Joe Berk

Lobo

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!

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The Wayback Machine: 1200 Triumph Daytona

By Joe Berk

I guess a bike can still be a dream bike if you owned one and then sold it. I still dream about my Triumph 1200 Daytona, so it qualifies. It was a fantastic bike. A real locomotive. Crude, strong, powerful, and fun. And fast. Wow, was it ever fast!

Somewhere in New Mexico on the 2005 Three Flags Rally with my ’95 Daytona 1200, a bike I still dream about.

I first saw a 1200 Daytona at a CBX Honda meet (yeah, I had one of those, too). It was at a guy’s house somewhere in Hollywood, and this dude also had a black 1200 Daytona. Well, maybe that’s not quite right…I saw one at the Long Beach Show even before then, but I didn’t really appreciate what it was all about. This CBX guy was laughing and telling me about the Daytona’s design.

“What they did, har har har, was basically just hang an extra cylinder off the right side of the motor, har har har,” he said. “Here, har har har, take a look at this, har har har,” and with that, he walked behind the Daytona and pointed to the engine. Holy mackerel, I thought. It had been a 900cc triple. Now it was a 1200 four, and the added girth of that extra cylinder stuck out of the frame on the right. They didn’t even re-center the engine in the frame. Anything this crude, I thought, I had to have. Har har har, the CBX guy was right. This was a machine worth owning. I had to get me one.

I guess the feeling passed (they usually do), but that bike stuck in my mind. I had pretty much forgotten all about that Daytona until one day when I received an email, way back in ’02, from my riding buddy Marty. It seemed there was a brand-new 1995 Triumph Daytona on Ebay. 7 years old, never sold, and the dealer in Wisconsin was auctioning it off on Ebay. In 2002.

Jesus, I was still on dial up Internet in those days. I can still hear the squelching when I logged onto AOL to get to the Internet. This can’t be right, I thought, as I studied the Ebay listing. I called the dealer. He was a Ducati and Kawasaki guy now, somewhere in Wisconsin. Used to be a Triumph dealer. He got the Daytona when he was still selling Triumphs, he had put it on display (it was stunning), nobody bit, he was anxious to sell, he lost the Triumph franchise years ago, and he was finally getting around to unloading the Daytona. Yep, it’s brand new, he told me. Never registered. 0.6 miles on the clock. $12,995 back in ’95. I already knew that. It was beyond my reach back then.

I did the only thing I could think of. I put in a bid. Using dial up. On Ebay. My friend Marty was shocked. So was I.

Over the next several days, the price climbed. Then it was D-day. Then H-hour. Then M-minute. The bid was $7,195. For a 7-year old, brand new, originally $12,995 motorcycle. I waited until there were just a few seconds left and I put in a bid for $7,202. On dial up Internet. Nothing happened. That was dial up for you.

The auction ended, my dial up Ebay was flashing at me. I swore up a blue streak, cursing the genes that had made me a cheap SOB who wouldn’t pay extra for broadband. I used dial up to save a few bucks, and now it had cost me big time. I thought I had let that dream bike get away. Then Ebay announced the winner, and it was me.

Yahoo! (No, Ebay and AOL!) I won! Whoopee!

My dream come true, after arriving from Wisconsin by air. I had visions of flying to Wisconsin and riding back, but when I called, the dealer’s wife told me he was out front shoveling snow…

I know. Stunning. Mine. A dream come true.

Beauty like this can drive ya buggy. The aftermath of a CLASSIFIED high speed run across central California on Highway 58.

A few days later, I had the bike, and my dream came true. I put 20,000 miles on it, I rode the thing from Canada to Mexico on the 30th Anniversary Three Flags Rally with Marty (I was the only Triumph among the 400 bikes that rode the event that year), and then I sold it. A dream come true, and I sold it. I know, I know. What was I thinking?

I can still dream, I guess, and I often do, of that big yellow locomotive with one cylinder hanging off the right side…

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The Wayback Machine: Riding in the Rain

By Joe Berk

I thought I would repost a blog I wrote in 2019 about riding in the rain. It’s been raining nonstop here in So Cal for days. When I say nonstop, that’s what I mean. Ordinarily when you get caught in the rain, it lasts for a while and then stops, and then maybe starts again. With this atmospheric river (the meteorological term) we are experiencing, it has literally been constant rain. I’m staying warm and cozy with a cup of coffee here in my home, but looking out the window, I’m reminded of past rides in the rain…and with that intro, here’s our previous blog.

Wow, it has been pouring here for the last week, with little respite other than this past Sunday. Sunday was nice. Every other day this week and the tail end of last week has been nonstop rain. Big time. Buckets full. And my iPhone just started buzzing with a flash flood warning for this area. Wow again.

So I’m sitting here at the computer, enjoying a hot cup of coffee, looking out the window, and I’m thinking about what it’s like to ride in the rain. We’ve all had those rides. Those memories stick in my mind. I remember every one of those rides like they happened yesterday.

The first was the return leg of my first international motorcycle foray, when good buddy Keith Hediger and I rode up to Montreal and back. That was in the early ‘70s, and we didn’t call them adventure rides back then. They were just motorcycle rides. I was on a ’71 CB750 and Keith was on a Kawi 500cc triple. It rained the entire length of Vermont at about the same intensity you see in the video above. We had no rain gear. It wasn’t cold, but it sure was wet. We were soaked the entire day. Wouldn’t trade a minute of it. It was a great ride.

Another time was on the second ride I ever did in Baja with good buddy Baja John. It was pouring when we left at 4:00 a.m., and it didn’t let up for the entire day. I was on a Harley then, and we finally stopped somewhere around Colonet to checked into a cheap Baja hotel (a somewhat redundant term, which is becoming less redundant as Baja’s march in to the 21st century unfortunately continues). Leather, I found out on that trip, makes for lousy rain gear. I went hypothermic, and I had the shakes until 4:00 the following morning. It made for a good story, and the rest of that trip was epic. Down to Cabo, back up to La Paz, on the overnight ferry over to Mazatlan, out to Puerto Vallarta and Guadalajara, back up to Nogales, and a thousand-mile one-day dash to make it home on New Year’s Eve. Wouldn’t trade a second of it.

Riding with Marty on the ’05 Three Flags Classic, we were caught in a downpour the second day out as we rode along the Dolores River in Colorado. It was a magnificent ride, with Marty on his K1200RS and me on my 1200cc Daytona. It wasn’t a drizzle. It was a downpour, just like you see in the video above. I remember it vividly, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Colombia had lots of rain, but it only hit us hard on the very first day. It was raining hard that first morning as we rode out of Medellin and into the Andes early on that fine Colombian morning, but it lightened up by breakfast. I had real rain gear and the only issues were visibility and passing 22-wheelers on blind curves, as my Colombian riders did with gleeful abandon. Exciting times. But good times, and certainly ones I remember. Colombia was an adventure for the ages. I wouldn’t trade a second of it for anything else.

I’d have to say the heaviest rains I ever rode through were in China, where it rains a lot. It probably rained 25% of the time on that trip, and the first few days were the worst. Imagine riding up into the Tibetan Plateau, in the dark, on dirt roads, in rain way heavier than what you see in the video above. That’s what it was like, and I loved every mile of that ride. I wouldn’t trade it for anything else on the planet.

You might be wondering…why no photos? Well, the simple truth is that my cameras on each trip were tightly wrapped in plastic bags, and I wasn’t about to break them out in the rain. That’s something I guess I forgot to mention in my earlier blog about what to bring on a Baja trip: Garbage bags. They take up almost no space when you’re not using them, and they work great for keeping stuff dry when you ride in the rain.

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The Wayback Machine: Suzuki TL1000S

By Joe Berk

The year was 1997 and the Ducati V-twins had been dominating magazine covers for years. Not to be outdone, two Japanese manufacturers produced similarly-configured V-twins (actually, L-twins). Honda had the SuperHawk, and Suzuki the TL1000S. I’ve always liked Suzuki better, so I went with the TL1000s. Suzuki offered the TL in two colors….a forest green with red accents; and bright red with yellow accents. For me, it had to be red.

My ’97 TL1000S, somewhere in northern Baja.

I bought my TL at Bert’s in Azusa. If I recall correctly, I negotiated the guys down to $8700 out the door, and part of that was a Yamaha 650 twin I traded in. I had bought the Yamaha used from a guy in a course I taught at McDonnell Douglas, thinking the Yamaha would be like my old Triumph Bonnevilles but reliable. The Yamaha was a bust. It was too heavy, it had cheap fasteners, the Hopper/Fonda riding stance was awful, it didn’t handle, and it lacked the low-end grunt of my earlier Triumphs.

I remember riding the TL home from Bert’s. The riding was awkward with the bike’s low bars and high footpegs, but I got used to it and I made it less punishing with a set of Heli-Bars. The Heli-Bars were slighly taller and wider (you got about an inch more in each dimension, which made a difference).

A stop for fuel in Catavina. The guys sell gasolina from bottles along Mexico Highway 1.

The TL was the fastest and hardest accelerating motorcycle I ever owned. It would wheelie in third gear if you weren’t paying attention, and it went from zero to 100 in a heartbeat. The bottom end torque was ferocious. Fuel economy was atrocious, and it had a tendency to stall at low rpm. But wow, did it ever look good. Did I mention it was fast?

My friend Marty had an Aprilia V-twin (a Mille, I think, or something like that), another bit of Italian exotica, that cost even more than the Ducati. Marty’s spaghetti-bender was more than twice what I paid for my TL. We swapped bikes once on a day ride and I came away unimpressed. My TL was faster.

Baja a few years ago. Younger, thinner, and hair that hadn’t turned gray yet. That motorcycle made me look good.

I wanted the look of a sport bike, but I’m not a canyon racer and the exotic look didn’t do anything for me once I had ridden the TL a few times. Then something funny happened. My Harley died on a Baja ride. I nursed my Harley home, parked it, and took the TL. Surprisingly, it did a good job as a touring platform. And I could ride at speeds the Harley couldn’t dream about. In those days, if there were speed limits in Baja, I didn’t know about them.

That first big trip on the TL instead of the Harley cinched it for me. I bought sportsbike soft luggage and used the TL on many rides after that. 700-mile days in Baja became the norm (I could make Mulegé in a day; the TL wouldn’t break a sweat). The only downside was the abominable fuel economy (the fuel light would come on after 105 miles), but a one-gallon red plastic fuel container and a bungie cord fixed that. It was Beverly hillbillies, but it worked. Not that there’s anything wrong with being a hillbilly (somebody’s got to shoot those road signs).

TL1000S touring. The bike was a surprisingly good touring machine.

Even with the TL’s mid-30-mpg fuel economy, I only ran out of fuel twice. Once was on the Bodfish-Caliente Road (one of California’s best kept secrets). I didn’t have my gas can with me; Marty rode ahead and returned with a gasoline-filled water bottle he hoped wouldn’t dissolve (it didn’t). The other time was on Baja’s long stretch headed south to Guerrero Negro. That road runs straight as an arrow, and I ran the TL at a surprisingly comfortable 145 mph (still well below the TL’s top speed). The TL was fuel injected and when it ran dry it was like someone shut the ignition. I poured my extra gallon in and made it to the next Pemex station. The guys I rode with were still far behind.

I had fun with the TL, but I dropped it a lot more than any other bike I had ever owned. All the drops were my fault. The low-mounted sport bars restricted steering, and once when pulling into my driveway, there wasn’t enough to keep the bike upright. Before I realized it, the bike and I were both on the ground (my first thought was to wonder if anyone had seen me). The next time the bike was in my driveway, facing slightly downhill. I started it to let it warm up, and the bike rolled off the sidestand. Again, my first thought was if anyone had seen me. The third time was more dramatic. The TL had a slipper clutch; you could downshift with reckless abandon. The clutch would slip and not skid the rear tire. It was cool, until I used it diving hard into a corner. The curb was coming up quickly and I wasn’t slowing fast enough. The slipper clutch was doing its thing, but when I touched the front brake, that was enough to unload the rear wheel. It broke loose and I fishtailed into the curb. I went over the bars, executed a very clean somersault, and came to rest in the sitting position looking straight ahead. I had been watching the Oympics on TV the day before and I remember thinking (as I completed my dismount) I could be a competitor. A woman in a station wagon saw the whole thing. She rolled down her window and I half expected to see a sign with a 10 on it (like they do at the Olympics). “Are you okay?” she asked.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I answered. “I’m a gymnast and I’m practicing.” The window went up and she disappeared.

I loved the looks of the TL. Yeah, the carbon fiber was faux, but I didn’t care. In those days I was running a factory that made carbon fiber aircraft stuff and I never understood the attraction. Even with fake carbon fiber, the TL was a motorcycle that looked fast. And it was.

Suzuki only made the TL for a few years. Some guy in the UK killed himself in a speed wobble, the bike got an Internet rep as a tank slapper, and that killed sales worldwide. Suzuki had a recall to add a steering damper, but the damage had been done. Bert’s installed the damper on my TL, I couldn’t feel any difference , and my bike never went into a wobble (either before or after the recall). My hypothesis is that the UK guy rolled on too much throttle exiting a corner, lifting the front wheel with the bike leaned over. That will induce a wobble, you know. There was another recall to fix the low speed stalling issue. I guess it worked; my bike never had a low speed stall after that.

Suzuki offered a more radical fully-faired version called the TL1000R (I didn’t like its looks), but the TL-R didn’t survive, either. The engine, however, proved to be a winner. Today, 25 years later, a detuned version is still soldiering on in the ADV-styled V-Strom. I never owned a V-Strom, but I should have. Everybody I ever talked to who owned one loved the V-Strom. Me, I loved my TL.

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The Wayback Machine: Whale Sharks in Baja!

By Mike Huber

Joe frequently posts of the magical experiences in Baja and one he focuses on heavily (for good reason) are the tours in Guerrero Negro to see the gray whales and their babies. Having experienced that twice I concur with Joe’s description of this fabulous encounter, however, the tour operators for the gray whales won’t let you disembark the panga to swim with these giant mammals. I know this because I have asked to jump overboard to swim with the whales during both tours I was on. This to me (with my ever-questionable judgment) seemed like the next logical step in being able to enhance the experience.

Two weeks ago, as I entered La Paz I instantly was drawn to the many advertisements for tour companies offering opportunities to SWIM WITH WHALE SHARKS! This was what I was yearning for! A tour boat will bring you out to a marine preserve, provide you with a safety briefing, a wet suit, flippers, a mask, and snorkel and you are ready to swim with whale sharks. The boat will approach these fish (they are the largest fish in the world growing to upwards of 40 ft). We were ready to go with legs hanging over the panga as it slowed down near a whale shark and one by one we jumped off the boat into the warm waters of the Sea of Cortez. It was very much like exiting an aircraft as a paratrooper.

Once in the water the guide, who is also in the water with you will point out the whale sharks (in case you cannot spot a 40-ft fish). You can see these magnificent sharks swimming and grazing on krill. We were fortunate enough to have several around us, which got a bit harrowing as they were almost vertical in the water spinning like some type of aquatic ballerina while drawing in water filled with krill. As we began to close in on them we can feel ourselves being pulled into their mouth like a whirlpool. I instantly became aware of their size and power.

It was at this moment I am certain the people topside heard some colorful Bostonian language being funneled up through my snorkel when I was too close for my own comfort. The whale sharks are peaceful and aware you are there and not a threat to them, but they are also aware they are bigger, better swimmers, and you are in THEIR habitat. One thing to keep in mind is that they will not move for you and if you get in their path, they may push you or run you over. This was an incident we all clearly wanted to avoid.

There were only four of us on the tour and we performed four dives over about 2 hours. Their overwhelming size and our proximity to the whale sharks never got old, and our adrenaline never died down. We used Red Travel Tours out of La Paz. Our guides Siyad and Mario were well informed and they had a passion for ensuring we had a once-in-a-lifetime experience while respecting nature. They were both genuinely as excited as we were when swimming with the whale sharks and educating us on the ocean they live in. For anyone traveling in Baja this is an experience and a tour company you want to go with to see whale sharks.

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A Custom Shop Model 504

By Joe Berk

The good news is when I was recently on the range with my Remington Custom Shop Model 504 the air was dead still and I had the range to myself. The bad news is the 5-shot 50-yard groups were just so-so, and I didn’t have anything to blame that on but myself. Well, maybe. I only tried two kinds of ammo (an old box of Remington Target 22 and a new box of CCI standard velocity ammo). You have to play around trying different makes (just like you would experiment with different reloads) to find ammo that a rimfire rifle really responds to. I’m not there yet. But I’m having fun along the way.

Representative 5-shot, 50-yards groups from the Custom Shop Model 504. I’m expecting to see groups in the .250-.300 range from this rifle (I’m not done yet).

Sue and I were in Rapid City, South Dakota, several years ago exploring Mt. Rushmore and the Black Hills. We took a lot out of that trip…we saw Mt. Rushmore during the day and in the evening, we saw bunch of stuff in the Black Hills area, we went out to a little-known Minuteman Missile National Park, we saw the Badlands, we stopped in Wahl Drug, we went to Devil’s Tower, and of course, I had to check out what I now know to be one of the best gunshops in the country: Rapid City’s First Stop Gun and Coin. I could have spent the entire day there, but we had other things to see and do. After our visit, I started checking out what First Stop had listed on Gunbroker.com, and it wasn’t too long after that that I saw a Remington Custom Shop Model 504.

High end walnut, as is appropriate on a Custom Shop Remington rifle. The recoil pad might be more appropriate on a .416 Rigby, but it looks great on this rifle.

I didn’t even know what a Model 504 was, I’d never handled or shot one, but I knew what the Remington Custom shop was all about. The rifle had my interest. It was not cheap, but that was maybe a dozen years ago and when you see a Custom Shop Model 504 come up for sale today (which hardly ever happens), the ask is about three times what I paid. I’ve never seen another Custom Shop 504 in person; I’ve only seen them on the rare occasions one appears on Gunbroker and in a couple of Internet reviews.

Remington wanted a high end .22 bolt rifle in the early 2000s to compete with the offerings from Kimber, Browning, Ruger, CZ, and others, and the Model 504 was the result. Remington had three versions: A Sporter model, a heavy barreled Varmint version, and the Custom Shop 504 you see here. Remington built the 504 from 2004 to 2007. The Custom Shop Model 504 was the flagship and it had it all: A machined steel receiver, a highly polished deep blue finish, a free-floated barrel and glass-bedded action, highly figured walnut, a subtle forearm tip, a super smooth action, cut checkering, a recoil pad that might be more at home on a .300 Weatherby, and a barrel from the super-exotic Remington Model 40 target rifle. I didn’t know any of this at the time I hit the “buy now” button, but I knew any Remington Custom Shop rifle is a collectible item.

The Custom Shop markings on the 504 barrel.

My rifle came with the rings of unknown origin and Bausch and Lomb mounts. I first mounted Bushnell scope, a scope set up to be parallax free at 100 yards. But I typically shoot a .22 at 50 yards. I next put an old Weaver 4×12 variable scope (adjustable for parallax) on the rifle, and when I adjusted for 50 yards it had no parallax. I don’t know how repeatable that old scope is (and as you’ll notice from the photo above, the groups seem to move around a bit), so one thing I’m going to do in the future is put another scope on the rifle, mostly likely Mueller’s 4×12. I have a Mueller scope on another rimfire rifle and I know it is good. I like the looks of the old Weaver the 504 is wearing now, but when I tried adjusting it, there didn’t seem to be much correlation between the adjustments I was making and where the bullets were going.

The Weaver scope mounted on the Model 504.

Something that had me scratching my head are the plastic inserts on the scope rings between the scope body and the rings. I’ve never seen this on any other rifle, but from what I’ve read on the internet, they work well for other shooters (even on heavily recoiling rifles, which a .22 is not). The scope appears to be secure.

The plastic scope ring inserts. I had never encountered this before.

The Model 504 magazine is apparently scarcer than an honest politician. Only one magazine was included with my rifle. Now that I am shooting it more (it’s no longer a safe queen), I thought it might be a good idea to pick up a couple of spare mags until I saw their price. When you can find one on Ebay or Gunbroker, they go for around $200. I think I’ll be careful with my one magazine and keep looking; maybe I’ll get lucky and find one in a gunstore’s discounted junkbox (most old line gunshops have these).

The difficult to find and very expensive Model 504 magazine.

It may be that the Model 504 is just not that accurate. My findings are consistent with what other 504 reviewers have published (in fact, my gun is turning in tighter groups than what others have previously published). Recognizing that the Custom Shop model used the same barrel blanks Remington used for the Model 40 .22 rifle, I would have expected more. Maybe it’s there and I just haven’t found it yet. At least that’s my hope.

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Lipsey’s Ultimate Carry J-Frame

By Joe Berk

Good buddy Paul sent this very recently released video from Lipsey’s to me last night:

The video is just under 10 minutes long and it’s worth watching. To me, this new J-frame Smith addresses most of the shortcomings I’ve noticed with my concealed carry J-frame revolver. Here are my thoughts:

- I like it.
- The ideal of a .30 caliber 6-shot is intriguing (in addition to the 5-shot .38 Special version Lipsey’s is also offering). I know most concealed carry handgun encounters are settled in less than two shots, but having an extra round (one over the standard 5 shots) makes sense to me.
- I notice the grips don’t go below the bottom of the grip frame, which would be a problem for me. Getting my little finger caught under the grip frame is what makes shooting a J-frame revolver uncomfortable (in fact, it’s downright painful after a shot or two). I do like the G10 material grips, though. I have those on my Sig Scorpion 226 and it is the best grip material ever, in my opinion. I would like a set of G10 grips that extend lower than the bottom of the grip frame, like the Altamont grips I put on my J-frame. These would be very comfortable.
- The sights are a much-needed upgrade. The stock Model 60 and other J-frame sights are a joke.
- The aluminum frame means light weight, which I guess is good for carrying the gun all day, but those little J-frames can have fierce recoil. My stainless steel Model 60 packs a punch; the aluminum version recoil will be worse. I suppose the assumption for most is that the gun will be carried more than it is shot, and that makes sense. But, still, that’s going to be a lot of recoil.
- The J-frame endurance package is sorely needed. I shot the hell out of my Model 60 doing rapid fire at 7 yards and it quickly went seriously out of time. That was an expensive fix. Mine also had excessive headshake. I was able to address it with a shim kit, but it should not have been necessary.

It will be interesting to see what this new Lipsey’s/Smith and Wesson J-frame revolver costs and if it gets approved in California. My prediction is that Lipsey’s will later release a .357 Magnum version (not that anyone would need it, but it would probably sell well). I also predict a 9mm version. 9mm is the most popular centerfire handgun cartridge in the world, and I believe a 9mm version would sell well, too.

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ExNotes Book Reviews: Ed Nordskog’s Works

By Joe Berk

Arson investigation is a highly technical field, so I was naturally interested when a friend (a retired arson investigator) told me about what he used to do. He described what’s involved in determining if a fire occurred as a result of arson and he lent two books to me (Torchered Minds and The Arsonist Profiles). I couldn’t put either down. They are fascinating reading.

Ed Nordskog wrote Torchered Minds first; The Arsonist Profiles followed. Although initially intended for arson investigators, Nordskog’s writing makes them fascinating reading for anyone. A few of the concepts Nordskog develops in his books include:

- Many fires are not recognized as arson. Police often do not investigate smaller fires, dismissing them as either accidental or inconsequential vandalism.
- Fire departments are not good choices for investigating arson; that task is more appropriately assigned to police agencies.
- Surprisingly (or perhaps not surprisingly), in more than a few cases firefighters are arsonists. The same things that attract firefighters to their profession are the things that sometimes cause people to become arsonists.
- Serial arson is a much more prevalent crime than most people realize (including most police departments).
- By the time serial arsonists are convicted, they have most likely set hundreds of other fires.
- Physical abnormalities and having been the victim of child abuse are often present in the backgrounds of serial arsonists.
- Revenge is frequently an arson motive. Arson for profit (with the arsonist committing insurance fraud or being paid by others to do so) is another common motive.
- The Hollywood portrayal of arsonists being sexually excited by fire is bunk; Nordskog never encountered this as a motivation in any of his investigations.

Both books have descriptions of the arson events, the investigations, the outcomes, and Nordskog’s evaluation of the arsonists and their motivations. Nordskog did much of his work while a member of the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department; many of the events he describes in his books are crime sprees I saw in our local news as they were occurring (for me, that made the books even more interesting). Arson investigation may not seem like an interesting topic, but Nordskog’s ability to tell the tale and characterize arsons by initiation method, arsonist motivation, and other factors makes for great reading. Trust me on this: Torchered Minds and The Arsonist Profiles are fascinating books.

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Geezy Rider

By Joe Berk

I like that title. Geezy Rider. It kind of says it all. A close runner up was “You might be a geezer if…”

We haven’t blogged a listicle in a while and I thought it was time. Sue and I like to entertain and we had three couples over for dinner recently. Everyone was our age (which is a nice way of saying we are all geezers), we all came from similar backgrounds, we all have grandkids, and we all travel. Those commonalities notwithstanding, the conversation centered on the same topic it always seems to center on these days when I’m with my geezer buddies: Getting old. Some of you might be thinking that you don’t want to read about old people, but you might already be one. So how do you know? Well, here we go. You might be a geezer if:

You get senior discounts without asking. When you do ask for the senior discount, no one asks to see your ID. You sometimes find yourself thinking that 55 is too young to be considered a senior citizen.

A good night’s sleep is based on how many times you had to get up to take a leak, you wonder how in the world taking a leak on the side of the road ever became a sex crime, or you plan rides at least partly based on restroom locations.

You know more doctors than motorcycle dealers, and you have a different doctor for each organ in your body. Sometimes you realize you can’t make a planned ride because you have a doctor’s appointment that day.

You look at other people at a motorcycle event and think they’re really old, and then you realize you’re the same age as they are.

You’re on a first name basis with the Costco people who give out free samples.

You can identify pills without seeing the bottle, a day on the bike is routinely preceded by a couple of Ibuprofens, and you have a pill container organized by day. Forget penicillin; you know that Sildenafil and Tamsulosin are the true wonder drugs.

You no longer use a tail pack or have a sissy bar because it’s easier to get on and off your motorcycle. You may have pondered where to attach a cane on your motorcycle.

You buy motorcycle clothes a couple of sizes larger because the damn manufacturers are making them smaller these days. You buy riding gear with pockets big enough to hold baby wipes. You substituted food for sex years ago and now you’re so fat you can’t get into your own pants.

You stopped worrying about helmet hair decades ago and when you get a haircut you find yourself thinking about the cost in terms of dollars per hair. You haven’t carried a comb in decades.

You watch news shows based mostly on which ones you don’t shout at.

A motorcycle’s weight is more important to you than 0-to-60 or quarter-mile times. You and your buddies talk about cholesterol, A1C, PSA levels, and medications instead of motorcycle performance specs.

When it’s time to change your oil, you think about where it’s going to hurt the next day because you have to get down on the floor to reach the drain plug. Ibuprofen is a normal part of your oil change equipment.

You don’t think there’s anything particularly wrong with a motorcycle in a handicap parking spot.

You don’t like to ride after dark and going to bed by 9:00 p.m. seems like a perfectly normal thing to do.

Easy Riders or The Great Escape is on TV, and you don’t even need to think about it. You’re going to watch it again.

A new movie stars Clint Eastwood, you know you’re going to see it, and you don’t need to know what it is about to make that decision.

So there you have it: My take on how to assess if you are a geezer.

Now get off my lawn.

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Medicine Bow, Wyoming

By Joe Berk

We were a swarm of 250cc bees bound for Medicine Bow, Wyoming. I didn’t know why that excited me and I didn’t know what to expect, but the place sounded romantic. Not romantic in the sense of female companionship; it was instead the romance of the Old West. Medicine Bow, Wyoming, and we were headed there on our single-cylinder Zongshen motorcycles. We had been on the road for a week, showing the American West to our Chinese and Colombian visitors. It all started on the other side of the world in Chongqing when Zongshen asked if I could take them on a ride though America.

Wow, could I ever.

Susie took this photo as I was showing the Zongshen execs where we might ride in America. The guy on my immediate right is good buddy Fan, who follows the ExNotes blog.

Medicine Bow. It had a nice ring to it. I was thinking maybe they had a McDonald’s and we could have lunch there. I think the reason Medicine Bow sounded so intriguing is I had heard it maybe dozens of times in western movies and television shows. Medicine Bow was one of the major destinations for cattle drives in the 1800s, where cows boarded trains for their one-way trip east, where they would stop being cows and become steaks. An average of 2,000 cows shipped out of Medicine Bow every day back then. That would keep McDonald’s going for a day or two (except there were no McDonald’s in the 1800s).

I was surprised when we buzzed in. Medicine Bow is about five buildings, total, none of them was a McDonald’s, but one was the Virginian Hotel. It’s the hotel you see in the photo at the top of this blog and as you might imagine there’s a story to it. You see, back in the day, the first western novel ever was written by a dude named Owen Wister, and the title of his book was The Virginian. It was later made into a movie. The story is about a young female schoolteacher who settled in Medicine Bow and two cowboys who vied for her attention. When the historic hotel was later built in Medicine Bow, what other name could be more appropriate than The Virginian? And about the name of the town, Medicine Bow? Legend has it that Native Americans found the best mahogany for making bows (as in bows and arrows) in a bend (a bow) along the Medicine River, which runs through the area. I can’t make up stuff this good.

I was the designated leader of the Zongshen swarm on this ride. My job was easy. All the mental heavy lifting and deep thinking fell to good buddy and long-time riding compañero Baja John, who planned our entire 5,000-mile journey through the American West. John did a hell of a job. The roads he selected were magnificent and the destinations superb. It’s also when I first met Joe Gresh, who was on assignment from Motorcyclist magazine to cover our story (more on that in a bit).

Big Joe Gresh, or “Arjiu” as the Chinese called him, on our 5000-mile ride through the American West.

Back to Medicine Bow, the Virginian Hotel, and a few of the photos I grabbed on that ride. The place is awesome, and the Virginian is where we had lunch.

Lunch at the Virginian. That’s Gresh on the right, and Juan and Gabe (two dudes from AKT Motos in Colombia) on the left. A few months later I rode with Juan in Colombia, another grand adventure.

After lunch, we wandered around the hotel for a bit. It would be fun to spend the night in Medicine Bow, I thought. Dinner at the hotel and drinks in the bar (as I type this, I can almost hear someone on the piano belting out Buffalo Gal). I will return some day to check that box.

The lighting isn’t great in this selfie (of sorts). Yours truly on the old D200, Lester, and Mr. Zuo. Lester is a teacher in China. Mr. Zuo owns a motorcycle jacket company in China.

Bison. We saw a few live ones in the next couple of days.

Who’s a good boy? That’s Baja John and Lester, taking a break after a great lunch at the Virginian Hotel. Lester came to America as a vegetarian. That lasted about two days. He sure enjoyed his hamburger at the Virginian. He told us he wants to be like Baja John when he grows up.

Yes, there are moose in Medicine Bow, along with mountain lion, bear, elk, deer, and a host of other animals. Theodore Roosevelt hunted this part of the world.

A Virginian Hotel hallway. I think you can still stay here overnight.

The Virginian Hotel bar was indeed inviting and I could have spent more time there, but we were on the bikes and my rule is always no booze on the bikes. I grabbed a few photos. We had more miles to make that afternoon and more of Wyoming awaited.

The Virginian Hotel bar. It looks like it would be a fun spot to have a beer or three at the end of the day.

Photos and artifacts on one of the Virginian Bar walls.

The Virginian Hotel owner (who looked like he could have been someone right out of Central Casting) saw our interest in photography and showed us this photograph. He told me only six or seven copies of it exist. Spend a minute reading the writing…it is amazing.

There are more than a few interesting characters depicted in this photo.

Medicine Bow was a fun visit, it is a place I would like to see again, and it has a palpable feel of the Old West. It was a place where we could have stayed longer, but after lunch it was time for Happy Trails and we were on the road again. I felt like a cowboy, I suppose, swinging my leg over my motorcycle. Instead of “giddy up” it was a twist of the key and a touch on the starter button; the result was the same as we continued our trek west with Frankie Lane’s Rawhide on repeat in my mind: Keep rollin’, rollin’ rollin’, keep those motos rollin’…

In a few hours, we’d be riding into the sunset. Lord, this was a fantastic ride.

Here are a couple of videos you might like. The first is about Medicine Bow, the second is Joe Gresh’s video covering the ride. And one more thing…don’t miss Joe Gresh’s magnificent story about our ride in Motorcyclist magazine.