Peru is most famously known for one of the 7 Wonders of the World. What’s frustrating is that like national parks in the United States, whoever declares things a “Wonder of the World” keeps adding more to the list, or in this case with the 7 Wonders, they change them. Absolutely one of my life’s objectives is to hit all 7 Wonders. Machu Picchu is and should always remain in that highly respected list of these magnificent artifacts of humanity’s past.
Getting to Machu Picchu isn’t easy even if you are living in Peru. I feel the best way is to hike the Inca Trail over three or four days to arrive at this city deep in the Andes. One of the biggest issues with my whimsical lifestyle is it is difficult to plan too far in advance. To reserve a spot to hike the Inca Trail (at the time in 2012) was about four months. In Huber travel years that is equal to about two years, so that option was out. The more touristy way to arrive is via a train with a glass roof. Compared to my past bus rides, it was heaven (there were no showings of Fireproof on this ride).
The train pulled into Aquas Calientes, which is the small town nestled deep in the Andes at the base of Machu Picchu. Almost instantly I was filled with energy. I don’t know if it was energy from the ancient civilization that once resided here or that I was at a lower elevation of 7,000 feet as compared to the 12,000 feet where I had been living.
The following day I was up early to catch the first bus up to Machu Picchu. The bus ride was filled with hairpin turns with quick glimpses of one of the 7 Wonders. I had my face pressed into the cold bus window awaiting each new view around every corner. Upon arrival, I stopped at the kiosk just outside the park entrance to load up on water since a full day of hiking was on the itinerary.
Once entering the ruins and taking some time to… yes, hang out with the llamas…the realization hit me that I had two full days in this mesmerizing ancient city! I noticed people would unload from busses do a quick photo in that iconic spot we all have seen in every travel magazine, have an hour or so to explore the ruins, and then they were off. What’s funny is that angle is not even of Mt. Machu Picchu, but of Huayna Picchu. Having two full days here would allow me the opportunity to summit both mountains and enjoy the area to its fullest.
The first day I decided I would climb the higher and much less visited of the two summits. Mt. Machu Pichu towers approximately 1800 feet above the Inca city below. This should have been a more strenuous hike but between being 4,000 feet lower in elevation, the energy from these powerful ruins, and a solid reserve of coca leaves, the mountain was a fairly easy climb. With so few people along the trail (I was one of the first in the park and many were just there for the photo ops) the trail was pretty much mine for the morning.
After the hike and with the coca leaves leaving my system, it was time for a siesta. I wandered throughout the ruins until I found a hidden room and climbed atop the walls in the sun and snoozed for a bit until I was awoken by some new friends. Marmots. The little guys were scampering throughout the ruins and occasionally would knock off rocks loud enough to jostle me awake. The day couldn’t have been more perfect.
Day Two in the ruins was a similar routine with me catching the first shuttle of the morning. Plans for this day were to summit Huayna Picchu and then hike down behind the mountain to almost the same elevation as my base of Aquas Caliente, but on the other side of the mountain. This area had no one in it. It was a steep trail. In one hike it left the Andes Mountains and descended into a rain forest that felt like no one had visited in centuries. It wasn’t nearly as large as the main city on top of the mountain, but it had a few structures overrun with jungle growth. The difference in climate in this short and steep hike was amazing. After returning it was time for another nap and a few more short hikes along portions of the Inca Trail before returning to the shuttle to bring me back to Aquas Caliente.
With life always seeming so busy and the pressure to constantly move and go it was more than nice to be able to allocate so much time here and fully embrace every part of this city. Few people have this opportunity and the ones that do tend to rush through it so quickly that they don’t allow themselves to feel the mystical energy that emits from this city in the clouds of Peru called Machu Picchu.
Needing another vacation and a break from the day-to-day boring humdrum of life (I usually ensure that doesn’t go on for very long) my girlfriend and I decided to head to Portugal and Spain. It was coming up on my 50th birthday and wanted to do something unique to celebrate this milestone. As we traversed and meandered through both countries I was still trying to come up with that unique idea when a friend had texted me to go to Gibraltar and summit the rock. That was an outstanding idea. Next stop: Gibraltar!
I Know What I Don’t Know
I only knew two things about Gibraltar: It was an island between Spain and Morocco, and they drive on the opposite side of the road since it is a Territory of Britain. Both these things I “knew” were incorrect. Gibraltar is a peninsula, not an island, and although it is indeed a British Territory they do not drive on the opposite side of the road as in other British Territories. The peninsula is just 3 miles long and not even 1 mile wide and most of the peninsula consisted of the giant Gibraltar rock with a lot of narrow winding roads that meander as far as they can go up around that Gibraltar Rock. Which had me wondering why there was a Ferrari dealership on the peninsula (I am certain it has to do with less taxes there than in their England motherland).
Entering The Territory
Crossing into Gibraltar from Spain was more of a formality and simply consisted of showing our passports at the border, a quick stamp by the immigration officer, and walking into the Territory. Once leaving immigration we walked across the Gibraltar Airport tarmac. It felt like we were trespassing, other than the traffic lights to alert you when a plane was taking off or landing. Those were not traffic lights you’d want to run.
Once across the tarmac it was a short quarter mile walk to our AirBnB, which happened to be a 30-foot boat in the Gibraltar Marina. I thought this would be a distinctive place to stay instead of some high-rise hotel where you would be disconnected from the heartbeat of the Territory. This choice turned out to be perfect and we slept great that night with the boat rocking us to sleep in the gentle marina waters.
The Rock
The next day we made our way towards the base of the Gibraltar Rock. Sadly, you cannot climb to the top of it as it is a military installation. Disappointed, we took the gondola instead of hiking to the highest point we were allowed to go.
I had read there were some monkeys that lived up on top of the rock that made their way from Morocco via a network of underground caves that went under the Strait of Gibraltar. We were told not to pet or touch them as they are wild animals. Of course, me being one to always follow rules it took under two minutes to befriend one of these little guys and I walked around with him on my shoulder on the observation deck. Clearly, my maturity hadn’t caught up with my now being 50 years old. It didn’t take long before one of the rangers scolded me and stated that they would bite me. Why would he bite me? We were friends. Ugh. People are always trying to ruin my fun.
We opted to walk down the path instead of taking the gondola back. This was a wise choice as there were a lot of hidden bunkers from WWI along the way and a really interesting stop called St. Michael’s Cave. This is a huge, impressive cave that ultimately led down to the Strait. We only walked in the upper portion of this maze for about 20-minutes since the longer tunnels are closed to the public. As we toured the cave there was a light and sound show to provide more entertainment and the history of this hidden gem. It was a fun detour to take.
Once we wrapped up the cave experience, we continued down the two-mile path looking over magnificent views as monkeys leaped from trees onto the tops of passing cars to hitch a free ride. Every time one leaped it would create the loudest “boom” as they carelessly but somehow successfully landed on a car’s roof. This made for great entertainment for us, but I can’t imagine what the people inside the vehicles thought hearing that noise. Once back at the marina we were hungry and it wasn’t difficult to find a waterside restaurant, an order of fish n’ chips, and a cold beer to wrap the day up in style.
Overall Gibraltar was worth going to visit as we were in the neighborhood. The territory is more of a winter getaway for the British than a destination one would otherwise visit. This Territory did indeed make for a fun two days, a unique experience, and a few entertaining stories that I am happy to be sharing with you.
Boy oh boy, the 400cc market segment is hot. It was the RX4, then we learned the Janus 450cc Halcyon is coming, and now, CSC just announced two stunning 400cc twins! Check this out!
I’ve seen both bikes in person at CSC, and I can tell you the bikes look even better up close and personal than they do in the photos. CSC has quite an extensive line of motorcycles, electric motorcycles, and ebikes, and now these new 400cc twins will broaden their appeal even further. Check them out at the CSC Motorcycles website!
Jack Lewis and I platooned in Motorcyclist magazine for many years. How Jack managed to avoid writing about concrete in all that time I’ll never know. Here’s a bit on lane splitting for America.
Dear automobilists – you, in the shiny red pickup and that girl in the flashy BMW and yes, even you in the dented Subaru with the sticker-patched Yakima box up top and dog slobber lathering your windows – please don’t misunderstand us.
When we rip along the dotted lines, zipping between door handles in a manner that must look crazy-dangerous to you, we’re not actually trying to rub your noses in the hell of stop-and-go traffic. We’re not trying to cheat you out of your transportative birthright, nor play some weird Russian roulette with spit cups and trailer mirrors.
See, while you may perceive motorcyclists mostly through GoPro silliness and X-Games heroics, a lot of riders actually give real thought to which measures might bring us through our riding day intact, arrayed as we are with nothing but a bit of thick foam and thin plastic between our squishable bodies and your 3,500 lbs. of moving steel.
Still, I get what it’s like to be startled, whilst sitting in my car, by a motorcycle howling past in a sudden rush. It’s a little spooky, and I always feel like I should have been paying better attention.
That’s how you feel, right? Like you should have been paying better attention?
Sure ya do! Just before you wonder out loud why anyone let those irresponsible dingbats loose on their murdercycles in the first place. How dare they discompose you, let alone proceed at a pace slightly faster than the turgid sloth of gridlock?
Being stuck in traffic is ugly for everyone. On a motorcycle, it’s worse. Yes, your kids may be fighting in the back seat, but they were gonna do that, anyway. The biker is juggling variables that include overheating, keeping his bike upright, clutch wear, where to put his feet (Pegs? Ground? Pegs? Ground?), and the friction-free contact patches ensured by the overflowing coolant of pissed-off cars.
Motorcycles are built to go, and they’re built elementally light. While your car does its engineered best to trade off its BTUs to the surrounding atmosphere on a hot day, and swaddles you in a full metal jacket against winter rain and snow, that rider tap dancing along the Botts’ dots either needs continuous air flowing over her engine to keep both it and her body from overheating, or would very much like to get home and take Mom’s advice to get out of those wet things. Hypothermia is a risk they cover in basic riding classes.
Serves those fools right, you say? Fine, but remember: if the motorcycle breaks down and has to be pushed out between the choked lines of traffic to meet a tow truck, that ain’t exactly gonna speed you up.
If the driver behind a stuck rider gets distracted by the radio or her kids or a super-important tweet, she may roll up into the rider who obediently parks between cars, virtually disappearing in a long line of tail lights. Or some other driver may spot a “hole” in the next lane, yank over and park on our hapless moto-jockey. Aside from the bloody consequences for some poor dumb motorcyclist, that accident holds up traffic even longer while EMTs slowly wail their way up the breakdown lane.
But isn’t it dangerous for those guys to go between the cars, where nobody can see them coming? Well, if you actually use your mirrors, you can see bikes much better when they’re moving between the lanes. Our eyes are designed to notice movement and anomalies.
Moreover, in any accident occurring between your car and a motorcycle, it won’t matter one bit how the lawfully the rider was behaving, or how badly you screwed up. All you have to say is “I never saw him,” or, “He came out of nowhere!” Once you’ve articulated those magic words, your police report will reliably read “DRIVER NOT CITED” — even if you blew a red light, made a left against traffic, or ran him down from behind. Tuck that knowledge away for later use, because it. Is. Awesome.
It’s even kind of true. Even with decades of motorcycling under my (continuously expanding) belt, I’ve overlooked motorcycles from behind the wheel. No one can see bikes as well as cars. You can’t judge their distance effectively whether they’re coming (only one headlight) or going (only one taillight). At night, they’re practically invisible and during the day, they may as well be.
Cars and trucks grow logarithmically in your vision as they approach, while bikes are always just… small. Your brain doesn’t process them as a real vehicle, and the courts know that. Killing a motorcyclist is kinda like hitting someone’s beloved terrier: the family may be broken up about it, but everybody else understands that it wasn’t really your fault.
We implore you not to use this powerful knowledge to hit the next rider you see, though, as it will definitely slow down your commute. We’re talking efficiency here.
You can’t see them, but they can see you. Lane splitters keep an eye on your movement the way mice watch owls, and they won’t carelessly ding your car. Think about it: catching a handlebar end means they go face down on the freeway. Nobody volunteers for that.
Lane-splitting motorcyclists tend to be well-trained, fit, decently equipped riders, and they’re statistically safer than riders who never split lanes.
Kinda flies in the face of common sense, dunnit? But then, so does motorcycling. Not everyone wishes to be common, or sensible.
We know it seems like cheating for them to weave through the blocked ranks of Good Suburban Taxpaying Folk – and it is. If you ain’t cheatin’, you ain’t tryin’.
That’s why you get to do what bikers can’t: control your climate with dashboard switches, sip the beverages nesting in your cup holders, flip through the FM dial for Sigalerts, call your sweetie through the rear view mirror (that you never glance at) with a dinnertime update, and scroll GPS maps for the clearest route. If you’re unwilling to give up your car full of traffic hacks and blissful comforts, why should riders sacrifice their ability to proceed elegantly through smaller spaces?
As second-class traffic citizens, speed, wariness, and maneuverability are the only tactical advantages motorcyclists possess. Don’t think of them as a safety threat to your armored carapace. They’re more like furry little rodents, juking between the footfalls of mighty dinosaurs.
“Fair” is a utopian concept and you can’t get to Utopia from here. What you can get is home a little faster, every time a rider splits lanes. Think this through with me: when a rider lane-splits, he transcends the traffic jam, flowing through it with mercurial ease while you sit there, stymied and cursing your ugly luck. Advantage: rider. Kinda gets your goat, doesn’t it? They shouldn’t be able to do that!
But wait… she also removes one vehicle from the impacted sludge of traffic. Advantage: EVERYBODY. Will you receive a benefit equal to the rider’s? Nope. She assumes more risk, makes less ecological impact, trades comfort for freedom and burns less fuel. Seems only fair that she should get through the fastest. Let ‘er go, mate. Don’t swing that door out!
When two percent of vehicles slip out of the traffic stream and split lanes, that’s two percent fewer vehicles getting in your way, threatening your family’s safety, and farting their carbon monoxide straight through your cabin filter and into the soft, vulnerable fat of your cerebral cortex. Can you imagine if it were 15, 20, or as much as 50 percent of traffic that was bled off by those dynamic pressure relief valves? Lane splitting makes riding more attractive, increasing the number of people willing to deal with the disadvantages.
We all know what causes traffic jams: too many vehicles occupying the same road space at the same time. One social engineering tool to purge that clog is HOV lanes allowing more efficient transport – e.g. buses, motorcycles, and carpools – to move faster. Studies show that such lanes also speed up main lines of traffic. Still, it’s danged annoying to watch privileged eco-prudes whiz by in their Teslas, and we all know it costs tens of millions of your dollars to build those lanes that you usually can’t use.
When interstate flyers shine on the dotted line, though, three or four de facto diamond lanes spring up at no cost — but offer benefits to every vehicle’s progress, from buses to Jeeps to Peterbilts.
And in town, when scooters and motos slip between cars and filter up to the front of an intersection, they’re not ripping you off. When the light changes they’ll accelerate celeritously, maneuvering between late-walking pedestrians without risk. Then they’re gone and out of your way, cutting down both on your total sum of obstacles and on the safety variables you have to reconcile.
Poof! They just vanish, right off your cloud. You won’t have to navigate cautiously around their wobbling butts the way you do with bicycles. Also (unlike those free-loading pedalers), motorcyclists pay disproportionately high license tag fees to help maintain your roads.
No one is harmed, and everybody wins. Ever wish a whole bunch of drivers would just get off your damn road? Yeah. It’s like that.
Traffic works better when we all work together. No man is an island, entire of itself. Therefore, ask not for whom the rider lane-splits; she splits for thee. Next time you’re asked, vote to allow lane-splitting in your state for the benefit of every driver… and the true safety of every rider.
If you still think all lane-splitting does is give a huge advantage to motorcycles, why not ride one yourself? Nothing prevents you from stepping out of your big, safe box, swinging your leg over a bike, and winging it through traffic in swift, sexy, highly maneuverable freedom.
Do it for yourself. Do it for society. All you have to fear is fear itself — plus, of course, the savage vindictiveness of unenlightened drivers (no, don’t be that guy; nobody likes that guy).
So come on over the dark side. We throw the best parties – and you’ll get there fast, looking fly on your bad motor scooter.
Everybody wins.
If you’d like to see more Jack Lewis, you can do so here on his blog.
My idea of a good restoration and your idea of a good restoration may differ, but you know deep down inside that I’m always right. I am the arbiter of cool. I am the final word, I am…Omni Joe. Here are 5 common restoration mistakes that drive me crazy:
Sin #1: Gas tank liners.
That sealer crap people pour into their motorcycle gas tanks is the worse invention of all time. Guys swear by this junk but don’t listen to those lazy bastards. When I read the words, gas tank liner and/or Caswell sealer in a motorcycle description I know an amateur’s hands have been fiddling the motorcycle. Who would pour that devil’s goop into a nice motorcycle gas tank? It makes me wonder what else they screwed up. The way to fix a leaking, rusty gas tank is to get rid of the rust and weld/braze any holes. Any other method is destined to fail. There’s no excuse for using devil’s goop, YouTube is lousy with videos explaining how to clean out a rusty gas tank and how to stop it from re-rusting.
Sin #2: Repainting serviceable original finishes.
Nothing annoys me like a guy posting up a 90% perfect, original-paint motorcycle and asking where he can get it repainted. Stop! If the paint has a few chips or is faded a tiny bit leave the damn thing alone. One of the most underused old-sayings is, “It’s only original once.” No matter how shiny and beautiful you think your topcoat turned out its still vandalism. There are many phony re-pop’s running around, don’t make your motorcycle one. By painting over your once desirable survivor you lower its historic value. Listen, I’m not against repainting really bad original body parts, lord knows my Z1 needs it but I know anything I do that covers over the factory work erases a story, and vintage motorcycles are commodities without a story.
Sin #3: Over restoration.
When the Japanese bikes that are considered classic today were first sold they had acceptable build quality. For some strange reason many motorcycle restoration experts go way overboard making the motorcycle a show bike that bears little resemblance to real motorcycles. Chrome back in the day was thin and yours should be too. Nothing depresses me as much as these tarted-up travesties. The nerve of some Johnny-Come-Lately with a fat wallet and no soul thinking he can render a better motorcycle than the factory. Keep it simple and try to match the level of finish that you remember. Otherwise, what’s the point? It’s already worth less because you damaged the original build by trying to improve the bike. Why pour money into the thing making it something it never was?
Sin #4: Giving a damn about numbers.
As people get deeper into the vintage bike hobby they grow ever more insane. It’s not enough to have the correct parts anymore: Now you must have the exact build date on the part to suit your motorcycle’s VIN number. This is madness. Nobody except lunatics and bike show judges will care that your sprocket cover was made a year or two after your bike left the factory. The only part number that matters is the one that can get your bike registered for the road. I’ve seen people on vintage groups debating a slight casting change or a vestigial nub as if it were the most important thing in the world. People like that have no business owning a motorcycle; they should go into accounting or better yet, prison.
Sin #5: Parking it.
The final and biggest sin of all is to restore a motorcycle and then park it. I can over look all the other sins, even tank sealer, if the owner rides his vintage motorcycle. Get the thing muddy. Do a burn out. Ride it to shows in the rain. Honor the motorcycle by using it. A show motorcycle that is too valuable or too clean to ride is nothing, less than worthless. The machine was built for you. It has a seat and controls for you. The engine wants to pull. Do the right thing by your motorcycle and your sins will be washed away, my brothers.
Before the Internet I used to read books. Not just motorcycle magazines, although they were a great source of ideas, but real books. I shot a close-up photo of our bookshelf the other day for a Wastebook post. It was just for fun but looking at the photo I realized the impact some of the titles had on my typing. I never started out to write. I never dreamed of writing the Great American Novel. I fell into typing by osmosis and now I can’t stop. Once I was roped in I mostly tried to emulate my favorites. Find a writer you like and think like them. I don’t try to copy or mimic my favorites, I channel them as I type.
First up is A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole. Mr. Toole killed himself long before ACOD was published. It pisses me off that he chose that path for strictly selfish reasons: I wanted to read more of his stuff. ACOD is a huge, rambling thing full of recognizable personalities, disgusting situations and incredibly funny passages. The Levy pants story will be pleasing to anyone who has held a job (no matter how briefly) and the hot dog cart bit is familiar to anyone who ever tried to sell Christmas cards door to door.
The Best of S. J. Perelman is a collection of essays from The New Yorker. This is a guy you will want to steal from after the first verb. People will look at you like you’re crazy when reading this book on an airplane because you really will be laughing out loud. (Not to be confused with the nearly meaningless LOL, which is often used on the web for things that aren’t actually all that funny.) Perelman’s short bits cover a wide range of topics but always end up absurd. If I could write as well as him in today’s media environment I still wouldn’t be making any money but at least I’d have cigarettes.
The Portable Dorothy Parker is another collection of stories written for The New Yorker. That mag must have been something. At a time when women were routinely named Dorothy she did play reviews, poems, screenwriting and managed to get herself blacklisted. Less bitter than H. L. Mencken, Dorothy’s stories can be safely read both by people with suicidal tendencies and regular folks.
It seems like there are a lot of collected works on this shelf. CT organized it. The unseen hand of her masterful brain is behind the curtain. Anyway, don’t blame me. The Best of Robert Benchley is another collection in the smart, funny but down to earth mold. Benchley also wrote for The New Yorker (what a murderer’s row!) and he dabbled in Vanity Fair during slack times. When these stories were originally written the intention was to parcel them out slowly. Each issue of The New Yorker was an event. Best-Of collections hit you with a fire hose of quality that overwhelms your brain and maybe numbs your senses a bit.
The Commitments, The Snapper and The Van are three full-length books crammed into one small space. I’ve read The Commitments and The Van for sure. I can’t remember if I read The Snapper so I’ll have to get my magnifying glass out and check. If you only have time to read one of these stories by Roddy Doyle make sure it’s The Van. The Van is like Trainspotting except with food trucks instead of heroin.
The Best Short stories of O. Henry should be required reading for anyone thinking of writing for fun or…fun. O. Henry invented the ending-with-a-twist that featured large in last century’s story telling. We seem to have gotten away from these surprising finishes like, “Darn! She shouldn’t have cut her hair!” Now stories just kind of fade out with a pale, rictus arm reaching out of a lake or it’s revealed that the two main characters are father and son.
Finally, we come to Hunger by Knut Hamsun. This book was published in 1890 yet the ensuing 130 years have not dulled the edge of the humor in this book. Fittingly for this blog, the protagonist is a failed writer and we follow his slow starvation and descent into a delirium world. It’s funnier than it sounds. If you want to be a successful writer, learn a trade is what I took away from reading Hunger.
These are some of the books I use as inspiration when I’m faced with replacing a transmission in a Jeep or trying to work the self-checkout in Wal-Mart. At the emotional level, living in today’s world is no different than when these authors were writing. Life still becomes more ridiculous the deeper you dig into the thing and all we can do is shake our heads and crack wise. Wait here while I go sell my pocket watch.
We’ve written two Indiana Jones in China blogs so far, one on the lost Roman Legions at Liqian and the other on the Gobi Desert’s Buddhist grottos of Mo Gao. Today’s focus is on a third Indiana Jones episode, and that’s the one about Xi’an’s Terra Cotta soldiers. I visited the Terra Cotta soldiers a quarter century earlier on my first-ever trip to the Ancient Kingdom. They had only recently been discovered at that time and we (Susie and I) actually met the man who first unearthed what would become the Eighth Wonder of the Ancient World. I was eager to see the porcelain antiquities again.
We’d been on the road in China on our Zongshen motorcycles about three weeks when we entered the ancient city of Xi’an. It was the adventure of a lifetime, simultaneously exhausting and exciting, and the ride into Xi’an was one of the best parts of the entire trip. We rode on a road that was exclusively built for two-wheeled transport and the photo ops were amazing.
On the road to Xi’an. This 120-mile highway was reserved exclusively for motorcycles and scooters. The Chinese have some good ideas.A Chinese RX3 rider, a member of the Xi’an motorcycle club, accompanying us to the Ancient City. I love this shot. I grabbed it with my Nikon D3300 while riding my RX3. It become the cover photo of Riding China.Furem (it’s pronounced Foo Zhen), one of the guys who rode across China with us. Like me, Furem liked Nikon photo gear.
On the ride to Xi’an, as had been the case wherever Gresh and I went in China, we were celebs. And we were treated as such. There was a large group waiting to welcome us at the Xi’an Zongshen dealership, complete with the obligatory cold watermelon refreshments and floral necklaces. Folks wanted photos. They actually stood in line to photograph me and Gresh, and then they stood in line to get in the pictures with us. It was all quite amazing.
You want a picture, you get in line. We were gods in our younger days, Gresh and I were.The Arjiu and Dajiu Show.The young lady who anointed us with flowers. They didn’t quite go with the bad ombre biker schtick Gresh and I were cultivating, so we gave the flowers back to this young lady before we got on the bikes again.
So, on to the main attraction, and that was the Terra Cotta soldiers. This is another one of those wild stories that actually happened. It could be the plot for yet another Indiana Jones movie. It seems that when emperors of the Qin Dynasty died thousands of years ago, their personal armies were slaughtered and buried with them. The idea was they would provide protection in the afterlife. I know, it doesn’t make a lot of sense, but that was the custom. Maybe it made the emperors feel good knowing they weren’t dying alone. I don’t think the guys in the army could have liked it too much, though.
One of the emperors wanted to try a new approach, which I’m sure endeared him to his troops. This enlightened emperor wanted life-sized porcelain figures of each of his soldiers, and he decreed that the porcelain figures (rather than the real soldiers) would be buried with him when it was his time to check out. That probably sounded like a real good deal to the troops. And that’s what he did, with one life-sized porcelain soldier custom crafted for each of his 8,000 live soldiers. It’s believed that each was carefully modeled to duplicate the face and other body parts of each soldier. It was the ultimate government “make-work” program of its day.
When the Emperor kicked, all the porcelain soldiers were buried with him. They weren’t just buried, either. They were buried in attack formation, facing east toward China’s traditional enemy (that would be Japan).
And then, all of this was lost in time. For two thousand years. Cue up the Indiana Jones music, folks. This could be the plot of the next movie.
About 40 or so years ago, a Chinese peasant was digging a well in Xi’an and he came upon a strangely-shaped rock that looked like a human head. He told somebody, who told somebody, who told somebody, and a few days later a guy from the Chinese government showed up. You know, to see what was going on in Xi’an. “I’m from the Government, and I’m here to help,” and all that. That was how the Terra Cotta soldiers, the Eighth Wonder of the Ancient World, were discovered and uncovered.
The Terra Cotta Soldiers, the Eighth Wonder of the Ancient World! There were 8,000 of these guys (plus one emperor) buried down there! The Chinese believe they’ve uncovered only about 10% of the find.My Nikon D810 and the 24-120 lens did exactly what they were supposed to do, and visiting this place again was what I had in mind when I bought the photo gear.
Seeing the Terra Cotta soldiers again was great, but truth be told, I enjoyed it a lot more when Sue and I were there several years earlier. We actually met the man who dug the well and discovered it all, and Xi’an was a lot less commercialized when we first visited the place. Now, to get to the Terra Cotta soldiers you have to walk through an outdoor mall that has a McDonald’s, a Starbuck’s, and about a zillion trinket stores. Ah, civilization.
Don’t take the Terra Cotta soldiers off your bucket list because I liked it better seeing it with my wife a long time ago. Trust me on this. It’s not the Eighth Wonder of the Ancient World because someone thought that would be a catchy marketing slogan. The place really is a marvelous thing to see. What’s even more amazing is knowing that what’s been uncovered is only 10% of what they think is down there. Like I said, this is real Indiana Jones material, with McDonald’s and Starbuck’s tossed in for good measure.
Later that night when we went to dinner, we parked in an underground garage. The Chinese are industrious, and there was a car detailing service in the parking area. You know, to wash and detail your car while you were eating. I thought that was clever. The business ran with military precision, and we happened by just as the car cleaning shift was changing. The young guy in charge had his troops lined up and he was briefing them on whatever they were going to do that evening. I wondered if the soldiers who protected the Emperor 2000 years ago stood the same kind of formation.
When I was in the Army, I had a sergeant who started every morning formation with “I have good news and bad news.” I thought of those 8,000 Chinese soldiers, the Emperor’s personal army, and their learning about the boss’s burial plans 2000 years ago. I would have liked to have been there when they heard their “good news and bad news” morning formation brief.
“The bad news, men, is that you are all being replaced by porcelain dummies. The good news is that it won’t happen until the Emperor kicks the bucket, and those porcelain dummies are the ones who will be buried with him. You’re off the hook!”
So I guess Charley and Ewan are planning another ride. I suppose that’s a good thing, even though I thought the first ones were kind of contrived. I mean, really, you have two rich kids riding around the world on their own with corporate sponsorship, followed by a caravan of chase vehicles, spare parts, tool chests, mechanics, and camera crews. Two dilettantes confusing their income with their abilities, making a movie, complete with photos like the one above vaguely suggesting a combat mission somewhere in the mountains of Afghanistan. Give me a break. Maybe I’m being hypocritical; after all, I sort of did the same thing on the Western America Adventure Tour and the China ride. We even had a chase vehicle on both of those rides, too, although I managed to convince myself that chase vehicles are a net negative and I never used them again.
You want to read a real adventure story? Turn to my all-time favorite…the story of Dave Barr’s solo ride around the world.
Dave Barr in the hills above Lake Isabella, photographed by yours truly.
Dave Barr is a guy who lost both legs to a landmine while fighting in Africa. Undeterred and unbroken, after a lengthy recovery he finished out his enlistment, came home, put an electric starter on his beat up old ’72 Harley (which already had a hundred thousand miles on the clock), and with no sponsorship, no chase vehicle, no film crew, and nothing other than a strong will, Barr spent the next four years riding around the world. He’d ride a bit, run out of money, find a job wherever he was, work a bit more, and get back on the bike. That, my friends, is a real adventure, and you can read about it in Riding the Edge. Trust me on this: Riding the Edge is infinitely better than the long way whatever.
The day started early in San Felipe this morning, and that’s a good thing because our hotel, the Costa Azul, has no room heaters. For most of the year I think that’s probably okay, but we are riding through a cold snap and it was chilly last night. It’s all part of the adventure.
Janus Motorcycles in San Felipe!
Our first stop was at the San Felipe sculpted sign along the Malecon, and then it was on to breakfast at the Rice and Beans restaurant. San Felipe is empty this time of year, and the cold snap isn’t helping things. We were the only folks in the restaurant this morning.
After a great breakfast (thanks again, Jordan and Devin) we were on Highway 5 headed north. We encountered the first military checkpoint of the day about 30 miles up the road, where we were inspected by a very young and very heavily armed Mexican infantry soldier who pronounced us good to go, and shortly thereafter it was a quick turn onto Highway 3 for the ride across Baja.
That’s when the fun began. Jordan picked a good spot to use the drone, and he grabbed great footage of Devin and I riding through the desert. Then it was time for Devin to head into the soft stuff, and the digital cameras came out…
Devin putting the Gryffin through its paces in Baja.A Bajaeno at heart, Devin is…Jordan photographing Devin. We had the road to ourselves.Devin and his Halcyon. This is the same motorcycle that Richard, Devin’s business partner, rode across the United States.Jordan and the Halcyon.
We continued our northwest journey across northern Baja, and we rolled into Ensenada sometime in the mid afternoon. While we were on the road, I grabbed some photos of the guys…
Devin, at speed. It was a great ride.Jordan and Devin on their way to Ensenada.One more photo…that’s Devin on the Halcyon on the right, and Jordan on the Gryffin on the left. I’m also on a Gryffin on this ride, and I’m liking it!
We had a great lunch at Veleros (one of my favorite spots), we rode through more Ensenada traffic, and then we were on Mexico Highway 1. That’s the famous Transpeninsular Highway that runs south all the way to Cabo San Lucas. Our direction today was north, though, and at El Sauzal we peeled off and took Highway 3 again (heading northeast this time) to Tecate.
We’re in Tecate tonight, and folks, it’s cold again. More good news: It’s supposed to rain tomorrow. But we’re having a good time. More to follow, my friends. Stay tuned!
Want to read the rest of the story? Please visit our Baja page for an index to all of the Janus Baja blog posts!
The RX4 on the road. I wanted to get a shot at the truck scale, but conditions were not conducive to good photography.
The next two blogs (this one and the next) address more differences between the RX3 and the RX4, including the weight, the dash and instrumentation, the rear fender, tire sizes, the radiators, the radiator bottle fill port, the kickstand, the rear brake and gearshift levers, the rear wheel adjust mechanism, the swingarm, and the engine mounts. This blog will focus on the bike’s weight and the two bikes’ highway performance. I’ll sweep up the other differences mentioned above in the next blog.
Let’s talk about the 450-lb gorilla in the room first, and that’s the RX4’s weight. The RX4 is a heavier bike than the RX3, and I guess the question is: Is this a good thing or a bad thing? It’s all a question of perspective and intended purpose.
For starters, I still don’t have an accurate, measured weight on either bike. That’s a shame on me, although I will tell you that I tried.
My plan was to get the RX4 weighed first, and then return with my RX3 to do the same. I took the RX4 to our local certified truck scale, but the bike was too light to register on the scale and a loudspeaker-borne voice basically told me to get out of Dodge. It was a scary experience. There’s a monstrous Petro truck stop on the I-10 freeway about 10 miles from where I live, and I thought it would be a simple matter to roll the RX4 onto the scales and come back with The Number. That was my plan, anyway.
I entered the super-busy truck stop through an area teaming with idling 18-wheelers, engines barking and belching, crammed together weighting (or is that waiting?) to funnel onto the Petro parking lot scales. On my RX4, I was acutely aware of three things: The guys driving these monsters couldn’t see me, the engine noise and fumes were overwhelming, and the RX4’s fat rear end (those Tourfella bags are wider than the bike’s handlebars) made maneuvering through the 18-wheeler maze a dicey proposition. The pucker factor was elevated, folks. Big time.
I made it through, though, and I was finally on a scale with a platform as long as, well, an 18-wheeler. There was this elevated control house sort of thing next to the platform. It wasn’t clear to me what was supposed to happen next, as I couldn’t see anybody running the operation, and there was no digital or analog readout telling me the weight. I stopped the bike and dismounted, and I walked toward the elevated control house when an electronic voice from the Heavens boomed. It was way louder then the idling diesel engines surrounding me and I could tell: It was pissed. At me.
“Can I help you?” It didn’t come across as a request that implied an intent to be helpful. It implied anger. Seething anger. Directed at me. As a two-wheeler, I was but one-ninth the vehicle I was supposed to be.
Well, yeah, I want to weigh my bike. I mean, why else would a normal person be here?
“You’re setting off my alarms.”
Sorry about that, dude. What alarms?
“You’re too light and my alarms are going off!”
I want to weigh my bike (sometimes repetition helps, I thought).
“You need to get out!” There it was. No more implying or inferring. It was out in the open now. It was as if I was wearing a MAGA hat on the Harvard campus. I was not welcome.
Okay, I can take a hint. Hell, a weight is just a number anyway.
Which brings me to my next point. What’s in a number?
Whatever the answer is to that question, I can tell you these three things: One, the RX4’s official number from Zongshen is 450 lbs. As I said before, I don’t know if that is the right number, but I suspect it is not. Two, the RX4 is substantially heavier than my RX3, and weigh heavier (or should that be way heavier?) than my TT250. It feels it, and it feels to me like the weight rides higher. Three, the RX4 is a substantially better road bike than the RX3, and the bike’s added heft and longer wheelbase (along with that marvelous 450cc motor) probably plays a role here. Anyway, the bottom line here is this: There’s no Joe Berk official weight yet (read that to mean a weight actually measured on a scale).
Like I said, I can feel the difference in heft between the RX3 and the RX4. It’s enough to make me wonder: Am I man enough to take this puppy off road? I suppose I could be. I know there are a few guys who actually take GS 1200 BMWs off road, and those things have seat heights and weights that require altimeters and maybe truck scales to measure. But would I want to go off road?
The short answer, I think, is this: If your main objective is off-road riding, there are other choices. I’d go for my TT250 or something else. If you are primarily a road rider, though, with the occasional off-road excursion, then the RX4 is a good choice. In my opinion, the RX3 would be better off road, but that’s just what I said it was: My opinion. Your mileage may vary, as they say. I was thinking about the stretch to the Sierra San Francisco cave paintings in Baja, and to me, I’m right at the limits of what I feel comfortable with on that gnarly stretch on my RX3. It’s heavily rutted, there are big boulders, and it’s a challenge. But then, I freely admit I’m not a dirt biker. I know there are guys reading this who are thinking they would have no problem taking the RX4 off road. If you’re one of them, you’re probably right.
If you are primarily a road rider, though, the RX4 is the better choice. I put about 100 miles on the RX4 on freeways and surface streets here in So Cal, and I can tell you this: The RX4 is clearly a more capable road machine than is the RX3, especially at freeway speeds. I didn’t get a long enough stretch to measure the RX4’s top speed, but I can tell you there were spurts where I cranked it up to an indicated 99 mph and there was still more left. That’s indicated (not actual) top speed, and the speedo is 10-12% optimistic. Zongshen claims a top speed of 97.5 mph for the RX4, and that’s probably accurate. The RX4 is a bike that can cruise comfortably at 80+ mph all day long; the RX3 has essentially run out of steam at that speed. The RX4 makes running with the big dogs seem easy. It is rock steady at high speeds, and it’s comfortable. It feels secure.
That magnificent 450cc motor…
In many ways, the RX4 reminded me more of my Triumph Tiger than it reminded me of my RX3. The Triumph was essentially a touring machine/sports bike styled like an off-roader with saddlebags. The Triumph was heavy and I only took it off road once on purpose (and that was enough). I rode the Triumph off road a few more times when I had to in Mexico, but it really was not an off-road bike. I know there are guys who ride the big Tigers off road, but it’s not where the bike wants to be. It wants to be headed to the next state, or maybe the next international border. That’s what the RX4 wants, too.
My Triumph Tiger. In many ways, the RX4 is quite similar to the Tiger. It was a stellar long-distance touring machine; I think the RX4 is, too.
I’ll make a prediction: Within the next two years, someone (perhaps several someones) will do the Iron Butt on the RX4. I don’t mean a single 1000-mile Baby Butt day (good buddy Rob Morel has already done that on his RX3). I’m talking the full-tilt boogie here: The 11,000-mile, 11-day Iron Butt. I think that’s going to happen. And I think the RX4 is the bike that will do it.
I was talking to Steve Seidner about this a day or two ago, and he asked me to mention to you that CSC is taking deposits now on the RX4 (here’s a link to get to their page for placing your deposit). CSC will sell a lot of RX4s. The bike is that good.
