BRAG California Tour -- Day 2: 281 miles,
May. 19th, 2002 11:42 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tugrikThe joy of stiff motel beds had me up a half hour before the alarm -- 7am. A leisurely soak in the hottub ate up the time until Dusty awoke. We were packed and on the bikes by 8:30. Joining up with a few other riders, we headed out to the Oceanside Buell dealer for breakfast; a small 30 mile jog. The fellow leading the pack wasn't quite awake, and missed the on-ramp to the 805, creating a need for a few turnabouts. The 'angry fog' continued this morning, with an extra bit of effort to it this time, leaving bike and rider just damp enough to make it hard to see through helmet-visors. Breakfast was a table full of donuts, Sunny D, and bagels.
On this trip there are three kinds of 'dealer stops': sendoffs, luncheons, and full blown parties. Oceanside was a visit of the 'sendoff' variety, and the dealership was simply the gathering point for the ride. No real events or speeches, just some donuts and signup-sheets for the latecomers. It appears a few folks will join and leave each day of the ride, electing to only do the segment that passes their hometown. Considering many sport-bike riders don't want to carry luggage, I can see the appeal of doing a Day Ride as the group rolls through one's hometown.
I was under the impression that this was to be a group ride like the GoldWingers do... where there's an established Head, Tail, and a set of protocols to keep the group in line. The sheets showing the mile markers and gas-stops were spot on for that kind of thing, but it turns out this is a rally-type event instead. They list alternate routes: a shortest-distance one, and a 'long twisty route'. In todays case, it meant 123 miles of highway vs. 251 miles of up/down and twiiisty. We of course chose the latter. Each route had a rally sheet, which is a simple listing of mileage and roadnames, designed to be put in a tank bag for easy reading en route. To show you what one looks like, here's Section 1 of today's:
PHASE 1 -- MAY 19: San Diego to Victorville
Stop at So. Colifornia Buell
ODO Turn Road
---- ----- ------------
00.0 Left Coast Higway
00.4 Right Oceanside Blvd.
09.7 Left E. Vista Way
11.8 Right Gopher Canyon Blvd
16.6 Right Champagne Blvd
22.2 Left Old Castle Rd.
25.8 Left Couser Canyon
28.6 **Picture Spot**
30.8 Left Highway 76
30.9 Right Rice Canyon
36.1 Right Cam Rainbow
(Turns into Rainbow Valley)
37.8 Right Stop Sign (Rainbow Valley)
40.9 Left Pala Rd.
41.1 Right Highway 79
41.1 Right Redhawk Parkway
42.7 Left "Texaco" Gas Stop
A "phase" always starts at a fill-up station. One resets their tripometer reading (ODO) to zero. Then, just follow the instructions. If your speedo is pretty accurate, you should be able to find the turns right on time. Most are a little fast (4-5% is the legal norm, a trick the mfgrs do at the behest of law enforcement, so folks think they're going faster than they really are), so the milage comes up early, thereby putting you on the alert for the next turn ahead of time. Please note the short 42.7mi total: this is definately a sportbiker-attuned ride. The "Adventure" riders I hang out with stare at you funny if you mention stopping any sooner than 200mi or so. Personally, as this is my first real 'tour', I like it this way. Super-easy.
We headed down Oceanside, 'enjoying' the increasing mist-become-rain. While I make it sound sarcastic... actually, I really was enjoying it. I had some P.M. Dawn playing in the headphone speakers, and the mellow funk mixed with the weather beautifully. Roadside plants took on that way-vivid-green hue they get during a thinning overcast; I suspect it's the UV making it through the clouds. Either way, it felt nicely rainforesty. We took a lazy line through the back of Oceanside and out into the canyons. It wasn't until we made it into open country at the Champagne Blvd turn that we ran into our first problem.
Now and then there's one slow car that gets in front of the horde of motorcyclers. We were supposed to be in groups of 5 or so, but for the heck of it about 1/2 of us started out in this huge 40 bike lump. We owned the road. Makers of hooligan-50's-bikers movies would be proud. We'd lurk like some seething mass of attitude behind said car until they pulled over and hid, while we roared on past. When one wouldn't, one or two riders would pull up aside ('lane splitting' beside then), and politely ask them to let us by. This involved a number of hand gestures, trying to talk with body lingo -- and no, I don't mean rude ones. Most got the point. One didn't... and the biker in the lead got very frustrated, and blasted on past, pipes roaring.
...while the rest of the group turned left, as we were supposed to...
Dusty played 'good samaritan' and followed the errant guy, to get him turned around. Wanting to stick together, I stayed with him. It took us about 2 miles to get attitude-boy's attention, and get him turned around. By the time we got back, the others were long gone. As I was expecting the group to make effort to stay together... I was a little worried at this point. Dusty and the turn-misser were definately in a rush, and their little crotch-rocket bikes left me waaaaay behind.
So here I am, on Couser Canyon road, all alone. But the weather and music were meshing, and the canyon itself was just stunning. I decided to just settle into my little groove and enjoy the ride. I figured if Dusty had half of friend-loyal braincell in his head, he'd be waiting for me at the gas stop. It took about 5 miles to find said groove, and then the road opened up nicely for me. I'm finally getting used to the Tourance tires on wet pavement, and relaxed from 'oh jeez I'm gonna skid' into normal conering. Getting a little agressive on some downhill sweepers, I had the bike leaned over nicely and there around my corner... big ol' Nikor lens. A fleeting second of image took a while for me to recognize it was the official photo crew, and I'd just blown through the "Picture Spot" on the route, doing a wickedly nice turn. Coooool. So that's what "picture spot" meant.
As I've lamented before, enjoying the ride means not taking pictures of it. One has to stop, unzip the camera, flip off a few frames, and then get back on to the road. The problem is best stated in pure California-ese: it totally busts the groove. The camera stayed packed until the gas stop, as a result. The canyon went down a lazy 1000ft of elevation or so, playing out into a lush grassy pastureland, nestled between the hills there NE of San Diego. Riding with the visor flipped up (but safety glasses on, worry not), the big flat curves in the valley basin smelled like the farm I grew up on, back in Missouri. Spring rains. I remember this. Scent is the strongest emotion-evoker of the senses, and drinking the various smells in while in motion is one of my favorite parts of motorcycling. Rounding the last of the fields, I spotted one of the other riders and his ladyfriend with their bikes stopped. I slowed to check if they were okay, and he held up his camera in one hand, thumbs-up with the other. I waved, and rolled on.
The pretty pastureland gave out to a random little suburb, and it wasn't long before I hit the Texaco. As expected, the bulk of the riders were there, all filling up. So far this trip I've been getting about 38mpg... so with the GS's huge 8 gallon tank, I can cruise about 250 miles before I even think about topping it off. In comparison, the Buell riders get itchy about filling up at 100mi, and at 150 they're sweating bullets. I took a moment to buy some bottled water and pink grapefruit juice while waiting for the rest of the group to fill up. Dusty wasn't among them, though. As I was searching for him, there he came, up Redhawk... only to turn away from the gas station and go blasting down the wrong way. While some of the others in the group jeered about 'who gets to go chase down Dusty', I pulled out the FRS radio and told him to turn around. Feeling I'd spoiled their fun, a few of the guys borrowed the radio and taunted him the whole way in to the station. It was good-natured, to be sure, but dusty swatted a few caps off of folks heads after he parked, as his way of going 'Hrmf.' Meanwhile, out came the camera. *snap snap snap* The route chart said RESET ODOMETER, showing it was the end of the first phase.
Dusty and I headed off on Phase 2 (of three for the day) on our own, now that we'd both figured out is was 'just go and get there'. The stupid Autocom had taken to sending static instead of my voice, even though I could hear Dusty just fine. We went back to handsignals, with me carrying the rally sheet in my map case, and hollering out next-turns to him. After missing the first turn, he started watching for my signals a little better. :)
A few photos came out of this phase, as we realized that if we just blasted straight through it all, we'd be done with the day a wee bit early. A "Big Horses" feedstore advertising "Big Horse Food" got snapped off, as well as a few other random sights. Then, as we turned down R-3 (aka "Sage Road"), we hit an intersting snag: The pavement went away. Here, on the Sanctioned Official Route, they'd decided to redo the road by first completely removing it. We weren't the first to hit that area, and we'd not seen anybody turn around. I was all for it -- this is why I have a GS-bike! I could just imagine it purring happily at the idea of a little dirt-time. Dusty was notably put off by the idea, as his bike isn't just sportbike... it's a *show* bike. Y'know, the kind that get polished and waxed and all that. He forged on well, though. As Dusty's pace turned to a more-cautious lollygaging, I took some extra time to roost up with the back tire a bit and weave to and fro over newly-dug dirt. Mmmm, tasty... :) Much to my disappointment and Dusty's relief, it returned to pavement after only a few miles. At the end of it, we met up with a group of five others who were taking a breather after that 'hard bit of road'. I was good and didn't strut or anything, honest. Again with the *snap snap* of the shutter, though. I swear, ONE of these hotels we're staying at's gonna have broadband so I can upload a few... *grrf*
The route took us through the unremarkable town of Hemet. A few low-density uban streets, a stop at the BoFA for Dusty to buy money, and we left the town behind. From here, the road climbed abruptly into the San Bruno mountains. Halfway up Highway 243, Dusty's Buell started to sputter, and all the wonderful forest-smells were replaced with unburnt gasoline. *koff koff* We pulled off to a safe spot, and between bouts of frustrated growls, Dusty jiggled wires, cleared tubes, and otherwise tried all the quick-fixes he could think of. A quick call to the chase-truck got us info that if needed, he could be picked up in a halfhour or so. Meanwhile, half of the main group blasted by; a few stopped to see if we were okay, before continuing on. Out of frustration, Dusty fired it back up while swearing loudly at it. It must have listened, as the bike ran a little better. We wanted to get up to the next town instead of sitting aside a steep highway pullout, so we suited back up and tried to proceed. A few hundred meters up the slope and the gas smell was gone; the bike was running normal again! Dusty signaled to roll on (a twirl above the head, then pointing forwards), deciding to make good on the opportunity.
We continued on into the tiny mountain town of Idyllwyld, to the official lunch spot called the Squirrel's Nest Cafe. A few more frames, and a not-bad-but-definatley-greasy burger made quick work of our lunch break. I got a chance to chat with Erik Buell, on the only topic I could think of asking: Which Buell would he recommend for a rider of my weight? He chatted about the Lightning, which is the one my friend Lance owns, and seemed like quite the nice fellow throughout. He and Dusty checked out Dusty's bike for possible flaws, but couldn't find anything. It was running better than ever, even. So... on we go. I had an embarrasing moment of parking on an improper slope, and I had to get a few helping hands to lift the bike to vertical once I'd gotten on it. D'oh.
The road from Idllwyld to Banning is pure mountain country. Pine trees, giant boulders, vistas galore. We stopped at a few, as were other riders. The line on the map shows us as slipping between Mt. Edna and San Jacinto Peak, putting us at about 5200 feet. I remembered this road, I was sure of it... so at the next stop, I pulled out the Globalstar satellite phone and gave it the ol' "functional test"... and called the parents. Sure enough... we'd camped there many times when I was a little kid, my mom confirmed. It's amazing what little things the mind can remember. This had me grinning madly as I kept searching for bits I'd remember, until we dropped back down to the town of Beaumont, the end of Phase 2.
Beaumont was a gas-pump shaped icon on some travel map of the I-10. In comparison to the beauty and memories of the mountain pass, I don't remember anything about that redundant little town save for the fact I bought more grapefruit juice. We gladly moved on, up Bryant avenue to enjoy the best curves of the trip so far: Oak Glen to Highway 38. I'm running out of time tonight, so I'll save the description of 'what makes a curve great' for another day's journal. For the first time I found out wat it was like to scrape the centerstand and side pegs of the big GS. Scary... but at the same time, too much fun. This means I'm finally getting to trust my bike like I should.
Highway 38 zooms right up toward Big Bear... this incline making the earlier one look tiny. Halfway up, and the same thing happens to Dusty's bike. The smell of gas, stuttering... and we're pulled over, by a callbox. This time the Dustycat is raving mad. We can find nothing wrong with the bike. He literally climbs the walls for a while (of which I have photographic proof), and then it goes from bad, to worse. A huge group of riders decide to pull over en masse to see if they can help... and the ride leader, Erik Buell, is with them. He peeks at Dusty's bike again, and can't figure out what's wrong, so he and the rest of the group tell us to 'call the chase truck' and zoom on. Dusty was mortified; you could see his face going white. In a way, Mr. Buell is an icon to him; a Big Cheese that he really looks up to. And here, his nicely customized/modified/lovingly-cared-for Buell motorcycle... FAILS. Right in front of the bike's creator. As the riders blasted away, Dusty looked more pitiful than a cat dipped in syrup and rolled in grit.
The phones, of course, didn't work there. Thank Goodness for Globalstar. We got ahold of the chase truck, only to find they'd taken the 'fast route' -- and were already at the endpoint! It'd take over an hour to get back to us, if that. So... we waited. We found ourselves on the side of a sheer cliff, going down about 1800ft or so, and sat in the shade of a rocky outcropping right on the ledge. We took to throwing rocks over the side to pass the time (and to help Dusty calm down). At one point, Dusty heaved one off to the side... and the normal *clatter* came... followed by another, then another... then more and more. The noise didn't stop for 45 seconds. We shimmied over there and found the cause: a huge V-shaped gully of shale, that went down at a 80 degree angle or so, all the way to the bottom. Rocks tossed in it would shatter and the parts would go all the way down, bouncing loudly... often triggering more to cascade alongside. Oh, we HAD to play with this. We partook in a wonderful session of Human Created Erosion, finding out just how big of rocks we could carry over to the ramp's entry. Folks in the cars that passed occasionally must have thought us nuts! Two grown men, looking for traffic before trying to heft huge boulders over to the other side... only to huck them over and laugh like idiots, while pointing. It was at about this point that I realized this is exactly the kind of thing A Guy Does that A Woman Will Never Understand. There was just some pure animalistic joy our boulder-hurling. Now I know why Donkey Kong threw all those barrels. It's FUN.
An hour passes. No truck. So... call again. They took the wrong road! Coming around the backside of Big Bear Lake, it'd be another hour+ before they'd get here. Out of sheer frustration, Dusty fired up his bike, and told me it was Time to Go. We were going to make it up that damn hill and meet the truck halfway, or kill his bike trying (yes, the thought did cross his mind about seeing what the bike would sound like, going down that ravine. Enough for him to bring that idea up to the other riders multiple times later in the day). The bike shuddered and chewed its way up the first few hundred meters... and then, for no reason at all... gave a little 'chunk' sound and then ran perfect. I don't think I could have found a way to make Dusty any madder than he already was. I turned down my headset radio for a bit while he vented into his mic.
We made it up, all the way to the 8100ft mark. We made it back down, into Big Bear, with nary a hitch. The terrain was beautiful indeed, but a bit tainted by my concern for Dusty. I was more worried about his state of mind than the state of his bike. I knew the dealer would make it OK in the end, but I didn't want his whole vacation ruined. We pulled into the gas station at Highway 18 in Big Bear, and called up the truck to see where it'd gone. "I see you guys, there on the corner; I'm just rolling in." Wow. Timing. He took a look at the bike, couldn't see a thing wrong, and told us he'd follow us back to the dealer just to make sure; he was headed there anyways.
Coming down off of Granite Peaks into the Longhorn Valley was the most impressive vista yet. Here we were coming off of 8000 ft, headed down the side of a mountain to a 1000ft valley below. I could see a 10-mile-long dust-storm on the desert floor below, with some wonderful 500'-or-so dustdevils amidst it. We picked our way down the switchbacks and past a few sunday drivers until we joined the dust-storm, already in progress. The last dozen miles or so was spent going Very Straight but with the bikes leaned over nicely, into a 40mph crosswind. It was a relief to pull into the Buell dealer in Victorville.
Amazingly... we still caught the tail end of the party. Food was a collection of steak, spanish rice, beans, and tortillas. Fruit punch and cake rounded it out. A raffle was had, and Dusty won a silly Buell patch that was mispelled (Beull)... and to our surprise, the service manager expected problems and had stayed late for the party. They had Dusty's bike up on the stand in moments, and by the time we were done stuffing ourselves they'd found the culprit: the wire to his O2 sensor had been caught between his battery and the battery-holder box, and over time had worn down. It was shorting sporadically, and when it would short the bike would run rich. Combine that with upill strain, and you got the problem he had. When he removed the seat to check the problem each time, he probably jiggled the wire just enough to undo the short. A $2 part, and $60 of labor, and we were all done.
This hotel is kinda ugly, very small, and very old. Still... it's nice to be here. It has a bed. It's got a hot-tub, which I've already used at this point. I came back here to write this, while Dusty went to schmooze with the other riders a bit. Our day tomorrow starts as early as ever, and Dusty's just now returned in the time it took me to jot these notes down. Bedtime for bonzo. See y'all tomorrow night!
On this trip there are three kinds of 'dealer stops': sendoffs, luncheons, and full blown parties. Oceanside was a visit of the 'sendoff' variety, and the dealership was simply the gathering point for the ride. No real events or speeches, just some donuts and signup-sheets for the latecomers. It appears a few folks will join and leave each day of the ride, electing to only do the segment that passes their hometown. Considering many sport-bike riders don't want to carry luggage, I can see the appeal of doing a Day Ride as the group rolls through one's hometown.
I was under the impression that this was to be a group ride like the GoldWingers do... where there's an established Head, Tail, and a set of protocols to keep the group in line. The sheets showing the mile markers and gas-stops were spot on for that kind of thing, but it turns out this is a rally-type event instead. They list alternate routes: a shortest-distance one, and a 'long twisty route'. In todays case, it meant 123 miles of highway vs. 251 miles of up/down and twiiisty. We of course chose the latter. Each route had a rally sheet, which is a simple listing of mileage and roadnames, designed to be put in a tank bag for easy reading en route. To show you what one looks like, here's Section 1 of today's:
PHASE 1 -- MAY 19: San Diego to Victorville
Stop at So. Colifornia Buell
ODO Turn Road
---- ----- ------------
00.0 Left Coast Higway
00.4 Right Oceanside Blvd.
09.7 Left E. Vista Way
11.8 Right Gopher Canyon Blvd
16.6 Right Champagne Blvd
22.2 Left Old Castle Rd.
25.8 Left Couser Canyon
28.6 **Picture Spot**
30.8 Left Highway 76
30.9 Right Rice Canyon
36.1 Right Cam Rainbow
(Turns into Rainbow Valley)
37.8 Right Stop Sign (Rainbow Valley)
40.9 Left Pala Rd.
41.1 Right Highway 79
41.1 Right Redhawk Parkway
42.7 Left "Texaco" Gas Stop
A "phase" always starts at a fill-up station. One resets their tripometer reading (ODO) to zero. Then, just follow the instructions. If your speedo is pretty accurate, you should be able to find the turns right on time. Most are a little fast (4-5% is the legal norm, a trick the mfgrs do at the behest of law enforcement, so folks think they're going faster than they really are), so the milage comes up early, thereby putting you on the alert for the next turn ahead of time. Please note the short 42.7mi total: this is definately a sportbiker-attuned ride. The "Adventure" riders I hang out with stare at you funny if you mention stopping any sooner than 200mi or so. Personally, as this is my first real 'tour', I like it this way. Super-easy.
We headed down Oceanside, 'enjoying' the increasing mist-become-rain. While I make it sound sarcastic... actually, I really was enjoying it. I had some P.M. Dawn playing in the headphone speakers, and the mellow funk mixed with the weather beautifully. Roadside plants took on that way-vivid-green hue they get during a thinning overcast; I suspect it's the UV making it through the clouds. Either way, it felt nicely rainforesty. We took a lazy line through the back of Oceanside and out into the canyons. It wasn't until we made it into open country at the Champagne Blvd turn that we ran into our first problem.
Now and then there's one slow car that gets in front of the horde of motorcyclers. We were supposed to be in groups of 5 or so, but for the heck of it about 1/2 of us started out in this huge 40 bike lump. We owned the road. Makers of hooligan-50's-bikers movies would be proud. We'd lurk like some seething mass of attitude behind said car until they pulled over and hid, while we roared on past. When one wouldn't, one or two riders would pull up aside ('lane splitting' beside then), and politely ask them to let us by. This involved a number of hand gestures, trying to talk with body lingo -- and no, I don't mean rude ones. Most got the point. One didn't... and the biker in the lead got very frustrated, and blasted on past, pipes roaring.
...while the rest of the group turned left, as we were supposed to...
Dusty played 'good samaritan' and followed the errant guy, to get him turned around. Wanting to stick together, I stayed with him. It took us about 2 miles to get attitude-boy's attention, and get him turned around. By the time we got back, the others were long gone. As I was expecting the group to make effort to stay together... I was a little worried at this point. Dusty and the turn-misser were definately in a rush, and their little crotch-rocket bikes left me waaaaay behind.
So here I am, on Couser Canyon road, all alone. But the weather and music were meshing, and the canyon itself was just stunning. I decided to just settle into my little groove and enjoy the ride. I figured if Dusty had half of friend-loyal braincell in his head, he'd be waiting for me at the gas stop. It took about 5 miles to find said groove, and then the road opened up nicely for me. I'm finally getting used to the Tourance tires on wet pavement, and relaxed from 'oh jeez I'm gonna skid' into normal conering. Getting a little agressive on some downhill sweepers, I had the bike leaned over nicely and there around my corner... big ol' Nikor lens. A fleeting second of image took a while for me to recognize it was the official photo crew, and I'd just blown through the "Picture Spot" on the route, doing a wickedly nice turn. Coooool. So that's what "picture spot" meant.
As I've lamented before, enjoying the ride means not taking pictures of it. One has to stop, unzip the camera, flip off a few frames, and then get back on to the road. The problem is best stated in pure California-ese: it totally busts the groove. The camera stayed packed until the gas stop, as a result. The canyon went down a lazy 1000ft of elevation or so, playing out into a lush grassy pastureland, nestled between the hills there NE of San Diego. Riding with the visor flipped up (but safety glasses on, worry not), the big flat curves in the valley basin smelled like the farm I grew up on, back in Missouri. Spring rains. I remember this. Scent is the strongest emotion-evoker of the senses, and drinking the various smells in while in motion is one of my favorite parts of motorcycling. Rounding the last of the fields, I spotted one of the other riders and his ladyfriend with their bikes stopped. I slowed to check if they were okay, and he held up his camera in one hand, thumbs-up with the other. I waved, and rolled on.
The pretty pastureland gave out to a random little suburb, and it wasn't long before I hit the Texaco. As expected, the bulk of the riders were there, all filling up. So far this trip I've been getting about 38mpg... so with the GS's huge 8 gallon tank, I can cruise about 250 miles before I even think about topping it off. In comparison, the Buell riders get itchy about filling up at 100mi, and at 150 they're sweating bullets. I took a moment to buy some bottled water and pink grapefruit juice while waiting for the rest of the group to fill up. Dusty wasn't among them, though. As I was searching for him, there he came, up Redhawk... only to turn away from the gas station and go blasting down the wrong way. While some of the others in the group jeered about 'who gets to go chase down Dusty', I pulled out the FRS radio and told him to turn around. Feeling I'd spoiled their fun, a few of the guys borrowed the radio and taunted him the whole way in to the station. It was good-natured, to be sure, but dusty swatted a few caps off of folks heads after he parked, as his way of going 'Hrmf.' Meanwhile, out came the camera. *snap snap snap* The route chart said RESET ODOMETER, showing it was the end of the first phase.
Dusty and I headed off on Phase 2 (of three for the day) on our own, now that we'd both figured out is was 'just go and get there'. The stupid Autocom had taken to sending static instead of my voice, even though I could hear Dusty just fine. We went back to handsignals, with me carrying the rally sheet in my map case, and hollering out next-turns to him. After missing the first turn, he started watching for my signals a little better. :)
A few photos came out of this phase, as we realized that if we just blasted straight through it all, we'd be done with the day a wee bit early. A "Big Horses" feedstore advertising "Big Horse Food" got snapped off, as well as a few other random sights. Then, as we turned down R-3 (aka "Sage Road"), we hit an intersting snag: The pavement went away. Here, on the Sanctioned Official Route, they'd decided to redo the road by first completely removing it. We weren't the first to hit that area, and we'd not seen anybody turn around. I was all for it -- this is why I have a GS-bike! I could just imagine it purring happily at the idea of a little dirt-time. Dusty was notably put off by the idea, as his bike isn't just sportbike... it's a *show* bike. Y'know, the kind that get polished and waxed and all that. He forged on well, though. As Dusty's pace turned to a more-cautious lollygaging, I took some extra time to roost up with the back tire a bit and weave to and fro over newly-dug dirt. Mmmm, tasty... :) Much to my disappointment and Dusty's relief, it returned to pavement after only a few miles. At the end of it, we met up with a group of five others who were taking a breather after that 'hard bit of road'. I was good and didn't strut or anything, honest. Again with the *snap snap* of the shutter, though. I swear, ONE of these hotels we're staying at's gonna have broadband so I can upload a few... *grrf*
The route took us through the unremarkable town of Hemet. A few low-density uban streets, a stop at the BoFA for Dusty to buy money, and we left the town behind. From here, the road climbed abruptly into the San Bruno mountains. Halfway up Highway 243, Dusty's Buell started to sputter, and all the wonderful forest-smells were replaced with unburnt gasoline. *koff koff* We pulled off to a safe spot, and between bouts of frustrated growls, Dusty jiggled wires, cleared tubes, and otherwise tried all the quick-fixes he could think of. A quick call to the chase-truck got us info that if needed, he could be picked up in a halfhour or so. Meanwhile, half of the main group blasted by; a few stopped to see if we were okay, before continuing on. Out of frustration, Dusty fired it back up while swearing loudly at it. It must have listened, as the bike ran a little better. We wanted to get up to the next town instead of sitting aside a steep highway pullout, so we suited back up and tried to proceed. A few hundred meters up the slope and the gas smell was gone; the bike was running normal again! Dusty signaled to roll on (a twirl above the head, then pointing forwards), deciding to make good on the opportunity.
We continued on into the tiny mountain town of Idyllwyld, to the official lunch spot called the Squirrel's Nest Cafe. A few more frames, and a not-bad-but-definatley-greasy burger made quick work of our lunch break. I got a chance to chat with Erik Buell, on the only topic I could think of asking: Which Buell would he recommend for a rider of my weight? He chatted about the Lightning, which is the one my friend Lance owns, and seemed like quite the nice fellow throughout. He and Dusty checked out Dusty's bike for possible flaws, but couldn't find anything. It was running better than ever, even. So... on we go. I had an embarrasing moment of parking on an improper slope, and I had to get a few helping hands to lift the bike to vertical once I'd gotten on it. D'oh.
The road from Idllwyld to Banning is pure mountain country. Pine trees, giant boulders, vistas galore. We stopped at a few, as were other riders. The line on the map shows us as slipping between Mt. Edna and San Jacinto Peak, putting us at about 5200 feet. I remembered this road, I was sure of it... so at the next stop, I pulled out the Globalstar satellite phone and gave it the ol' "functional test"... and called the parents. Sure enough... we'd camped there many times when I was a little kid, my mom confirmed. It's amazing what little things the mind can remember. This had me grinning madly as I kept searching for bits I'd remember, until we dropped back down to the town of Beaumont, the end of Phase 2.
Beaumont was a gas-pump shaped icon on some travel map of the I-10. In comparison to the beauty and memories of the mountain pass, I don't remember anything about that redundant little town save for the fact I bought more grapefruit juice. We gladly moved on, up Bryant avenue to enjoy the best curves of the trip so far: Oak Glen to Highway 38. I'm running out of time tonight, so I'll save the description of 'what makes a curve great' for another day's journal. For the first time I found out wat it was like to scrape the centerstand and side pegs of the big GS. Scary... but at the same time, too much fun. This means I'm finally getting to trust my bike like I should.
Highway 38 zooms right up toward Big Bear... this incline making the earlier one look tiny. Halfway up, and the same thing happens to Dusty's bike. The smell of gas, stuttering... and we're pulled over, by a callbox. This time the Dustycat is raving mad. We can find nothing wrong with the bike. He literally climbs the walls for a while (of which I have photographic proof), and then it goes from bad, to worse. A huge group of riders decide to pull over en masse to see if they can help... and the ride leader, Erik Buell, is with them. He peeks at Dusty's bike again, and can't figure out what's wrong, so he and the rest of the group tell us to 'call the chase truck' and zoom on. Dusty was mortified; you could see his face going white. In a way, Mr. Buell is an icon to him; a Big Cheese that he really looks up to. And here, his nicely customized/modified/lovingly-cared-for Buell motorcycle... FAILS. Right in front of the bike's creator. As the riders blasted away, Dusty looked more pitiful than a cat dipped in syrup and rolled in grit.
The phones, of course, didn't work there. Thank Goodness for Globalstar. We got ahold of the chase truck, only to find they'd taken the 'fast route' -- and were already at the endpoint! It'd take over an hour to get back to us, if that. So... we waited. We found ourselves on the side of a sheer cliff, going down about 1800ft or so, and sat in the shade of a rocky outcropping right on the ledge. We took to throwing rocks over the side to pass the time (and to help Dusty calm down). At one point, Dusty heaved one off to the side... and the normal *clatter* came... followed by another, then another... then more and more. The noise didn't stop for 45 seconds. We shimmied over there and found the cause: a huge V-shaped gully of shale, that went down at a 80 degree angle or so, all the way to the bottom. Rocks tossed in it would shatter and the parts would go all the way down, bouncing loudly... often triggering more to cascade alongside. Oh, we HAD to play with this. We partook in a wonderful session of Human Created Erosion, finding out just how big of rocks we could carry over to the ramp's entry. Folks in the cars that passed occasionally must have thought us nuts! Two grown men, looking for traffic before trying to heft huge boulders over to the other side... only to huck them over and laugh like idiots, while pointing. It was at about this point that I realized this is exactly the kind of thing A Guy Does that A Woman Will Never Understand. There was just some pure animalistic joy our boulder-hurling. Now I know why Donkey Kong threw all those barrels. It's FUN.
An hour passes. No truck. So... call again. They took the wrong road! Coming around the backside of Big Bear Lake, it'd be another hour+ before they'd get here. Out of sheer frustration, Dusty fired up his bike, and told me it was Time to Go. We were going to make it up that damn hill and meet the truck halfway, or kill his bike trying (yes, the thought did cross his mind about seeing what the bike would sound like, going down that ravine. Enough for him to bring that idea up to the other riders multiple times later in the day). The bike shuddered and chewed its way up the first few hundred meters... and then, for no reason at all... gave a little 'chunk' sound and then ran perfect. I don't think I could have found a way to make Dusty any madder than he already was. I turned down my headset radio for a bit while he vented into his mic.
We made it up, all the way to the 8100ft mark. We made it back down, into Big Bear, with nary a hitch. The terrain was beautiful indeed, but a bit tainted by my concern for Dusty. I was more worried about his state of mind than the state of his bike. I knew the dealer would make it OK in the end, but I didn't want his whole vacation ruined. We pulled into the gas station at Highway 18 in Big Bear, and called up the truck to see where it'd gone. "I see you guys, there on the corner; I'm just rolling in." Wow. Timing. He took a look at the bike, couldn't see a thing wrong, and told us he'd follow us back to the dealer just to make sure; he was headed there anyways.
Coming down off of Granite Peaks into the Longhorn Valley was the most impressive vista yet. Here we were coming off of 8000 ft, headed down the side of a mountain to a 1000ft valley below. I could see a 10-mile-long dust-storm on the desert floor below, with some wonderful 500'-or-so dustdevils amidst it. We picked our way down the switchbacks and past a few sunday drivers until we joined the dust-storm, already in progress. The last dozen miles or so was spent going Very Straight but with the bikes leaned over nicely, into a 40mph crosswind. It was a relief to pull into the Buell dealer in Victorville.
Amazingly... we still caught the tail end of the party. Food was a collection of steak, spanish rice, beans, and tortillas. Fruit punch and cake rounded it out. A raffle was had, and Dusty won a silly Buell patch that was mispelled (Beull)... and to our surprise, the service manager expected problems and had stayed late for the party. They had Dusty's bike up on the stand in moments, and by the time we were done stuffing ourselves they'd found the culprit: the wire to his O2 sensor had been caught between his battery and the battery-holder box, and over time had worn down. It was shorting sporadically, and when it would short the bike would run rich. Combine that with upill strain, and you got the problem he had. When he removed the seat to check the problem each time, he probably jiggled the wire just enough to undo the short. A $2 part, and $60 of labor, and we were all done.
This hotel is kinda ugly, very small, and very old. Still... it's nice to be here. It has a bed. It's got a hot-tub, which I've already used at this point. I came back here to write this, while Dusty went to schmooze with the other riders a bit. Our day tomorrow starts as early as ever, and Dusty's just now returned in the time it took me to jot these notes down. Bedtime for bonzo. See y'all tomorrow night!
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HA-Rumph!
Date: 2002-05-20 03:47 pm (UTC)Pardon me, but BULLSHIT.
I was grinning along with that paragraph & thinking how much fun it sounded & you have to throw in *that* remark?
I repeat: HA-Rumph. grr. snarl. hissspit. (turn tail & pointedly groom AT the big blue nodcock.)
grin. assumptions, assumptions.
Re: HA-Rumph!
Date: 2002-05-21 10:04 am (UTC)Re: HA-Rumph!
Date: 2002-05-23 07:17 am (UTC)I was just about to write what Ami wrote. I wanna throw rocks! Just for that, I'm not taking you into the next muddy creek I find. :)
Although there's always something fun about being someone's 'you'll never guess what idiots I saw today' story.