Motorcycle Adventure Ride – Page 2 – The ExhaustNotes Blog

2026 Laguna Seca Moto America Race

By Joe Gresh

Andy Rooney, the proto-crank from 60 Minutes, back when 60 minutes was an hour, not a lap dog, said something important. I’m sure I’m messing it up, but he said you never know when your last time doing a thing will be done. His example was sledding in the winter. It was a rite, a ritual, a flim-flammy go-round: he did it every year without fail. Each year he’d sled down the hill but one year he was too tired or busy. Maybe he got mature. He didn’t go up the hill that year. And then he didn’t do it again. And again. He fell out of the habit, see? After a while he couldn’t remember why he went sledding at all.

You don’t often see the Very Large Array grouped up tight like this. Must be shooting wide angle stuff.

I went to the motorcycle races at Laguna Seca because if I don’t, one day I won’t remember why I went to motorcycle races. And there are good reasons to go even if it’s a pain in the butt. This year I went for Moto America races but any sort of motorcycle racing will do.

It was 116 degrees when I pulled into Needles, California on the first night. The heat didn’t let up; it was still over 100 into the wee hours. I know this because I check on the bike every few hours, this goes on through the night. It’s my issue, it’s not like I suspect the good citizens of Needles or something. It’s not like Barstow.

The next evening I made Laguna Seca, it was kind of cold. Two long days on the road, a stiff sea breeze sliced through the Laguna Seca campgrounds and I almost put on long pants. After my initial set up, I laid down inside the tent and got sleeping-bag warm. It was nice. I have a really nice tent set up now. Plenty of room, a cot, a nightstand, ice chest full of food and drinks, even a battery to charge my phone.

Cool, damp weather pushed inland, making camp kind of nippy.

Photons from Salinas, 10 miles away blast through the thin membrane of my tent, glamorous as it is. It’s 11:40 p.m. and the wind has eased. This is John Steinbeck’s old stomping grounds. Not my tent exactly but the general area. Most likely Steinbeck was also hit by photons from Salinas at some point in his life. Maybe not the same photons but Quantum Entanglement says it might have been one just like it, or maybe the mirror image, a reverse spin. Mine look like they are spinning clockwise so Steinbeck’s were probably going counterclockwise.

Lights from Salinas, 10 miles away, frame the porta-potties.

I have to take a leak.

A glowing doughnut of far-away lights surrounds me on the east and southwest. Houses and businesses, overhead a clear, cloudless sky full of stars. All these damn photons. My tent is so roomy I actually have enough space to reel without bumping into anything.

My internet buddy Hesketh stopped by earlier and tossed his tent on the ground. He’s in there napping now, blocking stray photons that might have gotten to me. I hear generators running. It sounds like the noise is coming from the paddock direction. Faintly, it’s not annoying because I’m deaf so you know other people can hear the generator.

Friday is set up camp and the riders are testing. When I first got here, the Baggers were stuttering on the rev limiter going up the hill to the corkscrew. It sounds like they hit the limiter at pretty low RPM’s. Maybe 7000? Then the modern bikes were out. I was tossing gear into my luxury, tent-majal as they went past at some crazy engine speed. A piercing screech that was sort of annoying after the flat roar of the Baggers. At first, I thought the Baggers racing was a gimmick. It still is a gimmick, but I give it my blessing now. I’m sure Moto America was worried about how I would receive the series.

The main thing is I made it to the top of the hill one more time. I’ve seen it all, but I haven’t seen all of it, my brothers.

Back In The Alps

By: Bobbie Surber

Mountains were one of my earliest loves. I grew up with Mount Rainier and the jagged peaks of the Cascades. Later came the Rockies and the Sierra Nevada. The pull only grew stronger over the years, eventually leading me back to the Alps.

In mid-May 2026, Tom and I set out on a five-week trip through four countries, with a week of sailing folded into the middle of it. I had been to Bled, Slovenia, by motorcycle once before, but the weather had shut me out of the Julian Alps that time, so the high country stayed a rumor I never got to see.

The plan was simple: a few days in Bled, then over Vršič Pass, the highest mountain pass in Slovenia, with fifty hairpin turns winding through the Alps.

When the road finally lifted us into the high country, something in my chest loosened, a feeling I’d carried since childhood. I had come a long way to stand among peaks that felt like old friends.

Around every corner was another reason to stop. Jagged limestone peaks towered above us, glaciers still hanging on in the higher elevations. Wildflowers were beginning to blanket the meadows. More than once, we found ourselves standing quietly, simply taking it all in.

Some of those turns were tight enough to hold their own against the ones on my motorcycle trip through Romania. We took our time, using every pullout we could find, and stopped for a short hike where gray limestone peaks rose against a flat blue sky, snow still wedged in the high gullies even in late May. Lunch was a bowl of Slovenian stew at an alpine hut, thick with sausage and beans, and a lager that made me wish I had ordered another. The road was full of motorcycles, and I felt that familiar itch the whole way up, already knowing I would come back for it on two wheels.

From the pass, we drove another 40 miles following the Soča as it cut through the valley. The water wasn’t turquoise so much as lit from within, as if light were coming up through the riverbed itself. No photograph or memory prepares you for it. Its glacial flour suspended in meltwater, but knowing that doesn’t make it feel any more real.

We ended the day at Kozjak Waterfall, just outside Kobarid, where we would spend the night. After a rushed check-in at our lodging, we made our way through the village, crossed the bridge over the Soča River, and followed a narrow gorge to the falls. Tom and I arrived at dusk, long after the tourist buses had left. The waterfall drops in a narrow white stream into a deep stone bowl carved into the rock. Having the place to ourselves made it even more special. As the shadows filled the gorge, the turquoise water deepened to green, then to the richest blue as daylight slipped away. In the quiet, surrounded by rock walls, it felt a little like stepping into another world.

I’ve spent a lot of years seeking out mountains, whether by foot or from the seat of a motorcycle. Standing there beside the falls, I wasn’t thinking about the trip that never happened. I was thinking about the next one. I’ll be back in Slovenia next time, on two wheels.

The Atomic Autumn of Love Tour

By Joe Gresh

This is a story that happened long ago. Four of my dirt riding buddies decided to take a street bike trip out to Trinity Site in New Mexico where the first atomic bomb was tested. Trinity is open to the public only a couple days a year as it’s on a military base.

I can’t remember if this story was published in Motorcyclist magazine or anywhere for that matter. It popped up doing research for an upcoming Big Bend Park trip. Here at ExNotes we are environmentally woke so recycling stories is part of our shtick.

Hondo, Texas, 7:00 p.m., 103 degrees. I’m riding the long way to the site of the world’s first atomic bomb blast in New Mexico for a little fellowshipping with the Sons of Angioplasty. The SOA are a computer-generated, disgracefully aging MC gang best known for their exploits on two-stroke dirtbikes. Besides, Tourmaster sent along some nice motorcycle gear so if nothing else I have cooked up a reason to mention their products twenty or thirty times.

On the way to Carlsbad Caverns. These crappy shots are screen grabs from a video I made about the trip.

The Sons of Angioplasty ride an erratic collection of motorcycles. Gary’s riding a giant Honda Valkyrie, Vance has a KTM 990, Deet a WeeStrom 650, Greg’s on his brand-new Yamaha FJR1300, me and Dave ride Kawasakis (a KZ900 and a ZRX1100). The riders differ less than the bikes: we are nearly the same age and are all monotonously white.

We had an odd collection of bikes on the tour: a Weestrom, KTM990, ZRX1100, Kawasaki Z1-900 and a gigantic stripped down GoldWing.

Speaking of cooking, when you’re talking dangerous flammable devices I’ve found it’s safest to go home-built. Fabricated from two beer cans and burning denatured alcohol, the Penny Stove (google it) cast its spell on me with the irresistible promise of something for nothing. Three tries, 27 hours of computer research and a 6-week stay at the Betty Ford Clinic later I managed to assemble a working burner.

So there’s another reason to ride, I needed to go camping in order to use the beer-can stove. An expensive sleeping bag was ordered to complement a new 3-man dome tent. I’ll not mention the brand names of products purchased with my own money: we don’t want finance to influence my reviewing.

West on Highway 90 out of Hondo it only gets hotter. I’m wearing the mesh portion of a four-layer, supercalifragilisticexpialidocious, Tourmaster jacket. The mesh flows air so well my ears pop when I remove the wind resistant outer shell. Tourmaster’s hell-for-warm Overpants are less breezy. I leave the long side zippers all the way open, pale, skinny legs lie exposed as the pants flop around like two drowning kittens in a gunnysack. You heard that right, I said drowning kittens in a gunnysack.

South from Marathon, Texas Highway 385 leads to Big Bend National Park. Full of rugged mountains, this out of the way park begs to be photographed. I swing a hard left onto Basin Junction Road then climb 4000 feet into the Chisos Mountains. The temperature drops a degree. I’ve been putting in long days on the green motorcycle that begins with a “K,” so this nearly deserted mountaintop will be my first attempt at camping.

Chisos campground uses the honor system: enclose 14 dollars in an envelope, poke the envelope through a slot in a brown steel pipe. Seems simple enough. I’m filling out the envelope, these friggin’ Tourmaster pants are really warm. Sweat runs down my legs into my boots. My Cessna-print boxers are sopping wet, clinging. Flies strafe my head then light, bellying up to my eyes like regulars at Club Moist Eye. I dig around my wallet, scream in agony and find two fifties and a five. In desperation I plunder the complex pocket system of the magnetic tank bag for hidden bills. Hmmmm, no money: that’ll cost Cortech a star.

I bungee the loose gear onto the motorcycle and we climb higher up the Chisos to the visitor center and the Chisos Mountain Lodge, complete with clean, air-conditioned rooms and a nice restaurant. I book a room, take that stupid camp stove.

From Chisos to Presidio, there’s fabulous Farm-to-Market Highway 170. This beautifully convoluted road parallels the Rio Grande river and the Mexican border. You’ll need to bring ground clearance on this desolate stretch; expect roller coaster first gear turns and lonely canyon views. I wish I could tell you about the tires I bought. They worked great. After Presidio, a straight shot north to Marfa then up into the Davis Mountains.

If you are in the market for a 360cc, twin cylinder, two-stroke Suzuki jeep, look no further than Fort Davis, Texas. The town has cornered the market on these little go-anywhere beasts. I can’t stop though, I’m meeting the SOA in Socorro, New Mexico.

White Sands National Park; now my shack overlooks these sands.

Group riding involves group dynamics and with six riders punching waypoints into 6 navigation machines routing becomes exponentially more dramatic. Leaving Socorro in the cool morning air, bikes carom from the motel parking like pin balls each following his private GPS plot. After a brief reconnoiter the Sons of Angioplasty school-up and ride towards White Sand Missile Range’s Stallion Gate.

Trinity Site is ground zero for The Church of the Bell Ringers of the Apocalypse. The Site is located on a military base and open to the public just two days a year. Trinity marks the precise spot where our modern world began in 1945 with a flash of light seen for hundreds of miles and a demonic roar heard all the way to Hell. Suspended 100 feet above the ground in a steel tower, The Gadget, a plutonium atomic bomb, released the equivalent of twenty thousand tons of TNT, excavating a radioactive depression and forcing the ancient Gods of War to relinquish their sovereignty.

The lineup into Stallion Gate this fine October day is long. Soldiers walk the auto-line explaining military base rules and taking extra time to warn motorcycle riders about free-range Oryx as the antelope-sized animals tend to charge motorcycles. “Stay in the convoy and you’ll be fine.”

Seventeen miles in we come to a circular fence. Corny looking yellow “Warning Radioactive” signs straight out of a 1950 sci-fi movie are spaced along the fence. Souvenir vendors sell A-Bomb t-shirts, A-bomb hamburgers, A-bomb key rings and scads of unrelated alien swarf.
The outer fence surrounds an inner fence where a stone plinth marks the exact spot of the explosion. Stubs of the steel tower legs lie exposed along with a construction covering a portion of undisturbed ground. An inactive Fat Boy bomb sits on a trailer; people sit on it and take photos. The main pit has been filled in over the ensuing 67 years. Intense heat from the explosion created a new kind of radioactive green-glass named Trinitite. Despite the fill, bits of Trinitite can still be found poking out of the ground.

I don’t know what to feel here. I geek out on the technology and the incredible effort plus the pure blind-huevos it took to light this sucker off. Some scientists involved in the project were betting the bomb would ignite the atmosphere and destroy all life on earth but gruesome photographs of flash-fried Japanese bodies and ghostly human shadows eternally cast onto concrete were the ultimate result of that Herculean effort. Hell, I reckon the Japanese would have dropped A-bombs on us if they had them.

Trinity Site is not easy to visit. I’m impressed with the size of the crowd that has made the pilgrimage. There’s a tour bus that takes you a few miles away to the farmhouse where the bomb was assembled. It’s a plain looking stead for such a fiery history.

From White Sands we make tracks for Carlsbad Caverns but Dave’s old Kawasaki fries its voltage regulator in Cloudcroft. Luckily it’s downhill to Alamogordo. Finding a generic regulator has messed up our schedule. The jury-rigged voltage regulator is hot, putting out 16 volts at full chat. Dave installs a voltmeter and by unplugging the regulator at regular intervals keeps the Kawasaki’s battery topped up nicely.

Now we arrive at the caverns late. The last tour has gone and a crisis of leadership unfolds. Gary and Dave want to go west. The nearest motels with vacancies are 40 miles north in the town of Carlsbad. The SOA are getting irritable, groups split off grumbling, there’s talk of mutiny. This whole atomic trip was my idea and it’s falling apart. I shuttle between rival camps and manage to get a quorum on watching the evening bat flight. The millions of flying rats put on such an impressive show we all agree to return tomorrow for the cave tour.

It took an act of congress to gather the SOA at Tina’s Mexican in Carlsbad for our final lunch together. The SOA are a bull-headed bunch and we were itching to strike out on our own. Too much togetherness breeds contempt. Vance and Deet ride east to Oklahoma and North Carolina. Dave, Gary and I head north.

What’s that smell? Riding down the road at 70 MPH I check my bike, something is melting. The smell is stronger near Dave’s KZ. Is that smoke? I flag Dave over, his rear wheel bearings have seized and the axle is spinning in the swing arm adjusters causing paint and chrome to burn.
There are no parts for an old KZ in Roswell New Mexico so AAA picks up Dave’s bike leaving Gary and me to ride in the rain to Moriarity, New Mexico. 2:00 a.m., Dave rumbles up in a U-Haul box truck with the Kawasaki strapped inside.

We split the next morning, Dave in the big U-Haul to Idaho, Gary on the only slightly smaller Valkyrie to Washington state. I ride to Los Alamos then hang a right to Florida. Even though we get on each other’s nerves, I get the feeling The Sons of Angioplasty will ride again. When, I can’t say but after carrying that damn stove for 6000 miles I never did get to cook anything.

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Cyclones Galore

By Joe Berk

That stunning motorcycle you see above is a 1915 Cyclone, one of only 12 known to exist. I took the photo during a recent visit to the Legends Motorcycle Museum in Springville, Utah (a visit which will be the subject of an upcoming blog and an article in Motorcycle Classics magazine). I was in bad shape during that visit. My leg was giving me a lot of grief, and that, too, will be the subject of an upcoming blog. Because of that, I was in and out of the Legends Museum quickly, snapping photos, and eager to settle back into my uber-comfortable Subie Outback for the 600-mile trek back to California. It wasn’t until I was home and I started processing the Legends photos through PhotoShop that I took a close look at the Cyclone. I had three thoughts:

- - Damn, that’s a stunning motorcycle,
  - Gresh’s current resurrection effort is focused on (sort of) a Buell Cyclone, and
  - Zongshen also uses the Cyclone name (the RX1, RX2, RX3, RX4, and RX6 motorcycles are all branded as Cyclone motorcycles).

The above had me wondering: What is the story behind that stunning yellow motorcycle in the Legends Museum, and are there other motorcycles out there called Cyclones?

The Zongshen Cyclones

I fired off an email to my good buddy Fan at Zongshen with the above picture, who readily agreed the Legends Cyclone was drop dead gorgeous.

You know, names can be a funny thing. When we started importing Zongshen motorcycles from Zongshen, the chief marketing/export guy in Zongshen chided me for using the Zongshen name when we (i.e., CSC) starting writing and blogging about the RX3. It seemed that calling the bikes Zongshens would be the natural thing to do, but I jumped the gun at that one. Zongshen wanted us to use our name (CSC) on the bikes, so we did. The other bit of RX3 naming funny business back in 2014 were the large decals that Zongshen put on the fuel tank. They said “Speed” in large letters. When we started publishing those photos, the Internet trolls made fun of us. I told the troll community that we originally wanted the decals to say “methamphetamine,” but that was too long to fit on the fuel tank.

CSC/Zongshen RX3 motorcycles enroute to 12,000-year-old cave paintings in Baja.

A friendly gas station attendant in El Rosario, Mexico. Note the “Speed” moniker on the fuel tank.

Back to the Cyclone name: I searched Google because I knew BSA used “Cyclone” as a model name back in the 1960s and I wondered if there were others. There were. In addition to BSA, Buell, Ariel and Kawasaki used the name, too. Let’s take a look at each.

The Buell Cyclone

Buell built its Cyclone model from 1997 to 2002. As you know, Uncle Joe is resurrecting a 1995 Buell Thunderbolt, and as he puts it, it is mostly a Cyclone. It’s a fun process to follow along. You can get all the details here.

Joe Gresh’s Buell. It’s mostly a Cyclone.

The Original Joerns Cyclone

The Joerns Motor Manufacturing Company of St. Paul, Minnesota built the first motorcycles named Cyclones. These were board track racing and road-going motorcycles and they were fast (as in over 100 mph back in 1915). These bikes are also rare, with only about a dozen known to exist today. Joerns used a 1000cc V-twin overhead cam engine that produced about 45 horsepower. The one you see here sold at a 2025 Mecum auction for $1.32 million (with buyer’s premium), making it the most expensive motorcycle ever sold at auction. When I say “the one you see here” I don’t mean one like the one you see here. My photo above shows the actual motorcycle that went for that amount, and it’s the one on display in the Legends Motorcycle Museum. It was once owned by Bud Ekins, and if you don’t know who he was, here’s a bit of background.

At the end of the video, you can catch a glimpse of Rick Salisbury, the man who won the Cyclone auction and the owner of the Legends Motorcycle Museum.

The BSA Cyclone

In the mid-1960s, Triumph and BSA dominated the U.S. big bore street scene. These were primarily 650cc vertical twins, but both Triumph and BSA offered 500cc twins as well. BSA’s 500cc twin was the Cyclone, and it is a rare animal. It was made for the U.S. and U.K. markets. The BSA Cyclone produced about 33 horsepower.

A 1965 BSA Cyclone. It was a competitor to Triumph’s 500cc Tiger.

BSA had other weather-related names for its models. There was the Cyclone you see here. They also had models named the Lightning, the Thunderbolt, the Golden Flash, and the Super Flash.

The Kawasaki Cyclone

Kawasaki has a 148cc two-stroke sports bike they call the Cyclone. It’s not sold in the U.S.; it is instead sold in Southeast Asia (the Philippines, Thailand, Indonesia, and Malaysia) and occasionally Argentina. It’s a cool looking small bike, but I think Kawasaki made the right decision. I don’t think there would be much of a market for it here in America.

Kawasaki’s ZSR Cyclone. I like the colors.

The Ariel Cyclone

You may have heard of the British motorcycle manufacturer Ariel; you may not have known that Ariel was purchased by BSA in the 1940s and kept as a separate marque. Ariel offered a 650cc vertical twin they called the Cyclone in the late 1950s. Less than 300 (or 174, depending on which source you believe) Ariel Cyclones were manufactured during a three-year (or two-year run, again, depending on which source you believe) production run.

The Ariel Cyclone followed the period’s traditional British formula: A 650cc (actually, 646cc) vertical twin, with drum brakes and a non-unit-construction 4-speed transmission. It was a handsome bike, but it was not a serious competitor to either of the leading British bikes of the era (BSA and Triumph). I’ve never seen one and I never heard of this motorcycle until I researched the Cyclone name for this blog.

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A Distant Memory: Memphis Bike Night

By Joe Berk

This is a sort of a Wayback Machine post, one that goes way back. It’s from June of 2012, which is way before Gresh and I started the ExhaustNotes blog. I used to write the CSC Motorcycles blog (it’s where I started as a blogger). I was thinking about Tennessee the other day and I remembered that I had written a blog about the Memphis bike nights, but I couldn’t find it in the ExNotes archives. Then I realized: It predated ExNotes. It was a CSC blog.

I have got to be the luckiest guy on the planet. I’m taking this great tour through the South, and yesterday we found ourselves in Memphis. Memphis is a great city for many reasons, not the least of which is Graceland. As I mentioned in the CSC blog yesterday, Susie and I took the Graceland tour and we loved it. It was beyond awesome. I’m a great Elvis Presley fan, and the opportunity to visit his home was not one to be missed. Folks, if you ever get to Memphis, Graceland is a must!

Well, our good fortune did not end there. We had an awesome dinner at the Rendezvous, a super barbeque joint my good buddy Georgia Robby recommended. Folks, trust me on this…barbeque just doesn’t get any better than this!

The Rendezvous in Memphis…the best of the best!

After our great dinner, we moseyed on over to Beale Street. That’s kind of like the Memphis version of New Orlean’s Bourbon Street…it’s the place to be in Memphis. We noticed a lot of motorcycles heading that way, and then, hey, we saw that the street was shutdown…and it was nothing but motorcycles! Turns out that Wednesday night is Motorcycle Night on Beale Street! Check this out…

Midweek Memphis Moto Madness on Beale Street!

The Memphis moto night is one big street party, folks! We were having a blast talking to the riders there. They saw my California Scooter shirt and everyone wanted to know about the CSC bikes. It was awesome. We met a lot of people and made a lot of friends.

The photo below shows Carl and Ryan, a father and son team. These are cool guys. Carl was on his Gold Wing, and Ryan was on a CX500 he and Carl rebuilt. Ryan just graduated from technical school, and when his father asked him what he’d like for a graduation present, Ryan just asked to go with Carl on his next motorcycle trip. That’s pretty cool stuff, folks.

Wisconsin Carl and his son Ryan…riders extraordinaire!

We actually rode alongside these guys about 100 miles east of Memphis without meeting them. Susie recognized the Gold Wing when we saw them again at the Memphis moto night. Talk about a small world!

I grabbed a lot of photos on Beale Street. Every body was having a good time. I asked the fellow below if I could grab a shot, but he kept smiling for every shot and looking like too nice of a guy. I asked him to strike a tougher pose, and wow, did he ever!

We were having a lot of fun. We noticed police officers at each intersection making sure that Beale Street allowed no one other than motorcyclists, and I asked a couple of them if I could grab their photo. They said sure, but only if Susie was in the picture…

The police officer on the left looks like he’s having a good time…but the guy on the right looks like he wanted me to explain that traffic ticket I never paid…

Well, hey, the next day we had an absolutely awesome Memphis breakfast. I had a French toast fluffer-nutter with whipped cream and blueberries, and hash brown sweet potatoes with marshmallow.

There’s peanut butter and bananas sandwiched between those slices of French toast!

Hash brown sweet potatoes with marshmallows!

Steve saw the above photos and told me I might need to lower the gearing on my CSC motorcycle when I returned to California.

The next night we made it to Mobile, another great southern US city. In the morning, we toured the USS Alabama, a floating museum just outside of Mobile. It was beyond awesome. The ship bristled with guns. I was amazed, and I have to tell you, it’s worth a trip to this part of the country just to see this magnificent battleship. After seeing the USS Alabama, we followed the Alabama Scenic Byway to the Emerald Coast in Florida’s panhandle, and we had a great grilled amberjack dinner in Fort Walton Beach. Imagine bone white sand and emerald green water, and you’ll have a pretty good handle on Florida’s Emerald Coast.

That trip was 14 years ago, and I remember it like it was yesterday. Good times brought to life once again through the miracles of the Wayback Machine! The blog you read above evolved into a Destinations piece for Motorcycle Classics magazine. You can find it and more here.

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Legends Motorcycle Museum

By Joe Berk

Legends Motorcycle Museum in Springville, Utah, is not just a museum; it is a compound, consisting of three retro-industrial-themed buildings and numerous motorcycle-related shops and eateries. And if that’s not enough good news, it’s located in one of the best riding locales on the planet: Magnificent Utah. Surprisingly, I had never heard of Legends. I only found it during a Google search after my good buddy Mark at Motorcycle Classics magazine asked me to focus on motorcycle museums.

I arranged to be at the Legends Museum early so that I could photograph the motorcycles without other guests getting in the way (both for the ExNotes blog and for Motorcycle Classics magazine). We entered through the Museum’s shop, which contains work bays and advanced CNC equipment where the place makes its own parts. The owner, Rick Salisbury, is also an automobile enthusiast; we saw a stunning restomod 1957 Cadillac convertible (with a crate Chevy LS2 engine) being assembled. A large and initially terrifying black pit bull welcomed us with a deep growl; when I froze, my new friend Winston approached cautiously, put his big paws on my shoulders (he stood taller than me), and gave me a friendly lick. I realized that coffee (served in the Museum’s adjacent Sidecar Café) would not be necessary. Thanks to Winston, I was now fully adrenalized and wide awake.

The view upon entering the Museum was visually arresting, starting with the famous Von Dutch VW-powered motorcycle (as seen in many print publications and in an episode of the American Pickers TV show). It stood proudly on a weathered steel pedestal. The Von Dutch motorcycle was surrounded by numerous Panheads, Knuckleheads, Indians, and other old motorcycles, machines that were built when guys like Roosevelt, Truman, Eisenhower, and Kennedy lived in the White House. None of the bikes were restored. I had entered barnfind Heaven. I’ve been in lots of museums that proudly display motorcycles that look better than the day they rolled off their assembly lines. Legends is different, and I’m here to tell you it is better.

The Legends Museum second floor is comprised entirely of pre-1920 motorcycles. A Journs Cyclone, one of only 12 known to exist, dominates the display; the Museum’s owner paid a whopping (and record) $1.3 million for it at Mecum’s last year. There were many more exotic motorcycles. Thor. Henderson. Flying Merkel. I’ll let the photos do the talking here, folks.

One of the best things about the Legends Motorcycle Museum is its north central Utah location. Utah is one of our most beautiful states, and it figures prominently in our collection of previous Motorcycle Classics Destinations pieces (which include Zion National Park, Bryce Canyon National Park, Cedar Breaks National Park, Utah Highways 12 and 24, Arches Canyon National Park, Golden Spike National Historic Park, and Flaming Gorge National Park). If you’re headed to Utah, Legends should be part of your itinerary. And if you’re not headed to Utah, you should start thinking about a visit. It’s spectacular.

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Fly, Buy, Eye, and Say Goodbye

By Joe Berk

Cheap is good. In a world of $20K, $30K, $40K, and $50K motorcycles, it’s especially good.

The idea of flying to another continent, buying a cheap motorcycle, riding cross country, and then selling the bike and flying home is an appealing one. That’s why when good buddy Marty sent a link to this video, I knew I would watch it. I enjoyed it and I think you will, too.

I like single-cylinder inexpensive motorcycles, having toured the Americas and China on RX3/RS3 motorcycles (which are Zongshen 250cc singles). I like Enfields, too, and I wanted to learn more about the Himalayan. When Gresh and I tested Enfields down in Baja, I liked the Enfield Interceptor so much I bought one when we returned. We also had an Enfield Bullet on that Baja ride (it was their 500cc Bullet). Both Gresh and I really wanted to like the Bullet, but it was a bust. The Bullet had experienced several breakdowns (read my take on the Bullet here and here, and Gresh’s take on the same bike) and because we didn’t trust the bike, we turned around at Guerrero Negro instead of riding further south to Mulegé.

The Bullet was considerate, though. Its last breakdown occurred just as we arrived home (it was a stripped rear sprocket at just a few thousand miles; something I had never previously encountered on any motorcycle). In the above video, the single-cylinder Enfield Himalayans didn’t suffer that fate, so my assumption is the breed has improved.

Peter Day of Mosko Moto presenting at an ADV event, with a CSC TT 250 as a prop.

I met another guy who used the same approach for his touring. That guy is Peter Day, CEO of Mosko Moto luggage. I met Peter at an adventure touring event in Mariposa, California, several years ago. Peter flies into whatever third-world country he wants to tour with no motorcycle and no firm plans, he finds and buys a used Chinese motorcycle for a couple of hundred bucks or so wherever he goes (central America, Africa, you name it), he rides for a month or two or three, and then he sells the bike before getting on an airplane home. Peter especially likes Chinese bikes based on the Honda CG engine, like the CSC TT 250 I enjoyed owning and riding so much (the photo atop this blog is my TT 250 in Mexico). The bikes that copy the Honda CG engine are simple, reliable, inexpensive, and designed to survive. Flying someplace off the beaten path, buying a cheap bike, riding the wheels off it, selling it, and then flying home is a good approach.

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Big Boy And The Mother Of Intentions

By Joe Gresh

Motorcycle riding gives you a good excuse to go places and see things, not that you need an excuse. I like a steam train, I have a motorcycle, thus riding up to Ogden, Utah to see a big old steam train seemed like a sensible thing to do.

My Carrizozo Mudchuckers buddy, Mike, was all for the idea so we planned to meet Big Boy, the last of the steam locomotives, in Ogden, where the train would stop for two days. As we waited for the appointed day the normally beautiful New Mexico weather cooled and became cloudy with rising damp. Ogden, being 900 miles north of us, was experiencing the same weather degradation except much, much colder.

Just a few days before leaving there was snow and rain in Utah. A 75-car pile up in Denver, and rain and cold all along our route north, had us thinking “this ride will suck.” I kept watching the weather reports hoping for a better forecast, but it looked like miserable weather the entire trip north only starting to ease off a bit on the Monday we would start riding home from Ogden.

I have plenty of cold weather riding gear. Things like electric vests, heated grips and a plastic rain suit can keep you warm enough. I’ll use them if there is no other option. But there was another, simpler option: Don’t ride into the rain and cold.

One day before were planned to leave I called the Mudchucker and said: How about we go to Willow Springs for vintage motorcycle racing instead? Call me a fair weather rider but sunny California was an easy sell. We dumped Ogden and the Big Boy steam train faster than oil prices rose after we bombed Iran.

The Mudchucker taking a break from headwinds.

The plan worked. We left town a day later than the Big Boy run. That allowed some of the bad weather to move east. Our first day on the road was cool, cloudy but comfortable, the second day we had strong headwinds and 40-degree cold, but nothing nearly as painful as the stuff we would have experienced earlier and further north.

We mostly followed old Route 66 west jumping on and off Interstate 40 as required. It was an odd time of year I guess. The entire town of Seligman was closed: Gas stations, food markets, all shuttered. Further on we rolled into tiny reservation villages with nothing available to buy or rent. I admit, traffic was light on historic Route 66. If a guy set up a food truck he’d starve to death.

On westward we rode, through Kingman down to Oatman. Again, every store in the tourist-friendly little donkey-town of Oatman was closed. The day ran long, we needed ice cream, it was getting dark, I couldn’t see much through the dark face shield on my helmet, and we pulled into an abandoned gas station to check out the motel situation in Needles. The Mudchucker was tired. He stopped next to me and toppled over. I tried to hold us up but the combined weight of Mike, his Moto Guzzi V7 and my ZRX1100 Kawasaki was too much.

We went down like the stock market after we instituted tariffs. The bikes were stacked against each other much like the system is stacked against the common man. It took a bit of doing to untangle them and lift the bikes upright. Damage was light: a few dings in the right-side Guzzi jug, a busted turn signal, scratched gas tank, and bent brake levers on the ZRX1100. Amazingly, there were no dents or major issues.

Not a lot of damage for tossing one bike on top of another.

A homeless guy camped at the gas station saw the whole thing. He didn’t laugh or say anything. He must have thought we were total losers.

The tip over had us in a melancholy mood. In the motel that evening we talked about that inevitable day, our strength gone, our skeletons frail, the day when we could no longer ride. Mike felt a side car was the way to go. I favored a three cylinder, two stroke, Kawasaki-powered gurney.

But gurney-time isn’t here yet and by the third day we were riding along basking in the warm Mojave desert. Things were looking up and thoughts of our physical decay burned away. Or maybe we just forgot we were falling apart. I hear that happens but I can’t remember where I heard it. Route 66 to Amboy was closed so we had to stay on Interstate 40, only returning to Route 66 west after paying $7.50 per gallon of gas at Ludlow.

Some kind of inspection station east of Barstow on Route 66.

Out of Barstow we rode past Hinkley, the toxic-water town made famous by Julia Roberts and Erin Brockovich. We made it to Lancaster, our base camp for Willow Springs.

Lancaster is an interesting place. On the back roads we came in on there were piles of trash dumped everywhere. I guess the town doesn’t have a dump. Or maybe the dump fee is too high so people drive out of town a few miles and drop their load. It reminded me of the trash piles I used to pick through in the Florida Everglades. You can find some good metal in those piles.

I saw some nice chairs 5 miles from Lancaster. If I had the Toyota truck, I would have grabbed them. There was a lot of broken concrete that would make excellent fill back at the ranch. Drywall was another popular item on the side of the road. Once in town things cleaned up slightly, and Lancaster looked much the same as other generic, California desert towns: New chain stores along the highway, decomposing shops, homeless people and frequent stop lights in the old sections.

The Wyndham motel on Avenue I was new and along the highway. They have a pretty good breakfast setup. There were the usual sausage paddies, scrambled eggs and pour-your-own waffles. We waddled out to the bikes and rode the 20 miles to Willow Springs racetrack.

Vintage motorcycle racing is mostly a family affair. Spectators not directly involved with the racing or supporting the racers are rare and we had the grandstands to ourselves. Multitudes of classes meant non-stop action all day long.

Lots of races and classes to keep track of at an AHRMA event. You won’t leave the track unsatisfied.

AHRMA racing covers all eras with heavy emphasis on bikes that were never actually raced back in the day, at least compared to the races I saw as a youth. Honda 160s are a popular class and an example of bikes that were never raced where I grew up.

Sloper 160 Hondas are strangely popular. I had one as a teen. In stock form they would hit 75 MPH. In race trim a bit faster.

An unusual number of Moto Gizzards circulated the Big Willow track. Maybe because they were so popular, only a few Yamaha Twins survived to race AHRMA. Most of the race bikes were 4-strokes. In the 1970s that ratio would be flipped and 2-strokes ruled the track. I guess the point is to run what you want and have fun with it.

The RD350 went from a mainstay of road racing to a rare bird at historic events.

The Willow races were not as well attended as the Laguna Seca AHRMA events. Laguna Seca is set in soft, coastal hills and has space for vintage motocross along with a vintage trials section. The camping at Laguna Seca is better. I suppose you can camp at Willow but it’s more of a motor home type camping than a tent. I’m not sure what happened between AHRMA and Laguna Seca and it’s none of my business, but I wish they would get it sorted out and go back to Laguna.

Nice, clean, crappers at Willow. A clean crapper makes the day just that much nicer.

Willow isn’t bad, mind you. The racetrack recently sold and the new owners are fixing it up a bit. There are several tracks and the food concession was better than Laguna. You can get a decent meal at Willow.

The last time I was at Willow Springs was in the 1970s. The pit looks the same and there are added buildings along the front straight. My memories are dimming and I can’t remember why I was there in the ’70s, but it was probably motorcycle racing of some sort.

If you take away the little houses, pit row looks about the same as I remember from the 1970s.

Kawasaki built a Superbike production racer called the S2. I don’t know if this is one but it looks like one.

Suzuki big-block race bike. Although, it could be a 750. I didn’t look that close.

SR500. Great bike from Yamaha unfortunately suffering from The Slows. My XL350 could stay with them through the gears and pull away at top end.

Roper and Fulton on Italian Harley-Davidsons. About 100 years of racing experience in this photo. They are faster than you. Sorry about the cell phone photo.

Zippy Yamaha 100cc twin. I might get a stocker one of these one day.

CA110(?) I have one of these in pieces waiting for assembly. The engine is shot so I bought a clone 140cc overhead cam engine. It fits the gram and clears the front wheel by 1/4-inch.

Manx Norton. For a while these 500cc singles ruled the road racing world. Still faster than a SR500.

If you don’t like crowds you’ll love AHRMA racing.

Rosamond, the town closest to Willow has grown quite a bit and lots of housing developments are being thrown together. Eventually someone will build houses around Willow if the new owners don’t do it first.

The ride back to New Mexico was full-on warm. We took backroads from Lancaster to Victorville and sort of paralleled Interstate 10 along Yucca Valley and Twentynine Palms to Parker, Arizona. Our miles per day were shrinking and we were stopping more often. Temperatures reached 95 along the sparsely populated Highway 62.

I was smelling the barn, you know? I kind of lost it on the last day in Show Low. We woke up at 4:30 am to get an early start. I wanted to get home and the Mudchucker was leisurely watching TV and eating a bagel. By 8:30 a.m., I had been awake 4 hours and drank 16 cups of coffee waiting. I had a lot of pent-up nervous energy.

Maybe 7 days on the road rubbed my nerves raw. It doesn’t seem like an asset.

Finally underway, we burned up the highway into New Mexico, a slight frost between us, and I managed to get home at a decent time (before dark). I’m starting to wonder if 7 days on the road is too much for me. Riding motorcycles with a partner is a series of compromises strung together with miles and miles of pavement. Are the compromises worth the companionship? I’m sure I must annoy the Mudchucker at times.

Maybe I’m just getting old and cranky. At least, that’s the excuse I’m going to use.

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Six Weeks in Baja: Salt, Sand, and Open Road

By Bobbie Surber

We left Sedona on Valentine’s Day, riding through Jerome, the old mining town clinging to the cliffside, and down through Skull Valley to Yuma for the night. The next day, we crossed into Baja at Los Algodones, the desert flattening out toward the Colorado River. The landscape changed around us. It took a few days before we did, too.

Tom was on his Yamaha Tracer 900, me on Tippi, my Triumph 900 GT Pro. I’d been to Baja before and loved it the way you love a place that doesn’t make anything easy for you. What I love most is the riding itself, the exhaustion of getting from Point A to Point B while moving through a desert that feels alive.

Strange cacti rise everywhere, topped with these single blooms that look like they wandered out of a Dr. Seuss drawing. Osprey and vultures are constant companions. In the mornings, the vultures sit atop the cactus, wings spread wide, completely still, like sculptures set out in the open.

I kept watching Tom take it all in. The little pauses at stops, the way he’d look back at the Sea of Cortez like it was still talking to him.

And then there are the people. The quiet kindness you run into along the way. The way everything settles when you finally stop at night, simple places, camping on the beach where nothing is asking anything of you.

We were unprepared for the heat. Usually, this time of year, it’s mild. Not this time. It sat on everything for most of the trip. On the bikes, it was relentless with gear on, sun overhead, and asphalt radiating up. You ride early, hide in shade by midday, and eventually stop arguing with it. We talked about it every day and then just leaned into the absurdity of riding in such conditions.

My sister Debbie and her husband Jim met us a day after we landed at Pete’s Camp in San Felipe, towing their renovated 9-foot Scamp behind them. Cold drinks in hand, the Sea of Cortez was going pink as the four of us toasted the start of a good beginning.

Gonzaga Bay, two hours south, feels like the edge of something, a few palapas, a dirt airstrip, water that doesn’t look real. We took a palapa on the beach and felt pleased, until a windstorm rolled in and sand filled everything: sleeping bags, boots, food, teeth. I lay awake waiting for the palapa to go airborne, crashing around us, while Tom slept in complete peace. By morning, we were laughing about it. Baja always wins; it’s best to accept both her gifts and challenges.

Guerrero Negro is all about the whales. It was blessedly cool there, which we didn’t take for granted. Debbie, Tom, and I climbed into a panga at first light under soft sun and calm water as we headed farther towards the mouth of the bay. Then a gray whale surfaced close enough that you could hear her breath hit the air. Everything just stopped. Massive, completely unbothered. The day brought several mothers to our panga, and our excitement was palpable as the juveniles delighted everyone with spectacular displays of breaching and tail-slapping.

Afterward: Tony’s Tacos. Don’t argue!

San Ignacio has been there a long time, and it shows in the plaza, the mission walls, and the pace of everything. We stayed just outside town at a newer camp with yurts and a working garden. Walked into town for drinks, drove out to the petroglyphs, pulled vegetables from the garden for dinner. No schedule. No agenda.

From there, we rode to Mulegé for the night at Historica Casitas—a small, characterful place that’s been soaking up travelers for decades. The morning we left Mulegé, I already knew what was waiting. My excitement was building as I pushed for an early departure. Leaving Mulegé, the road hugs the coastline and gives you these unreal views over the bay as you drop south toward Bahía Concepción.

Three perfect nights on the beach. If you’ve been there, you already know. Warm, impossibly clear water, coves tucked into the coastline, mountains dropping straight into the sea. The days just stopped having shape, which was the whole point.

Vendors came by in cars, selling fresh seafood they’d pulled from the water that morning. We couldn’t resist the fresh shrimp and clams vendors made into a dip.

Our last night, we stayed out on the beach until the light softened and the tide crept closer, the whole coastline feeling like it might just keep us if we stayed still long enough.

We finally pulled ourselves together, loaded the bikes, and the road turned inland toward the mountains and the short ride into Loreto.

Loreto is another mission town where the mountains meet the water, and the Sea of Cortez really opens up. The square and the mission are perfect for sitting with a cold beer or an unnecessary margarita and just watching life happen.

On my last morning there, I was up before dawn and walked the malecón with my sister as the sun came up over the mountains and hit the water. The sunlight turned the water shades of pink, red, and purple. Just time with my sister and fishing boats heading out, pelicans squabbling relentlessly over scraps from the boats, street coffee with cinnamon warming your hands. A perfect start to our day. Then back on the road for the long haul to La Paz, doing our best not to lose the battle with the heat.

La Paz hit differently after all that camping, dust, and sun. Clean clothes, long dinners, fresh seafood, sunsets over the water. We stopped rushing without really deciding to — and then swam with whale sharks. Pools of krill draw them close to shore, and snorkeling next to something the size of a bus has a way of rearranging your sense of scale. Then the seals: curious teenagers bumping your fist, chasing fins into caves where the pups wrestled each other to the seafloor. We didn’t know any of that was possible.

La Ventana had a different energy, windy, alive, full of kitesurfers moving constantly across the water. Small family spots serving incredible tacos and agua chile that stopped us mid-bite. We stayed in a little hotel where the patio opened straight onto the sand and the beach, a simple palapa to your left with plenty of cold beverages calling to you ridiculously early in the day. It’s Baja time, which means sipping on a margarita at 10 AM is not just acceptable, it’s absolutely essential!

From La Ventana, we rode to El Pescadero, just below Todos Santos. Three nights in a small beach condo on the Pacific with a real kitchen, simple food, and a daybed facing straight out to the ocean. The sunsets there weren’t something I was ready for. Every evening, the sky just broke open over the water, and I sat there and let it happen.

Cabo Pulmo, we dispersed camped. No facilities, no shade—just desert, reef, and that impossible blue water. We swam until the ocean took the edge off everything and the heat stopped mattering.

The eco-farm above Santiago was a good place to end our adventure to the tip of Baja. Three nights under trees and coffee plants, cooking under a big palapa while hummingbirds worked the flowers like they were on a deadline. A river below, mountains above. Everything slowed down, a peaceful ending before the challenging ride home.

We left Baja the way you leave a place like that, not quite done exploring, and seriously planning the return trip in January to see the blue whales.

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A “How To” Howdy Do

By Joe Berk

As you may know, I’ve been writing for Motorcycle Classics magazine for about 20 years. It’s hard to believe, I know. I mostly write the travel-oriented Destinations pieces, with the occasional feature story on a motorcycle or an interesting business. A new editor (good buddy Mark) suggested I start a series focused on how to do selected maintenance activities. My first thought was that it wasn’t such a good idea, but I learned a long time ago it’s never a good idea to argue with people who buy ink by the barrel, so I took Mark’s suggestion to heart.

My second thought was that a How To series should be a fairly easy thing to do. I wrote the shop manuals for CSC a few years ago. There, the approach was to have one of CSC’s maintenance experts perform the maintenance activity with me snapping photos through the process. I already had the photo approach nailed (f/8, Aperture mode, on board flash, all with my trusty D810 and Sigma 50mm macro lens). The photos became my notes. I processed the pics in PhotoShop, I added a bit of text to each, and the shop manuals basically wrote themselves. I knew I could use the same process for the Motorcycle Classics How To series, and I was right.

If you subscribe to Motorcycle Classics, you’ve already seen a few of these (and if you don’t subscribe to the magazine, you should). I did a story on how to service drum brakes with Emma Booton up in Marina (she’s wonderful), another one on wheel lacing with good buddy Kenny Buchanan of Buchanan Spoke and Rim, and lately I’ve been doing a series with good buddies Moe, Steve, and Lindsay at Cycle Garden in Indio, California. I enjoyed making friends at all these places, I enjoyed learning the processes, and I enjoyed writing the stories.

You can see the Motorcycle Classics stories I wrote here. It’s been a hell of a ride. You can also buy Destinations, a collection of some of my favorites.