drop or perhaps we simply continued to climb and rose to meet the snow line. Yes, yes that’s the ticket because when we pulled into Erick Schat’s Bakkery in Bishop we had to be wary of ice on the parking lot and hidden in the scattered snowdrifts on our way into the bakery.

Sandwiches and baked goods in hand, we continued north with snow at the side of the road and a brief notice of a chain requirement further on but to brief for me to read. The views were spellbinding and I struggled to keep watch on the highway. Less than a quarter of a mile past the Mammoth Mountain turn off we came upon the chain requirement in earnest. Evidently the snowplow folks do not see the need to plow the road further on because everybody’s destination must be Mammoth Mountain.

Some folks pulled over to put on chains, others did not bother and simply applied chains in the middle of the lane. We wove our way through them all and decided to put the mud and snow tires to the test on our all-wheel drive Subaru Forester. We traversed about ten to twelve miles with one side on and one side off the snow and ice pack. We did simply fine and came upon one more section of icy roads before getting to Bridgeport where we’d planned to eat our sandwiches on park benches which we found with six inches of snow on them like a generously iced cake. We opted to eat after our arrival at Lauren and Taylor’s place in Dayton.

Our stay in Dayton was brief, two nights with a run up to Virginia City and a midmorning departure on Monday. Lauren and Taylor are the consummate hosts and our grandchildren, Becca (20mos.) and Logan (3yrs. 20mo.) are the best enjoyment for which we could hope. The purpose of our visit was to watch Logan’s inaugural performance in dance during the first recital for a newly formed dance school. The venue was the Virginia City Opera House where four hundred or so participants and audience members crammed in. Logan was outstanding. Our afternoon was capped off with me winning the 50/50 drawing that was contested by an 8-year-old girl who had thought she had won. I did not have to fight her for it, lucky for me. I kept it all.

Our departure was tempered with the knowledge we would be together at our place in a few short days for Christmas It was a Christmas that was subdued by the fact Logan had come down with a flu bug of some sort. It was not Covid as we all were tested for it and came out with negative results. We have a compromised family member to see – the deepest source of our muted celebrations. God’s peace to the Chambers family. The return trip was no less spectacular with the freezing temperatures conserving the snowpacks though the road was more open after two days of traffic to help clear it off.

This being an Iron Side Up post I should point out that during our drive I often imagined making the trip on STICKII, my Victory Cross Country. I could have made it just fine up to the point where the chain warning came into effect. Well, except for the sub-30-degree temperatures. I would have needed industrial strength heated socks and gloves, the socks to counter my impaired toes from the freezing ride from Laughlin in 2019 where I contracted a hearty case of Chilblains, one step from frostbite. I will surely make this run in the next few months and I will love every mile and do it with a smile on my face with the thought of Opa hugs for my grandchildren.

Keep the iron side up, stay safe, and be well.

Jerry ‘Shakespeare’ White

Note: Photo credit goes to Cindy, a most excellent navigator and on-the-run photographer.

Red Rock Canyon

Eastern face of the Sierra Nevada Mountains

The Walker River

Outside the Virginia City Opera Hall

Pre-performance excitement ran high inside the opera hall

Where's Shakepeare?

 

Where’s Shakespeare? Or shall I say, wherefore art though, Shakespeare? It has been one year, two months, and twelve days since I last posted in Iron Side Up. 439 days of writer’s hibernation. Perhaps it is time to turn in my name patch. Where has Shakespeare been? I could tell you but I do not want to elicit the ‘Ah, poor Shakespeare, we knew him well’ responses. Do not pity me as pitiful as I can be at times. Instead, let us see where I have been today and take joy from that.

I took the long way home from church, first stopping for fuel because I did not want to be forced into gassing up if I was in a great riding zone. On this mild day in the lower seventies, I took Foothill Blvd. out to Oro Vista Avenue and up on to Big Tujunga Canyon Road. That’s right – twisties galore for Shakespeare to lean one way then another and then a little more and I was in heaven. Well except for one thing, the road surface on this road sucks. It is pitted and rutted and pot-holed and still the road was unable to quell my enjoyment of the moment.

I went on to and along the Angeles Forest Highway northbound on a better surface, more twisties, and some competition along the way with sport bikers that I encouraged to pass me and made room for them to do so. It is not about the speed for me, it is about moving along, one with the bike, and working toward excelling at a solid tactical ride. For such an old rusty dude I came close.

The Angeles Forest Highway gave way to the Sierra Highway for a short jog to the Pearblossom Highway and I reached Palmdale where I tooled around and used dead reckoning in search of the All-American Dog. That’s right, I did not use my GPS in my quest for the elusive All-American Dog (note that the dog is capitalized and therefore a title of an actual menu item).

Of course, I failed at locating this dog and retraced my steps to the point that I rejoined the Sierra Highway heading south. Please note, I did not see the Sierra Nevada Mountains from the Sierra Highway. Shucks. When I reached Crown Valley Road I pulled in to settle for a surf and turf lunch and at that, below standard. Still, 65 or so miles of riding can overcome nearly any sort of average meal. And not one mile on the freeway.

I jumped on Highway 14, my first freeway of the day, and skedaddled home to do something I had not done in several weeks, write for fun. One hundred and seven miles can give one a wonderful perspective on the road and oneself.

Keep the Iron Side up and stay in perspective.

Jerry ‘Shakespeare’ White

ATGATT

Photo of a photo my Grandma Matt took in their yard at Bass Lake,
near to the campground I took those kids around. STICK1 and me near
the end of a 4-week, 4k+ mile ride and a year before this story took place.

I was 19 and knew nothing while living moment-to-moment believing I wouldn’t live past 22. The Viet Nam War may have played a part in that belief even though by then I’d escaped the draft by luck of the lottery. I was coming out of my dark days and trying to figure what the long play of God’s plan was for me since my dream of playing Division II basketball, possibly at Humboldt State, had crumbled like a sand castle built too close to the surf.

I worked weekends during the school year and full-time over the summer as a pier coolie at Paradise Cove to pay for community college plus gas and upkeep on my Honda CB500. I lived in my friend’s family trailer up in the park from the cove and on any given weekend Doug and I would have breakfast at 5:30 a.m. at the Sandcastle Restaurant before working our 10-hour shift on the pier running personal fishing boats up and down the pier, launching them and the fiberglass rentals via the hoist at the end of the pier opposite the Baywatch hut. The uniform of the day was deck shoes, swimsuit, Hawaiian Coconut Tanning Oil, and maybe a tank-top.

The trailer park, pier, and restaurant were run by a guy everyone called The Commodore. I don’t think he owned the place but you wouldn’t have known it by him. Bob ran the bait and rental shop out on the pier and was our boss. Doug, Rob, and I were the three-man team running the hoist and taking care of the outboards and fiberglass boats during weekends. Chuck was the head of maintenance for the whole shebang and was a known alcoholic, a man of dubious mental stability.

Living moment-to-moment left me vulnerable to swings in my temperament and I was far from what I’ve become – patient and even tempered, even if a bit stern and surely.

During a particular day of the summer of ’73 Chuck had come down from his yard up on the bluff to repair a metal railing on the ramp that led to the loading area and launch dock. Lit as he was on this early afternoon, he pulled his arch-welder out. I was tasked to assist him and held the two railing pieces together that need to be welded. I felt a charge run through me when he flipped the power to ‘on’. I let go and looked at the idiot happy he didn’t try to arch the railing. He pulled over a dry (ish) pier plank and told me to stand on it to insulate myself. Flip – buzz – and I let go again. I told him he’d kill somebody and left him to himself. I was not too happy with the man.

That evening after the pier shut down the younger crowd gathered around one of the picnic tables between the restaurant and the set for The Rockford Files. And by younger I mean little teens I needed to be careful around, me being an adult teen. I had my bike with me in the parking lot which was posted not to allow motorcycles (much different than today). It was after hours, okay? Chuck turned up reeling and stinking drunk with a handgun stuck in his waistband. He ordered me out of the lot all belligerent like and posing for the kids. My recollection is that he chest-bumped me while he kept a hand on the butt of his gun. I probably could have taken him down gun and all but some reason prevailed and I left.

I was in a rage when I got on the bike; no gloves, no helmet, no goggles or jacket. I raced up the entrance road to the PCH and headed north leaving reason behind with my friend. By the time I hit Zuma Beach I was zoned. The last I’d looked at the speedo I was near 90 mph. A second or two later my eyelids flipped up to my brows and reason took over again.

Since then and to this day I’ve not ridden without my helmet and gear with the exception of second-gear rides around a campground with a kid on the back wearing my helmet. How close was I to self-fulfilling a prophecy of dying before 22? Close enough.

The point is this, or rather, points are these:

Œ  All The Gear All The Time (ATGATT)

Œ  Check your mood and emotional well-being before turning over the engine

Œ  Know the roads and your capabilities at the start of the ride, don’t learn them during the ride. You will improve and live and live to improve.

Œ  Be vigilant

Ride and ride safe – let’s keep the iron side up, shall we?

Jerry ‘Shakespeare’ White

---------

PS – just now I am recalling a time that puts a lie to the notion that since that day I hadn’t ridden without a helmet with the one exception. It was during my second life as a rider and I had just checked into McGrath State Beach campground with a day pass to visit friends camping there. I road from the kiosk to their camp space with my helmet on the passenger backrest of my Honda VT1100. My friend reminded me that the helmet law applied to state park roads as well.

When I got home that evening I pulled into the garage to park the bike. I didn’t get the kickstand down all the way and it slid under the bike as I leaned it over and the doggone thing threw me into the workbench where I knocked my helmet against the table leg. You don’t even have to be moving to need a helmet while on a bike. At least I don’t. And, I guess, we all need reminders for important things.