Harley – Page 2 – The ExhaustNotes Blog

Lobo

I recently posted a Wayback Machine blog on riding in the rain, and Carl Bennett (a new friend from the UK) added a comment about one of his rain rides. Carl’s input was interesting on several levels, one of which was the included web address. I poked around a bit on Carl’s site and found a blog post titled “Lobo.” Well, one thing led to another, with the result being Carl’s permission to publish “Lobo” here on ExNotes. I enjoyed reading it and I think you will, too.

– Joe Berk

By Carl Bennett

As a name for a motorcycle it’s okay. It means timber wolf, in Spanish, but maybe that means Mexican. Oooops, I meant Microsoft Spanish, for whom Spanish means Old Spanish. Obviously in global internet land, Microsoft’s 14-year-old-in-Ohio sensibilities reign supreme. Which is a whole other story. And this one is about me. Like all my others, as yours are all about you and Charles Dickens’ were about him. And especially Martin Amis’s were all about him. God, were they about him. I don’t know if he ever had a motorcycle. Hunter Thompson definitely had several, but as he wrote himself, Mister Kurz, he dead.

Lobo was the name of the band that sang A Dog Named Boo, so long ago that I can’t even admit I know the tune. I heard it during my formative years, the ones still a-forming.

Like Arlo Guthrie on his motorcycle I don’t want to die. Despite drinking kettle de-scaler yesterday morning, calling NHS 111 and having a not-great day thinking I might actually die of this, which wasn’t helped by eating a whole packet of spicy beetroot. I love that stuff, except they really ought to put a reminder on the packet of what happens when you look in the toilet bowl, to tell you that you almost certainly will live more than another three days and if you don’t, it won’t be anything to do with beetroots, unless a beetroot lorry runs you over. The gist being that I’d quite like to stay alive for the foreseeable future.

So obviously, I bought myself a motorcycle for Christmas. Unlike the song, although I’ve got my motor running, first time every time, but hey, it’s a BMW. On which I have no intention of hitting the highway like a battering ram, nor like anything else. What did you expect? I’ve absolutely no wish to hit the highway because I know from past experience it bloody hurts. Thankfully, my off-bike excursions were few and decidedly minor, but I remember spending an afternoon in Gene Fleck’s Meadow Inn bar in Wisconsin with the road closed while an emergency crew searched against the clock to find someone’s foot. I’d seen him and his girl earlier in the day on a Harley, riding like an accident looking for somewhere to happen, which it duly did.

I wasn’t prepared for the change. And no, that wasn’t why I got a motorcycle again. I did it because life is short. I did it because I wanted to smell the grass and the trees and the fields I passed through. I did it because I wanted to do it again before I die.

Where I began the process I laughingly call growing-up, there wasn’t any public transport to speak of. There were infrequent busses, taxis weren’t a thing for a 16 or 17-year-old in a Wiltshire town and even if being chauffeured to places by my Mummy was an option the way it seems to be for kids today, I’d have died of self-loathing to ask. Probably. After I had the lift, obviously. All of which meant that at 16 I did what was the fairly normal thing and bought a Yamaha FS1-E. It wasn’t just me. Look at the sales figures. Back then, you had a moped only as long as it took to get a motorcycle, which was your 17th birthday. Thanks to some bureaucratic insanity, or more likely in England, nobody could be bothered to check the sense of the rules, or read them properly, a 17-year-old could perfectly legally if predictably briefly stick a sidecar on a Kawasaki Z1, stick L-plates on it and set off for the obituary column of their local paper, when there were such things.

Not me, baby. I bought a Honda CB 175. I had an Army surplus shiny PVC button-up coat. It felt like, it looked like, it probably was something a dustman on a motorcycle would look like, as a friend of mine thoughtfully pointed out in case it was something I’d overlooked. It had to go, even though it didn’t very fast. I put it in the Wiltshire Times. Nobody even rang the phone number. I put the price up 30% the next week and got about 20 calls. I sold it to the first one who came to see it, even though he asked for a discount. Which he didn’t get. I didn’t bother to tell him about the 30% discount he could have had the week before.

Then it was probably my favourite bike, the Triumph T25, the kind of thing that now sells for over £4,000 any day of the week and which then you felt lucky if you could raise £200 on it. It was fun, and I learned some good lessons on it. One of them being that if you ignore that little triangular sign warning you there’s a junction ahead then you’ll go about three-quarters of the way across it before the twin-shoe Triumph brake stops you. Nothing came. Nothing did on back lanes around Tellisford in those days.

The Triumph got swapped for a Norton 500 that ran for two weeks out of the two years I had it. It sent me spinning down the road like a dead fly in Cardiff one black ice night, after I’d left the electric fire warmth of some girl’s flat (nothing doing there; never was, with anybody), lost the bike out from under me at about 5 mph, came to a halt against a parked car and had some Welshman peer down at me to tell me “Duh, it’s icy mind.” I left Wales as soon as I could and bought another Triumph, a real 1970s post-Easy-Rider identity crisis machine. It was a 650cc Tiger engine, shoehorned into a chrome-plated Norton Slimline frame. Instead of the rocker clip-ons you’d expect, it had highish handlebars and cut-off exhausts. Just header pipes in fact, but with Volkswagen Beetle mufflers smacked into them in a Bath carpark, with Halford’s slash-cut trim bolted on the ends. I wasn’t a rocker, but I thought it rocked.

It took two weeks to get the petrol tank the way I wanted it, a deep, deep black you could lose your soul in, sprayed on then sanded, sprayed on then sanded, sprayed on then sanded about fifteen times in the kitchen of my definitively smelly Southampton student flat, the kind of place that gave Ian McEwan the idea for The Cement Garden, only a bit less appealing. On the first trip out on that gloriously glossy bike I rode up to Salisbury, escorted by a girlfriend whose parents purported to believe that she had her own spare room at my university halls of residence, the ones I’d left months before. We got to her parents’ newish house in the summer sunlight, said hello, put the bike in the driveway. Then decided we’d go to a local pub because a) Wiltshire, b) nothing much else to do until her parents went out, or c) that’s what people did.

I started the bike, but it didn’t fire first time, so I tickled the Amal carburetor and tried again. There was no air filter on the carb – there often wasn’t in those days – so when it backfired the spurt of flame came straight out into the open air and set light to the petrol that had trickled down the outside of the carb float bowl. I appreciate that these are words that younger readers won’t even recognise, but we had to. I had my leather jacket on, a full-face Cromwell ACU gold-rated helmet, and long leather gloves, so I just reached down nonchalantly to switch the fuel tap to Off. No petrol, no fry, as Bob Marley didn’t sing. Except I didn’t turn the petrol off. I managed to pull the rubber petrol feed line off instead. The flames came up to chest level.

My first thought was to run for it, but my second was that I’d just put three gallons in the tank and I seriously doubted I could run faster than that. All I could think of to do was reach into the flames and turn the petrol tap off, so that’s what I did. I couldn’t see past my elbow in the flames, but it worked or I wouldn’t be telling this story. The insulation on the electrics had burned off so the horn was fused on until I got out my trusty Buck knife (something else we took entirely as normal in the West Country) and cut what was left of the wires. My girlfriend’s mother saw the whole thing from the kitchen. She waited until the flames had gone out before she came out to tell me I’d dropped oil on her driveway.

There was a break after that, for university and unhappily London then Aylesbury and Bath until luck and an unusual skillset saw me in Chicago, on a 650 Yamaha that might or might not have been technically stolen, blasting around Lakeshore Drive and the blue lights area, under half the city, overlooking some huge American river, me and an Italian buddy from summer camp on his bike, living if not the dream then certainly some kind of alternative reality. To this day I don’t know why I did that. No insurance, no clear provenance to the bike, certainly no observance of the speed limits, and only my trusty grey cardboard AA international driving licence that didn’t mention motorcycles. But nothing happened. Back then that was all that mattered.

A gap of some years and then a BMW R1000, a bike that vibrated so much that a trip from London to Wiltshire left me literally unable to make a sentence for about fifteen minutes. It felt good though, that lumpy, dumpy, so-solid bike. I traded that one for a Harley-Davidson Sportster which is what I thought was the ultimate motorcycle ought to be before I found out that I needed to spend £200 a month pretty much every month to get it the way it ought to have left the factory before their accountants had a say in the recommended retail price. It got stolen, we recovered it and instead of putting it back in showroom metal flake purple turned it jet black, bored it out to 1200, and put Brembo four-pot brakes and a fuel-injector on it before it transmogrified into a laptop and a laser printer, when laser printers were a long way from the couple of hundred a good one is now.

And somehow that was 30 years ago. This time the iron horse is a BMW F650, almost as old as when I stopped riding for a while, but with a documented 13,000 miles on it. My idea of common sense says changing the oil and the filter and swapping out the original brake lines and replacing them with stainless steel would first of all look cool but possibly more importantly, be quite a sensible way of not relying on thirty year old rubber. I mean, would you? On any Saturday night?

In the intervening coughty years I’ve either sold or given away my original Schott jacket, the gloves, the Rukka, the Ashman Metropolitan Police long boots and the Belstaff scrambler boots. The Cromwell helmet and the Bell 500 open-face are long gone. I need everything, from the toes upwards and I find that most of the names I grew up with such as Ashman or Cromwell just don’t exist any more. I bought another Bell, but a full-face ACU gold Sharp 5-rated lid this time. I got some gloves, some chain lube and a tube of Solvol Autosol to keep the chrome shiny. I found some leather jeans and my old not-Schott jacket that I bought in Spain and after only three applications of neatsfoot oil and old-fashioned dubbin and hanging it over a radiator it’s now soft enough to be wearable and looks, I think, pretty darned good, even if it doesn’t have a single CE rating to its name. I’ve skipped the red Hermetite that used to decorate every pseudo-serious biker’s jeans.

Of the kids I knew that got in Bad Trouble on a bike, one was drunk and showing off. He died. My cousin lost his job and an inch off one leg when he was swiped by a car that ignored him on a roundabout. One in Wiltshire rode his bike under a combine harvester. He died too. It wasn’t really funny and I try not to think of him looking like SpongeBob SquarePants, with his arms and legs sticking out of the straw. He’d had a 20-year break from bikes and had just picked up an early retirement pension payoff. He didn’t read the T&Cs that said you still can’t ride like an arse. The American guy I didn’t ride around Chicago with lost his foot and they didn’t find it in time to put it back on. For all I know it’s still in a field in Wisconsin.

CE-rated armour wouldn’t have helped a single one of them. I’m certainly not saying safety gear isn’t worth the effort, or I wouldn’t have specced out my new helmet so carefully. But motorcycles aren’t the safest thing. You have to watch your sides, your front and what’s underneath you, as well as your back.

Like what you read hear? Check out (and subscribe to) Carl Bennett’s blog at Writer-Insighter.com!

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Imperial Police Harleys

My old man drove an Imperial for a couple of years. In the early days, Dad always bought his cars used, and our dark green 4-door ’56 Imperial was no exception. The car was monstrously huge and it rode as if it were floating on air. I remember one time we were all in the car when it lost its steering. Something mechanical came undone and we ended up in a cornfield, of which there were many in rural central New Jersey in the late 1950s. I can’t remember if that’s why Dad sold the Imperial or if it was something else, but I remember the car. And that’s why when I came across this YouTube video I knew I had to share it with you.

The sales approach back in those days was a little different than what we might see in an advertisement today. These are two more Imperial videos that I think are cool.

This next one, which obviously had as its target market rich old white guys who never went anywhere without a police motorcycle escort, is especially cool (and it fits with our theme of occasionally providing interesting motorcycle content).

So there you have it: 1950s Chrysler Imperial advertising and more. And hey, if you were intrigued by those police Harleys in the video above, pick up your own copy of The Complete Book of Police and Military Motorcycles.

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The Motorado Vintage Motorcycle Meet, Santa Fe, New Mexico

By Joe Gresh

We were flying low and slow, like vatos do, heading north from Mountainair, New Mexico. The Mud Chuckers, one on a Buell 1000, one on a Kawasaki Vulcan 750 and me on the 1974 Yamaha RD350. It had been a few years since the last Motorado event and we decided to ride up as a group. Covid and inertia combined to equal a 4-year gap since the last Motorado event. Last year in 2022 we held an unofficial Motorado rump-meet at the traditional location. About 15 old bikes showed up and no one drank beer because the pub was closed. There was a swap meet going on and we drew some interested lookie-loos. It was better than nothing for sure and I was prepared to go do it again this year but the real Motorado got on the pipe.

Saturday’s weather was warm and sunny and none of us felt in the mood to go very fast so we burbled along at 50 miles per hour enjoying the beautiful, two-lane New Mexico scenery. Traffic was typically light. Three cars passed us. At this stately pace the old two-cycle, twin cylinder Yamaha RD350 progressed 58 miles for each gallon of gas. That number would be a lot more impressive except the ancient, 1950’s era Sportster motor powering Mike’s Buell did 68 miles per gallon. Long stoke, four stroke, no poke, no joke.

The unofficial, official motel for Motorado 2023 was the Sunset Motel in Moriarity, New Mexico. The Sunset is laid back and low slung just like us. You don’t get breakfast at the Sunset but you do get a monster homemade muffin, which is almost the same thing. After getting settled in our rooms we rode off to get dinner at Shorty’s BBQ joint.

Shorty’s has the best BBQ brisket in Moriarity but the place is always in kind of an identity crisis. The first time I ate at Shorty’s the walls were covered with Jesus stuff, bible quotes and crosses. A few years later I stopped by and the entire restaurant was a shrine to Donald Trump. The Mud Chucker’s are about as far from liberal as you can get, but are also not too fond of The Donald so I feared the worse going in, but the décor had changed again. Now the place was Jesus-lite® without a single reference to our 45th President and a marked reduction in Christian symbolism. You get to experience Shorty’s political and spiritual evolution through the walls of his establishment and eat a great brisket sandwich to boot.

Late September in New Mexico is prime motorcycle riding season. The mornings are cool, gradually warming to hot afternoons. Elevation changes and drifting clouds create a seesawing temperature landscape. The Mud Chuckers were moving slowly on Sunday morning and I’m of that certain age where I no longer care whether I arrive anywhere at any particular time, so we managed to pull out of the motel around 11 a.m. From the Sunset, it’s a straightish shot up Highway 41, through Galisteo to Highway 285 and then north a few miles to the Motorado.

There was a good crowd at the 2023 Motorado. It looked to me as though they had not lost any attendance despite the 4-year layoff. All brands of old bikes were represented and several shops had booths selling whatever it is they sold. I hit the Motorado T-shirt booth first but they weren’t set up to take credit cards and I had a limited amount of cash on hand. Once again it was no T-shirt for me. This whole T-shirt thing is out of control.

One of my dream bikes, a Kawasaki Avenger 350. These disc valve two strokes were pretty fast back then and still fast today.

High pipes on a Norton P-11. This is pre-isolastic mounting so you get to feel every vibration the parallel twin puts out.

Every Motorado I see a bike I never knew existed. Here’s a Taurus diesel that looks a lot like Royal Enfield running gear strapped to a diesel engine.

This over restored but still beautiful Ariel Square Four was a stunner. I hung around to hear it run but got tired of waiting.

The oldest bike at the event, a 1906 Fairy opposed twin. Not sure of the horsepower but they made 2-1/2 to 8 horsepower models. I bet the 8 was a real screamer.

This bike is the great grand-daddy to the RD350. Two generations behind the RD it’s still a sweet looking bike.

After a few passes we had seen pretty much all the bikes in the show and the swap meet. The Chuckers and I took the long way home on the Turquoise Trail through Madrid, New Mexico and got back to the Sunset motel at Sunset. Moriarity rolls up the sidewalks on Sunday night and all the regular places were closed so we retreated to a 24-7 truck stop that had the worse spaghetti ever made, and then we called it a night. It’s tough eating night-spaghetti.

The morning ride from Moriarity was brisk bordering on cold and our rag-tag group made the 200-mile rode low and at our now standard slowpoke speed. I’m very happy the Motorado is back in business and barring another world-stopping pandemic I hope they stage many more years of vintage shows. As long they hold the meet I’ll be riding an old bike up to Santa Fe to check out the hardware. I’ll see you there next year. Swing by the Sunset Motel and we can ride the last 50 miles together.

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Police Business: IACP 2023

By Joe Berk

The International Association of Chiefs of Police…it’s an organization most folks have never heard of, but it’s been around for 130 years. My good buddy Mike is a member and he invited me along as his guest to the 2023 IACP convention (Mike and I have known each other since the 7th grade, and that means we’ve been friends for more than 60 years). It’s the third or fourth time I’ve attended the IACP show, and it’s always great. The IACP convention was in San Diego this year, and any time I have an opportunity to visit that beautiful town, I’m in. Susie and I rolled south in the Subie; Mike had already flown in. All kinds of companies have exhibits at the IACP convention, and many federal and state law enforcement agencies have displays. The United States Secret Service was there and they had one of the presidential limos on display. The photo at the top of this blog is yours truly reflected in the presidential limo’s deep black paint.

So who exhibits at the IACP? All kinds of government organizations and all kinds of businesses. Many of the exhibitors were software companies (including Microsoft) specializing in data base and other police applications. There were several outfits advertising armor plating for people, automobiles, war wagons, and more.

Body armor in your choice of colors. I’d wear it, but it would make me look fat.

Impressive. Bullet proof glass may become an optional accessory for civilians here in the Peoples Republik of Kalifornia.

Another bullet proof barrier supplier. Check out the photos below.

Here’s another bulletproof barrier company, with several of the cartridges its material can stop displayed.

A close-up photo of one of the cartridges.

The above door interior. None of the bullets made it through.

As you might expect, gun companies also display at the IACP convention. The ones I saw this year included Glock (with the largest display), SIG Sauer, Beretta, and a few different AR manufacturers. Surprisingly, Smith and Wesson wasn’t there (if they were, I missed them), nor was Colt (not many police departments carry Colt handguns these days).

Glock’s booth at the IACP convention. These guys had a lot of visitors. Glocks are popular and they are relatively inexpensive.

The Beretta and SIG booths were quiet. There was a lot of activity at the Glock exhibit. I spent some time at the Glock booth talking to one of their reps, and he was informative when I asked about using cast bullets in a Glock. I’d previously heard that Glock advises against using cast bullets in their pistols, and I asked if that was true. Glocks have barrels with polygonal rifling, and as such, there are no lands and grooves (there are just raised and lowered areas that twist along the barrel’s length). The Glock rep explained to me that they do indeed recommend not using cast bullets, as the lead has nowhere to go when it accumulates in the bore. When the barrels experiencing leading, it constricts the bore, and this raises pressures higher than what would be experienced in a conventionally-rifled pistol barrel. He said if you clean the barrel often enough (so that leading does not accumulate), shooting cast lead bullets would probably be okay, but how many shots can be fired before this becomes a problem is too dicey a proposition for Glock to provide a number. I also asked about copper plated (as opposed to jacketed) bullets, and the Glock rep told me that they advise against using those as well. To me, it’s not a big deal, as I don’t own a Glock, I always clean my guns, and virtually every firearm manufacturer advises against shooting reloaded ammo anyway. Eh, what do they know? The only time I ever shoot factory (i.e., non-reloaded) ammo in my handguns is when I have to requalify for my concealed carry permit.

Glock pistols. I don’t follow Glock, so I don’t know what their different models are. The red and the blue guns are training guns.

SIG Sauer’s 226 X-5. This is an impressive handgun.

I saw the new SIG target model (the 226 X5) and I fell in love with it. Unfortunately, the X5 is not available to us here in the Peoples Republik of Kalifornia (it’s not on the California Department of Justice roster of approved handguns). The SIG X5 is expensive at $2219, but I’d buy one in a heartbeat if it was sold here. It fits like my hand like a glove and the trigger is superb. The grips are nice, too. The X5 has all steel construction, so it’s heavier than the standard 226 (which has an aluminum frame). I sure wish it was available here. On the plus side, SIG’s M18 is now available in California. It’s the Army’s new sidearm. It has a striker firing mechanism (there’s no hammer), so the trigger pull is not what I would call good (as is the case, in my opinion, with all striker-fired handguns). The M18 is about $700 and I am tempted. I like SIG handguns.

There were taser manufacturers and firearms training simulator manufacturers at IACP, too. The photos below show a taser virtual reality simulator. You wear a headset that covers your eyes and hold a taser gun. I think the company was Axon. They had about 20 stations for people to try it. The rep explained that you have to fire twice…once in a noncritical area and then again in another non-critical area. When you do that on the simulated bad guy in the virtual reality headset, the bad guy goes down. Sometimes you have to fire more than two times because your suspected felon doesn’t cooperate and keel over immediately. You get about 15 runs against assorted bad guys, and I toasted every one of them. Then there’s an officer needs assistance call where you roll up on a police officer having difficulty subduing a bad guy. I fried that bad guy, too. It was fun.

Virtual reality and a taser. It was awesome.

Another company, Sim Lab, had a target gallery with moving silhouette targets and your choice of either a SIG or a Glock (I went with the SIG). I did pretty good on that one, too, and after I had toasted their bad guys the Sim Lab rep said I was a good shot. That made this IACP convention one of the best ever for me.

The Sim Lab setup. I opted for the SIG M18. I may get a real M18 one of these days.

After I shot the Sim Lab course, the rep asked if I wanted a video. Hey, does a man in the desert want water? Does a California resident want gas prices below $5 a gallon. “You bet,” I answered, and I fired the course again. It was fun. (Pro Tip: The video looks better if you expand it to full screen.)

There were a couple of first aid equipment manufacturers at IACP 2023, and the exhibits were surprisingly lifelike. And gruesome. You couldn’t walk by their exhibits without looking (and taking a photo or two).

This young lady is having a bad day. She lost a leg, she lost a hand, and someone slit her throat.

There were several vehicles on display. One was the Riverside County Sheriff’s command center. It was awesome. There were also armored vehicles. They were really cool. And there were police motorcycles.

The Riverside County Sheriff’s Mobile Command Post. It is impressive.

An armored vehicle with a battering ram. Check out the gun port on the right door.

Good buddy Mike peeking through the gunport.

Harley and BMW were the only two police motorcycle suppliers in attendance (which is probably fitting, as they are the only two gasoline-powered motorcycle manufacturers selling to US police departments). Mike and I both sat on the Harley. Its weight (840 pounds) could only be described as oppressive. I guess I’ve grown weaker in my old age. I could barely get the thing off the side stand. I’ve owned a couple of Harley full dressers. No more, though. For a lot of reasons, my Harley days are in the rearview mirror.

Mike on the police Harley. We both agreed: It’s a porker.

The Kawasaki KZ1000P, an iconic police motor if ever there was one, went out of production at least 20 years ago. But there was a pristine one on display. It was in a booth advertising communications equipment, and that company used it to showcase the early police comm equipment they used to manufacture. The Kawasaki (although it was 20 years old) was immaculate, as it should be. The odometer showed only 5 miles. Mike and I were both impressed. I would like to own this bike.

Yours truly with the no-longer-manufactured KZ1000P Kawasaki.

The real deal, with just 5.3 miles on the odometer.

There was a company displaying an artistic Lucite arrangement lit up. It was interesting. I can’t remember who the company was, so I guessed it bombed as an advertisement, but it was cool. In the photo below, it shows Federal Signal. I’m not sure what they do. But if I ever needed a Lucite car bit of artwork, they would be my guys.

The United States Secret Service had what was probably the most interesting exhibit. It was one of the President’s Chevy Suburbans, complete with the presidential insignia and flag. I sat in the rear seat. There were real Secret Service agents there and they were nice guys. We joked with them a bit about taking care of Old Joe, because we sure didn’t want Kamala in the White House. They tried not to laugh, but I sensed strong agreement.

Hail to the Chief! The window glass on this SUV is at least an inch thick.

Boston Dynamics was there with a couple of their robotic dogs. You might have heard of Boston Dynamics. They were featured on 60 Minutes (the television show) a couple of years ago. The robotic dogs were cool. There was a real police dog there, too. It was not sure what to make of the robots.

One of the exhibits had a large table full of counterfeit $100 bill bundles. This was another cool exhibit that I have no idea what they were selling. But it was cool and it made for a couple of cool photos.

Money money money. I’m not sure what these guys were selling.

Thumbing through a stack of hundred dollar bills.

One of the great things about these kinds of conventions are the goodies. Many of the exhibitors had bags (mine was from Blauer), and nearly all the booths had goodies. I was a grownup playing trick or treat, and I didn’t even need to wear a costume. Ordinarily, I don’t pick up much in the way of goodies at trade shows, but I have four grandchildren now and I was scooping it all up for them. At least that’s my story, and I’m sticking with it. I will tell you I won’t need to buy another pen for probably another 50 years.

The goodies bag. It was heavy by the end of the day. The grandkids will be pleased.

Mike and I had a super time wandering around in the IACP convention. So much so, in fact, that we reached the end of the day without eating lunch (and for me, that’s unusual). That was okay, because it made us look forward to dinner as we left the convention. As always, the dining in San Diego was superior. Whenever Sue and I visit another city, we don’t go to the touristy restaurants; we always search for the local favorites (and Sue does a stellar job in finding these). Valero’s got the nod our first night in town; it’s a small, family run Italian restaurant, and it was excellent. I had eggplant parmigiana, Sue had angel hair pasta with pesto sauce and mushrooms, and Mike had the pasta puttanesco. I’d never heard of that last one and when Mike translated the name to English I didn’t believe him initially, but he was right. I’ll have to try that one on our next visit. And there will be a next visit. Valero’s was outstanding.

Eggplant parmigiana that tasted as good as it looks.

Angel hair with pesto sauce and mushrooms. It was awesome, too.

Pasta puttanesca. It’s on the list for the next visit. Mike enjoyed it.

Our second night in town brought us to the Havana Grill, a Cuban restaurant not far from Old Town San Diego. It, too, was a local favorite and it was excellent.

Picadillo, which is beef seasoned with onions, peppers, garlic, olives, and raisins. I had it for dinner and it was fantastic.

So there you have it: A great visit with good buddy Mike, a super time at the International Association of Chiefs of Police Convention, and a great couple of days in San Diego.

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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.

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!

ExNotes Event Review: AHRMA Motofest, Monterey, California

By Joe Gresh

After riding through the stifling heat of Utah, Nevada and central California the cold, foggy mists of the Monterey Peninsula penetrated my mesh jacket and I shivered. It was wonderful to be cold and it was wonderful to be at Laguna Seca’s Weather Tech Raceway. This wasn’t my first visit to Laguna Seca but it was my first time inside the track. Years ago I rode up from San Diego back when Laguna Seca was a date on the world championship calendar. Today, Austin’s COTA circuit has usurped that role in America but Laguna Seca is still way prettier.

Two strokes ruled Moto GP racing in that era and when I pulled up to the entrance gate the $50 ticket price almost gave me a stroke. I was earning $3.50 an hour working on boats and $50 was a ton of money. I figured the hell with it and went to the Monterey Bay Aquarium instead. Oddly enough, the entry fee for AHRMA’s Motofest vintage racing was still 50 dollars some 40 years on. This time I paid for a ticket because riding from La Luz, New Mexico is a long way to go for nothing.

Motels around Monterey are sort of expensive. Your best deal is the 4-day camping pass at the track. I bought a reserved campsite because I wasn’t sure how things worked inside. Turns out there were plenty of campsites available for this event. I had site 110A, which gave me a view of turn 5 in one direction and a view of the bikes going up Rahal hill to the Corkscrew in the other direction.

Site A-110: it’s a good place to spend the weekend.

Plenty of portable toilets were sprinkled around the venue and hot showers were available in the more substantial structures. All the faucets were marked non-potable so bring plenty of water. I had to buy those little bottled waters in the paddock at $3 a bottle. The ground at my site was pretty hard so I never got my flimsy aluminum tent pegs to penetrate. Luckily my site had an old steel spike that someone left behind. I drove the spike into the hard ground on the windward side, tied the tent to the spike and used my gear to hold the other three corners down. The hydraulic jack came in handy as a hammer.

I say the ground was hard but apparently the hundreds of ground squirrels had no problem burrowing holes every 15 feet. The squirrels are all over the place at Weather Tech. I’m surprised that an aged vintage motorcycle racer hasn’t fallen in a squirrel hole and broken a leg. I’ve heard that when they get up in years it’s best to shoot them rather than let them suffer.

Me and Milich, he’s tall with a lot of drag but still wins. You can visit Milich’s websites at http://guzzipower.com/ and https://www.ducpower.com/.

Thad Wolf’s Suzuki. I never did find Wolff, he must have known I was looking for him.

Thursday was practice all day. The bikes were sent out in groups with staggered starts. There are a lot of classes in AHRMA, like dozens, to keep track of but I mostly just listened for two-strokes. AHRMA’s Motofest had a sort of mini Motorcyclist magazine reunion vibe. The Kevin Hipp racing family was there along with Thad Wolff and Ed Milich. Go-Go Gulbransen, whose name the announcer never tired of uttering was there also. Go-Go was the guy who tested the upper limits of new sport bikes for Motorcyclist magazine. All these guys live and breathe motorcycles and it’s the passion you can’t fake that made them such good journalists.

This might be a real S2 Kawasaki production racer. Very few were built. You had to know somebody.

Vintage racing today looks a bit different from when the motorcycles were current models. Hondas seem to dominate. The 160cc slopers, 175 twins and 350 twins were much faster than I remember them. In fact, I don’t remember them racing at all. I assume it’s due to better oils and electronic ignition systems, because in the old days the small bore grids were mostly Yamahas with a few Suzukis and Kawasakis. If there was a Honda racing it was usually sputtering at the tail end of the pack and the rider was wearing construction boots and welding leathers. Of course, things were different at the GP/factory level where Honda did all right for itself considering the handicap it was working under. It helps to have Mike Hailwood and Freddie Spenser on your team.

A brace of H2s these sounded good when they pulled in.

Jewel-like T500cc twin Suzuki. This was a revolutionary bike when it came out. Some people thought you couldn’t go this big without heating problems. Another bike I want to own one day.

Zoomie RD 350 with DG sunburst heads. Going for that squish band action.

A pile of Ossas. These are Stilettos; I want a Pioneer.

Stretched Honda Mini Trail with custom Grom-based block. 350cc, tops out around 100 miles per hour. I asked the kid if it was dangerous. He said he lived in Oakland, so it was the least dangerous thing he did.

After setting up camp I walked all over Laguna Seca: I needed the exercise after sitting on the ZRX1100 for five long days. To get to Monterey I took the long way around, up through Colorado to Grand Junction then across Utah and Nevada to California. I tried to ride Highway 120 through Yosemite Park but the road was closed. I detoured north from Lee Vining to Highway 108 and was rewarded with one of the world’s great motorcycle roads. Anyway, from my campsite to the paddock was only a 15-minute walk. Less if you didn’t tangle with a ground squirrel.

Vintage racing is all about the paddock. The racing, while serious, is almost secondary to checking out the old race bikes. The paddock is where the food is, where the beer is and where the old motorcycles are. Most of the spectators hang out in the paddock area. I wandered around for hours looking at motorcycles. I ate a turkey sandwich and drank a beer that was like 28 dollars but we need to support the moneymaking aspect of Laguna Seca or it’ll become luxury housing.

Saturday and Sunday were race days. I hung out with Motorcyclist Magazine alumni Ed Milich for a bit. Ed has an admirable cost per win philosophy in that he expends just enough effort to get first place and no more. His bikes look like hell but they run great. Paint don’t win races, says Ed. On the track he never seems to be trying hard, the gap between him and second place grew larger as if by magic. Ed won every race he entered (four) I did some math and determined that Ed spends around $4.37 per win. Hipp won his races also. Hipp’s bikes are those fast Honda 350s and they look like show bikes. Hipp’s wins probably cost more than Milich’s, but they still count.

Sunday morning I went over to the trials section. Set in gullies and on the sides of hills, trials riding never looks too hard until you try it. Trials events at the level Laguna Seca puts on have the advantage of being relatively safe as the speeds are very low and you can’t fall very far. This isn’t the crazy stadium trials you watch on YouTube but it suits the old motorcycles participating. I might try the trials on Godzilla next time I go to Laguna.

The legend Dave Roper. I think he’s still the only American to win at the Isle of Man races.

With such wildly different motorcycles it’s hard to compare rider skill. Except when it comes to Dave Roper: Roper, who resembles a stick of beef jerky with a cotton ball stuck on one end, was smooth and fast on any bike he rode. Roper and Walt Fulton, with a combined 300 years of racing experience, put on quite a show with their matching H-D branded, Aermacchi Sprints. There was a vintage motocross at Laguna Seca but it ran concurrent with some other races so I missed it. You really need to be two people to see all the action at AHRMA’s Vintage Motofest.

Nice, tank shift flattie. This bike sounded good on the track, very low rpm drone.

It was nice to have the campsite for Sunday night; I didn’t have to rush to pack and head out into the unforgiving freeways of California in the late afternoon. Wherever I ride the ZRX1100 it attracts attention. I’ve had people take selfie photographs standing next to the bike, I get asked what year it is almost every ride. The thing is bone stock. Laguna Seca was no different, the bike garnered a steady stream of complements from my camp neighbors. I must look hard up because the guy camping across from me handed me 40 dollars and said I had dropped it. I think he was trying to be nice to a vagabond. Normally I would have taken it but I’m trying to become a better person and told the guy it wasn’t mine.

Californians and Ex-Californians like to bitch about their state, but the damn place is beautiful. California has it all from the beaches to the mountains to the desert and all types of terrain in between. With straight roads crowded by farm equipment, the central valley (also known as The Breadbasket of America) was like the Tail of the Dragon for my nose. Sweet manure, grassy hay, dust and soil, the smells kept swapping back and forth giving my nasal passages whiplash. If it wasn’t so expensive, I’d live in California again but my total running costs at Tinfiny Ranch are less than the annual taxes on any house I could afford there. The Californians I met were universally friendly and interesting to talk to, we would start up a conversation like we had known each other for years and had just spoken last Thursday.

I’ll go to AHRMA’s Monterey bash again. It’s closer than Daytona for me and with the camping, about the same cost. I give the event high marks for value. You really get your 50 dollars worth with AHRMA.

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Want the story on the ZRX resurrextion? It’s right here.

Triumph’s New 400cc Motorcycles

By Joe Berk

Well, what do you know? Triumph is the latest moto manufacturer to jump on the small bike band wagon with the announcement of their new 400cc single-cylinder motorcycles. Not to be too snarky, but better late than never, I suppose. Harley did the same thing a year or so ago with their 350cc and 500cc motorcycles, but the Harleys were supposed to be manufactured and only available in Asia. More’s the pity, although I get it: A small bike wouldn’t go well with the typical Harley crowd.

Back to today’s topic: The new 400cc Triumphs: I like them.

Triumph announced two models: A Speed 400, and a Scrambler 400. They look like Triumphs, which is to say they look fabulous. I like the colors (each will available in three different color themes) and I like the looks.

With a published 40 horsepower, the bikes will probably be good for 100 mph, and that ought to be enough for any sane rider. I’m guessing the bikes will get something around 70 miles per gallon, and that should be good, too. Triumph turned to Bajaj (in India). There’s nothing wrong with that. Triumph’s Bonneville line is manufactured in Thailand. My Enfield 650 (which I’ve been riding for three years) is manufactured in India, and its quality is magnificent. Prices on the new Triumphs haven’t been announced yet. If the Mothership can keep the dealers from pulling their normal freight and setup chicanery, these bikes should be a good deal (but expecting dealers to abandon their larcenous freight and setup games is, I realize, probably wishful thinking).

On that Harley thing I mentioned above: QianJiang (also known QJ Motor) bought Benelli (an Italian motorcycle company) in 2005. QJ took the name and started offering bikes made in China but labeled as Benellis (I saw them at the Canton Fair a few years ago). The QJ/Benelli bikes are not bad looking, but I’ve never ridden one and I have no idea how good (or bad) they are. It’s that very same Benelli (i.e., the Chinese one) that Harley announced would be making 350cc and 500cc small Harleys. The Harley plan was that their smaller models would only be sold overseas (i.e., not in America). Harley makes and sells more motorcycles than I ever will, so I suppose they know what they are doing. But I think they are making a mistake not bringing their small bikes to America.

Look! Up in the sky! It’s a QJ Motor! No, it’s a Benelli! No, it’s Super Harley!

Let’s not forget the new BSA Gold Star, another made-in-India Britbike reported here on the ExNotes blog about a year ago. That one is still in the works, I guess. For a delivery date, the new BSA website still says “available to order soon,” which is to say we have no idea when the new BSA Goldie will be here.

The revivified Beezer Gold Star. I think it is a better-looking bike than either the new Triumph or the small Chinese Harley.

While all this is going on, my friends in Zongshen (they make the RX3, the RX4, the Zongshen 400cc twins, the TT 250, the San Gabriel, and now the RX6 650cc twin that CSC imports to the US) tell me that the craze in China has gone full tilt toward bigger bikes. That’s why they introduced the RX6. I was the first journalist/blogger/all around good guy in America to ride and report on the RX6. It’s a good bike, but I’m not a fan of the movement toward ever larger motorcycles. I’m convinced that my RX3 was the best all around motorcycle I ever owned (especially for riding in Baja), and I’ve written extensively on that.

I’m looking forward to seeing the new Triumphs. Hell, I’d look forward to seeing the new small Harleys and the BSA, too, but maybe that’s not in the cards. Why the fascination and appreciation for small bikes? Take a read here.

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Life as a Digital Nomad: Part 1 (Testing the Waters)

By Mike Huber

In 2010 the company I worked for gave me my pink slip due to budgetary cuts. I was feeling distraught and lost because I had been working there for 8 years. Fortunately, I had a great director who helped by transferring me from a management position into a project manager slot that would be fully remote.

Remote positions at the time were called working from home. It didn’t take long for me to ask myself a question: What if I didn’t have a home? This mostly was bar talk amongst friends and I didn’t expect the crazy scenarios we discussed to ever become a reality. Well…it seems planting those seeds in my mind was all it took for them to nurture, and then to grow into 13 years of almost nonstop travel.

The first two years were mostly spent learning to excel in my new position as a project manager along with clumsily discovering how to adjust my work/life balance in creative ways. This involved motorcycling throughout New England in between work responsibilities.

Something I learned early is that there are McDonald’s with wi-fi everywhere, and at the time it was one of the better places to stop to respond to emails or for a conference call (this was a life prior to riding a BMW, so I didn’t require Starbucks). I timed my rides to reach these locations 10 minutes prior to conference calls. This allowed me time to set up and prepare for them as needed.

The first day as a remote employee I decided to knock out a ride from Boston to Route 17 in northern Vermont. Route 17 is also known as the “Little Tail of the Dragon.” It was May and I was literally working off my Ducati Monster M1100 as I tore up Vermont. Since it took so long to reach Route 17 it made sense to ride it twice to ensure the long ride was worth it and regain the curve back in my tires. It may have been one of the best days I have ever had working and figured this newfound freedom would provide many opportunities to fill in the gaps that I had been missing by going into a regular office day to day.

Riding all the way to Vermont from Boston on your first day in a new position probably was a bit of overkill. I was missing calls and hadn’t noticed my phone was constantly ringing in my pocket (an easy oversight being so heavily focused on riding). I was in flight formation and setting the pace for a flock of mallards that happened to be flying down the White River, which ran parallel to Route 100. Unbeknownst to me the phone continued ringing as the Ducati’s Termignoni exhaust roared through the Green Mountains while I leaned into corners that followed the river.

Shortly after parting ways with the mallards and crossing back into New Hampshire, I saw some lights behind me. It was a New Hampshire State Trooper. Dammit! I am sure I was speeding, but the question always is how fast. It was fast. As I began talking to the State Trooper to try to minimize the damage, I could now hear my cell phone ringing. I picked it up as the Trooper ran my information. It was my new manager based in Virginia calling to introduce herself and ask if I had noticed that I had missed a call I needed to be on. I stated I was just out getting a coffee (which was 100% true; it’s just that the coffee was 200 miles away). This was probably one of my more challenging multitask scenarios (i.e., signing a speeding ticket while on an introductory call with my manager). To this day I feel I would have been able to get out of that ticket had I not been so distracted by work. Lesson 1 as a remote employee learned.

After that day I knew I should take my work a bit more seriously and slow my pace. I continued to ride, but always ensured I attended every call (which I did over the next 13 years). My work ethic has always been strong, and I didn’t want to compromise this position and what I could possibly do with it by losing my focus. Continuing to merge my work responsibilities with riding was something that I honed to an art form.

Once I was comfortable performing my work one or two days a week off the motorcycle, I thought I would step the adventure up a notch: California. I had relatives in Oakland and there was a Harley rental in San Francisco, a short transit ride away. It made sense to fly there for two weeks and work remotely in a new environment and time zone to see how I would perform.

The test run couldn’t have gone smoother. I was on Pacific Time when my team was on Eastern Time. This ensured that by 1:00 p.m. all my tasks and calls were completed. Having earlier workdays provided much more time to explore San Francisco and the Bay Area. A couple of vacation days in the mix allowed time to rent a Harley in San Francisco and take a 3-day trip to Tahoe and Yosemite. Even though I was on vacation those days I felt obliged to join work calls whenever possible just to stay on top of my projects, while obtaining bonus points from management for doing so on my time off. I felt this made up for my missed meeting when I had first started this position in New Hampshire.

The California trip had solidified my abilities to work from anywhere. On the return flight to Boston my thoughts focused on a farfetched mindset: What if I don’t have a home? It would take a few months of planning and a solid leap of faith. As with all leaps of faith you never know where or how it will end, but I felt sure I could make this dream a reality. What I didn’t realize is how far I would take this and the new experiences my decision would deliver. I turned my life into Ferris Bueller’s Day Off on steroids over the next 13 years.

The Sportster of Seville

By Joe Berk

When I was a kid, I used to watch a weekly television comedy show called The Little Rascals. In one of the episodes, one of the rascals named Alfalfa sang a song from Gioachino Rossini’s opera, The Barber of Seville. Until very recently, Alfalfa’s rendition and a Cadillac made in the 1970s (the Seville) were all I knew of Seville. That changed with our recent trip to Spain.

Cards on the table: I didn’t know anything about Gioachino Rossini’s opera until I Googled the Little Rascals and the Barber of Seville. In so doing, I found out that Warner Brothers also had a Bugs Bunny cartoon with the same song. I know…I digress. Indulge me for 56 seconds more. Here’s Alfalfa belting it out. Told ya…

You might be wondering: What’s with the Sportster in the cover photo up top? I saw it my first afternoon in Seville. Believe it or not, in Spain, the land that brought us Bultaco (the motorcycle, not the Mexican bullfight snack bar delicacy), Ossa, and Montesa (or, as some might say, Montessa), the ultimate motorcycle status symbol is a used Sportster. Hence the title of this blog: The Sportster of Seville. We’ve had a lot of fun with Sportster blogs here on ExNotes, but let’s get to the main topic of this discussion: Seville.

One of our first stops in Seville was the Plaza de España, which is a magnificent building and park area built in 1929 when Seville hosted the Ibero-American Exposition World’s Fair. The Plaza de España is impressive. Today, the building has been renovated and it is used for Spanish government agencies. It’s beautiful.

Photo opportunities abound. This shot of the tower through one of the many arches almost took itself.

Any time there’s water or a mirror, I’m there. You can do a lot with reflections when you shoot a photo.

We saw a bunch of touristy chotchkas in the Plaza de España courtyard that made for good photos (I would never buy this sort of stuff…if I need to generate a breeze, I’ll hop on my motorcycle…you know, to get my knees in the breeze). But it was fun to photograph.

Fans for sale in the Plaza de España courtyard.

My attention then turned to the tilework along the Plaza de España courtyard wall that stretched for half a mile. Each tile-based mural depicts a Spanish province. The work was impressive, but what was even more impressive was what happened next.

One of many tile murals in the Plaza de España courtyard.

Another Plaza de España courtyard tile mural.

Two Spanish motor officers rolled into the Plaza de España courtyard on (get this) police motor scooters. I always thought small motorcycles and motor scooters made a lot of sense in urban areas (I’ll say more on that in a second). I asked the motor officer in the photo below if I could grab a picture and he was cool with it.

A Seville motor officer. If I was 50 years younger and spoke Spanish, I might try out for a job like this. It looked like a great gig, and I like the colors.

I didn’t realize why the motor officers had appeared out of nowhere. All those tourist chotchkas like the fans you see in the photo above? The folks selling their wares there (I’m told they were Gypsies, if you can even say that anymore) weren’t supposed to be there. When I looked up after grabbing the photo above, all the chotchkas (and the chotchka merchants) were gone. They just went poof and vanished. Wiped clean from the face of the Earth (as they said in that Indiana Jones movie). I guess you don’t want to mess with a Spanish motor officer.

On the motor scooter/small motorcycle thing for police motorcycles: When Gresh and I were at the Zongshen factory in Chongqing, one of the many very cool things we saw there were RX3 police motorcycles. Imagine that: A 250cc police motorcycle. I talked Zongshen into giving us (“us” being CSC Motorcycles) three or four of the things so we could market them to police departments in America. Imagine that, too…one short email and poof: Three free motorcycles.

The CSC RX3 250cc police motorcycle. I had a lot of fun on these.

The obligatory blog commercial: The Complete Book of Police and Military Motorcycles. Did I mention these make great gifts?

I thought I knew the police motorcycle market a little bit because I had written a book about police motors. Man, I tried, but it was a bust. The Sacramento Fairgrounds Police were interested, but I couldn’t close the deal. We shipped one to the New York City Police Department (I knew they used Vespas for police work), Andy Sipowicz and crew kept the bike for about two months without ever taking it out of the crate, and then they shipped it back. I took one to a couple of local police departments, but the only thing to come of that was one of the cops told me I wasn’t allowed to ride it around with the red and blue lights and the siren still attached. I told him not to worry; I only used that stuff if people wouldn’t get out of my way. Zongshen, on the other hand, has done fabulously well with their police bikes. They are selling RX1s, RX3s, RX4s, and other bikes as police motors literally all over the world. Just not in America. I’ll do a blog about Zongshen police bikes someday.

I know, I’m digressing again. Back to the main attraction: Seville. We walked around quite a bit (I did 17,000 steps one day) and there were tons of photo ops. Doors, tiles, alleys, and more.

A door in Seville. Spain and Portugal are an artist’s palette. Both were awesome.

A Seville sidewalk. The sidewalks were awesome everywhere we went. Think of the labor that went into this. Joe Gresh, this is your new concrete standard. I’ll take a photo when you finish and put it on the blog.

As we walked around Seville and took in the sights, Jose (our awesome guide) told us we were in the Jewish quarter. I asked if Jewish people still lived there. Very few, he said. You know: The Spanish Inquisition. Oh, yeah. I remember reading about that in James Michener’s The Source (a great story and a great read).

In Seville’s Jewish Quarter. Note the sign on the wall on the right.

Our walk through Seville presented one photo op after another. I had my old Nikon D3300 (the current version is the Nikon D3500), an entry-level consumer grade digital SLR, and the relatively inexpensive (but vibration-reduction-equipped) 18-55mm zoom lens. It was great. The D3300 is a light camera. My other Nikon (the D810) has more capability, but it is much heavier. For this kind of tourism, the D3300 (or the current D3500) is a better deal.

A fountain in the exterior corner of a Seville structure.

I saw this and had to ask: Is Antonio here? Which one, they answered…we have lots of Antonios. Sometimes, my humor is an acquired taste.

We continued our walking tour, and it was on to the Catedral de Sevilla, a massive cathedral built between 1434 and 1517 over what used to be the city’s main mosque (when the Moors occupied the Iberian peninsula). It rivals the Vatican’s Saint Peter’s cathedral (it’s that big).

The 18-55mm lens wasn’t wide enough to take in the entire Catedral de Sevilla. It is a massive church, the largest in Spain.

Susie, my traveling buddy for 40 years, with the Catedral de Sevilla in the background.

The Catedral de Sevilla interior is impressive, but it is dimly lit and flash photography is strictly verboten (I wouldn’t have used flash, anyway), so I relied on finding something to brace my camera against and the lens’ vibration reduction technology (which did a great job). I could do a photobook with just interior shots, including the Catedral de Sevilla’s beyond impressive stained glass windows.

This was but one of many stained glass windows in the Catedral de Sevilla.

Shooting in the camera’s RAW mode and allowing PhotoShop’s Auto adjustment to work its magic brings up features that can’t be captured with jpeg alone.

Incredible sights, incredible detail, and lots of photography fun.

You may not know this (I certainly didn’t) but one of Christopher Columbus’s crypts is in the Catedral de Sevilla (folks apparently spread his remains around a bit). The photo below shows one of his crypts in the Catedral de Sevilla. Columbus was an Italian from Genoa, but his expeditions were funded by Spain’s Queen Isabella.

So there you have it: Seville. There’s more to come from our Spanish adventure, so sign up for your free subscription (don’t forget to tell your email program we’re not spam) or check back often. Or maybe do both. And if you have comments, we’d love to hear them.