I deleted my Facebook account this morning. It feels good. These are the reasons why:
Facebook told me one my recent posts about a handgun violated their community standards (it’s the blog immediately below this one). What a patronizing, insulting, idiotic thing to do. Folks, “Facebook community standards” is an oxymoronic expression.
I didn’t like the constant stream of moronic comments and arguments.
I’d post a link to one of our blog articles and I’d get questions on Facebook that were answered in the blog. Facebook members were too lazy or too stupid to realize the link would provide the information.
Too many people add comments to Facebook that are just plain wrong.
There are persistent Facebook comments that are racist. I realize there are a lot of racists out there. I don’t need to see it.
Facebook’s so-called “fact checkers” routinely post “This statement is partially false” when it wasn’t. In fact, that ridiculous comment essentially agreed that it was true. Who are these “fact checkers,” anyway? My inference is that they are 22-year-old Bernie-Sanders-supporting Silicon-Valley software types making $200K/year who routinely confuse their income with their intelligence.
I grew tired of the anti-gun crowd on Facebook. If you don’t like guns, don’t own one. Do you really think your views are going to alter mine? Do you really think your insipid comments on Facebook are going to change my views?
What is Facebook, really? It’s not a product. It adds nothing of value to the human experience. It’s nothing, really.
I don’t like Mark Zuckerberg. I know someone who knows him, and the feedback isn’t good.
I was spending too much time on Facebook. Life is short. I’m not wasting another second of it glued to my laptop or my cell phone reading stupid stuff on Facebook.
Old Zuckerhead doesn’t make quitting Facebook easy. It took me about half an hour to finally find a way to do it. I’m pretty sure that’s not accidental. If it was such a good thing, you’d think they’d make it difficult to join, not difficult to quit.
It’s Sunday. I think I’m either going to the gym, or a motorcycle ride, or the range. Maybe I’ll do all three. I feel good.
Oh boy oh boy oh boy…another listicle! Our focus this time: The six worst folks to bring along on a motorcycle ride. Are you on this list?
Always Late
I can’t be around people who are late. If we say we’re going to leave at 7:00 a.m., then be there at 6:45. You know, in the Army we used to joke about the other services and their punctuality. In the Army, 0800 meant you were ready to go at 0730. In the Navy, it was something like 8 bells. In the Air Force, 0800 meant, you know, eightish, give or take. In the Marines, 8:00 a.m. meant Mickey’s big hand was on the 12 and his little hand was on the 8.
Hey, be on time. Better yet, be early. Buy a watch. Don’t make other people wait. Don’t be late. Ever.
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Too-Long-To-Get-Ready Richard
You know the guy I’m talking about. He’s the clown who takes 15 minutes to put his jacket, helmet, and gloves on. It’s almost like he needs someone to help him put his gear on. If you suffer from that disease, I’ll ride with you one time. Next time I’ll know better.
Rude Richard
I’ve ridden with a lot of folks on a lot of rides, and rides often involves stopping to eat. One character flaw I won’t tolerate is rudeness to the folks who work in restaurants. It’s just stupid, if you think about it. Why would you demean people who handle your food? But it goes beyond that…it makes me uncomfortable when another rider talks to the help like he’s a plantation owner. Restaurant people work hard, and they’re doing the best they can (just like the rest of us). One guy I rode with was a total horse’s ass, and to compound the felony, he wouldn’t leave a tip. I did (for me and for him), and while he was still putzing around putting on his riding gear, I left without him. For all I know, he’s still in that restaurant parking lot wondering where I went. On this topic of rude, this excerpt from Lonesome Dove says it all. Wait for Tommy Lee Jones’ last line. It’s a classic.
The Peloton Weenie
I am particular about who I ride with, and basically, if I haven’t ridden with you before, I’m not going to. Yeah, I’m old and I’m particular. What lights my fuse is the guy who thinks he’s in a peloton (you know, that’s the deal where the bicyclists ride within inches of each other). I don’t like people following me too closely, and I definitely don’t like anyone riding alongside me in my lane. Back off, Bucko!
Never Brings Enough Money
I had a friend like this I went to jump school with at Fort Benning. Let’s call him Dick. Dick rolled into the Benning School for Boys with the rest of us and didn’t bring any money. He was hitting us up at every stop to spot him a few bucks. I finally asked Dick how he planned to get through the three weeks of Basic Airborne. “I planned on borrowing,” Dick answered. You know, we were basically kids then, so I suppose I should make allowances for that Dick’s behavior. I can’t tolerate it in an adult. But we see it on group rides sometimes.
Ricky Racer
You know the type…every ride is a race. I won’t play that game, and if you want to slide through the canyons and pass on blind curves, that dot you see growing smaller and smaller in your review mirror is me, dude.
I don’t have anything against people who speed, unless they’re late, or they take too long to put their helmet and gloves on, or they’re rude, or they didn’t bring enough money for wherever we’re going, or they crowd me. If you want to treat every road like your own personal racetrack, you go on ahead. You ride your ride, and I’ll ride mine.
Did you recognize any of your riding buds on this list? Worse yet, did you see yourself in any of these description?
Good buddy Robby has been a friend for 30 years. I first met Robby on a consulting gig in Georgia. He’s a fellow engineer, a firearms aficionado, a reloader, and a hell of a shot. Robby and I see each other whenever our paths cross, and more often than not the talk is about guns and reloading. Robby is a competitive pistolero and a hunter, he enjoys a finely-figured bit of walnut as much as I do, and we both appreciate the finer points of Ruger No. 1 and bolt action rifles. Robby shared with me that he recently acquired an FN Hi Power. I asked him if he would do a guest blog for ExNotes and what follows is the well-crafted result.
My grandfather: The man who taught me basically everything I know. Hunting, fishing, archery, how to shoot, how to walk through the woods silently, how to approach anything that needed fixing. Everything. He grew up during the Great Depression, he was a highly decorated recon scout during WW II, he was a cop and a security guard and he retired as a postman. I saw my grandfather as the definition of a man. He owned two handguns, one centerfire rifle (a Model 70 Winchester), a .22 and a very illegal shotgun that he sawed off because his brother split the barrel.
I own one of his handguns (a Colt Detective Special) and I have the .22 and the Model 70. The Colt Detective Special is a fine little snubby with a black paint job because someone let it rust while I was in college. I painted it and took it into my possession.
My grandfather’s Nazi war trophy with artillery sights.
My younger brother has the other handgun. It is an automatic that my grandfather took from an SS officer after dispatching him in northern Italy. It is the first automatic that I ever saw, held or fired. My grandfather kept it in the car when he delivered mail on the rural route he ran, he took it on camping trips with my brother and me, and he kept it close everywhere he went. He kept it in a holster with the German’s name written on the flap. It was a mystical gun that seemed more like Excalibur to me than some manmade object. I had all of the other firearms, so I was fine with my brother hanging on to Excalibur.
Another view of the World War II German Hi Power.
What was this mystical weapon, you ask? Just a fine Belgian copy of John Moses Browning’s “improvement” of the 1911. A 9mm Browning Hi Power, to be exact. The design was unfinished when JMB departed this mortal world, but a Belgian named Dieudonné Saive finished the design and after incorporating a few of Browning’s older patents, created the most widely-issued sidearm in history. Anyway, I am making a short story extremely long.
My brother possessed Excalibur and I needed one for myself. I bought lots of different pistols, including a couple of 1911s, and built a few custom polymer pistols with all the trimmings, but I still didn’t have a Hi Power. I was super excited when I saw Springfield and FN resurrecting the Hi Power, and I was determined to have my own.
Well, after looking for unicorn teeth in the retail shops and online, I was thinking my Hi Power was a pipe dream. The SA and the FN are made of unobtanium and the one I found online was priced accordingly. Before heading off to find The Lady of the Lake, I stopped by a local gun shop to see if I could find a 9mm AR lower. Yes, I have wide and varied tastes when it comes to things that go BANG. The owner and his minions were all tied up, so I decided to window shop a bit. I saw the Hi Power before I made it to the case. I pretended to look at everything else, hoping that no one would notice that Excalibur’s brother was RIGHT THERE in the open!
Once I got the attention of a person employed by this fine establishment, I asked to hold “that one.” “That one” had oversized, red, laminated wood grips that were apparently sized for Andre the Giant and looked much like lipstick on a large sow. I asked the owner if he knew the vintage and he replied that he thought it was a 1980s production gun. The tag affixed to the trigger guard said “consignment” and the price was $1199. That was a quick “nope” from me and I headed back to the truck with no AR lower and no Excalibur.
A week or so later, I ended up at the same shop again after dreaming up some other materials that I might need to finish the AR 9 I started. I asked to hold the Hi Power again. I noticed that it had been marked down $100 and the owner told me that it came with a spare mag and another grip. The red, behemoth handles needed to go, so I was glad to hear there was an immediate option. I still wasn’t keen on paying north of a grand, though. If it had been an actual Browning with that deep Browning bluing, that might have been much harder, but it was a well-worn FN with circus handles and non-OEM sights. It didn’t even have the “artillery” sights that my grandfather’s had. That’s what he called the adjustable-to-500-meter sights that Excalibur wore. I handed it back again and left.
My 1952 Fabrique National (FN) Hi Power with Hogue grips.Viewed from either side, the Hi Power and its new grips look good.
A couple more weeks rocked on, I received my yearly bonus from work, I finished the AR 9, and I couldn’t get the Hi Power out of my head. We were headed that way to pick up one of my daughter’s friends and I decided to stop by and see if I could talk the guy down to $900. I walked in, eyeballed the cases and found it nestled between a couple of other pistols that I didn’t even look at long enough to identify. I asked the guy that offered to help me how much was being asked for the Hi Power this week. He yelled across the shop and asked the owner. $850 was the answer! I holstered my negotiating skills and said, “I’ll take it!”
When I made it back to the truck with it in a plastic grocery bag, I took it out and showed it to my very unimpressed better half. She said,”That is the “gun-est” looking gun I have ever seen…”
I responded, “Exactly, it is beautiful!” And off we went.
I got it home after a few hours of birthday shopping with my 15 year old, her friend and the wife and had to go straight to the yard and shoot my newest acquisition. It did not disappoint! The aftermarket sights are installed properly and are right on the target. The trigger breaks cleanly, there’s no hammer bite, and there were no failures or hiccups of any kind. Perfect…just like I hoped. Except for the furniture. I ordered a set of Hogue hardwood grips in Kingwood after a pretty thorough scouring of the internet in search of something fitting for my wooden desires.
I started my research on the serial number and completely struck out. Apparently, FN is pretty liberal and somewhat random with their numbering system, so I dug deeper. Thumb print on the right side, *S on a couple of parts, internal extractor and the five-digit serial number helped me narrow it down to a 1952 production run.
Both Hi Powers shoot well. These are 50-ft targets. My grandfather’s (and now my brother’s) Hi Power shot the group on the left; my FN Hi Power shot the group on the right.
I messaged my brother and asked him to drop Excalibur by so I could compare the two. I shot both and they are equal in all things. Except mystique. Hopefully, in time I will add a bit to mine.
Robby, that’s an awes0me story and a fine-looking pair of Hi Powers. Thanks so much for sharing it with us and our readers. You and your brother are a couple of lucky guys. Always a pleasure to hear from you, my friend, and our best to you and your family.
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When I first started working on boats there were only two choices if you wanted a generator: Onan or Kohler. This was in the 1970s. Most all the equipment on boats was still made in the USA and China was largely an agrarian society with little industrial capacity. It seems impossible with today’s global economy and seemingly unlimited options but we got along fine with just the two manufacturers.
Onan generators were the most popular in the territory I covered which was from Balboa Island up near Los Angeles to San Diego. The company I worked for, Admiralty Marine, was on Shelter Island right off of Rosecrans Street. Admiralty Marine sold a lot of Onan generators. One year, Woody Peebles and I installed 51 new generators. That’s only one a week but you have to realize we also did engine installations, ElectroGuard corrosion control systems and repaired and serviced all those Onan generators.
To install a generator isn’t as easy as it sounds. You don’t just plop it on the deck and plug it in. The California boats were pleasure yachts and everything was varnished if it wasn’t polished or oiled. You had to cover all surfaces with cardboard and plywood before starting any work. Making things worse, the generator was usually buried in the engine room behind the main engines, batteries and a zillion other components down in the bilge.
To get the generator out might mean removing the rug, lifting heavy hatches, taking off exhaust manifolds on the mains or moving water tanks and cross beams. Then you had to brace underneath the deck to support the portable A-frame hoist used to lift the generator out of the hole.
The portable hoist was portable in name only. The thing weighed a ton. Consisting of two steel uprights, a steel crossbar, a chain-fall and a metal box full of wedges, lifting eyes and the carriage that slid on the crossbar. All in, the hoist weighed about 300 pounds. We didn’t trust aluminum. You had to carry each piece of the hoist down the dock and onto the boat without causing any damage. Except that anything the hoist touched was damaged.
There were no store-bought portable hoists; you had to make them yourself or pay someone to build a hoist for you. I made my own and still have it baking in the sun here at The Ranch in New Mexico. You never know when you’ll need to pull a boat engine 500 miles from the closest ocean. Working with the hoist all those years I became attached to the thing. We’ve been through a lot of wars, you know? So much heavy lifting, I can’t bring myself toss it out.
It took about three days for me and Woody to remove an old generator, clean up the mess and install a new generator, roughly 24 hours labor times two men. At my hourly rate I made 78 dollars for the job. Admiralty Marine charged my labor at 600 dollars for the install, clearing 522 dollars once you deduct my pay. I never knew what Woody was paid. Probably more than me as he was the brains of the operation. The cost breakdown on these jobs was a great lesson in capitalism for me.
On rare occasions we worked on gas-powered generators but they were usually old wooden boats with cash-strapped owners. The Onan generators we worked on were almost all diesel-powered. The block was modular: 1 cylinder for the 3000-watt, 2 cylinders for the 7500-watt and 4-cylinders for the 12,000-watt version. The 4-cylinder used two, two-cylinder heads.
The early models used a CT (current transformer) set up to control the field voltage, which controlled the voltage output. In a nutshell, the power output leads went through these big CT’s on the end of the generator causing an inductive current in the CT’s and the CT’s sent power to the field. It was self-regulating, always varying the field current to suit the load. I never fully understood CT generators but luckily they were fairly reliable. Newer, solid-state voltage regulators superseded the CT voltage regulators.
The new solid-state Onan generators were a mechanic’s best friend. They broke down at such a regular pace you could forecast your income years in advance. The start-stop-preheat circuits were analog. It looked kind of funny: the top of the control box where the voltage regulator lived was all space-age but underneath that were stone-age relays, big brown resistors and purple smoke.
None of the Onans had counter balancers so they shook violently when in operation. The single-cylinder was the worst; it had soft rubber mounts that insulated the boat from vibrations. Fortunately for us repairmen the relays and wiring was susceptible to vibrations and would shake to pieces. Parts were always breaking off the things.
One time I installed a single-cylinder Onan in a boat and a week later the owner called saying it had stopped running. I went to his boat and found the flange that the seawater pump bolted to had fractured. Without sea water to cool the heat exchanger the engine overheated and shut off. The flange was steel and it was sandwiched between the timing cover and the block so you had to dismantle the front of the engine to replace it. It was such a crappy design.
The “One Thing I Knew” was the control circuits for the Onan. I understood them better than the other guys at the shop and could trouble shoot a problem in no time flat. I didn’t fall into this easy knowledge; it took a few years of trial and error before I could visualize the flow of electrons on their path through the various old-fashioned relays and resistors. All the wiring was the same color. Onan printed numbers on the wires to help identify which was which. These numbers were not always intact or positioned in a way that you could see them.
We rebuilt the engines and the fuel systems as the twins and 4-cylinders had a habit of breaking crankshafts. The twin had two main bearings, the four had three mains. The cranks would often break where the alternator rotor connected. They would break in such a way that the generator would keep running until it was shut down, then the crank would bind and the owner would call us saying “I don’t understand it, the thing was running fine when I shut it off. Now it’s stuck” After a few years of rebuilding engines we discovered that Onan sold a new long block for about the same price as we could rebuild an engine. It even came with a warranty. That made turn around much faster.
The governor (that controlled the engine RPM, thus the frequency) was a ball and cup type of deal driven off the camshaft. Centrifugal force would move the balls outward pushing a cup away from the cam. The cup was connected to an arm that controlled the fuel control on the injector pump. With the balls at rest the fuel was set for full throttle. As the balls slung out it reduced fuel. This seesaw effect could be fine tuned by adjusting a governor spring. Both tension and leverage were set by the hapless mechanic moving one thing affected the other.
After a few thousand hours of steady state running the governor balls would wear a groove in the backing plate of the cam gear and no amount of tinkering could get the frequency steady. Pulling the cam gear was the only way to get the thing to run without hunting. I liked to tell the owners that they were lucky the thing ran long enough to wear out the governor.
All those things I knew are just trivia now but they seem as real as this computer I’m typing on. The old Onan generators are long gone, replaced by modern diesel engines made overseas. Nothing breaks off the new stuff. My brain is full of things no longer useful, information that has no application in today’s world. I wonder about the knowledge the old ones that came before me took to their graves and if someone in the far off future will wonder about mine.
As airport bookstore thrillers go, it doesn’t get too much better than Jack Carr’s The Devil’s Hand. Yeah, it’s a bit formulaic, and yeah, the ending is predictable (spoiler alert: the good guys win), but the plot basics are timely and a bit unusual. Instead of just plain old bad guys, rogue nations, and Middle Eastern terrorists, this one involves unleashing a bioweapon on US soil. The good guy, James Reece (why do they always have such WASPy names?), manages to thwart the effort and limit the death toll to about 5000 people. The parallels between the plot’s Marburg U virus variant and Covid 19 (and the riots and insurrections that follow) are eerily similar to what the world has gone through in the last two years.
Reece checks all the airport bookstore thriller main character boxes: Former special forces operator on a revenge mission, the US president’s personal assassin, martial arts expert, handgun expert, rifle expert, shotgun expert, knife expert, tomahawk expert, and on and on it goes. That’s the formulaic part. The plot basics are where the story diverges from what you might expect, and that makes The Devil’s Hand interesting enough to be worth a read. At 576 pages, you probably won’t get through it on a single flight, but that’s okay. You can finish it on the return leg.
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Zion. The name implies something of biblical proportions, something religious or heavenly. It’s easy to understand that’s what the Mormon settlers thought when they entered this area in the mid-1800s. One of the crown jewels of the National Park system, Zion may be as close to heaven as you can get without a one-way ticket.
Late in the day, entering Zion National Park from the east on Utah SR 9.
I’ve visited Zion many times, and I’d go back again in a heartbeat. Living in So Cal, Zion is only a day’s ride away. I’ve been there in cars and many times on motorcycles ranging from 250cc Chinese imports to Big Twin Harleys. My strong feelings for Zion are personal: It was the destination of my first big motorcycle trip. My riding buddy and departed friend Dick Scott suggested Zion back when we were going through our Harley phase (a phase most of us passed through), and it was beyond beautiful as we rolled into the park on Utah State Route 9. Zion exceeded anything I could have imagined; I remember feeling like I was riding into a Western painting. It has this effect on everyone with whom I’ve ever visited the Park. That big photo above? That’s Mr. Tso, a very likeable visitor from the Peoples Republic of China who rode with us on the CSC Motorcycles/Zongshen 5000 Mile Western America Adventure ride (a publicity effort that sold more than a few RX3 motorcycles worldwide).
Riding into Zion National Park, peering over the windshield. It’s almost a religious experience.
Nestled where the Mojave, the Great Basin and the Colorado Plateau meet, Zion requires adjectival adeptness to even approach an accurate description. Pastel pink mountains, verdant vegetation, electric blue skies and emerald pools combine with abundant wildlife to create a surreal collage of seemingly endless picture postcard scenes. As national parks go, it’s small, but the scenery is absolutely over the top. I’ve been to a lot of places on this planet, and I can state with certainty that Zion’s beauty is unsurpassed. The wildlife add to the experience. On one of the CSC rides (the Destinations Deal ride), we hit what I thought was traffic and had to stop in one of Zion’s tunnels. I was frustrated until I lane split to the front of the line and found that the delay was caused by a group of bighorn sheep majestically and casually crossing the highway in front of us. They were magnificent, and no, I did not get a photo.
Stopped by a bighorn sheep herd, with my fellow Zongers in the rearview mirror.Taking in the splendor that is Zion, this group of riders is stopping to takes photos.Tony, who is finding Zion to be a bit different than the Peoples Republic of China.
The folks who know about such things think the first humans inhabited Zion a cool 12,000 years ago, hunting local game including woolly mammoths, camels and giant sloths. As these critters were hunted to extinction, the locals turned to farming and evolved into an agrarian culture known as the Virgin Anasazi. The Paiutes moved in when the Anasazi migrated south, and then the Mormons settled alongside the Paiutes in the mid-1800s (that’s when the area received its biblical moniker). Archeologists are still finding evidence of these earlier civilizations. These earlier folks were moving into Zion around the same time that the indigenous peoples were creating the cave paintings in Baja.
A wide-angle photo of SR 9 winding through Zion National Park.One of the tunnels through Zion’s mountains along Utah SR 9.
The Great Depression brought great change in the 1930s, and Franklin Roosevelt’s Civilian Conservation Corps built roads and added upgrades to make the park more accessible. The Virgin River cut deeply through sandstone to create magnificent channels and impressive geologic formations, and the CCC work made these areas easier to reach. For most people, a visit to Zion is to see the sights from the valley floor, but you can also take a half-day excursion up the western edge of the park on Kolob Reservoir Road. From there, you can look down into Zion for a completely different and equally magnificent perspective of the area.
Good buddy Rob, Willie, and more on a ride through Zion National Park.
Let’s talk about the ride — more superlatives are in order here. From any direction, you’ll know you are approaching a magical area. Antelope. Deer. Brilliant blue skies. Magnificent forests. Stunning mountains; it’s all here. From Southern California, you’ll experience tantalizing two-wheeled treats as Interstate 15 cuts through the canyons carved by the Virgin River. Riding in from Arizona’s Grand Canyon region southeast of Zion, the roads are similarly magnificent. And if you’re riding in from Bryce Canyon National Park to the northeast, well, you get the idea. This is one destination that has to be on the bucket list.
An easy ride from southern California…just take I-15 north and exit at Utah SR 9.
Zion National Park is an easy one-day freeway ride from southern California. Grab Interstate 10 East, then I-15 North through Nevada into Utah, to Utah Route 9 East (as you see in the above map). From the south, pick up State Route 89 North in Flagstaff and watch for the signs where Route 89 crosses 9 West before Mt. Carmel, Utah. From the northeast, it’s I-70 West and grab the exit for Route 89 South.
Looking up from the floor of Zion National Park. In Zion, you are mostly in the canyons looking up.
As mentioned above, unlike Bryce Canyon or the Grand Canyon (two National Parks in which you look down into the rock formations), at
Zion you are in the canyon looking up. For a different Zion perspective, take the Kolob Reservoir Road from the north to see things looking down into Zion. Check weather conditions first, as the road climbs to over 8,000 feet and may be impassible during the winter months. Kolob Terrace Road begins in Virgin, Utah, about 13 miles west of Springdale. Look for the sign to the Kolob Reservoir.
If you’re looking for a good place to eat, Casa de Amigos Restaurant in Springdale, just before you enter Zion from the south, is a good spot (the shredded chicken burritos are my favorite). It may be a victim of the pandemic, as Google indicated it was closed temporarily. If you enter Zion from the east, Mt. Carmel is the last town before you reach the Park and there are several restaurants and hotels there.
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If you would like to learn more about our 5000-mile christening ride through the American West on Chinese 250cc motorcycles, pick up a copy of 5000 Miles At 8000 RPM.
They say time flies and that’s corny-true but I think time accelerates the closer you get to the end. We have been living on Tinfiny Ranch for 6 years now and I have missed the Prairie Dawgs Tarantula 100 desert race each of those years. It seemed like there was always something that needed doing or I was off somewhere else. I usually hear about the race after it has run and say to myself: I’ve got to make it down to mile marker 45 and check it out next year.
This year was the someday year. My old high school chum Greg was in town so we burbled Brumby down Highway 54 early Sunday to catch the second day of Prairie Dawg action. The event is held at a huge off-road playpen about halfway between El Paso and Alamogordo. When we first moved to La Luz I attended a Prairie Dawg club meeting. They were a great bunch of guys and gals (another of those things I keep meaning to do is join The Dawgs). I’m not real big on organized motorcycle events preferring instead to toss about on the floor picking up cat hair like a gigantic sticky lint roller. To enter a race, to pre-run the course, to get in physical shape so that I could hold on to a bucking 1971 Yamaha 360 for 100 miles of desert seems like a lot of effort.
Effort that could be better spent consuming beer and eating beef jerky in the warm February New Mexico sunshine. So that’s what me and Greg did. We arrived on a perfect day just as the riders meeting was ending and wasted no time getting to the start line. The PD riders lined up according to class. The start is dead-engine. When the flagman, who gave no 30-second board or hint of when he was going to drop the flag, gave the signal you had to start your bike and off you go. It was so unexpected I missed several photos. With the dead-engine start, the electric start bikes had a bit of an advantage over the kick start bikes.
The race is run in 50-mile loops. When the riders come back through the pit area they ride underneath a red, pipefitting type of arch where the transponder records their time. We had a bit of a wait after the last class was on their way so we got our chairs, beer and beef jerky and settled down to discuss how old we were getting, the various ailments we were suffering under and to try and remember some long ago event that the other guy was reminiscing about.
One hour later the first of the Pro Class arrived at the transponder. Most everyone took on a gallon of gas, a swig of water and were on their way for the second lap. Some guys pushed their bikes under the yellow pit-tape ribbon and called it a day. Greg and I set up behind a hill at a spot that had a good view of the last mile or so of the course and the red transponder arbor. Some pits were located before the transponder, some after, but I guess it didn’t matter as the second lap was the one that counted. The sun beat down, the early morning chill was long gone, and our world became a balmy 70-degree red dirt sand dune. We shed our jackets and settled into a mellow, New Mexico low simmer.
Greg was heading to Fort Stockton, Texas later in the day so we decided to hang around until the first youth-class rider completed his lap. That came around 2 hours into the race or almost exactly twice the time it took the first pro-class rider. We folded up our chairs, shook the sand off and went back to the Alamogordo Moose Lodge where Greg had left his gigantic motorhome. I read later on the Prairie Dawg’s Facebook page that there was some trouble with the scoring system and I’m not real sure who won. I figure why mess up such a nice day out with accounting issues.
I don’t know if I’ll ever compete in the Tarantula 100. I’m still able to trail ride all day long but can only make about 2 miles at race pace. Staying up to speed for 100 miles would leave me rubbery-armed with blood pooled in my calves. I don’t want to take that helicopter ride. There is a 60+ class but those guys looked pretty fit. Maybe they’ll let me enter the mini-cycle class. Pouring concrete would be easy in comparison.
A wise man once said there comes a time in every man’s life when he decides to hang it up…his riding days are over. Ignoring the sexist tone of that gender-specific comment, I guess the follow-on comment has to be: Or does there?
I turned 71 a few months ago. To a lot of folks, that’s old. The funny part of it is, though, I don’t feel old. A little earlier today I was putzing around in the garage and my Royal Enfield was making me feel guilty. I hadn’t had the 650 twin out on the road in the last few weeks, a character deficiency I promptly corrected. The old girl and I had a nice ride around the neighborhood, I got the oil circulating again (in the Enfield and in yours truly), and I snapped that great photo you see at the top of this blog. That’s snow-covered Big Bear you see off in the distance, a destination I’ve visited many times on a motorcycle.
But to get back on topic: At what age should we think about hanging up our riding gear? Now that I’m a septuagenarian (I had to look it up, so you can, too) I’m wondering about things like that. But then I think about the guys I’ve ridden with and maybe I’ll continue riding for another 20 years or so. Take a look.
Simon Gandolfi, who just turned 90 and is arguably the most interesting man in the world, is a novelist and moto adventurer extraordinaire. He’s ridden around the world on small displacement bikes.Colorado Dan, the man. He cuts a dashing figure and is a great traveling companion. He’s a year or two older than me.Another most interesting man in the world…good buddy Willie. He’s usually riding when he’s not pitching Dos Equis.James, our Texas Ranger and a serious traveler, is in my cohort and he rode Baja with us.
You know, the funny thing is the tone of the conversations during and after a good ride hasn’t changed at all over the nearly six decades I’ve been riding. The topics have changed a bit, but not really that much. We still mostly talk bikes and good roads. But instead of bragging how drunk we were the previous night and who we spent the night with (which was mostly bullshit, anyway) the topics today address different specs. Instead of 0 to 60 times, quarter mile performance, and top ends, now it’s things like our A1C, PSA, and HDL numbers. You fellow geezers know what I’m talking about. But the discussions are just as lively, I think a little more interesting, and probably a bit more truthful. We’ll touch on politics on occasion, but if the conversation gets too heated or goes too far in that direction, I can always get us back on track (and get a good laugh) when I weigh in with a single question:
You guys know what the problem is in politics today? All the guys who really know how to run the country are out screwing around riding their motorcycles.
So, at what age should you hang it up? I’m finding that’s hard to say and most guys my age and older seem to just keep on going. I’ve ridden with guys well into their 70s, 80s, and sometimes even more. Good buddy Dan is heading down to Baja next month to camp on the beach near Gonzaga Bay, and he’s a little older than me. Sim0n Gandolfi, the British novelist and adventure travel writer, rode to Cabo San Lucas and back with us on 150cc CSC Mustangs about a dozen years ago, and he’s about to leave on another epic moto trip at age 90. James from Texas bought a new motorcycle and rode one of the Baja trips with us. He spun off somewhere about halfway down the length of the Baja peninsula to take the ferry across to mainland Mexico, and he was going to ride home to Texas through Mexico. And Willie, another most interesting man in the world, rides every chance he gets when he’s not doing Dos Equis commercials. Like me, all of these guys qualify for that 89-cent cup of coffee at McDonald’s.
Yeah, I think I’m going to stay at it for a while. I think you should, too.
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The best riding in the world? In my opinion, it’s unquestionably Baja. Take a look!
Utah, hands down, is the most beautiful state in the Union. I’ve been to every state in the US except North Dakota, and unless there’s something hiding up there, Utah gets my vote. There are places in Utah with scenery and riding that are as close as you can get to heaven without a one-way ticket. There’s Zion National Park (to be covered in a future blog), there’s Bryce Canyon National Park, Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument, and Capitol Reef National Park (which I’ll cover in this blog), there’s Cedar Breaks National Park (a topic for a future blog), there’s Kodachrome Basin State Park (another future blog), there’s Flaming Gorge National Park (that’s coming up in another blog), and there’s Arches National Park (to be yet another blog). And then there’s the Dinosaur Highway. I’ve been to all of them, and I’m telling you, if you like road trips it doesn’t get any better than Utah.
Panguitch on the western end of this trip, and Hanksville on the eastern end. It is a grand ride.
There’s a reason I’m touching on Bryce, Grand Staircase-Escalante, and Capitol Reef in one blog. Two reasons, actually: State Routes 12 and 24. These two roads run through all three National Parks, and they are two of the best roads I’ve ever ridden. If you want to plan this grand adventure, start in Panguitch, ride Utah SR 12 and 24, and spend the following night in Hanksville, Utah. I’ve got good places to have dinner in both towns, and I’ll share them with you in this blog. It’s a full day’s ride to get from one to the other (maybe longer if you want to stop and see the sights).
The large featured photo at the top of this blog is in Bryce Canyon National Park. This is another photo in Bryce. Unlike Zion ((where you are in a basin looking up at the rock formations), in Bryce you are up top looking down into the colorful canyon. Bryce has stunning views.
This is the most beautiful stretch of the planet I’ve ever ridden. The colors and the riding are stunning. Think bright blue skies, vibrant and verdant pine trees, and multi-colored pastel rock formations. The formations include stunning pinnacles called hoodoos, plus arches, large rock mounds, exposed vermillion cliffs and monstrous domes and folds in the Earth’s surface. Although the region was once alive with dinosaurs, you most likely won’t see fossils. But you will see an artist’s palette of pleasing pastels: reds, pinks and browns due to iron in the sandstone, yellows and creams created by limonite, and purples presented by pyrolusite. Whatever the chemistry, the display through this stretch is dazzling.
The spot for dinner in Panguitch is the Cowboy’s Smoke House Cafe. You’ll probably have to wait to get in. Trust me: It’s worth it.
You can ride US 89 from Panguitch to pick up SR 12 at its western end. Head east and in just a few miles you’ll be at Bryce Canyon National Park. Bryce is one of America’s jewels, with hoodoos arranged in several natural amphitheaters. An early morning start will help capture dramatic photos; the sun will be low in the eastern sky and the resultant lighting makes the colors pop. Native American Paiutes thought these hoodoos were ancestors turned to stone. Take a long look at some of these formations and you’ll see why.
Stay on SR 12 after Bryce and you’ll skirt Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument on tantalizing twisties. All of SR 12 is breathtaking; it is something out of a dream. It takes you through a series of red rock formations and then winds along a ridge with sheer drops on either side. Forget about guard rails and shoulders; you’ll feel as if you are riding the sky. Cook a corner too fast on this stretch and you’ll wish you were wearing a parachute. This area, more than any other I have ever ridden, is a near-religious experience.
The red rocks of Utah along SR 12.It was tough to keep going on Utah SR 12…I wanted to stop after every corner for photos.One of many scenes along Utah SR 12. You need to ride this road. It’s one of the best.
State Route 12 tees into SR 24, but you’ll be able to see Capitol Reef National Park long before you get to SR 24. Head east on SR 24 toward Hanksville and you’ll ride through much of the accessible portion of Capitol Reef. It’s perhaps the least known of Utah’s national parks, but its scenery is as stunning as any of the other parks.
Capitol Reef and Utah SR 24.
Only a portion of Capitol Reef is visible from SR 24, but it is outstanding. Hundreds of miles of unpaved roads into Capitol Reef offer similar scenic views. The park’s unique white sandstone domes (similar to the U.S. Capitol building) were formed by a warp in the Earth’s crust 65 million years ago. “Reef” refers to any barrier to travel, and when you see these formations, you’ll certainly understand the name.
Another scene along SR 24 heading east.Gabriel, Juan Carlos, and Uncle Joe along SR 24 after rolling through Capitol Reef. We rode 5000 miles through the western United States on brand new 250cc CSC motorcycles. It was a great ride with great guys.
State Route 24 follows the Fremont River through Capitol Reef National Park, and as it twists and turns on its way to Hanksville, you’ll be thanking me for turning you on to these very special roads. The Whispering Sands hotel is a good, clean place to spend the night, and Duke’s Slickrock Grill is a great place for dinner. Try the trout; it’s wonderful. And don’t miss the photo op standing next to Duke.
Want to discover more great moto destinations? We’ve got you covered!
On my most recent content safari we visited New York, New Jersey, and Pennsylvania. That’s why you’ve seen blogs for Niagara Falls and Steamtown National Historic Site. We had a Chevy Blazer in fire engine red, and it was comfortable and fuel efficient.
We rolled into Corning, New York, a company town if ever there was one. Corning’s population is a scant 10,696 people, and many of them work for the Corning company. The roads in upstate, rural New York were beautiful, and we were there while the leaves were changing color. Our destination was the Corning Museum of Glass. Corning is home to the Corning corporation. I knew it would have photo ops, especially after our visit to the Chihuly Garden and Glass exhibit in Seattle a couple of years ago. Take a look:
I wanted Italian food for dinner that evening and in a quick online search we found what promised to be a good spot. When we arrived the Italian place was closed. So we went with a less high-tech, old-fashioned approach for selecting where to eat. We walked around downtown Corning and looked for a place that was crowded.
Mooney’s answered the mail. It’s a bar that also serves food. The menu mentioned a Reuben (I love Reuben sandwiches), but the waiter explained that their Reuben was different. Mooney’s specialty is macaroni and cheese, and they had a Reuben-based mac and cheese dish. He suggested the appetizer portion, and that worked.
My dinner was huge, and even with help from my wife and sister, we only could take in about half of it. It was a high end, gourmet mac and cheese (who knew such a thing even existed?) with bits of pastrami mixed in and toasted rye cubes on top. Wow, it was delicious!
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