The Tongariro Crossing in New Zealand is touted as one of the world’s best day hikes. This obviously meant it was a hike I had to tackle. The crossing is 19.4 kilometers (11.64 miles) across an active volcano, and it includes a LOT of stairs, both up and down. Having not been hiking in several months, this was the first time I was actually questioning my physical ability. I don’t think it comes from age as much as hard landings from falling out of airplanes. Either way, it’s the Number 1 hike on Earth so it really needed to be checked off my list.
As with all mountains, the weather is constantly changing and this mountain would prove no different. The previous day the hikes were cancelled due to heavy winds. Upon waking up at 0400 it was a relief to learn that the shuttles would be running that day. My campsite was just outside the town of National Park and was right along the shuttle path for a 0545 pickup and a 30-minute drive to the trailhead.
The hike started with misty clouds which added to the already stunning mountain scenery, and the winds, well they were blowing hard. I had purposely loaded my day pack heavy with extra everything in the event I’d need it. That was smart. By day’s end I had used almost everything I brought. This was comforting since I thought I had over packed.
The first five kilometers weren’t bad except for the brutal winds, which were a constant battle. It got to the point that when the winds subsided I’d almost fall down due to leaning in so much. Once that five kilometers were wrapping up, there were several posted signs that said “If you aren’t feeling well, now is a great time to turn back, there is no shame in that.” I used those signs as motivation to continue.
Once reaching the summit, it was obvious the crown jewel of the hike would not be shining as brightly as it had been in the photos. There were two bright neon emerald green lakes that in the sun just glowed; however, with the weather having turned so quickly it was nothing more than a dull blue barely visible through the cloud bank. The winds were still howling from every direction. There was hardly even time to snap a few photos before I decided it was time to descend into the next crater for some shelter and to take a break and eat a snack. The only portion that remained was the never-ending descent filled with many more steps.
Overall, it was a magnificent day with great views and conversation with fellow hikers from all over the world. My finish time, not that it matters, was just over 6 hours. This seemed admirable as the estimated time for most was between 6 and 8 hours. The remainder of the day was spent at my campsite swimming in my own personal grotto behind my tent, talking with others that hiked it (or would in the morning), consuming ibuprofen, and feeling semi accomplished now that this hike was now completed.
I spent most of the morning in the garage, organizing my reloading bench and the tons of components I have stacked in, on, under, and around it. I rearranged a good chunk of my 9mm brass (I probably have something north of 4,000 empty 9mm cases, enough to keep me in Parabellum paradise for the rest of my natural life). I’m waiting on a part for my Lee turret press (Lee is sending it to me at no charge), and when it gets here I’ll start reloading 9mm again. It’s become a favorite cartridge, but more on that in a future blog.
Busy real estate, my reloading bench is. Those coffee cans are chock full of 9mm brass.
As part of the garage cleanup and reorg effort, I pushed the Royal Enfield out so I could sweep the floor. A young lady who lives in the neighborhood was walking her dog when she spotted the Enfield. “It sure looks like a nice day for a ride,” she said. We chatted for a bit and then I thought about her comment. It really was a nice day for a ride. We’ve had rain big time for the last couple of weeks (don’t believe the lyrics…during the winter it rains a lot in California), and today we finally had a day that was bright and sunny. I did what anybody would do…I closed up shop and fired up the Enfield.
The nice thing about the winter rains here in So Cal is that when the clouds disappear we see the San Gabriel Mountains blanketed in snow. It really is quite beautiful. I started a ride into the mountains to get a good shot of the Enfield with the snow-capped mountains as a backdrop, and then I realized it was already 1:15 p.m. I had a 2:00 appointment with Doc Byrne, my chiropractor. I stopped for the quick shot you see above, and then it was over to the doctor’s office.
People who see a motorcycle parked in front of a chiropractor’s office should probably realize the doctor knows his business. My guy does, and another plus for me is that he is a rider. We’ve had some interesting conversations about motorcycles while he works his magic. I’m a big believer in chiropractic medicine.
A motorcycle parked in front of a chiropractor’s office. What’s wrong with this picture?
After getting my back straightened, I pointed the Enfield north and wound my way into the San Gabriels. I was looking forward to a late lunch at the Mt. Baldy Lodge, and I was not disappointed.
The Mt. Baldy Lodge, a favored destination in the San Gabriel Mountains.
I like the Mt. Baldy Lodge. It was busy (that was good), although like a lot of places their prices have climbed irrationally (that’s not so good). I ordered a turkey melt sandwich and paid the extra $2.00 for onion rings instead of French fries (not exactly a healthy option, but it was delicious).
As soon as I sat down at the bar, a younger guy (they’re all younger these days) who was shooting pool asked if I came in on the Enfield. “Guilty,” I answered.
“Cool,” he said. “I had an Enfield about 10 years ago, but I crashed and the insurance company totaled it.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell him that the Interceptor was only introduced about four years ago. I had no interest in a conversation with a guy who was obviously making it up as he went along. Better he should find a job with the news media or in politics, or maybe as an Ivy League university president. (Does that count as politics? We don’t do politics here on ExNotes, you know.)
I enjoyed my sandwich and the onion rings. I didn’t eat the whole thing, which somewhat eased my guilt pangs (I’m having a weight loss contest with Baja John, and he’s kicking my ass). I was having a good day. There’s something about a motorcycle ride into the mountains, sitting at the bar in the Mt. Baldy Lodge, having a good lunch, and listening to the pool table balls clicking and clacking that just feels like all is right with the world. I had a great ride and a great lunch, but it was getting late and the outside temperature was starting to drop. I knew I’d better head home. Even though it was cold, I enjoyed the ride down out of mountains as much as the ride up. The next time I see that young lady walking her dog, I’ll thank her for her suggestion. She was right; it was a nice day for a ride.
So, in case you are wondering why you received a notification email about the new Janus 450 Scrambler and the link didn’t work…well, that was a case of operator error. I hit publish before I should have, which triggered the email notification, and then I took the blog down so I could repost it on 23 February. But the email notification had already gone out. I reposted the blog on the 23rd (like I was supposed to do to first time), and you can view it here. My fellow blogistas have warned me that they are going to lop off yet another finger if I screw up again, so I have to be careful. I only have a few fingers left, and it’s getting hard to type. Mea culpa, and all that…
The thought came to me easily: The Patton Museum. We’d been housebound for weeks, sheltered in place against the virus, and like many others we were suffering from an advanced case of cabin fever. Where can we go that won’t require flying, is reasonably close, and won’t put us in contact with too many people? Hey, I write travel articles for the best motorcycle magazine on the planet (that’s Motorcycle Classics) and I know all the good destinations around here. The Patton Museum. That’s the ticket.
General George S. Patton, Jr., and his faithful companion, Willie, at the General Patton Memorial Museum in Chiriaco Summit, California.
I called the Patton Museum and they were closed. An answering machine. The Pandemic. Please leave a message. So I did. And a day later I had a response from a pleasant-sounding woman. She would let me know when they opened again and she hoped we would visit. So I called and left another message. Big time motojournalist here. We’d like to do a piece on the Museum. You know the drill. The Press. Throwing the weight of the not-so-mainstream media around. Gresh and I do it all the time.
Margit and I finally connected after playing telephone tag. Yes, the Patton Museum was closed, but I could drive out to Chiriaco Summit to get a few photos (it’s on I-10 a cool 120 miles from where I live, and 70 miles from the Arizona border). Margit gave me her email address, and Chiriaco was part of it (you pronounce it “shuhRAYco”).
Wait a second, I thought, and I asked the question: “Is your name Chiriaco, as in Chiriaco Summit, where the Museum is located?”
“Yes, Joe Chiriaco was my father.”
This was going to be good, I instantly knew. And it was.
The story goes like this: Dial back the calendar nearly a century. In the late 1920s, the path across the Colorado, Sonoran, and Mojave Deserts from Arizona through California was just a little dirt road. It’s hard to imagine, but our mighty Interstate 10 was once a dirt road. A young Joe Chiriaco used it when he and a friend hitchhiked from Alabama to see a football game in California’s Rose Bowl in 1927.
Chiriaco stayed in California and joined a team in the late 1920s surveying a route for the aqueduct that would carry precious agua from the mighty Colorado River to Los Angeles. Chiriaco surveyed, he found natural springs in addition to a path for the aqueduct, and he recognized opportunity. That dirt road (Highways 60 and 70 in those early days) would soon be carrying more people from points east to the promised land (the Los Angeles basin). Shaver Summit (the high point along the road in the area he was surveying, now known as Chiriaco Summit) would be a good place to sell gasoline and food. He and his soon-to-be wife Ruth bought land, started a business and a family, and did well. It was a classic case of the right people, the right time, the right place, and the right work ethic. Read on, my friends. This gets even better.
Fast forward a decade into the late 1930s, and we were a nation preparing for war. A visionary US Army leader, General George S. Patton, Jr., knew from his World War I combat experience that armored vehicle warfare would define the future. It would start in North Africa, General Patton needed a place to train his newly-formed tank units, and the desert regions Chiriaco had surveyed were just what the doctor ordered.
Picture this: Two men who could see the future clearly. Joe Chiriaco and George S. Patton. Chiriaco was at the counter eating his lunch when someone tapped his shoulder to ask where he could find a guy named Joe Chiriaco. Imagine a response along the lines of “Who wants to know?” and when Chiriaco turned around to find out, there stood General Patton. Two legends, one local and one national, eyeball to eyeball, meeting for the first time.
A Sherman tank, the one Patton’s men would go to war with in North Africa and Europe, on display at the General Patton Memorial Museum.
Patton knew that Chiriaco knew the desert and he needed his help. The result? Camp Young (where Chiriaco Summit stands today), and the 18,000-square-mile Desert Training Center – California Arizona Maneuver Area (DTC-CAMA, where over one million men would learn armored warfare). It formed the foundation for Patton defeating Rommel in North Africa, our winning World War II, and more. It would be where thousands of Italian prisoners of war spent most of their time during the war. It would become the largest military area in America.
General Patton and Joe Chiriaco became friends and they enjoyed a mutually-beneficial relationship: Patton needed Chiriaco’s help and Chiriaco’s business provided a welcome respite for Patton’s troops. Patton kept Chiriaco’s gas station and lunch counter accessible to the troops, Chiriaco sold beer with Patton’s blessing, and as you can guess….well, you don’t have to guess: We won World War II.
World War II ended, the Desert Training Center closed, and then, during the Eisenhower administration, Interstate 10 followed the path of Highways 60 and 70. Patton’s troops and the POWs were gone and I-10 became the major east/west freeway across the US. We had become a nation on wheels and Chiriaco’s business continued to thrive as Americans took to the road with our newfound postwar prosperity.
Fast forward yet again: In the 1980s Margit (Joe and Ruth Chiriaco’s daughter) and Leslie Cone (the Bureau of Land Management director who oversaw the lands that had been Patton’s desert training area) had an idea: Create a museum honoring General Patton and the region’s contributions to World War II. Ronald Reagan heard about it and donated an M-47 Patton tank (the one you see in the large photo at the top of this blog), and things took off from there.
I first rode my motorcycle to the General Patton Memorial Museum in 2003 with my good buddy Marty. It was a small museum then, but it has grown substantially. When Sue and I visited a couple of weeks ago, I was shocked and surprised by what I saw. I can only partly convey some of it through the photos and narrative you see in this blog. We had a wonderful visit with Margit, who told us a bit about her family, the Museum, and Chiriaco Summit. On that topic of family, it was Joe and Ruth Chiriaco, Margit and her three siblings, their children, and their grandchildren. If you are keeping track, that’s four generations of Chiriacos.
The Chiriaco Summit story is an amazing one and learning about it can be reasonably compared to peeling an onion. There are many layers, and discovering each might bring a tear or two. Life hasn’t always been easy for the Chiriaco family out there in the desert, but they always saw the hard times as opportunities and they instinctively knew how to use each opportunity to add to their success. We can’t tell the entire story here, but we’ll give you a link to a book you might consider purchasing at the end of this blog. Our focus is on the General Patton Memorial Museum, and having said that, let’s get to the photos.
The Patton Museum’s new Matzner Tank Pavilion. When we were there, one of the two M60 tanks you see in front was running. If you think a motorcycle engine at idle makes music, you will love listening to an M60’s air-cooled, horizontally-opposed, 1790-cubic-inch, 12-cylinder diesel engine. I drove an M60 once when I was in the Army. Yeah, I still want one.The business end of an M60’s 105mm main gun. This one has been out of service for a long time; hence the rust. Firing one of these settles disagreements quickly.The M4 Sherman, our main battle tank in World War II, on the right, with an M5 Stuart tank on the left.Don’t tread on me, or so the saying goes. Everything on a tank is big. You don’t realize how big until you stand next to one.When Patton’s men trained at the DTC-CAMA, they used mockup aggressor vehicles (jeeps fitted with frames and canvas) to simulate the bad guys.M60 main battle tanks parked behind the Museum. This was a shot I could not resist. If Joe Gresh was into tanks, this is what Tinfiny Ranch would undoubtedly look like. The Patton name was attached to the M47, M48, and M60 tank series. I asked Margit about these tanks, and she told me that when the Museum raises enough money, they’ll be made operational and put on display. For now, Margit said, “they stand as silent ghosts with General Patton at the helm.” I like that.The General Patton Memorial Museum outdoor chapel. The chapel was built using desert rocks. If someone is looking for a unique wedding venue, this is it.
When I first visited the Patton Museum nearly 20 years ago, there were only three or four tanks on display. As you can see from the above photos, the armored vehicle display has grown dramatically.
Like the armored vehicle exhibits, the Museum interior has also expanded, and it has done so on a grand scale. In addition to the recently-built Matzner Tank Pavilion shown above, the exhibits inside are far more extensive than when I first visited. Sue and I had the run of the Museum, and I was able to get some great photos. The indoor exhibits are stunning, starting with the nearly 100-year-old topo map that dominates the entrance.
The Metropolitan Water District’s scale map of southern California, Arizona, and Nevada. MWD brought this model to the US Congress in 1927 to secure funding for the California Aqueduct, then they stored and forgot about it for decades. An MWD executive overhead Margit talking about the planned Patton Museum in the Chiriaco Summit coffee shop one day, he remembered the map, and one thing led to another. MWD donated the map to the Patton Museum in 1988. The Big Map (as it is known) covers the area used by Patton’s Desert Training Center and the California Arizona Maneuver Area. It’s a visually-arresting display that is truly something special.Generals Patton and Rommel, the two key players in North Africa. If you’ve never seen the movie, Patton, you need to fix that oversight. It is a great movie.George S. Patton: The early years. Patton attended the Virginia Military Institute and the United States Military Academy at West Point. His family was from San Marino, California. Patton was born into wealth and could have done whatever he wanted. He chose a career in the US Army.One of the display rooms inside the Patton Museum. I could have spent the entire day in just this room. That’s an A-10 Warthog model in the foreground. It’s the airplane we used to take out Iraq’s Republican Guard tanks in Operation Desert Storm. I worked for the company that manufactured the A-10’s 30mm Gatling Gun ammo and Combined Effects Munitions cluster bombs that did most of the heavy lifting in that war.Another view inside the Patton Museum. A tripod, a Nikon, a wide angle lens, and having the room to myself. It was a grand day.A model of Patton’s command vehicle. Patton lived in a trailer and moved with his troops during most of World War II, unlike other US generals who mostly stayed in hotels. Patton was an RVer before there were RVs.The Patton Museum has an extensive World War II small arms display. I could have spent half a day just viewing this part of the Museum. I’ll be back.The Patton Museum’s small arms display included this beautiful Model 1917 Colt .45 ACP revolver. Most of the surviving specimens you see today (when you see them at all; they are not very common) have a Parkerized finish. This one has the original blued finish. I own a Colt 1917; mine has the original finish, too. There’s quite a story behind these revolvers.A beautiful British Infantry Lee Enfield No. 4 rifle. I grabbed a photo of this one because it had an unusually attractive stock, something you don’t often see on infantry rifles.A replica of General Patton’s ivory-handled Colt Single Action Army revolver. Patton carried different sidearms during World War II, including this Colt SAA and a Smith and Wesson .357 Magnum (also equipped with ivory grips). Patton’s Colt SAA had two notches carved in the left grip. Then Lieutenant Patton was part of the Pershing expedition that chased Pancho Villa in Mexico from Fort Bliss (my old stomping grounds). Patton personally killed two men in a gunfight during that action. There’s no doubt about it: Patton was the real deal, a genuine warrior.
In addition to the General Patton Memorial Museum, there are several businesses the Chiriaco family operates at Chiriaco Summit, and the reach of this impressive family is four generations deep. As we mentioned earlier, it’s a story that can’t be told in a single article, but Margit was kind enough to give us a copy of Chiriaco Summit, a book that tells it better than I ever could. You should buy a copy. It’s a great read about a great family and a great place.
I enjoyed Chiriaco Summit immensely. That’s Joe Chiriaco in the lower left photo, and Ruth Chiriaco in the upper right inset. Margit Chiriaco Rusche, their daughter, is seated in the 1928 Model A. Fourth-generation Victor (whom we met) runs a vintage car header company at Chiriaco Summit. Victor is the young man standing behind Margit.
So there you have it: The General Patton Memorial Museum and Chiriaco Summit. It’s three hours east of Los Angeles on Interstate 10 and it’s a marvelous destination. Keep an eye on the Patton Museum website, and when the pandemic is finally in our rear view mirrors, you’ll want to visit this magnificent California desert jewel.
This is the fourth (and at least for now, the last) in a series of blogs on Browning bolt action rifles (the other three articles were on a .223 A-Bolt Micro Medallion, a maple-stocked 6.5 Creedmoor X-Bolt), and a .22 Long Rifle A-Bolt I used in metallic silhouette competition). The .223 A-Bolt and the 6.5 Creedmoor X-Bolt are very accurate. The .22 Long Rifle A-Bolt was pretty, but its accuracy was less than I thought it should be so after trying several different brands of .22 ammo I sold it.
This .308 Browning A-Bolt caught my eye for several reasons:
It is a stainless steel Gold Medallion A-Bolt in .308 Winchester with an octagonal barrel. At the time, stainless steel rifles were popular, and I always thought octagonal barrels were cool.
I like the .308 cartridge. It’s one of those cartridges that are inherently accurate, and I never owned a .308 that didn’t shoot well. I already had the dies and plenty of brass.
I like the Browning centerfire bolt action rifles. I knew from my experience with the .223 Micro Medallion that they are accurate.
My buddy Baja John and I spent a day at the range with his stainless steel octagonal .25 06 Browning. I liked it and I knew I wanted one.
The walnut is exceptional. The photos speak for themselves. I’m a sucker for pretty walnut.
The photos below are the ones that appeared in the Gunbroker.com ad.
As an aside, Browning rifles and shotguns are manufactured in Japan by Miroku. Miroku is an interesting firearms manufacturer for several reasons, one of which is that they did not make guns for the Japanese military during World War II (at least not that I could find any reference to). The other modern Japanese gun manufacturer is Howa; that company made rifles for the Japanese during the war (the Arisaka rifle). I own several modern Howas; they are excellent rifles (as are the Brownings made by Miroku). Miroku got its start making hunting guns in 1893, and then in 1934, they started manufacturing whaling harpoon guns. Today, Miroku manufactures rifles and shotguns under their own name and for other companies (including Winchester). Based on my experience and observation, the Miroku Brownings are high quality firearms.
I know, I’m getting off track with the above info on Miroku and Howa. Back to the Browning .308, the topic of this blog. Here’s the description of my .308 as it appeared in the Gunbroker.com auction:
You are bidding on a brand new Browning White Gold Octagon Medallion in 308 Winchester, this is absolutely New In The Box. These rifles were shot show specials from several years back. They feature octagon barrels, gold accents on the receiver, stunning wood and highly polished bolt handles. These are very stunning rifles and very rare. * I am thinning the herd, selling those items I just never get around to shooting. As I am again beginning to sell a lot of items I will take them to my gunsmith 1x per week for shipment, usually Saturday morning. My gunsmith is a farmer so it may then take a day or 2 to process and ship them. All guns are shipped to an FFL dealer only. It is your responsibility to send your funds and a copy of your dealer’s FFL (e-mailed legible copy is ok). I will NOT call, fax or spend time chasing down your dealer’s FFL. I will hold shipment until you send an FFL. If sending an FFL is a problem for your dealer either find another dealer or please don’t bid. * Any damage in shipping will be the responsibility of the shipping company. All products are shipped fully insured and will ship by FEDEX. Items paid for by Postal MO will ship right away. Those who pay with a bank check or personal check will wait up to 10 days to clear. I only ship to FFL dealers. I do not end auctions early so please don’t ask. I will also not take less than the minimum bid price!! * I am looking for one rifle for which I would consider working out a trade, it is a SAKO Mannlicher in .375 H&H. Otherwise I do not have an interest in trading. * All auctions need to be paid within 7 days of the end of the auction to avoid negative feedback. Once the firearm is received I would appreciate your feedback. I will always leave feedback for those who do the same. Thank you for looking at my auction, good luck!
[Information added 5/9/2012 6:59:47 AM] I want to comment on a couple pictures; First, there is NO scratch in the stock it is just the flash creating that impression. Secondly, there is a slight reddish cast in the finish but the flash distorts the look in the one picture. The gun looks like the more brownish pictures in real life. It is a very highly figured stock.
Based on the above, it appeared the seller was firm on his price (he used two exclamation points in his admonition regarding lower offers). I would have paid the $1399, but I come from a long line of people who believe you should never pay the asking price, at least not immediately. Disregarding his warning, I wrote to ask if he would consider a lower price, and the answer came back in seconds: No. Well, that was quick, I thought, impressed with his resolve. I was getting ready to respond with an “okay, I’ll pay the $1399” when a minute or two later another email floated in. He would take $1275. Done, I typed, and I hit the send button.
You might be wondering how this rifle shoots. That would be something you and I have in common. I’ve never fired it. I’m considering doing so, however, and that would require adding a scope, rings, and mounts. I may get around to doing that sometime in the near future.
What do you think? Should I mount a scope and shoot this beauty?
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The first time I cleaned the carburetors on the Kawasaki ZRX1100 everything went well except for the part about removing and installing the carbs back on the engine. The ZRX had sat for 9 years and it wasn’t running all that well when I parked it. The first carb cleaning saw new float needles installed and a general poking and cleaning of all jets and orifices.
The bike started up okay and ran fairly well, if a bit ragged at low RPM. This I chalked up to the four carbs needing synchronization. I didn’t have a carb sync tool so I just ran it like it was. It ran pretty good for 7000-8000 miles but became harder to start and really rough at any RPM below 2500. I put up with it because I dreaded removing the carbs again.
The old, original fuel hose started leaking where I had installed an inline fuel filter. No matter what clamp I used it leaked. Giving it a through examination I discovered the hose itself was rotten and the inner liner split. I pulled the hose off and sealed my fate. It was impossible to reach the hose connection buried between the carbs to install a new hose. Things had finally gotten so bad I had to fix the situation.
Removing the carbs was as dreadful as I remembered it to be. There’s not a lot of room between the air box and the intake rubbers so it was a bear (like an Ossa!) to remove the bank of four constant velocities.
Once on the bench the Kawasaki ZRX1100 carbs are pretty easy to work on. I ordered new carb kits and new fuel pipes that go between the carbs to supply fuel. The old pipes weren’t leaking but I didn’t want to go through this ordeal only to have them start leaking.
To install the new fuel pipes you have to un-rack the carbs and split them into individual units. The old pipes looked pretty crusty and I can see them puking fuel because I disturbed them once too often. I also wanted fresh plastic to replace the 24-year-old pipes. While I was at it I bought factory coolant hoses to replace the silicone ones that leaked when it was cold. The new hoses fit much better and should last the rest of my life. All in, I spent three hundred bucks with Dave at Southwest Suzuki/Kawasaki out on Highway 70.
Two of the pilot jets were clogged solid. I had just cleaned them a few months or 8000 miles ago. Possibly the rotten fuel line sent debris down stream and clogged the jets. In addition there are supposed to be tiny washers between the o-ring and the tension spring on the pilot jet adjusting screws. Three were missing and I must have lost them the last time I took the carbs apart. Without the little washers the tension spring digs into the o-ring shredding the thing. Any pieces of o-ring go right into the tiny idle transition holes on the floor of the venturi. So that’s on me. I swear, I never saw the things.
When I say the pilot jets were clogged I mean clogged. I soaked the pilot jets in Evaporust and tossed them into the ultrasonic cleaner: No joy. I had to use a single strand of copper from a fine strand electrical wire and work it for 20 minutes to get the things cleared.
The new Parts Unlimited carb kits came with all the stuff I needed, even those tiny idle mixture screw washers. I usually don’t use the jets out of kits because the quality is so suspect. In this case I decided to use them to be sure the pilots were clear enough. Besides, it couldn’t run any worse. I rechecked the float levels, one was a millimeter off, and assembled the entire mess.
The next day it occurred to me that I had installed the new jets without making sure they were actually drilled all the way through or that a bit of machining swarf hadn’t been left inside. So I took the float bowls off and ran copper wire through all four pilot jets and the main jets. It was good for my peace of mind. I also sprung for an OEM Kawasaki fuel line at a reasonable $12.
Because they are so hard to remove I try to be sure the carbs are not leaking by bench testing the floats and needles. This will save you a lot of work in the event something isn’t right. There’s nothing more depressing that fighting the carbs back into place only to have the things leak when you turn the petcock to On.
As you may have heard I was banned from the ZRX owner’s forum because I posted an ExhaustNotes light bulb review. It didn’t sit well with the members that were selling light bulbs. My new ZRX hangout is on Facebook called Banned ZRX members, or something like that. A lot of the same guys who were on the other site ended up there due to disagreements with the admin. Anyway, these ZRX guys suggested a thin piece of material between the air box and the rubber intakes to make replacing the carbs easier.
I had some thin sheet metal from a filing cabinet and used it to make two carb slider thingies. The sliders are held onto the engine by small bungee cords. I put a 90-degree bend in the sliders so they wouldn’t slip down in use. Those ZRX guys know their stuff, as it was a breeze to slide the carbs into position then remove the sheet metal. That’s half of a hard job made easy.
The Kawasaki ZRX1100 has a lot going for it in the maintenance department. The valves are easy to set clearances. The carbs use three simple, spring-loaded adjustment screws for synchronization, and there are no lock nuts to cause changes when tightened. The procedure is simplicity: You adjust the left set of two outside carbs, then adjust the right set of outside carbs, then adjust both sets of carbs to each other using a middle adjusting screw. It actually takes longer to write the carb sync procedure than to do it.
With all four idle circuits functioning correctly the ZRX starts up first push of the button. The bike pulls smoothly from idle all the way to redline. Having the carbs synced makes for a smooth transition coming off a stop and I don’t think the bike has ever run as good as it does now. I’ll be heading to Utah in June for the Rat Fink convention. It will be a lot more fun with the bike running like Kawasaki intended.
This just came in a few minutes ago: Janus is announcing their new 450cc Gryffin Scrambler. I rode the street version when I visited Janus Motorcycles a couple of years ago and I thought it was great. At 330 pounds and with a 450cc engine, the new Gryffin sounds good to me. Here’s the Janus press release.
JANUS MOTORCYCLES ANNOUNCES DEVELOPMENT OF GRYFFIN 450 SCRAMBLER
Goshen, Indiana
Janus Motorcycles, maker of small-displacement motorcycles with hand-crafted components and highly-customizable color combinations announces the development of their Gryffin 450 Model.
The Gryffin 450 uses the same simple, reliable, and enduro-inspired SWM 445cc, 30hp power plant as their popular Halcyon 450. With a 21’’ front wheel and 17’’ rear, high exhaust, and adventure-minded details, the Gryffin 450 is designed to be an ultra-lightweight scrambler that is configurable for adventure riding, trails, and general on- and off-road riding. It draws inspiration from classic scramblers of the 50s and 60s.
Weighing in at 330 pounds, the Gryffin 450 is featherweight in the scrambler class, and the XR400-derived SWM engine provides impressive power-to-weight in its lightweight chassis.
Janus Senior Design Engineer, Charlie Hansen-Reed, led the design on the project. “The Gryffin 450 is a close sibling to our Halcyon 450, but with some key changes that really make it excel off-pavement. The longer suspension travel, wheel size, lower seat height, and larger fuel tank will be really welcomed by our off-road riders.” He adds, “and trimming another 30 pounds off our already featherweight 450 chassis will be a huge bonus for trailering, van-lifers, and for any adventuresome rider’s peace of mind and confidence.”
Still available to customers will be the whole range of color options, pinstripe options, and other various aesthetic and functional items that differentiates Janus’ manufacturing process. Additional new options on the Gryffin 450 roadmap include motocross footpegs, headlight cage, pannier racks, highway bars, skid plate, tire selections, and pillion seat.
All Gryffin 450s will include hand-formed and beaded fenders, hand-formed and welded stainless steel exhaust, hand-welded chassis and forks, Brembo brakes, hand-painted graphics and pinstripes, and hundreds of permutations of color, pinstripe color, graphics package, leather/canvas bag options, and other customizations.
Janus Motorcycles builds their highly-individualized motorcycles to order and documents much of their design and build process on their Youtube channel. “Our customers and riders love to be a part of the iterative process. We’ve invited them along as we developed our 250 line and our Halcyon 450, and we’re excited to invite them alongside us as we finalize the design of the Gryffin 450 and push it into production” Founder and CEO Richard Worsham shares: “We invite anyone to follow along with us this year as we test, develop, and build our exciting new model.”
Janus opened reservations of the first Gryffin 450s to the public today, February 23rd. All orders placed in the first 30 days of sale will be a part of the First Edition, with serial-numbered plates, limited edition race plates, unique engraved components, and commemorative packages. Bikes will be built in order of reservation, with the first expected to be finished in July of 2024.
Riders can place a reservation for an order fee of $2995.
I grew up in a town small enough that our junior high school and high school were all in the same building. It was 7th through 12th grade, which meant that some of the Juniors and Seniors had cars, and one guy had a motorcycle. That one guy was Walt Skok, and the motorcycle was a ‘64 Triumph Tiger (in those days the Tiger was a 500cc single-carbed twin). It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, with big downswept chrome exhaust headers, a cool tank with a dynamite chrome rack, chrome wire wheels, and the most perfect look I had ever seen on anything. I spent every spare moment I had sneaking out into the parking lot to stare at it. Some things in the world are perfect, a precise blend of style and function (things like Weatherby rifles, 1911 handguns, C4 Corvettes, Nikon DSLRs, and 1960s Triumph motorcycles).
A ’64 Triumph Tiger, just like the one Walt Skok owned.
Back to the Triumph: One day Walt started it (I had been drooling over it for a month before I ever heard it run), and its perfection, to me, was complete. In those days, a 500cc motorcycle was enormous. When Walt fired it up, it was unlike anything I had ever heard. It wasn’t lumpy and dumpy like a Harley, it wasn’t a whiny whinny like a Honda, and it wasn’t a tinny “wing-ding-ding-ding-ding” like a Suzuki or a Yamaha (they were all two-strokes back then). Nope, the Triumph was perfect. It was deep. It was visceral. It was tough. The front wheel and forks literally throbbed back and forth with each engine piston stroke. To my 12-year-old eyes and ears it was the absolute essence of a gotta-get-me-one-of-these. It looked and sounded like a machine with a heart and a soul. I knew that someday I would own a machine like this.
Fast forward a few years, and I was old enough own and ride my own Triumphs. I’ve had a bunch of mid-‘60s and ‘70s Triumphs…Bonnevilles, Tigers, and a Daytona (which was a 500cc twin-carbed twin back then, a bike known as the Baby Bonneville). I was a young guy and those British motorcycles were perfect. They were fast, they handled well, and they sounded the way God intended a motorcycle to sound. I had a candy-red-and-gold ’78 750 Bonneville (Triumph always had the coolest colors) that would hit an indicated 109 mph on Loop 820 around Fort Worth, and I did that regularly on those hot and humid Texas nights. Life was good.
Fast forward another 50 years (and another 40 or 50 motorcycles for me). We saw the death of the British motorcycle empire, the rise and fall and rise and impending fall of Harley-Davidson, this new thing called globalization, digital engine management systems, and multi-cylinder ridiculously-porky motorcycles.
So here we are, today. My good buddy Gerry, then the CSC service manager, owned this ultra-cool Norton Commando. And good buddy Steve, the CSC CEO, bought the bike and put it on display in the CSC showroom. We had a lot of cool bikes on display there, including vintage Mustangs, Harleys, Beemers, RX3s, RC3s, TT250s, and more. But my eye kept returning to that Norton. I’d never ridden a Norton, but I’d heard the stories when I was younger.
A selfie, sort of. A stunning motorcycle.
Back in the day (I’m jumping back to the ‘60s and ‘70s again) guys who wanted to be cool rode Triumphs. I know because I was one of them. We knew about Nortons, but we didn’t see them very often. They had bigger engines, they were more expensive than Triumphs, and their handling was reported to be far superior to anything on two wheels. Harleys had bigger engines and cost more than Triumphs, but they were porkers. Nortons were faster than Triumphs (and Triumphs were plenty fast).
A lot of guys who rode Triumphs really wanted to ride Nortons. Nortons were mythical bikes. Their handling and acceleration were legendary. In the ‘60s, the hardest accelerating bike on the planet was the Norton Scrambler. Norton stuffed a 750cc engine into a 500cc frame to create that model, like Carroll Shelby did with the AC Cobra. I remember guys talking about Norton Scramblers in hushed and reverential tones back in the LBJ and Nixon years. You spoke about reverential things softly back then.
Fast forward again, and here I was with Steve’s 1973 Norton Commando right in front of me (just a few feet away from where I used to write the CSC blog). Steve’s Norton was magnificent. It had not been restored and it wore its patina proudly.
“Steve,” I said, “you need to let me ride that Norton.”
“Sure,” he said. “I’ll have Gerry get it ready for you.”
Wow, I thought. I’m going to ride a Norton. I felt like the little dog who finally caught the bus and found himself with a mouthful of bus. What do you do when that happens?
I sat on the Norton that afternoon. It felt big. The pegs were set far to the rear and my hips hurt immediately from the bike’s racing ergos (and maybe a little from the femur and spine fractures I suffered in a motorcycle accident a few years before that; I don’t bend as easily as I used to). Maybe I shouldn’t have asked to ride this beautiful beast. Maybe my mouth had written a check my body couldn’t cash.
But I was committed. The Norton went back to Gerry so he could get it ready for me to ride. There could be no backing out now. I was nervous, I was excited, and I was a little giddy. The only bikes I had ridden for the last 7 or 8 years were 150cc Mustangs and the 250cc Zongs. Lightweight bikes. Singles. Under 25 horsepower. Electric starters and all the amenities. Modern stuff. I thought about riding the 850 Norton. It dawned on me that I had not even heard it run yet. I realized I liked electric starters. I hadn’t kick started a bike in probably 35 years. The Norton was an 850, and it was kick start only. No electric starter. Hmmm.
When I arrived at the plant, Steve pushed the Norton outside for me. We both tried to figure out where the ignition key went (it’s on the left side of the bike). We tried to guess at the ignition key’s run spot (it has four or five positions). We picked the second one and I tried kicking the engine. It was a complicated affair. You had to fold the right footpeg in, and when you kick the starter, you had to try to not hit the gear shift lever on the right side of the bike. We kicked it a couple of times. Hmmm again. Lots of compression. Then Steve had to run back into the plant to take a phone call. I tried kick starting the Norton a couple of times again. Not even a cough from the engine.
I played with the key and clicked it over one more notch. Another kick, and the mighty 850 fired right up. Ah, success!
The Norton settled into an easy idle. It was wonderful. It sounded just like Walt Skok’s Triumph. I was in the 7th grade again. I looked around to see if Steve had seen me start it, but no one was there. It was just me and the Norton. Okay, I thought, I’ll just ride around in the parking lot to get the feel of the clutch, the throttle, and the brakes.
Whoa, I thought, as I let the clutch out gingerly. That puppy had power! The Norton was turning over lazily and it felt incredibly powerful as I eased the clutch out. I tried the rear brake and there was nothing (oh, that’s right, the rear brake is on the other side). I tried the front brake, and it was strong. Norton had already gone to disk brakes by 1973, and the disk on Steve’s Commando was just as good as a modern bike’s brakes are today.
I rode the Norton into the shop so Gerry could fill the fuel tank for me. The Norton has a sidestand and a centerstand, but you can’t get to either one while you are on the bike. You have to hold the bike up, dismount on the left, and then put it on the centerstand. The side stand was under there somewhere, but I didn’t want to mess around trying to catch it with my boot. It was plenty scary just getting off the Norton and holding it upright. It was more than a little scary, actually. I’m riding my boss’s vintage bike, it’s bigger than anything I’ve been on in years, and I don’t want to drop it.
Gerry gave me “the talk” about kick starting the Norton. “I don’t like to do it while I’m on the bike,” he said. “If it kicks back, it will drive your knee right into the handlebars and that hurts. I always do it standing on the right side of the bike.”
Hmmmm. As if I wasn’t nervous enough already.
I tried the kickstarter two or three times (with everybody in the service area watching me) and I couldn’t start the thing, even though I had started it outside (when no one was around to witness my success). Gerry kicked the Norton once for me (after my repeated feeble attempts) and it started immediately. Okay. I got it. You have to show it who’s boss.
I strapped my camera case to the Norton’s back seat (or pillion, as they used to say in Wolverhampton), and then I had a hard time getting back on the bike. I couldn’t swing my leg over the camera bag. Yeah, I was nervous. And everybody in the shop was still watching me.
With the Norton twerking to its British twin tango, I managed to turn it around and get out onto Route 66. A quick U-turn (all the while concentrating intensely so I would remember “shift on the right, brake on the left”) and I rode through the mean streets of north Azusa toward the San Gabriels. In just a few minutes, I was on Highway 39, about to experience riding Nirvana.
This is what a motorcycle instrument cluster should be. The Enfield Interceptor Gresh and I tested in Baja was very similar.
Wow, this is sweet, I thought as I climbed into the San Gabriels. I had no idea what gear I was in, but gear selection is a somewhat abstract concept on a Norton. Which gear didn’t seem to make any difference. The Commando had power and torque that just wouldn’t quit. More throttle, go faster, shifting optional. It didn’t matter what gear I was in (which was good, because all I knew was that I was somewhere north of 1st).
A photo stop along the East Fork Road. That’s East Fork, as in the East Fork of the San Gabriel River.
I looked down at the tach. It had a 7000-rpm redline and I was bouncing around somewhere in the 2500 zip code. And when I say bouncing around, I mean that literally. The tach needle oscillated ±800 rpm at anything below 3000 rpm (it settled down above 3000 rpm, a neighborhood I would visit only once that day). The Norton’s low end torque was incredible. I realized I didn’t even know how many gears the bike had, so I slowed, rowed through the gears and counted (the number was four).
A shot from the rear. I was shooting with a Nikon D3300 DSLR (an entry-level digital camera) and the Nikon 16-35 lens.
The Norton was amazing in every regard. The sound was soothing, symphonic, and sensuous (how’s that for alliteration?). It’s what God intended motorcycles to be. Highway 39 is gloriously twisty and the big Norton (which suddenly didn’t feel so big) gobbled it up. The Norton never felt cumbersome or heavy (it’s only about 20 lbs heavier than my 250cc RX3). It was extremely powerful. I was carving through the corners moderately aggressively at very tiny throttle openings. Just a little touch of my right hand and it felt like I was a cannon-launched kinetic energy weapon. Full disclosure: I’ve never been launched from a cannon, but I’m pretty sure what I experienced that day on the Norton is what it would feel like. Everything about the Norton felt (and here’s that word again) perfect.
I was having so much fun that I missed the spot where I normally would stop for the CSC glamour shots. There’s a particular place on Highway 39 where I could position a bike and get some curves in the photo (and it looked great in the CSC ads). But I sailed right past it. I was enjoying the ride.
When I realized I missed the spot where I wanted to stop for photos, it made me think about my camera. I reached behind to make sure it was still on the seat behind me, but my camera wasn’t there! Oh, no, I thought, I lost my camera, and God only knows where it might have fallen off. I looked down, and the camera was hanging off the left side of the bike, captured in the bungee net. Wow, I dodged a bullet there.
The view from above. It was a glorious day.
I pulled off and then I realized: I don’t want to kill the engine because then I’ll have to start it, and if I can’t, I’m going to feel mighty stupid calling Gerry to come rescue me.
Okay, I thought, here’s the drill. Pull off to the side of the road, find a flat spot, keep the engine running, put all my weight on my bad left leg, swing my right leg over the seat, hold the Norton upright, get the bike on the centerstand, unhook the bungee net, sling the camera case over my shoulder, get back on the bike, and all the while, keep the engine running. Oh, yeah. No problem.
This is what a motorcycle should look like. Why can’t other manufacturers do this? Oh, wait, Enfield did…
Actually, though, it wasn’t that bad. And I was having a lot of fun.
I arrived at the East Fork bridge sooner than I thought I would (time does indeed fly when you’re having fun). I made the right turn. I would have done the complete Glendora Ridge Road loop, but the CalTrans sign told me that Glendora Ridge Road was closed. I looked for a spot to stop and grab a few photos of this magnificent beast.
That’s when I noticed that the left footpeg rubber had fallen off the bike. It’s the rubber piece that fits over the foot peg. Oh, no, I thought once again. I didn’t want to lose pieces of Steve’s bike, although I knew no ride on any vintage British vertical twin would be complete without something falling off. I made a U-turn and rode back and forth several times along a half-mile stretch where I thought I lost the rubber footpeg cover, but I couldn’t find it. When I pulled off to turn around yet again, I stalled the bike.
Hmmm. No doubt about it now. I knew I was going to have to start the Norton on my own.
We (me and my good buddy Norton, that is) had picked a good spot to stop. I dismounted using the procedure described earlier, I pulled the black beauty onto its centerstand, and I grabbed several photos. I could tell they were going to be good. Sometimes you just know when you’re behind the camera that things are going well. And on the plus side of the ledger, all of the U-turns I had just made (along with the magnificent canyon carving on Highway 39) had built up my confidence enormously. The Norton was going to start for me because I would will it to.
And you know what? That’s exactly what happened. One kick and all was well with the world. I felt like Marlon Brando, Steve McQueen, and Peter Fonda, all rolled up into one 66-year-old teenager. At that moment I was a 12-year-old kid staring at Walt Skok’s Triumph again. Yeah, I’m bad. A Norton will do that to you. I stared at the bike as it idled. It was a living, breathing, snorting, shaking, powerful thing. Seeing it alive like that was perfect. I suddenly remembered my Nikon camera had video. Check this out…
So there you have it. A dream bike, but this time the dream was real. Good times, that day was.
If you like reading about vintage iron, check out our Dream Bikes page!
One of my gifts this past holiday season was a great read: Killers of the Summer Moon by David Grann. I didn’t pick up on the author’s name initially, but Grann was already known to me by an earlier nonfiction work of his, The Lost City of Z.
Killers of the Flower Moon is about the Osage Native American murders that occurred in Oklahoma in the early part of the last century. The story basically goes like this: The Osage tribe lost their land but retained the mineral rights. Oil lay under the Osage land, which made the Osage tribe members wealthy. Through corrupt local government white people could get themselves appointed as “guardians” (which essentially allowed them to control the Osage tribe member funds), and if the person whose funds they controlled died, the money went to the white person controlling those funds. You can imagine what this led to: The Osage members started dying in large numbers under mysterious circumstances. The local and state governments had little interest in addressing the issue and the murders continued. It was a young J. Edgar Hoover’s newly-minted FBI that solved the case. That, all by itself, made for a fascinating story, made all the more interesting by it being true.
At the end of the book, Grann found a way to make the story even more interesting. The scale and scope of the murders were significantly greater than even the FBI realized, with Osage murders both preceding and following the years covered by the FBI investigation. Grann’s personal research brought this latest revelation to light.
I recently posted a Wayback Machine blog on riding in the rain, and Carl Bennett (a new friend from the UK) added a comment about one of his rain rides. Carl’s input was interesting on several levels, one of which was the included web address. I poked around a bit on Carl’s site and found a blog post titled “Lobo.” Well, one thing led to another, with the result being Carl’s permission to publish “Lobo” here on ExNotes. I enjoyed reading it and I think you will, too.
– Joe Berk
By Carl Bennett
As a name for a motorcycle it’s okay. It means timber wolf, in Spanish, but maybe that means Mexican. Oooops, I meant Microsoft Spanish, for whom Spanish means Old Spanish. Obviously in global internet land, Microsoft’s 14-year-old-in-Ohio sensibilities reign supreme. Which is a whole other story. And this one is about me. Like all my others, as yours are all about you and Charles Dickens’ were about him. And especially Martin Amis’s were all about him. God, were they about him. I don’t know if he ever had a motorcycle. Hunter Thompson definitely had several, but as he wrote himself, Mister Kurz, he dead.
Lobo was the name of the band that sang A Dog Named Boo, so long ago that I can’t even admit I know the tune. I heard it during my formative years, the ones still a-forming.
Like Arlo Guthrie on his motorcycle I don’t want to die. Despite drinking kettle de-scaler yesterday morning, calling NHS 111 and having a not-great day thinking I might actually die of this, which wasn’t helped by eating a whole packet of spicy beetroot. I love that stuff, except they really ought to put a reminder on the packet of what happens when you look in the toilet bowl, to tell you that you almost certainly will live more than another three days and if you don’t, it won’t be anything to do with beetroots, unless a beetroot lorry runs you over. The gist being that I’d quite like to stay alive for the foreseeable future.
So obviously, I bought myself a motorcycle for Christmas. Unlike the song, although I’ve got my motor running, first time every time, but hey, it’s a BMW. On which I have no intention of hitting the highway like a battering ram, nor like anything else. What did you expect? I’ve absolutely no wish to hit the highway because I know from past experience it bloody hurts. Thankfully, my off-bike excursions were few and decidedly minor, but I remember spending an afternoon in Gene Fleck’s Meadow Inn bar in Wisconsin with the road closed while an emergency crew searched against the clock to find someone’s foot. I’d seen him and his girl earlier in the day on a Harley, riding like an accident looking for somewhere to happen, which it duly did.
I wasn’t prepared for the change. And no, that wasn’t why I got a motorcycle again. I did it because life is short. I did it because I wanted to smell the grass and the trees and the fields I passed through. I did it because I wanted to do it again before I die.
Where I began the process I laughingly call growing-up, there wasn’t any public transport to speak of. There were infrequent busses, taxis weren’t a thing for a 16 or 17-year-old in a Wiltshire town and even if being chauffeured to places by my Mummy was an option the way it seems to be for kids today, I’d have died of self-loathing to ask. Probably. After I had the lift, obviously. All of which meant that at 16 I did what was the fairly normal thing and bought a Yamaha FS1-E. It wasn’t just me. Look at the sales figures. Back then, you had a moped only as long as it took to get a motorcycle, which was your 17th birthday. Thanks to some bureaucratic insanity, or more likely in England, nobody could be bothered to check the sense of the rules, or read them properly, a 17-year-old could perfectly legally if predictably briefly stick a sidecar on a Kawasaki Z1, stick L-plates on it and set off for the obituary column of their local paper, when there were such things.
Not me, baby. I bought a Honda CB 175. I had an Army surplus shiny PVC button-up coat. It felt like, it looked like, it probably was something a dustman on a motorcycle would look like, as a friend of mine thoughtfully pointed out in case it was something I’d overlooked. It had to go, even though it didn’t very fast. I put it in the Wiltshire Times. Nobody even rang the phone number. I put the price up 30% the next week and got about 20 calls. I sold it to the first one who came to see it, even though he asked for a discount. Which he didn’t get. I didn’t bother to tell him about the 30% discount he could have had the week before.
Then it was probably my favourite bike, the Triumph T25, the kind of thing that now sells for over £4,000 any day of the week and which then you felt lucky if you could raise £200 on it. It was fun, and I learned some good lessons on it. One of them being that if you ignore that little triangular sign warning you there’s a junction ahead then you’ll go about three-quarters of the way across it before the twin-shoe Triumph brake stops you. Nothing came. Nothing did on back lanes around Tellisford in those days.
The Triumph got swapped for a Norton 500 that ran for two weeks out of the two years I had it. It sent me spinning down the road like a dead fly in Cardiff one black ice night, after I’d left the electric fire warmth of some girl’s flat (nothing doing there; never was, with anybody), lost the bike out from under me at about 5 mph, came to a halt against a parked car and had some Welshman peer down at me to tell me “Duh, it’s icy mind.” I left Wales as soon as I could and bought another Triumph, a real 1970s post-Easy-Rider identity crisis machine. It was a 650cc Tiger engine, shoehorned into a chrome-plated Norton Slimline frame. Instead of the rocker clip-ons you’d expect, it had highish handlebars and cut-off exhausts. Just header pipes in fact, but with Volkswagen Beetle mufflers smacked into them in a Bath carpark, with Halford’s slash-cut trim bolted on the ends. I wasn’t a rocker, but I thought it rocked.
It took two weeks to get the petrol tank the way I wanted it, a deep, deep black you could lose your soul in, sprayed on then sanded, sprayed on then sanded, sprayed on then sanded about fifteen times in the kitchen of my definitively smelly Southampton student flat, the kind of place that gave Ian McEwan the idea for The Cement Garden, only a bit less appealing. On the first trip out on that gloriously glossy bike I rode up to Salisbury, escorted by a girlfriend whose parents purported to believe that she had her own spare room at my university halls of residence, the ones I’d left months before. We got to her parents’ newish house in the summer sunlight, said hello, put the bike in the driveway. Then decided we’d go to a local pub because a) Wiltshire, b) nothing much else to do until her parents went out, or c) that’s what people did.
I started the bike, but it didn’t fire first time, so I tickled the Amal carburetor and tried again. There was no air filter on the carb – there often wasn’t in those days – so when it backfired the spurt of flame came straight out into the open air and set light to the petrol that had trickled down the outside of the carb float bowl. I appreciate that these are words that younger readers won’t even recognise, but we had to. I had my leather jacket on, a full-face Cromwell ACU gold-rated helmet, and long leather gloves, so I just reached down nonchalantly to switch the fuel tap to Off. No petrol, no fry, as Bob Marley didn’t sing. Except I didn’t turn the petrol off. I managed to pull the rubber petrol feed line off instead. The flames came up to chest level.
My first thought was to run for it, but my second was that I’d just put three gallons in the tank and I seriously doubted I could run faster than that. All I could think of to do was reach into the flames and turn the petrol tap off, so that’s what I did. I couldn’t see past my elbow in the flames, but it worked or I wouldn’t be telling this story. The insulation on the electrics had burned off so the horn was fused on until I got out my trusty Buck knife (something else we took entirely as normal in the West Country) and cut what was left of the wires. My girlfriend’s mother saw the whole thing from the kitchen. She waited until the flames had gone out before she came out to tell me I’d dropped oil on her driveway.
There was a break after that, for university and unhappily London then Aylesbury and Bath until luck and an unusual skillset saw me in Chicago, on a 650 Yamaha that might or might not have been technically stolen, blasting around Lakeshore Drive and the blue lights area, under half the city, overlooking some huge American river, me and an Italian buddy from summer camp on his bike, living if not the dream then certainly some kind of alternative reality. To this day I don’t know why I did that. No insurance, no clear provenance to the bike, certainly no observance of the speed limits, and only my trusty grey cardboard AA international driving licence that didn’t mention motorcycles. But nothing happened. Back then that was all that mattered.
A gap of some years and then a BMW R1000, a bike that vibrated so much that a trip from London to Wiltshire left me literally unable to make a sentence for about fifteen minutes. It felt good though, that lumpy, dumpy, so-solid bike. I traded that one for a Harley-Davidson Sportster which is what I thought was the ultimate motorcycle ought to be before I found out that I needed to spend £200 a month pretty much every month to get it the way it ought to have left the factory before their accountants had a say in the recommended retail price. It got stolen, we recovered it and instead of putting it back in showroom metal flake purple turned it jet black, bored it out to 1200, and put Brembo four-pot brakes and a fuel-injector on it before it transmogrified into a laptop and a laser printer, when laser printers were a long way from the couple of hundred a good one is now.
And somehow that was 30 years ago. This time the iron horse is a BMW F650, almost as old as when I stopped riding for a while, but with a documented 13,000 miles on it. My idea of common sense says changing the oil and the filter and swapping out the original brake lines and replacing them with stainless steel would first of all look cool but possibly more importantly, be quite a sensible way of not relying on thirty year old rubber. I mean, would you? On any Saturday night?
In the intervening coughty years I’ve either sold or given away my original Schott jacket, the gloves, the Rukka, the Ashman Metropolitan Police long boots and the Belstaff scrambler boots. The Cromwell helmet and the Bell 500 open-face are long gone. I need everything, from the toes upwards and I find that most of the names I grew up with such as Ashman or Cromwell just don’t exist any more. I bought another Bell, but a full-face ACU gold Sharp 5-rated lid this time. I got some gloves, some chain lube and a tube of Solvol Autosol to keep the chrome shiny. I found some leather jeans and my old not-Schott jacket that I bought in Spain and after only three applications of neatsfoot oil and old-fashioned dubbin and hanging it over a radiator it’s now soft enough to be wearable and looks, I think, pretty darned good, even if it doesn’t have a single CE rating to its name. I’ve skipped the red Hermetite that used to decorate every pseudo-serious biker’s jeans.
Of the kids I knew that got in Bad Trouble on a bike, one was drunk and showing off. He died. My cousin lost his job and an inch off one leg when he was swiped by a car that ignored him on a roundabout. One in Wiltshire rode his bike under a combine harvester. He died too. It wasn’t really funny and I try not to think of him looking like SpongeBob SquarePants, with his arms and legs sticking out of the straw. He’d had a 20-year break from bikes and had just picked up an early retirement pension payoff. He didn’t read the T&Cs that said you still can’t ride like an arse. The American guy I didn’t ride around Chicago with lost his foot and they didn’t find it in time to put it back on. For all I know it’s still in a field in Wisconsin.
CE-rated armour wouldn’t have helped a single one of them. I’m certainly not saying safety gear isn’t worth the effort, or I wouldn’t have specced out my new helmet so carefully. But motorcycles aren’t the safest thing. You have to watch your sides, your front and what’s underneath you, as well as your back.
Like what you read hear? Check out (and subscribe to) Carl Bennett’s blog at Writer-Insighter.com!
This is a continuation from my previous blog highlighting ten of the best roads in the beautiful state of California.
California 198 to Sequoia National Forest
Rated 5 WheeliesRoute Details. Yes, another mind-blowing road that goes through another National Park. This route has beautiful mountain switchbacks with no towns and minimal distractions. This allows you to lose yourself while focusing on the tight corners as you speed next to some of the largest trees on the planet. This route highlights how small you as a rider next to these majestic trees in Sequoia National Park.
Start to Finish Points: Wood Lake to Pinehurst
Distance: 78 miles
Ride Time / Recommended Time: 3 to 6 hours
Recommended Time of Year: May to October
Main Point Of Interest(s): General Sherman Tree
Cautions / Dangers: Wildlife in early morning and evenings
Important Contact Numbers: CHP (Visalia) 559-734-6767
Road Description. Although this route can be completed in a day, I would recommend you take two days. The reason for taking this slower is to allow yourself to stop and enjoy the sightseeing along this national park. The road is in excellent condition as you climb the switchbacks to crest the highest point in the park. There are no gas stations along this route so it is imperative that you fill up in either Three Rivers or Hume Lake (75 miles between the two) or outside the northern part of the park near Squaw Valley (90 miles from Three Rivers).
Points of Interest. Since this is a National Park there is plenty to do outside of riding including hiking, sightseeing, and camping. This is one of my favorite National Parks since it is so stunning but everything is a very short hike to get to. Some of the largest trees in the World reside in this park. The General Sherman Tree is the world’s largest tree and is along this route. There are many other gigantic trees that are awe inspiring and shouldn’t be missed. These are the points of interest I recommend:
Where to Stay/Camp. Camping and hotels are limited to what is available in the National Park. Reservations should be made ahead of time as the park can often be booked full and will leave you no other options for 50+ miles for a place to stay. Here’s where to check:
Route Details. This route can be combined with the Fort Bragg to Garberville route, but I wanted to ensure they were written on separately as I feel the riding and terrain changes from the previous one to this route. This is Northern California at its finest. Pristine ocean views that include lighthouses and beaches for over 100 miles.
Start to Finish Points: Fort Bragg to Bodega Bay
Distance: 107 miles
Ride Time / Recommended Time: 3-6 hours
Recommended Time of Year: May to Oct
Main Point Of Interest(s): Numerous Beaches and Lighthouses
Cautions / Dangers: Possible heavy fog in the morning
Important Contact Number: CHP (Ukiah) 707-467-4420
Road Description. Beautiful sweeping corners that hug the cliffs consume this ride. You can feel your lungs cleanse as you breathe in the mist of the Pacific Ocean while blasting along one of the most well-known, yet less traveled roads in our country. The road is in great condition and there are plenty of small Oceanside towns that have locations to fuel up and allow you to stop in for meals or a beverage. It is important to ensure you soak up some sun while taking a breather and meet other riders at one of the many stops along this epic part of Highway 1.
Points of Interest. This stretch of Highway 1 has some of the most beautiful and unpopulated beaches in the country along it. There are several lighthouses that are worth stopping by to visit. Mendocino Headlands State Park is a perfect place to stop and get a short hike in to regain focus for the upcoming curves you will be leaning heavily into. There are also several small beach communities like Mendocino, Fort Ross, and Gualala you will ride through, any of which make for a great stop for lunch or a stayover if you have the time. Here are my favorite spots:
Where to Stay/Camp. This stretch of road is one of the easier places to locate campgrounds and hotels due to the lack of crowds along it. As always making reservations ahead of time is recommended to ensure you have a safe place to rest for the evening. I have always had a pleasant experience staying along this route. Any of these places are good:
Route Details. 113 miles of diverse riding from open field to challenging switchbacks as you climb the cliffs along beautiful Lake Tahoe and take in some of the most intense roads and vistas in California. The road is in excellent condition with much of it newly paved. There are plenty of turnouts for taking photos, which is fortunate because the curves are very sharp and come up quickly so the ability to pull over and take in the views is an added bonus along this trip. The route is not a letdown. You and your motorcycle will be smiling all day.
Start to Finish Points: Kings Beach with Reno Junction in the north as your turnaround back to Kings Beach
Distance: 113 miles
Ride Time / Recommended Time: 4 to 6 hours
Recommended Time of Year: May to September
Main Point Of Interest: Lake Tahoe, Reno
Cautions / Dangers: Quickly changing weather conditions, especially in fall
Important Contact Numbers: CHP (Truckee) 530-563-9200
Road Description. This is one of the more picturesque and challenging rides in California. This route provides such a range in diversity, both in the scenery and the road types. You start in Kings Beach where there are rolling meadows and begin to quickly climb to over 9,000 ft. where you will be skirting the edges of cliff sides with some serious switchbacks thrown in for added intensity. This road is not for beginner riders as the technical cornering along with the beautiful views can be too dangerous for a novice to safely navigate, however, for seasoned riders on a clear day the photos from this ride will soon be the background on your laptop screen.
Points of Interest. This route has plenty of tourism along Lake Tahoe and in Reno as you loop through the stunning Tahoe National Forest. There are plenty of pullouts along this route to catch your breath and absorb the beauty that is fully surrounding you. As you traverse this loop you will not have to worry about any long stretches without gas or places to stop for food. Here are a few favorites:
Gar Woods Grille & Pier is the perfect place to start or end your day with great food, beautiful views of the lake, and live music on the weekends
Brewforia is perfect lunch location with excellent craft brews and delicious burritos
The Peavine Taphouse in Tahoe at the top of the loop it is worth pulling in to get some heavily loaded pizza to fuel up for the return trip
Where to Stay/Camp. With Tahoe National Forest surrounding you there are plenty of opportunities for dispersed camping along this ride. There is also an abundance of hotels, both high end and budget as well as state and private campgrounds. In short there is no need to worry about finding a place to lay your head and recover or to prepare for an incredible day of riding here.
Route Details. This road is quite unique from any other road in this state. It is 135 miles of just raw desert. Ensure you carry extra water to drink although there are gas stations every 35 miles or so. However, with this area having some of the hottest weather on the planet keeping an extra gallon of water (at least) on you is a wise move. The road is as desolate as you can find on a motorcycle, and the topography is like something from another planet. Even though the roads are straighter as compared to other rides I have listed, it’s the region and scenery that really make this road jaw dropping. Be very aware of the weather prior to traveling through this area.
Start to Finish Points: Lone Pine to Death Valley Junction
Distance: 135 miles
Ride Time/Recommended Time: 4 to 6 hours
Recommended Time of Year: September to early May
Main Point Of Interest: Death Valley National Park
Cautions/Dangers: Extreme heat conditions, possible sand in road
Important Contact Numbers: CHP (Bishop) 760-872-5150
Road Description. If you’ve ever dreamed of driving a motorcycle on Mars this is what it would be like. This road is one that you will never forget due to the dramatic landscape and post-apocalyptic feeling as you roll through the desolate desert of this National Park. The temperatures are extremely hot so I will mention this again to confirm the weather prior to embarking on this route. Early morning is a perfect time to go if you are traveling east to west to watch the landscape change colors in front of you while you are riding.
Points of Interest. The main attraction of this part of the country is Death Valley National Park. This area is home to the lowest point in the southern 48 with an elevation of 280 feet below sea level. As you stand in the depths of that point and turn northward you can see Mt. Whitney in the distance. Mt. Whitney is the highest point in the lower 48 rising up at over 14,000 feet. During springtime the desert erupts with beautiful fields of wildflowers that stretch across the desert. This makes February and March one of the best times to visit this area. This time also provides relief from the extreme heat of this National Park. There’s more info on Death Valley National Park here.
Where to Stay/Camp. This road has only a few places to stop along the way so it is important to ensure your water and fuel levels are topped off at each stop. Even though there are so few places to eat there is plenty of camping along the way during cooler months. Here are the spots I recommend:
The Panamint Springs Hotel is the only place in Panamint Springs to get food, water, and a hotel room
Just prior to entering the National Park the Death Valley Hotel is the perfect mid-way point to either grab lunch, camp or a hotel room
The Oasis at Death Valley resort has a great steakhouse and saloon that is perfect for a beverage to wind out your day; on the eastern side of the park this resort will be a welcome break from the heat of the day
San Juan Capistrano to Lake Elsinore on Route 74
Rated 4 Wheelies
Route Details. This is a perfect ride for a Sunday afternoon to wind down from the weekend. Fun switchbacks up through the Ronald W. Caspers Wilderness. The road has some beautiful pullouts for a panoramic view of the lake right before you descend down into the town of Lake Elsinore. This ride is popular with local riders so be aware of that as you travel through it and be mindful of speed traps.
Start to Finish Points: San Juan Capistrano to Lake Elsinore
Distance: 52 miles
Ride Time / Recommended Time: 2 to 4 hours
Recommended Time of Year: Year round
Main Point Of Interest(s): Lake Elsinore
Cautions / Dangers: Speed Traps
Important Contact Numbers: CHP (San Juan Capistrano) 949-487-4000
Road Description. Beautifully maintained roads where you can really practice cornering on your motorcycle. This road is more of a social route that will allow you to stop and chat with fellow riders and build new friendships than a long distance run. It’s close in proximity to LA which makes it a perfect ride on any day where you have a few spare hours and are in need of wind therapy.
Points of Interest. Once you leave San Juan Capistrano there is nothing until Lake Elsinore, except for probably one of the coolest motorcycle bars I have ever visited, Hell’s Kitchen Motorsports Bar and Grill. This is a place you have to stop at along this road to meet other riders and get a beverage and a burger. There are also several hikes with waterfalls that are worth stopping by for a break and to stretch out.
The Ortega Waterfalls is a lovely place to rest and take a quick swim, located at 33382 to 32806 Ortega Highway in Lake Elsinore, California
Hell’s Kitchen Motorsports Bar and Grill is a great stopping point to meet other riders and car enthusiasts
Kristy’s Country Store is the only place along this route to get snacks or water
Where to Stay/Camp. Surprisingly for such a short stint of road there are several wonderful camping opportunities either along the beach or in the hills along Route 74. All the campgrounds along this road are very clean and well maintained. These can allow for a weekend getaway that isn’t too far of a ride to get some air and enjoy a nice fire glowing off your motorcycle as you unwind from a week at work.
The Orange County Park area is a perfect campground with short hikes you can start right from your campsite; closer to Lake Elsinore, this campground also has some short beautiful hikes that are closer to the waterfalls
Conclusions
As you can see there is no shortage of beautiful roads in California. These routes listed along with the bars, restaurants, and tourist points are some of my favorites in the state. The experiences you embrace along these roads are sure to create some of the fondest memories that will stay with you for a lifetime. If you found this article useful or would like to share your favorite roads and experiences in California please feel free to share so we can work together to expand our knowledge on this unforgettable state.
As with all mountains, the weather is constantly changing and this mountain would prove no different. The previous day the hikes were cancelled due to heavy winds. Upon waking up at 0400 it was a relief to learn that the shuttles would be running that day. My campsite was just outside the town of National Park and was right along the shuttle path for a 0545 pickup and a 30-minute drive to the trailhead.
Route Details. Yes, another mind-blowing road that goes through another National Park. This route has beautiful mountain switchbacks with no towns and minimal distractions. This allows you to lose yourself while focusing on the tight corners as you speed next to some of the largest trees on the planet. This route highlights how small you as a rider next to these majestic trees in Sequoia National Park.
