Category: Motorcycle Adventure Ride

Chanson d’Armour

Carl Bennett of the UK has contributed to the ExNotes blog before.  He recently sent to us a piece related to riding gear and we thought you might enjoy it.

By Carl Bennett

One thing I never wanted to hear on a motorcycle was the Ra-ta-da-ta-da of my head, elbows, hips, knees and toes bouncing down the tarmac having come off it. Ok, you might have to be of a certain age and indeed of a more than certain pretentiousness to recognise the song and the joke in the title, if that’s not too strong a word for it, but if you ride, you’ll have thought about buying the stuff, if you haven’t already. Which I’m feeling as if everybody else in the universe already has.

Back when I started riding motorcycles, rider armour was something I read about in Bike magazine, something strictly for people like Barry Sheen, who was the nearest thing to the Bionic Man I’d ever heard of. For our younger readers, Barry Sheen dropped his bike at Daytona somewhere around 170mph when he was 24 when his tyre blew up.

“I was rolling, and I could feel all my skin coming off. I didn’t feel the leg because all I could feel was the skin tearing off my shoulders. I went to get up and looked down, and my leg was right-angled, poking under the other one.”

Barry Sheen

He broke his left femur, right wrist, forearm and collarbone, six broken ribs, and a few vertebrae, sandpapered a lot of his skin off and got himself a 40cm steel plate screwed into his leg bone to hold it together. I don’t know what it’s like to do 170 on a motorcycle, and on my antique BMW F650, it’s not something I’m likely to find out. But I do know I never want to feel anything like Barry Sheen that day. Or any other.

I’d seen a kid at school who came off his bike at something under 40mph, but as he was wearing one of those sleeveless tops with a strap over each shoulder, the kind of thing they made you wear at English schools for Games back in the days when the P.E. teacher would wander around the shower room to “make sure” everyone was washing. This kid had one big scab from his wrist to his shoulder for a couple of weeks. He’d given up gloves to keep cool.

My view back then was that the more I looked like Mad Max, the cooler I’d look, so I bought myself a leather jacket. The one I wanted was in a proper motorcycle dealer in Bath, just about affordable, padded with something at the shoulder and the elbow and bulked me up massively. It was also an unseemly shade of orange, which was probably why it was affordable. The other problem was all I had was a Yamaha FS1E. Seriously.

Instead, I got a jacket made for me by a chain-smoking hippy in a weird shop in Bath’s Walcot Nation. He got the leather from cutting up old jackets, handbags, or wherever he could find it for free, then lined the coat with an old wool blanket he’d probably dug out of a decommissioned Cold War bunker under Box Hill. I got full marks for recycling and alternative cred, but it was about as protective as the mini-skirts it was probably made from, and it stank of cigarettes for months until the wind blew the smell away.

When I got a 650 Triumph, I had to get something more becoming, so when I was on holiday and visited Truro market, I bought the Stranglers-style black leather jacket I’d always yearned for, for a massive £35. As Meatloaf used to tell us, it was long ago and far away. According to Google, that would be about £180 today, so it’s not so much better after all. When I got my Sportster, I got myself a Schott A2. Luckily, I never got to test either of these out seriously, but after that, I turned my Harley into a laser printer and a laptop to start a business that saw me around the world for 15 years or so, during which I didn’t have a bike and being dumb, gave away or sold all my kit, gloves, Ashman boots, Belstaff boots, open-face Bell 500, goggles, jackets, waxed cotton over-trousers, Rukka suit, the Schott, the lot.

Then, just before Christmas, Santa brought me a BMW 650. Before I rode it anywhere, I had to start from scratch, starting with a helmet. I drove up to Harleston on one of those crisp December days to find a shop full of bikes I didn’t even know the names of, where they totally ignored me, then on to a shed (always a sign of a better bike shop) full of guys my own age and more who tried very quietly but firmly to sell me a nice Triumph but didn’t have any helmets. When I got home, Best Beloved, who fondly recalled her tasselled leather jacket and Yamaha 650, took me to the nearest bike shop in Ipswich, marched me to the helmet racks and whipped out her bank card. She chose a flip-front helmet I’d never heard of. I tried it on in the shop, and the sales guy told me it was the right size. After talking me out of buying a Scott chain oiler, agreeing it would be ideal if I was riding Route 66 coast to coast but also pointing out quietly and firmly that, in fact, I wasn’t, she walked me to the till and then her car.

The biggest problem was my head. It’s huge. Seriously. It’s 63cm and 64 if I need a trip to the barber. I tried the shiny new, never-heard-of-the-maker polycarb (I know..) helmet on in my home office and couldn’t believe three things: How heavy it was. How much my head hurt. That the nice guy in the shop was lying when he’d told me the helmet was my size.

It clearly said 61cm on the label on the back of it, and yes, I most definitely had said 63 in the shop. Another Saturday, another trip to the store, and a full refund. I got a Bell online instead, with the Gold ACU sticker.

I’d forgotten, or rather never really knew, how fashion was now a massive part of motorcycles. This is good because it means old stock is Out Of Fashion, and the seller still has to sell it, so there’s a whole load of good stuff being sold off cheap because Oh-mi-Gard it’s last season’s gear.

The same day we went to the bike shop in Ipswich I answered an ad on Gumtree that promised leather jeans for £30. After a tour of the town’s lesser architectural gems southeast of the railway station we found the house and the guy who said he was giving up riding motorcycles. Whether or not that was true, £30 bought a fantastic pair of leather bike jeans, padded at the knee. Ok, they zip from the wrong side and possibly, just possibly the cut makes them fit slightly like jodhpurs, more as if I was going to co-pilot Amy Johnson than ride a motorcycle, but hey. £30. A significant upgrade on Levi’s for protection anyway, and I’m too embarrassed to say when I remember Levi’s were £30 anyway.

The brand new Halversen gloves donated to a charity shop on Ebay were better than the ones I used to ride with, despite the Mad Max-style knuckle dusters that seem to be a legal requirement for riding gloves these days. The Bering jacket was the best thing though. I was intending to use my old leather jacket. Not the Schott that went to Ebay about five years back but the one I bought one Christmas in Fuengirola about 20 years back when it wouldn’t stop raining. After waxing it, soaking it in neatsfoot oil, daubing it with cocoa-butter and generally stinking my office up I realised that I might as well just buy something with armour and have done with it.

The Bering was a ludicrous £89, and that’s from a man who still thinks £4.95 is a benchmark price for pheasant pie, chips and peas, which I used to get for quiet evenings on my own in Stow-On-The-Wold back when I had a 400-year old house there. It’s got armour in the elbows and the shoulders, and a slot to stuff more armour down the back. It’s blue instead of leather coloured, with a twin zip up the front and a zip across the shoulders at the back, so that in summer you can ventilate yourself on the three weeks it ever gets above 80 Fahrenheit in the U.K. It’s made of 600 denier Cordura with a woven aluminium zip-in full lining for winter, and a handy strap and a brass buckle at the throat. More to the point, despite all the protection and windproofing, it doesn’t make me look like I’m auditioning for a Mad Max film. Best Beloved, who sews for a living, took one look at it and said “That’s a £300 jacket.”

Now, maybe it’s me, but if I’m spending £300 on a jacket I’m only going to wear in one eventuality, on the back of a motorcycle or anywhere else, then I want it to look pretty special. Some lizard skin detailing, maybe, or a paisley lining. Instead I get armour and fine-spun aluminium. When I started riding the biggest deal in protective clothing was whether you could find white sea-boot socks to turn down over the top of your knee-length zip-up boots, the ones where the only armour insert was a steel plate in the right instep, for the kick-starter.

The older I get the more I realise that saying is true: the past is another country. They do things differently there. And just sometimes, at least when it comes to motorcycle clothing, they do some things a whole lot better here.

Carl, thanks much.  It’s a good writeup, I enjoyed reading it, and I think our readers will, too.  ExNotes readers, if you’d like to follow Carl’s blog, the link is writer-insighter.com.

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Cool Stuff Near Death Valley

By Joe Berk

I recently posted a couple of blogs about Death Valley, including a recap of my several visits over the last decade.  This blog is a little bit different.  it’s about some of the cool stuff near Death Valley.  I didn’t have any hard rules about how close “near” means.  I’m including the places I’ve visited and thought were worth a mention.  If you think there should be more, leave a comment and tell us about it.  We love hearing from you and we love when you click on the popup ads, so don’t forget to do so (and when you see that donate button at the bottom of this blog…well, you know what to do).

I shot most of the photos in this blog with my Nikon D810 and the 24-120 Nikon lens.  A few were with the Nikon N70 film camera I recently wrote about, and where that is the case, I’ll say so in the photo caption.

Baker

When visiting Death Valley from the south (as in southern Calilfornia), it’s likely you’ll pick up Highway 127 in Baker, just off Interstate 15.  There used to be a hotel in Baker, but it’s gone.  There are a couple of gas stations a couple of tacky fast food franchises, but don’t waste your time eating in a fast food franchise.  What you want is the Mad Greek.

The Mad Greek restaurant in Baker, California.

I didn’t eat at the Mad Greek on this trip (either coming to or leaving Death Valley).  Sue decided several trips ago she didn’t like the place, so I deferred to her wishes.  I never know when I might want to buy more reloading components, another gun, another watch, or another motorcycle, so we took a pass on the Mad Greek (Sue is of Greek ancestry; maybe that has something to do with it).  When I ever pass through Baker on my own, though, the Mad Greek is a sure thing.

The Baker thermometer. If you are going to visit Death Valley, the winter months are very comfortable (it was 68 degrees when I took this photo). It gets warmer in the summer.

The other thing Baker is famous for is its thermometer.  It’s 134 feet tall, in honor of reaching that record temperature in 1913 (I guess we had global warming back then, too).  If you go through Baker, you have to get a photo of the Baker thermometer.  It’s a rite of passage.

Highway 127

The signs are new; the Old Spanish Trail is not.

The ride north through the California desert from Baker to Death Valley is both beautiful and historic.  It follows the Old Spanish Trail, something I had never of until I saw the signs and did a little research.  Established in 1829, the Spanish Trail is a 700-mile long road that runs from Santa Fe to southern California.  It traverses New Mexico, Colorado, Utah, Arizona, Nevada, and California.  John C. Fremont and Kit Carson used it.  Serapes and other woven goods went to California from New Mexico; California’s horses and mules went to Santa Fe.  Indian slaves, contraband, and more used this same route.

Looking north on California Highway 127 after leaving Baker. You probably think I cranked up the saturation on this photo, but I didn’t. The CalTrans folks had recently repainted the yellow and white lines.  The dark blue skies are due to the polarizing filter I had on my 24-120 lens.

Shoshone

The first time I ever visited Shoshone was on the Destinations Deal ride.   I remember well the terror I felt on that stretch of road, leading a group of other riders after a long day through Death Valley.   We were heading south on Badwater Basin Road and I was relying on my cell phone and Waze to guide me.  I was worried about running out of gas, keeping one eye on the gas gage and the other on the road.  I should be okay, I kept thinking, but I’d never been this way before and I didn’t know.  Then my Waze program quit.  It had been running on stored info because I had no cell phone reception for the last 60 or 70 miles.  The gas gage was nudging closer to the “no more” line and I was sweating bullets.  It sure was remote out there.

Finally, Highway 178 ran into Highway 127 and a sign pointed to Shoshone.  I felt better, and then I realized I didn’t have the Shoshone Inn’s address where we would spend the night.  “How will I find it?” I wondered.  It wouldn’t be easy leading other riders while looking for the place (I’ve had to do this on other rides).  Then I was suddenly in Shoshone and I started to laugh.  You can’t miss the Shoshone Inn.  It’s one of only three or four buildings.  I’d say Shoshone was a wide spot in the road, but California 127 was no wider there than it was anywhere else.

Shoshone was founded by Ralph Fairbanks in 1910; initially, it was primarily a mining town (old Ralph was a Death Valley prospector and entrepreneur).  Charles Brown (yep, Charlie Brown) married Fairbanks’ daughter.  Charlie and Stella moved away, but they returned in 1920 and further developed the town.  Charlie became a California state senator and he turned ownership of Shoshone over to his son (who was also named Charles Brown).  I guess you might say Shoshone is a Charlie Brown kind of place.  I been there a few times, always looking for a girl named Lucy, but so far, I’ve had no luck.

The sign lies.

As I mentioned in an earlier blog, the Population 31 sign lied.  It’s only 13 people now.  The lady who runs the hotel (Jennifer, not Lucy) commutes from Pahrump (Pahrump is about 45 minutes east on the other side of the Nevada state line).  She told us about the sign lying.  The rest of the people either died or moved away.  None of them were named Lucy.

Shoshone is the last town before the southern entrance to Death Valley National Park.   One woman, a Mrs. Sorrells, inherited the town.  There’s a school that handles kids from K through 12th grade, some of whom commute from up to 120 miles away.  There’s a general store (including a gas station), a museum, a restaurant (the Crowbar Cafe and Saloon), a nature trail, an RV park, and an unmanned airstrip.  I guess if you are flying to Shoshone, you have to make a pass or two over the runway to make sure it’s clear.

The Shoshone Inn

A film photo taken with the Nikon N70 and tweaked in Photoshop.

The Shoshone Inn is surprisingly nice, although it’s probably time for it to be refurbished.  There’s a gas-fired fire pit outside in the unpaved parking lot; when I rode into Shoshone with the Destinations Deal crew we spent a nice evening drinking Joe Gresh’s beer, which he bought from Shoshone’s next-door Charles Brown general store.

I got up early the next morning to take pictures with my film camera (the N70 my sister gave to me) and I saw that the fire pit was still going; I think the Shoshone Inn desk clerk may have forgotten to turn it off (they will be surprised when they get their gas bill).

The Charlie Brown Rocks

A view of the Charlie Brown rocks.

When I Googled what else was around Shoshone, the Charlie Brown rocks appeared.  Highway 178 east intersects with Highway 127 right at the southern edge of Shoshone.  When I saw the Charlie Brown rocks on Google, I wasn’t sure how far east on 178 I’d have to go, but when I approached Shoshone, I saw it was not far at all.  The rocks are what appear to be sandstone formations and they are kind of in your face as you approach Shoshone.   I could see the cave openings I’d read about, but there were signs to ward off trespassers and I didn’t want to wander in.  A few photos were good enough.

A shot from Highway 178.

The Crowbar Cafe and Saloon

An N70 photo of the Crowbar Cafe and Saloon. It’s diagonally across the street from the Shoshone Inn.

Sue and I had two meals in the Crowbar.  As I had experienced on previous visits (especially if you get there later in the day) it’s good to have three or four meal choices ready when the waitress takes your order.  Hamburgers?  No hamburgers, we had a busload of Chinese tourists come through and they ate all the hamburgers.   Trout?  No trout.  Tacos?  Yep, the Crowbar had tacos and they were surprisingly good.

The same restaurant, but with the D810 Nikon. Digital is superior to film. Duh.

When we left after lunch that first day, we spotted a small airplane on the runway at the town’s southern edge (the runway is tucked into the southeastern corner of the Highway 127/178 intersection).  There’s no tower or buildings or anything else there, and you only see that it’s a paved runway when you look (you wouldn’t notice it otherwise).  We think the four young guys who were sitting one table over from us at lunch flew in from somewhere to eat at the Crowbar.

We sat at the bar the next night and the one-man-band lady who handled everything (waitressing, barmaiding, dishwashing, etc.) asked if I wanted a beer.   You bet, I answered.  There were four taps, all unmarked.  She didn’t know which tap had which beer, so she poured me a small sample of each and I opted for a craft-brewed dark beer.  The bartender/waiter/dishwasher told me was made in nearby Tecopa. It was good, as were the chicken fajitas Sue and I shared for dinner.

The Shoshone Museum

An N70 photo of the Museum. Not too bad for an old film camera.

We didn’t go into the Shoshone museum because it was closed the two times we visited the Crowbar (it’s right next door).  It didn’t look as if there was much there; it was all housed in a very small building.  I took a picture of an old Chevy, an old fuel pump, and a bit of junk in front of the museum.  I’m guessing the museum used to be a gas station.  I’ll bet Charlie Brown owned it.

Tecopa Springs

Tecopa Springs is short drive east of Shoshone on Highway 178.   We went there twice.  We saw quite a few RVs but we only saw a few people in front of Tecopa’s two restaurants.  A young fellow we spoke to at the Crowbar the previous night told us he lived in Tecopa for six months each year and worked remotely (he was a digital nomad like Mike Huber).  I imagine he spent winters in Tecopa and found someplace cooler in the summer.  He said he came into Shoshone once a week for dinner because he wanted fried food and he couldn’t make fried food in his RV.

The two restaurants in Tecopa are a barbeque place and a combined bar and pizza place.   The digital nomad we spoke with in the Crowbar said Wednesday (the day we rolled into Tecopa for dinner) was the best night at the barbeque place, but that restaurant was closed when we rode by.  We rode on to the beer and pizza palace. When we entered, I asked the guy at the bar about the dark beer I’d had the night before in Shoshone (which was made in Tecopa), but they didn’t serve that brew there.  He gave me a small sample of their dark beer (also brewed in Tecopa).  It had kind of a peanut flavor to it and I thought it was okay, but the beer the previous night was better.  The bar only had two seats; there were other people drinking and smoking at tables outside the restaurant.

What can I say? Folks in Tecopa don’t have a lot to do, I guess.   This is an N70 photo.

When I asked about their dark beer, the one guy who was seated at the bar told me,”it’s this one…the dick.”  I wasn’t sure I heard him correctly until I looked at the tap (which I hadn’t noticed).  It was, indeed, a dick.  I had to grab a photo.

Tecopa pizza, via the N70. There’s a whole lotta PhotoShop tweakin’ goin’ on in this photo.

We ordered a pizza that seemed to take forever.  When the guy finally brought it out, it was cold.  It had probably sat for a while. Trust me on this: You wouldn’t want to make the trip to Tecopa for the pizza.  Maybe the photo ops, but not the pizza.

There’s also a date farm somewhere beyond Tecopa.  Sue and I rode out there after dinner, but it closed at 5:00 p.m. and we were too late.  They had date shakes and I was looking forward to one, but that will have to wait until my next visit.

The Amargosa Opera House

After poking around a bit more on the Internet, I read about the Amargosa Opera House in Death Valley Junction.   It was 50 miles north of Shoshone.  The pictures on the Internet looked like the Opera House theatre’s interior would make for an interesting photo stop, so I called a couple of days before.  I mentioned that I was doing this for the ExhaustNotes website and possibly, a travel article for Motorcycle Classics magazine.

My free photo. Saved $500 on that one, I did.

A young lady answered the phone and told me I needed to email their Director of Operations.  She promised he would get back to me that day.  That sounded like a plan and the Director of Operations did indeed get back to me with this message:  I could take their daily tour (at a cost of $15 per person) or I could pay $500 for one hour to photograph the theatre.  Gulp.  I can’t remember ever paying anyone anything for something like this.

Sue and I rode to Death Valley Junction anyway, and I grabbed a few photos from the outside.  When we first saw the place, it looked run down.  It’s hard to believe anyone would stay their hotel, but I guess people do.  A few photos and a $500 savings later, we were back on the road.

Pahrump

After spending another half day in Death Valley National Park, we decided to head over to Red Rock Canyon National Conservation Area.  That’s near Las Vegas.  On the way over, we crossed into Nevada and entered Pahrump.  Pahrump is a much bigger town than anything around Death Valley.  It has been one of the fastest growing towns in the entire U.S., with 15% year-over-year population growth for each of the last several years.  We thought Pahrump would be a good place to have lunch, and we were right.

Mom’s: A great restaurant in Pahrump.

Sue found a place called Mom’s on her cell phone, it had great reviews, and we had to wait a few minutes to get in (which is always a good sign).  Trust me on this:  If you ever find yourself in Pahrump, Mom’s is where you want to eat.

I had a corn beef hash omelet for lunch at Mom’s. It was magnificent.

As I mentioned above, we went through Pahrump on our way to the Red Rock Canyon National Conservation Area.  I was going to squeeze that in here, too, but this blog is getting a little long.  I’ll save Red Rock for another blog.

On the ride out of town on our way back to Shoshone, we stopped for gas in Pahrump.  It was $3.68 per gallon.  That’s a good two bucks cheaper than what we pay in California.  After filling up and on the way out of town, we saw a gun store creatively named Pahrump Guns and Ammo.  Sue won’t let me drive past a gun store without stopping, so we did.  It was a small place and we had a nice visit with the two guys who worked there.  I told them we were from California and we were collecting campaign contributions for Hillary Clinton.  We had a good laugh.  People in Pahrump have a sense of humor.

Barstow’s Del Taco Restaurants

You probably think I’m crazy including the Barstow Del Taco restaurants in this blog.   I’m listing it here because if you’re going to Death Valley from southern California, it’s a safe bet you’re going to pass through Barstow, and if you’re going to pass through Barstow, you need to stop at one of the three Del Tacos there.

There’s a story behind this.  About 15 years ago I had a bad motorcycle crash and I had to spend a month in the hospital.  One of the guys I shared a room with was the son of Ed Hackbarth, the entrepreneur who founded the Del Taco restaurant chain.

One of the three Barstow Del Taco restaurants.  Trust me on this: You want to stop at Del Taco in Barstow.

Ed Hackbarth is a real prince of a guy.  He started Del Taco in Barstow, the restaurant chain was riotously successful, and it spread all over the U.S.  Ed sold the Del Taco chain way back in 1976 to a group of investors and it continues to thrive.  But there’s a big difference between the rest of the Del Taco empire and the three Del Tacos in Barstow.  When Ed sold Del Taco, part of the deal was that he kept the original three Barstow Del Tacos.  Ed would continue to use the Del Taco name on those three restaurants, but he didn’t have to use the Del Taco menu and he could serve food the way he wanted.  And that’s what Ed does.  The portions are bigger (they’re huge, actually), everything is fresh (nothing is ever frozen), the restaurants are immaculate, and the staff is super friendly.  The Barstow Del Tacos have some of the best tacos and burritos I’ve ever had.  We won’t drive through Barstow without stopping at one of Ed’s three Del Tacos, and there’s been times we’ve made the 80-mile trek from my home to Barstow just for a taco.  You should try one.  You can thank me later.

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Death Valley 2024

By Joe Berk

I guess I like Death Valley, because when Sue and I learned we had to use or lose some of our airline miles (and that we could use them for a hotel stay), we opted for a couple of nights at the Shoshone Inn in Shoshone, California (Shoshone is a little town just below Death Valley’s southern edge).  Plus, I wanted to play with the N70 Nikon (a film camera) a little more and compare some of its photos to the digital pics from my Nikon D810.

The 2024 Death Valley Adventure Run route. We took a couple of days to do this and more. You could cram it all into a single day, but what be the point?

The plan was to roll in to Shoshone through Baker, and hit Dante’s View, Zabriskie Point, Artist’s Palette, Badwater Basin, the Ashford Mill ruins, and then head back to Shoshone.  If we had enough time, we wanted to explore other points of interest, too.

When we checked in to the Shoshone Hotel on this visit, I asked about the 31 people who lived there. The hotel clerk told me the sign lied. The current population was 13 (not 31) people.

Dante’s View

The sign up at Dante’s View, nicely oxidized.

Our first stop the next morning was at Dante’s View.  This spot gives a good overview of nearly the entire Death Valley basin and the surrounding mountains.  Here’s the view looking northwest:

You can see that Death Valley was flooded, and that the floodwaters in the basin were receding. No kayaking allowed by the time we arrived.

The vantage point at Dante’s View is really a panorama from nearly due north to nearly due south.  I took several photographs from that vantage point and stitched them together in Photoshop.   The photo below is a link.  If you click on it, it will open a larger version.

Go ahead and click on this photo…I dare you.

Zabriskie Point

From there, it was on to Zabriskie Point.  We backtracked from Dante’s View back to Highway 190, turned left, and then headed to Zabriskie Point.  The ride through the rolling desert was nice, and the views were spectacular.

Walking up to Zabriskie Point. This is another scenic location, with lots of California and Death Valley geology on display.
A view of the different strata at Zabriskie Point.
Looking across Death Valley to the snow-capped mountains on the other side.
Zabriskie Point badlands. You can have a lot of fun with a camera at Death Valley. This was a good time of year to be there, too.

Artist’s Palette

Artist’s Palette. There are different elements present in these mountains, which provide an array of color.

From there it was on to Artist’s Palette and then Badwater Basin.  Artist’s Palette is a on a road that cuts off of Badwater Basin Road.  The name is based on the fact that the hills in that area are multicolored.  I plan to do another blog in the near future just on Artist’s Palette and the geology that gives the place its many hues.

PhotoShop, artificial intelligence, fake lightning, and Artist’s Palette.

You might be wondering about the photo at the very top of this blog (I repeated here so you wouldn’t have to scroll up).  No, I didn’t just happen to trip the D810 Nikon’s shutter when lightning struck.  This is the same photograph of Artist’s Palette two pics up, but I had a little fun with a c0uple of PhotoShop features.  I used the program’s artificial intelligence selection feature to select the sky (which, as you can see from the earlier photo was nice and sunny), and then I told PhotoShop to replace the sky with dark clouds and lightning.  PhotoShop gave me three options; I selected the one you see here.  What’s kind of cool is that it also shaded the mountains a bit, as they would appear under a dark and cloudy sky.  I’m still on the fence on this topic of artificial intelligence and its uses.  I’d prefer just plain old actual intelligence in more of my fellow mammals, but hey, I’m a grumpy old man who likes to shout at the clouds.  What’s nice is now I can use AI to make the clouds appear whenever I want to.

Badwater Basin

After Artist’s Palette, we were back on Badwater Basin Road, headed south to Badwater Basin.  Death Valley, as most folks know, is below sea level.  As you ride through different parts of Death Valley, there are signs showing how far you are below sea level.  It’s cool.  Badwater Basin is the lowest of the low at 282 feet below sea level.

Looking up from Badwater Basin at the mountains to the east. Our location was 282 feet below sea level.
Fellow tourists walking out into Death Valley’s Badwater Basin.

We had a lot of rain in southern California this winter, and in Death Valley, that resulted Badwater Basin being submerged.  There was enough a couple of weeks before our visit that the National Park Service allowed kayaking in Badwater Basin.  By the time of our visit, though, the Park authorities had put a lid on that.  There was still water present, but it had receded enough that people would have to walk through the muck at the edges, which would damage the area.  It’s too bad; a photo of folks kayaking in Badwater Basin would have been cool.

One of the nice things about traveling to places like Death Valley is that you meet people from all over the world.  We had a nice conversation with a young guy from Beijing who was an exchange student in the Cal State system.  I asked where he was from and he was hesitant to tell me at first, which I chalked up to nervousness induced by the tense(r) situation between the US and Chinese governments.  I told him about our travels through China and that broke the ice.  He was impressed.

Sue and I hamming it up with the cameras. The guy next to her is the young man from China mentioned above.

When you stand at the edge of Badwater Basin, there are mountains to the left and mountains to the right.   I took nine photos and stitched them together in PhotoShop, just like I did for the Dante’s View panorama above.  If you click on the photo below, it will open a larger version, which gives a small hint at the grandeur of the Badwater Basin vantage point.

Go ahead…make my day: Click on this photo.

Ashford Mill Ruins

There’s not much to the Ashford Mill Ruins.  It’s the shell of a building that processed gold prior to shipment out of Death Valley.  It was on the road back to Shoshone, so we stopped to grab a few photos.

All you ever wanted to know about the Ashford Mill ruins.
What’s left of the Ashford Mill. Working here in the summer must have been brutal.

We wrapped up our ride through Death Valley late in the day, continuing south on Badwater Basin Road and then east as it became Highway 178.  It was back to Shoshone for us, with dinner that night in Tecopa Springs.  I’ll tell you more about that hopping locale in the next blog.

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A Recap: Previous Death Valley Visits

By Joe Berk

As I mentioned in a recent blog, Sue and I recently spent a couple of days in Death Valley.  I love the place.  I lived in California for 30+ years before I ever made the trip out there on my KLR 650, and since then, I’ve been back several times.  Here’s a short recap of those previous visits.

The Teutonic Twins Run

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My KLR in Death Valley on that first visit. I loved my KLR; it was a great motorcycle.
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Good buddy Dennis, who won the chili-eating contest at Brown’s BMW.

That first ride on the KLR 650 didn’t just happen because I decided to finally get out there to see the hottest place on the planet.  It came about because the guys at Brown BMW had a chili cookoff and eating contest followed by a two-day ride to Death Valley.  If it hadn’t been for that, I wouldn’t have made it out there.  I was the lone KLR rider; all the other guys were on big BMW twins.   I’d ridden with those guys before and they were too fast for me.  Nope, I was happy as a clam poking along on my 650cc single.  I left right after the chili cookoff because I planned to meander along through other parts of the Mojave before spending the night in Baker, which was to be our jumping off point the next morning.   It was fun, that ride out to Baker was.  Just me and the KLR.   I explored the desert around Kelbaker (southeast of Baker) and the old train depot there.

The next morning, we all had breakfast at the Mad Greek (a Baker and southern California icon), and then rolled out on California State Route 127 to the lower end of Death Valley.  That’s a good highway that cuts through the desert.  There’s nothing else out there, and the Teutonic twin crowd quickly left me in the dust.  They were running well over 100 mph; the KLR might touch 100 on a good day.  But I didn’t need to run at those speeds that day.  I was enjoying the ride.

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The charcoal kilns in Death Valley, I’m sure glad I didn’t skip seeing them on that first Death Valley foray.

When I left Death Valley on that first trip, I left through the northwestern part to pick up the 395 back down to southern California.  That was a good thing.  I saw a sign for Wildrose Canyon Road and another sign for the charcoal kilns pointing down a dirt road.  I was by myself and I was in no hurry.  I didn’t have any idea what the charcoal kilns were all about, but I was interested in learning more.  I took that road, and I’m glad I did.  Every time I’ve been in Death Valley since that first trip, the road to the charcoal kilns was closed, including on this my recent trip.  If you are ever out there and the road is open, you might consider seeing them.   The kilns are interesting, and Wildrose Canyon Road (as the name suggests) is a beautiful ride.

The Hell’s Loop Endurance Run

Following Arlene and TK on 150cc California Scooters into Death Valley.

Another ride in was when good buddy TK, good buddy Arlene, and I rode in the Hell’s Loop endurance rally on the 150cc California Scooters.  That was a challenging day.  We rode 400 miles into and through Death Valley and then returned to Barstow.  It was cold and the hardtail CSC 150 beat me up, but it was fun.  That little 150 never missed a beat.

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We had lunch at the Furnace Creek Inn, and shortly before turning off the road, we saw this guy. He is obviously well fed.
As soon as we sat down for lunch at the Furnace Creek Inn, this guy landed a couple feet away. We had just seen the coyote. I asked the roadrunner if he owned anything made by Acme, or if he was being chased by old Wiley. He responded with but two words: Beep Beep.

My next Death Valley adventure was a photo safari with Sue.  We did that one in my Subie CrossTrek in a single day.  It was a long day, but the photo ops did not disappoint.  What was kind of cool about that trip is that when we rode through Badwater Basin, we saw a coyote loping along the road headed north, and a short while later when we stopped at the Furnace Creek Inn, a roadrunner landed right next to us as we enjoyed lunch on the patio.  Was the roadrunner running from the coyote? Cue in the Warner Brothers: Beep beep!

The Destinations Deal Tour

The Destinations Deal crew overlooking Death Valley from Dante’s View. We covered a lot of territory on that trip.

A few years ago we rode through Death Valley on RX3 motorcycles.  That was part of a promotion we ran when I was working with CSC.  We took a half dozen riders through a handful of southwestern states, and Death Valley was the last of several national park visits.  It’s where I first met Orlando and his wife Velma.   Joe Gresh was on that ride, too.  It was fun.

The “My Sister Eileen” Trip

A 20-mule-team borax train.
Just like the theatrical title: My sister Eileen. We had a great time on that trip.

After the Destinations Deal run, Sue and I and my sister Eileen had a road trip through California and Nevada, with a run down the 395 through a major league snowstorm.  We went through Death Valley the next day (the snowstorm had ended) and it was awesome.  I didn’t do a blog on that Death Valley visit (I have no idea why), but trust me on this:  Like all trips to and through Death Valley, it was awesome.

That gets me caught up on my prior Death Valley visits.   If you want to see more photos and read more about those earlier visits, here are the links:

Watch for a series of Death Valley blogs.  The first will be about our most recent visit, and then I’ll post blogs about Death Valley history, Death Valley geology, things to do around Death Valley, Shoshone, nearby Red Rock Canyon National Park, and maybe more.   Stay tuned.

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Nikon’s N70 Film Camera: Part 2

By Joe Berk

This is a follow up to the recent post on my recently reacquired Nikon N70 film camera.

In the prior blog, I mentioned the N70’s rear door gooification issue and that I had read on an Internet forum it was a common issue.  My camera’s rear door was like fly paper, with all kinds of debris stuck to it.  I used the approach the forum commenter mentioned:  A shop rag and alcohol, a little elbow grease, and the goo came off.  The plastic underneath has a nice glossy black finish that matches the camera’s other exterior surfaces.  It looks good.  Here’s a pair of before and after photos:

Good buddy Greg spotted me three rolls of ISO 400 35mm film.  He told me the film was 6 or 8 years old, but he thought it still might be good.  I loaded a roll in the N70.

I don’t like UV filters and that’s what the Tamron 28-105 lens had on it when I took it home from New Jersey.  I prefer a polarizer unless I’m shooting at night or using the flash.  At one point I probably had a 62mm polarizer, but I tossed a bunch of camera debris and detritus a few months ago and if I ever had a 62mm polarizer (which is what the Tamron takes), it went out with that batch.  No problem; I found a 62mm polarizer and a 62mm lens cap on Amazon.  I ordered both, along with three rolls of ISO 200 35mm film.  I figured if the film Greg gave didn’t work out, this film would because it was brand new.  Even if Greg’s film was good, I’d need more eventually.

You know, it’s not easy to find 35mm film in stores like it used to be.  Costco used to have a big area stocked with all kinds of 35mm from Fuji and Kodak, ranging from ISO 100 to ISO 1600 (with everything in between).  They also had a huge section for processing film and making enlargements.  The Costco film developing and printing services were inexpensive, they did a great job, and they turned it around in under an hour.  It’s all gone now.  Wiped clean from the face of the earth, as they say.  Sometimes I feel like turning around, walking out, and shouting at the clouds.  I’m an old man, so I can do it.  But I don’t.

Anyway, to get back to the Nikon story, I shot up that first roll of expired ISO 400 film.  Just silly stuff…pictures of the house (which immediately caused my neighbor to come over and ask if we were listing the house), my office area, and a couple of motorcycles.  The roll of film provided just 24 exposures and it went quickly.  When I shoot digital, I might take a hundred shots in a single stop.  Shooting film, though, is like shooting a single-shot  rifle.  You think more.  You have to make each shot count.

A quick Google search on film developers near me showed that there weren’t too many, but there was a guy across the street from Costco.  I had used him once before to get some older negatives scanned for a magazine article, so I knew he was good.  I rolled over there and to my surprise, I had to stand in line.  What do you know?  There are other people who still shoot film.  As I patiently waited my turn, I thought that this guy probably doesn’t mind Costco exiting the film business.

When I was my turn, David (the guy behind the counter) remembered me.  He asked if I wanted the negatives and the prints.  At first I said yes, but then I remembered I have gobs of old prints and negatives stuffed away all over the house.  So I said no, I just want the scanned images.  David’s shop scans in either of two resolutions (medium or high); he didn’t know what the DPI (dots per inch) for either.  My digital Nikon shoots at 300 DPI, but I have to knock the images down to 72 DPI in PhotoShop for the ExNotes blog (everything you’ve ever seen on the blog is 72 DPI).   David told me the digital images (scanned from my negatives) would be in my Dropbox account the next day (he actually delivered them that same night).  The medium resolution images were at 256 DPI.

When I opened the scanned images, at first I thought that the expired film may have, in fact, expired.  The images were faded, and because I was shooting ISO 400 film, they were also somewhat grainy. Okay, so the film guys were serious about that use by date.  I played with one, though, to see if I could bring it to life.  Here’s what it looked like initially:

Here’s what it looked like after I worked on it a bit in PhotoShop:

The next step was to try the new ISO 200 film.  Sue and I spent a couple of days in Death Valley, and I tossed the N70 into my overnight bag for that trip.

I don’t think it’s possible to have a bad stay in Death Valley, although I understand that the folks who named the place might have thought otherwise.  I love it there.  This time, we explored the surrounding areas, including Tecopa Springs a few miles away.  Tecopa Springs sounds a lot more exotic than it really is.  There’s a bar and pizza place so I ordered one of their craft beers and a pizza.   I took a photo of it before we dug in and when I received the scan after I returned home, it was depressingly bland.  Here’s what it looked like:

The scan with this roll of new 35mm ISO 200 Fuji film, as delivered, looked about the same as the stuff I had shot with the expired film.  Maybe the developer didn’t automatically tweak it to highlight the colors.   I opened the scan in PhotoShop, cropped it, adjusted the levels and curves, cranked in a little vibrance, deleted the distractions in the upper left corner, and hit it with the shadows feature to brighten the image’s upper half.  That brought it to life a little better.

Here’s another set of before and after images in Death Valley’s Artist’s Palette area.  This is the photo on the road heading there before any PhotoShop trickery:

Here’s that image with its levels and curves adjusted:

In the photo above, the mountains and the road look exactly as I remember them.  The sky is a bit too vibrant, but that’s the polarizer earning its keep.

This is another pair of images at Artist’s Palette.  The first is the scan as I received it from the developer:

This is the image above with its curves and levels adjusted:

Again, the sky is too deep, but the rest of the image is true to how I remember it.    The guy in the image is using his iPhone, which probably returned the bright colors you see in the PhotoShop-tweaked photos without him doing anything.  That’s because the iPhone does all the mods automatically.

So what’s the bottom line?  Digital, my brothers.  Film photography is fun, but for me it’s a huge step back.  I’ll take my Nikon D3300 or D810 over film any time I’m out.  The N70 is interesting, but it’s digital all the way for me.  With two or three exceptions, and those are the other film cameras I brought back from New Jersey, including a very nice Honeywell Pentax ES (if I can find the right size battery for it).  Stay tuned.

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It’s Always About The Motors

By Joe Berk

For me a motorcycle’s appearance, appeal, and personality are defined by its motor.   I’m not a chopper guy, but I like the look of a chopper because the engine absolutely dominates the bike.  I suppose to some people fully faired motorcycles are beautiful, but I’m not in that camp.  The only somewhat fully faired bike I ever had was my 1995 Triumph Daytona 1200, but you could still see a lot of the engine on that machine.  I once wrote a Destinations piece for Motorcycle Classics on the Solvang Vintage Motorcycle Museum and while doing so I called Virgil Elings, the wealthy entrepreneur who owned it.  I asked Elings what drove his interest in collecting motorcycles.  His answer?  The motors.  He spoke about the mechanical beauty of a motorcycle’s engine, and that prompted me to ask for his thoughts on fully faired bikes.  “I suppose they’re beautiful to some,” he said, “but when you take the fairings off, they look like washing machines.”  I had a good laugh.  His observation was spot on.

A 1200cc Harley Panhead motor I photographed at the Rock Store in Malibu.

My earliest memory of drooling over a motorcycle occurred sometime in the 1950s when I was a little kid.  My Mom was shopping with me somewhere in one of those unenclosed malls on Route 18 in New Jersey, and in those days, it was no big deal to let your kid wander off and explore while you shopped.  I think it was some kind of a general store (I have no idea what Mom was looking for), and I wandered outside on the store’s sidewalk.  There was a blue Harley Panhead parked out front, and it was the first time I ever had a close look at a motorcycle.  It was beautiful, and the motor was especially beautiful.  It had those early panhead corrugated exhaust headers, fins, cables, chrome, and more.  I’ve always been fascinated by all things mechanical, and you just couldn’t find anything more mechanical than a Big Twin engine.

There have been a few Sportsters that do it for me, too, like Harley’s Cafe Racer from the late 1970s.  That was a fine-looking machine dominated by its engine.  I liked the Harley XR1000, too.

A 1000cc Harley Cafe Racer photographed at one of the Hansen Dam meets. When these were new, they sold for about $3,000.

I’ve previously mentioned my 7th grade fascination with Walt Skok’s Triumph Tiger.  It had the same mesmerizing motorrific effect as the big twin Panhead described above.  I could stare at that 500cc Triumph engine for hours (and I did).  The 650 Triumphs were somehow even more appealing.  The mid-’60s Triumphs are the most beautiful motorcycles in the world (you might think otherwise and that’s okay…you have my permission to be wrong).

A 1966 Triumph Bonneville and it’s 650cc twin-carb engine. My Dad rode a Bonneville just like this one.

BSA did a nice job with their engine design, too.  Their 650 twins in the ’60s looked a lot like Triumph’s, and that’s a good thing.  I see these bikes at the Hansen Dam Norton Owners Club meets.  They photograph incredibly well, as do nearly all vintage British twins.

A late1960s BSA at Hansen Dam. These are beautiful motorcycles, too.

When we visited good buddy Andrew in New Jersey recently, he had several interesting machines, but the one that riveted my attention was his Norton P11.  It’s 750cc air cooled engine is, well, just wonderful.  If I owned that bike I’d probably stare at it for a few minutes every day.  You know, just to keep my batteries charged.

Andrew Capone’s P-11 Norton. You can read about our visit with Andrew here.

You know, it’s kind of funny…back in the 1960s I thought Royal Enfield’s 750cc big twins were clunky looking.  Then the new Royal Enfield 650 INT (aka the Interceptor to those of us unintimidated by liability issues) emerged.  Its appearance was loosely based on those clunky old English Enfields, but the new twin’s Indian designers somehow made the engine look way better.  It’s not clunky at all, and the boys from Mumbai made their interpretive copy of an old English twin look more British than the original.  The new Enfield Interceptor is a unit construction engine, but the way the polished aluminum covers are designed it looks like a pre-unit construction engine.   The guys from the subcontinent hit a home run with that one.  I ought to know; after Gresh and I road tested one of these for Enfield North America on a Baja ride, I bought one.

The current iteration of Royal Enfield’s 650cc twin. I rode this bike through Baja and liked it so much I bought one when I returned from Mexico.  Here’s more (a lot more) about that adventure.

Another motorcycle that let you see its glorious air-cooled magnificence was the CB750 Honda.  It was awesome in every regard and presented well from any angle, including the rear (which is how most other riders saw it on the road).  The engine was beyond impressive, and when it was introduced, I knew I would have one someday (I made that dream come true in 1971).  I still can’t see one without taking my iPhone out to grab a photo.

A 1969 or 1970 Honda CB 750. This is the motorcycle that put the nail in the British motorcycle industry coffin. I had one just like it.

After Honda stunned the world with their 750 Four, the copycats piled on.  Not to be outdone, Honda stunned the world again when they introduced their six-cylinder CBX.  I had an ’82.   It was awesome.  It wasn’t the fastest motorcycle I ever owned, but it was one of the coolest (and what drove that coolness was its air-cooled straight six engine).

A Honda CBX engine photographed at the Del Mar fairgrounds near San Diego. The CBX was a motorcycle that added complexity where none was required. It was an impressive machine.

Like they did with the 750 Four, Kawasaki copied the Honda six cylinder, but the Kawasaki engine was water-cooled and from an aesthetics perspective, it was just a big lump.  The Honda was a finely-finned work of art.  I never wanted a Kawasaki Six; I still regret selling my Honda CBX.  The CBX was an extremely good-looking motorcycle.  It was all engine.  What completed the look for me were the six chrome exhaust headers emerging from in front.  I put 20,000 miles on mine and sold it for what it cost me, and now someone else is enjoying it.  The CBX was stunning motorcycle, but you don’t need six cylinders to make a motorcycle beautiful.  Some companies managed to do it with just two, and some with only one.  Consider the engines mentioned at the start of this piece (Harley, Triumph, BSA, and Norton).

I shot this photo at Hansen Dam, too. I always wanted a mid-’60s Moto Guzzi. Never scratched that itch, though. They sound amazing. Imagine a refined Harley, and you’d have this.

Moto Guzzi’s air-cooled V-twins are in a class by themselves.  I love the look and the sound of an air-cooled Guzzi V-twin.  It’s classy.  I like it.

Some motorcycle manufacturers made machines that were mesmerizing with but a single cylinder, so much so that they inspired modern reproductions, and then copies of those reproductions.  Consider Honda’s GB500, and more than a few motorcycles from China and even here in the US that use variants of the GB500 engine.

The Honda GB500, Honda’s nod to earlier British singles. It’s another one I always wanted.

The GB500 is a water cooled bike, but Sochoiro’s boys did it right.  The engine is perfect.  Like I said above, variants of that engine are still made in China and Italy; one of those engines powers the new Janus 450 Halcyon.

The Janus 450 Halcyon I rode in Goshen. That resulted in a feature story in Motorcycle Classics. It’s engine is by SWM in Italy, which is a variant of the Chinese copy of the GB500 engine.  I liked the Janus.

No discussion of mechanical magnificence would be complete without mentioning two of the most beautiful motorcycles ever made:  The Brough Superior SS100 and the mighty Vincent.  The Brits’ ability to design a visually arresting, aesthetically pleasing motorcycle engine must be a genetic trait.    Take a look at these machines.

The Brough Superior SS100. Its engine had a constant loss lubrication system. This is the same motorcycle Lawrence of Arabia rode. One of my grandsons is named T.E. Lawrence.
The mighty Vincent. This and the Brough Superior above were both photographed at Hansen Dam.

Two additional bits of moto exotica are the early inline and air-cooled four-cylinder Henderson, and the Thor, one of the very first V-twin engine designs.  Both of these boast American ancestry.

Jay Leno’s 1931 Henderson. He told me he bought it off a 92-year-old guy in Vegas who was getting a divorce and needed to raise cash, and I fell for it.

The Henderson you see above belongs to Jay Leno, who let me photograph it at one of the Hansen Dam Norton gatherings.  Incidentally, if there’s a nicer guy than Jay Leno out there, I haven’t met him.  The man is a prince.  He’s always gracious, and he’s never too busy to talk motorcycles, sign autographs, or pose for photos.  You can read about some of the times I’ve bumped into Jay Leno at the Rock Store or the Hansen Dam event right here on ExNotes.

A Thor V-twin photographed at the Franklin Auto Museum in Tucson, Arizona. You almost need a four-year mechanical engineering degree to start one of these. Thor made the first engines for Indian.

Very early vintage motorcycles’ mechanical complexity is almost puzzle-like…they are the Gordian knots of motorcycle mechanical engineering design.  I photographed a 1913 Thor for Motorcycle Classics (that story is here), and as I was optimizing the photos I found myself wondering how guys back in the 1910s started the things.  I was able to crack the code, but I had to concentrate so hard it reminded me of dear departed mentor Bob Haskell talking about the Ph.Ds and other wizards in the advanced design group when I worked in the bomb business: “Sometimes those guys think so hard they can’t think for months afterward,” Bob told me (both Bob and I thought the wizards had confused their compensation with their capability).

There’s no question in my mind that water cooling a motorcycle engine is a better way to go from an engineering perspective.  Water cooling adds weight, cost, and complexity, but the fuel efficiency and power advantages of water cooling just can’t be ignored.  I don’t like when manufacturers attempt to make a water-cooled engine look like an air-cooled engine with the addition of fake fins (it somehow conveys design dishonesty).  But some marques make water cooled engines look good (Virgil Elings’ comments notwithstanding).  My Triumph Speed Triple had a water-cooled engine.  I think the Brits got it right on that one.

My 2007 Triumph Speed Triple. Good buddy Marty told me some folks called these the Speed Cripple. In my case, that turned out to be true, but that’s another story for another blog.
My 2015 CSC RX3. Before you go all nuts on me and start whining about Chinese motorcycle quality, I need to tell you I rode these across China, through the Andes Mountains in Colombia, up and down Baja a bunch of times, and all over the American west (you can read about those adventures here). It was one of the best and most comfortable bikes I ever owned.

Zongshen is another company that makes water-cooled engines look right.  I thought my RX3 had a beautiful engine and I really loved that motorcycle.  I sold it because I wasn’t riding it too much, but the tiny bump in my bank account that resulted from the sale, in retrospect, wasn’t worth it.  I should have kept the RX3.  When The Big Book Of Best Motorcycles In The History Of The World is written, I’m convinced there will be a chapter on the RX3.

The future of “motor” cycling? This is the CSC RX1E. I rode it and liked it. The silence takes some getting used to.

With the advent of electric motorcycles, I’ve ridden a few and they are okay, but I can’t see myself ever buying one.  That’s because as I said at the beginning of this blog, for me a motorcycle is all about the motor.  I realize that’s kind of weird, because on an electric motorcycle the power plant actually is a motor, not an internal combustion engine (like all the machines described above).  What you mostly see on an electric motorcycle is the battery, which is the large featureless chingadera beneath the gas tank (which, now that I’m writing about it, isn’t a gas tank at all).   I don’t like the silence of an electric motorcycle.   They can be fast (the Zero I rode a few years ago accelerated so aggressively it scared the hell out of me), but I need some noise, I need to feel the power pulses and engine vibration, and I want other people to hear me.  The other thing I don’t care for is that on an electric motorcycle, the power curve is upside down.  They accelerate hardest off a dead stop and fade as the motor’s rpm increases; a motorcycle with an internal combustion engine accelerates harder as the revs come up.

Wow, this blog went on for longer than I thought it would.  I had fun writing it and I had fun going through my photo library for the pics you see here.  I hope you had fun reading it.

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Caught in the Snow

By Joe Berk

A few weeks ago I posted a blog about riding in the rain.  With all the snow blanketing parts of the US this winter, I thought it fitting that I post a blog about getting caught in the snow.  I’ve ridden in the snow four times and none of them were fun.

Crater Lake

On this ride, my buddy Marty and I were on our way home from Calgary to California after completing the 2005 Three Flags Classic rally.  Marty was far more worldly than me and he knew all the good spots to stop.  One was Crater Lake in Oregon.  We rode in from the Oregon coast where the temperatures were cool but not unbearably so.  We pointed our front wheels east and rode to Crater Lake.  It was a brutally cold ride, and it grew even colder the further we climbed into the mountains.

We had an interesting encounter with a herd of elk on the way to Crater Lake.  We had been seeing road signs warning of elk, but we hadn’t seen any until that day.  A monstrous bull stepped out in front of my Triumph Daytona from the forest on the right side of the road.  He stood broadside 50 yards in front of me, and he looked directly at me as if to say, “What’s your problem?”  If he was attempting to intimidate me, it worked.

I stopped and Marty stopped on his BMW K1200RS behind me.  My visor started to fog from my breath.  It was just the three of us on that cold, cold morning:  Me, Marty, and the Big Bull Elk.  After what seemed like several minutes (during which I wondered how quickly I could execute a u-turn and accelerate away from those immense antlers), the elk turned his head and lazily sauntered across the road into the forest on the other side.  Yeah, you’re bad, I thought.

I started to let out the clutch and moved forward a tiny bit when two more elk stepped out of the forest onto the highway.  These were female elk following the alpha male who had successfully stared me down.  So I pulled the clutch in again and waited.  The ladies crossed the highway and I started to let the clutch out again.  Then another lady elk appeared from the right.  This went on for the next several minutes.  Maybe as many as another 20 elk, all female, repeated the sequence, two or three at a time.  I remember thinking the first one, that big bull, probably didn’t get much sleep with that harem to take care of.  I wished I had grabbed a photo, but truth be told, I was too scared and shocked to react.  I can still see it vividly in my mind, though.

The Daytona 1200 along Crater Lake in Oregon.  A few miles earlier, we had a magical several minutes with a herd of elk.

After the elk episode, we continued our climb up to Crater Lake.  The sun was getting higher, but we were climbing and instead of warming the temperatures continued to drop.  There were bits of snow on both sides of the road, but the road was dry and we were doing okay.  I used a Gerber electric vest in those days.  It was a godsend.

Another view of Crater Lake. Note the snow in the foreground.

Crater Lake was interesting.  I took a bunch of photos and checked that destination off my bucket list.  Incidentally, on that trip I was still shooting with film.  I had the N70 Nikon I blogged about earlier.

After taking in Crater Lake, Marty and I started our ride down off the mountain.  The ride down was on the western side of the mountain, and the road was in the late morning shade.  That section of the road had not warmed up.  The snow was still there in two different forms…hard pack white snow in some places, and black ice where the snow had melted and frozen over.  It was the first time I had ever ridden in such conditions on a big road bike, and I quickly realized my Daytona 1200 was way different than the Honda Super 90 I rode in the snow when I was a kid in New Jersey.  Piloting that Triumph down off the mountain was an extremely demanding and mentally-draining 15-mph riding experience requiring intense concentration.

Fortunately, I remember thinking, Marty and I were the only two guys out there and I didn’t have to worry about anyone else on the road.  Marty was in front and we both were taking things very easy.  Then in my left peripheral vision I sensed a yellow vehicle starting to pass me.  I was pissed and confused.  Who the hell else is out here, I thought.  Can’t they see I’m on a motorcycle, I’m on ice, and why the hell are they passing me?

Then I realized who it was.  What I saw in my peripheral vision wasn’t another vehicle.  It was my motorcycle in the rear view mirror.  The big Triumph was sliding sideways.  The yellow I had picked up peripherally was my rear tail light cowling.  Damn, that was exciting!  (And terrifying.)

Marty and I made it down off that mountain, but it was a religious experience for both of us.

The Sweetwater Rattlesnake Roundup

This was a ride coming h0me from the Annual Rattlesnake Roundup in Sweetwater, Texas  (I wrote about the Roundup before and you can read that story here).  We spent a half day at the Rattlesnake Roundup, another hour or so at the gun show in the hall next to the Rattlesnake Roundup, and then had a late afternoon departure headed home.  The first portion of that ride was okay, but as the sun set the temperature dropped big time and the wind across Interstate 10 kicked up dramatically.  We crossed into New Mexico and the wind was blowing so hard it felt like the bikes were leaned over 30 degrees just to keep going straight.

Very cool photo ops abounded at the Sweetwater Rattlesnake Roundup. Check out the fangs; this is the stuff of nightmares.

We pulled off the highway in Lordsburg, New Mexico, around 10:00 p.m. and stopped at the first hotel we saw.  It was one of those small old Route 66 type motels (you know the type…a cheap single-story structure still advertising they had color TV).   One of us (I can’t remember if it was Marty or me) decided we wanted to look for something nicer.   We continued on into town and found a nicer hotel, but the desk clerk told us they had no rooms left.   “With this wind, every trucker is off the run and in a hotel,” he said.  The next town was 50 miles further down the road.  I looked at Marty, he looked at me, and I made the case for doubling back to the Route 66 special.

We entered the lobby and two other people looking for a room followed us in.  We were lucky.   We nailed the last room in Lordsburg (which, I know, sounds like the title of a bad country western song).  The folks behind us were out of luck.  I have no idea what they did.

Most of the snow was gone after we returned from breakfast.

When we woke up the next morning, the bikes were covered in snow.   There was no way we were going to ride in that, so we walked across the parking lot to a diner and had a leisurely breakfast.  By 10:00 a.m. there was still snow on the ground, but the roads were slushy (not icy) and we could ride.  When we were back on Interstate 10 the slush had disappeared and the road was dry.  It was cold.  I again enjoyed my Gerber vest.  We made it back to southern California late that night.  It was pouring rain (that’s the bad news), but it wasn’t nearly as cold as it had been and there was no snow (and that’s the good news).

The Angeles Crest Highway

I met my buddy Bryan at a water treatment company.  Someday I’ll write a story about that company and the guy who started it.  He was a crook (the company founder, not Bryan) and I’m not exaggerating just because I didn’t like the guy.  He actually was a crook who was later charged with financial fraud and convicted.  I know, I’m digressing again.  Back to Bryan, me, motorcycles, and riding in the snow.

Good buddy Bryan and his VFR at warmer times in warmer climes.

Bryan was fascinated by my motorcycles (I owned four or five at the time), and within a few weeks he had purchased a Honda VFR.  That VFR was a nice motorcycle (one I never owned but always wanted), and Bryan and I started doing a lot of rides together.  We both live in southern California at an elevation of around 1700 feet above sea level, and it is rare to see snow here.  I think in the 40+ years I’ve been in So Cal I’ve seen snow twice at my home, and it both cases it didn’t stick.

Bryan and I often rode the Angeles Crest Highway.  We would take the 210 freeway to Glendale to pick it up, ride over the mountains on the Crest (the Angeles Crest Highway), stop for gas and sometimes a meal in Wrightwood on the other side of the San Gabriels, and then head home through the Cajon Pass on Interstate 15.  It’s one of the best rides in the country.

A typical weekend parking lot scene at Newcomb’s on the ACH. Those were glorious days.

One day in the winter months, it was comfortable So Cal winter weather when Bryan and I decided to ride the ACH, but in the opposite direction.  We rode up the 15 to the 138, we rolled through Wrightwood, and then we picked up the Crest heading over the mountains to Glendale.  It got cold fast, and by the time we were on the Crest it was brutal.  Then it started to snow.  It didn’t seem that bad at first and we pushed on.  I was on my Daytona 1200 again, and I could feel the bike moving around beneath me. I’d already ridden the Daytona on icy roads in Oregon (see above), so I thought I’d be okay.  But this was worse.  I could feel the big Daytona sashaying around like an exotic dancer in a room full of big tippers.

Bryan and I stopped.  “Think we should turn around?” one or the other of us asked.  “Nah, it probably won’t get worse and it’s shorter to keep going than it would be to turn around,” one or the other of us answered.  We had that same conversation telepathically three or four more times.  The weather was worsening and we hadn’t seen another vehicle on the road since we started.  No motorcycles and no cars.  It was just us.

Finally, we made it to Newcomb’s, a legendary Angeles Crest roadhouse that is no more (a pity, really…you’d see all kinds of moto exotica and sometimes Jay Leno up there on the weekends).  We stopped for a cup of coffee and a bowl of chili.  The parking lot was empty, but the place was open.  The bartender was shocked when we entered.  “How did you get up here?” he asked.

“We rode,” one or the other of us said.

“How did you do that?  The road’s been closed because of the snow and ice.”

Well, what do you know?  We had our coffee and chili and we warmed up.  When it was time to leave, we kept going toward Glendale.  No sense going back, we thought.  We already knew the Crest behind us was bad.  But we soon learned the road ahead wasn’t any better.  It was a white knuckle, 15mph ride all the way down, and man, was it ever cold.  But it made for a hell of story.  I’ve ridden the ACH many, many times…but only once on snow and ice when the road was closed.

The “Build Character” Ride

In my opinion (and I’m the guy writing this blog, so it’s the one that counts) riding in the snow and ice is dumb raised to an exponent.  If you’re already on a trip and you get caught in it, it’s sort of understandable.   Making a decision to intentionally ride into the snow, though (at least to me), is a really dumb move.  But yeah, I did it.  Once.  Peer pressure is a bitch, let me tell you.

The story goes like this:  A bunch of us guys used to meet every Saturday morning at the local BMW dealer to listen to and tell tall tales (said tall tales usually involving motorcycles, women, or both).  We did a lot of rides together, this group did.  Baja.  The American Southwest.  The Three Flags Classic.  Weekend rides up the Pacific Coast Highway to Pismo Beach for a barbeque dinner in nearby Nipomo at Jocko’s.   And more.  We were not spring chickens, either.  I was in my late 50s and I was the youngest guy in the group.  Most of the other guys were real deal geezers in their 70s.  One guy was in his 80s.

Geezer riding buddies in the Jocko’s parking lot after coming down out of the mountains. Trust me on this: None of these guys needed to build any more character.

One day at one of our Saturday gatherings one of the guys had this brilliant idea that instead of simply getting caught in the rain, it would be a grand idea to start a two-or-three day ride in the rain when rain would be forecast for the entire ride.   You know, a tough guy ride into bad weather.  We would do the two-day run up to Pismo, through the mountains and along the coast, and do it on a weekend when it would rain all weekend.  “It will build character,” said the geezer whose idea this was.  Mom had warned me about guys like that.  I should have listened.

Everybody was in.  Like I said, peer pressure is a bitch.  I had ridden plenty in the rain, and if you are properly attired, it’s not that bad.  But snow and ice?  Nope, that’s positively not for me.  That’s what happened on this ride.  Remember I said along the coast and in the mountains?  Well, it was that mountain part that did us in.  It was in the winter, we were at higher elevations, and sonuvabitch, all of a sudden that rain wasn’t rain any more.  It was snow.  The roads never froze over, but it was plenty slushy.

Somewhere along our descent, the snow reverted to plain old rain again, and we made it to Pismo without anyone dropping their bike.  I noticed on the way home, though, we rode the coast (where it was modestly warmer) all the way back.  I guess each of us felt we had built enough character to have banked a sufficient amount.

There you have it…my thoughts on riding in the snow.  The bottom line from my perspective is that motorcycles and snow don’t mix.  Your mileage may vary.  If you think otherwise, let us know.

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Zooming Through New Zealand: Part 5

By Mike Huber

I was in the tiny town of Omarama, New Zealand, having coffee and trying to wake up enough to plan the day. I was under an hour and a half away from the Hooker Trail, which I learned just a day or so ago was not too far off my original route. The Hooker Trail was one of those that I kept seeing and hearing about in any conversation about the North Island.  I normally avoid touristy places as much as possible. One of my many travel mantras is “If I run into another American I have failed.”  That’s because most Americans stay on the beaten path and rarely venture off.  The venturing off seems to be my happy place.

As I finished my coffee and began to put my gear back on for the ride to the Hooker Trail, I fueled up since it New Zealand was pretty devoid of towns for the next couple hundred miles, which is perfect for riding.  I was expecting Mount Cook would be similar to the other areas of New Zealand and was preparing to view a miniature copy of say, Mt. Hood.  The previous day (although incredible and diverse) was like a 70% replica of the western United States with a sprinkling of British Columbia thrown in.  Yes, I am extremely spoiled in my perspectives of motorcycle roads.  I understand this.

It didn’t take long after leaving the coffee shop before low level clouds consumed me and the road.  I had just gone through a similar area and noticed when I gained some elevation it cleared up.  I remained optimistic as I strained to see anything in front of me. The attempt to hike the Hooker Trail surely would be in vain if it continued to stay this way, as I have heard it often does up in the s, outhern Alps of New Zealand.

Fortunately, this wasn’t the case. Once I hit Lake Pukaki, I had obtained enough elevation to where the clouds were below me.  Lake Pukaki than came into full view and it was stunning.  The neon green water contrasted with the brown mountains surrounding the lake, and it became all I could see.  The colors were so overwhelmingly bright I had to pull over several times not only to take the views in but allow my eyes to adjust from the drab cloudbank that had me engulfed over the previous hour.

After another 30 minutes of riding along this other-worldly lake I could see Mount Cook was getting close and I was excited to finally hike the Hooker Trail.  As I entered the parking lot around noon, I noticed how crowded it was. There was hardly any parking (at least for cars).  I found a perfect spot for Massie right up front next to the trail head and swapped out my riding outfit for hiking gear.

This was it: The Hooker Trail.  It wasn’t too long, only around 6 miles round trip.  Once I began hiking I understood why I had kept hearing about it in my travels and when reading random blogs and posts. It was super-crowded.  The hike was beautiful.  Around each corner was a new view of either glacial lakes or views of Mount Cook towering above. The trail ended at a glacial lake with a beach that was perfect for a quick swim.  It was mid-afternoon and it was warming up quite nicely.

Massie she was parked right where I had left her and ready to blast out our final few hours to the hostel on the edge of Lake Tekapo. The trip had taken me through what felt like a whirlwind of geographical features. There’s no question that that the roads, people, and environment in New Zealand are a dream for anyone (especially a motorcyclist). As I cracked open a cold Kea IPA on the lakeshore a sense of satisfaction came over me. I could now add New Zealand to the growing list of countries I where have motorcycled. The memories of this trip will help me pass the time while on the long flight to my next destination.  Cheers New Zealand!

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Zooming Through New Zealand: Part 4

By Mike Huber

It was well after 6:00 p.m. and I was starting to hit my wall for riding.  My goal was to travel to this campground I stumbled upon on Google which was about 5 miles down a dirt road which had some decent reviews.  The rental company mentioned no off-roading as Massie had street tires.  I zoomed in on the map and saw “Linda Road,” so I technically was not off-roading. Check!

The road was a very tame forest service road with the occasional “Traffic Lamb,” as quite frequently there were herds of sheep and they would part like the Red Sea as they heard Massie’s engine roar grow closer (you can send hate mail for that joke to Joe Berk).

Once I neared the campsite I noticed a couple of old rundown stone buildings (from who knows how long ago) and a few van lifers dispersed around a large field.  This was a really cool spot!  Not only that, but you had views for miles of the sun beginning to set over the brown grassy mountains that surrounded the location.  This was Linda’s Camp.  It was an old short term gold mining operation from the 1860s, which switched hands a few times before finally being abandoned in the 1950s.  This was an amazing place to camp and it was far off the grid.  I didn’t even have cell service.

After setting up my tent I struck up a conversation with an old gold miner.  He was living in his van there and spent his days panning for gold off a nearby river with minimal luck.  He got a good laugh from my story about getting the boot from the coffee shop earlier that day for drying my gear there.  The rest of the evening was spent exploring the hotel ruins and a short hike up the mountain to watch the sunset.  It was one of those moments where I really was able to relax, breathe, and just be in the present.  It was a long but rewarding day and I thought having an early night was in order.  It would be another long day tomorrow to include the Hooker Trail hike, which I was greatly looking forward to.

Waking up in yet another serene location with Massie sitting just outside the tent was another perfect kickoff to this new day.  Since it was still pretty early, after packing I thought pushing the bike out of the camping area was the proper thing to do to avoid waking any of the van lifers (or the gold miner).

Once well outside the perimeter I went to start the bike. Nothing happened.  Shit.  The battery was somehow dead. I took the panniers off and attempted to manually jump start it off a small incline.  No good.  It wasn’t starting. Well, I thought, it was not so funny breaking that “stay on the road rule” now, was it? I had no cell signal either.  As I sat down weighing my options (none of which none were good) I heard a couple of pots banging together.  The old gold miner was up.  I walked over and asked if he had jumpers, and he did!  Sure enough, the bike fired right up with his help. Okay, cool I can still make the Hooker Trail even if I am an hour behind schedule.  And, the rental company would never know I was off road.

Once I was back on the main road and well on my way, the need for coffee hit me.  I pulled into a rest area to see if there was a cell signal to guide me to a coffee shop.  There was a cell signal, and there was a coffee shop not too far away.  I pulled out and began racing the Linda Pass switchbacks when suddenly all I saw was a huge yellow Scania 18-wheeler coming head on at me.  Why was he in my lane? SHIT! I was on the wrong side of the road!  In my morning fog, and my distraction from the battery issue I zoned out and drove on the right side of the road.  Even with a giant yellow arrow on Massie’s dash as a constant reminder, I somehow ignored the fact that they drive on the wrong side in New Zealand.  I didn’t have much time to react and managed to skirt along not so much of a shoulder, but a strip of grass as the truck blasted by me.

That was close.   I really didn’t need any coffee after that wakeup call, but what I did need was a moment to get my head back in the game (especially if I was to complete the Hooker Trail and find a campsite).  Due to Massie’s moody electrical system, tonight’s campsite would need to be near a town with a strong cell signal. It was still early and my confidence was high. I knew I would satisfy both objectives.

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Zooming through New Zealand: Part 3

By Mike Huber

There are certainly worse places to wake up. I opened my eyes facing a beautiful mountain lake with loud wekas clumsily hunting for food in the brush next to my tent. Without my cooking gear it took me just about 20 minutes to pack up and load Massie, the BMW GS750 for what would be a full day of riding.  As I was packing up I was already craving a coffee and a meat pie for breakfast.  While stuffing my gear in the panniers I noticed how wet everything was from the dew and being so close to the lake.  The sun was out though, so I thought after an hour or so of riding I would dry it out as I ate breakfast.

Riding to breakfast took a bit longer than expected and the one hour turned to three.  Not that big of a deal as the sun was fully out now and would allow for my gear to dry while I researched my route and stops for the day. As I pulled into a coffee shop in a small town along my route the waitress stated how it would be a while for my food and coffee.  This was my queue to unpack my wet gear and lay it out to dry while I was researching maps and things to do for the day.

During my wait several people introduced themselves and we had some fun conversations about my gear and riding.  It was a great environment, or so I thought. After about 20 minutes my coffee and food arrived and I was told that maybe I should take it to go and it was time to pack up my gear.  I guess they didn’t like the look of my tent and equipment drying and sprawled out all over their front porch.  Which I sort of get, even though many of the clientele had been chatting me up.  I apologized and, well, it took me about as long to pack up that gear as it did for them to bring my coffee (it happened to be fully dry by the time it was packed).  I found it a bit rude, but I understood that having my gear everywhere could be viewed as a bit of a mess.  It was time to get going, anyway, as I had a long day ahead.

During my minimal research and planning at the coffee shop I discovered this one hike that I continually heard about from others.  It was the Mount Cook Hooker Trail.  The hike wasn’t too long, and it had an incredible view at the end. This was only a couple hours off my planned route.  Adding that hike meant I would have to have a long day and miss a lot of stops that tourists hit, such as the Franz and Fox Glaciers and hikes along that area.  I decided to prioritize the Hooker Trail and skip the glaciers and other coastal hikes. Having made this decision meant a 350-mile day.  Which to me didn’t seem like a lot, but the roads were tight and windy, which I thoroughly enjoyed, probably too much as I used the long day as a reason to really wear the edges of the tires in.

After close to 10 hours of aggressive riding through what I felt was like a mini version of the Western United States and British Columbia, I arrived where I thought would camp for the evening, just outside a city called Wanaka.  However, the “campground” resembled something of a tent city I would expect to find under Interstate 5 in Seattle.  That made it a hard pass for me.  I did have a second option, but it was another 45 minutes north and if it didn’t work out, I would be in a tight position as the day was beginning to wear on me.  I decided to shoot for it and hope for the best.  What I found was far more than I expected and maybe one of the coolest places I ever moto camped.

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