Whoa, it’s another photo safari in Death Valley! It was to be a Subie CrossTrek adventure this time, and we did it in single day…up early in the morning, a 200-mile run to Death Valley, and then a long ride home. I told good buddy Greg about our plans, Greg mentioned that even though he is a California native he never been to Death Valley, and we were off at 4:00 a.m. on a dark and cold morning a couple of days after Christmas in 2013. I had just bought the CrossTrek, and it was a good way to put on a few breakin miles. I could give you a detailed itinerary for our ride, but I’ll let the photos and a few short captions speak for themselves.
The Gleesome Threesome…yours truly, Susie, and good buddy Greg rolling into Death Valley on a cold and bright December morning.A scenic and iconic Death Valley photograph: Badwater Basin. Look up 300 feet, and you’ll see the photo below.282 feet above my vantage point. I must have used a telephoto lens.The lowdown at Badwater Basin.Exercising Photoshop. I stitched together a few photos from Badwater Basin to create this shot.Another stitched-together photo from Badwater. That’s Greg off on the right. I should have left the polarizer off.Somewhere in the Valley.Greg pondering stacked rocks out on the desert floor. You see this (stacked rocks) frequently. I need to Google what it represents.A road shot with the camera just a few inches off the highway. These sell. Go figure.The CrossTrek at Artist’s Palette. The CrossTrek was a great car. I put about 120,000 miles on it and then traded it in on another Subaru.We had lunch at the Furnace Creek Inn, and shortly before turning off the road, we saw this guy. He is obviously well fed.As soon as we sat down for lunch at the Furnace Creek Inn, this guy landed a couple feet away. We had just seen the coyote. I asked the roadrunner if he owned anything made by Acme, or if he was being chased by old Wiley. He responded with but two words: Beep Beep.Another panoramic shot I stitched together of the Death Valley desert floor.Panamint Springs petroleum larceny.A final splash of color as we left the Death Valley area headed for Highway 395 and the long run home.
I’m a fan of Death Valley National Park, and if you’re into this sort of thing and you enjoy photography, Death Valley is a magnificent destination. That December day back in 2013 was long but colorful, and I’d do it again in a heartbeat.
I don’t know if it’s true (and in today’s environment I don’t even care if it’s true) but I read somewhere that ATVs are outselling motorcycles. This makes sense as ATVs or Quads or whatever you want to call the things are low-skill devices that anyone can ride off road.
Back in the early 1970’s the big boom in motorcycling was started in the dirt. Kids like you and me bought mini bikes and enduros by the zillions. An entire industry sprang to life and that industry supported all levels of riding. Collectively, we learned the difficult art of steering a wiggling motorcycle across sand and mud and rocks. It wasn’t easy. It took a lot of talent to keep from crashing and we lost a lot of good people to concentration lapses or simple bad luck.
The first ATVs were 3-wheeled contraptions that took even more skill than motorcycles to ride in the dirt. It didn’t take long for manufacturers to figure out 4 wheels were a lot more stable than 3 and that was the beginning of the end for motorcycles in America.
Since children cannot operate motorcycles on the street, dirt bikes were like a Pop Warner league feeding well-trained riders into the Bigs: The Pavement. Harried on all sides by nearly unconscious automobile drivers our generation’s ability to ride a motorcycle in that buoyant area beyond the limits of traction became a right handy survival skill. And so a huge bubble of capable motorcycle riders surged through the land buying motorcycles at a clip never before seen.
Meanwhile, the Quads kept getting bigger and safer while dirt bikes were safety-limited by their very design: They fell over. Anyone can steer a quad. It takes no skill whatsoever to trundle along following the huge ruts made by thousands of other quads. Trails were ruined by the excessive width and sheer quantity of idiots driving their miniature cars. Dirt bikes were hard to ride and safety concerns overtook the nation’s parents. As ATV’s filled the forests the available pool of motorcycle riders dwindled. The farm system began to dry up.
Now, Quads cost $25,000 and are the size of Jeeps. Four people fit comfortably strapped into a steel cage, safe from the environment they go about destroying. ATVs can go almost anywhere their bubblegum tires will support the vehicle’s weight and the weight of their passengers. Automatic transmissions erased the last vestige of talent needed to explore off road. On the trails I ride kids on motorcycles are the exception not the rule. Sometimes I can go all day and see nothing but quads. How many kids raised in a cocoon of steel bars would be crazy enough to start riding a motorcycle on the street? We know the answer: Very few.
It’s not the cost of new motorcycles; there are plenty of cheap bikes available. It’s not Gen X, Y, or Z being too chicken or into their cell phones. It’s not branding. It’s not lack of riding areas. None of these things killed motorcycles.
A safer, easier to operate dirt machine was built and human nature did the rest. ATV’s are capturing the kids at their most impressionable age. Motorcycles are not. Nothing we can do will reverse that trend.
The call we put out earlier about sending a photo and describing your first bike was answered almost immediately by our good buddy and YooHoo aficionado Fred. Check this out, boys and girls:
JOE!
There was a Tecumseh-powered Mini-Bike before this one, but I consider my Yamaha Mini-Enduro to be my first REAL motorcycle (picture attached). I put 100’s a miles a day on it in the woods around Woodstock Connecticut and Sturbridge Massachusetts….especially in the woods around Bigelow Hollow State Park – got lost in there more times than I care to remember!
Note how skinny I used to be…..Mom wasn’t stocking up on the Yoo-Hoo for me…..
Fred
We wrote to Fred and asked what he’s riding today, and here’s his answer:
Only the finest motorcycle known to man (or woman) – my trusty 2007 Caspian Blue Triumph Tiger 1050 – pic attached.
Over 76,000 trouble-free miles and smiles from North (Nova Scotia) to South (Florida) and West (Arkansas) and back East (Connecticut).
And it’s got PLENTY of storage for the Yoo-Hoo.
Fred
Fred, we admire your choice in your first motorcycle, your current motorcycle, and of course, beverages. I used to ride a Caspian Blue Tiger as well; mine was a 2006 and I loved it. Thanks for writing and ride safe.
So how about the rest of our riders and readers? Does anyone else care to share their first ride with us? Write to us at info@exhaustnotes.us!
A road that dates back to before the Revolutionary Way, and one used by our Continental Army to defeat the Brits.
Last August I was back in New Jersey for my 50th high school reunion. I visited and wrote a short blog about the Princeton Battlefield State Park, and that turned into a Destinations piece for Motorcycle Classics magazine. It’s in print and online, and you can read it here. Better yet, buy a copy of the January/February 2020 issue. You’ll like it.
You know, New Jersey is not a state that springs to mind when considering great motorcycle rides, but they are there. I grew up in that part of the world, and it has resulted in three pieces in Motorcycle Classics about rides in and through different parts of New Jersey. Even in the highly-developed central Jersey region, there are more than a few rural roads and great riding if you know where to look for it. I used to love riding those roads when I lived back there. The New Jersey seafood and the pizza are beyond comparison, too. It’s the best in the world.
I guess that brings me to my first motorcycle, which was a modified Honda Super 90. I wasn’t old enough to drive yet, but that didn’t slow me down. I rode that thing all over no matter what the weather.
A 1965 Honda Super 90, and yours truly at age 14. Nothing slowed us down in those days.
How about you? What was your first bike, and where did you ride it? Got a photo? Send it in and tell us about it, and we’ll publish it here on ExNotes. Email it to us at info@ExhaustNotes.us!
You guys will remember good buddy Chris C., an RX3 and RX4 rider and a loyal blog reader. I was shocked when I received this email from him a day or two ago:
Hi Joe.
Just wanted to drop you a quick note about my recent time in the hospital.
Doctors found a benign tumor in my head and I underwent successful surgery to have it removed.
Exactly 1 week after surgery I was riding a bicycle, and 2 weeks after surgery I was riding my RX4. Don’t tell my doctor. The first thing I did after surgery was catch up on reading ExhaustNotes blog.
You know, after brain surgery I seem to have found deeper meaning in Gresh’s blog posts.
Feel free to use any of this and the attached photo in the ExhaustNotes blog.
Chris
Wow, Chris, I am so glad you got through this okay. You have our best wishes for a continuing successful and speedy recovery, and thanks so much for writing to us.
I mentioned my Bulova Lunar Pilot watch (one we’ve done a blog on before) to one of my gun buddies, and he told me that he had the Omega version of that watch.
The Omega Speedmaster on the left, and my Bulova Lunar Pilot on the right. The Omega is a tiny bit smaller, which I prefer.A closer shot of the Omega. It has a curved crystal, which made photographing it without glare a bit of a challenge.The back of the Omega. It’s a classy watch.
Actually, it would be more appropriate to call mine the Bulova version of the Omega watch, as the Omega was the first in space and the Bulova came later almost accidentally. You can read that story here. Also, my Bulova is a reissued, modified design of the Accutron watch astronaut Dave Scott wore on his Apollo flight. My buddy’s Omega is a faithful duplicate of the original Speedmaster worn on the Moon. The Omega is a much more expensive mechanical watch, and it is a very classy item. The Omega Speedmaster sells for thousands of dollars; I paid $275 for my Bulova.
Ah, we’ve got a lot of good stuff coming up on the blog. Most significantly, Uncle Joe is thinking about getting back on the Zed resurrection. Send us your comments; we need to keep the pressure on Arjiu to make that happen.
More good blog stuff is in the works, too. Good buddy Don wrote and asked about the .257 Weatherby No. 1. I have that rifle back from Ruger. The boys in New Hampshire put a nice piece of Circassian walnut on it to replace the cracked stock, and it shoots great with a load good buddy Mississippi Dave recommended. Watch for that story soon. I’ve got more fun in front of me sorting the Garand’s habit of throwing the first shot of each clip low left, and I’ll write about it here. And a story requested by good buddy James on the XP100 Remington (I actually owned one of those in the 1970s chambered for the 30×223 cartridge). And here’s another gun-related topic: We’re thinking of a postal match…you know, a match where you shoot your target and mail it to us. If you’re interested in participating in something like that, let us know.
We’ve got a movie review coming about The Great Raid (spoiler alert…that movie was great), and a book review about A.J. Baime’s The Arsenal of Democracy (it’s the best book I’ve read this year). There’s the always moving to the right YooHoo review (hang in there, Fred; it’s coming). There’s more watch stuff coming, too. I love my Gear’d Hardware watch, and I’m becoming a real fan of the Casio G-Shock watches.
There’s more motorcycle stuff in the works, too. I’ve been dreaming about getting back to Baja again, either on one of my CSC bikes or perhaps something different. I want to look at the Triumphs again; I’ve always loved their motorcycles. I think I can talk CSC into letting me take a WIZ (whoa, that doesn’t sound right) for a ride. I won’t take a WIZ to Baja (it’s an electric scooter), but it looks like it would be a hoot to ride locally. The challenge is finding one; CSC sells them as soon as they get them in stock. It seems everyone wants to take a WIZ.
We keep talking about making a political comment or two, but hell, no matter what we say we’d upset half our readership. We had one guy actually bitch about one of the pop-up ads that appear on our site mentioning President Trump, and he had his shorts in a knot about that (off to your safe space, Snowflake, and that ain’t here). For the record, we don’t control the pop-up ads (the ads appear based on the site’s content, your location, your prior website visits, and other secret stuff that goes into a supersecret algorithm that only God and Google know about). It’s interesting but unknowable for us mere mortals, but in any event, if an ad appears talking about something that pisses you off, don’t blame us. And if you really get upset, hell, click on the ad. Then they have to pay. And do you know who they pay? It ain’t Trump!
Well, maybe all this is too controversial. I’ll go to a safe topic and not ruffle any feathers. Maybe something about Indian motorcycles and their lineage. Yeah, that’s the ticket.
Click the comments section of any post regarding the Indian Motorcycle Company and someone will be bitching that Polaris Indians are not real Indians. Within the first three or four replies you’ll see an outraged commenter laying out the perjury case on Indian. “It’s a lie!” they stammer. “Indian went out of business in 1953!” Along with constitutional scholars and threats of civil war Polaris Haters infest the Internet. Their selective-amnesia purity code and compulsion to complain loudly every time Indian tries to sell a motorcycle borders on fanatical. You couldn’t pay enough to get people so determined.
Clymer’s Enfield Indian from the 1960’s. One of the best-looking Indians ever.
Since it is presently impossible to go back in time to right all wrongs the Indian Haters would rather see Indian go out of business. Again. If the Haters are in a generous mood they may offer renaming the company as a way back into their good graces. Mind you, they still wouldn’t buy anything from parent company Polaris because they hate them too. I don’t see why Indian should give a rat’s ass about what these goofy product-junkies think. Indian is busy building motorcycles, not engaging in petty, low-effort Internet attempts to tear down other people’s hard work.
The thing that really riles the troops is when Indian puts 100-year badges on their bikes. The loonies go apoplectic. To them, an unbroken corporate line from 1903 to the present is the only acceptable scenario for Indian to exist. With the old brands like Norton, Triumph, Ossa and Benelli being bought up the Haters will have plenty of companies to be angry with for a long, long time.
Mid-1970’s Italian made Indian dirt bike.
The Haters aren’t solely responsible for the black hole at the center of their hearts. Vast quantities of intellectual capital have been expended on brand building in this country and in some cases it worked too well. We have created a monstrous humanity more concerned with defending brand-authenticity at the expense of reality. Haters have been sold to for so long that they actually care about the logo on a gas tank. It’s misplaced consumer loyalty created by Ned in the advertising department and it’s sad to see in action.
A Velocette-engined Indian that should drive the purists crazy.
Who cares what happened to Indian 70 years ago? Who cares how many times the company has passed through shifty hands? Who cares if clone engines were used or Italians made Harleys or if Clymer used Royal Enfields? Who cares about any of it? It’s a friggin’ motorcycle company, not a pledge of allegiance. When the history of the world is finally written the trinkets we bought to amuse ourselves will not even warrant a footnote. All you need to concern yourself with is that the Indian brand started in 1903 and here it is nearly 2020 and you can still buy a damn good American-made motorcycle with Indian written on the side of the gas tank. There’s your continuity, Bub.
I’m not a huge fan of Georgia O’Keeffe artwork. Her realistic paintings are well done but the fluffy subjects and flower erotica don’t appeal to my mechanical mind. The bright colors and simple shapes of her later work seem too easy, like anyone could do it. Except anyone didn’t. I suspect art is more complex than a watery brushstroke or an eye for color. It takes a lived life to steer that brush and experience to make the strokes tell meaningful stories. Art matters if people believe it matters and O’Keeffe’s stuff mattered to a lot of people.
Tradesmen like me are work-blind to creation. Wiping a solder joint to leave a clean copper pipe, or combing a bundle of wire so that each conductor peels off in the correct order is as close to art as we get. It’s a tunnel vision that divides hours into effort, a relentless pursuit of money and the next job and then the next. Until you either break down or die.
You can train a tradesman, repetition is the secret to success, but an artist must be born. O’Keeffe was an artist and the way she lived her life was a sort of performance art. She moved to New Mexico in 1949 at the then ripe old age of 62 and spent the next 36 years doing just what she wanted to do. Abiquiu, her home west of Santa Fe was a crumbling wreck when she bought it. The places she stayed became famous simply because she stayed there. She bequeathed to New Mexico a bounty of tourism and spawned museums and visitor centers all around the Santa Fe area.
Her place in Abiquiu is a traditional New Mexico adobe house. It has no interior hallways. To get from one room to the next you have to go through another room. Or maybe 4 other rooms depending on how far you are going. It’s not unusual to go through a bedroom, a kitchen and a pantry to get to a main salon. Every room has a door that exits to the outside: You never get trapped in an adobe. A central courtyard open to the sky lies in the middle of the house and the roof slopes towards this courtyard.
The houses were built this way in stages. Maybe one or two rooms to start off with then tacking on extra rooms as money and demand became available. The oldest section of O’Keeffe’s place is from the mid-1800s and the newest probably the 1970s. That’s over 100 years of creeping progress. The flooring transitions from from original smooth dirt soaked with egg yolks to bind the granules all the way to concrete with rug.
In the recent past people started restoring adobe houses with wire mesh and a Portland cement based plaster. It turns out this is the worse thing to do to adobe. The concrete pulls away from the adobe taking the wall with it. Then moisture and mineral salts wick up into the wall because the concrete doesn’t breathe like mud or lime. It turns into a crumbling mess. If you don’t want the expense of lime plaster, the only way to restore adobe is with more adobe. You slather fresh mud onto the exterior walls on a regular schedule to replace the mud that was ablated during wind or rainstorms. It’s a never ending process but if you stay on top of it your adobe house can last thousands of years. O’Keeffe’s place was concreted at some point. I fear the walls will turn to mush and salts will bleed through the interior walls.
Nothing lasts forever and one day Abiquiu will melt back into the same earth it came from but I hope the artwork created there leaves behind traces, a slight disturbance, a vibration that makes some future traveler pause and wonder what grand endeavors took place way out here in the New Mexico desert.
Leaving Death Valley headed to Shoshone, California.
I just returned from a road trip and our last day was in Death Valley, California. I’m embarrassed to admit that I had lived in California for more than 30 years before I ever made the trek to Death Valley (that first trip was on my KLR 650). I’ve been there five times now, traveling on different bikes and in different cars. Death Valley is probably my favorite California destination. I thought I would do a blog about this latest trip and then I realized: Death Valley is a story that takes more than a single blog. To get things started, here’s a link to a Destinations piece I did on Death Valley 11 years ago for Motorcycle Classics magazine. There’s lots more coming, folks, so stay tuned.
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Okay, we’re not becoming a movie review site. Gresh did that one on Ford vs. Ferrari, I offered The 24 Hour War, then I watched The Irishman and reviewed it, and good buddy Gonzo recommended the new Mr. Rogers movie with Tom Hanks, A Beautiful Day In The Neighborhood. We hit a lot of rain and snow on a recent trip, Susie suggested seeing the Tom Hanks flick, and off to the movies we went. And this is a review of that movie. But, like I said, we’re not a movie review site.
A Beautiful Day In The Neighborhood was not what I was expecting, and it was way more than a movie about Fred Rogers’ life. Hanks was superb in the role (that guy has never let me down in any movie, ever…he’s one of the best actors who ever lived, in my opinion). A Beautiful Day In The Neighborhood was intense and it was emotional. But it was good. Really good. There’s a masterfully executed subway scene that I particularly enjoyed, and I’m pretty sure you will, too.
The downsides? I thought a lot of the movie was out of focus (literally; the images were a bit on the blurry side). Some of that was intentional for artistic effects, but the producers went too far with it. Better to get things focused, I think. I found the Esquire article that inspired the movie and, to be blunt, I didn’t think the article that started the ball rolling was very good. That’s not intended to be a slam on the movie, though. The movie was great.
Click the comments section of any post regarding the Indian Motorcycle Company and someone will be bitching that Polaris Indians are not real Indians. Within the first three or four replies you’ll see an outraged commenter laying out the perjury case on Indian. “It’s a lie!” they stammer. “Indian went out of business in 1953!” Along with constitutional scholars and threats of civil war Polaris Haters infest the Internet. Their selective-amnesia purity code and compulsion to complain loudly every time Indian tries to sell a motorcycle borders on fanatical. You couldn’t pay enough to get people so determined.
