It was now Monday, the day I'd be getting into San Diego. I spent most of the previous evening drying out my clothes using a combo of the iron and hair dryer. It worked... Sort of. What really worked best was putting my socks in the microwave.
Anyway, I pulled the blinds open in the morning and was greeted with more rain. How could it rain this much? It has to stop some time, right?
Well, this morning wasn't that time. It rained all through breakfast and all the while I packed up my bike. The highlight of the morning wasn't the omelet I had (it was good, though), it was a chance meeting in an elevator. I walked in the elevator carrying all my stuff and the guy in there told me he once rode a motorcycle from Hollywood back to Pittsburgh. Pittsburgh?! That's the second person from my old turf I met on this trip. Weird and wild stuff, that.
I made my way through the rain to a nearby gas station, fueled up for the ride to Prescott and prepared to get wet. I wasn't 45 minutes into the day and everything was already soaked. Lovely.
Mercifully, the rain ended when I got on Arizona 89A, the winding road that would take me to Prescott. The road was still very wet, though, which meant I couldn't fully exploit the twisty bits or the empty road in front of me. At least it was warming up.
Like a ghost in the night, a great number of switchbacks appeared on the road. The scenery and the tight road tore at my concentration, delighting and denying me at the same time. The road snakes, dips and climbs through an amazing canyon. It's an absolute delight, almost to the point of wanting to turn around and ride it a few more times. The Bonneville's handling also continued to impress; this section was a blast in the wet on a packed-up bike.
As quickly as it appeared, the canyon was gone. The road flattened out and gently wove through the forest. Every so often a small motel or cabin would appear on the side, showing some semblance of civilization. Aside from this, it was you and the trees.
As I broke through the trees into Sedona, AZ, I was greeted with a panoramic view of biblical proportions. There were sunken canyons, high, spiraling mountains; trees, rocks and buildings sharing the same space. The architects built Sedona around the geological features; instead of dominating the land, the builders incorporated it and created something beautiful.
Above this wondrous scene was the best sight of all: dissipating clouds and blue sky. The sun even made an appearance. I had come through 300 miles of rain and misery to be greeted by a sight of extreme beauty. It was totally worth it.
I fueled up in Sedona and headed toward the mountains. As I got closer, the road dried and the sun took command over the sky. One of the highlights was Jerome, AZ, an old mining town built into the mountain. Suddenly, I was in the Apennines, snaking through the town's narrow streets, tight corners and stucco buildings. It was like being transported to another country, if only for a brief moment.
Dancing the curves of the mountain brought me to Prescott, AZ, finally. I fueled up, got lost and then finally found my way down the mountain. Further increasing my reward were more mountain roads and more gorgeous scenery. Coming down the mountain brought incredible views of the desert floor. The desert spread out like an enormous blanket, covering everything up to the horizon.
At the bottom was a little place called Congress, AZ. This place consisted of a gas station and a Family Dollar. That was it. As I was getting gas, I suddenly realized something: I was very hot. I was so busy concentrating on the road and the scenery, I didn't notice the temperature went from the low 60s to the mid 80s. The windbreaker that had saved me yesterday was now clinging to me like a frightened child.
Free of bondage, I set off across the flat and straight desert. It's here that one can truly grasp the vastness of the U.S. There was nothing, I mean nothing, but scrub and dirt for miles and miles. The road was so straight I could have set the throttle and taken a nap. The desert was not without excitement as a number of vultures took flight directly in front of me. I had to lay flat on the tank to miss them and if I was in a car, they would have splattered across my windshield.
The flat desert gave way to I-10, the road that would take me to California. I-10 was more of the same except with more trucks. A stop for gas and an awful lunch got me ready for the final push. The trip down I-10 was a boring exercise in dealing with hot wind blast and boring scenery. I was thankful when it ended.
A stop for fuel in Palm Desert, CA meant the end of the desert. San Diego was just on the other side of the mountain. While filling up in Palm Desert, I again realized I was very hot. I was sweating not even doing anything. Unfortunately, I had no more removable clothes.
The final leg would take me up the Pines to Palms Highway and around Palomar Mountain. Any corners would be exciting after the dullness of the desert and this did not disappoint. Every corner you could imagine, from tight twisties to fast sweepers, were here and it was all bathed in bright sunlight. Again, the scenery was just as fantastic as the road. The Bonnie and its rider enjoyed every minute of this place, as it was similar to roads in Colorado except they were only at around 3,000 feet. That meant the bike actually had power to go down the straights. It also got cold up here, requiring me to stop and put my flannel back on.
The downward side of the mountain put me on the fast-track to the ocean. By this time I was pretty tired and just wanted to get to my hotel. After what seemed like 40 years wandering the desert, I pulled into the hotel, got in my room and collapsed on the bed. Another realization hit me: I was hungry. It was getting too dark to walk all the way to the ocean, so I just milled around the area. All that was around were hot rod shops and a doughnut place. Giving in, I ordered pizza from Domino's and then crashed. It had been a very long day.
I made it, though. I was in California. As I tried to calm down and relax after the day, I thought about the ride I had just put in. It's easy to think about California and wonder why anyone would want to live there. Then you visit and realize why.
In a two hour period, I went from the desert to the mountains and finally to the ocean. I did this while on amazing roads surrounded by some of the Earth's best scenery.
What an amazing place.
Part V will cover the beginning of the ride home.
Friday, September 6, 2013
Wednesday, September 4, 2013
On The Road, Pt III
It was.
I awoke to rain; lots of it. I grabbed some breakfast and got ready for the day, hoping all the time that it would let up. Watching the weather channel confirmed what I thought: it wouldn't.
So, I packed up and got ready to go, figuring I might as well get on with it. Parked next to my Bonneville was a very nice Yamaha FJR1300. It actually made me feel better since I wouldn't be the only bike. As I was strapping my backpack down, the Yammie's owner came out for a chat. It turned out he was originally from Steubenville, OH, which is very close to Pittsburgh. I wasn't expecting that.
Belly full of carbs and orange juice, I set off into the rain. My not packing rain gear was really dumb. Water came in through my mesh summer jacket and spray from the road came in the mesh areas of my pants. Clearly, this would be a long day.
The rain let up as I approached Shiprock, NM to fuel up. The sky was extremely gray and foreboding, though. I took off from the gas station and headed on down the road. I settled into the groove of riding, keeping a watchful eye on the skies.
Oddly, something didn't feel right. I kept seeing signs for Gallup, NM, which wasn't where I wanted to go. I figured Gallup was the only large town around and it would appear on most of the signs in the area. A little further and I started to get worried. Pulling over, I whipped out my phone and it confirmed I was heading south to Gallup instead of going west toward Teec Nos Pos. I was so focused on what the skies were going to do, I completely missed my turn and went way off course.
If I continued south, I could take I-40 to Flagstaff or I could turn around and take 160, the way I intended. Rain covered both routes, which meant I had to decide on whether I wanted to share the rain-soaked roads with tractor-trailers or not. I chose to go back, refuel and head the way I intended.
Heading toward Teec Nos Pos turned out to be a very scenic route. There were gorgeous canyons and beautiful vistas on either side of the road. This road even had some corners, which would be quite rare on this route. Teasing me, the sun popped out for a few miles. This brief respite would be the only sun and blue sky I'd see for a while.
Rain peppered my face shield off and on but as I got near my fuel stop in Kayenta, AZ, the sky turned a deep black. At the station, I popped in for a pee and a quick snack. The sky was incredibly ominous. It looked like I'd be riding into the lungs of Hell. I guzzled my water, refueled the bike and headed off.
A few miles later the rain came and it came hard. Water poured through my gear and my base layers were drenched. I could feel the cold water running down my back. Crotch drenched, socks drenched; everything was wet.
I was already cold and this served to bring on intense shivers. I had 78 miles to go to Tuba City and there were times I thought I wouldn't make it. I was so cold and shivering so much I could barely keep control of the bike. Never mind that I was doing so while riding through hard rain (not the movie). This was such desolate country that there wasn't even an underpass or anything to hide under. All I did was shiver and stare at my odometer, mentally counting off the miles.
Mercifully, the rain died down. I was still very wet and cold but I could now see where I was going. I can say that no one in the history of the world was happier to see Tuba City, AZ than I was. There was a Quality Inn in town and I couldn't get there fast enough. I pulled up to the door, hopped off my bike, squished my way up to the desk and inquired about a room. I'd have to kill two hours, which gave me time to change and eat, two things I desperately needed to do.
I changed and then shiver-walked over to the restaurant next door. I immediately ordered coffee, something I haven't had in nearly 20 years. After a mediocre lunch, I went to the trading post next door and bought a windbreaker while the two girls behind the counter complained about their pre-calc class.
While all this was happening, the rain began to dissipate. According to the map I was another hour-and-a-half from Flagstaff. The weather around there wasn't as bad and the major storms had all moved north. I had originally planned to spend the night in Prescott, AZ but that wasn't happening. If I made for Flagstaff, I'd still get a bit wet but I'd be closer than if I stayed in Tuba City. Helping spur this decision was the fact that a room at this Quality Inn would cost $130. That's a lot to stay in this one horse town, even if I was soaked. Feeling adventurous, I put on my soaked gear, which now weighed twice as much, and headed for Flagstaff.
The skies were a deep gray and I got peppered with rain but I eventually made it to Flagstaff. I pulled over to search for a hotel and lo and behold, a Hampton Inn was nearby. I stopped there and got a room for the night, damn the cost. As I was putting my stuff in the room, beams of sunlight came creeping into my room. I just smiled since it had been hours since I saw the sun. This moment was fleeting, however, as the gray came back to reclaim the sky.
I threw on some dry clothes and figured I'd scare up some dinner. As I walked out the hotel, I stopped to look at my bike. It was a bit dirty this morning from yesterday's showers. Now it was completely filthy. It wasn't even black anymore. It was now a shade of gray-brown. She was a champ, though. Through all the rain and the water, she never missed a beat; never misfired, chugged or slowed down. What a great bike.
My choices for dinner were Arby's, Jack in the Box or Sizzler. Yum. I chose Sizzler and had the salad bar, which was awful. I think they put the stuff out at nine in the morning and it stays there all day.
I went back to my room and hit the bed, hard. I was exhausted and two hours away from where I wanted to be. This meant my push to San Diego tomorrow would be a very long one. How would that turn out?
Stayed tuned for that in Part IV.
I awoke to rain; lots of it. I grabbed some breakfast and got ready for the day, hoping all the time that it would let up. Watching the weather channel confirmed what I thought: it wouldn't.
So, I packed up and got ready to go, figuring I might as well get on with it. Parked next to my Bonneville was a very nice Yamaha FJR1300. It actually made me feel better since I wouldn't be the only bike. As I was strapping my backpack down, the Yammie's owner came out for a chat. It turned out he was originally from Steubenville, OH, which is very close to Pittsburgh. I wasn't expecting that.
Belly full of carbs and orange juice, I set off into the rain. My not packing rain gear was really dumb. Water came in through my mesh summer jacket and spray from the road came in the mesh areas of my pants. Clearly, this would be a long day.
The rain let up as I approached Shiprock, NM to fuel up. The sky was extremely gray and foreboding, though. I took off from the gas station and headed on down the road. I settled into the groove of riding, keeping a watchful eye on the skies.
Oddly, something didn't feel right. I kept seeing signs for Gallup, NM, which wasn't where I wanted to go. I figured Gallup was the only large town around and it would appear on most of the signs in the area. A little further and I started to get worried. Pulling over, I whipped out my phone and it confirmed I was heading south to Gallup instead of going west toward Teec Nos Pos. I was so focused on what the skies were going to do, I completely missed my turn and went way off course.
If I continued south, I could take I-40 to Flagstaff or I could turn around and take 160, the way I intended. Rain covered both routes, which meant I had to decide on whether I wanted to share the rain-soaked roads with tractor-trailers or not. I chose to go back, refuel and head the way I intended.
Heading toward Teec Nos Pos turned out to be a very scenic route. There were gorgeous canyons and beautiful vistas on either side of the road. This road even had some corners, which would be quite rare on this route. Teasing me, the sun popped out for a few miles. This brief respite would be the only sun and blue sky I'd see for a while.
Rain peppered my face shield off and on but as I got near my fuel stop in Kayenta, AZ, the sky turned a deep black. At the station, I popped in for a pee and a quick snack. The sky was incredibly ominous. It looked like I'd be riding into the lungs of Hell. I guzzled my water, refueled the bike and headed off.
A few miles later the rain came and it came hard. Water poured through my gear and my base layers were drenched. I could feel the cold water running down my back. Crotch drenched, socks drenched; everything was wet.
I was already cold and this served to bring on intense shivers. I had 78 miles to go to Tuba City and there were times I thought I wouldn't make it. I was so cold and shivering so much I could barely keep control of the bike. Never mind that I was doing so while riding through hard rain (not the movie). This was such desolate country that there wasn't even an underpass or anything to hide under. All I did was shiver and stare at my odometer, mentally counting off the miles.
Mercifully, the rain died down. I was still very wet and cold but I could now see where I was going. I can say that no one in the history of the world was happier to see Tuba City, AZ than I was. There was a Quality Inn in town and I couldn't get there fast enough. I pulled up to the door, hopped off my bike, squished my way up to the desk and inquired about a room. I'd have to kill two hours, which gave me time to change and eat, two things I desperately needed to do.
I changed and then shiver-walked over to the restaurant next door. I immediately ordered coffee, something I haven't had in nearly 20 years. After a mediocre lunch, I went to the trading post next door and bought a windbreaker while the two girls behind the counter complained about their pre-calc class.
While all this was happening, the rain began to dissipate. According to the map I was another hour-and-a-half from Flagstaff. The weather around there wasn't as bad and the major storms had all moved north. I had originally planned to spend the night in Prescott, AZ but that wasn't happening. If I made for Flagstaff, I'd still get a bit wet but I'd be closer than if I stayed in Tuba City. Helping spur this decision was the fact that a room at this Quality Inn would cost $130. That's a lot to stay in this one horse town, even if I was soaked. Feeling adventurous, I put on my soaked gear, which now weighed twice as much, and headed for Flagstaff.
The skies were a deep gray and I got peppered with rain but I eventually made it to Flagstaff. I pulled over to search for a hotel and lo and behold, a Hampton Inn was nearby. I stopped there and got a room for the night, damn the cost. As I was putting my stuff in the room, beams of sunlight came creeping into my room. I just smiled since it had been hours since I saw the sun. This moment was fleeting, however, as the gray came back to reclaim the sky.
I threw on some dry clothes and figured I'd scare up some dinner. As I walked out the hotel, I stopped to look at my bike. It was a bit dirty this morning from yesterday's showers. Now it was completely filthy. It wasn't even black anymore. It was now a shade of gray-brown. She was a champ, though. Through all the rain and the water, she never missed a beat; never misfired, chugged or slowed down. What a great bike.
My choices for dinner were Arby's, Jack in the Box or Sizzler. Yum. I chose Sizzler and had the salad bar, which was awful. I think they put the stuff out at nine in the morning and it stays there all day.
I went back to my room and hit the bed, hard. I was exhausted and two hours away from where I wanted to be. This meant my push to San Diego tomorrow would be a very long one. How would that turn out?
Stayed tuned for that in Part IV.
Monday, September 2, 2013
On The Road, Pt II
The first day of my trip finally was here. I, of course, waited until the night before I left to pack and ran around like a mad man doing so. I also didn't sort out what was going to go where until I was about to leave. Clearly, a boy scout I am not.
I figured since I'm in Denver, I should wear some layers for when it gets cold, so I opted for some shorts under my Triumph riding pants. In case you're interested (and how could you not be?), I picked up a pair of Triumph's Adventure jeans. They're tan, which I wanted since everything else is black and I didn't want to roast, and are vented in the shins and thigh. They are actually quite nice and are the only riding pants I tried which actually fit me.
All that is great but the only real problem is aside from being tan, they're navy blue. Why? All the blue does is require me to buy the matching jacket so the colors will match. When did motorcycling require so much fashion sense?
Anyway, I'm geared up and ready to leave. I throw my backpack with my computer and other electronics on and grab my saddle bags with everything else. I'm sweating before I reach the top of the stairs. Never mind, I'm sure it will be chilly outside.
It's not. Sweating some more, I load everything on the bike, strap it down and remember I forgot my ear plugs. Okay, back in the house, grab the earplugs and now it's time to leave. Wait, I forgot the chain lube. Back out to the garage, grab the lube and now it's time to leave. Wait...
After 45 more trips to grab forgotten stuff, it's finally time to leave 30 minutes after I wanted to. No matter, though, we're on the road beginning an epic quest.
I decided to take I-70 to Route 285 instead of going through town. I didn't want the hassle of going from redlight to redlight and really just wanted to get going. Never mind that this route shaved 45 minutes off my entire day. The bike ran great and really didn't feel the extra weight on the back.
I-70 and 470 were boring slab stuff, though I did see a trailer full of hay tip over. That was interesting. The real interesting stuff was when I got on 285. This would take me nearly through the spine of Colorado and the Rockies.
This was proper Colorado riding: small towns, mountains and valleys. The scenery was just spectacular. It was hard to concentrate on the road because my head was always scanning the scenery. Everywhere I looked there was something gorgeous to see.
The Kenosha Pass takes you up to 10,001 ft and then puts you down in an epic valley between the peaks. The area is flat and open for miles and miles. It's almost like being in a giant crater, a mostly-featureless area surrounded by imposing mountain peaks. There were trees occasionally and a few farms but not much else. I should also point out that my decision to layer up was a good one. It was mighty chilly up there early in the morning.
In Saguache, I made the left-hand bend to stay on 285 and continued on a stretch of road that was flat and straight for miles. Honestly, look at it on a map. It's perfectly straight. The cool thing about this section was that two ridges run right across the road. Instead of going over the ridges, the engineers cut right through them. What you end up with, then, is a free geology lesson as you can see the layers of rock under the surface. I thought that was fantastic.
As I got to Wolf Creek Pass, something strange started to happen. The skies got darker and the air became cooler. Closer to the mountain, this increased until the inevitable happened: rain drops on my visor. One thing I didn't pack was rain gear, a decision I regretted immediately.
The run up to the nearly 11,000ft summit of Wolf Creek Pass was pock marked with rain and slow moving vehicles. Thankfully, the road is wide and I could deal with the lack of excitement of the straight bit with some corner carving action. It was very dark at the summit; cold, too, and the rain got heavier.
The trip down was a blast until I got stuck behind an RV, which was a blessing because it was quite wet and there were a few cops out. As quickly as it appeared, the rain and gray disappeared. The rest of the trip was clear, sunny and dry.
Approaching the end of the day, I pulled into Farmington, NM where I would be spending the night. Initial impressions of the town were good. I thought I would be in a town similar to the one from Tremors. There were malls, restaurants and even a Harley dealership. The thing was I kept passing all these places and I still didn't reach my hotel. I kept going and going and Farmington got worse and worse. Finally, as I reached the back end of town, I found my hotel.
The city planners must have designated this place as Hotel Row because that's all that was there. There were six or so hotels, a gas station and one lonely Mexican restaurant. You can guess where I ate dinner.
With the first day behind me, I lugged all my stuff up to my room (no small feat), locked up the bike and headed to the lonely Mexican place. I had a burrito that weighed probably ten pounds and was greeted with rain as I left. Hmm, interesting, I thought. I hope this isn't a sign of things to come.
Stay tuned for Part III...
I figured since I'm in Denver, I should wear some layers for when it gets cold, so I opted for some shorts under my Triumph riding pants. In case you're interested (and how could you not be?), I picked up a pair of Triumph's Adventure jeans. They're tan, which I wanted since everything else is black and I didn't want to roast, and are vented in the shins and thigh. They are actually quite nice and are the only riding pants I tried which actually fit me.
All that is great but the only real problem is aside from being tan, they're navy blue. Why? All the blue does is require me to buy the matching jacket so the colors will match. When did motorcycling require so much fashion sense?
Anyway, I'm geared up and ready to leave. I throw my backpack with my computer and other electronics on and grab my saddle bags with everything else. I'm sweating before I reach the top of the stairs. Never mind, I'm sure it will be chilly outside.
It's not. Sweating some more, I load everything on the bike, strap it down and remember I forgot my ear plugs. Okay, back in the house, grab the earplugs and now it's time to leave. Wait, I forgot the chain lube. Back out to the garage, grab the lube and now it's time to leave. Wait...
After 45 more trips to grab forgotten stuff, it's finally time to leave 30 minutes after I wanted to. No matter, though, we're on the road beginning an epic quest.
I decided to take I-70 to Route 285 instead of going through town. I didn't want the hassle of going from redlight to redlight and really just wanted to get going. Never mind that this route shaved 45 minutes off my entire day. The bike ran great and really didn't feel the extra weight on the back.
I-70 and 470 were boring slab stuff, though I did see a trailer full of hay tip over. That was interesting. The real interesting stuff was when I got on 285. This would take me nearly through the spine of Colorado and the Rockies.
This was proper Colorado riding: small towns, mountains and valleys. The scenery was just spectacular. It was hard to concentrate on the road because my head was always scanning the scenery. Everywhere I looked there was something gorgeous to see.
The Kenosha Pass takes you up to 10,001 ft and then puts you down in an epic valley between the peaks. The area is flat and open for miles and miles. It's almost like being in a giant crater, a mostly-featureless area surrounded by imposing mountain peaks. There were trees occasionally and a few farms but not much else. I should also point out that my decision to layer up was a good one. It was mighty chilly up there early in the morning.
In Saguache, I made the left-hand bend to stay on 285 and continued on a stretch of road that was flat and straight for miles. Honestly, look at it on a map. It's perfectly straight. The cool thing about this section was that two ridges run right across the road. Instead of going over the ridges, the engineers cut right through them. What you end up with, then, is a free geology lesson as you can see the layers of rock under the surface. I thought that was fantastic.
As I got to Wolf Creek Pass, something strange started to happen. The skies got darker and the air became cooler. Closer to the mountain, this increased until the inevitable happened: rain drops on my visor. One thing I didn't pack was rain gear, a decision I regretted immediately.
The run up to the nearly 11,000ft summit of Wolf Creek Pass was pock marked with rain and slow moving vehicles. Thankfully, the road is wide and I could deal with the lack of excitement of the straight bit with some corner carving action. It was very dark at the summit; cold, too, and the rain got heavier.
The trip down was a blast until I got stuck behind an RV, which was a blessing because it was quite wet and there were a few cops out. As quickly as it appeared, the rain and gray disappeared. The rest of the trip was clear, sunny and dry.
Approaching the end of the day, I pulled into Farmington, NM where I would be spending the night. Initial impressions of the town were good. I thought I would be in a town similar to the one from Tremors. There were malls, restaurants and even a Harley dealership. The thing was I kept passing all these places and I still didn't reach my hotel. I kept going and going and Farmington got worse and worse. Finally, as I reached the back end of town, I found my hotel.
The city planners must have designated this place as Hotel Row because that's all that was there. There were six or so hotels, a gas station and one lonely Mexican restaurant. You can guess where I ate dinner.
With the first day behind me, I lugged all my stuff up to my room (no small feat), locked up the bike and headed to the lonely Mexican place. I had a burrito that weighed probably ten pounds and was greeted with rain as I left. Hmm, interesting, I thought. I hope this isn't a sign of things to come.
Stay tuned for Part III...
Sunday, September 1, 2013
On The Road, Pt. I
As has been well-documented in this blog, I was bike-less here in Denver for a few months. Without a bike to occupy my time, I was forced branch out in my interests. Really, that gave me time to do other things. I did some knitting, I took a yoga class, I learned karate and studied French.
Okay, none of that is true. All I really did was think about motorcycles and trawl the Internet looking at motorcycle pictures and parts. So, business as usual.
Something I did do a lot of was plan trips on Google Maps. One area that kept coming up was California. I had been to Cali a few years ago to buy a Datsun 240Z in Oxnard. The Z turned out to be a junk heap but it gave me a chance to take a cross-country road trip back to Pittsburgh with my dad, which was fantastic.
I initially wanted to go to San Fransisco but that turned out to be too far to go in the time I had. Doing that trip would have required a 500-mile slab day through Nevada and I really didn't want to do that. The next logical choice was San Diego. This was a much shorter trip since San Diego is closer to Denver that San Fran and was doable in the time I had. Plus there was no long slab day. San Diego it was, then.
Once the destination was set, a route began to appear on the map. Save for some towns and cities along the way, there really isn't much in the American southwest. I had already been through this area returning to Pittsburgh from Oxnard, so I was sort of familiar with it. I would be on a bike this time, so it would be different.
I could make it to San Diego in three days and I decided on spending two days there, making my trip eight days in total. Not a bad trip, I thought.
My first night was to be in Durango, CO but the hotels turned out to be too expensive, so I decided on Farmington, NM instead. The same hotels were much cheaper and this added about one hour to my day, which wasn't bad. Oh yeah, no camping on this trip. It's hotels only for this adventurer.
The next thing to decide was gas stops. My Bonneville has a range of around 130 miles, depending on many things like elevation and how exuberant I get with the throttle. Over the three days to San Diego and back, I had gas stops planned every 50 to 80 miles. It may seem excessive to stop this often but I'd rather not push my bike for God knows how many miles until I reach a gas station.
All of this was planned in April and May, which meant the next step was to wait for time to take the trip to come. I had put in the vacation time for the last week in August. During the wait, I thought about going to other places, such as Idaho because it would take me through states I had never been before. I also thought briefly about riding home to Pittsburgh. San Diego sounded so much better than all of those other plans and so that's where I went.
In the next installment, we'll set off for Farmington, NM and see what sort of adventuring we can find.
Stay tuned!
Okay, none of that is true. All I really did was think about motorcycles and trawl the Internet looking at motorcycle pictures and parts. So, business as usual.
Something I did do a lot of was plan trips on Google Maps. One area that kept coming up was California. I had been to Cali a few years ago to buy a Datsun 240Z in Oxnard. The Z turned out to be a junk heap but it gave me a chance to take a cross-country road trip back to Pittsburgh with my dad, which was fantastic.
I initially wanted to go to San Fransisco but that turned out to be too far to go in the time I had. Doing that trip would have required a 500-mile slab day through Nevada and I really didn't want to do that. The next logical choice was San Diego. This was a much shorter trip since San Diego is closer to Denver that San Fran and was doable in the time I had. Plus there was no long slab day. San Diego it was, then.
Once the destination was set, a route began to appear on the map. Save for some towns and cities along the way, there really isn't much in the American southwest. I had already been through this area returning to Pittsburgh from Oxnard, so I was sort of familiar with it. I would be on a bike this time, so it would be different.
I could make it to San Diego in three days and I decided on spending two days there, making my trip eight days in total. Not a bad trip, I thought.
My first night was to be in Durango, CO but the hotels turned out to be too expensive, so I decided on Farmington, NM instead. The same hotels were much cheaper and this added about one hour to my day, which wasn't bad. Oh yeah, no camping on this trip. It's hotels only for this adventurer.
The next thing to decide was gas stops. My Bonneville has a range of around 130 miles, depending on many things like elevation and how exuberant I get with the throttle. Over the three days to San Diego and back, I had gas stops planned every 50 to 80 miles. It may seem excessive to stop this often but I'd rather not push my bike for God knows how many miles until I reach a gas station.
All of this was planned in April and May, which meant the next step was to wait for time to take the trip to come. I had put in the vacation time for the last week in August. During the wait, I thought about going to other places, such as Idaho because it would take me through states I had never been before. I also thought briefly about riding home to Pittsburgh. San Diego sounded so much better than all of those other plans and so that's where I went.
In the next installment, we'll set off for Farmington, NM and see what sort of adventuring we can find.
Stay tuned!
Wednesday, July 31, 2013
When is a Motorcycle Post Not a Motorcycle Post?
The answer is when it's this one. What does that mean? I have no idea but it sounds good in my head, so I'm keeping it.
During the summer here in Denver, I've been using my Bonneville more and more and my car less and less. I've used my car for trips to the grocery store and to pick my parents up from the airport on a recent visit. In fact, I just put gas in my VW for the first time since May. May!
I forgot how expensive it is to fill the car up. I'm spoiled by $12 fill-ups.
I've been thinking that, besides a round-the-world trip or a twisty mountain road, the holy grail for a motorcyclist is to ditch the car and keep the bike. It's a tempting and romantic idea, I'll admit.
It's something I've thought about quite seriously and I've reached a conclusion: I couldn't do it.
Never mind the winter weather and cold temps, I couldn't do it because a car is quite convenient. Besides keeping you warm and dry, a car can haul things and carry extra people while still being fun. Last week I bought a rake and it would have been very hard to carry it home on my bike. I'm sure some creative genius is reading this and thinking they could do it but I'm a lazy genius. I used the car.
I'm also sure my parents didn't want to be picked up at the airport on my bike. Yes, I could have rented a car but I used my car instead. I ended up renting one anyway and it cost me nearly as much as a year's insurance on my car. Another plus for my VW is that it is paid for and it's also nearing the nadir of its depreciation.
But it's not just economics and convenience that influence me to keep my VW. It's mostly because I like the car and cars in general. I've been a car guy much longer than I've been a bike guy. My VW is quite fun to drive, even if its suspension is a bit soft and it rolls in the corners. The 1.8 turbo makes near-instant torque, a great whoosh from the turbo and gets good mileage if I'm light on the throttle. If I boot it, I can watch the gas gauge plummet. That's not so good.
It's also cavernous and comfortable. I drove it from Pittsburgh to Denver loaded with stuff (and my mom) and it averaged 32 mpg and neither of us were tired from the drive. The car never missed a beat the entire time. Cruising at 75, you could have a conversation at normal volume and just relax. My Honda Civic at 75mph was a nervous, noisy wreck.
I know this blog is supposed to be about motorcycles, but I just wanted to give big ups to my VW. I've had it for seven years and it's been a great car. It's currently sleeping under a car cover so the evil Denver sun doesn't kill its paint.
Whatever I replace it with has very big shoes to fill. In fact, I might not replace it with anything. I go to car shows and I look around dealers but I can't find anything I'd replace it with that doesn't have Ferrari or Porsche on the front. And, really, if I could afford a Ferrari or a Porsche, I'd just keep my VW.
I look around, think about how nice newer cars are and then I get in my 9-year-old VW and go home. I feel the same about my Bonneville. I look at new bikes, and there are some I really like, but I can't find one that I like more than my Bonnie. I very satisfied with both vehicles, if I'm honest.
Mick Jagger can't get no satisfaction, but I can.
During the summer here in Denver, I've been using my Bonneville more and more and my car less and less. I've used my car for trips to the grocery store and to pick my parents up from the airport on a recent visit. In fact, I just put gas in my VW for the first time since May. May!
I forgot how expensive it is to fill the car up. I'm spoiled by $12 fill-ups.
I've been thinking that, besides a round-the-world trip or a twisty mountain road, the holy grail for a motorcyclist is to ditch the car and keep the bike. It's a tempting and romantic idea, I'll admit.
It's something I've thought about quite seriously and I've reached a conclusion: I couldn't do it.
Never mind the winter weather and cold temps, I couldn't do it because a car is quite convenient. Besides keeping you warm and dry, a car can haul things and carry extra people while still being fun. Last week I bought a rake and it would have been very hard to carry it home on my bike. I'm sure some creative genius is reading this and thinking they could do it but I'm a lazy genius. I used the car.
I'm also sure my parents didn't want to be picked up at the airport on my bike. Yes, I could have rented a car but I used my car instead. I ended up renting one anyway and it cost me nearly as much as a year's insurance on my car. Another plus for my VW is that it is paid for and it's also nearing the nadir of its depreciation.
But it's not just economics and convenience that influence me to keep my VW. It's mostly because I like the car and cars in general. I've been a car guy much longer than I've been a bike guy. My VW is quite fun to drive, even if its suspension is a bit soft and it rolls in the corners. The 1.8 turbo makes near-instant torque, a great whoosh from the turbo and gets good mileage if I'm light on the throttle. If I boot it, I can watch the gas gauge plummet. That's not so good.
It's also cavernous and comfortable. I drove it from Pittsburgh to Denver loaded with stuff (and my mom) and it averaged 32 mpg and neither of us were tired from the drive. The car never missed a beat the entire time. Cruising at 75, you could have a conversation at normal volume and just relax. My Honda Civic at 75mph was a nervous, noisy wreck.
I know this blog is supposed to be about motorcycles, but I just wanted to give big ups to my VW. I've had it for seven years and it's been a great car. It's currently sleeping under a car cover so the evil Denver sun doesn't kill its paint.
Whatever I replace it with has very big shoes to fill. In fact, I might not replace it with anything. I go to car shows and I look around dealers but I can't find anything I'd replace it with that doesn't have Ferrari or Porsche on the front. And, really, if I could afford a Ferrari or a Porsche, I'd just keep my VW.
I look around, think about how nice newer cars are and then I get in my 9-year-old VW and go home. I feel the same about my Bonneville. I look at new bikes, and there are some I really like, but I can't find one that I like more than my Bonnie. I very satisfied with both vehicles, if I'm honest.
Mick Jagger can't get no satisfaction, but I can.
Thursday, July 11, 2013
Triple Trouble
In the 1960s, Triumph was at the top of its game. The company could seemingly do no wrong. Dealers couldn't sell the bikes fast enough, a never-ending supply of movie stars and other celebrities were photographed on them, and Triumph was winning races everywhere you could imagine.
While the public was buying every Triumph twin in sight, the company was working on a new bike, one that would set the world on fire like the Speed Twin did 30 years earlier. This bike wouldn't be a twin, however.
The story goes back to 1962 where one-and-a-half Tiger 100 engines were combined to form a three-cylinder power plant. The engine was modified slightly from its donors and then shoehorned into a regular Triumph frame, which was tested using lead weights to simulate the new engine. What resulted was a superbike, even though the thought of that didn't exist yet.
The three-cylinder engine was much more powerful and a whole lot smoother than its parallel twin cousins. It also showcased Triumph's ability to make the most out of what it already produces. Aside from a longer stroke, the new engine really was the tried-and-true Triumph twin with another cylinder grafted on. Twin cams actuated the valves just like on the twins and they were also placed for and aft of the cylinders. Hey, if it ain't broke...
Using essentially off the shelf parts meant that a three-cylinder road bike could be available to the public in no time. Triumph could once again put the world on its ear with a fast new bike, something that could further put the company above its competitors.
Sadly, it didn't work out that way.
In a case of foreshadowing, Triumph made one of the many decisions that eventually put the company on the brink a few years later. Instead of getting the bike out to the public quickly, it was decided that BSA, Triumph's parent company, would get a version of the new triple. In theory, it was supposed to be a badge engineering job but it went horribly wrong.
BSA wanted some uniqueness to their model and required the engine to be sloped forward, unlike the bolt-upright Triumph version. Another issue was the commission of Ogle Design to style the bike. Instead of the classic Triumph look, an attempt at a squarer, modern design was used. This not only further delayed production of the bike, it also added unnecessary weight to the machine. The bikes also used different frames, further differentiating themselves.
So they were badge engineering jobs that were almost completely different. It's not hard to see why BSA and Triumph would be in a financial bind in a few years.
When the bike finally came to market in 1968, it really did create a polarizing effect, though not always in a good way. The triple twins were badged as the Triumph Trident and the BSA Rocket 3.
The bike was very fast; its 60hp would easily push the bike over 100mph. Tuned versions of the triple would nudge 140. The Rocket 3 won a number of races at Daytona in the early 70s and set speed records that stood for a number of years. The triples didn't lack in performance.
While it had a four-speed gearbox like its twin-cylinder brethren, it had a dry clutch instead of a wet clutch. Also the clutch wasn't where it normally was on a Triumph twin. Mounted on the left was instead a shock absorber for the transmission.
The real shock was reserved for the styling. The classic Triumph teardrop look was replaced with a square tank known as the "bread box" and "ray gun" silencers. It was a huge departure from the Triumphs of yore. While the public was impressed with the performance, they didn't warm to the controversial styling.
Perhaps the biggest blow to the new triples was Honda's CB750, which debuted just four weeks later. The CB750 was a high tech showcase with a front disc, overhead camshaft, electric starting and four cylinders. Also, Honda used horizontally split crankcase, which meant less oil leaks. Rubbing salt in the wound was the fact that the Honda was cheaper and faster than the triples.
The triples were never a sales success. In order to boost sales, the bread box look was canned for a more traditional Triumph look. A fifth gear was added, as was a front disc brake, to better help the bikes compete with Honda and the new Kawasaki Z1. With the closure of BSA in 1973, the Trident was left to go alone against the Japanese.
In a last hurrah for the triple, a Triumph Trident T160V was produced from 1974 to 1976. The T160 featured many improvements and changes, such as forward sloping cylinders, front and rear discs, an electric start (finally) and left side shift. In all, it was too little too late. Few were produced and the triple was soon retired to the history books.
Personally, I like the styling of the original Trident and Rocket 3. I also think the Rocket was the better-looking of the two. What I like most is that it was such a departure from the classic Triumph styling. If you look quick enough, all the Triumphs from that era look the same. They look great, don't get me wrong, but it's also a boring to have a range of bikes that all look exactly the same except for the color.
The triples were halo vehicles for Triumph/BSA and special styling should have been part of the package. The later redesigned Trident looked like a Bonneville with an extra cylinder. Its uniqueness was gone.
Besides, too much emphasis is placed on the styling of the triples for their lack of sales and not enough is placed on the fact that they were old bikes when they were new. Triumph and BSA were content to trot out the same old bikes with the same old problems year after year after year when Honda came along and showed everyone what was possible. I know it's been done to death but if there was any one example of why the English motorcycle industry collapsed, the triples are it.
Bureaucracy and bad decisions delayed what could have been a sure-fire hit. With some development, a 140mph monster could have been built and history would be completely different. Triumph/BSA should have spent the extra 18 months developing the bike instead of designing two different bikes that were supposed to be the same.
While the public was buying every Triumph twin in sight, the company was working on a new bike, one that would set the world on fire like the Speed Twin did 30 years earlier. This bike wouldn't be a twin, however.
The story goes back to 1962 where one-and-a-half Tiger 100 engines were combined to form a three-cylinder power plant. The engine was modified slightly from its donors and then shoehorned into a regular Triumph frame, which was tested using lead weights to simulate the new engine. What resulted was a superbike, even though the thought of that didn't exist yet.
The three-cylinder engine was much more powerful and a whole lot smoother than its parallel twin cousins. It also showcased Triumph's ability to make the most out of what it already produces. Aside from a longer stroke, the new engine really was the tried-and-true Triumph twin with another cylinder grafted on. Twin cams actuated the valves just like on the twins and they were also placed for and aft of the cylinders. Hey, if it ain't broke...
Using essentially off the shelf parts meant that a three-cylinder road bike could be available to the public in no time. Triumph could once again put the world on its ear with a fast new bike, something that could further put the company above its competitors.
Sadly, it didn't work out that way.
In a case of foreshadowing, Triumph made one of the many decisions that eventually put the company on the brink a few years later. Instead of getting the bike out to the public quickly, it was decided that BSA, Triumph's parent company, would get a version of the new triple. In theory, it was supposed to be a badge engineering job but it went horribly wrong.
BSA wanted some uniqueness to their model and required the engine to be sloped forward, unlike the bolt-upright Triumph version. Another issue was the commission of Ogle Design to style the bike. Instead of the classic Triumph look, an attempt at a squarer, modern design was used. This not only further delayed production of the bike, it also added unnecessary weight to the machine. The bikes also used different frames, further differentiating themselves.
So they were badge engineering jobs that were almost completely different. It's not hard to see why BSA and Triumph would be in a financial bind in a few years.
When the bike finally came to market in 1968, it really did create a polarizing effect, though not always in a good way. The triple twins were badged as the Triumph Trident and the BSA Rocket 3.
The bike was very fast; its 60hp would easily push the bike over 100mph. Tuned versions of the triple would nudge 140. The Rocket 3 won a number of races at Daytona in the early 70s and set speed records that stood for a number of years. The triples didn't lack in performance.
While it had a four-speed gearbox like its twin-cylinder brethren, it had a dry clutch instead of a wet clutch. Also the clutch wasn't where it normally was on a Triumph twin. Mounted on the left was instead a shock absorber for the transmission.
The real shock was reserved for the styling. The classic Triumph teardrop look was replaced with a square tank known as the "bread box" and "ray gun" silencers. It was a huge departure from the Triumphs of yore. While the public was impressed with the performance, they didn't warm to the controversial styling.
Perhaps the biggest blow to the new triples was Honda's CB750, which debuted just four weeks later. The CB750 was a high tech showcase with a front disc, overhead camshaft, electric starting and four cylinders. Also, Honda used horizontally split crankcase, which meant less oil leaks. Rubbing salt in the wound was the fact that the Honda was cheaper and faster than the triples.
The triples were never a sales success. In order to boost sales, the bread box look was canned for a more traditional Triumph look. A fifth gear was added, as was a front disc brake, to better help the bikes compete with Honda and the new Kawasaki Z1. With the closure of BSA in 1973, the Trident was left to go alone against the Japanese.
In a last hurrah for the triple, a Triumph Trident T160V was produced from 1974 to 1976. The T160 featured many improvements and changes, such as forward sloping cylinders, front and rear discs, an electric start (finally) and left side shift. In all, it was too little too late. Few were produced and the triple was soon retired to the history books.
Personally, I like the styling of the original Trident and Rocket 3. I also think the Rocket was the better-looking of the two. What I like most is that it was such a departure from the classic Triumph styling. If you look quick enough, all the Triumphs from that era look the same. They look great, don't get me wrong, but it's also a boring to have a range of bikes that all look exactly the same except for the color.
The triples were halo vehicles for Triumph/BSA and special styling should have been part of the package. The later redesigned Trident looked like a Bonneville with an extra cylinder. Its uniqueness was gone.
Besides, too much emphasis is placed on the styling of the triples for their lack of sales and not enough is placed on the fact that they were old bikes when they were new. Triumph and BSA were content to trot out the same old bikes with the same old problems year after year after year when Honda came along and showed everyone what was possible. I know it's been done to death but if there was any one example of why the English motorcycle industry collapsed, the triples are it.
Bureaucracy and bad decisions delayed what could have been a sure-fire hit. With some development, a 140mph monster could have been built and history would be completely different. Triumph/BSA should have spent the extra 18 months developing the bike instead of designing two different bikes that were supposed to be the same.
Wednesday, June 26, 2013
The Question
I was just thinking today that it's been over a month since I've driven my car to work. Mostly, my VW has sat forlorn in the driveway, save for weekend runs to the grocery store. My Triumph has been pounding the pavement everyday and battling the traffic on my four-mile commute.
Most of my commute is spent idling, which is really fun when it's 90° F outside. Save for a few close-calls and some obscenities hurled at offending drivers, it's been really uneventful commuting. One thing that has been interesting is the questions I get at work.
People see me in my jacket, holding my full-face helmet and ask "do you ride a motorcycle?" "No, I just carry this stuff around for fun" is what I would like to tell them but some of these people are higher on the ladder than me, so I can't.
The responses I get are along the lines of the danger of motorcycles, how they would never ride one or how I don't look like someone who'd ride a bike.
The last one gets me because what does a motorcycle rider look like? Non-riders think of the Hell's Angels or the Sons of Anarchy guys as the stereotypical rider but that shows a lot of ignorance. Yes, I've met and seen lots of people who fit that mold but most of the riders I know are normal people. They're doctors, businessmen, mechanics, factory workers, office workers, etc. They just happened to ride motorcycles.
Sure, riding a motorcycle is dangerous but so is everything that's worth doing. Mountain climbing, skydiving, deep sea diving and many other activities would be pretty boring if the amount of inherent risk was gone. Climbing Mt. Everest or racing in the Isle of Man TT is a big deal because it's dangerous. If all you had to do was ride an elevator to the top or putt-putt around the TT course, there wouldn't be much sense in doing it.
The attraction to the amount of risk or to the rush of adrenaline you get when blasting down a back road is difficult to explain to people. That's what attracted me to motorcycles in the first place and that's what continues to do so. My boring four-mile commute is so much more fun on a motorcycle. That I save on gas and parking is a nice bonus.
When I explain this, I'm usually meant with blank stares. I just smile and think about how someone won't blink an eye at skiing or snowboarding yet won't ride a motorcycle 50 feet.
It boggles the mind, really.
Most of my commute is spent idling, which is really fun when it's 90° F outside. Save for a few close-calls and some obscenities hurled at offending drivers, it's been really uneventful commuting. One thing that has been interesting is the questions I get at work.
People see me in my jacket, holding my full-face helmet and ask "do you ride a motorcycle?" "No, I just carry this stuff around for fun" is what I would like to tell them but some of these people are higher on the ladder than me, so I can't.
The responses I get are along the lines of the danger of motorcycles, how they would never ride one or how I don't look like someone who'd ride a bike.
The last one gets me because what does a motorcycle rider look like? Non-riders think of the Hell's Angels or the Sons of Anarchy guys as the stereotypical rider but that shows a lot of ignorance. Yes, I've met and seen lots of people who fit that mold but most of the riders I know are normal people. They're doctors, businessmen, mechanics, factory workers, office workers, etc. They just happened to ride motorcycles.
Sure, riding a motorcycle is dangerous but so is everything that's worth doing. Mountain climbing, skydiving, deep sea diving and many other activities would be pretty boring if the amount of inherent risk was gone. Climbing Mt. Everest or racing in the Isle of Man TT is a big deal because it's dangerous. If all you had to do was ride an elevator to the top or putt-putt around the TT course, there wouldn't be much sense in doing it.
The attraction to the amount of risk or to the rush of adrenaline you get when blasting down a back road is difficult to explain to people. That's what attracted me to motorcycles in the first place and that's what continues to do so. My boring four-mile commute is so much more fun on a motorcycle. That I save on gas and parking is a nice bonus.
When I explain this, I'm usually meant with blank stares. I just smile and think about how someone won't blink an eye at skiing or snowboarding yet won't ride a motorcycle 50 feet.
It boggles the mind, really.
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