I thought it might make for a nice change of pace if I actually posted something about motorcycles on this here motorcycle blog, so yesterday I fired up my faithful old RX3 and rode over to CSC Motorcycles. Steve has a very cool 1982 Yamaha Seca that he said I could ride, and I wanted to experience what it’s like to ride a nearly-40-year-old motorcycle, built during the Reagan Administration, with only 1700 miles on the clock. I’ll have a story on that later (Spoiler Alert: The RX3 is a nicer motorcycle). For today, I grabbed a few photos of my RX3 and I wanted to talk about my bike and its decals a bit.
Restaurants, Baja Runs, and more…my RX3 wears its decals like campaign ribbons. In a very real sense, that’s exactly what they are.
My RX3 is one of the very first ones delivered to America when CSC starting importing the bikes, and the story behind that is well told (if I do say so myself) in 5000 Miles at 8000 RPM. It’s orange, which became sort of a nice orange-yellow over the years, and I like the look. I also like the look of a lot of decals. I always thought that was a cool aspect of the whole ADV thing, telling folks where you’ve been and (with the help of a little artwork and adhesive) bragging about it a bit. And my RX3 and I have covered a few miles.
My first big RX3 ride, and one of the things that I think put CSC and the RX3 on the map was the 2015 Baja Run (our first, and maybe a first in the motorcycle industry for a new bike introduction). I didn’t know how that would go, I was nervous as hell that the bikes wouldn’t fare well, but my fears were unfounded. It was an incredible ride. And, it was our first decal. That’s the big round one you see just above the my saddle in the photo above.
Next up: The Chinese and a couple of cool guys from Colombia wanted to come to the US and ride with us. And I got to meet a cool guy named Joe Gresh, who Motorcyclist magazine sent to ride with us. You need to read 5000 Miles At 5000 RPM to get the full story on that adventure tour, too. It was grand. Azusa to Mt. Rushmore in South Dakota, ride west across Wyoming, Idaho, and Washington, and then a turn left at the ocean to ride the western US coast back to So Cal. The relevant point here is that ride made for a bitchin’ decal, which you can see in the photo below.
The Western America Adventure Ride. It was grand. 5000 miles, lots of bikes, and not a single breakdown. Gresh staged a burnout with his RX3 in Port Orford, Oregon…the burnout heard around the world. John Welker planned our stops and navigated for us. It was a magnificent ride.
Then we did a bunch more CSC Baja rides, and with each one came another decal. Then I did a ride across China with Gresh on a couple of RX3s we borrowed from Zongshen (I wrote a book about that one, too). Then it was a ride around the Andes Mountains in Colombia with my good buddies Juan (who was on ride across America with us) and Carlos, both supercool guys who took great care of me in Medellin, Barichara, Mompos, and a whole bunch of other magnificent Colombian destinations. Yep, that resulted in yet another book.
Luggage decals…Mama Espinoza’s in El Rosario (incredible lobster burritos), BajaBound Mexican insurance (the best), and the Horizons Unlimited Rally in northern California.My Chinese buddies gave me a Chinese flag to put on my bike, I had to add a US flag to show where my loyalties lie, and a decal good buddy Juan’s Colombian motorcycle magazine, DeMotos.com.co.
I could ask if you knew how many RX3 breakdowns I experienced in all those miles, but I know you already know the answer: Zero.
Yep, that little 250 has taken me to hell and back, and my RX3 just keeps running and running and running. An added benefit? Mine is orange (it’s the fastest color, Orlando).
And that brings us to now, and the latest decal to adorn my well-broken-in, trusty, faithful and fearless companion. It’s the supercool ExhaustNotes.us decal, and it’s perfect on my RX3.
Joe Gresh had a magnificent idea in creating an ExhaustNotes.us decal. I had just enough real estate to add it to my RX3!
So there you have it. Imagine that: A motorcycle story on a motorcycle blog! And there’s more motorcycle stuff in the pipeline. Truth be told, I enjoyed my RX3 sprint this morning, and it helped me realize I need to ride it more. Welker called me about Sturgis a couple of says ago. That might be fun. If I go, I’d do it on the RX3. I’d forgotten just how magnificent a motorcycle the RX3 is.
Stay tuned, folks…there’s more coming!
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The word “wow” might have been invented in anticipation of the .300 Weatherby Magnum. It’s that impressive. I’ve owned and fired a lot of different cartridges over the years, and the one that I find the most interesting, the most intimidating, and the most coolest ever is the .300 Weatherby. For a lot of years it was the most powerful .308-caliber cartridge on the planet. Roy Weatherby, my personal hero, created the cartridge in 1944 and it’s only been in the last few years that two or three more powerful .30-bore cartridges emerged, but these new .30-caliber cartridges are overkill. In fact, I could make a good argument that the .300 Weatherby is overkill. But I won’t. I love the round and I love the fact that it scares me a little every time I shoot it.
A sense of scale. From left to right, it’s the .22 Long Rifle, the .45 ACP, the .223 Remington (essentially, our M-16 round), the .30-30 Winchester (America’s premier deer cartridge), the mighty .30-06, and the last two are .300 Weatherby Magnum cartridges. Every cartridge shown here (with the exception of the .22 Long Rifle) is a reloaded round.
The first rifle I ever bought chambered for the .300 Weatherby, oddly enough, was not a Weatherby. It was a Winchester Model 70 that I bought maybe 35 years ago. It was a limited production item and that might have been a good reason to buy it, but the thing that grabbed my attention on this particular rifle was the walnut. You just don’t see factory Model 70s with fancy walnut, but this one had it in spades.
A 1980s Model 70 Winchester in .300 Weatherby Magnum, wearing a Weaver T-10 telescopic sight.The right side of the .300 Weatherby Model 70.Ah, that beautiful walnut. It’s not often lumber like this appears on a Winchester.Both sides, too! When I saw this rifle I was still in my 30s. I really couldn’t afford it, but I couldn’t afford to let it get away, either.
I think I paid just over $400 for that rifle back in the 1980s, which is what they were going for then. I had a Weaver T10 target scope I had used when shooting metallic silhouette and it went on the Model 70. It’s most definitely not the scope for a .300 Weatherby, but it’s what I had at the time. The scope is a collectible item all by itself…it’s steel and it was manufactured when Weaver made their scopes in El Paso.
So that’s the first rifle in this trio of .300s. The next is one I bought exactly 10 years ago, in 2009, at the height of the Great Recession. I was lucky in 2009…I was working, and lots of folks were selling things to raise cash, including more than a few gun stores. An outfit called Lock, Stock, and Barrel advertised a new-in-the-box Mark V Euromark on Gunbroker, and I was on that in a New York minute. The store was in the upper Midwest somewhere and they stated in their ad they would not sell to California (our state commissars make life difficult in a lot of ways, and more than a few sellers simply won’t ship to California). But I wanted that Euromark something fierce (the Euromark is a Mark V Weatherby with a satin oil finish, rather than the Mark V’s usual high gloss urethane finish). I called the guy, did my “woe is me” routine, and he agreed to ship the rifle to my FFL-holder here in the Peoples’ Republik.
Saw it on Gunbroker, saw the wood, and I couldn’t say no.It was nice on both sides, too. Rosewood accents, beautiful walnut, and the mighty .300 Weatherby Magnum in a Mark V. What’s not to like?
I bought a new Weaver 4×16 scope, put it on the rifle, and then I put the Mark V in the safe. It stayed there for 10 years. I fired it for the first time this weekend, for this blog.
You know, the funny thing is my good buddy Marty saw the Weatherby before I put it in the safe and he decided he needed one, too. He tried calling Lock, Stock, and Barrel a week after I received mine, but they had already gone out of business. The Great Recession was rough. My grabbing that rifle was a lucky break.
These photos impart a bit of an orange hue to the Mark V’s stock. It’s really a bit more subdued.Like the Model 70, this Mark V is pretty on both sides. The stock profile is the classic Weatherby Monte Carlo look, which actually works very well in reducing felt recoil.Unlike the other Deluxe Mark V rifles, the Euromark has a classic, low-sheen satin finish. It works well with the rosewood accents.It was sunny when I was on the range this weekend. I get better photos when it’s overcast, but you get the idea. The 4×16 Weaver on this rifle is a magnificent optic.
The last .300 Weatherby I’m going to talk about today is my Vanguard. It’s one of the original series Weatherby Vanguards, and it has what we tongue-in-cheek refer to as the Tupperware stock. I’ve written about this rifle on the ExNotes blog before. I wasn’t looking for a Vanguard when I bought this one, but I saw it at the Gunrunner gun shop in Duarte, the price was right, and, well, you know how these things go. It came home with me.
My Series 1 Weatherby Vanguard with the plastic stock. It’s accurate. And it’s hard-hitting (on both ends).A view from the port side. You can see the profile similarity between the Vanguard’s composite stock and the Mark V’s walnut stock above.The Vanguard came from the factory with a Bushnell 3×9 scope. It needs more eye relief. Before I go into the field with this rifle, I’m going to replace the scope.
The deal on the Vanguard rifles is that Weatherby wanted to bring a lower cost rifle to market without cheapening their flagship Mark V, and they contracted with Howa of Japan to build the Vanguards. The principal difference is that the Vanguard has a 90-degree bolt lift compared to the Mark V’s 54-degree bolt lift, and the Mark V sells for about $1400 more than a Vanguard. I’m here to tell you that the Vanguard is an outstanding rifle, every bit as good as the Mark V, and in many cases, more accurate.
So how do these three puppies shoot?
Like I said at the beginning of this blog, the .300 Weatherby is intimidating. I like to think I’m not recoil sensitive, but the .300 Weatherby is right on the edge of what I think I can handle shooting from the bench. It’s not an easy rifle to shoot for accuracy. To get the best groups from any rifle, I like to minimize contact with the rifle. I let the rifle lay in the benchrest, lightly hold the fore end with my fingers, barely touch my cheek against the stock, move my head to an appropriate position to get a full image through the scope, and just touch the recoil pad with my shoulder. The idea is that I don’t want to exert any force on the rifle, as that can move the rounds around on the target, and I’m shooting for the tightest group. That works with rifles that have light to moderate recoil, say, up to the .30 06 level. Try that with a .300 Weatherby, though, and you’re going to get popped in the face by the scope when you drop the hammer. Really. Trust me on this; I know. Nope, when you shoot the .300 Weatherby from the bench, you need a solid grip on the rifle, and you need to pull it firmly into your shoulder. It’s a little harder to get tight groups doing that. But it’s easier than getting smacked by the scope.
Before I get into the accuracy results, I’ll share my impressions of the three rifles based on trigger pull, felt recoil, fit, and optics.
The Mark V has the best trigger. I broke cleanly at about 3 lbs, and it made shooting the rifle easier. I guess that’s to be expected with a rifle that has a price tag like the Mark V (these things ain’t cheap). The Model 70 had a crisp (no creep) trigger, but it was heavy. That made it a little harder to shoot well, especially when shooting it right after I shot the Mark V (I got spoiled; it’s pretty hard to follow the Mark V act). The Vanguard trigger had a bit of creep in it, and it was about as heavy as the Winchester’s trigger, which is to say both the Vanguard and the Winchester triggers were heavier than the Mark V’s trigger.
The Mark V is a clear winner from a felt recoil perspective. There are several reasons for this. One is that it is the heaviest of the three rifles, with its dense walnut stock and 26-inch barrel. Another is the Weatherby stock profile. Folks make fun of it, but it works. When the gun recoils, it draws away from your cheek, and the perception is that it has less recoil. Another factor is Mark V’s recoil pad. And the last one is the Weaver 4×16 scope’s eye relief. Head position isn’t critical, and you’re far enough back from the scope that it doesn’t hit you in recoil. Don’t get me wrong: The Mark V still packs a wallop. It’s just easier to shoot than the other two. The Winchester Model 70 was a close second, most likely because it also has a real stock (read: walnut), but it’s thinner recoil pad made it slightly more punishing than the Mark V. Third place from the felt recoil perspective was the Vanguard. It has a big recoil pad like the Mark V, but the plastic stock and 24-inch barrel make the gun lighter, and like we say in the engineering biz, f still equals ma. Also, the Vanguard’s low end Bushnell Banner scope does not have generous eye relief, and I got smacked a couple of times. Not enough to draw blood, but enough to get my attention.
I’ve already started talking about scopes, so let me continue that discussion. The Weaver 4×16 I purchased for the Mark V is a killer scope. It’s incredibly bright, crisp, and clear. In fact, it’s so good I didn’t realize I had it turned down to 4X for the first couple of groups I fired. Eye relief on this scope is generous enough for a bucking bronc like the .300 Weatherby. It’s the clear winner.
The Weaver T-10 on the Model 70 was out of its element. It’s a target scope. Eye relief was good enough, but alignment and distance were hypercritical; move just a little too far forward or backward, or left or right, and you’ve lost the image. I like the scope (I’ve owned it for over 40 years), but it’s in the wrong place on a hunting rifle.
The Vanguard’s Bushnell Banner…what can I say? Maybe this: Halitosis is better than no breath at all. I played around with the focus adjustment, but the Bushnell just isn’t as clear or crisp as either of the Weavers. That said, it’s considerably less expensive than the other two scopes. When I bought the Vanguard, it was essentially in as new condition, and the Bushnell was part of a factory package (it came with the rifle). If I was do it over, I’d get the Weaver 4×16, or maybe a Leupold, for this rifle. I may do that anyway. I know this is heresy, but I actually think the Weaver has a crisper image than a Leupold scope.
Of the three rifles, the Mark V fits me best, with the Vanguard a close second. I like the Weatherby profile. It just works for me. If I had to choose one of these three rifles for a hunting trip in the mountains (and I do, as I’m chasing deer with good buddy J later this year in Idaho), it would definitely be the Vanguard. It’s lighter, and that counts on a hunt like the one I’m headed into. Yeah, I know…a .300 Weatherby is a bit much for deer. You take what you want when you hunt. I’m taking my .300.
Okay, so the big question emerges: How about accuracy?
I almost didn’t include this. I did a bit of accuracy testing, but my advice is to take my results with a grain of salt. A big grain. Maybe a barrel of salt. I hadn’t been on the rifle range in a month or two, and firing 50 or 60 rounds of .300 Weatherby Magnum ammo in one sitting is not the best way to do this kind of shooting. Stated differently, I was not really giving these rifles a fair shake in this test. The first few groups you see below are me getting settled in, and the last few groups you see below are more likely than not me deteriorating after getting smacked around all morning. These rifles are better than what the results below indicate.
That said, here we go. All groups you see in the chart below were 3-shot groups at 100 yards from the bench. There was no wind, it was a bit warm, and conditions were about ideal.
The loads. Don’t take my word for this stuff; get thee to a load manual, study it, and do your own testing. Start low and work up.
I knew from past dealings that IMR 7828 propellant is good stuff in the big magnums, and I think that my 76.5 grain load with the 180-grain Remington jacketed softpoint bullet is a great load. I was a bit off on the first group I fired with this load (two shots were touching; the third was a flyer most likely induced by me) and then the other two groups with this load were at minute of angle. I could do better if I shot this rifle more (yeah, that’s another factor; this was the first time I had this rifle out and the barrel is not broken in yet). This is not a max load (I could go hotter) and the group size was smaller with the warmer of the two loads I tried with 7828 and the Remington 180-grain bullets. That suggests an even warmer charge of 7828 under this bullet is where greater accuracy lives, but I just don’t feel a need to go there. No animal on the planet would be able to tell the difference from an energy-on-target perspective and minute-of-angle accuracy is close enough for government work (especially for the game I plan to hunt). Dead is dead. There’s no sense getting beat up by more recoil to make an animal more dead.
The 80 grains of 7828 with the 165-grain Hornady bullet I show in the table above is near a max load, and I think it’s obvious I was losing my edge toward the end of this range session. I shot a 0.507-inch group at 100 yards with that same load in the Vanguard a couple of years ago; I just couldn’t duplicate it near the end of my range session this past weekend.
Yeah, this dog will hunt.
The difference between a cup of coffee and my advice is you might have asked for a cup of coffee, but I’ll give you my advice anyway. If I was going to get one rifle in .300 Weatherby, I’d get the basic model Vanguard with a walnut stock, and I’d put either a Weaver 4×16 or a Leupold scope on it. You’d be getting the Vanguard’s accuracy, with the walnut stock you’d get a little added weight to soak up the recoil, and you’d save a cool $1400 over the Mark V. I think the Weatherby Vanguard is the best rifle value on the market today. Shop around on Gunbroker.com for a bit and you can find new walnut Vanguards for about $600. That’s a phenomenal deal and owning a Weatherby will make you thinner, taller, and better looking. It will make you a better man. Trust me on this.
One last comment: The results you see above regarding different loads are my loads in my rifles. Your mileage may vary. Consult a load manual, and always work up your own loads starting at the low end of the manual’s recommended propellant charges.
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It’s another one of those stream-of-consciousness blogs, folks…things I’ve been meaning to mention but forgot, new stuff that’s cool, and more.
For starters, you all will remember my good buddy and former US Army paratrooper Mike. I first met Mike on one of the CSC Baja rides and we’ve been friends since.
Airborne all the way…that’s Mike.
Mike posted a photo on Facebook over the weekend of himself and, well, take a look…
Hmmmm….
I saw that photo, and I realized: This is an image that cries out for a caption. So, we’re having a caption contest. There’s no prize, other than seeing your entry posted here on the ExNotes blog. There’s all kinds of possibilities with things related to being Airborne, being a turkey, sitting under a turkey, that “almost airborne” T-shirt Mike is wearing, and on and on it goes. Let’s hear your thoughts in the Comments section, or shoot us an email.
If you missed this one, you gotta go back. And if you didn’t miss it, read it again. I have. Several times.
More good stuff…I keep returning to Gresh’s blog on the BMW R18. I first read it when I was enjoying an Einstein’s bagel in the Denver airport a couple of nights ago, and I realized that folks were looking at me because I was laughing out loud. The writing is classic Gresh. Funny as hell. My good buddy Arjiu can write.
Another one…you might remember my blog on the Sand Creek Massacre National Historic Site a few weeks ago.
Sand Creek Massacre National Historic Site. It’s in southeastern Colorado and it’s worth a visit.
While I was out there, I asked the US Park Ranger which of the several books they offered for sale he would recommend, and he suggested A Misplaced Massacre by Ari Kelman.
The Ranger’s book recommendation was solid, and A Misplaced Massacre was a fascinating read. Part of the book was about the massacre, but most of it was about the controversy in contemporary Colorado associated with recognizing that Sand Creek was a massacre (and not an heroic battle, as claimed by the cowardly cavalry officer who led it). Another aspect to the story I had not heard before was the uncertainly associated with the actual massacre site (since resolved, but the effort involved in finding it was one hell of a story that resulted in the title of this fine book). And yet another aspect was US Senator Ben Nighthorse Campbell’s involvement in designating the site as a national historic site. I met Senator Campbell over 20 years ago at the Laughlin River Run. Yep, Senator Campbell is a motorcyclist.
Gordon Smith as the XO of VA-152 during a deployment in Southeast Asia.
More good stuff…30 years ago, I managed the Sargent-Fletcher plant in El Monte, California, where we designed and manufactured aerial refueling equipment and combat aircraft fuel tanks. It was a fabulous place to be and I had a wonderful team, but the best part was that I worked for Rear Admiral Gordon Smith, one of the best bosses I ever had. I learned more about leadership working for Gordon than I did in any other job, and I’ve worked for several truly outstanding leaders. Sue and I reconnected with the Admiral a few weeks ago, and we’re having dinner with him this week. I’m really excited about that. It’s a story we may share here on the ExNotes blog.
A 2014 L.A. Cetto Malbec. This, all by itself, is worth a trip to Mexico.
Another random thought…Joe and I did a Baja run a few weeks ago for Royal Enfield, and I mentioned that story is running in the current issue of Motorcycle Classics magazine. On our way home, as I always do on any Baja run, we stopped at the L.A. Cetto vineyard along the glorious Ruta del Vino between Ensenada and Tecate. It turns out that I am somewhat of a wine snob. Well, not really a wine snob…that implies a degree of sophistication I don’t possess. What I am is a guy who appreciates a good Malbec, a wine I learned about on a business trip to Colombia 15 years ago (I had never heard of Malbec before then). When you re-enter the US from Baja, you can only bring one bottle of wine, and when Joe and I visited the L.A. Cetto vineyard, I asked if they had a Malbec. It turns out they had a couple, and the guy there recommended the 2014. It cost a little more than the other one so I figured it must be good (like I said, being a real wine snob requires a level of sophistication I don’t have). Based on my wine selection logic (more expensive must be better), I bought it. Susie and I barbequed salmon last week and we opened the Malbec (another demonstration of my lack of sophistication…drinking a red with fish). Good Lord, it was wonderful. I checked, and you can’t buy L.A. Cetto Malbec in the US. You know what that means: Another trip to Baja!
And finally, I was out on the rifle range yesterday, and we’re working up a good story tentatively titled A Tale of Three 300s.
Winchester made a small number of Model 70 rifles chambered in .300 Weatherby in the 1980s, and I managed to get one. Nope, it’s not for sale.
A Tale of Three 300s will be up in another day or two after my shoulder recovers from the recoil. In the meantime, if you need more gun stuff, just mosey on over to Tales of the Gun!
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Our last blog on German Military and Police Motors: Part I ended with a photo 0f good buddy Ben’s his personal bike, and I thought a good way to start Part II would be with another photo from Ben…one showing a vintage Swedish police BMW…
Nothing slowed these guys down…check out this Swedish ski-equipped BMW!
When I wrote the Complete Book of Police and Military Motorcycles, I guess the word got out and I received a number of police motorcycle photos. As you might imagine, many of these photos were of police BMWs, as BMW has been a dominant force in the police motorcycle world for decades. BMW has offered several engine configurations over the years, and nearly all are represented in their police motorcycles.
BMW’s early K-bikes used 3 or 4 cylinder engines (the photo below shows a 4-cylinder model) that were oriented in an unusual manner. The crankshaft was parallel to the frame, and the engine was oriented with the pistons moving in a horizontal plane (the engine laid on its side). The cylinder was on the bike’s left side. BMW tried to enter the US market with these motorcycles, but they made little progress until they offered the 1100cc boxer twin.
An K1100LT BMW formerly in service with Belgium’s federal police. Ruud Willems sent this photo to me.Another cool photo from Ruud, this time showing an 1100cc BMW boxer twin formerly in service with the Belgian federal police.
The photos came in from all over the world. Here’s one from good buddy Ian in the UK…
A cool photo from Ian showing police BMWs in Birmingham, England.
And another from my old stomping grounds in New Jersey…
An F650 BMW police bike with ABS in service with Egg Harbor Township in New Jersey. The Egg Harbor PD likes this bike’s ability to go off road. They also use the larger R1200RT-P BMW, which you can see in the background.One of Egg Harbor’s Motor Officers on the F650 BMW providing an escort to the Police Unity Tour.
Here’s a great photo from my CBX friend Ian Foster of Hong Kong showing two BMW R1100RT-Ps and two Honda VFRs in Hong Kong. How about that…Honda VFRs as police bikes!
Hong Kong police motors…Beemers and VFRs.A Hong Kong BMW in Causeway Bay, sent to us by Ian.
And good buddy Danny send us a several photos from the Netherlands…
A cool shot of a 1200 cc BMW police bike in the Netherlands from my friend Danny Hoek.Danny also sent this shot, along with detail photos below of the Netherlands-based BMW police bikes.An 800cc twin BMW police bike in the Netherlands from Danny Hoek.And Danny’s shot of the BMW R1200RT-P police bike in the Netherlands
When I wrote Motors for Rider magazine back in 2009, I took a bunch of photos of police motorcycles. Here’s a cool shot that made the cover of two BMW-mounted Motor Officers in La Verne, California…
A pair of La Verne, California’s finest…on their BMW R1200RT-P police motorcycles in 2009.
When police BMWs are retired from service, they are picked up by civilian motorcyclists. Although the bikes may have a few miles on them, they have usually been meticulously maintained, and they in excellent condition. Converting a police BMW to civilian use is straightforward…the blue and red strobe lights, the police radio, and the insignia come off, and it’s ready to go. Most civilian riders also remove the police BMW’s extra battery to save weight.
This is a photo of my good friend Bob staying two steps ahead of Hurricane Norbert in Baja, Mexico, on his “demilitarized” R1150RT-P.
So that’s it for now, folks. Our next bit on police motors will feature Kawasakis, but that’s another time and another blog. In the meantime, if you would like to see our other police motorcycle articles, please check out the ExhaustNotes Police Motors page!
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I was going to do a Dream Bike bit about the Norton Commando, and then I realized that not only had I sort of done that in an earlier CSC blog, but I actually rode a vintage Norton for that piece. Without further ado, here you go…
Walt Berkuta on his Knucklehead.
For me, it started when I was 12 years old in the 7th grade, and it started with British bikes. Triumphs, to be specific. Oh, I’d seen other motorcycles before that, and my good buddy Pauly’s father Walt had owned a Knucklehead after the war. But everything changed when the motorcycle bug bit. It bit hard, and it did so when I was 12 years old. I remember it like it happened last week.
I grew up in a town small enough that our junior high school and high school were all in the same building. It was 7th through 12th grade, which meant that some of the Juniors and Seniors had cars, and one guy had a motorcycle. That one guy was Walt Skok, and the motorcycle was a ‘64 Triumph Tiger (in those days the Tiger was a 500cc single-carbed twin). It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, with big downswept chrome exhaust headers, a cool tank with a dynamite chrome rack, chrome wire wheels, and the most perfect look I had ever seen on anything. I spent every spare moment I had sneaking out into the parking lot to stare at it. Some things in the world are perfect, a precise blend of style and function (things like Weatherby rifles, 1911 handguns, C4 Corvettes, Nikon DSLRs, and 1960s Triumph motorcycles).
A ’64 Triumph Tiger, just like the one Walt Skok owned.
Back to the Triumph: One day Walt started it (I had been drooling over it for a month before I ever heard it run), and its perfection, to me, was complete. In those days, a 500cc motorcycle was enormous. When Walt fired it up, it was unlike anything I had ever heard. It wasn’t lumpy and dumpy like a Harley, it wasn’t a whiny whinny like a Honda, and it wasn’t a tinny “wing-ding-ding-ding-ding” like a Suzuki or a Yamaha (they were all two-strokes back then). Nope, the Triumph was perfect. It was deep. It was visceral. It was tough. The front wheel and forks literally throbbed back and forth with each engine piston stroke. To my 12-year-old eyes and ears it was the absolute essence of a gotta-get-me-one-of-these. It looked and sounded like a machine with a heart and a soul. I knew that someday I would own a machine like this.
Fast forward a few years, and I was old enough own and ride my own Triumphs. I’ve had a bunch of mid-‘60s and ‘70s Triumphs…Bonnevilles, Tigers, and a Daytona (which was a 500cc twin-carbed twin back then, a bike known as the Baby Bonneville). I was a young guy and those British motorcycles were (here’s that word again) perfect. They were fast, they handled well, and they sounded the way God intended a motorcycle to sound. I had a candy-red-and-gold ’78 750 Bonneville (Triumph always had the coolest colors) that would hit an indicated 109 mph on Loop 820 around Fort Worth, and I did that regularly on those hot and humid Texas nights. Life was good.
Fast forward another 50 years (and another 40 or 50 motorcycles for me). We saw the death of the British motorcycle empire, the rise and fall and rise and impending fall of Harley-Davidson, this new thing called globalization, digital engine management systems, multi-cylinder ridiculously-porky motorcycles, and, well, me writing a blog extolling the virtues of whatever.
So here we are, today.
My good buddy Jerry, the CSC service manager at the time, owned this ultra-cool Norton Commando. And good buddy Steve, the CSC CEO, bought the bike and put it on display in the CSC showroom. We had a lot of cool bikes on display there, including vintage Mustangs, Harleys, Beemers, RX3s, RC3s, and TT250s, and more. But my eye kept returning to that Norton. I’d never ridden a Norton, but I’d heard the stories when I was younger.
A selfie, sort of. A stunning motorcycle.
Back in the day (I’m jumping back to the ‘60s and ‘70s again) guys who wanted to be cool rode Triumphs. I know because I was one of them. We knew about Nortons, but we didn’t see them very often. They had bigger engines and they were more expensive than Triumphs, and their handling was reported to be far superior to anything on two wheels. Harleys had bigger engines and cost more than Triumphs, too, but they were porkers. Nortons were faster than Triumphs (and Triumphs were plenty fast).
But guys who rode Triumphs really wanted to ride Nortons. Nortons were mythical bikes. Their handling and acceleration were legendary. In the ‘60s, the hardest accelerating bike on the planet was the Norton Scrambler. Norton stuffed a 750cc engine into a 500cc frame to create that model, like Carroll Shelby did with the AC Cobra. I remember guys talking about Norton Scramblers in hushed and reverential tones back in the LBJ years. You spoke about reverential things softly back then.
Fast forward again, and there I was, with Steve’s 1973 Norton Commando right in front of me (just a few feet away from where I wrote the CSC blog). Steve’s Norton is magnificent. It’s not been restored and it wears its patina proudly.
“Steve,” I said, “you need to let me ride that Norton.”
“Sure,” he said. “I’ll have Gerry get it ready for you.”
Wow, I thought. I’m going to ride a Norton. I felt like the little dog who finally caught the bus. I had a mouthful of bus. What do you do when that happens?
I sat on the Norton that afternoon. It felt big. The pegs were set far to the rear and my hips hurt immediately from the bike’s racing ergos (and maybe a little from the femur and spine fractures I suffered in a motorcycle accident a few years before that; I don’t bend as easily as I used to). Maybe I shouldn’t have asked to ride this beautiful beast. Maybe my mouth had written a check my body couldn’t cash.
But I was committed. The Norton went back to Gerry so he could get it ready for me to ride. There could be no backing out now. I was nervous, I was excited, and I was a little giddy. The only bikes I had ridden for the last 7 or 8 years were 150cc Mustangs and the 250cc Zongs. Lightweight bikes. Singles. Under 25 horsepower. Electric starters and all the amenities. Modern stuff. I thought about riding the 850 Norton. It dawned on me that I had not even heard it run yet. I realized I liked electric starters. I hadn’t kick started a bike in probably 35 years. The Norton is an 850, and it was kick start only. No electric starter. Hmmm.
When I arrived at the plant, Steve pushed the Norton outside for me. We both tried to figure out where the ignition key went (it’s on the left side of the bike). We tried to guess at the ignition key’s run spot (it has four or five positions). We picked the second one and I tried kicking the engine. It was a complicated affair. You had to fold the right footpeg in, and when you kick the starter, you had to try to not hit the gear shift lever on the right side of the bike. We kicked it a couple of times. Hmmm again. Lots of compression. Then Steve had to run back into the plant to take a phone call. I tried kick starting the Norton a couple of times again. Not even a cough from the engine.
I played with the key and clicked it over one more notch. Another kick, and the mighty 850 fired right up. Ah, success!
The Norton settled into an easy idle. It was wonderful. It sounded just like Walt Skok’s Triumph. I was in the 7th grade again. I looked around to see if Steve had seen me start it, but no one was there. It was just me and the Norton. Okay, I thought, I’ll just ride around in the parking lot to get the feel of the clutch, the throttle, and the brakes.
Whoa, I thought, as I let the clutch out gingerly. That puppy had power! The Norton was turning over lazily and it felt incredibly powerful as I eased the clutch out. I tried the rear brake and there was nothing (oh, that’s right, the rear brake is on the other side). I tried the front brake, and it was strong. Norton had already gone to disk brakes by 1973, and the disk on Steve’s Commando was just as good as a modern bike’s brakes are today.
I rode the Norton into the shop so Gerry could fill the fuel tank for me. The Norton has a sidestand and a centerstand, but you can’t get to either one while you are on the bike. You have to hold the bike up, dismount on the left, and then put it on the centerstand. The side stand was under there somewhere, but I didn’t want to mess around trying to catch it with my boot. It was plenty scary just getting off the Norton and holding it upright. It was more than a little scary, actually. I’m riding my boss’s vintage bike, it’s bigger than anything I’ve been on in years, and I don’t want to drop it.
Gerry gave me “the talk” about kick starting the Norton. “I don’t like to do it while I’m on the bike,” he said. “If it kicks back, it will drive your knee right into the handlebars and that hurts. I always do it standing on the right side of the bike.”
Hmmmm. As if I wasn’t nervous enough already.
I tried the kickstarter two or three times (with everybody in the service area watching me) and I couldn’t start the thing, even though I had started it outside (when no one was around to witness my success). Gerry kicked the Norton once for me (after my repeated feeble attempts) and it started immediately. Okay. I got it. You have to show it who’s boss.
I strapped my camera case to the Norton’s back seat (or pillion, as they used to say in Wolverhampton), and then I had a hard time getting back on the bike. I couldn’t swing my leg over the camera bag. Yeah, I was nervous. And everybody in the shop was still watching me.
With the Norton twerking to its British twin tango, I managed to turn it around and get out onto Route 66. A quick U-turn (all the while concentrating intensely so I would remember “shift on the right, brake on the left”) and I rode through the mean streets of north Azusa toward the San Gabriels. In just a few minutes, I was on Highway 39, about to experience riding Nirvana.
This is what a motorcycle instrument cluster should be. The Enfield Interceptor Gresh and I tested in Baja was very similar.
Wow, this is sweet, I thought as I climbed into the San Gabriels. I had no idea what gear I was in, but gear selection is a somewhat abstract concept on a Norton. Which gear didn’t seem to make any difference. The Commando had power and torque that just wouldn’t quit. More throttle, go faster, shifting optional. It didn’t matter what gear I was in (which was good, because all I knew was that I was somewhere north of 1st).
A photo stop along the East Fork Road. That’s East Fork, as in the East Fork of the San Gabriel River.
I looked down at the tach. It had a 7000-rpm redline and I was bouncing around somewhere in the 2500 zip code. And when I say bouncing around, I mean that literally. The tach needle oscillated ±800 rpm at anything below 3000 rpm (it settled down above 3000 rpm, a neighborhood I would visit only once that day). The Norton’s low end torque was incredible. I realized I didn’t even know how many gears the bike had, so I slowed, rowed through the gears and counted (the number was four).
A shot from the rear. I was shooting with a Nikon D3300 DSLR (an entry-level digital camera) and the Nikon 16-35 lens.
The Norton was amazing in every regard. The sound was soothing, symphonic, and sensuous (how’s that for alliteration?). It’s what God intended motorcycles to be. Highway 39 is gloriously twisty and the big Norton (which suddenly didn’t feel so big) gobbled it up. The Norton never felt cumbersome or heavy (it’s only about 20 lbs heavier than my 250cc RX3). It was extremely powerful. I was carving through the corners moderately aggressively at very tiny throttle openings. Just a little touch of my right hand and it felt like I was a cannon-launched kinetic energy weapon. Full disclosure: I’ve never been launched from a cannon, but I’m pretty sure what I experienced that day on the Norton is what it would feel like. Everything about the Norton felt (and here’s that word again) perfect.
I was having so much fun that I missed the spot where I normally would stop for the CSC glamour shots. There’s a particular place on Highway 39 where I could position a bike and get some curves in the photo (and it looked great in the CSC ads). But I sailed right past it. I was enjoying the ride.
When I realized I missed the spot where I wanted to stop for photos, it made me think about my camera. I reached behind to make sure it was still on the seat behind me, but my camera wasn’t there! Oh, no, I thought, I lost my camera, and God only knows where it might have fallen off. I looked down, and the camera was hanging off the left side of the bike, captured in the bungee net. Wow, I dodged a bullet there.
The view from above. It was a glorious day.
I pulled off and then I realized: I don’t want to kill the engine because then I’ll have to start it, and if I can’t, I’m going to feel mighty stupid calling Gerry to come rescue me.
Okay, I thought, here’s the drill. Pull off to the side of the road, find a flat spot, keep the engine running, put all my weight on my bad left leg, swing my right leg over the seat, hold the Norton upright, get the bike on the centerstand, unhook the bungee net, sling the camera case over my shoulder, get back on the bike, and all the while, keep the engine running. Oh, yeah. No problem.
This is what a motorcycle should look like. Why can’t other manufacturers do this? Oh, wait, Enfield did…
Actually, though, it wasn’t that bad. And I was having a lot of fun.
I arrived at the East Fork bridge sooner than I thought I would (time does indeed fly when you’re having fun). I made the right turn. I would have done the complete Glendora Ridge Road loop, but the CalTrans sign told me that Glendora Ridge Road was closed. I looked for a spot to stop and grab a few photos of this magnificent beast.
That’s when I noticed that the left footpeg rubber had fallen off the bike. It’s the rubber piece that fits over the foot peg. Oh, no, I thought once again. I didn’t want to lose pieces of Steve’s bike, although I knew no ride on any vintage British vertical twin would be complete without something falling off. I made a U-turn and rode back and forth several times along a half-mile stretch where I thought I lost the rubber footpeg cover, but I couldn’t find it. When I pulled off to turn around yet again, I stalled the bike.
Hmmm. No doubt about it now. I knew I was going to have to start the Norton on my own.
We (me and my good buddy Norton, that is) had picked a good spot to stop. I dismounted using the procedure described earlier, I pulled the black beauty onto its centerstand, and I grabbed several photos. I could tell they were going to be good. Sometimes you just know when you’re behind the camera that things are going well. And on the plus side of the ledger, all of the U-turns I had just made (along with the magnificent canyon carving on Highway 39) had built up my confidence enormously. The Norton was going to start for me because I would will it to.
And you know what? That’s exactly what happened. One kick and all was well with the world. I felt like Marlon Brando, Steve McQueen, and Peter Fonda, all rolled up into one 66-year-old teenager. At that moment I was a 12-year-old kid staring at Walt Skok’s Triumph again. Yeah, I’m bad. A Norton will do that to you. I stared at the bike as it idled. It was a living, breathing, snorting, shaking, powerful thing. Seeing it alive like that was perfect. I suddenly remembered my Nikon camera had video. Check this out…
So there you have it. A dream bike, but this time the dream was real. Good times, that day was.
If you like reading about vintage iron, check out our Dream Bikes page!
This is the first image on the ExhaustNotes home page, and it provides a link to the ExNotes blog. This is the Gobi Desert in northwestern China, and that’s the real deal…a camel caravan. Gresh and I rode there on our motorcycles.The link to articles by Joe Gresh previously published in a variety of magazines. There’s good reading here! The photo? That’s Gresh entering the Gobi Desert on a Zongshen RX3.This is at the entrance to the Forbidden City in Beijing, and it’s your link to magazine articles by Berk.Want to know what the ExNotes site is all about? You can get the story here. That photo? Hey, Gresh and I like gladiator movies. We were actors in one filmed in central China, near the city of Liqian.Trust me on this: You need to advertise on ExhaustNotes.us. Here’s the link to get that process started. This photo was up on the Tibetan Plateau, with the city of Aba in the background.The best riding on the planet, and it starts just across the border! Click this link to get our stories, our guidance, our suggested itineraries, and more on this magical place. I took this photo while riding my CSC Mustang through Baja’s Catavina boulder fields.Yep, we’re a motorcycle site, but this is one of the busiest places in all of the ExhaustNotes empire. Click this link for our Tales of the Gun stories. That’s me firing the mighty M1 Garand. My daughter shot the above photo on her iPhone, capturing the cartridge case in midair!The only thing better than our Epic Motorcycle Rides page is actually getting out and creating the adventure yourself! Enjoy our tales of the adventure riding trails here! Oh, and that photo? It’s Gresh on an Enfield in Mexico!Gresh doesn’t do 100-point restorations. Nope, his deal is rustorations, not restorations. A bike is only original once. The photo is Gobi Gresh’s mighty Z1 Kawasaki at the Tinfiny Ranch. It runs now, and you can read about how Joe brought it back to life here.The stuff of dreams, the ones that got away, and more. You can peek into our dreams here. That’s my old 1200 Triumph Daytona after a 120-mph sprint across Highway 58 in California.Who you calling Tubby? Here’s a cool collection of our videos. The photo was taken in Qufu, the birthplace of Confucius. Gresh and others are grabbing videos during a changing of the guard ceremony.Motors, the best job on the force. I believe it, and you should, too. We’ve recently added a page indexing our police motorcycle stuff, and you can get to it here. The photo is good buddy Jim Watson on a Honda ST1300P police motorcycle.The RX3 is a great bike, but folks wanted more displacement. Zongshen responded with the RX4, and upsized version of their iconic RX3, and CSC is taking orders now. You can read all about the RX4 and how it compares to the RX3 and the KLR 650 here. We rode the one above in the San Gabriel Mountains, which is where we shot this photo.It’s a new world out there, folks, and electric motorcycles are part of it. You can catch up on what’s happening here. That’s a CSC City Slicker, a phenomenal buy at just $2495!Writers write. Hey, it’s what we do. With something north of 20 titles under our belt, yeah, we’re gonna brag a bit. Read all about it here, and get links to buy our books on this page!Want the e-ticket ride back to the ExhaustNotes home page? It’s right here. And that photo? It’s the Bridge of the Gods, spanning the mighty Columbia River from Washington to Oregon. When I’m there, it feels like it’s a place where I belong. What could possibly be a more fitting home page link?
There you have it, my friends. You’ll see all of the above when you open our home page, and it’s your nav system to the rest of the site.
Hey, there’s more good stuff coming your way. We do our best to blog every day, and we’ve got great stories lined up for you:
Good buddy Steve’s Norton Commando
More vintage police motors
The continuation of our .45 ACP ammo series
The Indiana Jones aspects of riding in China
And much, much more. Don’t miss any of it…sign up for our automatic email updates (add your name to our email list), and you’ll stay up to date!
This is a story about a 2009 Baja KLR ride. In Part I, we covered the ride from southern California to Rosarito Beach.
The breakfast at Velero’s in Ensenada was impressive (it always is), and it was a glorious morning as we rolled south.
Two KLRs headed south in Baja. John forgot his toothbrush, and I wasn’t going to let him use mine, so we stopped at a farmacia so he could buy a new one.
We had several offroad explorations in mind as we rode deeper into Baja that morning, but our first stop was at a farmacia. I like Mexican pharmacies. Here in the US in 2009, all the stories in the news media were about the drug wars in Mexico. Right church, wrong pew, as they say: The US news media had the wrong story. The real drug story in Mexico was (and still is) how cheap prescriptions are down there. You don’t need a prescription in Mexico for many of the drugs that require prescriptions in the US (like penicillin, and prednisone, and Lord knows what else), and meds are trivially inexpensive. The drugs are the same as what we get in the US (literally, the same, from the same US manufacturers in many cases). I wish our so-called “investigative journalists” would write an expose on that topic, but they were too focused in 2009 on killing the tourism industry in Mexico with distorted news about the drug wars. Go figure.
We continued south on the Transpeninsular Highway. There’s about a dozen miles of traffic leaving Ensenada, and then Baja switches suddenly from squalor to splendor as the road climbs into the mountains and descends into Baja’s wine country. It really is spectacular. If you’ve never made this ride, or if you’re idea of going into Mexico is TJ or Ensenada, you need to venture further south to start to get a feel for the real Baja. Trust me on this.
John and his KLR on the Transpeninsular Highway in Baja’s wine country. This is where the beauty of Baja begins to emerge.
Ah, Baja. It was beautiful. It always is.
Our first excursion in the dirt would be to the abandoned mission in San Vincente, well into the desert and well south of mountains. We saw a sign for the mission and took a dirt road heading west from the Transpeninsular Highway. As it turned out, there was a lot more out there than just an abandoned mission.
The sign pointing to the Camino Real mission ruins.
We first saw a building we initially mistook for the mission. It was a private home (one of several). We were stunned. The homes were magnificent, tucked away in the hills down a rough, soft sand road. I’d been by San Vincente on many prior Baja rides, but I had no idea the hills held such secrets.
Wow. Who knew this was back here?
We saw a young lady and asked her for directions to the mission. She pointed and told us to go over a hill. We did, and the first thing we found was a well-maintained rural cemetery.
I’m in no hurry to be buried, but when it’s time, this might be nice. If there’s such a thing as elegance in a graveyard, this place had it.
There was something about the cemetery that was simultaneously captivating and tranquil. It seemed to come from another era, and after reading the headstones we saw that it did. It was meticulously maintained. It’s always nice to see that.
Impressive. A family plot. The wife lived to be 100. Imagine that.Magnificent. I shot all the photos in this series with my old Nikon D200 and the first-generation 24-120 lens. It was state-of-the-art in 2009. I took a lot of pictures with that camera.
After the cemetery, we found the San Vincente Mission. The local folks are restoring it. I’d seen signs for the mission on the Transpeninsular Highway, but this is the first time I’d ventured off the asphalt to see it. John and I were the only folks out there that day.
The San Vincente Mission was built about 300 years ago. It’s one of several that run the length of the Baja peninsula. I’ve been to several, and a few are still working churches. What’s left of the San Vincente Mission is not.
What’s left of the San Vincente Mission. The restoration was a labor of love. The mission’s adobe walls were being resurfaced. I need to get back there to see how it looks today.The mission walls underneath the restoration.
We rode through the soft sand back toward the Transpeninsular Highway to the town of San Vincente’s contemporary church (which is visible from the highway). It offered great photo opportunities and we took a bunch. We wanted to enter the church, but it was locked.
San Vincente’s church in 2009.John relaxing in front of the San Vincente church.John yanked on the cord, and that bell was loud. We stopped. We didn’t want the San Vincente residents to think they were being summoned.
It was fun being out in these remote areas on the KLRs. The experience was a lot different than seeing Baja from pavement only, and John and I were enjoying it. I’m normally not a guy who likes riding dirt, but John had talked me into getting off the highway and I’m glad he did.
Shortly after leaving San Vincente, it was time to check off another item on our wish list, and that was seeing the Isla Del Carmen shipwreck. I wanted to see it, but I didn’t know exactly where the wreck was other than that it was somewhere off the coast near San Jacinto, so we took another dirt road due west for about 8 miles and hit the Pacific coast. Our plan was to intersect the coast several miles north of San Jacinto, follow it south, and find what was left of the Isla Del Carmen.
The dirt road along the coast was rough, and I’m being charitable when I call it a road. It was mostly soft sand. At one point the sand was so deep it was nearly impossible to control the KLR, so I wrestled the Kawasaki up into the weeds. It was a marginal improvement. I couldn’t see where the wheel was going, but at least the sand wasn’t calling the shots anymore. And before you tell me the trick is to get up to speed and float on top of the soft stuff, all I can say is hey, I was there. You weren’t.
Then we encountered something we hadn’t expected: Dogs. A pack of dogs, actually. And they were pissed. At us.
Well, that’s not quite accurate. Their anger was focused on me. Specifically, me. At least that’s how I felt.
In California, you almost never see a dog off a leash. In rural Mexico, you almost never see a dog on a leash. Those things are aggressive, too. We were chased by more dogs on this trip than I have been chased by in my entire life. They weren’t just interested in scaring us or getting a good laugh. Those things wanted us for dinner. Or rather, they wanted me for dinner. I’ll tell you more about the angry dogs of Baja as this story progresses, but one dog story at a time for now. And this one was enough.
I don’t like dogs. I was mauled pretty badly by one when I was kid, and I still have the scars to prove it. I know that those of you who have taken the Motorcycle Safety Foundation course or who have read about such things are thinking that being chased by a dog is no big deal. I know about slowing down, letting the dog calibrate his intercept based on your reduced speed, and then accelerating to confuse the cantankerous canine. That works on pavement if there is one dog. Try doing it in soft sand when there’s pack of four or five that are fanned out along your flank. In that situation, you are not just a motorcyclist. You are a potential meal. And that was the situation I found myself in that fine Baja afternoon.
A tranquil scene, don’t you think? It was right after I shot this photo that the dogs descended on us.
We were approaching a rinky-dink little fishing village, eyeballing the coast for the shipwreck, when the pack of dogs came after me. I think it might have been my green fluorescent riding jacket. Maybe they had an unhappy childhood. Maybe someone unfriended them on Facebook. Who knows. Whatever the reason, they were snarling and spitting and literally smacking their jaws as I tried to fool them with the slow-down-speed-up maneuver. In soft sand. Trying to keep the motorcycle vertical. Wondering what the hell I was doing down there.
Then it happened. One of the dogs got me.
I felt him crash into my right leg, and when I looked down, the thing had clamped down on my motorcycle pants just above my ankle. The dog was literally being dragged along for what seemed like an eternity. It locked eyes with me, and if there’s such a thing as telepathic communication, or maybe interspecies body language, the dog’s eyes said it all. It was not a pleasant message in either direction. The dog might have thought I was a sonofabitch; I had no doubts about him being one. I’ve known some SOBs in my life, but this bastard was the real deal. I didn’t feel any pain, but that’s normal in a traumatic situation. I didn’t know if the dog’s teeth broke the skin around my ankle, but I knew what it would portend if it had.
“Not good,” I thought.
I could see it all the while that miserable sonofabitch was clamped down on my leg, as he was being pulled along at 30 mph. What I saw was me making a beeline for the border to get medical treatment. Rabies shots, and who knows what else.
To be continued…
Hey, check out our other Epic Motorcycle Rides, and watch the ExNotes blog for the next installment of the Baja KLR Khronicles!
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In San Diego I lived across the street from a Safeway food market. Man, I never ran out of anything. That Safeway is now a West Marine boat supply store. They got nothing to eat in the whole damn place. But back then, around 1980, it was a great food source.
In my pad I had a tiny refrigerator with one of those wine-in-a-carton things inside. My buddy Mark found it in the road, not far from the house. Nobody I knew drank wine, or at least that wine. There was a perforated cardboard section that you knocked out and inside was a hose that connected to the plastic sack of wine. It was practical as hell, like a battery acid container. The hose had a shut off thingy, you kind of rolled the shut off onto a ramp until it pinched the hose closed. The wine tasted bad. Maybe it got hot in the sun out in the street. No telling how long it was there before Mark found it. Whenever anyone would drop by I’d ask if they wanted some wine, that’s what adults do. It was still in the fridge a few years later when I moved away.
I’d leave my one bedroom, one bath rental house on Point Loma’s Locust Street around 5pm. My bike was a 1968 electric-start XLH Sportster converted to kick start. Because electric kickers are for Honda riders, man. From Point Loma I’d reel onto Interstate 5 and roll the throttle on, lane splitting for 15 miles to Gene’s house in Mira Mesa. Back then every subdivision in San Diego sounded like one of the wooden sailing ships that discovered America: The Nina, The Rancho Bernardo and The Santa Antiqua. I guess they still name California things that way. Streets are Calles or Avenidas. Townhouses are called Don Coryells, after a football coach.
Gene had a 1973 Sportster, the one with the crude looking steel bar bent into a U-shape to secure the top shock absorber mounts. The result of AMF cost cutting. My older Sporty had a beautiful cast part welded into the frame tubes performing the same function. You couldn’t see either one once the seat was installed but I knew it was there. Gene knew it too. Gene was my wing man, my BFF. We used to drink in bars and shoot pool after work. It was nothing to stay up late at night, I only needed a few hours sleep. In those years Harley-Davidson motorcycles had a terrible reputation. Their riders were no prize either. We liked the way the bikes sounded and the way they looked.
California traffic was just as bad in 1980 as is today. We lane split all the way to Oceanside where the northbound traffic would thin out for 30 miles or so then lane split to the 405 and past the “Go See Cal” auto dealership. Cal’s dog Spot was a lion. He was featured in Worthington Ford television ads. It was nerve wracking bumper to bumper riding all the way til dusk and the exit for Ascot park Raceway.
I saw my first Ducati Darmah in the parking lot at Ascot. It was the most beautiful bike I’d ever seen. The squared off crankcases were works of art. Our iron-head Harleys looked like civil war relics next to the Darmah. Like Genus Rattus, man. I didn’t envy the Ducati. I was still a hard core Harley guy. Pretty don’t mean nuttin’ to us. Fast, reliable motorcycles are for the weak. I still feel that way.
I may have this wrong but Ascot held two AMA Grand National races each year. Every race I went to was advertised as the final race because the track was closing to be sold. This went on for 12 years until the track really did sell. One National was a standard flat track race and one National was a TT, which is a standard FT track with a bump and a right hand turn. Usually by the time Gene and I got up there the heat races had already started.
Ascot wore its years well. The stands were uncomfortable and crowded. AMA Nationals are big deals. The restrooms were dungeons. We would eat bad food and drink beer and watch the best racing anywhere until 11pm at night. Being part of the hundreds of motorcycles leaving Ascot was a real thrill. The riders were fired up from the racing and we rolled it on to 405 and then 5 to the El Toro Road exit and the Bob’s Big Boy restaurant. Bob’s was a tradition for AMA Nationals. The burgers were small and nearly tasteless, the little triangle salads were frozen and the fries were thin as shim stock. Bob’s was a good place to feed your Genus Rattus.
Because we were riding so late, no matter what the time of year it was always cold on the way home from Ascot. Long, empty stretches of interstate 5 stuffed each gap in your leather jacket with a chilling, low hanging fog. The cold would quiet your mind. Focus on your breathing now, keep still, those iron engines loved the cold. I could see Gene’s Sportster chuffing away in the dark, tiny glints of chrome primary case flashed in sync with my wobbling headlight. Both our Sportsters ran straight pipes and Interstate 5 sounded like the back straight of Ascot. Except we never chopped the throttle.
South of La Jolla the air temperature would rise and dropping off 5 onto Rosecrans Street wrapped sea-warmth around my body. I loved that part of the ride. The shivering was over, I could smell ocean smells. My muscles relaxed. This early in the morning Rosecrans is deserted, I have to run the red lights because the sensors in the pavement cannot pick up motorcycles. The only sound is my 900cc Sportster slowly rowing through the gearbox, rumbling home.
This is a blog I wrote maybe 15 years ago for a friend who dropped a very expensive motorcycle while putting it on the sidestand. He was really upset with himself and I thought he might enjoy hearing about the times I dropped my bikes. I stopped writing after the fifth or sixth memory because I was laughing so hard I thought I might hurt myself. This particular blog has made the rounds…it’s been on my original photosite (motofoto.cc, which went by the wayside a long time ago), and the CSC Motorcycles blog, and now this one.
So, here goes….
Drop Number 1 – Impromptu Stargazing
My friend Louie and I were wrapping up a hard 500-mile day through Arizona back in the 1990s. I know what you are thinking….500 miles is not that much for a solid day’s riding, but it was brutally hot in the way that only Arizona can be in the summertime. I was on my vintage Honda CBX and Lou was on his Gold Wing. We stopped for gas and Louis filled up first. While I was filling up the CBX, Lou rode over to the air hose to top off his tires. I filled my tank, fired up the CBX, and rode over to Lou, paralleling the sidewalk. I put my kickstand down and started to lean the CBX over.
The next thing I knew I was staring at the stars. I had no idea what happened for a few seconds, and then I realized: I had fallen off my motorcycle, and I was laying on my back looking up at the evening sky!
The first thought that went through my mind was: “Did anyone see me do this?”
I hadn’t even been drinking! How could that have happened?
Well, what happened was this: When I extended the sidestand, the sidestand hit the curb before it fully extended and it didn’t go all the way forward. And then, when I leaned the CBX over, it just kept on going.
Total damage? One turn signal lens cover, one scratched fairing, and lots of lost pride.
Drop Number 2 – Lock-to-Lock Has Meaning
This time, I was easing into my own driveway on my 2-week-old Suzuki TL1000S. Gorgeous bike. Bright red. A real rocketship. As I made the sharp turn into the driveway, I turned the forks to keep my balance. Lock-to-lock turning (you know, how far you can push the bars from one side to the other) on the Suzuki is waaaay less than any motorcycle I had ever ridden. And as it turns out (pardon the pun), that really makes a difference when you’re trying to balance a bike at low speeds.
The bottom line? I couldn’t turn the bars far enough to keep my balance at low speed.
The results? BAM! Suddenly, the TL and I were both on our sides in my own driveway!
The first thought that went through my mind was “Did anyone see me do this?”
Total damage? One scratched fairing and lots of lost pride. Lots and lots of lost pride.
Drop Number 3 – Them Darn Sidestands Again
A couple of weeks after Drop Number 2, I was letting my now 4-week-old, slightly-scratched TL1000S warm up in the driveway. The bike was on its sidestand, facing south. Just past my garage door, the driveway slopes down ever so slightly. Really slightly. I mean, hardly any slope at all. Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw the Suzuki move forward a bit. Nah, I thought, it’s gotta be an optical illusion.
Two seconds later: BAM! The Suzuki was on its side!
Wow, I thought, this thing sure likes laying down in my driveway.
My next thought: “Did anyone see me do this?”
The results? I couldn’t tell. The fairing was scratched, but maybe it was the same scratch from 2 weeks ago. No lost pride this time, but lots of cussing about Suzuki engineering and lousy sidestands.
Drop Number 4 – Dismounting As An Olympic Event
This time I was winding out my 4-month old TL1000S on the road from my brother-in-law’s place. Wowee, I thought, this thing is fast. I must have hit 80 miles an hour when I realized I gotta slow down. That Suzuki slipper clutch works great, I thought…. just keep downshifting and it’s almost like an ABS system on the rear wheel. Hmmh, that curve is coming up awful fast. Maybe I’ll just give it a touch of front brake.
Uh oh, I thought as I unloaded the rear wheel when I got on the front brake. That corner is really coming up fast now, and the back end is fishtailing all over the place. I almost had that sucker stopped when the front wheel just touched the curb. Down we both went, again. I executed a precision somersault as I departed controlled flight and rolled up into a sitting position.
The first thought that went through my mind was “Did anyone see me?”
This time, the answer was yes. There was a lady in a station wagon, who stopped and asked “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, lady, I did that on purpose.” I didn’t know what else to say.
The results? I couldn’t tell. Maybe it was just the same scratched fairing. Again, lots and lots of lost pride. No injuries, though. My lucky day.
Drop Number 5 – The Prize Winner
This time I was changing the front tire on the CBX in my garage. I put the bike on the center stand and removed the front wheel. Bikes with center stands are great, I thought. Once I had the front wheel off I started thinking about the replacement tire. I used Bridgestone Spitfires on that bike and they were great. I decided I would get the raised white letter Spitfire tires this time. That would really look cool.
Well, I thought, if I do that I have to get the back tire to match. So, I thought, I might as well take the back wheel off, too. I’ll just get them both changed at the same time.
This is the point at which things took a decided turn for the worse. And, I’ll admit to having already had a few beers. What could I have possibly been thinking?
Well, I guess I was still thinking about how cool raised white letter tires would look on my pearl white CBX, and I started to remove the rear wheel. The rear axle bolt was on really tight. I decided I needed to get a bigger wrench, you know, more leverage, that sort of thing. I thought I might as well get another beer while I was up, too. I grabbed another beer, got the longer wrench, found the leverage I was looking for…and…..and…
Uh, oh, the CBX started to roll forward off the center stand, and, whoa, there was no front wheel there….funny how everything seemed to be happening in slow motion at that point.
The moral of this one? If you’re gonna screw up, screw up big time. Why just drop a bike when can find a way to drop it so that it falls over into your wife’s brand new car? Yep, that’s what it did. Creased it nicely. “That won’t polish out,” I remember thinking.
The bottom line? One dinged-up sports sedan, one thoroughly upset wife, one busted and cracked CBX oil pan (an item no longer made by Honda), oil all over the garage floor, and the certain knowledge that while center stands are good, they are not that good….
So, if you’ve ever dropped your bike, don’t feel too bad. It happens to all of us. Sometimes more than once.
If you’ve got a story about dropping your bike, please add it to the comments section. We’d love to hear from you!
When I’m on a road trip, I sometimes know the history of the area I’m riding through, and I sometimes do not. I’m always wondering about it, though. I recently finished reading Empire of the Summer Moon, and it was so good it makes me want to plan another road trip through Texas. The cover tells what the book is about; what it doesn’t do is tell just how good this book is…
Several things amazed me as I read Empire of the Summer Moon, the first being how it could have not known of it previously. The only reason I learned of it is that I saw Empire in an airport bookstore a couple of trips ago.
They say you can’t tell a book by its cover, but the cover on Empire appealed to me greatly. The book was even better. Much of the action described in it occurred in Texas (and in areas where I used to live in Texas); now I want to return, ride those roads again, and pay more attention this time. And I will. Just how good was this book? Hey, when I finished it, I turned back to the beginning and started reading it again. That’s good.
Hey, there’s more good stuff coming your way. We do our best to blog every day, and we’ve got great stories lined up for you:
In San Diego I lived across the street from a Safeway food market. Man, I never ran out of anything. That Safeway is now a West Marine boat supply store. They got nothing to eat in the whole damn place. But back then, around 1980, it was a great food source.
My friend Louie and I were wrapping up a hard 500-mile day through Arizona back in the 1990s. I know what you are thinking….500 miles is not that much for a solid day’s riding, but it was brutally hot in the way that only Arizona can be in the summertime. I was on my vintage Honda CBX and Lou was on his Gold Wing. We stopped for gas and Louis filled up first. While I was filling up the CBX, Lou rode over to the air hose to top off his tires. I filled my tank, fired up the CBX, and rode over to Lou, paralleling the sidewalk. I put my kickstand down and started to lean the CBX over.
This time, I was easing into my own driveway on my 2-week-old Suzuki TL1000S. Gorgeous bike. Bright red. A real rocketship. As I made the sharp turn into the driveway, I turned the forks to keep my balance. Lock-to-lock turning (you know, how far you can push the bars from one side to the other) on the Suzuki is waaaay less than any motorcycle I had ever ridden. And as it turns out (pardon the pun), that really makes a difference when you’re trying to balance a bike at low speeds.
Several things amazed me as I read Empire of the Summer Moon, the first being how it could have not known of it previously. The only reason I learned of it is that I saw Empire in an airport bookstore a couple of trips ago.