This is a photo of me and my original 1968 Triumph Bonneville. I drove it home from the dealer through a snowstorm in Pennsylvania in January of 1968. Photo by Paul N. Fisher.
The tagline of Motorcycle Classics inspired me to set out on a six-day adventure around the southwest United States on my 1968 Triumph Bonneville with two friends: my old Marine Corps buddy and fellow combat photographer R.J. DelVecchio “Del” mounted on a 1987 BMW K75, and David Howell, a retired national sales/tech rep for Panasonic, on a 2002 BMW GS1150. David is a seasoned rider and having him along provided some comfort in the fact at least one of us had some recent experience with long-distance motorcycle riding. When I announced my plans for the trip to a few friends in our Central Coast Classic Motorcycle Club the responses were not exactly ringing endorsements. I heard everything thing from “you’ve got to be crazy” to “bring plenty of spare parts” to “not on that old Triumph.” In my heart I felt the bike was solid and had been running without problems for years but in my mind I conjured up a thousand things that could fail. The last time I embarked on a long trip like this was in 1969 when I had returned from Vietnam and took my original 1968 Bonneville on a trip from New Smyrna Beach, Florida, to Derby, Connecticut, and back, a 2,200 mile odyssey that saw the Zener diode fail and the battery split open. Back then there was a Triumph dealer in every town and having a bike repaired while on the road was a simple matter. Now I was going to have to be my own mechanic and as a result I ended up taking along a lot of tools and the phone numbers for sources that could overnight parts to me on the road. Prepare for the worst and hope for best was my motto for this trip.
I rode my original Bonneville from New Smyrna Beach, Florida, to Derby, Connecticut, in 1969 after returning from an 18-month tour in Vietnam in the Marines. This photo of me was taken in West Orange, New Jersey, where I stopped to visit Rich Verderamo, one of my Marine Corps buddies who had a 1967 Triumph Bonneville. Photo by Richard Verderamo.
My wife Mary and I have been married for going on 44 years and she used to ride with me on my original Bonneville back when we were first married. She has endured my latter-day return to the bike of my youth with forbearance and good cheer, which has been a blessing to me. Embarking on a trip like this requires that you have your mind focused and free of distractions. Her loving acceptance of my journey gave me the peace to mind that I needed to enjoy the trip and for that I’m truly grateful. We love to travel together, especially to the National Parks, and have visited many of the locations I would encounter on this trip. I felt some sadness that she would not be along for this adventure even though I knew that this was not something she would enjoy doing.
R.J. DelVecchio, in background with his 1987 BMW K75, suiting up for our ride on April 26, 2015. Foreground is my 1968 Triumph Bonneville packed and ready to ride. Photo by Dennis Fisher.
In preparation for the trip I changed the engine oil and topped off or replaced all the other oils in the bike. I put in a new set of plugs, adjusted and lubed the drive chain, checked the primary chain, topped off the battery, adjusted the valves, and lubed the instrument and control cables. In February I ordered a set of Craven panniers and a rack from England to accommodate my baggage and tools but due to a number of delays they didn’t arrive until two days before the trip and the mounting hardware was not correct for my bike. So it was time for plan B that consisted of a medium-sized duffel bag strapped to the seat behind me with heavy duty bungee cords. Perhaps not the best solution but it worked, though I could have used a little more seat space. David’s BMW looks like it just came off the showroom floor and required only an oil change and valve adjustment prior to departure. Del’s bike was prepped by Reg Pridmore’s RPM shop in Ventura with the exception of an oil change, which we did ourselves.
Sunday, April 26
The weather is always a concern for on a motorcycle trip and our departure date was purposely left flexible to take advantage of the best possible conditions. Since a lot of our travel would be in desert areas I selected late April through early May to avoid the heat and summer rains. The desert doesn’t get much rain but what it does get tends to fall in the summer months. The spring weather can be erratic but a favorable trend opened up toward the end of April and we decided it was time to saddle up. We departed my home in Santa Maria, California, on the 26 of April just as the sun started to break through the coastal marine layer of fog and we headed east on Route 166 over the coastal hills on our way to California’s San Joaquin Valley. We crossed the San Andres Fault near Maricopa and were making good time in the light Sunday morning traffic. The bike was running strong, the throttle response was quick, and handling good despite the baggage strapped to the seat. We cruised along effortlessly at 60 to 65 mph and I hoped this was a foreshadowing of things to come. My confidence grew with each passing mile. A stop at Maricopa to top off on fuel was needed along with a pit stop for the riders. The 2.8 gallon gas tank on the Bonnie provides a range of about 140 miles but I usually start looking for a gas station after 100 miles. Refreshed and refueled we were back on the road.
Rest stop at New Cuyama, California. About an hour into our trip we stopped to give our bikes a once over and make sure everything was okay. Photo by Dennis Fisher.
The evidence of the ongoing drought in California could be seen everywhere in the valley with many fields laying fallow due to lack of water. We crossed Interstate 5 and were soon approaching the little farming town of Arvin on the eastern side of the valley, about a 125 miles into the ride. The route took us on State Road 223, a two lane blacktop road that began to climb up the foothills on the east side of the San Joaquin Valley. It’s a nice bike road with gentle uphill curves and it was especially nice that day when traffic was virtually non-existent. I motioned everyone to pull over a few miles before turning on to Route 58 for a final consultation on our next stop prior to entering this busy roadway which is a heavily traveled thoroughfare in and out of the Bakersfield area. It was especially busy this time of year as three of the other passes over the Sierra’s were still closed. I gave everyone instructions on where to exit for our lunch break in case we got separated and took the lead with Del close behind. In the traffic I never did catch sight of David in my mirror and wondered why he was lagging behind. We reached the summit of the southern end of the Sierra Nevada’s at Tehachapi, around 3,800 feet elevation, and as I approached the exit we had chosen to get off for lunch David was nowhere in sight. Del and I pulled over to wait for him but after five or six minutes he still hadn’t appeared. I was getting a little worried and thought perhaps he took an earlier exit by mistake. We decided to proceed to our lunch destination at a nearby truck stop and text him in case he was waiting for us somewhere else. I circled down the exit ramp to a stop sign and continued on toward the truck stop. A glance in the mirror confirmed that Del had now disappeared. I did a quick U-turn and headed back toward the exit only to find a pickup truck on the side of the road and Del’s bike on its side. It wasn’t even lunch time and David had disappeared and Del was down. We were not off to a good start. It turned out that Del had lost his balance when he came to a stop on some uneven ground and he couldn’t hold the bike. A Good Samaritan in the truck had stopped to help and the three of us got the bike upright. Other than some damaged pride, man and machine were in good order. While all this was going on David finally showed up. He told us he had turned the wrong way on to 58 and headed west down the mountain toward Bakersfield. Realizing his mistake almost immediately, he was forced to continue to the next exit some 7 or 8 miles away before he could turn around. Well, we were all back together and after some lunch and a gas stop we were back on the road. Continuing on route 58 down the eastern slope of the mountain to Mojave, we turned north on Route 14 and skirted along the western side of the Mojave Desert.
San Andreas Fault near Maricopa, California. Photo by Dennis Fisher.
The cool air of the mountains now gave way to the heat of the desert and a landscape of sagebrush and Joshua trees. We passed turnoffs for old mining towns like Randsburg and Garlock and then up Red Rock Canyon where they filmed some scenes for Jurassic Park III. Soon Route 14 merged with Route 395, the main highway along the Eastern Sierras. With the snowcapped Sierra Nevada mountains on our left and the Owens dry lake coming into view on the right I knew we were getting close to Lone Pine and the Portal Hotel, our stopping point for the first day. We fought a pretty stiff headwind for the last 60 miles and it felt good to finally put the bike up on her center stand and call it a day after putting 287 miles on the clock. We checked in at the hotel after David did a little last-minute negotiating to get our room rates reduced, unpacked and gave our bikes a once over in preparation for the next day’s travel. The Bonneville had run well and I looked at her with a mixture of pride and admiration that only another vintage motorcycle owner could appreciate. The first day had done a lot to boost my confidence in the bike.
R.J. DelVecchio’s BMW and Dennis Fisher’s Triumph parked at the Portal Motel in Lone Pine, California, after completing the first day of travel. Photo by Dennis Fisher.
With regard to accommodations, everyone in our group is retired and camping or sleeping on the ground didn’t hold too much appeal. I anticipated lodging would be one of the big expenses so in an effort to manage that cost as much as possible we planned to seek out “budget” hotels upon arriving at our destination each day. This worked out well for us and we only had one location where budget accommodations weren’t available and we had to make use of a regular chain hotel. We averaged just under $55 a night in accommodations and although they were pretty basic they were clean, had TV, WiFi, good beds and hot showers. That was all we needed after a day of riding.
Monday, April 27
The second day of our odyssey began with beautiful sunrise glowing orange and yellow on Mt. Whitney and the Sierra Nevada chain of peaks that rose up just west of town. With the grandeur of the mountains as a backdrop, we left the Portal Hotel and walked across the street for hearty breakfast at The Grill restaurant. Plans for the day and our 350-mile ride were discussed and maps checked as we waited for breakfast to arrive. We wasted no time finishing our meal, packing our bikes, topping off our gas tanks, and were on the road to Death Valley by 8 o’clock.
Panamint Springs is about midway between Lone Pine, California, and Death Valley. The Panamint Springs Restaurant is a popular stop for motorcycle travelers and vintage cars on their way to Death Valley. Photo by Dennis Fisher.
Del was finding the seating position on his K bike a little uncomfortable and it left his shoulders and back sore after the first day. He’s from Raleigh, North Carolina, and bought the bike in Santa Barbara, California, with plans to ride it cross country to his home. We figured a couple days of riding would acclimate him to the bike and prepare him for the long ride to come. David and I planned to accompany him as far as Albuquerque, New Mexico, and then return to California. We were a little concerned and were going to keep an eye on how he did through the mountain driving that lie ahead of us and perhaps stop a little more often to afford him a chance to loosen up those muscles.
Photo of David Howell (left) and R.J. “Del” DelVecchio and the west entrance to Death Valley. Photo by Dennis Fisher.
Heading southeast out of Lone Pine we skirted around the north and east side of Owens Lake, past the mining town of Keeler and into the Inyo mountains. The sky was clear and the 50-some degree air was still a little cool in the morning, especially as we crested the 5,000-foot Inyo Mountains. The solid exhaust note of my old Triumph was reassuring as I wound my way down the twists and turns of the highway to the Saline Valley below. The ride was beautiful and with virtually no other vehicles on the road we could enjoy the desert panorama that was unfolding before us as we moved along at comfortable pace. The landscape through this area is bare rocks, blackened with desert varnish, and sand with little or no vegetation. It looks very similar to the photos sent back by the Mars rovers. I’ve come to appreciate the stark beauty of these desert landscapes out West, especially in the morning and evening light.
R.J. DelVecchio posing with sea level sign in Death Valley, California, during the second day of the trip. Photo by Dennis Fisher.
It was at about this point in the trip something else became clear to me and it had nothing to do with scenery. It was the answer to the question that non-riders frequently ask, “What’s the big deal about riding a motorcycle?” The wording of the question may vary but that is the general idea. So what is it about motorcycle riding that is so enticing to the rider? At first I thought maybe it was the adrenaline rush of an extreme athlete but your body couldn’t sustain that for an extended period of time. Instead I believe it is a sensory rush. Embarking on a motorcycle journey like this has the effect of heightening all your senses to the point of sensory overload. Your hands and feet feel the steady vibration of the engine through the frame and handlebars, your ears are on alert for any unusual sound or sign of trouble, your eyes scan the road and landscape ahead, your skin senses the changes in temperature and humidity, and your nose takes in the smell of the surrounding air. All these combine to write an unforgettable multi-sensory record of the trip in your brain. I think this is why these trips are so exhilarating and why years from now I will be able to recall the events in detail.
Winding our way down the mountain I was startled out of my mental wanderings by an extremely loud continuous noise reverberating off the canyon walls and drowning out the sound of my motorcycle that left me looking in every direction to see what was happening. This was one of those events when all those senses were on high alert. It was a little unnerving so I slowed down and pulled over to the side of the road to try and figure out what was going on. In less time than it takes to tell, an F-18 fighter jet roared over us at low level, leaving as quickly as he came and heading for one of the nearby Test and Training Ranges.
Fifty miles into our ride that day, we came to Panamint Springs and stopped to take a break and discuss the next section of travel that would take us over the Panamint Range, which borders Death Valley National Park on the west, and down to Stovepipe Wells in Death Valley for a break and refueling. We arrived without incident, descending into the valley down a long gentle slope. We gassed up the bikes, bought some soft drinks at the general store, and sat down under the store awning out front to relax in the shade for a little while. A man walked up to us and asked, “Who owns the Triumph”? I said that I did and he went on to tell me he heard the sound of my bike from his campsite and came over to have a look at it. He said he owned three old Triumphs and could recognize that sound anywhere. He was a kindred spirit in this world of vintage motorcycles commenting that he had never undertaken such a long trip but was heartened to hear mine had been trouble free so far. I very seldom ride anywhere that someone doesn’t come up to reminisce about the Triumphs of their youth and of a time and place they remember fondly.
Mesquite Dune complex near Stovepipe Wells, Death Valley National Park, California. Photo by Dennis Fisher.
Badwater Spring, Death Valley National Park, California. View of the spring and the surrounding salt flats. Photo by Dennis Fisher.
Badwater Spring, Death Valley National Park, California. View of spring with Amargosa range of mountains in background. Photo by Dennis Fisher.
We were soon back on the road and motoring past the expansive Mesquite Flat Sand Dune complex which stretched off to the north covering an area roughly 4 by 6 miles. The early morning light that defines the shape and texture of the dunes so well for photographers had long since faded but it still provided a beautiful sight. Motoring on we are greeted with signs along the road that display the elevation as we dipped below sea level and back up again. Driving through this desert it’s hard to believe that until the end of the last ice age this valley was a large lake fed by glacial meltwaters. The surrounding valleys and cliff faces are frequently adorned with petroglyphs attesting to a once thriving human presence here. The Timbisha Shoshone people still live here on Trust lands within the park which are their traditional homelands.
David Howell posing with elevation marker at the lowest point in the United States. Badwater Spring, Death Valley National Park, California. Photo by Dennis Fisher.
After a short half-hour drive we arrived at Furnace Creek with the temperature in the mid 80s. This is “sweatshirt weather” for the locals but for us it was getting a little warm and it was time to rethink our selection of riding apparel. Our next stop in the valley would be even warmer. Badwater is 18 miles south of Furnace Creek and is the lowest point in the continental United States at 238 feet below sea level. I planned on a quick run down there and then back to Furnace Creek for lunch but Del was continuing to be plagued with shoulder and back pain and said he would sit this section out and wait for our return. I suggested he stop by the Visitors Center while we were gone and check on getting a National Park Pass. Both Del and I were wounded in Vietnam and veterans with disabilities qualify for free National Park Passes. I had acquired my pass years earlier and encouraged him to do the same. So, with Del heading out for the Visitors Center, David and I hit the road for Badwater.
Zabriskie Point, Death Valley National Park, California. View of rock formations with Death Valley in background. Photo by Dennis Fisher.
The ride was pretty much a straight shot down a two lane blacktop road with little traffic. Traveling south, we were paralleling the base of the Amargosa Range, a string of barren rocky hills which rose up rather sharply on our left and the Badwater Basin, a vast salt flat, stretching off to the right. Seven or 8 miles into the ride the Artist Drive road looped off to the east and wound its way through some very scenic colored hills, tinted with various minerals that saturate the soil and rocks. In a little over a half-hour we arrived at Badwater, a flat expanse of salt crust with a small spring of undrinkable bad water. We took a few photos and spent about 20 minutes there taking in the sights. It was time to head back to Furnace Creek for some lunch. We found Del relaxing on a rare patch of grass in the shade, parked our bikes, stripped off our riding gear and headed to the saloon/restaurant for lunch. Our timing couldn’t have been better. We were literally steps ahead of three tour buses disgorging their passengers for the same purpose.
We still had a lot of miles to cover this day so after lunch we headed up past Zabriskie Point and out the east side of the park to Pahrump, Nevada. Some of the higher elevations in the park were still carrying a golden mantle of wildflowers that were in stark contrast to the barren rock landscape below. The remainder of the day was spent skirting around the west side of Las Vegas down to Henderson and Boulder City before crossing the Colorado River at Hoover Dam. From there it was a direct line down to Kingman, Arizona, where we would spend the night. We covered a lot of territory that day putting another 356 miles of road behind us.
The wildflowers were still blooming in April as we traveled through the higher elevations leaving Death Valley National Park. These flowers were along the road to Dante's View overlook. Photo by Dennis Fisher.
Dennis Fisher’s 1968 Triumph at the Economy Inn in Kingman, Arizona, at the end of the second day of travel. We had covered 643 miles at this point. Photo by Dennis Fisher.
Tuesday, April 28
The next day dawned bright and clear, if a little chilly, and after some truck top pastries and chocolate milk we eased our way through town to the Route 66 Museum and the start of our ride down that historic highway. Kingman is in the high desert of western Arizona at an elevation of 3,336 feet which accounted for the cool morning we were facing. A T-shirt and sweatshirt under my leather riding jacket was enough to keep me comfortably warm on the ride. Once the rush hour traffic of town was behind us a vista of green sagebrush presented itself for our enjoyment spreading over a landscape of low hills. Our first stop was Hackberry, Arizona, a short 30 miles from our motel but in our enthusiasm to get on the road our arrival was greeted with a “closed” sign on the general store. The location is awash in Route 66 memorabilia, old cars, signage and appliances from the past. As we were taking photos and checking out some of the old items, Del motioned for us to join him over by his bike and I wondered if he was having a problem. As David and I joined him he told us the shoulder and back pain were not abating and our scenic route to Albuquerque was just going to take too long. These physical problems had caused him to reassess his ability to make the cross country ride to Raleigh and instead he was going to take the Interstate directly to Albuquerque, ship his bike back to North Carolina and fly home. The disappointment was clear on his face as he said he would stay with us as far as Williams and then he was going to get on I-40. Nothing we could say would dissuade him from this new plan but it was a reminder that anyone planning an extended trip on a motorcycle needs to make sure they are physically up to the rigors of a long journey. So, after gassing up at Williams, Del bid us goodbye and headed for Albuquerque. As I would find out later in a phone call, he made it after a day-and-a-half ride and followed through on the rest of his plan without incident.
Hackberry general store with display of car memorabilia and antiques along historic Route 66 in Hackberry, Arizona. Photo by Dennis Fisher.
Old Model T Ford on display at Hackberry general store. Hackberry, Arizona. Photo by Dennis Fisher.
Route 66 memorabilia covers the front of the Hackberry general store. Hackberry, Arizona. Photo by Dennis Fisher.
With Del’s departure my original plan needed a little reworking and there is no better way to work on it than to relax over a chocolate malt and lunch at the Galaxy Diner along Route 66 in Flagstaff. David and I headed east on the Interstate for the short ride from Williams to Flagstaff and with map in hand settled down in a booth at the Galaxy to revise our itinerary and partake of a little lunch. The original route took us up through northern Arizona into New Mexico and then diagonally southeast from Farmington to Santa Fe and Albuquerque. With Del’s departure we no longer had a reason to pursue that line of travel and instead decided to explore some of the Anasazi Indian ruins and the Monument Valley Navajo Tribal Park. After lunch we were back on the road heading north out of Flagstaff on Route 89. The elevation had been steadily rising since we left Kingman from 3,300 to 7,200 feet as turned off 89 on to a scenic loop road that led to the Sunset volcano crater and a number Anasazi Indian ruins. This road was a delight to travel and in the hour and a half we spent on it exploring the Indian sites we encountered no more than a half-dozen cars.
Seligman is another popular stop along Route 66 in Arizona. Photo by Dennis Fisher.
The first thing we came to was the Sunset Volcano crater, a dormant cinder cone that rises about 1,000 feet above the surrounding terrain. It first erupted around 1040 and continued off and on for several hundred years. The road winds through the lava fields that are a jumble of jagged black rock amid a pine forest. Continuing on the loop road we came to the Wukoki ruins, a fortress-like three-story high structure of fitted stone built upon a large rock outcropping in the 1100s by the Puebloan people that inhabited this area. The structure is masterfully built and considering it is still standing after all these years it is a real tribute to their building skills. The next site we came to was the Lomaki ruins that dates to approximately the same time and showcases the same building skills.
Sunset Crater Volcano National Monument north of Flagstaff. Photo by Dennis Fisher.
State Route 545 north of Flagstaff. Photo by Dennis Fisher.
Wukoki pueblo located north of Flagstaff, Arizona, in the Wupatki National Monument. Photo by Dennis Fisher.
Lomaki pueblo located north of Flagstaff, Arizona, in the Wupatki National Monument. Photo by Dennis Fisher.
Scenic view of the landscape along Arizona Route 545. Typical of the high plains of the Colorado Plateau that covers the four corners area where Arizona, Utah, Colorado and New Mexico come together. Photo by Dennis Fisher.
The loop road eventually rejoined Route 89 and we headed north toward Kayenta where we planned to spend the night. Our route took us across the Little Colorado River Gorge at the Cameron Trading Post, an Indian trading post established back in 1916 where the local Navajo and Hopi would come to barter for goods. The place is now a popular tourist stop with a gift shop, motel and restaurant for people heading to the south rim of the Grand Canyon. About 16 miles north of Cameron we veered off to the northeast on Route 160 through Tuba City and finally on to Kayenta. The scenery through this portion of the Navajo Reservation was sort of a desolate looking high desert landscape with a scattering of trailer homes and traditional hogans. We rolled into Kayenta around 5 o’clock and began looking for a “budget” motel. To our dismay there were none to be found. The Wetherill was the only hotel with any vacancies in the $100 range and David and I got the last two rooms, considering ourselves lucky at that. It had been a long day and the 344 miles we covered seemed even longer. As I unpacked the Bonnie I began to ponder the fact that this would be the end of the line for us and starting tomorrow we would be on the homeward leg of our trip. The Triumph had performed well so far, no problems at all over the first 987 miles. I couldn’t help but be proud of her even though she was gathering some road film and oil around the engine and on the exhaust system. I would have plenty of time of shine her up when I got home. Dinner at a local Mexican restaurant helped revive our spirits after a long day on the road but David’s yearning for a “cerveza fria” was not in the cards, at least not on the reservation where the sale of alcohol was forbidden.
Wednesday, April 29
Our first order of the day was to take advantage of the complimentary hot breakfast offered by the motel. On the way to the dining room I checked with the front desk to see how far it was to Monument Valley and the lady said it was only 22 miles. So after breakfast we left our luggage in the rooms and motored out to the valley. The weather remained clear and sunny but we were still on the Colorado Plateau at around 5,700 feet which made for a cool morning ride. Huge red rock formations rose up from the plateau and the buttes and mesas along our route appeared to glow in the morning sun. The size and scale of these rock formations are deceptive until you saw a herd of horses grazing nearby or a hogan near the base of one for reference and you realize some could be a thousand feet high. This ride was a feast for the senses and perhaps the most beautiful part of our journey. About 7 miles after leaving Kayenta the road passed close to Agatha Peak, also known as El Capitan, a cone-shaped ancient volcano plug which we observed yesterday as we approached town. Rising about 1,500 feet above the terrain it is visible for almost a hundred miles, depending on where you are, and according to a local Indian we spoke to was used as a gathering place for the tribe during certain times of the year. The Navajo Nation has done a wonderful job of preserving the beauty of this vast area that in turn has drawn tourists from all over the world.
Sentinel Mesa, Monument Valley Navajo Tribal Park. Photo by Dennis Fisher.
Dennis Fisher with his 1968 Triumph Bonneville near the town of Kaibito, Arizona, on the Navajo Reservation. Photo by David Howell.
We soon arrived at Monument Valley, paid our entrance fee, and rode up to the parking lot. From the observation deck we had an unobstructed view of the whole valley with Mother Nature’s handiwork on full display in any direction you chose to look. This valley was the location for many Hollywood western movies. Perhaps that is why it looked so familiar, especially the Mitten Buttes. Technically the orange red sandstone cliffs are part of the Culter Formation that dates back 160 million years to the Permian Period but to me it was one of finest displays of the natural world I’ve seen. After taking in the view and capturing some of the vista on my cell phone camera we went into the Code Talker museum. Here the history of the Navajo Code Talkers and their contribution to the Pacific Campaign in WWII is chronicled. All of the original 29 Navajo Code Talkers have now passed away but there were over 400 in total. Those that are left won’t be with us long. I would like to have stayed in the valley all day but it was time to head back to the motel, pack up our gear, and move on down the road.
Upper Antelope Canyon near Page, Arizona. Photo by Dennis Fisher.
The rest of the day's travel was uneventful but the scenery on this plateau remained the key attraction. We reached Page, Arizona, around noon, stopped for lunch at the Fiesta Mexican restaurant and topped off the gas tanks before heading across the Colorado River at the Glen Canyon Dam. By mid-afternoon we had covered the 75 miles to Kanab, Utah, and decided to call it quits for the day. Including our detour up to Monument Valley we had covered 233 miles and we were ready to just relax for a while. Our side trip to the North Rim of the Grand Canyon was scrubbed since both of us had been there before. We checked into the Sun and Sand motel, backed our bikes up to the door and unloaded. While David went in search of some cold beer, I gave the Bonnie a checkup. I heard the chain rattle against the chain guard when I hit a bump earlier and suspected it was getting a little loose. A quick check revealed that to be the case and I opened my tool kit for the first time on the trip. The problem was quickly resolved but I continued my check of the bike just in case something was coming loose. With nothing else detected, I pulled up a chair and joined David in a cold beer, some wasabi almonds and a rehash of our trip and the 1,220 miles we had put behind us.
David Howell, background, packing up his 2002 BMW GS1150 for Day 5 of the trip. Dennis Fisher’s 1968 Triumph in foreground. Photo by Dennis Fisher.
Thursday, April 30
This day started off as the coolest so far. Temperature-wise I think it was probably in the high 40s but the humidity was high and it created a damp cold. The motel provided a nice selection of homemade muffins, fruit, juices, cereal and coffee so we didn’t need to go anywhere for breakfast. We packed up, checked out, and were on the road destined for Primm, Nevada, on the border with California. We headed south to Fredonia and then west through Colorado City, Hurricane and on to St. George. The road was like most we had been traveling, two lane blacktop and lightly traveled. A range of cliffs off to our north lined our route through the Kaibab-Paiute Indian Reservation. Once we were on the I-15 with a 70-75 mph speed limit my Bonneville was put to the test. She did fine cruising at those speeds but as a rider with no windshield I prefer 60-65 mph.
Red rock cliffs near Pipe Spring National Monument on the Kaibab Paiute Reservation in northern Arizona. Photo by Dennis Fisher.
Although one doesn’t expect much in the way of scenery on a desert interstate highway, the drive down the Virgin River Gorge was very nice. With construction going on in that area I had to keep my eyes on the road but managed to enjoy a lot of the canyon anyway. The ride through Las Vegas was a little slow. There were three big events going on in the city starting the next day, include a big boxing match, and the roads were packed with visitors coming into town. Once clear of the city traffic, the ride to Primm was more enjoyable.
David is a regular at Buffalo Bill’s Casino and Resort and scored a free room for himself and a $45 one for me so we pulled in there in mid-afternoon. Staying at hotels with valet parking and more than two floors was a new experience for us on this trip. The noise and glitz of the casino was in stark contrast to the budget motels and quiet pace of life we had become used to. David was lucky at the slot machines that evening and won enough to pay for a good portion of his trip. I on the other hand was not so lucky and after giving up $10 to the slots I called it a night. We planned on making it back home tomorrow and I wanted to be rested and ready to go in the morning. I reflected back on the 242 miles we made that day and concluded it was my least favorite day for riding. Most of day was spent riding at high speed on I-15 with little time to let your eye wander from the surrounding traffic. My mind kept going back to the beauty and serenity of the ride out to Monument Valley. But with 1,462 miles behind us, home was quickly approaching.
Friday, May 1
This would be our last day on the road if all went well and I was looking forward to getting home. But life on the road is a little addicting and a part of me wished I could just keep on going to some other exciting destination. After breakfast we had the bellman bring all our baggage to the front of the hotel while David and I walked over to the motorcycle parking area to get our machines. I straddled the Bonnie, pulled in the clutch, and kicked her over a few times to break the clutch plates free. As I turned on the petcocks and tickled the carbs I began reflecting on how well the bike had performed and the adventures so many vintage bike owners were missing out of some misplaced fear these old machines were not reliable. I turned on the key and the bike sprung to life on the first kick. Well, mine had proven 100% reliable and any bike that is properly maintained should do so too. I rode around to the hotel entrance and found the bellman waiting with our baggage. We loaded up and began our final stretch of the trip. About half of this day would be spent on four lane divided highways before we finally get back onto two lane secondary roads.
David Howell posing with his 2002 BMW GS1150 in front of Peggy Sue’s Diner near Barstow, California. Photo by Dennis Fisher.
About 10 miles north of Barstow we stopped at Peggy Sue’s Diner for a short rest and a chocolate malt (strawberry for David). It is a '50s themed diner that has been around for a long time and I think just about everyone who travels I-15 to Las Vegas from southern California knows about it and has stopped at one time or another. But for the fact I was traveling by motorcycle I would have bought one of their homemade pies to bring along.
At Barstow we got off the I-15 and jumped on a section of old Route 58 which took us north of town and ultimately joined up with the new four lane Route 58. We motored across the Mojave Desert to Kramer Junction where we stopped to stretch our legs. This is a modern-day oasis in the desert where routes 395 and 58 intersect. A handful of eateries, gas stations and tourist shops surround the crossroads that provide the only services for many miles in any direction. Our eyes were presented with a bleached out landscape, under a hot midday sun, that is typical of the high desert with sage brush and Joshua trees providing the only color. Forty miles down the road we came to the intersection of routes 58 and 14 near Mojave where we turned off for Lone Pine six days ago. We had now completed a very large loop, or more of a figure 8, around the Southwest and were on the final leg of our journey. After a late lunch and gas stop at Tehachapi we headed down the mountain to Arvin after picking up Route 223. Now we were retracing our first day's ride across the San Joaquin Valley and on to Route 166 to Santa Maria. The cool marine air told me we were nearing the coast. I pulled off the 101 at our exit and paused to shake hands with David before we each headed home. Solo now, I rode the last couple of miles to my home, put the Bonneville in the garage, turned off the key and shut the petcocks. The steady idle of the engine ceased and the hot metallic smell of the engine rose around the now still motorcycle. I was home. 1,821 miles and six days of riding. My Bonneville had performed flawlessly and any misgivings I had about her reliability were now put to rest. I hung my helmet on the handlebars, tossed my gloves inside, shut the garage door and went inside for a much anticipated reunion with my wife.
The young woman disappeared inside the cafe, but quickly reappeared with a camera. She took several pictures. I was wishing I could share her opinion of my bike. At that point, over 200 miles into my trip, I was thinking it was a recalcitrant and difficult Norton, with a bad sense of humor.
A couple of months previous, I decided that I was going to ride my Norton Commando to the annual International Norton Owners Association (INOA) rally near Ashland, Oregon. Now, Nort and I go way back, and I had no illusions that the 900-mile trip would be a walk in the park. Nort is, after all, a 40-year-old British motorcycle. One of the challenges I was looking at was getting the motorcycle started. The Boyer ignition draws too much current for the “electric start” (more like “electric assist”) to work. Not being a 200-pound guy or a professional weightlifter, I can't kickstart the bike unless it is on the centerstand, and I can't get the bike on the centerstand unless it is either on the level or, better, pointing uphill.
I did my best to make sure that both Nort and I were going to make it. Before I left, I had the bike checked over by a competent mechanic. I had the front brake master cylinder replaced with an upgraded version. I manufactured a wedge to get that front tire up so I could more easily get the bike on the centerstand. I took a minimum of gear and checked the weather. I left early so I would not have to rush.
Problems had started to surface on the way home from the mechanic. The tachometer was refusing to indicate over 3,000rpm. I called the mechanic when I got home. He said it was the tach cable; he was going to the rally and he would bring a tach cable.
More problems appeared the morning I left. I realized that I could not get Nort on the center stand unless I removed the saddlebags and the duffle I had packed, even with the wedge. I resigned myself to a tiring trip, fired up Nort, and left. Instead of kicking back at the motel that evening, I spent an hour with the tools out. I figured out a way to bleed the rear brake with a minimum of equipment (it had been fine when I rode it home the week before) and went over bolts with a wrench. The sidestand was loose. I tightened it.
Off early in the morning the next day. Norton was running fine, but the sidestand was refusing to stay tight to the frame, and the end of the stand was tucking up under the bike, which made it difficult to get the sidestand down, which made it difficult to get off the bike. I alternated between leaning the bike against posts and thanking good Samaritans who helped by holding the bars. Tightening the bolt at every stop did not help. Halfway up US 199, a scenic road between Crescent City, California (pleasantly cool and foggy), and Grant's Pass, Oregon (in the middle of a heat wave), the speedometer started malfunctioning and oil started dripping from somewhere. Normally Nort does NOT leak oil. This was alarming. I finally made Grant's Pass, found a motel, dumped my bags in the room and got Nort going again so I could park it where I could see it. The sidestand was under the bike again in the space of a few hundred yards. I tried to get it out while standing on one foot and dropped the bike. Totally steamed, I picked up Nort by myself (amazing what adrenaline will do) and verified that the only damage was a slight bend to the brake lever. The paint was unscratched. I went into the room, turned up the air conditioning and tried to calm down.
Okay, so where’s that oil coming from anyhow?
Later, I went out with tools and a plan. I had found a tube of liquid thread-locker in my tool bag. I eased off the side stand nut, doused the threads with thread-locker and tightened everything up. I checked the oil and found that it had been overfilled and the excess was siphoning out the breather hose in the hot weather. The speedo drive in the hub — a brand new aftermarket replacement — was coming apart. I tried wiring it together with a bit of wire found in my bags. It didn't work. I had no speedometer or odometer for the rest of the trip and had to guesstimate gas stops.
However, the thread-locker did work and I stopped having side stand problems. Things started getting better — or at least stopping getting worse. Staying at the same motel another night so I didn't have to load the luggage and could go for an unencumbered ride in the Cascades helped the attitude problems. When I arrived at the rally, I was at least not ready to bite someone. Mechanic appeared with the tach cable and instructions on how to put it on. The tachometer worked for about a half hour and then started to malfunction again, just not as badly. Hallelujah.
The temporarily repaired tachometer drive.
I decided to leave a little early, so as to have plenty of time to get home, and found some nice people to take my camping gear back in their truck. A fellow club member volunteered to ride back with me on his BMW. However, when I showed up at the meeting spot at 8 a.m. as agreed, he was not packed and still eating breakfast. Facing Interstate 5 and temperatures over 90, I left.
It was broiling, especially after I came down out of the mountains north of Redding and headed south through the valley. Norton continued to run well, despite continued problems with siphoning oil out the breather, unlike the rider, who was having overheating problems. About 3 p.m. I found an air-conditioned motel. I made it home the next day, only to find out I had won the long distance/female prize in absentia.
Next time I will skip the prize and take my modern bike. I have nothing left to prove.
Strength in numbers: Nortons gather for the International Norton Owners Association rally near Ashland, Oregon.
Was it because of my early association with BMW motorcycles that I was drawn to Ural Gear-Up motorcycle, or was it because a Ural looks like it’s poised to conquer the Sahara? I’m not sure, and it doesn’t really matter. Bloodlines or aggressive posture aside, it’s really the adventurousness of the Ural that’s appealing. The can-do, pioneering attitude that’s ingrained in the American psyche and the urge to see what’s beyond the horizon makes the allure of this boxer-engined two-cylinder machine magnetic.
There’s an unintimidating simplicity and reassuring strength to the Ural Gear-Up. It conveys the sense that one can take it to the ends of the world and, in case of a break down, it wouldn’t require NASA-endorsed hardware to mend.
In this modern, hyper-connected, over-scheduled, tech-obsessed world of ours, would a Ural really be used to its full capability? Probably not, but the mere fact that it could be is all the rationale I need. Just look at all the SUVs on the road. How many of them actually see true 4x4 service? Only a tiny fraction. But that doesn’t keep them from being the best-selling model/class of vehicle in the United States, despite the rising cost of fuel and a growing awareness of environmental implications.
No, I believe that it’s because of our hectic lifestyle, not in spite of it, that we yearn for tracks off the beaten path, whether achieved or not, and that’s why the Ural is so relevant. It reminds us of simple pleasures, conveys the freedom that all motorcycles do, and exudes adventure and independence like few vehicles can.
Initially, my interest in Ural was for the 2013 Peking to Paris Rally – a grueling 7,600-mile race across Asia on mostly dirt roads. When that fell through, my interest became less ambitious, although no less earnest, and thanks to Sinless Cycles and Ural USA I’ve been given the opportunity to compensate for that disappointment.
In the couple weeks it’s been in my possession I’ve had the Ural Gear-Up out in blinding Rocky Mountain blizzards that sidelined all but the most intrepid SUVs. With the sidecar wheel engaged, my 3x2 motorcycle plowed through snowdrifts with such aplomb that Iditarod mushers would’ve considered trading in their dogs. And while I’ve yet to ride it to the slick rock trails of Canyon Lands in southern Utah, that’s on the books, as are other itineraries in the remote West.
It’ll have to wait a few weeks though, as I’m off to follow the trail of Mary H. Kingsley and J. Michael Fay and I’m told even there a Ural would be impractical. Hard to believe, but maybe that’s another challenge begging to be made. Here’s to the possibilities the Ural Gear-Up inspires!
With 101 bikes on display, the showroom of Martin Motorsports was transformed into a classic bike museum for a day.
Photo By Joeseph Luppino
March isn’t typically the most active time for motorcyclists in southeastern Pennsylvania. But the
late winter chill didn’t stop Martin Motorsports in
Boyertown, Pa., from heating up riders with their third
annual Modern Classics show on March 2. Entitled “The Motorcycles That Made You
a Motorcyclist,” the show is an invitational featuring historically significant
bikes of all marques, primarily from the Sixties, Seventies and Eighties. More
than 1,200 attendees checked out the 101 entries that transformed Martin
Motorsports’ showroom into a “Museum for a Day.” In addition to rides like a
1985 Ducati Mike Hailwood Replica Mille, an all-original 1973 Moto Guzzi V7
Sport and a near-perfect example of a 1990 Honda RC30, visitors also got to
view a rare 1957 Islo 175 Carrera. The Mexican made (but Morini-powered)
classic was Islo founder Isidoro Lopez’ dream bike, intended for competition in
the classic Italian city-to-city races like the Motogiro. Sadly the races were
discontinued, and Lopez passed away before the dream could be realized. Four of
these bikes were built but just two survive, including the one shown at Modern
also relished this year’s special class of competition bikes. An Indian 750cc
Sport Scout that has been raced almost continuously since it left the
Springfield, Mass., factory in 1936, a Suzuki RG500 Grand Prix bike, and a 1972
MV Agusta 350 Electronica Twin featuring Giacomo Agostini’s autograph on the
tank were just a few of the special attractions among the 40-plus racing
unique element of the Modern Classics show is the professional photo studio
that’s set up on site. Each bike in the show is professionally photographed and
included in a collector-quality photo book to document the annual show. The
books are popular coffee table items among both fans and bike owners, and the
series are becoming collector items in their own right.
year’s 4th annual show is tentatively scheduled for early March. Mark your
calendars. And start polishing.
1957 Islo 175 Carrera is one of two survivors of just four built.
Photo By Jack Broomall
Hondamatic. To most Australians it is associated with the Honda automatic cars that were sold in the country in the late 1970’s and early 80’s. It seems a little known fact in Australia that Hondamatic is also the term given to Honda motorcycles equipped with automatic transmissions, and that Honda attempted offering these automatic motorcycles to the Australian bike riding fraternity with no luck. The feature bike in this article is a relic from this era, a California-spec CB750A brought to Australia for testing in the local conditions. Even though Honda Australia decided against selling the model here, the bike stayed, and has found its way into safe hands.
At the start of 1977, Honda was producing two automatic motorcycle models: The CB400A, known in the U.S. as the Hawk, and the CB750A, a reworking of the CB750F. These bikes were initially conceived as a way for learner riders to get comfortable riding motorcycles without fear of stalling. This allowed for the novice to practice staying upright, braking and riding in traffic, all without having to focus on changing gears constantly as well.
I say changing gears constantly because the automatic transmissions offered on Hondamatic motorcycles were not automatic in the true sense of the word. A shift lever in the same position as a gear changer on a manual Honda allowed the rider to shift between neutral, low and drive. The ability to manually shift between high and low made sure the bike wouldn’t shift gears through a corner, throwing a rider off balance. Also built into the automatic models was a linkage from the kickstand to the gear lever, so when the kickstand was operated, the bike would put itself into neutral. This would stop the bike from starting in gear, something someone new to riding might overlook after getting back on the back.
The automatic motorcycles lacked the performance of their manual brothers. Quarter-mile times and top speeds were slower, the added weight of the transmissions not helping. The CB750A didn’t allow enough acceleration on the downshift to pass cars, and the CB400A transmission allowed too much chance of over run when heading into corners at speed. Performance issues and a change in the demographic of bike buyers meant Hondamatics only got a 3-year run before being dropped from the lineup.
In an engineering sense, the CB750A wasn’t just a CB750 with an automatic transmission fitted. Much work went into this model to make them stand apart from their CB750 stable mates. The engine gained different rocker covers and crankcases to suit the different engine/transmission combo. The engines were changed from dry sump to wet sump, the same oil going from the torque convertor through the engine to be cooled. The torque convertor is of the same design as the Civic cars of the time, as well as the Moto Guzzi V1000, which would have been a competitor to the CB750A. A three-part unit, the convertor was made up of a centrifugal oil pump, a turbine wheel and a stator. The oil pump, driven off a primary drive connected to the crank, would spin inside the turbine wheel, both of these components being bowl shaped. The oil from the pump would travel along the vanes of the turbine wheel, where it is then directed to the cup-shaped vanes of the stator wheels, and deflected back to the oil pump hub. Simple but rugged, the Hondamatic motorcycles gained a name for reliability that still stands today.
In regards to the fuel system, the standard CB750 fare was not going to suit the Hondamatic. Four 24mm slide/needle Keihin carbs are fitted, along with an accelerator pump so when the bike is accelerated from idle it does not suffer from the “Honda Burp” of the period. On top of this an electronically controlled diaphragm on the throttle linkage automatically bumps up the revs as soon as the transmission is engaged to make sure the bike doesn’t stall. Breathing out is taken care of by a 4-into-2 exhaust system, the silencers swept up and back in the custom style of the time.
Aesthetically, the Honda CB750A looks very different to the other CB750 models, the designers looking to the GL1000 for inspiration. GL-style rims are fitted front and rear, a 19.5 litre GL-styled tank is fitted, and the handlebars are high and wide. The larger GL rims give more ground clearance, but they also make the bike look bulkier than it really is. Stopping duties are covered by standard Honda fare, disc in the front, drum in the rear. The front caliper is slightly different to standard CB spec. A road test of the period rates the rear drum as adequate and the front disc as “not being the best disc brake, but for the design of the bike it works well.”
Instruments are basic, the tachometer making way for a large light readout showing whatever gear the bike is in at the time. The speedometer gives the range for both low and drive gear to ensure the rider does not overwork the engine. Drive gear is good from 0 up to 100mph, the low gear being only from 0 to 60mph. Although it is possible to use high gear all the time, using low gear in traffic is the better option, leaving drive for the open road. A large 20-amp hour battery takes the traditional place of the Honda oil reservoir, fed by a 290-watt alternator. Kickstart is in case of emergency only, with a kickstart lever mounted under the seat in.
The Australian Automatics
In early 1977 Bennett Honda, Australia’s Honda motorcycle importer, brought in two California-spec CB750As for evaluation in regards to selling them on the Australian market. These bikes were given to local motoring journalists on the proviso that no one was to write up a road test. One magazine broke the pact, and published their thoughts on the CB750A. This prompted Honda Australia, who had taken over from Bennett in importing bikes, to release the bikes for a second full road test. This time journalists would be allowed to do a full review and publish their view of the automatic motorcycle. This was all for naught, as in the end Honda Japan decided that it would be a waste of money to specify such a small batch of bikes to sell on the Australian market, and the two test bikes were the only CB750A bikes brought into the country by Honda.
After Honda Australia gave up on the idea of importing CB750As into the country the test bikes were sold to Jim Airey’s dealership in Sydney. One of the Hondamatics was purchased by a local car dealer, who painted it white. It was stolen not long after and hasn’t been seen since. The second test bike found its way into the hands of the current owner, who after 35 years is still happy with the purchase. Modifications over the years include an oil cooler, lower handlebars for better riding position, and the original exhaust pipes put away for safekeeping. The only other noticeable modification is the retrimmed seat; foam doesn’t last forever and this bike has racked up some miles.
The bike being California spec, the indicators and headlight come on as soon as the ignition is turned on, not something you normally find on bikes in Australia. The bike looks immaculate for all its years, looking no worse than pictures of it taken for a magazine review in late 1977. This CB750A is definitely no trailer queen, either; if it goes somewhere, it is under its own power, and the owner likes to take it out at least once a month to stretch it’s two-speed legs. This remnant of an attempt to produce a whole new class of motorcycles is in good hands, the owner showing it is possible to have a rare bike and not hide it away in the garage under a cover.
Ultimately, the automatic motorcycle craze did not take off. The CB750A was classed as too heavy for novice riders and too slow for experienced riders. The bulk of the transmission worked against both classes of riders, leaving the over-engineered CB750A without a demographic to sell to, thus prompting its demise in 1978. Interest in these Hondamatic models is rising, with riders realizing they aren’t bad bikes per se, they just require a different riding style. It’s good this CB750A has found its way into the feature bike owner’s hands and that he is willing to show it off. Or to put it in Motorcycle Classics terms: To ride it, not hide it.
Thanks to the owner of the bike for his time and information. Also to Tom Day and Stewart MacDonald for their assistance researching this piece.
The Suzuki SV Riders held their third annual bike rally at the Lake Louisa State Park, Clermont, Florida, and I was honored to be invited by Tom Swartz, the event organizer, his lovely wife, Lori, and Craig Freger. We were greeted by cool crisp nights, bright clear skies and dry, well-paved twisty roads.
Lake County Florida is situated only 25 miles west of Orlando, with towering 400-foot vertical elevations. Certainly not the Florida seen on “Wish you were here” postcards. Hell, back when I lived in upstate N.Y. we snow-skied at such staggering heights. For this ride I joined a mixed group of riders with a diverse mix of bikes other than Suzuki SVs; among the non-conformists were a Kawasaki ZRX1100, Moto Guzzi California, Kawasaki ZX636, BMW R1200ST, a real, authentic, raced-back-in-the-day Yamaha RD350 and my own fresh from a frame-off restoration Honda CB650 Café.
The ride was led by our trusted friend and local Russell on his trusty BMW ST1200, which has logged an incredible 119,000 miles and still looks and runs pristine. The route, while not rivaling the Blue Ridge Parkway’s Tail of the Dragon, was an incredible 180 miles filled with enough switchbacks, corkscrews and decreasing radius turns to keep us well entertained for a full day of riding, broken by a spectacular lunch at Gator Joe's, where we witnessed a sea plane land on the placid waters of one of the hundreds of lakes surrounding the area.
And of course what self-respecting bike event would be complete without a spectacular cookout, a few cool ones, some tall tale telling (you know the older I get the better I was) and camaraderie second to none.
Pleased to report everyone survived and returned home safely only to begin plans for next year’s even more spectacular riding event. You can keep the beaches and seashells; I’ll take the Florida high country anytime.
Recently back from the Mountaineers MC 2012 Octoberfest desert ride in Nevada, this year about 40 miles Northwest of Lovelock, Nev., at an old mining site called Placeritas. And I gotta tell ya, I'm very glad to be back and very eager to forget the whole damn thing!
We had to drive about 26 miles of pretty good to pretty bumpy gravel road starting maybe 15 miles out of Lovelock. The smooth parts kind of lulled us into complacency, and Ray drove the motorhome fairly fast the whole 26 miles. When we got to camp, just at dark, we were startled and dismayed to find the right tire on the motorcycle trailer was blown and shredded; the three-leaf spring had broken clean through in front of the axle, and my poor little Honda was gone!
All that had occurred somewhere in that 26 miles and we had no idea where the hell my bike was. We had to quickly disconnect the trailer and drive the motorhome back about 5 miles before we found it in the middle of the road, where it had fallen at maybe 25 or 30mph. Even badly beat-up, that faithful, ol' Honda started when I tried it and then I had to ride it back to camp, badly-bent bars and all.
Notice the back directional signal is gone, and the handlebars, license plate, and footpeg are badly bent. What you can't see are the broken headlight lens, front directional signal lens, and front brake lever.
I managed to bend the bars back enough in camp to be able to ride it the next 3 days, and I'm not sure that was the smartest thing I've ever done because the riding was a true bitch: rough, hot and dusty as hell, and we seemed to be continually lost and not able to find anything we were looking for.
This is a panoramic shot of our camp taken after a number of guys had left. The camp is on the center right, and a motorhome leaving, is kicking up a dust plume at the center left. That road, the last mile or so into camp, is the next picture ...
This is an example of what all-too-much of our riding was: talcum powder-fine dust maybe 4"-to-6" deep that provided little traction for steering but just enough, if you hit it wrong, to kick the front wheel out of your control and then, FLOP, down you'd go. Notice the disrupted area in the foreground of this shot; that's where one of our riders crashed coming back into camp. And I flopped in the same kind of stuff the day before and miles from camp and broke the clutch lever; I had to pull the just-replaced front brake lever off to use for the clutch, and then ride — carefully — without a front brake. And you can imagine the dust this stuff kicks up when a guy rides into it, on the gas, trying to power his way through it.
This, I'll admit, is the compensating positive of this desert ride: the great scenery without anything like a crowd to deal with. That's our old Scoutmaster, Frank Dickinson, staring back at you.
This is the completely appropriate shot to end this story: A gravesite. I want to bury the memory of this 'Fest just as finally and fully as these people were laid to rest. Notice, though, the site is given as "Barrel Springs"; trouble is, we thought we were at the site of Scossa, which is actually about 7 or 8 miles away. A good example of how turned-around we got out there, which is not good in the varied desert, with a hundred trails leading who-the-hell-knows-where, small dirt-bike gas tanks with limited range, and my GPS proving to be only marginally effective for a number of reasons.