Feel Good Stuff – Page 10 – The ExhaustNotes Blog

Rev’d Up Coffee in Claremont, California

By Joe Berk

Wow, did I get lucky with this…a coffee and motorcycle spot just a few miles from home. It used to be that I had to ride all the way up Angeles Crest Highway to Newcomb’s so I could hang out at a motorcycle destination where like-minded people stopped for something to eat and to admire other motorcycles. Then Newcomb’s closed, a victim of the down economy and the pandemic. There was another cool spot Gresh and I spent an evening at in Chongqing, but the chances of me riding the Enfield across the Pacific to get there are slim. And then, I noticed Rev’d Up Coffee and Classics in Claremont. Claremont is the next town over from where I live. I’d seen Rev’d Up before, but I figured it was just another Gen X or Millennial (or whatever they’re calling themselves these day) Starbucks refugee trying to cash in on the coffee craze with a little moto mystique thrown in as sort of an artificial sweetener. Boy, was I ever wrong; there’s nothing artificial about Rev’d Up or its owner.

Steve Solis, motorcyclist and Rev’d Up proprietor, taking a break from Bike Night cooking duties.

Steve Solis is the guy who owns and runs Rev’d Up. He’s a good guy, a lifelong area resident, and a rider. Steve’s personal ride, a Sportster, is usually parked inside the restaurant seating area during normal business hours, but he brings it outside during bike night.

Steve’s personal ride – a Harley Sportster with an extended front end and apehangers.

The theme of Rev’d Up is bikes, classic cars, and hot rods. Steve has a couple of vintage bikes on display in the restaurant windows, and there are cool moto things throughout the dining and coffee sipping area.

A Honda Dream on display in one of the Rev’d Up windows.

Another vintage Honda on display at Rev’d Up.

Older motorcycle helmets. I wore one of the Peter Fonda Captain America helmets in the ’70s.

In keeping with the Rev’d Up theme, the menus are displayed on car hoods suspended from the ceiling. One is from a Camaro, the other is from a Datsun.

The breakfast and lunch menu. On Bike Nights, Steve is out front making Philadelphia cheesesteak sandwiches. They sure smelled good.

The coffee and other specialty drink menu. I have to try the Easy Rider.

I asked Steve what the best kept secret was. His answer? The Easy Rider espresso. He said it was his favorite drink. Next time I’ll try it.

The best part of any of these gatherings is always wandering around in the parking lot, taking in the bikes, and talking to the riders. There’s no set theme regarding the bikes. Harleys, choppers, Ducatis, KTMs, BMWs, Triumphs, and more. They were all there.

Check out the SU carb and the velocity stack on this Shovelhead chopper. Where does the rider’s leg go?

The Harley Panhead engine, one of the two best-looking Harley engines ever made. The other one is the EVO motor. Those Panhead valve covers are impressive.

Bike night is not all about choppers. The colors on this helmet and motorcycle stood out.

Another classic and beautiful motorcycle. The 748 was a later version of Ducati’s 916. They look good.

There are no better colors for a classic BMW boxer twin than gloss black with white pinstripes.

As we were leaving, this Triumph pulled into the parking lot. All marques are welcome at Rev’d Up. It’s a cool place.

Rev’d Up Coffee and Classics is located at 212 West Foothill Boulevard (that’s Route 66) in Claremont, California. It’s definitely worth a stop, and I’d say it’s a worthwhile place to take a ride. Maybe I’ll see you there. Look for the orange Enfield in the parking lot; if it’s there, I will be, too.

ExNotes Product Review: Waymo Self-Driving Cars

By Joe Gresh

There is a megacity out in the Arizona desert. It runs for miles and miles, ever expanding into the scrublands. Phoenix, Chandler, Tempe, Scottsdale and other towns have merged into one, giant, golf course subdivision splattered with Wal-Marts, drug stores and tilt-up warehouse mattress vendors. It’s hot, dry and thirsty. I don’t understand why so many people willingly bake in the sun. Waymo, the self-driving taxicab company has found a way to eliminate a few of those people.

ExNotes tested the Waymo’s plying the streets of downtown Tempe. Laid out in a grid pattern with tall buildings blocking radio signals Tempe would be a tough test for Waymo. How the system works is you download an app and enter your information. Next you order a car telling Waymo where you are and where you want to go. How long you wait for a car depends on traffic or rider loads. CT and I took Waymo rides three times and the usual wait was 5 or 10 minutes. The Waymo cars we rode in at Tempe are made by Jaguar and look like any generic, white SUV-ish car, except the Waymo’s bristle with cameras and sensors on all four corners and the roof.

Let me cut to the chase and tell you the actual driverless-car part worked great. You can sit in the front seat or rear seat, once inside with your seatbelt on you push the start field on the dash display. The Waymo will watch for traffic and pull out onto the street just like a person is driving. The car still has a steering wheel that spins around as the car makes corners. The Waymo doesn’t pussyfoot around, either. It accelerates right up to speed and takes curves with a bit of hustle. It stopped at stop signs, circled roundabouts and waited patiently at traffic lights.

I felt totally comfortable sitting in the passenger seat letting the computer drive. I suspect that’s because I’ve been installing autopilots in boats for 50 years. From the first Metal Marine Pilot to the latest digital units tied into GPS and radars. I’m used to sitting at the helm with the boat steering on its own. Of course there are a lot less things to run into on the water compared to downtown city streets, but I saw the Waymo as just a fancier version of electronic stuff I’ve dealt with for years.

As there is no driver, there is no need to tip. The short Waymo rides we took cost around $4 each and the money is charged through the app. You get in, arrive at your destination and get out. Oddly enough, the technology of the self-driving car wasn’t where Waymo fell down on the job.

Our problems came during the pick up process. Waymo’s app will tell you to walk 700 feet this way or head 350 feet south on Fifth Street feet while you’re waiting for the car. You can watch the car’s progress on the app and judge arrival time. After following the apps instructions we found it best to ignore the app and stay in one spot and wait until we could see the Waymo, and then walk towards it. Pick up was usually fairly close but one time the car waited for us about a block and a half away.

We were walking all over trying to find the thing. Waymo’s app has a toot horn feature and we used this to echolocate the car. Upon our arrival the car decided it had waited long enough and drove off. We were 15 feet away. It’s kind of dumb because Waymo knows your location via the phone app. It knows how far away you are and can see you moving towards the car. Also, Waymo needs a “Pick me up where you dropped me off” feature to cut down on walking time. As the software is configured now Waymo might drop you at the front door of your destination but when you call for a pickup the car might be down by the river.

Long time ExNotes readers will know I’m not the sort of guy known for embracing the future. But being a motorcyclist I can see the advantages of ever-vigilant computers replacing the brain-dead car drivers that kill us so often. I’d rather ride in a megacity full of Waymos than the usual collection of phone texters, blind drunks and road ragers.

It’s still early times in the self-driving car business and the road driving part is already amazingly good. I could tell no difference between the Waymo and a human driver. The weather was perfect in Tempe so I can’t speak to how the car would perform in a snowstorm or on icy roads. Maybe it defaults to park? I can see personal self-driving cars becoming popular if we can figure out all the legal ramifications and who gets the blame in an accident. But it’s not like we don’t have accidents now. I say bring on the future.

Life as a Digital Nomad: Peru Part 4 (It’s Probably Time to Head Back)

By Mike Huber

Balancing life is rarely easy. It seems there is something almost always out of sync, be it work, health, or a loved one in need of help. Peru is one of those rare times in my life where I and everything surrounding me seemed to be in perfect harmony. I was coming up on six weeks living in Cusco and the adventures seemed endless from my home base there. I was making a ton of new friends, but with Cusco being so much more of a tourist town these new connections were always short lived. Surely now it’s different with so many Westerners living abroad and working remotely, but being a pioneer of this lifestyle in 2012, missing a community began to set in. Not so much on the weekends as I was too busy, but during the weekdays a void began to drain me.

The decision to make the long journey back to the United States was not an easy one. It took so long to get to where I was and had built connections for my next planned move to La Paz, Bolivia. I was running very low on vacation time and everything I wanted to see in Bolivia was a multiple day bus ride. Buffering in unknowns (such as a bus breaking down in the middle of nowhere) was necessary. I would be city bound in La Paz, and I don’t think they had as many baby llamas to pet, so Bolivia just didn’t feel right on any level.

The last week in Peru was a much deeper experience (I didn’t even know it could get deeper than where I had been). Every moment I was out felt much more special knowing that time was short in this magical place. There was a lot to do in my Cusco backyard that hadn’t been explored. My focus had been on visiting remote areas such as Lake Titicaca (I had to say it again), rather than exploring the wonders closer to my home.

My final week in Peru was filled with exploring local points of interest such as the San Pedro market where there were all kinds of foods, drinks, and potions that most Westerners will never see or smell (be thankful you are missing the smell part). The market consisted of endless types of foods. Many of these foods seemed to be pulled straight out of an Indiana Jones movie. It wasn’t strange to see Guinea pig’s necks being snapped, and then the animal being tossed into a boiling pot, gutted, and grilled. Other items included horse heads, pig heads, and snakes in water jars. This market was a plethora of sensory overload. Normally I would just visit it to pick up a bag of coca leaves for about 30 cents and some of my “special” tea mix.

Somehow, I still managed to find time to do silly things with downtime during the weekdays. The last Sunday I was there it poured, and being bored, I was searching the apartment for something to eat while watching TV. I found in the back of the refrigerator a beer pitcher that I had filled with coca leaves a week or so prior and added a bottle of white wine. Well, it seems the wine had absorbed the coca leaves and turned the wine into a dark yellow. Being that this chapter was coming to an end I thought it would be the perfect day to partake in this concoction. Who knows, maybe it would have similar effects to the coca beer. I drank the entire pitcher. The coca-infused wine just had this bitter earthy taste that I really enjoyed. Like the coca beer it provided a jolt of energy with a nice light buzz that assisted me in packing and wrapping up my life in the Andean city of Cusco.

With the coca wine buzzing inside my head, a bigger question emerged: Where was I to live upon returning to the United States? My Boston condo was rented for another five months, so that option was out. I was not sure if it was the wine or the fact that this change may not be as simple as I had anticipated. Throughout my travels around Central and South America, it always seemed that if things went south, I could just return to the United States. Being so preoccupied in the moment during my travels, however, I never designed a fallback plan aside from boarding a return flight.

As the week came to an end, I was now boarding that flight. I was not, however, in too big a rush. It felt right to instead return to Nicaragua for a couple weeks and ease my way north and see my dogs. While I was there, Hurricane Sandy hit and knocked out power throughout the Northeast. That morning as I watched the news, I had a decision to make: Do I power up the laptop and be the only person in the Northeast who showed up for work, or do I continue with the “I am in Boston” charade?

I chose Option A, deciding that I was on my way back and had been outperforming most my peers for six months in five countries. Owning my choices and riding it in felt like the correct decision. My coworkers immediately questioned how I had internet, and my answer was simply “I saw there was a hurricane, so being remote I chose to go south to avoid it.” Not a lie, but not totally forthcoming. If I had replied with “I am working in the jungles of Nicaragua” no one would have believed me (this came up months later and no one did).

After the two weeks it was time to fully return to Boston to regroup. It was a rainy November day when I touched down at Logan. I weighed 30 pounds less and mentally I was even lighter. I still had no plan regarding what to do once I left the aircraft in Logan. My car was at a friend’s house. My Ducati was at my parent’s home in Maine. Before I had even cleared through Customs and Immigration, though, I knew this was no longer the place that called to me. The reentry shock into the United States was too much. I was swelling up with tears knowing It was now time to make the hard decision to leave New England, but where would I go as winter was just beginning?

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ExNotes Book Review: Mi Papi Tiene Una Moto

By Joe Gresh

If you’re looking for the rare children’s book that features a motorcycle as the prime mover, Mi Papi Tiene Una Moto is the book for you. Mi Papi Tiene Una Moto is made of sturdy paper and the covers are thick cardboard so the thing should hold up well to repeated reading by destructive little hands.

Warning: Spoilers ahead!

Mi Papi Tiene Una Moto is written by Isabel Quintero in Spanish so your target child will learn a few Spanish words along the way, unless they already speak Spanish. Who knows, maybe reading Mi Papi will generate a life-long interest of languages in your spawn. With my very basic Spanish skills I was able to figure out most of the text and any words I didn’t know I looked up on the Internet. Even if you don’t understand a single syllable of Spanish the beautiful illustrations by Zeke Pena tell the story in an exciting and colorful way.

The book begins with a young girl’s father coming home from his job as a carpenter and the two go for an afternoon motorcycle ride. During the ride the have various little adventures. They visit folks picking lemons; they are chased by dogs; Papi stops and chats with some fellow workers. There’s even a fantasy sequence involving old style racecars on a circuit through town (maybe it wasn’t fantasy, my Spanish comprehension is not so good).

These micro adventures really remind me of why I like to ride a motorcycle. Simple acts seem more vital: making a turn, waving to a bored kid staring out a car window or just feeling the breeze. Mi Papi Tiene Una Moto’s motorcycle trip ends like all of them should: at the snow cone vendor for a sweet treat.

If you’re an ATGATT Nazi you probably shouldn’t get Mi Papi Tiene Una Moto. They wear helmets but the hot weather finds them in shorts and light clothing. Spare me the clichés: “Dress for the slide not the ride.” “Gear is cheaper than skin grafts.” You make your choices and the riders in Mi Papi Tiene Una Moto made theirs.

I’ve only shown a few of Zeke Pena’s fabulous artworks in the book and just looking at the stuff made me want to go for a ride. It’s that exciting. Amazon has the book in hard cover for $17 and that’s the only way you should buy the thing. You need to feel the solid way the cover opens and the smooth, cool pages. Kids get enough content with their phones, give them a real world, tactile experience that will create a lifetime memory. I think there is an English version but reading Mi Papi Tiene Una Moto in the original Spanish makes it seem more like a secret world that only your kid can access. At least I felt special decoding the thing page by page.

Mi Papi Tiene Una Moto reminds us that we don’t need to do heroic, epic rides every time we swing a leg over our motorcycles. We don’t need the latest electronic buffoonery to enjoy the simple act of riding and interacting with our environs. I highly recommend Mi Papi Tiene Una Moto for both kids and adults who are not yet dead inside.

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My Solo Motorcycle Journey from Sedona to Canada: Part I

By Bobbie Surber

As a passionate female solo rider, I often find myself facing a barrage of incredulous looks and questions from both strangers and friends. They ask the usual list of queries: “Is it safe?” “Where will you stay?” “What if your bike drops?” It’s become almost customary to respond by sharing my blog or articles that capture the essence of the joy I find in solo travel, whether by foot or by bike. This brings me to my latest and most epic solo adventure – a motorcycle journey from my home in the enchanting town of Sedona, Arizona, all the way up to the stunning landscapes of Canada. Covering over 6,700 miles of magical terrain, this journey was a test of my spirit and a celebration of my love for long distance motorcycle travel.

It all began last fall when the idea of a ride to Canada took hold of me. I knew that this was the journey I was meant to embark upon. I was determined to take my time, to savor the journey, and to visit as many National Parks as possible along the way. My plan was simple yet liberating: I would make up my route no more than a week in advance, pack light, and camp as much as possible off my trusty motorcycle, a three-cylinder Triumph Tiger 900 GT Pro, lovingly named Tippi.

On the crisp morning of June 2nd, with the sun just beginning to warm the high desert of Sedona, I geared up for my adventure little did I know then that I would be gone for 11 plus weeks. The air carried an unusual coolness, a welcome departure from the scorching desert temperatures. My first stop was an obligatory one – Flagstaff, Arizona, just a short 30-mile ride from Sedona. The journey up Oak Creek Canyon was a visual feast, with Red Rock views and sinuous twists and turns that are a motorcyclist’s dream. I found myself at a Starbucks in Flagstaff, sipping on a well-deserved Americano, wondering what the day had in store for me as I charted my course towards North Grand Canyon National Park.

Leaving the comfort of Flagstaff behind, I embarked on Highway 89-A, leaving the tall pines of the city in my rearview mirror. The road led me to Lees Ferry, a spot where I could steal a quick moment with the majestic Colorado River. Riding through this part of Arizona on 89A felt like transitioning to another world. The landscape shifted from rugged mountains to a breathtaking desert expanse. Sandy plains, cacti, and the awe-inspiring sight of the Colorado River slicing through towering cliffs and canyons greeted me. Every time I ride through this area, I feel like I’m letting go of the worries of the world and immersing myself in the raw beauty of nature.

Arriving at Lee’s Ferry, I gazed in wonder at the grandeur of the Colorado River. Red Rock bluffs reached skyward, casting their reflections onto the water’s surface. A few photos captured the essence of the moment, and then I was back on the road, with Tippi carrying me across the vastness of the desert landscape with mountains looming in the distance with turbulent looking skies, laden with the threat of rain seemingly daring me to press onward.

Press on I did, and by the time I arrived at Jacob Lake, I was soaked to the bone. The reward, though, was immediate and satisfying. The general store at Jacob Lake had the antidote to my damp spirits – a hot cup of coffee and the most heavenly homemade cookies I’ve ever tasted in Arizona. While I warmed up and indulged my taste buds, I chatted with fellow riders who regaled me with tales of epic early June snowstorms they’d encountered that day while riding back from the Grand Canyon. It’s moments like these, swapping stories with fellow riders, that make a solo journey so enriching.

A swift pit stop at Jacob Lake was followed by the task of setting up my tent, which proved to be a bit of a challenge in the rain. But that’s the essence of adventure riding, isn’t it? You adapt, you overcome, and you keep moving forward. With my campsite established, I wasted no time and headed to North Grand Canyon. Fortunately, I was spared the snow, but a wicked hailstorm tested my resolve as I carefully made my way further up the rim.

By the time I reached the park, the weather gods seemed to have taken pity on me. Dry weather prevailed, and I was treated to the most dramatic skies one could hope for when visiting the North Grand Canyon. As I stood there, gazing out into the vast expanse of this natural wonder, I couldn’t help but feel humbled by the forces of nature and the grandeur of the world we live in. It was a moment of pure serenity amidst the chaos of my journey.

The following morning, I bid farewell to North Grand Canyon, heading down into Kanab for a quick gas and coffee break before completing the remainder of my ride on Highway 89A, with Zion National Park as my next destination. With two days and one night to immerse myself in the beauty of Zion, I was eager to experience the park in all its glory.

Entering Zion National Park on a motorcycle is a unique adventure. The winding roads and the freedom to embrace the open road add an extra layer of exhilaration to the journey. Plus, if you time it right, like I did, arriving early can help you avoid the epic traffic jams that can plague this popular destination.

Setting up camp as quickly as possible, I wasted no time in hopping onto a shuttle ride to the park’s lodge. From there, I embarked on a day of hiking, exploring several of Zion’s shorter trails. I couldn’t resist attempting to secure a permit for Angel’s Landing, a trail known for its breathtaking, albeit nerve-wracking, vistas. Alas, the permit eluded me, but that didn’t dampen my spirits. Zion offered me an array of other trails and sights to explore, and I reveled in every step I took.

Zion’s rugged beauty is a testament to the power of nature’s sculpting hand. Towering sandstone cliffs, cascading waterfalls, and the vibrant colors of the Virgin River create a landscape that feels otherworldly. With my camera in hand, I captured every nuance of this remarkable place. Hiking a portion of the Narrows, with water rushing around me, was a highlight I’ll carry with me forever. Zion National Park, with its mesmerizing mix of desert and oasis, and once again confirming why I love this park so much.

As I lay in my tent that night, listening to the sounds of the wilderness around me, I couldn’t help but reflect on the incredible journey I’d embarked upon. From the stunning landscapes of my hometown of Sedona to the awe-inspiring grandeur of the Grand Canyon and the mesmerizing beauty of Zion, my solo motorcycle ride to Canada had already been a whirlwind of experiences. And this was just the beginning.

My journey would continue northward, taking me through more National Parks, enchanting towns, and breathtaking vistas, mountains, desolate beaches, and new friends I’d yet to meet. Each twist and turn of the road held the promise of new adventures and the opportunity to connect with the world in a way that only solo travel can offer. The open road called me, and I was more than ready to answer its invitation.

In the world of solo travel, there’s a unique freedom and self-discovery. It is a chance to test your limits, embrace the unknown, and find solace in the beauty of the world. My motorcycle journey from Sedona to Canada was not just a ride; it was a pilgrimage of the soul, an exploration of the heart, and a celebration of the indomitable spirit of the open road. As I drifted into sleep under the starry Utah sky, I couldn’t wait to see where the road would lead me next on this remarkable adventure.

My fellow adventurers, I invite you to stay tuned for the next captivating chapter of this solo ride from Sedona to Canada. The open road stretches before us, brimming with the promise of extraordinary experiences and inspiring tales yet to be written. With each twist of the throttle I embrace the unknown, and I can’t wait to share the unfolding journey of a lifetime with you.

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Running with the Big Dogs

By Rob Morel

Joe Gresh’s recent story of high-mile motorcycle rides reminded me of my 1,000-mile ride several years ago. I rode my Zongshen RX3 250cc motorcycle on an Iron Butt 1000 back in 2016. That ride was 1,000 miles in under 24 hours. It required documenting start and stop times, and providing all my fuel receipts to prove I actually did it.

The 1000 miles took just under 20 hours to complete. I made 11 gas stops, burned through 23.1 gallons of gas in 1,055 miles, and achieved an average of 45.65 mpg. My total fuel expenditures were $57.90. I ran the lowest grade of gasoline for the first 500 miles, and then I switched to mid-grade fuel. That resulted in an extra 2 to 3 mph on the top end, and more power to get over the hills. I didn’t need to downshift as much. I used 20W-50 premium synthetic oil.

What amazed me was the flogging the little 250cc motor took. I literally rode it at full throttle (at 65-70 mph on the GPS for 70-80% of the trip) going up and down interstate hills where the speed limit was 70 and 80 mph in Oregon and Idaho. The motor seemed to take it all in a stride.

I made judicious use of the gearbox to keep the engine above 6,500 rpm, which I had to do to get over mountain passes and curvy hills (usually in 4th or 5th gear). I never had to run the engine above 8000 rpm. On one long downhill stretch I held the throttle wide open to gain speed to get up the next hill; that sprint showed 75 mph on the GPS. Usually, though, I ran at 65 to 70 mph on the GPS with 80 mph cars passing me like flies on the way to the milk barn.

I really didn’t make any changes to the bike. The gearing on my motorcycle was up two teeth from standard on the rear sprocket. Stock gearing would have been fine. I had a nice gel seat. I was okay until higher temperatures arrived. Then it became an uncomfortable ride.

The bike never once gave me trouble or left me wondering if I would make it home. In fact, it impressed the Harley, Indian, and Victory guys I rode with. They soon left me with their higher top speeds, so I was riding solo for most of the 20 hours it took to complete the 1,000 miles. I made it to the last refueling stop maybe 15 minutes after they finished.

While not the best choice for Iron Butt riding, that little 250cc Zongshen motorcycle showed that it can run with the big dogs and finish what it started.

The Matawan Creek Man-Eater

By Joe Berk

Jaws. Nearly everyone has seen that movie. Many of us read Jaws, the book that preceded the movie. It’s been said that Peter Benchley based it on Moby Dick, another novel about a big white fish and a man obsessed with killing it. But people in the know…well, they know that Jaws had a different source of inspiration. It was the Matawan Creek maneater, a Great White shark that swam 11 miles upstream, in fresh water, and ate a bunch of people in and around Matawan, New Jersey. It all happened in 1916.

The New Jersey beachside resorts were having a tough year in 1916. It started on July 1 when Charles Vansant, a 28-year-old man from Philadelphia, went for a swim in the Atlantic Ocean along the Beach Haven, New Jersey shoreline. Vansant took his dog in the water with him. The dog suddenly disappeared, and then Vansant was attacked. Other swimmers heard Vansant screaming and went to his aid. A gigantic Great White shark followed them as they desperately pulled Vansant to shore. Vansant bled to death a short while later.

Fast forward five days to Spring Lake (another New Jersey resort), and 27-year-old Chris Bruder was attacked while swimming in the Atlantic. Lifeguards in a boat pulled him from the water, but Bruder bled to death before they reached the shore.

Shoot up the Jersey coast another 30 miles to Matawan. A few days after Bruder died, Thomas Cattrell (a retired fishing boat captain) was walking home and while crossing a bridge over freshwater Matawan Creek (which flowed into the Atlantic), Cattrell saw a large shark in the water below. He warned swimmers, but no one took him seriously (Matawan Creek was, after all, a freshwater creek). The next day, on July 12, 11-year-old Lester Stillwell went for a Matawan Creek dip; he became the shark’s next victim. Two of Stillwell’s friends swimming with him watched as he was pulled under and the water turned red. The boys ran into town for help, 24-year old Stanley Fischer accompanied them back to the creek, and he entered the water to search for Stillwell. It was Fischer’s bad luck that the shark was still eating Stillwell. Fischer tried to free Stillwell from the shark; the shark had a better idea and took a few bites out of Fischer. Fischer died a few hours later in a local hospital.

After attacking Fischer, the shark left the area and headed back toward the Atlantic Ocean. While swimming toward the ocean and still in freshwater Matawan Creek, the shark attacked 12-year old Joseph Dunn. Dunn survived, minus a leg. Dunn was the shark’s fifth victim.

If you’ve ever watched even a single episode of The Sopranos, you know you don’t mess with people from New Jersey. The Jersey coastal communities went into high gear, and after harvesting hundreds of sharks, they found the one responsible for the attacks. It was an 8½-foot Great White, and when the Joisey boys cut it open, various parts of the aforementioned people (and one dog) spilled out. The Matawan Creek (and surrounding community) attacks are believed to be Peter Benchley’s inspiration for Jaws.

So…about that photo at the top of this blog. The bridge is a Jersey Central railroad bridge that crosses Matawan Creek only 100 yards away from where Fischer and Stillwell were attacked. Amazingly, the open-mouthed shark painting was accomplished in under 35 minutes, in complete darkness, by an artist who goes by the name Tattoo Bob. I don’t know his last name or even if Tattoo Bob is his real name; he wishes to remain anonymous for obvious reasons.

All of this hit home for me. I’ve been in Matawan many times, and it’s not that far from where I grew up. When I was a kid, we used to swim in the freshwater creeks in New Jersey (they all ultimately flow into the Atlantic). A big day was to go down the shore and swim in the ocean. Jaws didn’t get published until 1975 (I read it when I was in the Army in Korea, when the novel was first published). It’s a good thing, I guess, that I didn’t know any of the above about Matawan Creek back in my youth. If I had, there would have been no way I’d enter the water, and even today, I won’t swim in the ocean. I’ll stick with much safer things, like jumping out of an airplane or riding a motorcycle.

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Life as a Digital Nomad: Peru Part 3 (Lake Titicaca)

By Mike Huber

No trip to Peru can be complete without a journey to Lake Titicaca. It is the largest alpine lake on the planet at an elevation of 12,500 feet, and the lifestyle of those who live on the lake is beyond fascinating. This huge lake is nestled in a giant basin between two of the Andean mountain ranges and extends across the border to Bolivia. And yes, it has a funny name. There was no way I was going to miss this place even though it was quite a distance from my home base in Cusco.

Having planned to use all my vacation time while in Peru, it wasn’t too difficult to load up on my work early in the week and take a four-day weekend to knock out Lake Titicaca (did I mention it has a funny name?). Allowing four days would provide me with enough time to take a leisurely tour bus to this region of Peru, get some hikes and tourist attractions in along the way, and then return on an overnight bus on Sunday. This would assure (hopefully) that I would make it to work on time Monday morning. Instilling project management principles usually results in a successful outcome. To me the planning of a project or a vacation followed the same rigid processes. Of course, the vacation ones always had a few surprises along the way that I would have to adjust to, but that’s part of the fun.

The bus ride was filled with incredible beauty with stops at local markets and panoramic mountain views that had me saying to myself “wow, I am in the Andes!” over and over again. Out of all the bus rides I’d been on, this was by far the most pleasant. I was used to the altitude, there were no Kirk Cameron movies, and I had made a special tea to enhance the ride (PM me for details on that, but it will probably bleed into another article). The entire ride was an extremely joyful 8 hours where I had an opportunity to meet two wonderful girls from Japan (we are still friends to this day).

Feeling beyond happy but tired, we finally pulled into the lakeside city of Pulmo, Peru. This first day here would be relaxing and adjusting to the world I had just entered. There was a giant golden condor statue on a steep hill above the city, which provided a sense of calm. There was a large market that made for great people watching while having some coca tea and even a coca beer. The beer was like a prehistoric provided a buzz and amp at the same time. It almost reminded me of my Jager bomb days in Boston. Thankfully for the people of Pulmo I didn’t take it that far.

The next day I joined a boat tour that took us to many of the man-made islands. These islands were floating and made of dried totora, a type of papyrus the local population harvested from the lake marshes. The people are known as the Ura. The islands are fairly large, some of them over an acre or more in size. There were stores, restaurants, and cafes on some of the islands.

The islands were surprisingly stable and didn’t rock as we stepped onto them. When talking to one of the Ura (and speaking as well as I could in Spanish), I asked how they made the islands once they gathered the papyrus. It was a constant cycle of drying the papyrus, bundling them, and tying them to the upper part of the island. He showed me a hole cut into the center of one of the islands. It looked like a hole you would ice fish through and it was about 3 feet wide. The hole was large enough to see the bottom reeds starting to decay and back into the water. It was a constant process to keep their “land” from being swallowed by the lake. Many of the Ura, not much more than a mile offshore, hardly ever returned to the mainland shores of Pulmo. They much preferred their isolated yet tightly knit community on the lake where life was simple.

The city of Pulmo was so different from both the Amazon jungle and where I lived in Cusco. The more I explored Peru the more diverse and mystical it became. Sunday was a relaxing day with more coca beer and local foods with my new Japanese friends.

As the sun began to set it was time to find my way back to the bus depot and board the redeye that would return me to Cusco. It didn’t take too long for me to peacefully fall asleep on the bus. I didn’t wake up until the bus entered Cusco. It was a short taxi ride to my home and just in time to lead my first conference call of the day. Still bleary-eyed and having a buzz from the weekend (and the coca beer) my workday progressed as though the trip was just a dream. It was an adventure I wanted to share with my co-workers, but they wouldn’t understand as they were still under the assumption I was living in my condo in Boston. Throughout the day I wondered if and when I would ever return to Boston.

The Long Haul: Riding a Motorcycle All The Way

By Joe Gresh

In these Covid-aware times being a long hauler means suffering from the effects of contracting the virus that caused so many problems a few years ago. But “long hauler” used to have a different meaning in the motorcycle community. It meant a rider that rode long distances over relatively short periods of time. The Iron Butt group sprang up to create a framework of recognition and certification for the tough riders that did 1000 miles in 24 hours and the challenges escalated from there.

I’ve never felt the desire to ride 1000 miles in 24 hours although I would have loved to run that pace the time I raced the Baja 1000. No, I usually go a few hundred miles if I’m bopping around near the ranch on a day ride. If I’m traveling long distances I’ll shoot for 400 miles a day or a little more depending on the time of year. On motorcycle trips I try to take it easy and enjoy the countryside. I’ll stop often to read historical markers or pull off the road to sip a little piping hot Dancing Goats coffee from my Thermos. I might see a stream and wander over to look for gold nuggets or stick my feet in the cold water. To me, motorcycle rides should be fun, not an endurance test.

Sometimes I end up pushing it a bit like on the ride to Laguna Seca. I clocked 590 miles from Grand Junction, Colorado, to Tonopah, Nevada. I was riding the ZRX1100, it was hot, and I had plenty of daylight, so I just kept riding. I wasn’t in any great pain and there aren’t many places to get a motel room in the wilds of Nevada. That 590-mile run may not seem like much to an Iron Butt rider but I’ve done some other long distance rides on much less capable motorcycles.

The longest single-day ride I did on my 1971 Yamaha RT1-B, 360cc Enduro was from Cross City, Florida to Big Pine Key, Florida, a distance of 530 miles. The old two-stroke, single-cylinder dirt bike is a fairly comfortable place to sit and it will happily cruise along at 60-65 miles per hour so it’s not like I was doing something all that special. At the time a hurricane had blown through Big Pine and our house was a mess, so I was hustling to get back home and start cleaning up.

Another long day in the saddle was back in the 1970s riding my 1973 BMW R75/5. I was returning from a 41-state tour around America and the last leg was Cashiers, North Carolina to Miami, Florida. I racked up 750 miles in one, national-55-mph speed limited day. Back then you had to keep your eyes glued to the speedometer because it was nearly impossible to ride a 750cc motorcycle on a wide-open highway at 55 mph. You tended to creep up and all of a sudden you’re doing 70. The 55 mph speed limits stuck around a long time because it was a huge moneymaker for the Highway Patrol and local police forces.

I rode my Husqvarna 510cc Super Motard 500 miles from Window Rock, Arizona to Caliente, Nevada in one agonizing stint. This run was the most physically demanding and it demanded it all from my butt. The Husky’s seat is narrow for ease of mobility in the dirt. It has almost zero padding towards the rear and the front area was no wider than a pack of cigarettes. I did a lot of stand up riding and crossed leg riding that day.

The closest I got to an Iron butt ride was on a 1968 Sportster. This motorcycle is another poor choice for long distance riding. At least the seat wasn’t 4 inches wide on the Sporty. I started out from Van Horn, Texas. It was late March, so it was still pretty chilly in the pre-dawn hours. I rode all the way to Point Loma, California and it took around 18 hours. Of course, with an old Harley all that time wasn’t spent riding. You have to twirl wrenches a bit.

The Sportster’s charging system failed because the mechanical, coil and point type voltage regulator shook itself to pieces. Running a total loss ignition system I had to stop at gas statins and charge the battery every so often, kind of like a modern EV car. As the voltage would drop the bike would start missing due to the plugs whiskering.

Motorcycle plug whiskering isn’t common with today’s high powered ignitions and alternators but back then it was not out of the realm of possible failure modes. It happened when the plug shorted out from a tiny piece of metal stuck between the electrode and the body of the plug. The remedy was fairly easy: you had to remove the plug and clear off the bit of metal that was causing the short, then put the plug back in. Don’t ask me where the tiny pieces of metal came from; it’s best not to think about it.

At some point on the ride, I found a voltage regulator wire broken from vibration and figured out how to make the old, brush-type Harley-Davidson generator charge its battery. I made the last 200 miles at night without having to stop for a charge. All in, I rode the Sportster 854 miles and man, were my arms tired. It’s kind of funny that the long haul effects of Covid (foggy brain, tired feeling and dizziness) were the same symptoms I felt after riding that Sportster 854 miles.

I don’t think I’ll ever do a thousand miles in 24 hours. It’s just not important to me and defeats the purpose of riding a motorcycle in the first place. I guess if it was an emergency and I had to do it I could ride the Kawasaki ZRX a thousand miles in a day, but honestly, if that situation arose, I’d rather take the Toyota truck.

What about you? Are you a long hauler? How far have you ridden in a day? Does racking up mileage for mileage’s sake mean anything to you?

Another mileage story? You bet!

British Motorcycle Gear, Motorado, and more…

By Joe Berk

On occasion, I’ll post a blog that’s a general update and a peek into what’s coming down the pike. I’ll be on another secret mission to Asia next month, returning to one favorite Far East locale and visiting another for the first time. They each have a vibrant motorcycle and auto culture and I’ll get as many photos as I can. You can bet I’ll have several blogs on both places. It’s going to be fun.

Andrew Capone of British Motorcycle Gear at the Isle of Man.

We’re quite happy to welcome British Motorcycle Gear as an ExNotes advertiser. BMG is a New Jersey moto shop with very high quality motorcycle clothing, parts, and more. Good buddy Andrew Capone is the owner and he’s good people. In addition to being a Jersey Boy (as is yours truly), Andrew is a serious rider, a motojournalist, and a world traveler. He’s Motorcycle.com’s “go to” guy on all things related to the Isle of Man, and there’s a chance he may even pen an article or two for us here on ExNotes. Gresh tested and reviewed British Motorcycle Gear products here on ExNotes and it’s good equipment. And here’s even more good news: Andrew is offering an exclusive discount to ExNotes readers. Just punch in the code BMGJOES when checking out, and you’ll get an 11% discount on everything (except gear that’s already on sale, and Halcyon mirrors and goggles). Check out the British Motorcycle Gear website; I know you’ll enjoy it.

Joe Gresh is headed to a New Mexico vintage motorcycle show and the Motorado event in the near future, and you’ll read about that right here. I’m looking forward to reading all about it. Mike Huber, Bobbie Surber, and Rob Morel all have more stories in work for you. Mike is BMWborne on a transcontinental blitz, Bobbie is headed off on another motoexpedition to points south (as in way, way south), and Rob is working a few more projects up in Washington.

One last note: Our request for financial site support (or, as some would call it, my high tech begging) is doing quite well. Thank you to all our supporters. We appreciate it greatly.

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