BRAG California Tour -- Day 3
May. 21st, 2002 02:11 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tugrikVic of the SacBORG group I'm travelling with is now convinced that BRAG stands for "Buell Rain Adventure Group". It would appear that California was determined to make this late-season storm something to remember.
As today's leg was to be the longest of the journey, the alarm rang at 6:30am. Staggering off to the hotel's coffeeshop, we woke up over generic pancake-and-egg fare. We were still in the high desert, and the sun hadn't been up long. I could see my breath in the cold air, as a result. Now is the time to Layer Up.
The lessons learned in backpacking and other outdoor sports go double for motorcycling. Layered clothing can save you. Normal clothes are worn over good socks (and long-johns if you have 'em), and under a nice fluffy insulating layer. In my case, a pair of sweatpants and a fuzzy zip-up sweater. Over this goes a windproof layer. Usually leather or synthetic fabric, its job is to keep the air from wicking out heat at road-speeds. For me, it was my usual all-purpose leather jacket. I didn't have such for the pants; I've yet to buy the chaps I need. Jeans over sweatpants would have to do. Atop this, if you have it, goes 'rain gear' on wet days; a final, thin-but-nonpermeable layer designed to keep water out of the whole ensamble. Folks in the lot were pondering if they would use that last layer or not; nobody was quite sure what to expect.
Back in the hotel room one last time, we checked the weather channel, and were given a bit of a shocker: LA wasn't only being rained on, it was getting record level winds too. They were talking about feet of snow in certain mountain passes, and thunderstorms all along the crest. We checked out of our room and informed the others. Either they were all still real tired, or the warnings fell on disinterested ears; the uncertainty about raingear continued.
Dusty and I concluded that there was no other prep we could do, and the only thing we had to lose was time if we waited around. Feeling optimistc, we headed south towards the Angeles crest. The skies were clear, if cold... but that didn't last. As the road dropped down, it shuffled under a ledge of ominous looking clouds. The warmpth of losing altitude was offset by the increasing moisture, replaced by a full-on fog once we turned off towards SR-2, the start to the Angeles Crest run. The route was supposed to take us over the mountains back into the Los Angeles basin, to pop out by Glendale. From there we were to do Mulholland drive, the Rock Store, and a few other LA-Urban area sights on our way to lunch in Ventura. We would be retracing some of our Day 0 steps, going right past Frang's place and up the way we'd come down-coast. Waiting in Ventura was a big BBQ party at the local Buell dealership, starting at Noon.
We were in a beautiful little mountain town at 6,500 feet when the fog turned to actual rain. Dusty pulled us over to the side for a chat, as the Autocom was still being persnickety. I wanted to go on; the water was actually staying on the outside of the leathers, and I was very pleased to find the tank panniers had the unexpected benefit of protecting my denim-clad knees. The Beck boots were living up to their "100% waterproof" claims, and so the only problem I had was keeping the visor clear. Dusty, while having much better riding gear... had forgotten his winter gloves. Who would have thought he'd need his freezing-rain gear, in May.. in Southern California? I convinced him to carry on, but he told me he'd turn around if the drops got any heavier.
We made it about 5 more miles up the slope... to nearly 7,500 feet... when the fog got so thick we couldn't see more than a few dozen feet. The PIAA lights earned their keep for the first time, letting me see the reflectors on the sides of the road with ease, far into the fog... as well as letting any other traffic (thankfully nonexistant) see me coming. The fog began to stick to the visors... snow? SNOW? I was grooving on this. Dusty had had enough. I saw him U-turn ahead of me and head back down, and I followed. I know my bike can take much worse, but his riding skills are better. If he didn't feel comfortable doing it, I sure as heck didn't want to do it on my own. Down we go.
By the time we'd made it back the 5 miles to the little mountain town, it was a full-own snowstorm, complete with wicked sideways wind. It was here that we met up with the chase truck. Pulling over to talk to us, the driver found the weather beyond belief. I spent my time playing around on the bike, doing a few spinabouts in the turn-out lot we were in, while Dusty and the driver chatted on what to do. Finally they flagged me down and back over. It's official... we'll head downslope and back to the safety of the valley floor. From there, we'll whip out the map and pick a new route. We took a few photos to prove we were there, which I can't wait to post. As we left, we noted at least two other crazies on the way up. We warned them what was ahead, but they stated they'd done it before and had the right gear (including electric clothing), so up they went.
We veered left at the bottom, following the edge of the mountain and its snowy atmosphere. Down at 5200 feet was a little store marked "The Mile High Cafe", which seemed like a perfect place to do some map-work over a hot cocoa. As it turned out, the cocoa was wonderful. I also found out I wasa lot colder than I'd thought! My legs were stiff when I got off the bike, and my face red where cold air was blowing in through the half-lifted visor. The break turned out to be exactly what we needed. A few other BRAG members who'd also bailed on the hill pulled into the cafe, and we mulled over routes together over various hot drinks. Dusty and I decided to ride the 138 into Palmdale, and then follow all the way over to Castaic; a lower altitude pass. From there we could take some superslab to make up time and hopefully still end up in Ventura for lunch.
While the other bikers doubled back to the 138 junction, we saw on our map how a continued ride west would dump us onto the 138 anyways, so we kept on to explore. As we drove into the sunlight (aaaah, the joys of radiant energy upon black leather, WARMPTH!), our little road turned into a nice piece of desert scenery. Joshua trees and dusty hills cradled the little two-lane, which had just been paved within the last week or so. The surface was flawless, and we could see the whole of its shape lazily twisting down the hillside; about 15 miles of bliss. Not another car was in sight as we dried off in the desert air, leaning into the smooth bends with gentle throttle roll-ons. This is what commonly gets called 'asphalt surfing', and it's intensely satisfinding when you can find it. Things just come together right -- air, road, traffic, and the bike's performance... and you just bank-and-glide, flying a few feet above the road.
Reluctantly we turned onto 138, and joined the light cage-flow to Palmdale. With the traffic also came the return of the rain; harder now, but not snow-laced. We ran back into a few of the bikers met earlier, and formed up to cover the next 40 miles together. As they got to Highway 14, one of the superslab routes into the LA Basin, they peeled off south. We kept going, heading to Castaic. Two blocks later, Dusty is shouting and waving at me, screaming something into the radio so frantically I can't understand him. He flies past me bellering something about "BORG! The Borg guys!" and makes a, uh... 'slightly legally questionable' U-turn, burning back the way we came. I follow after a little more cautionary a turn, and see him flying into a gas station with 12 other Buell riders, stopping them before they leave. Aaaaah. How did I miss seeing that mob? I pull in and join Dusty at the gas pumps, the first leg of our rainy day wrapping up.
The SacBORG guys are members of an online bulletin board Dusty frequents... the Sacramento Buell Online Resource Guide or something silly like that (I'm sure Dusty will correct me later; he's sleeping while I write this). They're highly skilled riders; a few even race. Upon telling them what we were up to, they told us our idea was bunk. The rains were all over the LA basin, and it wouldn't matter what route we took in; we'd get soaked in any case, and have no fun of it at all. Their plan sounded much better -- north to Mojave, and through some backroads that Vic (their fearless leader) knew. We elected to join up, and after they waited for us to top off our tanks, we were back to the 14... this time, headed north.
It was only minutes after we left that we drove out of the edge of the storm and into sunny skies. It's scary how well defined the airmass boundaries were; the storm seemed to be clinging to the mountain ridge, unwilling to venture farther into the desert. The roads were dry, and we were glad to be in the clear, so the throttles rolled on a little heavy as we roared through Lancaster and towards Edwards Air Force Base. We took the AFB exit, and veered west towards Willow Springs Streets, a raceway of some note from the looks of it. Suddenly the whole 'backroads' thing was made evident, as Vic turned us back north onto a gently looping slice of asphalt that wrapped around one of the many mid-sized desert hills.
The racebikers stayed true to what I'd heard bantered about earlier the previous day: if the cop didn't see it, they didn't do it. While not wanting to leave potentially damaging information in a public log such as this, let's just say that I now know my personal comfort limit on my GS. I actually kept up with them, which seemed to surprise quite a few. 20 miles of this had us winding upslope towards high-desert once more, and the familiar sight of giant windmills. Techatchapi! (I'm pretty sure I'm spelling that wrong. Forgive -- the map is out on the bike still.) I remember driving through these giants on my way into California back in 1993, on the main highway from Mojave to Bakersfield. We were just approaching them from a new direction. I was all grins as the road wove a nice knit between batches of towers, going any-which-way but straight. I wanted so badly to stop and take a pic, but just keeping up the flow with the rest of the group was too good a grove to bust.
Suddenly, the storm returned. Coming up over a high ridge late into the wind farm, I saw a nervous-making familiar sight: dense, black clouds... the bottoms gently rotating in distinct few-mile-wide patches. This was the underside of a storm-cell with way too much energy. When one saw this kind of thing in Michigan, one turned on the weather-radio and stayed within easy-reach distance of a tornado shelter. The winds started arcing down to the road here and there, surprising us with gusts that would shove us to one side then the other. The joy of velocity changed pace to the technical challenge of keeping the line through the curves, as the air pushed you around, and the road returned to slick dampness. Rain started to fall as we drove under the ominous cloud-ledge, and then our path seemed to go right up into it. Just as we reached the bottom of the dark-clouded sky, we'd run into the main highway I'd remembered from a decade ago, and joined the long-distance travellers and Semi-trucks starting down the Techatchapi pass into the central valley far below.
The rain turned fierce and produced the only 'pucker-factor' moment of the day. Going downhill at 80mph, in thick traffic, with tire-spray creating white-out while rain beat down on helmets and visors... eeesh. I was faring pretty well, and glad for the company; it's easier to follow tail-lights for basic navigation so one only has to worry about the physics of one's own bike. I have a much higher respect now for these little sportbike riders. They were charging down the hill like any Adventure rider would, and the leader (who I couldn't see, but was probably still Vic) was solid in keeping us on-path. Someday I'll be ready for such a role -- but not now, not in this weather.
Halfway down the slope, we pulled off on a turnout. I thought they needed a break; instead, it was a Decision Point. Gas reserves and attitudes were polled, as the group tried to decide if they should fly the last 40 miles down to Bakersfield, or to say Damn the Rain and continue on more backroads. The latter was chosen, and we zoomed down a new path. This was the equivalent of Mount Hamilton Road, from back in the bay area: a few thousand feet down, a few thousand feet up, back down once more, through a huuuuge valley area, and then up and down one last time. A total of nearly 40 miles, and twistier than anything yet taken on this trip. The first of it was in light rain; then fog, then solid rain... then at the top of the next hill... sunlight! We almost lost the road in the bake-off fog, steam streaming up from the asphalt and hiding its contour. A few stops for photo ops, a few stops to chat about road conditions.
The desert kept its low-humidity promise, and each time there was sunlight, the road would burn dry in only 10-15 minutes. My semi-soaked pantlegs were bone dry by the time we got to the end of the loop, dropping into a little town that I think was named Beaumont. Just as we pull into the town's border... I can see the Mean Cloud returning; the very one we'd diched, still spinning madly on its underside. It swept down the far hillside like a predator, picking up speed as it headed towards the same town we were in. Literally 200 feet before the bulk of us got to the gas station, it rolled through like a bad Steven King novel, with a hard wind and HAIL. The kind of hail that hurts. We dodged under the awning of the 76 station, and clustered the bikes together to try to keep them (and us) out of the sideways hailstorm.
The nice attendant-lady agreed we could take shelter there, and we maneuvered the bikes around a bit to fit them between pumps and out of the way of other customers. Just a few hundred feet away was a mexican restaurant; a perfect place to wait out the storm! Running with coats held overhead as shields, we ducked in, and had a wonderful lunch, full of as many great road-recountings as there were nacho chips. Hanging out most of an hour, we watched the storm vent itself on the little town, and then move on, having had its way of things. A nice tip to the waitress for her kind treatment of soaked bikers, and we plodded back to the gas station to fill up and remount.
We took Highway 178 back to Bakersfield... about 45 miles of constant downhill, following the lip of a canyon the whole way. The rain was gone, but the sun still hadn't returned; the road stayed wet as a result. Nonetheless, good time was made flying down the canyon. It dried out as we got lower in altitude, and finally the road followed the river at the bottom, meandering alongside for a dozen miles before playing out into California's massive Central Valley. It was here that I did the best technical riding so far in my short motorcycling career: keeping up with the group had transitioned from a hard effort, into a joy. Sure, I was one of the last in the group, but I was still with the group, and I wasn't riding beyond my comfort level. I had no idea just how hard I was riding until I realized that the little 'skip-scrape' feelings I was using to judge my corner-apexes was the sound of centerstand's tails touching down. If you'd told me I'd be able to lean the bike over that far at 70+mph speeds, even just last week... I would have told you that you were nuts.
Down in the lower river section, the advanced riders left me and the last three of the group far behind. Like trail-horses who'd caught wind of the barn, they wanted to be Home Now, Darn It. They took the bit and went with it, doing insane speeds down the road. I could see the little dots disappearing over the final small rises at speeds that had me convinced my depth perception wasn't quite funcitoning right. I settled into an easier cant, relaxing after the hard rush downhill. Dusty was caught amid groups; not quite as fast as the leaders, not quite as slow as us. He made the choice to hold back, and we caught up with him a few minutes later on the valley floor. Together, our little tail-group rolled into town, with no idea where the hotel was.
We pulled off at the first street-exit to check maps. I assumed the role of navigator, as it's one of the skills I have that I actually feel confident in. A few minutes and I'd found us, and where we were supposed to be. 5 more minutes of riding got us into the Best Western at the junction of Highway 99 and 178. Pull in, check in, strip the bikes, dump the gear... we're here.
It was only 4:30pm, and we'd only done half the miles the day was supposed to have. Admittedly, it was a hard and extremely fun half, through some serious weather. We were glad to stop. The hotel was very biker-friendly, and had towels and soap waiting... for the bikes! We pulled up behind the hotel to the hoses, and blew the mud off our steeds, giving them a good soaping and rub-down as they cooled.
Of course, the tails of the storm that'd plagued us all day decided one last mocking was in order. In the middle of the wash... it hailed on us. Just as hard, if not harder, as it had back during our refuge at the previous gas station. Un-geared riders ducked for cover... and I decided to play up the Adventure Biker image. I slow-rode around the lot in nothing but t-shirt and shorts, weaving back and forth between parking spaces and laughing like a bluefurred maniac. Hey, hail when standing is nothing compared to hail-at-speed! I got happily soaked, and convinced the other riders that I was properly crazy. I couldn't have them actually _understanding_ adventure riders, now, could I? I had to keep them guessing.
Shower, check email, check voicemail -- all is cool at the office. *whew*. An errand run to the Radio shack got me another $14 FRS radio to replace the one the Autocom was using... and yup, that was the problem! I'm looking forwards to actual 2-way communication for the rest of the week. From there it was a good dinner at the hotel's restaurant, followed by an evening in the bar playing pool, sipping virgin marguaritas, and listening to Dusty sing karaoke. He's surprisingly good... though he's got one of those smooth, higher-pitched singing voices perfectly suited to songs like "Daniel", which he sung for us. Many road tales were shared, and drinks bought for each other. A long evening well spent.
Now I sit here in the hotel room, mostly repacked for tomorrow, typing out this night's journal. We've been informed that tomorrow's trip through Kings Canyon/Sequoia is being completely rebuilt; the storm of doom dropped 2' of snow on the passes, and most of the western divide is closed. The news showed that my midwesterner's fear was justified: no less than three tornadoes in the central valley, from that very storm! One of them was only 50 miles or so north of our position. Others were up as far as Sacramento. All happened over open agricultural land, with no real damaged caused. I think the weather set some late-year records; I wouldn't be surprised. When we wake up we'll get our new ride sheets, and find out where they're sending us. I suspect it'll be over to the mid-coast, away from the recently dropped snow.
As the smiling organizer for the ride told us, the "A" in BRAG stands for "Adventure"... and this day was sure full of it. The rest of the week is forecast to clear up, so it's going to get even better from here.
As today's leg was to be the longest of the journey, the alarm rang at 6:30am. Staggering off to the hotel's coffeeshop, we woke up over generic pancake-and-egg fare. We were still in the high desert, and the sun hadn't been up long. I could see my breath in the cold air, as a result. Now is the time to Layer Up.
The lessons learned in backpacking and other outdoor sports go double for motorcycling. Layered clothing can save you. Normal clothes are worn over good socks (and long-johns if you have 'em), and under a nice fluffy insulating layer. In my case, a pair of sweatpants and a fuzzy zip-up sweater. Over this goes a windproof layer. Usually leather or synthetic fabric, its job is to keep the air from wicking out heat at road-speeds. For me, it was my usual all-purpose leather jacket. I didn't have such for the pants; I've yet to buy the chaps I need. Jeans over sweatpants would have to do. Atop this, if you have it, goes 'rain gear' on wet days; a final, thin-but-nonpermeable layer designed to keep water out of the whole ensamble. Folks in the lot were pondering if they would use that last layer or not; nobody was quite sure what to expect.
Back in the hotel room one last time, we checked the weather channel, and were given a bit of a shocker: LA wasn't only being rained on, it was getting record level winds too. They were talking about feet of snow in certain mountain passes, and thunderstorms all along the crest. We checked out of our room and informed the others. Either they were all still real tired, or the warnings fell on disinterested ears; the uncertainty about raingear continued.
Dusty and I concluded that there was no other prep we could do, and the only thing we had to lose was time if we waited around. Feeling optimistc, we headed south towards the Angeles crest. The skies were clear, if cold... but that didn't last. As the road dropped down, it shuffled under a ledge of ominous looking clouds. The warmpth of losing altitude was offset by the increasing moisture, replaced by a full-on fog once we turned off towards SR-2, the start to the Angeles Crest run. The route was supposed to take us over the mountains back into the Los Angeles basin, to pop out by Glendale. From there we were to do Mulholland drive, the Rock Store, and a few other LA-Urban area sights on our way to lunch in Ventura. We would be retracing some of our Day 0 steps, going right past Frang's place and up the way we'd come down-coast. Waiting in Ventura was a big BBQ party at the local Buell dealership, starting at Noon.
We were in a beautiful little mountain town at 6,500 feet when the fog turned to actual rain. Dusty pulled us over to the side for a chat, as the Autocom was still being persnickety. I wanted to go on; the water was actually staying on the outside of the leathers, and I was very pleased to find the tank panniers had the unexpected benefit of protecting my denim-clad knees. The Beck boots were living up to their "100% waterproof" claims, and so the only problem I had was keeping the visor clear. Dusty, while having much better riding gear... had forgotten his winter gloves. Who would have thought he'd need his freezing-rain gear, in May.. in Southern California? I convinced him to carry on, but he told me he'd turn around if the drops got any heavier.
We made it about 5 more miles up the slope... to nearly 7,500 feet... when the fog got so thick we couldn't see more than a few dozen feet. The PIAA lights earned their keep for the first time, letting me see the reflectors on the sides of the road with ease, far into the fog... as well as letting any other traffic (thankfully nonexistant) see me coming. The fog began to stick to the visors... snow? SNOW? I was grooving on this. Dusty had had enough. I saw him U-turn ahead of me and head back down, and I followed. I know my bike can take much worse, but his riding skills are better. If he didn't feel comfortable doing it, I sure as heck didn't want to do it on my own. Down we go.
By the time we'd made it back the 5 miles to the little mountain town, it was a full-own snowstorm, complete with wicked sideways wind. It was here that we met up with the chase truck. Pulling over to talk to us, the driver found the weather beyond belief. I spent my time playing around on the bike, doing a few spinabouts in the turn-out lot we were in, while Dusty and the driver chatted on what to do. Finally they flagged me down and back over. It's official... we'll head downslope and back to the safety of the valley floor. From there, we'll whip out the map and pick a new route. We took a few photos to prove we were there, which I can't wait to post. As we left, we noted at least two other crazies on the way up. We warned them what was ahead, but they stated they'd done it before and had the right gear (including electric clothing), so up they went.
We veered left at the bottom, following the edge of the mountain and its snowy atmosphere. Down at 5200 feet was a little store marked "The Mile High Cafe", which seemed like a perfect place to do some map-work over a hot cocoa. As it turned out, the cocoa was wonderful. I also found out I wasa lot colder than I'd thought! My legs were stiff when I got off the bike, and my face red where cold air was blowing in through the half-lifted visor. The break turned out to be exactly what we needed. A few other BRAG members who'd also bailed on the hill pulled into the cafe, and we mulled over routes together over various hot drinks. Dusty and I decided to ride the 138 into Palmdale, and then follow all the way over to Castaic; a lower altitude pass. From there we could take some superslab to make up time and hopefully still end up in Ventura for lunch.
While the other bikers doubled back to the 138 junction, we saw on our map how a continued ride west would dump us onto the 138 anyways, so we kept on to explore. As we drove into the sunlight (aaaah, the joys of radiant energy upon black leather, WARMPTH!), our little road turned into a nice piece of desert scenery. Joshua trees and dusty hills cradled the little two-lane, which had just been paved within the last week or so. The surface was flawless, and we could see the whole of its shape lazily twisting down the hillside; about 15 miles of bliss. Not another car was in sight as we dried off in the desert air, leaning into the smooth bends with gentle throttle roll-ons. This is what commonly gets called 'asphalt surfing', and it's intensely satisfinding when you can find it. Things just come together right -- air, road, traffic, and the bike's performance... and you just bank-and-glide, flying a few feet above the road.
Reluctantly we turned onto 138, and joined the light cage-flow to Palmdale. With the traffic also came the return of the rain; harder now, but not snow-laced. We ran back into a few of the bikers met earlier, and formed up to cover the next 40 miles together. As they got to Highway 14, one of the superslab routes into the LA Basin, they peeled off south. We kept going, heading to Castaic. Two blocks later, Dusty is shouting and waving at me, screaming something into the radio so frantically I can't understand him. He flies past me bellering something about "BORG! The Borg guys!" and makes a, uh... 'slightly legally questionable' U-turn, burning back the way we came. I follow after a little more cautionary a turn, and see him flying into a gas station with 12 other Buell riders, stopping them before they leave. Aaaaah. How did I miss seeing that mob? I pull in and join Dusty at the gas pumps, the first leg of our rainy day wrapping up.
The SacBORG guys are members of an online bulletin board Dusty frequents... the Sacramento Buell Online Resource Guide or something silly like that (I'm sure Dusty will correct me later; he's sleeping while I write this). They're highly skilled riders; a few even race. Upon telling them what we were up to, they told us our idea was bunk. The rains were all over the LA basin, and it wouldn't matter what route we took in; we'd get soaked in any case, and have no fun of it at all. Their plan sounded much better -- north to Mojave, and through some backroads that Vic (their fearless leader) knew. We elected to join up, and after they waited for us to top off our tanks, we were back to the 14... this time, headed north.
It was only minutes after we left that we drove out of the edge of the storm and into sunny skies. It's scary how well defined the airmass boundaries were; the storm seemed to be clinging to the mountain ridge, unwilling to venture farther into the desert. The roads were dry, and we were glad to be in the clear, so the throttles rolled on a little heavy as we roared through Lancaster and towards Edwards Air Force Base. We took the AFB exit, and veered west towards Willow Springs Streets, a raceway of some note from the looks of it. Suddenly the whole 'backroads' thing was made evident, as Vic turned us back north onto a gently looping slice of asphalt that wrapped around one of the many mid-sized desert hills.
The racebikers stayed true to what I'd heard bantered about earlier the previous day: if the cop didn't see it, they didn't do it. While not wanting to leave potentially damaging information in a public log such as this, let's just say that I now know my personal comfort limit on my GS. I actually kept up with them, which seemed to surprise quite a few. 20 miles of this had us winding upslope towards high-desert once more, and the familiar sight of giant windmills. Techatchapi! (I'm pretty sure I'm spelling that wrong. Forgive -- the map is out on the bike still.) I remember driving through these giants on my way into California back in 1993, on the main highway from Mojave to Bakersfield. We were just approaching them from a new direction. I was all grins as the road wove a nice knit between batches of towers, going any-which-way but straight. I wanted so badly to stop and take a pic, but just keeping up the flow with the rest of the group was too good a grove to bust.
Suddenly, the storm returned. Coming up over a high ridge late into the wind farm, I saw a nervous-making familiar sight: dense, black clouds... the bottoms gently rotating in distinct few-mile-wide patches. This was the underside of a storm-cell with way too much energy. When one saw this kind of thing in Michigan, one turned on the weather-radio and stayed within easy-reach distance of a tornado shelter. The winds started arcing down to the road here and there, surprising us with gusts that would shove us to one side then the other. The joy of velocity changed pace to the technical challenge of keeping the line through the curves, as the air pushed you around, and the road returned to slick dampness. Rain started to fall as we drove under the ominous cloud-ledge, and then our path seemed to go right up into it. Just as we reached the bottom of the dark-clouded sky, we'd run into the main highway I'd remembered from a decade ago, and joined the long-distance travellers and Semi-trucks starting down the Techatchapi pass into the central valley far below.
The rain turned fierce and produced the only 'pucker-factor' moment of the day. Going downhill at 80mph, in thick traffic, with tire-spray creating white-out while rain beat down on helmets and visors... eeesh. I was faring pretty well, and glad for the company; it's easier to follow tail-lights for basic navigation so one only has to worry about the physics of one's own bike. I have a much higher respect now for these little sportbike riders. They were charging down the hill like any Adventure rider would, and the leader (who I couldn't see, but was probably still Vic) was solid in keeping us on-path. Someday I'll be ready for such a role -- but not now, not in this weather.
Halfway down the slope, we pulled off on a turnout. I thought they needed a break; instead, it was a Decision Point. Gas reserves and attitudes were polled, as the group tried to decide if they should fly the last 40 miles down to Bakersfield, or to say Damn the Rain and continue on more backroads. The latter was chosen, and we zoomed down a new path. This was the equivalent of Mount Hamilton Road, from back in the bay area: a few thousand feet down, a few thousand feet up, back down once more, through a huuuuge valley area, and then up and down one last time. A total of nearly 40 miles, and twistier than anything yet taken on this trip. The first of it was in light rain; then fog, then solid rain... then at the top of the next hill... sunlight! We almost lost the road in the bake-off fog, steam streaming up from the asphalt and hiding its contour. A few stops for photo ops, a few stops to chat about road conditions.
The desert kept its low-humidity promise, and each time there was sunlight, the road would burn dry in only 10-15 minutes. My semi-soaked pantlegs were bone dry by the time we got to the end of the loop, dropping into a little town that I think was named Beaumont. Just as we pull into the town's border... I can see the Mean Cloud returning; the very one we'd diched, still spinning madly on its underside. It swept down the far hillside like a predator, picking up speed as it headed towards the same town we were in. Literally 200 feet before the bulk of us got to the gas station, it rolled through like a bad Steven King novel, with a hard wind and HAIL. The kind of hail that hurts. We dodged under the awning of the 76 station, and clustered the bikes together to try to keep them (and us) out of the sideways hailstorm.
The nice attendant-lady agreed we could take shelter there, and we maneuvered the bikes around a bit to fit them between pumps and out of the way of other customers. Just a few hundred feet away was a mexican restaurant; a perfect place to wait out the storm! Running with coats held overhead as shields, we ducked in, and had a wonderful lunch, full of as many great road-recountings as there were nacho chips. Hanging out most of an hour, we watched the storm vent itself on the little town, and then move on, having had its way of things. A nice tip to the waitress for her kind treatment of soaked bikers, and we plodded back to the gas station to fill up and remount.
We took Highway 178 back to Bakersfield... about 45 miles of constant downhill, following the lip of a canyon the whole way. The rain was gone, but the sun still hadn't returned; the road stayed wet as a result. Nonetheless, good time was made flying down the canyon. It dried out as we got lower in altitude, and finally the road followed the river at the bottom, meandering alongside for a dozen miles before playing out into California's massive Central Valley. It was here that I did the best technical riding so far in my short motorcycling career: keeping up with the group had transitioned from a hard effort, into a joy. Sure, I was one of the last in the group, but I was still with the group, and I wasn't riding beyond my comfort level. I had no idea just how hard I was riding until I realized that the little 'skip-scrape' feelings I was using to judge my corner-apexes was the sound of centerstand's tails touching down. If you'd told me I'd be able to lean the bike over that far at 70+mph speeds, even just last week... I would have told you that you were nuts.
Down in the lower river section, the advanced riders left me and the last three of the group far behind. Like trail-horses who'd caught wind of the barn, they wanted to be Home Now, Darn It. They took the bit and went with it, doing insane speeds down the road. I could see the little dots disappearing over the final small rises at speeds that had me convinced my depth perception wasn't quite funcitoning right. I settled into an easier cant, relaxing after the hard rush downhill. Dusty was caught amid groups; not quite as fast as the leaders, not quite as slow as us. He made the choice to hold back, and we caught up with him a few minutes later on the valley floor. Together, our little tail-group rolled into town, with no idea where the hotel was.
We pulled off at the first street-exit to check maps. I assumed the role of navigator, as it's one of the skills I have that I actually feel confident in. A few minutes and I'd found us, and where we were supposed to be. 5 more minutes of riding got us into the Best Western at the junction of Highway 99 and 178. Pull in, check in, strip the bikes, dump the gear... we're here.
It was only 4:30pm, and we'd only done half the miles the day was supposed to have. Admittedly, it was a hard and extremely fun half, through some serious weather. We were glad to stop. The hotel was very biker-friendly, and had towels and soap waiting... for the bikes! We pulled up behind the hotel to the hoses, and blew the mud off our steeds, giving them a good soaping and rub-down as they cooled.
Of course, the tails of the storm that'd plagued us all day decided one last mocking was in order. In the middle of the wash... it hailed on us. Just as hard, if not harder, as it had back during our refuge at the previous gas station. Un-geared riders ducked for cover... and I decided to play up the Adventure Biker image. I slow-rode around the lot in nothing but t-shirt and shorts, weaving back and forth between parking spaces and laughing like a bluefurred maniac. Hey, hail when standing is nothing compared to hail-at-speed! I got happily soaked, and convinced the other riders that I was properly crazy. I couldn't have them actually _understanding_ adventure riders, now, could I? I had to keep them guessing.
Shower, check email, check voicemail -- all is cool at the office. *whew*. An errand run to the Radio shack got me another $14 FRS radio to replace the one the Autocom was using... and yup, that was the problem! I'm looking forwards to actual 2-way communication for the rest of the week. From there it was a good dinner at the hotel's restaurant, followed by an evening in the bar playing pool, sipping virgin marguaritas, and listening to Dusty sing karaoke. He's surprisingly good... though he's got one of those smooth, higher-pitched singing voices perfectly suited to songs like "Daniel", which he sung for us. Many road tales were shared, and drinks bought for each other. A long evening well spent.
Now I sit here in the hotel room, mostly repacked for tomorrow, typing out this night's journal. We've been informed that tomorrow's trip through Kings Canyon/Sequoia is being completely rebuilt; the storm of doom dropped 2' of snow on the passes, and most of the western divide is closed. The news showed that my midwesterner's fear was justified: no less than three tornadoes in the central valley, from that very storm! One of them was only 50 miles or so north of our position. Others were up as far as Sacramento. All happened over open agricultural land, with no real damaged caused. I think the weather set some late-year records; I wouldn't be surprised. When we wake up we'll get our new ride sheets, and find out where they're sending us. I suspect it'll be over to the mid-coast, away from the recently dropped snow.
As the smiling organizer for the ride told us, the "A" in BRAG stands for "Adventure"... and this day was sure full of it. The rest of the week is forecast to clear up, so it's going to get even better from here.
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FYI, re: tornados
Date: 2002-05-21 09:10 am (UTC)