Friday October 13
Here’s that explanation for why I’ve always wanted to go to Lone Pine.
Here’s that explanation for why I’ve always wanted to go to Lone Pine.
It was a chilly ride north up the Owens Valley last Friday morning. During the first half hour the temperature was usually in the thirties, often below freezing. Over the intercom I commented it was the kind of day on which people often ask me, “Isn’t it cold to be riding a motorcycle?” to which I invariably reply, “If I wanted to ride a snowmobile today I’d be out of luck.”
I will admit more than one cold spot made me wish I’d donned my winter gauntlets.
The sky was utterly cloudless, the air clear with perhaps a hint of the smoke that had all but obscured the Sierra Nevada the previous evening and had deposited a fine layer of ash on Therese overnight.
We zoomed through the cold desert morning, vistas of craggy mountainsides revealing themselves in everchanging color and shadow as the sun rose over the Inyo Mountains to the east.
We stopped for gas and breakfast in Bishop, which was awash in KTM (with the occasional token Husqvarna) dirt bikes all riding around with paper bags dangling from the handlebars, apparently the standard kit for whatever event they were about to undertake. The bikes and riders were very muddy, and looked like they were having almost as much fun as we were.
The day had warmed considerably during breakfast but we were heading into the mountains, so temperatures remained chilly as we climbed toward Tioga Pass. We were all well-dressed for it; in the bright sunshine our spirits were high.
I will admit more than one cold spot made me wish I’d donned my winter gauntlets.
The sky was utterly cloudless, the air clear with perhaps a hint of the smoke that had all but obscured the Sierra Nevada the previous evening and had deposited a fine layer of ash on Therese overnight.
We zoomed through the cold desert morning, vistas of craggy mountainsides revealing themselves in everchanging color and shadow as the sun rose over the Inyo Mountains to the east.
We stopped for gas and breakfast in Bishop, which was awash in KTM (with the occasional token Husqvarna) dirt bikes all riding around with paper bags dangling from the handlebars, apparently the standard kit for whatever event they were about to undertake. The bikes and riders were very muddy, and looked like they were having almost as much fun as we were.
The day had warmed considerably during breakfast but we were heading into the mountains, so temperatures remained chilly as we climbed toward Tioga Pass. We were all well-dressed for it; in the bright sunshine our spirits were high.
We crossed the Tuolumne Meadows (I still have no idea how to pronounce that), winding our way in through the back door to Yosemite National Park. The valley was full of smoke, and many of the roads were being busily constructed-upon. We lingered in a meadow by the river for a while, then moved on up to Glacier Point.
The ever-present smoke seemed to increase as we approached the Point. Then glimpses through the trees revealed rising plumes of smoke on nearby mountainsides. Very nearby.
We’d been assured by Larry that the fires “local” to his meticulously-engineered route plan were totally controlled. Maybe “assured” is too strong a word. He would have left himself wiggle room in which Jana and I would each have an irrefutable degree of complicity.
At that point we rode into a zone of still-smoldering forest.
Jana commented, “I can’t believe they’re letting us do this!”
As of this writing, I Can’t Believe They’re Letting Us Do This is the leading contender for the title of this year’s tour.
Glacier Point was its usual splendid self, even allowing for the evidence of multiple very much active fires, some not all that far away.
We’d been assured by Larry that the fires “local” to his meticulously-engineered route plan were totally controlled. Maybe “assured” is too strong a word. He would have left himself wiggle room in which Jana and I would each have an irrefutable degree of complicity.
At that point we rode into a zone of still-smoldering forest.
Jana commented, “I can’t believe they’re letting us do this!”
As of this writing, I Can’t Believe They’re Letting Us Do This is the leading contender for the title of this year’s tour.
Glacier Point was its usual splendid self, even allowing for the evidence of multiple very much active fires, some not all that far away.
Perhaps more interesting are Larry’s parking lot encounters.
While Jana and I were taking in the view, Larry was back watching the bikes when foreign tourists in some gigantic rental RV rolled in and lurched to a stop spanning several spaces and most of the driveway. Overcoming the language barrier by miming “turn the wheel this way” Larry was, over the course of about eight “y” turns, able to direct the driver into a position no longer blocking traffic and from which exit would be a simple maneuver.
Then some guy rolled up in an old pickup with a camper shell and a surfboard on top, with a front license place proclaiming “YOOPER”.
Larry probably would have engaged the guy regardless but there was no other possible outcome given that Jana is a Yooper – born in Escanaba, Upper Peninsula, Michigan. Turns out the guy was from Kentucky, not Michigan, but the U.P. was the most recent place he’d liked a lot while apparently wandering aimlessly around the country.
We resumed our travels, at this point with firm dedication: we really did want to arrive at our destination before dark.
We zoomed out of the park, down into the hazy Central Valley, headed for Fresno.
The landscape was, as ever, apparently on the brink of self-immolation. Even going by at 75 mph we could hear the crisp crackling dryness of the tall golden grass that covers every hill and valley, we could sense its urgency to be sparked into a raging inferno by the smallest ember.
Every other time I’ve been to Fresno – which is to say never on purpose, but only because it was between me and either Sequoia or Yosemite – I’ve had to grind my way through the surface streets. While this had a certain “period” charm back in the seventies, I was in no mood for it this day; I was very much pleased to find a freeway network now exists, and we never came to a stop anywhere near Fresno.
Even so, this part of the ride will be seared in our memories as a less than ideal experience.
As we approached Fresno, where we’d need to perform some navigation to which I think only Larry had paid any attention, he pronounced, “I’ve got a low battery.”
“On what?” Jana asked, before I did.
“My headset,” Larry clarified, to our relief; good to know it wasn’t a bike problem. “Switching out.”
“Wait!” I called out, but too late; like every other time he’d switched out (because Jana’s mic occasionally produced very irritating wind noise), it killed the conversation between Jana and I as well.
So we went zooming into Fresno traffic without intercom, just when it would have done us the most good.
At one point Larry was making all kinds of hand gestures I couldn’t begin to decipher. I’m not sure Jana could either. I was ticked off because Larry had spoken glowingly of the battery life of the Sena 10S headset, but despite religious observance of nightly recharging cycles we were without intercom just when I’d gotten to trust it and even like it and at this exact moment really wanted it.
As we swung along the freeway “flyover” to the eastbound CA-180 a Nissan 300ZX passed us on the outside.
This seems an appropriate time to comment on sports car drivers.
In general, I have little interaction with sports car drivers. For the longest time this has struck me as odd because I’d expect that sports car drivers would want to ride I mean drive on the same kind of roads that I do and for exactly the same reasons.
Yet I never see them.
And while I tend to ride fast – for reasons which include safety, as I’ve described elsewhere, specifically my 2015 retrospective Looking Back – I’m rarely passed by someone in a sports car or even a high-end sport sedan.
Being passed by Audis is perhaps most common, here and in Europe. My generally enjoyable experience on the German autobahn back in 2010 was typically of being passed by an Audi, then by a Porsche, then by an Audi, then by a Benz, then by an Audi, then by a BMW, then by an Audi. And yes, I was often in the passing lane myself, in the rented BMW 1-series which was a very fun little car and could play with the big boys if done with courtesy and forethought.
Most of the time while on my bike in the States, when I get passed it’s by a kid in an oil-smoking rust bucket older than the driver, or by a hockey mom in a minivan with a dog hanging out the window.
Over the years I’ve had a few encounters with Z-car drivers, and have often been impressed. Those guys really seem to know how to drive, and really like to, and don’t consider their babies too precious to take out for an honest run down the coast. I tip my hat.
BACK TO SCENE
We had a rather testy moment at the next gas stop, where I finally made it clear to Larry that whenever he dropped off the intercom, it killed Jana and I, too. This surely shouldn’t be happening, but then we never got music sharing working either. At this point it didn’t much matter because Larry’s unit was indeed totally dead and we weren’t going to sit there and dick around with it while darkness was falling.
Fall it did.
As we wound up into the mountains the light went away and we were in a place we really did not want to be.
Any frequent reader of mine knows that I don’t like to ride at night. The reasons are entirely safety related, and primarily boil down to all the damned deer. When I was young and ignorant I really enjoyed the sensation of riding at night. Now I can tolerate it, if I must, but whenever it happens it means I miscalculated. I grit my teeth and ride it out, and promise myself never to do it again.
Jana is in a different situation. Eye problems make it very difficult for her to see in bad light.
Allowing darkness to fall on us that day is not something we should have let happen.
But finally, we arrived at the warmly-glowing portal of the John Muir Lodge.
Having, as Neal Peart would shrug and quip, “Cheated death once again.”
While Jana and I were taking in the view, Larry was back watching the bikes when foreign tourists in some gigantic rental RV rolled in and lurched to a stop spanning several spaces and most of the driveway. Overcoming the language barrier by miming “turn the wheel this way” Larry was, over the course of about eight “y” turns, able to direct the driver into a position no longer blocking traffic and from which exit would be a simple maneuver.
Then some guy rolled up in an old pickup with a camper shell and a surfboard on top, with a front license place proclaiming “YOOPER”.
Larry probably would have engaged the guy regardless but there was no other possible outcome given that Jana is a Yooper – born in Escanaba, Upper Peninsula, Michigan. Turns out the guy was from Kentucky, not Michigan, but the U.P. was the most recent place he’d liked a lot while apparently wandering aimlessly around the country.
We resumed our travels, at this point with firm dedication: we really did want to arrive at our destination before dark.
We zoomed out of the park, down into the hazy Central Valley, headed for Fresno.
The landscape was, as ever, apparently on the brink of self-immolation. Even going by at 75 mph we could hear the crisp crackling dryness of the tall golden grass that covers every hill and valley, we could sense its urgency to be sparked into a raging inferno by the smallest ember.
Every other time I’ve been to Fresno – which is to say never on purpose, but only because it was between me and either Sequoia or Yosemite – I’ve had to grind my way through the surface streets. While this had a certain “period” charm back in the seventies, I was in no mood for it this day; I was very much pleased to find a freeway network now exists, and we never came to a stop anywhere near Fresno.
Even so, this part of the ride will be seared in our memories as a less than ideal experience.
As we approached Fresno, where we’d need to perform some navigation to which I think only Larry had paid any attention, he pronounced, “I’ve got a low battery.”
“On what?” Jana asked, before I did.
“My headset,” Larry clarified, to our relief; good to know it wasn’t a bike problem. “Switching out.”
“Wait!” I called out, but too late; like every other time he’d switched out (because Jana’s mic occasionally produced very irritating wind noise), it killed the conversation between Jana and I as well.
So we went zooming into Fresno traffic without intercom, just when it would have done us the most good.
At one point Larry was making all kinds of hand gestures I couldn’t begin to decipher. I’m not sure Jana could either. I was ticked off because Larry had spoken glowingly of the battery life of the Sena 10S headset, but despite religious observance of nightly recharging cycles we were without intercom just when I’d gotten to trust it and even like it and at this exact moment really wanted it.
As we swung along the freeway “flyover” to the eastbound CA-180 a Nissan 300ZX passed us on the outside.
This seems an appropriate time to comment on sports car drivers.
In general, I have little interaction with sports car drivers. For the longest time this has struck me as odd because I’d expect that sports car drivers would want to ride I mean drive on the same kind of roads that I do and for exactly the same reasons.
Yet I never see them.
And while I tend to ride fast – for reasons which include safety, as I’ve described elsewhere, specifically my 2015 retrospective Looking Back – I’m rarely passed by someone in a sports car or even a high-end sport sedan.
Being passed by Audis is perhaps most common, here and in Europe. My generally enjoyable experience on the German autobahn back in 2010 was typically of being passed by an Audi, then by a Porsche, then by an Audi, then by a Benz, then by an Audi, then by a BMW, then by an Audi. And yes, I was often in the passing lane myself, in the rented BMW 1-series which was a very fun little car and could play with the big boys if done with courtesy and forethought.
Most of the time while on my bike in the States, when I get passed it’s by a kid in an oil-smoking rust bucket older than the driver, or by a hockey mom in a minivan with a dog hanging out the window.
Over the years I’ve had a few encounters with Z-car drivers, and have often been impressed. Those guys really seem to know how to drive, and really like to, and don’t consider their babies too precious to take out for an honest run down the coast. I tip my hat.
BACK TO SCENE
We had a rather testy moment at the next gas stop, where I finally made it clear to Larry that whenever he dropped off the intercom, it killed Jana and I, too. This surely shouldn’t be happening, but then we never got music sharing working either. At this point it didn’t much matter because Larry’s unit was indeed totally dead and we weren’t going to sit there and dick around with it while darkness was falling.
Fall it did.
As we wound up into the mountains the light went away and we were in a place we really did not want to be.
Any frequent reader of mine knows that I don’t like to ride at night. The reasons are entirely safety related, and primarily boil down to all the damned deer. When I was young and ignorant I really enjoyed the sensation of riding at night. Now I can tolerate it, if I must, but whenever it happens it means I miscalculated. I grit my teeth and ride it out, and promise myself never to do it again.
Jana is in a different situation. Eye problems make it very difficult for her to see in bad light.
Allowing darkness to fall on us that day is not something we should have let happen.
But finally, we arrived at the warmly-glowing portal of the John Muir Lodge.
Having, as Neal Peart would shrug and quip, “Cheated death once again.”
Saturday October 14
It was surprisingly warm despite the altitude and how cold it seemed the night before when we rolled in, so chilled and roadshocked.
On yet another cloudless morning we swooped down into King’s Canyon, or to King’s Canyon, or wherever it is CA-180 East goes until the pavement ends.
Splendor and grandeur yadda yadda.
It was surprisingly warm despite the altitude and how cold it seemed the night before when we rolled in, so chilled and roadshocked.
On yet another cloudless morning we swooped down into King’s Canyon, or to King’s Canyon, or wherever it is CA-180 East goes until the pavement ends.
Splendor and grandeur yadda yadda.
Once again we had the road virtually to ourselves. The occasional vehicles in our way were easily dispatched and often dived out of our way on their own accord. In one very impressive bit of professional driving, a full-sized tour bus moving at speed swung into a turnoff barely longer than it was, letting us squeak by before coming back into the lane as if nothing had happened.
Talk about having the road to myself…rolling back down into the valley on CA-180 West not only weren’t there any other cars…even Larry and Jana weren’t there. Content to let me run out and play (and knowing that I don’t, as they do, have radar detectors) the other two hung far back to retain plausible deniability while Therese and I did what she was made to do.
I once again had an astonishingly fun ride down, as I’ve had every time I’ve ridden down that road out of Sequoia, and no matter how much of an ordeal the previous night’s ride had been. This was not the first time I’ve had an unpleasant ride through a dark, cold Sequoia, followed by a “this is why I ride motorcycles” experience the next day.
At the bottom of the hill I slowed down and as Larry and Jana caught up they came back into intercom range. The first words I caught:
Larry: “Did you see that patrol car?”
Jana: “Yes sir.”
Larry: “Annnnnnd…he’s pulling out behind us.”
I had every reason to expect the cop, who I’d not even seen, was probably after me not them.
But right then:
John: “At Valero gas.”
I could not have asked for a better place to hide. I’d just come over a hill, now I could do a fast right pull up behind the store into the pump bay all the way to the front…could even pull further behind the store but already virtually invisible to anyone driving at speed down that road.
Larry and Jana rolled up shortly after and then the cop went by, apparently unconcerned with any of us. Turns out he’d been coming up a side road at the time Larry and Jana passed him, which is why I’d never seen him.
Chances are he never had anything on me anyway.
I always do my best to ride in a safe and prudent manner.
Crossing the Central Valley is a little like crossing the Great Plains. But it only takes a couple hours instead of a couple of days. I was the first to call out, “Do I see the coast range?” It was hard to tell if they were mountains or just more smoke.
California drivers were their usual manic selves; we spent about a half hour following a black Tahoe doing its governor-enforced 98 mph top speed. The Tahoe was scattering other cars in its wake, leaving their drivers unnerved and cowed; we could easily exploit every empty pocket and knew that any patrol would spot the Tahoe miles before our bikes would even have a radar signature.
As we neared the coast we discussed whether it was time to lane split, but it never came down to that.
There was plenty of daylight when we arrived at Borg’s Ocean Front Motel.
I once again had an astonishingly fun ride down, as I’ve had every time I’ve ridden down that road out of Sequoia, and no matter how much of an ordeal the previous night’s ride had been. This was not the first time I’ve had an unpleasant ride through a dark, cold Sequoia, followed by a “this is why I ride motorcycles” experience the next day.
At the bottom of the hill I slowed down and as Larry and Jana caught up they came back into intercom range. The first words I caught:
Larry: “Did you see that patrol car?”
Jana: “Yes sir.”
Larry: “Annnnnnd…he’s pulling out behind us.”
I had every reason to expect the cop, who I’d not even seen, was probably after me not them.
But right then:
John: “At Valero gas.”
I could not have asked for a better place to hide. I’d just come over a hill, now I could do a fast right pull up behind the store into the pump bay all the way to the front…could even pull further behind the store but already virtually invisible to anyone driving at speed down that road.
Larry and Jana rolled up shortly after and then the cop went by, apparently unconcerned with any of us. Turns out he’d been coming up a side road at the time Larry and Jana passed him, which is why I’d never seen him.
Chances are he never had anything on me anyway.
I always do my best to ride in a safe and prudent manner.
Crossing the Central Valley is a little like crossing the Great Plains. But it only takes a couple hours instead of a couple of days. I was the first to call out, “Do I see the coast range?” It was hard to tell if they were mountains or just more smoke.
California drivers were their usual manic selves; we spent about a half hour following a black Tahoe doing its governor-enforced 98 mph top speed. The Tahoe was scattering other cars in its wake, leaving their drivers unnerved and cowed; we could easily exploit every empty pocket and knew that any patrol would spot the Tahoe miles before our bikes would even have a radar signature.
As we neared the coast we discussed whether it was time to lane split, but it never came down to that.
There was plenty of daylight when we arrived at Borg’s Ocean Front Motel.
Sunday October 15
I spent most of the day barefoot, killing the flask of Jameson I’d carried almost untouched from Michigan, sitting with the door and window wide open, gazing out at the bay, writing this blog, occasionally walking across the street and down to the beach to wade in the surf or simply sit and let my mind go blank.
We’d walked a few blocks up the hill for breakfast, past apparently tiny (but deceptively deep) historic homes wedged tightly together. Some have fully functional widows’ walks, and the meaning of those architectural details really hit home with me. Many houses are annotated with the original owner’s names and many of those names begin with “Mrs.” One can imagine conversations conducted among the rooftops of Pacific Grove, the women up there waiting for the ships to return, social points going to the first to spot a mast.
Back in the room Larry and Jana began to pack. Their busy-ness was contagious until I realized I had no such time pressure; I was staying right here at Borg’s for another night, although I would need to move to another (and much better) room, which was conveniently ready before I had to vacate the first.
I spotted traffic for the couple as they departed, disappearing around the corner and so ending another epic chapter in the annals of PHASTR – the PHoenix Area Sport Touring Riders.
But none of these rides are over. More adventures are yet to play out over the mountains and deserts between here and our respective Homes. Larry and Jana will spend a couple days getting home. Tomorrow I ride to Berkeley, and from there – I’m not certain, it depends on the fire situation a few days from now.
Much too far in the future to bother thinking about.
Tomorrow’s forecast, however, appears to be perfect for a ride up the coast.
I spent most of the day barefoot, killing the flask of Jameson I’d carried almost untouched from Michigan, sitting with the door and window wide open, gazing out at the bay, writing this blog, occasionally walking across the street and down to the beach to wade in the surf or simply sit and let my mind go blank.
We’d walked a few blocks up the hill for breakfast, past apparently tiny (but deceptively deep) historic homes wedged tightly together. Some have fully functional widows’ walks, and the meaning of those architectural details really hit home with me. Many houses are annotated with the original owner’s names and many of those names begin with “Mrs.” One can imagine conversations conducted among the rooftops of Pacific Grove, the women up there waiting for the ships to return, social points going to the first to spot a mast.
Back in the room Larry and Jana began to pack. Their busy-ness was contagious until I realized I had no such time pressure; I was staying right here at Borg’s for another night, although I would need to move to another (and much better) room, which was conveniently ready before I had to vacate the first.
I spotted traffic for the couple as they departed, disappearing around the corner and so ending another epic chapter in the annals of PHASTR – the PHoenix Area Sport Touring Riders.
But none of these rides are over. More adventures are yet to play out over the mountains and deserts between here and our respective Homes. Larry and Jana will spend a couple days getting home. Tomorrow I ride to Berkeley, and from there – I’m not certain, it depends on the fire situation a few days from now.
Much too far in the future to bother thinking about.
Tomorrow’s forecast, however, appears to be perfect for a ride up the coast.
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