The ExhaustNotes Blog

Granada and the Alhambra

By Joe Berk

It doesn’t get more Spanish than the Alhambra. Until this visit if anyone had mentioned Alhambra I would have thought of our Alhambra here in California, but this was the real deal: The original Alhambra in Granada, Spain.

Walking the streets in and around the original Alhambra fortress. The red comes from iron in the clay brick construction. The walls aren’t really curved; the curvature here is from my Rokinon 8mm lens. It’s manual everything (f-stop, shutter speed, and focus) when mounted on my Nikon D3300 digital camera.

Alhambra translates from Arabic as “the red fortress.” The Moors controlled the Iberian peninsula from the early 8th to the 15th centuries, and many Spanish words and names include the syllable “al” (Alava, Alvarez, etc.). “Al” in Arabic means “the.” “Al” became “el” in Spanish; “al” remains the first syllable many Spanish words.

The foundations of an earlier structure show the area was first fortified in the 8th century by Visigoths (Germanic people who were part of the Roman Empire). The Arabs arrived next, and they hung around for 800 years. Our visit to the Iberian peninsula was a bit shorter (we were there for 15 days).

A wide angle photo of the Alcazaba (the Citadel) and its interior. This is the oldest part of the Alhambra.

The Alhambra’s ownership changed many times. Moorish rule ended in 1492 when the Emirate of Granada surrendered to King Ferdinand II and Queen Isabella (she financed Christopher Columbus’s expedition to America). Ferdinand II and Isabella only lived in the Alhambra for a tumultuous few months. While there, old Ferdinand and Isabella expelled Spain’s Jews unless they converted to Christianity, and that started the horror known as the Spanish Inquisition. I didn’t know this when we visited the Alhambra; I learned it while writing this blog. I suppose that’s good; I might not have enjoyed the Alhambra as much if I knew this while I was there.

Inside the Palace of Charles V’s courtyard, an Italian-inspired building commissioned in 1527.

We walked the grounds of the Alhambra most of the morning. There were the fortress and palace buildings described above, the inevitable souvenir and trinket shops, and stunning gardens and courtyards.

One of several pools and gardens in the Alhambra. It was almost too much to take in on a single visit. I think I just decided a return is necessary.

A magnicently-framed photo of the Convent of St. Francis, also known as the Palacio del Convento de San Francisco. It was built over a Moorish building. Today, it is a hotel. I shot this photo with the Nikon kit 15-55mm lens, which is not a high end lens. The original photo doesn’t show the rich greens you see here (they were all very dark), but because I shot in RAW, Photoshop’s auto adjustment really made the picture come alive. The is the same structure and vantage point you see in the photo at the top of this blog.

After taking in the courtyards we entered the fortress area. The photo ops were phenomenal.

The view from the Alhambra overlooking Granada.

Another view of Granada from the Alhambra.

There’s a beautiful pathway that leads from the Alhambra to Granada. It has good shade, it was cool, and the walk was all downhill.

Fellow traveler Ibrahim seizing the moment. Ibrahim showed several of his photos to me from this and previous adventures; he is an exceptionally talented photographer.

Walking into Grenada from the Alhambra. The day was magnificent; the weather was perfect.

Granada is located at the base of Spain’s Sierra Nevada Mountains. It’s history and occupations parallel those of the Alhambra. The surrounding area is believed to have been populated since at least 5500 B.C. Nobody is certain what “Granada” means in either Spanish or Arabic. The city is the capital of the Spanish province of Granada.

A Granada sign explaining the Albaicin area, an historic area that retains its medieval look and streets.

One of many photogenic doorways in Granada.

Decorative borders for sale in a Granada shop.

Granada’s city center has a beautiful town square, bordered at one end by the Santa Iglesia Catedral Metropolitana de la Encarnación de Granada. We stopped to take it all in after we enjoyed a lunch in one of Granada’s many sidewalk cafe restaurants. The first hit of empanadas there was free, but our initial empenada serving was a seafood medley with little octopuses (octopi?) we didn’t like. Our waiter picked up on that, took them away, and returned with chicken empanadas. Lunch was great.

Anything for a few likes, I guess. These young gals staged an impromptu belly dance video in front of the *Santa Iglesia Catedral Metropolitana de la Encarnación de Granada*.

As was the case in every city we visited in Spain and Portugal, two-wheeled transportation is part of the culture. Our tour was by bus and high speed rail and it was great, but I missed being on a motorcycle. The traffic didn’t look too crazy and on previous motoadventures I made it through China and Colombia. I think I could handle Spain and Portugal on a motorcycle. Maybe next time.

Granada was great. That evening, we had a wild taxi ride to the top of a mountain to watch the Flamenco dancers. That’s coming up next, so stay tuned.

Watch for our next blog on the Iberian adventure!

Here are links to more Spain and Portugal articles:

Basilippo: A Spanish Olive Plantation
Coimbra
Spain and Portugal
Camino de Santiago: Part 1
The Sportster of Seville
Évora
Lisbon
Gibraltar

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My Favorite Ride in the USA: Utah’s Highway 12

By Bobby Surber

Highway 12, also known as Utah State Route 12, is an awe-inspiring scenic byway in southern Utah that holds the prestigious title of being an “All-American Road.” Stretching approximately 124 miles, this route captivates travelers with its breathtaking landscapes and unforgettable views.

Starting near Panguitch, my journey along Highway 12 began with mounting excitement as the first red arches came into view. I took a short detour off of Route 12 to immerse myself in the famous hoodoos and trails of Bryce Canyon National Park. Lucky enough to secure a campsite at Sunset Campground, I made quick work of setting up my camp and heading out for a long afternoon hike. The next morning I witnessed a magnificent sunrise casting a warm glow over the canyon, illuminating the striking hoodoos and crimson rocks, a memory I won’t forget! A one-night stay in Bryce leaves one unsatisfied and longing for more time to explore her magnificent trails.

Continuing my adventure the following morning, I eagerly resumed my route on Highway 12, heading towards my favorite section of the road, high above the captivating Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument. This expansive and remote region boasts rugged canyons, vibrant cliffs, and extraordinary geological formations. The landscape and its impossible rock formations treated me to endless twisties, creating a sense of otherworldliness. My Triumph Tiger 900 GT Pro was as happy as I was as I relaxed into the ride and allowed her to remind me again what her three cylinders can do. Both of us were in sync as we leaned into curve after curve and blasted down to the bottom of the canyon.

For those with extra time, I highly recommend exploring nearby slot canyons such as Peek-a-Boo and Spooky Gulch, which offer outstanding hiking experiences.

Don’t miss the enchanting Calf Creek Falls nestled at the bottom of a lush canyon. A short hike leads to a captivating waterfall. While leaving Calf Creek be sure to watch for a dirt road on the left with a sign for coffee. Take that turn and savor a cup of Joe with a view that will leave you speechless.

As I reluctantly approached the tiny town of Boulder, Utah, I realized I had made remarkable progress through the twisties. I was unexpectedly greeted by an old-school cattle round-up, complete with cowgirls and boys herding a large herd down Highway 12! After a brief turnaround, I found solace in my favorite restaurant, the Burr Trail Grill. Their farm-fresh ingredients delighted my taste buds, whether it was their fresh arugula salad topped with local goat cheese or their beastly-sized burgers that proved a challenge to conquer.

Resuming my journey on Highway 12, I found myself in an unexpected predicament. The cattle herd’s progress was slow and I crawled along clutching endlessly as I felt my left hand about to begin a serious complaint! Amidst the frustration, two memorable moments emerged. First, a passerby exclaimed, “Dude, you have the sweetest bike and setup!” We shared a laugh as he realized I was indeed “dudeless.” Second, after navigating my way to the front of the line, I convinced the lead cowboy to move the herd slightly to the right, allowing me to pass. Maneuvering my bike through the cows became a comical adventure, with prayers that the sound of my motor wouldn’t startle them. Experiencing this traditional cattle drive in 2023 felt like a slice of Americana and added yet another reason to love Utah.

Leaving the cattle behind I ascended Boulder Mountain, where endless views revealed the back of Capitol Reef on the right and scenic meadows with clusters of aspen, fir, and spruce trees on the left. Surprisingly, the mountain still boasted more snow than I expected in June. Camping, fishing, and wildlife viewing opportunities abound in this mountainous region, with numerous sites available. I’ve spent nights here savoring the breathtaking vista overlooking Capitol Reef and the sprawling valley floor.

As I arrived in Torrey, Utah, the end of Highway 12, I couldn’t help but lament the route’s brevity. With just 125 miles of captivating beauty, I yearned to turn around and experience it all over again. However, the call of the canyon beckoned me for a rewarding hike, followed by a well-deserved whisky to bring an end to a truly perfect ride.

Highway 12, Utah—truly a magical journey that captures the heart and leaves an indelible mark on the soul.

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El Condor Comida

By Mike Huber

Pinnacles National Park is the 50^th National Park I visited. I believe there are 63 National Parks total (National Park Service keeps adding them yearly, so…). As with all the parks it is rare to be disappointed with a visit to any of them. In fact, I have visited some of the parks numerous times just to be sure to fully embrace each part of them as many are quite large.

Pinnacles National Park is one of the lesser visited National Parks, which I find refreshing since there are fewer tourists than other National Parks, like Yellowstone and Yosemite where the crowds can be almost overwhelming and detract from the experience. For Pinnacles I had reserved two nights camping so once I arrived late in the day, I could knock out a shorter hike and complete a long hike on the spare day. The longer hike I chose was to summit the highest peak in the park, Chalone Peak, which reaches 3,304 feet in elevation. That isn’t that bad because there is only a 2,034-foot elevation gain from the base. This is a 9-mile trail that snakes through beautiful hills. Every turn provided an incredible panoramic view of the fields below and the mountains that stretched to the sky.

Once summitting the peak, it was time to rehydrate and fuel up with lunch for the hike back. As I sat down, I heard what sounded like someone vomiting. Looking to my left I saw I was sitting about 25 feet from a California condor. It was tagged with No. 89. The National Park Service tags these rare birds to track and follow them at a level not seen since Facebook started tracking me. Having researched No. 89, I learned this guy was born in captivity in Idaho in 2011. There are under 600 of these massive birds remaining in the world. To have the rare opportunity to see one was magical, but to be able to sit next to one for 30 minutes as I ate lunch was something spiritual, equivalent to petting the gray whales in Baja.

As I sat eating my lunch the condor and I constantly exchanged gazes. Every so often it would spread its wings to show off its true size. Not only did it not seem bothered by me, it seemed to enjoy my company (I mean, who doesn’t?). After about 30 minutes I began wrapping up lunch and as I packed up, No. 89 silently turned away, spread its wings, and leapt off the rock like a hang glider sailing down about 100 feet and then turning upward it flew off into the distance.

This magical encounter reinvigorated me for the 4.5-mile hike to the base of the mountain. I had a solid buzz from the encounter for the remainder of the day. Just like all the close encounters I have had in nature, that buzz never seems to fade and it has me looking forward to National Park Number 51.

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Life as a Digital Nomad: Part 5 (Ecuador)

By Mike Huber

As the plane was race tracking to land in Quito, the capitol of Ecuador, I could see how large the city was and was reassured in the coin toss that had me choose this country. This would be my third country to call home for the foreseeable future.

Having been in Panama and Nicaragua with such little luggage it was important to keep my packing to a minimum. This wasn’t very difficult as the countries I had been visiting were tropical and very warm. I was certain Ecuador would be the same, as Quito was on the equator. Where could be warmer than the equator. Well, it turns out a lot of places could be much warmer? Quito was indeed on the equator but is also nestled in the Andean foothills at an elevation of around 10,000 feet above sea level. To add to that it was August, so technically it was winter there (although the ambient temperature doesn’t fluctuate very much).

Quito is a beautiful city with even more beautiful people. As the cab dropped me off, I was still over a mile from the Aparthotel I had booked for the next month. The issue was it was Sunday and the roads all going into Mariscal Foch (the city center) were closed and open only for bicyclists. Since I had been running almost daily in Nicaragua and had dropped some weight, I slapped one backpack on my back and one on my front and thought I’d just get a nice run in as I made my way towards my Aparthotel. This would help warm me up, too, since I was only in shorts and a t-shirt. That was another bad idea. I quickly learned that running at 10,000 feet elevation wiped me out quickly. I think I made it 4 minutes before my hands were on my knees and the packs were sliding off my back. This I am certain was quite a scene for the locals who were casually riding their bicycles up and down the main street staring at me as I felt like I was about to die.

Once arriving successfully to the Aparthotel I first confirmed the wi-fi to assure this location was suitable for my day job. The connectivity worked great, but there was just one hitch. The wi-fi knocked you offline every 60 minutes. To me this was a simple fix of logging off it before each conference call so that it wouldn’t force me off mid-stream during the calls. That was easy enough and worked perfectly without any problems.

That photo at the top of this blog? Every Friday night the police held a formation in the central square (Marisol Foch) and I would chat with the moto cops. It was fun.

Once settled in Quito, a wave of relief fell over me knowing that I could relax and focus fully on work for the next month. That was important as there had just been a reorganization and I had a new manager. Three months into traveling through Central and now South America and still no one knew I was anywhere but Boston, nor did they ask. I was fine with that and made it a point to keep it quiet, but not because I wasn’t performing. I was performing and at an elevated level, but I thought someone might be upset it they knew I was doing this and would put the kybosh on it. I wasn’t about to let that happen, so I took steps (to include disabling my social media accounts to ensure my secret wouldn’t get out). I had a peer who was trustworthy so I let him know just in case there was a volcanic eruption or political uprising so they could let my manager know that “Mike may not make it to work today.” Of course, the chances of that were slim so it was time to settle into a productive routine. I knew Ecuador might be my new home for longer than I had planned, and I had no problem with that at all.

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ZRX RX: An ExNotes Resurrextion, Part 5

By Joe Gresh

The pressure of getting the ZRX1100 finished by July has eased off a bit. The Carrizozo Mud Chuckers may not be able to make July’s Laguna Seca races. I may have to go alone, which isn’t a bad thing, or skip the modern bikes and go to the vintage races held a week after. I’m leaning towards the vintage races as I really don’t have much interest in motorcycle road racing and the vintage bikes hold my attention just by existing. That doesn’t mean I’m backing off the ZRX1100 resurrexion project. I’m full speed ahead and will stay on the job until I am able to ride Rex again.

One of the things that worried me on the ZRX was the 24-year-old radiator. Kawasaki makes a quality motorcycle but how long can a radiator last? I found an aftermarket radiator on eBay for only $80 dollars with free shipping. You know how I like a deal. The radiator arrived securely packed and undamaged. It was welded aluminum and the workmanship looks excellent.

Unfortunately, there are a few problems with the fit of the aftermarket radiator. The top mounting ears are slightly too wide apart. When fitted with the original rubber isolator grommet the ears squeeze in as you tighten the bolts. It will need a thicker rubber isolator and that will require a longer spacer and bolt in order to avoid squeezing the rubber flat.

The next issue is the top tabs that hook into the expanded metal radiator bug screen are slightly too low. When the bottom screw holes are lined up the screen misses the top tabs completely; they hook into thin air. I slotted the screw holes to lower the screen on the radiator and it seemed to work although it looked like hell.

After those problems I found the blind holes in the side of the radiator that secure the radiator side covers were not centered correctly. You could get one bolt started or the other, but not both at once. This was fairly critical as the side covers also incorporate the bottom radiator mount and horn mounting bolts. To fix this I will need to fabricate new radiator side supports along with horn mounts. I decided to punt and cleaned up the original radiator and installed it. The aftermarket radiator might see future use but I’m not in the mood to do the fabrication right now.

The new Kawasaki water pump fit perfectly and I was able to install the hard plumbing pipes and hoses. This included the log manifolds located on the front and back of the cylinder block. I ordered a set of silicone hoses that fit fairly well except one hose was missing. Fortunately, it’s the easiest one to get to and it is straight, so I reused the old hose. I can fix it later if it springs a leak.

When I bought the ZRX used all those years ago the previous owner had dropped the bike moving it around. There is a small scuff on the headlight faring and the front brake lever was bent out at an awkward angle. I rode the bike like this for years. I decided that since I had the brakes apart I may as well straighten the lever. A little heat from a propane torch is all you need. Don’t go hog wild or you’ll melt the aluminum.

After closer examination I could see why the old float needles were leaking. There was a ridge worn into one and another had the rubber tip flaking apart. I ordered a new set of four needles for $28 (shipping included) from China but could not get an accurate delivery date. I was getting nervous about our trip so I went down to the local Kawasaki dealer. The dealer had Kawasaki-OEM needles for only $39 each. It killed me but I dropped $156 and bought the four needles.

With new needles in hand I checked the float levels. The range given in my book was 18.5mm ± 2mm from the float bowl flange to the bottom of the float. Mine were all sitting a bit high at 18mm. I readjusted them to 20mm anticipating needle wear and seating. After the carbs were back together I checked the floats on the bench and no fuel leaked out. I hope this status holds. Two days later my needles from China showed up. They look identical to the Kawasaki needles and even came with the tiny wire bail that fits over the float to pull the needle down when the float drops. My $156 needles required reusing the wire bail from the old needles.

I can see why so many ZRX riders convert the original air box to pod-type filters. It’s a challenge getting the carbs back into position. You have to mount both throttle cables and the choke cable, then feed the cables through the frame as you battle to slide the carb assembly between the manifolds and the air box rubbers. It took at least an hour fighting to get the things in. Then, once you feel like you have succeeded, there’s the not-small matter of fitting the springs onto the air box rubber groove. None of this would be difficult if there were access. The two inside boots were out of reach and too crowded for my fingers. I managed to get the springs in place using a couple of screwdrivers and a lot of bad language.

While waiting on parts I tackled the fuel tank. Amazingly the inside of the gas tank was not rusted. It had stinky old yellow muck inside but was otherwise in good condition. This might be due to my diligent addition of fuel stabilizer several times over the course of the ZRX’s long slumber. I rinsed the tank using fresh gas and after 4 flushes the inside was pretty clean.

The fuel filter on the petcock was brittle with age (or fuel stabilizer) and crumbled to the touch. The filter is not sold as a separate part so I bought an entire petcock for less than a few Kawasaki gaskets. Again, from China. I didn’t pay attention to the delivery date and the petcock was promised between June 7^th and July 15^th. This was a huge window, so I bought a rebuild kit and it didn’t show up, either. Panicking, I went to the local dealer and ordered the inner packing and the gas tank O-ring figuring I could at least make something work. As you can see, I’m using a shotgun approach to parts as time grows short.

The petcock rebuild kit showed up a day before the Kawasaki stuff did and I managed to get a petcock assembled. My main issue with this plan is that since there is no interior fuel filter I’ll have to fit an inline filter. This is not as easy as it sounds because the Kawasaki uses a large 3/8” fuel barb and the 3/8” inline filters I’ve found are too large to fit under the carbs or below the petcock. Maybe my new petcock will show up soon and solve the problem for me.

The big holdup now is the gaskets for the reed-valve pollution plumbing located on the valve cover. The law of unintended consequences says that I should have left the reed valves alone when I painted the valve cover. But I didn’t. They tore when I removed the reeds to paint. I ordered the gaskets weeks ago and they have not arrived.

The reed valves allow fresh air to be drawn into the exhaust ports when there is a vacuum pulse at the exhaust port. Kind of like a smog pump without the pump. The reeds connect to a carb-vacuum-actuated valve that is supplied via the air box. I’m guessing this is some sort of backfire control. I can eliminate all this junk and I might do just that but I will need to make a blank plate to replace the reeds and a blob of high heat silicone to replace the gaskets. Then I’ll need to plug the hole in the air box. It would be faster to bolt the junk back on as the bike ran fine with it.

I also installed the new battery and tested the electrical system. I tested the lights and horn and they seemed to work then I bumped the engine over to see if the electric starter still functioned. Maybe in Part 6 this motorcycle will start.

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More Resurrections are here.

Life as a Digital Nomad: Part 4 (Panama)

By Mike Huber

Having just left my new home in Nicaragua and boarding a local bus on a 26-hour ride to Panama had me almost second guessing my decision. The bus was full, and the bathroom already looked like a scene out of Poltergeist. Now, all this I was able to tolerate, but what really got my goat was that they had TVs every few rows. You’d think “OK, we’ll watch a few movies to pass the time.” Not on this bus. They had a Kirk Cameron movie (Fireproof) on repeat AND in Spanish. I had never seen this movie and by the 2^nd time it rolled on I was ready to just set up camp inside the destroyed bathroom just to get a reprieve from it.

I eventually fell asleep with the help of some Flor de Caña that I smuggled onto the bus. After what felt like forever the bus came to a stop, and I noticed everyone was getting off. I was still half asleep when I was ushered off the bus. Still bleary eyed I looked at my watch. It was 4:00 a.m. We were at the border of Nicaragua and Costa Rica and the border crossing didn’t open until 7:00 a.m. I was beginning to understand why the bus ride would take 26 hours. After sitting on the concrete for 3 hours the border finally opened, and we were welcomed into Costa Rica.

Once back on the bus my anxiety increased as we all wondered what type of obstacles we’d have to overcome to enter Panama. Entering through the Panama border was less time consuming but again the bus emptied and everyone was guided into a small room with their luggage, where we all had to open each item as dogs systematically sniffed through all the luggage, piece by piece. Then, once back on the bus, we continued the journey to Panama City. Fireproof was probably on its 8th showing.

The further south we traveled the landscape continued to change, as did the neighborhoods. In Nicaragua the houses were in mostly poor condition but by the time we were in Panama they were more like those you’d find in the United States, modern and well maintained. This was due to the Panama Canal which draws in an unreal amount of revenue for the country.

As we pulled into the terminal, I was exhausted and ready to exit the bus. Fireproof was still playing on the TVs overhead and I couldn’t leave fast enough. It was a short taxi ride to the hotel I had picked in downtown Panama City. I quickly learned that in 2012, almost anywhere outside Panama City was difficult to find an affordable place to stay with solid wi-fi to perform my work duties. This was frustrating as I hit wall after wall, all the while residing in a Marriott, which was not what I envisioned life in Panama would be.

After 3 days of continued failed attempts at finding a suitable home, it was time to decide to move on or return to Nicaragua. I honestly think the thought of another 26-hour bus ride back to Nicaragua with Fireproof playing nonstop was the key factor in deciding to move onward. But to where was the question. I was at the end of Central America so this meant I would have to fly to my next destination. Looking at a map the logical choices were Columbia or Ecuador. I left it up to a coin toss to determine which it would be. The coin landed on heads, so Ecuador it was. That day I booked a flight to leave in 3 days.

This decision left me with limited time to tour Panama City. I am not huge on tourist spots but the one place I wanted to see was the Panama Canal. It didn’t feel right to be there without seeing this engineering marvel, and I am glad I did. The canal was extremely impressive, and they had grandstands you could sit in to watch the massive ships pass through the initial two steps of the Miraflores Locks. These two locks manage to raise ships 54 feet higher as they let the water rush in. The ships traveling through the locks must surrender their boats to a Panamanian captain (to include raising Panamanian Flag on their masts). Many boats were extremely large and had very little leeway on either side as they steered through the canal, so the captain piloting the boats must be certified and skilled in navigating the tight canal locks.

The remainder of the days spent in Panama consisted of getting in some short runs along the waterfront and starting the preparation for the next stop in Quito, Ecuador. Research showed that the wi-fi in Quito was fast and reliable. This put me at ease since the pace I was going for was a minimum of one month per country. This pace would allow me enough time to settle and fully absorb the culture instead of just being in a vacation mode. I wanted to be immersed in the culture and was determined to stay in Quito for that minimum length of time. Upon landing in Quito, I instantly knew that a month there wouldn’t be enough and would require me to adjust my schedule yet again.

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Mike Huber Stops By

By Joe Berk

Good buddy Mike Huber rolled through So Cal a few days ago and spent the night at Casa Berkowitz. It was a fun visit.

Mike Huber on the UberMoto. Mike’s current GS is his second one.

I first met Mike on one of the CSC Baja expeditions, and the circumstances of our meeting hit on shared interests (motorcycles and Baja) and a shared background (we are both alums of the Benning School for Boys).

An August 1972 jump school postcard purchased at the Benning School for Boys Post Exchange.

The CSC crew (me and maybe a dozen fellow RX3 riders) had stopped for gasolina on the 200+ mile stretch between Baja’s El Rosario and Guerrero Negro. Cataviña is about 130 miles south of El Rosario, and for a long time it has been the only place to buy fuel on that section of Mexico’s Highway 1. There were no gas stations then; enterprising Mexican capitalists sold it from bottles on the side of the road (capitalism rules, my friends). Today there is a Pemex in Cataviña, but that’s a relatively recent development.

Refueling in Cataviña. That’s good buddy Tuan, an RX3 rider and one of my former students at Cal Poly Pomona.

You can imagine the scene…a dozen bikes crowded around a handful of people selling fuel out of jugs. Or maybe you don’t have to imagine it; just take a look at the photo above. It was a hot day, we’d been on the road a while, and we were two days into a seven-day trip. I looked at the other bikes around me and on one of the motorcycle tailpacks I saw a decal that commands instant and profound respect from anyone who’s been there: The winged parachute emblem showing that the bearer graduated from the US Army Airborne School at Fort Benning, Georgia.

Mike’s jump wings on the back of his first GS. It was this emblem that first alerted to Mike and his background. Mike’s done 19 jumps (5 in jump school and another dozen when he served with the US Army’s 82nd Airborne Division).

When the jump wings fell off, Mike replaced them with an 82nd Airborne Division decal. The “AA” stands for “All American.” I learned that when I asked one of my jump school instructors; he first told me that for us trainees, it stood for “Almost Airborne.” Then he told me the real story.

That’s weird, I thought. I had only known the guys on this ride for a few days, I’d seen all of their bikes, and if any had been adorned with jump wings I would have picked up on it immediately. I was pondering how I had missed that when I looked at the guy standing next to the bike. It was Mike Huber, whom I had not met yet. My next befuddled thoughts were that I thought I had met everyone. Where did this guy come from? Then I looked at the motorcycle. It wasn’t an RX3. It was a BMW GS 1200. The two machines looked enough alike that I had not noticed the difference when Mike worked his way into our herd of turtles at the gas stop in Cataviña. I looked up at Mike again and he was grinning. He knew I was confused and I think he was enjoying my being perplexed.

Mike’s current GS 1200. It’s a stunning motorcycle.

Mike and I hit it off immediately. He stayed with us a couple of nights later in Mulegé (at good buddy Javier’s magnificent Las Casitas Hotel), and we’ve kept in touch ever since. Mike did a guest blog or two for us here on ExNotes, and he became one of our regular writers last year.

When Mike told me he would pass through our neck of the Peoples Republik, I told him we wanted him to stay the night and enjoy a barbequed salmon dinner with us.

And the starboard pannier. Mike gets around, as you know from his blogs here on ExNotes.

We had a great visit. The Tecate cerveza (and later, the Spanish wine) flowed freely. Sue crafted a desert we recently learned about on an olive plantation in Spain (see our most recent blog), and it was awesome.

The post-dinner treat: More vino, and chocolate gelato topped with orange-infused olive oil from the Basilippo plantation in Spain. Olive oil on ice cream sounds strange, but take my word on this: It’s wonderful.

As always, it was great to spend time with my good friend and fellow scribe Mike. The next morning after a good breakfast Mike was in the wind again, headed north toward Ojai, the Bay area, and beyond. You will be able to read about those travels right here, on your favorite motorcycle blog.

Good times and good friends, folks. It’s what life is all about. That, and clicking on the popup ads.

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Basilippo: A Spanish Olive Plantation

I like olive oil and I cook with it a lot, so when I heard we would be visiting the Basilippo olive oil plantation and factory in Spain it sounded like a great plan to me. I knew that extra virgin olive good was the real McCoy (kind of like 100% agave Tequila is the good stuff), but that was the extent of my olive oil knowledge. I learned quite a bit more about olive oil on this visit.

Did you know that there’s no such thing as extra extra virgin olive oil? (extra virgin is as good as it gets.) Did you know that by international agreement every bottle of true extra virgin olive oil has a “use by” label on the back of the bottle? (The “use by” date is two years after the olives were harvested.) If you see a bottle of olive oil that claims to be extra virgin but there’s no date on the back, you might want to take a pass. Did you know that darker bottles are better for preserving olive oil than are lighter bottles? Did you know that for the best olive oil, the olives are pressed within 4 hours of being harvested? All of this was new info to me, and all was delivered by our host, Isaac Martin.

Olive trees on the Basilippo plantation.

Meet Isaac Martin, oil mill master, olive expert extraordinaire, and our presenter at the Basilippo plantation. Mr. Martin was an engaging, entertaining, and informative speaker. Isaac told us that with “only” 14,000 trees, Basilippo was a “boutique” producer. That sounds like a lot of trees to me, but hey, Isaac is the guy would know.

Isaac Martin, who provided us with a marvelous presentation.

Good buddy and fellow photography enthusiast Ibrahim photographing a flower. Ibrahim showed me a few of his other photos. He is one of the most talented photographers I’ve ever known.

We entered the factory and tasting area next. Good things were in store for us. The factory was about what I expected. It was not running when we were there, as the harvest had already ended. The tasting was an awesome experience. Isaac told us we would be enjoying olive oil and ice cream. Yep…you read that right. Olive oil and ice cream. I know…it sounds gross. Boy oh boy, were we ever in for a surprise.

A monitor in the Basilippo oilve processing factory.

Let me type those words again. Olive oil and ice cream? Yep, I thought it was crazy, too, until I tried it. At the end of our tour, Isaac took us to a room where two small glasses (with a bit of olive oil in each) were waiting for each of us. That’s the photo at the top of this blog. Isaac showed us how to us to rub the bottom of the glass, remove the paper covering it, and inhale the olive oil aroma. It was wonderful…with just a hint of orange. Then the staff brought in a small plate of chocolate ice cream for each of us, and Isaac asked us to pour the olive oil over the ice cream. I know…it sounds like a screwy combination…but wow…was it ever delicious!

Orange infused olive oil….gift shop offerings at Basilippo’s. Who knew?

Predictably, the path out was through the Basilippo gift shop. Sue bought three containers of the citrus-scented olive oil. I was a bit nervous about that, but all three made it back to California without leaking. Two of the containers were for gifts; the third was for us. When we finish it, you can bet we’ll be ordering more and if you swing by our place for dinner, Basilippo orange-infused olive oil over chocolate ice cream will be on the dessert menu.

Basilippo also sells their olive oils online and they ship to the US. Here’s the link:

Home | Basilippo EVOO | Online Store and Oleotourism

Here are links to our other blog posts on Spain and Portugal.

Coimbra
Spain and Portugal
Camino de Santiago: Part 1
The Sportster of Seville
Évora
Lisbon
Gibraltar

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ZRX RX: An ExNotes Resurrextion, Part 4

By Joe Gresh

I’m starting to worry about the timeline on this Kawasaki project. It’s already almost June and we will be leaving for Laguna Seca the beginning of July. Parts are trickling in slowly now and I’ve found things to keep me busy. I don’t want to ride the Yamaha RD350 all the way to California but I will if it comes down to it.

After assembling the rebuilt front calipers onto the 1999 ZRX1100’s forks I tried to flush out the brake lines with a can of spray brake cleaner stuff. No go as all three of the hoses were clogged so badly I couldn’t get a drop of liquid out of them. I guess old brake fluid turns into a solid after many years. A piece of stainless wire, sort of stiff, was worked back and forth into each line pausing occasionally to give the line a squirt. It was slow going but my thrifty ways were rewarded when I managed to force the wire all the way through the hose. Now I could really give the inside of the line a good, high pressure blast with the brake cleaner and air compressor.

I had the same problem with the rear brake hose and solved it the same way. Bleeding so many pistons takes patience and I don’t rush to do the thing in one day. The tiny bubbles take a long time to percolate to high points and I’ve got rear pedal pressure fairly good now. The front calipers are taking a bit longer. I have solid line pressure but I think there might be a bubble or two occupying space that should be DOT 4 fluid.

The Kawasaki ZRX has a lot of black painted parts. I love this even though most of the black paint was rusty and flaking off. There’s nothing easier than applying black paint. It’s a popular color and if it’s a shade or two off no one will notice. I gave the handlebars and water pipes a shot of Rust-Oleum engine paint.

This brand of paint seemed to mix well with the original Kawasaki paint. I tried another brand but it lifted the old paint at the margins where old paint meets bare metal.

The clutch slave cylinder leaked onto the sprocket cover area eating the paint so I wire brushed the cover, along with the slave cylinder cover and shot them with the same black paint.

Removing the four carburetors out of a ZRX is no easy feat. The book says to pull them from the air intake side first, and then slide them out of the manifolds on the cylinder head side. Well, I’m here to tell you that method doesn’t work. It was a battle but I had to slide the carbs out of the manifold first then work the air cleaner boots back with a screwdriver. I’m dreading putting the carbs back in. I think I’ll use a thin flat piece of steel on the air cleaner side to push the boots back without snagging the carbs.

The carbs were gummed up with old gooey gasoline but they weren’t the worse I’ve seen. Luckily all the vacuum diaphragms were intact and flexible. I had to remove the factory, no-tamper idle screw plugs to clean out the idle passage. Oddly, one idle screw was set to 1-3/4 turns out while the rest were +1-ish turn out. I’m going to split the baby and make them all 1-1/4 turns out to start. Located on the bottom of the carbs, these idle screws are somewhat accessible while the carbs are still on the bike so I can adjust them later if needed.

After cleaning all four carbs and reassembling them I wanted to bench test for leaks before facing the gauntlet of those rubber boots. I set the carbs in the vise and rigged a funnel to pour gas in. The gas ran out #4 carb as fast as I put it in. Taking the #4 float bowl off and inspecting the needle and seat revealed nothing so I cleaned the seat and rubber tipped needle again and ran another test. No change; the gas flowed like wine. I have ordered four new float needles so we will have to revisit the carb issue later.

After 25,000 miles I felt it was time to do the Kawasaki-recommended 12,000-mile valve clearance check. As expected, they were all at the minimum gap specified or too tight. With 16 valves it’s easy to get mixed up with your adjustments so I made a chart to keep track of which valve needed what shim.

Kawasaki made the valve setting process easier by using cam follower type rockers. These rockers are mounted on a long shaft that runs through the cylinder head. The rockers are held in place over the valve stem by springs on the rocker shaft. This means you can slide the rocker over on the shaft and lower it so that the valve spring keeps the rocker from returning to its original position. No more having to swap in a shim just to rotate the cams to the next valve that needed setting. I was able to measure all the valves and determine what size shims I needed in two rotations of the crankshaft. After swapping the shims I could, I ended up needing seven shims in total. The local Kawasaki shop had them for $4 each.

I was going to use a new valve cover gasket but the thing costs like $80. That’s too much for a big rubber ring. My plan is to dollar cost average and get one more use out of the old gasket. I’ll splurge on a new gasket at 50,000 miles…maybe. The cover looked pretty bad so I cleaned it up and shot it black with the same paint as I used on the coolant pipes. The gaskets on the crankcase breather reed valves tore when I removed the plates for painting so I ordered the four total gaskets at $30. This motorcycle repair business sure is expensive.

In Rex Rx Part 5 I hope to start getting closer to starting the beast. I’m waiting on bits and pieces so it might be time to do a few days of concrete work.

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Miss the first four installments? Hey, check them out here:

ZRX Rx 1
ZRX Rx 2
ZRX Rx 3

More Resurrections? You bet!

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The Santa Fe Literary Festival

By Joe Gresh

Dun colored, in a city of dun colored buildings, The Santa Fe Community Convention Center sits off Grant Street a few blocks from the city’s central plaza. The building is U-shaped with a large, exposed to the elements, interior courtyard paved with red bricks. The courtyard is sunken and drops down several steps lower than the floor grade of the main building. Surrounding the bottom courtyard is a low retaining wall with a wide, red brick cap. This cap is almost two feet wide and situated at just the right height for sitting on a sunny day.

Strings of tiny, white Christmas lights crisscross between the courtyard trees and metal tables and chairs are set up under the trees. Two food trucks, one selling African food, one selling Indian food, are at the far right end where a large gate allows entry for vehicles. There is a wooden bandstand constructed on the side nearest the street. On the bandstand students are reading poetry.

The poetry is depressing. Rape, murder and loneliness are the themes explored and the young poets sometimes break down and cry while they are reading their work. There is a lot of sadness and misery in this world; I don’t know why we can’t do better. Between each reader a relentlessly upbeat emcee comes on stage and asks us to “Give it up” for the previous poet, by which she intends for us to applaud. We applaud but the emcee is not the boss of us.

Entering the Convention Center from the street, the left side has a room where vendors sell Literary Fest swag and where the featured authors go to sign the books they are selling. CT bought me a T-shirt. From this vendor area a hallway leads up a few steps to several large rooms where the authors are interviewed but we can’t go in yet. We have to line up outside to get our ticket QR code scanned.

The line runs along the outer perimeter of the courtyard and out through a walkway, then the line turns left and goes on for another hundred feet. The festival is well attended and well staffed. The line moves along. As we near the door to the vendor area the line turns 180 degrees to enter the hallway for the lecture rooms. This is the spot where the Line Jumpers practice their craft.

It’s a confusing, swirling area because you can go into the vendor section without attending a lecture. Next to double glass doors there are people making the sharp 180 turn towards the lecture’s security bag-search area mixed in with people trying get to the vendor area. Amongst all this to-ing and fro-ing the Line Jumpers float in the margins just outside the main scrum. With alert eyes and coffee mugs in their hands, the Jumpers strike when the staff glances away a moment or stops to explain the traffic situation to an attendee.

When you are standing in a line for long periods of time you get to know your surrounding line mates. It’s easy to see who hasn’t paid their dues. A tiny old lady lingers near the door watching for an opening. She can’t weigh more than 90 pounds soaking wet. Sensing a weak link in the force she pounces as we approach the turn. She is carrying two large cups of coffee from the coffee kiosk on the street. At Starbucks the coffee would have had a Latin sounding name to describe their size. Something like Ponderosa or Grande. I move to the left to block her advance, too late.

The professional Line Jumper has nerves of steel and without looking me in the eye she says, “I’ve lost my people.” And shoves past me. I don’t know what I’ve lost my people means. Yeah right, I tell her. She waves the hot coffee cups like they are some kind of a get out of jail free card and pushes on. “ You’re cheating, butting in front of people who have waited their turn a long time” is the best comeback I can think of. She ignores me and brushes past a few more people. Security lets her in and just like that another brick in the thin veneer of American civilization tumbles to the squalid streets below.

My anger at the Jumper has cast a cloud over my mood. I’m trying to be a better person and do my best to let it go. I tell CT that I’m choosing to not let the Jumper sour me on humanity in general. Maybe she has a medical disability that didn’t manifest itself as she bulled her way through the crowd of rule-followers like she was the featured attraction in Pamplona, Spain. I’m letting it go…I’m letting it go…

Inside the big room are rows of chairs that have a hook and loop type of attachment on the seat base. This makes it easy to maintain the correct spacing when setting up rows of hundreds of chairs. I didn’t bring my tape measure to the lecture but if I had I would have given the layout a quick quality control inspection. On stage there are a couple old fashioned looking chairs, a table and glasses of water.

The convention center is a multi-use building, thus the floor is level, not sloped like a theater. Seating is first come, first served. I see the Line Jumper lady already has her seat selected. In case a tall guy or a woman with a salad bowl on her head sits in front of me I get an aisle seat so I can lean outboard to see the stage.

The featured authors are on stage for about an hour. Some of them read passages in their books. Above and behind the author and interviewer is a large screen. It’s funny but I’m not sure if it was a projector screen or a liquid crystal display. The screen image lags behind the live stage view a few milliseconds so if you miss something you have to be fast if you want to see it again. There is a different interviewer for each show keeping the thing fresh feeling. There are two large shows in the morning with everyone in the same room. These sessions are for the more popular authors. In the afternoon, several smaller sessions run in tandem so you have to pick one or the other.

The festival was a two-day affair and the second day was a repeat of the first except with different writers and interviewers. The Line Jumpers were out in force the second day but I have risen above the mundane concerns of everyday life and no longer cared if they butted in ahead of people that waited an hour.

Literary fests are great places to learn about new authors and old authors you never heard of. I gained some insight as to why my writing is so poor and have taken inspiration from my fellows. Mostly time is the determining factor in quality writing. It’s all well and good to write a best selling novel in three weeks, one long scroll submitted and the money rolls in. Here at ExhaustNotes we tend to crank out volume product. There’s no time for introspection or craft. Most of the writers at the festival described how hard it is and how long it takes to write a book. Seven to ten years was not unusual. We bought a couple books from Ed Yong. He writes science-y type stuff and was a great interviewee. I haven’t read his books yet but when I do I’ll post a review here.

As we were leaving the convention center the festival, organizers sent a text to CT with the news that all swag was 25% off. We were halfway to our motel but naturally we had to go back and load up on t-shirts and tote bags. We also bought a couple of neat, insulated thermos bottles that look like Michelob Ultra cans except they have literary fest logos on them. If you get a chance, go to a literary festival. They are nothing like Daytona or Sturgis although some of the forms are similar. I had a great time but one thing I didn’t learn from all the lectures I attended was how to end a story.