That shot above is a nice one, I think. It shows the subject of today’s blog, the 1909 Harley Model 5-A, with the rest of the Petersen’s Bunch exhibit in the background.
A 1909 Harley-Davidson Model 5-A. The Single was a better motorcycle than that year’s V-twin.
1909 was a good year for Harley. It was the first year they made more than a thousand motorcycles, and it was their fifth year of production (hence this motorcycle’s name, the Model 5). The Model 5 had several variants. The 5 and the 5-A had 28-inch wheels and either magneto or battery ignition. The 5-B and 5-C had 26-inch wheels with the same electrical system options. And (pay attention here, folks) the Model 5-D had a V-twin engine as an option. The V-twin was a bust. It was cancelled after Harley had manufactured only 27 of the V-twin engines.
The Model 5-A’s 495cc engine. Check out the bicycle pedal arrangement.
Harley’s single-cylinder Model 5 motorcycles had a 4.3-horsepower, 495cc engine. That engine could propel the Model 5 to an estimated top speed of 40 mph.
Did you ever wonder about the bicycle pedals and crankshaft you see on these motorcycles? Yeah, me, too, until I wrote a piece on a Thor motorcycle a few years ago and deduced how it all operated. The way a rider started these old bikes back in the day was, in a word, complicated. It went something like this:
You made sure the oil line was switched open.
You made sure the gasoline line was switched open.
You put the bike on the center stand, which held the rear wheel off the ground.
You retarded the ignition.
You primed the engine.
You pulled in the clutch.
You switched the ignition on (if the bike had an ignition switch).
You pedaled furiously, until the rear wheel, tire, sprocket, etc. had attained sufficient rotational inertia.
You let the clutch out, which transferred the rear wheel’s inertia to the crankshaft.
You said a little prayer and, if the Good Lord was listening, the engine caught and started.
Today, we don’t even need to insert an ignition switch (some new bikes feature keyless ignition, like cars). We just press the starter and go. And we count ourselve lucky. Until something breaks. Then, we are at the mercy of modern motorcycle maintenance shops. And they ain’t too merciful.
Sue and I visited the Lake Superior Railroad Museum last year in Duluth, Minnesota. Getting there involved a nice ride along the shores of Lake Superior. Duluth is a city perched on its western banks. Duluth looked to me like a nice place to live. Once in Duluth, we had some difficulty finding the Museum, but we finally spotted a locomotive and some rail lines, and we made our way to it.
Here are some of the photos we grabbed that fine day. These are all iPhone photos. Sometimes I can get some great photos with my phone. It’s not a Nikon DSLR, but it does a good enough job.
A magnificent steam locomotive. We’ll get to the cab a few photos down. It’s impressive.Minnesota sees some serous snow. This is a serious railroad snow plow.Construction materials were different back in the day. In the railroad world, this might be called a Woody. Surf’s up.If my memory is correct, this is a mail car.The operating room of a steam locomotive. We’ve seen these before. I imagine learning how to operate a steam locomotive takes a while. As a mechanical engineer, I love stuff like this.Valves, levers, gauges, and more. I’m guessing these fellows carried spare parts.Heavy duty brake pressure gages. Note the legends on the gage faces.I’m not sure what this gage shows. It’s a serious bit of gagery, though.A water level gage. Note the different points for water level based on locomotive angle. Cool stuff. No software. Everything is logical and intuitive. I like it.Valves and gages galore. The guys who operated these things were called engineers. You’d almost have to have an engineering degree to do so.
The Lake Superior Railroad Museum is in the former Duluth Union Depot, and the collection was impressive. We enjoyed our visit and the ride to and from Duluth. As you know from perusing the ExNotes blog, we never miss an opportunity visit a rail museum.
CSC Motorcycles was a big part of my life for a lot of years and the source of great joy. You probably heard that Steve and Maureen, the founders, retired and that the company has ceased operations. My experiences with CSC can be summed up in a single word: Fun. The Baja trips, the US trips, the ride in Colombia, the grand ride in China, the wonderful people I met along the way…it was all amazing. All good things come to an end, I guess, and CSC was definitely a good thing for me.
Sue and I had dinner with Steve and Maureen last Sunday, and Steve told me that the remaining CSC inventory is being sold through an auction. I found the auction site and perused it for a bit. My CSC days are over (indeed, CSC is over), but some of you might be interested in the vintage Mustangs and CSC parts inventory. Here’s the link:
Having a battle buddy in Colombia was great. Not just for company but for safety. Matt and I had met while backpacking through Asia and kept in touch as we both traveled throughout the world. In January, we coincidentally found ourselves being neighbors in Medellin, Colombia.
For almost three months we would hang out a few times every week. Usually just getting some beers and people watching around our neighborhood. There is never a shortage of sights to see in this city (see my previous blog and the photos here). At the end of each night, we would always text to let the other know we made it home safe without missing a kidney or being kidnapped. The tradition of checking in with each other continued even when my travels brought me to my next destination, Ecuador.
Matt informed me a few Sundays ago he had a date and would catch up via text after the date. I never received a text that night. OK, I thought he probably fell asleep as he starts work quite early on weekdays. He is a lead project manager for a communications company in the United States. One of the things Matt and I clicked on is he has been working remotely for 5 years, and during that time he traveled most of the planet while his company thought he was based in Seattle. Of course, from my previous life working remotely and doing the same, I totally dug his perspective on that.
As Monday came and went still with no word from him, I decided to reach out to one of our mutual friends who was also in Medellin. She returned my text quickly. She had found him unconscious in his apartment Monday morning. He was in pretty bad shape. She managed to have a doctor come to the apartment and administer an IV and look him over. Outside waiting for the drug to work, there wasn’t too much that could be done.
It took four days before Matt was able to walk without falling, and his speech was still slurred by the time I was able to speak with him on Thursday. His laptop, phone, and credit cards had all been stolen. What’s worse, they got him to unlock all his bank accounts and those were drained.
Being a solo traveler myself I had to find a way to help him. Fortunately, they had left his passport. With no phone there was no way to PayPal him money, but with his passport I would be able to Western Union him some cash to at least give him some reprieve financially as he slowly began to untangle the mess. This was a mess that that would continue to spiral in ways neither of us could even imagine.
The past few years I have been a fulltime traveler and rarely has anything bad happened to me or those around me (outside a minor pickpocketing incident here or there). That was until Medellin, Colombia. This story is not to give the city or country any type of a black eye, as I was there three months and felt extremely safe, even when motorcycling solo through some of the most remote regions of this South American country. The short of this is bad things can happen anywhere to good people no matter the precautions you take.
In my travels there have been only really three places that blew my mind. The expansiveness and emptiness of the Australian Outback, the expansiveness and density of Tokyo, and the expansiveness and curves of the women in Colombia. Yes, my writing is probably not politically correct. I honestly don’t give a shit as it’s true. Medellin, Colombia has some of the most beautiful women on earth. On any given night there are monchichis in battalion formation. A sight to behold for sure.
On the downside to this country, there is an epidemic of men being drugged with something called scopolamine. This drug has you become compliant for several hours to the point you will go to your ATM and withdraw all your funds and give it to whomever asks you to. It then becomes a heavy sedative which will leave you unconscious for 12 hours to 3 days, depending on the dose. The drug is derived from the datura plant and can easily be absorbed into your body by having it added to a drink, blown into your face, or even just having skin contact with it. Pretty much if you are out and about in Colombia and someone wants to drug you with this, it’s happening.
The probability of this terrible incident happening goes up greatly when using dating sites such as Tinder while in Colombia. The people you meet can be predators working with a team to rob you blind and take everything you own from cash, to credit cards, to laptops and phones. Quite often before they leave you unconscious in your hotel or apartment, you will have provided them with all your logins and passwords to every account you have. The following blog series will be a story of this event. Sadly, it’s true and none of it has been embellished or exaggerated.
I’m not against Moto Guzzis. I have nothing bad to say about the motorcycles. I just don’t have that burning desire to own one. Nevertheless, the Moto-gods seem to be intent on me owning a Moto Guzzi.
The original rally going on for some 30-odd years.
I had a close call this weekend at the GRIN (Guzzi Riders In New Mexico, I think). The GRIN rally is held annually in Datil, New Mexico. There’s not a whole lot in Datil: a gas station, small-but-clean motel, and a campground behind the store and motel.
The campground is rally headquarters and this year’s attendance was sparse because the rally split into two factions. The original rally was behind the gas station/motel and an offshoot was held about a mile away at the Datil Wells campground.
The rival rally, held on the same day a mile away.
With only 30-35 bikes in the best of times splitting the rally seemed like a dumb idea to me. I’m guessing some sort of rift caused a second rally to be held on the same exact days within walking distance of the original rally. Whatever happened its sort of chickenshit. I hope the two groups can stop the nonsense and get together.
The legendary Dan, hero of many Joe Berk epic rides. He sold his CSC and rides a Guzzi now.
Regardless of the low turnout, the original rally site had a solid core of Guzzi riders to chat with and the day flew by. I re-met Dan, one of the original Zongshen/CSC riders from Joe Berk’s CSC tour days. It took a while but he finally remembered me.
That memory thing isn’t a fluke: the youngest rider award went to a 62- year-old. The oldest was 83! If motorcycling doesn’t get some new blood we’ll be holding annual rallies at graveyards.
One GRIN was running a car tire. He spoke highly of it and claimed a 20,000-mile lifespan.
On that Guzzi ownership near miss: GRIN held a raffle with three Guzzis as prizes. There was a Jackal 1100, an Ambassador and (I think) an 850 Lemans.
$20 Guzzi. Won in the raffle by the leader of the Mudchuckers MC, Mike.Mike’s new Guzzi, home safe and dry.
With only 15 people in the raffle the odds were good, but I missed the Jackal by one number. Instead, the Mudchucker now owns two Moto Guzzis. That was close. Too close.
I stole this photo off the internet. I didn’t shoot many photos at the rally; I was too busy gabbing with the Guzzi riders. A slightly beat up version of this bike was raffled. That was the one I wanted.
Moto Guzzi riders are always fun bunch to hang out with and now that they are old they no longer beat up Buell riders for sport. Several attendees clocked around 1000 miles to camp in Datil. I don’t know the situation or attendance at the rival rally but we saw two or three rogue Guzzis putting around Datil that were not at our camp.
My ride was only 400 miles round trip but the Buell still found time to rattle the key switch out of its bracket. Being loose and beating on the bracket, the fine threads on the switch were fairly well smooshed. A quick stop at tractor supply for some vise grips and I managed to force the nut back onto the boogered key switch. I don’t think it will fall off again as the threads are self-locking now.
There’s going to be another bike raffle at the 2027 GRIN rally. Same time, same place. I guess I’ll have to keep going back until I’m a Guzzi owner.
I’m going to share Riding China’s last chapter with you here on the ExhaustNotes blog. I think you’ll like the Qingdao story, and I can tell you that the other 26 chapters in Riding China are just as good. Maybe even better. Enjoy, my friends.
Chapter 27: Qingdao, Our Final Destination
Qingdao (pronounced “ching dow”) means “green island” in Chinese. It’s on the eastern edge of China on the Yellow Sea, and it sure is green. It is one of the most beautiful cities I’ve ever seen, and it’s one with a storied past. Beaches, seafood, and more, the city has had more owners and rulers than you can shake a stick at. Like a lot of places on the east coast of China, it was controlled by the Germans in the late 1800s (you can see the German influence in the city’s architecture). The Japanese took over after World War I, it reverted back to Chinese control shortly after that, and then the Japanese took it over again during second World War, and then, well…it’s in Chinese hands now. But I’m getting ahead of myself yet again. Back to the ride.
The changing of the guard in Qufu, the birthplace of Confucius.
We started our morning in Qufu with a visit to a fort that is evidently a significant Chinese attraction. I didn’t understand too much about the place at the time we visited, but it made for some great photo ops. There was a changing of the guard similar to what might be seen at Buckingham Palace or Arlington National Cemetery, and it was exciting. I enjoyed watching the Chinese tourists take it all in even more. This is their country, and I could tell that what we were all seeing was of great significance to them.
A waterway in Qufu near the fort.A Chinese woman, standing on the pegs of Sergeant Zuo’s motorcycle, photographing the changing of the guard in Qufu.
After the ceremony, it was back to the freeway for the quick 200 kilometer ride to Qingdao. I was very excited about seeing Qingdao for several reasons. It marked the end of our ride. This had been a motorcycle ride like no other, and Qingdao was our final destination. For that reason alone, it was significant.
Riding in China…required absolute and intense concentration. It was stressful, exhausting, and exhilarating.
Qingdao is a city with a rich history, as I mentioned at the start of this chapter. Situated on China’s eastern coast, I was hoping that the temperatures in Qingdao would be a little cooler. On a personal level, Qingdao had a special meaning for me. It was situated directly on the Yellow Sea’s western shore. More than 40 years ago I had been a US Army lieutenant on the eastern shore of the Yellow Sea, in Korea, on a HAWK missile site. Our primary target line (the direction in which our missiles and radars were pointed; the direction from which we anticipated an attack) was not aimed at North Korea. It was instead pointed west, directly across the Yellow Sea, toward the People’s Republic of China. Yes, the spot I would be riding into this fine day was the very spot my US Army missiles pointed to more than four decades ago!
Ling, a great guy and a great rider.
Our freeway ride to Qingdao that morning was largely uneventful except for one thing: Ling’s RX1 ran out of gas. To me, it was amazing that this was the first time any of us had run dry. We routinely rode 50 or more miles after our fuel bingo lights starting blinking. Gresh and I never quite understand our approach for determining when to get fuel, or who called the shots on that topic. We didn’t know if it was Zuo on the lead bike, or Tracy in his car, of Qi and Ma in the chase truck. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t Zuo.
Up until the point when Ling’s bike ran out, I thought the RX1 had more range than the RX3, because Zuo (who rode an RX1 on this trip), kept going long after I would have refueled my RX3. But Ling, on an RX1, was the guy whose bike ran dry that morning. Gresh was riding with Ling when it happened. Joe stopped and luckily he found a rope by side of the road, so he towed Ling along until the next gas station.
When the chase truck caught up with us at the gas station, Ma evidently said something to Sergeant Zuo in Chinese about waiting too long to refuel, and Zuo didn’t care for it. Sometimes we weren’t sure if the Chinese were upset with each other (we couldn’t tell from the conversation), but there was no doubt in my mind this time that Zuo was not taking what Ma said very well. A little bit of gasoline later (or oil, as the Chinese refer to it in English) and all was well.
As we approached Qingdao, Zuo was working his magic on his smartphone’s GPS, and we found our way through thickening Chinese traffic to the bay. A ferry ride across the bay was in our plans. This was good. Any motorcycle adventure always goes better with a ferry ride. It adds to the magic.
We took a ferry ride across the bay to downtown Qingdao.
We rode the bikes onto the ferry, parked them, headed topside, and were underway in minutes. I was surprised that we didn’t need to tie the bikes down, but they were still upright when we arrived in downtown Qingdao. Everybody was in high spirits. We were arriving at our destination, the city we had been riding to for the last five weeks. It signified the end of our epic journey. The cameras were out and we were all snapping photos. I took a photo of a Chinese man and his young son, and then the son asked me if his father could take a photo of me with him. He did so with his cell phone, and then I handed him my Nikon and he took the same photo with it. As Americans, Gresh and I were unusual sights on that ferry.
Qingdao has a population of 9 million people. Once again, I thought about how amazing being in this place was. I was the unusual American; I had heard of Qingdao before this ride. I only knew of it because of my Army days 40 years ago. Most Americans have never heard of Qingdao, yet we have only one city (and that’s New York) that has a population comparable to Qingdao.
With my young Chinese friend.Joe Gresh, somewhere on Qingdao Bay, as seen through Deng’s Canon.
We hit downtown Qingdao at rush hour, but the traffic wasn’t too bad on the elevated freeway that ran over the city. It was a Sunday afternoon, and that helped. Once we were into the city, though, it was the usual tuck and roll routine we always did when we blitzed through Chinese urban areas. That meant lots of weaving and bobbing, giving the horns a thorough workout, and a bit of profanity thrown in for good measure, directed at folks who most likely had no idea what we were yelling about.
Riding on an elevated freeway above downtown Qingdao. That’s Gresh and Zuo in front of me.
I realized I had become accustomed to Chinese urban traffic. As I worked more motorcycle miracles keeping up with Zuo and Lu, I thought about what it would be like to ride back in the United States again when I returned to California. I knew I’d have to dial it down substantially. No more missing cars by centimeters passing on the right and the left, no more assuming people will move over when we pass into oncoming traffic, no more passing on blind corners, and much less risk. I wondered if it would be boring. When our Chinese and Colombian friends rode with us last year on the Western America Adventure Ride, they told us the riding in America was less intense than what they were used to in their home countries. It’s only scenery in America, they said. Riding a motorcycle in the United States required no aggressive maneuvering with cars, trucks, buses, other motorcycles, and scooters. They said that the courtesy of American drivers made the riding less exciting. Riding in China, on the other hand (and Colombia, too) required absolute and intense concentration. It was stressful, exhausting, and exhilarating.
The dinner that evening was extravagant and exciting, as you might imagine it would be for a group that had just arrived at their destination after an 8,800-kilometer motorcycle ride across China. When the restaurant realized how many of us they had to feed (and they heard the story of how we made it all the way across China to Qingdao on our motorcycles), they wisely opted to move the tables to the parking lot in front of the restaurant and let us cut loose outside.
It was a grand dinner. The beer flowed freely. Where before our Chinese brothers drank beer from little juice glasses, tonight it was all pitchers of draft beer and mugs. And folks, these Chinese guys can put away the suds. Everybody was in high spirits. Ma and Zuo were good buddies again (they had forgotten all about Ling running out of gas earlier in the day). There was more beer and more toasts. Lu was spilling been all over himself as he chugged mug after mug. Tracy was telling Sean that he should shave off his goatee to be more popular with the ladies (bear in mind that Sean is Tracy’s boss). More beer. More toasts. Did I mention we drank a lot of beer that night?
Lu enjoying a beer, with a bit of help from Dong.
We stayed late and closed the place. It was one of the best dinners I have ever had anywhere. The food was outstanding (as it always was during the entire China adventure ride), but that wasn’t what made it all so grand. We had arrived. We would do a little more riding in and around Qingdao, and then we would all be heading home. Everyone realized that as the evening ended, and there was a palpable note of somberness as we called it a night. Everyone wanted to get back to their families and their normal lives, but no one wanted the ride to end.
A fine celebratory dinner in Qingdao!
That night ended well, and the next morning we were off for a publicity ride to Qingdao’s coastline. We met at the Qingdao Zongshen dealer where five or six guys on other bikes were waiting for us. One was on a Shineray 400cc single that looked more like an original Triumph Bonneville than do the current Triumph Bonnevilles. The company was one I had heard of but didn’t know much about. We say “Shine Ray” because that’s the way it’s spelled; the Chinese pronounce it “shin you way.” There were a couple of 250cc Suzukis and a couple of all-out dirt bikes (with no lights or plates) that used the Zongshen NC250 RX3 engine. The Zongshen dealer rode his 650cc CFMoto street bike (it’s a very large motorcycle that looks a lot like a Honda ST1300). Interesting motorcycles, to be sure.
It was to be one of the best rides of our entire China adventure. We were on the edge of Qingdao headed across the peninsula and there was very little traffic. As we rode, I saw a concrete ribbon off in the distance that snaked over a mountain, and sure enough, that was our road. It was a great ride. Zuo set a sensible pace, we crested the mountain, and then we descended to sea level. Soon we were riding the Qingdao coastline. It was a magnificent road. The road and the location reminded me of Italy’s Amalfi Road below Naples. We stopped for photos in several locations. It was definitely a tourist spot for the Chinese; there were lots of busses and more than a few cars with families. But it was not touristy. It was just fun.
Has China out-Triumphed the British?
At one of the stops I commented to Gresh that this was a great ride and I was enjoying the more relaxed pace. Joe laughed and said, “You’ve gotten too used to riding in China. We’ve been passing busses on blind corners and doing all the things these guys do. If you think this is a relaxed ride, you’ve become a maniac, too.”
I guess maybe I had, but unlike the other times, it wasn’t bothering me that morning. I guess you can get used to anything. I really enjoyed that ride.
Riding along the Yellow Sea coast in Qingdao. It reminded me of Italy’s Amalfi Road.
As we road along the coast, Lu saw an opening on the left that led directly onto the beach. He took it and we all followed. The beach was great, it wasn’t too hot, and it felt wonderful to be there. I parked my RX3 in a spot where there were rocks and the sidestand found decent support. Gresh was in soft sand and his sidestand was just sinking into it; there was no way it would support the bike. Dong was next to Gresh on an RX1 and he said, “No, Arjiu, like this,” and with that, he revved the engine, popped the clutch, and spun the rear wheel. The back of his motorcycle dropped several inches as the rear wheel excavated a hole, and when it was resting on the frame, Dong stopped, killed the engine, and stepped off. The bike remained vertical, held in place by the sand on either side of the rear wheel. Gresh did the same.
I walked up to the edge of the ocean and shot a few photos. Gresh was walking toward the water in a bright green floral pattern bathing suit. It looked brand new. “Where did you get that?” I asked.
“There’s a guy selling them over there,” Joe said, pointing to a shack, “and he’s got a place where you can change.” That was all I needed to know. I wasted no time in buying a bathing suit. I had been hot and sweaty for over a month. A swim in the ocean sounded like it was just what the doctor ordered.
It was wonderful. I was swimming in the Yellow Sea, along with Zuo, Ma, Qi, Gresh, and Dong. The water was warm for the first few inches near the surface and cold below that. The chill felt wonderful. It was lowering my core temperature, and I basked in the wonder of it all. It was the first time I felt that good in quite a while. We cavorted in that water for a good hour. I didn’t want to leave.
Dong demonstrates how to park a motorcycle on the beach.
The Yellow Sea. I thought about where we were, what we were doing, and what we had done. We had ridden across the Tibetan Plateau. We rode in the Gobi Desert. We followed the Silk Road and China’s Great Wall. We rode our Zongshen motorcycles in sweltering heat and in torrential rains. We had been terribly cold at altitudes as high as 14,000 feet. And now we were at sea level, swimming in the Yellow Sea.
This was not my first time being at the edge of the Yellow Sea, but it was the first time I swam in it. As I mentioned at the start of this chapter, four decades earlier as a young US Army lieutenant, I had stood roughly 700 miles due east of this spot on the other side of the Yellow Sea, ready to shoot down any Red Chinese aircraft that violated Korean airspace. Fast forward more than 40 years, and now I’m a senior citizen on a motorcycle adventure ride playing in the water with a bunch of Chinese tourists on the other side of that same body of water. Times change, I guess. In this case, for the better.
Lu grabs a selfie in the surf.
After our swim, we all rode the bikes into a line at the water’s edge so the video guys could do their thing. Our videographer, He, was running the drone and Deng was working his magic with the Canon digital camera. In the maybe 10 minutes we were there on the beach, I watched the tide move the water line up a good 10 feet. We had to keep moving the bikes to not let the water surround us.
The Yellow Sea is an interesting body of water. It was originally more yellow in color due to mineral sediments carried downstream by the rivers that feed it, but it lost its yellowish tinge (according to the experts) due to pollution. To me, the water looked about the same as any other place I’d ever seen the ocean. The most interesting thing about the Yellow Sea, though, is its extreme tidal variation. It has one of the highest tidal movements in the world. When I was in Korea, I was told the water level moved up and down vertically 30 feet every day (I later read it is actually 26 feet). Whether it’s 26 feet or 30 feet, that’s a huge tidal swing. I remember being in Korea and looking at the Yellow Sea when the tide was out. It was stunning. Where before there had been ocean, there were now miles and miles of mud, with the occasional fish flopping on what had been the sea floor an hour or so ago.
On the way back to the hotel on that next-to-last riding day, we were caught in a severe downpour. We were soaked, but nobody cared. We were China-riding veterans. It rains, you get wet. No big deal.
The next day, we all saddled up and rode to the freight forwarder who would ship the bikes back to Chongqing. It was a short ride, and we were in and out of the freight yard in less than 30 minutes. Gresh and I wanted to buy jewelry for our wives, and the Zongshen dealer’s wife accompanied us to downtown Qingdao’s jewelry district. She helped us score great jade necklaces and both Joe’s wife and my Sue loved what we brought back for them. We said goodbye to the Chinese riders at the freight yard, thinking that we would see them at dinner that evening.
When we returned to the hotel late that afternoon, we learned that the goodbyes we said to the other guys at the freight forwarder had really been our final goodbyes. While we were shopping, the Chinese guys left by air to return to their homes. King Kong was still there (he had gone shopping with us); we would drop Kong off at the Qingdao train station the next day. Joe and I flew home after we dropped Kong off. It was a long flight, but it was great to be headed home.
I had mixed emotions about not being able to say a proper goodbye to the other Chinese riders, but I was glad it worked out the way it did. I wanted to say goodbye for real, but I really didn’t want to say goodbye at all. A few days after I arrived home, I received a nice email from Zuo. He told me that he and the other riders had left while we were shopping because they, too, did not want to risk becoming emotional during our goodbyes.
Misery makes for strong memories, and nowhere is that more true than on a motorcycle in cold wet weather. I’ve had times when I’ve been absolutely teeth-chattering cold and couldn’t shake it. Hypothermia, they call it.
We have all experienced cold and wet weather riding experiences. These are the ones that reside in my memory.
My First Big Baja Trip
Back in 1994, Baja John and I did our first big Baja ride, from southern California all the way down to Cabo San Lucas. I met John somewhere on the way down in So Cal (I can’t remember where), but what I do remember is starting out around 4:00 a.m. in a heavy downpour. I must have had some kind of rain gear (in those early days of my big trip rides we didn’t wear the kind of gear that came later), but it was relatively ineffective and before long I was pretty wet and miserable. I remember I was wearing jeans and a heavy leather motorcycle jacket. I was on my ’92 Softail, and John was on his Yamaha Virago.
Our thawing out stop in Vicente Guerrero. We didn’t cover too many miles that first day entering Baja, mostly because of the rain and the cold.
It rained off and on for most of that day. John and I stopped in Ensenada, took a few pictures, stopped again at La Bufadora, and from Bufadora on it was a steady downpour. We were young and dumb, and we just keep going. Somewhere around Vicente Guerrero (about 200 miles south of the border) I saw a hotel and stopped. My teeth were chattering uncontrollably and I felt like I was having a hard time controlling the motorcycle. It was around 4:00 in the afternoon and I was absolutely miserable.
The hotel was a cheap Baja place with concrete floors and no heat. The front desk had a register we both had to sign and I was shaking so badly I couldn’t sign my name, so I just made a big X like a hillbilly (not that there’s anything wrong with being a hillbilly). I remember the hotel clerk gave us a roll of toilet paper. We found our room, I stripped down, unrolled my sleeping bag (it had stayed dry, fortunately), and fell asleep in it shaking like a crazy person (not that there’s anything wrong with being a crazy person). I’d wake up every hour or so, check my watch, and realize I was still shivering. Finally, when I woke up at 4:00 a.m. (exactly 12 hours after climbing into my sleeping bag), I had stopped shaking. I slept for another couple of hours and was good to go.
By the next morning, the rain had stopped. The Harley and our clothes took a little longer to dry out. The guy on the BMW snagged the electric heater.
When we checked out that morning, another traveler was doing the same and I watched in surprise as he turned in an electric heater. We could have asked for one to put in our room, but we didn’t know. I remember thinking those BMW riders knew a thing or two.
That first day riding into the Baja El Nino rains was a brutal experience. We had nice weather and a rain-free ride all the way down to Cabo and back.
The Tibetan Plateau
I am a slow learner. Maybe a better description would be a learner who forgets and has to learn all over again.
When we prepared for the big ride circumnavigating China (20 years after the Baja ride described above), I had a very flaky rain suit that I knew would let water penetrate. Prior to getting on the plane for China, I sprayed the hell out of it with Scotchguard and hoped for the best.
Hope is not a strategy, as I again learned riding through another motorcycle trip downpour. This time we were headed to the Tibetan Plateau, with the very capable Sergeant Zuo leading the way (that intro photo above was on the way up to the Tibetan Plateau in that downpour). The rains were oppressive, the mountain roads were curvy and dark, it was cold, my Scotchguard didn’t work worth a damn, and I was wet and cold. Bitter cold. Not quite hypothermic, but cold nonetheless.
The Raiders Tibetan bar scene. Gresh and I lived it.
We finally arrived at our destination late that evening. It was wooden hotel in a tiny town with an adjoining dining area, and both looked like Indiana Jones’ girlfriend’s place from his first movie, Raiders of the Lost Ark. Gresh and I ducked into our room and I changed into dry clothes. The dining area didn’t have a menu. They had but one offering for dinner: Dumplings. All boiling in a big pot that looked like the one you’d see cannibals cooking people in. No kidding…it was that big. There must have been 900 dumplings floating around in that boiling cauldron. It was an all you can eat arrangement, and I ate plenty. They were great, and they were hot, both attributes that were perfect for my low-temperature condition.
We filled a smaller serving bowl with just a few of the dumplings from the giant dumpling cauldron. They really hit the spot.
Back to the “freeze your butt off” aspect of this blog. The room had some sort of a heater in the bathroom (complete with a Chinese style squat toilet, which was good for a few laughs). Gresh and I could not figure out how to get the heater to work. I’m not that smart, so I wasn’t surprised I couldn’t find the path to enlightenment. Gresh…he’s pretty smart, and his similar inability to crack the code made me feel not quite so dumb. We could get it to give us hot water, but we couldn’t get it to throw any heat. Being an engineer, I finally said screw it: We’ll just let the hot shower run all night and hope that’s enough to keep the room a degree or two above the outside temperature.
I woke up a few times during the night to the sound of the shower running. The room was like a sauna. Steamy, zero visibility, but warm. That hot water worked great.
A Cold Night In Tangke
When we were coming down off the Tibetan Plateau on the China ride, we rolled into a tiny town called Tangke.
Gresh and I joked about now being able to say “when I rode down off the Tibetan Plateau…”
Tangke was remote and primitive, and it was cold. It felt like it was going to rain as we entered, but it did not. We stayed in another place that had a restaurant with a hotel behind it. The restaurant was kind of fun because one of our riders (a fellow name Lu) saw a Tibetan woman making butter and asked if he could try it. She agreed. The approach was different than what I would have thought. Instead of churning the butter in a circular motion (like I’d seen done in countless Western movies), her approach involved slowly pumping a big stick up and down in a floor-based bucket. Lu was a real cut up. He started pumping the rod in a manner that could only be described as suggestive, which the Tibetan lady thought was hilarious. We did, too.
Good buddy Lu, suggesting unnatural acts with a Tibetan maiden. It was a fun ride, China was.
To get to the hotel behind the restaurant, we had to follow a dirt path and carefully avoid stepping in dog poop (at least I hope it was dog poop). I was thinking the hotel room would be a real disappointment, but it was actually pretty nice. When the hotel guy showed us the room, I looked around and couldn’t find a thermostat, and not wishing to run the shower all night, I asked about it. He didn’t speak English, but I managed to get my point across visually (I was a mime on a radio show in another life), and he showed me how to work the electric bed. It was like an electric blanket, except the heater was built into the mattress.
I was a little leery about sleeping on a toaster, but that electric bed worked wonderfully well. It was cold, real cold, that night, so much so there was frost on the bikes the next morning. But I was snug as a bug.
The Honda Electric Shower Heater
Nope, this has nothing to do with Honda motorcycles. There’s actually a town in Colombia up in the Andes Mountains called Honda.
This was one of my best rides ever.
Like most of the towns we rode through in the Andes, this one was hilly. The hills were so steep you couldn’t park the bike and rely on the kickstand to keep it from rolling away; keeping the bike in gear was necessary. Good buddy Juan, who led our ride, stopped in front of our hotel, which was securely hidden behind a tall wall and gigantic doors. “Security is an issue here,” Juan explained. The big doors had a little door at eye level. I immediately thought of that scene in Romancing the Stone (which was supposed to be in Colombia, but was actually filmed in Mexico).
A scene from Romancing the Stone. Our hotel in Honda had a similar little door in its gates.
Just like in the movie, someone from the hotel opened the eye level little door, conversed with Juan for a minute, and decided to allow us in. We couldn’t leave the bikes on the street (“Too dangerous,” Juan said), so we parked that at a secure warehouse around the corner.
Our hotel in Honda. The big gated doors to the left of our bikes (in the yellow wall) actually had a little door that could be opened to check out whoever wanted to enter before opening the big doors.
Once inside the hotel, I showered before dinner. There was only one faucet in the shower, and the shower was cold. I saw a switch on the showerhead, and what appeared to be an electrical coil that the water flowed through. I nervously tried the switch (standing naked in the icy water pouring through the showerhead), but the water remained icy. Oh well, I thought. I’ve taken cold showers before (no jokes, please).
At dinner in the hotel that night (which was excellent), I asked Juan about the showerhead. He smiled. “The electrical coil is supposed to heat the water as it flows through,” he said. “That’s the theory, anyway. Most of the time they don’t work,” he added, with a weak smile. Maybe that’s a good thing, I remember thinking.
Dad’s Super Hawk Heading to Cooper’s
When I was a 14-year-old kid back in rural New Jersey, I managed to get my Dad interested in motorcycles. In the space of less than 4 months, he bought a used CB 160 Honda (the baby Super Hawk), a new 305cc Super Hawk, and then a ’66 Triumph Bonneville. Cooper’s Cycle Ranch in Hamilton was our dealer, and in the early days, it was a ranch, with a big barn and all the accoutrements that went with it.
Sherm Cooper, a well-known Triumph flat track racer who became a very successful Honda and Triumph dealer in the 1960s and 1970s. He was a nice guy.
One morning (I’m guessing it was in the Spring, after the snow and ice disappeared, but before the temps starting getting reasonable), we left early on a Saturday morning to bring the Super Hawk in for its 500-mile service. The ride was along Route 130, a highway that ran from our area to Hamilton (a distance of about 35 miles).
It didn’t seem like it was going to be that cold on that distant-past Saturday morning, but let me tell you, it sure was. Dad and I both had jackets, but nothing like the motorcycle gear folks wear these days. And we had not counted on the wind chill. It was bitter. I had Dad to shield me from the wind chill; he was out in it. I guess you could say he was a Popsickle (or maybe a Popcycle).
We pulled into a store and bought a couple of newspapers, and we each stuffed them into the front of our jackets to cut the wind chill. It was a good idea, but it didn’t work very well. We still froze our butts off. I was freezing; it must have been terrible for Dad.
Yours truly at age 14 on Dad’s Super Hawk. We were dressed only slightly warmed on that ride to Cooper’s.
When we reached Cooper’s, it was still cold but at least we could warm up in the shop. The techs (they were called mechanics back in the day) had to wait for the engine to cool so they could adjust the valves, but their wait wasn’t very long that morning. When we left, central Jersey had already warmed up a bit and it was a pleasant ride home. But that ride there…wow, that was a cold one.
I should have noticed (and noted) that our previous blog (published on 6 August) was our 1,800th blog. This one is our 1,801st. That’s a lot of blogging.
The Wall Street Journal’s sole photo of the Mo Gao grotto. Notice it is the exterior only. Gresh and I did better. In fact, we did much “Mo” better.
In last week’s weekend edition of the Wall Street Journal, there’s an article about the Mo Gao grottos in China’s Gobi Desert. It’s an exotic place few folks outside China (and actually, few folks in China) know about or have visited, so I can understand the Wall Street Journal’s excitement about discovering this hidden gem. I can even understand their complete lack of any photos inside the Buddhist caves (as you will when you read this rerun of our earlier blog on Mo Gao).
Gresh and I rode our Chinese motorcycles there 10 years ago. And unlike the Wall Street Journal, we landed forbidden photos of the caves’ interiors. You see, there was a heavy Chinese police presence at Mo Gao, and signs everywhere prohibited indoor photography. Gresh and I were the only roundeyes there among hundreds of Chinese tourists (is that racist?). I figured it wouldn’t be too long before one or more of the Chinese visitors started taking pictures, and when they did, the police descended on them aggressively. Which they did, and while they did…
Read on, my intrepid blogistas.
A few weeks ago, I wrote a blog about the Indiana Jones aspects of riding a motorcycle across China, and in that blog, I told you about the Roman Legions that had settled in Liqian two thousand years ago. I mentioned that there were other Indiana Jones experiences to be had in China and I said I would write about them. It’s time to keep that promise. This blog is about the abandoned Mo Gao Buddhist grottos in the Gobi Desert. It’s an excerpt from Riding China, and if you want to get the whole story, well, hey, buy the book!
Dun Huang
The day was to be a short one for riding (only a hundred kilometers), but it would be rich with sightseeing in and around Dun Huang. It started with a short ride to Dun Huang’s vendor stalls with all kinds of brightly-colored trinkets, lots of Chinese tourists, and around it all, huge sand dunes. We had arrived at what might possibly be the least known and most inaccessible tourist attraction in the world: The Gobi Desert, up close and personal.
The Lake of the Crescent Moon in the Gobi Desert.
The signs pointed to the Lake of the Crescent Moon (and if that doesn’t sound like an Indiana Jones movie title, I don’t know what does). It was a small bright green crescent lake surrounded by the Gobi’s massive pale white dunes. The city planners in Dun Huang were making good use of it as a tourist attraction. It was amazing. The lake was a bright green arc of still water perhaps 300 meters long, forming a natural arc in the dunes, surrounded by bright green vegetation. I can only imagine how a camel caravan would have felt coming upon this place a thousand or more years ago, slowly drifting through the oven that is the Gobi, long before Dun Huang built its five-star tourist hotels. They must have viewed it as a miracle. A true oasis in the desert. It seemed to be a miracle to me and I had it easy; I had ridden here on my RX3.
Gobi Camel Riding
What really interested me were the camels. I was still feeling smug about seeing camels in the desert the day before, and I had wondered what it would be like to ride one. This was to be my day. There was a large camel riding operation set up specifically for tourists, and I realized I might never have an opportunity like this again. I needed to ride a camel. Yep, I became Joe Tourist, and I’m glad I did. It was fun. The camels took us to the top of one of the dunes, and I loved every minute of it. I’ve heard camels described as ships of the desert, and I realized as I rode along on mine that it was an appropriate description. A camel kind of rocks back and forth as it walks, the same way a ship does as it sails the ocean. The sand dunes, devoid of any vegetation, could be rolling waves. It’s all very calming. The camel behind mine came closer, and closer, and closer until its face was literally right alongside me. Its nose was just an inch from my arm. I could feel its warm dry breath on my arm and my face. It sounds a bit on the strange side, I know, but it was all somehow very soothing, riding along in the hot dry air, gently rocking left and right, with a camel breathing in my ear.
Camels in the Gobi.Quite a sight. I enjoyed Dun Huang enormously. You may have seen this photo before. It’s the cover photo for the ExhaustNotes home page, and it as a two-page spread in RoadRUNNER magazine.The view from the camel cockpit.
We spent the entire morning riding camels, taking photos, and being tourists. As much as I like riding my motorcycle, it was good to be off it for a day. We were all feeling great, even though it as incredibly hot. But it was dry, and that made it bearable.
A very attractive young woman who allowed a photo on our camel caravan. I told her I walked a mile for my camel. She smiled politely. I don’t think she spoke English.
The Mo Gao Grottos
That afternoon, we parked the bikes and rode in air-conditioned buses to the Mo Gao Buddhist grottos. This was more Indiana Jones stuff. It’s another incredible story, and it is one I had never heard until this trip. Listen to this: Ancient Buddhists created a massive temple complex in the grottos along a riverbed canyon wall in a location called Mo Gao. It’s in the desert outside of what is now Dun Huang. It was a thriving Buddhist center a thousand years ago, and then the people living there left. No one really knows why. Time and history forgot about the place. It was only recently rediscovered, and a few years after that, it opened to the public. The place was stunning. I can see it possibly being named the 9th Wonder of the Ancient World, just as Xi’an’s Terra Cotta soldiers (which I’ll describe in a later chapter) became the 8th Wonder of the Ancient World. It’s that wondrous.
The Mo Gao caves consisted of many smaller grottos that were apartments for ancient monks, and larger ones that held majestic statues and ornate decorations. I can only imagine what it must of have been like for the archeologists who uncovered these things. Today, it is all closely managed and Chinese police were there to enforce a photography prohibition.
A small portion of the Mo Gao Buddhist grotto.A forbidden photo inside one the Mo Gao grottos. Once again, the Nikon D810’s low light level capabilities came through for me!The sights and photo ops at Mo Gao were well worth the trip. There were many, many more, but I called it quits after grabbing these photos.
There are two reasons for a photography prohibition in these kinds of places. The first is that flash photography could degrade the statues and artwork. A natural light photo (one shot without flash) would prevent that kind of degradation, but most people wouldn’t understand the distinction and a “natural light only” photo policy would be too hard to enforce. The other reason is that the owner of the place (I assume it would be the Chinese government) probably wants to sell its photos. Allowing people to grab their own pictures would interfere.
The bottom line to all of the above is that the no photography policy only slowed me a little. I waited until somebody else took a photo and the picture police started yelling at them, and then I would discreetly do my natural light thing. I got some good shots, too.
Let me go tangential here for a moment and tell you a quick story about Joe Gresh. He is a great guy to travel with and I’d go anywhere with him. We both have a twisted, extremely wry, and very corny sense of humor. He cringed every time I said something I thought was clever, and I did the same with him. I enjoyed being with him on this trip immensely. The guy just has a way with words, which is readily apparent in his columns for Motorcyclist magazine. Anyway, as we walked along one of the landscaped Mo Gao pathways, I noticed a ground-mounted speaker that was in a plastic case designed to look like one of the naturally-occurring rocks. It blended in well with other real rocks along the path. I pointed to it and said to Joe, “Look at that…even a thousand years ago, these Buddhist monks had electric speakers…”
Gresh, without missing a beat, responded with, “Yeah, they loved their grotto blasters…”
I slept well that night in our unusually upscale hotel. I probably had dreams along the lines of an Indiana Jones movie plot, but I didn’t remember any of them. I was tired when I called it a night and I felt refreshed the next morning. This was the trip of a lifetime, and I was enjoying the hell out of it.
So there you have it. The Mo Gao Grottos. Lost in time nearly a thousand years, only to be discovered again a few years ago. And we were there. Indiana Jones? You bet! And if you want to read the earlier Indy in China blog about the Romans, it’s right here!
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Sunday morning, the last morning of three at Laguna Seca, was dry. No condensation dripping inside the tent as the moisture stayed in the dense cloud cover. Conditions are perfect here at the Mission Foods, Weathertech, Laguna Seca, Louie’s Fish Fry, Little Billy’s Burpee Seed franchise, in the mall next to the JC Penney racetrack. I don’t know if I mentioned it, but Laguna Seca has nice bathrooms. The showers are hot, real flush toilets, and plenty of stalls. And you can fill out most of a story just listing the sponsors and amenities.
Plenty of potato in the parking area. These can’t all be here for the Baggers.
I didn’t feel like eating another Turkey sammie, so I burbled down to the paddock where the Bear and Chisel food stand is located. In the past this place was pretty good. Today it was tolerable. The bacon in my bacon burrito was sort of raw. The burrito shrank 33%. There was no salsa. The coffee was good. I guess I can’t complain for only $21.
Tires changed, no waiting.
You always see a guy carrying a wheel or handlebars at the races. Dunlop had at least 5 tire changing machines under a long row of tents. VP race gas had a big semi-trailer full of gas. They saw a steady flow (ha) of customers bringing 5-gallon to 50-gallon containers. Man, it would be a mess if that semi crashed.
Practice started at 9.30 a.m. today. I started out near the booze tent. These are stands that usually stay pretty empty. Practice was uneventful, but I still made an event out of it. We had party balloons, a cash bar and event T-shirts.
I got to meet Miami Herald motorcycle legend James Hegsteth at the track. Later we slept together. I mean at the same camp spot. He had his own tent.
Speaking of T-shirts I was going to buy a Moto America T-shirt but the things were $50! I told the chick selling the shirts it was too much. She said I could save some money as they had a special deal going on: if I spent $100 I could get two T-shirts. It’s a racket, like Girl Scout cookies. Man, I’m on Socialist Security! I can’t blow $50 on a damn T-shirt! Years ago, I rode my VT500 from San Diego to Laguna Seca to watch a Moto GP. When I found out the entry ticket was $45, I turned around and rode back to San Diego. That shows you how committed I am at the $50 level.
And another thing: the big glass building where you can watch Turn 3 wanted $45 just to enter. You still had to pay for any drinks. WTF Moto America? What is it with the $50 thing? Ah, but the races were good. I think first place in the Baggers class paid $50.
Moto-idol John Burns kept my brain from turning to mush. He works for the AMA magazine now so go join to read his stuff.
I met my childhood hero Sir John Burns at the track. We hung out a bit and were thrown out of the VIP lounge above the front straight. I can see them not letting me in, but Burns is moto royalty. Big mistake. You don’t want Burns pissed off at you.
The racers raced and the show ended around 4:30. That was a good time to call it. Around 5:30 cops started patrolling the camp sites. My emotions were mixed: on the one hand I liked that the cops were out there protecting us, on the other I knew if I got one on a bad day, I might get shot.
But I digress…the racing (remember racing?) was pretty good all weekend. JD Beach, one of my favorite riders since Tim Hawks, told me to keep an eye on him and he won both the Superbike races.
Baggers at full lean. Don’t hate on Baggers until you’ve wobbled a mile in their shoes.
The Baggers put on a good show with lots of wiggling and sliding. These bike have to be ridden, not programmed. I’ll put up with the overpriced stuff; nobody twisted my arm to buy a T-shirt. Moto America’s event at Laguna Seca was a success in my book, a book not known for successes.
Now I’m bedded down one last time. The weather is spectacular. It’s cool, almost no breeze, just wonderful. Tomorrow I’ll break camp and start the long journey back to God’s country: New Mexico.
Matt informed me a few Sundays ago he had a date and would catch up via text after the date. I never received a text that night. OK, I thought he probably fell asleep as he starts work quite early on weekdays. He is a lead project manager for a communications company in the United States. One of the things Matt and I clicked on is he has been working remotely for 5 years, and during that time he traveled most of the planet while his company thought he was based in Seattle. Of course, from my previous life working remotely and doing the same, I totally dug his perspective on that.
In my travels there have been only really three places that blew my mind. The expansiveness and emptiness of the Australian Outback, the expansiveness and density of Tokyo, and the expansiveness and curves of the women in Colombia. Yes, my writing is probably not politically correct. I honestly don’t give a shit as it’s true. Medellin, Colombia has some of the most beautiful women on earth. On any given night there are monchichis in battalion formation. A sight to behold for sure.
