Fort Stanton

East of Ruidoso, I steered the Husqvarna off of Highway 70 onto Devils Canyon Road and followed the twisting, smoothly-graded dirt until it dead-ended at Highway 220. Back on asphalt I turned right, rode past the airport and pulled into Fort Stanton, New Mexico.

Fort Stanton dates back to the 1850’s and has been used for everything from subduing Native Americans to a tuberculosis hospital and a German prisoner of war camp. The fort changed hands in the Civil War from Union to Confederate and back to Union where it has remained ever since. It stands today in fairly good shape. The parade grounds are well kept a few buildings are showing signs of neglect. Repairs are ongoing and purchasing a gee-gaw at the gift shop/museum helps with the effort.

The Officers Quarters played host to Lieutenant John Pershing, who made good later on in life as General Black Jack Pershing. The OQ is divided into two story apartments with thick stone walls between. One section of the wall was damaged showing the rubble-filled core of the finished walls. This type of construction took a lot of manpower to build.

New Mexico’s clean dry air was the ideal spot to treat tuberculosis and in the 1930’s a modern hospital was built to care for easterners suffering from the unsanitary conditions prevailing at that time. The hospital sported New Mexico’s very first elevator along with dental facilities and entertainment. The patients however had to sleep outside in a tent city as it was believed plenty of fresh air and good food was the cure. It worked pretty well too.

It’s ok to ride your motorcycle on the paved roads in the fort. On a back street there are more recent buildings and a nice stone church. I’m not into religion but I love to check out the buildings religious people have constructed. The little church at Fort Stanton is a jewel. It was open the day I was there and the place was clean and neat. For all I know believers may still worship here. You’re not allowed to tramp through the brush but behind the church a couple hundred yards are the remains of a swimming pool German prisoners of war built to stave off boredom and have a place to cool off in the summertime.

Right next door to the Officer’s Quarters is the Nurse’s quarters. I don’t know if the two uses ran concurrently but if they did this little corner of Fort Stanton must have been a happening spot. The Nurse’s quarters were in sad shape except for the main entrance, which had beautiful beams holding up the roof.

Fort Stanton isn’t overrun with tourists. Even though it was part of a war machine, wandering around inside the buildings gives you a sense of peace. Sit on one of the benches in the bright New Mexico sun and you can imagine the soldiers marching the grounds in formation; the gentle coughing of the slowly recovering patients and the laughter and splashing of lucky Germans who were spared death in World War 2.

Long Beach Vintage Motos

I grabbed just a few vintage motorcycle shots at the Long Beach show last weekend.  There were quite a few vintage bikes there, but there were also many other interesting things to photograph.  Here are just a few.

A Husky dirt bike. Very cool. Love the colors.
A Vincent in the MotoDoffo exhibit. The Doffo Winery has an impressive collection.
There were several Kawasaki two-stroke triples, all in pristine condition. Joe Gresh, eat your heart out!
A very classy BMW boxer, which the larger-capacity fuel tank. These are stunningly beautiful motorcycles.
I had to include this shot, even though it’s not vintage. It’s the new 650cc Royal Enfield twins. Royal Enfield has out-Triumphed Triumph. I can see one of these in my garage.

Like I said, there were many more vintage machines at Long Beach this year, and what I included here is just a small sample.  It was a grand show.

Okay, one more…of little old me reflected in one of the Royal Enfield fuel tanks.

A signature selfie in a 650cc RE tank.

Time Travel

The Husky…a machine for compressing time.

When I was 13 years old in Florida you could get a restricted permit at age 14. The restricted permit was a driver’s license that allowed you to drive as long as an adult was in the car with you. Assuming he/she wasn’t suicidal, the adult was supposed to keep an eye on your driving and coach you. An adult would help you pick up the nuances of parallel parking, rude hand gestures, and, in Dade County, gun fighting after minor traffic accidents. Needless to say, having an aged, creaking burnout sitting in the car fouling the air with the smell of stale urine cut down on motoring fun quite a bit.

There was a motorcycle loophole in the restricted permit system. If a motorcycle was less than 5 horsepower, and if you stayed off the major highways and didn’t ride at night, you could ride solo without adults helicoptering over your ride. It was wonderful. Obey these few rules and a kid could ride his motorcycle anywhere he pleased.

Motorcycles between 50cc and 90cc were right in the 5-horsepower wheelhouse but your average traffic cop couldn’t tell a 175 from a 50. Many bikes were rebadged to appear smaller displacement than they were. I never knew anyone in my circle of friends that got busted for riding a bike too big. Of course, you had to be reasonable about the subterfuge. A 50cc badge on a Kawasaki 750 wouldn’t fly.

Two months before I turned 14 the state upped the age for a restricted permit to 15 years old. The world ended that day. Massive volcanic eruptions, cataclysmic earthquakes, a steady rain of nuclear weapons bombarding the United States, nothing was as devastating to me as Florida’s stupid statute change.

I would have to wait an additional 365 days and I’d only lived 5000 days in total. The year dragged by. Endless days were followed by endless nights only to be repeated one after another. I had to attend yet another grade in school. I couldn’t wait to be done with public conformitouriums anyway and this stolen year of motorcycle riding made it all the more aggravating. The drip, drip, drip of time counted my heartbeats, counted my life ebbing away. I was inconsolable, miserable and the experience placed a chip on my shoulder for government that I have not shaken off.

There are 9 years hidden in there somewhere!

Begrudging the failed clutch on my Husqvarna the other day I came to the jarring realization that I have owned the bike 9 years. I swear, I bought this thing not more than a couple days ago. I degreased the countershaft sprocket area to gain access and removed the clutch slave cylinder. From the inside of the slave I pulled out an aged, creaking o-ring that smelled of stale urine. The leak had allowed the clutch fluid to escape into the crankcase. Except for the missing 9 years the clutch repair went well.

Einstein was right; time is relative. From my 14-year-old perspective a year was an eternity. Now, as an adult I’m scared to close my eyes for fear that another decade will have passed by at light speed. Or worse yet, I won’t be able to re-open them at all.

Joe Gresh’s motorcycles…

A 1975 Z900 Kawi, a future Joe Gresh project that sort of came with Tinfiny Ranch…

One of the coolest parts of visiting Tinfiny Ranch was seeing Joe Gresh’s motorcycles.  He sure has interesting toys and great project work lined up.  My favorites are his 360 Yamaha and the Z900 Kawi.  Joe tells the story better than I can, so here you go…