As we arrived back in Amritsar my friend’s eyes were returning to almost normal from his Bhang border journey that had still left him speechless. We all were still in awe from the entire border scene but we would have time to reflect on it later. Now we had to walk about two kilometers from our hotel to the Golden Palace and experience having dinner there. It wasn’t quite like anything we expected.
As we entered the grounds of the Golden Temple we had to check our shoes at the gate and place a hat on our heads to adhere to the Temple’s dress code. The temple and surrounding buildings were so lit up (not as lit up as my friend at the Pakistani Border, but lit up nonetheless). We walked around the inner walls of this magnificent building and eventually made our way to what seemed to be a huge dining hall. We learned this temple provides free food to 100,000 people every day! It is the single largest free kitchen in the world.
Once in the dining hall we were given a metal tray, some utensils, and a cup. We simply followed the people in front of us into an even larger room where there were just rows and rows of people sitting down on the floor, eating and drinking. After we sat down it was only a few moments before a server came by with a giant ladle and plopped some food onto our tray. There were a few servers dishing out rice, water, bread, and a sauce. For the amount of people there this setup was extremely efficient, to the point that once we were finished with our first portion, seconds were just a few moments away. The food was very satisfying and by the time we each had consumed two or three servings, we were set to get up and drop our trays and utensils off at the dishwasher counter.
After dinner we spent about an hour or so just admiring the beauty of this massive architectural structure. It was quite a sight and it was one of those places that really had its own pulse. The temple had a presence you could feel.
It was quite an eventful day in Amritsar. We retired to our rooms to get some sleep and prepare for the next day’s adventure.
Shaking off the continual feeling of being around rats, we began a 4-hour drive to Amritsar. It was crucial we get there early, as our plan was to Uber 45 minutes to the Pakistani Indian border for the closing ceremony. From what I had heard, it was just an insane spectacle to witness. Our ride was almost uneventful this day. Almost.
Around 10:00 a.m., we were still within the state of Rajasthan and we pulled over in a bustling city for a coffee break. It didn’t take too long before we were surrounded by locals wanting selfies of us and asking a lot of questions. This was mostly normal for us although it did seem at this particular stop there was an alarming amount of people surrounding us (not just the usual five or so). Within a few minutes, three serious looking men sat at our table and began asking some deeper questions than the normal chit chat. They asked to see our passports and stated they were Indian Federal Police. I am not sure why but I replied with “Show me yours first.” Which they did. Okay. It seems we were in a tourist forbidden zone as we were just a few kilometers from the Pakistani Border, which in Rajasthan was not a good thing (in Amritsar this was a non-issue).
Not wanting to lose physical control of our passports we chatted them up and in unison began to de-escalate the situation. This took about 10 minutes of back and forth as two more Federal Authorities joined in the questioning. There had been no signs or warnings stating this was a non-tourist area. I guess it was just common knowledge to most (the common knowledge we sort of lacked). Eventually the situation worked itself. They offered to buy us another coffee, but we thought it best to continue to Amritsar and not test our luck any further. We mounted our Royal Enfields and were on our way.
Shortly after we arrived in Amritsar without any further issues, we parked the bikes and paged an Uber to go to the Pakistani Border. Along the ride my riding friend in the front seat ate what seemed to be his baked goods from the Bhang shop (he bought these two days ago). He was talking to the Uber driver about pretty much everything under the sun as he wolfed down his pastry or whatever it was. I found it odd yet entertaining and his banter helped pass the drive until we pulled into the parking garage and began our short walk to what looked like a giant stadium.
There were thousands of Indians entering the long tunnel to the stadium interior. The really cool thing about this experience is that as foreigners we were treated as VIPs and given the best seats in the house. We were only 10 meters from the Pakistan border. This was after three different security and passport checks. Once we were seated we noticed it would be more than an hour before the ceremony started, but that made no difference to those on the India side as music was thumping through the speakers, and people were selling popcorn, sodas, Indian Flags, and all kinds of souvenirs. It was like being at Fenway Park but with much more going on in every direction.
As the time drew near for the ceremony, we could see through the fence that the Pakistani side was filling up. They had their own music thumping. Meanwhile, on the India side, there was a “ring announcer” riling up all those on the India side to include hundreds in a massive mosh pit on the stadium floor.
While these pre-ceremony festivities were occurring, I kept looking to my friend on my left. His eyes seemed a bit…well, off, and he was acting a bit freaked out. I nudged him to ask what he thought of the show. He could barely reply. He finally said, “There sure is a lot going on here.”
It took me a bit to finally pull out of him what was going on. The Bhang shop pastries were a type of legal edible marijuana, and he had consumed a rather large portion during the Uber ride in. My friend was higher than a cat on acid, at the India/Pakistan border, while all these activities occurred. Oh, man, it must have been a hell of a show for him. For me, even without the pastry, it was probably the craziest thing I have ever witnessed. Each stadium grew louder and louder. The only analogy I have is this: Picture Giants Stadium cut in half with two football games going on simultaneously, and being on the 50-yard line.
Fortunately for loaded friend, once the actual border ceremony began the ambiance began to tame down somewhat as the soldiers each performed their border closing duties (to include a halftime moment of them shaking hands with a short bow to one another). The flags of each country were lowered, carefully folded, and the ceremony came to a close. My friend’s eyes were about as wide as you can imagine throughout it all. We made our way back to the Uber for a relaxing 45-minute ride back to our hotel.
The day was far from over as we were to have dinner at the Golden Palace that evening.
After ensuring we didn’t have any tails on us from our highway escapades, it was a short turnaround at the hotel before a visit to a temple in Deshnoke. I had heard much about this temple over the years and really wasn’t sure what to expect. What was urban legend and what was actually the truth surrounding this strange place? This temple was named the Karni Mata Temple, or as it is better known, the Rat Temple.
Well, it turns out this temple is everything I imagined it would be, but actually experiencing it was something for which none of us were prepared. Karni Mata is a Hindu Temple that believes rats are the reincarnated souls of a local story teller family that died during a famine. The rats are everywhere. There are just thousands all over and they are fed quite well. There are even several troughs for them to eat out from, and donations of grains and milk are frequently left to appease these local deities.
To add to the cringe factor, you must remove your shoes to enter the temple. As we removed our shoes and began our walk down the long hallways, out of the corner of my eye I would see things scurrying from left to right, and then right to left, and then just everywhere. After entering the temple, there are several long hallways with raised troughs that the rats climb up to eat grains and seeds. Every corner we cautiously walked around we would just see more and more rats. Surreal doesn’t begin to describe the place. The rats are so well fed, however, that when walking around the other parts of the city there wasn’t a rat to be seen. It seems they all stay in the temple. With such an abundance of food, why not? This didn’t help us get to sleep any easier, though, as our hotel was across the street from the temple.
We weren’t getting nearly as much sleep as we wanted (due to the temple’s close proximity) and we were anxious to get out of town and put as many kilometers between us and the rats as possible. Nonetheless, the temple was an experience to be had that few people get the opportunity to embrace.
Our next stop would be Amritsar, including a special trip to the Pakistan/India Border Closing Ceremony and the famous Golden Palace. This would prove to be one of our more adventurous days in India, in more ways than one.
Here’s something different: A visit to the New Jersey State Police Museum in West Trenton, New Jersey.
A statue of a New Jersey State Trooper on the Museum grounds.
I’d seen references to the NJSP Museum on Facebook and elsewhere, and being back in New Jersey a short while ago, Susie and I found ourselves casting about for things to do. Ordinarily, our visits to the Garden State include the same stops: Lunch at the Shrimp Box in Point Pleasant (awesome seafood), every once in a while a visit to Bahr’s in the Highlands (another spot for awesome food), maybe a trip to Asbury Park (think Bruce Springsteen and Danny Devito), a few of the Soprano’s filming locations, the Rutgers University campus, the Old Mill in Deans, New Hope (just across the Delaware River), and a few of our other standard stops. This time we wanted to explore a bit more, and I put the New Jersey State Police Museum on the list. I knew that it had a couple of vintage motorcycles, and I figured it would probably have a few firearms on display. Guns and motorcycles fit the ExhaustNotes theme.
The New Jersey State Police is a paramilitary, well-disciplined, and impressive organization. I’d call it a STRAC outfit (in Army slang, STRAC is an acronym derived from skilled, tough, and ready around the clock).One thing I’ve never seen is an out-of-shape NJ State Trooper.
A statue of Colonel H. Norman Schwarzkopf near the NJSP Museum entrance.
New Jersey State Troopers are the Marines and Green Berets of the police world. That didn’t happen accidentally: The guy who formed the NJ State Police a century ago was none other than Colonel H. Norman Schwarzkopf. Not the guy who led US troops during the first Persian Gulf War in 1991 (that H. Normal Schwarzkopf was his son), but the original. Colonel Schwarzkopf was a US Military Academy graduate, and when he formed the NJ State Police, his vision was a military organization with the same look as that instilled at West Point. I’d say he succeeded.
Trooper Ralph Dowgin gracing The Complete Book of Police and Military Motorcycles.
I touched on the NJ State Police when I wrote The Complete Book of Police and Military Motorcycles. The cover photo shows Captain Ralph Dowgin on a 1934 Harley-Davidson. Captain Dowgin went on to command Troop D, the NJSP branch that patrolled the New Jersey Turnpike and the Garden State Parkway. We also wrote about Jerry Dowgin, Captain Dowgin’s son and a friend of mine who owned a 1966 Honda 305 Scrambler (a bike featured here and in a Motorcycle Classics magazine story).
Getting to the NJSP Museum was relatively easy, although the location was tucked away on the NJSP Headquarters grounds. We just plugged the name into Waze, and after meandering through a bunch of small streets in West Trenton, we were at a manned gate. The location is essentially a military compound. The nice young lady at the gate called ahead to confirm the Museum was open (it was), and then she raised the gate. We followed her instructions and the map she gave to us, and we were there. We were the only visitors, so we had the place to ourselves.
The NJ State Police guns story is an interesting one.
When the New Jersey State Police organization started in 1921, their first duty weapon was the Colt double-action revolver (a six shooter) chambered in .38 Special. This very handgun you see here was issued to Colonel Schwarzkopf.Four cylinders full of .38 Special ammo, for a total load of 30 rounds carried by each Trooper. Reloads had to have been painstakingly slow back in the day. I remember seeing these ammo carriers on State Troopers when I was a kid. With their Glock sidearms today, the gun itself and one additional magazine exceeds all the rounds seen above.Another .38 Special Colt revolver on display. Troopers have been assigned sequential badge numbers from the very beginning, with Trooper No. 1 being H. Norman Schwarzkopf.
Back in the day, the NJ State Police also issued the .38 Smith and Wesson Combat Masterpiece to their Troopers, which was a 6-shot revolver with adjustable sights. This one has a 6-inch barrel. I’ve owned a few of the Smith and Wesson revolvers; they are good guns.
The Smith and Wesson Combat Masterpiece. These are beautiful revolvers.Colt released a commemorative NJSP revolver, with high polish blue and the NJSP emblem. Commemorative guns, for the most part, don’t appreciate at the same rate the basic (i.e., non-commemorative) guns. I’ve owned a few commemorative guns, but not this model.More information on the Colt NJSP 75th Anniversary commemorative revolver. We previously visited the Colt Custom Shop; you can read about that here.
In those early days, the NJ State Police also used 1903A1 Springfield rifles. I have a 1903A1 in near perfect condition and I’ve written about shooting cast and jacketed bullets in it, and the rifle’s complex rear sight. They are nice rifles and they are collectible. Truth be told, though, I can shoot tighter groups with my 91/30 Mosin Nagant.
A NJSP 1903A1 Springfield. The 1903A1 has the 1903’s more complex right sight and the so-called “scant” stock. I was surprised to see this. You don’t encounter to many 1903A1 rifles.
Later in their history, the NJ State Police used Ruger .357 Magnum double-action, stainless steel revolvers.
Ruger revolvers used by the NJ State Police, in both 4-inch and 6-inch barreled versions.
During the 1980s, many police departments made the switch from revolvers to 9mm semi-automatic handguns. Not all choices worked well for the NJ State Police. One firearm, the H&K 9mm squeeze cocker, was particularly troublesome. The NJSP experienced numerous accidental discharges. Sometime after that, the NJSP went to SIG handguns. That didn’t work out, either. When the NJ State Police made the switch to SIGs, the handguns had reliability issues, and when SIG couldn’t fix the problems, the NJ State Police sued SIG. It seemed like the NJSP couldn’t catch a break in their quest to adopt a 9mm handgun. Ultimately, the NJSP went with Glock 9mm handguns. That worked out well.
A Glock up top, and several SIG handguns. The SIG at the bottom of this photo is chambered in .45 ACP.Another SIG handgun in the NJ State Police Museum.Good intentions, but bad results. It’s unfortunate. I believe that SIG makes the finest 9mm handgun in the world. But I don’t carry one for a living (like the New Jersey State Troopers do).The 9mm Glock currently carried by New Jersey State Troopers.
The firearms exhibits also displayed other long guns used by the New Jersey State Police.
A .45 ACP Thompson submachine gun the NJSP used decades ago, and an M16. A submachine gun can fire in the fully automatic mode (like a machine gun). The “submachine gun” designation typically means the gun uses a pistol cartridge.An exhibit displaying a sampling of confiscated weapons. New Jersey police agencies typically confiscate between 7,000 and 10,000 guns annually. All are delivered to the NJSP Ballistics Unit for destruction.
The New Jersey State Police also have a rich tradition using motorcycles, although they no longer use motorcycles for patrol duties. The NJSP has a few modern Harleys, but these are used for ceremonial functions only. In the early days, the NJSP used motorcycles year round, and in New Jersey, the winters can get cold, wet, snowy, and icy. Back in the day, the NJSP used tire chains when it snowed. That’s hard to imagine.
An early NJSP Motors group photo.Mittens used for cold weather riding. Those guys were tough. Unless they are electrically-heated, mittens like these don’t keep your hands warm for long.New Jersey State Trooper Justin Dintino, a motor officer who went on to become the 10th leader of the New Jersey State Troopers. Colonel Dintino graduated from the NJSP Academy two years after I was born.Trooper E. Paul Sjostrom with his Harley-Davidson police motorcycle in 1925. Back then, the NJSP had 40 Harleys, 40 horses, 20 cars, and a single truck to patrol the entire state of New Jersey.A more recent Harley police motorcycle. As mentioned above, the NJSP no longer uses motorcycles for patrol duties.A macro shot of the tank and engine on the NJSP Harley.Distinctive colors and a distinctive emblem.A 1948 Harley Panhead used by the NJ State Police. It had a hand shift and a foot clutch.The tombstone taillight Harleys used in 1948.The Harley siren used back in the 1940s and 1950s was activated by pivoting the entire siren such that it was friction driven by the rear tire. I used to have a similar siren on my Schwinn bicycle, which drove our neighbors nuts.Harleys rode with the NJSP from the very beginning. This is a 1921 NJSP Harley.A closer photo of the 1921 Harley’s V-Twin engine.
One of the NJSP Museum’s exhibits was a wanted poster for a particular person. That wanted poster is for Joanne Chesimard, who is a fugitive being sheltered by Cuba. Chesimard participated in the murder of New Jersey State Trooper Werner Foerster in May 1973. The murder occurred very near where my family lived. Another NJ State Trooper had pulled over a car driven by Clark Squire (Chesimard was also in the car). Foerster arrived in a backup patrol car. A gun battle ensued, Foerster was murdered, and Squire escaped into the woods just to the east of our home.
Squire remained at large, hiding in the woods, for several days. We thought he had escaped from the area, but police officers continued the search. Squire finally surrendered to a local police officer. We believed that if the NJ State Police had found him, Squire would not have been brought in alive (and that would have been okay with everyone I knew).
Squire, Chesimard, and a third person were convicted of murdering Foerster and sentenced to life in prison. Chesimard subsequently escaped and found her way to Cuba, where she lives in freedom to this day (sheltered by a Cuban government that refuses to extradite her to the United States). Incredibly, when Barack Obama wanted to recognize the Castro regime and lift sanctions on Cuba, returning Chesimard to serve out her sentence was not part of the deal. She remains on the FBI’s Most Wanted List to this day.
In yet another disappointment related to this Foerster murder, Squire was recently released on parole (50 years into what should have been a life sentence). I know. It’s not right.
To get back to the main topic of this blog, if you ever find yourself in New Jersey you might want to spend a few hours visiting the New Jersey State Police Museum in West Trenton. It’s free, it’s a great museum, and it’s an opportunity to learn a lot about one of the most elite police organizations in America. We enjoyed it. You will, too.
Waking up the next day was a little bit easier. This was due to the fact there were only three switches on the wall. Much easier than the usual 100+ switches in the previous hotels. In those I wasn’t sure if I was turning on a fan, light, or launching an Apollo mission. I was even able to find the switch for the water heater to have a nice hot shower. After a short walk to obtain some much-needed caffeine and having the Royal Enfield Himalayans loaded, we were ready to head out and kick the day off.
Today was going to be about 250 kilometers of riding to the small town of Bhilwara. Along the way we would visit one of the very few Jain temples in India. Upon arrival, we instantly noticed the amount of detail on everything. The temple was more than one can comprehend in just a short visit.
We enjoyed soaking in the culture both from the temple and the locals taking more selfies of us. After a bit, it was time to start moving as we had one more temple to visit and a 2-hour ride to where we planned to stay for the evening.
The next temple was only about 10 minutes away but Google routed us through a local bazaar. Thankfully we didn’t attempt anything like this on Day 1 in India, as it would have been more than overwhelming. I figured this would start getting interesting as soon as the streets began to narrow and the crowds filled in. I cannot find a comparison other than to imagine driving through the 2004 Red Sox World Series Celebration at Government Center in Boston. Packed doesn’t even begin to describe it. Normally I would have thought motos weren’t supposed to be driving through here but with seeing one or two other motorcycles (other than us) I figured we weren’t doing anything too bad.
The ride was tight. We slowly made our way through the crowd with a constant honking and a light nudge of a pedestrian or three until we finally arrived at the temple. We weren’t quite swarmed by people looking for selfies but there were crowds everywhere around us. As always, they were super friendly so we took our time with each group and chatted with them on where we were from and where we were going.
Once we took a short tour of the temple and were asked for a bunch more selfies, it was time to head back on the road and the path to that road, you guessed it, it was through the same bazaar we squeezed through on the way in. By this time we were familiar with how to negotiate through the crowd and we did so.
As we approached Bhilwara we were more than ready to get off the bikes and get some dinner. Well, India had different plans for us. It turns out Bhilwara (as with other small towns we would learn) requires the hotels to file paperwork with local authorities for foreigners. Normally this isn’t too big a deal, but in this case none of the hotels in this town had the proper paperwork, nor did they seem too motivated to obtain it. This forced us to drive another hour until we were in a more populated area where we could finally rest for the evening. We were cutting it close with time as the bright red sun was just beginning to set as we pulled into the hotel. This was a fine way to wrap up another day motorcycling through India.
As I woke up in my dark hotel room it took me a few moments to realize where I was. What took longer was figuring out how to turn on the lights via the Rubik’s cube, but mashing all the light switches on the main panel helped me regain my focus and vision in this now dimly lit room. The bigger issue was finding the correct switch for the hot water. So after a short and cold shower (I didn’t find the switch) it was time to meet everyone downstairs and get our plan for the day together over some much needed coffee.
Once downstairs I looked at each of my friends, then myself in the mirror. It wasn’t difficult to tell who consumed the 8% Kingfisher beers the previous evening. I also learned that one of them went back to the store for another beer after I went to sleep but the store was closed. That didn’t stop my highly motivated friend from discovering that there was a guy next to the store selling Kingfishers at a mildly elevated price from a ditch next to the store.
With a few coffees in us we loaded the motorcycles and we were ready for another day of adventure. Today would be our first full day of riding from Alawar to Jaipur, which was only around 160km. There would be plenty of sights to see along the way as we traveled through some pretty remote backroads and Google Maps even had us go through a field trail for a few kilometers. We took turns leading although my cell service was still unreliable, so we would only have me lead when we were on one road for a solid length of time.
After an hour or so we decided to take a break in a small village and get a few bananas and some water. It only took a couple minutes before most the village came out to meet us all. Even a school bus stopped and let the kids off to check out the bikes and talk with us. It reminded me of my first experience in India 20 years prior. This would become a familiar sight for us with crowds coming up to us to chat and take selfies. They all were the friendliest people. We enjoyed these stops and opportunities to engage with the locals in these little villages that were so far off the maps.
Our next stop was to check out a step well. One of the guys had this thing for step wells, and by the end of the trip I hoped I would never see another step well again. I think he had to have like a Global map for them. Step wells are really just a deep brick hole in the ground with several steps from all angles going down into the hole to fetch water with buckets and bring it back up. Some of them went over 60 feet down.
Once we arrived in Jaipur it was early afternoon, and the traffic was really starting to become congested. This made it a challenge for me to stay within line of sight of the guys (again). There is a huge fort in Jaipur called Nahargarh Fort. It was the first of many forts we would be visiting. The fort was stunning to walk around and the views from that high ground were spectacular. We could view the entire city from this fort.
As we wrapped up the tour of the fort and returned to lower ground the traffic had become beyond insane. The streets were narrow and filled with tuk tuks, motorcycles, cows, cars and just overall chaos. It seemed every inch that was gained to stay in a tight group was a fight. The others driving wasn’t so much as aggressive as it was just cramped and tight. My bike got scuffed up by a bus at one turn, but I had to keep on riding to keep up with the others.
By the time we reached our hotel we all were more than ready for a Kingfisher and we each hoped they were the 8% ones. We survived another day motorcycling through this fabulous, but intense country and were eagerly looking forward to what the following day would bring.
If you can find a copy of this weekend’s Wall Street Journal, there’s an outstanding article in the “Off Duty” section on the New Jersey Pine Barrens. We blogged about my ride through the Pine Barrens with Jerry Dowgin and his vintage 305 Honda Scrambler a few years ago. The Journal article’s lead photo was of the Jersey Devil in front of Lucille’s (read on and you’ll see what I’m talking about), and that had my attention instantly. I had a great time with Jerry, and that ride and visit went on to become a featured article in Motorcycle Classics magazine.
Jerry went on to his reward a year or two after my visit, and I miss him. Read this blog, and if you can, the MC article. Jerry was a great guy and a good friend.
Rest in peace, Jerry.
I’d heard of the Pine Barrens when I was a youngster in New Jersey but I’d never been there, which was weird because the northern edge of the Pines starts only about 40 miles from where I grew up and geographically the Pine Barrens cover about a quarter of the state. New Jersey is the most densely populated state in the US, but you wouldn’t know it in the Pine Barrens. Pine trees and sand, lots of dirt roads, and not much else except ghost stories and New Jersey’s own mythological Jersey Devil (more on that in a bit). The region is mostly pine trees, but there are just enough other trees that our last-weekend-in-October ride caught the leaves’ autumn color change. That, the incredible weather, and saddle time on Jerry Dowgin’s vintage Honda Scrambler made it a perfect day.
Kicking back in the Pine Barrens town of Chatsworth. Check out the leaves changing colors in the background.A 305cc Honda Scrambler, the Jersey Devil, and Lucille’s Country Diner. Life is good in the Pines.Jerry Dowgin at speed in the New Jersey Pine Barrens. He’s been riding the same motorcycle for five decades. Jerry paid $10 for his Honda Scrambler. I offered to give him what he paid for it, which drew only a smile.
There were other things that made the day great. For starters, that has to include riding with Jerry Dowgin, former South Brunswick High School football hero, vintage motorcycle aficionado, and son of the late Captain Ralph Dowgin. SBHS is my alma mater (Go Vikings!), and the Dowgin name is legendary in New Jersey. I didn’t personally know Jerry when I was in high school (he was four years ahead of me), but I knew of his football exploits and I knew of his State Trooper Dad. Captain Dowgin commanded Troop D of the NJ State Police, and thanks to a photograph provided by lifelong good buddy Mike (another SBHS alum), Trooper Dowgin graces the cover of The Complete Book of Police and Military Motorcycles. Take a look at this photo of Jerry, and the Police Motors cover:
In the New Jersey Pine Barrens with former football star Jerry Dowgin and his awesome Honda Scrambler. I only run with the cool kids.Jerry’s father, Trooper Ralph Dowgin of the New Jersey State Police. This photo was taken in 1936. The one above it was taken 4 days ago.Trooper Dowgin’s original leather motorcycle helmet. Jerry showed it to me.
My ride for our glorious putt through the New Jersey Pine Barrens was Jerry’s 1966 CL77 Honda Scrambler. Jerry has owned the Scrambler for five decades. Jerry’s name for the Scrambler is Hot Silver, but I’m going to call it the Jersey Devil. The bike is not a piece of Concours driveway jewelry; like good buddy Gobi Gresh’s motorcycles, Jerry’s Jersey Devil is a vintage rider. And ride we did.
Honda offered three 305cc motorcycles in the mid-1960s: The Dream, the Super Hawk, and the Scrambler. All were 305cc, single overhead cam, air-cooled twins with four-speed transmissions. The CA77 Dream was a pressed steel, large fendered, single carb motorcycle with leading link front suspension. Like its sister Super Hawk, the Dream had kick and electric starting; the electric starter was unusual in those days. The Dream was marketed as a touring model, although touring was different then. Honda’s CB77 Super Hawk was a more sporting proposition, with lower bars, a tubular steel frame and telescopic forks, twin shoe drum brakes (exotic at the time), twin carbs, a tachometer, and rear shocks adjustable for preload. The engine was a stressed frame component and there was no frame downtube. Like the Dream, the Super Hawk had electric and kick starting. It’s been said that the Super Hawk could touch 100 mph, although I never saw that (my Dad owned a 1965 Honda Super Hawk I could sometimes ride in the fields behind our house).
The Scrambler fuel tank. Honda hit a home run with the Scrambler’s styling.Everything on this motorcycle is well proportioned. The ergnomics fit me perfectly.The cool kids removed the Scrambler’s bulbous two-into-one muffler and replaced it with Snuff-R-Nots. Jerry is one of the cool kids.
The third model in Honda’s mid-‘60s strategic triad was the CL77 Scrambler, and in my opinion, it was the coolest of the three. It had Honda’s bulletproof 305cc engine with twin carbs, and unlike the Super Hawk engine, it was tuned for more torque. The Scrambler didn’t have electric starting like the other two Hondas (it was kick start only, a nod to the Scrambler’s offroad nature). The Scrambler had a downtube frame, no tach (but a large and accurate headlight-mounted speedo), a steering damper, and a fuel tank that looks like God intended fuel tanks to look (with a classic teardrop profile and no ugly flange running down the center). The bars were wide with a cross brace. With its kick start only engine, the magnificent exhaust headers, and Honda’s “we got it right” fuel tank, the Scrambler looked more like a Triumph desert sled than any other Honda. In my book, that made it far more desirable. I always wanted a Scrambler.
The Scrambler’s speedo. The switch on the left is for the headlight; the amber light is a neutral indicator. The speedometer is accurate; we rode through a highway sign that showed your speed and it matched the speedometer indication.The Scrambler’s front fork damper.The Scrambler’s tool storage compartment.Jerry’s wife Karin made the toolkit pouch. Jerry’s toolkit includes the original Honda tools and a few extras.A single overhead camshaft, two valves per cylinder, and threaded locknut valve adjustment. Honda’s casting quality was superb for the time.
Jerry and I had great conversations on our ride through the Pine Barrens. We talked motorcycles, the times, the old times, folks we knew back in the day, and more. Other riders chatted us up. The Scrambler was a natural conversation starter. Every few minutes someone would approach and ask about Jerry’s Scrambler. Was it original? Was it for sale? What year was it? I had a little fun piping up before Jerry could answer, telling people it was mine and I’d let it go for $800 if they had the cash. I can still start rumors in New Jersey, you know.
The Scrambler’s rear suspension has three preload adjustment positions.Relatively sophisticated for the time on a mass-produced motorcycle: Twin shoe brakes.The Scrambler’s rear brake was similarly equipped.Gresh and I are both members!
The 305cc Honda twins of the mid-1960s were light years ahead of their British competitors and Harley-Davidson. British twin and Harley riders made snide comments about “Jap crap” back in the day (ignorance is bliss, and they were happy guys), but at least one Britbike kingpin knew the score and saw what was coming. Edward Turner, designer of the Triumph twin and head of Triumph Motorcycles, visited Honda in Japan and was shocked at how advanced Japanese engineering and manufacturing were compared to what passed for modern management in England. No one listened to Turner. The Honda 750 Four often gets credit for killing the British motorcycle industry, but the handwriting was already on the wall with the advent of bikes like Honda’s Dream, the Super Hawk, and the Scrambler. I believe we’re living through the same thing right now with motorcycles from China. Or maybe I just put that in to elicit a few more comments on this blog. You tell me.
I’m always curious about how others starting riding, so I asked Jerry if he inherited his interest in motorcycles from his motor officer Dad. The answer was a firm no. “Pop wasn’t interested in motorcycles; he saw too many young Troopers get killed on motorcycles when he was a State Trooper.” Jerry’s introduction into the two-wheel world was more happenstance than hereditary. He was working with his brother and his brother-in-law installing a heating system in a farmhouse when they encountered the Scrambler. Jerry bought his 1966 Scrambler in 1972 for the princely sum of $10. Yes, you read that right: $10. The Scrambler wasn’t running, but the deal he made with his brother was that Jerry would do the work if his brother would pay for the parts (and in 1972, the parts bill came to $125 from Cooper’s Cycle Ranch, one of the early and best known East Coast Honda and Triumph dealers). Getting the Scrambler sorted took some doing, as the engine was frozen, it needed a top end overhaul, it had compression issues, and getting the timing right was a challenge. But Jerry prevailed, and the bike has been a Pine Barrens staple for five decades now.
Jerry shared with me that he plans to leave his Honda Scrambler to his son and grandson. I think that’s a magnificent gesture.
Jerry on his Scrambler at the end of a great day on the road.Jerry and his Scrambler were featured on the cover of the Vintage Japanese Motorcycle Club’s magazine about 4 years ago.
Our ride in the Pine Barrens was most enjoyable. It’s amazing how little traffic there is in the Pines, an unusual situation for me. As a son of New Jersey, riding with no traffic in the nation’s most densely populated state was a new experience. But there’s a lot of land down there in the Pine Barrens (the area was a featured spot for dumping bodies on The Sopranos, and that probably wasn’t just a figment of some screenwriter’s imagination). Riding into the Pines (where we saw few other motorcycles and almost no cars), we made our first stop in Chatsworth. Chatsworth is an old Pine Barrens wide spot in the road with only a few buildings and a roadside eatery with no seating. You buy a soda and a dog (of either the hot or brat variety), find a seat on one of the roadside benches, and chat with other riders. It was different and much more fun than what I remembered New Jersey riding to be, but I had never ridden the Pines before. The locals told me it’s always been like this.
From Chatsworth, it was on to Lucille’s Country Diner, a popular Pine Barrens roadhouse more like a California motorcycle stop than a New Jersey diner. Lucille’s is known for its pies, and (trust me on this) they’re awesome. We parked under a carved, presumably life-sized Jersey Devil statue. I’d heard of the Jersey Devil when I was a kid (it’s a New Jersey thing; think of it as a cross between Bigfoot and Lucifer and you’ll understand). We didn’t see the Jersey Devil lurking out there in the pine trees on this ride, but who knows? Maybe he saw us. As a New Jersey native, I know this: Anything’s possible in the Garden State.
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I posted a blog yesterday about Chinese pocketknives and drew a few comments (as I knew I would). One of them mentioned Shaolin martial arts, and that prompted a response from me about the Shaolin Temple in China. Not a lot of folks here in the US have been to the Shaolin Temple. I know of two who rode there on motorcycles (that would be Joe Gresh and yours truly). I covered that visit in Riding China, and I thought it would be good to share a part of that chapter with you today. Who knows…I might even sell a few books by doing so. You know, so you can read the rest of the story about our ride through China.
We continued riding and entered a mountainous region. I liked that a lot. The roads were nice, there wasn’t much traffic, and because we were both moving and climbing, the heat abated a bit. We stopped for a break, and a fellow came along on a 250cc Yamaha that was configured for touring. He stopped and chatted with us and we took turns taking pictures of each other. His bike looked good. We only saw a few other Chinese on our trip who were touring on motorcycles.
A Chinese motorcyclist on a 250cc Yamaha. His luggage is from Lester Peng’s motorcycle luggage company. Lester rode with us last year on the 5000-mile Western America Adventure Ride.
I didn’t realize it at the time, but we were very close to the Shaolin Temple when we stopped to talk to the Yamaha rider. That would be our next destination this day. Another fellow then came by and he had an animated conversation with Sean (our guide). It turns out he was selling, Sean was his mark, and the guy was working Sean hard. This guy owned a restaurant and he wanted us to eat there. He was successful; we did.
We didn’t pause for naps after this lunch, but Sean was soon having another excited conversation with folks outside the restaurant. I didn’t know what they were discussing, but I later realized it was about transportation and how we would get into the Shaolin Temple. The bottom line to this conversation was that we all piled into three small gray minivans that took us about two miles down the road, back the way we had ridden to get to the restaurant.
What I learned later was that there were two ways to get into the Shaolin Temple complex. One was through the main gate, and apparently that cost more. The other was a woodsy trail through the mountains that required a climb over two or three mountains on a slippery muddy trail. If you did that, you could sneak into the Shaolin Temple complex for free. That’s what we did, and that climb was rough. The trail was slippery, and by now the temperature and humidity were up again. Had I known what was going on I would have gladly paid to go in through the front door, but I didn’t realize what we were doing until I was doing my best impersonation of a mountain goat in the hills behind Shaolin.
So here’s the deal on the Shaolin Temple: It’s famous as the home of Chinese Kung Fu. No kidding; it’s both a Buddhist Temple and a world-renown Kung Fu school (the original Kung Fu school, actually). It’s where Bruce Lee learned his craft, and if you’ve ever seen a martial arts movie with scenes that have large numbers of young Chinese guys learning the martial arts, it was almost certainly filmed here.
The Shaolin Temple was beautiful. As we walked along its well-manicured paths, a young guy went into a martial arts routine that was mesmerizing. It was something right out of a movie. The guy was executing all of these snappy martial arts stances (one seemed to flow into the next) in a manner that almost made the display a dance routine. It probably only lasted a minute or two, but when it ended, a large crowd had already gathered and everyone applauded. I enjoyed seeing it, even though I know nothing about any of this stuff.
A martial artist demonstrating his moves at the Shaolin Temple.More moves. I told the guys I could do this, but I don’t think they believed me.
The Buddhist Temple was beautiful, but by then it was so miserably hot and humid we weren’t enjoying anything. We were in a walled courtyard that allowed no airflow, and I couldn’t seem to get my body temperature down. I was still perspiring from climbing over the mountains.
I shot a few photos of some of the figures inside the temple (yet again, the D810 Nikon’s incredible low light level capabilities came through).
A figure inside the Shaolin Temple. It’s likely Bruce Lee saw these things when he studied here.Another huge and menacing figure inside the Shaolin Temple. These statues were about 15 feet tall.
On our walk out (we left through the main gate), it mercifully started raining again. The rain finally helped me cool off. So far, this day was the hottest and most humid day of our ride (and I found I was saying that nearly every day for the last several days).
At dinner that night, I thought I would have a little fun with the guys. One of the dishes that evening had black fungus mixed in with the vegetables, and I loved that stuff. As I mentioned earlier, what the Chinese call black fungus is a mushroom of some sort, and I loved the taste of it. A small speck of one of the mushrooms, a black piece about a quarter of an inch long, was on the edge of my dinner bowl. I managed to pick up that tiny piece of mushroom with my chopsticks in preparation for solidifying my reputation as a chopstick martial arts master.
I told Tracy, who was sitting next to me, that I wanted him translate exactly what I was about to tell the Chinese guys in our group. He said okay, but went back to his meal. “No, Tracy,” I said. “I want you to tell the guys to stop eating and listen to what I have to say.”
Tracy looked at me for second, and then he spoke to the group in Chinese. The others stopped eating, looking at Tracy and then at me.
“We all visited the Shaolin Temple today and we saw the birthplace of Kung Fu,” I began. I paused, nodded at Tracy, and he started speaking to the group in Chinese.
“You may not know this, but like Mr. Bruce Lee, I, too, am a martial arts expert,” I said. Tracy looked at me and translated what I just said. The others stared at me, taken in by my serious demeanor.
“You know that I am an expert with chopsticks, as I demonstrated on our second night in the peanut contest,” I said. Tracy diligently continued to translate. “You may not know that I am a master at using chopsticks in the martial arts. In fact, I created a branch of Kung Fu that relies entirely on chopsticks.” As I said that, I motioned with my left hand as if I was shooing a fly away from the food on our table. It was a motion all of us had used across China at all of our dinners to get rid of the flies.
As Tracy continued to translate, and when I saw everybody look at my left hand shooing the imaginary flies away, I lunged out into the space over our table with my right hand, still holding my chopsticks. As I did so, I emitted a piercing “eeeee yah!” (my best rendition of a martial arts cry, worthy of no less a master than Bruce Lee himself). I held up my chopsticks, which still held that small morsel of black mushroom. No one could have confused that speck of mushroom for anything other than a fly captured in mid-air by a martial arts master (with his chopsticks, of course).
A loud gasp of astonishment and admiration went up from all of the Chinese riders. Before they could get a closer look, I plopped the tiny piece of mushroom into my mouth and exaggeratedly swallowed. There was a second of stunned silence at our table, followed by another gasp and heavy applause. Gresh was the only one who rolled his eyes. A legend was born that evening, my friends, and he be me.
We had a great dinner that night (I know, I’ve been saying that about every meal on this trip). Eeeeeeyah! The fly-impersonating black fungus. The chopsticks. The applause. It was wonderful.
After dinner, all I wanted to do was get back to the hotel, take a cool shower, crank the air conditioner all the way down, and get some sleep. I posted a blog that night, I went to bed, and I probably dreamed about being a chopstick martial artist.
They’re still talking about me over there, you know.
The ride across China was amazing, the adventure of a lifetime. You can read about the adventures of dos Joes on the entire trip here:
A wise man once said there comes a time in every man’s life when he decides to hang it up…his riding days are over. I guess the follow-on comment has to be: Is that true?
I turned 71 a few months ago (note that this blog originally published three years ago; I’m 74 today and I’m still riding). To a lot of folks, that’s old. The funny part of it is, though, I don’t feel old. A little earlier today I was putzing around in the garage and my Royal Enfield was making me feel guilty. I hadn’t had the 650 twin out on the road in the last few weeks, a character deficiency I promptly corrected. The old girl and I had a nice ride around the neighborhood, I got the oil circulating again (in the Enfield and in yours truly), and I snapped that great photo you see at the top of this blog. That’s snow-covered San Gorgonio Mountain you see off in the distance, a destination I’ve visited many times on a motorcycle.
But to get back on topic: At what age should we think about hanging up our riding gear? Now that I’m a septuagenarian (I had to look it up, so you can, too) I’m wondering about things like that. But then I think about the guys I’ve ridden with and maybe I’ll continue riding for another 20 years or so. Take a look.
Simon Gandolfi, who just turned 90 and is arguably the most interesting man in the world, is a novelist and moto adventurer extraordinaire. He’s ridden around the world on small displacement bikes.Colorado Dan, the man. He cuts a dashing figure and is a great traveling companion. He’s a year or two older than me.Another most interesting man in the world…good buddy Willie. He’s usually riding when he’s not pitching Dos Equis.James, our Texas Ranger and a serious traveler, is in my cohort and he rode Baja with us.
You know, the funny thing is the tone of the conversations during and after a good ride hasn’t changed at all over the nearly six decades I’ve been riding. The topics have changed a bit, but not really that much. We still mostly talk bikes and good roads. But instead of bragging how drunk we were the previous night and who we spent the night with (which was mostly bullshit, anyway) the topics today address different specs. Instead of 0 to 60 times, quarter mile performance, and top ends, now it’s things like our A1C, PSA, and HDL numbers. You fellow geezers know what I’m talking about. But the discussions are just as lively, I think a little more interesting, and probably a bit more truthful. We’ll touch on politics on occasion, but if the conversation gets too heated or goes too far in that direction, I can always get us back on track (and get a good laugh) when I weigh in with a single question:
You guys know what the problem is in politics today? All the guys who really know how to run the country are out screwing around riding their motorcycles.
So, at what age should you hang it up? I’m finding that’s hard to say and most guys my age and older seem to just keep on going. I’ve ridden with guys well into their 70s, 80s, and sometimes even more. Good buddy Dan is heading down to Baja next month to camp on the beach near Gonzaga Bay, and he’s a little older than me. Sim0n Gandolfi, the British novelist and adventure travel writer, rode to Cabo San Lucas and back with us on 150cc CSC Mustangs about a dozen years ago, and he’s about to leave on another epic moto trip at age 90. James from Texas bought a new motorcycle and rode one of the Baja trips with us. He spun off somewhere about halfway down the length of the Baja peninsula to take the ferry across to mainland Mexico, and he was going to ride home to Texas through Mexico. And Willie, another most interesting man in the world, rides every chance he gets when he’s not doing Dos Equis commercials. Like me, all of these guys qualify for that 89-cent cup of coffee at McDonald’s.
Yeah, I think I’m going to stay at it for a while. I think you should, too.
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The best riding in the world? In my opinion, it’s unquestionably Baja. Take a look!
I felt a mix comforting mix of “been there, done that” and smugness when I read the Wall Street Journal yesterday. The lead photo in the paper’s “Off Duty” section was strangely familiar, and as the coffee kicked in I realized it was because I’d been there: Colombia’s Magdalena River. My Magdelena photo (one of many) is the photo you see above.
The Wall Street Journal article featured places not part of the borscht belt (i.e., typical tourist destinations), and the stops it recommended along a Magdalena River cruise were locales I’d been to: Barranquilla, Cartagena, Mompox, Magangué, and others. I’ve been luckier than most because I’ve had incredible motorcycle adventures: China, Mexico, the Three Flags Classic, Baja, the Western America Adventure Ride, and more. The ride through Colombia and along the Magdalena River, though, was in many ways greater than the other motorcycle adventures. The Journal’s story had me thinking about Colombia again, and I thought I would share a few photos of the places it mentioned with you.
Mompox
Ah, Mompox. It’s pronounced and sometimes spelled Mompos…an amazing city, unlike any I had ever visited. The night we were there I wanted to stay in the hotel and post a blog for my CSC readers, but good buddy and ride leader Juan told me: Joe, your readers will wait. You need to see Mompox. He was right.
A street along the riverfront in Mompox. People actually live here. Wow.One of several churches in Mompox.Carlos, me, and Juan having dinner in an Italian restaurant run by a German in Colombia.
Magangué
We began our ferry ride to Mompox from Magangué (pronounced ma gong gay). It was brutally hot and humid and we had to wait a couple of hours for the ferry to arrive, but that ride down the Magdelana was worth the wait. Dreamlike, it was a scene from a 1930s adventure movie. Peaceful. Indiana Jones. That ferry ride had it all. There are more adjectives I could use, but you get the idea.
The ferry at Magangué.Headed downstream and facing north on the Magdalena River.
Barranquilla
I first saw Barranquilla (pronounced bar en key ah) on an earlier business trip to Colombia. I’d just purchased a new Nikon D200 (the cat’s meow back then), and it had a backfocus issue I later had corrected (you can’t see it in these photos, though). I felt like Indiana Jones at a beauty pageant. If there are unattractive women in Colombia, I couldn’t find them.
Business beckoned in Barranquilla…good buddy Paul Smarr and yours truly examining manganese dioxide.
Cartagena
Yep, that Cartegena, the same one as is R0mancing the Stone (although that movie was actually shot in Mexico). On that same business trip, we took an afternoon to visit Cartegana, about an hour and a half down the coast from Barranquilla.
Two Colombian highway patrol officers on the road to Cartegena. My friends thought I was nuts when I jumped out to grab this photo. The Colombian police officers probably thought so, too.A shopkeeper in Cartagena who agreed to let me take her picture.Cartagena is a very photogenic city.
There were many things in Colombia well beyond what the WSJ article covered: Honda (the town, not the motorcycle), Covenas, Volcan Los Nevados, La Playa de Belem, Barichara, Villa de Leyva, and more. I saw them from my RS3 motorcycle (the carbureted version of the RX3) and you can, too, if you don’t mind living vicariously through my lens and keyboard:
Well, it turns out this temple is everything I imagined it would be, but actually experiencing it was something for which none of us were prepared. Karni Mata is a Hindu Temple that believes rats are the reincarnated souls of a local story teller family that died during a famine. The rats are everywhere. There are just thousands all over and they are fed quite well. There are even several troughs for them to eat out from, and donations of grains and milk are frequently left to appease these local deities.
After an hour or so we decided to take a break in a small village and get a few bananas and some water. It only took a couple minutes before most the village came out to meet us all. Even a school bus stopped and let the kids off to check out the bikes and talk with us. It reminded me of my first experience in India 20 years prior. This would become a familiar sight for us with crowds coming up to us to chat and take selfies. They all were the friendliest people. We enjoyed these stops and opportunities to engage with the locals in these little villages that were so far off the maps.
