CSC Motorcycles was a big part of my life for a lot of years and the source of great joy. You probably heard that Steve and Maureen, the founders, retired and that the company has ceased operations. My experiences with CSC can be summed up in a single word: Fun. The Baja trips, the US trips, the ride in Colombia, the grand ride in China, the wonderful people I met along the way…it was all amazing. All good things come to an end, I guess, and CSC was definitely a good thing for me.
Sue and I had dinner with Steve and Maureen last Sunday, and Steve told me that the remaining CSC inventory is being sold through an auction. I found the auction site and perused it for a bit. My CSC days are over (indeed, CSC is over), but some of you might be interested in the vintage Mustangs and CSC parts inventory. Here’s the link:
I’m going to share Riding China’s last chapter with you here on the ExhaustNotes blog. I think you’ll like the Qingdao story, and I can tell you that the other 26 chapters in Riding China are just as good. Maybe even better. Enjoy, my friends.
Chapter 27: Qingdao, Our Final Destination
Qingdao (pronounced “ching dow”) means “green island” in Chinese. It’s on the eastern edge of China on the Yellow Sea, and it sure is green. It is one of the most beautiful cities I’ve ever seen, and it’s one with a storied past. Beaches, seafood, and more, the city has had more owners and rulers than you can shake a stick at. Like a lot of places on the east coast of China, it was controlled by the Germans in the late 1800s (you can see the German influence in the city’s architecture). The Japanese took over after World War I, it reverted back to Chinese control shortly after that, and then the Japanese took it over again during second World War, and then, well…it’s in Chinese hands now. But I’m getting ahead of myself yet again. Back to the ride.
The changing of the guard in Qufu, the birthplace of Confucius.
We started our morning in Qufu with a visit to a fort that is evidently a significant Chinese attraction. I didn’t understand too much about the place at the time we visited, but it made for some great photo ops. There was a changing of the guard similar to what might be seen at Buckingham Palace or Arlington National Cemetery, and it was exciting. I enjoyed watching the Chinese tourists take it all in even more. This is their country, and I could tell that what we were all seeing was of great significance to them.
A waterway in Qufu near the fort.A Chinese woman, standing on the pegs of Sergeant Zuo’s motorcycle, photographing the changing of the guard in Qufu.
After the ceremony, it was back to the freeway for the quick 200 kilometer ride to Qingdao. I was very excited about seeing Qingdao for several reasons. It marked the end of our ride. This had been a motorcycle ride like no other, and Qingdao was our final destination. For that reason alone, it was significant.
Riding in China…required absolute and intense concentration. It was stressful, exhausting, and exhilarating.
Qingdao is a city with a rich history, as I mentioned at the start of this chapter. Situated on China’s eastern coast, I was hoping that the temperatures in Qingdao would be a little cooler. On a personal level, Qingdao had a special meaning for me. It was situated directly on the Yellow Sea’s western shore. More than 40 years ago I had been a US Army lieutenant on the eastern shore of the Yellow Sea, in Korea, on a HAWK missile site. Our primary target line (the direction in which our missiles and radars were pointed; the direction from which we anticipated an attack) was not aimed at North Korea. It was instead pointed west, directly across the Yellow Sea, toward the People’s Republic of China. Yes, the spot I would be riding into this fine day was the very spot my US Army missiles pointed to more than four decades ago!
Ling, a great guy and a great rider.
Our freeway ride to Qingdao that morning was largely uneventful except for one thing: Ling’s RX1 ran out of gas. To me, it was amazing that this was the first time any of us had run dry. We routinely rode 50 or more miles after our fuel bingo lights starting blinking. Gresh and I never quite understand our approach for determining when to get fuel, or who called the shots on that topic. We didn’t know if it was Zuo on the lead bike, or Tracy in his car, of Qi and Ma in the chase truck. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t Zuo.
Up until the point when Ling’s bike ran out, I thought the RX1 had more range than the RX3, because Zuo (who rode an RX1 on this trip), kept going long after I would have refueled my RX3. But Ling, on an RX1, was the guy whose bike ran dry that morning. Gresh was riding with Ling when it happened. Joe stopped and luckily he found a rope by side of the road, so he towed Ling along until the next gas station.
When the chase truck caught up with us at the gas station, Ma evidently said something to Sergeant Zuo in Chinese about waiting too long to refuel, and Zuo didn’t care for it. Sometimes we weren’t sure if the Chinese were upset with each other (we couldn’t tell from the conversation), but there was no doubt in my mind this time that Zuo was not taking what Ma said very well. A little bit of gasoline later (or oil, as the Chinese refer to it in English) and all was well.
As we approached Qingdao, Zuo was working his magic on his smartphone’s GPS, and we found our way through thickening Chinese traffic to the bay. A ferry ride across the bay was in our plans. This was good. Any motorcycle adventure always goes better with a ferry ride. It adds to the magic.
We took a ferry ride across the bay to downtown Qingdao.
We rode the bikes onto the ferry, parked them, headed topside, and were underway in minutes. I was surprised that we didn’t need to tie the bikes down, but they were still upright when we arrived in downtown Qingdao. Everybody was in high spirits. We were arriving at our destination, the city we had been riding to for the last five weeks. It signified the end of our epic journey. The cameras were out and we were all snapping photos. I took a photo of a Chinese man and his young son, and then the son asked me if his father could take a photo of me with him. He did so with his cell phone, and then I handed him my Nikon and he took the same photo with it. As Americans, Gresh and I were unusual sights on that ferry.
Qingdao has a population of 9 million people. Once again, I thought about how amazing being in this place was. I was the unusual American; I had heard of Qingdao before this ride. I only knew of it because of my Army days 40 years ago. Most Americans have never heard of Qingdao, yet we have only one city (and that’s New York) that has a population comparable to Qingdao.
With my young Chinese friend.Joe Gresh, somewhere on Qingdao Bay, as seen through Deng’s Canon.
We hit downtown Qingdao at rush hour, but the traffic wasn’t too bad on the elevated freeway that ran over the city. It was a Sunday afternoon, and that helped. Once we were into the city, though, it was the usual tuck and roll routine we always did when we blitzed through Chinese urban areas. That meant lots of weaving and bobbing, giving the horns a thorough workout, and a bit of profanity thrown in for good measure, directed at folks who most likely had no idea what we were yelling about.
Riding on an elevated freeway above downtown Qingdao. That’s Gresh and Zuo in front of me.
I realized I had become accustomed to Chinese urban traffic. As I worked more motorcycle miracles keeping up with Zuo and Lu, I thought about what it would be like to ride back in the United States again when I returned to California. I knew I’d have to dial it down substantially. No more missing cars by centimeters passing on the right and the left, no more assuming people will move over when we pass into oncoming traffic, no more passing on blind corners, and much less risk. I wondered if it would be boring. When our Chinese and Colombian friends rode with us last year on the Western America Adventure Ride, they told us the riding in America was less intense than what they were used to in their home countries. It’s only scenery in America, they said. Riding a motorcycle in the United States required no aggressive maneuvering with cars, trucks, buses, other motorcycles, and scooters. They said that the courtesy of American drivers made the riding less exciting. Riding in China, on the other hand (and Colombia, too) required absolute and intense concentration. It was stressful, exhausting, and exhilarating.
The dinner that evening was extravagant and exciting, as you might imagine it would be for a group that had just arrived at their destination after an 8,800-kilometer motorcycle ride across China. When the restaurant realized how many of us they had to feed (and they heard the story of how we made it all the way across China to Qingdao on our motorcycles), they wisely opted to move the tables to the parking lot in front of the restaurant and let us cut loose outside.
It was a grand dinner. The beer flowed freely. Where before our Chinese brothers drank beer from little juice glasses, tonight it was all pitchers of draft beer and mugs. And folks, these Chinese guys can put away the suds. Everybody was in high spirits. Ma and Zuo were good buddies again (they had forgotten all about Ling running out of gas earlier in the day). There was more beer and more toasts. Lu was spilling been all over himself as he chugged mug after mug. Tracy was telling Sean that he should shave off his goatee to be more popular with the ladies (bear in mind that Sean is Tracy’s boss). More beer. More toasts. Did I mention we drank a lot of beer that night?
Lu enjoying a beer, with a bit of help from Dong.
We stayed late and closed the place. It was one of the best dinners I have ever had anywhere. The food was outstanding (as it always was during the entire China adventure ride), but that wasn’t what made it all so grand. We had arrived. We would do a little more riding in and around Qingdao, and then we would all be heading home. Everyone realized that as the evening ended, and there was a palpable note of somberness as we called it a night. Everyone wanted to get back to their families and their normal lives, but no one wanted the ride to end.
A fine celebratory dinner in Qingdao!
That night ended well, and the next morning we were off for a publicity ride to Qingdao’s coastline. We met at the Qingdao Zongshen dealer where five or six guys on other bikes were waiting for us. One was on a Shineray 400cc single that looked more like an original Triumph Bonneville than do the current Triumph Bonnevilles. The company was one I had heard of but didn’t know much about. We say “Shine Ray” because that’s the way it’s spelled; the Chinese pronounce it “shin you way.” There were a couple of 250cc Suzukis and a couple of all-out dirt bikes (with no lights or plates) that used the Zongshen NC250 RX3 engine. The Zongshen dealer rode his 650cc CFMoto street bike (it’s a very large motorcycle that looks a lot like a Honda ST1300). Interesting motorcycles, to be sure.
It was to be one of the best rides of our entire China adventure. We were on the edge of Qingdao headed across the peninsula and there was very little traffic. As we rode, I saw a concrete ribbon off in the distance that snaked over a mountain, and sure enough, that was our road. It was a great ride. Zuo set a sensible pace, we crested the mountain, and then we descended to sea level. Soon we were riding the Qingdao coastline. It was a magnificent road. The road and the location reminded me of Italy’s Amalfi Road below Naples. We stopped for photos in several locations. It was definitely a tourist spot for the Chinese; there were lots of busses and more than a few cars with families. But it was not touristy. It was just fun.
Has China out-Triumphed the British?
At one of the stops I commented to Gresh that this was a great ride and I was enjoying the more relaxed pace. Joe laughed and said, “You’ve gotten too used to riding in China. We’ve been passing busses on blind corners and doing all the things these guys do. If you think this is a relaxed ride, you’ve become a maniac, too.”
I guess maybe I had, but unlike the other times, it wasn’t bothering me that morning. I guess you can get used to anything. I really enjoyed that ride.
Riding along the Yellow Sea coast in Qingdao. It reminded me of Italy’s Amalfi Road.
As we road along the coast, Lu saw an opening on the left that led directly onto the beach. He took it and we all followed. The beach was great, it wasn’t too hot, and it felt wonderful to be there. I parked my RX3 in a spot where there were rocks and the sidestand found decent support. Gresh was in soft sand and his sidestand was just sinking into it; there was no way it would support the bike. Dong was next to Gresh on an RX1 and he said, “No, Arjiu, like this,” and with that, he revved the engine, popped the clutch, and spun the rear wheel. The back of his motorcycle dropped several inches as the rear wheel excavated a hole, and when it was resting on the frame, Dong stopped, killed the engine, and stepped off. The bike remained vertical, held in place by the sand on either side of the rear wheel. Gresh did the same.
I walked up to the edge of the ocean and shot a few photos. Gresh was walking toward the water in a bright green floral pattern bathing suit. It looked brand new. “Where did you get that?” I asked.
“There’s a guy selling them over there,” Joe said, pointing to a shack, “and he’s got a place where you can change.” That was all I needed to know. I wasted no time in buying a bathing suit. I had been hot and sweaty for over a month. A swim in the ocean sounded like it was just what the doctor ordered.
It was wonderful. I was swimming in the Yellow Sea, along with Zuo, Ma, Qi, Gresh, and Dong. The water was warm for the first few inches near the surface and cold below that. The chill felt wonderful. It was lowering my core temperature, and I basked in the wonder of it all. It was the first time I felt that good in quite a while. We cavorted in that water for a good hour. I didn’t want to leave.
Dong demonstrates how to park a motorcycle on the beach.
The Yellow Sea. I thought about where we were, what we were doing, and what we had done. We had ridden across the Tibetan Plateau. We rode in the Gobi Desert. We followed the Silk Road and China’s Great Wall. We rode our Zongshen motorcycles in sweltering heat and in torrential rains. We had been terribly cold at altitudes as high as 14,000 feet. And now we were at sea level, swimming in the Yellow Sea.
This was not my first time being at the edge of the Yellow Sea, but it was the first time I swam in it. As I mentioned at the start of this chapter, four decades earlier as a young US Army lieutenant, I had stood roughly 700 miles due east of this spot on the other side of the Yellow Sea, ready to shoot down any Red Chinese aircraft that violated Korean airspace. Fast forward more than 40 years, and now I’m a senior citizen on a motorcycle adventure ride playing in the water with a bunch of Chinese tourists on the other side of that same body of water. Times change, I guess. In this case, for the better.
Lu grabs a selfie in the surf.
After our swim, we all rode the bikes into a line at the water’s edge so the video guys could do their thing. Our videographer, He, was running the drone and Deng was working his magic with the Canon digital camera. In the maybe 10 minutes we were there on the beach, I watched the tide move the water line up a good 10 feet. We had to keep moving the bikes to not let the water surround us.
The Yellow Sea is an interesting body of water. It was originally more yellow in color due to mineral sediments carried downstream by the rivers that feed it, but it lost its yellowish tinge (according to the experts) due to pollution. To me, the water looked about the same as any other place I’d ever seen the ocean. The most interesting thing about the Yellow Sea, though, is its extreme tidal variation. It has one of the highest tidal movements in the world. When I was in Korea, I was told the water level moved up and down vertically 30 feet every day (I later read it is actually 26 feet). Whether it’s 26 feet or 30 feet, that’s a huge tidal swing. I remember being in Korea and looking at the Yellow Sea when the tide was out. It was stunning. Where before there had been ocean, there were now miles and miles of mud, with the occasional fish flopping on what had been the sea floor an hour or so ago.
On the way back to the hotel on that next-to-last riding day, we were caught in a severe downpour. We were soaked, but nobody cared. We were China-riding veterans. It rains, you get wet. No big deal.
The next day, we all saddled up and rode to the freight forwarder who would ship the bikes back to Chongqing. It was a short ride, and we were in and out of the freight yard in less than 30 minutes. Gresh and I wanted to buy jewelry for our wives, and the Zongshen dealer’s wife accompanied us to downtown Qingdao’s jewelry district. She helped us score great jade necklaces and both Joe’s wife and my Sue loved what we brought back for them. We said goodbye to the Chinese riders at the freight yard, thinking that we would see them at dinner that evening.
When we returned to the hotel late that afternoon, we learned that the goodbyes we said to the other guys at the freight forwarder had really been our final goodbyes. While we were shopping, the Chinese guys left by air to return to their homes. King Kong was still there (he had gone shopping with us); we would drop Kong off at the Qingdao train station the next day. Joe and I flew home after we dropped Kong off. It was a long flight, but it was great to be headed home.
I had mixed emotions about not being able to say a proper goodbye to the other Chinese riders, but I was glad it worked out the way it did. I wanted to say goodbye for real, but I really didn’t want to say goodbye at all. A few days after I arrived home, I received a nice email from Zuo. He told me that he and the other riders had left while we were shopping because they, too, did not want to risk becoming emotional during our goodbyes.
Misery makes for strong memories, and nowhere is that more true than on a motorcycle in cold wet weather. I’ve had times when I’ve been absolutely teeth-chattering cold and couldn’t shake it. Hypothermia, they call it.
We have all experienced cold and wet weather riding experiences. These are the ones that reside in my memory.
My First Big Baja Trip
Back in 1994, Baja John and I did our first big Baja ride, from southern California all the way down to Cabo San Lucas. I met John somewhere on the way down in So Cal (I can’t remember where), but what I do remember is starting out around 4:00 a.m. in a heavy downpour. I must have had some kind of rain gear (in those early days of my big trip rides we didn’t wear the kind of gear that came later), but it was relatively ineffective and before long I was pretty wet and miserable. I remember I was wearing jeans and a heavy leather motorcycle jacket. I was on my ’92 Softail, and John was on his Yamaha Virago.
Our thawing out stop in Vicente Guerrero. We didn’t cover too many miles that first day entering Baja, mostly because of the rain and the cold.
It rained off and on for most of that day. John and I stopped in Ensenada, took a few pictures, stopped again at La Bufadora, and from Bufadora on it was a steady downpour. We were young and dumb, and we just keep going. Somewhere around Vicente Guerrero (about 200 miles south of the border) I saw a hotel and stopped. My teeth were chattering uncontrollably and I felt like I was having a hard time controlling the motorcycle. It was around 4:00 in the afternoon and I was absolutely miserable.
The hotel was a cheap Baja place with concrete floors and no heat. The front desk had a register we both had to sign and I was shaking so badly I couldn’t sign my name, so I just made a big X like a hillbilly (not that there’s anything wrong with being a hillbilly). I remember the hotel clerk gave us a roll of toilet paper. We found our room, I stripped down, unrolled my sleeping bag (it had stayed dry, fortunately), and fell asleep in it shaking like a crazy person (not that there’s anything wrong with being a crazy person). I’d wake up every hour or so, check my watch, and realize I was still shivering. Finally, when I woke up at 4:00 a.m. (exactly 12 hours after climbing into my sleeping bag), I had stopped shaking. I slept for another couple of hours and was good to go.
By the next morning, the rain had stopped. The Harley and our clothes took a little longer to dry out. The guy on the BMW snagged the electric heater.
When we checked out that morning, another traveler was doing the same and I watched in surprise as he turned in an electric heater. We could have asked for one to put in our room, but we didn’t know. I remember thinking those BMW riders knew a thing or two.
That first day riding into the Baja El Nino rains was a brutal experience. We had nice weather and a rain-free ride all the way down to Cabo and back.
The Tibetan Plateau
I am a slow learner. Maybe a better description would be a learner who forgets and has to learn all over again.
When we prepared for the big ride circumnavigating China (20 years after the Baja ride described above), I had a very flaky rain suit that I knew would let water penetrate. Prior to getting on the plane for China, I sprayed the hell out of it with Scotchguard and hoped for the best.
Hope is not a strategy, as I again learned riding through another motorcycle trip downpour. This time we were headed to the Tibetan Plateau, with the very capable Sergeant Zuo leading the way (that intro photo above was on the way up to the Tibetan Plateau in that downpour). The rains were oppressive, the mountain roads were curvy and dark, it was cold, my Scotchguard didn’t work worth a damn, and I was wet and cold. Bitter cold. Not quite hypothermic, but cold nonetheless.
The Raiders Tibetan bar scene. Gresh and I lived it.
We finally arrived at our destination late that evening. It was wooden hotel in a tiny town with an adjoining dining area, and both looked like Indiana Jones’ girlfriend’s place from his first movie, Raiders of the Lost Ark. Gresh and I ducked into our room and I changed into dry clothes. The dining area didn’t have a menu. They had but one offering for dinner: Dumplings. All boiling in a big pot that looked like the one you’d see cannibals cooking people in. No kidding…it was that big. There must have been 900 dumplings floating around in that boiling cauldron. It was an all you can eat arrangement, and I ate plenty. They were great, and they were hot, both attributes that were perfect for my low-temperature condition.
We filled a smaller serving bowl with just a few of the dumplings from the giant dumpling cauldron. They really hit the spot.
Back to the “freeze your butt off” aspect of this blog. The room had some sort of a heater in the bathroom (complete with a Chinese style squat toilet, which was good for a few laughs). Gresh and I could not figure out how to get the heater to work. I’m not that smart, so I wasn’t surprised I couldn’t find the path to enlightenment. Gresh…he’s pretty smart, and his similar inability to crack the code made me feel not quite so dumb. We could get it to give us hot water, but we couldn’t get it to throw any heat. Being an engineer, I finally said screw it: We’ll just let the hot shower run all night and hope that’s enough to keep the room a degree or two above the outside temperature.
I woke up a few times during the night to the sound of the shower running. The room was like a sauna. Steamy, zero visibility, but warm. That hot water worked great.
A Cold Night In Tangke
When we were coming down off the Tibetan Plateau on the China ride, we rolled into a tiny town called Tangke.
Gresh and I joked about now being able to say “when I rode down off the Tibetan Plateau…”
Tangke was remote and primitive, and it was cold. It felt like it was going to rain as we entered, but it did not. We stayed in another place that had a restaurant with a hotel behind it. The restaurant was kind of fun because one of our riders (a fellow name Lu) saw a Tibetan woman making butter and asked if he could try it. She agreed. The approach was different than what I would have thought. Instead of churning the butter in a circular motion (like I’d seen done in countless Western movies), her approach involved slowly pumping a big stick up and down in a floor-based bucket. Lu was a real cut up. He started pumping the rod in a manner that could only be described as suggestive, which the Tibetan lady thought was hilarious. We did, too.
Good buddy Lu, suggesting unnatural acts with a Tibetan maiden. It was a fun ride, China was.
To get to the hotel behind the restaurant, we had to follow a dirt path and carefully avoid stepping in dog poop (at least I hope it was dog poop). I was thinking the hotel room would be a real disappointment, but it was actually pretty nice. When the hotel guy showed us the room, I looked around and couldn’t find a thermostat, and not wishing to run the shower all night, I asked about it. He didn’t speak English, but I managed to get my point across visually (I was a mime on a radio show in another life), and he showed me how to work the electric bed. It was like an electric blanket, except the heater was built into the mattress.
I was a little leery about sleeping on a toaster, but that electric bed worked wonderfully well. It was cold, real cold, that night, so much so there was frost on the bikes the next morning. But I was snug as a bug.
The Honda Electric Shower Heater
Nope, this has nothing to do with Honda motorcycles. There’s actually a town in Colombia up in the Andes Mountains called Honda.
This was one of my best rides ever.
Like most of the towns we rode through in the Andes, this one was hilly. The hills were so steep you couldn’t park the bike and rely on the kickstand to keep it from rolling away; keeping the bike in gear was necessary. Good buddy Juan, who led our ride, stopped in front of our hotel, which was securely hidden behind a tall wall and gigantic doors. “Security is an issue here,” Juan explained. The big doors had a little door at eye level. I immediately thought of that scene in Romancing the Stone (which was supposed to be in Colombia, but was actually filmed in Mexico).
A scene from Romancing the Stone. Our hotel in Honda had a similar little door in its gates.
Just like in the movie, someone from the hotel opened the eye level little door, conversed with Juan for a minute, and decided to allow us in. We couldn’t leave the bikes on the street (“Too dangerous,” Juan said), so we parked that at a secure warehouse around the corner.
Our hotel in Honda. The big gated doors to the left of our bikes (in the yellow wall) actually had a little door that could be opened to check out whoever wanted to enter before opening the big doors.
Once inside the hotel, I showered before dinner. There was only one faucet in the shower, and the shower was cold. I saw a switch on the showerhead, and what appeared to be an electrical coil that the water flowed through. I nervously tried the switch (standing naked in the icy water pouring through the showerhead), but the water remained icy. Oh well, I thought. I’ve taken cold showers before (no jokes, please).
At dinner in the hotel that night (which was excellent), I asked Juan about the showerhead. He smiled. “The electrical coil is supposed to heat the water as it flows through,” he said. “That’s the theory, anyway. Most of the time they don’t work,” he added, with a weak smile. Maybe that’s a good thing, I remember thinking.
Dad’s Super Hawk Heading to Cooper’s
When I was a 14-year-old kid back in rural New Jersey, I managed to get my Dad interested in motorcycles. In the space of less than 4 months, he bought a used CB 160 Honda (the baby Super Hawk), a new 305cc Super Hawk, and then a ’66 Triumph Bonneville. Cooper’s Cycle Ranch in Hamilton was our dealer, and in the early days, it was a ranch, with a big barn and all the accoutrements that went with it.
Sherm Cooper, a well-known Triumph flat track racer who became a very successful Honda and Triumph dealer in the 1960s and 1970s. He was a nice guy.
One morning (I’m guessing it was in the Spring, after the snow and ice disappeared, but before the temps starting getting reasonable), we left early on a Saturday morning to bring the Super Hawk in for its 500-mile service. The ride was along Route 130, a highway that ran from our area to Hamilton (a distance of about 35 miles).
It didn’t seem like it was going to be that cold on that distant-past Saturday morning, but let me tell you, it sure was. Dad and I both had jackets, but nothing like the motorcycle gear folks wear these days. And we had not counted on the wind chill. It was bitter. I had Dad to shield me from the wind chill; he was out in it. I guess you could say he was a Popsickle (or maybe a Popcycle).
We pulled into a store and bought a couple of newspapers, and we each stuffed them into the front of our jackets to cut the wind chill. It was a good idea, but it didn’t work very well. We still froze our butts off. I was freezing; it must have been terrible for Dad.
Yours truly at age 14 on Dad’s Super Hawk. We were dressed only slightly warmed on that ride to Cooper’s.
When we reached Cooper’s, it was still cold but at least we could warm up in the shop. The techs (they were called mechanics back in the day) had to wait for the engine to cool so they could adjust the valves, but their wait wasn’t very long that morning. When we left, central Jersey had already warmed up a bit and it was a pleasant ride home. But that ride there…wow, that was a cold one.
I should have noticed (and noted) that our previous blog (published on 6 August) was our 1,800th blog. This one is our 1,801st. That’s a lot of blogging.
The Wall Street Journal’s sole photo of the Mo Gao grotto. Notice it is the exterior only. Gresh and I did better. In fact, we did much “Mo” better.
In last week’s weekend edition of the Wall Street Journal, there’s an article about the Mo Gao grottos in China’s Gobi Desert. It’s an exotic place few folks outside China (and actually, few folks in China) know about or have visited, so I can understand the Wall Street Journal’s excitement about discovering this hidden gem. I can even understand their complete lack of any photos inside the Buddhist caves (as you will when you read this rerun of our earlier blog on Mo Gao).
Gresh and I rode our Chinese motorcycles there 10 years ago. And unlike the Wall Street Journal, we landed forbidden photos of the caves’ interiors. You see, there was a heavy Chinese police presence at Mo Gao, and signs everywhere prohibited indoor photography. Gresh and I were the only roundeyes there among hundreds of Chinese tourists (is that racist?). I figured it wouldn’t be too long before one or more of the Chinese visitors started taking pictures, and when they did, the police descended on them aggressively. Which they did, and while they did…
Read on, my intrepid blogistas.
A few weeks ago, I wrote a blog about the Indiana Jones aspects of riding a motorcycle across China, and in that blog, I told you about the Roman Legions that had settled in Liqian two thousand years ago. I mentioned that there were other Indiana Jones experiences to be had in China and I said I would write about them. It’s time to keep that promise. This blog is about the abandoned Mo Gao Buddhist grottos in the Gobi Desert. It’s an excerpt from Riding China, and if you want to get the whole story, well, hey, buy the book!
Dun Huang
The day was to be a short one for riding (only a hundred kilometers), but it would be rich with sightseeing in and around Dun Huang. It started with a short ride to Dun Huang’s vendor stalls with all kinds of brightly-colored trinkets, lots of Chinese tourists, and around it all, huge sand dunes. We had arrived at what might possibly be the least known and most inaccessible tourist attraction in the world: The Gobi Desert, up close and personal.
The Lake of the Crescent Moon in the Gobi Desert.
The signs pointed to the Lake of the Crescent Moon (and if that doesn’t sound like an Indiana Jones movie title, I don’t know what does). It was a small bright green crescent lake surrounded by the Gobi’s massive pale white dunes. The city planners in Dun Huang were making good use of it as a tourist attraction. It was amazing. The lake was a bright green arc of still water perhaps 300 meters long, forming a natural arc in the dunes, surrounded by bright green vegetation. I can only imagine how a camel caravan would have felt coming upon this place a thousand or more years ago, slowly drifting through the oven that is the Gobi, long before Dun Huang built its five-star tourist hotels. They must have viewed it as a miracle. A true oasis in the desert. It seemed to be a miracle to me and I had it easy; I had ridden here on my RX3.
Gobi Camel Riding
What really interested me were the camels. I was still feeling smug about seeing camels in the desert the day before, and I had wondered what it would be like to ride one. This was to be my day. There was a large camel riding operation set up specifically for tourists, and I realized I might never have an opportunity like this again. I needed to ride a camel. Yep, I became Joe Tourist, and I’m glad I did. It was fun. The camels took us to the top of one of the dunes, and I loved every minute of it. I’ve heard camels described as ships of the desert, and I realized as I rode along on mine that it was an appropriate description. A camel kind of rocks back and forth as it walks, the same way a ship does as it sails the ocean. The sand dunes, devoid of any vegetation, could be rolling waves. It’s all very calming. The camel behind mine came closer, and closer, and closer until its face was literally right alongside me. Its nose was just an inch from my arm. I could feel its warm dry breath on my arm and my face. It sounds a bit on the strange side, I know, but it was all somehow very soothing, riding along in the hot dry air, gently rocking left and right, with a camel breathing in my ear.
Camels in the Gobi.Quite a sight. I enjoyed Dun Huang enormously. You may have seen this photo before. It’s the cover photo for the ExhaustNotes home page, and it as a two-page spread in RoadRUNNER magazine.The view from the camel cockpit.
We spent the entire morning riding camels, taking photos, and being tourists. As much as I like riding my motorcycle, it was good to be off it for a day. We were all feeling great, even though it as incredibly hot. But it was dry, and that made it bearable.
A very attractive young woman who allowed a photo on our camel caravan. I told her I walked a mile for my camel. She smiled politely. I don’t think she spoke English.
The Mo Gao Grottos
That afternoon, we parked the bikes and rode in air-conditioned buses to the Mo Gao Buddhist grottos. This was more Indiana Jones stuff. It’s another incredible story, and it is one I had never heard until this trip. Listen to this: Ancient Buddhists created a massive temple complex in the grottos along a riverbed canyon wall in a location called Mo Gao. It’s in the desert outside of what is now Dun Huang. It was a thriving Buddhist center a thousand years ago, and then the people living there left. No one really knows why. Time and history forgot about the place. It was only recently rediscovered, and a few years after that, it opened to the public. The place was stunning. I can see it possibly being named the 9th Wonder of the Ancient World, just as Xi’an’s Terra Cotta soldiers (which I’ll describe in a later chapter) became the 8th Wonder of the Ancient World. It’s that wondrous.
The Mo Gao caves consisted of many smaller grottos that were apartments for ancient monks, and larger ones that held majestic statues and ornate decorations. I can only imagine what it must of have been like for the archeologists who uncovered these things. Today, it is all closely managed and Chinese police were there to enforce a photography prohibition.
A small portion of the Mo Gao Buddhist grotto.A forbidden photo inside one the Mo Gao grottos. Once again, the Nikon D810’s low light level capabilities came through for me!The sights and photo ops at Mo Gao were well worth the trip. There were many, many more, but I called it quits after grabbing these photos.
There are two reasons for a photography prohibition in these kinds of places. The first is that flash photography could degrade the statues and artwork. A natural light photo (one shot without flash) would prevent that kind of degradation, but most people wouldn’t understand the distinction and a “natural light only” photo policy would be too hard to enforce. The other reason is that the owner of the place (I assume it would be the Chinese government) probably wants to sell its photos. Allowing people to grab their own pictures would interfere.
The bottom line to all of the above is that the no photography policy only slowed me a little. I waited until somebody else took a photo and the picture police started yelling at them, and then I would discreetly do my natural light thing. I got some good shots, too.
Let me go tangential here for a moment and tell you a quick story about Joe Gresh. He is a great guy to travel with and I’d go anywhere with him. We both have a twisted, extremely wry, and very corny sense of humor. He cringed every time I said something I thought was clever, and I did the same with him. I enjoyed being with him on this trip immensely. The guy just has a way with words, which is readily apparent in his columns for Motorcyclist magazine. Anyway, as we walked along one of the landscaped Mo Gao pathways, I noticed a ground-mounted speaker that was in a plastic case designed to look like one of the naturally-occurring rocks. It blended in well with other real rocks along the path. I pointed to it and said to Joe, “Look at that…even a thousand years ago, these Buddhist monks had electric speakers…”
Gresh, without missing a beat, responded with, “Yeah, they loved their grotto blasters…”
I slept well that night in our unusually upscale hotel. I probably had dreams along the lines of an Indiana Jones movie plot, but I didn’t remember any of them. I was tired when I called it a night and I felt refreshed the next morning. This was the trip of a lifetime, and I was enjoying the hell out of it.
So there you have it. The Mo Gao Grottos. Lost in time nearly a thousand years, only to be discovered again a few years ago. And we were there. Indiana Jones? You bet! And if you want to read the earlier Indy in China blog about the Romans, it’s right here!
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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.
A 1956 Ariel Cyclone.
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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Like most of you, I spend a lot of time thinking about what I’d park in my garage if I had the money and the space for a motorcycle collection. At various times in my life I’ve owned several motorcycles at the same time and I’ve sort of realized the dream I describe here (at least in terms of how many motorcycles I owned), but this blog describes something different. The bikes I owned in the past came about as the result of having the time and the money when something cool caught my fancy. This time, I’d start from scratch and define what would go into my ideal collection. Gresh and I have theorized and fantasized and written about this in the past (see our Dream Bikes page). Here, I’m starting from scratch and I’m limiting myself to six motorcycles (just because I think that should be the right number of bikes). You might be surprised at some of my choices.
1965 Triumph Bonneville
When I was a kid in high school, one of the seniors (a fellow named Walt Skok) bought a new Triumph Bonneville. I thought it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen, and I wanted one. Later in life, I bought, rode, and sold several Triumph Bonnevilles, but I never scratched that itch for a ’65 model. Someday…
To me, everything about the 1965 Triumph Bonneville was perfect: The colors, the exhaust system, the exhaust notes, the tank parcel grid, the design symmetry, the little decal recognizing Triumph’s world speed record, and more. I always wanted one and I still do.
1965 Harley-Davidson Electra-Glide
I’ve owned a couple of Harley full dressers, but the one I always wanted was the 1965 Electra-Glide. That year was the first year Harley offered electric starting and it was the last year of the panhead engine (which I think is the best-looking big twin engine Harley ever made).
The ’65 Electra-Glide is another bike that, in my opinion, was styled perfectly. I like the tank contours, the 1965 paint design, the panhead engine’s look, the fishtail mufflers, the saddlebag contours, the potato-potato-potato exhaust note, and more. Apparently, my thoughts about this motorcycle’s intrinsic beauty are also shared by the U.S. Post Office (see the above postage stamp). The ’65 Electra-Glide is the bike I used to think about as a teenager when I rode around on my Schwinn bicycle, imagining that my Schwin was a Harley.
Cycle Garden 1974 Moto Guzzi El Dorado
Ah, a Cycle Garden Guzzi. This is one I tumbled to only recently. I’ve been writing a series of articles for Motorcycle Classics magazine, and one of the shops that’s been helping me is Moe Moore’s Cycle Garden in Indio, California. I always thought the mid-1970s Moto Guzzi were stunning in their stock and restored configurations. Then, during one Cycle Garden visit, I saw a custom bike that Moe and his crew had assembled for a client.
The bike was a 1974 police motorcycle, but it painted in a breathtaking battleship gray and metallic blue paint theme. I could see myself riding it, rumbling through the open roads and magnificent landscapes of Baja. It is a motorcycle that is firmly on my list.
1983 Harley XR-1000
I wrote a Dream Bike piece about this during the first year of the ExhaustNotes.us blog’s existence, and the thing that struck me about it was that Joe Gresh told me I’d beat him to it…he was thinking about doing a Dream Bike piece on the same motorcycle.
I’ve never owned or ridden an XR-1000. Come to think of it, I never heard one run. I could have bought an XR-1000 new for around $8K when they were new, but I didn’t have a spare $8K laying around in those days. It’s another one of those motorcycles bikes for which I think the visual and visceral appeal is perfect. Maybe someday I’ll get to scratch that itch.
2006 Kawasaki KLR 650
To me, this is an interesting choice with which some might take issue. I don’t care. I loved my KLR 650. Lifelong good buddy Baja John had one, too. That’s Baja John and yours truly somewhere in Baja in the photo below.
The KLR 650 is one of my all time favorite motorcycles. Mine was a first-gen KLR, and I think those are more desirable than the second gen bikes. My KLR was perfect for exploring Baja, and I did a lot of that on it. It had just the right amount of power, it was simple (except for the shim-and-bucket valve adjustments), it was a very comfortable motorcycle (the ergos were perfect), and it was inexpensive. I bought it new in 2006. It was one of the best motor vehicles (of any kind) I ever owned. If you’re wondering why I sold it, so am I.
2015 CSC RX3
The CSC RX3 motorcycle is another bike that I thought was just perfect for me. I covered a lot of miles in Baja and elsewhere in the world on it.
I think a 250 is the perfect size for a motorcycle (you can read why here). I traveled through a lot of the world on one: Through the American West, Mexico, the Andes Mountains in Colombia, and China (with Joe Gresh; Joe and I are in the photo above auditioning for a Chinese gladiator movie). All those trips and all those miles were awesome, and the RX3 didn’t miss a beat on any of them. I almost cried when I learned Zongshen discontinued the RX3, and if they were to bring it back (which they should), I would no doubt be riding the world and blogging the RX3’s virtues again.
There you have it. It was fun thinking about this, writing this blog, imagining the above six motorcycles parked in my garage, and riding them in different parts of the world. A quick mental tally tells me I could make the above wish list a reality for something around $120K in today’s dollars. Hmmmm…I don’t have a spare $120K laying around, but maybe if a few of you hit that donate below…
What about you? What would be the ideal collection you’d like to see in your garage? Let us know in the comments below.
Yes, it really was like that. Somewhere along the Silk Road (the actual Silk Road) in China. I parked my RX3 when I saw the double rainbow, thinking someday I might use the shot in a blog about this adventure.
Almost 40 years ago, I saw my first Indiana Jones movie and it affected me profoundly. I started traveling the world stumbling upon lost empires. Things that have been swallowed by time, as they say. My motorcycle ride through Colombia had some of that. The Baja adventures have a bit of it, too. But none of the rides had more of an Indiana Jones flavor than did the ride across China. That ride was three years ago this month, and I still think about it every day. There were several things we saw in China that would have been right at home in an Indiana Jones movie. One was Liqian. I can best tell you about it with an excerpt from Riding China, the story of the ride with Joe Gresh across the Ancient Kingdom.
Gobi Gresh, aka Arjiu, stopping to smell the sunflowers in China.
The ride in the morning was just like yesterday. We rode the Silk Road at high speed, making great time in magnificent weather. I knew we were going to Wuwei (you could have a lot of fun with that name; it’s pronounced “woo wee”), but that was really all I knew about that day as we started out that morning. Boy, would this day ever be an interesting one!
It was to be a very full day, and Wuwei would be another one of those cities of several million people that seem to pop up in China every 50 to 100 miles. It was a huge city I had never heard of. China is an amazing place, and I was going to learn today it is more amazing than I could have imagined, and for a reason I would have never guessed. I’ve mentioned Indiana Jones movies a lot in this book. Today, we came upon something that could easily be…well, read on. This is going to be good.
After riding for a couple of hours, we left the freeway and entered a city called Yongchang. It seemed to be pretty much a regular Chinese city until we stopped. I needed to find a bathroom and Wong helped me. Wong is a big, imposing guy. He’s a corrections officer supervisor in Xi’an. He has a friendly look, but he can turn that off in a New York minute and become an extremely imposing figure. I saw him do that once on this trip, and I’ll tell you about that episode when we get to it.
Corrections Officer Supervisor Wong. He looks like a mischievous guy. This guy’s command presence was amazing. I saw him stop a car just by looking at it. Here, he’s enjoying the attention in Yongchang.
Anyway, I followed Wong through a couple of alleys and businesses until we came to an empty restaurant (it was mid-morning, and it had no customers). Wong spoke to the lady there, she nodded her head and smiled at me, and pointed to the bathroom. When I rejoined the guys back on the street, several women at a tailor shop (we had coincidentally stopped in front of a tailor shop) were fussing over Wong. He needed a button sewn on his jacket and it was obvious they were flirting with him. Wong seemed to be enjoying it. Like I said, Wong is a big guy, and I guess you could say he’s good looking. I think the women who were sewing his button on were thinking the same thing.
Beautiful young Chinese ladies. Mostly Chinese, anyway. The one on the left is entering my phone number in her contacts list.
Three teenage girls approached us and wanted to know about our bikes. Like many young Chinese, they spoke English (in China, you learn English as a second language in grade school; it is a strong advantage in Chinese society if you can speak English well). They wanted to practice with us. It was the routine stuff (“how are you?” “hello,” and things like that) until one of the teenaged girls looked directly at me and asked, “Can I have your phone number?” Gresh and I both had a good laugh over that. I actually gave her my phone number and she carefully entered it into her phone (and no, she hasn’t called me yet).
I was enjoying all of this immensely, taking photos of the girls, the seamstresses flirting with Wong, and the rest of China all around me. There was something different about one of those teenage girls. I couldn’t quite recognize what it was, but to me she definitely looked, well, different.
Yongchang statues. They don’t look as Chinese as you might think they should. There’s a reason for that.
It was at about that time that Sean approached me and said, “Dajiu, do you see those three statues over there?” He pointed to three tall statues that faced us, perhaps 300 yards away. I nodded yes. “If you look at their faces, you will see that they have Roman features.” Truth be told, I couldn’t really see it in the statues because they were too far away, but I grabbed a photo and later, on my computer, I could see something different. But before I looked at the photo, it all clicked for me. That’s what had my attention with that girl. We were literally in the middle of China and she didn’t look as Chinese as her two friends. She looked different.
All right, my friends, I need to go tangential here for a minute or two and share this story with you. Hang on, because this is real Indiana Jones stuff. No, scratch that. I’ve never seen an Indiana Jones movie with a story line this good (and I’ve seen all of them).
More than 2,000 years ago, before the birth of Christ, the two most powerful empires on the planet were the Roman Empire and the Han Dynasty. These two superpowers of their time enjoyed a brisk trade relationship along the Silk Road. Yep, the very same trail we had been riding for the last few days. Between them (in what became Iran and its surrounding regions) lay a smaller empire called Parthia. For reasons only the Romans understood, Rome thought it would be a good idea to attack Parthia. They sent several Roman Legions to war (and to put this in perspective, a Roman Legion consisted of about 5,000 men). To everyone’s surprise (including, I would imagine, the Romans), the Parthians kicked Rome’s butt.
Wow, imagine that. Rome, defeated on the field of battle by the much smaller Parthian Empire. To put it mildly, things did not quite go the way the Romans thought they would.
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All of this severely disrupted trade between the Han Dynasty and the Romans, and nobody liked that. “Why the hell did you do that?” the Han Dynasty asked Rome. “We had a good thing going and you screwed it up.” At least that’s what I’m guessing the conversation went like. You get the idea.
Cooler minds prevailed and the Romans realized, yeah, that was a dumb move. The Romans told the Parthians, hey, it’s over, let’s be friends again. The war ended, the Chinese were happy, the Romans were happy, the Parthians were happy, and trade resumed. All’s well that ends well.
Well, sort of. There was still that matter of those pesky Roman legions that had invaded Parthia. They didn’t come back from that war, and for two thousand years, no one knew what happened to them. The Romans probably assumed their Legionnaires had all been slaughtered. No one knew until an Australian dude and a Chinese guy, both University archeologist types (starting to sound a little like Indiana Jones yet?) put a theory together in 1957. Hmmm, maybe those Romans had not been killed after all.
The Parthians, being bright enough to defeat the Romans, were not about to let the Legionnaires go home and perhaps attack them again in some future war. They didn’t want to kill the Romans, either. I guess they were kinder, gentler Parthians. Here’s where those two Aussie and Chinese archeologists enter the picture. They hypothesized that the Parthians told the errant Legionnaires, “Look, we don’t want to kill all you guys, but there’s no way we’re going to let you go back to Rome. And there’s no room for you here, either. Your only option is to keep heading east. Go to China. Maybe you crazy warmongering Italians will find nice Chinese girls and settle down.” With that, and as one might imagine, a hearty arrivederci, the Romans continued their eastward march straight into the middle of China.
And folks, the prevailing wisdom today is that is exactly what happened (although the prevailing wisdom evidently hasn’t prevailed very far, as I had never heard the story until that morning in Yongchang). In fact, prior to this theory surfacing, folks wondered why the Chinese referred to the area around Yongchang as Liqian. That’s not a Chinese word, and it’s unlike the name of any other Chinese town. The folks who know about these things tell me it is an unusual word in the Chinese language.
Liqian is pronounced “Lee Chee On.”
Get it yet?
Lee Chee On? Liqian?
Doesn’t it sound like “legion?” As in Roman legion?
A Chinese man in Liqian. This guy could be the Marlboro Man for a Chinese cigarette company!
I found all of this fascinating. I saw more than a few people around the Liqian area that had a distinct western appearance, and they all consented to my taking their photos when I asked. They recognize just how special their story is. The Chinese government is taking note of this area, too. They are developing a large theme park just outside of Yongchang with a Roman motif. We visited that theme park, and while we were there, Sergeant Zuo gave a book to me (printed in both English and Chinese) about the place. It is one of the two books I brought back from China, and that book is now one of my most prized possessions.
Imagine that: Roman legions, resettled in the middle of China, in a town called Liqian. And I rode there. On an RX3.
Watch for our next Indiana Jones episode in China. It’s about the lost Buddhist grottos at Mo Gao in the Gobi Desert. There’s more good stuff coming your way. Stay tuned!
Want to read more about the ride across China? Pick up a copy of Riding China!
I’ve been to a lot of great places. None were as grand as Yellowstone National Park. I was reminded of that when watching the Kevin Costner special, Yellowstone One-Fifty.
I’ve been to Yellowstone twice. The first time was with a bunch of guys from China, two guys from Colombia, Baja John, and Joe Gresh. The second time was with Susie. Both trips were great. Seeing the Costner special reminded me of a blog I wrote about those trips a few years ago, and I thought you might enjoy reading it again.
Man, it was cold. It was the coldest we would be on our 18-day, 5000-mile ride around the western United States. Yellowstone National Park was our destination and we wanted to arrive early. Baja John was doing the navigating and the trip planning, and we were leaving early that morning out of Cody, Wyoming, at 5:00 a.m. to beat the tourist traffic in Yellowstone. I had an electric vest; our Chinese and Colombian guests did not. I knew they had to be hurting. I had my vest dialed all the way up and I was. Did I mention it was cold?
So, about that big photo above: That’s Yellowstone Falls on the Yellowstone River. There are something like 10 waterfalls in Yellowstone National Park. I’ve only seen the one above. That means I have at least nine reasons to return.
Back to the story. I did mention it was cold riding into Yellowstone that morning, didn’t I?
Following Baja John into Yellowstone. That trip was 6 years ago, and I still get cold looking at this photo.Another shot entering Yellowstone National Park from the east. That’s Baja John in front of me…we were dressed for the cold, but I think our guests found it to be a little colder than the weather they are used to in southern China.
The trip was a wild one…18 days on the road with a dozen guys from China, two from Colombia, and all on free motorcycles provided by Zongshen via CSC Motorcycles. CSC was the importer, I was the go-between spanning the CSC/Zongshen interface (and two continents), and while we were arranging the initial shipment Zongshen asked if I had any ideas to promote the bikes in the US. Wow, did I ever!
In Zongshen’s main offices, with key Zongshen execs viewing photos from my rides in the US and Baja. Sue grabbed this photo and it’s one of my favorites. Without realizing it, I was selling those guys on giving us 15 motorcycles to ride around the US. This looks like a staged photo. It’s not.
That ride became the Western America Adventure Tour, and it was a hoot. I mean, think about it: Every angry and ignorant asshole on the Internet was condemning Chinese bikes and here we were, with 15 of the things that had just arrived in America, setting off on a 5,000 mile ride from So Cal to Sturgis, west across the US to the Pacific Ocean, and then riding the Pacific coast back to So Cal. On that epic ride we didn’t have a single breakdown and that was giving the Internet trolls meltdowns. It was a grand adventure.
But I digress. Back to Yellowstone. On our ride, we hit every National Park along the way, and Yellowstone was one of the best. Prior to that ride, I’d never been to Yellowstone and I had always wanted to see it. And for good reason…it is (in my opinion) the quintessential National Park. Yellowstone is surreal, with sulfur-laden steams and ponds spewing forth, majestic views, waterfalls, bison, bears, deer, elk, wolves, geysers, and more. It was a first for me. I was a Yellowstone green bean.
When we entered Yellowstone, we arrived so early the gates were unmanned and we entered for free. But it had been a long, cold ride in from Cody and we were nearly out of gas. My fuel light was blinking as we entered the park and I didn’t know for sure if there would be gas in Yellowstone. John felt confident there would be, and he was right. I saw the Sinclair sign up ahead, but before we got there, we had a close encounter of the bison kind. We were cruising along at about 30 mph, and all of a sudden I noticed this locomotive next to me. I was too slow to realize what it was until I was alongside, but our chase vehicle driver John (we had two Johns and one Juan on this ride) grabbed this photo…I had passed within 10 feet of this monster!
Just as I went past my big buff buddy above, he exhaled. In the frigid Yellowstone air, fog came out of his nostrils. It was like riding alongside a steam locomotive.
Here’s another cool shot in Yellowstone: The Continental Divide. We had crossed it several times on the ride to Yellowstone already, but I think this is the first time I stopped for a photo.
Sometimes the photos almost take themselves.
One of the many attractions in Yellowstone is Old Faithful. Here’s a shot of the geyser in its full glory.
It was one of those motorcycle rides that was so much fun it made me feel a little guilty. (That’s a Jewish thing; maybe some of our Catholic readers will understand it, too.) I felt bad because Sue wasn’t enjoying the trip with me. So I fixed that. A few years later Sue and I hopped in the Subie, pointed the car north, and a few days later I rolled into Yellowstone National Park again (this time with my wife). Naturally, I grabbed a few more photos.
Peering into the valley carved by the Yellowstone River.Ah, the bison. This was really cool stuff.Click. Click. Click.A photo of Sue in the Subie photographing a bison.Wow.
I’m not a geologist, but geology seems to me to be a pretty interesting subject and there sure are a bunch of geological things in Yellowstone. Like the bubbling and burbling pits and pools you most definitely do not want to fall into.
You get the idea. In doing a bit of Internet research on Yellowstone, I came across this Yellowstone map. It is a good way to get the lay of the land up there in Wyoming, but visiting Yellowstone National Park would be even better.
You can learn a little bit more about Yellowstone as a destination (and how to get there) by reading an article I wrote for Motorcycle Classics magazine. It’s a cool place and I’ve never met anyone who felt like visiting Yellowstone was anything other than a marvelous experience. Trust me on this: Yellowstone National Park belongs on your bucket list.
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Would you like to read more Motorcycle ClassicsDestinations articles? Hey, just click here or better yet, buy your own copy of Destinations.
One more thing…if you’d like to learn more about the RX3 motorcycle and our 5,000-mile Western America Adventure Ride, you should do two things: Buy yourself a copy of 5000 Miles at 8000 RPM, and watch Joe Gresh’s video:
Man, the years do fly by: It was just over a decade ago we did the inaugural CSC Baja ride!
Those were good times and the RX3 was a great motorcycle. I was shocked when Zongshen stopped making them, but I guess those guys knew what they were doing. We had a lot of fun on those annual excursions.
I need to get back down to Baja again. Maybe I’ll do so next year. I’d like to say hello to the whales!
If you’d like to learn more about our Baja adventures, pick up a copy of Moto Baja! It was a fun book to write. Doing the research that allowed me to write it was even more fun.
The destination on this fine day was Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore, part of the National Park Service network. It’s situated in the Hiawatha National Forest along the shores of Lake Superior, which is the large body of water you see in the above photograph. Pictured Rocks lived up to its name; the drive to get there was even better. It’s part of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, and once we left the freeway on our ride out of Green Bay, Wisconsin, the roads were majestic. We hit it at just the right time, too, which was in mid-October when the leaves were turning colors. You might think I turned up the saturation in the photo below. I did not. You’re seeing it the way it came out of the camera (my Nikon D810, a 24-120 lens, and a Hoya polarizer).
The Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore area includes sandstone cliffs, beaches, waterfalls, and sand dunes. There are many lakes in this area as well. The roads are lined with forests. It’s a nice area, and my thoughts were that it would be well suited for exploring on nearly any kind of motorcycle in the summer months (it’s cold in the fall, and from what I understand, really cold in the winter). Speed limits were low (I think the highest we saw was 55mph, many areas were 40 or 45mph, so a small bike would do well here). All the roads were fairly straight with few curves; a big touring bike like a Harley or a Gold Wing would be fine, too.
The temperatures are brisk this time of year. We had frost on the windshield in the morning. This is a good time of year to take in the changing colors, though. The leaves and the ride were incredibly scenic.
Once we entered Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore, we found that it’s not like the Jersey shore or the Grand Canyon’s South Rim; we couldn’t just ride along the edge of Lake Superior and take in the entire shoreline. Nope, the way to see this National Park is by riding to a series of points along the lakefront from the interior. Getting to each involves taking different roads to their ends where they meet Lake Superior. That’s okay, because doing this in the fall with the leaves turning colors makes for a beautiful ride.
The town where we stayed the night is Munising (pronounced just like it’s spelled: Muni Sing). There is at least one glass bottom boat tour in the area, although we didn’t do that.
We couldn’t get anyone to recommend a restaurant in Munising, and after trying one, we understood why. But that’s all right. There are several shops in town that sell pasties, and the pasties are great. Muldoon’s Pasties is the one we tried. (Pasties are not what you might be thinking. They are actually pastries.) We had the chicken pasty and then a cherry one for dessert, and they were awesome. That one chicken pasty you see below was more than a meal for both of us.
For this trip, we flew from Atlanta (where we stopped to visit with an Army friend and mentor) to Milwaukee, where we rented a Mazda CX30. It’s an all-wheel-drive automobile that was okay, but not okay enough for me to ever consider buying one.
The CX30’s fuel economy was good, ride comfort (while better than a motorcycle) and road noise were not. It would probably be an okay car for the area (they get a lot of snow up here in the winter). We put about a thousand miles on the Mazda and had no issues, other than the tire pressure indicator nearly constantly flashing. That seems to be a common occurrence with Enterprise Rental; the car we rented in Atlanta had the same problem.
We’ve got more good stuff coming your way: The Harley-Davidson Museum, World War II military motorcycles, the Green Bay Auto Gallery, the National Rail Museum, the Miller Beer tour, the Pabst Mansion, and a few other stops. Hang in there, click on the pop-up ads to keep the lights on and the content flowing, and as always, stay tuned.
There must be a lot of potheads in Michigan. I believe I saw more marijuana stores in Michigan than any place else I’ve ever been (and coming from the Peoples Republik of Kalifornia, that’s saying something). There was one cannabis store after another, especially in the Upper Peninsula.
