Today’s destination was very rigidly and explicitly specified as “somewhere between Yosemite National Park and Laughlin, Nevada”.
The Montecito Sequoia Lodge fulfills that description.
But it’s far from where I intended to end the day’s ride.
If you’ve been waiting to read something from me besides “yadda yadda”, this might just be it.
* * *
Getting out of Yosemite this morning was tedious. All six reps of Flying In A Blue Dream were wasted following a cleaning service van and other vehicular impediments through multiple construction zones. During the lengthiest stop before leaving the valley I had no clue what we were waiting for, but then I saw a dead ponderosa pine topple in the forest ahead, and I knew we’d been waiting to make sure it fell in the right direction.
I exited the park onto CA-41 and stopped at the Tunnel View vista point to take one last look at the valley, and to reset the playlist.
[insert visual of “had the road all to myself” to the strains of Joe Satriani’s blistering guitar riffs]
Just before exiting the park I pulled up to a stop at another, and brand-new, construction zone. Since Larry and Jana and I had been here last, barely two weeks ago, they’d begun to demolish and reconstruct the road inside the entrance gate. I should consider myself lucky that I didn’t have to wait the entire threatened 30 minute delay, but I regret not doing the California thing and riding to the front of the line before it started moving. As a result, I had to eat a lot of dust and once we exited the park I had to follow a whole line of Griswolds for the next couple dozen miles, never once accelerating all the way to the speed limit.
But as expected, when I turned off for Bass Lake I was back on one of those roads from nowhere to nowhere.
The Montecito Sequoia Lodge fulfills that description.
But it’s far from where I intended to end the day’s ride.
If you’ve been waiting to read something from me besides “yadda yadda”, this might just be it.
* * *
Getting out of Yosemite this morning was tedious. All six reps of Flying In A Blue Dream were wasted following a cleaning service van and other vehicular impediments through multiple construction zones. During the lengthiest stop before leaving the valley I had no clue what we were waiting for, but then I saw a dead ponderosa pine topple in the forest ahead, and I knew we’d been waiting to make sure it fell in the right direction.
I exited the park onto CA-41 and stopped at the Tunnel View vista point to take one last look at the valley, and to reset the playlist.
[insert visual of “had the road all to myself” to the strains of Joe Satriani’s blistering guitar riffs]
Just before exiting the park I pulled up to a stop at another, and brand-new, construction zone. Since Larry and Jana and I had been here last, barely two weeks ago, they’d begun to demolish and reconstruct the road inside the entrance gate. I should consider myself lucky that I didn’t have to wait the entire threatened 30 minute delay, but I regret not doing the California thing and riding to the front of the line before it started moving. As a result, I had to eat a lot of dust and once we exited the park I had to follow a whole line of Griswolds for the next couple dozen miles, never once accelerating all the way to the speed limit.
But as expected, when I turned off for Bass Lake I was back on one of those roads from nowhere to nowhere.
I’m not kidding about nowhere, before long I was seriously in the boondocks, on roads that nobody but the locals would ever have any reason to be on, and even they probably resent having to drive.
They were every bit as tortuous as I’d expected (and hoped). At one point somewhere around Piedra all the lane markings went away, replaced by a nearly equivalent linear footage of cattle guards.
It would have been a great ride if some S.O.B. hadn’t invented “chip seal”. Corners were often contaminated with the pea gravel that’s the inevitable residue of my least favorite pavement surfacing technique; Therese was not her usual sure-footed self, and when that happens I tend to say vulgar words.
When I finally reached and turned left on CA-180, having avoided coming anywhere near Fresno or any road with more than a mile of continuous straightaway, it was a relief to be back with my old friend. Unlike my last ride eastward on this road, which was dark and cold and scary, today’s ride up toward Kings Canyon would be bright and sunny.
And WARM.
To think that when I’d started “planning” this trip, I was afraid my late-autumn dalliance with the Sierra Nevada would be constantly threatened by roads closed to vehicles without tire chains…
Therese’s multifunction display provides half a dozen modes. The one I use most often is “RDC”, the tire pressure monitor. It’s a tremendous safety feature to be able to know if a tire is losing pressure.
But today I was watching the ambient temperature display. Not long after turning onto CA-180, it spiked at 91 degrees F.
Fortunately, I was heading up. By the time I reached the Kings Canyon Overlook the thermometer was reading much closer to what I prefer: 73.
I took the first real relaxation break of the day, gazing out over the vista where to the north I could see a thick column of smoke that I’d first spotted hours earlier.
They were every bit as tortuous as I’d expected (and hoped). At one point somewhere around Piedra all the lane markings went away, replaced by a nearly equivalent linear footage of cattle guards.
It would have been a great ride if some S.O.B. hadn’t invented “chip seal”. Corners were often contaminated with the pea gravel that’s the inevitable residue of my least favorite pavement surfacing technique; Therese was not her usual sure-footed self, and when that happens I tend to say vulgar words.
When I finally reached and turned left on CA-180, having avoided coming anywhere near Fresno or any road with more than a mile of continuous straightaway, it was a relief to be back with my old friend. Unlike my last ride eastward on this road, which was dark and cold and scary, today’s ride up toward Kings Canyon would be bright and sunny.
And WARM.
To think that when I’d started “planning” this trip, I was afraid my late-autumn dalliance with the Sierra Nevada would be constantly threatened by roads closed to vehicles without tire chains…
Therese’s multifunction display provides half a dozen modes. The one I use most often is “RDC”, the tire pressure monitor. It’s a tremendous safety feature to be able to know if a tire is losing pressure.
But today I was watching the ambient temperature display. Not long after turning onto CA-180, it spiked at 91 degrees F.
Fortunately, I was heading up. By the time I reached the Kings Canyon Overlook the thermometer was reading much closer to what I prefer: 73.
I took the first real relaxation break of the day, gazing out over the vista where to the north I could see a thick column of smoke that I’d first spotted hours earlier.
Somewhat to my surprise I had a bit of cell phone coverage. I called around to see if I could find a room in the park.
There was basically only one option, the Montecito Sequoia Lodge, but only “big” rooms left, at better than $300.
I decided just to push through. I still had two or three solid hours of daylight, and would certainly be down off the mountain before dusk; when I got to Three Rivers I’d just pull into the first place with a vacancy sign. I wasn’t planning on doing much sightseeing; I’ve been to Sequoia several times and today was about riding, not gawking.
I saddled up and rolled out.
I was barely back on the road when a red triangle started flashing on the instrument panel, and the display switched automatically from ambient temperature to RDC.
The rear should have been at 42 PSI, but was reading 33.
Shit.
I kept my speed low and watched the RDC. It appeared to be holding steady at 33.
I considered my options.
The “right” thing to do would be pull over immediately and deal with it. Riding with improper tire pressure is particularly unsafe on a motorcycle, and riding on a severely underinflated tire can damage it. It also risks damaging the wheel.
But Montecito Lodge is only 2 miles up the road…
And the rear tire’s pressure is only 3 PSI below the front tire’s recommended pressure; riding a short distance probably won’t destroy it…
And it’s basically worn out anyway…
And even if I can make a good repair, there’s no way I’m going to ride it across the Mojave Desert now…
I know from bitter experience that dealing with a tire problem can result in any number of complications up to and including several hours of grueling physical effort resulting in a complete failure to effect a successful repair…
Whereas even if the repair goes perfectly, it would still be really nice to have a place to wash up afterward…
And didn’t I learn anything from stopping at mile marker 26, back in 2013, when I was concerned about my flashing brake failure warning while riding through West Nowhere, New Mexico (see Return to Malfunction Junction)?
I wondered how long the tire had been losing pressure. Maybe Therese’s skittishness had been due to more than just pea gravel in the corners.
Well what do you know, here I am at Montecito Lodge.
Where the room is still available, and would have been a bargain for mom & dad & four bunk beds’ worth of kids.
* * *
After checking in I availed myself of a cup of coffee and a bowl of truly superb vegetable soup. Meals at the Montecito are served family/buffet style, at designated hours, and I was too late for lunch; but the soup was still hot (very hot, I discovered when I spilled it on my hand and barely suppressed a very loud and nautical-quality curse).
Then I went out and opened The Bag That Must Not Be Opened.
The tire repair went well. I parked Therese right next to my room, in a nice shady spot, and enlisted the use of a couple empty milk crates as workbench and stool. I never even needed to unroll the main tool kit.
There was basically only one option, the Montecito Sequoia Lodge, but only “big” rooms left, at better than $300.
I decided just to push through. I still had two or three solid hours of daylight, and would certainly be down off the mountain before dusk; when I got to Three Rivers I’d just pull into the first place with a vacancy sign. I wasn’t planning on doing much sightseeing; I’ve been to Sequoia several times and today was about riding, not gawking.
I saddled up and rolled out.
I was barely back on the road when a red triangle started flashing on the instrument panel, and the display switched automatically from ambient temperature to RDC.
The rear should have been at 42 PSI, but was reading 33.
Shit.
I kept my speed low and watched the RDC. It appeared to be holding steady at 33.
I considered my options.
The “right” thing to do would be pull over immediately and deal with it. Riding with improper tire pressure is particularly unsafe on a motorcycle, and riding on a severely underinflated tire can damage it. It also risks damaging the wheel.
But Montecito Lodge is only 2 miles up the road…
And the rear tire’s pressure is only 3 PSI below the front tire’s recommended pressure; riding a short distance probably won’t destroy it…
And it’s basically worn out anyway…
And even if I can make a good repair, there’s no way I’m going to ride it across the Mojave Desert now…
I know from bitter experience that dealing with a tire problem can result in any number of complications up to and including several hours of grueling physical effort resulting in a complete failure to effect a successful repair…
Whereas even if the repair goes perfectly, it would still be really nice to have a place to wash up afterward…
And didn’t I learn anything from stopping at mile marker 26, back in 2013, when I was concerned about my flashing brake failure warning while riding through West Nowhere, New Mexico (see Return to Malfunction Junction)?
I wondered how long the tire had been losing pressure. Maybe Therese’s skittishness had been due to more than just pea gravel in the corners.
Well what do you know, here I am at Montecito Lodge.
Where the room is still available, and would have been a bargain for mom & dad & four bunk beds’ worth of kids.
* * *
After checking in I availed myself of a cup of coffee and a bowl of truly superb vegetable soup. Meals at the Montecito are served family/buffet style, at designated hours, and I was too late for lunch; but the soup was still hot (very hot, I discovered when I spilled it on my hand and barely suppressed a very loud and nautical-quality curse).
Then I went out and opened The Bag That Must Not Be Opened.
The tire repair went well. I parked Therese right next to my room, in a nice shady spot, and enlisted the use of a couple empty milk crates as workbench and stool. I never even needed to unroll the main tool kit.
The injury to the tire was staring me in the face; still I spun the tire through a rotation and checked the drive for play and noise. All solid, smooth and quiet, which is an important thing. Late model BMW final drives are…how do you say…not noted for the longevity of their predecessors.
The puncture was due to a sharp flint, such as might well be a typical component of “chip seal” material, grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.
Installation of the “mushroom” plug went well. Inflating the tire, on the other hand, completely exhausted the six CO2 cartridges I had on board, yet still only brought the tire pressure up to 30 PSI.
I looked across the entrance drive at a building that should have had a shingle reading “Maintenance” hanging off it. Three guys with beards looked like the people I should talk to.
That building being nearby is what I learned in West Nowhere, New Mexico, back in 2013.
After cramming 50 PSI into the tire and then parking Therese back in her most favored place, I went up to my room and prepared a solution of soap and water.
Coming back down and spreading the soapy water over the plug revealed no bubbles.
A good sign, or rather lack thereof.
Now…
What the hell am I going to do tomorrow???
Supposedly there was WiFi available. Still, it took me a long and increasingly frenetic effort to get connected. My iPhone would connect but wouldn’t do anything with the connection. My laptop wouldn’t connect to anything at all; it seemed to have lost all capability for wireless communication, even after multiple restarts.
Then I remembered an old trick. I removed the Dell’s battery pack, gave it a minute, then snapped the battery back in.
Success!
Barely before close of business I found the number of the nearest BMW motorcycle dealership. My cell phone is useless here, but I was able to use the land line to talk to the service and parts guys and confirm they’ve got stock on a set of Michelin Pilot Road 4 GTs, and (as motorcycle folks are so good at doing) will be happy to put an itinerant in distress at the front of the service line tomorrow.
So I’ll be going to Fresno after all, despite all the efforts that a few hours earlier had seemed so successful. Tomorrow morning I’ll limp back down CA-180 (it won’t be nearly enough fun on a wounded rear tire) and get new shoes. Then I’ll hit the execrable freeways, making the “best” time I can, toward Laughlin where Larry and Gary will be waiting.
If everything works well I’ll get to Laughlin before dark.
If not…if I end up riding in the dark…well, at least it’s the dark desert not the dark forest.
There's a big difference.
P.S.
I just realized that today I rode 172 miles, and never passed through a single stoplight.
Dig it.
Installation of the “mushroom” plug went well. Inflating the tire, on the other hand, completely exhausted the six CO2 cartridges I had on board, yet still only brought the tire pressure up to 30 PSI.
I looked across the entrance drive at a building that should have had a shingle reading “Maintenance” hanging off it. Three guys with beards looked like the people I should talk to.
That building being nearby is what I learned in West Nowhere, New Mexico, back in 2013.
After cramming 50 PSI into the tire and then parking Therese back in her most favored place, I went up to my room and prepared a solution of soap and water.
Coming back down and spreading the soapy water over the plug revealed no bubbles.
A good sign, or rather lack thereof.
Now…
What the hell am I going to do tomorrow???
Supposedly there was WiFi available. Still, it took me a long and increasingly frenetic effort to get connected. My iPhone would connect but wouldn’t do anything with the connection. My laptop wouldn’t connect to anything at all; it seemed to have lost all capability for wireless communication, even after multiple restarts.
Then I remembered an old trick. I removed the Dell’s battery pack, gave it a minute, then snapped the battery back in.
Success!
Barely before close of business I found the number of the nearest BMW motorcycle dealership. My cell phone is useless here, but I was able to use the land line to talk to the service and parts guys and confirm they’ve got stock on a set of Michelin Pilot Road 4 GTs, and (as motorcycle folks are so good at doing) will be happy to put an itinerant in distress at the front of the service line tomorrow.
So I’ll be going to Fresno after all, despite all the efforts that a few hours earlier had seemed so successful. Tomorrow morning I’ll limp back down CA-180 (it won’t be nearly enough fun on a wounded rear tire) and get new shoes. Then I’ll hit the execrable freeways, making the “best” time I can, toward Laughlin where Larry and Gary will be waiting.
If everything works well I’ll get to Laughlin before dark.
If not…if I end up riding in the dark…well, at least it’s the dark desert not the dark forest.
There's a big difference.
P.S.
I just realized that today I rode 172 miles, and never passed through a single stoplight.
Dig it.
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